THINGS THAT LOVED THE LAKE

This story was worked out with a five-year-old boy. It is the result of his own summer experiences on a lake.

THINGS THAT LOVED THE LAKE

Once there was a little lake. And many things loved the little lake for its water was clear and smooth and blue when it was sunshiny, and dark and wavy and cross-looking when it was rainy. Now one of the things that loved the little lake was a little fish. He was a slippery shiny little fish all covered with slippery shiny scales. He lived in the shadow of a big rock near a deep, dark, cool pool. And when his wide-open shiny eye saw a little fly fall on the top of the water, he would flip his slippery, shiny tail and wave his slippery, shiny fins and dart out and up and—snap! he’d have the fly inside him! Then like a shiny streak he’d quietly slip back to the cool, deep, dark pool.

Another thing that loved the little lake was a spotted green frog. He too lived near the big rock. He would squat like a lump on the top in the sun, blinking his bright little eyes. Then splash! jump he would go, plump into the water. He’d keep his funny head with the little blinking, bright eyes above water while he’d kick his long, spotted, green legs and he’d swim across to another rock. At first he used to frighten the slippery shiny little fish when he came tumbling into the quiet water. But the spotted green frog never did anything to hurt the little fish so the slippery shiny little fish didn’t mind him after all. But at night what do you think the spotted green frog did? He squatted on the rock with his front feet toeing in, like this, and he looked up at the far-away white moon in the far-away dark sky, and then he swelled and he swelled and he swelled his throat, and then he opened his wide, wide mouth and out came a noise. Oh, such a noise! “K-K-K-Krink!! K-K-K-Krank!!” All night the spotted frog swelled his throat and croaked at the moon.

Now another thing that loved the little lake was a beautiful wild duck. The wild duck had beautiful green and brown feathers and on his head he had a little green top-knot. Every year he flew north from the warm south where he had been spending the winter. High up in the air he flew, leading many other beautiful wild ducks. He flew with his head stretched out and his feet tucked up close to his body and his strong wings flapping, flapping, flapping like great fans. And as he flew way up in the air his keen eye would see the little lake glistening down below. “Quonk-quonk!” he would call. And the other wild ducks would answer, “Quonk-quonk-quonk!” And then they would swoop, right down to the little lake and they’d light right on the water. There they would sit, rocking on the little waves or swimming about with their red webbed feet. Oh, the wild ducks loved the little lake very much!

But not the slippery shiny fish, not the spotted green frog, not the beautiful wild duck loves the lake as much as some one else does. I don’t believe any one else loves the little lake as much as does the little summer boy! Sometimes the little summer boy goes rowing on top of the lake. He leans way forward and stretches his oars way back, then he puts them into the water and pulls as hard as ever he can—splash—splash—splash—splash——! And the boat glides and slides right over the water! Sometimes,—and this he loves better still,—he stands on the rock in his red bathing suit. Then plump! he jumps right into the water! Sometimes he goes feetwards and sometimes he goes headwards and sometimes he turns a somersault in the air before he touches the water. And then away he goes moving his arms and kicking his legs almost like the spotted green frog. But the little fish when he hears this great thing come splashing into the quiet water, he flips his slippery shiny tail and waves his slippery shiny fins and darts way out into the deep water where the little boy with the red bathing suit can’t follow him. For to the little fish this little summer boy seems very queer, and very, very noisy, and very, very, VERY enormous! And the spotted green frog too gets out of the way when the little boy comes racketing into the water. He hops, hops under the rocks into a safe little cave and from there he watches and blinks his bright little eyes. But he never croaks then! The little summer boy knows the green frog is there and sometimes he peeks at him and thinks “I wish I could make my back legs go like yours!” For he’s often seen the spotted green frog swim from rock to rock.

But the beautiful wild duck, he never saw the little summer boy. For long before the boy came to the little lake, the duck had left the lake far behind. Early one morning in Spring he flapped his strong wings and tucked his wet webbed feet up close to his body and stretched out his long neck and calling “Quonk-quonk!” he flapped away to the north. And all the other beautiful wild ducks followed calling, “Quonk-quonk-quonk!” So the little summer boy never knew the wild duck!

It is too bad that the fish and the frog are scared away when the summer boy goes in bathing. But it is only for a little while anyway. For the little summer boy’s mother doesn’t let him play in the lake all day as does the mother of the slippery shiny fish and the mother of the spotted green frog. She has called him now, and he calls back, “One more time!” for no one loves the little lake as much as the little boy in the red bathing suit. He has climbed up on the rock. The water is running down him, for he is as wet as a baby seal. Now he puts out his hands, like this, and he calls out, “This time I’m going to take a headwards dive!”

