A LAWN TENNIS TOURNAMENT.
BY SHERWOOD RYSE.
Although the game of lawn tennis, which was introduced to the readers of Young People early in the summer, has made giant strides in popularity, it does not seem to carry its character in its face, for there are still people to be found who have seen the game and yet have not appreciated its merits. More than one person has said to me, "I don't see much fun in knocking a ball over a net for a person on the other side to knock it back again."
Now there is a great deal of reason in that. To knock a ball over a net for another person to knock it back again would be very poor fun. But, as we know, the object in knocking the ball over the net is that the other person shall not knock it back, which is quite another thing, and which, indeed, is the essence of the game.
Should this view of the case fail to convince the ignorant persons above referred to that lawn tennis is a game deserving of respect, and that it is not, what Dr. Johnson called fishing, the pastime of fools, I would take them to see a lawn tennis tournament. I would do that, however, only out of pure good nature, for it would be a great deal more pleasant to look on at a tournament in company with some one who knows the game. And so, if you please, I will take my readers to the tournament at the St. George's cricket ground at Hoboken, New Jersey. The name of the club suggests that it is English in its origin; and that is a good omen, for is not old England the home of lawn tennis, as it is also of cricket?
Eight courts are laid out on the carefully prepared ground, which is refreshingly green even after this long dry summer, and several games are in progress.
Our artist has chosen for the subject of his illustration on page 41 the double-handed match between Messrs. Anderson and Henry, of the Seabright Club, and Messrs. D. and G. F. Miller, of Utica. Though the double-handed game is very interesting, it does not possess the same attraction, for players at least, as a single-handed contest, in which one player has to cover the whole of his court. Not that the young player who looks forward to taking part some day in a public tournament should neglect the double game. It is, indeed, a very necessary part of the practice required to make a player thoroughly at home in the game, for it teaches him how to "place" his "returns."
Watch the players carefully, and notice the quick decision required to place the ball beyond the reach of both their antagonists. In a single-handed game there is only one man's vigilance to outwit. In the double game there are two, and one of two partners, if they are both good players, should always be within reach of the ball wherever it may be placed. Thus you see that a young player who has learned to place his returns well in a double game will find that part of his work much easier when he has only one antagonist on the other side of the net.
But while I have been talking about "placing," the crowd has gathered around a court where a single-handed game is being played. Let us, then, practice what we preach, and place ourselves where we can see the game. It is between Mr. Anderson—the same whom we saw playing in the double game—and Mr. Cairnes, a young Englishman who is on a visit to this country, and has returned the hospitality he has received by beating the lawn tennis champion of the United States. Ah, well, we will forgive him, for he is young—barely twenty-one, judging from his looks—and he does not know any better. But he can play tennis.
As we take our places, the scorer calls, "Two games all." Anderson plays up well, and wins the next game, and still another. The doughty Englishman is getting beaten; he is playing carelessly. But see! It is very plain that he recognizes the fact that the games are going on too fast, for as soon as he learns that the score is four to two in Anderson's favor, his play begins to improve. He wins the next four games in succession, and so wins the set. And right well did he play.
It is difficult to say wherein lies his great excellence. It is not in his "service." Service is all very well, and it is very useful to have a good service, especially when playing against indifferent antagonists; but among the best players service does not count for much. The "return" is of very much more importance, if for no other reason than that one has many more balls to return than to serve. In the first place, you should make certain that your ball is going over the net. Youth is ambitious, and ambition every now and then gets a fall; and so the young player who tries to just skim the top of the net every time is very apt to drive his ball into instead of over the net. It is much better to send even the easiest kind of a ball for your adversary to return, for there is always a chance of his foot slipping, or something of the kind; or perhaps he will be ambitious, and drive the ball with great skill and precision into the middle of the net. The English player returned his balls very closely over the net, but they always went over, and doubtless his accuracy in that respect is the result of long practice.
Another point in which he excelled was the skillful manner in which he placed the ball close to the side lines in the back court. This is very pretty work, but it is also dangerous, for it must always be remembered that there is not a hair's-breadth between a "good" ball and a bad one, between just in court and just out. One is success, and the other failure. For young players there are many opportunities of placing a ball out of the opponent's reach without playing it right up to the base line or side lines of the court. In tennis, as in other things, a middle course is safest for beginners.
