San Antonio, Texas.
We have a little farm three miles from San Antonio, and we borrow a little donkey, or burro, as the Mexicans call it, to go out there; and you would be amused to see us. Mamma bought us a saddle, and the good old man who loans us the burro has a little dog-cart. Sometimes we use the saddle, and sometimes the cart, and away we go. It would remind you of Punchinello and his horse and black cat on his way to Paris. When the little donkey concludes to go fast, and when he wants to go slow, we are very much at his mercy, for he does as he pleases. We go out to the farm, and swim, and hunt eggs for papa, and gather wild flowers to bring mamma; and, dear Postmistress, we caught three little mocking-birds, and have them in a cage. We would send them to you if we could; and if we go to New York, as we think we will, we will bring them to you. Mamma told us we were very naughty indeed to take the little birdies, and asked us how we would like to be kidnapped and carried from home. Then we were very sorry we had taken them, and wanted to carry them back; but she said it was too late then; that the poor mother had probably gone away when she found her babies stolen. So we promised mamma not to take a bird again, and we will keep our word, for when we took them we did not think a mother bird would grieve as our mamma would if we were stolen. The mocking-birds sing any song, and if they hear any one play on the piano, they will whistle the same tune; and one used to call like the little chickens, and papa hunted everywhere, thinking some little chick had lost its mother, when what should he see but a mocking-bird on the gate, making the same noise a little chick does when its mother is out of sight!
Our farms look fine now; everywhere in Texas crops are good, and the people rejoice in the hopes of a heavy cotton and corn crop. On our little farm the tenant last year planted three acres of oats, that he sold out there for ninety dollars, and this spring very early the volunteer oats (as papa calls them) came up in place of the ones planted last year, and the man sold them as they stood in the ground for thirty-one dollars, and then, after they were cut, he planted corn and pumpkins on the same land, and we now have a fine crop. Mamma thinks it is a pity that more poor people do not come here and farm. Sometimes she tells us of the poor in New York and other cities, and we wish they were here in our warm climate, where, if we are not very rich, we are not often so very poor. But we are not satisfied here, as the doctors tell mamma this climate is too warm for her, and as soon as she can she must go North to live.
I must tell you about our two little brothers, Josie and Edward. Mamma was very ill, and the doctor said all must be quiet; so she asked Joe and Edward if they would go and board. The poor little fellows' eyes filled with tears, and almost in the same breath they said: "We don't want to go, mamma; but if doctor says it will make you well, we will try to go. But, mamma, we will get so hungry to see you!" Now wasn't that good for little six and four year old boys? Mamma is almost well now, and we are so glad!
Dear Postmistress, you are tired out, and we will say good-afternoon for the present.
George and Sterling F.
I am never tired of reading my children's letters, whether they are long or short, and I remember that my San Antonio boys sent me a very nice letter some time ago. I too am sorry that George and Sterling took the poor birdies from the nest. I am sure they will never again rob a mother bird of her brood. Boys do wrong from want of thought many a time, when they mean to do right, if they would only stop and consider what they are doing. Please do not bring the mocking-birds to me, little friends, though I hope very much that you will come yourselves. The little birds I take care of, although I do everything I can to keep them strong and well, always die, and I have now decided that it is pleasanter to hear about the pets my correspondents have than to be grieving over my own. But accept my thanks for your kind intention.
On the River, near Ashville, North Carolina.
On the top of the Black Dome, not very far from here, the high-bush blackberry grows without any thorns. It is called the thornless blackberry, and is wonderful. But as this Dome—Michell's Peak—is the highest land this side of the Mississippi, the berries ripen a month or two later than ours on the river. We gather them by great basketfuls, juicy, lovely berries, that nearly spoil common ones. A great gardener up here said he long ago bought some Lawtons at $1 a plant, but soon pulled them up by the roots, they had so little flavor. He was used to the mountain berries.
But there is one complaint, and it makes trouble. Some people pick other's fruit just as if it was theirs, and the owners don't like it. If everybody only knew the meaning of two little words, mine and thine, there'd be peace, they say. One day, when we were getting large blackberries at Jack's Patch, a famous place, a troop of colored people climbed over the fence.
"Whose place is this?" asked the leader, coming up with a pair of large buckets.
When we told him, he quickly took off his hat, and said, bowing very humbly. "Can I have a few blackberries, missis?"
Behind him came a party of his people—some were children—bringing empty tin cans and baskets of all sizes and queer shapes. When we answered, "We are only boarders ourselves, and strangers," he seemed pleased.
"Your pardon," he said; "I thought you was owners of the place," and he turned away with all speed into the high blackberry bushes, where all the cans and baskets and buckets were filled to go to the Ashville market.
S. G.
This little incident, sent us by a lady who reads Our Post-office Box, will please the merry troops of Northern children who are going these bright afternoons to gather blackberries. What fun it is to set off, just after the mid-day dinner, with pails and baskets, to pick enough ripe, luscious berries for tea! Some of you, perhaps, pick berries and sell them to friends who wish to make blackberry jam, or who have no children of their own to send on such delightful expeditions. But I am sure you do not imitate the conduct of those poor people of whom S. G. tells, who were so ready to take what did not belong to them.