The William Henry Letters

Presently Aunt Phebe came in.

"The boy didn't bring any letters," said she; "but I've been thinking it over, and for my part I don't think 't is worth while to worry. No news is good news. Bad news travels fast. A thousand things might happen to keep a boy from writing. He might be out of paper, or out of stamps, or out of anything to write about, or might have lessons to learn, or be too full of play, or be kept after school, or might a good many things!"

"You don't suppose," said Grandmother, "that – you don't think – it couldn't be possible, could it, that Billy's been punished and feels ashamed to tell of it?"

"Nonsense!" said Aunt Phebe. "Now don't, Grandmother, I beg of you get started off on that notion! Yesterday 't was the measles. And day before 't was being drowned, and now 't is being punished!"

"'T wouldn't be like William not to tell of it," said Mr. Carver.

"Not a bit like him," said Aunt Phebe.

"No," said Grandmother, "I don't think it would. But you know when anybody gets to thinking, they are apt to think of everything."

I told them there was a possibility of the letter being mis-sent. And that idea reminded me of just such an anxious time we had once about little Silas. His letter went to a town of the same name in Ohio, and was a long time reaching us. I made haste to tell this to Grandmother, and thought it comforted her a little.

When I left the next morning, Mr. Carver followed me out and asked me to make inquiries in regard to the telegraphic communication with the Crooked Pond School, and to be in readiness to telegraph; for, in case no letter came that day, he should send me word to do so.

But no word arrived, as the next mail brought the following letters, with their amusing illustrations.

-

My dear Grandmother, —

I suppose if I should tell you I had had a whipping you would feel sorry. Well, don't feel sorry. I will begin at the beginning.

We can't go out evenings. But last Monday evening one of the teachers said I might go after my overjacket that I took off to play ball, and left hanging over a fence. It was a very light night. I had to go down a long lane to get where it was; and when I got there, it wasn't there. The moon was shining bright as day. Old Gapper Skyblue lives down that lane. He raises rabbits. He keeps them in a hen-house.

Now I will tell you what some of the great boys do sometimes. They steal eggs and roast them. There is a fireplace in Tom Cush's room. Once they roasted a pullet. The owners have complained so that the master said he would flog the next boy that robbed a hen-house or an orchard, before the whole school.

Now I will go on about my overjacket. While I was looking for it I heard a queer noise in the rabbit-house. So I jumped over. Then a boy popped out of the rabbit-house and ran. I knew him in a minute, for all he ran so fast, – Tom Cush.

Now when he started to run, something dropped out of his hand. I went up to it, and 't was a rabbit, a dead one, just killed; for when I stooped down and felt of it, it was warm. And while I was stooping down, there came a great heavy hand down on my shoulder. It was a man's great heavy hand.

Gapper had set a man there to watch. He hollered into my ears, "Now I've got you!" I hollered, too, for he came sudden, without my hearing.

"You little thief!" says he.

"I didn't kill it," says I.

"You little liar!" says he.

"I'm not a liar," says I.

"I'll take you to the master," says he.

"Take me where you want to," says I.

Then he pulled me along, and kept saying, "Who did, if you didn't? If you didn't, who did?"

And he walked me straight up into the master's room, without so much as giving a knock at the door.

"I've brought you a thief and a liar," says he. Then he told where he found me, and what a bad boy I was. Then he went away, because the master wanted to talk with me all by myself.

Now I didn't want to tell tales of Tom, for it's mean to tell tales. So all I could say was that I didn't do it.

The master looked sorry. Said he was afraid I had begun to go with bad boys. "Didn't I see you walking in the lane with Tom Cush yesterday?" says he. I said I was helping him find his ball. And so I was.

"If you were with the boys who did this," said he, "or helped about it in any way, that's just as bad."

I said I didn't help them, or go with them.

"How came you there so late?" says he.

"I went after my overjacket," says I.

"And where is your overjacket?" says he.

I said I didn't know. It wasn't there.

Then he said I might go to bed, and he would talk with me again in the morning.

When I got to our room, the boys were sound asleep. I crept into bed as still as a mouse. The moon shone in on me. I thought my eyes would never go to sleep again. I tried to think how much a flogging would hurt. Course, I knew 't wouldn't be like one of your little whippings. I wasn't so very much afraid of the hurt, though. But the name of being whipped, I was afraid of that, and the shame of it. Now I will tell you about the next morning, and how I was waked up.

