, even before the
arrival of the first batch of letters.

"They must be happy," remarked kind Mrs. Foster, after the long, boyish
epistles had been read, over and over; "and such good letters! Not one
word of complaint of anything."

Mrs. Kinzer assented somewhat thoughtfully. Dabney had not complained of
anything; but while he had praised the village, the scenery, the
academy, the boys, and had covered two full sheets of paper, he had not
said a word about the table of his boarding-house.

"He is such a growing boy," she said to herself. "I do hope they will
give him enough to eat."

It went on a good deal in that way, however, for weeks, even till the
Fosters broke up their summer residence and returned to the city. There
were plenty of letters, and all his sisters wondered where Dabney had
learned to write so capitally; but Mrs. Kinzer's doubts were by no means
removed until Ham Morris showed her a part of a curious epistle Dabney
had sent to him in a moment of confidence.

"I tell you what, Ham," he wrote, "mother doesn't know what can be done
with corn. Mrs. Myers does. She raised a pile of it last year, and the
things she makes with it would drive a cook-book crazy. I've been giving
them Latin names, and Frank, he turns them into Hindustanee. It's real
fun, but I sha'n't be the boy I was. I'm getting corned. My hair is
silkier and my voice is husky. My ears are growing. I'd like some fish
and clams for a change. A crab would taste wonderfully good. So would
some oysters. They don't have any up here; but we went fishing, last
Saturday, and got some perch and cat-fish and sun-fish. They call them
pumpkin-seeds up here, and they aint much bigger. Don't tell mother we
don't get enough to eat. There's plenty of it, and you ought to see Mrs.
Myers smile when she passes the johnny-cake. We are all trying to learn
that heavenly smile. Ford does it best. I think Dick Lee is getting a
little pale. Perhaps corn doesn't agree with him. He's learning fast,
though, and so am I; but we have to work harder than the rest. I guess
the Hart boys know more than they did when they came here, and they
didn't get it all out of their books, either. We keep up our French and
our boxing; but oh, wouldn't I like to go for some blue-fish, just now!
Has mother made any mince-pies yet? I've almost forgotten how they
taste. I was going by a house here the other day and I smelt some ham,
cooking. I was real glad I hadn't forgotten. I knew w