Chapter VI: Part II: Community Occupations (1)

Stories About People Who Minister to Our Daily Needs

These stories develop very simply, the fundamental ideas of service, dependence and interdependence, and reciprocal duties. They also teach incidentally the civic virtues of thoroughness, honesty, respect, etc., which form the subject matter of Part I of this book.

STORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO PROVIDE US WITH FOOD

THE BAKER

I. An Early Call

“Good morning, children,” said Mrs. Duwell, with a bright smile—so bright that it seemed as if the oatmeal she was stirring smiled too.

“Good morning, mother,” said Ruth. “My, but we are early this morning; it is only seven o’clock.”

“Good morning, mother,” said Wallace, sleepily. “May I go back to bed again?”

“Yes—after supper to-night,” replied his mother. “But I am glad you are up, for I am expecting a caller to knock at the door any moment.”

“Who is it?” asked Ruth.

“Oh, he is a very important man,” said her mother. “The strange part of it is that he never rings the front door bell, but always comes to the kitchen door and knocks.”

“Please tell us who he is!” cried both the children.

HERE YOU WILL FIND PICTURES OF HARVESTING, GRAIN ELEVATOR, BAKERS AT WORK, AND BAKER WAGON.]

“Yes,” went on Mrs. Duwell, “he is going to bring us the most useful and wonderful article sold in any store in this city.”

“Oh, mother, tell us what it is,” begged the children.

Just then there came a heavy knock at the kitchen door.

“There he comes with it now, I believe,” whispered Mrs. Duwell. “Wallace, you may open the door.”

Wallace ran quickly to the door and opened it, and there stood—the bread man.

“Oh, mother,” exclaimed Wallace, “it’s only the bread man!”

“Wallace,” said his mother, “speak more politely. Say ‘good morning,’ and take a loaf of bread and a dozen rolls.”

“Now, mother, tell us who it is you expect, and what he is going to bring,” coaxed Ruth as soon as the door was closed.

“Sit down and eat your breakfast, children, and I will tell you all about it.”

When the children had been served, she went on: “The man I spoke about has just gone—he is the bread man. Isn’t a loaf of bread the most useful and wonderful article sold in any store in the city?”

“Why, mother, you are joking!” exclaimed Wallace.

“No, indeed, I am not. Tell me, children, what must you have in order to live?”

“Food,” replied Ruth.

“Correct; and what article of food do we most need?”

“Bread,” replied Ruth.

“I believe that is so,” said Wallace, after thinking a moment. “I am going to talk with father about it when he comes home to-night.”

“That is right; I think he will tell you something about wheat fields and bake ovens,” said Mrs. Duwell. “Now run along to school or you will be late.”

II. The Staff of Life

“Father,” said Wallace, as the family sat about the supper table that evening, “a very important man called at the door this morning before we went to school.”

“He did! Who was he?” asked Mr. Duwell.

“Guess who,” said Ruth. “He left us the most wonderful and useful article sold in any store in this city.”

“Who was he? What was it?” Mr. Duwell pretended to be very curious.

“Guess! See if you can guess!”

“Let me see—oh, yes, it must have been the mayor with a pound of butter.”

“Guess again,” shouted the children.

“A policeman, with a bottle of ink.”

“No, guess again!”

“I give it up.”

“The bread man with that loaf of bread,” cried the children, pointing to the loaf on the table.

“Well, well, I believe you are right, children,” said their father. “I certainly ought to have guessed, although I never thought of the bread man as a very important man before.”

“Mother explained it to us this morning and said that you would tell us about the wheat fields and bake ovens,” spoke up Ruth.

“I certainly will, children,” said their father, looking pleased. “Let me see; what is this made of?” he asked, picking up a piece of bread.

“Flour.”

“Yes, what kind?”

“Wheat flour.”

“Correct; so this is wheat bread. What other kinds of bread are there?”

“Rye bread, bran bread, graham bread.”

“Yes; and in Europe bread is often made of oats and barley.”

“Bread is sometimes called by another name,” said their mother; “did you ever hear of it? The staff——”

“The staff of life,” finished the children.

“I have an idea,” cried their father suddenly. “The Spotless Bakery is about three squares up the street. It is open in the evening. I know the manager. Let us go up there to see how they make bread.”

“Hurrah for dad! Fine, come on!” cried Wallace.

“I wish mother could go,” Ruth said.

Her mother shook her head; “No, dear, I’ll not go this time, but thank you for thinking of it.”

“We won’t be long, mother, and we’ll tell you about everything when we get home,” said Wallace, as the three left the house.

III. A Visit to the Bakery

Soon they came to a big square building that seemed to be all windows, blazing with light. Over the door was a sign which read:

THE SPOTLESS BAKERY

The children had often seen the building before but had never been inside.

They entered and their father asked to see the manager. Soon he came bustling in—a round smiling little man, dressed in a spotless white suit.

“Good evening, Mr. Duwell,” he said, shaking hands.

“Good evening, Mr. Baker,” replied Mr. Duwell. “This is Ruth, and this is Wallace. They want to see how bread is baked, if you are not too busy for visitors.”

“I shall be delighted to show you,” said Mr. Baker, smiling and shaking hands with both children; “this way, please.”

Up a narrow winding stair they climbed to the sifting room on the fourth floor.

“Every bit of flour starts on its journey through these sifters,” said the manager, pointing to a row of box-like sifting machines.

On the floor stood a huge pile of bags of flour. “Each one of these bags holds one hundred and forty pounds,” he explained.

Passing down the stairway they saw the store-room piled high with more bags of flour. “There are more than a thousand of them,” said the manager.

Then they came to the mixing room. Everything was white—the huge mixers were white; the walls were white; the bakers were dressed in white with odd round white caps; the dough trays were white—everything was white and spotless.