Your affectionate grandchild,

-

My dear Grandmother, —

I had to leave off and jump up and run to school without stopping to sign my name, for the bell rang. But, now school is done, I will write another letter to send with that, because you will want to know the end at the same time you do the beginning.

It was little pebbles that waked me up the next morning, – little pebbles dropping down on my face. I looked up to find where they came from, and saw Tom Cush standing in the door. He was throwing them. He made signs that he wanted to tell me something. So I got up. And while I was getting up, I saw my overjacket on the back of a chair. I found out afterwards that Benjie brought it in, and forgot to tell me.

Tom made signs for me to go down stairs with him. He wouldn't let me put my shoes on. He had his in his hand, and I carried mine so. So we went through the long entries in our stocking-feet, and sat down on the doorstep to put our shoes on. Nobody else had got up. The sky was growing red. I never got up so early before, except one Fourth of July, when I didn't go to bed, but only slept some with my head leaned down on a window-seat, and jumped up when I heard a gun go off. Tom carried me to a place a good ways from the house. Our shoes got soaking wet with dew.

Now I will tell you what he said to me.

He asked me if I saw him anywhere the night before. I said I did.

He asked me where I saw him.

I said I saw him coming out of the hen-house, where Gapper Skyblue kept his rabbits. He asked me if I was sure, and I said I was sure.

"And did you tell the master?" says he.

I said, "No."

"Nor the boys?"

"No."

Then he told me he had been turned away from one school on account of his bad actions, and he wouldn't have his father hear of this for anything; and said that, if I wouldn't tell, he would give me a four-bladed knife, and quite a large balloon, and show me how to send her up, and if I was flogged he would give me a good deal more, would give money, – would give two dollars.

"I don't believe he'll whip you," says he, "for he likes you. And if he does, he wouldn't whip a small boy so hard as he would a big one."

I said a little whipping would hurt a little boy just as much as a great whipping would hurt a great boy. But I said I wouldn't be mean enough to tell or to take pay for not telling.

He didn't say much more. And we went towards home then. But before we came to the house, he turned off into another path.

A little while after, I heard somebody walking behind me. I looked round, and there was the master. He'd been watching with a sick man all night.

He asked me where I had been so early. I said I had been taking a walk. He asked who the boy was that had just left me. I said 't was Tom Cush. He asked if I was willing to tell what we had been talking about. I said I would rather not tell.

Says he, "It has a bad look, your being out with that boy so early, after what happened last night."

Then he asked me where I had found my overjacket. I said, "In my chamber, sir, on a chair-back."

"And how came it there?" says he.

"I don't know, sir," says I.

And, Grandmother, I almost cried; for everything seemed going against me, to make me out a bad boy. I will tell the rest after supper.

Your affectionate grandchild,

William Henry.

-

My dear Grandmother, —

Now I will tell you what happened that afternoon.

The school was about half done.

The master gave three loud raps with his ruler.

This made the room very still.

He asked the other teachers to come up to the platform. And they did.

Next, he waved his ruler, and said, "Fold."

And we all folded our arms.

It was so still that we could hear the clock tick.

He told Tom Cush to close the windows and shut the blinds.

Then he talked to us about stealing and telling lies. Said he didn't like to punish, but it must be done. He said he had reason to believe that the boy whose name he should call out was not honest, that he took other people's things and told lies.

Then he told the story, all that he knew about it, and said he hoped that all concerned in it would have honor enough to speak out and own it.

Nobody said anything.

Then the master said, "William Henry, you may come to the platform."

I went up.

Somebody way in the back part shouted out, "Don't believe it!"

"Silence!" said the master. And he thumped his ruler on the desk.

Then he told me to take off my jacket, and fold it up. And I did.

He told me to hand my collar and ribbon to a teacher. And I did.

Then he laid down his ruler, and took his rod and bent it to see if it was limber. It wasn't exactly a rod. It was the thing I told you about when I first came to this school.

He tried it twice on the desk first.

Then he took hold of my shoulder and turned my back round towards him. He said I had better bend down my head a little, and took hold of the neck of my shirt to keep me steady. I shut my teeth together tight.

At that very minute Bubby Short cried out, "Master! Master! Stop! Don't! He didn't do it! He didn't kill it! I know who! I'll tell! I will! I will! I don't care what Tom Cush does! 'T was Tom Cush killed it!"

