Footprints by Kay Cleaver Strahan

I

June 9, 1900.

Dearest Judy-pudy: Dr. Joe came out last Thursday to see Father and, as Neal says, to sit and worship at Grandfather's feet. Neal himself worships Grandfather, you know. That is why it makes him angry for anyone else to do so. I made an epigram about it: "Gods are not jealous. It is people who are jealous of them. " Grandfather says it is creditable for a twelve-year-old.

I love Dr. Joe. I think if he couldn't dispense any medicine he would still be a splendid doctor. When he steps in, and smiles, everything always seems to improve. He told Uncle Phineas there was no possibility that, with his blood pressure, he could survive the hardships of Nome. So that worry is off our minds. Chris has decided to finish his play. He has it well in hand, and the cast of characters all written.

On Saturday, Uncle Phineas started off on a prospecting trip by himself. It was a blow to us, because we had hoped that Uncle Phineas had given over prospecting with that last unfortunate trip of his in 1897. But he was so offended about his blood pressure that he drew thirty dollars from the bank and went down into Malheur County. (Irene thinks it odd that the checking account at the bank is a joint one for all the elders. She said so.)

Irene has stopped living, loving, laughing, and doing things worth while. She broke a Spode cup on Friday. Aunt Gracia cried. Irene said such a fuss over a cup, when Haviland was prettier, and one of the Portland department stores had advertised a sale of Haviland china cups and saucers for eight cents each only last week. She said for Aunt Gracia to dry her tears and she would send ninety-six cents and get a dozen. Doesn't it seem strange that anyone, even Irene, should not comprehend real Spode? It must mean that her backgrounds are murky.

Something of the sort would need to be the matter with a person who could do what Irene did yesterday. She asked Olympe to give her and Christopher the room that is Uncle Phineas's and Olympe's. Olympe was so amazed that she forgot to be deaf. Besides being amazed she was angry, and scornful, and amused, and several other feelings. She, herself, did not seem to have her emotions well sorted.

Aunt Gracia asked Olympe what answer she had given to Irene.

Olympe replied that she had told Irene it seemed to her that Grandfather's room was, perhaps, even more attractive; and that, since Grandfather had had his longer, he was, doubtless, more tired of it than she and Pan were of their room. She suggested that Irene offer to exchange rooms with Grandfather.

Aunt Gracia put down the chopping bowl and went running right out of the kitchen. When she came back she, too, was angry and laughing. She said she had caught Irene on her way to Grandfather's room.

Olympe shrugged, in that sophisticated foreign manner of hers, which Neal so derides, and asked why Aunt Gracia had stopped her. It was time, Olympe declared, that Grandfather was beginning to see that young person in her true colours.

It is odd about words, isn't it, dear? Now "young," by itself, is a pleasant word; and "person," though lacking in charm, is surely respectable and blameless. But by putting the two words together as Olympe does, they make an insult. Neal says so it is with people. He says, take a pleasant girl and a respectable and blameless man, and marry them and, likely as not, the result will be a joke, or an insult, or even a curse or a crime. But, as I have told you, Neal is developing into a regular Timon.

Olympe asked how Aunt Gracia had managed to halt Irene. Aunt Gracia answered cryptically (this is the exact word because I have just looked it up in the dictionary), "Blackmail."

Olympe laughed one of those ruffling lacy laughs of hers and went away, because the kitchen was steamy and unpleasant. I do not know whether she understood what Aunt Gracia meant by blackmail. I understood. Aunt Gracia did not know that I understood.

Irene, you, see, had told me all about it. Her first husband, whose name is Archie Biggil (isn't that too bad? ) was still madly, devotedly, ardently, tenderly in love with her. He is an importer, and had been in Brazil when she had married Chris. Now he has returned to New York. He has found out about Irene's second marriage, and where she is living. He is writing her passionate letters. There is much more to it than that; but nothing, I think, that you would care to hear. Irene was worried for fear Chris would find out about her receiving the passionate letters. She told me because she had to tell someone. I don't know why she told Aunt Gracia. I trust that Chris will not find out about the letters. I feel certain they would annoy him. He acts, lately, as if he were as much annoyed as a man could be and remain in health. I think he was disappointed about Nome and the gold mine.

I love you and Greg very dearly. -Lucy.

II

June 25, 1900.

Dearest, dear Judy: I thought it very sweet of you to be sorry for Irene, and to have her remind you of Ruth, sick for home, standing in tears among the alien corn. Neal does not agree with me. He says misplaced sympathy is the trademark of the sentimentalist, and that anyone who could be sorry for Irene here, on Q 2 Ranch, would be sorry for the Black Hole of Calcutta because it had to have all those people packed into it. I am giving you Neal's opinion, not because I think it is very smart, but because I fear it is true.