HOW THE SINGING WATER

GOT TO THE TUB

In this story I have tried to make the refrains carry the essential points in the content. I have tried, however, to subordinate the information to the pattern. This story came in response to direct questions during baths.

HOW THE SINGING WATER GOT TO THE TUB

Once there was a little singing stream of water. It sang whatever it did. And it did many things from the time it bubbled up in the far-away hills to the time it splashed into the dirty little boy’s tub. It began as a little spring of water. Then the water was as cool as cool could be for it came up from the deep cool earth all hidden away from the sun. It came up into a little hollow scooped out of the earth and in the hollow were little pebbles. Right up through the pebbles, bubbling and gurgling it came. And what do you suppose the water did when the little hollow was all full? It did just what water always does, it tried to find a way to run down hill! One side of the little hollow was lower than the others and here the water spilled over and trickled down. And this is the song the water sang then:

So the water became a little stream and began its long journey to the little boy’s tub. And always it wanted to run down—always down, and as it ran, it tinkled this song:

Sometimes it pushed under twigs and leaves; sometimes it made a big noise tumbling over the roots of trees; sometimes it flowed all quiet and slow through long grasses in a meadow. Once it came to the edge of a pretty big rock and over it went, splashing and crashing and dashing and making a fine, fine spray.

It sang to the little birds that took their baths in the spray. And the little birds ruffled their feathers to get dry and sang back to the little brook. “Ching-a-ree!” they sang. It sang to the bunny rabbit who got his whiskers all wet when he took a drink. It sang to the mother deer who always came to the same place and licked up some water with her tongue. To all of these and many more little wild wood things the little brook rippled its song:

But to the fish in the big dark pool under the rocks it sang so softly, so quietly, that only the fishes heard.

Now all the time that the little brook kept running down hill, it kept getting bigger. For every once in a while it would be joined by another little brook coming from another hillside spring. And, of course, the two of them were twice as large as each had been alone. This kept happening until the stream was a small river,—so big and deep that the horses couldn’t ford it any more. Then people built bridges over it, and this made the small river feel proud. Little boats sailed in it too,—canoes and sail boats and row boats. Sometimes they held a lot of little boys without any clothes on who jumped into the water and splashed and laughed and splashed and laughed.

At last the river was strong enough to carry great gliding boats, with deep deep voices. “Toot,” said the boats, “tootoot-tooooooooot!”

And now the song of the river was low and slow as it answered the song of the boats:

After the little river had been running down hill for ever so long, it came to a place where the banks went up very high and steep on each side of it. Here something strange happened. The little river was stopped by an enormous wall. The wall was made of stone and cement and it stretched right across the river from one bank to the other. The little river couldn’t get through the wall, so it just filled up behind it. It filled and filled until it found that it had spread out into a real little lake. Only the people who walked around it called it a reservoir!

Now in the wall was just one opening down near the bottom. And what do you suppose that led to? A pipe! But the pipe was so big that an elephant could have walked down it swinging his trunk! Only, of course, there wasn’t any elephant there.

Now the little river didn’t like to have his race down hill stopped. So he began muttering to himself:

So he rushed into the pipe as fast as he could for there he found he could run down hill again! He ran and he ran for miles and miles. Above him he knew there were green fields and trees and cows and horses. These were the things he had sung to before he rushed into the pipe. Then after a long time he knew he was under something different. He could feel thousands of feet scurrying this way and that; he could feel thousands of horses pulling carriages and wagons and trucks; he could feel cars, subways, engines;—he could feel so many things crossing him that he wondered they didn’t all bump each other. Then he knew he was under the Big City. And this is the song he shouted then:

And then again something queer happened. Every once in a while a pipe would go off from the big pipe. Now one of these pipes turned into a certain street and then a still smaller pipe turned off into a certain house and a still smaller pipe went right up between the walls of the house. And in this house there lived the dirty little boy.

The water flowed into the street pipe and then it flowed into the house pipe and then,—what do you think?—it went right up that pipe between the walls of the house! For you see even the top of that dirty little boy’s house isn’t nearly as high as the reservoir on the hill where the water started and the water can run up just as high as it has run down.

In the bath-room was the dirty little boy. His face was dirty, his hands were dirty, his feet were dirty and his knees—oh! his knees were very, very dirty. This very dirty little boy went over to the faucet and slowly turned it. Out came the water splashing, and crashing and dashing.

