This is an old Mexican town. Many of the people live in adobe houses. Adobe is made of clay mixed with straw, moulded in frames, turned out on the ground, and sun-dried. Mamma says that the Mexican villages resemble those in Southern India, among the Tamil people. The Mexicans here are a mixed race, descended from Spaniards and Indians. There are families, however, of pure Castilian blood. The Mexicans are very kind, courteous, and hospitable. Some years ago papa and mamma went to Zuñi, and in doing so crossed the entire Territory of New Mexico. At night they encamped either in or near the different villages, and everywhere received nothing but kindness. Many of the women and little girls are very pretty indeed. They are fond of gay colors, and while a few wear hats, most prefer a scarf or a bright shawl, one end of which is thrown over the head, and forms a wrap for the neck and shoulders. Their food is very plain, consisting of mutton, coffee, bread, and beans. Nearly everybody owns a little burro, or donkey, though all do not possess horses. It is droll to see boys riding these docile little burros, with feet on either side almost touching the ground.
Lela P.
Fincastle, Virginia.
I am an English boy twelve years old, but I have spent only two years of my life in England. I lived a year on the Isle of Jersey, in the English Channel, and when I was three years old came out to Virginia with my father and mother, two brothers, and two sisters. After we had lived here three years we went over to France. We staid in Rouen, which is a fine old city, with its cathedral and churches. We used to go rowing up and down the Seine, and sometimes took our dinner on an island in the middle of the river up toward Paris. I used to go nearly every morning with my father to the market on the very spot where Joan of Arc was burned by the English. I taught our French bonne to speak in English, but I could not speak plainly myself then, and taught her to count "one, two, free." We staid a year in Rouen, and then came out here again, where we have settled down.
My eldest brother Hugh is in London, a student at Guy's Hospital. Two years ago he joined the Volunteers, and once he and his corps had luncheon, after a review, at Baron Rothschild's. The last time he wrote he was expecting to go out to Egypt as assistant surgeon. I hope he will go, as he will be able to tell me all about the fighting when he comes home.
We have a little German Dachs-hund (badger-hound) that came all the way from Germany; his name is Fritz. Once we dug for rats with him, and he killed twenty-five. Wasn't that pretty good sport for one day?
I like this country very much. I used to go fox-hunting with an English friend, but he has gone to New Zealand now. We fish in the James River, and catch plenty of black bass. I hope this letter is not so long that no room will be found for it in the Post-office Box. If I see it in print, I will write again and tell Young People how we camped out up in the mountains last month. Good-by.
Monty M.
New Rochelle, New York.
I want to tell you of a parrot we used to have. Of course her name was Polly. She would sit on the fence, and if she saw any of the children playing in the water, she would call to them: "Get out of that water! Didn't I tell you not to play in that water? What's the matter with you, Polly? Are you crazy? Ha! take care of yourself now!" Then she would scream and flap her wings. At breakfast she would march into the dining-room, and walking around my chair, would say: "Come along, Harry—come along, get coffee. Did you have any coffee this morning, Polly? Ha! bad people in this house didn't give poor little Polly any coffee this morning." She would let me pull her tail; but if others attempted to do it, she would fly at them and bite them. One day she cut all the buttons off a pair of shoes, and when discovered she screamed, "What you want, ma'am? what you come here for?" She was very fond of swinging on the clothes-line, and would begin to scold herself, saying: "What are you doing on that line, Polly? Don't you hear me, Polly—don't you hear me talking to you? Get off that line this minute." We had an old colored nurse—Auntie we called her—who used to scold Polly in this way, and who would say, when she heard the parrot mocking her, that Polly was taking all the text off her. She could sing "Shoo Fly," and say many other funny things. We think Harper's Young People is just splendid.
Harry A. W.