The Tar Baby and the Tomahawk: Race and Ethnic Images in American Children's Literature, 1880-1939

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Pumpkin Land.

A STORY

In the Land of Sure Enough, away down South, in a most wonderful land named Georgia, lives a little colored boy called Happy. He is fat and round as a brown cookie, with eyes like two round moons, and these eyes just sparkle. Now this little boy's real name isn't Happy—he has a long, solemn name written in his Mammy's Bible, but somehow that long name didn't just fit the boy. It seemed as if that name was too long, just like it was when he tried on his daddy's pants; besides when you looked at him, you felt jolly all inside and outside and just up and said that that boy's name must be Happy; so everyone called him Happy.

He wasn't very big, because he liked candy; and he wasn't very little, because he had a real knife in his pocket. He was just as high as this, but not quite as low as that; he could whistle "Bob White!" Sometimes he got a spanking; sometimes he got pennies.

He lived in a funny little house made of logs, all nice and white; there was the biggest yard, and in it was a great big China-berry tree; under the tree was a bench so big and so untippy that Happy often played that it was a boat. He had a little dog, with a very long tail; a big black rooster and a little red hen,—all his own.

Now this very day Happy was sitting on the bench under the China-berry tree, waiting for his Mammy to come home with the syrup from the cane mill,—real, ribbon cane syrup that only southern girls and boys know about, and which is far nicer than any candy. Happy saw his Mammy coming away down the white road. His mouth began to water, his round little stom-ick away down inside of him begged for that syrup; so Happy's little fat legs said to his little fat feet, "Get up, Feet," and Happy almost knocked Mammy Tibblets over, begging for a bit; but she walked right straight into the kitchen, put the bucket on the table, and said to Happy—

"Now, Happy, you go on and play. Don't you bother that syrup, and for supper I'll bake you a pile of waffles most as high as yourself and you can swim them in that syrup. I am going over to Captain Jones' and get their clothes to wash. Now don't you bother that syrup."

Happy turned cart-wheels out the door and landed on the bench under the China-berry tree. He tried very hard not to think about that syrup. He made a whistle with his "Sure Enough Knife;" he fed the old black rooster and the little red hen, although it wasn't time; and all the while a small voice kept saying, "My, but ribbon cane syrup is sure good." After a while, although Happy did not tell them to, his right little leg started to the house and, of course, the fat little left leg followed, back to the door, right up to the kitchen table. There sat the bucket of syrup, and that little voice said again, "Oh, Happy, don't you want a little bit?" And, really, a big drop
brownies.192001.006.jpg rolled over the bucket's side, right down on to Happy's fat finger. Pop! right into Happy's mouth went that little finger, and Happy's little stom-ick said, "My, that's good."

So Happy went over to the cupboard and got a spoon,—he was sure it was Mammy's littlest spoon,—right up on the table he climbed and sat down beside the bucket of syrup. He took just a tiny bit; then his eyes got rounder, and old Mister Temp-ta-tion came out of the shadowy place and helped Happy hold the spoon, and said, "Help yourself, Happy. It's so good it won't hurt you."

My, what big spoonfuls old Mister Temp-ta-tion helped Happy dip from that bucket, until—Oh,—what a hurting came into Happy's stom-ick, just like a whole paper of pins hopping about in it. Right then old Mister Temp-ta-tion gave an awful mean laugh and ran away, never saying he was sorry one bit, while poor Happy, kicking about to get that pain away, kicked the bucket of syrup on to Mammy Tibblets' clean floor. In half a minute Happy grabbed the bucket up, before all the syrup could get out; but there on the floor was a lake of syrup, big enough to sail a toy boat on; beside it lay the spoon, not Mammy's little spoon, but oh, dear, it was her big corn-bread spoon.

Happy looked up and saw Daddy Henry's razor strop dancing on the wall, just like it was trying to jump off the nail. Now the little boys away down south in Georgia wear very thin pants and Happy was afraid that Mammy Tibblets would come home and help that razor strop off its nail, so Happy ran away,—out the back-gate, past the garden-patch, where old Mister Rabbit was stealing a mess of greens, went Happy, right out through the cotton-patch, where the long white fingers tried to pull out his hair. The fat little right leg and the chubby little left leg, both, tried to be first all the time, until at last they 'tumbled Happy to the cornfield, where the corn was so tall that no one, that is, really every-day people, could see him. There he found a big pumpkin and sat down.

