To our Correspondents.

We are very sorry that our limits do not permit us to insert more of the many pretty letters we receive from our friends. The following, which pleases us on account of the kind manner in which our little correspondent speaks of her teacher, ought to have appeared at an earlier date.

Troy, N. Y., June 23, 1843.

Mr. Merry:

Dear Sir,—We have received the June number of your magazine, and are all very much delighted to learn that we are to have a piece of music in the next number. We have been asking our teacher to let us solicit the same favor of you that your Providence friends did. We have fifteen little misses in our school, of whom I am the oldest; for I am ten years old. We some of us take lessons on the piano, and all of us sing. We have a pleasant school, and we all love our teacher, Miss E. B. W., for her kindness and faithful instructions. The particular branches to which I attend are Geography, Davis’ Arithmetic, Grammar, Music and French. Those that study French like it very much.

I hope you will excuse the forwardness of one of your young friends, in writing so much about her little affairs; but I know you have kind feelings for children.

Yours, respectfully, Mary L. C.

Boston, Aug. 14, 1843.

Dear Mr. Merry:

Will you allow one of your young readers to contribute the following geographical enigma?

I am composed of 17 letters.

N. B

I need not say that the following pleases me very much.

Liverpool, May, 1843.

My Dearest Friend:

I am going to write you a letter. I am very much obliged to you. I am very much amused in hearing stories out of your nice books about the world. I will tell you a story about a widow.

A TRUE STORY.

I knew a widow, very poor,

Who four small children had,

The eldest was but six years old—

A gentle, modest lad.

And very hard this widow tried

To feed her children four,—

An honest mind the woman had

Though she was very poor.

To labor she would leave her home,

For children must be fed,

And glad was she when she could buy

A shilling’s worth of bread.

One day, when snow was falling fast,

And piercing was the air,

I thought that I would go and see

How these poor children were.

Ere long I reached their cheerless home,—

’Twas searched by every breeze,—

When going in, the eldest child

I saw upon his knees.

I paused to listen to the boy;

He never raised his head,

But still went on and said, “Give us

This day our daily bread.”

I waited till the child had done,

Still listening as he prayed;

And when he rose, I asked him why

The Lord’s prayer he had said.

“Why, sir,” said he, “this morning, when

My mother went away,

She wept, because, she said, she had

No bread for us to day.

She said, we children now must starve,

Our father being dead;

And then I told her not to cry,

For I would get some bread.

‘Our Father,’ sir, the prayer begins,

Which made me think that he,

(As we have got no father here,)

Would our kind Father be.

And then, you know, the prayer, sir, too,

Asks God for bread each day;

So in the corner, sir, I went,

And that’s what made me pray.”

I quickly left that wretched room,

And went with cheerful feet,—

And very soon was back again,

With food enough to eat.

“I thought God heard me,” said the boy,—

I answered with a nod,—

I could not speak, but much I thought

Of that child’s faith in God.

I hope you will like the story that I have written: I like it very much. M. C.