ceeds that of the second by more than thirteen and a half per cent. The ordinary business man would allow three and a third per cent for the extra length of the thirty-one day month and would conclude that business had fallen off ten per cent in the second month compared with the first. In reality, of course, business had not suffered at all.

In the same way, the sale of women's wear would seem to have fallen four per cent, and the hotel's business five per cent, although really business remained just the same every week.

Mr. Cotsworth was constantly digging up this sort of fact. His discoveries led him to work out a new plan for dividing the year. He formed a society, the International Fixed Calendar League, to spread his gospel. He got big business men interested scientific economists, and men in the British and American governments. George Eastman, of the Eastman Kodak Company, has taken up his idea. In 1925, when February, a twenty-eight day month, began on Sunday, Frank D. Waterman, the fountain-pen manufacturer, sent the following in calendar form, to his officers and customers all over the world: "If all the months were like this!" and he told some of the benefits that would come from having such months regularly. Dr. Charles Frederick Marvin, of the United States Weather-Bureau, is helping in the cause. The Bureau is even now rearranging into even, four-week periods all the weather data which it has been accumulating for half a century. Except for one visit to his home in Vancouver, for the last five years and more Mr. Cotsworth has been journeying hither and yon in behalf of calendar reform. He has been working and preaching and converting men on calendars.

When the League of Nations appointed a committee of inquiry on the calendar, nearly four years ago, its chairman sought out Mr. Cotsworth. So to-day the old York figurer has become chief counsellor to the League of Nations Calendar Committee, and in many ways its guiding spirit.

The committee, which includes representatives of the three great branches of Christendom as well as of the astronomers and of business, has now submitted its proposals to the world. It asks us to consider the respective merits of two methods of changing our reckoning of the year. Both of them would fix Easter at about the second Sunday in April. In

In the other, the year would consist of thirteen months of exactly four weeks each, with a fixed "year-day" like that in the other plan, on the new December 29, and in leap-years a "leap-day" on June 29.

He suggests that we name the new month "Sol," from the Latin name of the sun. The month would come in summer, between June and July, for the new arrangement would make June a little earlier and July a little later than they are now. The month of Sol would include the summer solstice, which falls on our present June 21, and also Independence Day. If we adopted the calendar, our patriotic orators,

instead of talking about the "Glorious Fourth," would refer to the "Glorious Seventeenth of Sol!" The calendar would also give the poets a fresh theme the delights of the long days of the new vacation month.

This second calendar is Moses Cotsworth's. It would give us a really good, easy, sensible, practical, businesslike division of the year, one that would rid us of the troubles that come from the present milling around of the week-days through the months. Every year and every month would begin on Sunday. Christmas and the Fourth of July would always fall on the same day of the week.

Governments, chambers of commerce, churches, labor federations, all the organizations interested, will have an opportunity to discuss the new calendars. When the public sufficiently understands the question, we may expect to have an international calendar congress, where the representatives of the nations will adopt one calendar or the other. The weight of opinion, in business and elsewhere, decidedly favors Moses Cotsworth's plan.

As a matter of fact, not a few great business concerns are already keeping their books by plans similar to Moses Cotsworth's calendar. The General Electric Company, the Great Atlantic and Pacific Grocery Company, the meat packers, the Eastman Kodak Company, the Fuller Brush Company, the Hearst and the Scripps-Howard newspapers, and other concerns use reports covering exactly four weeks.

The old York Blue-Coat schoolboy sits down to lunch with me. He thins his milk with water. He got so used to watered milk at the orphan school meals, that ordinary milk seems unnaturally rich to him. He eats very slowly too. I suspect he acquired that habit likewise in the old

school days. For food seems to amount to more if you eat it slowly and the boys well knew that there were no second helpings.

"No," he says, "I'm not taking it too much for granted that the world will adopt the thirteenmonth calendar, though we are working for it and hope to succeed. I have made just one bet in all my life, and I lost my shilling. Since then I have not committed myself to anything until I knew all that was necessary about it."

But it certainly looks as though the world were going to remember the name of the York Blue-Coat boy forever, alongside those of the other two great calendar makers, Julius Cæsar and Pope Gregory XIII.

TH

HERE are several thousand islands in the Malay group known as the Philippines, and of these relatively few are inhabited. The majority are small islets consisting usually of a single lofty peak upon which fresh water is unobtainable and upon which there is no level ground suitable for cultivation. In the far south, down in the Sulu Archipelago, some of the deserted islets are of fair size, but this is the region of the savage Moro tribes. These tribes have plenty of room on such big islands as Mindanao, and have never settled on the smaller islands. No Christian Filipino would dare to come near the dreaded Mohammedan Moro, so these little islets remain uninhabited by man and are left exclusively to wild game, even though they could comfortably support human beings.

