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Show DIRECTION'S FOR LETTER WRITING. WRIT-ING. "Write on one side of paper only. Do not have letters too long. Address all letters to "Aunt Busy," Intermoun'tain Catholic. Colorado Springs, Feb. 26,1900. Dear Aunt Euty. I am fevcn years old and to school and like my teacher. I have two cats . and a dog and a bird. Aunt Busy, have you any pets or are you too old to be troubled with them? Your loving neice, BESSIE CU11R1E. Aunt Euey is not very young, but phe has a lovely black kitten of which he is veri- fond. St. Joseph, Mo., Feb. 27, 1900. Dear Aunt Bury. 1 wan glad to see that p many of my Ogden friend? answered my Utter in this paper, and hope they will write often. We are going to have a big celebration cele-bration n St. Patrick's day, and all the Catholic soeiticd from eisht churches church-es are going to march. I would rather be in Ogden and take part in the exercises ex-ercises which the scholars of St. Joseph's Jo-seph's school usually give, and 1 suppose sup-pose will give this year, in. honor of Father Cuhnahan, that being his feast day. 1 wish Cornlius Dean will Five his address when he writes again. Your loving nephew. i ROBERT DORSET. Robert. Aunt Busy is simply deliglit-fd deliglit-fd to hear from you again. Aunt Busy received many letters through yoii writing only one. We are going to have a fine celebration here, also, on St. Patrick's day. So you would rather be in Ogden? Aunt Busy does not wonder at this. She knew Father Cushnahan when she was a little, little lit-tle girl and loved him dearly. Write soon again, Robert. Tocatello, Ida., Feb. 24, 1900. Dear Aunt Buey. I never used to rad The Inter mountain moun-tain Catholic, until mamma told me there was a page for boys and givi&. then I read it. I eaw the number of cttei in it, and then I took a. notion to write to you. There are not many X-eople taking this paper tut here, in fact I do not think any does. Well. I won't say any more this time. Goodbye, your loving nephew. EDMUND COXDO.V. We are glad to hear from you, Edmund. Ed-mund. Write very often. Do you like the boys' and girls' page? You must always read Aunt Busy's letters, anyhow. any-how. Ogden, Utah, Feb. 20, 1900. Dear Aunt Bucy. I thought I would write you a few linos to let you know that I am well and hope you are the i?am. I have an Aunt Nell that lives in Michigan and I write to her often. I go to the Sacred Heart Academy. I am 7 years old. From your loving nephew, COLUMIll'S COOK. Write eoon again, Columbus, and make your letters very much longer. You have a fine name. Ogden, Utah, Feb. 20, 1900. Dear Aunt Busy. I intended writing you last week, but I was eick with a cold and am glad 1 am well today. I think the girls up here are sleepy, because they don't write to you. 1 always knew the boys could beat the girle. I sit with Stephen Keogh. I go to St. Joseph's- school and am in the Sixth grade. 1 am an viltar boy. We have nature work every Wednesday Wed-nesday and 1 like it very much. Our previous lesson explained how to collect col-lect specimens for a cabinet, and clas-Pify clas-Pify and preserve thee specimens. I know many wonderful things about beetles, jelly fish, star fish, bees, ants, grasshopper?, and I know a funny dory about the "Old Man of the Meadow." Mea-dow." I will write it to you the first chance I get. 1 made my firet Holy i'ommunion two yerrs ago the 22nd of May. We go to Communion on the second Sunday of every month. I was 13 yeans old the 12th of this month. I am tired writing, I will say good bye, your loving nephew. GERALD FITZGERALD. Aunt Busy is glad to know Gerald i? better. Indeed you are right about the g-irls being sleepy. Write us about all the wonderful things you know as of- j ten as you can. You write a beautiful hand. Ogden, Feb. 20, 1900. Dear Aunt Busy. I saw a letter in the "Intermountain Catholic" from one of my school mates end I thought I would write you a few lines myself. J go to St. Joseph's school and tit with John Langevin. The new church is roofed for winter and the workmen are still working on the ttone front. Father Cushnahan is our pastor and is working very hard for ihe new church. About forty of the bovs of the St. Aloysius society went to" Communion on last Sunday. Our next turn will be on my birthday, March 11, 1900. 