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

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IT was a bleak November afternoon in New York City. To be more exact it was in Harlem. The snow was falling fast, and between the long row of high dwellings on 135th Street thousands of flakes were whirling, swirling about much the same as goose feathers would whirl if dumped from some high building into a rushing wind. The sun had long since hid his face, while the white fleecy clouds of the morning were fast changing into a cold, cold gray. It was too cold for the kiddies to go out. So in the high windows dozens of them could be seen watching the grown-ups hurrying along the street below. Occasionally some one tripped on the sidewalk. Then the youngsters could be seen tumbling back into their houses in an uproar of laughter.

Among these children was a little curly headed boy named Cless. But Cless had a different purpose from the other boys and girls. He was looking for the letter carrier. For every day Cless received some pretty post card from his father who was then working in a hotel at Palm Beach, Florida.

"What will it be today, and why doesn't the mail man come on?" thought Cless. Finally the postman turned into 135th Street and made his way to the entrance of the building in which the little boy lived. Cless ran down to meet him. The postman handed him a card. On one side was Cless' address, on the other a picture of a little colored boy riding a big crocodile. Cless was both disappointed and frightened.

"Oo-ee! what an ugly thing this is," he shouted as he turned and walked into the elevator.

"Let me see?" asked the elevator boy.

Cless handed him the card.

"Sure is ugly! And that's the thing that eats little colored boys. See all them rough bumps on his back? Well, they are the toes of little colored babies sticking up under his skin. That's Mister Crocodile," concluded the elevator boy. "He used to have a smooth back before he began to eat little colored babies, but now it's rough."

Little Cless was very much frightened, and as soon as the elevator reached his floor he dashed out and went running to his apartment crying: "Granny! Granny! oh Granny, look what daddy sent me today—a big ugly crocodile! And I hear he eats little colored babies. Granny, is it true? Is it true, Granny?"

"Why certainly not, Cless. Who in the world told Granny's little man such a story?"

"Elevator boy, Granny—elevator boy," answered little Cless between sobs. And a little later he stopped crying and told his grandmother the story just as the elevator boy had told him.

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"It's no such a thing, it's no such a thing," said Granny. "Why don't you know frogs were the real cause of crocodiles having rough backs?"

"How's that, Granny? Please tell me—tell me quick, Granny please," begged little Cless.

"All right, I'll tell you," promised Granny, "for I certainly don't want my little man scared to pieces with such ugly stories." Now little Cless felt relieved. He hopped into Granny's lap, huddled up close to her side and listened to her story of how the crocodile got his rough back.

"A long, long time ago," she said, "in Africa, down on the River Nile there lived a fierce old [illustration - "They formed a big circle around the sleeping crocodile."] crocodile. And this was the first crocodile in the world. Before him there was no others. Now this crocodile lived in a cluster of very thick brush, and, although there were many other animals in the swamp larger than he, he was king of them all. Every day some poor creature was seized and crushed to death between this cruel monster's jaws. He was especially fond of frogs and used to crush dozens of them to death every day. Now the frogs could hop faster than the crocodile could run and he never caught them in a fair race. But he always got the best of them by hiding in the mud until some poor frog came paddling along and then he would nab him and crush him to death between his big saw-teeth. Of course this was easy, for at that time Mister Crocodile had a smooth, black back, and it was so much like the mud that the frogs could never tell where he was.

"But one day a happy though struck Mister Bull Frog who was king of all the frogs in that swamp. He thought it would be a good idea to pile some lumps of mud on the crocodile's back, and then the frogs could always tell where he was. This plan was gladly accepted by all the frogs in the swamp. So the next time the crocodile crawled into the mud to take his winter nap. Mister Bull Frog and all the other frogs went to the place where the monster lay and daubed a thousand little piles of mud on his back. And when they had finished they could see him from almost any part of the swamp. Now they knew they were safe. How happy they were! They all joined hands, formed a big circle around the sleeping crocodile, and while Mister Bull Frog beat time on his knee the others shouted this jingle so hard that their little throats puffed out like a rubber ball:

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"They shouted this jingle over and over again. And the last time they sang it Mister Bull Frog got so happy he stopped beating time, jumped up in the air, cut a step or two, then joined in the chorus with his big heavy voice:

And when all the singing and dancing were over the little frogs went home.

"But Mister Bull Frog chose to stay and watch the crocodile. All winter long the crocodile lay in the mud. Nevertheless the Bull Frog kept close watch over him. Each day the lumps of much that the frog had stuck on his back were growing harder and harder.

"At last spring came. The sleepy creature awoke and immediately began to shake his back and flop his tail. But the more he did this the madder he became. Finally he was just whirling 'round and 'round in the mud, bitting himself on the tail and groaning, 'Honk! honk! honk!' But the lumps of mud had done their work. They were there to stay. And finding it of no use to wiggle he crawled out on the bank of the river and began to look for something to eat. Nothing could be found on the shore, however, so he slipped back into the muddy water to see if he could catch some frogs. In this he failed, for no longer could he hide himself. No matter how much his skin looked like the mud, the little frogs could always tell where he lay by his rough back.

"So ever since that day little frog have lived in perfect safety along the banks of the River Nile or any other place so far as crocodiles are concerned. And as for Mister Crocodile himself, he has gone on an don even down to this day with his rough scaly back. And this is how he got it Cless," ended Granny, "and not by eating little colored babies."

