HOW TO TELL STORIES
TO CHILDREN
AND SOME STORIES TO TELL
BY
SARA CONE BRYANT
LONDON
GEORGE G. HARRAP COMPANY
23 PORTSMOUTH STREET KINGSWAY W.C.
1915
THE RIVERSIDE LIMITED, EDINBURGH
GREAT BRITAIN
THE stories which are
given in the following pages are for the most part those which I have found to
be best liked by the children to whom I have told these and others. I have
tried to reproduce the form in which I actually tell them,--although that
inevitably varies with every repetition,--feeling that it would be of greater
value to another story-teller than a more closely literary form.
For the same reason, I
have confined my statements of theory as to method, to those which reflect my
own experience; my ``rules'' were drawn from introspection and retrospection,
at the urging of others, long after the instinctive method they exemplify had
become habitual.
These facts are the
basis of my hope that the book may be of use to those who have much to do with
children.
It would be impossible,
in the space of any pardonable preface, to name the teachers, mothers, and
librarians who have given me hints and helps during the past few years of
story-telling. But I cannot let these pages go to press without recording my
especial indebted- ness to the few persons without whose interested aid the
little book would scarcely have come to be. They are: Mrs Elizabeth Young
Rutan, at whose generous instance I first enlarged my own field of entertaining
story-telling to include hers, of educational narrative, and from whom I had
many valuable suggestions at that time; Miss Ella L. Sweeney, assistant
superintendent of schools, Providence, R.I., to whom I owe exceptional
opportunities for investigation and experiment; Mrs Root, children's librarian
of Providence Public Library, and Miss Alice M. Jordan, Boston Public Library,
children's room, to whom I am indebted for much gracious and efficient aid.
My thanks are due also
to Mr David Nutt for permission to make use of three stories from English Fairy
Tales, by Mr Joseph Jacobs, and Raggylug, from Wild Animals I have Known, by Mr
Ernest Thompson Seton; to Messrs Frederick A. Stokes Company for Five Little
White Heads, by Walter Learned, and for Bird Thoughts; to Messrs Kegan Paul,
Trench, Trübner Co. Ltd. for The Burning of the Ricefields, from Gleanings in
Buddha-Fields, by Mr Lafcadio Hearn; to Messrs H. R. Allenson Ltd. for three
stories from The Golden Windows, by Miss Laura E. Richards; and to Mr Seumas
McManus for Billy Beg and his Bull, from In Chimney Corners.
S. C. B.
The Story-teller's
Art--Recent Revival--The Difference between telling a Story and reading it
aloud--Some Reasons why the Former is more effective . . . .11
THE PURPOSE OF
STORY-TELLING IN SCHOOL
Its immediate Advantages to the Teacher-Its ulti- mate Gifts to the Child . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . .19
SELECTION OF STORIES TO
TELL
The Qualities Children like, and why--Qualities necessary for Oral
Delivery--Examples: The Three Bears, The Three Little Pigs, The Old Woman and
her Pig--Suggestions as to the Type of Story especially useful in the several
primary Grades-- Selected List of familiar Fairy Tales. . . . . .43
ADAPTATION OF STORIES
FOR TELLING
How to make a long Story short--How to fill out a short Story--General Changes
commonly desirable-- Examples: The Nürnberg Stove, by Ouida; The King of the
Golden River, by Ruskin; The Red Thread of Courage, The Elf and the
Dormouse--Analysis of Method. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .67
HOW TO TELL THE STORY
Essential Nature of the Story--Kind of Appreciation necessary--Suggestions for
gaining Mastery of Facts --Arrangement of Children--The Story-teller's Mood--A
few Principles of Method, Manner and Voice, from the psychological Point of
View. . .93
SOME SPECIFIC
SCHOOLROOM USES
Exercise in Retelling--Illustrations cut by the Children as Seat-work--Dramatic
Games--Influence of Games on Reading Classes. . . . . . . . . . 117
STORIES SELECTED AND
ADAPTED FOR TELLING
Nursery Rhymes . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 133
Five Little White
Heads. . . . . . . . . . . . 134
Bird Thoughts. . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 134
How we came to have
Pink Roses . . . . . . . . 135
Raggylug . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 135
The Golden Cobwebs . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 138
Why the Morning-Glory
climbs . . . . . . . . . 142
The Story of Little
Tavwots. . . . . . . . . . 143
The Pig Brother. . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 146
The Cake . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 148
The Pied Piper of
Hamelin Town . . . . . . . . 149
Why the Evergreen Trees
keep their Leaves in Winter. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156
The Star Dollars . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 159
The Lion and the Gnat.
. . . . . . . . . . . . 161
The Cat and the Parrot
. . . . . . . . . . . . 168
The Rat Princess . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 172
The Frog and the Ox. .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 175
The Fire-Bringer . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 176
The Burning of the
Ricefields. . . . . . . . . 179
The Story of Wylie . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 182
Little Daylight. . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 186
The Sailor Man . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 199
The Story of Jairus's
Daughter . . . . . . . . 201
Arthur and the Sword .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 204
Tarpeia. . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 208
The Buckwheat. . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 210
The Judgment of Midas.
. . . . . . . . . . . . 211
Why the Sea is salt. .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 213
Billy Beg and his Ball
. . . . . . . . . . . . 221
The Little Hero of
Haarlem . . . . . . . . . . 233
The Last Lesson. . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . 238
The Story of Christmas
. . . . . . . . . . . . 243
A short List of Books
in which the Story-teller will find Stories not too far from the Form in which
they are needed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247
Not long ago, I chanced
to open a magazine at a story of Italian life which dealt with a curious
popular custom. It told of the love of the people for the performances of a
strangely clad, periodically appearing old man who was a professional
story-teller. This old man repeated whole cycles of myth and serials of popular
history, holding his audience-chamber in whatever corner of the open court or
square he happened upon, and always surrounded by an eager crowd of listeners.
So great was the respect in which the story-teller was held, that any
interruption was likely to be resented with violence.
As I read of the
absorbed silence and the changing expressions of the crowd about the old man, I
was suddenly reminded of a company of people I had recently seen. They were
gathered in one of the parlours of a women's college, and their serious young
faces had, habitually, none of the childlike responsiveness of the Italian
populace; they were suggestive, rather, of a daily experience which precluded over-much
surprise or curiosity about anything. In the midst of the group stood a
frail-looking woman with bright eyes. She was telling a story, a children's
story, about a good and a bad little mouse.
She had been asked to
do that thing, for a purpose, and she did it, therefore. But it was easy to see
from the expressions of the listeners how trivial a thing it seemed to them.
That was at first. But
presently the room grew quieter, and yet quieter. The faces relaxed into amused
smiles, sobered in unconscious sympathy, finally broke in ripples of mirth. The
story-teller had come to her own.
The memory of the
college girls listening to the mouse-story brought other memories with it. Many
a swift composite view of faces passed before my mental vision, faces with the
child's look on them, yet not the faces of children. And of the occasions to
which the faces belonged, those were most vivid which were earliest in my
experience. For it was those early experiences which first made me realise the
modern possibilities of the old, old art of telling stories.
It had become a part of
my work, some years ago, to give English lectures on German literature. Many of
the members of my class were unable to read in the original the works with
which I dealt, and as these were modern works it was rarely possible to obtain
translations. For this reason, I gradually formed the habit of telling the
story of the drama or novel in question before passing to a detailed
consideration of it. I enjoyed this part of the lesson exceedingly, but it was
some time before I realised how much the larger part of the lesson it had
become to the class. They used--and they were mature women--to wait for the
story as if it were a sugarplum and they, children; and to grieve openly if it
were omitted. Substitution of reading from a translation was greeted with
precisely the same abatement of eagerness that a child shows when he has asked
you to tell a story, and you offer, instead, to ``read one from the pretty
book.'' And so general and constant were the tokens of enjoyment that there
could ultimately be no doubt of the power which the mere story-telling exerted.
The attitude of the
grown-up listeners did but illustrate the general difference between the effect
of telling a story and of reading one. Everyone who knows children well has
felt the difference. With few exceptions, children listen twice as eagerly to a
story told as to one read, and even a ``recitation'' or a so-called ``reading''
has not the charm for them that the person wields who can ``tell a story.'' And
there are sound reasons for their preference.
The great difference,
including lesser ones, between telling and reading is that the teller is free;
the reader is bound. The book in hand, or the wording of it in mind, binds the
reader. The story-teller is bound by nothing; he stands or sits, free to watch
his audience, free to follow or lead every changing mood, free to use body,
eyes, voice, as aids in expression. Even his mind is unbound, because he lets
the story come in the words of the moment, being so full of what he has to say.
For this reason, a story told is more spontaneous than one read, however well
read. And, consequently, the connection with the audience is closer, more
electric, than is possible when the book or its wording intervenes.
Beyond this advantage,
is the added charm of the personal element in story-telling. When you make a
story your own and tell it, the listener gets the story, plus your appreciation
of it. It comes to him filtered through your own enjoyment. That is what makes
the funny story thrice funnier on the lips of a jolly raconteur than in the
pages of a memoir. It is the filter of personality. Everybody has something of
the curiosity of the primitive man concerning his neighbour; what another has
in his own person felt and done has an especial hold on each one of us. The
most cultured of audiences will listen to the personal reminiscences of an
explorer with a different tingle of interest from that which it feels for a
scientific lecture on the results of the exploration. The longing for the
personal in experience is a very human longing. And this instinct or longing is
especially strong in children. It finds expression in their delight in tales of
what father or mother did when they were little, of what happened to
grandmother when she went on a journey, and so on, but it also extends to
stories which are not in themselves personal: which take their personal savour
merely from the fact that they flow from the lips in spontaneous, homely
phrases, with an appreciative gusto which suggests participation.
The greater ease in
holding the attention of children is, for teachers, a sufficient practical
reason for telling stories rather than reading them. It is incomparably easier
to make the necessary exertion of ``magnetism,'' or whatever it may be called,
when nothing else distracts the attention. One's eyes meet the children's gaze
naturally and constantly; one's expression responds to and initiates theirs
without effort; the connection is immediate. For the ease of the teacher, then,
no less than for the joy of the children, may the art of story- telling be
urged as pre-eminent over the art of reading.
It is a very old, a
very beautiful art. Merely to think of it carries one's imaginary vision to
scenes of glorious and touching antiquity. The tellers of the stories of which
Homer's Iliad was compounded; the transmitters of the legend and history which
make up the Gesta Romanorum; the travelling raconteurs whose brief heroic tales
are woven into our own national epic; the grannies of age-old tradition whose
stories are parts of Celtic folk-lore, of Germanic myth, of Asiatio
wonder-tales,-- these are but younger brothers and sisters to the generations
of story-tellers whose inventions are but vaguely outlined in resultant forms
of ancient literatures, and the names of whose tribes are no longer even
guessed. There was a time when story-telling was the chiefest of the arts of
entertainment; kings and warriors could ask for nothing better; serfs and
children were satisfied with nothing less. In all times there have been
occasional revivals of this pastime, and in no time has the art died out in the
simple human realms of which mothers are queens. But perhaps never, since the
really old days, has story-telling so nearly reached a recognised level of
dignity as a legitimate and general art of entertainment as now.
Its present popularity
seems in a way to be an outgrowth of the recognition of its educational value
which was given impetus by the German pedagogues of Froebel's school. That
recognition has, at all events, been a noticeable factor in educational
conferences of late. The function of the story is no longer considered solely
in the light of its place in the kindergarten; it is being sought in the first,
the second, and indeed in every standard where the children are still children.
Sometimes the demand for stories is made solely in the interests of literary
culture, sometimes in far ampler and vaguer relations, ranging from inculcation
of scientific fact to admonition of moral theory; but whatever the reason
given, the conclusion is the same: tell the children stories.
The average teacher has
yielded to the pressure, at least in theory. Cheerfully, as she has already
accepted so many modifications of old methods by ``new thought,'' she accepts
the idea of instilling mental and moral desiderata into the receptive pupil, viâ
the charming tale. But, confronted with the concrete problem of what
desideratum by which tale, and how, the average teacher sometimes finds her
cheerfulness displaced by a sense of inadequacy to the situation.
People who have always
told stories to children, who do not know when they began or how they do it;
whose heads are stocked with the accretions of years of fairyland- dwelling and
nonsense-sharing,--these cannot understand the perplexity of one to whom the
gift and the opportunity have not ``come natural.'' But there are many who can
understand it, personally and all too well. To these, the teachers who have not
a knack for story- telling, who feel as shy as their own youngest scholar at
the thought of it, who do not know where the good stories are, or which ones
are easy to tell, it is my earnest hope that the following pages will bring
something definite and practical in the way of suggestion and reference.
LET us first consider
together the primary matter of the aim in educational story-telling. On our
conception of this must depend very largely all decisions as to choice and
method; and nothing in the whole field of discussion is more vital than a just
and sensible notion of this first point. What shall we attempt to accomplish by
stories in the schoolroom? What can we reasonably expect to accomplish? And
what, of this, is best accomplished by this means and no other?
These are questions
which become the more interesting and practical because the recent access of
enthusiasm for stories in education has led many people to claim very wide and
very vaguely outlined territory for their possession, and often to lay heaviest
stress on their least essential functions. The most important instance of this
is the fervour with which many compilers of stories for school use have
directed their efforts solely toward illustration of natural phenomena.
Geology, zoology, botany, and even physics are taught by means of more or less
happily constructed narratives based on the simpler facts of these sciences.
Kindergarten teachers are familiar with such narratives: the little stories of
chrysalis-breaking, flower-growth, and the like. Now this is a perfectly proper
and practicable aim, but it is not a primary one. Others, to which at best this
is but secondary, should have first place and receive greatest attention.
What is a story,
essentially? Is it a textbook of science, an appendix to the geography, an
introduction to the primer of history? Of course it is not. A story is
essentially and primarily a work of art, and its chief function must be sought
in the line of the uses of art. Just as the drama is capable of secondary uses,
yet fails abjectly to realise its purpose when those are substituted for its real
significance as a work of art, so does the story lend itself to subsidiary
purposes, but claims first and most strongly to be recognised in its real
significance as a work of art. Since the drama deals with life in all its
parts, it can exemplify sociological theory, it can illustrate economic
principle, it can even picture politics; but the drama which does these things
only, has no breath of its real life in its being, and dies when the wind of
popular tendency veers from its direction. So, you can teach a child
interesting facts about bees and butterflies by telling him certain stories,
and you can open his eyes to colours and processes in nature by telling certain
others; but unless you do something more than that and before that, you are as
one who should use the Venus of Milo for a demonstration in anatomy.
The message of the
story is the message of beauty, as effective as that message in marble or
paint. Its part in the economy of life is to give joy. And the purpose and
working of the joy is found in that quickening of the spirit which answers
every perception of the truly beautiful in the arts of man. To give joy; in and
through the joy to stir and feed the life of the spirit: is not this the
legitimate function of the story in education?
Because I believe it to
be such, not because I ignore the value of other uses, I venture to push aside
all aims which seem secondary to this for later mention under specific heads.
Here in the beginning of our consideration I wish to emphasise this element alone.
A story is a work of art. Its greatest use to the child is in the everlasting
appeal of beauty by which the soul of man is constantly pricked to new hungers,
quickened to new perceptions and so given desire to grow.
The obvious practical
bearing of this is that story-telling is first of all an art of entertainment;
like the stage, its immediate purpose is the pleasure of the hearer,--his
pleasure, not his instruction, first.
Now the story-teller
who has given the listening children such pleasure as I mean may or may not
have added a fact to the content of their minds, she has inevitably added
something to the vital powers of their souls. She has given a wholesome
exercise to the emotional muscles of the spirit, has opened up new windows to
the imagination, and added some line or colour to the ideal of life and art
which is always taking form in the heart of a child. She has, in short,
accomplished the one greatest aim of story-telling,--to enlarge and enrich the
child's spiritual experience, and stimulate healthy reaction upon it.
Of course this result
cannot be seen and proved as easily and early as can the apprehension of a
fact. The most one can hope to recognise is its promise, and this is found in
the tokens of that genuine pleasure which is itself the means of
accomplishment. It is, then, the signs of right pleasure which the story-teller
must look to for her guide, and which it must be her immediate aim to evoke. As
for the recognition of the signs,--no one who has ever seen the delight of a
real child over a real story can fail to know the signals when given, or
flatter himself into belief in them when absent.
Intimately connected
with the enjoyment given are two very practically beneficial results which the
story-teller may hope to obtain, and at least one of which will be a kind of
reward to herself. The first is a relaxation of the tense schoolroom
atmosphere, valuable for its refreshing recreative power. The second result, or
aim, is not so obvious, but is even more desirable; it is this: story-telling
is at once one of the simplest and quickest ways of establishing a happy
relation between teacher and children, and one of the most effective methods of
forming the habit of fixed attention in the latter.
If you have never seen
an indifferent child aroused or a hostile one conquered to affection by a
beguiling tale, you can hardly appreciate the truth of the first statement; but
nothing is more familiar in the story-teller's experience. An amusing, but--to
me--touching experience recently reaffirmed in my mind this power of the story
to establish friendly relations.
My three-year-old
niece, who had not seen me since her babyhood, being told that Aunt Sara was
coming to visit her, somehow confused the expected guest with a more familiar
aunt, my sister. At sight of me, her rush of welcome relapsed into a puzzled
and hurt withdrawal, which yielded to no explanations or proffers of affection.
All the first day she followed me about at a wistful distance, watching me as
if I might at any moment turn into the well-known and beloved relative I ought
to have been. Even by undressing time I had not progressed far enough to be
allowed intimate approach to small sacred nightgowns and diminutive shirts. The
next morning, when I opened the door of the nursery where her maid was brushing
her hair, the same dignity radiated from the little round figure perched on its
high chair, the same almost hostile shyness gazed at me from the great
expressive eyes. Obviously, it was time for something to be done.
Disregarding my lack of
invitation, I drew up a stool, and seating myself opposite the small unbending
person, began in a conversational murmur: ``M--m, I guess those are
tingly-tanglies up there in that curl Lottie's combing; did you ever hear about
the tingly- tanglies? They live in little girls' hair, and they aren't any
bigger than that, and when anybody tries to comb the hair they curl both weeny
legs round, so, and hold on tight with both weeny hands, so, and won't let
go!'' As I paused, my niece made a queer little sound indicative of query
battling with reserve. I pursued the subject: ``They like best to live right
over a little girl's ear, or down in her neck, because it is easier to hang on,
there; tingly- tanglies are very smart, indeed.''
``What's ti-ly-ta-lies?''
asked a curious, guttural little voice.
I explained the nature
and genesis of tingly- tanglies, as revealed to me some decades before by my
inventive mother, and proceeded to develop their simple adventures. When next I
paused the small guttural voice demanded, ``Say more,'' and I joyously obeyed.
When the curls were all
curled and the last little button buttoned, my baby niece climbed hastily down
from her chair, and deliberately up into my lap. With a caress rare to her
habit she spoke my name, slowly and tentatively, ``An-ty Sai-ry?'' Then, in an
assured tone, ``Anty Sairy, I love you so much I don't know what to do!'' And,
presently, tucking a confiding hand in mine to lead me to breakfast, she
explained sweetly, ``I didn' know you when you comed las' night, but now I know
you all th' time!''
``Oh, blessed tale,''
thought I, ``so easy a passport to a confidence so desired, so complete!''
Never had the witchery of the story to the ear of a child come more closely
home to me. But the fact of the witchery was no new experience. The surrender
of the natural child to the story-teller is as absolute and invariable as that
of a devotee to the priest of his own sect.
This power is
especially valuable in the case of children whose natural shyness has been
augmented by rough environment or by the strangeness of foreign habit. And with
such children even more than with others it is also true that the story is a
simple and effective means of forming the habit of concentration, of fixed
attention; any teacher who deals with this class of children knows the
difficulty of doing this fundamental and indispensable thing, and the value of
any practical aid in doing it.
More than one instance
of the power of story- telling to develop attentiveness comes to my mind, but
the most prominent in memory is a rather recent incident, in which the actors
were boys and girls far past the child-stage of docility.
I had been asked to
tell stories to about sixty boys and girls of a club; the president warned me
in her invitation that the children were exceptionally undisciplined, but my
previous experiences with similar gatherings led me to interpret her words with
a moderation which left me totally unready for the reality. When I faced my
audience, I saw a squirming jumble of faces, backs of heads, and the various
members of many small bodies,--not a person in the room was paying the
slightest attention to me; the president's introduction could scarcely be said
to succeed in interrupting the interchange of social amenities which was in
progress, and which looked delusively like a free fight. I came as near stage
fright in the first minutes of that occasion as it is comfortable to be, and if
it had not been impossible to run away I think I should not have remained. But
I began, with as funny a tale as I knew, following the safe plan of not
speaking very loudly, and aiming my effort at the nearest children. As I went
on, a very few faces held intelligently to mine; the majority answered only
fitfully; and not a few of my hearers conversed with their neighbours as if I
were non- existent. The sense of bafflement, the futile effort, forced the
perspiration to my hands and face--yet something in the faces before me told me
that it was no ill-will that fought against me; it was the apathy of minds
without the power or habit of concentration, unable to follow a sequence of
ideas any distance, and rendered more restless by bodies which were probably
uncomfortable, certainly undisciplined.
The first story took
ten minutes. When I began a second, a very short one, the initial work had to
be done all over again, for the slight comparative quiet I had won had been
totally lost in the resulting manifestation of approval.
At the end of the
second story, the room was really orderly to the superficial view, but where I
stood I could see the small boy who deliberately made a hideous face at me each
time my eyes met his, the two girls who talked with their backs turned, the
squirms of a figure here and there. It seemed so disheartening a record of failure
that I hesitated much to yield to the uproarious request for a third story, but
finally I did begin again, on a very long story which for its own sake I wanted
them to hear.
This time the little
audience settled to attention almost at the opening words. After about five
minutes I was suddenly conscious of a sense of ease and relief, a familiar
restful feeling in the atmosphere; and then, at last, I knew that my audience
was ``with me,'' that they and I were interacting without obstruction. Absolutely
quiet, entirely unconscious of themselves, the boys and girls were responding
to every turn of the narrative as easily and readily as any group of story-bred
kindergarten children. From then on we had a good time together.
The process which took
place in that small audience was a condensed example of what one may expect in
habitual story-telling to a group of children. Once having had the attention
chained by crude force of interest, the children begin to expect something
interesting from the teacher, and to wait for it. And having been led step by
step from one grade of a logical sequence to another, their minds-- at first
beguiled by the fascination of the steps --glide into the habit of following
any logical sequence. My club formed its habit, as far as I was concerned, all
in one session; the ordinary demands of school procedure lengthen the process,
but the result is equally sure. By the end of a week in which the children have
listened happily to a story every day, the habit of listening and deducing has
been formed, and the expectation of pleasantness is connected with the opening
of the teacher's lips.
These two benefits are
well worth the trouble they cost, and for these two, at least, any teacher who
tells a story well may confidently look-- the quick gaining of a confidential
relation with the children, and the gradual development of concentration and
interested attention in them.
These are direct and
somewhat clearly discernible results, comfortably placed in a near future.
There are other aims, reaching on into the far, slow modes of psychological
growth, which must equally determine the choice of the story-teller's material
and inform the spirit of her work. These other, less immediately attainable
ends, I wish now to consider in relation to the different types of story by
which they are severally best served.
First, unbidden
claimant of attention, comes ...
No one can think of a
child and a story, without thinking of the fairy tale. Is this, as some would
have us believe, a bad habit of an ignorant old world? Or can the Fairy Tale
justify her popularity with truly edifying and educational results? Is she a
proper person to introduce here, and what are her titles to merit?
Oh dear, yes! Dame
Fairy Tale comes bearing a magic wand in her wrinkled old fingers, with one
wave of which she summons up that very spirit of joy which it is our chief
effort to invoke. She raps smartly on the door, and open sesames echo to every
imagination. Her red- heeled shoes twinkle down an endless lane of adventures,
and every real child's footsteps quicken after. She is the natural, own great-
grandmother of every child in the world, and her pocketfuls of treasures are
his by right of inheritance. Shut her out, and you truly rob the children of
something which is theirs; something marking their constant kinship with the
race-children of the past, and adapted to their needs as it was to those of the
generation of long ago! If there were no other criterion at all, it would be
enough that the children love the fairy tale; we give them fairy stories,
first, because they like them. But that by no means lessens the importance of
the fact that fairy tales are also good for them.
How good? In various
ways. First, perhaps, in their supreme power of presenting truth through the
guise of images. This is the way the race-child took toward wisdom, and it is
the way each child's individual instinct takes, after him. Elemental truths of
moral law and general types of human experience are presented in the fairy
tale, in the poetry of their images, and although the child is aware only of
the image at the time, the truth enters with it and becomes a part of his
individual experience, to be recognised in its relations at a later stage.
Every truth and type so given broadens and deepens the capacity of the child's
inner life, and adds an element to the store from which he draws his moral
inferences.
The most familiar
instance of a moral truth conveyed under a fairy-story image is probably the
story of the pure-hearted and loving girl whose lips were touched with the
wonderful power of dropping jewels with every spoken word, while her
stepsister, whose heart was infested with malice and evil desires, let ugly
toads fall from her mouth whenever she spoke. I mention the old tale because
there is probably no one of my readers who has not heard it in childhood, and
because there are undoubtedly many to whose mind it has often recurred in later
life as a sadly perfect presentment of the fact that ``out of the abundance of
the heart the mouth speaketh.'' That story has entered into the forming
consciousness of many of us, with its implications of the inevitable result of
visible evil from evil in the heart, and its revelation of the loathsomeness of
evil itself.
And no less truly than
this story has served to many as an embodiment of moral law has another
household tale stood for a type of common experience. How much the poorer
should we be, mentally, without our early prophecy of the ``ugly ducklings'' we
are to meet later in life!--those awkward offspring of our little human
duckyard who are mostly well kicked and buffeted about, for that very length of
limb and breadth of back which needs must be, to support swan's wings. The story
of the ugly duckling is much truer than many a bald statement of fact. The
English-speaking world bears witness to its verity in constant use of the title
as an identifying phrase: ``It is the old story of the ugly duckling,'' we say,
or ``He has turned out a real ugly duckling.'' And we know that our hearers
understand the whole situation.
The consideration of
such familiar types and expressions as that of the ugly duckling suggests
immediately another good reason for giving the child his due of fairy lore. The
reason is that to omit it is to deprive him of one important element in the
full appreciation of mature literature. If one thinks of it, one sees that
nearly all adult literature is made by people who, in their beginnings, were
bred on the wonder tale. Whether he will or no, the grown-up author must
incorporate into his work the tendencies, memories, kinds of feeling which were
his in childhood. The literature of maturity is, naturally, permeated by the
influence of the literature of childhood. Sometimes it is apparent merely in
the use of a name, as suggestive of certain kinds of experience; such are the
recurrences of reference to the Cinderella story. Sometimes it is an allusion
which has its strength in long association of certain qualities with certain
characters in fairydom--like the slyness of Brother Fox, and the cruelty of
Brother Wolf. Sometimes the association of ideas lies below the surface,
drawing from the hidden wells of poetic illusion which are sunk in childhood.
The man or woman whose infancy was nourished exclusively on tales adapted from
science-made- easy, or from biographies of good men and great, must remain
blind to these beauties of literature. He may look up the allusion, or identify
the reference, but when that is done he is but richer by a fact or two; there
is no remembered thrill in it for him, no savour in his memory, no suggestion
to his imagination; and these are precisely the things which really count.
Leaving out the fairy element is a loss to literary culture much as would be
the omission of the Bible or of Shakespeare. Just as all adult literature is
permeated by the influence of these, familiar in youth, so in less degree is it
transfused with the subtle reminiscences of childhood's commerce with the
wonder world.
To turn now from the
inner to the outer aspects of the old-time tale is to meet another cause of its
value to children. This is the value of its style. Simplicity, directness, and
virility characterise the classic fairy tales and the most memorable relics of
folklore. And these are three of the very qualities which are most seriously
lacking in much of the new writing for children, and which are always necessary
elements in the culture of taste. Fairy stories are not all well told, but the
best fairy stories are supremely well told. And most folk-tales have a
movement, a sweep, and an unaffectedness which make them splendid foundations
for taste in style.
For this, and for
poetic presentation of truths in easily assimilated form, and because it gives
joyous stimulus to the imagination, and is necessary to full appreciation of
adult literature, we may freely use the wonder tale.
Closely related to,
sometimes identical with, the fairy tale is the old, old source of children's
love and laughter.
Under this head I wish
to include all the merely funny tales of childhood, embracing the cumulative
stories like that of the old woman and the pig which would not go over the
stile. They all have a specific use and benefit, and are worth the repetition
children demand for them. Their value lies, of course, in the tonic and
relaxing properties of humour. Nowhere is that property more welcome or needed
than in the schoolroom. It does us all good to laugh, if there is no sneer nor
smirch in the laugh; fun sets the blood flowing more freely in the veins, and
loosens the strained cords of feeling and thought; the delicious shock of
surprise at every ``funny spot'' is a kind of electric treatment for the
nerves. But it especially does us good to laugh when we are children. Every
little body is released from the conscious control school imposes on it, and
huddles into restful comfort or responds gaily to the joke.
More than this, humour
teaches children, as it does their grown-up brethren, some of the facts and
proportions of life. What keener teacher is there than the kindly satire? What
more penetrating and suggestive than the humour of exaggerated statement of
familiar tendency? Is there one of us who has not laughed himself out of some
absurd complexity of over-anxiety with a sudden recollection of ``clever
Alice'' and her fate? In our household clever Alice is an old habituée, and her
timely arrival has saved many a situation which was twining itself about more
``ifs'' than it could comfortably support. The wisdom which lies behind true
humour is found in the nonsense tale of infancy as truly as in mature humour,
but in its own kind and degree. ``Just for fun'' is the first reason for the
humorous story; the wisdom in the fun is the second.
And now we come to
No other type of
fiction is more familiar to the teacher, and probably no other kind is the
source of so much uncertainty of feeling. The nature story is much used, as I
have noticed above, to illustrate or to teach the habits of animals and the
laws of plant-growth; to stimulate scientific interest as well as to increase
culture in scientific fact. This is an entirely legitimate object. In view of
its present preponderance, it is certainly a pity, however, that so few stories
are available, the accuracy of which, from this point of view, can be vouched
for. The carefully prepared book of to-day is refuted and scoffed at to-morrow.
The teacher who wishes to use story-telling chiefly as an element in nature
study must at least limit herself to a small amount of absolutely unquestioned
material, or else subject every new story to the judgment of an authority in
the line dealt with. This is not easy for the teacher at a distance from the
great libraries, and for those who have access to well-equipped libraries it is
a matter of time and thought.
