Anya then splapped her more badly and beaten her soo much she got so much scared of her mia was terribly scared of anya.As my family slept in the darkened hotel room, I pounded away at my laptop, struggling to keep my eyes open as I typed. Despite the late hour, this day was like any other during November: I had a 2,000-word quota to fill, and I would not sleep until I met it. This was NaNoWriMo, and I was determined to make it to 50,000 words by the end of the month.

It was junior year, and my second year participating in National Novel Writing Month, a challenge to write a 50,000-word novel during the month of November. I had discovered NaNoWriMo sophomore year, and I tried it (and won) for the first time that November. Now at the beginning of November in my junior year, I was prepared. Armed with a plot outline, my trusty laptop, and endless cups of tea, I was ready to begin.

On the morning of Nov. 1, I embarked on my second voyage into the land of noveling, entering the World War II English countryside in which I had set my story. The month was out of the ordinary, to say the least, with a combination of noveling, schoolwork, college visits, and marching band.

I wrote at a frantic speed during lunch periods and between classes. I finished my homework quickly in order to have novel-writing time, and, as my fellow color guard members can attest, I even brought a notebook to write in during the non-halftime minutes of our school's weekly football games.

On the night of Nov. 28, sitting at my computer, I gave the screen one last look and slowly, carefully, typed my final words. Though it was only a rough draft, I had a novel: 50,000 words, a neatly finished story, a perfectly imperfect beginning, middle, and end. I would miss my setting and my characters, but I knew I would see them again, eventually, for a rewrite sometime in the future.

I have a permanent NaNoWriMo viewpoint now, and from here, I have yet to encounter a writing assignment too big. The prospect of an 800-word article or a two-page essay isn't nearly as daunting when you've written 2,000 words a day for a month.

I've gained a certain kinship with others who have participated in NaNoWriMo, and I know they are in a situation similar to mine. In my ordinary life, I am a daughter, a sister, a student, a friend. But as of my past two Novembers, although I am not the least bit famous, I am a novelist.

THE ENTIRE MANUSCRIPT of this story was written with the E type-bar of the typewriter tied down; thus making it impossible for that letter to be printed. This was done so that none of that vowel might slip in, accidentally; and many did try to do so! There is a great deal of information as to what Youth can do, if given a chance; and, though it starts out in somewhat of an impersonal vein, there is plenty of thrill, rollicking comedy, love, courtship, marriage, patriotism, sudden tragedy, a determined stand against liquor, and some amusing political aspirations in a small growing town.

In writing such a story, —purposely avoiding all words containing the vowel E, there are a great many difficulties. The greatest of these is met in the past tense of verbs, almost all of which end with “-ed.” Therefore substitutes must be found; and they are very few. This will cause, at times, a somewhat monotonous use of such words as “said;” for neither “replied,” “answered” nor “asked” can be used. Another difficulty comes with the elimination of the common couplet “of course,” and its very common connective, “consequently;” which will unavoidably cause “bumpy spots.” The numerals also cause plenty of trouble, for none between six and thirty are available. When introducing young ladies into the story, this is a real barrier; for what young woman wants to have it known that she is over thirty? And this restriction on numbers, of course taboos all mention of dates.

Many abbreviations also must be avoided; the most common of all, “Mr.” and “Mrs.” being particularly troublesome; for those words, if read aloud, plainly indicate the E in their orthography.

As the vowel E is used more than five times oftener than any other letter, this story was written, not through any attempt to attain literary merit, but due to a somewhat balky nature, caused by hearing it so constantly claimed that “it can’t be done; for you cannot say anything at all without using E, and make smooth continuity, with perfectly grammatical construction—” so ‘twas said.

Many may think that I simply “drop” the E’s, filling the gaps with apostrophes. A perusal of the book will show that this is not so. All words used are complete; are correctly spelled and properly used. This has been accomplished through the use of synonyms; and, by so twisting a sentence around as to avoid ambiguity. The book may prove a valuable aid to school children in English composition.

People, as a rule, will not stop to realize what a task such an attempt actually is. As I wrote along, in long-hand at first, a whole army of little E’s gathered around my desk, all eagerly expecting to be called upon. But gradually as they saw me writing on and on, without even noticing them, they grew uneasy; and, with excited whisperings amongst themselves, began hopping up and riding on my pen, looking down constantly for a chance to drop off into some word; for all the world like sea-birds perched, watching for a passing fish! But when they saw that I had covered 138 pages of typewriter size paper, they slid off onto the floor, walking sadly away, arm in arm; but shouting back:

“You certainly must have a hodge-podge of a yarn there without Us! Why, man! We are in every story ever written, hundreds of thousands of times! This is the first time we ever were shut out!”

Pronouns also caused trouble; for such words as he, she, they, them, theirs, her, herself,

myself, himself, yourself, etc., could not be utilized. But a particularly annoying obstacle comes when, almost through a long paragraph you can find no words with which to continue that line of thought; hence, as in Solitaire, you are “stuck,” and must go way back and start another; which, of course, must perfectly fit the preceding context.

I have received some extremely odd criticisms since the Associated Press widely announced that such a book was being written. A rapid-talking New York newspaper columnist wanted to know how I would get over the plain fact that my name contains the letter E three times. As an author’s name is not a part of his story, that criticism did not hold water. And I received one most scathing epistle from a lady (woman!) denouncing me as a “genuine fake;” (that paradox being a most interesting one!), and ending by saying: — “Everyone knows that such a feat is impossible.” All right. Then the impossible has been accomplished; (a paradox to equal hers!) Other criticism may be directed at the Introduction; but this section of a story also is not part of it. The author is entitled to it, in order properly to explain his work. The story required five and a half months of concentrated endeavor, with so many erasures and retrenchments that I tremble as I think of them. Of course anybody can write such a story. All that is needed is a piece of string tied from the E type-bar down to some part of the base of the typewriter. Then simply go ahead and type your story. Incidentally, you should have some sort of a bromide preparation handy, for use when the going gets rough, as it most assuredly will!

Before the book was in print, I was freely and openly informed “there is a trick, or catch, somewhere in that claim that there is not one letter E in the entire book, after you leave the Introduction,” Well; it is the privilege of the reader to unearth any such deception that he or she may think they can find. I have even ordered the printer not to head each chapter with the words “Chapter 2,” etc., on account of that bothersome E in that word.

In closing let me say that I trust you may learn to love all the young folks in the story, as deeply as I have, in introducing them to you. Like many a book, it grows more and more interesting as the reader becomes well acquainted with the characters.

Ernest Vincent Wright

Los Angeles, California

February, 1939

A work of writing that deliberately excludes particular letters is called a lipogram.

If youth, throughout all history, had had a champion to stand up for it; to show a doubting world that a child can think; and, possibly, do it practically; you wouldn’t constantly run across folks today who claim that “a child don’t know anything.” A child’s brain starts functioning at birth; and has, amongst its many infant convolutions, thousands of dormant atoms, into which God has put a mystic possibility for noticing an adult’s act, and figuring out its purport.

Up to about its primary school days a child thinks, naturally, only of play. But many a form of play contains disciplinary factors. “You can’t do this,” or “that puts you out,” shows a child that it must think, practically or fail. Now, if, throughout childhood, a brain has no opposition, it is plain that it will attain a position of “status quo,” as with our ordinary animals. Man knows not why a cow, dog or lion was not born with a brain on a par with ours; why such animals cannot add, subtract, or obtain from books and schooling, that paramount position which Man holds today.

But a human brain is not in that class. Constantly throbbing and pulsating, it rapidly forms opinions; attaining an ability of its own; a fact which is startlingly shown by an occasional child “prodigy” in music or school work. And as, with our dumb animals, a child’s inability convincingly to impart its thoughts to us, should not class it as ignorant. Upon this basis I am going to show you how a bunch of bright young folks did find a champion; a man with boys and girls of his own; a man of so dominating and happy individuality that Youth is drawn to him as is a fly to a sugar bowl. It is a story about a small town. It is not a gossipy yarn; nor is it a dry, monotonous account, full of such customary “fill-ins” as “romantic moonlight casting murky shadows down a long, winding country road.” Nor will it say anything about tinklings lulling distant folds; robins carolling at twilight, nor any “warm glow of lamplight” from a cabin window. No. It is an account of up-and-doing activity; a vivid portrayal of Youth as it is today; and a practical discarding of that worn-out notion that “a child don’t know anything.”

Now, any author, from history’s dawn, always had that most important aid to writing: an ability to call upon any word in his dictionary in building up his story. That is, our strict laws as to word construction did not block his path. But in my story that mighty obstruction will constantly stand in my path; for many an important, common word I cannot adopt, owing to its orthography.

I shall act as a sort of historian for this small town; associating with its inhabitants, and striving to acquaint you with its youths, in such a way that you can look, knowingly, upon any child, rich or poor; forward or “backward;” your own, or John Smith’s, in your community. You will find many young minds aspiring to know how, and why such a thing is so. And, if a child shows curiosity in that way, how ridiculous it is for you to snap out:— “Oh! Don’t ask about things too old for you!”

Such a jolt to a young child’s mind, craving instruction, is apt so to dull its avidity, as to hold it back in its school work. Try to look upon a child as a small, soft young body and a rapidly growing, constantly inquiring brain. It must grow to maturity slowly. Forcing a child through school by constant night study during hours in which it should run and

play, can bring on insomnia; handicapping both brain and body.

Now this small town in our story had grown in just that way:— slowly; in fact, much too slowly to stand on a par with many a thousand of its kind in this big, vigorous nation of ours. It was simply stagnating; just as a small mountain brook, coming to a hollow, might stop, and sink from sight, through not having a will to find a way through that obstruction; or around it. You will run across such a dormant town, occasionally; possibly so dormant that only outright isolation by a fast-moving world, will show it its folly. If you will tour Asia, Yucatan, or parts of Africa and Italy, you will find many sad ruins of past kingdoms. Go to Indo-China and visit its gigantic Ankhor Vat; call at Damascus, Baghdad and Samarkand. What sorrowful lack of ambition many such a community shows in thus discarding such high-class construction! And I say, again, that so will Youth grow dormant, and hold this big, throbbing world back, if no champion backs it up; thus providing it with an opportunity to show its ability for looking forward, and improving unsatisfactory conditions.

So this small town of Branton Hills was lazily snoozing amidst up-and-doing towns, as Youth’s Champion, John Gadsby, took hold of it; and shook its dawdling, flabby body until its inhabitants thought a tornado had struck it. Call it tornado, volcano, military onslaught, or what you will, this town found that it had a bunch of kids who had wills that would admit of no snoozing; for that is Youth, on its forward march of inquiry, thought and action.

