[to be continued.]
PLAYING DOCTOR.
[A RACE FOR LIFE.]
BY H. W.
I dare say you have often seen Assam on the map, and have often tasted Assam tea. The tea gardens are a very pretty sight at certain seasons of the year. I would like to send you a photograph of my garden. From the high ground near we can see the far-off Himalayas, with their snow-clad summits gleaming brightly in the sun.
"Far off the old snows, ever new,
With silver edges cleft the blue—
Alone, aloft, divine."
But I am quite sure you won't care to hear about snowy mountain-tops, and unspeakable sunsets, and other glories of the Himalayan Alps, but boy-like will want to know if I have had any adventures since I came out. This is a great country for wild beasts of all sorts. Not long ago I was walking in the garden with a friend of mine; we were moving along slowly and chatting, when suddenly my friend shouted out something which I could not understand, and vanished like—a lamp-lighter. I looked around to see if there was anything to account for such an unceremonious leave-taking, when, turning the corner, I too was aware of two great bears that barred the way. It was an awkward predicament, and I must confess I was somewhat taken aback, and did not quite know what to do. However, after a good stare, the bears relieved me of all further anxiety by taking themselves quietly off.
Completely unarmed as I was, I was only too thankful to see them safely off the premises.
The other day I had a still more unpleasant adventure; and this time, as before, among the principal actors in the scene was an angry bear. I went to see a friend of mine, a neighboring planter, who lived some miles away. I had a friend staying with me; we went in a small pony-cart; I drove, my friend sat alongside me, and behind was the syce, or native groom. The first part of our return journey was accomplished without any mishap. When, however, we came to the last part of the journey—the last mile or so, I should say, was simply a roadway cut through the jungle—we were surprised to hear a low grunting noise, and a rustling in the ditch that ran alongside the road—a noise as of some large beast forcing himself through the thick undergrowth.
We in front took but little notice of it, under the impression that it was a pig or dog, or something of the kind. You can imagine my horror, and amazement when I felt myself convulsively grasped by the syce, and heard him whispering in agonized tones, "He'll have me off in a minute, sahib, if you don't drive on quickly." Turning round as I best could under the circumstances, I saw a huge bear lumbering along, now on his hind-legs, now on all fours, every now and then making ineffectual "scoops" at the frightened syce on the backseat with his ugly-looking fore-paws.
With a smart cut across the back and a word of encouragement, I started the pony off at his best pace. On he galloped, as fast as ever he could lay his little legs to the ground; but Bruin was not to be denied, and we could not, do what we would, shake him off.
It was a most exciting race. I had to keep cool, for on me, the driver, all depended, and the least mistake on my part might have cost us our lives.
After racing along for some distance in this way, with the bear now alongside us, now close behind us, by some fortunate accident one of our coats fell out on to the road. Bruin instantly halted to have a sniff, but after a moment's pause he was under way again, and before long had overhauled us. Once more "ding, dong, ding, dong, we galloped along," racing for very life. Every turn of the wheels was bringing us nearer home, and if our pony could only last the distance, there was still a good chance for us. As we thus raced along, with the bear hustling after us, so close that we could hear his heavy breathing, my "solah topee" (hat) fell off, and Bruin once more stopped to have a sniff.
All honor to that hat! Had its brim been less broad, the wind would not have taken it off. Had the wind not taken it off, who can tell what our fate would have been? The pony was nearly exhausted; his speed was slackening, and in a moment the bear would have had us in his clutches.
But that moment's delay in Bruin's frantic chase saved us. Heavily I plied the whip upon our unfortunate pony's back. A few leaps carried us forward another hundred yards, and our bungalow came in sight. The bear realized that he was beaten, and slunk off into the jungle, leaving us to go home in peace. We were very thankful to get out of it so well. When our friends were told that we had been chased by a bear they could hardly believe it, but the story is true for all that. Three lives were saved by the puff of wind that blew away my hat.
[TRAPPING TORUPS.]
BY ALLAN FORMAN.
"Say, boys, I have an idea," Charlie Swan announced one morning as he was sitting on the porch of the farm-house where he and his cousins were spending the summer.
"Let's have it," said Jack, one of the cousins.
