Dedham, Massachusetts.
I am a grandmother, eighty-four years old, and I wish to tell the dear readers of Young People of an episode in the life of my three little grandchildren.
The youngest, a boy, when two years old, had a canary given him. He and two sisters older than he delighted in watching and feeding the little pet, seeing him plunge into his bowl of water to wash, and then sitting on his perch to brush his bright plumage and give them a sweet morning song.
One hot morning his cage was hung out under the portico. The bees, attracted by his sweet food, flew into the cage for some honey to fill the curious cells they had made. The birdie looked upon them as intruders, and probably pecked at them, but the little busy bees, claiming their right to gather honey anywhere in God's wide domain, covered him with stings. Hearing a loud buzzing, we went out to see what had happened. The bird was covered with bees, and before we could rescue it, they had poisoned it so badly that it gasped a few minutes, and died.
When the children found their pet was dead, after gazing very sorrowfully for a while, they got a spade, and without saying a word, took the dead bird and marched slowly to the garden. The sisters dug a grave, and the little boy laid his pet in its last resting-place, and silently covered it with earth.
S. H.
Richmond, Staten Island.
This is the first letter I ever wrote to any paper. I am only seven years old.
Papa has one of the funniest crows you ever saw. He tries to talk. We had to cut his wing, because he used to fly away.
My little sister Lucy, who is almost four years old, sends Young People a picture she drew. It has four kisses on it. We love the Post-office Box best of all.
Hallett S.
I have a garden of my own. I fixed it all myself, and I planted seeds in it. They are coming up nicely.
I went eeling with my little brother Hallett, and we caught enough for dinner.
Willie S.