“Yes,” said Paul, very proud, and now how could he, if there_The Junior Classics, Volume 9: Stories of To-day

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The Junior Classics, Volume 9: Stories of To-day

[Illustration:

_Junior

Classics_

THE·YOUNG·FOLKS’

SHELF·OF·BOOKS

_P·F·Collier·&·Son Corporation_

_New York_]

[Illustration: THERE WAS NO GOING HOME FOR HIM, EVEN TO A PRISON—page 292

_From the painting by Nella F. Binckley_]

THE

JUNIOR CLASSICS

SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY

WILLIAM PATTEN

MANAGING EDITOR OF THE HARVARD CLASSICS

INTRODUCTION BY

CHARLES W. ELIOT, LL.D.

PRESIDENT EMERITUS OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY

WITH A READING GUIDE BY

WILLIAM ALLAN NEILSON, Ph. D.

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, HARVARD UNIVERSITY

PRESIDENT SMITH COLLEGE, NORTHAMPTON, MASS., SINCE 1917

VOLUME NINE

_Stories of To-day_

[Illustration]

P. F. COLLIER & SON CORPORATION

NEW YORK

By P. F. COLLIER & SON

“Brother Rabbit’s Cradle,” Joel Chandler Harris; Copyright, 1904,

by McClure, Phillips & Co. “A Story of Decoration Day for the

Little Children of To-day,” Elisabeth Harrison; Copyright, 1895,

by Elizabeth Harrison. “The Taxes of Middlebrook,” R. S. Baker;

“The Cure of Fear,” N. Duncan; “A Christmas Adventure,” J. E.

Chamberlin; “Chased by the Trail,” Jack London; “Big Timber Beacon,”

J. L. Mathews; “How Hilda Got a School,” Lelia Munsell; “The Second

String,” J. B. Connolly; “Holding the Pipe,” A. W. Tolman; “The

Travelling Doll,” Evelyn S. Barnett; “The Idea That Went Astray,”

Pauline C. Bouvé; “Gravity Gregg,” I. O. Rankin; “Jonnasen,” D. L.

Sharp; “In the Oven,” R. W. Child; “On a Slide-Board,” R. Barnes; “On

a Tight Rope,” A. W. Tolman; “The Call of the Sea,” F. Palmer; “Down

the Incline,” C. N. Hood; “Drasnoe Pipe-Line,” A. S. Pier; “Manuk Del

Monte,” R. Thomas; Copyright, 1898, 1903, 1904, 1905, 1906, 1907,

1908, 1909, by Perry Mason Co. “The Fore-Room Rug,” Kate Douglas

Wiggin; Copyright, 1895, by Kate Douglas Riggs; used by permission of

and by arrangement with the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Company.

“The Imp and the Drum,” Josephine Daskam Bacon; From “The Imp and

the Angel,” Copyright, 1901, 1907, by Charles Scribner’s Sons. “The

Foreman,” S. E. White; Copyright, 1903, by S. S. McClure Co.; 1904,

by Stewart Edward White. “The Cost of Loving,” F. O. Bartlett;

W. Pangborn; by permission from “Interventions”; Copyright, 1911,

by Charles Scribner’s Sons. “Cressy’s New Year’s Rent,” Albert Lee;

Acknowledgments of permissions given by authors and

publishers for the use of copyright material

appear in Volume 10

MANUFACTURED IN U. S. A.

CONTENTS

PAGE

Brother Rabbit’s Cradle _Joel Chandler Harris_ 7

The Little Baxters Go Marketing _Tudor Jenks_ 18

A Story of Decoration Day for the Little

Children of To-day _Elizabeth Harrison_ 23

The Taxes of Middlebrook _Ray Stannard Baker_ 30

The Cure of Fear _Norman Duncan_ 43

A Christmas Adventure _J. E. Chamberlin_ 55

Chased by the Trail _Jack London_ 66

Big Timber Beacon _John L. Mathews_ 79

How Hilda Got a School _Lelia Munsell_ 90

The Imp and the Drum _Josephine D. Bacon_ 99

The Second String _James B. Connolly_ 116

Holding the Pipe _Albert W. Tolman_ 128

The Travelling Doll _Evelyn Snead Barnett_ 137

The Doll Doctor _E. V. Lucas_ 152

The Idea that Went Astray _Pauline C. Bouvé_ 168

Gravity Gregg _Isaac Ogden Rankin_ 171

Jonnasen _Dallas Lore Sharp_ 179

In the Oven _Richard W. Child_ 186

On a Slide-Board _Robert Barnes_ 192

The Call of the Sea _Frederick Palmer_ 201

On a Tight Rope _Albert W. Tolman_ 213

Down the Incline _Charles Newton Hood_ 220

The Cost of Loving _Frederick O. Bartlett_ 225

Ladybird _Edith Barnard_ 241

The Drasnoe Pipe-Line _Arthur Stanwood Pier_ 255

Manuk Del Monte _Rowland Thomas_ 269

The Man Without a Country _Edward Everett Hale_ 279

The Foreman _Stewart E. White_ 315

The Gray Collie _Georgia W. Pangborn_ 328

The Fore-Room Rug _Kate Douglas Wiggin_ 340

Cressy’s New-Year’s Rent _Albert Lee_ 359

Mr. O’Leary’s Second Love _Charles Lever_ 370

THE ROSE AND THE RING _William M. Thackeray_ 389

I. Shows How the Royal Family Sat Down to Breakfast 393

II. How King Valoroso Got the Crown, and Prince Giglio Went

Without 397

III. Tells Who the Fairy Blackstick Was, and Who Were Ever So

Many Grand Personages Besides 402

IV. How Blackstick Was Not Asked to the Princess Angelica’s

Christening 407

V. How Princess Angelica Took a Little Maid 410

VI. How Prince Giglio Behaved Himself 415

VII. How Giglio and Angelica Had a Quarrel 423

VIII. How Gruffanuff Picked the Fairy Ring Up, and Prince Bulbo

Came to Court 429

IX. How Betsinda Got the Warming-Pan 436

X. How King Valoroso Was in a Dreadful Passion 443

XI. What Gruffanuff Did to Giglio and Betsinda 447

XII. How Betsinda Fled, and What Became of Her 456

XIII. How Queen Rosalba Came to the Castle of the Bold Count

Hogginarmo 462

XIV. What Became of Giglio 466

XV. We Return to Rosalba 480

XVI. How Hedzoff Rode Back Again to King Giglio 488

XVII. How a Tremendous Battle Took Place, and Who Won It 493

XVIII. How They All Journeyed Back to the Capital 503

XIX. And Now We Come to the Last Scene in the Pantomime 509

ILLUSTRATIONS

THERE WAS NO GOING HOME FOR HIM, EVEN TO A PRISON

The Man Without a Country

_Frontispiece illustration in color from the painting by

Nella F. Binckley_

A GUSH OF WATER FOLLOWED, BURYING THE SLED AND WASHING THE DOGS FROM

THEIR FEET

Chased by the Trail

_From the drawing by George Giguère_

“I’M NOT YOUR DOCTOR. I’M A DOLL’S DOCTOR.”

The Doll Doctor

_From the drawing by Carton Moorepark_

“THREE OF US WERE RIDING DOWN THE SLOPE OF THE GREAT, GRASSY HILLS”

Manuk Del Monte

_From the drawing by W. H. D. Koerner_

“DOES MR. CRESSY LIVE HERE?”

Cressy’s New-Year’s Rent

_From the drawing by Edwin J. Meeker_

BULBO WAS BROUGHT IN CHAINS, LOOKING VERY UNCOMFORTABLE

The Rose and the Ring

_From the drawing by Wm. Makepeace Thackeray_

AND THE GLOOMY PROCESSION MARCHED ON

The Rose and the Ring

_From the drawing by J. H. Tinker_

BROTHER RABBIT’S CRADLE

By Joel Chandler Harris

“I wish you’d tell me what you tote a hankcher fer,” remarked Uncle

Remus, after he had reflected over the matter a little while.

“Why, to keep my mouth clean,” answered the little boy. Uncle Remus

looked at the lad, and shook his head doubtfully. “Uh-uh!” he exclaimed.

“You can’t fool folks when dey git ez ol’ ez what I is. I been watchin’

you now mo’ days dan I kin count, an’ I ain’t never see yo’ mouf dirty

’nuff fer ter be wiped wid a hankcher. It’s allers clean—too clean for

ter suit me. Dar’s yo’ pa, now; when he wuz a little chap like you, his

mouf useter git dirty in de mornin’ an’ stay dirty plum twel night. Dey

wa’n’t sca’cely a day dat he didn’t look like he been playin’ wid de pigs

in de stable lot. Ef he yever is tote a hankcher, he ain’t never show it

ter me.”

“He carries one now,” remarked the little boy with something like a

triumphant look on his face.

“Tooby sho’,” said Uncle Remus; “tooby sho’ he do. He start ter totin’

one when he tuck an’ tuck a notion fer ter go a-courtin’. It had his name

in one cornder, an’ he useter sprinkle it wid stuff out’n a pepper-sauce

bottle. It sho’ wuz rank, dat stuff wuz; it smell so sweet it make you

fergit whar you live at. I take notice dat you ain’t got none on yone.”

“No; mother says that cologne or any kind of perfumery on your

handkerchief makes you common.”

Uncle Remus leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and permitted a

heart-rending groan to issue from his lips. The little boy showed enough

anxiety to ask him what the matter was. “Nothin’ much, honey; I wuz des

tryin’ fer ter count how many diffunt kinder people dey is in dis big

worl’, an’ ’fo’ I got mo’ dan half done wid my countin’, a pain struck me

in my mizry, an’ I had ter break off.”

“I know what you mean,” said the child. “You think mother is queer;

grandmother thinks so too.”

“How come you to be so wise, honey?” Uncle Remus inquired, opening his

eyes wide with astonishment.

“I know by the way you talk, and by the way grandmother looks sometimes,”

answered the little boy.

Uncle Remus said nothing for some time. When he did speak, it was to

lead the little boy to believe that he had been all the time engaged in

thinking about something else. “Talkin’ er dirty folks,” he said, “you

oughter seed yo’ pa when he wuz a little bit er chap. Dey wuz long days

when you couldn’t tell ef he wuz black er white, he wuz dat dirty. He’d

come out’n de big house in de mornin’ ez clean ez a new pin, an’ ’fo’ ten

er-clock you couldn’t tell what kinder clof his cloze wuz made out’n.

Many’s de day when I’ve seed ol’ Miss—dat’s yo’ great-gran’mammy—comb

’nuff trash out’n his head fer ter fill a basket.”

The little boy laughed at the picture that Uncle Remus drew of his

father. “He’s very clean, now,” said the lad loyally.

“Maybe he is an’ maybe he ain’t,” remarked Uncle Remus, suggesting a

doubt. “Dat’s needer here ner dar. Is he any better off clean dan what he

wuz when you couldn’t put yo’ han’s on ’im widout havin’ ter go an’ wash

um? Yo’ gran’mammy useter call ’im a pig, an’ clean ez he may be now, I

take notice dat he makes mo’ complaint er headache an’ de heartburn dan

what he done when he wuz runnin’ roun’ here half-naked an’ full er mud. I

hear tell dat some nights he can’t git no sleep, but when he wuz little

like you—no, suh, I’ll not say dat, bekaze he wuz bigger dan what you

is fum de time he kin toddle roun’ widout nobody he’pin’ him; but when

he wuz ol’ ez you an’ twice ez big, dey ain’t narry night dat he can’t

sleep—an’ not only all night, but half de day ef dey’d ’a’ let ’im. Ef

dey’d let you run roun’ here like he done, an’ git dirty, you’d git big

an’ strong ’fo’ you know it. Dey ain’t nothin’ mo’ wholesomer dan a peck

er two er clean dirt on a little chap like you.”

There is no telling what comment the child would have made on this

sincere tribute to clean dirt, for his attention was suddenly attracted

to something that was gradually taking shape in the hands of Uncle Remus.

At first it seemed to be hardly worthy of notice, for it had been only a

thin piece of board. But now the one piece had become four pieces, two

long and two short, and under the deft manipulations of Uncle Remus it

soon assumed a boxlike shape.

The old man had reached the point in his work where silence was necessary

to enable him to do it full justice. As he fitted the thin boards

together, a whistling sound issued from his lips, as though he were

letting off steam; but the singular noise was due to the fact that he

was completely absorbed in his work. He continued to fit and trim, and

trim and fit, until finally the little boy could no longer restrain his

curiosity. “Uncle Remus, what are you making?” he asked plaintively.

“Larroes fer ter kech meddlers,” was the prompt and blunt reply.

“Well, what are larroes to catch meddlers?” the child insisted.

“Nothin’ much an’ sump’n mo’. Dicky, Dicky, killt a chicky, an’ fried it

quicky, in de oven, like a sloven. Den ter his daddy’s Sunday hat, he

tuck ’n’ hitched de ol’ black cat. Now what you reckon make him do dat?

Ef you can’t tell me word fer word an’ spellin’ fer spellin’ we’ll go out

an’ come in an’ take a walk.”

He rose, grunting as he did so, thus paying an unintentional tribute to

the efficacy of age as the partner of rheumatic aches and stiff joints.

“You hear me gruntin’,” he remarked—“well, dat’s bekaze I ain’t de chicky

fried by Dicky, which he e’t ’nuff fer ter make ’im sicky.” As he went

out the child took his hand, and went trotting along by his side, thus

affording an interesting study for those who concern themselves with the

extremes of life. Hand in hand the two went out into the fields, and

thence into the great woods, where Uncle Remus, after searching about for

some time, carefully deposited his oblong box, remarking: “Ef I don’t

make no mistakes, dis ain’t so mighty fur fum de place whar de creeturs

has der playgroun’, an’ dey ain’t no tellin’ but what one un um’ll creep

in dar when deyer playin’ hidin’, an’ ef he do, he’ll sho be our meat.”

“Oh, it’s a trap!” exclaimed the little boy, his face lighting up with

enthusiasm.

“An’ dey wa’n’t nobody here fer ter tell you,” Uncle Remus declared,

astonishment in his tone. “Well, ef dat don’t bang my time, I ain’t no

free nigger. Now, ef dat had ’a’ been yo’ pa at de same age, I’d ’a’ had

ter tell ’im forty-lev’m times, an’ den he wouldn’t ’a’ b’lieved me twel

he see sump’n in dar tryin’ fer ter git out. Den he’d say it wuz a trap,

but not befo’. I ain’t blamin’ ’im,” Uncle Remus went on, “kaze ’tain’t

eve’y chap dat kin tell a trap time he see it, an’ mo’ dan dat, traps

don’ allers sketch what dey er sot fer.”

He paused, looked all round, and up in the sky, where fleecy clouds were

floating lazily along, and in the tops of the trees, where the foliage

was swaying gently in the breeze. Then he looked at the little boy. “Ef I

ain’t gone an’ got los’,” he said, “we ain’t so mighty fur fum de place

whar Mr. Man, once ’pon a time—not yo’ time ner yit my time, but some

time—tuck’n’ sot a trap fer Brer Rabbit. In dem days, dey hadn’t l’arnt

how ter be kyarpenters, an’ dish yer trap what I’m tellin’ you ’bout wuz

a great contraption. Big ez Brer Rabbit wuz, it wuz lots too big fer him.

“Now, whiles Mr. Man wuz fixin’ up dis trap, Mr. Rabbit wa’n’t so mighty

fur off. He hear de saw—er-rash! er-rash!—an’ he hear de hammer—bang,

bang, bang!—an’ he ax hisse’f what all dis racket wuz ’bout. He see Mr.

Man come out’n his yard totin’ sump’n, an’ he got furder off; he see Mr.

Man comin’ todes de bushes, an’ he tuck ter de woods; he see ’im comin’

todes de woods, an’ he tuck ter de bushes. Mr. Man tote de trap so fur

an’ no furder. He put it down, he did, an’ Brer Rabbit watch ’im; he put

in de bait, an’ Brer Rabbit watch ’im; he fix de trigger, an’ still Brer

Rabbit watch ’im. Mr. Man look at de trap an’ it satchify him. He look at

it an’ laugh, an’ when he do dat Brer Rabbit wunk one eye, an’ wiggle his

mustache, an’ chaw his cud.

“An’ dat ain’t all he do, needer. He sot out in de bushes, he did, an’

study how ter git some game in de trap. He study so hard, an’ he got so

errytated, dat he thumped his behime foot on de groun’ twel it soun’

like a cow dancin’ out dar in de bushes, but ’twan’t no cow, ner yit no

calf—’twus des Brer Rabbit studyin’. Atter so long a time, he put out

down de road todes dat part er de country whar mos’ er de creeturs live

at. Eve’y time he hear a fuss, he’d dodge in de bushes, kaze he wanter

see who comin’. He keep on an’ he keep on, an’ bimeby he hear ol’ Brer

Wolf trottin’ down de road.

“It so happen dat Brer Wolf wuz de ve’y one what Brer Rabbit wanter see.

Dey wuz perlite ter one an’er, but dey wan’t no frien’ly feelin’ ’twix

um. Well, here come ol’ Brer Wolf, hongrier dan a chicken-hawk on a

frosty mornin’, an’ ez he come up he see Brer Rabbit set by de side er

de road lookin’ like he done lose all his fambly an’ his friends terboot.

“Dey pass de time er day, an’ den Brer Wolf kinder grin an’ say,

‘Laws-a-massy, Brer Rabbit! what ail you? You look like you done had

a spell er fever an’ ague; what de trouble?’ ‘Trouble, Brer Wolf? You

ain’t never see no trouble twel you git whar I’m at. Maybe you wouldn’t

min’ it like I does, kaze I ain’t usen ter it. But I boun’ you done seed

me light-minded fer de las’ time. I’m done—I’m plum wo’ out,’ sez Brer

Rabbit, sezee. Dis make Brer Wolf open his eyes wide. He say, ‘Dis de

fus’ time I ever is hear you talk dat-a-way, Brer Rabbit; take yo’ time

an’ tell me ’bout it. I ain’t had my brekkus yit, but dat don’t make no

diffunce, long ez youer in trouble. I’ll he’p you out ef I kin, an’ mo’

dan dat, I’ll put some heart in de work.’ When he say dis, he grin an’

show his tushes, an’ Brer Rabbit kinder edge ’way fum ’im. He say, ‘Tell

me de trouble, Brer Rabbit, an’ I’ll do my level bes’ fer ter he’p you

out.’

