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

September, 1921
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VOL.2, NO.9 September, 1921 WHOLE NO.21


COVER. Drawing—"My! But It's Hard to Choose!." Drawing by Marcellus Hawkins.
FRONTISPIECE— President King of Liberia Pays Tribute to the Memory of Lincoln. 246
A Rainy Day.A Story. Claudia M. Davis. Illustrated by Carlton Thorpe 247
How Lilimay "Kilt" the Chicken. From Stories of Lilimay." Lillian A. Turner 251
Algiers. William A. Hunton, Jr. 252
A Strawberry Suprise. Maud Wilcox Niedermeyer 255
Friends in the Night. Maud Wilcox Niedermeyer 256
Good Morning. A Poem. C. Leslie Frazier 257
The Judge 258
Our Little Friends 259
Lafayette and the Dark Races. Part II. Lillie Buffum Chace Wyman. Ilustrated by Marcellus Hawkins 260
Inter-Association Track and Field Meet. Annie Laurie McCary 262
The Jury 263
COMING HOME FROM CHURCH. A Picture. Photo by Scurlock 341
The Kola Colonel Charles Young 265
Little People of the Month 266
Playtime. Original Puzzles.C. Leslie Frazier 268
The Ostrich in Captivity. Delphia Phillips 269
Autumn Skies. A Poem. Madeline G. Allison 270
As the Crow Flies 271


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[illustration - President King of Liberia Pays Tribute to the Memory of Lincoln —Underwood Underwood ]


A Rainy Day

DRIP, drip, drip! Down fell the rain in a steady, disheartening downpour. It was Saturday, too, and the four Wilsons were home from school and had absolutely nothing to do. Mother was out marketing, father at business, the boy across the street was ill, the girl next door was away for a week. Bert wondered if the whole world was wet and gloomy ; he had an idea it was. He just "hated" rainy days ; couldn't see any sense to 'em anyway ; they only kept one in the house, especially when one had a brand new pair of skates to try out, too.

"Bert, let's go down stairs to the laundry and play," suggested Helen, the twelve-year-old sister. Bert was fourteen and, of course, very superior on account of his age. Jim, the other brother, was ten, and Alice, the baby, only six. "What'll we do with Alice?" asked Jim, who was afraid his elder sister and brother might bar him from the game and make him watch the baby. "Oh, I guess we can take her along," patronizingly answered Bert.

Down stairs they went, Alice and Jim sliding down the bannisters and Bert and Helen seeing how many steps they could jump at one time. Arriving there, they pulled out the clothes horse to construct a tent, while Jim and Alice filled one tub in which to sail their assortment of little celluloid boats and ducks. The laundress had left the ironing board up and a pile of clean, snowy, stiff, white things on a chair for Mrs. Wilson to put away. The children moved these onto the ironing board, while Bert constructed a wonderful barricade out of the chair and some blankets.

While engaged in doing this they forgot Jimmy and Alice. Alice mashed her finger and Jim knew his mother put medicine on bruises and mashed portions of anatomy. Consequently he went to an adjoining closet, where there was an assortment of bottles in a medicine chest, kept there for emergencies. Taking out three or four bottles, he brought them back to the
laundry, where it was lighter, and while examining one put the rest on the ironing board. Alice, wanting to help also, picked up another bottle, and desiring to see the contents, tipped it upside down. Out came the cork and—plop! —all over mother's nice, starched clothes!

"0-oh, now look what you've done!" exclaimed Jim.

This attracted the attention of Helen and Bert, who hurried to see the cause of the excitement.

"Iodine all over mother's clean clothes!" wailed Helen.

"Gee, look !" said Jim. "The stuff in the bottle is brownish, and the spots on the clothes are dark blue."

"Perhaps it isn't iodine," said Bert.

"I know it's poisonous and we won't be able to wear those clothes any more," said Helen.

"Don't be such a Calamity Jane," said Jim.

At this juncture a deep, throaty voice was heard.

"Hey, where are you? It's a wonder you can't let a person in now and then."

"Uncle Ben !" all cried at once, and made a wild dash toward the big, square-shouldered, six-footer who appeared at the foot of the steps. "Did you bring your car? Oh, take us for a ride!" were the next exclamations.

"Now don't all speak at once. Yes, I brought the car and I'll take you, so hurry and get ready. Bert, leave a note for your mother so she won't be worried when she returns at finding everyone out."

While waiting for Bert to finish the note, Jim showed Uncle Ben the blue stains on the linen.

"That's iodine," Uncle Ben reassured him. "How would you like to come over to my laboratory," he asked, "and have me explain how it happened to turn blue?"

They were all enthusiastic over this proposal, so soon the five were in the laboratory. That laboratory had a fascination for all of them, with its funny shaped retorts and bottles and siphons. Then, too, there was the mystery of those liquids and powders and blocks, etc., all securely confined in glass vials and other containers of all sizes and shapes and colors. Bert thought he'd be as near Heaven as he'd ever want to be if he could mix up some of those concoctions, and he resolved then and there to be a chemist when he grew up, like Uncle Ben. Fastidious Helen didn't like the odor emanating from some of them. Jim was too curious to mind odors, and Alice was busily engaged in weighing one small finger on a tiny scale.

Uncle Ben poured some iodine, this of a dark brownish, reddish color, into a test tube and then put a small piece of egg white in it. Nothing happened that they could see. He then put a lump of starch in another test tube and poured the iodine over it. Immediately the mixture turned a dark blue color.

"Iodine," explained Uncle Ben, "turns starch blue; that is why your mother's clothes had blue spots on them instead of brown. However, don't worry about them, I'll take her something that will get the spots out.

"Does it turn everything blue that is starchy?" asked Helen.

"Yes," replied Uncle Ben, who then took a slice of potato, a small piece of bread and a kernel of corn, pouring iodine on each. All turned blue, the corn having a dark blue area in it around the edge.

"I didn't know before that we ate starch in food."

"There are lots of things you didn't know before," said Uncle Ben.

Helen then went around the laboratory sniffing at first one bottle and then another. Com-ing to one with a pretty greenish colored chemical inside, she picked it up and tried to open it.

"Hold on there," cried Uncle Ben, "that's chlorine."

"What! the same stuff they put in bombs during the war?" asked Bert.

"Exactly," replied Uncle Ben. "It's very dangerous and even one smell of it will eat away your lungs as much as consumption will. You mustn't handle these things in here or you might get hurt."

So saying, he took the bottle from Helen. "Do you know," he continued, "that ordinary table salt has chlorine in it?"

"That couldn't be," said Jim, "you just said it was dangerous."

"Yes, but it is a part of salt, too," was the answer. "It's combined with another chemical called sodium, and an entirely new product is the result."

"Can you make it?" asked Alice, who didn't fully understand what the others were talking about.

"Yes, I can make it," said Uncle Ben, "and some day I'll make some for you."

[illustration - Out came the cork and—plop !—all over mother's nice, starched clothes.]

Bert was repeating to himself, "Iodine, chlorine. They don't sound so much alike, but both end in 'ine,' " he declared.

"What is that, Bert?" questioned his uncle. "Is iodine anything like chlorine?"

"Yes, there are four elements in that group," said Uncle Ben, and iodine is the mildest. Fluorine is stronger than chlorine, and bromine also."

"Do chemists make all our salt?" was the next question.

"No," was the reply. "In some countries there are immense salt beds, and salt is also gotten by evaporating sea water."

"How interesting!" exclaimed Helen. "It seems that the most ordinary articles have such amazing histories."

"Well, I know something that's simple enough," said Jim, "and it's water. I bet you can't give a long account of plain water."

"Yes I can. Did it ever occur to you that drinking water and the peroxide that mother puts on cuts, etc., are both composed of the same elements?"

"That's ridiculous," answered Bert. "Peroxide is utterly different."

"Suppose you bring me that bottle of peroxide from over there. Now, what do you read on it?"

"Hydrogen Peroxide, and there's a big H and a big 0 with a little 2 down at the bottom of each," replied Bert. "H2o2"

"What's that for?" asked Helen.

