On a small piece of frame-work under a third-class "smoking" carriage on the London and South-Western Railway, a water-wagtail built her nest and reared a young and thriving family of four. The train traveled regularly about forty miles a day, and the station-master at East Cosham says that, during every absence of it, the male bird kept close to the spot, awaiting with great anxiety the return of his wayfaring family. Now, in my opinion, that water-wagtail mother made a queer choice for her home-place. But if the little ones get no other advantage from it, they are sure to be well trained. What do you think about it, my chicks? THE LETTER-BOX. The following is Dr. J. G. Holland's answer to his "Double Riddle," published in our last number: La, man! I see your little game: 'Tis "la" itself in song or aria That piercing dear Maria's name Transforms it to _Malaria_. And "la" itself, as all men know, Raises the _sol_ to _si_ and _do_. * * * * * DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have made up a nice little story, and I want you to know it. It is called "Laziness." Once upon a time there was a little boy and his name was James. He was very lazy. One day he was going out to play when his mother called him back. "James," said she, "I went up to your room to make your bed, for the maid was too busy, and your room is very disorderly. Unless you promise to keep it in order, and have it in order by next week, I will send you from home. I am very sorry to say this; but it must be said. Now you may go; that is all I wanted you for." Next week came very soon, and the room was still in disorder. The mother went up and looked in; she threw herself on her knees, and prayed that Heaven would not let her send her boy away. James went away, and his mother never saw him again. Now, children, learn a lesson from this, and don't be driven from home by laziness. I am eleven years old, and I want you to give my love to Jack-in-the-Pulpit and the School-mistress. JENNIE MOORE. * * * * * THE BLIND-CLERK'S PUZZLE. This is what the "Blind-clerk" made of the puzzling address that M. B. T. gave in a letter to Jack-in-the-Pulpit, published last month: "Servant Girl, No. 40 Queen's parade, London." And that turned out to be the right address, too. Another friend says that this same blind-clerk once had referred to him a letter addressed like this: "To my uncle tom, london." That was too much. The letter never reached "my uncle tom." * * * * *