“I believe he was,” replied Mrs. Preston.

“That accounts for it,” said Jerry to Oscar; “that letter sounds just like Clinton.  I knew he wrote it just as soon as I saw it.”

“But can he write as well as that?” inquired Oscar.

“Yes, he ’s a very good writer,” replied Jerry.  “He ought to be, for he has to get a lesson every day, just as though he went to school, and recite to his mother in the evening.  I wish I knew as much as he does, but I should n’t want to study so hard.”

They had now started on their way to Clinton’s.  The Shanghae letter continued to be the topic of remark for some time.  It was finally concluded that they should say nothing to Clinton about it.  To tell the truth, Jerry felt a little mortified at the deserved rebuke he had received, and he thought the easiest way to get over it would be, to pretend that the letter had never reached its destination.

Clinton Davenport, the suspected author of this letter, lived in the nearest house to Mr. Preston’s.  The house is marked 1, on the map of Brookdale.  He was three or four months younger than Jerry, and, like him, was an only son.  They had been intimate playmates from early childhood, though their tastes and dispositions were very different.  Clinton was an industrious boy.  He liked to work, and took an interest in all his father’s plans and labors.  He was an ingenious boy, too; and, in addition to his other commendable traits, he was a good scholar.

Oscar had seen Clinton once or twice, at Jerry’s house, but this was his first visit to him.  They soon came in the sight of the house.  It was a neat, but plain cottage, situated near the foot of a hill.  There were several noble oaks around it, and fruit trees in the rear.  Luxuriant vines were trained around and over the front door.  A large and substantial barn stood a little one side, and back from the road, with its great doors swung open.  On a tall pole, behind the house, there was a complete miniature of the cottage, which appeared to be occupied by a family of birds, who were constantly flying back and forth.  This pretty birdhouse Clinton had made with his own hands the previous winter.

When Oscar and Jerry reached the house, they saw Clinton doing something in the orchard, behind the buildings, and walked along towards him.  They found him employed in destroying caterpillars’ nests, in the apple-trees.  He had a light ladder, with which he ascended the trees; and having his hands protected by a pair of old gloves, he swept down the nests, and destroyed the young caterpillars by the hundred.

“This is n’t very pleasant work,” said Clinton, “but it has got to be done.  I’ve been all over the orchard this morning, and this is the last tree I ’ve got to examine.  I shall be done in a few minutes, and then I ’ll walk around with you.”

“I should like to know where all these caterpillars come from,” said Oscar; “do they come up from the ground?”