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Title: Our Home and Personal Duty
Author: Fryer, Jane Eayre
Language: English
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    _In these vital tasks of acquiring a broader view of
    human possibilities the common school must have a large
    part. I urge that teachers and other school officers
    increase materially the time and attention devoted
    to instruction bearing directly on the problems of
    community and national life._—WOODROW WILSON.





The notion of what constitutes adequate civics teaching in our schools
is rapidly changing. The older idea was based on the theory that
children were not citizens—that only adults were citizens. Therefore,
civics teaching was usually deferred to the eighth grade, or last year
of the grammar school, and then was mostly confined to a memorizing of
the federal constitution, with brief comments on each clause. Today we
recognize that even young children are citizens, just as much as adults
are, and that what is wanted is not training _for_ citizenship but
training _in_ citizenship. Moreover, we believe that the “good citizen”
is one who is good for something in all the relationships of life.


Accordingly, a beginning is being made with the early school years,
where an indispensable foundation is laid through a training in “morals
and manners.” This sounds rather old-fashioned, but nothing has been
discovered to take its place. Obedience, cleanliness, orderliness,
courtesy, helpfulness, punctuality, truthfulness, care of property,
fair play, thoroughness, honesty, respect, courage, self-control,
perseverance, thrift, kindness to animals, “safety first”—these are the
fundamental civic virtues which make for good citizenship in the years
to come. Of course, the object is to establish right habits of thought
and action, and this takes time and patience and sympathy; but the end
in view justifies the effort. The boy or girl who has become habitually
orderly and courteous and helpful and punctual and truthful, and who
has acquired a fair degree of courageous self-control, is likely to
become a citizen of whom any community may well be proud.


The best results are found to be secured through stories, poems,
songs, games, and the dramatization of the stories found in books or
told by the teacher. This last is of great value, for it sets up a
sort of brief life-experience for the child that leaves a more lasting
impression than would the story by itself. Most of the stories told in
this reader, emphasizing certain of the civic virtues enumerated above,
will be found to lend themselves admirably to simple dramatization
by the pupils, the children’s imagination supplying all deficiencies
in costumes, scenery, and stage settings. Moreover, the questions
following the text will help the teacher to “point the moral” without
detracting in the slightest degree from the interest of the story.


The basis for good citizenship having been laid through habit-formation
in the civic virtues, the next step is for the children to learn how
these virtues are being embodied in the people round about them who are
serving them and their families. The baker, the milkman, the grocer,
the dressmaker, the shoemaker, the carpenter, the plumber, the painter,
the physician, the druggist, the nurse—these are the community servants
who come closest to the life-experience of the children.

How dependent each member of a community—especially an urban
community—is on all the rest, and how important it is that each shall
contribute what he can to the community’s welfare, are illustrated by
the stories of the Duwell family. Here a typical though somewhat ideal
American family is shown in its everyday relations, as a constant
recipient of the services rendered by those community agents who
supply the fundamental need of food, clothing, shelter, and medical
attendance. The children in the class will learn, with the Duwell
children, both the actual services that are rendered and the family’s
complete dependence on those services. Moreover, they will acquire
the splendid working ideals of interdependence and coöperation. And,
finally, they will discover that the adult citizens who are rendering
them these services are embodying the very civic virtues in which they
themselves have been so carefully trained.


The pupils are now ready to follow the services rendered by public
servants such as the policeman, the fireman, the street cleaner, the
ashes and garbage collector, the mail carrier; and by those who furnish
water, gas, electricity, the telephone, the trolley, etc.; and these
are presented in civics readers that follow this one. The civic virtues
previously considered are again found exemplified to a marked degree;
and the threefold idea of dependence, interdependence, and coöperation
through community agencies finds ample illustration.


But it is not enough for the pupils to stop with finding out what
the community is doing for them. The essential thing in this
citizenship-training is for the young citizens to find out what they
can do to help things along. Civic activities are suggested both in the
stories, poems, etc., in these books, and in the suggestive questions
at the close of each chapter.

Like all texts or other helps in education, these civics readers
cannot teach themselves or take the place of a live teacher. But it is
believed that they can be of great assistance to sympathetic, civically
minded instructors of youth who feel that the training of our children
in the ideals and practices of good citizenship is the most imperative
duty and at the same time the highest privilege that can come to any

                                                 J. LYNN BARNARD.

    Philadelphia School of Pedagogy.
    April 1, 1918.


Special thanks are due to Doctor J. Lynn Barnard of the Philadelphia
School of Pedagogy, for valuable suggestions and helpful criticism
in the making of this reader; also to Miss Isabel Jean Galbraith, a
demonstration teacher of the Philadelphia School of Pedagogy, for
assistance in preparing the questions on the lessons.

For kind permission to use stories and other material, thanks are due
to the following: The Ohio Humane Society for “Little Lost Pup,” by
Arthur Guiterman; Mrs. Huntington Smith, President Animal Rescue League
of Boston, for “The Grocer’s Horse,” and to her publishers, Ginn and
Company; Mary Craige Yarrow for “Poor Little Jocko”; Houghton Mifflin
Company for “Baking the Johnny-cake”; The American Humane Education
Society for selection by George T. Angell; and to the Red Cross
Magazine for several photographs.











It may be said that a child’s life and experience move forward in ever
widening circles, beginning with the closest intimate home relations,
and broadening out into knowledge of community, of city, and finally of
national life.

A glance at the above diagram will show the working plan of the
Young American Readers. This plan follows the natural growth and
development of the child’s mind, and aims by teaching the civic virtues
and simplest community relations to lay the foundations of good
citizenship. See Outline of Work on page 231.


    PART I


    Stories Teaching Thoroughness, Honesty, Respect,
    Patriotism, Kindness to Animals.



    DON’T GIVE UP, _Phœbe Cary_                              8
    THE BRIDGE OF THE SHALLOW PIER                           9
    THE THOUGHTFUL BOY                                      16
    GRANDFATHER’S STORY                                     17


    HONEST ABE                                              23
        I. THE BROKEN BUCK-HORN                             23
       II. THE RAIN-SOAKED BOOK                             24
      III. THE YOUNG STOREKEEPER                            26
    DRY RAIN AND THE HATCHET                                28
        I. HOW DRY RAIN GOT HIS NAME                        28
       II. DRY RAIN GOES TRADING                            29
    THE SEVEN CRANBERRIES                                   32
    THE DONKEY’S TAIL                                       36
    HURTING A GOOD FRIEND                                   39


    A SCHOOL WITHOUT A TEACHER                              42
    OUR FLAG                                                47
    SCOUT’S PLEDGE                                          48
    MY GIFT                                                 49
    FLAG DAY                                                49
    HOW OUR FLAG DEVELOPED                                  52
    THE FLAG OF THE U. S. A.                                54
    THE AMERICAN FLAG, _Joseph Rodman Drake_                55

    _Kindness to Animals_

    THE TRUE STORY OF CHEESEY                               56
        I. THE DOG AND THE POLICEMAN                        56
       II. THE POLICEMAN’S STORY                            57
      III. CHEESEY’S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS                     58
    THE CHAINED DOG                                         60
    LITTLE LOST PUP, _Arthur Guiterman_                     62
    PICTURE OF RED CROSS ARMY DOGS                          64
    THE HUNTING PARTY                                       66
    THE LOST KITTY, _Ella Wheeler Wilcox_                   67
    MY PECULIAR KITTY                                       68
    POOR LITTLE JOCKO                                       69
    ROBIN REDBREAST                                         74
    WHO KILLED COCK ROBIN?                                  75
    MY FRIEND, MR. ROBIN                                    77
    IF ALL THE BIRDS SHOULD DIE, _George T. Angell_         78
    FURRY                                                   80
    THE GROCER’S HORSE (adapted), _Mrs. Huntington Smith_   83
        I. THE CARELESS DRIVER                              83
       II. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE BARN                        86
    A LETTER FROM A HORSE                                   88

    PLEA FOR THE HORSE                                      89



    Stories about People Who Minister to Our Daily Needs.

    _People Who Provide Us with Food_

    THE BAKER                                               95
        I. AN EARLY CALL                                    95
       II. THE STAFF OF LIFE                                99
      III. A VISIT TO THE BAKERY                           101
       IV. WHERE THE WHEAT COMES FROM                      107
    BAKING THE JOHNNY-CAKE                                 111
    THE MILKMAN                                            115
        I. BEFORE THE SUN RISES                            115
       II. MILK, FROM FARM TO FAMILY                       119
    THE GROCER                                             122
        I. THE OLD-TIME GROCER                             122
       II. THE MODERN GROCER                               125

    _People Who Help Clothe Us_

    THE TAILOR                                             127
        I. THE ACCIDENT                                    127
       II. AT THE TAILOR SHOP                              129
    THE DRESSMAKER                                         134
        I. AN INVITATION TO A PARTY                        134
       II. A DISAPPOINTMENT                                136
      III. AT THE DRESSMAKER’S                             137
       IV. THE PARTY                                       142
    THE SILK DRESS                                         144
    THE SHOEMAKER                                          145
        I. THE WORN SHOES                                  145
       II. SHOEMAKERS WHO BECAME FAMOUS                    150
      III. AT THE SHOEMAKER’S SHOP                         152

    _People Who Supply Us with Shelter_

    THE CARPENTER                                          154
        I. A TRIP INTO THE COUNTRY                         154
       II. THE SAWMILL                                     158
      III. THE CARPENTER                                   161
       IV. THE WOLF’S DEN                                  163
        V. THE CAVE DWELLERS                               165
    THE BRICKLAYER                                         168
        I. THE FALLEN CHIMNEY                              168
       II. THE BRICKLAYER                                  172
      III. AFTER SCHOOL                                    173
        I. A VISIT TO A LITTLE TOWN                        176
       II. AT HOME                                         178
      III. THE NEW KITCHEN                                 179

    _People Who Supply Us with Fuel_

    THE COAL MAN AND THE MINER                             181
        I. BLACK DIAMONDS                                  181
       II. IN A COAL MINE                                  183

    _People Who Care for Our Health_

    THE DENTIST                                            187
        I. WHY RUTH WAS AFRAID                             187
       II. AT THE DENTIST’S                                190
    THE DRUGGIST, THE NURSE, AND THE DOCTOR                192
        I. THE SICK BABY                                   192
       II. THE DRUGGIST                                    194
      III. THE TRAINED NURSE                               196
       IV. THE DOCTOR, A HERO                              199

    E FOR ALL AND ALL FOR ONE (a play)                     201



    Junior Membership and School Activities.

    THE JUNIOR RED CROSS                                   209
        THE PRESIDENT’S PROCLAMATION                       210
    THE AMERICAN RED CROSS IN TIMES OF WAR                 215
    BEFORE THE DAYS OF THE RED CROSS                       215
    FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE                                   216
    HOW THE RED CROSS CAME TO BE                           219
    HOW I CAN HELP THE RED CROSS                           222
    THE LADY OF THE LAMP (a play)                          224
        ACT I. THE SICK DOLL                               224
        ACT II. GOOD OLD CAP                               225
        ACT III. THE LADY OF THE LAMP                      227
    YOU AND I AND ALL OF US                                228



Stories Teaching Thoroughness, Honesty, Respect, Patriotism, Kindness
to Animals

These stories also teach, incidentally, the co-ordinate virtues
of obedience, cleanliness, orderliness, courtesy, helpfulness,
punctuality, truthfulness, care of property, and fair play.




Once upon a time, three fat little prairie dogs lived together in a
nice deep burrow, where they were quite safe and warm and snug.

These little prairie dogs had very queer names. One was Jump, another
was Bump, and another was Thump.

Well, they lived very happily together until one day Jump said, “I
believe I would rather live up on top of the ground than in this

“I believe I would, too,” said Bump.

“I believe I would!” said Thump. “I’ll tell you what we can do! Let us
each build a house!”

“Let us!” cried Jump and Bump, and away they all scampered up out of
the burrow.

Each one ran in a different direction to hunt for something to use in
building a house.

Jump gathered some straws.

“These will do,” he thought. “I shall not bother to look for anything
else. Besides, they are very light and easy to carry.”

So Jump built a little straw house.

Bump gathered some sticks.

“These will make a nice house. They are quite good enough,” he said.

So Bump built a little stick house.

Thump saw the straw and the sticks, but thought he might find something

Pretty soon he came to a pile of stones.

“My, what a fine strong house they would make!” he thought. “They are
heavy to move, but I will try to use them.”

So he carried and carried and worked and worked, but finally he had a
stone house.


The next morning when old Mr. Prairie Wolf awoke and stretched himself,
he saw the three little houses in the distance.

“What can they be?” wondered old Mr. Wolf. “Maybe I can get breakfast
over there.” So he started toward them.

The first house he came to was the straw one.

He peeped in the window and saw little Jump.

He knocked on the door. “Mr. Jump, let me come in,” said he.

“Oh, no, by my bark—bark—bark! you cannot come in,” barked little Jump,
pushing with all his might against the door with his little paws.

“Then I’ll blow your house over with one big breath!” growled old Mr.
Prairie Wolf.

So he blew one mighty breath, and blew the house over, and ate up poor
little Jump.

On his way home, old Mr. Wolf stopped to look in the window of the
little stick house. He saw little Bump.

“My, what a good breakfast I shall have to-morrow!” he thought to

The next morning he came early and knocked on the door of the little
stick house.

“Mr. Bump, Mr. Bump,” said he, “let me come in.”

“Oh, no, by my bark—bark—bark! you cannot come in,” barked little Bump,
standing on his hind legs with his back braced against the door.

“Then I’ll throw your house over with one blow of my paw,” growled old
Mr. Prairie Wolf.

And he did, and ate up poor little Bump.


On his way home, he stopped to look in the window of the little stone

Thump sat by the fireplace toasting his feet.

“My, my!” chuckled old Mr. Wolf, smacking his lips, “he is the fattest
one of all. What a fine breakfast I shall have to-morrow!”

The next morning he came earlier than ever, and knocked on the door of
the little stone house.

“Mr. Thump, let me come in,” said he.

“All right,” called little Thump, “when my feet get warm.”

So old Mr. Prairie Wolf sat down to wait.

By and by, old Mr. Wolf knocked on the door again. “Aren’t your feet
warm yet, Mr. Thump?” he growled.

“Only one,” called Thump; “you will have to wait until the other one is

So old Mr. Wolf sat down to wait.

After a few minutes had passed, he knocked on the door again.

“Isn’t your other foot warm yet, Mr. Thump?” he growled.

“Yes,” called Thump, “but the first one is cold now.”

“See here, Mr. Thump,” growled old Mr. Wolf, “do you intend to keep me
waiting all day while you warm first one foot and then the other? I am
tired of such foolishness. I want my breakfast. Open the door, or I’ll
knock your house over!”

“Oh, all right,” barked little Thump, “and while you are doing it, I
shall eat my breakfast.”

That made old Mr. Prairie Wolf very angry, and he kicked at the little
stone house with all his might; but little Thump knew he could not move
a stone.


After a long while the noise stopped, and little Thump peeped out of
the window. He saw old Mr. Wolf limping painfully off; and that was the
way he always remembered him, for he never never saw him again.

    This story, which is built on the framework of the
    old classic, “The Three Pigs,” lends itself readily
    to dramatization. Let the four characters take their
    parts as they remember the story. By no means have them
    memorize the words.


    Which little prairie dog worked hardest to build his

    The others had an easy time, didn’t they?

    But which one was happiest in the end? Why?


    If you’ve tried and have not won,
      Never stop for crying;
    All that’s great and good is done
      Just by patient trying.

    Though young birds, in flying, fall,
      Still their wings grow stronger;
    And the next time they can keep
      Up a little longer.

    If by easy work you beat,
      Who the more will prize you?
    Gaining victory from defeat,
      That’s the test that tries you!
                                  —_Phœbe Cary._




Once upon a time, a mother loved her little boy so well that she made
the mistake of offending one of his good fairies. This was the fairy of

The mother made the mistake of trying to do everything for her little
son. She even put his toys away when he was tired of playing.


After the boy grew older and went to school, she did many of his
lessons for him. His daily marks in arithmetic were good, for much of
his work was done by his mother at home. Of course his teacher did not
know this for the boy copied his mother’s work.

Now, just as you would expect, this made the boy very careless. But he
was really a bright boy, and even though he did not do well, he managed
to pass his examinations.

“If you would only be more careful,” his teachers would say, “you would
have the highest marks.”

When his mother saw his reports, she would say: “Oh, isn’t this too
bad, son; I know you will have better marks next time.”

So, when the boy became a man he did everything in the same careless
manner, forgetting that other people would not excuse him as his mother
had done.

Now the good fairy of carefulness was very much offended at the way in
which the mother spoiled her little son. So she said to herself, “I
must, I must teach that boy a lesson!”


When he was little, this boy was very fond of playing at building
bridges. After he was grown up, he became a builder of real bridges.

At first, he built only small bridges over the brooks and little
streams, but one day an order was given him to build an important
bridge over a large river.

Just as you might guess, this pleased the man very much, and he was
glad to begin the work at once.

Soon his men were busy, putting in the piers for the new bridge, and he
was hurrying them as fast as he could, in order to get the bridge built
on time.

Every day he sat in a rowboat calling to his men. They were about to
begin work on the middle pier when the foreman of the workers came to

“Mr. Builder,” he said, “I think we shall have to wait for more
material if we go down to the right depth for this pier.”

“Nonsense, man,” said the builder, “we have no time to wait. There is a
pretty good bottom under that place. Don’t go so deep. Get along with
the material you have.”

“But, sir,—” began the man.

“Do as I tell you,” ordered the builder.

“All right, sir,” replied the foreman; “you may order that done, but
one of the other men will have to do the job.”

“Very well,” was the angry reply of the builder, “Jim Nevermind will
take your place.”

The foreman slowly drew on his jacket. “Somebody will pay for such
carelessness,” he muttered. “I hope it will not be—” but the rest of
the sentence was drowned by the orders of the new foreman.


In a very short time the bridge was finished and the inspector came to
look it over.

“It looks all right,” he said. “Are you sure the piers are sound? I
haven’t time to examine them, but I know that a man who has built as
many bridges as you, would make them right.”

“I am glad you are pleased, sir,” replied the builder.

“You have certainly made record time,” continued the inspector, “and I
shall carry back a good report.”

“Thank you very much,” said the builder; but his pleasure was somewhat
spoiled because of the shallow pier.

“It is all nonsense,” he thought, “to be so particular; besides, the
current in that river is so slow that there is no danger.” And it
seemed true, for three years later, the bridge appeared to be as firm
and strong as when it was first built.


But one day in the early part of the fourth year there came a great
flood. The slow-moving current became a raging torrent, sweeping
everything in its way and blocking large timbers and trees against the

It so happened that a party of young people were riding along in a big
hay wagon drawn by four beautiful bay horses. When they came to the
bridge the driver stopped.

“Shall we cross?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” the children shouted, “it will be fun.”

“It looks safe enough,” said one of the two grown people who were with
them. So with a “Gee-up, boys,” to the horses, the driver started
across the bridge.

Just—ah, you know, don’t you? Just as they reached the middle pier,
there came a creak and a rumble, a moment’s swaying, and a crash.
The bridge had caved in, and the hay wagon, full of terror-stricken
children, together with the frightened horses, was swept into the water.

“Don’t jump!” shouted the driver to the children, trying to guide the
swimming horses shoreward; but that was impossible.

For a full minute, which seemed like hours, they were swept onward.
Then,—maybe the good fairy of carefulness had planned it—they rested on
a little island the top of which was just covered with water.

The white-faced driver counted the children, “All here! Thank God!” he

The little folks cried and hugged each other, and called aloud for
their mothers and fathers.

They had to stay there all night, cold and frightened and hungry. That
was dreadful enough, but it was nothing compared with the fear that the
water might rise higher still.

But slowly and steadily it went down, and by early morning all of the
little island was uncovered. All the party were then quickly rescued
with boats.


The builder started, as the heading in the evening paper caught his
eye—“Terrible Bridge Accident—Who is to Blame?”

“Why, why, it’s the bridge of the shallow pier!” he exclaimed. “People
will find out that I am the one to blame!”

“Shall I run away?” he wondered, and sat for hours with his head in his

Suddenly he threw back his shoulders and said aloud, “No, I will not
run away. I will stay and do what I can to make the bridge right and
never neglect my duty again!”

Do you wonder that the good fairy of carefulness, and thoroughness,
smiled and whispered, “I wish he could have learned his lesson more



    If a task is once begun
    Never leave it till it’s done;
    Be the labor great or small
    Do it well, or not at all.
                       —_Phœbe Cary._


    The careless little boy had a very easy time both at
    home and at school, didn’t he?

