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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

SPECIAL OFFER

A copy of the 1921 CRISIS Calender will be sent free to any person sending us AT ONE TIME three (3) paid-up yearly subscriptions to the CRISIS on or before January 31, 1921.

SEVEN GIFT BOOKS (Postage Extra)

Souls of Black Folk. (W. E. B. DuBois)	$1.50
History of the Negro (B. G. Brawley)	2.00
Darkwater. (W. E. B. DuBois)	2.00
The Shadow. (Mary White Ovington)	2.00
The Negro Faces America. (Herbert J. Seligmann)	1.75
Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar.	2.50
The Negro. (W. E. B. DuBois)	.90

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

	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

FIFTEEN CENTS A COPY: ONE DOLLAR AND A HALF A YEAR
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RENEWALS: The date of expiration of each subscription is printed on the wrapper. When the subscription is due, a yellow renewal blank is enclosed.
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MANUSCRIPTS and drawing relating to colored children are desired. They must be accompanied by return postage. If found unavailable they will be returned.
Entered as second class matter January 20, 1920, at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of March 3, 1879.

brownies.192101.004.jpg [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
brownies.192101.006.jpg 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.

brownies.192101.007.jpg [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

brownies.192101.008.jpg [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
brownies.192101.009.jpg 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
brownies.192101.011.jpg 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
brownies.192101.012.jpg 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.

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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.

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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.

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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. 

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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]

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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.

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Fairies