After all the flowery speeches and kind words that have been showered upon BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE, all of which I heartily endorse, I am afraid you will not appreciate what I am going to say, but I’ll say it, nevertheless; it will be as good as a corrective; too much sweets are always cloying. I have read the magazine through from cover to cover, even to the advertisements, and found everything good, better, best, yet I was disappointed and will tell you why. There was no smallest fraction thereof devoted to women. Why is this thus? It cannot be that you do not think women of enough importance as to be worthy some part of it especially fitted for her eye alone. I know our editor-in-chief doesn’t feel that way, at least he does not talk that way, as every woman knows who ever talked to him for five minutes by the clock. I don’t mean a page devoted to Housewives, Motherhood, Cooking Recipes, or Fancy Work, altogether. These are all good, every one of them, and we are all more or less interested in them, but a page, pure and simple, devoted to things that women are specially interested in. Will you rise and explain, and satisfy several women? E. A. C. The above communication is self-explanatory and is published for what it is worth. Possibly others of our friends may have something to say along this line. At any rate, whatever is worthy of space, pertaining to women, can, at least for a time, find expression in this department. “LOCAL COLORING.” (Dedicated to Our Descriptive Writers.) The tale told thrillingly of lemon skies, Of salmon hills beneath a blue sunrise; It feelingly described a cerise field Where purple rabbits ate pink onions, peeled. The color card passed to another pen, And lightning changes awed our common ken; For lo, we’re told those hills are palest mauve,— Like molten gold the fiery sun above. The lemon sky has veered to cherry red,— Maroon, the field where purple rabbits fed; Has Nature cursed us with a spotted land? Nay, “highly colored” tales are in demand. HESTER GREY. IN TENNESSEE. Where the Mississippi washes Round the shores of Tennessee, There’s a large and stately forest, And it’s very dear to me. There I roamed in days of boyhood With companions free from care, As the tree tops sway ed above us With the west wind playing there.