Although lawn tennis has sprung rapidly into favor, it is still but a new game in this country. It takes several seasons' play for a person to become a first-rate player. By the time most of my readers are old enough to take part in a public tournament, some of them will probably play better than the best players of to-day. As time goes on, the standard of the game grows higher. The best players to-day are men, and they did not have the great advantage of beginning to learn tennis when they were boys.
But it is not only a boys' game; it is quite as suitable for girls, and many girls and grown ladies play very well, in spite of the man who said in an article on the subject not long ago that all ladies were "duffers" at tennis. If some of our lady players were to express their opinions of that man, he would not be flattered by them, even if the ladies did not call him slang names.
In New York and other large cities there are winter tennis clubs, to which both ladies and gentlemen belong. Very cold work, perhaps you think, with snow on the ground, and the thermometer somewhere near zero; but indeed they care nothing for that. What are snow-storms and chilling winds to them when they are safely under cover in some hall that they have hired for one or two afternoons a week? That is how tennis is played in winter, and if it should be called floor tennis rather than lawn tennis, the game is the same, and the enjoyment perhaps as great as in the summer game.
But tennis is, after all, a summer game. Winter has its own sports and pastimes—skating, coasting, sleighing, and the gymnasium—to which my readers will devote their hours of recreation. So at the first flurry of snow they will hang their rackets as trophies over the mantel, and leave lawn tennis to the enthusiasts until the warm sun and soft rains of spring shall have spread over the court a carpet of fresh green grass.
[AN ASIATIC STORY.]
We suppose most of our young readers know that the people of far-off Asia have their folk-lore and their fairy stories just as we have them. This is one relating to a quarrel about the stupid question of "caste," which simply means whether one person is of better blood and position than another.
There was once a dog and a cat. It was a very rainy day, and some men were eating their dinner inside their house. The cat sat inside, too, eating her dinner, and the dog sat on the door-step. The cat called out to the dog, "I am a high-caste person, and you are a very low-caste person." "Oh," said the dog, "not at all. I am the high-caste person, and you are of very low caste. You eat all the men's dinner up, and snatch the food from their hands just as they are putting it into their mouths. And you scratch them, and they beat you, while I sit away from them, and so they don't beat me. And if they give me any dinner, I'll eat it; but if they don't, I won't." "Oh," says the cat, "not a bit of it. I eat nice clean food; but you eat nasty, dirty food, which the men have thrown away." "No," said the dog, "I am high caste, and you are very low caste; for if I gave you a slap you would tumble down directly." "No, no," said the cat. And they went on disputing, and began to fight, until the dog said, "Very well, let us go to the wise jackal and ask him which of us is the better." "Good," said the cat. So they went to the jackal and asked him. Said the cat, "I am of the higher caste, and the dog is of the lower caste." "No," said the jackal, "the dog is of the higher caste." The cat said, "No," and the jackal said, "Yes," and they began to fight.
Then the jackal and the dog proposed to go and ask a great big beast, who lived in the jungle, and was like a tiger. But the cat said, "I can not go near a tiger, or anything like one." So then they said, "When we come near the beast you can remain behind, and we will go on and speak to him." So they ran into the jungle, where there was a tiger who had been lying on the ground with a great thorn sticking in his foot. When his aunt, the cat, saw him, she scampered off, for she was dreadfully frightened.
The thorn had given the tiger great pain; for a long while he could get no one to take it out, so had lain there for days. At last he had seen a man passing by, to whom he called and said, "Take out this thorn, and I promise I won't eat you." But the man refused through fear, saying, "No, I won't, for you will eat me." Three times the tiger had promised not to eat him; so at last the man took out the thorn. Then the tiger sprang up and said, "Now I will eat you, for I am very hungry." "Oh, no, no!" said the man. "What a liar you are! You promised not to eat me if I would take the thorn out of your foot, and now that I have done so you say you will eat me." And they began to fight, and the man said, "If you won't eat me, I will bring you a cow and a goat." But the tiger refused, saying, "No, I won't eat them; I will eat you."