“Wid dat, Brer Rabbit ’low dat Mr. Man done been had ’im hired fer ter

take keer er his truck patch, an’ keep out de minks, de mush-rats an’ de

weasels. He say dat he done so well settin’ up night after night, when

he des might ez well been in bed, dat Mr. Man prommus ’im sump’n extry

’sides de mess er greens what he gun ’im eve’y day. Atter so long a time,

he say, Mr. Man ’low dat he gwineter make ’im a present uv a cradle so

he kin rock de little Rabs ter sleep when dey cry. So said, so done, he

say. Mr. Man make de cradle an’ tell Brer Rabbit he kin take it home wid

’im.

“He start out wid it, he say, but it got so heavy he hatter set it down

in de woods, an’ dat’s de reason why Brer Wolf seed ’im settin’ down by

de side er de road, lookin’ like he in deep trouble. Brer Wolf sot down,

he did, an’ study, an’ bimeby he say he’d like mighty well fer ter have a

cradle fer his chillun, long ez cradles wuz de style. Brer Rabbit say dey

been de style fer de longest, an’ ez fer Brer Wolf wantin’ one, he say he

kin have de one what Mr. Man make fer him, kaze it’s lots too big fer his

chillun. ‘You know how folks is,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. ‘Dey try ter do

what dey dunner how ter do, an’ dar’s der house bigger dan a barn, an’

dar’s de fence wid mo’ holes in it dan what dey is in a saine, an’ kaze

dey have great big chillun dey got de idee dat eve’y cradle what dey make

mus’ fit der own chillun. An’ dat’s how come I can’t tote de cradle what

Mr. Man make fer me mo’ dan ten steps at a time.’

“Brer Wolf ax Brer Rabbit what he gwineter do fer a cradle, an’ Brer

Rabbit ’low he kin manage fer ter git ’long wid de ol’ one twel he kin

’suade Mr. Man ter make ’im en’er one, an’ he don’t speck dat’ll be so

mighty hard ter do. Brer Wolf can’t he’p but b’lieve dey’s some trick in

it, an’ he say he ain’t see de ol’ cradle when las’ he wuz at Brer Rabbit

house. Wid dat, Brer Rabbit bust out laughin’. He say, ‘Dat’s been so

long back, Brer Wolf, dat I done fergit all ’bout it; ’sides dat, ef dey

wuz a cradle dar, I boun’ you my ol’ ’oman got better sense dan ter set

de cradle in der parler, whar comp’ny comes’; an’ he laugh so loud an’

long dat he make Brer Wolf right shame er himse’f.

“He ’low, ol’ Brer Wolf did, ‘Come on, Brer Rabbit, an’ show me whar de

cradle is. Ef it’s too big fer yo’ chillun, it’ll des ’bout fit mine.’

An’ so off dey put ter whar Mr. Man done sot his trap. ’Twa’n’t so mighty

long fo’ dey got whar dey wuz gwine, an’ Brer Rabbit say, ‘Brer Wolf, dar

yo’ cradle, an’ may it do you mo’ good dan it’s yever done me!’ Brer Wolf

walk all roun’ de trap an’ look at it like ’twas ’live. Brer Rabbit thump

one er his behime foots on de groun’ an’ Brer Wolf jump like some un done

shot a gun right at ’im. Dis make Brer Rabbit laugh twel he can’t laugh

no mo’. Brer Wolf, he say he kinder nervous ’bout dat time er de year,

an’ de leas’ little bit er noise ’ll make ’im jump. He ax how he gwineter

git any purchis on de cradle, an’ Brer Rabbit say he’ll hatter git inside

an’ walk wid it on his back, kaze dat de way he done done.

“Brer Wolf ax what all dem contraptions on de inside is, an’ Brer Rabbit

’spon’ dat dey er de rockers, an’ dey ain’t no needs fer ter be skeer’d

un um, kaze dey ain’t nothin’ but plain wood. Brer Wolf say he ain’t

’zactly skeer’d, but he done got ter de p’int whar he know dat you better

look ’fo’ you jump. Brer Rabbit ’low dat ef dey’s any jumpin’ fer ter

be done, he de one ter do it, an’ he talk like he done fergit what dey

come fer. Brer Wolf, he fool an’ fumble roun’, but bimeby he walk in de

cradle, sprung de trigger, an’ dar he wuz! Brer Rabbit, he holler out,

‘Come on, Brer Wolf; des hump yo’se’f, an’ I’ll be wid you.’ But try ez

he will an’ grunt ez he may, Brer Wolf can’t budge dat trap. Bimeby Brer

Rabbit git tired er waitin’, an’ he say dat ef Brer Wolf ain’t gwineter

come on he’s gwine home. He ’low dat a frien’ what say he gwineter he’p

you, an’ den go in a cradle an’ drap off ter sleep, dat’s all he wanter

know ’bout um; an’ wid dat he made fer de bushes, an’ he wa’n’t a minnit

too soon, kaze here come Mr. Man fer ter see ef his trap had been sprung.

He look, he did, an’, sho’ nuff, it ’uz sprung, an’ dey wuz sump’n in

dar, too, kaze he kin hear it rustlin’ roun’ an’ kickin’ fer ter git out.

“Mr. Man look thoo de crack, an’ he see Brer Wolf, which he wuz so

skeer’d twel his eye look right green. Mr. Man say, ‘Aha! I got you, is

I?’ Brer Wolf say, ‘Who?’ Mr. Man laugh twel he can’t sca’cely talk, an’

still Brer Wolf say, ‘Who? Who you think you got?’ Mr. Man ’low, ‘I don’t

think, I knows. Youer ol’ Brer Rabbit, dat’s who you is.’ Brer Wolf say,

‘Turn me outer here, an’ I’ll show you who I is.’ Mr. Man laugh fit ter

kill. He ’low, ‘You neenter change yo’ voice; I’d know you ef I met you

in de dark. Youer Brer Rabbit, dat’s who you is.’ Brer Wolf say, ‘I ain’t

not; dat’s what I’m not!’

“Mr. Man look thoo de crack ag’in, an’ he see de short years. He ’low,

‘You done cut off yo’ long years, but still I knows you. Oh, yes! an’ you

done sharpen you mouf an’ put smut on it—but you can’t fool me.’ Brer

Wolf say, ‘Nobody ain’t tryin’ fer ter fool you. Look at my fine long

bushy tail.’ Mr. Man ’low, ‘You done tied an’er tail on behime you, but

you can’t fool me. Oh, no, Brer Rabbit! You can’t fool me.’ Brer Wolf

say, ‘Look at de ha’r on my back; do dat look like Brer Rabbit? Mr. Man

’low, ‘You done wallered in de red san’, but you can’t fool me.’