It does not so greatly
trouble the teacher who uses the nature story as a story, rather than as a
test-book, for she will not be so keenly attracted toward the books prepared
with a didactic purpose. She will find a good gift for the child in nature
stories which are stories, over and above any stimulus to his curiosity about
fact. That good gift is a certain possession of all good fiction.
One of the best things
good fiction does for any of us is to broaden our comprehension of other lots
than our own. The average man or woman has little opportunity actually to live
more than one kind of life. The chances of birth, occupation, family ties,
determine for most of us a line of experience not very inclusive and but little
varied; and this is a natural barrier to our complete understanding of others,
whose life-line is set at a different angle. It is not possible wholly to
sympathise with emotions engendered by experience which one has never had. Yet we
all long to be broad in sympathy and inclusive in appreciation; we long,
greatly, to know the experience of others. This yearning is probably one of the
good but misconceived appetites so injudiciously fed by the gossip of the daily
press. There is a hope, in the reader, of getting for the moment into the lives
of people who move in wholly different sets of circumstances. But the relation
of dry facts in newspapers, however tinged with journalistic colour, helps very
little to enter such other life. The entrance has to be by the door of the
imagination, and the journalist is rarely able to open it for us. But there is
a genius who can open it. The author who can write fiction of the right sort
can do it; his is the gift of seeing inner realities, and of showing them to
those who cannot see them for themselves. Sharing the imaginative vision of the
story-writer, we can truly follow out many other roads of life than our own.
The girl on a lone country farm is made to understand how a girl in a city
sweating- den feels and lives; the London exquisite realises the life of a
Californian ranchman; royalty and tenement dwellers become acquainted, through
the power of the imagination working on experience shown in the light of a
human basis common to both. Fiction supplies an element of culture,--that of
the sympathies, which is invaluable. And the beginnings of this culture, this
widening and clearing of the avenues of human sympathy, are especially easily
made with children in the nature story.
When you begin, ``There
was once a little furry rabbit,''[1] the child's curiosity is awakened by the
very fact that the rabbit is not a child, but something of a different species
altogether. ``Now for something new and adventuresome,'' says his expectation,
``we are starting off into a foreign world.'' He listens wide-eyed, while you
say, ``and he lived in a warm, cosy nest, down under the long grass with his
mother''-- how delightful, to live in a place like that; so different from
little boys' homes!--``his name was Raggylug, and his mother's name was Molly
Cottontail. And every morning, when Molly Cottontail went out to get their
food, she said to Raggylug, `Now, Raggylug, remember you are only a baby
rabbit, and don't move from the nest. No matter what you hear, no matter what
you see, don't you move!' ''--all this is different still, yet it is familiar,
too; it appears that rabbits are rather like folks. So the tale proceeds, and
the little furry rabbit passes through experiences strange to little boys, yet
very like little boys' adventures in some respects; he is frightened by a
snake, comforted by his mammy, and taken to a new house, under the long grass a
long way off. These are all situations to which the child has a key. There is
just enough of strangeness to entice, just enough of the familiar to relieve
any strain. When the child has lived through the day's happenings with
Raggylug, the latter has begun to seem veritably a little brother of the grass
to him. And because he has entered imaginatively into the feelings and fate of
a creature different from himself, he has taken his first step out into the
wide world of the lives of others.
It may be a recognition
of this factor and its value which has led so many writers of nature stories
into the error of over-humanising their four-footed or feathered heroes and
heroines. The exaggeration is unnecessary, for there is enough community of lot
suggested in the sternest scientific record to constitute a natural basis for
sympathy on the part of the human animal. Without any falsity of presentation
whatever, the nature story may be counted on as a help in the beginnings of
culture of the sympathies. It is not, of course, a help confined to the powers
of the nature story; all types of story share in some degree the powers of
each. But each has some especial virtue in dominant degree, and the nature
story is, on this ground, identified with the thought given.
The nature story shares
its influence especially with
As the one widens the
circle of connection with other kinds of life, the other deepens the sense of
relation to past lives; it gives the sense of background, of the close and
endless connection of generation with generation. A good historical story
vitalises the conception of past events and brings their characters into
relation with the present. This is especially true of stories of things and
persons in the history of our own race. They foster race-consciousness, the
feeling of kinship and community of blood. It is this property which makes the
historical story so good an agent for furthering a proper national pride in
children. Genuine patriotism, neither arrogant nor melodramatic, is so
generally recognised as having its roots in early training that I need not dwell
on this possibility, further than to note its connection with the instinct of
hero-worship which is quick in the healthy child. Let us feed that hunger for
the heroic which gnaws at the imagination of every boy and of more girls than
is generally admitted. There have been heroes in plenty in the world's
records,--heroes of action, of endurance, of decision, of faith. Biographical
history is full of them. And the deeds of these heroes are every one a story.
We tell these stories, both to bring the great past into its due relation with
the living present, and to arouse that generous admiration and desire for
emulation which is the source of so much inspiration in childhood. When these
stories are tales of the doings and happenings of our own heroes, the strong
men and women whose lives are a part of our own country's history, they serve
the double demands of hero-worship and patriotism. Stories of wise and honest
statesmanship, of struggle with primitive conditions, of generous love and
sacrifice, and--in some measure--of physical courage, form a subtle and
powerful influence for pride in one's people, the intimate sense of kinship
with one's own nation, and the desire to serve it in one's own time.
It is not particularly
useful to tell batches of unrelated anecdote. It is much more profitable to
take up the story of a period and connect it with a group of interesting
persons whose lives affected it or were affected by it, telling the stories of
their lives, or of the events in which they were concerned, as ``true
stories.'' These biographical stories must, usually, be adapted for use. But
besides these there is a certain number of pure stories--works of art--which
already exist for us, and which illuminate facts and epochs almost without need
of sidelights. Such may stand by themselves, or be used with only enough
explanation to give background. Probably the best story of this kind known to
lovers of modern literature is Daudet's famous La Dernière Classe.[1]
The historical story,
to recapitulate, gives a sense of the reality and humanness of past events, is
a valuable aid in patriotic training, and stirs the desire of emulating
goodness and wisdom.
THERE is one picture
which I can always review, in my own collection of past scenes, though many a
more highly coloured one has been irrevocably curtained by the folds of
forgetfulness. It is the picture of a little girl, standing by an old-fashioned
marble-topped dressing table in a pink, sunny room. I can never see the little
girl's face, because, somehow, I am always looking down at her short skirts or
twisting my head round against the hand which patiently combs her stubborn
curls. But I can see the brushes and combs on the marble table quite plainly,
and the pinker streaks of sun on the pink walls. And I can hear. I can hear a
low, wonder-working voice which goes smoothly on and on, as the fingers run up
the little girl's locks or stroke the hair into place on her fore head. The
voice says, ``And little Goldilocks came to a little bit of a house. And she
opened the door and went in. It was the house where three Bears lived; there
was a great Bear, a little Bear, and a middle-sized Bear; and they had gone out
for a walk. Goldilocks went in, and she saw''--the little girl is very still;
she would not disturb that story by so much as a loud breath; but presently the
comb comes to a tangle, pulls,--and the little girl begins to squirm. Instantly
the voice becomes impressive, mysterious: ``she went up to the table, and there
were three plates of porridge. She tasted the first one''--the little girl
swallows the breath she was going to whimper with, and waits--'' and it was too
hot! She tasted the next one, and that was too hot. Then she tasted the little
bit of a plate, and that--was--just--right!''
How I remember the
delightful sense of achievement which stole into the little girl's veins when
the voice behind her said ``just right.'' I think she always chuckled a little,
and hugged her stomach. So the story progressed, and the little girl got
through her toilet without crying, owing to the wonder-working voice and its
marvellous adaptation of climaxes to emergencies. Nine times out of ten, it was
the story of The Three Bears she demanded when, with the appearance of brush
and comb, the voice asked, ``Which story shall mother tell?''
It was a memory of the
little girl in the pink room which made it easy for me to understand some other
children's preferences when I recently had occasion to inquire about them. By
asking many individual children which story of all they had heard they liked
best, by taking votes on the best story of a series, after telling it, and by
getting some obliging teachers to put similar questions to their pupils, I
found three prime favourites common to a great many children of about the
kindergarten age. They were The Three Bears, Three Little Pigs, and The Little
Pig that wouldn't go over the Stile.
Some of the teachers
were genuinely disturbed because the few stories they had introduced merely for
amusement had taken so pre- eminent a place in the children's affection over
those which had been given seriously. It was of no use, however, to suggest
substitutes. The children knew definitely what they liked, and though they
accepted the recapitulation of scientific and moral stories with polite
approbation, they returned to the original answer at a repetition of the
question.
Inasmuch as the
slightest of the things we hope to do for children by means of stories is quite
impossible unless the children enjoy the stories, it may be worth our while to
consider seriously these three which they surely do enjoy, to see what common
qualities are in them, explanatory of their popularity, by which we may test
the probable success of other stories we wish to tell.
Here they are,--three
prime favourites of proved standing.
Once upon a time there
were three little pigs, who went from home to seek their fortune. The first
that went off met a man with a bundle of straw, and said to him:--
``Good man, give me
that straw to build me a house.''
The man gave the straw,
and the little pig built his house with it. Presently came along a wolf, and
knocked at the door, and said:--
``Little pig, little
pig, let me come in.''
But the pig answered:--
``No, no, by the hair
of my chiny-chin-chin.''
So the wolf said:--
``Then I'll huff, and
I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in.''
So he huffed, and he
puffed, and he blew his house in, and ate up the little pig.
The second little pig
met a man with a bundle of furze, and said:--
``Good man, give me
that furze to build me a house.''
The man gave the furze,
and the pig built his house. Then once more came the wolf, and said:
``Little pig, little
pig, let me come in.''
`` No, no, by the hair
of my chiny-chin-chin.''
``Then I'll puff, and
I'll huff, and I'll blow your house in.''
So he huffed, and he
puffed, and he puffed and he huffed, and at last he blew the house in, and ate
up the little pig.
The third little pig
met a man with a load of bricks, and said:--
``Good man, give me
those bricks to build me a house with.''
The man gave the
bricks, and he built his house with them. Again the wolf came, and said:--
``Little pig, little
pig, let me come in.''
``No, no, by the hair
of my chiny-chin-chin.''
``Then I'll huff, and
I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in.''
So he huffed, and he
puffed, and he huffed, and he puffed, and he puffed and huffed; but he could not
get the house down. Finding that he could not, with all his huffing and
puffing, blow the house down, he said:--
``Little pig, I know
where there is a nice field of turnips.''
``Where?'' said the
little pig.
``Oh, in Mr Smith's
field, and if you will be ready to-morrow morning we will go together, and get
some for dinner.''
``Very well,'' said the
little pig. ``What time do you mean to go?''
``Oh, at six o'clock.''
So the little pig got
up at five, and got the turnips before the wolf came crying:--
``Little pig, are you
ready?''
The little pig said:
``Ready! I have been and come back again, and got a nice potful for dinner.''
The wolf felt very
angry at this, but thought that he would be a match for the little pig somehow
or other, so he said:--
``Little pig, I know
where there is a nice apple-tree.''
``Where?'' said the
pig.
``Down at
Merry-garden,'' replied the wolf, ``and if you will not deceive me I will come
for you, at five o'clock to-morrow, and get some apples.''
The little pig got up
next morning at four o'clock, and went off for the apples, hoping to get back
before the wolf came; but it took long to climb the tree, and just as he was
coming down from it, he saw the wolf coming. When the wolf came up he said:--
``Little pig, what! are
you here before me? Are they nice apples?''
``Yes, very,'' said the
little pig. ``I will throw you down one.''
And he threw it so far
that, while the wolf was gone to pick it up, the little pig jumped down and ran
home. The next day the wolf came again, and said to the little pig:--
``Little pig, there is
a fair in town this afternoon; will you go?''
``Oh yes,'' said the
pig, ``I will go; what time?''
``At three,'' said the
wolf. As usual the little pig went off before the time, and got to the fair,
and bought a butter-churn, which he was rolling home when he saw the wolf
coming. So he got into the churn to hide, and in so doing turned it round, and
it rolled down the hill with the pig in it, which frightened the wolf so much
that he ran home without going to the fair. He went to the little pig's house,
and told him how frightened he had been by a great round thing which came past
him down the hill. Then the little pig said.--
``Ha! ha! I frightened
you, then!''
Then the wolf was very
angry indeed, and tried to get down the chimney in order to eat up the little
pig. When the little pig saw what he was about, he put a pot full of water on
the blazing fire, and, just as the wolf was coming down, he took off the cover,
and in fell the wolf. Quickly the little pig clapped on the cover, and when the
wolf was boiled ate him for supper.
Once upon a time there
were Three Bears, who lived together in a house of their own, in a wood. One of
them was a Little Small Wee Bear, and one was a Middle-sized Bear, and the
other was a Great Huge Bear. They had each a pot for their porridge,--a little
pot for the Little Small Wee Bear, and a middle-sized pot for the Middle-sized
Bear, and a great pot for the Great Huge Bear. And they had each a chair to sit
in,--a little chair for the Little Small Wee Bear, and a middle-sized chair for
the Middle-sized Bear, and a great chair for the Great Huge Bear. And they had
each a bed to sleep in,--a little bed for the Little Small Wee Bear, and a
middle-sized bed for the Middle-sized Bear, and a great bed for the Great Huge
Bear.
One day, after they had
made the porridge for their breakfast, and poured it into their porridge-pots,
they walked out into the wood while the porridge was cooling, that they might
not burn their mouths, by beginning too soon to eat it. And while they were
walking, a little girl named Goldilocks came to the house. She had never seen
the little house before, and it was such a strange little house that she forgot
all the things her mother had told her about being polite: first she looked in
at the window, and then she peeped in at the keyhole; and seeing nobody in the
house, she lifted the latch. The door was not fastened, because the Bears were
good Bears, who did nobody any harm, and never suspected that anybody would
harm them. So Goldilocks opened the door, and went in; and well pleased she was
when she saw the porridge on the table. If Goldilocks had remembered what her
mother had told her, she would have waited till the Bears came home, and then,
perhaps, they would have asked her to breakfast; for they were good Bears--a
little rough, as the manner of Bears is, but for all that very good-natured and
hospitable. But Goldilocks forgot, and set about helping herself.
So first she tasted the
porridge of the Great Huge Bear, and that was too hot. And then she tasted the
porridge of the Middle-sized Bear, and that was too cold. And then she went to
the porridge of the Little Small Wee Bear, and tasted that: and that was
neither too hot nor too cold, but just right; and she liked it so well, that
she ate it all up.
Then Goldilocks sat
down in the chair of the Great Huge Bear, and that was too hard for her. And
then she sat down in the chair of the Middle-sized Bear, and that was too soft
for her. And then she sat down in the chair of the Little Small Wee Bear, and
that was neither too hard nor too soft, but just right. So she seated herself
in it, and there she sat till the bottom of the chair came out, and down she
came, plump upon the ground.
Then Goldilocks went
upstairs into the bed- chamber in which the Three Bears slept. And first she
lay down upon the bed of the Great Huge Bear; but that was too high at the head
for her. And next she lay down upon the bed of the Middle-sized Bear, and that
was too high at the foot for her. And then she lay down upon the bed of the
Little Small Wee Bear; and that was neither too high at the head nor at the
foot, but just right. So she covered herself up comfortably, and lay there till
she fell fast asleep.
By this time the Three
Bears thought their porridge would be cool enough; so they came home to
breakfast. Now Goldilocks had left the spoon of the Great Huge Bear standing in
his porridge.
``SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT
MY PORRIDGE!'' said the Great Huge Bear, in his great, rough, gruff voice. And
when the Middle-sized Bear looked at his, he saw that the spoon was standing in
it too.
``SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT
MY PORRIDGE!'' said the Middle-sized Bear, in his middle-sized voice.
Then the Little Small
Wee Bear looked at his, and there was the spoon in the porridge- pot, but the
porridge was all gone.
``SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT
MY PORRIDGE, AND HAS EATEN IT ALL UP!'' said the Little Small Wee Bear, in his
little, small, wee voice.
Upon this, the Three
Bears, seeing that someone had entered their house, and eaten up the Little
Small Wee Bear's breakfast, began to look about them. Now Goldilocks had not
put the hard cushion straight when she rose from the chair of the Great Huge
Bear.
``SOMEBODY HAS BEEN
SITTING IN MY CHAIR!'' said the Great Huge Bear, in his great, rough, gruff
voice.
And Goldilocks had
crushed down the soft cushion of the Middle-sized Bear.
``SOMEBODY HAS BEEN
SITTINGS IN MY CHAIR!'' said the Middle-sized Bear, in his middle-sized voice.
And you know what
Goldilocks had done to the third chair.
``SOMEBODY HAS BEEN
SITTING IN MY CHAIR AND HAS SAT THE BOTTOM OUT OF IT!'' said the Little Small
Wee Bear, in his little, small, wee voice.
Then the Three Bears
thought it necessary that they should make further search; so they went
upstairs into their bed-chamber. Now Goldilocks had pulled the pillow of the
Great Huge Bear out of its place.
``SOMEBODY HAS BEEN
LYING IN MY BED!'' said the Great Huge Bear, in his great, rough, gruff voice.
And Goldilocks had
pulled the bolster of the Middle-sized Bear out of its place.
``SOMEBODY HAS BEEN
LYING IN MY BED!'' said the Middle-sized Bear, in his middle-sized voice.
And when the Little
Small Wee Bear came to look at his bed, there was the bolster in its place; and
the pillow in its place upon the bolster; and upon the pillow was the shining,
yellow hair of little Goldilocks!
``SOMEBODY HAS BEEN
LYING IN MY BED,-- AND HERE SHE IS!'' said the Little Small Wee Bear, in his
little, small, wee voice.
Goldilocks had heard in
her sleep the great, rough, gruff voice of the Great Huge Bear; but she was so
fast asleep that it was no more to her than the roaring of wind or the rumbling
of thunder. And she had heard the middle-sized voice of the Middle-sized Bear,
but it was only as if she had heard someone speaking in a dream. But when she
heard the little, small, wee voice of the Little Small Wee Bear, it was so sharp,
and so shrill, that it awakened her at once. Up she started, and when she saw
the Three Bears on one side of the bed, she tumbled herself out at the other,
and ran to the window. Now the window was open, because the Bears, like good,
tidy Bears as they were, always opened their bed-chamber window when they got
up in the morning.
Out little Goldilocks
jumped, and ran away home to her mother, as fast as ever she could.
It happened one day
that as an old woman was sweeping her house she found a little crooked
sixpence. ``What,'' said she, ``shall I do with this little sixpence? I will go
to market, and buy a little pig.''
On the way home she
came to a stile; but the piggy wouldn't go over the stile.
So she left the piggy
and went on a little further, till she met a dog. She said to him, ``Dog, dog,
bite pig; piggy won't go over the stile; and I sha'n't get home to-night.'' But
the dog wouldn't bite piggy.
A little further on she
met a stick. So she said: ``Stick! stick! beat dog I dog won't bite pig; piggy
won't go over the stile; and I sha'n't get home to-night.'' But the stick
wouldn't beat the dog.
A little further on she
met a fire. So she said: ``Fire! fire! burn stick! stick won't beat dog; dog
won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I sha'n't get home
to-night.'' But the fire wouldn't burn the stick.
A little further on she
met some water. So she said: ``Water! water! quench fire; fire won't burn
stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the
stile; and I sha'n't get home to-night.'' But the water wouldn't quench the
fire.
A little further on she
met an ox. So she said: ``Ox! ox! drink water; water won't quench fire; fire
won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get
over the stile; and I sha'n't get home to-night.'' But the ox wouldn't drink
the water.
A little further on she
met a butcher. So she said: ``Butcher! butcher! kill ox; ox won't drink water;
water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't
bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I sha'n't get home to-night.''
But the butcher wouldn't kill the ox.
A little further on she
met a rope. So she said: ``Rope! rope! hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox
won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't
beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I sha'n't get
home to- night.'' But the rope wouldn't hang the butcher.
A little further on she
met a rat. So she said: ``Rat! rat! gnaw rope; rope won't hang butcher; butcher
won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn
stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the
stile; and I sha'n't get home to- night.'' But the rat wouldn't gnaw the rope.
A little further on she
met a cat. So she said: ``Cat! cat! kill rat; rat won't gnaw rope; rope won't
hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench
fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy
won't get over the stile; and I sha'n't get home to-night.'' But the cat said
to her, ``If you will go to yonder cow, and fetch me a saucer of milk, I will
kill the rat.'' So away went the old woman to the cow.
But the cow refused to
give the milk unless the old woman first gave her a handful of hay. So away
went the old woman to the haystack; and she brought the hay to the cow.
When the cow had eaten
the hay, she gave the old woman the milk; and away she went with it in a saucer
to the cat.
As soon as it had
lapped up the milk, the cat began to kill the rat; the rat began to gnaw the
rope; the rope began to hang the butcher; the butcher began to kill the ox; the
ox began to drink the water; the water began to quench the fire; the fire began
to burn the stick; the stick began to beat the dog; the dog began to bite the
pig; the little pig in a fright jumped over the stile; and so the old woman did
get home that night.
The briefest
examination of these three stories reveals the fact that one attribute is
beyond dispute in each. Something happens, all the time. Every step in each
story is an event. There is no time spent in explanation, description, or
telling how people felt; the stories tell what people did, and what they said.
And the events are the links of a sequence of the closest kind; in point of
time and of cause they follow as immediately as it is possible for events to
follow. There are no gaps, and no complications of plot requiring a return on
the road.
A second common
characteristic appears on briefest examination. As you run over the little
stories you will see that each event presents a distinct picture to the
imagination, and that these pictures are made out of very simple elements. The
elements are either familiar to the child or analogous to familiar ones. Each
object and happening is very like everyday, yet touched with a subtle
difference, rich in mystery. For example, the details of the pictures in the
Goldilocks story are parts of everyday life,--house, chairs, beds, and so on;
but they are the house, chairs, and beds of three bears; that is the touch of
marvel which transforms the scene. The old woman who owned the obstinate pig is
the centre of a circle in which stand only familiar images,--stick, fire,
water, cow, and the rest; but the wonder enters with the fact that these
usually inanimate or dumb objects of nature enter so humanly into the contest
of wills. So it is, also, with the doings of the three little pigs. Every image
is explicable to the youngest hearer, while none suggests actual familiarity,
because the actors are not children, but pigs. Simplicity, with mystery, is the
keynote of all the pictures, and these are clear and distinct.
Still a third
characteristic common to the stories quoted is a certain amount of repetition.
It is more definite, and of what has been called the ``cumulative'' kind, in
the story of the old woman; but in all it is a distinctive feature.
Here we have, then,
three marked characteristics common to three stories almost invariably loved by
children,--action, in close sequence; familiar images, tinged with mystery;
some degree of repetition.
It is not hard to see
why these qualities appeal to a child. The first is the prime characteristic of
all good stories,--``stories as is stories''; the child's demand for it but
bears witness to the fact that his instinctive taste is often better than the
taste he later develops under artificial culture. The second is a matter of
common-sense. How could the imagination create new worlds, save out of the
material of the old? To offer strange images is to confuse the mind and dull
the interest; to offer familiar ones ``with a difference'' is to pique the
interest and engage the mind.
The charm of
repetition, to children, is a more complex matter; there are undoubtedly a good
many elements entering into it, hard to trace in analysis. But one or two of
the more obvious may be seized and brought to view. The first is the subtle
flattery of an unexpected sense of mastery. When the child-mind, following with
toilful alertness a new train of thought, comes suddenly on a familiar epithet
or expression, I fancy it is with much the same sense of satisfaction that we
older people feel when in the midst of a long programme of new music the
orchestra strikes into something we have heard before,--Handel, maybe, or one
of the more familiar Beethoven sonatas. ``I know that! I have heard that
before!'' we think, triumphant, and settle down to enjoyment without effort. So
it is, probably, with the ``middle-sized'' articles of the bears' house and the
``and I sha'n't get home to-night'' of the old woman. Each recurrence deepens
the note of familiarity, tickles the primitive sense of humour, and eases the
strain of attention.
When the repetition is
cumulative, like the extreme instance of The House that Jack Built, I have a
notion that the joy of the child is the pleasure of intellectual gymnastics,
not too hard for fun, but not too easy for excitement. There is a deal of fun
to be got out of purely intellectual processes, and child- hood is not too soon
for the rudiments of such fun to show. The delight the healthy adult mind takes
in working out a neat problem in geometry, the pleasure a musician finds in
following the involutions of a fugue, are of the same type of satisfaction as
the liking of children for cumulative stories. Complexity and mass, arrived at
by stages perfectly intelligible in themselves, mounting steadily from a
starting-point of simplicity; then the same complexity and mass resolving
itself as it were miraculously back into simplicity, this is an intellectual
joy. It does not differ materially, whether found in the study of counterpoint,
at thirty, or in the story of the old woman and her pig, at five. It is
perfectly natural and wholesome, and it may perhaps be a more powerful developing
force for the budding intellect than we are aware.
For these reasons let
me urge you, when you are looking for stories to tell little children, to apply
this threefold test as a kind of touchstone to their quality of fitness: Are
they full of action, in close natural sequence? Are their images simple without
being humdrum? Are they repetitive? The last quality is not an absolute
requisite; but it is at least very often an attribute of a good child-story.
Having this touchstone
in mind for general selection, we can now pass to the matter of specific
choices for different ages of children. No one can speak with absolute
conviction in this matter, so greatly do the taste and capacity of children of
the same age vary. Any approach to an exact classification of juvenile books
according to their suitability for different ages will be found impossible. The
same book in the hands of a skilful narrator may be made to afford delight to
children both of five and ten. The following are merely the inferences drawn from
my own experience. They must be modified by each teacher according to the
conditions of her small audience. In general, I believe it to be wise to plan
the choice of stories much as indicated in the table given on page 64.
At a later stage,
varying with the standard of capacity of different classes, we find the temper
of mind which asks continually, ``Is that true?'' To meet this demand, one
draws on historical and scientific anecdote, and on reminiscence. But the
demand is never so exclusive that fictitious narrative need be cast aside. All
that is necessary is to state frankly that the story you are telling is ``just
a story,'' or--if it be the case--that it is ``part true and part story.''
At all stages I would
urge the telling of Bible stories, as far as is allowed by the special
circumstances of the school. These are stories from a source unsurpassed in our
literature for purity of style and loftiness of subject. More especially I urge
the telling of the Christ-story, in such parts as seem likely to be within the
grasp of the several classes. In all Bible stories it is well to keep as near
as possible to the original unimprovable text.[1] Some amplification can be
made, but no excessive modernising or simplifying is excusable in face of the
austere grace and majestic simplicity of the original. Such adaptation as helps
to cut the long narrative into separate units, making each an intelligible
story, I have ventured to illustrate according to my own personal taste, in two
stories given in Chapter VI. The object of the usual modernising or enlarging
of the text may be far better attained for the child listener by infusing into
the text as it stands a strong realising sense of its meaning and vitality,
letting it give its own message through a fit medium of expression.
The stories given in
pages 133 to 246 are grouped as illustrations of the types suitable for
different stages. They are, however, very often interchangeable; and many
stories can be told successfully to all classes. A vitally good story is little
limited in its appeal. It is, nevertheless, a help to have certain plain
results of experience as a basis for choice; that which is given is intended
only for such a basis, not in the least as a final list.
Little Rhymed Stories
(including the best of the nursery rhymes and the more poetic fragments of
Mother Goose)
Stories with Rhyme in
Parts
Nature Stories (in
which the element of personification is strong)
Nonsense Tales
Wonder Tales
Nonsense Tales
Wonder Tales
Fairy and Folk Tales
Fables
Legends
Nature Stories
(especially stories of animals)
Folk Tales
Fables
Myths and Allegories
Developed Animal
Stories
Legends: Historic and
Heroic
Historical Stories
Humorous Adventure
Stories
``True Stories ''
The wonder tales most
familiar and accessible to the teacher are probably those included in the
collections of Andersen and the Brothers Grimm. So constant is the demand for
these that the following list may be found useful, as indicating which of the
stories are more easily and effectively adapted for telling, and commonly most
successful.
It must be remembered
that many of these standard tales need such adapting as has been suggested,
catting them down, and ridding them of vulgar or sophisticated detail.
The Star Dollars
The Cat and the Mouse
The Nail
The Hare and the
Hedgehog
Snow-White and Rose-Red
Mother Holle
Thumbling
Three Brothers
The Little Porridge Pot
Little Snow-White
The Wolf and the Seven
Little Kids
The Sea Mouse
Little Tiny
The Lark and the Daisy
The Ugly Duckling
The Seven Stories of
the Snow Queen
The Flax
The Little Match Girl
The Fir-Tree
The Red Shoes
Olé Luköié Monday
Saturday Sunday
The Elf of the Rose
Five Peas in a Pod
The Portuguese Duck
The Little Mermaid
(much shortened)
The Nightingale
(shortened)
The Girl who trod on a
Loaf
The Emperor's New
Clothes
Another familiar and
easily attainable type of story is the classic myth, as retold in Kupfer's
Legends of Greece and Rome.[1] Of these, again, certain tales are more
successfully adapted to children than others. Among the best for telling are:
Arachne
Pandora
Midas
Apollo and Daphne
Apollo and Hyacinthus
Narcissus
Latona and the Rustics
Proserpine
IT soon becomes easy to
pick out from a collection such stories as can be well told; but at no time is
it easy to find a sufficient number of such stories. Stories simple, direct,
and sufficiently full of incident for telling, yet having the beautiful or
valuable motive we desire for children, do not lie hidden in every book. And
even many of the stories which are most charming to read do not answer the
double demand, for the appeal to the eye differs in many important respects
from that to the ear. Unless one is able to change the form of a story to suit
the needs of oral delivery, one is likely to suffer from poverty of material.
Perhaps the commonest need of change is in the case of a story too long to
tell, yet embodying some one beautiful incident or lesson; or one including a
series of such incidents. The story of The Nürnberg Stove, by Ouida,[1] is a
good example of the latter kind; Ruskin's King of the Golden River will serve
as an illustration of the former.
The problem in one case
is chiefly one of elimination; in the other it is also in a large degree one of
rearrangement. In both cases I have purposely chosen extreme instances, as
furnishing plainer illustration. The usual story needs less adaptation than
these, but the same kind, in its own degree. Condensation and rearrangement are
the commonest forms of change required.
Pure condensation is
probably the easier for most persons. With The Nürnberg Stove in mind for
reference, let us see what the process includes. This story can be readily
found by anyone who is interested in the following example of adaptation, for
nearly every library includes in its catalogue the juvenile works of Mlle. de
la Ramée (Ouida). The suggestions given assume that the story is before my
readers.
The story as it stands
is two thousand four hundred words long, obviously too long to tell. What can
be left out? Let us see what must be kept in.