“My! but I need a bath tonight,” said the dirty little boy as he heard the water splashing in the tub. The water was still the singing water that had sung all the way from the far-away hills. It had sung a bubbling song when it gurgled up as a spring; it had sung a tinkling song as it rippled down hill as a brook; it had crooned a flowing song when it bore the talking boats; it had muttered and throbbed and sung to itself as it ran through the big, big pipe. Now as it splashed into the dirty little boy’s tub it laughed and sang this last song:

And the dirty little boy laughed and jumped into the Singing Water!

THE CHILDREN’S NEW DRESSES

An old pattern with new content. The steps in the process were originally dug out by a child of six through his own questions.

THE CHILDREN’S NEW DRESSES

Once there was a small town. In the small town were many houses and in the houses were many people. In one of these houses there lived a mother with a great many children. One night after the children were all in bed and the mother was sitting by the fire, a brick fell down the chimney. Then another came bumping and rattling down. Now outside there was a great wind blowing. It whistled down the chimney and up flamed the fire. The sparks flew into the hole where the bricks had fallen out. The first thing the mother knew the house was all on fire. Still the great wind roared. The house next door caught fire, then the next, then the next, then the next, until half the little town was burning. The mother with the many children and many other frightened people ran to the part of the town behind the great wind. And there they stayed until the wind died down and they could put the fire out.

Now many of these people’s clothes had burned with their houses. The many children who had gone to bed before the fire began had nothing to wear except their nightclothes. The mother went to the store. That too was burned! But she found the storekeeper and said:—“Storekeeper, sell me some dresses for my children for their dresses have been burned and they have nothing to wear.”

“But, mother of the many children,” the storekeeper replied, “first I must get me the dresses. For that I must send to the many-fingered factory in the middle of the city.”

So he sent to the many-fingered factory in the middle of the great city and he said:—“Clothier, send me some dresses that I may sell to the mother; for her children’s dresses have burned up and they have nothing to wear.”

But the clothier in the many-fingered factory replied:—“First I must get me the cloth. For that I must send to the weaving mill. The weaving mill is in the hills where there is water to turn its wheels.”

So the clothier sent to the weaving mill in the hills where there is water to turn its wheels and said:—“Weaver, send me the cloth that the many fingers at the factory may make dresses to send to the storekeeper in the small town to sell to the mother; for her children’s dresses have burned up and they have nothing to wear.”

But the weaver in the weaving mill in the hills sent back word:—“First I must get me the cotton. For that I must send to the cotton fields. The cotton fields are in the south where the land is hot and low.”

So the weaver in the weaving mill in the hills sent to the cotton plantation, and he said:—“Planter, send me the cotton from the hot low lands that I may make cloth in the mill in the hills to send to the clothier in the many-fingered factory in the middle of the great city to be made into dresses to send to the storekeeper in the small town to sell to the mother; for her children’s dresses have burned up and they have nothing to wear.”

But the planter sent back word:—“First I must get the negroes to pick the cotton. For cotton must be picked in the hot sun and negroes are the only ones who can stand the sun.”

So the planter went to the negroes and he said:—“Pick me the cotton from the hot low lands that I may send it to the weaver in his mill in the hills that he may weave the cloth to send to the clothier in the many-fingered factory in the middle of the great city to make dresses to send to the storekeeper in the small town to sell to the mother; for her children’s dresses have burned up and they have nothing to wear.”

But the negroes answered:—“First de sun, he hab got to shine and shine and shine! ’Cause de sun, he am de only one dat can make dem little seed bolls bust wide open!”

So the negroes sang to the sun:—“Big sun, so shiny hot! Is you gwine to shine on dem cotton bolls so we can pick de cotton for de massah so he can send it to de weaver in de weaving mills in de hills to weave into cloth so he can send it to de clothier in de many-fingered factory in de middle of de big city to make dresses to send to de storekeeper in de small town so he can sell it to de mammy; for de chillun’s dresses hab gone and burned up and dey ain’t got nothin’ to wear!”

Now the sun heard the song of the negroes of the south. And he began to shine. And he kept on shining on the hot low lands. And when the cotton bolls on the hot low lands felt the sun shine and shine and shine, they burst wide open. Then the negroes picked the cotton, the planter shipped it, the weaver wove it, the clothier made it into dresses, and the storekeeper sold them to the mother.

So at last the many children took off their nightclothes and put on their new dresses. And so they were all happy again!

OLD DAN GETS THE COAL

The occupations of the city horse are always absorbing to the school children. They have many tales about various “Old Dans” and their various trades. The docks are familiar to almost all the children,—even to the four-year-olds. This verse is meant to be read fast or slow according to whether or no the wagon is empty.