The master didn't say one word. But he handed me my jacket.

The boys all clapped and gave three cheers, and he let them.

Then he said to me, whispering, "Is this so, William?" And I said, low, "Yes, sir."

Then he took hold of my hand and led me to my seat. And when I sat down he put his hand on my shoulder just as softly, – it made me remember the way my mother used to before she died, and, says he, "My dear boy," then stopped and began again, "My dear boy," and stopped again. If he'd been a boy I should have thought he was going to cry himself. But of course a man wouldn't. And what should he cry for? It wasn't he that almost had a whipping. At last he told me to come to his room after supper. Then Bubby Short was called up to the platform.

Now I will tell you how Bubby Short found out about it.

He sleeps in a little bed in a little bit of a room that lets out of Tom's. 'T isn't much bigger than a closet. But it is just right for him. That morning when Tom got up so early and threw pebbles at me, Bubby Short had been keeping awake with the toothache. And he heard Tom telling another boy about the rabbit.

He made believe sleep. But once, while Tom was dressing himself, he peeped out from under the bedquilt, with one eye, to see a black-and-blue spot, that Tom said he hit his head against a post and made, when he was running.

But they caught him peeping out, and were dreadful mad because he heard, and said if he told one single word they would flog him. But he says he would have told before, if he had known it had been laid to me.

Wasn't he a nice little fellow to tell?

O, I was so glad when the boys all clapped! And when we were let out, they came and shook hands with Bubby Short and me. Great boys and all. Mr. Augustus, and Dorry, and all. And the master told me how glad he was that he could keep on thinking me to be an honest boy.

Now aren't you glad you didn't feel sorry?

Your affectionate grandchild,

William Henry.

-

The next time I went down to the farm I was told, of course, all about the foregoing letters, – how they were received, and what effect they produced in the family when they were read. Grandmother, however, gives a happy account of the reception and reading of them in the following reply, which she wrote soon after they were received.

Grandmother's Letter to William Henry, in reply

My dear Little Boy, —

Your poor old grandmother was so glad to get those letters, after such long waiting! My dear child, we were anxious; but now we are pleased. I was afraid you were down with the measles, for they're about. Your aunt Phebe thinks you had 'em when you were a month old; but I know better.

Your father was anxious himself at not hearing; though he didn't show it any. But I could see it plain enough. As soon as he brought the letters in, I set a light in the window to let your aunt Phebe know she was wanted. She came running across the yard, all of a breeze. You know how your aunt Phebe always comes running in.

"What is it?" says she. "Letters from Billy? I mistrusted 't was letters from Billy. In his own handwriting? Must have had 'em pretty light. Measles commonly leave the eyes very bad."

But you know how your aunt Phebe goes running on. Your father came in, and sat down in his rocking-chair, – your mother's chair, dear. Your sister was sewing on her doll's cloak by the little table. She sews remarkably well for a little girl.

"Now, Phebe," says I, "read loud, and do speak every word plain." I put on my glasses, and drew close up, for she does speak her words so fast. I have to look her right in the face.

At the beginning, where you speak about being whipped, your father's rocking-chair stopped stock still. You might have heard a pin drop. Georgianna said, "O dear!" and down dropped the doll's cloak. "Pshaw!" said Aunt Phebe, "'t isn't very likely our Billy's been whipped."

Then she read on and on, and not one of us spoke. Your father kept his arms folded up, and never raised his eyes. I had to look away, towards the last, for I couldn't see through my glasses. Georgianna cried. And, when the end came, we all wiped our eyes.

"Now what's the use," said Aunt Phebe, "for folks to cry before they're hurt?"

"But you almost cried yourself," said Georgianna. "Your voice was different, and your nose is red now." And that was true.

After your sister was in bed, and Aunt Phebe gone, your father says to me: "Grandma, the boy's like his mother." And he took a walk around the place, and then went off to his bedroom without even opening his night's paper. If ever a man set store by his boy, that man is your father. And, O Billy, if you had done anything mean, or disgraced yourself in any way, what a dreadful blow 't would have been to us all!

The measles come with a cough. The first thing is to drive 'em out. Get a nurse. That is, if you catch them. They're a natural sickness, and one sensible old woman is better than half a dozen doctors. Saffron's good to drive 'em out.

