About a week ago my papa came home in the evening and told us that a nice horse had fallen and broken her leg on the Reservoir Drive, and that the owner would have to shoot her. The next morning we saw the poor horse limping up the road on three legs, and the rain was pouring down. We all felt so very sorry, and papa had her brought into our stable and fed. When he looked at her leg, he thought it could be cured. He went to see the owner, who said papa might cure her if he cared to take the trouble. Papa has put her leg in splints, and bound it up with oakum and strong bandages, and it is doing nicely. It will have to be kept in splints for four weeks. I will write and tell Young People when our horse is well. We are going to call her Experiment. I am seven years old.
Bessie K. N.
Albany, New York.
Dear Young People,—I write to tell you about my home. It is situated on the Rensselaer and Saratoga Railroad, thirty miles from Saratoga; the name of it is Comstock's. It was founded by my great-grandfather in 1849.
There used to be a great many Indians around here, and a number of arrow-heads have been found in a muck bed at the end of our meadow. A woman living on the mountain, about a mile from us, found an arrow-head firmly stuck in a piece of fire-wood which her husband had cut. Near by there is a cave dug in the solid rock, most likely the work of Indians. Near it there is a hole in the solid rock, about two feet deep and nine inches across, where they used to pound corn. Up a creek not far from our house a cannon full of gold coin (so tradition says) was sunk by Burgoyne's army when they went from Skenesboro' (now Whitehall) to Fort Edward, and almost every summer people come to drag for it. Once they hooked on to something very heavy, which, as they had but one horse, they could not pull up. Many people thought it was the cannon. There was a battle fought at Port Ann, four miles south of Comstock's, in the French and Indian war, and even now people sometimes find old coins there under the stones.
George C. B.
Glen Haven, Wisconsin.
I am a little girl eleven years old, and a subscriber to this delightful little paper ever since it was published. I do not know how I would get along without it. I have a little niece with blue eyes. She is seventeen months old. When she comes to our house, she says "Dood-day" to everybody. She always wants to see the pictures in Young People, but she is too little to read. This is my fourth letter to Our Post-office Box. All the others must have gone to the "waste-basket." I do hope this will not go there too.
Amy L. O.