    But, what kind of man did he grow to be?

    It did not seem as if just one shallow pier would
    matter, did it?

    But if he had been honest and thorough in his work when
    he was little, do you think he would have been content
    to be paid for such a carelessly built bridge?

    How do you suppose he felt when he heard about the

    Can you remember some time when you felt like being
    careless, but decided to do your very best?


    “Little by little,” said a thoughtful boy,
    “Moment by moment I’ll well employ;
    Learning a little every day,
    Not spending all my time in play;
    And still this rule in my mind shall dwell,
    ‘Whatever I do, I’ll do it well’.”

    “Little by little, I’ll learn to know
    The treasured wisdom of long ago,
    And one of these days perhaps we’ll see
    The world made better for having me.”
    And do you not think that this simple plan
    Made him a wise and a useful man?




Charles was fastening the lid on a box of Christmas presents which his
little brothers were going to send to their cousins.

“If I were you, I’d put another nail on each side,” said grandfather.

“Oh, I think these will hold,” Charles replied, giving the box a little
shake. “There are three, on each side.”

“Four would be better,” grandfather said.

“Oh, grandpa, don’t you think three will do?” asked the boy. “I—I
haven’t any more.”

“So that is the trouble,” said the old gentleman, laughing. “Very well,
here is some money. When you get back from the store I will tell you
how the history of a whole great nation was changed for want of a few
horseshoe nails!”

“A few horseshoe nails!” exclaimed Charles. “Is it true, grandpa?”

“It is true,” answered grandfather. “Now hurry up if you want to hear
how it came about.”

“Oh, thank you!” Charles cried, as he started out of the door.

He was so delighted with the promise of one of grandfather’s stories
that he was back in less time than if he had gone for candy!

“Well done!” grandfather greeted him. “Now sit down, and while you get
your breath, I will tell you the story.


“Many, many years ago, when King Richard was ruler of England, he owned
a beautiful horse which he rode whenever he went into battle.

“One day word came that Henry, the Earl of Richmond, was on his way to
attack the king’s men.

“King Richard ordered his favorite horse brought to him, and turned to
talk to the officers of his army.

“Now the groom who had charge of the king’s horses suddenly noticed
that this horse needed shoeing.

“So he hurried to the nearest smithy.

“‘Shoe this horse quickly,’ he said to the blacksmith. ‘His Majesty has
called for him. The enemy is near!’

“The blacksmith worked with all his might, and soon had four horseshoes

“When he had nailed on two shoes, he found he had not nails enough for
the other two. Suddenly the bugles sounded.

“‘Hurry!’ cried the groom. ‘The soldiers are gathering!’

“‘Shall I make more nails?’ asked the blacksmith.

“‘How many have you?’ asked the groom.

“‘I have only eight,’ replied the smith. ‘It would not take very long
to hammer out eight more.’

“‘You will have to make eight do,’ said the groom.

“‘If you could only wait a little while,’ urged the smith, working away.

“‘I suppose I might,—but it would be a risk! Won’t four nails hold a

“‘Well, that depends on how hard the horse is ridden,’ answered the
blacksmith, driving the last of the eight nails in place.

“The horse reached the king in good time, for it took quite a long
while for the officers to make their plans.


“Soon King Richard was riding among his men, cheering them on in the

“‘No other horse could carry a man as surely and swiftly,’ whispered
the king, patting the horse’s neck.

“He had not noticed that the horse had lost one shoe. Onward he urged
him over a rocky hill. Another shoe flew off.

“Suddenly the horse stumbled and fell, and the king was thrown to the

“Before he could rise, the horse, although lamed, had struggled to his
feet and galloped away, dreadfully frightened.

“Then the king shouted, ‘A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!’

“But there was no horse for him. When his men had seen him thrown, they
had all turned and fled.

“And so the battle was lost, and King Richard was killed, and the
history of the great nation of England was changed, for Henry, Earl of
Richmond, became king.”

“And all for the want of a few horseshoe nails!”, finished Charles, as
grandfather stopped speaking. “I will put two more nails into each side
of the box lid, grandpa!”

“While you are doing that, I will teach you a few lines that I learned
when I was a boy,” said grandfather. “Try to remember them.”

    “For want of a nail the shoe was lost;
     For want of a shoe the horse was lost;
     For want of a horse the rider was lost;
     For want of a rider the battle was lost;
     For loss of a battle a kingdom was lost;—
     And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.”



    How might the battle have ended if the groom had waited
    until the blacksmith had put the right number of nails
    in the horse’s shoes?

    Which do you think King Richard would rather have
    lost—a little time or his kingdom?

    How do you suppose the groom and the blacksmith felt
    when they learned the result of the battle?

    Do you know any careless people?

    What do you think of them?

    Can you remember ever doing something carelessly in
    order to finish more quickly?

    Tell about it.

       *       *       *       *       *

    If you’re told to do a thing,
      And mean to do it really;
    Never let it be by halves;
      Do it fully, freely!
                       —_Phœbe Cary._

       *       *       *       *       *

    He liveth long who liveth well;
      All else in life is thrown away;
    He liveth longest who can tell
      Of true things truly done each day.

       *       *       *       *       *

What is worth doing at all is worth doing well.

       *       *       *       *       *

Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise.


As a boy, Abraham Lincoln was known as “Honest Abe.” Like other boys he
sometimes did wrong, but never did he try to hide his wrongdoing. He
was always ready to own up and tell the truth. So his neighbors called
him “Honest Abe.”


In this way he was like young George Washington. The American people
are fond of that kind of boy. That is one of the reasons why Lincoln
and Washington were each twice elected President of the United States.

I. The Broken Buck-horn

When he was fourteen years old, young Abraham attended a log cabin
school during the winter.

Nailed to one of the logs in the schoolhouse was a large buck’s head,
high above the children’s reach.

A hunter had shot a deer in the forest, and presented the head, when
mounted, to the school. It had two unusually fine horns.

One day the teacher noticed that one of the horns was broken off short.

Calling the school to order he asked who had broken the horn.

“I did it,” answered young Lincoln promptly. “I reached up and hung on
the horn and it broke. I should not have done so if I had thought it
would break.”

He did not wait until he was obliged to own up, but did so at once.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Dare to be true; nothing can need a lie.
    A fault which needs it most grows two thereby.

II. The Rain-soaked Book

There were no libraries on the frontier in those early days. When the
boy Lincoln heard of anyone who had a book, he tried to borrow it,
often walking many miles to do so. He said later that he had read
through every book he had heard of within fifty miles of the place
where he lived.

When living in Indiana he often worked as a hired boy for a well-to-do
farmer named Josiah Crawford. Mr. Crawford owned a “Life of George
Washington,” a very precious book at that time. The book-hungry boy
borrowed it to read.

One night he lay by the wood fire reading until he could no longer see,
and then he climbed the ladder into the attic and went to bed under the
eaves. Before going to sleep he placed the book between two logs of the
walls of the cabin for safe-keeping.

During the night a heavy rain-storm came up. When young Lincoln
examined the book in the morning it was water soaked. The leaves were
wet through and the binding warped.

He dried the book as best he could by the fire and then in fear and
trembling took it home to Mr. Crawford. After telling the story he
asked what he might do to make good the damaged property.

To his relief, Mr. Crawford replied: “Being as it’s you, Abe, I won’t
be hard on you. Come over and shuck corn for three days and the book is

Shuck corn for three days for such a book as that! It was nothing! He
felt as if Mr. Crawford was making him a wonderful present.

After reading the book he often talked about what he was going to do
when he grew up.

Mrs. Crawford, who was very fond of him, would ask, “Well, Abe, what do
you want to be now?”

“I’ll be president,” he would declare.

She would laugh at him, and say, “You would make a pretty president
with all your tricks and jokes, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, I’ll study and get ready, then the chance will come,” he would

       *       *       *       *       *

    Truth is the highest thing a man may keep.

III. The Young Storekeeper

At the age of twenty-one Abraham Lincoln became a store clerk for a
short time. He was then six feet four inches tall and very strong. He
could out-run, out-jump, out-wrestle, and out-fight any man in the
rough pioneer country where he lived.

While the people respected his great strength, they liked him still
more for his honesty in little things.

One evening, on reckoning up his accounts, he found that in making
change he had taken six cents too much from a customer. On closing the
store he immediately walked three miles to the farmhouse where the
customer lived and returned the six cents. Then he walked the three
miles back.

On opening the store one morning, he discovered a four-ounce weight on
the scales. He remembered that his last customer the evening before
had purchased half a pound of tea. He saw at once that he had given
her short weight. He measured out the four ounces still due, locked
the store, took a long walk to the customer’s house, and explained the

These were little things, but Honest Abe could not rest until he had
made them right.

       *       *       *       *       *

    This above all: to thine own self be true;
    And it must follow, as the night the day,
    Thou canst not then be false to any man.



I. How Dry Rain Got His Name

In the Indian country there was once a great drought. The land was
very dry. No rain had fallen for many weeks. The crops and cattle were
suffering from thirst.

Now, in one of the tribes there was a young Indian who had a very high
opinion of himself. He pretended that he could foretell what was about
to happen, long before it really did happen.

So he foretold that on a certain day a high wind would blow up,
bringing with it a great rain-storm with plenty of water for everybody.

The day came. Sure enough a high wind did blow up, but it brought only
a violent sand-storm without a drop of rain, and it left the land drier
than before.

So the Indians laughed at the young man who foretold before he knew and
called him “Dry Rain.”

Although he afterwards became a noted chief, he never lost his name.

II. Dry Rain Goes Trading

One day, when he was an old man, Dry Rain rode in from his village to
the white man’s trading post.

The old chief purchased a number of articles, among them some
jack-knives and six hatchets. The hatchets were for his six grandsons.

The trader packed all the purchases in a big bundle. Dry Rain paid for
them, mounted his pony, and rode home to his village.

When he opened his package, he noticed that the trader by mistake had
put in seven hatchets.

But Dry Rain said nothing. “That extra one will do for me,” he thought.
“The white men stole the Indian’s land and never gave it back; I will
keep the hatchet.”

At the same time he did not feel that this would be doing just right.

In his wigwam that night he lay half-asleep and half-awake, thinking
about the hatchet.

He seemed to hear two voices talking, in a tone so earnest that it
sounded almost quarrelsome.

“Take back the hatchet,” said one voice. “It belongs to the white man.”

“No! do not take it back,” said the other voice. “It is right for you
to keep it.”

Back and forth the voices argued and argued, for hours it seemed to the
old chief.

“Take it back!” “Keep it!” “Take it back!” “Keep it!” “Take it back!”

At last he could stand the dispute no longer, and sat up in bed wide

“Stop talking, both of you,” he commanded. “Dry Rain will take back the
hatchet in the morning.”

Then he lay down again, pulled the blanket over his head, and was soon
fast asleep.

At daylight he arose, mounted his pony, rode back to the trading post,
and returned the hatchet to the trader.

“Why did you bring it back?” asked the trader. “I had not missed it,
and perhaps never should have known you had it.”

“But Dry Rain would know,” replied the old chief. “The two men inside
of him talked and quarreled about it all night! One said, ‘Take it
back!’ the other said, ‘No, keep it.’ Now they will keep still and let
him sleep.”


    Do you think that most white men set the Indians a good
    example in being honest?

    Dry Rain wanted very much to have the extra hatchet,
    didn’t he?

    But was he comfortable when he decided to keep it?

    Do you think the white trader would ever have found out?

    But who would have known?

    Did two voices inside of you ever talk when you were
    tempted to keep something which didn’t belong to you?


Truth will ever rise above falsehood, like oil above water.

       *       *       *       *       *

    For whatever men say in their blindness,
      And spite of the fancies of youth,
    There is nothing so kingly as kindness,
      And nothing so royal as truth!



Mr. Dingle was not looking toward Helen. He was busy grinding coffee in
another part of the store.

How pretty the bright red cranberries looked! Helen wished she had some.

Her little hand crept over the edge of the barrel, and very quickly
seven bright shining cranberries were in Helen’s pocket.

“What can I get for you, little girl?” asked the storekeeper.

“A pound of butter, please,” Helen answered. She did not look him in
the eye; instead, she looked out of the window.

It took Helen but a short time to reach home.

She laid the butter on the table and put the seven cranberries in a cup.

“Aren’t they pretty!” she whispered. “I think I’ll play they are

She found a piece of chalk and drew a circle on the floor. Then she
began the game.

“What pretty bright cranberries!” exclaimed her mother coming into the
room. “Where did you get them, dear?”

How Helen wished that her mother had not asked that question.

“Did Mr. Dingle give them to you?” her mother asked.

How Helen wished she could say yes! “But after all,” she thought, “that
was not stealing, so I’ll just tell mother. She knows I would not

“No, mother,” she answered, shaking her head. “I took them out of the

“You did!” exclaimed her mother. “Why, my dear, did you not know that
was wrong?”

“I didn’t take many—only seven,” Helen said; “and Mr. Dingle had
thousands and thousands of them!”

“Come here, dear, and sit on my knee,” said her mother. “I want to ask
you something.”

When Helen came she asked, “When you took the cranberries, was Mr.
Dingle looking toward you?”

“No, he was busy,” answered Helen.

“Would you have taken them if he had been looking at you?”

Helen hung her head.

“I do not think you would, dear,” said her mother. “Of course, you did
not think for a moment of stealing from Mr. Dingle.”

“I will never do such a thing again, mother,” promised the little girl.
“I am sorry.”

“Are you sorry enough to take those berries back, and tell Mr. Dingle
what you did?” asked her mother.

That was quite different from being sorry in their own kitchen.

“Oh, mother, I don’t want to do that!” said Helen, tears coming into
her eyes.

“That is because you are ashamed, Helen,” said her mother; “but I hope
you will always be brave enough to do the right thing.”

“Will you go with me to the store, mother?” asked Helen.

“No,” said her mother, “I want you to go by yourself. But I can help
you this much: I can telephone Mr. Dingle that you are coming.”

Helen sighed. “I wish I had been, and was back again,” she said,
picking up the pretty berries.

“Well, well!” said Mr. Dingle, when Helen handed him the berries, “it
takes a pretty brave girl to own up. If you were a boy, little girl, I
would ask you to come and work for me this next vacation.”


    Why do you think Helen felt so uncomfortable when she
    was asking for the butter, and later when her mother
    asked her where she got the cranberries?

    Do you suppose Mr. Dingle would ever have known about
    the seven cranberries?

    But who would always have known?

    Why was it that Helen did not think taking the
    cranberries was really “stealing”?

    What did Helen’s mother think about it?

    What do you think about taking even the smallest thing
    that doesn’t belong to you?

       *       *       *       *       *

    We sow a thought and reap an act;
    We sow an act and reap a habit;
    We sow a habit and reap a character;
    We sow a character and reap a destiny.



“Can you see?” asked Hilda Wells, as she tied the handkerchief over
Fred Warren’s eyes.

“You might make it a little tighter,” answered Fred.

So Hilda tightened the blindfolder.

“Now, we’ll turn you around three times, start you straight,—and you
pin the tail on the donkey,” she said.

The “donkey” was a large picture of that animal fastened to the wall at
the opposite side of the room. It was minus its paper tail, which Fred
held in his hand.

“Don’t you peep!” cried all the children.

“We’ll see if he can do better than I did!” declared Frank Bennett. So
far the prize belonged to Frank. Fred’s turn came last.

After being turned around three times, Fred walked straight up to the
picture and pinned the tail exactly in place.

“Oh, Frank, that is better than you did by two inches!” said Hilda.

“Fred gets the prize!” cried the excited children, as Fred pulled off
the handkerchief.

Then little Marie, Hilda’s sister, handed him a pearl-handled penknife.

Fred made little of his prize, and as soon as the children stopped
examining it, slipped it into his pocket.

After that, Mrs. Wells served ice-cream and cakes.

Oh the way home Frank asked Fred to let him see the prize. “It is a
beauty of a knife, Fred,” said he. “Until you tried, I thought I should
be the winner.”

Fred muttered something about having too many knives already.

Frank opened his eyes wide in surprise. “Too many!” he exclaimed.
“I wish I had too many! I’ve never had more than one, and that was
father’s when he was a boy.”

“Good night, Frank,” said Fred, suddenly swinging into a side street.
“I am going to take a short cut home.”

“Good night, Fred,” called Frank.

“That’s a queer way for a fellow to act,” he thought, as he walked on
alone. “I wonder what is the matter with him.”

Suddenly he heard footsteps, and in a moment Fred had caught up with
him. “Here, take it, I don’t want another knife,” he said, thrusting
the prize into Frank’s hand.

“Oh—oh, I don’t want your knife!” exclaimed Frank.

“Well, I don’t want it, either!” said Fred. “It belongs to you, anyway;
and I believe you know it! I am almost certain you could see me peeping
from under that handkerchief!”

“I was not quite sure,” said Frank; “not sure enough to say anything
about it, anyway.”

“Well, if you don’t keep the knife I’ll throw it into the river,” said
Fred, running away as fast as he could.



This is the story of a boy who ruined a good book. A good book is
always a good friend.

He did not mean to—oh, no! But what of that—he did it, as you may read.

His name was Max Green. One day Max borrowed a book from Tom Brown, a
fine new book with a picture of a submarine on the cover. Tom had just
received it as a birthday present from his uncle.

That night Max sat down in a corner to read it. Soon he came to the
place where the submarine was getting ready to fire a torpedo.

“Squeak!” went the book, as Max gave it a twist in his excitement. He
did not hear the sound; he only saw the torpedo skimming through the

“Crack!” went the book, as Max gave it a heavier twist. He did not
notice that he was bending the covers farther back. He only knew that
the torpedo was striking the bow of a big man-of-war.

“Rip!” went the book down the middle, as Max gave it a harder twist
with his hand.

But Max read right on, for just then the man-of-war lurched over on its
side as if it was getting ready to sink.

In his excitement Max forgot all about what he was doing and twisted
and bent the book back, cover to cover.

“Stop—quick—oh! oh! It hurts! You have broken my back—broken my back!
Oh!—oh!” cried the book.

Suddenly Max woke up and saw what he had done—but it was too late. He
had broken the glue and stitches apart and the covers hung limp.

Just then his mother came in.

“Look, mother—see what I have done to Tom Brown’s book,” he confessed.
“I am so sorry. It is such a good book. Can’t we glue it together

“No,” said his mother, “it is ruined. Glue may help, but it will never
be the same book.”

“Oh, I am so sorry!” said Max.

“Yes, Max, but being sorry will not make this book as good as it was
when you borrowed it.”

“I will make it right with Tom, mother. I will take my birthday money
to buy him a new one.”

“That is the right thing to do, Max,” answered his mother.


    How is a good book a good friend?

    Suppose it had been his own book that Max ruined, would
    he have been treating it fairly?

    If you were a book, how would you want to be treated?

    Do you know what holds a book together? Tell what you
    know about the way a book is made.

    Why should we be so careful of books?


    For every evil under the sun,
    There is a remedy, or there is none.
    If there be one, try to find it;
    If there be none, never mind it.



What Might Happen if Books and Bells Could Talk

The little schoolhouse was painted white, with green shutters. Over the
front gable was a little old-fashioned belfry. In it swung a little
old-fashioned school bell, for this was a country district school, with
scarcely a house in sight.

One bright September morning, the opening day of school, forty or fifty
noisy children were drawn up in line, waiting for the bell to stop

When the bell stopped, the children marched inside and took their
seats facing the teacher’s desk.

“Order!” tapped the desk bell, and the room was suddenly still.

The pupils looked to see who had tapped the bell, for the teacher was
nowhere to be seen.

They saw the new school-books piled on the platform and on the
teacher’s desk—but where was the teacher?

“I am the new Spelling Book, full of hard words,” said the top book of
the pile of spellers on the right-hand side of the platform.

“I am the new Reader, full of good stories,” announced the top one of a
stack of readers on the left-hand side of the platform.

The pupils were startled. It was so quiet you could hear the clock tick.

“I am the new Arithmetic, full of problems harder to crack than the
hickory nuts in the woods,” spoke up a book on the teacher’s desk; “but
why don’t you find your teacher?”

No one answered. The children only sat half-frightened, wondering what
would happen next.

“I am the new Language Book,” declared another book in the row on the
teacher’s desk; “but who will teach you your mother tongue?”

Everyone was still. Only the clock ticked on.

“I am the Geography; in my pages are maps of all countries. Who will
give you permission to look?” It was the largest book of all that asked
this question.

