Then, all of a sudden, it would come over me, what I was doing--_writing a letter to my father_! And I could imagine just how he'd look when he got it, all stern and dignified, sitting in his chair in the library, and opening the letter _just so_ with his paper-cutter; and I'd imagine his eyes looking down and reading what I wrote.

And when I thought of that, my pen just wouldn't go.

The idea of _my_ writing anything my father would want to read! And so I'd try to think of things that I could write--big things--big things that would interest big men: about the President, and our-country-'tis-of-thee, and the state of the weather and the crops.
And so I'd begin: "Dear Father: I take my pen in hand to inform you that--" Then I'd stop and think and think, and chew my pen-handle.

Then I'd put down _something_.

But it was awful, and I knew it was awful.