At this moment the jackal and the dog came up. And the jackal asked, "What is the matter? why are you fighting?" So then the man told him why they were fighting; and the jackal said to the tiger, "I will tell you a good way of eating the man. Go and fetch a big bag." So the tiger went and fetched the bag, and brought it to the jackal. Then the jackal said, "Get inside the bag and leave its mouth open, and I'll throw the man in to you." So the tiger got inside the bag, and the jackal, the dog, and the man quickly tied it up as tight as they could. Then they began to beat the tiger with all their might until at last they killed him. Then the man went home, and the jackal went home, and the dog went home.
[THE MERRY WIND.]
BY MRS. M. E. SANGSTER.
The merry wind came racing
Adown the hills one day,
In gleeful frolic chasing
The rustling leaves away.
In clouds of red and yellow,
He whirled the leaves along,
And then the jolly fellow
He sang a cheery song.
The merry wind was weary
At last of fun and play;
His voice grew faint and eerie,
And softly died away.
Far off a crow was calling,
And in the mellow sun
The painted leaves kept falling
And fading, one by one.
[A DANGEROUS PLAYTHING.]
BY CHARLES LEDYARD NORTON.
Ever since Meg laid her hand on a moderately warm stove, when she was learning to walk, she has been very much afraid of fire, and no one in the house is in the least anxious about her playing with matches, for she could not be hired to do such a thing at any price. Indeed, it was thought a very remarkable event when, having reached the advanced age of seven years, she consented to take one of the long tapers made for the purpose and light the gas in hall and sitting-room.
Her mother was glad to have her do this, thinking that it would make her careful, and at the same time teach her not to be overtimid. And so it did, but not in the way mamma expected; for one evening, as Meg carried her taper under the portière, what should she do but set the fringe on fire!
Seeing that Meg had all her life been in mortal dread of just such an accident, it was very brave in her, without an instant's hesitation, to brush the fire out with her two little hands. She did not even scream, but she was very pale and "trembly" when she went to mamma in the library, and showing her besmirched hands, said, "It's all over, mamma, but I 'most set the house on fire." Sure enough, the fringe, scorched for a distance of two or three feet, proved that it was a narrow escape.[2]
Upon the whole, it would be well if all young people were as much afraid of fire and of matches—the cause of fire—as Meg was. Many a family has had to run for their lives out into the dark night because some heedless youngster saw fit to take this dreadful creature, fire, for a playmate.
RESCUED FROM THE FLAMES.
Our artist actually witnessed the incident which he has so cleverly drawn. The flames had seized on the lower stairways and stories of the house, so that escape was impossible for the mother and child on the fourth floor. No ladder could be procured, so one of the most active of the firemen climbed from one window to another, by the help of sashes and blind fixtures, until he reached the frightened pair. Others followed him, stationing themselves in the lower windows. A mattress was brought out, and held by a score of strong arms under the windows.
Baby must go first, though mamma could hardly bear to have him leave her arms; and perhaps the fireman had to be a little rough before he made her loose her hold. It was simple enough to deal with him, however, and he scarcely had time to squall and kick, so deftly was he passed down, first to the man standing in the window below, then to the one who sat on the sill, and finally dropped into the mattress.
Mamma was more difficult to manage, because she was bigger and heavier. But, on the other hand, she could help a little by holding on to the sills, and letting go when she was told. So at last she too was steadily lowered from hand to hand until she reached the mattress and the ground.
If these men had been a little less brave and skillful than they were, there might have been a sad tale to tell as the result of a boy's thoughtless experiment with a match. Sad enough a fire always is, however, for those who lose or suffer by it, and in all large cities the Fire Department is very carefully equipped and organized.
THE FIRST "STEAMER" IN NEW YORK.
The old-fashioned hand-engines, such as are shown in the illustration, with a row of men at the brakes on either side, are all out of use now, and are seldom seen save in villages and small towns. There even they are fast giving way to chemical engines, and before many years the old piano machines will be almost forgotten. Nevertheless, they did good service in their day, and were manned by as daring a set of fellows as ever ran to a fire, or broke each other's heads in a street fight. Thousands of them served bravely on both sides in the war of the rebellion, but when those that were left of them went home, steamers—the small cut shows the first one that did duty in New York—had come in and crowded out the old "machines." Volunteers were no longer wanted.