If you stop to think of it, you will find that it is customary for our “grown-up” brain to cast off many of its functions of its youth; and to think only of what it calls “topics of maturity.” Amongst such discards is many a form of happy play; many a muscular activity such as walking, running, climbing; thus totally missing that alluring “joy of living” of childhood. If you wish a vacation from financial affairs, just go out and play with Youth. Play “blind- man’s buff,” “hop-scotch,” “ring toss,” and football. Go out to a charming woodland spot on a picnic with a bright, happy, vivacious group. Sit down at a corn roast; a marshmallow toast; join in singing popular songs; drink a quart of good, rich milk; burrow into that big lunch box; and all such things as banks, stocks, and family bills, will vanish on fairy wings, into oblivion.

But this is not a claim that Man should stay always youthful. Supposing that that famous Spaniard, landing upon Florida’s coral strands, had found that mythical Fountain of Youth; what a calamity for mankind! A world without maturity of thought; without man’s full-grown muscular ability to construct mighty buildings, railroads and ships; a world without authors, doctors, savants, musicians; nothing but Youth! I can think of but a solitary approval of such a condition; for such a horror as war would not, —could not occur; for a child is, naturally, a small bunch of sympathy. I know that boys will “scrap;” also that “spats” will occur amongst girls; but, at such a monstrosity as killings by bombing towns, sinking ships, or mass annihilation of marching troops, childhood would stand aghast. Not a tiny bird would fall; nor would any form of gun nor facility for manufacturing it, insult that almost Holy purity of youthful thought. Anybody who knows that wracking sorrow brought upon a child by a dying puppy or cat, knows that childhood can show us that our fighting, our policy of “a tooth for a tooth,” is abominably wrong.

So, now to start our story.

Branton Hills was a small town in a rich agricultural district; and having many a possibility for growth. But, through a sort of smug satisfaction with conditions of long ago, had no thought of improving such important adjuncts as roads; putting up public buildings, nor laying out parks; in fact a dormant, slowly dying community. So satisfactory was its status that it had no form of transportation to surrounding towns but by railroad, or “old Dobbin.” Now, any town thus isolating its inhabitants, will invariably find this big, busy world passing it by; glancing at it, curiously, as at an odd animal at a circus; and, you will find, caring not a whit about its condition. Naturally, a town should grow. You can look upon it as a child; which, through natural conditions, should attain manhood; and add to its surrounding thriving districts its products of farm, shop, or factory. It should show a spirit of association with surrounding towns; crawl out of its lair, and find how backward it is.

Now, in all such towns, you will find, occasionally, an individual born with that sort of brain which, knowing that his town is backward, longs to start things toward improving it; not only its living conditions, but adding an institution or two, such as any city, big or small, maintains, gratis, for its inhabitants. But so forward looking a man finds that trying to instill any such notions into a town’s ruling body is about as satisfactory as butting against a brick wall. Such “Boards” as you find ruling many a small town, function from such a soporific rut that any hint of digging cash from its cast iron strong box with its big brass padlock, will fall upon minds as rigid as rock.

Branton Hills had such a man, to whom such rigidity was as annoying as a thorn in his foot. Continuous trials brought only continual thornpricks; until, finally, a brilliant plan took form as John Gadsby found Branton Hills’ High School pupils waking up to Branton Hills’ sloth. Gadsby continually found this bright young bunch asking:— “Aw! Why is this town so slow? It’s nothing but a dry twig!!”

“Ha!” said Gadsby; “A dry twig! That’s it! Many a living, blossoming branch all around us, and this solitary dry twig, with a tag hanging from it, on which you will find: ‘Branton Hills; A twig too lazy to grow!’”

Now this put a “hunch” in Gadsby’s brain, causing him to say: “A High School pupil is not a child, now. Naturally a High School boy has not a man’s qualifications; nor has a High School girl womanly maturity. But such kids, born in this swiftly moving day, think out many a notion which will work, but which would pass our dads and granddads in cold disdain. Just as ships pass at night. But supposing that such ships should show a light in passing; or blow a horn; or, if—if—if— By Golly! I’ll do it!”

And so Gadsby sat on his blossom-bound porch on a mild Spring morning, thinking and smoking. Smoking can calm a man down; and his thoughts had so long and so constantly clung to this plan of his that a cool outlook as to its promulgation was not only important, but paramount. So, as his cigar was whirling and puffing rings aloft; and as groups of bright, happy boys and girls trod past, to school, his plan rapidly took form as follows:— “Youth! What is it? Simply a start. A start of what? Why, of that most astounding of all human functions; thought. But man didn’t start his brain working. No. All that an adult can claim is a continuation, or an amplification of thoughts, dormant in his youth. Although a child’s brain can absorb instruction with an ability far surpassing that of a

grown man; and, although such a young brain is bound by rigid limits, it contains a capacity for constantly craving additional facts. So, in our backward Branton Hills, I just know that I can find boys and girls who can show our old moss-back Town Hall big-wigs a thing or two. Why! On Town Hall night, just go and sit in that room and find out just how stupid and stubborn a Council, (put into Town Hall, you know, through popular ballot!), can act. Say that a road is badly worn. Shall it stay so? Up jumps Old Bill Simpkins claiming that it is a townsman’s duty to fix up his wagon springs if that road is too rough for him!”

As Gadsby sat thinking thus, his plan was rapidly growing: and, in a month, was actually starting to work. How? You’ll know shortly; but first, you should know this John Gadsby; a man of “around fifty;” a family man, and known throughout Branton Hills for his high standard of honor and altruism on any kind of an occasion for public good. A loyal churchman, Gadsby was a man who, though admitting that an occasional fault in our daily acts is bound to occur, had taught his two boys and a pair of girls that, though folks do slip from what Scriptural authors call that “straight and narrow path,” it will not pay to risk your own Soul by slipping, just so that you can laugh at your ability in staying out of prison; for Gadsby, having grown up in Branton Hills, could point to many such man or woman. So, with such firm convictions in his mind, this upstanding man was constantly striving so to act that no complaint from man, woman or child should bring a word of disapproval. In his mind, what a man might do was that man’s affair only and could stain no Soul but his own. And his altruism taught that it is not difficult to find many ways in which to bring joy to such as cannot, through physical disability, go out to look for it; and that only a small bit of joy, brought to a shut-in invalid will carry with it such a warmth as can flow only from acts of human sympathy.

For many days Gadsby had thought of ways in which folks with a goodly bank account could aid in building up this rapidly backsliding town of contribution could do? In this town, full of capitalists and philanthropists contributing, off and on, for shipping warming pans to Zulus, Gadsby saw a solution. In whom? Why, in just that bunch of bright, happy school kids, back from many a visit to a city, and noting its ability in improving its living conditions. So Gadsby thought of thus carrying an inkling to such capitalists as to how this stagnating town could claim a big spot upon our national map, which is now shown only in small, insignificant print.

As a start, Branton Hills’ “Daily Post” would carry a long story, outlining a list of factors for improving conditions. This it did; but it will always stay as a blot upon high minds and proud blood that not a man or woman amongst such capitalists saw, in his plan, any call for dormant funds. But did that stop Gadsby? Can you stop a rising wind? Hardly. So Gadsby took into council about forty boys of his vicinity and built up an Organization of Youth. Also about as many girls who had known what it is, compulsorily to pass up many a picnic, or various forms of sport, through a lack of public park land. So this strong, vigorous combination of both youth and untiring activity, avidly took up Gadsby’s plan; for nothing so stirs up a youthful mind as an opportunity for accomplishing anything that adults cannot do. And did Gadsby know Youth? I’ll say so! His two sons and girls, now in High or Grammar school, had taught him a thing or two; principal amongst which was that all-dominating fact that, at a not too far distant day, our young folks will occupy

important vocational and also political positions, and will look back upon this, our day; smiling kindly at our way of doing things. So, to say that many a Branton Hills “King of Capital” got a bit huffy as a High School stripling was proving how stubborn a rich man is if his dollars don’t aid so vast an opportunity for doing good, would put it mildly! Such downright gall by a half-grown kid to inform him; an outstanding light on Branton Hills’ tax list, that this town was sliding down hill; and would soon land in an abyss of national oblivion! And our Organization girls! How Branton Hills’ rich old widows and plump matrons did sniff in disdain as a group of High School pupils brought forth straightforward claims that cash paving a road, is doing good practical work, but, in filling up a strong box, is worth nothing to our town.

Oh, that class of nabobs! How thoroughly Gadsby did know its parsimony!! And how thoroughly did this hard-planning man know just what a constant onslaught by Youth could do. So, in about a month, his “Organization” had “waylaid,” so to say, practically half of Branton Hills’ cash kings; and had so won out, through that commonly known “pull” upon an adult by a child asking for what plainly is worthy, that his mail brought not only cash, but two rich landlords put at his disposal, tracts of land “for any form of occupancy which can, in any way, aid our town.” This land Gadsby’s Organization promptly put into growing farm products for gratis distribution to Branton Hills’ poor; and that burning craving of Youth for activity soon had it sprouting corn, squash, potato, onion and asparagus crops; and, to “doll it up a bit,” put in a patch of blossoming plants. Naturally any man is happy at a satisfactory culmination of his plans and so, as Gadsby found that public philanthropy was but an affair of plain, ordinary approach, it did not call for much brain work to find that, possibly also, a way might turn up for putting handicraft instruction in Branton Hills’ schools; for schooling, according to him, did not consist only of books and black-boards. Hands, also should know how to construct various practical things in woodwork, plumbing, blacksmithing, masonry, and so forth; with thorough instruction in sanitation, and that most important of all youthful activity, gymnastics. For girls such a school could instruct in cooking, suit making, hat making, fancy work, art and loom-work; in fact, about any handicraft that a girl might wish to study, and which is not in our standard school curriculum. But as Gadsby thought of such a school, no way for backing it financially was in sight. Town funds naturally, should carry it along; but town funds and Town Councils do not always form what you might call - synonymous words. So it was compulsory that cash should actually “drop into his lap,” via a continuation of solicitations by his now grandly functioning Organization of Youth. So, out again trod that bunch of bright, happy kids, putting forth such plain, straightforward facts as to what Manual Training would do for Branton Hills, that many saw it in that light. But you will always find a group, or individual complaining that such things would “automatically dawn” on boys and girls without any training. Old Bill Simpkins was loud in his antagonism to what was a “crazy plan to dip into our town funds just to allow boys to saw up good wood, and girls to burn up good flour, trying to cook biscuits.” Kids, according to him, should go to work in Branton Hills’ shopping district, and profit by it.

“Bah! Why not start a class to show goldfish how to waltz! I didn’t go to any such school; and what am I now? A Councilman! I can’t saw a board straight, nor fry a potato chip; but

I can show you folks how to hang onto your town funds.”

