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

November, 1920
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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. NOVEMBER,1920 NO. 11


HOW MR. CROCODILE GOT HIS ROUGH BACK. A Story. Julian Elihu Bagley. 323
THE CHRYSALIS. A Poem. Annette Christine Browne 325
A CRISS-CROSS THANKSGIVING. A Story. Augusta Bird. Illustrated by Laura Wheeler 326
LENORA GRAY. A Poem. Thomas Millard Henry 330
OUR LITTLE FRIENDS. Four Pictures. 331
CUEVA ONDA. A Story of Puerto Rico. Hallie Elvera Queen Illustrated by Laura Wheeler 336
THE FIRST PARTY. A Poem. Winifred Virginia Jordan 336
"THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE". A True Story. Lillie Buffum Chace Wyman. Illustrated by Laura Wheeler 338
PLAYTIME. Two Games. Arranged by Emma Hicks 340
COMING HOME FROM CHURCH. A Picture. Photo by Scurlock 341
TURKEY DRUMSTICKS. A Thanksgiving Story. Jessie Fauset. Illustrated. 342
THE LOVING CUP. A Poem. Mary Effie Lee 346
THE JURY. Illustrated. 350
DOLLY'S DREAM. A Story. Nora Waring. Illustrated. 351


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[illustration - Uncle Remus —Photo by Battey. ]


The Brownies' Book

Vol. 1 November, 1920 No. 11

[illustration - How MR. CRocodiLe GoT His Rough BAcK ]

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.


"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:

'Ho, Mister Crocodile, king of the Nile,
We got you fixed for a long, long while.

Deedle dum, dum, deedle dum day,
Makes no difference what you say!'

"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:

'Honkey-tonkey tunk, tunk, tink tunk tunk!
Honkey-tonkey, tunk, tunk, tink tunk tunk!'

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.


The Chrysalis

OUT in the wind a cradle is swinging,
On a little bare twig it is fastened so strong.
Does the sleeper inside hear the wind's dismal singing?
Do you think the wind fears he will slumber too long?
This cradle was made when the tree's leaves were falling;
The sleeper himself made his queer little bed.
He shut himself in when he heard the wind calling
And dropped off to sleep; to the world became dead.
So he's swayed to and fro as the winds of November
Toss his cradle around, upside down and about.
On the twig he will hang through the snows of December.
Not 'till Winter is gone will he wake to come out.
When Spring comes at last he'll awake from his sleeping,
The cradle will open and what will we spy?
The worm that last summer was on the ground creeping,
Unfolding the wings of a new butterfly.



"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
[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
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
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."

[illustration - "You ain't goin' to marry nobody."]

"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
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.


Lenora Gray

HERE'RE sixteen lines, Lenora Gray,
To greet your sixteen years.
My fondest wishes to you bring;
May they like birdnotes to you sing.
Know you the legend of the moon?
'Tis said that May is wooed by June,
And Spring is loved by Summertime.
Impassioned thoughts invite a rhyme.
I'm but a humble artist, L—,
My art's too poor my love to tell.
Who but a master bard could mould
And press his speech till love is told?
The gracious year of sweet sixteen
Has never found a finer queen.
How meet; you're sweet sixteen to-day!
Best wishes, brown Lenora Gray!


Our Little Friends



THE shadow of winter looms, with golden leaf and sapphire sky and silver mists. I love the cool, sharp beauty of the falling year. I fly and cry and fly—"Caw, caw, caw! Listen to the Crow."

