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JUNIOR CORNER OF THE FEDERATION JOURNAL
Winter 1956
dear Santa Claus:
Please bring to me, a little tiny Christmas
tree, i’ve never had one yet, you see —and i just
thought if i would write a note to you, and say,
“Please don’t forget me Christmas day” you wouldn’t
pass me by.
i wrote you last year — don’t you know? — But maybe
you were busy though or else your reindeers wouldn’t
go — i don’t know what it was. But anyhow,
you never came — and im SURE i signed my name — im
Jimmy, Santa Claus!
im Jimmy Moore — have you forgot? i think you
have — youv’e never brought one thing to me—but
i just thought if once more i would write, a note, and
ask you please to bring not very mucht — just
anything — well i just thought you might.
i’d like some toys, but i suppose i’d better ask, instead
for clothes. And Santa Claus, my little toes stick right
out in the air. and gee-ma-nee! on days like these i tell
you wljat, i nearly freeze! but no one seems to care.
i guess that’s all i’d better say — but won’t you, please,
come past our way, and give me one real Cristmas day?
FORGET that we are poor!! Our house is where it always
was; try hard to find it, Santa Claus!
That’s all. from
The Importance Of Being Young'
Stories
I. Subject—"Horns"
One time a little boy went out
on a farm with his mother. He
had never been on a farm be
fore, and everything seemed
very strange to him. The sheep
and the cows and the pigs were
all very strange. He felt the cows
were the strangest of all, because
they had such queer things on
their heads. He didn’t know what
they were, so one day he asked
the old farmer about them. The
farmer told him they were horns.
One evening soon after that the
cows began to moo and bellow
and set up an awful noise. The
little boy was very much excited.
He ran to the house as fast as he
could and called to his mother,
“Oh, Mother, Mother come and
see the cows. They are all blow
ing their horns.”’
II. "Mr. Gray Squirrel's
Mistake"
Mr. Gray Squirrel certainly
was mistaken, when he thought
that Tommy Fox was dead and
came down out of the chestnut
tree to look at him. Tommy
wasn’t even ill. You remember
that he was very hungry? And
that he had not been able to find
anything to eat? Tommy could
not climb the tree, where Mr.
Gray Squirrel sat. So the only
thing left for him to do was to
make Mr. Gray Squirrel come
down where he was.
That was what Tommy Fox
was thinking about, when he sat
there on his haunches and looked
up so innocently at Mr. Gray
Squirrel. As Tommy sat there
a bright idea came to him. So he
held his paw to his stomach and
pretended to be ill. Ans as soon
as he saw that Mr. Gray Squirrel
thought he was ill. Tommy fell
over on his side and made believe
he was dead.
Though his eyes were shut
tight, Tommy’s ears were so
sharp that he could tell when Mr.
Gray Squirrel came down the
tree. And he could hear him slow
ly picking his way nearer and
nearer. Tommy’s nose was sharp,
too, and he could smell Mr. Gray
Squirrel. He smelled so good
that Tommy couldn’t help open
ing one eye the least bit, just to
see him. That was when Mr. Gray
Squirrel noticed that his eyelid
quivered. And Tommy saw at
once that Mr. Gray Squirrel had
caught that flicker of his eyelid,
and that he was frightened. Tom
my knew then that he must act
quickly.
He jumped up like a flash. But
quick as he was, Mr. Gray Squir-
y|
In addressing you boys and
girls today, at least my text is
appropriate—the 57th verse of the
eighth chapter of John’s Gospel,
“You are not yet 50 years old.”
Jesus’ enemies said that to Him.
He was a young man trying to
teach them something and they
resented it. Grow up first, they
said, before you think yourself so
important—“You are not yet 50
years old.”
In one of the great hymns of
the church we sing,
“When I survey the wondrous
cross
On which the Prince of Glory
died,”
but that is not the way Isaac
Watts originally wrote it. What
he wrote was,
“When I survey the wondrous
cross
Where the young Prince of
Glory dy’d.”
Why that fine line should ever
have been changed I cannot guess,
for Jesus was the young Prince
of Glory. He was not yet 50 years
old.
Today I apply those words to
rel was even quicker. He reach
ed the tree just ahead of Tommy
Fox; and though Tommy leaped
high up the trunk, he was too
late. Mr. Gray Squirrel scrambled
up the tree so fast that his big
bushy tail just whisked across
Tommy’s face. And in another
second he was safe in the tree-
top, chattering and scolding, and
calling Tommy names.
Tommy Fox felt very foolish.
He realized that if he had jumped
up without first opening his eye
he would not have given Mr.
Gray Squirrel any warning; and
then he would have caught the
plump old fellow. But it was too
late now. Another time he would
know better. And he sneaked off,
to try the same trick on one of
Mr. Gray Squirrel’s friends.
It was no use. Mr. Squirrel fol
lowed him, jumping from one tree
top to another, and made a great
noise, calling after him, and jeer
ing at him, and telling all his
friends about the mean trick
Tommy had tried to play on him.
And to Tommy’s great disgust,
an old crow high up in a tall
tree heard the story and haw-
hawed loudly, he was so amused.
He made such a racket that all
the forest people heard him; and
Tommy knew that there was no
sense in trying to catch a squir
rel around there that day. He
went down into the meadow and
began hunting crickets. And
though he didn’t have as good a
lunch as he wanted, probably he
ate all that was good for him.
you boys and girls with congratu
lation and respect. Many of us
wish they were true of us. The
legends of the race are full of
stories of patient seekers for the
fountain of eternal youth, and
now you boys and girls have
youth, and I ask you to think
with me about the importance of
that.
It means, of course, that you
are still in the making. When a
man is 50 years old, he is pretty
well made; it is not easy to change
him. A little child once said to
her grandfather, “Granddad, were
you in Noah’s Ark?” The grand
father said “No, of course I wasn’t
in Noah’s Ark.” “Granddad,” said
the child, “Why weren’t you
drowned?” An old man like that
is pretty well finished. Here are
hundreds of you boys and girls
still in the making, concerning
whom one knows that you might
become this, or that, depending
on what you do now.
Over 300 years ago an ancestor
of mine landed in Charlestown,
Massachusetts, now part of great
er Boston. Boston then was a
little village a long way from
being 50 years old. A few houses
clustered around the waterfront,
and struggling paths and cattle
tracks reached back into the
country. It would have been easy
then to straighten those by-paths
out, to survey regular streets and
avenues for the growing town,
but go to downtown Boston to
day, and you can see what really
happened. Those twisting paths
were trampled by many feet into
hard roadways, and at last were
set in asphalt, curbed with stone,
and lined with towering build
ings. It would be hard to change
them now. That’s what happens
to human lives, so that anyone
who watches life closely must
feel the immense importance of
being young.
Hannibal was nine years old
when before the Altars of his
gods he swore allegiance to his
undying ambition to conquer
Rome. Joan of Arc was 13 years
old when her first vision came,
calling her to save France. Men
delssohn was 12 years old when
he went to work on his first pub
lished quartet. Michelangelo was
only 13 when, rebelling against
his family’s determination to
make him a businessman, he ap
prenticed himself to Ghirlandajo,
the painter, and gave himself to
the study of art. Ask a modern
scientist what all our science goes
back to, and he would say: To
the inductive method of studying
facts. Ask him, then, who first
clearly saw what that inductive
See YOUNG Page 4