"H is for hydrogen and 0 stands for oxygen," replied Uncle Ben.

"Isn't oxygen the stuff in the air that we breathe?" asked Jim.

"Yes, but although it's a gas, it forms a liquid when combined with hydrogen. Those '2's' mean that there are two parts of hydrogen mixed with two parts of oxygen."

"Equal quantities of each," supplemented Helen.

"Exactly; now that is peroxide. When there are two parts of hydrogen to one of oxygen, or in other words twice as much hydrogen as oxygen, we have water."

"Really !" all cried. "Well, then,, how do you write water in chemistry?" asked Helen. "Just a big H and 0 with a two after the H and nothing after the 0. Like this," and Uncle Ben produced a pencil and scribbled the formula H2O on the back of an envelope. Helen thought a minute.

Then, "Uncle Ben, are there any other compounds that are made of the same elements, but are entirely different?"

"Certainly, there are lots of them. The ice cream soda you drink is one."

"Tell us about it," added Alice, who wanted to say something, even though she couldn't always follow the others.

"Well," explained Uncle Ben, "that seltzer is nothing but plain water with carbon and oxygen added.

"Gee, carbon is in pencils, isn't it?" asked Jim.

"Yes, a form of carbon called graphite. They are not lead as people call them. But to continue: in soda, the carbon is mixed with twice as much oxygen. This forms an odorless, colorless, tasteless gas which dissolves in water and makes it charged like vichy. There is another gas composed of equal parts of carbon and oxygen, also odorless, colorless and taste less, but which is poisonous. Most people who are overcome when repairing automobiles have been breathing in this carbon monoxide, as it is called, without knowing it, and it fills their lungs and causes that effect."

"What is the soda-water compound called?" asked Bert.

"Carbon dioxide; di means 'two,' just as 'mon' in monoxide means one."

"Yes, I learned that while studying prefixes," Bert said.

"I guess I'd better take you children for a ride and get back home before it's late," said Uncle Ben.

"Will you let us come back again?" they all asked.

"Some day," he answered.

At this juncture a loud clatter was heard and Alice emerged from under a table a sorry looking sight. She grasped the tip of a Bunsen burner in one hand and an empty alcohol bottle in the other. The tiny scales were on the floor and a crucible cup or two were in fragments among the scales. The contents of the bottle were liberally spattered over the front of her dress.

"What on earth are you doing?" asked Helen. "I just tried to weigh that little cup and the things fell off," answered the child.

"All by themselves, I suppose," retorted Jim, with a fine sarcasm which was completely lost on Alice.


"I want to stay here," said Bert. Another discussion ensued. Helen wanted to stay, but also wanted to go riding. Alice wanted to go and Jim wanted to do both. Finally Uncle Ben settled the matter.

"Suppose we go riding now and next Saturday I'll bring you back and let you help me make that salt." This met with their approval, so in five minutes all were in the car serenely sucking lollypops and watching the people splashing around, wrestling with overshoes and umbrellas.

"Hm-m-m," mused Bert, "some rainy days aren't so bad."

"That is left with you," said Uncle Ben. "It is the way one regards them."



From "Stories of Lilimay"

LILIMAY was eight years old when a tragedy occurred in the country settlement where she lived, which occasioned her first visit alone away from home.

A friend of her father had been killed by lightning in the sight of his sister, who was so affected by it that she became subject to melancholy.

Being childless and fond of Lilimay, it was decided to lend her the latter for the summer.

This was a great and new experience to Lilimay, who was brown of eyes, face and hair. This last curled and blew around her face when not confined in the pigtails which adorned the head on week days.

Lilimay liked Miss Kate and Uncle Harrison, the husband, but did not always understand the idioms of their speech, having herself been born in the grassy valley of middle Ohio and in a country district of New England's descendants.

However, what she didn't understand didn't matter so much until the day that brings forth this story.

Perhaps it is well to explain that her parents were the old-fashioned kind so rapidly dying out, who taught, demanded and received obedience without question, so that refusal to obey or to say, "I can't", never entered her head.

Miss Kate had chickens and, as usual with them, there was always one or more hurt, or sick ones which were brought into the house, wrapped in a woolen cloth and put in a warm place, generally under the kitchen stove.

Who has ever handled chicks in the kitchen and not heard them cheep and cheep and cheep until one becomes frantic with listening to it?

It was Miss Kate's custom to take a nap after the twelve o'clock dinner and to have Lilimay take it with her, much against her will, for a more restless being was hard to find, and every possible excuse would be devised daily to elude the nap.

On this day, after lying listening to the sick chickens cheep until almost frantic, Lilimay must go into the kitchen for a drink, and while there Miss Kate called to her from the
front room, "Lilimay, kiver the chicken, honey."

"Ma'am?" asked Lilimay, unbelievingly.

"Kiver the chicken, I said," replied Miss Kate in her soft Kentucky drawl.

Lilimay feeling hot and cold in spots, swallowed hard and said, "Did you say kill it, Miss Kate?"

"Yes, honey," responded Miss Kate sleepily.

Lilimay stood rooted to the spot, paralyzed with horror at the thing demanded of her, but with no thought of disobedience.

"Hurry up, honey, them chickens worry me most to death," came the voice from the front room.

With great tears rolling down her cheeks, Lilimay gathered the lame chick in her arms and slipped out of the back door with the first great burden of personal sorrow weighing her slim shoulders down.

In her little blue print dress and bare feet she sought the remotest spot of the yard and set about to plan in her small mind the most humane way to kill (as she understood Miss Kate) the chicken.

She decided finally upon the plan of pitching the chicken up in the air, closing her eyes tightly to avoid the sight, and sticking the forefinger of the unused hand in one ear to deaden the sound of its falling upon the ground.

The first attempt was a painful failure, painful to both child and chick, but it must be done, so she bravely clinched her teeth, closed her eyes and tried again, this time being successful.

After a paroxysm of grief at the cruelty of the whole procedure, her imaginative mind began planning a suitable funeral. Aunt Kate had allowed her to wear a second best hair ribbon that day, but feeling responsible for the chick's death she felt it none too good for a shroud, so wrapping the chick in it and getting the dog and cat for mourners, the funeral was conducted with all the dignity that eight years of life could give to one-half hour of grief. Singing softly, walking slowly down the path, she buried it in a hole dug with the butcher knife.

Just as the little mound was rounded off Miss Kate appeared at the door calling, "Lilimay, Lilimay, where is the chicken?"

"Here it is," sobbed she, as loud as grief would let her. "Miss Kate, I buried it after I killed it."

"Kilt it, chile; why, what did you do that for?"

Looking mournfully indignant, Lilimay replied, "Why, Miss Kate, didn't you tell me to kill it?"

A great light broke in upon Miss Kate, but having no idea of the agony Lilimay had suffered, she unfeelingly broke into a hearty laugh.

"Laws, honey, I didn't say to kill it, I said kiver it; I forgot you might not understand. I say 'kiver' what you says 'cover,' honey, but no matter, we won't mind one little chicken, but I'se sorry for you. I know you hated to do it."

'Twas this last understanding sentence that saved the day for her with Lilimay, and once more placed her upon the high pinnacle, whence she had fallen upon giving such a seemingly heartless command to the little girl.



LET us take a short day's outing, you and me, to the northern coast of Africa,—to Algiers, the Mecca of northern Africa. Let us see how these distant neighbors of ,ours, in reality our own brothers and sisters, live and look upon life. In short, let us learn something about the Algerians.

At first it looks like a sparkling diamond set in an emerald frame, then it takes the shape of a white dove nestling upon a green bank. Finally, as we draw nearer, we discern tier upon tier of dwellings reaching seemingly endlessly towards the sky, bathed in pure white by the morning sun, and surrounded by innumerable vineyards and olive groves. And at the foot, hardly distinguishable through a fog of sails and riggings of a thousand little fishing boats, we see our goal, a modern granite quay, reaching out to meet us. We have reached Algiers.


