Now I have got to the end of another sheet of paper. I wish I hadn’t begun to tell my sister this story. It takes so long. And I want every minute of the time to play in. For ’t is getting a little cooler, and a fellow can stand it to run some. The master says it’s good weather for studying. Dorry says he never saw any weather yet good enough for studying. I shall write a very short letter next time, to tell the rest of it.
From your affectionate grandchild,
William Henry.
P. S. I forgot to put this letter in the office. I guess I will not write any more letters till I go home. I was going to tell more, but I can do it better talking. I went to see Tom Cush the next day, and he had gone. Rosy’s got her lamb back again. But her flower-garden was killed by the hail. Not one leaf left. She found her lamb on the doorstep, waiting to get in.
We have next a letter from Aunt Phebe, a dear, good-hearted woman, who took almost a mother’s interest in William Henry. Indeed, I have heard her remark, that she hardly knew any difference between her feelings for him and for her own children.
Some of her letters will be found to contain good advice, given in a very amusing way.
Letter from Aunt Phebe.
Dear Billy,—
You rogue, you! I meant to have written before. You’ve frightened us all to pieces with your ghost that wasn’t a ghost, and your whipping that wasn’t a whipping, and your measles that you didn’t have. Grandmother may talk, but she’s losing her memory. You were red as a beet with ’em. As if I didn’t carry you about all night and go to sleep walking!