The dramatic climax
toward which we are working is the outcome of August's strange exploit,--his
discovery by the king and the opportunity for him to become an artist. The joy
of this climax is twofold: August may stay with his beloved Hirschvogel, and he
may learn to make beautiful things like it. To arrive at the twofold conclusion
we must start from a double premise,--the love of the stove and the yearning to
be an artist. It will, then, be necessary to include in the beginning of the
story enough details of the family life to show plainly how precious and
necessary Hirschvogel was to the children; and to state definitely how August
had learned to admire and wish to emulate Hirschvogel's maker. We need no
detail beyond what is necessary to make this clear.
The beginning and the
end of a story decided upon, its body becomes the bridge from one to the other;
in this case it is August's strange journey, beginning with the catastrophe and
his grief-dazed decision to follow the stove. The journey is long, and each
stage of it is told in full. As this is impossible in oral reproduction, it
becomes necessary to choose typical incidents, which will give the same general
effect as the whole. The incidents which answer this purpose are: the beginning
of the journey, the experience on the luggage train, the jolting while being
carried on men's shoulders, the final fright and suspense before the king opens
the door.
The episode of the
night in the bric-a-brac shop introduces a wholly new and confusing train of
thought; therefore, charming as it is, it must be omitted. And the secondary
thread of narrative interest, that of the prices for which the stove was sold,
and the retribution visited on the cheating dealers, is also ``another story,''
and must be ignored. Each of these destroys the clear sequence and the
simplicity of plot which must be kept for telling.
We are reduced, then,
for the whole, to this: a brief preliminary statement of the place Hirschvogel
held in the household affections, and the ambition aroused in August; the
catastrophe of the sale; August's decision; his experiences on the train, on
the shoulders of men, and just before the discovery; his discovery, and the dénouement.
This not only reduces
the story to tellable form, but it also leaves a suggestive interest which
heightens later enjoyment of the original. I suggest the adaptation of Kate
Douglas Wiggin, in The Story Hour, since in view of the existence of a
satisfactory adaptation it seems unappreciative to offer a second. The one I
made for my own use some years ago is not dissimilar to this, and I have no
reason to suppose it more desirable.
Ruskin's King of the
Golden River is somewhat difficult to adapt. Not only is it long, but its style
is mature, highly descriptive, and closely allegorical. Yet the tale is too
beautiful and too suggestive to be lost to the story-teller. And it is, also,
so recognised a part of the standard literary equipment of youth that teachers
need to be able to introduce children to its charm. To make it available for
telling, we must choose the most essential events of the series leading up to
the climax, and present these so simply as to appeal to children's ears, and so
briefly as not to tire them.
The printed story is
eight thousand words in length. The first three thousand words depict the
beauty and fertility of the Treasure Valley, and the cruel habits of Hans and
Schwartz, its owners, and give the culminating incident which leads to their
banishment by ``West Wind.'' This episode,--the West Wind's appearance in the
shape of an aged traveller, his kind reception by the younger brother, little
Gluck, and the subsequent wrath of Hans and Schwartz, with their resulting
punishment,--occupies about two thousand words. The rest of the story deals
with the three brothers after the decree of West Wind has turned Treasure
Valley into a desert. In the little house where they are plying their trade of
goldsmiths, the King of the Golden River appears to Gluck and tells him the
magic secret of turning the river's waters to gold. Hans and Schwartz in turn
attempt the miracle, and in turn incur the penalty attached to failure. Gluck
tries, and wins the treasure through self-sacrifice. The form of the treasure
is a renewal of the fertility of Treasure Valley, and the moral of the whole
story is summed up in Ruskin's words, ``So the inheritance which was lost by
cruelty was regained by love.''
It is easy to see that
the dramatic part of the story and that which most pointedly illustrates the
underlying idea, is the triple attempt to win the treasure,--the two failures
and the one success. But this is necessarily introduced by the episode of the
King of the Golden River, which is, also, an incident sure to appeal to a
child's imagination. And the regaining of the inheritance is meaningless
without the fact of its previous loss, and the reason for the loss, as a
contrast with the reason for its recovery. We need, then, the main facts
recorded in the first three thousand words. But the West Wind episode must be
avoided, not only for brevity, but because two supernatural appearances, so
similar, yet of different personalities, would hopelessly confuse a told story.
Our oral story is now
to be made out of a condensed statement of the character of the Valley and of
its owners, and the manner of its loss; the intervention of the King of the
Golden River; the three attempts to turn the river to gold, and Gluck's
success. Gluck is to be our hero, and our underlying idea is the power of love
versus cruelty. Description is to be reduced to its lowest terms, and the
language made simple and concrete.
With this outline in
mind, it may be useful to compare the following adaptation with the original
story. The adaptation is not intended in any sense as a substitute for the
original, but merely as that form of it which can be told, while the original
remains for reading.
There was once a
beautiful little valley, where the sun was warm, and the rains fell softly; its
apples were so red, its corn so yellow, its grapes so blue, that it was called
the Treasure Valley. Not a river ran into it, but one great river flowed down
the mountains on the other side, and because the setting sun always tinged its
high cataract with gold after the rest of the world was dark, it was called the
Golden River. The lovely valley belonged to three brothers. The youngest,
little Gluck, was happy-hearted and kind, but he had a hard life with his
brothers, for Hans and Schwartz were so cruel and so mean that they were known
everywhere around as the ``Black Brothers.'' They were hard to their farm
hands, hard to their customers, hard to the poor, and hardest of all to Gluck.
At last the Black Brothers
became so bad that the Spirit of the West Wind took vengeance on them; he
forbade any of the gentle winds, south and west, to bring rain to the valley.
Then, since there were no rivers in it, it dried up, and instead of a treasure
valley it became a desert of dry, red sand. The Black Brothers could get
nothing out of it, and they wandered out into the world on the other side of
the mountain-peaks; and little Gluck went with them.
Hans and Schwartz went
out every day, wasting their time in wickedness, but they left Gluck in the
house to work. And they lived on the gold and silver they had saved in Treasure
Valley, till at last it was all gone. The only precious thing left was Gluck's
gold mug. This the Black Brothers decided to melt into spoons, to sell; and in
spite of Gluck's tears, they put it in the melting pot, and went out, leaving
him to watch it.
Poor little Gluck sat
at the window, trying not to cry for his dear golden mug, and as the sun began
to go down, he saw the beautiful cataract of the Golden River turn red, and
yellow, and then pure gold.
``Oh, dear!'' he said
to himself, ``how fine it would be if the river were really golden! I needn't
be poor, then.''
``It wouldn't be fine
at all!'' said a thin, metallic little voice, in his ear.
``Mercy, what's that!''
said Gluck, looking all about. But nobody was there.
Suddenly the sharp
little voice came again.
``Pour me out,'' it
said, ``I am too hot!''
It seemed to come right
from the oven, and as Gluck stood, staring in fright, it came again, ``Pour me
out; I'm too hot!''
Gluck was very much
frightened, but he went and looked in the melting pot. When he touched it, the
little voice said, ``Pour me out, I say!'' And Gluck took the handle and began
to pour the gold out.
First came out a tiny
pair of yellow legs; then a pair of yellow coat-tails; then a strange little
yellow body, and, last, a wee yellow face, with long curls of gold hair. And
the whole put itself together as it fell, and stood up on the floor,--the
strangest little yellow dwarf, about a foot high!
``Dear, me!'' said
Gluck.
But the little yellow
man said, ``Gluck, do you know who I am? I am the King of the Golden River.''
Gluck did not know what
to say, so he said nothing; and, indeed, the little man gave him no chance. He
said, ``Gluck, I have been watching you, and what I have seen of you, I like.
Listen, and I will tell you something for your good. Whoever shall climb to the
top of the mountain from which the Golden River falls, and shall cast into its
waters three drops of holy water, for him and him only shall its waters turn to
gold. But no one can succeed except at the first trial, and anyone who casts
unholy water in the river will be turned into a black stone.''
And then, before Gluck
could draw his breath, the King walked straight into the hottest flame of the
fire, and vanished up the chimney!
When Gluck's brothers
came home, they beat him black and blue, because the mug was gone. But when he
told them about the King of the Golden River they quarrelled all night, as to
which should go to get the gold. At last, Hans, who was the stronger, got the
better of Schwartz, and started off. The priest would not give such a bad man
any holy water, so he stole a bottleful. Then he took a basket of bread and
wine, and began to climb the mountain.
He climbed fast, and
soon came to the end of the first hill. But there he found a great glacier, a
hill of ice, which he had never seen before. It was horrible to cross,--the ice
was slippery, great gulfs yawned before him, and noises like groans and shrieks
came from under his feet. He lost his basket of bread and wine, and was quite
faint with fear and exhaustion when his feet touched firm ground again.
Next he came to a hill
of hot, red rock, without a bit of grass to ease the feet, or a particle of
shade. After an hour's climb he was so thirsty that he felt that he must drink.
He looked at the flask of water. ``Three drops are enough,'' he thought; ``I
will just cool my lips.'' He was lifting the flask to his lips when he saw something
beside him in the path. It was a small dog, and it seemed to be dying of
thirst. Its tongue was out, its legs were lifeless, and a swarm of black ants
were crawling about its lips. It looked piteously at the bottle which Hans
held. Hans raised the bottle, drank, kicked at the animal, and passed on.
A strange black shadow
came across the blue sky.
Another hour Hans
climbed; the rocks grew hotter and the way steeper every moment. At last he
could bear it no longer; he must drink. The bottle was half empty, but he
decided to drink half of what was left. As he lifted it, something moved in the
path beside him. It was a child, lying nearly dead of thirst on the rock, its
eyes closed, its lips burning, its breath coming in gasps. Hans looked at it,
drank, and passed on.
A dark cloud came over
the sun, and long shadows crept up the mountain-side.
It grew very steep now,
and the air weighed like lead on Hans's forehead, but the Golden River was very
near. Hans stopped a moment to breathe, then started to climb the last height.
As he clambered on, he
saw an old, old man lying in the path. His eyes were sunken, and his face
deadly pale.
``Water!'' he said;
``water!''
``I have none for
you,'' said Hans; ``you have had your share of life.'' He strode over the old
man's body and climbed on.
A flash of blue
lightning dazzled him for an instant, and then the heavens were dark.
At last Hans stood on
the brink of the cataract of the Golden River. The sound of its roaring filled
the air. He drew the flask from his side and hurled it into the torrent. As he
did so, an icy chill shot through him; he shrieked and fell. And the river rose
and flowed over The Black Stone.
When Hans did not come
back Gluck grieved, but Schwartz was glad. He decided to go and get the gold
for himself. He thought it might not do to steal the holy water, as Hans had
done, so he took the money little Gluck had earned, and bought holy water of a
bad priest. Then he took a basket of bread and wine, and started off.
He came to the great
hill of ice, and was as surprised as Hans had been, and found it as hard to
cross. Many times he slipped, and he was much frightened at the noises, and was
very glad to get across, although he had lost his basket of bread and wine.
Then he came to the same hill of sharp, red stone, without grass or shade, that
Hans had climbed. And like Hans he became very thirsty. Like Hans, too, he
decided to drink a little of the water. As he raised it to his lips, he
suddenly saw the same fair child that Hans had seen.
``Water!'' said the
child. ``Water! I am dying.''
``I have not enough for
myself,'' said Schwartz, and passed on.
A low bank of black
cloud rose out of the west.
When he had climbed for
another hour, the thirst overcame him again, and again he lifted the flask to
his lips. As he did so, he saw an old man who begged for water.
``I have not enough for
myself,'' said Schwartz, and passed on.
A mist, of the colour
of blood, came over the sun.
Then Schwartz climbed
for another hour, and once more he had to drink. This time, as he lifted the
flask, he thought he saw his brother Hans before him. The figure stretched its
arms to him, and cried out for water.
``Ha, ha,'' laughed
Schwartz, ``do you suppose I brought the water up here for you?'' And he strode
over the figure. But when he had gone a few yards farther, he looked back, and
the figure was not there.
Then he stood at the
brink of the Golden River, and its waves were black, and the roaring of the
waters filled all the air. He cast the flask into the stream. And as he did so
the lightning glared in his eyes, the earth gave way beneath him, and the river
flowed over The two Black Stones.
When Gluck found
himself alone, he at last decided to try his luck with the King of the Golden
River. The priest gave him some holy water as soon as he asked for it, and with
this and a basket of bread he started off.
The hill of ice was
much harder for Gluck to climb, because he was not so strong as his brothers.
He lost his bread, fell often, and was exhausted when he got on firm ground. He
began to climb the hill in the hottest part of the day. When he had climbed for
an hour he was very thirsty, and lifted the bottle to drink a little water. As
he did so he saw a feeble old man coming down the path toward him.
``I am faint with
thirst,'' said the old man; ``will you give me some of that water?''
Gluck saw that he was
pale and tired, so he gave him the water, saying, ``Please don't drink it
all.'' But the old man drank a great deal, and gave back the bottle two-thirds
emptied. Then he bade Gluck good speed, and Gluck went on merrily.
Some grass appeared on
the path, and the grasshoppers began to sing.
At the end of another
hour, Gluck felt that he must drink again. But, as he raised the flask, he saw
a little child lying by the roadside, and it cried out pitifully for water.
After a struggle with himself Gluck decided to bear the thirst a little longer.
He put the bottle to the child's lips, and it drank all but a few drops. Then
it got up and ran down the hill.
All kinds of sweet
flowers began to grow on the rocks, and crimson and purple butterflies flitted
about in the air.
At the end of another
hour, Gluck's thirst was almost unbearable. He saw that there were only five or
six drops of water in the bottle, however, and he did not dare to drink. So he
was putting the flask away again when he saw a little dog on the rocks, gasping
for breath. He looked at it, and then at the Golden River, and he remembered
the dwarf's words, ``No one can succeed except at the first trial''; and he
tried to pass the dog. But it whined piteously, and Gluck stopped. He could not
bear to pass it. ``Confound the King and his gold, too!'' he said; and he
poured the few drops of water into the dog's mouth.
The dog sprang up; its
tail disappeared, its nose grew red, and its eyes twinkled. The next minute the
dog was gone, and the King of the Golden River stood there. He stooped and
plucked a lily that grew beside Gluck's feet. Three drops of dew were on its
white leaves. These the dwarf shook into the flask which Gluck held in his
hand.
``Cast these into the
river,'' he said, ``and go down the other side of the mountains into the
Treasure Valley.'' Then he disappeared.
Gluck stood on the
brink of the Golden River, and cast the three drops of dew into the stream.
Where they fell, a little whirlpool opened; but the water did not turn to gold.
Indeed, the water seemed vanishing altogether. Gluck was disappointed not to see
gold, but he obeyed the King of the Golden River, and went down the other side
of the mountains.
When he came out into
the Treasure Valley, a river, like the Golden River, was springing from a new
cleft in the rocks above, and flowing among the heaps of dry sand. And then
fresh grass sprang beside the river, flowers opened along its sides, and vines
began to cover the whole valley. The Treasure Valley was becoming a garden
again.
Gluck lived in the
Valley, and his grapes were blue, and his apples were red, and his corn was
yellow; and the poor were never driven from his door. For him, as the King had
promised, the river was really a River of Gold.
It will probably be
clear to anyone who has followed these attempts, that the first step in
adaptation is analysis, careful analysis of the story as it stands. One asks
oneself, What is the story? Which events are necessary links in the chain? How
much of the text is pure description?
Having this essential
body of the story in mind, one then decides which of the steps toward the
climax are needed for safe arrival there, and keeps these. When two or more
steps can be covered in a single stride, one makes the stride. When a necessary
explanation is unduly long, or is woven into the story in too many strands, one
disposes of it in an introductory statement, or perhaps in a side remark. If
there are two or more threads of narrative, one chooses among them, and holds
strictly to the one chosen, eliminating details which concern the others.
In order to hold the
simplicity of plot so attained, it is also desirable to have but few personages
in the story, and to narrate the action from the point of view of one of
them,--usually the hero. To shift the point of view of the action is confusing
to the child's mind.
When the analysis and
condensation have been accomplished, the whole must be cast in simple language,
keeping if possible the same kind of speech as that used in the original, but
changing difficult or technical terms to plain, and complex images to simple
and familiar ones.
All types of adaptation
share in this need of simple language,--stories which are too short, as well as
those which are too long, have this feature in their changed form. The change
in a short story is applied oftenest where it becomes desirable to amplify a
single anecdote, or perhaps a fable, which is told in very condensed form. Such
an instance is the following anecdote of heroism, which in the original is
quoted in one of F. W. Robertson's lectures on Poetry.
A detachment of troops
was marching along a valley, the cliffs overhanging which were crested by the
enemy. A sergeant, with eleven men, chanced to become separated from the rest
by taking the wrong side of a ravine, which they expected soon to terminate,
but which suddenly deepened into an impassable chasm. The officer in command
signalled to the party an order to return. They mistook the signal for a
command to charge; the brave fellows answered with a cheer, and charged. At the
summit of the steep mountain was a triangular platform, defended by a
breastwork, behind which were seventy of the foe. On they went, charging up one
of those fearful paths, eleven against seventy. The contest could not long be
doubtful with such odds. One after another they fell; six upon the spot, the
remainder hurled backwards; but not until they had slain nearly twice their own
number.
There is a custom, we
are told, amongst the hillsmen, that when a great chieftain of their own falls
in battle, his wrist is bound with a thread either of red or green, the red
denoting the highest rank. According to custom, they stripped the dead, and
threw their bodies over the precipice. When their comrades came, they found
their corpses stark and gashed; but round both wrists of every British hero was
twined the red thread!
This anecdote serves
its purpose of illustration perfectly well, but considered as a separate story
it is somewhat too explanatory in diction, and too condensed in form. Just as
the long story is analysed for reduction of given details, so this must be
analysed,--to find the details implied. We have to read into it again all that
has been left between the lines.
Moreover, the order
must be slightly changed, if we are to end with the proper ``snap,'' the final
sting of surprise and admiration given by the point of the story; the point
must be prepared for. The purpose of the original is equally well served by the
explanation at the end, but we must never forget that the place for the climax,
or effective point in a story told, is the last thing said. That is what makes
a story ``go off'' well.
Imagining vividly the
situation suggested, and keeping the logical sequence of facts in mind, shall
we not find the story telling itself to boys and girls in somewhat this form?
This story which I am
going to tell you is a true one. It happened while the English troops in India
were fighting against some of the native tribes. The natives who were making
trouble were people from the hill-country, called Hillsmen, and they were strong
enemies. The English knew very little about them, except their courage, but
they had noticed one peculiar custom, after certain battles,--the Hillsmen had
a way of marking the bodies of their greatest chiefs who were killed in battle
by binding a red thread about the wrist; this was the highest tribute they
could pay a hero. The English, however, found the common men of them quite
enough to handle, for they had proved themselves good fighters and clever at
ambushes.
One day, a small body
of the English had marched a long way into the hill country, after the enemy,
and in the afternoon they found themselves in a part of the country strange
even to the guides. The men moved forward very slowly and cautiously, for fear
of an ambush. The trail led into a narrow valley with very steep, high, rocky
sides, topped with woods in which the enemy might easily hide.
Here the soldiers were
ordered to advance more quickly, though with caution, to get out of the
dangerous place.
After a little they
came suddenly to a place where the passage was divided in two by a big
three-cornered boulder which seemed to rise from the midst of the valley. The
main line of men kept to the right; to save crowding the path, a sergeant and
eleven men took the left, meaning to go round the rock and meet the rest beyond
it.
They had been in the
path only a few minutes when they saw that the rock was not a single boulder at
all, but an arm of the left wall of the valley, and that they were marching
into a deep ravine with no outlet except the way they came. Both sides were
sheer rock, almost perpendicular, with thick trees at the top; in front of them
the ground rose in a steep hill, bare of woods. As they looked up, they saw
that the top was barricaded by the trunks of trees, and guarded by a strong
body of Hillsmen. As the English hesitated, looking at this, a shower of spears
fell from the wood's edge, aimed by hidden foes. The place was a death trap.
At this moment, their
danger was seen by the officer in command of the main body, and he signalled to
the sergeant to retreat.
By some terrible
mischance, the signal was misunderstood. The men took it for the signal to
charge. Without a moment's pause, straight up the slope, they charged on the
run, cheering as they ran.
Some were killed by the
spears that were thrown from the cliffs, before they had gone half way; some
were stabbed as they reached the crest, and hurled backward from the precipice;
two or three got to the top, and fought hand to hand with the Hillsmen. They
were outnumbered, seven to one; but when the last of the English soldiers lay
dead, twice their number of Hillsmen lay dead around them!
When the relief party
reached the spot, later in the day, they found the bodies of their comrades,
full of wounds, huddled over and in the barricade, or crushed on the rocks
below. They were mutilated and battered, and bore every sign of the terrible
struggle. But round both wrists of every British soldier was bound the red
thread!
The Hillsmen had paid
greater honour to their heroic foes than to the bravest of their own brave
dead.
Another instance is the
short poem, which, while being perfectly simple, is rich in suggestion of more
than the young child will see for himself. The following example shows the
working out of details in order to provide a satisfactorily rounded story.
Once upon a time a
dormouse lived in the wood with his mother. She had made a snug little nest,
but Sleepy-head, as she called her little mousie, loved to roam about among the
grass and fallen leaves, and it was a hard task to keep him at home. One day
the mother went off as usual to look for food, leaving Sleepy- head curled up
comfortably in a corner of the nest. ``He will lie there safely till I come
back,'' she thought. Presently, however, Sleepy-head opened his eyes and thought
he would like to take a walk out in the fresh air. So he crept out of the nest
and through the long grass that nodded over the hole in the bank. He ran here
and he ran there, stopping again an again to cock his little ears for sound of
any creeping thing that might be close at hand. His little fur coat was soft
and silky as velvet. Mother had licked it clean before starting her day's work,
you may be sure. As Sleepy-head moved from place to place his long tail swayed
from side to side and tickled the daisies so that they could not hold
themselves still for laughing.
Presently something
very cold fell on Sleepy- head's nose. What could it be? He put up his little
paw and dabbed at the place. Then the same thing happened to his tail. He
whisked it quickly round to the front. Ah, it was raining! Now Sleepy-head
couldn't bear rain, and he had got a long way from home. What would mother say
if his nice furry coat got wet and draggled? He crept under a bush, but soon
the rain found him out. Then he ran to a tree, but this was poor shelter. He
began to think that he was in for a soaking when what should he spy, a little
distance off, but a fine toadstool which stood bolt upright just like an
umbrella. The next moment Sleepy- head was crawling underneath the friendly
shelter. He fixed himself up as snugly as he could, with his little nose upon
his paws and his little tail curled round all, and before you could count six,
eight, ten, twenty, he was fast asleep.
Now it happened that
Sleepy-head was not the only creature that was caught by the rain that morning
in the wood. A little elf had been flitting about in search of fun or mischief,
and he, too, had got far from home when the raindrops began to come pattering
through the leafy roof of the beautiful wood. It would never do to get his
pretty wings wet, for he hated to walk--it was such slow work and, besides, he
might meet some big wretched animal that could run faster than himself.
However, he was beginning to think that there was no help for it, when, on a
sudden, there before him was the toadstool, with Sleepy-head snug and dry
underneath! There was room for another little fellow, thought the elf, and ere
long he had safely bestowed himself under the other half of the toadstool,
which was just like an umbrella.
Sleepy-head slept on,
warm and comfortable in his furry coat, and the elf began to feel annoyed with
him for being so happy. He was always a great mischief, and he could not bear
to sit still for long at a time. Presently he laughed a queer little laugh. He
had got an idea! Putting his two small arms round the stem of the toadstool he
tugged and he pulled until, of a sudden, snap! He had broken the stem, and a
moment later was soaring in air safely sheltered under the toadstool, which he
held upright by its stem as he flew.
Sleepy-head had been
dreaming, oh, so cosy a dream! It seemed to him that he had discovered a
storehouse filled with golden grain and soft juicy nuts with little bunches of
sweet- smelling hay, where tired mousies might sleep dull hours away. He
thought that he was settled in the sweetest bunch of all, with nothing in the
world to disturb his nap, when gradually he became aware that something had
happened. He shook himself in his sleep and settled down again, but the dream
had altered. He opened his eyes. Rain was falling, pit-a-pat, and he was
without cover on a wet patch of grass. What could be the matter? Sleepy- head
was now wide awake. Said he, ``DEAR ME, WHERE IS MY TOADSTOOL?''
From these four
instances we may, perhaps, deduce certain general principles of adaptation
which have at least proved valuable to those using them.
These are suggestions
which the practised story-teller will find trite. But to others they may prove
a fair foundation on which to build a personal method to be developed by
experience. I have given them a tabular arrangement below.
The preliminary step in
all cases is
Analysis of the Story.
The aim, then, is
to reduce a long story
or to *amplify a short one.
For the first, the need
is
Elimination of
secondary threads of narrative,
extra personages,
description,
irrelevant events.
For the second, the
great need is of
Realising Imagination.
For both, it is
desirable to keep
Close Logical Sequence,
Single Point of View,
Simple Language,
The Point at the End
SELECTION, and, if
necessary, adaptation--these are the preliminaries to the act of telling. That,
after all, is the real test of one's power. That is the real joy, when
achieved; the real bugbear, when dreaded. And that is the subject of this
chapter, ``How to tell a story.''
How to tell a story: it
is a short question which demands a long answer. The right beginning of the
answer depends on a right conception of the thing the question is about; and
that naturally reverts to an earlier discussion of the real nature of a story.
In that discussion it was stated that a story is a work of art,--a message, as
all works of art are.
To tell a story, then,
is to pass on the message, to share the work of art. The message may be merely
one of humour,--of nonsense, even; works of art range all the way from the
``Victory'' to a ``Dresden Shepherdess,'' from an ``Assumption'' to a ``Broken
Pitcher,'' and farther. Each has its own place. But whatever its quality, the
story-teller is the passer-on, the interpreter, the transmitter. He comes
bringing a gift. Always he gives; always he bears a message.
This granted, the first
demand of the story- teller is not far to seek. No one can repeat a message he
has not heard, or interpret what he does not understand. You cannot give,
unless you first possess. The first demand of the story- teller is that he
possess. He must feel the story. Whatever the particular quality and appeal of
the work of art, from the lightest to the grandest emotion or thought, he must
have responded to it, grasped it, felt it intimately, before he can give it out
again. Listen, humbly, for the message.
I realise that this has
an incongruous sound, when applied to such stories as that of the little pig at
the stile or of the greedy cat who ate up man and beast. But, believe me, it
does apply even to those. For the transmittable thing in a story is the
identifying essence, the characterising savour, the peculiar quality and point
of view of the humour, pathos, or interest. Every tale which claims a place in
good fiction has this identifying savour and quality, each different from every
other. The laugh which echoes one of Seumas McManus's rigmaroles is not the
chuckle which follows one of Joel Chandler Harris's anecdotes; the gentle
sadness of an Andersen allegory is not the heart searching tragedy of a tale
from the Greek; nor is any one story of an author just like any other of the
same making. Each has its personal likeness, its facial expression, as it were.
And the mind must be
sensitised to these differences. No one can tell stories well who has not a
keen and just feeling of such emotional values.
A positive and a
negative injunction depend on this premise,--the positive, cultivate your
feeling, striving toward increasingly just appreciation; the negative, never
tell a story you do not feel.
Fortunately, the number
and range of stories one can appreciate grow with cultivation; but it is the
part of wisdom not to step outside the range at any stage of its growth.
I feel the more
inclined to emphasise this caution because I once had a rather embarrassing and
pointed proof of its desirability,--which I relate for the enlightening of the
reader.
There is a certain
nonsense tale which a friend used to tell with such effect that her hearers
became helpless with laughter, but which for some reason never seemed funny to
me. I could not laugh at it. But my friend constantly urged me to use it,
quoting her own success. At last, with much curiosity and some trepidation, I
included it in a programme before people with whom I was so closely in sympathy
that no chill was likely to emanate from their side. I told the story as well
as I knew how, putting into it more genuine effort than most stories can claim.
The audience smiled politely, laughed gently once or twice, relapsed into the
mildest of amusement. The most one could say was that the story was not a
hopeless failure, I tried it again, after study, and yet again; but the
audiences were all alike. And in my heart I should have been startled if they
had behaved otherwise, for all the time I was telling it I was conscious in my
soul that it was a stupid story! At last I owned my defeat to myself, and put
the thing out of mind.
Some time afterward, I
happened to take out the notes of the story, and idly looked them over; and
suddenly, I do not know how, I got the point of view! The salt of the humour
was all at once on my lips; I felt the tickle of the pure folly of it; it was
funny.
The next afternoon I
told the story to a hundred or so children and as many mothers,-- and the
battle was won. Chuckles punctuated my periods; helpless laughter ran like an
under- current below my narrative; it was a struggle for me to keep sober,
myself. The nonsense tale had found its own atmosphere.
Now of course I had
known all along that the humour of the story emanated from its very
exaggeration, its absurdly illogical smoothness. But I had not felt it. I did
not really ``see the joke.'' And that was why I could not tell the story. I
undoubtedly impressed my own sense of its fatuity on every audience to which I
gave it. The case is very clear.
Equally clear have been
some happy instances where I have found audiences responding to a story I
myself greatly liked, but which common appreciation usually ignored. This is an
experience even more persuasive than the other, certainly more to be desired.
Every story-teller has
lines of limitation; certain types of story will always remain his or her best
effort. There is no reason why any type of story should be told really ill, and
of course the number of kinds one tells well increases with the growth of the
appreciative capacity. But none the less, it is wise to recognise the limits at
each stage, and not try to tell any story to which the honest inner
consciousness says, ``I do not like you.''
Let us then set down as
a prerequisite for good story-telling, a genuine appreciation of the story.
Now, we may suppose
this genuine appreciation to be your portion. You have chosen a story, have
felt its charm, and identified the quality of its appeal.
You are now to tell it
in such wise that your hearers will get the same kind of impression you
yourself received from it. How? I believe the inner secret of success is the
measure of force with which the teller wills the conveyance of his impression
to the hearer.
Anyone who has watched,
or has himself been, the teller of a story which held an audience, knows that
there is something approaching hypnotic suggestion in the close connection of
effort and effect, and in the elimination of self- consciousness from speaker
and listeners alike.
I would not for a
moment lend the atmosphere of charlatanry, or of the ultra-psychic, to the
wholesome and vivid art of story-telling. But I would, if possible, help the
teacher to realise how largely success in that art is a subjective and
psychological matter, dependent on her control of her own mood and her sense of
direct, intimate communion with the minds attending her. The ``feel'' of an
audience,--that indescribable sense of the composite human soul waiting on the
initiative of your own, the emotional currents interplaying along a medium so
delicate that it takes the baffling torture of an obstruction to reveal its
existence,--cannot be taught. But it can and does develop with use. And a
realisation of the immense latent power of strong desire and resolution
vitalises and disembarrasses the beginner.
