And moo and moo, and moo, and moo,
     In hopes I may be heard by you. 
     And if I were not so forlorn,
     I think I’d try to blow my horn. 
     Oh, come back, Midget, come back now,
     And cheer your lonely, waiting

       Cow.”

“Now, that’s a first-class letter,” declared Uncle Steve.  “I always thought that cow was a poet.  She looks so romantic when she gazes out over the bars.  You ought to be pleased, Marjorie, that you have such loving friends at Haslemere.”

“Pleased!  I’m tickled to death!  I never had letters that I liked so well.  And just think, I have three left yet that I haven’t opened.  I wonder who they can be from.”

“When you wonder a thing like that, it always seems to me a good idea to open them and find out.”

“I just do believe I will!  Why, this one,” and Marjorie hastily tore open another letter, “this one, Uncle, is from old Bet!”

“Betsy!  That old horse!  Well, she must have put on her spectacles to see to write it.  But I suppose when she saw Ned and Dick writing, she didn’t want them to get ahead of her, so she went to work too.  Well, do read it, I’m surely interested to hear old Betsy’s letter.”

“Listen then,” said Marjorie: 

    “Dear little midge: 

               I’m lonesome here,
     Without your merry smiles to cheer. 
     I mope around the livelong day,
     And scarcely care to munch my hay. 
     I am so doleful and so sad,
     I really do feel awful bad! 
     Oh hurry, Midge, and come back soon;
     Perhaps to-morrow afternoon. 
     And then my woe I will forget,
     And smile again.

     Your lonesome bet”

“Well, she is an affectionate old thing,” said Uncle Steve; “and truly, Midget, I thought she was feeling lonesome this morning.  She didn’t seem to care to eat anything, and she never smiled at me at all.”

“She’s a good old horse, Uncle, but I don’t like her as much as I do Ned and Dick.  But don’t ever tell Betsy this, for I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for anything.”

“Oh, yes, just because Ned and Dick are spirited, fast horses you like them better than poor, old Betsy, who used to haul you around when you were a baby.”

“Oh, I like her well enough; and, anyway, I think a heap more of her now, since she wrote me such an affectionate letter.  Now, Uncle, if you’ll believe it, this next one is from the chickens!  Would you have believed that little bits of yellow chickens, in an incubator, could write a nice, clear letter like this?  I do think it’s wonderful!  Just listen to it: 

    “Dear Mopsy: 

     Why
     Are you away? 
     We weep and cry
     All through the day.

    “Oh, come back quick,
     Dear Mopsy Mop! 
     Then each small chick
     Will gayly hop.