THE INCOMPLETE TEXT.

My Dear Jack: The letter E is the one to be added to that church-wall text which you gave to your chicks in May. If this vowel is set in at the right places, the text will read:

"Persevere, ye perfect men;

Ever keep these precepts ten!"

This refers, of course, to the Ten Commandments that came through Moses. In a postscript you will find the names of the bright chicks who sent in the whole text in its complete form. Please give them my good wishes.—Yours sincerely,

Silas Green.

P.S.—Fred S. Mead, Charles F. Fitts, Mary H. Bradley, Lou D. Denison, H.J.W., Arnold Guyot Cameron, "Nane," A.R.C., "Daisy," Nellie Emerson; Bessie and Charlie Wheeler; Marie Armstrong, Neils E. Hansen, Katie Burnett, Lucy V. McRill, O.K.H., Bessie Dorsey, S.C., Edward A. Page, Bessie P.; Gladys H. Wilkinson, of Manchester, England; and Lane MacGregor.

[THE LETTER-BOX.]

Boston, Mass., May 2, 1878.

Dear Saint Nicholas: Will you give me room to rectify a slip of the pen? My "Sing-away Bird," in your May number, is not a thrush, but a sparrow; and I ought to be ashamed of the mistake, for I knew he was a sparrow, and had already spoken of him, in a story in verse, published three or four years ago, as

"Only a sparrow with a snowy throat."

Not only that, I hear his music every year, when I go into the White Mountain region, and consider it one of the chief charms of the wild scenery there. He sang this particular song to me last autumn, on the banks of the Androscoggin at Berlin Falls.

I ask his pardon and yours for the blunder, and send the stanza as I have corrected it to make it tell the truth:

'Twas the white-throated sparrow, that sped a light arrow

Of song from his musical quiver;

And the lingering spell slid through every dell

On the banks of the Runaway River.

"O sing! sing-away! sing-away!"

And the trill of the sweet singer had

The sound of a soul that is glad.

I hope there are plenty of the St. Nicholas children who know our wild birds well enough to see for themselves that I must have meant the one commonly known as the "Peabody-bird," so styled because his song seems always to be calling some human estray of that name, who never comes.

But, indeed, I am afraid that none of us know our musical little friends of the fields and woods as well as we should and might know them, if we studied into the matter,—Truly yours,

Lucy Larcom.

The story of Perseus, in this number, has been set in a frame of stars by the old astronomers. In Professor Proctor's sky-map in St. Nicholas for January, 1877, you will find the constellation.

New York.

Dear St. Nicholas: I find in Swift's "Gulliver's Travels" that he speaks of a "voyage to the country of the Houyhnhnms." Here are six consonants all in a row, and I would like to know if such a word can be correctly pronounced.

If it is pronounced "hoy-nims," and I doubt the possibility of pronouncing it any other way, is there any need of so many consonants?—Yours truly,

Charles A. Reed.

The word "Houyhnhnms" is the name given by Dean Swift to an imaginary race of horses endowed with reason. It is in two syllables, hou-yhnhnms, and may be pronounced "hoo-inmz," with the accent on either syllable, but the voice ought to be quavered in sounding the "n." It is likely that Swift spelled the word so as to get a set of sounds as nearly as possible like the gentle whinny of a horse when pleased.

Aintab, Northern Syria.

Dear St. Nicholas: I saw a little piece in your magazine, in the department of "Jack-in-the-Pulpit," entitled "Persian Stoves," and I thought you would like to know that the native people in Turkey, right here, do just the same; and, to tell the truth, it is very comfortable sometimes. They call it tandoor. I have a brother in Constantinople studying, also a younger brother, and a dear little sister named Isabelle, here. We have taken your magazine ever since it started, and I think I at least shall never tire of it. Love to Jack and the Little Schoolma'am, Deacon Green, and all our old friends.—Your loving friend and reader,

Elizabeth M. Trowbridge.

Portsmouth, N.H.

Dear St. Nicholas: I am sure you will like to hear how a cat adopted a mouse, so here is the whole story for you.

A mother cat, named Tabby, had all her kittens taken away except one, and she loved and petted this one little kitten as much as one little kitten could be loved and petted. But she had a heart so full of love that she could not possibly use it all up on one kitten; so, one day, she brought home the cunningest little mouse I ever saw. That little mouse, when she found herself in the cat's mouth, must have thought there was not much more fun for her, but that Mrs. Cat was taking her home to make a luncheon upon her. But Tabby carried her very carefully, so as not to rumple her smooth coat of fur nor break any of her tiny bones. When Tabby reached home, she dropped the mouse into the warm nest where lay her kitten, and immediately began to wash off the dust of travel, just as she daily bathed Kitty. Mousey liked this so well that she remained very quiet and quickly dropped asleep.

