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

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How Brer Possum Outwitted Brer Rabbit

WHEN springtime comes with her sparkling April days, little New York kiddies are not much inclined to study, especially if it be at night-time and away up stairs in an apartment house. This is the rule and little Cless was no exception. Naturally, then, when Granny made him study under such trying conditions he kept constantly on the alert for some way out. It was one night in flipping over the leaves of an old geography that he hit upon the scheme that promised him some relief. He had come to one of those animal maps, I'm sure you have seen one with its buffaloes rushing headlong across the plain; its turkeys with outstanding wings and fan-shaped tails strutting around with all the pride of a peacock; or a puma or a jaguar sinking his teeth into the back of a fleeing deer. Cless saw all these and many others, but none caught his attention so solidly as the little creature that swung down by his tail from the limb of a tree in the far corner of the map. This was Br'er Possum.

"Look! Granny," shrieked Cless as he took up the geography and rushed over to show his grandmother. "Look!—here's Br'er Possum swinging from the limb by his tail. See how cute he is! And, Granny, you never did tell me about the trick he worked on Br'er Rabbit. Won't you tell me now? Please, Granny, 'cause I'm so tired reading my lesson."

Granny had been so cunningly led up to the story that she couldn't possibly refuse. So she threw aside her evening paper, took off her spectacles and, while little Cless lay back on the sofa, she began another tale of Br'er Possum.

"You remember how Mister Tortoise taught Br'er Possum to play dead, don't you?"

Cless assured her that he did.

"And you remember how he worked the trick on Br'er Fox?"

"Yes'm."

"Well since Br'er Fox was killed and there
brownies.192104.006.jpg was no one else so cunning as he, Br'er Rabbit decided that he just had to get this new trick from Br'er Possum. So he set out to learn it. Of course Br'er Possum wouldn't tell Br'er Rabbit anything about it, but Br'er Rabbit felt sure he could get all the information he wanted from Miss Possum, Br'er Possum's sweetheart, who lived about five miles away from Chuckatuck, at a place called Crown Hill. So all that winter Br'er Rabbit tramped over to Crown Hill every Friday night, pretending to be in love with Miss Possum. But he wasn't in love with her at all. The truth of the matter was that he simply went to see her with the hope of some day coaxing her to tell him Br'er Possum's trick. Now Br'er Possum was on to all this and that's why he hadn't told any one—even his sweetheart—about his new trick.

"But there came a time when Br'er Possum had to either try his new trick or lose his love, for Br'er Rabbit was so cute and wore such good clothes that he was about to make Miss Possum forsake her old lover. The test came one Easter Monday night. There was an Easter Party on Chuckatuck Hill to which every creature was invited. Br'er Possum, of course, expcted to go over to Crown Hill and get Miss Possum and bring her to the party. Br'er Rabbit had the same hope. And Miss Possum was cruel enough to promise each one that she would go with him—alone. Br'er Possum heard of her plan, but he was not disheartened. He was determined to show her that he was just as clever as Br'er Rabbit. The night for the party came. Br'er Possum dressed up in a brand new, blue suit, put on a big Buster Brown collar and decorated it with the reddest and widest tie that he could find. But all this fine dressing did not count, for when he went over to Crown Hill to get Miss Possum she said: 'Why I'm going to the party with Br'er Rabbit. Sorry you took the trouble to come over to-night.'

"Br'er Possum was astonished.

" 'All right,' said he as he sank his head into his handkerchief and began to cry. 'Can I stay and see you off?'

" 'Certainly,' she agreed.

"The two sat down and began to talk. Now I think Miss Possum mentioned everything except her love for Br'er Possum, and I think he told her everything he knew except his new trick. At eight o'clock, in strutted Br'er Rabbit. He was dressed in the finest suit imaginable and was puffing a big cigar and swinging a carved walking-cane. All this, of course, made him look like a real sport. He was very much surprised to find Br'er Possum there, but he tried hard to keep from getting excited. He sat down, crossed his legs, told a few jokes, talked a little about the weather and then got up and said: 'Let's go to the party, honey.'

"Miss Possum got up and made ready to go. But as soon as she started out, Br'er Possum fell violently ill. 'Whee—a! whee—a! whee—a!' he began to cry. 'Send for Mister Tortoise.'

"Now Mister Tortoise was not a real doctor, but his sassafras tonics were a positive cure for any pain imaginable. So Miss Possum begged Br'er Rabbit to go and get him. Br'er Rabbit went. Meanwhile Miss Possum exerted every possible effort toward keeping Br'er Possum alive until Br'er Rabbit returned with Mister Tortoise. At last Mister Tortoise toddled in. He flung open his satchel of roots, crawled up to Br'er Possum and laid his head upon his breast to listen for his heart thumps. And sure enough it was going: 'Thump! Thump! Thump!'

" 'Where's the pain?' asked Mister Tortoise.

" 'Oh—ee! Oh—ee! everywhere,' cried Br'er Possum. 'I can't live. Leave me! Leave me! Leave me and let me die.' Then he turned over on his face, uttered a plaintive cry and in another moment he was apparently dead. Immediately Miss Possum began to wring and twist her hands and cry, 'Ee—hee! Ee—hee! I'm so sorry I treated Br'er Possum so mean. Ee—hee! I'm so sorry—so sorry. Poor me—poor me!'

"She was almost scared to death, for it had already been rumored on Chuckatuck Hill that Br'er Rabbit was layin' for Br'er Possum, and she knew if he died that night, there would be some excitement in Chuckatuck the next day. Well, for her, the party was over. Once more she begged Br'er Rabbit to go over to Chuckatuck Hill and tell Br'er Possum's folks that he was dead. And she kept on moaning and sighing and sniffing till Mister Tortoise had pity on her and let the secret out. 'Don't you know Br'er Possum ain't dead?'

" 'Isn't he?—Isn't he?' she asked nervously.

" 'Why, of course, he isn't. I taught him to do that trick last winter. He played it on Br'er Fox and got by with it and now he thinks he's got to play it on everybody. But he shan't play
brownies.192104.007.jpg [illustration - At eight o'clock in strutted Br'er Rabbit] it on you.' By this time Br'er Rabbit was well out of sight, so Br'er Possum hopped up from the floor and began dancing and shouting:

" 'Oh but I thought you were dead,' cried Miss Possum as Br'er Possum stopped singing.

" 'No, indeed,' he answered. 'I was just playing dead! It's a new trick Mister Tortoise taught me the first of last winter.' And then for the first time he told her all about the trick he played on Br'er Fox. As soon as she heard this story she became very proud of Br'er Possum, for if he had outwitted Br'er Fox last winter he had certainly outwitted Br'er Rabbit now. Therefore, he must be the slyest creature in the whole woods. 'Come along, honey, let's go to the party,' begged Miss Possum.

" 'Sure!' chuckled Br'er Possum. 'You'll excuse us, won't you, Mister Tortoise? Thank you for your medicine!' Mister Tortoise assured them that they were welcome to his services and within a few moments he was on his way to his hole, and Br'er Possum and Miss Possum were on their way to the party.

