Speak the truth!Speak it boldly, never fear;Speak it so that all may hear;In the end it shall appearTruth is best in age and youth.Speak the truth.Speak the truth!Truth is beautiful and brave,Strong to bless and strong to save;Falsehood is a cowardly knave;From it turn thy steps in youth—Follow truth.
Speak the truth!Speak it boldly, never fear;Speak it so that all may hear;In the end it shall appearTruth is best in age and youth.Speak the truth.
Speak the truth!Truth is beautiful and brave,Strong to bless and strong to save;Falsehood is a cowardly knave;From it turn thy steps in youth—Follow truth.
Here is one of the many stories that have been told about Saint Valentine.
Father Valentine was a priest who lived a long time ago. He spent his time in nursing the sick and in comforting the sorrowing.As he went about among his people, the children, too, found a kind and helpful friend.
They liked to talk with him, and to run by his side as he went from one house to another. What wonderful stories he told them about the birds and the flowers! How many beautiful things he taught them as they walked together through the forest and by the river!
Father Valentine loved all the little creatures of the woods and the streams, and they seemed to love him in return. The birds would come at his call, and the squirrels would scamper down the trees to take food from his hand.
Years went by, and at last the good priest became too old to visit his people. How they must have wished to hear again the sound of his footsteps at the door! How the children must have missed their kind teacher and the stories that he told!
Father Valentine was very sad because he could no longer go about from home to home.But he soon found a way by which he could still be of use to those he loved.
As he sat in his room he wrote the kind words which had always made his visits so full of good cheer. Every day his loving messages were sent near and far. They were carried by the boys and girls who had learned from him to be happy in helping others.
Soon his friends began to watch for the kind words that were sure to come to them whenever they were in need of help. Even the little children, when they were ill, would say, "I am sure that Father Valentine will send me a letter to-day."
After a time the good father passed away from earth, but he has not been forgotten.
Each year, when the fourteenth of February comes around, we still keep his birthday.
Think of the lonely, remember the sad,Be kind to the poor, make every one glad,On good old Saint Valentine's Day.
Think of the lonely, remember the sad,Be kind to the poor, make every one glad,On good old Saint Valentine's Day.
Picture of an old house
Here is a picture of a famous old house. It was built more than one hundred years ago, and it still stands, painted yellow and white, as in the days of old. People come from far and near to see it, and perhaps some day you will visit it.
Do you wish to know why so many people travel miles and miles to see this old place?
Two great men once lived here. The first one was a brave general. Long ago he was called from his own home to take commandof an army. In those days, the yellow and white house was one of the finest places for miles around. So it was given to the general for his headquarters.
If these old walls could only speak, what wonderful stories they could tell! For in this house many plans were made, which helped to bring freedom to our land.
We like to fancy that we can see the great general going in and out of the front door. He used to wear a three-cornered hat and ruffled shirt bosom, knee-breeches, and low shoes with silver buckles.
This brave and noble commander led his army through many dangers to victory, and he afterward became the first president of the United States. You need not be told that the great general who once lived in the famous old house was George Washington.
After many years the old house became the home of another great and good man. He did not lead armies, nor make laws, nor hold office. And yet few men in our country have been so well known or so well loved.
His poems are read in all parts of the world, and his beautiful thoughts have helped hundreds and hundreds of people to love the right and to hate the wrong.
And now you are eager to speak the name of the great poet who once lived in the famous old house—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Then the little HiawathaLearned of every bird its language,Learned their names and all their secrets,—How they built their nests in summer,Where they hid themselves in winter,—Talked with them whene'er he met them,Called them "Hiawatha's chickens."Of all beasts he learned the language,Learned their names and all their secrets,—How the beavers built their lodges,Where the squirrels hid their acorns,How the reindeer ran so swiftly,Why the rabbit was so timid,—Talked with them whene'er he met them,Called them "Hiawatha's brothers."Forth into the forest straightwayAll alone walked HiawathaProudly, with his bow and arrows;And the birds sang round him, o'er him,"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"Sang the robin, sang the bluebird,"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"And the rabbit from his pathwayLeaped aside, and at a distanceSat erect upon his haunches,Half in fear and half in frolicSaying to the little hunter,"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"But he heeded not, nor heard them,For his thoughts were with the red deer;On their tracks his eyes were fastened,Leading downward to the river,To the ford across the river;And as one in slumber walked he.