All the running had scared the pain out of his stom-ick, but it didn't scare the 'fraid away from Happy. The more he thought about what old Mister Temp-ta-tion had made him do, and Mammy's sticky floor, the more he thought about the razor strop.

"Oh, I cannot go back to my old home, and I haven't a new one. What will I do?" Just then old Mister Sun began to shake up his pillows for a night's nap, the corn stalks made the longest, blackest shadows, right in the tree above the fence, and Mister Crow began to laugh at Happy—"Haw, Haw, Haw." Then Happy felt like a balloon that had to burst, enough, anyway, so that a few tears could squeeze out. One little tear dropped on his big toe and made a mud cake. Then came more tears, until Mrs. Ladybug hurried all her children under a pumpkin leaf, thinking it was raining.

Just then someone said as clear and friendly, "Well, Happy, you can come and live with me." Happy looked around and there stood a tiny man, a kind of nice little Elf, with the nicest green clothes, a yellow hat, and a yellow face. Happy thought at once how much like Mammy's pumpkin pie, with cinnamon sprinkled on it, this little man's face looked; but, of course, the cinnamon-like spots were freckles. "I am the Pumpkin-Man, if you please," and the Elf bowed mighty polite and nice.

Happy felt better, and it is nice to be bowed to when one is very little. At first Happy had been afraid it was old Mister Temp-ta-tion calling him.

"Where is your house, Mister Pumpkin-Man?" asked Happy.

"You are sitting on it, Sir," said the Man.

Happy jumped up in a hurry; although he had picked out the biggest pumpkin, he never dreamed it was a house.

"Oh, excuse me, Mister Pumpkin-Man, I didn't mean to sit on anybody's house."

"Oh, that's all right, Happy; come right in and I'll give you a bite to eat; come right in and make yourself at home."

The Elf was so polite it made Happy feel good, but he did wonder how the Elf knew his name—really, the Elf had just looked at him and guessed his name.

"Where's your door?" Happy asked. "Right here," and the Pumpkin-Man pulled aside a big leaf, showing a nice little open door in the pumpkin. "Walk right in, Sir."

Happy looked at the small door and his fat, round self. ''I'd like to, but I never could get in that door," Happy said.

"Did you ever T-R-Y?" the Pumpkin-Man asked.

"No, and it wouldn't do any good; see how big I am." Happy puffed out kind of proud.

"T -R-Y; why try has made all the wonderful
brownies.192001.007.jpg things in the world,—ships, trains, wagons, ice cream, and candy—they were all made by try."

Happy thought if try could do all, that he had better try to get into that pumpkin-house, as the shadows in the corn-rows were getting very black. So he poked his fat hand into the pumpkin-house door, and it slipped right in; so he tried the other hand, then his curly head bobbed right in, too, and quick as a wink in walked all of Happy.

How nice it was in that pumpkin-house,—little chairs, a table, a [illustration - "HAPPY"] bed, a dandy fire-place to bake sweet potatoes in. While Happy's eyes grew big looking at things, the Pumpkin-Man came in and pulled out a company chair.

"Now you just make yourself at home, while I get you a bite to eat. It sure seems good to have a little boy about."

While the Pumpkin-Man cooked the nicest smelling things, Happy tried to figure out how small he really was. Just then the Pumpkin-Man invited Happy to supper, and it was a nice supper,—pumpkin pie, pumpkin butter—so many good things, and not one drop of syrup on them. Somehow Happy didn't like syrup any more and was glad the Pumpkin-Man didn't have any.

After a while the Pumpkin-Man helped Happy into a soft bed, and Happy sailed away into sleepy-land.

The next morning when Happy awoke, the Pumpkin-Man had ready. He seemed in a terrible hurry about something. Scarcely had Happy swallowed his breakfast when the Pumpkin-Man handed him a shovel and a sack. "Hurry, Happy, we must get to work." He jumped out of the door with Happy following.

"Say, Mister Pumpkin-Man, I don't want to work."

"Oh, that don't make any difference; everyone works here," and the Pumpkin-Man looked so in earnest that Happy thought he had better see how hard the work was; so he watched the Pumpkin-Man go among the big, yellow pumpkin flowers.

"Now, Happy," said the Man, "You look into these pumpkin flowers and you will see that some of them are just loaded with gold powder; but they are too stingy to give part of it to their poor neighbors who haven't any, so you and I must shovel that gold powder into our sacks. When you get your sack full, you call me."

