Cole's Funny Picture Book No. 1

by E. W. Cole

Page 93—Writing Land

I'm Going to Write to Papa I'm going to write to papa, I guess he'd like to hear What his little girl is doing, The same as when he is near; I'll tell him how I miss him, And how I'd wish he'd come, And never, never, leave us, But always stay at home. I'll tell him 'bout my dolly, She's sleeping on the floor, I fear that noise will wake her, Oh! please don't slam the door. For I must not be bothered, That's just what ma would say, When she begins a letter, And sends me off to play. I'll send him lots of kisses, And one bright shining curl, I'll ask him to remember His lonely little girl; I want so much to see him, But I won't cry a wink, Cause when I write my letter, The tears would blot my ink. I'm going to write to papa, And oh! how glad he'll be. To get a little letter That was written all by me.

Old Letters I gaze upon ye, once again, Old records of the past, And o'er the dim and faded lines My tears are falling fast; I deem'd not there was a power yet, In these few simple words, To stir within my quiet heart Such old familiar chords. Ye bring me back mine early dreams— Oh, but to dream them now, With childhood's fresh, unwearied heart, And pure unsadden'd brow! The loved—the lost—the changed— The dead—all these we conjure up, And mingled in the draught That lies in memory's magic cup. Old letters—sad mementoes ye, Of friendship's shatter'd chain, Oh! that the hand these pages traced, My own might clasp again. They tell me yet of early love, Of feelings glad and gay, Of childhood's April hopes and fears— The writers, where are they? Time's changes are for deeper things Than folly's vain pursuit, Spring blossoms fade, to leave a place For autumn's ripen'd fruit. Look back upon the buried past, But not with vain regret, Be grateful for the many joys That bloom around thee yet. Bend heavenward thine onward course, That years of coming age May leave an impress in life's book, Pure as its opening page!

Papa's Letter I was sitting in my study, Writing letters, when I heard: "Please, dear mamma, Mary told me That you mustn't be disturbed. But I'se tired of the kitty, Want some ozzer thing to do. Writing letters is 'ou mamma? Tan't I write a letter, too?" "Not now, darling, mamma's busy; Run and play with kitty now." "No—no mamma; me wite letter, Ten you will show me how." I would paint my darling's portrait, As his sweet eyes searched my face— Hair of gold and eyes of azure, Form of childish witching grace. But the eager face was clouded, As I slowly shook my head, Till I said: "I'll make a letter, Of you, darling boy, instead." So I parted back the tresses From his forehead high and white, And a stamp in sport I pasted, 'Mid its waves of golden light. Then I said: "Now, little letter, Go away and bear good news," And I smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes. Leaving me, the darling hurried Down to Mary in his glee: "Mamma's witting lots of letters; I'se a letter, Mary, see." No one heard the little prattler, As once more he climbed the stair. Reached his little cap and tippet, Standing on the table there. No one heard the front door open, No one saw the golden hair, As it floated o'er his shoulders On the crisp October air. Down the street the baby hastened, Till he reached the office door: "I'se a letter, Mr. Postman, Is there room for any more? 'Cause this letter's going to papa; Papa lives with God, 'ou know: Mamma sent me for a letter; Does 'ou fink at I tan do?" But the clerk in wonder answered, "Not to-day, my little man;" "Den I'll find anozzer office, 'Cause I must go if I tan." Fain the clerk would have detained him, But the pleading face was gone, And the little feet were hastening, By the busy crowd swept on. Suddenly the crowd was parted, People fled to left and right, As a pair of maddened horses At that moment dashed in sight. No one saw the baby figure, No one saw the golden hair, Till a voice of frightened sweetness Rang out on the autumn air. 'Twas too late: a moment only Stood the beauteous vision there: Then the little face lay lifeless Covered o'er with golden hair. Rev'rently they raised my darling, Brushed away the curls of gold, Saw the stamp upon the forehead Growing now so icy cold. Not a mark left the face disfigured, Showing where a hoof had trod; But the little life was ended— "Papa's letter" was with God.

Bessie's Letter I have got a letter, A letter of my own, It has my name upon it, Miss Bessie L. Stone. My papa sent it to me, He's away from home—you see I guess the postman wondered Who Bessie Stone could be. I'd like to send an answer, But I don't know how to spell; I'll get mamma to do it, And that will do as well.

A Little Boy's Valentine Little girl across the way, You are so very sweet, I shouldn't be a bit surprised If you were good to eat. Now what I'd like if you would too, Would be to go and play— Well, all the time, and all my life, On your side of the way. I don't know anybody yet On your side of the street, But often I look over there And watch you—you're so sweet. When I am big, I tell you what, I don't care what they say, I'll go across—and stay there, too, On your side of the way.

Letter Writing Heaven first taught letters For some wretch's aid, Some banish'd lover, Or some captive maid. They live, they speak, They breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, And faithful to its fires; The virgin's wish Without her fears impart, Excuse the blush, And pour out all the heart— Speed the soft intercourse From soul to soul, And waft a sigh From Indus to the pole.

Boil it Down Whatever you have to say my friend, Whether witty, grave, or gay, Condense as much as ever you can, And that is the readiest way; And whether you write of rural affairs, Or particular things in town, Just take a word of friendly advice— "Boil it down."

Letters from Home Letters from home! How musical to the ear Of the sailor-boy on the far-off main, When, from the friendly vessel drawing near, Across the billow floats the gentle strain, The words the tear-drops of his memory move; They tell a mother's or a sister's love; And playmates, friends, and sweetheart to him come Out to him on the sea, in letters from his home. How warmly there the tender home-light shines! What household music lives in those dear tender lines.

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