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GADSBY

I

If Youth, throughout all history, had had a champion to stand up for

it; to show a doubting world that a child can think; and, possibly,

do it practically; you wouldn't constantly run across folks today

who claim that "a child don't know anything." A child's brain starts

functioning at birth; and has, amongst its many infant convolutions,

thousands of dormant atoms, into which God has put a mystic possibility

for noticing an adult's act, and figuring out its purport.

Up to about its primary school days a child thinks, naturally, only of

play. But many a form of play contains disciplinary factors. "You can't

do this," or "that puts you out," shows a child that it must think,

practically, or fail. Now, if, throughout childhood, a brain has no

opposition, it is plain that it will attain a position of "status quo,"

as with our ordinary animals. Man knows not why a cow, dog or lion was

not born with a brain on a par with ours; why such animals cannot add,

subtract, or obtain from books and schooling, that paramount position

which Man holds today.

But a human brain is not in that class. Constantly throbbing and

pulsating, it rapidly forms opinions; attaining an ability of its own;

a fact which is startlingly shown by an occasional child "prodigy"

in music or school work. And as, with our dumb animals, a child's

inability convincingly to impart its thoughts to us, should not class

it as ignorant.

Upon this basis I am going to show you how a bunch of bright young

folks did find a champion; a man with boys and girls of his own; a man

of so dominating and happy individuality that Youth is drawn to him

as is a fly to a sugar bowl. It is a story about a small town. It is

not a gossipy yarn; nor is it a dry, monotonous account, full of such

customary "fill-ins" as "romantic moonlight casting murky shadows down

a long, winding country road." Nor will it say anything about tinklings

lulling distant folds; robins carolling at twilight, nor any "warm glow

of lamplight" from a cabin window. No. It is an account of up-and-doing

activity; a vivid portrayal of Youth as it is today; and a practical

discarding of that worn-out notion that "a child don't know anything."

Now, any author, from history's dawn, always had that most important

aid to writing:--an ability to call upon any word in his dictionary in

building up his story. That is, our strict laws as to word construction

did not block his path. But in _my_ story that mighty obstruction

_will_ constantly stand in my path; for many an important, common word

I cannot adopt, owing to its orthography.

I shall act as a sort of historian for this small town; associating

with its inhabitants, and striving to acquaint you with its youths,

in such a way that you can look, knowingly, upon any child, rich

or poor; forward or "backward;" your own, or John Smith's, in your

community. You will find many young minds aspiring to know how, and WHY

such a thing is so. And, if a child shows curiosity in that way, how

ridiculous it is for you to snap out:--

"Oh! Don't ask about things too old for you!"

Such a jolt to a young child's mind, craving instruction, is apt so

to dull its avidity, as to hold it back in its school work. Try to

look upon a child as a small, soft young body and a rapidly growing,

constantly inquiring brain. It must grow to maturity slowly. Forcing a

child through school by constant night study during hours in which it

should run and play, can bring on insomnia; handicapping both brain and

body.

Now this small town in our story had grown in just that way:--slowly;

in fact, much _too_ slowly to stand on a par with many a thousand

of its kind in this big, vigorous nation of ours. It was simply

stagnating; just as a small mountain brook, coming to a hollow, might

stop, and sink from sight, through not having a will to find a way

through that obstruction; or around it. You will run across such a

dormant town, occasionally; possibly so dormant that only outright

isolation by a fast-moving world, will show it its folly. If you will

tour Asia, Yucatan, or parts of Africa and Italy, you will find many

sad ruins of past kingdoms. Go to Indo-China and visit its gigantic

Ankhor Vat; call at Damascus, Baghdad and Samarkand. What sorrowful

lack of ambition many such a community shows in thus discarding such

high-class construction! And I say, again, that so will Youth grow

dormant, and hold this big, throbbing world back, if no champion backs

it up; thus providing it with an opportunity to show its ability for

looking forward, and improving unsatisfactory conditions.

So this small town of Branton Hills was lazily snoozing amidst

up-and-doing towns, as Youth's Champion, John Gadsby, took hold of it;

and shook its dawdling, flabby body until its inhabitants thought a

tornado had struck it. Call it tornado, volcano, military onslaught,

or what you will, this town found that it had a bunch of kids who had

wills that would admit of no snoozing; for that is Youth, on its

forward march of inquiry, thought and action.

If you stop to think of it, you will find that it is customary for

our "grown-up" brain to cast off many of its functions of its youth;

and to think only of what it calls "topics of maturity." Amongst such

discards, is many a form of happy play; many a muscular activity such

as walking, running, climbing; thus totally missing that alluring "joy

of living" of childhood. If you wish a vacation from financial affairs,

just go out and play with Youth. Play "blind-man's buff," "hop-scotch,"

"ring toss," and football. Go out to a charming woodland spot on a