Gladys, who was in Paris with her father and mother. So they all
gathered around mother to hear it.

"DEAR E. AND B.," it began.

"This is a silly city.

"They talk like babies. No one can understand them. I'd like them
better if they'd talk plain American.

"Their stoves look like granddaddy long legs; they are funny boxes,
and when you are cold, they wheel them into your room, and stick
the pipe in the hole, and by and by wheel them out. We live in an
artist's house on a street that means Asses street, and our front
room is a saloon but not a drinking one, and it runs right through
the up-stairs to the skylight. You have to pay for that. Think of
charging for daylight! We went to a bird show and I saw a cockatoo
sitting on a pole asleep. 'Scratch its back with your parasol,
Gladys,' said mother, so I did, and it opened one eye when I
stopped, and said, 'Encore,' I was put out to think even the birds
didn't talk American, but when I said so, mother laughed but I
don't see why.

"Write and tell me all the news. No more now from

"Your cousin,

"GLADYS."

"O, it's thundering!" said Bobby when the letter was finished.