IT'S NO PICNIC
November 15, 1939
My dear Miss Robbins: About the time you are perusing this tender missive, we and our oversized family will be on the "Southwestern" en route New York City and Joan's wedding, which latter will occur at St. Bartholomew's at 4 p.m. on the afternoon of the eve of Lord's Day next.
Let me tell you about another trip on the same Southwestern that happened about 14 years ago. Joan was 13 and Sugar Foot still getting regular eye doses of boric acid, and Ann Drew just out of the boric acid period, and so on up the line, when the Fair Calantha, as was her custom from time immemorial, started on safari via New York to Milford, Penna. She had passes—but what passes! Not good on Number this, and not good on No. that. In desperation I went to the General Superintendent, good old B.C. Byers, told him my troubles, and asked if he would make them good on the Knickerbocker. He looked at the passes, then at me, and said: "Why, you've only got walking passes." He thought a minute, then: "A woman with six little children has no business getting into New York City at 3 or 4 p.m.—then across town and the ferry to Jersey City, then by Erie to Port Jervis, N.Y., and then by auto into the mountains. Give me those passes. I'll make them good on No. 12. I'll make your reservations, and I'll have No. 12 stop at Greencastle and pick them up." All the which he did.
The train stopped, and old man Keith happened to be the conductor. He was in a huff about having to stop his long heavy train at any town like Greencastle. He stood to one side and the patrons started climbing up the steps: Mother, nurse, kids, boxes, suit cases, bird cages, more kids, grips, violin cases, dolls, milk, kids, a kitten, lunch boxes and more kids. He turned to me and asked, "Is this a picnic or a family?"
I said: "It's a family—and they're no picnic by a d— sight."
Yours,