Oh, mother! mother! where's your tail?—
Heigh oh! says Tidley Pill.
Yonder it hangs upon a nail—
Heigh oh! says Tidley Pill.
It gives us the greatest pleasure to receive all the pretty favors which come to us by every mail from all parts of the country. Those communications which we think will be of interest to other children we print whenever we can make space for them, and all, without any exception, are carefully read, and their receipt acknowledged. These letters give pleasant, satisfactory glimpses into many homes, and we see the group of eager young faces watching, as they tell us, "for papa to bring our paper." Do not be disappointed, any of you, when you fail to find your pretty letter, which you have written so carefully and neatly, printed in the Post-office Box. We can not print all. If we did, you would have no stories to read, no pictures to look at—nothing but letters; for your busy little brains and fingers would fill the whole paper every week if we did not crowd some of you out. But keep on writing, for we like to hear what stories please you best, and in what subjects you are most interested. In that way there is always a mutual understanding between us, and our acquaintance is more likely to be intimate and lasting. We are also very much interested in what children write about the seasons in different regions of the country, showing how spring advances from Texas up into the far northern State of Oregon. Such letters are always interesting and instructive. One request we would make, that is, always write your signature very distinctly. Often we can not make out even your initials, and your name may be misprinted in our acknowledgments.
Warren, Ohio, March 1, 1880.
The robins and the bluebirds came here about the middle of February, and if it does not get colder, willow "pussies" will be out in a few days. Please tell me what the "wind-flower" is. I do not think, as Bertie Brown does, that people ought to send the Indians something to eat, for mamma had an uncle who lived in Minnesota, and he used to feed them whenever they came, and they killed him and three of his children. So I don't like Indians.
D. J. Myers.