Then I whispered back, “’T won’t do to. If I do, he won’t go any.”
But in a minute he began to go faster of his own accord. He heard somebody ahead calling. It was Gapper, coming to see what the matter was that kept us so late. Now what do you think about it?
From your affectionate
William Henry.
P. S. My boots leak. Shall I get them tapped, or get a new pair, or throw them away, or else keep the legs to make new boots of?
W. H.
Here we have William Henry trying his hand at story-telling.
My Dear Grandmother,—
Sometimes Dorry writes stories in his letters for his sister, just as he tells them to her, talking, at home. Now I’ll write one for my sister, and I’ll call it by a name. I’ll call it