  • Peace has at last been signed between Poland and Russia. The Poles have received a larger amount of territory than was granted them under the treaty of Versailles and have succeeded in so arranging that the Polish territory will cut off Lithuania from Russia. They also receive certain trade advantages.
  • There are reports of disorganization in Soviet Russia, but we do not know the truth.
  • Conditions in Ireland are approaching civil war, The English Premier has excused the reprisal of the police and declared that disorder must be put down. The Irish, on the other hand, seem more united than ever in the attempt to achieve their independence.
  • A great strike of 800,000 miners in England has begun. Some time ago the English government promised to follow the advice of a commission which it appointed with regard to the coal mines. The Commission recommended that the mines be bought from private owners and administered by the government. The government ignored this report and now the miners are striking in order to enforce it.
  • Germany has delivered nearly two million tons of steamers and sailing vessels to the Allies, according to the stipulation of the treaty of Versailles.
  • Japan is determined to oppose anti-Japanese legislation in the United States and to push the question of racial equality before the League of Nations.
  • Paul Deschanel has resigned as president of France on account of ill health. Alexandre Millerand has been elected president by the Senate and Chamber of Deputies, as is the custom in France. He received 695 out of 892 votes.
  • One hundred or more delegates, together with numbers of advisors and secretaries, met in Brussels, Belgium, for the International Financial Congress of the League of Nations.
  • The Hungarian Parliament has restricted the attendance of Jews to high institutions of learning.
  • Italy is undergoing what seems to be a revolution. Metal workers and other factory hands seized the large plants and announced their intention of conducting them without the owners. At first the government stood aloof but finally called conference between owners and workers and now it has been arranged that factories shall be conducted by joint committees of owners and workmen who shall have full authority over wages, output, etc.
  • The plebiscite, or election, by which it was to be decided whether a part of Silesia ought to belong to Poland or Germany, has been postponed several times, each side being afraid that the other would take some unfair advantage. This part of Silesia contains important coal and iron mines.
  • There have been a number of disturbances in Mexico and Yucatan.
  • The council of the League of Nations has met again in Paris. So far 36 nations have joined the League, including Haiti and Liberia but not including the United States. One of the first questions that has come before the League of Nations is the dispute between Finland and Sweden over the Aland Islands. A Commission has been appointed to investigate and decide.
  • The International Council of Women has held a session at Christiania, Norway.
  • Hundreds of persons have been killed and many small towns and villages wrecked by earthquakes in Italy.
  • Peru and Chile have had serious disputes over the ownership of two provinces. Finally, by arbitration, Chile agreed to pay thirty million dollars to Peru for her rights in these provinces.

  • brownies.192011.015.jpg
  • France, England and Great Britain have agreed with Italy to recognize the free state of Fiume under D'Annunzio.
  • A permanent court of International Justice has been planned by the League of Nations. It proposes that this court hold sessions annually and have the power to interpret treaties and international law.
  • Violent anti-British propaganda among the tribes of the Manshara regions of India has been organized. Many leaders have been arrested.
  • The chief question in the Swedish elections of September was the question of public ownership of mines, water power, forests and railways.
  • The celebration of the 300th anniversary of the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth, Massachusetts, began at Plymouth, England, September 11.

O THE weary world! O the wicked world! O the naughty men and women who will not learn of Little Children and behave! Wherever the Crow flies he brings the glad message of little children—caw, caw, caw!

  • Prices have begun to fall. This is noticeable in the price of sugar, of clothes, food and many staple products. Twenty-seven out of forty-three standard articles of food decreased in price between the 15th of August and the 15th of September.
  • Ford motor cars have been reduced in price.
  • W. N. Crane, former United States Senator from Massachusetts, is dead.
  • Congress passed a law giving American vessels certain advantages of foreign vessels in United States ports. If this was against the terms of many treaties which the United States had with foreign nations, Congress ordered the President to terminate these treaties. This the President has refused to do, claiming that this would be an interference with his power of making treaties.
  • In New York City, as elsewhere, large numbers of people need houses which have not been built on account of the war. In order to keep tenants from being put out in order to make way for other tenants who would pay more, the New York Legislature has passed a number of laws preventing landlords from dispossessing tenants, making it possible to refuse to pay an increase of rent and enabling cities to exempt new dwellings from taxation for ten years.
  • Jacob Schiff, a great Jewish banker and philanthropist, is dead.
  • In the recent contest between the champions of the two baseball leagues, the Cleveland Club defeated the Brooklyn Club. Baseball has suffered somewhat from the charge that former contestants of this sport have not been playing squarely but have yielded to bribery.
  • In New York City an explosion took place recently in Wall Street, the enter of the financial district. Over thirty people were killed and hundreds injured. It has not been determined who is responsible for the catastrophe.
  • For a second time the New York Assembly has expelled several of its members because they were Socialists.
  • The fifteenth International Congress on Alcoholism has been held at Washington with 28 foreign countries represented.
  • The largest corn crop on record was raised in the United States in 1912. This year a still larger crop will be harvested. It is estimated at 3,131,000,000 bushels.
  • The first mail by aeroplane has reached San Francisco from New York.
  • The state election in Maine gives the Republicans the largest majority in history, amounting to nearly 70,000.
  • The Woman Suffrage Amendment has been ratified by Connecticut.
  • The Democratic candidate for President, J. M. Cox, has already travelled 9,000 miles through 22 states, making political speeches. The Republican candidate, W. G. Harding, has spent most of his time at home speaking from his front porch.
  • Five thousand painters are on strike in New York for higher wages.
  • The United States government guaranteed the earnings of railways for a limited time. This cost them 101 million dollars during the month of August.
  • The gross debt of the United States is now $24,324,672,000.
  • The annual income of the United States seems to be divided about as follows, according to the income tax rates: 18 million families get less than $2,000 a year; 2 million families get between $2,000 and $50,000 a year; 16 hundred families get from $50,000 to $750,000 a year; and 90 families get $750,000 a year or more.