Then the little HiawathaLearned of every bird its language,Learned their names and all their secrets,—How they built their nests in summer,Where they hid themselves in winter,—Talked with them whene'er he met them,Called them "Hiawatha's chickens."
Of all beasts he learned the language,Learned their names and all their secrets,—How the beavers built their lodges,Where the squirrels hid their acorns,How the reindeer ran so swiftly,Why the rabbit was so timid,—Talked with them whene'er he met them,Called them "Hiawatha's brothers."
Forth into the forest straightwayAll alone walked HiawathaProudly, with his bow and arrows;And the birds sang round him, o'er him,"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"Sang the robin, sang the bluebird,"Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!"
And the rabbit from his pathwayLeaped aside, and at a distanceSat erect upon his haunches,Half in fear and half in frolicSaying to the little hunter,"Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!"
But he heeded not, nor heard them,For his thoughts were with the red deer;On their tracks his eyes were fastened,Leading downward to the river,To the ford across the river;And as one in slumber walked he.
Hiawatha aiming an arrow at a deer
Hidden in the alder bushes,There he waited till the deer came,Till he saw two antlers lifted,Saw two eyes look from the thicket,Saw two nostrils point to windward,And a deer came down the pathway,Flecked with leafy light and shadow.And his heart within him fluttered,Trembled like the leaves above him,As the deer came down the pathway.
Hidden in the alder bushes,There he waited till the deer came,Till he saw two antlers lifted,Saw two eyes look from the thicket,Saw two nostrils point to windward,And a deer came down the pathway,Flecked with leafy light and shadow.And his heart within him fluttered,Trembled like the leaves above him,As the deer came down the pathway.
The famous old house looks very quiet and lonely in the picture. But there was a time when many children ran about its halls and played upon the lawn.
Portrait of Longfellow
"How many children did Mr. Longfellow have? Did he have any boys? What were their names?"
These questions are asked again and again by little people who keep the birthday of the poet and wish to learn about his life.
In his journal, Mr. Longfellow tells us abouthis children, and it is there we may find answers to all our questions.
The poet's eldest son was named Charles. When Charles was two years old his little brother Ernest was born. Longfellow then moved his books into another room and gave up his study to his babies.
And so the room in which Washington had planned battles became the nursery of the Longfellow children. Did any children ever have a more famous nursery?
In this room which once belonged to Washington we like to think that the children heard again and again the story of our first President.
When Ernest was but a few days old his father told a friend that the little newcomer was a great musician. Do you know what the poet meant by this?
While Charles and Ernest were still little boys, their baby sister Fannie came to live in the nursery. Just as she was old enough to run about, the dear little girl died. Then the house was full of sorrow. Many of the poemsLongfellow wrote at this time tell the story of his grief at the loss of his little daughter.
Charles was six years old and Ernest four, when their father first took them to school. He left them sitting on little chairs among the other children in an old house near a large elm tree.
It was under this same tree that Washington took command of the American army.
As time went on three little girls took the places of the boys in the nursery. How all these children loved their father! They thought him the best playfellow in the world, and so he was.
He made toys for them, taught them games, and wrote letters which he placed under their pillows for them to find in the morning.
Longfellow writes in his journal about coasting with the boys for hours upon thehillside, and of working hard with all the children making a snow house in the front yard.
Again he tells of charming birthday parties when children played in the hay and scrambled for sugar plums. These parties always ended with a fine birthday supper.
