Auntie says you must make allowance for what I say of her as I am a partial judge; but she is the dearest, best auntie in the world, and I’m not the only one who thinks so.  Everybody loves her, and I shall be satisfied if I ever learn to be half as good and patient and unselfish as she is.  I don’t see how she can be so good and patient and happy when she has to lie still year after year and suffer so much, I should get cross and fret about it, for I can’t bear to be sick a day.  But she never thinks of her own troubles, but is so afraid she will make us care or trouble.  When the pain is very bad she likes to hear music or poetry.  It soothes her better than anything else.  Whittier’s poem on “Patience,” is a favorite with her, and so is Mrs. Browning’s “Sleep.”—­Ever your true friend,

ALLIE BERTRAM.

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  Salem, Mass.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS:  I want to tell you about my little turtle.  I got him up in the country last summer, and have had him about six months.  I keep him in a bowl of water, with a shell in it.  In summer I feed him with flies, and in winter I give him pieces of cooked meat about the size of a fly.  My turtle’s shell is nearly round, and he is small enough to be put in a tumbler, and then he can turn round as he likes.  I named him “Two-forty” (a funny name), because, when you put him down, he stands still, looks around a minute, and then starts off on a run,—­Your friend and reader,

JOHNNY P. WILLIS.

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  Camp Grant, Arizona.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS:  Your coming every month fills us with delight.  We cannot wait to read you separately, so mamma reads you aloud after the lamps are lighted, the first evening you are here.  Papa lays aside his pen to listen, just like any boy, and so we all enjoy your pages at once.  I have one little sister, but no brother.  We live in camp, in far-away Arizona; and, although the “buck-board” brings the mail in every other day, it takes a long while for a letter to come from the East.

There is a pet deer here.  He comes out to “guard mounting” on the parade-ground, and trots after the band when the guard passes in review.  Every one is kind to him; even the dogs know they must not chase him.—­Your true friend,

MOLLIE GORDON.

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  New Brunswick, N.J.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS:  I would like to tell you of the nice times that the country children have, although they have no parks.  In summer they can go on picnics, and they have a nice garden to play in.  And most of the children have little gardens of their own to plant things in,—­one for flowers and the other for vegetables.  Then, in the winter-time, they can go coasting, sliding and skating; then, last but not least, sleigh-riding on the lovely, pure white snow.

I, for one, would not be a city child.  If I lived in the city, I could not have my old pet hen.  Good-by, dear ST. NICHOLAS.—­From your friend—­