That is, undoubtedly,
rather an intangible beginning; it sets the root of the matter somewhat in the
realm of ``spirits and influences.'' There are, however, outward and visible
means of arriving at results. Every art has its technique. The art of
story-telling, intensely personal and subjective as it is, yet comes under the
law sufficiently not to be a matter of sheer ``knack.'' It has its technique.
The following suggestions are an attempt to state what seem the foundation
principles of that technique. The general statements are deduced from many
consecutive experiences; partly, too, they are the results of introspective
analysis, confirmed by observation. They do not make up an exclusive body of
rules, wholly adequate to produce good work, of themselves; they do include, so
far as my observation and experience allow, the fundamental requisites of good
work, --being the qualities uniformly present in successful work of many
story-tellers.
First of all, most
fundamental of all, is a rule without which any other would be but folly: Know
your story.
One would think so
obvious a preliminary might be taken for granted. But alas, even slight
acquaintance with the average story-teller proves the dire necessity of the
admonition. The halting tongue, the slip in name or incident, the turning back
to forge an omitted link in the chain, the repetition, the general weakness of
statement consequent on imperfect grasp: these are common features of the
stories one hears told. And they are features which will deface the best story
ever told.
One must know the story
absolutely; it must have been so assimilated that it partakes of the nature of
personal experience; its essence must be so clearly in mind that the teller
does not have to think of it at all in the act of telling, but rather lets it
flow from his lips with the unconscious freedom of a vivid reminiscence.
Such knowledge does not
mean memorising. Memorising utterly destroys the freedom of reminiscence, takes
away the spontaneity, and substitutes a mastery of form for a mastery of
essence. It means, rather, a perfect grasp of the gist of the story, with
sufficient familiarity with its form to determine the manner of its telling.
The easiest way to obtain this mastery is, I think, to analyse the story into
its simplest elements of plot. Strip it bare of style, description,
interpolation, and find out simply what happened. Personally, I find that I get
first an especially vivid conception of the climax; this then has to be rounded
out by a clear perception of the successive steps which lead up to the climax.
One has, so, the framework of the story. The next process is the filling in.
There must be many ways
of going about this filling in. Doubtless many of my readers, in the days when
it was their pet ambition to make a good recitation in school, evolved
personally effective ways of doing it; for it is, after all, the same thing as
preparing a bit of history or a recitation in literature. But for the
consideration of those who find it hard to gain mastery of fact without mastery
of its stated form, I give my own way. I have always used the childlike plan of
talking it out. Sometimes inaudibly, sometimes in loud and penetrating tones
which arouse the sympathetic curiosity of my family, I tell it over and over,
to an imaginary hearer. That hearer is as present to me, always has been, as
Stevenson's ``friend of the children'' who takes the part of the enemy in their
solitary games of war. His criticism (though he is a most composite double-
sexed creature who should not have a designating personal pronoun) is
all-revealing. For talking it out instantly brings to light the weak spots in
one's recollection. ``What was it the little crocodile said?'' ``Just how did
the little pig get into his house?'' ``What was that link in the chain of
circumstances which brought the wily fox to confusion?'' The slightest cloud of
uncertainty becomes obvious in a moment. And as obvious becomes one's paucity
of expression, one's week-kneed imagination, one's imperfect assimilation of
the spirit of the story. It is not a flattering process.
But when these faults
have been corrected by several attempts, the method gives a confidence, a sense
of sureness, which makes the real telling to a real audience ready and
spontaneously smooth. Scarcely an epithet or a sentence comes out as it was in
the preliminary telling; but epithets and sentences in sufficiency do come; the
beauty of this method is that it brings freedom instead of bondage.
A valuable exception to
the rule against memorising must be noted here. Especially beautiful and
indicative phrases of the original should be retained, and even whole passages,
where they are identified with the beauty of the tale. And in stories like The
Three Bears or Red Riding Hood the exact phraseology of the conversation as
given in familiar versions should be preserved; it is in a way sacred, a
classic, and not to be altered. But beyond this the language should be the
teller's own, and probably never twice the same. Sureness, ease, freedom, and
the effect of personal reminiscence come only from complete mastery. I repeat,
with emphasis: Know your story.
The next suggestion is
a purely practical one concerning the preparation of physical conditions. See
that the children are seated in close and direct range of your eye; the
familiar half-circle is the best arrangement for small groups of children, but
the teacher should be at a point opposite the centre of the arc, not in its
centre: thus not thus it is important also not to have the ends too far at the
side, and to have no child directly behind another, or in such a position that
he has not an easy view of the teacher's full face. Little children have to be
physically close in order to be mentally close. It is, of course, desirable to
obtain a hushed quiet before beginning; but it is not so important as to
preserve your own mood of holiday, and theirs. If the fates and the atmosphere
of the day are against you, it is wiser to trust to the drawing power of the
tale itself, and abate the irritation of didactic methods. And never break into
that magic tale, once begun, with an admonition to Ethel or Tommy to stop
squirming, or a rebuke to ``that little girl over there who is not listening.''
Make her listen! It is probably your fault if she is not. If you are telling a
good story, and telling it well, she can't help listening,--unless she is an
abnormal child; and if she is abnormal you ought not to spoil the mood of the
others to attend to her.
I say ``never''
interrupt your story; perhaps it is only fair to amend that, after the fashion
of dear little Marjorie Fleming, and say ``never--if you can help it.'' For, of
course, there are exceptional occasions, and exceptional children; some
latitude must be left for the decisions of good common sense acting on the
issue of the moment.
The children ready,
your own mood must be ready. It is desirable that the spirit of the story
should be imposed upon the room from the beginning, and this result hangs on
the clearness and intensity of the teller's initiatory mood. An act of memory
and of will is the requisite. The story-teller must call up--it comes with the
swiftness of thought--the essential emotion of the story as he felt it first. A
single volition puts him in touch with the characters and the movement of the
tale. This is scarcely more than a brief and condensed reminiscence; it is the
stepping back into a mood once experienced.
Let us say, for
example, that the story to be told is the immortal fable of The Ugly Duckling.
Before you open your lips the whole pathetic series of the little swan's
mishaps should flash across your mind,--not accurately and in detail, but
blended to a composite of undeserved ignominy, of baffled innocent wonderment,
and of delicious underlying satire on average views. With this is mingled the
feeling of Andersen's delicate whimsicality of style. The dear little Ugly
Duckling waddles, bodily, into your consciousness, and you pity his sorrows and
anticipate his triumph, before you begin.
This preliminary
recognition of mood is what brings the delicious quizzical twitch to the mouth
of a good raconteur who begins an anecdote the hearers know will be
side-splitting. It is what makes grandmother sigh gently and look far over your
heads, when her soft voice commences the story of ``the little girl who lived
long, long ago.'' It is a natural and instinctive thing with the born
story-teller; a necessary thing for anyone who will become a story-teller.
From the very start,
the mood of the tale should be definite and authoritative, beginning with the
mood of the teller and emanating therefrom in proportion as the physique of the
teller is a responsive medium.
Now we are off. Knowing
your story, having your hearers well arranged, and being as thoroughly as you
are able in the right mood, you begin to tell it. Tell it, then, simply,
directly, dramatically, with zest.
Simply applies both to
manner and matter. As to manner, I mean without affectation, without any form
of pretence, in short, without posing. It is a pity to ``talk down'' to the
children, to assume a honeyed voice, to think of the edifying or educational
value of the work one is doing. Naturalness, being oneself, is the desideratum.
I wonder why we so often use a preposterous voice,--a super-sweetened whine, in
talking to children? Is it that the effort to realise an ideal of gentleness
and affectionateness overreaches itself in this form of the grotesque? Some good
intention must be the root of it But the thing is none the less pernicious. A
``cant'' voice is as abominable as a cant phraseology. Both are of the very
substance of evil.
``But it is easier to
say, `Be natural' than to be it,'' said one teacher to me desperately.
Beyond dispute. To
those of us who are cursed with an over-abundant measure of self-
consciousness, nothing is harder than simple naturalness. The remedy is to lose
oneself in one's art. Think of the story so absorbingly and vividly that you
have no room to think of yourself. Live it. Sink yourself in that mood you have
summoned up, and let it carry you.
If you do this,
simplicity of matter will come easily. Your choice of words and images will
naturally become simple.
It is, I think, a familiar
precept to educators, that children should not have their literature too much
simplified for them. We are told that they like something beyond them, and that
it is good for them to have a sense of mystery and power beyond the sense they
grasp. That may be true; but if so it does not apply to story- telling as it
does to reading. We have constantly to remember that the movement of a story
told is very swift. A concept not grasped in passing is irrevocably lost; there
is no possibility of turning back, or lingering over the page. Also, since the
art of story-telling is primarily an art of entertainment, its very object is
sacrificed if the ideas and images do not slip into the child's consciousness
smoothly enough to avoid the sense of strain. For this reason short, familiar,
vivid words are best.
Simplicity of manner
and of matter are both essential to the right appeal to children.
Directness in telling
is a most important quality. The story, listened to, is like the drama, beheld.
Its movement must be unimpeded, increasingly swift, winding up ``with a snap.''
Long-windedness, or talking round the story, utterly destroys this movement.
The incidents should be told, one after another, without explanation or
description beyond what is absolutely necessary; and they should be told in
logical sequence. Nothing is more distressing than the cart-before-the-horse
method,--nothing more quickly destroys interest than the failure to get a clue
in the right place.
Sometimes, to be sure,
a side remark adds piquancy and a personal savour. But the general rule is,
great discretion in this respect.
Every epithet or
adjective beyond what is needed to give the image, is a five-barred gate in the
path of the eager mind travelling to a climax.
Explanations and
moralising are usually sheer clatter. Some few stories necessarily include a
little explanation, and stories of the fable order may quaintly end with an
obvious moral. But here again, the rule is--great discretion.
It is well to remember
that you have one great advantage over the writer of stories. The writer must
present a clear image and make a vivid impression,--all with words. The teller
has face, and voice, and body to do it with. The teller needs, consequently,
but one swiftly incisive verb to the writer's two; but one expressive adjective
to his three. Often, indeed, a pause and an expressive gesture do the whole
thing.
It may be said here
that it is a good trick of description to repeat an epithet or phrase once
used, when referring again to the same thing. The recurrent adjectives of Homer
were the device of one who entertained a childlike audience. His trick is
unconscious and instinctive with people who have a natural gift for children's
stories. Of course this matter also demands common sense in the degree of its
use; in moderation it is a most successful device.
Brevity, close logical
sequence, exclusion of foreign matter, unhesitant speech,--to use these is to
tell a story directly.
After simplicity and
directness, comes that quality which to advise, is to become a rock of offence
to many. It is the suggestion, ``Tell the story dramatically.'' Yet when we
quite understand each other as to the meaning of ``dramatically,'' I think you
will agree with me that a good story-teller includes this in his qualities of
manner. It means, not in the manner of the elocutionist, not excitably, not any
of the things which are incompatible with simplicity and sincerity; but with a
whole- hearted throwing of oneself into the game, which identifies one in a
manner with the character or situation of the moment. It means responsively,
vividly, without interposing a blank wall of solid self between the drama of
the tale and the mind's eye of the audience.
It is such fun, pure
and simple, so to throw oneself into it, and to see the answering expressions
mimic one's own, that it seems superfluous to urge it. Yet many persons do find
it difficult. The instant, slight but suggestive change of voice, the use of
onomatopoetic words, the response of eyes and hands, which are all immediate
and spontaneous with some temperaments, are to others a matter of
shamefacedness and labour. To those, to all who are not by nature bodily
expressive, I would reiterate the injunction already given, not to pretend. Do
nothing you cannot do naturally and happily. But lay your stress on the inner
and spiritual effort to appreciate, to feel, to imagine out the tale; and let
the expressiveness of your body grow gradually with the increasing freedom from
crippling self- consciousness. The physique will become more mobile as the
emotion does.
The expression must,
however, always remain suggestive rather than illustrative. This is the side of
the case which those who are over-dramatic must not forget. The story- teller
is not playing the parts of his stories; he is merely arousing the imagination
of his hearers to picture the scenes for themselves. One element of the dual
consciousness of the tale-teller remains always the observer, the reporter, the
quiet outsider.
I like to think of the
story-teller as a good fellow standing at a great window overlooking a busy
street or a picturesque square, and reporting with gusto to the comrade in the
rear of the room what of mirth or sadness he sees; he hints at the policeman's
strut, the organ- grinder's shrug, the schoolgirl's gaiety, with a gesture or
two which is born of an irresistible impulse to imitate; but he never leaves
his fascinating post to carry the imitation further than a hint.
The verity of this
figure lies in the fact that the dramatic quality of story-telling depends
closely upon the clearness and power with which the story-teller visualises the
events and characters he describes. You must hold the image before the mind's
eye, using your imagination to embody to yourself every act, incident and appearance.
You must, indeed, stand at the window of your consciousness and watch what
happens.
This is a point so
vital that I am tempted to put it in ornate type. You must see what you say!
It is not too much,
even, to say, ``You must see more than you say.'' True vividness is lent by a
background of picture realised by the listener beyond what you tell him.
Children see, as a rule, no image you do not see; they see most clearly what
you see most largely. Draw, then, from a full well, not from a supply so low
that the pumps wheeze at every pull.
Dramatic power of the
reasonably quiet and suggestive type demanded for telling a story will come
pretty surely in the train of effort along these lines; it follows the clear
concept and sincerity in imparting it, and is a natural consequence of the
visualising imagination.
It is inextricably
bound up, also, with the causes and results of the quality which finds place in
my final injunction, to tell your story with zest. It might almost be assumed
that the final suggestion renders the preceding one superfluous, so direct is
the effect of a lively interest on the dramatic quality of a narration; but it
would not of itself be adequate; the necessity of visualising imagination is
paramount. Zest is, however, a close second to this clearness of mental vision.
It is entirely necessary to be interested in your own story, to enjoy it as you
tell it. If you are bored and tired, the children will soon be bored and tired,
too. If you are not interested your manner cannot get that vitalised
spontaneity which makes dramatic power possible. Nothing else will give that
relish on the lips, that gusto, which communicates its joy to the audience and
makes it receptive to every impression. I used to say to teachers, ``Tell your
story with all your might,'' but I found that this by a natural misconception
was often interpreted to mean ``laboriously.'' And of course nothing is more
injurious to the enjoyment of an audience than obvious effort on the part of
the entertainer. True zest can be--often is--extremely quiet, but it gives a
savour nothing else can impart.
``But how, at the end
of a hard morning's work, can I be interested in a story I have told twenty
times before?'' asks the kindergarten or primary teacher, not without reason.
There are two things to
be said. The first is a reminder of the wisdom of choosing stories in which you
originally have interest; and of having a store large enough to permit variety.
The second applies to those inevitable times of weariness which attack the most
interested and well- stocked story-teller. You are, perhaps, tired out
physically. You have told a certain story till it seems as if a repetition of
it must produce bodily effects dire to contemplate, yet that happens to be the
very story you must tell. What can you do? I answer, ``Make believe.'' The
device seems incongruous with the repeated warnings against pretence; but it is
necessary, and it is wise. Pretend as hard as ever you can to be interested.
And the result will be--before you know it--that you will be interested. That
is the chief cause of the recommendation; it brings about the result it
simulates. Make believe, as well as you know how, and the probability is that
you will not even know when the transition from pretended to real interest
comes.
And fortunately, the
children never know the difference. They have not that psychological
infallibility which is often attributed to them. They might, indeed, detect a
pretence which continued through a whole tale; but that is so seldom necessary
that it needs little consideration.
So then: enjoy your
story; be interested in it,--if you possibly can; and if you cannot, pretend to
be, till the very pretence brings about the virtue you have assumed.
There is much else
which might be said and urged regarding the method of story-telling, even
without encroaching on the domain of personal variations. A whole chapter
might, for example, be devoted to voice and enunciation, and then leave the
subject fertile. But voice and enunciation are after all merely single
manifestations of degree and quality of culture, of taste, and of natural gift.
No set rules can bring charm of voice and speech to a person whose feeling and
habitual point of view are fundamentally wrong; the person whose habitual
feeling and mental attitude are fundamentally right needs few or no rules. As
the whole matter of story-telling is in the first instance an expression of the
complex personal product, so will this feature of it vary in perfection
according to the beauty and culture of the human mechanism manifesting it.
A few generally
applicable suggestions may, however, be useful,--always assuming the story-
teller to have the fundamental qualifications of fine and wholesome habit.
These are not rules for the art of speaking; they are merely some practical
considerations regarding speaking to an audience.
First, I would
reiterate my earlier advice, be simple. Affectation is the worst enemy of voice
and enunciation alike. Slovenly enunciation is certainly very dreadful, but the
unregenerate may be pardoned if they prefer it to the affected mouthing which
some over-nice people without due sense of values expend on every syllable
which is so unlucky as to fall between their teeth.
Next I would urge
avoidance of a fault very common with those who speak much in large rooms,--the
mistaken effort at loudness. This results in tightening and straining the
throat, finally producing nasal head-tones or a voice of metallic harshness.
And it is entirely unnecessary. There is no need to speak loudly. The ordinary
schoolroom needs no vocal effort. A hall seating three or four hundred persons
demands no effort whatever beyond a certain clearness and definiteness of
speech. A hall seating from five to eight hundred needs more skill in aiming
the voice, but still demands no shouting.
It is indeed largely
the psychological quality of a tone that makes it reach in through the ear to
the comprehension. The quiet, clear, restful, persuasive tone of a speaker who
knows his power goes straight home; but loud speech confuses. Never speak
loudly. In a small room, speak as gently and easily as in conversation; in a
large room, think of the people farthest away, and speak clearly, with a slight
separation between words, and with definite phrasing,-- aiming your mind toward
the distant listeners.
If one is conscious of
nasality or throatiness of voice, it certainly pays to study the subject
seriously with an intelligent teacher. But a good, natural speaking-voice, free
from extraordinary vices, will fill all the requirements of story-telling to
small audiences, without other attention than comes indirectly from following
the general principles of the art.
To sum it all up, then,
let us say of the method likely to bring success in telling stories, that it
includes sympathy, grasp, spontaneity: one must appreciate the story, and know
it; and then, using the realising imagination as a constant vivifying force,
and dominated by the mood of the story, one must tell it with all one's
might,--simply, vitally, joyously.
IN Chapter II., I have
tried to give my conception of the general aim of story-telling in school. From
that conception, it is not difficult to deduce certain specific uses. The one
most plainly intimated is that of a brief recreation period, a feature which
has proved valuable in many classes. Less definitely implied, but not to be
ignored, was the use of the story during, or accessory to, the lesson in
science or history.
But more distinctive
and valuable than these, I think, is a specific use which I have recently had
the pleasure of seeing exemplified in great completeness in the schools of
Providence, Rhode Island.
Some four years ago,
the assistant superintendent of schools of that city, Miss Ella L. Sweeney,
introduced a rather unusual and extended application of the story in her
primary classes. While the experiment was in its early stages, it was my good
fortune to be allowed to make suggestions for its development, and as the
devices in question were those I had been accustomed to use as a pastime for
children, I was able to take some slight hand in the formative work of its
adoption as an educational method. Carried out most ably by the teachers to
whom it was entrusted, the plan has evolved into a more inclusive and
systematic one than was at first hoped for; it is one from which I have been
grateful to learn.
Tersely stated, the
object of the general plan is the freeing and developing of the power of
expression in the pupils.
I think there can be no
need of dwelling on the desirability of this result. The apathy and
``woodenness'' of children under average modes of pedagogy is apparent to
anyone who is interested enough to observe. In elementary work, the most
noticeable lack of natural expression is probably in the reading classes; the
same drawback appears at a later stage in English composition. But all along
the line every thoughtful teacher knows how difficult it is to obtain
spontaneous, creative reaction on material given.
Story-telling has a
real mission to perform in setting free the natural creative expression of
children, and in vitalising the general atmosphere of the school. The method in
use for this purpose in Providence (and probably elsewhere, as ideas usually
germinate in more than one place at once) is a threefold giving back of the
story by the children. Two of the forms of reproduction are familiar to many
teachers; the first is the obvious one of telling the story back again.
It is such fun to
listen to a good story that children remember it without effort, and later,
when asked if they can tell the story of The Red-Headed Woodpecker or The
little Red Hen, they are as eager to try it as if it were a personal experience
which they were burning to impart.
Each pupil, in the
Providence classes, is given a chance to try each story, at some time. Then
that one which each has told especially well is allotted to him for his own
particular story, on which he has an especial claim thereafter.
It is surprising to
note how comparatively individual and distinctive the expression of voice and
manner becomes, after a short time. The child instinctively emphasises the
points which appeal to him, and the element of fun in it all helps to bring
forgetfulness of self. The main inflections and the general tenor of the
language, however, remain imitative, as is natural with children. But this is a
gain rather than otherwise, for it is useful in forming good habit. In no other
part of her work, probably, has a teacher so good a chance to foster in her
pupils pleasant habits of enunciation and voice. And this is especially worth
while ill the big city schools, where so many children come from homes where
the English of the tenement is spoken.
I have since wished
that every city primary teacher could have visited with me the first- grade
room in Providence where the pupils were German, Russian, or Polish Jews, and
where some of them had heard no English previous to that year,--it being then
May. The joy that shone on their faces was nothing less than radiance when the
low-voiced teacher said, ``Would you like to tell these ladies some of your
stories?''
They told us their
stories, and there was truly not one told poorly or inexpressively; all the
children had learned something of the joy of creative effort. But one little
fellow stands out in my memory beyond all the rest, yet as a type of all the
rest.
Rudolph was very small,
and square, and merry of eye; life was one eagerness and expectancy to him. He
knew no English beyond that of one school year. But he stood staunchly in his
place and told me the story of the Little Half Chick with an abandon and bodily
emphasis which left no doubt of his sympathetic understanding of every word.
The depth of moral reproach in his tone was quite beyond description when he
said, ``Little Half Chick, little Half Chick, when I was in trubbul you
wouldn't help me!'' He heartily relished that repetition, and became more
dramatic each time.
Through it all, in the
tones of the tender little voice, the sidewise pose of the neat dark head, and
the occasional use of a chubby pointing finger, one could trace a vague
reflection of the teacher's manner. It was not strong enough to dominate at all
over the child's personality, but it was strong enough to suggest
possibilities.
In different rooms, I
was told The Half Chick, The Little Red Hen, The Three Bears, The Red- Headed
Woodpecker, The Fox and the Grapes, and many other simple stories, and in every
instance there was a noticeable degree of spontaneity and command of
expression.
When the reading
classes were held, the influence of this work was very visible. It had crept
into the teachers' method, as well as the children's attitude. The story interest
was still paramount. In the discussion, in the teachers' remarks, and in the
actual reading, there was a joyousness and an interest in the subject- matter
which totally precluded that preoccupation with sounds and syllables so deadly
to any real progress in reading. There was less of the mechanical in the
reading than in any I had heard in my visits to schools; but it was
exceptionally accurate.
The second form of
giving back which has proved a keen pleasure and a stimulus to growth is a kind
of ``seat-work.'' The children are allowed to make original illustrations of
the stories by cutting silhouette pictures.
It will be readily seen
that no child can do this without visualising each image very perfectly. In the
simplest and most unconscious way possible, the small artists are developing
the power of conceiving and holding the concrete image of an idea given, the
power which is at the bottom of all arts of expression.
Through the kindness of
Miss Sweeney, I am able to insert several of these illustrations. They are
entirely original, and were made without any thought of such a use as this.
The pictures and the
retelling are both popular with children, but neither is as dear to them as the
third form of reproduction of which I wish to speak. This third kind is taken
entirely on the ground of play, and no visibly didactic element enters into it.
It consists simply of playing the story.
When a good story with
a simple sequence has been told, and while the children are still athrill with
the delight of it, they are told they may play it.
``Who would like to be
Red Riding Hood?'' says the teacher; up go the little girls' hands, and Mary or
Hannah or Gertrude is chosen.
``Who will be the
wolf?'' Johnny or Marcus becomes the wolf. The kind woodchopper and the mother
are also happily distributed, for in these little dramatic companies it is an
all-star cast, and no one realises any indignity in a subordinate rôle.
``Now, where shall we
have little Red Riding Hood's house? `Over in that corner,' Katie? Very well,
Riding Hood shall live over there. And where shall the grandmother's cottage
be?''
The children decide
that it must be a long distance through the wood,--half-way round the
schoolroom, in fact. The wolf selects the spot where he will meet Red Riding
Hood, and the woodchopper chooses a position from which he can rush in at the
critical moment, to save Red Riding Hood's life.
Then, with gusto good
to see, they play the game. The teacher makes no suggestions; each actor
creates his part. Some children prove extremely expressive and facile, while
others are limited by nature. But each is left to his spontaneous action.
In the course of
several days several sets of children have been allowed to try; then if any of
them are notably good in the several rôles, they are given an especial
privilege in that story, as was done with the retelling. When a child expresses
a part badly, the teacher sometimes asks if anyone thinks of another way to do
it; from different examples offered, the children then choose the one they
prefer; this is adopted. At no point is the teacher apparently teaching. She
lets the audience teach itself and its actors.
The children played a
good many stories for me during my visit in Providence. Of them all, Red Riding
Hood, The Fox and the Grapes, and The Lion and the Mouse were most vividly
done.
It will be long before
the chief of the Little Red Riding Hoods fades from my memory. She had a dark,
foreign little face, with a good deal of darker hair tied back from it, and
brown, expressive hands. Her eyes were so full of dancing lights that when they
met mine unexpectedly it was as if a chance reflection had dazzled me. When she
was told that she might play, she came up for her riding hood like an embodied
delight, almost dancing as she moved. (Her teacher used a few simple elements
of stage-setting for her stories, such as bowls for the Bears, a cape for
Riding Hood, and so on.)
The game began at once.
Riding Hood started from the rear corner of the room, basket on arm; her mother
gave her strict injunctions as to lingering on the way, and she returned a
respectful ``Yes, mother.'' Then she trotted round the aisle, greeting the
wood- chopper on the way, to the deep wood which lay close by the teacher's
desk. There master wolf was waiting, and there the two held converse,--master
wolf very crafty indeed, Red Riding Hood extremely polite. The wolf then darted
on ahead and crouched down in the corner which represented grandmother's bed.
Riding Hood tripped sedately to the imaginary door, and knocked. The familiar
dialogue followed, and with the words ``the better to eat you with, my dear!''
the wolf clutched Red Riding Hood, to eat her up. But we were not forced to
undergo the threatened scene of horrid carnage, as the woodchopper opportunely
arrived, and stated calmly, ``I will not let you kill Little Red Riding Hood.''
All was now happily
culminated, and with the chopper's grave injunction as to future conduct in her
ears, the rescued heroine tip- toed out of the woods, to her seat.
I wanted to applaud,
but I realised in the nick of time that we were all playing, and held my peace.
The Fox and the Grapes
was more dramatically done, but was given by a single child. He was the chosen
``fox'' of another primary room, and had the fair colouring and sturdy frame
which matched his Swedish name. He was naturally dramatic. It was easy to see
that he instinctively visualised everything, and this he did so strongly that
he suggested to the onlooker every detail of the scene.
He chose for his grape-trellis
the rear wall of the room.
Standing there, he
looked longingly up at the invisible bunch of grapes. ``My gracious,'' he said,
``what fine grapes! I will have some.''
Then he jumped for
them.
``Didn't get them,'' he
muttered, ``I'll try again,'' and he jumped higher.
``Didn't get them this
time,'' he said disgustedly, and hopped up once more. Then he stood still,
looked up, shrugged his shoulders, and remarked in an absurdly worldly-wise
tone, ``Those grapes are sour!'' After which he walked away.
Of course the whole
thing was infantile, and without a touch of grace; but it is no exaggeration to
say that the child did what many grown-up actors fail to do,--he preserved the
illusion.
It was in still another
room that I saw the lion and mouse fable played.
The lion lay flat on
the floor for his nap, but started up when he found his paw laid on the little
mouse, who crouched as small as she could beside him. (The mouse was by nature
rather larger than the lion, but she called what art she might to her
assistance) The mouse persuaded the lion to lift his paw, and ran away.
Presently a most
horrific groaning emanated from the lion. The mouse ran up, looked him over,
and soliloquised in precise language,-- evidently remembered, ``What is the
matter with the lion? Oh, I see; he is caught in a trap.'' And then she gnawed
with her teeth at the imaginary rope which bound him.
``What makes you so
kind to me, little Mouse?'' said the rescued lion.
``You let me go, when I
asked you,'' said the mouse demurely.
``Thank you, little
Mouse,'' answered the lion; and therewith, finis.
It is not impossible
that all this play atmosphere may seem incongruous and unnecessary to teachers
used to more conventional methods, but I feel sure that an actual experience of
it would modify that point of view conclusively. The children of the schools
where story-telling and ``dramatising'' were practised were startlingly better
in reading, in attentiveness, and in general power of expression, than the
pupils of like social conditions in the same grades of other cities which I
visited soon after, and in which the more conventional methods were exclusively
used. The teachers, also, were stronger in power of expression.
But the most
noticeable, though the least tangible, difference was in the moral atmosphere
of the schoolroom. There had been a great gain in vitality in all the rooms
where stories were a part of the work. It had acted and reacted on pupils and
teachers alike. The telling of a story well so depends on being thoroughly
vitalised that, naturally, habitual telling had resulted in habitual
vitalisation.
This result was not, of
course, wholly due to the practice of story-telling, but it was in some measure
due to that. And it was a result worth the effort.
I beg to urge these
specific uses of stories, as both recreative and developing, and as especially
tending toward enlarged power of expression: retelling the story; illustrating
the story in seat- work; dramatisation.
Once, ever and ever so
long ago, we didn't have any pink roses. All the roses in the world were white.
There weren't any red ones at all, any yellow ones, or any pink ones,--only
white roses.
And one morning, very
early, a little white rosebud woke up, and saw the sun looking at her. He
stared so hard that the little white rosebud did not know what to do; so she
looked up at him and said, "Why are you looking at me so hard?''
"Because you are
so pretty!'' said the big round sun. And the little white rosebud blushed! She
blushed pink. And all her children after her were little pink roses!
Once there was a little
furry rabbit, who lived with his mother deep down in a nest under the long
grass. His name was Raggylug, and his mother's name was Molly Cottontail. Every
morning, when Molly Cottontail went out to hunt for food, she said to Raggylug,
"Now, Raggylug, lie still, and make no noise. No matter what you hear, no matter
what you see, don't you move. Remember you are only a baby rabbit, and lie
low.'' And Raggylug always said he would.
