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

The Brownies' Book
December, 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. DECEMBER, 1920 No. 12


FRONTISPIECE—THE LITTLE MOTHER. After the Painting by Housep Pushman 354
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL. A STORY. Jessie Fauset. Decorate by Hilda Rue Wilkinson 355
BUNNY COTTON-TAIL'S CHRISTMAS DINNER. A Story. Katheryn M. Campbell. Illustrated by Frances Grant 361
PLAYTIME. Homemade Games. 363
THE HOWL WIND. A Poem. Winifred Virginia Jordan. Illustrated by Marcellus Hawkins 365
HOW LITTLE BUD FOUND CHRISTMAS. A Story. Annette Christine Browne 367
CHRISTMAS SMILES. A Poem. Pocahontas Foster 368
OUR LITTLE FRIENDS. Four Pictures. 369
SAMUEL COLERIDGE-TAYLOR. A True Story. Madeline G. Allison. Illustrated. 370
BOBBY'S WISHES. A Poem. Winifred Virginia Jordan 372
THE KING'S DILEMMA. A Play in One Act. Willis Richardson. Illustrated by Hilda Rue Wilkinson 373
JIM'S THEORY OF SANTA CLAUS. A STORY. Pocahontas Foster. 380
THE STORY OF THE LITTLE TIN HORN. A Story. Georgia Douglas Johnson. Illustrated by Marcellus Hawkins 382
TWO CHRISTMAS SONGS. Verses Jessie Fauset 384


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The Little Mother

—After the Painting by Housep Pushman.


The Brownie's Book

Vol. 1 December, 1920 No. 12


LITTLE HILDA BLAIR stood in the centre of her mother's living-room and shouted for perhaps the hundredth time that day:

"I", said Tommy Tittlebat proudly, "Never twirl my thumbs or talk out loudly."

"My!" said her brother Robert morosely, "don't I wish you were Tommy Tittlebat! Then at least you'd keep still and not talk for hours at a time. Ma, won't you make her keep quiet?"

Hilda began to cry at this. "He insults me, he hurts my feelings. I wish brother Henry would come home." This was in 1918 just after Armistice Dy and Hilda's older brother, Henry, had not yet returned from France.

"I'm so miserable," Hilda sobbed. "I'm the most miserable little girl in the world."

"There, there, now," her mother soothed, "go downstairs and see what Mrs. Wing has for you."

Hilda went at first reluctantly and then more willingly. After all, Mrs. Wing might be making cookies and might give her some. Then she could eat them, every crumb and bit, before
Robert and not give him any. "Not the littlest, teeny bit," she said to herself.

Mrs. Wing was certainly correctly named, for she did so many things at once that she gave the impression of flying. "On-the-wing", the children usually called her in private. She was a small, thin, yellow woman plentifully peppered with brown freckles, with a mass of stiff, wiry hair which grew away from her forehead to be twisted up in a stiff, flat knot. As she was fond of bangs, she wore a "piece" of hair known as a "transformation" over her forehead and down to her eyes. It was not the same color as the rest of her hair, but that meant nothing to Mrs. Wing.

Hilda sidled up to her, "I'm so miserable, Mrs. Wing!"

"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Wing, flying from the table to the oven, to the party and back before Hilda could sit down. "What you got to worry you? If you want to see somebody really miserable, look at little Edith Jenkins. There's her mother, a widow, her oldest son killed in the war with three small children besides Edith and she only thirteen. There's misery for you. Christmas is comin' on and Edith instead of plannin' like other folks for a merry Christmas, is hopin' that she and her mother will get work enough to do so as to give the rest of the children a decent dinner that day. No turkey or chicken or fixin's, just enough to keep 'em from goin' hungry that one day."

"Why," said Hilda shocked out of her fretfulness, "don't they get enough to eat?"

"Of course they don't." Mrs. Wing with the back of her hand pushed her transformation slightly to one side. "Where they goin' to get it? Edith was in here just now to bring the clothes home. And she cried and cried. 'Oh, Mrs. Wing,' she says, 'they say Merry Christmas to all. How can it be that we should be the only ones not to have a merry Christmas? Oh, if Clarence just hadn't died!'"

"I know," Hilda interrupted soberly. "I miss brother Henry terribly and he isn't dead. It must be awful for Edith. I remember Clarence was kind to her. He used to come by school sometimes and give her pennies. Oh, Mrs. Wing, I'm glad my father's not poor.

Mrs. Wing snorted, "Huh! You'd better be, and lemme tell you somethin,' little girl. You want to stop snifflin' and whinin' every time things don't go to suit you. Otherwise the Lord's goin' to do somethin' to fix you same as he fixed Edith. That poor child! There Clarence was buyin' them a nice house in Taylor Street and now they've had to move into that old shack around in Martin's Place. Reg'lar deathtrap, I call it; if them youngsters should ever drop a match, they'd all be burnt up."

Hilda sat thinking a moment. "I don't see why you said that about the Lord fixing me," she remarked finally. "Edith has always been awful good and yet this happened to her. I know where she lives in Martin's Place and I'm going—" she stopped short—it might not be wise to let Mrs. Wing of one's plans.

"MAMA," she announced a few moments later, "I wish you'd let me give Edith Jenkins my red dress and a doll and the money out of my bank and—"

"Yes, and take 'em all back from her again," her brother interposed. He had had some bitter experiences with his sister in the matter of what he called "Indian-giving."

"Mama, can't he keep still? And can I give her the things?"

Unfortunately, her mother had not been paying very close attention. "We'll see," she said abstractedly.

Hilda was spoilt, it is true, but that was not excuse for being impertinent. "We'll see!" she exclaimed, stamping her foot, her black eyes flashing. "How can anybody be so mean? I want to giver her the things now, this minute!"

"I don't think I'm going to allow you to give anything to anyone," said her mother severely. "You are a very naughty little girl and though it is only half-past six, you are to bed at once. At once, do you understand, Hilda?"

"Yessum," said Hilda.

Robert stood behind his mother and clapped his hands in dumb show. "Baby, baby gotta go to bed," he whispered. "You won't get any chance to play Santa Claus. Ouch!"

Hilda in passing out had pinched him. "I'll show you," she whispered back.

As she lay in her little white bed, her eyes staring at a faint, silver moon, glimmering through the stark branches of the big ash tree outside her window, she could not keep her thoughts off Edith. She could not give away her red dress,—her mother had given her that,—nor could she part company with the big French doll, the gift of her father. She was rather glad of the excuse. But she had three dolls which she had bought herself, —a rag doll, a Japanese doll and—her favorite, of course—
a colored doll, a beautiful brown creature with rosy cheeks and raven hair. Edith should have that she thought and sighed a little. The twin sisters could each have one of the other dolls and she would find one of Robert's toys for little Benny.

"Robert has lots of old things in the garret," she mused. "Or I might take one of his bats or baseball mits. He'd never miss them now that he's so crazy with his old flying-machines. And I can use my money in the bank. I earned it myself, every cent. Edith has got to have a merry Christmas."

When Hilda woke the next morning the first thing that came into her head was "Merry Christmas!"

"Oh, yes," she remembered and went downstairs with her mind made up about Edith. She was very good in school that day and so was dismissed on the minute. On her way home she ran across Sylvester Square, which brought her out two blocks below her own street. Then three blocks south, and there was Martin's Place. Twenty-seven—that was the number. She knocked and Edith let her in.

This was not the Edith she used to know, a merry, bright-eyed, little girl in a clean dress, who used to walk home from school with her in the old days before Clarence and Henry had gone to war. This was a thin, weary-eyed child, still clean but in rags, and with the air and expression of an old woman. The room was tidy but the furniture, a worn horse-hair sofa and a chair or two, was rickety and scratched. There was no carpet on the floor and not a picture on the walls.

"Oh," said Hilda, speaking her mind right out, "Edith, I didn't know you had to live like this!"

She was so honest and so sorry that poor Edith, who had always thought she would rather die than have Hilda know of her condition, burst into tears.

"It isn't for myself I care so much," she said, "it's the other children and my mother. Oh, Hilda, she has to work so hard; she washes,—we do your mother's laundry now, you know,— and she iron and cleans, and people don't pay much. At first I minded dreadfully coming out of school, but now I'd do anything to help her. She has always had a hard time. My father used to drink, and after he died Clarence worked all the time until it looked as though she'd have some comfort. Then along came this horrid war and he's dead, my brother's dead! You remember him, Hilda; he used play ball with your Henry? They were great chums."

"Yes," said Hilda, a little dazed at the awfulness of Edith's condition. She was a very little girl, nearly three years younger than her friend, but it seemed to her that she must make things come right somehow. "I remember Clarence and the other house—"

Edith broke out afresh, "The house in Taylor Street? Now that's gone too, because with Clarence dead my mother couldn't keep on paying for it. For a long time she expected some insurance but although she has written to Washington again and again they never send her anything, just keep putting her off. So we had to come back to this place; it was the only thing my father left my mother. I hate it so," and she gazed with great disfavor about the three-roomed frame shack which was little more than a lean-to.

"But I don't think I would mind so much or Mama either if it weren't for Gertie and Rachel and Benny," she said pointing to the twins and her little brother who hovered near, horror- stricken at the sight of their big sister in tears. They came crowding forward, their little faces, once ruddy bronze, now ashy, and thin with hunger and discomfort. It doesn't seem possible that they aren't to have a merry Christmas, no tree, or anything."

"Listen, Edith," Hilda said desperately, "I can't stay any longer or Robert will miss me and tell Mama and I'll get a scolding. But you come for the clothes on Saturday, don't you? I'll be in the kitchen when you come, with Mrs. Wing, and we'll have a long talk. You're going to have merry Christmas, see if you don't."

