SOME INTERESTING LETTERS
The family for the paper-doll house was selected from the catalogues
that illustrate ready-made clothing. Beautiful gentlemen were cut out,
dressed in the most approved fashions for men. Charming ladies with
trailing skirts and elaborate hats were found in plenty. And children
of all ages were so numerous in the prints that it was almost difficult
to make a selection. Then, too, extra hats and wraps and parasols were
cut out, which could be neatly put away in the cupboards and wardrobes
which were in the house. For Marjorie had discovered that by pasting
only the edges of the wardrobe and carefully cutting the doors apart,
they could be made to open and shut beautifully.
Uncle Steve became very much interested in these wonderful houses, and
ransacked his own library for pictures to be cut up.
Indeed, so elaborate did the houses grow to be, Molly's being greatly
enlarged and improved, that they could not be finished in one morning.
But Grandma was not willing to let Marjorie work steadily at this
occupation all day, and after dinner Molly was sent home, and the paper
dolls put away until the next day.
"But I'm not ill, Grandma," said Marjorie; "just having a sprained
ankle doesn't make me a really, truly invalid."
"No, but you must rest, or you will get ill. Fever may set in, and if
you get over-excited with your play, and have no exercise, you may be
in bed longer than you think for. Besides, I think I remember having
heard something about implicit obedience, and so I expect it now as
well as when you're up on your two feet."
"I don't think I can help obeying," said Marjorie, roguishly, "for I
can't very well do anything else. But I suppose you mean obey without
fretting; so I will, for you are a dear, good Grandma and awfully kind
to me."
With a parting pat on her shoulder, Grandma left the little girl for
her afternoon nap, and Marjorie would have been surprised at herself
had she known how quickly she fell asleep.
Uncle Steve made it a habit to entertain her during the later hours of
each afternoon, and, although they were already great chums, his gayety
and kindness made Marjorie more than ever devoted to her uncle.
This afternoon he came in with a handful of letters.
"These are all for you," he said; "it is astonishing what a large
correspondence you have."
Marjorie was amazed. She took the budget of letters her uncle handed
her and counted five. They were all duly stamped, and all were
postmarked, but the postmarks all read Haslemere.
"How funny!" exclaimed Marjorie; "I didn't know there was a post office
at Haslemere."
"You didn't!" exclaimed Uncle Steve; "why, there certainly is. Do you
mean to say that you don't know that there's a little post office in
the lowest branch of that old maple-tree down by the brook?"
"You mean just where the path turns to go to the garden?"
"That's the very spot. Only this morning I was walking by there, and I
saw a small post office in the tree. There was a key in the door of it,
and being curious, I opened it, and looked in. There I saw five letters
for you, and as you're not walking much this summer, I thought I'd
bring them to you. I brought the key, too."
As he finished speaking, Uncle Steve drew from his pocket a little
bright key hung on a blue ribbon, which he gravely presented to
Marjorie. Her eyes danced as she took it, for she now believed there
was really a post office there, though it was sometimes difficult to
distinguish Uncle Steve's nonsense from the truth.
"Now I'm more than ever anxious to get well," she cried, "and go out to
see that post office."
"Oh, no," said Uncle Steve, shaking his head; "you don't care about
post offices and walks in the woods, and drives through the country.
You'd rather slide down an old barn roof, and then lie in bed for a
week."
"Catch me doing it again," said Marjorie, shaking her head decidedly;
"and now, Uncle, suppose we open these letters."
"Why, that wouldn't be a bad idea. Here's a paper-cutter. Let's open
one at a time, they'll last longer. Suppose you read this one first."
Marjorie opened the first letter, and quickly turned the page to see
the signature.
"Why, Uncle Steve," she cried, "this is signed Ned and Dick! I didn't
know horses could write letters."
"There are a great many things, my child, that you don't know yet. And
so Ned and Dick have written to you! Now that's very kind of them. Read
me what they say."
In great glee, Marjorie read aloud:
"DEAR MARJORIE:
It is too bad
For you to act this way;
Just think what fun we might have had
Out driving every day.
"We could have gone to Blossom Banks,
Or Maple Grove instead;
But no, you had to cut up pranks
That landed you in bed!
"We hope you'll soon be well again,
And get downstairs right quick;
And we will all go driving then.
Your true friends,
NED AND DICK."
"Well, I do declare," said Uncle Steve, "I always said they were
intelligent horses, but this is the first time I've ever heard of their
writing a letter. They must be very fond of you, Marjorie."
Marjorie's eyes twinkled. She well knew Uncle Steve had written the
letter himself, but she was always ready to carry out her part of a
joke, so she replied:
"Yes, I think they must be fond of me, and I think I know somebody else
who is, too. But it was nice of Ned and Dick to write and let me know
that they hadn't forgotten me. And as soon as I can get downstairs, I
shall be delighted to go driving with them. Where is Blossom Banks,
Uncle?"
"Oh, it's a lovely place, a sort of picnic ground; there are several
grassy banks, and blossoms grow all over them. They slope right down to
the river; but, of course, you wouldn't think them nearly so nice as a
sloping barn roof."
Marjorie knew she must stand teasing from Uncle Steve, but his smile
was so good-natured, and he was such a dear old uncle anyway, that she
didn't mind it very much.
"Suppose I read another letter," she said, quite ready to turn the
subject.
"Do; open that one with the typewritten address. I wonder who could
have written that! Perhaps the cow; she's very agile on the typewriter."
The mental picture of the cow using the typewriter produced such
hilarity that it was a few moments before the letter was opened.