Very different affairs were fires in those days from what they are now. Then the first shout of "fire!" set loose a very bedlam of noises. Bells rang, every one who was in the street yelled "fire!" and the whole population rushed madly toward the place where it was supposed to be. It is a wonder that anything was ever done amidst such a scene of confusion; but in reality fires were wonderfully well managed.
How different is everything now in all the large cities! In New York, for instance, there are several fires every day, but most people learn of them through the newspapers. Not an alarm-bell is rung. Very rarely is the cry of "fire!" heard.
You are sitting quietly at home, perhaps. Suddenly you hear the sharp stroke of a peculiarly toned gong. Then there is a thunder of wheels, a clatter of galloping hoofs, and you rush to the window in time to see a vision of gleaming brass, flying sparks, dark figures clinging to the swaying engine, and a pair of noble horses straining every nerve. Perhaps that may be all you know of a great fire until the next day.
Should you take a car, and follow anywhere from one to ten miles to the burning building, you will find an immense, quiet crowd, kept out of harm's way by a strong force of police, while in the cleared space before the building the tireless steamers are at work, each of them throwing two or three steady streams of water into the heart of the fire.
Meg's papa told her all about this, and how seldom it is that a fire nowadays has a chance to make much headway; but her visit to an engine-house was the most comforting. There she saw the splendid horses, and the engine in perfect order, with the wood under the boiler ready to light; and the man on duty explained how the stroke of the alarm-bell unhitched the horses, if they were in their stalls, and how the handsome creatures knew just where to go to be "hitched up," and how eager they were for their race to the fire.
Just as he was quietly showing them all this, a succession of ear-piercing clangs were heard. Meg's papa knew what it meant, and catching his little girl up in his arms, hurried with her into an out-of-the-way corner. The still, well-ordered engine-house was instantly alive with energy. The horses snorted with excitement, as they backed out of their stalls and trotted into place. Hurried footsteps were heard overhead and on the stairs, and in a moment several men were springing to their stations. One turned on the steam and lighted the fire; others made fast the few buckles required to attach the harness. The driver was in his seat, the whip cracked, and away went the already smoking engine at a tearing pace.
Meg trembled like a leaf when it was all over, and her father was afraid that she would be more nervously timid than ever. But to his surprise she said to him as they walked home, "Papa, now I've seen how everything is done, I shall never be afraid any more."
And just after she said so they met the engine on its way back, for the fire was already out.
[NURSERY RHYMES.—Continued.]
Ring-a-ring-a-roses,
A pocket full of posies;
Hush! hush! hush! hush!
We're all tumbled down.
Little maid, little maid,
Whither goest thou?
Down in the meadow
To milk my cow.
Seesaw—Jack in the hedge,
Which is the way to London Bridge?
As I was going up Pippin Hill,
Pippin Hill was dirty;
There I met a pretty lass,
And she dropped me a courtesy.
Goosey, goosey, gander,
Where shall I wander?
Up stairs and down stairs,
And in my lady's chamber.
As Tommy Snooks and Bessie Brooks
Were walking out one Sunday;
Says Tommy Snooks to Bessie Brooks,
"To-morrow—will be Monday."
Georgie Peorgie, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry:
When the girls came out to play,
Georgie Peorgie ran away.
My mother and your mother
Went over the way;
Said my mother to your mother,
"It's a chop-a-nose day."
Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Learned to play when he was young.
And with his pipe made such a noise,
That he pleased all the girls and boys.
Now that the leaves are falling, and the wind is whistling round the eaves and roaring down the chimneys, we must think of pleasant things to do in-doors. Who likes to toss a bean-bag back and forth? We know of no exercise so simple, so easy, and so well calculated to develop the muscles of the arms and chest as this pretty, graceful game of throwing the bean-bag. Take some strong calico from your mother's piece-bag, and make a square case of any size you please, sewing it all up except one little space, into which you must pour your beans. Having done this, sew up that corner tightly, and your bag will be made. Two or three bean-bags will be necessary if there are several young people to enjoy the frolic. A good time for this special game is the last half-hour before dusk, and if you can coax mamma and auntie to join you, all the better.
