I am here. The master let us off yesterday noon, and we got here before
supper, and this is Saturday night, and I have minded all the things
that you said. I got all ready and went down to the Two Betseys to let
some woman look at me, as you wrote. They put on both their spectacles
and looked me all over, and picked off some dirt-specks, and made me
gallus up one leg of my trousers shorter, and make some bows, and then
walk across the room slow.
They thought I looked beautiful, only my hair was too long. Lame Betsey
said she used to be the beater for cutting hair, and she tied her apron
round my throat, and brought a great pair of shears out, that she used
to go a-tailoring with. The Other Betsey, she kept watch to see when
both sides looked even.
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.
[Illustration]
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.