For the Wreath.
Miss Editor:—I feel slighted. You are all writing for the “Wreath,” but not a soul of you has asked me to contribute to your interesting paper. Why is this? Have I not heard some of you say that I know as much as many human bipeds of the same age? Don’t I understand almost everything that you say to me? And if I only could talk, wouldn’t I rattle away as fast as any of you? I bet I would. If I don’t talk, it isn’t because I’ve got no ideas, depend on that. But you see I can write, although perhaps you did not know it. But fearing I am an intruder, I will stop.
Rover.
For the Wreath.
The Snow.
Hurrah! The snow has come!—Now wont we have fine times! I like to see it come thick and fast, and bury everything up. How curious it is, to see the woods, and fences, and stones, and roofs, and fields, and hills, covered over with the pure white snow! What fun it is to roll and tumble in it! I like to have the roads all blocked up, so that we can’t get anywhere, not even to school. Then what fun it is to break out the ways! We have a large sled, with a plough lashed to the off side. Then we hitch on six or eight yoke of oxen, and are ready for a start. The boys load up the sled, and a lot of men go ahead to shovel through the deep drifts, and so we go all over town till the roads are broken out.
Ron.