The Magic Speech Flower - or Little Luke and His Animal Friends
by Melvin Hix
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"Now Gloos-cap the Good knew the wickedness and spite that lay hid in the heart of his brother. So he said, 'Nay, but tell me first, what it is with which you may be slain?'

"And the wicked Mal-sum thought in his heart, 'What would it matter even if he knew the truth? I shall slay him before he can harm me.' So he answered truly, 'By the stroke of a fern-root only can I be slain. Now what is your secret?'

"But Gloos-cap, knowing his brother's wickedness, was unwilling to trust him. So he answered falsely and craftily, 'By the stroke of an owl's feather it is fated that I shall be some day slain.'

"Now the wicked Mai-sum was greatly rejoiced in heart at hearing this. So he left his brother, making some excuse, and went off into the woods alone. There finding an owl, one of my foreparents, he shot him, and, taking some of his feathers, returned home.

"That night while Gloos-cap was sleeping, the wicked Mai-sum arose, and taking the owl's feather, struck his brother upon the forehead. But Gloos-cap, awakened by the blow, only laughed. 'It is not really a feather,' said he, 'but a pine-root that shall end my life. I was but joking with you this morning.'

"But the wicked Mai-sum feigned that lie, too, had been only in sport, and the two brothers lay down again and slept.

"But the next night, while Gloos-cap was sleeping, Mai-sum again arose and struck him upon the forehead with a pine-root.

"This time Gloos-cap, seeing the wickedness of his brother's heart, and that he was bound to take his life, arose and drove Mai-sum forth into the woods. Then he went away and sat down by the brookside, considering what he should do.

"'Truly,' said he to himself, 'he will yet slay me. If he but knew that a flowering rush is fated to be my bane, my life would not be safe for a moment.'

"Now it chanced that the beaver was hidden among the reeds in the brook and heard what Gloos-cap had said. So he went off to Mal-sum, and told him his brother's secret for a reward.

"The reward was that Mal-sum by his magic power should grant whatever the beaver might ask. So the beaver asked that he might have wings like a wood dove. But Mal-sum only laughed at him. 'Wings for you!' he chuckled; 'you, who have nothing to do but paddle about in the mud and eat bark! what need have you of wings? Besides, how would you with that flat tail of yours look with wings!'

"Now you may be sure that the beaver was angry at being thus made sport of. So he went straightway to Gloos-cap and told him that Mal-sum had found out his secret.

"'Now,' said Gloos-cap to himself, 'I must needs slay him. He does naught but evil in the world, and I have not yet finished the good work which the Master of Life sent me to do.' That night he arose and, talking a fern-root, smote the wicked Mal-sum on the head so that he died.

"Now Gloos-cap knew that Mee-ko the Red Squirrel had tempted his brother to try to slay him, and since Mee-ko was so large and of such an evil temper, lie feared that he would do much harm. So meeting Mee-ko one day in the woods, he said, 'Tell me, what would you do if you should see a man?'

"'If I should see a man,' answered Mee-ko, 'I would dig up the trees of the forest, so that they would fall upon and slay him. Then I would feast upon his dead body.'

"'You are too large and too wicked,' said Gloos-cap. 'I fear I cannot change your temper, but I can your size,' So he passed his hands over the big red squirrel's back, and behold, he shrunk and shriveled until he became small, even as small as he is at this day. But his temper remained almost as bad as before. Even to-day, he can scarcely see any creature without scolding and saying bad words."


Up in the woods on the side of the mountain Mother Mit-chee the Ruffled Partridge built her nest, close beside the trail. It was nothing but a little hollow in the ground, lined with leaves.

It was in plain sight and you would have supposed that anyone going along the trail would have seen it. But they didn't. Old John the Indian and Sam the hired man passed it a dozen times and never noticed it. Even Old Boze did not find it, although he followed Sam up and down the trail many times.

You see, Mother Mit-chee knew enough to sit perfectly still, and her mottled feathers blended so exactly with the tree trunks and the dead leaves about her that only the sharp eyes of the Finder of the Magic Flower ever found her out.

Little Luke saw her one day as he was walking up the trail beside Sam the hired man, and with Old Boze following at his heels. But he went right on by, as if he had not seen Mother Mit-chee at all. He did not want Sam or Old Boze to see her, for he knew they could not be trusted. They would be almost sure to try to kill Mother Mit-chee, or at the very least, they would rob her nest.

The next morning the little boy went up the trail alone, to pay Mother Mit-chee a visit. "Good morning, Mother Mit-chee," said he, "I saw you yesterday, but Sam and Old Boze didn't, and I wouldn't tell them."

"I knew you saw me," replied Mother Mit-chee, "and I knew you wouldn't tell. You are too kind-hearted for that, especially since you found the Magic Flower and learned the animal talk. We all trust you. You may come to see me as often as you like, but be careful not to leave any trail near my nest. I don't want Old Boze nosing around here. And when you come along with any of the house people, just go right by and don't look this way. I am more afraid of Old John the Indian than of anyone else. He looked right at me the other day and I was sure he saw me. I was scared, I tell you. I was all ready to fly away. But he didn't see me. If he had, I never should have seen my eggs again."

"All right," said the little boy, "I'll do just as you say." And after some more talk, he went on up the trail to visit some of his other friends among the wild folk.

Many times during the days that followed the little boy stopped and talked with the Mother Partridge. "If you will come to-morrow," said she, one day, "I'll show you as fine a brood of partridge chicks as anyone could wish to see."

"I'll be sure to come," answered the little boy, "for I want to see them very much."

As he came up the next day, Mother Mit-chee stepped off her nest. "There," said she, "there they are. Now aren't they fine ones?"

The little boy looked. In the nest there were a dozen of the daintiest, downiest, little creatures he had ever seen. They were scarcely bigger than an acorn. "They surely are a fine brood," said he. "Aren't you afraid that something will catch them?"

"Of course I am afraid. I'm always afraid." said Mother Mit-chee, "but the creature that catches them will have to be pretty sharp. I know a trick or two that will fool most of the wild folk, and the house people as well. You come up to-morrow and I'll show you. They are pretty young now, and I don't want to disturb them unless I have to."

The next day the little boy found the nest empty. He looked carefully about for Mother Mit-chee and her brood. Suddenly something rose almost from under his feet, and whizzed off through the wood. There was a sound like an explosion, followed by thunder, which scared the little boy so that he jumped. But he saw that it was only Mother Mit-chee, and he had seen her do that before.

He knew that the chicks were near at hand, and looked around carefully for them.

Pretty soon Mother Mit-chee sailed around through the woods and dropped to the ground but a little way from the boy. She seemed to have been hurt, badly hurt. One wing dragged as if it was broken, and she limped sadly.

