Papa's Letter
I was sitting in my study,
Writing letters, when I heard:
"Please, dear mamma, Mary told me
That you mustn't be disturbed.
But I'se tired of the kitty,
Want some ozzer thing to do.
Writing letters is 'ou mamma?
Tan't I write a letter, too?"
"Not now, darling, mamma's busy;
Run and play with kitty now."
"No—no mamma; me wite letter,
Ten you will show me how."
I would paint my darling's portrait,
As his sweet eyes searched my face—
Hair of gold and eyes of azure,
Form of childish witching grace.
But the eager face was clouded,
As I slowly shook my head,
Till I said: "I'll make a letter,
Of you, darling boy, instead."
So I parted back the tresses
From his forehead high and white,
And a stamp in sport I pasted,
'Mid its waves of golden light.
Then I said: "Now, little letter,
Go away and bear good news,"
And I smiled as down the staircase
Clattered loud the little shoes.
Leaving me, the darling hurried
Down to Mary in his glee:
"Mamma's witting lots of letters;
I'se a letter, Mary, see."
No one heard the little prattler,
As once more he climbed the stair.
Reached his little cap and tippet,
Standing on the table there.
No one heard the front door open,
No one saw the golden hair,
As it floated o'er his shoulders
On the crisp October air.
Down the street the baby hastened,
Till he reached the office door:
"I'se a letter, Mr. Postman,
Is there room for any more?
'Cause this letter's going to papa;
Papa lives with God, 'ou know:
Mamma sent me for a letter;
Does 'ou fink at I tan do?"
But the clerk in wonder answered,
"Not to-day, my little man;"
"Den I'll find anozzer office,
'Cause I must go if I tan."
Fain the clerk would have detained him,
But the pleading face was gone,
And the little feet were hastening,
By the busy crowd swept on.
Suddenly the crowd was parted,
People fled to left and right,
As a pair of maddened horses
At that moment dashed in sight.
No one saw the baby figure,
No one saw the golden hair,
Till a voice of frightened sweetness
Rang out on the autumn air.
'Twas too late: a moment only
Stood the beauteous vision there:
Then the little face lay lifeless
Covered o'er with golden hair.
Rev'rently they raised my darling,
Brushed away the curls of gold,
Saw the stamp upon the forehead
Growing now so icy cold.
Not a mark left the face disfigured,
Showing where a hoof had trod;
But the little life was ended—
"Papa's letter" was with God.
Bessie's Letter
I have got a letter,
A letter of my own,
It has my name upon it,
Miss Bessie L. Stone.
My papa sent it to me,
He's away from home—you see
I guess the postman wondered
Who Bessie Stone could be.
I'd like to send an answer,
But I don't know how to spell;
I'll get mamma to do it,
And that will do as well.
A Little Boy's Valentine
Little girl across the way,
You are so very sweet,
I shouldn't be a bit surprised
If you were good to eat.
Now what I'd like if you would too,
Would be to go and play—
Well, all the time, and all my life,
On your side of the way.
I don't know anybody yet
On your side of the street,
But often I look over there
And watch you—you're so sweet.
When I am big, I tell you what,
I don't care what they say,
I'll go across—and stay there, too,
On your side of the way.
Letter Writing
Heaven first taught letters
For some wretch's aid,
Some banish'd lover,
Or some captive maid.
They live, they speak,
They breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul,
And faithful to its fires;
The virgin's wish
Without her fears impart,
Excuse the blush,
And pour out all the heart—
Speed the soft intercourse
From soul to soul,
And waft a sigh
From Indus to the pole.
Boil it Down
Whatever you have to say my friend,
Whether witty, grave, or gay,
Condense as much as ever you can,
And that is the readiest way;
And whether you write of rural affairs,
Or particular things in town,
Just take a word of friendly advice—
"Boil it down."
Letters from Home
Letters from home! How musical to the ear
Of the sailor-boy on the far-off main,
When, from the friendly vessel drawing near,
Across the billow floats the gentle strain,
The words the tear-drops of his memory move;
They tell a mother's or a sister's love;
And playmates, friends, and sweetheart to him come
Out to him on the sea, in letters from his home.
How warmly there the tender home-light shines!
What household music lives in those dear tender lines.

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Page 94—Writing Land

Polly's Letter to Brother Ben
Dear Brother Ben,
I take my pen
To tell you where,
And how, and when,
I found the nest
Of our speckled hen.
She would never lay,
In a sensible way,
Like other hens,
In the barn or the hay;
But here and there
And everywhere,
On the stable floor,
And the wood-house stair,
And once on the ground
Her eggs I found.
But yesterday
I ran away,
With mother's leave,
In the barn to play.
The sun shone bright
On the seedy floor,
And the doves so white
Were a pretty sight
As they walked in and out
Of the open door,
With their little red feet
And their features neat,
Cooing and cooing
More and more.
Well, I went out
To look about
On the platform wide,
Where side by side
I could see the pig-pens
In their pride;
And beyond them both,
On a narrow shelf,
I saw the speckled hen
Hide herself
Behind a pile
Of hoes and rakes
And pieces of boards
And broken stakes.
"Ah! ha! old hen,
I have found you now,
But to reach your nest
I don't know how,
Unless I could creep
Or climb or crawl
Along the edge
Of the pig-pen wall."
And while I stood
In a thoughtful meed,
The speckled hen cackled
As loud as she could,
And flew away,
As much as to say,
"For once my treasure
Is out of your way."
I did not wait
A moment then:
I couldn't be conquered
By that old hen!
But along the edge
Of the slippery ledge
I carefully crept,
For the great pigs slept,
And I dared not
even look to see
If they were thinking
Of eating me
But all at once,
Oh, what a dunce!
I dropped my basket
Into the pen,
The one you gave me,
Brother Ben;
There were two eggs in it,
By the way,
That I found in the manger
Under the hay.
Then the pigs got up
And ran about
With a noise between
A grunt and a shout.
And when I saw them,
Rooting, rooting,
Of course I slipped
And lost my footing,
And tripped,
And jumped,
And finally fell
Right down among
The pigs pell-mell.
For once in my life
I was afraid;
For the door that led
Out to the shed
Was fastened tight
With and iron hook,
And father was down
In the fields by the brook,
Hoeing and weeding
His rows of corn,
And here was his Polly
So scared and forlorn,
But I called him, and called him,
As loud as I could.
I knew he would hear me—
He must and he should.
"O father! O father!
(Get out, you old pig).
O father! oh! oh!"
For their mouths are so big.
Then I waited a minute
And called him again,
"O father! O father!
I am in the pig pen!"
And father did hear,
And he threw down his hoe,
And scampered as fast
As a father could go.
The pigs had pushed me
Close to the wall,
And munched my basket,
Eggs and all,
And chewed my sun-bonnet
Into a ball.
And one had rubbed
His muddy nose
All over my apron,
Clean and white;
And they sniffed at me,
And stepped on my toes,
But hadn't taken
The smallest bite,
When father opened
The door at last,
And oh! in his arms
He held me fast.
E. W. Denison
Writing
Little pens of metal,
Little drops of ink,
Make the wicked tremble,
And the people think.