One day, after his
mother had gone, he was lying very still in the nest, looking up through the
feathery grass. By just cocking his eye, so, he could see what was going on up
in the world. Once a big bluejay perched on a twig above him, and scolded
someone very loudly; he kept saying, "Thief! thief!'' But Raggylug never
moved his nose, nor his paws; he lay still. Once a lady-bird took a walk down a
blade of grass, over his head; she was so top-heavy that pretty soon she
tumbled off and fell to the bottom, and had to begin all over again. But
Raggylug never moved his nose nor his paws; he lay still.
The sun was warm, and
it was very still.
Suddenly Raggylug heard
a little sound, far off. It sounded like "Swish, swish,'' very soft and
far away. He listened. It was a queer little sound, low down in the grass,
"rustle-- rustle--rustle''; Raggylug was interested. But he never moved his
nose or his paws; he lay still. Then the sound came nearer, "rustle--
rustle--rustle''; then grew fainter, then came nearer; in and out, nearer and
nearer, like something coming; only, when Raggylug heard anything coming he
always heard its feet, stepping ever so softly. What could it be that came so
smoothly,--rustle--rustle without any feet?
He forgot his mother's
warning, and sat up on his hind paws; the sound stopped then. "Pooh,''
thought Raggylug, "I'm not a baby rabbit, I am three weeks old; I'll find out
what this is.'' He stuck his head over the top of the nest, and
looked--straight into the wicked eyes of a great big snake. ``Mammy, Mammy!''
screamed Raggylug. ``Oh, Mammy, Mam----'' But he couldn't scream any more, for
the big snake had his ear in his mouth and was winding about the soft little
body, squeezing Raggylug's life out. He tried to call "Mammy!'' again, but
he could not breathe.
Ah, but Mammy had heard
the first cry. Straight over the fields she flew, leaping the stones and
hummocks, fast as the wind, to save her baby. She wasn't a timid little
cottontail rabbit then; she was a mother whose child was in danger. And when
she came to Raggylug and the big snake, she took one look, and then hop! hop!
she went over the snake's back; and as she jumped she struck at the snake with
her strong hind claws so that they tore his skin. He hissed with rage, but he
did not let go.
Hop! hop! she went
again, and this time she hurt him so that he twisted and turned; but he held on
to Raggylug.
Once more the mother
rabbit hopped, and once more she struck and tore the snake's back with her
sharp claws. Zzz! How she hurt! The snake dropped Raggy to strike at her, and
Raggy rolled on to his feet and ran.
"Run, Raggylug,
run!'' said his mother, keeping the snake busy with her jumps; and you may
believe Raggylug ran! Just as soon as he was out of the way his mother came
too, and showed him where to go. When she ran, there was a little white patch
that showed under her tail; that was for Raggy to follow, --he followed it now.
Far, far away she led
him, through the long grass, to a place where the big snake could not find him,
and there she made a new nest. And this time, when she told Raggylug to lie low
you'd better believe he minded!
I am going to tell you
a story about something wonderful that happened to a Christmas Tree like this,
ever and ever so long ago, when it was once upon a time.
It was before
Christmas, and the tree was trimmed with bright spangled threads and
many-coloured candles and (name the trimmings of the tree before you), and it
stood safely out of sight in a room where the doors were locked, so that the
children should not see it before the proper time. But ever so many other
little house-people had seen it. The big black pussy saw it with her great
green eyes; the little grey kitty saw it with her little blue eyes; the kind
house-dog saw it with his steady brown eyes; the yellow canary saw it with his
wise, bright eyes. Even the wee, wee mice that were so afraid of the cat had
peeped one peep when no one was by.
But there was someone
who hadn't seen the Christmas tree. It was the little grey spider!
You see, the spiders
lived in the corners,-- the warm corners of the sunny attic and the dark
corners of the nice cellar. And they were expecting to see the Christmas Tree
as much as anybody. But just before Chistmas [sic] a great cleaning-up began in
the house. The house- mother came sweeping and dusting and wiping and
scrubbing, to make everything grand and clean for the Christ-child's birthday.
Her broom went into all the corners, poke, poke,--and of course the spiders had
to run. Dear, dear, how the spiders had to run! Not one could stay in the house
while the Christmas cleanness lasted. So, you see, they couldn't see the
Christmas Tree.
Spiders like to know
all about everything, and see all there is to see, and these were very sad. So
at last they went to the Christ-child and told him about it.
"All the others
see the Christmas Tree, dear Christ-child,'' they said; ``but we, who are so
domestic and so fond of beautiful things, we are cleaned up! We cannot see it,
at all.''
The Christ-child was
sorry for the little spiders when he heard this, and he said they should see
the Christmas Tree.
The day before
Christmas, when nobody was noticing, he let them all go in, to look as long as
ever they liked.
They came creepy, creepy,
down the attic stairs, creepy, creepy, up the cellar stairs, creepy, creepy,
along the halls,--and into the beautiful room. The fat mother spiders and the
old papa spiders were there, and all the little teeny, tiny, curly spiders, the
baby ones. And then they looked! Round and round the tree they crawled, and
looked and looked and looked. Oh, what a good time they had! They thought it
was perfectly beautiful. And when they had looked at everything they could see
from the floor, they started up the tree to see more. All over the tree they
ran, creepy, crawly, looking at every single thing. Up and down, in and out,
over every branch and twig, the little spiders ran, and saw every one of the
pretty things right up close.
They stayed till they
had seen all there was to see, you may be sure, and then they went away at
last, quite happy.
Then, in the still,
dark night before Christmas Day, the dear Christ-child came, to bless the tree
for the children. But when he looked at it--what do you suppose?--it was
covered with cobwebs! Everywhere the little spiders had been they had left a
spider-web; and you know they had been everywhere. So the tree was covered from
its trunk to its tip with spider- webs, all hanging from the branches and
looped round the twigs; it was a strange sight.
What could the
Christ-child do? He knew that house-mothers do not like cobwebs; it would
never, never do to have a Christmas Tree covered with those. No, indeed.
So the dear
Christ-child touched the spider's webs, and turned them all to gold! Wasn't
that a lovely trimming? They shone and shone, all over the beautiful tree. And
that is the way the Christmas Tree came to have golden cob- webs on it.
Once the Morning-Glory
was flat on the ground. She grew that way, and she had never climbed at all. Up
in the top of a tree near her lived Mrs Jennie Wren and her little baby Wren.
The little Wren was lame; he had a broken wing and couldn't fly. He stayed in
the nest all day. But the mother Wren told him all about what she saw in the
world, when she came flying home at night. She used to tell him about the
beautiful Morning-Glory she saw on the ground. She told him about the
Morning-Glory every day, until the little Wren was filled with a desire to see
her for himself.
"How I wish I
could see the Morning- Glory!'' he said.
The Morning-Glory heard
this, and she longed to let the little Wren see her face. She pulled herself
along the ground, a little at a time, until she was at the foot of the tree
where the little Wren lived. But she could not get any farther, because she did
not know how to climb. At last she wanted to go up so much, that she caught
hold of the bark of the tree, and pulled herself up a little. And little by
little, before she knew it, she was climbing.
And she climbed right
up the tree to the little Wren's nest, and put her sweet face over the edge of
the nest, where the little Wren could see.
That was how the
Morning-Glory came to climb.
This is the story an
Indian woman told a little white boy who lived with his father and mother near
the Indians' country; and Tavwots is the name of the little rabbit.
But once, long ago,
Tavwots was not little, --he was the largest of all four-footed things, and a
mighty hunter. He used to hunt every day; as soon as it was day, and light
enough to see, he used to get up, and go to his hunting. But every day he saw
the track of a great foot on the trail, before him. This troubled him, for his
pride was as big as his body.
``Who is this,'' he
cried, ``that goes before me to the hunting, and makes so great a stride? Does
he think to put me to shame?''
``T'-sst!'' said his
mother, ``there is none greater than thou.''
``Still, there are the
footprints in the trail,'' said Tavwots.
And the next morning he
got up earlier; but still the great footprints and the mighty stride were
before him. The next morning he got up still earlier; but there were the mighty
foot- tracks and the long, long stride.
``Now I will set me a
trap for this impudent fellow,'' said Tavwots, for he was very cunning. So he
made a snare of his bowstring and set it in the trail overnight.
And when in the morning
he went to look, behold, he had caught the sun in his snare! All that part of
the earth was beginning to smoke with the heat of it.
``Is it you who made
the tracks in my trail?'' cried Tavwots.
``It is I,'' said the
sun; ``come and set me free, before the whole earth is afire.''
Then Tavwots saw what
he had to do, and he drew his sharp hunting-knife and ran to cut the bowstring.
But the heat was so great that he ran back before he had done it; and when he
ran back he was melted down to half his size! Then the earth began to burn, and
the smoke curled up against the sky.
``Come again,
Tavwots,'' cried the sun.
And Tavwots ran again
to cut the bowstring. But the heat was so great that he ran back before he had
done it, and he was melted down to a quarter of his size!
``Come again, Tavwots,
and quickly,'' cried the sun, ``or all the world will be burnt up.''
And Tavwots ran again;
this time he cut the bowstring and set the sun free. But when he got back he
was melted down to the size he is now! Only one thing is left of all his
greatness: you may still see by the print of his feet as he leaps in the trail,
how great his stride was when he caught the sun in his snare.
There was once a child
who was untidy. He left his books on the floor, and his muddy shoes on the
table; he put his fingers in the jam pots, and spilled ink on his best
pinafore; there was really no end to his untidiness.
One day the Tidy Angel
came into his nursery.
``This will never do!''
said the Angel. ``This is really shocking. You must go out and stay with your
brother while I set things to rights here.''
``I have no brother!''
said the child.
``Yes, you have,'' said
the Angel. ``You may not know him, but he will know you. Go out in the garden
and watch for him, and he will soon come.''
``I don't know what you
mean!'' said the child; but he went out into the garden and waited.
Presently a squirrel
came along, whisking his tail.
``Are you my brother?''
asked the child.
The squirrel looked him
over carefully.
``Well, I should hope
not!'' he said. ``My fur is neat and smooth, my nest is handsomely made, and in
perfect order, and my young ones are properly brought up. Why do you insult me
by asking such a question?''
He whisked off, and the
child waited.
Presently a wren came
hopping by.
``Are you my brother?''
asked the child.
``No, indeed!'' said
the wren. ``What impertinence! You will find no tidier person than I in the
whole garden. Not a feather is out of place, and my eggs are the wonder of all
for smoothness and beauty. Brother, indeed!'' He hopped off, ruffling his
feathers, and the child waited.
By-and-by a large Tommy
Cat came along.
``Are you my brother?''
asked the child.
``Go and look at
yourself in the glass,'' said the Tommy Cat haughtily, ``and you will have your
answer. I have been washing myself in the sun all the morning, while it is
clear that no water has come near you for a long time. There are no such
creatures as you in my family, I am humbly thankful to say.''
He walked on, waving
his tail, and the child waited.
Presently a pig came
trotting along.
The child did not wish
to ask the pig if he were his brother, but the pig did not wait to be asked.
``Hallo, brother!'' he
grunted.
``I am not your
brother!'' said the child.
``Oh yes, you are!''
said the pig. ``I confess I am not proud of you, but there is no mistaking the
members of our family. Come along, and have a good roll in the barnyard! There
is some lovely black mud there.''
``I don't like to roll
in mud!'' said the child.
``Tell that to the
hens!'' said the Pig Brother. ``Look at your hands and your shoes, and your
pinafore! Come along, I say! You may have some of the pig-wash for supper, if
there is more than I want.''
``I don't want
pig-wash!'' said the child; and he began to cry.
Just then the Tidy
Angel came out.
``I have set everything
to rights,'' she said, ``and so it must stay. Now, will you go with the Pig
Brother, or will you come back with me, and be a tidy child?''
``With you, with you!''
cried the child; and he clung to the Angel's dress.
The Pig Brother
grunted.
``Small loss!'' he
said. ``There will be all the more wash for me!'' And he trotted off.
[1] A child quarrelled with
his brother one day about a cake.
``It is my cake!'' said
the child.
``No, it is mine!''
said his brother.
``You shall not have
it!'' said the child.
``Give it to me this
minute!'' And he fell upon his brother and beat him.
Just then came by an
Angel who knew the child.
``Who is this that you
are beating?'' asked the Angel.
``It is my brother,''
said the child.
``No, but truly,'' said
the Angel, ``who is it?''
``It is my brother, I
tell you!'' said the child.
``Oh no,'' said the
Angel, ``that cannot be; and it seems a pity for you to tell an untruth,
because that makes spots on your soul. If it were your brother, you would not
beat him.''
``But he has my cake!''
said the child.
``Oh,'' said the Angel,
``now I see my mistake. You mean that the cake is your brother; and that seems
a pity, too, for it does not look like a very good cake,--and, besides, it is
all crumbled to pieces.''
[1] From traditions, with rhymes from Browning's The Pied Piper of
Hamelin. Once I made a pleasure
trip to a country called Germany; and I went to a funny little town, where all
the streets ran uphill. At the top there was a big mountain, steep like the
roof of a house, and at the bottom there was a big river, broad and slow. And
the funniest thing about the little town was that all the shops had the same
thing in them; bakers' shops, grocers' shops, everywhere we went we saw the
same thing,--big chocolate rats, rats and mice, made out of chocolate. We were
so surprised that after a while, ``Why do you have rats in your shops?'' we
asked.
``Don't you know this
is Hamelin town?'' they said. ``What of that?'' said we. ``Why, Hamelin town is
where the Pied Piper came,'' they told us; ``surely you know about the Pied
Piper?'' ``What about the Pied Piper?'' we said. And this is what they told us
about him.
It seems that once,
long, long ago, that little town was dreadfully troubled with rats. The houses
were full of them, the shops were full of them, the churches were full of them,
they were everywhere. The people were all but eaten out of house and home.
Those rats,
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats!
At last it got so bad that the
people simply couldn't stand it any longer. So they all came together and went
to the town hall, and they said to the Mayor (you know what a mayor is?), ``See
here, what do we pay you your salary for? What are you good for, if you can't
do a little thing like getting rid of these rats? You must go to work and clear
the town of them; find the remedy that's lacking, or--we'll send you packing!''
Well, the poor Mayor
was in a terrible way. What to do he didn't know. He sat with his head in his
hands, and thought and thought and thought.
Suddenly there came a
little rat-tat at the door. Oh! how the Mayor jumped! His poor old heart went
pit-a-pat at anything like the sound of a rat. But it was only the scraping of
shoes on the mat. So the Mayor sat up, and said, ``Come in!''
And in came the
strangest figure! It was a man, very tall and very thin, with a sharp chin and
a mouth where the smiles went out and in, and two blue eyes, each like a pin;
and he was dressed half in red and half in yellow--he really was the strangest
fellow!--and round his neck he had a long red and yellow ribbon, and on it was
hung a thing something like a flute, and his fingers went straying up and down
it as if he wanted to be playing.
He came up to the Mayor
and said, ``I hear you are troubled with rats in this town.''
``I should say we
were,'' groaned the Mayor.
``Would you like to get
rid of them? I can do it for you.''
``You can?'' cried the
Mayor. ``How? Who are you?''
``Men call me the Pied
Piper,'' said the man, ``and I know a way to draw after me everything that
walks, or flies, or swims. What will you give me if I rid your town of rats?''
``Anything, anything,''
said the Mayor. ``I don't believe you can do it, but if you can, I'll give you
a thousand guineas.''
``All right,'' said the
Piper, ``it is a bargain.''
And then he went to the
door and stepped out into the street and stood, and put the long flute-like
thing to his lips, and began to play a little tune. A strange, high, little
tune. And before
three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling I
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives--
Followed the Piper for their lives!
From street to street he
piped, advancing, from street to street they followed, dancing. Up one street
and down another, till they came to the edge of the big river, and there the
piper turned sharply about and stepped aside, and all those rats tumbled hurry
skurry, head over heels, down the bank into the river and--were-- drowned.
Every single one. No, there was one big old fat rat; he was so fat he didn't
sink, and he swam across, and ran away to tell the tale.
Then the Piper came
back to the town hall. And all the people were waving their hats and shouting
for joy. The Mayor said they would have a big celebration, and build a
tremendous bonfire in the middle of the town. He asked the Piper to stay and
see the bonfire,--very politely.
``Yes,'' said the
Piper, ``that will be very nice; but first, if you please, I should like my
thousand guineas.''
``H'm,--er--ahem!''
said the Mayor. ``You mean that little joke of mine; of course that was a
joke.'' (You see it is always harder to pay for a thing when you no longer need
it.)
``I do not joke,'' said
the Piper very quietly; ``my thousand guineas, if you please.''
``Oh, come, now,'' said
the Mayor, ``you know very well it wasn't worth sixpence to play a little tune
like that; call it one guinea, and let it go at that.''
``A bargain is a
bargain,'' said the Piper; ``for the last time,--will you give me my thousand
guineas?''
``I'll give you a pipe
of tobacco, something good to eat, and call you lucky at that!'' said the
Mayor, tossing his head.
Then the Piper's mouth
grew strange and thin, and sharp blue and green lights began dancing in his
eyes, and he said to the Mayor very softly, ``I know another tune than that I
played; I play it to those who play me false.''
``Play what you please!
You can't frighten me! Do your worst!'' said the Mayor, making himself big.
Then the Piper stood
high up on the steps of the town hall, and put the pipe to his lips, and began
to play a little tune. It was quite a different little tune, this time, very
soft and sweet, and very, very strange. And before he had played three notes,
you heard
a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling;
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,
And like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
``Stop, stop!'' cried the
people. ``He is taking our children! Stop him, Mr Mayor!''
``I will give you your
money, I will!'' cried the Mayor, and tried to run after the Piper.
But the very same music
that made the children dance made the grown-up people stand stock-still; it was
as if their feet had been tied to the ground; they could not move a muscle.
There they stood and saw the Piper move slowly down the street, playing his
little tune, with the children at his heels. On and on he went; on and on the
children danced; till he came to the bank of the river.
``Oh, oh! He will drown
our children in the river!'' cried the people. But the Piper turned and went
along by the bank, and all the children followed after. Up, and up, and up the
hill they went, straight toward the mountain which is like the roof of a house.
And just as they got to it, the mountain opened,--like two great doors, and the
Piper went in through the opening, playing the little tune, and the children
danced after him--and--just as they got through --the great doors slid together
again and shut them all in! Every single one. No, there was one little lame
child, who couldn't keep up with the rest and didn't get there in time. But
none of his little companions ever came back any more, not one.
But years and years
afterward, when the fat old rat who swam across the river was a grandfather,
his children used to ask him, ``What made you follow the music, Grandfather?''
and he used to tell them, ``My dears, when I heard that tune I thought I heard
the moving aside of pickle-tub boards, and the leaving ajar of preserve
cupboards, and I smelled the most delicious old cheese in the world, and I saw
sugar barrels ahead of me; and then, just as a great yellow cheese seemed to be
saying, `Come, bore me'--I felt the river rolling o'er me!''
And in the same way the
people asked the little lame child, ``What made you follow the music?'' ``I do
not know what the others heard,'' he said, ``but I, when the Piper began to
play, I heard a voice that told of a wonderful country hard by, where the bees
had no stings and the horses had wings, and the trees bore wonderful fruits,
where no one was tired or lame, and children played all day; and just as the
beautiful country was but one step away --the mountain closed on my playmates,
and I was left alone.''
That was all the people
ever knew. The children never came back. All that was left of the Piper and the
rats was just the big street that led to the river; so they called it the
Street of the Pied Piper.
And that is the end of
the story.
One day, a long, long
time ago, it was very cold; winter was coming. And all the birds flew away to
the warm south, to wait for the spring. But one little bird had a broken wing
and could not fly. He did not know what to do. He looked all round, to see if there
was any place where he could keep warm. And he saw the trees of the great
forest.
``Perhaps the trees
will keep me warm through the winter,'' he said.
So he went to the edge
of the forest, hopping and fluttering with his broken wing. The first tree he
came to was a slim silver birch.
``Beautiful
birch-tree,'' he said, ``will you let me live in your warm branches until the
springtime comes?''
``Dear me!'' said the
birch-tree, ``what a thing to ask! I have to take care of my own leaves through
the winter; that is enough for me. Go away.''
The little bird hopped
and fluttered with his broken wing until he came to the next tree. It was a
great, big oak-tree.
``O big oak-tree,''
said the little bird, ``will you let me live in your warm branches until the
springtime comes?''
``Dear me,'' said the
oak-tree, ``what a thing to ask! If you stay in my branches all winter you will
be eating my acorns. Go away.''
So the little bird
hopped and fluttered with his broken wing till he came to the willow-tree by the
edge of the brook.
``O beautiful
willow-tree,'' said the little bird, ``will you let me live in your warm
branches until the springtime comes?''
``No, indeed,'' said
the willow-tree; ``I never speak to strangers. Go away.''
The poor little bird
did not know where to go; but he hopped and fluttered along with his broken
wing. Presently the spruce-tree saw him, and said, ``Where are you going,
little bird?''
``I do not know,'' said
the bird; ``the trees will not let me live with them, and my wing is broken so
that I cannot fly.''
``You may live on one
of my branches,'' said the spruce; ``here is the warmest one of all.''
``But may I stay all
winter?''
``Yes,'' said the
spruce; ``I shall like to have you.''
The pine-tree stood
beside the spruce, and when he saw the little bird hopping and fluttering with
his broken wing, he said, ``My branches are not very warm, but I can keep the
wind off because I am big and strong.''
So the little bird
fluttered up into the warm branch of the spruce, and the pine-tree kept the
wind off his house; then the juniper-tree saw what was going on, and said that
she would give the little bird his dinner all the winter, from her branches.
Juniper berries are very good for little birds.
The little bird was
very comfortable in his warm nest sheltered from the wind, with juniper berries
to eat.
The trees at the edge
of the forest remarked upon it to each other:
``I wouldn't take care
of a strange bird,'' said the birch.
``I wouldn't risk my
acorns,'' said the oak.
``I would not speak to
strangers,'' said the willow. And the three trees stood up very tall and proud.
That night the North
Wind came to the woods to play. He puffed at the leaves with his icy breath,
and every leaf he touched fell to the ground. He wanted to touch every leaf in
the forest, for he loved to see the trees bare.
``May I touch every
leaf?'' he said to his father, the Frost King.
``No,'' said the Frost
King, ``the trees which were kind to the bird with the broken wing may keep
their leaves.''
So North Wind had to
leave them alone, and the spruce, the pine, and the juniper-tree kept their
leaves through all the winter. And they have done so ever since.
There was once a little
girl who was very, very poor. Her father and mother had died, and at last she
had no little room to stay in, and no little bed to sleep in, and nothing more
to eat except one piece of bread. So she said a prayer, put on her little jacket
and her hood, and took her piece of bread in her hand, and went out into the
world.
When she had walked a
little way, she met an old man, bent and thin. He looked at the piece of bread
in her hand, and said, ``Will you give me your bread, little girl? I am very
hungry.'' The little girl said, ``Yes,'' and gave him her piece of bread.
When she had walked a
little farther she came upon a child, sitting by the path, crying. ``I am so
cold!'' said the child. ``Won't you give me your little hood, to keep my head
warm?'' The little girl took off her hood and tied it on the child's head. Then
she went on her way.
After a time, as she
went, she met another child. This one shivered with the cold, and she said to
the little girl, ``Won't you give me your jacket, little girl?'' And the little
girl gave her her jacket. Then she went on again.
By-and-by she saw
another child, crouching almost naked by the wayside. ``O little girl,'' said
the child, ``won't you give me your dress? I have nothing to keep me warm.'' So
the little girl took off her dress and gave it to the other child. And now she
had nothing left but her little shirt. It grew dark, and the wind was cold, and
the little girl crept into the woods, to sleep for the night. But in the woods
a child stood, weeping and naked. ``I am cold,'' she said, ``give me your
little shirt!'' And the little girl thought, ``It is dark, and the woods will
shelter me; I will give her my little shirt''; so she did, and now she had
nothing left in all the world.
She stood looking up at
the sky, to say her night-time prayer. As she looked up, the whole skyful of
stars fell in a shower round her feet. There they were, on the ground, shining
bright, and round. The little girl saw that they were silver dollars. And in
the midst of them was the finest little shirt, all woven out of silk! The
little girl put on the little silk shirt, and gathered the star dollars; and
she was rich, all the days of her life.
Far away in Central
Africa, that vast land where dense forests and wild beasts abound, the shades
of night were once more descending, warning all creatures that it was time to
seek repose.
All day long the sun
had been like a great burning eye, but now, after painting the western sky with
crimson and scarlet and gold, he had disappeared into his fleecy bed; the
various creatures of the forest had sought their holes and resting-places; the
last sound had rumbled its rumble, the last bee had mumbled his mumble, and the
last bear had grumbled his grumble; even the grasshoppers that had been
chirruping, chirruping, through all the long hours without a pause, at length
had ceased their shrill music, tucked up their long legs, and given themselves
to slumber.
There on a nodding
grass-blade, a tiny Gnat had made a swinging couch, and he too had folded his
wings, closed his tiny eyes, and was fast asleep. Darker, darker, darker became
the night until the darkness could almost be felt, and over all was a solemn stillness
as though some powerful finger had been raised, and some potent voice had
whispered, ``HU--SH!''
Just when all was
perfectly still, there came suddenly from the far away depths of the forest,
like the roll of thunder, a mighty ROAR--R--R--R!
In a moment all the
beasts and birds were wide awake, and the poor little Gnat was nearly
frightened out of his little senses, and his little heart went pit-a-pat. He
rubbed his little eyes with his feelers, and then peered all around trying to
penetrate the deep gloom as he whispered in terror--``What--was--that?''
What do you think it
was? . . . Yes, a LION! A great, big lion who, while most other denizens of the
forest slept, was out hunting for prey. He came rushing and crashing through
the thick undergrowth of the forest, swirling his long tail and opening wide
his great jaws, and as he rushed he RO-AR-R-R-ED!
Presently he reached
the spot where the little Gnat hung panting at the tip of the waving
grass-blade. Now the little Gnat was not afraid of lions, so when he saw it was
only a lion, he cried out--
``Hi, stop, stop! What
are you making that horrible noise about?''
The Lion stopped short,
then backed slowly and regarded the Gnat with scorn.
``Why, you tiny,
little, mean, insignificant creature you, how DARE you speak to ME?'' he raged.
``How dare I speak to
you?'' repeated the Gnat quietly. ``By the virtue of right, which is always
greater than might. Why don't you keep to your own part of the forest? What
right have you to be here, disturbing folks at this time of night?''
By a mighty effort the
Lion restrained his anger--he knew that to obtain mastery over others one must
be master over oneself.
``What right?'' he
repeated in dignified tones. ``Because I'm King of the Forest. That's why. I
can do no wrong, for all the other creatures of the forest are afraid of me. I
DO what I please, I SAY what I please, I EAT whom I please, I GO where I
please--simply because I'm King of the Forest.''
``But who told you you
were King?'' demanded the Gnat. ``Just answer me that!''
``Who told ME?'' roared
the Lion. ``Why, everyone acknowledges it--don't I tell you that everyone is
afraid of me?''
``Indeed!'' cried the
Gnat disdainfully. ``Pray don't say all, for I'm not afraid of you. And
further, I deny your right to be King.'' This was too much for the Lion. He now
worked himself into a perfect fury.
``You--you--YOU deny my
right as King?''
``I do, and, what is
more, you shall never be King until you have fought and conquered me.''
The Lion laughed a
great lion laugh, and a lion laugh cannot be laughed at like a cat laugh, as
everyone ought to know.
``Fight--did you say
fight?'' he asked. ``Who ever heard of a lion fighting a gnat? Here, out of my
way, you atom of nothing! I'll blow you to the other end of the world.''
But though the Lion
puffed his cheeks until they were like great bellows, and then blew with all
his might, he could not disturb the little Gnat's hold on the swaying
grass-blade.
``You'll blow all your
whiskers away if you are not careful,'' he said, with a laugh--``but you won't
move me. And if you dare leave this spot without fighting me, I'll tell all the
beasts of the forest that you are afraid of me, and they'll make me King.''
``Ho, ho!'' roared the
Lion. ``Very well, since you will fight, let it be so.''
``You agree to the
conditions, then? The one who conquers shall be King?''
``Oh, certainly,''
laughed the Lion, for he expected an easy victory. ``Are you ready?''
``Quite ready.''
``Then--GO!'' roared
the Lion.
And with that he sprang
forward with open jaws, thinking he could easily swallow a million gnats. But
just as the great jaws were about to close upon the blade of grass whereto the
Gnat clung, what should happen but that the Gnat suddenly spread his wings and
nimbly flew--where do you think?--right into one of the Lion's nostrils! And
there he began to sting, sting, sting. The Lion wondered, and thundered, and
blundered--but the Gnat went on stinging; he foamed, and he moaned, and he
groaned--still the Gnat went on stinging; he rubbed his head on the ground in
agony, he swirled his tail in furious passion, he roared, he spluttered, he
sniffed, he snuffed--and still the Gnat went on stinging.
``O my poor nose, my
nose, my nose!'' the Lion began to moan. ``Come down, come DOWN, come DOWN I My
nose, my NOSE, my NOSE!! You're King of the Forest, you're King, you're
King--only come down. My nose, my NOSE, my NOSE!''
So at last the Gnat
flew out from the Lion's nostril and went back to his waving grass- blade,
while the Lion slunk away into the depths of the forest with his tail between
his legs--beaten, and by a tiny Gnat!
``What a fine fellow am
I, to be sure!'' exclaimed the Gnat, aa he proudly plumed his wings. ``I've
beaten a lion--a LION! Dear me, I ought to have been King long ago, I'm so
clever, so big, so strong--oh!''
The Gnat's frightened
cry was caused by finding himself entangled in some silky sort of threads.
While gloating over his victory, the wind had risen, and his grass-blade had
swayed violently to and fro unnoticed by him. A stronger gust than usual had
bent the blade downward close to the ground, and then something caught it and
held it fast and with it the victorious Gnat. Oh, the desperate struggles he
made to get free! Alas! he became more entangled than ever. You can guess what
it was--a spider's web, hung out from the over- hanging branch of a tree.
Then--flipperty- flopperty, flipperty--flopperty, flop, flip, flop-- down his
stairs came cunning Father Spider and quickly gobbled up the little Gnat for
his supper, and that was the end of him.
A strong Lion--and what
overcame him? A Gnat.
A clever Gnat--and what
overcame him? A Spider's web! He who had beaten the strong lion had been
overcome by the subtle snare of a spider's thread.
Once there was a cat,
and a parrot. And they had agreed to ask each other to dinner, turn and turn
about: first the cat should ask the parrot, then the parrot should invite the
cat, and so on. It was the cat's turn first.
