From all over the U.S. to "Corea" to Scotland—and the Scottish miss's letter is quite humorous!Palermo, Cal.
Dear St. Nicholas:
I have never seen a letter from this town as it is only about a year old. It is situated right in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains in the Valley of the Feather. My brother and myself live in a little cabin about a mile from town. If you go along any little creek you will see that the ground has all been picked up by men who came for gold in i849. About five miles from here some men have commenced a mine in the bed of the Feather River where they expect to get gold.
Your subscriber,
Selden S. H.
Chicago, Ill.
Dear St. Nicholas:
Last winter we were away from home for seven months, and during part of the time we visited in Alaska the Muir Glacier, one of the largest as well as one of the most beautiful of that northern region.
On the morning of June i2 we found ourselves in Glacier Bay, with icebergs large and small floating on all sides of us, making the passage very dangerous.
When we caught our first glimpse of the glacier it looked like a cloud or gray mist rolling down the wide valley. About ten o'clock we dropped anchor in front of the great glacier and for the first time heard the thunder of the falling ice. The glacier's front is from three hundred to four hundred feet high. As our eyes glanced along the front of it we caught the many tints of the ice. On the left it was a deep indigo, slowly fading out to a turquoise and then to a snowy white. Its front was broken into huge pinnacles towering over the water. We were landed in life-boats on the rocky moraine, and then scrambled for a mile over huge boulders, rounded pebbles, granite soil, and glacier mud. When we reached the pure snow-colored ice of the glacier its surface was seamed with deep chasms through which melted ice flowed, but it was so far down we could not see it.
At last we had gained the top and could see over the vast glacier, and saw its tributaries far back in the snowclad mountains, the great myriads of icebergs in the bay, and the exquisite coloring of it all. The mountains all around the glacier are worn down almost round, and only the rocks are to be seen, for the soil is all ground off by the slow process of glacial action. After we came back from our tramp in those two short hours it almost seemed as though we could see a change in the glacier. Great chunks of ice had fallen off and revealed new crevices and more dainty colors. The softest, palest blue changed suddenly to a deep sapphire or a crystal white, as a loud report announced the falling of another iceberg.
About five o'clock in the afternoon we steamed away and took our last look at this beautiful and majestic work of nature. As we threaded our way among the floating icebergs it seemed as though their numbers had greatly increased, and after supper we saw a sight never to be forgotten.
To the starboard side was a lovely bay covered with floating ice, and into this poured the great Pacific glacier. Beyond were large mountains towering to the height of thousands of feet, their slopes covered with snow. Above them rose Mt. Fairweather and Mt. Crillon, fifteen thousand feet high, just showing in the fleecy clouds. The mountains were piled unevenly together, their snowy crests shimmering like frosted silver in the soft sunbeams that danced merrily on them. A little farther on we met a canoe with two Indians in it. They were dressed in white, with a white screen before them, and their paddles scarcely rippled the icy water as they flew on. They looked very queer with their black faces peeping out from their white dresses. We found ourselves believing it was some enchanted scene, for the silvered mountains behind, the strange canoe with its two occupants, the mountains before us tinged with a weird golden light, the huge icebergs, and the unbroken stillness gave one the impression of living in a magic dream. The Indians, it seems, were hunting seal and were dressed to look as much like icebergs as possible.
Your loving friend,
Julia T. M.
The Eagle's Nest, Old Mission, Mich.
My Dear St. Nicholas:
We have a little pug-dog, and when he gets on his collar he is very pretty indeed. When we came up from Chicago on the steamer "Petoskey " he was very lonely, and the porter fed him and was kind to him, and when he saw him the next time the boat came in, he jumped all over him and licked his hands so joyfully that it was all we could do to get him away from the porter when the boat started. He likes to play ball, and when we play tennis he thinks it is his business to get the balls and bring them to us. When we lose a ball, we say, "Find it; find it, Trix."
I am eleven years old; I like you very much indeed; especially I like the "Bunny Stories,"— they are very interesting indeed.
The reason our cottage was named "The Eagle's Nest " was because there was once an eagle's nest in one of our trees, and we used to sit and look at it. Sometimes we would see the mother eagle on the nest.
Your interested reader,
Hortense L.
"East Lynne," Ocean Beach, N. J.
Dear St. Nicholas:
I have taken you for nearly six years, and have written twice before, but my letters were not printed. I hope you will print this.
We are down here for the summer, my mother and my little sister Ethel, and are staying at a very pretty house called "East Lynne"; it has a high tower which, at night, is lighted up, and the sailors can see the light on stormy nights, and know where they are, for our light is the only one between Barnegat and Sandy Hook. In the winter we go to a boarding-school in West Philadelphia.