HILDA was very quiet for the next few days. "You must be sick," grunted Robert, but she was too deep in thought to pay any attention to him. Besides she had to have him help her. She looked in her bank,—two dollars and nineteen cents there. A talk with Mrs. Wing satisfied her that she could get a fair meal with that. But she wanted a good Christmas dinner. She couldn't steal from her mother—taking Robert's bat and mit for Benny was different; besides he gave her best book of fairy-tales to Cousin Susie once, she'd only be getting even with him for that.

The Saturday before Christmas came and with it Edith and the laundry. The two little girls sat in the kitchen whispering while Mrs.
Wing flew about in her usual busy fashion. "I told Mrs. Blair I had to have some one in to clean the silver today," she told Edith kindly, "so you can stay till after lunch and do that and a few odds and ends. You want to eat now with Edith, Hilda? I guess your mother won't mind. I'll go finish upstairs."

The table was absolutely bare when she returned, but she neither asked questions nor apparently noticed the extra bundle which Edith carried when she took the clothes home.

Hilda stayed with her in the kitchen. "I've got everything all fixed, Mrs. Wing," she said presently. "Edith said she'd rather not have the doll, so I've sold it to Edna Berry who has always wanted it. She gave ma a dollar and fifteen cents for it. Mama said I could help you make ginger cookies and if they turn out well I can give some to Edith for the children. With the money for the doll and that in my bank, I want you please, Mrs. Wing, to buy a chicken and a few vegetables. If Edith's mother doesn't have to work Christmas day she'll cook them, and if she does, Edith can. That will still leave me a little money, won't it?" she queried anxiously. "There's something else I want to do."

Mrs. Wing thought it would. "Not feelin' as miserable as you did a few days ago, are you honey?"

"No'm", Hilda told her, "nowhere near. Funny ain't it, Mrs. Wing? I'm sorry for Edith and yet it makes me happy to be helping her."

"That's it, it always works out that way. The trouble with you is, things have always been too easy for you and if your brother teases or your mother scolds, you think you're in the worst luck in the world."

Hilda nodded, busy thinking. Not even to Mrs. Wing had she told her dearest plan. This was to get a Christmas tree to Edith's house and with her help, trim it for the twins and Benny. It was impossible for her to buy the tree for they were very expensive that year, but she had induced Robert, at a loss of fifty cents from her precious savings, to promise to go back into Larkins' woods and cut one down for her. Robert's one interest in life at this time was to get money to buy material for his flying-machine and even fifty cents was not to be despised.

THE day before Christmas arrived, clear, cold and bright. Hilda's father, Dr. Blair, who had been off to the Tri-State Medical Convention, returned that day with some friends. Mrs. Blair, though not given to paying much attention to the little complaints of her son and daughter, was very careful to see that nothing interfered with their holiday pleasures. So she called them in and explained that their father's guests must leave Christmas morning and she would like to spend Christmas Eve with them.

"And if you wouldn't mind mother's putting off your big time until Christmas Day, she'd be very much pleased," she coaxed.

"Bully for me," shouted Robert, "you know, Ma, the Boy Scouts meet to-night at the Parish House and there are to be games and presents. I'd rather go to that."

"Fine," said his mother, "And Hilda, you don't mind?"

"No'm", said Hilda dutifully. "I think it'll be nice to have change."

"You're sure you're quite well?" he mother asked, a trifle worried. Usually Hilda was not as tractable as this.

"Oh, I'm all right," said Hilda happily. Now everything was perfect. Robert had got the tree and with the aid of some other boys had dragged it into Edith's largest room, without the knowledge of the younger children. The two Blair children were to have supper very early so as to be "out from under foot," Mrs. Wing said. Robert would go off to his scouts and— Hilda knew her mother's parties—she would slip out the back way while the guests were at dinner, would help Edith trim the tree and fix the children's presents. At nine o'clock she'd come in again through the kitchen—perhaps Mrs. Wing would have to know—but by no one else would she ever be missed.

Mrs. Blair trailing through the sitting-room found her little daughter making "snow-balls" and "water-lilies" out of tissue paper. "For the Christmas tree the next day," she thought. "Hilda certainly has changed lately, so serious and thoughtful."

As soon as supper was over and Robert off, Hilda slipped out. "I've got everything," she announced to Edith joyfully a few moments later, holding up her mother's knitting bag crammed to the brim. And so she had. There were trimmings for the tree, ginger cookies, two pieces of pie and some biscuits which Mrs. Wing had let her make. These were a bit dingy in appearance, but still very palatable. Mrs. Wing had brought the chicken and vegetables and sent them to the house with a jar of preserves
taken from her own scanty store. It looked as though were going to be very fine indeed.

"We'll have to get to work right away, Edith," Hilda warned her, "because if my mother misses me, I'll get in a lot of trouble. Let's let the children come in while we are trimming the trees. That will be part of the fun."

The two girls pushed and pulled at the tree with their slender strength until they got it in the desired position. They had no tree-stand in which to balance it so they decided to stand it up in the corner.

"That's a good thing, too," said Hilda, "for some of the branches are a little dry and dead. Robert said this was the best he could do, for most of the small trees had already been cut down and he couldn't manage a large one by himself. So we'll just turn the dry part to the wall."

"Yes," said Edith, "that makes the branches touch the wall and that will hold it up. It's a lovely shape, and don't it smell good? Come and sniff at it, Benny."

They all worked on happily. Besides the "water-lilies" and "snow-balls" there were chains made of links of colored "glazed" paper, strands of tinsel, bits of white cotton for snow and a gold star. The tree soon shone resplendent. And the twins were besides themselves with joy.

"Won't Mama be surprised when she comes home?" shouted Benny.

"I had these extra sheets of tissue paper," said Hilda, "and I'm going to open them up and put them around the bottom of the tree, so as to hide the ugly trunk. That's the way my mother does. Oh, wouldn't it be grand if we had some candles?"

"I want a tandle," lisped on of the twins.

"I know," said Edith, "let's get that little stool and set it in the corner back of the tree and put a lamp on that. Then the light will shine through the branches and that will be prettier than candles."

It took only a moment to carry out these plans. The lamp was really a pretty poor substitute, but it does not take much to satisfy most children, and these five were completely happy.

"It ought to be a little more this side," said Edith critically. "Benny, you crawl in there again and pull it this way. "There!...Oh Benny!"

How it happened they never knew. Perhaps Benny's foot caught in the stool as he came out, perhaps he knocked the lamp with his little shoulder. Anyway, forward toppled the lamp,— the tissue paper caught fire first, then next the dry branches at the back of the tree, then the unplastered walls—in a second the room was in flames!

THE five children huddled together in frightened silence. Benny was the first to come to his senses. The twins were too little to help and the two older children for all their womanliness were reduced to helpless little girls.

"Come!" said Benny, "we must get out and call somebody. Hilda, take the babies, and Edith, you run down to Gower's"—the nearest family, nearly a block away,—"and I'll go to Sullivan's."

Off he flew, but Edith could do nothing. "What will my mother do?" she wailed, shivering on the chilly sidewalk. "Oh, Hilda, we haven't even a house now."

"You stay here," said Hilda starting to run down the deserted street. "I'll go get somebody." No one was at Gower's, as it happened, and no one next door. She remembered then hearing her father say Martin's Place had been a factory neighborhood and when the factory had closed down about a year ago most of the people had moved away.

She turned toward Sylvester Square, her little heart pumping, her short dress flying in the wind, to run straight into two men in uniform walking slowly across the park.

"Hullo, what's this?" said one of them putting out an arm to ward her off. But she clung to him.

"Oh, Mister!" she sobbed. "The house is on fire, and it's all my fault, and I don't dare go home and tell it!" She lifted a face stained with tears and soot toward the electric light.

"Why, it's my kid sister!" said the other young man aghast, picking up her in his arms. "This is Henry, Honey; your big brother just back from France. Don't you know me, Baby? What's this about a fire?"

She was wriggling out of his arms and straining toward Martin's Place. "It's Edith's house. She's so poor, Edith Jenkins, you know, and I tried to help her have a merry Christmas, and instead we've set the house on fire. Now Mrs. Jenkins won't have even a home and her biggest boy Clarence is dead—"


"Not much he isn't," and the other man who had been standing there stupefied came suddenly to life. "I'm Clarence Jenkins and I ought to know. Beat it, Henry, and I'll come as fast as I can with that kid." Hilda noticed then that he was walking with a cane.

Even then he got there at a surprisingly rapid gait. Benny had been more successful at the Sullivan's and quite a crowd had gathered about the burning dwelling and had managed to pull out a few pieces of furniture and some clothing. But it was useless to try to save the house.

But what did the Jenkins children care bout that when they saw their brother? They crowded around him with such joy and trust, and such pathetic relief on their little, tragic faces that the big-fellow could hardly keep back his tears.

"Where's Mother?" he asked Edith huskily.

"Over to my house," said Hilda promptly. "She was to go there about nine to help Mrs. Wing. It must be that now. Oh, Henry, what do you suppose Mama will say?"

"Not much, I don't think," said Henry," when she sees me and hears that a fine little sister I've got. Come on, kiddies, we'll go home and see what's what."

THEY made a strange procession, the children muffled in ill-fitting wraps borrowed from the Sullivans, and the two soldiers in their soot-stained khaki. Henry carried one twin and Clarence, for all his lameness, the other. Benny walked between Hilda and Edith, really leading them. for both felt sick with fright.

"We'll go in the kitchen," said Hilda tremulously.

"We will not," Henry spoke up. "You don't suppose two fine young men just coming home from war are going to sneak in the back way do you?"

He rang the front bell and Mrs. Jenkins, sent by Mrs. Wing to open the door, screamed so that Dr. Blair and his wife and even the guests came running out into the hall.

"It's Henry!" said his mother.

"It's my son!" said Mrs. Jenkins laughing and crying together. "It's my blessed, blessed boy!"