Now the cat was very
mean. He provided nothing at all for dinner except a pint of milk, a little
slice of fish, and a biscuit. The parrot was too polite to complain, but he did
not have a very good time.
When it was his turn to
invite the cat, he cooked a fine dinner. He had a roast of meat, a pot of tea,
a basket of fruit, and, best of all, he baked a whole clothes-basketful of
little cakes!--little, brown, crispy, spicy cakes! Oh, I should say as many as
five hundred. And he put four hundred and ninety-eight of the cakes before the
cat, keeping only two for himself.
Well, the cat ate the
roast, and drank the tea, and sucked the fruit, and then he began on the pile
of cakes. He ate all the four hundred and ninety-eight cakes, and then he
looked round and said:--
``I'm hungry; haven't
you anything to eat?''
``Why,'' said the
parrot, ``here are my two cakes, if you want them?''
The cat ate up the two
cakes, and then he licked his chops and said, ``I am beginning to get an
appetite; have you anything to eat?''
``Well, really,'' said
the parrot, who was now rather angry, ``I don't see anything more, unless you
wish to eat me!'' He thought the cat would be ashamed when he heard that--but
the cat just looked at him and licked his chops again,--and slip! slop! gobble!
down his throat went the parrot!
Then the cat started
down the street. An old woman was standing by, and she had seen the whole
thing, and she was shocked that the cat should eat his friend. ``Why, cat!''
she said, ``how dreadful of you to eat your friend the parrot!''
``Parrot, indeed!''
said the cat. ``What's a parrot to me?--I've a great mind to eat you, too.''
And--before you could say ``Jack Robinson''--slip! slop! gobble! down went the
old woman!
Then the cat started
down the road again, walking like this, because he felt so fine. Pretty soon he
met a man driving a donkey. The man was beating the donkey, to hurry him up,
and when he saw the cat he said, ``Get out of my way, cat; I'm in a hurry and
my donkey might tread on you.''
``Donkey, indeed!''
said the cat, ``much I care for a donkey! I have eaten five hundred cakes, I've
eaten my friend the parrot, I've eaten an old woman,--what's to hinder my
eating a miserable man and a donkey?''
And slip! slop! gobble!
down went the old man and the donkey.
Then the cat walked on
down the road, jauntily, like this. After a little, he met a procession, coming
that way. The king was at the head, walking proudly with his newly married
bride, and behind him were his soldiers, marching, and behind them were ever
and ever so many elephants, walking two by two. The king felt very kind to
everybody, because he had just been married, and he said to the cat, ``Get out
of my way, pussy, get out of my way, --my elephants might hurt you.''
``Hurt me!'' said the
cat, shaking his fat sides. ``Ho, ho! I've eaten five hundred cakes, I've eaten
my friend the parrot, I've eaten an old woman, I've eaten a man and a donkey;
what's to hinder my eating a beggarly king?''
And slip! slop! gobble!
down went the king; down went the queen; down went the soldiers,--and down went
all the elephants!
Then the cat went on,
more slowly; he had really had enough to eat, now. But a little farther on he
met two land-crabs, scuttling along in the dust. ``Get out of our way, pussy,''
they squeaked.
``Ho, ho ho!'' cried
the cat in a terrible voice. ``I've eaten five hundred cakes, I've eaten my
friend the parrot, I've eaten an old woman, a man with a donkey, a king, a
queen, his men-at-arms, and all his elephants; and now I'll eat you too.''
And slip! slop! gobble!
down went the two land-crabs.
When the land-crabs got
down inside, they began to look around. It was very dark, but they could see
the poor king sitting in a corner with his bride on his arm; she had fainted.
Near them were the men-at-arms, treading on one another's toes, and the
elephants, still trying to form in twos,--but they couldn't, because there was
not room. In the opposite corner sat the old woman, and near her stood the man
and his donkey. But in the other corner was a great pile of cakes, and by them
perched the parrot, his feathers all drooping.
Let's get to work!''
said the land-crabs. And, snip, snap, they began to make a little hole in the
side, with their sharp claws. Snip, snap, snip, snap,--till it was big enough to
get through. Then out they scuttled.
Then out walked the
king, carrying his bride; out marched the men-at-arms; out tramped the
elephants, two by two; out came the old man, beating his donkey; out walked the
old woman, scolding the cat; and last of all, out hopped the parrot, holding a
cake in each claw. (you remember, two cakes were all he wanted?)
But the poor cat had to
spend the whole day sewing up the hole in his coat!
Once upon a time, there
was a Rat Princess, who lived with her father, the Rat King, and her mother,
the Rat Queen, in a ricefield in far away Japan. The Rat Princess was so pretty
that her father and mother were quite foolishly proud of her, and thought no
one good enough to play with her. When she grew up, they would not let any of
the rat princes come to visit her, and they decided at last that no one should
marry her till they had found the most powerful person in the whole world; no
one else was good enough. And the Father Rat started out to find the most powerful
person in the whole world. The wisest and oldest rat in the ricefield said that
the Sun must be the most powerful person, because he made the rice grow and
ripen; so the Rat King went to find the Sun. He climbed up the highest
mountain, ran up the path of a rainbow, and travelled and travelled across the
sky till he came to the Sun's house.
``What do you want,
little brother?'' the Sun said, when he saw him.
``I come,'' said the
Rat King, very importantly, ``to offer you the hand of my daughter, the
princess, because you are the most powerful person in the world; no one else is
good enough.''
``Ha, ha!'' laughed the
jolly round Sun, and winked with his eye. ``You are very kind, little brother,
but if that is the case the princess is not for me; the Cloud is more powerful
than I am; when he passes over me I cannot shine.''
``Oh, indeed,'' said
the Rat King, ``then you are not my man at all''; and he left the Sun without
more words. The Sun laughed and winked to himself. And the Rat King travelled
and travelled across the sky till he came to the Cloud's house.
``What do you want,
little brother?'' sighed the Cloud when he saw him.
``I come to offer you
the hand of my daughter, the princess,'' said the Rat King, ``because you are
the most powerful person in the world; the Sun said so, and no one else is good
enough.''
The Cloud sighed again.
``I am not the most powerful person,'' he said; ``the Wind is stronger than
I,--when he blows, I have to go wherever he sends me.''
``Then you are not the
person for my daughter,'' said the Rat King proudly; and he started at once to
find the Wind. He travelled and travelled across the sky, till he came at last
to the Wind's house, at the very edge of the world.
When the Wind saw him
coming he laughed a big, gusty laugh, ``Ho, ho!'' and asked him what he wanted;
and when the Rat King told him that he had come to offer him the Rat Princess's
hand because he was the most powerful person in the world, the Wind shouted a
great gusty shout, and said, ``No, no, I am not the strongest; the Wall that
man has made is stronger than I; I cannot make him move, with all my blowing;
go to the Wall, little brother!''
And the Rat King
climbed down the sky- path again, and travelled and travelled across the earth
till he came to the Wall. It was quite near his own ricefield.
``What do you want,
little brother?'' grumbled the Wall when he saw him.
``I come to offer you the
hand of the princess, my daughter, because you are the most powerful person in
the world, and no one else is good enough.''
``Ugh, ugh,'' grumbled
the Wall, ``I am not the strongest; the big grey Rat who lives in the cellar is
stronger than I. When he gnaws and gnaws at me I crumble and crumble, and at
last I fall; go to the Rat, little brother.''
And so, after going all
over the world to find the strongest person, the Rat King had to marry his
daughter to a rat, after all; but the princess was very glad of it, for she
wanted to marry the grey Rat, all the time.
Once a little Frog sat
by a big Frog, by the side of a pool. ``Oh, father,'' said he, ``I have just
seen the biggest animal in the world; it was as big as a mountain, and it had
horns on its head, and it had hoofs divided in two.''
``Pooh, child,'' said
the old Frog, ``that was only Farmer White's Ox. He is not so very big. I could
easily make myself as big as he.'' And he blew, and he blew, and he blew, and
swelled himself out.
``Was he as big as
that?'' he asked the little Frog.
``Oh, much bigger,''
said the little Frog.
The old Frog blew, and
blew, and blew again, and swelled himself out, more than ever.
``Was he bigger than
that?'' he said.
``Much, much bigger,''
said the little Frog.
``I can make myself as
big,'' said the old Frog. And once more he blew, and blew, and blew, and
swelled himself out,--and he burst!
Self-conceit leads to
self-destruction.
This is the Indian
story of how fire was brought to the tribes. It was long, long ago, when men
and beasts talked together with understanding, and the grey Coyote was friend
and counsellor of man.
There was a Boy of the
tribe who was swift of foot and keen of eye, and he and the Coyote ranged the
wood together. They saw the men catching fish in the creeks with their hands,
and the women digging roots with sharp stones. This was in summer. But when
winter came on, they saw the people running naked in the snow, or huddled in
caves of the rocks, and most miserable. The Boy noticed this, and was very
unhappy for the misery of his people.
``I do not feel it,''
said the Coyote.
``You have a coat of
good fur,'' said the Boy, ``and my people have not.''
``Come to the hunt,''
said the Coyote.
``I will hunt no more,
till I have found a way to help my people against the cold,'' said the Boy.
``Help me, O Counsellor!''
Then the Coyote ran
away, and came back after a long time; he said he had found a way, but it was a
hard way.
``No way is too hard,''
said the Boy. So the Coyote told him that they must go to the Burning Mountain
and bring fire to the people.
``What is fire?'' said
the Boy. And the Coyote told him that fire was red like a flower, yet not a
flower; swift to run in the grass and to destroy, like a beast, yet no beast;
fierce and hurtful, yet a good servant to keep one warm, if kept among stones
and fed with small sticks.
``We will get this
fire,'' said the Boy.
First the Boy had to
persuade the people to give him one hundred swift runners. Then he and they and
the Coyote started at a good pace for the far away Burning Mountain. At the end
of the first day's trail they left the weakest of the runners, to wait; at the
end of the second, the next stronger; at the end of the third, the next; and so
for each of the hundred days of the journey; and the Boy was the strongest
runner, and went to the last trail with the Counsellor. High mountains they
crossed, and great plains, and giant woods, and at last they came to the Big
Water, quaking along the sand at the foot of the Burning Mountain.
It stood up in a high
peaked cone, and smoke rolled out from it endlessly along the sky. At night,
the Fire Spirits danced, and the glare reddened the Big Water far out.
There the Counsellor
said to the Boy, ``Stay thou here till I bring thee a brand from the burning;
be ready and right for running, for I shall be far spent when I come again, and
the Fire Spirits will pursue me.''
Then he went up to the
mountain; and the Fire Spirits only laughed when they saw him, for he looked so
slinking, inconsiderable, and mean, that none of them thought harm from him.
And in the night, when they were at their dance about the mountain, the Coyote
stole the fire, and ran with it down the slope of the burning mountain. When
the Fire Spirits saw what he had done they streamed out after him, red and
angry, with a humming sound like a swarm of bees. But the Coyote was still
ahead; the sparks of the brand streamed out along his flanks, as he carried it
in his mouth; and he stretched his body to the trail.
The Boy saw him coming,
like a failing star against the mountain; he heard the singing sound of the
Fire Spirits close behind, and the labouring breath of the Counsellor. And when
the good beast panted down beside him, the Boy caught the brand from his jaws
and was off, like an arrow from a bent bow. Out he shot on the homeward path,
and the Fire Spirits snapped and sang behind him. Bat fast as they pursued he
fled faster, till he saw the next runner standing in his place, his body bent
for the running. To him he passed it, and it was off and away, with the Fire
Spirits raging in chase.
So it passed from hand
to hand, and the Fire Spirits tore after it through the scrub, till they came
to the mountains of the snows; these they could not pass. Then the dark, sleek
runners with the backward streaming brand bore it forward, shining starlike in
the night, glowing red in sultry noons, violet pale in twilight glooms, until
they came in safety to their own land.
And there they kept it
among stones and fed it with small sticks, as the Counsellor advised; and it
kept the people warm.
Ever after the Boy was
called the Fire-Bringer; and ever after the Coyote bore the sign of the
bringing, for the fur along his flanks was singed and yellow from the flames
that streamed backward from the brand.
Once there was a good
old man who lived up on a mountain, far away in Japan. All round his little house
the mountain was flat, and the ground was rich; and there were the ricefields
of all the people who lived in the village at the mountain's foot. Mornings and
evenings, the old man and his little grandson, who lived with him, used to look
far down on the people at work in the village, and watch the blue sea which lay
all round the land, so close that there was no room for fields below, only for
houses. The little boy loved the ricefields, dearly, for he knew that all the
good food for all the people came from them; and he often helped his
grandfather to watch over them.
One day, the
grandfather was standing alone, before his house, looking far down at the
people, and out at the sea, when, suddenly, he saw something very strange far
off where the sea and sky meet. Something like a great cloud was rising there,
as if the sea were lifting itself high into the sky. The old man put his hands
to his eyes and looked again, hard as his old sight could. Then he turned and
ran to the house. ``Yone, Yone!'' he cried, ``bring a brand from the hearth!''
The little grandson
could not imagine what his grandfather wanted with fire, but he always obeyed,
so he ran quickly and brought the brand. The old man already had one, and was
running for the ricefields. Yone ran after. But what was his horror to see his
grandfather thrust his burning brand into the ripe dry rice, where it stood.
``Oh, Grandfather,
Grandfather!'' screamed the little boy, ``what are you doing?''
``Quick, set fire!
thrust your brand in!'' said the grandfather.
Yone thought his dear
grandfather had lost his mind, and he began to sob; but a little Japanese boy
always obeys, so though he sobbed, he thrust his torch in, and the sharp flame
ran up the dry stalks, red and yellow. In an instant, the field was ablaze, and
thick black smoke began to pour up, on the mountain side. It rose like a cloud,
black and fierce, and in no time the people below saw that their precious
ricefields were on fire. Ah, how they ran! Men, women, and children climbed the
mountain, running as fast as they could to save the rice; not one soul stayed
behind.
And when they came to
the mountain top, and saw the beautiful rice-crop all in flames, beyond help,
they cried bitterly, ``Who has done this thing? How did it happen?''
``I set fire,'' said
the old man, very solemnly; and the little grandson sobbed, ``Grandfather set
fire.''
But when they came
fiercely round the old man, with ``Why? Why?'' he only turned and pointed to
the sea. ``Look!'' he said.
They all turned and
looked. And there, where the blue sea had lain, so calm, a mighty wall of
water, reaching from earth to sky, was rolling in. No one could scream, so
terrible was the sight. The wall of water rolled in on the land, passed quite
over the place where the village had been, and broke, with an awful sound, on
the mountain side. One wave more, and still one more, came; and then all was
water, as far as they could look, below; the village where they had been was
under the sea.
But the people were all
safe. And when they saw what the old man had done, they honoured him above all
men for the quick wit which had saved them all from the tidal wave.
This is a story about a
dog,--not the kind of dog you often see in the street here; not a fat, wrinkly
pugdog, nor a smooth-skinned bulldog, nor even a big shaggy fellow, but a slim,
silky- haired, sharp-eared little dog, the prettiest thing you can imagine. Her
name was Wylie, and she lived in Scotland, far up on the hills, and helped her
master take care of his sheep.
You can't think how
clever she was! She watched over the sheep and the little lambs like a soldier,
and never let anything hurt them. She drove them out to pasture when it was
time, and brought them safely home when it was time for that. When the silly
sheep got frightened and ran this way and that, hurting themselves and getting
lost, Wylie knew exactly what to do,--round on one side she would run, barking
and scolding, driving them back; then round on the other, barking and scolding,
driving them back, till they were all bunched together in front of the right
gate. Then she drove them through as neatly as any person. She loved her work,
and was a wonderfully fine sheepdog.
At last her master grew
too old to stay alone on the hills, and so he went away to live. Before he
went, he gave Wylie to two kind young men who lived in the nearest town; he
knew they would be good to her. They grew very fond of her, and so did their
old grandmother and the little children: she was so gentle and handsome and
well behaved.
So now Wylie lived in
the city where there were no sheep farms, only streets and houses, and she did
not have to do any work at all,-- she was just a pet dog. She seemed very happy
and she was always good.
But after a while, the
family noticed something odd, something very strange indeed, about their pet.
Every single Tuesday night, about nine o'clock, Wylie disappeared. They would
look for her, call her,--no, she was gone. And she would be gone all night. But
every Wednesday morning, there she was at the door, waiting to be let in. Her
silky coat was all sweaty and muddy and her feet heavy with weariness, but her
bright eyes looked up at her masters as if she were trying to explain where she
had been.
Week after week the
same thing happened. Nobody could imagine where Wylie went every Tuesday night.
They tried to follow her to find out, but she always slipped away; they tried
to shut her in, but she always found a way out. It grew to be a real mystery. Where
in the world did Wylie go?
You never could guess,
so I am going to tell you.
In the city near the
town where the kind young men lived was a big market like (naming one in the
neighbourhood). Every sort of thing was sold there, even live cows and sheep
and hens. On Tuesday nights, the farmers used to come down from the hills with
their sheep to sell, and drive them through the city streets into the pens,
ready to sell on Wednesday morning; that was the day they sold them.
The sheep weren't used
to the city noises and sights, and they always grew afraid and wild, and gave
the farmers and the sheepdogs a great deal of trouble. They broke away and ran
about, in everybody's way.
But just as the trouble
was worst, about sunrise, the farmers would see a little silky, sharp- eared
dog come trotting all alone down the road, into the midst of them.
And then!
In and out the little
dog ran like the wind, round and about, always in the right place,
driving--coaxing--pushing--making the sheep mind like a good school-teacher,
and never frightening them, till they were all safely in! All the other dogs
together could not do as much as the little strange dog. She was a perfect
wonder. And no one knew whose dog she was or where she came from. The farmers
grew to watch for her, every week, and they called her ``the wee fell yin''
which is Scots for ``the little terror''; they used to say when they saw her
coming, ``There's the wee fell yin! Now we'll get them in.''
Every farmer would have
liked to keep her, but she let no one catch her. As soon as her work was done
she was off and away like a fairy dog, no one knew where. Week after week this
happened, and nobody knew who the little strange dog was.
But one day Wylie went
to walk with her two masters, and they happened to meet some sheep farmers. The
sheep farmers stopped short and stared at Wylie, and then they cried out,
``Why, that's the dog! That's the wee fell yin!'' And so it was. The little
strange dog who helped with the sheep was Wylie.
Her masters, of course,
didn't know what the farmers meant, till they were told all about what I have
been telling you. But when they heard about the pretty strange dog who came to
market all alone, they knew at last where Wylie went, every Tuesday night. And
they loved her better than ever.
Wasn't it wise of the
dear little dog to go and work for other people when her own work was taken
away? I fancy she knew that the best people and the best dogs always work hard
at something. Any way she did that same thing as long as she lived, and she was
always just as gentle, and silky-haired, and loving as at first.
Once there was a
beautiful palace, which had a great wood at one side. The king and his courtiers
hunted in the wood near the palace, and there it was kept open, free from
underbrush. But farther away it grew wilder and wilder, till at last it was so
thick that nobody knew what was there. It was a very great wood indeed.
In the wood lived eight
fairies. Seven of them were good fairies, who had lived there always; the
eighth was a bad fairy, who had just come. And the worst of it was that nobody
but the other fairies knew she was a fairy; people thought she was just an ugly
old witch. The good fairies lived in the dearest little houses! One lived in a
hollow silver birch, one in a little moss cottage, and so on. But the bad fairy
lived in a horrid mud house in the middle of a dark swamp.
Now when the first baby
was born to the king and queen, her father and mother decided to name her
``Daylight,'' because she was so bright and sweet. And of course they had a
christening party. And of course they invited the fairies, because the good
fairies had always been at the christening party when a princess was born in
the palace, and everybody knew that they brought good gifts.
But, alas, no one knew
about the swamp fairy, and she was not invited,--which really pleased her,
because it gave her an excuse for doing something mean.
The good fairies came
to the christening party, and, one after another, five of them gave little
Daylight good gifts. The other two stood among the guests, so that no one
noticed them. The swamp fairy thought there were no more of them; so she
stepped forward, just as the archbishop was handing the baby back to the
lady-in-waiting.
``I am just a little
deaf,'' she said, mumbling a laugh with her toothless gums. ``Will your
reverence tell me the baby's name again?''
``Certainly, my good
woman,'' said the bishop; ``the infant is little Daylight.''
``And little Daylight
it shall be, forsooth,'' cried the bad fairy. ``I decree that she shall sleep
all day.'' Then she laughed a horrid shrieking laugh, ``He, he, hi, hi!''
Everyone looked at
everyone else in despair, but out stepped the sixth good fairy, who by
arrangement with her sisters had remained in the background to undo what she
could of any evil that the swamp fairy might decree.
``Then at least she
shall wake all night,'' she said, sadly.
``Ah!'' screamed the
swamp fairy, ``you spoke before I had finished, which is against the law, and
gives me another chance.'' All the fairies started at once to say, ``I beg your
pardon!'' But the bad fairy said, ``I had only laughed `he, he!' and `hi, hi!'
I had still `ho, ho!' and `hu, hu!' to laugh.''
The fairies could not
gainsay this, and the bad fairy had her other chance. She said,--
``Since she is to wake
all night, I decree that she shall wax and wane with the moon! Ho, ho, hu,
hu!''
Out stepped the seventh
good fairy. ``Until a prince shall kiss her without knowing who she is,'' she
said, quickly.
The swamp fairy had
been prepared for the trick of keeping back one good fairy, but she had not
suspected it of two, and she could not say a word, for she had laughed ``ho,
ho!'' and ``hu, hu!''
The poor king and queen
looked sad enough. ``We don't know what you mean,'' they said to the good fairy
who had spoken last. But the good fairy smiled. ``The meaning of the thing will
come with the thing,'' she said.
That was the end of the
party, but it was only the beginning of the trouble. Can you imagine what a
queer household it would be, where the baby laughed and crowed all night, and
slept all day? Little Daylight was as merry and bright all night as any baby in
the world, but with the first sign of dawn she fell asleep, and slept like a
little dormouse till dark. Nothing could waken her while day lasted. Still, the
royal family got used to this; but the rest of the bad fairy's gift was a great
deal worse,--that about waxing and waning with the moon. You know how the moon
grows bigger and brighter each night, from the time it is a curly silver thread
low in the sky till it is round and golden, flooding the whole sky with light?
That is the waxing moon. Then, you know, it wanes; it grows smaller and paler
again, night by night, till at last it disappears for a while, altogether.
Well, poor little Daylight waxed and waned with it. She was the rosiest,
plumpest, merriest baby in the world when the moon was at the full; but as it
began to wane her little cheeks grew paler, her tiny hands thinner, with every
night, till she lay in her cradle like a shadow-baby, without sound or motion.
At first they thought she was dead, when the moon disappeared, but after some
months they got used to this too, and only waited eagerly for the new moon, to
see her revive. When it shone again, faint and silver, on the horizon, the baby
stirred weakly, and then they fed her gently; each night she grew a little
better, and when the moon was near the full again, she was again a lively,
rosy, lovely child.
So it went on till she
grew up. She grew to be the most beautiful maiden the moon ever shone on, and
everyone loved her so much, for her sweet ways and her merry heart, that
someone was always planning to stay up at night, to be near her. But she did
not like to be watched, especially when she felt the bad time of waning coming
on; so her ladies-in-waiting had to be very careful. When the moon waned she
became shrunken and pale and bent, like an old, old woman, worn out with
sorrow. Only her golden hair and her blue eyes remained unchanged, and this
gave her a terribly strange look. At last, as the moon disappeared, she faded
away to a little, bowed, old creature, asleep and helpless.
No wonder she liked
best to be alone! She got in the way of wandering by herself in the beautiful
wood, playing in the moonlight when she was well, stealing away in the shadows
when she was fading with the moon. Her father had a lovely little house of
roses and vines built for her, there. It stood at the edge of a most beautiful
open glade, inside the wood, where the moon shone best. There the princess
lived with her ladies. And there she danced when the moon was full. But when
the moon waned, her ladies often lost her altogether, so far did she wander;
and sometimes they found her sleeping under a great tree, and brought her home
in their arms.
When the princess was
about seventeen years old, there was a rebellion in a kingdom not far from her
father's. Wicked nobles murdered the king of the country and stole his throne,
and would have murdered the young prince, too, if he had not escaped, dressed
in peasant's clothes.
Dressed in his poor
rags, the prince wandered about a long time, till one day he got into a great
wood, and lost his way. It was the wood where the Princess Daylight lived, but
of course he did not know anything about that nor about her. He wandered till
night, and then he came to a queer little house. One of the good fairies lived
there, and the minute she saw him she knew all about everything; but to him she
looked only like a kind old woman. She gave him a good supper and a bed for the
night, and told him to come back to her if he found no better place for the
next night. But the prince said he must get out of the wood at once; so in the
morning he took leave of the fairy.
All day long he walked,
and walked; but at nightfall he had not found his way out of the wood, so he
lay down to rest till the moon should rise and light his path.
When he woke the moon
was glorious; it was three days from the full, and bright as silver. By its
light he saw what he thought to be the edge of the wood, and he hastened toward
it. But when he came to it, it was only an open space, surrounded with trees.
It was so very lovely, in the white moonlight, that the prince stood a minute
to look. And as he looked, something white moved out of the trees on the far
side of the open space. It was something slim and white, that swayed in the dim
light like a young birch.
``It must be a moon
fairy,'' thought the prince; and he stepped into the shadow.
The moon fairy came
nearer and nearer, dancing and swaying in the moonlight. And as she came, she
began to sing a soft, gay little song.
But when she was quite
close, the prince saw that she was not a fairy after all, but a real human
maiden,--the loveliest maiden he had ever seen. Her hair was like yellow corn,
and her smile made all the place merry. Her white gown fluttered as she danced,
and her little song sounded like a bird note.
The prince watched her till
she danced out of sight, and then until she once more came toward him; and she
seemed so like a moon- beam herself, as she lifted her face to the sky, that he
was almost afraid to breathe. He had never seen anything so lovely. By the time
she had danced twice round the circle, he could think of nothing in the world
except the hope of finding out who she was, and staying near her.
But while he was
waiting for her to appear the third time, his weariness overcame him, and he
fell asleep. And when he awoke, it was broad day, and the beautiful maiden had
vanished.
He hunted about, hoping
to find where she lived, and on the other side of the glade he came upon a
lovely little house, covered with moss and climbing roses. He thought she must
live there, so he went round to the kitchen door and asked the kind cook for a
drink of water, and while he was drinking it he asked who lived there. She told
him it was the house of the Princess Daylight, but she told him nothing else
about her, because she was not allowed to talk about her mistress. But she gave
him a very good meal and told him other things.
He did not go back to
the little old woman who had been so kind to him first, but wandered all day in
the wood, waiting for the moontime. Again he waited at the edge of the dell,
and when the white moon was high in the heavens, once more he saw the
glimmering in the distance, and once more the lovely maiden floated toward him.
He knew her name was the Princess Daylight, but this time she seemed to him
much lovelier than before. She was all in blue like the blue of the sky in
summer. (She really was more lovely, you know, because the moon was almost at
the full.) All night he watched her, quite forgetting that he ought not to be
doing it, till she disappeared on the opposite side of the glade. Then, very
tired, he found his way to the little old woman's house, had breakfast with
her, and fell fast asleep in the bed she gave him.
The fairy knew well
enough by his face that he had seen Daylight, and when he woke up in the
evening and started off again she gave him a strange little flask and told him
to use it if ever he needed it.
This night the princess
did not appear in the dell until midnight, at the very full of the moon. But
when she came, she was so lovely that she took the prince's breath away. Just
think!--she was dressed in a gown that looked as if it were made of fireflies'
wings, em- broidered in gold. She danced around and around, singing, swaying,
and flitting like a beam of sunlight, till the prince grew quite dazzled.
But while he had been
watching her, he had not noticed that the sky was growing dark and the wind was
rising. Suddenly there was a clap of thunder. The princess danced on. But
another clap came louder, and then a sudden great flash of lightning that lit
up the sky from end to end. The prince couldn't help shutting his eyes, but he
opened them quickly to see if Daylight was hurt. Alas, she was lying on the
ground. The prince ran to her, but she was already up again.
``Who are you?'' she
said.
``I thought,''
stammered the prince, ``you might be hurt.''
``There is nothing the
matter. Go away.''
The prince went sadly.
``Come back,'' said the
princess. The prince came. ``I like you, you do as you are told. Are you
good?''
``Not so good as I should
like to be,'' said the prince.
``Then go and grow
better,'' said the princess.
The prince went, more
sadly.
``Come back,'' said the
princess. The prince came. ``I think you must be a prince,'' she said.
``Why?'' said the
prince.
``Because you do as you
are told, and you tell the truth. Will you tell me what the sun looks like?''
``Why, everybody knows
that,'' said the prince.
``I am different from
everybody,'' said the princess,--``I don't know.''
``But,'' said the
prince, ``do you not look when you wake up in the morning?''
``That's just it,''
said the princess, ``I never do wake up in the morning. I never can wake up
until----'' Then the princess remembered that she was talking to a prince, and
putting her hands over her face she walked swiftly away. The prince followed
her, but she turned and put up her hand to tell him not to. And like the
gentleman prince that he was, he obeyed her at once.
Now all this time, the
wicked swamp fairy had not known a word about what was going on. But now she
found out, and she was furious, for fear that little Daylight should be
delivered from her spell. So she cast her spells to keep the prince from
finding Daylight again. Night after night the poor prince wandered and
wandered, and never could find the little dell. And when daytime came, of
course, there was no princess to be seen. Finally, at the time that the moon
was almost gone, the swamp fairy stopped her spells, because she knew that by
this time Daylight would be so changed and ugly that the prince would never
know her if he did see her. She said to herself with a wicked laugh:--
``No fear of his
wanting to kiss her now!''
That night the prince
did find the dell, but no princess came. A little after midnight he passed near
the lovely little house where she lived, and there he overheard her waiting-
women talking about her. They seemed in great distress. They were saying that
the princess had wandered into the woods and was lost. The prince didn't know,
of course, what it meant, but he did understand that the princess was lost
somewhere, and he started off to find her. After he had gone a long way without
finding her, he came to a big old tree, and there he thought he would light a
fire to show her the way if she should happen to see it.
As the blaze flared up,
he suddenly saw a little black heap on the other side of the tree. Somebody was
lying there. He ran to the spot, his heart beating with hope. But when he
lifted the cloak which was huddled about the form, he saw at once that it was
not Daylight. A pinched, withered, white, little old woman's face shone out at
him. The hood was drawn close down over her forehead, the eyes were closed, and
as the prince lifted the cloak, the old woman's lips moaned faintly.
``Oh, poor mother,''
said the prince, ``what is the matter?'' The old woman only moaned again. The
prince lifted her and carried her over to the warm fire, and rubbed her hands,
trying to find out what was the matter. But she only moaned, and her face was
so terribly strange and white that the prince's tender heart ached for her.
