IDA BERNSTORF’S JOURNAL.
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BY ENNA DUVAL.
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“And what is this, Miss Enna?” said my friend, Kate Wilson, one morning, as she sat before the old writing-desk, opening with curiosity the different packages. “What a romantic name,” she continued, “ ‘Letters and Journal of Ida Bernstorf;’ letters from Germany long years ago. Come, Miss Enna, do please, stop that tiresome letter, and tell me all about it.”
“Read the letters and journal, Kate,” I replied, “they tell the story themselves.”
“No, no,” said the impatient beauty, “that will not do; you must tell me the story, and read me the Journal, it will sound so much prettier. I have not disturbed you for more than the hour you asked for. See, my little Geneva monitor will bear witness;” and she held up her tiny watch to prove her assertion. My letter-clasp being filled to overflowing, I had stipulated that morning with Kate, to give me one hour to answer two or three of these letters, that my conscience might feel relieved; that being done, I promised to entertain her to the best of my ability. With playful willfulness she rolled my large chair away from my writing-table, chanting in merry notes—
“Up, up, my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you’ll grow double!
Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks—