But I should not like
To have Dan put camphor on my poor little head.”
This unusual burst of genius brought down the house, and Demi
was obliged to read it again, a somewhat difficult task, as there
was no punctuation whatever, and the little poet’s breath gave out
before he got to the end of some of the long lines.
“He will be a Shakespeare yet,” said Aunt Jo, laughing as if she
would die, for this poetic gem reminded her of one of her own,
written at the age of ten, and beginning gloomily,
“I wish I had a quiet tomb,
Beside a little rill;
Where birds, and bees, and butterflies,
Would sing upon the hill.”
“Come on, Tommy. If there is as much ink inside your paper as
there is outside, it will be a long composition,” said Mr. Bhaer,
when Demi had been induced to tear himself from his poem and
sit down.
“It isn’t a composition, it’s a letter. You see, I forgot all about its
being my turn till after school, and then I didn’t know what to
have, and there wasn’t time to read up; so I thought you wouldn’t
mind my taking a letter that I wrote to my Grandma. It’s got
something about birds in it, so I thought it would do.”
With this long excuse, Tommy plunged into a sea of ink and
floundered through, pausing now and then to decipher one of his
own flourishes.
“MY DEAR GRANDMA, I hope you are well. Uncle James sent
me a pocket rifle. It is a beautiful little instrument of killing,
shaped like this [Here Tommy displayed a remarkable sketch of
what looked like an intricate pump, or the inside of a small
steam-engine] 44 are the sights; 6 is a false stock that fits in at A; 3
is the trigger, and 2 is the cock. It loads at the breech, and fires
with great force and straightness. I am going out shooting squirrels
soon. I shot several fine birds for the museum. They had speckled
breasts, and Dan liked them very much. He stuffed them tip-top,
and they sit on the tree quite natural, only one looks a little tipsy.
We had a Frenchman working here the other day, and Asia called
his name so funnily that I will tell you about it. His name was
Germain: first she called him Jerry, but we laughed at her, and she
changed it to Jeremiah; but ridicule was the result, so it became
Mr. Germany; but ridicule having been again resumed, it became
Garrymon, which it has remained ever since. I do not write often, I
am so busy; but I think of you often, and sympathize with you, and
sincerely hope you get on as well as can be expected without me.
Your affectionate grandson,
“THOMAS BUCKMINSTER BANGS.
“P.S. ? If you come across any postage-stamps, remember me.
“N.B. Love to all, and a great deal to Aunt Almira. Does she make
any nice plum-cakes now?
“P.S. ? Mrs. Bhaer sends her respects.
“P.S. ? And so would Mr. B, if he knew I was in act to write.
“N.B. Father is going to give me a watch on my birthday. I am glad
as at present I have no means of telling time, and am often late at
school.
“P.S. ? I hope to see you soon. Don’t you wish to send for me?
T. B. B.”
As each postscript was received with a fresh laugh from the boys,
by the time he came to the sixth and last, Tommy was so
exhausted that he was glad to sit down and wipe his ruddy face.
“I hope the dear old lady will live through it,” said Mr. Bhaer,
under cover of the noise.
“We won’t take any notice of the broad hint given in that last P.S.
The letter will be quite as much as she can bear without a visit
from Tommy,” answered Mrs. Jo, remembering that the old lady
usually took to her bed after a visitation from her irrepressible
grandson.
“Now, me,” said Teddy, who had learned a bit of poetry, and was
so eager to say it that he had been bobbing up and down during the