"Well, it's just this. You know the pond is full of torups. I believe we boys can have some fun catching them."
"Pooh!" interrupted Jack, "we've had that idea for a long time. How are you going to do it?"
"With a trap," answered Charlie, looking very wise.
"Who ever heard of trapping terrapin?"
"I don't see why it can't be done."
"What kind of a trap would you use?"
"Come out to the shop, and I'll show you," replied Charlie.
While the boys are in the shop I will explain, for the benefit of my readers who do not live near the water, what a torup is. It is a member of the turtle family, and closely resembles the far-famed terrapin of Chesapeake Bay, but it differs from the terrapin in that it lives in either fresh or salt water, rather preferring the fresh, and burying itself in the mud for a greater part of the time. Consequently its flesh acquires a muddy flavor that many people do not like. The torup has all the ferocity of the snapping-turtle, and when aroused will display wonderful agility in jumping at its enemies. In common with the rest of the turtle family, it has the peculiarity, as the Irishman expressed it, of "living a long time after it's dead." I have seen one bite through a lead-pencil six hours after the head had been separated from the body. Another trait of the torup, which Charlie meant to take advantage of in making his trap, is that he will crawl into anything or under any log beneath which he can possibly force himself, resistance only seeming to make him more obstinate in the accomplishment of his purpose.
Before long Charlie and his cousins came out of the shop, carrying with them the trap. It was only a box about three feet long, two feet high, and eighteen inches wide. He had taken out one end, and fastened it to the top by two strong hinges, so that it opened inward. About half-way down each side he had driven two pegs, so that the door could be pushed in, but not out. On the bottom were nailed several strips of old iron.
"I don't see how you are going to work it," said Walter, as he followed Charlie toward the pond.
"Well, I'll explain," replied Charlie. "You see that this door is so hung that the torup can push it in and go in, but can't push it out after he gets in."
"Yes."
"Now I shall put a few old bones, with some meat on them, in the box for bait. The torup will smell them, will push up the door, and crawl into the box; then when he tries to get out again, he finds that he can't."
"All right," replied the boys, and in a few minutes Charlie was with them at the edge of the pond, putting the bones in the further end of the box. They sunk it carefully, and Charlie drove a stick on each side, so that it could not be tipped over or dislodged from its place. Nothing now remained to be done but to wait until the next morning.
When the morning came they rushed to the pond, Charlie full of confidence, and his cousins rather disposed to make fun of his trap. When they tried to lift it into the boat they found it quite heavy, and Charlie exclaimed, joyfully, "Its full!"
"Yes, full of water," replied Jack, scornfully.
"We will see," replied Charlie, as he lifted the box into the boat. In a moment more he pulled out the two pegs, and the door swung outward. Out tumbled four large torups.
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Jack, in surprise. The torups manifested their dissatisfaction by snapping viciously as the boys came near them.
After that the box was set several times with varying results, and the boys did a good work in destroying a large number of torups; for not only do they make it almost impossible for fish to live in a pond, but they will also destroy young ducks by catching them by the feet and dragging them beneath the water, where they devour them alive.
[HOW THEY HELPED THE DEACON.]
BY ADA CARLETON STODDARD.
"Cherries? I should say so! There's no end to 'em—trees are loaded, and red's a burning-bush. I was by there to-day."
It was an intensely eager voice, and Davy Kent, the speaker, ended his little speech with an expressive smack of the lips.
"He'd never miss the few we'd take, would he, boys?" That was Ned Rogers. It was upon a straw pile behind Mr. Rogers's barn that the boys were holding an earnest consultation.
"Miss 'em? No, not if we took twice as many as we will."
"A bushel will be enough to treat the whole crowd, won't it?"
"Oh, any amount."
"Now see here, boys"—and Clem Goodrich lifted himself into a sitting posture and knit his brows thoughtfully as he spoke—"I think—isn't this—doesn't it seem a little bit like stealing? Don't you suppose he'd give us a few if we were to ask him? It looks to me—"
But right here Clem's mild voice was drowned in a roaring, boisterous chorus.