The pupils stared opened-eyed over the desk at the teacher’s empty
chair. They saw nothing but a sunbeam coming in through the window—full
of particles of shining dust.

“There must be somebody hiding,” spoke up one boy who could stand the
strain no longer.

“I am going to see,” said another boy braver than the rest.

Getting up, he looked behind the desk and in the closet, but nothing
was to be seen, not even a mouse.

“Let us go out and look for the teacher,” he cried. With one accord
they ran pell-mell out the door into the playground.

An automobile was coming up the road at top speed.

“Good morning, boys and girls,” the new teacher called, as the machine
pulled up.

“Good morning, teacher,” they answered crowding about her.

“I am sorry to be late the first day of school. There was some trouble
at Rockland and the train was delayed. Mr. Jones drove me over.”

“We are glad you are here,” said an older girl as the machine drove
off. “We went in and took our seats at nine o’clock, thinking you would
come at any minute. All at once something began to talk. ‘I am the
Speller full of hard words; I am the Arithmetic; I am the Reader; I am
the Geography; where is your teacher?’ the voices said. At first we
thought somebody was hiding, but we could not find anyone. Then we got
frightened and ran out.”

“Well, isn’t that strange?” said the teacher laughing. “We will go in
and see.”

Together they trooped into the schoolroom. They looked everywhere;
nothing had been moved; everything was just as usual.

The teacher tapped the bell and everyone took a seat.

“Well, children,” she said smiling, “we have already learned a very
important lesson this morning, and that is that every school must have
a teacher!”


                               { Teachers
                               { Pupils
    What should a school have? { Books
                               { Schoolhouse

    What other persons or things should a school have?

    Can you have a school without a teacher?

    Why is the teacher so important?

                                { Obedient
                                { Clean
                                { Orderly
    What should the pupils be?  { Courteous
                                { Helpful
                                { Punctual
                                { Anxious to learn.

    What else should   { Respectful to all connected with school.
    the pupils be?     { Respectful to principal, to teacher, to
                       {   janitor, to other children.


    One rule to guide us in our life
      Is always good and true;
    ’Tis, do to others as you would
      That they should do to you.

       *       *       *       *       *

    If wisdom’s ways you’d wisely seek,
      Five things observe with care;
    Of whom you speak, to whom to speak,
      And how, and when, and where.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Prize your friend for her own true heart,
      Though her dress be poor and mean;
    The years, like a fairy wand, may change
      Cinderella to a queen.


    ’Tis the Star-Spangled Banner, oh, long may it wave
    O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

As you came to school this morning, did you look up at your flag
floating from the top of the flag pole? Didn’t it look beautiful,
waving and rippling in the sunshine against the blue sky? I wonder if
you have ever thought about what it means?


You know flags are signs or emblems, and they all have a meaning.

There is no reading on our American flag, yet everyone knows what it
means as certainly as if there were letters all over it.


Our flag means that the United States of America is the Land of the
Free, and our government stands for:

    Liberty and justice for everybody;
    Education for all children;
    Protection to all Americans at home or abroad.

That is the reason so many people come to this country from countries
where they do not have such help from the government.

We Americans are very thankful for what our flag means.

If we are good Americans we shall live up to every one of the following

    To be true and faithful citizens;
    To do our part to carry out the laws of the government;
    To give, if necessary, our lives to protect our flag.


I pledge allegiance to my flag and to the republic for which it stands;
one nation indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.



I give my head, my heart, my hand to God and my country; one country,
one language, one flag.[A]


June 14 is the anniversary of the adoption of the flag, and that date
is celebrated in many states as Flag Day.

We can honor our flag

    By living for it;
    By keeping our own honor bright;
    By being brave; (Red stands for valor.)
    By being clean; (White stands for purity.)
    By being just; (Blue stands for justice.)
    By being loyal;
    By being ready to die for it, if we are called upon.

Our state has one star in the blue of the flag.

How shall we honor our star?

How shall we show respect for our country and our flag?

    Since our flag means so much to us, we should respect
    it and love it with all our hearts.

    When the flag passes in a parade, people should,
    if walking, halt; or if sitting, rise and stand at
    attention and uncover.


    The flag should never be allowed to drag on the ground
    nor be left out after dark. Did you know that it must
    never be used as an old rag? You see no matter how old
    or torn a flag becomes, it is still our flag and must
    be loved and honored always.

       *       *       *       *       *

    My country! ’tis of thee,
    Sweet land of liberty,
      Of thee I sing;
    Land where my fathers died!
    Land of the Pilgrim’s pride!
    From every mountain side
      Let freedom ring!

       *       *       *       *       *

“America is another name for Opportunity.”

What do you understand by that?



[A] At the word flag give the salute by raising the right hand to the



The thirteen stripes in our flag represent the thirteen original

Every star in the field of blue represents a state—“A star for every
state, and a state for every star.”

The flag brings a picture to our minds of all the things we are
grateful for in our history, and of all the things we want our country
and ourselves to be.


    What does our flag mean?

    Are you not glad that you live in a country where all
    the people rule, instead of any one person or just a
    few people?

    Can you repeat the Scouts’ Pledge? (Standing.)

    Who was Betsy Ross?

    Can you form a tableau like the picture of Betsy Ross
    sewing the American Flag?

    Isn’t it almost as brave to live up to the red, white,
    and blue as to die for our colors?

    Why is our nation’s flag always hung higher in this
    country than the flag of any other nation?

    Will you bring pictures of the flags of some other
    countries to class?

    Do you think any other flag more beautiful than ours?

    Will you try to do all you can to honor our flag, and
    never to let the star of your state grow dimmer because
    of any act of yours?

       *       *       *       *       *

          Hats off!
    Along the street there comes
    A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums,
    A flash of color beneath the sky:
          Hats off!
      The flag is passing by!
                           —_H. H. Bennett._



    I belong to this flag;
    This flag belongs to me,
    Because brave men have lived and died
    To set its people free;
    There are other flags in other lands,
    And more upon the sea,
      But the flag to-day of the U. S. A.
      Is the flag for you and me.

    If I belong to this flag,
    And this flag belongs to me,
    I’ll live or die, if there is need,
    To keep its people free;
    No other flag has braver men,
    Either on land or sea,
      Than the flag to-day of the U. S. A.—
      The flag for you and me.
                                  —_J. E. F._


    When Freedom from her mountain height
      Unfurled her standard to the air,
    She tore the azure robe of night,
      And set the stars of glory there:
    She mingled with her gorgeous dyes
    The milky baldric of the skies,
    And striped its pure celestial white
    With streakings of the morning light;
    Then, from his mansion in the sun,
    She called her eagle-bearer down,
    And gave into his mighty hand
    The symbol of her chosen land!

           *       *       *       *       *

    Flag of the free heart’s hope and home!
      By angel hands to valor given!
    Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
      And all thy hues were born in heaven.
    Forever float that standard sheet!
      Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
    With Freedom’s soil beneath our feet,
      And Freedom’s banner streaming o’er us!
                          —_Joseph Rodman Drake._




I. The Dog and the Policeman

One snowy day shortly after Christmas, when carefully picking my way
over the crossing at Market Street Ferry in Philadelphia, I almost ran
into a big policeman.

Just back of the big policeman was a little dog, and just back of the
little dog was a little dog-house, and just back of the dog-house was a
beautiful Christmas tree.

Wouldn’t it have made you stop in surprise to see a dog-house in the
middle of the busiest street in your city or town? Wouldn’t you have
wondered why the big policeman had the little dog, and why the little
dog had such a nice house there? And wouldn’t you have wondered and
wondered whether the Christmas tree belonged to the dog or to the big
policeman? It made me so curious that I did just as you would have
liked to do—I asked the policeman to tell me the story.

II. The Policeman’s Story

“Good morning, Mr. Burke,” I said, for I knew the officer’s name. “Will
you tell me about the little dog?”

“Why,” answered the policeman with a smile, “don’t you know about
Cheesey? Come here, Cheesey, the lady wants to see you!”

Cheesey looked up at the speaker and wagged his tail.

“Cheesey was born on Race Street pier,” went on the policeman. “Nobody
knows how he got his living after his mother died; but one thing is
sure, he was not treated very kindly by the men who loaded the boats
and swept the wharves. To this day Cheesey growls at the sight of one
of those men.

“After a while Cheesey found a little playmate, but the playmate was
run over by a fire engine. All night long Cheesey lay in the spot where
his little mate had been killed.

“Weary and lonely and hungry, he crept back to the old cheerless corner
of Race Street pier, which was the only place he knew as home.

“There he lay with his head on his paws, not noticing anything until
one of the men kicked him out of the way.

“Cheesey ran out of the pier and down Delaware Avenue, not knowing
where he was going; but he went just the right way, for he ran into
Officer Weigner, one of the four of us who watch this crossing.

“He spoke kindly to the little fellow, and gave him something to eat.

“From that time, Cheesey seemed to think he belonged to the policemen
on this crossing. Then we gave him his name.”

III. Cheesey’s Christmas Presents

“Cheesey had no place to sleep,” went on the policeman after seeing
some people safely across the street, “except on a pile of bags in the
ferry house. He seemed so cold that I asked Charley, one of the workmen
in the ferry, if he could not knock together some packing boxes for
the little fellow.

“Charley did the best he could, but I must say he made a sorry looking

“One day, just before Christmas while I was on duty, Mr. Sheip, of
the Sheip Box Factory, happened to notice the box Charley had knocked

“‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘is that the best you fellows can do?’

“‘Why, Mr. Sheip,’ I replied, ‘we are not box-makers, you know.’

“‘That’s so!’ he said. ‘I’ll have a dog-house made in the factory!’ and
on Christmas day this beauty of a dog-house came. Have you noticed the
label on it?”

I read the painted black letters on the large white label:

    |                            |
    |      Merry Christmas       |
    |             to             |
    |          Cheesey           |
    |            from            |
    | Officers Burke, Dougherty, |
    |    Kunzig, and Weigner.    |
    |                            |

“It pleased us so,” went on the officer, “that we bought a Christmas
tree and many people helped us trim it.

“A good many people brought presents for Cheesey. One lady from Camden
brought a feather pillow; another lady brought a piece of meat. That
dog could have seventeen meals a day if he could hold them—couldn’t
you, Cheesey?”

The little dog wagged his tail, turned around twice, then went into his
house. After thanking the officer I went on my way, made happier for
all my life because of the true story of Cheesey.


    ’Twas only a dog in a kennel,
      And little the noise he made,
    But it seemed to me, as I heard it,
      I knew what that old dog said:
    “Another long day to get over!
      Will nobody loosen my chain,
    Just for a run in the meadow,
      Then fasten me up again?”

    Through life it’s been a comfort to me—
      My little dog’s loving sympathy.


    Do you think the officers were repaid by knowing they
    had made Cheesey happy?

    Does Cheesey remind you a little of Cinderella? Who
    were the fairies in Cheesey’s life?

    What might have happened to Cheesey if the officers had
    not been kind?

    Did you ever own a dog?

    Can you tell some story showing your dog’s intelligence
    or bravery?

    What is the kindest thing to do for an animal which is
    suffering if you cannot take care of it or feed it?

    Do you know the address of the S. P. C. A. in your city?

    Did you know that sometimes dogs are thought to be mad
    when they are only very thirsty?

    Sometimes dogs have been treated unfairly and are
    cross; so it is best not to pat a strange dog’s head.

    Do you realize that a dog is the only animal which
    makes people its companions and playmates?

    How should we treat dogs?

       *       *       *       *       *


    If I can stop one heart from breaking,
      I shall not live in vain;
    If I can ease one life the aching, or cool one pain,
    Or help one fainting robin to its nest again,
      I shall not live in vain.



    He was lost!—not a shade of doubt of that;
    For he never barked at a slinking cat,
    But stood in the square where the wind blew raw,
    With drooping ear and a trembling paw,
    And a mournful look in his pleading eye,
    And a plaintive sniff at the passerby,
    That begged as plain as tongue could sue,
    “Oh, mister, please may I follow you?”
    A lorn wee waif of tawny brown
    Adrift in the roar of a heedless town.
    Oh, the saddest of sights in a world of sin
    Is a little lost pup with his tail tucked in.

    Well, he won my heart (for I set great store
    On my own red Brute—who is here no more),
    So I whistled clear, and he trotted up,
    And who so glad as that small pup?
    Now he shares my board, and he owns my bed,
    And he fairly shouts when he hears my tread.
    Then, if things go wrong, as they sometimes do,
    And the world is cold and I’m feeling blue,
    He asserts his rights to assuage my woes
    With a warm red tongue and a nice cold nose,
    And a silky head on my arm or knee,
    And a paw as soft as a paw can be.
    When we rove the woods for a league about,
    He’s as full of pranks as a school let out;
    For he romps and frisks like a three-months’ colt
    And he runs me down like a thunder bolt.
    Oh, the blithest of sights in the world so fair
    Is a gay little pup with his tail in the air!
                                 —_Arthur Guiterman._







    Mrs. Pussy, sleek and fat,
      With her kittens four,
    Went to sleep upon a mat
      By the kitchen door.

    Mrs. Pussy heard a noise;
      Up she sprang in glee.
    “Kittens, maybe it’s a mouse—
      Let us go and see.”

    Creeping, creeping, soft and low,
      Silently they stole,
    But the little mouse had crept
      Back into its hole.

    “Well,” said Mrs. Pussy then,
      “Homeward let us go;
    We shall find our supper there,
      That I surely know.”

    Home went hungry Mrs. Puss
      With her kittens four,
    Found their supper on a plate
      By the kitchen door.


    What do you think of people who do not care for and
    feed the cats they own?

    Do you know that a cat that is well cared for, and kept
    in the house at night is not likely to catch birds,
    because cats catch birds in the early morning and at

    What do you think of people who move away from a place
    and leave their cats behind? What will become of the

    What should people do with cats they do not care to
    take away? Do you know where the nearest S. P. C. A.
    office is?

    What good service does the cat do for people?

    Why are rats and mice dangerous to our health?

    How many toes has a cat on front paws? On back paws?

    Which way does the fur lie on the under side of the


    Stealing to an open door, craving food and meat,
    Frightened off with angry cries and broomed into the street;
    Tortured, teased, and chased by dogs, through the lonely night,
    Homeless little beggar cat, sorry is your plight.
                                         —_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._


    If you cannot care for or feed a stray cat, what is the
    kindest thing to do?

    How does it save the birds to see that stray cats
    either are given a home or are taken to a cat refuge?



    I have a little kitty,
      Just as cute as she can be;
    But my! she is peculiar!
      For she _eats_ her catnip tea!

    After every meal she eats
      She tidies up her head,
    And washes carefully enough;—
      But she never makes her bed!

    I’m told a kitty cannot talk,
      But my kitty every day
    Tells me that she loves me
      When we are at our play!

    Yes, she tells me very plainly
      And I will tell you how,—
    I ask, “Who thinks a lot of me?”
      She answers, “Me! Me—ow!”
                            —_J. E. F._



On the porch of a comfortable old house, shaded by fine trees, a group
of young girls were gathered around a small table, sewing.

Suddenly the harsh notes of a hand-organ came to their ears, disturbing
the peaceful stillness of the summer afternoon.

Marion Johnson, who was visiting her cousins, laid aside her work and

“Why, I do believe it is the very same man that came to our town a week
ago,” she exclaimed. “He had with him a poor, miserable looking monkey,
which he called Jocko.”

Just then they saw the organ-grinder, with the monkey perched on the,
organ, coming up the village street. Seeing the girls on the porch, he
turned up the walk.

“I think I shall call Aunt Kate,” remarked Marion, rising and going
into the house.

Aunt Kate could always be depended upon to help any dumb creature
needing a friend.

Aunt Kate’s face lost its usual look of quiet good humor, as she
glanced over the porch railing and saw a tall swarthy man at the foot
of the steps, carelessly turning the handle of a small squeaky organ.

Keeping time to the music, a weak little monkey danced very wearily.
When his steps dragged he was brought up quickly with a sharp jerking
of the chain which was fastened to his collar.

A cap was held on his head by a tight rubber band which passed under
the chin. His gaudy dress was heavy and warm and seemed to weigh down
his tired limbs.

Now and then, when he dared, Jocko laid a tiny brown hand on the
tugging chain in an effort to ease it. With an appealing look he
glanced up at his master, as if trying to make him understand how
painfully the collar was cutting his thin neck.


Aunt Kate’s mild blue eyes almost flashed as she motioned to the
organ-grinder to stop playing.

“You no lika music?” he asked brokenly, glancing up at her in some

“Yes, that is right,” she answered, speaking very slowly and distinctly.

“We do not like the music; and we do not like to see that poor monkey
dance; and, above all, we do not like to see you hurting his neck by
pulling that chain.”


The look of sullen anger which came over the man’s face quickly
disappeared when he saw the coin in Aunt Kate’s hand.

“I will give you this,” she said, holding up the piece of money, “if
you will stay here and let Jocko rest for one hour.”

The organ-grinder smiled and sat down on the steps as a sign of

At first, Jocko could scarcely believe that he might rest his weary
little legs and feet. After a while, however, he threw himself at full
length upon the porch floor as some worn out child might have done.

Marion was left on guard to see that he was not disturbed when the
others went to get food.

When they returned they found Jocko resting on a soft cushion, a
comfort his little body had never known before.

Only after being promised more money did the organ-grinder permit
Marion to take off Jocko’s hard leather collar, underneath which she
had discovered sores.

She bandaged the tiny neck with soft linen spread with salve. She took
off his cap, too, with its tight-cutting band.

When water was brought, Jocko drank with pitiful eagerness. Many hours
had passed since he had had a drink, and his throat and lips were
parched. He ate the food they offered him like a wild creature, for he
was very hungry.

Every once in a while he would glance at the organ-grinder as though he
feared punishment.

When the hour was up, the organ-grinder would stay no longer. As his
master led him away, Jocko lifted his hat, just as if he wanted to
thank Aunt Kate and the girls for their kindness.

“I never knew before,” said Marion, “how cruel it is to expect little
monkeys to live such unnatural lives. I do hope the man will be more
kind to Jocko after this.”

                                    —_Mary Craige Yarrow—Adapted._


    Why didn’t the girls and their aunt like to see the
    little monkey dance?

    What did they enjoy seeing it do?

    Have you ever been very, very tired?

    Can you imagine how you would feel if some giant would
    not let you rest?

    What kind of life is natural for monkeys?

    Did you ever give a penny to an organ-grinder with a

    If everyone stopped giving money to men who use monkeys
    for begging, how would it help the little monkeys?


“Cheer up! Cheer up!” sings Robin Redbreast every morning. “Listen to
me! Listen to me! Oh, excuse me! I see, I see a feast!” and down he
hops, hops, hops to the spot where he sees a nice fat worm wiggling out
of the ground.

Perhaps it is an earthworm, perhaps it is a worse worm; but if it is an
earthworm, you will have fun watching Robin.

He seizes the worm with his bill, then braces his feet against the
earth, and pulls and pulls with all his might.

Out comes the worm with such a jerk that Robin almost topples over; but
he doesn’t. He either eats the worm or flies away with it to his hungry
little birdies.

Down he drops it into one of the wide open mouths in the nest.

Do you know how many earthworms one baby robin can eat in one day?

A man who loves birds once counted the worms that one pair of robins
fed to their little ones, and found that each little robin ate
sixty-eight earthworms in one day.

Sixty-eight earthworms if placed end to end would measure about
fourteen feet. Just think what busy lives Mr. and Mrs. Robin Redbreast
live, and how they love their little ones.

Robins eat many other kinds of worms besides earthworms, and they eat
insects, too. They work hard to feed their babies, and in this way they
do a wonderful thing for us, for the insects they eat would destroy the
plants which we need.

You know bread really grows on tall grasses called wheat and rye, and
oatmeal grows on a grass called oats.

There are millions of insects which like wheat and rye and oats as much
as we do, and they would eat up all the crops if it were not for the
birds that eat the insects. Now you can see why we call the birds our


Who killed Cock Robin?

No; it was not the sparrow with a bow and arrow. No—more likely a boy
with an air rifle killed him, or a man with a gun who did not know what
a wicked thing he was doing.

He did not know that he had killed one of his best friends.

He did not know that without the work of beautiful Robin Redbreast and
other birds the world might go hungry.

What if robins do eat a few cherries? They like mulberries better. A
wise farmer plants a Russian mulberry tree for the robins, and the
mulberries save the cherries.


    Do you know that millions of men and boys hunt and kill
    birds “for fun” every year?

    Do you know that millions of birds are killed each year
    to be used in trimming women’s hats?

    How many different birds can you name?

