at Washington, and I suppose you have the same vague idea that I had
until I went there and learned better--that it is a place where letters
are sent when they fail to reach those for whom they are intended, and
are thence returned to the writers. Really, now, I believe this is what
most grown-up people think too; but in truth, it is such a wonderful
place that I am sure you will be surprised when I tell you of some of
the things you may find there, and I think when you come to Washington
it will be one of the first places you will wish to visit.
Probably you have never written a great many letters, and I do not doubt
that each one had its envelope neatly addressed by your father or
mother, while you stood by to see that it was well done. I hope, too,
that in due time your letters had the nice replies they deserved. You
would have been much disappointed if any of them had been "lost in the
mail," as people say, wouldn't you? You will not forget your stamp, I am
sure, after I have related the following incident:
There was once a little girl, only ten years old, who was spending six
months in the city of New York, just previous to sailing for Europe. Her
heart was filled with love for her darling grandpapa, whom she had left
in New Orleans, and she wrote to him twice every week. Her letters were
in the French language; at least, the one that I saw was, and it began
"Cher Grandpère cheri." She said, "I hope that you have received the
slippers I embroidered for you, and the fifteen dollars I sent in my
last letter to have them made." But, alas! the package containing the
slippers had reached the "cher grandpère cheri," while the letter and
money were missing. Then this old gentleman wrote to the Dead-letter
Office, and said that it was the only one of his granddaughter's letters
he had ever failed to receive; that it could not have been misdirected;
and his carrier had been on the same route for many years, so he _knew_
him to be honest; therefore the money must have been mysteriously
swallowed up in the D. L. O.
What was to be done? Do you imagine the Dead-letter Office shook in its
shoes?
Not a bit of it. It turned to a big book, and found a number which stood
opposite the little girl's letter, and then straightway laid hands upon
the letter itself, and forwarded it to the indignant "grandpère."
Now why all this trouble and delay, and saying of naughty things to the
D. L. O., without which he might never have seen either his letter or
his money? Simply this: the dear child had dropped her letter into the
box _without a stamp_.
You will be surprised to learn that something over four millions of
letters are sent to the Dead-letter Office every year.
There are three things that render them liable to this: first, being
unclaimed by persons to whom they are addressed; second, when some
important part of the address is omitted, as James Smith, Maryland;
third, the want of postage. All sealed letters must have at least one
three-cent stamp, unless they are to be delivered from the same office
in which they are mailed, when they must have a one or a two cent stamp,
according to whether the office has carriers or not.
For the second cause mentioned above about sixty-five thousand letters
were sent to the Dead-letter Office during the past year; for the third,
three hundred thousand, and three thousand had no address whatever.
When these letters reach the Dead-letter Office, they are divided into
two general classes, viz., Domestic and Foreign, the latter being
returned unopened to the countries from which they started.
The domestic letters, after being opened, are classed according to their
contents. Those containing money are called "Money Letters;" those with
drafts, money-orders, deeds, notes, etc., "Minor Letters;" and such as
inclose receipts, photographs, etc., "Sub-Minors." Letters which contain
anything, even a postage-stamp, are recorded, and those with money or
drafts are sent to the postmasters where the letters were first mailed,
for them to find the owners, and get a receipt. From $35,000 to $50,000
come into the office in this way during the year; but a large proportion
is restored to the senders, and the remainder is deposited in the United
States Treasury to the credit of the Post-office Department.
When letters contain nothing of value, if possible they are returned to
the writers. There are clerks so expert in reading all kinds of writing
that they can discern a plain address where ordinary eyes could not
trace a word. For instance, you could not make much of this:
[Illustration]
A dead-letter clerk at once translates it:
Mr. Hensson King,
Tobacco Stick,
Dorchester County,
Maryland.
In haste.
And such spelling! Would you ever imagine that Galveston could be
tortured into "Calresdon," Connecticut into "Kanedikait," and Territory
into "Teartoir"?
Recently the Postmaster-General has found it necessary to issue very
strict orders about plain addresses, and a great many people have tried
to be witty at his expense. I copied this address from a postal card:
Alden Simmons,
Savannah Township,
Ashland County, State of Ohio;
Age 29; Occupation, Lawyer;
Politics, Republican;
Longitude West from Troy 2°;
Street Main
No. 249;
Box 1008.
Color, White;
Sex, Male;
Ancestry, Domestic.
_For President 1880, U. S. Grant!_
About once in two years there is a sale of the packages which are
detained in the office for the same reason that letters are. All the
small articles are placed in envelopes, on which are written brief
descriptions of their contents. Any one is allowed the privilege of
examining them before purchasing. There are thousands of these packages,
containing almost everything you can think of. I glanced over an old
catalogue, and selected at random half a dozen things that will give you
an idea of the endless variety: Florida beans, surgical instruments,
cat-skin, boy's jacket, map of the Holy Land, two packages of corn
starch, and a diamond ring--in truth, as the chief of the D. L. O. says
in his report, "everything from a small bottle of choice perfumery to a
large box of Limburger cheese."
But there were two things that nobody would ever buy, so this great
institution was obliged to keep them. One was a horrid, grinning,
skeleton head, that had been sent to Dr. Gross, the eminent Philadelphia
surgeon; but the box being nailed so that the postmaster could not
examine its contents without breaking it, he was obliged to charge
letter rates of postage, which the doctor refused to pay; consequently
it found a proper resting-place in the house appropriated specially to
dead things.
Occupying the same shelf are several glass jars containing serpents of
various sizes preserved in alcohol. These snakes were received at the
D. L. O. in two large tin cans, the ends of which were perforated to
admit air. They were addressed to a professor in Germany. It could not
be ascertained at what office they had been mailed. There were seventeen
in all, but some of the smaller ones were dead.
System, punctuality, industry, belong to the Dead-letter Office. It
seems to embrace every other branch of business, and, as I have shown
you, even to know how to treat such unwelcome guests as a nest of live
serpents.
HOW MOTHER ROBIN CALLED A NEW MATE.
BY E. JAY EDWARDS.
A friend of mine has a robin's nest that he guards with very great care,
and about which he tells a story to all the young and old people who
call upon him.
"There is a romance," he says, as he shows you the nest, "about this,
and if you want to hear it, I will tell it to you."
"It was a good many years ago," my friend begins, "that this nest was
made. There came one morning early in April two robins to the big
fir-tree in front of my window. One of them had, as sure as you live, a
club-foot, and he hobbled about upon it in a very lively manner, and I
know that it was this one--Mr. Robin, I call him--that fixed upon the
precise place for the nest. For he whetted his bill upon a bough a great
many times, and then he danced upon it with one foot and the other, as
though trying its strength, and at last he flew up to Mrs. Robin, who
was standing on the limb above looking at him. My window was open, and I
heard him peeping the gentlest little song to her that you can imagine.
Then she jumped down upon the limb, rubbed her bill upon it, and danced,
while he looked at her, and after she had done these things she sang the
same little melody. After that they flew away with great speed, and the
next that I saw of them they were working with might and main, bringing
twigs, moss, twine, and all sorts of things, until at last they had the
nest made."
Now my friend, when he gets so far in his story, always stops a moment
and laughs, though you can not see anything to laugh at. But he looks
closely at you, and just as soon as he observes the surprise that your
eyes show, he says: "I ought to say right here that my mother had a very
choice piece of lace, a collar or something of that sort, that was
washed and put out upon a little bush to dry on the very day that Mr.
and Mrs. Robin decided to build the nest in the fir-tree. A great fuss
was made that evening because the lace collar could not be found, and
mother wanted the police called, so that the thief might be arrested and
the collar got back, for that collar was worth, I have heard, a great
many dollars. But the police never found the thief.
"Now I will go on, with my story," always continues my friend, and he
generally takes the nest in his hands at this time. "Well, after this
nest--this is the very one I hold in my hand--was built, you never saw a
more attentive lover than this Mr. Robin. He would hop about with his
club-foot, and seem to put his eye right upon an angle-worm's cave every
time he flew down to the ground, and you might see him from early
morning to sunset flying back and forth with his mouth full of good
things for Mrs. Robin, and he would feed her as she sat upon the nest.
"One day he seemed specially excited and happy; you could hear him
singing in the tree more loudly than before, and I could see from my
window the cause of his joy. Four yellow mouths were put up to receive
the dainties he had brought, and then I knew that the little robins had
come. Well, old Mr. Robin was so excited that he did not see our cat
stealthily coming, as he was pulling away at a very long angle-worm.