"It's not staling, me boy," said Con O'Brien, with the faintest brogue in the world; "it's only helping ourselves to a few cherries, that otherwise might spoil for want o' the picking, and so be wasted intirely. And if Deacon Gammon don't know it, he'll be none the wiser, for he's got piles and hapes more'n he can take care of. Ten to one he'll be obliged to us for helping him out a little—he isn't a bad old gintleman at heart, you know. And it's for the fun of it as well as the ating we take 'em, and that's the truth."
"So 'tis," echoed a good many of the boys.
As for Clem, he gazed into Con's serious face doubtfully, yet, it must be confessed, very willing to be convinced.
"I suppose you know best," said he—"you fellows that have lived here all your lives."
"Of course," laughed Jerry Parker. "Why, my father says he always plants an extra melon seed for us boys as well as for the bugs."
So they reasoned away their doubts and made their plans; and somehow, before the little party broke up, each boy had pretty nearly succeeded in persuading himself that he would be doing the Deacon a favor by helping him make away with a small portion of his fruit. All the same, Ned Rogers couldn't resist a little feeling of guilt, not unmingled with dread, when his father said at the tea table that evening: "I wonder what Deacon Gammon thought of that mow of early-cut timothy? He was up to look at it this afternoon."
Nobody could tell what the Deacon thought of the hay, for nobody had seen him. But Ned was thinking that he would give something to know just at what time in the afternoon the Deacon came to look at that haymow.
That was what he said to his friends when they met next night all ready for the proposed raid on the Deacon's cherries. There were not a few blank faces in the little crowd when he told his story.
"He might have heard us if he was there when we were talking," said Ned, beating a lively tattoo on the bottom of his basket. "I don't say he did, but he might."
"Oh, pshaw!" exclaimed Con O'Brien. "The Deacon's deaf a little, and I don't believe he could hear what we were a-saying. Why didn't you go round, me boy, to the straw hape, and see if you could hear yourself into the bar-rn?"
A shout went up at that, which, to be sure, was exactly what Con wanted, since there is nothing better than a jolly-sounding laugh to put a boy on good terms with himself and everybody else.
"It's all right," said he. "Come on, now, and don't you be afraid o' nothin'."
Not a boy among them was afraid; but a good many of them couldn't keep their hearts from fluttering in a very queer way when they came, with their baskets and bags, to the gap in Deacon Gammon's orchard wall. The orchard was near the house, and the cherry-trees were scattered about among the apple-trees in a hap-hazard fashion. The house looked dark and still.
"It's just as I told you," whispered Con O'Brien, triumphantly. "The Deacon and his wife have gone to prayer-mating, and the coast is clear. 'Rah for we! Look at 'em, me boys!"
They did more than look at the great, delicious, clustering cherries, hanging from boughs which bent low down with their weight. They pulled them by handfuls, and bags and baskets were rapidly filled.
"But there don't look to be any less 'n there was when we begun," said Con, with a merry chuckle. "Now, boys, isn't this a big help to the old gintleman? He'd niver get away with 'em alone, sure."
There was no sound except the voices of the frogs in the marsh under the hill while the work went briskly on. It was when the boys were nearly ready to leave that they heard a voice in the direction of the Deacon's domicile:
"I don't know, but I'll walk out and see."
"It's ould Mrs. Gammon herself!" sounded Con's excited whisper. "Go for the gap, me boys, and don't spill your cherries over. Go, now!"
They were all only too ready to obey. Away they skurried, with long leaps, like frightened rabbits, through the orchard grass to the break in the wall. But they did not go beyond it. Up rose the Deacon on the other side, as cool—so Jerry Barker afterward said—as a frozen cucumber.
"Good-evening, boys," said he. He took off his hat as he spoke, and by the light of the moon the boys could see that he was making a desperate effort to keep his face straight. "Now I'm— Hold on there! Stop!"
For Con and Ike Harris had started to run. They stopped, however. There was nothing else to do when the Deacon spoke in that way, and they knew it.
"Let's see," said the Deacon, reaching toward Ned Rogers's basket, which was forthwith handed over to him with great alacrity—"let's see how many you've got."
He examined every boy's load in turn carefully and in silence, and all the while the boys looked into each other's faces without speaking. Oh! if the moon would but go under a cloud!
