The William Henry Letters

Lame Betsey tried very hard. First she stood off to look, and then she stood on again. She said her mother used to keep a quart-bowl on purpose to cut her boys' hairs with; she clapped it over their heads, and then clipped all round by it even. The shears were jolly shears, only they couldn't stop themselves easy, and the apron had been where snuff was, and made me sneeze in the wrong place. Says I, "If you'll only take off this apron, I'll jump up and shake myself out even." I'm so glad I'm a boy. Aprons are horrid. So are apron-strings, Dorry says.

They gave me a few peppermints, and said to be sure not to run my head out and get it knocked off in the cars, and not to get out till we stopped going, and to beware of pickpockets.

O, we did have a jolly ride in the cars! Do you think my father would let me be the boy that sells papers in the cars? I wish he would. I didn't see any pickpockets. We got out two miles before we got there. I mean to the right station. For Dorry wanted to make his sister Maggie think we hadn't come.

We took a short cut through the fields. Not very short. And went through everything. My best clothes too. But I guess 't will all rub off. There were some boggy places.

When we came out at Dorry's house, it was in the back yard. I said to Dorry, "There's your mother on the doorstep. She looks clever."

Dorry said, "She? She's the cook. I'll tell mother of that. No, I won't neither."

I suppose he saw I'd rather he wouldn't. The cook said everybody had gone out. Then Dorry took me into a jolly great room and left me. Three kinds of curtains to every window! What's the use of that? Gilt spots on the paper, and gilt things hanging down from up above. A good many kinds of chairs. I was going to sit down, but they kept sinking in. Everything sinks in here. I tried three, and this made me laugh, for I seemed to myself like the little boy that went to the bears' house and tried their chairs, and their beds, and their bowls of milk. Then I came to a looking-glass big enough for the very biggest bear. I thought I would make some bows before it, as you said. I was afraid I couldn't make a bow and toe out at the same time. Because it is hard to think up and down both at once. While I was trying to, I heard a little noise, I looked round, and – what do you think? Bears? O no. Not bears. A queen and a princess, I thought. All over bright colors and feathers and shiny silks. The queen – that's Dorry's mother you know, – couldn't think who I was, because they had been to the depot, and thought we hadn't come. So she looked at me hard, and I suppose I was very muddy. And she said, "Were you sent of an errand here?" Before I could make up any answer, Dorry came in. He had some cake, and he passed it round with a very sober face. Then he introduced me, and I made quite a good bow, and said, "Very well, I thank you, ma'am."

I tried to pull my feet behind me, and wished I was sitting down, for she kept looking towards them; and I wanted to sit down on the lounge, but I was afraid 't wouldn't bear. She was quite glad to see Dorry. But didn't hug him very hard. I know why. Because she had those good things on. Dorry's grandmother lives here. She can't bear to hear a door slam. She wears her black silk dress every day. And her best cap too. 'T is a stunner of a cap. White as anything. And a good deal of white strings to it. Everything makes her head ache. I'd a good deal rather have you. When boys come nigh, she puts her hand out to keep them off. This is because she has nerves. Dorry says his mother has 'em sometimes. I like his father. Because he talks to me some. But he's very tired. His office tires him. He isn't a very big man. He doesn't laugh any. If Maggie was a boy she'd be jolly. She'll fly kites, or anything, if her mother isn't looking. Her mother don't seem a bit like Aunt Phebe. I don't believe she could lift a teakettle. Not a real one. When she catches hold of her fork, she sticks her little finger right up in the air. She makes very pretty bows to the company. Sinks way down, almost out of sight. She gave us a dollar to spend; wasn't she clever? Dorry says she likes him tip-top. If he'll only keep out of the way.

