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The Brownies' Book
New Year Number January, 1921
Price 15 cts.
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The 1921 CRISIS CALENDAR
is in keeping with our high standards of past years. It contains excerpts
from the works of foremost Negro authors—an artistic and valuable
reminder.
"As the Days of the Year Go By" Price 50 Cents
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A copy of the 1921 CRISIS Calender will be sent free to any person sending us
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before January 31, 1921.
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| Souls of Black Folk. (W. E. B. DuBois) |
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Address
THE CRISIS
70 FIFTH AVENUE : : : NEW YORK, N. Y.
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THE BROWNIES' BOOK
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, Managing Editor; Augustus Granville Dill, Business Manager
VOL. 2. No. 1. JANUARY, 1921 WHOLE No. 13
CONTENTS
|
Page |
| COVER. Drawing. "HAPPY NEW YEAR." HILDA RUE
WILKINSON. FRONTISPIECE—"HE READS The Brownies' Book"
|
2 |
| THE TWO STARS. A LEGEND. Aaron Jeffery Cuffe.
Illustrated by Hilda Rue Wilkinson
|
3 |
| ALEXANDER DUMAS. A True Story. Illustrated by Madeline G. Allison
|
6 |
| THE HOUSE OF BROKEN THINGS. A Story. Peggy
Poe. Illustrated by Hilda Rue
Wilkinson
|
8 |
| THE ORIGIN OF THUNDER AND LIGHTNING. A Legend. Gwendolyn Robinson
|
10 |
| The JUDGE |
11 |
| TO THE GIRL RESERVES. Illustrated |
12 |
| LITTLE BROWN BOY. A Poem. Annette Christine
Brown
|
14 |
| GRANDMA'S SPECS. A Poem. Edith V. White
Illustrated by Laura Wheeler
|
15 |
| AS THE CROW FLIES |
16 |
| PLAYTIME. Mexican Games. Arranged by Langston
Hughes
|
18 |
| THE LEGEND OF THE AQUEDUCT OF SEGOVIA. Illustrated. Julia E. Brooks
|
19 |
| LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE MONTH. Illustrated |
20 |
| CHARLES GETS AN ANSWER. A Story. Lucile
Stokes
|
22 |
| OUR LITTLE FRIENDS. Four Pictures |
23 |
| THE JURY. Illustrated |
24 |
| THE GROWN-UPS' CORNER |
25 |
| A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. A Story. Augusta E.
Bird
|
26 |
| WINTER SWEETNESS. A Poem. Langston
Hughes
|
27 |
| LITTLE BLACK BOY. A Poem. Lucian B.
Watkins
|
28 |
| FILIPINO SCHOOL GIRLS. A Picture |
28 |
| HOW BR'ER POSSUM LEARNED TO PLAY DEAD. A Story. Julian Elihu Bagley. Illustrated by Laura
Wheeler
|
29 |
| FAIRIES. A Poem. Langston Hughes
|
32 |
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TWENTY-FIVE CENTS EXTRA
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- Entered as second class matter January 20, 1920, at the Post Office at
New York, N. Y., under the Act of March 3, 1879.
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[illustration - He Reads The Brownies' Book]
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THE TWO STARS
AN INDIAN LEGEND
AARON JEFFERY CUFFEE
ON certain clear nights in midwinter, two
unusually bright stars shine in the western sky between the time the sun
sets and the moon rises. If you should ask an old Indian what two stars they
are, he would tell you "The Lovers", and he might tell you this story.
Okoya,—tall, straight as a hickory sapling, was in love with
Weyana, the most beautiful girl in all the great tribes of the Prairie
Country. Wrapped in his blanket, Okoya used to stand on the hill above the
camp and play love songs to Weyana on his flute. As if in answer to the sweet
strains, Weyana used to come out of her father's wigwam, stand for a minute,
and then go back again. Okoya, his heart happy, would go back to his own
wigwam.
The families of the two were glad of their mutual love and planned a great
marriage feast for the spring. But the winter was very severe and there was
much illness in the tribe. Weyana became so ill that her father called in
the medicine men, who are doctors of the Indians. They came into the wigwam
where poor Weyana lay and chanted prayers to Gitchi Manitou, the Great
Spirit; they muttered curses on the evil spirits of disease; they drummed
fiercely on their tom-toms; and in spite of it all, Weyana died.
Okoya was grief-stricken. He went without food for days. He sat in his
wigwam, or went out into the forest alone for weeks at a time. No one ever
saw him give way to his sorrow, but his heart was dead within him.
One night, sorrowful, he stood gazing at the sun, its great big eye half
closed; and he saw a bright little star which he had never seen before,
shining in the sky above the sun, and then he heard a voice speaking to him;
it was the voice of his lost Weyana coming from that tiny star!
"I am thy beloved Weyana. Pray do not grieve for me. I shall be here to
greet you until you, too, are called by Gitchi Manitou to Shipapu, the land
of our fathers."
When Okoya heard these wonderful words, all sorrow left him; he was
comforted. With arms outstretched to the fast-disappearing sun, he chanted
this prayer:
"O Sun, thou red and flaming God,
Thy long, light-fingers beck'ning,
Pray summon me with just a nod,
To the Land of Happy Hunting."
After that he used to come out every night and stand for a long time talking
to the little
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star until, like the sun, it sank in the west
and Okoya had to bid it "Good Night".
With spring cam the time of war parties, as well as planting. War dances
were held, bows and arrows made ready; men chosen. Okoya, who had shown his
bravery before, was made a full-fledged warrior now and allowed to wear a
single eagle feather in his hair. He was very proud of his new honor and at
dusk he went out into the cool air to give thanks. Shawan, the south wind,
rustled about heavy with the odor of leafing trees and newly turned earth;
faintly throbbing with the beat of the war drums down in the camp; shrill
with the "peeping" of the frogs in the marshes. Okoya lifted up his arms and
gave thanks to Gitchi Manitou for having been made a warrior. Then he turned
to tell his little star of his good fortune, but he could not find the star.
Had he made some mistaken in direction? No Indians do not do that. The star
was not there any more, and in his despair Okoya cried to all the stars.
"Tell me, O stars, I beseech you,
Where is thy sister Weyana?"
In their tiny, far-off voices the stars answered him.
"The Gods of the Storms and the Winter,
Have taken her with them forever.'
And as if in mockery of his grief the war dance began with wild cheers and
the regular beat of tom-toms down in the camp.
Lonely and with heavy heart, Okoya put on his war paint and set out with the
war party before daybreak next day. He felt that Gitchi Manitou in anger had
turned his face away from him. Life was no longer a joy; it was a burden. He
spoke to none of his companions and they in turn left him to himself,
thinking that he was growing afraid of the dangers ahead of him.
Silent as shadows, the warriors sped toward the country of the hostile
tribe. Had you been near them, you could not have seen them because they hid
themselves so carefully.
Towards dark, the band heard the bark of a wolf behind them. The bark was
repeated at short intervals, and each repetition was closer than the last.
Now the bark of the wolf was a signal of the tribe, so the party stopped and
hid in the woods. Soon an exhausted runner staggered into view and fell
before he had reached the war party. The whole party ran towards him in
alarm, because he was one of their own men left at home to guard the camp.
The first to reach him were told of a raid on the village by a hostile band
of Indians. Even the women and children had helped defend their wigwams, and
he had been wounded in trying to escape with the alarm to the war party.
With the delivery of his message the runner's voice grew fainter, and after
one convulsive shudder, his body grew rigid; he was dead.
Grief and rage filled the hearts of the warriors. In haste they buried their
fallen comrade, and spurred on by the thought of the danger of those at
home, they traveled back all night, at a very tiring pace.
In the dawn of the next day they saw smoke ahead of them, and dismay made
them hurry faster. Were they too late? Was the village in ruins? They
surprised the raiders' sentinels, and saw that only a few of the wigwams had
been burnt; the remainder were safe. So they scattered and hid behind
stumps, trees and rocks, and started their deathly game of hide-and- seek.
All day long the fighting lasted, and as the day drew to its close it was
evident that, due to the fatigue of the rescuers and the superior numbers of
the raiders, defeat and the massacre of the people in the camp seemed
certain.
Suddenly with a cry of defiance, Okoya sprang from behind the stump which
had hidden him, electrified his tribesmen by throwing down his bow and
arrows, and with knife and tomahawk alone, dashed towards the hiding places
of the hostile band.
The enemy was terrified by Okoya's boldness. Their hands were unsteady, so
all of their attempts to hit him with arrows were futile. They were sure
that he was some god whom neither arrows nor knives could harm. So when
Okoya's men followed him in his dash, the enemy fled. The village was
saved.
Then, just after sunset, his work finished, the day won, Okoya fell, pierced
by an arrow. As his followers reached him, he managed to raise himself on
one elbow, and with the other arm to point toward the western sky above the
fading light of perfect day. Then with a smile as of content, he sank back,
dead. When his men looked up where he had pointed, they saw a single very
bright star; and even as they gazed at it in wonder, another small star
appeared, close to it, and grew and grew in brilliance until it was equal to
the first.
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[illustration - Weyana used to come out of her father's wigwam
Hilda Rue Wilkinson ]
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The old wise men of the tribe say the Storm Gods and the Gods of Winter
always admire great bravery, and that when they saw how brave Okoya had been
they gave him his heart's desire. They returned Weyana to him unharmed, and
then Gitchi Manitou made them two bright stars.
What do you think? If you go out some clear, cold night, and ask them, maybe
the stars will tell you.
