A person, on seeing the name, '_Mrs._ Polly Grundy,' would naturally be led to inquire for '_Mr._ Polly Grundy,' and this inquiry carried out, might cause the lady some little embarrassment, so I've concluded to have the dedication read thus:--'To Willie's father, who sleeps on the western prairie, this useful work is tremblingly, tearfully, yet joyfully dedicated by his relict, Sarah.'" Mary warmly approved of this plan, and after a few extra flourishes in the shape of a courtesy, Sally started for home.
A few days afterward, Jenny Lincoln came galloping up to the school-house door, declaring her intention of staying until school was out, and having a good time.

"It's for ever and ever since I've seen you," said she, as she gathered up the skirt of her blue riding-dress, and followed Mary into the house, "but I've been so bothered with those city girls.

Seems as though they had nothing to do but to get up rides in hay carts, or picnics in the woods and since Henry came home they keep sending for us.

This afternoon they have all gone blackberrying in a hay cart, but I'd rather come here." At this point, happening to think that the class in Colburn who were toeing the mark so squarely, would perhaps like a chance to recite, Jenny seated herself near the window, and throwing off her hat, made fun for herself and some little boys, by tickling their naked toes with the end of her riding-whip.

When school was out, and the two girls were alone, Jenny entered at once upon the great object of her visit.
"I hear you are going to Wilbraham," said she, "but I want you to go to Mount Holyoke.