On the first of May the children sometimes had a May party. The girls wore wreaths upon their heads and danced around the May pole. Then they all went to the summer house for a feast.
In summer the Longfellow children often went to the seaside with their father and mother. All day long they played in the sand and waded in the water.
But a great and terrible sorrow came suddenly to the Longfellow home. One morning, as Mrs. Longfellow was sealing a package with hot wax, her dress caught fire. Before the flames could be put out she was so badly burned that she died soon after.
Never again was the poet full of joy as he had always been before. For him thehappiness of life was over. But he never forgot to provide for the pleasure of his children.
Longfellow has told us about his three daughters in a beautiful poem called "The Children's Hour." He has also written about them in a letter to a little girl which you will be glad to read.
Nahant, August 18, 1859.
Your letter followed me down here by the seaside, where I am passing the summer with my three little girls.
The oldest is about your size; but as little girls keep changing every year I can never remember exactly how old she is, and have to ask her mamma, who has a better memory than I have. Her name is Alice. I never forget that. She is a nice girl and loves poetry almost as much as you do.
The second is Edith, with blue eyes and beautiful golden locks which I sometimes call her nankeen hair to make her laugh. She is a busy little woman and wears gray boots.
The youngest is Allegra, which you know means merry; and she is the merriest little thing you ever saw—always singing and laughing all over the house.
These are my three little girls, and Mr. Read has painted them all in one picture which I hope you will see some day.
They bathe in the sea and dig in the sand and patter about the piazza all day long. Sometimes they go to see the Indians encamped on the shore, and buy baskets and bows and arrows.
I do not say anything about the two boys. They are such noisy fellows it is of no use to talk about them.
And now, Miss Emily, give my love to your papa, and good night with a kiss from his friend and yours,
Henry W. Longfellow.
Little girls on a stairway
The old house by the lindensStood silent in the shade,And on the graveled pathwayThe light and shadow played.I saw the nursery windowsWide open to the air,But the faces of the children,They were no longer there.The large Newfoundland house dogWas standing by the door;He looked for his little playmates,Who would return no more.They walked not under the lindens,They played not in the hall;But shadow, and silence, and sadnessWere hanging over all.The birds sang in the branchesWith sweet, familiar tone;But the voices of the childrenWill be heard in dreams alone!—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
The old house by the lindensStood silent in the shade,And on the graveled pathwayThe light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windowsWide open to the air,But the faces of the children,They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house dogWas standing by the door;He looked for his little playmates,Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens,They played not in the hall;But shadow, and silence, and sadnessWere hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branchesWith sweet, familiar tone;But the voices of the childrenWill be heard in dreams alone!—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Under a spreading chestnut-treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.His hair is crisp, and black, and long,His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat;He earns whate'er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.
Under a spreading chestnut-treeThe village smithy stands;The smith, a mighty man is he,With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,His face is like the tan;His brow is wet with honest sweat;He earns whate'er he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow;You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow,Like a sexton ringing the village bell,When the evening sun is low.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.From the Painting by Sir Edwin Landseer. Engraved by Henry W. Peckwell.THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
From the Painting by Sir Edwin Landseer. Engraved by Henry W. Peckwell.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing floor.He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter's voiceSinging in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.It sounds to him like her mother's voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,Onward through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begun,Each evening sees its close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night's repose.Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought.—Henry W. Longfellow.
And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door;They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar,And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys;He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughter's voiceSinging in the village choir,And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,Singing in Paradise!He needs must think of her once more,How in the grave she lies;And with his hard, rough hand he wipesA tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,Onward through life he goes;Each morning sees some task begun,Each evening sees its close;Something attempted, something done,Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,For the lesson thou hast taught!Thus at the flaming forge of lifeOur fortunes must be wrought;Thus on its sounding anvil shapedEach burning deed and thought.—Henry W. Longfellow.
It is very interesting to know how George Washington passed his boyhood. In many ways he was no better than other boys. He had a quick temper, and he soon found that he must learn to control it.
