Sophie L. W.
Davenport, Iowa.
I am going to write this all myself. I have a pony. His name is Dick. We all love him dearly. He shakes hands. We say, "Shake hands, Dick," and he puts up his right foot. He is just as sweet as honey. He is white. We used to live on a farm, and my sister and I used to go after the cows on Dick. We carried a long whip. Some cows would lag behind, and we would say, "Bite the cow, Dick," and the dear little fellow would lay back his white ears and just bite her awful hard. We are going to have a cabinet picture taken of him.
Grace H. (9 years).
Schenectady, New York.
I am five years old. I have a blue terrier—Wax. He plays hide-and-seek. Mamma covers his eyes with her hand, and I hide. When I say, "Coop," mamma lets him go. Then he rushes all round, standing on his hind-legs to look on tables, and peeping under the couch, and looking upon chairs. When he finds me, he begins to bark loud, and tries to bite my toes, but he has very few teeth. He is old.
Roger Griswold Perkins.