"Rabbit Ears" was the name given to a particularly attractive Moro islet by Major Tom Sherwood, Surgeon, U. S. Army, who from his station in Mindanao could just see the tips of twin peaks which, like the ears of a rabbit, lifted themselves out of the purple waters of the Celebes Sea. The major almost every day had looked longingly at Rabbit Ears and he more than once had promised young Tom that as soon as the Moros quieted down, he would take him on a

two days' hunting trip to this mysterious spot where, so the natives said, wild chicken, wood dove, as well as huge python and ghosts held high carnival.

Day after day and month after month sped by; the major's foreign service tour was drawing to an end, but he had not yet dared to attempt the trip, because the natives, you know, might take a notion to investigate the island, and the natives were in an ugly mood. Only a month before the scene of this tale was laid, a Moro had crept into Tom's post and had literally hacked a soldier to pieces with his sharp kris before the guard could come to the rescue, and Mrs. Tom shivered with terror every time big Tom and young Tom began to make plans.

At last it was decided that on young Tom's fourteenth birthday, the time had arrived for the big event, and the two Toms set forth in the general's launch, feeling much like Magellan, Pizarro, Daniel Boone, and the other great explorers of wild, unknown lands. Unfortunately, the launch had other duties to perform so it could not stay with the two Toms, and indeed it is doubtful if the native crew could have been held on the island for a whole night. As it was, they were none too eager to pay a day-time visit, for they were dreadfully afraid of what Tom laughingly called the "imponderables of ill repute." The major did not care much about the ghosts, but he had an uneasy feeling that the Moros might decide to raid the island when no help

was near. So they set forth, young Tom carrying his banjo to dispel the "imponderables," while big Tom took his automatic and a service rifle,

just for emergencies, he told Mrs. Tom. A tent, cots, mosquito-nets, cooking utensils, and much food filled the deck of the launch which, at ten A.M. steamed out of the harbor leaving Mrs. Tom, starry-eyed and smiling, standing on the dock. The two Toms could not see she was inwardly quaking as they gaily waved joyous farewells.

On the trip over, to while away the time, young Tom rigged up a trolling line, using a long piece of rope to which he attached a big shark hook wrapped around with a pocket handkerchief. His father poo-poohed the idea that he could make a catch, but he was successful in hooking and landing a twenty-pound tanguingue, one of the most delicious table fish of the tropics. The steaks cut from this fish made lunch for all on board and that night, when supper time came, big Tom showed young Tom how to broil a portion before live coals.

At three P.M. the hunters landed in a little cove that pushed its way between the rabbit ears, which now had become rather lofty mountains, rising precipitously from a lovely meadow lowland of about a hundred acres in

extent.

The crew of the launch unloaded the supplies and pitched the canvas, then hurriedly steamed away, leaving our hunters happy, though a trifle

nervous.

Both Toms busied themselves about their camp, and under their capable

"TOM HAD A DOZEN OF THE FINEST EGGS EVER SEEN"

management the place was soon in apple-pie order. An Indian fire was laid between two stones and ready for the torch, the food carefully stored away to protect it from possible hungry varmints, and the cots, with mosquito bars spread over them, were placed in the tent that was to be their home for two happy days and nights.

"Now for the wood doves," said the keen young sportsman, and the two "pards" set forth for the tall timber that skirted the shore on the north end of the island.

Without giving his reason, big Tom took a small wild-hog trail that seemed to lead up the side of the peak, and sent young Tom on a similar one that led out onto a small bluff nearer

the beach. Big Tom wanted to get a view of the sea, for as night approached, he began to have serious doubts as to the wisdom of his adventure. He saw no Moro craft, however, and soon forgot everything else in his enjoyment of the rare sport. Wood doves, as large as small broilers, were plentiful, and it was not long before his bag was full. As he turned to retrace his steps, suddenly he realized he had not heard a shot from his son's gun for fully ten minutes, so he dashed down the hill, calling as he went.

"Come, Daddy, quick," came back in reply to him as he bounded into an open space to see young Tom prostrate with his gun thrown to one side.

Big Tom's heart leaped into his mouth. "What on earth is the matter?"

"Come quick," again came in reply.

He hastened to young Tom's side to find the boy gazing into a small hole in the sand filled with a dozen of the finest little white eggs ever seen.