“The flour from the sifters above comes through an opening in the floor into the mixers. Then the yeast and other things are added. The electric power is started. The great iron arms of the mixers turn, and twist, and mix until the whole mass becomes dough,” Mr. Baker explained.

Along the wall were the dough trays in which the dough is set to rise. These trays remind one of huge white bath tubs on wheels, a little wider and deeper and about twice as long as the ones in our houses.

“How much will each one of those hold?” asked Wallace, pointing to the trays full of creamy dough.

“Enough to make eleven hundred loaves,” answered the manager.

“Why, there must be over forty of them,” said Wallace, looking down the long line. “How many loaves do you bake in a day?”

“We have two more bakeries like this, and in the three we bake about one hundred thousand loaves a day—besides rolls and cakes.”

“Why, I didn’t know there was so much bread in the world,” said Wallace.

“Yes, my boy, there are bakeries almost everywhere. We supply only a small part of the bread needed in our large city.”

As they went down the next stairway to the baking room, the pleasant odor of fresh-baked bread came up to meet them.

“Here they are!” cried Ruth. “Look, Wallace, here are the bake ovens!”

All that could be seen on one side of the room was a long row of black oven doors, set in a low white-tiled wall.

On the other side of the room were large oblong tables, around which the white-uniformed bakers were busily working.

The dough was piled high on the tables. One baker cut it into lumps. Another made the lumps into pound loaves, weighing them on a scale. Another shaped the loaves and put them into rows of pans, which were slipped into large racks and wheeled to the oven door.

“Look,” said Wallace, “they are going to put them in!”

A baker put four loaves on a long-handled flat shovel; then quickly opened the oven door and slipped them inside.

“Look at the loaves!” cried Wallace, peeping into the open door. “Hundreds of them. How many will that oven hold?”

“Six hundred,” said the baker, closing the door.

“Look,” cried Ruth, “they are taking them out of that other oven. There comes our loaf for breakfast, Wallace.”

Farther down the room a baker was lifting out of an oven the nut-brown loaves, bringing with them the sweet smell of fresh bread.

“Isn’t it wonderful!” said Mr. Duwell, who was almost as excited as the children. “Notice how all the men work together, everyone doing his part to help the others.”

“What are the baking hours?” he asked the manager.

“From twelve o’clock, noon, till midnight, the ovens are kept going as you see them now,” said the manager.

“We will go down one more flight to the shipping room,” he added, leading the way.

There the finished loaves were coming down from the floor above on great racks to wait for shipping time. The space in front of the shipping platform was crowded with wagons and automobiles.

“Why, look!” said Wallace, “there are more wagons than automobiles. I should think you would use automobiles entirely.”

“No,” replied the manager, “the automobiles are better for long distances; but for short distances, where the driver has to start and stop, horses are much better. When the driver serves bread along a street he calls, ‘Come Dolly,’ or whatever the horse’s name is, and the horse follows. The horse is alive; the automobile isn’t.”

“When does the delivery start?” asked Mr. Duwell.

“Soon after midnight.”

After thanking the manager for his kindness, shaking hands all around, and bidding him good-night, the little party hurried home.

All that night Wallace dreamed that he was putting loaves of bread into a big oven and lifting them out, brown and crisp, on the end of a long-handled shovel, loading them into a delivery wagon, and driving all over the city, so that the people could have fresh bread for breakfast.

IV. Where the Wheat Comes From

At the table the next evening the children were still talking about their visit to the bakery.

“Well, children,” said their father, “we followed the flour through the bakery to the loaf on our table. What do you say if we take a little journey to the place where the wheat comes from.”

“Fine!” cried Wallace. “When can we start?”

“Right now, son, but it will be a stay-at-home journey,” said Mr. Duwell; and everybody laughed.

“Let us see,” Mr. Duwell went on; “where did the thousand bags of flour we saw in the bakery come from?”

“I know,” said Ruth. “I read ‘Minn.’ on one of the bags.”

“Good, Ruth,” said her father. “That is what I call using your eyes. What does ‘Minn.’ stand for?”

“Min-ne-so-ta,” answered Wallace quickly.

“Correct! Minnesota has great wheat fields, and so have North and South Dakota, Kansas, and many other states; but the wheat in our loaf grew in Minnesota.

“Wallace, step over to the bookcase and bring me the large book marked ‘W.’”

Wallace brought it in a moment.

Mr. Duwell opened the book and found some colored pictures.

“Here we are,” said he. “What does it say under the first picture, Ruth?”

“‘Reaping and Binding Wheat,’” read Ruth, bending over the book.

“Right! There is our loaf growing, and there is the machine cutting the wheat and tying it into bundles. What does it say under this picture, Wallace?”

“‘Threshing by Steam,’” read Wallace.

“Yes—taking the wheat from the straw and chaff. What comes next, Ruth?”

“‘Grain El-e-va-tor,’” read Ruth.

“What is a grain elevator?” asked Mr. Duwell.

“Why, the place where the wheat is stored until needed.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Duwell, “some elevators are so large that they will hold nearly two million bushels of wheat.”

“Plenty large enough to hold our loaf,” added Mrs. Duwell.

“Now read again, Wallace.”

“‘In-te-ri-or of Flour Mill,’” read Wallace.

“Yes, that is where they grind the wheat into white flour and remove the bran.”

“Bran is the outside coat, isn’t it?” asked Ruth.

“Yes, that’s it! Now read again.”

“‘Train Being Loaded with Flour,’” read Ruth.

“Yes, that must be a picture of the fifteen car loads of flour used every week by the Spotless Bakery.”

“I never would have believed it took so many people to make a loaf of bread,” exclaimed Mrs. Duwell. “Let me see: the plowman, the sower, the reaper,—go on, Wallace.”

“The thresher, the miller, the train-men, the baker—” added Wallace.

“And the baker’s horses,” finished Ruth.

QUESTIONS

Have you ever visited a bakery? Tell about it.

The Duwell family had a splendid time finding out
things about their bread and rolls, didn’t they?

Why don’t you try it with some of the other things you
eat?

Can you think of some ways of helping this very useful
man, the baker?

Suppose company had come unexpectedly to see your
great-grandmother when she did not have bread enough
baked. How would she have gotten bread for her guests?

What would your mother do if the same thing happened to
her?

* * * * *

Praise God for wheat, so white and sweet,
Of which we make our bread!
Praise God for yellow corn, with which
His waiting world is fed!
—_Edward Everett Hale._

BAKING THE JOHNNY-CAKE

Little Sarah stood by her grandmother’s bed,
“Now what shall I get for your breakfast?” she said.
“You may get me a johnny-cake. Quickly go make it,
In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it.”

So Sarah went to the closet to see
If yet any meal in the barrel might be.
The barrel had long been as empty as wind,
And not a speck of corn meal could she find.
But grandmother’s johnny-cake, still she must make it,
In one minute mix, and in two minutes bake it.

She ran to the store, but the storekeeper said,
“I have none. You must go to the miller, fair maid,
For he has a mill, and he’ll put the corn in it,
And grind you some nice yellow meal in a minute.
Now run, or the johnny-cake, how will you make it,
In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?”

Then Sarah she ran every step of the way,
But the miller said, “No, I have no meal to-day.
Run, quick, to the cornfield, just over the hill,
And if any corn’s there, you may fetch it to mill.
Run, run, or the johnny-cake, how will you make it,
In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?”

She ran to the cornfield—the corn had not grown,
Though the sun in the blue sky pleasantly shone.
“Pretty sun,” cried the maiden, “please make the corn grow.”
“Pretty maid,” the sun answered, “I cannot do so.”
“Then grandmother’s johnny-cake, how shall I make it,
In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?”

But Sarah looked round, and she saw what was wanted;
The corn could not grow, for no corn had been planted.
She asked of the farmer to sow her some grain,
But the farmer laughed till his sides ached again.
“Ho! ho! for the johnny-cake, how can you make it,
In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it?”

The farmer he laughed, and he laughed very loud—
“And how can I plant till the land has been plowed?
Run, run, to the plowman, and bring him with speed;
He’ll plow up the ground and I’ll fill it with seed.”
Away, then, ran Sarah, still hoping to make it,
In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it.

The plowman he plowed, and the grain it was sown,
And the sun shed his rays till the corn was all grown.
It was ground at the mill, and again at her bed
These words to kind Sarah the grandmother said,
“Please get me a johnny-cake—quickly go make it,
In one minute mix, in two minutes bake it.”
_From “Child Life: A Collection of Poems,”
Edited by John Greenleaf Whittier._

THE MILKMAN

I. Before the Sun Rises

“What do you think one of our lessons was about to-day, mother?” asked Ruth, coming in from school one afternoon.

“I couldn’t guess,” said her mother. “What was it about?”

“The milkman.”

“The milkman,” repeated Mrs. Duwell in surprise; “that must have been interesting.”

“Yes, we just talked. Teacher asked questions; she asked if we liked bread and milk or cereal and milk, and said that they made an excellent breakfast.

“What do you think, mother,” Ruth went on; “teacher told us that not many years ago the milkman came around with big cans of milk and measured whatever you wanted, a pint or a quart, into your pitcher or milk pail.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Mrs. Duwell. “That is the way they did when I was a little girl. How did they come to change? Did your teacher tell you?”

“People found that it was not san-i-ta-ry, teacher said. The milk was not always kept clean; so the milkmen put it into pint and quart bottles, with paper caps to keep out flies and germs.”

THE MILK IN THE BOTTLE IN THIS PICTURE CAME IN A BIG CAN FROM THE COW TO THE RAILROAD STATION, ON THE TRAIN TO THE CITY DAIRY WHERE IT WAS BOTTLED AND TESTED. IT WAS THEN SENT OUT IN A LARGE AUTO TRUCK TO THE DELIVERY WAGON WHICH TOOK IT TO THE DUWELL FAMILY.

DOES THE MILK WHICH YOU USE TAKE AS LONG A JOURNEY AS THAT?]

“Did you find out where the milk comes from?”

“Oh yes, from the farms. Teacher showed us pictures of cows; some with tan and white coats—Jerseys; and some with black and white coats—Holsteins, I think she said. I should love to see real cows.”

“So you shall, dear, the next time we go into the country.

“I remember,” continued Mrs. Duwell, “hearing your grandfather say that when he was a boy he had to be out of bed before daylight, sometimes as early as three o’clock, and go out into the cold barn to milk the cows.”

“Three o’clock in the morning!” exclaimed Wallace, who had just come in.

“Yes; then he had to hurry into the kitchen for breakfast, then out again, hitch up old Dobbin, load the milk cans on the wagon and drive to the nearest station to catch the milk train. He had to do all this by six o’clock—before most people in the city think of getting up.”

“My, there wasn’t much fun in that,” said Wallace.

“No, indeed. You remember the deep snow in March last winter. I asked our milkman what time he started on his rounds. What do you think he said?”

“Six o’clock,” replied Wallace.

“Earlier than that, son,” said Mrs. Duwell. “He laughed and said, ‘I have to load up and start by three o’clock to serve all my customers before breakfast.’”

“Yes,” added Ruth, “teacher told us about that and asked what would happen if the driver overslept and did not get over the route before breakfast.”

“What did you answer?”

“Why, that we might have to do without milk for breakfast.”

“Or we might have to wait for breakfast until eleven o’clock,” said Wallace.

“Oh, Wallace,” cried Ruth, “I didn’t say that! If we waited for breakfast until eleven o’clock we would be dreadfully late for school.”

“And dreadfully hungry, too,” said Wallace. “I’m glad our milkman gets up on time.”