But he wished to make a good and usefulman of himself. This story tells some of the ways in which he tried to do this.
He had learned to survey land, and this knowledge soon became of great use to him. When he was sixteen years old, he went to live with his brother Lawrence at Mount Vernon.
He took his compass and surveyor's chain with him. Nearly every day he went out into the fields to measure his brother's land.
A tall, white-haired gentleman often came into the fields to see what Washington was doing, and to talk with him. This was Sir Thomas Fairfax. He had lately come to America from his home in England. He owned thousands of acres of land in the new country beyond the mountains.
Sir Thomas was very fond of hunting, and he liked to have Washington go with him. They often rode out together, and the old Englishman came to like his young friend very much. He saw that the boy was manly and brave and very careful in all that he did.
"Here is a boy who likes to make himselfuseful; I can trust him," he said. And Sir Thomas soon made a bargain with young Washington to survey his wild lands.
Washington loved out-of-door life, and he was very fond of riding on horseback. So he was glad to undertake the work of surveying land for Sir Thomas.
One bright day in early spring the young surveyor started out on his first trip across the mountains. With him was a cousin of Sir Thomas Fairfax. Each young man rode a good horse and carried a gun.
As there were no roads in the wild country they found their way through paths in the forest. They climbed mountains and swam rivers. At night they slept in a hunter's cabin or by a camp fire in the woods.
Often they were wet and cold and without shelter. They cooked their meat over the fireon forked sticks, and they used wooden chips and leaves for plates.
George Washington, the Surveyor.George Washington, the Surveyor.
George Washington, the Surveyor.
One day they met a band of Indians. There were thirty of them, and their bodies were half covered with war paint.
The Indians seemed very friendly. They built a huge fire under the trees and danced their war dance. One of them drummed on a deerskin stretched over an iron pot.
The others whooped and yelled as they danced around the fire. It was a strange sight, and the young men looked on with wonder.
For weeks Washington and his companionlived in the forest. They found the best places for hunting, and the best lands for farms.
When they returned home Sir Thomas was much pleased with all that the young men told him about the new country. He made up his mind to move across the mountains and to spend the rest of his life upon his own lands.
George was well paid for his work of surveying. This was the first money he had ever earned, and he enjoyed spending it because he had worked hard for it.
In the autumn after Abraham Lincoln was eight years old, his parents left their Kentucky home and moved to Indiana.
They had no wagon, and all their household goods were carried on the backs of two horses. At night they slept on the ground, sheltered only by the trees.
It was not more than fifty or sixty miles from the old home to the new; but it was a good many days before the family reached their journey's end. Over a part of the way there was no road. The movers had sometimes to cut a path through the thick woods.
The boy was tall and very strong for his age. He already knew how to handle an ax, and few men could shoot with a rifle better than he. He was his father's helper in all kinds of work.
It was in November when the family came to the place which was to be their future home. Winter was near at hand. There was no house nor shelter of any kind. What would become of the patient, tired mother, and the gentle little sister?
Hardly had they reached the spot chosen for their home than Lincoln and his father wereat work with their axes. In a short time they had built what they called a camp.
Boy working on schoolwork with mother
This camp was but a rude shed made of poles and covered with leaves and branches.It was inclosed on three sides. The fourth side was left open, and in front of it a fire was built.
This fire was kept burning all the time. It warmed the inside of the camp. A big iron kettle was hung over it by means of a chain and pole. In the kettle the fat bacon, the beans, and the corn were boiled for the family's dinner and supper. In the hot ashes the good mother baked corn cakes, and sometimes, perhaps, a few potatoes.
One end of the camp was used as a kitchen. The rest of the space was the family sitting room and bedroom. The floor was covered with leaves, and on these were spread the furry skins of deer and bears and other animals.
In this camp the Lincoln family spent their first winter in Indiana. How very cold and dreary that winter must have been! Think ofthe stormy nights, of the howling wind, of the snow and the sleet and the bitter frost! It is not much wonder that the mother's strength began to fail before the spring months came.
