I want to tell you about my little rooster. He is a very pretty
brown color, so we call him Brownie; and one of the story-books
says that Brownies used to be good to little babies, and that's
another reason why we gave him the name. Now I'll tell you what he
did to deserve being named after a Brownie. My mamma bought him to
eat; but he got away, and, the next day here he came fussing and
scratching with five baby chicks--three of them little downy
fellows, the other two a little older--with their little tails and
wings just growing. He took the best care of those chickens. It was
funny to see him. He was only just broiling size himself, but he
would ruffle up and try to fight big hens if they came too near. He
didn't know how to brood over his babies, but he would sit down and
let them snuggle under his wings and feathers the best way they
could. He doesn't know how to cluck, either; but he makes his
little rooster sounds in the nicest, softest little voice you ever
heard. There's one old hen--old Graywhack we call her, because
she's gray and whacks all the other chickens--and she's so cross
that all the rest are afraid of her, and run away, cocks and all,
when she comes up to them. But Brownie doesn't; he bustles up and
makes almost as much fuss as she does, and this always, though he
gets a whack now and then.
His biggest chicks are big enough to take care of themselves now,
and they are so pretty, both little black hens, and we call them
Nig and Blackie. The cats killed one while it was little, but he
still has two, and takes as good care of them as ever. He is
learning to crow first-rate now, though sometimes he squawks
awfully.
Mamma reads me all the stories every week, but I like "Toby Tyler"
best of all, and I think the man who shot Mr. Stubbs ought to have
been very sorry.
My mamma wrote this for me.
MAYNARD D. (6 years old).
* * * * *
I have twenty-five different kinds of birds' wings that I would
like to exchange for birds' wings from Florida or California. Also
an Indian flint arrow-head and spear-head, iron, copper, and gold
ore, white sand from Galveston Bar, Texas, gray sand from Cape
Hatteras, sea-shells, barnacles from a wreck, fresh-water shells,
etc.; would like to exchange for other minerals, ores, fossils, and
petrifactions. Write before exchanging.
I have never walked, being paralyzed in my lower limbs from birth,
yet I manage to get around. I have a team of white goats, Billy and
Bob. With them I go gunning, and travel sometimes five or six
miles. I enjoy fishing and boat-riding. I built myself a little
skiff, and called her _Little Eva_, and in this I sail out of the
Brandywine into the broad waters of the Delaware, and am often gone
for hours. I have lots of fun, although I never took a step in my
life. I am always jolly. I have served papers for three years, and
make from three to four dollars a week. I did not lose a day last
winter; no matter how cold or snowy, my customers would always know
that Johnny and his well-known team would be faithful. I will send
a photograph of myself and team to editor if desired.
J. S. JEFFERIS,
1502 Walnut St., Wilmington, Del.
The picture you give of a brave sunny disposition, which makes the best
of things, instead of pining and fretting, is a very attractive one. We
hardly need the photograph of yourself and your sturdy team, because
your pen has made us see you quite plainly. Still, if you send the
photograph, we will be glad to look at it, and it shall be given a place
of honor at the head-quarters of the Post-office Box. Never to have
taken a step in one's life seems like a great hardship, but instead of
moping about it, you have resolved to be as busy, useful, and happy as
you can. No wonder your customers wait until you are ready to come along
to serve the papers. We are glad you can go for a sail in the skiff, and
that you have so many pleasures and resources.
But, Johnny, we are sorry that you shoot the birds, and we fear you do,
or else how have you collected so many birds' wings? We wish the little
girls who read Our Post-office Box would decide that when they grow up
they would wear no wings nor plumes in their hats, and that the boys
would all resolve to be bird protectors. If any who read your letter are
possessed of pretty feathers or wings, we shall not object to their
exchanging with you, but we do not want to think that any poor birds
will be deprived of their lives, on purpose, because of this. We are
glad to print your letter, birds' wings and all, on account of its
manliness, and the lesson it gives us to accept the situation, whatever
it is, and do our duty in it cheerfully.
* * * * *