taken to sew.

"Won't it be most beautiful when we can write on the white paper,
Polly?" he cried, as he ran back into the kitchen, waving the brown
paper at her.

Polly set the precious copy along the top of the white foolscap,
straight on the table.

"Oh, that will be a long time, Davie," she said, gazing in an
awe-struck way at the array of wonderful letters Parson
Henderson had made for them. "Mamsie won't ever let us try until
we can make 'em good and straight. O dear me, I don't s'pose
I'll ever get a chance." She sighed; for writing bothered Polly
dreadfully. "The old pen twists all up whenever I get it in my
hand, and everything goes crooked."

"Oh, Polly, you're going to write real nice, by and by," said
little Davie, setting down the brown paper, and smoothing out
the creases. "Now where's the ink-bottle? Let me get it, Polly,
do," he begged, running over to the corner cupboard.

"No, you mustn't, Dave," said Polly in alarm, "you'll spill it.
I'll get it," hurrying after him.

"I won't spill it, Polly"--but Polly was already on her tiptoes,
and lifting down the old black ink-horn that had been Father
Pepper's. "Isn't it nice that Mrs. Henderson filled it up for us
so good?" she said, carrying it over carefully to set on the
table. "You can get the pen, Davie."