PS 3523 
 .fl424 
 MS 
 1916 
 Copy 1 
 
Class tcJOt^^tJ. 
 Root HH-Zifm 
 
 CopyrightN" /f/^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
The Author 
 
MY SCOUT 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 By 
 MERRITT LAMB 
 
 Eagle Scout, Scout Commissioner, and Member 
 of the National Council 
 Boy Scouts of America 
 

 Drawings By 
 JOSEPH H. KORFF, Second Class Scout 
 
 Copyright 1916 
 By IVIERRITT LAMB 
 
 /.-^ 
 
 JUN 16 1916 
 
 CI.A4;J3414 
 
 ^W / - 
 
Note of Dedication 
 
 The Other Country Boy:- 
 
 It is to you, my little friend out there in the 
 blue overalls that I joyously inscribe this humble 
 product of leisure moments. May you, while yet 
 at home, and young and strong, learn to appreciate, 
 may you learn to enjoy the blessings which the great 
 God has bestowed upon you. May you return the 
 love of your father and mother and all with thoughts 
 that are pure, with words that are kind, with 
 hands that are willing to work. May you, from the 
 wild life about, find answer to the eternal Why and 
 How. 
 
 You are the product of a thousand generations, 
 — not of one. Each of those ancestors, in his turn, 
 raised the old standard of physical, mental, and 
 moral culture a little higher — brought it a little 
 nearer to the perfect end. Will you, then, in this 
 age of the world, undo the achievements of a thou- 
 sand forefathers? Will you bring to nought their 
 toil and tears? Will you squander, will you hoard 
 up to a selfish end, that strong body, that intelli- 
 gent mind, that honest heart, and that chivalrous 
 soul which they have given you ? No, you can 
 not! You are not an heir. You are a divinely ap- 
 pointed guardian of those things. It is your busi- 
 ness to invest them in a life of worthwhile service 
 for your land and flag, for your race and your world. 
 It is your duty to pass them on renewed, en- 
 larged, and honored to those who in turn will fol- 
 low you. 
 
 paste seven 
 
Contents 
 
 Note of Dedication ...... 7 
 
 Introductory Sketch of Author . . . IQ 
 
 First Call 13 
 
 My Scout 14 
 
 Breaking the Calf . . . . . .16 
 
 It's Good for Me 18 
 
 Babble. Babble Litde Brook . . . .19 
 
 We Need Men 20 
 
 The Fanning Mill 21 
 
 The Omniscient Scout Master . . . 23 
 
 Trusty Tommy ...... 27 
 
 Churning for Butter ..... 28 
 
 The Old Swimming Hole . . , .31 
 
 The Cosmic Way ..... 34 
 
 The Time to Tap . . . . . .35 
 
 The Man Behind 36 
 
The Luck of Buck 
 
 . 38 
 
 The Old 'Crick' .... 
 
 40 
 
 Fishing Time .... 
 
 . 41 
 
 The Prisoner Paul . . . 
 
 45 
 
 The Hardest Thing 
 
 . 47 
 
 Good Old Skating Time 
 
 48 
 
 Keep a-Going .... 
 
 . 50 
 
 Boyhood Warfare .... 
 
 51 
 
 The Farmer Boy .... 
 
 . 53 
 
 Camp, Boys Camp .... 
 
 54 
 
 Muskegon My Muskegon 
 
 . 56 
 
 Dear Old Schoolhouse 
 
 57 
 
 Shining Manito, 
 
 A Legend of the Chippewas . 
 
 . 61 
 
 The Creation of Man, 
 
 A Pottawatamie Legend 
 
 73 
 
 The Boy With the Steam 
 A Talk With Parents 
 
 83 
 
 page nine 
 
Introductory Sketch of the Author 
 
 by 
 CHARLES HOWARD MILLS 
 Superintendent of Muncipal Recreation and 
 Scout Commissioner, Grand Rapids, Mich- 
 igan. 
 
 . No matter how pleasing and appealing the 
 verse in this little book may be to a person, the 
 very deepest impression can come to one only af- 
 ter he knows the young, virile, cheerful author. 
 When you meet Merritt Udell Lamb you feel not 
 only as if a "live wire" had gripped you, but as 
 though you had been connected directly to the main 
 dynamo, - and you have. His erect carriage, square 
 shoulders, firm decisive step show the military bear- 
 ing and discipline in his make-up, and those quali- 
 ties that won for him the Governor's commission as 
 First Lieutenant in the National Guard. The firm 
 lower jaw of determination gives way only to the 
 ever-present beaming smile of his friendly, sincere 
 countenance. His eyes are ever sparkling not only 
 with jovial good cheer, but with the deeper sympa- 
 thetic understanding of life, — its sorrows and its 
 joys. 
 
 Traced directly back to good old Puritan stock, 
 Merritt was born to Thomas K. and Georgia Rem- 
 ington Lamb, April 4, 1892, on a farm near the 
 town of Rockford, Michigan. Nature could not have 
 done better in selecting such a favorable spot in 
 which to rear, in which to train the bursting ener- 
 gies of this sturdy lad and his four brothers. The 
 real farm life, the pure air, the sunshine, the birds 
 
and trees, the "old swimmin' hole" all played their 
 invaluable part in shaping the character of the 
 impressionable youth. This was fertile soil for 
 the seeds of poetic inspiration. Neither could bet- 
 ter parents have been selected. More than parents, 
 they were companions. They gave him things to 
 do and required obedience; furnished him with plenty 
 of plain food and sufficient clothing, and saw that 
 work and play, study and rest were mixed in the 
 right proportion. 
 
 From early boyhood he showed himself a leader. 
 All the way from his little fifth grade captaincy of 
 a boys' drill corps to the presidency of his senior 
 high school class this was clearly shown. The natur- 
 al inclination which sprung up during his school 
 days was along mechanical lines. Study, practice 
 and perserverance enabled him when a mere boy to 
 invent an entirely new type of electrical motor and 
 to do things in wireless telegraphy that astonished 
 the entire neighborhood. This led him to study at 
 the Grand Rapids Business College, after which 
 training he accepted a responsible position as opera- 
 tor and assistant agent at a railroad office in Mus- 
 kegon. During the long weary hours of night, down 
 on the lonesome railroad pier, there was something 
 buzzing through this young man's head besides the 
 click of the sounder. He must write. The in- 
 spiration and impulse from his heart and mind must 
 have expression. So it was here that some of these 
 little verses first saw the light. 
 
 Business projects were most successfully triea 
 and he held good positions in the sales department 
 
 page eleven 
 
of a large manufacturing establig\mient, and later 
 was state engineer and salesman for a prominent 
 electrical firm. But all the time there was pulling 
 on the heartstrings of this lover of nature, and not 
 least of all, human nature, the real desire to minis- 
 ter to the welfare of his hundreds of little brothers. 
 Today he is recognized as a most successful pro- 
 fessional boys' work director. Choosing what is 
 probably the most powerful medium in America to- 
 day for the developing of resourceful "men of to- 
 morrow" out of the boys of today, namely, the Boy 
 Scouts of America, he has risen step after step up 
 the ladder of promotion, — from Scout Master to 
 Commissioner and Executive Secretary to National 
 Councilman. He holds the highest attainable honor 
 of Eagle Scout and possesses the Bronze Cross for 
 life-saving, having put his very life in jeopardy for 
 that of a comrade. "A man is judged by his friends." 
 No man could be prouder of his friends than Merritt 
 Lamb is of the hundreds of boys of all classes and 
 kinds who flock to him for aid and service. He feels 
 himself to be truly an affinity with every boy he 
 meets. 
 
 One who has been privileged to associate with 
 this man and get a peek into the real understanding 
 of his soul can not help but find in his verses, here 
 published, reflections upon the actual events of his 
 own life, — a life brim full of work, play, excitement, 
 sorrow and joy. I know that this little volume, 
 which I deem it a privilege to hereby present to the 
 public, will touch a kindred spot of appreciation in 
 the minds and hearts of many others. 
 
 CHARLES HOWARD MILLS 
 
First Call 
 
 My verse, perhaps, is rather plain 
 And lacks the fancy flashes, 
 
 Perhaps it also has a strain 
 
 That soothes as well as smashes. 
 
 I've wrote again in other words 
 No great and learned riddle, 
 
 But tried the tunes of singing birds 
 Upon my heart-string fiddle. 
 
 I've chosen not the loftiest themes. 
 But just broke out in joy 
 
 To tell you of my sweetest dreams 
 While still a country boy. 
 
 page thirteen 
 
My Scout 
 
 Give me a scout with some "git-up-and-git," 
 Some ginger behind it, some gumption and grit; 
 Give me a scout with some punch and some pep, 
 Some sand in his nerve and some life m nis step; 
 Give me a scout that will tackle and buck 
 The line in its strongest, - the scout with the pluck. 
 
 page fourteen 
 
With me on the hike I don't like the scout 
 
 Who is always behind and always fagged out; 
 
 Nor care for the one that mumbles and moans 
 
 And sneaks from the work with the rest of the drones; 
 
 I like a feller that's gamey to stick 
 
 In climbing the mountain or fording the crick. 
 
 The scout that's got the "go-to-it-and-git" 
 f^Will never regret his hustling a bit: 
 
 He wears on his coat the badges that show 
 
 That he's got the steam and is willing to go. 
 
 He leads his patrol, the best in the troop, 
 . And he, himself, is best in the group. 
 
 But the best of his Scouting you never saw- 
 He daily lives up to his oath and his law; 
 He does his good turn and says not a word; 
 He plays the game squarely, no grumbling is heard; 
 His arm is strong and his step is sure; 
 His eye is keen and his heart is pure. 
 
 Thus Scouting, my boy, some day you will be 
 
 The kind of a man we all like to see, — 
 
 The man that takes pride in his town and his state, 
 
 In himself, in his friends, in his work and estate. 
 
 Scout on, scout on, my laddie, and be 
 
 The kind of a scout we all like to see! 
 
 page fifteen 
 
Breaking the Calf 
 
 Say believe me it is fun 
 
 To break a calf to drive, 
 When the breaking is begun 
 
 And hard you have to strive — 
 Strive with muscle, might, and main 
 
 To hold the frightened calf, — 
 Strive so hard, but all in vain. 
 