Cueva Onda is situated in Aguadilla, Puerto Rico, on the western coast near where Columbus landed on his second voyage.

IT was the eve of El Inocente Mariposa (the innocent butterfly), which in Puerto Rico falls on the 28th of December. It was during the Christmas recess and the youngsters had decided to take me on an outing. You must know that it is very warm in Puerto Rico in December, so we got into our thinnest clothing and our broadest sombreros.

"Where shall we go?" cried out many voices. Rosario, who is indolent and does not care for exertion, suggested El Canto de lad Pierdras. Edelmiro, who is practical, said that there was nothing to see at El Cant except Cofresi's stone. Now Cofresi was a pirate who, with his companion Silvia, sailed up and down Mona Passage. Edelmiro explained that on the site of one of the Piedras (rocks) they had cut the number 10,000 supposed to represent the number of dollars buried beneath, and had fled. They never returned and until today no one has been able to move the stone. "There's nothing else to see there and you have to go by boat and it's dangerous for girls," he added.

I liked the romance of the story but I agreed with Edelmiro as to the danger and asked them to think of another place. Suddenly Ramon called out "Can you climb—let's go to Cueva Onda." If I could not climb, I thought it was time to learn as there was general acclaim of "Cueva Onda—Cueva Onda!" I could not get them to tell me what it was but only knew that I must climb. Puertorican children love a secret and I could not rob them of its joy. So we decided to take Ramon's suggestion.

They came for me next morning bright-eyed, gayly dressed and very mysterious. Several of the boys had large rolls of twine. There were baskets of provisions, but no drinking cups. I asked Rosa Maria about these but she said they were not needed. We started off through La Calle Nueva and thence reached a winding mountain pass where we traveled one by one. Carlos and Edelmiro led the way, Benito, Diego and Luis stayed at the rear to help any stragglers along. About half way up the pass we met two little boys coming down to the city market. One carried a live pig strapped over his shoulder while with his free hand covered its mouth to keep it from squealing. The other one bore on his head a basket of tomatoes and eggs. Neither wore shoes. We stopped just long enough to get their pictures.

All along the way mysterious hints were thrown out as to what I was going to see. However, I had no idea what Cueva Onda was until Carlos suddenly called out from the head of the procession: "Chain!" and each one in the line offered his had to the one behind him. I heard the rippling of water. We were at the mouth of a natural cave beneath which flowed one of the many "lost rivers" found in the tropics. There were two single board walks from end to end and no supporting sides. Overhead, in graceful canopy, were marvelous mineral formations festooned with hanging ferns and moss. Dangerous as it seemed one could not resist the beauty and not a child was afraid.

"Is this Cueva Onda?" I asked. "No, just the entrance", said Rafael, and our voices sounded unearthly in that silence. As we wound, in our chain, through the long tunnel, all feeling of fear left me. I was Alice in Wonderland. Edelmiro was the White Rabbit and I knew that I should soon see greater wonders. I think I still believe in fairies and I should not have been surprised to have found myself suddenly growing shorter or taller, or to have heard fairy bells ringing amid the rippling of that lost river. Gradually we began to notice bits of light in the mossy grove.

"See," said Josefita, "the fairies have caught some rays of the sun and put them in the tunnel to light our way." So we followed them to the outerworld.