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, A GREAT DRAMATIST
A TRUE STORY
MADELINE G. ALLISON
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[illustration - ALEXANDRE DUMAS, A GREAT DRAMATIST
A TRUE STORY ]
WHEN Alexandre Dumas was born no one, of course,
dreamed that some day the world would proclaim him as on of its greatest
writers.
Dumas was the grandson of the Marquis de la Pailleterie of Versailles,
Antoine Alexandre Davy, and Marie Cessette Dumas, a Negro woman of San
Domingo. He was the son of General Thomas Alexandre Dumas, who married Marie
Elizabeth Louis Labouret, the daughter of an innkeeper at Villers-Cotterets,
France. Some of Dumas' most tender and touching memoirs are those which
relate his boyhood days with his mother.
Villers-Cotterets, France, a little country town 40 miles from Paris, is the
birthplace of Dumas. He was born July 24, 1802, at Rue de Lormet. Since 1872
Rue de Lormet has been known as Rue Alexandre Dumas, and the house is still
standing, though it has had many change of owners.
After sufficient service in the Army, General Dumas was pensioned, receiving
£160; but at the early age of forty-four years, he died.
Life became a financial struggle for the family. Aimée Alexandrine, the
daughter, was put into a boarding school in Paris. The mother hoped that
Dumas would become a musician, so she kept him with her and procured
Professor Hiraux to give him instruction on the violin; but after three
years the professor concluded that Dumas had no sense of music in him and
stopped his lessons.
Dumas' mother thought of his becoming a minister; Dumas, however, didn't
fancy this profession either, and when he was about to be sent away he said:
"I will not go to the seminary!" Then he ran away
from home, leaving a note to lessen his mother's anxiety, and for three days
and nights he lived in a hut in the forest with a native. But he returned to
his mother, and began to study Latin under an abbé, and arithmetic and
writing under the village schoolmaster.
Dumas was an unsuccessful pupil at figures, but he became a neat and rapid
writer. At the age of 16, he began to work as an apprentice in the office of
a lawyer.
There now came to Villers-Cotterets, a youth of noble birth, Adolphe De
Leuven, who eventually became known as an author and writer of vaudevilles
and comic operas. He met Dumas and the two boys confided their literary
ambitions. Dumas began the study of Italian and German and Later he and
Leuven became collaborators.
Then some students performed Ducis' "Hamlet" at Villers-Cotterets, and among
the audience was Dumas! So interested was he in the play that he sent to
Paris for a copy of it and learned the part of Hamlet. He says: "The demon
of
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poetry was now awakened in me, and would give me no rest."
But the family was facing poverty, and Dumas, through his mother, was given
a position in the office of M. Lefevre, a lawyer at Crepy.
One of M. Lefevre's habits was to make frequent trips to Paris, remaining
several days. During one of these vacations, Dumas, with one of his friend,
also went to Paris. This time, though, M. Lefevre returned sooner and found
Dumas away.
M. Lefevre said when Dumas returned: "May I ask if you have any knowledge of
mechanics?"
Dumas answered that he thought he knew something of mechanics in practise,
though not in theory.
"Very good," said M. Lefevre,—"you will doubtless then be aware
that for a machine to work properly, every one of its wheels must contribute
to the general movement."
When the parable was applied to Dumas, who had been away three days, he
decided to consider himself dismissed.
Dumas had played many games of billiards with his friends, and now through
this means he gained fare to Paris, where he sought work. At first he met
only with failures, but finally he came upon General Foy, who obtained for
him the position of Supernumerary Clerk in the Secretarial Department of the
Palais Royal; his salary was 1,200 francs, or about $240.
Dumas told General Foy: "I am going to live by my penmanship now, but some
day, I promise you, I shall live by my pen."
Twenty-one years of Dumas' life had now passed. He was 6 feet tall, slim
rather than otherwise,—with dark, curly hair, small and delicate
feet and hands, and bright, quizzical eyes.
Since 18 years of age Dumas had been gaining in his literary ability, and at
the age of 27, in 1829, he had a historical play, "Henri III", produced at
the Thèâtre Français.
After spending the day beside his sick mother, Dumas hurried to the theatre,
at 7:45, [illustration - Alexandre Dumas] and took his seat alone and unobserved in a small stage box,
waited for the curtain that would rise on his play and on his future. Three
times during the performance he rushed from the theatre to see how his
mother was getting on. As the curtain was falling, there were "thunders of
applause"; then Firmin, one of the players, stepped forward and announced
the author, and the spectators, among whom was the Duke of Orleans, rose to
mark their respect, Dumas received many congratulations and when he returned
to his home, his mother was sleeping quietly,—and their financial
struggles were at an end.
On August 1, 1838, Dumas' mother died. Dumas had been a good son, but
because he had at times been a bit thoughtless, he tells us:
"Ah! Think how ready we are, for any light caprice of youth, to leave a
mother while she lives, until some day comes the awful and inevitable hour
when she must leave us! Then when it is too late, we weep and reproach
ourselves for all that neglect and indifference which parted us needlessly
from the guardian angel now parted from us forever."
When Dumas was 44 years old, he contracted to furnish two newspapers during
the year with an amount of manuscript equal to 60 volumes.
It is said that Dumas' name is attached to 1,200 separate writings; among
his best known books are "The Three Musketeers", "Monte Cristo", and "La
Reine Margot".
Alexandre Dumas married Ida Ferrier, an actress, of Porte Saint-Martin. On
July 28, 1824, they became the parents of Dumas III, who in 1875 was elected
a member of the French Academy. He lives in France.
And then on December 5, 1870, keeping a promise to her father that she would
not let him be overtaken by death without receiving the last rites of
religion, Dumas' daughter, Marie, sent for a priest who administered the
communion,—and Alexandre Dumas died at the age of 68.
At statue to his memory has been erected in Place Malesherbes in Paris.
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THE HOUSE OF BROKEN THINGS
PEGGY POE
DOWN South in Georgia, it had been springtime so
long that it was nearly time for summer. Old Mrs. Southwind had decided to
stay right at her work, and this had made Old Mr. Wolfwind afraid to make
any more visits to Georgia, so he stayed up North and howled about.
Mrs. Colonel Jones' garden was so very beautiful that it made Boy, Happy and
Waddy think that it must be fairyland and that the flowers were just fairies
hanging on the bushes, but they never did dream that the great white lilies
growing by the Cape Jasmine bush was a really house. Of course they had seen
the golden bees coming out of the Lily House with honey, but they just
supposed they were large flowers. They might not have known about the lily
being a house if Mrs. Colonel Jones hadn't taken them for a walk late one
evening.
All that day Boy, Waddy and Happy had played in the big yard and garden and
they had done some very naughty things, things that boys who love the kind God
who gave them the beautiful things you find in a garden should never do; but
a last Happy went home to supper and to feed his black rooster and red hen.
When he came back the little path to Colonel Jones' house was very bright.
Miss Lady Moon was smiling and she seemed so near that Happy was sure he
could touch her if he had a long pole; her moonbeams were so brilliant that
it made the cotton patch seem like day time. When he went around to the big,
front steps there was Boy, Waddy and Mrs. Colonel Jones in her white dress
and she looked like one of the white lilies herself. Boy and Waddy were as
clean and shiny as the moonbeams. Happy was glad Mammy Tibbets had let him
wear his white suit, and he was smiling finer than the biggest moon could
ever smile. Mrs. Colonel Jones cuddled Happy down by her side and they all
sat very still listening to the mocking bird who sings at night down in
Georgia; but after awhile Mr.s Colonel Jones sighed, just like she had
thought of something not very nice.
"Let us go for walk in my garden," said she, taking Waddy's hand while Boy
and Happy followed her very softly, because it seemed as if in that
moon-lighted garden no one wanted to make a noise. They passed the fig tree,
where the baby figs come out without any blossom dress on like other baby
fruits. They went very softly pass the bushes where the yellow roses seemed
to rain down; they passed the bed where the pansies live and each small
purple face was dimpled with dew; then they came to the corner where the
great white lilies grow with their golden throats.
"Oh! how I do love my lilies," said Mrs. Colonel Jones stooping over to
touch a very large lily, and behold—the white petals opened wider
and wider until that lily was a beautiful white house and Miss Lady Moon
flashed her most brilliant moonbeam into it so that it seemed like day time.
Mrs. Colonel Jones gave a little cry of surprise and then just when the boys
were going to ask about it, there stepped up Old Mr. Toad, dressed in a
beautiful green and gray suit,—but one of his feet was bound up in
a cloth and he limped terribly, as he came forward bowing to Mrs. Colonel
Jones, and the lady who liked all the creatures in her garden felt very
sorry for him.
"Oh, Friend Toad! what has happened to you?"
"Well, today when I was guarding you watermelon patch, a little boy came
along and hit me with a stick, I don't know why he did it. I was only
guarding your melons from the worms so you would have some nice ones."
"How could anyone hurt our best garden friend? Do you know his name?"
"I do not, dear lady; but won't you go into the Lily House? White Butterfly
lives there. Generally it's a very nice house to visit but to-night it is a
House of Broken Things. I am guard at the door so I will let you in."
"And the three boys, may they come in?"
"Oh yes, but I am afraid they won't enjoy it."
They all walked in, but when Happy passed the poor, hurt toad he hung his
head in shame. At the door of the Lily House, White Butterfly met them. She
wore a nurse's apron and carried medicines, spoons and bandages. She seemed
very sad too.