 And hear the others laugh; 
 While with sweat upon your brow, 
 
 And running down your face, 
 Best you try to show them how 
 
 To run the calf a race! 
 
 Fun it is, oh yes 'tis fun, 
 
 But keep your temper should 
 Race by calf perchance be won- 
 
 You know it really would 
 Not be proper for you to. 
 
 To blame the calf for that. 
 Nor to show your anger hue 
 
 And make the critter blat: 
 Tie the ribbon to his tail. 
 
 The blue one he has won. 
 Let him bunt around his pail. 
 
 And kick and snort and run. 
 
 page sixteen 
 
S'pose that you, while in the race, 
 
 Do stub you toe and fall. 
 Bump your head and skin your face,' 
 
 And oh, still worse than all. 
 When you kick the stone the blow, 
 
 You smash or bruise or break, 
 And "bung it up", your biggest toe. 
 
 Is reason that to make 
 Flushed with anger all your face, 
 
 And air about you blue ? 
 Next to first is second place — 
 
 There's still a chance for you! 
 
 page seventeen 
 
It's Good For Me 
 
 It's good for me to plow once more 
 
 The fields I use to plow, 
 To turn the sod I turned of yore 
 
 When father taught me how: 
 To watch the weeds and stubble nod 
 
 Behind the straining team, 
 To watch the colter cut the clod 
 
 Beneath the curving beam. 
 To feel the shearing of the share 
 
 Below the gaze of all, 
 To watch the furrows rise and flare. 
 
 To watch the furrows fall. 
 
 It's good for me to meditate. 
 
 While resting on the plow. 
 About the things of home and state. 
 
 The future, past, and now: 
 It's good for me to wander back 
 
 Along the trail of years, 
 And note the winding of my track 
 
 Through fun of Life and tears; 
 It's good for me to soar above 
 
 In future years to see 
 The bright and happy home of Love, 
 
 The home I will shall be. 
 
 page eighteen 
 
It's good for me to rise again, 
 
 From resting on the plow, 
 And plow the field before the rain 
 
 By making most of NOW: 
 To watch the weeds and stubble nod 
 
 Behind the straining team. 
 To watch the colter cut the clod 
 
 Beneath the curving beam. 
 To feel the shearing of the share 
 
 Below the gaze of all, 
 To watch the furrows rise and flare, 
 
 To watch the furrows fall. 
 
 Babble, Babble Little Brook 
 
 babble, babble, little brook. 
 And through the meadows wend; 
 
 1 love to see you wind about 
 And shoot around the bend; 
 
 I love to hear your liquid notes; 
 
 I love the song you sing; 
 I love the joy that downward floats; 
 
 I love the peace you bring. 
 So ripple on, and sparke on, 
 
 And babble on your way: 
 I love to hear the songs you sing; 
 
 I love the tunes you play. 
 
 page nineteen 
 

 
 We Need Men 
 
 We need men to lead men 
 
 Who love the righteous joys 
 To know men and show men,- 
 
 The coming men, the boys. 
 And these men must seize men 
 
 And help them thru the strife, 
 Be brave men and save men 
 
 To live a useful life. 
 The great men don't hate men, 
 
 But live and toil and die 
 To raise men, not amaze men,- 
 Oh such a man were I! 
 
 page twenty 
 
The Fanning Mill 
 
 It may be in a fancy mill 
 
 That's painted red and fair, 
 It may be in the breezy wind 
 
 That whistles through the air; 
 But this the farmer always did, 
 
 And does, and always will: 
 He always fans his sowing seed 
 
 In some sort of a mill. 
 
 When Dad was poor and I was young, 
 
 A very little lad, 
 He fanned his grain out in the wind, 
 
 The only mill he had; 
 But that same seed, he planted it, 
 
 He sowed it in the field 
 Which he had plowed and harrowed 
 down 
 
 To make it goodly yield. 
 
 And when the harvest time was come. 
 
 That field of golden grain 
 Waved there for him a recompense 
 
 For muscle work and brain- 
 Waved there for him a recompense 
 
 He faltered not to reap. 
 To reap, to thresh, to sell, to give. 
 
 And yet a portion keep. 
 
 In later years when older grown, 
 With earnings thus he bought 
 
 A fanning mill to fan his grain. 
 And me a lesson taught. 
 
 page twenty-one 
 
He taught me how to turn the crank, 
 
 And how to run the mill; 
 He taught me how to judge the grain. 
 
 The hopper how to fill. 
 
 He taught me how to plow the field, 
 
 To harrow and to sow, 
 To reap the grain, to bind it up, 
 
 To store it up below — 
 Below the rafters of the barn, 
 
 And how to thresh and sell, 
 How much to give, how much to keep, 
 
 And how to use it well. 
 
 Are not our thoughts the grains of 
 seed, 
 
 A mixture good and bad; 
 Would not our thoughts bring greater 
 yield 
 
 By sifting out the sad; 
 By fanning out the useless chaff 
 
 And sowing but the good,- 
 And sowing that in fertile field 
 
 We've plowed the way we should? 
 
 Is not it best to work and reap, 
 
 And thresh the golden grain, 
 And pay your bills, and help the poor. 
 
 And use the goodly gain ? 
 Is not it best to thus improve 
 
 Yourself and others now, 
 By cranking up your fanning mill 
 
 Like father taught me how? 
 
 page twenty-two 
 
The Omniscient Scout Master 
 
 Can you tell me who's the fellow 
 
 That we see a-hiking by, 
 With the bunch of boys behind him,- 
 
 With the twinkle in his eye? 
 
 Can you tell me what's the matter 
 Of that bunch of boys to-day: 
 
 They're a manly bunch of business 
 Be it in their work or play? 
 
 He's the master of the Boy Scouts, 
 
 And a hero, too, as well. 
 For I know a little laddie 
 
 And I've often heard him tell. 
 
 page twenty-threer 
 
And the fellows that are with him, 
 And that trip along with glee, 
 
 Of his troop are worthy members, 
 And their number thirty-three. 
 
 Gee, but how they shoot him questions; 
 
 Why, it is a holy fright! 
 And they all expect an answer. 
 
 And an answer that is right. 
 
 You must be a David Crockett, 
 
 You must be an Edison, 
 You must be a Noah Webster, 
 
 And a wise old Solomon. 
 
 You must be a mountain climber. 
 
 And a camper to be sure. 
 And the famous story teller 
 
 Of the corner grocery store. 
 
 You must know each tree and flower, 
 Each and every bird and bug; 
 
 Know the names of cars and busses 
 By their far-off muffled chug. 
 
 You must have the faith of Moses, 
 You must have the grit of Grant, 
 
 Yon must have the stick of stickum. 
 And the can instead of can't. 
 
 page twenty -four 
 
You must have the pep of pepper, 
 And the wit of Pat and Mike; 
 
 You must be a Charlie Chaplin, 
 Just to cheer along the hike. 
 
 You must gig and dance the hornpipe. 
 
 You must lasso, swim and run; 
 You must know the stars and planets, 
 
 And the specks upon the sun. 
 
 You must be the family doctor, 
 And the-fire chief and the cop; 
 
 You must be a wireless ticker 
 With an insulated top. 
 
 You must beat an Irish woman 
 Cooking for the Scouts in camp, 
 
 When the morning air is frosty 
 And the evening dews are damp. 
 
 You must be a patient teacher. 
 And believe in what you teach; 
 
 You must be a faithful preacher; 
 You must practice what you preach. 
 
 Oh it's great to be a leader 
 
 In this "Scouting for the Boy", 
 
 And to feel so young and happy 
 That you nearly bust for joy. 
 
 page twenty-five 
 
Oh it's great to be a leader 
 And to sit among the boys, 
 
 Just to listen to their stories 
 
 And their singing and their noise. 
 
 Oh it's great to be a leader 
 And to sit alone and plan 
 
 How to help some little Jimmie 
 Help him.self to be a man. 
 
 ^^IW^ 
 
 
 #i #w; 
 
 
 0e ~ ''^MHHHHIP'' 
 
 ^BHP 
 
 page twenty-six 
 
Trusty Tommy 
 
 TRUSTY TOMMY was a Scout, 
 
 LOYAL to his mother, 
 HELPFUL to the folks about, 
 
 FRIENDLY to his brother; 
 COURTEOUS to the girl he knew, 
 
 KIND to all his rabbits, 
 OBEDIENT to his father true, 
 
 CHEERFUL in his habits; 
 THRIFTY, saving for a need, 
 
 BRAVE, but not a faker, 
 CLEAN in thought and speech and deed, 
 
 REVERENT to his maker 
 
 page twenty-seven 
 
Churning For Butter 
 
 Our old black cow she used to eat 
 
 The green grass of the medder, 
 The yeller corn, the garden beet, 
 
 The brownish bran we fed her. 
 But this I never understood, 
 
 Or even as I write, 
 Is how the durn old critter could 
 
 Give down a milk that's white. 
 
 We use to strain the milk into 
 
 The clumsy pans and crocks, 
 And set them gently two by two 
 
 Within the pantry box. 
 But this it j^ind o' puzzled me, 
 
 A funny thing 'twould seem. 
 As how next mornin' there would be 
 
 A half an inch of cream. 
 
 We skimmed the cream into a jar, 
 
 And when 'twas full we churned it: 
 It's bad to spill a batch of cream — 
 
 I know it 'cause I learned it. 
 It kind o' puzzled me to name, 
 
 The while I sat a churnin', 
 The reason why the butter came 
 
 By sitting there and turnin'. 
 
 page twenty-eight 
 
I turned and turned and churned and churned, 
 
 And whistled while I turned it, 
 I churned and churned and turned and turned, 
 
 And when it came I earned it. 
 But just before the butter came, 
 
 The slushin' changed to thumpin' 
 The glass was black, my arm was lame, 
 
 My back it ached of humpin'! 
 