"Ha, ha," laughed the little boy, "you can't fool me with that trick. You needn't keep it up any longer, I shan't follow you. I know that you are not hurt at all. Old John told me all about it. He told me that he saw you playing that very trick on Kee-wuks the Red Fox only the other day."

"Well, well!" said Mother Mit-chee. "Did Old John see that? I didn't know he was anywhere about. Yes," she went on. "Kee-wuks thought he had me that time. I let him get close up. Then he jumped for me; but when he landed where I was, I wasn't there! If I hadn't made him believe he could catch me he might have found my chicks."

"Well," said Little Luke, "I heard Sam say that no one could find a young partridge chick, but I'm going to try it. You know since I found the Magic Flower my eyes are sharper than those of any of the other house people."

"All right," said Mother Mit-chee, "I'll call them out. I'm afraid if you walk around there, you'll step on them; they're right around your feet." And she began calling to the chicks. "Kreet, kreet, come out, come out, right away," she called.

Right before little Luke a dead leaf that was curled up seemed to come to life, but it wasn't really the leaf. It was the partridge chick that had squatted upon it that moved. Just before him, little Luke saw a tiny bunch under the dead leaves. He reached down and seized it, but very carefully. It was another one of the chicks. And the ground about him seemed alive with the little ones as they came out at their mother's call.

"Well done," said Mother Mit-chee, "your eyes certainly are good. But handle him carefully. Don't squeeze too tight. There now, you've hurt him!" (The little one was peeping as if in pain.)

Little Luke set him very carefully on the ground. "Don't worry," said he, "he isn't hurt, he's only a little scared."

"Well," said Mother Mit-chee, "I must take these babies of mine down to the spring and teach them how to drink. They have never tasted water yet."

"Kreet, kreet, come along, come along," called Mother Mit-chee.

"Peep, peep, we're coming, we're coming, mother," said the little ones. And they all started down the mountainside toward the spring.

It took a good while to get there, for the chicks were young, and their little legs so short and so weak that Mother Mit-chee had to wait for them a good many times. But it was a pretty sight. The yellow, downy, little fellows marched along boldly behind their mother. Sometimes she would go on a little way ahead. Then she would stop and call, "Kreet, kreet, come along, children," and the little fellows would race to see who could catch up first.

Some of them were not so strong as others, and at times they would squat upon the ground to rest. Mother Mit-chee would wait as long as she thought proper, and then tell them to "come along." And away they would go down the mountainside.

At last they reached the spring. The little ones had never seen water before, and did not know what to do. But Mother Mit-chee took a drop of clear, cold water in her bill, and raised her head before she swallowed it. Each chick copied her motion exactly. It was fun for the little boy to watch them. Nearly the whole dozen would clip their little bills into the water at once, and raise their heads to swallow it, as they had seen their mother do.

"Mother Mit-chee," said the little boy, after they had all finished drinking, "what makes you raise your head before you swallow the water?"

"Oh," said Mother Mit-chee, "that is our way of giving thanks to the Master of Life for the cool, sweet water. Our family learned to do it a long time ago, and we have always done it since."

"That sounds as if there might be a story about it," said the little boy, who was always on the watch for stories.

"Well," said Mother Mit-chee, "there is a story about it."


"A long time ago," she went on, "there came a summer when no rain fell for many weeks. As you know, all the feathered folk can get along pretty well if there are only dew-drops to drink. But after a time there was no dew, and even the grass withered and died.

"All the feathered tribes suffered terribly from thirst. At last they gathered together in a great council, and asked the Master of Life to take pity on them in their sad state. He heard their prayer, and sent the angel who cares for the wild folk to speak to them.

"'The Master of Life,' said he, 'has seen your sufferings and heard your prayers. He is merciful and kind, and has given orders to the Angel of the Rain Clouds to supply your needs. Look!' said he, pointing to the west. All the feathered folk looked, and behold, in the distance, the dark Rain Clouds were already flying toward them, driven by the breath of the Angel of the Winds.

"Soon the rain began to fall, the grass, the flowers, and the trees revived, the springs were filled, and the sweet murmur of running water was again heard in the brooks and rivers. The wild folk drank and were refreshed.

"Before the Angel of the Wild Folk departed, he said, 'From this time on forever when you drink, you must raise your head as a token of thankfulness to the Master of Life who has sent you the refreshing rain.'

"If you watch them, you will notice that all the feathered folk show their gratitude to the Master of Life in the same way."


"Where is Father Mit-chee?" asked the little boy of the Mother Partridge, one day.

"I don't know," she answered; "I haven't seen him since I began to sit."

"Well," said the little boy, "I think he's a mean, lazy scamp, to go off and leave you to take care of the family alone."

"Well," said Mother Mit-chee, "it would be rather nice to have some help. I feel a bit lonesome sometimes, especially when I notice how kind Father O-loo-la is to his wife and family. But it isn't the custom in our family. The fathers leave the mothers to take care of the family. They never come near us until their children are able to take care of themselves. I've taught these youngsters of mine what to eat and where to find it. They have learned to fly pretty well, and taken some lessons in whirring, so that they can frighten their enemies. I wouldn't be surprised to see Father Mit-chee any day. Why, there he is now! I can tell his drumming any time."

The little boy listened. Far off in the distance he heard thump!—thump!—thump!—thump!—thr-r-r-r-r-r!

"Let's go and meet him," said Mother Mit-chee. "He doesn't know you, so I'll go ahead. Then he won't be frightened."

So they went through the woods, Mother Mit-chee in the lead, till they came in sight of the Father Partridge. He was standing on a fallen log and drumming. Just how he did it the little boy could not tell. He flapped his wings like a rooster, and seemed to beat the log or his own sides. As the little boy watched him, he thought that perhaps the sound was made by Father Mit-chee's wings striking together over his back. When he saw Mother Mit-chee coming, he walked up and down the log very proudly. Then he stopped and drummed louder than ever.

"Well," said Mother Mit-chee, "so you've come back at last, have you? Here are your children. Don't they look as if I had taken good care of them?"

"Why, yes," replied Father Mit-chee, "they're looking pretty well. I've heard of you several times, and knew that you were getting along all right. But who's that over yonder?" he asked, as he caught sight of Little Luke.

"Oh," answered Mother Mit-chee, "you've heard of him before. He's the boy who found the Magic Flower, and learned the animal talk."

That was the way little Luke came to know Father Mit-chee.


"Father Mit-Chee," said little Luke one day as the two were sitting together on the drumming log, "can't you tell me a story?"

"Why, yes," said Father Mit-chee, "I suppose I might, I might tell you the story of the first partridge."

Long, long ago an Indian was hunting in the woods. As he went along, he heard a noise as of people jumping and dancing on hard ground. "That is queer," said he to himself. "I will go and see what is going on."

