s and hunts
the whetstone. His jackknife must be in good shape, for the making of a
whistle is a delicate 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 twigs he
takes a section about six inches long. Its bark is light 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 deg., making a clean single cut. The sharp edge of
this is now cut off to make a mouthpiece. This is a delicate operation,
for the bark is apt to crush or split if the knife is dull, or the hand is
unskillful. 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. I once had such a treasure and cherished
it until I learned the secret of the whistle-maker's art. He next places
the knife edge about half an inch back from the end of the mouthpiece and
cuts straight towards the center of the branch about one-fourth the way
through. A three-cornered piece is now cut out, and the chip falls to the
ground unheeded.

When this is finished the boy's eye runs along the stick with a
calculating squint. The knife edge is placed at the middle, then moved a
short distance towards the mouthpiece. With skillful hand he cuts through
the bark in a perfect circle round the stick. While we watch in fascinated
silence, he takes the knife by the blade and resting the unfinished
whistle on his knees he strikes firmly but gently the part of the stick
between the ring and the mouthpiece. Only the wooden part of the handle
touches the bark. He goes over and over it until every spot on its surface
has felt his light blow. Now he lays the knife aside, and grasping the
stick with a firm hand below the ring in the