1 will be 13 yeans old. The boys of our school wish to say that they are going to celebrate "Washington's "Wash-ington's birthday" in great style. Your loving nephew, C. J. MAGUIRE. Aunt Busy loves her Ogden boys very dearly. Thev must be very good, they are the only nephews that ever mention men-tion about Holv Communion. THE LEARNED TONGUE. (By Thomas J. Regan.) "VV1. yes. my son's at college now, He's Koin' to bo a swell. An' you kin bet that loy of mine Jiif--t taks the learnin' well. But it floor me now run! then, Whene'er I hear him spoak; That lang-widge that he learns up there, J guess it must be Jre.-k. I har him talk it in his sleep, An' I listen on tho sly, Whe.n he repeats it in the fields. An' thinks ihere'6 no one by. It's "Hooky Iky Ky yi yi." An' "Rut ta ta trat ta trat," An' "Tara tulix tulix tulix." An' lota of things like that. I must allow that those same sounds Seem mighty strange to me. But Rouh. he likes to hear 'em sound. As I kin plainly gee. Because, when he's repoalln' them, Tho.e eyes of his do glow. An' sometimes he taks off his cap An' waves it to Jim! fro. Jt does this old heart good to eee That Kfiibeu like.s to lern: That the moccy I've been givin' out . Is gettin' some return. Yes, noiirhbor, when 1 hear him talk, It makes me feul right glad. Although I reckon that he strikes Too deep for his old dad. THE CHILD'S HEART. The heart of a child. Like the heart of a flower, 1 Has a smile for the sun And a tear for the shower. Oh. innocent hours. With wonder busruiled! Oh, heart like a flower's la the heart of a child: The heart of a child. Like the heart of a bird, With rajuures of music Is flooded and stirred. Oh. songs without words! Oh. melodies wild! Oh, heart like a bird's In the heart of a child! i The heart of a child. Like the heart of the spring, Is full of the hope Of what summer shall bring. Oh. glory of things In a world undeiiled! Oh. heart like the springs' la the heart of a child! THE BOY THAT LAUGHS. I know a funny little boy. The happiest ever born;' His face is like a beam of joy. Although his clothes are torn. i I sa.w him tumble on his nose, And waited for a irro.m: But how he laughed. Dou vou suppose He struck his funny bone? There's sunshine in each -word he apeaks. His laugh is something grand; Its ripples overrun his cheeks Likes waves on snowy sand. He laughs the moment he awakes, And till the day is done; The schoolroom for a joke he takes; His lessons are but fun. No matter how the day may go, You cannot make him crv; He's worth a dozen boys I know, ho jiout and mope and sigh. A GOLDEN RULE. Speak gently: Sisters, in thy heart Let envy have no share; The vilest weed that ever grc-w Should never flourish there. What if our Sister has her faults? Is that a thing so rare? The fault itself is punishment. In friendship let us spare. THE TEMPLE OF FAME. (Denver News.) How far away is the Temple of Fame? Said a youth at the dawn of day; And hts toiled and dreamed of a deathless name. But the hours went by and the evening came That left him feeble and old and lame. To plod on his cheerless way. For the path of Fame is a weary way Up a mountain steep and high. There are many who start in their youthful youth-ful prime. But in the battle with fate and time. For one who reaches those heights sublime sub-lime Ard thousands who fall and die. The youth who failed could never guess The reason his quest was vain; But he sought no other to help or bless He followed the glittering prize success Up the narrow pathway of selfishness, And this man had his bane. How far away is the Temple of Good? Said a youth at the. dawn of day: And he e trove in a spirit of brotherhood To help and succor, as best he could, Tho poor and unfortunate multitude On thtiir hard and weary way. He was careless alike of praise or blame, But after his work was done, An angel of glory from heaven came. And wrote on 'high his immortal name, Proclaiming this truth, that the Temple of Fame And the Temple of Good are one. . For this is the lesson that hlstory Has taught since the world began. That those whose memories never die, Who shino like stars in this human sky, And brighter grow as the years roll by, Are men who have lived for man. The students of the Waterloo High School, of Auburn, Ind., have 'subscribed 'sub-scribed to the following rules of propriety, pro-priety, which makes quite a departure from the usual rowdyism of college boys: 1. We will not communicate nor ask to communicate while in the school building. 2. We will keep refined re-fined positions in our school seats. 3. We will cultivate a light step. 4. We will not ask for individual favors. 