Without breaking the chain, the boys started uphill and from Fairyland came to the end of our journey. I noticed that the boys ahead of us, on reaching the top of the pass, did not go on, but spread out as in a circle; when I reached the top Argentino, who was always half mystic, said to me in awe: "Cueva Onda, senorita." And there it was before me. Cueva Onda—the Deep Cave, an extinct volcano with open crater and arching sides from which there was a constant seepage of water. The broad pit seemed bottomless. "Lie down with your faces to the
[illustration - "Cueva Onda, Senorita!"]
ground," said Carlos, and as we did so, with our heads over the crater, we could hear the rushing, rushing of the lost river beneath us.

The Spaniards have a disease which they call "Nostalgia" ;"Homesickness", say the English dictionaries. It is not just that and though we have no word for it I know that I felt it then,—a longing to be a part of Nature, to climb down into that cave and follow that lost river on to its source, or else to lie there forever and listen to its singing. But the boys were more prosaic. Suddenly Diego threw a large rock into the center of the cave. We could hear it bounding, knocking, dashing as it went along, but we never heard it strike the water. Then the boys helped us up. "Come on, senorita," said Rafael, "let' see how deep the cave is."

We moved sideways in a circle along the narrow ledge, holding with one hand to the wall of the cave and keeping the chain with the other. Juan Batista and Federico unwound the cords to which they attached large rocks. Then lying flat on their faces, they let the cords into the cave. Argentino and Luis assisted in drawing them up from time to time, but never did the stones or cords get wet, though we still heard the water rushing on.

Suddenly Amalia noticed something coming up the mountain pass. Edelmiro became a scout and called out "Aguadores" (water bearers). Sure enough we saw an old man and woman coming up the pass, bearing water vessels. Both were barefooted. The woman had no head covering and the man wore as a hat a roll of cloth tightly twisted to look like conventional life-saver. Each bore on his shoulder a tin vessel like an empty gasoline can. Like most Puertorican peasants, they were silent. I was glad of this, for I know they were fairy people of the Cave and did not wish my illusion spoiled. Sure-footed, they wound their way to that point where the seeping water flowed freest and placed their vessels there. Then they squatted on the ground and waited for the "latas" to be filled. We could not get a picture, for the overhanging walls of the crater made too much shadow, but I see it now: those two mystic old people out of Fairyland or Bible lore, seated fearlessly on the edge of an extinct volcano, waiting for Nature to fill their water vessels, while a lost river flowed beneath them and a new generation sat watching them. The tune of a familiar hymn came to my ears: "Day by day the manna fell", as the old man and woman lifted the filled vessels to their heads and went down the pass.

Ana Maria suggested that we go down the hill for lunch, but Carlos thought it romantic to dine on the top of the crater. Carmen and Marcola, practical souls, spread the repast, then we "chained" again and went round the crater for water. I could see now why no drinking cups had been provided. With our hands we caught the water which fell in crystalline streams and tasted like nectar. Argentino insisted that we were not in Fairyland but on Olympus and that the old man and woman were really gods and goddesses. And indeed the food had a delectable taste.

Josefita, who is timid, suggested home all too soon, and reluctantly we descended the pass. We passed the little barrios where tumble-down thatched houses stood side by side; we bordered streams where women washed their clothing on the rocks, milkmen rinsed their cans and horses paused to drink; we went down groves of royal palms and now and then had a "lift" on an oxcart. As we neared the town, Carlos and Edelmiro who were still ahead, called out, "Listen! a serenata!" We heard the voices of a group of strolling musicians; weird, native instruments were thrumming out their plaintive music, and now I knew:

Puerto Rico is Fairyland, Olympus, and the land of chivalry; and those who journey there may be fairies, gods, or knights, as they will.

Her First Party

I'VE been to a party,
Where I ate so hearty,
Of candies and ice cream and such,
That I feel quite tearful,
And, oh, I am fearful—
That I ate a wee bit too much!



"I WISH I could earn wages," says William fretfully.

"What's wages?" asks Billikins.

"It's what rich folks give poor folks for work," answers Billie, importantly.

"It's no such thing," says William. "Wages aren't 'given', they're earned."

"What's 'earned'?" asks the Judge, quietly.

"Why, deserved or owed."


"Why—owed I should say."

"Not earned?"

"Well, yes. At any rate, owed and probably earned."

"Or 'at any rate, earned and probably owed'?"

Here Wilhelmina interrupts.