“Brer Wolf say, ‘Look at my long black legs; do dey look like Brer

Rabbit?’ Mr. Man ’low, ‘You kin put an’er j’int in yo’ legs, an’ you kin

smut um, but you can’t fool me.’ Brer Wolf say, ‘Look at my tushes; does

dey look like Brer Rabbit?’ Mr. Man ’low, ‘You done got new toofies, but

you can’t fool me.’ Brer Wolf say, ‘Look at my little eyes; does dey

look like Brer Rabbit?’ Mr. Man ’low, ‘You kin squinch yo’ eye-balls,

but you can’t fool me, Brer Rabbit.’ Brer Wolf squall out, ‘I ain’t not

Brer Rabbit, an’ yo’ better turn me out er dis place so I kin take hide

an’ ha’r off’n Brer Rabbit.’ Mr. Man say, ‘Ef bofe hide an’ ha’r wuz off,

I’d know you, kaze ’tain’t in you fer ter fool me.’ An’ it hurt Brer Wolf

feelin’s so bad fer Mr. Man ter sput his word, dat he bust out inter a

big boo-boo, an’ dat’s ’bout all I know.”

“Did the man really and truly think that Brother Wolf was Brother

Rabbit?” asked the little boy.

“When you pin me down dat-a-way,” responded Uncle Remus, “I’m bleeze ter

tell you dat I ain’t too certain an’ sho’ ’bout dat. De tale come down

fum my great gran’daddy’s great gran’daddy; it come on down ter my daddy,

an’ des ez he gun it ter me, des dat-a-way I done gun it ter you.”

THE LITTLE BAXTERS GO MARKETING

By Tudor Jenks

Paul Baxter was too small to be head of the family. He was only seven,

while his sister was five, and Paul thought she had a great deal to

learn. Mrs. Baxter was the rest of the family, for the father had sailed

away with the fishing fleet one foggy morning, and the fleet came back

without one boat, and that boat was John Baxter’s. They all thought he

was drowned, but they were wrong, as you will see. Meanwhile you must

pretend you don’t know he is alive, or else you can’t understand what

an unhappy time Mrs. Baxter was living through, and how much rested on

Paul’s little shoulders while he considered himself the head of the

family.

The worst time had not come yet, for the father had saved some money, and

he had not been missing more than about two weeks. Mrs. Baxter knew that

the money would soon be gone, so she was saving every cent she could.

On the day before Thanksgiving, she told Paul and his sister Kate that

“until their father came home again” (for she would not speak as if he

were lost), they must be very careful, and so their Thanksgiving dinner

would have to be a very plain one.

“No turkey?” Kate asked.

“No, dear,” said their mother, “unless you and Paul can catch one

somewhere in the street.”

They knew this was a joke, for they lived in South Street, New York City,

where trucks rumbled about all day.

Paul felt he must get a turkey for a reason Mrs. Baxter didn’t know. As

John Baxter was bidding Paul good-bye the night before he sailed, Paul

had asked whether he would be back for Thanksgiving.

“I think so, my boy, but one can’t be sure. If I shouldn’t, you must see

to the Thanksgiving dinner, and carve the turkey. Will you?”

“Yes,” said Paul, very proud, and now how could he, if there was none to

carve? Paul made up his mind that it was his business to see that the

family had a turkey. Paul had some money in his own small cast-iron bank.

And he knew it was right for him to do what he liked with his savings. He

had already offered them to his mother, and she had told him they were of

no use to her. Kate, too, had some money in her bank; it was just like

Paul’s except that there was a “K” on the door, made with a red pencil.

While their mother was clearing away the breakfast, Paul beckoned to

Kate and proposed that they should put their money together and surprise

mother with the biggest, fattest, finest bird in the market.

Kate feared the bird would cost too much.

“Nonsense, child,” said Paul, grandly; “why, I have more than

seventy-five cents. How much have you?”

“Twenty-eight, I think,” said Kate.

“Well, then!” Paul answered; “that’s more’n a dollar. You can buy ’most

anything for a dollar, child.”

They opened the banks, and counted the money three times, to make sure.

It came out different every time, but they had about one dollar and

fifteen or eighteen cents. It was all in small pieces and looked enough

to buy an elephant. Paul tied it all up carefully in the corner of his

handkerchief.

Then, after they had helped their mother to tidy the rooms, they got

permission to go to market for her. She told them what to buy, and Paul

was glad when his mother told them to get some cranberries for sauce, and

a plum-pudding that came in a tin can. With their turkey, what a feast

these would make!

The market was not far away, but it was so crowded that Paul and Kate had

to hold hands tight. For a long time they could get no attention, but at

last, by pulling one of the marketmen’s aprons, Paul made him listen.

Paul bought all the things on their list, and then said, proudly:

“Please show me some of the biggest turkeys.”

The marketman, pointing to a long row, remarked:

“There they are—all weighed and marked. Pick out the one you want.”

Paul examined the tickets stuck on the turkeys—$2.20, $3.50, $2.40, $4.00

(he was a perfect giant of a gobbler!) and so on. Paul felt a lump in

his throat, he was so disappointed! Then little Kate made it worse by

pointing to the very biggest and saying, “Oh, Paul, buy that!—it’s the

best of all!”

Paul whispered to her, “It costs four dollars. Isn’t that _awful_? The

cheapest one is two dollars! What can we do?”

Kate shook her head. Then she had a bright idea.

“I know!” she said. “If we can’t have the biggest, let’s get the very

littlest that ever was! It will be cunning, and that will make mamma

laugh.”

“But I don’t see any very little ones,” Paul replied.

“Ask the man,” Kate urged.

It was some time before Paul could get the man’s attention, and then the

question was put.

“The littlest turkey?” repeated the marketman, with a grin. “That’s a

queer order, now. Why do you want the littlest one, my boy?”

“’Cause we’re buying it for mamma,” said Kate eagerly. “She can’t get one

at all, because papa’s gone away, and he _may_ not come back, and we got

the money out of our banks, and we’ve only one dollar and fifteen cents,

and we can’t have the biggest, you see.”