Is it possible that this quiet, unpretentious little port can be the same which has commanded such a unique place in history from the Roman conquest up to the recent World War? Is it possible that this peaceful place could have been the haven of the Moorish pirates during those none-too-distant years when the "Black Flag" ruled the waves? What innumerable secrets must this little speck of life contain! But this is no time for such reveries, for the noisy, jerkey donkey-engine is beginning to unload our baggage, and it is time to go ashore—to enter Algiers.

ON landing, we are overwhelmed by a mob of chattering, gesticulating porters who almost tear us to pieces in an effort to get possession of our luggage. A burly Arabian is finally the victor and with torn collars and trampled hats we follow at his heels to a waiting hansom —our first generous welcome over. Our journey to the hotel is a series of ascents from one terrace to another. As we climb higher and higher, the houses become more and more habitable. Finally we arrive at the French hotel, situated on the uppermost level. We deposit our luggage, change into cooler clothing, and partake of some refreshments. Everything about us has an air of hospitality and cordiality.

Towards afternoon, when the shadows begin to lengthen a little, we venture out again into the streets with an Arabian guide named Mohammed-ben-Ishmal (all Arabians have Mohammed stuck in somewhere through their names). We wander down through nameless alleys, hardly wide enough for two, and past numberless houses. It is all a turning, twisting, endless tangle, in which no stranger dares enter without a guide. There are women, young and old, in flowing white robes and silken veils or "adjars" hiding all but their eyes. And there are men in white, woolen breeches and shirts, and with huge many-colored turbans upon their heads. All seem to be doing nothing in particular and thinking of nothing at all. Everything seems to have an air of hidden secrets and mysteries. We finally come to the city-gate, an archway six feet wide connecting four thoroughfares, and standing on one side, our eyes almost burst with the sights that greet us.

Our guide tells us that everybody and everything passes under this arch and he certainly is right. Fish-mongers with big baskets of sardines and some sort of huge, slimy, slippery fish ; Moorish peddlers of calico, cotton and other goods, screaming some unintelligible words at the top of their voices ; donkeys laden down with baskets of fresh, fragrant roses for sale, followed immediately by two-wheeled carts full of garbage from the streets ; pretty little girls skipping past with pans of dough upon their heads, going to the public ovens ; groups of little boys eating raw carrots and artichokes and having a good time in general, and so on in one long, continuous stream. Opposite us is an "Inglesy" with an easel, trying to get a sketch of the arch. He is getting along nicely with his drawing when a blind Moor walks unceremoniously over easel, paints, brushes and all, saying simply, "Balek !" (Out of the way !), and on he goes as unconcerned as ever.

BEN-ISHMAL next takes us to see some of the shops. Most of them are nothing but pretenses at stores. One little stall has a half- dozen tiny bags of charcoal, a pair of feathers which were once white, an assortment of old greasy rags, and a thick coat of dust for sale, all supported upon a counter of dirty oil-cans and boxes. The proprietor sits in a heap on the floor beside his wares, sleeping continuously, waking only to eat a date, a crust of mouldy bread, or some sour milk occasionally. The Algerians, exclusive of the Jews, take little interest in business. Their shops are mere centres of gossip, like our own rural stores, and serve only as an excuse for an occupation. They have a fixed price on their goods and the customer either buys or doesn't buy the goods at that price; it makes no difference to the Algerian merchant. On the other hand, the Jews and Assyrians, who own the larger shops, will haggle a whole day over the price of a half-yard of calico, and will eventually sell the goods even at one-tenth of its set price.

For fear that we may miss the afternoon promenade on the Place du Gouvernement, Ben-Ishmal hurries us off to this quaint little square. It is the nearest approach to our own cities that we have seen yet. Beneath the border of trees along the curb are lines of cabs and buses to be hired. Rich Jews and poor Jews, sheiks and thalebs, women with babies on their backs, beggars and happy children, all walk along the
same avenue. Ragged little urchins perform stunts in the street for an occasional sou which is thrown at them. This ever-changing parade, with the staid government buildings as a background, furnishes a deep source of interest to us.

However, we cannot tarry for we are to take dinner with the guide's family and must not be late. Mohammed-Ben-Ishmal lives about midway up the bank of terraces, and so is of the middle class of society. From the outside his house looks like a huge white pill-box with a wooden door and tiny barred windows built into it. Instead of using the iron knocker on the door, our host hammers his knuckles out on the hard wood, a custom among these people. Finally a yell rewards our patience, and a little greasy boy opens the door timidly. We enter a large, dimly-lit room furnished with a few chairs and a bare table. . We do not stop here, however, as Ben-Ishmal leads us through another door into a beautiful little open court in the center of which a fountain plays merrily. After a while we are joined by the wife, more heavily veiled than ever, the boy who admitted us, and his sister, a beautiful little girl.

Our meal begins. We sit beside the cool fountain around a small table, and are served by a pretty little Moorish maid. We feel just as if we had been born in Algeria and that this was our family, and there are no formalities whatever. Our first course consists of mince pie, minus its sweetness and cooked in pure olive oil. The guide and his family set to it immediately with their fingers, but we, after a long, intricate explanation, secure some forks and spoons for our use, much to the disgust of our friends—they say it spoils the taste. Next comes "couscous," the regular dish of northern Africa. This is a combination of bits of meat and vegetables covered over with a thick crust and somewhat similar to our own beef pie. The final course consists of serpent cake, a soft, rich pastry filled with nuts, sweet meats, and spices; a real treat, followed by fruit, dates and Arab coffee. We praise the hostess for the excellent repast and receive from the depths of her dark eyes, a reply of gratitude.

DURING the meal we have tried to gain a bit of information from the boy, but it has required a good deal of scolding from the father and coaxing from us to overcome his shyness. He finally tells us in little snatches about his school life. He is now learning to read and write the Koran, but when he is a little older, he hopes to enter the Lyceum, that great French institution where white and black learn side by side. He shows us with pride the little slate upon which he writes and explains that it is not really slate but hardwood rubbed with pipe clay until it is as smooth as glass.

Unlike her bashful brother, Fathma, the little girl, is quite ready to talk. Like all the little daughters of her clime, she possesses a rare and distinct beauty which is at once soft and elusive. Large, dark, wistful eyes ; a small Grecian nose; tempting little red lips—all her features are perfect, and her body too is well proportioned and graceful. Along with all these virtues there is naturally a bit of coquetishness. She tells us in simple little French phrases of the life of an Algerian girl—of its hours of work and hours of play. She pictures to us an Algerian shop filled with rows of little girls singing merrily while their tiny fingers swiftly dart in and out between threads which will soon be beautiful rugs. Fathma proudly shows us a wonderfully embroidered piece of silk which she has made after much painstaking labor.

It appears from her conversation that the life of the Algerian girl is quite different from our own. Up to the age of nine or ten, the daughter leads a care-free life. except for the occupations of weaving and sewing, but at this period the girl must don her "adjar" and assume the air of maturity. When the childish age of twelve is reached, the maiden is usually married and henceforth is occupied with the care of her home and children. This sort of life converts the girl into a woman so quickly that by the age of thirty the pitiful creature is worn and old.

We could sit and listen for hours to this quaint story of a hidden race from the lips of this girl, but time passes quickly and we must return to our hotel. The shadows have lengthened considerably and by the time we have reached our haven, dusk has fallen.

AFTER a cool, refreshing bath we go out on the balcony and rest our weary bones in comfortable wicker chairs. What an inspiring scene! On our left, in a large garden, a royal banquet is in progress. Men of affairs and
their wives and friends, both foreign and native, are dancing on the lawn beneath a canopy of nodding Japanese lamps. Now and then, snatches of soft music float up to us on the evening breeze. Above us are myriads of twinkling stars and in the center, the new moon. Below us, as above, are numerous little lights— some stationary and some moving. There is a sort of an irregular staircase of them leading down to a double row of lights in a straight line. They undoubtedly denote the terraces descending down to the boulevard along the quay. Beyond the boulevard are the waving, twinkling red, white and green lights of the ships. All is silent save for the occasional strains of music which sound as from another world.

