The William Henry Letters Part 27

Besides the baby-house table, the presents were laid on the roof of the baby-house. There were sontags, shoes, hats and feathers, and all sorts of clothes, the rosebud, your jewelry, and more besides, also spoons, dishes, gridirons, vases and everything they could possibly want, to keep house with, even to flatirons and a cooking-stove. The hands of the happy couple were fastened together, and they stood up (there was a pile of books behind them). Then the trouble was, who should be the minister?

At last we saw that funny d.i.c.ky Willis, your old crony, peeping in the window, and made him come in and be the minister. He was just the right one for it. He charged the bridegroom to give his wife everything she asked for, and keep her in dry kindlings, and let her have her own way, and always wipe his feet, and not smoke in the house, and never find fault; and charged her to sew on his b.u.t.tons, and have plum-pudding often, and let him smoke in the house, and never want any new clothes, and always mind her husband, and let him bring in mud on his feet, and always have a smiling face, even if the baby-house was a burning down over their heads, and then p.r.o.nounced them man and wife. I could fill up half a dozen sheets of paper, if I had time, but I'm afraid of that b.u.t.ter. Everybody shook hands with them, and kissed them, and the wedding-cake was pa.s.sed round, and then the children played

"Little Sally Waters, sitting in the sun, Crying and weeping for her lost one."

In the midst of everything Tommy came in with Georgiana's atlas, and said he'd found "two kick-cases." He meant those two black hemispheres, that are pictured out in the beginning. Mother put a raisin in his mouth, and hushed him up. The happy couple have gone on a wedding tour to Susie Snow's grandmother's _country_ _seat_. It is expected that they will live half the time with Georgie, and half at the General's head-quarters. But their plans may be altered; this is a changing world, and a young couple can't always tell what's before them. I do wish you'd write how you get on at dancing-school, and what the great girls wear, about my age. O dear what an age it is! 'T is dreadful to think of!

'Most eighteen! Did you ever hear of anybody being so old? Now truly I'm 'most ashamed to own how old I am. Eighteen next month! Hush, don't tell! Keep it private! I do wish I could grow backwards, and grow back into a baby-house if 't were nothing but a sugar-box. I do long to cut my hair off and go in a long-sleeved tier, and I've a good mind to. We don't think you made a very good beginning. Guess your Mr.--I can't think of his name--thought there was need enough of your learning to enter a room. Mother's going to put a note in this letter. I've made her promise not to scold you, but she's got something particular to say.

Father will too. I told him 't would be just what you would like, one of his letters. Matilda says the b.u.t.ter has sent word it's coming. Write soon.

From your affectionate Cousin,

LUCY MARIA.

I was very sorry not to be able to attend the wedding. My present was half a dozen holders. The woman with whom I board said I couldn't give a bride anything more useful. Her little daughter made them for me, at the rate of two cents apiece. They were an inch wide, and all had loops at the corners.

_A Note from Uncle Jacob._

HOW ARE YOU, YOUNG MAN?

I am very glad you go to dancing-school. Boys, as a general thing, are too fond of study, and 't is a good plan to have some contrivance to take their minds off their books. I suppose you'd like to know what is going on here at home. Your grandmother sits by the fire knitting some mittens for you to lose, so be sure you do it. [She says, tell him to be sure when he goes to dancing-school to wear his overcoat.] Your aunt Phebe is making jelly tarts. Says I can't have any till meal-time. [Tell him to be sure and get cooled off some before he comes away.] Your grandmother can't help worrying about that dancing-school. Matilda is picking over raisins for the pies. She won't sit very close to me. Now Tommy has come in, crying with cold hands. Lucy Maria is soaking them in cold water. I don't doubt he'll get a tart. Yes, he has. First he cries, and then he takes a bite. [Tell him not to go and come in his slippers.]

Aunt Phebe says, "Now there's William Henry growing up, you ought to give him some advice." But I tell her that a boy almost in his teens knows himself what's right and what's wrong. Now Georgiana has come in crying. Says she stepped her foot through a puddle of ice. Grandmother has set her up to dry her foot. Now she'll get a tart, I suppose! Yes she has. [Tell him to look right at the teacher's feet.] That's good advice if you expect to learn how. Now your aunt says I'm such a good boy to write letters she's going to give me this one that's burnt on the edge. [Tell him to brush his clothes and not go linty.] More good advice. I guess now I've got the tart I won't write any more. Of course we expect you to do just about right. If you neglect your studies and so waste your father's money, you'll be an ungrateful scamp. If you get into any contemptible mean ways, we shall be ashamed to own you. Do you mean to do anything or be anything now or ever? If you do, 't is time you were thinking about it.

UNCLE JACOB.

All between the brackets are messages from your grandmother.

J. U.

_A Note from Aunt Phebe._

DEAR BILLY,--

When you get as far as choosing partners, there's a word I want to say to you, though, as you're a pretty good dispositioned boy, maybe there's no need; still you may not always think, so 'twill do no harm to say it.