OLD DAN GETS THE COAL

THE SUBWAY CAR

The relationship which this story aims to clarify is the social significance of the subway car—its construction and the need it answers to. Children have enjoyed the verse better, I think, than any other in the book.

THE SUBWAY CAR

THE SUBWAY CAR

Whew-ee-ee-ee-ew-ew went the siren whistle. And all the men and all the women hurried toward the factory. For that meant it was time to begin work. Each man and each woman went to his particular machine. The steam was up; the belts were moving; the wheels were whirring; the piston rods were shooting back and forth. And one man made a piece of wheel, and one man made a part of a brake, and one man made a belt, and one man made a leather strap, and one man made a door, and one man made some straw-covered seats, and one man made a window-frame, and one man made a little wire brush. And then some other men took all these things and began putting them together. And when the car was finished some other men came and painted it, and on the side they painted the number 793.

The car stood on the siding wondering what he was for and what he was to do. Suddenly he heard another car come bumping and screeching down the track. Before the new car could think what was happening,—bang!—the battered old car went smash into him. This seemed to be just what the man standing along side expected. For the car felt him swing on to the steps, and shout “Go ahead.” At the same minute the car felt a piece of iron slip from his own rear and hook into the front of the other car.

And “go ahead” he did, though No. 793 thought he would be wrenched to pieces.

“Whatever is happening to me?” he nervously asked the car that was pushing him. “I feel my wheels going round and round underneath me and I can’t stop them. Can’t you just hear me creak? I’m afraid I will split in two.”

The dilapidated old thing behind simply screamed with delight as he jounced over a switch.

“See here, now,” he said in a rasping voice, “what do you think wheels are for anyway if they are not to go round? And if you can’t hang together in a quiet little jaunt like this, you had better turn into a baby carriage and be done with it. Say, what do you think you were made for anyway, Freshie?”

With this he gave a vicious pull. Freshie thought it would probably loosen every carefully fastened bolt in his whole structure.

“And what’s more,” continued the amused and irritated old car, “if you think all you’ve got to do is to be pulled around like a fine lady in a limousine, you are pretty well fooled. Wait till you feel the juice go through you—just wait—that’s all I say.”

“What is juice?” groaned No. 793.

But he could get no answer except “Just wait, you will find out soon enough.”

In another minute he had found out. He felt his door pulled open and a heavy tread come clump, clump, clump down the whole length of him to the little closet room at the end. There he felt levers pulled and switches turned. Suddenly the little wire brush underneath him dropped until it touched the third rail. Z-z-zr-zr-zr-zz-zz—What in the name of all blazes was happening to him? He tingled in every bolt. He quivered with fear. “This must be the juice!” Another lever was turned. He leaped forward on the track, jerking and thumping and creaking.

Then he settled down and it wasn’t so bad. The first scare was over. He did not go to pieces. On the contrary he felt so excited and strong that he almost told the old thing behind him to take off his brush and let himself be pulled. But he was afraid of the cross old car. So he ventured timidly: “Isn’t this great? I should like to go flying along in the sun like this all day.”

“In the sun?” snarled his old companion. “Come now, Freshie, can’t you catch on to what you are? You just look your fill at the old sun now for you won’t see him again for some time.”

“Why not?” whimpered No. 793.

But he needed no answer. Ahead of him he could see the track sliding down into a deep hole. The earth closed over him in a queer rounded arch, all lined with shiny white tiles. At the same moment the lights all up and down his own ceiling flashed on. He noticed then that he had a red lantern on his front. He could tell it by the red, glinting reflections it threw on the tiles as he tore along. Ahead he could see a great cluster of lights which seemed to be rushing towards him. Of course he was really rushing towards them, but he was so excited he got all mixed in his ideas.

“Where are we? And what on earth is that rushing towards us? And why do we come down here under the ground?” he screamed to the old car behind.

“There’s no room for us on top,” jerked the old car. “There are a heap of people in this old city of New York, Freshie, and you will find ’em on the surface or scooting in the elevated and here jogging along underneath the earth.”

“People!” screamed No. 793, “I don’t see any. What do we do with them in this hole anyway?”

Even as he spoke he felt the man in the little closet room in his front turn something. His wire brush lifted and all his strength seemed to ooze away. Then something clutched his wheels. He screeched,—yes, he really screeched, and then he stood still, close to the station platform. The station looked big to No. 793 and very brilliantly lighted. It was jammed with people who stood pressed against ropes in long rows.

