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Nally rood's (Success I JlotO I \ c£rnerWommn \c/ueeoe£ $ HAVE seen Sally Sod. "Then there is a Sally Sod?" I "Who is she?" "What is she like?" "Is she as jolly as she writes?" "Is she a Success?" Not so fast—please. You shall "know all" as quickly as it can be told. Sally Sod is as real as you yourself and all the facts in her story, "One Month Out of My Life," are true as true. Her every-day name is Mrs. Elwyn Green , or to use her personal signature, Lorretto Hughes Green. And she lives in Wayne County, Michigan. She is just as full of sprightly goodnature as you would guess from her story and is ten times a success as the mother of ten sturdy, wholesome, delightful children who are bubbling over with rollicking fun and who are nevertheless making good in school. Success? Why, you feel it as far as you can see and "feel" the house. But it is success of a definite and specific kind. The kind about which Danny, in Four Ducks on a Pond , told Tad. He said, "Everyone . . . would be ready with a tale or a song or a gay bit of fiddling —each one sharing something fine or foolish . . . There's seldom poverty of heart in Ireland." It is family success—home success—success of the very best sort. Sally Sod sailed under no false pretenses. She told us all frankly, "Ours is not a Success Story. We still live on a rented farm with positively no modern conveniences, either in barn or house." So I was not surprised , that Sunday afternoon , when there loomed up out of level, bare, March fields, a modest, shingled house, guiltless of porch, bay-window, sun-parlor, or other apology to the public. It stood plain , straight, uncompromising, humble and proud of it. But it had one beauty. It was bursting with bloom at every window, the bloom of childhood. In another moment they were around me, a bevy of little children ; modest, but friendly, smiling, unafraid; fairly prancing with eagerness and high spirits. I had a guard of honor through the mud and up to the back steps where Mr. and Mrs. Green awaited me, "Is this Sally Sod?" Not one breathing second was she the disconcerted hostess, surprised and caught off guard. A warm grip, an eager flow of words, a torrent of laughter. And I was fairly swept into the house on the wave of it; through the dining-room with its long, long table, a regular harvesthand table ; into the little parlor. And when we were seated, with most of the little folks standing, the room was furnished as no interior decorator could do it, damask of pink-and-white cheeks with the roses of red blood in them, jewels in sparkling eyes. And how we laughed! I never laughed so much to the square inch in all my life. Just why? I've tried to recall. But the little jokes melt away into thin air,—too fine to be caught in the mesh of words. Very little jokes passed muster, sparkled and "went over big" in that atmosphere. There was something magic in the air. You see, Sally Sod is Irish on both sides. "Grandparents right from the bogs," she said. So now we understand. It is impossible for her to speak without giving a quizzical twist to her words. And the children , born and bred to humor, are always read y with a come-back. Their father, a Yankee by birth , has a merry twinkle in his blue eyes,—born there and kept always busy. So they laugh ,—the Sally Sod household. And the house is full of their laughter. You feel somehow that little elfin laughs of the past are perched all over the ceiling and above the windows. If you ask me, I think this is the secret and heart of the whole story of their success. "Laugh a lot?" Sally Sod repeated when we caught our respective breaths. "I'll say so. I wish you could hear and see this outfit of mine when they are shut in for a time. You surely would hear some rib-crackers. Every last one of them is a regular old Fulla Pepp." "Ma , she's writing it down ," shouted nine-year-old Jessie from the other end of the table. She was reading upside down as fast as I could write. "0, we have a circus here all the time," Sally Sod went on. "I suppose I could make something of it if only I had the sense to appreciate it. I've just finished writing 'The Diary of a Distracted Mother.' I bought a big tablet and wrote it full. And I still have more to say. "You certainly have found me just as I am and at once both at my best and my worst. I say my best because I have my entire family to back me up; my worst because of being caught off guard. "And here are my ten. Robert, 14, is my chief executive. He has just taken a prize in a declamation contest and won a gold medal. But he's so dignified he doesn't like to have me speak about it. He's planning to be an electrical engineer. "Mervin , 12, is our joke-smith , our clown, the cause of our greatest laughs. He's the. boy who is going to rubberize his Father's milk checks. His ambition is to drive a truck. He has just won the seventh grade spell-down which made him grade champion and brought him a fine modern dictionary. "Glad ys is eleven and mothers all the children. She is a prize-winner, too. She spelled down the fifth grade last year and won a dictionary with a 'G' in gold letters." FLAXEN-HAIRED, pearly-teethed "Gladys—withthe—joke." She was standing a little apart, bubbling over with amusement. It danced out of her eyes and rippled out in her voice. And finally, with a little coaxing, the secret popped all the way out in one breathless rush. "I knew Ma wrote those Sally Sod letters. She didn 't tell us. But I guessed it, 'cause Ma had counted up what she had done in August. And I knew no other mother had. So I guessed it." And Gladys laughed—such a rippling little laugh, mischief darting from her eyes. "Jessie, nine , comes next. All the babies love her. She's a good scout and a born little mother. "Marian , eight , is a dyed-in-the-woo! flapper." At which Marian looked up all smiles and dimples. Next came seven-year-old Evelyn, the Brownie, brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin , a real nut-brown maid. "Little Miss I-Don't-Care," said her Mother. Then Cecil, the five-year-old beauty, with a turned-up nose and wonderful golden hair with a permanent wave. "Next is Farmer John , my 'pride and joy. This boy was born under the worst possible circumstances. I had whooping cough together with seven of the children when he was born. He weighed only four and a half pounds at By GRACE FARRIJSSGTOH GRAT BALLY BOD'S CROWN OF SUCCESS —HER CHILDREN — AND BELOW, SALLY SOD HERSELF first; was raised in a market basket till he was seven months old. The first few years he was very delicate. Our doctor took such an interest in him that he said: 'When you call me, tell me if it's John and I'll burn up my little old car to get to him.' Now, at four, John's quite a boy." And so he is. A sturdy, squareshouldered 1 i tTl e fellow with a sweet serious face. "Frances, two years old, is 'Pa's - baby.' Though for the matter of that, they're all father's babies. They'reall crazy about him. Elwyn, my Husband" (we capitalize Husband because that's what Sally Sod did with her voice) "says it's my fault because I tell the children 'how nice Pa is. "Our little 'Ma-Ma Doll,' the baby, is Laura Nadine— sweetest of the bunch." Then hastily, lest some one should be hurt: "Of course, they've all had their turns at being 'the sweetest.' But their turns have been rather short. "You can see that all I've ever had a chance to do is to raise children. I have six in school and four at home. What I told you in*One Month Out of My Life ' is absolutely true and is a sample of what's happening here all the time. «/~\F COURSE, my work runs largely to 'eats.' I'm keep- ^ ing house for twelve healthy, hearty people. And every one of them has a good out-of-door appetite to be appeased three times a day. My cake-baking averages around five cakes a week; I peel an average of a peck of potatoes daily and everything goes in the same proportion. "My 'daily dozen' and forearm developer is mixing up 14 loaves of bread. "Our weekly washing usually consists of one big family wash and three smaller ones. One week there were 42 dresses and in one single wash there were 22. I put them on the line and looked them over. Nineteen I had made myself. "I suppose you are wondering, 'What about the ironing?' I do my ironing as some people can fruit. The cold pack method for mine. Lots of the washing is folded at the line and put away. I iron only the best clothes, school dresses, shirts and'table cloths. My little girls are learning to iron their everyday clothes. "Then there are the trips that I make. Some to town ; some to mill; some on errands; some to get milk cans. I fi gure that these save my husband's time as I take the car and make them all during his working hours. "Now that my children are growing older they can do lots of the smaller jobs which leaves me more time for the big ones. And I think you will agree with me that it is lime I need. Mervin , here, is quite a cook. 0, but you should hear 'the bunch' sing at their work!" "Yes," piped up Gladys-with-the-joke. "And Ma always says, 'Slop that groaning.'" When the laugh subsided Sally Sod went on unperturbed. "I don't want this to sound like a long drawn out wail of misery, because life always has its own compensations. When I work my hardest , my little ones (CONTINUED ON PAGE 375)
^f \xn in c/acation (âmps A WATER PAGEANT IN CAMP A HOME-MADE TROPHY CUP, TREAS- URED EVEN IF TIN , that is the primary reason why FUN everybody comes to a vacation camp. And so the Recreational Director is busy during the first hours when the campers arrive with their grips and bedding rolls. Ha must get the campers organized into groups or teams, for good naturcd competition is the key to successful play. As soon as she arrives a cheesecloth arm band is pinned on each camper with tiny safety pins. The Director very carefull y sees that bosom friends are put in different groups for no little cliques are going to prove a kill-joy in this camp. Finally she blows her whistle and announces: "All those with red arm bands please come over here ; blue ones, here; green , here; orange, here." It takes only a minute to' segregate the groups, and then the Director says: "You four groups are going to compete all week. The score will be read at breakfast each morning. A prize will be awarded the winners at the close of camp. Good sportsmanship counts 100 points a day, so don't crow if you win , don't grumble, if you lose. Broken rules will mean a loss of points. Now I give you five minutes to get a name for your group with some bearing on your color, to elect a captain , yell leader and song leader. Speed!" The groups confer and then announce: "Green Goslings," "Orange Crushes," "BlueGiants ," "Red Birds." The Director issues another command: "You have three minutes to make up a yell." Each group rehearses its yell in whispers so the others will not hear. The Green Goslings win first place beyond a doubt: Once I was a Gosling, mamma turned me loose, Let me go away to camp. Noiv I am a goosel Competition is the life of group play and the quickest way to organize a camp for fun. By the time these yells have been given , recent strangers are patting one another on the back and vowing to fix up a yell next time that will "knock 'em cold." "And now," says the Director , "go and get settled in your tents and cabins. But first , make up a song to sing tonight at the supper table, something with bearing on your group name." At the supper table there are no embarrassed, silent diners. All are astir. Pencilled copies of songs go about the tables so all may learn the words. Each group sings its song while plates are changed and dessert served and so the progress of the meal is not interfered with. The Blue Giants triumph this time. Mounting their chairs to give themselves additional height, they sing to the tune, "The Farmer in the Dell." We're Giants of all heights, yes Giants of