“There, now I'm going to give you this,” and she took out a small sheet of paper slightly yellowed by age; but being gilt-edged, it looked very magnificent to the five pairs of eyes directed to it.
“Now Ben, you get the ink bottle and the pen, and then go to work.”
So Ben reached down from the upper shelf in the cupboard the ink bottle, and a pen in a black wooden penholder.
“Oh, mamsie,” cried Polly, “that's where Phronsie bit it off when she was a baby, isn't it?” holding up the stubby end where the little ball had disappeared.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pepper, “and now you're going to write about her 'gingerbread boy' with it—well, time goes, to be sure.” And she bent over her work again, harder than ever. Poor woman! if she could only scrape together enough money to get her children into school—that was the earnest wish of her heart. She must do it soon, for Ben was twelve years old; but with all her strivings and scrimpings she could only manage to put bread into their mouths, and live from day to day. “I know I ought to be thankful for that,” she said to herself, not taking time even to cry over her troubles. “But oh, the learning! they must have that!”
“Now,” said Polly, “how'll we do it Ben?” as they ranged themselves around the table, on which reposed the cakes; “you begin.”
“How do folks begin a letter?” asked Ben in despair, of his mother.
“How did Jasper begin his?” asked Mrs. Pepper back again. “Oh,” cried Polly, running into the bedroom to get the precious missive. “Dear Miss Polly'—that's what it says.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Pepper, “then you'd better say, 'Dear Mister Jasper'—or you might say, 'Dear Mr. King.'”
“Oh, dear!” cried Polly, “that would be the father then—s'pose he should think we wrote to him!” and Polly looked horror-stricken to the last degree.