One of the articles in the Christmas box I sent (to the children) was, of course, a ball. It was not a football, nor a cricket ball, these being too dear — but a large bouncing rubber ball. I knew it wouldn’t last long but that was their affair, not mine. However, there is one person who thinks it is my affair, as you will see when you read these letters of appeal.
The first is in pencil.
“My bool has bust. Plys send a nuther. Ailie.”
Then she wrote another in ink:
“Dear Anty wil you sent Hugh a bol and John and Wily. I was singing at a consit on Thursday night — love from Ailie. The bol has burst bast plys send a nuther.”
I can see these three brothers urging her to the task of writing begging letters to a soft-hearted “Anty.” They’ll be saying if she goes buying one ball, she might as well buy four. Or the little sister will be saying that the ball would never have burst if they hadn’t stolen it to play with. All right then, they’ll say, tell her to send us each a ball. And then they’ll snigger, the wretches, while she laboriously pens her letters of faith.