Here and Now Story Book Part 28

"Moo-oo-oo," lowed the cow nearest at hand, so loud that both children jumped. "Poor old Redface," said Nancy. "I wish we could help you."

"We're going to," said Eben in an excited voice, "See here, Nancy. We're going to milk these cows!" "Why, Eben Brewster, we could never do it alone!" Nancy's eyes went to the gasolene engine as she spoke. "We've got to," said Eben. "That's all there is about it."

So the children began with trembling hands. They lighted two lanterns.

"I wish the cows would stop a minute," said Nancy. "I can't seem to think with such a racket going on." Eben turned on the spark of the engine. He had done it before, but it seemed different to do it when his father wasn't standing near. Then he took the crank. "I hope she doesn't kick tonight," he wished fervently. He planted his feet firmly and grasped the handle! Round he swung it, around and around. Only the bellowing of the cows answered. He began again. Round he swung the handle; around and around. "Chug, chug-a-chug, chug, chug, chug-a-chug, chug," answered the engine. Nancy jumped with delight. "You're as good as a man, Eben," she cried.

"Come now, bring the lantern," commanded Eben. Nancy carried the lantern and Eben a rubber tube. This tube Eben fastened on to the first faucet on the long pipe between the first two cows. This rubber tube branched into two and at the end of each were four hollow rubber fingers. Eben stuck his fingers down one. He could feel the air pull, pull, pull.

"She's working all right, Nancy," he whispered in a shaking voice. "Put the pail here." Nancy obeyed. Eben took one bunch of four hollow rubber fingers and slipped one finger up each udder of one cow. Then he took the other bunch and slipped one finger up each udder of the second cow.

The cows, feeling relief was near, quieted at once. "I can see the milk," screamed Nancy, watching a tiny gla.s.s window in the rubber tube.

And sure enough, through the tube and out into the pail came a pulsing stream of milk. Squirt, squirt, squirt, squirt. In a few minutes the two cows were milked and the children moved on to the next pair. Nancy carried the pail and Eben the rubber tube which he fastened on to the next faucet. And in another few minutes two more cows were milked. So the children went the length of the great red barn, and gradually the restless lowings quieted as pail after pail was filled with warm white milk.

"I wouldn't try the separator if it weren't for the poor Little Sisters," said Eben anxiously as they reached the end of the barn.

"They've got to be fed," said Nancy. "But I can't lift those pails."

Slowly Eben carried them one by one with many rests back to the separator by the gasoline engine. He took the strap off one wheel and put it around the wheel of the separator. "I can't lift a whole pail,"

sighed Eben. Taking a little at a time he poured the milk into the tray at the top of the separator. In a few minutes the yellow cream came pouring out of one spout and the blue skimmed milk out of another. In another few minutes the calves were drinking the warm skimmed milk.

"There, Little Sisters, poor, hungry Little Sisters," said Nancy, as she watched their eager pink tongues.

Eben turned off the engine. "I'm sorry I couldn't do the final hand milking," he said. "I wonder if we'd better turn the cows out?" Before Nancy could answer both children heard a sound. They held their breath.

Surely those were horses' feet! Cloppety clop clop clop cloppety clop clop clop. Up to the barn door dashed the old farm horses. From the dark outside the children heard their mother's voice, "Children, children, are you there? The harness broke and I thought we'd _never_ get home."

Carrying a lantern apiece the children rushed out and into her arms.

"Here, Eben," called his father. "You take the horses quick. I must get started milking right away. Those poor cows!" The children were too excited to talk plainly. They both jabbered at once. Then each took a hand of their father and led him into the great red barn. There by the light of the lanterns Andrew Brewster could see the pails of warm white milk and yellow cream. He stared at the quiet cows and at the Little Sisters. Then he stared at Eben and Nancy. "Yes," cried both children together. "We did it. We did it ourselves!"

THE SKY Sc.r.a.pER

The story tries to a.s.semble into a related form many facts well-known to seven-year-olds and to present the whole as a modern industrial process.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE SKY Sc.r.a.pER

Once in an enormous city, men built an enormous building. Deep they built it, deep into the ground; high they built it, high into the air.

Now that it is finished the men who walk about its feet forget how deep into the ground it reaches. But they can never forget how high into the blue it soars. Their necks ache when they throw back their heads to see to the top. For, of all the buildings in the world, this sky sc.r.a.per is the highest.

