“We’ll chirp with glee,
     No more we’ll weep;
     Each chickadee
     Will loudly peep.”

“Well, that’s certainly fine, Midget, for such little chickens.  If it were the old hen, now, I wouldn’t be so surprised, for I see her scratching on the ground every day.  I suppose she’s practising her writing lesson, but I never yet have been able to read the queer marks she makes.  But these little yellow chickadees write plainly enough, and I do think they are wonderfully clever.”

“Yes, and isn’t it funny that they can rhyme so well, too?”

“It is, indeed.  I always said those Plymouth Rocks were the smartest chickens of all, but I never suspected they could write poetry.”

“And now, Uncle, I’ve only one left.”  Marjorie looked regretfully at the last letter, wishing there were a dozen more.  “But I can keep them and read them over and over again, I like them so much.  I’d answer them, but I don’t believe those animals read as well as they write.”

“No,” said Uncle Steve, wagging his head sagely, “I don’t believe they do.  Well, read your last one, Mops, and let’s see who wrote it.”

“Why, Uncle, it’s from the dogs!  It’s signed ’Nero and Tray and Rover’!  Weren’t they just darling to write to me!  I believe I miss the dogs more than anything else, because I can have Puffy up here with me.”

Marjorie paused long enough to cuddle the little heap of grey fur that lay on the counterpane beside her, and then proceeded to read the letter: 

    “Dear Mopsy Midget,
     We’re in a fidget,
     Because we cannot find you;
     We want to know
     How you could go
     And leave your dogs behind you!

    “We bark and howl,
     And snarl and yowl,
     And growl the whole day long;
     You are not here,
     And, Mopsy dear,
     We fear there’s something wrong!

    “We haven’t heard;
     Oh, send us word
     Whatever is the matter! 
     Oh, hurry up
     And cheer each pup
     With laughter and gay chatter.”

“That’s a very nice letter,” said Marjorie, as she folded it up and returned it to its envelope.  “And I do think the animals at Haslemere are the most intelligent I have ever known.  Uncle, I’m going to send these letters all down home for King and Kitty to read, and then they can send them back to me, for I’m going to keep them all my life.”

“I’ll tell you a better plan than that, Midget.  If you want the children to read them, I’ll make copies of them for you to send home.  And then I’ll tell you what you might do, if you like.  When I go downtown I’ll buy you a great big scrapbook, and then you can paste these letters in, and as the summer goes on, you can paste in all sorts of things; pressed leaves or flowers, pictures and letters, and souvenirs of all sorts.  Won’t that be nice?”

“Uncle Steve, it will be perfectly lovely!  You do have the splendidest ideas!  Will you get the book to-morrow?”