Stories to Tell to
Children
Fifty-One Stories With Some Suggestions for Telling
by
Sara Cone Bryant
Houghton Mifflin Company
Boston-New York-Chicago-Dallas
San Francisco
The Riverside Press Cambridge
Copyright 1907 by Sara Cone Bryant
All Rights Reserved
The Riverside Press
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Printed in the U.S.A
This little book came
into being at the instance of my teaching friends all over this country. Their
requests for more stories of the kind which were given in "How to Tell
Stories to Children," and especially their urging that the stories they
liked, in my telling, should be set down in print, seemed to justify the hope
that the collection would be genuinely useful to them. That it may be, is the
earnest desire with which it is offered. I hope it will be found to contain
some stories which are new to the teachers and friends of little children, and
some which are familiar, but in an easier form for telling than is usual. And I
shall indeed be content if its value to those who read it is proportionate to
the pleasure and mental stimulus which has come to me in the work among pupils
and teachers which accompanied its preparation.
Among the publishers
and authors whose kindness enabled me to quote material are Messrs. G. P.
Putnam's Sons, New York and London, to whom I am indebted for "The
Lambikin;" Messrs. Little, Brown, and Company and the Alcott heirs, who
allowed me the use of Louisa Alcott's poem, "My Kingdom;" and Dr.
Douglas Hyde, of Ireland, whose letter of permission to use his Irish material
was in itself a literary treasure. To the charming friend who gave me the outline
of "Epaminondas," as told her by her own "Mammy," I owe a
deeper debt, for "Epaminondas" has carried joy since then into more
schools and homes than I dare to enumerate; please take your thanks now, dear
Kentucky friend!
And to all the
others,--friends in whom the child heart lingers,--my thanks for the laughs we
have had, the discussions we have warmed to, the helps you have given; a
greeting to you, in New England villages, in Rocky Mountain towns, on the banks
of the Mississippi, and "down South." May you never lack the right
story at the right time, or a child to love you for telling it!
Sara Cone Bryant
Some Suggestions for
the Storyteller
Additional suggestions
for method.--Two valuable types of story.--Sources for stories.--A graded list
of stories to dramatize and
retell...................................................ix
Story-Telling in
Teaching English
Importance of oral
methods.--Opportunity of the primary grades.--Points to be observed in
dramatizing and retelling, in connection with
English....................................xxix
STORIES TO TELL
CHILDREN
Two Little Riddles in
Rhyme.............................1
The Little Pink Rose....................................1
The
Cock-a-doo-dle-doo..................................4
The
Cloud...............................................4
The Little Red
hen......................................7
The Gingerbread
Man.....................................8
The Little Jackals and
the Lion........................15
The Country Mouse and
the City Mouse...................19
Little Jack
Rollaround.................................23
How Brother Rabbit
Fooled the Whale and the Elephant...29
The Little
Half-Chick..................................33
The
Lambikin...........................................38
The
Blackberry-Bush....................................42
The
Fairies............................................47
The Adventures of the
Little Field Mouse...............49
Another Little Red
Hen.................................53
The Story of the Little
Rid Hin........................57
The Story of
Epaminondas and his Auntie................63
The Boy who cried
"Wolf!"..............................68
The Frog
King..........................................69
The Sun and the
Wind...................................71
The Little Jackal and
the Alligator....................72
The Larks in the
Cornfield.............................80
A True Story about a
Girl (Louisa Alcott)..............82
My
Kingdom.............................................88
Piccola................................................90
The Little Fir
Tree....................................92
How Moses was
Saved....................................99
The Ten
Fairies.......................................103
The Elves and the
Shoemaker...........................109
Who killed the Otter's
Babies?........................113
Early.................................................116
The Brahmin, the Tiger,
and the Jackal................117
The Little Jackal and
the Camel.......................125
The Gulls of Salt
Lake................................129
The
Nightingale.......................................134
Margery's
Garden......................................145
The Little
Cotyledons.................................159
The Talkative
Tortoise................................165
Robert of
Sicily......................................168
The Jealous
Courtiers.................................177
Prince
Cherry.........................................181
The Gold in the
Orchard...............................194
Margaret of New
Orleans...............................195
The Dagda's Harp......................................200
The Tailor and the
Three Beasts.......................205
The Castle of
Fortune.................................215
David and
Goliath.....................................224
The Shepherd's
Song...................................231
The Hidden
Servants...................................234
CONCERNING the
fundamental points of method in telling a story, I have little to add to the
principles which I have already stated as necessary, in my opinion, in the book
of which this is, in a way, the continuation. But in the two years which have
passed since that book was written, I have had the happiness of working on
stories and the telling of them, among teachers and students all over this
country, and in that experience certain secondary points of method have come to
seem more important, or at least more in need of emphasis, than they did
before. As so often happens, I had assumed that "those things are taken
for granted;" whereas, to the beginner or the teacher not naturally a
story-teller, the secondary or implied technique is often of greater difficulty
than the mastery of underlying principles. The few suggestions which follow are
of this practical, obvious kind.
Take your story
seriously. No matter how riotously absurd it is, or how full of inane
repetition, remember, if it is good enough to tell, it is a real story, and
must be treated with respect. If you cannot feel so toward it, do not tell it.
Have faith in the story, and in the attitude of the children toward it and you.
If you fail in this, the immediate result will be a touch of shame- facedness,
affecting your manner unfavorably, and, probably, influencing your accuracy and
imaginative vividness.
Perhaps I can make the
point clearer by telling you about one of the girls in a class which was
studying stories last winter; I feel sure if she or any of her fellow students
recognizes the incident, she will not resent being made to serve the good
cause, even in the unattractive guise of a warning example.
A few members of the
class had prepared the story of "The Fisherman and his Wife." The
first girl called on was evidently inclined to feel that it was rather a
foolish story. She tried to tell it well, but there were parts of it which
produced in her the touch of shamefacedness to which I have referred.
When she came to the
rhyme, -- "O man of the sea, come, listen to me, For Alice, my wife, the
plague of my life, Has sent me to beg a boon of thee," she said it rather
rapidly. At the first repetition she said it still more rapidly; the next time
she came to the jingle she said it so fast and so low that it was
unintelligible; and the next recurrence was too much for her. With a blush and
a hesitating smile she said, "And he said that same thing, you know!"
Of course everybody laughed, and of course the thread of interest and illusion
was hopelessly broken for everybody.
Now, any one who
chanced to hear Miss Shedlock tell that same story will remember that the
absurd rhyme gave great opportunity for expression, in its very repetition;
each time that the fisherman came to the water's edge his chagrin and
unwillingness was greater, and his summons to the magic fish mirrored his
feeling. The jingle is foolish; that is a part of the charm. But it the person
who tells it feels foolish, there is no charm at all! It is the same principle
which applies to any address to any assemblage: if the speaker has the air of
finding what he has to say absurd or unworthy of effort, the audience naturally
tends to follow his lead, and find it not worth listening to.
Let me urge, then, take
your story seriously.
Next, "take your
time." This suggestion needs explaining, perhaps. It does not mean license
to dawdle. Nothing is much more annoying in a speaker than too great
deliberateness, or than hesitation of speech. But it means a quiet realization
of the fact that the floor is yours, everybody wants to hear you, there is time
enough for every point and shade of meaning and no one will think the story too
long. This mental attitude must underlie proper control of speed. Never hurry.
A business-like leisure is the true attitude of the storyteller.
And the result is best
attained by concentrating one's attention on the episodes of the story. Pass
lightly, and compara- tively swiftly, over the portions between actual
episodes, but take all the time you need for the elaboration of those. And
above all, do not feel hurried.
The next suggestion is
eminently plain and practical, if not an all too obvious one. It is this: if
all your preparation and confidence fails you at the crucial moment, and memory
plays the part of traitor in some particular, if, in short, you blunder on a
detail of the story, never admit it. If it was an unimportant detail which you
misstated, pass right on, accepting whatever you said, and continuing with it;
if you have been so unfortunate as to omit a fact which was a necessary link in
the chain, put it in, later, as skillfully as you can, and with as deceptive an
appearance of its being in the intended order; but never take the children
behind the scenes, and let them hear the creaking of your mental machinery. You
must be infallible. You must be in the secret of the mystery, and admit your
audience on somewhat unequal terms; they should have no creeping doubts as to
your complete initiation into the secrets of the happenings you relate.
Plainly, there can be
lapses of memory so complete, so all-embracing, that frank failure is the only
outcome, but these are so few as not to need consideration, when dealing with
so simple material as that of children's stories. There are times, too, before
an adult audience, when a speaker can afford to let his hearers be amused with
him over a chance mistake. But with children it is most unwise to break the
spell of the entertainment in that way. Consider, in the matter of a detail of
action or description, how absolutely unimportant the mere accuracy is,
compared with the effect of smoothness and the enjoyment of the hearers. They
will not remember the detail, for good or evil, half so long as they will
remember the fact that you did not know it. So, for their sakes, as well as for
the success of your story, cover your slips of memory, and let them be as if
they were not.
And now I come to two
points in method which have to do especially with humorous stories. The first
is the power of initiating the appreciation of the joke. Every natural humorist
does this by instinct and the value of the power to story-teller can hardly be
overestimated. To initiate appreciation does not mean that one necessarily
gives way to mirth, though even that is sometimes natural and effective; one
merely feels the approach of the humorous climax, and subtly suggests to the
hearers that it will soon be "time to laugh." The suggestion usually
comes in the form of facial expression, and in the tone. And children are so
much simpler, and so much more accustomed to following another's lead than
their elders, that the expression can be much more outright and unguarded than
would be permissible with a mature audience.
Children like to feel
the joke coming, in this way; they love the anticipation of a laugh, and they
will begin to dimple, often, at your first unconscious suggestion of humor. If
it is lacking, they are sometimes afraid to follow their own instincts.
Especially when you are facing an audience of grown people and children together,
you will find that the latter are very hesitant about initiating their own
expression of humor. It is more difficult to make them forget their
surroundings then, and more desirable to give them a happy lead. Often at the
funniest point you will see some small listener in an agony of endeavor to
cloak the mirth which he--poor mite -- fears to be indecorous. Let him see that
it is "the thing" to laugh, and that everybody is going to.
Having so stimulated
the appreciation of the humorous climax, it is important to give your hearers
time for the full savor of the jest to permeate their consciousness. It is
really robbing an audience of its rights, to pass so quickly from one point to
another that the mind must lose a new one if it lingers to take in the old.
Every vital point in a tale must be given a certain amount of time: by an
anticipatory pause, by some form of vocal or repetitive emphasis, and by actual
time. But even more than other tales does the funny story demand this. It
cannot be funny without it.
Every one who is
familiar with the theatre must have noticed how careful all comedians are to
give this pause for appreciation and laughter. Often the opportunity is crudely
given, or too liberally offered; and that offends. But in a reasonable degree
the practice is undoubtedly necessary to any form of humorous expression.
A remarkably good
example of the type of humorous story to which these principles of method
apply, is the story of "Epaminondas," on page 63. It will be plain to
any reader that all the several funny crises are of the perfectly unmistakable
sort children like, and that, moreover, these funny spots are not only easy to
see; they are easy to foresee. The teller can hardly help sharing the joke in
advance, and the tale is an excellent one with which to practice for power in
the points mentioned.
Epaminondas is a
valuable little rascal from other points of view, and I mean to return to him,
to point a moral. But just here I want space for a word or two about the matter
of variety of subject and style in school stories.
There are two wholly
different kinds of story which are equally necessary for children, I believe,
and which ought to be given in about the proportion of one to three, in favor
of the second kind; I make the ratio uneven because the first kind is more
dominating in its effect.
The first kind is
represented by such stories as the "Pig Brother," which has now grown
so familiar to teachers that it will serve for illustration without repetition
here. It is the type of story which specifically teaches a certain ethical or
conduct lesson, in the form of fable or an allegory,--it passes on to the child
the conclusions as to conduct and character, to which the race has, in general,
attained through centuries of experience and moralizing. The story becomes a
part of the outfit of received ideas on manners and morals which is an
inescapable and necessary possession of the heir of civilization.
Children do not object
to these stories in the least, if the stories are good ones. They accept them
with the relish which nature seems to maintain for all truly nourishing
material. And the little tales are one of the media through which we elders may
transmit some very slight share of the benefit received by us, in turn, from
actual or transmitted experience.
The second kind has no
preconceived moral to offer, makes no attempt to affect judgment or to pass on
a standard. It simply presents a picture of life, usually in fable or poetic
image, and says to the hearer, "These things are." The hearer, then,
consciously or otherwise, passes judgment on the facts. His mind says,
"These things are good;" or, "This was good, and that,
bad;" or, "This thing is desirable," or the contrary.
The story of "The
Little Jackal and the Alligator" (page 72) is a good illustration of this
type. It is a character-story. In the naïve form of a folk tale, it doubtless
embodies the observations of a seeing eye, in a country and time when the
little jackal and the great alligator were even more vivid images of certain
human characters than they now are. Again and again, surely, the author or
authors of the tales must have seen the weak, small, clever being triumph over
the bulky, well-accoutred, stupid adversary. Again and again they had laughed
at the discomfiture of the latter, perhaps rejoicing in it the more because it
removed fear from their own houses. And probably never had they concerned
themselves particularly with the basic ethics of the struggle. It was simply
one of the things they saw. It was life. So they made a picture of it.
The folk tale so made,
and of such character, comes to the child somewhat as an unprejudiced newspaper
account of to- day's happenings comes to us. It pleads no cause, except through
its contents; it exercises no intentioned influence on our moral judgment; it
is there, as life is there, to be seen and judged. And only through such seeing
and judging can the individual perception attain to anything of power or
originality. Just as a certain amount of received ideas is necessary to sane
development, so is a definite opportunity for first-hand judgments essential to
power.
In this epoch of
well-trained minds we run some risk of an inundation of accepted ethics. The
mind which can make independent judgments, can look at new facts with fresh
vision, and reach conclusions with simplicity, is the perennial power in the
world. And this is the mind we are not noticeably successful in developing, in
our system of schooling. Let us at least have its needs before our
consciousness, in our attempts to supplement the regular studies of school by
such side-activities as story-telling. Let us give the children a fair
proportion of stories which stimulate independent moral and practical
decisions.
And now for a brief
return to our little black friend. "Epaminondas" belongs to a very
large, very ancient type of funny story: the tale in which the jest depends
wholly on an abnormal degree of stupidity on the part of the hero. Every race
which produces stories seems to have found this theme a natural outlet for its
childlike laughter. The stupidity of Lazy Jack, of Big Claus, of the Good Man,
of Clever Alice, all have their counterparts in the folly of the small
Epaminondas.
Evidently, such stories
have served a purpose in the education of the race. While the exaggeration of
familiar attributes easily awakens mirth in a simple mind, it does more: it
teaches practical lessons of wisdom and discretion. And possibly the lesson was
the original cause of the story.
Not long ago, I
happened upon an instance of the teaching power of these nonsense tales, so
amusing and convincing that I cannot forbear to share it. A primary teacher who
heard me tell "Epaminondas" one evening, told it to her pupils the
next morning, with great effect. A young teacher who was observing in the room
at the time told me what befell. She said the children laughed very heartily
over the story, and evidently liked it much. About an hour later, one of them
was sent to the board to do a little problem. It happened that the child made
an excessively foolish mistake, and did not notice it. As he glanced at the
teacher for the familiar smile of encouragement, she simply raised her hands,
and ejaculated " `For the law's sake!' "
It was sufficient. The
child took the cue instantly. He looked hastily at his work, broke into an
irrepressible giggle, rubbed the figures out, without a word, and began again.
And the whole class entered into the joke with the gusto of fellow-fools, for once
wise.
It is safe to assume
that the child in question will make fewer needless mis- takes for a long time
because of the wholesome reminder of his likeness with one who "ain't got
the sense he was born with." And what occurred so visibly in his case goes
on quietly in the hidden recesses of the mind in many cases. One
"Epaminondas" is worth three lectures.
I wish there were more
of such funny little tales in the world's literature, all ready, as this one
is, for telling to the youngest of our listeners. But masterpieces are few in
any line, and stories for telling are no exception; it took generations,
probably, to make this one. The demand for new sources of supply comes steadily
from teachers and mothers, and is the more insistent because so often met by
the disappointing recommendations of books which prove to be for reading only,
rather than for telling. It would be a delight to print a list of fifty,
twenty-five, even ten books which would be found full of stories to tell
without much adapting. But I am grateful to have found even fewer than the ten,
to which I am sure the teacher can turn with real profit. The following names
are, of course, additional to the list contained in "How to Tell Stories
to Children."
ALL ABOUT JOHNNIE
JONES. By Carolyn Verhoeff. Milton Bradley Co., Springfield, Mass. Valuable for
kindergartners as a supply of realistic stories with practical lessons in
simplest form.
OLD DECCAN DAYS. By
Mary Frere. Joseph McDonough, Albany, New York. A splendid collection of Hindu
folk tales, adaptable for all ages.
THE SILVER CROWN. By
Laura E. Richards. Little, Brown & Co., Boston. Poetic fables with
beautiful suggestions of ethical truths.
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. BY
Eva March Tappan. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, New York, and Chicago. A
classified collection, in ten volumes, of fairy, folk tales, fables, realistic,
historical, and poetical stories.
FOR THE CHILDREN'S
HOUR. BY Carolyn Bailey and Clara Lewis. Milton Bradley Co., Springfield. A
general collection of popular stories, well told.
THE SONS OF CORMAC. By
Aldis Dunbar. Longmans, Green & Co., London. Rather mature but very fine
Irish stories.
For the benefit of
suggestion to teachers in schools where story-telling is newly or not yet
introduced in systematic form, I am glad to append the following list of
stories which have been found, on several years' trial, to be especially
tellable and likable, in certain grades of the Providence schools, in Rhode
Island. The list is not mine, although it embodies some of my suggestions. I
offer it merely as a practical result of the effort to equalize and extend the
story-hour throughout the schools. Its makers would be the last to claim ideal
merit for it, and they are constantly improving and developing it. I am
indebted for the privilege of using it to the primary teachers of Providence,
and to their supervisor, Miss Ella L. Sweeney.
Chicken Little
The Dog and his Shadow
Barnyard Talk
The Hare and the Hound
Little Red Hen
Five Little Rabbits
Little Gingerbread Boy
The Three Bears
The Lion and the Mouse
The Red-headed
Wood-pecker
The Hungry Lion
The Wind and the Sun
Little Red Riding-Hood
The Fox and the Crow
Little Half-Chick
The Duck and the Hen
The Rabbit and the
Turtle
The Hare and the
Tortoise
The Shoemaker and the
Fairies
The Three Little Robins
The Wolf and the Kid
The Wolf and the Crane
The Crow and the
Pitcher
The Cat and the Mouse
The Fox and the Grapes
Snow-White and Rose-Red
The North Wind
The Lark and her Little
Ones
The Mouse Pie
The Wonderful Traveler
The Wolf and the
Goslings
The Wolf and the Fox
The Ugly Duckling
The Star Dollars
The Country Mouse and
the City Mouse
The Water-Lily
The Three Goats
The Three Little Pigs
The Boy and the Nuts
Diamonds and Toads
The Honest Woodman
The Thrifty Squirrel
The Pied Piper
How the Robin's Breast
became Red
King Midas
The Town Musicians
The Old Woman and her
Pig
Raggylug
Peter Rabbit
The Sleeping Apple
The Boy who cried
"Wolf"
The Cat and the Parrot
The Crane Express
How the Mole became
Blind
Little Black Sambo
The Lantern and the Fan
How Fire was brought to
the Indians
Why the Bear has a
Short
Echo
Why the Fox has a White
Tip to his Tail
Piccola
The Story of the
Morning-Glory Seed
Why the Wren flies low
Jack and the Beanstalk
The Discontented Pine
Tree
The Talkative Tortoise
Fleet Wing and Sweet
Voice
The Bag of Winds
The Golden Fleece
The Foolish
Weather-Vane
The Little Boy who
wanted the Moon
The Shut-up Posy
Pandora's Box
Benjy in Beastland
The Little Match Girl
Tomtit's Peep at the
World
Arachne
The First Snowdrop
The Porcelain Stove
The Three Golden Apples
Moufflou
Androclus and the Lion
Clytie
The Old Man and his
Donkey
The Legend of the
Trailing Arbutus
The Leak in the Dike
Latona and the Frogs
King Tawny Mane
Dick Whittington and
his Cat
The Little Lame Prince
Appleseed John
Dora, the Little Girl
of the Lighthouse
Narcissus
Why the Sea is Salt
Proserpine
The Little Hero of
Haarlem
The Miraculous Pitcher
The Bell of Justice
I HAVE to speak now of
a phase of elementary education which lies very close to my warmest interest,
which, indeed, could easily become an active hobby if other interests did not
beneficently tug at my skirts when I am minded to mount and ride too wildly. It
is the hobby of many of you who are teachers, also, and I know you want to hear
it discussed. I mean the growing effort to teach English and English literature
to children in the natural way: by speaking and hearing,--orally.
We are coming to a
realization of the fact that our ability, as a people, to use English is
pitifully inadequate and perverted. Those Americans who are not blinded by a
limited horizon of cultured acquaintance, and who have given themselves
opportunity to hear the natural speech of the younger generation in varying
sections of the United States, must admit that it is no exaggeration to say
that this country at large has no standard of English speech. There is no
general sense of responsibility to our mother tongue (indeed, it is in an
overwhelming degree not our mother tongue) and no general appreciation of its
beauty or meaning. The average young person in every district save a half-dozen
jealously guarded little precincts of good taste, uses inexpressive, ill- bred
words, spoken without regard to their just sound-effects, and in a voice which
is an injury to the ear of the mind, as well as a torment to the physical ear.
The structure of the
language and the choice of words are dark matters to most of our young
Americans; this has long been acknowledged and struggled against. But even
darker, and quite equally destructive to English expression, is their state of
mind regarding pronunciation, enunciation, and voice. It is the essential
connection of these elements with English speech that we have been so slow to
realize. We have felt that they were externals, desirable but not necessary
adjuncts,--pretty tags of an exceptional gift or culture. Many an intelligent
school director to-day will say, "I don't care much about how you say a
thing; it is what you say that counts." He cannot see that voice and
enunciation and pronunciation are essentials. But they are. You can no more
help affecting the meaning of your words by the way you say them than you can
prevent the expressions of your face from carrying a message; the message may
be perverted by an uncouth habit, but it will no less surely insist on
recognition.
The fact is that speech
is a method of carrying ideas from one human soul to another, by way of the
ear. And these ideas are very complex. They are not unmixed emanations of pure
intellect, transmitted to pure intellect: they are compounded of emotions,
thoughts, fancies, and are enhanced or impeded in transmission by the use of
word-symbols which have acquired, by association, infinite complexities in
themselves. The mood of the moment, the especial weight of a turn of thought, the
desire of the speaker to share his exact soul-concept with you,--these seek far
more subtle means than the mere rendering of certain vocal signs; they demand
such variations and delicate adjust- ments of sound as will inevitably affect
the listening mind with the response desired.
There is no
"what" without the "how" in speech. The same written
sentence becomes two diametrically opposite ideas, given opposing inflection
and accompanying voice-effect. "He stood in the front rank of the
battle" can be made praiseful affirmation, scornful skepticism, or simple
question, by a simple varying of voice and inflection. This is the more
unmistakable way in which the "how" affects the "what."
Just as true is the less obvious fact. The same written sentiment, spoken by
Wendell Phillips and by a man from the Bowery or an uneducated ranchman, is not
the same to the listener. In one case the sentiment comes to the mind's ear
with certain completing and enhancing qualities of sound which give it accuracy
and poignancy. The words themselves retain all their possible suggestiveness in
the speaker's just and clear enunciation, and have a borrowed beauty, besides,
from the associations of fine habit betrayed in the voice and manner of speech.
And, further, the immense personal equation shows itself in the beauty and
power of the vocal expressiveness, which carries shades of meaning, unguessed
delicacies of emotion, intimations of beauty, to every ear. In the other case,
the thought is clouded by unavoidable suggestions of ignorance and ugliness,
brought by the pronunciation and voice, even to an unanalytical ear; the
meaning is obscured by inaccurate inflection and uncertain or corrupt
enunciation; but, worst of all, the personal atmosphere, the aroma, of the idea
has been lost in transmission through a clumsy, ill-fitted medium.
The thing said may look
the same on a printed page, but it is not the same when spoken. And it is the
spoken sentence which is the original and the usual mode of communication.
The widespread poverty
of expression in English, which is thus a matter of "how," and to
which we are awakening, must be corrected chiefly, at least at first, by the
common schools. The home is the ideal place for it, but the average home of the
United States is no longer a possible place for it. The child of foreign
parents, the child of parents little educated and bred in limited
circumstances, the child of powerful provincial influences, must all depend on
the school for standards of English.
And it is the
elementary school which must meet the need, if it is to be met at all. For the
conception of English expression which I am talking of can find no mode of
instruction adequate to its meaning, save in constant appeal to the ear, at an
age so early that unconscious habit is formed. No rules, no analytical
instruction in later development, can accomplish what is needed. Hearing and
speaking; imitating, unwittingly and wittingly, a good model; it is to this
method we must look for redemption from present conditions.
I believe we are on the
eve of a real revolution in English teaching,--only it is a revolution which
will not break the peace. The new way will leave an overwhelming preponderance
of oral methods in use up to the fifth or sixth grade, and will introduce a
larger proportion of oral work than has ever been contemplated in grammar and
high school work. It will recognize the fact that English is primarily
something spoken with the mouth and heard with the ear. And this recognition
will have greatest weight in the systems of elementary teaching.
It is as an aid in oral
teaching of English that story-telling in school finds its second value; ethics
is the first ground of its usefulness, English the second,--and after these,
the others. It is, too, for the oral uses that the secondary forms of
story-telling are so available. By secondary I mean those devices which I have
tried to indicate, as used by many American teachers, in the chapter on
"Specific Schoolroom Uses," in my earlier book. They are re-telling,
dramatization, and forms of seat-work. All of these are a great power in the
hands of a wise teacher. If combined with much attention to voice and
enunciation in the recital of poetry, and with much good reading aloud by the
teacher, they will go far toward setting a standard and developing good habit.
But their provinces
must not be confused or overestimated. I trust I may be pardoned for offering a
caution or two to the enthusiastic advocate of these methods,--cautions the
need of which has been forced upon me, in experience with schools.
A teacher who uses the
oral story as an English feature with little children must never lose sight of
the fact that it is an aid in unconscious development; not a factor in studied,
conscious improvement. This truth cannot be too strongly realized. Other
exercises, in sufficiency, give the opportunity for regulated effort for
definite results, but the story is one of the play- forces. Its use in English
teaching is most valuable when the teacher has a keen appreciation of the natural
order of growth in the art of expression: that art requires, as the old
rhetorics used often to put it, "a natural facility, succeeded by an
acquired difficulty." In other words, the power of expression depends,
first, on something more fundamental than the art-element; the basis of it is
something to say, accompanied by an urgent desire to say it, and yielded to
with freedom; only after this stage is reached can the art-phase be of any use.
The "why" and "how," the analytical and constructive
phases, have no natural place in this first vital epoch.
