"Oh, back in a little street that runs skwy-eyed, Connie says, across this. It's a horrid little street, and mamma won't let me go there, but I know where it is."
"And where does Bill sell his violets?"
"In the square, by the fountain. He has beautiful red hair and the loveliest freckles you ever saw. I wish I had freckles and red hair; don't you?"
"I can't say that I do desire them greatly, and I'm sure I like you much better as you are."
"Do you? Well, maybe you do, but I don't. Do you fink Santa Claus got Bill's letter? I hope he did, for it seems dreadful for anyone to have no Santa Claus and no Christmas; it makes me feel sorry inside, as if I had eaten too many cakes. Do you fink he got it?"
"That depends upon where he mailed it."
"Why, in the post-office box, of course. The one on the corner, by the square, that says U. S. mail on it. What makes them turn it hind part before? Why don't they say mail us? It means the letters you put in, of course. It's so the man with the funny little wagon will know."
The doctor frowned; then he laughed. It was such a funny translation of the U. S. mail. But just such fantastic ideas he knew took possession of the child. "That's all right," he said. "Uncle Sam does put things wrong-end-foremost sometimes. You tell Bill that if he put his letter in the box there's not the slightest doubt but that it will be answered."
"I saw him put it in. He showed it to me, and I went with him to mail it. He can write pretty well, for he went to school before that time; about—about the bronicles, you know."