family.
My, my, one--two--three--five seven letters, all for your mother. And a
box, too. Is that all? Yep, guess that's all to-day."

Sunny Boy got down from the running board and the postman started his car
slowly.

"Oh, Mr. Corntassel!" the postman called suddenly. "Here's another. I
declare, I must be getting old, or need glasses, or something. If there
isn't a letter addressed to you and I came within one of taking it back
to the post-office with me!"

He gave Sunny Boy another letter, and this time drove off without
stopping.

"My land of Goshen!" said Sunny Boy, who was using Araminta's pet
expression far more often than she did. "Such a heap of letters. Maybe
mine's from Daddy."

He found Mrs. Horton in the porch swing, sewing. She had to kiss the
seven new freckles on his nose before she could read her mail, and then
Sunny Boy had to trudge about and find Grandpa and Grandma and deliver
their letters to them. He felt quite like a postman himself, though it is
doubtful if real postmen have sugar cookies and peppermints paid to them
for each letter they bring. So by the time Sunny Boy got around to having
his own letter read to him, Mother had finished hers and had opened her
box.

"See what Daddy sent us," she said, holding up the package for him to
see. In the box were two balls of pink wool and four of dark blue.

"Now I can make you a sweater," explained Mrs. Horton. "The pink is for a
scarf I am finishing for Aunt Bessie. By the way, I had a letter from
her, dear, and she sends her love, and so does Harriet."

"All right," agreed Sunny Boy briefly. "Could you read this now,
Mother?"

"Why, it's from Daddy!" cried Mother, taking the crumpled envelope Sunny
Boy drew from his pocket. "Did you wait till you gave every one else his
mail, precious? Well, listen--"

"Dear Sunny Boy," said Daddy's letter. "So you fell into the brook!
Don't tell Jimmie, but I did the same when I was just about as tall
as you are. Grandma fished me out--only she wasn't Grandma then.

"Don't go fishing till I come up, for you might catch them all and
leave none for me. One week from the day you're reading this I'll
be at Brookside. Hope you and Jimmie and Peter and Paul will come
to meet me. Mother, too, if she likes, and Grandpa and Grandma and
Araminta and Bruce, if they're going to be real glad to see me. You
seem to have a lot of friends. Brookside always was a mighty fine
place for small boys--l