Penelope's Postscripts

Transcribed from the 1915 Hodder and Stoughton edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
BY KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN AUTHOR OF “PENELOPE’S EXPERIENCES: ENGLAND, IRELAND,” “TIMOTHY’S QUEST,” “REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM,” ETC.
HODDER AND STOUGHTON LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO MCMXV
Printed in Great Britain by Hazell , Watson & Viney , Ld. , London and Aylesbury .
A DAY IN PESTALOZZI-TOWN
Salemina and I were in Geneva. If you had ever travelled through Europe with a charming spinster who never sat down at a Continental table d’hôte without being asked by an American vis-à-vis whether she were one of the P.’s of Salem, Massachusetts, you would understand why I call my friend Salemina. She doesn’t mind it. She knows that I am simply jealous because I came from a vulgarly large tribe that never had any coat-of-arms, and whose ancestors always sealed their letters with their thumb nails.
Whenever Francesca and I call her “Salemina,” she knows, and we know that she knows, that we are seeing a group of noble ancestors in a sort of halo over her serene and dignified head, so she remains unruffled under her petit nom , inasmuch as the casual public comprehends nothing of its spurious origin and thinks it was given her by her sponsors in baptism.
Francesca, Salemina, and I have very different backgrounds. The first-named is an extremely pretty person of large income who is travelling with us simply because her relatives think that she will “see Europe” more advantageously under our chaperonage than if she were accompanied by persons of her own age or “set.”
Salemina is a philanthropist and educator of the first rank, and is collecting all sorts of valuable material to put at the service of her own country when she returns to it, which will not be a moment before her letter of credit is exhausted.
I, too, am quasi-educational, for I had a few years of experience in mothering and teaching little waifs and strays of the streets before I began to paint pictures. Never shall I regret those nerve-racking, back-breaking, heart-warming, weary, and beautiful years, when, all unconsciously, I was learning to paint children by living with them. Even now the spell still works and it is the curly head, the “shining morning face,” the ready tear, the glancing smile of childhood that enchains me and gives my brush whatever skill it possesses.