Precisely here,
however, does the dramatizing of stories and the paper-cutting, etc., become
useful. A fine and thoughtful principal of a great school asked me, recently,
with real concern, about the growing use of such devices. He said,
"Paper-cutting is good, but what has it to do with English?" And then
he added: "The children use abominable language when they play the
stories; can that directly aid them to speak good English?" His
observation was close and correct, and his conservatism more valuable than the
enthusiasm of some of his colleagues who have advocated sweeping use of the
supplementary work. But his point of view ignored the basis of expression,
which is to my mind so important. Paper-cutting is external to English, of
course. Its only connection is in its power to correlate different forms of
expression, and to react on speech-expression through sense-stimulus. But
playing the story is a closer relative to English than this. It helps, amazingly,
in giving the "something to say, the urgent desire to say it," and
the freedom in trying. Never mind the crudities,--at least, at the time; work
only for joyous freedom, inventiveness, and natural forms of reproduction of
the ideas given. Look for very gradual changes in speech, through the
permeating power of imitation, but do not forget that this is the stage of
expression which inevitably precedes art.
All this will mean that
no corrections are made, except in flagrant cases of slang or grammar, though
all bad slips are mentally noted, for introduction at a more favorable time. It
will mean that the teacher will respect the continuity of thought and interest
as completely as she would wish an audience to respect her occasional prosy
periods if she were reading a report. She will remember, of course that she is
not training actors for amateur theatricals, however tempting her show-material
may be; she is simply letting the children play with expression, just as a
gymnasium teacher introduces muscular play,--for power through relaxation.
When the time comes
that the actors lose their unconsciousness it is the end of the story-play.
Drilled work, the beginning of the art, is then the necessity.
I have indicated that
the children may be left undisturbed in their crudities and occasional
absurdities. The teacher, on the other hand, must avoid, with great judgment,
certain absurdities which can easily be initiated by her. The first direful
possibility is in the choice of material. It is very desirable that children
should not be allowed to dramatize stories of a kind so poetic, so delicate, or
so potentially valuable that the material is in danger of losing future beauty
to the pupils through its present crude handling. Mother Goose is a hardy old
lady, and will not suffer from the grasp of the seven-year-old; and the
familiar fables and tales of the "Goldilocks" variety have a firmness
of surface which does not let the glamour rub off; but stories in which there
is a hint of the beauty just beyond the palpable--or of a dignity suggestive of
developed literature--are sorely hurt in their metamorphosis, and should be
protected from it. They are for telling only.
Another point on which
it is necessary to exercise reserve is in the degree to which any story can be
acted. In the justifiable desire to bring a large number of children into the
action one must not lose sight of the sanity and propriety of the presentation.
For example, one must not make a ridiculous caricature, where a picture,
however crude, is the intention. Personally represent only such things as are
definitely and dramatically personified in the story. If a natural force, the
wind, for example, is represented as talking and acting like a human being in
the story, it can be imaged by a person in the play; but if it remains a part
of the picture in the story, performing only its natural motions, it is a
caricature to enact it as a rôle. The most powerful instance of a mistake of
this kind which I have ever seen will doubtless make my meaning clear. In
playing a pretty story about animals and children, some children in a primary
school were made by the teacher to take the part of the sea. In the story, the
sea was said to "beat upon the shore," as a sea would, without doubt.
In the play, the children were allowed to thump the floor lustily, as a
presentation of their watery functions! It was unconscionably funny. Fancy
presenting even the crudest image of the mighty sea, surging up on the shore,
by a row of infants squatted on the floor and pounding with their fists! Such
pitfalls can be avoided by the simple rule of personifying only characters that
actually behave like human beings.
A caution which
directly concerns the art of story telling itself, must be added here. There is
a definite distinction between the arts of narration and dramatization which
must never be overlooked. Do not, yourself, half tell and half act the story;
and do not let the children do it. It is done in very good schools, sometimes,
because an enthusiasm for realistic and lively presentation momentarily
obscures the faculty of discrimination. A much loved and respected teacher whom
I recently listened to, and who will laugh if she recognizes her blunder here,
offers a good "bad example" in this particular. She said to an attentive
audience of students that she had at last, with much difficulty, brought
herself to the point where she could forget herself in her story: where she
could, for instance, hop, like the fox, when she told the story of the
"sour grapes." She said, "It was hard at first, but now it is a
matter of course; and the children do it too, when they tell the story."
That was the pity! I saw the illustration myself a little later. The child who
played fox began with a story: he said, "Once there was an old fox, and he
saw some grapes;" then the child walked to the other side of the room, and
looked up at an imaginary vine, and said, "He wanted some; he thought they
would taste good, so he jumped for them;" at this point the child did
jump, like his rôle; then he continued with his story, "but he couldn't
get them." And so he proceeded, with a constant alternation of narrative
and dramatization which was enough to make one dizzy.
The trouble in such
work is, plainly, a lack of discriminating analysis. Telling a story
necessarily implies non-identification of the teller with the event; he relates
what occurs or occurred, outside of his circle of conciousness. Acting a play
necessarily implies identification of the actor with the event; he presents to
you a picture of the thing, in himself. It is a difference wide and clear, and
the least failure to recognize it confuses the audience and injures both arts.
In the preceding
instances of secondary uses of story-telling I have come some distance from the
great point, the fundamental point, of the power of imitation in breeding good
habit. This power is less noticeably active in the dramatizing than in simple re-telling;
in the listening and the re- telling, it is dominant for good. The child
imitates what he hears you say and sees you do, and the way you say and do it,
far more closely in the story-hour than in any lesson-period. He is in a more
absorbent state, as it were, because there is no preoccupation of effort. Here
is the great opportunity of the cultured teacher; here is the appalling
opportunity of the careless or ignorant teacher. For the implications of the
oral theory of teaching English are evident, concerning the immense importance
of the teacher's habit. This is what it all comes to ultimately; the teacher of
young children must be a person who can speak English as it should be
spoken,--purely, clearly, pleasantly, and with force.
It is a hard ideal to
live up to, but it is a valuable ideal to try to live up to. And one of the
best chances to work toward attainment is in telling stories, for there you
have definite material, which you can work into shape and practice on in
private. That practice ought to include conscious thought as to one's general
manner in the schoolroom, and intelligent effort to understand and improve
one's own voice. I hope I shall not seem to assume the dignity of an authority
which no personal taste can claim, if I beg a hearing for the following
elements of manner and voice, which appeal to me as essential. They will,
probably, appear self-evident to my readers, yet they are often found wanting
in the public school-teacher; it is so much easier to say "what were good
to do" than to do it!
Three elements of
manner seem to me an essential adjunct to the personality of a teacher of
little children: courtesy, repose vitality. Repose and vitality explain
themselves; by courtesy I specifically do not mean the habit of mind which
contents itself with drilling children in "Good- mornings" and in
hat-liftings. I mean the attitude of mind which recognizes in the youngest,
commonest child, the potential dignity, majesty, and mystery of the developed
human soul. Genuine reverence for the humanity of the "other fellow"
marks a definite degree of courtesy in the intercourse of adults, does it not?
And the same quality of respect, tempered by the demands of a wise control, is
exactly what is needed among children. Again and again, in dealing with young
minds, the teacher who respects personality as sacred, no matter how embryonic
it be, wins the victories which count for true education. Yet, all too often,
we forget the claims of this reverence, in the presence of the annoyances and
the needed corrections.
As for voice: work in
schoolrooms brings two opposing mistakes constantly before me: one is the
repressed voice, and the other, the forced. The best way to avoid either
extreme, is to keep in mind that the ideal is development of one's own natural
voice, along its own natural lines. A "quiet, gentle voice" is
conscientiously aimed at by many young teachers, with so great zeal that the
tone becomes painfully repressed, "breathy," and timid. This is quite
as unpleasant as a loud voice, which is, in turn, a frequent result of early
admonitions to "speak up." Neither is natural. It is wise to
determine the natural volume and pitch of one's speaking voice by a number of
tests, made when one is thoroughly rested, at ease, and alone. Find out where
your voice lies when it is left to itself, under favorable conditions, by
reading something aloud or by listening to yourself as you talk to an intimate
friend. Then practise keeping it in that general range, unless it prove to have
a distinct fault, such as a nervous sharpness, or hoarseness. A quiet voice is
good; a hushed voice is abnormal. A clear tone is restful, but a loud one is
wearying.
Perhaps the
common-sense way of setting a standard for one's own voice is to remember that
the, purpose of a speaking voice is to communicate with others; their ears and
minds are the receivers of our tones. For this purpose, evidently, a voice
should be, first of all, easy to hear; next, pleasant to hear; next,
susceptible of sufficient variation to express a wide range of meaning; and
finally, indicative of personality.
Is it too quixotic to
urge teachers who tell stories to little children to bear these thoughts, and
better ones of their own, in mind? Not, I think, if it be fully accepted that
the story hour, as a play hour, is a time peculiarly open to influences
affecting the imitative faculty; that this faculty is especially valuable in
forming fine habits of speech; and that an increasingly high and general
standard of English speech is one of our greatest needs and our most instant
opportunities in the American schools of to-day.
And now we come to the
stories!
Once there was a little
pink Rosebud, and she lived down in a little dark house under the ground. One
day she was sitting there, all by herself, and it was very still. Suddenly, she
heard a little tap, tap, tap, at the door.
"Who is
that?" she said.
"It's the Rain,
and I want to come in;" said a soft, sad, little voice.
"No, you can't
come in," the little Rosebud said.
By and by she heard
another little tap, tap, tap on the window pane.
"Who is
there?" she said.
The same soft little
voice answered, "It's the Rain, and I want to come in!"
"No, you can't
come in," said the little Rosebud.
Then it was very still
for a long time. At last, there came a little rustling, whispering sound, all
round the window: rustle, whisper, whisper.
"Who is
there?" said the little Rosebud.
"It's the
Sunshine," said a little, soft, cheery voice, "and I want to come
in!"
"N--no," said
the little pink rose, "you can't come in." And she sat still again.
Pretty soon she heard
the sweet little rustling noise at the key-hole.
"Who is
there?" she said.
"It's the
Sunshine," said the cheery little voice, "and I want to come in, I
want to come in!"
"No, no,"
said the little pink rose, "you cannot come in."
By and by, as she sat
so still, she heard tap, tap, tap, and rustle, whisper, rustle, all up and down
the window pane, and on the door, and at the key-hole.
"Who is
there?" she said.
"It's the Rain and
the Sun, the Rain and the Sun," said two little voices, together,
"and we want to come in! We want to come in! We want to come in!"
"Dear, dear!"
said the little Rosebud, "if there are two of you, I s'pose I shall have
to let you in."
So she opened the door
a little wee crack, and in they came. And one took one of her little hands, and
the other took her other little hand, and they ran, ran, ran with her, right up
to the top of the ground. Then they said, --
"Poke your head
through!"
So she poked her head
through; and she was in the midst of a beautiful garden. It was springtime, and
all the other flowers had their heads poked through; and she was the prettiest
little pink rose in the whole garden!
A very little boy made
this story up "out of his head," and told it to his papa I think you
littlest ones will like it; I do.
Once upon a time there
was a little boy, and he wanted to be a cock-a-doo-dle-doo So he was a
cock-a-doo-dle-doo. And he wanted to fly up into the sky. So he did fly up into
the sky. And he wanted to get wings and a tail. So he did get some wings and a
tail.
One hot summer morning
a little Cloud rose out of the sea and floated lightly and happily across the
blue sky. Far below lay the earth, brown, dry, and desolate, from drouth. The
little Cloud could see the poor people of the earth working and suffering in
the hot fields, while she herself floated on the morning breeze, hither and
thither, without a care.
"Oh, if I could
only help the poor people down there!" she thought. "If I could but
make their work easier, or give the hungry ones food, or the thirsty a
drink!"
And as the day passed,
and the Cloud became larger, this wish to do something for the people of earth
was ever greater in her heart.
On earth it grew hotter
and hotter; the sun burned down so fiercely that the people were fainting in
its rays; it seemed as if they must die of heat, and yet they were obliged to
go on with their work, for they were very poor. Sometimes they stood and looked
up at the Cloud, as if they were praying, and saying, "Ah, if you could
help us!"
"I will help you;
I will!" said the Cloud. And she began to sink softly down toward the
earth.
But suddenly, as she
floated down, she remembered something which had been told her when she was a
tiny Cloud-child, in the lap of Mother Ocean: it had been whispered that if the
Clouds go too near the earth they die. When she remembered this she held
herself from sinking, and swayed here and there on the breeze,
thinking,--thinking. But at last she stood quite still, and spoke boldly and
proudly. She said, "Men of earth, I will help you, come what may!"
The thought made her
suddenly marvelously big and strong and powerful. Never had she dreamed that
she could be so big. Like a mighty angel of blessing she stood above the earth,
and lifted her head and spread her wings far over the fields and woods. She was
so great, so majestic, that men and animals were awe-struck at the sight; the
trees and the grasses bowed before her; yet all the earth-creatures felt that
she meant them well.
"Yes, I will help
you," cried the Cloud once more. "Take me to yourselves; I will give
my life for you!"
As she said the words a
wonderful light glowed from her heart, the sound of thunder rolled through the
sky, and a love greater than words can tell filled the Cloud; down, down, close
to the earth she swept, and gave up her life in a blessed, healing shower of
rain.
That rain was the
Cloud's great deed; it was her death, too; but it was also her glory. Over the
whole country-side, as far as the rain fell, a lovely rainbow sprang its arch,
and all the brightest rays of heaven made its colors; it was the last greeting
of a love so great that it sacrificed itself.
Soon that, too, was
gone, but long, long afterward the men and animals who were saved by the Cloud
kept her blessing in their hearts.
The little Red Hen was
in the farmyard with her chickens, when she found a grain of wheat.
"Who will plant
this wheat?" she said.
"Not I," said
the Goose.
"Not I," said
the Duck.
"I will,
then," said the little Red Hen, and she planted the grain of wheat.
When the wheat was ripe
she said, "Who will take this wheat to the mill?"
"Not I," said
the Goose.
"Not I," said
the Duck.
"I will,
then," said the little Red Hen, and she took the wheat to the mill.
When she brought the
flour home she said, "Who will make some bread with this flour?"
"Not I," said
the Goose.
"Not I," said
the Duck.
"I will,
then," said the little Red Hen
When the bread was
baked, she said, "Who will eat this bread?"
"I will,"
said the Goose
"I will,"
said the Duck
"No, you
won't," said the little Red Hen. "I shall eat it myself. Cluck!
cluck!" And she called her chickens to help her.
Once upon a time there
was a little old woman and a little old man, and they lived all alone in a little
old house. They hadn't any little girls or any little boys, at all. So one day,
the little old woman made a boy out of gingerbread; she made him a chocolate
jacket, and put cinnamon seeds in it for buttons; his eyes were made of fine,
fat currants; his mouth was made of rose-colored sugar; and he had a gay little
cap of orange sugar-candy. When the little old woman had rolled him out, and
dressed him up, and pinched his gingerbread shoes into shape, she put him in a
pan; then she put the pan in the oven and shut the door; and she thought,
"Now I shall have a little boy of my own."
When it was time for
the Gingerbread Boy to be done she opened the oven door and pulled out the pan.
Out jumped the little Gingerbread Boy on to the floor, and away he ran, out of
the door and down the street! The little old woman and the little old man ran
after him as fast as they could, but he just laughed, and shouted, --
"Run! run! as fast
as you can!
"You can't catch
me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And they couldn't catch
him.
The little Gingerbread
Boy ran on and on, until he came to a cow, by the roadside. "Stop, little
Gingerbread Boy," said the cow; "I want to eat you." The little
Gingerbread Boy laughed, and said, --
"I have run away
from a little old woman,
"And a little old
man,
"And I can run
away from you, I can!"
And, as the cow chased
him, he looked over his shoulder and cried, --
"Run! run! as fast
as you can!
"You can't catch
me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And the cow couldn't
catch him.
The little Gingerbread
Boy ran on, and on, and on, till he came to a horse, in the pasture.
"Please stop, little Gingerbread Boy," said the horse, "you look
very good to eat." But the little Gingerbread Boy laughed out loud.
"Oho! oho!" he said, --
"I have run away
from a little old woman,
"A little old man,
"A cow,
"And I can run
away from you, I can!"
And, as the horse
chased him, he looked over his shoulder and cried, --
"Run! run! as fast
as you can!
"You can't catch
me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And the horse couldn't
catch him.
By and by the little
Gingerbread Boy came to a barn full of threshers. When the threshers smelled
the Gingerbread Boy, they tried to pick him up, and said, "Don't run so
fast, little Gingerbread Boy; you look very good to eat." But the little
Gingerbread Boy ran harder than ever, and as he ran he cried out, --
"I have run away
from a little old woman,
"A little old man,
"A cow,
"A horse,
"And I can run
away from you, I can!"
And when he found that
he was ahead of the threshers, he turned and shouted back to them, --
"Run! run! as fast
as you can!
"You can't catch
me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And the threshers
couldn't catch him.
Then the little
Gingerbread Boy ran faster than ever. He ran and ran until he came to a field
full of mowers. When the mowers saw how fine he looked, they ran after him,
calling out, "Wait a bit! wait a bit, little Gingerbread Boy, we wish to
eat you!" But the little Gingerbread Boy laughed harder than ever, and ran
like the wind. "Oho! oho!" he said, --
"I have run away
from a little old woman,
"A little old man,
"A cow,
"A horse,
"A barn full of
threshers,
"And I can run
away from you, I can!"
And when he found that
he was ahead of the mowers, he turned and shouted back to them, --
"Run! run! as fast
as you can!
"You can't catch
me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And the mowers couldn't
catch him.
By this time the little
Gingerbread Boy was so proud that he didn't think anybody could catch him.
Pretty soon he saw a fox coming across a field. The fox looked at him and began
to run. But the little Gingerbread Boy shouted across to him, "You can't
catch me!" The fox began to run faster, and the little Gingerbread Boy ran
faster, and as he ran he chuckled, --
"I have run away
from a little old woman,
"A little old man,
"A cow,
"A horse,
"A barn full of
threshers,
"A field full of
mowers,
"And I can run
away from you, I can!
"Run! run! as fast
as you can!
"You can't catch
me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
"Why," said
the fox, "I would not catch you if I could. I would not think of
disturbing you."
Just then, the little
Gingerbread Boy came to a river. He could not swim across, and he wanted to
keep running away from the cow and the horse and the people.
"Jump on my tail,
and I will take you across," said the fox.
So the little
Gingerbread Boy jumped on the fox's tail, and the fox swam into the river. When
he was a little way from shore he turned his head, and said, "You are too
heavy on my tail, little Gingerbread Boy, I fear I shall let you get wet; jump
on my back."
The little Gingerbread
Boy jumped on his back.
A little farther out,
the fox said, "I am afraid the water will cover you, there; jump on my
shoulder."
The little Gingerbread
Boy jumped on his shoulder.
In the middle of the
stream the fox said, "Oh, dear! little Gingerbread Boy, my shoulder is
sinking; jump on my nose, and I can hold you out of water."
So the little
Gingerbread Boy jumped on his nose.
The minute the fox got
on shore he threw back his head, and gave a snap!
"Dear me!"
said the little Gingerbread Boy, "I am a quarter gone!" The next
minute he said, "Why, I am half gone!" The next minute he said,
"My goodness gracious, I am three quarters gone!"
And after that, the
little Gingerbread Boy never said anything more at all.
Once there was a great
big jungle; and in the jungle there was a great big Lion; and the Lion was king
of the jungle. Whenever he wanted anything to eat, all he had to do was to come
up out of his cave in the stones and earth and roar. When he had roared a few
times all the little people of the jungle were so frightened that they came out
of their holes and hiding-places and ran, this way and that, to get away. Then,
of course, the Lion could see where they were. And he pounced on them, killed
them, and gobbled them up.
He did this so often
that at last there was not a single thing left alive in the jungle besides the
Lion, except two little Jackals, --a little father Jackal and a little mother
Jackal.
They had run away so
many times that they were quite thin and very tired, and they could not run so
fast any more. And one day the Lion was so near that the little mother Jackal
grew frightened; she said, --
"Oh, Father
Jackal, Father Jackal! I b'lieve our time has come! the Lion will surely catch
us this time!"
"Pooh! nonsense,
mother!" said the little father Jackal. "Come, we'll run on a
bit!"
And they ran, ran, ran
very fast, and the Lion did not catch them that time.
But at last a day came
when the Lion was nearer still and the little mother Jackal was frightened
about to death.
"Oh, Father
Jackal, Father Jackal!" she cried; "I'm sure our time has come! The
Lion's going to eat us this time!"
"Now, mother,
don't you fret," said the little father Jackal; "you do just as I
tell you, and it will be all right."
Then what did those
cunning little Jackals do but take hold of hands and run up towards the Lion,
as if they had meant to come all the time. When he saw them coming he stood up,
and roared in a terrible voice, --
"You miserable
little wretches, come here and be eaten, at once! Why didn't you come
before?"
The father Jackal bowed
very low.
"Indeed, Father
Lion," he said, "we meant to come before; we knew we ought to come
before; and we wanted to come before; but every time we started to come, a
dreadful great lion came out of the woods and roared at us, and frightened us
so that we ran away."
"What do you
mean?" roared the Lion. "There's no other lion in this jungle, and
you know it!"
"Indeed, indeed,
Father Lion," said the little Jackal, "I know that is what everybody
thinks; but indeed and indeed there is another lion! And he is as much bigger
than you as you are bigger than I! His face is much more terrible, and his roar
far, far more dreadful. Oh, he is far more fearful than you!"
At that the Lion stood
up and roared so that the jungle shook.
"Take me to this
lion," he said; "I'll eat him up and then I'll eat you up."
The little Jackals
danced on ahead, and the Lion stalked behind. They led him to a place where
there was a round, deep well of clear water. They went round on one side of it,
and the Lion stalked up to the other.
"He lives down
there, Father Lion!" said the little Jackal. "He lives down
there!"
The Lion came close and
looked down into the water,--and a lion's face looked back at him out of the
water!
When he saw that, the
Lion roared and shook his mane and showed his teeth. And the lion in the water
shook his mane and showed his teeth. The Lion above shook his mane again and
growled again, and made a terrible face. But the lion in the water made just as
terrible a one, back. The Lion above couldn't stand that. He leaped down into
the well after the other lion.
But, of course, as you
know very well, there wasn't any other lion! It was only the reflection in the
water!
So the poor old Lion
floundered about and floundered about, and as he couldn't get up the steep
sides of the well, he was drowned dead. And when he was drowned the little
Jackals took hold of hands and danced round the well, and sang, --
"The Lion is dead!
The Lion is dead!
"We have killed
the great Lion who would have killed us!
"The Lion is dead!
The Lion is dead!
"Ao! Ao! Ao!"
Once a little mouse who
lived in the country invited a little Mouse from the city to visit him. When
the little City Mouse sat down to dinner he was surprised to find that the
Country Mouse had nothing to eat except barley and grain.
"Really," he
said, "you do not live well at all; you should see how I live! I have all
sorts of fine things to eat every day. You must come to visit me and see how
nice it is to live in the city."
The little Country
Mouse was glad to do this, and after a while he went to the city to visit his
friend.
The very first place
that the City Mouse took the Country Mouse to see was the kitchen cupboard of
the house where he lived. There, on the lowest shelf, behind some stone jars,
stood a big paper bag of brown sugar. The little City Mouse gnawed a hole in
the bag and invited his friend to nibble for himself.
The two little mice
nibbled and nibbled, and the Country Mouse thought he had never tasted anything
so delicious in his life. He was just thinking how lucky the City Mouse was,
when suddenly the door opened with a bang, and in came the cook to get some
flour.
"Run!"
whispered the City Mouse. And they ran as fast as they could to the little hole
where they had come in. The little Country Mouse was shaking all over when they
got safely away, but the little City Mouse said, "That is nothing; she
will soon go away and then we can go back."
After the cook had gone
away and shut the door they stole softly back, and this time the City Mouse had
something new to show: he took the little Country Mouse into a corner on the
top shelf, where a big jar of dried prunes stood open. After much tugging and
pulling they got a large dried prune out of the jar on to the shelf and began
to nibble at it. This was even better than the brown sugar. The little Country
Mouse liked the taste so much that he could hardly nibble fast enough. But all
at once, in the midst of their eating, there came a scratching at the door and
a sharp, loud miaouw!
"What is that?"
said the Country Mouse. The City Mouse just whispered, "Sh!" and ran
as fast as he could to the hole. The Country Mouse ran after, you may be sure,
as fast as he could. As soon as they were out of danger the City Mouse said,
"That was the old Cat; she is the best mouser in town,--if she once gets
you, you are lost."
"This is very
terrible," said the little Country Mouse; "let us not go back to the
cupboard again."
"No," said
the City Mouse, "I will take you to the cellar; there is something especial
there."
So the City Mouse took
his little friend down the cellar stairs and into a big cupboard where there
were many shelves. On the shelves were jars of butter, and cheeses in bags and
out of bags. Overhead hung bunches of sausages, and there were spicy apples in
barrels standing about. It smelled so good that it went to the little Country
Mouse's head. He ran along the shelf and nibbled at a cheese here, and a bit of
butter there, until he saw an especially rich, very delicious-smelling piece of
cheese on a queer little stand in a corner. He was just on the point of putting
his teeth into the cheese when the City Mouse saw him.
"Stop! stop!"
cried the City Mouse. "That is a trap!"
The little Country
Mouse stopped and said, "What is a trap?"
"That thing is a
trap," said the little City Mouse. "The minute you touch the cheese
with your teeth something comes down on your head hard, and you're dead."
The little Country
Mouse looked at the trap, and he looked at the cheese, and he looked at the little
City Mouse. "If you'll excuse me," he said, "I think I will go
home. I'd rather have barley and grain to eat and eat it in peace and comfort,
than have brown sugar and dried prunes and cheese,--and be frightened to death
all the time!"
So the little Country
Mouse went back to his home, and there he stayed all the rest of his life.
Once upon a time there
was a wee little boy who slept in a tiny trundle-bed near his mother's great
bed. The trundle-bed had castors on it so that it could be rolled about, and
there was nothing in the world the little boy liked so much as to have it
rolled. When his mother came to bed he would cry, "Roll me around! roll me
around!" And his mother would put out her hand from the big bed and push
the little bed back and forth till she was tired. The little boy could never
get enough; so for this he was called "Little Jack Rollaround."
One night he had made
his mother roll him about, till she fell asleep, and even then he kept crying,
"Roll me around! roll me around!" His mother pushed him about in her
sleep, until she fell too soundly aslumbering; then she stopped. But Little
Jack Rollaround kept on crying, "Roll around! roll around!"
By and by the Moon
peeped in at the window. He saw a funny sight: Little Jack Rollaround was lying
in his trundle- bed, and he had put up one little fat leg for a mast, and
fastened the corner of his wee shirt to it for a sail, and he was blowing at it
with all his might, and saying, "Roll around! roll around!" Slowly,
slowly, the little trundle-bed boat began to move; it sailed along the floor
and up the wall and across the ceiling and down again!
"More! more!"
cried Little Jack Rollaround; and the little boat sailed faster up the wall,
across the ceiling, down the wall, and over the floor. The Moon laughed at the
sight; but when Little Jack Rollaround saw the Moon, he called out, "Open
the door, old Moon! I want to roll through the town, so that the people can see
me!"
The Moon could not open
the door, but he shone in through the keyhole, in a broad band. And Little Jack
Rollaround sailed his trundle-bed boat up the beam, through the keyhole, and
into the street.
"Make a light, old
Moon," he said; "I want the people to see me!"
So the good Moon made a
light and went along with him, and the little trundle- bed boat went sailing
down the streets into the main street of the village. They rolled past the town
hall and the schoolhouse and the church; but nobody saw little Jack Rollaround,
because everybody was in bed, asleep.
"Why don't the
people come to see me?" he shouted.
High up on the church
steeple, the Weather-vane answered, "It is no time for people to be in the
streets; decent folk are in their beds."
"Then I'll go to
the woods, so that the animals may see me," said Little Jack. "Come
along, old Moon, and make a light!"