So he turned his steps in the direction of the sound, and went on through the forest swiftly but silently. Though at the first the noise had seemed to come from a place near at hand, it was a long time before he came in sight of the dancers. They were a man and a woman, and they were jumping and dancing about a tree, in the top of which was Hes-puns the Raccoon.

Now all three of them, the raccoon as well as the man and woman, were magicians. The man and the woman were enemies to the other, and as their magic was stronger than his, he had turned himself into a raccoon to escape them.

The hunter did not know this. He went toward them, and as he drew near, he saw that the dancers had worn a ditch waist-deep about the tree.

He went up to them and asked them why they did this strange thing.

Now the man and the woman did not want the hunter to know the truth of the matter. So they said, "We are trying to wear away the earth from the root of this tree, so that we can get it down and catch Hes-puns, We are hungry and we have no tomahawk."

"Well," said the hunter, "I have a good tomahawk and I will cut down the tree for you. But you must give me the skin of Hes-puns."

They agreed to this, and the hunter soon brought the tree to the ground. They caught the raccoon and killed and skinned him. Then they gave the skin to the hunter, who went home.

A few days after this, the hunter saw a stranger coming toward his lodge. On his head he wore a strange kind of cap which looked like a small wigwam. When the hunter went out to meet him, the stranger took off his cap and set it upon the ground. At once it grew larger and larger until it became a beautiful lodge with several fine rooms in it.

The hunter was greatly amazed, but invited the stranger into his own lodge and set food before him. While eating, the visitor chanced to see the pelt of Hes-puns hanging on one of the lodge poles.

Now he was a magician and the brother of the one who had turned himself into a raccoon. As soon as he saw the skin, he knew it by certain marks to be the skin of his brother, and supposed that the hunter had killed him. So he thought, how he might be revenged upon him.

"That is a fine pelt you have there," said he to the hunter. "I should like to buy it."

"Yes," replied the hunter, "it is a fine one, but I do not care to sell it."

"I will give you more than it is worth," said the magician. And he offered everything that he had except his magic wigwam.

"No, I do not care to sell it," answered the hunter to each new offer. But finally, he said, "If you will give me that fine lodge of yours, you may have the skin."

"It's a bargain," said the magician; "the lodge is yours. But you must keep me overnight. We will sleep in your new lodge, which is much finer and better furnished than this."

"Very well," replied the hunter, "but you must show me how to carry my new lodge upon my head as you did."

"Oh, that is easy," returned the magician, "you just pick it up and put it on your head. Come out and try it now."

The hunter went out and picked up the lodge and put it upon his head. He found he could carry it easily, for it was as light as a wicker basket.

When he put it upon the ground, it at once grew as large as before. So the hunter and his wife and the stranger went into the lodge. Its new owner was greatly pleased with it. It contained several large rooms, in one of which was a very fine bed covered with a white bear skin. On that bed the hunter and his wife lay down to sleep, while the stranger found a bed in another room.

In the morning when the hunter and his wife awoke, they were more delighted than ever with their new lodge. It seemed large and airy, and from the beams high above their heads hung all kinds of things good to eat. There were ducks and geese, rabbits and venison, ears of corn, and bags of maple sugar.

In their joy, the man and his wife sprang out of bed and made a jump toward the dainties. At once the white bear skin melted and ran away, for it was nothing but the snow of winter. At the same time, their arms spread out into wings, and they flew up to the food, which was only the early buds of the birch tree on which they hung. For the magician had cast a spell upon the man and the woman and they had become partridges and had been sheltering themselves from the storms of winter under a snowdrift, after the manner of their kind, and now came forth to greet the pleasant spring.

And these two were the first partridges, the foreparents of all the partridges that are now in the world.

"That is a strange story," said the little boy. "I thank you for telling it. But now I must go home. Good-bye for to-day."


A few days later little Luke went up into the woods again. As he walked along the trail, he heard Father Mit-chee drumming. He knew where the drumming log was, so he went over to it and sat down on one end.

"Father Mit-chee," said he, when the old partridge had finished, "I noticed a queer thing about your drumming. One day I heard Old John pounding on a canoe he was building. At a distance your drumming sounded just like his pounding. Why was that?"

"Well," said Father Mit-chee, "I suppose it was because Grandfather Mit-chee, the first partridge, was a canoe builder. When he stopped building canoes he kept up his drumming."

"Tell me about it, please," said the little boy.

"All right,' said Father Mit-chee, and he began this story.

* * * * *

"In the olden days, Mit-chee the Partridge was the canoe builder for all the birds. Once upon a time they all came together on the bank of the river, and each one got into his own bark. Truly that was a fine sight to see!

"Kit-chee the Great Eagle paddled off first, using the ends of his broad wings. After him went Ko-ko-ka the Owl; Kusk the Crane; Wee-so-wee the Bluebird; and Chip-sis the Blackbird. Even tiny A-la-moo the Humming Bird had a neat little boat. But his wings were so small that Mit-chee had made for him a dainty little paddle. Some of the birds thought it rather too large, for it was almost an inch long. So the fleet of canoes stood bravely out to sea, and after a pleasant voyage returned safely to land.

"Now the partridge had not taken part in the voyage, for he had built no canoe for himself. 'It's great sport,' said the other birds, on their return. 'Why didn't you build a canoe for yourself?' But Mit-chee only looked wise and drummed upon the log on which he was sitting, and the sound was the sound of one making a canoe.'

"But the birds kept asking him to build a canoe for himself and join them. At last he remarked that he was about to do so, and that when he had finished it, it would be a wonder, something new such as no eye had ever before beheld.

"Then he went off into the woods by himself and was seen no more for several days. When he came back, he invited all the birds to come and see his wonderful canoe,—one he had built for himself on an entirely new plan.

"Now Mit-chee had reasoned that if a boat having two ends could be rowed in two ways, one which was all ends (that is, round) could be rowed in every direction. So he had made a canoe exactly like a nest, perfectly round. When the honest feathered folk saw this, they were greatly amazed and wondered that so simple a thing had not occurred to all of them.

"But when Mit-chee got into his new canoe and began to paddle, their wonder turned into amusement, for he made no headway at all. However hard he worked, the canoe simply turned round and round.

"After wearying himself, and all in vain, he went ashore, and flew off far inland. There he hid himself for shame under the low bushes in the woods, and there he has lived ever since. But at certain seasons, when he thought no one was looking, he would get upon a dead log and drum with his wings, and the sound was like the sound which he used to make when he was building canoes.

"And so his children have always done since that day."


Up at the edge of the woods the wood-cutters had felled a tree into the open pasture. As they trimmed the trunk, they threw the smaller branches into a big pile. Uncle Mark intended to burn them when they became dry enough, but forgot all about it. There they had lain for years, till they were dead and covered with moss. Over the heap of half-rotted brushwood a tangle of wild vines had spread, and up through them a thicket of blackberry bushes had grown.

