Letter from a Correspondent. _Little Readers of the Museum:_ I sometimes read Mr. Robert Merry’s Museum, and I like it very much, as I presume all his little “blue-eyed and black-eyed readers” do. He talks very much like good old Peter Parley. I should think he had heard him tell many a story while he rested his wooden leg on a chair, with a parcel of little laughing girls and boys around him. Oh, how many times I have longed to see him, and crawl up in his lap and hear his stories! But Mr. Merry says he is dead, and I never can see him. I am very--very sorry, for I hoped I should sometime visit him, for I loved him very much, and I guess he would have loved me some, for I like old people, and always mean to treat them with respect. How cruel it was for others to write books and pretend that Peter Parley wrote them!--for it seems that this shortened his life. I am glad, however, that Mr. Merry has his writings, for I think he loves his little friends so well that he will frequently publish some of them. I said that I loved Peter Parley, and I guess you will not think it strange that I should, when I tell you what a useful little book he once published, and how much pleasure I took in reading it. He wrote a great many interesting pieces which I read and studied, and they did me much good, I think. I hope that the little readers of the Museum will learn a good deal from what they read. Peter Parley wrote a piece which told us how to make pens. I read it over, and over again, and, finally, I thought I would see if I could not make one. So I went to my little desk and took out a quill, got my aunt’s knife and laid the book before me and tried to do just as Peter Parley told me I must. I succeeded very well, and my friends were quite pleased. This encouraged me very much, and soon I made them so well that my teachers made me no more pens. By-and-by my little associates got me to make and mend theirs, and I loved the business very much. Well, a few years since, I went to a beautiful village to attend school, where a splendid academy stands, around which, are large green trees, under whose shade my little readers would love to sit. There I staid two or three years. Often did I walk out with the teachers, whom I loved, to botanize, or ramble, with nimble step, over the beautiful hills of that sweet place, and listen to the constant murmur of its waterfalls, or gather the delicate flowers that grew so plentifully there. But to my story. My teachers saw that I made my own pens, and occasionally, when they were busy, would bring me one to make for them. The students soon found it out, and I had plenty of business. One day the principal of the school came to me and offered to compensate me by giving me my tuition one term, which was six dollars, if I would make and mend pens. I did not accept the money of course, though I cheerfully and gladly performed the small service.