Jerry went over with a horse and wagon to get us.  I like Brookdale first-rate.  It is a real countryfied place, but I like it all the better for that.  The nearest house to uncle’s is half a mile off; and, by the way, tell Ralph that a cousin of Whistler’s lives there.  His name is Clinton Davenport.  I have got acquainted with him, and like him very much.  I like Jerry, too.  We have capital times together.  All the boys here are rather ‘green,’ as we say in Boston; and you would laugh at the ideas they have of city things; but I suppose they think I am green about country things, and so we are square.  I have lots of rides, and good long walks, too.  A few days ago, Jerry and I walked four or five miles through the woods and pastures, to an old hut where a hermit used to live.  They say he was a miser, and buried his money there, and people have dug for it, but nobody has found it.  We carried our provisions, and made a fire, and ate dinner there.  There is a fine pond close by, where we got our water to drink.

“There are lots of birds here.  We are going to set some snares in the woods, and catch some.  There are some swallows’ nests in uncle’s barn, just over the door.  You can look right up into them, and see the birds.  They are quite tame.  They are just making their young ones learn how to fly.  It is real amusing to see them.

“Uncle has quite a large farm.  I forget how many acres he told me there was, but it is a good many.  They have cows, and pigs, and hens, and live in real country style.  I have learned how to make butter, but I have not learned to like buttermilk yet.  I can’t bear it, but all the other folks think it is a great treat.  The schools don’t keep here but three months in the winter, so Jerry and I are together about all the time.  We sleep together, too.  I almost forgot to tell you that I have got quite strong and hearty again.  My cough is gone, and aunt says I look a good deal better than I did when I came here.  I want to hear from home, but I hope you won’t send for me to go back just yet.  But I am tired of writing, and must close up my letter.  Excuse errors and bad writing.  Give my love to all the family, including Tiger.

“Your affectionate son,

“OSCAR.”

Oscar felt quite relieved when his letter was ready for the post-office.  Having locked up the little room, he carried the key to his aunt.

“Have you written your letter?” inquired Mrs. Preston.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied Oscar.

“Where is it?  You ’re going to let me read it, aint you?” inquired Emily.

“There it is,” said Oscar, taking the letter from his jacket pocket; “but I guess you won’t read it, miss.”

“Yes, do let me read it,” persisted Emily, who really had an undue proportion of inquisitiveness in her nature.

“No, I can’t; it’s sealed up,” replied Oscar.

“Then tell me what you wrote, won’t you?” continued Emily.