Why didn’t you tell me I had a red head? But I can run faster than any of them that are no bigger than I am, and some that are. One of the spokes of my umbrella broke itself in two yesterday, because the wind blew so when it rained.
We learn to sing. He says I’ve a good deal of voice; but I’ve forgot what the matter is with it. We go up and down the scale, and beat time. The last is the best fun. The other is hard to do. But if I could only get up, I guess ’t would be easy to come down. He thinks something ails my ear. I thought he said I hadn’t got any at all. What have a feller’s ears to do with singing, or with scaling up and down?
Your affectionate grandchild,
William Henry.
P.S. Here’s a conundrum Dorry Baker made: In a race, why would the singing-master win? Because “Time flies,” and he beats time.
I want to see Aunt Phebe, and Aunt Phebe’s little Tommy, dreadfully.
W. H.
This second letter must have been pleasing to Aunt Phebe, as it shows that William Henry was beginning to have some faint regard for his personal appearance.
My dear Grandmother,—