To Mrs. Jane Gleason send this away; Please send it off without delay To Ripleyville P. O., if it goes aright; She will surely get it on Thursday night, In Huron county, Ohio State: There she lives, or did of late. Send it in haste, it will give her joy, For she wants to hear from her soldier boy. To John Gillespiee Camp. Cade. Dell. A Ware. Pa. Meaning Camp Cadwalader. To Peter Smith 1209 Cartridge St. 3. Este. Av. near 3 Esher. Mr. Isaac Bakerson Cam. Cal. Walter Ner. Filladelphy R. 2 1 N. E. To Phil. Monitze n care of mister John dick filladelfy. Kensession. America. To My Mother— America Connected with this letter is the following incident: it fortunately came to Philadelphia, and, of course, from its superscription was placed apart to find its way to the dead-letter-office. One day a poor Irishwoman came to the window and asked for a letter from her son, giving no name. The simplicity of the question struck the clerk, and the letter addressed “To My Mother” flashed upon his mind. He turned to the case and selected the letter. “Where does your son reside? what part of Ireland?” “Belfast, sir.” Belfast was the post-mark. “What is his name?” “Patrick McLaughlan.” “Open that letter,” handing her the one in question. She did so, and, casting her eyes on the signature, exclaimed, “From my son! from my boy!” Sure enough, there was the name,—Patrick McLaughlan. The clerk gave her some instructions for future correspondence which probably proved of advantage to her. Somebody sent a newspaper through the mails the other day directed as follows: “To Honest Father Abraham, God bless him, Washington, D. C.” The following is a literal copy of the superscription of a registered letter received from Ireland, written, strange as it may seem, in a “clerkly hand”:— To this letter I pray attend To A lady Late of Ireland To the maiden’s name ascribe the thing To Late miss Eliza King To get success in your routes Take this to america or thereabouts. The Army is the tightest place I ever did get into, I cannot pay the freight on this, Although I really want to; I’ve “nary red,” but five months due— Don’t think it’s “on the level”— Postmaster, you may send this through, Or chuck it to the d—l. To Patrick Larkin who moved to his brothers at Adamsville in haste to the care of Bernard Larkin State of Penlyva. To Albert Walker, an awful talker, Who lives in Salina—you won’t find a meaner If you travel all day through the State of I-O-A. My fair is paid in postel rate, To Kingston Township, New York State, To Frederick Johnston, from a friend in Troy, ’Tis how are you, my conscript boy?