Our Correspondence.
We have received the kind New Year’s greeting of R. B. Jr., for which we offer a return of our best wishes. We have also the pleasant letter of P. L. H., and that of E. D. H. His answer—Constantinople—to the puzzle, is right. We have also received the communications of D. A. B—k. Our little friend, a “reader of the Museum” at Pulaski, will see that we have hardly got room for his thoughts on “Liberty.” His sentiments, however, are very just. The puzzle from Goshen, though a good one, must be omitted. We must say the same of the geographical enigma from a place without a name. The complimentary note of Charles A. H—y is received, and his answer to the puzzle is right. The “young subscriber from New Hampshire” will see that we have not space for his pleasant enigma.
We insert the following letter with pleasure. In regard to the word “Cowpig,” as used by Mrs. Trudge, we venture to suggest that she meant Cupid; but, as we would not be too confident on this point, we propose to ask her what she did mean, when we next see her.
Sandwich, January 8th, 1844.
Dear Mr. Merry:
I wish you a happy new year. I think I have found out the answer to the puzzle in the January number, which is Constantinople. As I am not much of a poetess, I cannot put it in the form of an acrostic or rhyme, and I hope a plain answer will do. It is the first one I have ever found out, but I think it is because I have not had patience enough, for I found it very easy. I am glad you are going to have some good long stories, equal to the Siberian Sable-hunter, in this year’s Museum. I feel much interested in the story of Bridget Trudge. I laughed well at the red bonnet and yallar silk gown, and fan with Wenus on one side, and Cowpig on the other. But none of us can tell what Cowpig means. Please explain it in the next chapter about them.
P.S. My sister Lottie is very disappointed at not finding any “Little Leaves.”
E.P.C.
The letters of R. P. H., E. B. P., and James P., will appear in the next number.
We insert the following with pleasure, which the writer tells us is a true picture of a dear home. It makes our old heart glad to find that we are welcome, even among the mountains.
A WINTER EVENING IN THE COUNTRY.
Away among the mountains a pleasant farm house lies,
And round its fireside gather sweet faces and bright eyes;
The blazing fire of maple-wood lights up the spacious room,
And branches of the fragrant birch give out a sweet perfume.
And we are happy—’midst these hills our childhood has been past,
And beautiful they seem to us, with forests old and vast;
The summer and the autumn bring golden fruits and flowers,
But dearer than the summer days are pleasant winter hours.
The happy winter evenings, we love their social mirth,
For many pleasant tales are told beside our lighted hearth;
A welcome face sometimes looks in upon our circle here,
And brings to us the happiest hour in all the glad New Year.
It is an old man’s face, with clustering gray hair,
And a wrinkled forehead wearing, though furrowed not by care;
Old Robert Merry, with his smiles, his tales of other climes,
His Museum of curious things, new stories and old rhymes.
We knew him by another name in years that are gone by,
And loved good Peter Parley with his kind brow and eye;
Each month unto our mountain home, came “Parley’s Magazine,”
’Till “Merry’s Museum” took the place where it so long had been.
We love our guest far better because our own young hands
Have labored for the pleasure he brings from other lands;
When autumn leaves fell round us, the autumn nuts grew brown,
We and the squirrels gathered them as they came rattling down.
O, merry was our harvest time—we made the woods ring out,
Through all the long, bright autumn day, with our gay, careless shout;
And then we sold our nuts, and thus have the pleasure still,
Of seeing Robert Merry in our home upon the hill.
M. T. B.
Lowell, Jan. 4.
THE LITTLE SOLDIER.
We insert the following, with thanks to the writer, and should be glad to receive the remainder of the story:
Mr. Merry:
I am one of your “blue-eyed friends,” and although not a “little” one, I have been much interested in the articles which have appeared in the Museum, connected with the war of our Revolution.
I know many of the warm advocates for peace, query how far it is judicious to interest the minds of the rising generation, in the details of war; still, I must believe that many of the blessings we enjoy, peculiar to our own country, were purchased by the self-sacrifices of our fathers, and their “children’s children,” should not overlook this fact.
It has occurred to me that a little sketch of one who took an active part in the scenes of those eventful days, may perhaps amuse your readers. The old soldier from whom I have my history, enlisted into the army at the age of fifteen, as a fifer. He was much below the common size of boys at that age, and, for this reason, chose to be a musician. He heard the sound of the guns on the morning of the Lexington battle, and soon after this event, he was ordered, with the company to which he belonged, to New York. His good mother furnished him with all that a kind, pious mother could think of, for his comfort, even to a ball of yarn and a needle, to repair his stockings. He returned them to her, after his service in the army, “safe and sound.”
Soon after their arrival in New York, the alarm was given that the enemy were approaching; and not doubting a skirmish, at least, a company of men volunteered to go out and meet the enemy. They were ordered to be in ambush, and then rise suddenly upon the foe. The little fifer (a mere boy) joined the party, and soon found himself in the heat of battle. He has often told me that he felt no sensation of fear at the time; the dense smoke, the roaring of the cannon, the groans and shrieks of the dying, were alike unheeded by him. His only wish was to load—aim—fire, and kill one of the British. He always thought he accomplished his object, and God seems to have awarded a quick retribution.
Just as he had fired, his party were ordered to retreat, and, in turning to obey the orders, the poor fellow received a ball in the back, which lodged near the spine. He thought it must be his death-wound, and after moving on a few rods, he left his comrades, and concealing himself behind a small white oak tree, he set up his gun, and falling on his knees, he committed his soul to the Saviour. His eye-sight and hearing left him; he was bleeding profusely, and of course believed this to be his last hour on earth.
How long he was in this state he could not tell, but hoping his strength would permit, as soon as he could see and hear, he crawled on his hands and knees into the road, and soon met the surgeon, who, with the vehicle for the wounded soldiers, was on his way to the place where the skirmish was fought. The hospital was a mile distant, and the lad chose to remain where he was, until the cart came back. He was placed in it, and, in the course of a day or two after his wound had been given, the surgeon attempted to extract the ball, but it could not be done without causing instant death.
He remained in the hospital eight or ten weeks, slowly recovering his strength. He was two hundred miles from home; poor, feeble, and in this sad condition, he resolved to attempt a journey home on foot. A young man, who was his intimate friend and fellow-townsman, agreed to be his guide and protector, and they started on their melancholy journey.
If the sketch, thus far, has awakened any interest, the writer will cheerfully communicate some touching incidents connected with the “soldier’s return home.” What is your opinion, Mr. Merry?
A Soldier’s Daughter.
Evening.
WORDS AND MUSIC COMPOSED FOR MERRY’S MUSEUM; THE LATTER BY GEO. J. WEBB.
How sweet when the daylight
In summer is flown,
And the soft veil of evening
Is thrown o’er the scene,
’Mid dewdrops and fragrance
To wander alone,
As free as the fairies That dance on the green.
How changed is each scene!
Though familiar it be,
Now strange and fantastic
It comes to the eye,—
E’en the sigh of the zephyr,
That rustles the tree,
Seems the whisper of spirits
That stoop from the sky.
The stars, that shrunk back
All abashed from the gaze,
When the sun in his glory
Shone down from above,
Now timid and tender
Melt the soul with their rays,
And woo it to Heaven
On pinions of love.
Sweet Evening—how fair
Are thy charms to the heart,
And how blest thus to wander
With thee all alone!
Yet dearer—far dearer,
Blest Evening, thou art,
When I praise thee to Mary.
And call her my own!