When the Deacon had finished his inspection, he spoke again, kindly, and with a pleasant smile:
"Now, boys, I'm much obliged to ye. I've laid out to go to town with a load o' truck to-morrow, an' I was wonderin' how I'd get my cherries picked. I'm reely obliged to ye, and I'll be more so if ye'll carry 'em to the house for me."
Not a boy felt like disobeying. Not one but silently picked up his burden of cherries and marched along before the Deacon to the house and into the porch.
"Set 'em right down here," directed Deacon Gammon, cheerily, "an' I'll see to 'em 'fore long. Now, boys, ye've worked consider'ble hard, an' you want some supper. Come in an' have some cherry pie an' cheese."
Every boy's face said he would rather die, and there was a sound of murmured negatives.
"Yes, you will," said the Deacon; "you've worked well, an' deserve your supper. Right in to the kitchen now, right in! Mother's a-waitin' for ye."
So she was—kind, motherly Mrs. Gammon. And there was a table loaded with goodies waiting for them too—sandwiches, and plum-cake, and cherry pie, and cherry tarts, and cherries—cherries everywhere.
"Good-evening," said Mrs. Gammon, beaming upon the boys.
"Take some chairs," ordered the Deacon, behind them; "and set right up and have some cherry pie and sech."
The boys wondered whether they were awake or dreaming as they filed shamefacedly past Mrs. Gammon, hats in hand, and took seats at the well-spread table.
"Now help yourselves," said the Deacon's wife. And each boy in his heart wondered if she knew, and hoped she didn't. But they helped themselves readily enough; and at length, between the Deacon's funny stories and the delicious cherry pie, they came as near to enjoying themselves as was possible under the circumstances.
"You ain't eat scarcely anything," said the Deacon, when the boys finished their meal. "Have some cherries? No cherries? Ho! ho! ho!"
"Now, father!" expostulated his wife, mildly, and then the boys knew she knew.
"I don't s'pose I'd ought to," said the Deacon; and he walked to the head of the table, and stood there looking down at his young guests with a queer little smile. "I ain't much of a speechifier," said he, "but I want to ask you boys a question. Which would ye rather be, when ye get ready to take your fathers' places, honest men or rogues?"
Every boy caught his breath. The old eight-day clock in the corner ticked painfully loud.
"The man'll be nigh about the same as the boy," went on the Deacon. "Now which'll you be, boys, rogues or honest men?"
"Hon—honest men," cried Con O'Brien.
Later on he said he couldn't help it, with the Deacon looking at him, and the Deacon's wife wiping her glasses in that anxious way; but he meant it all the same. And they all followed his lead, as they ever did, every boy.
"That's right," said Deacon Gammon—"that's just right; and we won't say another word about it."
"No, don't," said his wife.
But, after all, it was Con O'Brien who said the right thing in the right place, as he picked up his basket, which wasn't entirely empty, in the porch.
"Whenever you want any help about picking your cherries, Deacon Gammon, call on us," said he. "We'll be sure to come when you sind for us, and we won't come before, honest Injun!"
"That's right," said the Deacon—"that's right."
Then his eyes twinkled, as the boys filed out into the night. "Edward," said he to Ned Rogers, "tell your father that's the best mow of timothy I ever saw."
"It's just the way I thought," cried the boys, when they got out of the Deacon's hearing, "just exactly."
AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
"I'll 'tend to you in a moment, Mr. Hornet."
Middletown, Virginia.
A very dear friend of mamma's sent Young People to me as a Christmas present. I enjoy the stories so much! and am now very much interested in "Mr. Stubbs's Brother." I think the pictures lovely. I am saving every number carefully. Mamma intends having them bound. I see the little girls have been writing about their pets. We have a German canary; he sings by lamp-light. His name is Paul Pry. I am a minister's daughter, and live in the beautiful Valley of Virginia. This is my first attempt at letter-writing. I am ten years old, and would love to see my letter in Our Post-office Box.
M. Blanche M.
Huntsville, Alabama.
I have no pets to write about, but I will tell you of my nice trip. I went to Nashville and Columbia to play in the Huntsville Amateur Opera Company. I appeared as one of the little Dragoon Guards. The name of the play is Patience. Sir. G. is the director, and my papa is Bunthorne. Let me thank Mr. Otis for his nice story of "Mr. Stubbs's Brother." I grow so impatient for the paper each week. I am nine years old.
