We have no doubt that many of you will look about the house to see what school-books and cards you have finished using, and what story-books and Testaments you can send to these ladies, who are trying to make the little dark-eyed children on the farm happier and better. Very likely some of you will deny yourselves a treat of some kind, or save money from candies or toys, that you may lend a hand to Uncle Pete in building a little school-house. And if some of you help to buy the little cabinet organ, why, if you listen very hard, you may hear the sweet voices singing, if not with your ears, in your hearts.
Winnipeg, Manitoba.
I was seven years old on Christmas-day. I can not write well yet, but mamma is writing this for me. I have two sisters, Isabel and Constance, and I have three cousins here, so that we have great fun when we play together. We have drives very often out on the lovely green prairies. Mamma reads us the stories in Young People, and we are so delighted with them all. We were very sorry when Mr. Stubbs died, and my sister and I hope Toby got some other pet in his place. I go to school every day. We had games in the Park on the 24th of May. Papa and mamma took us to see them. The funniest was the fat man's race.
Ethel Wynne.
Indianapolis, Indiana.
Last fall papa bought a pig, which we called Mattie. This spring she had eight little pigs, and they all died but one. Mattie was sick, and could not take care of it, so we kept it up stairs, and fed it from a bottle. One night it got out of its basket, and ran all over the room, squealing, until I got up and gave it some milk. I put it in the basket, covered it up with its blanket, and thought it would stay there for the rest of the night; but I had hardly crept into bed, and was just falling asleep, when I heard it squealing again. I said to my sister, "I believe that pig is out again"; and so he was. He did not want to go back in the basket, and we had a great deal of trouble. Mamma and papa both had to get up to feed him before morning.
Harriet S.
P.S.—The above letter has been lying some time in one of my books, but I think I will send it. After I wrote it the pig died, and we buried him in the garden.