This was just the place for a rabbit nest. Mother Wa-poose could squat anywhere in the pile and her brown coat would blend with the dead brush so perfectly that only the keenest eye could see her. No hawk or owl could swoop through such a tangle of vines and brush, and no fox or dog could creep through the close-set hedge of thorny blackberry bushes without losing a good deal of his hide.

Through the thicket Mother Wa-poose cut two or three paths just wide enough for herself, but not big enough for a dog or a fox. In the middle of the brush pile, she dug a little round hollow about a foot across and lined it with coarse grass. On the top of this she placed another lining of finer grass. Then she filled the hollow quite full of soft fur from her own coat. No bird's nest could be cosier or safer. To be sure, it was on the ground, but the land sloped and no water could settle into it.

One day as little Luke was passing by the brush pile, his keen eye saw Mother Wa-poose. "There," said he to himself, "is just the place for a rabbit's nest. I'll take a look at Mother Wa-poose's babies."

So he got down on his hands and knees, pulled the bushes apart, and crept into the thicket. He saw the nest, but could not get quite to it because of the sharp thorns on the blackberry bushes.

"Good morning, Man-cub," said Mother Wa-poose.

"Good morning, Mother Wa-poose," said little Luke; "don't be afraid, I only want to take a look at your babies."

"Oh, I'm not afraid," said Mother Wa-poose. "None of us are afraid of you any more. Look all you want to. But don't come any nearer. I am afraid you will open a path for Kee-wuk the Red Fox, or for Old Boze the Hound. Both of them have been around here several times. They know that I and my babies are here, but they can't get in. Old Boze tried it the other day, but went back to the house with a pair of bloody ears for his pains."

"Yes, I noticed his ears," said little Luke, "and wondered what he had been up to."

The little boy sat down as comfortably as he could and looked at Mother Wa-poose and her babies.

"Mother Wa-poose," said he after a while, "what makes you wriggle your nose so?"

"Oh," said Mother Wa-poose, "I do that to keep my smeller clear. You see we have so many enemies that we have to be on the watch all the time, and I can smell a fox or a dog almost as far as I can see them. You see I always sit with my nose to the wind, and my ears in the other direction. My nose tells me who is coming in front; my ears tell me who is coming from behind; and my eyes keep watch on both sides. I sleep most of the day, but my eyes, my ears, and my nose are always awake. Why, I knew you were coming almost half an hour ago. My nose told me. It is only in such a place as this that my three sentinels ever get any rest.

"When I haven't any babies to care for, I like to sit in a more open place in the sun. So long as I have a chance to run each way, I am not much afraid of anybody. And if it wasn't for the men with their dreadful fire-sticks, we of the Wa-poose family would have a pretty safe and easy time of it."

Just then the deep bay of a hound was heard. "There," said Mother Wa-poose, "there's Old Boze now. Would you like to see how I can fool him?"

"I would indeed," said little Luke, "if you are not afraid. Old Boze is a wise, old hound, and he may catch you."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of that," said Mother Wa-poose. "You just sit here where you can see, and I'll go down there and give Old Boze the time of his life. I think he must be trailing me now by the sound. I was down in the garden last night after a meal of cabbage leaves, and I suppose he has found my track."

Mother Wa-poose sprang out of her hiding place and went down the slope ten feet at a bound. She crossed her old track near the pasture bars and hopped slowly on to the edge of the blackberry patch. There she sat till she was sure that Old Boze had found her new trail. Then she skipped here and there through the briar patch till she came out on the other side. With a great leap she cleared the fence and ran on down through the cornfield. When she was clear of that, she ran along beside the stone wall till she came to the creek. Over the creek she went at one leap; then down through the alder bushes till she came back again into the pasture. Two or three times she crossed the brook. Then she came around up through the woods to the brush pile, where little Luke was sitting. From its lower edge there was a good view all down through the pasture. There Mother Wa-poose sat up and watched the old hound, her big, round eyes shining with glee.

Old Boze followed her trail into the blackberry thicket. Round and round he followed the scent, pushing his way through the stout bushes. Every bush was armed with a thousand sharp hooks, and every hook clung to the old hound's skin. He fairly whimpered with pain. Now and then he gave tongue, until at last he came out on the other side. But his ears were in tatters and blood drops oozed from his skin in a thousand places.

At the fence he was balked. Up and down beside the fence he ran several times, nosing the ground for the scent.

"Look at him! Look at him," said Mother Wa-poose, fairly shaking her sides with laughter. "Isn't he a sight? But that won't teach him anything. He'll do it the next time. Rabbit chasing must be lots of fun for him."

"I really do think he enjoys it," said little Luke.

Old Boze jumped over the fence and found the trail again. He followed it until he came to the creek. There he was puzzled. But he crossed the brook and found the trail at last. Over in the pasture he lost it again. Mother Wa-poose had been too cunning for him this time. After nosing the ground in all directions for a long time in vain, the old hound gave it up, and went back to the house.

"You see," said Mother Wa-poose, "if it wasn't for the fire-sticks, the hounds would not bother us much. Why will the house people be so cruel to us? We never harm them. Last fall the fire-sticks killed six of my children." And Mother Wa-poose's eyes filled with tears at the thought.

"It is too bad," said little Luke, "but Uncle Mark says that if some of the rabbits weren't killed off every year, they'd soon eat all the grass from the sheep and cows, and we wouldn't be able to raise any cabbages or turnips at all. Besides, you know, the house people like rabbit's flesh to eat. I used to eat it myself, but I'll never do it any more."

"How dreadful!" said Mother Wa-poose. "I don't see how anybody can eat flesh. Clover, or a nice, tender cabbage leaf is a good deal better."


A few days after little Luke saw something that gave him a new feeling of respect for Mother Wa-poose.

He was going up to make her another visit. As he came near the brush pile, he heard a thump! thump! thump! "That's Mother Wa-poose," said he to himself, "and she's angry about something. I wonder what can be the matter."

He went around to the other side of the brush pile and then he knew. There was Old Klaws the House Cat, his tail twitching and his round eyes shining hungrily.

Just as the boy caught sight of the old cat, Mother Wa-poose sprang out of the thicket. She sprang straight at Old Klaws. The cat snarled and shrank to one side. But Mother Wa-poose was too quick for him. As she went over, she struck him a sounding thwack with her hind feet. It fairly made the old cat's ribs crack, and he rolled over and over down the slope. In a second he sprang up, snarling and spitting. Again Mother Wa-poose sprang at him. This time she hit him squarely on the side of the head. Old Klaws went down, rolling over several times before he could right himself. The last thwack took all the fight out of him. He scrambled to his feet and went flying down the hillside at his best speed.

