Sometimes the wind goes oo-oo-oo-oo-oo! It sounds like water running. It makes a singing sound. It blows through the grass. It blows against the tree and the tree bows over and bends way down. It whistles in the leaves and makes a rustling sound. The tree shakes, the branches and leaves all rustle. The wind knocks the leaves off the trees and tosses them up in the air. Then it blows them straight in to the window and drags them around on the floor. It makes the leaves whirl and twirl.

And sometimes the wind is frisky. It whisks around the corners. It comes blowing down the street. It blows the papers round and round on the ground. It tears them and rares them, then up, it takes them sailing. It sweeps around the house, blowing and puffing. It blows the wash up. It blows the chickens off the trees. It makes the nuts come rattling down. It turns the windmill and makes the fire burn. It blows out the matches, it blows out the candles, it blows out the gas lights. It hits the people on the street. Some it keeps back from walking and some it pushes forward. It unbuttons the coat of a little girl, it unbuttons her leggings too and the little girl feels all chilly in the frisky wind. It blows up her skirt. It pulls off her hat and blows through her hair till she feels all chilly on her head too. Puff! it goes, puff! puff! Then off go other hats spinning down the street. It gets under umbrellas and turns them inside out. The frisky wind blows harder and harder. The houses shake. The windows rattle. And the people on the street are whirling and twirling like the leaves.

Sometimes there is a storm. The wind roars over the ocean and makes the waves bigger than the ships. The waves go up and down, and up and down, and the ship goes rocking and rocking, this way and that way, this way and that way, to the right, to the left, to the right, to the left, back and forth and back and forth. A boat gets tossed on the sea. The sails are all torn to pieces by the storm. The masts get broken off and fall down on the ship. The ship just rocks and rocks. Then pretty soon it bumps into a rock and is wrecked and sinks. And all the men get drowned.

The wind growls and roars over the mountain. There is thunder and lightning. The thunder says, “Boompety, boom, boom, boom!” The lightning is all shiny. The rain comes pouring down. The wind whistles in the trees. It blows a tree over. It crashes down. The lightning goes crack! and splits the tree in two. And then the tree catches on fire and the leaves burn like paper.

THE LEAF STORY

All the content and many of the expressions were taken from stories on dried leaves dictated by a six-year-old and a seven-year-old class.

THE LEAF STORY

A LOCOMOTIVE

MOON MOON

(To the tune of “Du, du, liegst mir im herzen.”)

AUTOMOBILE SONG

SILLY WILL

In this story I have used a device to tie together many isolated familiar facts. I have never found that six-year-old children did not readily discriminate the actual from the imaginary.

SILLY WILL

Part 1

Once there was a little boy. Now he was a very silly little boy, so silly that he was called Silly Will. He had an idea that he was tremendously smart and that he could quite well get along by himself in this world. This foolish idea made him do and say all sorts of silly things which led to all sorts of terrible happenings as this story will show.

One day he went out walking. He walked down the road until he met a little girl. The little girl was crying.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Silly Will.

“Oh!” sobbed the little girl, “our cow has died and I don’t know what we shall do. I don’t know how we can get along without her milk and everything. We depended on her so!”

“Depended on a cow!” cried Silly Will. “Whoever heard of such a thing! I’ve often seen that stupid old cow of yours. Clumsy, lumbering thing! Cows are no good! I wouldn’t depend on any animal, not I! It wouldn’t matter to me if all the cows in the world died!” And Silly Will strutted off down the road.

The little girl looked after him with astonishment. “I just wish no cow would ever give that silly boy anything!” she thought.

Before long he met an old woman. The old woman was crying too.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Silly Will.

“Oh!” cried the old woman wringing her hands. “Our sheep has fallen over a cliff and broken its legs and it’s going to die. I don’t know how we shall get along without her wool for spinning. We depended so much on her!”

“Depended on a sheep!” cried Silly Will. “Whoever heard of such a thing! I’ve often heard your stupid old sheep bleating. Sheep are no good. I wouldn’t depend on any animal, not I! It wouldn’t matter to me if all the sheep in the world died!” And Silly Will strutted off down the road feeling very smart.

The old woman looked after him greatly surprised. “Silly little boy!” she thought. “He little knows! I just wish no sheep would give him anything!”