The good Moon went
along and made a light, and they came to the forest. "Roll! roll!"
cried the little boy; and the trundle- bed went trundling among the trees in
the great wood, scaring up the chipmunks and startling the little leaves on the
trees. The poor old Moon began to have a bad time of it, for the tree-trunks
got in his way so that he could not go so fast as the bed, and every time he
got behind, the little boy called, "Hurry up, old Moon, I want the beasts
to see me!"
But all the animals
were asleep, and nobody at all looked at Little Jack Rollaround except an old
White Owl; and all she said was, "Who are you?"
The little boy did not
like her, so he blew harder, and the trundle-bed boat went sailing through the
forest till it came to the end of the world.
"I must go home
now; it is late," said the Moon.
"I will go with
you; make a path!" said Little Jack Rollaround.
The kind Moon made a
path up to the sky, and up sailed the little bed into the midst of the sky. All
the little bright Stars were there with their nice little lamps. And when he
saw them, that naughty Little Jack Rollaround began to tease. "Out of the
way, there! I am coming!" he shouted, and sailed the trundle-bed boat
straight at them. He bumped the little Stars right and left, all over the sky,
until every one of them put his little lamp out and left it dark.
"Do not treat the
little Stars so," said the good Moon.
But Jack Rollaround
only behaved the worse: "Get out of the way, old Moon!" he shouted,
"I am coming!"
And he steered the
little trundle-bed boat straight into the old Moon's face, and bumped his nose!
This was too much for
the good Moon; he put out his big light, all at once, and left the sky
pitch-black.
"Make a light, old
Moon! Make a light!" shouted the little boy. But the Moon answered never a
word, and Jack Rollaround could not see where to steer. He went rolling
criss-cross, up and down, all over the sky, knocking into the planets and
stumbling into the clouds, till he did not know where he was.
Suddenly he saw a big
yellow light at the very edge of the sky. He thought it was the Moon.
"Look out, I am coming!" he cried, and steered for the light.
But it was not the kind
old Moon at all; it was the great mother Sun, just coming up out of her home in
the sea, to begin her day's work.
"Aha, youngster,
what are you doing in my sky?" she said. And she picked Little Jack
Rollaround up and threw him, trundle-bed boat and all, into the middle of the
sea!
And I suppose he is
there yet, unless somebody picked him out again.
One day little Brother
Rabbit was running along on the sand, lippety, lippety, when he saw the Whale
and the Elephant talking together. Little Brother Rabbit crouched down and
listened to what they were saying. This was what they were saying: --
"You are the
biggest thing on the land, Brother Elephant," said the Whale, "and I
am the biggest thing in the sea; if we join together we can rule all the
animals in the world, and have our way about everything."
"Very good, very
good," trumpeted the Elephant; "that suits me; we will do it."
Little Brother Rabbit
snickered to himself. "They won't rule me," he said. He ran away and
got a very long, very strong rope, and he got his big drum, and hid the drum a
long way off in the bushes. Then he went along the beach till he came to the
Whale.
"Oh, please, dear,
strong Mr. Whale," he said, "will you have the great kindness to do
me a favor? My cow is stuck in the mud, a quarter of a mile from here. And I
can't pull her out. But you are so strong and so obliging, that I venture to
trust you will help me out."
The Whale was so
pleased with the compliment that he said, "Yes," at once.
"Then," said
the Rabbit, "I will tie this end of my long rope to you, and I will run
away and tie the other end round my cow, and when I am ready I will beat my big
drum. When you hear that, pull very, very hard, for the cow is stuck very deep
in the mud."
"Huh!"
grunted the Whale, "I'll pull her out, if she is stuck to the horns."
Little Brother Rabbit
tied the rope-end to the whale, and ran off, lippety, lippety, till he came to
the place where the Elephant was.
"Oh, please,
mighty and kindly Elephant," he said, making a very low bow
"will you do me a
favor?"
"What is it?"
asked the Elephant.
"My cow is stuck
in the mud, about a quarter of a mile from here," said little Brother
Rabbit, "and I cannot pull her out. Of course you could. If you will be so
very obliging as to help me--"
"Certainly,"
said the Elephant grandly, "certainly."
"Then," said
little Brother Rabbit, "I will tie one end of this long rope to your
trunk, and the other to my cow, and as soon as I have tied her tightly I will
beat my big drum. When you hear that, pull; pull as hard as you can, for my cow
is very heavy."
"Never fear,"
said the Elephant, "I could pull twenty cows."
"I am sure you
could," said the Rabbit, politely, "only be sure to begin gently, and
pull harder and harder till you get her."
Then he tied the end of
the rope tightly round the Elephant's trunk, and ran away into the bushes.
There he sat down and beat the big drum.
The Whale began to
pull, and the Elephant began to pull, and in a jify the rope tightened till it
was stretched as hard as could be.
"This is a
remarkably heavy cow," said the Elephant; "but I'll fetch her!"
And he braced his forefeet in the earth, and gave a tremendous pull.
"Dear me!"
said the Whale. "That cow must be stuck mighty tight;" and he drove
his tail deep in the water, and gave a marvelous pull.
He pulled harder; the
Elephant pulled harder. Pretty soon the Whale found himself sliding toward the
land. The reason was, of course, that the Elephant had something solid to brace
against, and, too, as fast as he pulled the rope in a little, he took a turn
with it round his trunk!
But when the Whale
found himself sliding toward the land he was so provoked with the cow that he
dove head first, down to the bottom of the sea. That was a pull! The Elephant
was jerked off his feet, and came slipping and sliding to the beach, and into
the surf. He was terribly angry. He braced himself with all his might, and
pulled his best. At the jerk, up came the Whale out of the water.
"Who is pulling
me?" spouted the Whale.
"Who is pulling
me?" trumpeted the Elephant.
And then each saw the
rope in the other's hold.
"I'll teach you to
play cow!" roared the Elephant.
"I'll show you how
to fool me!" fumed the Whale. And they began to pull again. But this time
the rope broke, the Whale turned a somersault, and the Elephant fell over backwards.
At that, they were both
so ashamed that neither would speak to the other. So that broke up the bargain
between them.
And little Brother
Rabbit sat in the bushes and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
There was once upon a
time a Spanish Hen, who hatched out some nice little chickens. She was much
pleased with their looks as they came from the shell. One, two, three, came out
plump and fluffy; but when the fourth shell broke, out came a little
half-chick! It had only one leg and one wing and one eye! It was just half a
chicken.
The Hen-mother did not
know what in the world to do with the queer little Half- Chick. She was afraid
something would happen to it, and she tried hard to protect it and keep it from
harm. But as soon as it could walk the little Half-Chick showed a most
headstrong spirit, worse than any of its brothers. It would not mind, and it
would go wherever it wanted to; it walked with a funny little hoppity-kick,
hoppity- kick, and got along pretty fast.
One day the little
Half-Chick said, "Mother, I am off to Madrid, to see the King!
Good-by."
The poor Hen-mother did
everything she could think of, to keep him from doing so foolish a thing, but
the little Half-Chick laughed at her naughtily. "I'm for seeing the
King," he said; "this life is too quiet for me." And away he
went, hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, over the fields.
When he had gone some
distance the little Half-Chick came to a little brook that was caught in the
weeds and in much trouble.
"Little
Half-Chick," whispered the Water, "I am so choked with these weeds
that I cannot move; I am almost lost, for want of room; please push the sticks
and weeds away with your bill and help me."
"The idea!"
said the little Half-Chick. "I cannot be bothered with you; I am off for
Madrid, to see the King!" And in spite of the brook's begging he went
away, hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick.
A bit farther on, the
Half-Chick came to a Fire, which was smothered in damp sticks and in great
distress.
"Oh, little Half-Chick,"
said the Fire, "you are just in time to save me. I am almost dead for want
of air. Fan me a little with your wing, I beg."
"The idea!"
said the little Half-Chick. "I cannot be bothered with you; I am off to
Madrid, to see the King!" And he went laughing off, hoppity-kick,
hoppity-kick.
When he had
hoppity-kicked a good way, and was near Madrid, he came to a clump of bushes,
where the Wind was caught fast. The Wind was whimpering, and begging to be set
free.
"Little
Half-Chick," said the Wind, "you are just in time to help me; if you
will brush aside these twigs and leaves, I can get my breath; help me,
quickly!"
"Ho! the
idea!" said the little Half- Chick. "I have no time to bother with
you. I am going to Madrid, to see the King." And he went off,
hoppity-kick, hoppity- kick, leaving the Wind to smother.
After a while he came
to Madrid and to the palace of the King. Hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, the little
Half-Chick skipped past the sentry at the gate, and hoppity- kick,
hoppity-kick, he crossed the court. But as he was passing the windows of the
kitchen the Cook looked out and saw him.
"The very thing
for the King's dinner!" she said. "I was needing a chicken!" And
she seized the little Half-Chick by his one wing and threw him into a kettle of
water on the fire.
The Water came over the
little Half- Chick's feathers, over his head, into his eyes; It was terribly
uncomfortable. The little Half-Chick cried out, --
"Water, don't
drown me! Stay down, don't come so high!"
But the Water said,
"Little Half-Chick, little Half-Chick, when I was in trouble you would not
help me," and came higher than ever.
Now the Water grew
warm, hot, hotter, frightfully hot; the little Half-Chick cried out, "Do
not burn so hot, Fire! You are burning me to death! Stop!"
But the Fire said,
"Little Half-Chick, little Half-Chick, when I was in trouble you would not
help me," and burned hotter than ever.
Just as the little
Half-Chick thought he must suffocate, the Cook took the cover off, to look at
the dinner. "Dear me," she said, "this chicken is no good; it is
burned to a cinder." And she picked the little Half-Chick up by one leg
and threw him out of the window.
In the air he was
caught by a breeze and taken up higher than the trees. Round and round he was
twirled till he was so dizzy he thought he must perish. "Don't blow me so?
Wind," he cried, "let me down!"
"Little
Half-Chick, little Half-Chick," said the Wind, "when I was in trouble
you would not help me!" And the Wind blew him straight up to the top of
the church steeple, and stuck him there, fast!
There he stands to this
day, with his one eye, his one wing, and his one leg. He cannot hoppity-kick
any more, but he turns slowly round when the wind blows, and keeps his head
toward it, to hear what it says.
Once upon a time there
was a wee, wee Lambikin, who frolicked about on his little tottery legs, and
enjoyed himself amazingly.
Now one day he set off
to visit his Granny, and was jumping with joy to think of all the good things
he should get from her, when whom should he meet but a Jackal, who looked at
the tender young morsel and said, "Lambikin! Lambikin! I'll EAT YOU!"
But Lambikin only gave
a little frisk and said, --
"To Granny's house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow;
Then you can eat me so."
The Jackal thought this
reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.
By and by he met a
Vulture, and the Vulture, looking hungrily at the tender morsel before him,
said, "Lambikin! Lambikin! I'll EAT YOU!"
But Lambikin only gave
a little frisk, and said, --
"To Granny's house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow;
Then you can eat me so."
The Vulture thought this
reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.
And by and by he met a
Tiger, and then a Wolf and a Dog and an Eagle, and all these, when they saw the
tender little morsel, said, "Lambikin! Lambikin! I'll EAT YOU!"
But to all of them
Lambikin replied, with a little frisk, --
"To Granny's house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow;
Then you can eat me so."
At last he reached his Granny's
house, and said, all in a great hurry, "Granny, dear, I've promised to get
very fat; so, as people ought to keep their promises, please put me into the
corn-bin at once."
So his Granny said he
was a good boy, and put him into the corn-bin, and there the greedy little
Lambikin stayed for seven days, and ate, and ate, and ate, until he could
scarcely waddle, and his Granny said he was fat enough for anything, and must
go home. But cunning little Lambikin said that would never do, for some animal
would be sure to eat him on the way back, he was so plump and tender.
"I'll tell you
what you must do," said Master Lambikin; "you must make a little
drumikin out of the skin of my little brother who died, and then I can sit
inside and trundle along nicely, for I'm as tight as a drum myself."
So his Granny made a
nice little drumikin out of his brother's skin, with the wool inside, and
Lambikin curled himself up snug and warm in the middle and trundled away gayly.
Soon he met with the Eagle, who called out, --
"Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?"
And Mr. Lambikin, curled up in
his soft, warm nest, replied, --
"Fallen into the fire, and so will you
On little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!"
"How very annoying!"
sighed the Eagle, thinking regretfully of the tender morsel he had let slip.
Meanwhile Lambikin
trundled along, laughing to himself, and singing, --
"Tum-pa, tum-too;
Tum-pa, tum-too!"
Every animal and bird he met
asked him the same question, --
"Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?"
And to each of them the little
slyboots replied, --
"Fallen into the fire, and so will you
On little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!"
Tum-pa, tum-too! tum-pa, tum-too!"
Then they all sighed to think
of the tender little morsel they had let slip.
At last the Jackal came
limping along, for all his sorry looks as sharp as a needle, and he, too,
called out, --
"Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?"
And Lambikin, curled up in his
snug little nest, replied gayly, --
"Fallen into the fire, and so will you
On little Drumikin! Tum-pa--"
But he never got any further,
for the Jackal recognized his voice at once, and cried, "Hullo! you've
turned yourself inside out, have you? Just you come out of that!"
Whereupon he tore open
Drumikin and gobbled up Lambikin.
A little boy sat at his
mother's knees, by the long western window, looking out into the garden. It was
autumn, and the wind was sad; and the golden elm leaves lay scattered about
among the grass, and on the gravel path. The mother was knitting a little
stocking; her fingers moved the bright needles; but her eyes were fixed on the
clear evening sky.
As the darkness
gathered, the wee boy laid his head on her lap and kept so still that, at last,
she leaned forward to look into his dear round face. He was not asleep, but was
watching very earnestly a blackberry-bush, that waved its one tall, dark-red
spray in the wind outside the fence.
"What are you
thinking about, my darling?" she said, smoothing his soft, honey-colored
hair.
"The
blackberry-bush, mamma; what does it say? It keeps nodding, nodding to me
behind the fence; what does it say, mamma?"
"It says,"
she answered, `I see a happy little boy in the warm, fire-lighted room. The
wind blows cold, and here it is dark and lonely; but that little boy is warm
and happy and safe at his mother's knees. I nod to him, and he looks at me. I
wonder if he knows how happy he is!
" `See, all my
leaves are dark crimson. Every day they dry and wither more and more; by and by
they will be so weak they can scarcely cling to my branches, and the north wind
will tear them all away, and nobody will remember them any more. Then the snow
will sink down and wrap me close. Then the snow will melt again and icy rain
will clothe me, and the bitter wind will rattle my bare twigs up and down.
" `I nod my head
to all who pass, and dreary nights and dreary days go by; but in the happy
house, so warm and bright, the little boy plays all day with books and toys.
His mother and his father cherish him; he nestles on their knees in the red
firelight at night, while they read to him lovely stories, or sing sweet old
songs to him,--the happy little boy! And outside I peep over the snow and see a
stream of ruddy light from a crack in the window- shutter, and I nod out here
alone in the dark, thinking how beautiful it is.
" `And here I wait
patiently. I take the snow and the rain and the cold, and I am not sorry, but
glad; for in my roots I feel warmth and life, and I know that a store of
greenness and beauty is shut up safe in my small brown buds. Day and night go
again and again; little by little the snow melts all away; the ground grows
soft; the sky is blue; the little birds fly over crying, "It is spring! it
is spring!" Ah! then through all my twigs I feel the slow sap stirring.
" `Warmer grow the
sunbeams, and softer the air. The small blades of grass creep thick about my
feet; the sweet rain helps swell my shining buds. More and more I push forth my
leaves, till out I burst in a gay green dress, and nod in joy and pride. The
little boy comes running to look at me, and cries, "Oh, mamma! the little
blackberry-bush is alive and beautiful and green. Oh, come and see!" And I
hear; and I bow my head in the summer wind; and every day they watch me grow
more beautiful, till at last I shake out blossoms, fair and fragrant.
" `A few days
more, and I drop the white petals down among the grass, and, lo! the green tiny
berries! Carefully I hold them up to the sun; carefully I gather the dew in the
summer nights; slowly they ripen; they grow larger and redder and darker, and
at last they are black, shining, delicious. I hold them as high as I can for
the little boy, who comes dancing out. He shouts with joy, and gathers them in
his dear hand; and he runs to share them with his mother, saying, "Here is
what the patient blackberry-bush bore for us: see how nice, mamma!"
" `Ah! then indeed
I am glad, and would say, if I could, "Yes, take them, dear little boy; I
kept them for you, held them long up to sun and rain to make them sweet and
ripe for you;" and I nod and nod in full content, for my work is done.
From the window he watches me and thinks, "There is the little
blackberry-bush that was so kind to me. I see it and I love it. I know it is
safe out there nodding all alone, and next summer it will hold ripe berries up
for me to gather again." ' "
Then the wee boy smiled,
and liked the little story. His mother took him up in her arms, and they went
out to supper and left the blackberry-bush nodding up and down in the wind; and
there it is nodding yet.
Once upon a time, there
was a little brown Field Mouse; and one day he was out in the fields to see
what he could see. He was running along in the grass, poking his nose into
everything and looking with his two eyes all about, when he saw a smooth, shiny
acorn, lying in the grass. It was such a fine shiny little acorn that he
thought he would take it home with him; so he put out his paw to touch it, but
the little acorn rolled away from him. He ran after it, but it kept rolling on,
just ahead of him, till it came to a place where a big oak-tree had its roots
spread all over the ground. Then it rolled under a big round root.
Little Mr. Field Mouse
ran to the root and poked his nose under after the acorn, and there he saw a
small round hole in the ground. He slipped through and saw some stairs going
down into the earth. The acorn was rolling down, with a soft tapping sound,
ahead of him, so down he went too. Down, down, down, rolled the acorn, and
down, down, down, went the Field Mouse, until suddenly he saw a tiny door at
the foot of the stairs.
The shiny acorn rolled
to the door and struck against it with a tap. Quickly the little door opened
and the acorn rolled inside. The Field Mouse hurried as fast as he could down
the last stairs, and pushed through just as the door was closing. It shut
behind him, and he was in a little room. And there, before him, stood a queer
little Red Man! He had a little red cap, and a little red jacket, and odd
little red shoes with points at the toes.
"You are my
prisoner," he said to the Field Mouse.
"What for?"
said the Field Mouse.
"Because you tried
to steal my acorn," said the little Red Man.
"It is my
acorn," said the Field Mouse; "I found it."
"No, it
isn't," said the little Red Man, "I have it; you will never see it
again."
The little Field Mouse
looked all about the room as fast as he could, but he could not see any acorn.
Then he thought he would go back up the tiny stairs to his own home. But the
little door was locked, and the little Red Man had the key. And he said to the
poor mouse, --
"You shall be my
servant; you shall make my bed and sweep my room and cook my broth."
So the little brown
Mouse was the little Red Man's servant, and every day he made the little Red
Man's bed and swept the little Red Man's room and cooked the little Red Man's
broth. And every day the little Red Man went away through the tiny door, and
did not come back till afternoon. But he always locked the door after him, and
carried away the key.
At last, one day he was
in such a hurry that he turned the key before the door was quite latched,
which, of course, didn't lock it at all. He went away without noticing, --he
was in such a hurry.
The little Field Mouse
knew that his chance had come to run away home. But he didn't want to go
without the pretty, shiny acorn. Where it was he didn't know, so he looked
everywhere. He opened every little drawer and looked in, but it wasn't in any
of the drawers; he peeped on every shelf, but it wasn't on a shelf; he hunted
in every closet, but it wasn't in there. Finally, he climbed up on a chair and
opened a wee, wee door in the chimney- piece,--and there it was!
He took it quickly in
his forepaws, and then he took it in his mouth, and then he ran away. He pushed
open the little door; he climbed up, up, up the little stairs; he came out
through the hole under the root; he ran and ran through the fields; and at last
he came to his own house.
When he was in his own
house he set the shiny acorn on the table. I guess he set it down hard, for all
at once, with a little snap, it opened!--exactly like a little box.
And what do you think!
There was a tiny necklace inside! It was a most beautiful tiny necklace, all
made of jewels, and it was just big enough for a lady mouse. So the little
Field Mouse gave the tiny necklace to his little Mouse-sister. She thought it was
perfectly lovely. And when she wasn't wearing it she kept it in the shiny acorn
box.
And the little Red Man
never knew what had become of it, because he didn't know where the little Field
Mouse lived.
Once upon a time there was
a little Red Hen, who lived on a farm all by herself. An old Fox, crafty and
sly, had a den in the rocks, on a hill near her house. Many and many a night
this old Fox used to lie awake and think to himself how good that little Red
Hen would taste if he could once get her in his big kettle and boil her for
dinner. But. he couldn't catch the little Red Hen, because she was too wise for
him. Every time she went out to market she locked the door of the house behind
her, and as soon as she came in again she locked the door behind her and put
the key in her apron pocket, where she kept her scissors and a sugar cooky.
At last the old Fox
thought up a way to catch the little Red Hen. Early in the morning he said to
his old mother, "Have the kettle boiling when I come home to- night, for
I'll be bringing the little Red Hen for supper." Then he took a big bag
and slung it over his shoulder, and walked till he came to the little Red Hen's
house. The little Red Hen was just coming out of her door to pick up a few sticks
for kindling wood. So the old Fox hid behind the wood- pile, and as soon as she
bent down to get a stick, into the house he slipped, and scurried behind the
door.
In a minute the little
Red Hen came quickly in, and shut the door and locked it. "I'm glad I'm
safely in," she said. Just as she said it, she turned round, and there
stood the ugly old Fox, with his big bag over his shoulder. Whiff! how scared
the little Red Hen was! She dropped her apronful of sticks, and flew up to the
big beam across the ceiling. There she perched, and she said to the old Fox,
down below, "You may as well go home, for you can't get me."
"Can't I,
though!" said the Fox. And what do you think he did? He stood on the floor
underneath the little Red Hen and twirled round in a circle after his own tail.
And as he spun, and spun, and spun, faster, and faster, and faster, the poor little
Red Hen got so dizzy watching him that she couldn't hold on to the perch. She
dropped off, and the old Fox picked her up and put her in his bag, slung the
bag over his shoulder, and started for home, where the kettle was boiling.
He had a very long way
to go, up hill, and the little Red Hen was still so dizzy that she didn't know
where she was. But when the dizziness began to go off, she whisked her little
scissors out of her apron pocket, and snip! she cut a little hole in the bag;
then she poked her head out and saw where she was, and as soon as they came to
a good spot she cut the hole bigger and jumped out herself. There was a great
big stone lying there, and the little Red Hen picked it up and put it in the
bag as quick as a wink. Then she ran as fast as she could till she came to her
own little farm- house, and she went in and locked the door with the big key.
The old Fox went on
carrying the stone and never knew the difference. My, but it bumped him well!
He was pretty tired when he got home. But he was so pleased to think of the
supper he was going to have that he did not mind that at all. As soon as his
mother opened the door he said, "Is the kettle boiling?"
"Yes," said
his mother; "have you got the little Red Hen?"
"I have,"
said the old Fox. "When I open the bag you hold the cover off the kettle
and I'll shake the bag so that the Hen will fall in, and then you pop the cover
on, before she can jump out."
"All right,"
said his mean old mother; and she stood close by the boiling kettle, ready to
put the cover on.
The Fox lifted the big,
heavy bag up till it was over the open kettle, and gave it a shake. Splash!
thump! splash! In went the stone and out came the boiling water, all over the
old Fox and the old Fox's mother!
And they were scalded
to death.
But the little Red Hen
lived happily ever after, in her own little farmhouse.
Epaminondas used to go
to see his Auntie 'most every day, and she nearly always gave him something to
take home to his Mammy.
One day she gave him a
big piece of cake; nice, yellow, rich gold-cake.
Epaminondas took it in
his fist and held it all scrunched up tight, like this, and came along home. By
the time he got home there wasn't anything left but a fistful of crumbs. His
Mammy said, --
"What you got
there, Epaminondas?"
"Cake,
Mammy," said Epaminondas.
"Cake!" said
his Mammy. "Epaminondas, you ain't got the sense you was born with! That's
no way to carry cake. The way to carry cake is to wrap it all up nice in some
leaves and put it in your hat, and put your hat on your head, and come along
home. You hear me, Epaminondas?"
"Yes, Mammy,"
said Epaminondas.
Next day Epaminondas
went to see his Auntie, and she gave him a pound of butter for his Mammy; fine,
fresh, sweet butter.
Epaminondas wrapped it
up in leaves and put it in his hat, and put his hat on his head, and came along
home. It was a very hot day. Pretty soon the butter began to melt. It melted,
and melted, and as it melted it ran down Epaminondas' forehead; then it ran
over his face, and in his ears, and down his neck. When he got home, all the
butter Epaminondas had was on him. His Mammy looked at him, and then she said,
--
"Law's sake!
Epaminondas, what you got in your hat?"
"Butter,
Mammy," said Epaminondas; "Auntie gave it to me."
"Butter!"
said his Mammy. "Epaminondas, you ain't got the sense you was born with!
Don't you know that's no way to carry butter? The way to carry butter is to
wrap it up in some leaves and take it down to the brook, and cool it in the
water, and cool it in the water, and cool it in the water, and then take it on
your hands, careful, and bring it along home."
"Yes, Mammy,"
said Epaminondas.
By and by, another day,
Epaminondas went to see his Auntie again, and this time she gave him a little
new puppy-dog to take home.
Epaminondas put it in
some leaves and took it down to the brook; and there he cooled it in the water,
and cooled it in the water, and cooled it in the water; then he took it in his
hands and came along home. When he got home, the puppy-dog was dead. His Mammy
looked at it, and she said, --
"Law's sake!
Epaminondas, what you got there?"
"A puppy-dog,
Mammy," said Epaminondas.
"A
puppy-dog!" said his Mammy. "My gracious sakes alive, Epaminondas,
you ain't got the sense you was born with! That ain't the way to carry a
puppy-dog! The way to carry a puppy-dog is to take a long piece of string and
tie one end of it round the puppy-dog's neck and put the puppy-dog on the
ground, and take hold of the other end of the string and come along home, like
this."
"All right,
Mammy," said Epaminondas.
Next day, Epaminondas
went to see his Auntie again, and when he came to go home she gave him a loaf
of bread to carry to his Mammy; a brown, fresh, crusty loaf of bread.
So Epaminondas tied a
string around the end of the loaf and took hold of the end of the string and
came along home, like this. (Imitate dragging something along the ground.) When
he got home his Mammy looked at the thing on the end of the string, and she
said, --
"My laws a-massy!
Epaminondas, what you got on the end of that string?"
"Bread,
Mammy," said Epaminondas; "Auntie gave it to me."
"Bread!!!"
said his Mammy. "O Epaminondas, Epaminondas, you ain't got the sense you
was born with; you never did have the sense you was born with; you never will
have the sense you was born with! Now I ain't gwine tell you any more ways to
bring truck home. And don't you go see your Auntie, neither. I'll go see her my
own self. But I'll just tell you one thing, Epaminondas! You see these here six
mince pies I done make? You see how I done set 'em on the doorstep to cool?
Well, now, you hear me, Epaminondas, you be careful how you step on those
pies!"
"Yes, Mammy,"
said Epaminondas.
Then Epaminondas' Mammy
put on her bonnet and her shawl and took a basket in her hand and went away to
see Auntie. The six mince pies sat cooling in a row on the doorstep.
And then,--and
then,--Epaminondas was careful how he stepped on those pies!
He stepped
(imitate)--right--in -- the--middle--of--every--one. . . . . . . . . And, do
you know, children, nobody knows what happened next! The person who told me the
story didn't know; nobody knows. But you can guess.