Jack-stones are favorites with many children. Little silk bags filled with rice are sometimes substituted for stones in this game. They make a sweet and musical swishing sound as they are thrown up and caught.
The little girls who have china dolls might make very cunning pen-wipers by taking eight pieces of gay flannel or merino—from mother's piece-bag again—cutting them into a circular shape, and folding twice, stitch them around Miss Dolly, who will then look precisely like a fairy in fluted petticoats.
Prescott, Ontario, Canada.
You have asked the children to tell of their amusements, so we send you a game called "Genteel Lady." You must have a number of twisted papers made to represent horns. For each mistake that a player may make, a horn is stuck in the hair. The game begins by one of the party saying to her neighbor on the right hand, "Good-morning, genteel lady, always genteel. I, a genteel lady always, come from that genteel lady always genteel" (pointing to the person on her left hand) "to tell you that she has an eagle with a golden beak." This is repeated by the next girl, who must add something to the last phrase, but must keep strictly to the formal introduction. It is quite likely that she will make a mistake, and if she does, she is immediately to receive a horn. After this she will be called "the one-horned lady, always one-horned," until she shall receive another horn, when she will be called "the two-horned," etc. Each person who repeats what has been last said without making a mistake must add something—as silver claws, diamond eyes, raven plumage, or whatever else she chooses—to the description of the eagle. At the end the horns, which are regarded as forfeits, are all ransomed.
We like the stories in Young People very much indeed.
Fannie and Annie.
New York City.
I have written before to your paper, and shall be very much disappointed if this goes into that dreadful waste-basket into which my first letter must have gone, for I have heard nothing from it. I have taken Young People for nearly a year, and think it is a splendid paper. I spent my vacation this summer at Hempstead, Long Island. I caught several turtles. I visited Garden City, and saw the cathedral and other noted buildings. I am very fond of animals. I have a black cat named Ned. I had a greyhound named Golden, but he died in a fit while I was away this summer. I have also a gold-fish. I read the account of President Garfield's boyhood in Young People. I hope we boys will profit by his example.
Albert W. T.
The following letter will show country boys how a city boy of ten, who had spent all his life in a large hotel, enjoyed his first visit to a village where he could play in the fields, and enjoy the society of other boys in out-of-door sports. He sent an account of his experience to his parents, who have kindly allowed us to print it in Our Post-office Box.
Plainfield, Illinois.
Dear Father and Mother,—I am having lots of fun with Harry F., Lester S., Willie R., and Clint H. at recess. These are the boys who go to school. At recess we play lasso, and tree-tag, and pussy in the corner. Papa, I rode Kit day before yesterday night in the dark to Plainfield, and yesterday I rode her to Plainfield and all around Robert's house. I went out in the corn field to see Robert husk corn. Then when I went home to uncle's, he wanted me to go and get the cows; but I could only find the calves, though I looked all over for them; then I drove the calves, and uncle and I went to look for the cows, but he went afoot, and I went on horseback; and I saw one in the corn, and I went there, and I saw four cows, and I drove them home all alone, and I was so busy I did not shut the bars, and uncle wanted me to go back alone and shut the bars. Dear father, I appreciate the popper and corn, and two days ago I popped a panful, and the boys and I ate it out in the yard, and had a good time. To-day I popped a panful, and Wallace and I ate a little of it, and saved the rest, and I have got it now popped. Dear papa, I learned to husk corn to-day, and yesterday I helped uncle churn to make butter. Oh, mamma, there are lots of girls go to school over here, and have a lot of fun. I can ride terribly fast on Kit. I borrow Mr. McClellan's saddle and bridle. Oh, mamma, the seat of my pants is nearly all torn off, and I have no others. I wish I could get them fixed. Can you tell me how I can, mamma? The boys think a great deal of me—I know they do. Oh, papa, I guess I will get fat pretty soon, because I eat about ten sweet-potatoes, a lot of chicken, and toast at every meal. If I stay much longer, I will want some more money—about fifty cents.
