class="x-ebookmaker-pageno" title="[Pg 21]"/> are boys, and don't always do us they ought to. Now there's little Silas. He's been a world of trouble first and last. But then boys soon get big enough to be ashamed of all their little bad ways. The biggest part of 'em like good men best, and mean to be good men. And I think Billy's going to grow up a capital fellow! A capital fellow! If a boy's true-hearted he'll come out all right. And your boy is, isn't he?"

"O very!" she said. "Very!"

I was so glad to think, after the old lady had gone down, that I'd said something which, if she kept awake, thinking about the boy, would be a comfort to her.

Next morning grandmother brought out quite an armful of old clothes. A poor old couple, living near, she said, took most of hers and Mr. Carver's; but what few there were of Billy's that were decent to send I might have. A couple of linen jackets, a Scotch cap, two pairs of thin trousers, not much worn, but outgrown, a small overcoat, several pairs of stockings, and some shoes. And the boots also, and some underclothing, that William Henry might have worn longer, she said, if he were only living at home, where she could put a stitch in 'em now and then.

Grandmother sighed as she emptied the pockets of crumbles, green apples, reins, bullets, and knotted, gray, balled-up pocket-handkerchiefs. Among the clothes she brought out a funny little uniform, which I had seen hanging up in his room,—one that he had when a soldier, or trainer, as she called it, in a military company, formed near the beginning of the war. It consisted of a blue flannel sack, edged with red braid, red flannel Zouave trousers, and a blue flannel cap, bound with red, and having a square visor. That uniform would fit some little contraband, she said.

"Hadn't you better keep those?" I asked. "Won't he want them?"

"O no," she said. "He's outgrown them. And 't is no use keeping them for moths to get into."

She gave me some picture-books, and two primers, a roll of linen, and quite a good blanket, all of which I received thankfully.

In rolling up the different articles, I saw her eye resting so lovingly on the little uniform, that I said, "Here, grandmother, hadn't you better take back these?"

"O, I guess not," she answered. "I guess you better send them. But," she added a moment after, "perhaps they might as well stay till you send another barrel."

"Just exactly as well," I said. And the old lady seemed as if she had recovered a lost treasure.

Aunt Phebe added a good many valuable articles, so that by the time Uncle Jacob was ready to start I had collected two immense bundles, and felt almost brave enough to face another barrel. For they all said they would beg from their friends, and save things, and that I must certainly come again.

"For you know," said Aunt Phebe, "'t is a great deal better to hear you tell things than to read about them in the newspapers."

They stood about the door to see us off, and Matilda stroked the old horse, and talked to him as if he understood. She broke off two heads of phlox, red and white, and fastened them in behind his ear. Uncle Jacob told me, as we rode along, that the old horse really expected to be patted and talked to before starting. And indeed I noticed myself that after being dressed up he stepped off with an exceedingly satisfied air, just as I have seen some little girls,—and boys too, for that matter, and occasionally grown people.

But it is quite time to give you the Letters. There should be more of them, for the correspondence covers a period of about two years. 'T is true that, after the first, William Henry did not write nearly as often. But still there are many missing. Little Tommy cut up some into strings of boys and girls, and at one time when grandmother wasn't very well, and had to hire help, the girl look some to kindle fire with. The old lady said she was sitting up in her arm-chair, by the fireplace one day, when she saw, in the corner, a piece of paper with writing on it, half burnt up. She poked it out with a yardstick, and 't was one of Billy's letters! Quite a number which were perfect have been omitted. This is because that some coming between were missing; and so, as the children say, there wouldn't be any sense to them. Others contained mostly private matters. Very few were dated. This is, however, of small importance, as the Letters probably will never be brought forward to decide a law case.

THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS.

The first letter from William Henry which has been preserved seems to have been written a few weeks after entering his school, and when he had begun to get acquainted with the boys. Could the letter itself be made to appear here, with its very peculiar handwriting, and with all the other distinctive marks of a boy's first exploit on paper, it would be found even more entertaining than when given in the printed form.

My dear Grandmother,—

I think the school that I have come to is a very good school. We have dumplings. I've tied up the pills that you gave me in case of feeling bad, in the toe of my cotton stocking that's lost the mate of it. The mince pies they have here are baked without any plums being put into them. So, please, need I say, No, I thank you, ma'am, to 'em when they come round? If they don't agree, shall I take the pills or the drops? Or was it the hot flannels,—and how many?

I've forgot about being shivery. Was it to eat roast onions? No, I guess not. I guess it was a wet band tied round my head. Please write it down, because you told me so many things I can't remember. How can anybody tell when anybody is sick enough to take things? You can't think what a great, tall man the schoolmaster is. He has got something very long to flog us with, that bends easy, and hurts,—Q. S. So Dorry says. Q. S. is in the abbreviations, and stands for a sufficient quantity. Dorry says the master keeps a paint-pot in his room, and has his whiskers painted black every morning, and his hair too, to make himself look scareful. Dorry is one of the great boys. But Tom Cush is bigger. I don't like Tom Cush.

I have a good many to play with; but I miss you and Towser and all of them very much. How does my sister do? Don't let the cow eat my peach-tree. Dorry Baker he says that peaches don't grow here; but he says the cherries have peach-stones in them. In a month my birthday will be here. How funny 't will seem to be eleven, when I've been ten so long! I don't skip over any button-holes in the morning now; so my jacket comes out even.

Why didn't you tell me I had a red head? But I can run faster than any of them that are no bigger than I am, and some that are. One of the spokes of my umbrella broke itself in two yesterday, because the wind blew so when it rained.

We learn to sing. He says I've a good deal of voice; but I've forgot what the matter is with it. We go up and down the scale, and beat time. The last is the best fun. The other is hard to do. But if I could only get up, I guess 't would be easy to come down. He thinks something ails my ear. I thought he said I hadn't got any at all. What have a feller's ears to do with singing, or with scaling up and down?

Your affectionate grandchild,

William Henry.

P.S. Here's a conundrum Dorry Baker made: In a race, why would the singing-master win? Because "Time flies," and he beats time.

I want to see Aunt Phebe, and Aunt Phebe's little Tommy, dreadfully.

W. H.

This second letter must have been pleasing