There was once a
shepherd-boy who kept his flock at a little distance from the village. Once he
thought he would play a trick on the villagers and have some fun at their
expense. So he ran toward the village crying out, with all his might, --
"Wolf! Wolf! Come
and help! The wolves are at my lambs!"
The kind villagers left
their work and ran to the field to help him. But when they got there the boy
laughed at them for their pains; there was no wolf there.
Still another day the
boy tried the same trick, and the villagers came running to help and got
laughed at again. Then one day a wolf did break into the fold and began killing
the lambs. In great fright, the boy ran for help. "Wolf! Wolf!" he
screamed. "There is a wolf in the flock! Help!"
The villagers heard
him, but they thought it was another mean trick; no one paid the least
attention, or went near him. And the shepherd-boy lost all his sheep.
That is the kind of
thing that happens to people who lie: even when they tell the truth no one
believes them.
Did you ever hear the
old story about the foolish Frogs? The Frogs in a certain swamp decided that
they needed a king; they had always got along perfectly well without one, but
they suddenly made up their minds that a king they must have. They sent a
messenger to Jove and begged him to send a king to rule over them.
Jove saw how stupid
they were, and sent a king who could not harm them: he tossed a big log into
the middle of the pond.
At the splash the Frogs
were terribly frightened, and dove into their holes to hide from King Log. But
after a while, when they saw that the king never moved, they got over their
fright and went and sat on him. And as soon as they found he really could not
hurt them they began to despise him; and finally they sent another messenger to
Jove to ask for a new king.
Jove sent an eel.
The Frogs were much
pleased and a good deal frightened when King Eel came wriggling and swimming
among them. But as the days went on, and the eel was perfectly harmless, they
stopped being afraid; and as soon as they stopped fearing King Eel they stopped
respecting him.
Soon they sent a third
messenger to Jove, and begged that they might have a better king,--a king who
was worth while.
It was too much; Jove
was angry at their stupidity at last. "I will give you a king such as you
deserve!" he said; and he sent them a Stork.
As soon as the Frogs
came to the surface to greet the new king, King Stork caught them in his long
bill and gobbled them up. One after another they came bobbing up, and one after
another the stork ate them. He was indeed a king worthy of them!
The Sun and the Wind
once had a quarrel as to which was the stronger. Each believed himself to be
the more powerful. While they were arguing they saw a traveler walking along
the country highway, wearing a great cloak.
"Here is a chance
to test our strength," said the Wind; "let us see which of us is
strong enough to make that traveler take off his cloak; the one who can do that
shall be acknowledged the more powerful."
"Agreed,"
said the Sun.
Instantly the Wind
began to blow; he puffed and tugged at the man's cloak, and raised a storm of
hail and rain, to beat at it. But the colder it grew and the more it stormed,
the tighter the traveler held his cloak around him. The Wind could not get it
off.
Now it was the Sun's
turn. He shone with all his beams on the man's shoulders. As it grew hotter and
hotter, the man unfastened his cloak; then he threw it back; at last he took it
off! The Sun had won.
The little Jackal was
very fond of shell- fish. He used to go down by the river and hunt along the
edges for crabs and such things. And once, when he was hunting for crabs, he
was so hungry that he put his paw into the water after a crab without looking
first,--which you never should do! The minute he put in his paw, snap! --the
big Alligator who lives in the mud down there had it in his jaws.
"Oh, dear!"
thought the little Jackal; "the big Alligator has my paw in his mouth! In
another minute he will pull me down and gobble me up! What shall I do? what
shall I do?" Then he thought, suddenly, "I'll deceive him!"
So he put on a very
cheerful voice, as if nothing at all were the matter, and he said, --
"Ho! ho! Clever
Mr. Alligator! Smart Mr. Alligator, to take that old bulrush root for my paw!
I'll hope you'll find it very tender!"
The old Alligator was
hidden away beneath the mud and bulrush leaves, and he couldn't see anything.
He thought, "Pshaw! I've made a mistake." So he opened his mouth and
let the little Jackal go.
The little Jackal ran
away as fast as he could, and as he ran he called out, --
"Thank you, Mr.
Alligator! Kind Mr. Alligator! So kind of you to let me go!"
The old Alligator
lashed with his tail and snapped with his jaws, but it was too late; the little
Jackal was out of reach.
After this the little
Jackal kept away from the river, out of danger. But after about a week he got
such an appetite for crabs that nothing else would do at all; he felt that he
must have a crab. So he went down by the river and looked all around, very
carefully. He didn't see the old Alligator, but he thought to himself, "I
think I'll not take any chances." So he stood still and began to talk out
loud to himself. He said, --
"When I don't see
any little crabs on the land I most generally see them sticking out of the
water, and then I put my paw in and catch them. I wonder if there are any fat
little crabs in the water today?"
The old Alligator was
hidden down in the mud at the bottom of the river, and when he heard what the
little Jackal said, he thought, "Aha! I'll pretend to be a little crab,
and when he puts his paw in, I'll make my dinner of him." So he stuck the
black end of his snout above the water and waited.
The little Jackal took
one look, and then he said, --
"Thank you, Mr.
Alligator! Kind Mr. Alligator! You are exceedingly kind to show me where you
are! I will have dinner elsewhere." And he ran away like the wind.
The old Alligator
foamed at the mouth, he was so angry, but the little Jackal was gone.
For two whole weeks the
little Jackal kept away from the river. Then, one day he got a feeling inside
him that nothing but crabs could satisfy; he felt that he must have at least
one crab. Very cautiously, he went down to the river and looked all around. He
saw no sign of the old Alligator. Still, he did not mean to take any chances.
So he stood quite still and began to talk to himself,--it was a little way he
had. He said, --
"When I don't see
any little crabs on the shore, or sticking up out of the water, I usually see
them blowing bubbles from under the water; the little bubbles go puff, puff,
puff, and then they go pop, pop, pop, and they show me where the little juicy
crabs are, so I can put my paw in and catch them. I wonder if I shall see any
little bubbles to-day?"
The old Alligator,
lying low in the mud and weeds, heard this, and he thought, "Pooh! That's
easy enough; I'll just blow some little crab-bubbles, and then he will put his
paw in where I can get it."
So he blew, and he
blew, a mighty blast, and the bubbles rose in a perfect whirlpool, fizzing and
swirling.
The little Jackal
didn't have to be told who was underneath those bubbles: he took one quick
look, and off he ran. But as he went, he sang, --
"Thank you, Mr.
Alligator! Kind Mr. Alligator! You are the kindest Alligator in the world, to
show me where you are, so nicely! I'll breakfast at another part of the
river."
The old Alligator was
so furious that he crawled up on the bank and went after the little Jackal;
but, dear, dear, he couldn't catch the little Jackal; he ran far too fast.
After this, the little
Jackal did not like to risk going near the water, so he ate no more crabs. But
he found a garden of wild figs, which were so good that he went there every
day, and ate them instead of shell-fish.
Now the old Alligator
found this out, and he made up his mind to have the little Jackal for supper,
or to die trying. So he crept, and crawled, and dragged himself over the ground
to the garden of wild figs. There he made a huge pile of figs under the biggest
of the wild fig trees, and hid himself in the pile.
After a while the
little Jackal came dancing into the garden, very happy and care-free,--but
looking all around. He saw the huge pile of figs under the big fig tree.
"H-m," he
thought, "that looks singularly like my friend, the Alligator. I'll
investigate a bit."
He stood quite still
and began to talk to himself,--it was a little way he had. He said, --
"The little figs I
like best are the fat, ripe, juicy ones that drop off when the breeze blows;
and then the wind blows them about on the ground, this way and that; the great
heap of figs over there is so still that I think they must be all bad
figs."
The old Alligator,
underneath his fig pile, thought, --
"Bother the
suspicious little Jackal, I shall have to make these figs roll about, so that
he will think the wind moves them." And straightway he humped himself up
and moved, and sent the little figs flying,--and his back showed through.
The little Jackal did
not wait for a second look. He ran out of the garden like the wind. But as he
ran he called back, --
"Thank you, again,
Mr. Alligator; very sweet of you to show me where you are; I can't stay to
thank you as I should like: good-by!"
At this the old
Alligator was beside himself with rage. He vowed that he would have the little
Jackal for supper this time, come what might. So he crept and crawled over the
ground till he came to the little Jackal's house. Then he crept and crawled
inside, and hid himself there in the house, to wait till the little Jackal
should come home.
By and by the little
Jackal came dancing home, happy and care-free,--but looking all around.
Presently, as he came along, he saw that the ground was all scratched up as if
something very heavy had been dragged over it. The little Jackal stopped and
looked.
"What's this?
what's this?" he said.
Then he saw that the
door of his house was crushed at the sides and broken, as if something very big
had gone through it.
"What's this?
What's this?" the little Jackal said. "I think I'll investigate a
little!"
So he stood quite still
and began to talk to himself (you remember, it was a little way he had), but
loudly. He said, --
"How strange that
my little House doesn't speak to me! Why don't you speak to me, little House?
You always speak to me, if everything is all right, when I come home. I wonder
if anything is wrong with my little House?"
The old Alligator
thought to himself that he must certainly pretend to be the little House, or
the little Jackal would never come in. So he put on as pleasant a voice as he
could (which is not saying much) and said, --
"Hullo, little
Jackal!"
Oh! when the little
Jackal heard that, he was frightened enough, for once.
"It's the old
Alligator," he said, "and if I don't make an end of him this time he
will certainly make an end of me. What shall I do?"
He thought very fast.
Then he spoke out pleasantly.
"Thank you, little
House," he said, "it's good to hear your pretty voice, dear little
House, and I will be in with you in a minute; only first I must gather some
firewood for dinner."
Then he went and
gathered firewood, and more firewood, and more firewood; and he piled it all up
solid against the door and round the house; and then he set fire to it!
And it smoked and
burned till it smoked that old Alligator to smoked herring!
There was once a family
of little Larks who lived with their mother in a nest in a cornfield. When the
corn was ripe the mother Lark watched very carefully to see if there were any
sign of the reapers' coming, for she knew that when they came their sharp
knives would cut down the nest and hurt the baby Larks. So every day, when she
went out for food, she told the little Larks to look and listen very closely to
everything that went on, and to tell her all they saw and heard when she came
home.
One day when she came
home the little Larks were much frightened.
"Oh, Mother, dear
Mother," they said, "you must move us away to-night! The farmer was
in the field to-day, and he said, `The corn is ready to cut; we must call in
the neighbors to help.' And then he told his son to go out to-night and ask all
the neighbors to come and reap the corn to-morrow."
The mother Lark
laughed. "Don't be frightened," she said; "if he waits for his
neighbors to reap the corn we shall have plenty of time to move; tell me what
he says to-morrow."
The next night the
little Larks were quite trembling with fear; the moment their mother got home
they cried out, "Mother, you must surely move us to-night! The farmer came
to-day and said, `The corn is getting too ripe; we cannot wait for our
neighbors; we must ask our relatives to help us.' And then he called his son
and told him to ask all the uncles and cousins to come to-morrow and cut the
corn. Shall we not move to-night?"
"Don't
worry," said the mother Lark; "the uncles and cousins have plenty of
reaping to do for themselves; we'll not move yet."
The third night, when
the mother Lark came home, the baby Larks said, "Mother, dear, the farmer
came to the field to-day, and when he looked at the corn he was quite angry; he
said, `This will never do! The corn is getting too ripe; it's no use to wait
for our relatives, we shall have to cut this corn ourselves.' And then he called
his son and said, `Go out to-night and hire reapers, and to-morrow we will
begin to cut.' "
"Well," said
the mother, "that is another story; when a man begins to do his own
business, instead of asking somebody else to do it, things get done. I will
move you out to-night."
Once there were four
little girls who lived in a big, bare house, in the country. They were very
poor, but they had the hap- piest times you ever heard of, because they were
very rich in everything except just money. They had a wonderful, wise father,
who knew stories to tell, and who taught them their lessons in such a beautiful
way that it was better than play; they had a lovely, merry, kind mother, who
was never too tired to help them work or watch them play; and they had all the
great green country to play in. There were dark, shadowy woods, and fields of
flowers, and a river. And there was a big barn.
One of the little girls
was named Louisa. She was very pretty, and ever so strong; she could run for
miles through the woods and not get tired. And she had a splendid brain in her
little head; it liked study, and it thought interesting thoughts all day long.
Louisa liked to sit in
a corner by herself, sometimes, and write thoughts in her diary; all the little
girls kept diaries. She liked to make up stories out of her own head, and
sometimes she made verses.
When the four little
sisters had finished their lessons, and had helped their mother sew and clean,
they used to go to the big barn to play; and the best play of all was
theatricals. Louisa liked theatricals better than anything.
They made the barn into
a theatre, and the grown people came to see the plays they acted. They used to
climb up on the hay- mow for a stage, and the grown people sat in chairs on the
floor. It was great fun. One of the plays they acted was Jack and the
Bean-Stalk. They had a ladder from the floor to the loft, and on the ladder
they tied a squash vine all the way up to the loft, to look like the wonderful
bean-stalk. One of the little girls was dressed up to look like Jack, and she
acted that part. When it came to the place in the story where the giant tried
to follow Jack, the little girl cut down the bean-stalk, and down came the
giant tumbling from the loft. The giant was made out of pillows, with a great,
fierce head of paper, and funny clothes.
Another story that they
acted was Cinderella. They made a wonderful big pumpkin out of the wheelbarrow,
trimmed with yellow paper, and Cinderella rolled away in it, when the fairy godmother
waved her wand.
One other beautiful
story they used to play. It was the story of Pilgrim's Progress; if you have
never heard it, you must be sure to read it as soon as you can read well enough
to understand the old-fashioned words. The little girls used to put shells in
their hats for a sign they were on a pilgrimage, as the old pilgrims used to
do; then they made journeys over the hill behind the house, and through the
woods, and down the lanes; and when the pilgrimage was over they had apples and
nuts to eat, in the happy land of home.
Louisa loved all these
plays, and she made some of her own and wrote them down so that the children
could act them.
But better than fun or
writing Louisa loved her mother, and by and by, as the little girl began to
grow into a big girl, she felt very sad to see her dear mother work so hard.
She helped all she could with the housework, but nothing could really help the
tired mother except money; she needed money for food and clothes, and some one
grown up, to help in the house. But there never was enough money for these
things, and Louisa's mother grew more and more weary, and sometimes ill. I
cannot tell you how much Louisa suffered over this.
At last, as Louisa
thought about it, she came to care more about helping her mother and her father
and her sisters than about anything else in all the world. And she began to
work very hard to earn money. She sewed for people, and when she was a little
older she taught some little girls their lessons, and then she wrote stories
for the papers. Every bit of money she earned, except what she had to use, she
gave to her dear family. It helped very much, but it was so little that Louisa
never felt as if she were doing anything.
Every year she grew
more unselfish, and every year she worked harder. She liked writing stories
best of all her work, but she did not get much money for them, and some people
told her she was wasting her time.
At last, one day, a
publisher asked Louisa, who was now a woman, to write a book for girls. Louisa
was not very well, and she was very tired, but she always said, "I'll
try," when she had a chance to work; so she said, "I'll try," to
the pub- lisher. When she thought about the book she remembered the good times
she used to have with her sisters in the big, bare house in the country. And so
she wrote a story and put all that in it; she put her dear mother and her wise
father in it, and all the little sisters, and besides the jolly times and the
plays, she put the sad, hard times in,--the work and worry and going without
things.
When the book was
written, she called it "Little Women," and sent it to the publisher.
And, children, the
little book made Louisa famous. It was so sweet and funny and sad and
real,--like our own lives,--that everybody wanted to read it. Everybody bought
it, and much money came from it. After so many years, little Louisa's wish came
true: she bought a nice house for her family; she sent one of her sisters to
Europe, to study; she gave her father books; but best of all, she was able to
see to it that the beloved mother, so tired and so ill, could have rest and
happiness. Never again did the dear mother have to do any hard work, and she
had pretty things about her all the rest of her life.
Louisa Alcott, for that
was Louisa's name, wrote many beautiful books after this, and she became one of
the most famous women of America. But I think the most beautiful thing about
her is what I have been telling you: that she loved her mother so well that she
gave her whole life to make her happy.
The little Louisa I
told you about, who wrote verses and stories in her diary, used to like to play
that she was a princess, and that her kingdom was her own mind. When she had
unkind or dissatisfied thoughts, she tried to get rid of them by playing they were
enemies of the kingdom; and she drove them out with soldiers; the soldiers were
patience, duty, and love. It used to help Louisa to be good to play this, and I
think it may have helped make her the splendid woman she was afterward. Maybe
you would like to hear a poem she wrote about it, when she was only fourteen
years old.[1] It will help you, too, to think the same thoughts.
[When I was a very
little girl some one, probably my mother, read to me Hans Christian Andersen's
story of the Little Fir Tree. It happened that I did not read it for myself or
hear it again during my childhood. One Christmas day, when I was grown up, I
found myself at a loss for the "one more" story called for by some
little children with whom I was spending the holiday. In the mental search for
buried treasure which ensued, I came upon one or two word-impressions of the
experiences of the Little Fir Tree, and forthwith wove them into what I
supposed to be something of a reproduction of the original. The latter part of
the story had wholly faded from my memory, so that I "made up" to
suit the tastes of my audience. Afterward I told the story to a good many
children, at one time or another, and it gradually took the shape it has here.
It was not until several years later that, in re-reading Andersen for other
purposes, I came upon the real story of the Little Fir Tree, and read it for
myself. Then indeed I was amused, and somewhat distressed, to find how far I
had wandered from the text.
I give this explanation
that the reader may know I do not presume to offer the little tale which
follows as an "adaptation" of Andersen's famous story. I offer it
plainly as a story which children have liked, and which grew out of my early
memories of Andersen's "The Little Fir Tree"].
Once there was a Little
Fir Tree, slim and pointed, and shiny, which stood in the great forest in the
midst of some big fir trees, broad, and tall, and shadowy green. The Little Fir
Tree was very unhappy be- cause he was not big like the others. When the birds
came flying into the woods and lit on the branches of the big trees and built
their nests there, he used to call up to them, --
"Come down, come
down, rest in my branches!" But they always said, -- "Oh, no, no; you
are too little!"
And when the splendid
wind came blowing and singing through the forest, it bent and rocked and swung
the tops of the big trees, and murmured to them. Then the Little Fir Tree
looked up, and called, --
"Oh, please, dear
wind, come down and play with me!" But he always said, --
"Oh, no; you are
too little, you are too little!"
And in the winter the
white snow fell softly, softly, and covered the great trees all over with
wonderful caps and coats of white. The Little Fir Tree, close down in the cover
of the others, would call up, --
"Oh, please, dear
snow, give me a cap, too! I want to play, too!" But the snow always said,
--
"Oh no, no, no;
you are too little, you are too little!"
The worst of all was
when men came into the wood, with sledges and teams of horses. They came to cut
the big trees down and carry them away. And when one had been cut down and
carried away the others talked about it, and nodded their heads. And the Little
Fir Tree listened, and heard them say that when you were carried away so, you
might become the mast of a mighty ship, and go far away over the ocean, and see
many wonderful things; or you might be part of a fine house in a great city,
and see much of life. The Little Fir Tree wanted greatly to see life, but he was
always too little; the men passed him by.
But by and by, one cold
winter's morning, men came with a sledge and horses, and after they had cut
here and there they came to the circle of trees round the Little Fir Tree, and
looked all about.
"There are none
little enough," they said.
Oh! how the Little Fir
Tree pricked up his needles!
"Here is
one," said one of the men, "it is just little enough." And he
touched the Little Fir Tree.
The Little Fir Tree was
happy as a bird, because he knew they were about to cut him down. And when he
was being carried away on the sledge he lay wondering, so contentedly, whether
he should be the mast of a ship or part of a fine city house. But when they
came to the town he was taken out and set upright in a tub and placed on the
edge of a sidewalk in a row of other fir trees, all small, but none so little
as he. And then the Little Fir Tree began to see life.
People kept coming to
look at the trees and to take them away. But always when they saw the Little
Fir Tree they shook their heads and said, --
"It is too little,
too little."
Until, finally, two
children came along, hand in hand, looking carefully at all the small trees.
When they saw the Little Fir Tree they cried out, --
"We'll take this
one; it is just little enough!"
They took him out of
his tub and carried him away, between them. And the happy Little Fir Tree spent
all his time wondering what it could be that he was just little enough for; he
knew it could hardly be a mast or a house, since he was going away with
children.
He kept wondering,
while they took him in through some big doors, and set him up in another tub,
on the table, in a bare little room. Pretty soon they went away, and came back
again with a big basket, carried between them. Then some pretty ladies, with white
caps on their heads and white aprons over their blue dresses, came bringing
little parcels. The children took things out of the basket and began to play
with the Little Fir Tree, just as he had often begged the wind and the snow and
the birds to do. He felt their soft little touches on his head and his twigs
and his branches. And when he looked down at himself, as far as he could look,
he saw that he was all hung with gold and silver chains! There were strings of
white fluffy stuff drooping around him; his twigs held little gold nuts and
pink, rosy balls and silver stars; he had pretty little pink and white candles
in his arms; but last, and most wonderful of all, the children hung a beautiful
white, floating doll-angel over his head! The Little Fir Tree could not
breathe, for joy and wonder. What was it that he was, now? Why was this glory
for him?
After a time every one
went away and left him. It grew dusk, and the Little Fir Tree began to hear
strange sounds through the closed doors. Sometimes he heard a child crying. He
was beginning to be lonely. It grew more and more shadowy.
All at once, the doors
opened and the two children came in. Two of the pretty ladies were with them.
They came up to the Little Fir Tree and quickly lighted all the little pink and
white candles. Then the two pretty ladies took hold of the table with the
Little Fir Tree on it and pushed it, very smoothly and quickly, out of the
doors, across a hall, and in at another door.
The Little Fir Tree had
a sudden sight of a long room with many little white beds in it, of children
propped up on pillows in the beds, and of other children in great wheeled
chairs, and others hobbling about or sitting in little chairs. He wondered why
all the little children looked so white and tired; he did not know that he was
in a hospital. But before he could wonder any more his breath was quite taken
away by the shout those little white children gave.
"Oh! oh! m-m!
m-m!" they cried.
"How pretty! How
beautiful! Oh, isn't it lovely!"
He knew they must mean
him, for all their shining eyes were looking straight at him. He stood as
straight as a mast, and quivered in every needle, for joy. Presently one little
weak child-voice called out, --
"It's the nicest
Christmas tree I ever saw!"
And then, at last, the
Little Fir Tree knew what he was; he was a Christmas tree! And from his shiny
head to his feet he was glad, through and through, because he was just little
enough to be the nicest kind of tree in the world!
Thousands of years ago,
many years before David lived, there was a very wise and good man of his people
who was a friend and adviser of the king of Egypt. And for love of this friend,
the king of Egypt had let numbers of the Israelites settle in his land. But
after the king and his Israelitish friend were dead, there was a new king, who
hated the Israelites. When he saw how strong they were, and how many there were
of them, he began to be afraid that some day they might number more than the
Egyptians, and might take his land from him.
Then he and his rulers
did a wicked thing. They made the Israelites slaves. And they gave them
terrible tasks to do, without proper rest, or food, or clothes. For they hoped
that the hardship would kill off the Israelites. They thought the old men would
die and the young men be so ill and weary that they could not bring up
families, and so the race would vanish away.
But in spite of the
work and suffering, the Israelites remained strong, and more and more boys grew
up, to make the king afraid.
Then he did the
wickedest thing of all. He ordered his soldiers to kill every boy baby that
should be born in an Israelitish family; he did not care about the girls,
because they could not grow up to fight.
Very soon after this
evil order, a boy baby was born in a certain Israelitish family. When his
mother first looked at him her heart was nearly broken, for he was even more
beautiful than most babies are,--so strong and fair and sweet. But he was a
boy! How could she save him from death?
Somehow, she contrived
to keep him hidden for three whole months. But at the end of that time, she saw
that it was not going to be possible to keep him safe any longer. She had been
thinking all this time about what she should do, and now she carried out her plan.
First, she took a
basket made of bulrushes and daubed it all over with pitch so that it was
water-tight, and then she laid the baby in it; then she carried it to the edge
of the river and laid it in the flags by the river's brink. It did not show at
all, unless one were quite near it. Then she kissed her little son and left him
there. But his sister stood far off, not seeming to watch, but really watching
carefully to see what would happen to the baby.
Soon there was the
sound of talk and laughter, and a train of beautiful women came down to the
water's edge. It was the king's daughter, come down to bathe in the river, with
her maidens. The maidens walked along by the river's side.
As the king's daughter
came near to the water, she saw the strange little basket lying in the flags,
and she sent her maid to bring it to her. And when she had opened it, she saw
the child; the poor baby was crying. When she saw him, so helpless and so
beautiful, crying for his mother, the king's daughter pitied him and loved him.
She knew the cruel order of her father, and she said at once, "This is one
of the Hebrews' children."
At that moment the
baby's sister came to the princess and said, "Shall I go and find thee a
nurse from the Hebrew women, so that she may nurse the child for thee?"
Not a word did she say about whose child it was, but perhaps the princess
guessed; I don't know. At all events, she told the little girl to go.
So the maiden went, and
brought her mother!
Then the king's
daughter said to the baby's mother, "Take this child away and nurse it for
me, and I will give thee wages."
Was not that a strange
thing? And can you think how happy the baby's mother was? For now the baby
would be known only as the princess's adopted child, and would be safe.
And it was so. The
mother kept him until he was old enough to be taken to the princess's palace.
Then he was brought and given to the king's daughter, and he became her son.
And she named him Moses.
But the strangest part
of the whole story is, that when Moses grew to be a man he became so strong and
wise that it was he who at last saved his people from the king and conquered
the Egyptians. The one child saved by the king's own daughter was the very one
the king would most have wanted to kill, if he had known.
Once upon a time there
was a dear little girl, whose name was Elsa. Elsa's father and mother worked
very hard and became rich. But they loved Elsa so much that they did not like
to have her do any work; very foolishly, they let her play all the time. So when
Elsa grew up, she did not know how to do anything; she could not make bread,
she could not sweep a room, she could not sew a seam; she could only laugh and
sing. But she was so sweet and merry that everybody loved her. And by and by,
she married one of the people who loved her, and had a house of her own to take
care of.
Then, then, my dears,
came hard times for Elsa! There were so many things to be done in the house,
and she did not know how to do any of them! And because she had never worked at
all it made her very tired even to try; she was tired before the morning was
over, every day. The maid would come and say, "How shall I do this?"
or "How shall I do that?" And Elsa would have to say, "I don't
know." Then the maid would pretend that she did not know, either; and when
she saw her mistress sitting about doing nothing, she, too, sat about, idle.
Elsa's husband had a
hard time of it; he did not have good things to eat, and they were not ready at
the right time, and the house looked all in a clutter. It made him sad, and
that made Elsa sad, for she wanted to do everything just right.
At last, one day,
Elsa's husband went away quite cross; he said to her, as he went out the door,
"It is no wonder that the house looks so, when you sit all day with your
hands in your lap!"
Little Elsa cried
bitterly when he was gone, for she did not want to make her husband unhappy and
cross, and she wanted the house to look nice. "Oh, dear," she sobbed,
"I wish I could do things right! I wish I could work! I wish--I wish I had
ten good fairies to work for me! Then I could keep the house!"
As she said the words,
a great gray man stood before her; he was wrapped in a strange gray cloak that
covered him from head to foot; and he smiled at Elsa. "What is the matter,
dear?" he said. "Why do you cry?"
"Oh, I am crying
because I do not know how to keep the house," said Elsa. "I cannot
make bread, I cannot sweep, I cannot sew a seam; when I was a little girl I
never learned to work, and now I cannot do anything right. I wish I had ten
good fairies to help me!"
