Minnie, when she saw how distressed he really was, generously forgave him, and bade good-by to her bird, though not without some tears, for she loved the little creature dearly; and to comfort Peter took him in her lap, and told him an entertaining story.
One day, his mother said, "I am going to New York for a few days; what shall I bring you, my darling, when I return?"
"Oh, mother! a penknife and a pair of skates for next winter, and a penknife! and a basketfull of lemons, to make lemonade! and—and—if you please, a penknife; do, please, mamma!"
His mother laughed at the great desire for a penknife, without which, all boys feel, I believe, that they are very much abused, and deprived of their peculiar right.
"I will remember all your wishes, my dear boy," she said, "particularly the penknife."
"Well, mamma, for fear you might forget, I will write you a letter, and papa shall take it to-morrow."
So that very afternoon, Peter took a large sheet of paper out of his mother's writing-desk, and, pressing his sister Alice into his service, dictated the following epistle:
"My Dear Darling Mamma,—I am very sorry you have gone away! very sorry, indeed; so I am, certainly. I have just bumped my head, and it hurts very much—not so very much, though—hardly any. I wish you were here, and, besides, I want to see you very much indeed. I want you to buy me a penknife. We have very pleasant weather here, and I hope you have pleasant weather in New York; I really do hope so, that's a fact, certainly. I 'spect you will buy me a penknife and a pair of skates.
"I wish I could come to see you; but, unluckily, I am too little, and, besides, I have no money, only but one penny; of course that would not do, as I have not enough money to go to and fro—of course not—I have only one penny.
"Have you money enough to buy my penknife? I have been a pretty good boy, except sometimes, when I was cross—sometimes, last night, when I wanted two pieces of cake; but I don't mean to be cross again, not that I know of—may be. I hope you will bring my penknife. I think that is long enough—of course it is. Good-by, my dear mamma. I hope you will come back soon, and bring my penknife the same day. Bring it in your pocket, shut up, with a paper round it, and tied, and I am your affectionate son,
"Peter."
"Shall I write a postscript?" said Alice.
"What's a postscript?" said Peter, with his head on one side.