"I should say owed and earned, for if the wages aren't earned, they are not owed, and it they are owed they are earned."

"That certainly ought to be the case," says the Judge. "No one should demand wages which they do not deserve, or refuse to pay wages well earned. But, of course, Law and Right do not always correspond."

"At any rate, wages aren't gifts." says William.

"No indeed," says the Judge.

"Then William ought to wish that he had something worth wages, oughtn't he?" asks Wilhelmina.

"I have—lots of things."

"You've got to show me."

"No," says the Judge. "You need only show the person who wants to buy what you have to sell."

"Working for wages ain't buying and selling, is it?" asked Billikins.

"Yes, although we easily forget it. The grocer sells us butter, the farmer sells us cabbage, and the washerwoman sells us hard labor."

"It's a sort of a bargain, then?"

"But there's a difference," insists William.

"What is it?" asks the Judge.

"It's this," says Wilhelmina: "We could do our washing—"

"You could," whispers Billie.

"—and the farmer could eat his own cabbage, but Mary must have wages or she'll starve."

"Why doesn't she save up and have something?"

"She doesn't earn enough."

"You mean," says the Judge, "that she does not drive a good enough bargain with her employers. And this she cannot do, because she is poor."

"Poverty then is the root of all evil," says William, sadly regarding his empty purse.

"The Bible says, 'The love of money is the root of all evil,'" says Wilhelmina.

"Perhaps both phrases mean the same thing," suggests the Judge. "If some want too little, others will get too little; if some have to little, others can drive hard bargains and get too much; if some do not earn what they get, there will be less wealth to divide; if plenty is produced but some take far more than they need, others will get less than they earn—"

"I want some candy," yells Billikins.

"To be sure," replies the Judge, "and children need candy. But they don't need candy three times a day, and as Billikins has eaten two large pieces already today, he gets no more.

"After all it's this candy business that's to blame for many of the world's ills; so many people, like Billikins, want or think they want what they not only do not need, but positively should avoid.

"Here is Jim Jones, the Laborer: he need some nice rich food, leisure to reed, soft couches, and beautiful music and pictures. Here is the rich and lazy J. Pittman Smith: he needs ten hours a day of hard digging in mud and rocks, a dinner of herbs and dry bread, and ten hours of heavy, dreamless sleep. As it is Jones gets the work and Smith gets the play.

"I'm Jones," says Billie.

"I'd like to be Mrs. Smith," says Wilhelmina.




SOME great dread of what might happen must have come to a nineteen-year-old girl in the winter 1849-50 so that she had to decide whether or not she should plunge into other horrors to escape the thing she feared.

I do not know exactly what her trouble was, but one can guess at its nature for she was a mulatto girl named Elizabeth or Betsy Blakesley, and she was a slave in North Carolina. No slaves could be legally married, but slave boys and girls, men and women, did love each other, and they formed unions to which they would often have been glad to be true. Their masters, however, could sell them apart, sell their children from them and they also often forced the slave women to live as wives with men with whom they did not want to live. Betsy had a little baby. We can pity her trouble even though we do not know just what it was then or had been for a long time.

She made up her mind to run away to the North. But she could not take her baby with her. She knew that her own slave mother had never been able to help her in any trouble that grew out of their enslaved condition, and so she knew that she could not make life right for her child if she stayed with it.

Betsy hid herself on a coast vessel which was bound for Boston. Probably some northern sailor helped to stow herself away, but we have record of that. Wendell Phillips, the Abolitionist orator, did, however, in one of his speeches say that Betsy was hidden "in the narrow passage between the side of the vessel and partition that formed the cabin". Two feet and eight inches of space—into that she cramped her young, sensitive body. No place for a baby there—and it might have cried and betrayed her presence.

Her master missed her soon after she left for the boat and the vessel was held at the dock while it was searched. She was not found. Her master still felt sure that she was on board, so he had the boat smoked three times over with sulphur and tobacco. Betsy did not crawl forth from that closet of horror, but the baby would have died had it been subjected to such torture.

At last the boat swung out and on to the tossing ocean and day and night the cold stiffened her limbs and struck inward like sharp knives, and the rolling waves outside seemed to enter her hiding place and like demons to crush her and bruise her body against the timbers of her prison cell.

