NOT QUITE SATISFIED.
This dear little Mabel,
She isn't quite able
To say what it is has gone wrong;
But she looks in the glass.
And the shadow-frowns pass
O'er a face that is sweet as a song.
She is thinking of Lizzie,
Whose hair is so frizzy.
She wishes her own could be cut;
But papa, only said
When she showed him her head,
"What, spoil it, my darling?—tut! tut!"
[OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
The other day, as the Postmistress was driving down a pretty rural road, she came upon a farm-house which stood all alone. It was late in the afternoon, and there was nobody stirring about the place; doors and windows were closed; the dog was asleep beside his kennel; the gray cat, with two kittens cuddling close to her, was taking a nap on the mat by the front door; and it was as quiet as could be all around, until—peep! peep! cluck! cluck!—there came suddenly in view the prettiest brood of chicks in the world; thirteen of them, dears, and every one as white as swan's-down. The little snowy puff-balls were taking an airing with their sober cream-colored mamma, and the Postmistress will not soon forget how cunning Mrs. Hen and her family looked. Pray, Daisy and Mattie, Freddy and Guy, have you a dainty brood of chicks at your house? And why haven't you sent the Postmistress word about them?
Danby Four Corners, Vermont.
I am a little boy nine years old, and will be ten the 9th of August. I have a calf and a canary-bird and a little kitten. I go to school almost every day. I have an auntie who sends me the money to buy Harper's Young People. I hope she will send money every year. My grandma sends me a little pin-money every month. I have over fifty dollars in the bank. I have no father, and my mamma is poor. I can't think of any more to write this time.
Robert.
When you are a man, as you will be one of these days, you will be able to work for your dear mamma. She is not very poor if she has a good and loving son ten years old. I am glad to hear that you do not spend for toys and candies all the money grandma sends you, but save some of it for future use.
Rockport, Massachusetts.
As I have never seen a letter in Our Post-office Box from Rockport, I thought I would write one to tell you how much I enjoyed reading "Toby Tyler," and how much I like "Mr. Stubbs's Brother." I have a dear little baby sister nearly eight months old. Her name is Mattie. We think she is the prettiest baby in the world. Mamma says that every one thinks the same of their baby, so I suppose all are satisfied. I am twelve years old, and go to the Grammar School. My studies are arithmetic, reading, spelling, history, grammar, and geography. I take music lessons twice a week. My sister and I are much interested now in reading the works of C. C. Coffin. I like The Story of Liberty, Old Times in the Colonies, Boys of '76, and Winning his Way the best.
Annie L. B.
You could not read better books, dear, than those you mention. Boys of '76, in particular, should be in the library of every American child.
Sullivan, Indiana.
I am a little girl ten years old. I have a Maltese cat; its name is Mallie. I have three chickens. One of them is a bantie. My sister Libbie gave it to me. Its name is Chickie, and the other two are Dick and Topie. My papa gave me Harper's Young People for a Christmas present. My sister Effie took it two years, and now I am taking it. I wrote a letter once before, and it was not published. Oh, I hope this one will not be put in a pigeon-hole! We have a pea-fowl. We call him Sancho, because he speaks the word so plainly, and mamma thinks he tries to be like Sancho Panza. I am taking music-lessons, and learning to ride on horseback, and when papa leaves the old gentle horse at home we go out riding. I have two sisters and one brother. I signed the red-ribbon pledge. I think Jimmy Brown's stories are very nice.
Maggie A. C.
Cahto, California.
A little girl, a subscriber of Harper's Young People, thinks all the little girls should say something, to Mr. Harper to tell him how pleased we are every week to receive our paper. I wish every little girl could have as nice a time as I do, fishing for trout. Away out here where we live is a creek that has fish in it. Brother and I go fishing every Saturday, and I enjoy the sport very much. Brother Ed cut down a tree which was one hundred and fifty feet tall, and in the top of it was a rat's nest. We thought it strange that a rat would go so high to build its nest. I brought the little rats home, but they died.
Sophia R. (aged seven.)
That was a very ambitious rat, little Sophie. It was just as well the rat babies did not live; they would have been very troublesome pets. Do you ever forget to come home to dinner when you are waiting for the trout to bite? That is what a little friend of mine does sometimes.
Montclair, New Jersey.
I want to tell you about my pets. In the first place, we have two canaries; mine is Dick, and Dandy belongs to my brother Willie. Dicky was bought for me, but Dandy came to us. One Sunday morning papa was reading, and Dicky hung on the piazza. We suddenly heard two canaries singing, and looking to see what was the matter, we saw a strange bird eating Dick's seed. He was willing to be caught, and papa gave him to Willie. Dick and he sing together a great deal now. Dick was once carried down into the cellar in the mouth of Henry, our cat, who laid him on the coal-bin, and was just preparing to eat him when the girl came down and took him up-stairs. We did have a mocking-bird too—his name was Jack—but he died. A horrid cat came in one dark night and frightened poor Jackie to death. Another pet is a dog, whom we call Chaucer. He is five years of age, and we have had him since he was two weeks old.