 I stopped the churn and opened it, — 
 
 A sissing sound and sputter, — 
 I pulled the cork, - the buttermilk 
 
 Ran off and left the butter. 
 The golden lump within the churn 
 
 It made me sort o' think 
 About the value of the TURN, 
 
 From labor not to shrink. 
 
 The butter then was taken up 
 
 And worked within a bowl. 
 And mixed with salt and mixed with work, 
 
 And shaped into a roll. 
 And always on the market there 
 
 Was great demand good. 
 The butter that the farmer made. 
 
 And mixed the way he should. 
 
 page twenty-nine 
 
So as I spread my butter on 
 
 My bread before I eat, 
 I somehow sort o' ponder on 
 
 The work I use to meet: 
 It somehow sort o' seems to me 
 
 We're something like the cow, 
 And to produce the purest thought 
 
 Need var' us kinds of "chow"; 
 
 And that our thoughts should set awhile 
 
 Before we skim the cream — 
 Should rest in meditation some. 
 
 And in the daily dream. 
 The cream of thought we then should churn, 
 
 Till slushin' comes to thumpin'. 
 Till we who turn by turning learn 
 
 The value of our humpin'. 
 
 And when the golden butter comes, 
 
 To recompense our striving. 
 It should be mixed with honest work 
 
 Within the bowl of Living. 
 The salt of Life must enter in 
 
 Before we shape the roll 
 To put it on the market as 
 
 The essence of our soul. 
 
 page thirty 
 
The Old Swimming Hole 
 
 Remember you the shady bend 
 In Rogue's old rocky stream ? 
 
 The willows wept where round it swept, 
 But wept for joy 'twould seem. 
 
 For under them we've dressed and dressed, 
 
 The times nobody knows, — 
 Undressed in rain and dressed in pain, 
 
 Untied and tied up clothes. 
 
 I wonder if the path remains 
 Down which I know we've run, 
 
 And with a leap dove in the deep 
 A thousand times and one. 
 
 Oh many are the times that we 
 Have raced around the bend. 
 
 And many, too, the times that you 
 Have beat me in the end. 
 
 And many are the kids that you 
 And I have taught to swim 
 
 In that old pool, so clear and cool. 
 That gave us grit and vim. 
 
 page thirty-one 
 
If every spot we've dove into 
 That stream a hole had stayed, 
 
 An old screen door, rent down and tore, 
 Would 'pear the place we played. 
 
 Our swimming trail wound by the creek 
 
 Down to the river's side, 
 Which swept along so swift and strong, 
 
 And somber, deep, and wide. 
 
 And there it turned unto the north 
 
 Along the mighty bluff,- 
 The Olden Trail of early mail, 
 
 A rugged trail and rough. 
 
 The old pig-stile astride the fence 
 
 Has fallen down they say; 
 The stately tree we use to see 
 
 Can not be seen today. 
 
 The tall and mottled sycamore 
 That arched above the stream, 
 
 'Twas fun to climb its highest limb 
 And carve our names and dream. 
 
 I've often wished again to climb 
 And pick the wintergreen. 
 
 And eat my fill upon the hill 
 Of berries red and clean. 
 
 page thirty-two 
 
The waters of the meadow spring 
 Once bubbled cool and clear 
 
 For us to drink, to make us think 
 Of swimming all the year. 
 
 The pasture lane we use to wend, 
 
 It's bars are in decay; 
 And Old Irve Starr has journeyed far, 
 
 And ceased his tunes to play. 
 
 But round the bend the river flows 
 
 To irrigate the soul 
 Of growing boy with vim and joy:- 
 
 The same old swimming hole. 
 
 To my brother George. 
 
 page thirty-three 
 
The Cosmic Way 
 
 How oft in days I've dreaming thought 
 
 Of wondrous deeds my God has wrought; 
 
 How oft at night I've wandered thru 
 
 The pasture grasses wet with dew 
 
 To gaze alone and meditate 
 
 On reason why His Plan so great — 
 
 To study God from Nature's book. 
 
 The sparkling spring and babbling brook, 
 
 The singing bird and humming bee, 
 
 The lowly herb and stately tree, 
 
 The valley low and mountain high, 
 
 The boundless plain and blazoned sky. 
 
 The burning sun and mellow moon. 
 
 The gentle winds that sweetly croon 
 
 A lullaby unto the sea, — 
 
 They all, they all teach this to me: 
 
 Conception of my own small life 
 
 As part of that Eternal Strife 
 
 He willed should be the Cosmic Way 
 
 From Chaos down to Judgement Day. 
 
 page thirty-four 
 
The Time To Tap 
 
 When warming winds of early spring 
 And slanting sunrays melt 
 
 The crusted snow, and brooklets flow, 
 A potent call is felt. 
 
 The woodland calls unto the lad 
 And makes his pulses drum: 
 
 He climbs and sniffs the wafting whitfs 
 That from the meadows come. 
 
 He sees afar the sugar-bush, 
 He smells the seeping sap: 
 
 The surging joy breaks from the boy, 
 And tells the time to tap. 
 
 And like the snow his sorrows melt, 
 And streams of gladness swell: 
 
 And Life awakes, nor waking breaks 
 The Mighty Magic Spell. 
 
 page thirty-five 
 
The Man Behind 
 
 When "idees" use to cram' my head, 
 I usually went and did them, 
 
 If there were not a sterner law 
 Or bigger man forbid them. 
 
 When funny shows were in our town, 
 
 The clowns, we liked to see them; 
 When they were gone and on their way, 
 
 We always tried to be them. 
 When Monte Cristo came aroun', 
 
 We thought our plan and made it; 
 And when the folks had gone away. 
 
 We built a stage and played it. 
 
 The stage, of crates and wooden door 
 
 Up in our room we built it; 
 The scenic curtain was the one 
 
 Our mother once had quilt-ed; 
 The surging sea it was no more 
 
 But feather bed— we shook it; 
 The rising moon, the setting sun, 
 
 The lantern, where we took it. 
 
 page Ihirty-six 
 
My brothers four the players were; 
 
 And I the man behind: 
 I rose the moon, I set the sun, 
 
 I made the planets mind; 
 I caused the wind to whiz and whir, 
 
 I made the surges roll — 
 Unseen, the hardest work was fun 
 
 That tickled in my soul. 
 
 I've got an 'idee' in my head 
 
 To play the Play of Man, 
 By building up the stage I need 
 
 With what I've got at han'. 
 By shaking up the lazy bed, 
 
 By tuning up the mind. 
 By doing hard the daily deed 
 
 And keeping SELF behind. 
 
 Por players once my brothers were. 
 
 And I the man behind: 
 I rose the moon, I set the sun, 
 
 I made the planets mind; 
 I caused the wind to whiz and whir, 
 
 I made the surges roll — 
 Unseen, the hardest work was fun 
 
 That tickled in my soul. 
 
 page thirty-seven 
 
THE LUCK 
 OF o BUCK 
 
 "It's funny Buck has so much luck,' 
 I heard a schoolmate say, 
 
 "For never stuck was Lucky Buck,- 
 The luck just falls his way." 
 
 The chickens cluck about the duck 
 That waddled thru the mire; 
 
 But how the duck got thru the muck, 
 They never did enquire. 
 
 And when the duck so boldly struck 
 
 Straight out across the pond. 
 She heard them cluck and clack and cluck 
 
 Upon the bank beyond. 
 
 And when the duck had filled her ruck. 
 
 She started back again: 
 She heard them cluck about her luck. 
 
 And wonder where she'd been. 
 
 page thirty-eight 
 
But that old duck cared not a shuck 
 
 About their cluck and clack, 
 Because her PLUCK had brought her luck, 
 
 And not her quake and quack. 
 
 But once the luck went* gainst the duck,- 
 The chickens thought that way;- 
 
 They thought a puck or some woodchuck 
 Had killed her in the hay. 
 
 So they, they stuck, for fear of puck. 
 
 Around the house and lee. 
 And ate their truck, laid eggs for Buck, 
 
 And cackled in their glee. 
 
 But one day duck with broodlings struck 
 
 Across the pond to land; 
 And thru the muck, up lane to Buck, 
 
 She marshalled on her band. 
 
 The hens still cluck about that duck, 
 
 And cackle in their glee: 
 Some MEN say Buck is full of luck,— 
 
 But some say PLUCK for me. 
 
 page thirty-nine 
 
The Old 'Crick' 
 
 O listen! Say, I seem to hear 
 The little 'crick' that's flowin', 
 
 Where willows tall and beeches small 
 Upon its banks are growin'. 
 
 Through meadows green it wends its way 
 From lake down to the river; 
 
 And in its route the lusty trout 
 Darts here and there a quiver. 
 
 We knew 'most every swimmin' hole 
 
 In both the 'crick' and river; 
 O in what stress we use to dress 
 
 With chatterin' teeth and shiver! 
 
 O many hours we've labored hard 
 
 To dam the little river, 
 To find our pain was spent in vain; 
 
 For it goes on forever. 
 
 It checks the drough, it drains the flood, 
 Its good for bathing, drinkin', 
 
 The wheels of town it turns around: 
 Inspires a man to thinkin'. 
 
 O do not spoil the little stream 
 That makes the brimmin' river: 
 
 It helps us all, both great and small; 
 And surely He's the giver. 
 
Fishing Time 
 
 The First of May has come again! 
 
 It was so hard to wait 
 I strung my pole last night and stole 
 
 And dug a can of bait. 
 
 The low gray streaks of dawn appear, 
 The stars grow faint and dim: 
 
 We kids in teens jump in our jeans,- 
 My brother, me, and him. 
 
 And who is him? Why it is he, 
 
 A schoolboy friend of mine, 
 Who loves the charm out on the farm, 
 
 A jolly friend and fine, 
 
 "And if you're hungry, follow me,- 
 
 Just follow, Fat, behind. 
 And I will show — I think I know, — 
 
 A jar of cookies; mind?" 
 
 We steal from there with stealthy tread 
 
 With pockets full of "bite"; 
 We do not wait, but grab our bait, 
 
 And soon are out of sight. 
 