Old Bill was a notorious grouch; but our Organization occasionally did find a totally varying mood. Old Lady Flanagan, with four boys in school, and a husband many days too drunk to work, was loud in approval.

“Whoops! Thot’s phwat I calls a grand thing! Worra, worra! I wish Old Man Flanagan had had sich an opporchunity. But thot ignorant old clod don’t know nuthin’ but boozin’, tobacca shmokin’ and ditch-diggin’. And you know thot our Council ain’t a-payin’ for no ditch-scoopin’ right now. So I’ll shout for thot school! For my boys can find out how to fix thot barn door our old cow laid down against.”

Ha, ha! What a circus our Organization had with such varying moods and outlooks! But, finally such a school was built; instructors brought in from surrounding towns; and Gadsby was as happy as a cat with a ball of yarn.

As Branton Hills found out what it can accomplish if it starts out with vigor and a will to win, our Organization thought of laying out a big park; furnishing an opportunity for small tots to romp and play on grassy plots; a park for all sorts of sports, picnics, and so forth; sand pots for babyhood; cozy arbors for girls who might wish to study, or talk. (You might, possibly, find a girl who can talk, you know!); also shady nooks and winding paths for old folks who might find comfort in such. Gadsby thought that a park is truly a most important adjunct to any community; for, if a growing population has no out-door spot at which its glooms, slumps and morbid thoughts can vanish upon wings of sunlight, amidst bright colorings of shrubs and sky, it may sink into a grouchy, faultfinding, squabbling group; and making such a showing for surrounding towns as to hold back any gain in population or valuation. Gadsby had a goodly plot of land in a grand location for a park and sold it to Branton Hills for a dollar; that stingy Council to lay it out according to his plans. And how his Organization did applaud him for this, his first “solo work!”

But schools and parks do not fulfill all of a town’s calls. Many minds of varying kinds will long for an opportunity for finding out things not ordinarily taught in school. So Branton Hills’ Public Library was found too small. As it was now in a small back room in our High School, it should occupy its own building; down town, and handy for all; and with additional thousands of books and maps. Now, if you think Gadsby and his youthful assistants stood aghast at such a gigantic proposition, you just don’t know Youth, as it is today. But to whom could Youth look for so big an outlay as a library building would cost? Books also cost; librarians and janitors draw pay. So, with light, warmth, and all-round comforts, it was a task to stump a full-grown politician; to say nothing of a plain, ordinary townsman and a bunch of kids. So Gadsby thought of taking two bright boys and two smart girls to Washington, to call upon a man in a high position, who had got it through Branton Hills’ popular ballot. Now, any politician is a convincing orator. (That is, you know, all that politics consists of!) and this big man, in contact with a visiting capitalist, looking for a handout for his own district, got a donation of a thousand dollars. But that wouldn’t start a public library; to say nothing of maintaining it. So, back in Branton Hills, again, our Organization was out, as usual, on its war-path.

Branton Hills’ philanthropy was now showing signs of monotony; so our Organization had to work its linguistic ability and captivating tricks full blast, until that thousand dollars had so grown that a library was built upon a vacant lot which had grown nothing

but grass; and only a poor quality of it, at that; and many a child and adult quickly found ways of profitably passing odd hours.

Naturally Old Bill Simpkins was snooping around, sniffing and snorting at any signs of making Branton Hills “look cityish,” (a word originating in Bill’s vocabulary.)

“Huh!! I didn’t put in any foolish hours with books in my happy childhood in this good old town! But I got along all right; and am now having my say in its Town Hall doings. Books!! Pooh! Maps! BAH!! It’s silly to squat in a hot room squinting at a lot of print! If you want to know about a thing, go to work in a shop or factory of that kind, and find out about it first-hand.”

“But, Bill,” said Gadsby, “shops want a man who knows what to do without having to stop to train him.”

“Oh, that’s all bosh! If a boss shows a man what a tool is for; and if that man is any good, at all, why bring up this stuff you call training? That man grabs a tool, works ‘til noon; knocks off for an hour; works ‘til —”

At this point in Bill’s blow-up an Italian Councilman was passing, and put in his oar, with:- “Ha, Bill! You thinka your man can worka all right, firsta day, huh? You talka crazy so much for my boota! You lasta just a half hour. Thisa library all righta. This town too mucha what I call tight-wad!”

Oh, hum!! It’s a tough job making old dogs do tricks. But our Organization was now holding almost daily sittings, and soon a bright girl thought of having band music in that now popular park. And what do you think that stingy Council did? It actually built a most fantastic band-stand; got a contract with a first-class band, and all without so much as a Councilman fainting away!! So, finally, on a hot July Sunday, two solid hours of grand harmony brought joy to many a poor Soul who had not for many a day, known that balm of comfort which can “air out our brains’ dusty corridors,” and bring such happy thrills, as Music, that charming Fairy, which knows no human words, can bring. Around that gaudy band-stand, at two-thirty on that first Sunday, sat or stood as happy a throng of old and young as any man could wish for; and Gadsby and his “gang” got hand-clasps and hand- claps, from all. A good band, you know, not only can stir and thrill you; for it can play a soft crooning lullaby, a lilting waltz or polka; or, with its wood winds, bring forth old songs of our childhood, ballads of courting days, or hymns and carols of Christmas; and can suit all sorts of folks, in all sorts of moods; for a Spaniard, Dutchman or Russian can find similar joy with a man from Italy, Norway or far away Brazil.

By now, Branton Hills was so proud of not only its “smarting up,” but also of its startling growth, on that account, that an application was put forth for its incorporation as a city; a small city, naturally, but full of that condition of Youth, known as “growing pains.” So its shabby old “Town Hall” sign was thrown away, and a black and gold onyx slab, with “CITY HALL” blazing forth in vivid colors, put up, amidst band music, flag waving, parading and oratory. In only a month from that glorious day, Gadsby found folks “primping up”; girls putting on bright ribbons, boys finding that suits could stand a good ironing; and rich widows and portly matrons almost outdoing any rainbow in brilliancy. An occasional shop along Broadway, which had a rattly door or shaky windows was put into first class condition, to fit Branton Hills’ status as a city. Old Bill Simpkins was strutting around, as pompous as a drum-major; for, now, that old Town Council would function as a city council; his council! His own stamping ground! According to him, from it, at no far day, “Bill Simpkins, City Councilman,” would show an anxiously waiting world how to run a city; though probably, I think, how not to run it.

It is truly surprising what a narrow mind, what a blind outlook a man, brought up with practically no opposition to his boyhood wants, can attain; though brought into contact with indisputably important data for improving his city. Our Organization boys thought Bill “a bit off” but Gadsby would only laugh at his blasts against paying out city funds; for, you know, all bombs don’t burst; you occasionally find a “dud.”

But this furor for fixing up rattly doors or shaky windows didn’t last; for Old Bill’s oratory found favor with a bunch of his old tight-wads, who actually thought of inaugurating a campaign against Gadsby’s Organization of Youth. As soon as this was known about town, that mythical pot, known as Public Opinion, was boiling furiously. A vast majority stood back of Gadsby and his kids; so, old Bill’s ranks could count only on a small group of rich old Shylocks to whom a bank-book was a thing to look into or talk about only annually; that is, on bank-balancing days. This small minority got up a slogan:— “Why Spoil a Good Old Town?” and actually did, off and on, talk a shopman out of fixing up his shop or grounds. This, you know, put additional vigor into our Organization; inspiring a boy to bring up a plan for calling a month,— say July,—“pick-up, paint-up and wash-up month;” for it was a plain fact that, all about town, was many a shabby spot; a lot of buildings could stand a good coat of paint, and yards raking up; thus showing surrounding towns that not only could Branton Hills “doll up,” but had a class of inhabitants who gladly would go at such a plan, and carry it through. So Gadsby got his “gang” out, to sally forth and any man or woman who did not jump, at first, at such a plan by vigorous Youth, was always brought around, through noticing how poorly a shabby yard did look. So Gadsby put in Branton Hills’ “Post” this stirring call:-

“Raking up your yard or painting your building is simply improving it both in worth; artistically and from a utilization standpoint. I know that many a city front lawn is small; but, if it is only fairly big, a walk, cut curvingly, will add to it, surprisingly. That part of a walk which runs to your front door could show rows of small rocks rough and natural; and grading from small to big; but no ‘hit-or-miss’ layout. You can so fix up your yard as to form an approach to unity in plan with such as adjoin you; though without actual

duplication; thus providing harmony for all who may pass by.

It is, in fact, but a bit of City Planning; and anybody who aids in such work is a most worthy inhabitant. So, cut your scraggly lawns! Trim your old, shaggy shrubs! Bring into artistic form, your grass-grown walks!”

(Now, naturally, in writing such a story as this, with its conditions as laid down in its Introduction, it is not surprising that an occasional “rough spot” in composition is found. So I trust that a critical public will hold constantly in mind that I am voluntarily avoiding words containing that symbol which is, by far, of most common inclusion in writing our Anglo-Saxon as it is, today. Many of our most common words cannot show; so I must adopt synonyms; and so twist a thought around as to say what I wish with as much clarity as I can.)

So, now to go on with this odd contraption:

By Autumn, a man who took his vacation in July, would hardly know his town upon coming back, so thoroughly had thousands “dug in” to aid in its transformation.

“Boys,” said Gadsby. “you can pat your own backs, if you can’t find anybody to do it for you. This city is proud of you. And, girls, just sing with joy; for not only is your city proud of you, but I am, too.”

“But how about you, sir, and your work?”

This was from Frank; a boy brought up to think fairly on all things. “Oh,” said Gadsby laughingly, “I didn’t do much of anything but boss you young folks around. If our Council awards any diplomas, I don’t want any. I would look ridiculous strutting around with a diploma with a pink ribbon on it, now wouldn’t I!”

This talk of diplomas was as a bolt from a bright sky to this young, hustling bunch. But, though Gadsby’s words did sound as though a grown man wouldn’t want such a thing, that wasn’t saying that a young boy or girl wouldn’t; and with this surprising possibility ranking in young minds, many a kid was in an anti-soporific condition for parts of many a night.

But a kindly Councilman actually did bring up a bill about this diploma affair, and his collaborators put it through; which naturally brought up talk as how to award such diplomas. At last it was thought that a big public affair at City Hall, with our Organization on a platform, with Branton Hills’ Mayor and Council, would furnish an all-round, satisfactory way.

Such an occasion was worthy of a lot of planning; and a first thought was for flags and bunting on all public buildings; with a grand illumination at night. Stationary lights should glow from all points on which a light could stand, hang, or swing; and gigantic rays should swoop and swish across clouds and sky. Bands should play; boys and girls march and sing; and a vast crowd would pour into City Hall. As on similar occasions, a bad rush for chairs was apt to occur, a company of military units should occupy all important points, to hold back anything simulating a jam.