"Oh," said Henry, "I forgot; Clarence and I were in the same company you know. He saved my life, once,—I'll tell you ll about that some day,—so when he was gassed and badly wounded, although I already had my leave, I got permission to hang around until he was fit to travel, so I could bring him home. There was another Clarence Jenkins in the regiment—"

"Millions of them," murmured our particular Clarence.

"—and the authorities must have confused him with this one. He often used to get Clarence's mail. He really was killed, poor fellow. Anyways, we got in town tonight and I was getting Clarence home so he could give his folks a merry Christmas, but we found this young lady there engaged in doing that already." He pulled his little sister forward, and told all about the tree and the fire. "Mother you must not scold her."

"Scold her!" her mother echoed, pressing the stained, sooty face of her daughter against her dainty gown. "Mother's precious, unselfish darling! It's all my fault. Aren't you proud of her, Father?"

"I should say so," and he bent and kissed her, while Robert, respectful for once, gravely saluted her.

"Edith is brave, too," said Hilda warmly.

"Indeed she is," Dr. Blair answered.

"Mother, don't you think we can find room in this big house for all these folks until Lieutenant Clarence Jenkins gets on his feet?"

"Of course we can. Mrs. Jenkins, I'd love for you and your precious boy to have dinner with us and our precious son tomorrow, and I think Mrs. Wing would like to fix a Christmas dinner so the rest of our young folks can be together and talk over today's adventures."

"Suits me," said Mrs. Wing. She walked over to Clarence, her "transformation" more higgledy-piggledy than ever.

"To think you're back home and alive! It's a miracle, that's what I say."

"It's Merry Christmas to all!" said Edith Jenkins.



[illustration - When noon came all were dressed and on their way.]

RABBITS who live in the South, usually call the fall of the year a hard season, for when the fields are white with cotton, little boys and girls are carried to the fields in big wagons, and as they go up and down the long rows picking the fleecy white locks, the rabbits are often chased or killed, or their little ones are so disturbed that they are forced to leave their snug little homes in the big fields and move to the brier patch and thickets for safety until the cotton has been gathered.

In Farmer Smith's field, it is Bunny Cotton-tail who informs all the other rabbits at the opening of the cotton season, just the time when they must go to their hiding places; and it is Bunny Cotton-tail who informs them when the cotton season is over by giving a big Christmas dinner.

All day long, the little Bunnies must lie very still in their holes, because if they make the least noise, Mama Rabbit gives them a hard shake, or else pulls their tender little ears. Poor little Baby Cotton-tail said one day, as big drops of water hurried down his little brown cheeks, after Mama Cotton-tail had pulled his tiny ears, "I's sorry little boys and dirls have to pick old totton, tause I tain't breeve without making just a little noise, and my ears teep sore all the time."

Sunday was the only day that they could come from their secluded homes and discuss the gossip that each one heard from the passing cotton pickers. Often they pricked their ears and rubbed their noses briskly at their seeming fate. My but it seemed, especially to the little ones, a long time before "Christmas"! They counted and counted, but the nearer it approached, the longer the days seemed to grow. Finally, early one morning before the cotton pickers arrived, they received the glad news that Peter Rabbit, Bunny Cotton-tail's friend, had slipped to Bunny's house to help write and deliver the invitations for the occasion. That whole day, every one's heart felt lighter as he waited, almost breathlessly, for his invitation. How impatient all had grown. About midnight, the long expected message came. There was a rap-tap at each door, and as the door opened, Bunny Cotton-tail or Peter Rabbit politely handed in an invitation, and had each
assure him of his presence; however, no persuasion was necessary. The invitation read:

"You are invited to my party,
On Friday next to be;
Under the big oak at noontime,
Which means we'll soon be free.
Signed—Bunny Cotton-tail."

Friday before Christmas was the day appointed for their big dinner, as Christmas was always spent visiting. Thursday, before the dinner, was a rainy day, and little cotton pickers had to stay at home. So all the rabbits spent part of the day in running from house to house gossiping, and the other part was spent in getting their frocks in trim for the big occasion. Thursday night it rained and rained hard, and how glad they were, because then no one would come to harm them at their annual feast.

Friday morning, all were up early, and found the fields too wet for work, but Apollo soon hitched up his fiery steed, and drove the big red Sun in his chariot across the blue sky with more speed than ever. When noon came all were dressed, and on their way to the big oak. You should have seen them. The lady rabbits had gaily colored ribbons around their necks, while the gentlemen had brushed their hair until it wa shining like satin. Peter Rabbit was looking his best. His hair was brushed as slick as a mole's. He stood at the door and welcomed each guest, while Bunny Cotton-tail and his wife Sally escorted each to a seat. After having a short chat, they were called to the table, and Jack Rabbit was asked to bless the food and those who prepared it. I can't begin to tell you all they had, but I will tell you of a few things.

The table was decorated with white cotton boles, and in the center was a pyramid of green bell peppers with a red cranberry on top of each. A head of fresh lettuce was at each plate, and carrots were placed in rows up and down the long table. They had cabbage in every style, and green peas were served abundantly. All were happy; everything went well, and they laughed heartily as each told his well prepared joke.

[illustration - The Little Cotton Pickers]

But in their hurry, they forgot to put out a spy to warn them in case anyone should approach. In fact, they forgot everything but that dinner. They had never been so royally entertained. Everything was so different from their last dinner. But the big red Sun had dried the fields sufficiently for picking, and the little cotton pickers were carried back to the fields in the afternoon. As the long wagons rolled into the field, the little boys and girls jumped out, grabbed their sacks, threw them across their shoulders, and began picking. As the rows were so very long, they were allowed to rest at the end of each. Of all the children Baby Tom had more time than any to waste, for he was too small to do much good, but he always found them a good resting place. He had gotten midway his row when he spied the big, leafless oak tree in the distance. He knew that some of the roots had grown on top of the ground and would furnish them with nice seats. As they neared the end of their rows, Tome shouted:

"Hey! All of you. We'll rest under the big oak tree."

The big roots were quite inviting for a nice rest. Every hand waved, and each head nodded, which assured Tom that the place was settled upon. When they reached the end of their rows, all started in a trot for the oak. Dooley being the largest, ran the fastest, and was the first to see the Bunnies at dinner. He motioned his comrades to stop, but their speed was almost too great to check, but each stopped as quickly as possible. Dooley pointed to the rabbits, and as soon as the children saw them, they were eager for a chase.

Just at the time when the poor Bunnies felt at peace with all the world, little did they know that their fate was so near at stake. But Dooley finally persuaded the children to let him tell them about what hard times poor rabbits had during the cotton season. Soon all sat down quietly and listened attentively. With a pathetic expression on his little face, Dooley
told them how poor rabbits had to hide away during the cotton season and how hard it was for them to find enough to eat and how some naughty boys stole the little Bunnies from their mothers. He told them also of many, many other hardships which the rabbits had to endure and when he had finished his story he saw that he had won his case, for each little face expressed the desired sentiments. So the rabbits were left unharmed to enjoy the Christmas niceties that had been prepared by the gallant Bunny Cotton-tail.




MOST children will enjoy these games, for they themselves can make the materials for them. All that is needed is a trip to the library, some tracing paper, rather stiff card-board (bristol board is best), crayon and scissors. The scissors themselves are enchanting, for who does not love to snip, snip, snip?



GO to the nearest library, or perhaps your father's book-case, and get a volume containing large pictures of birds, beasts and fish. Now you are back at your table or desk ready for action. With the tracing paper transfer the outline of an animal from the book to the bristol board. Then color to suit your fancy or fill in simply with black crayon. Arrange at regular intervals on the left side of the card the letters spelling the name of the animal, then draw faint lines underneath each letter all the way across the card and slice off each portion thus:

L (Picture
I of
O Animal)
N cut on these lines.

When a great many of these cards have been and sliced, you will have a box full of sliced animals. The game then is for some one who knows the name of the birds and beasts to give to each player an assortment of slices which when put together will form and spell the picture and name of the animal. The little players should receive short names and the older ones long or unusual ones, such a cassowary or llama. My, won't you know a lot of natural history!



AGAIN, take your tracing paper and a book containing large capital letters. Transfer the whole alphabet to bristol board about a dozen times, then cut off each letter in blocks about an inch square. Thus:


The letters are then shuffled in a box and a clever girl or boy gives the other players the letters forming a word, all jumbled up together and the player without any help is to put them together to form the word meant. Thus one player might be given the word. WBOISRNE. Who can work out what that spells? The player forming the greatest number of words in a given time deserves a prize, don't you think?



THE Judge sits in his great chair and before it is a vast pile of packages.

"Presents—Christmas presents," yells Billie, gleefully.

"No," says the Judge,—"Unpresents."

"I'm afraid, Sir, I do not understand," says William.

"I do," say Wihelmina. "They are presents which are refused or unused or undelivered or—"

"Or which ought Never to Have Been," finishes the Judge. "You see it's the way; this Unpresent was given to a blind man."

"It's a motto for the wall," says Billies, "and I suppose there are slippers for the man without legs."

"Obviously," says the Judge, "but such mistakes are plain; consider, however, the Unpresent for Mother!"

"It's a book—Mother reads."

"Yes, but a book on 'Friendship' when Mother would like a treatise on breadmaking, or dress-fitting or good, thrilling novel. Every book is not a book for everybody. You don't say any word that happens in your head to any body that happens along—but you do pick up any volume in red if it's 59c. and say, 'That'll do for Mother.'"

"But, the shops are so crowded at Christmas time," says Wihelmina.

"Anybody who buys Christmas presents at Christmas time is missing the Christmas spirit."

"Would you suggest the Fourth of July or Labor Day?" asks William, politely.

"I would suggest, Sir, that for celebration of the great home festival of the year, we devote not six minutes' hurried thought late on the afternoon of December 24, but several weeks of planning in January, March, May, July and September—thinking of the needs and likes of our friends, picking up a book here, a bit of china there, making now this trifle for a wish and need and now that a life longing; thought, discrimination, loving remembrance—that makes the Christmas Present a dream of perfect life.

"But instead—look! Mary on the 22nd of December borrows and begs $5.27; rushes to the shops next day and looks over cheapnesses and prettynesses; divides, adds subtracts—'O,I, forgot something for Billikins—here's a woolly dog!'—Billikins has three woolly dogs and hates them. 'A handkerchief for Mother,'—tiny, sleazy, and poor. 'Something' for Ned. Ned has never been able to name it. He uses it as a paper weight—and so forth; this not the Christmas Spirit—it's idolatry."


"Yes, worshipping idols, of whom you are afraid."

"But, O, the Perfect Present—perfectly thought to the need—not costly, not gorgeous, but Just—What—I—Really—Wanted!"

"A dog," shouts Billie, "and a live one!"

"Where would you keep him?" asks Wihelmina scornfully. "Cooped up in that little backyard, I suppose!"

"And that's another thing," the Judge continues, "we should consider not only the possibility of making a gift which is the heart's desire, but also its suitability."

"Would you mind explaining, Sir?"

"Well, it would not be suitable to give Wilhelmina a diamond necklace. She could wear it, it is true, but she has no dress or costume to go with it. In other words, we should try to give people gifts which are in keeping with their general surroundings and conditions."

"I don't suppose you would like a Pierce Arrow?" Billie queries thoughtfully.

"Like it? Of course, but it wouldn't do for me. A man of modest means must content himself with equally modest clothes and modest belongings."

"What a pity!" Wihelmina says pensively. "Here we've been saving for a year to get you a gold cigarette-case; I suppose an ordinary leather one will have to do now,—,"

"Wait a minute," the Judge interposes anxiously, "don't you think that's different?"

[illustration - Marcellus Hawkins ]


I LIKE to hear old Howl-wind blow,
When I am safe in bed, you know!
All in and out and around about,
As if most strong and very stout!
I like it when old Howl-wind sings
Of seas and islands, ships and things,
And whispers tales of foreign lands,
And pirate treasure deep in sands!
But I like best when Howl-wind climbs
Way up the sky, where he, sometimes,
Fills great, big clouds chock-full of snow,
And bangs them round and to and fro;
And then the snow comes tumbling down
On every hill and street in town;
And when I wake, you ought to see,
The splendid coasting made for me!



I WAS in the second grade and my class had been looking forward since the opening of school to the Christmas party which my benevolent teacher, Miss Samuel, gave for her class every year.

It was the last day before the holidays, and we might talk and laugh all we wished during school hours. This had been going on for some time when suddenly every one straightened up in her seat and quiet reigned. Miss Samuel had raised her hand for silence. She said, "All children who have not come up to the average in deportment, please pass from the room so that my good, obedient pupils and I may enjoy the tree." Now our teacher's average mark was ninety per cent. and as I had received that every month I knew that I deserved to participate in the festivities. I felt sorry for those who had to leave the room and really felt like giving up my place to dear little Dorothy St. Clair, who got one hundred per cent. every month except once, when a mischievous friend of hers got into trouble and allowed Dot to be innocently blamed. As Dorothy would not tell tales, she had to miss the party while her guilty friend enjoyed it.

When all the children who had not come up to the requirements left the room, a curtain was drawn aside and we beheld one of the most beautiful Christmas trees I have ever seen. If was decorated in a profusion of silver and gold balls, also tinsel of every hue. It was lighted from top to bottom with tiny, colored, electric bulbs. With the shades drawn down it made a beautiful picture. After gazing at it awhile we let in the light and the distribution of gifts began. Every child gave another child and the teacher a gift. As the presents were handed her from the tree, Miss Samuel read the names thereon. We marched up proudly, one by one, to receive them. After all the things were given out we went up to the desk upon which had been placed a large box. We were each handed a string and at a signal pulled it. Every kind of candy container I have ever seen came to light and each child was delighted with a small package of home-made fudge, which Miss Samuel herself had made for us the day before.

The class then trooped into the Kindergarten, which was, to our surprise, decorated in holly and other seasonable greens. The teacher of the Kindergarten had remained after dismissing her class to play for us so that we might enjoy another hour of games. At the end of that time we returned to the school room, took our packages and started home, each little girl hoping that her unopened package would prove to be a doll.

That afternoon twenty other mothers besides my own listened to the story of our day of pleasure.


(A little French girl writes the following letter to an American who served in the Y.M.C.A. overseas. We have made no changes in her English. How may Brownies can write French equally well?)

DEAR Mister Seldon,

Just this morning I received your nice letter, and I will'nt wait for ansyer you. I pardon easely your delay, and I accept your excuses. I was sorry you had been sick and I sincerely hope you are quite well now. It is quite funny, is it not, my letters in English? You are too much indulgent indeed when you say I write better in your language. But English is so awfully difficult you know. Meantime I have very often the opportunity for reading English or American magazines, Saturday Evening Post and Cosmopolitan especially. Some time I have Life too but not often. I like very much all these magazines and Life is very funny. I thank you very much for the little story you send me. Pictures some time make better work than a long speech. Don't you think so? Once Madame Carpentier has given me two numbers of the BROWNIES' BOOK. They were very interesting indeed and I have had a great pleasure when I have read them. If once you write to the editor give him please, my congratulations will you?

AMLI, Bordeaux, France.



LITTLE Bud lived in an alley—one of those alleys you have heard of or read about that are peopled with that unfortunate class of mortals whose souls are as unlovely as their surroundings. Kindhearted people sometimes visit these alleys, but Bud could not remember any kinder faces than those of the dogs that often ran through and who always stopped, smiled at him through their eyes, and wagged their tails as he patted their heads.

The people of the alley all had hard faces like Jim, Bud's big papa into whose soul the alley atmosphere had entered and settled. Bud seldom saw him except early in the morning or late at night when he did not fall asleep from weariness before his arrival. He was only four years old.

In the alley there was mud—ugly, dark mud—and it was always under the feet of little Bud as he sat in the doorway of the place where he and Jim lived. But overhead there were stars— bright, glorious, twinkling stars that smiled and blinked down at him as he gazed up at them from his doorway at nights.

If he had gazed down at the mud under his feet perhaps the alley would have crept into his soul, but like a little plant in a dark cellar that always looks toward the light, so little Bud always looked upward and the stars that he saw at night beamed into his soul a heavenly glory and strength.

Most persons looking at him would have seen nothing beyond a dirty little black boy, but any one with a sight strengthened by experience and sympathy would have seen just what we see when we behold the black bulb of a lily. We see beyond the bulb the loveliness and purity inside.

Among the stars that shone on him at night there was a very bright star that Bud loved and felt in his soul that it loved him. Whenever it appeared he would laugh and cry out with delight and the mud and dark shadows of the alley were nothing to him as long as he could look up at his star. He was just as sure as he could be that it was twinkling and smiling right at him and into his little soul would creep a great gladness. Many great and wise men have gazed upon the stars and they gave to them nothing greater than was given to the soul of little Bud.

Now there came a time when it was not so pleasant to sit outside and watch the stars, but little Bud didn't mind the cold. When darkness came he would wrap his ragged little coat around him and sit outside waiting until his friend would appear. Coming in late several times, Jim found him sitting in the door asleep with his little coat drawn closely around him and his face turned toward the stars. Jim imagined that he was afraid to stay in by himself and the stars told him no better.

One day when it was very chilly and a drizzling rain was falling, little Bud looked upward from his window and longed for the night that would bring his shining friend.

Night came, dark and cloudy and with a chill that would have kept any small person but Bud inside. Drawing on his ragged little coat, he crept outside in the cold and looked upward, watching for his star.

Long he sat there looking for his friend, but no benign ray showed itself in the clouded sky. How long he sat there he did not know nor wonder, for the stars had taught him their eternal patience, and he neither sighed nor murmured but kept a steadfast gaze on the darkened heavens.

Finally his eyelids lowered and sleep came upon him. In his sleep he beheld very near him the star for which he longed. He cried out with joy and stretched out his hands to it but the star moved away, gently beaming on him all the while.

Little Bud opened his eyes and saw no sign of any stars in the sky. Suddenly there came into his mind this thought. Somewhere, must be his bright, shining star and he would go forth, somewhere, and find it!

Immediately he started up the alley, into which he had never traveled much farther than his own door. The drizzling rain commenced falling again, but for a long time he took no notice of it as his short, little legs carried him to the opening of the alley.

Suddenly there came into his mind a fear. Suppose Jim should come upon him as he was going to seek his star! It was late, but little Bud did not know that it would be still later
before Jim would get in. It was Christmas Eve night and Jim and his companions were out making merry after the fashion of those into whose souls the alley had crept. Little Bud had never heard of Christmas. Jim gave little thought to him save leaving food for him to eat during the day.

On and on he ran. He had now left the opening of the alley and had reached a dirty, paved street. He knew not where he was going, but he felt sure that he was going to find his star somewhere. So he kept on, looking upward with the image of his star in his heart.

Now the rain had turned into a snow and the feathery flakes were fast covering the pavement. Little Bud was becoming conscious of the cold but pressing his lips tightly together he ran on, looking upward.

Finally, when he had gone what must have been a great distance, for the street were clean and the lights brighter, he found himself nearing a house from which a bright light shone, sending forth a ray that cheered his little heart as the star had done.

Walking up to the place and looking in the window, he beheld a crowd of little boys and girls dancing around a tree—if it were tree! Bud wasn't sure. It looked to him like a tree on which were a hundred stars. He stood there mutely transfixed.