Edwin L. W.
Carlisle, Pennsylvania.
On the 6th of June my papa, mamma, and I went on the State Editors' Excursion to Washington and Mount Vernon. We arrived at Washington at half past one, and at the depot we were met by our friend Mr. Read, of the Patent-office. After resting awhile, we went around the city to see the sights until dinner-time, which was half past four. At nine o'clock that evening I went with my papa and mamma to the formal reception which the President gave the editors. Being a little girl, I felt shy, and almost slipped past him, but he said, "I don't want this little miss to pass me." So the secretary of the association took me, and told him who I was. He then shook hands with me very pleasantly, so I'm no more shy of the President.
The next morning we took the steamboat Corcoran to go to Mount Vernon. I liked the ride very much; it was very pleasant down the river. On entering the grounds the first thing visited was the tomb of Washington, and there we stood and looked and looked at the marble caskets that hold the bodies of George and Martha Washington. Mamma reached through the iron bars and got some pebbles that were put there for visitors to take. The next place we came to was the old tomb of Washington. We went down into it, and there we chipped some splinters off the old door frame. The mansion we came to next, and entered the hall, and there we saw the key of the Bastile (which is a very large key) in a glass case. The first room we entered was the state dining-room, and there a gentleman explained the different interesting things that were in the house. In this room, in a glass case, is a stone model of the Bastile. We then came into the east parlor; in it was what I thought was an old-fashioned piano, but I was told that it was a harpsichord. We next entered the west parlor; then the dining-room, in which was a large fire-place. From there we went into the kitchen, where there was a table spread, with old-fashioned dishes, knives, and forks. We then went upstairs, and entered the room where Washington died. The bed was very wide. We also saw the room of Martha Washington, and that of Eleanor Custis. Her bed was so high that she had to have three steps to go up to it. Lafayette's room and the guest-chamber were the two prettiest rooms in the house. All the rooms have the same furniture that they had in Washington's day. We went to the attic, and up into the cupola, and had a good view of the beautiful Potomac and the country around. A gentleman took a hen's egg out of a nest in the old brick barn. I gathered a bunch of clover heads and daisies from the yard.
What I like best at Mount Vernon are the grounds and the river-bank, where I would so much enjoy running and playing. I used to think that Washington was a very plain man, but since I have been at his home I have changed my mind, and now think that he liked fine things too. We started back to Washington city about two o'clock, and reached there in time for our dinner, which we enjoyed very much after our day of sight-seeing.
Next day we went into the Patent-office, the Treasury Department, the Smithsonian Institution, the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, the Agricultural Building, the Post-office, and the Capitol. All these buildings are very large and handsome, and contain many interesting and wonderful things. In the Dead-letter Office we met an old gentleman who was very kind to me. He said:
"Little girl, are you a Sunday-school girl, and what school do you go to?"
My answer was, "To the Second Presbyterian, of Carlisle."
The next morning we started for home. I was glad to get there, for I was tired, though I enjoyed Washington very much.
Maud Z.
This is a very charming letter to have been written by a little sight-seer who is not yet eight years old. The description of your pleasant day at Mount Vernon, little Maud, will please hundreds of other girls, and boys too, who have not yet been there, but hope some day to go and see the place which was once the home of the Father of his Country.
Blanchard, Ontario.
I am the eldest of six. I was thirteen years old on Midsummer-day, so I thought I would write to the Post-office Box of Harper's Young People. I have taken it since March, 1882. A lady teacher from Chicago spent her vacation with us last summer, and while here her little sisters sent her several numbers of Young People. I thought them just splendid. After going home she sent me a number now and again, but I wanted one every week, so my little cousin and I together sent for it. I have never been out of Canada, but my grandpa has been twice round the world, and I listen with much interest when he speaks of the various countries he has visited. We have a pretty school, and a nice walk to it through a wood by the side of a creek. There are wild flowers in the bush, and you may think what nice bouquets we gather. We all go to school. My papa is a farmer, and we have lots of cattle and horses and many feathered fowls. I must not forget to tell you the nice little present I got from Chicago on my birthday. The same dear friend sent me a pretty needle-book made by one of the Sisters of Charity in Chicago. I prize it highly. They tell me Ontario is very much like the State of New York. Have you ever, dear Postmistress, been in Ontario? Everything is lovely here; all nature seems alive. I have quite a number of pets: three cats (Bessie, Tom Barney, and Jennie), two pet lambs (Jack and Tom), and a shaggy little dog named Tip, the best of all. I think I will now close my letter by sending kind wishes to you and to my little cousins over the line.