Then the Pumpkin-Man went to work filling his sack; so did Happy, and at first it seemed lots of fun climbing in and out the big yellow flowers; but at last when the sack was so full he could scarcely wiggle it, he was mighty glad to call the Pumpkin-Man, who came on a run.

"Now I can play," said Happy, skipping about so crazy-like that he kicked Mister Grasshopper on the knee.

"Not yet, Happy, we don't play in Pumpkin Land until all our work is done."

"But I did fill the sack," Happy panted.

"You are only half-done; now take your sack of gold powder, go among the flowers and when you find a pumpkin flower without any gold, you put in a shovelful and very soon that lazy flower will turn into a big, yellow pumpkin,—just like magic. Only in the Land of Sure Enough things do that way without magic."

The Pumpkin-Man hurried away and Happy sat down, exclaiming, "I'm not going to work."

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Just then Old Mister Bumble-Bee came along with his fiery stick, singing a war song.

Happy had met Mister Bumble-Bee before and he didn't like him; but anyway he said, "Howdy," mighty friendly.

"Why, hello, Happy, are you working?"

"Yes," said Happy. "What are you doing, Mister Bumble-Bee?"

"Me? Oh, I am the corn-field policeman. I see that everyone keeps at their work; goodness, I do get tired; but you bet I don't stop until play-time."

Mister Bumble-Bee gave such a mad hum that Happy almost upset himself putting gold powder into the flowers. Before he knew it, there wasn't a grain left in his sack and when he got to the Pumpkin-Man's house, the Pumpkin-Man was already there, with the table just loaded with good things. Why he seemed to just fairly rake the roundest, brownest goodies right out of the fire-place; and all the time the Pumpkin-Man was smiling so that it seemed as if Mister Sun was in the house.

When they had eaten all the good supper, the Pumpkin-Man grabbed Happy's fat little hand, and sang:

Dancing and singing out among the tall corn, they went for the best really good time Happy ever had,—he never dreamed one could have just such a good time in a corn-field.

All the Grasshopper family came and brought their fiddles; the Cricket family brought their mandolins; Miss Katy-did and the three Frogs sang songs; even old Mr. Bumble-Bee hung his fiery stick on a corn leaf and sang a funny song.

Everybody danced until their legs got tired, then they played games, until at last Happy just couldn't even prop his eyes open, and he tumbled into bed.

For a long time Happy lived with the Pumpkin-Man, working and playing. He liked the great yellow flowers, and they would tremble with delight and nod so gayly when he passed among them. At last, one day, the Pumpkin-Man looked so sad he wouldn't even eat any of the good things he had fixed for Happy.

"Guess we won't need our shovels today, Happy."

"Why?" asked Happy. "What's the matter?"

"Old Mister Wolf-Wind is going to pay us a visit tonight," said the Pumpkin-Man. "That old, cold, long tongue of his will lick up all the green things."

All that day Happy played as he had never played before, telling each yellow pumpkin flower good-bye; and the flowers drooped their heads when he didn't give them any gold powder, and wondered why he passed them so.

Very late Happy went into the pumpkin-house. How he did wish he could take all the pumpkin flowers in with him and cuddle them warm and safe from the long, white, sharp teeth of Mr. Wolf-Wind, who comes sometimes away down South, in Georgia, for a nice juicy bite of greens.

Somehow, the Pumpkin-Man would not talk that night, so that Happy went to bed; and strange, he thought about going home for the first time since he ran away.

Why, really, he wanted to go back so bad that a tear crept out of his eye, to see how sad he looked; he felt like getting up right then and going home, only he was so small that he was afraid Mammy Tibblets wouldn't know him; so he went to sleep.

It was very late the next morning when Happy woke up, and no wonder—the Pumpkin-Man wasn't there to call him. Happy ran here and there calling him.

Outside everything looked so different,—Old Mister Wolf-Wind had been there, all right, and my! What a mess of greens he had snapped up! Why, he didn't leave a green thing in the corn-field; wherever he had blown his breath, he had left all the pumpkin vines black. Happy called and called the Pumpkin-Man, but he couldn't find any sign of him. He asked Mister Grasshopper if he had seen the Pumpkin-Man, but old Mister Wolf-Wind had bit Mister Grasshopper so that he just couldn't say a word,—he was so cold. To be sure, when Mister Sun woke up and saw Mister Wolf-Wind lapping up all the green things, he was sure mad, and tumbled out of his bed right on to old Wolf-Wind's back and sent him back North again, a-howling and a-hurrying.