Suddenly, looking at the top of the tree, he beheld another star—a larger and brighter star. Oh, it was his very own star that he had come so far to find! It had left the sky to come and shine upon this tree and he had found it! He cried out with delight and stretched forth his little hands toward the window.

The children inside stopped and looked out of the window, gazing with surprise on the earnest, upturned face of little Bud.

Quickly the door opened and out came a lady with the kindest face he had ever seen. She gently led him inside, but he took no notice of the other children, only keeping his eyes on what was to him the wonder of wonders. Mrs. Chase, for that was the name of the Mother-matron of this children's home to which Bud's journey had led him, tried to learn something about him but he could tell very little, and indeed there was little to be told other than what was very apparent.

Touched by his silent adoration of the Christmas tree, she drew him gently to her and told him the story that you know and that is being told at this time every year to children all over the world. How his eyes glistened as she told him of the shepherds who watched their flocks by night and the journey of the Wise Men led by the star. How his little heart warmed within him as she told of the star resting over the birth-place of the Christ-child who had come from heaven to gladden all lives, especially such little souls as he.

Afterwards when a clean little Bud was put into a clean little bed in a room with some of the children, he looked out of the window at the sky and, to his great joy, saw that the black clouds had disappeared and his bright, friendly stars were in their places. Yes, and there too was his very bright star. Looking down into the room they had left, he saw the tree all dark. So the star had left it and gone back home.

Little Bud was awakened in the morning by the music of a Christmas carol sung by some of the children. Dreamily he listened to the words:

"God rest you, merry gentlemen,
Let nothing you dismay;
For Jesus Christ, our Savior,
Was born on Christmas day."

Later he heard the bells peal out loud and sweet their message "Peace on earth, good will to men." In little Bud's heart there was a great peace. Christmas had truly come to him— not just for a day but to stay with him always, and you may be sure that he never lived in the dark alley again.


Christmas Smiles

IF Santa Claus would bring me
The next time that he calls,
A ladder and some brushes,
A pair of over-alls,
Some linseed oil, a box of paint,
I tell you I'd do something quaint:
On Christmas Day I'd take a trip
To a thousand different places,
And spend the day in painting,
Painting smiles on people's faces.

[illustration - Our Little Friends ]



PICTURE a West African grammar school lad in Sierra Leone, later in England at Taunton College; he is now a short, very neat person whose charming manner wins friends for him among his teachers, and fellow students. In less than the usual time he is graduated from the University College as a surgeon and is made a member of the Royal College of Surgeons and licensed under the Royal College of Physicians. All this happened before he was 23 years of age.

Think of that!

And it's about Daniel Hughes Taylor. He married Alice Hare, an Englishwoman. On August 15, 1875, a son was born to them and named Samuel Coleridge-Taylor, after a great English poet.

One day a Mr. Joseph Beckwith, conductor of the orchestra at Croyden Theatre, saw Coleridge- Taylor, a well dressed, curly headed, dark, little boy, holding a very small violin in one hand and playing marbles with the other.

I'd like to have seen him, wouldn't you?

Mr. Beckwith succeeded in coaxing little Coleridge-Taylor into his house and placed before him a few simple violin pieces. He was amazed to hear the little boy play some of them in perfect time and tune, and he undertook to teach him about the violin and music in general.

Within a year or two Coleridge-Taylor was able to appear as a violin soloist with the natural skill of born musician. As to his size at the time, Mr. Beckwith says: "He was so small that I had to stand him on some boxes that he might be seen by the audience above the ferns."

So, you see, we're never too young to do wonders.

Coleridge-Taylor was a quick, nervous, shy [illustration - Samuel Coleridge-Taylor] and lovable temperament. He was devoted to his mother and tales have been told of his coming into the kitchen, where she was busy with home duties, to sing over to her a tune that he had written.

He attended the old British School in Croyden, where with his violin he led his class in singing; for he also was a singer with a treble voice that was true and sweet and won for him the place of soloist in St. George's and St. Mary's choirs.

It was the Christmas term in 1890 that he became enrolled at the Royal Academy of Music through Mr. Herbert A. Walters, honorary choirmaster at St. George. Here he studied violin, piano and harmony. In 1891 he had one of his compositions published through Novello & Company, "In Thee, O Lord". He was at this time only 18 years of age.

Coleridge-Taylor, I think, made even more rapid strides than his father.

But this is as it should be and would be with each one of us if we'd keep ambitious and happy,—no matter how poor or rich, how homely or pretty we are,—through each hard lesson and trying time.

In March, 1893, Coleridge-Taylor won a scholarship in composition and for two successive years, 1895-6, he won the Lesly Alexander prize for composition. His education had been that of an elementary school, but he was such a diligent reader, and so quick was his wit, so great his powers of assimilation, so retentive his memory, that he was able to hold his own among students of far more expansive education.

At the age of 19 he made his first independent public appearance at Small Public Hall, Croyden; on a program of six numbers four were his own compositions. He was graduated from
[illustration - "His grave is marked by a headstone of Carrara marble"]
the Royal Academy of Music in 1897 with honors.

Unknown to Coleridge-Taylor then, there was at Royal College an Englishwoman, a Miss Jessie S. Fleetwood Walmisley. She was dark, attractive and vivid and had a beautiful voice both for singing an speaking. Later the two met and married. To this union two children were born, Gwendolen and Hiawatha, who are both musical geniuses.

Among Coleridge-Taylor's compositions are songs, pianoforte and violin pieces with orchestral accompaniment, trios, quintets for strings and the clarinet, incidental music symphony, orchestral and choral works. He found his greatest inspiration in the Negro folk-song and wrote "Africa and America", "African Romances", "Songs of Slavery", "Three Choral Ballads" and "African Dances". Other works are "Othello", "A Tale of Old Japan" and "The Song of Hiawatha". Among his publishers are Novello, Ditson, Schirmer and Ricordi. He became an associate of the Royal College of Music, a professor in Trinity College and Crystal Society, the Rochester Choral Society, the Choral Choir and of the orchestra and opera at the Guildhall School of Music.

Coleridge-Taylor visited the United States three times; it was in England, however, that all these wonderful things came to him.

And then one morning in August, Coleridge-Taylor said to his wife: "I have had a lovely dream."

Upon her asking what it was, he said: "I dreamed I saw Hurlston in heaven. I was just entering. Of course, we couldn't shake hands, but we embraced each other three times. You know what that means," he added, "I am going to die."

On Sunday, the first September, 1912, one of the few pleasant days after a miserable summer, Coleridge-Taylor seemed weak; his wife read to him from one of his favorite works. Mr. W.C. Berwick Sayers, who has published through Cassell and Company a book on "Samuel Coleridge-Taylor —Musician—His Life and Letters", says: "Propped up by pillows, he seemed to imagine an orchestra before and an audience behind him. With complete absorption, and perhaps unconsciousness of his surroundings, he conducted the work, beating time with both arms, and smiling his approval here and there. The smile never left his face, and the performance was never completed on earth. Still smiling and conducting, he sank back on his pillow, and in that supreme moment of devotion to his art, his beautiful spirit set out on its voyage to the Land of the Hereafter."

He was only 37 years of age, but think of his accomplishments, his fame and his heritage to the world of mankind and to a race of people whose struggles and sufferings ever echo and re-echo in the hearts of their children.

In his coffin were placed masses of violets, his favorite flower, and his love letters. At Brandon Hill Cemetery, near Croyden, he was laid to rest amidst affection and regret. He grave is marked by a headstone of Carrara marble, erected by his wife and other lovers of the man and his music.


Bobby's Wishes

I WISH I had a musquash and a deer;
I wish I had a beaver and a frog;
I wish I had a big pond and a dam;
I wish I had a gold-fish and a dog.
I wish I had a big bear and a fox;
I wish I had a reindeer and a moose;
I wish I had a rabbit and a snake;
I wish I had a partridge and a goose.
I wish I had a bucksaw and a plane;
I wish I had some lumber and some tin;
And, if I had a hammer and some nails,
I'd build a pen at once to keep them in!



A Play in One Act


The King The Chamberlain The Physician Nyanza, the Prince Zanzibo, the Prince's black playmate The Queen The Queen's attendants, the Prince's playmates, sentinels. Time—The FuturePlace—The last Kingdom of the World.

WHEN the curtain rises we see a great, high-ceilinged hall. At the right is a dais upon which are three chairs—one large and high-backed, with one smaller chair at each side of it. This room is sometimes used as a reception hall and sometimes the King sits here and judges the affairs of his subjects. In the center of the rear wall is arched doorway. At each side of the doorway a sentinel marches to and fro. For a while they march to and fro in silence but they soon become weary of this and begin to talk.

First Sentinel—

(Stopping)The place is dreary since the Prince has gone.

Second Sentinel—

(Stopping)He has not gone.

First Sentinel—

I mean since he goes out so often.

Second Sentinel—

His going out all day has been food for his health.

First Sentinel—

Where does he go?

Second Sentinel—

To play.

First Sentinel—

I know he goes to play and playing has made him a robust fellow; but where does he play?

Second Sentinel—

He plays in the castle gardens out of sight of anyone looking from the castle windows. To see him one must go without the gates and walk as far as the ivy-covered wall and look to the left.

First Sentinel—

Does the King go there?

Second Sentinel—


First Sentinel—

You speak as if you are quite sure of it.

Second Sentinel—

I know a secret.

First Sentinel—

A secret about whom?

Second Sentinel—

About the Prince's playing.

First Sentinel—

What do you know?

Second Sentinel—

The Prince plays with boys.

First Sentinel—


Second Sentinel—


First Sentinel—

But the King has ever forbidden that.

Second Sentinel—

I know. I said it was a secret.

First Sentinel—

The Chamberlain has orders from the King.

Second Sentinel—

And the King has ordered him to obey the Prince.

First Sentinel—

What if the King's orders and the Prince's orders conflict?

