We are sure our young friends will feel satisfied with this beautiful Easter number, so crowded with good things. Do not let the rest of the paper make anybody forgetful of Our Post-office Box. You seldom see a more entertaining letter than this from our correspondent Georgie:
Galeyville, Arizona Territory.
This mining camp is ten miles from the New Mexico line, and forty from Mexico. There are mountains all about, covered to the tops with luxuriant grass, and juniper, pine, fir, cedar, and live-oak trees. In the cañons, near the creeks, are sycamore, black-walnut, white oak, madrone, and other varieties; also the lovely manganita, and other shrubs. Many fruits and flowers are native here. Of the former there are cherries, grapes, raspberries, strawberries, etc.; among the latter, the geranium, morning-glory (all colors), poppy, portulaca, and many more favorites that we used to cultivate in the East. Potatoes also grow wild, and though very small, are good; they are called "spuds" here.
Last summer we were encamped for two months in a cañon, six miles from town, where are ever so many caves. We all went part of the way through the largest—Coral Cave—one day. The entrance is on the mountain-side, and so small that one person has to crawl or "back" down at a time, looking out for bruises from projecting rocks, and also he must have a care for his footing, for this passage is very steep and winding; all at once it grows broad, and very high. At this point all light their candles, as there are other passages branching from the main one; and that we may not get lost, we watch for the little "monuments" which have been built to guide visitors to the main cavern.
It is a hard scramble of about 500 feet, past awful chasms, down dizzy natural stairways, etc., then up a few steps, and—oh, it is just like fairy-land, I am sure! The frost-like drapery and festoons, sparkling and flashing at every movement of our lights, the thousands of icicles and straight white columns, under our feet the "snow," twinkling with innumerable diamonds, made me think we were in Jack Frost's home beyond a doubt. But it was not snow nor ice at all, but limestone formation; it was stalagmite on the floors of all the chambers, and the crystals cut our boots dreadfully.
As an offset to the pleasures of our happy camping ground in the cañon, with its grand scenery, its woods, flowers, towering rocks, rushing mountain stream, and springs of clear cold water, we had scorpions, tarantulas, rattlesnakes, and loathsome centipeds. There is also a very poisonous bug, called by a Spanish name which I have forgotten; it means "babe of the wood." It is about two inches long, of a rusty black color, and has claws something like a lobster, as has the centiped, which is of a greenish color when young, turning to yellow-brown when full grown. They (the centipeds) are in sections or joints, each joint having one pair of legs, which end in needlepoints, jet black, and charged with poison. We killed lots. Many were ten inches in length; they can run very fast. We never saw any of these creatures in our sleeping-apartment; but about the rocks, in the small cave where we cooked and took our meals, they, with lizards, chameleons, and cunning little striped squirrels, were as much at home as we. Out in the woods were wild animals to keep away from. Papa shot a big brown bear one day, and a miner killed a very large panther. It is a grand place to hunt in, as game is plentiful. We are interested in "The Talking Leaves," here in the Apache country. I wish there were no Apaches in the world! Sometimes the soldiers come through here, and prospectors see squads of Indians in the mountains, and we get scared. Last September papa sent mamma, brother, and me to California to stay until the fright was over. We spent three months at a bathing-place on the Pacific coast called Santa Monica, and had fine times bathing, fishing, and playing on the beach. My mamma gives us a "treat" Saturday afternoons by reading to us from back numbers of Young People. All the children in camp who are old enough to be interested are asked to come at three o'clock every Saturday. We are now half through with "Toby Tyler." It is as good as ever, and the boys all think it and Young People splendid.
Georgie B. C.
We shall think of the group gathered to listen to mamma as she reads their favorite stories aloud on Saturday afternoons, and whenever there shall happen to be anything in the paper which we enjoy very much, we will say to ourselves, "Now, Georgie and his friends will be sure to like this too." The Postmistress says she never could summon up courage enough to scramble into Coral Cave; and as for the centipeds, she threw both hands out in the most horrified manner when she came to that part of the letter which mentioned them.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
I am a little boy seven years old. My mamma gave me Harper's Young People for my birthday present in December. I can not read yet, but mamma reads the whole paper to me, except "Talking Leaves"—we have not the first chapters of that. I hope I soon will be able to read; I am learning to spell now.
I have a little sister named Bertie, and a cat named Topsy. My sister is three years old. She talks all the time. Mamma kept her out of the room when I was sick.
I am always glad when Tuesday comes. I wish we could have a Harper's every day.
Mamma is writing this for me. When I learn to write, I will write again.
Eddie H. B.
P.S.—I almost forgot. Won't you please tell me what C. Y. P. R. U. means?