Now, if you think our Organization wasn’t all agog and wild, with youthful anticipation at having a diploma for work out of school hours, you just don’t know Youth. Boys and girls, though not full grown inhabitants of a city, do know what will add to its popularity; and having had a part in bringing about such conditions, it was but natural to look back upon such, as any military man might at winning a difficult fight.

So, finally our big day was at hand! That it might not cut into school hours, it was on a Saturday; and, by noon, about a thousand kids, singing, shouting and waving flags, stood in formation at City Park, awaiting with growing thrills, a signal which would start as big a turn-out as Branton Hills had known in all its history. Up at City Hall awaiting arrivals of city officials, a big crowd sat; row upon row of chairs which not only took up all floor room, but also many a small spot, in door-way or on a balcony in which a chair or stool could find footing; and all who could not find such an opportunity willingly stood in back. Just as a group of officials sat down on that flag-bound platform, distant throbbing of drums, and bright, snappy band music told of Branton Hills approaching thousands of kids, who, finally marching in through City Hall’s main door, stood in a solid mass around that big room.

Naturally Gadsby had to put his satisfaction into words; and, advancing to a mahogany stand, stood waiting for a storm of hand-clapping and shouts to quit, and said:—

“Your Honor, Mayor of Branton Hills, its Council, and all you out in front:— If you would only stop rating a child’s ability by your own; and try to find out just what ability a child has, our young folks throughout this big world would show a surprisingly willing disposition to try things which would bring your approbation. A child’s brain is an astonishing thing. It has, in its construction, an astounding capacity for absorbing what is brought to it; and not only to think about, but to find ways for improving it. It is today’s child who, tomorrow, will, you know, laugh at our ways of doing things. So, in putting across this campaign of building up our community into a municipality which has won acclaim, not only from its officials and inhabitants, but from surrounding towns I found, in our young folks, an out-and-out inclination to assist; and you, today, can look upon it as labor in which your adult aid was but a small factor. So now, my Organization of Youth, if you will pass across this platform, your Mayor will hand you your diplomas.”

Not in all Branton Hills’ history had any boy or girl known such a thrill as upon winning that hard-won roll! And from solid banks of humanity roars of congratulation burst forth. As soon as Mayor Brown shook hands (and such tiny, warm, soft young hands, too!) with all, a big out-door lunch was found waiting on a charming lawn back of City Hall; and this was no World War mobilization lunch of doughnuts and a hot dog sandwich; but, as two of Gadsby’s sons said, was “an all-round, good, big fill-up;” and many a boy’s and girl’s “tummy” was soon as round and taut as a balloon.

As twilight was turning to dusk, boys in an adjoining lot shot skyward a crashing bomb, announcing a grand illumination as a fitting climax for so glorious a day; and thousands sat on rock-walls, grassy knolls, in cars or at windows, with a big crowd standing along curbs and crosswalks. Myriads of lights of all colors, in solid balls, sprays, sparkling fountains, and bursts of glory, shot, in criss-cross paths, up and down, back and forth, across a star-lit sky; providing a display without a par in local annals.

But not only did Youth thrill at so fantastic a show. Adults had many a Fourth of July brought back from a distant past; in which our national custom wound up our most important holiday with a similar display; only, in our Fourths of long ago, horrifying, gigantic concussions would disturb old folks and invalids until midnight; at which hour, according to law, all such carrying-on must stop. But did it? Possibly in your town, but not around my district! All Fourth of July outfits don’t always function at first, you know; and

no kid, (or adult!) would think of quitting until that last pop should pop; or that last bang should bang. And so, many a dawn on July fifth found things still going, full blast.

Youth cannot stay for long in a condition of inactivity; and so, for only about a month did things so stand, until a particularly bright girl in our Organization, thought out a plan for caring for infants of folks who had to go out, to work; and this bright kid soon had a group of girls who would join, during vacation, in voluntarily giving up four days a month to such work. With about fifty girls collaborating, all districts had this most gracious aid; and a girl would not only watch and guard, but would also instruct, as far as practical, any such tot as had not had its first schooling. Such work by young girls still in school was a grand thing; and Gadsby not only stood up for such loyalty, but got at his boys to find a similar plan; and soon had a full troop of Boy Scouts; uniforms and all. This automatically brought about a Girl Scout unit; and, through a collaboration of both, a form of club sprang up. It was a club in which any boy or girl of a family owning a car would call mornings for pupils having no cars, during school days, for a trip to school and back. This was not only a saving in long walks for many, but also took from a young back, that hard, tiring strain from lugging such armfuls of books as you find pupils laboriously carrying, today. Upon arriving at a school building, many cars would unload so many books that Gadsby said:—

“You would think that a Public Library branch was moving in!” This car work soon brought up a thought of giving similar aid to ailing adults; who, not owning a car, could not know of that vast display of hill and plain so common to a majority of our townsfolks. So a plan was laid, by which a car would call two days a month; and for an hour or so, follow roads winding out of town and through woods, farm lands and suburbs; showing distant ponds, and that grand arch of sky which “shut-ins” know only from photographs. Ah; how that plan did stir up joyous anticipation amongst such as thus had an opportunity to call upon old, loving pals, and talk of old customs and past days! Occasionally such a talk would last so long that a youthful motorist, waiting dutifully at a curb, thought that a full family history of both host and visitor was up for an airing. But old folks always will talk and it will not do a boy or girl any harm to wait; for, you know, that boy or girl will act in just that way, at a not too far-off day!

But, popular as this touring plan was, it had to stop; for school again took all young folks from such out-door activity. Nobody was so sorry at this as Gadsby, for though Branton Hills’ suburban country is glorious from March to August, it is also strong in its attractions throughout Autumn, with its artistic colorings of fruits, pumpkins, corn-shocks, hay- stacks and Fall blossoms. So Gadsby got a big motor-coach company to run a bus a day, carrying, gratis, all poor or sickly folks who had a doctor’s affidavit that such an outing would aid in curing ills arising from too constant in-door living; and so, up almost to Thanksgiving, this big coach ran daily.

As Spring got around again, this “man-of-all-work” thought of driving away a shut-in invalid’s monotony by having musicians go to such rooms, to play; or, by taking along a vocalist or trio, sing such old songs as always bring back happy days. This work Gadsby thought of paying for by putting on a circus. And was it a circus? It was!! It had boys forming both front and hind limbs of animals totally unknown to zoology; girls strutting around as gigantic birds of also doubtful origin; an array of small living animals such as

trick dogs and goats, a dancing pony, a group of imitation Indians, cowboys, cowgirls, a kicking trick jack-***; and, talk about clowns! Forty boys got into baggy pantaloons and fools’ caps; and no circus, including that first of all shows in Noah’s Ark, had so much going on. Gymnasts from our school gymnasium, tumbling, jumping and racing; comic dancing; a clown band; high-swinging artists, and a funny cop who didn’t wait to find out who a man was, but hit him anyway. And, as no circus is a circus without boys shouting wildly about pop-corn and cold drinks, Gadsby saw to it that such boys got in as many patrons’ way as any ambitious youth could; and that is “going strong,” if you know boys, at all!

But what about profits? It not only paid for all acts which his Organization couldn’t put on, but it was found that a big fund for many a day’s musical visitations, was on hand. And, now a word or two about municipal affairs in this city; or any city, in which nobody will think of doing anything about its poor and sick, without a vigorous prodding up. City Councils, now-a-days, willingly grant big appropriations for paving, lights, schools, jails, courts, and so on; but invariably fight shy of charity; which is nothing but sympathy for anybody who is “down and out.”

No man can say that Charity will not, during coming days, aid him in supporting his family; and it was Gadsby’s claim that humans:—not blocks of buildings, form what Mankind calls a city. But what would big, costly buildings amount to, if all who work in such cannot maintain that good physical condition paramount in carrying on a city’s various forms of labor? And not only physical good, but also a mind happy from lack of worry and of that stagnation which always follows a monotonous daily grind. So our Organization was soon out again, agitating City Officials and civilians toward building a big Auditorium in which all kinds of shows and sports could occur, with also a swimming pool and hot and cold baths. Such a building cannot so much as start without financial backing; but gradually many an iron-bound bank account was drawn upon (much as you pull a tooth!), to buy bonds. Also, such a building won’t grow up in a night; nor was a spot upon which to put it found without a lot of agitation; many wanting it in a down-town district; and also, many who had vacant land put forth all sorts of claims to obtain cash for lots upon which a big tax was paid annually, with-out profits. But all such things automatically turn out satisfactorily to a majority; though an ugly, squawk that “municipal graft” was against him.

Now Gadsby was vigorously against graft; not only in city affairs but in any kind of transaction; and that stab brought forth such a flow of oratory from him, that as voting for Mayor was soon to occur, it, and a long list of good works, soon had him up for that position. But Gadsby didn’t want such a nomination; still, thousands of towns-folks who had known him from childhood, would not hark to anything but his candidacy; and, soon, on window cards, signs, and flags across Broadway, was his photograph and “GADSBY FOR MAYOR”; and a campaign was on which still rings in Branton Hills’ history as “hot stuff!” Four aspiring politicians ran in opposition; and, as all had good backing, and Gadsby only his public works to fall back on, things soon got looking gloomy for him. His antagonists, standing upon soap box, auto truck, or hastily built platforms, put forth, with prodigious vim, claims that “our fair city will go back to its original oblivion if I am not its Mayor!” But our Organization now took a hand, most of which, now out of High School,

was growing up rapidly; and anybody who knows anything at all about Branton Hills’ history, knows that, if this band of bright, loyal pals of Gadsby’s was out to attain a goal, it was mighty apt to start things humming. To say that Gadsby’s rivals got a bad jolt as it got around town that his “bunch of warriors” was aiding him, would put it but mildly. Two quit instantly, saying that this is a day of Youth and no adult has half a show against it! But two still hung on; clinging to a sort of fond fantasy that Gadsby, not naturally a public sort of man, might voluntarily drop out. But, had Gadsby so much as thought of such an action, his Organization would quickly laugh it to scorn.