Then before long Silly Will met a man. The man was sitting beside the road with his face in his hands.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Silly Will.

The man looked up. “Oh, our horse has died!” he sighed dolefully, “and I don’t know how we can get along without him to plow for us now that it’s seeding time. And there’s not much use getting in the seeds anyway without a horse to carry the grain to market when it’s ripe. We depended so on our horse!”

“Depended on a horse!” cried Silly Will. “Whoever heard of such a thing! First I meet a little girl who says she depended on a cow for food: then I meet an old woman who says she depended on a sheep for clothes. And here is a man who says he depends on a horse to work and to carry for him! As for me, I depend on no animal, not I! It wouldn’t matter to me if there were no animals in the world. They needn’t give me anything! I wish they wouldn’t!”

The man looked at him greatly amazed. “Silly little boy!” he said. “I hope your silly wish will come true. How little you understand! I just wish tonight all the animal kingdom would leave you and then perhaps you would understand a little!” But Silly Will walked home feeling very smart, for he didn’t understand. Silly people never do understand!

Now that night a strange thing happened to Silly Will. I can’t explain how or why it happened. But in the middle of the night, all the animals did leave Silly Will. Not only the cow and the sheep and the horse but all the animal kingdom! He was sound asleep in his flannel nightgown snuggled under warm wool blankets. Suddenly he felt a jerk. What was happening? He sat up in bed just in time to see his blankets whisk off him and disappear. He looked down. His night shirt was gone! He heard a faint sound almost like the bleating of the old woman’s sheep. “Ba-ba-a-a I take back my wool!”

Then he was aware that something queer had happened to his mattress. It was just an empty bag of ticking. He heard a faint sound almost like the neighing of the man’s horse who had died. “Whey-ey-ey, I take back my hair!”

He reached for his pillow. It too was an empty sack.

“Hh-ss-s-hh” hissed a faint sound almost like a goose. “I take back my feathers!”

“Whatever is happening?” screamed Silly Will. “Let me get a light.” He found a match and struck it, but his candlestick was empty. “Ba-a-moo-oo” said some faint voices. “I take back my fat!”

By this time Silly Will was thoroughly frightened and shivering with cold besides.

“I’d better get dressed,” he thought, and groped his way to the chair where he had left his clothes. He could find only his cotton underwaist and his cotton shirt. His wool undershirt and drawers, his trousers and stockings, and his silk necktie were gone. And so were his leather shoes. Just the lacings lay on the floor. “Mooooo” he seemed to hear a faint sound almost like the little girl’s cow he had made fun of in the afternoon. “I take back my hide.”

He put on the few cotton clothes that were left, but there were no buttons to hold them together. “Moooooo,” he heard a faint voice say. “I take back my bones.”

Terrified he ran to the closet to see what more he could find. “I’ll surely freeze,” he thought as he lighted another match. “I’ll slip on my coat and get into bed.” But his warm coat with the fur collar was gone, too. “Chee, chee, chee,” he seemed to hear a faint sound almost like the squirrel he was fond of frightening. “I take back my skin!”

But he did find some cotton stockings and some old overalls. These he put on relieved to find they had metal buttons. Then poor Silly Will crawled back to bed wearing his cotton clothes and waited for morning to come. He didn’t sleep much for the wire spring cut into him. He was cold, too.

As soon as it was light he hunted around for more clothes. He found some straw bed-room slippers. His rubbers too were there and he put them on over his slippers. Then he ran downstairs to get something to eat.

“Anyway,” he thought, “those old animals can’t get me when it comes to eating. I never did care much about meat.”

The pantry door squeaked as he opened it. It sounded for all the world like a far away barnyard—hens, cows, and pigs. He looked around. No milk, no eggs, no bacon! “Bread and butter will do me,” he thought.

But the butter had gone too! He opened the bread box. The bread was still there! He almost wept from relief. By hunting around he found a good deal to eat. Cocoa made with water instead of milk was pretty good. Then there were crackers and apples. His oatmeal wasn’t very good without milk or butter. But he ate it. He knew he would have plenty of vegetables and fruits and cereals.