    Can you tell the kinds of food each of them eats?

    Do you know what kinds of nests they build?

    What do you think of people who kill robins?

    Have you ever placed food in a sheltered place for
    birds in winter when it is hard for them to find a



When I was only about six years of age, a Robin Redbreast that we used
to feed got so tame that he would fly in through the window to our
breakfast table.

In the spring he delighted us by bringing a small family of Roblings to
the window sill of the room as if to introduce them to the people who
had helped him through the hard winter!

Another special bird that I remember was a one-legged sparrow
that used to be among the birds that came when we were living in
Bucking-ham-shire. We always called him “Timber-toes.”

He came to us for two or three winters, so that, even with but one leg,
he must have picked up a living somehow.

                                                  —_Little Folks._

    |             A WINTER MENU FOR BIRDS             |
    |                                                 |
    | Crumbs of bread swept off the breakfast table.  |
    |                                                 |
    | Morsels of fish and meat.                       |
    |                                                 |
    | Bones hung on strings from tree branches.       |
    |                                                 |
    | Strips of bacon rind cut up into small bits.    |
    |                                                 |
    | Small seeds of any kind. (These may be gathered |
    | in summer and saved.)                           |


    Did you ever make a house for a little house wren?

    Little Jenny Wren is looking for a house every spring.
    She is a very friendly neighbor. Why not make her a
    house with a doorway too small for Mrs. Sparrow to
    squeeze through? Make the opening only one inch wide.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The meadow lark is one of our very helpful birds. Do
    you know the colors of the meadow lark’s feathers?


Now, I want to tell you something that is worth knowing. It is this. If
all the birds in the world should die, all the boys and girls in the
world would have to die also. There would not be one boy or girl left
alive; they would all die of starvation.

And the reason is this. Most small birds live on insects; they eat
millions and millions of insects. If there were no birds, the insects
would increase so that they would eat up all vegetation. The cattle,
and horses, and sheep, and swine, and poultry would all die, and we
should have to die also.

Now, what I want all of you to remember, is that every time you kill
one of these little insect-eating birds, it means that thousands of
insects the bird would have eaten are going to live to torment us; and
every time you take an egg from one of these little birds’ nests, that
means one less bird to eat the insects. I do not like mosquitoes and
insects. I think it is better that the birds should live and eat the
insects, than that the birds should die and the insects eat us.

                                               —_George T. Angell._


    If a bird in a cage could speak, what do you think it
    would say?

    Can it tell you when it has no drinking water?

    Do you know that thirst is worse than hunger?

    Do you know that a person can do without food much
    longer than without water?

    What do birds do for farmers?

    What do they do for you? Don’t you think it would be
    foolish to destroy them?

    Do you think it right to keep wild birds in cages? Why

    Did you ever notice the beautiful doves or pigeons in
    the city?

    Why are they so tame?

       *       *       *       *       *

    Don’t rob the birds of their eggs, boys,
      ’Tis cruel and heartless and wrong;
    And remember, by breaking an egg, boys,
      We may lose a bird with a song.



My house is in a little grove of oak trees.

Every winter I feed several gray squirrels with nuts.

Every day about noon a big father squirrel comes and scratches on my
kitchen window.

There he sits on the sill, watching with bright eyes until I open the
window and throw out some nuts.

The more timid squirrels are seated on the ground looking up at the
window. They catch the nuts and scamper away with them up to the tops
of the trees. But not Furry. He takes nuts from my hands, and holding
them in his little finger-claws, gnaws away the shell faster than I
can count ten. He acts quite like a little pig sometimes, for he asks
for more than he needs.

What do you think he does with them?

He jumps down with one in his mouth and starts to dig. As soon as the
hole is deep enough to suit him he buries the nut, packing the earth
carefully over it to make it look as though the ground had not been

Then back he comes for another nut.

If all the nuts he plants were acorns and he should forget to come and
find half of them when he is hungry—how big my oak forest would be!




    Have you ever fed a squirrel?

    Where have you seen the largest number together?

    Why were they not afraid?

    How do mother squirrels carry their babies from one
    place to another?

    How do mother cats carry their babies?

    If mothers did not love their babies so much, what
    would happen to all animals and people?

    Do we have to thank squirrels for some of our trees?


    Did you ever wish your doll or rocking horse were alive?

    Could anyone make them live?

    Isn’t being alive the most wonderful thing you can
    think of?

    Doesn’t it make you glad to think of the little wild
    things living in the out-of-doors?

    Name some of the animals living in the woods.

    Would the country be as pleasant without them?

    Why should you dislike to hurt any of them?


    Do you know that if people do not stop hunting wild
    ducks, mountain sheep, deer, and other animals they may
    all be killed?

    Did you ever see a reindeer?

    Did you notice its beautiful eyes?

    Would it be fun to fight a baby?

    Are not many animals as helpless as babies when they
    are hunted?

    Don’t you think it is cowardly to shoot little helpless
    animals “for fun”?



I. The Careless Driver

It was the week before Christmas. Everybody was ordering all sorts of
good things to be sent home “just as soon as possible.”

The grocer’s boy, John, was on duty early. Soon many baskets were
filled with orders to be delivered.

The horse was hurried out of the stable before he had quite finished
his breakfast, and John soon had the baskets piled into the wagon.

“Be lively, now,” the grocer said. “Get back as soon as you can.”

John jumped on the wagon, seized the whip and gave the horse a sharp
cut to begin the day with.

John kept the whip in his hand. If the horse held up his pace a minute
to give himself a chance to breathe, another snap of the whip kept him
on the run.

At the different houses where he left the groceries John rushed in and
out as quickly as possible. In several places he was given fresh orders
for articles that were needed.

So the morning passed, and dinner time arrived. As John put the horse
in the stable he could not help seeing that his breath came hard and
fast, and that he was wet with sweat.

“I guess it won’t do to give him any water, he is so hot,” John said,
as he hurriedly put a scanty allowance of dry feed into the manger.

The worn-out horse, trembling in every nerve with the fatigue of going
hard all the morning, was almost choking with thirst.

When John hurried in to his dinner, the first thing he asked for was
something warm to drink. His mother gave him a cup of hot cocoa, and
a good dinner, which he ate rapidly. Then off he started for the
afternoon’s work.

“Hurry up,” said the grocer as soon as John appeared. “Get out the
horse and take these baskets; they are all rush orders.”

“I went to Mrs. Bell’s twice this morning,” said John. “I should think
she might give all her order at one time and not keep us running there
all day.”

“I can’t help it. She is a good customer. Hurry up,” answered the

John ran out to the barn. He certainly had meant to give the horse
water before he started out again, but being hurried, he forgot it. In
a few minutes, whip in hand, he was urging the tired, thirsty horse
again over the road.

Toward the close of the afternoon the horse began to hang his head.
When John touched him up with the whip he did not go any faster. When
he stopped for the third time at Mrs. Bell’s house his legs were
trembling and he closed his eyes as if he were going to sleep.

Mrs. Bell looked out of the window and said to her Aunt Sarah, who was
visiting her, “I think it is a shame for Mr. Rush to let that boy race
his horse so all day. Every time he comes here the horse is in a sweat,
and now he looks as if he would drop. It is wicked to work a horse so!”

Her aunt replied, “Yes, the horses have to suffer for man’s
thoughtlessness, and woman’s, too. He’s been here three times to-day,
hasn’t he?” But Mrs. Bell did not see the point of the reply.

II. What Happened in the Barn

It was seven o’clock before John put the horse in the stable. He
remembered then that he had given him no water all day. As he did not
want to be obliged to go out to the barn again he gave him a pail of
ice-cold water, which the horse drank greedily. Then he put his supper
before him and left him.

He did not stop to rub down the aching legs or to give the faithful,
exhausted creature any further attention. He just threw a blanket over
him and closed the barn for the night.

When John came to the store the next morning a very angry looking
grocer met him at the door. “You can go home as soon as you like. I
won’t have a boy that drives my horse to death,” he said.

“Is the horse dead?” asked John, turning pale.

“It is not your fault if he is not dead. I have been up nearly all
night with him, and I must get another horse to take his place until he
is well.”

“You told me to hurry every time I went out,” answered John.

“Well, if you had any sense, you would know when a horse is used up and
rest him,” replied the grocer.

The horse died that day; and the grocer, the boy driver, and Mrs. Bell
were all to blame.

The grocer ought not to have trusted a boy who had no sympathy for
animals. Such a boy is not fit to drive and care for a horse.

John was too selfish to give the horse time to breathe or to eat, and
he did not care whether he was made comfortable in the stable or not.

Mrs. Bell was thoughtless in giving her orders; so she made the horse
take many unnecessary trips to her house.

So a willing, patient animal was neglected and worked to death, when
with good care he might have lived many years and done faithful work.
This all happened because the man, the boy, and the woman had never
learned to be thoughtful and kind.

                                  —_Mrs. Huntington Smith—Adapted._


    What do you think of a man who is cruel to horses?

    Do you think people respect such a person?

    Did you ever hear that “cruelty is the meanest crime”?

    How would you treat a pony? A horse?

    Did you ever read “Black Beauty”?

    Which should you like better for a friend—a man who is
    kind to animals or a man who does not care how they are
    treated, just so that he gets his work done?

    When you are hurt, or sick, what do you do?

    Can a horse or any animal tell a friend when he is sick?


    To the Lady of the House:

    Please order your supplies for the day early in the
    morning and all in one order. One daily trip to your
    door is enough. Two trips will wear me out twice as

    Telephoning in an extra order doubles the work for the
    sales clerk and bookkeeper as well as for the driver
    and horse. This adds to the cost of all you buy.

    Hurry up orders make whippings for me.

    Please think of those who serve you, both people and

                              Your obedient servant,
                                       The Delivery Horse.

    P. S. Some boys play with a whip over my back, not
    meaning to hurt me, but I cannot see the fun. It makes
    me nervous, and I get so tired by night from being
    worried that I tremble all over. I know boys do not
    think about that part.

                                         T. D. Horse.


    Every horse will work longer and better if given three
    ample meals daily; plenty of clean, fresh water; proper
    shoes, sharpened in slippery weather; a blanket in
    cold weather; a stall six feet by nine feet or room
    enough to lie down; a fly net in summer and two weeks’
    vacation each year. Do not use the cruel, tight check
    rein, or closely fitting blinders which cause blindness.




    Wouldn’t you have much more work to do if there were no

    Have you ever been very tired?

    Have you ever been very thirsty?

    Could you ask for a drink of water?

    Can a horse ask?

    Don’t you suppose animals suffer terribly with thirst?

    What would a horse say if he could talk?

    Can you drive?

    Did you ever stop to think that it is because a horse’s
    mouth is so tender that the great strong animal does
    what the driver wishes?

    What do you think about jerking the reins?

    Should we have as nice and comfortable houses or food
    or clothing if we had no horses?


    Is the horse a laborer?

    Has he a right to wages? What should they be?

    How many meals a day should a horse have?

    Can you imagine how it would seem if you were very,
    very hungry to be taken into a place where tables were
    spread with tempting food, and be driven past them
    without a bite?

    How do hungry horses feel when they see and smell
    apples and grass?

    Can you run as fast when you carry a heavy load as you
    can with a light load?

    Can a horse?

    Did you ever burn your mouth?

    Did you know that the steel bit, if put very cold in
    the horse’s mouth, will burn off the skin of the tongue
    and make the mouth sore—and perhaps prevent the horse
    from eating?

    Could the bit be easily warmed by dipping it into hot
    water, or breathing on it to take out the frost?

    Did you ever stop to think that every creature that is
    alive can suffer?


    Did you ever see a driver stop on a cold day and go
    into a restaurant for a bowl of warm soup or a cup of

    Did he put a blanket on the horse?

    Did you ever see a horse taken into a stable and given
    a warm meal on a cold day?

    Did you ever see non-skid chain-shoes for horses?

    Do you know that burlap tied on the horses’ hoofs
    answers the same purpose, and costs only a little time
    and forethought?

       *       *       *       *       *

    The driver can best help this horse to get up by
    spreading a blanket or carpet over the icy roadway
    under his feet.




Stories About People Who Minister to Our Daily Needs

These stories develop very simply, the fundamental ideas of service,
dependence and interdependence, and reciprocal duties. They also teach
incidentally the civic virtues of thoroughness, honesty, respect, etc.,
which form the subject matter of Part I of this book.



I. An Early Call

“Good morning, children,” said Mrs. Duwell, with a bright smile—so
bright that it seemed as if the oatmeal she was stirring smiled too.

“Good morning, mother,” said Ruth. “My, but we are early this morning;
it is only seven o’clock.”

“Good morning, mother,” said Wallace, sleepily. “May I go back to bed

“Yes—after supper to-night,” replied his mother. “But I am glad you are
up, for I am expecting a caller to knock at the door any moment.”

“Who is it?” asked Ruth.

“Oh, he is a very important man,” said her mother. “The strange part of
it is that he never rings the front door bell, but always comes to the
kitchen door and knocks.”

“Please tell us who he is!” cried both the children.




“Yes,” went on Mrs. Duwell, “he is going to bring us the most useful
and wonderful article sold in any store in this city.”

“Oh, mother, tell us what it is,” begged the children.

Just then there came a heavy knock at the kitchen door.

“There he comes with it now, I believe,” whispered Mrs. Duwell.
“Wallace, you may open the door.”

Wallace ran quickly to the door and opened it, and there stood—the
bread man.

“Oh, mother,” exclaimed Wallace, “it’s only the bread man!”

“Wallace,” said his mother, “speak more politely. Say ‘good morning,’
and take a loaf of bread and a dozen rolls.”

“Now, mother, tell us who it is you expect, and what he is going to
bring,” coaxed Ruth as soon as the door was closed.

“Sit down and eat your breakfast, children, and I will tell you all
about it.”

When the children had been served, she went on: “The man I spoke about
has just gone—he is the bread man. Isn’t a loaf of bread the most
useful and wonderful article sold in any store in the city?”

“Why, mother, you are joking!” exclaimed Wallace.

“No, indeed, I am not. Tell me, children, what must you have in order
to live?”

“Food,” replied Ruth.

“Correct; and what article of food do we most need?”

“Bread,” replied Ruth.

“I believe that is so,” said Wallace, after thinking a moment. “I am
going to talk with father about it when he comes home to-night.”

“That is right; I think he will tell you something about wheat fields
and bake ovens,” said Mrs. Duwell. “Now run along to school or you will
be late.”

II. The Staff of Life

“Father,” said Wallace, as the family sat about the supper table that
evening, “a very important man called at the door this morning before
we went to school.”

“He did! Who was he?” asked Mr. Duwell.

“Guess who,” said Ruth. “He left us the most wonderful and useful
article sold in any store in this city.”

“Who was he? What was it?” Mr. Duwell pretended to be very curious.

“Guess! See if you can guess!”

“Let me see—oh, yes, it must have been the mayor with a pound of

“Guess again,” shouted the children.

“A policeman, with a bottle of ink.”

“No, guess again!”

“I give it up.”

“The bread man with that loaf of bread,” cried the children, pointing
to the loaf on the table.

“Well, well, I believe you are right, children,” said their father. “I
certainly ought to have guessed, although I never thought of the bread
man as a very important man before.”

“Mother explained it to us this morning and said that you would tell us
about the wheat fields and bake ovens,” spoke up Ruth.

“I certainly will, children,” said their father, looking pleased. “Let
me see; what is this made of?” he asked, picking up a piece of bread.


“Yes, what kind?”

“Wheat flour.”

“Correct; so this is wheat bread. What other kinds of bread are there?”

“Rye bread, bran bread, graham bread.”

“Yes; and in Europe bread is often made of oats and barley.”

“Bread is sometimes called by another name,” said their mother; “did
you ever hear of it? The staff——”

“The staff of life,” finished the children.

“I have an idea,” cried their father suddenly. “The Spotless Bakery is
about three squares up the street. It is open in the evening. I know
the manager. Let us go up there to see how they make bread.”

“Hurrah for dad! Fine, come on!” cried Wallace.

“I wish mother could go,” Ruth said.

Her mother shook her head; “No, dear, I’ll not go this time, but thank
you for thinking of it.”

“We won’t be long, mother, and we’ll tell you about everything when we
get home,” said Wallace, as the three left the house.

III. A Visit to the Bakery

Soon they came to a big square building that seemed to be all windows,
blazing with light. Over the door was a sign which read:

                     THE SPOTLESS BAKERY

The children had often seen the building before but had never been

They entered and their father asked to see the manager. Soon he came
bustling in—a round smiling little man, dressed in a spotless white

“Good evening, Mr. Duwell,” he said, shaking hands.

“Good evening, Mr. Baker,” replied Mr. Duwell. “This is Ruth, and this
is Wallace. They want to see how bread is baked, if you are not too
busy for visitors.”

“I shall be delighted to show you,” said Mr. Baker, smiling and shaking
hands with both children; “this way, please.”

Up a narrow winding stair they climbed to the sifting room on the
fourth floor.

“Every bit of flour starts on its journey through these sifters,” said
the manager, pointing to a row of box-like sifting machines.

On the floor stood a huge pile of bags of flour. “Each one of these
bags holds one hundred and forty pounds,” he explained.

Passing down the stairway they saw the store-room piled high with more
bags of flour. “There are more than a thousand of them,” said the

Then they came to the mixing room. Everything was white—the huge mixers
were white; the walls were white; the bakers were dressed in white with
odd round white caps; the dough trays were white—everything was white
and spotless.

“The flour from the sifters above comes through an opening in the
floor into the mixers. Then the yeast and other things are added. The
electric power is started. The great iron arms of the mixers turn, and
twist, and mix until the whole mass becomes dough,” Mr. Baker explained.

Along the wall were the dough trays in which the dough is set to rise.
These trays remind one of huge white bath tubs on wheels, a little
wider and deeper and about twice as long as the ones in our houses.

“How much will each one of those hold?” asked Wallace, pointing to the
trays full of creamy dough.

“Enough to make eleven hundred loaves,” answered the manager.

“Why, there must be over forty of them,” said Wallace, looking down the
long line. “How many loaves do you bake in a day?”

“We have two more bakeries like this, and in the three we bake about
one hundred thousand loaves a day—besides rolls and cakes.”

“Why, I didn’t know there was so much bread in the world,” said Wallace.

“Yes, my boy, there are bakeries almost everywhere. We supply only a
small part of the bread needed in our large city.”

As they went down the next stairway to the baking room, the pleasant
odor of fresh-baked bread came up to meet them.

“Here they are!” cried Ruth. “Look, Wallace, here are the bake ovens!”

All that could be seen on one side of the room was a long row of black
oven doors, set in a low white-tiled wall.

On the other side of the room were large oblong tables, around which
the white-uniformed bakers were busily working.

The dough was piled high on the tables. One baker cut it into lumps.
Another made the lumps into pound loaves, weighing them on a scale.
Another shaped the loaves and put them into rows of pans, which were
slipped into large racks and wheeled to the oven door.

“Look,” said Wallace, “they are going to put them in!”

A baker put four loaves on a long-handled flat shovel; then quickly
opened the oven door and slipped them inside.

“Look at the loaves!” cried Wallace, peeping into the open door.
“Hundreds of them. How many will that oven hold?”

“Six hundred,” said the baker, closing the door.

“Look,” cried Ruth, “they are taking them out of that other oven. There
comes our loaf for breakfast, Wallace.”

Farther down the room a baker was lifting out of an oven the nut-brown
loaves, bringing with them the sweet smell of fresh bread.

“Isn’t it wonderful!” said Mr. Duwell, who was almost as excited as the
children. “Notice how all the men work together, everyone doing his
part to help the others.”

“What are the baking hours?” he asked the manager.

“From twelve o’clock, noon, till midnight, the ovens are kept going as
you see them now,” said the manager.

“We will go down one more flight to the shipping room,” he added,
leading the way.

There the finished loaves were coming down from the floor above on
great racks to wait for shipping time. The space in front of the
shipping platform was crowded with wagons and automobiles.


“Why, look!” said Wallace, “there are more wagons than automobiles. I
should think you would use automobiles entirely.”

“No,” replied the manager, “the automobiles are better for long
distances; but for short distances, where the driver has to start and
stop, horses are much better. When the driver serves bread along a
street he calls, ‘Come Dolly,’ or whatever the horse’s name is, and
the horse follows. The horse is alive; the automobile isn’t.”

“When does the delivery start?” asked Mr. Duwell.

“Soon after midnight.”

After thanking the manager for his kindness, shaking hands all around,
and bidding him good-night, the little party hurried home.

