BROOKSIDE WILLOWS 143 



of year when the bark will slip. The country boy 

 seems to know these things by instinct. When the 

 day for whistles arrives he puts away marbles and 

 hunts the whetstone. His jackknife must be in 

 good shape, for the making of a whistle is a deli- 

 cate piece of handicraft. The knife has seen 

 service in mumblepeg and as nut-pick since whistle- 

 making time last year. Surrounded by a crowd 

 of spectators, some admiring, some skeptical, the 

 Boy selects his branch. There is an air of mystery 

 about the proceeding. With a patient, indulgent 

 smile he rejects all offers of assistance. He does 

 not attempt to explain why this or that branch will 

 not do. When finally he raises his shining knife 

 and cuts the branch on which his choice has 

 fallen, all crowd round and watch. From the large 

 end between two side twigs he takes a section 

 about six inches long. Its bark is bright green 

 and smooth. He trims one end neatly and passes 

 his thumb thoughtfully over it to be sure it is 

 finished to his taste. He then cuts the other end 

 of the stick at an angle of about 45, making a 

 clean single cut. The sharp edge of this is now 

 cut off to make the mouth-piece. This is a deli- 

 cate operation, for the bark is apt to crush or split 

 if the knife is dull or the hand unskilful. The 

 Boy holds it up, inspecting his own work critically. 

 Sometimes he is dissatisfied and cuts again. If he 

 makes a third cut and is still unsuccessful, he 

 tosses the spoiled piece, away. It is too short now. 

 A half dozen eager hands reach for the discarded 

 stick, and the one who gets it fondles it lovingly. 



