YOUNG AMERICAN READERS
OUR HOME
AND PERSONAL DUTY
BY
JANE EAYRE FRYER
AUTHOR OF “THE MARY FRANCES STORY-INSTRUCTION BOOKS”
ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDNA A. COOKE AND FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
[Illustration]
_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 JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
PHILADELPHIA CHICAGO
COPYRIGHT 1918 BY
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CIVICS FOR AMERICAN CHILDREN
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.
HABIT FORMATION
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.
DRAMATIZATION
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.
COMMUNITY SERVANTS
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.
PUBLIC SERVANTS
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.
TRAINING FOR CITIZENSHIP
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
teacher.
J. LYNN BARNARD.
Philadelphia School of Pedagogy.
April 1, 1918.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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.
[Illustration:
THE
CHILD
OBEDIENCE
CLEANLINESS
ORDERLINESS
COURTESY
HELPFULNESS
KINDNESS TO ANIMALS
PUNCTUALITY
TRUTHFULNESS
CARE OF PROPERTY
FAIR PLAY
THOROUGHNESS
HONESTY
RESPECT
COURAGE
SELF CONTROL
THRIFT
PERSEVERANCE
PATRIOTISM
FAMILY
FATHER
MOTHER
BROTHERS
SISTERS
COMMUNITY
DOCTOR
TEACHER
BAKER
MILKMAN
SHOEMAKER
TAILOR
COALMAN
GROCER
PUBLIC SERVANTS
FIREMAN
POLICEMAN
STREET CLEANER
POSTMAN
PUBLIC UTILITIES
ELECTRICITY
WATER
GAS
TELEPHONE
PARK
LIBRARY
PLAYGROUNDS
SCHOOL
COMMUNITY INDUSTRIES AND OCCUPATIONS
AGRICULTURE
INDUSTRY
COMMERCE
PROFESSIONS
ELEMENTS OF WELFARE
CIVIC BEAUTY
EDUCATION
RECREATION
HEALTH
PROTECTION OF LIFE AND PROPERTY
CHARITIES
CORRECTION
WEALTH
COMMUNICATION
TRANSPORTATION
A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF THE PLAN OF THE YOUNG AMERICAN READERS]
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.
CONTENTS
PART I
CIVIC VIRTUES
Stories Teaching Thoroughness, Honesty, Respect,
Patriotism, Kindness to Animals.
_Thoroughness_
PAGE
THE LITTLE PRAIRIE DOGS AND OLD MR. WOLF 3
DON’T GIVE UP, _Phœbe Cary_ 8
THE BRIDGE OF THE SHALLOW PIER 9
THE THOUGHTFUL BOY 16
GRANDFATHER’S STORY 17
_Honesty_
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
_Respect_
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
PART II
COMMUNITY OCCUPATIONS
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
III. WHAT THE TAILOR SAVED THE DUWELL FAMILY 132
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
THE PLUMBER, THE PLASTERER, THE PAINTER 176
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
PART III
THE AMERICAN RED CROSS
Junior Membership and School Activities.
THE JUNIOR RED CROSS 209
THE PRESIDENT’S PROCLAMATION 210
THE AMERICAN RED CROSS IN TIMES OF PEACE 211
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
PART I
CIVIC VIRTUES
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.
[Illustration]
THE LITTLE PRAIRIE DOGS AND OLD MR. WOLF
I.
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
burrow.”
“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
better.
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.
II.
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
himself.
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.
III.
On his way home, he stopped to look in the window of the little stone
house.
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
warm.”
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.
[Illustration]
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.
QUESTIONS
Which little prairie dog worked hardest to build his
house?
The others had an easy time, didn’t they?
But which one was happiest in the end? Why?
DON’T GIVE UP
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._
[Illustration]
THE BRIDGE OF THE SHALLOW PIER
I.
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
carefulness.
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.
[Illustration]
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!”
II.
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
him.
“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.
III.
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.
IV.
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
bridge.
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
said.
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.
V.
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
hands.
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
easily!”
[Illustration]
MEMORY GEM
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._
QUESTIONS
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
accident?
Can you remember some time when you felt like being
careless, but decided to do your very best?
THE THOUGHTFUL BOY
“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?
—_Selected._
[Illustration]
GRANDFATHER’S STORY
I.
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.
II.
“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
ready.
“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
horseshoe?’
“‘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.
III.
“Soon King Richard was riding among his men, cheering them on in the
battle.
“‘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
ground.
