His father doesn't care for anything but whisky, and his mother is
scolding him all the time. I don't think she would do that if she
cared much for him, do you?
"I have filled the paper, and must stop. Be sure to send the money
to your loving son,
"HERBERT REYNOLDS."
"How easy you write!" said Abner, in wonder, as he saw Herbert's
letter growing long before his eyes. "It would take me a week to
write as long a letter as that, and then I couldn't do it."
"I can't write so easy generally," said the little boy, "but, you
see, I have a good deal to write about."
"Then there's another thing," said Abner. "I shouldn't know how to
spell so many words. You must be an awful good scholar."
"I always liked to study," said Herbert. "Don't you like to read and
study?"
"No; I'd rather play ball or go fishin', wouldn't you?"
"I like to play part of the time, but I wouldn't like to grow up
ignorant."
"I expect I'll always be a know-nothin', but I reckon I know as much
as dad. The old man's awful ignorant. He don't care for nothin' but
whisky."
"And I hope you won't be like him in that, Abner."
"No, I won't. I wouldn't like to have the boys flingin' stones at
me, as they did at dad once when he was tight.
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