Aunt Phebe is knitting you a comforter. As if she hadn't family enough of her own to do for!

From your loving

Grandmother.

-

I think this the proper place to insert the following letter from Dorry Baker to his sister. I am sorry we have so few of Dorry's letters. Two very entertaining ones will be given presently, describing a visit Dorry made to William Henry's home. The two boys, as we shall see, soon after their acquaintance, grew to be remarkably good friends. Mr. Baker, Dorry's father, hearing his son's glowing accounts of William Henry's family, took a little trip to Summer Sweeting place on purpose to see them, and was so well pleased with Grandmother, Mr. Carver, Uncle Jacob, and the rest, as to suggest to his wife that they should buy some land in the vicinity, and turn farmers. He and Grandmother had a very pleasant talk about their boys; and not long after, knowing, I suppose, that it would gratify the old lady, he sent her some of Dorry's letters, that she might have the pleasure of reading for herself what Dorry had written about her Billy, and about Billy's people and Billy's home. Perhaps, too, Mr. Baker was a little bit proud of the smart letters his son could write.

Dorry's Letter to his Sister

Dear Sis, —

If mother's real clever, I want you to ask her something right away. But if it's baking-day, or washing-day, or company's coming off, or preserves going on, or anything's upset down below; or if she's got a headache or a dress-maker, or anything else that's bad, – then wait.

I want you to ask her if I may bring home a boy to spend Saturday. Not a very big boy, – do very well to "Philopene" with you: won't put her out a bit.

If you don't like him at first, you will afterwards. When he first came we used to plague him on account of his looks. He's got a furious head of hair, and freckles. But we don't think at all about his looks now. If anything, we like his looks.

He's just as pleasant and gen'rous, and not a mean thing about him. I don't believe he would tell a lie to save his life. I know he wouldn't. He's always willing to help everybody. And had just as lief give anything away as not. And when he plays, he plays fair. Some boys cheat to make their side beat. You don't catch William Henry at any such mean business. All the boys believe every word he says. Teachers too.

I will tell you how he made me ashamed of myself. Me and some other boys.

One day he had a box come from home. 'T was his birthday. It was full of good things. Says I to the boys, "Now, maybe, if we hadn't plagued him so, he would give us some of his goodies."

That very afternoon, when we had done playing, and ran up to brush the mud off our trousers, we found a table all spread out with a table-cloth that he had borrowed, and in the middle was a frosted cake with "W. H." on top done in red sugar. And close to that were some oranges, and a dish full of nuts, and as much as a pound of candy, and more figs than that, and four great cakes of maple-sugar, made on his father's land, as big as small johnny-cakes, and another kind of cake. And doughnuts.

"Come, boys," says he, "help yourselves."

But not a boy stirred.

I felt my face a-blushing like everything. O, we were all of us just as ashamed as we could be! We didn't dare go near the table. But he kept inviting us, and at last began to pass them round.

And I tell you the things were tip-top and more too. Such cake! And doughnuts, that his cousin made! And tarts! You must learn how. But I don't believe you ever could. Of course we had manners enough not to take as much as we wanted. I want to tell you some more things about him. But wait till I come. He's most as old as you are, and is always a laughing, the same as you are.

Ask mother what I told you. Take her at her cleverest, and don't eat up all the sweet apples.

From your brother,

Dorry.

P. S. Put some away in meal to mellow. Don't mellow 'em with your knuckles.

-

Mrs. Baker, I imagine, was not particularly fond of boys. She gave her permission, however, for Dorry to bring a "muddy-shoed" companion home with him, as we see by the following letter from William Henry to his grandmother.

A Letter from William Henry

My dear Grandmother, —

Dorry asked his sister to ask his mother if he might ask me to go home with him. And she said yes; but to wait a week first, because the house was just got ready to have a great party, and she couldn't stand two muddy-shoed boys. May I go?

Tom Cush was sent home; but he didn't go. His father lives in the same town that Dorry does. He has been here to look for him.

I never went to make anybody a visit. I hope you will say yes. I should like to have some money. Everybody tells boys not to spend money; but if they knew how many things boys want, and everything tasted so good, I believe they would spend money themselves. Please write soon.

From your affectionate grandchild,

William Henry.

-

To this short letter Grandmother sent at once the following reply; and in the succeeding letters from William Henry we get a pretty good idea of what sort of people Dorry's folks were, and also hear something about Tom Cush.