“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.”
[Illustration]
QUESTIONS
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.
HONEST ABE
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.”
[Illustration]
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.
—_Herbert._
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
yours.”
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
reply.
* * * * *
Truth is the highest thing a man may keep.
—_Cervantes._
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
shortage.
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.
—_Shakespeare._
[Illustration]
DRY RAIN AND THE HATCHET
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
awake.
“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.”
QUESTIONS
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?
MEMORY GEMS
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!
[Illustration]
THE SEVEN CRANBERRIES
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
marbles.”
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
steal.”
“No, mother,” she answered, shaking her head. “I took them out of the
barrel.”
“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.”
QUESTIONS
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.
—_Thackeray._
[Illustration]
THE DONKEY’S TAIL
“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.
[Illustration]
HURTING A GOOD FRIEND
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
water.
“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
again?”
“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.
QUESTIONS
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?
MEMORY GEM
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.
[Illustration]
A SCHOOL WITHOUT A TEACHER
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
ringing.
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!”
QUESTIONS
{ 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.
MEMORY GEMS
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.
OUR FLAG
’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?
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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
duties:
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.
SCOUTS’ PLEDGE
I pledge allegiance to my flag and to the republic for which it stands;
one nation indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
[Illustration]
MY GIFT
I give my head, my heart, my hand to God and my country; one country,
one language, one flag.[A]
FLAG DAY
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.
[Illustration]
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?
[Illustration: WHAT DOES THIS PICTURE OF AN OPEN GATEWAY BRING TO YOUR
MIND?]
FOOTNOTE:
[A] At the word flag give the salute by raising the right hand to the
forehead.
[Illustration]
HOW OUR FLAG DEVELOPED
The thirteen stripes in our flag represent the thirteen original
colonies.
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.
QUESTIONS
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._
THE FLAG OF THE U. S. A.
[Illustration]
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._
THE AMERICAN FLAG
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._
STORIES TEACHING KINDNESS TO ANIMALS
[Illustration]
THE TRUE STORY OF CHEESEY
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
dog-house.
“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
together.
“‘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.
THE CHAINED DOG
’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?”
—_Selected._
Through life it’s been a comfort to me—
My little dog’s loving sympathy.
QUESTIONS
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?
* * * * *
MEMORY GEM
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.
[Illustration]
LITTLE LOST PUP
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._
[Illustration]
[Illustration: PICTURE OF RED CROSS ARMY DOGS—WONDERFUL DOGS OF MERCY.
SUCH DOGS HAVE RESCUED THOUSANDS OF WOUNDED AND HELPLESS SOLDIERS. HOW
SHOULD INTELLIGENT ANIMALS LIKE THESE BE TREATED?]
[Illustration: CAN YOU TELL A STORY ABOUT THIS BRAVE DOG?]
[Illustration: WHAT WOULD THE BIG DOG SAY IF HE COULD TALK?
WRITE A STORY ABOUT THIS PICTURE.]
THE HUNTING PARTY
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.
—_Selected._
QUESTIONS
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
twilight?
What do you think of people who move away from a place
and leave their cats behind? What will become of the
cats?
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
legs?
THE LOST KITTY
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._
QUESTIONS
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?
MY PECULIAR KITTY
[Illustration]
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._
POOR LITTLE JOCKO
I.
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
listened.
“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.
II.
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
surprise.
“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.”
[Illustration]
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
agreement.
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._
QUESTIONS
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
monkey?
If everyone stopped giving money to men who use monkeys
for begging, how would it help the little monkeys?
ROBIN REDBREAST
“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
friends.
WHO KILLED COCK ROBIN?
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.
QUESTIONS
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
living?
[Illustration]
MY FRIEND, MR. ROBIN
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.) |
+-------------------------------------------------+
QUESTIONS
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?
IF ALL THE BIRDS SHOULD DIE
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._
QUESTIONS
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
not?
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.
[Illustration]
FURRY
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
disturbed.
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!
[Illustration]
QUESTIONS
I.
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?
Why?
II.
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?
III.
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”?
[Illustration]
THE GROCER’S HORSE
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
grocer.
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._
QUESTIONS
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?
A LETTER FROM A HORSE
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
fast.
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
horses.
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.
A PLEA FOR THE 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.
SPARE THE WHIP
QUESTIONS
I.
Wouldn’t you have much more work to do if there were no
horses?
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?
II.
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?
III.
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
coffee?
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.
[Illustration]