A man on his own platform pulled down a handle and then another. He felt his end doors and then his center doors fly open. Then tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp—a hundred feet came pounding on his floor. He could feel them and somehow he liked the feel. He could even feel two small feet that walked much faster than the others, and in another moment he felt two little knees on one of his straw-covered seats. Then the handles were pulled again. His doors banged closed; z-zr-zr-rr—the brush underneath touched the rail and the electricity shot through him. He felt a hundred feet shift quickly and heavily. He felt his leather straps clutched by a hundred hands. And amid the noise he heard a little voice say, “Father, isn’t this a brand new subway car?” And then he knew what he was!

BORIS TAKES A WALK AND FINDS

MANY DIFFERENT KINDS OF TRAINS

This first story is an attempt to let a child discover the significance of his everyday environment,—of subways and elevated railways. Here there is no content new to the city child. But the relationship to congestion he has not always seen for himself. In the second story the lay-out of New York on a crowded island is discovered. Again the content is old but its significance may be new. Both these stories verge on the informational.

BORIS TAKES A WALK AND FINDS
MANY DIFFERENT KINDS OF TRAINS

One of the little boys who sailed and sailed until he came to big New York was named Boris. He came as the others did, with his father and his mother and his sisters and his brothers. He came from a wide green country called Russia. In that country he had never seen a city, never seen wharves with ocean steamers and ferry boats and tug boats and barges,—never seen a street so crowded you could hardly get through, had never seen great high buildings reaching up, up, up to the clouds, he thought. And he had never heard a city, never heard the noise of elevated trains and surface cars and automobiles and the many, many hurrying feet. He often thought of the wide green country he had left behind, and he used to talk about it to his mother in a funny language you wouldn’t understand. For Boris and his family still spoke Russian. But Boris was nine years old and he loved new things as well as old. So he grew to love this crowded noisy new home of his as well as the still wide country he had left.

Now Boris had been in New York quite a while. But he hadn’t been out on the streets much. One day he said to his mother in the funny language, “I think I’ll take a walk!”

“All right,” she answered, “be careful you don’t get run over by one of those queer wagons that run without horses!”

“Yes I will,” laughed Boris for he was a careful and a smart little boy and knew well how to take care of himself for all he was so little.

So Boris went out on the street. He walked to the corner and waited to go across.

He waited another minute.

He stood there a long while watching this stream of autos and horses and trucks go by and he thought:

Just then all the autos and the horses and the trucks stopped. They stood still right in front of him. And Boris saw that the big man standing in the middle of the street had put up his hand to stop them. So he scampered across. Boris didn’t know that the big man was the traffic policeman!

Now Boris scampered down the block to the next street. There he waited to go across.

He stood there a long time watching the autos and horses and trucks go by. And he thought:

Boris looked at the big policeman who stood in the middle of this street. After a while the big policeman raised his hand and all the autos and horses and trucks stopped and Boris scampered across and ran down the block to the next street crossing. And there the same thing happened again.

“I’ll not get much of a walk this way,” he thought. “I have to wait and wait at each corner. And the’re so many things I’ll never get through.” Just then he saw a street car. “I might take a car,” he thought. But then he saw on the street a long line of cars waiting, waiting to get through. “It wouldn’t do much good,” he thought. “They’re just like me.”

Then he noticed a big hole in the sidewalk. Down the hole went some steps and down the steps hurried lots and lots of people. “I wonder what this is?” thought Boris and down the steps he ran.

At the bottom of the steps there was a big room all lined with white tile and all lighted with electric lights. On the side was the funniest little house with a little window in it and a man looking through the window. Boris watched carefully for he didn’t understand. Everyone went up to the window and gave the man 5 cents and the man handed out a little piece of blue paper.

“That’s a ticket,” thought Boris, for he was a very smart little boy. “These people must be going somewhere.” So he reached down in his pocket and pulled out a nickel. For all he was so little, and so new to New York, he knew what a 5 cent piece was quite well. He had to stand on tiptoe to hand the man his nickel and to reach his little blue ticket. Then he watched again. Everyone dropped this ticket in a funny little box by a funny little gate and another man moved a handle up and down. So Boris did just the same. He stood on tiptoe and dropped his ticket in the box and walked through the little gate to a big platform. And what do you think he saw there? A great long tunnel stretching off in both directions,—a long tunnel all lined with white tiles! And on the bottom were rails! “I wonder what runs on that track?” thought Boris.

Just then he heard a most terrible noise:

and down the tunnel came a train of cars. “Yi-i-i-i—sh-sh-sh-sh!” screamed the cars and stopped right in front of Boris. And then what do you suppose happened? The doors in the car right in front of him flew open. Everyone stepped in. So did Boris.

It was the front car. He walked to the front and sat down where he could look out on the tracks. He could also look into the funny little box room and see the man who pulled the levers and made the car go and stop. In a moment they started: