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picnic with a bright, happy, vivacious group. Sit down at a corn roast;

a marshmallow toast; join in singing popular songs; drink a quart of

good, rich milk; burrow into that big lunch box; and all such things

as banks, stocks, and family bills, will vanish on fairy wings, into

oblivion.

But this is not a claim that Man should stay always youthful. Supposing

that that famous Spaniard, landing upon Florida's coral strands, had

found that mythical Fountain of Youth; what a calamity for mankind! A

world without maturity of thought; without man's full-grown muscular

ability to construct mighty buildings, railroads and ships; a world

without authors, doctors, savants, musicians; nothing but Youth! I can

think of but a solitary approval of such a condition; for such a horror

as war would not,--could not occur; for a child is, naturally, a small

bunch of sympathy. I know that boys will "scrap;" also that "spats"

will occur amongst girls; but, at such a monstrosity as killings by

bombing towns, sinking ships, or mass annihilation of marching troops,

childhood would stand aghast. Not a tiny bird would fall; nor would

any form of gun nor facility for manufacturing it, insult that almost

Holy purity of youthful thought. Anybody who knows that wracking sorrow

brought upon a child by a dying puppy or cat, knows that childhood can

show us that our fighting, our policy of "a tooth for a tooth," is

abominably wrong.

So, now to start our story:--

Branton Hills was a small town in a rich agricultural district; and

having many a possibility for growth. But, through a sort of smug

satisfaction with conditions of long ago, had no thought of improving

such important adjuncts as roads; putting up public buildings, nor

laying out parks; in fact a dormant, slowly dying community. So

satisfactory was its status that it had no form of transportation to

surrounding towns but by railroad, or "old Dobbin." Now, any town thus

isolating its inhabitants, will invariably find this big, busy world

passing it by; glancing at it, curiously, as at an odd animal at a

circus; and, you will find, caring not a whit about its condition.

Naturally, a town should grow. You can look upon it as a child; which,

through natural conditions, should attain manhood; and add to its

surrounding thriving districts its products of farm, shop, or factory.

It should show a spirit of association with surrounding towns; crawl

out of its lair, and find how backward it is.

Now, in all such towns, you will find, occasionally, an individual born

with that sort of brain which, knowing that his town is backward, longs

to start things toward improving it; not only its living conditions,

but adding an institution or two, such as any _city_, big or small,

maintains, gratis, for its inhabitants. But so forward looking a man

finds that trying to instill any such notions into a town's ruling body

is about as satisfactory as butting against a brick wall. Such "Boards"

as you find ruling many a small town, function from such a soporific

rut that any hint of digging cash from its cast iron strong box with

its big brass padlock, will fall upon minds as rigid as rock.

Branton Hills _had_ such a man, to whom such rigidity was as annoying

as a thorn in his foot. Continuous trials brought only continual

thorn-pricks; until, finally, a brilliant plan took form as John

Gadsby found Branton Hills' High School pupils waking up to Branton

Hills' sloth. Gadsby continually found this bright young bunch asking:--

"Aw! Why is this town so slow? It's nothing but a dry twig!!"

"Ha!" said Gadsby; "A dry twig! That's it! Many a living, blossoming

branch all around us, and this solitary dry twig, with a tag hanging

from it, on which you will find: 'Branton Hills; A twig too lazy to

grow!'"

Now this put a "hunch" in Gadsby's brain, causing him to say; "A High

School pupil is not a child, now. Naturally a High School boy has not

a man's qualifications; nor has a High School girl womanly maturity.

But such kids, born in this swiftly moving day, think out many a notion

which will work, but which would pass our dads and granddads in cold

disdain. Just as ships pass at night. But supposing that such ships

should show a light in passing; or blow a horn; or, if--if--if--By

Golly! I'll do it!"

And so Gadsby sat on his blossom-bound porch on a mild Spring morning,

thinking and smoking. Smoking can calm a man down; and his thoughts

had so long and so constantly clung to this plan of his that a cool

outlook as to its promulgation was not only important, but paramount.

So, as his cigar was whirling and puffing rings aloft; and as groups

of bright, happy boys and girls trod past, to school, his plan rapidly

took form as follows:--

"Youth! What is it? Simply a start. A start of what? Why, of that most

astounding of all human functions; thought. But man didn't start his

brain working. No. All that an adult can claim is a continuation, or

an amplification of thoughts, dormant in his youth. Although a child's

brain can absorb instruction with an ability far surpassing that of a

grown man; and, although such a young brain is bound by rigid limits,

it contains a capacity for constantly craving additional facts. So,

in our backward Branton Hills, I just _know_ that I can find boys and

girls who can show our old moss-back Town Hall big-wigs a thing or two.

Why! On Town Hall night, just go and sit in that room and find out just

how stupid and stubborn a Council, (put _into_ Town Hall, you know,

through popular ballot!), can act. Say that a road is badly worn. Shall

it stay so? Up jumps Old Bill Simpkins claiming that it is a townsman's

duty to fix up his wagon springs if that road is too rough for him!"

As Gadsby sat thinking thus, his plan was rapidly growing; and, in a

month, was actually starting to work. How? You'll know shortly; but