One of the most novel and interesting sights which attracts the traveller's attention when he first arrives in Egypt is the syce running before the horses as they go through the narrow, closely packed streets. How the crowd scatters, and the donkey-boys hustle their meek property out of the way as one of those runners comes bounding along, shouting, in the strange Arabic tongue, "Clear the way!" The sun shines upon his velvet vest, glittering with its spangled trimmings, the breeze fills the large floating sleeves till they wave backward like white wings. Then on dash the spirited horses, dogs bark, children squeal, beggars dodge, men swear, and women, holding their face-veil closer, ejaculate fiercely.
On springs the syce; what cares he for man or beast? while proudly following rolls the rich equipage, or prances the Arab steed with its turbaned rider and Oriental robes.
Mahmoud, the subject of this little sketch, was the syce of a rich Pasha in Cairo; he was a favorite with his master, and everybody loved him—even the horses would neigh joyfully at his approach, and eat from his hand as gently as a dog. His life was an easy one, for, being a favorite, no arduous duties were placed upon him, and his strength was encouraged and sustained by the master for the swift running which commands so much admiration. So agile did he become, that no name among the syce of Egypt was more renowned than that of Mahmoud. Often at the latticed windows bright eyes of hidden beauties followed him through the narrow streets, and watched for his coming as he led the way for his master each morning in his rides. Sometimes they threaded their way through the crowded bazars amid scenes of the Arabian Nights, breathing wonderful Eastern perfumes, gazing on rare gems and exquisite embroideries; and again, down the road to the Pyramids, with the soft air blowing in his face, trees waving overhead, and birds singing merrily; or, in the blood-red sunset, passing down the Choubra Road, the fashionable drive of Cairo, with its shade of gnarled old sycamores, and crowded with conveyances of every description. Sometimes he led the way for the harem carriage, very proud of the honor.
One morning the Pasha sat in his garden under the blossoming orange-tree, smoking his chibouque, and talking with his friend the Bey from Alexandria, whose horse stood in the path champing impatiently at his bit, and held by his syce, Abdullah, in his gay costume. They talked of politics, the condition of the country, its financial troubles; they spoke of their religion and their mosque, of the Suez Canal, the improvements of the city, the Khedive's new palace, their own dwelling-places. By-and-by the conversation ran upon their horses and their favorite syce.
"Abdullah can outrun them all," said the Bey.
"Not so," replied the Pasha; "my Mahmoud is the finest runner in Cairo—ay, in all Egpyt."
"Sayest thou so?" cried the Bey. "Come and let us test their skill."
"Most surely," answered the Pasha, "and I will give a prize to the boy who wins."
The news soon spread over Cairo that Mahmoud and Abdullah were to run a race, the winner to receive a costly girdle of rich embroidery, finished with a clasp set with gems. Great was the interest, and on the day appointed crowds assembled to see the race, gathering long before the competitors appeared.
What a motley group there was! Camels with their riders, stylish carriages with pretty French children, rosy-cheeked English girls, Italian singers, American officers and tourists, English lords, wild desert Arabs, swarthy-faced fellaheen, pistachio and pea-nut dealers, donkey-boys, beggars, and peddlers. A Turkish band played a quick reveille. Here they come! The crowd cheers—the signal is given—they are off! The general sympathy is with Mahmoud, but Abdullah is a strong fellow, of tremendous muscle, more experience, and mighty will, so that little Mahmoud has a rival of no mean powers.
Every eye is fixed upon those two figures, side by side, leaping onward in graceful bounds. Forward they fly, past the cotton field, around the curved path; but look!— Abdullah is ahead; Mahmoud seems far behind. The band plays quicker. Abdullah is flying; he will win; he— But no; Mahmoud is gaining; he nears his rival. Abdullah sees and strains every nerve, but in vain. Mahmoud swings his light wand over his head, and shoots by like an arrow. It is over; the goal is reached. Mahmoud has won, and amid the loud cheers of the crowd the Pasha descends from his carriage, and places the glittering sash around the victor's waist. Abdullah approaches, gives his successful rival a hearty salam, which awakens fresh applause. Somebody scatters a shower of gold coins over them, and the crowd disperses.