Very truly, your son,
Wallace.
London, England.
I have often thought I should like to write to the readers of Harper's Young People. I live in London, England. Harper's Young People is given to us by a very kind American gentleman who lives in London. I have two sisters, named Eleanor and Maud, and three brothers, named Francis, Charles, and Edward. We all thought that "Toby Tyler" was delightful. I am in the Telegraph School in London; I expect some day when I get into an office I shall send telegrams to America; I do not think I like any English magazine so well as Harper's Young People. I am very fond of reading the letters in the Post-office Box. I was very sorry to hear of the sad death of President Garfield, and the day that he was buried I went to hear the bells of St. Paul's Cathedral ring. They ring only when great people die. They were muffled, and sounded so very solemn! It seemed as if one of our own great men had died. I never remember anything like it. It seemed as if every one was in mourning.
Marion H.
Beloit, Wisconsin.
I want to tell Young People what a nice trip we had on Lake Michigan this summer. There were papa, mamma, my sister, my two aunts, my uncle, and myself. At first we went on the cars to Racine; then we went on board the Muskegan. At first I did not know what to think of finding myself on such a large steamboat. We went to Milwaukee, then to Sheboygan, Jacksonport, Escanaba, and up to Green Bay. We had fair weather all the time, and that made it delightful. At most of the places we got off the boat, and rambled about. There was another little girl on the boat just about my sister's age. We had lots of fun playing doll and telling stories and riddles. One evening papa, that other little girl, whose name is Mabel, and myself, were on deck, and began telling stories and riddles. There were some little bits of boys and girls there who had some knit horse-reins, and liked to have us drive them. We went up on the hurricane-deck, and looked upon the water. We came home well pleased with our trip.
S. Belle C. (aged 9).
Kelloggsville, Ohio.
I am a little girl twelve years old. I have got a little dog named Trip; I have a little harness, and I drive him. I have a little squirrel named Chickery. I and two of my friends went chestnutting, and got six nuts apiece. I have a little sister named Leva. Maybe I will take Harper's Young People next year. My little friend takes it, and I like it very much. I hope I may see my letter printed.
Gracie H.
Kelloggsville, Ohio.
I, too, am twelve years old. I take Young People, and I like "Toby Tyler" and "Tim and Tip" the best. I have a little bird named Billy, and a doll named Jennie. I have not any brothers or sisters, but a dear little Cousin Ralph. I go to school, and study reading, arithmetic, geography, and spelling.
Katie M.
Rush City, Minnesota.
I am ten years old, and I have a little pony, and her name is Topsy. My papa says she is buckskin-color, but I think she is golden. And I had two pet rabbits, one black and one white, and papa had a puppy bird dog that broke loose and ate them both up, and I could not find them. One day I went out-doors and found their ears. We had a wild canary's nest in a maple-tree in our yard, and mamma got one of the birds, and it sings more than our tame one. I attend school, and study geography, arithmetic, Fourth Reader, grammar, spelling, and writing. I am the youngest in all my classes, but still keep a little ahead. I like the stories in Young People very much.
Anna L. P.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
I have written to you once before; but not having seen my letter published, I thought I would try again. Papa has taken Young People for my brother Harry and me since the first number came out. We take turns about reading it first. Harry has it first one week, and I get it first the next week. Papa made that rule because we both wanted it at once. We were so anxious to read about poor Toby Tyler! Papa read to us out of the paper about the boat that is called for him. We have two cats. The older one will not let us pet her at all, but the other is very gentle. We once had a cat that used to get on grandma's shoulder and take off her glasses, and she used to mind two little guinea-pigs we had. If she thought they got too far from the house, she would chase them back; and when papa brought them home she thought they were kittens, for she used to cuddle them up to her; and if they got frightened, they would run and get under her. When cold weather came, we sent them to the Zoological Garden, as we had no place to keep them, and grandma said the gray cat ought to have gone to take care of them. Mamma says she sees only one defect in Young People; that is, the date is not conspicuous enough. I am afraid I am making my letter too long. I would like to write more. On Sunday, the 23d of October, I will be eleven years old.
Annie R. H.