Algeria sleeps!



Betty and Jean were playing house on the front porch one fine day in June, when Betty suddenly exclaimed:

"I'm tired of dolls and toys! Let us go for a walk."

Jean tied the baby's bonnet strings carefully and then kissed the pretty, pink cheeks.

"I don't like walking unless you're walking to get somewhere or something," she said, thoughtfully. "Now grandma has been talking about wild strawberry jam. I heard her say that it was time the wild strawberries were ripe, and—"

"Just the thing!" shouted Betty, jumping up.

"Hush," warned Jean, putting her finger to her lips. "Let us surprise her. She can't go out and hunt for them herself, so we'll do that part."

Betty was throwing her toys into the doll's carriage and rushing about to straighten up her side of the porch. "There's just heaps of wild berries in the woods back of the Beardsley lot," she whispered.

Jean ran around to the back porch for baskets. Ned, her brother, was there, whittling a stick.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"It's a secret," replied Jean. "You mustn't tell. We're going for wild strawberries so that grandma can make jam."

"Whoo-pee!" shouted Ned, springing to his feet. "Guess I'll go along, too."

"We didn't want to be bothered with a boy," said Jean, crossly. "But if Betty is willing, I don't care."

Ned grabbed the baskets and rushed ahead. Betty was sitting on the bottom step, waiting. "Any objection to my joining the party?" asked Ned, twirling a basket on the tips of his fingers.

Betty hesitated. Then she replied: "Not if you will carry the baskets. Then I can take my red parasol."

The little people were soon on their way, laughing and chattering about their surprise for grandma.

The woods, to which they were going, extended along the far end of the Beardsley lot for some quarter of a mile. The "lot" as the children called it, was really a very large and fine pasture for cows. When they started to cross it, a cow looked up from her grazing and sauntered over toward them.

"Look, quick!" cried Betty. "She's coming right for us."


And those dreadful horns!" wailed Jean. "All our fun's spoiled."

"Aw, she won't hurt you," said Ned, bravely. "It's Betty's red parasol that she likes."

The three children started back for the road. Several cows started at the same time.

"What shall we do?" cried Jean, panting, when they had reached the other side of the fence.

Nobody answered for several minutes. Betty tucked her parasol under her arm.

"I've got it!" exclaimed Ned, scratching his head. "I'll climb that tree there in the pasture and wave the parasol at the cows. Then you girls scoot across."

"Fine!" cried Jean, taking the baskets from him_

"Don't you drop my parasol," warned Betty, handing it to Ned a little doubtfully.

"Never!" promised Ned.

The next moment he had darted into the pasture and was climbing a tree. "All right," he shouted, waving to the girls.

Away they fled. It was some distance across the pasture, but they never looked back until they had reached the woods. When they did, they fairly gasped to see Ned at their very heels.

"Mercy, how you scared us!" cried Betty. "And where's my parasol?"

Ned rolled on the ground and laughed. "You didn't think that I was going to stay stuck up in that tree, did you?" He rolled over again, laughing heartily. "I tied the parasol to a limb where the cows could see it, and ran."

The hunt for berries began. Grandma had been right, for they were just ripe. Eagerly the little people worked.

"My basket's full!" shouted Betty.

"Mine will be in a minute," said Jean.

"Shucks!" grunted Ned, cramming his berries into his mouth as fast as he could pick them.

"You horrid boy!" the girls exclaimed when they saw him. But they filled his basket, too.

Ned rescued the parasol on the way home, and the three tired children tramped into the kitchen with their baskets.

"Bless your dear hearts!" cried grandma, from her wheel chair. "Such a surprise! Now we shall have some fine jam." Her eyes twinkled and she nodded her head toward the pantry. "Let me see, the cookies are in there. Go, help yourselves."



BILLY BUMPS was afraid of the dark. After mother had tucked the covers around him, had kissed him good-night, and had gone from the room, leaving the door open just a crack, such strange things seemed to happen. All by himself, in the little white bed in the big square room, Billy Bumps' mind played such queer tricks!

The dim light in the hall crept into the room and made the doorway appear as a big, long- drawn-out yarn. Goblins and ghosts flitted about in the shadows. The closet became a den of thieves and at the first movement of the stiff little body in the bed, the door would spring open and out would pop horrid men. The brass knobs on the bed posts were sleeping lions, ready to waken the little fellow, if he moved a toe.

The rain splashed upon the window-sill and at once a whole army seemed to be marching in upon him. Poor Billy Bumps! What could he do against such a host of enemies?

A board creaked. Cold shivers crept along his spine and his teeth began to chatter. The grandfather clock in the hall struck one. It sounded to the little boy like the voice of a giant.

But not for worlds would he have called for his mother or father! He must be a hero. He tried to think of some brave thing he had done that day, but the night seemed the only proper time for brave deeds. Could he be brave now, and if so, how?

He longed to have the puppy in bed with him. What a friend he would prove! Well, why not make a friend of the sleeping lion? The more Billy Bumps thought about it, the
better he liked it.

After all, the rain wasn't a really, truly approaching army. Instead, he had two friends on the window sill, Pitter and Patter; and they kept up a continual chatter with him, first Pit- ter and then Patter.

The creaking board was a Brownie that just couldn't keep still and every time he jumped or danced, he squeaked with delight. Billy Bumps began to chuckle to himself. What hosts of friends he had in the night.

The grandfather clock began striking again, not once, but nine times. Instead of having two grandfathers, he had nine! How wonderful! Was ever a little boy as lucky as he?

Then, right out of the closet popped a funny little man. He had sandy hair and sandy eyebrows and his clothes were sandy, too. He sprinkled sand all about. Billy Bumps was so tickled that he smiled and smiled; and the little man smiled and smiled.

Billy Bumps wanted him to come nearer to the bed, so he called out just as loud as he could. But the little man didn't seem to hear, for he went on scattering sand and nodding and smiling. Billy Bumps was so happy and contented that he closed his eyes. The funny part of it was that he could still see the little man.

It was so warm and comfy in bed that the nicest feeling began to creep over him. He stretched a little and opened his mouth to yawn. Then he nearly forgot to close it, for he was drifting away, away, far away ; and the little man was fading, fading. Pitter and Patter were silent; the lion never did wake up; and the Brownie forgot his dance. The Sandman faded away entirely and in the hush of the big room, peace and quiet reigned. Billy Bumps slept.



My! You look surprised! And yawning?
Ooooh, and such red eyes!
Head all tousled;
Tight little fists;
Tears from yawning
Must be kissed.
Want me to hug you?
My! My! My!
Sure I'll hug you—
Now stifle that sigh. Yawning again?
Are you sleepy yet? Are you going to laugh,
Or going to fret?
My, my, you're nodding—
Wake up, for 'tis day—
Hop up and let's hustle
Downstairs to your play.
That's right! You're laughing:
Ha-ha! That's fine—
Ten scratching fingers,
All going at one time;
And ten little toes,
All squirming so shocking—
Please be still,
Let me put on your stocking.
Hold that face still
While I wash it, you scamp,
Would you let it stay dirty
And look like a tramp?
My, you're fidgety,
And that laugh is contagious—
You've got me laughing
In a way that's outrageous.
Now you have your clothes on,
So downstairs we'll go,
Where you'll greet the big people
Who're loving you so.
Then they'll all go to work
And leave us at home
To romp and play—
You and I all alone.
All alone.
All alone.



COME into the library," Wilhelmina whispers mysteriously to the Judge, "somebody wants to see you."

They walk in arm and arm to find William, Billy, Billikins, and two or three other children of the neighborhood waiting.

Wilhelmina strikes an attitude. "Dear children, we have with us today the distinguished visitor, Judge of 'The Brownies', who will now address you on the subject of Africa."

"I see I'm in for it," the Judge says, not at all unwillingly, "but you know there's nothing I'd rather do in all the world than talk to you about that. Now where was I to begin?"

"With books," William reminds him. "Don't you recall you were going to tell us what to read ?"

