FLYAWAY was the cutest pug puppy you ever saw. Vagabond was the most disreputable cat you ever heard of. Flyaway came from England, with his mother, the Countess. Vagabond was a soldier of fortune, and came from no one knew where. Flyaway always had lived in luxury. Vagabond never had had a home until Martha and Little Jane found him and brought him to theirs.

Flyaway had a snubby black nose and a tiny tail that curled over his back like a little pig's. He had a habit of sticking out the tip of his tongue. This made him look very saucy. Flyaway also had big black popeyes that twinkled with mischief.

Vagabond was the biggest cat you ever dreamed of. Little Jane said he was "most as big as a whale." Vagabond was n't Maltese, nor tiger-striped, like Maria, the house

One morning, Vagabond lay sleeping under the big peony bush that was full of lovely pink blossoms. Flyaway suspected that Vagabond had been on a frolic, for his coat was rumpled and soiled and one ear was torn.

"I'll fix him!" he yapped softly, and looked about to see if any one heard. No, there was n't even a bird in sight. The only sound was that made by Vagabond, snoring.

Flyaway smiled, if ever a little dog did smile (and you and I know that little dogs can), to think of the fun that he was going to have with the great fighter Vagabond.

He sniffed his way closer and closer toward the peony bush. Vagabond must have been very tired, for he did n't have even one eye open. When Flyaway was near enough, he gave a sharp yap.

Up jumped Vagabond, lashing his big

tail. No doubt that yap sounded like a clap of thunder. Perhaps he thought the house was tumbling down! When he saw that it was only Flyaway his eyes blazed and he puffed up his hair.

Flyaway danced. Never before had he seen Vagabond so angry. And when he did n't chase and spit at him, he grew bolder. He bounced forward and tried to snip Vagabond's nose or pull his tail.

Vagabond's eyes grew larger and larger; he lashed his tail harder. Flyaway grew still bolder. He could n't imagine any one so angry that he could n't move. But he took care to keep clear of Vagabond's sharp claws. No one knew better than Flyaway just how sharp those claws were!

Presently Flyaway grew tired,-it 's no fun

if the one you 're teasing does n't get angry, -and turned to see if any one was watching. And what do you think happened?

Vagabond made a sudden leap. And where do you suppose he landed?

Why, right on the back of the mischievous Flyaway!

Away they rolled, down the lawn, Flyaway held fast in Vagabond's paws. First one was

on top, then the other.

You could hardly tell

which was which, they went so fast and were so close together.

How the guineafowl flew and the peacocks screamed! But the one who made the most noise was Flyaway. "Murder! Murder!" he yelped. "Martha! Jane! Help! H-e-l-p! O-0-0-oooh!"

Martha and Little Jane could n't help hearing, and they came running. But Vagabond did n't stop. He seemed to hold Flyaway tighter than ever and roll the faster. On the two went, Martha

and Little Jane follow

afraid, and we 'll save Flyaway. You must n't worry."

In a jiffy, off came shoes and stockings, and Martha and Jane were scrambling down the bank. It was a race between them to see who would arrive first.

"Look, Martha!" cried Little Jane. "I believe Flyaway 's caught in the watercress. We must hurry-he 'll be drowned!"

ing, until they reached the tiny pond at one corner of the lawn.

There was a sudden stop. Vagabond loosened his grip. Away went Flyaway! "Kersplash!" said the water.

As Flyaway hit the sharp little stones he howled at the top of his lungs. The Countess, his mother, came running. But she did n't offer to help, not once. She just stood on the bank, looked at Martha and Jane, and cried.

Vagabond also stood on the bank. His eyes blazed and he lashed his tail; but he did n't look a bit sorry,-not at all,-just scornful and victorious. At least, that is what Little Jane said.

Martha lay down and tried to reach Flyaway, but the bank was too high and the puppy too frightened to do anything but howl.

At this the Countess became very much excited and cried louder. Little Jane hugged her lovingly.

"You 're only a pug, and afraid of the water," she said. "But Martha and I are n't

When the little girls had pulled Flyaway up on the bank the fun began. Flyaway wanted to thank them. He tried to shake all the water from himself onto them! The Countess evidently thought it was her duty to help dry Flyaway, but that little rascal would n't stand still a minute. Finally, Little Jane marched right up to the mischievous puppy. The Countess looked anxious.

"You must n't be cross with Vagabond," Little Jane said to Flyaway, who watched her eagerly. As Little Jane spoke she solemnly shook her head and her tiny forefinger. "If you tease people, they'll do things to make you stop-'specially when they 're smarter and bigger than you are. Is n't that so, Martha?"