The inscription on the Soldiers' Monument in Boston, written by the President of Harvard College, has been much admired. It reads thus:
TO THE MEN OF BOSTON
WHO DIED FOR THEIR COUNTRY
ON LAND AND SEA IN THE WAR
WHICH KEPT THE UNION WHOLE
DESTROYED SLAVERY
AND MAINTAINED THE CONSTITUTION
THE GRATEFUL CITY
HAS BUILT THIS MONUMENT
THAT THEIR EXAMPLE MAY SPEAK
TO COMING GENERATIONS
What is to be said is here said in the simplest way. There is no waste of words, no attempt at display. It is a model of good English, brief, clear, and strong. If a school-boy had written it, he would have thought it a fine chance for using big words. He would have said, "The citizens of Boston who sacrificed their lives," not "the men who died"; and "preserved the integrity of the Union," not "kept the Union whole"; and "erected," not "built." And some men who have written much in newspapers and books would have made the same mistake of choosing long words where short ones give the sense as well or better.
A great preacher once said that he made it a rule never to use a word of three or two syllables when a word of two syllables or one syllable would convey the thought as well; and the rule is a good one. In reading we want to get at the sense through the words; and the less power the mind has to spend on the words, the more it has left for the thought that lies behind them. Here the simple words that we have known and used from childhood are the ones that hinder us least. We see through them at once, and the thought is ours with the least possible labor.
Those who urge the use of simple English often lay stress on choosing "Saxon" rather than "Classical" words, and it is well to know what this means.
The English is a mixed language, made up from various sources. Its history is the history of the English race, and the main facts are these:
Britain was first peopled, so far as we know, by men of the Celtic (or Keltic) race, of which the native Irish are types. The names of the rivers, mountains, and other natural features of the land are mostly Celtic, just as in this country they are mostly Indian. About fifty years before the Christian era the Romans conquered Britain, and held it for about 500 years. They brought in the Latin language; but few traces of it now remain except in the names of certain towns and cities. The mass of the people kept their old Celtic tongue. Between the years 450 and 550 a.d. Britain was invaded and conquered by German tribes, chiefly Angles and Saxons. It now became Angleland, or England; and the language became what is called Anglo-Saxon, except in the mountains of Wales and of Scotland, where Celtic is found to this day. In the ninth and tenth centuries the Danes invaded England, and ruled it for a time, but they caused no great change in the language. In the year 1066 the Norman Conquest took place, and William the Conqueror became King of England. Large numbers of the Norman French came with him, and French became the language of the court and of the nobility. By degrees our English language grew out of the blending of the Anglo-Saxon of the common people and the Norman French of their new rulers, the former furnishing most of the grammar, the latter supplying many of the words. Now the French was of Latin origin, and the English thus got an important Latin or "Classical" element, which has since been increased by the adding of many Greek and Latin words, especially scientific and technical terms.
The two great events in the history of the English language, as of the English people, are the Saxon and the Norman conquests. To the former it owes its grammatical frame-work, or skeleton; to the latter much of its vocabulary, or the flesh that fills out the living body.
It must not be inferred that our grammar is just like the Anglo-Saxon because this is the basis of it. The Anglo-Saxon had many more inflections (case-endings of nouns and pronouns, etc.) than the French, and in the forming of English most of these were dropped, prepositions and auxiliaries coming to be used instead. It was not until about a.d. 1550 that the language had become in the main what it now is. Some words have since been lost, and many have been added, but its grammar has changed very little. Our version of the Bible, published in 1611, shows what English then was (and had been for fifty years or more), and has done much to keep it from further change.
As a rule the most common words—those that chiefly make up the language of childhood and of every-day life—are Saxon; and very many of them are words of one syllable. In the inscription above, every monosyllable is Saxon, with Boston, grateful, and coming; the rest are French or Latin. In the case of pairs of words having the same meaning, one is likely to be Saxon, the other Classical. Thus happiness is Saxon, felicity is French; begin is Saxon, commence is French; freedom is Saxon, liberty is French, etc. The Saxon is often to be preferred, though not always; but, as has been implied above, if a short and simple word conveys our meaning, we should never put it aside for a longer and less familiar one. In such cases the chances are that the former is Saxon, and the latter Classical. Thus above, citizens, sacrificed, preserved, integrity, and erected are all Classical.
Washington spent about nine months with the army around Boston. Several times he was ready to attack the British, and to try and drive them from the city; but his officers were afraid the army was not strong enough. So Washington had to wait and watch—he had a good deal of waiting and watching to do all through the war, for that matter. At last, in March, 1776, the Americans around Boston having gradually pushed closer and closer, the British found that they must either leave or fight. Their General did not feel strong enough to fight, so he put his men on ships and sailed away to Halifax. Of course the Americans were greatly rejoiced. Washington got much praise, and deserved it, for he had shown great good judgment and skill in his management of the army.
Washington knew that the British would soon come back, and thought they would come to New York. So he took nearly all his army, and marched them westward to that city.
Early in July the British came, as Washington had expected, and made their camp on the beautiful hillsides of Staten Island. They brought with them what they called propositions for peace. These were simply offers to pardon the Americans for resisting the British tax laws, if they would now obey them. But this would only have left things exactly as they were in the beginning; it came too late. The Americans had already made up their minds that they would not obey the British laws which taxed them, nor any laws of Great Britain, but that in the future they would make their own laws in such manner as seemed to them most just. This purpose was written out in a long paper called the Declaration of Independence, and was signed on the Fourth of July, 1776, by the members of Congress. General Washington caused the Declaration of Independence to be read to his soldiers. "Now," he said to them, "the peace and safety of our country depend, under God, solely on the success of our arms," and he appealed to "every officer and soldier to act with fidelity and courage."
The year 1776 was a very gloomy one. All efforts to hold New York failed. A hard battle was fought around Brooklyn (August 27), and the Americans were badly beaten. Washington had to give up New York, and content himself with trying to keep the British from going to Philadelphia. Late in the fall he got across the Delaware River, with the British close on his heels. Soon the river filled with ice, as the cold weather came on, and the two armies lay one on one side and the other on the other. The American troops had dwindled away until there were only about three thousand of them.
Washington resolved that something must be done to raise the spirits of the country, or the people would lose all hope of resisting the British with success. At Trenton, on the opposite side from his own army, lay a force of Hessians, who were German soldiers, hired by Great Britain to come to America to fight, and Washington formed the plan of capturing them.
On Christmas-eve, 1776, he crossed the Delaware with 2400 men. The night was bitterly cold; a pelting hail-storm was falling; ice in great blocks was running down the stream, and hindered the boats, so that the army did not get across until four o'clock in the morning. Then the soldiers formed in ranks in the darkness, and being divided into two parties, started for Trenton, nine miles below. Washington led one of the parties, and General Sullivan the other. As they plodded along through the hail and snow, some of the men, exhausted, fell by the road-side, and of these two froze to death before they could be rescued.
As the men under Washington reached Trenton, and began to capture the Hessian soldiers set as sentinels to watch the road, they heard firing on the other side of the town, and knew that Sullivan's men had come up. Then both parties rushed swiftly toward the centre of the town, and with very little bloodshed a thousand prisoners were taken. This was a great success of itself, and had the effect which Washington had hoped for: it gave the whole country new courage.
Washington then started back toward New York, and so rapid was his march that the British commander became frightened lest the Americans should retake the city, and he too went quickly back, and gave up all thought of reaching Philadelphia that year.
"Now, lads, there's the battery; remember the Emperor himself is watching you, and carry it in true French style. The moment you get into it, make yourselves fast against attack; and mind that any man who comes out again to pick up the wounded, even though I myself should be among them, shall be tried for disobedience as soon as the battle's over."
So spoke Colonel Lasalle to his French grenadiers just before the final charge that decided the battle of Wagram. Then he waved his sword, and shouted, "En avant!"
Forward swept the grenadiers like a torrent, with the shout which the Austrians opposed to them already knew to their cost. Through blinding smoke and pelting shot they rushed headlong on, with mouths parched, faces burning, and teeth set like a vise. Ever and anon a red flash rent the murky cloud around them, and the cannon-shot came tearing through their ranks, mowing them down like grass. But not a man flinched, for the same thought was in every mind, that they were fighting under the eye of their "Little Corporal," as they affectionately called the terrible Napoleon.
Suddenly the smoke parted, and right in front of them appeared the dark muzzles of cannon, and the white uniforms of Austrian soldiers. One last shout, which rose high above all the roar of the battle, the bayonets went glittering over the breastwork like the spray of a breaking wave, and the battery was won.
"Where's the Colonel?" cried a voice, suddenly.
There was no answer. The handful of men that remained of the doomed band looked meaningly at each other, but no one spoke. Strict disciplinarian as he was, seldom passing a day without punishing some one, the old Colonel had nevertheless won his men's hearts completely by his reckless courage in battle; and every man in the regiment would gladly have risked his life to save that of "the old growler," as they called him.
But if he were not with them, where was he? Outside the battery the whole ground was scourged into flying jets of dust by a storm of bullets from the fight that was still raging on the left. In such a cross-fire it seemed as if nothing living could escape, and if he had fallen there, there was but little hope for him.
"I see him!" cried a tall grenadier. "He's lying out yonder, and alive, too, for I saw him wave his hand just now. I'll have him here in five minutes, boys, or be left there beside him."
"But you mustn't disobey orders, Dubois," said a young Captain (now the oldest surviving officer, so terrible had been the havoc), hoping by this means to stop the reckless man from rushing upon certain death. "Remember what the Colonel told you—that even if he were left among the wounded, no one must go out to pick them up."
"I can't help that," answered the soldier, laying down his musket and tightening the straps of his cross-belts. "Captain, report Private Dubois for insubordination and breach of discipline. I'm going out to bring in the Colonel."
And he stepped forth unflinchingly into the deadly space beyond.
They saw him approach the spot where the Colonel lay; they saw him bend over the fallen man, shielding him from the shot with his own body. Then he was seen to stagger suddenly, as if from a blow; but the next moment he had the Colonel in his arms, and was struggling back over the shot-torn ground, through the dying and the dead. Twice he stopped short, as if unable to go farther; but on he came again, and had just laid his officer gently down inside the battery, when, with his comrades' shout of welcome still ringing in his ears, he fell fainting to the earth, covered with blood.
By the next morning Colonel Lasalle had recovered sufficiently to amaze the whole regiment by putting under arrest the man who had saved his life; but the moment it was done, the Colonel mounted his horse, and rode off to head-quarters at full gallop. In about an hour he was seen coming back again, side by side with a short, square-built man in a gray coat and cocked hat, at sight of whom the soldiers burst into deafening cheers, for he was no other than the Emperor Napoleon.
"Let me see this fellow," said Napoleon, sternly; and two grenadiers led forward Pierre Dubois, so weak from his wounds that he could hardly stand.
"So, fellow, thou hast dared to disobey orders, ha?" cried the Emperor, in his harshest tones.
"I have, sire. And if it were to be done again, I'd do it."
"And what if we were to shoot thee for insubordination?"
"My life is your Majesty's, now as always," answered the grenadier, boldly. "And if I must choose between dying myself and leaving my Colonel to die, the old regiment can better spare a common fellow like me than a brave officer like him."
A sudden spasm shook the old Colonel's iron face as he listened, and even Napoleon's stern gray eyes softened as few men had ever seen them soften yet.
"Thou'rt wrong there," said he, "for I would not give a 'common fellow' of thy sort for twenty Colonels, were every one of them as good as my old Lasalle here. Take this, Sergeant Dubois"—and he fastened his own cross of the Legion of Honor to Pierre's breast. "I warrant me thou'lt be a Colonel thyself one of these days."
And sure enough, five years later, Pierre Dubois was not only a Colonel, but a General.
Spring had come, with its buds and blossoms, warm bright days and gentle showers, and the old apple-tree at the end of the garden was putting on its new spring dress of green leaves and tiny pink buds, which before long would open into sweet blossoms, and still later turn into ripe golden fruit, when a pair of Bobolinks came flying through the garden one fine morning house-hunting, or rather looking for a nice place to build a nest and go to housekeeping.
"Here is a good spot," said the little husband, whose name was Robert, perching on a limb of the old apple-tree and poking his bill into a crotch formed by a crooked branch.
"So it is," said Linny, his wife, "for the leaves will soon be out and hide the nest from sight:" and they began to chatter so fast about the nice home they would have there, that it sounded like nothing but "Bob-o-link, bob-o-link, spink, spank, spink," so that two little girls who were playing with their dolls under the tree said, "What a noise those Bobolinks make! what are they chattering so about?"
Soon, however, they saw the little birds flying back and forth, back and forth, with bits of hair and straw in their bills, and then they said to one another, "The Bobolinks are building a nest," and they hung pieces of cotton and bunches of thread on the lower limbs of the tree, and watched to see Robert carry them off to weave into the outside of the nest, while Linny made a soft lining of hair inside. And at last the little home was finished, and three pretty eggs laid snugly inside; when one day, while Robert and Linny had gone to stretch their wings by a short flight around the garden, an ugly old Cuckoo, who had seen the Bobolinks flying in and out of the tree, came and laid a big egg in the nest; for Cuckoos are lazy birds, and never build houses for themselves, but steal places to lay their eggs, and let somebody else take care of their children.
Now Robert and Linny had never been to school, and could not count; so when they came back they did not notice that there were four eggs in the nest instead of three, and Linny settled down on them, quite happy, while Robert sang a merry song to her, all about birds and flowers, and brought her nice fat worms and flies to eat, and was just the best little Bobolink husband in the whole garden.
And after a while a faint "peep-peep" was heard, the eggs all cracked, and out came four little blind birdies, without any feathers, and ugly enough, you would have said, but their papa and mamma thought them lovely. One, however, was as large as the other three put together, and took up so much room that Linny said: "Oh dear, we have made the nest too small! When the children grow larger, some will be crowded out."
"That is strange," said Robert, "for it is the same size as the other Bobolinks have built, and they have plenty of room."
"Yes, but just see how big one of the babies is," said Linny.
Just then Robert saw the Cuckoo on a tree near by, winking one eye, and laughing until her sides shook, and exclaimed: "I see how it is: that old thief of a Cuckoo has laid an egg in our nest. I will throw her ugly child out, and she can look after it herself;" and he made a dive for the little Cuckoo, but Linny caught him by his tail-feathers, saying:
"No, no; poor little fellow, he will die if you throw him on the ground. Let him stay until he gets too big for the nest."
So the Cuckoo staid. But he was a very bad bird, for after a while, when he and the little Bobolinks got their eyes open, and had nice coats of feathers, he would peck at his companions, and take away all the best bits of bread and fattest worms that their papa and mamma brought them home for dinner, and was so cross and greedy that Robert would have pitched him out on the grass if Linny had not begged he might stay a little longer, and tried to make him behave better.
The apple-tree was now covered with pink and white blossoms, which grew around the little nest and made it like a bower. And now the birdies were learning to fly, and could go to the outer branches of the tree, where they sat in a row, while their father taught them how to sing.
"Bob-o-link, bob-o-link, spink, spank, spink," sang Robert. And the little ones, who could not speak plain, all repeated, "Bob-o-link, bob-o-link, pink, pank, pink"—all except the biggest bird, who would only say, "Cuckoo, cuckoo," in a harsh voice.
At last, one day, Robert said, "Now, children, you are old enough to leave the tree, and to-day you must begin to go a little way into the garden."
"Yes," said their mother, "but take care, and never sit on the ground, for there is a great yellow cat who will surely eat you up."
"We will be very careful," said all the little Bobolinks.
After Billy, Bobby, and Jenny, as well as Cuckoo, had had their feathers brushed nice and smooth, they were sent out to try their wings; but the Cuckoo was stronger, and could fly farther than the Bobolinks.
Bobby flew over to the fence, to see what was on the other side, and the first thing he spied was the yellow cat creeping slowly along, and she fixed her eyes right on him. He tried to fly back, but just then the Cuckoo came behind, and gave him a push which sent him fluttering to the ground, right in front of Mrs. Pussie. Poor Bobby gave himself up for lost; but as the cat was about to spring on him, a great dog came bounding across the yard, which sent the cat scampering off in a hurry, and saved Bobby, who hastened home as fast as his little wings could carry him.
"Pshaw!" said the Cuckoo; "I thought there would be one out of the nest. But there is the cat under a bush, and Jenny is tilting on a twig just above, without seeing her." So the naughty bird flew to the rose-bush, and said, "Jenny, you look as if you were having a nice time."
"I am," said Jenny; "but don't come on this twig, it won't hold you."
"Oh yes, it will," said Cuckoo, leaning on the slender spray, which broke, and fell with Jenny, who was too frightened to fly; and quick as lightning the cat seized and carried her off in her mouth.
"Ha, ha, ha," laughed Cuckoo; "there will be room in the nest now." But at that moment the two little girls came out of the house, saw the cat with the bird, and made her drop Jenny on the grass. She was not much hurt, and they carried her gently back to the apple-tree, and gave her to her papa and mamma. The Cuckoo then went to look for Billy; but as he was passing the flower garden he saw a juicy white angle-worm lying in a bed of violets, and feeling hungry, stopped to take a little lunch.
The worm was very nice, and Cuckoo enjoyed it very much, when, just as he was swallowing the last morsel, the cat came stealing softly from under a wood-pile, and thinking if birds could lunch on worms, she could lunch on birds, pounced upon Cuckoo, and carried him off; and nothing more was ever seen of him, except a few feathers scattered near the door of the wood-shed. These Billy saw, and went home to tell the sad story.
Oriskany, New York.
I am a little boy, and I take Young People, which I like very much. I enjoy reading the children's letters, and I want to tell you about my squirrel that I caught the 26th of March, while hunting with one of my playmates. His dog chased it into a hollow stump. He put his hat on top of the slump, and we built a little fire at the bottom, and the smoke drove the squirrel into the hat. I carried it home, and a few days ago I found in the cage five little baby squirrels. One of them died, but I hope the rest will live. I think they will, for their mother takes good care of them. I feed her with all kinds of nuts, and she is getting very tame.
Alfred H. H.
Lansing, Michigan.
I think that Young People is a very nice paper. I am making a collection of birds' eggs, shells, stones, and other curiosities. Papa made me a birthday present of some minerals, nicely labelled. I saw some willow "pussies" on March 21. Now we have robins, bluebirds, blackbirds, and many other birds singing. We have a great deal of fun with "Misfits," given in Young People No. 22.
Jessie I. B.
Brooklyn, New York.
I have been very sick, and can not go to school, so I will write you about my turtles. I brought them from Kiskatom last summer. There were five, but the smallest one died. The largest was two inches long, and the smallest one only an inch and a quarter. They are in the cellar, in a tub half filled with mud and water, in which they buried themselves last fall. I am anxious to see if they will come out again this spring. I fed them on flies and earth-worms, and they became very tame. I am going to take them back to their native place this summer, and let them go.
Eddie W.
Cardiff, South Wales, England.
I read Harper's Weekly and Young People in a subscription reading-room opposite my house, and some time ago I saw an invitation to English boys to write, which invitation I beg to accept. You invited correspondents to write about their pets. I have a paroquet. It was brought me by a captain. It was captured in India. It can not quite talk, but I often think it tries to. It imitates my whistle very well. Its usual note is a sort of chirping whistle. It always knows when meal-times are, and cries out until it has a share. About ten o'clock in the morning it becomes very talkative in its own language, and I answer it.
Lewis G. D.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
I am a little girl seven years old. I go to a lovely place on the sea-shore in summer. Crabbing is the best fun you can have there. It is best to go on a rainy day. You take a crab-net, which is a long pole with an iron ring at one end, and a net dropping from it. Another person takes a line with some meat on it, and lets it down into the water. When the crab comes to eat, you catch it with the net. I went crabbing with my nurse one day, and we caught a peach-basketful of crabs.
N D.
Greenville, Ohio.
I want to tell you about some Punch-and-Judy figures I made myself. I give a Punch-and-Judy show every Saturday, and I make from five to ten cents each time. The boys tease me to play it all the time. I am eleven years old, and I can play Punch and Judy very well.
Willie G. H.
Hartford, Connecticut.
I was very much interested in Gertrude Balch's letter in No. 17, because her name is the same as my own. I have a little brother, who asks every day if that is not the day for Young People to come. At grandma's, where I am visiting, there are two cats, named Nancy and John, and my aunt has an Esquimaux dog that is very large and handsome. He sleeps under my bed every night. I wish some little girl would please tell me how I can tame birds.
Daisie Balch.
I thought, perhaps, you would like a letter from Tallahoma, Tennessee; and I want to tell you that Young People is a very welcome visitor at our house. The story "Across the Ocean" is just splendid. Spring is here. Peach-trees were in bloom before the middle of March, and now we have a great many flowers.
Robert H. D.
Brookside Farm, Missouri, March 30, 1880.
I heard a whip-poor-will this morning for the first time this year, and would be very glad if others would inform me if they have heard the bird this spring. I heard a cat-bird trilling its notes about a week ago, and bluebirds, martins, and other birds have made their appearance. Pewits are building their nests. Brother Le Verne gets Young People, and we have all the numbers published. We all like it very much. I like the articles on natural history best, and as I have seen some of the animals described, it makes it more interesting to me.
Wroton K.
Chambersburg, Pennsylvania.
I am very fond of reading; and when I go to my father's office every Wednesday evening to get Young People, the first thing I look at is the Post-office Department. Nearly all of your correspondents have pets. I have a dear little dog named Sport. He is very playful and mischievous, and is exceedingly fond of taffy and pea-nuts.
Emma M.
Angels Camp, California.
We like Young People ever so much. Mamma reads us the stories. I read the letters, and try to find out the puzzles. I have a pet dog named Rover. He plays hide-and-seek with me; and he will eat corn like a dog I read about in the Post-office of No. 18. My little sister has a pet hen named Tansie, and a boy who lives next door has two guinea-pigs.
Willie H. C.
Wilmington, Delaware.
I was nine years old last October. Papa subscribed for Young People for my New-Year's gift for 1880, and I like it so much! The puzzles are very interesting, and make many a pleasant evening for us children. I think the story of "A Boy's First Voyage" is grand. I have had two pets this winter—a beautiful English rabbit and a very handsome kitty. Kitty can open any of the doors in the house that has a latch, and walk in as independent as you please. Bunny was very jealous of her, and would chase her and tease her so that I gave him to Cousin Georgie, for kitty had the oldest right. Now she has three of the fattest little baby kittens you ever saw. When they begin to run around, they will make lots of sport for us. Old kitty has to give them several boxings a day with her paw.
Stimmie H. C.
Fairfield, New York.
I am eight years old. My sister Fannie and I have a pet cat. We were all at tea one evening, when we heard the piano in the other room. We ran in there, and kitty was sitting on the stool playing her best piece.
Jessie V. W.
Farmington, Maine.
I am a little girl eleven years old. I have a cat named P. T. Barnum. He always knows when the meat-man comes. Even if he is asleep, he will wake up, and begin to cry until he gets a piece of meat. He is a very handsome Maltese. I call him P. T.
Mabel S.
Edgewood Plantation, Louisiana.
I am a little girl eight years old, and I live on the banks of the Mississippi River. My mamma takes Young People for me. I ride a pony to school every day. I wanted to tell you about my pets, and my dolls too, but I must not make my first letter too long.
Lizzie C. M.
The two following communications were written in big capitals:
New York City.
There was a little girl who had four dolls. One of them was French; the other three were wax. There was a parrot in the house where the little girl lived. This little girl had a nurse she loved very much. The little girl had a brother whose name was Harry. He had a little boat that went by steam. He sailed it in the bath-tub.
Bessie Hyde.
Brooklyn, New York.
I have two canary-birds, but one of them will not sing. I had two pretty little guinea-pigs, but a big dog killed one of them, and ate it up. I am glad when the newsman brings Young People. Mamma reads all the stories to me.
Nannie Hayes.
St. Louis, Missouri.
I am eight years old. I am sick now with the measles, and mamma has read all the stories in the last Young People to me. I wish the next one would come. I have a little dog named Frolic. He will sit up, and turn over, and speak for something to eat.
Ned Bishop.
Boston, Massachusetts.
My name is "Wee Tot." My papa writes this letter for me. By-and-by I will write myself. I have shells, and ocean mosses, and stuffed birds that don't sing, and a big owl, and some alligators, and—oh! I don't know—lots of things. I wish some little boy or girl would send me some pressed flowers and grasses, and some pretty stones and leaves. Then I will send them some of my pretty things. I will put them in a tin case, and papa will send them in the Post-office.
"Wee Tot" Brainard,
257 Washington Street (Room 20), Boston.
I see the children telling about their pets. I have a little dog that can turn somersaults. He shuts doors when you tell him to, and gives you his paw if you ask him in French. He is a black and tan. Then I have a pet kitten, and I tie a blue ribbon round its neck. It jumps through my arms; but it is too fond of staying out all night on the fences. I have seventeen dolls. The largest is a Japanese baby, and is as large as a live one. Another doll is nine years old, and is named Shawnee. I have a very large baby-house. I wrote to Mamie Jones, and sent her some flower seeds to exchange. Will some other little girl exchange some with me?
Gussie Sharp,
438 Grand Avenue, Brooklyn, New York.