read them in the light of what you already know or can remember; and, since the study of the facts of history is a much slower process than reading the romance of it, you will soon find me catching up with wherever you are. I shall have to move as fast as a hundred years at a jump occasionally, you know, for a hundred years is n’t very long in the story of such an old-timer as this world.
Next month, then, I will begin with a book or two that tells a story of the time of William the Conqueror. Possibly William himself will appear; possibly not. That you ’ll find out when we take up the books. For all these historical tales will by no means interest themselves in the great figures belonging to their period; it is the time itself they will represent and illumine. Kings and such are not always important in the story side of the world’s life. A king must manage to make himself interesting as a man before he gets into our story world. Just wearing a crown and issuing proclamations won’t help him. Perhaps it will be only the adventures of a little child or the life of two young lovers that we shall choose to tell the story of an entire reign. That ’s as it may be; the great point will be that the books are interesting to read, and as true to the life of their times as can be managed.
The three books of which I shall tell you next month are Miss Yonge’s “The Little Duke,” Bulwer Lytton’s “Harold,” and Charles Kingsley’s “Hereward the Wake.” I will tell something of their story and just what part of the Norman times they are set in—enough to stir your interest.
And so here ’s hoping you will like my idea, and that, if any part of our long story runs thin, an author may be found to step into the breach and give us a rousing tale to bridge the gap.
THE LETTER-BOX
Our readers will remember with pleasure the excellent photograph of the distinguished Governor of New Jersey, new President-elect of the United States, which appeared at the heading of the article in the November St. Nicholas, entitled, “What Woodrow Wilson did for American Foot-ball.” By an oversight, which is much regretted, the words, “Copyright by Pach Brothers, New York,” were not printed beneath the picture as they should have been; and we now make the earliest amends possible by calling attention to our failure to give the photographers the credit for their picture and the notice of their copyright that should have appeared with it.
Dear St. Nicholas: In your December number of 1910, there were some verses about a Mother Goose holiday tea. One of my friends conceived a bright idea, and together we thought it out until we had a perfectly beautiful party all arranged (in our minds) for our club, the G. G. G., to give. When we told the girls about it, they all went into raptures over it, and we decided we would have it. One of the girl’s birthday was on December 22.
At the party there were Mother Goose, Mother Hubbard, Little Miss Muffett, Little Bo-peep, Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, Mary Had a Little Lamb, the Queen of Hearts, and many others.
We played games, danced (the music being given by the club girls, who took turns playing, and one boy, who made all our feet fly to the tune of his ‘‘fiddle’’), and had a lovely time. The Queen of Hearts was, of course, the girl whose birthday we were celebrating.
We had favors in the first dance—little funny figures, etc., and I (I think I got a boy’s favor) received a huge cigar made out of some kind of stiff paper or cardboard, with a place for candy in the middle. Also we were given by our charming hostess, the Queen of Hearts, little paste-board boxes in the shape of hearts, filled with candy; and she also gave us each a heart from her dress.
The party was a great success, and we all had a perfectly lovely time; and all the girls are so thankful to “J. E. L.,” who wrote ‘‘The Mother Goose Holiday Tea.”
I have taken your magazine for years, and have enjoyed it immensely. Your most interested reader,
Gladys E. Jenkins.
Redlands, Cal.
Dear St. Nicholas: I am spending the winter in California, although it is n’t much like winter, with all the oranges and flowers about. I am going to tell you a funny story. My Uncle John in Kentucky found a Confederate stamp on an old letter one day, and thought he would send it to me for my collection. He soaked the stamp off the envelop and put it gum side up on his desk to dry, when along came a big fly. The fly lit on the stamp, and his legs stuck fast, and before Uncle John could grab him he had flown with the stamp out of the window. I was sorry to lose the stamp, but if the fly had n’t carried it off, I should not have had any story to tell.
Wester Clay Powell (age 13).
Utica, N. Y.
Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken you for two years, and enjoy you very much. Among my favorites are Mr. Barbour’s stories. I always look forward to the day when you come. I have a little bull-terrier, named “Fi-fi.” The postman always gives Fi-fi the St. Nicholas when it arrives, and he comes running up to me, bringing it in his mouth.
Hoping you will have a long life.
Your loving reader,
Ruth Barnveld Weed.