Second Sentinel—

Then the Chamberlain must use whatever judgement he has to bring them into harmony.

First Sentinel—

What of these boys? How do they enter the outside gates of the garden?

Second Sentinel—

The Chamberlain lets them in at the Prince's orders.

First Sentinel—

But if the King should learn?

Second Sentinel—

Then the Chamberlain must justify his act as best he can.

First Sentinel
(Raising a warning hand)—

Someone comes.

(They resume their march to and fro, the King enters, followed by the Chamberlain. Although it is in future times, the King is dressed in the royal robes of the ancient Kings.)
The King
(To the Chamberlain)—

I must commend you for your good care of the Prince. His health has improved wonderfully.

The Chamberlain—

It was my duty, Sire.

The King—

And you have ever been faithful to your duty. The Physician is on his way here after a year's travel in foreign lands. He will wish to know with what success his plans have been followed concerning the Princes' health. He will commend you. Others advised that the Prince be allowed to go among the common children, but we find that playing alone in the castle grounds was good.

The Chamberlain—

Yes, Sire.

The King—

Do not leave my side while he is
here, and you shall hear his story of other lands where monarchies have fallen and there are no kings, of wild, unreasonable places where no one rules but a band of serfs.

The Chamberlain—

How do serfs rule? Their business is to obey.

The King—

Well said. Then you shall hear of their misrule. And when this man of medicine has gone I shall reward you for your great part in helping to bring back the Prince's health.

The Chamberlain—

Sire, a thousand thanks.

The King—

If this Physician's story of other lands is one of discontent and unhappiness then this, the latest kingdom of the world, should increase in power and increasing last forever.

The Chamberlain—

I see no reason why it should not last.

The King—

Send a messenger to learn if the Physician has come; and if he has come have him directed here.

(The Chamberlain goes to the archway, claps his hands for a messenger, and gives the order).
The King
(As the Chamberlain returns)—

I am most anxious about these countries. If all their plans succeed our kingdom may be doomed.

The Chamberlain—

They cannot succeed, Sire. The lower orders will never learn to rule.

The King—

I know it. I know it well; and still I fear.

(The Physician enters. He is too democratic to kneel. In fact, all classes have lost much of their servility in these days).

The King—

Welcome to our kingdom, the last of the world.

The Physician

It is good, Sire, to see you so alive, so strong and healthy.

The King—

Good health is the blessing of my line.

The Physician—

For that reason I knew the Prince would be himself again. He has improved?

The King—

More than my fondest dreams could picture him.

The Physician—

Then I am well rewarded.

The King—

You must see him.

The Physician—

I wish to, Sire.

The King
(To the Chamberlain)—

Have the Prince hailed before me.

The Chamberlain—

I would go for him, Sire.

The King—

No, have him hailed. I wish you here.

(The Chamberlain goes to the archway and gives a messenger orders to have the Prince brought before the king.)
The King
(To the Physician)—

How found you the rest of the world?

The Physician—

The rest of the world is happy beyond all dreams of happiness.

The King—

You mean the people rule with some success?

The Physician—

With all success, Sire.

The King—

But wars and discord should keep them unsuccessful.

The Physician—

They have no wars.

The King
(In surprise)—

No wars!

The Physician—

They know that they must fight the wars themselves, so they have no wars.

The King

If what you say is true, my kingdom surely cannot last forever.

The Physician—

I fear not, Sire.

The King—

I notice even here there is some discontent; the people talk of equality and are hearing things from abroad.

The Physician—

Your kingdom may last long; it may fall soon.

The King—

If it but last my reign!

The Physician—

And of your son, the Prince?

The King—

The boy is young. He can remold himself to the ways of the world.

The Physician—

Yes, youth can endure the change better than age.

The King—

I sadden when I think of the state of the world,—the people forgetting authority, forgetting the difference between King and slave, not knowing Prince from menial.

The Physician—

The Utopia of which they preached has come.

The King—

And what Utopia do they preach now?

The Physician—

They say they will enjoy these new worlds for a while, then think of the future.

(There is a great noise heard in the hallway.)
The King

What noise is this?

(As the Chamberlain starts to the doorway, the Prince, a boy of twelve, enters, followed by four or five boys of similar age. They are all ragged and dirty.)
The King—

What can this mean?

The Prince—

You wished me, Sire?

The King
(In angry tones)—

Must I pick out the Prince from all this rabble? What means it, Chamberlain?

The Chamberlain—

I know not, Sire. I was commanded to remain with you.

The Prince—

These are my friends.

The King—


The Prince—

Yes, Sire.

[illustration - "He is my friend!"]
The King
(To the Chamberlain)—

Were you commanded that he play alone?

The Chamberlain—

Yes, Sire.

The King—

Friendship does not become full grown in an hour. What means it? You ignored my commands?

The Chamberlain—

Sire, you commanded; and in all things I obey you. But you also commanded that I obey the Prince; and the Prince commanded that I open the garden gates.

The King
(To the Prince)—

Is this true?

The Prince—

Yes, Sire.

The King—

Did I not say it was uncomely to mingle with inferiors?

The Prince—

They are my equals.

The King—

Equals! Have I lived to hear equality preached by a Prince of my own blood?

The Prince—

They have proved it, Sire.

The King—

How proved themselves your equals?

The Prince
(Indicating a black boy)—

Zanzibo can throw me to the ground, but I can beat him in a race. (Indicating another boy)—This boy can cast a stone farther than I, but I out-swim him. (Pointing to another boy)—That boy, the other black one standing there, can climb to the summit of the highest tree, while I climb half the height.

The King—

But of your blood. Why speak of these mean things? What of your blood?

The Prince—

We tried that, Sire. Each of us pricked himself with a needle's point and gave one drop of blood upon a parchment. Then walking at a distance, turned again to where the parchment lay, but could not tell one drop of blood from the other.

The King—

How long has this been going on?

The Prince—

Since I began to play.

The King—

Then it must stop at once.

The Prince—

I will not play without them.

The King—

Do you not know that every moment you play with them you lose a certain measure of their respect?

The Prince—

I will not play if they are taken from me.

The Physician—

Sire, the Prince must play or his health will fall to what it was before.

The King—

Then he must play alone.

The Prince—

I will not!

The King—

I'll throw you into chains!

The Prince—

Humiliate a Prince of you own house?

The King
(After pondering)—

I'll compromise. I still remember that a Prince of the blood is above the punishment we give to menials. Choose one of these as playmate and let the others go.

The Prince—

And may this one remain in the castle?

The King—


The Prince
(Putting his hand on the shoulder of the black boy who stands beside him)—

Then I choose Zanzibo.

The King—

What! Choose a black!

The Prince—

He is my friend!

The King—

Choose you a white one.

The Prince—

You said choose one. You said not black or white, and I have chosen.

The King—

Will you cross me in all things?

The Prince—

Zanzibo is my friend. We love each other.

The King
(After pondering a moment)—

Chamberlain, take those two away, clean them and dress them in the finest garments and bring them back as quickly as you can. Send these others out and have it announced to the Queen that the King would see her here.

(The Chamberlain and all the boys go out.)
The King—

This new idea is flying through the world; the pauper thinks himself the Prince's equals. The black and white have come too close together. It must be stopped.

The Physician—

Nothing can stop it, Sire; the world is wild with new ideas.

The King—

And he even chose a black for his companion!

The Physician—

Blacks have been kings of the world in other days.

The King—

That's where the trouble comes. They are too numerous, too dangerous; they may usurp the power of the world again.

The Physician—

The power of the world belongs to all the people, and no one race shall rule the world again.

The King—

I have a plan that will subdue the Prince, will make him spurn that black.

The Physician—

A new idea—

The King—

The Queen comes.

(The Queen and two ladies have entered. The King and Physician bow.)
The Queen—

Sire, you wished me here?

The King—

I was in a dilemma.

The Queen—

What puzzles the King?

The King—

The Prince has chosen a black boy for his companion and will not play without him.

The Queen—

Why must he have a companion?

The King—

He will not play without one.

The Physician—

And play is necessary to his health.

The King—

I have a plan that will settle that.

The Queen—

What plans the King?

(The King goes up to the large chair and sits.)
The King—

In all my years of rule one thing I learned and learned as thoroughly as I learned the book, and it is this: Kings and Princes and those of higher blood hate others who rise up from lower classes to be their equals, nor do they love too much equals in their own class.

The Queen—

And what of this?

The King—

On this I'll base my plan to outwit the Prince. He chose that black boy; now I'll promise him to let the boy stay if he will agree to have the boy made equal unto him, a Prince of these domains.

The Queen
(In surprise)—

A black Prince!

The King—

A black Prince if he will, but our Nyanza will tire of this unreal equality when he sees one rising from far below to share his power.

The Queen—

I do not like this plan. Suppose Nyanza willingly accepts him? You say a strange idea is in the world, and strange ideas are appealing to the young. If he is once accepted you cannot break your promise. The King's promise cannot be broken.

The King—

It cannot fail. The law runs through all nature. The Prince looks down on the man, the man on what's lower than he is, on down to the toad that looks upon the snake as he inferior.

The Queen—

I do not like the plan.

The King—

it cannot fail. Watch, when I state it, Nyanza spurn the black.

(Nyanza and Zanzibo return, followed by the Chamberlain. Both are dress in the finest garments, and the black boy looks equally as princely as the white. They stand before the King.)
The King—

Chamberlain, you have done well. (To the Prince) When you, Nyanza, chose this boy your friend, a plan occurred to me. The nation is one-fifth black, and I am old. Now if you love the boy as friend and equal I promise to make him a Prince equal to you in power, and at my death ruler of half the kingdom.

The Prince
(In surprise)—

Sire, is this a promise?

The King
(Thinking he has gained his point)—

I speak it from my heart, and the King's promise cannot be broken.