Little Cless had followed every word of Granny's with eager interest. Now he smiled a smile of relief, thanked her for the story, jumped from her lap and skipped out to join the happy group of little children who were still peeping into the street from their windows. Here Cless showed his crocodile to as many children as were close enough to see it. And to those who were nearest he told the story over and over again of how the crocodile got his rough back.

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A CRISS-CROSS THANKSGIVING

"NOW for that, just for that! you don't get nothin;!" exclaimed Paquito in a voice trembling with anger and indignation. Without another word he went into his house and slammed the door. For a few moments he walked up and down the floor of his mother's front parlor (in the manner his father did when he was mentally disturbed), cautiously pausing once or twice in his "frenzy" to peek out of the window to see what effect his departure had on his playmates on the curb. He saw the little group did not seem to be the least disturbed by his absence so he seated himself on the big divan over in the corner and tried to console himself by agreeing with a bit of Ikey's philosopy.

Ikey was right. Girls couldn't keep a thing—all of them talked too much. They had to tell everything they knew, and from that moment on he was going to follow Ikey's advice and leave all of them alone.

"What if I did promise Mildred I'd give 'er a wrist watch for her birthday—supposin' I did say I'd give 'er a diamond engagement ring when she was eighteen, what of it? She didn't have to go and tell everybody in the whole world, did she? A fellow doesn't want everybody in the whole world to know all his private business, does he!" muttered the indignant Paquito to himself.

"Is that you, Paquito? Open the door and let Mrs. Williams out," came his mother's voice from the back parlor. She paused in her sewing to lean forward to make sure it was her ten-year-old son whom she heard.

"I can let myself out," said Mrs. Williams starting toward the door. "I don't see how you are going to finish that dress and get it back from the cleaner's in time—Thanksgiving is only two weeks off, you know."

"It will be a rush," admitted Paquito's mother. "I don't believe it pays any one to make a trip South for three days, but I do so want Paquito to know what a Thanksgiving in the country is like."

"It will be splendid for both of you, even for that short time, to see Hattie and talk over old times. It is so nice that Paquito is going to know Hattie's little Rose. She is a dear little girl." Then turning to Paquito she said: "You are going to have what I call a real Thanksgiving this year—the kind I loved when I was a child and I know you are going to enjoy every minute of it. When you return you must come over to my house and tell me all about it."

"Yes'm," he answered and shut the door.

Seated once again on the divan Paquito was now lost in glittering anticipation of the proposed visit South. His mother had tried to tell him what it was going to be like and he in turn had described to Ikey just how the two steaming-brown turkeys would look (there had to be two or maybe three, he explained, for all the grandfathers, grandmothers, aunts and cousins would be there) surrounded by glistening, crimson jellies. His mother had told him there would surely be a whole roasted pig and rows and rows of pumpkin, mince and lots of other kinds of pies. He had aroused great enthusiasm in Ikey when he described the hunt for chestnuts (he would bring back about a bushel for the two of them) and the roasting of them before the roaring open log fire that night. It was too bad Ikey couldn't go with him. Ikey was a little Jewish fellow and Paquito's "closest buddy" at school.

Just as it had been planned, two weeks later
brownies.192011.009.jpg [illustration - "Had Convulsions!"] found Paquito and his mother at the suburban home of Mrs. Pressley. Paquito with his hands stuck in his pockets was walking around the yard leisurely taking in his surroundings. He had met Rose and was very much impressed. He didn't know it, but in his mind he was comparing her soft curling dark ringlets with Mildred's straight yellow braids and was wishing she would come out into the yard. Just then she appeared in the doorway. It seemed as though it was in answer to his wish.

"Mother says you might like to see my rabbits. I had three, but one ran up in an old stovepipe and hurt himself so bad the other day that Daddy had to kill him," she explained sadly.

Paquito's black eyes brightened at the thought of seeing the rabbits.

"I ca-can't remember your name and my mother told me five times what it was before you came—but I forget," Rose went on shyly.

"That's nothing," Paquito spoke up, "lots of people forget it. Paquito isn't my name anyway; my name is Frank. Because my mother went to South America and I was born there everybody calls me Paquito. Everybody in South America speaks Spanish—Paquito is Spanish for Frank, you know."

Rose didn't know, but she showed she was willing to take his word for it.

"Pa-qui-to," repeated Rose several times. "I'm going to try and remember it." She took his hand and they started across the yard in the direction of the garage.

"You see that apple tree there," Rose pointed out. "That's old man Bennett's apple tree. He lives in that big old house there all by himself. Whatever you do, don't you pull any of his apples. He told me he had counted everyone of 'em." Then almost in a whisper she confided: "Last year he got so awfully mad when some boys down the street robbed the tree, he had con-con, something my mother says he had, and almost died."

"Convulsions, I guess. Had convulsions over a few old apples!" muttered Paquito in disgust.

They had reached the garage and it was all they could do to open the heavy door that would let them into the shed. A few moments later the children were surprised to look up and find Mrs. Pressley standing in the door-way.

"I called to you, Rose, but I couldn't make you hear. You must come now; it is almost time for us to start. Your cousins, Mollie, Bobby and Harold, all went out early this morning," she said. It was out at Mrs. Pressley's father's farm that the Thanksgiving gathering was to be held. She and her little daughter had waited for Paquito and his mother to arrive from New York before motoring out.

They were nearly back to the house when Mrs. Pressley gave a low exclamation which caused them all to stop. She stooped and picked up from the ground a large red apple which was bitten.

"Rose, have you pulled one of old man Bennett's apples after all I've said to you?" she asked, her expression very severe.

Rose look frightened.

"No, mother, I did not," she answered.