5. We will prepare all writing material in ine morning, o. e win maice tne schoolroom a place of quietude. These rules on general manners have also been signed: 1. We will not allow others to be more polite to us than we are to them. 2. We will not make ourselves odious in the use of tobacco. And here are some street manners: 1. We will, on passing people on the street, give them half of the walk. 2. We will not jeer at any one on the ptreet or off the street. 3. We. the gentlemen, gen-tlemen, will tip our hats to the ladies. 4. We will avoid beiig boisterous wherever we may be. This novel plan for getting the observance of rules of good behavior has taken a strong hold on the children of all ages. HER FATHER'S GUARDIAN. Sh2 was a little mite of a woman, and past 50. Beside her sat an old, bent man, whose years had pas-sed the four-score mark. .: When I sat down beside the little old lady she turned a wrinkled, smiling face to me, that was like sunshine itself. it-self. "This is pa," she announced cordially. cordial-ly. "Pa does love to get out to haar the political speeches. Pa, he's blind, and I take him pretty near everywhere I go. Be you real comfortable, pa?" And she put her arm around him, while she carefully shielded his sightless sight-less face with her shabby parasol. "Now, you just lean on me, pa; bear right hard, for I know you're tired." Then she turned to me. "Poor pa, he does enjoy getting out so much, so I got tickets and we come. He's looked forward to this meeting ever since we heard of it, and I said, 'You just content con-tent yourself, pa; we'll go.' " The speech was to be given in an immense enclosure out of doors, and the California July sun poured down relentlessly. Ten thousand people waited wait-ed with more or less impatience, but the little old lady was serene. f "' nun iiniii.iiu,wimin i ii in m u..i imwu "It's pretty hot for pa," she said, "but land! I don't mind it." "I don't mind it, neither," quavered the old man, "but I'd give a good deal if I could see the crowd." The daughter looked at me with eyes all tenderness. She did not speak, nor did she need to, for in those faded blue eyes behind the spectacles shone the essence of love and pity and divine compassion. A boy came by with big juicy peaches for sale. The little woman looked at tho peaches, glanced at "pa." and resolutely reso-lutely turned her eyes away. The shabby little purse in her lap told the story of the car fare for the homeward trip, and peaches wore beyond her. After I had purchased some and offered of-fered them to her, the old man said, plaintively: "I'm dreadful thirsty, Mandy." Mandy brightened. "Be you, pa? Well that's nice; here's a peach for you right this minute. Ain't that lucky! I'll peel it." The old man munched contentedly on the fruit, and the little old woman began again: "I'm married," she said, "but my husband couldn't get to come. He's on a digging job, and course he couldn't get off. But pa and me, we can tell him all we can remember, and that'll be better than nothing. Pa's going to listen like everything his hearing's first-rate and I'm going to tell him how the stage is fixed, and how -tho speaker looks and all the rest. If we wasn't quite so far back I could see him better. My eyes ain't what they used to be, and mobby I'll have to ask you some." Just then, amid great applause, the speaker appeared. I handed tho little woman my opera glasses. "Oh, my!" she cried, "ain't you kind? Oh, I can see him just as plain! Pa, I can see him real plain." Pa smiled like a happy child. "Well, Mandy, I'm real glad. Remember Remem-ber just how he looks, so you can tell Jim." The little woman kept silence during dur-ing the long speech, her every nerve stretched to the utmost to see and hear and make forever hers this wonderful won-derful event. When it was over and the band crashed noisily, she helped the stiffened stif-fened old man to his feet. "Lean hard on me, pa." she said: "we're going home now." And pa, as he turned his sightless eyes upon me, said: "This is the day of a lifetime to Mandy and me. We -won't never forgot it." "Are you not tired?" I asked. But the little woman struck In. "Yes, pa's pretty well done out, I gue?s, sitting here over three hours in the hot sun, but he'll get rested when I get him onto the lounge at home. We wouldn't have missed it for the world, would we, pa? Now just lean on me; lean real hard. You've been awful good to pa this afternoon, and I'm a thousand times obliged." I lost them in the crowd as the little lit-tle gray-haired woman guided the faltering steps of "pa," and never dreamed she was an angel. New Orleans Or-leans Times-Democrat. |