"Oh! I am so glad to have visitors; it seems so sad in here. Most of the
time my Lily House is very gay but today so many dreadful things
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have happened in the garden that I just had to turn my house into
a House for Broken Things, but now that you and the little boys have come,
maybe you can help me cheer things up." The White Butterfly went very softly
down the white hall with its golden carpet as soft as pussy fur. Soon she
stopped by the side of a wee white bed and there lay two tiny baby Caterpillars, only you couldn't see much of them for bandages and
tears, they were hurt so.
The White Butterfly said to Mrs. Colonel Jones, "This is very sad indeed.
These little caterpillars were crossing the garden walk this morning,
hunting some weeds to eat, when a boy came along and put his hard shoe right
down on them and broke most every part of them. I do so hope they get well."
Boy hid his head in his hands. They went to another bed and there lay a
little Honey Bee, and White Butterfly told about her! "Miss Honey Bee had
heard you say that you hoped you would have some real good honey this year,
so she went down into the trumpet flower and as she was coming out with a
great load of honey, a boy whacked her with a stick and broke her wing. I
think maybe it will be better tomorrow, but I know thing, if folks don't
stop hurting the bees, there won't be any honey for the hot biscuits." Waddy
looked over at Miss Honey Bee and hung his head in shame.
The next bed had poor old Beetle in it; he seemed so very ill with a crushed
leg. "Old Beetle had been working in the wood pile when three little boys
came along and pelted him with sticks and smashed his leg; it's so badly
hurt that I am not sure I can ever cure him," said White Butterfly. In the
next bed they found, Lightning Bug, only he would never be a real lightning
bug again, because, you see, when he was carrying his lantern about the
garden to make it lighter until Miss Lady Moon came, a very small fat boy
came and caught him and put him under a glass and the glass had broken his
beautiful lantern off, so that now, even though he would get well, he never
could help light the pretty garden again.
In the next bed lay Granddaddy Longlegs, propped up with milkweed pillows,
one of his legs was gone, broken off, and he seemed to be in such pain. The
White Butterfly gave him a wee drop of medicine and said to Mrs. Colonel
Jones:
"Granddaddy was out under the house steps asleep when a boy came and said to
him: 'Granddaddy gray, tell me where the cows are, or I'll kill you right
away.' Now you know Granddaddy is so old that he couldn't possibly know
where the cows are, so he couldn't tell that boy where they were, and that
cruel boy dropped a rock on him and cut off his leg."
"Oh! how terrible!" said Mrs. Colonel Jones.
In the next bed were three baby Ants, asleep; White Butterfly said someone
had dug up their house and they had no home to go to. But it was the next
bed that made the boys feel sad. In it lay Lady Bug's two wee children; they
were crying very hard. White Butterfly told about them.
"Someone saw Lady Bug when she was cleaning house for the strawberries and
called 'Lady Bug fly away home; your house is on fire and your children will
burn! Of course this frightened Lady Bug very much and just as she started
to run home, some one put her into a box and put a lid on it and carried it
off. Now her children were alone at home and when their mother didn't come
home they started out ot find her. I was afraid something would hurt them so
I brought them in here, and after giving them some supper I put them to bed,
but the poor little things just keep crying for their Mama."
Just then Happy stepped up beside the bed and took a little box from his
pocket and opened it. Out hopped Lady Bug right among her
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babies. My! what a happy family they were, but
Happy wasn't very happy, he was so ashamed. He hid his fat little face
behind Mrs. Colonel Jones' dress.
As they walked along the white hall, White Butterfly began crying ever so
softly, for there in a small bed lay a small yellow Butterfly. It looked
like a piece of fine lace. One of its pretty wings was sadly broken.
"This is my little boy," said White Butterfly. "I have fixed his wing the
best I could. Oh! do you think he will get well?"
Mrs. Colonel Jones stopped over the baby butterfly and looked at the broken
wing. "Why yes; I think it will be well in short time. There, don't worry!
but how did this happen?"
"Oh! it was awful! You see, I told him to play out in the pansy bed, as our
garden has always been so safe and happy. I never thought anything could
happen to him. He had just fluttered down to kiss a pansy girl, when a boy
flopped his hat on him and broke his wing. I got him home right away. I do
hope he'll get well."
Boy hung his head and Mrs. Colonel Jones put her silk shawl over his face.
As that was all there was in the Lily House, they bid White Butterfly good
night, and thanked poor Mr. Toad for letting them in. They went to the house
and Mrs. Colonel Jones gave each boy a large slice of chocolate cake.
The next day the boys went back to the garden and looked for that Lily
House, but although they hunted the garden over and looked into all the
lilies, they could not find one that looked like a house. But really there
was no need for a Lily House of Broken Things in that garden any more. For
whenever Boy, Happy and Waddy started to chase or hurt the tiny creatures
who lived in the garden, they always remembered the "House of Broken Things"
and how sad it was, so they stopped harming the helpless things, the little
people of the garden.
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THE ORIGIN OF THUNDER AND LIGHTNING
GWENDOLYN ROBINSON (Aged Eleven)
LONG, long ago when people believed in gods,
there lived in the woods an old couple. These people were not happy, because
they were always quarreling. One night there was a great rainstorm and the
wind blew the door open.
"Old man, get up and shut the door," said the woman whose name was
Lightning.
Probably if she had said it in a kinder tone the old man, whose name was
Thunder, would have shut the door. But he answered, "Shut it yourself," and
went to sleep again.
There was silence for a while, but soon the rain came in harder, and the
wind blew cold.
"Thunder, will you get up, or must I make you?" Lightning sharply inquired.
Thunder this time shouted, "I will not do so!"
Lightning's eyes then flashed like fire. She got up and shook Thunder. "Do
you know that the rain is coming in?"
Thunder jumped to his feet and they argued all night until the rain stopped.
Almost every time the rain started, Thunder and Lightning started to
quarrel. Lightning would flash her eyes and Thunder would almost roar at
her.
When they died, the gods said to them, "You could not keep from quarreling
when you were on earth, so you will be doomed to argue every time it rains.
Lightning, you shall have an eye that shall flash so that everyone will see
it. Thunder, your voice shall be so loud and strong that everyone will hear
it."
Although the old couple pleaded for mercy, (they had planned deep down in
their hearts to live happily when they died and went to Asgard, the land of
the gods), their prayers were in vain.
To this day we hear them debating, though much against their will.
brownies.192101.013.jpg
THE JUDGE
"I AM making some New Year's resolutions," cries
Billikins in triumph. "I'm gonna get up at six every morning and feed my
rabbits, and I'm gonna get my arithmetic lessons and—"
"Humph!" says William.
"Well, what are you going to do?" asks Billie
doubtfully.
"I don't believe in New Year's resolutions," says William.
"Neither do I," says Wilhelmina,—"awfully silly, I
think,—nobody ever keeps them."
"Humph!" says the Judge.
"Don't you believe in 'em either?" asks Billie.
"I certainly do," says the Judge.
"But you don't make New Year's resolutions, do you?"
asks Wilhelmina in astonishment.
"Certainly," answers the Judge.
"And keep them all?" asks William.
"No," says the Judge.
"There you are!" says William. "It's just what I say. There's no use in the
thing. It can't be done."
"Hitch your wagon to a star!" hums the Judge, "and if it can't be done,
hitch it to a mud-turtle, or don't hitch it at all—just let it
stand and rot."
"Oh no, not that," answers Wilhelmina. "Of course one ought to make good
resolutions even if one doesn't carry them all out, or carry any of them out
in the best way—but why make them New Year's?"
"Why not?"
"Oh well, I don't know—but then why not make them Christmas or
Labor Day or Fourth of July?"
"Good!" cries the Judge, "and Hallowe'en and Easter and Douglass' birthday
or—"
"Good gracious," says William, "we don't want to spend all the time 'resoluting'—it
ain't that amount of fun."
"So say we all of us," agrees the Judge, "and therefore let's get rid of the
disagreeable duty all at once at the beginning of the year."
"Of course," says Billie, "a year is awful long and p'haps it 'ud be better
to sorter divide up and make 'em twice a year."
"Well, Billie, your years will get shorter as you grow. When you're as big
as William they'll not be half so long as now—"
"Whoop-ee!" cries Billie. "Christmas every six months!"
"And when you're my age—" but Billie loses interest and runs after
Billikins who is trying to hammer a tack with the brand new Christmas poker.
Billie could not conceive ever being as old as that.
"I suppose then," says Wilhelmina resentfully, "that you expect a whole
manuscript of goody-goody promises from each of us."
"One would be enough—and that not
'goody-goody' either. My idea is that one good, practical promise to one's
self at the beginning of a New Year is worth while."
"Even if broken," sneers William.
"Even if broken," repeats the Judge, "and particularly if kept."
"Of course, if kept; but most resolutions are broken."
"True. But some are kept and with these God creates the Heaven and the
Earth, the Sea and all that in them is!"
"Don't understand," says Billie, depositing the rescued poker in the ink
well.
"I mean that out of all the Wishes and Hopes and Promises of each New York,
after subtracting all the Lies and Deceptions and Weakening and Failures,
the Good Spirit of the Universe has enough left to build the Good and the
True and the Beautiful things of the Earth."
"Which accounts for the Earth's ugliness," says Wilhelmina.
"And also for its Beauty," says the Judge.
"I'm going to give up cigarettes until I'm 21," answers William.
"I'm going to try to understand algebra," says
Wilhelmina, "but I make no promises."
brownies.192101.014.jpg
TO THE GIRL RESERVES
DEAR Friends:
We are the Dramatic Club of the Girl Reserves of the District of Columbia Y.
W. C. A., and we have just returned from our vacation very, very anxious to
tell you all about it.
