TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Each story has an illustrated title and begins with an
illustrated drop-cap. Unless a caption is present, the
[Illustration] tag has been skipped in the titles and drop-caps
for smoother text continuity. Of the rest, illustrations without
a caption have a short description in parentheses, for example
[Illustration: (Publisher’s colophon)].

Text in italics is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Text in
Small Capitals has been rendered in ALL CAPITALS. First words of
each story - ALL CAPITALS in the original - has been rendered here
in sentence case.

The text, including punctuation, was preserved as in the original
except for the following:

  on page  9, “holiday than Chrstmas” was changed to “holiday than
              Christmas”
  on page 19, “Weems ‘Life of Washington,’” was changed to “Weems’
              ‘Life of Washington,’”
  on page 19, “Aesops Fables” was changed to “Aesop’s Fables”
  on page 48, the text beginning with “The idea of having” was moved
              to a new paragraph.
  on page 67, “of it’s beauty” was changed to “of its beauty”




  [Illustration: Really So Stories]




  [Illustration: (Globe)]

  REALLY~SO
  ~STORIES~

  _by_
  Elizabeth Gordon

  [Illustration: (Flower)]

  _Pictures
  by_
  John Rae




  [Illustration: (Publisher’s colophon)]
  _Published by_
  P.F. Volland Company
  Chicago
  New York  Boston  Toronto




  [Illustration: (Publisher’s colophon)]
  Copyright 1924
  P.F. Volland Company
  Chicago, U.S.A.
  (All rights reserved)

  Copyright, Great Britain, 1924

  Printed in U.S.A.




  CONTENTS


                                                  _Page_
  How the New Year Knows When to Come                 9
  About the Telegraph                                12
  How the Military Salute Came                       14
  Candlemas Day                                      16
  Abraham Lincoln’s Birthday                         18
  About Valentines                                   21
  Why We Celebrate George Washington’s Birthday      24
  About Boy Scouts                                   26
  St. Patrick’s Day                                  28
  Lent                                               31
  Palm Sunday                                        32
  The Story of the Bible                             33
  Good Friday                                        35
  About Easter                                       37
  Trailing Arbutus or Mayflower                      39
  About Pearls                                       42
  About Mr. and Mrs. Pelican                         44
  Indian Day                                         47
  About Hats                                         49
  Mother’s Day                                       51
  About Forks                                        53
  About Silk                                         54
  All We Know About Strawberries                     57
  Children’s Day                                     59
  About Carrier Pigeons                              60
  About Coal                                         62
  Flag Day                                           65
  The Sea-gull Monument                              67
  Fourth of July                                     69
  Mr. Irish Potato                                   72
  Old Abe, the Wisconsin War-eagle                   75
  About Clocks                                       77
  About Cotton                                       80
  About Coral                                        82
  The Star-Spangled Banner                           84
  About Umbrellas                                    87
  Hallowe’en                                         88
  About Wolves                                       89
  How Thanksgiving Came                              91
  Christmas                                          93




The Boy named Billy


There was once a boy named Billy, who spent a summer in the woods
with Somebody.

Somebody had expected to have a wonderful time telling him
stories; but it turned out that the boy named Billy did not care
for made up stories. He would listen, if they were sufficiently
exciting, but even stories of wolves and bears and tigers were
not very much worth while unless they were _really so_.

He wanted to know about the beginning of things, and what certain
days meant, and who started customs, and ever and ever so many
things that you’d never suppose a small boy would be interested
in.

So, I’ve been wondering if there are not many boys like Billy
who, also, like to know about things that are _really so_.

And so, I’ve written down a good many of the things Somebody and
the boy named Billy talked about after the lights were out and
the fireflies came, during that wonderful summer in the north
woods.

  Your very own,

  [Illustration: _Elizabeth Gordon_]




[Illustration: New Year’s Day ... long ago]

How the New Year knows when to come


The boy named Billy had begged to be allowed to stay up to greet
the New Year. He had something he wanted to ask him if he could
only see him, but he presently got so sleepy that his eyes
wouldn’t stay open and so off he went to bed and to sleep.

But all at once there was a great tooting of whistles and ringing
of bells, and a skyrocket went “_whiz_” right past his window.
The boy named Billy sat up straight in bed.

“Oh,” said he, rubbing his eyes, “the New Year has come and I
didn’t even see him.”

“Happy New Year, Billy,” said a jolly little voice. The boy named
Billy rubbed his eyes to make sure--yes--he _really did believe_
that there was a roly-poly little person sitting on the edge of
the clock shelf swinging his bare pink feet and smiling happily.

“Why,” gasped Billy, “who are you?”

“Whom did you expect?” asked the little fellow. “I’m Father
Time’s youngest year, to be sure. Haven’t got my license, or my
number yet; I’m waiting until this racket stops. Were you looking
for me for any special reason?”

“What I want to know,” said the boy named Billy, “is, how does
the world know where one year ends and a new one begins?”

“That’s some question, youngster,” said the jolly New Year,
laughing merrily, “and it took the funny old world some time to
settle it. You see the year cannot be divided evenly into months
and days, because the time actually required for the earth’s
journey around the sun is 365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes and 46
seconds. You call that the solar year, because the word ‘solar’
means concerning the sun.

“The old Romans tried having the New Year come on March first,
but they had no real system, and were always in trouble. So
Julius Caesar, the king, told the world that it was most
important to have a calendar that could be depended upon to take
care of all the time, because there wasn’t any too much, anyhow.
So with the help of some very wise men he took the twelve new
moons of the year and built a calendar around them. This was
called the Julian calendar, and every fourth year figured this
way was made a ‘leap year,’ and was given an extra day, making it
366 days long.

“But putting in a whole day every four years was too much, and
after this calendar had been used over 1,500 years it was found
that the calendar year was about ten days behind the solar year
which wouldn’t do at all.

“So Pope Gregory XIII directed that ten days be dropped from the
calendar that year and that the day after October 4, 1582, should
be October 15. Then he rearranged the calendar so the New Year
would begin January 1 and the calendar year and the solar year
kept together. The Gregorian or New Style calendar as this one
was called is the one we are using today.

“New Year’s Day has been celebrated in various ways since the
dawn of civilization, and if today we could travel around the
world on a magic carpet what a wonderfully interesting sight we
would see!

“If you were in China you might think the Chinese saved their
holidays to celebrate all at once. They close their shops for
several days while they make merry with feasts and fireworks and
general exchange of gifts and good wishes. In preparation every
debt must have been paid, every house swept and cleaned, and each
person furnished with holiday clothes and a supply of preserved
fruits, candies, and ornamental packages of tea to give to his
acquaintances.

“In some European nations, especially France and Scotland, New
Year’s Day is a more important holiday than Christmas. If you
were a French peasant child you might put a wooden shoe on the
hearth for a gift at Christmas, but grownups in France exchange
gifts at the New Year festival, at which time there are family
parties, with much merrymaking.

“In America the observance of New Year’s Day is varied. New
Year’s Eve there are ‘watch night’ services in the churches--gay
street revelers--dancing and theater parties; and New Year’s Day
is a time for general entertaining and visiting. However, the
old custom of keeping open house and making New Year’s calls has
practically disappeared.

“People are always glad to see the New Year and always welcome
us in some glad and cheery way,” went on the New Year. “And it
has always been the custom among all people to exchange gifts and
greetings in the name of Happiness on New Year’s day. The Old
Year is supposed to take away all sorrow and sadness, and the
little New Year is supposed to bring nothing but happiness into
the world, so it depends upon each person to see that he gets his
share of the happiness.”

“How?” asked the boy named Billy.

“Easily,” answered the little New Year. “By living straight,
playing fair, being kind and honest and helping those not so
fortunate as you are. That’s all there is to it, little friend.
And there goes the last whistle and now for three hundred and
sixty-five days of real living. Happy New Year, Billy.”

“Now I wonder,” murmured Billy sleepily, “if that was _really
so_, or did I dream it. I’m going to read up on that calendar
thing the very first thing I do, and I’m going to play I saw the
New Year anyway; and I’m going to try to do just as I think he
would want me to ’cause I want my share in making this year a
very, very happy one.”




About the Telegraph


[Illustration: MORSE’S FIRST TELEGRAPH INSTRUMENT]

“Mother has just had a telegram from Grandmother that she’s on
her way to visit us,” said the boy named Billy. “I’m strong for
Grandmother and I’m going to train to meet her.”

“We’re all _fond_ of Grandmother,” corrected Big Sister, “and
we’re all going to the train to meet her. Who brought the
telegram?”

“Nobody brought it,” said the boy named Billy. “When it got to
town it just hopped off the telegraph wires and hopped on the
telephone wire and came right out here. That’s got magic beaten a
mile I’ll say. Whoever invented the telegraph system anyhow?”

“Oh, you with your ‘who inventeds’!” said Big Sister. “Why don’t
you study up such things yourself?”

“I can read it afterwards,” said the boy named Billy, “but when
Somebody tells it to me that makes a story of it. Please, who did
invent the Telegraph?”

“Samuel F. B. Morse did,” said Somebody. “He was born at
Charlestown, Massachusetts, April 27th, 1791, and lived until
April 2nd, 1872. He was a portrait painter, and student of
chemistry, and went to London to study painting under Benjamin
West, where he made such progress that when he returned to
America he was given a commission to paint a full length portrait
of LaFayette.”

“LaFayette was some hero and worth painting,” said the boy named
Billy, “but when do we come to the telegraph?”

“Right now,” smiled Somebody. “The idea of electricity had been
talked of for a long time, and while Mr. Morse was away on one
of his trips to England it was found by some experimenting that
electricity could be conveyed by means of wire over distances.

“A gentleman whom Mr. Morse met on ship board told him of these
experiments and it brought to his mind the old belief held by
Benjamin Franklin that intelligence some time would be conveyed
by electricity, a belief which he had always shared. He went to
work to perfect an instrument and a code for the system which he
had in mind, with the result that when the boat landed his idea
was ready to present.”

“He struck before the iron was hot, didn’t he?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” said Somebody, “but it was two
long years after that before the system was completed and in
working order. And it took quite some persuasion also to get
other people to believe in it, but finally Congress voted him
thirty thousand dollars to help him along with his project and so
he won out.

“Where, before, it had taken months and years to get word from or
to distant places, it could now be done almost instantly. Samuel
Morse’s life was one long record of courage, integrity, patience
and faith.”

“Bob White and I are fixing up a wireless on the roof of our
garage,” said the boy named Billy. “It’s two hours before
Grandmother’s train pulls in. Don’t forget to call me, and many
thanks, Somebody!”




How the Military Salute came


“I can’t seem to get the real snap into the salute that Sergeant
Jim does,” said the boy named Billy. “He drills me on it every
time I see him. But try as I may I can’t seem to get the style
into it, and I’ve just got to learn it before I go into Scout
camp; want to spring it on the fellows.”

“Sergeant Jim didn’t learn it in a lesson or two, either,” said
Somebody. “He had it literally drilled into him. So don’t get
discouraged, Billy.”

“I’m not discouraged; I’m going to get it,” said the boy named
Billy. “Sergeant Jim says that when he first went into the
service he just hated the salute. But after a while when he began
to know what it meant, he didn’t mind it. What does it mean? Why
should a soldier salute an officer? An officer’s no better than a
soldier, is he?”

“Depends on how you look at it,” said Somebody quietly. “The
officer occupies a higher position and the salute is a matter of
courtesy--like saying ‘Good morning,’ to your mother, or the boy
next door.”

“It is also a matter of discipline, isn’t it?” asked Big Sister.

“It has grown to be that, of course,” answered Somebody. “But
it first came into being because the soldiers who were called
the ‘Free Men of Europe’ were allowed to carry arms, while the
slaves or serfs and poorer classes were not. When one military
man met another it was customary for him to raise his arm to show
that he had no weapon in it, and that the meeting was friendly.
The slaves and serfs, not being allowed to carry weapons, passed
without salute. But so imitative are we all that it was not long
before everybody was saluting everybody else, which did not
suit the aristocratic army men, who then resolved to make their
salute so hard to learn that it could not be imitated without
real military service, so that an outsider using it would brand
himself as a commoner by his incorrect manner of saluting.”

“And so that’s how it became,” said the boy named Billy. “Well,
I may not be a soldier, but I am going to _get it_ if Sergeant
Jim’s patience holds out.”

“You may not be a soldier, but you are a soldier’s grandson,”
said Somebody. “And all of your people have been soldiers when
there was any need to fight for the Stars and Stripes.”

“I’ll be right there when the Grand Old Flag needs me,” said the
boy named Billy. “And when I’m needed, I’m going to be a captain,
so I’ve just got to get this salute right.”

“You’ll have to watch your step in more ways than one,” said Big
Sister; “to be an officer in Uncle Sam’s Army means that you must
be very well educated, a real gentleman, able to train your men,
keep discipline, and make yourself popular with them.

“You should see them drill at West Point, Billy. They know, these
fine, clean young men, that some day they will be officers in
Uncle Sam’s army so they are earnest--quick to learn and accept
the teaching of experienced instructors. Strict mental and
physical discipline is necessary to make first rate officers.”

“Leave it to me,” said the boy named Billy, drawing himself up
and putting real snap into the salute. “I’m going to be what
Sergeant Jim calls a ‘regular.’”




Candlemas Day


[Illustration: Ye Prophet]

“Bob White’s Grandfather says that we’re going to have six weeks
more good hard winter,” said the boy named Billy on one bright
Candlemas day, “because it’s been so sunshiny all day that the
old ground-hog couldn’t help seeing his shadow when he came out.”

“Well, I certainly hope he proves to be a false prophet this
time,” said Big Sister. “I’ve had all the winter I want right
now.”

“Oh, Sis, what do you mean you’ve had enough winter!” exclaimed
the boy named Billy, reproachfully, “winter’s the jolliest time
there is--with all the coasting and the tobogganning and skating.
I’m hoping it will stay cold so we can have another carnival.
Wasn’t the last one a peach! Bob White’s father said he had never
seen better fancy skating or more exciting races. He told us
to be a fancy skater you have to have good balance, a sense of
rhythm, and no little athletic ability. I’m going to practice
so I can do stunts at the carnival next year. Say, Somebody, is
there anything to that ground-hog story?”

