THE LETTER-BOX.

The readers of St. Nicholas are so familiar, by this time, with the new cover of the magazine, that they can understand, better perhaps than at first, how much this cover, which Mr. Walter Crane has so carefully and thoughtfully drawn, is meant to express. The girl or boy who will take the trouble to study the meaning of the many distinct parts of which the design is composed, will see that pretty much every subject that St. Nicholas thinks it well to talk about, is, in some way, symbolized in the smaller pictures.

The department “For Very Little Folks” is represented by a baby in a cradle, with a youthful nurse reading to it. Below this scene, “Jack-in-the-Pulpit” holding forth to his hearers; and, in the next picture, the poetry of the magazine is personified by a boy mounted on Pegasus, the fabled winged horse that poets ride. A young hunter, who shakes hands with a friendly gorilla, indicates that stories of travel, in strange and distant countries, are to be found within.

In the upper picture, on the other side, two youngsters with telescope and globe show that scientific subjects may be treated of in such a way as to interest boys and girls; and a young artist, hard at work, illustrates how industriously and earnestly our artists work to make good pictures for the magazine. Sports and games are represented by the little fellow playing cricket, which, as well as base-ball, is an excellent game, and often played in this country, though not to so great an extent as in England, where Walter Crane lives. The young sailor in his canoe, starting out on the wide ocean in search of adventure, gives a good idea of how the readers of St. Nicholas go all over the world and see strange sights, in company with the writers of our stories of fun and adventure.

There are still other things to be noticed on this cover. At the very top, you will see a figure of young Time, probably the son of old Tempus, who holds out a tablet to let us know what month the number is for; and, at the bottom, are two round faces, like young worlds, which show that children, in both the eastern and western hemispheres, are always on the lookout for the coming of St. Nicholas.

At the top are the muses of Literature and Art, who see to it that we have plenty of good articles and pictures; while at the bottom are the two griffins, who keep out everything that is bad.

In the center is St. Nicholas himself, the good old patron of girls and boys.

Down at the bottom of this central picture, in the left-hand corner, just behind the girl’s foot, there is a curious little design. That is the artist’s distinctive mark, which he often puts on his pictures. INV. stands for invented, or designed, and under this are two V’s. In Old-English, V is the same letter as U, and these two V’s stand for double-u, or W—for Walter. Then there is a little picture of a crane. And so we can easily see that the meaning of the sign is, “Designed by Walter Crane.”

Thus we have shown that this cover tells quite a story, and, if we study it longer, we may see more in it than is mentioned here.

Roxbury, Mass.

Dear St. Nicholas: We have formed a club for playing battledoor and shuttlecock. Our highest scores are 5084, 4556, 3545, and 3496. Will you ask your subscribers, through the “Letter-Box,” if they know of any higher scores?—Yours truly,

The Brothers of the Battledoor.

Cincinnati, Ohio.

Dear St. Nicholas: I am very busy now putting pictures on Easter eggs, the insides of which have been blown out and replaced by very fine caraway-seed candy, put in through a little hole at one end and then covered by a picture. The money I get for these eggs is for my Easter offering. Duck-eggs are the prettiest to use, because they are of such a lovely greenish-blue tint. May be some of your other readers may like to make some of these Easter eggs. Mamma says she could scarcely keep house without the St. Nicholas now, and I think so too.—Your friend, George M. A.

Chicago, Ill.

Dear St. Nicholas: Will you be so kind as to tell a little Scottish girl where to find the date when England claimed Scotland, as Mrs. Weiss says, in her story about the “Arms of Great Britain,” in the January number of your magazine? I cannot find any such date. King Edward I., I know, claimed it, but Robert the Bruce disputed it so successfully that none have ever claimed it since—Yours respectfully, Aggie Nicol.

William the Conqueror, in A. D. 1072, subdued Malcolm III. of Scotland, and received his homage. This was the first time England claimed, and exercised, sovereignty over Scotland.

Stella C.—Homer is the “Blind Man of Smyrna.”

Dear St. Nicholas: Will you please print this poem? It was written for my brother Bertie, by a well-known authoress, within five minutes, by my father’s watch, and with the alteration of but one word. I must tell you we gave her the subject. Hoping you will print this poem, I remain yours truly, Charles H. M.

BERT’S FUTURE WIFE.

Do you wish to see her— Bertie’s future wife, The maid who’ll share his fortune, Brighten all his life?

