DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been reading “Little Lord Fauntleroy,” and it is one of the very few stories by which I am _perfectly fascinated_. I am going to write a story myself, sometime, although I have tried more than once, and they got so stale I couldn’t finish them. But I am writing one now, and I am going to finish it, however stale it may get, or die in the attempt. Whenever I read a real nice story, I just sit and wonder how any person _can_ ever think of so many things to happen in such a mysterious yet “every-day” kind of way, and come out in the end all cleared up, and just as plain as though it had really happened! Then my wonder grows into admiration, and my admiration into awe, my awe into actual reverence, and then I throw down my book and give it up as past understanding, and go outdoors and play. I am on pins and needles to know whether “Ceddie” _was_ the real Lord Fauntleroy or not; but he _must_ be,—he’s too good not to be! Next Tuesday I shall be fourteen. I take the whole care of the horse, and, of course, of the barn, too, and as father and mother are in Brooklyn, I am Papa! It is very wearing to have such a multitude of responsibilities, but I think that I shall be able to keep my family (one member of which is an unruly little girl of twenty) straight until my father comes to take the burden off my shoulders. Your venerable and careworn friend, ARTHUR MASON M. * * * * * ST. LOUIS, MO. DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am one of your little readers, nine years old. My sister began taking ST. NICHOLAS in 1876, and, though she is now grown, papa still takes it for me. I have never written to you before, but I enjoy the “Letter-box” very much, and especially the letters about the pets the children have. I would like to tell you about three pets we had. They were a black-and-tan dog named Cricket, a Maltese kitten named Tiny, and a pet chicken named Dick. They played together, and ate and slept together. The dog had a rug on the side porch, and they would lie down and cuddle up beside him, and all sleep soundly. Morning, noon, and night we set a pan of milk out, and the three pets would gather around and all drink at once. At play they would roll over each other, and never, at any time, did they disagree or seem to be tired of each other. The kitten and chicken are both dead now, but we have the little dog yet; and he knows a great many tricks, and seems to understand whatever he hears us say about him, and always minds what we tell him. If my letter is not too long, I hope you will print it. I love your magazine very much, and am always impatient for it to come. Your little friend,