PUSS AND PINCHER.
Here is a pretty story about a cat and a dog who were great friends.
Puss and Pincher ate from the same plate, and slept on the same rug. Puss at one time had a little family of kittens, whom she kept in the attic at the top of the house.
One morning there was a terrific thunder-storm. Pincher was taking his ease in the parlor, and Puss was looking after her children in the garret.
Pincher was rather afraid of the lightning, and creeping close to his mistress, hid himself under her skirts. Presently somebody opened the parlor door, and in came Puss, mewing very pitifully.
She came up to Pincher, rubbed her face against his cheek, touched him gently with her paw, and then walked to the door, all of which said as plainly as words could have done, "Come, Pincher, come and help me."
But Pincher would not go, and Puss, after trying a little longer, went away herself.
A lady visiting at the house followed her upstairs, and found that she had brought one kitten down and tucked it under a wardrobe. She had probably wanted Pincher to stay with this child while she went after the others. She brought it in her mouth to the lady, who took it in her arms, went to the attic with Puss, where she moved the whole family away from the window, and then sat down by them till the storm was over.
The next morning, when the kind lady opened her door to go to breakfast, there sat Puss, who rubbed against her, purred, and showed the greatest pleasure in seeing her. This was her way of showing her gratitude.
Toogana, Kansas.
I thought perhaps the Postmistress would like to hear from a boy who lives in the far West. My brother Wroy and I earned by herding the money that brings to us the weekly visits of Young People, and we hail it with joy. Only some weeks it does not come, and then we wonder what can be the matter, and go home very sad. "Talking Leaves" is the best story I ever read. I will be sorry when it is done.
Wroy and I have been practicing "spring and fall styles for boys," springing from the millet stack, and falling on the millet that is spread out to be threshed. It is fun, and threshes the millet too. Papa has been away all winter, so we take care of mamma and sister Zella, feed and herd forty head of cattle, yoke up old Ben and Sam and haul wood and chips, and do whatever mamma tells us.
Zella and I have sixteen turkeys. We want to raise two hundred this year. Wroy has ten Pekin ducks; they are pure white, and look very handsome as they swim around over our Home Lake.
But I must close, and if this letter is published, I may write more of our frontier life another time.
Walter William C.
Something wrong, we fear, about the mails in your neighborhood, Walter, when you fail to receive your paper. We hope it seldom happens. You and your brother are leading a very manly life, with plenty to do, to think of, and to enjoy, and we will be pleased to hear from you again.
Madison, Wisconsin.
I thought I would write you, and tell you about my pets. I have a bob-tailed kitten; it was born without a tail. They are called Manx cats. I have a dog named Gip; he is so fat that mamma is ashamed to take him up town with her. I have six large dolls. One of them is a boy doll named Fred, after my uncle in Dakota. I had all my Harper's Young People bound this winter, and they make a lovely book. I attend a private school, and the school-room is fitted up beautifully, with a Brussels carpet and lace curtains.
Helen Julia K.
Since you have so pleasant a school-room, I suppose you find it very easy to study, and so make great progress. I wish a number of the little correspondents would write about their school-rooms. I had charming times at one to which I was sent when about eight years old. There was no carpet. Instead of curtains, there were faded shades of green paper. The school-master sat at a battered desk at the head of the room. On one side were the boys, and on the other the girls. The girls used to play at noon under a mighty oak-tree. We had picnics there nearly every day, with oak-leaf plates and a tin dipper for a goblet. Do any of my little friends have such picnic parties now?
I thought I would write and tell you about a pet I had; it was a canary-bird. It would sit on my finger when I would put it in the cage. Its name was Dicky. It was only a young bird, and could not sing very well. I am thirteen years old. I would like to exchange with any little girl or boy a 5-cent piece dated 1775 and a fifth of a Chinese penny, for the best offer.
Nettie Amelung,
865 Lincoln Place, Brooklyn, N. Y.
I wouldn't cry about it, dear.
Though things are going wrong;
'Tis much the better way, my dear,
To sing a little song.
Lima, Ohio.
I am six years old to-day. I never have been to school, but can read some of the stories in my Young People. My mamma is giving me music lessons. I can sing and play a number of tunes. I like my paper very much.
Nettie N.
Cahto, Mendocino County, California.
I am a little girl living in Long Valley, Mendocino County, California. My brother is trapping. The eagles have been killing father's lambs. Brother took a lamb which they had killed, set his trap with it, and caught the eagle. That time the lamb caught the eagle. I go with him sometimes to his traps to see the foxes, 'coons, and wild-cats try to get out.
My little brother, four years old, went with father to feed the hogs. Father said so much rubbish would kill them. "Well," said he, "papa, you won't have to shoot them so many times."
I go to school. My mother tells me that my school days are pleasant days for me. I would agree with her if I had not so far to go—two miles over hills; and everything looks so cheerful when I start to school!
Allie R.
Perhaps you think you would rather stay at home than take that long walk; but your mother is right. School days are very happy ones, and your little feet skip over the two miles quickly, do they not? Have you any little friends who go with you to school?
Fred M. Dille, Greeley, Colorado, desires the name of a boy living in Cincinnati who sent him a match-box containing fossils, shells, and minerals, that he may send specimens in return.