The letters from East Northport, Long Island, which came in a bundle the other day, were all so very good that the Postmistress could not make up her mind to publish any of them, when there was not room for every one of the bright little missives. She hopes to hear from the school again.
C. Y. P. R. U.
Do mothers ever peep into the Post-office Box? The Postmistress feels sure they do, and so she tells this little story as much for them as for their children. Perhaps some loving mother will gather her boys closer to her and pet them more tenderly when she reads about this dear little fellow, who was taken from a charitable institution to be "bound out" to a farmer in New Jersey. The agent noticed that the boy kept placing his right hand inside of his jacket on the left side, and occasionally would peep within with a tender look. At last he said,
"What have you got in there, my little friend?"
"Oh, nothing, sir," he replied, "only a bit of my mother's dress, which I've sewed in my coat; it was the dress she had on when she died, and now it kind o' comforts me to touch it."
I am glad to print this composition of a school-girl of thirteen, first, because it does her credit, and next, because it may give some people an idea which will be useful, especially if they have careless children or servants to vex them:
The "Pound" as a Means of Education.—Neatness and order are two of the most praiseworthy and necessary habits to be formed. Without them we can not be good-natured or happy; for if we are continually fretting and fuming about something that we are "sure we put on the table yesterday, and now it has disappeared, and who has taken it?" etc., etc., we can not be as contented and pleasant as though each thing were in its proper place, and we could go right there and get it without any trouble.