Papa’s Letter Is with God. 
I was sitting in the study, 
Writing letters, when I heard, 
“Please, dear mama, Bridget told me 
Mama mnstn’t be disturb. 
But I’se tired of the kitty— 
Want some ozzer fing to do. 
Writing letters, is ou, mama? 
Tan't I write a letter too?” 
“Not now, darling; mama’s busy; 
Run and play with kitty now.” 
“No, no, mama, me write letter— 
Tan if ou will show me how.” 
I would paint my darling’s portrait 
As his sweet eyes searched my face: 
Hair of gold and eyes of azure, 
Form of childish, witching grace; 
But the eager face was clouded 
As I slowly shook my head, 
Till I said, “I'll make a letter 
Of you, dear boy, instead.” 
So I parted back the tresses 
From his forehead, high and white, 
And a stamp in sport I pasted. 
Mid its waves of golden light. £ 
Then I said, “ Now little letter, 
Go away and bear good news.” 
And I smiled, as down the staircase 
Clattered loud the little shoes. 
Leaving me, the darling hurried 
Down to Bridget in his glee; 
“Mama’s writing lots of letters— 
I’se a letter, Bridget—see.” 
No one heard the little prattler 
As he climbed once more the stair, 
Reached his little cap and tippet, 
Standing on the entry chair. 
No one heard the front door open, 
No one saw the golden hair 
As it floated o’er his shoulders 
On the crisp November air. 
Down the street the baby hastened 
Till he reached the office door— 
•T’s a letter, Mr. Postman; 
Is there room for any more? 
’Cause dis letter’s doin to papa— 
Papa lives with God, ’ou know; 
Mama sent me for a letter— 
Does ’ou fink ’at I tan go?” 
But the clerk in wonder answered, 
“Not to-day, my little man.” 
“Dess I’ll find anozzer office, 
’Cause I must go if I tan.” 
Fain the clerk would have detained him, 
But the pleading face was gone. 
And the busy feet were hastening. 
By the busy crowd swept on. 
Suddenly the crowd was parted— 
People fled to left and right, 
As a pair of maddened horses 
At that moment dashed in sight. 
No one saw the baby figure— 
No one saw the golden hair, 
Till a voice of saddened sweetness 
Rang out on the autumn air. 
’T was too late!—a moment only 
Stood the beauteous vision there, 
Then the little form lay lifeless, 
Covered o’er -with golden hair. 
Reverent they raised my darling, 
Brushed away the curls of gold, 
Saw the stamp upon the forehead 
Growing now so icy cold. 
Not a mark the face disfigured, 
Showing where a hoof had trod; 
But the little life was ended— 
Papa’s letter was with God. 
— Selected. 
French Farms and Farmers. 
In going from Paris to Geneva, via Dijon, 
we pass through the best portion of France. 
For hundreds of miles every inch of land is 
cultivated. The abrupt side hills are in grape 
vines and the flat land in grain. Here we 
seethe phenomenon of double crops, a crop 
of grain and vegetables growing under a 
crop of trees. The Normandy poplar trees 
are from an inch to three feet in diameter. 
4 
They are planted thickly, but give no shade. 
They are trimmed within six feet of the 
tops. The boughs, which are cut off every 
year, make faggots enough to warm France. 
We often see men and women cradling 
wheat or hoeing beets in the midst of a wood 
giving no shade. When you look across 
the country the tall, boughless trunks look 
like black streaks painted against the sky. 
They make the view very picturesque. Our 
farmers on the prairies could plant black 
walnut trees where they want fences, trim 
them to the tops, preventing shade, and 
then string barbed wire on the trunks for 
fences. At the end of fifty years the black 
walnut trees on a man’s farm would be 
worth more than his farm ! Wood in France 
is sold for a third of a cent a pound. It is 
worth as much as corn in Kansas by the 
pound. So when the Kansas man burns 
corn he is no more profligate than the French¬ 
man who burns faggots. The French farm¬ 
er would never think of burning wood to 
heat his house. He sits in the cold all the 
Winter long, only using wood to cook with. 
The average farmer does not know enough 
to buy coal or kerosene yet. He does not 
live as well as the poorest negro in the South. 
He has no home comforts; poverty and ig¬ 
norance are his companions. 
