Your affectionate grandchild,
William Henry.
P. S. When punkins come, save the seeds—to roast. If you please.
My dear Grandmother,—
One of my elbows came through, but the woman sewed it up again. I’ve used up both balls of my twine. And my white-handled knife,—I guess it went through a hole in my pocket, that I didn’t know of till after the knife was lost. My trousers grow pretty short. But she says ’t is partly my legs getting long. I’m glad of that. And partly getting ’em wet.
I stubbed my toe against a stump, and tumbled down and scraped a hole through the knee of my oldest pair. For it was very rotten cloth. I guess the hole is too crooked to have her sew it up again. She thinks a mouse ran up the leg, and gnawed that hole my knife went through, to get the crumbles in the pocket. I don’t mean when they were on me, but hanging up.
My boat is almost rigged. She says she will hem the sails if I won’t leave any more caterpillars in my pockets. I’m getting all kinds of caterpillars to see what kind of butterflies they make.
Yesterday, Dorry and I started from the pond to run and see who would get home first. He went one way, and I went another.
I cut across the Two Betseys’ garden. But I don’t see how I did so much hurt in just once cutting across. I knew something cracked,—that was the sink-spout I jumped down on, off the fence. There was a board I hit, that had huckleberries spread out on it to dry. They went into the rain-water hogshead. I didn’t know any huckleberries were spread out on that board.
I meant to go between the rows, but guess I stepped on a few beans. My wrist got hurt dreadfully by my getting myself tripped up in a squash-vine. And while I was down there, a bumble-bee stung me on my chin. I stepped on a little chicken, for she ran the way I thought she wasn’t going to. I don’t remember whether I shut the gate or not. But guess not, for the pig got in, and went to rooting before Lame Betsey saw him, and the other Betsey had gone somewhere.