All that night Wallace dreamed that he was putting loaves of bread
into a big oven and lifting them out, brown and crisp, on the end of a
long-handled shovel, loading them into a delivery wagon, and driving
all over the city, so that the people could have fresh bread for

IV. Where the Wheat Comes From

At the table the next evening the children were still talking about
their visit to the bakery.

“Well, children,” said their father, “we followed the flour through the
bakery to the loaf on our table. What do you say if we take a little
journey to the place where the wheat comes from.”

“Fine!” cried Wallace. “When can we start?”

“Right now, son, but it will be a stay-at-home journey,” said Mr.
Duwell; and everybody laughed.

“Let us see,” Mr. Duwell went on; “where did the thousand bags of flour
we saw in the bakery come from?”

“I know,” said Ruth. “I read ‘Minn.’ on one of the bags.”

“Good, Ruth,” said her father. “That is what I call using your eyes.
What does ‘Minn.’ stand for?”

“Min-ne-so-ta,” answered Wallace quickly.

“Correct! Minnesota has great wheat fields, and so have North and South
Dakota, Kansas, and many other states; but the wheat in our loaf grew
in Minnesota.

“Wallace, step over to the bookcase and bring me the large book marked

Wallace brought it in a moment.

Mr. Duwell opened the book and found some colored pictures.

“Here we are,” said he. “What does it say under the first picture,

“‘Reaping and Binding Wheat,’” read Ruth, bending over the book.

“Right! There is our loaf growing, and there is the machine cutting the
wheat and tying it into bundles. What does it say under this picture,

“‘Threshing by Steam,’” read Wallace.

“Yes—taking the wheat from the straw and chaff. What comes next, Ruth?”

“‘Grain El-e-va-tor,’” read Ruth.

“What is a grain elevator?” asked Mr. Duwell.

“Why, the place where the wheat is stored until needed.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Duwell, “some elevators are so large that they will
hold nearly two million bushels of wheat.”

“Plenty large enough to hold our loaf,” added Mrs. Duwell.

“Now read again, Wallace.”

“‘In-te-ri-or of Flour Mill,’” read Wallace.

“Yes, that is where they grind the wheat into white flour and remove
the bran.”

“Bran is the outside coat, isn’t it?” asked Ruth.

“Yes, that’s it! Now read again.”

“‘Train Being Loaded with Flour,’” read Ruth.

“Yes, that must be a picture of the fifteen car loads of flour used
every week by the Spotless Bakery.”

“I never would have believed it took so many people to make a loaf of
bread,” exclaimed Mrs. Duwell. “Let me see: the plowman, the sower,
the reaper,—go on, Wallace.”

“The thresher, the miller, the train-men, the baker—” added Wallace.

“And the baker’s horses,” finished Ruth.


    Have you ever visited a bakery? Tell about it.

    The Duwell family had a splendid time finding out
    things about their bread and rolls, didn’t they?

    Why don’t you try it with some of the other things you

    Can you think of some ways of helping this very useful
    man, the baker?

    Suppose company had come unexpectedly to see your
    great-grandmother when she did not have bread enough
    baked. How would she have gotten bread for her guests?

    What would your mother do if the same thing happened to

       *       *       *       *       *

    Praise God for wheat, so white and sweet,
      Of which we make our bread!
    Praise God for yellow corn, with which
      His waiting world is fed!
                              —_Edward Everett Hale._



    Little Sarah stood by her grandmother’s bed,
    “Now what shall I get for your breakfast?” she said.
    “You may get me a johnny-cake. Quickly go make it,
    In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it.”


    So Sarah went to the closet to see
    If yet any meal in the barrel might be.
    The barrel had long been as empty as wind,
    And not a speck of corn meal could she find.
    But grandmother’s johnny-cake, still she must make it,
    In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it.


    She ran to the store, but the storekeeper said,
    “I have none. You must go to the miller, fair maid,
    For he has a mill, and he’ll put the corn in it,
    And grind you some nice yellow meal in a minute.
    Now run, or the johnny-cake, how will you make it,
    In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?”


    Then Sarah she ran every step of the way,
    But the miller said, “No, I have no meal to-day.
    Run, quick, to the cornfield, just over the hill,
    And if any corn’s there, you may fetch it to mill.
    Run, run, or the johnny-cake, how will you make it,
    In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?”


    She ran to the cornfield—the corn had not grown,
    Though the sun in the blue sky pleasantly shone.
    “Pretty sun,” cried the maiden, “please make the corn grow.”
    “Pretty maid,” the sun answered, “I cannot do so.”
    “Then grandmother’s johnny-cake, how shall I make it,
    In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?”


    But Sarah looked round, and she saw what was wanted;
    The corn could not grow, for no corn had been planted.
    She asked of the farmer to sow her some grain,
    But the farmer laughed till his sides ached again.
    “Ho! ho! for the johnny-cake, how can you make it,
    In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?”


    The farmer he laughed, and he laughed very loud—
    “And how can I plant till the land has been plowed?
    Run, run, to the plowman, and bring him with speed;
    He’ll plow up the ground and I’ll fill it with seed.”
    Away, then, ran Sarah, still hoping to make it,
    In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it.

    The plowman he plowed, and the grain it was sown,
    And the sun shed his rays till the corn was all grown.
    It was ground at the mill, and again at her bed
    These words to kind Sarah the grandmother said,
    “Please get me a johnny-cake—quickly go make it,
    In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it.”
              _From “Child Life: A Collection of Poems,”
                            Edited by John Greenleaf Whittier._



I. Before the Sun Rises

“What do you think one of our lessons was about to-day, mother?” asked
Ruth, coming in from school one afternoon.

“I couldn’t guess,” said her mother. “What was it about?”

“The milkman.”

“The milkman,” repeated Mrs. Duwell in surprise; “that must have been

“Yes, we just talked. Teacher asked questions; she asked if we liked
bread and milk or cereal and milk, and said that they made an excellent

“What do you think, mother,” Ruth went on; “teacher told us that not
many years ago the milkman came around with big cans of milk and
measured whatever you wanted, a pint or a quart, into your pitcher or
milk pail.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Mrs. Duwell. “That is the way they did when I
was a little girl. How did they come to change? Did your teacher tell

“People found that it was not san-i-ta-ry, teacher said. The milk was
not always kept clean; so the milkmen put it into pint and quart
bottles, with paper caps to keep out flies and germs.”





“Did you find out where the milk comes from?”

“Oh yes, from the farms. Teacher showed us pictures of cows; some
with tan and white coats—Jerseys; and some with black and white
coats—Holsteins, I think she said. I should love to see real cows.”

“So you shall, dear, the next time we go into the country.

“I remember,” continued Mrs. Duwell, “hearing your grandfather say that
when he was a boy he had to be out of bed before daylight, sometimes as
early as three o’clock, and go out into the cold barn to milk the cows.”

“Three o’clock in the morning!” exclaimed Wallace, who had just come in.

“Yes; then he had to hurry into the kitchen for breakfast, then out
again, hitch up old Dobbin, load the milk cans on the wagon and drive
to the nearest station to catch the milk train. He had to do all this
by six o’clock—before most people in the city think of getting up.”

“My, there wasn’t much fun in that,” said Wallace.

“No, indeed. You remember the deep snow in March last winter. I asked
our milkman what time he started on his rounds. What do you think he

“Six o’clock,” replied Wallace.

“Earlier than that, son,” said Mrs. Duwell. “He laughed and said, ‘I
have to load up and start by three o’clock to serve all my customers
before breakfast.’”

“Yes,” added Ruth, “teacher told us about that and asked what would
happen if the driver overslept and did not get over the route before

“What did you answer?”

“Why, that we might have to do without milk for breakfast.”

“Or we might have to wait for breakfast until eleven o’clock,” said

“Oh, Wallace,” cried Ruth, “I didn’t say that! If we waited for
breakfast until eleven o’clock we would be dreadfully late for school.”

“And dreadfully hungry, too,” said Wallace. “I’m glad our milkman gets
up on time.”

II. Milk, from Farm to Family

“Well, what I want to know is, where the Clover Leaf Dairy gets our
milk from,” said Wallace.


“It is this way. The dairy wagon meets the milk train and takes the
cans of milk to the dairy. There they test the milk to see if it is
pure and fresh.

“Next they empty the milk into a big white tank and heat it to kill
the disease germs. After quickly cooling the milk, they put it into
bottles, and it saves the babies’ lives,” said Ruth almost without
stopping to take breath.

Her mother smiled and asked, “Did your teacher tell you the name of
that work?”

“Yes; but it was a long word, and I have forgotten it,” answered Ruth.

“Pas-teur-i-zing.” Her mother said it for her.

“Yes, that’s it—pasteurizing. I could not think. It kills all the bad
germs so that the milk is safe for even the weakest babies.

“Teacher told us about a good man in New York,” Ruth went on, “named
Mr. Straus, who was sorry because so many babies died from drinking
impure milk. He made it so that poor babies in New York could have
pasteurized milk; and then less than half as many died as before.”

“Wasn’t that a noble thing to do,” said her mother.

“Yes; our teacher says that almost everybody uses pasteurized milk now,
and in this way thousands of babies’ lives have been saved. She says
that we ought to be grateful.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Duwell; “we ought to be grateful to the
milkman, the farmer, and everybody that helps to bring us pure milk.”


    Would you like to get up long before daylight, on cold
    winter mornings to deliver milk for people’s breakfast?

    Tell some of the things you like that you could not
    have to eat if the milkman did not come.

    Have you ever visited a big dairy?

    Tell about it.

    Imagine you own a herd of cows in the country, and tell
    some of the things you would do in order to be sure to
    send good, pure, clean milk to the dairy.



I. The Old-time Grocer

“Wallace, light another candle, please. I cannot see very well,” said
Mr. Duwell as he sat smiling at the head of the dining table, with
carving knife lifted ready to carve the roast.

Wallace turned on another electric light, and everybody laughed.

“That’s a good guess, son,” said his mother. “On my grandfather’s farm
they always burned candles, and grandmother made them herself.”

“Made them herself!” exclaimed Ruth.

“Yes,” replied her mother. “I have often seen the candle moulds. They
looked like a row of tin tubes fastened together. The wicks were hung
in the middle of the tubes, and the melted tallow was poured in around
them. When the candles were hard and cold, they were slipped out ready
for use.”

“Your grandmother must have been smart. What relation was she to me?”
asked Ruth.

“Your great-grandmother, dear. She was ‘smart,’ indeed. She made not
only candles, but soap.”

“Soap!” said Ruth in surprise.

“Yes, and butter,” said Mrs. Duwell.

“Your great-grandfather was ‘smart,’ too,” said Mr. Duwell. “Why,
Wallace, he butchered a pig or two, and sometimes a cow in the fall for
the winter’s meat.”

“Weren’t there any grocers or butchers?” asked Wallace.

“Yes, indeed; your great-grandmother was the grocer, and your
great-grandfather was the butcher for the family.”

“But weren’t there any stores?”

“Yes, the stores were in the big kitchen pantry, the cellar, and the

“I mean grocery stores like Parker’s, and Wiggin’s,” explained Wallace.

“No, until the towns and villages sprang up there were no stores such
as we have now,” said Mr. Duwell. “You see, there were not many people
to buy things in the early days, and they lived on farms many miles
apart, so it did not pay anyone to keep a store.

“Why is the grocery so useful to everybody?” he asked.

“Because it sells food.”

“That is it. You see, when enough people lived in one place to make a
village or town, some one opened a store. Now, how did he get flour to

“From the miller.”

“Right—and potatoes?”

“From the farmer.”

“Yes, the miller brought flour and the farmer brought potatoes to the
grocer for him to sell.”

“And when grandma made more butter than she could use she sent it to
the grocer,” added Mrs. Duwell.

“Where did the grocer get his stock of brooms, Ruth?” asked her father.

“From the broom-maker.”

“That is the idea. All who grew or made more things than they could
use brought them to the grocer to be sold. So the grocer helped them
and they helped him, and the people went to the store for their

“You must remember, children,” went on Mr. Duwell, “the old-fashioned
country store was very different from Parker’s grocery around the
corner. Besides groceries, it sold harness, horse blankets, hardware,
shoes, and everything people needed.”

II. The Modern Grocer

“Suppose Wallace were a grocer, Ruth, how would you like his store to
be kept?” asked her mother.

“Clean—oh, so clean!” replied Ruth.

“Yes, what else?”

“Full of shelves with all the packages and bottles and other things in
their places.”

“How would you treat the people, Wallace?” asked Mrs. Duwell.

“I would be very polite, and try to have every article they wanted
fresh and good.”

“That is right, and I know you would be honest and truthful.”

“If you were that kind of grocer, Wallace,” said Mr. Duwell, “you would
be of real service to the people.”

“What kind of customers would you like to have, Wallace?” asked Mrs.

“Oh, people who paid their bills on time and didn’t find too much
fault,” answered Wallace.

“Well,” said Ruth, “if you were anything like that, your customers
would certainly call you The Spotless Grocer.”



    Think of all the extra work your mother and father
    would have to do if there were no grocery stores. Is
    there one near your house? Are you glad?

    What kind of grocery store do you like?

    What kind of grocer do you like to deal with?

    Try playing store, and pretend that your customers will
    not pay their bills and that the men from whom you buy
    come to insist on your paying them. What will happen?

    If you were a real grocer, would you like that to

    Can you think of some other ways you can help the
    grocer besides paying your bills promptly?



I. The Accident

Wallace was very proud of the new suit of clothes his father had just
bought him. He wanted to wear it to school the first day after it came

“If I were you I should keep it for best for a while, Wallace,” said
his mother. “Your old suit is good enough for school for some time.”

“But Tom Dolittle is going to wear his new suit to-day; he told me so.”

“It doesn’t seem wise to me, Wallace—but wear it if you think best.”

“All right, mother,” said Wallace as he skipped away to put it on.

A few minutes later his mother stood watching a very happy boy running
down the street.

“Mother!” called Wallace, walking slowly upstairs when he came in from

“Here I am, boy, in the sitting room,” answered his mother.

“Just see what has happened to my new suit!”

“Have you torn your jacket?”

“No, it’s not torn,” he said, coming into the room. “It is worse than
that. I’m afraid it is ruined. Look! Look!”

“Why, child,” exclaimed Mrs. Duwell, “how did this happen? Let us go
into the bathroom to wipe off a little of the mud. That may prevent

She hardly knew the mud-splashed boy who stood before her, so very
unlike the spick and span Wallace of the morning.

“Well, dear, don’t worry too much,” she said. “We will see what the
tailor can do for us.”

“Do you suppose he can make it clean enough for me to wear?” asked the
boy eagerly.

“I think that he can make it look very well,” said his mother. “Put on
your other suit and we will take this one around to the tailor’s shop.
But you haven’t told me what happened.”

“Why, it was this way: I was chasing some of the boys, and just as I
reached the corner an automobile came speeding out of West Street. It
skidded into the curb, and splashed the mud over me from head to foot.
The whole thing happened in less than a minute. You ought to have heard
the boys laugh!”

“I am thankful you were not hurt,” said his mother. “I will put on my
wraps and we will go at once.”

II. At the Tailor Shop

“Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Duwell to the tailor as they entered the

“Good afternoon,” said the tailor. “What can I do for you to-day?”

“We want to see if you can make this suit of clothes look like new,”
said Mrs. Duwell.

“Let me look at it,” said the man, untying the parcel, and examining
the mud-splashed clothing.

“Well, that is pretty bad, but I guess we can do a good job.”

“How much will you charge?” asked Wallace anxiously.

“Seventy-five cents, if you call for it,” said the tailor, taking out a
tag. “What name, please?”

“Give your name, son,” said Mrs. Duwell.

“Wallace Duwell,” said the boy. “When may I come?”

“Day after to-morrow,” replied the tailor. “We will do our best to make
it look like new.”

“Thank you,” answered Wallace, smiling for the first time since the




“Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Duwell, as they left the shop.

“Good-by,” answered the tailor; “come again.”

“Mother,” said Wallace, after they had walked a few minutes, “it was
my fault that this accident happened, and I want to pay for having the
suit cleaned. I have the money Aunt Mary gave me for Christmas.”

“That will please your father, Wallace. We will tell him the whole
story this evening.”

III. What the Tailor Saved the Duwell Family

When Wallace finished telling about the accident his father said, “I
wonder how much money the tailor is saving us by doing this work?”

“I never thought about that,” admitted Wallace.

“Let me see. We paid seven dollars and a half for that suit, didn’t we,
mother?” asked Mr. Duwell.

“Yes, I think that was the amount,” answered Mrs. Duwell.

“Well, if the suit couldn’t be cleaned it would mean that we should
have to buy another in its place. Mother can clean a suit well, but
even she could not make as sorry a looking suit as yours look like
new. Now do a little problem in arithmetic.”

Wallace promptly pulled pad and pencil from his pocket, and wrote:

    | Cost of suit                  $7.50  |
    | Tailor’s charge for cleaning,   .75  |
    |                               -----  |
    | Saved                         $6.75  |

“Six dollars and seventy-five cents! I didn’t think it would be that
much!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“Be sure to thank the tailor when you go after your suit,” said Mr.

“I certainly will,” said Wallace.


    Do you ever visit the tailor’s?

    Tell about his shop.

    Do you think his work is easy? Could you do it?

    If you were a tailor and had worked hard to do good,
    prompt work, how would you like to be treated in return?

    If your suit could talk about all the things that
    happened to it before it came to you, it would tell a
    very interesting story. Pretend you are a suit and tell
    all about yourself.


I. An Invitation to a Party

“Mother,” said Ruth, coming in from school a few days later, “Mildred
Maydole has invited me to her birthday party. She wrote the invitations
herself on the prettiest little note paper. Here is mine.”

Mrs. Duwell read:.

    Dear Ruth,

    It will give my mother and me much pleasure if you will
    come to my birthday party from three to six o’clock,
    Saturday afternoon, January twenty-eighth.

                                    Your friend,
                                      Mildred Maydole.

“Oh, mother, please say I may go!” cried Ruth excitedly, jumping up and
down on tiptoe. “Mildred wants an answer soon, so that her mother can
make her plans.”

“Why, my dear, I think you may go,” said her mother, “if I can get your
new dress made by the twenty-eighth. You have grown so fast that I have
not been able to keep up with you in sewing.”

“I am so happy with the thought of going,” exclaimed Ruth, “that I can
scarcely wait for the day. You know, mother, Mildred is older than I,
and it is a great honor to be invited to her party.”

“Yes, indeed, it is,” agreed her mother. “Naturally Mildred could not
invite all the children in your grade at school; so if I were you I
would not talk about the party before the other children. You see, it
might hurt the feelings of some who were not invited.”

“That’s just what Mildred said, mother; she asked us to keep it a
secret for that reason.”

“Well, dear, if you do keep it secret, do not make a mystery of it,
whispering among the fortunate ones and letting the others wonder why
you all say, ‘Hush,’ when they happen to come near.”

“Why, mother! how did you know?” asked Ruth flushing. “Now that I think
of it, that is just what we did do.”

“Instead of just telling Mildred that you will come,” said her mother,
“I think it would be better to write a note accepting the invitation.”

“I’ll do it right away!” exclaimed Ruth, running to her little desk.
“Will you help me with the words?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Duwell. “How would it do to say this:

    Dear Mildred,

    My mother is very much pleased with the kind invitation
    to your birthday party, and says that I may come on
    Saturday afternoon.

                                   Your friend,
                                         Ruth Duwell.”

When Ruth had finished writing, she sealed the envelope.

“I shall hand this to Mildred after school is dismissed at noon,” she
said. “Thank you for helping me, mother.”

II. A Disappointment

Mrs. Duwell had been unusually busy for several days after the
conversation about the party.

One day she said, “Ruth, dear child, I cannot seem to find time to
make your new dress. I wonder if Miss Fells could make it before the
twenty-eighth. Why not run over and ask her?”

“Yes, mother, why not? I think that is a good idea,” agreed Ruth.

“I do, too,” said her mother. “Here is the material that grandma sent
you. Run along, and do not forget to thank Miss Fells if she will agree
to make your dress.”

“No, indeed, mother, I won’t,” said Ruth.

III. At the Dressmaker’s

“Good afternoon, Miss Fells,” said Ruth, when she entered the door of
the dressmaker’s house.

“Good afternoon, Ruth,” said Miss Fells, who knew the little girl.
Then, noticing the package, she added, “Oh, I hope you are not going to
ask me to make you a dress any time soon.”

Ruth’s heart sank. “I was going to, Miss Fells,” she admitted.

“How soon?” asked the dressmaker.

“By January the twenty-eighth.” Then she told about the party and her
mother’s disappointment.