It was a busy winter for Thomas Lincoln. Every day his ax was heard in the woods. He was clearing the ground, so that in the spring it might be planted. And he was cutting logs for his new house. For he had made up his mind, now, to have something better than a cabin to live in.
The woods were full of wild animals. It was easy for the boy and his father to kill plenty of game, and thus keep the family supplied with meat.
Lincoln, with chopping and hunting and trapping, was very busy. He had but little time to play. Since he had no playmates we do not know that he even wanted to play.
With his mother he read over and over the Bible stories which both of them loved so well. And, during the cold, stormy days, when he could not leave the camp, his mother taught him how to write.
In the spring the new house was built. It was only a log house, with one room below and a loft above. But it was so much better than the old cabin in Kentucky that it seemed like a palace.
The family moved into the new house before the floor was laid, or any door was hung at the doorway.
Then came the plowing and the planting and the hoeing. Everybody was busy from daylight to dark.
The summer passed, and autumn came. Then the poor mother's strength gave out. She could no longer go about her household duties. She had to depend more and more upon the help that her children could give her.
At length she became too feeble to leave her bed. She called the boy to her side. She put her arm around him and said: "My boy, I shall very soon leave you. I know that you will always be good and kind to your sister and father. Try to live as I have taught you, and to love your heavenly Father."
Then she fell asleep, never to wake again on this earth.
Under a big sycamore tree, half a mile from the house, the neighbors dug the grave for the mother of Abraham Lincoln. And there they buried her in silence and in great sorrow.
In all that new country there was no church; and no minister could be found to speak words of comfort and hope to the grieving ones around the grave.
But the boy remembered a preacher whom they had known in Kentucky. The name of this preacher was David Elkin. If he would only come!
And so, after all was over, the lad satdown and wrote a letter to David Elkin. Abraham was only a child nine years old, but he believed that the good man would remember his mother, and come.
It was no easy task to write a letter. Paper and ink were not things of common use, as they are with us. A pen had to be made from the quill of a goose.
But at last the letter was finished and sent to Kentucky. How it was carried I do not know, for the mails were few in those days, and postage was very high.
Months passed. The leaves were again on the trees. The wild flowers were blossoming in the woods. At last the preacher came.
He had ridden a hundred miles on horseback. He had forded rivers and traveled through pathless woods. He had dared thedangers of the wild forest. And all in answer to the lad's letter.
He had no hope of reward save that which is given to every man who does his duty. He did not know that there would come a time when the greatest preachers in the world would envy him his sad task.
And now the friends and neighbors gathered again under the great sycamore tree. The funeral sermon was preached. Hymns were sung. A prayer was offered, and words of comfort were spoken.
From that time forward the mind of Abraham Lincoln was filled with high and noble thoughts. In his earliest childhood his mother had taught him to love truth and justice, to be honest and upright among men, and to honor God. These lessons he never forgot.
Long afterward, when the world had come to know him as a very great man, he said: "All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother."
—James Baldwin.
Hana is a little Japanese girl. Her name, in the language of Japan, means flower or blossom. If you should see her you would say that she is as beautiful as the gayest flower in the garden.
Tora is her brother and his name means tiger. He is called Tora because his father and mother wish him to be as strong and as brave as a tiger.
Hana and Tora live in one of the beautiful islands of Japan. Let us visit them in their home on the other side of the world.
We must cross the ocean to reach this far away land. So we go on board a great steamer and for days and days we sail over the sea.
At last we come to the city where ourlittle friends live. We leave the ship and climb into a two-wheeled carriage which is drawn by a man. He runs along the street with our carriage almost as fast as a horse can trot.
Man pulling a rickshaw with a lady in it
How strange everything seems. The men, women, and children all wear gowns that look like dresses. They clatter along in wooden shoes, and they carry paper umbrellas. We ride through narrow streets. There are no sidewalks nor green lawns.
