In the afternoon the postman brought them a letter from their Cousin Gladys, who was in Paris with her father and mother. So they all gathered around mother to hear it.
"DEAR E. AND B.," it began.
"This is a silly city.
"They talk like babies. No one can understand them. I'd like them better if they'd talk plain American.
"Their stoves look like granddaddy long legs; they are funny boxes, and when you are cold, they wheel them into your room, and stick the pipe in the hole, and by and by wheel them out. We live in an artist's house on a street that means Asses street, and our front room is a saloon but not a drinking one, and it runs right through the up-stairs to the skylight. You have to pay for that. Think of charging for daylight! We went to a bird show and I saw a cockatoo sitting on a pole asleep. 'Scratch its back with your parasol, Gladys,' said mother, so I did, and it opened one eye when I stopped, and said, 'Encore,' I was put out to think even the birds didn't talk American, but when I said so, mother laughed but I don't see why.
"Write and tell me all the news. No more now from
"Your cousin,
"GLADYS."
"O, it's thundering!" said Bobby when the letter was finished.
Beth at once climbed into her mother's lap, as if for protection.
"Are you afraid of a shower, Beth?" asked Nan.
"No,—not—a shower," said Beth, "only I don't like it when it goes over such a bump!"
Mother kissed her and sent the others up-stairs to get ready for a show.
"Get up a good one and I'll pay five cents admission," she said.
"Oh I'll go too," said Beth, "p'raps when I am busy I won't notice the noise."
By and by they called Mrs. Rayburn, and she went up-stairs with her sewing, and dropped her nickel into a box, because the whole force was in the show. They were getting ready in the next room, from which was heard much giggling.