"When they reached the party everybody was laughing and dancing and having a good time. But as soon as the rabbits noticed that it was Br'er Possum and Miss Possum, instead of Br'er Rabbit and Miss Possum, they quit dancing and began to ask, 'Oh where's Br'er Rabbit, Miss Possum—where's Br'er Rabbit?' But before
brownies.192104.008.jpg she could answer, Br'er Possum was dancing a jig and singing his same old song over and over again—

"Well he kept on singing this way till the dance started again. Nobody could get any sense in him till then. Now he took Miss Possum and danced and danced till it was time to go home. When they got back home they found Br'er Rabbit lying in front of Miss Possum's den. He had got lost over in Chuckatuck Swamp and had come back and cried himself to sleep. 'Br'er Possum got well again,' said Miss Possum as Br'er Rabbit got up and began to rub his sleepy eyes, 'and we decided to go to the party.' Br'er Rabbit didn't believe this tale but he didn't dare say so, for it was a disgrace for a rabbit to admit that he had been outwitted by a possum. It was almost day now, so Br'er Rabbit and Br'er Possum told Miss Possum good-night and each started for his den. But Br'er Possum never told Br'er Rabbit, and Br'er Rabbit," concluded Granny, "never has been able even up to this day to find out just how Br'er Possum turned the trick on him that Easter Monday night."

Granny had consumed half an hour or more in telling this tale, for she included a number of minor details that I have purposely omitted. All this, of course, had given little Cless ample time to get rested from his books. And now it was bed-time, so he rolled down off the sofa, ran over and kissed Granny good-night, and hurried on off to bed where the sandman soon had him dreaming dreams of how Br'er Possum outwitted Br'er Rabbit.

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IN A MEXICAN CITY

TOLUCA sits in the highest plateau of Mexico at the foot of the old and long extinct volcano "Xinantecatl", which is said to be named after one of the ancient Indian kings. All around us there are mountains and our valley is broad and fertile. Here the climate is cool and often cold, but the poor folks never have shoes to wear nor do the rich use stoves in their houses. In summer it is the rainy season and every day brings long showers and misty clouds that hide the mountains. In winter the sky is clear and the sun shines warm at mid-day, but in the shade it is always cool.

The house where I live faces a little plaza or park and from my window I can see many interesting things. Every morning a bare-footed old woman in a wide straw hat and long skirts drives a little flock of white sheep down the street, and sometimes she has a tiny baby lamb in her arms. They go to the country to graze all day and in the evening they come back again. Often I see a funeral procession passing through the plaza on the way to the Panteon and as they do not have hearses here, the men carry the casket on their shoulders while the mourners walk behind them. On Sundays the park is full of black-shawled women and men wrapped in serapes or blankets who come in the early morning to say mass in the quaint old church in front with its pretty tower and its most unmusical bells.

There are many churches here and all of them are very old. Some were built before the Independence, when Mexico was still under Spanish rule, and have beautiful domes and tall, graceful towers. Practically every one is Catholic and they keep many feast days. On the day of the Innocent Saints there is a custom that reminds one of our April Fool. On this date things should never be loaned and if you forget, the article is sure to be sent back by the joking friend who borrowed it, accompanied by a tiny box full of tiny toys and a note calling you a "poor little innocent saint". On the second of November, which is a day in honor of the dead,
brownies.192104.009.jpg they sell many little cardboard coffins and paper dolls dressed as mourners, and if a person meets you in the street and says "I'm dying", you must give him a gift unless you have said "I'm dying" first; then, of course, he has to treat you to the present. On a certain day in January the people take their animals to be blessed and in the church-yard one sees everything from oxen to rabbits. Each is wearing a bit of gay colored ribbon and they wait patiently for the priest to come.

The houses here from the outside all look very much alike and are but a succession of arched doors and windows with small balconies facing the sidewalk. They often have lovely court-yards and verandas but these are hidden from the passers-by behind high walls, and the fronts of the houses never tell anything about the beauty that may be within them. When one enters a house the door usually leads directly into the court-yard or sometimes into the long open corridor from which every room has its entrance. In the patio or court-yard there are flowers the year round and if it is a large one, there may be a garden or trees. On the railing of the long veranda, too, there are many pots of red and pink geraniums and fragrant heliotrope. Inside the house there will probably be little furniture. Only a few of the well-to-do people have a great deal, so most of the homes use chairs as their principal space fillers. In a friend's parlor I counted twenty-seven one day and the only other articles of furniture were two small tables. Most of the parlors of the middle-class folk show the same emptiness but perhaps it is a good idea, for on holidays there is plenty of room to dance without moving anything out.

The kitchens here are very different from American ones, for they do not use stoves or gas ranges. The fuel is charcoal and the stoves are made of stone or [illustration - Market-day in Toluca]
brownies.192104.010.jpg brick, built into the wall like a long seat, except that they have three square grates on top for the fire and three square holes in front for removing the ashes. Some are prettily built and covered with gaily colored tiles. To make the fire several splinters of pine are lighted in the grate and then the black pieces of charcoal piled on top. Then one must fan and fan at the square holes in front until the charcoal on top begins to blaze, and in a little while you have a nice glowing fire ready to cook with.

The shops here in the portals, which is Toluca's "uptown", are much like the American stores, but in the little expendios in the side streets one can buy a penny's worth of wood or a tablespoonful of lard or a lamp full of oil. The poor here do not have much money. These little shops paint themselves all sorts of colors and have the funniest names. One I know is called "The Wedding Bouquet". Others are "The Light Of America", "The Big Fight", "The Fox", and so on, and one tinner's shop is even called "Heart of Jesus". The last store on the edge of town, where the road leads off to San Juan, has the very appropriate name of "Farewell". One who did not know Spanish could acquire a whole vocabulary just by reading the store names which are painted in large colored letters across the front and are often accompanied by pictures or decorations to illustrate their meanings. For instance, the meat market called "The Bull of Atenco" has the animal's picture on one side of the door and a bull-fighter's on the other, painted over a background of bright blue.

Friday is market-day in Toluca and the square outside the market-house is one sea of wide Mexican hats, as buyer and trader jostle and bargain. The surrounding streets are lined with Indians from the country who squat behind their little piles of vegetables, or fruit, or herbs, which they have to sell and which they spread out on the ground before them. One old woman will have neat little piles of green peppers for a cent a pile. Another will have beans and another wild herbs for seasoning soup or making medicine. The fruit sellers, of course, always have a most gorgeous and luscious display. Under a canopy created from four sticks and some sort of covering to make a spot of shade, are piled all sorts of strange, delicious fruits. There one finds creamy alligator pears and queer-tasting mangoes; red pomegranates and black zapotes; small, round melons and fat little bananas and the delicately flavored granada, which feels like a paper ball and has a soft seedy pulp inside. Then there are oranges that come up to us from the hot country, along with limes and juicy lemons that are not sour like the ones we know up North.

