DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I would like to tell you my experience with wild mice. Some time ago I spent the summer in the Sierra Nevada range. Our family had a little cabin right in the woods, built of single boards. One day our servant went to her valise, which had been left slightly open; to her surprise, she found, neatly packed away, in one corner, a small quantity of bird-seed; she at once accused a young friend, who was staying with us, of having put it there for fun; but the accused pleaded "not guilty," and the matter began to look mysterious. One day my papa took down a pair of heavy mining boots, which were hung from the rafters; he went to put his foot in, and found he couldn't; then he turned the boot upside down. A lot of bird-seed ran out! The mystery thickened. Another time a little dish of uncooked rice was left in the kitchen overnight. The next morning the rice had disappeared. Then we began to suspect mice, and hunted for the rice. It was three or four days before we found it, in a box containing sewing materials, on the top shelf of a cupboard. Then we took the same rice and put it in with some broken bits of cracker, and tied a string to one of the pieces. Papa left all on the kitchen floor. It had disappeared the next day, except the bit with the string; this the wise little mice had not touched. That night we heard pattering all over the house. Next day we began to hunt for the rice again; but it was only just before we left the cabin that we found it. It was in the tray of a trunk; and the end of the matter was, that the poor mice had all their trouble for nothing. I am a little girl just nine and a half, and have every number of ST. NICHOLAS, and have them all bound, and love it dearly.--Yours truly, LIZETTE A. FISHER. A correspondent sends us the following description of what she calls the "Island of Juan Fernandez," near Paris. * * * * * One of the most attractive places for out-door amusement, just outside of Paris, is a spot fitted out to be a counterpart of the Island of Juan Fernandez, described by Daniel de Foe in his story of Robinson Crusoe. After leaving the railroad depot, you enter an omnibus on which are painted the words "Robinson Crusoe." This leaves you at an arch-way bearing the curious inscription: "A mimic island of Juan Fernandez, the abode of Robinson Crusoe, dear to the heart of childhood, and a reminder of our days of innocence." You pass under this with high hope, and are not disappointed.