The Red House Mystery and Other Novels. A. A. Milne
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for instance, I answered four pages about my new pianola with the curt reminder that I was learning to walk and couldn't be bothered with music, why, then at last I saw that a correspondence so one-sided would have to come to an end. I wrote a farewell letter and replied to it with tears....
But, bless you, that was nearly five years ago. Each morning now, among the usual pile of notes on my plate from duchesses, publishers, moneylenders, actor-managers and what-not, I find, likely enough, an envelope in Margery's own handwriting.
Not only is my address printed upon it legibly, but there are also such extra directions to the postman as "England" and "Important" for its more speedy arrival. And inside--well, I give you the last but seven.
"MY DEAR UNCLE I thot you wher coming to see me to night but you didnt why didnt you baby has p t o hurt her knee isnt that a pity I have some new toys isnt that jolly we didnt have our five minutes so will you krite to me and tell me all about p t o your work from your loving little MARGIE."
I always think that footnotes to a letter are a mistake, but there are one or two things I should like to explain.
(a) Just as some journalists feel that without the word "economic" a leading article lacks tone, so Margery feels, and I agree with her, that a certain _cachet_ is lent to a letter by a p. t. o. at the bottom of each page.
(b) There are lots of grown-up people who think that "write" is spelt "rite." Margery knows that this is not so. She knows that there is a silent letter in front of the "r," which doesn't do anything, but likes to be there. Obviously, if nobody is going to take any notice of this extra letter, it doesn't much matter what it is. Margery happened to want to make a "k" just then; at a pinch it could be as silent as a "w." You will please, therefore, regard the "k" in "Krite" as absolutely noiseless.
(c) Years ago I claimed the privilege to monopolise on the occasional evenings when I was there, Margery's last ten minutes before she goes back to some heaven of her own each night. This privilege was granted; it being felt, no doubt, that she owed me some compensation for my early secretarial work on her behalf. We used to spend the ten minutes in listening to my telling a fairy story, always the same one. One day the authorities stepped in and announced that in future the ten minutes would be reduced to five. The procedure seemed to me absolutely illegal (and I should like to bring an action against somebody) but it certainly did put the lid on my fairy story, of which I was getting more than a little tired.
"Tell me about Beauty and the Beast," said Margery as usual, that evening.
"There's not time," I said. "We've only five minutes to-night."
"Oh! Then tell me all the work you've done to-day."
(A little unkind, you'll agree, but you know what relations are.)
And so now I have to cram the record of my day's work into five breathless minutes. You will understand what bare justice I can do it in the time.
I am sorry that these footnotes have grown so big; let us leave them and return to the letter. There are many ways of answering such a letter. One might say, "MY DEAR MARGERY,--It was jolly to get a real letter from you at last----" but the "at last" would seem rather tactless considering what had passed years before. Or one might say, "MY DEAR MARGERY,--Thank you for your jolly letter. I am so sorry about baby's knee and so glad about your toys. Perhaps if you gave one of the toys to baby, then her knee----" But I feel sure that Margery would expect me to do better than that.
In the particular case of this last letter but seven I wrote:
"DEAREST MARGERY,--Thank you for your sweet letter. I had a very busy day at the office or I would have come to see you. P.T.O.
[Transcriber's note: Page break in original.]
--I hope to be down next week and then I will tell you all about my work; but I have a lot more to do now, and so I must say good-bye. Your loving UNCLE."
There is perhaps nothing in that which demands an immediate answer, but with businesslike promptitude Margery replied:
"MY DEAR UNCLE thank you for your letter I am glad you are coming next week baby is quite well now are you p t o coming on Thursday next week or not say yes if you are I am p t o sorry you are working so hard from your loving MARGIE."
I said "Yes," and that I was her loving uncle. It seemed to be then too late for a "P.T.O.," but I got one in and put on the back, "Love to Baby." The answer came by return of post:
"MY DEAR UNCLE thank you for your letter come erly on p t o Thursday come at half past nothing baby sends her love and so do p t o I my roking horse has a sirrup broken isnt that a pity say yes or no good-bye from your loving MARGIE."
Of course I thanked Baby for her love and gave my decision that it _was_ a pity about the rocking-horse. I did it in large capitals, which (as I ought to have said before) is the means of communication between Margery and her friends. For some reason or other I find printing capitals to be more tiring than the ordinary method of writing.
"MY DEAR UNCLE," wrote Margery--
But we need not go into that. What I want to say is this: I love to get letters, particularly these, but I hate writing them, particularly in capitals. Years ago I used to answer Margery's letter for her. It is now her turn to answer mine for me.
IX. THE TRUTH ABOUT HOME RAILS
Imagine us, if you can, sitting one on each side of the fire, I with my feet on the mantelpiece, Margery curled up in the blue arm-chair, both of us intent on the morning paper. To me, by good chance, has fallen the sporting page; to Margery, the foreign, political and financial intelligence of the day.
"What," said Margery, "does it mean when it says----" she stopped and spelt it over to herself again.
I put down my piece of the paper and prepared to explain. The desire for knowledge in the young cannot be too strongly encouraged, and I have always flattered myself that I can explain in perfectly simple language anything which a child wants to know. For instance, I once told Margery what "Miniature Rifle Shooting" meant; it was a head-line which she had come across in her paper. The explanation took some time, owing to Margery's pre-conceived idea that a bird entered into it somewhere; several times, when I thought the lesson was over, she said, "Well, what about the bird?" But I think I made it plain to her in the end, though maybe she has forgotten about it now.
"What," said Margery, "does it mean when it says 'Home Rails Firm'?"
I took up my paper again. The Cambridge fifteen I was glad to see, were rapidly developing into a first-class team, and----
"'Home Rails Firm,'" repeated Margery, and looked up at me.
My mind worked rapidly, as it always does in a crisis.
"What did you say?" I asked in surprise.
"What does 'Home Rails Firm' mean?"
"Where does it say that?" I went on, still thinking at lightning speed.
"There. It said it yesterday too."
"Ah, yes." I made up my mind. "Well, that," I said--"I think that is something you must ask your father."
"I did ask him yesterday."
"Well, then----"
"He told me to ask Mummy."
Coward!
"You can be sure," I said firmly, "that what Mummy told you would be right," and I returned to my paper.