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

The Brownies' Book
January, 1920
One Dollar and a Half a Year
Fifteen Cents a Copy


This is
The Brownies' Book

A Monthly Magazine For the Children of the Sun


It aims to be a thing of Joy and Beauty, dealing in Happiness, Laughter and Emulation, and designed especially for Kiddies from Six to Sixteen.

It will seek to teach Universal Love and Brotherhood for all little folk—black and brown and yellow and white.

Of course, pictures, stories, letters from little ones, games and oh—everything!

One Dollar and a Half a Year
Fifteen Cents a Copy
W.E.B. DuBois Editor
A.G. Dill Business Manager
2 West 13th Street New York, N. Y .



Published Monthly and Copyrighted by DuBois and Dill, Publishers, at 2 West 13th Street, New York, N. Y. Conducted by W. E. Burghardt DuBois; Jessie Redmon Fauset, Literary Editor; Augustus Granville Dill, Business Manager

VOL. 1. JANUARY, 1920 No.1


COVER PICTURE. Photograph. By Battey.
PUMPKIN LAND. A Story. Peggy Poe. Illustrated by Hilda Wilkinson 3
THE WISHING GAME. A Poem. Annette Browne 7
THE ORIGIN OF WHITE FOLKS. A Poem. Annie Virginia Culbertson 7
OVER THE OCEAN WAVE. A Geography Story. Illustrated 9
WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN. A Poem. Reprinted from Robert Louis Stevenson 10
THE OUIJA BOARD. A Story. Edna May Harrold 18
PLAYTIME. "HARK, HARK, THE DOGS DO BARK." A Nursery Rhyme. Dance by Carriebel B. Cole, with music by Farwell 20
KATY FERGUSON. A True Story 27
AFTER SCHOOL. A Poem. Jessie Fauset. Drawings by Laura Wheeler 30
GYP. A Fairy Story. A. T. Kilpatrick 31
THE BOY'S ANSWER. A. U. Craig 31
POEMS. Illustrated. RECRUIT, Georgia Johnson; THE TALE OF A KITTEN, James Weldon Johnson; THE HAPPY QUAIL, William T. Wallace; SINGING, from Robert Louis Stevenson; DEDICATION, Jessie Fauset 32


  • RENEWALS: The date of expiration of each subscription Is printed on the wrapper. When subscription is due a yellow renewal blank is enclosed.
  • CHANGE OF ADDRESS: The address of a subscriber can be changed as often as desired. In ordering a change of address, both the old and the new address must be given. Two weeks' notice is required.
  • MANUSCRIPTS and drawings relating to colored children are desired. They must be accompanied by return postage. If found unavailable they will be returned.
  • Application pending for entry as second class matter at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of March 3, 1879.

[illustration - Her Royal Highness, Zaouditou, Queen of the Kings of Abyssinia, Empress of Ethiopia Underwood & Underwood ]


The Brownies' Book

Vol 1. January 20, 1920 No.1


Pumpkin Land.


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
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
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."


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:

"Come play, Come play,
No more work for us this day."

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.


"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.


The Wishing Game

WE gathered 'round the fire last night,
Jim an' Bess an' me,
And said, "Now let us each in turn
Tell who we'd rather be,
Of all the folks that's in our books."
(Of course, we wouldn't want their looks.)
Bess wished that she'd been Betsy Ross,
The first to make the flag.
She said, "I'd like to do some deed
To make the people brag,
And have the papers print my name,—
If colored girls could rise to fame."
An' I stood out for Roosevelt;
I wished to be like him.
Then Bess said, "We've both had our say,
Now tell who you'd be, Jim."
Jim never thinks like me or Bess,
He knows more than us both, I guess.
He said, "I'd be a Paul Dunbar
Or Booker Washington.
The folks you named were good, I know,
But you see, Tom, each one
Of these two men I'd wish to be
Were colored boys, like you and me.
"Sojourner Truth was colored, Bess,
And Phyllis Wheatley, too;
Their names will live like Betsy Ross,
Though they were dark like you."
Jim's read of 'em somewhere, I guess,
He knows heaps more than me or Bess.