“I don’t see how I can do it—” began Miss Fells. Then seeing the tears
in Ruth’s eyes, she said, “But let me look at the goods, Ruth.”

The little girl spread the material out on the table.

“Isn’t it pretty!” exclaimed Miss Fells. “Perhaps I can get some extra
help. Come for a fitting to-morrow at four o’clock, and we’ll see what
can be done.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Miss Fells!” Ruth exclaimed.

Then she ran all the way home to tell the good news.




“Now we see, Ruth,” said her mother, “how glad we should be that
different people do different things for us. A person who studies and
works in one special line must do better than one who works at it only
once in a while—the way I do dressmaking.”

“Why, that is true, mother,” exclaimed Ruth, “I never thought of it
before, though.”

“There are many more things to be learned about dressmakers,” went on
her mother. “Let us talk about some of them this evening.”

“Mother, I suppose father will ask a lot of questions—just as he did
about the tailor.”

“I don’t doubt that,” said Mrs. Duwell, “and I am glad that you are
interested. I have heard my grandmother say that when she was young,
there were no ready-made paper patterns.”

“Why, mother, how could people make dresses then?” asked Ruth.

“It was done in this way. A seamstress or some one who liked to make
dresses would cut out and fit a dress for somebody in her family or
neighborhood. If the dress was pretty, the pattern would be borrowed
and used by almost the entire village.”

“Didn’t people mind if other dresses were made just like theirs?” asked

“No,” said her mother, “styles did not change quickly in those days.
Indeed, the getting of a new dress was a great event in the life of a
girl, and it was chosen most carefully.


“You see, it served first as a best dress; then, being turned, it often
served as second best. After that, perhaps it would be handed down to a
younger child to be worn as long as it had been by its first owner.”

“My,” cried Ruth. “I am glad I didn’t live in the days when new dresses
were so scarce.”

Mrs. Duwell smiled. “Children to-day have more of everything than
children ever had before. They have more clothes and playthings, and
better chances for ed-u-ca-tion—but here comes your father, Ruth. You
may run and tell him of our plan for the evening.”

Mr. Duwell was very much pleased with the plan. When the evening came
he asked and answered many questions. He then showed the children
pictures of silkworms in a large book marked “S.”

“By the way,” he asked, “do you know that we have silkworms right here
in America? The American silkworms spin silk as strong and beautiful as
that of the Chinese silkworms. But the people here do not have the time
or patience to grow silkworms.”

IV. The Party

Ruth’s dress was not finished until an hour before the party began.

As soon as the last stitch was taken, Miss Fells herself carried it to
the Duwell home.

Ruth was “on pins and needles” for fear it would not be done in time,
and she was delighted to see the dressmaker.

“Oh, Miss Fells, I cannot thank you enough for getting it done!” she

“Hurry and put your dress on,” said Miss Fells. “I want to see how it

In less time than it takes to tell, Ruth was dressed.

“It fits perfectly,” said Miss Fells, who was almost as happy as Ruth

“It certainly does,” said Mrs. Duwell. “It is just right.”

Mildred was very glad when Ruth arrived at the party, for she knew of
her worry about the dress.

“It is beautiful, Ruth,” she said, looking with sparkling eyes at the
pretty smocking on the waist and skirt. “Miss Fells told me she was
going to surprise you,” she added.

“She surely did surprise me. Wasn’t she kind!” replied Ruth.

The party was a delight. One of the games was a contest in needle
threading. Ruth threaded her needle in the shortest time and won the
prize, a pretty silver thimble.

“Perhaps the new dress helped you to win,” said Mildred.

“Won’t Miss Fells be pleased when she hears about it,” said Ruth.


    Does your mother ever sew for a long time without

    How does her back feel when she stops?

    Do you think dressmaking is easy work?

    Can you tell some of the things dressmakers need in
    their work?

    If you have ever visited a silk or woolen or cotton
    mill, tell about it.

    Where do the mill owners get their materials?

    Where do the stores get ready-made clothing?

    Could you or the shoemaker or the baker make as
    beautiful and comfortable clothing as the dressmaker?

    Why can she do it so well?

    How can we make her work easier?


    “My dress is pretty,” a little girl said.
    “Did you make it?” I asked. She shook her head.
    “No, I didn’t make it,” she laughed in glee.
    “It took lots of people to make it,” said she.
    “I’ll tell you about it, because I know
     What my mother told me is truly so.

    “The silkworms grew it, and after a while
     Men unraveled it into a pile;
     Girls spun it and wove it and sent it away,
     And my mother bought it for me one day;
     And the dressmaker cut it and sewed it for me—
     These are the reasons I love it,” said she.


I. The Worn Shoes

“Where now, Wallace?” asked Mr. Duwell as he met his son one bright

The boy was carrying a bundle under his arm.

“Mother sent me over to the shoemaker’s,” replied the boy.

“I am glad I ran across you,” said Mr. Duwell; “I have an errand over
in that direction; I’ll walk along with you.”

“Oh, all right, father. Mother said she wished she could ask you about
my shoes. We could not make up our minds whether they were worth
half-soling or not.”

“Why not talk the matter over with the shoemaker?” said Mr. Duwell.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have let them get so worn before taking them to
Mr. Shoemaker’s,” remarked Wallace.

“As mother says, ‘A stitch in time saves nine,’” remarked Mr. Duwell.

“By the way, father,” continued Wallace, “isn’t Mr. Shoemaker’s name a
good one for a cobbler?”

Mr. Duwell smiled. “Very good, indeed; but really it isn’t so strange
as it seems. Many years ago, when people did not have two names, they
became known by the names of the trades they followed. For instance,
John the baker became John Baker, and later Mr. Baker; so also the
tailor became Mr. Taylor; the mason, Mr. Mason; the carpenter, Mr.

“And the blacksmith, Mr. Smith; and the cook, Mr. Cook,” added Wallace.

“Yes,” said his father, “and we could think of many more such names;
but here we are at Mr. Shoemaker’s. Suppose you attend to this little
matter of business by yourself, while I do my errand.”

This made Wallace look pleased and important as he stepped into the

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shoemaker,” he said.

“Good afternoon,” replied the shoemaker; “what can I do for you to-day?”

Wallace handed him the parcel, which he opened.

“Do you think it would pay to put half-soles and new heels on these
shoes?” asked the boy.

“Pretty good uppers,” replied the shoemaker, examining them carefully.
“I think it would almost double the length of life of these shoes to
mend them, but I would not wear the next pair quite so long before
having them mended.”

“I think you are right,” said Wallace. “How much will you charge?”

“A dollar and a quarter for soles and heels,” replied the man.

“Isn’t that a good deal?” asked Wallace.

“Not too much if we use the best quality of leather, and it doesn’t pay
to use any other.”

“All right, Mr. Shoemaker,” agreed Wallace. “When shall I call for

“On Saturday,” he replied, writing Wallace’s name on a tag.

“Very well, good afternoon.”

“Good-by,” said the shoemaker.

Outside the door Wallace was joined by his father.

“I do not know whether I did right to leave my shoes, father,” said
Wallace. “Mr. Shoemaker said the charge would be a dollar and a
quarter. Doesn’t that seem a big price?”

“It does,” replied Mr. Duwell, “but I think you did right. A new pair
of such shoes would cost three dollars and seventy-five cents.”

“And three dollars and seventy-five cents, less one dollar and a
quarter, equals two dollars and a half saved,” finished Wallace.

“That is true, my boy,” said Mr. Duwell, “if they last as long as a new




“I suppose we ought to be very much obliged to the shoemaker, even
though we do pay him for his work,” mused the boy aloud.

“So we should,” said his father. “Everyone who does good work helps the
world along, whether he is paid for it or not.”

“But I shouldn’t want to be a shoemaker,” went on Wallace.

“Why not, Wallace?”

“Oh, I hardly know, father.”

“Shoemaking is very interesting, and it requires skill, my boy. Of
course, the making of new shoes does not require the skill it did years
ago because so much of the work is done by machines.”

“Did you ever hear of a shoemaker who became a great man?” asked

“Oh, that is the question, is it?” said Mr. Duwell with a smile. “I
have heard of several, and this evening I shall be glad to talk about

II. Shoemakers Who Became Famous

That evening, when the family was seated around the library table, Mr.
Duwell brought out a book and took up Wallace’s question.

“Here is a book,” he said, “that tells many facts about shoemakers who
became noted men. Let me read about some of them.

    “‘One of our most famous American poets, John Greenleaf
    Whittier, in early life, was a shoemaker. Whittier
    never forgot the lessons he learned while working at
    the shoemaker’s bench. His book of poems, called Songs
    of Labor, printed in 1850, contains a stirring poem
    about shoemakers.’

“Here are two other famous men,” said Mr. Duwell, turning the page he
was reading.

    “‘Among noted Americans who were shoemakers was Roger
    Sherman, of Con-nec-ti-cut. He was a member of the
    Congress of 1774. Sherman was one of the brave men who
    signed the Dec-lar-a-tion of In-de-pen-dence.

    “‘At least one vice-president of the United States was
    a shoemaker—Henry Wilson, who was made vice-president
    when General Grant became president in 1872. He was
    often called “the Na-tick Cobbler,” because he was once
    a shoemaker in the town of Natick.’

“So you see, Wallace,” Mr. Duwell went on after a little pause, “the
kind of work you do doesn’t matter so much. It is how well you do it
that makes the difference.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“I think I do see, father,” said Wallace. “Maybe, after all, I’ll be a
shoemaker. Then, perhaps, I’ll become a poet or vice-president of the
United States.”

Everybody laughed.

“Wouldn’t you rather be a tailor?” asked Ruth.

“I don’t believe I should stand as good a chance then,” replied Wallace.

“I am not so sure,” said Mr. Duwell laughing. “Andrew Johnson was a
tailor, and he became President of the United States; but all mother
and I hope for, son, is that you will become a useful, well-educated

III. At the Shoemaker’s Shop

When he called for his shoes on Saturday, Wallace looked at the
shoemaker with new respect.

“Good morning, Mr. Shoemaker,” said Wallace. “Are my shoes ready?”

“Good morning,” replied the shoemaker. “Yes, here they are.”

“They look fine!” exclaimed the boy. “Thank you for doing such a good
job. Here is the money—a dollar and a quarter—is that right?”

“Yes, thank you,” replied the shoemaker. “It isn’t every day that
a customer thanks me for doing a good job. Most people don’t
give a thought to anything but finding fault if the work isn’t
right—especially boys.”


    Is there a shoemaker’s shop near your home?

    Did the shoemaker ever save you or your family any

    Can you tell about him and his shop?

    What kind of customers do you think he likes?

    See if you can make a list of the people whom you have
    to thank for a new pair of shoes.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Rap-tap! rap-tap-tap!
      Rings the shoemaker’s hammer;
    He’s making old shoes look quite new
      With swift and merry clamor.

    Rap-tap! rap-tap-tap!
      List to the shoemaker’s song;
    By mending shoes he does his part
      To help the world along.




I. A Trip into the Country

“It’s just possible that I may be home very early, perhaps in time for
twelve o’clock lunch,” remarked Mr. Duwell, one Saturday morning as he
was starting for business.

“Oh, wouldn’t that be fine!” exclaimed the children. “We’ll be looking
for you.”

Even before the noon whistles had ceased blowing, three eager faces
were peering out of the windows, for Mrs. Duwell was as interested as
Ruth and Wallace.

“Oh, I do hope father will come soon!” exclaimed Ruth.

“I am sure to see him first,” said Wallace with a superior air. “I can
see farther than you!”

“You can’t see father any better than I can,” replied Ruth, “for I see
him this minute.”

“You do? Where?” asked Wallace.

“I certainly do—may I run to meet him, mother?”

“Oh, I see him!” cried Wallace. “I am going, too!”

“Yes, run!” said Mrs. Duwell. “You both have better eyes than I have.”
Almost before she had finished speaking, the children were racing
toward a carriage. As the driver drew rein, they climbed in.

“Well, here we are!” Mr. Duwell sang out, as they drove up in front
of the door. “What does the Duwell family say to a ride this pleasant

“What a grand surprise!” called Mrs. Duwell, who was now standing on
the top step.

“I am going to get an apple for the horse,” cried Wallace, and away he
ran. In a moment he returned.

“How does that taste, old fellow?” he asked, rubbing the horse’s soft
nose as he munched the apple.

“He isn’t really hungry,” said Mr. Duwell. “He had his dinner just
before we left the livery stable, and the stable man gave me a bag of
grain for his supper; but I guess he doesn’t often get apples.”

It didn’t take long to eat lunch that day, the family were so excited.

“Where are we going, father?” asked Wallace.

“Just into the country,” said Mr. Duwell. “It has been so long since we
have seen the green fields that I thought a trip would do us all good.”

Soon they left the city streets behind, and came to a beautiful country
road, along which they drove for several miles.

“Oh, see that funny-looking house!” exclaimed Ruth suddenly. “It looks
like a cage!”

“That isn’t a house, yet,” said Mr. Duwell; “it is only the frame-work.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Wallace, “is that the way wooden houses are built?”

“It is, little city people,” replied Mr. Duwell. “No wonder you are not
familiar with such a sight. City houses are not built of wood, because
of the danger of fire.”

“I should like to see that house closer,” said Wallace.

“We’ll drive over there,” his father agreed, turning the horse’s head.

As they drew near, Wallace exclaimed, “Why, there’s Mr. Emerson on the
porch; he is my teacher. I wonder what he is doing here.”

At that moment Mr. Emerson saw the boy. “Good afternoon, Wallace,” he
said, lifting his hat and bowing to the party as he came toward the

“Good afternoon, Mr. Emerson,” said Wallace, lifting his cap; “I should
like to have you meet my mother and father.”

Mr. Emerson bowed, and shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Duwell.

“And this is Wallace’s sister, Ruth,” said Mr. Duwell.

“I am glad to know you, Ruth,” Mr. Emerson said. “Are you thinking of
moving into the country?” he asked after a minute. “If so; I hope you
will be my neighbors.”

“Do you live here, Mr. Emerson?” asked Wallace.

“Not yet,” replied Mr. Emerson, smiling; “but we hope to when the new
house is finished.”

“What a comfortable home it will be,” said Mr. Duwell.

Mr. Emerson looked pleased. “Won’t you come in and see the plan?” he

“Thank you, we shall be delighted to,” said Mr. Duwell.

II. The Sawmill

After they had gone all over the house, they bade Mr. Emerson good-by
and drove away.

“Won’t it be fine! How I should love to live there!” The children were
still talking about the new house.

“Where do you suppose Mr. Emerson got the wood?” questioned Ruth.

“I know,” answered Wallace; “at the lumber yard.”


“Did he, father? Couldn’t he have just chopped down some of those trees
over there?” asked Ruth, pointing to a wooded hill to the right.

“I hardly think so,” replied Mr. Duwell. “Before trees can be used in
building they have to be—”

“Sawed into boards and planks,” finished Wallace.

“Good!” said his father. “And where is that done?”

“At the sawmill,” said the boy.

“That reminds me—” said Mrs. Duwell; “there is a sawmill over at the
bottom of that hill. Mr. Emerson told me about it. Some of his lumber
came from there.”

“Then this road must lead to it,” said Mr. Duwell, pulling up at a
cross-road that ran through the woods towards the hill.

“What does that sign-post say, Wallace?”

Wallace jumped out and examined the dingy sign, which was hardly

“Sawmill Road; this is the right way!” he cried.

They had not driven far along the shady road when a peculiar, whistling
sound met their ears.

“There’s the saw, now, I believe!” exclaimed Mrs. Duwell.

“So it is,” said Mr. Duwell. “Trot along, boy!” he urged the horse.

At a turn in the road they came upon the old sawmill, nestling at the
foot of the hill. The smooth mill pond shone brightly in the sun. As
the water fell over the dam, it tumbled into a noisy little brook which
ran under a bridge and away down the valley. The refreshing odor of
pine and cedar filled the air.

Several men were busy sawing the trunk of a pine tree into long, clean
planks. The children watched the circular saw with wonder as its sharp
teeth ate into the sweet-smelling wood. Its shrill music delighted them.

“Yes, sir,” the foreman replied to a question of Mr. Duwell’s, “most
sawmills are run by steam power. Very few old-fashioned water wheels
are left in this part of the country. Let me show you our wheel.”

“This is the sluice-way,” he explained, pointing to a long narrow canal
full of flowing water. “The sluice-way leads the water from the pond to
the top of the wheel.”

Going down a flight of steps on the outside of the building, they
stood right beside the old moss-covered wheel. It was a huge wooden
framework with shelves or buckets all around the wide rim to catch the

The water poured out of the sluice-way over the wheel, turning it
slowly and steadily. As the wheel turned, the water kept falling with
noisy splashes into the stream below.

“What makes it go round?” asked Wallace eagerly.

“The force and weight of the water pouring over it,” replied the
foreman. “That is what we call water power.”

“Think of it, children!” said Mr. Duwell. “That old wheel helped to
build Mr. Emerson’s house.”

“Yes,” said the foreman, “it has helped to build many houses besides
Mr. Emerson’s. That old water wheel has been sawing wood just as you
see it now for over a hundred years.”

III. The Carpenter

On the way home the little party talked about their adventures.

“Mr. Emerson must have had help to build a house like that,” remarked
Ruth after a pause.

“Oh, he didn’t build it, goosey,” said Wallace.

“Who did, then, Mr. Know-it-all?”

“Why, the carpenter, of course,” Wallace replied.

“Oh, I see,” exclaimed Ruth. “The carpenter builds the house for Mr.
Emerson, and Mr. Emerson has time to teach you boys.”

“That is exactly right, little girl,” said her father.

“Besides, no one person can do many things well. Perhaps Mr. Emerson
is a better teacher for not trying to do too many things,” Mrs. Duwell

“I think a carpenter is wonderful, don’t you?” said Wallace.

“The greatest man that ever lived was a carpenter,” said his mother.

“Whoa, boy!” exclaimed Mr. Duwell, drawing up the reins sharply. “Don’t
get frightened at a piece of paper, when you’ve done so well. Whoa,
there, boy!”

The horse seemed to understand the quiet gentle voice, and settled down
to an even trot.

“He will go well enough now,” said Mrs. Duwell. “He knows we are headed
for home.”

“So we are! I wish we were headed the other way,” said Wallace. “What
makes a good time so short?” he asked, so seriously that everybody

IV. The Wolf’s Den

“Mother, I may be late in getting home from school this afternoon,”
said Wallace on Monday at noon. “Mr. Emerson said he was going to take
us for a walk after school to-day. He told us to ask if it would be all
right. Will it, mother?”

“Yes, Wallace, but try to be home before dark.”

“I’ll tell you all about our trip at supper time,” said Wallace.

Wallace bounded in just as supper was being put on the table.

“Good evening, everybody. Oh, it was fine!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Emerson
took us for a long walk in the park—to a part I have never seen before.”

“That was splendid,” said his mother.

“Now, tell us all about your trip,” said his father, when Wallace had
partly satisfied his hunger.

Wallace began: “We walked until we reached the wild part of the park.
Soon we came to a steep hill and a great pile of high rocks covered
with trees and bushes.

“‘How many of you boys have ever been in a real cave?’ Mr. Emerson
asked. Only three of us had, and we were very much excited.

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘right above that big granite rock there is a natural
cave. It was found only a few days ago. The opening was covered with
bushes, so nobody knew it was there. It must have been the den of some
wild animal years ago. The opening is so small that only one boy can go
in at a time.’

“He divided us into four sections and made me the leader of section one.

“One at a time we climbed up until all five boys of my section were on
top of the rock. There was the cave, a dark opening in the rocks about
as big around as a barrel. Being the leader, I had to go in first.”

“Weren’t you scared?” asked Ruth.

“Well—it was exciting,” admitted her brother. “I got down on my hands
and knees and looked in, but could see nothing. Then I crawled in. It
was as dark as a pocket. I tried to stand up and bumped my head, the
ceiling was so low.

“In a minute or two I could see better. The walls of the cave were
nothing but rocks. The floor was covered with sand and dry leaves.
There was just room enough to turn around in, so I turned around and
crawled out.”

“Well, I call that pretty brave, Wallace, to go in first,” his mother

“There wasn’t anything to be afraid of, mother,” said Wallace. After a
moment he continued, “Well, after the boys in my group had all been in,
we climbed down, and the other sections went up and did the same thing.
Every boy went in, although some of the little fellows looked pretty
white when they came out. Then we sat on the rocks, and Mr. Emerson
talked about the homes of wild animals and the early savages.