"Paquito, you don't know—maybe you—?"

"Nope, I didn't," interrupted Paquito with a shake of his head. Going on to his mother's room, Paquito attempted to whistle one of New York's popular airs, to appear calm, for at the present time his heart was fluttering violently with a new love. He burst into the room.

"Oh, mother, isn't she a corker! Isn't she a peach of a girl! She's the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he exclaimed with admiration.

"Rose, you mean; she is rather a nice little girl," agree his mother. "But to my mind she would suggest a soft velvety rose rather than a 'corker' or a—"

"That's it!" interrupted Paquito, his eyes beaming. "Don't you remember, mother, you read me a nice story once about little girls who had faces like flowers? Here's a little girl whose face is just like a flower and her name is the very flower she is like." Paquito laughed, delighted at his discovery.

Rose followed her mother into another room, in silence. All the while she was getting dressed
brownies.192011.010.jpg she expected her mother to say something more about the apple, and, although she did not mention the incident again at present, Rose knew it would come later. She knew her mother knew there were only two people responsible for the apple's being on the ground. Paquito had said he did not pull the apple, and because Rose felt that her mother believed him, a feeling of indignation and rage came up in her heart against the little boy who had come from New York to spend Thanksgiving with her and her cousins at her grandfather's farm in the country. Why did he have to say he had not pulled the apple? He could have admitted it and her mother would not have said any more about it. He didn't know old man Bennett was so cranky about his apples. Anyway he wasn't her mother's child and she and not right to scold him she reasoned in her mind. It was only the honk-honk of a horn which told them that the car was ready and at the door that saved Rose from bursting into angry tears.

It was long after dark when they reached the Corbin's farm and after Paquito met all the cousins and older folks he and his mother were shown to their room, for they had journeyed five times as far as any of the others and both were very tired.

Although there was a heavy frost the night before, the sun was out full and warm on Thanksgiving Day, which allowed the children the pleasure of playing their games in the yard. From the first game on through the morning, until the dinner bell rang, Paquito realized that he was being deliberately "snubbed" by Rose! He was quite surprised at first at her changed attitude and made several attempts to find out he cause, but she gave him no opportunity. She would toss her curly head, look at him with scorn and pass him by to join the group of children on the other side of the yard.

When all the children's hands and faces were washed, all the grown-ups were seated around the large table in the center. There was much noise and confusion as the children began to find seats around the small table which was arranged at the side for them. Then the usual suggestion came from Mollie, "some one be 'mamma,' and 'papa','" that is, some one was to sit at the head of the table as the "papa" and some one at the foot as the "mamma." Then they would carry on such conversations as they thought was becoming to older people. Rose was chosen "mamma" and, of course, everyone thought Paquito should have the honored seat at the head of the table, being Rose's particular guest.

"If Paquito is going to be the 'papa' I shall not be the 'mamma,'" she decided with emphasis.

"Jack will be the 'papa' then," was the immediate suggestion from Dan.

During the discussion Paquito managed to slide into a seat nearest to where he was standing; at the same time everything began to look blurred to him. He could only dimly make out his plate in front of him. When he began to eat he could not distinguish whether he was eating turkey or pork. He didn't care. Everything was tasteless and dry and choked him. He gulped his glass of water and asked for more. He twisted and squirmed while his throat and eye both burned. Thus was Paquito enjoying that Thanksgiving dinner of which he had had such happy anticipations. While the dessert was being served, Paquito's mother turned and smiled at him, and then Paquito decided he couldn't stand his present torture any longer. Just as Mrs. Pressley went out to get the other desserts, Paquito slipped through the swinging doors behind her, out of the side door of the kitchen into the broad field. The crisp autumn air seemed to give him great relief.

In passing the kitchen window Mrs. Pressley noticed "Dimples," one of the cows that belonged on the farm, making for the open gate of the turnip patch. She stopped as she passed the children's table and whispered to Dan to go and close the gate. Then turning to Rose she said:

"I think you had better go; you understand that new fastening on the gate better than Dan."

Rose, whose discomforture, although a little less visible than Paquito's, was somewhat similar to his, was glad for the opportunity to leave the table. Like a streak she darted through the door.

Paquito, on the other side of the field, looked up from his occupation of trying to kick up every stubble he saw and recognized the shell pink sweater worn by Rose. She was trying to persuade the brown and white cow to turn back in her course, having already fastened the gate of the turnip garden. At this picture all of Paquito's previous pain vanished instantly
brownies.192011.011.jpg as his imagination mind quickly transformed Rose into a beautiful lady in distress, and the gentle brown and white "Dimples" into a ferocious dragon ready to spring upon her. He was an armored knight upon a spirited, prancing steed and was dashing forth to her rescue. A thought flashed through his mind: Now was a time to find out the cause of her unkind treatment toward him. With his courage at its height, stimulated by the mental picture he had just formed in his mind, he dashed across the field at breakneck speed. Jumping the gulley, running through the field, he was quite near Rose. She turned and faced him.

"I'm gonna make you tell me why you're treating me the way you are," declared Paquito boldly, "What did I do to you, Rose?" he asked almost humbly.

"You know what you did!"

"I don't, I've tried to figure out," Paquito was almost smiling.

"You know you pulled that apple and then you said you didn't!" Rose flashed with scorn.

"But I didn't," exclaimed Paquito, startled.

Then Rose used both hands to push him backwards into the small ditch.

"You're a bad boy; don't you ever speak to me again," she cried. "You break the Ten Commandments and you are not goin' to heaven either." He heard her voice in the distance as she fled toward the house.

