I want to tell you about a pet squirrel I had. My uncle was having some trees cut down, when the men found three young squirrels in one of them. One of the squirrels got killed, and one ran away, but my uncle caught the other and put it in his pocket, and forgot all about it. After a while he put his hand in his pocket for something, and the squirrel bit him. We tamed it, and it would run all over the trees in the yard, until one day some boys passing by shot it, thinking it was wild. My little brother cried, and I came near crying too. We buried it in the flower garden.
Chesly B. Howard, Jun.
February. 15, 1880.
I am nine years old. I was born in Boston, but for the last three years I have been living on a farm in Lakeville, Massachusetts. There are a number of lakes near here, and some of them have long Indian names, such as Assawampsett and Quiticus. Yesterday was a warm, spring-like day, and I saw two robins, and I heard the bluebirds singing.
Louis W. Clark.
Machias, Maine.
I like Young People very much. I have a summer-house, and in the summer I found a little humming-bird, with its wing broken, all tangled up in the flowers. I took it into the house, and fed it. It ate sugar and water. It had a funny little narrow tongue, and it put it out when it ate. It lived in the house two days, and then it died.
Nellie Longfellow (8 years old).