And the day was warm enough so that he didn’t mind his cotton clothes. But his feet did hurt him. He wondered about wooden shoes and thought he would try to make some.

He was a little worried too about his bed. He hunted around in the house until he found two cotton comforters. One he put under his sheet in place of his mattress and one on top in place of his blankets. So, on the whole, he thought, he could manage to get along.

Poor little Silly Will! He had never before thought how much the animals did for him. Once in a while he would think of the little girl and the old woman and the man he had met that afternoon. But not for long. And he never remembered that some time winter would come. But long before that time came, Silly Will had got himself into still more trouble. For even now he didn’t understand!

Part 2

From this time on nothing went well with Silly Will. When he had eaten the vegetables he had in the house he walked over to a gardener who lived nearby. He wanted to get potatoes and other supplies for the winter. To his horror he found everything drooping and wilted and withered. “What’s the matter with the vegetables, gardener?” asked Silly Will.

“A frost,” sighed the gardener. “It’s killed all the potatoes. I hope you weren’t depending on them?”

“Oh, of course not,” said Silly Will, gulping hard. “I certainly wouldn’t depend on a vegetable. That would be too ridiculous. If the frost should kill all the vegetables, it would make no difference to me!” Nevertheless in his heart he felt unhappy and a little frightened at the thought of the coming winter. But still he didn’t understand. Silly people never do understand.

He walked on down the road saying to himself, “I’ll go order my winter wood anyway. I’m almost out of it at home.” Just then he looked up. He expected to see the green forest stretching up the hillside. He stared. The hillside was black smoking stumps, fallen blackened trees, white ashes! Beside the dead trees stood the old forester wringing his hands. Silly Will didn’t even speak to him. He could see what had happened without asking. He turned around. Slowly he walked home. He went right to bed. He still pretended that he wasn’t unhappy or frightened. He kept saying to himself, “I don’t really depend on the wood at all. Of course that would be silly! I’ve got coal. It wouldn’t matter to me if all the plants left me.” And with that thought he fell asleep. You see even now he didn’t understand. Silly people never do understand.

Now that night another strange thing happened to Silly Will. I can’t explain how or why it happened. But in the middle of the night all the plants did leave Silly Will,—not only the potatoes and the trees but the whole vegetable kingdom.

He was asleep all curled up to keep warm in his cotton clothes. Suddenly he felt the comforter and sheet under him jerk away and he was left lying on the wire spring. At the same time the comforter and sheet over him disappeared. So did his nightshirt. Then bang! His wooden bed was gone. The house began to creak and rock. He jumped up and tore down stairs. He just got outside the front door when the whole house collapsed.

The moon was shining. Silly Will could see quite plainly. There stood the brick chimneys rising out of a pile of plaster dumped on top of the concrete foundations. There was the slate roof and the broken window of glass. The air was full of a sound like the violent trembling of many leaves. It sounded for all the world as if it said, “I take back my wood!”

“Whatever will I do?” groaned Silly Will as he shivered all naked in the moonlight. Then his eye lighted on the kitchen stove. There it stood with the stove pipe all safely connected with the chimney.

“I’ll build a coal fire,” he thought. There stood the iron coal scuttle. But alas! It was empty! He heard a far-away murmur like a faint wind stirring in giant ferns. And they said, “I take back my buried leaves!”

By this time Silly Will was shaking with cold. “I’ve heard that newspapers are warm,” he thought. But the pile behind the stove was gone. Again came the murmur of trees—“I take back my pulp,” and a queer soft sound which he couldn’t quite make out. Was it “I take back my cotton?”

Silly Will was thoroughly terrified now.

“I’ll go somewhere to think,” he said to himself. So he crept down the cement steps to the cellar and crawled into a sheltered corner. But he couldn’t think of anything pleasant. He could hear a confused noise all around him. Sometimes it sounded like growls, like animal cries, like animal calls. “The animal kingdom has left him,” it seemed to say.

Again it sounded like the wind rustling a thousand leaves. “The vegetable kingdom has left him,” it seemed to say.

“I’ve nothing to wear,” sobbed Silly Will. “And I’m afraid I’ve nothing to eat.” At the thought of food he jumped up and ran over to the cellar pantry. He found just three things. They did not make a tempting meal! They were a crock of salt, a tin of soda and a porcelain pitcher of water.

