Jimmy has a room, and he sweeps it sometimes. I sleep with Jimmy. There
isn't any woman to make up the bedclothes. We fix 'em. It isn't very hard.
You just pull them up and tuck them down. There is a gong, and that makes
you get up and eat breakfast. The breakfast is good. It is a round thing,
and a girl pounds it. You put five tea-spoons of sugar in your tea-cup. A
girl sits on the other side. There is lots of tables, and they make a
noise. By and by, one gets through and walks out. There is a lock on the
door, and that makes you hurry up or you can't have any breakfast. You
can't get in. The ten cents is 'most gone. I hope you will write me again
pretty soon.--Your son, DICKERSON H.

P. S.--The peace of paper has got the days on it, and we scratch them off
every night. There is sixty-one more to scratch off, and that will make it
vacation. D. H.

* * *
_November 3, 1877._

DEAR MOTHER: There is 'bout ten pianos here, and folks play on them all
the while. It sounds pretty. You can't tell what tune they play 'most
always. Mr. Wiseman has an noffice, and that's where you have to go when
you want to do things. Sometimes you have to go when you don't want to do
things. He sits in a chair and his legs go under the table. There's a
square hole where his legs go. It has a slate on it, and he writes your
name on it. It don't feel good. You ought to have seen Jim one day. He
fell into the river, but he got out. There is a river. He had the cookies
in his pocket. They were just as good, except the soap. He had some soap
too, and that wasn't very good. Jim didn't get dry pretty soon, and he had
the neuraligy or the toothache. The side of his cheek swelled out as big
as a foot-ball. He went to the office. He was sicker. I made up the bed
for a week, and he felt better. We went in swimming five times yesterday.
We have to treat. All men have to treat. It's molasses-candy and it's
pop-corn. To treat is to pay for what a nother feller eats. The button
come off of my shirt. I lost it, but I sewed on one of the black ones like
the ones on my jacket. The place to sew it on came out too, but I sewed it
one side. It made my thumb bleed.--Your son, DICKERSON HARDIN.

* * *
_November 17, 1877._

DEAR MOT