"You shall have
them, dear," said the gray man, and he shook his strange gray cloak. Pouf!
Out hopped ten tiny fairies, no bigger than that!
"These shall be
your servants, Elsa," said the gray man; "they are faithful and
clever, and they will do everything you want them to, just right. But the
neighbors might stare and ask questions if they saw these little chaps running
about your house, so I will hide them away for you. Give me your little useless
hands."
Wondering, Elsa
stretched out her pretty, little, white hands.
"Now stretch out
your little useless fingers, dear!"
Elsa stretched out her
pretty pink fingers.
The gray man touched
each one of the ten little fingers, and as he touched them he said their names:
"Little Thumb; Fore- finger; Thimble-finger; Ring-finger; Lit- tle Finger;
Little Thumb; Forefinger; Thimble-finger; Ring-finger; Little Finger!" And
as he named the fingers, one after another, the tiny fairies bowed their tiny
heads; there was a fairy for every name.
"Hop! hide
yourselves away!" said the gray man.
Hop, hop! The fairies
sprang to Elsa's knee, then to the palms of her hands, and then-whisk! they
were all hidden away in her little pink fingers, a fairy in every finger! And
the gray man was gone.
Elsa sat and looked
with wonder at her little white hands and the ten useless fingers. But suddenly
the little fingers began to stir. The tiny fairies who were hidden away there
weren't used to staying still, and they were getting restless. They stirred so
that Elsa jumped up and ran to the cooking table, and took hold of the bread
board. No sooner had she touched the bread board than the little fairies began
to work: they measured the flour, mixed the bread, kneaded the loaves, and set
them to rise, quicker than you could wink; and when the bread was done, it was
the nicest you could wish. Then the little fairy-fingers seized the broom, and
in a twinkling they were making the house clean. And so it went, all day. Elsa
flew about from one thing to another, and the ten fairies did it all, just
right.
When the maid saw her
mistress working, she began to work, too; and when she saw how beautifully
everything was done, she was ashamed to do anything badly herself. In a little
while the housework was going smoothly, and Elsa could laugh and sing again.
There was no more
crossness in that house. Elsa's husband grew so proud of her that he went about
saying to everybody, "My grandmother was a fine housekeeper, and my mother
was a fine housekeeper, but neither of them could hold a candle to my wife. She
has only one maid, but, to see the work done, you would think she had as many
servants as she has fingers on her hands!"
When Elsa heard that,
she used to laugh, but she never, never told.
Once upon a time there
was an honest shoemaker, who was very poor. He worked as hard as he could, and
still he could not earn enough to keep himself and his wife. At last there came
a day when he had nothing left but one piece of leather, big enough to make one
pair of shoes. He cut out the shoes, ready to stitch, and left them on the
bench; then he said his prayers and went to bed, trusting that he could finish
the shoes on the next day and sell them.
Bright and early the
next morning, he rose and went to his work-bench. There lay a pair of shoes,
beautifully made, and the leather was gone! There was no sign of any one's
having been there. The shoemaker and his wife did not know what to make of it.
But the first customer who came was so pleased with the beautiful shoes that he
bought them, and paid so much that the shoemaker was able to buy leather enough
for two pairs.
Happily, he cut them
out, and then, as it was late, he left the pieces on the bench, ready to sew in
the morning. But when morning came, two pairs of shoes lay on the bench, most
beautifully made, and no sign of any one who had been there. The shoemaker and
his wife were quite at a loss.
That day a customer
came and bought both pairs, and paid so much for them that the shoemaker bought
leather for four pairs, with the money.
Once more he cut out
the shoes and left them on the bench. And in the morning all four pairs were
made.
It went on like this
until the shoemaker and his wife were prosperous people. But they could not be
satisfied to have so much done for them and not know to whom they should be
grateful. So one night, after the shoemaker had left the pieces of leather on
the bench, he and his wife hid themselves behind a curtain, and left a light in
the room.
Just as the clock
struck twelve the door opened softly, and two tiny elves came dancing into the
room, hopped on to the bench, and began to put the pieces to- gether. They were
quite naked, but they had wee little scissors and hammers and thread. Tap! tap!
went the little hammers; stitch, stitch, went the thread, and the little elves
were hard at work. No one ever worked so fast as they. In almost no time all
the shoes were stitched and finished. Then the tiny elves took hold of each
other's hands and danced round the shoes on the bench, till the shoemaker and
his wife had hard work not to laugh aloud. But as the clock struck two, the
little creatures whisked away out of the window, and left the room all as it
was before.
The shoemaker and his
wife looked at each other, and said, "How can we thank the little elves
who have made us happy and prosperous?"
"I should like to
make them some pretty clothes," said the wife, "they are quite
naked."
"I will make the
shoes if you will make the coats," said her husband.
That very day they set
about it. The wife cut out two tiny, tiny coats of green, two weeny, weeny
waistcoats of yellow, two little pairs of trousers, of white, two bits of caps,
bright red (for every one knows the elves love bright colors), and her husband
made two little pairs of shoes with long, pointed toes. They made the wee
clothes as dainty as could be, with nice little stitches and pretty buttons;
and by Christmas time, they were finished.
On Christmas eve, the
shoemaker cleaned his bench, and on it, instead of leather, he laid the two
sets of gay little fairy- clothes. Then he and his wife hid away as before, to
watch.
Promptly at midnight,
the little naked elves came in. They hopped upon the bench; but when they saw
the little clothes there, they laughed and danced for joy. Each one caught up
his little coat and things and began to put them on. Then they looked at each
other and made all kinds of funny motions in their delight. At last they began
to dance, and when the clock struck two, they danced quite away, out of the
window.
They never came back
any more, but from that day they gave the shoemaker and his wife good luck, so
that they never needed any more help.
Once the Otter came to
the Mouse-deer and said, "Friend Mouse-deer, will you please take care of
my babies while I go to the river, to catch fish?"
"Certainly,"
said the Mouse-deer, "go along."
But when the Otter came
back from the river, with a string of fish, he found his babies crushed flat.
"What does this
mean, Friend Mouse- deer?" he said. "Who killed my children while you
were taking care of them?"
"I am very
sorry," said the Mouse-deer, "but you know I am Chief Dancer of the
War-dance, and the Woodpecker came and sounded the war-gong, so I danced. I
forgot your children, and trod on them."
"I shall go to
King Solomon," said the Otter, "and you shall be punished."
Soon the Mouse-deer was
called before King Solomon.
"Did you kill the
Otter's babies?" said the king.
"Yes, your
Majesty," said the Mouse- deer, "but I did not mean to."
"How did it
happen?" said the king.
"Your Majesty
knows," said the Mouse- deer, "that I am Chief Dancer of the
War-dance. The Woodpecker came and sounded the war-gong, and I had to dance;
and as I danced I trod on the Otter's children."
"Send for the
Woodpecker," said King Solomon. And when the Woodpecker came, he said to
him, "Was it you who sounded the war-gong?"
"Yes, your
Majesty," said the Woodpecker, "but I had to."
"Why?" said
the king.
"Your Majesty
knows," said the Woodpecker, "that I am Chief Beater of the War-gong,
and I sounded the gong because I saw the Great Lizard wearing his sword."
"Send for the
Great Lizard," said King Solomon. When the Great Lizard came, he asked
him, "Was it you who were wearing your sword?"
"Yes, your
Majesty," said the Great Lizard; "but I had to."
"Why?" said
the king.
"Your Majesty
knows," said the Great Lizard, "that I am Chief Protector of the
Sword. I wore my sword because the Tortoise came wearing his coat of
mail."
So the Tortoise was
sent for.
"Why did you wear
your coat of mail?" said the king.
"I put it on, your
Majesty," said the Tortoise, "because I saw the King-crab trailing
his three-edged pike."
Then the King-crab was
sent for.
"Why were you
trailing your three- edged pike?" said King Solomon.
"Because, your
Majesty," said the Kingerab, "I saw that the Crayfish had shouldered
his lance."
Immediately the
Crayfish was sent for.
"Why did you
shoulder your lance?" said the king.
"Because, your
Majesty," said the Crayfish, "I saw the Otter coming down to the
river to kill my children."
"Oh," said
King Solomon, "if that is the case, the Otter killed the Otter's children.
And the Mouse-deer cannot be held, by the law of the land!"
Do you know what a
Brahmin is? A Brahmin is a very good and gentle kind of man who lives in India,
and who treats all the beasts as if they were his brothers. There is a great
deal more to know about Brahmins, but that is enough for the story.
One day a Brahmin was
walking along a country road when he came upon a Tiger, shut up in a strong
iron cage. The villagers had caught him and shut him up there for his
wickedness.
"Oh, Brother
Brahmin, Brother Brahmin," said the Tiger, "please let me out, to get
a little drink! I am so thirsty, and there is no water here."
"But Brother Tiger,"
said the Brahmin, "you know if I should let you out, you would spring on
me and eat me up."
"Never, Brother
Brahmin!" said the Tiger. "Never in the world would I do such an
ungrateful thing! Just let me out a little minute, to get a little, little drink
of water, Brother Brahmin!"
So the Brahmin unlocked
the door and let the Tiger out. The moment he was out he sprang on the Brahmin,
and was about to eat him up.
"But, Brother
Tiger," said the Brahmin, "you promised you would not. It is not fair
or just that you should eat me, when I set you free."
"It is perfectly
right and just," said the Tiger, "and I shall eat you up."
However, the Brahmin
argued so hard that at last the Tiger agreed to wait and ask the first five
whom they should meet, whether it was fair for him to eat the Brahmin, and to
abide by their decision.
The first thing they
came to, to ask, was an old Banyan Tree, by the wayside. (A banyan tree is a
kind of fruit tree.)
"Brother
Banyan," said the Brahmin, eagerly, "does it seem to you right or
just that this Tiger should eat me, when I set him free from his cage?"
The Banyan Tree looked
down at them and spoke in a tired voice.
"In the
summer," he said, "when the sun is hot, men come and sit in the cool
of my shade and refresh themselves with the fruit of my branches. But when
evening falls, and they are rested, they break my twigs and scatter my leaves,
and stone my boughs for more fruit. Men are an ungrateful race. Let the Tiger
eat the Brahmin."
The Tiger sprang to eat
the Brahmin, but the Brahmin said, --
"Wait, wait; we
have asked only one. We have still four to ask."
Presently they came to
a place where an old Bullock was lying by the road. The Brahmin went up to him
and said, --
"Brother Bullock,
oh, Brother Bullock, does it seem to you a fair thing that this Tiger should
eat me up, after I have just freed him from a cage?"
The Bullock looked up,
and answered in a deep, grumbling voice, --
"When I was young
and strong my master used me hard, and I served him well. I carried heavy loads
and carried them far. Now that I am old and weak and cannot work, he leaves me
without food or water, to die by the wayside. Men are a thankless lot. Let the
Tiger eat the Brahmin."
The Tiger sprang, but
the Brahmin spoke very quickly: --
"Oh, but this is
only the second, Brother Tiger; you promised to ask five."
The Tiger grumbled a
good deal, but at last he went on again with the Brahmin. And after a time they
saw an Eagle, high overhead. The Brahmin called up to him imploringly, --
"Oh, Brother
Eagle, Brother Eagle! Tell us if it seems to you fair that this Tiger should
eat me up, when I have just saved him from a frightful cage?"
The Eagle soared slowly
overhead a moment, then he came lower, and spoke in a thin, clear voice.
"I live high in
the air," he said, "and I do no man any harm. Yet as often as they
find my eyrie, men stone my young and rob my nest and shoot at me with arrows.
Men are a cruel breed. Let the Tiger eat the Brahmin!"
The Tiger sprang upon
the Brahmin, to eat him up; and this time the Brahmin had very hard work to
persuade him to wait. At last he did persuade him, however, and they walked on
together. And in a little while they saw an old Alligator, lying half buried in
mud and slime, at the river's edge.
"Brother
Alligator, oh, Brother Alligator!" said the Brahmin, "does it seem at
all right or fair to you that this Tiger should eat me up, when I have just now
let him out of a cage?"
The old Alligator
turned in the mud, and grunted, and snorted; then he said,
"I lie here in the
mud all day, as harmless as a pigeon; I hunt no man, yet every time a man sees
me, he throws stones at me, and pokes me with sharp sticks, and jeers at me.
Men are a worthless lot. Let the Tiger eat the Brahmin!"
At this the Tiger was
bound to eat the Brahmin at once. The poor Brahmin had to remind him, again and
again, that they had asked only four.
"Wait till we've
asked one more! Wait until we see a fifth!" he begged.
Finally, the Tiger
walked on with him.
After a time, they met
the little Jackal, coming gayly down the road toward them.
"Oh, Brother
Jackal, dear Brother Jackal," said the Brahmin, "give us your
opinion! Do you think it right or fair that this Tiger should eat me, when I
set him free from a terrible cage?"
"Beg pardon?"
said the little Jackal.
"I said,"
said the Brahmin, raising his voice, "do you think it is fair that the
Tiger should eat me, when I set him free from his cage?"
"Cage?" said
the little Jackal, vacantly.
"Yes, yes, his
cage," said the Brahmin. "We want your opinion. Do you think--"
"Oh," said
the little Jackal, "you want my opinion? Then may I beg you to speak a
little more loudly, and make the matter quite clear? I am a little slow of
understanding. Now what was it?"
"Do you
think," said the Brahmin, "it is right for this Tiger to eat me, when
I set him free from his cage?"
"What cage?"
said the little Jackal.
"Why, the cage he
was in," said the Brahmin. "You see--"
"But I don't
altogether understand," said the little Jackal, "You `set him free,'
you say?"
"Yes, yes,
yes!" said the Brahmin.
"It was this way:
I was walking along, and I saw the Tiger--"
"Oh, dear,
dear!" interrupted the little Jackal; "I never can see through it, if
you go on like that, with a long story. If you really want my opinion you must
make the matter clear. What sort of cage was it?"
"Why, a big,
ordinary cage, an iron cage," said the Brahmin.
"That gives me no
idea at all," said the little Jackal. "See here, my friends, if we
are to get on with this matter you'd best show me the spot. Then I can
understand in a jiffy. Show me the cage."
So the Brahmin, the
Tiger, and the little Jackal walked back together to the spot where the cage
was.
"Now, let us
understand the situation," said the little Jackal. "Brahmin, where
were you?"
"I stood here by
the roadside," said the Brahmin.
"Tiger, where were
you?" said the little Jackal.
"Why, in the cage,
of course," roared the Tiger.
"Oh, I beg your
pardon, Father Tiger," said the little Jackal, "I really am so
stupid; I cannot quite understand what happened. If you will have a little
patience,--how were you in the cage? What position were you in?"
"I stood
here," said the Tiger, leaping into the cage, "with my head over my
shoulder, so."
"Oh, thank you,
thank you," said the little Jackal, "that makes it much clearer; but
I still don't quite understand--forgive my slow mind--why did you not come out,
by yourself?"
"Can't you see
that the door shut me in?" said the Tiger.
"Oh, I do beg your
pardon," said the little Jackal. "I know I am very slow; I can never
understand things well unless I see just how they were if you could show me now
exactly how that door works I am sure I could understand. How does it
shut?"
"It shuts like
this," said the Brahmin, pushing it to.
"Yes; but I don't
see any lock," said the little Jackal, "does it lock on the
outside?"
"It locks like this,"
said the Brahmin. And he shut and bolted the door!
"Oh, does it,
indeed?" said the little Jackal. "Does it, indeed! Well, Brother
Brahmin, now that it is locked, I should advise you to let it stay locked! As
for you, my friend," he said to the Tiger, "I think you will wait a
good while before you'll find any one to let you out again!
Then he made a very low
bow to the Brahmin.
"Good-by,
Brother," he said. "Your way lies that way, and mine lies this;
good-by!"
All these stories about
the little Jackal that I have told you, show how clever the little Jackal was.
But you know--if you don't, you will when you are grown up -- that no matter
how clever you are, sooner or later you surely meet some one who is cleverer. It
is always so in life. And it was so with the little Jackal. This is what
happened.
The little Jackal was,
as you know, exceedingly fond of shell-fish, especially of river crabs. Now
there came a time when he had eaten all the crabs to be found on his own side
of the river. He knew there must be plenty on the other side, if he could only
get to them, but he could not swim.
One day he thought of a
plan. He went to his friend the Camel, and said, --
"Friend Camel, I
know a spot where the sugar-cane grows thick; I'll show you the way, if you
will take me there."
"Indeed I
will," said the Camel, who was very fond of sugar-cane. "Where is
it?"
"It is on the
other side of the river," said the little Jackal; "but we can manage
it nicely, if you will take me on your back and swim over."
The Camel was perfectly
willing, so the little Jackal jumped on his back, and the Camel swam across the
river, carrying him. When they were safely over, the little Jackal jumped down
and showed the Camel the sugar-cane field; then he ran swiftly along the river
bank, to hunt for crabs; the Camel began to eat sugar-cane. He ate happily, and
noticed nothing around him.
Now, you know, a Camel
is very big, and a Jackal is very little. Consequently, the little Jackal had
eaten his fill by the time the Camel had barely taken a mouthful. The little
Jackal had no mind to wait for his slow friend; he wanted to be off home again,
about his business. So he ran round and round the sugar-cane field, and as he
ran he sang and shouted, and made a great hullabaloo.
Of course, the
villagers heard him at once.
"There is a Jackal
in the sugar-cane," they said; "he will dig holes and destroy the
roots; we must go down and drive him out." So they came down, with sticks
and stones. When they got there, there was no Jackal to be seen; but they saw
the great Camel, eating away at the juicy sugar- cane. They ran at him and beat
him, and stoned him, and drove him away half dead.
When they had gone,
leaving the poor Camel half killed, the little Jackal came dancing back from
somewhere or other.
"I think it's time
to go home, now," he said; "don't you?"
"Well, you are a
pretty friend!" said the Camel. "The idea of your making such a
noise, with your shouting and singing! You brought this upon me. What in the
world made you do it? Why did you shout and sing?"
"Oh, I don't know
why," said the little Jackal,--"I always sing after dinner!"
"So?" said
the Camel, "Ah, very well, let us go home now."
He took the little
Jackal kindly on his back and started into the water. When he began to swim he
swam out to where the river was the very deepest. There he stopped, and said,
--
"Oh, Jackal!"
"Yes," said
the little Jackal.
"I have the
strangest feeling," said the Camel,--"I feel as if I must roll
over."
" `Roll
over'!" cried the Jackal. "My goodness, don't do that! If you do
that, you'll drown me! What in the world makes you want to do such a crazy
thing? Why should you want to roll over?"
"Oh, I don't know
why," said the Camel slowly, "but I always roll over after
dinner!"
So he rolled over.
And the little Jackal
was drowned, for his sins, but the Camel came safely home.
The story I am going to
tell you is about something that really happened, many years ago, when most of
the mothers and fathers of the children here were not born, themselves. At that
time, nearly all the people in the United States lived between the Atlantic
Ocean and the Mississippi River. Beyond were plains, reaching to the foot of
the mighty Rocky Mountains, where Indians and wild beasts roamed. The only
white men there were a few hunters and trappers.
One year a brave little
company of people traveled across the plains in big covered wagons with many
horses, and finally succeeded in climbing to the top of the great Rockies and
down again into a valley in the very midst of the mountains. It was a valley of
brown, bare, desert soil, in a climate where almost no rain falls; but the
snows on the mountain-tops sent down little streams of pure water, the winds
were gentle, and lying like a blue jewel at the foot of the western hills was a
marvelous lake of salt water,--an inland sea. So the pioneers settled there and
built them huts and cabins for the first winter.
It had taken them many
months to make the terrible journey; many had died of weariness and illness on
the way; many died of hardship during the winter; and the provisions they had
brought in their wagons were so nearly gone that, by spring, they were living
partly on roots, dug from the ground. All their lives now depended on the crops
of grain and vegetables which they could raise in the valley. They made the
barren land good by spreading water from the little streams over it,--what we
call "irrigating;" and they planted enough corn and grain and
vegetables for all the people. Every one helped, and every one watched for the
sprouting, with hopes, and prayers, and careful eyes.
In good time the seeds
sprouted, and the dry, brown earth was covered with a carpet of tender, green,
growing things. No farmer's garden at home in the East could have looked better
than the great garden of the desert valley. And from day to day the little
shoots grew and flourished till they were all well above the ground.
Then a terrible thing
happened. One day the men who were watering the crops saw a great number of
crickets swarming over the ground at the edge of the gardens nearest the
mountains. They were hopping from the barren places into the young, green
crops, and as they settled down they ate the tiny shoots and leaves to the
ground. More came, and more, and ever more, and as they came they spread out
till they covered a big corner of the grain field. And still more and more,
till it was like an army of black, hopping, crawling crickets, streaming down
the side of the mountain to kill the crops.
The men tried to kill
the crickets by beating the ground, but the numbers were so great that it was
like beating at the sea. Then they ran and told the terrible news, and all the
village came to help. They started fires; they dug trenches and filled them
with water; they ran wildly about in the fields, killing what they could. But
while they fought in one place new armies of crickets marched down the
mountain- sides and attacked the fields in other places. And at last the people
fell on their knees and wept and cried in despair, for they saw starvation and
death in the fields.
A few knelt to pray.
Others gathered round and joined them, weeping. More left their useless
struggles and knelt beside their neighbors. At last nearly all the people were
kneeling on the desolate fields praying for deliverance from the plague of
crickets.
Suddenly, from far off
in the air toward the great salt lake, there was the sound of flapping wings.
It grew louder. Some of the people looked up, startled. They saw, like a white
cloud rising from the lake, a flock of sea gulls flying toward them. Snow-white
in the sun, with great wings beating and soaring, in hundreds and hundreds,
they rose and circled and came on.
"The gulls! the
gulls!" was the cry. "What does it mean?"
The gulls flew
overhead, with a shrill chorus of whimpering cries, and then, in a marvelous
white cloud of spread wings and hovering breasts, they settled down over the
seeded ground.
"Oh! woe!
woe!" cried the people. "The gulls are eating what the crickets have
left! they will strip root and branch!"
But all at once, some
one called out, --
"No, no! See! they
are eating the crickets! They are eating only the crickets!"
It was true. The gulls
devoured the crickets in dozens, in hundreds, in swarms. They ate until they
were gorged, and then they flew heavily back to the lake, only to come again
with new appetite. And when at last they finished, they had stripped the fields
of the cricket army; and the people were saved.
To this day, in the
beautiful city of Salt Lake, which grew out of that pioneer village, the little
children are taught to love the sea gulls. And when they learn drawing and
weaving in the schools, their first design is often a picture of a cricket and
a gull.
A long, long time ago,
as long ago as when there were fairies, there lived an emperor in China, who
had a most beautiful palace, all made of crystal. Outside the palace was the
loveliest garden in the whole world, and farther away was a forest where the trees
were taller than any other trees in the world, and farther away, still, was a
deep wood. And in this wood lived a little Nightingale. The Nightingale sang so
beautifully that everybody who heard her remembered her song better than
anything else that he heard or saw. People came from all over the world to see
the crystal palace and the wonderful garden and the great forest; but when they
went home and wrote books about these things they always wrote, "But the
Nightingale is the best of all."
At last it happened
that the Emperor came upon a book which said this, and he at once sent for his
Chamberlain.
"Who is this
Nightingale?" said the Emperor. "Why have I never heard him
sing?"
The Chamberlain, who
was a very important person, said, "There cannot be any such person; I
have never heard his name."
"The book says
there is a Nightingale," said the Emperor. "I command that the
Nightingale be brought here to sing for me this evening."
The Chamberlain went
out and asked all the great lords and ladies and pages where the Nightingale
could be found, but not one of them had ever heard of him. So the Chamberlain
went back to the Emperor and said, "There is no such person."
"The book says
there is a Nightingale," said the Emperor; "if the Nightingale is not
here to sing for me this evening I will have the court trampled upon,
immediately after supper."
The Chamberlain did not
want to be trampled upon, so he ran out and asked everybody in the palace about
the Nightingale. At last, a little girl who worked in the kitchen to help the
cook's helper, said, "Oh, yes, I know the Nightingale very well. Every
night, when I go to carry scraps from the kitchen to my mother, who lives in
the wood beyond the forest, I hear the Nightingale sing."
The Chamberlain asked the
little cook- maid to take him to the Nightingale's home, and many of the lords
and ladies followed after. When they had gone a little way, they heard a cow
moo.
"Ah!" said
the lords and ladies, "that must be the Nightingale; what a large voice
for so small a creature!"
"Oh, no,"
said the little girl, "that is just a cow, mooing."
A little farther on
they heard some bull- frogs, in a swamp. "Surely that is the
Nightingale," said the courtiers; "it really sounds like
church-bells!"
"Oh, no,"
said the little girl, "those are bullfrogs, croaking."
At last they came to
the wood where the Nightingale was. "Hush!" said the little girl,
"she is going to sing." And, sure enough, the little Nightingale
began to sing. She sang so beautifully that you have never in all your life
heard anything like it.
"Dear, dear,"
said the courtiers, "that is very pleasant; does that little gray bird
really make all that noise? She is so pale that I think she has lost her color
for fear of us."
The Chamberlain asked the
little Nightingale to come and sing for the Emperor. The little Nightingale
said she could sing better in her own greenwood, but she was so sweet and kind
that she came with them.
That evening the palace
was all trimmed with the most beautiful flowers you can imagine, and rows and
rows of little silver bells, that tinkled when the wind blew in, and hundreds
and hundreds and hundreds of wax candles, that shone like tiny stars. In the
great hall there was a gold perch for the Nightingale, beside the Emperor's
throne.
When all the people
were there, the Emperor asked the Nightingale to sing. Then the little gray
Nightingale filled her throat full, and sang. And, my dears, she sang so
beautifully that the Emperor's eyes filled up with tears! And, you know,
emperors do not cry at all easily. So he asked her to sing again, and this time
she sang so marvelously that the tears came out of his eyes and ran down his
cheeks. That was a great success. They asked the little Nightingale to sing,
over and over again, and when they had listened enough the Emperor said that
she should be made "Singer in Chief to the Court." She was to have a
golden perch near the Emperor's bed, and a little gold cage, and was to be
allowed to go out twice every day. But there were twelve servants appointed to
wait on her, and those twelve servants went with her every time she went out,
and each of the twelve had hold of the end of a silken string which was tied to
the little Nightingale's leg! It was not so very much fun to go out that way!
For a long, long time
the Nightingale sang every evening to the Emperor and his court, and they liked
her so much that the ladies all tried to sound like her; they used to put water
in their mouths and then make little sounds like this: glu-glu-glug. And when
the courtiers met each other in the halls, one would say "Night," and
the other would say "ingale," and that was conversation.
At last, one day, there
came a little package to the Emperor, on the outside of which was written,
"The Nightingale." Inside was an artificial bird, something like a
Nightingale, only it was made of gold, and silver, and rubies, and emeralds, and
diamonds. When it was wound up it played a waltz tune, and as it played it
moved its little tail up and down. Everybody in the court was filled with
delight at the music of the new nightingale. They made it sing that same tune
thirty-three times, and still they had not had enough. They would have made it
sing the tune thirty-four times, but the Emperor said, "I should like to
hear the real Nightingale sing, now."
But when they looked
about for the real little Nightingale, they could not find her anywhere! She
had taken the chance, while everybody was listening to the waltz tunes, to fly
away through the window to her own greenwood.
"What a very
ungrateful bird!" said the lords and ladies. "But it does not matter;
the new nightingale is just as good."