“What shall I ever do? How shall I live? I’ll never have another glass of milk or cup of cocoa. I’ll never have anything to wear. I’ll freeze and I’ll starve. I might just as well die now!” And poor little Silly Will broke down and cried and cried and cried.

“I can’t live without other living things,” he sobbed. “I can’t eat only minerals and I can’t keep warm in minerals. Everybody has to depend on animals and vegetables. And after all I’m only a little boy! I’ve got to have living things to keep alive myself!”

Then a wonderful thing happened to Silly Will. I can’t explain how or why it happened. Suddenly he felt all warm and comfortable. “Perhaps I’m freezing,” he thought. “I’ve heard that people feel warm when they are almost frozen to death.”

Slowly he put out his hand. Surely that was a linen sheet! Surely that was a woolen blanket. Surely he had on his flannel nightgown. He sat straight up. Surely this was his own bed: this was his own room: this was his own house. He could scarcely believe his eyes. He gave a great shout.

“Moo-oo-oo,” answered a cow under a tree outside his window. And the leaves of the tree rustled at him too.

“Hello, old cow! Hello, old tree!” cried Silly Will running to the window. “Isn’t it good we’re all alive?” And when you think of it that wasn’t a silly remark at all!

“Moo-oo-oo,” lowed the old cow. “Swish-sh-sh-sh,” rustled the tree. And suddenly Silly Will thought he understood! I wonder if he did!

EBEN’S COWS

This story attempts to make an industrial process a background for real adventure.

EBEN’S COWS

Part 1

Eben was looking at the cows. And the cows were looking at Eben. What Eben saw was twenty-six pairs of large gentle eyes, twenty-six mouths chewing with a queer sidewise motion, twenty-six fine fat cattle, some red, some white, some black, some red and white, and some black and white, all in a bright green meadow. What the cows saw, held by his mother on the rail fence, was a fat baby with a shining face and waving arms. What Eben heard was the heavy squashy footsteps of the slow-moving cows as they lumbered toward the little figure on the fence. What the cows heard was a high, excited little voice saying a real word for the first time in its life, “Cow! cow! oh, cow! oh, cow!” And so with his first word began Eben’s life-long friendship with the cows.

Eben Brewster lived in a little white farm-house with green blinds. The cows lived in a great long red barn, which was connected with the little white farm-house by a wagon-shed and tool-house. High up on the great red barn was printed GREEN MOUNTAIN FARM. Long before Eben knew how to read he knew what those big letters said, and he knew that the lovely rolling hills that ringed the farm around, were called the Green Mountains. In front of both house and barn stretched the bright green meadows where day after day fed the twenty-six cows. In a neighboring meadow played the long-legged calves. For at Green Mountain Farm there were always many calves. In the summer they usually had fifteen or twenty calves a few months old. For every cow of course had her baby once a year. The little bull calves they sold; but the little cow calves they raised.

When Eben was three years old he made friends with the calves his own way. He wiggled through the bars of the gate into their pasture. The calves stared at him; they sniffed at him. Then they came a little closer. They stared at him again. They sniffed at him again. Then they came closer still. Then one little black and white thing came right up to him and licked his face and hands. And three-year-old Eben liked the feel of the soft nose and the rough tongue and he liked the sweet cow smell.

So it came about that Eben played regularly with the calves. It always amused his father Andrew to watch them together. “I never saw a child so crazy about cows!” he used to say. One day he put a pretty little new calf,—white with red spots,—into the pasture. Eben ran to the calf at once. “What shall we call the calf, Eben?” asked his father. “Think of some nice name for her.” Eben put his arms around the calf’s neck and smiled. “I call him ’ittle Sister,” he said. For little baby sister was the only thing three-year-old Eben loved better than a calf. And the name stuck to the calves of Green Mountain Farm. From that time on they were always called Little Sisters!