The Origin of White Folks

DE white folks nee-nter putt on airs
About dem wash'out faces,
De culled folks wuz made de fust,
De oldes' uv de races.
Dey'z kneaded outer mud an' truck,
An' den stood up in places
Along de fence to bake 'em dry,
An' dat's de on'liest reason why
Dey's got dem sunburnt faces.
Dey had a scrumpshous time ontwel
Ole Nick got on deir traces,
An' den dey et dat apple up,
An' fell in deep disgraces;
An' when dey hearn deir names called out,
Dey run fer hidin' places,
An' turnt so pale dey stayed dat way,
An' dat's de reason why, folks say,
Dey's got dem wash'out faces.

[illustration - A Boy Scout Troop of Philadelphia]



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,
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!"


Whole Duty of Children

A child should always say what's true,
And speak when he is spoken to,
And behave mannerly at table,
At least, as far as he is able.

[illustration - Some Little Friends of Ours]



I AM the Judge. I am very, very old. I know all things, except a few, and I have been appointed by the king to sit in the Court of Children and tell them the Law and listen to what they have to say. The Law is old and musty and needs sadly to be changed. In time the Children will change it; but now it is the Law.

Before me sit the Children. There are three of them. It may be three hundred, or three million, or—but at any rate, THREE: first, there is Billikins, who is six; then, there is Billie, who is ten; and finally, there is William, who is astonishingly grown-up, being all of fifteen on his last birthday.

It is my business,—I, the Judge—to say each month a little lecture to Billikins, Billie, and William, and their sisters who have much prettier names and faces; and also to listen very patiently while the children speak to me and to the world.


This is winter. There is the shadow if snow in the air: Thanksgiving and Christmas and the New Year are here to make us glad. School work is getting interesting. Flowers are gone. But the sun shines, and it is cold and sweet out-doors even when the bright rain falls. This is the time to play and think and work for Springtime. It is splendid to live in these fine days and study and learn lots and grow big and do things.

I would like to know so much: Why the sun rises, and what the moon is, and who lives in the stars, and why candy is so good. If I listen and try, I shall know most of these things and many others in time. All the time, I must be true. I try to be good. But you cannot always be good. You CAN always be true, and that is better.

Of course, SOMETIMES, almost all times, you can be Good, too. But if you're not good, just say so and try, try again. That's what the world does, and Life is Trying.


There is no doubt about it, we Children have just got to take hold of this world. The Grown-ups have made an awful mess of it. First and worst, they have forgotten how to Laugh. Now let me say right here: The nicest thing in the world is Laughter—good, big, loud laughs. And next is Smiles, the sort that come before and after. Laughter clears away rubbish and gets things started. Fancy forgetting how to laugh! How could they? But they did and then, naturally, they fought. Fighting is mostly wrong and silly. Of course, if you're just set upon by a bully and you can't laugh it off, why just punch him hard, and then make up. See? Make up! Don't try and be mad forever, or for a day. Make up, and try a game of ball. Let him bat if he wants to. He'll probably strike out, and then you'll have your innings.

Of course, we Children know this is easy; but Grown-ups don't. They're awfully dull at times, and if we don't take hold of things and help, I don't know where this old world is going to land. It's a mighty nice world, too. The best ever if you just treat it square. But if you mess it up with blood and hate and meanness, why it's awful. If the Grown-ups keep on, we Children will just have to crowd them right off the edge and take charge of things. Gee! But what a jolly place: marbles, and tag, and funny stories, and pennies, and dolls, and tops, and—oh! everything that really counts. So look out, Grown-ups, we've got our eye on you, and "Don't let us have to speak to you again,"—as Father says.


I AM what mother is fond of calling "Half-grown"—which is not altogether a nice description. I am very nearly as big as I ever expect to be, and while I shall doubtless learn a great deal more than I now know, yet even now I am by no means an idiot, and I have gotten
considerable valuable information—particularly in the last Fifteen years.

