Perhaps you remember
a Fourth of July which you took me to once, when we were ragged little
wretches at home? I do, anyhow, and this is to be twin-brother to that
time. All the ugly, dingy little urchins that I know have been invited.
We're to have fine fireworks and fine singing and fine _eating_. My wife
added that last item,--thought it a great improvement. I'm not sure but
it is; most things are that she has a hand in. Now, to come to the point
of this letter,--you're to make the speech on that occasion. No getting
out of it now! I planned this thing one day in the old schoolhouse. Oh,
did you know Mr. Burrows had given up teaching? Grown too old. Queer,
isn't it? Don't seem as if anybody was growing old except me. At first I
wasn't going to have my feast on the Fourth, because, you remember, it
was on _that_ day that our blessed Ray left us; but, talking with Mr.
Minturn about it, he said Ray would have been delighted with it all,--and
so he would, you know. Don't think we are going to gather in all Albany;
it's only the younger scholars of the mission school, in which my wife
and I are interested.
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