Now, maybe you’ll say, “But, Billy, Billy, where are you going to get all these fine things?” O you silly grandmother! Don’t you remember your own saying that you wrote down?—“What a man wants he can get, if he tries hard enough.” Or a boy either, you said. I shall try hard enough. There’s more to write about. But I’m sleepy. I would tell you about Tom Cush’s father coming here, only my eyes can’t keep open. Isn’t it funny that when you are sleepy your eyes keep shutting up and your mouth keeps coming open? Please excuse the lines that go crooked. There’s another gape! I guess Aunt Phebe will be tired reading all this. I’m on her side. I mean about measles. I’d rather have ’em when I was a month old. I suppose I was a month old once. Don’t seem as if ’t was the same one I am now. But if I do have ’em,—there I go gaping again,—if I catch ’em, and all the doctors do come, I’ll—O dear! There I go again. I do believe I’m asleep—I’ll—I’ll get some natural-born old woman to drive ’em out, as you said, and good night.
William Henry.
My dear Grandmother,—
I am back again, and had a good time; but came back hungry. I’ll tell you why. The first time I sat down to table I felt bashful, and Dorry’s mother said a great deal about my having a small appetite, and afterwards I didn’t like to make her think it was a large one.
I guess I behaved quite well at the table. But I couldn’t look the way you said. It made me feel squint-eyed. Once I almost laughed at table. The day they had roast duck, it smelt nice. I thought it wouldn’t go round, for they had company besides me; and I said, “No, I thank you, ma’am.” Dorry whispered to me, “You must be a goose not to love duck”; and that was when I almost laughed at table. His grandmother shook her head at him.
Now I’ll tell about Tom Cush’s father. That Saturday, when we were eating dinner, somebody came to the front door, and inquired for us two,—Dorry and me. It was Tom Cush’s father. He wanted to ask us about Tom, and whether we knew anything about him. But we knew no more than he did. He talked some with us. The next evening,—Sunday evening,—Tom Cush’s mother sent for Dorry and me to come and see her. His father came after us. She said they wanted to know more about what I wrote to you in those letters.
O, I don’t want ever again to go where the folks are so sober. The room was just as still as anything, not much light burning, and great curtains hanging way down, and she looked like a sick woman. Just as pale! Only sometimes she stood up and walked, and then sat down again, and leaned way forward, and asked a question, and looked into our faces so. We didn’t know what to do. Dorry talked more than I could. Tom’s father kept just as sober! He said to Dorry: “It is true, then, that my boy wouldn’t own up to his own actions?” or something like that.
Tom’s father said, “And he was willing to sit still and see another boy whipped in his place?”