The creeps crawl up my back When I am still, and oh, Nobody seems to know How very tired I get Without some sort of noise, Such as a boy enjoys! Last summer, on the farm, I used to jump and shout, For Grandpa Osterhout And Grandma both are deaf. But soon some neighbors came And said it was a shame, The way I scared them all. They called my shouts "wild yells," And asked if I had "spells" Or "fits, or anything." You see, grown people all Forget they once were small. Now, isn't there one place Where "wriggley" tired boys Can make a stunning noise And play wild Injun-chief, And Independence-day, And not be sent away? Or was that place left out? Dear Jack, please tell me true; I've confidence in you. Your friend without end, TOMMY. This is a very touching epistle, my hearers, and Tommy has my hearty sympathy. There must be such a place as he is looking for, though the Deacon says that in the course of a long life he has never happened upon the exact locality. According to the Little School-ma'am, too, it is not described in any of the geographies; but she says that, for the sake of all concerned, it is very desirable that the missing paradise of little drummer boys should be discovered;--to which the Deacon adds, "Perhaps that's why the grown folk wish to find the North Pole." While we are upon this subject, here is a letter describing some tiny drummers that make almost as much noise as patriotic youngsters, and do quite as much mischief. To his credit, however, it must be said that this other small musician only makes his appearance as a drummer once in seventeen years. Is he bent on setting an example, I wonder? He is called THE SEVENTEEN-YEAR LOCUST. DEAR JACK: The seventeen-year locust isn't a locust at all. This may seem a strange thing to say, but it is true, nevertheless. The locust looks very much like a grasshopper, while the seventeen-year cicada, which is the insect's proper name, looks a great deal more like a gigantic fly than anything else. There is a cicada which comes every year, and is also wrongly called a locust. Anybody who has been in the country about harvest-time has heard the shrill noise made by this cicada and probably has come upon his cast-off shell sticking to a fence-rail or a tree-trunk. The seventeen-year cicada is a cousin of the one-year chap; though, as he comes only once in every seventeen years, he is probably only a far-away cousin. Fancy spending the best part of your life prowling about in the darkness underground and then coming up into the sunlight with a gorgeous pair of wings, only to die in a short time!