Dear Mother,—I am safely here. My dress was not much tumbled and Aunt Jane helped me press it out. I like Mr. Cobb very much. He chews but throws newspapers straight up to the doors. I rode outside a little while, but got inside before I got to Aunt Miranda's house. I did not want to, but thought you would like it better. Miranda is such a long word that I think I will say Aunt M. and Aunt J. in my Sunday letters. Aunt J. has given me a dictionary to look up all the hard words in. It takes a good deal of time and I am glad people can talk without stopping to spell. It is much easier to talk than write and much more fun. The brick house looks just the same as you have told us. The parlor is splendid and gives you creeps and chills when you look in the door. The furniture is elegant too, and all the rooms but there are no good sitting-down places except in the kitchen. The same cat is here but they do not save kittens when she has them, and the cat is too old to play with. Hannah told me once you ran away with father and I can see it would be nice. If Aunt M. would run away I think I should like to live with Aunt J. She does not hate me as bad as Aunt M. does. Tell Mark he can have my paint box, but I should like him to keep the red cake in case I come home again. I hope Hannah and John do not get tired doing my chores.

Your affectionate friend, Rebecca.

P.S. Please give the piece of poetry to John because he likes my poetry even when it is not very good. This piece is not very good but it is true but I hope you won't mind what is in it as you ran away.



This house is dark and dull and drear

No light doth shine from far or near

It's like the tomb.



And those of us who live herein

Are most as dead as seraphim

Though not as good.



My guardian angel is asleep

At least he doth no vigil keep



Ah! woe is me!



Then give me back my lonely farm

Where none alive did wish me harm

Dear home of youth!

P.S. again. I made the poetry like a piece in a book but could not get it right at first. You see "tomb" and "good" do not sound well together but I wanted to say "tomb" dreadfully and as seraphim are always "good" I couldn't take that out. I have made it over now. It does not say my thoughts as well but think it is more right. Give the best one to John as he keeps them in a box with his birds' eggs. This is the best one.



SUNDAY THOUGHTS BY REBECCA ROWENA RANDALL

This house is dark and dull and drear

No light doth shine from far or near

Nor ever could.



And those of us who live herein

Are most as dead as seraphim

Though not as good.



My guardian angel is asleep

At least he doth no vigil keep

But far doth roam.



Then give me back my lovely farm

Where none alive did wish me harm,

Dear childhood home!



Dear Mother,—I am thrilling with unhappiness this morning. I got that out of Cora The Doctor's Wife whose husband's mother was very cross and unfeeling to her like Aunt M. to me. I wish Hannah had come instead of me for it was Hannah that was wanted and she is better than I am and does not answer back so quick. Are there any pieces of my buff calico? Aunt J. wants enough to make a new waste button behind so I wont look so outlandish. The styles are quite pretty in Riverboro and those at Meeting quite elegant more so than in Temperance.



This town is stylish, gay and fair,

And full of wealthy riches rare,

But I would pillow on my arm

The thought of my sweet Brookside Farm.



School is pretty good. The Teacher can answer more questions than the Temperance one but not so many as I can ask. I am smarter than all the girls but one but not so smart as two boys. Emma Jane can add and subtract in her head like a streak of lightning and knows the spelling book right through but has no thoughts of any kind. She is in the Third Reader but does not like stories in books. I am in the Sixth Reader but just because I cannot say the seven multiplication table Miss Dearborn threatens to put me in the baby primer class with Elijah and Elisha Simpson little twins.



Sore is my heart and bent my stubborn pride,

With Lijah and with Lisha am I tied,

My soul recoils like Cora Doctor's Wife,

Like her I fear I cannot bare this life.



I am going to try for the spelling prize but fear I cannot get it. I would not care but wrong spelling looks dreadful in poetry. Last Sunday when I found seraphim in the dictionary I was ashamed I had made it serra-f-im, but sera-ph-im is not a word you can guess at like another long one outlandish in this letter which spells itself. Miss Dearborn says use the words you can spell and if you cant spell seraphim make angel do but angels are not just the same as seraphims. Seraphims are brighter, whiter, and have bigger wings and I think are older and longer dead than angels which are just freshly dead and after a long time in heaven around the great white throne grow to be seraphims.

I sew on brown gingham dresses every afternoon when Emma Jane and the Simpsons are playing house or running on the logs when their mothers do not know it. Their mothers are afraid they will drown and Aunt M. is afraid I will wet my clothes so will not let me either. I can play from half-past four to supper and after supper a little bit and Saturday afternoons. I am glad our cow has a calf and it is spotted. It is going to be a good year for apples and hay so you and John will be glad and we can pay a little more mortgage. Miss Dearborn asked us what is the object of education and I said the object of mine was to help pay off the mortgage. She told Aunt M. and I had to sew extra for punishment because she says a mortgage is disgrace like stealing or smallpox and it will be all over town that we have one on our farm. Emma Jane is not mortgaged nor Richard Carter nor Dr. Winship but the Simpsons are.



Rise my soul, strain every nerve,

Thy mortgage to remove,

Gain thy mother's heartfelt thanks

Thy family's grateful love.



Pronounce family quick or it won't sound right

Your loving little friend, Rebecca

Dear John,—You remember when we tied the new dog in the barn how he bit the rope and howled I am just like him only the brick house is the barn and I cannot bite Aunt M. because I must be grateful and education is going to be the making of me and help you pay off the mortgage when we grow up. Your loving Becky.