Paquito was no longer a knight, nor was he brave. He scrambled up from the soft, wet clay a very mussed and angry little boy. He couldn't remember any apple he had pulled and he was going straight to his mother and ask her to take him back to New York. He was tired of the scornful treatment he was receiving and he was not going to stand it any longer. He never wanted to come South again as long as he lived.

Mrs. Pressley smiled and nodded wisely to Paquito's mother as she bade her guests goodbye and the automobile carried them to the station to get the train back to New York. Then she went into the house to look for Rose. She found her standing by the front window, trying to remember in all her eight years when she had spent such a miserable Thanksgiving Day.

"Rose, come here," commanded her mother gently. "I want you to tell me all you know about the apple which I found on the ground yesterday."

"I didn't pull that apple—really, mother, I didn't! You believe me—honest, mother, I didn't pu-ll it," Rose began to protest frantically.

"Then we've got to find out who did pull it," decided Mrs. Pressley firmly. "The apple was pulled, bitten and thrown down. I hate to doubt my little girl's word, but didn't I see her on the fence right under the bough of that apple tree the day before?"

An expression of strange alarm overspread Rose's face as her mother reminded her of being upon the fence. The truth of it was Rose had climbed upon the fence and bitten the apple, but she did not pull it. Perhaps she had weakened the stem when she bit it on the tree and it fell off, her young mind reasoned at this moment. At this thought Rose felt very weak and sick at the stomach. Finding she could not bear it alone any longer she flung herself into her mother's arms and between tears of humiliation and grief she poured out her whole story and her suspicion of Paquito.

The apples on old man Bennett's tree were so much larger than the ones her grandfather usually brought in to her on Saturday that she wanted so bad to see what one tasted like. She didn't want to disobey her mother and pull one, so she had decided upon climbing the fence and tasting one without pulling it. She had bitten the apple and left it on the tree, but had found that it was not what she thought it was. It was very sour and not at all sweet and mellow like the ones her grandfather brought to her. She had never thought before this minute that the stem of the apple she had bitten might have been weakened and broken off. Then she told how she had thought Paquito had pulled the apple and that he had told an untruth when
brownies.192011.012.jpg questioned, causing her mother doubt her. At this point Rose's grief got beyond control and she sobbed as if her heart would break because she had wrongly accused Paquito and treated him in such an unfriendly manner.

"Never mind, Rose," consoled her mother, "we'll make it all right. I'll tell you what we will do. We'll ship Paquito a whole crate of apples for him to take to school all next month. We we'll gather them tomorrow morning and ship them at once so that they will get there almost as soon as he does. He will be so surprised to receive them from you and I'll bet he will be very happy, too," said Mrs. Pressley, taking her little daughter's tear-stained face between her palms and kissing her tears away.

That night when all the children at the Virginia farm house were enumerating the things in their prayers for which they had to be thankful this Thanksgiving, Rose gave thanks that she had a grandfather who had plenty of nice red applies for her to ship to one, Paquito, way off in New York City, to make amends for her unjust suspicion of him while he was paying her a visit.

In New York, "one, Paquito," was sitting on the stone steps of his home telling Mildred of his trip South. He described to her all the different kinds of games they played and how Rose chose him every time, and the wonderful dinner at which Rose sat at one end of the table (arranged especially for the children) as the "mamma" and he sat at the head as the "papa."

"What did you do Thanksgiving Day?" asked Paquito.

"Me? Mother didn't cook any Thanksgiving dinner—Billy didn't come home and sister went to Washington to the Lincoln-Howard game, so mother and I went to a restaurant and got some dinner, then we went to the movies. I didn't have the grand Thanksgiving you had, Paquito, and I missed you while you were gone," she added frankly.

"Well, I'll say you didn't have much of a Thanksgiving, did you? Come into the kitchen and I'll give you something real nice," he led the way. "Rose sent me this whole crate of apples," he said, assuming a casual air. He took three apples from the crate and held them out to her. "You know, Mildred, Rose and I are going to be married very soon—as soon as I quit school and get a good job and start to work."

Mildred narrowed her steel, gray eyes and shut her thin lips into one straight line and looked at Paquito for a moment, then she spoke:

"Paquito Chambers, you ain't goin' to marry nobody ever!"

"What do you mean, what do you mean, I ain't going to marry nobody ever?" he demanded.

Mildred smiled.

"You are the type of fellow that never does."

It was the smile that irritated Paquito more than words. Back went the apples into the crate; down went the top of the crate, and down upon it went Paquito.

"Now for that, just for that, you don't get nothin'!" he cried angrily.

Mildred's smile broadened. Then she whirled around, went out and slammed the door behind her. At last she had used the favorite expression of her older sister which she had stored away in her brain, and used it to the utmost satisfaction of her little soul.

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TURKEY DRUMSTICKS

FOUR of Mother's school-chums and three of Father's wrote that they were coming to take Thanksgiving Dinner. And all of them, all of them were bringing their families!

"Who ever heard tell of such a thing?" said Mother aghast. "Why we've been asking them for years and they've never accepted before—not one—there'll be hundreds of them."

"Millions more likely," muttered Father gloomily, "some of them have lots of children. The Atwells have seven—"

"And they'll never get along with ours! Well you children will have to go over to Grandma Kingsley's this Thanksgiving. I'm not going to have those Atwell terrors putting wrong ideas into your heads. Heavens, suppose Grandma has invited company, too!"