II. Milk, from Farm to Family

“Well, what I want to know is, where the Clover Leaf Dairy gets our milk from,” said Wallace.

“It is this way. The dairy wagon meets the milk train and takes the cans of milk to the dairy. There they test the milk to see if it is pure and fresh.

“Next they empty the milk into a big white tank and heat it to kill the disease germs. After quickly cooling the milk, they put it into bottles, and it saves the babies’ lives,” said Ruth almost without stopping to take breath.

Her mother smiled and asked, “Did your teacher tell you the name of that work?”

“Yes; but it was a long word, and I have forgotten it,” answered Ruth.

“Pas-teur-i-zing.” Her mother said it for her.

“Yes, that’s it—pasteurizing. I could not think. It kills all the bad germs so that the milk is safe for even the weakest babies.

“Teacher told us about a good man in New York,” Ruth went on, “named Mr. Straus, who was sorry because so many babies died from drinking impure milk. He made it so that poor babies in New York could have pasteurized milk; and then less than half as many died as before.”

“Wasn’t that a noble thing to do,” said her mother.

“Yes; our teacher says that almost everybody uses pasteurized milk now, and in this way thousands of babies’ lives have been saved. She says that we ought to be grateful.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Duwell; “we ought to be grateful to the milkman, the farmer, and everybody that helps to bring us pure milk.”

QUESTIONS

Would you like to get up long before daylight, on cold
winter mornings to deliver milk for people’s breakfast?

Tell some of the things you like that you could not
have to eat if the milkman did not come.

Have you ever visited a big dairy?

Tell about it.

Imagine you own a herd of cows in the country, and tell
some of the things you would do in order to be sure to
send good, pure, clean milk to the dairy.

THE GROCER

I. The Old-time Grocer

“Wallace, light another candle, please. I cannot see very well,” said Mr. Duwell as he sat smiling at the head of the dining table, with carving knife lifted ready to carve the roast.

Wallace turned on another electric light, and everybody laughed.

“That’s a good guess, son,” said his mother. “On my grandfather’s farm they always burned candles, and grandmother made them herself.”

“Made them herself!” exclaimed Ruth.

“Yes,” replied her mother. “I have often seen the candle moulds. They looked like a row of tin tubes fastened together. The wicks were hung in the middle of the tubes, and the melted tallow was poured in around them. When the candles were hard and cold, they were slipped out ready for use.”

“Your grandmother must have been smart. What relation was she to me?” asked Ruth.

“Your great-grandmother, dear. She was ‘smart,’ indeed. She made not only candles, but soap.”

“Soap!” said Ruth in surprise.

“Yes, and butter,” said Mrs. Duwell.

“Your great-grandfather was ‘smart,’ too,” said Mr. Duwell. “Why, Wallace, he butchered a pig or two, and sometimes a cow in the fall for the winter’s meat.”

“Weren’t there any grocers or butchers?” asked Wallace.

“Yes, indeed; your great-grandmother was the grocer, and your great-grandfather was the butcher for the family.”

“But weren’t there any stores?”

“Yes, the stores were in the big kitchen pantry, the cellar, and the ice-house.”

“I mean grocery stores like Parker’s, and Wiggin’s,” explained Wallace.

“No, until the towns and villages sprang up there were no stores such as we have now,” said Mr. Duwell. “You see, there were not many people to buy things in the early days, and they lived on farms many miles apart, so it did not pay anyone to keep a store.

“Why is the grocery so useful to everybody?” he asked.

“Because it sells food.”

“That is it. You see, when enough people lived in one place to make a village or town, some one opened a store. Now, how did he get flour to sell?”

“From the miller.”

“Right—and potatoes?”

“From the farmer.”

“Yes, the miller brought flour and the farmer brought potatoes to the grocer for him to sell.”

“And when grandma made more butter than she could use she sent it to the grocer,” added Mrs. Duwell.

“Where did the grocer get his stock of brooms, Ruth?” asked her father.

“From the broom-maker.”

“That is the idea. All who grew or made more things than they could use brought them to the grocer to be sold. So the grocer helped them and they helped him, and the people went to the store for their supplies.

“You must remember, children,” went on Mr. Duwell, “the old-fashioned country store was very different from Parker’s grocery around the corner. Besides groceries, it sold harness, horse blankets, hardware, shoes, and everything people needed.”

II. The Modern Grocer

“Suppose Wallace were a grocer, Ruth, how would you like his store to be kept?” asked her mother.

“Clean—oh, so clean!” replied Ruth.

“Yes, what else?”

“Full of shelves with all the packages and bottles and other things in their places.”

“How would you treat the people, Wallace?” asked Mrs. Duwell.

“I would be very polite, and try to have every article they wanted fresh and good.”

“That is right, and I know you would be honest and truthful.”

“If you were that kind of grocer, Wallace,” said Mr. Duwell, “you would be of real service to the people.”

“What kind of customers would you like to have, Wallace?” asked Mrs. Duwell.

“Oh, people who paid their bills on time and didn’t find too much fault,” answered Wallace.

“Well,” said Ruth, “if you were anything like that, your customers would certainly call you The Spotless Grocer.”

QUESTIONS

Think of all the extra work your mother and father
would have to do if there were no grocery stores. Is
there one near your house? Are you glad?

What kind of grocery store do you like?

What kind of grocer do you like to deal with?

Try playing store, and pretend that your customers will
not pay their bills and that the men from whom you buy
come to insist on your paying them. What will happen?

If you were a real grocer, would you like that to
happen?

Can you think of some other ways you can help the
grocer besides paying your bills promptly?

STORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO HELP CLOTHE US

THE TAILOR

I. The Accident

Wallace was very proud of the new suit of clothes his father had just bought him. He wanted to wear it to school the first day after it came home.

“If I were you I should keep it for best for a while, Wallace,” said his mother. “Your old suit is good enough for school for some time.”