Betsy reached Boston in January, 1850. There were many mysterious ways in which the Abolitionists learned whenever a fugitive slave had come into their vicinity. And so Betsy, half frozen and scarcely able to walk, soon found herself among kind friends who ministered unto her.

These friends were so much shocked by her condition that they did a more daring thing than I have ever known any Abolitionist to do at any other time in connection with a fugitive slave. They wanted many Boston people to see Betsy so that a profound feeling of wickedness of slavery should stir the northern world. As the law then stood they believed that she could be publicly shown for an hour or two, before the legal machinery to arrest her could be brought to bear upon her personally. And Betsy was brave enough to do what her new friends wanted her to,—and she trusted them when they told her, as they must have done, that it would help to make people want to free all the slaves if she would do what they said. Her baby was a slave, you see.

The Abolitionists took Betsy to an anti-slavery meeting in Faneuil Hall. She sat on the platform beside Wendell Phillips, who was a handsome, blonde man, then not quite forty years old.

Frederika Bremer, a renowned Swedish novelist, sat very near the platform beside Charles Sumner, with whom she had come as a sight-seer. At a given moment, Lucy Stone, young, fair in the face, and clad in white, led Betsy forward, and holding her hand she told the audience how, driven by unutterable woe, Betsy had come to Boston through brimstone
[illustration - Betsy hid herself on a coast vessel.] smoke and winter cold. Lucy Stone had one of the sweetest speaking voices that was ever heard in this world. Once, as she spoke, she lifted her hand and placing it on Betsy's head called her "my sister".

Miss Bremer had never been seen an American slave. She was emotionally humane. Wendell Phillips came down from the platform to speak to his very dear friend, Charles Sumner, and to be introduced to Miss Bremer. She gave him a rose to take to Betsy. I wish I knew whether it were a white or a red rose. Then Betsy suddenly and quietly disappeared. She was taken out of the Hall, and started on the so-called Under-Ground Railroad, and she was borne swiftly to Canada and to freedom.

The Fugitive Slave Bill was passed before that year ended. The Abolitionists would not have dared to show Betsy for even two minutes after that.

Lucy Stone remained always the friend of the slave. Frederika Bremer, though never approving of slavery, sentimentalized away much of her objection to it. But Elizabeth Blakesley,—was she not like Joan of Arc in her courage? I think every white child and every colored child in this country should be proud because she was an American girl.




HERE are two guessing games we used to play when it was rainy or too cold to play outside. The more children the merrier.


AT least two persons must know this game. One girl goes out while another girl touches any object in the room. Everybody must see the girl touch it. The girl is then called back into the room and guesses the object that has just been touched. This is how she does it:

Before she goes out she knows that the thing that is named immediately before the object that has been touched is to be something black, i. e., the first thing that is named after anything that is black is the object that has been touched. For instance, if you touch a picture, when the girl comes back you say: "Did I touch the rug?" She will say, "No." You next say, "Did I touch the table?" She says, "No." Then you say, "Did I touch the stove?" She says, "No." Then you say, "Did I touch the picture?" and she will say, "Yes," because she knows that the stove is black and the object that is named immediately after something black is the correct one to say "Yes" to. You can name many or few things before you name something black, being sure not to name the same number each time. The thing that is black decided the answer to the question, so you must be sure to name something black just before you name the object that you touched so the girl will be sure of never being caught. You see, she is expecting you to do this to give her a cue as to when she must say "Yes." It is called Black Magic because everything depends on that color.


ONE girl writes a word on the blackboard or on a piece of paper while another girl goes out of the room or hides her eyes. The word that is written on the board must be a word that has another word sounding exactly like it, but with an entirely different meaning and which sometimes is spelled differently. For instance, soul, sole, current, currant. All the children, expect the one who is out of the room, look at word. The word is erased and the one outside is called back into the room. Now, every child must make up a sentence, which she gives in turn with the word "teakettle" substituted for the word that has just been erased. From these sentences the girl who has returned to the room is to guess the word that "teakettle" has been substituted for.

The sentence should be given like this: I went up on the stoop and rang the teakettle and asked whether the village teakettle was at home. When the right words are substituted for "teakettle" the sentence would be like this: I went up on the stoop and rang the bell and asked whether the village belle was at home.

Here is another illustration: The swift teakettle carried the box of teakettles down the stream. The sentence given correctly would be: The swift current carried the box of currants down the stream.

