W. H.
Georgianna’s Letter to William Henry.
My dear Brother Billy,—
O Billy, my pretty, darling little bird is dead! My kitty did it, and O, I don’t know what I shall do, for I love my kitty if she did kill my birdie; but I don’t forget about it, and I keep thinking of my birdie every time my kitty comes in the room. I was putting some seeds in the glass, and my birdie looked so cunning; and I held a lump of white sugar in my lips, and let him peck it. And while I was thinking what a dear little bird he was, I forgot he could fly out; but he could, for the door was open, and he flew to the window. I didn’t think anything about kitty. It flew up to that bracket you made, and then it went away up in the corner just as high as it could, on a wooden peg that was there. I didn’t know what made it flutter its wings and tremble so, but grandmother pointed her finger down to the corner, on the floor, and there was my kitty stretching out and looking up at my bird. And that was what made poor birdie tremble so. And it dropped right down. Before we could run across to catch kitty, he dropped right down into her mouth. I never thought she could get him. I didn’t know what made grandmother hurry. I didn’t know that kitties could charm birds, but they do. She didn’t have him a minute in her teeth, and I thought it couldn’t be dead. But, O Billy, my dear birdie never breathed again! I warmed him in my hands, and tried to make him stir his wings, but he never breathed again. Now the tears are coming again. I thought I wasn’t going to cry any more. But they come themselves; when I don’t know it, they come; and O, it was such a good birdie! When I came home from school I used to run to the cage, and he would sing to meet me. And I put chickweed over his cage.
Grandmother has put away that empty cage now. She’s sorry, too. Did you think a grandmother would be sorry about a little bird as that? But she’d rather give a good deal. When she put the plates on the table, and rattled spoons, he used to sing louder and louder. And in the morning he used to wake me up, singing away so loud! Now, when I first wake up, I listen. But O, it is so still now! Then in a minute I remember all about it. Sometimes kitty jumps up on the bed, and puts her nose close down, and purrs. But I say, “No, kitty. Get down. You killed little birdie. I don’t want to see you.” But she don’t know what I mean. She rubs her head on my face, and purrs loud, and wants me to stroke her back, and don’t seem as if she had been bad. She used to be such a dear little kitty. And so she is. She’s pretty as a pigeon. Aunt Phebe says she never saw such a pretty little gray and white kitty as she is. I was going to have her drowned. But then I should cry for kitty too. Then I should think how she looked all drowned, down at the bottom, just the same way I do now how my birdie looked when it couldn’t stir its little wings, and its eyes couldn’t move. My father says that kitty didn’t know any better. I hope so. I took off that pretty chain she had round her neck. But grandmother thinks I had better put it on again. Aunt Phebe’s little Tommy says, “Don’t kye, Dordie, I’ll bung dat tat. I’ll take a tick and bung dat tat!” He calls me Dordie, I guess I rather have kitty alive than let her be drowned, don’t you? Grandmother wants you not to catch cold and be sick.
From your affectionate sister,
Georgianna.
P. S. Grandmother showed me how to write this letter.