Here people never buy without bargaining. If the price asked for a thing is two cents, they are sure to get it for one. These price arguments are always good-natured and the merchant, knowing that he will have to come down, usually asks more than he should in the first place. Everyone going to market must carry his own baskets and sacks and even the paper for his meat, as everything is sold without wrapping.

A market-day crowd is composed of all sorts of people. A rich senorita with her black scarf draped gracefully about her shoulders is doing the family buying, while the servants carrying baskets follow behind. Indian women with sacks of vegetables on their backs; others with turkeys or chickens in their arms; little ragged brown boys seeking a chance to earn a few cents by carrying a customer's basket; and beggars, numberless beggars, blind, lame and sick beggars, all asking patiently for pennies or half-rotted fruits; these are the folks one sees on market-day pushing and elbowing their way through the crowd which is so thick that nobody can hurry.

On one side of the plaza are the sellers of hats and the large yellow mats that the Indians spread down on the floor at night for sleeping purposes. The Mexican straw hats have wide round brims and high peaked crowns and, though cheap, most of them are prettily shaped. The Indian, upon buying a new hat, will not take the trouble to remove his old one, but puts the new one on top and marches off home with his double decked head gear. Sometimes a hat merchant, desiring to change his location, will put one hat on his head, and as each peaked crown fits snugly over the other, he then piles his whole stock on top of himself and goes walking down the street like a Chinese pagoda out for a stroll.

Here everything that people do not carry on their backs they carry on their heads. The ice-cream man crying nieve, balances his freezer, and the baker-boys carry a shallow basket as big around as a wagon wheel. This basket has a crown in the center and when filled with bread it fits over the head like a very wide Mexican hat, while its wearer underneath is as insignificant
brownies.192104.011.jpg as the stem of a mushroom. Sometimes we see fruit sellers, too, with great colorful mounds of fruit piled upon their wooden trays and balanced gracefully on their black-haired heads. When a thing is too heavy or too unwieldy to put on the head, then it is carried on the back, and the Indians bear immense burdens in this way. Men, women and even small children are often seen with great loads of wood or charcoal, or sacks of grain, on their backs, and the only carriage that the little Indian baby ever knows is its mother's back, where it rides contented all day long, tied in her rebosa or shawl.

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THE GIRL RESERVES

AT our meeting on January 22, we held our semi-annual election of officers. We were fortunate in having with us as visitors, Mrs. Boyce, President of the Washington Y.W.C.A., and Miss Clayda Williams, of the National Board, who, with Miss Florence Brooks, our Girls' Work Secretary, assisted with our election. Mrs. Boyce presided and Misses Williams and Brooks kept record of the votes. Elizabeth Morton, our former president, had been so faithful and had performed the duties of her office so well, that had our rules allowed it, she would have been unanimously reelected. But we want to give each a chance.

Our new officers are: President, Julia Delany; Vice-President, Elaine Williams; Recording Secretary, Hortense Mimms; Corresponding Secretary, Lillian Smith; Treasurer, Sylvia Wormley; Reporter for THE BROWNIES' BOOK, Annette Hawkins.

The officers of the High School group of the Dramatic Club are: President, Ida May Hall; Vice-President, Eudora Keyes; Recording Secretary, Dorothy Craft; Corresponding Secretary, Edwina Simpkins; Treasurer, Estelle Welch; Reporter for THE BROWNIES' BOOK, Avis Spencer.

In order to give a better idea to the officers and board members of our Y.W.C.A., it was decided that they be invited to a model initiation and Girl Reserves meeting. The ladies selected Saturday, and this being the meeting day of the Dramatic Club, it fell to our lot to conduct the exercise.

Under the direction of Miss Brooks, the initiation ceremony took place, led by President Julia Delany. Seven members were initiated and received light from the red, white, and blue candles of Health, Knowledge, and Spirit.

We were honored by the presence of Miss Hallie Q. Brown, who was introduced to the girls by Mrs. Boyce, and who complimented the exercise and gave us much encouragement. Perhaps at some time THE BROWNIES' BOOK may tell us and the other Girl Reserves more of Miss Brown and what she means to our race.

The third Sunday of each month has been given over to the Girl Reserves by the Religious Committee for Vesper Services. On February 20 the Dramatic Club had charge, but owing to the very bad weather they postponed it until the following Sunday, when they were invited by the Junior Endeavor of the Lincoln Congregational Church to hold the service at their church.

February being the birthday month of so many noble men, the Dramatic Club held a service of Great Memories in honor of those who gave their lives to the betterment of the world by serving others.

They revived the great memory of Abraham Lincoln, Frederick Douglass, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and George Washington. The club sang the hymn, "Still, Still With Thee", the words of which were written by Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Mrs. M. I. Hill gave a helpful talk on the topic. "Ready for Service", a line of the Girl Reserve Code, which expresses a summary of their efforts, and the girls rededicated themselves by repeating the Code.

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THE JUDGE

I WISH," says Billy looking disconsolately at a long line of fractions, "that a fairy would come along and give me three wishes."

"What would you do with them?" Wilhelmina wants to know.

"I'd wish first, that children didn't have to go to school, and second, that children didn't have to go to school, and third, that children didn't have to go—"

"My goodness!" William interrupts, "you'd certainly mean to get your wish."

"As a matter of fact, some children don't have to go to school," says the Judge, "but if they haven't a certain amount of training and knowledge when they get to be men and women, they're mighty sorry for it just the same."

"Well how can they get the training if they don't go to school?" asks William.

Wilhelmina looks thoughtful. "There must be some way though. Don't you remember Maude and Jimmie Keating? They'd never been in a school in their lives, until they came here. And they were smart, they knew all sorts of things. I never saw anybody know so much geography and history as Maude—all about such funny places, too, South America, and—and Guadaloupe,—or something."

"Well she ought to," William reminds her, "she'd lived in those places for a long time. Don't you know a lot about this town? You've lived here forever."

"You see," says the Judge, "all education is for, is to produce knowledge. Your friend Maude, although she had never been to school, happens to be the child of parents who for one reason or another have travelled a great deal and have done it in all sorts of odd places,—that is odd to our notion. Consequently, Maude knows about those foreign countries and that means geography to you. She also may have learned just what combination of former events has made those people decide to live according to certain laws and to adopt certain customs,—and that is your idea of history."

"Oh," says Billy in surprise, "is that the way history and geography are made? I never thought they had anything to do with people that you know about."

"Of course that's the way. Some child in France is reading about New York State this minute and thinking how wise he is because he has collected facts which are a part of your every day life. But to go back to the business of getting an education. All children can't get their training like the Keating boy and girl by visiting new people and places, so that is the reason why they must learn them from books, which are short cuts to the knowledge gained by actual experience. If Billy were a clerk in a grocery now, he'd learn all about fractions in a short while, because he'd be selling people a fraction of a pound, or of a peck, or of a quart of something, and would be making change for a fraction of a dollar."

"And because he isn't in a position like that," says Wilhelmina with sudden understanding, "he has to learn how to do it in school out of a book—"

"So that if he should ever be in such a position he'd know how to act. Precisely," nods the Judge. "We go to school to fit ourselves as far as we may for all the possibilities of life. Learning things by actual experience is often pleasanter, but it takes a great deal more time."