"There," said old Mother Wa-poose, "I guess he'll know enough to keep away from here after this."

"Why, Mother Wa-poose," said the little boy, "I didn't know that you were such a fighter."

"Well," said Mother Wa-poose, "we of the Wa-poose family never fight if we can help it. We'd rather run. But we aren't really afraid of anything our size. And this time I couldn't run. If I had, Old Klaws would surely have carried off one of my babies. He got one of them this spring. You remember the one you took away from him. He is grown up and has gone out into the world for himself now. You know we Wa-pooses have three or four families each year."


"Would you like to see a rabbit dance?" asked Father Wa-poose one day in September.

"Indeed, I should," replied little Luke.

"Come out to-night then," said Wa-poose, "and sit down in the shadow of the stone wall in the corner of the clover field. There you will see something you have never seen before."

"I'll be there," said the boy.

That night little Luke went up to his room early. He took off his shoes and threw them heavily upon the floor, and blew out the light. Then he jumped upon his bed, so that it creaked loudly. Without taking off his clothes, he got under the blankets, and when Aunt Martha looked in, he seemed to be sound asleep. She did not look into the closet to see whether his clothes were hanging up there or not.

When he thought Aunt Martha had gone to bed, the little boy got up quietly, took his shoes in his hand, and slipped softly down the back stairs. Silently he unlocked and opened the kitchen door, and went out into the moonlight.

He did not feel that he was doing quite right, but he was afraid to ask Aunt Martha. You see he was afraid that she might ask questions, which he could not answer without telling about the Magic Flower and his wild friends.

He went over to the clover field and sat down in the corner of the stone fence where some bushes hid him from view.

For some time nothing happened. Pretty soon he heard a queer thump! thump! thump! He looked up and there was old Father Wa-poose close beside him. He had come into the field so quietly that little Luke had not heard a sound.

"Hi! hi! there you are, Man-cub," said the old rabbit. "Now you sit very still, and you'll see something worth seeing. Of course we are not really afraid of you, but if some of the young folks should see you, they might get nervous. I'll just go out and get my supper, and when the fun begins I'll come back and keep you company. I don't care much for dancing. I leave that mostly to the young people."

Soon from all sides, rabbits came leaping over the fence into the field. There were young rabbits and old rabbits, big rabbits and little rabbits.

Sometimes one of them would stop and thump the ground with his hind feet. This seemed to be a signal; for when one thumped, another would come hopping toward him. The two would touch noses and then turn to on the sweet, young clover, that had grown up since the July mowing.

Their feast lasted for an hour or more. Then the fun began. Several of them would hop close together in the centre of the field. Then they would skip slowly about in a sort of stately dance. Little by little the movement became faster and faster until they were spinning around like a pinwheel in a brisk breeze. Round and round they went until it made little Luke's head dizzy to watch them.

Suddenly a rabbit stamped with his hind feet,—thump! thump! thump! Instantly every rabbit squatted motionless. It was a danger signal, but a false one. Nothing happened.

Soon the fun began again. Several of the rabbits had a game of tag. Round and round they went, leaping ten feet or more at each bound. Sometimes in the midst of their race, one of them would take a sky-hop. Up straight into the air he would go as if he were trying to reach the moon.

"Why do they do that?" asked little Luke of Father Wa-poose, who had come back and was sitting quietly beside him.

"They do that," answered the old rabbit, "to get a clear look all around them. You know we always have to be on the lookout for our foes."

Not far from little Luke two rabbits were having a boxing match. They stood up to each other just like men. Little Luke could hear a soft spat, spat, spat, as the blows went home. Their paws were so soft that the blows did not hurt and it was great fun.

Suddenly thump! thump! thump! sounded the danger signal again. Not for nothing this time! Ko-ko-ka the Great Owl came sailing over the clover field as silently as a ghost. But for all his great eyes, the old owl could not see a single rabbit. Neither could little Luke.

"Where have they all gone to?" he asked Father Wa-poose.

"Oh," said he, "they're all there. So long as they sit perfectly still old Ko-ko-ka can't see them."

"Why didn't they run away?" asked little Luke.

"What's the use?" replied the old rabbit; "so long as we know he is coming, we aren't afraid of Ko-ko-ka. If he should swoop at one of them, he'd just give a bound and get out of danger. Old Ko-ko-ka can't catch a rabbit who knows he's coming. It's the way he comes that makes us fear him. His wings are covered with down and do not make a sound. That's the reason we all dread him so. Ugh! I fairly shiver when I think of him. He nearly got me once. His sharp claws scratched my ears."

Ko-ko-ka was very hungry. He knew the rabbits were in that meadow, and hated to go off without one. While Wa-poose had been talking, he had been sailing slowly round the field. Now he was coming back again.

As he flew over little Luke's head he looked down. Perhaps he saw a slight movement as little Luke tried to look up at him. Instantly he swooped and his sharp claws struck the little boy's hat.

"Hi, there!" said little Luke in astonishment. It was Ko-ko-ka's turn to be astonished now. He dropped the hat, flapped his great wings, and floated off towards the woods.

Little Luke left his hat where it fell and waited to see what the rabbits would do. After a short time the fun began again. There were two young ones that little Luke noticed in particular. They began their race in the middle of the field. Round and round they went and each time round their circles became larger.

Now on the other side of the clover field there was an open gap in the fence. All at once the danger signal sounded again. Thump! thump! thump! Again every rabbit squatted, with ears and eyes alert to catch sound or sight of an enemy.

It was too late. Through the gate bounded a ball of reddish, yellow fur. Snap! And the teeth of Kee-wuk the Red Fox had seized one of the young rabbits by the neck. Swinging the limp body over his shoulders, he trotted quietly off through the gap.

That ended the fun. As they saw the Red Fox every rabbit sprang to his feet, and with a hop, skip, and jump went over the fence and out of the clover field. And little Luke saw them no more that night.


Now in his talks with his wild friends little Luke noticed that they used many Indian words such as he had learned from Old John the Indian.

"Why is it," said he, one day to Wa-poose, "that you wild folk use so many of the Red Men's words?"

"Well," said the old rabbit, "that is a long story. But if you will sit down here beside me, I will tell you about it."

* * * * *

"In the first days," said Wa-poose, "when the world was new, the men and the wild folk were much alike. They all spoke one language.

"In those days it was always summer. All the year round the grass was green and the flowers bloomed. Twelve times a year the vines and bushes and trees bore fresh blossoms, and twelve times a year they were loaded with ripe berries, fruits, and nuts.

"In those times there was no hunting and no killing. All the wild kindreds lived in peace with each other and with the Red Men, who then dwelt in this land. You see there was plenty to eat and the weather was so warm and pleasant that the Red Men did not need the skins of their wild brothers to keep them from the cold.