"Oh, yes, it comes back to me now. I was telling you last time about three books, 'The Bantu—Past and Present', by S. M. Molema ; 'Africa : Slave or Free?', by John H. Harris, and 'Songs and Tales from the Dark Continent', arranged by Natalie Curtis. Which do you want to hear of first?"

"The Bantam," says Billikins, eagerly. "I had a little rooster once. My, but he could fight!" The others stare at him in amazement.

"What in the world—" begins Billy.

"He thought I said Bantam," the Judge explains kindly, "whereas I was speaking of the Bantu, the name of a group of people."

"Of a particular tribe, isn't it?" asks William. 'I know I've read a lot about them."

"No, it isn't the name of a particular tribe, although most people just like you seem to think so. It is such errors as this that Mr. Molema corrects in his book, and that is the reason why I am especially anxious to have you read it."

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean when you speak of a 'group' of people," says Gertrude, one of the neighborhood children.

"Come out on the porch and I'll explain. Now is everybody happy?"

The Judge continues solemnly, "The name 'Bantu' refers to a whole racial group of Africans, very much as the term 'Indian' refers to a whole group here in the United States, and yet we speak of the 'Choctaw,' the 'Iroquois,' the 'Sioux' and so forth.

"The man who wrote this book belongs to the Bantu group himself, so it is only reasonable to believe that he knows what he's talking about. He shows that the Bantus are a finely developed people with a culture and a civilization which, while not as far advanced as ours, is as good as ours was when we were at their stage and which certainly suits them and the country in which they live.

"Mr. Harris' book is very informing. He tells all about Liberia, the Negro Republic and about its resources. It is a very rich country— but almost every part of Africa is rich—and abounds in mahogany and gums, scented woods, wild rubber and vegetable oils."

"I really believe I'll go there when I grow up," says William, dreaming to himself. "I'm going to write to Cornell today to see about the requirements for engineering."

"What I'm always crazy to know," Wilhelmina interrupts, "is how the people live, what they have to eat, what they say to each other, what games they play, what they do at their parties and how they make love—that is if they do make love."

"As of course they do. Then what you must read is the book which Miss Curtis has compiled. You see she didn't really write it herself, she just put down the stories and legends, folk-tales and accounts which Kamba Simango of Portuguese East Africa and Madikane Qandeyana Cele of Zululand gave her. It has lots of illustrations and it is in the library on my desk. I'll show it to you when I go in. Why where you all going?"

For all of them, including the grown-up Wilhelmina, have started off on a mad rush into the house. "All of us want the picture-book," someone's voice comes floating back, you know it's first come, first served."

[illustration - OUR LITTLE FRIENDS ]




LAFAYETTE was in Europe when the final treaty of peace was signed in 1782, and England thereby renounced her sovereignty in the United States. He joyously sent a special ship to America. It carried his letters and arrived there before tidings of the peace had come in any other way. One of his letters was to George Washington, personally. It was full of love for, and pride in, his great friend, but it also contained this significant passage : "Now that you are to taste a little repose, permit me to propose to you a plan that may become vastly useful to the black portion of the human race. Let us unite in buying a little property where we can try to enfranchise the Negroes and employ them merely as farm laborers."

As history lets us know, Washington did not do what Lafayette suggested,—more's the pity! But he did free his slaves by his will, and it does seem possible, if not probable, that Lafayette's influence had something to do with his determination not to be himself directly responsible for the reduction to slavery of unborn generations of his fellow-beings.

Lafayette began the work in which Washington did not take part. He bought an estate in French Guiana, where he treated the Negroes as free men. He did everything he could think of for their good, and spent his money freely for their welfare. His wife co-operated with him in his efforts. She sent teachers for these Negroes and tried to promote their moral life. Unfortunately the French Revolution, which did so much good as well as so much evil, did only evil as to Lafayette's experiment in emancipation and civilization. The Revolutionary government confiscated Lafayette's property, seized these freed people and made slaves of them again. He was never a rich man after his losses by this confiscation. He could no longer carry on large schemes of benevolence. But his interest in the improvement in agriculture and of rural life in France continued.

The defeat of his own effort at emancipation did not lessen his intense desire for the freedom of the black race. After Washington died, he corresponded now and then with James Madison. Letters about slavery passed between them in 1820, and in 1821 he wrote on the subject again to Madison, characterizing the evil institution as a blot upon American civilization.

When he made his visit to this country in 1824, he was grieved and shocked to find that race prejudice had increased since his earlier visits. He remembered in what a friendly fashion white and black soldiers had messed together during our Revolution, and was pained by the moral deterioration which white America had suffered in this respect.

It is probable that Lafayette, like all the other prominent Abolitionists before Garrison's day, favored the gradual rather than the immediate emancipation of "the blacks",—as the French call persons of African descent. "Les Noirs" is their term.

In his later years, Lafayette talked a great deal about emancipation so that his friend and physician, Jules Clognet, spoke with authority when he said that this great friend of the whole human race feared that if a large body of uneducated people, who had been taken from foreign and savage conditions and enslaved, were immediately set free, they would not know how to manage their lives, and "despotism" would take advantage of all their mistakes and their faults and practically re-enslave them.

"But," says Dr. Clognet, "in Lafayette's opinion, the greater the difficulties that impeded the abolition of slavery, the more energetic should be the zeal, the more persevering the efforts of the genuine philanthropist to obtain so honorable a result ; and he saw with pain that paltry considerations of interest paralyzed the hearts of some who might have given a decided impulse to Negro emancipation."

An emancipation society of the period in America conferred membership on Lafayette. It supported a school in New York for colored children. Lafayette visited many public schools in that city, but this was the one he cared most about. When he went to see it a little Negro boy went up and made a speech to him, and told him how the children in that school knew about him, and how they loved him.

Lafayette and La Rochefoucauld worked together and "during their whole life sustained
[illustration - The Negro Boy Welcomes Lafayette ]
at their joint expense, before the French tribunals, all trials entered into by Negroes for the recovery of their freedom."

France, as we know, abolished slavery in her dependencies, as did England, long before the institution was legally destroyed in America.

He wrote to ex-President Madison in 1825 or 1826 concerning a plan for gradual emancipation which Frances Wright had attempted to put in practice in Tennessee. Madison replied, confessing that notwithstanding Lafayette's "distance" from the scene he knew more about Miss Wright and her work than he himself did.

In 1830, Madison wrote to Lafayette, saying that the old Frenchman's "anticipations" as to the effect of slavery in this country "were the natural offspring of your just principles and laudable sympathies". Lafayette's principles and sympathies were always just and laudable. Colored Americans have as much reason as white ones to think of him as their hero and their champion.

It was said of him that, unlike most prominent men of his period, he looked "upon the human race not as cards to be played for one's own profit, but as an object of sacred devotion." The saying was true as to him, whatever it may have been as to other men. For he did stand out pre-eminent in his eager disinterestedness.

One of his distinguishing characteristics was that he did not lose interest in a cause when he learned that some of its adherents were unworthy. He was, moreover, so generous-hearted that he did not always expect other people to make sacrifices even for their own ultimate good,—he merely gave for that object what they hesitated to give. Thus he pledged his own private means to furnish overcoats to the American army, in case the American government did not foot the bill, as American tailors shrank from providing the garments until assured of final payment.

During his last visit to the United States, Congress passed a bill to grant Lafayette two hundred thousand dollars and "twenty-four thousand acres of fertile land in Florida". This gift was really due him. He had refused payment for his services in the Revolution, and now was a poor man.

But twenty-six members of Congress opposed the grant. Some voted against it because it was an "unusual appropriation". Others had a fantastic notion that, as money could not equal the moral worth of his action, none should be offered him. Everybody else in the country favored the bill, and Lafayette sensibly accepted, in his age, what he had refused in the days of his youth and wealth.

The opponents felt troubled by their own conduct, and some of them went to him to explain their motives. He grasped their hands cordially, and, with quick sympathy, touched by his keen sense of humor, he exclaimed, "My dear friends, I assure you it would have been different had I been a member of Congress. There would not have been twenty-six objectors—there would have been twenty-seven."