But she hadn't, and when Mother had told her of the difficulty, she laughed right out, in that nice loud way she has and said, "Yes, indeed, I'll be only too glad to take them off your hands." So that was how we came to go to Grandma Kingsley's for Thanksgiving.

Her house is well over on the other side of town. There are seven of us (like the Atwells) and each of us likes to choose his own path, Billy always going up short side streets, while Oliver rides right straight up and then across town instead of taking the car on the avenue which runs diagonally. So Grandfather to wave trouble drove down in his big seven passenger and we all piled in with such shrieks of joy that we forgot to bid good-bye to poor Mother standing worried at the door, trying at the same time to wave to us and read a telegram. It was from Mrs. Atwell who wanted to know if she might bring Peter and Paul along too.

"Heavens!" Mother was saying as we drove away, "I don't know whether those are grownup men or canaries." They turned out to be puppies, but Mother never found that out till she had set up two extra cots in the living-room.

Such fun as we had in that auto! Billy sat up in front, occasionally pulling a lever or pushing things or signalling to passing cars—Grandfather always lets Billy do just as he pleases and so does Grandmother. None of us can see why. Grandpa says it's because Billy looks like him but how can that be, for Grandfather is tall and very wide, with funny short whiskers, trimmed perfectly square at the corners, and white hair and a seal ring. While Bill, though tall for his age I guess, is very thin, just bones, with black, thick, curling hair and with no whiskers or jewelry whatever.

"I don't know where Granddad get this stuff of me lookin' like him," Billy tells me confidentially, "for I can't see it myself, nor don't want to. But he can believe it as long as he keeps on treating me right."

Well we got to Grandma's without any accident except that our Cordelia nearly made Grandpa lose control of the car by letting out an awful yell.

"I'm sure I felt a mouse," she screamed. "There, there it is under Becky's rug! See it move!" Sure enough something was moving under the rug which was spread loosely across Becky the Baby's lap. Jarvis snatched away the rug and there was our new grey kitten which Becky, unable to endure a night's separation from, had brought along with her.

That was the night before Thanksgiving and Grandmother sent us right up to bed. She isn't a bit like Mother; you'd never think they were mother and daughter—Grandma's so trusting like. So she never came up to investigate. We had the most wonderful time! The seven of us were in three communicating rooms. Billie and Oliver in the far room, Steve and Jarvis in the middle and we three girls in the big four poster in the next.

Becky went to sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. But the rest of us had a pillow fight. Each couple did very well and then suddenly Billy, after whispering to Oliver, gave me a wink, and the two of them and Cordelia and I rushed on Steve and Jarvis and nearly smothered them. They're twins and are always bragging about "United we fear nobody!"

The pillow cases were awful next morning. "Gracious!" cried Grandma. "Don't you children ever wash your heads? I ought to speak to your Mother about it!"

"But you won't, you darling brick," said Billy boldly and reached up and kissed her. So, of course, she didn't.

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GRANDPA did the queerest things before dinner. He beckoned to Billy and the two of them went off and whispered and finally Billy disappeared. When he came back he looked too funny. He was wearing a pair of tight long trousers—Billy who is only 10!—and a dark shirt of some funny stuff, and a little jacket, cut high, like the boys wear at Eton College in England. He winked at us brazenly and showed us a brand new silver dollar. We rushed on him at that, but he broke away from us and disappeared. We didn't follow because just then Grandfather said something in a low tone to Oliver and we crowded about him trying to make out what had been said. But he kept his secret.

In the midst of all the clamor Grandmother came and ushered us into the dining-room. How we failed to notice Billy's absence I don't know. Perhaps the sight of the table made us forget, for oh, how good it looked! In front of Grandfather's place was a platter bearing a young roast pig. He looked so pathetically lovely, if you understand what I mean. It must be sad to die so young! And at Grandma's place was a huge, brown turkey, already carved and yet with the pieces so well fitted together that he looked absolutely whole. And down the sides of the table were all sort of vegetables, and jellies, cranberry and quince, an oyster pie and a baked Virginia ham.

How glad we all were that Father's and Mother's company had come!

"Too many places here," said Grandfather, and hastily moved away a chair—Billy's—but we were too excited to notice. "Now then," when we had all clattered into our seats, "which will you have first, Oliver"—he is the oldest—"roast turkey or roast pig?"

"Turkey," said Oliver promptly, "and I'd like the drumstick, Grandma—both of 'em would suit me."

"Well," said Grandma gaily, "we'll start you off with one and see how you manage that. Why—where ever are this turkey's drumsticks? They were here; I arranged them on the plate myself just a moment ago!"

We all stared bewildered, but Stephen and Jarvis were little glad, too, for all of us like drumsticks and they knew that Oliver and I being the two oldest would get first choice. Those two boys are so mean they'd rather a turkey should have no legs at all than see me and Oliver get them.

Then I got the surprise of my life.

"Rosemary," said Grandfather looking at me sternly, "Rosemary, are you sure you don't know where those drumsticks are?"

"Why, Grandpa," I stammered ready to burst into tears, but I held them back for I wouldn't have Cordelia see me cry for anything. "Why, Grandpa, you know I—"

Just then the door of the closet, which is in the dining-room, burst open and out walked—our Billy —in that same awful get-up and with the two drumsticks, one in each hand. He walked right up to Grandpa. "Sir," he said in funny grown-up way, "I cannot have you blame this little girl; she did take the drumsticks, it is true, but she took them to give to me, because I was starving." He pointed one drumstick at me and the other at the bosom of his shirt.