And now our carriage stops. We have come to the home of Hana and Tora. The front of the house is open like a doll's playhouse,and we can see through to the garden beyond.
How clean everything looks! The porch shines like a mirror. All the floors are covered with matting made of the whitest straw. Even the road in front of the house is swept.
We walk toward the house, and a little girl comes in from the garden. She has a clear yellow skin, bright black eyes, and smooth black hair. This is Hana, and she hastens to greet us.
She drops down on her knees, and bows so low that her head touches the matting. Her mother will soon be at home, Hana says, and she begs us to come in.
Does she ask us to take off our hats? Oh, no, she expects us to take off our shoes. The Japanese always leave their shoes outside when they go into a house.
Again and again the polite little girl bows her head to the floor as we enter. We sit down on the thick matting, for in the houses of Japan there are no chairs.
Little Hana looks like a butterfly in her loose dress embroidered all over with bright flowers. Her sleeves are very large, and a wide sash of soft red silk is tied around her waist.
And now Hana's mother returns, and Tora comes running in from his play. There are more bows and more greetings.
Tora is dressed in a plain blue gown very much like his sister's. Both the children have large pockets in their sleeves where they carry their playthings.
Our friends invite us to spend the night with them. We are very glad to do so. They take us to the parlor, which is at the back of the house.
It is now time for supper. A small table, about ten inches high, is placed before eachperson in the room. We sit on the floor as we eat. A little maidservant brings in cakes and candies shaped like flowers. She kneels and bows low as she hands them to us.
Chinese people seated for a meal
Next we have soup, which we drink from small bowls. Then come pickles and strange kinds of food that we have never before seen. Last of all rice is served from a large, round, wooden box, and we drink our tea from tiny cups.
There are no knives and no forks, and sowe observe our Japanese friends as they eat with two long wooden sticks. Then we take our chop sticks and try to eat the rice as they do. Hana and Tora watch us, but they are too polite to smile.
After the supper is over, the grown people sit on the floor and talk to one another, or watch the children at their games. Hana and Tora play with small cards on which are printed the strange-looking letters of the Japanese alphabet.
And so the evening passes and bedtime comes. The little maidservant takes us upstairs. We see no beds, and we wonder where we shall sleep. But screens are soon drawn together, and a room is made for us.
Then the little maid slides back another screen, and there in the wall is a closet. Out of this she takes soft, thick quilts, and spreads them on the matting, one on top of another. For a pillow she brings each of us a small block of wood.
We do not like the wooden pillows, but we sleep soundly all night in our beds on the floor.
A beautiful garden lies back of the house where Hana and Tora live.
In Japan the people love the flowering trees and plant them in their gardens. Now it is early springtime and the plum trees are just beginning to burst into bloom.
The children ask us to go with them and look for the first plum blossoms. The pink buds are pushing out of their brown coverings. "Oh, I am so glad!" Hana says. "Soon the peach trees will bloom, and then it will be time for the Doll Festival.
"How I wish I could show you my dolls! I have more than a hundred, but they are all packed away in the storehouse.
"Some of them are very old. They used to belong to my grandmother and to mygreat-grandmother. The doll I like best was given to me when I was a baby. It is as large as I am, and it can wear my clothes.
"When the Doll Festival comes I have a merry time. In the morning when I get up I find all my dolls waiting for me in the guest room.
"With them are doll houses, little tables, sets of dishes, and boxes full of pretty gowns and sashes. The first thing I do is to dress all the dolls in their best clothes.
"Of course they must have something to eat, for it is the Feast of Dolls.
"I make tea for them and put dishes of candy and cake and rice on their little tables. It is not polite to leave anything on one's plate, and so Tora and I have all the food that the dolls do not eat.
"For three whole days I can play with my dolls. Then I take off their beautiful clothes and put on their sleeping coats. My mother packs them in their boxes and stores them away for another year, until the Feast of Dolls comes again."