My mamma's aunt knew Mrs. [Mary Mapes] Dodge very well, and I think her stories are splendid. I was very much interested in the account of "Laura Bridgman"; I have read Dickens's account of her in his "American Notes."
I am fourteen next month, and my favorite novelist is Dickens; my favorite poet, Longfellow.
We go in bathing here nearly every day; it is great fun. I can swim a little; my little sister is just learning. Please, St. Nicholas, will you tell me how to make a "salt tumbler"? I remain one of your many devoted admirers,
May I. J.
Springfield, Ill.
Dear St. Nicholas:
My sister and I have taken you for five years and have always looked forward to your coming.
Papa, Mamma, my sister, and I visited a fort this summer. It seemed so funny to ride in an ambulance drawn by four mules.
One day we went out to target practice; when the men would shoot, it sounded like a bunch of fire-crackers going off. After the men were through, we rode down and found many bullets.
The ground where the bullets hit looked as if some one had plowed it.
Your constant reader,
S. D. M.
New Rochelle.
Dear St. Nicholas:
Your stories I like very much. I think the "Bunnies" are great fun, and the "Brownies" too. I am going to tell you how glad I was when my mamma brought the first St. Nicholas. I am always reading them, and so glad when my mamma brings a new one home to me. I am an English boy, but very glad that I am over here. I never had such fun over there, as all the boys have here. I live in New Rochelle and like it very much.
Good-bye now.
Yours truly,
Wallace S.
P. S.—Thank you so much for making dear old St. Nicholas larger. You could not make it too big; not too thick, I mean. I liked "A Story of a Horse" in the November number so much.—W. S.
Fusan, Corea.
Dear St. Nicholas:
I have often thought you would like a letter from this part of the world, as I suppose it is the first.
I am an English girl, twelve years old, and the only foreign child in Fusan.
This is a Japanese settlement, founded some three hundred years ago; the Corean people live some distance away.
I have many pets,—a little Corean pony which I brought from Seoul (the capital), and called "Prince"; he is a beauty, and very intelligent and amiable. I have also a canary and a cat, both of which came from Hankow, in China, with me; several pigeons, and a dog.
Our house is by the sea, and we—that is, Mamma, Papa, and I—have greatly enjoyed sea-bathing during the summer heat.
I study at home, not very regularly, as so many things interfere; but expect to go shortly to school in Chefoo, China, four days journey by steamer from here.
I greatly enjoy reading you, and am always very anxious that the steamer should not miss the mail in Japan.
I very much hope to see my letter in print, as it is the first I have written to any paper.
If you care to know anything about Corea and the Coreans, I will gladly write to you about Seoul.
Your constant and appreciative reader,
Beryl H .
Little Boar's Head.
Dear St. Nicholas:
Don't you think this place has a queer name ? When we applied for a post-office, the Post-office Department said the name was too long; but, as we told them of some other places with names just as long, they let us keep the name.
There is a little Indian pony here whose name is "Flaxie," and upon him I have had a good many long rides. Unhappily pony has a stubborn will of his own. The other day I was in a hurry, and was galloping fast, when we came to a sharp turn that led back to his stable, so, though I wanted to go straight ahead and tried to pull him round, he took the bit in his teeth and went round the corner, when the girths broke and I found myself on the ground! I was not hurt, however, though I lost my ride.
I wonder how many of your readers know that "Old Ironsides" is still in existence, and is at Portsmouth as a training-ship? I rowed under her bows the other day. They have, however, built her upper deck out over the sides, and then roofed it in to use as a ball-room, which gives it a topheavy and uncomfortable look.
I have taken you ever since 1879, so I hope that you will print this.
Your constant reader,
Donald McI—.
West New Brighton, S.I..
Dear St. Nicholas:
Will it be wrong to point out two or three little mistakes in that very charming historical tale, in your November number, "The Prince and the Brewer's Son"? Errors in historical matters, or even in the embroidery work which surrounds the history of all great men, cling like burrs to a child's mind.
For instance, Queen Elizabeth died March 24, 1603, and James I. did not leave Edinburgh until April 5th; and he took a month to reach London. For this, and other reasons, it is not probable that he made another journey that year. Then, too, Oliver Cromwell was born April 25, 1599, and Charles I. was born November 9, 1600; therefore, in 1603 it would have been Oliver who was four years old, for Charles was not quite three. If, however, the date of the story were 1604, we could reconcile that year with the ages of the children, for in the legend Oliver is always represented to have been five years old in his first encounter with his future king.
Again, in 1603-4, Charles was not his father's heir; but Prince Henry, his older brother, was the heir to the throne.