Grandma sat as though turned to stone for a moment, then she blushed real red and jumped up and threw her arms about Grandpa. "Oh, Jarvis!" she kept saying over and over. "Oh, Billy!" and kissed and hugged them both.

This might seem a very strange way indeed for grandparents to act, but my Grandmother is not all old. She is only fifteen years older than my Mother and my Mother is only nineteen years old than Oliver, and Oliver is fourteen.

But even though Grandma was young enough to act the way, we were all amazed that she should do it—all but me, that is. I was so furious at Billy's charge that I couldn't see straight.

"You mean pig!" I said to him. "You wait till we get home. I'll tell Mother. And you give me back my roller-skates right this minute. I'll never, never let you have them again!"

But Billy only smiled sweetly. "Oh, come," said Grandpa, "it's all a joke. Grandma will explain it to you. Let's get on with dinner. Look, the baby has eaten nearly all the cranberry sauce."

brownies.192011.026.jpg

And so she had, at least nearly all that was near her. She was trying to feed the rest to the grey kitten which she had managed to sneak to the table, but the kitten, I am glad to say, had the sense to refuse it.

"Tell us what it's all about Grandma," urged Steve and Jarvis.

"Not till after dinner's through," urged Billy, "because I want to eat. And If I do that I can't listen to the story. You see I like to pay a lot of attention to eating."

Of course Grandma did what he asked; she certainly does spoil him. You should have seen her beam on him as she said, "That's right, dear. All that you do, do with your might." So he sat there and ate one drumstick and Jarvis and Steve the other, for neither Oliver or I would have them after he had carried them around and wiped them against that shirt.

We had a lovely dinner and lots of fun. Billy tried to tease me about the drumsticks, but I managed to keep cool for I was sorry Cordelia had seen me as excited as I was. Grandpa and Grandma let us have everything positively that we wanted, but there wasn't one of us that wasn't glad when dinner was over and the story was about to begin.

IT is very nice in Grandma Kingsley's sitting-room. It is a long room with lots of windows and a fire-place. The floor is slippery and the rugs are dark and soft. There are lots of books with red and blue and green covers, and the firelight shines on them and makes them look beautiful. It is a room to make you feel heavenly. Outside a few, slow snow-flakes were falling in a bitter wind. It seemed wonderful that only glass and bricks separated us from the grey, sharp November weather.

Grandma look at Grandpa. "Doesn't it take you back?" she asked him.

"It was in just such weather as this," she began then, "when I was a little younger than Rosemary. I was sitting in my little bed-room in the back of my Father's house in German-town, Philadelphia. I hadn't darned my stockings that week, and my Mother, to punish me, had sent me to my room for the afternoon to darn them. I'm afraid I was a stubborn little girl and stood looking sullenly out the window when I saw a boy crossing our backyard. Something seemed strange about him; he looked as though he were trying to avoid attention. I thought he was going to rob the hen-coop and I threw up my window noisily so as to attract his notice, thinking that would scare him away.

"Imagine my surprise then when he looked up to me and met my gaze with a straight, long stare. In another moment he had clambered up on the top of the back porch which ran across the rear wall of my room, but stopped just at my window.

"I don't know why I didn't go away or scream, for he could easily have jumped into the room. We stared at each other a while—I can see him now with his thin, keen face. 'What do you want?" I whispered.

"'Something to eat, anything,' he told me. 'Oh, little girl, can't you get me something? I've run away.'

"My mother had sent me a tray with some bread and butter on it, a glass of milk and some stewed prunes, which I hated. I hadn't touched any of the things, I was so angry. Now I was glad I hadn't. Silently I handed the various articles to the boy. I hope I'll never see anybody as hungry as that again.

"When he had finished he told me his story. His Mother had died when he was a little fellow and he had gone to live with her sister. She had been very kind to him but her husband had always disliked him. His aunt had died, too, about a year before and he had kept on living with the uncle who had grown steadily more cruel. 'Day before yesterday he beat me with a strap with a buckle on it; my back and arms are all cut; I could hardly move when he got through with me. But that night I crept out and ran away. I'll die before I'll go back to him,' he ended fiercely.

"And then all of a sudden, without any warning, he burst out crying. It seemed to me my heart would break. I was only a little girl and there was not much I could do. He was hungry and cold and sore. I don't know why I didn't tell my Mother. 'Don't cry,' I begged him, then I tiptoed to my door. No, everyone was busy down stairs. I crept into the bathroom and brought him arnica for his poor body. I went in the chest in my mother's room and got out a great fleecy blanket.

"'Take these.' I thrust the bottle and the blanket into his hands. 'Now go all the way down the yard. There's an old woodshed down there where I play in the summer time. Wrap yourself up in this and get a good sleep and just as soon as morning comes, climb up here
brownies.192011.027.jpg again, and you'll find a package for you.'

"He scurried off and I sat down and darned my stockings, trying to imagine what it would mean to live with a person who hit you with a buckled strap. I had never known anything worse than being shut up in my room for a few hours and being made to eat stewed prunes. That night when everybody was asleep I stole down stairs and got a loaf of bread, a large piece of butter and a half jar of brandied peaches. I wrapped them all in my red petticoat and put them on the roof.

"Very early in the morning I heard a noise and knew that my boy had found his breakfast.

"We kept this up for five days. On the third day my Mother became suspicious. 'I can't think who has been taking my bread,' she complained. 'I've missed two loaves in three days and this morning two herrings had vanished from the ice-chest. I know it's not Rosemary, yet I don't think it can be rats. Isn't it strange?"

"My Father had looked up when Mother mentioned my name, and I'm sure I turned red. But he said nothing and neither did I.

"Things kept disappearing and my Mother became nearly frantic. After the first time I must have looked fairly innocent, and evidently my Father forgot his suspicion, for he neither looked at me or questioned me.

"The day before Thanksgiving I managed to run down into the yard and visit 'my boy,' as I had begun to call him. He did not look very well, even I could see that. Evidently the extremely varied diet I had been bringing him did not suit him. Small wonder, for sometimes his meal would consist entirely of brandied peaches and another time of salt herring. I had to take what I hoped—though always vainly—would not be missed. But what he complained of chiefly was the cold.

"'If I could only get warm once,' he chattered.

"Right then and there I hit upon a plan. If I could only contrive to stay home from church Thanksgiving morning! My Mother knew I loved it. If I could just be naughty enough! Going back to the house I plotted and after dinner I did the unpardonable thing, I set fire to the fringe of the cover on the table in the 'front room,' as we used to call the parlor. My Mother came running. She was a tall woman, very brown with red showing on her high cheekbones.

"'Rosemary! Rosemary!' she screamed. And after she had put the fire out, 'I can't think what's got into you. Now just for that you'll stay in this house by yourself to-morrow, Miss, while the rest of us go to church.'

"But I didn't stay in the house by myself. I don't suppose my Father and Mother and Miss Emmeline Grant —'Aunt Em,' we used to call her—had hardly turned the corner before I had 'my boy' in the house. I sat him down in a wooden arm-chair before the big Franklin stove in the dining-room, and bought him hot water and soap and a brush and comb.

"'Oh,' he sighed finally, 'I feel good. I could hug this stove. Your folks be gone long?"

"'For hours and hours,' I assured him.

"As a matter of fact they were gone only two. Before we dreamed of it, I heard my Father's step in the hall. 'Quick, quick!' I cried, and pushed the boy into an old wardrobe which stood in the dining room. 'I'll let you out as soon as I can. Don't make a sound!'

"In a jiffy I had the basin and things in the kitchen, and was poring over a 'Chatterbox' before my Mother came in.

"'Gracious!' she said, 'it's hot in here! Your face is red as fire. Come now and we'll get the dinner on the table.'

"Everything had been prepared the day before and it was merely a question of warming things up and getting them to the dining-room. I trotted back and forth, my heart aching for my poor friend. I hated to eat without being able to include him.

"'I guess I'll carve the turkey out here,' mused my Mother. 'There! Do you think you can carry it in?'

"'Yessum,' I said. That was just the thing! He should eat, too, while we were. In a final panic a recklessness, I snatched up both drumsticks, rushed over to the wardrobe and thrust them in on the half-suffocated boy.

"'Here's something for you, too,' I whispered.

"We sat down at the table, my Father and Mother, Aunt Em and I.

"'No need asking you two what you want,' said my Father jovially. 'Mother, you want a drumstick and Miss Emmeline you want a wing and the gizzard.' I felt my head reel.

"'Why, hullo!' said my Father, 'hasn't this bird any legs?'

"'Of course it has,' said my Mother. 'I just fixed them on the platter a minute ago. You saw them. didn't you. Rosemary?"

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"'Yessum,' I muttered.

"'Well, they're not here now,' said my Father and then looking at me sternly he asked, 'Rosemary, are you sure you know nothing about those drumsticks?'

"'Why, Father,' I stammered, wondering what on earth I should say for I had never told my parents a falsehood and I was afraid to tell the truth. 'Father, you know—'

"And just then the wardrobe opened and out walked my blessed boy. He pointed me with one drumstick and with the other he pointed to the bosom of his wretched shirt.

"'You must not blame this little girl,' he said to my Father, speaking up like a man. 'She did take these drumsticks, it is true, but she took them to give to me because I was starving.'

"My Father stared down at him. He was a tall man, very dark, almost black, with thin fine features, an d when he got excited he used to pant and spread his nostrils like a race-horse.

"'Where in the name of heaven did you come from?' he cried.

"'Oh, Father, don't scold him,' I begged. 'The man beat him and he was cold and hungry so I brought him in.'"

Grandmother stopped and looked at Grandfather who sat silent, smiling.

"WHAT became of him?" asked Stephen.

"My Father hunted up his uncle and told him he didn't know how to treat a brave boy, and that he was going to adopt him. My Father was a caterer and he took his new charge right into the business."

"Is it a true story?" asked Jarvis, suspiciously. "What was the boy's name?"

Grandfather broke in just then. "Don't you want to see his picture? Here it is," and he held out a photograph. All of us except Billy crowded around it with an interest which changed to amazement.

"Why it's Billy!" said Oliver astounded.

"Yes." Jarvis chimed in. "How'd he get his picture taken so soon with those clothes on?"

"It is Billy!" said Stephen.

"No," laughed Grandpa, "it's me."

"But you've got whiskers," Cordelia said stupidly.

But it was he, our fine, handsome Grandfather.

"Billy looks exactly as I looked then and now you can see why your Grandmother and I are so fond of him."

But Billy gave a lordly wave of his hand. "Oh it's all old stuff to me," he said loftily. "I saw it and knew all about it ages ago."

It made me so provoked to think he had kept it a secret all this time, when we might have made a game of it and played it rainy afternoons in the garret.

I walked right up to Grandpa.

"Grandfather Kingsley," I said, "what's my name?"

"Why, Rosemary Forest," he replied in some surprise.

"And who is it i"m named for?

"Your blessed Grandmother," he said, promptly.

