I am waiting, hoping, longing, but for what I don’t know quite.
And when summer’s sunshine shimmers, and the birds sing clear and sweet,
I am waiting, always waiting, for the joy I hope to meet.
“It will be, I think, my husband, and the home he’ll make for me;
But of his coming or home-making, I as yet no signs do see.
But I still shall keep on waiting, for I know it’s true as fate,
When you really, truly hustle, things will come if just you’ll wait.”
Miss Bray was to get married. When I grow up I am going to marry a million-dollar man, so I can travel around the world and have a house in Paris with twenty bathrooms in it. And I’m going to have horses and automobiles and a private car and balloons, if they are working all right by that time. I hope they will be, for I want something in which I can soar up and sit and look down on other people.
All my life people have looked down on me, passing me by like I was a Juny bug or a caterpillar, and I don’t wonder. I’m merely Mary Cary with fifty-eight more just like me. Blue calico, white dots for winter, white calico, blue dots for summer. Black sailor hats and white sailor hats with blue capes for cold weather, and no fire to dress by, and freezing fingers when it’s cold, and no ice-water when it’s hot.
Yes, I am going to marry a rich man. I will try to love him, but if I can’t I will be polite to him and travel alone as much as possible. But I am going to be rich some day, I am. And when I come back to Yorkburg eyes will bulge, for the clothes I am going to wear will make mouths water, they’re going to be so grand.