"But after a while a change came. Pe-boan the dreadful Winter King came down from the North and made war upon Ni-pon the Queen of Summer. After many battles peace was made and the year was divided; half the year was ruled by the Queen of Summer, and half by the Winter King.

"Now it came to pass that after the war was over the vines and bushes and trees put forth their buds and blossomed and bore fruit but once a year. The Red Men and the wild kindreds suffered dreadfully from hunger, and their hearts became hard and cruel. Then the hunting and the killing began. The Red Men hunted many of the wild kindreds for their flesh and their fur, and the wild kindreds began to kill and devour each other. And so it has been since that day.

"In those times the Wa-poose folk were much larger than they are now, even as large as Mo-ween the Bear. But they refused to take part in the killing and flesh eating, and so they suffered more from hunger than some of the wild kindreds. Year by year, on account of the scarcity of food, the Wa-poose folk became smaller until they were as you see them now.

"In the beginning, as I have said, the Red Men and the wild kindreds spoke one language. Even to this day, the Red hunters have kept many of the watchwords of the wild folk, and by means of them are able to deceive and kill them.

"Now by reason of the great slaughter that was made by the Red Men, the wild kindreds gathered themselves together in a great council to discuss their condition. After much talk they decided to ask help of the Master of Life.

"'There is but one way,' said he, when he had heard their story, 'you must change your speech. Then the Red Men will no longer be able to deceive you so easily and slay so many of you.'

"The wild folk did as the Master of Life told them to do. They changed their language, and refused to speak any longer with the Red Men. But some of the Red Men's words they have kept to this day, and that is why you hear us use them."


One day Old John the Indian came down the trail to the farmhouse. He was on his way to town to sell some baskets. As Uncle Mark was going to town with the team, he invited him to ride. Since the town was several miles away, the old Indian gladly accepted the invitation, leaving Ke-ha-ga his old hound at the farmhouse.

In the afternoon little Luke was sitting on the fence when old Ke-ha-ga came over to him. Putting his front paws on top of the fence, he licked the little boy's hand.

"Hello, Ke-ha-ga," said little Luke, "so you have come out to see me, have you? Can't you tell me a story?" he added as he gently patted the old hound's head.

"What kind of a story do you want?" asked the old dog.

"Oh, most any kind will do," said the boy. "Tell me a story about some dog of the olden, days,—the days before the white men came to this country."

"Very well," said Ke-ha-ga, "I'll tell you a legend that my grandfather told to me when I was a puppy." And he began the following tale.

"Many winters ago there was a wise dog whose name was Sun-ka. He lived with an old Indian woman. Now Sun-ka was a good hunter, and often brought home to the lodge rabbits and other small animals which he had hunted and caught by himself.

"But his mistress was a bad, greedy old woman. She took all the game which he brought, and used it for herself. What she could not eat at once, she dried and put away for another time. To Sun-ka she gave only the bones and other poor scraps, so that most of the time he was half starved.

"At last there came a season when game was very scarce. The old woman, it is true, had plenty of dried meat in her wigwam, but she gave none of it to Sun-ka. He almost died of starvation.

"At last he said to himself, 'Why should that old woman have plenty to eat, and I scarcely anything at all? Most of the meat which she has hidden in her lodge, I caught for her myself. It is as much mine as it is hers. Since she will not give me my share of it, I'll just take it without asking her.'

"But the old woman was very watchful. When Sun-ka tried to get the meat, she beat him over the head with a club until he ran away yelping with pain.

"The next morning one of his dog friends came to visit him. 'Good morning, Sun-ka,' said he, but Sun-ka made no reply. Indeed, his head was so swelled from the blows he had received, that he could hardly open his mouth.

"'Well, well,' said his friend, after looking him over carefully, 'you seem to be in a sad case. What has happened to you?'

"'Oh,' replied Sun-ka, speaking with difficulty, 'I tried to get my share of the meat, which my mistress has in her lodge, and she beat me for it. She beat me till I am stiff and sore, and can scarcely move.'

"'Well,' said his friend, 'I wouldn't stand it if I were you. The meat is just as much yours as it is hers. You caught most of it yourself and you helped her to catch the rest of it, I'll tell you what we'll do; well pay her off for it. I'll go and call our friends; I'll call Rainmaker, Stillbiter, Strongneck, and Sharptooth.' And so he did.

"Rainmaker caused it to rain, and it rained all the day through until dark, and when it was dark it was very dark. Then Stillbiter crept up softly to the lodge and bit off all the thongs which fastened the covering to the lodge poles.

"When this was done, Strongneck crept in and seized the meat and carried it away. Then Sharptooth ripped open the bag which held the meat, and before morning the six dogs ate it all up.

"When the meat was all gone, Sun-ka ran away and became a wild dog. What became of the old Indian woman I do not know."

"Served her right," said the little boy. "If she hadn't been so stingy with her meat, she wouldn't have lost it. And Sun-ka would have stayed with her to help catch more."


It was hot. Little Luke sat on the doorstep in the shade. Over in the pasture Old Boze the Hound gave tongue. He was at his favorite sport of trailing rabbits all by himself. He really didn't have any spite against the rabbits, but when he struck a fresh trail, he felt that he just must follow it. And when he had puzzled out a balk or break in the trait, he couldn't for the life of him keep still.

But it was really too hot for trailing, especially when there was nothing in it but fun. The old hound would have stuck to it longer if Sam the hired man had been around somewhere, hiding behind the bushes with his thundering fire-stick. Old Boze wasn't afraid of the fire-stick. He liked to hear it roar, and see the poor rabbits fall before its deadly breath.

Well, after a while he gave it up and came back to the house. Going around to the doorstep, he lay down on the cool porch with his head close to the little boy's shoulder. He was tired, and his dripping tongue hung far out from his open mouth. The little boy looked at it.

"Old Boze," said he, "what a long tongue you have. Why is it that dogs have such long tongues?"

Old Boze shifted his eves uneasily and looked the other way, but said nothing.

"Come, now," said the little boy, "I am sure there is a story about that long, red tongue of yours."

"To be sure there is," said a voice that came from just behind the boy's ear. He looked around and there was Old Klaws the House Cat.

"What do you know about it?" asked the little boy.

"Oh, I know all about it," answered the old cat. "But ask Old Boze," he went on with a grin, "perhaps he'll tell you."

Old Boze got up slowly and with dignity. "I am too tired to tell stories," said he, "but I'm not too tired to shake the foolishness out of a cat."

"Here now," said the little boy, "no quarreling and fighting. I won't have it. And Klaws shall tell me that story about your long, red tongue, if he will."