M. Blanche D.
No, dear Blanche, I have never visited your pleasant home, but your description is so vivid that I can see with my eyes shut the pretty school-house, the walk by the creek, and the grove where the wild flowers bloom. What a number of pets you have to care for!
Mainhouse, Kelso, Roxburghshire, Scotland.
I am a little boy eight and a half years old, and I have a little brother nearly six. Our father and mother are in India, and we live with our grandpapa in the country. We have two Belgian rabbits, and I call mine Bunny, and John's Brownie. We have a pony named Sambo. There is a large retriever dog whose name is Don. We receive Harper's Young People every week from our uncle and aunt who live in America, and we like it very much. I like "The Talking Leaves." We have a canary, and he sings all day long. We have each a garden, and there are pretty flowers, and we like working in them after lessons are over. We do not go to school; auntie gives us our lessons. I write this letter myself, and John writes his name after mine.
Robert B. P. and John D. P.
Papa and mamma in India must be very much pleased with the letters they receive from their little sons if they are written as plainly and as well expressed as this one.
I am thirteen years old, and love Harper's Young People. We have great fun with a bear that lives near us; he is a young cub. We had a little rabbit and a pet canary, but a wicked old cat killed them both. I have a small but elegant stamp book, with 135 stamps in it; I would like offers for it. I am soon going to learn telegraphy. Could you tell me how all the people got their names?
Harry B. Wilson,
77 Pearl St., Chelsea, Mass.
Some names were given, in the first place, because of the occupation of the person with whom the family began. In all ages smiths have been very useful, and society would not have known what to do without them; so it comes to pass that a great many people bear the name of Smith. Wilson was originally Will's son, Johnson John's son, and so on. Sometimes a number of soldiers and retainers took the name of their chief, in the old warlike days, when a castle was defended by a great many warriors, and the lord of the castle in his turn protected whole villages of women and children. Some names are in memory of places, of rivers, or mountains where battles took place. Some are called after favorite colors. The history of surnames is very curious, and you will be interested if you look into it carefully.
I am glad you are about to study telegraphy.
Brookhaven, Mississippi.
I was much pleased with the letter from the little girl in Germany, for I want to know all about music. I am thirteen years old, and have been taking lessons five years. I play Jael's Faust, Sonnambula, Rigoletto, etc., and I am very anxious to go to Germany, the father-land of music. I am studying German and French, and taking lessons on the violin. My papa says I may go there some day if I study hard. I think our country is the grandest one on the globe, but still I would like to cross the ocean and study under such professors and composers as Joachim Raff, Frau Clara Schumann, and the violinist Hermann. I am sure they would inspire me to do more. "M. W." has certainly heard of our Edison and his wonderful electric light. I have been to Spanish Fort, in New Orleans, and seen the light; it is so brilliant that one almost imagines it is a smaller sun in the sky. Then, too, we have here the telephone and the audiphone, and these are only a few of the modern inventions.
Katie B. J.
You are certainly a very busy little woman, Katie. I hope your desire to go to Germany may be gratified. But do not forget health in your wish for improvement.
Wheeling, West Virginia.
I am a little girl eight years old. I have two dolls, and I love them very much. This is the first letter I have ever written. I have a canary-bird, and it is a beautiful singer. It is very tame. Once I was leaning over the cage, and before I noticed it birdie was pulling my hair. I have two sisters, Bessie and Florrie. My grandpa has a dog named Ben. He is very much afraid of fire-crackers. He spent Fourth of July behind the pantry door. We could not coax him out, even to feed him.
Lillie J. F.
No wonder the poor dog did not know what to make of such a fuss as the fire-crackers made. Your birdie is very cunning.
Columbus, Ohio.