All winter we eagerly looked forward to the vacation time, for we knew we
would go camping, and early in the season much excitement was aroused
because we heard that the place of the camp would be changed. There were
many conjectures as to whether it would be a place as pleasant as last
year's camp, but what do you think was announced to us? We were to go to
Highland Beach on the Chesapeake Bay. Oh, the joy this news brought, you can
only imagine! We were to be able to add water sports to our many others, and
it was not to be in the playground swimming-pool either.
Each club was to remain at camp two weeks, then give place to the next, and
realizing what a short time that was, you may be sure that we did not
propose setting to work out our plans for a good time. Oh no, the fun began
when we met at our club rooms and started off on the truck that was to carry
us forty-seven miles.
On July 6 the first club, The Jolly Friends, opened the camp. They were
followed by the Blue Triangle and ours, The Dramatic Club, on July 19. We,
in turn, gave place on August 2 to The Chain of Friendship, and August 16
fund the last group, the Phyllis Wheatley ready to take their turn.
We left the city with cheers and songs which continued at intervals all
along the way until our camp was reached. Here we found a large,
old-fashioned house with great porches and a beautiful grassy lawn; but best
of all, seeming [illustration - A group of Girl Reserves]
[illustration - Ready for a "hike"] to lie right at the edge of our lawn, was the great Chesapeake
with its blue waters sparkling before us, each little glimmer a fairy
beckoning to us. And you may be sure we could hardly wait until the next day
to accept their invitation. But even at camp we must be systematic. There
was nothing to do but wait till swimming time, so after supper we went to
bed.
We had just closed our eyes, it seemed, when a voice announced time to rise
and we waked to find our beloved secretary, Miss Brooks, bidding us Good
Morning. The pleasure of seeing her, robbed the early morning rising of all
discomfort, and at 6:30 all tumbled cheerfully out of bed and in a short
time the house echoed with the sound of brooms at work in every room. We
worked hard too to make our rooms as neat as pins because no bit of dust
even in a far corner escaped the eye of Miss Brooks, who took so much
pleasure in giving us a gold star when our rooms were perfect.
We were always rewarded for our labors too by a good breakfast prepared by
two different girls selected each day to cook. Washing dishes and cleaning
the dining-room and kitchen followed, and then the bell announced Devotions,
which were held on the porch. With so much beauty about us we could not but
appreciate the splendid verses from Triangles for Girls Reserves, which we
learned and discussed with Miss Brooks, and we sang our thanks for it all in
our hymns which cheered the neighborhood and brought many visitors to join
with us.
Industrial work followed, then study and letter writing. The sound of an
automobile at noon, coming from behind our house, brought every camper out
and sent her flying to the
brownies.192101.015.jpg
[illustration - A Masquerade of Girl Reserves in Montclair, N. J.]
brownies.192101.016.jpg
post office from which many returned with
letters or boxes from home. For a time our minds went back to the loved ones
at home as we read the cheering words and shared with each other the news we
received. But any homesickness that might have been started by some memory
aroused by the letters was soon dispelled by the call to the beach. What
excitement we felt each time we changed our middies and bloomers for our
bathing suits! The delightful sensations felt as we swam about in the cool
waters of the bay were ever new.
We never seemed to tire of it, and only visions of dinner, for which we were
ever ready after our dip in the salt water, kept us from answering with
reluctance the call to come out. After dinner we had a rest-period and then
we were ready for our out-door games and hikes. We can claim some honor
points now, for we certainly learned to walk. The farthest hike was to
Annapolis, a distance of five miles from our camp, and although some of the
clubs were fortunate enough to get a vehicle to bring them back, some others
did not meet anyone on the way to give them a lift and so walked the whole
ten miles. Those who did if felt proud, too, you may know.
After our hike or out-door games we ate a light supper and then played games
indoors or had concerts. Every one was called upon to take part and we
always had an enjoyable evening and were sorry when 8:30 was announced. At
that time the candle procession started on its way to the bed-rooms, and
with the exception of the chatting of some night owls who sometimes mistook
some other room for theirs, everything was soon quiet and lights were out at
nine o'clock.
Thus, whether rainy or bright, our days passed filled with pleasures and the
two weeks went by only too quickly. But we'll have it all over again next
summer and we are going to work hard this winter to deserve it.
Won't you tell us where you have been, and let us know from time to time
what you are doing?
Very sincerely yours,
THE Y.W.C.A DRAMATIC CLUB.
Elizabeth Morton, President
Olive C. Jones,
Adviser.
brownies.192101.016.jpg
Little Brown Boy
ANNETTE CHRISTINE BROWNE
GOD loved you an awful lot, I know.
Why do I think so?
Why he tinted your body that beautiful brown,
So the angels might guard you from Heaven on down;
While trailing clouds of glory you came down here to stay,
They watched that little soul in brown all the long way.
They loved you dearly there, I know.
Don't you feel it so?
They might have made hair plain and straight on your head,
But they fashioned those crisp little curls there instead;
They gave them with their love for you and put them on to stay
And wanted them always to grow just that way.
I wonder that they ever let you go;
They loved you so.
They gave you a heart full of laughter and song,
And lips that go merrily all the day long.
I guess they let you come to us so we might see what joy
And loveliness can dwell within a little boy.
brownies.192101.017.jpg
GRANDMA'S SPECS
by EDITH V. WHITE
ONE day while hunting for my cap,
I woke my grandma from a nap.
That's one thing grandma hates,—I say—
To be caught napping in the day.
The reason is—so I've been told—
It makes folks think she's getting old.
She eyed me sternly for a bit,
Then slowly she began to knit.
But soon she laid her sweater down
And for her glasses looked around.
I stood there and began to grin,
And right then trouble started in.
She sets great store by those old specs,
And when they're lost she's surely vexed.
"You needn't stand there, sir, and cough,
For I just took those glasses off;
And just now when I turned my head,
They went,—and you know where," she said.
"I didn't," I began to say;
"Now hush! they didn't fly away!
You just come here and let me see."
I went and stood till she searched me.
But all the while I thought I'd burst,
And grandma said, "You are the worst!
I know, I'll go and call your Ma,
She'll soon find where those glasses are."
Right then was when I up and spoke,
'Cause mother might not see the joke.
I know I shouldn't have been so horrid,
But grandma's specs were on her forehead!
brownies.192101.018.jpg
AS THE CROW FLIES
THIS morning, as I rose to
greet the sun, I saw a strange shape flying north. It was very old and
shrivelled and the scythe it bore was nicked and dull. It was the Old,
Old Year. Caw! Caw! Welcome to the New and Good and True, 1921.
- Sir Patrick Geddes of Edinburgh has completed the plan for a
Hebrew University on the Mount of Olives at Jerusalem. He is also planning
housing conditions and city buildings on modern lines in the new Palestine.
- The new government of Mexico is planning the most extensive
public school system that Mexico has ever had.
- Japan is considering a revision of her inadequate factory laws.
Many children of 10 years of age are now allowed to work in the factories,
and women are often employed at night.
- American foreign trade was greatly increased by the war. In the
fiscal year 1914, $2,364,000,000 worth of American good were sent abroad,
while in the fiscal year 1920, the amount was $8,111,000,000. America now
has a merchant fleet of ships second only to Great Britain in size, and 60
per cent. of our goods are carried in American ships.
- One of the great events of the year was the meeting of the
Lambeth Conference in London last summer. This was the sixth conference and
was composed of 252 bishops of the Episcopal Church and the Church of
England. For the first time this conference recognized as Christian, churches
which do not have bishops, and made a plea for the union of all christian
churches.
- The first general assembly of the League of Nations took place
at Geneva with 41 nations, not including the United States, represented.
Liberia and Haiti were represented. The great question before the League was
the relative authority of the assembly and the Council— the
Council being composed of a few of the great nations. One colored nation,
China, was elected to a place on the Council. Some efforts were made to
establish an international Court of Justice.
- Argentina left the Assembly because of the refusal to take
various amendments which would give the smaller nations more power.
- The Turks and Armenians who have been at war have at last made
a peace which leaves Armenia with a small amount of territory.
- At the recent municipal election in Italy there were 3 parties:
the extreme Socialists who follow the Russian Bolsheviki; the moderate Socialists;
and the reactionary group. The reactionary parties, including the new
Catholic political party, won most of the elections. There was some serious
rioting in Bologna.
- A treaty providing for trade between Great Britain and Russia
has been signed.
- On Armistice Day great celebrations took place in Paris and
London, and the bodies of unknown soldiers were buried with great and solemn
pomp.
- There have been increased difficulties in Ireland. A large
number of English officers have been assassinated and apparently in
retaliation, government officials have burned down a large part of the city
of Cork. Lloyd George, Prime Minister of England, declares, on the one hand,
martial law for South Ireland and, on the other, his willingness to treat
with the Sinn Fein for peace.
- Mrs. Terrence MacSwiney, widow of the late Mayor of Cork who
starved to death for his convictions, is in the United States to testify
concerning conditions in Ireland.
- The people of Greece have overthrown the government of
Venizelos and invited former King Constantine to return.
- A Naval Board of Inquiry has been sitting at Port-au-Prince,
Haiti, to inquire into American atrocities. It did not, however, hear all of
the evidence before it adjourned.
- Dr. Charles Infroit is dead in Paris at the age of 45. He gave
his life to the study of the
brownies.192101.019.jpg
X-Rays, although he knew that continued experimenting with them
would eventually kill him.
- The Carnegie endowment has given $50,000 to the fund for the
restoration of Westminster Abbey.
