Jessie N.
Vienna, New Jersey.
I had a little kitten. I stroked it one day, and it followed me down to an ash-barrel, where it went smelling round as if it was hungry. Then I went up the street a little way to where a girl was sweeping, and I asked her if it was her kitten. She said it was, but she was going to give it away. I asked her to give it to me, and she did. Then I took it home, and fed it on milk. As soon as I brought the milk up stairs it began lapping it as fast as its little tongue could go. I brought it to the country with me in a little basket, and about two weeks afterward it died. I was very, very sorry, for it was my only pet. It would lie on its back under the centre table, and play with a string.
I am only six years old, and I can not write very well yet.
Charlie J. P.
Reidsville, North Carolina.
I am ten years old. My papa takes Young People for me, and Harper's Weekly for mamma. I live in a tobacco-manufacturing town. There are about two thousand negroes employed in the factories.
I have three little dogs for pets—two rat terriers and a little yellow dog. Their names are Minnie, Whitefoot, and Ka.