Remembering his little flask, he poured some of his liquid between her lips,
and then he thought the best thing he could do was to carry her to the
princess's house, where she could be taken care of.
As he lifted the poor
little form in his arms, two great tears stole out from the old woman's closed
eyes and ran down her wrinkled cheeks.
``Oh, poor, poor
mother,'' said the prince pityingly; and he stooped and kissed her withered
lips.
As he walked through
the forest with the old woman in his arms, it seemed to him that she grew
heavier and heavier; he could hardly carry her at all; and then she stirred,
and at last he was obliged to set her down, to rest. He meant to lay her on the
ground. But the old woman stood upon her feet.
And then the hood fell
back from her face. As she looked up at the prince, the first, long, yellow ray
of the rising sun struck full upon her,--and it was the Princess Daylight! Her
hair was golden as the sun itself, and her eyes as blue as the flower that
grows in the corn.
The prince fell on his
knees before her. But she gave him her hand and made him rise.
``You kissed me when I
was an old woman,'' said the princess, ``I'll kiss you now that I am a young
princess.'' And she did.
And then she turned her
face toward the dawn.
``Dear Prince,'' she
said, ``is that the sun?''
Once upon a time, two
children came to the house of a sailor man, who lived beside the salt sea; and
they found the sailor man sitting in his doorway knotting ropes.
``How do you do?''
asked the sailor man.
We are very well, thank
you,'' said the children, who had learned manners, ``and we hope you are the
same. We heard that you had a boat, and we thought that perhaps you would take
us out in her, and teach us how to sail, for that is what we most wish to
know.''
``All in good time,''
said the sailor man. ``I am busy now, but by-and-by, when my work is done, I
may perhaps take one of you if you are ready to learn. Meantime here are some
ropes that need knotting; you might be doing that, since it has to be done.''
And he showed them how the knots should be tied, and went away and left them.
When he was gone the
first child ran to the window and looked out.
``There is the sea,''
he said. ``The waves come up on the beach, almost to the door of the house.
They run up all white, like prancing horses, and then they go dragging back.
Come and look!''
``I cannot,'' said the
second child. ``I am tying a knot.''
``Oh!'' cried the first
child, ``I see the boat. She is dancing like a lady at a ball; I never saw such
a beauty. Come and look!''
``I cannot,'' said the
second child. ``I am tying a knot.''
``I shall have a
delightful sail in that boat,'' said the first child. ``I expect that the
sailor man will take me, because I am the eldest and I know more about it. There
was no need of my watching when he showed you the knots, because I knew how
already.''
Just then the sailor
man came in.
``Well,'' he said, ``my
work is over. What have you been doing in the meantime?''
``I have been looking
at the boat,'' said the first child. ``What a beauty she is! I shall have the
best time in her that ever I had in my life.''
``I have been tying
knots,'' said the second child.
``Come, then,'' said
the sailor man, and he held out his hand to the second child. ``I will take you
out in the boat, and teach you to sail her.''
``But I am the
eldest,'' cried the first child, ``and I know a great deal more than she
does.''
``That may be,'' said
the sailor man; ``but a person must learn to tie a knot before he can learn to
sail a boat.''
``But I have learned to
tie a knot,'' cried the child. ``I know all about it!''
``How can I tell
that?'' asked the sailor man.
Once, while Jesus was
journeying about, He passed near a town where a man named Jairus lived. This
man was a ruler in the synagogue, and he had just one little daughter about
twelve years of age. At the time that Jesus was there the little daughter was
very sick, and at last she lay a-dying.
Her father heard that
there was a wonderful man near the town, who was healing sick people whom no
one else could help, and in his despair he ran out into the streets to search
for Him. He found Jesus walking in the midst of a crowd of people, and when he
saw Him he fell down at Jesus feet and besought Him to come into his house, to
heal his daughter. And Jesus said, Yes, he would go with him. But there were so
many people begging to be healed, and so many looking to see what happened,
that the crowd thronged them, and kept them from moving fast. And before they
reached the house one of the man's servants came to meet them, and said, ``Thy
daughter is dead; trouble not the Master to come farther.''
But instantly Jesus
turned to the father and said, ``Fear not; only believe, and she shall be made
whole.'' And He went on with Jairus, to the house.
When they came to the
house, they heard the sound of weeping and lamentation; the household was
mourning for the little daughter, who was dead. Jesus sent all the strangers
away from the door, and only three of His disciples and the father and mother
of the child went in with Him. And when He was within, He said to the mourning
people, ``Weep not; she is not dead; she sleepeth.''
When He had passed,
they laughed Him to scorn, for they knew that she was dead.
Then Jesus left them
all, and went alone into the chamber where the little daughter lay. And when He
was there, alone, He went up to the bed where she was, and bent over her, and
took her by the hand. And He said, ``Maiden, arise.''
And her spirit came
unto her again! And she lived, and grew up in her father's house.
Once there was a great
king in Britain named Uther, and when he died the other kings and princes
disputed over the kingdom, each wanting it for himself. But King Uther had a
son named Arthur, the rightful heir to the throne, of whom no one knew, for he
had been taken away secretly while he was still a baby by a wise old man called
Merlin, who had him brought up in the family of a certain Sir Ector, for fear
of the malice of wicked knights. Even the boy himself thought Sir Ector was his
father, and he loved Sir Ector's son, Sir Kay, with the love of a brother.
When the kings and
princes could not be kept in check any longer, and something had to be done to
determine who was to be king, Merlin made the Archbishop of Canterbury send for
them all to come to London. It was Christmas time, and in the great cathedral a
solemn service was held, and prayer was made that some sign should be given, to
show who was the rightful king. When the service was over, there appeared a
strange stone in the churchyard, against the high altar. It was a great white
stone, like marble, with something sunk in it that looked like a steel anvil;
and in the anvil was driven a great glistening sword. The sword had letters of
gold written on it, which read: ``Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone
and anvil is rightwise king born of all England.''
All wondered at the
strange sword and its strange writing; and when the archbishop himself came out
and gave permission, many of the knights tried to pull the sword from the
stone, hoping to be king. But no one could move it a hair's breadth.
``He is not here,''
said the archbishop, ``that shall achieve the sword; but doubt not, God will
make him known.''
Then they set a guard
of ten knights to keep the stone, and the archbishop appointed a day when all
should come together to try at the stone,--kings from far and near. In the
meantime, splendid jousts were held, outside London, and both knights and commons
were bidden.
Sir Ector came up to
the jousts, with others, and with him rode Kay and Arthur. Kay had been made a
knight at Allhallowmas, and when he found there was to be so fine a joust he
wanted a sword, to join it. But he had left his sword behind, where his father
and he had slept the night before. So he asked young Arthur to ride for it.
``I will well,'' said
Arthur, and rode back for it. But when he came to the castle, the lady and all
her household were at the jousting, and there was none to let him in.
Thereat Arthur said to
himself, ``My brother Sir Kay shall not be without a sword this day.'' And he
remembered the sword he had seen in the churchyard. ``I will to the
churchyard,'' he said, ``and take that sword with me.'' So he rode into the churchyard,
tied his horse to the stile, and went up to the stone. The guards were away to
the tourney, and the sword was there, alone.
Going up to the stone,
young Arthur took the great sword by the hilt, and lightly and fiercely he drew
it out of the anvil.
Then he rode straight
to Sir Kay, and gave it to him.
Sir Kay knew instantly
that it was the sword of the stone, and he rode off at once to his father and
said, ``Sir, lo, here is the sword of the stone; I must be king of the land.''
But Sir Ector asked him where he got the sword. And when Sir Kay said, ``From
my brother,'' he asked Arthur how he got it. When Arthur told him, Sir Ector
bowed his head before him. ``Now I understand ye must be king of this land,''
he said to Arthur.
``Wherefore I?'' said
Arthur.
``For God will have it
so,'' said Ector; ``never man should have drawn out this sword but he that
shall be rightwise king of this land. Now let me see whether ye can put the
sword as it was in the stone, and pull it out again.''
Straightway Arthur put
the sword back.
Then Sir Ector tried to
pull it out, and after him Sir Kay; but neither could stir it. Then Arthur
pulled it out. Thereupon, Sir Ector and Sir Kay kneeled upon the ground before
him.
``Alas,'' said Arthur,
``mine own dear father and brother, why kneel ye to me?''
Sir Ector told him,
then, all about his royal birth, and how he had been taken privily away by
Merlin. But when Arthur found Sir Ector was not truly his father, he was so sad
at heart that he cared not greatly to be king. And he begged his father and
brother to love him still. Sir Ector asked that Sir Kay might be seneschal when
Arthur was king. Arthur promised with all his heart.
Then they went to the
archbishop and told him that the sword had found its master. The archbishop
appointed a day for the trial to be made in the sight of all men, and on that
day the princes and knights came together, and each tried to draw out the
sword, as before. But as before, none could so much as stir it.
Then came Arthur, and
pulled it easily from its place.
The knights and kings
were terribly angry that a boy from nowhere in particular had beaten them, and
they refused to acknowledge him king. They appointed another day, for another
great trial.
Three times they did
this, and every time the same thing happened.
At last, at the feast
of Pentecost, Arthur again pulled out the sword before all the knights and the
commons. And then the commons rose up and cried that he should be king, and
that they would slay any who denied him.
So Arthur became king
of Britain, and all gave him allegiance.
There was once a girl
named Tarpeia, whose father was guard of the outer gate of the citadel of Rome.
It was a time of war,--the Sabines were besieging the city. Their camp was
close outside the city wall.
Tarpeia used to see the
Sabine soldiers when she went to draw water from the public well, for that was
outside the gate. And sometimes she stayed about and let the strange men talk
with her, because she liked to look at their bright silver ornaments. The
Sabine soldiers wore heavy silver rings and bracelets on their left arms,--some
wore as many as four or five.
The soldiers knew she
was the daughter of the keeper of the citadel, and they saw that she had greedy
eyes for their ornaments. So day by day they talked with her, and showed her
their silver rings, and tempted her. And at last Tarpeia made a bargain, to
betray her city to them. She said she would unlock the great gate and let them
in, if they would give her what they wore on their left arms.
The night came. When it
was perfectly dark and still, Tarpeia stole from her bed, took the great key
from its place, and silently unlocked the gate which protected the city.
Outside, in the dark, stood the soldiers of the enemy, waiting. As she opened
the gate, the long shadowy files pressed forward silently, and the Sabines
entered the citadel.
As the first man came
inside, Tarpeia stretched forth her hand for her price. The soldier lifted high
his left arm. ``Take thy reward!'' he said, and as he spoke he hurled upon her
that which he wore upon it. Down upon her head crashed --not the silver rings
of the soldier, but the great brass shield he carried in battle!
She sank beneath it, to
the ground.
``Take thy reward,''
said the next; and his shield rang against the first.
``Thy reward,'' said
the next--and the next-- and the next--and the next; every man wore his shield
on his left arm.
So Tarpeia lay buried
beneath the reward she had claimed, and the Sabines marched past her dead body,
into the city she had betrayed.
Down by the river were
fields of barley and rye and golden oats. Wheat grew there, too, and the
heaviest and richest ears bent lowest, in humility. Opposite the corn was a
field of buckwheat, but the buckwheat never bent; it held its head proud and
stiff on the stem.
The wise old
willow-tree by the river looked down on the fields, and thought his thoughts.
One day a dreadful
storm came. The field- flowers folded their leaves together, and bowed their
heads. But the buckwheat stood straight and proud.
``Bend your head, as we
do,'' called the field- flowers.
``I have no need to,''
said the buckwheat.
``Bend your head, as we
do!'' warned the golden wheat-ears; ``the angel of the storm is coming; he will
strike you down.''
``I will not bend my
head,'' said the buckwheat.
Then the old
willow-tree spoke: ``Close your flowers and bend your leaves. Do not look at
the lightning when the cloud bursts. Even men cannot do that; the sight of
heaven would strike them blind. Much less can we who are so inferior to them!''
`` `Inferior,'
indeed!'' said the buckwheat. ``Now I will look!'' And he looked straight up,
while the lightning flashed across the sky.
When the dreadful storm
had passed, the flowers and the wheat raised their drooping heads, clean and
refreshed in the pure, sweet air. The willow-tree shook the gentle drops from
its leaves.
But the buckwheat lay like
a weed in the field, scorched black by the lightning.
The Greek God Pan, the
god of the open air, was a great musician. He played on a pipe of reeds. And
the sound of his reed-pipe was so sweet that he grew proud, and believed
himself greater than the chief musician of the gods, Apollo, the son-god. So he
challenged great Apollo to make better music than he.
Apollo consented to the
test, for he wished to punish Pan's vanity, and they chose the mountain Tmolus
for judge, since no one is so old and wise as the hills.
When Pan and Apollo
came before Tmolus, to play, their followers came with them, to hear, and one
of those who came with Pan was a mortal named Midas.
First Pan played; he
blew on his reed-pipe, and out came a tune so wild and yet so coaxing that the
birds hopped from the trees to get near; the squirrels came running from their
holes; and the very trees swayed as if they wanted to dance. The fauns laughed
aloud for joy as the melody tickled their furry little ears. And Midas thought
it the sweetest music in the world.
Then Apollo rose. His
hair shook drops of light from its curls; his robes were like the edge of the
sunset cloud; in his hands he held a golden lyre. And when he touched the
strings of the lyre, such music stole upon the air as never god nor mortal
heard before. The wild creatures of the wood crouched still as stone; the trees
kept every leaf from rustling; earth and air were silent as a dream. To hear
such music cease was like bidding farewell to father and mother.
When the charm was
broken, the hearers fell at Apollo's feet and proclaimed the victory his. All
but Midas. He alone would not admit that the music was better than Pan's.
``If thine ears are so
dull, mortal,'' said Apollo, ``they shall take the shape that suits them.'' And
he touched the ears of Midas. And straightway the dull ears grew long, pointed,
and furry, and they turned this way and that. They were the ears of an ass!
For a long time Midas
managed to hide the tell-tale ears from everyone; but at last a servant
discovered the secret. He knew he must not tell, yet he could not bear not to;
so one day he went into the meadow, scooped a little hollow in the turf, and
whispered the secret into the earth. Then he covered it up again, and went
away. But, alas, a bed of reeds sprang up from the spot, and whispered the
secret to the grass. The grass told it to the tree-tops, the tree-tops to the
little birds, and they cried it all abroad.
And to this day, when
the wind sets the reeds nodding together, they whisper, laughing, ``Midas has
the ears of an ass! Oh, hush, hush!''
Once there were two
brothers. One was rich, and one was poor; the rich one was rather mean. When
the Poor Brother used to come to ask for things it annoyed him, and finally one
day he said, ``There, I'll give it to you this time, but the next time you want
anything, you can go Below for it!''
Presently the Poor
Brother did want something, and he knew it wasn't any use to go to his brother;
he must go Below for it. So he went, and he went, and he went, till he came
Below.
It was the queerest
place! There were red and yellow fires burning all around, and kettles of
boiling oil hanging over them, and a queer sort of men standing round, poking
the fires. There was a Chief Man; he had a long curly tail that curled up
behind, and two ugly little horns just over his ears; and one foot was very
queer indeed. And as soon as anyone came in the door, these men would catch him
up and put him over one of the fires, and turn him on a spit. And then the
Chief Man, who was the worst of all, would come and say, ``Eh, how do you feel
now? How do you feel now?'' And of course the poor people screamed and
screeched and said, ``Let us out! Let us out!'' That was just what the Chief
Man wanted.
When the Poor Brother
came in, they picked him up at once, and put him over one of the hottest fires,
and began to turn him round and round like the rest; and of course the Chief
Man came up to him and said, ``Eh, how do you feel now? How do you feel now?''
But the Poor Brother did not say, ``Let me out! Let me out!'' He said, ``Pretty
well, thank you.''
The Chief Man grunted
and said to the other men, ``Make the fire hotter.'' But the next time he asked
the Poor Brother how he felt, the Poor Brother smiled and said. ``Much better
now, thank you.'' The Chief Man did not like this at all, because, of course,
the whole object in life of the people Below was to make their victims
uncomfortable. So he piled on more fuel and made the fire hotter still. But
every time he asked the Poor Brother how he felt, the Poor Brother would say,
``Very much better''; and at last he said, ``Perfectly comfortable, thank you;
couldn't be better.''
You see when the Poor
Brother was on earth he had never once had money enough to buy coal enough to
keep him warm; so he liked the heat.
At last the Chief Man
could stand it no longer.
``Oh, look here,'' he
said, ``you can go home.''
``Oh no, thank you,''
said the Poor Brother, ``I like it here.''
``You must go home,''
said the Chief Man ``But I won't go home,'' said the Poor Brother.
The Chief Man went away
and talked with the other men; but no matter what they did they could not make
the Poor Brother uncomfortable; so at last the Chief Man came back and said,--
``What'll you take to
go home?''
``What have you got?''
said the Poor Brother.
``Well,'' said the Chief
Man, ``if you'll go home quietly I'll give you the Little Mill that stands
behind my door.''
``What's the good of
it?'' said the Poor Brother.
``It is the most
wonderful mill in the world,'' said the Chief Man. ``Anything at all that you
want, you have only to name it, and say, `Grind this, Little Mill, and grind
quickly,' and the Mill will grind that thing until you say the magic word, to
stop it.''
``That sounds nice,''
said the Poor Brother. ``I'll take it.'' And he took the Little Mill under his arm,
and went up, and up, and up, till he came to his own house.
When he was in front of
his little old hut, he put the Little Mill down on the ground and said to it,
``Grind a fine house, Little Mill, and grind quickly.'' And the Little Mill
ground, and ground, and ground the finest house that ever was seen. It had fine
big chimneys, and gable windows, and broad piazzas; and just as the Little Mill
ground the last step of the last flight of steps, the Poor Brother said the
magic word, and it stopped.
Then he took it round
to where the barn was, and said, ``Grind cattle, Little Mill, and grind
quickly.'' And the Little Mill ground, and ground, and ground, and out came
great fat cows, and little woolly lambs, and fine little pigs; and just as the
Little Mill ground the last curl on the tail of the last little pig, the Poor
Brother said the magic word, and it stopped.
He did the same thing
with crops for his cattle, pretty clothes for his daughters, and everything
else they wanted. At last he had everything he wanted, and so he stood the
Little Mill behind his door.
All this time the Rich
Brother had been getting more and more jealous, and at last he came to ask the
Poor Brother how he had grown so rich. The Poor Brother told him all about it.
He said, ``It all comes from that Little Mill behind my door. All I have to do
when I want anything is to name it to the Little Mill, and say, `Grind that,
Little Mill, and grind quickly,' and the Little Mill will grind that thing
until----''
But the Rich Brother
didn't wait to hear any more. ``Will you lend me the Little Mill?'' he said.
``Why, yes,'' said the
Poor Brother, ``I will.''
So the Rich Brother
took the Little Mill under his arm and started across the fields to his house.
When he got near home he saw the farm-hands coming in from the fields for their
luncheon. Now, you remember, he was rather mean. He thought to himself, ``It is
a waste of good time for them to come into the house; they shall have their
porridge where they are.'' He called all the men to him, and made them bring
their porridge-bowls. Then he set the Little Mill down on the ground, and said
to it, ``Grind oatmeal porridge, Little Mill, and grind quickly!'' The Little
Mill ground, and ground, and ground, and out came delicious oatmeal porridge.
Each man held his bowl under the spout. When the last bowl was filled, the
porridge ran over on the ground.
``That's enough, Little
Mill,'' said the Rich Brother. ``You may stop, and stop quickly.''
But this was not the
magic word, and the Little Mill did not stop. It ground, and ground, and
ground, and the porridge ran all round and made a little pool. The Rich Brother
said, ``No, no, Little Mill, I said, `Stop grinding, and stop quickly.' '' But
the Little Mill ground, and ground, faster than ever; and presently there was a
regular pond of porridge, almost up to their knees. The Rich Brother said,
``Stop grinding,'' in every kind of way; he called the Little Mill names; but
nothing did any good. The Little Mill ground porridge just the same. At last the
men said, ``Go and get your brother to stop the Little Mill, or we shall be
drowned in porridge.''
So the Rich Brother
started for his brother's house. He had to swim before he got there, and the
porridge went up his sleeves, and down his neck, and it was horrid and sticky.
His brother laughed when he heard the story, but he came with him, and they
took a boat and rowed across the lake of porridge to where the Little Mill was
grinding. And then the Poor Brother whispered the magic word, and the Little Mill
stopped.
But the porridge was a
long time soaking into the ground, and nothing would ever grow there afterwards
except oatmeal.
The Rich Brother didn't
seem to care much about the Little Mill after this, so the Poor Brother took it
home again and put it behind the door; and there it stayed a long, long while.
Years afterwards a Sea
Captain came there on a visit. He told such big stories that the Poor Brother
said, ``Oh, I daresay you have seen wonderful things, but I don't believe you
ever saw anything more wonderful than the Little Mill that stands behind my
door.''
``What is wonderful
about that?'' said the Sea Captain.
``Why,'' said the Poor
Brother, ``anything in the world you want,--you have only to name it to the
Little Mill and say, `Grind that, Little Mill, and grind quickly,' and it will
grind that thing until----''
The Sea Captain didn't
wait to hear another word. ``Will you lend me that Little Mill?'' he said
eagerly.
The Poor Brother smiled
a little, but he said, ``Yes,'' and the Sea Captain took the Little Mill under
his arm, and went on board his ship and sailed away.
They had head-winds and
storms, and they were so long at sea that some of the food gave out. Worst of
all, the salt gave out. It was dreadful, being without salt. But the Captain
happened to remember the Little Mill.
``Bring up the salt
box!'' he said to the cook. ``We will have salt enough.''
He set the Little Mill
on deck, put the salt box under the spout, and said,--
``Grind salt, Little
Mill, and grind quickly!''
And the Little Mill
ground beautiful, white, powdery salt. When they had enough, the Captain said,
``Now you may stop, Little Mill, and stop quickly.'' The Little Mill kept on
grinding; and the salt began to pile up in little heaps on the deck. ``I said,
`Stop,' '' said the Captain. But the Little Mill ground, and ground, faster
than ever, and the salt was soon thick on the deck like snow. The Captain
called the Little Mill names and told it to stop, in every language he knew,
but the Little Mill went on grinding. The salt covered all the decks and poured
down into the hold, and at last the ship began to settle in the water; salt is
very heavy. But just before the ship sank to the water-line, the Captain had a
bright thought: he threw the Little Mill overboard!
It fell right down to
the bottom of the sea. And it has been grinding salt ever since.
Once upon a time, there
was a king and a queen, and they had one son, whose name was Billy. And Billy
had a bull he was very fond of, and the bull was just as fond of him. And when
the queen came to die, she put it as her last request to the king, that come
what might, come what may, he'd not part Billy and the bull. And the king
promised that, come what might, come what may, he would not. Then the good
queen died, and was buried.
After a time, the king
married again, and the new queen could not abide Billy; no more could she stand
the bull, seeing him and Billy so thick. So she asked the king to have the bull
killed. But the king said he had promised, come what might, come what may, he'd
not part Billy Beg and his bull, so he could not.
Then the queen sent for
the Hen-Wife, and asked what she should do. ``What will you give me,'' said the
Hen-Wife, ``and I'll very soon part them?''
``Anything at all,''
said the queen.
``Then do you take to
your bed, very sick with a complaint,'' said the Hen-Wife, ``and I'll do the
rest.''
So the queen took to
her bed, very sick with a complaint, and the king came to see what could be
done for her. ``I shall never be better of this,'' she said, ``till I have the
medicine the Hen-Wife ordered.''
``What is that?'' said
the king.
``A mouthful of the
blood of Billy Beg's bull.''
``I can't give you
that,'' said the king, and went away, sorrowful.
Then the queen got
sicker and sicker, and each time the king asked what would cure her she said,
``A mouthful of the blood of Billy Beg's bull.'' And at last it looked as if
she were going to die. So the king finally set a day for the bull to be killed.
At that the queen was so happy that she laid plans to get up and see the grand sight.
All the people were to be at the killing, and it was to be a great affair.
When Billy Beg heard
all this, he was very sorrowful, and the bull noticed his looks. ``What are you
doitherin' about?'' said the bull to him. So Billy told him. ``Don't fret yourself
about me,'' said the bull, ``it's not I that'll be killed!''
The day came, when
Billy Beg's bull was to be killed; all the people were there, and the queen,
and Billy. And the bull was led out, to be seen. When he was led past Billy he
bent his head. ``Jump on my back, Billy, my boy,'' says he, ``till I see what
kind of a horseman you are!'' Billy jumped on his back, and with that the bull
leaped nine miles high and nine miles broad and came down with Billy sticking
between his horns. Then away he rushed, over the head of the queen, killing her
dead, where you wouldn't know day by night or night by day, over high hills,
low hills, sheep walks and bullock traces, the Cove o' Cork, and old Tom Fox
with his bugle horn.
When at last he stopped
he said, ``Now, Billy, my boy, you and I must undergo great scenery; there's a
mighty great bull of the forest I must fight, here, and he'll be hard to fight,
but I'll be able for him. But first we must have dinner. Put your hand in my
left ear and pull out the napkin you'll find there, and when you've spread it,
it will be covered with eating and drinking fit for a king.''
So Billy put his hand
in the bull's left ear, and drew out the napkin, and spread it; and, sure
enough, it was spread with all kinds of eating and drinking, fit for a king.
And Billy Beg ate well.
But just as he finished
he heard a great roar, and out of the forest came a mighty bull, snorting and
running.
And the two bulls at it
and fought. They knocked the hard ground into soft, the soft into hard, the
rocks into spring wells, and the spring wells into rocks. It was a terrible
fight. But in the end, Billy Beg's bull was too much for the other bull, and he
killed him, and drank his blood.
Then Billy jumped on
the bull's back, and the bull off and away, where you wouldn't know day from
night or night from day, over high hills, low hills, sheep walks and bullock
traces, the Cove o' Cork, and old Tom Fox with his bugle horn. And when he
stopped he told Billy to put his hand in his left ear and pull out the napkin,
because he'd to fight another great bull of the forest. So Billy pulled out the
napkin and spread it, and it was covered with all kinds of eating and drinking,
fit for a king.
And, sure enough, just
as Billy finished eating, there was a frightful roar, and a mighty great bull,
greater than the first, rushed out of the forest. And the two bulls at it and
fought. It was a terrible fight! They knocked the hard ground into soft, the
soft into hard, the rocks into spring wells, and the spring wells into rocks.
But in the end, Billy Beg's bull killed the other bull, and drank his blood.
Then he off and away,
with Billy.
But when he came down,
he told Billy Beg that he was to fight another bull, the brother of the other
two, and that this time the other bull would be too much for him, and would
kill him and drink his blood.
``When I am dead,
Billy, my boy,'' he said, ``put your hand in my left ear and draw out the
napkin, and you'll never want for eating or drinking; and put your hand in my
right ear, and you'll find a stick there, that will turn into a sword if you
wave it three times round your head, and give you the strength of a thousand
men beside your own. Keep that; then cut a strip of my hide, for a belt, for
when you buckle it on, there's nothing can kill you.''
Billy Beg was very sad
to hear that his friend must die. And very soon he heard a more dreadful roar
than ever he heard, and a tremendous bull rushed out of the forest. Then came
the worst fight of all. In the end, the other bull was too much for Billy Beg's
bull, and he killed him and drank his blood.
Billy Beg sat down and
cried for three days and three nights. After that he was hungry; so he put his
hand in the bull's left ear, and drew out the napkin, and ate all kinds of
eating and drinking. Then he put his hand in the right ear and pulled out the
stick which was to turn into a sword if waved round his head three times, and
to give him the strength of a thousand men beside his own. And he cut a strip
of the hide for a belt, and started off on his adventures.
Presently he came to a
fine place; an old gentleman lived there. So Billy went up and knocked, and the
old gentleman came to the door.
``Are you wanting a
boy?'' says Billy.
``I am wanting a
herd-boy,'' says the gentleman, ``to take my six cows, six horses, six donkeys,
and six goats to pasture every morning, and bring them back at night. Maybe
you'd do.''
``What are the wages?''
says Billy.
``Oh, well,'' says the
gentleman, ``it's no use to talk of that now; there's three giants live in the
wood by the pasture, and every day they drink up all the milk and kill the boy
that looks after the cattle; so we'll wait to talk about wages till we see if
you come back alive.''
``All right,'' says
Billy, and he entered service with the old gentleman.
The first day, he drove
the six cows, six horses, six donkeys, and six goats to pasture, and sat down
by them. About noon he heard a kind of roaring from the wood; and out rushed a
giant with two heads, spitting fire out of his two mouths.
``Oh! my fine fellow,''
says he to Billy, ``you are too big for one swallow and not big enough for two;
how would you like to die, then? By a cut with the sword, a blow with the fist
or a swing by the back?''
``That is as may be,''
says Billy, ``but I'll fight you.'' And he buckled on his hide belt and swung
his stick three times round his head, to give him the strength of a thousand
men besides his own, and went for the giant. And at the first grapple Billy Beg
lifted the giant up and sunk him in the ground, to his armpits.
``Oh, mercy! mercy!
Spare my life!'' cried the giant.
``I think not,'' said
Billy; and he cut off his heads.
That night, when the
cows and the goats were driven home, they gave so much milk that all the dishes
in the house were filled and the milk ran over and made a little brook in the
yard.
``This is very queer,''
said the old gentleman; ``they never gave any milk before. Did you see nothing
in the pasture?''
``Nothing worse than
myself,'' said Billy. And next morning he drove the sis cows, six horses, six
donkeys, and six goats to pasture again.
Just before noon he
heard a terrific roar; and out of the wood came a giant with six heads.
``You killed my
brother,'' he roared, fire coming out of his six mouths, ``and I'll very soon
have your blood! Will you die by a cut of the sword, or a swing by the back?''
``I'll fight you,''
said Billy. And buckling on his belt and swinging his stick three times round
his head, he ran in and grappled the giant. At the first hold, he sunk the
giant up to the shoulders in the ground.
``Mercy, mercy, kind
gentleman!'' cried the giant. ``Spare my life!''
``I think not,'' said
Billy, and cut off his heads.
That night the cattle
gave so much milk that it ran out of the house and made a stream, and turned a
mill wheel which had not been turned for seven years!
``It's certainly very
queer,'' said the old gentleman; ``did you see nothing in the pasture, Billy?''
``Nothing worse than
myself,'' said Billy.
And the next morning
the gentleman said, ``Billy, do you know, I only heard one of the giants
roaring in the night, and the night before only two. What can ail them, at
all?''
``Oh, maybe they are
sick or something,'' says Billy; and with that he drove the six cows, six
horses, six donkeys, and six goats to pasture.