- The Nobel prize for poetry has gone to the aged Swiss poet,
Carl Spittler.
- Rainer Maria Rilke, who was born in Prague in 1875, is one of
the most original of living poets.
- Mustapha Kemal Pasha is a Turkish leader who refused to accept
the treaty of Sèvres and rebelled against the Turkish government at
Constantinople. He established his own government at Angora in Asia Minor.
Here he has fought the Turks, the English, the Greeks and the French and
finally the Armenians. The Armenians have been driven into Russian Armenia,
while Kemal is holding his power in Asia Minor.
LAST night I flew over
Bethlehem. I saw dark hills and forests and afar, a shining sea. I saw a
manger and a star. Is it the same star! I think it is. I rose and
shrieked with joy as I wheeled home to the sweet New year.
- On Thanksgiving Day the Secretary of War released from prison
the last 33 men who had been put in jail for being conscientiously opposed
to war. There are still several hundred political prisoners in Federal
prisons and nearly a thousand in State jails.
- As a result of a restoration to normal conditions after the
war, prices are falling. This means a good deal of unemployment. It will
probably be spring before normal conditions will begin to be restored.
- A study has been made of boys in New York City. Of 354,000
between 12 and 18 years of age, 181,000 are in school and 113,000 at work,
leaving nearly 60,000 who are idle. Most of the boys 12, 13 and 14 years of
age are in school. Of those 15 years of age 24,000 are in school and 13,000
at work, and 10,000 idle; of those 16 and 17 years of age 15,000 are in
school, 49,000 at work and 40,000 idle. This shows the great danger of
idleness among children.
- There are only 5 states in the Union now which do no have
workingmen's compensation laws. These laws give relief and partial wages for
laboring people when they are the victims of accident.
- The price of cotton is only one-third as high as it was last
June, and this has caused a great deal of unrest and suffering in the South.
Wool has fallen one-half since last May. Copper, lead, tin and rubber have
gone down in price and iron and steel are beginning to fall.
- Since July 1920, the month of the highest prices, the cost of
living in the United States has decreased 5-2/10 per cent.; fuel, light and
shelter have increased, but food and clothing are cheaper.
- President Wilson has sent his last annual message to Congress.
Formerly he has delivered this message in person, but this year on account
of his health he was unable to do so. He has received the Nobel prize for
his efforts to promote International Peace.
- Senator Harding, President-elect, has been on a vacation in
Texas and the Panama Canal Zone. On his way back he delivered a speech in
the Senate and then returned to Marion, Ohio, where he is consulting various
statesmen concerning his policies.
- A new Congress was elected in November but it will not meet in
regular session until next December, nearly a year after its election.
Meantime the present 66th Congress is holding its last session in Washington
and will expire March 4. It is then probably that President Harding will
immediately call a session of the new 67th Congress.
- The United States Secretary of State had gone on a trip to
South America.
- Plymouth Church, where Henry Ward Beecher used to preach, has
been injured by fire.
- Celebrations are going to remind us that 300 years ago the
Pilgrims landed in America and helped found the nation.
- Large numbers of banks in North Dakota have been closed because
farmers have been unable to meet their obligations. Farmers all over the
country have been hard pressed because of the fall in the price of their
crops.
- The old Salem Custom House, where Hawthorne used to work, has
been destroyed by fire.
- Some good people who want to make folks better by law have
started a movement to close the movies on Sundays and otherwise to keep
people from enjoying themselves on the Sabbath.
brownies.192101.020.jpg
THE LEGEND OF THE AQUEDUCT OF SEGOVIA
JULIA E. BROOKS
SEGOVIA has been spoken of as "a dead city, still
serenely sleeping in a dream of which the spell has been broken neither by
the desecrating hand of the tourist crowd, nor the inrush of commercial
activity, nor by any native anxiety for self-exploitation." The only really
living thing in poor, dead Segovia is the aqueduct.
This mighty structure which brings the cold, sparkling water of the Río Frío
from the Guadarrama Mountains, ten or twelve miles away, was built by
Trajan, the Roman emperor whom the Spaniards claim as their countryman. It
is constructed of large blocks of stone laid one upon another without cement
or mortar. Upon close inspection one would say that these blocks seems to
have been laid at haphazard, since some of them jet out daringly and hang
over so as to cause one to fear that some day the whole structure may
collapse. But, seen at a proper distance, this bridge is a model of symmetry
and balance and the traveler gazes in amazement at the gray and purple tints
of its granite blocks as they glow in the deep blue of the Castilian sky.
The whole length of this aqueduct, which has been standing for perhaps 2,000
years, is 1,615 feet. It consists of 320 arches which begin single and low
but which, in order to maintain the level, rise gradually and become double,
one row over another, as they span the valley, the stream, and the highway.
The three central arches rise to a height of 102 feet. The lower row of
these is surmounted by three stone steps over which, in one of the pillars
of the upper row, are scooped out two niches. In the niche looking toward
the town there is a statue of the Virgin; and in the other, at the back, is
a figure which the people of Segovia call the image of the Satanic architect
of the bridge. For the Segovian fancy has created an interesting legend
concerning the origin of the aqueduct.
Many years ago, they say, Satan fell in love with a beautiful girl of
Segovia. This maiden lived with her family in a neat little house in the
mountain, and every morning she had to go to the spring in the valley to get
water. On a [illustration - The Aqueduct of Segovia]
brownies.192101.021.jpg
certain day the Evil One came out to meet her
and said to her gallantly: "You are very beautiful. I love you very much;
and if you will promise to marry me, I will do whatever you ask of me to
please you."
Now, the young girl was very frightened, so she ran to the church in order
to ask the advice of the old priest, who was her friend. "It is a dangerous
thing to displease the devil," the old man said to her thoughtfully, "we
must use tact in dealing with him." Then after thinking a long time he
added, "I have it! Beg him to do something impossible and he will not worry
you any more."
The young girl went away encouraged because of this advice, but all that
night she thought over what the good priest had said to her. "What shall I
ask of him?" she asked herself again and again. By and by a happy idea
struck her. She was tired of going to the spring in the valley for
water—"Why not ask Satan to build an aqueduct that would carry the
water from the neighboring river to the mountain and to the city there on
top of the rock? That was, indeed, unreasonable."
The next day when Lucifer appeared to her, the trembling maiden said to him:
"I wish that in one night you build for me an immense aqueduct that will
cross the valley and the lower part of the city and bring to us the fresh,
cool water of the Rio Frio."
The devil left her and the maiden went home with a light heart. She had asked
of Satan something that was impossible; now he would not molest her any
more. But scarcely had the maiden fallen asleep when she was awakened by
dreadful noises. "What could they be?" She grew cold with fear. "Could it be
possible that Satan was attempting to comply with her request?"
Indeed, through all Segovia the people heard the roaring of Satan, and the
groans of the thousands of wicked spirits who were with great difficulty
tearing enormous granite stones from the depth of the earth, and helping
their chief in the superhuman construction of the colossal aqueduct. At dawn
the work was completed and Satan, smiling with satisfaction, awaited
impatiently the arrival of the maiden.
When the Segovian maiden saw the wonderful aqueduct and Satan looking at her
with that malignant smile, the poor girl trembled with astonishment and
fear. As Satan approached to claim his reward, she began to cross herself.
On seeing the sign of the cross, Satan fled swiftly across the mountain and
over the valley—and the people of Segovia say that he is still
running, for he has never since been seen in Spain.
brownies.192101.021.jpg
Little People of the Month
MILTON HAMMETT SATCHELL lives in Atlantic
City, N. J. He's 14 years old and a pipe organist. Since he was 5 years
of age, Milton has played both the organ and the piano. His mother
writes us: "I had always been surrounded with music, from a child, vocal
and instrumental. It was my hobby to get to the organ; therefore, he has
been wrapped in music. I sang for over 16 years in choirs and often
played in public; also, his father, Moses I. Satchell, is a vocal reader
and a cornetist."
Professor Johann M. Blose, who taught Milton for 3 months, about a year
ago, says Milton has a wonderful gift.
Milton has played the pipe organ in the home of Senator Richards, and a
reporter says of a recital: "The appearance was his initial one in New
York City, and he was the recipient of a perfect ovation of
applause."
ARISTIDE CHAPMAN, the son of Mr. and Mrs. R. G. Chapman, was
born in Denver, Colo., January 3, 1904. He attended the Public Schools
there, and at present is a senior in the Manual Training High
School.
He is a tenor singer in the choir of Shorter A. M. E. Church.
brownies.192101.022.jpg
During the past summer Aristide contested with 20 of the best local white
talent and won a four year scholarship in the Western Institute of Music
and Dramatic Art.
In a letter to Mme. Lillian Hawkins Jones, Aristide's former teacher,
Father Bossetti, instructor of the Boy's Choir in the Immaculate
Cathedral of Conception, says that Aristide contested against persons
with musical experiences of twelve years, but his close observance of
many small technical points won for him high honors over his seniors in
both music and years.
DAVID I. MARTIN, JR., was born in New New York City, October 5,
1907. At the age of 3 he could play melodies on the violin; at 4 years
of age he began to study under his father and was looked upon as a
prodigy of the violin.
His father took him to hear a great 'cellist when he was 5 years of age,
and then and there little David announced that he wished to play the
'cello instead of the violin.
Mr. Martin placed his son under a 'cello teacher and he has since been
pursuing his studies on both the 'cello and the piano. He now plays many
of the larger works for his instrument, including six concertos.
In school David has never been "left back" and he has skipped two
classes; he holds the enviable position of "captain" of the baseball
team in his neighborhood.
