[OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
Come, dears, gather around the Postmistress, while she has a moment to look at you, and let her see how many merry faces she can count in the throng. There are some which are paler than they should be—little Gustave's, for instance; but no wonder, for he has been very, very ill, so that the house was all hushed on his account, and papa and mamma were afraid they would have to say good-by to their darling boy. But God answered their prayers, and now he is getting well fast, and soon will be as strong as ever. Here is Phœbe, who sends her love, but does not know how to write a letter. Never mind, dear; the love is the best part of any letter, and you will learn all about the rest when you are older. There are Kitty, Molly, Ted, Margaret, Frank, Bobby, and Jack, and ever so many more. The Postmistress knows your names by heart, and is sure she would know you if she happened to meet you on the way to school some bright spring morning.
She wonders if you would be willing to share your luncheon with her, and let her peep into your school-books. She doesn't wear spectacles, and she hasn't seven-league boots, but her eyes are pretty sharp, and she thinks she could walk as fast on her feet as Robin A. says he can on stilts, and she would not need more than one glance at a girl's exercise to know whether the little lady did her best,
Or did not work,
And tried to shirk.
And now for our letters, children.
Wayne, Illinois.
I am a little girl seven years old. I have a doll; her name is Amy. My papa bought me some calico, and I am making her a dress, and mamma says it is done nicely for the first one. Papa went to St. Charles yesterday, and bought me some card-board and worsted, and I think it will keep me busy for some time. I can work my name. I hope my letter will be printed.
Alice M. K.