Martha nodded. She took Little Jane's

hand.

"Let's tell Mother Dear!" she cried. Away they ran. Flyaway chased them, barking loudly.

But Mother Dear knew! She had been standing at the library window and had seen it all.

"A HEADING FOR MARCH."

BY

MARGARET L. WEBSTER, AGE 15

(SILVER BADGE)

arch

are

A FITTING introduction to the LEAGUE this month is the accompanying contribution by one of our Honor Members who cleverly and appropriately converted the subject assigned, "A Good Reason," into an admirable forecast of the International Conference at Washington. And there several facts of special interest connected with this little essay. For since it was written (more than three months ago), the Conference itself has passed into history. Early in February came the news of its adjournment and President Harding's address of thanks and congratulation to the envoys who took part in it. His eloquent tribute to it as "the beginning of a new and better epoch in human progress" makes the earnest hope so well expressed by our Honor Member that it might prove "a landmark in history" and "the dawn of a new and better era" seem a prophetic utterance already assured of fulfilment. ST. NICHOLAS and the LEAGUE, moreover, may well take further pride in this fine contribution because its young author happens to be the daughter of our distinguished Secretary of State

who did so much to give direction to the great Conference and to insure its high purpose and achievement.

A GOOD REASON

BY ELIZABETH EVANS HUGHES (AGE 14)
(Honor Member)

WHEN we stop to consider the reason for which all the leading statesmen of the nine principal countries of the world have come over here to participate in a conference for the discussion of the Limitation of Armament, and of Far-Eastern questions, we are unable fully to grasp the significance and importance of the occasion. Our minds are not large enough wholly to comprehend such tremendously thrilling events as are happening every day in our lives just now; but the facts remain the same, and these days will be remembered as landmarks in the history of the American Nation and of the whole world. The reason for this great conference at this time is to try and arrange a way for all nations to have everlasting peace and prosperity, and not to participate in the suffering of another terrible war.

It was most fitting that the conference should open the day after the whole country had paid homage to an unknown soldier, who was the sole representative of all those men who went forth so willingly and made the supreme sacrifice to guard the peace of the world, because on that day we seemed to bury the sufferings of war and looked forward to the following day as the dawn of a new era in promoting peace in the world. So let us hope that the good reason for which this conference has been called may make it a great success!

THE WINDS OF MARCH

BY MOLLY BEVAN (AGE 17) (Silver Badge)

O WINDS of March,

Heralds of coming spring! What is the wild, fierce melody Your brazen trumpets ring?

Down in the frozen woodlands,
The bare trees sway

And bow before you

As you tear along your way.

The merry brooklet, struggling to be free,
Is kept in bondage by your icy breath;
Your voice reëchoing in the silent hills
Rings like the call of Death.

Your reign is long and harsh,

But when you vanish with your ice and snow, Deep in the wakening valleys Hepaticas will blow.

O winds of March!

While on your last, free flight you 're winging, Over the meadow, in the cherry-tree.

I hear the spring's first robin singing.

A GOOD REASON

BY FLORENCE E. TOMPKINS (AGE 13)
(Silver Badge)

IT was a cold, blustery day and the wind was blowing a gale. Before a theater, from which the people were just coming, stood several limousines. By one of these there stood a chauffeur, dressed in purple livery.

Presently, a policeman came up to him and said: "See here, you just clear out. Don't you see the hydrant? Have n't you any more sense than to park your old car right in front of a hydrant?" "Yes, sir," was all the reply the policeman received.

"Well then, move," he continued. "Supposin' this here theater got on fire, how do you think they 'd get any water to shoot at it? Do you hear me? Clear out!"

"Were you addressing me, sir?" asked the chauffeur.

"Addressing you?" exclaimed the policeman. "Addressing you! You just move that car or I'll haul you down to court for violatin' the law."

"But-but it-," began the chauffeur.

"But nothing. Are you going or are n't you?" asked the policeman.

"But-," again he began.

"Keep still! Now come on." And the policeman grabbed the chauffeur by the collar.

"Sir, what does this mean?" another voice interrupted, this time a lady's. "James, what have you been doing?"

"Nothing, ma'am, nothing to be sure," James replied.

"None o' this now. March!" commanded the policeman.

"Let go of him." The lady was growing impatient.

"Duty, lady, duty," returned the policeman. "He parked his car in front of this here hydrant."

"James!" Then turning to look at the car before the hydrant, she said, "But James is not to blame for this."