Real little sister or Nancy, as she was called, grew apace. To her Eben was always wonderful. At six years he seemed equal to about anything. It did not surprise her at all one day to hear her father say, “Eben, you get the cows tonight.” But it did surprise Eben. He had helped his father drive them home for years. And now he was to do it alone! Down the dusty road he went, switch in hand, taking such big important strides that the footprints of his little bare feet were almost as far apart as a man’s. The cows stood facing the bars. He took down the bars. The cows filed through one by one. Nancy and her father, waiting to help him turn the cows in at the barn, knew he was coming. They could see the cloud of dust and hear the many shuffling feet and the shrill boy’s voice calling: “Hi, Spotty, don’t you stop to eat! Go ’long there, Crumplehorn, don’t you know the way home yet! Hurry up, Redface. Can’t you keep in the road?” Eben felt older from that day.

From the day he began driving home the cows alone Eben took a real share in the work at the farm. He put the cows’ heads into the stanchions when each one lumbered into her stall. He fed them hay and ensilage through the long winter months when the meadows were white with snow. He put the cans to catch the cream and the skimmed milk when his father turned the separator. He took the separator apart and carried it up to his mother to be washed. Nancy helped and talked. Only she really talked more than she helped!

Eben’s talk ran much on cows. His poor mother read all she could in the encyclopedia, but even then she couldn’t answer all his questions. Why does a cow have four stomachs? Why does her food come back to be chewed? Why does she chew sideways? Why does she have to be milked twice a day? Why doesn’t she get out of the way when an auto comes down the road? When Eben asked his father these things the farmer would shake his head and answer, “I guess it’s just because she’s a cow.”

There came a very exciting day at Green Mountain Farm. For twenty years Andrew Brewster and his men had milked his cows morning and evening. His hands were hard from the practice. The children loved to watch him milk. With every pull of his strong hands he made a fine white stream of milk shoot into the pail, squirt, squirt, squirt. Eben had often tried, but pull as he would, he could only get out a few drops. And even as Andrew Brewster had milked his cows morning and evening until his hands were horny, so had his father done before him. Yes, and his father’s father, too. For three generations of Brewsters had hardened their hands milking cows on Green Mountain Farm. Then there came this exciting day, and a new way of milking began at the big red barn.

A milking machine was put in. It ran by a wonderful little puffing gasolene engine. It milked two cows at once. And it milked all twenty-six of them in twenty minutes. Andrew Brewster could manage the whole herd alone with what help Eben could give him. It was a great day for him. It was a great day for Eben and Nancy too.

Part 2

There came another day which was even more exciting for the two children than when the milking machine was put into the big red barn. This story is really about that day. Eben was then ten years old and Nancy seven. Their father and mother had gone for the day to a county fair. The two children were to be alone all day, which made up for not going to the fair. The children had long since eaten the cold dinner their mother had left for them. They had done all their chores too. Nancy had gathered the eggs and Eben had chopped the kindling and brought in the wood. They had fed the baby chickens and given them water. Then they had gone to the woods for an afternoon climb over the big rocks and a wade in the brook. Now they were waiting for their father and mother to come back. They had been waiting for a long time, for it was seven o’clock. The last thing their mother had called out as she drove off behind the two old farm horses was, “We’ll be back by five o’clock, children.”

What could have happened? “Eben,” said Nancy, “we’d better eat our own supper and get something ready for Father and Mother. I guess I’ll try to scramble some eggs.”

“Go ahead,” answered Eben. “But we’re not the ones I’m worrying about—nor Father and Mother either. It’s those poor cows.”

“Oh! the cows!” cried Nancy. “And the poor Little Sisters! They’ll be so hungry.” Both children ran to the door. “Just listen to them,” said Eben. “They’ve been waiting in the barn for over an hour now. I certainly wish Father would come.” From the big red barn came the lowing of the restless cattle. “I’m going to have another look at them,” said Eben. “Come along, Nancy.”

The two children peered into the big dark barn. The unmistakable cow smell came to them strong in the dark. Stretching down the whole length was stall after stall, each holding an impatient cow. The children could see the restless hind feet moving and stamping; they could see the flicking of many tails; they could feel the cows pulling at the stanchions. On the other side were the stalls of the Little Sisters. They too were moving about wildly. Over above it all rose the deafening sound of the plaintive lowings. By the door stood the gasolene engine. It was attached to a pipe which ran the whole length of the great barn above the cows’ stalls. Eben’s eyes followed this pipe until it was lost in the dark.

