icture as
any in her book, with her fair face, her flowing hair, and her clean
dress, set off by the green grass and climbing vines around her. Oscar
sat listening to her childish prattle for some time, when the striking
of the kitchen clock reminded him that he had been seated at the desk
an hour, and had not yet written a dozen lines. He was about to tear
up the sheet of paper over which he had sat (but not labored) so long,
and give up the attempt. Then he thought of his promise to write, and
how ashamed he should feel to have his uncle's folks know that he had
tried a whole hour, and could not write a letter to his own mother. He
finally determined to make one more attempt.

Finding that the sound of Mary's voice disturbed him, Oscar now shut
down the window, and thus cut off all communication with the outer
world, except by the eye. He soon got under way again with his letter,
and, to his own surprise, he went along quite easily and with
considerable rapidity. The reason of this was, he was now really in
earnest, and had given his mind wholly to the letter. Before, his
thoughts were flitting from one trifle to another; now they were
directed to the object he wished to accomplish. Before the clock
struck the next hour, the letter was finished, sealed, and directed.
It was quite a respectable sort of a letter, too. When he had got
through, Oscar was himself surprised to find that he could write so
good an epistle. The spelling, punctuation, and penmanship might have
been improved, but in other respects the letter was creditable to him.
I will print it as he intended it should read, and not precisely as he
wrote it:

"BROOKDALE, June 15, 185--.

"DEAR MOTHER:

"I suppose you are looking for a letter from me, and I meant to have
written before this, but somehow I have neglected it. I got here safe
the next day after I left home. We stopped one night in Portland, and
put up at the ---- Hotel. The next day we rode in the cars all the
forenoon, and in the stage all the afternoon. The stage does not go
within five miles of uncle's, but Jerry went over with a horse and
wagon to get us. I like Brookdale first-rate. It is a real
countryfied place, but I like it all the better for that. The nearest
house to uncle's is half a mile off; and, by the way, tell Ralph that a
cousin of Whistler's lives there. His name is Clinton Davenport. I
have got acquainted with him, and like him very much. I like Jerry