Pussy had him in her mouth before he could even give a warning cry, and
the last I saw of Mr. Robin was the club-foot that hung out of Puss's
mouth.
"By-and-by Mrs. Robin seemed to get hungry, and I heard her uttering two
strange notes that I had never heard before, and which seemed to me to
sound just as though she was saying, 'Come here! come here!' Of course
that was not what she said, but I have no doubt that the notes meant
just that, and that every robin that might have heard them would have
understood them as a call for help. But no robin came. It rained all
that day, and poor Mrs. Robin kept up that cry, and her young ones
continually thrust their bills from beneath her body, and opened them. I
could not help them, of course, for little birds would rather starve
than be fed by any one but their parents.
"Now I am coming to the strangest part of my story," my friend always
says when he reaches this point. "The next morning was clear, and I
happened to be up early. Old Mrs. Robin had begun her plaintive call.
Suddenly I saw a great many robins--not less than twenty, I should
say--that had come together from some place, and rested upon the
branches of a great elm-tree that was only a few yards away from the
fir-tree. Of all the noises I ever heard from birds, those that these
robins made were the strangest. At last they were quiet, and two of them
flew off to the fir-tree, and cautiously made their way to the nest.
Mrs. Robin looked at them, and sang a little trill. One of the visitors,
with much shaking of his head, sang something in reply, and then the
other one did the same thing. Mrs. Robin repeated her trill, and then
she hopped up to the branch above, and sang another note or two, and the
smaller of the two robins took his place beside her. Then the other
robin flew away to his companions, and after singing a little, they all
went off together.
"When I looked back to the nest, Mrs. Robin sat there perfectly quiet,
and, not more than a minute after, the new Mr. Robin brought a worm, and
he was from that time until the little ones got their feathers and flew
off as kind and attentive to Mrs. Robin as had been poor old club-footed
Mr.
"Now isn't this a pretty love story?" my friend inquires, and of course
you say it is, and then ask him why he laughed, and what his mother's
lace collar had to do with it, and he will answer you in this way:
"Look in the nest. See what lies on the bottom, where the little robins
nestled. I got the nest after they all flew away together, and there in
the bottom was my mother's lace collar, not good to wear any longer, so
I have let it stay there ever since. Do you suppose young robins ever
had such a costly bed?"
CHARLEY BENNET'S GHOST STORY.
BY MRS. MARGARET EYTINGE.
"It is a sin to steal a pin,
As well as any greater thing,"
sang little Al Smith, in a loud, shrill voice.
"Very good sentiment, but very poor rhyme," drawled Hen Rowe (whose
father was a poet), patting the singer's flaxen head in a patronizing
manner.
"Talking of stealing," said Charley Bennet, dropping the pumpkin he was
turning into a lantern, "did I ever tell you fellers about the time I
went down to old Pop Robins's to steal apples, and came back past the
barn where the horse-thief hung himself years and years ago, 'cause he
knew the constables--they called 'em constables in those times--were
after him, and that he'd be hung by somebody else if he didn't? No?
Here's a ghost story for you, then, and I hope it will be a warning to
you all never to take anything that doesn't belong to you, 'specially
apples.
"You see, Billy Evans and I were staying with our folks at the hotel in
Bramblewood that summer, and about two miles away was Pop Robins's farm.
He used to bring eggs and chickens and vegetables and fruit to the
hotel; and, oh my! wasn't he stingy?--you'd better believe it. He
wouldn't even give you two or three blackberries, and if you asked him
for an apple, he'd tremble all over. A reg'lar old miser _he_ was, with
lots of money, and a bully apple orchard. 'Let's go there some night and
help ourselves,' says Billy Evans, one day. 'Dogs,' says I. 'Only one,'
says he; 'I know him, and so do you--old Snaggletooth; I gave him almost
all the meat we took for crab bait the day we didn't catch any.' 'All
right,' says I.
"But when the night we'd agreed on came, Billy had cousins--girls--down
from New York, and he had to stay home and entertain them. I don't care
much for girls myself, and I was afraid they might want me to help
entertain them too, so I made up my mind to go down to Pop Robins's
alone. It was a splendid night; the moon shone so bright that it was
almost as light as day. I scudded along, whistling away, until I got
within half a mile of the orchard, and then I stopped my noise and
walked as softly as possible, till I came to the first apple-tree. I
shinned up that tree in a jiffy (old Snaggletooth didn't put in an
appearance), filled my bag with jolly fat apples, and slid down again.
