most. Jerry, like a goose, filled it over the clean paper we were going to use for the letter, and it slobbered blue ink all over the top sheet. But the under one was n't hurt, and we thought one page full would be all we could write, anyway. We took the things out to the porch table, and Greg held down the corner of the paper so it would n't flap while I wrote. Jerry sat on the arm of my chair and thought so excitedly that it jiggled me.
But minutes went on, and the fountain pen began to ooze from being too full, and none of us could think of a single thing to say.
"If we just write to him ourselves,—in our own form, I mean," Jerry said, "it'll be stupid. And I don't feel maroonish here on the porch. We'll have to wait till we go to Wecanicut again, and write from there."
I felt somehow the way Jerry did, so
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