[to be continued.]
"DON'T WANT TO BE WASHED."
[OFF CAPE HORN.]
BY FRANK H. CONVERSE.
A dilapidated pocket diary for 1860 lies on my writing-desk. There is a faint suggestiveness of bilge-water and tar and damp woollen shirts about it. The pencilled leaves are soaked and stained with salt-water. Only now and then do I find a legible word or sentence until I reach the middle of the book, where my eyes fall upon the following badly blotted record:
"Fri..., July 2.—Blowi.. grea. gun. ..om S.S.W. ..... close reef ........ iced up ..... overboard .... Mr. Burn. secon. mate ..... Wayland, .....ard bound."
Do I dream it, or does some one mention to-morrow as my thirty-eighth birthday? Nonsense! I am only sixteen—making my first sea-voyage "round the Horn" in the ship Sandwich—Drew, master—fifty-eight days out from New York.
I have not found a sailor's life all that my fancy painted it; rather the reverse. I am disappointed with the life for which I once longed so eagerly—disgusted, I may say. Which is not so surprising. Like other home boys, I have been accustomed to wear dry clothing, to sleep all night, to have father and mother— But never mind; those last words make me feel more homesick than ever.
It is seven o'clock a.m.—or six bells, if you like it better. The starboard watch, to which I belong, is on deck, but as all hands have spent rather more time on deck than below for about two weeks, it don't matter much, only for the prospect of hot coffee sweetened with molasses at breakfast-time. And when a fellow has not had a dry thread on him for days, something hot to drink, even if it's only dried peas and chiccory, is a great luxury.
Of course it is blowing a gale of wind—it has done nothing else for a month, but for a wonder the gale comes from the right direction. That is why Captain Drew is carrying sail so, for, taking advantage of the fair wind, the old ship is running like mad through the straits of Le Maire, which is a passage about fourteen miles wide, between Staten Land and Terra del Fuego.
Yesterday the decks were all awash with water, and the rigging dripped like a sponge. To-day everything from the royal truck down is covered with ice. This is very hard upon one's fingers, especially as it don't do to wear mittens aloft—even if you have them.
If you want to know how it seems to reef or stow a sail at such times, just try and roll up a yard or two of sheet-iron, out-of-doors, with bare hands, when the thermometer is at zero or a little lower. But it is not hard to get round deck in icy weather. Oh no. All you have to do is to sit down and wait for the ship to roll the right way—you won't have long to wait, either.
It blows harder than ever. I should like to see a picture of the old ship now, as with everything set but the royals, she goes tearing and plunging through the long gray seas, with a gray sky overhead, and a gray fog-bank all around the horizon. How I should enjoy seeing such a picture—especially if it was hanging against the sitting-room wall, and I was standing directly in front of it!
"Look!" exclaims old Martin, who is standing beside me at the rail. And all at once on the starboard bow I see breaking through the gray mist a bleak, barren, rocky promontory, pointing like a great index finger to the place where the waters of the Pacific and Atlantic oceans meet. At least so I try to express it in a poetical kind of way, but old Martin only grinned.
"That's Cape 'Orn," he replies, "an' before we get round t'other side of it, if we don't ketch it, call me a Dutchman."
I had thought there was nothing left in the way of bad weather to catch. But I am mistaken. By six o'clock in the afternoon the ship is under lower topsails, with yards braced against the backstays, buffeting the longest seas and the fiercest southwest gales of rain, sleet, snow, and hail that we have seen yet.
It is all the work of a moment. I have just lashed the starboard side-light in the fore-rigging in obedience to the second mate's orders, and before I can swing myself inboard, the Sandwich buries herself bodily in a tremendous sea. My numb fingers relax their hold on the icy ratlines, and I feel myself swept away in the grasp of a mighty wave.
It seems that I am not alone. As I dash the water from my eyes, I see some one swimming, or rather treading water, within arm's-length. It is Mr. Burns, the second mate.