Then Happy heard a terrible noise down in the corn-field. He saw coming two big mules, pulling a big wagon, and Captain Jones' colored boy pulling the pumpkins and putting them into the wagon.

Happy hopped into the pumpkin-house and slammed the door tight. Then Happy felt his pumpkin-house lifted up-up, and plunked right down on a pile of pumpkins in the wagon.

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"Get up, mules," shouted the colored boy, and the wagon rattled and bumped down the big road, past Happy's own house.

"Whoa," called the colored boy, and the mules stopped.

Happy wondered where he was going, then the colored boy called to someone.

"Say, Aunt Tibblets, do you want to buy a mighty fine pie pumpkin for a dime? It's the biggest pumpkin that I ever saw in a corn-field."

Mammy Tibblets went into the house, got a dime out of the cracked cup in the cupboard, and gave it to the boy for the pumpkin.

"My, it's just as heavy as my boy, Happy," said she, dropping the pumpkin on the table.

While she went for a knife to cut open the pumpkin for pies, Happy tried to get out; but the pumpkin-door had stuck fast. Just then Mammy Tibblets started to cut the pumpkin, but somehow that pumpkin was so hard and she sawed and grunted so hard that the pumpkin slipped and fell right off the table and rolled under it. There it broke into halves, leaving Happy kicking about, as big as he ever was. Mammy reached under the table and pulled. She thought she had the pumpkin, but she had Happy's fat left leg.

"For land's sakes, Happy, what are you doing under there? That's no place to sleep, besides that syrup isn't anything to hide for." Mammy Tibblets looked so pleased that Happy smiled all over his nice brown face.

"Why, Mammy, have I been asleep? Seems to me as if I have been away in Pumpkin Land for a long time."

"Pshaw, what a funny boy you are," said Mammy.

You see, magic things do happen in the Land of Sure Enough, only they are not magic, and you don't know them, because you never wash your toes in the dew drops.

Then Happy picked up the pumpkin-house and helped Mammy make it into pies.

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"OVER THE OCEAN WAVE"

Betty and Philip went with Uncle Jim to the "movies" that rainy afternoon, and there they saw a picture of two young colored girls.

"Look, Phil," whispered Betty, "there some colored folks just like us. Who are they?"

"It tells underneath the picture," said Philip, "but the words are so hard and long. Quick, tell us what it's all about, Uncle Jim."

So Uncle Jim read obediently, "Left and right: Beautiful Princess Parhata Miran, eighteen year old daughter of the Sultan of the Island of Jolo, and Carmen R. Aguinaldo, daughter of the former Filipino bandit, who are now enrolled as students in the University of Chicago, Illinois."

By the time Uncle Jim had finished, the picture had passed on, and the feature picture began. The children were very much interested in this, for it was a Wild West Show, and Uncle Jim thought they had forgotten all about the two Filipinos. He was rather glad of this, for the children could ask a great many difficult questions. Of course, Uncle Jim knew lots of answers, but it is not easy to know something about everything, and if it were not for Children's Magazines, Uncle Jim at times would hardly know what to do.

As it was, Betty and Philip had hardly stepped out into the pleasant, silver rain, before they began.

"Where did you say those girls came from?" asked Betty. "Were they really colored? They looked a little odd, though the fat girl looks like Mabel Ross who sits next to me in school."

"They're from the Philippines," said Uncle Jim with a slight groan, for he knew he was in for it now. "And they are colored,—that is their skin is not white; but they belong to a different division of people from what we do. You see, we colored Americans are mostly of the black, or Negro race; whereas these girls belong to the brown, or Malay race. Do you know anything of the different races in the world, Betty?"

"Yes," said Betty promptly, and standing still in the pattering rain, right in the middle of the street, she began. "There are five races: the red, or Indian; the yellow, or Mongolian; the white, or—"

"Oh, make her stop that, Uncle Jim!" interrupted Philip. "She got a hundred in an examination on the different races once, and she's been talking about them ever since. Tell us where the Philippines are."

"Well," said Uncle Jim, "let me see if I can make you see them plainly without the map. Do you know where China is?"

"Yes," said Philip, "it's in Asia, right on the Pacific Ocean."

