“David, where did you read that story?” she asked when he had finished. 73
“I made it up,” he confessed.
“Why, David, I didn’t know you had such a talent. You must be an author when you are a man.”
Late that night she saw a light shining from beneath the young narrator’s door.
“I ought to send him to bed,” she meditated, “but, poor lad, he has had so few pleasures and, after all, childhood is the only time for thorough enjoyment, so why should I put a feather in its path?”
David read until after midnight, and went to bed with a book under his pillow that he might begin his pastime again at dawn.
After breakfast the next morning M’ri commanded the whole family to sit down and write their thanks to Joe. David’s willing pen flew in pace with his thoughts as he told of Miss Rhody’s delight and his own revel in book land. Janey made most wretched work of her composition. She sighed and struggled with thoughts and pencil, which she gnawed at both ends. Finally she confessed that she couldn’t think of anything more to say. M’ri came to 74 inspect her literary effort, which was written in huge characters.
“Dear Joe––”
“Oh,” commented M’ri doubtfully, “I don’t know as you should address him so familiarly.”
“I called him ‘Joe’ when we rode to school. He told me to,” defended Janey.