“And don’t overlook the skiers in winter,” John added happily. “They come from all over the world to ski and to train for the Olympic matches. I’m afraid, Judy, you’ll find no ghosts in Aspen, summer or winter. So don’t let Grandpa’s tall tales bother you any.”
“Charles, we should be going. These young people will have to get some rest. Besides, we’ll see them off tomorrow morning.”
“No, Mother dear, I won’t hear of your coming to the airport. We’ll say good-bye right here—but don’t hurry away—stay a little longer!”
Mr. Ritchie shook his head. “We’ve got too much sense to stay on.” He extracted a package from his briefcase.
“Judy, I nearly forgot to give you this. There’s a diary, a drawing pad, a box of pastels, and a volume or two of poems. Something for every shining hour, providing your heavy duties with the theater ever permit such trivial occupation—” He laughed as he kissed her.
“Do you like my present?”
“Of course, I do. I was just thinking of last summer. When I told one of the girls at school about your Shakespeare readings, she looked at me pityingly. ‘You listened to Shakespeare of your own free will!’” Judy laughed. “It’s lucky I never told her about my secret ambition,” Judy looked innocently at her grandmother. “Yes, a writer—some day!”
Her grandmother shrugged her shoulders. “Why not choose something easy like digging ditches?”
The sarcasm was lost on her granddaughter. “The trouble is I like so many things—but actually,” she went on, “I don’t see why writing should be so difficult. You get an idea, you write it down, do a line research, maybe—there are enough words in the dictionary—”
“Of course,” her grandmother said wryly.