This is only a short letter that I am going to write to you, because I
don’t feel like writing any. But when I don’t write then you think I
have the measles, else drowned in the pond, and I’ll write a little, but
I feel so sober I don’t feel like writing very much. I suppose you will
say,--what are you feeling so sober about? Well, seems if I didn’t have
any fun now, for Dorry and I we’ve got mad at each other. And he don’t
hardly speak to me, and I don’t to him either; and if he don’t want to
be needn’t, for I don’t mean to be fooling round im, and trying to get
him to, if he don’t want to.
Last night we all went out to coast, and the teachers and a good many
ladies and girls, and we were going to see which was the champion sled.
But something else happened first. The top of the hill was all bare,
and before they all got there some of the fellers were scuffling
together for fun, and Dorry and I we tried to take each other down.
First of it ’t was all in fun, but then it got more in earnest, and he
hit me in the face so hard it made me mad, and I hit him and he got mad
too.
[Illustration]
Then we began to coast, for the people had all got there. Dorry’s and
mine were the two swiftest ones, and we kept near each other, but his
slewed round some, and he said I hit it with my foot he guessed, and
then we had some words, and I don’t know what we did both say; but now
we keep away from each other, and it seems so funny I don’t know what to
do. The teacher asked me to go over to the stable to-day, for he lost a
bunch of compositions and thought they might have dropped out of his
pocket, when we went to take that sleigh-ride. And I was just going to
say, “Come on, Old Dorrymas!” before I thought.
But ’t is the funniest in the morning. This morning I waked up early,
and he was fast asleep, and I thought, Now you’ll catch it, old fellow,
and was just a going to pull his hair; but in a minute I remembered.
Then I dressed myself and thought I would take a walk out. I went just
as softly by his bed and stood still there a minute and set out to give
a little pull, for I don’t feel half so mad as I did the first of it,
but was afraid he did. So I went out-doors and looked round. Went as far
as the Two Betseys’ Shop and was going by, but The Other Betsey stood at
the door shaking a mat, and called to me, “Billy, where are you going
to?”
“Only looking round,” I said. She told me to come in and warm me, and I
thought I would go in just a minute or two. Lame Betsey was frying
flapjacks in a spider, a little mite of a spider, for breakfast. She
spread butter on one and made me take it to eat in a saucer, and I never
tasted of a better flapjack. There was a cinnamon colored jacket hanging
on the chair-back, and I said, “Why, that’s Spicey’s jacket!” “Who?”
they cried out both together. Then I called him by his right name, Jim
Mills. He’s some relation to them, and his mother isn’t well enough to
mend all his clothes, so Lame Betsey does it for nothing. He earns money
to pay for his schooling, and he wants to go to college, and they don’t
doubt he will. They said he was the best boy that ever was. His mother
doesn’t have anybody but him to do things for her, only his little
sister about the size of my little sister. He makes the fires and cuts
wood and splits kindling, and looks into the buttery to see when the
things are empty, and never waits to be told. When they talked about him
they both talked together, and Lame Betsey let one spiderful burn
forgetting to turn ’em over time enough.
When I was coming away they said, “Where’s Dorry? I thought you two
always kept together.” For we did always go to buy things together. Then
I told her a little, but not all about it.
“O, make up! make up!” they said. “Make up and be friends again!” I’m
willing to make up if he is. But I don’t mean to be the first one to
make up.
From your affectionate Grandson,