It was for this prince that, in 1599, before Queen Elizabeth's death, James, who was then King of Scotland, wrote the "Basilicon Doron," the Royal Gift, and it was for him, too, that Sir Walter Raleigh, while a prisoner in the tower, began to write the "History of the World." Prince Henry was a great friend of Sir Walter, and said that no one but his father would keep such a bird in such a cage.
This was not a very filial speech, and I doubt if at this time there was much love lost between the father and son. Some people believe that James was jealous of his son, Prince Henry, and say that the prince died under suspicious circumstances.
However, the usual story of his death is, that Prince Henry left Richmond, where he had been ill for some time, and came to Whitehall to help on the preparations for his sister's wedding. This sister was the Princess Elizabeth who, the next year, 1613, on St. Valentine's Day, married the Elector Palatine of Bavaria, Frederick V., who was afterward King of Bohemia, and it is this same princess, Elizabeth, whose descendants have reigned over England since 1714, for she was the grandmother of George I.
But long before the wedding Prince Henry, one cold, raw day, went out to play a game of tennis, and, throwing off his coat in the heat of the game, he had a severe chill and died, within two weeks, of what was called "putrid fever." His death occurred in the latter part of 1612, when he was in his nineteenth year, while Charles was at this time only twelve. Charles, of course, then became the heir, but he was not made Prince of Wales until 1616. And, by the way, Charles I. was executed January 30, 1649, not 1648.
Is it likely that Cromwell would ever have been heard of in history if Prince Henry had lived?
Yours truly,
G. O. H.
Fort Hamilton, New York Harbor.
Dear St. Nicholas:
I often read in your invaluable magazine of families where the "grown-up children" express themselves as delighted to "still keep on reading St. Nicholas," although "so old." I wonder what they would say to me, a young mother, with a son a year and a half old, who reads every number she can get?
With heartiest good wishes for the long life and prosperity of the good Saint (I mean to bring my boy up on him, I assure you), I remain,
Very truly yours,
May H. R.
Boston, Mass.
Dear St. Nicholas:
I am just twelve years old. I live in Boston. In summer we all stay at our cottage by the sea.
I thought I would write you a letter about our "Tommy." I suppose almost every little girl has a cat; but we think our Tommy a very wonderful one. He is at least fourteen years old, Papa says. He is of a bright black color, and has a white tip on the end of his tail. He is good-natured, and very affectionate. He always eats his dinner with the family, and has a stool and plate all to himself. He is very neat and does not soil the table-cloth. He knows us all when we come into the room, and gives us a kiss with his black nose. One evening the maid was going to bed, and she went to the cellar to let Tom up; she called "Tommy, Tommy," but no Tommy came. The next morning he did not come home, nor did he all day long. At night she was waiting on the table, and suddenly the family heard a cat mew. She went to the door to let him in. He ran to the dining-room and got up on his stool. He was very weak, and his feet (which really were white) were black as coal. We thought he had been taken away and shut in a coal-bin. When he hears the dinner-bell, he runs, and is the first one at the table. I have a dress he likes very much. When we go to the sitting-room after dinner, if I have on the dress he likes, he lies in my lap and takes a nap while I read. Tommy is getting so old now that sometimes we have to carry him upstairs; but he loves us all very much, and we are very fond of him. He knows us all when we come in, by our voices. Mamma has painted a portrait of him for Grandpapa.
Edith B——.
The Manse, Scone, Perth, Scotland.
Dear St. Nicholas:
It is now nearly five years since I began to read your delightful pages. A kind American friend who was once here has sent you to me all this time; and I think some of your readers would like to hear something about the place I live in, as I have never seen a letter from this part of Scotland. This is one of the oldest parts of the world. There is not very far from our house a grand old palace, near which stood the stone upon which all the kings and queens of Scotland have been crowned. But in the thirteenth century the English were so covetous of it that they took it away from us, and now it stands in Westminster, London, and upon it stands the coronation chair where all the English sovereigns have been crowned, and upon which, I believe, Victoria sat at her Jubilee, two years ago. Some people say that this is the very stone that Jacob used as a pillow when he dreamed the wonderful dream of the ladder—but Father says that is nonsense.
This stone, however, has something wonderful about it. It has been called for more than a thousand years the "Stone of Destiny." And this has been said of it:
"Wherever rests this holy stane,
The Scottish race shall surely reign!"
Up to this time, this has turned out true. All the people of your country who come to England go to see this stone.
Although you have no king or queen, yourselves, I have no doubt if you had a stone like this you would soon get one, and save the trouble of so many elections. I remain, your constant reader,
Bessie T. B., age 13.
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