DEAR ST. NICHOLAS I send you a little story to put in the letter Box.
Once there was a little Boy His Name was Harry He lived with His Mother in a humble little Cottage) His Mothers Name was Mrs Jones she was a Widow) she and Harry lived all alone) one day Harry came Home from school and faced the Doctor at the Door young man said the Dr to the Boy your Mother is very sick) she was doing what you ought to of done for her) what is that sir said Harry choping Wood Bringing in Coal and all such work as that) she straned her self and is very ill) poor Harry hung down His head for His Mother had asked Him to chop the wood this Morning when He was mending his Ball) He said I will be there in a moment Mother) and like all Boy He forgot) oh how poor Harry felt When He thought of this) but Harry took good care of His Mother ever after) a Friend of Harries got Him a good Situation and Made a man of Him and He allways did what His Mother asked Him) ever after Harry said to the Dr one day) Dr I can take care of Mother now and I allways will
So we hope Harry will take care of His Widow Mother, all the) rest of His days)
M.J.W.
Here is a nice letter that a little girl wrote to her mother nearly thirty-three years ago. The little girl was away from her town home on a visit to the country for the sake of her health; and all that she wrote in the letter was true.
Mr. McDonald's, October 1st, 1845.
MY DEAR MOTHER: I wish my arms were long enough to reach two miles, I want to give you a good hug, I am so glad you let me come out here. I was a little bit afraid last night, the horse was so high, and it was so dark. I never rode on a horse in the dark before, you know. It was so dark in the woods I could not see anything, but my eyes would stay so wide open they hurt me. I held as tight to Mr. George as I could; I felt as though some big thing was just going to snatch me off the horse, all the time; my fingers felt like they were full of pins when I let go. Everything does taste so good out here, and the air is so clean. I stretched out my arms to it this morning, it felt so good. We have a play-house on the rocks; it has two fire-places. They are made out of flat stones, and inside of the big stones we set up two smaller stones, and lay a flat one across, and there we do our cooking. We are going to have a party to-night, and have been busy all day getting ready. All the good things are cooked, waiting till night, when Mac will be home. We have three splendid baked apples, and three eggs roasted in the ashes, but we have only two pies. We could only find two blacking-box lids, and as these are our pie-pans, we have only two pies. We washed and scoured the black all off, and they looked as nice as Sophia's tins, which she will never let us touch at home. Our biscuits are not as nice quite as hers, it was so hard to make them round, and our range don't bake on both sides, so we had to turn them over to get both sides cooked. Our things all look very good, and I am real hungry for them, but you know it would not do to eat the party before Mac comes. We have made wreaths of maple-leaves, to wear on our heads to-night, one for Mac, too. We thought it would do for a boy to wear a wreath as long as there are so few of us, and the leaves are so pretty; and as it is my birthday, I have some leaves basted all around my blue dress, and it looks lovely.
I must stop now. Give my love to all. Take good care of Fideli, and kiss all around for your loving daughter,
JULIA.
Clifton, Iroquois County, Ill.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We want to tell the little boys and girls that read ST. NICHOLAS, how a greedy rooster got caught in a trap. We set the trap to catch rabbits, but didn't get any; so the corn was left, and the chickens were all walking around, and saw it, and tried to get in to eat it; but the selfish old rooster drove them all away, and crowded in himself, and began to eat the corn, when down came the trap, and he was fast, but all the others were free.—Yours truly,
ARTHUR AND BROWNIE S.
South Boston, Mass.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I read the "Letter-Box" every month with much interest, and have often seen puzzles and "such things" in it, so I send you one, and hope that somebody will find it out:
There was somebody born in England, on the 16th of July, 1723. He was the son of a clergyman, and his father was rather strict with him. He made a drawing of his father's school with so much accuracy of outline, and in such correct perspective, that the grave clergyman could no longer maintain his severity. He saw that his son would be a painter, and resolved to aid him. An anecdote related of the artist runs thus: One day, a man called to see some of his pictures, and asked him what he mixed his colors with. The painter answered, "With brains, sir—with brains!"—Yours,
FRANK R.M.
Columbia, S.C.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Our schoolma'am told us the other day that it is generally best to use short words instead of long words in writing or speaking, and she gave us a verse to copy as a specimen. She said that it was written by a man who was perfect master of seven languages, knew six others very well, was at home with another eight, and read with a lexicon four more,—in all twenty-five different languages; and although he could use tremendously long words when he chose, yet he made a point of using short ones, even though they were old and odd and not in common use. I send you a copy of the verse, and I think he might have done much better if he had used longer and more forcible words.—Yours truly,
STELLA G.