Baraboo, Wisconsin.
Papa says Young People has been a great benefit to us children, and I for one think the world of it. I have been intending to write to the Post-office Box for a long time. I will be eleven years old next New-Year's, and I have a little sister who will soon be able to read Young People too.
We children are now busy gathering hickory-nuts and butternuts and the beautiful autumn leaves, and when these pleasures are over, our out-door fun will be about finished until coasting-time. It is delightful out-of-doors now. Papa often goes out with us. We find lovely flowers in the early spring, as soon as the snow goes away, and later we search for wild strawberries, and then in their turns come the raspberries, plums, and blackberries, so that all the year there is something sweet and bright to invite us under the blue sky. The birds sing for us on our rambles, and we often see squirrels frisking around in the trees, and sometimes we startle a rabbit, and see him run for his home. Last spring a beautiful red fox fled past us, not more than twenty feet away. Papa said the hounds were after him, and as he was near his den in the rocks, he did not mind our presence.
Yesterday we observed as the funeral day of our dead President, and it was very mournful. The two posts of the G. A. R., and all the other societies, with brass music, fifes, and drums, marched through the streets, and great crowds of people gathered in the court-house and church, as the day was rainy. I suppose it was a sad day over the whole country, but nobody could feel as sorrowful as the President's children and their mamma and grandma were feeling.
Nettie J.
We hope that poor hunted fox escaped in safety to his home, and we are of the opinion that he had nothing to fear from you. You have given us a very pleasant sketch of your life. You ought to have bright eyes and plump rosy cheeks after so much exercise in the fresh air and sunshine. Did you find the beautiful bitter-sweet, with its clustering berries, on your autumnal expeditions, and did you bring home great bunches of golden-rod and aster, as well as of autumn leaves? We always load our arms with more treasures than we know what to do with when we go to the woods or the pleasant country lanes at this season. Far back in our memory are pictures of autumn walks we used to take with our little companions on Friday afternoons, a kind teacher going with us, and helping us discover the most charming places. Only those pupils who had been perfect the whole week were allowed to join these delightful parties. We learned a good deal about botany in our walks, and our love for nature grew deep and true.
In reply to the Holly Springs branch of the Natural History Society I give below a brief synopsis of the katydid.
The katydid is an American grasshopper of a transparent green color, named from the sound of its note. The song that the katydid sings is produced by a pair of taborets, one in the overlapping portion of each wing-cover, and formed by a thin transparent membrane stretched in a strong frame. The friction of the frames of the taborets against each other, as the insect opens and shuts its wings, produces the sound. During the day it hides among the leaves of the trees and bushes, but at early twilight its notes come forth from the groves and forests, continuing till dawn of day. These insects are now comparatively rare in the Atlantic States, though the writer has heard their noise at night, indicating that they were not rare in the hills back of Nyack and Verdritge Hook, better known as Rockland Lake Point, on the Hudson River. In some parts of the West their incessant noise at night deprives people of their sleep. From good authority I can state that katydids are found only in North America. They are called "grasshopper-birds" by the Indians, who are in the habit of roasting and grinding them into a flour, from which they make cakes, considered by them as delicacies. The katydid is interesting in captivity, and if fed on fruits, will live thus for several weeks. Like other grasshoppers, after the warm season they rapidly become old, the voice ceases, and they soon perish.
I would suggest that some of our members learn all they can about the golden-rod, and send what they find out about it to the Post-office Box.
President C. H. Williamson,
293 Eckford St., Brooklyn, N. Y.
Most of you have known what it is to be awakened in the night by the tolling of fire-bells, or perhaps you have been frightened by hearing somebody rushing past the door shouting "Fire! fire!" at the top of his voice. It is always an alarming and thrilling experience, and none of us ever grow used to it. But if you have read in this number the article entitled "A Forest Fire," and have looked at the picture of the lonely dog lingering beside the ruins of his home, you are sure that no fire you have ever seen was so dreadful as that. Think of the poor birds scorched, or blown to sea and drowned, and the wild animals so terrified that for the time they grew tame! One little girl of whom we heard was determined to save her canary-bird, so she took it with her, under some carpet which her father kept wet while the family crowded close together beneath its thick folds. The poor pet was dead when they at last were able to stir from their shelter. Hundreds of children who had comfortable homes like yours were deprived of them during those dreadful days of smoke and wind and flame.
We are permitted to make some quotations from a private letter written by a young lady to a friend in Brooklyn: