WHAT IT WAS.

[B]Copyright by G. J. Manson, 1884

This Little Pig Went to Market."THIS LITTLE PIG WENT TO MARKET."

Oh, they were as happy as happy could be,Those two little boys who were down by the sea,As each with a shovel grasped tight in his hand,Like a sturdy young laborer dug in the sand!And it finally happened, while looking around,That, beside a big shell, a small star-fish they found,—Such a wonderful sight, that two pairs of blue eyesGrew large for a moment with puzzled surprise.Then—"I know," said one, with his face growing bright,"It's the dear little star that we've watched every night;But last night, when we looked, it was nowhere on high,So, of course, it has dropped from its home in the sky!"

Oh, they were as happy as happy could be,Those two little boys who were down by the sea,As each with a shovel grasped tight in his hand,Like a sturdy young laborer dug in the sand!

And it finally happened, while looking around,That, beside a big shell, a small star-fish they found,—Such a wonderful sight, that two pairs of blue eyesGrew large for a moment with puzzled surprise.

Then—"I know," said one, with his face growing bright,"It's the dear little star that we've watched every night;But last night, when we looked, it was nowhere on high,So, of course, it has dropped from its home in the sky!"

"Well, if that isn't the queerest sight!" exclaimed a passenger on the cars going from Flushing to New York, last Independence Day.

And all the passengers on that train, and on all other trains during the day, echoed the same words. It was a very strange occurrence.

Away up in the blue sky, and all alone, like a new declaration of independence, fluttered that soul-stirring piece of bunting, the stars and stripes. Not a sign of pole or support of any kind could the sharpest eye discern; and yet, as steadily as if fixed on the dome of the national capitol, it waved its gay stripes in the joyous breeze. It was a very mysterious flag.

There was, however, one individual who was both able and willing to clear away the mystery—a certain jovial man who, on the morning of that particular day, sat in exceedingly airy attire on the front porch of the boathouse of the Nereus Boat Club. As his striped shirt, knee-breeches, and skull-cap indicated, Captain Jack Walker was an oarsman.

He afterward explained to his faithful crew that he had gone to the boathouse early that morning, and while there had been struck with a novel idea. The result of that idea was the mysterious flag which was waving over the salt marsh by Flushing Bay, and was puzzling the brains of many good citizens.

Fastened to the top of the flagpole of the club's boathouse was the end of a piece of hempen twine. By following that piece of twine, which ran away into space at an angle of sixty degrees, the eye came at length to the floating flag. By looking closely, moreover, one could gradually discern that from the flag the twine ran up five or six hundred feet higher to a tiny kite—tiny, as seen away up there in the blue ether; but, in fact, a monster kite.

Captain Jack had first sent up that great kite which some one had left at the boathouse, and had let it out five or six hundred feet; then he took a flag about five feet long, which belonged to one of the boats, and fastenedthe upper end of its stick firmly to the kitestring. He next broke the lower end of the flagstick so as to leave a short projection (a), just long enough for him to fasten a piece of twine to it.

Then he again let the kite out, and also the string he had attached to the lower end of the flagstick. As soon as the flagstick was vertical, the linea,b(see preceding page) was knotted securely to the kitestring atb. All that was necessary then was to let out about five hundred feet more twine, and Captain Jack's Fourth-of-July kite was soon gayly flying. There was to be a regatta that afternoon, however, and the gallant oarsman could not sit idly holding a kitestring in his hand. So he hauled down the boat club's flag, tied the kitestring to the flag-halyards and then hoisted both flag and kitestring to the top of the flagpole; and so his Fourth-of-July banner floated serenely in the sky all day long,—a beautiful sight, and an object of much surprise and wonder to all who saw it.

If I had a big kite,With a very short tail,And a very stout cord,—And there came a great gale,—I'd hold fast to the string,And away we would fly,I and my kite,Up, up to the sky!

If I had a big kite,With a very short tail,And a very stout cord,—And there came a great gale,—

I'd hold fast to the string,And away we would fly,I and my kite,Up, up to the sky!

The biggest of birds without any wings. The oldest of kingdoms without any kings.

Tippie and Jimmie

Tippie and Jimmie had come over to play with Ajax. Tip's whole name is Tippecanoe. The boys call him a black and tan, but Bessie calls him a darling. He has a little black shining nose that he is always sticking into everything, and a little smooth, tapering tail that he is always wagging. Jimmie's name is James Stuart; he is a little Maltese kitten, with gentle blue eyes, and soft fur that is always ready to be smoothed, and claws that are never used where they can hurt, and a purr that is always wound up.

Tippie and Jimmie live together, and eat together, and are the best of friends.

Ajax is the kitten that lives next door. He is jet black, excepting a little white spot where his cravat should have been tied. And he has a long black tail that often waves over his back like a banner. He has large green eyes that snap and shine when he plays, and he has just begun to look for mice.

One day Tippie and Jimmie came around to the kitchen door of the house where Ajax lived, and looked in.

They could not see Ajax, so Jimmie began to climb up the screen door, sticking his claws into the holes. He had not climbed far before the lady of the house saw him, and she said:

"Here's Jimmie looking for Ajax. Come, Ajax, where are you?"

Ajax was asleep on the lounge, but he jumped up and came running to the door, for he comes when he is called, "quicker than any of the other children," Mamie says.

He touched noses with Jimmie, and then he took his visitors around to the front porch. There, he and Jimmie leaped upon a chair and shook their paws at Tippie, who was on the floor. Then Tippie got upon another chair, and Ajax ran under it and reached up to play with him.

It really seemed as if they knew how pretty they looked. After a while, they all three had a good race up and down, over chairs, under chairs, and through chairs. Sometimes Ajax stood on the back of a chair and poked his paw at Tippie, and sometimes he ran to the top of a high rocking-chair and jumped down to the porch railing. Jimmie was not so venturesome, however.

Soon they grew tired of such play, and then they rushed out-of-doors, and down upon the grass. There, Tippie began to tease Jimmie. He pushed him over, and stepped upon him, and nosed him, and even bit him gently, till Jimmie suddenly cried out, "Meow-ow-ow!"

Ajax had been quietly looking on, with a shade of contempt on his handsome countenance; but when he heard that appeal, he rushed at Tippie and pushed him away from Jimmie and scratched him, and chased him from one end of the yard to the other, two or three times.

When they stopped to rest after their run, Ajax settled himself comfortably on the grass, perfectly quiet, except for the tip of his tail, which moved just a little. Tippie watched that tail with longing. He danced around and around Ajax. He pranced forward and skipped back, and practiced all his dancing-steps, before he dared touch it. At last he boldly rushed upon it, and a moment later Ajax held him fast around the neck, and with heads close together, and smothered growls of happiness, the cat and the dog were rolling over and over. Then, they suddenly let go, and stood half a foot apart, glaring at each other for a second, before they rushed together again, and went through the whole frolic once more.

Mamie and Herbert had seen it all while building ships, in the side yard, and as they watched the grand closing scene, Herbert, in the tone of an oracle, announced,

The Moral:

"It is good to be good-natured, but bad to be imposed upon."

"I tell you," said Robbie, eating his peach,And giving his sister none,"I believe in the good old saying that eachShould look out for Number One.""Why, yes," answered Katie, wise little elf,"But the counting should be begunWith theother oneinstead of yourself,—Andheshould be Number One."

"I tell you," said Robbie, eating his peach,And giving his sister none,"I believe in the good old saying that eachShould look out for Number One."

"Why, yes," answered Katie, wise little elf,"But the counting should be begunWith theother oneinstead of yourself,—Andheshould be Number One."

Vol. XIII.—45.

A sudden tumult arose one day,In the nursery overhead.'T was like wild horses a-galloping there,Or a whole procession led.Nursie, with face of terror,Deserted her cup of tea,And rushed up the stair, in a state of despair,To see what the noise might be.She found in the room three Zulu chiefsPrancing across the floor.Their faces beamed, as they danced and screamed,And their arms waved more and more.In a corner sat Ted, the baby,Silent and pale with fright:"We're amusing the baby—Oh, Nurse, come and see!"Cried the Zulus in great delight."Oh, horrors!" cried Nursie in anger,Rushing to poor little Ted."To go on that way, suchridic-u-lous play!—'T will put the child out of his head!"—With expressions of injured goodness,Stood Dudley, and Gordon, and Fred,"Why, Nursie, how mean!—We should think you'd have seen,We're amusing the baby!" they said.

She found in the room three Zulu chiefsPrancing across the floor.Their faces beamed, as they danced and screamed,And their arms waved more and more.In a corner sat Ted, the baby,Silent and pale with fright:"We're amusing the baby—Oh, Nurse, come and see!"Cried the Zulus in great delight.

"Oh, horrors!" cried Nursie in anger,Rushing to poor little Ted."To go on that way, suchridic-u-lous play!—'T will put the child out of his head!"—With expressions of injured goodness,Stood Dudley, and Gordon, and Fred,"Why, Nursie, how mean!—We should think you'd have seen,We're amusing the baby!" they said.

The Brownies heard the news with glee,That in a city near the seaA spacious building was designedFor holding beasts of every kind.From polar snows, from desert sand,From mountain peak, and timbered land,The beasts with claw and beasts with hoof,All met beneath one slated roof.That night, like bees before the wind,With home in sight, and storm behind,The band of Brownies might be seen,All scudding from the forest green.Less time it took the walls to scaleThan is required to tell the tale.The art that makes the lock seem weak,The bolt to slide, the hinge to creak,Was theirs to use as heretofore,With good effect, on sash and door;And soon the band stood face to faceWith all the wonders of the place.To Brownies, as to children dear,The monkey seemed a creature queer;They watched its skill to climb and cling,By either toe or tail to swing;Perhaps they got some hints that mightCome well in hand some future night,When climbing up a wall or tree,Or chimney, as the case might be.Then off to other parts they'd rangeTo gather 'round some creature strange;To watch the movements of the bear,Or at the spotted serpents stare.The mammoth turtle from its penWas driven 'round and 'round again,And though the coach proved rather slowThey kept it hours upon the go.Said one, "Before your face and eyesI'll take that snake from where it lies,And like a Hindoo of the East,Benumb and charm the crawling beast,Then twist him 'round me on the spotAnd tie him in a sailor's knot."

Less time it took the walls to scaleThan is required to tell the tale.The art that makes the lock seem weak,The bolt to slide, the hinge to creak,Was theirs to use as heretofore,With good effect, on sash and door;And soon the band stood face to faceWith all the wonders of the place.

To Brownies, as to children dear,The monkey seemed a creature queer;They watched its skill to climb and cling,By either toe or tail to swing;Perhaps they got some hints that mightCome well in hand some future night,When climbing up a wall or tree,Or chimney, as the case might be.

Then off to other parts they'd rangeTo gather 'round some creature strange;To watch the movements of the bear,Or at the spotted serpents stare.

The mammoth turtle from its penWas driven 'round and 'round again,And though the coach proved rather slowThey kept it hours upon the go.

Said one, "Before your face and eyesI'll take that snake from where it lies,And like a Hindoo of the East,Benumb and charm the crawling beast,Then twist him 'round me on the spotAnd tie him in a sailor's knot."

Another then was quick to shout,"We'll leave that snake performance out!I grant you all the power you claimTo charm, to tie, to twist and tame;But let me still suggest you tryYour art when no one else is nigh.Of all the beasts that creep or crawlFrom Rupert's Land to China's wall,In torrid, mild, or frigid zone,The snake is best to let alone."Against this counsel, seeming good,At least a score of others stood.Said one, "My friend, suppress alarm.There's nothing here to threaten harm.Be sure the power that mortals holdIs not denied the Brownies bold."So from the nest, without ado,A bunch of serpents soon they drew.And harmlessly as silken bandsThe snakes were twisted in their hands.Some hauled them freely 'round the place;Some braided others in a trace;And every knot to sailors known,Was quickly tied, and quickly shown.Thus 'round from cage to cage they went,For some to smile, and some commentOn Nature's way of dealing outTo this a tail, to that a snoutOf extra length, and then denyTo something else a fair supply.Around the sleeping lion longThey stood an interested throng,Debating o'er its strength of limb,Its heavy mane or visage grim.But when the bear and tiger growled,And wolf and lynx in chorus howled,And starting from its broken sleep,The monarch rose with sudden leap,And, bounding round the rocking cage,With lifted mane, it roared with rage,And thrust its paws between the bars,Until it seemed to shake the stars,A panic seized the Brownies all,And out they scampered from the hall,As if they feared incautious menHad built too frail a prison pen;And though the way was long and wild,With obstacles before them piled,They never halted in their runUntil the forest shade they won.

Against this counsel, seeming good,At least a score of others stood.Said one, "My friend, suppress alarm.There's nothing here to threaten harm.Be sure the power that mortals holdIs not denied the Brownies bold."

So from the nest, without ado,A bunch of serpents soon they drew.And harmlessly as silken bandsThe snakes were twisted in their hands.Some hauled them freely 'round the place;Some braided others in a trace;And every knot to sailors known,Was quickly tied, and quickly shown.Thus 'round from cage to cage they went,For some to smile, and some commentOn Nature's way of dealing outTo this a tail, to that a snoutOf extra length, and then denyTo something else a fair supply.

Around the sleeping lion longThey stood an interested throng,Debating o'er its strength of limb,Its heavy mane or visage grim.

But when the bear and tiger growled,And wolf and lynx in chorus howled,And starting from its broken sleep,The monarch rose with sudden leap,And, bounding round the rocking cage,With lifted mane, it roared with rage,And thrust its paws between the bars,Until it seemed to shake the stars,A panic seized the Brownies all,And out they scampered from the hall,As if they feared incautious menHad built too frail a prison pen;

And though the way was long and wild,With obstacles before them piled,They never halted in their runUntil the forest shade they won.

Dear St. Nicholas:I want to tell little boys and girls about my two pets. One is a hen. She lives all alone, and leaves her coop every night, and goes in the barn, and flies up on old Jim's back, and sleeps there all night. Old Jim is a horse. Old Jim has a blanket for cold nights. It is an oldone, and there is a hole in it on the top, and the old hen walks all around till she finds that hole, and puts her feet in there where it is warm, and there we find her every morning.

My other funny pet is an old cat, named Catharine. She has only three feet, but I liked her just as well as I ever did, till last summer, when one morning we found the bird-cage door pushed in, and the bird was gone. We have another cat. We don't know but the bird flew away; but who pushed the door in? I don't like any cats so well now. Your friend,

Ralph

Dear St. Nicholas:

A sadder tale I never heard!Just think of that poor little bird!Ralph's bird was killed,—I say so, flat,—By that three-footed sly old cat!Now, I'm a gentlemanly pup,And I say cats should be locked up.For every time I walk the street,A crowd of cats I'm sure to meet.They rumple up my smooth, clean coat,They spoil my collar, scratch my throat,They rush and push, and tease and whirl,And pull my ears all out of curl.—There's nothing on four legs as rudeAs cats and kittens are.Yours,Dude.

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit:

If I drum in the house,"Oh, what a noise you make!"Sighs Mamma. "Baby'll wake!"If in the garden greenI drum, our Bridget cries:"Ye'll mak' me spile the piesAnd cakes! I can not think!That droom destroys me wit!Be off, me b'y,—or quit!"If I drum in the street,Out comes Miss Peters, quick,And says her ma is sick;Or Doctor Daniel BrownCalls from his window: "Bub,That dreadful rub-a-dubConfuses my ideas.My sermon is not done.Run on, my little son!"The creeps crawl up my backWhen I am still, and oh,Nobody seems to knowHow very tired I getWithout some sort of noise,Such as a boy enjoys!Last summer, on the farm,I used to jump and shout,For Grandpa OsterhoutAnd Grandma both are deaf.But soon some neighbors cameAnd said it was a shame,The way I scared them all.They called my shouts "wild yells,"And asked if I had "spells"Or "fits, or anything."You see, grown people allForget they once were small.Now, isn't there one placeWhere "wriggley" tired boysCan make a stunning noiseAnd play wild Injun-chief,And Independence-day,And not be sent away?Or was that place left out?Dear Jack, please tell me true;I've confidence in you.Your friend without end,Tommy.

The creeps crawl up my backWhen I am still, and oh,Nobody seems to knowHow very tired I getWithout some sort of noise,Such as a boy enjoys!

Last summer, on the farm,I used to jump and shout,For Grandpa OsterhoutAnd Grandma both are deaf.But soon some neighbors cameAnd said it was a shame,The way I scared them all.They called my shouts "wild yells,"And asked if I had "spells"Or "fits, or anything."You see, grown people allForget they once were small.

Now, isn't there one placeWhere "wriggley" tired boysCan make a stunning noiseAnd play wild Injun-chief,And Independence-day,And not be sent away?Or was that place left out?Dear Jack, please tell me true;I've confidence in you.Your friend without end,Tommy.

This is a very touching epistle, my hearers, and Tommy has my hearty sympathy. There must be such a place as he is looking for, though the Deacon says that in the course of a long life he has never happened upon the exact locality. According to the Little School-ma'am, too, it is not described in any of the geographies; but she says that, for the sake of all concerned, it is very desirable that the missing paradise of little drummer boys should be discovered;—to which the Deacon adds, "Perhaps that's why the grown folk wish to find the North Pole."

While we are upon this subject, here is a letter describing some tiny drummers that make almost as much noise as patriotic youngsters, and do quite as much mischief. To his credit, however, it must be said that this other small musician only makes his appearance as a drummer once in seventeen years. Is he bent on setting an example, I wonder? He is called

Dear Jack:The seventeen-year locust isn't a locust at all. This may seem a strange thing to say, but it is true, nevertheless. The locust looks very much like a grasshopper, while the seventeen-year cicada, which is the insect's proper name, looks a great deal more like a gigantic fly than anything else.

There is a cicada which comes every year, and is also wrongly called a locust. Anybody who has been in the country about harvest-time has heard the shrill noise made by this cicada and probably has come upon his cast-off shell sticking to a fence-rail or a tree-trunk.

The seventeen-year cicada is a cousin of the one-year chap; though, as he comes only once in every seventeen years, he is probably only a far-away cousin. Fancy spending the best part of your life prowling about in the darkness underground and then coming up into the sunlight with a gorgeous pair of wings, only to die in a short time!

That is what the seventeen-year cicada does. In the very first place, it is an egg which its mother deposits in a tiny hole in a twig. In a few weeks it makes its way out of the egg and drops to the ground, into which it burrows, and in which it remains for nearly seventeen years before it is prepared for life above ground.

When, at last, it is ready for the bright sunlight, it may be one foot from the surface or it may be ten feet deep in the ground. In either case it begins to dig upward until it finds its way out, when it climbs up the nearest tree and fastens itself by its sharp claws to a leaf or twig. There it waits until its back splits open, and behold! it immediately crawls out of itself, so to speak.

The new insect is a soft, dull fellow at first, but he grows as if he had been storing up energy for seventeen years for just that one purpose. Within an hour, two pairs of most beautiful wings have grown, and in a few hours more it has become hard and active.

The female cicadas are quiet enough, but the males are as noisy as so many little boys with new drums. Indeed, they do have drums themselves. Just under their wings are drums made of shiny membrane as beautiful as white silk, and these are kept rattling almost all the time.

One cicada can make noise enough; but imagine the din of millions of them all going at the same time. It sounds as if all thefrogs in the country had come together to try to drown the noise of a saw-mill. Now it is the saw-mill you hear, and now the frogs.

It sounds like a big story to say millions, but if you could go into the woods where they are, you might be willing to say billions. I have counted over a thousand cast-off shells on one small tree, and on one birch leaf I have seen twelve shells. And the earth in some places is like a sieve from the holes made by the cicadas as they came out.

But within a few weeks from the insects' first appearance their eggs have been laid and the cicadas have all died. A great many of them are eaten by the birds and chickens, but most of them simply can not live any longer.

Yours truly,

John R. Coryell

As it appears from Mr. Coryell's letter that the seventeen-year cicada is only an imitation locust, I shall give you a portrait of another member of the family who is, perhaps, more nearly related to the insect he is named after. At all events, he is certainly more like a grasshopper than is the seventeen-year cicada. The grasshopper that lives in this part of the world is a fine fellow to hop, as you know, but he always lights on his feet, and looks as composed and as much at his ease as if he had walked to the spot in the most dignified manner.

Well, now look at this picture! See one absurd fellow lying on his back and pawing the air with all his long legs, and another, like a circus clown, standing on his own foolish green head. Would you think these awkward and ridiculous creatures bore any relationship to the grave little hoppers who gently alight on your clothes as you run through the grass, stop a moment to stare at you with their great goggle eyes, and then take leave without saying "good-morning"?

He is no less than a cousin, I assure you, from the Far West, the great plains where few beasts, birds, or insects can find enough to live upon. This fellow does not suffer for food; he is the biggest of his family in America, and his curious performances have brought him several names. By some people he is called "the clumsy grasshopper," and by others he is dubbed "the great lubber locust," while by the scientific men, as usual, he has been given a long Latin name. Of course, you will be so eager to know it that you will wish to find it out for yourselves!

By the way, a story is told of a dog that was fond of snapping up grasshoppers, and eating them. In one of his journeys with his master, he chanced to fall among those queer grasshoppers—the lubber locusts. As he ran along through the grass, his feet started up hundreds of the clumsy fellows, and, in trying to jump out of his way, they came down in groups upon him, as you see in the picture. Some stood on their heads upon his back; others turned somersaults over his ears, and a few struck him full in the face. Besides being impertinent they were very large, each two or three times the size and weight of one of our modest little hoppers. So poor Tom was first annoyed, and then scared. One or two, or even half a dozen, he could eat up or drive away, but a hundred were too many, and at last Tom dropped his head and tail and ran for his life, while his master scolded, and his master's friend laughed at the droll sight of a big dog running away from grasshoppers.

Contributors are respectfully informed that, between the 1st of June and the 15th of September, manuscripts can not conveniently be examined at the office ofSt. Nicholas. Consequently, those who desire to favor the magazine with contributions will please postpone sending their MSS. until after the last-named date.

If C. F. H. will send us her address, we shall gladly forward to her a number of letters sent us by readers ofSt. Nicholas, in answer to her query.

La Crescent.

Dear St. Nicholas:While reading in the November number ofSt. Nicholasabout "Our Joe," I thought some of theSt. Nicholasreaders would be interested in hearing aboutourJoe.OurJoe is a Broncho pony that belonged to Rain-in-the-face, a chief in one of Sitting Bull's bands. When the ponies were taken and driven down in a drove, Our Joe got loose from the others and was caught somewhere near here. His name was Joe, but when Papa brought him home and we saw how little he was, we called him Little Joe, and when we rode him he went so easy we named him Little Joe Dandy.

We have a little red cart we call the dump, to drive him in. He is such a funny little fellow that everybody has to take a second look at him. I am five feet tall, and his shoulders are not quite as high as mine; his hair in winter is as thick and long as a buffalo's; his tail touches the ground, and his mane hangs far down on his shoulders, and is always stuck full of burrs in summer. His color is iron-gray, if it's anything, but it's hard to tell what color he is. I had my picture taken on horseback, and he looks as if he was about ready to fall asleep, but he has life in him if he takes a notion to go! He is mean to the boys. He picked my brother up by the shoulder and shook him, and one day he kicked Papa.

There was a pair of them—Our Joe and a Little Buckskin. The Buckskin would bunt his head against Joe, as a signal to go, and then they would make things fly! Every one who knew the pony before we got him says he was so ugly, it was dangerous to go around him; but he is the kindest little fellow to us. If I go out in the pasture where he is, he will follow me everywhere I go. We think the world of him. Hoping my letter is not too long, I remain,

our constant reader,H.C.

Chicago.

Dear St. Nicholas:I live in Chicago, where the boys play marbles almost all the time in the spring. I am a fairly good player. I have six hundred and four. I hope the boys who readSt. Nicholaswill try to get as many marbles.

Yours truly,Cheshire S.

City of Mexico.

Dear St. Nicholas:I am a little girl seven years old, and live alone with my father, who is a Baptist missionary. I have a mother, and little brother, and two sisters, living in the States.

I have learned to spell the names of three places that I can see from our roof. They are Chapultepec, and Popocatepetl, and Ixiaccihuatl.

There are lots of strange things here. We never slide downhill here, because there is no snow. I likeSt. Nicholas, especially the "Brownies."

Edwina S.

B——a, N. J.

Dear St. Nicholas:In looking over our oldSt. Nicholaseswe found, in the January number for 1882, a piece entitled, "Puppets and Puppet Shows," and as it struck our fancy, we agreed to try it. After several attempts, we succeeded in obtaining very good figures. With a little ingenuity and the plans of three busy brains, we arranged an excellent screen and scenery; then, with two of us to work and one to read, the puppets were set in motion. Our audience, though not large, was an appreciative one, and the show was a grand success. The puppets were carefully placed in a box, and will be kept for another entertainment.

Last summer we girls made a twine house in our orchard. A couple of cows strayed in one afternoon and ran through the house, and the chickens dug up a number of the morning-glories; but, in spite of these obstacles, a great many happy hours were spent in the house.

We wait impatiently from one month to another for your pleasant magazine, and we remain,

Your interested readers,Puss-in-bootsCarabasCorsando

Camilla van Kleeck:The article you wish is entitled "Lady Bertha," and was printed inSt. Nicholasfor December, 1880.

Easton, Mass.

Dear St. Nicholas:This is the first year I have ever taken you and the first year I have ever lived on a farm. I enjoy reading your stories and enjoy living on a farm. When I lived in the city I could not have as many pets as I can out here. Neither should I have had you. You are sent us through the kindness of a Mr. Ames, to whom I should like to extend my thanks through your columns. I also wish to thank you for making your pages so interesting to us boys and girls.

Yours truly,W. S. B.

St. Louis.

Dear St. Nicholas:I have taken theSt. Nicholasfor three years, and I like it very much. I take it for my little sister now, but always read it first myself, and enjoy it very much, and so does my little sister. I send it to her by mail after I am through with it.

I have been making my own living for five years, and I do not get much time to read. I almost always read theSt. Nicholasgoing and coming from work, as I have to take the street-car.

Seven years ago, I came from Sweden and could not speak a word of English, but now everybody takes me for an American.

There is some splendid coasting and skating in Sweden, but I do not think the young people here would enjoy going to boarding-school there; at least, not the one I went to. They are very strict. For instance, once when I did not know my lesson, I had to stay up until 12 o'clock that night and study it by moonlight, without having had a bit of supper; and the next morning, instead of my breakfast, I had to stand in the center of the dining-room and watch the others eat. I intend to write a story when I get older, and relate my experience there.

I should feel very proud if you would print this letter, as it is the first one I have written to you.

Yours truly,Jo

May Bridges: The address which you desire is "The Art Interchange, 37 West 22d street, New York City, N. Y."

McGregor, Iowa.

Dear St. Nicholas:I live about a mile from the "Great Father of Waters." I can not see the river from my home, but as I go to school in McGregor I can see it every day.

McGregor is a small town of about 2000 inhabitants. It is nestled in among the hills, and some people think it a very pretty place; indeed, some think it ought to be a summer resort.

About a mile and a half from here is the highest bluff on the Mississippi, called Pike's Peak. I suppose it is named after the famous Pike's Peak in Colorado. From it there is a very lovely view. We can see the mouth of the Wisconsin River, the State of Wisconsin, and a great distance up and down the Mississippi. The river is full of islands near here.

Believe me your loving reader,Bessie B. L.

L. M.: You can obtain the information you wish, by referring to article "Iamblichus" in Smith's Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology.

Fredericksburg, Va.

Dear St. Nicholas:This is the second year we have taken you; at least, the second year since I can remember. We took you some years ago, and then stopped, and started again two years ago. When Papa told us each to vote for which paper we wanted last year, I think we all voted for you, and take you again this year. I look forward to your coming with delight. I must confess I am selfish about it, for I always try to get you first.

This is a quiet old town, with beautiful scenery all around it. There are no mountains, but it lies between two high hills, in a little valley. Washington used to live here, and his house is only a square from ours. Mary Washington's monument is quite near, and we often go there. I have often climbed the heights where the battle of Fredericksburg was fought. It overlooks the quiet little town,peacefully slumbering, and it is hard to realize that once the shells and balls were flying across it from hill to hill. I have lived most of my life here, and I think it the nicest place in the world. I fear I have tired you with my long letter. So now, good-bye, dear oldSt. Nicholas. I look forward already to your next coming. I remain, your devoted reader,

Carrie B.

Fort Sill, I. T.

Dear St. Nicholas:I have a brother who is nearly seventeen years old. He had the first number ofSt. Nicholas, and we have taken it most of the time ever since. I have a year's subscription for my birthday. I am always glad when the time comes for you.

Your reader,Sarah B. H.

North Leominster, Mass.

Dear St. Nicholas:I am a little girl eleven years old, and take your magazine. I am deeply interested in "Little Lord Fauntleroy" and "George Washington," and hope they will be continued for a long time. I have a number of pets; among them are nine cats, which I like better than all the others. One is very large; he weighs eleven and a half pounds. He stays in the house 'most all the time. His name is Toddlekins, and he goes to bed with my brother every night. We live on a farm, and keep five horses. In summer we go to ride almost every day. I have a pair of wooden horses, which I will describe to you, as it may interest some of your little readers. You take a keg and bore four holes in the side of it, and then take short round handles and put four of them into the holes. Then take two shingles and drive them into one end of the keg (for a neck); then take another shingle and cut to the shape of a horse's head, and put it between the two shingles that have been driven on to the top of the keg; then put a feather duster in the other end, and you have a horse complete; when done, they are comical-looking enough. I like to read the letters in the Letter-box. I hope you will print my letter, as I have not written one before.

Back to Index Next