And when I thought of that, my pen just wouldn't go. The idea
of _my_ writing anything my father would want to read!
And so I'd try to think of things that I could write--big things--big
things that would interest big men: about the President, and
our-country-'tis-of-thee, and the state of the weather and the crops.
And so I'd begin:
"Dear Father: I take my pen in hand to inform you that--"
Then I'd stop and think and think, and chew my pen-handle. Then I'd
put down _something_. But it was awful, and I knew it was awful. So
I'd have to tear it up and begin again. Three times I did that; then I
began to cry. It did seem as if I never could write that letter. Once
I thought of asking Mother what to say, and getting her to help me.
Then I remembered how she cried and took on and said things when the
letter came, and talked about how dreadful and unnatural it all was,
and how she was jealous for fear I'd love Father better than I did
her. And I was afraid she'd do it again, and so I didn't like to ask
her. And so I didn't do it.
Then, after a time, I got out his letter and read it again. And all of
a sudden I felt all warm and happy, just as I did when I first got it;
and some way I was back with him in the observatory and he was telling
me all about the stars.
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