And so I’d try to think of things that I could write—­big things—­big things that would interest big men:  about the President, and our-country-’tis-of-thee, and the state of the weather and the crops.  And so I’d begin: 

“Dear Father:  I take my pen in hand to inform you that—­”

Then I’d stop and think and think, and chew my pen-handle.  Then I’d put down something.  But it was awful, and I knew it was awful.  So I’d have to tear it up and begin again.  Three times I did that; then I began to cry.  It did seem as if I never could write that letter.  Once I thought of asking Mother what to say, and getting her to help me.  Then I remembered how she cried and took on and said things when the letter came, and talked about how dreadful and unnatural it all was, and how she was jealous for fear I’d love Father better than I did her.  And I was afraid she’d do it again, and so I didn’t like to ask her.  And so I didn’t do it.

Then, after a time, I got out his letter and read it again.  And all of a sudden I felt all warm and happy, just as I did when I first got it; and some way I was back with him in the observatory and he was telling me all about the stars.  And I forgot all about being afraid of him, and about the crops and the President and my-country-’tis-of-thee.  And I just remembered that he’d asked me to tell him what I did on Christmas Day; and I knew right off that that would be easy.  Why, just the easiest thing in the world!  And so I got out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped my pen in the ink and began again.

And this time I didn’t have a bit of trouble.  I told him all about the tree I had Christmas Eve, and the presents, and the little colored lights, and the fun we had singing and playing games.  And then how, on Christmas morning, there was a lovely new snow on the ground, and Mr. Easterbrook came with a perfectly lovely sleigh and two horses to take Mother and me to ride, and what a splendid time we had, and how lovely Mother looked with her red cheeks and bright eyes, and how, when we got home, Mr. Easterbrook said we looked more like sisters than mother and daughter, and wasn’t that nice of him.  Of course, I told a little more about Mr. Easterbrook, too, so Father’d know who he was—­a new friend of Mother’s that I’d never known till I came back this time, and how he was very rich and a most estimable man.  That Aunt Hattie said so.

Then I told him that in the afternoon another gentleman came and took us to a perfectly beautiful concert.  And I finished up by telling about the Christmas party in the evening, and how lovely the house looked, and Mother, and that they said I looked nice, too.

And that was all.  And when I had got it done, I saw that I had written a long letter, a great long letter.  And I was almost afraid it was too long, till I remembered that Father had asked me for it; he had asked me to tell him all about what I did on Christmas Day.