Frankie D.—If you will write something kind and polite about your sister Emma, we will be glad to print it, but we are afraid, judging from the present letter, that you are very fond of teasing her. You surely do not expect a young lady to be very fond of pigs.
C. Y. P. R. U.
I said last week that I would try to think of some other pleasant evening entertainment for the little club which asked the Postmistress to help them in that way. Here is the game of Rhyming. It may be played by any number of persons. The leader begins by saying to the company, "What do I think of which rhymes with ——?" any word of one syllable which he or she may select. We will suppose the word to be hop. The question will then be, "What do I think of which rhymes with hop?" The person next will then inquire, "Is it an upper surface?" and the questioner will reply, "It is not top." "Is it an undignified movement?" the next may ask, and the answer will be, "It is not flop." "Is it an implement?" somebody else may say, and the reply will be, "It is not mop." And so on, until some fortunate inquirer guesses the word which is in the leader's mind, which may be fop, lop, stop, or any other word which rhymes with hop. This game will furnish a circle of bright young people with fun and good-humored amusement for an hour or two, and will, besides, give them an exercise in definitions which will help to increase their vocabulary.
A Predicament.—The other evening Charlie and I were reading the life of an eminent English artist, David Cox. At one time he gave lessons in drawing, and as his pupils' houses were quite distant from each other, he bought a pony to carry him from place to place. "The pony had previously belonged to an apothecary, and was accustomed to go round with the lad who took out medicines to the residences in the neighborhood. Having been often employed on this business, he knew the connection well, and did not need to be told where to stop. This knowledge had not forsaken him when Mr. Cox became his owner, and when the drawing-master mounted him to go to his teaching, he fancied that he was taking out medicines still. Accordingly, often during the journey he pulled up short at somebody's door where he had been used to deliver the pills and lotions, and his rider had much difficulty in getting him to proceed. On one occasion Mr. Cox was actually obliged to dismount, hitch the bridle to a gate, and make a pretense of going up to the house, before the pony could be persuaded to budge an inch."
The Postmistress wants you to tell her which English poet it was who wrote the history of a kind of chair. You know chairs have a history, and a very interesting one too. In which of his works can you find the passage referred to? What can you tell about himself, and what were the names of three dear little friends of his who never spoke a word in their lives?
The Postmistress will print in No. 108 the names of all who send answers to these questions. She will also publish the best and most complete answer which she shall receive to these three questions.