"Books are wonderful things," says William almost reverently. "Why we'd never get anywhere without them, would we?"

"They are probably the greatest single blessing in the world," the Judge tells him. "If we didn't have them, and schools, and teachers, it would take a whole lifetime to learn geography, and another one to learn history, and still another to understand arithmetic,—"

"Just the same," pipes Billikins, who has been an attentive listener, "I'd like to learn how to do sums in a candy-shop."

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GIRLS TOGETHER

Part 1

WHILE slavery existed, it created evil and sorrowful feelings, and when it ceased to exist, it left behind it a terrible trail of pain, passion and prejudice. Still, all the while, there has been a great deal of love and kindliness between white and colored Americans; and, moreover, there has always been a special bond of affectionate sympathy between those white people who, for more than a hundred years, have been trying to help colored people. I am going, therefore, to tell you a little about girls who worked together and loved each other, in some way connected with racial difference.

It must have been about the year 1800, that little white Sarah Grimké began to be "girls together", playing with slave children in Charleston, South Carolina. Her family were wealthy slave-holders. She used to pray to God that the slaves might not be beaten. Once, when she was less than six years old, she saw a woman very cruelly whipped, and that wee mite of a creature fled in childish terror from her own home,—from her slave-holding mother's home,—down on to the Charleston wharves. She begged a sea captain, whom she found there, to take her away where people did not do such dreadful things to each other! How the pitiful infant had ever come to suppose there were any such blessed places of refuge, I cannot tell you.

Later, Sarah was forbidden to teach the slave children to read. But a little slave girl had been assigned as her waiting-maid, so they became "girls together" in an innocent rebellion. At night they used to put out the light in Sarah's room, carefully screen the keyhole in the door, and then, as she wrote long afterwards, "flat on our stomachs before the fire with the spelling book under our eyes, we defied the laws of South Carolina." In that State, it was then a penal offence to teach slaves to read.

Sarah had a sister named Angelina, who was twelve years younger than herself. When Angelina was a child, she kept some soothing lotion among her hidden treasures, and at night she would creep secretly out of the house to annoint the wound's of the slaves who had been beaten. Heroic little girl in the darkness! When she was grown up, she tried to make an Abolitionist of her mother, and to influence her brother not to be harsh with the servants. Failing in both these efforts, and half broken-hearted, she went North, where Sarah had gone before. Neither of them ever again saw their native city or their mother. In 1835 Angelina and Sarah became the first women in America who addressed secular public meetings in behalf of the slave. Theirs were like angelic voices calling far and wide: "Pity the Slave, free him and do right by him." In one of his poems, Whittier spoke of the Grimké sisters as "Carolina's high-souled daughters".

I think it did often happen, in that sad and bad old time of slavery, that white children taught the slaves what they had themselves learned at school. Now and then, doubtless, they did so in a spirit of kindly comradery, and perhaps, in other cases, from childhood's innocent desire to show off. So childhood did help to soften the lot of the dark race, and to keep generous the heart of the white. Blessed be childhood!

I knew, long ago, a Maryland woman, whose parents had been slave-holders. She said that as a little girl, she had played a great deal with slave children, and that she used to feel sorry because they never could be white and live as white people did. When she was asked if she had ever thought that her playmates, although they never could be white, ought still to be free.—"No," she answered, "I never thought of that."

William Lloyd Garrison founded in 1832 the New England Anti-Slavery Society, which demanded the immediate abolition of slavery. All previous anti-slavery societies, in the country, had advocated a gradual liberation of the slaves,
brownies.192104.016.jpg and by such methods slavery had been, by that time, abolished in most of the Northern States of the Union. I wonder if my readers all know what were the gradual emancipation methods. They were like this: the Quakers discouraged slave-holding by their members, and finally forbade it entirely, and commanded all persons in their fellowship to free any slaves they possessed. The separate states began to make laws forbidding the sale of slaves into other states, and requiring all slaves who had attained to a certain age to be set free on an especial date, and others at a later date.

Mr. Garrison and his followers felt that to work for such gradual action, though better than doing nothing, did still imply that the slave-holder had a sort of moral right to hold human beings as property for a time. So he and eleven other men formed this New England Anti-Slavery Society, to declare, to all America, that it was a sin for anybody to treat a fellow human being as property for a single hour. The Abolitionists (as Garrison and his followers were called), did not bring about immediate emancipation by demanding it, but they did establish the principle that slavery was wrong then and there, and they did largely create the feeling which led to the final destruction of the institution.

There were two great men in the country then, who stood for two opposing ideas, and each typified his own for all future students of American history. C. Calhoun, in the South, said: "Slavery is right." Garrison, in the North, said: "Slavery is wrong." Other people, except the close followers of each of these men, said practically, on the one hand, "Slavery is convenient and we must have it"; or, "Slavery is a burden that the white man must carry for the good of the black man, and so we whites have a right to get all the ease we can out of it, till it shall please God to institute some other system." But also, and mostly in the North, men said : "Slavery works badly, but if we can get rid of it, in the course of one or two hundred years, it is better to be patient with its existence for a while, than to disturb everybody now about it. Meanwhile, we'll help a little, one way and another, to make it more likely that the thing will end of itself, by and by."

Twelve men had formed the Immediate Emancipation Society, but women and girls began, at once, to work for its object. There were half-grown children, in Plymouth, Mass., where the Pilgrims first settled in 1620, who went without butter or something else good to eat, so as to save money to give to the antislavery cause. If they were like the children in my father's family, they adored the anti-slavery men and women, who spoke in public meetings. And they promised, if their parent should be sent to jail for helping fugitive slaves, that they would be "very good," while left alone at home. Abby Morton, afterwards Mrs. Diaz, the story writer, told how she and other Plymouth girls "nudged each other" with delight, when a minister, in church, made an unexpected allusion to the duty of freeing the slaves.

Now, with the kind permission of my readers, I am going to tell some of my own family history,—because it bears on the general subject of this paper, and because I know more about my own relatives, as to slavery, than I do about many other people.

Arnold Buffum, my mother's father, was the first President of the New England Anti-Slavery Society, and he was one of the first lecturers, which it sent out to proclaim its doctrines. He had five daughters, all grown up, but all still young enough to be "girls together" in their zeal for Abolition. The youngest daughter, Lydia, then about twenty years old, taught a little private school in Fall River, probably in the house of her sister, Mrs. Chace, for the latter wrote to their father, that Lydia had three colored children among her pupils, saying that they were "Hannah, and a little boy and girl, part Indian and part Negro, —cunning looking enough". Lydia went once to Philadelphia and wrote back, that when she returned to Fall River, she would bring with her a young colored girl, who was an escaped slave and did not dare to stay any longer, so near the slave-holding states as Philadelphia.