The sky sc.r.a.per stands in the heart of the great city. From its top one can see the city, one can hear the city, one can smell the city--the city where men live and work. One can see the crowded streets full of tiny men and tiny automobiles, the riverside with its baby warehouses and its baby docks, the river with its toy bridges and toy giant steamers and tug boats and barges and ferries. The city noise,--the distant, rumbling, grumbling noise,--sounds like the purring of a far-away giant beast. And over it all lies the smell of gas and smoke.

The sky sc.r.a.per stands in the heart of the great city. But from its top in the blue, blue sky one can see all over the land. Landward the fields spread out like a map till they are lost in the mist and smoke. Seaward lies the vast, the tremendous stretch of the sea, the wrinkled, the crinkled, the far-away sea that stretches to touch the sky.

Now this soaring sky sc.r.a.per is the work of men--of many, many men. Its lofty lacy tower was first thought of by the architect. With closed eyes he saw it, and with his well-trained fingers quickly he drew its outline. Then at his office many men with T squares and with compa.s.ses, sitting at high long tables, with green-shaded lamps, worked far into the nights till all the plans were ready.

Then the sky sc.r.a.per began to grow. The first men brought mighty steam shovels. One hundred feet into the earth they burrowed. The gigantic mouths of the steam shovels gnawed at the rock and the clay. Huge hulks they clutched from this underworld, heaved up with enormous derricks and crashed out on the upper land. Deep they dug, deep into the ground till they found the firm bed-rock. With a network of steel they filled this terrific hole. Into the rasping, revolving mixers they poured tons of sand and cement and gravel which steadily flowed in a sluggish stream to strengthen the steel supports.

At last,--and that was an exciting day,--the great beams began to rise.

Again the derricks ground, as slowly, steadily, accurately, they swung each beam to its place. A thousand men swarmed over the steel bones, some throwing red-hot rivets, others catching them in pails, all to the song of the rivet driver.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The riveter screamed and shrieked and shrilled. It pierced the air of the narrow streets. On the nearby buildings it vibrated, echoed. The sky sc.r.a.per seemed alive and thrilled by the quivering, throbbing, shrieking shrill,--by the song of the riveter. Story by story the sky sc.r.a.per grew, a monstrous outline against the sky. And ever and ever as it grew, hissed the rivet and screamed the drill.

At length the sky sc.r.a.per soared sixty dizzy stories high. Then swiftly came the stone masons and encased the giant steel frame. Swiftly in its center, men reared the plunging elevators. Swiftly worked the electrician, the plumber, the carpenter. All workmen were called and all workmen came. The world listened to the call of this sky sc.r.a.per standing in the heart of the great city. From the mines of Minnesota to the swamps of Louisiana came goods to serve its need. Long, long ago, in olden days, the churches grew slowly bit by bit, as one man carved a door post here and another fitted a window there, each planning his own part. Not so with the sky sc.r.a.per. It grew in haste. Its parts were made in factories scattered the country over. Each factory was ready with a part, and the railroad was ready swift to bring them to its feet. The sky sc.r.a.per grew in haste. For it the many worked as one.

Planned by those who command and reared by those who obey, in an enormous city men built this enormous building. Deep they built it, deep into the ground; high they built it, high into the air. And now they use this building built by them. The sky sc.r.a.per houses an army of ten thousand men. All day they clamber up and down its core like insects in a giant tree. They buzz and buzz, and then go home.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

But there with the shadowy silent streets at its feet stands the lofty sky sc.r.a.per. On its head there glows a monstrous light. The rays pierce through the fogs. And when the storm is screaming wild, the light struggles through to the frightened boats tossing on the mountain waves.

The storm howls and beats on the sides of the lofty lacy tower with the shining light on top. The storms beat on its side, the tower leans in the wind, the tower of steel and of stone leans and leans a full two feet. Then when the blast is past, this tower of steel and of stone swings back to straightness again.

And so in the enormous city men built this enormous building. Deep they built it, deep into the ground; high, they built it, high into the air.

Now that it is finished, the men who walk about its feet forget how deep into the ground it reaches. But they can never forget how high into the blue it soars. Their necks ache when they throw back their heads to see to the top. For of all the buildings in the world this sky sc.r.a.per is the highest.

END