KISSING THROUGH THE GATE.
Golden-rod and asters;
Pears and purple grapes,
Just the prettiest colors,
And the finest shapes.
Through the dear old orchard,
Down the dear old lane,
After fruit and flowers
They will go with Jane.
First, a kiss from Kittie
Through the meadow gate.
"Hurry, sister Elsie,
We will be too late."
This from Master Freddie,
Who would hate to miss
Golden pears and apples
Just to get a kiss.
Do not fear, the flowers
And the fruit will wait
Till a little maiden
Kisses through the gate.
[OUR POST-OFFICE BOX.]
"Woodlawn," Jenkintown, Pennsylvania.
Dear Young Folks,—You have read so often in your charming paper of the wonderful intelligence and strange fancies of animals that I am tempted to write you of a "Happy Family" in which we are all greatly interested.
About four weeks ago I went down to the stable and found a mother cat and three little ones on a bed of straw in a half-hogshead. A few days later another cat had three snowy little kittens in the same place. They were the prettiest creatures you ever saw, and the happy mammas seemed to enjoy my admiration of their babies.
The next morning, on visiting my pets, the cats were away, and to my astonishment I found a speckled hen sitting on four of the kittens. I drove her off, but she went most unwillingly. The next day she was there again, and the next, but two of the kittens had been carried out on the floor, and as I was afraid the cats would hide them, I removed the two families, putting them on some straw behind their former home. In a few moments the hen found them, and has never left them day or night except for her food. The little ones are growing finely; they creep under and around her, play with her feathers, and do the funniest things imaginable, all of which I am sure she enjoys.
It is a strange and beautiful sight—the two mothers, the six babies, and the demure old hen making herself as large as possible, often spreading her wings to accommodate one of the old cats.
A friend said to me, "I wish you would write this out for publication, but I fear you will not be believed; I should have doubted the story myself." So I have written a mere outline of the pretty scenes enacted down in the stable entry of my country house; no day has repeated itself, and as I write, the foster-mother, nurse, friend of the family, or whatever she may be called, is faithfully brooding over her charge, crooning low, as if to a brood of little sleepy chicks.
I wonder how all this will end? When the children go out into the world to seek their fortunes, will their devoted nurse stay with the "old folks"? I know not. But this I know: that the fate of barn-yard fowls shall not be hers. She shall be marked with our approval, and shall live out all her days in her own way, and according to her "own sweet will."
Hoping I have won your interest in my little family, I am very truly yours,
F. T. C.