But when I came to lift the bag up on my shoulder, I found it was awful
heavy to carry so far, and I was just agoing to dump some of the apples
out, when I remembered all of a sudden that if I cut across the meadow
to the plank-road, I could get back to the hotel in a little more than
half the time it would take to go the way I came.
"So I shouldered my load, and was nearly across the meadow before I
thought of the haunted barn at the end of it. It wasn't a nice thing to
remember; but I wasn't agoing to turn back, ghost or no ghost, and I
tried to whistle again, when all at once that thing Al Smith was singing
just now popped into my head, and says I to myself, 'That's so, Charles
F. Bennet; you and your chums may think it's great fun to help
yourselves to other people's apples and water-melons and such things,
but it's just as much stealing as though you went into a man's house and
stole his coat.' It doesn't seem as bad when you're going for 'em; but
when you're coming back, up a lonely road, all alone, at ten o'clock at
night, a lot of stolen apples on your back, and a haunted barn not far
off, it seems _worse_.
"All the same, I held on to the apples. And when I faced the barn I
determined I'd whistle if I died in the attempt; but, boys, I don't
believe anybody could have told _that_ 'Yankee Doodle' from 'Auld Lang
Syne.' I tell you my heart jumped when I passed the tumble-down old
place; but it _stood still_ when, as I marched up the plank-road, I
heard a step behind me. I wheeled around in an instant, but there was
nothing to be seen. The moon shone as bright as ever, but there was
nothing to be seen! 'I must have imagined it,' says I to myself, and I
walked a little faster, listening with all my might, and sure enough
pat, pat, pat, came the step after me. Again I wheeled round. Not a
thing did I see. And again I started on, the apples growing heavier and
heavier. Pat, pat, pat, came the step. It wasn't like a human step. That
made it more dreadful. 'It _must_ be the ghost,' I thought; and I don't
mind telling you, fellers, I never was so frightened in my life. The
time I fell overboard was nothing to it. I made up my mind, when I
reached the bridge that crossed a little brook near our hotel, I'd
streak it (I hadn't exactly run yet, for I was saving my strength till
the last). But before I got to the bridge, says I to myself--and I must
have said it out loud, though I didn't mean to--'Perhaps he wants the
apples.'
"'Apples!' repeated a hoarse voice, with a horrid laugh.
[Illustration: "'THERE IT IS,' SAYS BARNEY."]
"I tell you, boys, those apples flew, and I flew too. Over the bridge I
went like lightning, and ran right into Barney Reardon, one of the
stable-men, who was coming to look for me. 'Something has followed me,'
I gasped, 'from the haunted barn--the ghost!' 'Did you see it?' says he.
'No,' says I, 'though I turned round a dozen times to look for it. But I
heard it pat, pat, pat, behind me all the way.' 'And it's behind you
now,' says Barney, bursting into a loud laugh. I jumped about six feet.
'There it is,' says Barney, roaring again, and pointing to--Pop Robins's
tame raven! The sly old thing looked up at me, nodded its shining black
head, croaked 'Apples!' and walked off. It had followed me from the
barn, and every time I wheeled quickly round, it hopped just as quickly
behind me, and so of course I saw nothing but the long road and the
moonlight on it. But I never want to be so scared again, and if ever any
of you boys go for anything belonging to other people, don't you count
me in."
"What became of the apples?" asked Jerry O'Neil.
"If you'd 'a been there I could have told you," said Charley.
THE HOUSE THAT BELL BUILT;
Or, the Sad End of a little Girl's Romance.
[Illustration]
Sitting alone in the fire-light's flare,
This is the house that Bell built.
[Illustration]
This is the girl with the golden hair,
That lived in the house that Bell built.
[Illustration]
This is the garden fresh and fair,
Where played the girl with the golden hair,
That lived in the house that Bell built.
[Illustration]
These are the peaches sweet and rare,
That grew in the garden fresh and fair,
Where played the girl with the golden hair,
That lived in the house that Bell built.
[Illustration]
This is the great and terrible bear,
That ate the peaches sweet and rare,
That grew in the garden fresh and fair,
Where played the girl with the golden hair,
That lived in the house that Bell built.
[Illustration]
This is the prince with noble air,
Who killed the great and terrible bear,
That ate the peaches sweet and rare,
That grew in the garden fresh and fair,
Where played the girl with the golden hair,
That lived in the house that Bell built.