He had survived his wife for over twenty years when on the twentieth of May, 1834, as he lay dying—"he appeared to wake and to search for something on his breast. His son put into his hands the miniature of Adrienne that he always wore. He had strength to raise it to his lips, then sank into unconsciousness from which he passed into the sleep of death."

Thus lived, worked and loved Gilbert du Motier de La Fayette.



T HE first annual Inter-Association track and field meet for Y. W. C. A. girls in Jersey was held at Glenfield Park, Montclair, N. J., on June 11. The associations having entries were Brooklyn, N. Y., and Orange and Montclair, N. J. There were over eighty entries distributed among the three classes—Class A for girls over 110 pounds; Class B, between 90 and 110; and Featherweights, under 90.

The meet was won by Montclair, Orange was second, and Brooklyn a poor third. The Jersey girls far outclassed the Brooklyn girls in every respect except gameness. Under the existing agreement, Montclair retains possession of the
[illustration - Orange, N.J., Y.W.C.A. Girls. ] silver trophy cup for one year at which time it is to be placed again in competition. To keep the cup permanently, an association must win it three times.

T h e individual prize awarded to the girl winning the largest number of points went to Emma Tillery, of Orange. Tillery took first place in the broad jump with a leap of 13 feet 11 inches—a jump nearly 18 inches beyond her nearest competitor. She has been a tower of strength during the past season on the Orange basketball team.

The events on the program included 50 and 100 yard dashes; 440 and 880 yard relays; 440 yard and 1/6-mile runs ; running broad and high jumps. These events were open to all girls except the "featherweights" for whom special events were run off—a 50-yard dash and a 220-yard relay.

The Montclair association was most cordial in its hospitality and entertainment of the visiting teams. It is the hope of the Athletic Committee to have more associations enter next year, particularly those within a short radius.



I AM eight years old and I live in Alabama. I am in the second grade and I am very fond of my teacher. Some times she reads us stories out of THE BROWNIES' BOOK. She said that if any of us ever wrote a story real nicely, she would send it to the editor of THE BROWNIES. My father has a big automobile and sometimes he takes my mother and me for a ride. My father is a doctor and he is very busy. When I get big I am going to be a doctor, too, and my sister is going to be a nurse. I have a pony and a cart, which I drive myself. I go to the store for my mother in it some times. I go out to my aunt's in it, because they don't let colored people ride on the front of the cars here. Papa says it's not that way in New York. Why isn't it? He said I should ask you.

J. CLARICE BOND, Birmingham, Alabama.

I LIVE in the Philippines, but I have an aunt in the United States, and some times she sends me magazines. Last time she sent me a number of THE BROWNIES' BOOK. I was very pleased and delighted. I showed it to my teacher and friends. We had never seen a magazine with pictures of pretty colored children in it. I have told my aunt that I should like all THE BROWNIES' BOOKS I could get. I am eleven years old and am in the sixth grade.

MINNIE V. KELLY, Philippine Islands.

I WANT to tell you about Ted. Ted is our little dog. He came to us from Charlotte, N. C. Our Uncle Strieby sent him on the train. We went to the express office on Sunday, because mother said that it would be cruel to leave him hungry until Monday. He had not come yet, but came on Monday. We were so glad to see him, but he did not like us. He loved Baby first, but now he loves us all and tried to bite mother when she had to punish us. Ted is white and has one brown ear. He is part poodle. Mother washes him, but he is very dirty now. If any strange person comes on our porch, Ted will bark and let mother know. He likes to ride in autos. He will bark at any horse. A horse stepped on his foot. It was sore. A horse kicked at him and a man threw his whip at him. Sometimes he slips off and goes to church with us. He has good manners, but some children are afraid of him. Mother had the picture made so I could send you one. Don't you think Ted is cunning? We do. My little sister and my little brother and I are all trying to be kind to dumb animals. We love them, too. From a little boy,

EDWARD MITCHELL (AGE 6) Chattanooga, Tenn.

I AM a very little girl, so my sister is writing this for me. I like THE BROWNIES' BOOK very much and every month, when it is time for it to come, I run out to the mail box to look for it. Then my sister reads me the stories. I like to look at the pictures, too. Mama says I can go to school next year and learn to read THE BROWNIES' BOOK myself. Then I will write you again and tell you about my pony and dog. I live on a farm and every morning I feed the chickens.

MADALEN TAYLOR, Thatcher, Colorado.

I AM nine years old and I live on a ranch in Texas. I haven't ever been to school but my mama used to be a teacher and she teaches me every day. She says that when I get a little bigger she is going to send me to boarding school. I think I shall like that. My big sister is away working. Last year she graduated from college. My father has lots of horses and cows. I like to read stories and letters about the ocean. I have never seen the ocean, but my mama says[illustration - Edward Mitchell and "Ted" ] that some day she will take me down to Galveston, where my grandmother lives. My mama used to live there and she says that there is water all around it. I have a geography which came from New York, and I looked up Galveston on the map. Now I must close. I am going to ask my mother to let me ride to the town to mail this. I learned to ride when I was seven.

GEORGE L. WHITTAKER, Skidmore, Texas.

I LIVE in Florida and my house is right down by the sea. One of our boats has two oars and the other runs by motor. We have a big yard with lots of flowers. It never gets very cold here and we wear white dresses most of the time. I have a brother ; he is two years younger than I am. I am seven, but I will be eight in August. My brother and I have two rabbits apiece. Mine are white with black spots. Sometimes we let them out on the grass, but we have to watch them very closely, so they won't fall in the water. One day one of my brother's rabbits fell in the water and my father had to swim after it. It wasn't drowned though.

MAYME F. ANDERSON, Jacksonville, Florida.




A FRICA has many nut-bearing plants and trees. Among these is the ground-nut, which is known in our country, the United States, as the peanut. In Africa, thousands of tons of these nuts are raised and exported to Europe for making both edible and lubricating oils. The ground-nut is roasted in Africa and used for making a very acceptable soup. A "ground-nut chop" well seasoned, into which hard-boiled eggs are put, constitutes a fine Sunday dinner among both civilized and native peoples.

Then there is the oil-palm nut which is refined and sent abroad for food. Much of our butter, both here and in Europe, Is made from this oil-palm nut. The oil-palm tree bears a kind of nut after the fashion of a bunch of bananas. Each nut is enclosed in a sheath containing oil which surrounds a kernel, itself having a fine white oily meat, which, when crushed, yields a still finer grade of oil very similar to that coming from the meat of the cocoanut.

But the most precious of nuts comes from the Kola tree. These nuts are seldom sent out of Africa, for, when eaten, they take away fatigue from the traveler and furnish him strength upon the weary way, at the same time being thirst and hunger killers. These nuts, in the regions where the tree does not grow, command a very high price and are much sought after by the natives. By the way, our Coco Cola of the drug stores in the United States does not come from this kola nut.

The kola nut has many social uses in Africa ; for example, if a traveler staying all night in a town should chance to find a red kola nut in the water brought him for his bath, this would be secret warning from a friend that danger is near him ; to be on guard. A white kola nut in the bath is either a sign of friendship or an offering to the Great God-Spirit. No African man offers a white kola nut and then betrays the one to whom he gives it.

Nothing can be more beautiful than to see the kola groves in bloom at Dolasan, on the far off Liberian Hinterland.

The following rhyme on the kola tree is offered to BROWNIES' BOOK readers by a lover of his little black and brown brothers both in Africa and America.

Take your gleaming cutlass blade, With heart and arm a-thrill,
Go into the forest shade
And swing it with a will;
Fell bush and bough at liberty, But never cut a kola tree!
Never cut the kola tree,
Sign of Trust and Friendship free ;
It stands for Peace on land and sea,
So never cut a kola tree!
In the fragrant kola grove,
Mid leaves and blossoms bright,
Peace and Friendship ever rose
In search of kolas white,
Which "far more precious than the red Are given,
not sold." Sadana said.


Little People of the Month

ARTHUR WORLINGTON SAUNDERS, JR., of Plainfield, N, J., is three months old ; however, he wears clothing for a child two years of age. When he was one day old he became one of our subscribers.