The Prince
(To his friend)—

What say you, Zanzibo?


I say that if the King so honors me, my whole life shall be given to the task, and all the effort within human power will I extend to fill the place with honor.

The Prince—

Well said. (To the King) Now, Sire, I like your terms and I accept!

The King

You accept!

The Prince—

Yes, Sire.

The King—

You accept as equal that boy standing there?

The Prince—

According to the terms of your promise, Sire.

The King

Have you thought, Nyanza? This makes him a Prince and equal unto you in all things?

The Prince—

Sire, I accept your terms.

The King—

And you hold me to my promise?

The Prince—

And King's promise cannot be broken.

The Queen—

I said at first I did not like the plan.

The King—

Chamberlain, help me out.

(The Chamberlain assists the King to the door where the King stops and turns, pointing his trembling finger at his son.)—
The King—

Undutiful son, you shall have your fill of this equality. I said a black should never rule in this kingdom. The King's promise cannot be broken. At the coming midnight and forever after, this shall be no more kingdom. The power shall go into the hands of the people. Now glory in you equals!

(He goes out.)
The Prince

This last decree is better than the first. At last the people will be happy!

(He and Zanzibo join hands as the others go out.)Curtain.



THE forests, which I see as I fly, are full of Christmas trees—beautiful pines now tall, now small, covered with glistening snow and tiny star lights and all the good things of the world! But oh, alas! about them lie, stretched in the cold, all the hungry children of Europe, and instead of carols I hear their sobs!

  • General Wrangel has been completely defeated by the Russian Bolsheviki and has taken refuge in Constantinople. This apparently ends the last armed opposition against the present rulers of Russia.
  • In order to facilitate British trade with Germany, Great Britain has given up her right to confiscate goods sent by German merchants before and during the war.
  • A great coal strike has taken place in England. On October 18 a million miners stopped work, throwing nearly a million other laborers out of work on account of lack of coal. Railway workers threatened that unless the strike was settled in 48 hours they would go out. The result was a parley with the government by which the miners received an increase of two shillings a day in wages.
  • Unfortunately, this does not settle the question of the ownership of the mines. A commission reported that the government ought to buy and own mines but Lloyd George has taken no step toward this.
  • Great Britain has sent 16 of her international agreements to the League of Nations for registration and publication.
  • The American Child Feeding Fund is feeding 300,000 children a day in Austria. It is said that five million children in central and eastern Europe will suffer the pangs of hunger this winter.
  • During the last 8 years 34,000 passports annually have been issued for traveling abroad, but in 1919 there were 98,000 passports issued and even more in 1920. However, before the war many travellers did not use passports. Now it is compulsory in European travel.
  • The Italians and Jugo-Slavs have come to an agreement concerning Fiume and Dalmatian Coast. Fiume is to be a free state and the Jugo-Slavs are to have outlets to the sea on the coast and among the islands. It is said that D'Annunzio, the ruler of Fiume, is not satisfied with this settlement.
  • The King of Greece is dead from being bitten by a pet monkey. It is unsettled as to who will succeed him. The recent elections have removed from power Venizelos, the prime minister. He wished Prince Paul, a younger brother, to succeed him but there is talk of restoring former King Constantine.
  • The insurgent Polish army is still holding Vilna and other parts of Russia in defiance of the peace treaty and the will of the League of Nations.
  • The Nobel prizes are given annually to writers, scientists and philanthropists. For 1920 the prize in literature went to Knut Hamsun, a Norwegian novelist.
  • Terrence McSwiney, former Lord Mayor of Cork in Ireland, voluntarily starved himself to death in prison as a protest against English rule. His bravery and devotion have arrested the attention of the civilized world.
  • The government at Pekin, China, has declared that the civil war between northern and southern China is at an end, and called for the election of a new parliament.
  • Alfredo Zayas has recently been elected President of Cuba.
  • The French government, after some hesitation, has been compelled to reduce the two year period of military service, compulsory on all young Frenchmen, to a period of 18 months. This, however, will not go into effect immediately.
  • The League of Nations consists of two legislative bodies,—the Council, where the great nations are represented and which has really most of the power, and the Assembly, where
    all the nations will be represented. The Council has had several meetings and has recently decided to establish a permanent Court of International Justice.
  • Forty-one nations representing the popular assembly of the new League of Nations have met at Geneva, Switzerland. This is the greatest meeting of the governments of the world that has ever taken place in the history of mankind. The United States is the only large nation not represented. This is unfortunate and will undoubtedly be remedied.
  • It is said that a treaty arranging for trade between Russia and Great Britain is nearly ready for signature. Other nations will probably follow England's lead.
  • There has been financial trouble in Cuba on account of the fall in the price of sugar. Sugar has been kept from the market in order to force high prices. But with the general and inevitable fall of prices since the war this attempt at speculation threatens Cuba with disaster. Various efforts have been made in Cuba and the United States to avoid a panic.

THE forests, which I hear as I fly, are full of the winds of the laughter of children. Children of wide and rich America full of feasting, happy and running and sliding in snow. Ah! Little, happy children, what are you doing to stop the tears of the hungry babies of Europe?

  • On Tuesday, November 2, Warren Gamaliel Harding, of Ohio and Calvin Coolidge, of Massachusetts, were elected President and Vice-President of the United States for the four year term beginning March 4, 1921. During the campaign it was charged that President Harding had colored blood. Notwithstanding this, he received the largest popular vote ever given to an American President.
  • In a presidential election the people of each state vote for electors. The number of electors is the same as the number of representatives and senators from the state in Congress. The party that gets the largest number of votes casts the whole electoral vote of the state for its presidential candidate. In this way, Harding and Coolidge obtained about 360 electoral votes out of 531, leaving 171 for Cox.
  • About two million votes were cast for the Socialist party whose candidate, Eugene V. Debs, is locked up in the Atlanta Penitentiary. He did not believe in war and refused to say that he did, and the authorities have not been fair enough to recognize his honesty and release him.
  • A land law to prevent the Japanese from buying or leasing land in California was approved in the last election.
  • It is estimated that four billion dollars will be required to meet the expenses of the government in the next year. Over nine-tenths of this will be required to pay the expenses of war, either past or present or future. This is a tremendous argument for disarmament and peace. With the money that we waste on war we could give every American child a free college education.
  • There has been a great and continuous decline in prices, especially in the price of cloth. This has been accompanied with some curtailment of employment, so that there are number of people unemployed.
  • In the South, "night-riders" have tried to stop the ginning of cotton so as to keep the price up.
  • The imports to the United States from Europe have doubled in the last year while the exports were over five hundred million dollars less than in 1919. This means that Europe is beginning to pay some of her debts to the United States. As there is no international money, all debts between countries must be paid in goods.
  • An investigation into the reason of the high cost of building materials has taken place in New York City. It has been shown that bribery and monopoly have artificially increased the price.
  • A crime wave of stealing and murder has followed the war all over the country, and indeed over the world.



"NO, there ain't no Santa Claus at all," Jim assured himself and then went to his mother's room to tell about it.

"Well, Jim," his mother said, "some news for mother?"

"Ma, there ain't no real Santa Claus at all. I know there ain't and I don't believe in him."

"Why Jim!" his mother gasped, "Don't you know you must not say that? Why, If Santa Claus should hear you he wouldn't even come near this house Christmas, and there you'd be without a single toy on Christmas day."

"But there ain't none," Jim assured her. "So he can't bring no toys. I know all about it. Pa just buys those toys and things from the store, 'cause I heard him say how much my wagon cost. I know, I know; you can't fool me."

"It's not a matter of fooling, but you must not talk so fast. Wait until you really know. Why—"

"But why are there so many?" Jim interrupted. "I know when I was down in Newark yesterday I saw about fifty Santa Clauses, and there's only supposed to be one. In every store and on every corner there was a different Santa Claus. Now how can that be? I know, there ain't none."

"Oh, Jim, you should never talk like that. Why you don't know what you're saying. Come here and let me tell you all about it. You don't know quite as much as you think you do."

Jim went over to his mother and settled himself in the big chair ready to listen, not because he wanted to but because he had to obey.

"Of course there is but one real Santa Claus," his mother explained, "and you see a good many more."

"Yes and—"

"Just a minute, please. Now do you think that Santa Claus himself could make toys enough for all the children in the world? And how could he, without any helpers, visit all the homes in one night? At one time there was but the one Santa Claus, the real one, and he did all the work all alone, but the world got so large and there were so many children that he had to have helpers. All these men you see are Santa Claus' helpers."

"Well, why do they dress like Santa Claus and call themselves Santa Claus? They ain't."

"Those suits are the uniforms that all of Santa Claus' helpers have to wear in order that we may know them when we see them. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Jim slowly. He really hated to think he didn't know everything, and he had never thought about Santa Claus having helpers.

"And as for the names," his mother continued, "it's much easier for the children to remember the one name than it would be to remember all their different names."

"Well that might be true, but Santa Claus does not bring toys to all the children; he couldn't," protested Jim. "Folks just go and buy them from the stores."

"Now there's where you're wrong again. Santa Claus has a great big factory up at the North Pole where he and his helpers live. They make toys in that factory. Then he sends a sample of each toy to every factory in the country and the different factories make the toys just as Santa Claus has all the toys shipped to the different stores. You know he has to have some place to put the toys and the stores are the place for them. Then the children go to the stores, pick out what they want, then write Santa Claus so he'll know what to bring."

"But he doesn't bring what you write for," argued Jim. "He didn't bring that base-ball suit I asked for."

"Well wouldn't you expect him to use some judgement? Do you suppose if you should ask for a carving knife that he would bring it to a little boy like you? What on earth would you do with it?"

"No, but a base-ball suit, what was wrong with that?"

"You were too small and Santa Claus knew you'd soon outgrow it and a suit like that costs too much."

