[
‸
NOTICE
].—Do not tell grandma who the letter is from. Let her find
out as she goes along.
‸
c
Buffalo, Nov. 11.
Dear Grandma:
I have waited with some impatience to hear from you or from some other member of the family, but up to this ‸time‸ no letter has arrived for me. I have received enthusiastic notice in telegrams from Cleveland & in congratulations from Mr. Brooks in New York—& the telegrams from Elmira have been gladly received & carefully prefer preserved.1 But from you personally, [ ha ] I have not heard, at least in the shape of a letter, & I am obliged to say that I am hurt at it. Every now & then I think it all over & then I comprehend that you cannot write in these latter years without great difficulty.2 Of course that makes me feel better about it, but it does not last long. I soon get to worrying again & saying to myself that you might have written me one line at least. But never mind, I know it is all just as it should be, & that you have neglected me not because you desired to do it, but because you could not well help it. For I will not believe but that you love me. I am four days old to-day at eleven o’clock. Do you recollect when you were only 4 days old? [I’ ] guess you don’t. I am looking for Granny Fairbanks tomorrow, & will be glad to see her, too, but I shall be outrageously sorry to part with Aunt Susie Crane, for she was here when I first came, & ha I have come to like her society very much, & she knows my disposition better than anybody except Auntie Smith.3
I am boarding with a strange young woman by the name of Brown, & her baby is boarding with my mother. I expect Mrs. Brown could take several more boarders like me, for I am not a very hearty eater. I don’t understand this little game, but I guess it is all right. It is some little neat trick of my father’s to save expense, I fancy.
I have a ridiculous time of it with [clothes. Except ] a shirt which aunt Hattie4 made for me I haven’t a rag in the world that fits me. Everything is too large. You ought to see the things they call “slips.” A I am only 18 ‸13‸ inches long, & these things are [ an ] as much as 3 feet. Think of it. I trip & break my neck every time I make a step, for I can’t think to gather up the surplus when I am in a hurry.
I tell ‸you‸ I am tired being bundled up head & ears nine-tenths of my time. And I don’t like this thing of being stripped naked & washed. I like to be stripped & warmed at the stove—that is real bully—but I do despise this washing business. I never I believe it to be a gratuitous & unnecessary piece of meanness. I never see them wash the cat.
And I tell you it is dull, roosting around on pillows & rocking chairs & everybody else spinning around town having a good time. Sometimes they let that borr other baby lie on the kitchen table & wink at the sun, but bless you I never get a show. Sometimes I get so mad that I cannot keep my temper or my opinion. But it only makes things worse. They call it colic, & give me some execrable [medicine. Colic. ] Everything a is colic. A baby can’t open its mouth about the simplest matter but up comes some wise body & says it is wind in its bowels. When I saw the dog ‸the‸ first time, I made a noise which was partly fright & partly admiration—but it cost me a double dose of medicine for wind in the bowels. Does these people take me for a balloon?
I am not entirely satisfied with my complexion. I am as red as a lobster. I am ‸really‸ ashamed to see company. But I am perfectly satisfied with my personal appearance, for I think I look just like aunt Susie. They keep me on the shortest kind of rations, & that is one thing that don’t suit the subscriber. My mother has mashed potatoes, & gruel, & tea, & toast, & all sorts of sumptuous fare, but she never gives me a bite—& you can risk your last dollar on it that I don’t ask for it. It would only be another case of “wind in the bowels.” You’ll have to excuse me. I am learning to keep my remarks to myself. {But between you & I, Grandma, I get the ev advantage of them occasionly—now last night I [ keep kept] aunt Smith getting up every hour to feed me— but and between you & me ‸and‸ I wasn’t hungry once.}
That doctor has just been here again. Come to g play some fresh swindle on me, I suppose. He is the meanest looking white man I ever saw. Mind, now, this is not a splenetic & prejudiced outburst, but a d calm & deliberate opinion formed & founded upon careful observation. Won’t I “lay” for him when I get my teeth?5
Good-bye Grandma, [good-bye]. Great love to you & grandma6 & all the whole household.
Your loving great-grandson,
Langdon Clemens.
Explanatory Notes | Textual Commentary
Source text(s):Previous publication:
L4, 232–234; LLMT, 155–57.
Provenance:donated to CtHMTH in 1962 by Ida Langdon.
Emendations and textual notes:
NOTICE • [capitals simulated with single underscore]
ha • [‘a’ partly formed]
I’ • [deletion implied]
clothes. Except • clothes.—|Except
an • [doubtful]
medicine. Colic • medicine.—| Colic
keep kept • keeppt [canceled ‘p’ partly formed]
good-bye • good-|bye
