ONE day they were talking about it, all together.

 

“God is our Father, as the preacher said,” declared Mary. “I read it to-day in the magazine, don’t you remember?”

 

“Yes,” agreed Tommy, “it must be He who sends the papers to us, for nobody else knows about us. But He knows everything,—the preacher said so.”

 

“I wish we could thank Him,” said little Polly. “He has been so good not to forget us.”

 

“I am going to write to Him,” said Tommy suddenly; “there is a Letter-Box in the paper, and boys and girls write to it every week. I am going to write and tell the Lord¹ how we thank Him.”

 

And forthwith Tommy sat down and wrote[146] to the magazine a letter something like those which he read every week in the Letter-Box,—yet different. An island letter would have to be different. This is what Tommy wrote:

 

Lucky Island, Maine.

 

Dear Magazine,—You kum evry weak, an i dono ow we got long witout You. The aint nobody in the Sity to tel You how to get to This jumpin-of plais, so we no that Our Father must send You evry weak. An we wanter Thanx him but we dono ow. Plees put this Leter in the Leterbox sos he wil see. He dont kum here in Wintr its so lonsum I gess he wood be glad if he knu ow hapy he made 6 litl chilren way down in Maine. I hop² he will send it evr an evr we havnt nothin els to red.

 

Yours truly,

Tommy Prout.

 

The editor of the magazine did not often print a letter spelled as badly as this one of poor Tommy Prout, who was eight years old,[147] but who only went to school in the spring and fall. But when the editor read that letter he blew his nose and wiped his glasses and said:—

 

“Yes, I’ll print your letter just as it is, Tommy Prout, and I think it will please Him whom you wish to thank, even if some one else mails the paper for Him every week.”

 

So that is why, some days later, when Kenneth Thornton was carelessly cutting the leaves of his new magazine, he suddenly gave a surprised whistle. The name of his beloved³ summer island had caught his eye, at the head of a letter in the Letter-Box.

 

“Oh, Mamma,” he cried, “see, here is a letter from our island. And it is signed, ‘Tommy Prout.’ But I can’t make out the funny spelling.”

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