"It IS from the cow!" exclaimed Marjorie, "and she does write
beautifully on the machine. I don't see a single error."
"Read it out, Midge; I always love to hear letters from cows."
So Marjorie read the cow's note:
"Mopsy Midge, come out to play;
I've waited for you all the day.
In the Garden and by the brook,
All day for you I vainly look.
With anxious brow and gaze intense
I lean against the old rail fence,
And moo and moo, and moo, and moo,
In hopes I may be heard by you.
And if I were not so forlorn,
I think I'd try to blow my horn.
Oh, come back, Midget, come back now,
And cheer your lonely, waiting
Cow."
"Now, that's a first-class letter," declared Uncle Steve. "I always
thought that cow was a poet. She looks so romantic when she gazes out
over the bars. You ought to be pleased, Marjorie, that you have such
loving friends at Haslemere."
"Pleased! I'm tickled to death! I never had letters that I liked so
well. And just think, I have three left yet that I haven't opened. I
wonder who they can be from."
"When you wonder a thing like that, it always seems to me a good idea
to open them and find out."
"I just do believe I will! Why, this one," and Marjorie hastily tore
open another letter, "this one, Uncle, is from old Bet!"
"Betsy! That old horse! Well, she must have put on her spectacles to
see to write it. But I suppose when she saw Ned and Dick writing, she
didn't want them to get ahead of her, so she went to work too. Well, do
read it, I'm surely interested to hear old Betsy's letter."
"Listen then," said Marjorie:
"DEAR LITTLE MIDGE:
I'm lonesome here,
Without your merry smiles to cheer.
I mope around the livelong day,
And scarcely care to munch my hay.
I am so doleful and so sad,
I really do feel awful bad!
Oh hurry, Midge, and come back soon;
Perhaps to-morrow afternoon.
And then my woe I will forget,
And smile again.
Your lonesome BET"
"Well, she is an affectionate old thing," said Uncle Steve; "and truly,
Midget, I thought she was feeling lonesome this morning. She didn't
seem to care to eat anything, and she never smiled at me at all."
"She's a good old horse, Uncle, but I don't like her as much as I do
Ned and Dick. But don't ever tell Betsy this, for I wouldn't hurt her
feelings for anything."
"Oh, yes, just because Ned and Dick are spirited, fast horses you like
them better than poor, old Betsy, who used to haul you around when you
were a baby."
"Oh, I like her well enough; and, anyway, I think a heap more of her
now, since she wrote me such an affectionate letter. Now, Uncle, if
you'll believe it, this next one is from the chickens! Would you have
believed that little bits of yellow chickens, in an incubator, could
write a nice, clear letter like this? I do think it's wonderful! Just
listen to it:
"DEAR MOPSY:
Why
Are you away?
We weep and cry
All through the day.
"Oh, come back quick,
Dear Mopsy Mop!
Then each small chick
Will gayly hop.
"We'll chirp with glee,
No more we'll weep;
Each chickadee
Will loudly peep."
"Well, that's certainly fine, Midget, for such little chickens. If it
were the old hen, now, I wouldn't be so surprised, for I see her
scratching on the ground every day. I suppose she's practising her
writing lesson, but I never yet have been able to read the queer marks
she makes. But these little yellow chickadees write plainly enough, and
I do think they are wonderfully clever."
"Yes, and isn't it funny that they can rhyme so well, too?"
"It is, indeed. I always said those Plymouth Rocks were the smartest
chickens of all, but I never suspected they could write poetry."
"And now, Uncle, I've only one left." Marjorie looked regretfully at
the last letter, wishing there were a dozen more. "But I can keep them
and read them over and over again, I like them so much. I'd answer
them, but I don't believe those animals read as well as they write."
"No," said Uncle Steve, wagging his head sagely, "I don't believe they
do. Well, read your last one, Mops, and let's see who wrote it."
"Why, Uncle, it's from the dogs! It's signed 'Nero and Tray and Rover'!
Weren't they just darling to write to me! I believe I miss the dogs
more than anything else, because I can have Puffy up here with me."
Marjorie paused long enough to cuddle the little heap of grey fur that
lay on the counterpane beside her, and then proceeded to read the
letter:
"Dear Mopsy Midget,
We're in a fidget,
Because we cannot find you;
We want to know
How you could go
And leave your dogs behind you!
"We bark and howl,
And snarl and yowl,
And growl the whole day long;
You are not here,
And, Mopsy dear,
We fear there's something wrong!
"We haven't heard;
Oh, send us word
Whatever is the matter!
Oh, hurry up
And cheer each pup
With laughter and gay chatter."
"That's a very nice letter," said Marjorie, as she folded it up and
returned it to its envelope. "And I do think the animals at Haslemere
are the most intelligent I have ever known. Uncle, I'm going to send
these letters all down home for King and Kitty to read, and then they
can send them back to me, for I'm going to keep them all my life."
"I'll tell you a better plan than that, Midget. If you want the
children to read them, I'll make copies of them for you to send home.
And then I'll tell you what you might do, if you like. When I go
downtown I'll buy you a great big scrapbook, and then you can paste
these letters in, and as the summer goes on, you can paste in all sorts
of things; pressed leaves or flowers, pictures and letters, and
souvenirs of all sorts. Won't that be nice?"
"Uncle Steve, it will be perfectly lovely! You do have the splendidest
ideas! Will you get the book to-morrow?"
"Yes, Miss Impatience, I will."
And that night, Marjorie fell asleep while thinking of all the lovely
things she could collect to put in the book, which Uncle Steve had told
her she must call her Memory Book.