“Moo-oo-oo,” lowed the cow nearest at hand, so loud that both children jumped. “Poor old Redface,” said Nancy. “I wish we could help you.” “We’re going to,” said Eben in an excited voice, “See here, Nancy. We’re going to milk these cows!” “Why, Eben Brewster, we could never do it alone!” Nancy’s eyes went to the gasolene engine as she spoke. “We’ve got to,” said Eben. “That’s all there is about it.”

So the children began with trembling hands. They lighted two lanterns. “I wish the cows would stop a minute,” said Nancy. “I can’t seem to think with such a racket going on.” Eben turned on the spark of the engine. He had done it before, but it seemed different to do it when his father wasn’t standing near. Then he took the crank. “I hope she doesn’t kick tonight,” he wished fervently. He planted his feet firmly and grasped the handle! Round he swung it, around and around. Only the bellowing of the cows answered. He began again. Round he swung the handle; around and around. “Chug, chug-a-chug, chug, chug, chug-a-chug, chug,” answered the engine. Nancy jumped with delight. “You’re as good as a man, Eben,” she cried.

“Come now, bring the lantern,” commanded Eben. Nancy carried the lantern and Eben a rubber tube. This tube Eben fastened on to the first faucet on the long pipe between the first two cows. This rubber tube branched into two and at the end of each were four hollow rubber fingers. Eben stuck his fingers down one. He could feel the air pull, pull, pull. “She’s working all right, Nancy,” he whispered in a shaking voice. “Put the pail here.” Nancy obeyed. Eben took one bunch of four hollow rubber fingers and slipped one finger up each udder of one cow. Then he took the other bunch and slipped one finger up each udder of the second cow. The cows, feeling relief was near, quieted at once. “I can see the milk,” screamed Nancy, watching a tiny glass window in the rubber tube. And sure enough, through the tube and out into the pail came a pulsing stream of milk. Squirt, squirt, squirt, squirt. In a few minutes the two cows were milked and the children moved on to the next pair. Nancy carried the pail and Eben the rubber tube which he fastened on to the next faucet. And in another few minutes two more cows were milked. So the children went the length of the great red barn, and gradually the restless lowings quieted as pail after pail was filled with warm white milk.

“I wouldn’t try the separator if it weren’t for the poor Little Sisters,” said Eben anxiously as they reached the end of the barn. “They’ve got to be fed,” said Nancy. “But I can’t lift those pails.” Slowly Eben carried them one by one with many rests back to the separator by the gasoline engine. He took the strap off one wheel and put it around the wheel of the separator. “I can’t lift a whole pail,” sighed Eben. Taking a little at a time he poured the milk into the tray at the top of the separator. In a few minutes the yellow cream came pouring out of one spout and the blue skimmed milk out of another. In another few minutes the calves were drinking the warm skimmed milk. “There, Little Sisters, poor, hungry Little Sisters,” said Nancy, as she watched their eager pink tongues.

Eben turned off the engine. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do the final hand milking,” he said. “I wonder if we’d better turn the cows out?” Before Nancy could answer both children heard a sound. They held their breath. Surely those were horses’ feet! Cloppety clop clop clop cloppety clop clop clop. Up to the barn door dashed the old farm horses. From the dark outside the children heard their mother’s voice, “Children, children, are you there? The harness broke and I thought we’d never get home.” Carrying a lantern apiece the children rushed out and into her arms. “Here, Eben,” called his father. “You take the horses quick. I must get started milking right away. Those poor cows!” The children were too excited to talk plainly. They both jabbered at once. Then each took a hand of their father and led him into the great red barn. There by the light of the lanterns Andrew Brewster could see the pails of warm white milk and yellow cream. He stared at the quiet cows and at the Little Sisters. Then he stared at Eben and Nancy. “Yes,” cried both children together. “We did it. We did it ourselves!”

THE SKY SCRAPER

The story tries to assemble into a related form many facts well-known to seven-year-olds and to present the whole as a modern industrial process.

THE SKY SCRAPER

Once in an enormous city, men built an enormous building. Deep they built it, deep into the ground; high they built it, high into the air. Now that it is finished the men who walk about its feet forget how deep into the ground it reaches. But they can never forget how high into the blue it soars. Their necks ache when they throw back their heads to see to the top. For, of all the buildings in the world, this sky scraper is the highest.

