Nobody here knows that I was brought up in an asylum.  I told Sallie McBride that my mother and father were dead, and that a kind old gentleman was sending me to college which is entirely true so far as it goes.  I don’t want you to think I am a coward, but I do want to be like the other girls, and that Dreadful Home looming over my childhood is the one great big difference.  If I can turn my back on that and shut out the remembrance, I think, I might be just as desirable as any other girl.  I don’t believe there’s any real, underneath difference, do you?

Anyway, Sallie McBride likes me! 
                           Yours ever,
                                       Judy Abbott
                                           (Nee Jerusha.)

Saturday morning

I’ve just been reading this letter over and it sounds pretty un-cheerful.  But can’t you guess that I have a special topic due Monday morning and a review in geometry and a very sneezy cold?

Sunday

I forgot to post this yesterday, so I will add an indignant postscript.  We had a bishop this morning, and what do you think he said?

`The most beneficent promise made us in the Bible is this, “The poor ye have always with you.”  They were put here in order to keep us charitable.’

The poor, please observe, being a sort of useful domestic animal.  If I hadn’t grown into such a perfect lady, I should have gone up after service and told him what I thought.

25th October Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

I’m in the basket-ball team and you ought to see the bruise on my left shoulder.  It’s blue and mahogany with little streaks of orange.  Julia Pendleton tried for the team, but she didn’t get in.  Hooray!

You see what a mean disposition I have.

College gets nicer and nicer.  I like the girls and the teachers and the classes and the campus and the things to eat.  We have ice-cream twice a week and we never have corn-meal mush.

You only wanted to hear from me once a month, didn’t you?  And I’ve been peppering you with letters every few days!  But I’ve been so excited about all these new adventures that I must talk to somebody; and you’re the only one I know.  Please excuse my exuberance; I’ll settle pretty soon.  If my letters bore you, you can always toss them into the wastebasket.  I promise not to write another till the middle of November. 
Yours most loquaciously,
Judy Abbott

15th November

Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

Listen to what I’ve learned to-day.

The area of the convex surface of the frustum of a regular pyramid is half the product of the sum of the perimeters of its bases by the altitude of either of its trapezoids.

It doesn’t sound true, but it is—­I can prove it!