Tabby's mistress soon became interested in the happy family, and supplied bits of cheese and other things that mice like to eat. Now and then she saw this mouse perched on the back of the sleepy little kitten, and nibbling a bit of cheese held between her two front paws. Old Tabby would raise her head from her nap, to see what the little one was doing, and the Mousey would hide her lunch in one cheek, and look so innocent that Tabby would go to sleep again. Then Mousey would out with her cheese and go on nibbling. Thus, cat, kitten and mouse lived happily together until, one unfortunate day, Tabby had company; and before she could introduce the company to her family, the company had introduced the pet mouse to itself, and had swallowed her at one mouthful. Tabby tried hard to act as if her company were welcome, but she wore a very sad look during the whole visit. This is a true story.—Yours sincerely,

A.J.B.

"The St. Nicholas Club, of Philadelphia," a company of young puzzlers, have sent us four clever metrical answers to Mr. Cranch's poetical charades published in the April number. We are sorry that we have not room to print all these answers, but here are two of them:

First Charade.

When swiftly in the car you glide,

With friend or lover by your side,

All fear or danger you deride.

But should the car be overset,

You surely will be in a pet,

Although no ill betide.

When safely in your home you rest,

With foot upon the carpet pressed,

You heed no gloom outside.

Third Charade.

A man named Nicholas, with heavy pick.

On bar of steel scarce made a dent or nick,

"Pick, Nick!" a passing jester cried, in pleasant part.

"I wish it were picnic," said he, "with all my heart."

All the illustrations to the article called "Easter in Germany," printed in the April number, were credited in the table of contents to Mr. J.F. Runge. But the pictures entitled "An Easter Fancy," "An Easter Carriage," and "An Easter Load," were drawn by Miss Fanny E. Corne, the author of the article, and should have been credited to her.

A correspondent, H.F.G., sends us the following novel and audacious comparisons of words:

Comparisons of Words.

(P. stands for Positive; C., Comparative; S., Superlative.)

P.	A part of the foot	Sole
C.	Pertaining to the sun	Solar
S.	Comforted	Solaced

P.	A river in Scotland	Dee
C.	An animal	Deer
S.	One who does not believe in inspiration	Deist

P.	A negative	No
C.	A Bible worthy	Noah
S.	Dost know	Knowest

P.	To divide	Halve
C.	A port of France	Havre
S.	The time of gathering grain and fruit	Harvest

P.	A grain	Corn
C.	An angle	Corner
S.	With an upper molding	Cornised

P.	A personal pronoun	Ye
C.	A division of time	Year
S.	Is used in making bread	Yeast

P.	A knot	Bow
C.	A tedious person	Bore
S.	To make great pretensions	Boast

P.	A personal pronoun	You
C.	A pitcher	Ewer
S.	Accustomed	Used

P.	A line of things	Row
C.	A loud, deep voice or sound	Roar
S.	To cook	Roast

P.	To move with a lever.	Pry
C.	Previous	Prior
S.	Appraised	Priced

P.	A secret agent	Spy
C.	A steeple	Spire
S.	Seasoned	Spiced

P.	A body of water	Sea
C.	A prophet	Seer
S.	At an end	Ceased

P.	A song	Lay
C.	A stratum	Layer
S.	Fastened with a cord	Laced

P.	A meadow	Lea
C.	One of Shakspeare's royal characters	Lear
S.	Rented	Leased

P.	An insect	Flea
C.	To mock	Fleer
S.	Sheared	Fleeced

P.	A path	Way
C.	One who weighs	Weigher
S.	Desolate	Waste

P.	A very common abbreviation	Co
C.	The center	Core
S.	Border of the sea	Coast

P.	A part of the body	Neck
C.	A river of South-west Germany	Neckar
S.	Nearest	Next

P.	A river in Italy	Po
C.	To examine steadily and earnestly	Pore
S.	A pillar	Post

P.	A vowel	E
C.	A spike of corn	Ear
S.	A point of compass	East

P.	A tool	Hoe
C.	Whitish	Hoar
S.	An army	Host

P.	A personal pronoun	I
C.	Anger	Ire
S.	Cooled with ice	Iced

P.	Compensation	Fee
C.	Terror	Fear
S.	An entertainment	Feast

P.	To clothe	Indue
C.	To suffer	Endure
S.	Persuaded	Induced

Brattleborough, Vt.

Dear St. Nicholas: I have been trying to start a fresh-water aquarium which shall be self-supporting. I have failed, so far, because I have been unable to procure the proper oxygen-producing plants.

The little brook-plants I have tried do not answer the purpose. Can you tell me where I can find the following plants, or their seeds: Vallisneria spiralis (or tape-grass), Callitriche verna (or water-starwort), and Anacharis alsinastrum (or water-thyme)?—Yours truly,

E.M.P.

