San Francisco, California.
I am twelve years old, and go to the Lincoln School. It is so called because it has a statue of Abraham Lincoln in front of it. It was built in 1864, has over twelve hundred pupils enrolled, and I think it is the best school in the city. I have been making vases out of Farallon eggs to send East to my cousins. The eggs come from the Farallon Islands, twenty-one miles outside of the Golden Gate. They are of a blue color, and have marks on them that look like hieroglyphics. The birds that lay them are a species of gull. I was born in San Francisco, and have lived here most of my life. Four years I spent up in the mountains on a farm, or ranch, as they call it here.
Charles W. S.
Farallon, the name of these islands near the entrance to San Francisco Bay, is a Spanish word signifying a small pointed islet in the ocean. The islands, of which there are six, are so called because they consist of rugged towering peaks of granite! A more desolate place could not well be imagined. There is nearly always a fierce wind blowing, and the waves dash wildly into the numerous spouting caves along the rocky coast. There is a light-house here three hundred and sixty feet above the sea, and its keepers are the only human inhabitants of the desolate sea-bound rock; but thousands of sea-lions congregate upon the cliffs, and vast numbers of gulls and wild rabbits make their home there. During the egging season men visit the islands, and gather thousands of eggs for the San Francisco market. A very interesting account of these islands, is given in Mr. Nordhoff's book on Northern California, Oregon, and the Sandwich Islands.
Fort Assiniboine, Montana Territory.
I am always glad to see Young People come with papa's mail. Out here in the wilderness we do not often see nice papers; but then we see what city people never see—plenty of Indians. Many of them are very poor, and so hungry that they pick bread and scraps of meat out of the swill barrels to eat—old stuff that the soldiers have thrown away. I think people should send the poor Indians something to eat. I send you a picture of some Indians as they look hunting for food this cold day. I am only nine years old, and can not draw very good pictures.
Bertie Brown.
INDIANS HUNTING FOR FOOD.—Drawn by Bertie Brown.