QUENNIE M. PETERS, of Bangor, Me., has been awarded a gold medal
from the [illustration - Milton Hammett Satchell] School Board for efficiency in typewriting and stenography.
Miss Peters was born October 2, 1901. She was graduated from Bangor High
School June, 1919, with high honors in a class of 191 students. She is
now a stenographer in the office of a prominent attorney, Frederick B.
Dodd. Miss Peters is also Secretary of the local branch of the National
Association for the Advancement of Colored People.
[illustration - Quennie M. Peters]
[illustration - David I. Martin, Jr.]
[illustration - Aristide Chapman]
brownies.192101.023.jpg
CHARLES GETS AN ANSWER
LUCILE STOKES
AUNT BETTEE," called little Charles to his pretty
young aunt. "What does ap-pre-she-ate mean?"
"Appreciate? Oh I don't know, sonny."
"But, Aunt Bettee," he cried, clutching her skirt with his little chubby
fingers. "I want-a know."
"Sweetheart, I'm so awful busy now, can't you ask Uncle Bob?"
"Uncle Bob, what does ap-pre-she-ate mean?"
"Appreciate? Well, now what do you want to know that for?" And Uncle Bob
tossed him up in the air.
"But, Uncle Bob, I want-a know."
"Old man, if you'll wait just a minute, we'll hunt up old Webster and find a
good definition."
"What's a def-nition?" But Uncle Bob had gone.
"Grandma, what does ap-pre-she-ate mean?"
"Precious Boy, Grandma's busy. Can't you find Aunt Betty?"
"Aunt Bettee's tryin' to telephone. She won't pay no 'tention to me nohow.
I'll just go ask my Mother—that's what I'll do."
"Charles! Come back this instant!" called Aunt Betty.
"But, Aunt Bettee, I want-a know what ap-pre-she-ate means."
"You're as bad as the Elephant's Child."
"What Elephant's Child?" he demanded breathlessly.
"Now I've started him again," thought Betty. "You can ask more questions than
any child I ever saw." Then coaxingly, "Listen, Sugar Boy—"
"I'm no sugar boy."
"Listen, anyway, and I'll tell you what appreciate means. If someone gives
you something that you like, you say you appreciate it."
"The egg I had for breakfast—I ap-pre-she-ate it."
"No—if you get a present you say you appreciate it—that
is, if you do appreciate it—that is—I mean, if you like
it."
"You say so anyway," remarked Uncle Bob.
"Explain it yourself," retorted his sister. But before Bob could open his
mouth, Betty turned from the telephone in dismay. "The telephone's out of
order. What in the world will we do?"
Betty's consternation seemed contagious, for in a few minutes the house was
in such a confusion that Charles gave up trying to attract anyone's
attention and grumbled in his teddy's ear until a new thought stuck him.
"Say, Aunt Bettee! What do you mean by an Elephant's Child?"
"Charles, if you don't stop asking so everlastingly many
questions—"
Never mind, Aunt Bettee. There's Dad! Dad, what do you mean by an Elephant's
Child? Please tell me.
"Not now, Charles." Dad's voice was so stern that Charles looked up in
injured surprise which changed to childish bewilderment, for his father's
face was so haggard and Uncle Bob was so suddenly serious that he felt
something dreadful must have happened. "I'll just go ask my Mother what's
the matter," he said to Teddy, but Betty overheard him.
"Charles, if you don't go and play with your blocks, I'll—I don't
know what I'll do," she said sharply.
Charles crept away puzzled. "I'll just go hide, Teddy. When they can't find
me they'll think I'm dead and then they'll be awful sorry they hasn't any
little boy." So he slipped upstairs and crept way back in under his little
bed, and before he knew it he was sound asleep.
When he awoke several hours later, the house seemed very still and nobody
seemed to be hunting for a nice little boy. Then he heard Dad's voice
"Charles! Charles! Where are you, sonny?"
His grievance forgotten, he went clattering down the stairs. Dad was at the
foot, his face beaming with joy. "Look here, Partner," he said. "We've got
something for you." And a strange creature, a nurse, pulled back a blanket
and he saw a tiny, wrinkled face.
"Mother, what is it?"
"It's a brother, dear. A little brother for you to play with."
Slowly he surveyed their happy faces—Mother's, Father's, Grandma's,
Aunt Betty's, Uncle Bob's, and a new face—the doctor's.
"Did you bring him?" he asked solemnly.
"'Cause if you did—he's a mighty little feller—but I ap-pre-she-ate him."
brownies.192101.024.jpg
[illustration - Our Little Friends]
brownies.192101.025.jpg
THE JURY
I HAVE been reading THE BROWNIES' BOOK for
quite a while and I like it very much.
I wish that you would tell the story of the life of Booker T. Washington.
I enjoy reading of our own race. When I think how happy colored people
start out in life now it seems to me we ought to be able to accomplish
almost anything.
RENA COOPER, Indianfields, Ky.
I AM a pupil of 6a grade of Charles Sumner School. In our room we have a
Literary Club and an Americanization Club. Our Americanization Club is
connected with our History and our Literary Club with our English. In
our Americanization Club we have names of prominent Negroes of the time.
My name is Mr. White. Please tell us how we can correspond with other 6a
grades through your paper.
I AM sending a picture of my two sisters and two of our little friends.
This is the way we play on the beach on Columbia River in eastern
Washington. Essie Jones, my oldest sister, is the only colored child in the Wenatchee
High School; she is 14 years old. She also plays violin in the High
School Orchestra. There are only 5 colored families here and we are very
well liked in our surroundings. My papa owns a nine-room fine house, two
blocks from the High School. We have lots of friends. We go to Sunday
School every Sunday. We also have Sunday School clubs, that my sister
Genevieve and myself attend regularly. Genevieve is 11 years old, I am
10 years old; she is in the 6a and I am in the 6b grade. We love THE
BROWNIES magazine; we are always waiting for it to come. We want other
little folks to know that though we live far out west, we are doing just
fine.
Please do not forget to mail THE BROWNIES, regularly.
P.S. —I shall write a western story for THE BROWNIES' soon. Oh,
I must not forget to mention my baby sister, just a month old. She
weighed 9 1/2 at birth; her name is Geraldine M. Jones.
A BROWNIES BOOSTER, ALTOONA JONES, Wenatchee, Wash.
I LIKE THE BROWNIES' BOOK. It is so interesting. I want to see Mr.
DuBois' picture in THE BROWNIES' BOOK, because he likes children. I saw
Judge Harris; he likes children too. He is full of inspiration. I am a
girl eight years old. I write my own letters.
MARGARET ROBINSON,
Edwardsville,
Va.
MY little sister had a birthday party the other night. I started to tell
her what sort of games to play. "Oh," she said, "you needn't bother, I
am going to get my games out of THE BROWNIES' BOOK." And she did. I
think she has played every game that you have ever published. When the
pieces have no music she makes up the tunes herself. You ought to hear
her. All of us are as fond of THE BROWNIES' BOOK as she is and that is
saying a great deal.
HATTIE MYERS,
Pittsburgh, Pa.
brownies.192101.026.jpg
THE GROWN-UPS' CORNER
THE BROWNIES' BOOK is exactly one year old
this month. We hope you have liked it and have enjoyed reading it as
much as we have enjoyed publishing it.
We think you do like it and because of this we are going to ask you to
assist us in various ways:
1. Manuscripts—We want new and
interesting stories about colored children, their interests, their
difficulties, the way they live and the places they live in. We are
especially eager for the boys and girls of the West to know all about
their playmates in the East, and for the North to become better
acquainted with the South. The easiest and quickest way to accomplish
this is for you and your children to tell all about yourselves and send
it to us to publish in our columns. We wish people who have friends in
foreign countries where there are dark people would get information to
us about those places too.
2. Pictures—Of course we want pictures
of "Our Little Friends." Send us all you like; we cannot have too many.
But, Parents, please remember that other parents are sending us pictures
of their little ones too. We cannot publish them all at once. So the
only fair thing to do is to publish them in the order in which they
come. Then nobody has any real complaint. We should be greatly obliged
too if you would not ask for the return of the photographs. Getting them
back from the engraver in good condition and to you is a tedious job
which consumes more of our time than we ought to give.
3. Subscribers—Have you any idea how
extremely expensive it is to publish a magazine? Paper—and you
know we use a good quality—is high; the price of cuts for
reproducing photographs is soaring; the printer's bill is tremendous.
Yet with 12,000 subscribers we would be able to put THE BROWNIES' BOOK
on a self-supporting basis. Will not every parent who reads this and
every little boy or girl who enjoys THE BROWNIES' BOOK constitute
himself a committee of one to get three new subscribers within the next
month? Will you not speak of it in Sunday School, in public school and
in societies for the betterment of our children? We are trying to hep
children, to the best of our ability, by publishing this magazine. Will
you not help us to help?
A gentleman writes us from Boston: "Your magazine is teaching one group
of American children to respect themselves, and another group to show
them respect." That is something to accomplish,—will you not
do your part toward it?
Did you know that 98% of the articles appearing in THE BROWNIES' BOOK
have been written by colored men, women and
children? You see we are really creating modern Negro literature. And
all of the original drawings—but
one—have come from the pen of colored artists. You
recognize the work by now—don't you—of Laura
Wheeler, Albert Smith, Hilda Wilkinson, Marcellus Hawkins, Louise
Latimer, Mary Effie Lee and others? The children contribute, too,
occasionally; we are very proud of a page of their drawings which
appeared in the May, 1920, issue. This is a stimulus to the expression
of modern Negro art. Is not a magazine which insures such beginnings
worthy of your wholehearted support? We believe you think so.
