A WISE DOG.
OUR POST-OFFICE BOX
St. John, New Brunswick.
I wish to tell the little readers of the Post-office Box about our pony. He is a dear little fellow, and just like a playful kitten. Sometimes Dexter—the pony—will not go the way you want him to. The other day I was going for Eddie, my brother, and down at our gate Dexter wanted to go one way, and I the other. As he is very hard on the mouth, he turned round to go home again. In doing so he upset the little sleigh, and the box came off, and away went Dexter up the drive and into the carriage-house.
When mamma saw it all through the window, she thought I was hurt, and she sent the man down to the gate. When he got there, all he could see was a heap of buffalo-robes, cushions, seats, and other things, with a pair of legs sticking out from under them. I was not hurt, and as soon as I could get up I went to the house to be brushed off. I am twelve years old.
Freddie L. T.
Troy, New York.