all heights, We can't be beat, just watch us eat , we've Giant Appetites. The other three groups greet this effort with hearty applause. "Good sportsmanship" note the judges on their score sheets. Now everybody knows that "Stunt night" is the biggest event in camp, the climax of it all. The mistake is often made of leaving all preparation for this until the last afternoon , the result being an awful hodge-podge of unrelated stunts. To guard against this the Director gathers all four groups right after supper to discuss stunts. "We are going to try a camp pageant ," she announces. "Every number must be about camp life. Each group is responsible for two episodes, neither to last longer than ten minutes. You must plan something so that every member o^ your group has a part. One of the camp instructors will help each group and this is the main idea of the pageant: As the Spirit of Outdoors sits on her throne, a Pilgrim comes by, tired and careworn , and asks where she By MIGHOH $UAW LOTT is, "You're in Happy Time Camp," the Spirit replies. "Would you like to see a bit of our life here?" The Pilgrim says yes and seats herself at the foot of the throne. Then you groups act out the different episodes of camp life before her. Now get busy and find out what talent you have in your groups." Under the guidance of the instructors the different acts are formulated. Among the Giants are four interpretive dancers; among the Goslings, some specially good singers ; the Red Birds have one who can strum the ukulele , and others who can jig, turn handsprings, do f olk dancing and so on. Before they go to bed that night, the episodes have been blocked out and everybody has a part. They do not take all evening to plan , for there is a jollification about the camp fire during which each camper tells who she is and where she came from. Setting-up exercises next morning find two members of the Giants tardy! Five points gone! And at breakfast it develops that the camp policeman reported a Gosling in one tent making such a disturbance that her roommates could not sleep! The groups do not grumble^rver this bad luck , but they resolve to use preventive measures in the future! After breakfast comes the tidying up of rooms, all counting on scores. And then lessons, also counting their quota of points. Right after dinner the Recreational Director calls "Supervised rest!" and directs each camper , to bring a blanket and spread it on the dry ] ground under the trees. Such a sight! i Rows of relaxed figures, lying on their backs '• gazing lazily up at the summer sky! Soft music comes from somewhere and ABOVE, ONE OF THE 0- FOOT GIANTS Of THE PARADE. BELOW, A MOCK WEDDING AND OTHER FUN "STUNTS" the Director tells a sleepy story crammed full of drowsy words like buzzing and droning, resting, dreaming. It is not long till almost everybody is sound asleep! "And that," remarks the Director "is positively the only way to get them to rest. They'd romp or visit or rehearse every moment otherwise'." At 3 o'clock P. M., after lessons are over, the games begin. No onlookers here. Everybod y plays. It is a pretty sight, Giants, Goslings, Red Birds, Orange Crushes in parallel lines extending the full length of the playground , all facing the Director. Each group has a gay flag at the head of its line. The Director is featuring homely equipment found in any farm yard. "Our first game," she announces , "is a tire passing relay. Each group will be provided with an auto tire. The first player puts it down over her head, steps out of it and the next player steps into it and brings it up over her head and so on down the line. You see it goes down , up, down, up and so on. The side to get its tire down to the end first , wins. Ready, go!" Such scrambling and screaming as the old tires go down the lines! "/^\UR next game is a combination of auto tire. and potatoes. It is a game of marksmanship. ^^ Will two players from each line please hold up the tire so the others can throw through it? Now every player will have three chances to throw a potato through the tire. Every time it goes through , it counts 5 points for your side." Wild excitement reigns before the first three games are done. When it conies to the tug of war and the obstacle race the yells are deafening. "We're going to conclude the games with a shoe scramble," shouts the Director. "Take off your shoes and pile them all in this spot. Now all get back to your places. When I say 'Go' everybody races up to the pile, gets her shoes, puts them on and runs back to her place. The side to get back first, wins." That night, at the supper table, another announcement is made. "Right after supper ," says the Director , "will come a parade. Each group will march by itself in costumes suggestive of its group name. You will have 20 minutes to get ready." "Wlice!" shout the diners, "Parade!" For everybody loves a parade as the Director well knows. Space permits onl y the description of the Giants' part in the procession. Here they come, great lumbering ungainly creatures, eight and nine feet tall. This MuuajuiMu effect was achieved by making life-sized heads, stuffing them and sewing them to the tops of umbre llas, half opened. Sheets made the skirts of these creatures and concealed the marchers underneath. We must skip the swimming and hiking, the candy pulling and pillow fighting and come to the last big night and the pageant! Sheets strung on wire made a curtain which conceals the stage from the audience. A piano dispenses music while the crowd gathers. Behind the scenes, Giants, Goslings, Red Birds, Orange Crushes are hustling into costumes. A tall , stately Orange Crush maiden mounts the throne of white, the curtains are pulled aside and the performance begins! The Pilgrim, a Gosling, enters with heavy step, wearing the cook's bathrobe, an ugly brown affair. A dark hood conceals her face, her step is heavy and slow. (CONTINUED ON PAGE 374)
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