One of the stories which used
to put a lump in my throat as a child was of an old backwoodsman who by
that means found out that his dog stole hams from the storeroom. The dog
was given away in disgrace, and came to England to die of a broken heart
at the sight of a cargo of hams, which, at their unpacking, seemed like
a monstrous day of judgment--the bones of his misdeeds rising again
reclothed with flesh to reproach him with the thing he had never
forgotten.
I wonder how long it was before I left off definitely choosing out a
story for the pleasure of making myself cry! When one begins to avoid
that luxury of the fledgling emotions, the first leaf of youth is flown.
To-day I look almost jovially at the decay of the best year I have ever
lived through, and am your very middle-aged faithful and true.
LETTER XLVIII.
Dearest: If anybody has been "calling me names" that are not mine, they do
me a fine injury, and you did well to purge the text of their abuse. I
agree with no authority, however immortal, which inquires "What's in a
name?" expecting the answer to be a snap of the fingers. I answer with a
snap of temper that the blood, boots, and bones of my ancestors are in
mine! Do you suppose I could have been the same woman had such names as
Amelia or Bella or Cinderella been clinging leechlike to my consciousness
through all the years of my training? Why, there are names I can think of
which would have made me break down into side-ringlets had I been forced
to wear them audibly.
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