Effie E. H.
What a good thing the birdie was rescued in time from the clutch of Madame Puss, who can not help being a hunter, as it is her nature.
Pensacola, Florida.
I am a little boy nine years old. I like to read about Mr. Stubbs's Brother, and I watch every week for Young People to come. I have two dear sisters. Mary, aged five, who is in Jacksonville with our grandma, and Ethel, who is the sweetest and the prettiest baby in the State. My papa is the principal of the High School here. I am going to take lessons on the piano from my mamma this summer. It is nice to walk down to our lovely bay, and see it full of ships from all countries.
Alfred McC. W.
Indianapolis, Indiana.
Papa says if I want to be pretty sure to have my first letter published in Young People's Post-office Box, I must write something new and interesting. As I have read or had read to me by mamma all the letters since Young People started, and do not remember having heard anything about railroads, I will tell you about them. Papa works in a railroad office, and often takes me with him on trips out on the road, and into the shops and yards, and has taught me the difference between a journal and an axle, a truss-rod or hog-chain and a stay-chain, and other parts of a car. I have seen an engine in the shops all taken apart, the wheels all out from under it, and all the bright Russia iron stripped off the boiler, which left it a dull, rusty-looking piece of hollow iron, for they take out the front end and flue sheets and flues, and you can see clear through back to the fire-box, and all cold; so unlike an engine when fired up and full of steam, coupled to a train, ready to pull it out when the conductor says, "All aboard!" I would like to tell you about a ride I took on an engine at night, but I am afraid I have made my letter too long now. I am eight years old, and mamma helped me to spell the hard words.
Re.
Write again, little bright-eyed Re, and tell us about your ride. We would like to hear from you.
Little Johnny Jump-up,
Under the trees,
Laughing in the sunshine,
Nodding to the breeze.
Little Johnny Jump-up,
Some folks call him Pansy;
Johnny doesn't care a bit—
Follow out your fancy.
Poor little Daisy, with ruffles and tucks,
Has to sit still, lest she spoil her fine dress.
Dear little Rose, in a calico gown,
And a checked gingham pinafore, plaided and brown,
Is the happier girlie, I guess.
"I can paint pictures," says sweet little Nell;
"I study music," says darling Estelle;
"I ride my pony," cries dear little Lou.
Here's our wee Margie, and what can she do?
Bless her, the good little sister at home:
"I take care of baby and brother Jerome."
When you think you are hungry.
And are not quite sure,
Then candy or cake, dears,
The hunger will cure.
But when you've been playing,
We'll say by the brook,
And fishing with pins, dears,
Instead of a hook,
Then good bread and butter,
A generous slice;
For boys and for girls, dears,
There's nothing so nice.
New Haven, Connecticut.
I am a little girl nine years old. I have a little pet kitten. The mother and she played beautifully together, until two great dogs came in the yard, and she ran to protect her kitten; but instead of killing the kitten, they killed the mother. This is all I am going to write to-day.
Nelly M. F.
Indeed, dear Nelly, I am very sorry for the fate of your poor cat. Could nobody save her from her enemies? She had the true mother spirit. Even a timid bird will grow brave, and fight to defend its fledglings if they are attacked.
San Antonio, Texas.
We have a little farm three miles from San Antonio, and we borrow a little donkey, or burro, as the Mexicans call it, to go out there; and you would be amused to see us. Mamma bought us a saddle, and the good old man who loans us the burro has a little dog-cart. Sometimes we use the saddle, and sometimes the cart, and away we go. It would remind you of Punchinello and his horse and black cat on his way to Paris. When the little donkey concludes to go fast, and when he wants to go slow, we are very much at his mercy, for he does as he pleases. We go out to the farm, and swim, and hunt eggs for papa, and gather wild flowers to bring mamma; and, dear Postmistress, we caught three little mocking-birds, and have them in a cage. We would send them to you if we could; and if we go to New York, as we think we will, we will bring them to you. Mamma told us we were very naughty indeed to take the little birdies, and asked us how we would like to be kidnapped and carried from home. Then we were very sorry we had taken them, and wanted to carry them back; but she said it was too late then; that the poor mother had probably gone away when she found her babies stolen. So we promised mamma not to take a bird again, and we will keep our word, for when we took them we did not think a mother bird would grieve as our mamma would if we were stolen. The mocking-birds sing any song, and if they hear any one play on the piano, they will whistle the same tune; and one used to call like the little chickens, and papa hunted everywhere, thinking some little chick had lost its mother, when what should he see but a mocking-bird on the gate, making the same noise a little chick does when its mother is out of sight!