"Keep cool, boy," he shouts, "and kick your boots off first of all."
Fortunately I am not encumbered with a coat, and encouraged by his presence, I rid myself of my boots without much trouble. But I am at best an indifferent swimmer, while Mr. Burns, who was born on Cape Cod, seems perfectly at home even in the long topping seas against which I beat with frantic arms.
"Rest your two hands on my shoulders," he says, "and give over struggling. There'll be a boat out after us directly." But as I too readily obey, I note in the gathering darkness that on his usually cheery face is a look of anxiety. He does not expend his strength in swimming, but merely moves his legs and arms in such a way as to keep us both afloat.
I am chilled and numbed with the terrible cold. I can not speak, can hardly think. Down we sink into a deep black valley of water, to rise on the cresting summit of an awful wave, again and again, but still no welcome sound of oars rattling in rowlocks. An hour passes, which seems an age, and I despairingly see that Mr. Burns shows signs of growing weakness.
This fact, together with the growing darkness, benumbing cold, and shrieking gale, does away with the last remnant of my courage.
"It's no use, Mr. Burns," I gasp through my chattering teeth; "I'm going to let go. Good-by, sir."
Life is very dear to the young second mate. He has a wife and babe in his far-off home; no wonder that he makes no reply. Life is dear to me too, for that matter, only I have lost hope, and he has not. With a whispered prayer, I take my hands from his shoulders, and in another moment am swept unresistingly away in the darkness.
But all at once my outstretched hands touch some floating object, which at the same time strikes against my chest. Mechanically I throw both arms over it, and am vaguely conscious of being easily buoyed up, but by what I can not conceive. I dimly know that it is smooth, soft, round, and somewhat slimy to the touch. For aught I know or care, it may be the sea-serpent himself; but I am past conjecture. A drowsy, numbing, and by no means unpleasant stupor is creeping over me, while, as the roaring of wind and sea is strangely blended with an increasing singing in my ears, I dreamily drift into oblivion, my last conscious thought being that dying is not so very disagreeable after all.
"We was running afore it for the straits of Le Maire, and Jim Coffin on the lookout at daybreak sings out that he see the sea-sarpint ahead, with what looked like a mermaid alongside. We brought the schooner to the wind, lowered the boat, and picked you up; and though you was the deadest live man ever I see, it was all Dan and me could do to unhook your arms from round the big kelp—sea-weed stuff, you know, large round some of it as a t'gallan'-yard—that you was hanging to. But we got you aboard all right, and I hope you ain't feeling none the worse for coming to life again."
Such is the explanation to which I listen as one in a strange dream, while I stare vacantly about me from among the blankets of a narrow berth in a snug little cabin. The speaker is Captain Samuel Dole, of the sailing schooner Wayland, from Desolation Island, bound to New London, Connecticut, with a full fare of skins and seal oil. Captain Dole administers divers restoratives with such good effect that by night I am clothed and in my right mind again.
A swift-sailing schooner is the Wayland, and forty-one days later I am literally received with open arms and open-mouthed astonishment by those who had seen me set sail for San Francisco. My story makes me a nine days' hero, and a little later I have the pleasure of seeing in the paper the arrival of the ship Sandwich—Drew, master—at San Francisco, one hundred and twenty-three days from New York; "Harry Franks, ordinary seaman, lost on the passage."
I have no chance of personally contradicting this statement until, three years afterward, I ship as second mate on board the bark Doris, whose captain proves to be Mr. Thatcher K. Burns, formerly second officer of the Sandwich. He does not welcome me as one from the dead. Captain Burns has seen too many strange things in his sea-faring life to be surprised at anything. He looks sharply at me for a moment, as I rather effusively greet him.
"Ah, yes," he says, in his sharp, business-like way; "thought I'd seen you somewhere, Mr.—er—Franks. Picked up, were you? So was I. Hadn't swum twenty strokes before the Sandwich's boat reached me, and a sweet job we had getting back to the ship. Well, get the decks cleared up as soon as possible. I want to get away on morning tide. Some of the men will be down directly," and with a nod Captain Burns hurries off to the Custom-house for his clearance papers.
And this is what the blotted entry in my old pocket diary refers to.
[KITES, AND HOW TO FLY THEM.]
BY JAMES OTIS.
To tell a boy that it is great sport to fly kites is to tell him something he already knows very well. He understands perfectly what these winds that blow in the early part of spring were intended for.
To make a kite of the ordinary pattern, one needs only a lath, a piece of flat, pliable wood, and plenty of string, paper, and paste.
The lath is for the upright, B and D in the illustration, and the thin piece of wood, which should be three-fourths of the length of the lath, and half an inch wide, must be securely fastened by its exact middle to the upper end of the lath, as at E, and brought down to a bow by the cord at C. This cord should be passed with a double turn round the upright at F, to keep it from slipping, and care must be taken to balance the two sides of the kite most accurately, to prevent the kite from being lopsided. Now carry a string, as in the figure, from E to C, thence to G, to A, and back to E, fastening it securely at each point. Next paste sheets of paper together until you have one large enough to cover the whole framework, with a margin of at least two inches to lap over. Lay the skeleton upon this, cut away the superfluous paper all round, then lap the margin over the edges, and paste it firmly down. Having firmly secured this, cut some slips of paper about three inches wide, and paste them along and over the cross strings so as to secure them firmly to the main sheet, and treat the upright in the same manner, though, of course, with a wider strip.
For the wings or tassels to be attached at the points A and C, take two strips of paper of a length and width proportioned to the size of the tassel required, snip these across like a comb, roll them up, and bind the uncut ends tightly with a string; the tassel for the tail is to be made in the same manner. The ordinary way of making the tail is by fastening slips of paper at intervals of about six inches along a piece of string. Now these bits of paper serve no purpose whatever save to become entangled with each other. A good long piece of string with a tassel at the end answers all purposes, and is much more graceful! The tail should be from fifteen to twenty times as long as the kite.
In selecting the string for the kite, get it as light and strong as possible; if it is too heavy, the kite will not be able to carry so much weight very high, and if it is not strong, the kite will very likely break away. The string is not fastened directly to the kite, but to another string, which, doubled, is attached to the upright in the following way: If the kite be four feet long, one end of this band is fastened about ten inches from the top, and the other about twenty inches from the bottom, and should be slack enough to hang in a loop about twelve or eighteen inches in length. As to where the string should be fastened to the band, that can only be told by experimenting until one finds out at just what point the kite will balance.
To start the kite in the first instance it is almost absolutely necessary to have some aid, two persons being required, one to hold the kite up and help it off, while the other, holding the string, runs a short distance against the wind to increase its pressure upon the kite, and thus help it to get its tail fairly off the ground, after which the kite will do very well by itself.
[THE CRUISE OF THE WALNUT SHELL.]
Arthur and Elsie every day
Learned their geography,
And after lessons loved to play
At sending ships to sea.
They used, instead of little boats,
A thing that does as well,
A vessel that securely floats—
An empty walnut shell.
No wonder that this little pair
Would oft indulge the notion
That walnut shells real vessels were,
And washing-tubs the ocean.
And often when they were in bed
Their brains began to teem,
Until upon this wondrous voyage
They started in a dream.
For mast and sail to stand the gale
They chose a pretty feather;
The walnut shell rode monstrous well
Through very boisterous weather.
They had no meat or bread to eat,
And not a drop of tea;
They thought fried fish to meet their wish
Would follow in their lee.
Their ship flew fast before the blast;
They reached the arctic snow.
"Hurrah for ice!"
They cried; "it's nice,
Although the north wind blows.
For here a seal
Provides a meal,
Our coats, our hats, our hose."
At last they thought they might arrange
A very comfortable change.
"Hurrah!" cried Arthur; "off we go;
We'll run down to the Hoang-Ho."
And on they went where might be seen
All sorts of tea, both black and green,
And figures like a Chinese screen,
Pagodas, chopsticks, tails,
Umbrellas, junks, and tiny shoes,
And they were carried on bamboos,
By men whose shoulders feel no bruise,
Across the hills and dales.
One day a condor seized the shell,
The little travellers as well,
And flew with speed terrific
Toward an island in the sea,
Which Arthur said was sure to be
(I said they knew geography)
Somewhere in the Pacific.
A cheap excursion, was it not,
To such a very charming spot
That seemed quite free from dangers?
For there they lived a life of ease,
Whilst apes politely climbed the trees
For nuts to give the strangers.
Then sailing on some thousand miles,
Where spices scent the breeze,
They passed among the coral isles
That crowd the Southern seas.
They cross the calm of tropic heat,
In solitude the most complete,
Where the mirage in strange surprise
Makes Elsie open wondering eyes.
And now they stand on India's strand,
This young and dauntless pair,
To beard the leopard, as they thought,
And tiger in his lair.
For Elsie said, "No beast can face
An opened parasol,
And Arthur in the surest place
Can make a bullet-hole."
But soon the children thought it best
To put to sea once more;
And Elsie steered still further west,
As she had steered before,
While Arthur opened out his chest
By tugging at the oar.
A sudden wind arose at last;
The walnut shell before the blast
Across the tropics flew;
But Arthur, till the simoom passed
(That wind of course he knew)
And daring Elsie held on fast,
When safe on Afric's coast were cast
The walnut shell and crew.
And when the little folks were bent
To cross the black man's continent,
"The ostriches shall find us legs,"
Cried Arthur; "they can run."
Said Elsie, "Yes; and lay us eggs;
I'll fry them in the sun."
They travelled through the desert land,
And yet were brisk and merry,
Though Arthur's eyes were full of sand,
And Elsie's little face was tanned
As brown as autumn berry.
From crocodiles which had not dined
Bold Arthur never shrinks,
While Elsie tries to call to mind
Some riddles for the Sphinx.
And journeying onward safe and sound
With never pause nor hitch,
Their way through the Canal they found,
With wonderment so rich.
They saw big vessels outward-bound
(That only sometimes ran aground)
Go steaming through the ditch.
Through foam and rapids safe they came.
And thought a whirlpool very tame.
Yet Arthur's strength was still the same,
And Elsie's face was all aflame
At ventures so romantic;
And Arthur never ceased to row
Till turtles took the shell in tow
Across the broad Atlantic.
At home once more; and all the town
Talks of the walnut shell's renown.
Arthur is pensioned by the crown,
And all his travels written down,
Their wonder and variety.
And little Elsie, too, is proud;
Her pluck and knowledge are allowed
By very wise society.
AN EASTER CAROL.
[OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
We are sure our young friends will feel satisfied with this beautiful Easter number, so crowded with good things. Do not let the rest of the paper make anybody forgetful of Our Post-office Box. You seldom see a more entertaining letter than this from our correspondent Georgie:
Galeyville, Arizona Territory.
This mining camp is ten miles from the New Mexico line, and forty from Mexico. There are mountains all about, covered to the tops with luxuriant grass, and juniper, pine, fir, cedar, and live-oak trees. In the cañons, near the creeks, are sycamore, black-walnut, white oak, madrone, and other varieties; also the lovely manganita, and other shrubs. Many fruits and flowers are native here. Of the former there are cherries, grapes, raspberries, strawberries, etc.; among the latter, the geranium, morning-glory (all colors), poppy, portulaca, and many more favorites that we used to cultivate in the East. Potatoes also grow wild, and though very small, are good; they are called "spuds" here.