I know, naturally, that one cannot have everything one wants in this world—worse luck! I, for instance, would like silk stockings, a hobble skirt, and one of those dreams of hats that look like little beds of nicely tended violets. Mother says we can't afford it, and I presume we can't. Only I want to put the thing this way: Sometimes we can afford some things that I particularly want and when we can, why not let me have what I want, instead of always handing me what somebody else wants me to want? Of course, I know I must be a good sport and take my share of hard work and not want everything always; but I insist, let my very own wants count sometimes. Don't always try to do my wishing and thinking for me. It may be that this particular hat is worth a week's work to me and that some people don't fancy it, but why not let me have it if I want it and we can afford it? You see, it's this way: In three or four little years I shall be my own mistress; why not train me for that part, instead of continually mistaking me for Billikins?


BILLIKINS, you're the wisest of the bunch. Be happy and learn. Notice the Weather and the Flowers and have faith in Time. Try hard to be true. I suspect that you are not really, truly, saying all these things yourself, for you are a very little man. But Mother, or God, is interpreting your thoughts for you liberally and nicely.

I ADMIT, Billie, that we Grown-ups ought to be ashamed of ourselves, for we have sinned, and we keep it up. Only, Billie, remember that this world is not simple and easy to understand and guide. There are whole lots of difficulties that you have neither seen nor dreamed of, and which are very hard·to explain. Before, then, you lose faith in us entirely, wait—wait a while. Meantime, it is too true that we should dwell close to your simplicity; that we should amid noise and wrong and multiplicity, keep your clear, straightforward view of the bigger world. We must rise to our Children's Laughter—but, ah! Billie-boy, it's a hard thing for us to laugh at times; wherefore, perhaps, you should laugh all the more.

And do please, for our sakes, have just as fun as you possibly can, so as to set the world a-laughing.

IT is a difficult and ever-recurring question that Wilhelmina brings: a question of Money, Taste, and Guidance for young folk—not "Half-growns," but simply Folk who still have the shining mark of youth written on their dear foreheads.

If you had all the Money in the World and were—as God send you may be—Mother of a Little Man, would you give him everything he wanted, even though he were Fifteen? Oh, no,—not even though he were Fifty! So here is the first Law:

Not everything we want.

But, surely, some things we want, else what's the use of living? Too true. Moreover, the "World is so full of a number of things" that we must choose. Choosing is hard, for it involves Money and Taste. Taste is a sort of rule of Choice. It is the Judgment, not of you or of me alone, but of numbers of thoughtful people, living at all times.

How do you know you like that hat? Is it suited to you? Does it really set off your figure and your gown and your smooth, brown skin? Or—and here I have a deep suspicion—do you choose it because Katie Brown has one like it and the Ladies of Avenue K, and—but hold! Who are K. B. and the L. of A. K? Are they persons of taste, or simply of power? Do you imitate them for love, or fear? Does the choice of this hat represent your freedom of thoughtful taste, or your slavery to what the flambuoyant Kitty does or to what rich white folk wear?

Mind you, I'm not answering these questions—I'm just asking. We will assume that the hat is becoming and suits you and you want it. Now comes that awkward question of Money. What is the question of Money? Simply this: Of the 1,000 ways of spending this dollar, which is best for me, for mother, for the family, for my·people, for the world? If the "best" way of spending it for you makes mother starve, or the family lose the home, or colored folk be ridiculed, or the world look silly—why, [?] such hat for you, and that, too, by [?]dear Judgment.

On the contrary, if nobody is[?] want the hat and have the [?] get more pleasure in any other [?]and be happy. You see, [?]that is asked of Fifteen[?]when hats call. And [?] best chum's advice.