[Illustration]
This is the wedding beyond compare,
In which the prince of noble air,
Who killed the great and terrible bear,
That ate the peaches so sweet and rare,
That grew in the garden fresh and fair,
Married the girl with the golden hair,
That lived in the house that Bell built.
[Illustration]
This is the house-maid, Biddy McNair,
With face so red and arms so bare,
Who took the poker without a care,
And slew the prince of noble air,
Who killed the great and terrible bear,
That ate the peaches so sweet and rare,
That grew in the garden fresh and fair,
And married the girl with the golden hair,
That lived in the house that Bell built.
* * * * *
=Flower-Pots for Rooms.=--Fill a pot with coarse moss of any kind, in
the same manner as it would be filled with earth, and place a cutting or
a seed in this moss: it will succeed admirably, especially with plants
destined to ornament a drawing-room. In such a situation plants grown in
moss will thrive better than in garden mould, and possess the very great
advantage of not causing dirt by the earth washing out of them when
watered. The explanation of the practice seems to be this: that moss
rammed into a pot, and subjected to continual watering, is soon brought
into a state of decomposition, when it becomes a very pure vegetable
mould; and it is well known that very pure vegetable mould is the most
proper of all materials for the growth of almost all kinds of plants.
The moss would also not retain more moisture than precisely the quantity
best adapted to the absorbent powers of the root--a condition which can
scarcely be obtained with any certainty by the use of earth.
* * * * *
=The Advantages of Foreign Tongues.=--In the _Letters of Charles
Dickens_, recently published, occurs this pleasant child's story: "I
heard of a little fellow the other day whose mamma had been telling him
that a French governess was coming over to him from Paris, and had been
expatiating on the blessings and advantages of having foreign tongues.
After leaning his plump little cheek against the window glass in a
dreary little way for some minutes, he looked round, and inquired in a
general way, and not as if it had any special application, whether she
didn't think 'that the tower of Babel was a great mistake altogether.'"
[Illustration: OUR POST-OFFICE BOX]
VANCOUVER, WASHINGTON TERRITORY.
Mamma takes the _Bazar_, papa the _Weekly_ and _Magazine_. I have
the first and second numbers of _Young People_. I like it very
much, but I like "The Brave Swiss Boy" the best. I am ten years
old. I saw in your letter to us that you wanted us to write to your
paper. I think it must have been very funny to come across the
plains in a wagon. I came across from Fond du Lac, Wisconsin (where
I was born), in the cars, and not in the long trains of wagons.
Oro Brown read "Two Ways of Putting It," from the first number of
_Young People_, in school last Friday.
The pets I have are gray and Maltese kittens. I did once have a
chicken that would come and eat wheat out of my hand, and fly into
my arms.
JULIA B.
* * * * *
I live a little way from Scranton, Pennsylvania, and a friend takes
_Harper's Young People_ for me. I have had a great deal of fun
trying to draw a pig with my eyes shut. It is very funny to sit
down with your eyes shut and try to feed another person with a
spoon.
DAISY.
* * * * *
MIDDLETOWN, NEW YORK.
I wanted to write to you, and tell you how much I liked your nice
paper. I like the story of "The Brave Swiss Boy" best. I live with
my grandpa and grandma, who are very good to me, and I love them
very much. Please print this, and oblige
HARRY W. T.
* * * * *
Pretty communications are received from Frederick B., Brooklyn, New
York; Perkins S., New York city; Annie L., New London, Connecticut; Mary
E. R., Albany, New York; Mabel L., New York city; and Lottie S. B.,
Boston, Massachusetts.
* * * * *
A. M. S.--As it may interest other young readers, we print the whole
list of portraits on the United States postage-stamps in use at present,
as well as the one you require: One cent, Franklin; two cent, Jackson;
three cent, Washington; five cent, General Taylor; six cent, Lincoln;
seven cent, Stanton; ten cent, Jefferson; twelve cent, Clay; fifteen
cent, Webster; twenty-four cent, Scott; thirty cent, Hamilton; ninety
cent, Commodore O. H. Perry.
* * * * *
BESSIE G.--Your "Bran Pudding" is excellent, but it came too late for
use. We shall reserve it for next Christmas, as it is good enough to
keep.
* * * * *