At the Brockton, Mass., High School, Mildred Turner was chosen to write the class ode. By the election she achieved a signal honor for her race, since she is the first Negro to win this distinction at the school.

Harry Chappelle is a junior in the Douglas High School at Huntington, W. Va. He has been interested in athletics throughout h i s high school course. At the State High School Track Meet, in May, he won two cups. His best records are h i s standing high jump, which is six feet, and his running broad jump, which is 21 feet 4 inches.

Harry is an affable boy, and ran second among the boys in a popularity contest. He is very courteous to everybody. This summer he is employed at the Chesapeake Ohio Railway shops, earning money to pay his own school expenses, even though his parents are living.

Lydia Mason is a young pianist of New York City. The Fisk Society of Greater New York has awarded her a scholarship to Fisk University, Nashville, Tenn., where she will pursue college and special musical courses, covering a period of five years.

At a very early age Lydia showed a fondness and an aptitude for the piano. Mr. William J. Carle, her first piano teacher, laid an excellent foundation for Lydia in technique ; then for seven years she studied under Dr. Beatrice Eberhard of the Grand Conservatory of Music. When nine years of age Lydia made her first public appearance, and at twelve she was appearing in concerts and recitals, as pianist in the Martin-Mason Trio. Miss Mason has appeared as soloist and accompanist at Aeolian Hall and Carnegie Hall, and among her numbers have been Gounod's "Faust", Mascagni's "Cavalleria Rusticana", Flotow's "Martha", Mendelssohn's "Concerto in G Minor" for pianoforte and orchestra, and Coleridge-Taylor's "Hiawatha's Wedding Feast".

Since the age of sixteen Lydia has taught private pupils on the piano.

In a class of 244 graduates from the Madison, Wis., High School, Madolene M. Mosley was the only Negro graduate. She won the highest honors that a girl can be awarded in athletics and was given honorary recognition in art work, although she was graduated from a general course. She will attend the University of Wisconsin, taking a course in pharmacy.

[illustration - Arthur Worlington Saunders, Jr.]

[illustration - Mildred Turner,Lydia Mason, Harry Chappelle, Madolene M. Mosley]





A LL energetic and ambitious girls and boys will want to work out these puzzles, and old and young, large and small, will be greatly benefited by the history which these puzzles teach in their solutions. Information concerning the progress and fortunes of your race may some day secure for you a place in the literary world which will bring you a good price for your knowledge. No nobler vocation could be desired than passing on to others facts pertaining to the race's accomplishments; so strive to know your race as other children know theirs, and remember that tucks and frills do not make pride, but a true knowledge of one's people does. Anyone who revels in knowing that he knows his people, has much to be proud of. Study over these puzzles and, right or wrong, answer them, forwarding same to the Editor by the tenth of October: Send in your own original puzzles, enclosing with them their answers.

By observing closely, you will find hidden in the paragraph above the following notables : 1. A bishop. 2. A compiler of an annual book of Negro data. 3. The highest ranking Negro officer in the army. 4. A pilot of a Confederate ship who captured the ship and turned it over to the Federals. 5. A noted editor. 6. First Negro preacher to stand in the pulpit of Henry Ward Beecher. 7. A man called the "matchless drummer” of the Civil War. 8. First American killed in the Revolutionary War. 9. First Negro to hold the office of United States Senator. 10. The most beloved of all prize fighters.

EXAMPLE:-1. All energetic: 10. wrong, answer.


Rentiw Tweesesns
Gnostaln Guhseh
Eht tilelt useho si raugs,
Sti rofo twih onws si ledip,
Nda morf ist yitn inwodw,
Eppes a plema-raugs hidlc.
LETTER-WORDS Place two letters together and make words. 1. To shine forth. 2. Unfinished. 3. A cloth. 4. An engraved stamp for making an impression. 5. To distribute. 6. A green vegetable. 7. The joining of two edges of cloth. 8. Two horses. 9. A vegetable. 10. A snake-like fish. 11. A large town.EXAMPLE:-1. BM (beam).
ZIGZAG Each line consists of words of four letters and to zigzag from 1 to 13 will spell the name of a woman who was a famous underground railroad operator. 1 * * 2 * * 3 * * 4 • 5 • 6 7 * • 8 • * 9 • * * 10 • * 11 * * 12 * * 13 * * Cross-words: 1. Assist. 2. A companion. 3. To entice: 4. Listen to. 5. A couple. 6. Cure.
7. A story. 8. A skin irritation. 9. Loyal. 10. To untangle hair. 11. A young sheep. 12. More than one. 13. Twelve o'clock in the day. EXAMPLE :-1. Help. 2. mAte. 3. luRe.
NEGRO HISTORY 1. Who was Lott Carey? 2. Who is Harry T. Burleigh? 3. Who is W. E. B. DuBois? 4. What bank was awarded first place of all banks in America at the close of the Third Liberty Loan Drive? 5. What four countries are governed by Negroes? 6. What is Booker T. Washington's middle name? 7. Where and when was the first school for freed Negro children opened? 8. Who was Mary S. Peale? 9. What and who was John Durham? 10. Who was Lunsford Lane? 11. By whom and when was Haiti discovered? 12. Were "Blind Tom" and "Blind Boone" the same man ?
A CONUNDRUM What division of the army would a newly planted tree remind you of?



F IRST of all, he is quite happy in his big pen, with plenty to eat, and no enemies to disturb his peace of mind, unless he gets into a quarrel with one of his brothers as is shown in one of the pictures. Then he gets "riled" as is plainly seen. In this remarkable picture the two excited males appear to be "jawing" one another in a very vigorous fashion, with wing upraised on the one and lowered on the other, and a foot drawn back ready to strike. Even the one sitting peacefully on the ground appears to have his mouth open to join in the dispute.

However, these are very peaceful birds as a rule and, being practically hand-raised, a r e very tame, following the visitors about with evidence of the greatest curiosity and the hope of being fed an orange, of which they are inordinately fond. The sight of the fruit going down the creature's long neck, as he swallows it, is very amusing. This same curiosity made it very difficult for the writer to get the snapshots of the big birds that she desired, because one persistent fellow continually pecked at the buttons on her coat, or the little mirror on the camera, whose glitter attracted his attention. No amount of "shooing" had any effect on this bird, for he was hunting for some nice, hard object to swallow to help him digest the orange he had just been fed.

The strange birds present a very odd appearance, with their exceedingly long necks and thighs entirely bare of feathers; yet their movements are graceful when walking or running. With heads held proudly aloft, they move about with a light, springy step as if their 300 or even 500 pounds weight were a mere trifle to carry. An ostrich can run as fast as a horse, and a herd of them (they are referred to as herds, not flocks), running is a very pleasing sight.

[illustration - The two excited males appear to be "jawing" one another.]

It is the rule of ostriches to mate for life, and there are no divorces in
the ostrich colony so far as is known. The attendant at the Pasadena, California, farm asserts that there are some old maids and bachelors among the ostriches. The big birds get their growth in two years, but do not lay until four years of age. The average number of eggs is nine, and the laying season is from February to April. In a wild state, a hole is made in the sand for the nest, and the male and the female take turns in sitting on the eggs, the female sitting in daytime and the male taking the night shift. There is a reason for this, as the female's plumage, being a sort of dusty gray, is so much like the desert sands in color that she is not easily detected by a possible enemy, while the male's shiny black plumage would show off far too well. So the male does his work at night, when he is not so conspicuous.

But on the ostrich farms the eggs are hatched in incubators, a process which requires forty-two days. The tiny ostrich does not peck away at his shell until he makes an opening, as a chick does, but appears to burst the thick shell by the growing and expanding of his vigorous little body. The bursting of the shell is shown remarkably well in the picture of young ostriches and eggs. The shell is almost a quarter of an inch thick and a dull ivory in color.

The inside of the shell is a beautiful pink, and these are sometimes blown and converted into lamp globes. The light shining through the porcelain-like walls is a rosy pink and is very pretty. They are imported as far as Switzerland, to be converted into these shades.

