So Polly took the pen again with a sigh. “Now he won't think so, I guess,” she said, much relieved, as Ben began to read again.
“I'll begin yours again,” Ben said: “We most of us knew you were sick because you didn't come, and we liked your letter telling us so because we'd all felt so badly, and Phronsie cried herself to sleep—” (that's good, I'm sure.) “The 'gingerbread boy' is for your father—please excuse it, but Phronsie would make it for him because he is sick. There isn't any more to write, and besides I can't write good, and Ben's tired. From all of us.”
“Why, how's he to know?” cried Ben. “That won't do to sign it.”
“Well, let's say from Ben and Polly then,” said Polly; “only all the others want to be in the letter.”
“Well, they can't write,” said Ben.
“We might sign their names for 'em,” suggested Polly.
“Here's mine,” said Ben, putting under the “From all of us” a big, bold “Ben.”
“And here's mine,” echoed Polly, setting a slightly crooked “Polly” by its side.
“Now Joe, you better let Ben hold your hand,” said Polly, warningly. But Joel declaring he could write had already begun, so there was no hope for it; and a big drop of ink falling from the pen, he spattered the “J” so that no one could tell what it was. The children looked at each other in despair.
“Can we ever get it out, mammy?” said Polly, running to Mrs. Pepper with it.