We are coming home tomorrow in his wagon. We're going to leave the bed clothes hanging in a tree. The man said he wouldn't take them home if he was us. Anyhow it don't matter much for a spark blew onto the bed one day and burnt a hole right through them all clear down to the ground. We put it out when we smelt it. It didn't hurt very much, for we changed the blankets 'round so the holes didn't all come together, and let in the cold, and it was all right. Please kiss Mother for me and tell her most of the red's come off my face and arms. Billy cried last night 'cause he was homesick and wanted his Ma. He's a sissy girl, Billy is. I'll sure be glad to see you and Ma, but I wouldn't cry about it. Please kiss Ma for me. Your affectionate son, RICHARD. P. S. Say, Pa, do skunks out on the plains look like little kittens? The one we caught sure did. [Illustration] POPGUN PLAYS SANTA CLAUS By permission of _The National Wool Growers' Magazine_ "Salute yer pardners, let her go, Balance all an' do-se-do. Swing yer gal, then run away, Right, an' left an' gents sashay." "Whoa, Mack, there's a letter in the Widow Miller's box." The pony sidled gingerly toward the mailbox nailed to the trunk of a pine tree, his eyes and ears watching closely the white sheet of paper that lay on the bottom of the open box, held by a small stone which allowed one end to flutter and flap in the wind in a way that excited his suspicions. When the Widow Miller wished to mail a letter she placed it, properly stamped, in her box and the first neighbor passing that way took it out and mailed it for her, she being some miles off the regular mail route. "Gents to right, now swing or cheat, On to the next gal an' repeat." He chanted the old familiar frontier quadrille call as he tried to force the pony close to the box to reach the paper without dismounting. "Stand still, you fool," he spurred the animal vigorously, "that there little piece of paper ain't going to eat you." But the more he spurred the farther from the box went the animal. "Beats all what a feller will do to save unloading hisself from a hoss," he threw the reins over Mack's head, swung to the ground and strode toward the box. "Balance next an' don't be shy; Swing yer pards an' swing 'em high." He sang as he lifted the stone and picked up the paper beneath it, which proved to be a large-sized sheet of writing paper folded three times. A one-cent stamp evidently taken from some old letter was stuck in one corner and beneath it was scrawled in a childish, unlettered hand the words: "Mister Sandy Claws The North Pole." Almost reverently Gibson unfolded the paper, feeling he was about to have some youthful heart opened to his curious eyes.