Well, now, it seems to me that my lost foot is really where it used to be; and the worst of it is this, that, when it itches, I can’t scratch it! It does no good to apply my fingers to the wooden stick, you know; this only reminds me of my misfortune, and brings on a fit of the blues. But there is one thing to be considered—there is medicine, if a person will seek it, for almost all diseases, whether real or fanciful; and, thanks to my young friends who write me letters, I find these very letters a pretty certain cure for the fidgets which I spoke of. When I sit down to read them, and find them full of kind and pleasant feelings, I readily forget the cares, the vexations—the dark weather of life, that beset even such a humble career as mine.

So much for the introduction—and now to business.

The following letter is very welcome. Can Harriet venture to tell us who the author of this capital riddle really is?

Newport, March 28, 1842.

Friend Merry:

In looking over, a few days since, some old papers belonging to my father, I found the following riddle. My father informs me that it was written many years ago, by a school-boy of his, then about fifteen years old, and who now occupies a prominent place in the literary and scientific world. If you think it will serve to amuse your many black-eyed and blue-eyed readers, you will, by giving it a place in the Museum, much oblige a blue-eyed subscriber to, and a constant reader of, your valuable and interesting Magazine.

Harriet.

RIDDLE.

Elizabeth Town, N. J., April 9, 1842.