I have a new unbreakable rule: never, never to study at night no matter how many written reviews are coming in the morning. Instead, I read just plain books--I have to, you know, because there are eighteen blank years behind me.
You wouldn't believe, Daddy, what an abyss of ignorance my mind is; I am just realizing the depths myself. The things that most girls with a properly assorted family and a home and friends and a library know by absorption, I have never heard of. For example: I never read Mother Goose or David Copperfield or Ivanhoe or Cinderella or Blue Beard or Robinson Crusoe or Jane Eyre or Alice in Wonderland or a Word of Rudyard Kipling. I didn't know that Henry the Eighth was married more than once or that Shelley was a poet. I didn't Know that people used to be monkeys and the Garden of Eden was a beautiful myth. I didn't know R. L. S. stood for Robert Louis Stevenson or George Eliot was a lady. I had never seen a picture of the 'Mona Lisa' and ( it's true but you won't believe it) I had never heard of Sherlock Holmes.
من با خودم عهدی بسته ام که هرگز آن را نخواهم شکست. که هر چقدر تکلیف مدرسه داشته باشم هرگز، هرگز شب انجام ندهم. به جای آن کتاب های معمولی می خوانم، خیلی مورد احتیاج است.
چون من هجده سال را هیچ و پوچ تلف کرده ام و باید جبران آن سالها را بکنم. حالا من متوجه گردیده ام که مرتکب خطای بدی شده ام.
من تاکنون از تمام وظایفی که یک دختر با پدر و مادر برای خود قائل است که باید انجام دهد و یاد بگیرد غافل بوده ام.
برای مثال من تاکنون هرگز کتابهای : " مادر غاز ابله " "دیوید کاپرفیلد" یا " آیوانهو" یا " سیندرلا" " ریش آبی " یا " رابینسون کروزوئه" یا " جین ایر" یا " آلیس در سرزمین عجایب" یا حتی یک کلمه از " رودیارد کیپلینگ" را نخوانده ام.
برای مثال من نمی دانستم که " هنری هشتم " بیشتر از یک زن گرفته است و یا اینکه " شلی" شاعر بوده است.
من نمی دانستم که انسان از اول میمون بوده و یا اینکه بهشت بیشتر از یک افسانه ی قشنگ نیست.
نمی دانستم که ر-ل-س مخفف " رابرت لوئی استیونسن " است ، یا اینکه "جرج الیوت" خانم بوده است. من هرگز تصویر " مونا لیزا" را ندیده ام و می خواهید باور کنید می خواهید باور نکنید من هرگز نامی از " شرلوک هولمز" نشنیده بودم
We started to walk to town today, but mercy! how it poured. I like winter to be winter with snow instead of rain.
Julia's desirable uncle called again this afternoon--and brought a five-pound box of chocolates. There are advantages, you see, about rooming with Julia.
Our innocent prattle appeared to amuse him and he waited for a later train in order to take tea in the study. We had an awful lot of trouble getting permission. It's hard enough entertaining fathers and grandfathers, but uncles are a step worse; and as for brothers and cousins, they are next to impossible. Julia had to swear that he was her uncle before a notary public and then have the country clerk's certificate attached. (Don't I know a lot of law?) And even then I doubt if we could have had our tea if the Dean had chanced to see how youngish and good-looking Uncle Jervis is.
Anyway, we had it, with brown bread Swiss cheese sandwiches. He helped make them and then ate four. I told him that I had spent last summer at Lock Willow, and we had a beautiful gossipy time about the Samples, and the horses and cows and chickens. All the horses that he used to know are dead, except Grover, who was a baby colt at the time of his last visit--and poor Grove now is so old he can just limp about the pasture.
He asked if they still kept doughnuts in a yellow crock with a blue plate over it on the bottom shelf of the pantry--and they do! He wanted to know if there was still a woodchuck's hole under the pile of rocks in the night pasture--and there is! Amasai caught a big, fat, grey one there this summer, the twenty-fifth great-grandson of the one Master Jervis caught when he was a little boy.
I called him 'Master Jervie' to his face, but he didn't appear to be insulted. Julia says she has never seen him so amiable; he's usually pretty unapproachable. But Julia hasn't a bit of tact; and men, I find, require a great deal. They purr if you rub them the right way and spit if you don't. ( That isn't a very elegant metaphor. I mean it figuratively.)
We're reading Marie Bashkirtseff's journal. Isn't it amazing? Listen to this: 'Last night I was seized by a fit of despair that found utterance in moans, and that finally drove me to throw the dinning-room clock into the sea.'
It makes me almost I'm not a genius; they must be very wearing to have about--and awfully destructive to the furniture.
Mercy! how it keeps Pouring. We shall have to swim to chapel tonight.