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Page 2
I brought my diary with me, and as I can't write when anybody is about,
I don't mind being by myself every now and then. Miss Bray don't know
this, or my punishment would take some other form.
I just love a diary. You see, its something you can tell things to and
not get in trouble. When writing in it I can relieve my feelings by
saying what I think, which Miss Katherine says is risky to do to
people, and that it's safer to keep your feelings to yourself. People
don't really care about them, and there's nothing they get so tired of
hearing about. A diary doesn't talk, neither do animals; but a diary
understands better than animals, and you can call things by their right
name in a book which it isn't safe to do out loud, even to a dog.
I know I am not unthankful, and I would much rather have a Father and
Mother on earth than to have them in heaven, but I guess I should have
kept my preferences to myself. Somehow preferences seem to make people
mad.
But a Mother and Father in heaven _are_ too far away to be truly
comforting. I like the people I love to be close to me. I guess that is
why, when I was little, I used to hold out my arms at night, hoping my
Mother would come and hold me tight. But she never came, and now I know
it's no use.
There are a great many things that are no use. One is in telling people
what they don't want to know. I found that out almost two years ago,
when I wasn't but ten. The way I found out was this.
One morning, it was an awful cold morning, Miss Bray came into the
dining-room just as we were taking our seats for breakfast, and she
looked so funny that everybody stared, though nobody dared to even smile
visible. All the children are afraid of Miss Bray; but at that time I
hadn't found out her true self, and, not thinking of consequences, I
jumped up and ran over to her and whispered something in her ear.
"What!" she said. "What did you say?" And she bent her head so as to
hear better.
"You forgot one side of your face when fixing this morning," I said,
still whispering, not wanting the others to hear. "Only one side is
pink--" But I didn't get any further, for she grabbed my hand and almost
ran with me out of the room.
"You piece of impertinence!" she said, and her eyes had such sparks in
them I knew my judgment-day had come. "You little piece of impertinence!
You shall be punished well for this." I was. I didn't mean to be
impertinent. I thought she'd like to know. I thought wrong.
I loathe Miss Bray. The very sight of her shoulders in the back gets me
mad all over without her saying a word, and everything in me that's
wrong comes right forward and speaks out when she and I are together.
She thinks she could run this earth better than it's being done, and
she walks like she was the Superintendent of most of it. But I could
stand that. I could stand her cheeks, and her frizzed front, and a good
many other things; but what I can't stand is her passing for being
truthful when she isn't. She tells stories, and she knows I know it; and
from the day I found it out I have stayed out of her way; and were she
the Queen of Europe, Asia, and Africa, and the United States I'd want
her to stand out of mine. I truly would.
Her outrageousest story I heard her tell myself. It was over a year ago,
and we were in the room where the ladies were having a Board meeting. I
had come in to bring some water, and had a waiter full of glasses in my
hands, and was just about to put them on the table when I heard Miss
Bray tell her Lie.
That's what she did. She Lied!
Those glasses never touched that table. My hands lost their hold, and
down they came with a crash. Every one smashed to smithereens, and I
standing staring at Miss Bray. The way she told her story was this. The
Board deals us out for adoption, and that morning they were discussing a
request for Pinkie Moore, and, as usual, Miss Bray didn't want Pinkie
to go. You see, Pinkie was very useful. She did a lot of disagreeable
things for Miss Bray, and Miss Bray didn't want to lose her. And when
Mrs. Roane, who is the only Board lady truly seeing through her, asked,
real sharplike, why Pinkie shouldn't go this time, Miss Bray spoke out
like she was really grieved.
"I declare, Mrs. Roane," she said--and she twirled her keys round and
round her fingers, and twitched the nostril parts of her nose just like
a horse--"I declare, Mrs. Roane, I hate to tell you, I really do. But
Pinkie Moore wouldn't do for adoption. She has a terrible temper, and
she's so slow nobody would keep her. And then, too"--her voice was the
Pharisee kind that the Lord must hate worse than all others--"and then,
too, I am sorry to say Pinkie is not truthful, and has been caught
taking things from the girls. I hope none of you will mention this, as I
trust by watching over her to correct these faults. She begs me so not
to send her out for adoption, and is so devoted to me that--" And just
then she saw me, which she hadn't done before, I being behind Mrs.
Armstead, and she stopped like she had been hit.
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