Last summer we were encamped for two months in a cañon, six miles from town, where are ever so many caves. We all went part of the way through the largest—Coral Cave—one day. The entrance is on the mountain-side, and so small that one person has to crawl or "back" down at a time, looking out for bruises from projecting rocks, and also he must have a care for his footing, for this passage is very steep and winding; all at once it grows broad, and very high. At this point all light their candles, as there are other passages branching from the main one; and that we may not get lost, we watch for the little "monuments" which have been built to guide visitors to the main cavern.
It is a hard scramble of about 500 feet, past awful chasms, down dizzy natural stairways, etc., then up a few steps, and—oh, it is just like fairy-land, I am sure! The frost-like drapery and festoons, sparkling and flashing at every movement of our lights, the thousands of icicles and straight white columns, under our feet the "snow," twinkling with innumerable diamonds, made me think we were in Jack Frost's home beyond a doubt. But it was not snow nor ice at all, but limestone formation; it was stalagmite on the floors of all the chambers, and the crystals cut our boots dreadfully.
As an offset to the pleasures of our happy camping ground in the cañon, with its grand scenery, its woods, flowers, towering rocks, rushing mountain stream, and springs of clear cold water, we had scorpions, tarantulas, rattlesnakes, and loathsome centipeds. There is also a very poisonous bug, called by a Spanish name which I have forgotten; it means "babe of the wood." It is about two inches long, of a rusty black color, and has claws something like a lobster, as has the centiped, which is of a greenish color when young, turning to yellow-brown when full grown. They (the centipeds) are in sections or joints, each joint having one pair of legs, which end in needlepoints, jet black, and charged with poison. We killed lots. Many were ten inches in length; they can run very fast. We never saw any of these creatures in our sleeping-apartment; but about the rocks, in the small cave where we cooked and took our meals, they, with lizards, chameleons, and cunning little striped squirrels, were as much at home as we. Out in the woods were wild animals to keep away from. Papa shot a big brown bear one day, and a miner killed a very large panther. It is a grand place to hunt in, as game is plentiful. We are interested in "The Talking Leaves," here in the Apache country. I wish there were no Apaches in the world! Sometimes the soldiers come through here, and prospectors see squads of Indians in the mountains, and we get scared. Last September papa sent mamma, brother, and me to California to stay until the fright was over. We spent three months at a bathing-place on the Pacific coast called Santa Monica, and had fine times bathing, fishing, and playing on the beach. My mamma gives us a "treat" Saturday afternoons by reading to us from back numbers of Young People. All the children in camp who are old enough to be interested are asked to come at three o'clock every Saturday. We are now half through with "Toby Tyler." It is as good as ever, and the boys all think it and Young People splendid.
Georgie B. C.
We shall think of the group gathered to listen to mamma as she reads their favorite stories aloud on Saturday afternoons, and whenever there shall happen to be anything in the paper which we enjoy very much, we will say to ourselves, "Now, Georgie and his friends will be sure to like this too." The Postmistress says she never could summon up courage enough to scramble into Coral Cave; and as for the centipeds, she threw both hands out in the most horrified manner when she came to that part of the letter which mentioned them.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
I am a little boy seven years old. My mamma gave me Harper's Young People for my birthday present in December. I can not read yet, but mamma reads the whole paper to me, except "Talking Leaves"—we have not the first chapters of that. I hope I soon will be able to read; I am learning to spell now.
I have a little sister named Bertie, and a cat named Topsy. My sister is three years old. She talks all the time. Mamma kept her out of the room when I was sick.
I am always glad when Tuesday comes. I wish we could have a Harper's every day.
Mamma is writing this for me. When I learn to write, I will write again.
Eddie H. B.
P.S.—I almost forgot. Won't you please tell me what C. Y. P. R. U. means?
Chautauqua Young People's Reading Union.
Wa Kerney, Kansas.