“Hello!” said the marketman, “here’s a talker for a little one! Haven’t I

seen you before?”

“Yes, sir,” Kate answered. “I’m Katie Baxter, and I used to come with

papa.”

“You Jack Baxter’s girl?” asked the marketman, stooping down and picking

the child up.

“Yes, sir,” said Kate, “but please put me down.” But instead the man

called to a marketman in the next stall,

“See here O’Neil, this is the Baxter girl. She’s come with another little

kid to buy the littlest turkey for her mother. They’ve got the money out

of their banks, and it’s a dollar fifteen. Can’t we fill the order?”

“Well, I guess we _can_,” said the other marketman heartily. “We’ll send

them a bird—with the stuffing, too!”

“It’ll be all right,” said the first marketman, putting little Kate on

her feet again. “Give me the number, and we’ll send the bird around

to-morrow.”

Paul gave the number, untied the money from his handkerchief, and away

they went through the noisy street home.

Paul and Kate had hard work to keep the secret of their marketing, but

they did, all that day, and the next.

About four o’clock there was a knock at the door, and when the door was

opened, there was nobody there. But there was something. A big, big

market-basket, and in it was the giant turkey, and on the turkey’s breast

a piece of paper, saying:

“From the friends of John Baxter to Mrs. Baxter and the little Baxters,

hoping they’ll enjoy their Thanksgiving.”

And that wasn’t all, for the turkey, when Mrs. Baxter came to prepare it,

was stuffed with silver dollars.

Then Mrs. Baxter cried; and Paul and Kate were puzzled by that. But she

was thankful, for she told them so.

When the great bird was properly browned and smoking, Paul took his place

ready to carve. He had just raised the knife and fork when the door

opened and a big, hearty sailor came in, saying:

“Here, here, young man, this won’t do! That is _my_ place!”

And, of course, it was John Baxter; and the turkey was not nearly so

hot by the time he had been hugged and kissed (meaning John Baxter, of

course), and had told how his boat had been sunk, but he and his mates

picked up by a steamer.

That _was_ a Thanksgiving dinner.

Next day John Baxter took his boy and girl down to the market, and they

made another giving of thanks to the marketmen, and that is a good ending

to the story, isn’t it?

There is one more thing. The marketmen would not take back their silver,

and so it went into the bank—a real bank this time—for Paul and Kate.

A STORY OF DECORATION DAY FOR THE LITTLE CHILDREN OF TO-DAY

By Elisabeth Harrison

I want you to listen to a sad, sweet story to-day, and yet one that ought

to make you glad—glad that such men have lived as those of whom I am

going to tell you. It all happened a good many years ago, in fact so long

ago that your fathers and mothers were little boys and girls in kilts and

pinafores, some of them mere babies in long clothes.

One bright Sunday morning in April the telegraph wires could be heard

repeating the same things all over the land, “Tic, tic; tictic; t-i-c;

tic, tictic;—tic, t-i-c, tic; t-i-c; tic, t-i-c; t-i-c, t-i-c, tic,” they

called out, and the drowsy telegraph operators sat up in their chairs as

if startled by the words the wires were saying.

“Tic, t-i-c, tic; tictic; tic, tictic; tic; t-i-c, tictic;—tic, tic;

t-i-c, tic,” continued the wires, and the faces of the telegraph

operators grew pale. Any looker-on could have seen that something

dreadful was being told by the wires.

“Tic, t-i-c, tic; tictic; tic, tictic; tic; t-i-c, tictic;—tic, tic;

t-i-c, tic,” again repeated the wires. There was no mistaking the message

this time. Alas, alas, it was true! The terrible news was true! Even the

bravest among the operators trembled.

Then came the rapid writing out of the fearful words that the slender

wires had uttered, the hurrying to and fro; and messenger boys were seen

flying to the great newspaper offices, and the homes of the mayors of the

cities, and to the churches where already the people were beginning to

assemble. For the deep-toned Sabbath church bells high up in the steeples

had been ringing out their welcome to all, even the strangers in their

midst—“Bim! Baum! Bim!” they sang, which everybody knew meant, “Come to

church, dear people! Come! Come! Come!” And the people strolled leisurely

along toward the churches—fathers and mothers and little ones, and even

grandfathers and grandmothers. It was such a bright, pleasant day that

it seemed a joy to go to the house of God and thank Him for all His love

and care. So one family after another filed into their pews while the

organist played such soft, sweet music that everybody felt soothed and

quieted by it.

Little did they dream of the awful words which the telegraph wires were

at that very moment calling out with their “Tic, t-i-c, tic; t-i-c; tic,

t-i-c; t-i-c, t-i-c, tic;—Tic, t-i-c, tic, tictic, tic, tictic; tic;

t-i-c; tictic.”

The clergymen came in and took their places in the pulpits. In each

church the organ ceased its wordless song of praise. The congregation

bowed and silently joined with all their hearts in the petitions which

the clergyman was offering to the dear Lord, Father of all mankind, Ruler

of heaven and earth. Some of them softly whispered “Amen” as he asked

protection for their homes and their beloved country. Did they know

anything about the danger which even then hung over them? Perhaps they

did.

In many of the churches the prayer was over, the morning hymn had been

sung, when a stir and bustle at the door might have been noticed, as the

messenger boys, excited and out of breath, handed their yellow envelopes

to the ushers who stood near the door ready to show the late comers to

unoccupied seats. First one and then the other ushers read the message,

and from some one of them escaped, in a hushed whisper, the words, “Oh,

God! Has it come to this!”

And all looked white and awe-struck. The head usher hurried tremblingly

down the aisle, and without waiting for the clergyman to finish reading

the announcements of the week, laid the telegram upon the pulpit desk.

The clergyman, somewhat surprised at such an interruption, glanced at the

paper, stopped, gasped, picked it up, and re-read the words written upon

it, as though he could not believe his own eyes. Then he advanced a step

forward, holding on to the desk, as if he had been struck a blow by some

unseen hand. The congregation knew that something terrible had happened,

and their hearts seemed to stop beating as they leaned forward to catch

his words.

“My people,” said he in a slow, deliberate tone, as if it were an effort

to steady his voice, “I hold in my hand a message from the President of

the United States.” Then his eyes dropped to the paper which he still

held, and now his voice rang out clear and loud as he read, “_Our Flag

has been fired upon! Seventy-five thousand troops wanted at once._

Abraham Lincoln.”

