as 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.

[Page 94--Writing Land]

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