“But Tom Dolittle is going to wear his new suit to-day; he told me so.”

“It doesn’t seem wise to me, Wallace—but wear it if you think best.”

“All right, mother,” said Wallace as he skipped away to put it on.

A few minutes later his mother stood watching a very happy boy running down the street.

“Mother!” called Wallace, walking slowly upstairs when he came in from school.

“Here I am, boy, in the sitting room,” answered his mother.

“Just see what has happened to my new suit!”

“Have you torn your jacket?”

“No, it’s not torn,” he said, coming into the room. “It is worse than that. I’m afraid it is ruined. Look! Look!”

“Why, child,” exclaimed Mrs. Duwell, “how did this happen? Let us go into the bathroom to wipe off a little of the mud. That may prevent stains.”

She hardly knew the mud-splashed boy who stood before her, so very unlike the spick and span Wallace of the morning.

“Well, dear, don’t worry too much,” she said. “We will see what the tailor can do for us.”

“Do you suppose he can make it clean enough for me to wear?” asked the boy eagerly.

“I think that he can make it look very well,” said his mother. “Put on your other suit and we will take this one around to the tailor’s shop. But you haven’t told me what happened.”

“Why, it was this way: I was chasing some of the boys, and just as I reached the corner an automobile came speeding out of West Street. It skidded into the curb, and splashed the mud over me from head to foot. The whole thing happened in less than a minute. You ought to have heard the boys laugh!”

“I am thankful you were not hurt,” said his mother. “I will put on my wraps and we will go at once.”

II. At the Tailor Shop

“Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Duwell to the tailor as they entered the shop.

“Good afternoon,” said the tailor. “What can I do for you to-day?”

“We want to see if you can make this suit of clothes look like new,” said Mrs. Duwell.

“Let me look at it,” said the man, untying the parcel, and examining the mud-splashed clothing.

“Well, that is pretty bad, but I guess we can do a good job.”

“How much will you charge?” asked Wallace anxiously.

“Seventy-five cents, if you call for it,” said the tailor, taking out a tag. “What name, please?”

“Give your name, son,” said Mrs. Duwell.

“Wallace Duwell,” said the boy. “When may I come?”

“Day after to-morrow,” replied the tailor. “We will do our best to make it look like new.”

“Thank you,” answered Wallace, smiling for the first time since the accident.

IF YOU LOOK AT YOUR COAT CAREFULLY YOU WILL FIND A STORY ABOUT SHEEP SHEARING, SPINNING, WEAVING, AND TAILORING JUST LIKE THE STORY SHOWN IN THE PICTURES IN THE COAT ON THE OPPOSITE PAGE.]

“Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Duwell, as they left the shop.

“Good-by,” answered the tailor; “come again.”

“Mother,” said Wallace, after they had walked a few minutes, “it was my fault that this accident happened, and I want to pay for having the suit cleaned. I have the money Aunt Mary gave me for Christmas.”

“That will please your father, Wallace. We will tell him the whole story this evening.”

III. What the Tailor Saved the Duwell Family

When Wallace finished telling about the accident his father said, “I wonder how much money the tailor is saving us by doing this work?”

“I never thought about that,” admitted Wallace.

“Let me see. We paid seven dollars and a half for that suit, didn’t we, mother?” asked Mr. Duwell.

“Yes, I think that was the amount,” answered Mrs. Duwell.

“Well, if the suit couldn’t be cleaned it would mean that we should have to buy another in its place. Mother can clean a suit well, but even she could not make as sorry a looking suit as yours look like new. Now do a little problem in arithmetic.”

Wallace promptly pulled pad and pencil from his pocket, and wrote:

+--------------------------------------+
| Cost of suit $7.50 |
| Tailor’s charge for cleaning, .75 |
| ----- |
| Saved $6.75 |
+--------------------------------------+

“Six dollars and seventy-five cents! I didn’t think it would be that much!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“Be sure to thank the tailor when you go after your suit,” said Mr. Duwell.

“I certainly will,” said Wallace.

QUESTIONS

Do you ever visit the tailor’s?

Tell about his shop.

Do you think his work is easy? Could you do it?

If you were a tailor and had worked hard to do good,
prompt work, how would you like to be treated in return?

If your suit could talk about all the things that
happened to it before it came to you, it would tell a
very interesting story. Pretend you are a suit and tell
all about yourself.

THE DRESSMAKER

I. An Invitation to a Party

“Mother,” said Ruth, coming in from school a few days later, “Mildred Maydole has invited me to her birthday party. She wrote the invitations herself on the prettiest little note paper. Here is mine.”

Mrs. Duwell read:.

Dear Ruth,

It will give my mother and me much pleasure if you will
come to my birthday party from three to six o’clock,
Saturday afternoon, January twenty-eighth.

Your friend,
Mildred Maydole.

“Oh, mother, please say I may go!” cried Ruth excitedly, jumping up and down on tiptoe. “Mildred wants an answer soon, so that her mother can make her plans.”

“Why, my dear, I think you may go,” said her mother, “if I can get your new dress made by the twenty-eighth. You have grown so fast that I have not been able to keep up with you in sewing.”

“I am so happy with the thought of going,” exclaimed Ruth, “that I can scarcely wait for the day. You know, mother, Mildred is older than I, and it is a great honor to be invited to her party.”

“Yes, indeed, it is,” agreed her mother. “Naturally Mildred could not invite all the children in your grade at school; so if I were you I would not talk about the party before the other children. You see, it might hurt the feelings of some who were not invited.”

“That’s just what Mildred said, mother; she asked us to keep it a secret for that reason.”

“Well, dear, if you do keep it secret, do not make a mystery of it, whispering among the fortunate ones and letting the others wonder why you all say, ‘Hush,’ when they happen to come near.”

“Why, mother! how did you know?” asked Ruth flushing. “Now that I think of it, that is just what we did do.”

