We are very much pleased indeed with your map. Dear me, how the United
States have altered since they were young, same as the rest of us! That
western part used to be all Territory. You couldn’t have done anything
to please your grandmother better. She’s hung it up in the front room,
between Napoleon and the Mourning Piece, and thinks everything of it.
Everybody that comes in she says, “Should you like to see the map my
little grandson made,--my little Billy?” You’ll always be her little
Billy. She don’t seem to think you are growing up so fast. Then she
throws a shawl over her head, and trots across the entry and opens the
shutters, and then she’ll say, “Pretty good for a little boy.” And
tells which is Maine, and which is New York, and points out the little
arrow and the printed capital letters. Folks admire fast as they can,
for that room is cold as a barn, winters. The last one she took in was
the minister. Your grandmother sets a sight o’ store by you. She’s proud
of you, Billy, and you must always act so as to give her reason to be,
and never bring her pride to shame.
We are willing you should go. At first she was rather against it, though
she says she always meant you should learn to take the steps when you
got old enough, but she was afraid it might tend to making you
light-headed, and to unsteady your mind. This was the other night when
we were talking it over in your kitchen, sitting round the fire. Somehow
we get in there about every evening. Does seem so good to see the blaze.
Your father said if a boy had common sense he’d keep his balance
anywhere, and if dancing-school could spoil a fellow, he wasn’t worth
spoiling, worth keeping, I mean. I said I thought it might tend to keep
you from toeing in, and being clumsy in your motions. Your Uncle J. said
he didn’t think ’t was worth while worrying about our Billy getting
spoiled going to dancing-school, or anybody’s Billy, without ’t was some
dandyfied coot. “Make the head right and the heart right,” says he, “and
let the feet go,--if they want to.” So you see, Billy, we expect your
head’s right and your heart’s right. Are they?
The girls and I have turned to and cut and made you a couple of bosom
shirts and three bows, for of course you will have to dress rather
different, and think a little more about your looks. But not too much,
Billy! Not too much! And don’t for gracious sake ever get the notion
that you’re good-looking! Don’t stick a breastpin in that shirt-bosom
and go about with a strut! I don’t know what I hadn’t as soon see as see
a vain young man. I do believe if I were to look out, and you should be
coming up my front yard gravel path with a strut, or any sort of
dandyfied airs, I should shut the door in your face. Much as I set by
you, I really believe I should. Lor! what are good looks? What are you
laying out to make of yourself? That’s the question. Freckles are not so
bad as vanity. Anybody’d think I was a minister’s wife, the way I talk.
But, Billy, you haven’t got any mother, and I do think so much of you!
’T would break my heart to see you grow up into one of those
spick-and-span fellers, that are all made up of a bow and a scrape and a
genteel smile! Though I don’t think there’s much danger, for common
sense runs in the family. No need to go with muddy boots, though, or
linty, or have your bow upside down. You’ve always been more inclined
that way. Fact is, I want you should be just right. I haven’t a minute’s
more time to write. Your Uncle J. has promised to finish this.
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