Part 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All we know about Strawberries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children’s Day

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

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

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

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

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

About Carrier Pigeons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So do I,” said Somebody.

About Coal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flag Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sea-gull Monument

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fourth of July

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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