This is how I see her, In my fancy’s eye: Tall and fair and slender, Cheerful, good and spry;

Eyes as deep as pansies, Lips like cherries red, And a wealth of sunshine Growing on her head.

Kind her voice, and gentle, Sweet her merry laugh,— There, I’ve told you wonders, Yet not told you half.

Nothing could be better Than this lovely maid, Now let’s see him get her:— Hard work, I’m afraid.

Monroeville, O.

Dear St. Nicholas: I have for some time been anxious to take the St. Nicholas, but did not have the money. I was told that if I would gather hickory-nuts enough to amount to the sum, I might take it. I gathered three bushels, sold them, sent for the magazine, and, last evening, received two numbers, with which I was very much pleased.—Your faithful reader, Clara Lindsley.

Danbury, Ct.

Dear St. Nicholas: A party of us boys read about “Hare and Hounds” in the October number, and we tried the game the Saturday after. We all spent the day at my cousin’s; he lives on a farm where there is plenty of room for us to run. Our “hare” got a good start, and though we ran hard and followed up the “scent” well, we did not catch him. We caught our next “hare” though. We treat to apples instead of candy. We think the game is great fun.

I have taken St. Nicholas for two years and I think it is splendid. I liked the “Bass Cove Sketches,” and mamma laughed heartily when I read them to her. I am ten years old, and I hope to take you till I am twenty.—Your constant reader, Willie H. Allen.

A correspondent sends us the following account of some incidents of the great flood in Virginia last November:

After several days of rain, the James and other rivers rose very suddenly, and caused great destruction of life and property, carrying away houses, bridges, crops, and cattle, and covering large sections of the country with water.

There were no lives lost where the flood came during daylight, though many families lost food, clothing, and their homes; but where the sudden rage of the waters burst forth at night, many people were swept away and drowned.

Some one saw among the poor animals struggling with the waters, a poor, frightened little rabbit, on a plank, running from side to side, as it tossed and pitched up and down on the waves.

A queer instance of characteristic nature in an animal is worth recording, although the creature could scarcely be considered a sufferer from the flood. One man, whose house was swept away and lodged on an embankment lower down, had a pet hog, whose dwelling had been under the house. Of course the man imagined him drowned, as no one had thought of him in the haste of the flight. The day after, when the fury of the waters was somewhat spent, the man and his son paddled out to the house to see if anything had escaped. On going in through the upstairs window, they found that the hog had coolly walked in and up the stairs, and, selecting a feather-bed, was now reclining very comfortably in the very middle of it, entirely unhurt!

But only this gentleman of ease and the wreckers profited by the great flood. To others it came like a cruel and stealthy foe, sweeping all before its merciless rush. One little girl, two years old, snatched from her bed and barely saved, said the next day, with a little face still sunshiny, as she pointed to their roof, just seen, with the upper windows above the waters: “Dess see! The flood came, and it dess took everysing—dollies and all!” M.

Several correspondents write kindly correcting an error in the February “Letter-Box,” page 301, in the item about “King Alfred and the Cakes.” It was “Prince William, son of Henry I.,” not “of Henry II.,” who was drowned.

Athens, Ohio.

Dear St. Nicholas: Reading what Jack said in February about the little birds being killed by flying against the telegraph wires, I thought I would write and say that we often pick them up. They look soft and pretty, as if they were asleep, as they are not cut and their feathers are not rumpled. I also want to tell you about my canary-birds. My little Toppie hatched three little singers, which I named Tom, Dick, and Harry. I sold Harry to pay for my St. Nicholas. We sent Dick to a little girl who had been praying for a bird. She was so glad to get it that she said she must be a good little girl. We still have the other one, who is singing nearly all the time. I was twelve on Washington’s birthday. I have one sister and three brothers, and we all love the St. Nicholas.—Your affectionate reader, Hattie F. Nourse.

Dear St. Nicholas: I have a dolly twenty-five years old. I am going to take her to Saratoga this summer. I think it will do her good. I am seven years old. I like St. Nicholas ever so much. Mattie Wyckoff.

Providence, R. I.

Dear St. Nicholas: In the December number of St. Nicholas, in “A Chat About Pottery,” I find on page 105 the question, “Who ever saw a blue dog?” and the answer, “In life, no one, my dear.” During the past month I have seen, several times, a dog as blue as the sky on a summer’s day. He is of the “Spitz” breed, and, as his master keeps a dye-house, we think he is used as an advertisement.

