The Boy Who Called Wolf

the boy who called wolf By Glen Perrins. I was in a hurry, as I jerked the receiver from the phone — "Yes, I saw her dress — the length of it was simply scandalous — " "Widow Jenkins on the line again," I muttered, "and she'll stay there a year — how'll I ever get her off." Suddenly I had it. "Fire! fire," I shouted into the mouth-piece. "The house is on fire! Hang up quick, I want central!" "Heavens!" I heard Widow Jenkins ejaculate. "Good-bye, Mirandi." And the phone went up with a bang. "Clever idea; eh, Momsey?" I called out to mother in the kitchen. "Sure got them off the wire in a hurry that time." "You mustn't do it, Jimmy," cautioned mother — "you'll frighten the old ladies to death, and besides, you know, you told a lie — there isn't a fire." | "Sure there is, Momsey dear — in the stove. Now I can get Fred on the phone — there was no chance for half an hour before." Mother said something about it not being right, and that some day I'd be sorry, or something — but I was too busy phoning to listen. Had I known what was going to happen a few weeks later, however, I would certainly have paid more attention to mother. But I did not, and after that incident, whenever I wanted the line, I'd yell: "Fire! fire! the house is on fire," and right away I'd get the phone all to myself. I thought it was a very clever idea — that is, until one sad day. I shudder at what might have happened then, even today. A week or so had perhaps gone by when, one afternoon, as I sat quietly reading in the parlor, I heard a terrible explosion in the kitchen. "Jimmy, Jimmy," cried mother. "Hurry, hurry! call the fire department — the gasoline I was ironing with has caught on fire!" I rushed to the phone, and too excited to think of the number, I yelled into the mouth-piece: "Fire! fire! the house is on fire — hang up quick! I want central!" "Keep quiet, young man," was the sickening reply — Widow Jenkins was on the phone. "We've had enough of your 'fires' lately. Wait your turn this time." Horrors! My heart sank to the floor. What had my "clever" habit done? "But the house really is on fire!" I fairly shouted. "Hang up quickly!"

146 IMPROVEMENT ERA "Wait until evening for your bedtime stories young man!" came the reply. "Hang up, yourself." It was no use to say more. I rushed madly from the house and to the nearest fire box, a block or so away. Minutes were flying by. Considerably more time was being lost than if I could have phoned. I thought the house would certainly be burned down before the fire department could reach it. What would "Momsy" think of me? But the firemen hurried. It was a small blaze, luckily, and was quickly put out. Mother did not scold me. The damage I had caused, she thought, had punished me enough. I believe to this day it did. Whether or not Widow Jenkins was "cured" of holding a conversation party on the phone, I do not know. She found out about the fire later. I, for one, however, was completely "cured" of "calling wolf." Never again. If the line's busy — well — it's busy, that's all. The Gifts of the Giver Great Giver of all gifts, thee would I thank For all the joys of thy great universe, For gorgeous sunset glow, for mossy bank By gurgling stream, where laughing waves converse; For lofty mountain heights of purple hue, Symbol of strength and faith, and high ideals, And for thy cloud-flecked sky of royal blue; For vivid lightning's flash and thunder's peal, For dew-wet sweetness of the rosy dawn, For twilight's glow, like soul's beautitude That steals o'er earth when busy day is done. I thank thee for the bird who stills her brood Of hungry little ones that nestle down Beneath the downy softness of her breast, — For blue-bird's song — o'er-head and all around. From leafy trees and sapphire sky we're blessed With music from a thousand singing throats Of joyous little people of the air. I thank thee for the silv'ry moon — a boat That fills e'en starless sky with beauty rare. These all are blessings rich and wonderful. But, Father, dear, more wouldst I thank thee for The love that makes e'er dull days beautiful, The faith that makes me strive for evermore To thankful be for thee, Great Sire Divine; To worthy be of all thy blessed gifts, The greatest, Lord, that life eternal's mine. Oh help thou me, Great Giver of all gifts! Sclpio, Utah. Nona H. Brown