Eddie W. Curtis, 78 Rush Street, Brooklyn, New York, would like to hear again from a little correspondent in Salt Lake City, who sent him a nice letter containing ten foreign stamps, but having neither name nor address appended. Eddie would like to reply, but can not do so until he shall receive further information.
C. Y. P. R. U.
The Postmistress has a particular request to make of her young gentleman friends, particularly of those who write to her of their success with guns and bows and arrows. It is that they will read and think about this tender little poem, written by a lover of birds, who found a poor little bobolink dead in her nest on his lawn:
WHO KILLED ROBERT OF LINCOLN?
BY NATHANIEL NILES.
Robert of Lincoln went searching for food
To take to his love on her nest;
From bush and tree-top, from meadow and wood,
To pick it, and bring her the best.
He sprang from the edge of her nest below,
And sat on a twig that was nigh,
To sing her a song before he could go—
But sang her his last good-by.
Far out on the meadow a lad that day
Had gone to take sport with his gun,
Cheerily shooting the birds on his way,
And—Robert of Lincoln was one.
Since Robert of Lincoln went out to the wood
Three suns have gone down in the west:
And weary of waiting for him to bring food,
She died without leaving her nest.