The William Henry Letters Part 11

"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 else keep the legs to make new boots of?

W. H.

Here we have William Henry trying his hand at story-telling.

MY DEAR GRANDMOTHER,--

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 saxifax-root. And picked lots of boxberry-plums.

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 wouldn'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 all of sharp stones. The horses and cows cut across the fields like mad. The horses flung up their heads. 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 s.h.i.+ngles 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 a hundred cartloads of stones were being tipped up on to the roof. And then the window-gla.s.s! It was worse than being out doors, for the window-gla.s.s 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--School-bell! I didn'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 gla.s.s. Counting the house and the school-house, and the panes set over the barn door, and four squares in the hen-house, we had to set four hundred and twenty-three squares. The express-man 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 couldn'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 wasn't a ghost.

'T wasn't a man. 'T wasn't a woman. 'T was Tom Cus.h.!.+ 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 mustn'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 couldn't do it.

It licked his hand, and looked up so sorryful, he couldn'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 wouldn'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 gra.s.s, and then pulled it in again.

I wouldn'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 hadn'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 stand it to run some. The master says it's good weather for studying. Dorry says he never saw any weather yet good enough for studying. I shall write a very short letter next time, to tell the rest of it.

From your affectionate grandchild,

WILLIAM HENRY.

P. S. I forgot to put this letter in the office. I guess I will not write any more letters till I go home. I was going to tell more, but I can do it better talking. I went to see Tom Cush the next day, and he had gone. Rosy's got her lamb back again. But her flower-garden was killed by the hail. Not one leaf left. She found her lamb on the doorstep, waiting to get in.

We have next a letter from Aunt Phebe, a dear, good-hearted woman, who took almost a mother's interest in William Henry. Indeed, I have heard her remark, that she hardly knew any difference between her feelings for him and for her own children.

Some of her letters will be found to contain good advice, given in a very amusing way.