 We wallow up along the creek 
 Thru pastures wet with dew; 
 
 We do not speed, but fish and feed: 
 The fish we get are few. 
 
 page forty-one 
 
I feel one nibbling at the bait: 
 
 A big one is my thought; 
 But jerking it begins a fit, — 
 
 A snaky snag is caught. 
 
 My line gets tangled in the brush; 
 
 I pull my 'big one' out, 
 But off he drops, and flips and flops,- 
 
 I lose my biggest trout. 
 
 I keep it up and perservere. 
 
 And fish and fish and fish. 
 And walk the logs, and jump the bogs, 
 
 And bait and yank and swish. 
 
 But as the sun is rising up 
 
 Above the eastern green. 
 In little wood of maples good, 
 
 A dandy hole is seen. 
 
 And here beneath the grayish foam, 
 
 By fallen log and stump, — 
 An awful bite, a good one right! 
 
 My heart begins to thump. 
 
 A feeling jerk to test the hook, — 
 
 He leaps and darts about; 
 The package line it makes him mine,- 
 
 The season's speckled trout. 
 
 page forty-two 
 
Up to the lake we fish the creek, - 
 
 We're out for savory dish, 
 Forget our books, just bait our hooks, 
 
 And fish for the gamey fish. 
 
 And many are the farmer lads, 
 And men and boys from town. 
 
 We meet that day, that morn of May, 
 As back we wander down. 
 
 The men from town have fancy rods, 
 
 And reels and silken line, 
 And boots and such that beats the Dutch, 
 
 They really do look fine. 
 
 The farmer lad, a can of worms, 
 A pole that's cut from beech, 
 
 An inward grace, a smiling face,— 
 A lesson he can teach. 
 
 For 'neath that hat of tattered straw, 
 
 That smiling face of tan 
 Of barefoot boy shows nought but Joy,- 
 
 The stuff that makes the man. 
 
 Was ever yet more happiness 
 Chucked in a country boy? 
 
 Without a doubt his string of trout 
 Caused much his smiling joy. 
 
 page forty-three 
 
There was one man I'll ne'er forget,- 
 
 It was Old Deacon Waite; 
 Tho bent and gray, he loved the May,- 
 
 He loved to cast the bait. 
 
 He loved to fish in Barclay Creek,- 
 
 He'd be there every day; 
 But always on the Sabbath morn 
 
 To church he went to pray. 
 
 He passed around the offering box, 
 
 With slow and solemn gait, 
 And wrapt in joy he chewed "Rob Roy,"- 
 
 He did, did Deacon Waite. 
 
 But Deacon Waite died long ago, 
 
 And Fat moved far away: 
 My friends have w^ent, and I am bent, 
 
 I'm seamed and old and gray. 
 
 But still the same old creek flows on, 
 
 And in it plies the trout, 
 And barefoot boys enjoy the joys 
 
 That once I did, no doubt. 
 
 But how I long to perservere. 
 
 And fish and fish and fish. 
 And walk the logs, and jump the bogs. 
 
 And bait and yank and swish. 
 
 page forty-four 
 
The Prisoner Paul 
 
 Within a city in the days of old, 
 In a dungeon deep and dark and cold, 
 In shackles held by iron chains, 
 Surrounded, too, by ghost remains 
 Of men who there had moaned and died, 
 Of men who there had groaned and died 
 Yet chained unto the prison stones, 
 A sightless wreck of skin and bones, — 
 Surrounded thus within the gloom 
 They waited for their coming doom: 
 In the awful dark they braved it all,— 
 The singing Silas and the preacher Paul. 
 
 Thus in jail they had been cast, 
 And made to the rings of iron fast. 
 Because they had to people taught 
 What Christ before his death had sought 
 To teach: — that they should live and love 
 And render to the God above 
 Alone their thanks and reverence all — 
 'Twas this that Silas taught, and Paul. 
 
 All through the night the sickly moaned, 
 All through the night the dying groaned! 
 The awful bolts of lightning flashed! 
 Terrific, too, the thunder crashed! 
 
 page forty -<ive 
 
The rusty chains and aching bones 
 Both shook against the slimy stones! 
 But calmly yet they braved it all, 
 The Christian Silas and the Christian Paul. 
 
 Much comfort to themselves they brought 
 By singing songs they'd often taught; 
 Nor yet by doom were they dismayed — 
 With hopeful hearts they often prayed. 
 Such faith as their's but few have shown; 
 Such hope as their's but few have known! 
 Were not our hope and faith so small, 
 But like the hope and faith of Paul. 
 
 But lo! while yet the storm without 
 
 Raged hard and drove the things about, 
 
 A deeper rumbling from afar 
 
 Shook each stone and prison bar! 
 
 An earthquake split the pavement floor, 
 
 And crumbled down the prison door! 
 
 The iron ring fell from the wall,- 
 
 But yet stayed Silas and with him Paul. 
 
 The jailor stern was terrified, 
 
 And armed with sword he ran and cried! 
 
 He feared before the break of day 
 
 The men within should break away. 
 
 But when he came unto the cell, 
 
 He heard them answer, "All is well." 
 
 "We both are here sir, when you call: 
 
 Fear not for Silas, nor yet for Paul." 
 
 page forty-six 
 
The better man within him woke 
 To hear the words the others spoke. 
 He brought them out and meekly said, 
 With tearful eyes and drooping head, 
 "What must I do," — again he braved, 
 "What must I do, sir, to be saved?" 
 "Believe in Christ, sir" then spoke Paul. 
 They knelt and prayed by the prison wall. 
 
 The Hardest Thing 
 
 The hardest thing for a man to do, 
 And the worse thing he can try, 
 
 Is to get along without a friend. 
 And live alone and die. 
 
 page forty-seyen 
 
Good Old Skating Time 
 
 Skating on old Wellbrook's pond! 
 
 Gee, but listen, say 'twas fond 
 
 Sport of we boys on the farm, 
 
 When was shown old Winter's charm 
 
 By artistic frosted pane, 
 
 By the creaking weather vane 
 
 Pointing west into the snow 
 
 Blowing in the wind with low, 
 
 Low mysterious whistling sound 
 
 Up the valley and around 
 
 Good old farm house on the hill. 
 
 Ah, Tm young once more! — but still, 
 
 I am not! I seem to hear 
 
 Chiming sleigh bells sweet and clear, 
 
 As the farmer down the road 
 
 Drives his team with big sleigh-load, 
 
 Handcut wood for village use. 
 
 The call is felt! but what excuse? 
 
 None is needed — father looks, 
 
 And we drop our reading books. 
 
 Grab our home-knit mittens thick. 
 
 Grab our skates and shinney stick, 
 
 Hook a ride unto the pond. 
 
 Over hill, half mile beyond. 
 
 Use to skate when he 'as a boy — 
 
 Can't tell him about the joy! 
 
 page forty-eight 
 
Skates once on, around we spin, 
 Warming- up before the din 
 Of the battle is begun. 
 Many games are lost and won 
 Ere the sun of Saturday 
 Throws its last regretful ray 
 O'er the snow-clad hill in west. 
 Calling skaters home to rest: 
 For you know 'tis hard to see 
 Shinny ball when straight and free 
 It is knocked from dam to end, 
 Or is lost in weedy bend. 
 
 Of the skaters all around. 
 Even of the boys from town. 
 None could equal quite the tricks 
 Of our skating hero "Bicks". 
 He could write his name on ice. 
 Carve a powder horn so nice, 
 Cut a circle either way. 
 Skate one-footed, too, and say. 
 He could do one stunt so slick, — 
 Jump 'twixt hands o'er shinny stick. 
 
 Sometimes, too, we use to skate 
 On the pond by moon till late. 
 Then, perhaps, once too I did 
 Skate with girl. A learning kid. 
 Had my share of shocking spills, 
 Blackened shin-bones, shaking chills. 
 Oh the fun I'll ne'er forget! 
 Somehow, tho, I do regret 
 That I'm not as once, a boy, 
 Full of vim and full of joy. 
 
 forty -nine 
 
Keep A-Going 
 
 When along the trail you're tramping, 
 With your shoulder to the pack, 
 Sing and whistle, - keep a-going. 
 When at last the trail has ended 
 And you're turning to come back. 
 Sing and whistle, - keep a-going. 
 
 When your haversack is empty 
 
 And your stomach's worse than that, 
 
 Pull your belt, and keep a-going. 
 
 When the thorns have torn your clothing 
 
 And the wind has got your hat, 
 
 Never mind, but keep a-going. 
 
 When your frame is telescoping 
 And your back is awful bent, 
 Set your will to keep a-going. 
 Reinforce your spinal column, 
 Iron girders and cement, — 
 
 Straighten up and keep a-going. 
 
 When your eyes are wet by crying 
 And you're feeling mighty blue, 
 Just forget it,- keep a-going. 
 Let the sunshine of your laughter 
 Drive away the mist and dew,~ 
 Crack a smile and keep a-going. 
 
 page fifty 
 
Boyhood Warfare 
 
 Country hills and valleys lie 
 Robed once more in whiteness by 
 Crystal snows; and they appear 
 Just as good to me and dear 
 As when Summer's verdant green 
 Swathed them round, and there were seen 
 Flocks of sheep and herds of kine 
 Basking in the morning shine, 
 Standing in the noon-day shade, 
 Browsing herb and meadow blade. 
 
 Let us waddle now once more. 
 As we did in days of yore. 
 Thru the banks of drfted snow 
 Deep beside the road, and go — 
 Go right to it with a zeal — 
 Ah, I'm old, but young I feel — 
 Go right to it, should it melt, 
 Have a good old fight and pelt — 
 Pelt each other on the head, 
 In the back, and call them dead, 
 They who fall, and cowards they, 
 In this warlike, boyhood play, 
 Who first turn in fleeing back 
 From the melee of attack! 
 
 page fifty-one 
 
Let us raid and charge and scout 
 Clear around and drive them out, 
 If we can, from arsenal-fort, 
 Strongly held, the kids report! 
 Course you know we realize that 
 Tom's not here, nor Bill, nor Bat, 
 That these gloves of factory make 
 Don't the place of mother's take. 
 Come, old chums, wade in once more 
 Like we've often done before! 
 