ADMIRATION."

BY DONALD DODGE, AGE 14. (SILVER BADGE)

this day that the whole city was aroused by the news that Marshal Foch was to visit our city for a few hours, on his way to Washington. Foch had been my hero since the war, and I had always longed to see him, but he arrived at nine o'clock. School began at eight-thirty, and I must not be late the day I was to be given the pin.

The day was cold and rainy, and I started to school trying not to hear the cheers that arose from the station near our home where the great man was to arrive. But hard as I tried, I could not keep away, and I found myself joining the rain-drenched crowd that lined both sides of the road. But in spite of the rain, men, women, and children, stood waving French and American flags to do homage to the wonderful general. Drip-drip went the rain, and then a mighty cheer, and a line of soldiers paraded up the street fol

BY ESTHER WALCOTT (AGE 13)
(Silver Badge)

ONE day as a twelve-year-old boy was running through the streets of Portland, Maine, he heard a queer sound.

What was it? Some one in distress.

On running toward the spot, Henry saw a little seven-year-old boy sitting on the curbstone, crying bitterly.

"Why, what is the matter, little boy?" he asked. "I-I-I can't go home," he answered, sobbing. "I'm lost."

"Where do you live?"

"On Cedar Street," answered the weeping child. "Cedar Street! That is a long way from here. How did you get so far? What is your name?"

"I came with the milkman and I got out of the wagon here. My name is James Stone."

"I know who you are. Your mother is a dressmaker. Oh dear! I'd take you home, but I'll be late to school. I do want to have a perfect record this month. I'm sorry."

But at this the boy once more burst into tears. Kind-hearted Henry smiled.

"Of course I'll take you home. Don't cry." Reaching James's home, Henry left him and ran back, not heeding the many thanks heaped on him by James and his mother. He merely called "Good-morning" and rushed away at topmost speed to the school-house.

"I'm sorry to see you late, Henry," said his teacher. "Have you an excuse?"

Henry explained. The teacher expressed her approval.

This is an example of Mr. Longfellow's kindheartedness even in his early boyhood.

But was it not a good excuse, and better than that, a kind deed?

THE WINDS OF MARCH
BY EVA TITMAN (AGE 15)
(Silver Badge)

THE Winds of March blow wild and free;
They come from over the misty sea,
And bring in a skein of tangled rain
The tomboy month to our shores again.

Their coming is heralded over the hill
By the clear trumpet-call of the gold daffodil,
And 'mong the cool mosses, the violet shy
Awakens and opens her timid blue eye.

The swirling gay breezes romp over the land
And sweep the skies clear with a freshening hand,
And scampering wildly, they toss to and fro
The last poor remains of a cold winter's snow.

And the grass appears green on the bare frozen lea, And the brown buds unfold on each tall swaying tree,

While the brook gurgles softly as southward it flows,

And the early bird sings of things nobody knows.

And the air 's just alive with the coming of spring, And the rushes by river-banks their banners fling, And the chill mist that winter has cast slowly fades,

And stars gleam like crystal in blue evening shades. Then the Winds of March blow low some night, And prepare themselves for their coming flight, And softly, as in other years

They leave the world to April's tears.

A GOOD EXCUSE

BY VERNON SQUIRES (AGE 11) TOM WHITE, of Greentown, at last decided he would go to college. "I want to get an education," he said, "and I also want to play football on some big team." And so he went to Bradshaw College.

He got an education. But he did n't get his other wish till his senior year. True, he was on the sub-team all the other years; but in his senior year, he made the varsity.

He was right half-back when the big game with Newton University came around. It would be a very close game, as always. Tom felt nervous before the game, but as the starting-whistle blew and the Newton full-back sent the ball spinning down the field into the arms of Wood, their captain and quarter, all nervousness left him, and he started to play the game with all the force he had.

At the first of the fourth quarter the score stood 13 to 7, in favor of Newton. Tom resolved that they would at least tie the score, and so set his teeth for a touch-down.

It was last down on Newton's ten-yard line, with the ball under the Newton center. Wood signaled to Tom, "Get back to watch for a pass!" But Tom, with more foresight, saw an end run. Tearing around right end, he reached the full-back just a second after his side's right guard tackled the full, who fumbled. Tom jumped high in air and grabbed the ball, only to be in turn grabbed by a Newton man. Tom fell, but as he fell, he struggled forward and placed the ball just across the line. And as the ball sailed over the cross-bars, Tom felt that he had a good excuse for disobeying orders. But-had he?