“Why, good gracious!” said Frank Morgan, “if anybody should sit in that Mayor’s chair in City Hall, it’s you! Just look at what you did to boost Branton Hills! Until you got it a- going it had but two thousand inhabitants; now it has sixty thousand! And just ask your rivals to point to any part of it that you didn’t build up. Look at our Public Library, municipal band, occupational class rooms; auto and bus trips; and your circus which paid for music for sick folks. With you as Mayor, boy! What an opportunity to boss and swing things your own way! Why, anything you might say is as good as law; and—”

“Now, hold on, boy!” said Gadsby, “a Mayor can’t boss things in any such a way as you think. A Mayor has a Council, which has to pass on all bills brought up; and, my boy, upon arriving at manhood, you’ll find that a Mayor who can boss a Council around, is a most uncommon bird. And as for a Mayor’s word amounting to a law, it’s a mighty good thing that it can’t! Why, a Mayor can’t do much of anything, today, Frank, without a bunch of crazy bat-brains stirring up a rumpus about his acts looking ‘suspiciously shady.’ Now that is a bad condition in which to find a city, Frank. You boys don’t know anything about graft; but as you grow up you will find many flaws in a city’s laws; but also many points thoroughly good and fair. Just try to think what a city would amount to if a solitary man could control its law making, as a King or Sultan of old. That was why so many millions of inhabitants would start wars and riots against a tyrant; for many a King was a tyrant, Frank, and had no thought as to how his laws would suit his thousands of rich and poor. A law that might suit a rich man, might work all kinds of havoc with a poor family.”

“But,” said Frank. “why should a King pass a law that would dissatisfy anybody?” Gadsby’s parry to this rising youthful ambition for light on political affairs was:—

“Why will a duck go into a pond?” and Frank found that though a growing young man might know a thing or two, making laws for a city was a man’s job.

So, with a Mayoralty campaign on his hands, plus planning for that big auditorium, Gadsby was as busy as a fly around a syrup jug; for a mass of campaign mail had to go out; topics for orations thought up; and contacts with his now truly important Organization of Youth, took so many hours out of his days that his family hardly saw him, at all. Noon naturally stood out as a good opportunity for oratory, as thousands, out for lunch, would stop, in passing. But, also, many a hall rang with plaudits as an antagonist won a point; but many a throng saw Gadsby’s good points, and plainly told him so by turning out voluminously at any point at which his oratory was to flow. It was truly miraculous how this man of shy disposition, found words in putting forth his plans for improving Branton Hills, town of his birth. Many an orator has grown up from an unassuming individual who had things worth saying; and who, through that curious facility which is born of a conviction that his plans had a practical basis, won many a ballot

against such prolific flows of high-sounding words as his antagonists had in stock. Many a night Gadsby was “all in,” as his worn-out body and an aching throat sought his downy couch. No campaign is a cinch.

With so many minds amongst a city’s population, just that many calls for this or that swung back and forth until that most important of all days, —voting day, was at hand. What crowds, mobs and jams did assail all polling booths casting ballots to land a party- man in City Hall! If a voting booth was in a school building, as is a common custom pupils had that day off; and, as Gadsby was Youth’s champion, groups of kids hung around, watching and hoping with that avidity so common with youth, that Gadsby would win by a majority unknown in Branton Hills. And Gadsby did!

As soon as it was shown by official count, Branton Hills was a riot, from City Hall to City limits; throngs tramping around, tossing hats aloft; for a hard-working man had won what many thousands thought was fair and just.

As soon as Gadsby’s inauguration had put him in a position to do things with authority, his first act was to start things moving on that big auditorium plan, for which many capitalists had bought bonds. Again public opinion had a lot to say as to how such a building should look, what it should contain; how long, how high, how costly; with a long string of ifs and buts.

Family upon family put forth claims for rooms for public forums in which various thoughts upon world affairs could find opportunity for discussion; Salvation Army officials thought that a big hall for a public Sunday School class would do a lot of good; and that, lastly, what I must, from this odd yarn’s strict orthography, call a “film show,” should, without doubt occupy a part of such a building. Anyway, talk or no talk, Gadsby said that it should stand as a building for man, woman and child; rich or poor; and, barring its “film show,” without cost to anybody. Branton Hills’ folks could thus swim, do gymnastics, talk on public affairs, or “just sit and gossip”, at will. So it was finally built in a charming park amidst shrubs and blossoms; an additional honor for Gadsby.

But such buildings as Branton Hills now had could not fulfill all functions of so rapidly growing a city; for you find, occasionally, a class of folks who cannot afford a doctor, if ill. This was brought up by a girl of our Organization, Doris Johnson, who, on Christmas Day, in taking gifts to a poor family, had found a woman critically ill, and with no funds for aid or comforts; and instantly, in Doris’ quick young mind a vision of a big city hospital took form; and, on a following day Gadsby had his Organization at City Hall, to “just talk,” (and you know how that bunch can talk!) to a Councilman or two.

Now, if any kind of a building in all this big world costs good, hard cash to build, and furnish, it is a hospital; and it is also a building which a public knows nothing about. So Mayor Gadsby saw that if his Council would pass an appropriation for it, no such squabbling as had struck his Municipal Auditorium plan, would occur. But Gadsby forgot Branton Hills’ landlords, all of whom had “a most glorious spot,” just right for a hospital; until, finally, a group of physicians was told to look around. And did Branton Hills’ landlords call upon Branton Hills’ physicians? I’ll say so!! Anybody visiting town, not knowing what was going on, would think that vacant land was as common as raindrops in a cloudburst. Small plots sprang into public light which couldn’t hold a poultry barn, to say nothing of a big City Hospital. But no grasping landlord can fool physicians in talking up a hospital location, so it was finally built, on high land, with a charming vista across Branton Hills’ suburbs and distant hills; amongst which Gadsby’s charity auto and bus trips took so many happy invalids on past hot days.

Now it is only fair that our boys and girls of this famous Organization of Youth, should walk forward for an introduction to you. So I will bring forth such bright and loyal girls as Doris Johnson, Dorothy Fitts, Lucy Donaldson, Marian Hopkins, Priscilla Standish, Abigail Worthington, Sarah Young, and Virginia Adams. Among our boys, cast a fond look upon Arthur Rankin, Frank Morgan, John Hamilton, Paul Johnson, Oscar Knott and William Snow; as smart a bunch of Youth as you could find in a month of Sundays.

As soon as our big hospital was built and functioning, Sarah Young and Priscilla Standish, in talking with groups of girls, had found a longing for a night-school, as so many folks

had to work all day, so couldn’t go to our Manual Training School. So Mayor Gadsby took it up with Branton Hills School Board. Now school boards do not always think in harmony with Mayors and Councils; in fact, what with school boards, Councils, taxation boards, paving contractors, Sunday closing-hour agitations, railway rights of way, and all-round political “mud-slinging,” a Mayor has a tough job.

Two of Gadsby’s School Board said “NO!” A right out-loud, slam-bang big “NO!!” Two thought that a night school was a good thing; but four, with a faint glow of financial wisdom, (a rarity in politics, today!) saw no cash in sight for such an institution.

But Gadsby’s famous Organization won again! Branton hills did not contain a family in which this Organization wasn’t known; and many a sock was brought out from hiding, and many a sofa pillow cut into, to aid any plan in which this group had a part.

But, just as funds had grown to what Mayor Gadsby thought would fill all such wants, a row in Council as to this fund’s application got so hot that “His Honor” got mad; mighty, mad!! And said:- “Why is it that any bill for appropriations coming up in this Council has to kick up such a rumpus? Why can’t you look at such things with a public mind; for nothing can so aid toward passing bills as harmony. This city is not holding off an attacking army. Branton Hills is not a pack of wild animals, snapping and snarling by day; jumping, at a crackling twig, at night. It is a city of humans; animals, if you wish, but with a gift from On High of a brain, so far apart from all dumb animals as to allow us to talk about our public affairs calmly and thoughtfully. All this Night School rumpus is foolish. Naturally, what is taught in such a school is an important factor; so I want to find out from our Organization —”

At this point, old Bill Simpkins got up, with: “This Organization of Youth stuff puts a kink in my spinal column! Almost all of it is through school. So how can you bring such a group forward as ‘pupils?’”

“A child,” said Gadsby, “who had such schooling as Branton Hills affords is, naturally, still a pupil; for many will follow up a study if an opportunity is at hand. Many adults also carry out a custom of brushing up on unfamiliar topics; thus, also, ranking as pupils. Possibly, Bill, if you would look up that word ‘pupil,’ you wouldn’t find so much fault with insignificant data.”

“All right!” was Simpkins’ snap-back; “but what I want to know is, what our big Public Library is for. Your ‘pupils’ can find all sorts of information in that big building. So why build a night school? It’s nothing but a duplication!”

“A library,” said Gadsby, “is not a school. It has no instructors; you cannot talk in its rooms. You may find a book or two on your study, or you may not. You would find it a big handicap if you think that you can accomplish much with no aid but that of a Public Library. Young folks know what young folks want to study. It is foolish, say, to install a class in Astronomy, for although it is a Night School, its pupils’ thoughts might not turn toward Mars, Saturn or shooting stars; but shorthand, including training for typists amongst adults who, naturally don’t go to day schools, is most important, today; also History and Corporation Law; and I know that a study of Music would attract many. Any man or woman who works all day, but still wants to study at night, should find an opportunity for doing so.”

This put a stop to Councilman Simpkins’ criticisms, and approval was put upon Gadsby’s

plan; and it was but shortly that this school’s popularity was shown in a most amusing way. Branton Hills folks, in passing it on going out for a show or social call, caught most savory whiffs, as its cooking class was producing doughnuts and biscuits; for a Miss Chapman, long famous as a cook for Branton Hills’ Woman’s Club, had about forty girls finding out about that magic art. So, too, occasionally a cranky old Councilman, who had fought against “this foolish night school proposition,” would pass by; and, oh, hum!! A Councilman is only an animal, you know; and, on cooking class nights, such an animal, unavoidably drawn by that wafting aroma, would go in, just a bit humiliatingly, and, in praising Miss Chapman for doing “such important work for our young girls,” would avidly munch a piping hot biscuit or a sizzling doughnut from a young girl’s hand, who, a month ago, couldn’t fry a slab of bacon without burning it.

Just as Gadsby was thinking nothing was now lacking in Branton Hills, a child in a poor family got typhoid symptoms from drinking from a small brook at a picnic and, without any aid from our famous Organization, a public clamor was forthcoming for Municipal District Nursing, as so many folks look with horror at going to a hospital. Now District Nursing calls for no big appropriation; just salary, a first-aid outfit, a supply of drugs and so forth; and, now-a-days, a car. And, to Branton Hills’ honor four girls who had had nursing training soon brought, not only small comforts, but important ministrations to a goodly part of our population. In districts without this important municipal function, common colds may run into long-drawn-out attacks; and contagion can not only shut up a school or two but badly handicap all forms of public activity.

“Too many small towns,” said Gadsby, “try to go without public nursing; calling it foolish, and claiming that a family ought to look out for its own sick. BUT! Should a high mortality, such as, this Nation HAS known, occur again, such towns will frantically broadcast a call for girls with nursing training; and wish that a silly, cash-saving custom hadn’t brought such critical conditions.”

