ed so
funny; it made his feet stick out."

"Children," said Mrs. Pepper, "how'll Jasper know where the cakes come
from?"

"Why, he'll know it's us," said Polly, "of course; 'cause it'll make him
think of the baking we're going to have when he gets well."

"Well, but you don't say so," said Mrs. Pepper, smiling; "tisn't polite
to send it this way."

"Whatever'll we do, mammy!" said all four children in dismay, while
Phronsie simply stared. "Can't we send 'em at all?"

"Why yes," said their mother; "I hope so, I'm sure, after you've got 'em
baked; but you might answer Jasper's letter I should think, and tell him
about 'em, and the 'gingerbread boy'."

"Oh dear," said Polly, ready to fly, "I couldn't mamsie; I never wrote a
letter."

"Well, you never had one before, did you?" said her mother, composedly
biting her thread. "Never say you can't, Polly, 'cause you don't know
what you can do till you've tried."

"You write, Ben," said Polly, imploringly.

"No," said Ben, "I think the nicest way is for all to say somethin',
then 'twon't be hard for any of us."

"Where's the paper," queried Polly, "coming from, I wonder!"

"Joel," said Mrs. Pepper, "run to the bureau in the bedroom, and open
the top drawer, and get a green box there."

So Joel, quite important at the errand, departed, and presently put the
designated box into his mother's hand.

"There, now I'm going to give you this," and she took out a small sheet
of paper slightly yellowed by age; but being gilt-edged, it looked very
magnificent to the five pairs of eyes directed to it.

"Now Ben, you get the ink bottle and the pen, and then go to work."

So Ben reached down from the upper shelf in the cupboard the ink bottle,
and a pen in a black wooden penholder.

"Oh, mamsie," cried Polly, "that's where Phronsie bit it off when she
was a baby, isn't it?" holding up the stubby end where the little ball
had disappeared.

"Yes," said Mrs. Pepper, "and now you're going to write about her
'gingerbread boy' with it--well, time goes, to be sure." And she bent
over her work again, harder than ever. Poor woman! if she could only
scrape together enough money to get her children into school--that was
the earnest wish of her heart. She must do it soon, for Ben was twelve
years old; but with all her strivings and scrimpings she could only
manage to put bread into their mouths, and live from day to day. "I know
I ought to be thankful for that," she said to herself,