I must stop now. Give my love to all. Take good care of Fideli, and kiss all around for your loving daughter,
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We want to tell the little boys and girls that read ST. NICHOLAS, how a greedy rooster got caught in a trap. We set the trap to catch rabbits, but didn't get any; so the corn was left, and the chickens were all walking around, and saw it, and tried to get in to eat it; but the selfish old rooster drove them all away, and crowded in himself, and began to eat the corn, when down came the trap, and he was fast, but all the others were free.--Yours truly,
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I read the "Letter-Box" every month with much interest, and have often seen puzzles and "such things" in it, so I send you one, and hope that somebody will find it out:
There was somebody born in England, on the 16th of July, 1723. He was the son of a clergyman, and his father was rather strict with him. He made a drawing of his father's school with so much accuracy of outline, and in such correct perspective, that the grave clergyman could no longer maintain his severity. He saw that his son would be a painter, and resolved to aid him. An anecdote related of the artist runs thus: One day, a man called to see some of his pictures, and asked him what he mixed his colors with. The painter answered, "With brains, sir--with brains!"--Yours,
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Our schoolma'am told us the other day that it is generally best to use short words instead of long words in writing or speaking, and she gave us a verse to copy as a specimen. She said that it was written by a man who was perfect master of seven languages, knew six others very well, was at home with another eight, and read with a lexicon four more,--in all twenty-five different languages; and although he could use tremendously long words when he chose, yet he made a point of using short ones, even though they were old and odd and not in common use. I send you a copy of the verse, and I think he might have done much better if he had used longer and more forcible words.--Yours truly,
"Think not that strength lies in the big round word, Or that the brief and plain must needs be weak. To whom can this be true that once has heard The cry for help, the tongue that all men speak When want or woe or fear is in the throat, So that each word gasped forth is like a shriek Pressed from the sore heart, or a strange wild note Sung by some foe or fiend. There is a strength Which dies if stretched too far or spun too fine, Which has more height than depth, more breadth than length. Let but this force of thought and speech be mine, And he that will may take the sleek fat phrase, Which glows and burns not, though it gleam and shine-- Light but not heat--a flash, but not a blaze!"
