es. What business had automobiles where children
should be free to play? What could be said for the human wisdom of a
civilization that placed traffic above child-life? In our denial to
children, to millions of men and women, of the means for satisfying
their instinctive desires and innate dispositions, he saw the principal
explanation of crime, labor-unrest, the violence of strikes, the ghastly
violence of war[1]."

[Footnote 1: Robert Bruere, in the _New Republic_, May 18, 1918.]

He could never pass any youngster anywhere without a word of greeting as
from friend to friend. I remember being in a crowded car with him in our
engaged days. He was sitting next to a woman with a baby who was most
unhappy over the ways of the world. Carl asked if he could not hold the
squaller. The mother looked a bit doubtful, but relinquished her child.
Within two minutes the babe was content on Carl's knees, clutching one
of his fingers in a fat fist and sucking his watch. The woman leaned
over to me later, as she was about to depart with a very sound asleep
offspring. "Is he as lovely as that to his own?"

The tenderness of him over his own! Any hour of the day or night he was
alert to be of any service in any trouble, big or little. He had a
collection of tricks and stories on hand for any youngster who happened
along. The special pet of our own boys was "The Submarine Obo Bird"--a
large flapper (Dad's arms fairly rent the air), which was especially
active early in the morning, when small boys appeared to prefer staying
in bed to getting up. The Obo Bird went "Pak! Pak!" and lit on numerous
objects about the sleeping porch. Carl's two hands would plump stiff,
fingers down, on the railing, or on a small screw sticking out
somewhere. Scratches. Then "Pak!" and more flaps. This time the Obo Bird
would light a trifle nearer the small boy whose "turn" it was--round
eyes, and an agitated grin from ear to ear, plus explosive giggles and
gurglings emerging from the covers. Nearer and nearer came the Obo Bird.
Gigglier and gigglier got the small boy. Finally, with a spring and a
last "Pak! Pak! Pak!" the Obo Bird dove under the covers at the side of
the bed and pinched the small boy who would not get up. (Rather a
premium on not rising promptly was the Obo Bird.) Final ecstatic squeals
from the pinched. Then, "Now it's my turn, daddo!" from the other
son.--The Submarine Obo Bird lived in Alaska and ate Spooka biscuits.
There was just develop