"I saw her, too," exclaimed Tommy excitedly. "A curious looking brown hen, shaped like a guinea hen, only rounder, with a short neck and drooping tail. She had laid an egg in the nest and was covering it when I came up to her, and Dad, I've found a funny cave," cried the boy who was so much the man in many ways and who so often, as at present, became a mere kid, excited and joyous.

Big Tom explained that Tommy's hen was a real hen,-probably a distant relative of our American poultryyard chicken. Unlike the ordinary wild chicken of the tropics, which resembles closely our game chicken, this bird lays her eggs in the sand and allows the sun to hatch them out,just as does the crocodile and the turtle.

"You remember the beautiful wild cock old Dato Mandi gave to your mother? He was unquestionably the direct ancestor of our domestic chicken. He was like our game cock and differed from him only in the brilliancy of his plumage and in his strong flight. You also remember how he bolted like a pheasant and flew over the trees when you opened the coop? And now, old fellow, where is your cave?" said big Tom.

Young Tom led his father down the hill, almost to the shore line, pointing out to him the entrance to a small cavern formed by large boulders jammed together in such a way as to leave a triangular space with the apex at the top and the base about twenty feet square at the bottom. On the floor of the cave big Tom saw signs that interested him more than the curious freak of nature, which the cave undoubtedly was. Charred embers and bones, probably chicken bones, were strewn all over. Evidence that the cave was a rendezvous was unmistakable, and it had been occupied within the past twenty-four hours.

"Old fellow," said big Tom, "it looks as if we were in for it. The Moros were in this cave last night, or perhaps this morning, and they are, in all probability, on the island now. They may have left only when they saw our launch approaching."

"Well," said young Tom, "what shall we do about it? I move that we occupy the cave so that in case of

attack we can at least have some protection. I don't care one bit about sleeping in the tent to-night. It cannot be guarded and is the worst place imaginable in case a sneaking Moro tries to get us."

Big Tom agreed to this reasoning and the two soon struck camp and occupied the cave, moving into it all of their baggage and supplies. Upon big Tom's suggestion they then made a fire and cooked a good supper.

"If the Moros are on the island they know where we are and our fire will not be disclosing anything, and as we can see no boats on the sea to the southeast of us and the Rabbit Ear peaks hide us from the north and west we gain nothing by giving up our good warm meal."

Big Tom broiled the fish steaks and pigeons by suspending them on green sticks before the live coals, sprinkling them frequently with grease supplied by young Tom, who busied himself in making a wonderful pan of bacon and eggs. The meal over, and the kitchen chores having been completed, the two hunters sat in the entrance to their cave and discussed plans.

"We must keep watch and be ready to meet an attack," said young Tom. "With our Colt automatics and the service rifle, we should be able to hold this place against a larger force

than is likely to come. We must hold them off until the launch returns. Shoot at the first one you see and aim to cripple your man so as to discourage a rush."

"I think that would be poor policy," answered big Tom. "The Moro is not a sneak and he never attacks an equal or a lesser force without warning, short though it may be. He is also an inquisitive fellow and may come around to investigate with no intent to do us any injury. It is only the 'juramentado' who is bloodthirsty. He is the crazy Malay who mutilates himself painfully and then sets forth to gain heaven by killing a Christian or being himself killed. If he kills a Christian before he is killed, a place is insured for him in his Mohammedan heaven. The juramentado is the most dangerous living creature, as you and all of our soldiers know. But these Moros may be from North Borneo which is only twenty miles south of us, and, no matter whether they are fishermen or pirates, they have no quarrel to settle with us. My plan would be to play friendly until we get in a tight place. Then we can shoot."

"Perhaps you are right," answered the boy. "I think your plan is better than mine. But we shall keep our eyes open anyhow."

"Yes," said big Tom. "You get to bed now and I will stand watch until after midnight and then you can take your turn."

At two o'clock in the morning big Tom aroused his son to take over the watch. He passed to Tommy the automatic and rifle, with both of which weapons the boy was an expert. Indeed, he was a better shot by far than his father, although big Tom held the army marksmanship medal both in rifle and pistol firing.

Young Tom went bravely to his task. He scanned the open sea and gazed into the dark shadows of the forest. The silence of the night broken only by the chirrup of the cricket and the occasional shriek of some wild bird, might well have been terrifying to an older and more experienced man.

Of a possible

enemy Tommy saw nothing to excite apprehension, but he repeatedly flashed an electric torch on his weapons to see that they were in order, and he whistled faintly under his breath. The minutes began to seem hours and the sounds were ghostly and weird.

As dawn approached, he heard the swish of wings, soft and ominous, like the hum of a smoothly running motor. Occasionally little squeaks came from dark shadows that floated overhead. (Continued on page 248)