Footprints by Kay Cleaver Strahan

I

March 12, 1900.

Dearest, dear Judy-pudy: Uncle Phineas's dictum, "Never begin a letter or end a love affair with an apology," has been a hindrance to me in the starting of this letter. Perhaps if I state that Dong Lee has had another toothache, and that Christopher sent us a telegram that came two days after you and Greg left, and that said he had been married the week before and would arrive at Q 2 on Saturday, March ninth, with his wife, you may understand why I have not had time to write to you.

All the preparations were exciting and much fun. Grandfather himself helped me shine the best silver on Friday afternoon. Dong Lee had been compelled to lie down with a bag of hot salt on his face. Aunt Gracia made new curtains for Chris's room, and Olympe put her best cloisonné rose jar on the lowboy. The one drawback was that something so pleasant going to happen made us miss you and Greg more tensely. We couldn't say, once, as we had said the day of the hailstorm and rain after you left, "Thank goodness, Judy and Greg aren't here."

Father and Uncle Phineas met Chris and Irene at the train with the carriage. Neal had worked hard getting it mended and washed and polished; but, of course, there had been no time to paint it. Bread and Butter were not as dashing as I wished they might be. Though Neal had curried them carefully, they somehow did seem to betray the fact they were generally used for ploughing. I hoped that Irene might not notice it. I fear that she did.

Irene is pretty. Her hair is yellow. Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes are turquoise blue. But, though it is hard to explain, her prettiness seems inexpensive: like the things we don't buy in the shops because, though attractive, we feel sure they won't be durable. I should add that this is not very noticeable except when she is close to Aunt Gracia, and that, even then, Irene's clothes do much to counteract the impression.

Her clothes are very beautiful, and she rustles in them as if she were walking knee-deep in autumn leaves. Her trains make Aunt Gracia's and Olympe's seem like something they just happened to be dragging about behind them. On just one hat she has eight plumes, and she said the shortest one was sixteen inches long.

She was very enthusiastic over all of us, and the place, on Saturday evening. She has a way of expressing appreciation by saying "oo," with rising and falling inflections. Sometimes it sounds as if she were running a scale. She showed all sorts of deference to Grandfather by constantly calling him "sir," and acting humble. I am sure that Grandfather disliked it.

Olympe came downstairs rather late, as she usually does when we have company. She looked beautiful in her old white lace ball gown and with her "Prince of Wales" magenta plumes in her gray hair. Irene seemed much astonished at Olympe; but then, you know, strangers often do. Olympe was at her best. She lifted her lovely chin (not once all evening did she forget and droop her chin) and told Irene how great artists had painted her portraits. It seems that a great artist once wished to paint Irene's picture, too. It is interesting, I think, to have two beauties in the family at one time. It is a pity that Irene uses so much White Rose perfume that, whenever Olympe stays close to her, Olympe begins to sneeze with hay fever as she usually does only in August. But, excluding that, and a few other things, I think the general exchanged impressions on Saturday evening were all at least moderately favourable. Irene made me happy by saying that I looked like a Reginald Birch child. I was glad to be able to repay her at once, and honestly, by saying that she looked like a Penrhyn Stanlaws lady. But it was not original. She said that so she had often been told.

On Sunday morning, when Father, Chris, and I were showing her about the ranch she said, "But, Booful! " (She calls Chris "Booful" in public. I thought, for some time, that she would spell it "Boofel," or "Boofle," and that it was a joke with perhaps interesting origins. I have since discovered that she means "Beautiful. " I should think Chris would abhor it.) "But, Booful! " she said, "I didn't know that your funny farm was a truck farm."

Yes, Judy dear, I quote exactly. I was extremely glad that Grandfather had not come with us to be wounded.

Darling Father, as usual, met the situation superbly. He explained to her that, during the hard times, it had seemed wise to him to put in enough garden to supply the family table, with perhaps a bit over, for occasional trading at the stores, until the worst pressure was past. He told her, of course, we still had cattle and horses, and that, now, the South African War was raising the cattle prices, so that the stockmen would soon come into their own again. He added that after this he would always have a family garden, however, and a large one.

She said, "It is a large family, isn't it? " She has a syrup-sweet voice; but, someway, the things she says with it often seem to ruin its timbre.

When I told Aunt Gracia what Irene had said about the family, she asked me why I repeated it. She said, "We are a large family, aren't we, honey-baby?"

"Aunt Gracia," I said, "we are. But we are not a large patch of loco weed that has got a start in the best bunch grass."

Father came in, just then, and when he found I was writing to you he asked me to convey this message. Your last letter, he said, has distressed him. You must spare no expense when it is a question of comfort for Greg. Quilters, he thought, had not yet reached the place where they found it necessary to practise economy on their invalids. He sends you and Greg his dearest love. He will write you, at length, in a few days.