"It is some thing very particular indeed, which ladies always put in after the letter is finished."
"Oh, yes!" cried Peter, "I'm the boy for a postscript—certainly, of course!"
"Well," said Alice, holding her pen over the paper.
"Well," repeated Peter, "Postscript, put that! Got that down?"
"Yes, all written beautifully!" answered Alice.
"Dear mamma, please pertikerlary to bring me a penknife and—" oh, Alice, "a pair of skates and a penknife!" and then the wonderful letter was finished and sent the next morning; and let me tell you, Peter's mother laughed over and enjoyed this letter more than she would have done the finest complimentary epistle from the President of the United States.
You may be sure that Peter got the penknife and his skates, too. With the first, like boys in general, he cut himself about once a day; but he did not care a button for that, but just had his finger tied up by one of his kind sisters, and marched off, without even making a wry face, with his precious knife in his pocket. The skates came, too; but, as there had been no ice as yet, Peter had only tried them on dry ground, which Alice told him was far the best and safest style of skating, and repeated, for his edification, Mother Goose's solemn poem of—
"Three children sliding on the ice—
All, on a summer's day—
The ice was thin; they all fell in;
The rest, they ran away.
Now, had these children been at home,
Or sliding on dry ground,
Ten thousand pounds to one penny
They had not all been drowned."
All of which was heathen Greek to Peter, or, as he called it, "Stuff!"
One day, soon after her return, Peter's mother took him with her to visit an excellent lady of her acquaintance, who lived near by. They found her sitting in the parlor, with her eldest son and daughter, looking over a new and beautiful book, called Melodies for Childhood. Soon after they were seated the lady said, "Something very amusing happened up-stairs just now. I have a friend here spending the day, who brought her little baby of four months with her. My little girl is just the same age. Of course my friend's baby must have her nap, and I gave her my little one's cradle to sleep in. But my baby was so very much put out at this that she could not sleep at all; and little Harry, who, as you know, is not quite three years old, was so grieved at what he supposed was the wickedness of the other baby, in taking away his sister's property, that he marched up to the cradle—his little breast heaving, his eyes flashing, and his hand raised, while, with high, indignant voice, he asked, "Mamma, sall I SAPP her?" and I had to run to save the little innocent from the impending blow."