I am eleven years old. My uncle gave me your paper for my birthday present, and I think it was a nice present. I have always read the letters in Our Post-office Box, and I thought I would write one too. I notice that all the little girls tell about their pets. I have a little turtle for my pet. It likes to eat flies; it will take them in its mouth, and eat them fast. My turtle is very small. Mamma said that I must take it back to the river, because it might die. Our schools are all out now, and I passed for the C. Grammar. We have a great many canaries, and I have a beautiful Java finch: it has a bright red bill, and it says tat, tat, all the day long. Good-by.
Winnie S.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
I am very fond of pets, and have nine canaries, six of which I raised myself. Any little girl or boy may do the same, with care and patience. Mamma has two goldfinches. One of them she brought from Europe last summer. I don't like Europe as well as I do America. I was very homesick while I was in those countries where no English is spoken. I could not even find out what I wanted to eat by looking at the bills of fare. We are going soon to my grandma's beautiful country home near Niagara Falls, where I expect to be very happy.
Katharine H.
Conway, Massachusetts.
I am a little girl six years old. I live in a house where my great-grandpapa lived. There are high hills here, and a pretty little brook, and it has speckled trout in it; and we live in the shadow of big trees that my great-uncles planted when they were little boys. The birds come and sing in the trees, and little red squirrels chase each other through them, and bring nuts and eat them in the trees. My uncle says, when he was a little boy, and lived here, a red squirrel with a bushy white tail lived in these same trees, and he tried to catch it in a trap, but could not. I hope I will see one some time. I have two little kittens and a pet lamb. The lamb goes to the pasture now, but at night comes and bleats for us to feed him. And when it is almost dark, a whip-poor-will comes and sings to us. The laurel is now in bloom on the hills, and is both pink and white, and is very pretty. We sent some of it in a box to Chicago. I went a mile to school, and studied reading, spelling, writing, and arithmetic, but the school is closed now. My uncle sends me Harper's Young People. It comes on Tuesdays, and I like it very much. I am glad when Tuesday comes. I enjoy the Toby Tyler stories, and read them the first thing. I like to read about Jimmy Brown. He is a naughty boy but very funny. My mamma says I must not like the naughty boys, and I will try not to, but I read about them.
Florence R. H.
Oxford, Indiana.
I am a little girl eleven years old. My birthday was on the 23d of May; I received several nice presents. I have two little brothers. Johnnie, the oldest, is five years, and Norman is eleven months old, the dearest and sweetest little baby, I think, that ever was. I go to school in the winter, but we do not have summer school. I am sorry, for I love to go to school. We have Sunday-school half a mile from here. I think we live in a very nice place. A small grove is north of the house and barn, and Big Pine Creek is on the east. I often go fishing. The creek has been pretty high several times this spring and summer, almost a quarter of a mile wide just east of the house. My grandma gave me a little canary. His name is Billy; he is a great pet, and a very sweet singer, and also a great fighter. He will bite our fingers, and look very savage; and when he sings he nearly always gets under his swing, and makes it go with his head, and thus keeps time with it.
Zua E. T.
Germantown, Pennsylvania.
I am a little girl of thirteen, and my brother and I take Harper's Young People, and have done so for nearly two years. I think "Mr. Stubbs's Brother" is very nice, but I think "Toby Tyler" was better. I am now staying at my cousin's, and we thought it would be very nice to write to you. I have lived in America for only six years, as I was born on the island of St. Thomas, in the West Indies, where we had no winter, and I never saw snow until I came here. I thought it came down in great lumps, and I was very much surprised to see it falling in flakes. I have a dear little sister six years old whose name is Annie, but we call her Pansy, Nannie, or any other pet name we choose. She had a kitten, which she named Tabby, and when we moved, papa put him in a bag and sent him to the other house, but the next day he ran away. I am having the volume of 1881 bound, so as not to lose any of the numbers.
Eliza M. S.
A quart of pins, hair-pins, and needles was lately found in the nest of a mouse when some workmen tore down the piazza of an old hotel in Massachusetts. So that accounts for some of the pins which are always disappearing. They were taken away by a foolish little mouse, and could not have made a very soft bed for her family.
Louie Le B.—We will lay your little friend's pretty poem aside until cold weather comes round again. Thank you for sending it.