“‘What animal do you suppose lived in this cave?’ Mr. Emerson asked us.
Some guessed wolves and some, bears. We finally decided to name it The
Wolf’s Den.

V. The Cave Dwellers

“Mr. Emerson said that wild animals live in just the same way to-day
as they always did. They live in caves and holes in the ground or in
hollow trees, where they can hide and keep warm.

“One boy spoke up, ‘How about dogs, Mr. Emerson?’

“‘Well,’ Mr. Emerson said, ‘dogs are tame animals now, although they
used to be wild. But even the dog’s house is a wooden cave which his
master builds for him.’

“He told us that a long time ago people lived in caves which they dug
in the earth like animals. They were cave dwellers or cave men. The
reason we have better homes now is that we have greater minds than
animals and have learned to use our hands and brains to build houses.

“He said that the cave men must have thought it wonderful when they
found they could make stone hatchets sharp enough to cut down small
trees. With them they learned to make huts out of wood, which were
larger and more comfortable than caves and just as safe from storms.

“As time went on, men paid more attention to building. They learned
to make houses of stone and clay and brick. They kept on studying and
improving until they were able to build great cities such as we have

“Listen!” exclaimed Ruth, clapping her hands as Wallace finished his
story. “Wouldn’t Wallace make a good teacher! That sounded exactly like
the way Mr. Emerson talks.”

“Nothing like so interesting, though,” said Wallace. “He promised to
show us his new house when it is finished.”

“Wouldn’t I like to go with you!” said Ruth.


    Are there any houses being built near you?

    Have you ever watched the carpenter at work?

    Tell about some of his tools.

    In the early days in this country men had to build
    their own houses. Were these log cabins as comfortable
    and well built as our houses are to-day?

    How is it that the carpenter can do so much better work
    than you could?

    Where does the carpenter get his lumber?

    Have you ever visited a sawmill?

    Wouldn’t you like to ask at the library for some books
    that tell about cave men and cliff dwellers? about



I. The Fallen Chimney

All day long the rain came pouring down. By night the wind rose with a
shriek and a roar, banging unfastened shutters and rattling windows in
their casings.

“Oh, dear, what an awful night!” exclaimed Ruth. “How glad I am that
Fluffy is safe indoors!” and she stroked the little cat lying on a
cushion on the sewing machine.

“And how glad I am that Harry Teelow found that lost puppy to-day,”
said Wallace.

“Pretty bad, isn’t it?” Mr. Duwell said, looking up from his paper.
“I don’t suppose the bricklayer came to mend the chimney to-day. He
couldn’t have worked in such a storm.”

“No, he did not come,” replied Mrs. Duwell with a troubled look. “Do
you suppose there is any danger of its tumbling down?”

“Well, I can’t say,” replied Mr. Duwell, shaking his head doubtfully.
“I wish I had stopped to see Mr. Bricklayer a week ago when I first
discovered how loose the bricks were, instead of waiting until—”

But he did not finish the sentence, for bang! even above the terrific
noise of the storm came the sound of falling bricks and broken glass.

The family rushed into the little kitchen, which was built on the end
of the house.

What a sight met their eyes!

Water was pouring through a hole in the ceiling where the roof had
given way. Rain splashed in great gusty dashes through the window where
the bricks had broken through.

Already there was a little lake on the floor.

Ruth was the first to speak. “If it keeps on,” she said, half laughing
and half crying, “it will be quite deep enough for Alice and the mouse
and the Dodo to swim in!” She was thinking of Alice in Wonderland, you

That made everybody laugh, and all began to work. They placed tubs and
pails where they would catch the water, and stuffed old cloths into the
broken window panes.

It was fully an hour before the family were settled down again in the
living room.

“Well, children, you can now understand the saying, ‘Never put off till
to-morrow what should be done to-day,’” remarked Mr. Duwell.

“It is a lesson none of us will soon forget,” added Mrs. Duwell.



“Could you and I have mended the broken chimney, father?” asked Wallace.

“Not very well, my boy,” replied Mr. Duwell. “‘Every man to his trade,’
you know. By the way, I hope Mr. Bricklayer will be here before you
children start to school in the morning. Run to bed now so that you can
be up early to see him begin his work.”

II. The Bricklayer

The next day dawned bright and sunny, with only a merry little breeze
to remind one of yesterday’s storm.

The bricklayer did not come before the children started to school in
the morning, but just after lunch. They had only time to watch him and
his helper climb to the roof.

“I am going to get home from school early,” said Wallace; “maybe they
will not be through by that time.”

“I am, too,” Ruth chimed in. “I wonder what bricks are,” she added.

“Bricks? Why, don’t you know?” asked Wallace. “Our manual training
teacher told us that bricks are a sort of imitation stone made of
moistened clay and sand mixed together, and shaped as we see them. They
are baked in an oven-like place, called a kiln, or dried in the sun.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that. I wonder who first thought of making them.
They are something like sun-baked mud-pies,” said Ruth.

“Our teacher said that bricks three thousand years old have been found
in Egypt, some with writing on them.”

“Oh, I remember that the Bible tells about bricks. Why, Wallace, men
must have been bricklayers for thousands of years!”

“It is lucky for us they haven’t forgotten how to make them, for what
could we do without a chimney?” said Wallace. “Hello, there is Harry! I
want to see him about the ball game;” and away he ran.

III. After School

Wallace brought Harry, and Ruth brought Mildred Maydole home after
school to watch the bricklayer work.

“Why, how straight and true the bricks must be!” exclaimed Harry. “A
bricklayer has to be very careful, doesn’t he?”

“Indeed he does,” replied Wallace. “Do you know what the mortar is made

“Yes; I think I do. It is lime and sand and—something else,” Harry
said. That made them all laugh.

“I think the most wonderful brick work I ever saw,” said Mildred, “was
in the arch of a big sewer. I couldn’t tell why the bricks didn’t all
fall down. My father said the mortar held them.”

“Why, if it weren’t for bricklayers, and cement workers, and stone
masons, we should be without lots of things!” exclaimed Harry. “Just
imagine it, if you can.”

“That’s so,” said Wallace. “Let’s count what we know of that they build
for us—sewers, bridge piers,—go on, Mildred.”

“Pavements,” added Mildred.

“Houses and chimneys,” said Ruth.

“Foundations for houses,” said Harry.

“Here comes father!” cried Ruth suddenly; and all the children ran to
meet him.

“We’ve been talking about how it would be if there were no bricklayers,
or stone masons, or cement workers, father,” said Wallace.

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Mr. Duwell. “I was thinking very much the
same thing as I walked home so soon after such a heavy rain without
getting my feet wet.

“I remember what Benjamin Franklin wrote,” he went on, “about the
streets of Philadelphia in his day. He said the mud after a storm was
so deep that it came above the people’s shoe-tops. It was Benjamin
Franklin himself who first talked of paving the streets.”

“I’m glad they aren’t as bad as they were in Benjamin Franklin’s time,”
said Mildred.


    Have you ever watched a bricklayer working?

    What was he doing?

    Could you have done it?

    Where do you suppose he got his bricks?

    Have you ever seen bricks being made?

    Are bricklayers, cement workers, and stone masons more
    needed in the city or in the country? Why?

       *       *       *       *       *

    Do you know how our city grew,
      Its lofty buildings raising?
    Its pavements, parks, and bridges, too—
      Whose labors are they praising?
    Just the workmen who every day
    Did their work in the very best way.



I. A Visit to a Little Town

“I have an errand to do just outside the city limits,” said Mr. Duwell
one pleasant Saturday morning. “Would you like to go with me, Wallace?”

“I certainly should,” said the boy.

In a few minutes father and son were on the electric car, speeding
toward Oldtown.

When there, they walked up the main street, which was lined with rows
of shabby houses, badly in need of paint. Little pools of standing
water lay in the gutters.

“What an awful smell! I should think it would make people sick! And
look at the flies!” exclaimed Wallace.

“I have no doubt it does make people sick,” said Mr. Du well. “Flies
and mosquitoes breed very rapidly in such places.”

“Flies and mosquitoes carry disease germs, Mr. Emerson says,” observed

“So they do; they are more dangerous to health than poi-son-ous
snakes,” his father said.

“Why don’t the people clean their gutters?” asked Wallace.

“I suppose they do sometimes,” replied his father; “but Oldtown will
never be clean and healthy while the dirty water from the houses is
drained into the streets and alleys. Waste water must be carried off by
means of pipes into a sewer. That is the work of the plumber. A good
plumber is a health officer.”

“What a lot of people it takes to keep things going right, father! This
town certainly does need a plumber,” remarked Wallace.

This remark seemed to please Mr. Duwell very much.

“How would you like to move to Oldtown, Wallace?” asked his father when
their errand was finished and they were riding home.

“I shouldn’t mind,” said Wallace, “if I were a plumber.”

II. At Home

When Ruth saw them coming, she ran to meet them.

“What do you think, father!” she exclaimed; “the plasterer came while
you were gone, and mended the kitchen ceiling. Mother is so pleased!
Come and look at it!”

“That’s very well done,” said Mr. Duwell, examining the neat patch over
the large hole which the falling chimney had made. “But it makes the
whole room look as if it needed a new coat of paint. What do you think,

“I think it would make me a better cook to have a nice clean kitchen,”
said Mrs. Duwell, smiling.

“You couldn’t be a better cook, mother!” Wallace said, eyeing the good
meal which was ready to be put on the dining table.

“That is what we all think, Wallace,” said his father; “and we think,
too, that such a good cook deserves a better kitchen. So on Monday I
will ask the painter to see about doing the walls and woodwork.”

III. The New Kitchen

When the men had finished their work the kitchen was so changed that it
scarcely knew itself, as Wallace said.

Instead of dim walls and dull-gray paint, everything was white and
blue. A shining white sink with two bright nickel spigots was standing
proudly in one corner of the room.

Mrs. Duwell had just finished hanging a white dotted muslin curtain at
the window over the sink when Ruth entered.

“Oh, mother, doesn’t that look lovely!” she exclaimed.

“I thought such a bright clean kitchen deserved a clean new curtain,”
said her mother.

“Isn’t the kitchen beautiful!” Ruth went on. “It seems like living in a
fairy tale—as though we had wakened up to find things changed by magic.”

“It does, in a way,” agreed her mother; “but, really, they were
every-day fairies who brought about these changes and turned ugliness
into beauty.”

“I think I know their names,” Ruth said, laughing; “Mr. Plumber, Mr.
Plasterer, and Mr. Painter.”

“Why, how did you guess?” said her mother.


    Did the plumber ever come to your house?

    What did he do?

    What would have happened if you could not have found a

    None of us would like to live in a town where there are
    no plumbers. Why not?

    Shut your eyes and try to imagine how the Duwell
    family’s kitchen looked before the workmen began to
    work; now imagine that they have finished their work.
    Tell how different it looks.

    Have workmen ever made such changes in your home?

    Can you name some other people besides the carpenter,
    the bricklayer, the plumber, the plasterer, and the
    painter who help give us shelter?




I. Black Diamonds

“How are the black diamonds holding out, Wallace?” asked Mrs. Duwell.
Wallace had just brought up coal from the cellar.


“Only a few more scuttlefuls in the bin, mother,” answered Wallace.

“On your way from school you may stop at the coal yard and ask Mr. Carr
to send a ton to-morrow.”


“All right, mother, I won’t forget. But tell me, why do they call coal
black diamonds?”

“I haven’t time to talk about it now. Perhaps Mr. Carr will tell you.
You have just ten minutes to get to school.”

On his way home Wallace stepped into the little office of the big coal

“How are you, my boy; what can I do for you to-day?” asked Mr. Carr,
who was a rather tall man with a bent back and one shoulder higher than
the other.

“How do you do, Mr. Carr?” replied Wallace. “Mother wants you to send a
ton of coal to-morrow—the same kind as the last you sent.”

Wallace waited until the coal man entered the order in the book and
then asked, “Mr. Carr, will you tell me why they call coal black

Mr. Carr smiled pleasantly. “Certainly, son, certainly. You see, coal
shines like diamonds, and then, it’s worth more.”

“Worth more? Why, I thought diamonds were worth more than anything

“No, indeed! If there weren’t any coal in the ground, all the diamonds
in the world wouldn’t heat a house, cook a meal, pull a railway train,
or run a machine.”

“Well, I never thought of that,” said Wallace. “You certainly could not
burn diamonds in a cook-stove.”

“No, indeed!” said Mr. Carr, who seemed much pleased at Wallace’s

II. In a Coal Mine

“Were you ever down in a coal mine, Mr. Carr?” asked Wallace.

“Was I ever down in a coal mine?” repeated Mr. Carr. “Yes, sir, I was a
miner for years in the coal regions, and would have been in a mine yet,
probably, if it hadn’t been for this,” pointing to his shoulder and
bent back.

“Is it very dangerous work?” asked Wallace, with wide-open eyes.

“Well, if the roof doesn’t fall on you, and if the mine doesn’t catch
fire, and if the gas doesn’t choke you, or explode and blow you up, it
isn’t dangerous; it is perfectly safe.”

“But how did it get hurt—your shoulder, I mean?” asked Wallace.

“Oh, that! I’ll tell you. One day we were getting out coal at the far
end of a tunnel. Suddenly, before we had time to run, the roof came
tumbling down and buried us. When they pulled us out, my helper was
dead, and my back was as you see it now.”

“What makes mining so dangerous?” asked Wallace, in surprise.

“Well, you see, it’s this way. When you step into the cage, that is the
elevator, you leave the sunlight behind. The cage sinks down, down into
pitch darkness, sometimes hundreds of feet. At the bottom of the shaft
it is like an under-ground city. Street-like tunnels, with car tracks
laid on them, run out in every direction. The coal cars are drawn by
mules or by electricity.

“As you go up the tracks you see cross tunnels and the miners’ little
lamps shining in dark holes that look like black caves. Here the miners
work, blasting out the coal, and loading it on cars to be drawn to the
mouth of the mine and hoisted up into daylight.

“Sometimes the walls and roof are not properly braced. Then they cave
in and great lumps of coal fall down on the men. Sometimes gas or
fire-damp collects. Then there is danger of choking or of being blown
up. Sometimes, in blasting, the coal catches fire, so that the whole
mine burns.”


“Why, miners must be as brave as soldiers,” said Wallace.

“Yes, I suppose they are brave. People do not know how much they owe to
the miners. They risk their lives every time they go down into the
mines. But they don’t think much about the danger. That is part of
their work.”

“Thank you for telling me about it,” said Wallace.

“You are welcome, my boy; good-by.”

“Good-by, Mr. Carr.”

Wallace hurried home with a new respect for Mr. Carr and the men who
work in the dark mines under the ground.


    How does the coal man bring the coal to your house?

    From whom does he buy it?

    Pretend you are a piece of coal and tell the story of
    your life.

    Name some of the things which we would have to do
    without if there were no miners or coal men.

    Do you burn anything else at your house besides coal?

    Are the men who supply us with these things our helpers

    Where does the wood man get kindling and firewood?

    Where does the oil man get oil?

    Will you ask for a book about pḗ-trō´lḗ-ŭm, or coal
    oil, when you go to the library next time?

    Can you think of any other people who supply us with




I. Why Ruth Was Afraid

“Oh, dear!” sobbed Ruth. “O—h, dear!” She was sitting in her little
rocking-chair in the living-room.

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Wallace, coming in to look for his
books. “Are you hurt?”

“No;” Ruth shook her head.

“Well, then, what is it?”

“Oh, Wallace, I am so afraid I’m going to be hurt. Mother says there
is a dark spot on one of my teeth. She is getting ready to take me to
Doctor Harrison’s. I have never had a tooth filled.”

“Well, of all the silly things I ever heard of,” exclaimed Wallace,
“that’s the silliest! What makes you think the dentist will hurt you?”

Ruth looked up in surprise.

“Haven’t you ever heard the boys and girls talk of how they were hurt
when they had teeth filled?” she asked.

“Oh, I have heard some boys talk,” Wallace admitted; “but they were
boys who never cleaned their teeth—”

“And who did not see a dentist until they had a toothache,” added Mrs.
Duwell, overhearing Wallace’s remark as she entered the room.

“What, crying?” she asked, noticing Ruth’s swollen eye-lids. “Why, my
dear little girl, the dentist is one of your best friends.”

“I guess some of the girls and boys would like him better if he didn’t
hurt them so much, mother,” said Ruth.

“That isn’t the dentist’s fault, children,” said Mrs. Duwell. “If boys
and girls had their teeth examined once or twice a year, the dentist
would catch the trouble in time and save them much pain.”

“I don’t suppose dentists ever want to hurt anyone,” Ruth said.

“No, indeed. I think they are very kind to be willing to do so in order
to save teeth. It is dreadful to have bad teeth. Nothing tastes just
right; and worse than that, bad teeth mean bad health. Good teeth are
a grist mill to grind our food. Without good teeth we cannot have good

“That is so,” said Wallace. “Even horses aren’t worth much after their
teeth are gone.”

“Why can’t they wear false ones?” asked Ruth with such seriousness that
Wallace burst out laughing.

“I wish they could, poor things,” said her mother; “but come, dear, we
must start.”


II. At the Dentist’s

“Ah, here is a little girl whose mouth looks as though she brushed
her teeth regularly,” said Doctor Harrison, as he raised the big
comfortable arm chair in which Ruth was sitting.

“She certainly is good about that, doctor,” said Mrs. Duwell.

“Even so,” said the doctor, “I think I shall give her one of my little
picture cards.”

Ruth looked so pleased that he handed her two.

“One is for Wallace,” Ruth said.

“That picture is to remind forgetful children,” said the doctor. “Now
let us look at the twenty-odd pearls in your mouth, little girl.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Oh, Wallace, Doctor Harrison didn’t hurt me a bit,” cried Ruth,
running into the living-room after they had reached home. “He said that
he didn’t often hurt people who came to him in time. Here is a card, he
gave me for you.”

“Thank you,” said Wallace, looking at the card. “Oh, it’s to remind me
to brush my teeth. I wonder if he thought I needed it.”

“No, Doctor Harrison didn’t say that, Wallace; but he did say that we
wouldn’t want to eat anything with dirty hands, and that really dirty
teeth are worse than dirty hands.”

[Illustration: THE ROAD TO HEALTH.]


    Do you have your teeth examined once or twice a year?

    The dentist is one of your best friends. Why?

    Do you think that the people in the United States would
    be as well as they are, if there were no dentists? Why

    Suppose you had a toothache and there was no dentist to
    whom you could go. What would happen?

    Aren’t you glad that there are men who have studied, so
    that they can help you take care of your teeth?

       *       *       *       *       *

    Suppose we children had to live
      Without the help of others—
    I mean, suppose we had to grow
      Without the help of mothers;

    Suppose there were no groceryman,
      No milkman, doctor, baker,
    No tailor who could make our coats,
      And there were no dressmaker;

    Suppose no people ever did
      The things that they could do
    To help each other in this world—
      I wouldn’t want to live, would you?



I. The Sick Baby

“Ruth, I wish you would stop at Doctor Marcy’s office on your way to
school,” said Mrs. Duwell a few days later, “and ask him to come to
see the baby. The little thing has a high fever.”

“Oh, dear, I hope baby won’t be sick!” exclaimed Ruth, kissing her
mother good-by.

All the morning she remembered her mother’s troubled look. At noon she
did not stop to talk with the girls, but hurried home as fast as she

Wallace was there before her, though, having run all the way. He met
her at the door.

“Ruth,” he whispered, “I met Doctor Marcy as he came out, and he says
that the baby has pneumonia,[B] and it is a bad case. Mother doesn’t
know I am home. Can’t we get some lunch ready to take to her?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Ruth, tiptoeing into the kitchen. “You put the
kettle on the fire and I’ll make some tea and milk toast.”

Mrs. Duwell looked very pale and weary when the children appeared with
the lunch tray.

“I didn’t know you were home, Ruth,” she whispered, stepping into the
hall. “How quietly you must have worked, children.”

“Is there anything else we can do to help?” asked Wallace.

“Why, yes, there is, Wallace. You may take this pre-scrip-tion to the
drug store to be filled. Ask the druggist to send the medicine over as
soon as possible.”

Just then the baby gave a pitiful little moan, which made the mother
turn again to the crib. The children stole softly downstairs.


“I’ll run right over to the drug store, Ruth,” Wallace said, forgetting
his own lunch.

II. The Druggist

“Good morning, Mr. Jones,” he said breathlessly as he entered the
store. “Baby is very ill, and mother wishes this prescription filled.
She told me to ask if you would please send the medicine over just as
soon as possible.”

