November 15
Dear Daddy Longlegs,
I've changed my name!
I'm still Jerusha to the college.
But I'm Judy to everyone else.
Usually somebody else comes up with a nickname.
(Just like I gave you the name Daddy Longlegs!)
So I guess it's sad that I had to make one up for myself.
But that's not totally true.
One of the little orphans used to call me Judy.
He couldn't say Jerusha when he was learning to talk.
I always wondered where my name came from.
One day, when I still lived at the orphanage, I asked Mrs. Lippett.
"Did my parents name me Jerusha Abbott?"
Mrs. Lippett frowned.
"Oh no. You were like many of the other orphans here.
We didn't know your parents' names or your name.
Someone just left you on the orphanage steps."
"Then where did my name come from?"
"The same place I get all the orphans' names—the telephone book!"
Mrs. Lippett sounded proud of herself.
"You'll find Abbott right there on the first page."
"But where did you find Jerusha?"
"On a tombstone in the cemetery!
Now get back to work, Jerusha, and stop asking questions."
Well, Daddy Longlegs, I never told her this, but I'll tell you.
I've always hated the name Jerusha.
But I like Judy. It's such a silly name.
It belongs to someone who is the complete opposite of me.
A sweet little blue-eyed thing, whose family adores and spoils her.
I may have faults, but no one can say that I've been spoiled.
So from now on, please call me Judy.
I have some more news for you.
I made the basketball team!
You should see the bruise I got the other day at practice.
My left shoulder is blue and purple with orange streaks.
For your information, Julia Pendleton didn't make the team.
Hooray! (I really am very mean sometimes.)
I like college more and more every day.
I like the girls (except for Julia) and the teachers and the classes and the food.
We have ice cream twice a week.
We never have cornmeal mush, which we had often at the orphanage.
Oh, I just remembered something!
I never told you about my clothes.
Before school started, Miss Pritchard took me shopping.
(She's on the ladies' committee at the orphanage, but I guess you remember that.)
Anyway, I thought I'd get one new dress.
Well, maybe two since you were paying for them.
But here's what happened:
"I like this dress for classes," I said as we shopped.
"And I like this one for church. May I get both?"
Miss Pritchard smiled kindly at me.
"You'll need more than two dresses at college."
"I will?"
"Yes, dear. You'll need a suit and an evening dress and at least one dinner dress."
Who knew college required so many clothes?
So, thanks to you, I now own a dress for classes, a dress for church, and a suit.
Plus, two dinner dresses and a silk evening dress!
Can you imagine me—an orphan—in an evening dress?
I also have three pairs of fine white gloves.
At the orphanage I received mittens for Christmas.
But I never had beautiful gloves like these.
I like them so much that I often try them on.
I wish I could wear them to class!
You probably think I'm behaving like a silly girl.
And that you're wasting your money educating me.
But, Daddy Longlegs, if you'd worn blue gingham most of your life, you'd understand!
When I started high school, things got even worse.
My clothes came from the village poor box.
On the first day of school, I sat next to a girl who used to own my dress.
"Did you see her dress?" the girl next to me whispered to a friend.
"Whose dress?"
"The girl from the orphanage. Jerusha."
The second girl studied me.
"Didn't you have a dress like that last year?" she said to the first girl.
"Yes! But it's out of style, so my mother put it in the poor box."
Then they laughed while I turned red with shame.
And this happened every year!
I'll never forget that feeling.
Do you see why I appreciate my new clothes?
Six outfits—all pretty and new and bought just for me.
One last thing: I know I shouldn't expect any letters from you.
And Mrs. Lippett told me not to bother you with questions.
But I just want to know a few things.
Are you very old or just a little old?
Are you completely bald or only a little bald?
It's hard to picture you without some details.
Your well-dressed student,
Judy Abbott