There are always some girls that don't dance quite so well, or don't look quite so well, or don't dress quite so well, or are not liked quite so well, or are not quite so much acquainted. Now I don't want you to all the time, but sometimes, say once in an evening, I want you to pick out one of these for your partner. I know 't isn't the way boys do. But you can. Suppose you don't have a good time that one dance. You weren't sent into the world to have a good time every minute of your life! How would you like to sit still all the evening? I've been spectator at such times, and I've seen how things go on! Why, if boys would be more thoughtful, every girl might have a good time, besides doing the boys good to think of something besides their own comfort. If I were you I wouldn't try to make fun, but try to learn, for though your father was willing you should go, and wants to do everything he can for you, he has to work hard for his money. Lucy Maria is waiting to hear how you get on.

Your affectionate

AUNT PHEBE.

_William Henry to Lucy Maria._

DEAR COUSIN,--

I was going to write to you before, how I was getting along, but have had to study very hard. We've been five times. The girls wear slippers and brown boots and other colors, and white dresses and blue and all kinds, and long ribbons, and a good many pretty girls go. If girls didn't go, I should like to go better. I mean till we know how, for I'd rather make mistakes when only boys were looking. And I make a good many, because he says I don't have time and tune. He says my feet come down sometimes right square athwart the time. So I watched the rest, and when they put their feet down, I did mine. But that was a stroke too late, he said. Said "time and tune waits for no man." I like to promenade, because a feller can go it some then. We learn all kinds of waltzes and redowas and polkas. I can polka with one that knows how.

Whirling round makes me light-headed just as Grandmother said. But I get over it some. We are going to do the German at the last of it. The worst of it is cutting across the room to get your partners. He calls out when we're all standing up in two rows, "First gentleman take the first lady!" Now, supposing I'm first gentleman, I have to go way across to first lady with all of 'em looking, and fix my feet right way, one heel in the other hollow, and then make my bow, and then she has to make that kind of kneeling-down bow that girls do, and then we wait till all of 'em get across one by one. Then we take the step a little while, and then launch off round the hall, polking, or else get into quadrilles.

And if we do we make graces to the partners and the corners. I like quadrilles best, because you can hop round some and have a good time, if you have a good partner. You can dance good deal better with a good partner. Last time I had that one the fellers call "real estate,"

because you can't move her she don't ever get ready to start, and when 't is time to turn stands still as a post.

Dorry and I practise going across after partners, up in our room. You ought to 've seen us yesterday! Dorry was the lady. If he didn't look funny! He fixed the table-cloth off the entry table, to make it look like his mother's opera-cape, and fastened a great sponge on for a waterfall, and fizzled out his hair, and had a little tidy on top his head, and that red bow you sent me right in front of it. Then he stood out by the window, and kept looking at his opera-cape, and smoothing it down, and poking his hair, and holding his handkerchief, the way girls do, and kept whispering, or making believe, to Bubby Short, the way girls do. Then I went across and made my bow, and he made that kneeling-down bow, and then we tried to polka redowa, but our boots tripped us up, and we couldn't stand up, and laughed so we tumbled down, and didn't hear anybody coming till he knocked, and 't was the teacher, come to see what the matter was. Not Wedding Cake, but Old Brown Bread, and he said dancing mustn't be brought into our studies, and scolded more, but I saw his eyes laughing, looking at Dorry. One of the boys tumbled down stairs, doing the graces in the entry, too near the edge, and it's forbidden now. Some of the first-cla.s.s fellers put up a notice one night in the entry, great printed letters.

[Ill.u.s.tration: NO ADMITTANCE TO THE GRACES]

That owl stands for Minerva. I couldn't make a very good one because I'm in such a hurry to do my examples. The G.o.ddess of wisdom used to be named Minerva. She was painted with an owl. I've been reading it in the Cla.s.sical Dictionary. Dorry and Bubby Short and I have just been to the Two Betseys to get our gloves sewed up, and the Other Betsey said she used to dance like a top. Then she held her dress up with her thumbs and fingers, and took four different kinds of balances. Made us die a laughing, she hopped up and down so.

Your affectionate Cousin,

WILLIAM HENRY.

P. S That TO isn't left out in the notice, it's my own mistake.

The remaining letters were probably written during his last term at the school.

_Matilda's Letter to William Henry._

DEAR COUSIN,--

Lucy Maria keeps telling me that I promised to write you a letter, but I wish I hadn't promised to write you one, because I don't like to write letters very well, for I can't think of anything to write. But Lucy Maria she likes to, and that would do just as well as for me to. But mother says I ought to often, so as to get me in the habit of it. I don't have very much time to write very long letters, for the girls are getting up a Fair, and I am helping do the old woman in her shoe, and gentlemen's pincushions, and presents for the arrow table, where the arrow swings round and points to your present, and so I don't get very much time between schools. For we have to write compositions every week now, and all the girls think the teacher is just as mean as he can be to make us. We want he should take off some of the compositions and put more on to our other lessons; but no. He thinks 't is the best thing we can do. He don't care about anything else, I believe. Susie Snow says she believes he's all made up of composition. Our next subject is "Economy" and we've got to put in time wasted, and health wasted, and money wasted. Susie Snow is going to put in hers that girls should never waste their time writing compositions.