Our farms look fine now; everywhere in Texas crops are good, and the people rejoice in the hopes of a heavy cotton and corn crop. On our little farm the tenant last year planted three acres of oats, that he sold out there for ninety dollars, and this spring very early the volunteer oats (as papa calls them) came up in place of the ones planted last year, and the man sold them as they stood in the ground for thirty-one dollars, and then, after they were cut, he planted corn and pumpkins on the same land, and we now have a fine crop. Mamma thinks it is a pity that more poor people do not come here and farm. Sometimes she tells us of the poor in New York and other cities, and we wish they were here in our warm climate, where, if we are not very rich, we are not often so very poor. But we are not satisfied here, as the doctors tell mamma this climate is too warm for her, and as soon as she can she must go North to live.
I must tell you about our two little brothers, Josie and Edward. Mamma was very ill, and the doctor said all must be quiet; so she asked Joe and Edward if they would go and board. The poor little fellows' eyes filled with tears, and almost in the same breath they said: "We don't want to go, mamma; but if doctor says it will make you well, we will try to go. But, mamma, we will get so hungry to see you!" Now wasn't that good for little six and four year old boys? Mamma is almost well now, and we are so glad!
Dear Postmistress, you are tired out, and we will say good-afternoon for the present.
George and Sterling F.
I am never tired of reading my children's letters, whether they are long or short, and I remember that my San Antonio boys sent me a very nice letter some time ago. I too am sorry that George and Sterling took the poor birdies from the nest. I am sure they will never again rob a mother bird of her brood. Boys do wrong from want of thought many a time, when they mean to do right, if they would only stop and consider what they are doing. Please do not bring the mocking-birds to me, little friends, though I hope very much that you will come yourselves. The little birds I take care of, although I do everything I can to keep them strong and well, always die, and I have now decided that it is pleasanter to hear about the pets my correspondents have than to be grieving over my own. But accept my thanks for your kind intention.
On the River, near Ashville, North Carolina.
On the top of the Black Dome, not very far from here, the high-bush blackberry grows without any thorns. It is called the thornless blackberry, and is wonderful. But as this Dome—Michell's Peak—is the highest land this side of the Mississippi, the berries ripen a month or two later than ours on the river. We gather them by great basketfuls, juicy, lovely berries, that nearly spoil common ones. A great gardener up here said he long ago bought some Lawtons at $1 a plant, but soon pulled them up by the roots, they had so little flavor. He was used to the mountain berries.
But there is one complaint, and it makes trouble. Some people pick other's fruit just as if it was theirs, and the owners don't like it. If everybody only knew the meaning of two little words, mine and thine, there'd be peace, they say. One day, when we were getting large blackberries at Jack's Patch, a famous place, a troop of colored people climbed over the fence.
"Whose place is this?" asked the leader, coming up with a pair of large buckets.
When we told him, he quickly took off his hat, and said, bowing very humbly. "Can I have a few blackberries, missis?"
Behind him came a party of his people—some were children—bringing empty tin cans and baskets of all sizes and queer shapes. When we answered, "We are only boarders ourselves, and strangers," he seemed pleased.
"Your pardon," he said; "I thought you was owners of the place," and he turned away with all speed into the high blackberry bushes, where all the cans and baskets and buckets were filled to go to the Ashville market.
S. G.
This little incident, sent us by a lady who reads Our Post-office Box, will please the merry troops of Northern children who are going these bright afternoons to gather blackberries. What fun it is to set off, just after the mid-day dinner, with pails and baskets, to pick enough ripe, luscious berries for tea! Some of you, perhaps, pick berries and sell them to friends who wish to make blackberry jam, or who have no children of their own to send on such delightful expeditions. But I am sure you do not imitate the conduct of those poor people of whom S. G. tells, who were so ready to take what did not belong to them.
We should be glad if G. F. Weller, who was successful with Wiggle 25, and Ben Darrow, Warnie B. Purdy, Churchill Hungerford, and W. J. H., who were successful with Wiggle 26, would each send us his or her address.
Mount Vernon, Ohio.
Dear Little Exchangers,—I have been sick, and could not attend to your letters. I have only answered four, but will reply to more, and will return all contributions that I don't use. I did not expect to hear from so many of you when I wrote for the exchange, and can not supply you all, as I have over sixty letters, but I will return all your cards in good order. I have taken Harper's Young People for four years. Every year I like it better. I hope some of you will see this letter, if Mr. Harper is kind enough to print it, and then you will know that I don't intend to cheat, for I like all the children who take Young People.
Carrie Stone.