"Good," said his uncle; "now the Philippine Islands are a large group of islands lying in the Pacific Ocean, south and east of China, directly east of French Indo-China, and north and west of Borneo. The China Sea is on the west of these islands, between China and the Philippines, and to the north and south and east lies the wonderful Pacific Ocean. Do you get the picture, Betty?"

"Yes," said Betty, "I do. Aren't the names pretty,—Borneo and the China Sea. It seems to me I smell all sorts of good things. Tell us about some more places with the queer, pretty names."

"I'm not so sure I can remember," said Uncle Jim. "Let's see now, the Philippines form a sort of a capital S, with very shallow upper and lower curves. At the top of the letter is Luzon, and at the bottom Mindanao, and right through the center is a group called the Bisayas. I've forgotten the names of the islands that form the group, but I'll tell you some day."

"Well, here we are right at home, so look it up now," said the children. So they went into the little sitting-room and got out the atlas, and there were the Bisayas, with names that delighted Betty more than ever: Panay, Negros, Leite, Cebu, Samar, and Bohol. Off to the west, and not belonging to the Bisayan group, but still one of the Philippines, lies long, slim Palawan.

"And down here in the corner is Jolo," cried Philip, who had been looking through the pages of his little geography.

"Show it to me," said Uncle Jim, much relieved to find out where it was before the children had forced him to admit his lack of knowledge. So Philip showed him with a pudgy, brown finger, which nearly blotted out the island,
brownies.192001.012.jpg for Jolo was so tiny. Sure enough, there it lay, a little speck of an island quite to the south-west of the extreme south-western point of Mindanao. It seemed to be a very important island, however, for to the north and west of it lay the Jolo Sea, [illustration - Princess Parhata Miran Carmen R. Aguinaldo International. ] and to the south and east of it lay a group of tiny islands called the Jolo Archipelago.

"Archipelago is the name for a lot of islands all jammed up close together," Betty told her uncle.

"Now," said Uncle Jim, "you kiddies have had a fine time of it. Get out and give me a chance to read the paper."

"Just one thing more," begged Philip. "Do tell me what the picture meant when it spoke of the bandit, Aggy-Aggy—what was his name, Uncle Jim?"

"Aguinaldo, you mean. Oh, that was the name of a great Filipino leader," said his uncle. "You see, the Philippines used to belong to Spain, but in 1898, as the result of a war between Spain and the United States, the islands were given to us. Aguinaldo, a brave and spirited Filipino, resented American rule and waged warfare for a long time against the Americans. He was finally captured and banished by the new-comers in authority.

"Of course, according to them he was a bandit, or outlaw,—a person who breaks the laws. But in the eyes of his own countrymen he was probably regarded as a patriot. It all depends," said Uncle Jim, "on how you look at it. As it is, the United States has finally promised the Filipinos their independence, and there is a delegation of Filipinos in Washington this minute to remind us of that promise. I shouldn't be surprised if the influence of Aguinaldo were back of it all. Now I shall not answer another question. Get out."

"It's too bad you're a boy," said Betty, turning to Phillip, "because both the people in that picture were girls. I shall play first at being the "Beautiful Princess," whose father is Sultan of the funny little island, and then afterwards I shall be the daughter of the bandit."

"Oh," said Philip, "you don't suppose I care. I am going to be the bandit!"

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THE OUIJA BOARD

A STORY

Gloria Lorimer and Betty Fielding came slowly down the steps of the public library, their arms burdened with books piled high.

"It's going to be a great contest, Betty," said Gloria, a round, short maiden of fifteen. "I think it's so nice of Mr. Sellers to offer such a prize, don't you?"

"Yes, it's nice," replied Betty, stifling a sigh, "but it won't do me any good. I just know you'll get the prize. No one has any chance against you."

Gloria, exulting inwardly, cast her eyes modestly toward the ground.

"Of course, I'm not going to win the prize," she protested. "I mean to try for it, but that's no sign I'll get it. There are plenty of girls, and boys, too, in our class who are just as smart as I am."

"But you've led the class all this term," said Betty dolefully. "Oh, dear, I wish I were so smart."

"Why, Betty, you have as much chance to win the prize as I have. And I'll help you. Don't I always help you whenever you ask me? I'm glad we came to the library early and got the best books. It's lucky Maude wasn't at school today. If she had heard about the contest, she would have been at the library picking over books before anyone else had time to turn. I'll call her up, though, and tell her about it."

