Lucky Island, Maine.
Dear Magazine,—You kum evry weak, an i dono ow we got long witout You. The aint nobody in the Sity to tel You how to get to This jumpin-of plais, so we no that Our Father must send You evry weak. An we wanter Thanx him but we dono ow. Plees put this Leter in the Leterbox sos he wil see. He dont kum here in Wintr its so lonsum I gess he wood be glad if he knu ow hapy he made 6 litl chilren way down in Maine. I hop he will send it evr an evr we havnt nothin els to red.
Yours truly,
Tommy Prout.
The editor of the magazine did not often print a letter spelled as badly as this one of poor Tommy Prout, who was eight years old, but who only went to school in the spring and fall. But when the editor read that letter he blew his nose and wiped his glasses and said:—
“Yes, I’ll print your letter just as it is, Tommy Prout, and I think it will please Him whom you wish to thank, even if some one else mails the paper for Him every week.”
So that is why, some days later, when Kenneth Thornton was carelessly cutting the leaves of his new magazine, he suddenly gave a surprised whistle. The name of his beloved summer island had caught his eye, at the head of a letter in the Letter-Box.
“Oh, Mamma,” he cried, “see, here is a letter from our island. And it is signed, ‘Tommy Prout.’ But I can’t make out the funny spelling.”
Then Kenneth’s mamma read the letter aloud, and it did not sound so queer as it looked. When she had finished there were tears in her eyes and in Rose’s, too. And Kenneth was winking queerly.
“The dear little fellow!” said Mamma. “Just think what it means to them to have those papers that you don’t care for. O children, our Father surely did put it into your heads to send the magazines; so Tommy is right.”
“And we will send them ‘ever and ever,’ as Tommy hopes, won’t we, Kenneth?” cried Rose eagerly.