Dear Postmistress,—A dear little friend of mine wishes me to send you her history. Her name is Georgia Brand, and she is living with her "adopted papa," as she calls him, at a military station in one of our Western States. Little Georgia was found, rolled up in a tattered old shawl, under a shrub somewhere in the wilds of Colorado, with a paper pinned on her shawl, on which was written, "Take good care of my darling child," and nothing more. The soldiers who found her took her to the Colonel, who befriended the child at first, and then adopted her. He named her for his native State, Georgia, and gave her his last name, Brand. One day, when her father was telling her of some scars he had gained during the civil war, Georgia said, "See, papa, I have a scar too," and stripping up her sleeve, she showed some marks near her shoulder, which her father said looked like a brand. "Then," said little Georgia, "I am not Georgia Brand, but branded Georgia." She is a witty little thing, and the soldiers call her "the life of the regiment." What the mark meant, and who her parents were, have never been known; but she is very happy with her "adopted papa," who gives her every advantage. Even now her father says she can sing and play better than any other little girl of ten.
Georgia's Aunt Nellie.
Lizzie H. B.—The splendid hues of the autumn leaves are due to their ripening, and not to the frost, as was formerly supposed by many persons. The gay leaves
"wear, in sign of duty done,
The gold and scarlet of the sun."
There are many beautiful allusions in our American poetry to the charms of the autumn woods. The Postmistress will give you a chaplet of verses next week, taken from some of the poets she loves best, and she hopes that you and others, who keep a commonplace book, will take pains to copy these stanzas into its pages in the neatest possible manner. Those who draw or paint might illustrate their book, and make it a delightful souvenir for the future.
The little webs which you refer to as stretched from one blade of grass to another in dry weather are made by spiders, whose instinct teaches them to spin their webs when there is little probability that the rain will destroy them.
Inquirer.—If you have read the story of Ariadne, you will remember that after she had married Theseus, and had been deserted by him on the island of Naxos, she was found and comforted by the young god Dionysus, or Bacchus. Venus herself had come to her, checked her weeping, and told her she should become the wife of a god. Bacchus, the god of wine and pleasure, was generally represented as a beautiful youth with long flowing tresses. The vine, ivy, and pomegranate were sacred to him, and he was often represented as seated in a car drawn by panthers and lions. You can see that the sculptor who represents Ariadne as seated on the back of a lion may have had her union with Bacchus in mind. The more beautiful part of her history is the first, where she puts into Theseus's hand the clew of thread which shall guide him in safely through the windings of the labyrinth until he can reach and slay the Minotaur. The lion is the symbol of strength and dominion, and Ariadne seated upon him is upon a throne.