 Farmer Scouts 
 
 page fifty-two 
 
The Farmer Boy 
 
 You, my little school-boy, friend 
 
 Just a minute will you lend 
 
 Ear to what I have to say 
 
 To you all upon this day. 
 
 I will tell to you a story 
 
 Of the farm and of the glory, 
 
 Of the happiness and joy 
 
 Of your brother farmer boy; 
 
 Of the beauties all about. 
 
 Of the good things all without 
 
 Which the cities could not be. 
 
 Nor could be our liberty; 
 
 How his horses pull the plow; 
 
 How he harrows and just how 
 
 And just when he plants the seed; 
 
 How he mows the hay for feed: 
 
 How he rakes and binds the grain: 
 
 Works with muscle, might and main: 
 
 ■Gathers in the ripened fruit; 
 
 Of his horses strong but mute; 
 
 Of the cattle and the sheep; 
 
 How the weeping willows weep 
 
 Near the little creek that flows 
 
 Through the pasture where he goes; 
 
 Of his bird friends and the flowers; 
 
 How he spends his leisure hours; 
 
 Of his games and winter sports; 
 
 Of his battled snow-ball forts:— 
 
 Tell you all the fun and joy 
 
 Of your brother farmer boy. 
 
 page fifty-three 
 
Gamp, Boys, Camp 
 
 Wake up in the morning as happy as can be, 
 
 Sing a little ditty before the "reveille," 
 
 Jump into our breeches without our hat or shoes — 
 
 Better get in line than take another snooze. 
 
 Chorus — 
 
 Camp, boys, camp! In camp we want to be! 
 Camp, boys, camp! The place of liberty! 
 We can holler all we want to, whistle, sing or whoop. 
 Have no copper after us and not get in the coup. 
 
 page fifty-fouT 
 
Chilly plunge of morning we call the morning dip, 
 'Cause it is so "dippy," but take this little tip: 
 Jump right in and quickly bathe and dress, 
 Be the first in line when the bugle calls"mess." 
 
 Like to go out hiking as all good campers do, 
 Cook our spuds and bacon, and make our hunter's stew; 
 Cramb into our stomachs the morning 'fore the tramp. 
 Dozen greasy pancakes, the kind we make in camp. 
 
 Tracking in the forest and learning all the trees. 
 Learning all the animals, and all the birds and bees. 
 Isn't quite so easy as "Willy" thinks it is, 
 Still we like to do it, because it is our biz. 
 
 Round the roaring camp-fire we love to sit at night. 
 Tell the ghostly stories that make you faint of fright; 
 Dance the savage dances of the Indian of the West, 
 Sing to Nature's music the songs we love the best. 
 
 Saw a dozen summers and then became a Scout, 
 Hope to see another before they kick me out; 
 Wouldn't lose the honor nor miss the fun a day, 
 Always have in Scouting with the B. S. A. 
 
 page fifty-five 
 
Muskegon My Muskegon 
 
 Town of my heart I sing of thee, 
 
 Muskegon, my Muskegon; 
 Thy lake bound shore I love to see, 
 
 Muskegon, my Muskegon. 
 From North Muskegon's farthest pier 
 To Pigeon Hill with view so clear 
 Stretches the town we love so dear, 
 
 Muskegon, my Muskegon. 
 
 When weary of the daily strife, 
 
 Muskegon, my Muskegon; 
 And every thing looks blue in life, 
 
 Muskegon my Muskegon; 
 Come to Muskegon right in style. 
 Take off your hat and stay awhile, 
 The boys will make you laugh and smile, 
 
 Muskegon, my Muskegon, 
 
 We have the lakes and have the woods, 
 
 Muskegon, my Muskegon; 
 For camping time we have the goods, 
 
 Muskegon, my Muskegon. 
 And when you leave old Muskegon, 
 You'll wish you're back in Muskegon, 
 So come again to Muskegon, 
 
 Muskegon, my Muskegon. 
 
 page fifty-six 
 
Dear Old Schoolhouse 
 
 Dear old schoolhouse! Dear old schoolhouse! 
 
 O you almost make me cry; 
 For you call back and I fall back, 
 
 Just to dream of days gone by. 
 
 Dear old school days! Dear old school mates! 
 
 Dear old teachers, too, as well! 
 Oh you call me, you enthrall me, 
 
 Like the ringing of the bell! 
 
 But the circle of my vision 
 
 In my dreaming narrows down, 
 And it settles on the 'girly' 
 
 With the curly locks of brown. 
 
 Do not tell me little children 
 Never really love at all, 
 
 Just because their hearts are tender, 
 And their bodies weak and small, 
 
 page flfty-severi 
 
For I clearly can remember 
 
 How my heart would beat for joy 
 When her eyes reflected sunshine, — 
 
 Even though I was a boy. 
 
 Do not tell me little children, 
 They are born in carnal sin, 
 
 And that they must pray forgiveness 
 Ere the Gates they enter in; 
 
 For did not the Master Jesus, 
 Say unto them, "You will see 
 
 Only Heaven if you follow 
 Like the children follow me." 
 
 Do not scold the little children; 
 
 Do not jaw them all around; 
 Do not lick and kick and slap them; 
 
 Do not knock them up and down. 
 
 If you think that they are heathen 
 And are burdened down with sin, 
 
 Open up the holy temple 
 
 Of your heart and let them in. 
 
 Do not try to model children 
 
 Like the sculptor hews his stone: 
 
 Just remember they are human. 
 And are made of blood and bone. 
 
 page fifty-eight 
 
Think of all the misty ages 
 Since the monkey first began 
 
 Walking upright on his hind legs, 
 That it took to make the man. 
 
 Then would you within a minute 
 Try to shoot the children through 
 
 What it took the God Almighty 
 Full a million years to do. 
 
 Just be patient dear old teacher, 
 Just be loving, kind, and true, 
 
 For the children sure are learning 
 Vastly much in what you do. 
 
 Give them pleanty air and sunshine, 
 Give them work and lots of play. 
 
 Give them all a chance for growing: 
 Throw your foolish whims away. 
 
 page fifty-nine 
 
r^^ 
 
 page sixty 
 
SHINING MANITO 
 
 A Legend of the Chippewas 
 From "The Ghost" 
 
 * * * 
 
 INVOCATION 
 
 List, my friends, this tribal story; 
 List this tale of woe and anguish 
 Of our fathers long departed. 
 List, my children, to this legend, 
 To this legend of the Northland, 
 This tradition of the Indian. 
 
 page sixty-oue 
 
Once along the Pilgrim River, 
 Near the Portage Lake and Entry, 
 Camped a band of peaceful Indians, — 
 Chippewa their tribe was known as. 
 Here they camped because in summer 
 They could swim in warmer waters 
 Than were found in other places; 
 And canoeing, too, was better. 
 And the fish were more abundant. 
 Likewise here they camped in winter 
 For they loved the sports and races 
 On the vast and even stretches 
 Of the Portage Lake and River — 
 Great indeed their skill on snowshoes. 
 
 From the crest across the valley 
 
 They could scan afar the country. 
 
 They could view the land they loved so, 
 
 Gaze upon their grounds for hunting, 
 
 Which from rugged point extended 
 
 Southward far into the mainland. 
 
 All this land was known unto them. 
 
 Even all of this Peninsula; 
 
 For their fishing trips and hunting, 
 
 And their trapping expeditions. 
 
 Led them far into the bosom 
 
 Of the forests and the mountains. 
 
 Seldom, tho, were they offensive. 
 
 Seldom they, these peaceful Indians; 
 
 Still it was their solemn duty. 
 
 Still it was their honor duty 
 
 To protect their game from poaching. 
 
 To defend their camp from pillage. 
 
 page sLxty-tvvo 
 
Once indeed it so did happen 
 That one day in early springtime, 
 When the snow and ice had melted 
 And the air about was fragrant 
 With the bursting buds and blossoms, 
 Up the Bay thru Portage Entry, 
 Round the bend at early morning 
 Swept a band of savage Iroquois 
 In their war-canoes, and war-paint 
 Blue and yellow stained their faces. 
 
 Up the lake they paddled swiftly. 
 Straining hard their brawny muscles, 
 Dipping deep their silent paddles. 
 Up the Lake they paddled onward. 
 Onward, onward, ever onward. 
 Looking for some tribe to battle. 
 Seeking for some camp to pillage. 
 
 Noonday rest and meal refreshed them, 
 Then again they paddled onward. 
 Knowing not they were discovered, 
 Knowing not the woods about them 
 Hid a secret in its silence; — 
 Onward, onward till the shadows 
 Of their bodies pointed eastward. 
 
 In the fore canoe the Chieftan 
 Stands and holds one arm, a signal 
 There to land and end the journey 
 For the day, and build the camp-fire. 
 
 page sixty-three 
 
So they do, and on the island, 
 Just below the Pilgrim River, 
 Just below the native village, 
 Camp the band of questing Iroquois. 
 In their blankets round the camp-fire. 
 Snugly sleep the weary warriors, 
 Dreaming not that in the meantime 
 On the island there were landing 
 Braves to beat them back and kill them; 
 Dreaming not that in the meantime 
 Braves were sneaking round about them 
 In the shadows of the forest; 
 Dreaming not that in the morning 
 They would find themselves in ambush, 
 There to perish and forever; 
 Dreaming not that ages after 
 For their bones and war-like weapons 
 Men would dig on Battle Island. 
 
 Straightway after that great battle 
 Sped the braves remaining westward, 
 Westward o'er the range of mountains. 
 Westward o'er the streams and marshes. 
 Till they came to mighty river. 
 To the River Ontanagon, — 
 Where before they oft had gathered 
 In pursuance of their ritual. 
 
 page sixty-four 
 
Here beneath the crystal waters 
 Which serene and grand were flowing, 
 Lay resplendent in its glory, — 
 Shining gold it lay in sunlight,— 
 Mighty piece of massive copper, 
 Gift of Manito unto them, 
 Gitchie Manito, the Mighty. 
 
