Marjorie's Vacation Part 7

"Suppose I read another letter," she said, quite ready to turn the subject.

"Do; open that one with the typewritten address. I wonder who could have written that! Perhaps the cow; she's very agile on the typewriter."

The mental picture of the cow using the typewriter produced such hilarity that it was a few moments before the letter was opened.

"It IS from the cow!" exclaimed Marjorie, "and she does write beautifully on the machine. I don't see a single error."

"Read it out, Midge; I always love to hear letters from cows."

So Marjorie read the cow's note:

"Mopsy Midge, come out to play; I've waited for you all the day.

In the Garden and by the brook, All day for you I vainly look.

With anxious brow and gaze intense I lean against the old rail fence, And moo and moo, and moo, and moo, In hopes I may be heard by you.

And if I were not so forlorn, I think I'd try to blow my horn.

Oh, come back, Midget, come back now, And cheer your lonely, waiting

Cow."

"Now, that's a first-cla.s.s letter," declared Uncle Steve. "I always thought that cow was a poet. She looks so romantic when she gazes out over the bars. You ought to be pleased, Marjorie, that you have such loving friends at Haslemere."

"Pleased! I'm tickled to death! I never had letters that I liked so well. And just think, I have three left yet that I haven't opened. I wonder who they can be from."

"When you wonder a thing like that, it always seems to me a good idea to open them and find out."

"I just do believe I will! Why, this one," and Marjorie hastily tore open another letter, "this one, Uncle, is from old Bet!"

"Betsy! That old horse! Well, she must have put on her spectacles to see to write it. But I suppose when she saw Ned and d.i.c.k writing, she didn't want them to get ahead of her, so she went to work too. Well, do read it, I'm surely interested to hear old Betsy's letter."

"Listen then," said Marjorie:

"DEAR LITTLE MIDGE:

I'm lonesome here, Without your merry smiles to cheer.

I mope around the livelong day, And scarcely care to munch my hay.

I am so doleful and so sad, I really do feel awful bad!

Oh hurry, Midge, and come back soon; Perhaps to-morrow afternoon.

And then my woe I will forget, And smile again.

Your lonesome BET"

"Well, she is an affectionate old thing," said Uncle Steve; "and truly, Midget, I thought she was feeling lonesome this morning. She didn't seem to care to eat anything, and she never smiled at me at all."

"She's a good old horse, Uncle, but I don't like her as much as I do Ned and d.i.c.k. But don't ever tell Betsy this, for I wouldn't hurt her feelings for anything."

"Oh, yes, just because Ned and d.i.c.k are spirited, fast horses you like them better than poor, old Betsy, who used to haul you around when you were a baby."

"Oh, I like her well enough; and, anyway, I think a heap more of her now, since she wrote me such an affectionate letter. Now, Uncle, if you'll believe it, this next one is from the chickens! Would you have believed that little bits of yellow chickens, in an incubator, could write a nice, clear letter like this? I do think it's wonderful! Just listen to it:

"DEAR MOPSY:

Why Are you away?

We weep and cry All through the day.

"Oh, come back quick, Dear Mopsy Mop!

Then each small chick Will gayly hop.

"We'll chirp with glee, No more we'll weep; Each chickadee Will loudly peep."

"Well, that's certainly fine, Midget, for such little chickens. If it were the old hen, now, I wouldn't be so surprised, for I see her scratching on the ground every day. I suppose she's practising her writing lesson, but I never yet have been able to read the queer marks she makes. But these little yellow chickadees write plainly enough, and I do think they are wonderfully clever."

"Yes, and isn't it funny that they can rhyme so well, too?"

"It is, indeed. I always said those Plymouth Rocks were the smartest chickens of all, but I never suspected they could write poetry."

"And now, Uncle, I've only one left." Marjorie looked regretfully at the last letter, wis.h.i.+ng there were a dozen more. "But I can keep them and read them over and over again, I like them so much. I'd answer them, but I don't believe those animals read as well as they write."

"No," said Uncle Steve, wagging his head sagely, "I don't believe they do. Well, read your last one, Mops, and let's see who wrote it."

"Why, Uncle, it's from the dogs! It's signed 'Nero and Tray and Rover'!

Weren't they just darling to write to me! I believe I miss the dogs more than anything else, because I can have Puffy up here with me."

Marjorie paused long enough to cuddle the little heap of grey fur that lay on the counterpane beside her, and then proceeded to read the letter:

"Dear Mopsy Midget, We're in a fidget, Because we cannot find you; We want to know How you could go And leave your dogs behind you!

"We bark and howl, And snarl and yowl, And growl the whole day long; You are not here, And, Mopsy dear, We fear there's something wrong!

"We haven't heard; Oh, send us word Whatever is the matter!

Oh, hurry up And cheer each pup With laughter and gay chatter."

"That's a very nice letter," said Marjorie, as she folded it up and returned it to its envelope. "And I do think the animals at Haslemere are the most intelligent I have ever known. Uncle, I'm going to send these letters all down home for King and Kitty to read, and then they can send them back to me, for I'm going to keep them all my life."

"I'll tell you a better plan than that, Midget. If you want the children to read them, I'll make copies of them for you to send home.

And then I'll tell you what you might do, if you like. When I go downtown I'll buy you a great big sc.r.a.pbook, and then you can paste these letters in, and as the summer goes on, you can paste in all sorts of things; pressed leaves or flowers, pictures and letters, and souvenirs of all sorts. Won't that be nice?"

"Uncle Steve, it will be perfectly lovely! You do have the splendidest ideas! Will you get the book to-morrow?"

"Yes, Miss Impatience, I will."

And that night, Marjorie fell asleep while thinking of all the lovely things she could collect to put in the book, which Uncle Steve had told her she must call her Memory Book.

CHAPTER VI

BOO!