South Norwalk, Connecticut.
I have two large Maltese cats—one nine and the other three years old—a dog, and a parrot. The oldest cat is named Meow, and the other Maltie Beeswax. We called him that, because he sticks so. If he gets in our laps, there is no getting rid of him. He will jump through my hands held three feet high. The parrot does not talk much, because it is tongue-tied. She calls "papa," and screams when she wants to get out of her cage. The dog Spry is the cunningest of all. His body and color are like a black and tan; but his nose is shaggy, like a Scotch terrier, which makes him look very funny. He will sit up, and clap his paws together, and say patty-cake. The way he does it he growls, whines, and barks while some one else says the words. If he don't like what is given him to eat, we only have to say, "Give it to me," and he will eat it all up rather than let any one else have it.
M. F. Le C.
Santa Cruz, California.
I am eight years old. My home is near the sea. There are a great many visitors here in the summer, and they bathe in the surf. We have no snow here. The hills are already covered with green (April 4), and soon there will be a great many wild flowers. My teacher reads stories to us from Harper's Young People.
Edith D.