He attracts a good deal of attention when on the street.—Yours truly, Edwin S. T.

Shawangunk, N. Y.

Dear St. Nicholas: My uncles have taken the St. Nicholas for me for three years, and I like it very much.

I see in your “Letter-Box” a letter from Alma Aylesworth asking how apples were made to grow sweet on one side and sour on the other.

They take a sprout of the sweet and another of sour, just as near the same size as possible, split each in two at the middle, press one-half of each to a half of the other, put grafting-wax up the cracks, and set it in like any other graft.

For a few years, this limb will bear apples sweet on one side and sour on the other; but when the tree gets old, the apples will be of one flavor throughout.—I remain your faithful reader, Mamie C. Cocks.

Franklin, Pa.

Dear St. Nicholas: I would like to have you tell me what Cleopatra’s needle is. I read about its voyage in the papers.—Yours truly, B. L. F.

The obelisk known as Cleopatra’s needle, presented by the Khedive to England, is a great stone that was cut out in one piece from the quarries of Syene, Egypt, it is supposed in the time of Thothmes III. (about 1600 years B. C.), when, also, it was set up in the temple of Karnak, at Thebes. It is a tall, rectangular pillar, tapering from the base to near the top, where it is pointed like a flattened pyramid; its sides are inscribed with hieroglyphics. The obelisk was taken to Alexandria by Queen Cleopatra, and was named after her. Some think that Cleopatra’s Needle was another stone, quarried by order of Ramesis II., and set up in Heliopolis, the City of the Sun; but several obelisks have borne the name, and this may have caused uncertainty about them. The former account is believed to be correct.

Ashland, Wis.

Dear St. Nicholas: I saw, in your January number, two ways pictured for carrying the mails. Here, where I live, on the shore of Lake Superior, we see both ways at the present time. The mail from Bayfield comes on the backs of packers, and on the railroad the mails come from Milwaukie and other points south of us.

We have a jolly fire-place. It is large enough for Santa Claus to come right down without any trouble; and he filled our stockings full last year.—From your constant reader, Estelle Wilmarth.

We have received the following letters in answer to Alice Clinton’s question, in the February “Letter-Box,” asking for a list of books pleasant to read:

Ogdensburg, N. Y.

Dear St. Nicholas: Will you please tell Alice Clinton, if she wants some interesting and instructive books, to read Dickens’s “Child’s History of England” and Higginson’s “History of the United States.”—Truly yours, Lulie James.

Brooklyn.

Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken you ever since you were born, and I like you better all the while.

I think Alice Clinton would enjoy “About Old Story-tellers,” by Ik Marvel; “America Illustrated,” edited by J. David Williams: and Parley’s “Universal History,” as they are all very nice.—Your friend, Cora Eugenia Alwyn.

Dear St. Nicholas: Inclosed you will find a short story which my little brother wrote, as he said he wanted to write something for good St. Nicholas.—Yours truly, J. S. H.

The Fisher.

Once there was a boy who did not obey his mother and went fishing and fell into the water how frighten was the mother when she found out that her boy was drowned and the father and mother began to cry and one day a man came to comfort them. But he could not and they never found that boy.

We have received the following lines as an answer to the geographical puzzle in the February number:

Queen Charlotte the fair To a ball did repair In the city of Aire, And met all the Adams carousing there, Sweet Alexandria, Sydney the swell, And noble young Ellsworth, who pleased her right well. They praised her fine Cashmere, with Brussels to trim it, But found it Toulon(g) and Toulouse the next minute. Her shoulders were Chili, she thought she should freeze, But a warm Paisley shawl put her quite at her ease. Her rich Diamond jewelry sparkled and shone; Her shoes were Morocco, of smallness unknown; And her kerchief diffused a sweet smell of Cologne. A Superior dancer, she floated around, With Washington great or Columbus was found. With Madison flirting or dancing a jig, Montgomery, Raleigh, she cared not a fig For them, or for Jackson, who stared in surprise When she said she was Hungary, coolly did rise, And was borne off by Quincy from under his eyes. At Table, Elk, Sandwich, and Orange she ate, Sat drinking Moselle and Madeira till late; Then, after an evening quite Pleasant, she said Farewell to her hostess, and went home, they said, With gallant Prince Edward, a gentleman bred. Lizzie E. T.

