WILLIAM HENRY'S LETTERS TO HIS GRANDMOTHER.

SIXTH PACKET.

GRANDMOTHER, –

MY DEAR Gain, and had a good time; but came back hungry. I'll

tell you why. The first time I sat down to table I felt bashful, and Dorry's mother said a great deal about my having a small appetite, and afterwards I did n't like to make her think it was a large one.

I guess I behaved quite well at the table. But I could n't look the way you said. It made me feel squint-eyed. Once I almost laughed at table. The day they had roast duck, it smelt nice. I thought it would n't go round, for they had company besides me; and I said, "No, I thank you, ma'am.” Dorry whispered to me, "You must be a goose not to love duck"; and that was when I almost laughed at table. His grandmother shook her head at him.

That Saturday, when we were

Now I'll tell about Tom Cush's father. eating dinner, somebody came to the front door and inquired for us two, -Dorry and me. It was Tom Cush's father. He wanted to ask us about Tom, and whether we knew anything about him. But we knew no more than he did. He talked some with us. The next evening, — Sunday evening, — Tom Cush's mother sent for Dorry and me to come and see her. His father came after us. She said they wanted to know more about what I wrote to you in those letters.

O, I don't want ever again to go where the folks are so sober. The room was just as still as anything, not much light burning, and great curtains hanging way down, and she looked like a sick woman. Just as pale! Only sometimes she stood up and walked, and then sat down again, and leaned way forward, and asked a question, and looked into our faces so. We did n't know what to do. Dorry talked more than I could. Tom's father kept just as sober! He said to Dorry: "It is true, then, that my boy would n't own up to his own actions!" or something like that.

Dorry said, "Yes, sir."

Tom's father said, "And he was willing to sit still and see another boy hipped in his place?"

"Yes, sir," Dorry said. But he did n't say it very loud.

Then they stopped asking questions, and not one of us spoke for ever so long. O, 't was so still! At last Dorry said, just as softly, "Can't you find him anywhere?" And then I said that I did n't believe he was lost.

Then Tom's father got up from his chair and said, "Lost? That's not it. That's not it. 'T is his not being honorable! 'T is his not being true! Lost? Why he was lost before he left the school." Says he: "When he did a mean thing, then he lost himself. For he lost his truth. He lost his honor. There's nothing left worth having when they are gone."

O, I never saw Dorry so sober as he was that night, going home. And when we went to bed, he hardly spoke a word, and did n't throw pillows, or anything. I shut my eyes up tight and thought about you all at home, and Aunt Phebe, and Aunt Phebe's little Tommy, and about school, and about Bubby Short, and all the time Tom's mother's eyes kept looking at me just as they did; and when I was asleep I seemed back again in that lonesome room, and they two sitting there.

From your affectionate grandchild,

WILLIAM HENRY.

P. S. I want to tell that when I was at Dorry's I let a little vase fall down and break. I did n't think it was so rotten. I felt sorry, but did n't say so; I didn't know how to say it very well. I wish grown-up folks would know that boys feel sorry very often when they don't say so, and sometimes they think about doing right, too. And mean to, but don't tell of it. Next time I shall tell about Bubby Short and me going to ride in Gapper's donkey-cart. He's going to lend it to us. I should like to buy them a new vase.

P. S. Benjie's had a letter, and one twin fell down stairs.

W. H.

Please to tell my sister I am much obliged to her for picking up that old iron for me. But that old rusty fire-shovel handle, I guess that will not do to put in again. For my father said, the last time, that he had bought that old fire-shovel handle half a dozen times. But Aunt Phebe's Tommy, he pulls it out again to ride horseback on.

I know a little girl just about as big as my sister, named Rosy. Maybe that is not her name. Maybe it is, because her face is so rosy. She had a lamb. And she's lost it. It ate out of her hand, and it followed her. It was a pet lamb. But it's lost. Gapper came up to inquire about it. Mr. Augustus wrote a notice and nailed it on to the Liberty Pole, and then Dorry chalked out a white lamb on black pasteboard, and painted a blue ribbon around its neck, and hung that up there too.