So the artificial
nightingale was given the real Nightingale's little gold perch, and every night
the Emperor wound her up, and she sang waltz tunes to him. The people in the
court liked her even better than the old Nightingale, because they could all
whistle her tunes,--which you can't do with real nightingales.
About a year after the
artificial nightingale came, the Emperor was listening to her waltz-tune, when
there was a snap and whir-r-r inside the bird, and the music stopped. The
Emperor ran to his doctor but he could not do anything. Then he ran to his
clock-maker, but he could not do much. Nobody could do much. The best they
could do was to patch the gold nightingale up so that it could sing once a
year; even that was almost too much, and the tune was pretty shaky. Still, the
Emperor kept the gold nightingale on the perch in his own room.
A long time went by,
and then, at last, the Emperor grew very ill, and was about to die. When it was
sure that he could not live much longer, the people chose a new emperor and
waited for the old one to die. The poor Emperor lay, quite cold and pale, in
his great big bed, with velvet curtains, and tall candlesticks all about. He
was quite alone, for all the courtiers had gone to congratulate the new
emperor, and all the servants had gone to talk it over.
When the Emperor woke
up, he felt a terrible weight on his chest. He opened his eyes, and there was
Death, sitting on his heart. Death had put on the Emperor's gold crown, and he
had the gold sceptre in one hand, and the silken banner in the other; and he
looked at the Emperor with his great hollow eyes. The room was full of shadows,
and the shadows were full of faces. Everywhere the Emperor looked, there were
faces. Some were very, very ugly, and some were sweet and lovely; they were all
the things the Emperor had done in his life, good and bad. And as he looked at
them they began to whisper. They whispered, "Do you remember this?"
"Do you remember that?" The Emperor remembered so much that he cried
out loud, "Oh, bring the great drum! Make music, so that I may not hear
these dreadful whispers!" But there was nobody there to bring the drum.
Then the Emperor cried,
"You little gold nightingale, can you not sing something for me? I have
given you gifts of gold and jewels, and kept you always by my side; will you
not help me now?" But there was nobody to wind the little gold nightingale
up, and of course it could not sing.
The Emperor's heart
grew colder and colder where Death crouched upon it, and the dreadful whispers
grew louder and louder, and the Emperor's life was almost gone. Suddenly,
through the open window, there came a most lovely song. It was so sweet and so
loud that the whispers died quite away. Presently the Emperor felt his heart
grow warm, then he felt the blood flow through his limbs again; he listened to
the song until the tears ran down his cheeks; he knew that it was the little
real Nightingale who had flown away from him when the gold nightingale came.
Death was listening to
the song, too; and when it was done and the Emperor begged for more, Death,
too, said, "Please sing again, little Nightingale!"
"Will you give me
the Emperor's gold crown for a song?" said the little Nightingale.
"Yes," said
Death; and the little Nightingale bought the Emperor's crown for a song.
"Oh, sing again,
little Nightingale," begged Death.
"Will you give me
the Emperor's sceptre for another song?" said the little gray Nightingale.
"Yes," said
Death; and the little Nightingale bought the Emperor's sceptre for another song.
Once more Death begged
for a song, and this time the little Nightingale got the banner for her
singing. Then she sang one more song, so sweet and so sad that it made Death
think of his garden in the churchyard, where he always liked best to be. And he
rose from the Emperor's heart and floated away through the window.
When Death was gone,
the Emperor said to the little Nightingale, "Oh, dear little Nightingale,
you have saved me from Death! Do not leave me again. Stay with me on this
little gold perch, and sing to me always!"
"No, dear
Emperor," said the little Nightingale, "I sing best when I am free; I
cannot live in a palace. But every night when you are quite alone, I will come
and sit in the window and sing to you, and tell you everything that goes on in
your kingdom: I will tell you where the poor people are who ought to be helped,
and where the wicked people are who ought to be punished. Only, dear Emperor,
be sure that you never let anybody know that you have a little bird who tells
you everything."
After the little
Nightingale had flown away, the Emperor felt so well and strong that he dressed
himself in his royal robes and took his gold sceptre in his hand. And when the
courtiers came in to see if he were dead, there stood the Emperor with his
sword in one hand and his sceptre in the other, and said,
"Good-morning!"
There was once a little
girl named Margery, who had always lived in the city. The flat where her mother
and father lived was at the top of a big apartment-house, and you couldn't see
a great deal from the windows, except clothes-lines on other people's roofs.
Margery did not know much about trees and flowers, but she loved them dearly;
whenever it was a pleasant Sunday she used to go with her mother and father to
the park and look at the lovely flower-beds. They seemed always to be finished,
though, and Margery was always wishing she could see them grow.
One spring, when
Margery was nine, her father's work changed so that he could move into the
country, and he took a little house a short distance outside the town where his
new position was. Margery was delighted. And the very first thing she said,
when her father told her about it, was, "Oh, may I have a garden? May I
have a garden?"
Margery's mother was
almost as eager for a garden as she was, and Margery's father said he expected
to live on their vegetables all the rest of his life! So it was soon agreed
that the garden should be the first thing attended to.
Behind the little house
were apple trees, a plum tree, and two or three pear trees; then came a stretch
of rough grass, and then a stone wall, with a gate leading into the pasture. It
was in the grassy land that the garden was to be. A big piece was to be used
for corn and peas and beans, and a little piece at the end was to be saved for
Margery.
"What shall we
have in it?" asked her mother.
"Flowers,"
said Margery, with shining eyes,--"blue, and white, and yellow, and
pink,--every kind of flower!"
"Surely,
flowers," said her mother, "and shall we not have a little salad
garden in the midst, as they do in England?"
"What is a salad
garden?" Margery asked.
"It is a garden
where you have all the things that make nice salad," said her mother,
laughing, for Margery was fond of salads; "you have lettuce, and endive,
and romaine, and parsley, and radishes, and cucumbers, and perhaps little beets
and young onions.
"Oh! how good it
sounds!" said Margery. "I vote for the salad garden."
That very evening,
Margery's father took pencil and paper, and drew out a plan for her garden;
first, they talked it all over, then he drew what they decided on; it looked
like the diagram on the next page.
"The outside strip
is for flowers," said Margery's father, "and the next marks mean a
footpath, all the way round the beds; that is so you can get at the flowers to
weed and to pick; there is a wider path through the middle, and the rest is all
for rows of salad vegetables."
"Papa, it is
glorious!" said Margery.
Papa laughed. "I
hope you will still think it glorious when the weeding time comes," he
said, "for you know, you and mother have promised to take care of this
garden, while I take care of the big one."
"I wouldn't not
take care of it for anything!" said Margery. "I want to feel that it
is my very own."
Her father kissed her,
and said it was certainly her "very own."
Two evenings after
that, when Margery was called in from her first ramble in a "really, truly
pasture," she found the expressman at the door of the little house.
"Something for
you, Margery," said her mother, with the look she had when something nice
was happening.
It was a box, quite a
big box, with a label on it that said: --
MISS MARGERY BROWN,
WOODVILLE, MASS.
From Seeds and Plants Company, Boston.
Margery could hardly
wait to open it. It was filled with little packages, all with printed labels;
and in the packages, of course, were seeds. It made Margery dance, just to read
the names,--nasturtium, giant helianthus, coreopsis, calendula, Canterbury
bells: more names than I can tell you, and other packages, bigger, that said,
"Peas: Dwarf Telephone," and "Sweet Corn," and such things!
Margery could almost smell the posies, she was so excited. Only, she had seen
so little of flowers that she did not always know what the names meant. She did
not know that a helianthus was a sunflower till her mother told her, and she
had never seen the dear, blue, bell-shaped flowers that always grow in
old-fashioned gardens, and are called Canterbury bells. She thought the
calendula must be a strange, grand flower, by its name; but her mother told her
it was the gay, sturdy, every-dayish little posy called a marigold. There was a
great deal for a little city girl to be surprised about, and it did seem as if
morning was a long way off!
"Did you think you
could plant them in the morning?" asked her mother. "You know, dear,
the ground has to be made ready first; it takes a little time,--it may be
several days before you can plant."
That was another
surprise. Margery had thought she could begin to sow the seed right off.
But this was what was
done. Early the next morning, a man came driving into the yard, with two strong
white horses; in his wagon was a plough. I suppose you have seen ploughs, but
Margery never had, and she watched with great interest, while the man and her
father took the plough from the cart and harnessed the horses to it. It was a
great, three-cornered piece of sharp steel, with long handles coming up from
it, so that a man could hold it in place. It looked like this: --
"I brought a
two-horse plough because it's green land," the man said. Margery wondered
what in the world he meant; it was green grass, of course, but what had that to
do with the kind of plough? "What does he mean, father?" she
whispered, when she got a chance. "He means that this land has not been
ploughed before, or not for many years; it will be hard to turn the soil, and one
horse could not pull the plough," said her father. So Margery had learned
what "green land" was.
The man was for two
hours ploughing the little strip of land. He drove the sharp end of the plough
into the soil, and held it firmly so, while the horses dragged it along in a
straight line. Margery found it fascinating to see the long line of dark earth
and green grass come rolling up and turn over, as the knife passed it. She
could see that it took real skill and strength to keep the line even, and to avoid
the stones. Sometimes the plough struck a hidden stone, and then the man was
jerked almost off his feet. But he only laughed, and said, "Tough piece of
land; be a lot better the second year."
When he had ploughed,
the man went back to his cart and unloaded another farm implement. This one was
like a three-cornered platform of wood, with a long, curved, strong rake under
it. It was called a harrow, and it looked like this: --
The man harnessed the
horses to it, and then he stood on the platform and drove all over the strip of
land. It was fun to watch, but perhaps it was a little hard to do. The man's
weight kept the harrow steady, and let the teeth of the rake scratch and cut
the ground up, so that it did not stay in ridges.
"He scrambles the
ground, father!" said Margery.
"It needs
scrambling," laughed her father. "We are going to get more weeds than
we want on this green land, and the more the ground is broken, the fewer there
will be."
After the ploughing and
harrowing, the man drove off, and Margery's father said he would do the rest of
the work in the late afternoons, when he came home from business; they could
not afford too much help, he said, and he had learned to take care of a garden
when he was a boy. So Margery did not see any more done until the next day.
But the next day there
was hard work for Margery's father! Every bit of that "scrambled"
turf had to be broken up still more with a mattock and a spade, and then the
pieces which were full of grass-roots had to be taken on a fork and shaken,
till the earth fell out; then the grass was thrown to one side. That would not
have had to be done if the land had been ploughed in the fall; the grass would
have rotted in the ground, and would have made fertilizer for the plants. Now,
Margery's father put the fertilizer on the top, and then raked it into the
earth.
At last, it was time to
make the place for the seeds. Margery and her mother helped. Father tied one
end of a cord to a little stake, and drove the stake in the ground at one end of
the garden. Then he took the cord to the other end of the garden and pulled it
tight, tied it to another stake, and drove that down. That made a straight line
for him to see. Then he hoed a trench, a few inches deep, the whole length of
the cord, and scattered fertilizer in it. Pretty soon the whole garden was in
lines of little trenches.
"Now for the
corn," said father.
Margery ran and brought
the seed box, and found the package of corn. It looked like kernels of gold,
when it was opened.
"May I help?"
Margery asked, when she saw how pretty it was.
"If you watch me
sow one row, I think you can do the next," said her father.
So Margery watched. Her
father took a handful of kernels, and, stooping, walked slowly along the line,
letting the kernels fall, five or six at a time, in spots about a foot apart;
he swung his arm with a gentle, throwing motion, and the golden seeds trickled
out like little showers, very exactly. It was pretty to watch; it made Margery
think of a photograph her teacher had, a photograph of a famous picture called
"The Sower." Perhaps you have seen it.
Putting in the seed was
not so easy to do as to watch; sometimes Margery got in too much, and sometimes
not enough; but her father helped fix it, and soon she did better.
They planted peas,
beans, spinach, carrots, and parsnips. And Margery's father made a row of
holes, after that, for the tomato plants. He said those had to be transplanted;
they could not be sown from seed.
When the seeds were in
the trenches they had to be covered up, and Margery really helped at that. It
is fun to do it. You stand beside the little trench and walk backward, and as
you walk you hoe the loose earth back over the seeds; the same dirt that was
hoed up you pull back again. Then you rake very gently over the surface, with
the back of a rake, to even it all off. Margery liked it, because now the
garden began to look like a garden.
But best of all was the
work next day, when her own little particular garden was begun. Father Brown
loved Margery and Margery's mother so much that he wanted their garden to be
perfect, and that meant a great deal more work. He knew very well that the old
grass would begin to come through again on such "green" soil, and
that it would make terribly hard weeding. He was not going to have any such
thing for his two "little girls," as he called them. So he fixed that
little garden very fine! This is what he did.
After he had thrown out
all the turf, he shoveled clean earth on to the garden, -- as much as three
solid inches of it; not a bit of grass was in that. Then it was ready for
raking and fertilizing, and for the lines. The little footpaths were marked out
by Father Brown's feet; Margery and her mother laughed well when they saw it,
for it looked like some kind of dance. Mr. Brown had seen gardeners do it when
he was a little boy, and he did it very nicely: he walked along the sides of
the square, with one foot turned a little out, and the other straight, taking
such tiny steps that his feet touched each other all the time. This tramped out
a path just wide enough for a person to walk.
The wider path was
marked with lines and raked.
Margery thought, of
course, all the flowers would be put in as the vegetables were; but she found
that it was not so. For some, her father poked little holes with his finger;
for some, he made very shallow ditches; and some very small seeds were just
scattered lightly over the top of the ground.
Margery and her mother
had taken so much pains in thinking out how the flowers would look prettiest,
that maybe you will like to hear just how they designed that garden. At the
back were the sweet peas, which would grow tall, like a screen; on the two
sides, for a kind of hedge, were yellow sunflowers; and along the front edge
were the gay nasturtiums. Margery planned that, so that she could look into the
garden from the front, but have it shut away from the vegetable patch by the
tall flowers on the sides. The two front corners had coreopsis in them.
Coreopsis is a tall, pretty, daisy-like flower, very dainty and bright. And
then, in little square patches all round the garden, were planted white sweet
alyssum, blue bachelor's buttons, yellow marigolds, tall larkspur, many-
colored asters and zinnias. All these lovely flowers used to grow in our
grandmothers' gardens, and if you don't know what they look like, I hope you
can find out next summer.
Between the flowers and
the middle path went the seeds for that wonderful salad garden; all the things
Mrs. Brown had named to Margery were there. Margery had never seen anything so
cunning as the little round lettuce-seeds. They looked like tiny beads; it did
not seem possible that green lettuce leaves could come from those. But they
surely would.
Mother and father and
Margery were all late to supper that evening. But they were all so happy that
it did not matter. The last thing Margery thought of, as she went to sleep at
night, was the dear, smooth little garden, with its funny foot- path, and with
the little sticks standing at the end of the rows, labeled "lettuce,"
"beets," "helianthus," and so on.
"I have a garden!
I have a garden!" thought Margery, and then she went off to dreamland.
[1] I have always been
inclined to avoid, in my work among children, the "how to make" and
"how to do" kind of story; it is too likely to trespass on the ground
belonging by right to its more artistic and less intentional kinsfolk. Nevertheless,
there is a legitimate place for the instruction-story. Within its own limits,
and especially in a school use, it has a real purpose to serve, and a real
desire to meet. Children have a genuine taste for such morsels of practical
information, if the bites aren't made too big and too solid. And to the teacher
of the first grades, from whom so much is demanded in the way of practical
instruction, I know that these stories are a boon. They must be chosen with
care, and used with discretion, but they need never be ignored.
I venture to give some little stories of this type, which I hope may be of use
in the schools where country life and country work is an unknown experience to
the children.
This is another story
about Margery's garden.
The next morning after
the garden was planted, Margery was up and out at six o'clock. She could not
wait to look at her garden. To be sure, she knew that the seeds could not
sprout in a single night, but she had a feeling that something might happen
while she was not looking. The garden was just as smooth and brown as the night
before, and no little seeds were in sight.
But a very few mornings
after that, when Margery went out, there was a funny little crack opening up
through the earth, the whole length of the patch. Quickly she knelt down in the
footpath, to see. Yes! Tiny green leaves, a whole row of them, were pushing
their way through the crust! Margery knew what she had put there: it was the
radish-row; these must be radish leaves. She examined them very closely, so
that she might know a radish next time. The little leaves, no bigger than half
your little-finger nail, grew in twos,--two on each tiny stem; they were almost
round.
Margery flew back to
her mother, to say that the first seeds were up. And her mother, nearly as
excited as Margery, came to look at the little crack.
Each day, after that,
the row of radishes grew, till, in a week, it stood as high as your finger,
green and sturdy. But about the third day, while Margery was stooping over the
radishes, she saw something very, very small and green, peeping above ground,
where the lettuce was planted. Could it be weeds? No, for on looking very
closely she saw that the wee leaves faintly marked a regular row. They did not
make a crack, like the radishes; they seemed too small and too far apart to
push the earth up like that. Margery leaned down and looked with all her eyes
at the baby plants. The tiny leaves grew two on a stem, and were almost round.
The more she looked at them the more it seemed to Margery that they looked
exactly as the radish looked when it first came up. "Do you suppose,"
Margery said to herself, "that lettuce and radish look alike? They don't
look alike in the market!"
Day by day the lettuce
grew, and soon the little round leaves were easier to examine; they certainly
were very much like radish leaves.
Then, one morning,
while she was searching the ground for signs of seeds, Margery discovered the
beets. In irregular patches on the row, hints of green were coming. The next
day and the next they grew, until the beet leaves were big enough to see.
Margery looked. Then
she looked again. Then she wrinkled her forehead. "Can we have made a
mistake?" she thought. "Do you suppose we can have planted all
radishes?"
For those little beet
leaves were almost round, and they grew two on a stem, precisely like the
lettuce and the radish; except for the size, all three rows looked alike.
It was too much for
Margery. She ran to the house and found her father. Her little face was so anxious
that he thought something unpleasant had happened. "Papa," she said,
all out of breath, "do you think we could have made a mistake about my
garden? Do you think we could have put radishes in all the rows?"
Father laughed.
"What makes you think such a thing?" he asked.
"Papa," said
Margery, "the little leaves all look exactly alike! every plant has just
two tiny leaves on it, and shaped the same; they are roundish, and grow out of
the stem at the same place."
Papa's eyes began to
twinkle. "Many of the dicotyledonous plants look alike at the
beginning," he said, with a little drawl on the big word. That was to
tease Margery, because she always wanted to know the big words she heard.
"What's
`dicotyledonous'?" said Margery, carefully.
"Wait till I come
home to-night, dear," said her father, "and I'll tell you."
That evening Margery
was waiting eagerly for him, when her father finished his supper. Together they
went to the garden, and father examined the seedlings carefully. Then he pulled
up a little radish plant and a tiny beet.
"These little
leaves," he said, "are not the real leaves of the plant; they are
only little food-supply leaves, little pockets to hold food for the plant to
live on till it gets strong enough to push up into the air. As soon as the real
leaves come out and begin to draw food from the air, these little substitutes
wither up and fall off. These two lie folded up in the little seed from the be-
ginning, and are full of plant food. They don't have to be very special in
shape, you see, because they don't stay on the plant after it is grown
up."
"Then every plant
looks like this at first?" said Margery.
"No, dear, not
every one; plants are divided into two kinds: those which have two food leaves,
like these plants, and those which have only one; these are called
dicotyledonous, and the ones which have but one food leaf are monocotyledonous.
Many of the dicotyledons look alike."
"I think that is
interesting," said Margery. "I always supposed the plants were different
from the minute they began to grow."
"Indeed, no,"
said father. "Even some of the trees look like this when they first come
through; you would not think a birch tree could look like a vegetable or a
flower, would you? But it does, at first; it looks so much like these things
that in the great nurseries, where trees are raised for forests and parks, the
workmen have to be very carefully trained, or else they would pull up the trees
when they are weeding. They have to be taught the difference between a birch
tree and a weed."
"How funny!"
said Margery dimpling.
"Yes, it sounds
funny," said father; "but you see, the birch tree is dicotyledonous,
and so are many weeds, and the dicotyledons look much alike at first."
"I am glad to know
that, father," said Margery, soberly. "I believe maybe I shall learn
a good deal from living in the country; don't you think so?"
Margery's father took
her in his arms. "I hope so, dear," he said; "the country is a
good place for little girls."
And that was all that
happened, that day.
Once upon a time, a
Tortoise lived in a pond with two Ducks, who were her very good friends. She
enjoyed the company of the Ducks, because she could talk with them to her
heart's content; the Tortoise liked to talk. She always had something to say,
and she liked to hear herself say it.
After many years of
this pleasant living, the pond became very low, in a dry season; and finally it
dried up. The two Ducks saw that they could no longer live there, so they
decided to fly to another region, where there was more water. They went to the
Tortoise to bid her good-by.
"Oh, don't leave
me behind!" begged the Tortoise. "Take me with you; I must die if I
am left here."
"But you cannot
fly!" said the Ducks. "How can we take you with us?"
"Take me with you!
take me with you!" said the Tortoise.
The Ducks felt so sorry
for her that at last they thought of a way to take her. "We have thought
of a way which will be possible," they said, "if only you can manage
to keep still long enough. We will each take hold of one end of a stout stick,
and do you take the middle in your mouth; then we will fly up in the air with
you and carry you with us. But remember not to talk! If you open your mouth,
you are lost."
The Tortoise said she
would not say a word; she would not so much as move her mouth; and she was very
grateful. So the Ducks brought a strong little stick and took hold of the ends,
while the Tortoise bit firmly on the middle. Then the two Ducks rose slowly in
the air and flew away with their burden.
When they were above
the treetops, the Tortoise wanted to say, "How high we are!" But she
remembered, and kept still. When they passed the church steeple she wanted to
say, "What is that which shines?" But she remembered, and held her
peace. Then they came over the village square, and the people looked up and saw
them. "Look at the Ducks carrying a Tortoise!" they shouted; and
every one ran to look. The Tortoise wanted to say, "What business is it of
yours?" But she didn't. Then she heard the people shout, "Isn't it
strange! Look at it! Look!"
The Tortoise forgot
everything except that she wanted to say, "Hush, you foolish people!"
She opened her mouth, -- and fell to the ground. And that was the end of the
Tortoise.
It is a very good thing
to be able to hold one's tongue!
An old legend says that
there was once a king named Robert of Sicily, who was brother to the great Pope
of Rome and to the Emperor of Allemaine. He was a very selfish king, and very
proud; he cared more for his pleasures than for the needs of his people, and
his heart was so filled with his own greatness that he had no thought for God.
One day, this proud
king was sitting in his place at church, at vesper service; his courtiers were
about him, in their bright garments, and he himself was dressed in his royal
robes. The choir was chanting the Latin service, and as the beautiful voices swelled
louder, the king noticed one particular verse which seemed to be repeated again
and again. He turned to a learned clerk at his side and asked what those words
meant, for he knew no Latin.
"They mean, `He
hath put down the mighty from their seats, and hath exalted them of low
degree,' " answered the clerk.
"It is well the
words are in Latin, then," said the king angrily, "for they are a
lie. There is no power on earth or in heaven which can put me down from my
seat!" And he sneered at the beautiful singing, as he leaned back in his
place.
Presently the king fell
asleep, while the service went on. He slept deeply and long. When he awoke the
church was dark and still, and he was all alone. He, the king, had been left
alone in the church, to awake in the dark! He was furious with rage and
surprise, and, stumbling through the dim aisles, he reached the great doors and
beat at them, madly, shouting for his servants.
The old sexton heard
some one shouting and pounding in the church, and thought it was some drunken
vagabond who had stolen in during the service. He came to the door with his
keys and called out, "Who is there?"
"Open! open! It is
I, the king!" came a hoarse, angry voice from within.
"It is a crazy
man," thought the sexton; and he was frightened. He opened the doors
carefully and stood back, peering into the darkness. Out past him rushed the
figure of a man in tattered, scanty clothes, with unkempt hair and white, wild
face. The sexton did not know that he had ever seen him before, but he looked
long after him, wondering at his wildness and his haste.
In his fluttering rags,
without hat or cloak, not knowing what strange thing had happened to him, King
Robert rushed to his palace gates, pushed aside the startled servants, and
hurried, blind with rage, up the wide stair and through the great corridors,
toward the room where he could hear the sound of his courtiers' voices. Men and
women servants tried to stop the ragged man, who had somehow got into the
palace, but Robert did not even see them as he fled along. Straight to the open
doors of the big banquet hall he made his way, and into the midst of the grand
feast there.
The great hall was
filled with lights and flowers; the tables were set with everything that is
delicate and rich to eat; the courtiers, in their gay clothes, were laughing
and talking; and at the head of the feast, on the king's own throne, sat a
king. His face, his figure, his voice were exactly like Robert of Sicily; no
human being could have told the difference; no one dreamed that he was not the
king. He was dressed in the king's royal robes, he wore the royal crown, and on
his hand was the king's own ring. Robert of Sicily, half naked, ragged, without
a sign of his kingship on him, stood before the throne and stared with fury at
this figure of himself.
The king on the throne
looked at him. "Who art thou, and what dost thou here?" he asked. And
though his voice was just like Robert's own, it had something in it sweet and
deep, like the sound of bells.
"I am the king!"
cried Robert of Sicily. "I am the king, and you are an impostor!"
The courtiers started
from their seats, and drew their swords. They would have killed the crazy man
who insulted their king; but he raised his hand and stopped them, and with his
eyes looking into Robert's eyes he said, "Not the king; you shall be the
king's jester! You shall wear the cap and bells, and make laughter for my
court. You shall be the servant of the servants, and your companion shall be
the jester's ape."
With shouts of laughter,
the courtiers drove Robert of Sicily from the banquet hall; the waiting-men,
with laughter, too, pushed him into the soldiers' hall; and there the pages
brought the jester's wretched ape, and put a fool's cap and bells on Robert's
head. It was like a terrible dream; he could not believe it true, he could not
understand what had happened to him. And when he woke next morning, he believed
it was a dream, and that he was king again. But as he turned his head, he felt
the coarse straw under his cheek instead of the soft pillow, and he saw that he
was in the stable, with the shivering ape by his side. Robert of Sicily was a
jester, and no one knew him for the king.
Three long years
passed. Sicily was happy and all things went well under the king, who was not
Robert. Robert was still the jester, and his heart was harder and bitterer with
every year. Many times, during the three years, the king, who had his face and
voice, had called him to himself, when none else could hear, and had asked him
the one question, "Who art thou?" And each time that he asked it his
eyes looked into Robert's eyes, to find his heart. But each time Robert threw
back his head and answered, proudly, "I am the king!" And the king's
eyes grew sad and stern.
At the end of three
years, the Pope bade the Emperor of Allemaine and the King of Sicily, his
brothers, to a great meeting in his city of Rome. The King of Sicily went, with
all his soldiers and courtiers and servants,--a great procession of horsemen
and footmen. Never had been a gayer sight than the grand train, men in bright
armor, riders in wonderful cloaks of velvet and silk, servants, carrying
marvelous presents to the Pope. And at the very end rode Robert, the jester.
His horse was a poor old thing, many-colored, and the ape rode with him. Every
one in the villages through which they passed ran after the jester, and pointed
and laughed.
The Pope received his
brothers and their trains in the square before Saint Peter's. With music and
flags and flow- ers he made the King of Sicily welcome, and greeted him as his
brother. In the midst of it, the jester broke through the crowd and threw
himself before the Pope. "Look at me!" he cried; "I am your
brother, Robert of Sicily! This man is an impostor, who has stolen my throne. I
am Robert, the king!"
The Pope looked at the
poor jester with pity, but the Emperor of Allemaine turned to the King of
Sicily, and said, "Is it not rather dangerous, brother, to keep a madman
as jester?" And again Robert was pushed back among the serving-men.