I think that "The Little Dolls' Dressmaker" was very nice; but little brother Roy likes to hear "Talking Leaves" first. I want to tell you about my pets. I have two dolls. My china doll was nine years old last Christmas; her name is Frankie. And then I have a wax doll, and her name is Lulu. She has real hair, and bright blue eyes. On her third birthday her grandma (that's my mamma) gave her a real cute little watch and chain. I have two birds. The canary's name is Major, and he is quite a little actor. George is my linnet, and is a very fine singer. I have a nice little kitty, and her name is Dot. I think if Miss Augusta C. could only see her, she would say that she was very nice. I have a picture of the Princess of Wales holding a large snow-white kitten in her arms. My little brother has a white dog; his name is Prince. He has many cunning tricks. We have taught him to chase the hawks, so they will not catch our chickens. I want to tell you how we amuse ourselves some of the time in winter. My papa bought us a box of paints, and we get two of the florist's catalogues and paint the flowers. I send you one or two that I have painted; don't you think they are nice? I am a little girl eleven years old. I have not any sisters, and only one little brother, seven years old.
Jennie May M.
Yes, Jennie, the flowers you sent were very nicely colored indeed, and your picture of your home and pets is very charmingly painted too.
Weldon, North Carolina.
We have three nice cats; their names are Judy, Jonah, and Salamander. When we were real little boys we used to run under the bed and hide when we heard papa coming in from the store. He would pretend to be surprised, and say, "Why, where are my boys?" and then Judy would run to the bed and look under at us, and then at papa, as if to say, "Here they are." Then he would pull us out, and what a frolic we would have climbing up into his arms! And Judy seemed just as happy as we were. Jonah is very large—weighs fifteen pounds. Salamander is our baby cat. She climbs up to mother's bedroom window every morning, and when she comes in she goes to mother first, and then to our room, and purrs and rubs around us, and puts up her little mouth to kiss just as sweet as anything. We are always glad when Wednesday comes, for then we get Harper's Young People. We like Jimmy Brown's stories ever so much, and think he must be related to Georgie Hacket, the bad boy, whose Diary we have read.
John and Bernard S.
Oswego, Oregon.
I have not taken Young People very long, but I like it very much. I have a nice horse and saddle that my grandmother gave me for my birthday present when I was eight years old. My horse is as white as snow, and his name is Mazeppa. I take a ride almost every day. My cousins Edgar and Frank have a horse, and we ride out very often together, and have nice times.
Last summer I tamed two wild robins; they were very interesting pets. They were fledglings when I took them from the nest. I had to feed them by hand for four or five weeks. I did not keep them in a cage in the daytime, but let them have their liberty in the yard. I clipped their wings so that they could not fly away. When they were hungry they would come to the house and cry, "Tiptop, Tiptop." I named them Tiptop and Rob, and whenever I wanted to feed them, or know where they were, I would call them by their names, and they would always answer, and come to me. Then I would put out my hand, and they would hop upon it, and let me carry them about in that way. I would place a basin of water in the shade of a cherry-tree for them to bathe in, and it was fun to see them bathe. We had several cats, but they did not molest them. When the robins were about two months old, Tiptop got into the well and was drowned. As Rob grew older, and could find his own food, he would stay out all day, but would come home at night, and if the doors were open, he would fly straight to the room where his cage was. But one evening he did not return, and I could neither see nor hear him anywhere. Oh, how sorry I felt! I think that a strange cat caught him, for one came to the house the next morning!
I am afraid you will think that my letter is very long, but I must tell you about the pretty little cherry-birds that we have here. We call them cherry-birds because they are so fond of cherries. They are about the size of a canary. There are several kinds of them, and some are prettier than any canary-bird I ever saw, and some sing very sweetly. They come in large flocks in summer.
I am eleven and a half years old, and have never been a day at school. I live on Tualamette Island. We call our place Irona Hill. We can see three snow-covered mountains the year round from our door—Mount Hood, Mount St. Helens, and Mount Adams. They are a beautiful sight on a clear day.
