"It is often said that Listeners hear no good of themselves, and it often proves to be true. But we shall hope to hear, at least, no harm of our modest little paper. We intend to listen only to good things, and not to have ears for any unkind words about ourselves or others. Little people of our age are expected to listen to those who are older, having so many things to learn. We will promise, too, to listen as much as we can to all the entertaining news about town, and to give accounts of the newest fashions, the parties in high life (nurseries are generally three stories _high_) and many other particulars. So, we venture to hope that 'The Listener' will find favour with our friends and Miss Stephenson's select public." This was Miss Hannah Stephenson's school for girls, which Julia and Florence were attending. "The Listener" gives pleasant glimpses of life at Green Peace, the Nursery Fair, the dancing-school, the new baby, and so forth. Sometimes the "Table" is a rhyming one:-- What shall we do for an Editor's table? To make one really we are not able. Our Editorial head is aching, Our lily white hand is rather shaking. Our baby cries both day and night, And puts our "intelligence" all to flight. Yet, for the gentle Julia's sake, Some little effort we must make. We didn't go vote for the know-nothing Mayor, A know-nothing's what we cannot bear, We know our lessons, that's well for us, Or the school would be in a terrible fuss. * * * * * That's all for the present, we make our best bow, And are your affectionate _Editor Howe_. On January 14, 1855, we read:-- "Last evening began the opera season. Now, as all the Somebodies were there, we would not like to have you suppose, dear reader, that we were not, although perhaps you did not see us, with our little squeezed-up hat slipping off of our head, and we screwing up our eyebrows to keep it on. There was a moment when we thought we felt it going down the back of our neck, but a dexterous twitch of the left ear restored the natural order of things. Well, to show you that we were there, we'll tell you of what the Opera was composed. There was love of course, and misery, and plenty of both. The slim man married the lady in white, and then ran away with another woman. She tore her hair, and went mad. One of the stout gentlemen doubled his fists, the other spread out his hands and looked pitiful. The mad lady sang occasionally, and retained wonderful command of her voice. They all felt dreadfully, and went thro' a great deal, singing all the time. The thing came right at last, but we have no room to explain how." In May, 1855, the paper died a natural death. _To her sister Annie_ SOUTH BOSTON, Jan. 19, 1855. MY SWEET MEATEST,--