When Gloria reached home, she hurried to the telephone to tell her friend the news. Barely taking time to inquire about the aching tooth which had kept Maude from school that day, she began:

"Maude, you'd never guess! Miss Dyson told us today in English literature that the president of the school has offered a prize of five dollars in gold to the pupil who brings in the most comprehensive review of 'Macbeth.' . . . Why, Maude Barstow, what nonsense you talk! Of course, I'm going to try for the prize, but I don't know that I'll get it. . . . What? . . . Oh, that's what Betty said, but I don't know. Try and come to school tomorrow. I'm going to help you and Betty both with your reviews. We've got two weeks . . . . Good-by."

Gloria turned from the telephone with a pleased expression. For a while she gave herself over to visions of winning the prize, and spending it. In spite of her modest protests to her friends, Gloria was confident that she would win. Hadn't she led her English literature class all the term? Wasn't she the most brilliant scholar in her Latin class? With a satisfied, confident smile, she began to sharpen her pencil.

The time went by, until there remained only four days in which to prepare for the contest. Betty and Maude had valiantly, though reluctantly, declined Gloria's generous offers of help and had decided to do the best they could alone; not that either of them had the faintest hope of winning the prize; they were confident that the gold would go to Gloria.

The contest was to close on Thursday and the prize was to be awarded the following Monday. Friday afternoon when school was dismissed, Gloria approached her chums with an air of mystery.

"I'm going to have my fortune told and I want you to go with me," she whispered, enjoying the shocked surprise of the other girls.

"Gloria, you wouldn't dare!" exclaimed Maude. "Why, that's a sin."

Betty was speechless.

"It is not a sin!" denied Gloria indignantly. "It's just in fun, anyway. Why, I know lots of people who go to Mrs. Gray and have their fortunes told. People who belong to the church, too. It only costs thirty cents. And I guess I've got a right to know what my future holds." Maude shifted uneasily. "It doesn't seem right," she protested feebly.

"Well, it is right. I'm not asking you or Betty to have yours told, I'm just asking you to go with me. I've always treated you both right and done whatever you wanted me to; and if you're not friends enough to me to do a little thing like that, well—all right."

This argument, although not strictly true, was felt to be unanswerable; so the three started out for Mrs. Gray's.

In spite of her brave exterior, Gloria felt
brownies.192001.021.jpg considerable trepidation when Mrs. Gray responded to her timid knock.

"Come in, girls, come in," invited the seer cordially. "Which one wants to see me?"

Betty and Maude huddled fearfully together, while Gloria moistened dry lips and stammered a husky, "I do."

"Well, now, don't be afraid. Just set right down. I'll give you a twenty minute palm reading for a dollar, or a ten minute card reading for fifty cents. Them's my terms."

Gloria's face fell.

"Why—I—I—someone told me it was thirty cents," she ventured timidly.

"Thirty cents! You see it's hard on me-this medium business is . . Sometimes when I give five or six readings a day, I get so wore out that when night comes, I feel just like I'm shrivelling up. So, you see, I have to make it worth my while, Dearie."

"Yes'm." Gloria forced a feeble smile and arose. "I guess maybe I'll have to come back some other day. Thirty cents is all I have, and—"

"Well now, Pet, set right down. You didn't let me finish telling you my terms. I'll give you a five minute reading on the Ouija Board for thirty cents. Here's my Board right here. Now just set quiet, all of you."

The three girls waited with baited breath, while Mrs. Gray, eyes closed and hands moving rapidly over the Board, began in a low tone:

"You are going to be a great woman some day, Derie; the Board tells me so. An' going to win great fame and honors, and it won't be so very long till you win them, either. You're coming into money, Dearie,—gold; the Ouija Board tells me it is. You've got some friends and some enemies. Look out for a slim, brown-skin woman. An'—an'—that's all."

Gloria left the fortune teller's with a swelling heart. The girls were half-way up the block before anyone spoke, and then Betty said solemnly, "Isn't she wonderful? The great honors and the gold! Oh, Gloria, now I know you're going to win the prize."

Maude, who had been walking along rapt thought, stopped suddenly and said, "Look here, girls, I believe that woman's a fake."

Gloria turned angrily upon her and answered hotly "She isn't a fake, either. I can't help it if you're mad about what she said about my—"

"Humph! I'm not mad," interrupted Maude."Didn't I say all along that you'd get the prize? But here's why I say that woman's a fake: it seems to me that I've heard people say that when you work a Ouija Board, you ask it questions and it spells out the answers. Well, if it spells things out, wouldn't you have to look at the letters on it to see what it's spelling; and didn't Mrs. Gray have her eyes shut the whole time? And did she ask it a single, solitary question? Yes, she's a fake and a big one, too."

For a moment even Gloria was stunned by this, but after a bit she retorted, "Sometimes you have to look at a Ouija Board, and sometimes you don't. Real good mediums, like Mrs. Gray, don't need to look because they—they— well, they get the messages through their finger tips."

Even Betty looked skeptical at this, but Gloria continued stoutly, "I guess I ought to know, seeing how much I've read about it. I've read dozens of books just on that one subject, and I can show you the very page in one of the books where it says that first-class mediums get messages through their finger tips. Can either of you show me any book where it says they don't?"

This silenced the others, whether it convinced them or not. Gloria cared not at all that what she had just uttered contained even less than a grain of truth. She had been convinced from the first that she was going to win the prize and Mrs. Gray's statements had only served to strengthen that conviction. Gloria didn't care a jot how Mrs. Gray received her messages; she didn't care a fig for Maude's croakings. Besides, hadn't Mrs. Gray warned her to look out for a "slim, brown-skin woman"? And wasn't Maude "slim and brown-skin"? Most assuredly she was to pay no attention to Maude.

When the news of Mrs. Gray's revelation spread at school Monday morning, Gloria was regarded with a feeling closely akin to awe. Nearly everyone had been certain that Gloria would win the prize and now that certainty was confirmed by supernatural powers. Happy Gloria! How she basked in the light of her school-mates' adulation!

Monday afternoon the class was in a fever of expectation, and Gloria was easily the most popular girl at school. Girls who had not spoken to her for weeks vied with each other for a word, or a smile from the chosen one.

When the time came for awarding the prize,
brownies.192001.022.jpg it was with great difficulty that Miss Dyson obtained order. Mr. Sellers, President of the School Board, sat by Miss Dyson's desk, looking very large and important, while the other judges sat hard by. After a few whispered words with Miss Dyson, Mr. Sellers arose and stepped ponderously forward.

He wasn't much of a speechmaker, he said,—in fact he couldn't make a speech at all. But the other judges had insisted that he present the prize. As every scholar knew, this prize was a five dollar gold-piece, to be given to the pupil who wrote the most comprehensive review of "Macbeth." After a very careful consideration of all the manuscripts handed in, the judges had come to this conclusion: Most of the reviews were good; two or three were excellent; but the one the judges considered the most deserving of the prize was written by Miss Maude Barstow. Therefore, it was with unqualified pleasure that he presented Miss Barstow the gold.

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A TRUE STORY

Did you ever hear of Katy Ferguson? I confess I did not until a very short while ago, and yet without my knowing it, Katy Ferguson must have been exerting a great influence over me for at least sixteen years. And unless I am very much mistaken, she has been influencing you, too.

If you are being brought up as I hope you are, you go to school every week-day, except Saturday, and on Sundays you go to Sunday School. There you sit and listen to the really wonderful church music and learn a great many beautiful texts and chat with the other boys and girls and enjoy yourself famously. Then you go home feeling very good and somewhat solemn, not very sorry that Sunday School is over, but on the whole perfectly willing to go back next Sunday.

"But what has Katy Ferguson to do with all this?" I hear you wondering.

Wait a moment.

Long, long ago, in 1774, Katy Ferguson was born to the cruellest fate that ever awaited a child. She was a slave. Stop and think about that a little while, try to picture the horrors of such a condition, and resolve that in no sense of the word will you allow such a fate to overtake you and yours. Evidently Katy thought something like this, for when she was eighteen, due to her own efforts and the fortunate impression she had made on some friends, she became free.

Not long afterwards she married, but neither her husband nor the children who came to her lived very long, and presently she was by herself again, living her life alone in the city of New York.

Now Katy was a very good woman,—tender, kind-hearted, and sensible. She did not let her sorrows crush and enfeeble her. On the contrary, she looked about her to see what her hands could find to do, and having found it, she did it. In her neighborhood in New York there were very many neglected children, both white and colored, and to them she gave her attention. Some she sheltered in her own house, and for others she found positions. During her life-time she helped in this way forty-eight needy children—a tremendous job for a poor woman.