"To be sure I will," said Old Klaws, delighted to be able to tease Old Boze safely. Of course there was another time coming when little Luke might not be at hand, but then the old cat trusted to speed and sharp claws to put himself up a tree and out of the reach of the old hound.

"All right," said Old Boze, "if you're fond of the company of a sneaking, mouse-eating, old tabby. I'm not. I'll take myself off. But my memory is good," he added, glancing at Old Klaws with a snarl that showed all his sharp, white teeth.

"Well, now for the story," said the little boy, when Old Boze was out of sight around the corner.

"Long, long ago," began Old Klaws, "when all the animal kindreds could talk the man-talk, the dogs were the greatest telltales in the world. They told everything they knew, and sometimes a great deal more. Their masters often flogged them for tattling, but it did little or no good.

"In those days there was a great hunter whose name was Man-e-do. He wanted a dog to help him hunt, but he did not want a tattletale. So he took a fine, young pup, and tried to bring him up to be a good hunter and to keep his tongue. He took good care of him. He often told him how foolish it was to tell everything he knew. The pup would promise not to tattle, but he was only a dog, and blood will tell after all.

"When the pup was big enough, his master took him with him when he went hunting for small game. The dog was a good trailer by this time, and together they killed many rabbits and other small animals.

"But when they went home, the dog couldn't hold his tongue. He would brag to the other dogs, and tell them what a great hunter he was, and how at such and such a place he had caught the biggest rabbits that ever were seen. Then the other dogs would lead their masters to those places and clear them of game. Whenever Man-e-do went to a place a second time, he found no game there.

"Besides, if they were hunting near the village and made a kill, the dog would pretend to go off after more game. But when he was out of sight of his master, he would run home and tell some of his chums about his kill. Then the other dogs and their masters would come out and kill or scare away all the game there was in that place. Many times Man-e-do caught the dog tattling, and scolded and beat him for it, but it did no good. He just couldn't keep anything to himself.

"One time Man-e-do went off on a long hunt. He took three horses and traveled several days before making his camp. He thought he would get so far away that the dog could not go back to the village and tattle.

"While hunting in the mountains near his camp, he found a valley which was full of game. There he made many kills, and soon had all the meat his three horses could possibly carry.

"'To-morrow,' said he to his dog, 'we will start for home. When we get there, you must keep your tongue in your mouth. You must not tell where we have been. If the other hunters do not find our valley, we can come back at any time and get all the meat we want.'

"'All right,' said the dog, 'I'll keep the secret.'

"'See that you do,' added his master; 'for if you don't, I'll make you sorry for it.'

"The next morning they started for home. That night they camped beside a brook. At daybreak Man-e-do arose and made ready to start, but the dog was nowhere to be seen.

"'Where can he be?' said he to himself. 'Surely he has not gone home to the village.' You see, he thought that at last he had broken the dog of his tattling. Why then should he go on ahead?

"So he turned about and went back to his camp near the valley. The dog was not there. 'Perhaps,' thought he, 'a bear or a panther has killed him.'

"So he turned about and went home to his wigwam alone. There he found the dog as well as ever. He had been home a long time, and told all he knew about the valley of game and more too. According to his stories, he and his master had killed more game than had ever been seen before, and there was plenty more in the valley yet. All the hunters in the village were getting ready to go there to hunt.

"Man-e-do was very angry. He caught the dog, and gave him the worst whipping any dog ever had. 'I'll stop your tattling,' said he. And he caught the dog by the tongue and pulled it nearly out of his mouth. Then he shoved a round stick back into his mouth and tied his mouth shut over it.

"He left the stick there for a long time. When he took it out, the dog's mouth was larger, and his tongue longer than any dog's mouth and tongue had ever been before.

"Since that time, all dogs have had big mouths and long tongues.

"But," added Old Klaws, "they don't tattle as much as they did before."

While Old Klaws had been telling this story, Old Boze had been lying in the shade and resting. After a while, he thought to himself, "I'll give that old mouser a scare and I'll do it before little Luke can hinder me."

So he got up and walked silently around to the corner of the porch. With one foot raised, he stopped scarcely three feet from Old Klaws, who was sitting on the end of the top step.

Just as the old cat finished his story, Old Boze sprang toward him with a loud, "Bow-wow-wow." The old cat bounded as if he were made of India-rubber of the best quality. Such a cat-jump the little boy had never seen before. The first leap carried Old Klaws far out on the garden walk, and in the twinkling of an eye he was among the topmost branches of the old pear tree. When he felt himself safe, he turned round and began to spit and snarl and say bad words at Old Boze, who was looking at him with his long tongue hanging out of his mouth, and his face all wrinkled up into a broad grin.

Little Luke had jumped almost as lively as Old Klaws, but when he saw who it was and took in the old cat's language, and the old dog's funny looking face, he lay down on the porch and laughed till the tears came.


"Dear Old Boze," said the little boy, after the fun was over, "can't you tell me a story of the old days?"

"Yes," replied the old hound, "I can. And since Old Klaws has told you about one dog, I'll tell you about another."

"Once upon a time," went on the old hound, "there was an Indian hunter who had a dog that he loved very dearly. And the dog on his part loved his master more than his own life.

"For many years, master and dog hunted together. When night came they ate of the same food, and shared the same bed. Many and many a time, each saved the life of the other. At last both began to grow old.

"One morning in winter a stranger entered their lodge. 'I am the Man-i-tou of Death,' said he to the hunter. 'The Master of Life has sent me to summon you to the Happy Hunting Ground. Make ready at once, for when the sun rises for the third time, you must set forth.'

"'It is well,' replied the hunter, 'the summons shall be obeyed.'

"At once he began to make ready. He danced the death dance and sang the death song. His wife and his two sons mourned and wept, and the dog joined in the death chant.

"On the third morning, the hunter was ready to depart on the long journey from which he could never return.

"'Alas, my husband,' said his wife, 'I cannot live without you. I will go with you. Where you are, there will I be also.' And so also said his two sons.

"The hunter tried to comfort them, and to persuade them to remain until they too should be summoned by the Master of Life. But they refused to be comforted, and at last they all set forth.

"Meanwhile the dog had said nothing. But when they started, he was close at the heels of his master.

"Day after day they traveled toward the south-west. Alter a time, they entered a desert land, where water was scarce and there was no game. Soon they began to be hungry as well as weary.

"The younger boy's strength and courage gave out, and he turned and followed the trail back to the wigwam.

"A little farther, and the older son said, 'Alas, my father, I am famished, and my strength has gone from me. I will return and seek my younger brother. When I have found him and we have rested and eaten, we will come and overtake you.' So he turned back, and that was the last that was seen of him.

"Seeing that her children had turned back, the wife said, 'Be of good courage. I am still with you, I am strong and we shall yet enter the gate of the Happy Hunting Grounds together.'