“Probably not,” said Somebody, “Mr. and Mrs. Arctomis Monax, more
familiarly known as Brother and Sister Woodchuck, are pretty wise
little people, and are more than likely sleeping the sleep of
the just at this time; yet I have heard of them being lured from
their dens by unusually bright weather long before the vegetation
upon which they feed had started and that they paid for their
foolishness with their lives, which is too bad, because they are
really nice little folk.”

“Why do they hibernate?” asked the boy named Billy.

“They belong to the family who do such things,” said Somebody.
“They, and the bears, and some other animals, find it more
convenient to store up fats in their little round bodies in the
summer time, and to curl up and sleep through the winter months,
when there is nothing to eat that they really like. Saves a lot
of trouble.”

“Where did that old yarn come from about them coming out on this
day?” asked the boy named Billy.

“The myth is very likely of Indian origin,” said Somebody, “but
there is also an old Scottish rhyme to the effect that ‘if
Candlemas day be fine and clear there’ll be twa winters in the
year.’”

“Do you know why the 2nd of February is called Candlemas day?”
asked the boy named Billy.

“It is another of those old made over Pagan Festivals,” said
Somebody. “The early Romans always used to burn candles on that
day to the goddess Februa, who was the Mother of Mars, making a
very beautiful and impressive occasion of it.

“Pope Sergius, after the way of those old priests, wished to do
away with all the old pagan rites but did not dare to openly
raise the question, so he gave orders for candles to be burned on
that day to the Mother of Christ hoping that in the new festival
the old one would be lost sight of, which proved to be true. The
occasion is still celebrated in some churches, and consecrated
candles are supposed to be burned for protection from all evil
influences for the balance of the year.”

“But there are so many of those old saints days that are so
entirely forgotten,” said Big Sister, “I wonder why Candlemas is
so universally remembered?”

“I think our friends, the Woodchucks, are responsible for that,”
said Somebody, with a smile.




Abraham Lincoln’s Birthday


“It’s Lincoln’s birthday tomorrow, and we do not have school,”
said the boy named Billy. “But I’ve got to tell the class this
afternoon why I think Lincoln was the greatest American.”

“Suppose you tell us what you do know about him,” suggested
Somebody.

“Well,” said the boy named Billy, “I know he was born in Hardin
County, Kentucky, in a poor little old log cabin, on February
12th, 1809. That he lived there until he was seven years old,
when he went with his family to Indiana, where they were even
poorer than before.

“His mother was never very strong, poor lady, and the rough way
in which they had to live was very hard for her, and she died
when Abraham was only nine years old. But she taught him to be
good, honest and true, and ‘learn all he could and be of some
account in the world.’

“After while, his father brought him another mother who was
very good to him and as he said later, ‘Moved heaven and earth
to give him an education.’ His school years were few, but he
was determined to know things, so he studied every minute and
often walked ten miles to borrow a book. When he was twenty-one
he owned six books, the Bible, Pilgrim’s Progress, the Arabian
Nights, Statutes of Indiana, Weems’ ‘Life of Washington,’ and
‘Aesop’s Fables.’ He used to read after his work was done by the
light of the fire on the family hearth. He almost memorized the
Bible.

“He was very kindhearted and once when he went to New Orleans
with a flat boat full of lumber to sell, he saw some slaves being
sold. It affected him so strongly that he said if he ever got a
chance he was going to ‘hit that thing hard!’ He was never idle,
and he was absolutely honest, and to be depended upon.

“When he was 21 he went with his parents to a wilderness farm in
Illinois, which state almost lost him, because if there had not
been a flood making travel impossible he, with his family, would
have gone on to Wisconsin where they had started for.

“After studying law, and practicing it for a good many years, and
being sent to Congress he was elected to be the president of the
United States in 1860, being the 16th president of the land. He
was in the presidential chair all through the civil war and when
he was shot, soon after his second election, the whole country
mourned for the man who had ‘_hit that thing hard_’ and abolished
slavery.”

“Do you know his most famous address?” asked Sister.

“Lincoln’s Gettysburg speech!” exclaimed Billy. “Well, I should
say--‘Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth
upon this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and
dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in the great Civil War, testing whether that
nation or any nation so conceived and dedicated can long endure.
We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to
dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for
those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It
is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But
in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we
cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who
struggled here have consecrated it far above our power to add or
detract. The world will little know nor long remember what we say
here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us,
the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work
which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is
rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining
before us, that from these honored dead we take increased
devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure
of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall
not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a
new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the
people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth.’”

“You seem to know a good many things about Lincoln after all,”
said Somebody, smiling proudly.

“Yes, but I do not know why he was the ‘_greatest_ American’,”
said Billy.

“He was the ‘greatest American’,” said Somebody, “because he
loved the Union and determined that it must at all costs be
preserved. Because he knew that ‘united we should stand, but that
divided we must fall.’ Because his own life counted for nothing
where the Union was concerned. Because it is due to him and to
him only that we are not broken up into small independent states,
but are gathered together under the best flag that the sun ever
shone upon. Never has the world seen a greater example of wisdom,
patience, patriotism and moral courage than animated his every
act. Abraham Lincoln is our greatest American because he stood
for honesty, loyalty, affection, willing service, and striving
after every kind of good.”

“I’ve got it now,” said the boy named Billy.




About Valentines


“Will you mail these Valentines for me please, Billy?” asked Big
Sister.

“Sure,” said Billy. “Gee, that reminds me, we’re going to have a
Valentine box at school and I better get some to give Bob White,
and Pete and Jack--what a bunch of them you’re sending--do you
send Valentines to all the people you know?”

“No, indeed,” said Big Sister, “only to those whom I know best
and care most about.”

“It’s a funny custom,” said Billy, “who ever started it any how?”

“I think it’s a splendid custom--a friendly, cheerful way to say
‘Hello, I’m thinking about you,’” said Big Sister, “and I’m much
obliged to old St. Valentine for beginning it.”

“Did _he_ start it?” asked the boy named Billy in surprise, “you
wouldn’t think a _saint_ would be bothering his head about such
things as _Valentines_.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Somebody, “St. Valentine had nothing
to do with it. He was a most pious man who went about his
business with no thought of any thing frivolous I’m sure. He very
likely did not know that he had been chosen as the patron saint
of the day.

[Illustration: He was a pious Man with no Thought of anything frivolous]

“It was the custom in ancient Rome to celebrate the feasts of
Lupercalia through the month of February in honor of Pan and Juno
and these feasts were very gay, indeed. There was a custom of the
young Pagans by means of which they chose their dancing partners
for the day, of writing the name of a young man and a young
woman and having a drawing. The young man keeping the young lady
whose name he had drawn, as his partner for the day.

“The Christian Pastors of the churches objected to this fun
making and so they put the names of Priests in the boxes to be
drawn in place of the young women, and St. Valentine’s name came
out as the guardian or saint of the day.

“He was accepted as such, but the young people went on
celebrating the day in the way to which they were accustomed and
out of that grew the idea of Valentine’s day.”

“That was a jolly way for it to start, wasn’t it?” exclaimed the
boy named Billy.

“When did people begin sending Valentine messages to each other?”
asked Big Sister.

“In early times in England and very likely also in other parts
of the world,” said Somebody, “it was the custom to send a gift
to the one who had been chosen as a young man’s Valentine. This
custom grew more popular year by year, until, as the gifts must
be worth while, it very likely grew burdensome, and the sending
of gifts was in a manner discontinued. Then some bright person
hit upon the plan of sending dainty creations made of lace paper
with bright and witty verses written on them. Even that custom
was about worn out when some one in England sent a lacy affair to
Miss Esther Howland of Worcester, Massachusetts, who saw in it
a way to make some money; so she started making Valentines for
sale, and succeeded so well that the making of them and the sale
of them has grown to be a very great and important industry.”

“So poor old St. Valentine just had the day _wished_ on him,”
said the boy named Billy. “What ever did become of him?”

“He offended someone,” said Somebody, “and was beheaded.”

“Playful, weren’t they?” said the boy named Billy, as he gathered
up the Valentines.




Why we celebrate George Washington’s Birthday


The boy named Billy came into the room to say goodbye to Somebody
before going to the celebration of George Washington’s birthday
at the schoolhouse.

“Your face has some black streaks on it, Billy,” said Somebody.
“Better go and remove them and come back and tell me about it.”

“I don’t like to talk about it,” said the boy named Billy, as he
came back from the wash room. “Mom scolded me.”

“What was it all about?” asked Somebody.

“I left my cap on the living room table again. Mom found it there
and she held it up for me to see and said, ‘William!’”

Somebody tried not to smile. “That was severe! But George
Washington was often reproved by his mother.”

“George Washington,” said the boy named Billy, in astonishment.
“Did anyone ever scold _George Washington?_”

“Indeed, yes,” said Somebody, “and in a very unique way, too.
Mary Ball Washington was a wonderful woman, with quantities of
good sense and a remarkable idea of truth and justice. It is said
of her that when her children disobeyed, or were in need of being
reprimanded that she did not trust herself to do it in her own
language, but that she always used the words of the Bible.”

“That was a queer way to scold,” said Billy.

“It worked judging from what we know of George and his boyhood,”
remarked Somebody. “When he was fourteen he wished to go to
sea, but as his mother thought it best that he should not,
he abandoned the idea and was given two additional years of
schooling, chiefly in mathematics, and so prepared himself for
the profession of a surveyor.”

“Sixteen, and finishing school!” exclaimed the boy named Billy.

“School was rather a different affair in George Washington’s
day,” said Somebody. “He was born in the country, at a small
place named Bridges Creek, Virginia, on the twenty second of
February, 1732, and at that time the country was very small and
had few schools.”

“It must have been fun being a surveyor,” said Billy.

“It was not much _fun_, Billy Boy,” Somebody told him. “It was
a severe test of character and capacity, but George Washington
always accomplished every task given him with success, and
reported on it with brevity and modesty.

“The traits of steadfastness of character which he had displayed
in school and among his playmates now came out prominently. He
excelled in running, wrestling, and horseback riding in his youth
and in later years, because of his wisdom, patience, tolerance,
courage and consecration to the righteous cause of liberty became
the father of his country.”

“My but his mother must have been proud of him,” said Billy.

Somebody nodded. “It was to his mother, a woman of strong and
devoted character, that George Washington owed his moral and
religious training. Even when her son had risen to the height of
human greatness, she would only say, ‘George has been a good boy,
and I’m sure he will do his duty.’”

“Guess I better tell Mom I’m sorry about leaving my hat on the
living room table,” said the boy named Billy.

“I would if I were you,” said Somebody.




About Boy Scouts


“Get my new Scout suit,” said the boy named Billy, coming in with
himself all in khaki. “Look at the buttons, ’n the leggins ’n
all!”

“It’s very Scouty looking,” said Big Sister. “I hope you’ll keep
it that way.”

“Have to,” said the boy named Billy, “or get a demerit. Going for
drill now over on the parade ground in front of the armory. Got
just long enough for Somebody to tell me when and where the Boy
Scout movement started.”

“The Boy Scout movement,” said Somebody, “started in England in
1908 being launched by Sir Robert S. S. Baden Powell.”

“Oh say!” exclaimed the boy named Billy, “why did we have to let
England beat us to it?”

“We didn’t--exactly,” said Somebody, smiling at the zeal of
the young patriot, “because at that very time we had two
organizations which had the same purpose in view. One was called
the Wood-Craft Indians founded by Ernest Seton Thompson, and
another called the Sons of Daniel Boone founded by Dan Beard.
Both men were popular writers of out of door stories, and greatly
interested in boys and their sports and activities.

“Scouting gives a boy something to do, something he likes to
do, something worth doing. It has succeeded in doing what no
other plan of education has done--made the boy want to learn. It
organizes the gang spirit into group loyalty.

“In 1910 both these organizations were combined under the title
of the Boy Scouts of America, and as you of course know, Billy
Boy, before a boy can become a Scout he must take the Scout oath
of office.”

“Yes, indeed,” said the boy named Billy. “Wait, ’til I see if I’m
up on that. ‘On my honor I will do my best--To do my duty to God
and my country, and to obey the scout law; to help other people
at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake,
and morally straight.’

“A scout is required to know the Scout oath and law and subscribe
to both. But his obligation does not end here. He is expected not
only not to forget his oath and law, but to live up to them in
letter and spirit from first to last.”

“Fine!” said Somebody. “That sounds like a perfectly good working
rule. Now what are some of your ideals as Scouts?”

“Well,” said Billy, “we’re divided into three classes.
Tenderfoot, that’s what Bob White and I are as yet, but we’ll
grow--second class Scouts and first class. According to Scout law
one must have honor, loyalty, unselfishness, friendliness, hatred
of snobbishness, must be courteous, be really kind to animals,
and always obedient to fathers and mothers ’n Somebodys, be
gentle, fair minded, save money, look out for fires and clean up
after oneself.”

“On account of that last item, thanks be that you joined the
Scouts, Billy,” said Big Sister, “and just to help you along,
suppose you run up and wash the bowl where you just washed your
hands.”

“Oh, excuse me, Sis!” said the boy named Billy, “I guess I
forgot, but I won’t after this.

“I’m going to have a lesson on first aid this morning, so if you
ever get a sprained ankle or anything I can hold the lines until
the doctor gets here. S’long.”

“All of which means that I scrub up after the youngster myself,”
said Big Sister, “but Billy’s a pretty good scout at that.”




Saint Patrick’s Day


“Bob White’s going to march in the St. Patrick’s day parade,”
said the boy named Billy, “and that leaves me without a thing to
do, unless Somebody will tell me _who_ St. Patrick was and why
all Irish people think so much of him.”

“Strange as it may seem,” said Somebody, “St. Patrick was not an
Irishman at all, but was by birth a Scotchman, having been born
in Scotland about 372. When he was sixteen or seventeen years old
he was stolen by Pirates and taken to Ireland and made to work at
herding swine. He was a very studious boy and in the seven years
that he remained a swineherd he learned the Irish language and
the customs of the people.

“He then made up his mind that swineherding was not the right
sort of occupation for a bright-minded youth like himself, so he
escaped to the Continent, where after more years of study he was
ordained by Pope Celestine and sent back to Ireland to preach
Christianity to the people.

“But the old priests did not like him. He was very likely too
bright for them, and they persecuted him, and made things very
uncomfortable for him. Finally he was obliged to leave there, but
before he went he cursed the lands of the other priests so that
they would not bear crops, just to even up things.

[Illustration: But just then an Angel came]

“He was none too comfortable himself, but he did not mind small
discomforts because one cold and snowy morning when they were
on the top of a mountain with no fire to cook their breakfast St.
Patrick told his followers to gather a great pile of snowballs,
and when that had been done he breathed upon them and immediately
there was a great glowing fire, and they got breakfast very
nicely. This and other miracles made him very popular, and so
when the scourge of snakes came he was sent for and begged to
disperse the reptiles.

“‘Easy,’ said St. Patrick, ‘bring me a drum.’ When the drum came
he began beating it with such vim and vigor that he broke its
head, and it looked for a time as though the trick would fail.
But just then an angel came and mended the drum and the snakes
were forever banished. Just to prove it they kept the drum for
many centuries.

“These and other marvels were performed by St. Patrick, who lived
to be 121 years old, dying on his birthday, March 17th, 492.

“Historians have relegated many stories about Saint Patrick
to the realm of myth, but the shamrock remains the emblem of
Ireland, proudly worn by Irishmen the world over on Saint
Patrick’s Day, March seventeenth. The true shamrock (in Irish
seamrog, meaning “three-leaved”) is the hop clover, which much
resembles our common white clover, except that the flower is
yellow instead of blue-green. Large shipments of shamrocks are
brought to the United States for Saint Patrick’s Day.”

“So the shamrock is the National emblem of Irish people,” said
Billy.

“Yes,” said Somebody. “And it is said that no snake can live
where it grows.

“Perhaps if one will take the trouble to think it out, one may
find in that belief the idea of faith and loyalty and love
of country for which the Irish people are noted, and that
emblematically it means that no traitor to Ireland can live near
the Shamrock.”

“I see,” said the boy named Billy, “they feel as we do about our
Eagle, don’t they?”




Lent


“Wish I had somebody to go skating with,” said Billy one winter
afternoon.

“Where’s Bob White?” asked Big Sister looking up from her book.

“It’s Ash-Wednesday, and his folks are Catholics,” said the
boy named Billy, “and they have after school services. What is
Ash-Wednesday and what does it mean, any way?”

“Ash-Wednesday,” said Somebody, “is the beginning of Lent, which
lasts forty days and ends with the Saturday before Easter Sunday.
It is supposed to commemorate the forty days fasting Christ did
before His Crucifixion.”

“My,” said the boy named Billy, “I never could fast forty hours
let alone forty days! How is it supposed to help a person to go
without food for so long?”

“Fasting,” said Somebody, “is to teach the lesson of self
restraint, and self control, and to help us endure discomforts
without complaining, how to refrain from all unkind thoughts
of others, to control our tempers and make us better people
generally.

“It’s a very good idea for each one of us to give up something
during Lent; something that we like very much indeed, and to give
the money that it would have cost to some one who really needs
food and comforts.”

“Do you do that?” asked the boy named Billy.

“I try to,” said Somebody.

“Oh, I see!” said the boy named Billy.




Palm Sunday


“Tomorrow is Palm Sunday,” said the boy named Billy. “Why do some
churches give the people palm branches to carry?”

“On the Sunday preceding the crucifixion Christ made his
triumphal entrance into Jerusalem. All the people came out to
meet him, strewing palm branches in his path to do him honor,
just as you school children all cheer when the president, or some
great hero comes to town.”

“Jerusalem is a warm country and must have many beautiful
flowers,” said the boy named Billy. “Why didn’t they bring
flowers instead of stiff, rusty palm branches?”

“Because they wished to show him _all_ honor,” said Somebody.
“And the palm was their emblem of joy and peace and victory. His
goodness and power were beginning to have their effect on the
minds of the people. They were beginning to believe that Jesus
was really the Christ whom their forefathers had promised would
come and bring them comfort, peace and general good tidings.”

The boy named Billy looked puzzled. “So they hailed him on Palm
Sunday and crucified him the following Friday!”

Somebody nodded. “Human praise and opinion is like that--it is
always a variable thing full of chance and change--unstable--but
Jesus wasn’t moved for a moment by the praise and flattery of the
people, because he knew what was in store for him in Jerusalem.
He knew that Judas Iscariot, one of his own disciples, would
betray him to the chief priests and magistrates who hated him,
because they were afraid he would convert the people and uncover
their own wickedness. Christ Jesus knew that he must suffer
violence at the hands of those who hated goodness so that he
might prove beyond shadow of doubt, by his resurrection, that
love is greater than hate--that love is always victorious,
because God is Love.”

“I think this is the best really-so story of all!” said Billy.




The Story of the Bible


“Billy,” called Big Sister one Saturday evening, “want to go to
the movies?”

“Can’t, thank you, Sis,” called back the boy named Billy. “Got to
study my Sunday School lesson.”

After a half hour of deep study the boy named Billy put the book
on the table and said, “That’s great stuff, that story of David
and Goliath. Who wrote the Bible, please? It _was_ written by
someone, was it not?”

“There were many sacred books written by many different men at
many different periods of the world’s history,” said Somebody,
“which were accepted as the inspired Word of God.

“At first these were put out as separate volumes, but after a
long time they were gathered together and bound into one volume.

“The books of the Old Testament were originally written in Hebrew
and those of the New Testament in Greek. Think of the labor of
love it must have been to make copies of the Bible. In those days
it all had to be done by hand as printing was not invented until
a thousand years after the new Testament was written.”

“Some undertaking,” said the boy named Billy. “Were all other
books made the same way?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Somebody, “a book was a priceless possession
in those days, and there’s not much wonder that there were very
few scholars--only priests and physicians had the leisure to
become learned, even if they could have obtained the books from
which to study.”

“The Bible we have is then a translation,” said the boy named
Billy.

“The Bible was translated into various languages,” said
Somebody, “but the first English version was translated from the
Latin by a priest named John Wycliffe, of Lutterworth, England.
He believed that the Bible belonged to everybody and should be
put into such form that everyone could read it. But instead of
being thanked and made much of for the very great service he
was doing he was put out of the church and called a heretic for
daring to meddle with the word of God--which did not stop his
work at all, because he finished it. After his death no one
did any more about it for a hundred years or so until Johan
Guttenberg discovered the art of printing, and when in 1454 the
use of movable type was found possible many copies of the Bible
were printed and everyone could have his own.

“In 1516 Erasmus, a learned Greek scholar, published the New
Testament, which was translated by William Tyndale, who was so
persecuted by those who did not want it published that he was
obliged to go to Germany to finish his work; even there he was so
hampered that it was not until 1525 that the New Testament was
finally printed.

“Merely as literature, it has made a deeper impression upon the
human mind than has any other book, and the extent to which
it has helped shape the world’s ideas cannot be estimated. No
matter how much you know of poetry or prose, you cannot consider
yourself well read unless you are thoroughly acquainted with the
Bible.”

“It is wonderful that the language has been kept so beautiful
after all those translations and copyings,” said the boy named
Billy.

“Very likely it was changed a good bit,” said Somebody, “but its
wonderful message of Truth has not been changed.”

“I don’t know where there’s another story like that of David,”
said Billy, “and the one about Joseph’s coat has any one of the
six best sellers beaten a mile.”

“Perhaps you’ll like to know,” said Somebody, “that the Bible,
year in and year out is _THE_ best seller.”

“I don’t wonder,” said the boy named Billy.




Good Friday


“Tomorrow will be Good Friday,” said the boy named Billy. “That
is the day on which Christ Jesus was crucified, wasn’t it,
Somebody?”

“Yes,” said Somebody, “and is why it is remembered by us all in
one way or another--by church services, or in our thoughts.”

“Of course I know the story,” said the boy named Billy, “but
won’t you please tell it over again?”

“Early in the morning Christ Jesus prayed to God, his Father,
saying that his mission had been accomplished (you’ll find this
beautiful prayer in the seventeenth chapter of St. John’s gospel,
Billy boy). Then he went into the Garden of Gethsemane with his
disciples. Judas Iscariot, the disciple who betrayed Jesus,
knew the place where he would be and went there with a band of
men and officers from the chief priests and Pharisees. (The
Pharisees were narrow minded people who paid excessive regard to
empty tradition and dead ceremonies. They observed the form, but
neglected the spirit of religion.)

“Jesus was arrested, and brought before the Sanhedrin, the
Jewish council of priests and elders. After a hasty trial they
pronounced him guilty of death for blasphemy. They said ‘we have
a law, and by our law he ought to die, because he made himself
the Son of God.’ St. John 19:7. And He _was_ the Son of God,
sent by the loving Father to bring understanding to the people so
they might obey and love God and know the blessing of trusting
Him always.

“Then the council of priests and elders delivered Jesus to
Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor. Pilate didn’t sympathize
with the wishes of the people. He said, “I find in him no fault
_at all_.” But the people insisted that he give him up to be
crucified, so he washed his hands to show them that he took no
responsibility in the affair whatsoever. And they took Jesus
away--put a crown of thorns on his head, and followed him with
taunts and abuse of every kind as he, bearing his cross, led the
way to Golgotha, the place of his execution.

“There on that never to be forgotten Calvary, Christ Jesus was
crucified with a criminal on either side.

“Jesus’ body was taken from the cross and placed in a tomb by
Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus. Three days later, on the
first day of the week, when some of the women came with spices
to embalm the body, they found the tomb empty. An angel who kept
watch told them that Christ had risen from the dead. The risen
Christ appeared first to Mary Magdalene, the once sinful woman
from whom Jesus had cast out seven devils, and who had become
one of the most devoted of his followers; and then to others
who were close to him. He spent forty days on earth after his
resurrection, and then from the midst of his disciples he was
taken up to heaven. He left no writings and no organized church.
But from recollections of his teachings his followers later put
together the record of his ministry, as we have it in the New
Testament, and with it there slowly took shape also the organized
Christian church, which more and more has ruled men’s lives.”

“I wish I had been there,” said the boy named Billy, “I could
have helped some way, I know.”

“You can help every day, Billy Boy,” said Somebody, “by being
kind to everybody, and doing unto others just the thoughtful,
loving things you want others to do unto you.”




About Easter


“Aren’t my hands a _sight_!” laughed the boy named Billy. “Wish
Somebody would tell me how to get these colors off.”

“I should say they are a sight,” said Somebody; “all the colors
of the rainbow and several more besides. What’s on them?”

“Easter egg dyes,” said Billy; “they splashed, but we got some
beauties.”

“Try some salt and vinegar and a nail brush and soap,” said
Somebody. “You’ll find some on my wash stand.”

The boy named Billy scrubbed with right good will. “It’s coming
off,” he said. “Say, Somebody, please tell me why Easter doesn’t
stand still, like Christmas and New Year’s Day. What makes it
come in March one year, and likely as not in April the next? A
day is a day, isn’t it? Then why do we never know when to look
for it? Last year we gathered pussy willows, and this year it’s
cold enough to skate.”

“It is puzzling until you understand about it,” said Somebody,
as Billy came back with his hands as clean as could be expected.
“Let’s talk about it. There seems to be no authentic record of
the actual date of Christ’s death and burial and resurrection. We
know that the Crucifixion was on Friday, and the Resurrection was
on Sunday, but the date has never been accounted for, although
Easter has been celebrated as a church festival since the early
days of the Christian church.

“To settle all such disputes it was finally decided by the
Council of Nicaea in 325 A. D. that the celebration of the
festival commemorating the Resurrection should fall on the first
Sunday after March 21st and the full moon.”

“And why was the festival called Easter?” asked the boy named
Billy.

“It is a sort of made-over festival,” said Somebody. “The early
Christians called it the Paschal festival, and it was so called
until the Christian religion was introduced among the Saxons,
who had a Spring festival themselves of which they were very
fond, held in honor of their Spring goddess Eostre. They seemed
inclined to like the new religion, but refused to give up their
goddess, so the Christians decided to keep the festival and the
name, but to use it in commemoration of the resurrection of
Christ.”

“Who was this lady named Eostre?” asked the boy named Billy. “She
must have been pretty important.”

“Eostre, meaning ‘from the East, or Venus, the goddess of
beauty,’ was supposed to have been hatched by doves from an
immense egg which descended from heaven and rested on the
Euphrates. Out of it came the goddess of Spring and of beauty to
bring warmth and sunshine into the world,” said Somebody.

“That must be where the idea of the Easter egg comes from,”
said the boy named Billy. “I was wondering about that. It’s
interesting; tell me some more.”

“There are many beautiful legends concerning Easter,” said
Somebody. “One which was quite generally believed in Ireland was
that on Easter morning the sun dances. But of course we take that
with a grain of salt.”

“Just as we take our Easter eggs,” laughed the boy named Billy.
“Thank you so much, Somebody; and now I’ll run and get some
flowers for Mother. I’m going to get her a beautiful Easter
lily.”




Trailing Arbutus or Mayflower


“See what I’ve got for Mom,” said the boy named Billy bursting
into Somebody’s room one bright morning in the latter part of
April. “May Flowers! Beauties! Found them away over in the pine
woods just peeping out from under a snow bank.”

“Beauties indeed,” agreed Somebody, “I’m glad you cut them so
carefully. Most children do not understand the importance of
cutting wild flowers instead of tearing them up by the roots.”

“I ought to understand it unless I’m a _dunce_,” laughed Billy,
“you and Mom tell me about it often enough. But why is it called
Mayflower when it always comes in April? Of course I know its
real name is Trailing Arbutus.”

“The Mayflower,” said Somebody, “is spring’s first messenger
wherever it will grow, and its appearance is governed by the
length of the winter, and not by the calendar. I’ve heard of it
in the Rocky Mountains in August. It seems not to be able to live
in very warm places, but loves to snuggle its blossom children
under the snows of winter, who, when they awake push aside the
blankets and creep out to tell the world that spring has come.

“And small as it is,” went on Somebody, “the dear little pink
flower has made history for itself. It was the first flower
to welcome the Pilgrim Fathers and Mothers to the new world
and as spring, on the bleak coast of Massachusetts, is a late
comer, it probably appeared in May, and was christened Mayflower
by the pioneers who knew no other name for it. Anyway it was
very welcome to those poor people who had come through so many
hardships, with its glorious message that the long and cruel
winter was over.”

“Was the boat named after the flower or the other way around?”
asked the boy named Billy.

“I think it must have been that the flower was named after the
boat,” answered Somebody, “as the Mayflower was the boat they
came over in--a little sailing vessel of one hundred and eighty
tons. Yet no other ship’s arrival has had such significance as
that of this little vessel, which brought the Pilgrim Fathers to
America in 1620. The sailing of the Mayflower meant a great deal
to the future of mankind, because the Pilgrim Fathers formed the
compact that established the government of the people, by the
people, and for the people. It is well known that they loved the
little posie, the first thing that welcomed them with a smile of
hopefulness.”

“Why do we not try to cultivate it in our gardens?”

“It starves in gardens,” said Somebody, “very likely because
its needs are not studied. Science has found that it has upon
its roots a friendly fungus which nourishes it. And this friend
refuses to live in the soil of the ordinary garden. Experiments
have been made with soils, and seed from the Mayflower fruit has
been planted and has made some progress, so I’ve heard.”

“I did not know that the flower _had_ a fruit,” said the boy
named Billy.

“I have seen only a few,” said Somebody. “It is a small fruit
which tastes not unlike a strawberry. Mrs. Ant knows all about
it, and it is very likely due to her that you find the flower in
places where it never has been found before.”

“So,” said the boy named Billy, “when one tries to provide a new
home for Lady Trailing Arbutus, one must not only please her very
dainty tastes but those of her friends.”

“You’ll never get very far with flowers or friends, Billy Boy,”
said Somebody, “unless you study them very carefully and try with
all your heart to understand them.”

Billy grinned. “What time do you look for Mayflower fruit?” said
he.

“Along about wild strawberry time,” said Somebody.

[Illustration: The “Mayflower”]




About Pearls


“My,” said the boy named Billy. “I nearly broke my tooth on the
bone of this oyster. Isn’t it funny? It’s as round as a shot and
just as hard.”

Everybody laughed, but Somebody said, “That isn’t a bone, Billy;
old Mr. Oyster has no bones. That’s a pearl. Too bad you didn’t
find it before it was cooked, because then you might have had it
set in a pin to wear in your scarf. Now that it has been cooked,
it is worthless.”

“I’m in luck, anyhow,” said Billy, “because I didn’t break my
tooth. But how did a pearl ever get inside an oyster?”

“It makes its home there,” said Somebody. “Lives snugly year
after year inside Mr. Oyster’s shell and pays no rent at all.”

“Tell me about it,” demanded the boy named Billy. “I always
supposed that pearls grew at the bottom of the sea.”

“So they do,” said Somebody, “about fifteen fathoms deep is where
the pearl bearing oyster lives. He is rather particular about
his home and selects a place where there is a swift current of
water. There he and his family lie on the hard bed of the ocean
and wait for the current to bring their food. Sometimes they
prefer to attach themselves to an overhanging ledge, where they
live closely huddled together. The ancient peoples had all sorts
of beliefs and ideas about the origin of the pearl. One of the
most poetical was that it was made from a drop of dew which the
oyster came up to the top of the ocean to get. Another was that
pearls were the tears of angels who wept over the sorrows of the
world.”

“But what are they really?” asked the boy named Billy, his eyes
big with interest.

“Science has discovered,” said Somebody, “that Mr. Oyster
accidentally gets a grain of sand, or a small insect inside his
shell, which becomes uncomfortable; but as the oyster has no way
of opening his door and putting an unwelcome guest outside, it
remains. Very likely the unwelcome guest hurts. So Mr. Oyster
says, ‘All right, then stay if you want to. But you can’t go on
hurting me if I know myself.’ And so he builds a wall of the
stuff that the inside of his shell is made of between himself
and the cause of the trouble. After about four years the oyster
is likely to be caught by pearl fishers, the pearl found, and
the shell used for inlaid work on boxes, knife handles and other
things.

“The finest pearls are gathered in the East, the most valuable,
worth tens of thousands of dollars, coming from the oysters of
the Persian Gulf. The largest pearl fishery in America is that
of lower California, from which come the largest and the finest
black pearls on the market.

“Carl von Linné, the great Swedish naturalist and botanist,
discovered that pearls could be grown by opening the shell of the
oyster and slipping a small bead of lead or wax inside the shell
and then putting the oyster back in his bed for three or four
years. Acting upon that idea, the Chinese and Japanese people
have established great pearl raising industries and turn out a
large amount of pearls every year. They are very pretty, and of
good color, but being flat on one side they cannot be made into
necklaces. In several of our states the fresh water clams are
pearl bearers; the Mississippi River industry being the one of
most value. The shells are used for pearl buttons and the flesh
of the mussels are fed to the pigs.”

“Makes you think of that verse in the Bible about casting your
pearls before swine, doesn’t it?” laughed Billy.




About Mr. & Mrs. Pelican


      “Said Pelican quite pleasantly,
      ‘Come little fish and play with me’;
      Said little fishie in a fright,
      ‘I’ve heard about your appetite,’”

read the boy named Billy from little Sister’s Bird Children book.
“Wise little fishie wasn’t he youngster?” said he. “Why is a
Pelican anyway--he isn’t good to be eaten and his feathers aren’t
worth anything, and he doesn’t do anything except to eat fish in
great quantities, at least that is all I’ve ever heard about.”

“Long ago,” said Somebody, “when the first expeditions went
across the Colorado desert which had been, until the Colorado
River cut it off, a part of the Gulf of California, some one
remarked that if the desert could be watered it could be made
to raise food enough for a nation. There was the Colorado River
going to waste, of course, but how to harness it up and make it
provide water for the desert which it had made was a question
which no one could answer.

“But along in 1904 it was decided to make the attempt to turn a
part of the river back into its old bed and make it work. The
river wasn’t quite ready to go back and when she did she meant to
go in her own sweet way--but if they wanted her to back into that
old bed, why back she would go--and, taking things in her own
mighty hands, back she did go with a rush. There was that old
Salton Sea Sink--she would first fill that up, and from there it
would be easy to give the people all the water they wanted on the
desert.

“This was serious! There was a railroad in her track--but what
did that matter--people wanted water and water she would give
them. It was a Nation’s work to stop that runaway river, but
at last it was done, and lo and behold--there was that lovely
little sea shining like a jewel in the middle of the desert. They
eventually made the Colorado give them water enough besides to
water the desert which is now called the Imperial Valley where
rice and fruit and cotton and many other things are raised.”

“That is interesting,” said the boy named Billy. “But where does
Mr. Pelican fit in?”

“Right here,” said Somebody. “For along about this time very
probably along came Mr. and Mrs. Brown Pelican looking for a
home. And here was a lovely sea with lots of dear little islands
in it just big enough for two. But after they had started their
nest they discovered that their private sea had no fish in it.
Very probably Brown Pelican said they would move back to the
coast, but that Mrs. Pelican wouldn’t listen to him but said,
‘Here we have a whole ocean all to ourselves; let’s raise our
own fish--we’ll go right now and bring back our pockets full of
mullets and plant them.’ So they did with the result that the
Salton Sea is now one of the most important fisheries in the
state of California.”

“That’s _some_ story,” said the boy named Billy. “But is it a
_Really So_ one?”

“According to scientists it is,” said Somebody. “The Pelican has
long been known to be the best friend of the game warden, which
is why he is protected. He is supposed to carry fish to inland
streams and ponds which otherwise would not have them.”

“Well, he should advertise,” said the boy named Billy, “nobody
knows how useful he is.”

“Perhaps he is too modest,” said Somebody.




[Illustration: They believed in Monsters, and Witches]

Indian Day


[Illustration: DOG DANCER]

“Tomorrow is Indian Day,” said the boy named Billy, “and there
isn’t going to be any school; we’re all going out to see their
games and get acquainted; anybody seen my scout suit? It isn’t in
my closet.”

“It has gone to the cleaner’s,” said Mother. “I knew you’d want
it tomorrow and so I sent it out; it will be back this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Mom,” said Billy, “you always do think of everything.
Why are the Indians called Indian? Did they name themselves that
the way other people do?”

“No,” said Somebody. “That was the name Columbus gave to the
natives when he reached the islands and mainland of our country
under the impression that he had arrived at the coast of Asia,
which he had set out to find.”

“How did those people ever come to be here?”

“It is supposed,” said Somebody, “that they had crossed from
Asia to Alaska, and were cut off in some way from returning and
so drifted inland and started colonies which prospered until it
spread across the whole continent. Some may have come from China,
and there is even a tradition that some were from the lost tribes
of Israel, but no one really knows. All we know is that if they
were not really natives of this land that they must have come
from somewhere and that they had degenerated into savages or had
never been lifted above it.

“But take it all in all they were pretty good savages until they
were aroused by the whites; they had laws of their own, and a
religion, and real languages distinguishing the different tribes;
they had kings and principalities, and the Great Spirit was very
real to them. To the Indian everything in Nature had a real
personality and was inhabited by a spirit either good or bad.

“They believed in monsters, and fairies and witches. The women
were the only ones who could declare war, and when prisoners were
brought in they had the right to adopt them into the tribe, or if
they did not like them to send them to death.”

“Sweet and gentle ladies, weren’t they?” said the boy named
Billy. “I’m glad that they’re just folks nowadays.”

“I’m glad also,” said Somebody, “and this move to have a day set
aside for the purpose of getting better acquainted is a move in
the right direction.”

“I wonder who thought of doing that,” asked the boy named Billy.

“The idea of having a day set apart for the celebration of
the deeds of the red race belongs to Mr. A. C. Parker, State
Archaeologist of New York, who launched it at the National
Conference at Denver; but no date being set at that time it was
later taken up at the Lawrence Kansas conference, when President
Coolidge of the Society of American Indians moved to have May
13th appointed as Indian Day, which was done. The different
states, in addition to this, have nearly all set apart days of
their own as Indian days. That of Illinois being September 4th.”

“We folks in America do get around to doing our duty in time, if
you give us time enough,” said the boy named Billy.

“It was high time in this case,” said Somebody.

“Sure was,” said Billy. “I’m going to get acquainted with some
Indian about my own age and get some pointers about how to use
that bow and arrow Uncle Ned brought me from out west!”




About Hats


“In that direction,” the cat said, waving his right paw, “lives
the hatter. And in that direction,” waving the other paw around,
“lives a March hare. Visit either you like--they’re both mad!”

The boy named Billy was reading aloud from Alice in Wonderland,
and when he had finished this sentence he looked up, keeping his
place with his finger shut in the book, and said, “I know what a
March hare would be; it would mean any old hare in the month of
March, very likely, but what’s a hatter? Is it a real animal, or
a madeup creature, like the Unicorn or the Dodo Bird, or is it
just a man who sells hats, as a grocer does groceries?”

“You’ve come very close to the real meaning of it,” said
Somebody, “for a hatter, as I see it, is one who makes hats.”

“Why, of course,” said the boy named Billy, “if I’d taken time
to think a little about it I’d have known. When did people begin
to wear hats, anyway, and what made them do it? They’re a great
bother--always blowing off when one is out-of-doors and having to
be hung up when one is indoors--they’re no good except to keep
one’s head warm and hair would do that if we gave it a chance.”

“Up to a certain point, Billy,” laughed Somebody, “if hair would
only stay on as well as hats do even, I’m sure everybody would
agree with you, but hair does not stay put in a good many cases,
and hats are far better and much less trouble than it would be to
wear wigs. No, I think the hat is a very useful invention.

“In fact, it is said that the earliest form of hat was a sort
of hood which was tied on over the head to keep the hair from
blowing ‘every which way,’ as it was common for both men and
women to wear the hair long and to allow it to hang loosely.”

“When did the kind of hats that we wear begin to be stylish?”

“About the time men began to cut their hair short, I suppose,”
said Somebody. “The chimney-pot hat, from which all the other
shapes grew, is only a little more than a hundred years old.”

“What are hats made of?” asked Billy. “I don’t mean ladies’ hats,
of course, they are made of everything, but the kind we men wear.”

Somebody smiled. “The kind you men wear are made of various
things. The very fine ones are made from Beaver fur and Coney
fur, and Molly Cotton Tail furnishes material for a great many
with her long hair which is chopped very fine, and some are made
entirely of wool. The braid for the straw hats comes almost
entirely from Italy, China and Japan, but is sewed and blocked in
this country.”

“Do we make many hats here?” asked Billy.

“Yes, indeed,” said Somebody, “making hats was one of our
earliest and most profitable industries. In 1675 laws were passed
prohibiting the sale of Raccoon fur outside the provinces,
because they were so valuable to the hatters, and it has grown
into one of our greatest industries.”

“Well,” said the boy named Billy, “I know now what a hatter is,
but I still do not know what he was mad _about_?”

“That was just a figure of speech,” said Somebody, “meaning that
he was not quite right in his head!”

“Oh!” said the boy named Billy, going on with the story.




Mother’s Day


“I wish Somebody would help me with this greeting for Mother’s
Day,” said the boy named Billy. “I can’t think of anything; and
we get marked on it in school, too.”

“Upon whose work do you usually get marks?” asked Big Sister.

“Why, my own, of course,” flashed Billy, “but this is different.”

“It will be easy,” said Somebody, “if you will just think about
Mother and write what you would like to say to her.”

“Mom’s the best thing in the world,” said Billy, “but these are
to be read aloud and the other fellows would call me sissy!”

“When President Garfield was inaugurated,” said Somebody quietly,
“the very first thing he did after taking the oath of office was
to kiss his mother.”

“With everybody looking on?” asked Billy.

“Yes, with everybody looking on,” said Somebody. “That was his
big and splendid way of telling everybody just what he thought of
his mother and of thanking her for all the things she had done
for him.”

“Being his mother was enough,” said the boy named Billy, “what
more did she do for him?”

“His father died when he was just three years old,” said
Somebody, “leaving his mother nothing in the world except a
stony farm in the wilderness. She had to work the farm with the
help of her eldest son, who was fourteen years old, and also do
all the work of the house. Indeed, there was one summer when she
lived on one scanty meal a day so that the children might have
enough. This made a great impression on James, who resolved that
when he grew up he would take great care of her.

“Washington said he owed his success in life to his mother, who
gave him his strict sense of honesty and fairness.

“Napoleon said of his mother, ‘She watched over us with devotion,
and allowed nothing but what was good and elevating to take root
in our understanding.’

“Abraham Lincoln’s mother died when Abraham was ten years old,
but she had taught him all she knew of reading, writing, and
arithmetic, and also to take pains with everything he did, and to
love God and fear no man.

“Although Lincoln never forgot his own dear mother, it was to his
father’s second wife that he often said he owed his success, as
she almost moved heaven and earth to give him an education.”

“Have we always had Mother’s Day?” asked Billy.

“No, indeed,” said Somebody. “It’s quite recent. Miss Anna Jarvis
of Philadelphia, who lost her own dear mother in 1906, presented
the world with the idea of setting aside a day for the honoring
and remembering of all mothers. The world was ready for the idea,
and gladly took it up, and so we have this beautiful custom,
which is yearly growing stronger, of remembering our mothers in
some special way, sending a flower or a greeting, and wearing
a white carnation to show our love and devotion to our own
particular mother.”

“Well,” said the boy named Billy, “Mom’s the best thing in the
world any way.”

“Then say so,” said Somebody, “right out in meeting.”

“I will!” said Billy.




About Forks


“Why so sad and solemncholy?” asked Somebody of the boy named
Billy.

“Mother sent me away from the table ’cause I took my pie up in
my fingers,” said Billy. “Grandfather said that fingers were
made before forks, but Mother said perhaps they were, but that
didn’t excuse me for forgetting my table manners. Who made forks,
anyhow? I _wish_ they _hadn’t_.”

“Well, Son,” said Somebody, “had you been born before the year
1600 it would have been quite correct for you to have eaten your
meat from your fingers. But it was terribly messy and there had
to be a servant called a ewer-bearer whose duty it was to pass
around a basin of water and a napkin with which to wash away
the stains of the food. But at last some bright Italian person
hit upon the idea of copying the large meat forks with which
the roast was handled, and making them small enough to be used
individually. Visitors to Italy were much interested in the fork.

“Many people thought it a useless invention and it was the middle
of the 17th century before the people of England consented to use
it. Queen Elizabeth was the first lady in England to own a fork,
and hers could not have been much good as a table implement, as
it was made of crystal, inlaid with gold and set with sparks of
garnets.

“The first forks were very small and narrow, with two prongs, but
after people got used to the idea they were made larger. Silver
knives and forks were first used in England in 1814 and could
only be afforded by the very wealthy.”

“That’s interesting,” said the boy named Billy. “I’m glad
I didn’t have to learn to eat peas with those funny little
two-tined forks. I guess I’ll go and beg mother’s pardon.”




About Silk


“This is a piece of Sister’s new silk dress,” said the boy named
Billy. “It looks as though the fairies had woven it out of
cobwebs.”

“It was made by something more wonderful than fairies, if that is
possible,” said Somebody. “It was spun by a queer little worm who
needed it for his own slumber robe, and had no idea in the world
of giving it to sister for a party dress.”

“You mean the silk-worm’s cocoon, of course,” said the boy named
Billy.

“About 4,500 years ago there was a Chinese Empress whose name
was Si-Ling-Shi, who used to spend a great deal of time in her
garden, and as she loved Nature very much she became interested
in the worms who lived on her mulberry trees. There were so many
of them, and the thread they spun was so strong and beautiful
that she thought if it could be unrolled without being tangled or
broken it could undoubtedly be spun into a web.

“She knew if the chrysalis were left alive to emerge the thread
would be broken and spoiled, so she had some of the cocoons
devitalized and experiments proved her theories correct.

“The rest of the world tried hard to induce China to give their
secret of silk-making but to no avail, so the Emperor Justinian
sent some young monks to China to study and to get the secret.
After some years they went back to Constantinople with enough
eggs of the silk-worm butterfly in their hollow pilgrim staffs to
begin raising them.

“But even after they had the eggs it was not easy to raise them
as the children of Mr. and Mrs. Bombyx Mori can only be raised
where the mulberry tree will grow.”

“After they get the cocoons how do they get the silk unwound?”
asked the boy named Billy.

“That’s interesting,” said Somebody. “I had a chance to see the
process at the Panama Pacific Fair. When the worm is ready to
spin, and has shed his coat four times, he is about three weeks
old. Then he hangs himself on the limb of the tree which has
nourished him, and begins to spin. He moves his head around for
three whole days, spinning two threads at the same time, until
he is completely covered, when he stops spinning and starts to
transform. He has spun about 1,200 yards of double-threaded silk.
Of course he must not live to emerge so after three or four days
he is put in a gently heated oven until he is dead. Then he is
immersed in hot water and stirred with a long-handled brush until
the ends of the threads are loosened, when he is put into another
pan of hot water with several other cocoons and the ends of the
threads are passed through an eyelet to keep them from tangling
and are wound upon spools or reels into pale golden skeins of
what is called raw silk. Afterward it is bleached and colored and
woven into webs,” said Somebody.

“That’s got any fairy story beaten a mile,” said Billy. “I’d
really like to try out that process with Lady Luna’s cocoon, but
she is such a beauty after she comes out that it would be too bad
to destroy her.”

“Indeed it would,” said Somebody, “and we’ve got to have beauty
as well as utility in this world, Billy.”

“Sure,” said Billy grinning, but he understood.




[Illustration: The Fairies in the West of England are very
careful of the Strawberry Crop]

All we know about Strawberries


“Strawberries and cream for supper,” sang out the boy named
Billy, “wild ones. Got ’em over in the clearing in the woods
where the fire ran through last year. Whoppers! I wonder how they
ever got there, and why do we call them strawberries? They are
far from being the color of straw. Just look at my hands.”

“Look at your face, too, Billy,” laughed Somebody. “You surely
did splash.”

“Guess I did,” said Billy, as he repaired the damage. “I couldn’t
resist those strawberries. Where did they get the name from?”

“Nobody knows--at least nobody whom I have been able to trace,”
said Somebody. “I’ve always been interested in that question
myself, and I’ve consulted many authorities and have found out
just exactly as much as the two people found out from each other
in the early English rhyme, which goes:

      “Ye manne of ye wildernesse asked me,
        How many strauberies growe in ye sea?
      I answer maybe as I thought goode
        As manie red herring as growe in ye woode.”

“That sounds as though they didn’t find out a blessed thing,”
said the boy named Billy.

“Exactly,” laughed Somebody. “Izaak Walton’s tribute to the
strawberry in the ‘Compleat Angler’ is very well known. He said,
‘Doubtless God could have made a better berry, but doubtless God
never did.’ The only information I have been able to gather is
that ‘the strawberry is a perennial herb of the genus fragaria,
order of rosacea,’--that it ‘appears to have been a native
of Eastern North America where it appears as a common wild
strawberry.’ The strawberry seems to have been grown in gardens
less than six hundred years, for though knowledge of it goes back
to the time of Virgil, and perhaps earlier, it was not cultivated
by the people.

“The Germans have some beautiful legends concerning it. It is
said that the Goddess Frigga was very fond of the fruit and that
it was supposed to be her task to go with the children to gather
them on St. John’s day; and that on that day no mother who had
lost a little child would taste a strawberry because if she did,
the little one in Paradise could have none; because the mother on
earth had already had the share belonging to it.

“The fairies in the West of England are very careful of the
strawberry crop and woe betide the one who picks the blooms or
the unripe fruit. The farmers are always careful not to displease
the fairies and always leave a great many ripe berries for them,
as they are known to be very fond of them. The Bavarian farmer,
knowing the capricious disposition of the elves, is said to tie a
basket of the ripe berries between the horns of his cow so that
they may sit and enjoy them in comfort and also be more friendly
toward the cow.”

“That’s all right interesting,” said the boy named Billy, “but it
doesn’t explain why there are berries in the clearing in the wood
now, where there never were any before, nor tell us why they are
called strawberries.”

“I fancy the birds and the winds could tell you how the
strawberry seeds came to the clearing in the wood,” said
Somebody; “and as for the other, let us keep our minds and our
ears open and perhaps we shall hear more about it in some way or
other.”

“I can hear something right now that satisfies me,” said the boy
named Billy; “that’s the dinner gong. Me for wild strawberries
and Jersey cream!”




Children’s Day


“What have you been doing all day that I have not had even a
glimpse of you?” asked Somebody, as the boy named Billy came in,
looking rather hot and dusty, one Saturday afternoon in June.
“Better go bathe your face at my wash-stand and then come and
tell me what’s been so interesting--baseball or fishing.”

“Neither baseball nor fishing,” said the boy named Billy, “but
it’s been lots of fun just the same. I’ve been helping the ladies
over at the church put up the flags and bunting for decorations
and to fix up the pulpit with palms and potted plants; Bob
White’s been helping, too; we’re the tallest boys in Sunday
School. Tomorrow is Children’s Day, you know. What’s the meaning
of Children’s Day and do they always have it? I don’t seem to
remember anything about it before this year.”

“That is because you are older now and able to help,” said
Somebody. “It used to be the custom for each church to have
Children’s Day at any time in the year that was most convenient
for them, but back in 1883 the Presbyterian Church said, ‘This
scattering Children’s Day all over the year is not right and must
stop--let’s all get together and agree upon one particular day
and keep that and celebrate it!’ And all the other Churches saw
the sense of that so they agreed on June--the second Sunday in
June, as being warm and sunny weather with flowers blooming and
everyone able to get out.”

“But where did the idea of Children’s Day come from?” asked the
boy named Billy.

“It probably grew out of that wonderful saying of Our Savior:
‘Suffer little children to come unto me and forbid them not, for
of such is the kingdom of heaven,’” said Somebody.




About Carrier Pigeons


“Bob White’s carrier pigeon has lost its mate,” said the boy
named Billy. “He won’t eat or take any notice of anything--just
sits humped up making queer little sounds as if he were grieving.
Do you suppose that he realizes what has happened to the little
mate?”

“Perhaps not, in so many words,” said Somebody, “but he misses
her and realizes that things are different. It’s a well-known
fact that carrier pigeons never replace a lost mate, which
reminds me of a story I heard about pigeons, out in Washington
State, which might interest you.”

“Is it a _really-so story_?” asked Billy.

“Yes indeed,” said Somebody, “a really, truly-so story. It was
this way. There was a pigeon fancier in Seattle, who, during the
great war, raised carriers for the government, and in order to
train the young birds for use in the battle-fields, he used to
take them on the engine of the Shasta Limited train, which is the
fastest one going south out of Seattle, down as far as Centralia,
a small town on the line, where no stop is made by the limited,
and then to liberate them and let them make their way back home.

“One particularly beautiful and promising pair of black and white
birds had been in training for some time in this way, when, in
returning to the loft the little lady bird was lost.”

“Some spy had shot her very likely,” said Billy.

“Well, as to that of course they never knew, it might have been
a hawk you know,” said Somebody, “but her mate would not return
home without her. He just flew between the two places searching
for her, but at last returned to the place where he had seen her
for the last time, at Centralia, where a kind-hearted farmer who
lived near the railroad track fixed him up a cote, hoping that he
might forget his loss.

“The pathetic part of the story is in the fact that every day
when the Shasta Limited came along the little fellow would fly to
meet it, dropping until he was on a level with the engine, and
flying along with it for as long as he could keep up, hoping that
from the window of the engine his little mate would come to meet
him. Then he would return to the farm house to wait until the
next day.

“The train men were much interested in him, and always gave him
the signal that they were coming. He paid no attention to any
other train, but for a year, at the time I was there, he had been
meeting the Shasta every day.”

“Poor little fellow,” said the boy named Billy. “Did you see him
yourself?”

“Yes, I did,” said Somebody. “I chose that train on purpose
because I had heard the story in Seattle. When it was time for
the bird to appear the conductor of the train came and told me
about it and I watched for him. He came straight as an arrow
through the tree tops, and his flying was beautiful to see, as he
accommodated himself to the swift flying train and its suction.
At one time he was not more than six inches above the track, but
gradually gained until he was on a level with the engineer’s cab.”

“Poor little fellow,” said the boy named Billy. “I hope he forgot
after awhile.”

“So do I,” said Somebody.




About Coal


  “Down in a coal mine underneath the ground,
  Where a ray of sunshine never can be found,
  Digging dusky diamonds all the year around
  Down in a coal mine underneath the ground,”

sang the boy named Billy as he put more coal on Somebody’s fire.

“Where _did_ you dig up that old coal-miner’s chantey, Billy
Boy?” asked Somebody.

“Bob White’s great-grandfather sings it sometimes in the funniest
quivery old voice ever--” said the boy named Billy. “He used to
be a foreman in a coal-mine in Pennsylvania when he was young, so
Bob says. What’s a Chantey, please? I thought it was just a funny
old song.”

“A Chantey is a song that workmen sing as they work, and make up
for themselves,” said Somebody. “Sometimes they have a stanza to
start with and then everybody adds a little and after a time it
takes on the character of the men who sing it. The men who work
in the woods, and the river men, especially those of Canada, have
wonderful Chanteys.”

“It’s very interesting,” said Billy, “why do they call coal
‘dusky diamonds’ in their chantey?”

“Because both coal and diamonds are carbon,” said Somebody, “you
knew that, Billy.”

“Guess I did,” said Billy, giving the fire an extra poke, “only
I didn’t stop to think. But I don’t believe I know just exactly
what makes them after all.”

“In the case of coal--pressure,” said Somebody. “This old world
of ours has been a long time in the making; at some time in its
history dense forests, which had been centuries in growing, were
crushed and buried by some disturbance of the earth and under
the mountains of earth and rocks were pressed into a rock-like
substance composed of carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, and hydrogen,
with sulphur and silica added. The carbon and gases burn up, and
what is left is what you take away in the form of ashes before
you go to school mornings, like the good boy that you are.”

“Is coal everywhere under us then?” asked the boy named Billy.

“Probably not,” answered Somebody. “It is usually found in
streaks, very likely because there was much open country where no
forests grew. Then, too, the moving glacier or flood or whatever
it was that destroyed the forests may have taken them a long way
from home before it buried them.”

“The coal we burn in the furnace is not like the sort that you
burn in your grate,” said the boy named Billy.

“The Anthracite, or hard coal which is used in furnaces,” said
Somebody, “is the kind that has been under most pressure and is
found at a greater depth than the Bituminous or soft coal which
is found nearer the surface.”

“Who was the first to find out that coal would burn?” asked Billy.

“Nobody knows,” said Somebody. “Perhaps some little mother whose
babies were cold and chilly found some black rocks and used them
for a fireplace to hold the little sticks which she was burning
to cook breakfast over, and found that the stones also burned.”

“I’ll bet that’s right,” said Billy. “I can just see the picture.
What kind of mother would she have been?”

“Anglo-Saxon,” said Somebody, “as they were the first to use it
as a fuel. They have been known to have used coal since 842 A. D.”

“As useful as coal itself is, its derivatives are more so,” went
on Somebody. “From coal tar is made so many articles of daily use
that it would be impossible to tell you about them all.”

“Old King Coal,” sang Billy. “Thanks, Somebody--I’m off for a
swift skate on the ice this morning!”




[Illustration: “A true Star has but five Points”]

Flag Day

[Illustration: REVOLUTIONARY FLAGS USED BEFORE THE ADOPTION OF
THE STARS AND STRIPES]


“I can’t seem to make this flag-staff do what I want it to,” said
the boy named Billy.

“Let me help you,” said Somebody; “I’ll hold it while you clamp
it to the window-sill.”

“Just when did we begin to have Flag Day, please?”

“Flag Raising Day is one of the youngest of our National
anniversaries, but is fast becoming one of the most popular,”
said Somebody. “The custom came about at the request of the Sons
of the Revolution that a day be set aside for honoring of the
Flag, and was first observed on the 14th of June, 1894, on the
117th anniversary of the adoption of the Flag by Congress, when
the Governor of New York ordered it to be flown on all public
buildings in the State.”

“Please tell me just how the flag became,” said Billy.

“Previous to the year 1777,” said Somebody, “each state had its
own flag. But at a convention of the Revolutionary statesmen,
which was held in Philadelphia in that year, a committee was
appointed to consider the report upon the subject of a flag which
should be the standard of all the colonies; and on June 14th,
1777, Congress passed a resolution that the flag of our country
should bear thirteen stripes, one red and the other white, and
that the union should be thirteen white stars on a field of blue.
General George Washington, who was a member of the committee,
with Robert Morris and Colonel Ross, made a rough sketch of the
flag and took it to a Mrs. Betsy Ross who was famed for her
skillful needle work, asking her if she could make such a flag.

“I can,” said Mrs. Ross, “but a true star has but five points,
where yours has six,” and picking up her scissors she deftly cut
a five-pointed star. It was at once seen that the star of five
points was much more beautiful and the committee commissioned
Mrs. Ross to make a sample flag.

The first flag made was raised in Philadelphia, but was soon
copied and flown over the entire land.

“Where it still flies,” said the boy named Billy, saluting, “and
will always continue to fly. But when was it changed? The field
is now full of stars, though it has only thirteen stripes.”

“When Kentucky and Vermont were admitted to the Union,” said
Somebody, “the flag was changed to fifteen stars and fifteen
stripes; but in 1818 Congress voted to restore the thirteen
stripes and to add a new star for every state, on the first
Fourth of July after the state had been admitted to the Union.

“There is a story to the effect that at a Fourth of July dinner
given some years ago in Shanghai, the English Consul, in toasting
the British flag, said: ‘Here’s to the Union Jack, the flag of
flags, the flag that has floated on every continent and every sea
for a thousand years and upon which the sun never sets.’”

“Did he get away with that?” asked Billy.

“Not very well,” said Somebody. “Eli Perkins, the celebrated
American humorist, who was present, rose to his feet and said,
“_Here’s_ to the Stars and Stripes, emblem of the New Republic.
When the setting sun lights up its stars in Alaska, the rising
sun salutes it on the rockbound coast of Maine. It is the flag of
liberty, never lowered to any foe, and the _only_ flag that has
ever whipped the flag upon which the sun never sets.”

“I guess that held him for a while!” said the boy named Billy,
saluting.




The Sea-gull Monument


“What are you reading, Billy Boy, all alone to yourself?” asked
Somebody one evening after supper.

“Story about an old grey and white sea-gull that got mixed up
with some crude oil which a ship had thrown out, and got his
feathers so covered with it that he could neither swim nor fly,”
answered the boy named Billy, “and how some children fed him and
took care of him until he got a new coat of feathers; he was sure
in a bad fix, only for their kindness.”

“I was reading in a book about birds the other day,” said Big
Sister, “that the gull is a protected bird, but it did not state
why. I suppose on account of its beauty, isn’t it?”

“Not entirely,” said Somebody. “They are splendid scavengers,
and are protected on that account--your friend the gull who got
into trouble, Billy, was very likely following the vessel for
the things thrown out from the kitchen--but outside of that they
ought to be protected on account of their grace and beauty and
the life and movement that they give to the upper air. They are,
as far as I know, the only birds in the world to have a monument
erected to them, and not a small one either but a great shaft of
granite.”

“Oh, say, Somebody,” said the boy named Billy, “you’re so much
better than any story book--what about these wonderful birds?”

“It was like this,” said Somebody. “When the Mormons went all
the way across the sands of the desert, to improve the land on
the shores of the Great Salt Lake in Utah, they met with many
hardships and discouragements. After two years, when they had
succeeded in getting water on the land, had planted things that
were growing beautifully, and even had fields of waving grain
which they were looking forward to harvesting, young fruit
orchards started and vegetables growing, it seemed like a dream
come true.”

“I’ll say so,” said the boy named Billy.

“Well, then,” said Somebody, “just as they had all those things
and were as happy as could be, waiting for harvest time, and
working at building more homes, along came a plague of black
crickets, and began to devour every growing thing in sight. The
crickets ate anything and everything. When the fields no longer
looked promising they began on the clothing and bedding. It was
impossible to hang out the family washing, because a drove of
these hungry crickets would swoop down on it and leave a trail of
gnawed holes.

“The people fought the pests with every weapon they had, but it
did no good, and they had to simply stand by and see everything
eaten and destroyed.

“When everything they knew of had been done, there was sent out
a call for the people to come into the middle of town for prayer
that the scourge might be lifted.

“All day long they prayed--and just before evening there came
a white cloud from the west which proved to be _millions_ of
sea-gulls, every one of which had brought along a perfectly
good appetite for black crickets, and before you could say Jack
Robinson there wasn’t a single cricket left to tell the tale.
Right then and there, those poor Mormon farmers turned the prayer
meeting into a day of Thanksgiving.

“In fact, so thankful were they that they built in Temple Square
in Salt Lake City a beautiful granite monument called The
Monument To The Sea-Gulls, and declared the sea-gull to be the
sacred bird of Utah forever.”

“Well, _could_ you blame ’em?” said the boy named Billy.




Fourth of July


“Hello, Scout,” said Uncle Ned, who had dropped in for dinner, as
the boy named Billy came in in his new khaki uniform, “whither
away?”

“I’m just getting my kit packed,” said the boy named Billy, “we
Juniors are going to hike out to Long Lake for over the Fourth.”

“You’ll miss all the fireworks,” said Uncle Ned.

“No, we won’t, we’ll be back before evening,” said Billy. “We’ve
got to because we’re going to have Company fireworks on the
Parade Grounds--every fellow’s going to bring his own and pool
’em--Dad’s given me some regular sky-shooters to celebrate my
country’s birthday with.”

“Not much like the unsafe and insane Fourth your Dad and I used
to have when we were youngsters,” grinned Uncle Ned. “We had real
gunpowder those days.”

“Dad’s told me all about it,” said Billy. “It must have been
loads of fun. I like a big noise as well as anybody, but I sort
of like to be all in one piece when I take the count at bedtime,
and Dad has always missed that finger of his a lot--that middle
one he lost the Fourth just after he was nine years old.”

“Guess I do know,” said Uncle Ned. “I carried him in to Mother,
and I’ll never forget how she looked, either.”

“Well,” said the boy named Billy, “when it comes to having fun
that would make Mom sorry I’ll go without the fun.”

“You’re all right, Billy Boy,” said Somebody, who had been
listening to the conversation, “those old fellows did not have
half the fun they think they did.”

[Illustration: Fireworks!]

“Well,” said the boy named Billy, “she’s a grand old country and
I’ll help celebrate her birthday every time, but I’m glad that
they pay more attention to us boys nowadays and let us have hikes
and scout suits and drills and everything. It would be hard to
find a place where a boy can have a better time just being a boy,
than in this good old Land o’ the Free--don’t you think?”

“’Deed and I do, Billy Boy, think just that!” said Somebody.

“Somebody, what is in the Declaration of Independence?”

“Compton’s Pictured Encyclopedia gives it briefly,” said
Somebody. “‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all
men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator
with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life,
liberty and pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights,
governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers
from the consent of the governed; that, whenever any form of
government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right
of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute a
new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and
organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most
likely to effect their safety and happiness--

“‘We, therefore--do solemnly publish and declare, That these
United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, Free and
Independent States; that they are absolved from all allegiance
to the British crown, and that all political connection between
them and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally
dissolved; and that as free and independent States, they have
full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances,
establish commerce and do all other acts and things which
independent States may of right do. And for the support of this
declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine
Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our
fortunes, and our sacred honor.’”




Mr. Irish Potato


“Oh, goody,” said the boy named Billy. “Baked potatoes for
supper--I can smell them--I am certainly grateful to Old Ireland
for sending us her wonderful potatoes. I’m going to have cream on
mine and eat every bit of the jacket.”

“So shall I,” said Somebody, laughing. “I don’t know of anything
more appetizing than a big well-baked potato, but I must tell
you, Billy Boy, that the cause for gratitude is the other way
around--Ireland has America to thank for potatoes. But we surely
owe her a vote of thanks for showing us what a useful article of
food we were neglecting to use.”

“Why! Where did the potato come from if not from Ireland--they’re
always spoken of as Irish Potatoes--” said the boy named Billy.

“The botanical books have this to say about it,” said Somebody.
“Potato--Solanum tuberosa--a native of Chile, Peru, and the Rocky
Mountains of North America.

“The potato was taken to England from America in the early part
of the 16th century by Sir Francis Drake who saw in it a valuable
food for cattle. But when the grain crops failed in 1772 the
people, especially those in Ireland, began to grow the potato
extensively for food for the people, and as it was so easily
raised it soon became very popular, and was eagerly adopted by
the Irish as their very own.

“In the United States the growing of early potatoes for northern
markets is an important industry as far south as Florida and the
Bermudas; but potatoes flourish best in climates which are just
too cool for corn. There is a belt of 120,000,000 acres, running
from Newfoundland, maritime Canada, and New England, through New
York, Pennsylvania, and the American and Canadian Lake region,
and by way of the Yukon Valley almost into the Arctic Circle,
where potatoes have been found amazingly productive. The giant
Idaho and Montana potatoes, which often weigh several pounds, are
favorites for baking.

“Growing from seed seldom produces satisfactory potatoes, but
seedsmen plant them in the hope of discovering new and desirable
varieties, as did Burbank when he grew from seed the potato which
bears his name. There are now perhaps a thousand well-developed
varieties, while at the time of the American Revolution there
were only two, the red and the white. In growing potatoes, the
most perfect tubers should be chosen, cut in pieces and planted;
the new plants grow from the eyes or buds on the cuttings.

“The cultivation of the potato has played an important part in
the history of Europe. In certain parts of Germany it helped to
check the famines caused by the Thirty Years’ War. By 1688 it had
become the staple food of the Irish peasantry, and the failure
of the potato crop in 1845 and the resulting famine started the
first great wave of Irish immigration to the United States.”

“I was reading an old poem about that Irish famine the other
day,” said the boy named Billy, “where a little boy was begging
his mother for just one grain of corn--I felt so sorry for him,
but I can see now that he suffered hunger so that all the other
children in the world might have good food all their lives--I
hope someone gave him a nice hot baked potato before he got too
hungry. There’s the dinner gong--Hurrah for the Irish!”

“Hurrah for us, too!” said Somebody.

“Sure,” said the boy named Billy.




[Illustration: Wherever his Regiment ... went, there was Old Abe!]

Old Abe, the Wisconsin War-Eagle


“Teacher was reading to the class about Old Abe, the war Eagle,
today,” said the boy named Billy.

“What about him,” asked Big Sister, “I do not remember anything
about him in my United States History.”

“Teacher said he was not really historical--just an incident in
the history of the Civil War, but he is most interesting,” said
the boy named Billy. “He went through three years of the war and
was in the thick of every battle, where he seemed to be having
the time of his life, understanding which side he belonged to
very well indeed. One day when the Confederate soldiers had been
told by their officers to ‘get that old bird’ and they were all
firing on him as hard as they possibly could, Old Abe went up in
the air and stayed there circling ’round and ’round--screaming
his head off, and when the battle was over he went back to his
standard minus a few feathers but still all in one piece, as Big
Brother says.”

“Wherever did they get him?” asked Big Sister.

“Some people say Old Abe was caught in the spring of 1861 on the
banks of the Flambeau River in Wisconsin when the Indians were
making their maple sugar, by the son of Chief Thunder-Of-Bees. He
climbed to the top of the tall tree where the Eagles had their
nest and took the baby bird out when the old ones were away.
Others say that he chopped the tree down and had a fight with the
old birds, but finally escaped with the little one who was then
about as large as a hen. Anyway he got him, and took him home
to the children, where he became quite one of the family, until
when it was planting time Chief Sky sold him for a bushel of seed
corn. A man named Mills then bought him from his owner for five
dollars and presented him to a Company of young volunteers who
were organizing to go to the front.

“The boys thought Mr. Eagle was great fun, and they made him
enlist, by putting the colors around his neck and a shield on his
breast so that he was really a living United States Emblem. Then
they christened him ‘Old Abe’ in honor of the president, and made
a standard for him, and after that wherever his regiment, the 8th
Wisconsin, went, there was Old Abe in all his glory, so that the
regiment became known as the Eagle Regiment.

“After the war he was taken back to Madison where he had started
from three long years before, and was given a perch in the
Capitol where he held a reception every day. P. T. Barnum wanted
to buy him and so did many others, but he could not be purchased.
There wasn’t money enough in the world to buy him.

“In the winter of 1864-5 he was taken to the big fair at Chicago
where his photographs were sold for the benefit of sick and
wounded soldiers, and he earned in that way 16,000 dollars. In
1876 he was taken to the Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia
where he was greatly admired, and when that was over he was taken
home again to his perch in the State Capitol at Madison.

“In 1881 the bird died of old age and the people of Madison had
his skin stuffed and mounted on his old perch. There Old Abe
stood, looking every inch a war eagle and a hero, until the State
House burned.”

“That is a very interesting story,” said Somebody.

“It is in a book called ‘The Great Seal’ by a Mr. J. Cigrand,”
said the boy named Billy. “I’m going to read it all when I can
read a little better.”




About Clocks


[Illustration: EARLY AMERICAN CLOCK]

“Look at my new wrist-watch! Mom gave it to me for my
birthday--isn’t it a beauty?” said the boy named Billy. “Radium
dial ’n all; I can see what time it is in the dark. Handy when
I’m on hikes, no more stopping to scratch matches. Stem winder ’n
everything.”

“Goodness, Billy,” said Big Sister. “Anyone would think to hear
you that there never was a watch like that of yours. We all have
watches.”

Billy grinned. “Well,” he said, “I’ve wanted it so long. A fellow
_needs_ something to tell time by. Who discovered how to tell
time anyhow?”

“The first Caveman, probably,” said Somebody. “He needed to let
the ladies of the family know when he was coming home to dinner,
so he very likely pointed to the sun, and drew a line in the
sand, to tell them that when the sunshine reached that spot he
would be home and that dinner better be forthcoming pronto! That
was the sundial idea, which was the only way of time-telling for
ages. Cleopatra’s needle is supposed to have been one of the
big sun dials. But as it was certainly inconvenient not to be
able to tell the time on dark days, it was only a matter of time
when some more convenient method of recording the hours would be
found. When it did appear it was in the shape of the clepsydra,
or water thief, a brass bowl with a hole in the bottom, which
was floated on top of another bowl full of water, the principle
being that when the bowl had filled itself with water an hour had
passed, then a slave would empty the bowl, and hit it with a rod
to announce the hour.”

“But someone must have sat up all night to watch the bowl and
strike the hours,” said the boy named Billy.

“Precisely,” said Somebody, “so they consulted the stars, and
discovered that they could divide the night into ‘watches’ of so
many hours duration, and then they had different watchmen to sit
up with the clepsydra, and announce the hours.

“The Priests of Babylon were very wise men indeed, and it was
not long until they had figured out how to divide the years into
months and weeks and days and hours and minutes and seconds.

“But it was not until 1581 that a young Spaniard, standing in
the Cathedral of Pisa discovered, by watching a swinging lamp,
the principle of the pendulum. He noticed that when it moved a
short distance, it moved slowly, and that the farther it moved,
the faster became the motion, making the long swing in the same
time as it did the shorter one. And in this way was the pendulum
applied to the making of time-telling machines.

“In the 12th Century there were clocks which struck the
hours, but which had no dials or hands, but after the idea of
time-telling machines started it traveled fast, and in the 14th
Century real clocks began to appear.

“We have not time to go through the whole fascinating story of
how the idea progressed, but we know that in Shakespeare’s time
there were watches that could be carried in the pocket.”

“Why were they called ‘watches’ instead of clocks,” asked the boy
named Billy.

“The clock, or orloge, as they were then called, struck the
hours, and the watch was very probably so named from the silent
‘watches of the night’,” said Somebody. “That last is just a
guess, but it’s as good as anybody’s guess at that.”

“Who made the first clock in America?” asked the boy named Billy.

“Eli Terry did, in the year 1809,” said Somebody, “and after a
time he got Seth Thomas to help him. As soon as people realized
what a very great convenience it was to be able to keep accurate
time, nobody wanted to be without a clock. And then people began
to travel more and needed to have something portable with which
to tell time, and so the convenient watches came to be made.

“‘What time is it?’ you ask. Centuries of scientific progress,
with vast labor and years of patient study, have been necessary
to answer that question. You’ll find that men had to delve into
mathematics, the mysteries of astronomy, the wonders of physics
and chemistry, before they could force the hands on the dial to
tell you when to start for school or to catch your train. As
you look at a clock, remember that every time the minute-hand
passes from one of its marks to the next, it shows that this huge
globe on which we live has covered more than 1,000 miles of its
headlong journey.

“And then along came Madame Curie, the brilliant French
scientist, and discovered radium, the merest shadow of which
makes the dial of your watch luminous for as long as it lasts.

“There is a very famous clock in Strasbourg which not only
tells the time of day, but also the day of week, the month,
and the position of the moon and the planets. At various times
processions of tiny figures cross a stage, including a cock that
crows. The day of week is indicated by a separate little figure
which takes its place on a tiny platform.

“A watch is perhaps the most wonderful little machine in the
world. Packed in a case sometimes no bigger than a twenty-five
cent piece and less than a quarter of an inch thick are from one
hundred and fifty to eight hundred separate parts. And there you
are, Billy Boy!”

“Time for bed,” said Mother. “And don’t linger too long admiring
your new watch or it will be time to get up.”

“Goodnight everybody, and Somebody,” said the boy named Billy,
“and thanks again, Mom, for the watch. I’ve never before had such
a jimdandy birthday gift.”




About Cotton


  “Away down South in the land of cotton
  Cinnamon seed and sandy bottom
  Look away, look away, look away down South in Dixie,”

sang the boy named Billy.

“Wherever did you dig up that old Dixie song?” Somebody asked,
smiling. “I haven’t heard it in years.”

“Bob White’s Grandfather is always singing it,” said the boy
named Billy, “and we play soldier to it--it has such a dandy
swing to it--listen:

  “‘In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand
  To live and die for Dixie--Look away--
  Look away--look away down South in Dixie’

--it’s an old war song, isn’t it?”

“It is one of the old negro melodies which the boys adopted as a
marching song in the Civil War,” said Somebody, “and very dear to
the hearts of everyone from the ‘land of cotton’.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask something about cotton--Teacher says
that if coal is king in America cotton is easily queen. I did
not know before that it was so important--I thought you just
made house dresses and aprons of it. Bob White says that when he
was down South with his folks last winter the fields were all
blossomed out white and the people were picking the flowers.”

“Bob should have asked questions about it,” said Somebody, “and
in that way he would have found out that the white ‘blooms’ were
in reality the ripened cotton, or boll, as it is called. When the
cotton has gone to seed it is ready to be picked, and if left to
itself would in time blow away in the winds, scattering its seeds
just as old Grandfather dandelion does his.

“But it is far too valuable to be left to do that, so it is
carefully picked and prepared for market; but valuable as the
fibre, the seed, which is deeply embedded in the cotton, is
almost more so. But the seed is very hard to get at, and before
the cotton gin was invented by Eli Whitney it was a year’s work
for one person to clean the seeds from enough cotton to make one
bale, but now with the machinery they have it is easy to prepare
many bales in one day.”

“Where did it come from?” asked Billy.

“Most of it,” said Somebody, “came from our own Southern States,
but it has been grown in Asia and Egypt for centuries, being one
of the oldest plants on record.”

“What are some of the uses of cotton?” asked Billy.

“They are so many I couldn’t begin to tell you,” said Somebody,
“but all our bed linen is made from it, as well as most of our
curtains, and underwear and the dainty things Little Sister
wears, as well as the lovely voile dresses that make Mother look
like a bunch of posies. It is indispensable for bandages and pads
to dress wounds with and for many other things.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” said the boy named Billy, “how many of
the things that we use every day just grow.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Somebody, “Mother Nature has put everything
we could possibly need, in this good old world of ours, and
expects us to use our brains to find out just how to use them.”

“Thanks, Somebody,” said the boy named Billy, “I’m going over to
tell Bob White all about those wonderful cotton flowers he thinks
he saw!”




About Coral


“Uncle Bob has just returned from California,” said the boy named
Billy, “and has brought Big Sister a necklace of very beautiful
coral beads; not a bit like the dark red branchy looking ones
that she has had since she was a baby! These are rose pink with
little hand-carved roses all over them. What sort of a stone is
coral, and where is it found? It’s lovely!”

“Strictly speaking,” said Somebody, “although coral has all the
appearance of stone it isn’t that at all, although it is just as
dangerous to a ship to run aground on a reef of it as it would be
to run on the rocks--it’s so jagged and sharp. It is really the
bones you might say of living creatures which made their homes in
that particular spot for ages and dying have left their skeletons
behind them for a monument.

“These little sea animals are called polyps and the coral grows
inside their soft outer structure just as your bones do inside
your flesh. Among the greatest architects in the world are the
little coral-making animals, creatures of shallow water in the
warmer seas. Some kinds live all alone, but the commoner ones
live in colonies of many individuals united by a stalk with
many branches--sort of a family tree you might say--indeed they
were once called plant animals. They have a very helpful and
economical way of living,” went on Somebody, “for when something
good to eat swims or floats within reach of one little polyp’s
mouth he sucks it in, swallows it, and all his hungry relatives
get the benefit of it.”

“That’s what I’d call being real chummy,” said the boy named
Billy. “How do they manage that?”

“They have a sort of family stomach,” said Somebody, “or
reservoir into which all food absorbed by the colony goes.”

“I don’t believe I’d like that very well,” said Billy. “One
fellow might have to eat all the things he didn’t care about and
another would get all the pie.”

“I do not suppose the polyp has much to boast of in the way of
the sense of taste,” laughed Somebody, “but you’ve got to admit
that he does his duty as he sees it without shirking.”

“I should say he does,” said Billy. “What else does he do besides
working for the good of his family?”

“He has a quite important hand in making the ‘beauteous land,’”
said Somebody. “The Great Barrier Reef of Australia, extending
a thousand miles along the coast and in some places from one to
three miles wide, was made entirely by the Polyps. Also the keys
of Florida, as well as the Everglades, are made entirely upon
coral foundation.”

“That is very interesting,” said the boy named Billy. “But if
there is so much of it why is it so expensive?”

“There’s only one kind that is precious,” said Somebody. “That
is the _corallium rubrum_ of the Mediterranean Sea. It was once
supposed to be endowed with sacred properties of a mysterious
nature; the Mandarins of China wear coral buttons made from it
as their badge of office. There is also a very rare black coral
which makes its home in the warm water of the Great Australian
Barrier Reef. The Italians are the greatest coral workers, making
a most valuable industry of making jewelry and buttons and other
small articles.

“There’s a lot more to learn about this subject, but that’s all I
am able to tell you just now,” said Somebody.

“Thanks,” said the boy named Billy. “I’ll read up on it.”




[Illustration: FRANCIS SCOTT KEY]

The Star-spangled Banner


The boy named Billy came running into the house one morning, full
of the joy of living and singing at the top of his voice, “O,
long may the star-spangled banner still wave, o’er the land of
the free-ee and the home of the brave.”

“Get a step-ladder, Billy. You’ll never reach that ‘land of the
free’ any other way,” advised Big Sister.

“Well, say,” said Billy grinning, “I’m not a prima donna; it
takes a real voice to climb up there. I love it, but I wish there
were not so many high places in it. Francis Scott Key never
thought of me when he wrote it, that’s sure.”

“Francis Scott Key hadn’t a thing to do with it, silly-Billy,”
said Big Sister. “How do you learn your history anyhow?”

“Well, Somebody, please tell me who did write it then?” asked
Billy. “That’s what teacher said anyway.”

“Perhaps it was not made quite clear to you, Billy Boy, that the
words only were written by Francis Scott Key. You’re not alone in
wishing that it was not quite so difficult; when I come to that
high note I always stand on tiptoe and I’ve never struck it yet,
and nine out of ten people have the same difficulty; yet I love
it, as we all do.

[Illustration: When we were at war with England]

“As to who really wrote it there seems to be no clear record,
some crediting it to Dr. Samuel Arnold, an Englishman, but others
claim it for John Stafford Smith, who made it over from an old
French composition. Anyway, it was used as a popular song in
England for some years and was used in other ways also.

“In 1798 it was used by Robert Treat Paine in a political way,
for a song called ‘Adams and Liberty.’