Grown-ups like THE BROWNIES' BOOK, too.
Suppose we let it make the New Year A Happy One for All of Us.
THE EDITORS.
brownies.192101.027.jpg
A GUILTY CONSCIENCE
AUGUSTA E. BIRD
It was Sunday afternoon in the middle of
July—one of those deliciously warm July days in the Southland when
one looks over at the fellow in the shade and has a satisfied feeling that
he is sweltering there the same as you.
Winifred was very warm and irritated; she had been wishing for the last
fifteen minutes that Hazel would go home. With a wrinkle in her small pug
nose she walked the full length of her father's low concrete wall and sat
down as far away from Hazel as possible. The hint was lost on Hazel; she
followed, dropping a few feet away from Winifred, and rested her chin in her
little damp palms.
"Why don't you pull up your socks!" snapped Winifred, "instead of letting
them drag in the dirt." Hazel heard, but did not move. Winifred proceeded to
pull up her own socks; taking her handkerchief she dusted her new patent
leather slippers with such fierceness that she caused a little girl passing
to look around at her.
Hazel had been looking at the little girl and instantly demanded:
"What are you looking at?" The little girl looked back again. This time Hazel
thought she recognized her as being one of the crowd of children who had
attacked her one day last month when she was returning from a visit to her
grandmother, who lived on the Ridge. Hazel had fully recovered from the
hurts she had received in the conflict but she could not forget the loss of
her brand new hat.
"Come on, Winifred, let's follow her," cried Hazel, jumping up. "She looks
like the one who first grabbed my hat that day." Up jumped Winifred, anxious
to do anything that seemed the least bit more attractive than sitting on a
very warm concrete wall with the hot sun pouring down overhead.
"She walks like her shoes hurt," commented Hazel. "Just look at those socks,"
she insisted. "Looks like her mother made 'em blue with bluin'."
The little girl in front began to walk faster,—so did Winifred and
Hazel.
"Dare you to pull one of her curls," Hazel whispered.
Winifred was rapidly becoming excited; she hesitated a second.
"I black snake dare you!" cried Hazel.
In her whole life Winifred had never taken a "black snake dare." She glanced
hastily all around to see that no one was in sight, then boldly reached
forward and gave one of the brown curls a slight pull.
The little girl looked around frightened.
"Please-I-I'm Ellen—"
"Please-I-I'm Ellen," mimicked Hazel in an exaggerated imitative voice.
The tears began to roll down the little girl's cheeks like great big
crystals.
And Hazel capered with glee back and forth across the sidewalk, urging
Winifred to pull her curl again. But Winifred's excitement had reached its
height without her little friend's encouragement. It seemed as if a thousand
little imps were prompting her; and the wicked, spiteful current of feeling
that thrilled her little body almost frightened her.
A street car slowly turned the corner and as it appeared to stop, the little
girl started toward it. It seemed as though that which had been surging
through her childish heart suddenly burst forth. For a moment she hesitated,
and cast a reproachful glance at her tormentors.
"I'm colored, just like you are!" she exclaimed.
Winifred and Hazel were dumbfounded. They swallowed hard, and one glanced at
the other and simultaneously both sighed as they watched the conductor help
the little girl into the car.
Hazel was genuinely hurt and Winifred, while feeling equally as chagrined,
nevertheless, had a weightier thought on her mind. What if her mother should
find it out! And to her this seemed inevitable because she knew Hazel told
her mother everything and both mothers belonged to
the Ladies' Church Aid Society, and she knew little girls were discussed
there quite often.
As gloom was settling over both, there appeared Winifred's father in his
automobile.
"Jump in, children," greeted Dr. Bradford. And as he helped the little girls
to the seat beside him he fondly kissed Winifred's brown
brownies.192101.028.jpg
forehead. For the moment all thoughts of what had just happened
vanished from their minds.
But Winifred was not to enjoy th peace of mind long, and despite her efforts,
during the next two days, to appear happy, her agitation was becoming
apparent to Mother Bradford. And Dr. Bradford also noticed it, and there
were talks of pills and castor oil.
"Edward, I think it would be well to examine Winifred first," said Mrs.
Bradford, worriedly. I'm sure there is something wrong with her; she hasn't
been herself for the last few days." In fact there was something wrong.
Winifred was suffering from severe pangs of conscience for her act of Sunday
and in her imagination it had magnified to an almost unbelievable size. When
she had done wrong in the past, which caused her any uneasiness, she made
haste to tell her mother. Of course she was punished. But the punishment
never lasted long. However, now she was in a quandary. She hesitated between
doubt and fear, and as she pondered the telephone rang. When she heard her
mother say over the telephone a few seconds later, "Really! When did all
this happen,—Sunday?" she bolted upright. The fear that her guilt
had been discovered almost horrified her.
"Winifred, do you feel ill?" asked her mother anxiously.
"No, Mother; I'm all right," she replied with an effort. But mother knew
better and when her father returned to his office downstairs that afternoon
Winifred was the first patient in his waiting-room, and a reluctant little
patient she was, for she knew that father's medicine could give her no
relief for her ailment.
But Winifred was not along there very long. Patient number two entered and
was also a little girl,—one whose curls were very familiar to
Winifred.
For a moment Winifred was speechless. She struggled to speak, but it seemed
that a big lump was choking her.
Little Ellen Brooks recognized her. Smiling she came forward.
"I-I-didn't mean to-to do it," said Winifred beginning to cry. As Ellen's
arms encircled the little girl she tried to find something comforting to
say.
"Don't cry!" she burst forth, impressively. "That wasn't you who pulled my
hair anyway. That was just your bad fairy acting."
Winifred looked up somewhat bewildered.
"Don't you know about the two fairies inside of you?" exclaimed Ellen,
surprised. She thought every little girl in the world knew about these two
fairies.
Winifred shook her head.
"Well, there are two of them in every little girl—one good fairy
and one bad fairy," explained Ellen. "Don't you know when you do good acts
that that's the good little fairy acting, and when you do bad acts it is the
bad little fairy acting? My mother says you must keep the good little fairy
busy all the time to keep the bad little fairy from acting."
A deep interest had been stirred within Winifred. She wanted at once to know
more about these fairies in every little girl, so she suggested that they go
out in the swing. And as Ellen shoved her she told how hard it was to keep
the good little fairies busy, but her mother had assured her that every
little girl can do it, if she will only set herself to the task.
Winifred's black eyes beamed mischievously as she listened to Ellen's reason
for the things little girls did. Then she unclasped her coral beads from her
neck and put them around Ellen's, and laughed heartily. She afterwards told
her mother that the good fairy whispered in her ear and told her to do
it.
brownies.192101.028.jpg
Winter Sweetness
LANGSTON HUGHES
THE little house is sugar,
Its roof with snow is piled,
And from its tiny window,
Peeps a maple-sugar child.
brownies.192101.029.jpg
Little Black Boy
Lucian B. Watkins
LITTLE black boy with your little black feet,
Fanned and tanned by the wild-winds fleet;
Caught and kissed by the morning's cool,
Christened with dew from the lily-cup pool:
Sable Youth! Crown Prince of Night!
Royal in the reign of Right!
Heaven-born Heart! naught can destroy
Your faith-bright visions, little black boy.
Little black boy with your little black hands,
Seared by desert suns and sands;
In the crucible of time,
Seasoned for your task sublime:
From the depth unto the height,
These shall bear your Lamp of Light;
These shall build your Rome and Troy,
Beyond life's mountains, little black boy.
Little black boy with your little black head,
Crinkled hair of midnight shred;
Mystic moons have wrought a grace
Into the molding of your face:
Lo, the splendor in your eyes,
Like a wonder in dark skies,
Seems a sign from worlds unknown,
Glory-gleams from a distant throne;—
Ah, it is your soul, O joy!—
God's gift of Love to the little black boy!
brownies.192101.029.jpg
[illustration - Filipino School Girls]
brownies.192101.030.jpg
How Br'er Possum Learned to Play Dead
Julian Elihu Bagley
Little Cless had just returned to his apartment
from an excursion to the famous Bronx Park in New York City. At last his
wish to see the many wonderful animals in the zoo had come to pass. But
somehow they didn't interest him quite as much as he expected. Perhaps this
was due to the fact that there were countless other holiday attractions, or
perhaps it was because Granny couldn't go along to tell him the wonderful
stories that she knew about them. But this was no grown-ups'
outing—this trip. It was a holiday excursion conducted by Cless'
teacher—and for kiddies only! So poor Granny had to stay at home.
However, as soon as Cless began his dinner he commenced to tell Granny all
about the strange animals he had seen at the park. And what do you think he
imagined the funniest creature in the whole zoo?—Br'er Possum!
"Oh, Granny! You just ought to see him," shouted Cless. "He's the cutest
little thing in the whole zoo. And every time you go near his cage he just
stretches out and plays dead. Granny, what makes him do that,—was
he born that way?"
"Why, of course not, Cless. Haven't you ever heard how Mister Tortoise taught
Br'er Possum that trick? Well," added Granny quickly—she knew
Cless hadn't heard this tale—"guess I'll have to tell
you—but after dinner, honey."
