Letters from Skye Read Free Page B

crisp copy of
Gray’s Anatomy
from my dad, and a set of stereo cards of the British Isles. This last was a special request; I want to see more of the land you call home. And finally, from my sister, one of your earlier books, which she amazingly tracked down somewhere. She stole a peek before wrapping it up, and I’m afraid you have another convert! Now that the new term has begun, I’ve been rationing myself with a poem a night, with the wholesaved as a sort of reward for a job well done on my midterm exams.
    My favorite books? Without a doubt, Mark Twain is my favorite author, but to pick just one of his books? I don’t know if it can be done! Of course, none can compare to
Huckleberry Finn
, but
A Connecticut Yankee
is rollicking. I suppose about as far from your Lewis Carroll as one can get, though I confess I’ve read
Through the Looking-Glass
forward and back. I do like Jack London, Wilkie Collins, and H. Rider Haggard. Stories full of mystery and adventure. Poe can’t be beat for a thrill. I like a good western too and read things like Zane Grey when I want to take a break from “literature.” And who is “W. S.” if not Will Shakespeare? I’m afraid I’ve never read
The Lord of the Isles
.
    No, I wouldn’t have pegged you for an Elinor Glyn sort of girl. I have only a passing acquaintance with her books. And I do literally mean “passing,” as
Three Weeks
circulated from room to room in my dorm. One enterprising young man found a faux tiger skin rug for his floor, hoping, perhaps, “to sin/With Elinor Glyn.” She never paid a visit to our dorm, nor do I remember any other ladies taking him up on the offer.
    How did I end up in the hospital? Well … I was trying to ride a cow and fell off. Cow-riding isn’t a risky sport in itself—I’ve done it on numerous occasions—but we were leading the cow up the stairs of the Natural History Building toward the president’s office. She wasn’t as keen on the idea. I can only say that I don’t recommend this as a form of transportation. And what do you mean, I end up in the hospital a lot?
    Back to the grindstone, with a new term. I can’t say that this term is looking to be any easier than the last, but at least I’m almost finished!
       Refreshed,
       David
    Isle of Skye
    27 February 1913
    Dear David,
    Many thanks for the picture. You look so serious! And much younger than I thought. I can see a glint in your eye, though, that suggests a boy capable of stealing a tree or riding a cow. What became of your class tree?
    Don’t look for a picture from me. No camera over here, and I don’t think I could draw myself objectively. I would keep modifying and erasing until you had a picture of Princess Maud. We always want to appear more attractive than we really are, don’t you think? I mean, if you had been sketching your picture instead of snapping it with a camera, would you really have drawn in that dreadful checked jacket?
    Now that I’ve seen your picture, I can imagine you and your mates passing around
Three Weeks
. You wait on tenterhooks for your turn, and when you get the book in your eager hands, you race to your room, homework forgotten for the night. And as you start reading, your cheeks get quite pink as you realise just how unlike Henry James this is.
    I’ve never read Mark Twain, but I agree that Poe is thrilling.I remember reading “The Tell-Tale Heart” as a girl one night, in bed with a candle stub I pilfered from church. I was certainly punished for stealing the candle, because after I finished the book and blew out the candle, I couldn’t sleep a wink. I was quite positive that I heard the beating of the heart downstairs. When dawn broke, my mother found me sitting stiffly in bed, quite awake, clutching my blanket around me. I was convinced God was punishing me for my sin of stealing the altar candle. So what did I do the following Sunday to atone for my sin? I pilfered a candle from our cupboard at home and left it at the