But what interested Katy even more than caring for little bodies, was caring for little children's souls. So every Sunday Katy had children to come to her house so she could tell them about "God and the world to come." When her class grew too large and its instruction too much for her limited knowledge, she called in other good Christian folk to help; but of these none, I am sure, worked more willingly or more successfully than Katy.

One wonderful Sunday, Dr. Mason, the kind minister of a church on Murray Street, who had helped Katy in many ways when as a little girl she was beginning to seek "the way, the truth and the light," walked into Katy's house and found her surrounded by a group of interested and happy children.

"What are you about here?" he said. "Keeping school on the Sabbath? We must not leave you to do all this." And off he went and told the officers of his church and some other good people about it, and in a short while the lecture-room was opened to receive Katy's little friends. So the church in Murray Street opened a Sunday School, and it is generally conceded that Katy Ferguson, colored, and once a slave, was the founder of the first Sunday School in New York City.

Of course, Katy did many other things—she toiled hard for her daily bread and she received many opportunities to work, for she was a wonderful laundress and a ravishing cook. She was interested in the cause of missions, too, and let no chance of aiding them pass by. But don't you like best the notion of her getting the little children together and telling them that "of such is the kingdom of heaven?" I do.

And I think that those of you who read this little history will go to Sunday School some Sunday and instead of whispering to the pupil next you, you will look right into the wonderful glory that comes pouring through the stained-glass windows on Sunday afternoons, and in your heart you will say, "Dear God, I am thankful for Katy Ferguson."

So now you know the story of a noble colored woman. But she is not the only colored woman to do great deeds for her race. There are many splendid colored men, too. Think of all the wonderful folks you have still to hear about!

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GYP

A Fairy Story

ONCE there was a little fairy named Gyp. The king of fairies gave all of the little fairies work to do. And Gyp's work for that day was to paint apples.

Early that morning Gyp went to the forest to work. He carried all his paints, but more of red and brown because he had a lot of apples to paint red and also the leaves to tint brown.

He soon came to the trees, and leaving the other paints on the ground, he carried the red up to paint apples.

The little children who lived in the forest thought it about time to find ripe apples, and some of them went out that same morning to get some.

After roaming a bit they came to the tree where Gyp was painting and found all his paints on the ground.

They began to amuse themselves by playing with the paints, until the wind blew some apples down.

But they soon tired and fell asleep. Gyp had noticed them meddling with his paints and saw that they liked red and brown best.

When he came down and found all asleep, he wondered what joke to play on them that would be pleasing. So after deciding on many things and changing, he determined to paint their faces, knowing they would be delighted.

So he painted their faces,—some red like the apples, and the others brown like the leaves. When they woke and looked at each other, they were startled and amazed. They went home never knowing why their faces changed colors.

Now their descendants still live. Those children who were at home remained white, but the little red children still love to roam about in the forest and on the plains.

The little brown children can be found most everywhere, carrying happiness and sunshine to all they see.

So when you read of the work of the little brownies, don't forget the good fairy Gyp.

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THE BOY'S ANSWER

ONE day, while in a park, I saw a little ten or twelve year old boy sitting on a bench and, on taking a seat by him, he looked at me and I looked at him; he smiled and I smiled.

"Little man, what are you going to do when you get to be a man?"

"Well," said the little boy, "I am going to be a Civil Engineer, like my father."

The little man's answer was a surprise to me, because most little brown boys of whom I ask the question, "What are you going to do when you get to be a man," usually say, "I don't know." This little fellow gave me his answer at once and said he was going to be a Civil Engineer! (All boys who know what a Civil Engineer is and some of the things he does, hold up your hands.)

His next answer to my question surprised me even more, when I put this one to him, "What do you know about Civil Engineering?" Without hesitating, he said: "I can draw a railroad bridge, and its joints; I can draw the sections of the different kinds of sewers; and I can draw a map with the contour lines."

I heard a whistle in the distance and my little friend said, "Mother is calling me." And away he ran, leaving me to think that I had met a little brown boy who would some day become a great Civil Engineer. At the age of ten or twelve this little boy knows more about Civil Engineering than most men do when they enter college to learn Civil Engineering, and so he is sure to be far ahead of his class as he goes through college.

How many boys, who expect to be physicians, can, at the age of—say 15, name one-half of the bones in their bodies, or locate their stomach or liver?

Nearly all great men have shown remarkable interest in their chosen calling when they were still very small boys. Coleridge-Taylor was playing on his violin when he was only five!