A word to my Correspondents.

I beg my young friends who favor me with their letters to understand that I receive them with great pleasure, even though I do not find an opportunity to put them all in print. I give my thanks to Christopher Columbus; to J. A. H——, of Medford, and others, who have taken into their heads to send me puzzles; but as I have given a great supply of these the last month, I must pass them by, at least for the present.

The following letter contains a suggestion that I shall certainly comply with. The idea is a very good one.

Mr. Robert Merry:

I have just learned to read, and I wish you would put some little stories in your Museum, such as I can understand. My sister Jane reads it, and she likes it very much, but it has too many long words for me. Won’t you put in two or three pages for me, every month? I shall then like you very much.

Lucy A——.

Washington, March 23, 1842.

Dear Mr. Merry:

My mother has just commenced taking your Magazine for me, and I like it very much. The March number was very long in coming, but when it did come it was very interesting. Every number that I get, I always look for Philip Brusque and the Siberian Sable-Hunter. I was glad to find them both in this number. I hope that the story of Philip Brusque will not long be discontinued, it is so interesting. The puzzles, with some help, I found out; and I set my wits to work and made one. Perhaps you will think it worth putting in the Museum; so here it is. I am composed of 14 letters. My 4th, 5th, 1st, 2d, is an article much used in winter. My 11th, 1st, 13th, 14th, 8th, an ancient poet. My 6th, 7th, 10th, 11th, 8th, the worst of passions. My 3d, 6th, 10th, 12th, a celebrated authoress. My 9th, 3d, 1st, 6th, a purifier. My whole, our nation’s scourge.

Another Black-eyed Friend.

Mr. Robert Merry:

The following puzzle is from three subscribers for Merry’s Museum for 1842, and it will oblige them to see it in the May number.

H. T. C.
E. J. S.
J. W. C.

I am a word of 13 letters.

My 3d, 12th, 13th, 5th, 12th, and 9th, is the
name of one of the ex-presidents of the United States.
My 1st, 8th, 13th, and 9th, is a name common with the female sex.
My 4th, 5th, 12th, and 13th, is the name of a metal.
My 7th, 9th, 6th, and 2d, is the name of another.
My 11th, 10th, 9th, and 2d, is a common thing
with boys in winter.
My 6th, 4th, and 5th, is one of the elements.
My whole is the name of a great warrior.

I am quite pleased with the following, and should be happy to hear from Bertha very often.

CHARADE.

My first’s the end of him whose wife
Was turned one day to salt;
And doubtless, if the truth must out,
My fourth’s the end of malt.
My second, if you will believe it,
Essential is to rest;
My third,—and you can well conceive it,—
Is that which you love best.
My fifth—my last—’tis found in heaven—
’Tis found, alas! in hell;
And though not in an oyster met,
It lives in every shell.
Already hath my humble name
In these brief lines been set;
But modest merit’s overlooked,
And you don’t see me yet!
I am the greatest earthly good,—
The only path to glory,—
Come, gentle reader, guess my name,
And keep me e’er before thee!—Bertha.

The letter from J. A. is very gratifying, so I give it an insertion.

Petersburgh, Va., March 2, 1842.

Mr. Merry:

I have just begun to take your Museum, and I like it very much. I think you tell stories very much as Peter Parley did. I like Parley’s books so much that I called my little dog Peter Parley. He died some time ago, and now I am going to get another, and I intend to call it Robert Merry. I hope you won’t be offended at this, for we always call dogs after famous people. I think the best of your stories is the Sable-Hunter, but I really wish you would go on with it a little faster.

James A——.

The following is inserted, not because it is a very famous specimen of poetry but because it is written by quite a young person, and shows a very tender feeling

ON A DEAD RABBIT.

Once upon a time,

When I was in my prime,

I had a rabbit white as milk,

And its hair was soft as silk.

One morn I went to feed it,—

There was no rabbit there—

And long I hunted after it,

Looking everywhere.

One day, when I was wandering,

Something met my eye,

It was my little rabbit,

Hung on a tree close by.

But oh! I can’t relate it—

That pretty one was dead;

And sadly did I bury it,

In a lonely, narrow bed!