 Knelt the braves all down before it. 
 Offered up their supplication 
 To the real God, to the Mighty; 
 Thanked Him for success in battle. 
 Prayed that peace should be among them. 
 
 Thus it was a tribal custom, 
 When the snow and ice of winter 
 Had departed and the springtime 
 Brought the wild geese clanking northward 
 And the blossoms and the sunshine. 
 Every year that they would journey 
 Westward for their solemn worship 
 At the brink of Ontanagon. 
 
 But it chanced one day returning 
 From their pilgrimage of worship 
 That they camped upon a mountain, — 
 Porcupine they called the mountain, 
 For the tall and stately pine tree's 
 Bristled far above the maples. 
 Like the sharp and slender spear-quills 
 Bristle thru the fur of hedge-hog. 
 
 page sixty-five 
 
Snugly round their meager camp-fire 
 Lay the sleeping braves and chieftan, 
 Breathing deep the fragrant breezes 
 Wafting upward thru the valley. 
 But they dreamed not of the morrow^, 
 Dreamed not that the time was coming 
 When their all they must relinquish, — 
 Even all their lands for hunting 
 And the streams and lakes and forest, — 
 Dreamed not their dusky wig-wams 
 Must be folded, and forever. 
 
 When the morning sun, emerging 
 From the Waters of Superior, 
 Shone upon their dusky faces, 
 Woke they straightway, and, arising, 
 Stretched their bodies up before it 
 To be blessed before the journey. 
 Lo, a shudder ran among them 
 As a shrill of exclamation 
 Rose up from the startled Chieftan, 
 As he stood with blanket fallen, 
 As he stood in great amazement, 
 Gazing down into the valley. 
 Pointing down unto the river! 
 
 What was cause of such excitement? 
 What was cause of such amazement? 
 What was it that caused the faces 
 Of these brave and sturdy Indians 
 Thus to pale, and nerves to tingle? 
 What was it that caused the beating 
 Of their hearts like muffled war-drums? 
 
 page sixty-six 
 
There below upon the water, 
 
 In plain view of all the Red-men, 
 
 Swam a bird, the greatest ever! 
 
 And its wondrous wings were spread'ed 
 
 As it swam so swiftly onward. 
 
 As it swam so swiftly onward, 
 
 Stopping not, nor veering shoreward! 
 
 No, it was no bird the Chieftan 
 Saw before him on the water. 
 Saw before him in the valley! 
 "'Big canoe," a mighty vessel, 
 And its spreading sails of canvas 
 Made the waters part before it. 
 Made them ripple far behind it. 
 As it swept so swiftly onward. 
 As it swept in stately fashion 
 Round the bend of Portage River. 
 
 Straightway called the chief a council 
 Of his stalwart braves about him, — 
 On the mountain called a council 
 To decide the course of action. 
 So in circle round the camp-fire, 
 Yet before they broiled their venison. 
 Were they squatted on their blankets, 
 Each intent to hear the story 
 Of the one who then was speaking, — 
 Each intent to give his counsel, 
 With his signs and words and gestures. 
 To his fellow braves and Chieftan. 
 
 page sixty- 
 
Strange and many were the rumors 
 
 They had learned from tribal neighbors; 
 
 Strange and many were the stories 
 
 Told around the fire of council: 
 
 Some afar on expeditions 
 
 Of the chase for game reported 
 
 To have seen strange men and ghostly; 
 
 To have seen their shining faces, 
 
 White as bark upon the birch tree; 
 
 To have seen them bear and panther 
 
 Kill with heavy sticks they carried. — 
 
 Great and wonderous were these white-men^ 
 
 Greater still their mode of killing: 
 
 For these sticks against their shoulders 
 
 Boomed and rang and most terrific, 
 
 Like a clap of mighty thunder; 
 
 Then the fire and smoke from out them 
 
 Flashed and rolled in strangest manner, 
 
 And the bear lay dead before them! 
 
 After all the braves had spoken, 
 Some of fleeing, some of fighting. 
 Some of lying in concealment, 
 To surprise them thus in ambush, 
 Then uprose Old Onagaming, 
 All bedecked with trail and bonnet, — 
 Brightly colored honor feathers. 
 Showing all his deeds of valor 
 Of his hunting trips and battles, — 
 All bedecked with beaded jacket. 
 And with moccasins and leggings, — 
 Then uprose their honored Chieftan, 
 And, as veto to their counsel, 
 
 page sixty-eight 
 
Cast aside his costly weapons, 
 Tomahawk and bow and arrows, — 
 Cast aside his ponderous war-club. 
 
 All the braves sat still and listened, 
 
 Pull of awe and full of wonder, 
 
 Not a stir was there among them 
 
 At the actions of the Chief tan; 
 
 Not a stir was there among them 
 
 As the old and wrinkled warrior 
 
 Thus with words so brief addressed them; 
 
 "Surely are these men you mention, 
 
 Men of white and ghostly faces. 
 
 Who thus kill the bear and panther 
 
 With no bow of ash or hickory, 
 
 With no shaft with head of flint-stone, — 
 
 Born they surely are not 'mong us, 
 
 Not in woods of Mitchie Keegan, — 
 
 Manito has sent them to us. 
 
 There below us in the river 
 
 Rides canoe so big no Indian 
 
 E'er could reach into the water 
 
 With his paddle made of basswood. 
 
 Likewise, too, these men, these strangers, 
 
 Far across the deep blue waters. 
 
 Far across the great Superior, 
 
 They have come on peaceful mission. 
 
 Behold them now, for they are landing! 
 
 See, they make no preparation 
 
 For the chase or for the battle! 
 
 See them slowly now advancing 
 
 With the peace sign, palm extended! 
 
 page sixty-nine 
 
Shall we fight a peaceful people ? 
 Shall we flee like deer before them? 
 Nay, my braves! Would such an action 
 All become your honored nation, 
 All become your chosen Chief tan? 
 With the peace sign as a token 
 Of our friendship let us meet them; 
 Let us hasten down to meet them 
 On the banks of Portage River." 
 
 And to them the Chief's suggestion 
 Was command, and they obeyed it: 
 Made their way unto the river 
 With the peace sign, palm extended. 
 From among the stranger white-men 
 Stepped two men in robes and necklace, 
 Robes of black with cross depending 
 From the chain of beads and silver. 
 Near a cross and flag before them 
 Knelt they down and others followed; 
 And the Indians at their beacon. 
 Standing by in great amazement. 
 First there knelt their brazen bodies 
 In submission to the white-men; 
 Dreaming not that in the kneeling 
 All their lands were taken from them; 
 Dreaming not that in the kneeling 
 They forsook a Greater Freedom. 
 
 page seventy 
 
Should you ask me more of history, — 
 
 Of the Catholic Priests and Jesuits, 
 
 Of the French Voyageurs and trappers; 
 
 Should you ask me of the English, 
 
 Of the pioneers and miners. 
 
 Of the soldiers of the Kingdom, 
 
 Of the greed of Yankee harpies, 
 
 I would turn away in sadness, 
 
 I would hide my face in anguish 
 
 In a solemn lamentation. 
 
 Should you ask me of the scratches 
 
 On the barren crest of Quincy, 
 
 I would point away and upward 
 
 To the silent Ground of Hunting, — 
 
 I would point into the west-wind 
 
 'Long the Trail of the Departed. 
 
 Should you ask me of their altar 
 
 In the River Ontanagon, 
 
 I would point 'into the east-wind 
 
 Where to-day it lies resplendent. 
 
 Shining Manito of worship, — 
 
 Now the god of many millions. 
 
 page seventy- one 
 
NOTE: — The setting of the above legend is the beau- 
 tiful valley of Portage Lake, which, with the Ship Canal, 
 cuts the bold Keweenaw Peninsula from the mainland 
 atid makes it an island in the great blue Superior. The 
 incidents referred to are matters of early history or tra- 
 dition. The great mass of copper— the Shining Manito 
 of the redman — was undoubtedly shown the early whites 
 by the Indians. There is little question but that it event- 
 ually led to prospecting for copper and the discovery of 
 the ancient workings of a forgotten race. On the sites of 
 many of these prehistoric pits now rise gigantic shaft- 
 houses whose tremendous engines annually haul thous- 
 ands of tons of the precious metal from the deepest ac- 
 cessible parts of the earth. This piece of copper, which 
 had such close association with the religious life of the 
 Indians of that region, was removed from its resting 
 place in the River Ontonagon by a Detroit party. Later, 
 however, it came into the possession of the United States 
 and was placed in the Smithsonian Institute at Wash- 
 ington. Copper, the most valuable metal in the electrical 
 world, and still associated with the Indian in the white 
 man's coin, is the god of many millions. Mitchie 
 Keegan, means Michigan — the great lake land of the 
 natives. 
 
 The scratches spoken of in the conclusion of this leg- 
 end are the striae cut deeply in the barren rock by the 
 gigantic ice sheet that moved southward from polar 
 regions in the prehistoric ages, sweeping everything but 
 the firmest rodk before it, and burying alike beneath it 
 plant and animal life. Thus the Indian is to go before 
 the "white avalanche," or to be buried in oblivion be- 
 neath it and the scratches mark the "Trail of the De- 
 parted." M. L. 
 
 page seventy- tvvc 
 
The Creation of Man 
 
 A Legend of the Pottawatamies 
 
 As you hover round your fireplace 
 On the chilly nights of winter, 
 As you lie about your campfire 
 On the pleasant summer evenings, 
 Oft your mind reverts to thinking. 
 Oft your mind reverts to dreaming: 
 And you wonder why the earth is, 
 And you wonder more about it; 
 And you wonder why that man is. 
 And you wonder more about it; 
 And you wonder how it happened, 
 And you wonder more about it; 
 Wonder, reason, think, and ponder. 
 Till at last the mind refuses. 
 Till at last the head is nodding 
 And the eyelids blink for slumber. 
 Then it is that you will hunger 
 For the answer and solution; 
 Then it is you love tradition. 
 Love the legends of Creation, 
 Love the mysteries of the creatures; 
 Then it is that you will listen 
 To the king of story tellers. 
 
 page seventy-three 
 
Even now I hear a footstep, 
 
 Even now I see a shadow — 
 
 Can't you see the form approaching, 
 
 Coming from the gloomy darkness? 
 