Gapper let Bubby Short and me have his donkey-cart to go to ride in. He kicked up when we licked him, and broke something. But a man came by and mended it. So we did n't get back till after dark. But the master did n't say anything after we told the reason why. Did you ever see a ghost? Do you believe they can whistle? I'll tell you what I ask such a question for.

There is an old house, and part of it is torn down, and nobody lives in it. It is built close to where the woods begin. The boys say there is a ghost in it. I'll tell you why. They say that if anybody goes by there whistling, something inside of that house whistles the same tune. a jolly old ghost. Mr. Augustus thinks 't is all very silly. something.

Dorry says it's Now I'll tell you

The night Bubby Short and I were coming back from taking a ride in

Gapper's donkey-cart, we tried it. We did n't dare to lick him again, for fear he would kick up, so we rode just as slow!

road, but the moon was shining bright.

and it was a lonesome

Says Bubby Short, "Do you believe that's the honeymoon?"

No," says I. "That's what shines when a man is married to his wife." "Are you scared of ghosts?" said Bubby Short.

"Can't tell till I see one," says I.

"How far off do you suppose they can see a fellow?" says he. Says I, "I don't know. They can see best in the dark."

"Do you think they 'd hurt a fellow ?

says he.

Maybe," says I. "There's the old house."

"I know it," says he; "I've been looking at it."
Says I, "Are you scared to whistle?"

"Scared? No," says he. "Let's whistle, I say."
"Well," says I, "you whistle first."
“No,” says he, "you whistle first."

"Let him whistle first," says I.

"He won't do it. Ghosts never whistle first," says he.

I asked him who said that, and he said 't was Dorry.

Then I said, "Let's whistle together."

So we waited till we almost got past, and then whistled "Yankee Doodle." And, grandmother, it did, it whistled it.

Bubby Short whispered, "Lick him a little."

Then I whispered back, “'T won't do to. If I do, he won't go any."

But in a minute he began to go faster of his own accord. He heard somebody ahead calling. It was Gapper, coming to see what the matter was that kept us so late. Now what do you think about it?

From your affectionate

WILLIAM HENRY.

P. S. My boots leak. Shall I get them tapped, or get a new pair, or throw them away, or keep the legs to make new boots of?

W. H.

Sometimes Dorry writes stories in his letters for his sister, just as he tells them to her, talking, at home. Now I'll write one for my sister, and I'll call it by a name. I'll call it

THE STORY OF THE GREAT STORM.

Once there was a little boy named Billy, and Gapper lent him his donkey to go ride. That's me, you know. Next day Gapper came and said, “You boys lost my whip." Now I remembered having the whip when we crept in among the bushes, for we got sight of a woodchuck, and came near finding his hole. So when school was done at noon, I asked leave to put some bread and meat in my pocket, instead of eating any dinner, and go to look for Gapper's whip. And he said I might. 'T was two miles off. But I found it. And I dug for a good deal of sassafras-root. And picked berry-plums.

lots of box

And I never noticed how the sky looked, till I heard a noise something like thunder. It was very much like thunder. Almost just like it. I thought it was thunder. Only it sounded a great ways off. I was walking along slow, snapping my whip and eating my dinner, for I thought I would n't hurry for thunder, when something hard dropped down close to me. Then another dropped, — and then another. And they kept dropping. I picked one up and found they were hailstones, and they were bigger than bullets,

It kept growing dark, and the hailstones came thicker, and hit me in the face. Then they began to pour right down, and I ran. They beat upon me just like a driving storm of sharp stones. The horses and cows went across the fields like mad. The horses flinging their heads up. I was almost to that old house and ran for that, and kicked the door through to get in, for I thought I should be killed with the hail. The shingles off the roof were flying about; and when I got inside 't was awful. I thought to be sure the roof would be beat in. Such a noise! It sounded just exactly as if hundreds of cartloads of stones were being tipped up on to the roof. And then the window-glass! It was worse than being out doors, for the window-glass was flying criss-cross about the room, like fury, all mixed up with the hail. I crouched down all in a bunch and put my arms over my head, and so tried to save myself. But then I spied a closet door a crack open, and I jumped in there. And there I sat all bent over with my hands up to my ears, and thought, O, what would become of me if the old house should go. And now the strangest part is coming. You see 't was a pretty deep closet Schoolbell! I did n't think 't was half time for that to ding. I'll tell the rest next time. Should you care if I brought home Dorry to make a visit? He wants to, bad. 'T would be jolly if Bubby Short went too.

From your affectionate grandchild,

WILLIAM HENRY.

MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER, Everybody's been setting glass. Counting the house and the schoolhouse, and the panes set over the barn door, and four squares in the henhouse, we had to set four hundred and twenty-three squares. The expressman has brought loads and loads. All the great boys helped set. We slept one night with bedquilts and rugs hung up to the windows. The master tried to shut his blind in the storm, but the hail drove him in, and he could n't even shut down his window again. A rich man has given to The Two Betseys better windows than they had before. Now I will tell about my being in that closet.

When it began to grow stiller, I took my hands down from my ears, and one hand when it came down touched something soft. Quite soft and warm. I jumped off from it in a hurry. Then I heard a kind of bleating noise, and a little faint "ba'a ba'a." But now comes the very strangest part. Farther back in the closet I heard somebody move, somebody step. I was scared, and gave the door a push, to let the light in. Now who do you think was there? Aunt Phebe must stop reading and let you guess. But maybe you're

reading yourself. Then stop and guess. 'T was n't a ghost. 'T was n't a man. 'T was n't a woman. 'T was Tom Cush! and Rosy's lamb!

Says he, "William Henry!" Says I, "Tom!" Then we walked out into the room, and O, what a sight! Says I, "I thought 't was going to be the end of the old house."

Says Tom, "I thought 't was going to be the end of the world."

In the corners the hailstones were heaped up in great banks. You might have shovelled up barrels full. Most of them were the size of bird's eggs. But some were bigger. Then we looked out doors. The ground was all white, and drifts in every cornering place, and the leaves stripped off the trees. Then we looked at one another, and he was just as pale as anything. He leaned against the wall, and I guessed he was crying. To see such a great boy crying seemed most as bad as the hailstorm. Maybe he didn't cry. When he turned his head round again, says he: "Billy, I'm sick, and what shall I do?"

"Go home," says I.

"No," says he, "I won't go home. And if you let 'em know, I'll—” And then he picked up Gapper's whip, "I'll flog you."

"Flog away," says I; "maybe I shall, and maybe I sha'n't."

He dropped the whip down, and says he, "Billy, I sha' n't ever touch you. But they must n't know till I'm gone to sea."

I asked him when he was going. And he told me all about it.

When he was sent away from school, he went into town and inquired about the wharves for a chance to go, and got one, and came back to get some things he left hid in the old house, and to wait till 't was time to go. He sold his watch, and bought a great bag full of hard bread and cheese and cakes.

He was mad at Gapper for setting a man to watch, and so he took Rosy's lamb. He was going to kill it. And then skin it. But he could n't do it. It licked his hand, and looked up so sorryful, he could n't do it. And when he cut his foot- he cut it chopping something. That's why he stayed there so long. And he was the ghost that whistled. He knew the fellows would n't go in to see what it was that whistled. And he ate up most all his things, and tied a string to the lamb, and let it out nights to eat grass, and then pulled it in again.

I would n't have stayed there so for anything. He went into town three times, nights, to get victuals to eat. I don't see what he wants to be such a kind of a boy for. He says he means to go to sea, and if ever he 's good he's going home. I told him about his father and mother, and he walked while I was talking, and kept his back towards me. I asked him what ailed him, and he said 't was partly cutting him, and partly sleeping cold nights, and partly the crackers and cheese. I gave him the rest of my meat, and he was glad enough.

He said he was ashamed to go home.

Now I have got to the end of another sheet of paper. I wish I had n't begun to tell my sister this story. It takes so long. And I want every minute of the time to play in. For 't is getting a little cooler, and a fellow can