* * * * *

I could not make you understand all that took place the next week or

two any more than the little children who heard what the telegram said,

understood it. Men came home, hurried and excited, to hunt up law papers,

or to straighten out deeds, saying in constrained tones to the pale-faced

women, “I will try to leave all business matters straight before I

go.” There was solemn consultations between husbands and wives, which

usually ended in the father’s going out, stern-faced and silent, and the

mother, dry-eyed but with quivering lips, seeking her own room, locking

herself in for an hour, then coming out to the wondering children with a

quiet face, but with eyes that showed she had been weeping. There were

gatherings in the town halls and in the churches and school houses all

over the land. The newspapers were read hurriedly and anxiously.

And when little Robert looked up earnestly into his grandmamma’s face

and asked, “Why does mamma not eat her breakfast?” grandmamma replied,

“Your papa is going away, my dear.” And when little Robert persisted, by

saying, “But papa goes to New York every year, and mamma does not sit and

stare out of the window, and forget to eat her breakfast,” then mamma

would turn solemnly around and say, “Robert, my boy, papa is going to the

war, and may never come back to us. But you and I must be brave about it,

and help him get ready.” And if Robert answered, “Why is he going to the

war? Why does he not stay at home with us? Doesn’t he love us any more?”

then mamma would draw her boy to her and putting her arms around him, and

looking into his eyes, she would say, “Yes, my darling, he loves us, but

he _must_ go. Our country needs him, and you and I must be proud that he

is ready to do his duty.”

Then Robert would go away to his play, wondering what it all meant, just

as you would have wondered if you had been there.

Soon the papas and uncles, and even some of the grandfathers, put on

soldiers’ uniforms, and drilled in the streets with guns over their

shoulders, and bands of music played military music, and the drums beat,

and crowds of people collected on the street corners, and there were more

speeches, and more flags, and banners, and stir, and excitement. And

nothing else was talked of but the war, the war, the terrible war.

Then came the marching away of the soldiers to the railway stations, and

then the farewells and cheers and waving of handkerchiefs and the playing

of patriotic airs by the bands of music, and much more confusion and

excitement and good-bye kisses and tears than I could tell you of.

* * * * *

Then came the long, long days of waiting and praying in the homes to

which fathers and brothers no longer came, and silent watching for

letters, and anxious opening of the newspapers, and oftentimes the little

children felt their mamma’s tears drop on their faces as she kissed them

good-night—their dear mamma who so often had sung them to sleep with her

gay, happy songs—what did it all mean? They could not tell.

And all this time the fathers, brave men as they were, had been marching

down to the war. Oftentimes they slept on the hard ground with only their

army blankets wrapped around them, and the stars to keep watch over

them, and many a day they had nothing to eat but dry bread and black

coffee, because they had not time to cook more, and sometimes they had no

breakfast at all because they must be up by daybreak and march on, even

if the rain poured down, as it sometimes did, wetting them through and

through.

What were such hardships when _their country was in danger_?

Then came the terrible, terrible battles, more awful than anything you

ever dreamed of. Men were shot down by the thousands, and many who did

not lose their lives had a leg shot off, or an arm so crushed that it had

to be cut off. Still they bravely struggled on. It was for their beloved

country they were fighting, and for it they must be willing to suffer, or

to die.

Then a hundred thousand more soldiers were called for, and then another

hundred thousand, and still the bloody war continued. For four long years

it lasted, and the whole world looked on, amazed at such courage and

endurance.

* * * * *

Then the men who had not been killed, or who had not died of their

sufferings came marching home again, many, alas, on crutches, and many

who knew that they were disabled for life. But _they had saved their

country_! And that was reward enough for their heroic hearts. Though many

a widow turned her sad face away when the crowd welcomed the returning

soldiers, for she knew that her loved one was not with them, and many

little children learned in time that their dear fathers would never

return to them.

War is such a terrible thing that it makes one’s heart ache to think of

it.

Then by and by the people said, “Our children must grow up loving and

honoring the heroic men who gave their lives for their country.” So in

villages and towns and cities monuments were built in honor of the men

who died fighting for their country. And one day each year was set apart

to keep fresh and green the memory of the brave soldiers; and it has

been named “DECORATION DAY,” because on this day all the children, all

over the land, are permitted to go to the graves of the dead soldiers and

place flowers upon them.

THE TAXES OF MIDDLEBROOK

By Ray Stannard Baker

Up above the pines on the edge to the east the sun was rising and the air

smelled of the woods, of the warm sand of the roadsides, of the perfect

May morning. Three men in the quaint garb of pioneer foreigners came down

the lane from the shoemaker’s house and turned into the road. Before they

had gone many paces old Peter Walling stopped abruptly.

“There is a warning,” he said in Norwegian.

The eyes of the two others followed swiftly to his pointing. In the midst

of the sand a twig of willow had been stuck. The top was split, and it

held upward a bit of soiled paper. Old Peter seemed undecided whether to

touch the message or not, but Halstrom, the shoemaker, plucked it from

the stick, and scowled as he tried to make out its meaning. Presently he

handed it to his son.

“What does it say, Eric?” he asked.

The message was in English, printed with a lumberman’s coarse pencil, and

a rude attempt had been made to draw a skull and cross-bones at the top

of the paper. Eric read it slowly, translating into Norwegian as he went

along:

“Be Ware! All NORWEGANS and SWEEDS are hereby WARNED not to go

to the Town Hall under PENALTY of DEATH.”

It was signed in big letters, “By Order of the Committee.”

Eric Halstrom looked up and laughed shortly. “Well,” he said, “it means

us,” and he tucked the message away with some care in his pocket.

“We may need it,” he added.

The two older men were silent for a moment. Then Peter Walling spoke

faintly: “If there is going to be trouble—if there is danger—”

The old shoemaker straightened his bent shoulders and his eyes flashed

angrily. “Peter Walling, will you go or will you stay? I thought we had

settled this question once for all.”

“I’ll go, Jens—yes, yes, I’ll go,” answered Walling, hurriedly, but his

lips protested under his beard.