 Don't you see him standing near us. 
 
 Just beyond the glow of embers? 
 
 See, his arm above is .lifted! 
 
 See his right hand, palm extended! 
 
 He has come on peaceful mission: 
 
 Have no fear my good companions, — 
 
 'Tis my friend that stands before you. 
 
 From the woods of Mitchie Keegan, 
 From the valley 0-wash-ta-nung 
 He has travelled on this mission: 
 Just this night to be among us. 
 Just this night to tell a story 
 How that man was first created. 
 This is Simon, Chief Po-ka'-gon. 
 As he draws his blanket round him. 
 Draw yourself a little closer; 
 As he squats on ground before you, 
 Seat yourself within the circle; 
 As he tells his simple story, 
 Do not break the profoundest silence. 
 List the voice of Chief Po-ka'gon: 
 
 Told by fathers' fathers' fathers 
 Down from ancient generations. 
 Still is told among our people 
 This old Legend of Creation, — 
 Dimly seen through mists of ages. 
 
 page seTenty-four 
 
Ki'ji Man'i-to' the Spirit, 
 Greatest Spirit of our people, 
 After He created No'-mash, 
 Fish of ni'bi-nong', the waters; 
 After he had made bi-nis'sig. 
 Fouls of no'din, air above us; 
 And the roving mon'-aw-to'auk, 
 Beasts of land and wood, of a'ki; 
 Pondered deeply o'er His labors: 
 Great indeed were His achievements, 
 Great indeed, but still they did not 
 Satisfy the grand conception 
 Of the Soul that stirred within Him. 
 
 Hence He called to Him a Council 
 Of His agents, Man'i-to'og, 
 Ruling Spirits of land and water. 
 And revealed His plan unto them: 
 How that nin'o-daw. His heart had 
 Purposed to create a being 
 That should stand upon his hind legs. 
 That should have an understanding 
 Greater still than all the creatures. 
 
 Nearly all the Ruling Spirits 
 Gave encouragement to His planning. 
 But not so the Spiritual Chieftans, 
 Nay, not so the Og'i-maw'og, 
 Man'i-to' the jealous rulers. 
 After talks and long discussions, 
 
 page seventy-five 
 
After long considerations 
 
 Quietly they withdrew from Council, 
 
 Stole away into the forest 
 
 There to hold a private pow-wow 
 
 To defeat the plan of Ki-ji, 
 
 Wow'-waw-tuck'; the Great Almighty. 
 
 But the loyal Man'i-to'og 
 
 Who refused to leave the Council 
 
 Stood aghast in awe and wonder, 
 
 Stood aghast as their Great Father, 
 
 Ki-ji Man'i-to', the Mighty, 
 
 Told them more about the being 
 
 He proposed to bring before them. 
 
 From the falling evening twilight 
 To the rising dawn of morning, — 
 Even through the night the Council 
 Was prolonged in earnest session: 
 Speakers challenged and were answerd, 
 Till at last the brilliant Ki'sus 
 Drove the mists of dawn before him. 
 Then the anxious Spirits questioned, 
 "Suns and moons will pass, how many, 
 Ere we shall behold this wonder." 
 Even then, while yet the question 
 Held upon their lips, ki-o'-don. 
 Even then He said unto them, 
 "Follow Me, my Man'i-to'og." 
 And He led them through the forest 
 To a silvery sheen of water. 
 To the Lake of Sag'i-i'gan. 
 
 page seventy-six 
 
As he stood there near the water 
 Flashed His eyes, the waw'saw mo'win, 
 Flashed His eyes, the streaked lightning. 
 Then the waters started boiling! 
 Then the earth beneath Him trembled! 
 Then He spake in voice of thunder: 
 "COME ON FORTH YE LORDS OF AU'- 
 
 KEE, 
 MASTERS NOW OF ALL THAT SHALL 
 
 BE." 
 Then the ground before Him opened! 
 Then like Ke'go from the water, 
 Like the flying fish in leaping, 
 From the red clay of the lake shore 
 Rose Au-ne'ne-ga'ie Ik'we, 
 Rose the lovers, Man and Woman. 
 
 In the presence of the new-born 
 
 Not a whisper broke the silence, — 
 
 All was still as Death about them. 
 
 O'er the lake a dark cloud hovered! 
 
 Lo, again the waters bubbled! 
 
 Once again the whole earth trembled, 
 
 Once again the thunder rumbled. 
 
 Once again the voice of Ki'ji 
 
 Echoed far across the valley: 
 
 "COME ON FORTH YE LOYAL SERV- 
 ANTS; 
 
 SERVE THY MASTER, AU'NISH-NAW' 
 BE." 
 
 Forth then leaped from out the water 
 
 page seventy-seven 
 
Pair of snow white dogs, their servants 
 
 Ni'ji-wa'be gon' o-nim'og. 
 
 Forth they leaped and shook their bodies, 
 
 Sprang into the air in frolic, 
 
 Bounded to the virgin couple 
 
 And began to kiss their fingers 
 
 As a token of affection. 
 
 Then the bride and groom each other 
 
 Fondly kissed, for close together 
 
 They were drawn by love attraction: 
 
 Both in bloom of youth were perfect, — 
 
 Not a flaw was in their making. 
 
 Thus they stood in blushing nudeness; 
 
 Ki'gi-nos' maw-kaw' mis-taw'kaw. 
 
 Long black hair of them in streaming, 
 
 Waving in the nip'nong o'den, 
 
 Waving in the morning breezes. 
 
 Nearly reached the ground beneath them. 
 
 It in contrast with their color. 
 
 With their grace and forms so stately. 
 
 Far outrivaled all the beauty 
 
 Of the other living creatures. 
 
 Then they looked about in wonder: 
 They surveyed all moving creatures, 
 Gazed upon the towering tree tops. 
 At the grass, the flowers and water, 
 At the shade and at the sunshine. 
 Then again they kissed each other; 
 And from eye to eye reflected 
 All their love, — their only language. 
 
 page seventy- eight 
 
Now at length the pretty maiden 
 Drew her hands from out her lover's, 
 Os'ki-naw'o-ning'i-maw'og, 
 Stole away into the forest, 
 Stole away into the shadows. 
 There to hide and watch his actions, 
 Thus to test his love and feelings. 
 Long in vain he sought to find her, 
 Long he wandered through the forest, 
 Long he searched the shady thickets; 
 Till at length his snow white servants, 
 Having scented out her footsteps, 
 Bellowed loudly, "We have found her." 
 
 Now when Mau'tchi Man'i-to'og, 
 All the evil Spiritual Chieftans, 
 Learned the great work had been finished, 
 Learned that Man'i-to', the Mighty, 
 Had completed what he dreamed of. 
 Sought they straightway for the couple. 
 For the new-born Man and Woman,^ 
 Searched the woods until they found them. 
 And as they surveyed the beauty 
 Of their forms erect and lovely 
 Greater grew their awe and wonder. 
 Greater grew their admiration. 
 
 When they saw the Soul of Ki'ji, 
 Saw the Soul of God Almighty 
 Shining in their lovely faces 
 Shining like the noonday Ki'sus, 
 
 page seventy -nine 
 
Then their hearts were stung and bitten 
 
 By the wasps, by mau'tchi a'mog, 
 
 By the wasps of jealous envy. 
 
 Hence they bound themselves together 
 
 In a solemn resolution, 
 
 That instead of living with them 
 
 In the peace they once held sacred 
 
 They would make them discontented. 
 
 They would make them most unhappy, 
 
 They would bring a gloom upon them. 
 
 Time rolled on and generations 
 Followed after generations, 
 Till at last our o'ni-go'maw, 
 Till at last our first ancestors 
 Thought that spirits good and evil, 
 Mau'tchi me'no Man'i-to'-og, 
 Held dominion o'er the mountains. 
 O'er the forests, plains and waters; 
 And they also thought these spirits 
 Were in part beneath their power. 
 More than that, they soon discovered 
 How that man, that Au'nish-naw'be, 
 Had possession of all wisdom 
 And the nature of all creatures. 
 And they learned a spiritual nature 
 Had been given by the Maker, 
 By the Mi'si ga'gi jit'og. 
 The Creator of all beings, 
 Of all things in Waw'kwing Au'kee, 
 Of all things in earth and heaven. 
 
 page eighty 
 
Hence when they were unsuccessful 
 In the chase or in the battle 
 It was all ascribed the spirits, 
 To the ruling evil spirits. 
 And when game was in abundance, 
 Or success was theirs in battle, 
 It was all ascribed the spirits. 
 To the good and kindly spirits 
 Holding sway across their country. 
 Sometimes to appease the spirits 
 Bringing bad luck to the people, 
 Fruit and grain was made an offering. 
 Only beasts were offered Ki'ji 
 Man'i-to' of Waw'kwing, Heaven, 
 Who alone was their Creator, 
 Who alone was God and Master. 
 
 In the olden time our people 
 
 In this manner named their children,^ 
 
 Strange it seems to modern races: 
 
 When a child was born unto them. 
 
 Bird .or beast he most resembled. 
 
 By that name they ever called him. 
 
 Then in after generations 
 
 Those that bore that name descended 
 
 From that bird or beast or creature — 
 
 Thought they did, at least they claimed so 
 
 It might have been the big bear maw'qua. 
 
 Mi'gi-si' the soaring eagle, 
 
 Or the cunning fox, the waw'gosh. 
 
 page eighty-one 
 
So it followed, ages after, 
 
 Family, tribe, and clan adopted 
 
 As their emblematic "to-tum" 
 
 That from which they thus descended. 
 
 Oft they bore with them in battle 
 
 To'tum bird or other creature; 
 
 But they mostly used it painted, 
 
 As a flag, on smoke-tanned leather. 
 
 And it was to them an emblem 
 
 Of a royalty, and symbol 
 
 Of a loyalty abiding. 
 
