Jean Webster

The first Wednesday in every month was a perfectly awful day—a day to be awaited with dread, endured with courage and forgotten with haste.Every floor must be spotless, every chair dustless, and every bed without a wrinkle.Ninety-seven little orphans (孤兒) must be scrubbed,combed and buttoned into freshly starched ginghams (剛上漿的格子布); and all ninetyseven were reminded of their manners, and told to say “Yes, sir”, “No, sir” whenever a trustee spoke.

It was a distressing time, and poor Jerusha Abbott, being the oldest orphan,had to bear the brunt of it.But this particular first Wednesday, like its predecessors,finally dragged itself to a close.Jerusha escaped from the pantry where she had been making sandwiches for the asylum's guests, and turned upstairs to accomplish her regular work.Her special care was room F, where eleven little children, from four to seven, occupied eleven little beds set in a row.Jerusha assembled her charges, straightened their clothes, wiped their noses, and started them in an orderly and willing line towards the dining room to engage themselves for a blessed half-hour with bread and milk and prune pudding.

Then she dropped down on the window seat and leaned temples (太陽穴) against the cool glass.She had been on her feet since five that morning, doing everybody's bidding, scolded and hurried by a nervous matron.Mrs Lippett, behind the scenes,did not always maintain that calm and dignity with which she faced an audience of trustees and lady visitors.Jerusha gazed out across a broad stretch of frozen lawn,beyond the tall iron paling that marked the confines of the asylum, down undulating ridges sprinkled with country estates, to the spires of the village rising from the midst of bare trees.

The day was ended—quite successfully, so far as she knew.The trustees and the visiting committee had made their rounds, and read their reports, and drunk their tea, and now were hurrying home to their own cheerful firesides, to forget their bothersome little charges for another month.Jerusha leaned forward watching with curiosity—and a touch of wistfulness—the stream of carriages and automobiles that rolled out of the asylum gates.In imagination she followed first one equipage, then another, to the big houses dotted along the hillside.She pictured herself in a fur coat and a velvet hat trimmed with feathers leaning back in the seat and nonchalantly murmuring “Home”to the driver.But on the doorsill of her home the picture grew blurred.

Jerusha had an imagination, Mrs Lippett told her, that would get her into trouble if she didn't take care—but keen as it was, it could not carry her beyond the front porch of the houses she would enter.Poor, eager, adventurous little Jerusha, in all her seventeen years, had never stepped inside an ordinary house; she could not picture the daily routine of those other human beings who carried on their lives undisturbed by orphans.

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