At this point I want to bring forward an individual who has had a big part in Branton Hills’ growth; but who, up to now, has not shown up in this history. You know that Gadsby had a family, naturally including a woman; and that woman was fondly and popularly known throughout town as Lady Gadsby; a rank fittingly matching Gadsby’s “His Honor,” upon his inauguration as Mayor. Lady Gadsby was strongly in favor of all kinds of clubs or associations; organizing a most worthy Charity Club, a Book Club and a Political Auxiliary. It was but a natural growth from Woman’s part in politics, both municipal and National; and which, in many a city, has had much to say toward nominations of good officials, and running many a crook out of town; for no crook, nor “gang boss” can hold out long if up against a strong Woman’s Club. Though it was long thought that woman’s brain was minor in comparison with man’s, woman, as a class, now- a-day shows an all-round activity; and has brought staid control to official actions which had had a long run through domination by man;— that proud, cocky, strutting animal who thinks that this gigantic world should hop, skip and jump at his commands. So, from, or through just such clubs as Lady Gadsby’s, Branton Hills was soon attracting folks from surrounding districts; in fact, it was known as a sort of Fairyland in which all things turn out satisfactorily. This was, plainly, a condition which would call for much additional building; which also brings additional tax inflow; so Branton Hills was rapidly growing into a most important community. So, at a School Board lunch, His Honor said: “I trust that now you will admit that what I said long ago about making a city an attraction to tourists, is bringing daily confirmation. Oh, what a lot of politically blind city and town officials I could point out within a day’s auto trip from Branton Hills! Many such an official, upon winning a foothold in City Hall, thinks only of his own cohorts, and his own gain. So it is not surprising that public affairs grow stagnant. Truly, I cannot fathom such minds! I can think of nothing so satisfying as doing public good in as many ways as an official can. Think, for an instant, as to just what a city is. As I said long ago, it is not an array of buildings, parks and fountains. No. A city is a living thing! It is, actually, human;

for it is a group of humanity growing up in daily contact; and if officials adopt as a slogan, “all I can do,” and not “all I can grab,” only its suburban boundary can limit its growth. Branton Hills attracts thousands, annually. All of that influx looks for comforts, an opportunity to work, and good schools. Branton Hills has all that; and I want to say that all who visit us, with thoughts of joining us, will find us holding out a glad hand; promising that all such fond outlooks will find confirmation at any spot within cannon- shot of City Hall.”

At this point, a woman from just such a group got up, saying: “I want to back up your mayor. On my first visit to your charming city I saw an opportunity for my family; and, with woman’s famous ability for arguing, I got my husband to think as I do; and not an hour from that day has brought us any dissatisfaction. Your schools stand high in comparison with any out our way; your shops carry first-class goods, your laws act without favoritism for anybody or class; and an air of happy-go-lucky conditions actually shouts at you, from all parts of town.”

Now, as months slid past it got around to Night School graduation day; and as it was this institution’s first, all Branton Hills was on hand, packing its big hall. An important part was a musical half-hour by its big chorus, singing such grand compositions as arias from Faust, Robin Hood, Aida, and Martha; also both boys’ and girls’ bands, both brass and strings, doing first-class work on a Sousa march, a Strauss waltz, and a potpourri of National airs from many lands, which brought a storm of hand clapping; for no form of study will so aid youth in living happily, as music. Ability to play or sing; to know what is good or poor in music, instills into young folks a high quality of thought; and, accuracy is found in its rigidity of rhythm.

As soon as this music class was through, Gadsby brought forth soloists, duos and trios; violinists, pianists, and so many young musicians that Branton Hills was as proud of its night school as a girl is of “that first diamond.” That brought our program around to introducing pupils who had won honor marks: four girls in knitting, oil painting, cooking and journalism; and four smart youths in brass work, wood-carving and Corporation law. But pupils do not form all of a school body; so a group of blushing instructors had to bow to an applauding roomful.

Though this was a school graduation, Mayor Gadsby said it would do no harm to point out a plan for still adding to Branton Hills’ public spirit

“This town is too plain; too dingy. Brick walls and asphalt paving do not light up a town, but dim it. So I want to plant all kinds of growing things along many of our curbs. In our parks I want ponds with gold fish, fancy ducks and big swans; row-boats, islands with arbors, and lots of shrubs that blossom; not just an array of twigs and stalks. I want, in our big City Park, a casino, dancing pavilion, lunch rooms; and parkings for as many cars as can crowd in. So I think that all of us ought to pitch in and put a bright array of natural aids round about; both in our shopping district and suburbs; for you know that old saying, that ‘a charming thing is a joy always.’”

So a miraculous transformation of any spot at all dull was soon a fact. Oak, birch and poplar saplings stood along curbs and around railway stations; girls brought in willow twigs, ivy roots, bulbs of canna, dahlia, calladium, tulip, jonquil, gladiola and hyacinth. Boys also dug many woodland shrubs which, standing along railway tracks, out of town,

took away that gloomy vista so commonly found upon approaching a big city; and a long grassplot, with a rim of boxwood shrubs, was laid out, half way from curb to curb on Broadway, in Branton Hills’ financial district. As Gadsby was looking at all this with happy satisfaction, a bright lad from our Night School’s radio class, told him that Branton Hills should install a broadcasting station, as no city, today, would think of trying to win additional population without that most important adjunct for obtaining publicity. So any man or boy who had any knack at radio was all agog; and about a thousand had ambitions for a job in it, at which only about six can work. And City Hall had almost a riot, as groups of politicians, pastors and clubs told just what such a station should, and should not broadcast; for a broadcasting station, with its vast opportunity for causing both satisfaction and antagonism, must hold rigidly aloof from any racial favoritism, church, financial or nationality criticisms; and such a policy is, as any broadcasting station will admit, most difficult of adoption. First of all stood that important position of what you might call “studio boss.” Although a man in control of a station is not known as “boss,” I think it will pass in this oddly built-up story. Now I am going to boost our famous Organization again, by stating that a boy from its ranks, Frank Morgan, was put in; for it was a hobby of Gadsby to put Branton Hills boys in Branton Hills municipal jobs. So Frank, right away, got all sorts of calls for hours or half hours to broadcast most astounding bargains in clothing, salad oils, motor oils, motor “gas”, soaps, cars, and tooth brush lubricants.

With a big Fall campaign for Washington officials about to start, such a position as Frank’s was chuck full of pitfalls; a stiff proposition for a young chap, not long out of High School. But Gadsby took him in hand.

“Now, boy, hold your chin up, and you will find that most folks, though cranky or stubborn at first, will follow your rulings if you insist, in a civil way, that you know all our National Radio Commission’s laws binding your station. Millions, of all kinds, will dial in your station; and what would highly satisfy a group in Colorado might actually insult a man down in Florida; for radio’s wings carry far. You know I’ll back you up, boy. But now, what would you call this station?”

“Oh,” said our tyro-boss; “a radio station should work with initials showing its location. So a Branton Hills station could stand as KBH.”

Such initials, ringing with civic patriotism, hit Gadsby just right; his Council put it in writing; and “Station KBH” was born! Though it is not important to follow it from now on, I will say that our vast country, by tuning in on KBH, found out a lot about this Utopia. “You know that good old yarn,” said Gadsby, “about making so good a rat-trap that millions will tramp down your grass in making a path to your front door.”

Now don’t think that our famous Organization, having shown its worth on so many occasions, sat down without thinking of doing anything again. No, sir! Not this bunch! If a boy or girl thought of any addition to Branton Hills’ popularity it was brought to Mayor Gadsby for consultation. And so, as Lucy Donaldson on a trip through a patch of woods, saw a big stag looking out from a clump of shrubs, nothing would do but to rush to His Honor to pour what thoughts that charming sight had brought up in this bright young mind. So, as Gadsby stood at City Hall’s front door, this palpitating, gushing young girl ran towards him, panting and blowing from a long run

“I want a zoo!”

“A WHAT?”

“A ZOO!! You know! A park with stags and all kinds of wild animals; and a duck pond, and, and, and”

“Whoa! Slow down a bit! Do you want an actual zoo, or an outfit of toys that wind up and growl?”

“I want a truly, out-and-out, big zoo. Why can’t you build walls around a part of City Park, and...”

Gadsby saw that this was an addition which nobody had thought of, until now; so, grasping his young visitor’s hand, joyfully, said:-

“It’s a fact, Lucy!! And, as you thought of it, I’ll call it, —now wait; —what shall I call it? Aha! That’s it! I’ll call it ‘Lucy Zoo’. How’s that for quick thinking?”

“My! That’s just grand; but what will Papa say?”

Now Gadsby had known Lucy’s family from boyhood, so said:—“You inform your dad that at any sign of balking by him, I’ll put HIM in Lucy Zoo, and pay a boy to prod him with a sharp stick, until his approval is in my hands.” This brought such a rollicking laugh that a man mowing City Hall lawn had to laugh, too.

Now, (Ah! But I can’t avoid saying it!) our Organization was out again; but, now having grown a bit from such childish youths as had, at first stood in its ranks, a boy, now approaching manhood, and a girl, now a young woman, could solicit funds with an ability to talk knowingly in favor of any factor that a hanging-back contributor could bring up in running down such a proposition. You can always count on finding that class in any city or town upon any occasion for public works; but I can proudly say that many saw good in our Organization’s plan; and Lucy soon found that out, in Old Lady Flanagan.

“Whoops! A zoo, is it? And pray, phwat can’t thot crazy Gadsby think up? If our big Mayor had four sich bys as I brought into this woild; worra, worra! his parlor, halls, dinin’ room an back yard’d furnish him wid a zoo, all right! Wid two always a-scrappin’ about a ball bat or a sling shot; a brat continually a-bawlin’ about nuthin’; an’ a baby wid whoopin’ cough, I know phwat a zoo is, widout goin’ to City Park to gawk at a indigo baboon, or a pink tom cat.”

“But,” said Lucy, trying hard not to laugh; “Mayor Gadsby isn’t thinking of putting in pink tom cats, nor any kind of tom cats in this zoo. It is for only wild animals.”

“WILD!! Say, if you could look into my back door as Old Man Flanagan quits work, an brings back a load o’ grog, you’d find thot you had wild animals roight in this town, all

roight, all roight.”

But, as on so many occasions, this charming girl got a contribution, with Old Lady Flanagan calling out from a front window:-

“Good luck, Lucy darlin’! I’m sorry I was so dom cranky!”