“Instead of just telling Mildred that you will come,” said her mother, “I think it would be better to write a note accepting the invitation.”

“I’ll do it right away!” exclaimed Ruth, running to her little desk. “Will you help me with the words?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Duwell. “How would it do to say this:

Dear Mildred,

My mother is very much pleased with the kind invitation
to your birthday party, and says that I may come on
Saturday afternoon.

Your friend,
Ruth Duwell.”

When Ruth had finished writing, she sealed the envelope.

“I shall hand this to Mildred after school is dismissed at noon,” she said. “Thank you for helping me, mother.”

II. A Disappointment

Mrs. Duwell had been unusually busy for several days after the conversation about the party.

One day she said, “Ruth, dear child, I cannot seem to find time to make your new dress. I wonder if Miss Fells could make it before the twenty-eighth. Why not run over and ask her?”

“Yes, mother, why not? I think that is a good idea,” agreed Ruth.

“I do, too,” said her mother. “Here is the material that grandma sent you. Run along, and do not forget to thank Miss Fells if she will agree to make your dress.”

“No, indeed, mother, I won’t,” said Ruth.

III. At the Dressmaker’s

“Good afternoon, Miss Fells,” said Ruth, when she entered the door of the dressmaker’s house.

“Good afternoon, Ruth,” said Miss Fells, who knew the little girl. Then, noticing the package, she added, “Oh, I hope you are not going to ask me to make you a dress any time soon.”

Ruth’s heart sank. “I was going to, Miss Fells,” she admitted.

“How soon?” asked the dressmaker.

“By January the twenty-eighth.” Then she told about the party and her mother’s disappointment.

“I don’t see how I can do it—” began Miss Fells. Then seeing the tears in Ruth’s eyes, she said, “But let me look at the goods, Ruth.”

The little girl spread the material out on the table.

“Isn’t it pretty!” exclaimed Miss Fells. “Perhaps I can get some extra help. Come for a fitting to-morrow at four o’clock, and we’ll see what can be done.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Miss Fells!” Ruth exclaimed.

Then she ran all the way home to tell the good news.

IN OLDEN DAYS, SPINNING WAS DONE AT HOME. TODAY WE HAVE GREAT SPINNING AND WEAVING MACHINES, AND MUCH OF OUR CLOTHING IS MADE IN FACTORIES.]

“Now we see, Ruth,” said her mother, “how glad we should be that different people do different things for us. A person who studies and works in one special line must do better than one who works at it only once in a while—the way I do dressmaking.”

“Why, that is true, mother,” exclaimed Ruth, “I never thought of it before, though.”

“There are many more things to be learned about dressmakers,” went on her mother. “Let us talk about some of them this evening.”

“Mother, I suppose father will ask a lot of questions—just as he did about the tailor.”

“I don’t doubt that,” said Mrs. Duwell, “and I am glad that you are interested. I have heard my grandmother say that when she was young, there were no ready-made paper patterns.”

“Why, mother, how could people make dresses then?” asked Ruth.

“It was done in this way. A seamstress or some one who liked to make dresses would cut out and fit a dress for somebody in her family or neighborhood. If the dress was pretty, the pattern would be borrowed and used by almost the entire village.”

“Didn’t people mind if other dresses were made just like theirs?” asked Ruth.

“No,” said her mother, “styles did not change quickly in those days. Indeed, the getting of a new dress was a great event in the life of a girl, and it was chosen most carefully.

“You see, it served first as a best dress; then, being turned, it often served as second best. After that, perhaps it would be handed down to a younger child to be worn as long as it had been by its first owner.”

“My,” cried Ruth. “I am glad I didn’t live in the days when new dresses were so scarce.”

Mrs. Duwell smiled. “Children to-day have more of everything than children ever had before. They have more clothes and playthings, and better chances for ed-u-ca-tion—but here comes your father, Ruth. You may run and tell him of our plan for the evening.”

Mr. Duwell was very much pleased with the plan. When the evening came he asked and answered many questions. He then showed the children pictures of silkworms in a large book marked “S.”

“By the way,” he asked, “do you know that we have silkworms right here in America? The American silkworms spin silk as strong and beautiful as that of the Chinese silkworms. But the people here do not have the time or patience to grow silkworms.”

IV. The Party

Ruth’s dress was not finished until an hour before the party began.

As soon as the last stitch was taken, Miss Fells herself carried it to the Duwell home.

Ruth was “on pins and needles” for fear it would not be done in time, and she was delighted to see the dressmaker.

“Oh, Miss Fells, I cannot thank you enough for getting it done!” she cried.

“Hurry and put your dress on,” said Miss Fells. “I want to see how it fits.”

In less time than it takes to tell, Ruth was dressed.

“It fits perfectly,” said Miss Fells, who was almost as happy as Ruth herself.

“It certainly does,” said Mrs. Duwell. “It is just right.”

Mildred was very glad when Ruth arrived at the party, for she knew of her worry about the dress.

“It is beautiful, Ruth,” she said, looking with sparkling eyes at the pretty smocking on the waist and skirt. “Miss Fells told me she was going to surprise you,” she added.

“She surely did surprise me. Wasn’t she kind!” replied Ruth.

The party was a delight. One of the games was a contest in needle threading. Ruth threaded her needle in the shortest time and won the prize, a pretty silver thimble.

“Perhaps the new dress helped you to win,” said Mildred.

“Won’t Miss Fells be pleased when she hears about it,” said Ruth.

QUESTIONS

Does your mother ever sew for a long time without
resting?

How does her back feel when she stops?

Do you think dressmaking is easy work?

Can you tell some of the things dressmakers need in
their work?

If you have ever visited a silk or woolen or cotton
mill, tell about it.

Where do the mill owners get their materials?

Where do the stores get ready-made clothing?