The word "teakettle" need only appear in a sentence once, but the more times it is used the harder it is to guess the missing words.

The person from whose sentence the guesser finds out the word is the next one to go out of the room.

Other words are: so, sow, sew; to, too, two; date, meaning a point of time and date meaning a fruit, and many, many more.

[illustration - Coming Home from Church]



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.


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.

[illustration - Billy and Rosemary.]

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."


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
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?"


"'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.

The Large Loving Cup

NOW, loving cups, I'm told,
Are always lined with gold;
If this be so
I surely know
One great big loving cup.
A valley I have found
Which, like a bowl, is round;
Bright leaves of gold
Fall when it's cold
And line my loving cup.



MY dear Brownies:

I want to tell you about a dear little Brownie who has recently come to my house to live. He is the dearest Brownie that was ever born—oh! yes, I know you have the dearest one too; but that is just what is so nice about Brownies—they are all just the cutest sweetest, dearest creatures ever!

Well the first thing this Brownie did, was to give a great, loud, lusty yell; and the funny thing about it is, he has kept it up a great deal of the time since! Oh! I forgot to tell you, he is a boy—a big 10-pound boy and his lungs are in excellent condition.

When he cries, of course I know he's got the colic; his mother thinks possibly he may have it, but his father says he is just plain spoiled. Anyhow we give him doses of catnip tea and hug him up close and warm, and then he goes off into a nice long sleep.

He always wakes up as hungry as a bear and it is delicious to see how thoroughly he enjoys his dinner when he gets it.

One interesting thing is to see him at his bath! He enjoys having the water splashed over his shoulders and down his back; but when his mother swabs out of his ears and nostrils (with some cotton wrapped on a tooth-pick) and proceeds to wash out his mouth, he gives an Indian war-whoop.

His skin is like the first flush of the dawn of a perfect day in June, and when he is freshly washed and powdered, he is truly, "mighty lak a rose."

I think he looks like his grandfather, his mother says he is the image of his father and his father says he resembles his bald-headed uncle.

The doctor calls him, "Snookums"; his father calls him, "Son" and his mother calls him "Little lump o' love"; but I'm sure he will be christened "Maurice" after his father.

Now, dear Brownies, I hope you have enjoyed reading about my little Brownie as much as I love to read about you.

A long time ago I asked the editor if he would not give the children a page in The Crisis. He replied that he could not do that, but he thought the children might have a book of their own. Then he started THE BROWNIES' BOOK which I think is just fine, don't you? My little Brownie shall read it just as soon as he is old enough and I hope he will grow up to be a great man and useful to his people; and perhaps some day he may write a book just as fine as THE BROWNIES' BOOK.

CARRIE W. CLIFFORD, Wash., D. C. [illustration - Street Games in Harlem. Community Service, Inc. ]

Little People of the Month

ELEVEN-year-old William has no father; no mother. Since the age of six he has been in a large institution. William is bright boy and does good work in school. He is thoughtful and generous and has a happy disposition. The State Charities Aid Association, 105 East Twenty-second Street, New York City, is looking for a foster home for William, in the country preferably, and would be glad to give full information to any family interested.

AT the annual oratorical contest of the Theta Sigma Fraternity of the New Haven High School there were five contestants—two seniors, two juniors and one sophomore. Of the five one was colored boy—H. Willis Mosely, Jr., a sophomore, who was awarded the second prize of $5.00 in gold. His oration was Frederick Douglass' "Free Speech in Boston." H. Willis Mosely, Jr., bears the distinction of being the first Negro to enter these contests, thus the first to win a prize.

Out in Los Angeles Mr. and Mrs. John C. Wood, of Graham, Cal., have presented their daughter, Velma Marie Wood, in a piano recital. Velma's musical education began when she was 4 years of age and her mother has been her only teacher. Velma has mastered the musical art to an extent which enables her to give an evening's entertainment of classical music without referring to the printed page. [illustration - William.] Her programs include Beethoven's Sonata, op. 31, No. 3; Coleridge-Taylor's "Deep River," and "Bamboula," and "Rigoletto," by Liszt. Miss Wood is recent graduate from the Compton High School and is the organist and musical director of one of the leading local colored churches.