“Everyone knows how the words came to be written. It was in the
Summer of 1814 when we were at war with England; the British
under General Ross appeared in the vicinity of Washington and
after overcoming feeble resistance took the capital and set fire
to the White House and some other public buildings. The President
and the Cabinet fled, while pretty Dolly Madison bundled up the
most precious White House treasures, including Washington’s
picture and the original draft of the Declaration of Independence
and carried them to safety. Then the British prepared to bombard
Baltimore from the sea and attack it from the land side. Francis
Scott Key was sent with a friend to the British Fleet to get a
prisoner of war. As the British were about to attack the town
and the Fort he was not allowed to return, and you may imagine
how anxiously he watched for the dawn to come and with what joy,
when the mists rolled away that he beheld the starry banner still
flying from the fort. With the tears of thankfulness streaming
down his cheeks he wrote the first stanza of his now world-famous
song and later in the day, when he had returned to the city, he
finished the poem.

“It was first printed under the name of ‘The Bombardment of Fort
McHenry,’ in the Baltimore American and immediately became very
popular.”

“It’s a great song,” said the boy named Billy, “but I think
almost anyone could have written a great song under those
conditions--if he could write at all.”

“Yes indeed,” agreed Somebody.




About Umbrellas


[Illustration: (Man with Umbrella)]

“It’s raining, Billy,” called Mother from upstairs, “take your
umbrella when you go to school.”

“O Mother, _please_” said the boy named Billy, “I just _hate_ to
carry an umbrella--_whoever_ invented the old things anyway?”

“I guess old Mr. Toad invented the idea when he hunched under
the first toadstool; and next after him was an honorable Chinese
gentleman who got his idea from the branches of the umbrella tree.

“In olden times no one but those of royal family were allowed to
use the umbrella, and then only as a protection from the sun, as
they were made only of the daintiest silks and brocades, and even
of rice paper,” said Somebody.

“It did not seem to occur to anyone that it could be used as
a protection against the rain until early in the eighteenth
century, when it was introduced in England. Even then people
hesitated to use it on account of the ridicule it called forth.”

“So you see,” said the boy named Billy, “I’ve got a good right
not to like to carry one.”

“M-m--yes,” said Somebody. “Only you will observe, that as soon
as people began to really realize what a very sensible article it
was and how much it saved them in the way of spoiled clothes, not
to mention damp shoulders, of course they didn’t mind at all what
a few foolish ones thought who did not know a good thing when
they saw it.”

“Time for school, Billy,” called Mother, “and never mind taking
your umbrella--the rain is over.”

“Oh, goody!” exclaimed the boy named Billy.




Hallowe’en


“What are you going to do with that monstrous pumpkin, Billy
Boy,” asked Big Sister, one crisp autumn day.

“Going to make a Jack O’Lantern of it,” said the boy named Billy.

“Somebody, why do we dress up and make believe we’re a lot of
witches on Hallowe’en when we know there is nothing like that in
the world?”

“All Hallow Eve,” said Somebody, “is the name given to the vigil
of Hallowmas, which falls on the night before the Feast of All
Saints Day. The Ancients lighted bonfires on that night to scare
away ghosts and witches.

“The Romans had a festival in honor of Pomona, the goddess of
fruits, in which apples featured, which accounts for the custom
of bobbing for apples in tubs of water, which to this day the
young folks think is so much fun.”

“That’s all right for girls,” said the boy named Billy, “but
regular fellows can find something better to do.”

“What, for instance?” asked Big Sister.

“Oh, making Jack O’ Lanterns, and playing tricks on other
fellows,” said Billy.

“I know a fine trick that a lot of husky chaps like you and Bob
White and your gang could play on another fellow,” said Somebody.

“What is it?” asked Billy. “We’re game for almost anything that
you could suggest.”

“Old Grandsire Johnson, who lives all alone in that little house
at the edge of town, has just had his winter’s coal delivered,”
said Somebody. “I think it would be fine if the Hallowe’en
spirits would go up there while he is at prayer meeting tonight
and put it all in the shed for him.”

“Oh, fine,” said the boy named Billy. “I know a bunch of healthy
spooks that would just love a little job like that.”




About Wolves


“Look at this funny old pair of curly-toed skates that I found in
that funny old horse-hair trunk in the attic,” said the boy named
Billy. “They look like toys, and seem about big enough for little
sister. Nobody ever could have really used them to skate with,
could they?”

“Those skates were your great-grandmother Ellen’s racing skates,”
said Somebody, “and if they had not been rather practical and not
at all the toys they look, in comparison with the ones in use
now, you would not be here this afternoon.”

“Why?” demanded the boy named Billy, sensing a story.

“Your great-grandmother Ellen,” said Somebody, “was considered
to have been the most expert skater, the most fearless rider,
and the most popular young lady in the section of the country
where she grew up, and on the day of which I am speaking, she had
one of the most thrilling adventures ever staged anywhere, not
excepting the movies.”

[Illustration: TIMBER-WOLF!]

“A _really-so story_!” exclaimed the boy named Billy, “and in the
family, too!”

“It was many, many years ago,” said Somebody, “and happened away
up in the wilds of Maine, where your great-great-grandfather
lived with his family on the farm which he had taken away from
the forest.

“Nobody lived at the head of the lake, which was long and
narrow and more like a river in appearance, except your
great-great-grandfather and his sons and daughters; but half
way down, about ten miles, there was a small village, where the
post-office was and where the young people of the surrounding
country used to gather for their dances and good times. So one
day in winter, when great-grandmother Ellen was about seventeen
years old, she started out early to skate down to the settlement
to a party. The party proved entertaining, and also the farewells
detained her, and she was dismayed to see that just as she was
getting her last skate-strap firmly fastened, the sun was going
down behind the tall hemlock trees.

“Ten of the thirty minutes it would take her to skate home
had gone and all was well, then far behind her she heard the
long-drawn hunting call of the timber wolf.

“A few moments later, almost parallel with her, there broke
from the forest a pack of the hunger-stricken beasts. Instantly
the girl swerved in a skilful zigzag--and instantly the wolves
swerved in the same direction--their long claws slipping on the
ice as they swerved. On they came again and again. Sometimes they
were so near that their snapping jaws almost caught her skirts,
and to gain time she managed to unwind her long wool scarf,
which she allowed to float behind her, to be seized and torn to
pieces, which gave her a moment’s advantage. Then, just as she
was wondering how much longer she could go on there were shots,
and the pack scattered, leaving behind several of their number.”

“What happened?” asked the boy named Billy.

“The men, coming in from work, discovered Ellen was late, and one
remembered he heard wolves down the lake. He picked up his rifle
and skated down to meet his sister.”

“May I have these skates?” asked Billy. “I like to look at them
and remember that they belonged to a real girl. I’ll hang them on
my wall.”

“I’m sure that great-grandmother Ellen would be very happy to
have them belong to you, Billy. You’re just the kind of boy that
she would have approved of,” said Somebody.




How Thanksgiving came


“Gobble, gobble, gobble,” said Mr. Turkey Cock proudly spreading
his wonderful turkey tail fan and looking as pompous as no one
but he can look.

“Oh, you funny, conceited bird,” said the boy named Billy, “you
won’t be so noisy next Thursday when we have you for Thanksgiving
dinner. But that reminds me--won’t somebody please tell me why
the turkey is called our National bird? I thought it was the
eagle. And why do we always have Thanksgiving Day on Thursday?”

“Well, you see, Son,” said Somebody, “it started this way. As you
of course know, our Pilgrim Fathers and Mothers came over in the
Mayflower and landed on Plymouth Rock on November 21st, 1620;
just one hundred and two brave souls in a strange land, full of
strange people who might well resent their being there. Although
it was late in the year and cold weather, they managed to build
themselves houses of a sort; but with the best that they could do
more than half of them perished that first terrible winter.

“When Spring came, those who were left, with the help of the
Indians, bravely planted the crops and started to make a home in
the wilderness. The Indians gave them corn for seed and taught
them how to plow the land and fertilize it, and with the seed
that they had brought with them they managed so well that when
harvest time came they had a bountiful yield. To express their
gratitude to God who had so marvelously prospered them, as well
as to show their friendliness to the Indians, Governor Bradford
issued a proclamation to the effect that they would have a
Thanksgiving feast to which Chief Massasoit and his braves were
to be invited, which should last from Thursday morning until
Saturday night. That was in October, 1621.

“But the Pilgrim Mothers, remembering the harvest festivals of
England, with the barbecued sheep and oxen which they used to
have, said ‘How can we make a feast? We have no meat.’ ‘Meat,’
said Governor Bradford, ‘why the woods are full of it.’ So he
sent four of his very best riflemen out into the forest for wild
turkeys, and they brought back so many that there was enough meat
for the three days feasting for the colonists and their guests,
the Indians. And ever since then no Thanksgiving feast could be
really right without a nice plump turkey.”

“Did the Indians like the feast?” asked the boy named Billy.
“Indeed they did,” said Somebody; “they liked it so well that
Chief Massasoit sent his young men back with a gift of nice fat
deer which they had shot especially for the colonists. Chief
Massasoit wanted to show Governor Bradford that the Indians knew
how to play fairly.”

“So that’s how Thanksgiving became,” said the boy named Billy.

“Yes,” answered Somebody, “but it was a long time after that
before it became the good old holiday that we know now.

“In the first year of his office, President George Washington
issued a proclamation recommending that November 26, 1789, be
kept as a day of “national thanksgiving” for the establishment
of a form of government that made for safety and happiness.
After that, it was only held at odd times, but in 1863 it became
a National holiday and the last Thursday in November is always
proclaimed by the President as a day of prayer and thanksgiving.”

“We’re going to have the whole family here for dinner this year,”
said the boy named Billy; “and we’re going to have turkey and
cranberry jelly and pumpkin pie ’n’ everything.”

“_Gobble_, gobble, gobble,” remarked Mr. Turkey Cock.

“We shall!” remarked the boy named Billy, laughing.




Christmas!


  “God rest ye merry gentlemen
  Let nothing you dismay,
  Remember Christ our Savior
  Was born on Christmas day,”

sang the boy named Billy, a bit off key. “_Billy_” begged Big
Sister, “please get that correctly--you’ll throw the whole choir
off if you sing it that way--come to the piano and I’ll drill you
until you can _sing_ it!”

“Run along now, you’re letter perfect,” said Big Sister after a
half-hour of practice, “I’m going to wrap up my gifts now, and
it’s no fair peeking, either.”

“Oh, I don’t care anything about your gifts,” said Billy, “I’m
going to stay right here and Somebody is going to tell me all
about Christmas and why we give gifts and everything. Was it
because the wise men brought gifts to the baby Jesus?”

“Perhaps,” said Somebody, “but it seems more likely that it grew
out of the realization of God’s great gift to the world--the
gifts of Love and Friendliness and Peace which He bestowed upon
us in sending His only son to teach us how to live.”

“‘Peace on earth, good will toward men,’” quoted Billy softly.
“That’s enough to make people happy.”

“Christmas was not always the happy time that it is now,” said
Somebody. “The early Christians had rather a hard time of it.”

“I remember,” said the boy named Billy, “I never could understand
how they had the courage to keep it up.”

“They were upholding Truth,” said Somebody, “and Truth is the
strongest thing in the world.”

“Was Christ really born on December 25th?” asked Billy.

“Probably not,” said Somebody. “The Eastern church celebrated
January 6th, as the date of birth, calling it Epiphania, while
the Western church celebrated December 25th, calling it Natalis.
The Pagans had a festival at this season of the year called
THE BIRTHDAY OF THE SUN of which they were very fond. Out of
this grew the idea of using that time to celebrate the birth of
Christ, the spiritual Sun of the world. This gradually took the
place of the old pagan festival.”

“The singing of Christmas songs is an English custom, is it not?”
asked Billy.

“Yes,” said Somebody. “There are many beautiful old-world customs
which were left behind when the Puritans came to the new world in
search of a place in which to worship in their own way.

“In Devonshire, England, it is said that the bees sing all night
long in their hives the night before Christmas, and if you are
wise you will go and wish them a Merry Christmas and hang a bit
of holly on each hive, else you may get no honey next year.

“And you must on no account ask to borrow a match or a bit of
fire on Christmas day, because fire is the symbol of the heart of
the house and of happiness, and you must always add to and not
take away from the happiness of others.

“In spite of the Puritan’s striving to leave behind them all the
old legends, several did survive. I remember that one Christmas
Eve when I was a small child, my mother being away at a party, I
was taken at midnight out to the stable to see the cattle, who
were supposed to be on their knees, worshipping the child who
was born in a manger.”

[Illustration: The Pagans had a Festival called the Birthday of
the Sun]

“And were they?” asked the boy named Billy.

“I couldn’t really say,” said Somebody, “but they all scrambled
to their feet when they saw the light of the lantern, and asked
for clover hay. It seemed to me that we had disturbed their
slumbers!

“In Norway is a most beautiful old custom that might well be
copied everywhere,” went on Somebody, “which is called ‘The
Ceremony of Feeding the Birds.’ Two or three days before
Christmas bunches of oats are placed on the roofs and tied to the
branches of trees and shrubs, loads of grain being brought into
the towns for the purpose. And no one would dream of sitting down
to his own dinner without first giving every animal on the place
an extra portion in the name of Christ.”

“How did the Christmas-tree custom first begin?” asked Billy.
“There is a tale to the effect that St. Boniface once came upon
a group of Pagans at the Thunder Oak to which a living child had
to be sacrificed every year, and, holding the Cross in front of
the victim told the story of the coming of Christ. The child was
saved, and the Oak destroyed by lightning, and in its place was
seen a young fir tree pointing with its tall green finger toward
heaven. From that time on Christianity was openly professed,
until it has now covered the whole world.

“Today the observance of Christmas is universal. In England and
America the little folks hang up their stockings in a row before
the fireplace--in France the children place wooden shoes on the
hearth to receive their gifts, and Norwegian children have a
lot of fun hunting their new toys which have been tucked away
in unexpected places. Everywhere it is above all the children’s
holiday.”

“That’s interesting,” said the boy named Billy. “Thank you and
Merry Christmas, Somebody.”

“Same to you Billy Boy,” said Somebody.