"The dog said nothing, but though he was hungry, footsore, and weary, he still followed close at his master's heels.

"Now the trail entered a region of desolate mountains. The way became rough and rocky. Their moccasins were worn from their feet, and there was no food to be found.

"'At last the wife cried, 'Oh, my husband, I am faint and weary. I can go no further. Let us rest here.' And she sat down beside the trail.

"'Nay,' said the hunter, 'I may not stop. The Master of Life must be obeyed. The summons was not to you, but to me. Rest here beside the trail, and when your strength has returned, go back to the wigwam and dwell with our two sons until the Death Man-i-tou comes for you.'

"Then he went on, up the steep trail. He had not noticed the dog, who, footsore and famished, now limped painfully at his heels, and when he camped for the night, came silently and lay down at his feet.

"The next morning, they arose and continued their journey. After many days, they saw far before them a narrow gap between two tall snow-capped mountains. Through this the trail went, and at the further end they found the gateway to the Happy Hunting Ground. Beside the gateway stood the lodge of the keeper of the gate.

"Before the lodge the hunter stopped and lifted up his voice, and cried, 'The Master of Life called. Here am I.'

"Hearing his cry, the keeper of the gate came from his lodge.

"'You are welcome,' said he to the hunter, 'but where are those who set out upon the long trail with you?'

"'They are not here,' returned the hunter, 'the way was long and toilsome, and their feet grew weary,'

"'Who is that,' again asked the keeper of the gate, 'who stands beside you, and looks upon you with eyes of love?'

"'That is he,' said the hunter, 'who loved me best of all.'

"'His great love and his faithfulness have made him worthy,' said the keeper of the gate. 'He shall enter with you,' and he opened the gate.

"With a bark of joy the dog sprang forward and entered the Happy Hunting Ground beside the master whom he had loved more than his own life."

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By Walter L. Hervey, Ph.D., Member of Board of Examiners, New York City; formerly President of Teachers College; and Melvin Hix, B.S., Principal of Public School No. 9, Long Island City, New York City.

A new series of basal readers shaped by these controlling ideas: personal interest on the part of children in the doings of children of their own age; personal hunger for stories having continuity, development and variety; and the development of a personal power of satisfying the literary appetite. The stories, dialogues, poems, and other selections, are almost entirely of new material.

This material is varied; and was selected because of its intrinsic interest—action, appeal to self-activity. The lessons are not mere collections of words and sentences, but have continuity of thought. The pictures, being adapted to the text, are distinct aids in teaching children to read. The helps to teachers are varied, time-saving, practical. The method is simple, effective, original.

Each book is fully illustrated with black and white pictures and several colored illustrations.

============================================ ==== Primer $.30 First Reader .32 Second Reader .40 Third Reader .48 Fourth Reader .55 Fifth Reader (Preparing) Sixth Reader (Preparing) Manual for Teachers (Daily Lesson Plans) $.75 Phonogram Cards—Primer Set, 26 cards .25 Word Cards—Primer Set, 130 cards 1.25 Phonogram Cards—First Reader Set, 115 Cards 1.00 ============================================ ====

Daily Lesson Plans is the teacher's manual for the first year's work with The Horace Mann Readers. Every step of each day's lesson is planned and explained. The directions given are intended to be so definite, so complete and so practical, that comparatively inexperienced teachers may be able to follow them with excellent results; while in the hands of the experienced teacher it is hoped that it will be of much accommodation in following the progress of the work.

The manual for the remainder of the series is in preparation.



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The Horace Mann Readers are highly organized—words being developed into independent yet mutually related parts; different stories being related to other stories; the vocabulary of one lesson being related to the vocabulary of the lessons preceding and the lessons following; a system of phonics complete in itself and yet organically related to the reading matter.

The principle of self-activity is carefully developed,

The action rhymes given impress the children and give variety to the reading lesson. But since reading isn't all poetry, all other phases of sound methods of teaching are employed. Especial attention is called to the system of phonics developed. It is rational and wonderfully effective.

The Theory of Multiple Sense Appeal is carefully applied. Every avenue of approach has been taken—the eye, the hand, the ear—all are used to make the appeal broader and more interesting. No sound psychological precept has been omitted.

The Horace Mann Readers have successfully combined all the approved methods of teaching reading.

The material is new and varied. The books contain clear and vivid images, whole situations and self activity, which appeals to the child. They also afford the teacher every possible suggestion and convenience in respect to method.

Daily Lesson Plans, the teacher's manual for these readers, gives minute directions for each day's lesson.



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"I like particularly the long story element. I never did like 'hash' in a reading book. I like also the narratives relative to our own great men, Lincoln, Webster, etc. I like also the idea of developing related words from the same root, as you do in the last few pages. This will tend to enable the child to increase his vocabulary independently of teacher."—E.M. SHERRY, County Supt., Rolla, N.D.

"These readers deal with nature and subjects very near the hearts of children. They are delighted with them. The dramatic form also helps with the expression. The illustrations are fine for language as well as reading."—Miss CARRIE J. RICHARDSON, Sheppard School, Philadelphia, Pa.

"An excellent set of books. They are mechanically well made. The material is well selected and very well arranged and graded. They will certainly meet the approval of any who give them a careful examination."—A.R. CHAPMAN, State Normal School, Terre Haute, Ind.

"I liked the Second Reader so much that I at once ordered copies for use in the Second Reader Class. What I especially like is the fact that the little stories and poems are exactly adapted to the literary development of the children in the class. They recite the poems and tell the stories, and altogether we are having a very good time."—Miss WINIFRED G. JONES, The Greenwich Academy, Greenwich, Conn.

"It is a pleasure to recommend the Horace Mann Readers. The books are full of interest, in keeping with the best results for teachers and pupils. We enjoy them in our school, Troy's largest Grammar School."—Miss ANNIE A. GREEN, Grammar School No. 14, Troy, N.Y.

"The Primer is a favorite with teacher and pupils. The literary merit of the stories used is high. The vocabulary is such as will open many books to the child, and the frequent repetition of words I consider excellent."—Miss ALICE M. JOHNSTON, Calhoun School, Minneapolis, Minn.



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Designed for Rapid Phonic Drills and for Rapid Word Building

The object of these drills is to train pupils so that the sight of the phonogram will cause an immediate, correct, and automatic vocal response; while the word building will develop skill in uniting or "blending" readily and correctly the different phonic elements of which words are composed.





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Designed for Rapid Word-Drill or Flash Reading, and for Rapid Sentence Drills

The object of these word-drills is to secure instantaneous automatic word recognition with rapidity and promptness as the foundations of success; while the sentence drills, if properly conducted, will train pupils to grasp instantly the total meaning of groups of related words.


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