IS there anyone who doesn't enjoy a good story? I saw you even, Billikins, spelling out the words of "Br'er Rabbit" in the last BROWNIES' BOOK; and Billy read about the "Pumpkins" with such joy that he never heard William calling to him to read "The Elusive Idea"; and Wilhelmina became so enthused when she finished "Impossible Kathleen" that she just had to interrupt Ma and Pa, who were reading about "The Pine Tree Folk" in their copy of THE BROWNIES' BOOK. But to read a story is EASY—it's the TELLING of a story that really counts! So out in Louisville, Ky., Professor Joseph S. Cotter conducts a class in storytelling at the Free Public Library, and they Brownies in the picture are story-telling contest winners! Number 1 is Professor Cotter:

  • 2. Blydon Jackson —Primary, 1917.
  • 3. Rose Conway —Primary, 1918.
  • 4. Raymond Bowman —Gold medal, 1916.
  • 5. Virginia Allen —Intermediate, 1918.
  • 6. Arline Booker —Intermediate, 1919.
  • 7. Emma Clement —Intermediate, 1919.
  • 8. Theodore W. Moody —Primary, 1919.


And how lovely, during the bleak days of November, it would be for us to sit before the fire-place, watching the red and gold sparks as they flit from their bondage into freedom, giving cheer and warmth and beauty; or thinking of Mother Tree's feelings when the winds whir and one by one her gold and brown children leave her; or sympathizing with that poor little girl and boy who hasn't skates and a sled, and those wealthy kiddies who do not share their joys.

Since each little soul has its own personality, who can say what Wilhelmina or William or Billy or even Billikins might be inspired to write!

Once upon a time, of course, there wasn't a "market" for our stories and biographies and poems, but now we have THE BROWNIES' BOOK and "Little People of the Month" for each little Brownie who succeeds!

[illustration - H. Willis Mosely, Jr. Velma Marie Wood.]


I THOUGHT you might like to hear about Mr. Deane's gander. One day he saw an old gander fighting a young one. The little gander was quite badly hurt. Mr. Deane drove the old gander off, carried the little one into the house and took care of it until it was well and strong again. He named the gander Billy. Billy used to follow Mr. Deane all around the yard. One day Mr. Deane all around the yard. One day Mr. Deane went downtown. He heard some boys in the street laughing, and saw that they were looking at him. He looked back and there was Billy waddling along just a little way behind him. He was not glad to see Billy, for he did not care to walk through the street followed by a gander. So he turned back and took Billy home. He watched after that and did not let him have another chance to follow him downtown.

This is what a dog did to a little boy named Tommy. He started for school in good season. His mother stood in the door watching him as he went down the street. But when he turned the corner, Raymond's dog, Rob Roy, came running up to him. Tommy stopped to play with him a moment, and a big gust of wind took Tommy's hat and sent it flying down the street. Rob Roby and Raymond both ran after it. Rob Roy could run the faster. So he got the hat, but he would not give it up. He like to run; and wanted Tommy to play with him. The dog held that hat firmly and ran down a street in just the opposite way from the school-house. Tommy wanted his hat. So he ran after Rob Roy. He had a long chase, and the last bell rang before he could catch Rob Roy. Tommy was so late to school that the children were through singing, and he lost the story that his teacher always read or told the first thing after the singing.

VIOLET HENDERSON, Sandford School, Redding Ridge, Conn.

I READ one of your samples and liked it so much until I began saving money to subscribe for it. I like stories, especially fairy stories.

I am so glad to see the pictures of our noted colored men and women.

I think it is a very fine idea to encourage the children with story writing. I am much interested in them. I go to school and am in the eighth grade. I like it fine.


I LIKE to read about Lias, Marcus and Jim Dukes. I am trying to write a story for THE BROWNIES' BOOK too. I am a boy nine years old. I like to read and write. I am in the third grade. I am proud of THE BROWNIES' BOOK.

JOHN ROBINSON, Edwardsville, Va. [illustration - Playing Quoits in Harlem. —Community Service, Inc. ]



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.
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."


The Prince Speaks To The Sleeping Beauty

FAR away and yet so near, dear love!
My faint voice, my cry, awakes you now?
Slumber charms you from my yearning heart,—
Though for you I call and wait, my love!
Far away and yet so near, dear love!
My warm hands, my kiss, you do not feel?
Time enfolds you in abiding sleep,—
Yet for me you must awake, my love!