I guess I'd rather live at our house. About every room in this house is too good for a boy. But I tell you they have tip-top things here. Great pictures and silver dishes! Now, I'll tell you what I mean to do when I'm a man. I shall have a great nice house like this, and nice things in it. But the folks shall be like our folks. I shall have horses, and a good many silver dishes. And great pictures, and gilt books for children that come a-visiting. And you shall have a blue easy-chair, and sit down to rest.

Now, maybe you'll say, "But, Billy, Billy, where are you going to get all these fine things?" O you silly grandmother! Don't you remember your own saying that you wrote down? – "What a man wants he can get, if he tries hard enough." Or a boy either, you said. I shall try hard enough. There's more to write about. But I'm sleepy. I would tell you about Tom Cush's father coming here, only my eyes can't keep open. Isn't it funny that when you are sleepy your eyes keep shutting up and your mouth keeps coming open? Please excuse the lines that go crooked. There's another gape! I guess Aunt Phebe will be tired reading all this. I'm on her side. I mean about measles. I'd rather have 'em when I was a month old. I suppose I was a month old once. Don't seem as if 't was the same one I am now. But if I do have 'em, – there I go gaping again, – if I catch 'em, and all the doctors do come, I'll – O dear! There I go again. I do believe I'm asleep – I'll – I'll get some natural-born old woman to drive 'em out, as you said, and good night.

    William Henry.

-

My dear Grandmother, —

I am back again, and had a good time; but came back hungry. I'll tell you why. The first time I sat down to table I felt bashful, and Dorry's mother said a great deal about my having a small appetite, and afterwards I didn't like to make her think it was a large one.

I guess I behaved quite well at the table. But I couldn't look the way you said. It made me feel squint-eyed. Once I almost laughed at table. The day they had roast duck, it smelt nice. I thought it wouldn't go round, for they had company besides me; and I said, "No, I thank you, ma'am." Dorry whispered to me, "You must be a goose not to love duck"; and that was when I almost laughed at table. His grandmother shook her head at him.

Now I'll tell about Tom Cush's father. That Saturday, when we were eating dinner, somebody came to the front door, and inquired for us two, – Dorry and me. It was Tom Cush's father. He wanted to ask us about Tom, and whether we knew anything about him. But we knew no more than he did. He talked some with us. The next evening, – Sunday evening, – Tom Cush's mother sent for Dorry and me to come and see her. His father came after us. She said they wanted to know more about what I wrote to you in those letters.

O, I don't want ever again to go where the folks are so sober. The room was just as still as anything, not much light burning, and great curtains hanging way down, and she looked like a sick woman. Just as pale! Only sometimes she stood up and walked, and then sat down again, and leaned way forward, and asked a question, and looked into our faces so. We didn't know what to do. Dorry talked more than I could. Tom's father kept just as sober! He said to Dorry: "It is true, then, that my boy wouldn't own up to his own actions?" or something like that.

Dorry said, "Yes, sir."

Tom's father said, "And he was willing to sit still and see another boy whipped in his place?"

"Yes, sir," Dorry said. But he didn't say it very loud.

Then they stopped asking questions, and not one of us spoke for ever so long. O, 't was so still! At last Dorry said, just as softly, "Can't you find him anywhere?" And then I said that I didn't believe he was lost.

Then Tom's father got up from his chair and said, "Lost? That's not it. That's not it. 'T is his not being honorable! 'T is his not being true! Lost? Why, he was lost before he left the school." Says he: "When he did a mean thing, then he lost himself. For he lost his truth. He lost his honor. There's nothing left worth having when they are gone."

O, I never saw Dorry so sober as he was that night going home. And when we went to bed, he hardly spoke a word, and didn't throw pillows, or anything. I shut my eyes up tight and thought about you all at home, and Aunt Phebe, and Aunt Phebe's little Tommy, and about school, and about Bubby Short, and all the time Tom's mother's eyes kept looking at me just as they did; and when I was asleep I seemed back again in that lonesome room, and they two sitting there.

    From your affectionate grandchild,
    William Henry.