As the date is always in the same place, and you know where to look for it, it does not need to be very conspicuous for bright young eyes like yours.
Louisville, Kentucky.
Frank and I are two little boys who live in Louisville. We take your paper, and like it so much! I don't know which I like best, "Tim and Tip" or "Talking Leaves"; but Frank likes to read the letters from the boys and girls, and we want to tell them about our squirrels. We have had them about six months. They live in a large tin cage with a wheel, and they are so gentle they will eat from our hands, and come out of their house when we call "Bunny." We feed them ourselves, and they know us. I hope you will put this letter in your Box.
Mason.
I live in the country about three miles from Scottsville, New York. I have for pets one dog named Sport, four cats—their names are Jim, Prince, Tramp, and Hayes—one cow named Snowball, one calf named Strawberry, and one pony named Nellie. I am staying at my grandma's for my health. My grandpa owns a large farm, and keeps horses, cows, and other animals. I would like to exchange 100 postmarks (no duplicates, and some rare), for thirty foreign stamps, or forty-five picture-cards (no duplicates). One stone from New York, for one foreign stamp. Please write before sending.
Florence Pope, Scottsville, Monroe Co., N. Y.
Community, New York.
I wrote to Young People a long time ago, but have never seen the letter in print, so I will try again.
I like Harper's Young People very much indeed, and I think "Tim and Tip" is just splendid. I hope to take this paper another year.
I have a kitty, and when I go to the shed to feed her, she will jump up on a stone that serves as a table, and wait patiently for what I have to give her. My little friend Beatrice, two years old, is very fond of this kitty, and will come out and say, "Good-morning, kitty," and "Good-by, kitty," of her own accord.
It is fair-day at Oneida, and, if pleasant, Miss Nellie Thurston will make a balloon ascension this afternoon at 4 o'clock.
I am nine years old, and have a sister Christine six years old.
Gertrude H.
I live on the banks of the Ohio River, opposite Constance, Boone County, Kentucky. Just opposite our house is the mouth of the little creek which separates Boone County from Kenton County, Kentucky. I have a little black dog named Moses, and a cat named Mrs. Nellie de Garmo Taliaferro. My father's office is in Cincinnati. He brings me the Young People every Wednesday, and I go to the dépôt to meet him. My name is Bennie E. H., and I shall be nine years old the 20th of October.
We hope you had a happy birthday.
Peoria, Kansas.
I have three brothers and one sister, and myself am eleven years old. I have a great big doll, and her name is Mollie; and a cunning little one, and her name is Jessie. I let my little brothers play with them. My papa is the postmaster. My sister is fourteen years old. She would like to exchange flower seeds with some of the girls, and she has four different kinds.
Eva W. Bateman.
Scranton, Pennsylvania.
We wanted mamma to write and tell you about our dog Gip. When he is out-doors and wants to come in, he goes to the front door and rings the bell. I wonder if any of the other children who take Young People have such a smart dog. We have a little goat that came here last week, and it follows us all over.
Georgie and Bessie S.
Lynn, Massachusetts.
My uncle has taken Young People for his "brood of little folks," as he calls his nephews and nieces, since the first number. The brood are my cousins Willie and Grace, my sister Florence, and myself—all of whom are old enough to read—also my two sisters and brother, Mattie, Hattie, and Clarence, who are too young yet to read, but who like very much to look at the pictures, and to whom we read the stories. I have never seen a letter in Young People from any of its many readers in Lynn, so I thought I would write one. My uncle has two fine yellow cats, striped like tigers. Their names are Toby Tyler and Jimmy Brown. Every morning Toby goes to the door that opens on the stairway leading to my uncle's room, and mews and rattles the latch until some one opens the door and lets him run up to the apartment. As soon as Toby gets there he jumps up on the bed, and wakes my uncle up by pawing him in the face; and one morning he sat down on my uncle's face. I am twelve years old.
Ida May C.
Newark, New Jersey.
We have two little kittens, the very prettiest kittens I ever saw. We have been rowing a great many times this summer, and I have learned to row and to swim.
Sidney W. A.
We wish all the boys, and the girls too, would learn to swim, if they live near the water. Swimming is easily learned, and once learned, is never forgotten.