It was Holy Week, and
the king and the emperor, with all their trains, went every day to the great
services in the cathedral. Something wonderful and holy seemed to make all
these services more beautiful than ever before. All the people of Rome felt it:
it was as if the presence of an angel were there. Men thought of God, and felt
his blessing on them. But no one knew who it was that brought the beautiful
feeling. And when Easter Day came, never had there been so lovely, so holy a
day: in the great churches, filled with flowers, and sweet with incense, the
kneeling people listened to the choirs singing, and it was like the voices of
angels; their prayers were more earnest than ever before, their praise more
glad; there was something heavenly in Rome.
Robert of Sicily went
to the services with the rest, and sat in the humblest place with the servants.
Over and over again he heard the sweet voices of the choirs chant the Latin
words he had heard long ago: "He hath put down the mighty from their seat,
and hath exalted them of low degree." And at last, as he listened, his
heart was softened. He, too, felt the strange blessed presence of a heavenly
power. He thought of God, and of his own wickedness; he remembered how happy he
had been, and how little good he had done; he realized, that his power had not
been from himself, at all. On Easter night, as he crept to his bed of straw, he
wept, not because he was so wretched, but because he had not been a better king
when power was his.
At last all the
festivities were over, and the King of Sicily went home to his own land again,
with his people. Robert the jester came home too.
On the day of their
home-coming, there was a special service in the royal church, and even after
the service was over for the people, the monks held prayers of thanksgiving and
praise. The sound of their singing came softly in at the palace windows. In the
great banquet room, the king sat, wearing his royal robes and his crown, while
many subjects came to greet him. At last, he sent them all away, saying he
wanted to be alone; but he commanded the jester to stay. And when they were
alone together the king looked into Robert's eyes, as he had done before, and
said, softly, "Who art thou?"
Robert of Sicily bowed
his head. "Thou knowest best," he said, "I only know that I have
sinned."
As he spoke, he heard
the voices of the monks singing, "He hath put down the mighty from their
seat,"--and his head sank lower. But suddenly the music seemed to change;
a wonderful light shone all about. As Robert raised his eyes, he saw the face
of the king smiling at him with a radiance like nothing on earth, and as he
sank to his knees before the glory of that smile, a voice sounded with the
music, like a melody throbbing on a single string: --
"I am an angel,
and thou art the king!"
Then Robert of Sicily
was alone. His royal robes were upon him once more; he wore his crown and his
royal ring. He was king. And when the courtiers came back they found their king
kneeling by his throne, absorbed in silent prayer.
I wonder if you have
ever heard the anecdote about the artist of Düsseldorf and the jealous
courtiers. This is it. It seems there was once a very famous artist who lived
in the little town of Düsseldorf. He did such fine work that the Elector,
Prince Johann Wilhelm, ordered a portrait statue of himself, on horseback, to
be done in bronze. The artist was overjoyed at the commission, and worked early
and late at the statue.
At last the work was
done, and the artist had the great statue set up in the public square of Düsseldorf,
ready for the opening view. The Elector came on the appointed day, and with him
came his favorite courtiers from the castle. Then the statue was unveiled. It
was very beautiful, -- so beautiful that the prince exclaimed in surprise. He
could not look enough, and presently he turned to the artist and shook hands
with him, like an old friend. "Herr Grupello," he said, "you are
a great artist, and this statue will make your fame even greater than it is;
the portrait of me is perfect!"
When the courtiers
heard this, and saw the friendly hand-grasp, their jealousy of the artist was
beyond bounds. Their one thought was, how could they safely do something to humiliate
him. They dared not pick flaws in the portrait statue, for the prince had
declared it perfect. But at last one of them said, with an air of great
frankness, "Indeed, Herr Grupello, the portrait of his Royal Highness is
perfect; but permit me to say that the statue of the horse is not quite so
successful: the head is too large; it is out of proportion."
"No," said
another, "the horse is really not so successful; the turn of the neck,
there, is awkward."
"If you would
change the right hind- foot, Herr Grupello," said a third, "it would
be an improvement."
Still another found
fault with the horse's tail.
The artist listened,
quietly. When they had all finished, he turned to the prince and said,
"Your courtiers, Prince, find a good many flaws in the statue of the
horse; will you permit me to keep it a few days more, to do what I can with
it?"
The Elector assented,
and the artist ordered a temporary screen built around the statue, so that his
assistants could work undisturbed. For several days the sound of hammering came
steadily from behind the enclosure. The courtiers, who took care to pass that
way, often, were delighted. Each one said to himself, "I must have been
right, really; the artist himself sees that something was wrong; now I shall have
credit for saving the prince's portrait by my artistic taste!"
Once more the artist
summoned the prince and his courtiers, and once more the statue was unveiled.
Again the Elector exclaimed at its beauty, and then he turned to his courtiers,
one after another, to see what they had to say.
"Perfect!"
said the first. "Now that the horse's head is in proportion, there is not
a flaw."
"The change in the
neck was just what was needed," said the second; "it is very graceful
now."
"The rear right
foot is as it should be, now," said a third, "and it adds so much to
the beauty of the whole!"
The fourth said that he
considered the tail greatly improved.
"My courtiers are
much pleased now," said the prince to Herr Grupello; "they think the
statue much improved by the changes you have made."
Herr Grupello smiled a
little. "I am glad they are pleased," he said, "but the fact is,
I have changed nothing!"
"What do you
mean?" said the prince in surprise. "Have we not heard the sound of
hammering every day? What were you hammering at then?"
"I was hammering
at the reputation of your courtiers, who found fault simply because they were
jealous," said the artist. "And I rather think that their reputation
is pretty well hammered to pieces!"
It was, indeed. The
Elector laughed heartily, but the courtiers slunk away, one after another,
without a word.
There was once an old
king, so wise and kind and true that the most powerful good fairy of his land
visited him and asked him to name the dearest wish of his heart, that she might
grant it.
"Surely you know
it," said the good king; "it is for my only son, Prince Cherry; do
for him whatever you would have done for me."
"Gladly,"
said the great fairy; "choose what I shall give him. I can make him the
richest, the most beautiful, or the most powerful prince in the world;
choose."
"None of those
things are what I want," said the king. "I want only that he shall be
good. Of what use will it be to him to be beautiful, rich, or powerful, if he
grows into a bad man? Make him the best prince in the world, I beg you!"
"Alas, I cannot
make him good," said the fairy; "he must do that for himself. I can
give him good advice, reprove him when he does wrong, and punish him if he will
not punish himself; I can and will be his best friend, but I cannot make him
good unless he wills it."
The king was sad to
hear this, but he rejoiced in the friendship of the fairy for his son. And when
he died, soon after, he was happy to know that he left Prince Cherry in her
hands.
Prince Cherry grieved
for his fathers and often lay awake at night, thinking of him. One night, when
he was all alone in his room, a soft and lovely light suddenly shone before
him, and a beautiful vision stood at his side. It was the good fairy. She was
clad in robes of dazzling white, and on her shining hair she wore a wreath of
white roses.
"I am the Fairy
Candide," she said to the prince. "I promised your father that I
would be your best friend, and as long as you live I shall watch over your
happiness. I have brought you a gift; it is not wonderful to look at, but it
has a wonderful power for your welfare; wear it, and let it help you."
As she spoke, she
placed a small gold ring on the prince's little finger. "This ring,"
she said, "will help you to be good; when you do evil, it will prick you,
to remind you. If you do not heed its warnings a worse thing will happen to you,
for I shall become your enemy." Then she vanished.
Prince Cherry wore his
ring, and said nothing to any one of the fairy's gift. It did not prick him for
a long time, because he was good and merry and happy. But Prince Cherry had
been rather spoiled by his nurse when he was a child; she had always said to him
that when he should become king he could do exactly as he pleased. Now, after a
while, he began to find out that this was not true, and it made him angry.
The first time that he
noticed that even a king could not always have his own way was on a day when he
went hunting. It happened that he got no game. This put him in such a bad
temper that he grumbled and scolded all the way home. The little gold ring
began to feel tight and uncomfortable. When he reached the palace his pet dog
ran to meet him.
"Go away!"
said the prince, crossly.
But the little dog was
so used to being petted that he only jumped up on his master, and tried to kiss
his hand. The prince turned and kicked the little creature. At the instant, he
felt a sharp prick in his little finger, like a pin prick.
"What
nonsense!" said the prince to himself. "Am I not king of the whole
land? May I not kick my own dog, if I choose? What evil is there in that?"
A silver voice spoke in
his ear: "The king of the land has a right to do good, but not evil; you
have been guilty of bad temper and of cruelty to-day; see that you do better
to-morrow."
The prince turned
sharply, but no one was to be seen; yet he recognized the voice as that of
Fairy Candide.
He followed her advice
for a little, but presently he forgot, and the ring pricked him so sharply that
his finger had a drop of blood on it. This happened again and again, for the
prince grew more self-willed and headstrong every day; he had some bad friends,
too, who urged him on, in the hope that he would ruin himself and give them a
chance to seize the throne. He treated his people carelessly and his servants
cruelly, and everything he wanted he felt that he must have.
The ring annoyed him
terribly; it was embarrassing for a king to have a drop of blood on his finger
all the time! At last he took the ring off and put it out of sight. Then he
thought he should be perfectly happy, having his own way; but instead, he grew
more unhappy as he grew less good. Whenever he was crossed, or could not have
his own way instantly, he flew into a passion,
Finally, he wanted
something that he really could not have. This time it was a most beautiful
young girl, named Zelia; the prince saw her, and loved her so much that he
wanted at once to make her his queen. To his great astonishment, she refused.
"Am I not pleasing
to you?" asked the prince in surprise.
"You are very
handsome, very charming, Prince," said Zelia; "but you are not like
the good king, your father; I fear you would make me very miserable if I were
your queen."
In a great rage, Prince
Cherry ordered the young girl put in prison; and the key of her dungeon he
kept. He told one of his friends, a wicked man who flattered him for his own
purposes, about the thing, and asked his advice.
"Are you not
king?" said the bad friend, "May you not do as you will? Keep the
girl in a dungeon till she does as you command, and if she will not, sell her
as a slave."
"But would it not
be a disgrace for me to harm an innocent creature?" said the prince.
"It would be a
disgrace to you to have it said that one of your subjects dared disobey
you!" said the courtier.
He had cleverly touched
the Prince's worst trait, his pride. Prince Cherry went at once to Zelia's
dungeon, prepared to do this cruel thing.
Zelia was gone. No one
had the key save the prince himself; yet she was gone. The only person who
could have dared to help her, thought the prince, was his old tutor, Suliman,
the only man left who ever rebuked him for anything. In fury, he ordered Suliman
to be put in fetters and brought before him.
As his servants left
him, to carry out the wicked order, there was a clash, as of thunder, in the
room, and then a blinding light. Fairy Candide stood before him. Her beautiful
face was stern, and her silver voice rang like a trumpet, as she said,
"Wicked and selfish prince, you have become baser than the beasts you
hunt; you are furious as a lion, revengeful as a serpent, greedy as a wolf, and
brutal as a bull; take, therefore, the shape of those beasts whom you
resemble!"
With horror, the prince
felt himself be- ing transformed into a monster. He tried to rush upon the
fairy and kill her, but she had vanished with her words. As he stood, her voice
came from the air, saying, sadly, "Learn to conquer your pride by being in
submission to your own subjects." At the same moment, Prince Cherry felt
himself being transported to a distant forest, where he was set down by a clear
stream. In the water he saw his own terrible image; he had the head of a lion, with
bull's horns, the feet of a wolf, and a tail like a serpent. And as he gazed in
horror, the fairy's voice whispered, "Your soul has become more ugly than
your shape is; you yourself have deformed it."
The poor beast rushed
away from the sound of her words, but in a moment he stumbled into a trap, set
by bear-catchers. When the trappers found him they were delighted to have
caught a curiosity, and they immediately dragged him to the palace courtyard.
There he heard the whole court buzzing with gossip. Prince Cherry had been
struck by lightning and killed, was the news, and the five favorite courtiers
had struggled to make themselves rulers, but the people had refused them, and
offered the crown to Suliman, the good old tutor.
Even as he heard this,
the prince saw Suliman on the steps of the palace, speaking to the people.
"I will take the crown to keep in trust," he said. "Perhaps the
prince is not dead."
"He was a bad
king; we do not want him back," said the people.
"I know his
heart," said Suliman, "it is not all bad; it is tainted, but not
corrupt; perhaps he will repent and come back to us a good king."
When the beast heard
this, it touched him so much that he stopped tearing at his chains, and became
gentle. He let his keepers lead him away to the royal menagerie without hurting
them.
Life was very terrible
to the prince, now, but he began to see that he had brought all his sorrow on
himself, and he tried to bear it patiently. The worst to bear was the cruelty
of the keeper. At last, one night, this keeper was in great danger; a tiger got
loose, and attacked him. "Good enough! Let him die!" thought Prince
Cherry. But when he saw how helpless the keeper was, he repented, and sprang to
help. He killed the tiger and saved the keeper's life.
As he crouched at the
keeper's feet, a voice said, "Good actions never go unrewarded!" And
the terrible monster was changed into a pretty little white dog.
The keeper carried the
beautiful little dog to the court and told the story, and from then on, Cherry
was carefully treated, and had the best of everything. But in order to keep the
little dog from growing, the queen ordered that he should be fed very little,
and that was pretty hard for the poor prince. He was often half starved,
although so much petted.
One day he had carried
his crust of bread to a retired spot in the palace woods, where he loved to be,
when he saw a poor old woman hunting for roots, and seeming almost starved.
"Poor thing,"
he thought, "she is even hungrier than I;" and he ran up and dropped
the crust at her feet.
The woman ate it, and
seemed greatly refreshed.
Cherry was glad of
that, and he was running happily back to his kennel when he heard cries of distress,
and suddenly he saw some rough men dragging along a young girl, who was weeping
and crying for help. What was his horror to see that the young girl was Zelia!
Oh, how he wished he were the monster once more, so that he could kill the men
and rescue her! But he could do nothing except bark, and bite at the heels of
the wicked men. That could not stop them; they drove him off, with blows, and
carried Zelia into a palace in the wood.
Poor Cherry crouched by
the steps, and watched. His heart was full of pity and rage. But suddenly he
thought, "I was as bad as these men; I myself put Zelia in prison, and
would have treated her worse still, if I had not been prevented." The
thought made him so sorry and ashamed that he repented bitterly the evil he had
done.
Presently a window
opened, and Cherry saw Zelia lean out and throw down a piece of meat. He seized
it and was just going to devour it, when the old woman to whom he had given his
crust snatched it away and took him in her arms. "No, you shall not eat it,
you poor little thing," she said, "for every bit of food in that
house is poisoned."
At the same moment, a
voice said, "Good actions never go unrewarded!" And instantly Prince
Cherry was transformed into a little white dove.
With great joy, he flew
to the open palace window to seek out his Zelia, to try to help her. But though
he hunted in every room, no Zelia was to be found. He had to fly away, without
seeing her. He wanted more than anything else to find her, and stay near her,
so he flew out into the world, to seek her.
He sought her in many
lands, until one day, in a far eastern country, he found her sitting in a tent,
by the side of an old, white-haired hermit. Cherry was wild with delight. He
flew to her shoulder, caressed her hair with his beak, and cooed in her ear.
"You dear, lovely
little thing!" said Zelia. "Will you stay with me? If you will, I
will love you always."
"Ah, Zelia, see
what you have done!" laughed the hermit. At that instant, the white dove
vanished, and Prince Cherry stood there, as handsome and charming as ever, and
with a look of kindness and modesty in his eyes which had never been there
before. At the same time, the hermit stood up, his flowing hair changed to
shining gold, and his face became a lovely woman's face; it was the Fairy
Candide. "Zelia has broken your spell," she said to the Prince,
"as I meant she should, when you were worthy of her love."
Zelia and Prince Cherry
fell at the fairy's feet. But with a beautiful smile she bade them come to
their kingdom. In a trice, they were transported to the Prince's palace, where
King Suliman greeted them with tears of joy. He gave back the throne, with all
his heart, and King Cherry ruled again, with Zelia for his queen.
He wore the little gold
ring all the rest of his life, but never once did it have to prick him hard
enough to make his finger bleed.
There was once a farmer
who had a fine olive orchard. He was very industrious, and the farm always
prospered under his care. But he knew that his three sons despised the farm
work, and were eager to make wealth fast, through adventure.
When the farmer was
old, and felt that his time had come to die, he called the three sons to him
and said, "My sons, there is a pot of gold hidden in the olive orchard.
Dig for it, if you wish it."
The sons tried to get
him to tell them in what part of the orchard the gold was hidden; but he would
tell them nothing more.
After the farmer was
dead, the sons went to work to find the pot of gold; since they did not know
where the hiding-place was, they agreed to begin in a line, at one end of the
orchard, and to dig until one of them should find the money.
They dug until they had
turned up the soil from one end of the orchard to the other, round the
tree-roots and between them. But no pot of gold was to be found. It seemed as
if some one must have stolen it, or as if the farmer had been wandering in his
wits. The three sons were bitterly disappointed to have all their work for
nothing.
The next olive season,
the olive trees in the orchard bore more fruit than they had ever given; the
fine cultivating they had had from the digging brought so much fruit, and of so
fine a quality, that when it was sold it gave the sons a whole pot of gold!
And when they saw how
much money had come from the orchard, they suddenly understood what the wise
father had meant when he said, "There is gold hidden in the orchard; dig
for it."
If you ever go to the
beautiful city of New Orleans, somebody will be sure to take you down into the
old business part of the city, where there are banks and shops and hotels, and
show you a statue which stands in a little square there. It is the statue of a
woman, sitting in a low chair, with her arms around a child, who leans against
her. The woman is not at all pretty: she wears thick, common shoes, a plain
dress, with a little shawl, and a sun-bonnet; she is stout and short, and her
face is a square-chinned Irish face; but her eyes look at you like your
mother's.
Now there is something
very surprising about this statue: it was the first one that was ever made in
this country in honor of a woman. Even in old Europe there are not many
monuments to women, and most of the few are to great queens or princesses, very
beautiful and very richly dressed. You see, this statue in New Orleans is not
quite like anything else.
It is the statue of a
woman named Margaret. Her whole name was Margaret Haughery, but no one in New
Orleans remembers her by it, any more than you think of your dearest sister by
her full name; she is just Margaret. This is her story, and it tells why people
made a monument for her.
When Margaret was a
tiny baby, her father and mother died, and she was adopted by two young people
as poor and as kind as her own parents. She lived with them until she grew up.
Then she married, and had a little baby of her own. But very soon her husband
died, and then the baby died, too, and Margaret was all alone in the world. She
was poor, but she was strong, and knew how to work.
All day, from morning
until evening, she ironed clothes in a laundry. And every day, as she worked by
the window, she saw the little motherless children from the orphan asylum, near
by, working and playing about. After a while, there came a great sickness upon
the city, and so many mothers and fathers died that there were more orphans
than the asylum could possibly take care of. They needed a good friend, now.
You would hardly think, would you, that a poor woman who worked in a laundry
could be much of a friend to them? But Margaret was. She went straight to the
kind Sisters who had the asylum and told them she was going to give them part
of her wages and was going to work for them, besides. Pretty soon she had
worked so hard that she had some money saved from her wages. With this, she
bought two cows and a little delivery cart. Then she carried her milk to her
customers in the little cart every morning; and as she went, she begged the
left-over food from the hotels and rich houses, and brought it back in the cart
to the hungry children in the asylum. In the very hardest times that was often
all the food the children had.
A part of the money
Margaret earned went every week to the asylum, and after a few years that was
made very much larger and better. And Margaret was so careful and so good at
business that, in spite of her giving, she bought more cows and earned more money.
With this, she built a home for orphan babies; she called it her baby house.
After a time, Margaret
had a chance to get a bakery, and then she became a bread-woman instead of a
milk-woman. She carried the bread just as she had carried the milk, in her cart.
And still she kept giving money to the asylum. Then the great war came, our
Civil War. In all the trouble and sickness and fear of that time, Margaret
drove her cart of bread; and somehow she had always enough to give the starving
soldiers, and for her babies, besides what she sold. And despite all this, she
earned enough so that when the war was over she built a big steam factory for
her bread. By this time everybody in the city knew her. The children all over
the city loved her; the business men were proud of her; the poor people all
came to her for advice. She used to sit at the open door of her office, in a
calico gown and a little shawl, and give a good word to everybody, rich or
poor.
Then, by and by, one
day, Margaret died. And when it was time to read her will, the people found
that, with all her giving, she had still saved a great deal of money, and that
she had left every cent of it to the different orphan asylums of the
city,--each one of them was given something. Whether they were for white
children or black, for Jews, Catholics, or Protestants, made no difference; for
Margaret always said, "They are all orphans alike." And just think,
dears, that splendid, wise will was signed with a cross instead of a name, for
Margaret had never learned to read or write!
When the people of New
Orleans knew that Margaret was dead, they said, "She was a mother to the
motherless; she was a friend to those who had no friends; she had wisdom
greater than schools can teach; we will not let her memory go from us." So
they made a statue of her, just as she used to look, sitting in her own office
door, or driving in her own little cart. And there it stands to-day, in memory
of the great love and the great power of plain Margaret Haughery, of New
Orleans.
You know, dears, in the
old countries there are many fine stories about things which happened so very
long ago that nobody knows exactly how much of them is true. Ireland is like
that. It is so old that even as long ago as four thousand years it had people
who dug in the mines, and knew how to weave cloth and to make beautiful
ornaments out of gold, and who could fight and make laws; but we do not know
just where they came from, nor exactly how they lived. These people left us
some splendid stories about their kings, their fights, and their beautiful
women; but it all happened such a long time ago that the stories are mixtures
of things that really happened and what people said about them, and we don't
know just which is which. The stories are called legends. One of the prettiest
legends is the story I am going to tell you about the Dagda's harp.
It is said that there
were two quite different kinds of people in Ireland: one set of people with
long dark hair and dark eyes, called Fomorians--they carried long slender
spears made of golden bronze when they fought--and another race of people who
were golden-haired and blue- eyed, and who carried short, blunt, heavy spears
of dull metal.
The golden-haired
people had a great chieftain who was also a kind of high priest, who was called
the Dagda. And this Dagda had a wonderful magic harp. The harp was beautiful to
look upon, mighty in size, made of rare wood, and ornamented with gold and
jewels; and it had wonderful music in its strings, which only the Dagda could
call out. When the men were going out to battle, the Dagda would set up his
magic harp and sweep his hand across the strings, and a war song would ring out
which would make every warrior buckle on his armor, brace his knees, and shout,
"Forth to the fight!" Then, when the men came back from the battle,
weary and wounded, the Dagda would take his harp and strike a few chords, and
as the magic music stole out upon the air, every man forgot his weariness and
the smart of his wounds, and thought of the honor he had won, and of the
comrade who had died beside him, and of the safety of his wife and children.
Then the song would swell out louder, and every warrior would remember only the
glory he had helped win for the king; and each man would rise at the great
tables his cup in his hand, and shout "Long live the King!"
There came a time when
the Fomorians and the golden-haired men were at war; and in the midst of a
great battle, while the Dagda's hall was not so well guarded as usual, some of
the chieftains of the Fomorians stole the great harp from the wall, where it
hung, and fled away with it. Their wives and children and some few of their
soldiers went with them, and they fled fast and far through the night, until
they were a long way from the battlefield. Then they thought they were safe,
and they turned aside into a vacant castle, by the road, and sat down to a
banquet, hanging the stolen harp on the wall.
The Dagda, with two or
three of his warriors, had followed hard on their track. And while they were in
the midst of their banqueting, the door was suddenly burst open, and the Dagda
stood there, with his men. Some of the Fomorians sprang to their feet, but
before any of them could grasp a weapon, the Dagda called out to his harp on
the wall, "Come to me, O my harp!"
The great harp
recognized its master's voice, and leaped from the wall. Whirling through the
hall, sweeping aside and killing the men who got in its way, it sprang to its
master's hand. And the Dagda took his harp and swept his hand across the
strings in three great, solemn chords. The harp answered with the magic Music
of Tears. As the wailing harmony smote upon the air, the women of the Fomorians
bowed their heads and wept bitterly, the strong men turned their faces aside,
and the little children sobbed.
Again the Dagda touched
the strings, and this time the magic Music of Mirth leaped from the harp. And
when they heard that Music of Mirth, the young warriors of the Fomorians began
to laugh; they laughed till the cups fell from their grasp, and the spears
dropped from their hands, while the wine flowed from the broken bowls; they
laughed until their limbs were helpless with excess of glee.
Once more the Dagda
touched his harp, but very, very softly. And now a music stole forth as soft as
dreams, and as sweet as joy: it was the magic Music of Sleep. When they heard
that, gently, gently, the Fomorian women bowed their heads in slumber; the
little children crept to their mothers' laps; the old men nodded; and the young
warriors drooped in their seats and closed their eyes: one after another all
the Fomorians sank into sleep.
When they were all deep
in slumber, the Dagda took his magic harp, and he and his golden-haired
warriors stole softly away, and came in safety to their own homes again.
There was once a tailor
in Galway, and he started out on a journey to go to the king's court at Dublin.
He had not gone far
till he met a white horse, and he saluted him.
"God save
you," said the tailor.
"God save
you," said the horse. "Where are you going?"
"I am going to
Dublin," said the tailor, "to build a court for the king and to get a
lady for a wife, if I am able to do it." For, it seems the king had
promised his daughter and a great lot of money to any one who should be able to
build up his court. The trouble was, that three giants lived in the wood near
the court, and every night they came out of the wood and threw down all that
was built by day. So nobody could get the court built.
"Would you make me
a hole," said the old white garraun, "where I could go a-hiding
whenever the people are for bringing me to the mill or the kiln, so that they
won't see me; for they have me perished doing work for them."
"I'll do that,
indeed," said the tailor, "and welcome."
He brought his spade
and shovel, and he made a hole, and he said to the old white horse to go down
into it till he would see if it would fit him. The white horse went down into
the hole, but when he tried to come up again, he was not able.
"Make a place for
me now," said the white horse, "by which I'll come up out of the hole
here, whenever I'll be hungry."
"I will not,"
said the tailor; "remain where you are until I come back, and I'll lift
you up."
The tailor went forward
next day, and the fox met him.
"God save
you," said the fox.
"God save
you," said the tailor.
"Where are you
going," said the fox.
"I'm going to
Dublin, to try will I be able to make a court for the king."
"Would you make a
place for me where I'd go hiding?" said the fox. "The rest of the
foxes do be beating me, and they don't allow me to eat anything with
them."
"I'll do that for
you," said the tailor.
He took his axe and his
saw, and he made a thing like a crate, and he told the fox to get into it till
he would see whether it would fit him. The fox went into it, and when the
tailor got him down, he shut him in. When the fox was satisfied at last that he
had a nice place of it within, he asked the tailor to let him out, and the
tailor answered that he would not.
"Wait there until
I come back again," says he.
The tailor went forward
the next day, and he had not walked very far until he met a modder-alla; and
the lion greeted him.
"God save
you," said the lion.
"God save
you," said the tailor.
"Where are you
going?" said the lion.
"I'm going to
Dublin till I make a court for the king if I'm able to make it," said the
tailor.
"If you were to
make a plough for me," said the lion, "I and the other lions could be
ploughing and harrowing until we'd have a bit to eat in the harvest."
"I'll do that for
you," said the tailor.
He brought his axe and
his saw, and he made a plough. When the plough was made he put a hole in the
beam of it, and he said to the lion to go in under the plough till he'd see was
he any good of a ploughman. He placed the lion's tail in the hole he had made
for it, and then clapped in a peg, and the lion was not able to draw out his
tail again.