"Now understand, Cless," explained Granny as she began, "this was many years
ago, long before you were born—or even Granny. Br'er Possum was
living away down in old Virginia in the hollow of a cypress tree in
Chuckatuck swamp And on the side of this same swamp, away down in a dark,
crooked hole, there lived Mister Tortoise. Now Br'er Possum was a particular
friend of Mister Tortoise, and used to visit him every night to get some of
the delicious carrots and beets and turnips that he kept in his hole. This
made life very easy for Br'er
brownies.192101.031.jpg
Possum, so instead of working he just cuddled up
in his hollow every day and slept till night. But one day a strange storm
blew up. Big, rolling clouds hid the sun and after a while there was a heavy
downpour of a mixture of sleep and snow. For three days and three nights
this sleet and snow poured down so hard that neither Br'er Possum nor Mister
Tortoise could go out.
"Now, Mister Tortoise was all prepared for this weather. He had already
stored up his carrots and beets and turnips for his winter food, so the
storm only stopped him from going fishing. Br'er Possum was not so lucky. He
didn't have one bite in his hollow, so it wasn't long before he began to
squeal desperately for something to eat. Naturally, just as soon as the
storm lulled he crawled out of his hollow and went dragging over to Mister
Tortoise's den to get something. He was hungry and weak and was therefore
compelled to travel very slowly, and when he got there Mister Tortoise had
just crawled out of his hole and toddled on down to the river a-fishin'.
Br'er Possum wondered what to do. Should he go on down to the river and help
his friend fish? He thought a while and then decided to go down to the
river. But he had not gone long on his way before he met Br'er Fox.
"'Hello there, Br'er Possum,' says Br'er Fox. 'How you do this morning, and
where you going so early?'
"Br'er Possum replied that he was feeling pretty hungry and was going to the
river to fish with Mister Tortoise, his friend.
"'Why,' says Br'er Fox, 'I've just come from the river a-fishin' with Mister
Tortoise myself, and he's caught just one little minnow fish.'
"Then Br'er Fox went on to tell Br'er Possum how Mister Tortoise had been
fishing since sunrise and how he had threatened to keep on fishing till
sundown if he didn't catch a big fish. Furthermore, he told Br'er Possum
that Mister Tortoise had promised him some carrots and beets and turnips if
he'd stay and help him fish. 'But,' said he, 'it was to cold down there for
me I just couldn't stand it.'
"Nevertheless, he had promised to go back to the river that afternoon and
carry Mister Tortoise home on his back. But, of course, he didn't mean to go
back to the river at all. What he really meant to do was to find Mister
Tortoise's hole and rob it of the carrots and beets and turnips. So after
throwing one or two hints at Br'er Possum, Br'er Fox came right out and
said: 'Seems like you ought to know where Mister Tortoise lives, Br'er
Possum—he's your friend.'
"'I do,' says Br'er Possum.
"'And you claim you pretty hungry?' asked Br'er Fox.
"'Yes, hungry as I can be.'
"'Well, would you listen to a scheme to get something to eat?'
"'Maybe I would,' says Br'er Possum. 'What is it?'
"'Would you go and help me rob Mister Tortoise's hole while he's at the
river?'
"'Oh no! no! no!' exclaimed Br'er Possum as he wolloped his big, rough tail
on the ground. 'I could never do that. He's my best friend.'
"'But how's he going to know it?' argued Br'er Fox. 'How's he going to know
it when he's at the river a-fishin'?'
"Well, Br'er Fox kept on asking this question and saying, 'And yet you claim
you so hungry!" till Br'er Possum got the notion of going. So he said, 'Wait
here, Br'er Fox, till I go home and get a basket and we'll go and rob Mister
Tortoise.'
"Of course, Br'er Fox agreed to wait, so Br'er Possum started off to get the
basket. But on his way home he began to think of the many kind things that
Mister Tortoise had done for him. Now this worried Br'er Possum so much that
before he got to his hollow he had completely changed his mind. So instead
of going right back to Br'er Fox with the basket he took a short cut through
the swamp to see if Mister Tortoise was still fishing at the river. And sure
enough what did he see but a great big tortoise with his head chucked
through the ice and his feet away up in the air, just a-going 'flippey-te
floppey-te!' He was struggling to catch a fish. Br'er Possum sneaked up
behind Mister Tortoise, grabbed him by the hind legs and snatched him out of
the ice.
"'Spe—u!' whistled Mister Tortoise as the cold water gushed from
his mouth. 'my gracious alive, Br'er Possum, you liked to scared me to
death—I thought you were Br'er Fox. Where in the world did you pop
up from any way?'
"'Just from Chuckatuck Hill,' says Br'er Possum, 'and I met Br'er Fox up
there.'
"'Sure enough!—what did he say?' asked Mister Tortoise.
brownies.192101.032.jpg
"'Said he'd been down here a-fishin' with you all morning. Said you'd just
caught one little minnow and—!'
"Right here is where Mister Tortoise cut Br'er Possum right short and asked:
"Did he say I promised him something to eat?'
"'Yes,' said Br'er Possum, 'and you better watch him to 'cause he's just been
trying to get me to go with him to your hole and steal all you got.'
[illustration - Br'er Fox and Br'er Possum hold a conference]
"'A low-down scamp!' says Mister Tortoise. 'How can we get him, Br'er
Possum?'
"'Just you get on my back,' says Br'er Possum, 'and let me take you to your
hole. Then I'll go back and get Br'er Fox and bring him there to pretend
like I'm going to steal your carrots and beets and turnips, and when he
comes down in your hole you just grab him and choke him to death.'
"Now both of them agreed to this trick and as soon as Br'er Possum had gulped
down the little fish to give him enough strength to run, he took Mister
Tortoise on his back and started to his hole by a round about way through
the swamp. In about ten minutes they were home. Mister Tortoise slid off
Br'er Possum's back and scrambled on down in his hole to wait for Br'er Fox.
Now Br'er Possum started back in the same round about way to meet Br'er Fox.
When he got back Br'er Fox was very angry and asked why he had stayed so
long. Br'er Possum told him that he couldn't find the basket.
"'Well,' says Br'er Fox to Br'er Possum, 'how come you panting so hard like
you been running a long ways?'
"'Oh, that's because I'm hungry,' says Br'er Possum, 'I didn't run a
step.'
"'Hush up your mouth, Br'er Possum,' says Br'er Fox, 'didn't I hear you way
through the swamp running bookiter! bookiter!
bookiter!
brownies.192101.033.jpg
Who you fooling? And how come your breath smells
so much like fresh fish?'
"Of course, all this was enough to make Br'er Fox suspicious, but he was so
hungry and Br'er Possum played so innocent that he still thought he would
take a chance in Mister Tortoise's hole. So the two hungry creatures started
out. But as soon as they came to Mister Tortoise's hole and saw all the
fresh tracks around it, Br'er Fox balked and declared that he would never
take the chance. Well, they stood in front of the whole and fussed and
argued, and argued and fussed till Br'er Possum was sure Mister Tortoise
heard all they said. Then he hollered right out loud: 'Oh pshaw! Get out the
way, Br'er Fox, you too scared to do anything! Get out the way! I'll go
down; you stay up here and fill the basket as I bring the food up.'
"To be sure, Br'er Fox didn't object to this, so Br'er Possum crawled into
the hole and slid on down to the bottom. Soon as he got down there he met
Mister Tortoise and told him that they would have to think up a better trick
to catch Br'er Fox.
"'Heard every word you spoke,' said Mister Tortoise. 'Just you leave it to
me, and when I tell you to squeal,— squeal
loud. And when I tell you to lie down and play dead, don't squeal
at all!—Do you understand?' Br'er Possum said he did. Now Mister
Tortoise grabbed him by the back and pretended that there was a mighty
scuffling going on. My, there was such a-squealing and a-squealing and
a-grunting and a-groaning that poor Br'er Fox way at the top of the hole was
just shaking with fright. Finally there was a sudden hush. Then Mister
Tortoise gave Br'er Possum a butcher knife and told him to go over int he
corner and lie down just like he was dead. Br'er Possum obeyed. And about
that time Br'er Fox thought everything was over, so he poked his head in the
hole and hollered: 'Hello there, Mister Tortoise.'
"'Who's that darkening this hole?' says Mister Tortoise.
"'It's me—Br'er Fox—come for the carrots and beets and
turnips you promised me this morning at the river.'
"Oh sure! sure!—come on down,' says Mister Tortoise. 'You're the
very one I'm looking for. I've just killed a great big possum. Come on down
and help me skin him and I'll give you a piece.'
"Br'er Fox went down and sure enough there was Br'er Possum all stretched out
just like he was dead. Now Br'er Fox was just as tickled as he could be. He
began to strut about and say, 'Oh, what a fine supper I'll have tonight!'
But his fun did not last long, for as soon as he turned his back, Mister
Tortoise jumped on him, grabbed him by his throat so he couldn't squeal, and
then hollered for Br'er Possum to come with his butcher knife. Br'er Possum
came. And while Mister Tortoise held Br'er Fox by his long mouth, Br'er
Possum cut Br'er Fox's head clean off. That same night they skinned him and
baked him and ate him for their supper. And after supper they talked much of
this trick of playing dead. Br'er Possum liked it so well that he took it
up, played it once or twice on Br'er Rabbit, and since that day he has
played it on everybody but Mister Tortoise."
Granny's tale was finished. She tickled little Cless under his chin and asked
him if he thought he could tell the story of how Br'er Possum learned to
play dead. He assured her that he could. So now she pressed his little round
face close to hers and literally smothered him with soft kisses. Then she
slipped him from her lap and told him that he might join the romping holiday
kiddies out in the street below.
brownies.192101.033.jpg
Fairies
LANGSTON HUGHES
OUT of the dust of dreams,
Fairies weave their garments;
Out of the purple and rose of old memories,
They make rainbow wings.
No wonder we find them such marvellous things!