"And whom do I look like?"

He hesitated, "Like, like—why God bless my soul—you do look like your Grandmother! Why you are the very image of her that Thanksgiving day, with your red cheeks and your black eyes and hair."

"Well," said I, "I should think you would stop admiring Billy just because he looks like you, and leave him to Grandma; I should think you'd admire the person who looks like the little girl who helped you long years ago."

"Well," said Grandfather, "I don't know but what you're right." And he took me up in his arms. I was sorry for that, for I don't like Cordelia to see me treated like a baby.

But anyway he gave me a new silver dollar.

brownies.192011.033.jpg

DOLLY'S DREAM

OF course Dolly Gray's real name was Dorothy, but from the moment she opened her big, bright eyes, her deep, deep, brown eyes, she had been called Dolly.

She lived with her dear mother and father in a pretty, white cottage with a porch and a small garden in which grew the loveliest flowers in the world, so Dolly thought. Dolly loved to sit on the porch with her dolls and make up stories about these flowers—and such dear, funny stories they were, for you must remember Dolly was just six years old.

One warm summer afternoon after dear mother had bathed and dressed her, Dolly went out and sat on her big, soft cushion on the porch. She had her dolls with her as usual, the whole family, Louise, Helen, Violet and Baby. She had put all to sleep except Violet, who had long golden curls and was Dolly's favorite.

Now I am going to tell you a secret, not even dear mother knew this—Dolly wished oh so much for long, golden curls just like Violet's. I am sure if she could have known how lovely she was with her soft "cwinkley" (Dolly could not say crinkly) black ringlets around her little, dimpled face of rosy tan, she would not have wished for long golden curls. But she did wish for them and she finally fell asleep still wishing.

Then a most wonderful thing happened. Dolly felt a gentle touch on her shoulder and looking up she saw a tall, beautiful lady, clad in the most wonderful dress Dolly had ever seen.

"Oh," cried Dolly, "are you my Fairy Godmother?"

"Yes, dear," replied this gorgeous one, "I am your Fairy Godmother and you may have anything you wish. Now think! What do you wish for most?"

"Long, golden curls," Dolly almost shouted, she was so delighted.

Her Fairy Godmother smiled and said, "Very well, Dolly," while she gently touched her head with her magic wand, and then disappeared. Immediately long golden curls fell around Dolly's shoulders. But another change had come over Dolly too, for of course as you know golden curls belong to people with pinky white skin and blue, blue eyes, so with her golden curls came also the pinky white skin and the blue, blue eyes. Dolly would not have known herself had she looked in a mirror. She could see her golden curls, however, and she was so proud of them! She decided to go for a walk.

When she saw her little playmate Gladys Green running toward her, she stopped and meant to ask her how she liked her golden curls, but Gladys looked at her strangely and ran on.

"That's funny," said Dolly to herself, "I just gave her one of my doll's best hats this morning."

"How do you do?" said Dolly politely.

"How do you do, little girl, aren't you lost?" asked Mr. Smith, for he had not seen any golden-haired children in that street before.

"Oh, no," Dolly started to say, "I am Dolly Gray, only my hair is gold instead of black."

But with a smile Mr. Smith had passed on.
brownies.192011.034.jpg Dolly was very disappointed too, for Mr. Smith always had a stick of candy or a lollipop for her.

"Well," she said quite wisely for such a little lady, "I 'spose I do look diffrunt." Then she thought that while she was walking she would go around the corner to her Aunt Nell's, for Dolly was now very much concerned about her looks and she wanted to see herself in her Aunt's tall mirror. Again she was disappointed for Aunt Nell was not at home. She thought she had better go home now for she had never been so far before without asking dear mother.

As she started back to the corner she saw her Aunt Nell coming towards her. With a glad, little cry she ran to meet her, but her Aunt Nell, her very own, beloved Aunt Nell just smiled at her pretty little face and went hurriedly by before Dolly could say a word. Then the big, big tears came into the blue, blue, eyes and splashed down the pink face and upon the golden curls.

She walked on sobbing to herself. At the corner a lady stopped her.

"Why, my dear, what is the matter?" she asked Dolly.

"Oh," wailed Dolly, "I'm not me."

"Why, what do you mean, child?" the lady asked kindly.

"I m—m—mean I—I—'m not m—me."

The lady looked very puzzled and then asked. "Where do you live?"

"Just around the corner, Number 826," Dolly mumbled between her sobs.

"Well now, don't cry any more. I'll take you home."

When they reached Dolly's home dear mother was crying an talking to a neighbor and dear father was frantically telephoning to all the police stations.

When dear mother saw Dolly and the lady coming in she cried, "Oh, no, that's not my Dolly." She thought the lady knew her Dolly was lost and was bringing this little girl to her.

Dolly, when she heard her mother say this, gave such a shriek that she woke up to see dear mother bending over her but she just couldn't stop crying.

"Why, Dolly darling, what is the matter?" asked dear mother.

"Oh, mother," cried Dolly, "take them off, take them off!"

"Take what off?" asked her mother.

"Those golden curls. I want my own black hair so you and Aunt Nell, and Mr. Smith and Gladys Green will always know me."

She was still crying and her mother hugging her real close said, "Why, Dolly, you've just been dreaming. Your pretty black curls are just the same."

Dolly was quieter now and wide awake.

"Dreaming," she repeated after her mother, as if trying to think it all out, and then, "Oh, Mother," she cried flinging her arms around her mother's neck, "I am so glad it was all a dream and I just love my 'cwinkly' black curls."