The baby ostriches are the queerest little objects imaginable. What would be fuzz on the back of a baby chick, is a sort of excelsior with the ostrich.

The ostrich raisers do not wait until the plumes ripen and fall out, but clip them a little before that time, thus getting three crops in two years. As the regular plume stock does not ripen until a year old, the growers thus beat nature a trifle, so they say. The feathers are divided into three classes : the plume, tail and floss stock. The floss, which is very fine and soft, is used uncurled and is found on the under side of the wing, while the plume is taken from the upper side. This last, as its name indicates, forms the beautiful long plumes seen on milady's hats. Fans, boas, muffs and many other beautiful articles are made from the floss, while the tail stock furnishes the ostrich tips.

The ostrich eats all sorts of vegetable food, being strictly vegetarian in his diet, and consumes from five to eight pounds of food per day. His average length of life is thirty years.

[illustration - His average length of life is 30 years.]


Autumn Skies

THE azure breeze
Caressed the leaves,
And gave each flow'r a kiss;
While twinkling stars
Watched o'er our rest,
And crowned our dreams with bliss.



[illustration - AS THE CROW FLIES] THOUGH I fly high, high up in the air, I, the Crow, can see the turmoil of human-folks. But amidst the prevailing unrest, I can see, here and there, a sign of hope! Caw! Caw! Caw!
  • Several million dollars worth of property in the Amatlin oil fields, Mexico, has been destroyed by fire.
  • The chief of the Soviet delegation, M. Kergentseff, has handed to the American Chargé d'Affairs a protest against President Harding's failure to invite Russia to the Pacific Conference, in Washington.
  • An appeal has been made to the International Red Cross for aid to Russia, where twenty million people are reported to be facing death from famine and plague.
  • A petition has been sent to the League of Nations by the people of Helgoland, asking for neutralization of the island under the protection of the League of Nations, or re-annexation to Great Britain.
  • The Communist and Fascisti factions are fighting in Italy. Over fifty people have been killed. The Fascisti, in addressing a manifesto to the Italian people, claims merit for having put an end to "the Bolshevik illusion".
  • In killed, wounded, captured, missing and deserters, the Turkish losses in Asia Minor amount to 75 per cent of her effectives.
  • The Japanese Government has agreed to participate in the proposed Washington conference on Far-Eastern problems. Italy and China, also, will be participants.
  • According to revised figures, Germany's losses in the war are 1,792,368 killed and 4,246,874 wounded men. The navy losses, included in the above figures, are 34,256 killed and 31,085 wounded. In addition, 200,000 men are still reported as missing.
  • Enrico Caruso, the world renowned Italian tenor, is dead in Naples. He was 49 years old.
  • Dr. Nicholas Murray Butler, president of Columbia University, New York, has laid the cornerstone of the new library of the University of Louvain. The library is the gift of the American people to the people of Belgium.
  • Arms and munitions factories at Danzig have been closed by order of the Council of the League of Nations.
  • The labor dispute in Kobe, Japan, is marked by bloody fighting. Drastic measures are being adopted by the Japanese Cabinet as a means of ending the disturbance.
  • In Spain, a wave of military mutinies, combined with strikes and riots, is in progress. This is a result of the Spanish defeat in Morocco.
  • Signor Denicola, president of the Chamber of Deputies in Rome, has completed arrangements to bring about peace between the Socialists and the Extreme Nationalists.
  • After a crisis in Allied relations over Upper Silesia, Premier Lloyd George announces that Great Britain and France are again in accord.
  • The Moscow Bolshevik authorities have accepted Herbert Hoover's demand—that all Americans held as prisoners be released before relief for Russian famine sufferers is undertaken by the United States.
THE ocean breathed thoughts of courage, as I flew to America! There is much that displeases me here,—yet I am cheerful, for there are harbingers of good-will.
  • The Senate has passed the Sweet Bill, which centralizes and coordinates all soldier relief agencies, and establishes one independent organization—the Veterans' Bureau.
  • A resolution to investigate the occupation of Haiti and San Domingo has been introduced by Senator McCormick of Illinois.

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  • The House Census Committee has agreed upon the reapportionment legislation for a House of 460 instead of 435 Representatives
  • C E. O. Gourdin, a Negro athlete at Harvard College, has set a new world's record of 25 feet 3 inches in the running broad jump.
  • In 1919, revenue from personal income taxes amounted to $1,269,000,000, an increase of $141,900,000 over the year 1918
  • During June, 29,901 aliens were naturalized. Of these 6,453 were Germans; 4,014, Austrians; 3,508, Italians; 3,313, British ; 13, Spanish.
  • John A. Gustafson, Chief of Police at Tulsa, Okla., has been found guilty of having failed to take proper precautions for public safety during the recent race rioting.
  • Charges of conspiracy and embezzlement, in connection with the interest earnings of the State Treasurer's office, have been brought against Governor Len Small and Lieutenant- Governor Fred E. Sterling, of Illinois. The sum involves $2,000,000.
  • By a 289-127 vote, the House has passed the Tariff Bill, which provides for an estimated revenue of $500,000,000 annually. Oil, hides, cotton and asphalt remain on the free list.
  • A bill to empower the War Finance Corporation to aid in the movement of farm exports, has been introduced by Senator Kellogg.
  • Senator Ladd, of North Dakota, has introduced a resolution providing for a referendum on war.
  • President Harding has requested the Public Health Service and the American Red Cross to arrange relief measures for a threatened epidemic of pellagra and senifamine in the Southern cotton belt. A general denial of the epidemic, however, has been issued from several of the Southern States.
  • Ogden Mills, Representative of New York, has introduced a resolution providing for a spendings tax. It is intended to take the place of surtaxes on incomes and is described as a tax on expenditures exclusive of those on necessities.
  • A Chicago jury has acquitted the seven Chicago White Sox baseball players and two others. They were charged with alleged conspiracy to defraud the public by throwing the 1919 world's series games with Cincinnati. Judge K. M. Landis and baseball owners say the White Sox will not be allowed to play in Big-League baseball again.
  • Congress has been requested by President Harding to pass legislation making possible the loan of $5,000,000 to Liberia.
  • Representative John Kissel, of New York, has introduced a resolution to cut Congressmen's salaries for failure to attend the sessions of Congress.
  • The Loyal Labor Legion of New York has inaugurated a new labor movement. It recognizes the rights of the public and the unorganized wage earners and advocates arbitration of labor disputes.
  • The War Finance Corporation shows $63,471,700 as a total volume of business; $32,696,700 of this represents advances already approved. The remaining $30,775,000 represents pending business, of which 93 per cent is for agricultural commodities.
  • Announcement comes from the Board of Trustees of Johns Hopkin Hospital, Baltimore, Md., that the maximum fee for a surgical operation should be $1,000; the minimum charge for hospital attendance by a physician should be $35 a week.
  • Labor organizations in New York City have agreed to raise $25,000,000 for relief in Russia.
  • Senator Penrose, Chairman of the Finance Committee, has been advised by Secretary of War Weeks and Secretary of the Navy Denby, that an embargo on dyestuffs and coal-tar chemical products is necessary for reasons of national defense.
  • The steamship Alaska has been wrecked on Blunt's Reef, 40 miles south of Eureka, Cal. It was bound from Portland, Ore., to San Francisco. Forty-seven of the crew and passengers were drowned.
  • Congressional leaders and Secretary of the Treasury Mellon have met with President Harding and agreed upon a plan to lighten the burden of taxation to the amount of $600,000,000 during the next fiscal year.
  • The pay-rolls of 1,428 firms show a decrease of 11 per cent in employment during July. Each of these firms employs 500 or more laborers, in 65 principle industrial centers. The net decrease was 16,914.
  • Armistice Day, November 11, has been officially proposed as the date for the convening of the joint disarmament and Far Eastern Conference.
  • Chairman Porter, of the House Foreign Affairs Committee, announces that American soldiers will probably remain in Germany until affairs with that country are adjusted.