"Loose me out
now," said the lion, "and we'll fix ourselves and go ploughing."
The tailor said he
would not loose him out until he came back himself. He left him there then, and
he came to Dublin.
When he came to Dublin,
he got workmen and began to build the court. At the end of the day he had the
workmen put a great stone on top of the work. When the great stone was raised
up, the tailor put some sort of contrivance under it, that he might be able to
throw it down as soon as the giant would come as far as it. The workpeople went
home then, and the tailor went in hiding behind the big stone.
When the darkness of
the night was come, he saw the three giants arriving, and they began throwing
down the court until they came as far as the place where the tailor was in
hiding up above, and a man of them struck a blow of his sledge on the place
where he was. The tailor threw down the stone, and it fell on him and killed
him. They went home then and left all of the court that was remaining without
throwing it down, since a man of themselves was dead.
The tradespeople came
again the next day, and they were working until night, and as they were going
home the tailor told them to put up the big stone on the top of the work, as it
had been the night before. They did that for him, went home, and the tailor
went in hiding the same as he did the evening before.
When the people had all
gone to rest, the two giants came, and they were throwing down all that was
before them, and as soon as they began, they put two shouts out of them. The
tailor was going on manœuvring until he threw down the great stone, and it fell
upon the skull of the giant that was under him, and it killed him. There was
only the one giant left in it then, and he never came again until the court was
finished.
Then when the work was
over, the tailor went to the king and told him to give him his wife and his
money, as he had the court finished; and the king said he would not give him
any wife until he would kill the other giant, for he said that it was not by
his strength he killed the two giants before that, and that he would give him
nothing now until he killed the other one for him. Then the tailor said that he
would kill the other giant for him, and welcome; that there was no delay at all
about that.
The tailor went then
till he came to the place where the other giant was, and asked did he want a
servant-boy. The giant said he did want one, if he could get one who would do
everything that he would do himself.
"Anything that you
will do, I will do it," said the tailor.
They went to their
dinner then, and when they had it eaten, the giant asked the tailor "would
it come with him to swallow as much broth as himself, up out of its
boiling." The tailor said, "It will come with me to do that, but that
you must give me an hour before we begin on it." The tailor went out then,
and he got a sheep- skin, and he sewed it up till he made a bag of it, and he slipped
it down under his coat. He came in then and said to the giant to drink a gallon
of the broth himself first. The giant drank that up out of its boiling.
"I'll do that," said the tailor. He was going on until he had it all
poured into the skin, and the giant thought he had it drunk. The giant drank
another gallon then, and the tailor let another gallon down into the skin, but
the giant thought he was drinking it.
"I'll do a thing
now that it won't come with you to do," said the tailor.
"You will
not," said the giant. "What is it you would do?"
"Make a hole and
let out the broth again," said the tailor.
"Do it yourself
first," said the giant.
The tailor gave a prod
of the knife, and he let the broth out of the skin.
"Do that
you," said he.
"I will,"
said the giant, giving such a prod of the knife into his own stomach that he
killed himself. That is the way the tailor killed the third giant.
He went to the king
then, and desired him to send him out his wife and his money, for that he would
throw down the court again unless he should get the wife. They were afraid then
that he would throw down the court, and they sent the wife to him.
When the tailor was a
day gone, himself and his wife, they repented and followed him to take his wife
off him again. The people who were after him were following him till they came
to the place where the lion was, and the lion said to them: "The tailor
and his wife were here yesterday. I saw them going by, and if ye loose me now,
I am swifter than ye, and I will follow them till I overtake them." When
they heard that, they loosed out the lion.
The lion and the people
of Dublin went on, and they were pursuing him, until they came to the place
where the fox was, and the fox greeted them, and said: "The tailor and his
wife were here this morning, and if ye will loose me out, I am swifter than ye,
and I will follow them, and overtake them." They loosed out the fox then.
The lion and the fox
and the army of Dublin went on then, trying would they catch the tailor, and
they were going till they came to the place where the old white garraun was,
and the old white garraun said to them that the tailor and his wife were there
in the morning, and "Loose me out," said he; "I am swifter than
ye, and I'll overtake them." They loosed out the old white garraun then,
and the old white garraun, the fox, the lion, and the army of Dublin pursued
the tailor and his wife together, and it was not long till they came up with
him, and saw himself and the wife out before them.
When the tailor saw
them coming, he got out of the coach with his wife, and he sat down on the
ground.
When the old white
garraun saw the tailor sitting down on the ground, he said, "That's the
position he had when he made the hole for me, that I couldn't come up out of,
when I went down into it. I'll go no nearer to him."
"No!" said
the fox, "but that's the way he was when he was making the thing for me,
and I'll go no nearer to him."
"No!" says
the lion, "but that's the very way he had, when he was making the plough
that I was caught in. I'll go no nearer to him."
They all went from him
then and returned. The tailor and his wife came home to Galway.
One lovely summer morning,
just as the sun rose, two travelers started on a journey. They were both strong
young men, but one was a lazy fellow and the other was a worker.
As the first sunbeams
came over the hills, they shone on a great castle standing on the heights, as
far away as the eye could see. It was a wonderful and beautiful castle, all
glistening towers that gleamed like marble, and glancing windows that shone
like crystal. The two young men looked at it eagerly, and longed to go nearer.
Suddenly, out of the
distance, something like a great butterfly, of white and gold, swept toward
them. And when it came nearer, they saw that it was a most beautiful lady,
robed in floating garments as fine as cobwebs and wearing on her head a crown
so bright that no one could tell whether it was of diamonds or of dew. She
stood, light as air, on a great, shining, golden ball, which rolled along with
her, swifter than the wind. As she passed the travelers, she turned her face to
them and smiled.
"Follow me!"
she said.
The lazy man sat down
in the grass with a discontented sigh. "She has an easy time of it!"
he said.
But the industrious man
ran after the lovely lady and caught the hem of her floating robe in his grasp.
"Who are you, and whither are you going?" he asked.
"I am the Fairy of
Fortune," the beautiful lady said, "and that is my castle. You may
reach it to-day, if you will; there is time, if you waste none. If you reach it
before the last stroke of midnight, I will receive you there, and will be your
friend. But if you come one second after midnight, it will be too late."
When she had said this,
her robe slipped from the traveler's hand and she was gone.
The industrious man
hurried back to his friend, and told him what the fairy had said.
"The idea!"
said the lazy man, and he laughed; "of course, if a body had a horse there
would be some chance, but walk all that way? No, thank you!"
"Then
good-by," said his friend, "I am off." And he set out, down the
road toward the shining castle, with a good steady stride, his eyes straight
ahead.
The lazy man lay down
in the soft grass, and looked rather wistfully at the faraway towers. "If
I only had a good horse!" he sighed.
Just at that moment he
felt something warm nosing about at his shoulder, and heard a little whinny. He
turned round, and there stood a little horse! It was a dainty creature,
gentle-looking, and finely built, and it was saddled and bridled.
"Hola!" said
the lazy man. "Luck often comes when one isn't looking for it!" And
in an instant he had leaped on the horse, and headed him for the castle of
fortune. The little horse started at a fine pace, and in a very few minutes they
overtook the other traveler, plodding along on foot.
"How do you like
shank's mare?" laughed the lazy man, as he passed his friend.
The industrious man
only nodded, and kept on with his steady stride, eyes straight ahead.
The horse kept his good
pace, and by noon the towers of the castle stood out against the sky, much
nearer and more beautiful. Exactly at noon, the horse turned aside from the
road, into a shady grove on a hill, and stopped.
"Wise beast,"
said his rider; " `haste makes waste,' and all things are better in
moderation. I'll follow your example, and eat and rest a bit." He
dismounted and sat down in the cool moss, with his back against a tree. He had
a lunch in his traveler's pouch, and he ate it comfortably. Then he felt drowsy
from the heat and the early ride, so he pulled his hat over his eyes, and
settled himself for a nap. "It will go all the better for a little
rest," he said.
That was a sleep! He
slept like the seven sleepers, and he dreamed the most beautiful things you
could imagine. At last, he dreamed that he had entered the castle of fortune
and was being received with great festivities. Everything he wanted was brought
to him, and music played while fireworks were set off in his honor. The music
was so loud that he awoke. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and behold, the
fireworks were the very last rays of the setting sun, and the music was the
voice of the other traveler, passing the grove on foot!
"Time to be
off," said the lazy man, and looked about him for the pretty horse. No
horse was to be found. The only living thing near was an old, bony, gray
donkey. The man called, and whistled, and looked, but no little horse appeared.
After a long while he gave it up, and, since there was nothing better to do, he
mounted the old gray donkey and set out again.
The donkey was slow,
and he was hard to ride, but he was better than nothing; and gradually the lazy
man saw the towers of the castle draw nearer.
Now it began to grow
dark; in the castle windows the lights began to show. Then came trouble! Slower,
and slower, went the gray donkey; slower, and slower, till, in the very middle
of a pitch-black wood, he stopped and stood still. Not a step would he budge
for all the coaxing and scolding and beating his rider could give. At last the
rider kicked him, as well as beat him, and at that the donkey felt that he had
had enough. Up went his hind heels, and down went his head, and over it went
the lazy man on to the stony ground.
There he lay groaning
for many minutes, for it was not a soft place, I can assure you. How he wished
he were in a soft, warm bed, with his aching bones comfortable in blankets! The
very thought of it made him remember the castle of fortune, for he knew there
must be fine beds there. To get to those beds he was even willing to bestir his
bruised limbs, so he sat up and felt about him for the donkey.
No donkey was to be
found.
The lazy man crept
round and round the spot where he had fallen, scratched his hands on the
stumps, tore his face in the briers, and bumped his knees on the stones. But no
donkey was there. He would have lain down to sleep again, but he could hear now
the howls of hungry wolves in the woods; that did not sound pleasant. Finally,
his hand struck against something that felt like a saddle. He grasped it, thankfully,
and started to mount his donkey.
The beast he took hold
of seemed very small, and, as he mounted, he felt that its sides were moist and
slimy. It gave him a shudder, and he hesitated; but at that moment he heard a
distant clock strike. It was striking eleven! There was still time to reach the
castle of fortune, but no more than enough; so he mounted his new steed and
rode on once more. The animal was easier to sit on than the donkey, and the
saddle seemed remarkably high behind; it was good to lean against. But even the
donkey was not so slow as this; the new steed was slower than he. After a
while, however, he pushed his way out of the woods into the open, and there
stood the castle, only a little way ahead! All its windows were ablaze with
lights. A ray from them fell on the lazy man's beast, and he saw what he was
riding: it was a gigantic snail! a snail as large as a calf!
A cold shudder ran over
the lazy man's body, and he would have got off his horrid animal then and
there, but just then the clock struck once more. It was the first of the long,
slow strokes that mark mid- night! The man grew frantic when he heard it. He
drove his heels into the snail's sides, to make him hurry. Instantly, the snail
drew in his head, curled up in his shell, and left the lazy man sitting in a
heap on the ground!
The clock struck twice.
If the man had run for it, he could still have reached the castle, but,
instead, he sat still and shouted for a horse.
"A beast, a
beast!" he wailed, "any kind of a beast that will take me to the
castle!"
The clock struck three
times. And as it struck the third note, something came rustling and rattling
out of the darkness, something that sounded like a horse with harness. The lazy
man jumped on its back, a very queer, low back. As he mounted, he saw the doors
of the castle open, and saw his friend standing on the threshold, waving his
cap and beckoning to him.
The clock struck four
times, and the new steed began to stir; as it struck five, he moved a pace
forward; as it struck six, he stopped; as it struck seven, he turned himself
about; as it struck eight, he began to move backward, away from the castle!
The lazy man shouted,
and beat him, but the beast went slowly backward. And the clock struck nine.
The man tried to slide off, then, but from all sides of his strange animal
great arms came reaching up and held him fast. And in the next ray of moonlight
that broke the dark clouds, he saw that he was mounted on a monster crab!
One by one, the lights
went out, in the castle windows. The clock struck ten. Backward went the crab.
Eleven! Still the crab went backward. The clock struck twelve! Then the great
doors shut with a clang, and the castle of fortune was closed forever to the
lazy man.
What became of him and
his crab no one knows to this day, and no one cares. But the industrious man
was received by the Fairy of Fortune, and made happy in the castle as long as
he wanted to stay. And ever afterward she was his friend, helping him not only
to happiness for himself, but also showing him how to help others, wherever he
went.
A long time ago, there
was a boy named David, who lived in a country far east of this. He was good to look
upon, for he had fair hair and a ruddy skin; and he was very strong and brave
and modest. He was shepherd-boy for his father, and all day--often all
night--he was out in the fields, far from home, watching over the sheep. He had
to guard them from wild animals, and lead them to the right pastures, and care
for them.
By and by, war broke
out between the people of David's country and a people that lived near at hand;
these men were called Philistines, and the people of David's country were named
Israel. All the strong men of Israel went up to the battle, to fight for their
king. David's three older brothers went, but he was only a boy, so he was left
behind to care for the sheep.
After the brothers had
been gone some time, David's father longed very much to hear from them, and to
know if they were safe; so he sent for David, from the fields, and said to him,
"Take now for thy brothers an ephah of this parched corn, and these ten
loaves, and run to the camp, where thy brothers are; and carry these ten cheeses
to the captain of their thousand, and see how thy brothers fare, and bring me
word again." (An ephah is about three pecks.)
David rose early in the
morning, and left the sheep with a keeper, and took the corn and the loaves and
the cheeses, as his father had commanded him, and went to the camp of Israel.
The camp was on a
mountain; Israel stood on a mountain on the one side, and the Philistines stood
on a mountain on the other side; and there was a valley between them. David
came to the place where the Israelites were, just as the host was going forth
to the fight, shouting for the battle. So he left his gifts in the hands of the
keeper of the baggage, and ran into the army, amongst the soldiers, to find his
brothers. When he found them, he saluted them and began to talk with them.
But while he was asking
them the questions his father had commanded, there arose a great shouting and
tumult among the Israelites, and men came running back from the front line of
battle; everything became confusion. David looked to see what the trouble was,
and he saw a strange sight: on the hillside of the Philistines, a warrior was
striding forward, calling out something in a taunting voice; he was a gigantic
man, the largest David had ever seen, and he was all dressed in armor, that
shone in the sun: he had a helmet of brass upon his head, and he was armed with
a coat of mail, and he had greaves of brass upon his legs, and a target of
brass between his shoulders; his spear was so tremendous that the staff of it
was like a weaver's beam, and his shield so great that a man went before him,
to carry it.
"Who is
that?" asked David.
"It is Goliath, of
Gath, champion of the Philistines," said the soldiers about. "Every
day, for forty days, he has come forth, so, and challenged us to send a man
against him, in single combat; and since no one dares to go out against him
alone, the armies cannot fight." (That was one of the laws of warfare in
those times.)
"What!" said
David, "does none dare go out against him?"
As he spoke, the giant
stood still, on the hillside opposite the Israelitish host, and shouted his
challenge, scornfully. He said, "Why are ye come out to set your battle in
array? Am I not a Philistine, and ye servants of Saul? Choose you a man for
you, and let him come down to me. If he be able to fight with me, and to kill
me, then will we be your servants; but if I prevail against him, and kill him,
then shall ye be our servants, and serve us. I defy the armies of Israel this
day; give me a man, that we may fight together!"
When King Saul heard these
words, he was dismayed, and all the men of Israel, when they saw the man, fled
from him and were sore afraid. David heard them talking among themselves,
whispering and murmuring. They were saying, "Have ye seen this man that is
come up? Surely if any one killeth him that man will the king make rich;
perhaps he will give him his daughter in marriage, and make his family free in
Israel!"
David heard this, and
he asked the men if it were so. It was surely so, they said.
"But," said
David, "who is this Philistine, that he should defy the armies of the
living God?" And he was stirred with anger.
Very soon, some of the
officers told the king about the youth who was asking so many questions, and
who said that a mere Philistine should not be let defy the armies of the living
God. Immediately Saul sent for him. When David came before Saul, he said to the
king, "Let no man's heart fail because of him; thy servant will go and
fight with this Philistine."
But Saul looked at
David, and said, "Thou art not able to go against this Philistine, to
fight with him, for thou art but a youth, and he has been a man of war from his
youth."
Then David said to
Saul, "Once I was keeping my father's sheep, and there came a lion and a
bear, and took a lamb out of the flock; and I went out after the lion, and
struck him, and delivered the lamb out of his mouth, and when he arose against
me, I caught him by the beard, and struck him, and slew him! Thy servant slew
both the lion and the bear; and this Philistine shall be as one of them, for he
hath defied the armies of the living God. The Lord, who delivered me out of the
paw of the lion and out of the paw of the bear, he will deliver me out of the
hand of this Philistine."
"Go," said
Saul, "and the Lord be with thee!"
And he armed David with
his own armor, --he put a helmet of brass upon his head, and armed him with a
coat of mail. But when David girded his sword upon his armor, and tried to
walk, he said to Saul, "I cannot go with these, for I am not used to them."
And he put them off.
Then he took his staff
in his hand and went and chose five smooth stones out of the brook, and put
them in a shepherd's bag which he had; and his sling was in his hand; and he
went out and drew near to the Philistine.
And the Philistine came
on and drew near to David; and the man that bore his shield went before him.
And when the Philistine looked about and saw David, he disdained him, for David
was but a boy, and ruddy, and of a fair countenance. And he said to David,
"Am I a dog, that thou comest to me with a cudgel?" And with curses
he cried out again, "Come to me, and I will give thy flesh unto the fowls
of the air, and to the beasts of the field."
But David looked at
him, and answered, "Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and
with a shield; but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of
the armies of Israel, whom thou hast defied. This day will the Lord deliver
thee into my hand; and I will smite thee, and take thy head from thee, and I
will give the carcasses of the host of the Philistines this day unto the fowls
of the air, and to the wild beasts of the earth, that all the earth may know
that there is a God in Israel! And all this assembly shall know that the Lord
saveth not with sword and spear; for the battle is the Lord's, and he will give
you into our hands."
And then, when the
Philistine arose, and came, and drew nigh to meet David, David hasted, and ran
toward the army to meet the Philistine. And when he was a little way from him,
he put his hand in his bag, and took thence a stone, and put it in his sling,
and slung it, and smote the Philistine in the forehead, so that the stone sank
into his forehead; and he fell on his face to the earth.
And David ran, and
stood upon the Philistine, and took his sword, and drew it out of its sheath,
and slew him with it.
Then, when the
Philistines saw that their champion was dead, they fled. But the army of Israel
pursued them, and victory was with the men of Israel.
And after the battle,
David was taken to the king's tent, and made a captain over many men; and he
went no more to his father's house, to herd the sheep, but became a man, in the
king's service.
David had many fierce
battles to fight for King Saul against the enemies of Israel, and he won them
all. Then, later, he had to fight against the king's own soldiers, to save
himself, for King Saul grew wickedly jealous of David's fame as a soldier, and
tried to kill him. Twice, when David had a chance to kill the king, he let him
go safe; but even then, Saul kept on trying to take his life, and David was
kept away from his home and land as if he were an enemy.
But when King Saul
died, the people chose David for their king, because there was no one so brave,
so wise, or so faithful to God. King David lived a long time, and made his
people famous for victory and happiness; he had many troubles and many wars,
but he always trusted that God would help him, and he never deserted his own
people in any hard place.
After a battle, or when
it was a holiday, or when he was very thankful for something, King David used
to make songs, and sing them before the people. Some of these songs were so
beautiful that they have never been forgotten. After all these hundreds and
hundreds of years, we sing them still; we call them Psalms.
Often, after David had
made a song, his chief musician would sing with him, as the people gathered to
worship God. Sometimes the singers were divided into two great choruses, and
went to the service in two processions; then one chorus would sing a verse of
David's song, and the other procession would answer with the next, and then
both would sing together; it was very beautiful to hear. Even now, we sometimes
do that with the songs of David in our churches.
One of the Psalms that
everybody loves is a song that David made when he remembered the days before he
came to Saul's camp. He remembered the days and nights he used to spend in the
fields with the sheep, when he was just a shepherd boy; and he thought to
himself that God had taken care of him just as carefully as he used to care for
the little lambs. It is a beautiful song; I wish we knew the music that David
made for it, but we only know his words. I will tell it to you now, and then
you may learn it, to say for yourselves. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not
want.
He maketh me to lie
down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul;
he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art
with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table
before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my
cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and
mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of
the Lord for ever.
This is a legend about
a hermit who lived long ago. He lived high up on the mountain- x side in a tiny
cave; his food was roots and acorns, a bit of bread given by a peasant, or a
cheese brought by a woman who wanted his prayers; his work was praying, and
thinking about God. For forty years he lived so, preaching to the people,
praying for them, comforting them in trouble, and, most of all, worshiping in
his heart. There was just one thing he cared about: it was to make his soul so
pure and perfect that it could be one of the stones in God's great Temple of
Heaven.
One day, after the
forty years, he had a great longing to know how far along he had got with his
work,--how it looked to the Heavenly Father. And he prayed that he might be
shown a man--
"Whose soul in the heavenly grace had grown
To the selfsame measure as his own;
Whose treasure on the celestial shore
Could neither be less than his nor more."
As he looked up from his
prayer, a white-robed angel stood in the path before him. The hermit bowed
before the messenger with great gladness, for he knew that his wish was
answered. "Go to the nearest town," the angel said, "and there,
in the public square, you will find a mountebank (a clown) making the people
laugh for money. He is the man you seek, his soul has grown to the selfsame
stature as your own; his treasure on the celestial shore is neither less than
yours nor more."
When the angel had
faded from sight, the hermit bowed his head again, but this time with great
sorrow and fear. Had his forty years of prayer been a terrible mistake, and was
his soul indeed like a clown, fooling in the market-place? He knew not what to
think. Almost he hoped he should not find the man, and could believe that he
had dreamed the angel vision. But when he came, after a long, toilful walk, to
the village, and the square, alas! there was the clown, doing his silly tricks
for the crowd.
The hermit stood and
looked at him with terror and sadness, for he felt that he was looking at his
own soul. The face he saw was thin and tired, and though it kept a smile or a
grin for the people, it seemed very sad to the hermit. Soon the man felt the
hermit's eyes; he could not go on with his tricks. And when he had stopped and
the crowd had left, the hermit went and drew the man aside to a place where
they could rest; for he wanted more than anything else on earth to know what the
man's soul was like, because what it was, his was.
So, after a little, he
asked the clown, very gently, what his life was, what it had been. And the
clown answered, very sadly, that it was just as it looked,--a life of foolish
tricks, for that was the only way of earning his bread that he knew.
"But have you
never been anything different?" asked the hermit, painfully.
The clown's head sank
in his hands. "Yes, holy father," he said, "I have been
something else. I was a thief! I once belonged to the wickedest band of
mountain robbers that ever tormented the land, and I was as wicked as the
worst."
Alas! The hermit felt
that his heart was breaking. Was this how he looked to the Heavenly
Father,--like a thief, a cruel mountain robber? He could hardly speak, and the
tears streamed from his old eyes, but he gathered strength to ask one more
question. "I beg you," he said, "if you have ever done a single
good deed in your life, remember it now, and tell it to me;" for he
thought that even one good deed would save him from utter despair.
"Yes, one,"
the clown said, "but it was so small, it is not worth telling; my life has
been worthless."
"Tell me that
one!" pleaded the hermit.
"Once," said
the man, "our band broke into a convent garden and stole away one of the
nuns, to sell as a slave or to keep for a ransom. We dragged her with us over
the rough, long way to our mountain camp, and set a guard over her for the
night. The poor thing prayed to us so piteously to let her go! And as she
begged, she looked from one hard face to another with trusting, imploring eyes,
as if she could not believe men could be really bad. Father, when her eyes met
mine something pierced my heart! Pity and shame leaped up, for the first time,
within me. But I made my face as hard and cruel as the rest, and she turned
away, hopeless.
"When all was dark
and still, I stole like a cat to where she lay bound. I put my hand on her
wrist and whispered, `Trust me, and I will take you safely home.' I cut her
bonds with my knife, and she looked at me to show that she trusted. Father, by
terrible ways that I knew, hidden from the others, I took her safe to the
convent gate. She knocked; they opened; and she slipped inside. And, as she
left me, she turned and said, `God will remember.'
"That was all. I
could not go back to the old bad life, and I had never learned an honest way to
earn my bread. So I became a clown, and must be a clown until I die."
"No! no! my
son," cried the hermit, and now his tears were tears of joy. "God has
remembered; your soul is in his sight even as mine, who have prayed and
preached for forty years. Your treasure waits for you on the heavenly shore
just as mine does."
"As yours? Father,
you mock me!" said the clown.
But when the hermit
told him the story of his prayer and the angel's answer, the poor clown was
transfigured with joy, for he knew that his sins were forgiven. And when the
hermit went home to his mountain, the clown went with him. He, too, became a
hermit, and spent his time in praise and prayer.
Together they lived,
and worked, and helped the poor. And when, after two years, the man who had
been a clown died, the hermit felt that he had lost a brother holier than
himself.
For ten years more the
hermit lived in his mountain hut, thinking always of God, fasting and praying,
and doing no least thing that was wrong. Then, one day, the wish once more
came, to know how his work was growing, and once more he prayed that he might
see a being--
"Whose soul in the heavenly grace had grown
To the selfsame measure as his own;
Whose treasure on the celestial shore
Could neither be less than his nor more."
Once more his prayer was
answered. The angel came to him, and told him to go to a certain village on the
other side of the mountain, and to a small farm in it, where two women lived.
In them he should find two souls like his own, in God's sight.
When the hermit came to
the door of the little farm, the two women who lived there were overjoyed to
see him, for every one loved and honored his name. They put a chair for him on
the cool porch, and brought food and drink. But the hermit was too eager to
wait. He longed greatly to know what the souls of the two women were like, and
from their looks he could see only that they were gentle and honest. One was
old, and the other of middle age.
Presently he asked them
about their lives. They told him the little there was to tell: they had worked
hard always, in the fields with their husbands, or in the house; they had many
children; they had seen hard times,--sickness, sorrow; but they had never
despaired.
"But what of your
good deeds," the hermit asked,--"what have you done for God?"
"Very
little," they said, sadly, for they were too poor to give much. To be
sure, twice every year, when they killed a sheep for food, they gave half to
their poorer neighbors.
"That is very
good, very faithful," the hermit said. "And is there any other good
deed you have done?"
"Nothing,"
said the older woman, "unless, unless--it might be called a good
deed--" She looked at the younger woman, who smiled back at her.
"What?" said
the hermit.
Still the woman
hesitated; but at last she said, timidly, "It is not much to tell, father,
only this, that it is twenty years since my sister-in-law and I came to live
together in the house; we have brought up our families here; and in all the
twenty years there has never been a cross word between us, or a look that was
less than kind."
The hermit bent his
head before the two women, and gave thanks in his heart. "If my soul is as
these," he said, "I am blessed indeed."
And suddenly a great
light came into the hermit's mind, and he saw how many ways there are of
serving God. Some serve him in churches and in hermit's cells, by praise and
prayer; some poor souls who have been very wicked turn from their wickedness
with sorrow, and serve him with repentance; some live faithfully and gently in
humble homes, working, bringing up children, keeping kind and cheerful; some
bear pain patiently, for his sake. Endless, endless ways there are, that only
the Heavenly Father sees.
And so, as the hermit
climbed the mountain again, he thought,--
"As he saw the star-like glow
Of light, in the cottage windows far,
How many God's hidden servants are!"
[1] Adapted, with quotations, from the poem in The Hidden Servants, by
Francesca Alexander (Little, Brown & Co.).