Halstrom turned without a word and hobbled down the road, determination

speaking from every nervous hitch of his twisted frame. He was small and

crippled, and in all his life he had never been able to do the work of a

strong man. But there was that in his blue eyes which made him a leader

in Thingvalla. He had cobbled in the old country, and he had cobbled in

this new Northwest among the pines, and every peg he drove had clinched

a thought. He was not educated in English; he had emigrated too late

for that, but he had seen to it that his son made the best of the scant

schooling of a new land, and better still, he had taught him some of the

wisdom that comes to a cobbler who thinks.

Eric stood almost six feet tall. His hair was as yellow and curly as a

rope end, and his eyes were blue and steady. Although barely twenty years

old, he had learned by the hard knocks of a pioneer country how to take

care of himself, both with his big right arm and with his tongue.

Over ten miles of sand-hills and corduroy, through vast forests of pine

as yet barely notched with the clearings of settlers, the three men came

at last in sight of the town hall, the shoemaker and his son in front,

and old Peter Walling behind, muttering his fears. The town hall was a

log shack, one story high, with a single large room.

As the three approached, they could see that the road was full of men

and teams. The men were moving about, and talking with the boisterous

pleasantry of backwoodsmen who do not often meet. They had gathered this

spring morning for the annual session of the board of review—the board

that was to make the final equalization of the taxes on the property

of the township. Eric looked anxiously to see if there were any others

present from the Thingvalla settlement, or, indeed, any Scandinavians,

but he could not see even one.

“They are all afraid,” the shoemaker said, bitterly. “They have come to a

free country, and they don’t know how to be free.”

But the New Antrim settlement was out in force. Eric heard the jolly

voices of the young Irishmen, and he knew well that they were spoiling

for a fight. Thingvalla was in one corner of the township, New Antrim

was in the other, and between the settlements stretched unbroken forests

of pine and implacable bitterness. It was one of those settlement

differences so common in the backwoods, and the more unfortunate for

being unfounded. New Antrim was sure that Thingvalla was trying to

control the township, and Thingvalla was equally sure that New Antrim was

escaping its share of taxation. And that was the condition on this bright

May day, when the three from Thingvalla came down with the warning in

Eric’s pocket.

“They are too many!” muttered old Peter Walling, tremulously.

They saw Calvin Donohue and his men sporting in the sunshine. Donohue was

the man in the otter cap, immensely broad and brawny of shoulders, long

of arms and square of chin. He talked in a big, jolly voice; from where

they stood they could hear him laugh.

O’Rourke, Callahan and some of the younger men were trying their strength

on a huge iron soap-kettle that stood in front of the blacksmith shop.

They were testing their muscles to see which could lift it from the

ground with one hand. There were few who could do it, but Calvin Donohue

put it as high as his shoulder as if it were only a feather. Others were

pitching quoits with horseshoes, and one group was watching a pulling

contest between O’Rourke and Davy, who were sitting, feet to feet on the

ground, tugging on a crowbar.

The shoemaker, who had been resting by the roadside, now rose, and

without a word set off down the hill toward the crowd, with his chin

thrown up and his eyes looking neither to the right nor to the left.

The moment the men of New Antrim saw them, a gleeful shout went up. Here

was new sport for them. A powerful man in a lumberman’s red jacket seized

a heavy oak swingletree from the blacksmith’s door, sprang out into the

road, and shouted:

“Come on, boys, we’ve got ’em!”

Eric and his father did not stop, but old Peter Walling wavered, then

turned and ran back up the road as fast as his legs could carry him. It

was two against thirty, but the two stood their ground. While they were

exchanging challenges, a man opportunely stepped from the doorway of the

town hall and began to rap on the logs with a stake, announcing that the

board had been called to order.

At once there was a rush for the benches, and Eric and his father reached

the door without opposition.

The shoemaker made as if to enter, but Jim O’Rourke barred the door with

his arm.

“No Swedes admitted,” he said, gruffly.

The shoemaker, paying no attention to the order, again endeavored to

enter. He was thrown back violently, and if it had not been for Eric,

he would have fallen. The shoemaker tried to speak, but his English

was hopelessly confused and broken. Eric was white to the lips, but he

controlled himself.

“We are citizens of this township,” he said, “and we have a right in this

meeting.”

“Go wan!” was the answer. “We won’t have any foreigners here.”

“We are as much Americans as you are!” responded Eric, hotly.

“Be cool,” cautioned the shoemaker, in his native tongue.

“I tell you, Jim O’Rourke,” continued Eric, more steadily, “there’s no

need of our quarrelling this way, and if you’d let us explain we’d show

you why we should all be friends—”

“Friends! Let me give you a friendly hint. You get out of here

double-quick.”

By nature the Scandinavian is peaceable. He hates fighting as much as he

loves his home; and yet, for being slow to wrath, he is the more terrible

when roused. Eric took one step forward and drove up O’Rourke’s arm with

a stinging blow that sent him spinning into the room. Then he and his

father entered. O’Rourke, recovering himself, rushed upon Eric and dealt

him a terrific blow in the breast. The two men were just closing in a

desperate encounter when Caxton, the chairman, rose, ordering silence and

preparing to enforce his decree with a stout oak stake.

“What’s the trouble here?” he demanded, when quiet had been restored.

“We are citizens of this township,” said Eric, panting, “and we have a

right to attend this meeting. This man tried to shut us out.”

Caxton paused a moment.

“Put out the Norsks!” roared a voice.

“No,” said Caxton. “They have a right to be here and to be heard on the

subject of their taxes.”

“Thank you!” said Eric, eagerly. “I want to explain—”

“You will be given a chance in due time,” was the answer, given so

coldly that it indicated the chairman’s position against them beyond a

doubt. There were many whispered threats, but Eric and his father firmly

stood their ground. The business of the board of review is to hear the

complaints of those who think they have been unfairly taxed. Apparently

there were to be few complaints at this meeting. An old man who spoke

with the unmistakable inflection of the Irishman commended the assessment

and praised the assessor. He thought every one in the township had been

satisfied. He was pleased to know that this was so. As he sat down, a

small, loosely jointed man, with fiery red hair, rose from his chair.

He wore a diamond shirt-stud which, if genuine, would have purchased

every stitch of personal apparel in the room. He drawled pleasantly in

his talk. Every one knew him. His name was William P. Ketchum, or more

familiarly, Billy Ketchum. Eric’s eyes fastened hard upon him and watched

him as a catamount might watch a squirrel, and with much the same motive.