ek, one for the house, one for the club treasury, and they passed this
resolution that "any boy wot shoots craps or swears, or makes a row in the
house or is disrespectful to Mr. Smith or runs with any crooks, is put out
of the club." They were persuaded to fine the offender a cent instead of
expelling him, and it worked all right except with Sammy, who arose to
dispute the equity of it all and to demand the organization of a club
"where they don't put a feller out fer shootin' craps--wot's craps!"

But I was telling of the roof garden and what happened there. It was in
the long vacation when it is open from early morning until all the little
ones in the neighborhood are asleep and the house closes its doors. All
through the day the children own the garden and carry on their play there.
One evening each week our girls' club have an "at home" on the roof, and
on three nights the boys bring their friends and smoke and talk. Wednesday
and Friday are mothers' and children's nights. That was when they began
it. The little ones had been telling stories of Cinderella and Red Riding
Hood and Beauty and the Beast and Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, and before
they themselves realized that they were doing it, they were acting them.
The dramatic instinct is strong in these children. The "princess" of the
fairy tales appeals irresistibly, Cinderella even more. The triumph of
good over evil is rapturously applauded; the villain has to look out for
himself--and indeed, he had better! Don't I know? Have I forgotten the
time they put me out of the theater in Copenhagen for shrieking "Murder!
Police!" when the rascal lover--nice lover, he!--was on the very point of
plunging a gleaming knife into the heart of the beautiful maiden who slept
in an armchair, unconscious of her peril. And I was sixteen; these are
eight, or nine.

So the prince rode off with Cinderella in front of him on a fiery
kindergarten chair, and the wicked sisters were left to turn green with
envy; and another prince with black cotton mustache, on an even more
impetuous charger, a tuft of tissue paper in his cap for a feather,
galloped up to release Beauty with a kiss from her century of sleep; and
Beauty awoke as naturally as if she had but just closed her eyes, amid
volleys of applause from the roof and from the tenements, every window in
which was a reserved seat.

Next the Bad Wolf strode into the ring, with honeyed speech to beguile
little Red Riding Hood. The plays