There was a sixteen year old niece of Arnold Buffum's named Hannah Shove. She was a pretty, little, brown-eyed creature, with short, dancing curls and dainty mannerisms. She seemed made just to have a good time with girls and boys. Such small maidens do not like to do unpopular things, but Hannah was willing to do almost anything to help the slaves. So she bought at an anti-slavery fair a little basket, which must have been covered with some
brownies.192104.017.jpg fabric, for it is on record, that the "cover" bore a printed picture of a slave, kneeling and praying for freedom. Heaven only knows where the child got the money to pay for it! In a letter to her cousin, Mrs. Chace, (who many years later became my mother), she said she carried her kneeling slave everywhere she went (to make its silent appeal, I suppose), but that everybody laughed at her for doing it. It may seem a little thing, but I think Hannah was plucky to brave all that laughter.

I came on this earthly scene a dozen years after Hannah had carried the emblem of the slave's wrongs, and I, as a very small child, used to see, in my mother's best parlor, a little box made of pasteboard, covered with drab silk. I gazed at it with holy awe, for the picture of a kneeling and chained Negro was printed on the silk. The slaves in this country had not then been freed. There were English and Scotch women, who regularly sent things over the ocean to be sold at anti-slavery fairs, and this box had been made and sent to America and sold at such a fair. Probably Hannah's basket had also come from England. It may be that my mother's box, and its purchase by her, dated back to the same general period in the 1830 decade. Certainly my mother had something like it, in her house, at that same time, for I find, among her papers, an allusion to it, in a tender record about a little girl of hers named Susan, who was scarcely three years old when she died.

In those early anti-slavery days, some of the Abolitionists had a habit of speaking of each other as Brother or Sister So-and-So. I tell this to explain something in the quotations, I am about to make from my mother's journal. I also want to ask my readers to notice that these little stories show how constantly and lovingly she taught her children to remember the bondman as bound with him. It went on altogether, family love and love for humanity.

Here they are, the records the young mother made of her baby Abolitionists after two of them had died.

"When George was two years old we had a black woman to clean house, who brought with her a baby about eleven months old.

"The first time George saw her, he asked me what it was, and I told him she was a little girl. He looked at her with some surprise and then exclaimed, very tenderly, 'Pippy, pippy' (pretty). When he was carried into the bedroom, he wanted to 'kiss little girl', and he was permitted to kiss her."

After Susan's death, the mother made this entry in her record:

"I have omitted to say that she felt a sympathy for the poor slave without, it is true, being able to understand his condition, knowing only that he was poor and suffering. When permitted to look at the articles belonging to the Sewing Society she would say of the kneeling representation, 'Poor save, muvver, poor save' ; and, I believe it was the day before her sickness, when I was dressing her in the morning, her sister asked me why I called Amos Dresser, who was then there, 'Brother Dresser'. I replied, 'Because he is an Abolitionist and so am I'. Susan said 'So I'."

The articles referred to in the passage above were some which the Sewing Society was preparing for sale at anti-slavery fairs.

George died before he was quite nine years old, and a notice of his death, probably written by his mother, appeared in Mr. Garrison's paper, The Liberator. I quote one paragraph: "Although young in years he was the devoted friend of the slave and gave early promise of being one of the firmest advocates of the rights of the oppressed." That was what Abolitionists trained their children to become,—the friends of the oppressed.

brownies.192104.020.jpg

AS THE CROW FLIES

THE world,—the sad and bad and beautiful world,—is full of promise today. For Spring is here and sweet April, and just as all the bleakness and bitterness of the Winter have passed, so, too, must all the evils and unrest of the war change to harmony again. Caw! Have faith poor world! All will yet be well!

• Germany has refused to fulfill her obligations to the Allies and as a result French, Belgian and British troops are occupying Düsseldorf and other towns on the Rhine. The Allies have not been so much interested in the amount of money which Germany was to pay, or her methods of paying it, as in Germany's refusal to recognize her obligations under the Treaty or her responsibility for the war, and in her disregard for the Paris terms. But Germany's attitude throughout has been of such a nature that finally Lloyd George declared at the meeting of the Supreme Council in London that German public opinion as represented through Minister Simons was clearly not prepared to pay.
• In Italy the peasants have been seizing large tracts of land. This has happened particularly in Sicily.
• A little island in the Pacific Ocean, about 80 miles square, is causing a great deal of controversy between the United States and Japan. This little island, called Yap, is a great cable center and belonged to Germany before the war. Then the Paris Conference assigned it to Japan, who now insists that the United States must keep out of Yap and cable by means of Manila. Almost the last act of President Wilson's administration was formally to object to awarding the island to Japan because this gives her control over an "international center of communication". Japan says that we did not sign the treaty of Versailles or join the League of Nations, so we have no voice in the matter.
• Premier Dato, leader of the Liberal-Conservative Party in Madrid, Spain, has been assassinated.
• The Prince of Wales while on a visit recently to Glasgow, Scotland, was met by a large band of unemployed men bearing banners, "We want the prices of 1914." Labor members of the Town Council objected to giving a dinner to the Prince saying it was a shame to feast royalty when hundreds of families were starving.
• After the Armistice, France sent black soldiers among others to Germany in her "army of occupation", but later withdrew them. Now Germany, in order to stir sentiment against France among nations which are not friendly to black people, declares that these soldiers are still in her cities. But Marshal Ferdinand Foch, of France, has issued a statement saying: "For several months there has not been a single black soldier on the left bank of the Rhine."
• Australia has for the first time elected a woman, Mrs. Cowan, to membership in parliament.
• Germany is preparing to re-enter the struggle for world trade. She is to make 119 locomotives for railways in Spain.
• Poland is planning to build a radio station at Warsaw which will compare with the best in the world. It will cost between $2,000,000 and $3,000,000. Poland desires to get in closer communication with America because about 20 per cent. of her people are here, and she has never been able to get in touch with them without having her messages censored.
• In Rome the Benedictine Commission, including Cardinal Gasquet, Fathers John Chapman, Henri Quentin and Abbot Emelli, are revising the old Latin Version of the Bible, known as the Vulgate.

ALTHOUGH my heart goes out to the East, I caw with relief when I get back to America, my home. For though there are many ills here, at least I am not saddened as I was in Austria and China by the sight of
brownies.192104.021.jpg starving, helpless children, and [?] couraged grown-ups; the wrecks of War and Famine. Oh little Children of America give of your plenty to feed the poor abroad, and resolve to grow up lovers of Right and of Justice, so that Pain and Pestilence may no more stalk through the world.

• On March 4th Warren Gamaliel Harding became the 29th President of the United States. His inauguration stands out as being marked by extreme simplicity. Mr. Wilson escorted Mr. Harding to the Capitol but was unable on account of his poor health to engage in any further ceremonies. A remarkable feature of this occasion was that Mr. Harding's address, due to a new invention, the "Amplifier", could be heard by all the thousands who thronged the huge space about the Capitol. Mr. Harding's speech was really a sermon based on the text from Micah, chapter VI., verse 8: "What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?"
• Champ Clark, former Speaker of the House, died just before the Inauguration. He was seventy-one years old and had been in political life for forty-five years.
• The Sixty-Sixth Congress has sat for the last time. Some of its enactments are well worth mention. For example, it made a provision for fixed residences in certain foreign cities for our diplomatic representatives. It also passed the Transportation Act, Merchant Marine, Mineral Leasing and Water Power Acts, and the Edge Act, which permits corporations to be formed to finance export trade.
• The United States loses several million dollars a year from forest fires alone.
• The galleries of the American Fine Arts Society in the Fine Arts Building, on West Fifty-seventh Street, New York, which were destroyed by fire, January 30, 1920, have been rebuilt. They follow the main lines of the original plan, but are more substantial and better lighted. They were reopened March 5, 1921.
• For a little while this country feared the possibility of an epidemic of typhus, a terrible disease, communicable almost solely through body lice, and brought into this country by immigrants who on account of the war had been living in bad and unsanitary conditions. But now medical and health experts have the cen[?]
• New York is having [?] breakdown of her transportation lines. Some of them are bankrupt, others are threatened with bankruptcy, and the service is consequently very poor. Two remedies are suggested. Governor Miller proposes a consolidated system to be owned by the city but leased to a private corporation for operation on a higher but reasonable fare. Mayor Hylan insists on city ownership and city operation at the present fare, with deficits paid out of the general tax fund. Meanwhile the public suffers.
• A coin-operated machine for polishing shoes has been designed by Herbert Oliver, of Baltimore. All the customer has to do is to put a nickel in the slot, push down a lever, and the machine does the work; it dusts, applies polish, and finishes the polishing process, with the aid of polishing cloths. Both shoes may be done at the same time within a minute and a half.
• Charles Gilpin, the Negro actor who has won so much fame in the portrayal of the title role in the "Emperor Jones", was one of the ten honor guests at the dinner of the Dramatic League, March 6. For a time quite a controversy raged as to whether or not Mr. Gilpin in spite of his ability should be invited because of his color. Mr. Gilpin's attitude throughout this trying situation was marked with a fine dignity which brought him increased admiration and respect.
• As a rule the names of nominees for the President's Cabinet are submitted to the Senate at a special session called "extraordinary session", on the day after inaguration. But on March 4, 1921, immediately after having been inaugurated, Mr. Harding appeared at the executive session of the Senate, read, himself, the names of his nominees and asked for immediate action. The Senate without any opposition confirmed the list submitted. A rule permitting the president to take such a step was adopted in 1806, but it is believed that this is the first time it has been put into action.
• Judge Kennesaw Mountain Landis recently accepted a post as arbiter of baseball disputes. at a salary of $42,500. But Representative Welty, of Ohio, has moved that the Judge be impeached on the ground that he has neglected his official duties for another gainful occupation.

brownies.192104.022.jpg

CHOCOLATE CAKE

AUNT CARROWAY, who lives in the country, was coming to our house to spend a week, so Geraldine and I were going to sleep on the third floor. We just love to sleep on the third floor because the storeroom is up there and there are loads of old books with queer pictures that we like so much to look through. We could stay up until perhaps ten o'clock at night looking at these books and mother would think we were in bed.

We were so busy the day before Aunt Carroway came, fixing her room. We had to bring down extra covers for her bed because Aunt Carroway is very cold natured. "I wouldn't have a furnace for anything," she'd say. "Just give me my fire-places and a frontroom stove." She has lots of queer ways. She won't drink cocoa like the rest of us—she just has to have her coffee with malted milk in it. Who ever heard of putting malted milk in coffee! Geraldine and I just look at each other and try to keep from smiling when we see Aunt Carroway fixing her coffee.

The very first night Aunt Carroway got to our house she started in with directions. "I don't know what time you city folks get up," she said, "but I don't stay in bed all day myself. And I must have a cup of coffee by six o'clock in the morning or else I'll have a headache all day." Now, of course, we didn't want her to have a headache, but just imagine six o'clock in the morning! I don't remember ever getting up at six but once before then, and that was the time Uncle Jackson took us to Milburn in his car. I just thought mother would have me make Aunt Carroway's coffee, even though it would mean my getting up before day, and sure enough mother said :

"Gwendolyn, I think I'll give you that job. You can set Big Ben to alarm at quarter after five and that will give you just enough time to get the coffee made."

"Mazie," said Aunt Carroway, "can Gwendolyn really make coffee? You know I want real coffee. If it isn't but a half cup I like that good."

"Oh, yes," said mother, "she knows how. She made it for her father every morning when I was sick with the grippe that time. Gwendolyn, remember—one tablespoonful of coffee to a cup of water."

"Yessum," I said, "I know."

That night Geraldine and I had planned to look through the old family Bible. It has so many nice pictures, but when I thought of that five o'clock time I thought I had better go to bed. It was much colder on the third floor than in the other part of the house, so Geraldine and I slept in our bathrobes. Weren't they nice and warm, though! Geraldine hates to pull the window down at night, although I don't mind so much—in fact, I sort of like it.

"Don't lower that window!" said Geraldine. "There's enough air in this cold storage, and mother will never know."

Well, I'd hardly got warm and stretched out good in bed when Big Ben alarmed. I had meant to shut it off quickly and make believe I didn't hear it, but it alarmed so loudly I knew mother heard it and I had to get up. This was in January and you know how dark it is at five o'clock in the winter. And it was so cold I was really glad I hadn't lowered the window. I got dressed and was downstairs by half-past five. Just as I was about to commence the coffee Aunt Carroway called down, "Geraldine, Gwendolyn, —oh goodness, which one is it? I don't know why on earth your mother named you two so much alike. I always wanted one named after me." (But I've thanked my stars a thousand times that mother didn't name me Carroway. What a name !) "Don't make my coffee in that percolator," she continued, "use a sauce-pan if your mother has no coffee pot. I don't believe in those things."

"Yessum," I said. All that talk so early in the morning, I thought. Aunt Carroway should have known better than to holler like that at that hour. Well, I got the coffee pot,—mother had one which she used before Cousin Fan gave her the percolator—and I washed it good, put exactly one cup of water in the pot and one tablespoonful of coffee. When I had put it on the gas I went in and fixed a place on one side of the table. At six o'clock the coffee was ready and Aunt Carroway came downstairs.

"You needn't have fixed the table in the dining-room," she said. "I could have had my coffee in the kitchen just as well.

brownies.192104.023.jpg

Then Aunt Carroway never said another word. Didn't even say how the coffee was and if there is anything I like it is to be praised when I've done something. So when mother came downstairs I wishpered to her to ask Aunt Carroway how it was.

"Good morning, Sister." Mother always calls her sister. She says it's because Aunt Carroway is the older, but I don't see any reason for that. I'm older than Geraldine and still Geraldine doesn't call me sister. "How was the coffee?" she asked.

"It was all right, I suppose ; but gracious, it does seem that I could have had a full cup of coffee. And, too, it wasn't black enough. I guess maybe Ger— Gwendolyn didn't use enough coffee."

Now Aunt Carroway had just said the night before that she'd rather have a half cup of good coffee than a lot of "coffee water", as she calls it. And I certainly had tried to make that coffee right. Well, I was so hurt that I just cried right out loud. I couldn't help it. But father said it was all right and that I mustn't feel so badly about what Aunt Carroway said because she was old and apt to be a little queer. Father is so nice about things like that. Mother explained that that wasn't real black coffee and that even though it was strong it would hardly be real black.