“Baby sick? How sorry I am, Wallace,” said Mr. Jones. “Of course we
will send it soon. I will see to it at once.”

“Oh, thank you.” Wallace drew a sigh of relief. “How much will it be,

The druggist examined the queer Latin words of the doctor’s
prescription. “This calls for one very expensive medicine, Wallace,” he
said; “so we shall have to charge seventy-five cents.”

“That will be all right,” said Wallace.

When he reached home Ruth had a nice lunch spread for him.

“I am not going to school this afternoon, Wallace,” she told him. “I’m
going to tidy up the house, and help mother.”

“Look at the clock, Ruth!” exclaimed Wallace suddenly, “I must start
right away—the medicine will be seventy-five cents.”

“I will have the money ready,” said Ruth. “Good-by.”

The druggist’s boy came with the medicine a few minutes after Wallace
left, and the baby was given the first dose at once.

When their father came the children had supper ready, but no one ate

“I am glad you can be so helpful, children,” he said.

III. The Trained Nurse

For five days the whole family did everything they knew to help save
the baby’s life. Mr. Duwell was worried not only about the baby but
about the children’s mother.

“I agree with the doctor that it would be much wiser to have a trained
nurse,” he said on Saturday afternoon.

“But mother cannot bear the thought of letting anyone else take care of
the baby,” said Ruth.

“I know that mother is a splendid nurse,” Mr. Duwell continued; “but a
trained nurse knows all the best new methods of nursing, and could give
much relief to mother, who is tired out.”

Just then the bell rang.

“It is the doctor,” said Ruth. Mr. Duwell went to the door, followed by
the little girl.

The doctor was not alone. With him was a young lady. Ruth liked her at
once; she seemed so quiet and strong, and looked so kind.


“How do you do, sir?” said Doctor Marcy to Mr. Duwell. “This is Miss
Foster, a trained nurse. I am taking matters in my own hands, you
see. That good wife of yours is entirely worn out.”

“I am pleased to meet Miss Foster and I am very much obliged to you for
bringing her, doctor,” Mr. Duwell replied.

“It seems to me to be the very best thing to do. I have tried to
persuade Mrs. Duwell to see things that way,” said the doctor.

“Oh, come upstairs, doctor,” called Mrs. Duwell, hearing the doctor’s
voice; “I think baby is scarcely breathing.”

“Come,” said the doctor to the nurse, leading the way.

Mrs. Duwell was standing near the crib as they entered.

“This is the nurse I was talking about,” the doctor said, introducing
Miss Foster, and turning to look at the baby.

“I am very glad—” Mrs. Duwell started to speak, but she fainted away
before she could finish the sentence.

The nurse did not seem frightened. She laid Mrs. Duwell flat on the
floor. After sprinkling cold water on her face, she held some smelling
salts to her nose.

In a minute or two Mrs. Duwell opened her eyes. “I must have fainted,”
she said; “I am so glad you were here, nurse. Doctor, how is baby?”

“About as I expected,” the doctor replied. “I believe the worst will be
over to-night. Now, I want you to take this medicine which Miss Foster
will give you, and lie down for a while. I expect to come back about
ten o’clock to-night. Good-by; please obey Miss Foster’s orders,” he

“It is such a relief to my mind, doctor,” said Mr. Duwell, meeting him
at the foot of the stairs, “to know that the nurse is here.”

“It is a relief,” replied the doctor. “If the strain had kept on much
longer, Mrs. Duwell would have had a long term of illness.”

IV. The Doctor, a Hero

The doctor and nurse watched by the baby’s bedside until the danger was
passed. Both wore happy smiles when the doctor assured the tired Duwell
family that the baby would live.

“Oh, doctor, money cannot pay you for your kindness,” said Mrs. Duwell.
“Through rain and snow storms, at midnight and at daybreak, you have
come to help us. How tired you must often be.”

“It is true, doctor,” Mr. Duwell added; “you risk your life as
willingly as a soldier does, every time you go into danger.”

“We doctors don’t think anything about that,” replied Doctor Marcy
modestly. “We are so anxious to have people get well.”

“Why, doctors are heroes like soldiers!” exclaimed Wallace, looking at
the doctor with new respect. “I never thought of that before!”

“Nurses are, too,” whispered Ruth; but Doctor Marcy overheard.

“That is right, Ruth,” he said. “Nurses are, too.”


The Druggist

    How long does a druggist have to study in order to fill
    prescriptions? Would it be safe to let those who have
    not studied handle medicines? Why not?

    How near is a drug store to your home? Can you imagine
    how it would be to live ten miles from a drug store?

The Nurse

    Can you give some reasons why a trained nurse can care
    for a sick person better than an untrained one?

    Do you know any trained nurses?

    How long does a trained nurse study before graduation?

The Doctor

    Did you ever need a doctor at your house?

    How did you let him know? Did he come quickly?

    What might have happened if he had not come?

    Pretend, you are a country doctor and tell about some
    of your long drives. Do you think doctors are heroes?


[B] Pronounced nū-mō´nē-ā.


A Play

Parts to be taken by Pupils

    _Section I_
    or others who supply food

    _Section II_
    or others who supply clothing

    _Section III_
    or others who supply shelter

    _Section IV_
    Coal man
    Wood man
    Oil man
    or others who supply fuel

    _Section V_
    or others who help keep us well

_Teacher to Sec. I._ What do you do?

_Baker._ I am the baker; I bake bread.

_Milkman._ I am the milkman; I supply the milk.

_Butcher._ I am the butcher; I supply the meat.

_Grocer._ I am the grocer; I sell groceries.

_Teacher._ Do you make clothing or build houses?

_Baker._ No, we supply food for all; that is our part.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Teacher to Sec. II._ What do you do?

_Tailor._ I am the tailor; I make the clothing.

_Dressmaker._ I am the dressmaker; I make dresses.

_Shoemaker._ I am the shoemaker; I make shoes.

_Milliner._ I am the milliner; I make the hats.

_Teacher._ Do you supply food or fuel?

_Tailor._ No, we make clothing for all; that is our part.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Teacher to Sec. III._ What do you do?

_Bricklayer._ I am the bricklayer; I lay the bricks.

_Carpenter._ I am the carpenter; I build the houses.

_Painter._ I am the painter; I paint the houses.

_Plumber._ I am the plumber; I fit the pipes.

_Teacher._ Do you make clothes or attend the sick?

_Bricklayer._ No, we build houses for all; that is our part.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Teacher to Sec. IV._ And what do you do?

_Coal man._ I am the coal man; I deliver the coal.

_Miner._ I am the miner; I dig the coal.

_Wood man._ I am the wood man; I cut the wood.

_Oil man._ I am the oil man; I supply oil.

_Teacher._ Do you supply food or clothing?

_Coalman._ No, we furnish fuel; that is our part.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Teacher to Sec. V._ And what do you do?

_Doctor._ I am the doctor; I heal the sick.

_Druggist._ I am the druggist; I sell medicines.

_Nurse._ I am the nurse; I help the doctor.

_Teacher._ Do you build houses or furnish fuel?

_Doctor._ No, we keep people well, or aid them when they are ill; that
is our part.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All recite:_

    One works for all and all for one,
    And so the work of the world gets done.

[Illustration: ONE FOR ALL ALL FOR ONE.]



Junior Membership and School Activities



In September, 1917, President Wilson sent out a letter from the White
House in Washington to the school children of the United States.

He told them that the President of the United States is the President
of the American Red Cross, and he said that the Red Cross people wanted
the children to help them in their work.

Their work, you know, is to help all those who are suffering or in need.

Such work is so beautiful that it is really doing golden deeds.

Now read for yourself this letter from the President of the United
States which belongs to every school child in America.


    _To the School Children of the United States_:

    The President of the United States is also President of
    the American Red Cross. It is from these offices joined
    in one that I write you a word of greeting at this time
    when so many of you are beginning the school year.

    The American Red Cross has just prepared a Junior
    Membership with School Activities in which every pupil
    in the United States can find a chance to serve our
    country. The School is the natural center of your life.
    Through it you can best work in the great cause of
    freedom to which we have all pledged ourselves.

    Our Junior Red Cross will bring to you opportunities
    of service to your community and to other communities
    all over the world and guide your service with high
    and religious ideals. It will teach you how to save
    in order that suffering children elsewhere may have a
    chance to live. It will teach you how to prepare some
    of the supplies which wounded soldiers and homeless
    families lack. It will send to you through the Red
    Cross Bulletins the thrilling stories of relief and
    rescue. And best of all, more perfectly than through
    any of your other school lessons, you will learn by
    doing those kind things under your teacher’s direction
    to be future good citizens of this great country which
    we all love.

    And I commend to all school teachers in the country the
    simple plan which the American Red Cross has worked out
    to provide for your coöperation, knowing as I do that
    school children will give their best service under the
    direct guidance and instruction of their teachers. Is
    not this perhaps the chance for which you have been
    looking to give your time and efforts in some measure
    to meet our national needs?

                               (Signed) WOODROW WILSON,

    September 15, 1917.

    How do you suppose the school children of the United
    States felt when they read this letter from the

    It is a wonderful letter. It does not read like a
    letter from a great man to little children.

    It is different from most of the letters which grown
    people write to children, for the President writes to
    the children asking for their help, just as if they
    were grown up.

    Indeed, when the grown people read the letter they
    wished that they could be school children again,
    because there was no Junior Red Cross when they were
    young, and they had to wait to grew up before they
    could help the Red Cross do golden deeds.

    You see, when they were young, everybody thought, “When
    the children are grown up they will help us.” Then they
    waited for them to grow.

    Are you not glad that you are able, while a child, to
    do helpful work for your country?

    Now let us think about some of the golden deeds which
    the Red Cross does.


Of course, in times of war the Red Cross is very busy helping the
soldiers, but do you think that it is idle in times of peace?

No, indeed. The Red Cross is always listening for a call of distress,
and is ready to aid any people who are suffering.

One day in 1912 the Red Cross heard the people who lived along the
banks of the Mississippi River calling for help, for the river had
been so swollen by rains that it had risen high and overflowed its
banks in a dangerous flood.

[Illustration: _Picture from a photograph_]

    Do you know what happens during a flood?

    Name all the different things you see on the little
    island in this picture.

    Why do you suppose the people are all staying there
    instead of rowing off in the boats?

    Because they are expecting the relief launch of the
    Red Cross to come and take them to a safe place. The
    water is flowing too swiftly for the little boats to
    cross in safety. They would probably be carried against
    a tree and upset.

    Many houses have been carried down the river during
    this flood, so you can understand how glad the people
    will be to see help coming. In this next picture you
    will see how the Red Cross answered the people’s cry
    for help.

[Illustration: _Picture from a photograph_]

    This picture shows a Carnegie Library which was used
    by the Red Cross as a relief station during the
    Mississippi flood.

    The Red Cross spent thousands of dollars during this
    flood, saving many lives and helping hundreds of flood

    Can you name some of the things the people needed?

    What do you suppose they think of the Red Cross?

    Imagine that a great wind storm or cyclone should come
    very suddenly whirling through your city, tearing
    down houses, uprooting trees, and leaving thousands
    of people homeless—who would be the first to help the
    people who were hurt?

    This is just an example of the way the Red Cross is
    standing ready to help in time of need.

    If you read the _Red Cross Magazine_ you will learn
    about hundreds of golden deeds which the Red Cross is
    doing, for the work of the Red Cross in times of peace
    and at all times is to help people in distress and need.



The work of the Red Cross during war is

First. To care for and nurse the wounded among our own soldiers and
sailors, and even the wounded of the enemy who fall into the hands of
the Red Cross.

Of course, in order to do this, millions of people who are not doing
the nursing can make the articles needed for that purpose. What can the
Junior Red Cross do to help?

Second. To care for the families of the soldiers and sailors who have
given their services to their country.

How can the Junior Red Cross help?


Do you suppose that people always felt that they should help everybody
in such ways?

No; the Red Cross is not yet sixty years old.

War is thousands of years old.

In olden days when soldiers fought, there were no kind Red Cross nurses
to care for the wounded. There were no faithful Red Cross dogs to
search for wounded soldiers after the battle was over.

Often the suffering men died of neglect when proper nursing would
have saved their lives. But no one ever thought of sending a band of
women nurses to wars to help the soldiers, before the days of Florence

Florence Nightingale

Florence was a little English girl who always said that when she grew
up she would be a nurse.

She felt sorry to see any living creature suffer and always tried to
help it. Sometimes it was a bird with a broken wing or an injured
rabbit that she tended.

All the neighbors brought their sick pets to her. The little nurse
finally had so many patients that her father gave her a corner of the
greenhouse for a hospital. The animals learned to love her and she had
many friends among them as you may imagine.

When she was a young woman nursing in a London hospital, England’s
soldiers were sent to war with Russia’s soldiers. They had to travel in
ships all the way to the Crimea in Russia. You see, they were a great
distance from home.

News of their terrible sufferings reached Florence Nightingale in the
hospital. Taking a band of nurses with her she went to nurse the
wounded soldiers in that far off land.

When the nurses arrived there, they found thousands of sick and wounded
men lying on the hospital floors with no one to help them. At once
the brave nurses began to take care of the soldiers as kindly as your
mother takes care of you when you are ill.

Do you wonder that many who would have died, lived and were grateful
all their lives to he nurses?

Of course there were no gas or electric lights in the rough hospitals
of those days, so that Miss Nightingale always carried a lighted lamp
when she made her good-night rounds. The weary soldiers looked for the
gleam of the lamp in the darkness and were made happy by her words of
encouragement. That is how she came to be called “The Lady of the Lamp.”

The story of Florence Nightingale and her brave band spread far and
near. It touched the hearts of people everywhere, and made them think
about what could be done to relieve suffering even before the days of
the Red Cross.

[Illustration: _Copyright and reproduced by courtesy of “The Ladies’
Home Journal”_



Among those who heard the story of what Florence Nightingale and her
brave nurses did for the soldiers, was Henri Du-nant, a kind-hearted
Swiss gentleman.

He remembered it several years afterward when he was present at a
terrible battle between the soldiers of Austria and those of France and
Sardinia. He saw thousands of wounded soldiers dying almost without

In a book which he wrote about their sufferings, he asked the question,
“Why could not the people of all countries make plans to care for the
sick and wounded during wars?”

And from his question came the great Red Cross work in which we all
have a part.

The Red Cross is more wonderful than any war, for it comes from the
kindness in people’s thoughts.

We hope that long years from now there will be no war.

But we cannot expect to have wars cease until the _people_, and not the
_kings_, of the great countries of the world make their own laws.

Henri Dunant and Florence Nightingale were like the children of to-day
when they were little. They liked to play the same kinds of games that
you do.

When Florence played nurse with her dolls she did not dream of the
great good she would do for the whole world.

It may be that some of the boys and girls who are now reading this
story will be like Henri Dunant and Florence Nightingale, and will grow
up to do great and noble work for others.



    What do you think of people who help other people in

    What do you think of people who do not help people who
    are in need of help?

    Do you realize that the work of the Red Cross is
    entirely the helping of people who need help?

    Did a good neighbor ever come to your house and help
    your people in time of illness or trouble?

    You would be glad to help other people in just some
    such way, wouldn’t you?

    Are you not glad that the Junior Red Cross gives you a
    chance to pass such kindness along?


    Mention some of the good deeds which you know the
    Junior Red Cross has done.

    Have you ever sold Red Cross Christmas seals? What does
    the Red Cross do with the money made from the sale of
    Christmas seals?

    How old is the Junior Red Cross?

    It is a pretty young baby to have accomplished so much,
    isn’t it? But do you know how fast it has grown?

    When you see a person wearing a Red Cross button, you
    know many things about that person.

    Here are a few of the things that are shown:

    1. Kindness. 2. Helpfulness. 3. Love of one’s country.

    Can you name others?

[Illustration: _Copr. Underwood & Underwood_





1. By belonging to the Red Cross and trying to get others to belong.

2. By learning to save in order that suffering children elsewhere may
have their share of food and clothing.

3. By helping to prepare some of the supplies that wounded soldiers and
homeless families are in need of.

4. By reading stories of relief and rescue so that I can tell others
about the Red Cross.

5. By learning to be a good citizen of my country even before I grow up.

The Junior Members of the Red Cross try to share their good things with
those who do not have them.



    The members of the American Red Cross have two flags.

    This boy has two flags. Why?

    Do you have two flags?

    Do you wear a Red Cross button?

    Has your school an American Red Cross School Auxiliary

    Do you know that the American Red Cross serves the
    government of the United States, and that the members
    of the Red Cross are the best citizens of our country?

    The Red Cross means being good neighbors—working




    Florence Nightingale, the nurse
    Frances, her sister
    Flossie, her doll
    Harry Miller, Doctor Make-believe
    Old Roger, the shepherd
    Captain, the hurt dog
    Mr. Vicar, the minister
    Soldiers, doctors, and other nurses

Act I. The Sick Doll

Scene. In an English Garden.

_Frances._ Come on! Let’s play tag, Florence.

_Florence._ I can’t, Frances. Flossie is too sick. Won’t you play you
are the doctor, and come see her?

_Frances._ Oh, no; you always want to play the same thing! Your dolls
are always sick! I believe you love the broken ones better than the

_Florence._ Yes, I do. I’m going to be a nurse when I grow up. Well,
if you don’t want to play that you are the doctor, I am going to ask
Harry Miller to play that he is. (_Goes to the hedge and calls._) Oh,
Harry, come on over, and play you are the doctor for my sick dolls.

_Frances._ Come on, Harry, I am going to be the druggist.

_Harry._ All right, girls; I’ll be over in a minute.

_Florence._ Don’t forget your medicine case.

_Harry_ (_entering_). Good morning, madam. Is your little child ill?

       *       *       *       *       *

Act the rest of the story yourselves.

Act II. Good Old Cap

Scene. In an English Village Street.

    (_Florence is riding on her little pony. With her on
    horseback is Mr. Vicar, the minister of the village

_Mr. Vicar._ What a lovely day, Florence.

_Florence._ It is a beautiful day, Mr. Vicar. I am so glad we are going
to call to see old Mrs. Williams. I hope she is better than when mother
last saw her.

_Mr. Vicar._ I have not heard from her for some days.

_Florence_ (_looking off in the distance_). Oh, there is old Roger
trying to gather his sheep together. Why, I wonder where his dog is.
(_They ride up._)

_Mr. Vicar._ Good morning, Roger. You seem to be having trouble.

_Roger._ That I am, sir. Good morning, miss.

_Florence._ Why, where is your good dog, Cap?

_Roger._ Some boys threw stones at him and broke his leg. I am afraid
he will never be able to run again.

_Florence._ Oh, how dreadful!

_Roger._ Yes, I miss him so much. He was such a help.

_Florence_ (_to Mr. Vicar, in a whisper_). I wonder if we could see the
dog. We might be able to do something for him.

_Mr. Vicar._ Where is your dog; Roger?

_Roger._ At home, beside the fire.

    (_Mr. Vicar and Florence ride to the cottage. They find
    that Cap’s leg is not broken, but is sprained. Florence
    asks for hot water, and bathes and bandages the leg. In
    a few days the dog recovers and helps Roger with the

Act out the rest of the story yourselves.

Act III. The Lady of the Lamp

    Scene. In a hospital. Soldiers are lying on cots and
    chairs. Florence Nightingale comes in with a lamp in
    her hand.

_First Soldier._ Hush, here comes the Angel of Mercy to look after us
poor fellows. How tired she must be after working all day.

_Second Soldier._ Yes, the Lady of the Lamp.

_Third Soldier._ She has done more for our country than all the
soldiers during this terrible war.

_All the Soldiers._ That she has. May Heaven bless her brave heart!

       *       *       *       *       *

    America! America!
      Thy loyal children we!
    Dear Mother Land, our lives we pledge
      In service unto thee.

    YOU and I
        And ALL of US TOGETHER
            Will make this WORLD of OURS
                  Sorry and Sad—


    YOU and I
      And ALL of US TOGETHER
          Do not
              DO RIGHT.

      YOU and I
        And ALL of US TOGETHER
          Will make THIS WORLD of OURS
              HAPPY and GLAD—


      YOU and I
        And ALL of US TOGETHER
            DO RIGHT!

    We Will Be

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired. The table of contents uses the
œ ligature in Phœbe Cary’s name. In the text it’s italic and the
transcriber assumes that the printer didn’t have an italic ligature. As
we’re not constrained by that, all instances of Phœbe Cary’s name now
have the ligature.


Page 166, the pronunciation key for petroleum uses a dot and macron
combination above the two es in the text. As this is not a character
available to us, the macron and acute have been substituted: ḗ.

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