I’ve got thirty-two cents left of my spending-money. When shall I begin
to wear my new shoes every day? The soap they have here is pink. Has
father sold the bossy calf yet? There’s a boy here they call Bossy Calf,
because he cried for his mother. He has been here three days. He sleeps
with me. And every night, after he has laid his head down on the pillow,
and the lights are blown out, I begin to sing, and to scale up and down,
so the boys can’t hear him cry. Dorry Baker and three more boys sleep in
the same room that we two sleep in. When they begin to throw bootjacks
at me, to make me stop my noise, it scares him, and he leaves off
crying. I want a pair of new boots dreadfully, with red on the tops of
them, that I can tuck my trousers into and keep the mud off.
One thing more the boys plague me for besides my head. Freckles. Dorry
held up an orange yesterday. “Can you see it?” says he. “To be sure,”
says I. “Didn’t know as you could see through ’em,” says he, meaning
freckles. Dear grandmother, I have cried once, but not in bed. For fear
of their laughing, and of the bootjacks. But away in a good place under
the trees. A shaggy dog came along and licked my face. But oh! he did
make me remember Towser, and cry all over again. But don’t tell, for I
should be ashamed. I wish the boys would like me. Freckles come thicker
in summer than they do in winter.
[Illustration]
Your affectionate grandchild,