Ned L.
Custer City, Pennsylvania.
I am a little boy seven years old. Papa reads the stories to us. We want the man to write about Toby Tyler some more; and Jimmy Brown is the "boss" boy.
There are lots of wells here, with deep holes and high derricks. They get oil out of the holes, and send it to the 'finery, and they make it into 'finery oil for the stores, and they sell it to the people to burn in lamps. They get thick par'fine out of the wells too, and the men come with pails and kegs, and sell it to the factory, and they make candy and chewing-gum out of it for stores to sell to boys and girls. I am tired. That's all.
Joe A. V.
P.S.—I can't spell good, 'cause I've been sick 'bout four weeks.
Joe.
New York City.
Papa has given my brother and me Harper's Young People, both years, bound, but this year we are taking it by the week, because we thought we would have more time to read it, and we could make out the Wiggles. I have four brothers, all older than myself. We have a very large black Newfoundland dog called Carlo, and a white setter called Bob. We have a gray cat, and a cunning little black kitten, which papa called Janauschek, after the actress. This is the first letter I have ever written to any paper, and I hope you will print it.