The sky scraper stands in the heart of the great city. From its top one can see the city, one can hear the city, one can smell the city—the city where men live and work. One can see the crowded streets full of tiny men and tiny automobiles, the riverside with its baby warehouses and its baby docks, the river with its toy bridges and toy giant steamers and tug boats and barges and ferries. The city noise,—the distant, rumbling, grumbling noise,—sounds like the purring of a far-away giant beast. And over it all lies the smell of gas and smoke.

The sky scraper stands in the heart of the great city. But from its top in the blue, blue sky one can see all over the land. Landward the fields spread out like a map till they are lost in the mist and smoke. Seaward lies the vast, the tremendous stretch of the sea, the wrinkled, the crinkled, the far-away sea that stretches to touch the sky.

Now this soaring sky scraper is the work of men—of many, many men. Its lofty lacy tower was first thought of by the architect. With closed eyes he saw it, and with his well-trained fingers quickly he drew its outline. Then at his office many men with T squares and with compasses, sitting at high long tables, with green-shaded lamps, worked far into the nights till all the plans were ready.

Then the sky scraper began to grow. The first men brought mighty steam shovels. One hundred feet into the earth they burrowed. The gigantic mouths of the steam shovels gnawed at the rock and the clay. Huge hulks they clutched from this underworld, heaved up with enormous derricks and crashed out on the upper land. Deep they dug, deep into the ground till they found the firm bed-rock. With a network of steel they filled this terrific hole. Into the rasping, revolving mixers they poured tons of sand and cement and gravel which steadily flowed in a sluggish stream to strengthen the steel supports.

At last,—and that was an exciting day,—the great beams began to rise. Again the derricks ground, as slowly, steadily, accurately, they swung each beam to its place. A thousand men swarmed over the steel bones, some throwing red-hot rivets, others catching them in pails, all to the song of the rivet driver.

The riveter screamed and shrieked and shrilled. It pierced the air of the narrow streets. On the nearby buildings it vibrated, echoed. The sky scraper seemed alive and thrilled by the quivering, throbbing, shrieking shrill,—by the song of the riveter. Story by story the sky scraper grew, a monstrous outline against the sky. And ever and ever as it grew, hissed the rivet and screamed the drill.

At length the sky scraper soared sixty dizzy stories high. Then swiftly came the stone masons and encased the giant steel frame. Swiftly in its center, men reared the plunging elevators. Swiftly worked the electrician, the plumber, the carpenter. All workmen were called and all workmen came. The world listened to the call of this sky scraper standing in the heart of the great city. From the mines of Minnesota to the swamps of Louisiana came goods to serve its need. Long, long ago, in olden days, the churches grew slowly bit by bit, as one man carved a door post here and another fitted a window there, each planning his own part. Not so with the sky scraper. It grew in haste. Its parts were made in factories scattered the country over. Each factory was ready with a part, and the railroad was ready swift to bring them to its feet. The sky scraper grew in haste. For it the many worked as one.

Planned by those who command and reared by those who obey, in an enormous city men built this enormous building. Deep they built it, deep into the ground; high they built it, high into the air. And now they use this building built by them. The sky scraper houses an army of ten thousand men. All day they clamber up and down its core like insects in a giant tree. They buzz and buzz, and then go home.

But there with the shadowy silent streets at its feet stands the lofty sky scraper. On its head there glows a monstrous light. The rays pierce through the fogs. And when the storm is screaming wild, the light struggles through to the frightened boats tossing on the mountain waves. The storm howls and beats on the sides of the lofty lacy tower with the shining light on top. The storms beat on its side, the tower leans in the wind, the tower of steel and of stone leans and leans a full two feet. Then when the blast is past, this tower of steel and of stone swings back to straightness again.

And so in the enormous city men built this enormous building. Deep they built it, deep into the ground; high, they built it, high into the air. Now that it is finished, the men who walk about its feet forget how deep into the ground it reaches. But they can never forget how high into the blue it soars. Their necks ache when they throw back their heads to see to the top. For of all the buildings in the world this sky scraper is the highest.

END