[illustration - Waiting for a Howard-Fisk Football Game]



Dear Mr. Editor:

My mother says you are going to have a magazine about colored boys and girls, and I am very glad. So I am writing to ask you if you will please put in your paper some of the things which colored boys can work at when they grow up. I don't want to be a doctor, or anything like that. I think I'd like to plan houses for men to build. But one day, down on Broad Street, I was watching some men building houses, and I said to a boy there, "When I grow up, I am going to draw a lot of houses like that and have men build them." The boy was a white boy, and he looked at me and laughed and said, "Colored boys don't draw houses."

Why don't they, Mr. Editor?

My mother says you will explain all this to me in your magazine and will tell me where to learn how to draw a house, for that is what I certainly mean to do. I hope I haven't made you tired, so no more from your friend,

FRANKLIN LEWIS, Philadelphia, Pa.

I AM a girl fifteen years old and am still in the graded school. I am not so very poor, and would like to take up any course in a boarding school. Do you know of any school that a girl not yet out of graded school could enter? Also, do you know of anyone who would back me in going to the school? I am willing to work my way through school, if I could only get someone to help me get in a school like that.

I am a girl who has never known of a father's love, as my father died when I was very young. I will tell you in the beginning,—I am not a very pretty girl, and for that reason I have not been able to get anyone to help me in my little plan.

I have tried and tried to do something in Seattle, but the people are very down on the Negro race. In some schools they do not want colored children.

I close, hoping you will try and do something for me, leaving with you my address.

—Seattle, Washington.

P. S. Won't you answer me just as soon as you can? Please help me, and maybe some day I can help you.


OUR Crisis came a few days ago, and I was very glad to see the advertisement of THE BROWNIES' BOOK. I had just been talking to mother about giving me a subscription to some children's magazine and was delighted to know that we shall soon have one of our very own.

I see that you want letters from the children. I shall be glad if you will tell me what kind of a letter you want.

I want to be one of the first subscribers to THE BROWNIES' BOOK.

WENONAH BOND, Washington, D. C.

I AM writing to ask you to refer me to some books on the Negro. I want to learn more about my race, so I want to begin early. I am twelve years old and hope to, when I am old enough, bend all of my efforts for the advancement of colored people.

I want to subscribe for The Crisis, but I don't want to subscribe until I go to Covington, Ky., where I go to school. . . .

I hope some day that all detestable "Jim-Crow" cars will be wiped out of existence, along with all prejudice, segregation, etc.

ELEANOR HOLLAND, Wilberforce, Ohio.

IN the country where I live, it is very dull. There is a movie in the next town, but you have to sit in one corner. And, anyhow, it is too far away for little girls. And there are not many books. I make pennies by sewing rags together to make rag carpets and I am going to buy THE BROWNIES' BOOK, which I am very glad to hear of.



[illustration - Celebrating Baby Week at Tuskegee]




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
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,
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.




A Nursery Rhyme Dance

FORMATION-Single circle, facing for walking.
"HARK, hark"

Right hand at ear (listening), walking forward, right and left.
"The dogs do bark"

Hands at sides, four little scuffling steps forward: left, right, left, right.
"The beggars are coming to town"

Left hand over eyes (looking), three steps forward, trunk bending, and looking from side to side
"Some in rags, and some in tags"

Arms hanging relaxed at sides, four steps forward: right, left, right, left, with high knee bending.
"And some in velvet gowns"

Right arm extended forward, left backward, three stately walking steps forward: right, left, right, left.
"And some in velvet gowns"

Repeat, but much slower, and more stately.

  • 1. Touch right toe in front.
  • 2. Touch right toe in front.
  • 1. Change weight to left foot, and point right in front.
  • 2. Change weight to right foot, and point left in front.
  • 3. Change weight to left foot, and point right in front.
  • Repeat all, but start with touching left foot.
  • 1, 2, 3, Change step forward, starting with left foot.
  • 1, 2, 3, Change step forward, starting with right foot.
  • 1, 2, 3, Change step forward, starting with left foot.
  • 1, 2, 3, Change step forward, starting with right foot.
  • Repeat the whole dance.
    NOTE-Change step: step forward right, bring left to it, and step again right. This resembles the two-step, or is a catch-step.
[illustration - Music by Farwell ]

[illustration - Girls School Directed by Nuns, Addis-Ababa, Abyssinia] [illustration - Y. W. C. A. Girls in New York City ]


Crow is black and O so beautiful, shining with dark blues and purples, with little hints of gold in his mighty wings. He flies far above the Earth, looking downward with his sharp eyes.

What a lot of things he must see and hear and if he could only talk—and lo! THE BROWNIES' BOOK has made him talk for you.

"Ah!" says the Crow, as he sharpens his long, thin beak on his slender leg—"What a year—what a year that 1918 was—all blood and hurt and cries—I thought the world people were mad and would die away and leave the earth to us peaceful crows."

"That was the World War, and it cost 200 thousand million dollars and 8 million lives and 20 million wounded men," piped the Little Boy with the Big Voice.

"Yes," answered the Crow, "and then came THE YEAR OF THE GREAT PEACE, 1919.

"O me, O my," said the Little Voice with the Big Boy, "I hadn't heard of 1919."

"That's because it's so near,"

"Well, tell me quick before they stick it into my history and make me study it three times a week at 2:45 p.m. and examination Thursdays, with dates."

"I don't remember dates," said the Crow, "but here are the facts."

  • This year was two things: it was the year of the Great Peace and the 300th year since our black fathers settled in America. Perhaps the good God remembered both these things when he made this year.
  • The Armistice came November, a year ago, with the black troops nearing Metz, and the 367th colored regiment nearest the Rhine.
  • Then the Peace Conference met at Paris, in January, with white men and black men and yellow. There were the President-elect of Liberia, and the Minister from Haiti, and dark Arabs; there were Japanese and Chinese, and they remade the map of Europe.
  • Take your atlas: There is no German Empire—it is the Imperial German Republic; there is only a piece of Austria; there is a new Poland, Czecho-Slovakia, Hungary, and a new kingdom of Serbs and Jugo-slavs; a new Jewish state is planned in the ancient Holy Land, 'round about Jerusalem; and Italy and France are much larger.
  • Then, too, the Peace Conference formed a new League of Nations—a sort of union government of all the world; and having made the Treaty and made Germany sign it, the Treaty was sent out to the nations of the world for their assent. England, Italy, Belgium, and Japan have signed it.
  • China refused to sign the Peace Treaty because the Treaty gives to Japan certain rights to that part of China,—Shantung,—which Germany formerly held.
  • The United States has refused to sign the Treaty as yet because a majority of the Senate wish to change some parts of it, so as to limit the power of the League of Nations. It will probably be signed, with some changes, next year.
  • Always after a great war there is much unrest, suffering, and poverty. This is because war kills human beings, leaves widows and orphans, destroys vast amounts of wealth, and disorganizes industry. The war of 1914-1918 was the greatest of human wars, and we hope the last. It destroyed untold wealth and turned men from their usual work. The result is great unrest and dissatisfaction throughout the world. People are thinking, they are hungry, and everything costs more.
  • The "High Cost of Living" means that today most things cost twice as much as they did five years ago. This is because materials are
    scarcer, fewer goods have been made, other goods have been destroyed, and more people want what's left. In addition to this, the cost of war was met by promises to pay in the future, (Liberty Bonds, for instance, are promises to pay) and this has increased the amount of things that circulate as money, as compared with the goods which money buys. For all these reasons prices have risen, and the man who could live on $750 a year in 1914 can scarcely get along with $1,500 today.
  • There is unrest in Ireland because the Sinn Fein, (pronounced "Shin Fayn") representing most of the Irish, want Ireland to be an independent Republic, while others want it to be a part of England, with partial self-government, i.e., Home Rule.
  • India, with 315,000,000 brown people, is very poor and illiterate. The average earnings of an Indian is only $9.50 a year, and 93% of them cannot read and write. Large numbers of Indians want to be an independent country and not a part of the British Empire. The English are seeking to suppress this desire by harsh laws and some concessions.
  • Egypt, the oldest civilized country in the world, inhabited by mulattoes, has been declared a Protectorate of England since the war. Egypt does not like this, and many riots have taken place.
  • Russia, during the war, had a revolution by which she overthrew the Empire of the Czar and tried to establish a Republic; but the common people feared the leadership of the rich and powerful even in a Republic, and under Lenine and Trotsky they established a communism of the "Bolsheviki." This movement is an attempt to place all power, both in politics and industry, in the hands of the working class, and the experiment is being watched with fear and excitement by the whole world.
  • Parts of Russia and all of eastern Europe south of Poland, and on into the Balkans, are still in the midst of revolution. Thousands of Jews have been killed there.
  • Celebrations to welcome returning soldiers took place all over the United States. Among the first and most notable were the receptions tendered to two colored regiments, the 369th in New York City and the 370th in Chicago. One thousand colored officers took part in the war.
  • Many hundred strikes took place during the year; the most important were the harbor which stopped all ships from leaving New York; the printers' strike, which kept hundreds of magazines from appearing; the coal strike, which halted the industry of the nation; and the steel strike against the great steel corporation. All these strikes are efforts of workingmen united in unions to increase wages by refusing to work. They claim that in no other way can they make known their wants and sufferings.
  • Cotton, which in normal times sells at ten cents a pound or even less, has, on account of the war, gone up as high as forty cents a pound. This has brought much prosperity to the South.
  • Reconstruction is the effort to re-establish normal conditions in the world after the war. It has resulted in many efforts to better the conditions of people and to find out causes of complaint. An Anti-lynching conference has been held in New York City; a new Labor Party has been founded in Chicago; and in South Dakota effort has been made to run certain kinds of public business by the State, so as to avoid giving profits to private merchants.
  • For the first time an aeroplane crossed the Atlantic Ocean.
  • At the great commencement season last June, five colored students received the degree of Master of Arts; 379, of whom 60 came from the great northern colleges, received the degree of Bachelor of Arts; and 129 received professional degrees.
  • Many distinguished visitors have come to the United States since the war. Prominent among these was delegation from the Empress of Abyssinia who claims descent from the Queen of Sheba; Liberia sent her President-elect, the Honorable C. D. B. King, and his wife; the King of Belgium visited us with his Queen; also the young Prince of Wales, who will sometime be King of England. Cardinal Mercier, of Belgium, and the Spanish writer Ibanez have spent some time in America.
  • The President of the United States has been made seriously ill by his work at the Peace Conference and his effort since.
  • There have been many race riots and lynchings during the year. The chief riots were in Washington, Chicago, Omaha, Longview, Texas, and Phillips County, Arkansas.
  • Mexico is still striving against great odds to make herself a modern country, conducted for the benefit of her citizens instead of for the
    enriching of great corporations. Some people in the United States would like to have us intervene and help her, but we can scarcely help ourselves, and we ought to let Mexico alone.
  • Many persons of wide renown died during the year. Chief among them were Theodore Roosevelt and Andrew Carnegie, friends of the Negro race; George R. White, who was once a colored member of Congress; Madam C. J. Walker, a colored woman who amassed a large fortune by her preparations for the hair; and James Reese Europe, the colored musician.
  • Nor may we forget the thousand black boys dead for France.



We are going to reserve a very small bit of this magazine for Grown-ups. It must not, under any circumstances, encroach on the Children's property, but we want to be generous.

This magazine is published for Children, but no one understands the needs of children, or the problems that arise in their training, particularly in colored families, so well as their Parents.

We want, therefore, the constant co-operation of parents, telling us what we ought to do, and what we ought to publish, and what we ought not to publish, and just what their problems are, what they need for themselves and for their children.

We trust that parents will write us freely and continually and let us have the benefit of their wisdom.


I HAVE just read your article in the October Crisis, "True Brownies," and I wish to say that of all the great things which you have undertaken during the publication of The Crisis, I think this the greatest. The idea is wonderful, and it expresses a thought which I have long wanted some information on.

We have one darling little boy, who is nine years of age today. We spend our summers here, as my husband's work is here during the summer months. My boy was born here, and I am sorry to say that he simply hates the place. The entire population is white,—colored people come only in the capacity of servants.

The natives are mostly Irish, and the children call my boy "nigger" and other names which make life for him very unpleasant. He comes to us crying about it, and oh, the resentment I feel is terrible! He will fight the smaller boys, but, of course, the large boys he cannot fight. When we speak to their parents about it, they say that they are very sorry, and promise to stop their children from calling him names.

Now, the difficult problem for us is: What shall we tell him to do, and how best for him to answer them, and instill into him race love and race pride? .

He is the first and only colored child in Nahant, and since the Great War and the recent race riots, his color seems to be noticed and spoken of more by the white children.

One day he said to me: "Mother, the only way to fight these white people is to get an education and fight them with knowledge."

I shall await the TRUE BROWNIES number with great joy, as I believe it will be a great help to all of us. I pass The Crisis around among my white neighbors here, I want them to read it.

Enclosed please find $1.00 for one year's subscription to TRUE BROWNIES.

MRS. C. M. JOHNSON, Nahant, Mass.

FOR two years I have been a subscriber and a delighted reader of that very excellent journal The Crisis. I would not be without it. My children look forward to its arrival with almost as much eagerness as myself, My boy of nine years on seeing and reading the ace count of that great "Silent Parade" wished he had been in it.

I know the great efforts and sacrifices we make here and there will surely bring better days for our boys and girls.

MRS. HATTIE E. WORNBLE, Rockingham, N, C.

[illustration - Children in the "Silent Protest" Parade, New York City Underwood & Underwood ]



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!


Little People of the Month


MOST boys and girls are frightened when they get up to "speak a piece" at the Sunday School concert. But Eugene Mars Martin would not be, because he has been used to facing audiences ever since he was very tiny. When he was not quite four years old, he played on his little violin in the auditorium of the Grand Central Palace, in New York. Since then he has studied at Institute of Musical Art, in New York, and also under Edwin Coates for piano and Conrad C. Held for the violin. Last year he appeared in Aeolian Hall, one of the finest musical auditoriums in the country. That was his coming-out concert. Hasn't he had an interesting life in his fifteen years? And best of all, he is the champion pitcher on the Neighborhood Baseball Team!


WOULDN'T it be wonderful if every child who reads the BROWNIES' BOOK should have a record like that of Lucile Spence? She came from South Carolina to New York City, and has lived there eight years. When she graduated from the grammar school, out of a class of 150, she received the gold medal for the highest average in general excellence. But this was only the beginning of Lucile's career. She went to the Wadleigh High School and there in her second year, as a result of a fine composition, she became a member of the "Scribes," a literary club which usually receives only third and fourth year pupils. Lately she became a member of the Arista, a club whose members excel in scholarship and character, and also of a classical club, the Hellenes. Lucile wrote a number of short stories which were published in the Owl, the school magazine; then she wrote and helped produce the first play ever given in Wadleigh, which had a colored theme and was produced by colored students.

Throughout her whole high school life she held some class office and in her senior year was an officer of the General Organization, which governs Wadleigh. It is no wonder, then, that this girl on graduating last year received not only the John G. Wight Scholarship, for excellence in scholarship, character, and service to the school, but also the State Scholarship, which is awarded for highest standing in the Regent's examination.

Lucile is now in Hunter College, getting [illustration - Eugene Mars Martin] [illustration - Lucile Spence] [illustration - Roderic Smith]
[illustration - Lucy Beatrice Miller] ready to teach little readers of THE BROWNIES' BOOK.


IMAGINE going to school for thirteen years and never missing a single day! That is the record of Lucy Beatrice Miller when she graduated in 1918 from the Daytona, Fla., Normal and Industrial Institute for Negro Youth. Besides, she has been such a good girl that she helped keep the other pupils good and for this she received the O'Neil Medal in 1916. Then, because she has always stood so well in her studies and has behaved herself so nicely, she received the Bethune Medal in 1918.

How many of you will have a similar record when you graduate?


OF course, Roderic is proud of his pony. But if the pony only knew, he would be proud of Roderic. For Roderic, think of it—is only eleven years old; yet he has been selling newspapers for four years! Every week he sells fifty copies of the New York News, fifty of the Amsterdam News and twenty-five or thirty copies of the Chicago Defender. Sometimes he sells monthly magazines and in the summer he peddles refreshments.

He lived with his grandmother for a while and then he helped her with his earnings. Now he lives with his mother again, and this year he has bought his shoes and suit for school,—for of course he goes to school,—he is in Grade 6 B-1. During the month of September, this past year, he was one of nine boys whose names appeared on the Honor Roll. Every Thursday morning he is an early bird, reporting to the office of the New York News at five o'clock, where he puts inserts in the papers until eight. Then he goes home, gets his breakfast, cleans up, and gets to school on time.

Don't you think that the pony and New York City, where Roderic lives, and all of us ought to be proud of him?


THIS little girl, the only child of Abe M. and Amelia Long, left her parents forever August 15, 1919. She is not really dead, though,—she is still living

"In that great cloister's quiet and seclusion,
By guardian angels led."

[illustration - The Late Vivian Juanita Long]


After School

AT nine o'clock I always say,
"I wish there'd be no school today."
And while the rest are at their books,
I give the teacher horrid looks,—
And think, "The minute school is over,
I'll race and romp with Ted Moore's Rover."
No matter what the teacher's saying,
My mind is off somewhere else playing.
But don't you know when Home-time comes,
I think, "I'll stay and work my sums.
I'll do 'four times four' on the board,
Or write how much wood makes a cord."
And Billy Hughes is just like me,
He stays back just as regularly!
He's always hunting out strange places
Upon the globe, and then he traces
A map with towns and states and mountains,
And public parks with trees and fountains!
And this is what's so queer to me—
Bill just can't get geography
In school-time, and I'm awful dumb,
I cannot do one single sum.
But just let that old teacher go—
There's nothing Bill and me don't know!
[illustration - "Ted Moore's Rover"]



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.



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!

POLITENESS is to do and say
The kindest thing in the kindest way.


The Tale of a Kitten

LOUIE! Louie! little dear!
Louie! Louie! Don't you hear?
Don't hold the cat up by her tail;
Its strength might of a sudden fail.
Then, oh, what a pity!
You would have a little kitty,
Wandering all around forlorn,
Of her pride and beauty shorn,
And not knowing what to do,
But to sit alone and mew;
For like a ship without a sail,
Would be a cat without a tail.



RIGHT shoulder arms, my laddie,
Step like your soldier-daddy,
The world is yours for taking,
Life, what you will for making;
Dare boldly, be no slacker,
Black heroes are your backer,
And all your mother's dreaming
Awaits your full redeeming!
Right shoulder arms, my laddie,
Step like your soldier-daddy.


The Happy Quail

BOB WHITE! Bob White! sings the quail,
Happily as she sits upon a rail;
In the summer evening air,
She is thinking of her young ones fair.
She is thinking of the days of spring,
And slowly and merrily doth she sing;
Sings of the bright May days,
While Father Quail works and Baby Quail plays.
She flies from rail to rail all day,
Thinking of the bright days of May;
She teaches her children not to fight,
But teaches them White!



OF speckled eggs the birdie sings,
And nests among the trees;
The sailor sings of ropes and things,
In ships upon the seas.
The children sing in far Japan,
The children sing in Spain;
The organ with the organ man,
Is singing in the rain.



To Children, who with eager look
Scanned vainly library shelf and nook,
For History or Song or Story
That told of Colored Peoples' glory,-