I wish I could think of some news to tell. Lucy Maria could get news in a sandy desert, I believe. But she don't have to go to school. Hannah Jane hasn't got home from Aunt Matilda's yet. The minister and his wife and all his children have been here to spend the day. They are very fond of jelly. Mother gave them that tall gilt tumbler full, that Cousin Joe brought home from sea, with gilt flowers on it. 'T is very pleasant weather. I wish you'd come back and hoe my flower-garden, the weeds are thick as spatters, and I don't have much time. The dog stepped on my sensitive plant. Some of my seeds haven't come up. Father says I better go down after them. That Root of Bliss I set out, good for the headache, that Cousin Joe brought home from the island of Sumatra, that's in the Mediterranean Sea, or else in the Indian Ocean, the hens scratched up four times, and I've brought it in the house and stuck it in a cigar-box. Father told me to shake pepper over it because 't was used to pepper at home, but I can't tell what he means and what he don't, he funs so. Our new cow hooks down rails and goes where she wants to.

O Billy! now I can tell you some news. But 't is quite bad news. It happened two weeks ago. We all felt very sorry about it, and some of us cried. I couldn't help it. You know our cow that was named Reddie, the one we raised up from a bossy-calf with milk-porridge till 't was big enough to eat gra.s.s? Well, she got in the bog. We were just eating supper. Georgiana was eating supper at our house that night. Tommy hadn't got home from school, and we were all wondering where he was.

Father said he didn't doubt he'd gone to find his turtle. He had a turtle that got loose and ran away. Mother was just saying he'd have to have cold dip toast for his supper, for she makes it a rule not to keep things about for him when he don't come straight home to his meals. He'd rather play than eat. 'T is only a little school he goes to. Not very far off. Five scholars, that's all. Little bits of ones. But I must tell about our cow.

We began to hear a great screaming, and couldn't think what the matter was. 'T was Tommy. And next thing he came running through the yard, crying and hollering both together, "Father! Father! Cow! Reddie!" Much as he could do to speak. Father knew in a minute what 't was, for he knew she was pastured close to the bog, and he ran and we all ran, and Mr. Snow and some other men that found it out came with us. O poor cow!

She was in more than half way up, and making dreadful moaning noises, and shook her head and tried to stir, but every stir made her go deeper in. Men and boys waded in, but they couldn't do anything.

"Rails! rails!" they all called out, and we pulled them out of the fences and they tried to prise her up with them, but the bog was so soft she sank in so they couldn't do anything with her. Much as they could do to keep up themselves. Mr. Snow was prising with a rotten rail, and it broke, and he went down in the wet. Old Mr. Slade, that goes with two canes, came there bareheaded and sat down on the bank. He told them to go get some boards. There weren't any, any nearer than Mr. John Slade's new house, and that was too far off, and father said 't was too late, for she was in, then, up to the top of her back. 'Most all the women and girls came away then, for we couldn't bear to stay any longer to see her suffer. She kept her nose pointed up high as she could, and her eyes looked very mournful.

In the morning father told me I should never see Reddie again. They got her up, but not soon enough. She's buried now, under the poplar-tree, in that field we bought of Mr. Snow. She was a good, gentle cow, and seemed to know us. Mother says she seemed like one of the family. Georgiana about spoiled her new boots in the bog. Our new cow isn't the best breed, but she's part best. The cream is considerable yellow, but not very. She gives about eight or nine quarts. Milk has risen a cent.

Mother declares she will not measure her milk in that new kind of quart, that don't hold much over a pint. Lucy Maria and all of us are trying to have mother go get her picture taken. But she says she can't screw her courage up, and can't take the time. Your father says he wants to see her good clever face in a picture. Too bad blue eyes take light. But she might be taken looking down, Lucy Maria says, mending Tommy's trousers, that would be natural. He's always making barn-doors in his trousers, he's such a climbing fellow.

L. M. and I have most earned money enough, and father's going to make up the rest, and we are going to hire a cheap piano, that Mr. Fry told us about, and I'm going to be a music teacher, I guess. I'm going to begin next month. I shall take of Miss Ashley. I shall have to walk a mile. O goody! goody! dum, dum, dum! Sha' n't I be glad! But Susie Snow says I shall sing another tune after I've taken a little while. Father says if I begin to take I must go through. Says I must promise to practise two hours a day. I'd just as soon promise that as not. 'T is just what I like. Only think, I shall have a piano in this very house.

Seems if I couldn't believe it! I can play for you to dance. Wish I knew how to dance. Susie Snow has come after me to go take a walk. Now, William Henry, you must answer this letter just as immediately as possible.

From your affectionate Cousin,

MATILDA.