Chapter 19

A stamp was in the corner And some printing when it came, And the one that wrote the letter Had put 'Miss' before my name.

Then there came a lot more written, I forget now what it read, But it told the office people Where I lived, mamma said.

Don't you s'pose those letter-persons, If they hadn't just been told, Would have thought 'twas for a lady Who was awful, awful old?

For it looked real big and heavy, The outside was stuck with glue, So they couldn't know I'm little, I don't think they could. Do you?"

Youth's Companion

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I'm Going to Write to Papa

I'm going to write to papa, I guess he'd like to hear What his little girl is doing, The same as when he is near;

I'll tell him how I miss him, And how I'd wish he'd come, And never, never, leave us, But always stay at home.

I'll tell him 'bout my dolly, She's sleeping on the floor, I fear that noise will wake her, Oh! please don't slam the door.

For I must not be bothered, That's just what ma would say, When she begins a letter, And sends me off to play.

I'll send him lots of kisses, And one bright shining curl, I'll ask him to remember His lonely little girl;

I want so much to see him, But I won't cry a wink, Cause when I write my letter, The tears would blot my ink.

I'm going to write to papa, And oh! how glad he'll be. To get a little letter That was written all by me.

Old Letters

I gaze upon ye, once again, Old records of the past, And o'er the dim and faded lines My tears are falling fast;

I deem'd not there was a power yet, In these few simple words, To stir within my quiet heart Such old familiar chords.

Ye bring me back mine early dreams-- Oh, but to dream them now, With childhood's fresh, unwearied heart, And pure unsadden'd brow!

The loved--the lost--the changed-- The dead--all these we conjure up, And mingled in the draught That lies in memory's magic cup.

Old letters--sad mementoes ye, Of friendship's shatter'd chain, Oh! that the hand these pages traced, My own might clasp again.

They tell me yet of early love, Of feelings glad and gay, Of childhood's April hopes and fears-- The writers, where are they?

Time's changes are for deeper things Than folly's vain pursuit, Spring blossoms fade, to leave a place For autumn's ripen'd fruit.

Look back upon the buried past, But not with vain regret, Be grateful for the many joys That bloom around thee yet.

Bend heavenward thine onward course, That years of coming age May leave an impress in life's book, Pure as its opening page!

Papa's Letter

I was sitting in my study, Writing letters, when I heard: "Please, dear mamma, Mary told me That you mustn't be disturbed.

But I'se tired of the kitty, Want some ozzer thing to do. Writing letters is 'ou mamma? Tan't I write a letter, too?"

"Not now, darling, mamma's busy; Run and play with kitty now." "No--no mamma; me wite letter, Ten you will show me how."

I would paint my darling's portrait, As his sweet eyes searched my face-- Hair of gold and eyes of azure, Form of childish witching grace.

But the eager face was clouded, As I slowly shook my head, Till I said: "I'll make a letter, Of you, darling boy, instead."

So I parted back the tresses From his forehead high and white, And a stamp in sport I pasted, 'Mid its waves of golden light.

Then I said: "Now, little letter, Go away and bear good news," And I smiled as down the staircase Clattered loud the little shoes.

Leaving me, the darling hurried Down to Mary in his glee: "Mamma's witting lots of letters; I'se a letter, Mary, see."

No one heard the little prattler, As once more he climbed the stair. Reached his little cap and tippet, Standing on the table there.

No one heard the front door open, No one saw the golden hair, As it floated o'er his shoulders On the crisp October air.

Down the street the baby hastened, Till he reached the office door: "I'se a letter, Mr. Postman, Is there room for any more?

'Cause this letter's going to papa; Papa lives with God, 'ou know: Mamma sent me for a letter; Does 'ou fink at I tan do?"

But the clerk in wonder answered, "Not to-day, my little man;" "Den I'll find anozzer office, 'Cause I must go if I tan."

Fain the clerk would have detained him, But the pleading face was gone, And the little feet were hastening, By the busy crowd swept on.

Suddenly the crowd was parted, People fled to left and right, As a pair of maddened horses At that moment dashed in sight.

No one saw the baby figure, No one saw the golden hair, Till a voice of frightened sweetness Rang out on the autumn air.

'Twas too late: a moment only Stood the beauteous vision there: Then the little face lay lifeless Covered o'er with golden hair.

Rev'rently they raised my darling, Brushed away the curls of gold, Saw the stamp upon the forehead Growing now so icy cold.

Not a mark left the face disfigured, Showing where a hoof had trod; But the little life was ended-- "Papa's letter" was with God.

Bessie's Letter

I have got a letter, A letter of my own, It has my name upon it, Miss Bessie L. Stone.

My papa sent it to me, He's away from home--you see I guess the postman wondered Who Bessie Stone could be.

I'd like to send an answer, But I don't know how to spell; I'll get mamma to do it, And that will do as well.

A Little Boy's Valentine

Little girl across the way, You are so very sweet, I shouldn't be a bit surprised If you were good to eat.

Now what I'd like if you would too, Would be to go and play-- Well, all the time, and all my life, On your side of the way.

I don't know anybody yet On your side of the street, But often I look over there And watch you--you're so sweet.

When I am big, I tell you what, I don't care what they say, I'll go across--and stay there, too, On your side of the way.

Letter Writing

Heaven first taught letters For some wretch's aid, Some banish'd lover, Or some captive maid.

They live, they speak, They breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, And faithful to its fires;

The virgin's wish Without her fears impart, Excuse the blush, And pour out all the heart--

Speed the soft intercourse From soul to soul, And waft a sigh From Indus to the pole.

Boil it Down

Whatever you have to say my friend, Whether witty, grave, or gay, Condense as much as ever you can, And that is the readiest way; And whether you write of rural affairs, Or particular things in town, Just take a word of friendly advice-- "Boil it down."

Letters from Home

Letters from home! How musical to the ear Of the sailor-boy on the far-off main, When, from the friendly vessel drawing near, Across the billow floats the gentle strain, The words the tear-drops of his memory move; They tell a mother's or a sister's love; And playmates, friends, and sweetheart to him come Out to him on the sea, in letters from his home. How warmly there the tender home-light shines! What household music lives in those dear tender lines.

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Polly's Letter to Brother Ben

Dear Brother Ben, I take my pen To tell you where, And how, and when, I found the nest Of our speckled hen. She would never lay, In a sensible way, Like other hens, In the barn or the hay;

But here and there And everywhere, On the stable floor, And the wood-house stair, And once on the ground Her eggs I found. But yesterday I ran away, With mother's leave, In the barn to play.

The sun shone bright On the seedy floor, And the doves so white Were a pretty sight As they walked in and out Of the open door, With their little red feet And their features neat, Cooing and cooing More and more.

Well, I went out To look about On the platform wide, Where side by side I could see the pig-pens In their pride; And beyond them both, On a narrow shelf, I saw the speckled hen Hide herself

Behind a pile Of hoes and rakes And pieces of boards And broken stakes. "Ah! ha! old hen, I have found you now, But to reach your nest I don't know how, Unless I could creep Or climb or crawl Along the edge Of the pig-pen wall."

And while I stood In a thoughtful meed, The speckled hen cackled As loud as she could, And flew away, As much as to say, "For once my treasure Is out of your way." I did not wait A moment then: I couldn't be conquered By that old hen!

But along the edge Of the slippery ledge I carefully crept, For the great pigs slept, And I dared not even look to see If they were thinking Of eating me But all at once, Oh, what a dunce!

I dropped my basket Into the pen, The one you gave me, Brother Ben; There were two eggs in it, By the way, That I found in the manger Under the hay. Then the pigs got up And ran about With a noise between A grunt and a shout.

And when I saw them, Rooting, rooting, Of course I slipped And lost my footing, And tripped, And jumped, And finally fell Right down among The pigs pell-mell. For once in my life I was afraid; For the door that led Out to the shed

Was fastened tight With and iron hook, And father was down In the fields by the brook, Hoeing and weeding His rows of corn, And here was his Polly So scared and forlorn, But I called him, and called him, As loud as I could. I knew he would hear me-- He must and he should.

"O father! O father! (Get out, you old pig). O father! oh! oh!" For their mouths are so big. Then I waited a minute And called him again, "O father! O father! I am in the pig pen!" And father did hear, And he threw down his hoe, And scampered as fast As a father could go.

The pigs had pushed me Close to the wall, And munched my basket, Eggs and all, And chewed my sun-bonnet Into a ball. And one had rubbed His muddy nose All over my apron, Clean and white;

And they sniffed at me, And stepped on my toes, But hadn't taken The smallest bite, When father opened The door at last, And oh! in his arms He held me fast.

E. W. Denison

Writing

Little pens of metal, Little drops of ink, Make the wicked tremble, And the people think.

Value of Writing

Blest be that gracious power Who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image On the mind:

Beasts may convey, And tuneful birds may sing Their mutual feelings In the opening spring;

But man alone has skill And power to send The heart's warm dictates To the distant friend:

Tis his also to please, Instruct, advise, Ages remote, And nations yet to rise.

Crabbe

Use the Pen

Use the pen! there's magic in it, Never let it lag behind; Write thy thought, the pen can win it From the chaos of the mind.

Many a gem is lost forever By the careless passer-by, But the gems of thought should never On the mental pathway lie.

Use the pen! reck not that others Take a higher flight than thine. Many an ocean cave still smothers Pearls of price beneath the brine.

So thy words and thoughts securing Honest praise from wisdom's tongue, May, in time, be as enduring As the strains which Homer sung.

J. E. Carpenter

Power of the Pen

Beneath the rule of men entirely great, The pen is mightier than the sword.

Lord Lytton

Letters

Such a little thing--a letter, Yet so much it may contain: Written thoughts and mute expressions Full of pleasure, fraught with pain.

When our hearts are sad at parting, Comes a gleam of comfort bright, In the mutual promise given: "We will not forget to write."

Plans and doings of the absent; Scraps of news we like to hear, All remind us, e'en though distant, Kind remembrance keeps us near.

Yet sometimes a single letter Turns the sunshine into shade; Chills our efforts, clouds our prospects, Blights our hopes and makes them fade.

Messengers of joy or sorrow, Life or death, success, despair, Bearers of affection's wishes, Greetings kind or loving prayer.

Prayer or greeting, were we present, Would be felt, but half unsaid; We can write--because our letters-- Not our faces--will be read?

Who has not some treasured letters, Fragments choice of other's lives; Relics, some, of friends departed, Friends whose memory still survives?

Touched by neither time nor distance, Will their words unspoken last? Voiceless whispers of the present, Silent echoes of the past!

The Right Method of Composition

Never be in haste in writing: Let that thou utterest be of nature's flow, Not art's, a fountain's, not a pump's. But once Begun, work thou all things into thy work: And set thyself about it, as the sea About the earth, lashing it day and night: And leave the stamp of thine own soul in it As thorough as the fossil flower in clay: The theme shall start and struggle in thy breast, Like to a spirit in its tomb at rising, Rending the stones, and crying--Resurrection.

P. J. Bailey

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Just cast your beautiful, your sparkling, your penetrating, your discriminating

Over this page, and read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest its Contents.

THE two greatest educating powers in the ancient world were Pictures and Poetry--the two greatest educating powers are pictures and poetry still, and pictures and poetry blended in an interesting manner is the intended educating feature of this PLEASANT-LEARNING-LAND, but my object in this place is to speak of pictures only, as perhaps the greatest of all educating powers, and to demonstrate that they are not sufficiently used for educational purposes. Firstly: pictures are in a universal language--when they are true to nature every person on the earth can understand them. Show a picture of a person or a bird, a horse or a house, a ship, a tree, or a landscape, and everyone knows what is meant, and this is why most of the peoples of the ancient world conveyed their ideas in picture language. FLETCHER, in his _Cyclopedia of Education_, says:-- "It has long been accepted as an axiom that the best explanation of a thing is the sight and study of the thing itself, and the next best a true picture of the thing." DRYDEN, speaking of poetry and painting says:--

"The poets are confined to narrow space, To speak the language of their native place; The painter widely stretches his command, _His pencil speaks the tongue of every land_."

Many writers, ancient and modern, have taught the great educational power of pictures. HORACE says:--A picture is a poem without words". SYDNEY SMITH says:--"Every good picture is the best of sermons and lectures." O. S. FOWLER says:--"A single picture often conveys more than volumes." W. M. HUNT says:--"From any picture we can learn something." HENRY WARD BEECHER says:--"A picture that teaches any affection or moral sentiment will speak in the language which men understand, without any other education than that of being born and of living." GARRICK, speaking of Hogarth, says:--

"His pictured morals mend the mind, And through the eye improve the heart."

But pictures are not only a means of education, for they bring pleasure, comfort, and education combined. STEELE says:--"Beautiful pictures are the entertainment of pure minds." G. P. PUTMAN says:-- "How many an eye and heart have been fascinated by an enchanting picture." CICERO says:--"The eyes are charmed by pictures, and the ears by music." JOHN GILBERT says:--"Pictures are consolers of loneliness; they are a sweet flattery to the soul, they are a relief to the jaded mind; they are windows to the imprisoned thought; they are books, they are histories and sermons, which we can read without the trouble of turning over the leaves." UGO FOSCOLIO says:-- "Pictures are the chickweed to the gilded cage, and make up for the want of many other enjoyments to those whose life is mostly passed amid the smoke and din, the bustle and noise of an overcrowded city." PANDOLFINI says:--Many an eye has been surprised into moisture by pictured woe and heroism; and we are mistaken if the glow of pleasure has not lighted in some hearts the flame of high resolve, or warmed into life the seeds of honorable ambition."

Many pictures, particularly portraits, by bringing up reminiscences, are a great source of consolation. In millions of houses the most-loved and treasured possession is the photographic album containing the likenesses of dear absent or departed friends. SHEE, writing of the soothing influences of the portrait, says:--

"Mirror divine! which gives the soul to view, Reflects the image, and retains it too! Recalls to friendship's eye the fading face, Revives each look, and rivals every grace: In thee the banished lover finds relief, His bliss in absence, and his balm in grief: Affection, grateful, owns thy sacred power, The father feels thee in affliction's hour; When catching life ere some lov'd cherub flies. To take its angel station in the skies, The portrait soothes the loss it can't repair, And sheds a comfort, even in despair." Or-- "The widow'd husband sees his sainted wife In pictures warm, and smiling as in life,-- And-- While he gazes with convulsive thrill, And weeps, and wonders at the semblance still, _He breathes a blessing on the pencil's aid,_ _That half restores the substance in the shade_."

But it is more particularly with pictures as a direct means of education that I have to speak. MR. STEAD holds that in the coming education of the world the magic lantern will play a very great part, for through its aid you can portray any object you wish--pictures of scenery, of buildings, of distant countries, of the microscopic world, and in fact any kind of pictures you choose, in a most beautiful, life-like, interesting, and educational manner. I think and earnestly hope that MR. STEAD'S prediction will be fulfilled.

There are two other ways which I think that pictures should be used for educational purposes. Firstly, in books, as in this one, and secondly, on the walls of buildings--outside and inside if you like --but I will speak only of the inside in this paper. Why should not every room of every house be covered with pictures where it is not covered with furniture? In millions of rooms there is a great waste of opportunity. Many times I have thought why do they not have varying patterns of different scenery, etc, in the different rooms of the houses instead of the wall paper, with its uninteresting pattern perpetually repeated. There is no reason why a house of twelve rooms should not represent on its walls twelve different countries, or twelve histories of striking events, etc. Possibly this may take place later on. With respect to hanging pictures everywhere on the walls, it may be objected that it would be too expensive--so it would if they were costly pictures--but really good pictures are produced by the million now so cheaply, that the objection of expense vanishes. The walls can be covered now almost as cheaply with intellectual pictures as with unintellectual wall paper. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS says:--"A room hung with pictures, is a room hung with thoughts." JOHN GILBERT says:--"A room with pictures in it, and a room without pictures, differ by nearly as much as a room with windows and a room without windows; for pictures are loopholes of escape to the soul, leading it to other scenes and to other spheres, as it were, through the frame of an exquisite picture, where the fancy for a moment may revel, refreshed and delighted."

I was convinced many years ago of the almost criminal waste of wall space, and issued the following doggerel lines, partly from trade and partly from sentimental motives:--

Every cottage, Two-roomed cottage, Should contain full Twenty PICTURES.

Every cottage, Four-roomed cottage, Should contain full Forty PICTURES.

Every cottage, Six-roomed cottage, Should contain full Sixty PICTURES.

Every villa, Eight-roomed villa, Should contain full Eighty PICTURES.

Every mansion, Ten-roomed mansion, Should contain a Hundred PICTURES.

Every large school For instruction Should contain a THOUSAND PICTURES.

Walls are made to Keep out weather And also to Display PICTURES.

Count your PICTURES All your walls on. See if you have Quite the number, You will want more You will wish more, You will get more Shouldn't wonder.

PICTURES they are Made to please you-- First to please you When you buy them; Next to please your Own dear children, Pictures please and Teach them too. Next to please your Friends and neighbours When they kindly Call on you.

They'll admire them, Then they'll praise them. Then that pleases You again. PICTURES please and Teach for ever, All the Children, Women, Men.

Even in the poorest houses pictures must always be a blessing. Many a poor man's cheerless home would be made much more comfortable and endurable if a few shilling's worth of good pictures were posted or hung round its bare walls. If houses were universally decorated with true speaking pictures what an immense influence for good it would bring them. What intellectual and refined tastes it would create and nurture. One most important thing in selecting pictures to cover the walls it to always choose good subjects. A poor picture takes up as much room as a good one, and generally costs as much. Always choose live speaking pictures that will interest and instruct. There is an immense multitude of poor, tame, an uninteresting pictures produced in the world, and which in millions of instances keep out the good ones. If these poor ones could be kept back or destroyed, and the best ones only take their place, the world would be better for it. In choosing materials to build up a bright, happy home, always select the best--the best books--the best music--the best pictures. In conclusion, there is one more suggestion I would make on the picture question, and I think it is the most important of all; it is that a good clear map of the world should be hung in every house in the world, to give every person an idea of the world they live in. For it is a most deplorable fact that ninety-nine out of every hundred of the inhabitants, even of the civilized world, have a very poor conception of the geography and ethnology of the world. And this should not be, for every person ought to have a clear idea of their world-fatherland, and of their fellow creatures, and a knowledge of the map of the world is the first lesson to be learned in that most desirable direction.

E W COLE, Book Arcade, Melbourne.

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The New Slate