Could you or the shoemaker or the baker make as
beautiful and comfortable clothing as the dressmaker?

Why can she do it so well?

How can we make her work easier?

THE SILK DRESS

“My dress is pretty,” a little girl said.
“Did you make it?” I asked. She shook her head.
“No, I didn’t make it,” she laughed in glee.
“It took lots of people to make it,” said she.
“I’ll tell you about it, because I know
What my mother told me is truly so.

“The silkworms grew it, and after a while
Men unraveled it into a pile;
Girls spun it and wove it and sent it away,
And my mother bought it for me one day;
And the dressmaker cut it and sewed it for me—
These are the reasons I love it,” said she.

THE SHOEMAKER

I. The Worn Shoes

“Where now, Wallace?” asked Mr. Duwell as he met his son one bright afternoon.

The boy was carrying a bundle under his arm.

“Mother sent me over to the shoemaker’s,” replied the boy.

“I am glad I ran across you,” said Mr. Duwell; “I have an errand over in that direction; I’ll walk along with you.”

“Oh, all right, father. Mother said she wished she could ask you about my shoes. We could not make up our minds whether they were worth half-soling or not.”

“Why not talk the matter over with the shoemaker?” said Mr. Duwell.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have let them get so worn before taking them to Mr. Shoemaker’s,” remarked Wallace.

“As mother says, ‘A stitch in time saves nine,’” remarked Mr. Duwell.

“By the way, father,” continued Wallace, “isn’t Mr. Shoemaker’s name a good one for a cobbler?”

Mr. Duwell smiled. “Very good, indeed; but really it isn’t so strange as it seems. Many years ago, when people did not have two names, they became known by the names of the trades they followed. For instance, John the baker became John Baker, and later Mr. Baker; so also the tailor became Mr. Taylor; the mason, Mr. Mason; the carpenter, Mr. Carpenter.”

“And the blacksmith, Mr. Smith; and the cook, Mr. Cook,” added Wallace.

“Yes,” said his father, “and we could think of many more such names; but here we are at Mr. Shoemaker’s. Suppose you attend to this little matter of business by yourself, while I do my errand.”

This made Wallace look pleased and important as he stepped into the shop.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shoemaker,” he said.

“Good afternoon,” replied the shoemaker; “what can I do for you to-day?”

Wallace handed him the parcel, which he opened.

“Do you think it would pay to put half-soles and new heels on these shoes?” asked the boy.

“Pretty good uppers,” replied the shoemaker, examining them carefully. “I think it would almost double the length of life of these shoes to mend them, but I would not wear the next pair quite so long before having them mended.”

“I think you are right,” said Wallace. “How much will you charge?”

“A dollar and a quarter for soles and heels,” replied the man.

“Isn’t that a good deal?” asked Wallace.

“Not too much if we use the best quality of leather, and it doesn’t pay to use any other.”

“All right, Mr. Shoemaker,” agreed Wallace. “When shall I call for them?”

“On Saturday,” he replied, writing Wallace’s name on a tag.

“Very well, good afternoon.”

“Good-by,” said the shoemaker.

Outside the door Wallace was joined by his father.

“I do not know whether I did right to leave my shoes, father,” said Wallace. “Mr. Shoemaker said the charge would be a dollar and a quarter. Doesn’t that seem a big price?”

“It does,” replied Mr. Duwell, “but I think you did right. A new pair of such shoes would cost three dollars and seventy-five cents.”

“And three dollars and seventy-five cents, less one dollar and a quarter, equals two dollars and a half saved,” finished Wallace.

“That is true, my boy,” said Mr. Duwell, “if they last as long as a new pair.”

“I suppose we ought to be very much obliged to the shoemaker, even though we do pay him for his work,” mused the boy aloud.

“So we should,” said his father. “Everyone who does good work helps the world along, whether he is paid for it or not.”

“But I shouldn’t want to be a shoemaker,” went on Wallace.

“Why not, Wallace?”

“Oh, I hardly know, father.”

“Shoemaking is very interesting, and it requires skill, my boy. Of course, the making of new shoes does not require the skill it did years ago because so much of the work is done by machines.”

“Did you ever hear of a shoemaker who became a great man?” asked Wallace.

“Oh, that is the question, is it?” said Mr. Duwell with a smile. “I have heard of several, and this evening I shall be glad to talk about them.”

II. Shoemakers Who Became Famous

That evening, when the family was seated around the library table, Mr. Duwell brought out a book and took up Wallace’s question.

“Here is a book,” he said, “that tells many facts about shoemakers who became noted men. Let me read about some of them.

“‘One of our most famous American poets, John Greenleaf
Whittier, in early life, was a shoemaker. Whittier
never forgot the lessons he learned while working at
the shoemaker’s bench. His book of poems, called Songs
of Labor, printed in 1850, contains a stirring poem
about shoemakers.’

“Here are two other famous men,” said Mr. Duwell, turning the page he was reading.

“‘Among noted Americans who were shoemakers was Roger
Sherman, of Con-nec-ti-cut. He was a member of the
Congress of 1774. Sherman was one of the brave men who
signed the Dec-lar-a-tion of In-de-pen-dence.

“‘At least one vice-president of the United States was
a shoemaker—Henry Wilson, who was made vice-president
when General Grant became president in 1872. He was
often called “the Na-tick Cobbler,” because he was once
a shoemaker in the town of Natick.’

“So you see, Wallace,” Mr. Duwell went on after a little pause, “the kind of work you do doesn’t matter so much. It is how well you do it that makes the difference.”

* * * * *

“I think I do see, father,” said Wallace. “Maybe, after all, I’ll be a shoemaker. Then, perhaps, I’ll become a poet or vice-president of the United States.”

Everybody laughed.

“Wouldn’t you rather be a tailor?” asked Ruth.

“I don’t believe I should stand as good a chance then,” replied Wallace.

