William Henry to His Grandmother
My dear Grandmother,—
Now if you will be a good little grandmother, and promise never to worry any more, then I’ll tell you about that party. We had to wear white gloves. I’ll begin at the outside. The piazzas had colored lights hanging round them, and there were colored lights hung in the trees and the gateways. ’T was a foggy night, and those colored lights lighted up the fog all around, so when you came towards the place it looked just like a great bright spot in the midst of darkness. There was a tall lady, standing in the middle of the room, with a splendid dress on, dragging way behind her, and I went right up to her, and just got my foot the way Mr. Tornero told us, and the palm of my hand right, when Dorry jerked me back by my jacket and said she wasn’t the right one. You see we got belated, going back after our clean pocket-handkerchiefs, and hurried so that Dorry fell down and muddied his trousers’ knees, but lucky ’t was close to the Two Betseys’ shop, for we went in there and got sponged up, but we had to wait for ’em to dry. Lame Betsey said she used to take care of Maud Grey when she was a little scrap, and she wanted to make her a birthday present. So they both hunted round, to see if they had anything. In the desk they found a little thin book, a funny-looking old blue-covered book, “Advice to a Young Lady,” that was given to Lame Betsey when she was young. The title was on the blue cover. ’T was a funny-looking thing and it smelt snuffy. She asked me to give it to Maud, after she’d written her name in it. I tell you now Lame Betsey makes quite good letters! I didn’t want to take the book, but I did, for both Betseys are clever women.
All this was the reason we got belated, and Mrs. Grey had got mixed up with the other people, but we found her and did the right thing by her. And Maud too. I don’t think any of you would believe that I could behave so well! so polite I mean. Course I didn’t feel bashful any! O no!
They had four pieces, and they played as if they knew how. I didn’t dance at the first of it. Didn’t dare to. ’T was too light there. The carpets were covered with white. Then chandeliers, and lamps, and wax candles, and flowers everywhere they could be, set up in vases,—one lady called vases, varzes,—and hanging-baskets. I never was in such a beautiful place. The ladies sang at the piano, and the young gentlemen turned their leaves over. O you ought to ’ve heard ’em when the tunes went up, up, up! Enough to make you catch your breath! Seemed as if it could never get down again. I don’t like that kind. But Dorry said ’twas opera style and nobody was to blame but me, if I didn’t like it. Now John Brown’s Body, I like that, and when they all sang that, I joined right in, same as any of them. For I knew I knew that tune. But first one looked round at me, and then another looked round at me, as if something was the matter. I thought I saw ’em smiling. Then I kept still. But I didn’t know I was singing wrong. O, I do wish I knew what this singing is! Seems easy enough. Now when the tune goes up loud, I go up loud, and when that goes down low, I go down low. But Dorry says it isn’t singing. Says ’tis discord. But I can’t tell discord from any other cord, and he says the harder I try, the worse noise I make. I do wish I could roar out that Glory Hallelujah! for I feel the tune inside of me, but it never comes out right. Dorry laughs when I set out to sing. He says I chase the tune up and down all the way through, and never hit it! Now, if ’t is right inside, why can’t it come out right? I don’t see!
We went into a large room to eat refreshments, and I wish Aunt Phebe could see the things we had. And taste of them too. I saved the frosting off my cake for Tommy. ’T is wrapped up in a paper in my trunk. ’T is different from your frosting, good deal harder. I had a sort of funny time in that room. Somebody had to hit my elbow when I was passing custard to a girl, and joggled over a mess of it on to her white dress and my trousers. I whipped out my pocket-handkerchief to sop it up, and whipped out that little blue book. Somebody picked it up, and one young man, that had been cutting up all the evening, Maud Grey’s cousin, he got hold of it and read her name and called out to her to come get her present, and made a good deal of fun about it, and began to read it loud. She wanted to know who brought it, and somebody told her I was the one. I began to grow red as fire, but all of a sudden I thought, Now, Billy, what’s the use? So I said very plain, “Miss Grey, Lame Betsey sent you that book.” She didn’t laugh very much, only smiled and asked me to tell Lame Betsey she was glad that she remembered her. Guess she thought I looked bashful, for afterwards she asked me if I wouldn’t try a polka with her. I don’t think she’s very proud, for when I was looking at a painted vase, she came and told me how it was done, for all I wasn’t much acquainted with her. She talked to me as easy and sociable as if she’d been Lucy Maria.
A company of us got together in one of the rooms and ate our ice-creams there, and while we were eating them, we beheaded words. Lucy Maria must read this letter, for she’ll want to know how. When you behead a word you take off the first letter. It’s fun, when you get beheading them fast. The spelling mustn’t be changed. Dorry made some of these. I didn’t. I couldn’t think fast enough.
Behead an article of dress, and you leave a farming tool.
Shoe—hoe.
I’ll put the rest of the answers at the bottom, so as to give all of you a chance to guess what they are.
1. Behead what leads men to fight, and you leave the cause of much misery, sin, and death.
2. Behead what young ladies are said to be fond of, and you leave a young lady.
3. Behead what comes nearest the hand, and you leave what comes nearest the heart.
4. Behead something sweet, and it leaves an address to the sweet.
5. Behead part of a coach, and you leave part of yourself. Behead that, and you leave a fish.
6. Behead a rogue, and you leave a musician.
7. Behead an old-fashioned occupation, and you leave what prevents many a parting.
8. Behead a part of ladies’ apparel, and you leave what is higher than the king.
9. Behead what always comes hard, and you leave what makes things go easy.
10. Behead a weapon, and you leave a fruit. Behead that, and you leave part of the body.
1. Drum, rum.
2. Glass, lass.
3. Glove, love.
4. Molasses, O Lasses!
5. Wheel, heel, eel.
6. Sharper, harper.
7. Spin, pin.
8. Lace, ace.
9. Toil, oil.
10. Spear, pear, ear.
Sometimes they make them in rhyme.
Behead what is born in the fire,
And lives but a moment or so,—
For it can’t live long you know,—
And you leave what all admire.
Where grass so green doth grow,
And trees in many a row.
Behead this last, and you leave in its place
What once preserved the human race.
Spark, park, ark.
Behead a musical term so sweet,
And you leave what runs without any feet.
Behead again, and, sad to tell,
You leave what is sick and never gets well.
To what is left add the letter D,
And you have a lawyer of high degree.
Trill, rill, ill, “LL D.”
I’ve got something a good deal funnier to tell, but I’m going to write all about that in Lucy Maria’s letter. I guess she’ll be very glad when she gets that letter, for ’twill tell her how to do something very funny. I will send her the story of it too, so she won’t have to make up anything herself. Don’t you think I had a pretty good time? I hope my sister is well, and hope you all are. Lucy Maria must read this letter. She could make those beheadings quicker’n lightning. I am well. Don’t believe I shall ever be sick.
From your affectionate Grandson,
William Henry.
P. S. I’ve been to a lecture on good health. The man said there were two parts to the air, a good part and a poison part, and every time we breathe we keep in the good part, and breathe out the poison part. So if a room were sealed up, air-tight, a man living in it would soon die, for he would use up all the good part and leave the poison part. So we ought to always let fresh air in, that hasn’t been breathed. He says in a crowded room, if there is no fresh air coming in, we have to use over what other folks have breathed, whether they are sick or well.
W. H.
What with our young friend’s frequent visits to the Two Betseys, his attendance at the dancing-school, and going to parties and to lectures, it would seem as though his time was not wholly taken up with his studies. Among William Henry’s letters to Lucy Maria I find the following one about the Dwarf, and with it, in Lucy Maria’s handwriting, I find a copy of the Narrative alluded to.