But though popular opinion was in favor of having a zoo, popular opinion didn’t hand in donations to within four thousand dollars of what it would cost to install; and Gadsby and his “gang” had to do a bit of brain racking, so as not to disappoint lots of good folks who had paid in. Finally, Sarah Young thought of a rich woman living just across from City Park. This woman, Lady Standish, was of that kind, loving disposition which would bring in a cold, hungry, lost pup, or cat, and fill it up with hot food and milk. Branton Hills kids could bring any kind of a hurt or sick animal or bird; and Sarah had long known that that back yard was, actually, a small zoo, anyway; with dogs, cats, poultry, two robins too young to fly, four sparrows and a canary, almost bald. Sarah thought that any woman, loving animals as Lady Standish did, might just thrill at having a big zoo-ful right at hand. So, saying, “I’ll go and find out, right now”, was off as an arrow from a bow. As soon as this kindly woman found out what was on Sarah’s mind, our young solicitor got a loving kiss, with:— “A zoo! Oh! how truly charming! What grand things Mayor Gadsby can think up without half trying!” And Sarah had to grin, thinking of Lucy, and Old Lady Flanagan’s opinion of His Honor! “You may not know it, Sarah,” said Lady Standish, “but John Gadsby and I had a big flirtation, way back in our school days. And HOW downcast poor Johnny was at my finding a husband out of town! But that was long, long ago, darling. So, just to sort of pacify my old pal, John, I’ll gladly put up your missing four thousand; and you go to His Honor and say that I wish him all sorts of good luck with this plan.”

Now, Olympic champions must train continuously, but, customarily, in gymnasiums. But today, folks in Branton Hills’ shopping district had to turn and gasp; for a young woman was sprinting wildly toward City Hall; for Sarah was in a hurry. Gadsby was just coming out, as this girl, as badly blown as Lucy was in asking for a zoo, ran up, calling out:- “I GOT IT!! I GOT IT!!”

“Got what? A fit?”

“No! I got that final four thousand dollars! It’s from Lady Standish, who says that way back in school days, you and—”

“Whoa!! That was back in history?” but Gadsby was blushing, and Sarah was winking, coyly.

Now Gadsby was as fond of his Organization boys and girls as of his own; and Sarah was so radiantly happy that all His Honor could say was:—

“My, now, Sarah! That’s mighty good work! And as I told Lucy I’d call our zoo Lucy Zoo for thinking of it, I’ll find a way to honor you, too. Aha! I’ll put up a big arch, through which all visitors must pass, and call it ‘Sarah Young’s Rainbow Arch.’ How’s that?”

Now Sarah had a bit of natural wit; so quickly said:-

“That’s just grand if you’ll bury that famous pot of gold at its foot, so I can dig it up!”

NOW THAT A Zoo was actually on its way, Gadsby had to call in various groups to talk about what a Zoo should contain. Now, you know that all animals can’t find room in this orthographically odd story; so, if you visit Lucy Zoo, you’ll miss a customary inhabitant, or two. But you’ll find an array worthy of your trip. So a call was put in two big daily journals, asking for bids on animals and birds; and soon, from north, south and criss-cross points, a hunting party or a city with too many zoo animals on hand got in touch with Branton Hills, with proposals for all kinds of animals, from kangaroos to bats; and our Organization had a lot of fun planning how many it could crowd into City Park, without crowding out visitors. Finally a ballot put Lucy’s zoological population as follows:—

First, according to Lucy, “an awfully, AWFULLY big hippopotamus, with a pool for its comfort;” a yak, caribou, walrus, (also with a pool,) a long fox-run, bisons, gnus, stags, (it was a stag, you know, that got this zoo plan going!), alligators, mountain lions, African lions, wild cats, wild boars, llamas, gorillas, baboons, orang-outangs, mandrils; and, according to Gadsby’s boys, a “big gang” of that amusing, tiny mimic always found accompanying hand-organs. Also an aviary, containing condors, buzzards, parrots, ibis, macaws, adjutant birds, storks, owls, quail, falcons, tiny humming birds, a sprinkling of hawks, mocking birds, swans, fancy ducks, toucans; and a host of small singing birds; and oh! without fail, an ostrich family; and, last, but most important of all, a big first cousin of old Jumbo! A big glass building would hold boa constrictors, pythons, cobras, lizards, and so forth; and down in back of all this, an outdoor aquarium, full of goldfish, rainbow trout, various fancy fish and blossoming aquatic plants. All in all it would furnish a mighty amusing and popular spot which would draw lots of out-of-town visitors; and visitors, you know, might turn into inhabitants! And so things finally got around to Inauguration Day; and, knowing that no kid could sit still in school on such an occasion, it was put down for a Saturday; and, so many happy, shouting, hopping, jumping kids stood waiting for His Honor to cut a satin ribbon in front of Sarah Young’s Rainbow Arch, that grown folks had to wait, four blocks back. As Gadsby was roaming around with Lucy, to find if things should start moving, old Pat Ryan, from Branton Hills’ railway station, was hunting for him; finally locating him in a lunch room, and rushing in with:—

“Say! That big hop-skip-and-jump artist is down in my trunk room! I got a punch on my jaw, a crack on my snout, and a kick on my shins a-tryin’ to calm him down!”

“A kick and a punch? What actions!” said Gadsby. “I don’t know of any hop-skip-and- jump artist. How big a man is it?”

“Worra, worra! It ain’t no man at all, at all! It’s that thing what grows in Australia, and—” But Lucy saw light right off; and “laughing fit to kill,” said

“Oh, ho, ho!! I know! It’s that boxing kangaroo you bought from Barnum’s circus!” and a charming girl was doubling up in a wild storm of giggling, ignoring old Pat’s scowls.

“Ah! That’s him, all right,” said Gadsby. “So, Pat, just put him in a burlap bag and ship him to this zoo.”

“Who? I put him in a burlap bag? Say, boss! If I can pick up about six husky guys around that station; and if I can find a canvas, not a burlap, bag; and put on a gas mask, a stomach pad, two shin-guards, and—”

But that crowd at Sarah’s Arch was shouting for Gadsby to cut that ribbon so old Pat had to bag that Australian tornado; and in a way that would not hurt him; for kangaroo actors cost good cash, you know.

So that crowd of kids got in, at last! Now zoo animals can think, just as humans can; and it was amusing to watch a pair of boys staring at a pair of orang-outangs; and a pair of orang-outangs staring back at a pair of boys; both thinking, no doubt, what funny things it saw! And, occasionally, both animal and boy won a point! Now if you think that only young folks find any fun in going to a zoo, you probably don’t go to zoos much; for many a big, rotund capitalist had to laugh at simian antics, though, probably figuring up just how much satisfaction his cash contribution brought him. Many a family woman forgot such things as a finicky child or burning biscuits. All was happy-go-lucky joy; and, at two o’clock, as Branton Hills’ Municipal Band, (a part of Gadsby’s Organization of Youth’s work, you know) struck up a bright march, not a glum physiognomy was found in all that big park.

Gadsby and Lucy had much curiosity in watching what such crashing music would do to various animals. At first a spirit akin to worry had baboons, gorillas, and such, staring about, as still as so many posts; until, finding that no harm was coming from such sounds, soon took to climbing and swinging again. Stags, yaks and llamas did a bit of high-kicking at first; Gadsby figuring that drums, and not actual music, did it. But a lilting waltzing aria did not worry any part of this big zoo family; in fact, a fox, wolf and jackal, in a quandary at first actually lay down, as though music truly “hath charms to calm a wild bosom.”

At Gadsby’s big aquarium visitors found not only fun, but opportunity for studying many a kind of fish not ordinarily found in frying pans; and, though in many lands, snails form a popular food, Lucy, Sarah and Virginia put on furious scowls at a group of boys who thought “Snails might go good, with a nut-pick handy.” (But boys always will say things to horrify girls, you know.) And upon coming to that big glass building, with its boa constrictors, alligators, lizards and so on, a boy grinningly “got a girl’s goat” by wanting to kiss a fifty-foot anaconda; causing Lucy to say, haughtily, that “No boy, wanting to kiss such horrid, wriggly things can kiss us Branton Hills girls.” (Good for you, Lucy! I’d pass up a sixty-foot anaconda, any day, for you.)

In following months many a school class was shown through our zoo’s fascinating paths, as instructors told of this or that animal’s habits and natural haunts; and showing that it was as worthy of sympathy, if ill, as any human. And not only did such pupils obtain kindly thoughts for zoo animals, but cats, dogs and all kinds of farm stock soon found that things had an uncommon look, through a dropping off in scoldings and whippings, and rapidly improving living conditions. But most important of all was word from an ugly, hard-looking woman, who, watching, with an apologizing sniff, a flock of happy birds, said:-

“I’m sorry that I always slap and bawl out my kids so much, for I know, now, that kids or animals won’t do as you wish if you snap and growl too much. And I trust that Mayor Gadsby knows what a lot of good all his public works do for us.”

Now this is a most satisfactory and important thing to think about, for brutality will not,— cannot,—accomplish what a kindly disposition will; and, if folks could only know how quickly a “balky” child will, through loving and cuddling, grow into a charming, happy

youth, much childish gloom and sorrow would vanish; for a man or woman who is ugly to a child is too low to rank as highly as a wild animal; for no animal will stand, for an instant, anything approaching an attack, or any form of harm to its young. But what a lot of tots find slaps, yanks and hard words for conditions which do not call for such harsh tactics! No child is naturally ugly or “cranky.” And big, gulping sobs, or sad, unhappy young minds, in a tiny body should not occur in any community of civilization. Adulthood holds many an opportunity for such conditions. Childhood should not.

Now just a word about zoos. Many folks think that animals in a zoo know no comforts; nothing but constant fright from living in captivity. Such folks do not stop to think of a thing or two about an animal’s wild condition. Wild animals must not only constantly hunt for food, but invariably fight to kill it and to hold it, too; for, in such a fight, a big antagonist will naturally win from a small individual. Thus, what food is found, is also lost; and hunting must go on, day by day, or night by night until a tragic climax—by thirst or starvation. But in a zoo, food is brought daily, with facility for drinking, and laid right in front of hoofs, paws or bills. For small animals, roofs and thick walls ward off cold winds and rain; and so, days of calm inactivity, daily naps without worrying about attack; and a carting away of all rubbish and filth soon puts a zoo animal in bodily form which has no comparison with its wild condition. Lack of room in which to climb, roam or play, may bring a zoo animal to that condition known as “soft”; but, as it now has no call for vigor, and its fighting passions find no opportunity for display, such an animal is gradually approaching that condition which has brought Man, who is only an animal, anyway, to his lofty point in Natural History, today. Truly, with such tribulations, worry, and hard work as Man puts up with to obtain his food and lodging, a zoo animal, if it could only know of our daily grind, would comfortably yawn, thankful that Man is so kindly looking out for it. With similar animals all around it, and, day by day, just a happy growth from cub-hood to maturity, I almost wish that I was a zoo animal, with no boss to growl about my not showing up, mornings, at a customary hour!NOW, AS OUR Organization of Youth is rapidly growing up, a young crowd, too young to join it at first, is coming up; imbibing its “why-not-do-it-now?” spirit. So, as Gadsby stood in front of that big Municipal Auditorium (which that group, you know, had had built), Marian Hopkins, a small girl, in passing by, saw him, and said

“I think Branton Hills ought to buy a balloon.”