Elva D.
You showed great patience in training your pretty pet robins, and it seems a great pity that one should have been drowned, and the other devoured by a cat. But it may be that Rob at last grew tired of his cage, and found a little mate, and helped her build a pretty nest in some greenwood tree. At least we will try to think so, as it is pleasanter than to suppose that he was eaten by Puss. You write very well indeed for a little girl who has never been at school. Does your mother teach you herself?
Stuttgart, Germany.
I have never yet seen a letter from Stuttgart in the Post-office Box, so I thought I might write and tell how much a little German girl enjoys Young People. My papa is a German officer, but my mamma is an American; so I can speak and read English as well as German, though I can not write it as well. My grandmamma has taken your paper for me ever since I could read English. I do not go to school, but have private lessons at home. I learn German, French, English, and music. I have a dear little sister, whose name is Roberta. She is two years old, and can speak English, French, and a little German. I have a canary-bird and two dogs. I have one very pretty dolly, whose name is Lili. There was a good deal of skating this winter. I skated every day. I like very much to read the Post-office Box, and hope my letter is not too long to be printed. I send you one dollar for Young People's Cot. I am in my tenth year.
Carla E. D.
The dollar was forwarded to Miss Fanshawe, treasurer of the fund for Young People's Cot. We like to receive letters from our distant readers as well as from those whose homes are in America. Carla's letter was very beautifully written, and we shall be glad to hear from her again.
Greenleaf, Kentucky.
We are three brothers, all under nine years of age. Greenleaf is the name of our home down in Southern Kentucky—a long way from where dear Young People is published. We have a very lovely country home, six acres in our front yard, with great oak-trees, in which the little squirrels play as though they were tame. A little girl was here, and saw them running about the yard, and up the trees, and said, "Look at the pretty kittens up in the trees!" I wish Birdie and Jennie could see our half-wild, half-tame squirrels. We throw bread-crumbs under the cedars in the winter, and the partridges get them. We never disturb them. They live in our orchard that joins the yard. We watch them running through the yard. The mocking-birds and thrushes build in the honeysuckles and cedars. They have not left us this winter.
Last Saturday we went fishing, and caught twenty fish by ourselves in a large pond. We wish so much that Horace P. F. could have some of our fun.
Edward W., Phillip W., and
Frederick W., by Mother W.
The picture of your home which we have in our mind is charming. We are glad you are so good to the little friends who live in your trees, frolicking in the branches, or giving you sweet concerts mornings and evenings. The three boys may give mother a kiss and a hug for sending us so pleasant a letter.
Worcester, Massachusetts.
I read Young People carefully every week. My teachers at school and also my Sunday-school teachers think it just the best paper ever published for children. Seven other little girls about my age are going to take it, and we all live in West Street. Worcester is a busy city. We have lots of factories and machine shops. We also have good schools, and pretty streets, and a large number of fine residences. Almost everybody is prosperous here, at least I think so, because everybody has plenty to do, and no one needs be idle. There is work for all who wish to work. We are going to have a fair at our church to assist the people in the Southwest who have suffered by the terrible floods, and I hope it will be successful.
The letters from the children which you are so kind as to publish always please me very much. There was one from Florida, not long ago, which was very interesting, and I hope there will be another one from the same writer. There was a nice letter from Cohasset, Massachusetts, about three months since, signed "Harry," which told your readers about Minot's Ledge Light-house and the ocean, which all my friends thought very nice and pleasant. My friends who read that letter about the beach, and the bathing, and the ships, and other things which Harry told us about, hope he will send another letter.
Mary S. A.
Fred L. C.—Send your wiggles, exchanges, answers to puzzles, etc., to the Editor of Harper's Young People, Franklin Square, New York.
Willie A.—We can not insert an exchange in the number succeeding the week in which we receive it. It is placed on file for publication, and follows others which have been received before it. As the number sent us is very large, you must try to be patient until your turn comes.