We had a wonderful rocker that was upholstered in green velvet brocade and had a back so high you could lean back and even doze off and never experience any sort of discomfort. This was the coveted spot, and when television came into our home, the green chair became even more popular with all members of my family. It sat like a king's throne directly in front of the set, which featured blurry visions of Milton Berle and Robert Montgomery. And the first one to get to the living room was the first one to get to the green velvet chair.

At about the same time that television invaded our living room, a well-meaning friend gave my sister who was a young child at the time, a Bantam rooster and hen. They were an adorable pair of birds, but the miniature rooster had a habit of escaping from the chicken coop and running off into the neighbor's yard. My sister, who did not like to run after animals of any sort, asked our brother, who was only a year and a half older, to catch the wayward rooster. He obliged, but not before extracting an agreement from her.

One evening on one of my visits home from college I accidentally learned what the agreement was. We were watching television, and my young sister happened to be sitting in the comfortable green velvet chair when my younger brother walked into the living room. Immediately she surrendered her place in the chair. I asked why she arose from the most comfortable seat in the living room and willingly relinquished her chair to her brother. "We have a contract," she answered.

"A contract? What do you mean?"

"Every time her Bantam rooster runs away and I catch it for her she has to let me sit in the green chair when I come into the living room to watch television." My little brother gave me his answer as he touched his thumbs into the back pockets of his blue jeans.

"And you're happy with this contract?" I asked my sister.

"Uh huh. I hate chasing roosters."

"And where did you get the contract?" I asked the young barrister.

"I wrote it up, and she signed it," he answered.

We continued watching television that evening, but the next evening things didn't go quite as smoothly. During the program "Show of Shows," my younger brother walked in and looked at my sister who sat in the green chair. She rose and moved to the couch as he made himself comfortable in the high-back rocker.

My father, who was sitting on the couch, scolded my little brother. "How can you be so ill-mannered as to expect your sister to give up her chair for you? She was sitting there first, and there she shall remain."

My brother became very embarrassed and left the room, and in a little while my sister left the living room also.

"They have a contract," I tried explaining to my father.

"What in the world are you talking about? Contract! They are just children."

"I know, but they have a written contract." I tried to explain about the rooster and the green chair, but it was all in vain.

"I'm not going to raise an inconsiderate son in my home, and that is all there is to it!"

Later I tried to explain to the kids, "Your contract is not going to hold up in this house. Daddy just won't stand for it.

My pint-sized brother look at his little sister and said, "Maybe you can make me some cookies."

"I can't even read," she retorted.

I asked, "Well, how did you sign a contract if you can't read?"

"With an X," she answered.

"Well, you had better figure out something else," I told them just before I left to go back to school.

I never did find out what the alternative plan was, but they found out what the rest of us kids knew already. In our home, only one type of law prevailed-Daddy's Law!