“Balloon? Balloon? What would this city do with a balloon? Put a string on it so you could run around with it?”

“No, not that kind of a balloon, but that big, zooming kind that sails way up high, with a man in it.”

“Oh! Ha, ha! You think an aircraft is a balloon! But what would—Aha! An airport?” “Uh-huh; but I didn’t know how to say it.”

“It’s cracky!” said His Honor. “I thought this town was about through improving. But an airport would add a bit to it; now wouldn’t it?”

Marian had a most profound opinion that it would; (if profound opinions grow in such small kids!) so both took a walk to City Hall to hunt up a Councilman or two. Finding four in a Council room, Gadsby said

“Youth, or, I should say, childhood, has just shown that Branton Hills is shy on a most important acquisition,” and Old Bill Simpkins just had to blurt out:— “And, naturally, it calls for cash! CASH!

CASH! CASH!! What will this town amount to if it blows in dollars so fast?”

“And,” said Gadsby, “what will it amount to, if it don’t?”

That put a gag on Old Bill. Councilman Banks, though, was curious to know about Marian’s proposition, saying:— “It is probably a plan for buying Christmas toys for all Branton Hills kids.”

But tiny Marian, with a vigorous stamp of a tiny foot, swung right back with:— “NO, SIR!! Santa Claus will bring us our gifts! But I thought of having a—what did you call it, Mayor Gadsby?”

“This child thinks Branton Hills should build an airport, and I think so, too. If our inhabitants, such as this tot, can think up such things, all adults should pack up, and vanish from municipal affairs. All right, Marian; our City Council, your City Council, my young patriot, will look into this airport plan for you.”

So, as on similar occasions months ago, word that land was again cropping up in Gadsby’s mind, brought out a flood of landlords with vacant lots, all looking forward to disposing of a dump worth two dollars and a half, for fifty thousand. Now an airport must occupy a vast lot of land, so cannot stand right in a City’s shopping district; but finally a big tract was bought, and right in back of tiny Marian’s back yard! Instantly, City Hall was full of applicants for flying Branton Hills’ first aircraft. To Gadsby’s joy, amongst that bunch was Harold Thompson, an old Organization lad, who was known around town as a chap who could do about anything calling for brains. As an airport is not laid out in a day, Harold got busy with paid aviators and soon was piloting a craft without aid; and not only Branton Hills folks, but old aviators, saw in Harold, a “bird-man” of no small ability. And so tiny Marian’s “vision” was a fact; just as “big girl” Lucy’s Zoo; and, as with all big City

affairs, an Inauguration should start it off. Now, on all such affairs you always find a “visitor of honor”; and on this grand day Gadsby couldn’t think of anybody for that important post but Marian. And, as it would occur in August, any day would do, as that is a school vacation month.

And what a mob stood, or sat, on that big airport, waiting for a signal from young Marian which would start Harold aloft, on Branton Hills’ initial flight! Almost all brought a lunch and camp-stools or folding chairs; and, as it was a hot day, thousands of gay parasols, and an array of bright clothing on our school-girls, had that big lot looking as brilliant as a florist’s window at Christmas.

Our young visitor of honor was all agog with joy; and, I think, possibly a touch of vanity; for what child wouldn’t thrill with thousands watching? But though Marian had always had good clothing, coming from a family who could afford it, no tot, in all history, had so glorious an outfit as that which about all Branton Hills’ population saw on that platform, amidst flags, bunting and our big Municipal Band. As an airship is a simulation of a bird; and as a bird, to a child, is not far from a fairy, Marian had gaudy fairy wings, a radiant cloak of gold, a sparkling gown all aglow with twinkling stars, and a long glass wand, with a star at its top. As soon as all was in condition Gadsby told Marian to stand up. This brought that vast crowd up, also; and Gadsby said:-

“Now hold your wand way up high, and swing it, to signal Harold to start.”

Up shot a tiny arm; and Harold, watching from his cockpit, sang out:-

“CONTACT!!”

A vigorous twist of his ship’s gigantic “fan”, a shout, a roar, a whizz, a mighty cloud of dust, and amid a tornado of clapping, shouts, and band music, Branton Hills was put on aviation’s map. Way, way up, so far as to look as small as a toy, Harold put on a show of banking, rolling and diving, which told Gadsby that, still again, had Branton Hills found profit in what its Organization of Youth, and, now, its small kids, had to say about improving a town.

During that box-lunch picnic, many of our “big girls” brought so much food to Marian that Dad and Ma had to stand guard against tummy pains. And what a glorious, jolly occasion that picnic was! Gay band music, songs, dancing, oratory; and a grand all-round “howdy” amongst old inhabitants and arriving tourists soon was transforming that big crowd into a happy group, such as it is hard to find, today, in any big city: cold, distant, and with no thought by its politicians for anybody in it; and Gadsby found, around that big airport, many a man, woman and child who was as proud of him as was his own family.

I THINK THAT now you should know this charming Gadsby family; so I will bring forth Lady Gadsby, about whom I told you at Gadsby’s inauguration as Mayor; a loyal church woman with a vocal ability for choir work; and, with good capability on piano or organ, no woman could “fill in” in so many ways; and no woman was so willing, and quick to do so. Gadsby had two sons; bright lads and popular with all. Julius was of a studious turn of mind, always poring through books of information; caring not what kind of information it was, so long as it was information, and not fiction. Gadsby had thought of his growing up as a school instructor, for no work is so worthy as imparting what you know to any who long to study. But William! Oh, hum!! Our Mayor and Lady Gadsby didn’t know just what to do with him; for all his thoughts clung around girls and fashions in clothing: Probably our High School didn’t contain a girl who didn’t think that, at no distant day, Bill Gadsby would turn, from a callow youth, into a “big catch” husband; for a Mayor’s son in so important a city as ours was a mark for any girl to shoot at. But Bill was not of a marrying disposition; loving girls just as girls, but holding out no hand to any in particular. Always in first class togs, without missing a solitary fad which a young man should adopt, Gadsby’s Bill was a lion, in his own right, with no girl in sight who had that tact through which a lasso could land around his manly throat. Gadsby had many a laugh, looking back at his own boyhood days, his various flirtations, and such wild, throbbing palpitations as a boy’s flirtations can instill; and looking back through just such ogling groups as now sought his offspring; until a girl, oh, so long ago, had put a stop to all such flirtations, and got that lasso on “with a strangling hold,” as Gadsby says; and it is still on, today! But this family was not all boys. Oh, my, no! Two girls also sat around that family board. First, following William, was Nancy, who, as Gadsby laughingly said, “didn’t know how to grow;” and now, in High School, was “about as big as a pint of milk;” and of such outstanding charm that Gadsby continually got solicitations to allow photographing for soft-drink and similar billboard displays.

“No, sir!! Not for any sort of pay!! In allowing public distribution of a girl’s photo you don’t know into what situations said photos will land. I find, daily, photographs of girls blowing about vacant lots, all soggy from rains; also in a ditch, with its customary filth; or stuck up on a brick wall or drawn onto an imaginary body showing a brand of tights or pajamas. No, sir!! Not for my girl!!”

Fourth in this popular family was Kathlyn, of what is known as a “classical mold;” with a brain which, at no distant day, will rank high in Biology and Microscopy; for Kathlyn was of that sort which finds fascination in studying out many whats and whys amongst that vast array of facts about our origin. This study, which too many young folks avoid as not having practical worth had a strong hold on Kathlyn, who could not sanction such frivolous occupations as cards, dancing, or plain school gossip. Not for an instant! Kathlyn thought that such folks had no thoughts for anything but transitory thrills. But in Biology!! Ah!! Why not study it, and find out how a tiny, microscopic drop of protoplasm, can, through unknown laws grow into living organisms, which can not only go on living, but can also bring forth offspring of its kind? And not only that. As said offspring must combat various kinds of surroundings and try various foods, why not watch odd

variations occur, and follow along, until you find an animal, bird, plant or bug of such a total dissimilarity as to form practically, a class actually apart from its original form? Kathlyn did just that; and Gadsby was proud of it; and, I think, just a bit curious on his own part as to occasional illustrations in this studious young lady’s school books!

Now it is known by all such natural “faddists” that any such a study has points in common with a branch akin to it; and Kathlyn was not long in finding out that Biology, with its facts of animal origin, could apply to a practical control of bugs on farms. (This word, “bugs,” is hardly Biological; but as Kathlyn is in this story, with its strict orthographical taboo, “bugs” must unavoidably supplant any classical nomination for such things.)

So, Mayor Gadsby sought Branton Hills’ Council’s approval for a goodly sum; not only for such control, but also for study as to how to plant, in ordinary soil, and not risk losing half a crop from worms, slugs and our awkwardly-brought-in “bugs.” This appropriation was a sort of prod, showing this Council that publicity of any first-class kind was good for a city; and was casting about for anything which would so act, until Gadsby’s son, Bill, (who, you know, thought of nothing but girls and “dolling up,”) found that Branton Hills had no distinction of its own in outfits for man or woman, so why not put up a goal of, say fifty dollars, for anybody who could think up any worthy “stunt” in clothing; which should go out as “Branton Hills’ This” or “Branton Hills’ That.” Possibly just a form of hat- brim, a cut of coat-front, or a sporting outfit. And our worthy Council did put up that goal, and many brought all sorts of plans to City Hall. And Bill won, by thinking up a girls’ (always girls, with Bill!) hiking outfit, consisting of a skirt with a rain-proof lining, which could, during a storm, form a rain-suit by putting it on, as Bill said, “by substituting outwards for inwards.” (This will hit Bill amusingly, as days go by!) Going with it was a shirt with a similar “turn-out” facility, and a hiking boot with high tops as guards against thorns and burs; but which, by undoing a clasp, would slip off; and, LO!! you had a low- cut Oxford for ordinary occasions! In about a month a big cotton mill had work going full blast on “Branton Hills’ Turn-it-out Sport and Hiking Outfit,” and a small boot-shop got out a pair of Bill’s “two-part boots,” though saying that it would “probably fall apart without warning!” But Kathlyn put on a pair and found it most satisfactory for a long, rough hill-climb, hunting for bird and animal forms for Biological study. This proof of Branton Hills’ goods was soon known in surrounding towns, and that critical boot-shop and big cotton mill had hard work to fill calls from Canada, Holland, Russia, Spain and Australia! And Bill was put upon Branton Hills’ Roll of Honor.