the school house like Elijah in the chariot and come in to hear
us read. There is a good deal of sickness among us. Some of the
boys are not able to come to school just now, but hope to be
about again by Monday, when Dr. Moses goes away to a convention.
It is a very hard composition to write, somehow. Last night I
dreamed that the river was ink and I kept dipping into it and
writing with a penstalk made of a young pine tree. I sliced great
slabs of marble off the side of one of the White Mountains, the
one you see when going to meeting, and wrote on those. Then I
threw them all into the falls, not being good enough for Dr.
Moses.

Dick Carter had a splendid boy to stay over Sunday. He makes the
real newspaper named The Pilot published by the boys at Wareham
Academy. He says when he talks about himself in writing he calls
himself "we," and it sounds much more like print, besides
conscealing him more.

Example: Our hair was measured this morning and has grown two
inches since last time . . . . We have a loose tooth that
troubles us very much . . . Our inkspot that we made by
negligence on our only white petticoat we have been able to
remove with lemon and milk. Some of our petticoat came out with
the spot.

I shall try it in my composition sometime, for of course I shall
write for the Pilot when I go to Wareham Seminary. Uncle Jerry
Cobb says that I shall, and thinks that in four years I might
rise to be editor if they ever have girls.