“I am not so sure,” said Mr. Duwell laughing. “Andrew Johnson was a tailor, and he became President of the United States; but all mother and I hope for, son, is that you will become a useful, well-educated man.”

III. At the Shoemaker’s Shop

When he called for his shoes on Saturday, Wallace looked at the shoemaker with new respect.

“Good morning, Mr. Shoemaker,” said Wallace. “Are my shoes ready?”

“Good morning,” replied the shoemaker. “Yes, here they are.”

“They look fine!” exclaimed the boy. “Thank you for doing such a good job. Here is the money—a dollar and a quarter—is that right?”

“Yes, thank you,” replied the shoemaker. “It isn’t every day that a customer thanks me for doing a good job. Most people don’t give a thought to anything but finding fault if the work isn’t right—especially boys.”

QUESTIONS

Is there a shoemaker’s shop near your home?

Did the shoemaker ever save you or your family any
money?

Can you tell about him and his shop?

What kind of customers do you think he likes?

See if you can make a list of the people whom you have
to thank for a new pair of shoes.

* * * * *

Rap-tap! rap-tap-tap!
Rings the shoemaker’s hammer;
He’s making old shoes look quite new
With swift and merry clamor.

Rap-tap! rap-tap-tap!
List to the shoemaker’s song;
By mending shoes he does his part
To help the world along.

STORIES ABOUT PEOPLE WHO SUPPLY US WITH SHELTER

THE CARPENTER

I. A Trip into the Country

“It’s just possible that I may be home very early, perhaps in time for twelve o’clock lunch,” remarked Mr. Duwell, one Saturday morning as he was starting for business.

“Oh, wouldn’t that be fine!” exclaimed the children. “We’ll be looking for you.”

Even before the noon whistles had ceased blowing, three eager faces were peering out of the windows, for Mrs. Duwell was as interested as Ruth and Wallace.

“Oh, I do hope father will come soon!” exclaimed Ruth.

“I am sure to see him first,” said Wallace with a superior air. “I can see farther than you!”

“You can’t see father any better than I can,” replied Ruth, “for I see him this minute.”

“You do? Where?” asked Wallace.

“I certainly do—may I run to meet him, mother?”

“Oh, I see him!” cried Wallace. “I am going, too!”

“Yes, run!” said Mrs. Duwell. “You both have better eyes than I have.” Almost before she had finished speaking, the children were racing toward a carriage. As the driver drew rein, they climbed in.

“Well, here we are!” Mr. Duwell sang out, as they drove up in front of the door. “What does the Duwell family say to a ride this pleasant afternoon?”

“What a grand surprise!” called Mrs. Duwell, who was now standing on the top step.

“I am going to get an apple for the horse,” cried Wallace, and away he ran. In a moment he returned.

“How does that taste, old fellow?” he asked, rubbing the horse’s soft nose as he munched the apple.

“He isn’t really hungry,” said Mr. Duwell. “He had his dinner just before we left the livery stable, and the stable man gave me a bag of grain for his supper; but I guess he doesn’t often get apples.”

It didn’t take long to eat lunch that day, the family were so excited.

“Where are we going, father?” asked Wallace.

“Just into the country,” said Mr. Duwell. “It has been so long since we have seen the green fields that I thought a trip would do us all good.”

Soon they left the city streets behind, and came to a beautiful country road, along which they drove for several miles.

“Oh, see that funny-looking house!” exclaimed Ruth suddenly. “It looks like a cage!”

“That isn’t a house, yet,” said Mr. Duwell; “it is only the frame-work.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Wallace, “is that the way wooden houses are built?”

“It is, little city people,” replied Mr. Duwell. “No wonder you are not familiar with such a sight. City houses are not built of wood, because of the danger of fire.”

“I should like to see that house closer,” said Wallace.

“We’ll drive over there,” his father agreed, turning the horse’s head.

As they drew near, Wallace exclaimed, “Why, there’s Mr. Emerson on the porch; he is my teacher. I wonder what he is doing here.”

At that moment Mr. Emerson saw the boy. “Good afternoon, Wallace,” he said, lifting his hat and bowing to the party as he came toward the carriage.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Emerson,” said Wallace, lifting his cap; “I should like to have you meet my mother and father.”

Mr. Emerson bowed, and shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Duwell.

“And this is Wallace’s sister, Ruth,” said Mr. Duwell.

“I am glad to know you, Ruth,” Mr. Emerson said. “Are you thinking of moving into the country?” he asked after a minute. “If so; I hope you will be my neighbors.”

“Do you live here, Mr. Emerson?” asked Wallace.

“Not yet,” replied Mr. Emerson, smiling; “but we hope to when the new house is finished.”

“What a comfortable home it will be,” said Mr. Duwell.

Mr. Emerson looked pleased. “Won’t you come in and see the plan?” he asked.

“Thank you, we shall be delighted to,” said Mr. Duwell.

II. The Sawmill

After they had gone all over the house, they bade Mr. Emerson good-by and drove away.

“Won’t it be fine! How I should love to live there!” The children were still talking about the new house.

“Where do you suppose Mr. Emerson got the wood?” questioned Ruth.

“I know,” answered Wallace; “at the lumber yard.”

“Did he, father? Couldn’t he have just chopped down some of those trees over there?” asked Ruth, pointing to a wooded hill to the right.

“I hardly think so,” replied Mr. Duwell. “Before trees can be used in building they have to be—”

“Sawed into boards and planks,” finished Wallace.

“Good!” said his father. “And where is that done?”

“At the sawmill,” said the boy.

“That reminds me—” said Mrs. Duwell; “there is a sawmill over at the bottom of that hill. Mr. Emerson told me about it. Some of his lumber came from there.”

“Then this road must lead to it,” said Mr. Duwell, pulling up at a cross-road that ran through the woods towards the hill.

“What does that sign-post say, Wallace?”