n Janey said petulantly:
"I don't like fairy stories, Davey. Tell a real one."

M'ri noted the disappointment in the boy's eyes as he began the
narrating of a more realistic story.

"David, where did you read that story?" she asked when he had
finished.

"I made it up," he confessed.

"Why, David, I didn't know you had such a talent. You must be an
author when you are a man."

Late that night she saw a light shining from beneath the young
narrator's door.

"I ought to send him to bed," she meditated, "but, poor lad, he has
had so few pleasures and, after all, childhood is the only time for
thorough enjoyment, so why should I put a feather in its path?"

David read until after midnight, and went to bed with a book under his
pillow that he might begin his pastime again at dawn.

After breakfast the next morning M'ri commanded the whole family to
sit down and write their thanks to Joe. David's willing pen flew in
pace with his thoughts as he told of Miss Rhody's delight and his own
revel in book land. Janey made most wretched work of her composition.
She sighed and struggled with thoughts and pencil, which she gnawed at
both ends. Finally she confessed that she couldn't think of anything
more to say. M'ri came to inspect her literary effort, which was
written in huge characters.

"Dear Joe--"

"Oh," commented M'ri doubtfully, "I don't know as you should address
him so familiarly."

"I called him 'Joe' when we rode to school. He told me to," defended
Janey.

"He's just like a boy," suggested David.

So M'ri, silenced, read on: "I thank you for your beyewtifull present
which I cannot have."

"Oh, Janey," expostulated M'ri, laughing; "that doesn't sound very
gracious."

"Well, you said I couldn't have them till I was grown up."

"I was wrong," admitted M'ri. "I didn't realize it then. We have to
see a thing written sometimes to know how it sounds."

"May I wear them?" asked Janey exultingly. "May I put them on now?"

"Yes," consented M'ri.

Janey flew upstairs and came back wearing the adored turquoises, which
made her eyes most beautifully blue.

"Now I can write," she affirmed, taking up her pencil with the
impetus of an incentive. Under the inspiration of the beads around her
neck, she wrote:

"DEAR JOE:

"I am wareing the beyewtifull beeds you sent me around my neck.
Aunt M'ri says they are terkwoyses. I never had such nice beeds
and I thank you. I wish I cood ride with you agen. Go