"There, I told you so!" Jim exclaimed. "I knew you bought those things. Uh-huh! I know all about it."

"Why of course papa has to pay for them. Did you think Santa Claus could afford to give all those toys away? How could he ever pay
his helpers? What kind of a millionaire did you think he was? Why I never heard of such a thing.

"Let me tell you how it is," his mother explained. "You write Santa Claus a letter. He looks it over and decides on the things he thinks you should have. Then he asks your papa if he can pay for all those things. If papa agrees, then Santa Claus puts them on his order and send them to you. But papa has to pay for them."

"Well, then, what good is Santa Claus, anyway?"

"If there were no Santa Claus there'd be no toys and nobody to fill children's stockings."

Jim was so disappointed to find that he didn't know as much as he thought, that he just made believe he didn't believe in Santa Claus, although he really did, and he just shouted, "I don't believe in Santa Claus! There ain't none, and if there is he don't need to bring me no toys, 'cause papa has bought them and the store will send them."

Just then Jim heard a voice in the chimney say, "All right, Jimmy; you don't have to believe, and I won't even stop here tonight. We'll see if the store sends any toys!"

"Oh," cried Jim. "I believe! I was only fooling; I believe!"

And he shouted so loud that he scared himself. He jumped up with a start and rubbed his eyes. "Gee," he said, "I'm glad that was only a dream! I'll run downstairs and see if it's real or not."

There in the living-room was a great big Christmas tree and all the toys Jim had written for. And let me tell you, if there had ever been any doubt in Jim's mind as to whether there was a real Santa Claus or not, it was all cleared away that day.


Little People of the Month

IN Cincinnati, Ohio, a group of girls have formed the Victory Girls' Musical, Literary and Debating Society. The club is two years old and a part of the Douglass School Community Center.

The work of this club along literary and cultural lines has attracted citywide attention among both white and colored people. Last June, during the Institute of Community Center and Community Service Workers, Mr. Frank P. Goodwin, Director of [illustration - Top Row—Mary Gordon, Breta Walker, Ida Mae Rhodes, Mattie Thomas, Rebecca Holiday, Irene Frye. Second Row—Helen Cockran, Mary Taylor, La Verne Friason, Azalia Roots, Leda Roberts, Resead Berry, Vivian McCaleb, Sarah Parham Third Row—Virginia Toomey, Pauline Jackson, Miss Margaret L. Davis, Louise Penn, Carrie Glenn. Fourth Row—Irene Pierce, Jessie Grear.]
Community Centers in the Cincinnati Public Schools, said in one of his lectures on clubs: "The Victory Girls' Club of the Douglass School Community Center is best organized and the best representative club group, white or colored, in the city of Cincinnati."

The Victory Girls have as their motto the words of Abraham Lincoln,—"I will study and get ready, and then maybe the chance will come."

The first verse of their club song is:

We are the Vict'ry Girls,
We come to cheer the world,
With mirth and song.
United we will strive,
In every righteous drive,
To do whate'er betide,
Our very best.

The words are by Mrs. I. Garland Penn, a colored woman, and the song is sung to the tune of "America."

Among the Victory Girls are three students of the University of Cincinnati: Ida Mae Rhodes, Helen Walker and Florence McNorton (Honorary, Howard University); two of the Kindergarten Training School: La Verne Friason and Louise Penn; one of the Metropolitan School of Music: Helen Walker; and one of the School of Music: Marie Penn; the other girls are high school students. The club is in charge of Miss Margaret L. Davis.

[illustration - The Debating Team Sitting—Sarah Parham (Capt.) Helen Robinson. Standing—Ida Mae Rhodes (Alternate) Mary Gordon.]




IT was Christmas morning. Tommy Brown sprang out of bed and ran joyfully to his stocking, which hung by the fire place, from the top of which pointed a bright tin horn, the goal of his wishes. He immediately began a wild and triumphant tooting, but suddenly he stopped short in amazement, for there, seeming to glide from the very heart of the horn, was a tiny fairy who looked upon him with a smile.

Before Tommy could collect his scattered
[illustration - "What does the clear book say about the cheerful giver?"] wits the fairy spoke thus: "The Fairy Queen wishes you to attend her at once in the Court of Fancy-clime. Shall we take the rainbow and obey?" With that she clapped her hands and Tommy saw a tinted rainbow appear at his feet.

As in a dream he found himself consenting, and they were soon whirling swiftly, far above the church spires, through the downy clouds that melted as they passed.

At length the rainbow settled in a field of blooming buttercups and the little fairy said, "Welcome to Fancy-clime."

Stains from far-away zithers came softly, and above them rose the shrill voice of children singing. The words were sweet but strange to Tommy.

He was ushered at once into the presence of the Queen who greeted him from her shell-like throne, her black eyes shining like stars from her red-gold face. Like a daffodil she seemed in her pale-yellow foam robe. "Welcome, little world-boy," she cried with quick glances. "What is that you hold so closely in your hand?"

"My new horn," was the stammered reply. "I only got it this morning. Santa brought it."

Then the fairy clapped her hands and Tommy saw a strange sight. Suddenly a cloud appeared and as swiftly disappeared, and Tommy gazed in amazement upon a poor, little, ragged girl. She was looking toward her empty stocking, which hung by the fire-place in a bare and cheerless room. Tommy gazed earnestly at the scene before him, forgetting the fairies and his strange trip—forgetting everything but the sorrow of the little girl. Finally she turned her eyes away from the empty stocking and saw Tommy, at the same time spying his little tin horn, as he thought. Her eyes widened, she took a step forward, and putting her thin brown finger in her mouth, stood waiting.

Tommy thought deeply for a moment, then stepping forward boldly, said, "Oh, little girl, do take my Christmas horn; it makes beautiful music."

Smiles were rippling upon the little girl's face as she took from Tommy's hand—not a horn but a beautiful doll, her heart's dearest wish.

Then the scene faded and Tommy found himself looking into the pleased face of the daffodil
Queen who spoke thus: "Where have you been, Tommy?"

"I do not know, Queen Fairy, but I thought I saw a poor little girl who had no Christmas gift. I gave her my horn but it turned into a doll. I do not understand."

The fairy nodded her thick curls and questioned further, "Are you sorry that you gave your horn away?"

"Oh, no!" cried Tommy, "I am glad I gave it to the little girl."

Just then a fairy bearing a book with glass leaves appeared. "Read," said the Fairy Queen. "What does the clear book say about the cheerful giver?"

"He who gives freely and joyfully becomes the child of all the fairies. Although he gives away, he keeps, and happiness is always round about him."

Here the fairy closed the book and disappeared. The Fairy Queen then said:

"Blow upon your horn,
And your wishes shall be born."

Tommy, to his great amazement, saw that he was still holding in his hand the little tin horn which he thought was lost to him. He was about to raise it to his lips when the Fairy Queen said, "Wait!"

She clapped her hands and immediately Tommy saw the self-same rainbow which had brought him to Fancy-clime, sailing gently to his feet. At the same moment appeared the little fairy who had attended him there. She took him by the hand and they seated themselves on the rainbow which rose softly, and in a trance Tommy found himself standing before his Christmas stocking, rubbing his eyes in wonderment.

His mother had come into his room and seeing Tommy so dazed said, "What ails you, Tommy-boy?"

"I've had a wonderful trip, mother dear, to Fancy-clime where the fairies live, and they gave me a strange gift. I can give to anyone whatever he wishes. Try me."

His mother laughed and waving her hands in the air sang:

"I should like a coach and four,
Standing, prancing, at my door."

Tommy flourished his horn and blew softly—then do you know a very wonderful thing happened—a fine coach with real horses, four of them, stood restlessly pawing the earth in front of their little cottage, and Tommy's mother gazed in astonishment. Tommy's eyes widened too as he saw it, but he said, "Wish on, mother dear."

And as she wished, Tommy blew upon his horn enough presents for themselves and all the village folk beside.


Two Christmas Songs



LAST night I saw a crescent moon
Hang slimly silver in the sky;
A white cloud floated very near,
A star of gold was hovering by.
I watched and watched them through the night
And wished they were not hung so high.
I think the moon a cradle was
In which the little Lord lay sleeping;
The cloud a downy, fleecy quilt
Kept chill and cold from near Him creeping;
The star, a golden angel's eye,
Was watch and ward above Him keeping.



ON Christmas Eve I lie awake
Far, far, I'm sure, into the night,
And watch until a golden star
Floods all my little room with light.
Some shepherds in the days of old
Watched, just like me, that star of gold.
And as I lie there in the gloom
I tell myself the Christmas story,
And how the little Savior Christ
Forsook for us His state and glory,
And came a little, lovely child
To save the earth, so sin-defiled.
And bye and bye my rooms grow vast,
The golden star shines close and clearer;
And music that seemed far and faint,
Drifts in about me near and nearer.
The bells in myriad churches ring,
And, Hark! the Herald Angels sing!



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ONCE upon a time there lived a Good Fairy whose daily thoughts were of pretty little boys and girls and of beautiful women and handsome men and of how she might make beautiful the unfortunate ones whom nature had not given long, wavy hair and smooth, lovely complexion. So she waved her magic wand and immediately gave to those who would be beautiful a group of preparations known from that time, fifteen years ago, to-day and at home and abroad as


Wonderful Hair Grower Vanishing Cream
Glossine Cleansing Cream
Temple Grower Cold Cream
Tetter Salve Antiseptic Hand Soap
Vegetable Shampoo Complexion Soap
Superfine Face Powder (white, rose-flesh, brown)
Floral Cluster Talcum Powder
Antiseptic Dental Cream
Witch Hazel Jelly

Results from the use of our preparations especially noticeable in the hair and skin of children.

Very liberal trial treatment sent anywhere
upon receipt of a dollar and a half.

640 North West Street Dept. 1-X Indianapolis, Indiana