In general terms, the first and third plants named by E.M.P. are to be sought for in very quiet streams, or in ponds; but, as they are quite submerged, they may escape attention. Callitriche is to be found floating on the surfaces of small ponds or pools. But perhaps E.M.P. is a little too far north for Vallisneria. Anacharis is in Canada, and should, by rights, be in Vermont.

However, E.M.P. need not be restricted to these. In quiet fresh-water streams, and especially in ponds, there are Myriophyllums (or water-milfoil), Ceratophyllums (or hornwort), the aquatic Ranunculuses, and the Utricularias (or bladderworts), all of which naturally grow submerged and are quite as good for producing oxygen as those named by E.M.P. Water-cresses will do to get along with until the other plants can be found.

Dear St. Nickolas: Daisie and me thought we would rite you a letter, and tell you that we did the ansers to some of your puzzles in the May number. We did them most all our own self. We are twin-sisters, and we are both just as old as each other. We go to skool every day. So good by.—From youre little frends,

Dottie and Daisie.

P.S.—We both send our love to your little girls and boys.

New York.

Dear St. Nicholas: I thought you might like to know how to press flowers. The first thing to do, after you have gathered them, is to lay them smoothly between tissue-paper; then you must have felt drying-paper to put each side of the tissue-paper. The felt must be changed every day. The tissue-paper must not be changed at all, only the felt. Then you must have two pieces of smooth board, to put the papers between, and a box full of stones for a presser. We used a common soap-box, and put in stones to the weight of about thirty-five pounds. The handles were made of rope. I have found this a splendid way to press flowers, as it absorbs the moisture from the flower and does not leave it at all brittle.

Will you publish this, so that all the little girls who take St. Nicholas may have the opportunity of pressing flowers?—and I hope they may enjoy it as much as I did.—Your little friend,

Rosie S. Palmer.

We have received letters in answer to Frank R.M.'s question about an English painter, printed in the May "Letter-Box," from Carrie Johnson, M.S. Bagley, Alice Lanigan, Lillie M. Sutphen. Seth K. Humphrey, Hannah I. Powell, Frank R. Bowman, James Hardy Ropes, Grant Beebe, Isabelle Roorbach, and H.A.M.

Some say the name of the painter is Sir Joshua Reynolds; others say it is John Opie, who, also, was a great painter; and one or two think that while Frank R.M.'s anecdote about the reply "With brains, sir!" belongs to Opie, all the rest of the description concerns Reynolds only. And this last seems to be the fact.

John Opie was born at St. Agnes, near Truro, in the county of Cornwall, England, in the year 1761; and died in the city of London, April 9th, 1807.

Several of our young correspondents seem to have taken to writing poetry of late. The two following letters and poems—printed just as they came to us—will serve as samples of those received:

Winchester, Tenn.

Dear St. Nicholas, Seeing so many writing to you of my age I thought I would send you a letter. I am ten years old, and am advanced for my age. I like to read you very much, &c.—Your constant reader

Albert Marks.

P.S.—Please publish this poetry, which I wrote.

1. I looked o'er the

Place where Xerxes

Massed his millions

Before the grecian army,

2. I looked where Xerxes

Massed his hundred of ships

Before the small grecian

Navy. I looked o'er the place

3. Where Xerxes reared a mighty

Throne. I looked where ambitious

Caesar fell benea the assassin's dagger.

I looked where brave Leonidas braved

The millions of Xerxes.

4. I looked where Vesuvius laid

Pompeii under ashes and Lava. I looked

Where Marco Bozzaris bled for the

liberty of Greece.

1.	I looked o'er the
	Place where Xerxes
	Massed his millions
	Before the grecian army,

2.	I looked where Xerxes
	Massed his hundred of ships
	Before the small grecian
	Navy. I looked o'er the place

3.	Where Xerxes reared a mighty
	Throne. I looked where ambitious
	Caesar fell benea the assassin's dagger.
	I looked where brave Leonidas braved
	The millions of Xerxes.

4.	I looked where Vesuvius laid
	Pompeii under ashes and Lava. I looked
	Where Marco Bozzaris bled for the
	liberty of Greece.

Brooklyn, N.Y.

Dear St. Nicholas I have taken an idea lately, of writing poetry, and indeed, when I find myself at a loss to know what to do, I take out my little blank book and begin some little verses, some pretty good and others to my dissapointment, the opposite. I first write my poem on paper and if thought good, put it in my book. The following is a little piece on

Spring.

Oh, look! The grass is getting green

The buds begin to sprout

The blossoms on the oak-tree

Are beginning to come out

But hark! Who is that singing?

It is the robin gay

He has come back to greet us

Upon this happy day

But when we see the streamlet

Released from ice and snow

And down its pebbly routine

In music sweet and low,

And when at last the may flowers

Their sunny faces bring

It makes us feel so happy

And reminds us it is spring

R.S.F.