"Oh, yes," said Aunt Carroway, "it was strong enough, but I do like my coffee to be black."

Of course, I had measured an exact cup of water and when the coffee boiled, some of it boiled away.

"I'll tell you what to do," Geraldine said, "make two cups of coffee and let it boil down and if there is any left just pour it in the sink."

I thought that a pretty good plan so the next morning I used two cups of water instead of one. Of course, I used more coffee, too, I was so determined to have it right. I was all ready for Aunt Carroway about ten minutes before six. Then I poured out a little coffee to see if it was black enough. Just as I went in the closet to get the coffee strainer I spied the vanilla. "That's just the thing!" I thought. It was quite black and I was sure it wouldn't hurt because mother uses it in almost everything. So I put some in the coffee. When Aunt Carroway came down she said, "My, the coffee smells good. If it's as good as it looks I know it's all right."

I knew I had struck the right idea then. It was the vanilla that made it smell and look so good. But when Aunt Carroway tasted it she shouted so she brought everybody downstairs. "Great heavens, child!" she exclaimed. "What on earth have you done to this coffee? Yesterday it was bad enough, but I declare this morning it's worse!"

"Maybe it's that malted milk," I said, although I knew perfectly well it wasn't.

"No, it isn't," said Aunt Carroway. "Malted milk nor no other kind of milk tastes like this, and I know it. That's just the way with children raised in the city. They don't know a thing about the things they should know. There neither you nor Gwendolyn (she really meant Geraldine) know the first thing about cooking, and you ten years old. It's a shame!"

Just then mother spoke up—mother is so different from Aunt Carroway. Mother says it's because Aunt Carroway has no children of her own and therefore she has no patience with children. Well, if that's what makes the difference I'm certainly glad mother has children.

"Never mind, Sister," mother said. "I'll have some coffee for you in ten minutes."

I was glad things happened as they did because after that morning I never got up again at five o'clock.

It was the morning before Aunt Carroway went back home when she and mother were talking and I heard her say, "Mazie, it certainly is a shame to bring two girls up the way you're bringing up these children. It's what I've always said about children raised in the city. They never know a thing about housework." Really, Aunt Carroway knows more about city folks and their way of living for never having lived in the city herself than anyone I know of. "If you'll let Gwendolyn—I don't know if I have the name right now, but I mean the oldest one, that youngest child is too spoiled."

"That's right," said mother—"Gwendolyn."

"Well, if you'll let her spend her vacation with me I'll teach her some of the things she ought to know. She's plenty old enough to learn to do something now."

"All right," said mother.

Well, when I heard that, I was too sick and excited to listen any longer. I just hustled off to tell Geraldine.

"The pleasure's all yours," she said. "I'm glad I am spoiled. You can have the trip."

Well, as soon as vacation time came Aunt Carroway wrote for me and mother started me
brownies.192104.024.jpg to the country. Father had cautioned me to be very careful about everything and to do just as Aunt Carroway told me and he was sure I'd like the country.

Aunt Carroway met me at the station in a little buggy. When she saw the large bag I had she said, "Great heavens, child,"—that's her regular saying—"anyone would think you were going away for a year with all these clothes! Your mother makes you children too many clothes. City folks and their manner of dressing—there's no sense in it!"

It took us about an hour to get to Aunt Carroway's house. It really isn't so far from the station, but Aunt Carroway doesn't believe in having the horse trot. "We've nothing to hurry for," she said, "so we'll let the horse walk. It's too hot for him to trot."

It was about five o'clock when we got to the house and as I was hungry Aunt Carroway started to fix some supper.

"We'll just have some nice fresh apple sauce and some biscuits. I don't believe in a heavy supper. I have my main meal at noon."

Now all my way down there I had dreamed of nothing less than a nice fried chicken and apple sauce for dessert. I do like apple sauce, but not alone with nothing but cold biscuits. I ate it, though, and made believe it was just what I had wanted for supper. Before it got dark good, Aunt Carroway said, "Well, Chunk,"—she says she calls me "Chunk" because I am so fat, but I believe she gave me that name because she couldn't remember which one I was, Gwendolyn or Geraldine.

"Well, Chunk," she said, "I guess we'll be going to bed. You must be tired from your trip and tomorrow I want to show you how to darn stockings. I have a good many here that need mending and it will be good for you to learn how to darn."

"Yessum," I said and off I went to bed.

Aunt Carroway lives in the country where there aren't so many people, and there are no children near her at all. Her house has five rooms, three downstairs and two upstairs. It looks as though the kitchen had been built after the other part of the house. It looks sort of added on like. The two rooms upstairs are smaller than those downstairs, with low ceilings. A flight of narrow, winding stairs leads to the second floor. Her bed was so white and feathery looking that I hated to muss it up to get into it. I was to sleep in the front bedroom and Aunt Carroway had the backroom so she could hear if anything got at her chickens.

It was a long time before I could go to sleep. I couldn't help thinking of home and how Geraldine had said when I left, "You can have your country and fried chicken, but give me my home, sweet home." And now if she only knew that I hadn't had my fried chicken, wouldn't she laugh !

Aunt Carroway let me stay in bed the next morning until seven o'clock. When I came downstairs she was frying the loveliest spring chicken and she had biscuits in the oven. I had to rub my stomach because it seemed as though I could taste it already. Then she said, "Look out in the well, Chunk, and you'll see a pail hanging there. Bring it to me. The butter is in it."

You know people in the country where Aunt Carroway lives, don't have ice boxes. They put all their food in pails and hang the pails in the well. I went outside to get the butter. Now I didn't know I should pull the pail up—I thought I should untie the string. Just as I had the string untied it slipped from my fingers and there went the butter to the bottom of the well. What to do I didn't know. I just stood there and tried to think.

"Can't you draw it up?" Aunt Carroway asked.

"Oh, yessum," I stammered, "but I don't see it."

"What?" she asked, and came outside to the well. I hated not to tell the truth, but I just couldn't get myself in bad. With mother it would have been different, but with Aunt Carroway—oh, no!

"Well," she gasped, "if that isn't the limit! I know, some of those boys who came here to farm this summer have just stolen that butter. It's outrageous! But it's good I have some more."

Breakfast was lovely and I was proud to think how slick I got out of that butter scrape. Sure enough Aunt Carroway did start me darning. I knew something about darning before that, but I didn't tell her so. I did the darning so nicely that Aunt Carroway really praised me. "Imagine Aunt Carroway praising me," I told Geraldine when I got home.

The next day was the awful day. I was to have my first lesson in cooking. I was to make a chocolate layer cake because I liked that and as I had done so well with the darning I was allowed to say what I wanted to make. I did everything just as Aunt Carroway told me, and
brownies.192104.025.jpg [illustration - What on earth have you done to this coffee?]
brownies.192104.026.jpg the cake turned out fine. Then for the chocolate icing. Aunt Carroway told me exactly how to make the icing and then she went out to see about her hen that was hatching some baby chicks.