 Any warrior brave in battle 
 
 First would give his life and perish 
 
 Than to lose his tribal To'tum. 
 
 Benediction 
 
 Ugh, the embers now are glowing, 
 
 And your head is drooping low. 
 So I surely must be going. 
 
 If I'm ever going to go. 
 When at dawn you wake to miss me. 
 
 You will wonder where I am: 
 I am where the white-dogs kiss me. 
 
 To make room for Uncle Sam. 
 
 page eighty- two 
 
The Boy With the Steam 
 
 The growing boy is a locomotive with steam up. 
 Turn that steam through proper channels and it will 
 do a tremendous task; let that steam blow off into 
 the air and it is gone forever; keep it corked up 
 and you had better move. The locomotive was made 
 to run, to do something. So was the boy. It takes 
 food, air and water to make steam in the boy. 
 Steam means energy; it means life. A boy that's 
 got the steam has got to move. He's got to be 
 doing something, and doing that almighty hard, 
 be it play or work. 
 
 A boy that's got the steam wants to be some- 
 thing. He's heroes to imitate. He wants to be 
 what they are. A boy that's got the steam wants 
 recognition for what he does. He likes a few 
 feathers and a little brass. 
 
 We'e proud of that gigantic locomotive that pulls 
 the Twentieth Century Limited from Chicago to 
 New York in eighteen hours, — that marvelous 
 masterpiece we have made, fired, polished, oiled 
 and cared for. We're proud of the boy we've 
 raised, fed, schooled and cared for. We'e proud of 
 the boy that's got the steam. We'e proud of him 
 when that steam is carried off in manly activities 
 that develop character in him; we sigh softly 
 when that steam sizzles off into the air and is 
 wasted; we break into sobs and cry aloud wnen 
 the terrible explosion comes and James has gone 
 
 page eighty-three 
 
to bad because we did not provide a vent for his 
 steam. 
 
 Scouting furnishes a vent for the boy's steam. 
 It does more than that. It provides a track on 
 which this boy-locomotive may run easily and safely 
 — with safety first. And the track it provides does 
 not run aimlessly about and lead to nowhere. It 
 is an air-line to Character, Manhood, Citizenship 
 SQid Success. These are the four stations on the 
 up-hill grade of achievement. It's a hard climb, 
 but the boy that's got the steam and stays on the 
 track will make the grade. 
 
 Your home is the round-house on the grade 
 where it is steepest. You are the switchman. Turn 
 your boy out the right door and he will make a 
 manly climb — panting, puffing, chugging, climbing. 
 Turn your boy out the wrong door and pay no at- 
 tention to the throttle or the brake and he may 
 take the path of least resistance down the rails 
 through Blind Alley and Cigarette Street, across 
 Whiskey River into the Marsh of Lost Hope. 
 Whether your boy climbs the grade to Success or 
 whether he slides to the Pit of Shame depends 
 largely upon the chance you give him. 
 
 "Plenty of room for the dives and dens. 
 
 Glitter and glare of sin; 
 Plenty of room for the prison pens, 
 
 Gather the criminals in; 
 Plenty of room for the courts and jails, 
 
 Willing enough to pay; 
 But never a place for the boys to race. 
 
 Never a chance to play. 
 
 page eighty-four 
 
Plenty of room for shops and stores, 
 
 Mammon must have the best; 
 Plenty of room for the running sores, 
 
 That rot in the city's breast; 
 Plenty of room for the lures that lead 
 
 The hearts of our youths astray; 
 But never a cent on Jimmy spent 
 
 To give him his chance to play." 
 
 You as a father might have said," I can't afford 
 to have my boy become a scout." Believe me, you 
 can not afford not to have him be one. "A scout 
 IS thrifty. He works faithfully, wastes nothing 
 and makes the best use of his opportunities. He 
 saves his money so that he may pay his own way, 
 be generous to those in need, and helpful to worthy 
 objects. He may work for pay, but must not re- 
 ceive tips for courtesies or *good turns.' " It only 
 costs a trifle each year to be officially enrolled, and 
 a uniform is not essential to good scouting. 
 
 You might have said, "Poor James is not strong 
 enough." Then I say, give him a chance to grow; 
 ^ive him a chance to get out in the pure air and 
 sunshine; give him a chance to exercise his muscles 
 in fair play; give him a chance to roam the hills, 
 to climb trees, to swim, to become self-reliant, re- 
 sourceful and strong. 
 
 You might have said, "No, James must not be 
 a scout. He's got too much school work to do. 
 He must stay at home and study." Then let me 
 ^sk you, what would it profit either you or James 
 were he to acquire all the wisdom of the world 
 
 page eighty-five 
 
Minimum Efficiency 
 
 MAXIMUM COST 
 
 NEGLECTED BOYS GAMBLING FOR PENNIES 
 
 Neglected boys are easily led by a bad leader into evil 
 
 amusements and unheelthy surroundings 
 
 page eighty-six 
 
Maximum Efficiency 
 
 MINIMUM COST 
 
 DIRECTED BOYS IN CLEAN, VIGOROUS SCOUT LIFE 
 
 Directed boys are easily led by a good leader into proper 
 
 amusements and healthful surroundings 
 
 pag-e eig-hty-seven 
 
and yet have no brawn in his arm or lime in his 
 spine? Man is a social being; so is a boy. He 
 will learn more from his playmates than from his 
 books. Then give him a chance to associate with 
 a group of fellows that are clean in thought and 
 speech and deed. Moreover scout training makes 
 for better scholarship, loyalty to the teachers and 
 the institution, and appreciation of the privileges 
 provided. 
 
 You might have said, "I will tend to Jimmie's 
 training at home." It is very well that you should. 
 But would not the program of Scouting be a great 
 help in doing that, for it teaches respect for pa- 
 rents, faithfulness in the performance of the home 
 duties, and kindness and appreciation of the value 
 of co-operation. "A scout is loyal and a scout is 
 helpful." 
 
 You might have said, "No, James can not join 
 the Scouts. He must go to church and Sunday 
 school and be a nice little man." Very well! But 
 we're not going to take him out of the church or 
 away from Sunday school, but instead we're going 
 to encourage him to attend. "A Scout is reverent. 
 He is reverent towards God. He is faithful in his 
 religious duties and respects the convictions of 
 others in matters of custom and religion." Is 
 there anything irreligious in getting a boy out into 
 God's great out-of-doors where he may educate 
 himself in *the great works of the Father? Is 
 there anything irreligious in teaching a boy to be 
 trustworthy, loyal, helpful and friendly; to be 
 
 page eighty-eight 
 
courteous at all times, kind to animals, cheerful 
 under all circumstances; to have the courage to 
 stand up for the right against the coaxing of his 
 friends or the threats or jeers of those who are not; 
 to keep clean in thought and speech and deed and 
 travel with a clean crowd? Is there anything ir- 
 religious in always following the golden rule and in 
 trying to be of some service to others each day? 
 
 You might have said, "Jimmie has got to work; 
 he will have no time for this Scouting." Certainly 
 it is very important that Jimmie should be taught 
 to work. We need less loafers in our communities of 
 today. But still, you know what all work and no 
 play does to Jack. The same holds true for Jim- 
 mie. Do you want your boy to grow up to be 
 a beast of burden, or do you want him to become 
 self-reliant, resourceful, and have some real pur- 
 pose in life. Scouting gives him a chance to dis- 
 cover himself. It is a valuable aid in helping 
 him find his life's work. And the working for 
 the various badges of achievement is real hard 
 work, but it is work that is like play to the boy. 
 Why? Because it is interesting; because it means 
 something to him; because it gives him recognition 
 for what he does. More than that, the whole idea 
 of Scouting is to get away from the selfish motives 
 and to train for worthwhile service for all. Give 
 this Scout Movement it's rightful chance, as we 
 are doing, and in two generations prisons, re- 
 formatories, jails, insane asylums, saloons, gamb- 
 ling houses and other places of ill-repute will be 
 a thing of the past. 
 
 page eighty-nine 
 
It has been said, "I don't believe in war. I'm 
 for peace." And who said that expressed the 
 great principle of the Scout Movement, a most 
 powerful factor working for world-peace. If you 
 raised your boy to be a MAN, a man of courage- 
 ous character, a man that is willing to LIVE for 
 his country, as well as himself, then you should 
 welcome the great help that Scouting offers. There 
 is no selfish motive back of this thing. The great 
 aim is to make the boy an asset to his town and 
 state, to train him, or rather let him educate him- 
 self for good manhood and citizenship. 
 
 It is no newborn theory or fad. It is based upon 
 deep fundamental principles of boy nature and boy 
 training. It has a tremendous automatic moral 
 grip on the heart of the boy. It works. 
 
 Whether or not, then, your boy becomes a scout 
 depends upon whether or not you want him to join 
 the greatest movement the world has ever known 
 for developing character in boys; whether or not 
 you want him to enjoy his rightful chance to grow 
 strong in the great out-of-doors; whether or not 
 you want him governed in his daily life by the 
 greatest moral code ever written — the scout law, 
 which says that a scout is trustworthy, loyal, help- 
 ful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, 
 thrifty, brave, clean and reverent; whether or not you 
 want him to stand, as a million other parents have 
 had their boys stand, at attention, and promise upon 
 his honor to do his duty to God and his country 
 and obey the scout law, to help other people at 
 all times, and to keep himself physically strong. 
 
 page ninety 
 
mentally awake and morally straight. It depends 
 upon whether or not you want your boy to remain 
 the Paleface James, the savage Jimmie, or grow 
 into the manly Jim who will repay you and his 
 country a thousand fold for having given him his 
 rightful chance to 
 
 "Be Prepared." 
 
 page uinety-oue- 
 
page ninety -two 
 
LOOK FORWARD! 
 
 to read 
 
 EFFICIENT LEADERSHIP 
 TRAIL STORIES 
 THE GHOST 
 HAYSEED 
 
 by 
 MERRITT LAMB 
 
 page ninety-three 
 
Press of 
 
 W. C. FOOTE PRINTING CO. 
 
 Muskegon, Michigan