Dear St. Nicholas: I saw in the January number a recipe for “chocolate creams.” I have a very good recipe for chocolate caramels. It is: Half a pint of rich milk, a square and a half (or an ounce and a half) of Baker’s unsweetened chocolate, softened on the fire. Let the milk boil; then stir in the chocolate very hard; add half a pint of best white sugar, and three table-spoonfuls of molasses. Boil until very thick, taking care not to burn it. Pour on buttered tins, and, when nearly cold, cut in squares.

If you think this is a good recipe (which I am sure you will, as I have tried it many times, and have never known it to fail), please put it in the “Letter-Box,” and oblige, your interested reader, Mary Wharton Wadsworth.

Butte Creek, Cal.

Dear St. Nicholas: I am ten years old, and live in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and my papa belongs to a mining company—mining for gold. I have a hydraulic mine of my own, but I don’t get any gold out of it. I have a dog whose name is Flora, and a wooden sword and dagger, and I play soldier with her and get cleaned out sometimes.

We have no school here, but I study my lessons every day, and papa hears me recite at night. I study arithmetic, geography, spelling, U. S. history, and writing. I may write to you again some time.—Yours truly, Scottie Hankins.

Philadelphia, Pa.

Dear St. Nicholas: I want to tell you about a girl we had. She was a German girl, and she asked my father, who is a druggist, for a label. She wanted to send it to Germany, so her friends could direct the letters. On the label was printed, “Dr. Siddall, Mantua Drug-store, Tinct. of Myrrh, No. 3526 Haverford St., W. Phila.” She sent this label, and when the answer came, the direction read, “Care Dr. Siddall, Mantua Drug-store, Tinct. of Myrrh, No. 3526 Haverford St., W. Phila.”

We had a good laugh over it, to think that anybody would put “Tinct. of Myrrh” on the direction of a letter.

I thought I would send you this to put in the St. Nicholas, so that everybody who reads this could have a laugh over it.—Very respectfully, J. R. Siddall.

Dora’s Housekeeping, by the author of “Six Little Cooks,” is a handy little book that tells about the troubles and triumphs of a girl fifteen years old, who is left unexpectedly to take charge of a house and provide daily meals for its six inmates. The story itself is pleasant, and it introduces useful hints about household duties—such as bed-making, sweeping, care of lamps, etc. The book is adapted to beginners, for its recipes contain fuller detailed directions than cook-books usually give. Solids and sweets are treated of in common-sense proportion, and waste is guarded against with tasty dishes prepared from remnants. The book is illustrated, and is published by Messrs. Jansen, McClurg & Co., Chicago.

Child Marian Abroad, by William M. F. Round, is a little book with eight full-page pictures. It gives a lively and interesting account of a bright little girl’s adventures during a tour in Europe with her uncle and aunt. She sees many great people and grand sights, plays with a princess, gets into comical scrapes,—some with the help of a little American boy named Harry,—and, altogether, has a delightful trip, very pleasant to read about.

A correspondent, having read in the November number the poem “My Girl,” by Mr. Adams, sends us this clever imitation:

MY BOY.

A little crib in “mother’s room,” A little face with baby bloom, A little head with curly hair, A little woolly dog, a chair.

A little while for bumps and cries, A little while to make “mud pies,” A little doubting wonder when A little pair of hands is clean.

A little ball, a top to spin, A little “Ulster” belted in, A little pair of pants, some string, A little bit of everything.

A little blustering, boisterous air, A little spirit of “don’t care,” A little tramping off to school, A little shrug at woman’s rule.

A little odor of cigar, A little twilight talk with Ma, A little earnest study then— A little council grave again.

A little talk about “my girl,” A little soft mustache to twirl, A little time of jealous fear, A little hope the way to clear.

A little knowledge of the world, A little self-conceit down hurled, A little manly purpose new, A little woman, waiting, true.

A little wedding gay at eve, A little pang the home to leave, A little mother lone at dawn, A little sigh—my boy was gone! L. R. I.

E. I. S.—We believe that some consider it not quite certain whether “thumbs up” or “thumbs down” was the sign of mercy. But Appleton’s “American Cyclopædia” says that, when, in a Roman amphitheater, a gladiator was overcome in fight, he was allowed to appeal to the spectators; and, if they pointed downward with their thumbs, his life was spared,—but if upward, his opponent dispatched him on the spot.