"You understand just how to mix it, don't you ?" she asked.

I assured her that I did so she went on out. Now Aunt Carroway uses sweetened chocolate and if there is anything I like it is sweetened chocolate. I'd much rather have it than candy. I tried my best not to eat any of the chocolate, not even the smallest crumb, but somehow I did taste a little tiny piece and before I knew it over three-fourths of the chocolate was gone. I don't know why I ate it, but I did. Then what to do I didn't know. Then I remembered one time when Mrs. Hinton, who belongs to mother's club, was coming to call on mother and we didn't have any more chocolate, mother used cocoa and the cake was so good that Mrs. Hinton asked how to make it. There was my way out and Aunt Carroway had a great big can of cocoa that she had bought at a sale and was going to send to the Good Saints Orphanage. I just reached down in the can and used two cups of cocoa. It didn't look quite black enough so I used another cup. Now you'd think I would have learned from my first experience with making things black, but I hadn't. I didn't know I should have put sugar with the cocoa and you can just imagine how that filling tasted. I don't know how I ever got it to look as nice as I did, but between the milk and water it did turn out to look all right. That night Aunt Carroway cut the cake for supper.

"It looks good, doesn't it?" she said.

Since then I've decided that I don't want the things I make to look so good and maybe they'll taste better.

I can't tell you what Aunt Carroway did when she tasted the cake. She knew right away what I had done. That night she wrote mother to come and get me. Two days later father came for me. I thought he would scold me when Aunt Carroway told him what I had done. But he didn't. When we were on the train he said, "I don't believe I want you to be a cook any way. I think I'd rather have you study music," and I think so too.

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TIP-TOP O' THE WORLD

BERYL sat in the luxuriously cushioned, low chair before the fireplace, chin cupped in her hands, brown eyes fast on the flame-swept log. Not that she was thinking about the fantastic capers of those little tongues that leaped and played and disappeared; she was wondering why she had been so rash as to accept Helen's invitation to the month-end party. She might have known she wouldn't fit—they were all so jolly and self-assured, both the men and the girls. Of course, they should be, for did they not belong? Weren't their fathers all successful business and professional men, and were they not all used to large homes and luxury? She had always had these things, too, in her mind, but in reality had lived in two rooms all her life until she came to school. And then many times when her classmates were having fun, she was busy with the tasks that helped to pay her tuition.

Aside from always being busy, she was very timid and shy and hid behind an assumed mask of indifference and coldness a very human heart, hungry for companionship and understanding. Helen Lane had singled her out early in their freshman year and had been her very dear friend ever since. She had repeatedly offered Beryl the hospitality of her home, but Beryl had as repeatedly refused. But now that college days had come to an end and many dear ties were to be broken, she at last yielded and together with fourteen other folks just realizing the bigness of life, she found herself at Helen's home, high up on a pine-clad foothill from the top of which one commanded a view of miles of evergreen hills and fertile valleys.

As she sat now before the fire in her own room, she was thinking over everything, trying to decide whether or not she was really having a good time. She was just deciding that she enjoyed every bit of it—even the evenings when the others paired off, for it was fun to her to watch the capers and manoeuvres of the rest of the party. Besides, they had become used to her during their four years of association and she knew they were not unselfish or unkind, but had tacitly agreed that she preferred being let alone. It was worth it all just to be here among these wonderful hills and valleys, and the gorgeous sunsets and afterglows, and—just then an impish little flame stuck its tongue out at her and fled in glee. She heard it chuckle. In a few minutes another little flame winked its wicked eye at her and was then convulsed with mirth.

"Oh!" she cried, pushing her chair quite out of the way. "What a wonderful dance that would be—The Dance of the Flames!" She ran to her dresser, snatched up her scarf, and was soon lost in the composition of her new dance.

Next morning just as dawn was drawing aside the curtains of night, Beryl let herself noiselessly out of the house and sped away to the hill-top—"tip-top o' the world" she called it.

First she gave a long, low, musical call, followed by a series of intermingled notes till it seemed the whole hill was alive with singing birds. And soon it was. For in the few days she had been there she had made fast friends of the feathered folk who had learned that when she called it was worth while to answer. They fluttered around her now, perched upon her head and shoulders, and uplifted arms. Folks who were rather slow in approaching her because of her aloofness would have marveled at the intimacy with which these helpless songsters ate from her upturned palms and picked dainty morsels from between her smile-curved lips. In fact, they might have been suprised to discover that her lips could part with pleasure and her eyes dance with glee.

When her friends had finished their early meal, she raised her arms and sent them back to their nests with a gay little laugh. Then she tossed aside her cape, slipped off her shoes and stood poised as if for flight. Not so, for soon to the whistled accompaniment of "To a Wild Rose" her slender body swayed to and fro in rhythm with the music. As the spirit of the dance possessed her more and more she broke into words of her own making:

Little flower, slender flower,

Swaying in the moonlight;

Fragrance rare scents the air,

From thy petals white.

Flush of rose sometimes goes

O'er thy petal tips,

brownies.192104.034.jpg

When the angels bend

To kiss thee with their lips.

O thou thought of God,

Sent to me from Heaven above,

Pray teach me all of love,

Teach me all of love, I pray,

Little rose, slender, snow-white rose.

Breathless she flung herself down on the soft pine needles while her eyes roved over the hills and she watched the path the sun made from Heaven to earth. "Life is a wonderful thing," she said and slipping into shoes and cape she hurried back before anyone should miss her.

Next daybreak found her again speeding with light feet and lighter heart to the hilltop. Excitement showed in every movement, for was she not to try out her "Flame Dance" this morning? And if it worked, would she not have five beautiful dances to put into book form? And would they not begin to bring true some of her life long dreams? She had an extra feast for the birds and chatted with these winged songsters as she never would have dared with any human being.

This morning instead of the soft white dress she usually wore, there was one of clinging yellow which caught the sunbeams and held them captive. The dance began. At first she lay a resinous section of pine on the grass. Soon a little spurt of flame played about one side; then an impish little one stuck its tongue out at the trees and hills; and another winked its eye gleefully at the sun. Soon the log was a mass of flames dancing, capering, darting out and disappearing, the sunbeams helping to perfect the illusion. At last, one by one the little flames flickered out and the log lay prone again in the fireplace.

"It worked, it worked!" she cried and slipped down to her shoes and cape. She became dimly conscious of another presence. Rising quickly to her feet she turned to face Jack Perrin, cap in hand, and admiration written all over his face.

"Oh!" she said. She was still too surprised to slip on her mask of aloofness and stood staring back at him.

"I hope you will pardon the intrusion, but each morning I have watched you speed up this hill and have wondered what took you abroad so early. No one seemed to be in the secret but yourself, so I determined to find out. Here I find you the embodiment of poetry and rhythm, the soul of music and beauty. We have all learned to think of you as stiff and cold, whereas you are warmth and feeling itself. You are wonderful."

And looking deeply and steadily into his eyes, she said "Oh!" and after a pause, "Life, you are indeed a wonderful thing."