P. S. I want to tell that when I was at Dorry's I let a little vase fall down and break. I didn't think it was so rotten. I felt sorry; but didn't say so; I didn't know how to say it very well. I wish grown-up folks would know that boys feel sorry very often when they don't say so, and sometimes they think about doing right, too. And mean to, but don't tell of it. Next time I shall tell about Bubby Short and me going to ride in Gapper's donkey-cart. He's going to lend it to us. I should like to buy them a new vase.

    W. H.

P. S. Benjie's had a letter, and one twin fell down stairs.

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There is one sentence in the first paragraph of the following letter which reminds me of a very windy day, when I was staying at Summer Sweeting place.

In returning from a walk, by a short cut across the field, I met a boy who was running just about as fast as he could.

Soon after I came to another and much smaller boy, who was not running at all, but was sitting flat upon the ground, under a tree, and crying with might and main. This smaller boy proved to be Tommy. On a branch of the tree, just out of his reach, hung a broom, towards which his weeping eyes were turned in despair. A paper of peanuts which I happened to have soon quieted him, because, in order to crack them, he had to shut his mouth. At the first of it, however, he went on with his crying while picking out the meats, which so amused me that I was obliged to turn aside and laugh.

It appeared that Tommy had been riding horseback on his mother's broom "to see Billy," and when he had made believe get there, he wanted to hitch his horse. A larger boy, out of mischief, or rather in mischief, bent down a branch of the tree, telling Tommy there was a tiptop thing to tie up to. He helped Tommy to tie the horse to the branch, and then ran off across the field. It is very plain what happened when the branch sprang back to its place.

I unhitched the animal, and then Tommy and I mounted it, he behind me, and away we cantered to the house, my amazing gallops causing the little chap to laugh as loudly as he had cried.

-

My dear Grandmother, —

Please to tell my sister I am much obliged to her for picking up that old iron for me. But that old rusty fire-shovel handle, I guess that will not do to put in again. For my father said, the last time, that he had bought that old fire-shovel handle half a dozen times. But Aunt Phebe's Tommy, he pulls it out again to ride horseback on.

I know a little girl just about as big as my sister, named Rosy. Maybe that is not her name. Maybe it is, because her face is so rosy. She had a lamb. And she's lost it. It ate out of her hand, and it followed her. It was a pet lamb. But it's lost. Gapper came up to inquire about it. Mr. Augustus wrote a notice and nailed it on to the Liberty Pole, and then Dorry chalked out a white lamb on black pasteboard, and painted a blue ribbon around its neck, and hung that up there too.

Gapper let Bubby Short and me have his donkey-cart to go to ride in. He kicked up when we licked him, and broke something. But a man came by and mended it. So we didn't get back till after dark. But the master didn't say anything after we told the reason why. Did you ever see a ghost? Do you believe they can whistle? I'll tell you what I ask such a question for.

There is an old house, and part of it is torn down, and nobody lives in it. It is built close to where the woods begin. The boys say there is a ghost in it. I'll tell you why. They say that if anybody goes by there whistling, something inside of that house whistles the same tune. Dorry says it's a jolly old ghost. Mr. Augustus thinks 'tis all very silly. Now I'll tell you something.

The night Bubby Short and I were coming back from taking a ride in Gapper's donkey-cart, we tried it. We didn't dare to lick him again, for fear he would kick up, so we rode just as slow! – and it was a lonesome road, but the moon was shining bright.

Says Bubby Short, "Do you believe that's the honeymoon?"

"No," says I. "That's what shines when a man is married to his wife."

"Are you scared of ghosts?" said Bubby Short.

"Can't tell till I see one," says I.

"How far off do you suppose they can see a fellow?" says he.

Says I, "I don't know. They can see best in the dark."

"Do you think they'd hurt a fellow?" says he.

"Maybe," says I. "There's the old house."

"I know it," says he; "I've been looking at it."

Says I, "Are you scared to whistle?"