My mother is all the one that I ever wrote a letter to before. So excuse poor writing, and this pen isn’t a very good pen to write with I bet. I am very sorry that you can’t come back quite yet. I hope that it won’t be a fever that you are going to have. Does your grandma think that ’t is going to be a fever? Do you take bitter medicine? I never had a fever. I take little pills every time I have anything. My mother likes little pills best now. But she used to make me take bitter stuff. Once she put it in my mouth and I wouldn’t swallow it down. Then she pinched my nose together and it made me swallow it down. Once I ate up all the little pills out of the bottle, and she was very scared about it. It wasn’t very full. But the doctor said that it wouldn’t hurt me any if I did eat them. How many presents did you have? I had five. Dorry he says he hopes that it won’t be a slow fever that you are going to have if you do have any fever, for he wants you to hurry and come back. Some new fellows have come. One is a tip-top one. And one good “pitcher.” I hope you will come back very soon, ’cause I like you very much.
Do you know who ’t is writing? I am that one all you fellers call
Bubby Short.
As may be gathered from the foregoing letter, William Henry did not go back to school with the rest. He was taken ill just at the close of vacation, and remained at home until spring. Grandmother said it was such a comfort that it didn’t happen away. And it seemed to me that this thought really made her enjoy his being sick at home.
Indeed, the people at Summer Sweeting place seemed ready to get enjoyment from everything, even from gruel, which is usually considered flat. I passed a day there at a time when William Henry was subsisting on this very simple but wholesome food. Aunt Phebe and Uncle Jacob came in to take tea at grandmother’s. The old lady was bringing out her nice things to set on the table, when Aunt Phebe said suddenly, I suppose seeing a hungry look in Billy’s eyes. She said,—
“Now, Grandmother, I wouldn’t bring those out. Let’s have a gruel supper, and all fare alike! We’ll make it in different ways,—milk porridge, oatmeal, corn-starch,—and I think ’t will be a pleasant change.”
“Gruel is very nourishing, well made,” said Grandmother; “but what will Mr. Fry say?”
“Mr. Fry will say,” I answered, “that milk porridge, with Boston crackers, is a dish fit for a king.”
“I’m afraid Jacob won’t think he’s been to supper,” said Grandmother.