Who "he" was, or why his Aunt Yvonne and his Uncle Jean (as he calls them) should allude to him as "Monsieur Louis," was something Louis couldn't understand. And somehow, when he was better, he didn't like to ask.
They have taught him French, and with them he always has to speak that language. But he doesn't like it, because he says he's an American citizen and would rather talk "United States" than anything else. He's awfully patriotic and proud of this country, and he can't understand why this should bother Mr. and Miss Meadows. But it somehow does. He's sure of it, for they won't let him talk about it, and are always telling him that his great grandfather was born in France and that he should be very proud of it.
Then there's another thing, too, that seems to worry them a lot. Louis is crazy about mechanical engineering. He declares he's going to study that exclusively, when he's through high school, and become an expert in it. This nearly drives them wild. They want him to be a "statesman," as they call it, and study law and history and diplomacy and all that sort of thing.
"You can serve your country best that way," they are always telling him.
Once he said to them:
"The United States has plenty of that sort already. I want to go in for something special." And he says they never answered a word, but just looked queerly at each other and walked off.
Another time he found that the lock on their kitchen door wouldn't work, so he unscrewed it and took it out. He was fixing it when along came his Aunt Yvonne. When she saw what he was doing she burst into tears and rushed away, muttering, "The ancient blood! It will ruin everything!"—or something in French like that.
All these things do not happen frequently, of course, but when something like it does occur, it puzzles Louis dreadfully. He always talks it over with us when we come home together from Bridgeton High School on the trolley, so that's why I happen to know about it.
Well, now I've begun this journal by telling all about ourselves and our homes and everything else I can think of. But as I read it over, it doesn't sound one bit exciting or likely to become "an interesting contribution to history," as Miss Cullingford would say. I wonder what she'd think about it. I'm glad I didn't promise to show her my journal, for I'm not very proud of this sample. I'm crazy to see what Carol has written. We're going to compare our journals to-morrow.
One thing is certain, though. I'm not going to write another word till I've something more interesting to talk about, even if I have to wait six months!