At about ten o'clock
there was a roar like a dozen bulls, and the brother of the two giants came out
of the wood, with twelve heads on him, and fire spouting from every one of
them.
``I'll have you, my
fine boy,'' cries he; ``how will you die, then?''
``We'll see,'' says
Billy; ``come on!''
And swinging his stick
round his head, he made for the giant, and drove him up to his twelve necks in
the ground. All twelve of the heads began begging for mercy, but Billy soon out
them short. Then he drove the beasts home.
And that night the milk
overflowed the mill- stream and made a lake, nine miles long, nine miles broad,
and nine miles deep; and there are salmon and whitefish there to this day.
``You are a fine boy,''
said the gentleman, ``and I'll give you wages.''
So Billy was herd.
The next day, his
master told him to look after the house while he went up to the king's town, to
see a great sight. ``What will it be?'' said Billy. ``The king's daughter is to
be eaten by a fiery dragon,'' said his master, ``unless the champion fighter
they've been feed- ing for six weeks on purpose kills the dragon.'' ``Oh,''
said Billy.
After he was left alone,
there were people passing on horses and afoot, in coaches and chaises, in
carriages and in wheelbarrows, all going to see the great sight. And all asked
Billy why he was not on his way. But Billy said he didn't care about going.
When the last passer-by
was out of sight, Billy ran and dressed himself in his master's best suit of
clothes, took the brown mare from the stable, and was off to the king's town.
When he came there, he
saw a big round place with great high seats built up around it, and all the people
sitting there. Down in the midst was the champion, walking up and down proudly,
with two men behind him to carry his heavy sword. And up in the centre of the
seats was the princess, with her maidens; she was looking very pretty, but
nervous.
The fight was about to
begin when Billy got there, and the herald was crying out how the champion
would fight the dragon for the princess's sake, when suddenly there was heard a
fearsome great roaring, and the people shouted, ``Here he is now, the dragon!''
The dragon had more
heads than the biggest of the giants, and fire and smoke came from every one of
them. And when the champion saw the creature, he never waited even to take his
sword,--he turned and ran; and he never stopped till he came to a deep well, where
he jumped in and hid himself, up to the neck.
When the princess saw
that her champion was gone, she began wringing her hands, and crying, ``Oh,
please, kind gentlemen, fight the dragon, some of you, and keep me from being
eaten! Will no one fight the dragon for me?'' But no one stepped up, at all.
And the dragon made to eat the princess.
Just then, out stepped
Billy from the crowd, with his fine suit of clothes and his hide belt on him.
``I'll fight the beast,'' he says, and swinging his stick three times round his
head, to give him the strength of a thousand men besides his own, he walked up
to the dragon, with easy gait. The princess and all the people were looking,
you may be sure, and the dragon raged at Billy with all his mouths, and they at
it and fought. It was a terrible fight, but in the end Billy Beg had the dragon
down, and he cut off his heads with the sword.
There was great
shouting, then, and crying that the strange champion must come to the king to
be made prince, and to the princess, to be seen. But in the midst of the
hullabaloo Billy Begs slips on the brown mare and is off and away before anyone
has seen his face. But, quick as he was, he was not so quick but that the
princess caught hold of him as he jumped on his horse, and he got away with one
shoe left in her hand. And home he rode, to his master's house, and had his old
clothes on and the mare in the stable before his master came back.
When his master came
back, he had a great tale for Billy, how the princess's champion had run from
the dragon, and a strange knight had come out of the clouds and killed the
dragon, and before anyone could stop him had disappeared in the sky. ``Wasn't
it wonderful?'' said the old gentleman to Billy. ``I should say so,'' said
Billy to him.
Soon there was
proclamation made that the man who killed the dragon was to be found, and to be
made son of the king and husband of the princess; for that, everyone should
come up to the king's town and try on the shoe which the princess had pulled
from off the foot of the strange champion, that he whom it fitted should be
known to be the man. On the day set, there was passing of coaches and chaises,
of carriages and wheelbarrows, people on horseback and afoot, and Billy's
master was the first to go.
While Billy was watching,
at last came along a raggedy man.
``Will you change
clothes with me, and I'll give you boot?'' said Billy to him.
``Shame to you to mock
a poor raggedy man!'' said the raggedy man to Billy.
``It's no mock,'' said
Billy, and he changed clothes with the raggedy man, and gave him boot.
When Billy came to the
king's town, in his dreadful old clothes, no one knew him for the champion at
all, and none would let him come forward to try the shoe. But after all had
tried, Billy spoke up that he wanted to try. They laughed at him, and pushed
him back, with his rags. But the princess would have it that he should try. ``I
like his face,'' said she; ``let him try, now.''
So up stepped Billy,
and put on the shoe, and it fitted him like his own skin.
Then Billy confessed
that it was he that killed the dragon. And that he was a king's son. And they
put a velvet suit on him, and hung a gold chain round his neck, and everyone
said a finer-looking boy they'd never seen.
So Billy married the
princess, and was the prince of that place.
A long way off, across
the ocean, there is a little country where the ground is lower than the level
of the sea, instead of higher, as it is here. Of course the water would run in
and cover the land and houses, if something were not done to keep it out. But
something is done. The people build great, thick walls all round the country,
and the walls keep the sea out. You see how much depends on those walls,-- the
good crops, the houses, and even the safety of the people. Even the small
children in that country know that an accident to one of the walls is a
terrible thing. These walls are really great banks, as wide as roads, and they
are called ``dikes.''
Once there was a little
boy who lived in that country, whose name was Hans. One day, he took his little
brother out to play. They went a long way out of the town, and came to where
there were no houses, but ever so many flowers and green fields. By-and-by,
Hans climbed up on the dike, and sat down; the little brother was playing about
at the foot of the bank.
Suddenly the little
brother called out, ``Oh, what a funny little hole! It bubbles!''
``Hole? Where?'' said
Hans.
``Here in the bank,''
said the little brother; ``water's in it.''
``What!'' said Hans,
and he slid down as fast as he could to where his brother was playing.
There was the tiniest
little hole in the bank. Just an air-hole. A drop of water bubbled slowly
through.
``It is a hole in the
dike!'' cried Hans. ``What shall we do?''
He looked all round;
not a person or a house in sight. He looked at the hole; the little drops oozed
steadily through; he knew that the water would soon break a great gap, because
that tiny hole gave it a chance. The town was so far away--if they ran for help
it would be too late; what should he do? Once more he looked; the hole was larger,
now, and the water was trickling.
Suddenly a thought came
to Hans. He stuck his little forefinger right into the hole, where it fitted
tight; and he said to his little brother, ``Run, Dieting! Go to the town and
tell the men there's a hole in the dike. Tell them I will keep it stopped till
they get here.''
The little brother knew
by Hans' face that something very serious was the matter, and he started for
the town, as fast as his legs could run. Hans, kneeling with his finger in the
hole, watched him grow smaller and smaller as he got farther away.
Soon he was as small as
a chicken; then he was only a speck; then he was out of sight. Hans was alone,
his finger tight in the bank.
He could hear the
water, slap, slap, slap, on the stones; and deep down under the slapping was a
gurgling, rumbling sound. It seemed very near.
By-and-by, his hand
began to feel numb. He rubbed it with the other hand; but it got colder and
more numb, colder and more numb, every minute. He looked to see if the men were
coming; the road was bare as far as he could see. Then the cold began creeping,
creeping, up his arm; first his wrist, then his arm to the elbow, then his arm
to the shoulder; how cold it was! And soon it began to ache. Ugly little
cramp-pains streamed up his finger, up his palm, up his arm, till they reached
into his shoulder, and down the back of his neck. It seemed hours since the
little brother went away. He felt very lonely, and the hurt in his arm grew and
grew. He watched the road with all his eyes, but no one came in sight. Then he
leaned his head against the dike, to rest his shoulder.
As his ear touched the
dike, he heard the voice of the great sea, murmuring. The sound seemed to
say,--
``I am the great sea.
No one can stand against me. What are you, a little child, that you try to keep
me out? Beware! Beware!''
Hans' heart beat in
heavy knocks. Would they never come? He was frightened.
And the water went on
beating at the wall, and murmuring, ``I will come through, I will come through,
I will get you, I will get you, run--run--before I come through!''
Hans started to pull
out his finger; he was so frightened that he felt as if he must run for ever.
But that minute he remembered how much depended on him; if he pulled out his
finger, the water would surely make the hole bigger, and at last break down the
dike, and the sea would come in on all the land and houses. He set his teeth,
and stuck his finger tighter than ever.
``You shall not come
through!'' he whispered, ``I will not run!''
At that moment, he
heard a far-off shout. Far in the distance he saw a black something on the
road, and dust. The men were coming! At last, they were coming. They came
nearer, fast, and he could make out his own father, and the neighbours. They
had pickaxes and shovels, and they were running. And as they ran they shouted,
``We're coming; take heart, we're coming!''
The next minute, it
seemed, they were there. And when they saw Hans, with his pale face, and his
hand tight in the dike, they gave a great cheer,--just as people do for
soldiers back from war; and they lifted him up and rubbed his aching arm with
tender hands, and they told him that he was a real hero and that he had saved
the town.
When the men had mended
the dike, they marched home like an army, and Hans was carried high on their
shoulders, because he was a hero. And to this day the people of Haarlem tell
the story of how a little boy saved the dike.
Little Franz didn't
want to go to school, that morning. He would much rather have played truant.
The air was so warm and still,--you could hear the blackbird singing at the
edge of the wood, and the sound of the Prussians drilling, down in the meadow
behind the old sawmill. He would so much rather have played truant! Besides,
this was the day for the lesson in the rule of participles; and the rule of
participles in French is very, very long, and very hard, and it has more
exceptions than rule. Little Franz did not know it at all. He did not want to
go to school.
But, somehow, he went.
His legs carried him reluctantly into the village and along the street. As he
passed the official bulletin-board before the town hall, he noticed a little
crowd round it, looking at it. That was the place where the news of lost
battles, the requisition for more troops, the demands for new taxes were
posted. Small as he was, little Franz had seen enough to make him think, ``What
now, I wonder?'' But he could not stop to see; he was afraid of being late.
When he came to the
school-yard his heart beat very fast; he was afraid he was late, after all, for
the windows were all open, and yet he heard no noise,--the schoolroom was
perfectly quiet. He had been counting on the noise and confusion before
school,--the slamming of desk covers, the banging of books, the tapping of the
master's cane and his ``A little less noise, please,'' --to let him slip
quietly into his seat unnoticed. But no; he had to open the door and walk up
the long aisle, in the midst of a silent room, with the master looking straight
at him. Oh, how hot his cheeks felt, and how hard his heart beat! But to his
great surprise the master didn't scold at all. All he said was, ``Come quickly
to your place, my little Franz; we were just going to begin without you!''
Little Franz could
hardly believe his ears; that wasn't at all the way the master was accustomed
to speak. It was very strange! Somehow-- everything was very strange. The room
looked queer. Everybody was sitting so still, so straight--as if it were an
exhibition day, or something very particular. And the master-- he looked
strange, too; why, he had on his fine lace jabot and his best coat, that he
wore only on holidays, and his gold snuff-box in his hand. Certainly it was
very odd. Little Franz looked all round, wondering. And there in the back of
the room was the oddest thing of all. There, on a bench, sat visitors.
Visitors! He could not make it out; people never came except on great
occasions,--examination days and such. And it was not a holiday. Yet there were
the agent, the old blacksmith, the farmer, sitting quiet and still. It was
very, very strange.
Just then the master
stood up and opened school. He said, ``My children, this is the last time I
shall ever teach you. The order has come from Berlin that henceforth nothing
but German shall be taught in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. This is your
last lesson in French. I beg you, be very attentive.''
His last lesson in
French! Little Franz could not believe his ears; his last lesson--ah, that was
what was on the bulletin-board! It flashed across him in an instant. That was
it! His last lesson in French--and he scarcely knew how to read and write--why,
then, he should never know how! He looked down at his books, all battered and
torn at the corners; and suddenly his books seemed quite different to him, they
seemed--somehow--like friends. He looked at the master, and he seemed
different, too,--like a very good friend. Little Franz began to feel strange
himself. Just as he was thinking about it, he heard his name called, and he
stood up to recite.
It was the rule of
participles.
Oh, what wouldn't he
have given to be able to say it of from beginning to end, exceptions and all,
without a blunder! But he could only stand and hang his head; he did not know a
word of it. Then through the hot pounding in his ears he heard the master's
voice; it was quite gentle; not at all the scolding voice he expected. And it
said, ``I'm not going to punish you, little Franz. Perhaps you are punished
enough. And you are not alone in your fault. We all do the same thing,--we all
put off our tasks till to-morrow. And--sometimes--to- morrow never comes. That
is what it has been with us. We Alsatians have been always putting off our education
till the morrow; and now they have a right, those people down there, to say to
us, `What! You call yourselves French, and cannot even read and write the
French language? Learn German, then!' ''
And then the master
spoke to them of the French language. He told them how beautiful it was, how
clear and musical and reasonable, and he said that no people could be
hopelessly conquered so long as it kept its language, for the language was the
key to its prison-house. And then he said he was going to tell them a little
about that beautiful language, and he explained the rule of participles.
And do you know, it was
just as simple as A B C! Little Franz understood every word. It was just the
same with the rest of the grammar lesson. I don't know whether little Franz
listened harder, or whether the master explained better; but it was all quite
clear, and simple.
But as they went on
with it, and little Franz listened and looked, it seemed to him that the master
was trying to put the whole French language into their heads in that one hour.
It seemed as if he wanted to teach them all he knew, before he went,--to give
them all he had, --in this last lesson.
From the grammar he
went on to the writing lesson. And for this, quite new copies had been
prepared. They were written on clean, new slips of paper, and they were:--
France: Alsace.
France: Alsace.
All up and down the aisles
they hung out from the desks like little banners, waving--
France: Alsace.
France: Alsace.
And everybody worked with all
his might,-- not a sound could you hear but the scratching of pens on the
``France: Alsace.''
Even the little ones
bent over their up and down strokes with their tongues stuck out to help them
work.
After the writing came
the reading lesson, and the little ones sang their ba, be, bi, bo, bu.
Right in the midst of
it, Franz heard a curious sound, a big deep voice mingling with the children's
voices. He turned round, and there, on the bench in the back of the room, the
old blacksmith sat with a big A B C book open on his knees. It was his voice
Franz had heard. He was saying the sounds with the little children,--ba, be,
bi, bo, bu. His voice sounded so odd, with the little voices,--so very odd,--it
made little Franz feel queer. It seemed so funny that he thought he would
laugh; then he thought he wouldn't laugh, he felt--he felt very queer.
So it went on with the
lessons; they had them all. And then, suddenly, the town clock struck noon. And
at the same time they heard the tramp of the Prussians' feet, coming back from drill.
It was time to close
school.
The master stood up. He
was very pale. Little Franz had never seen him look so tall. He said: ``My
children--my children''--but something choked him; he could not go on. Instead
he turned and went to the blackboard and took up a piece of chalk. And then he
wrote, high up, in big white letters, ``Vive la France!''
And he made a little
sign to them with his head, ``That is all; go away.''
There was once a nation
which was very powerful, very fortunate, and very proud. Its lands were
fruitful; its armies were victorious in battle; and it had strong kings, wise
lawgivers, and great poets. But after a great many years, everything changed.
The nation had no more strong kings, no more wise lawgivers; its armies were
beaten in battle, and neighbouring tribes conquered the country and took the
fruitful lands; there were no more poets except a few who made songs of
lamentation. The people had become a captive and humiliated people; and the
bitterest part of all its sadness was the memory of past greatness.
But in all the years of
failure and humiliation, there was one thing which kept this people from
despair; one hope lived in their hearts and kept them from utter misery. It was
a hope which came from something one of the great poets of the past had said,
in prophecy. This prophecy was whispered in the homes of the poor, taught in
the churches, repeated from father to son among the rich; it was like a deep, hidden
well of comfort in a desert of suffering. The prophecy said that some time a
deliverer should be born for the nation, a new king even stronger than the old
ones, mighty enough to conquer its enemies, set it free, and bring back the
splendid days of old. This was the hope and expectation all the people looked
for; they waited through the years for the prophecy to come true.
In this nation, in a
little country town, lived a man and a woman whose names were Joseph and Mary.
And it happened, one year, that they had to take a little journey up to the
town which was the nearest tax-centre, to have their names put on the census
list; because that was the custom in that country.
But when they got to
the town, so many others were there for the same thing, and it was such a small
town, that every place was crowded. There was no room for them at the inn.
Finally the innkeeper said they might sleep in the stable on the straw. So they
went there for the night.
And while they were
there, in the stable, their first child was born to them, a little son. And
because there was no cradle to put Him in, the mother made a little warm nest
of the hay in the big wooden manger where the oxen had eaten, and wrapped the
baby in swaddling clothes, and laid Him in the manger, for a bed!
That same night, on the
hills outside the town, there were shepherds, keeping their flocks through the
darkness. They were tired with watching over the sheep, and they stood or sat
about, drowsily, talking and watching the stars. And as they watched, behold,
an angel of the Lord appeared unto them! And the glory of the Lord shone round
about them! And they were sore afraid. But the angel said unto them, ``Fear
not, for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all
people. For unto you is born, this day, in the city of David, a saviour,--which
is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you: ye shall find the babe,
wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.''
And suddenly there was
with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying,
``Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.''
When the angels were
gone up from them into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, ``Let us now
go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the
Lord hath made known unto us.'' And they came, with haste, and they found Mary,
and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they saw Him in the
manger, they knew that the wonderful thing the angel said had really happened,
and that the great deliverer was born at last.
``IT is the grown
people who make the nursery stories,'' wrote Stevenson, ``all the children do
is jealously to preserve the text.'' And the grown person, whether he makes his
stories with pen or with tongue, should bring two qualities at least to the
work--simplicity of language and a serious sincerity. The reason for the
simplicity is obvious, for no one, child or otherwise, can thoroughly enjoy a
story clouded by words which convey no meaning to him.
The second quality is
less obvious but equally necessary. No absence of fun is intended by the words
``serious sincerity,'' but they mean that the story-teller should bring to the
child an equal interest in what is about to be told; an honest acceptance, for
the time being, of the fairies, or the heroes, or the children, or the animals
who talk, with which the tale is concerned. The child deserves this equality of
standpoint, and without it there can be no entire success.
As for the stories
themselves, the difficulty lies with the material, not with the child. Styles
may be varied generously, but the matter must be quarried for. Out of a hundred
children's books it is more than likely that ninety-nine will be useless; yet
perhaps out of one autobiography may be gleaned an anecdote, or a reminiscence
which can be amplified into an absorbing tale. Almost every story-teller will
find that the open eye and ear will serve him better than much arduous
searching. No one book will yield him the increase to his repertoire which will
come to him by listening, by browsing in chance volumes and magazines, and even
newspapers, by observing everyday life, and in all remembering his own youth,
and his youthful, waiting audience.
And that youthful
audience? A rather too common mistake is made in allowing overmuch for the
creative imagination of the normal child. It is not creative imagination which
the normal child possesses so much as an enormous credulity and no limitations.
If we consider for a moment we see that there has been little or nothing to
limit things for him, therefore anything is possible. It is the years of our
life as they come which narrow our fancies and set a bound to our beliefs; for
experience has taught us that for the most part a certain cause will produce a
certain effect. The child, on the contrary, has but little knowledge of causes,
and as yet but an imperfect realisation of effects. If we, for instance, go
into the midst of a savage country, we know that there is the chance of our
meeting a savage. But to the young child it is quite as possible to meet a Red
Indian coming round the bend of the brook at the bottom of the orchard, as it
is to meet him in his own wigwam.
The child is an adept
at make-believe, but his make-believes are, as a rule, practical and serious.
It is credulity rather than imagination which helps him. He takes the tales he
has been told, the facts he has observed, and for the most part reproduces them
to the best of his ability. And ``nothing,'' as Stevenson says, ``can stagger a
child's faith; he accepts the clumsiest substitutes and can swallow the most
staring incongruities. The chair he has just been besieging as a castle is
taken away for the accommodation of a morning visitor and he is nothing
abashed; he can skirmish by the hour with a stationary coal-scuttle; in the
midst of the enchanted pleasuance he can see, without sensible shock, the
gardener soberly digging potatoes for the day's dinner.''
The child, in fact, is
neither undeveloped ``grown-up'' nor unspoiled angel. Perhaps he has a dash of
both, but most of all he is akin to the grown person who dreams. With the
dreamer and with the child there is that unquestioning acceptance of
circumstances as they arise, however unusual and disconcerting they may be. In
dreams the wildest, most improbable and fantastic things happen, but they are
not so to the dreamer. The veriest cynic amongst us must take his dreams
seriously and without a sneer, whether he is forced to leap from the edge of a
precipice, whether he finds himself utterly incapable of packing his trunk in
time for the train, whether in spite of his distress at the impropriety, he
finds himself at a dinner- party minus his collar, or whether the riches of El
Dorado are laid at his feet. For him at the time it is all quite real and
harassingly or splendidly important.
To the child and to the
dreamer all things are possible; frogs may talk, bears may be turned into
princes, gallant tailors may overcome giants, fir-trees may be filled with
ambitions. A chair may become a horse, a chest of drawers a coach and six, a
hearthrug a battlefield, a newspaper a crown of gold. And these are facts which
the story-teller must realise, and choose and shape the stories accordingly.
Many an old book, which
to a modern grown person may seem prim and over-rigid, will be to the child a
delight; for him the primness and the severity slip away, the story remains.
Such a book as Mrs Sherwood's Fairchild Family is an example of this. To a
grown person reading it for the first time, the loafing propensities of the
immaculate Mrs Fairchild, who never does a hand's turn of good work for anyone
from cover to cover, the hard piety, the snobbishness, the brutality of taking
the children to the old gallows and seating them before the dangling remains of
a murderer, while the lesson of brotherly love is impressed are shocking when
they are not amusing; but to the child the doings of the naughty and repentant
little Fairchilds are engrossing; and experience proves to us that the
twentieth-century child is as eager for the book as were ever his
nineteenth-century grandfather and grandmother.
Good Mrs Timmin's
History of the Robins, too, is a continuous delight; and from its pompous and
high-sounding dialogue a skilful adapter may glean not only one story, but one
story with two versions; for the infant of eighteen months can follow the
narrative of the joys and troubles, errors and kindnesses of Robin, Dicky,
Flopsy and Pecksy; while the child of five or ten or even more will be keenly
interested in a fuller account of the birds' adventures and the development of
their several characters and those of their human friends and enemies.
From these two books,
from Miss Edgeworth's wonderful Moral Tales; from Miss Wetherell's delightful
volume Mr Rutherford's Children; from Jane and Ann Taylor's Original Poems;
from Thomas Day's Sandford and Merton; from Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress and Lamb's
Tales from Shakespeare, and from many another old friend, stories may be
gathered, but the story teller will find that in almost all cases adaptation is
a necessity. The joy of the hunt, however, is a real joy, and with a field
which stretches from the myths of Greece to Uncle Remus, from Le Morte d'Arthur
to the Jungle Books, there need be no more lack of pleasure for the seeker than
for the receiver of the spoil.
The following is a list
of valuable sources for the story-teller, all yielding either good original
material for adaptation, or stories which need only a slight alteration in the
telling:--[1]
THE BIBLE.
MOTHER GOOSE'S MELODY.
Bullen, 3s. 6d. net.
THE STORY HOUR, by Kate
Douglas Wiggin.
Gay Hancock, 2s. 6d.
STORIES FOR
KINDERGARTEN.
Ginn, 1s. 6d.
ST NICHOLAS
MAGAZINE--bound volumes.
Warne, 6s.
LITTLE FOLKS, bound
volumes.
Cassell, 3s. 6d.
FABLES AND NURSERY
TALES, edited by Prof. Charles Eliot Norton.
Heath, 1s. net.
HEART OF OAK, BOOK ONE:
Rhymes, Jingles and Fables, edited by Prof. Charles Eliot Norton.
Heath, 1s.
(This contains the story of ``Henny-Penny,'' one of the best nursery stories
imaginable.)
AElig;SOP'S FABLES.
OLD TIME TALES, by
Florence Dugdale.
Collins, 1s. net.
THE MABINOGOION.
Dent, 1s. 6d. Net.
PERCY"S RELIQUES
Warnes, 2s.
LEGENDS OF GREECE AND
ROME, by G. H. Kupfer, M. A.
FAVOURITE GREEK MYTHS,
by L. S. Hyde.
STORIES OF ROBIN HOOD,
by J. W. McSpadden.
STORIES OF KING ARTHUR,
by U. W. Cutler.
STORIES FROM GREEK
HISTORY, by H. L. Havell, B. A.
STORIES FROM WAGNER, by
J. W. McSpadden.
BRITAIN LONG
AGO:Stories From old English and Celtic Sources, by E. M. Wilmot-Buxton,
F.R.Hist.S.
STORIES FROM SCOTTISH
HISTORY (selected from "Tales of a Grandfather"), by Madalen Edgar,
M. A.
STORIES FROM GREEK
TRAGEDY, by H. L. Havell, B. A.
STORIES FROM THE
EARTHLY PARADISE, by Madalen Edgar, M. A.
STORIES FROM CHAUCER,
by J. W. McSpadden.
STORIES FROM THE OLD
TESTAMENT, by Mrs. S. Platt
TOLD BY THE NORTHMEN
(Stories from the Norse Eddas and Sagas), by i>E. M. Wilmot-Buxton,
F.R.Hist.S.
STORIES FROM DON
QUIXOTE, by H. L. Havell, B. A.
THE STORY OF ROLAND AND
THE PEERS OF CHARLEMAGNE, by James Baldwin
Teachers in need of
good stories should keep themselves acquainted with the development of this
series, as fresh volumes are constantly added. The material is precisely the
right kind for the story-teller, since the stories have come to us from distant
days when, as the national inheritance of this race or that, they were told in
homely cabins by parents to their children, or sung by bards to festive
companies.)
NORTHLAND HEROES:
Frithiof and Beowulf, by Florence Holbrook.
Harrap, 1s. Net.
STORIES OF THE ENGLISH,
by F.
Blackwood, 5s.
OLD GREEK FOLK STORIES,
by Josephine Peabody
Harrap, 1s. net.
RED CAP TALES, by S. R.
Crockett.
Black, 6s.
A CHILD'S BOOK OF
SAINTS, by Wm. Canton.
Dent, 1s. net.
CUCHULAIN: The Hound of
Ulster, by Eleanor Hull.
Harrap, 5s. net.
THE HIGH DEEDS OF FINN,
by T. W. Rolleston, M. A.
Harrap, 5s. net.
THE MYTHS OF GREECE AND
ROME, by H. A. Guerber.
Harrap, 7s. 6d. net.
MYTHS OF THE NORSEMEN,
by H. A. Guerber.
Harrap, 7s. 6d. net.
MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF
THE MIDDLE AGES, by H. A. Guerber.
Harrap, 7s. 6d. net.
HERO-MYTHS AND LEGENDS
OF THE BRITISH RACE, by W. J. Ebbutt, M. A.
Harrap, 7s. 6d. net.
THE MINSTRELSY OF THE
SCOTTISH BORDER
GLEANINGS IN
BUDDHA-FIELDS, by Lafcadio Hearn.
Kegan Paul, 5s. net.
THE GOLDEN WINDOWS, by
Laura E. Richards.
Allenson, 2s. 6d. net
HANS ANDERSEN'S FAIRY
TALES.
GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES.
ENGLISH FAIRY TALES, by
Joseph Jacobs.
Nutt, 6s.
FOLK-TALES FROM MANY
LANDS, by Lilian Gask.
Harrap, 5s, net.
CELTIC FAIRY TALES, by
Joseph Jacobs.
Nutt, 6s.
INDIAN FAIRY TALES, by
Joseph Jacobs.
Nutt, 3s. 6d.
THE HAPPY PRINCE, by
Oscar Wilde.
Nutt, 3s. 6d.
DONEGAL FAIRY TALES, by
Seumas McManus.
IN CHIMNEY CORNERS, by
Seumus McManus.
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.
THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK
(and others), by Andrew Lang.
Longmans, 6s. each.
FAIRY STORIES, by John
Finnemore.
S.S. Union, 1s.
THE JAPANESE FAIRY
BOOK.
Constable, 3s. 6d.
FAIRY TALES FROM FAR
JAPAN, translated by Susan Ballard.
Religious tract Society, 2s. 6d.
IN THE CHILD'S WORLD.
Philip, 7s. 6d. net.
LEGENDS FROM FAIRYLAND,
by Holme Lee.
Warne, 1s. 6d.
THE KING OF THE GOLDEN
RIVER, by John Ruskin.
G. Allen, 6d.
THE WELSH FAIRY BOOK,
by Jenkyn Thomas.
Unwin, 6s.
AT THE BACK OF THE
NORTH WIND, by George Macdonald
Blackie, 3s. 6d.
THE PETER PAN PICTURE
BOOK.
Bell, 5s. net.
UNCLE REMUS, by Joel
Chandler Harris.
Routledge, 1s.
MACAULAY'S DAYS OF
ANCIENT ROME.
LE MORTE D'ARTHUR, by
Sir Thomas Malory.
Macmillan, 3s. 6d.
FROISSART'S CHRONICLES.
Macmillan, 3s. 6d.
THE BOY'S FROISSART, by
Henry Newbolt.
Macmillan, 6s.
STORIES FROM DANTE, by
Susan Cunnington.
Harrap, 5s. net.
THE JUNGLE BOOKS, by
Rudyard Kipling.
Macmillan, 6s. each.
JUST SO STORIES, by
Rudyard Kipling.
Macmillan, 6s.
WOOD MAGIC, by Richard
Jeffries.
Longmans, 3s. 3d.
AMONG THE FARMYARD
PEOPLE, by Clara D. Pierson.
Murray, 5s.
AMONG THE NIGHT PEOPLE,
by Clara D. Pierson.
Murray, 5s.
AMONG THE MEADOW
PEOPLE, by Clara D. Pierson.
Murray, 5s.
THE ANIMAL STORY BOOK,
by Andrew Lang.
Longmans, 6s.
NATURE STORIES, by Eva
M. Martin.
Collins, 1s. net.
WILD ANIMALS I HAVE
KNOWN, by Ernest Thompson Seton.
Nutt, 6s. net
A BOOK OF NATURE MYTHS,
by Florence Holbrook.
Harrap, 1s. net.
NATURE STORIES FOR
YOUNG READERS, by Florence Bass.
Heath, 2s. 6d.
PARABLES FROM NATURE,
by Mrs. A. Gatty.
Bell, 1s.
NORTHERN TRAILS, by W.
J. Long.
Ginn, 7s. 6d.
THE KINDRED OF THE
WILD, by Chas. G. D. Roberts.
Duckworth, 6s. net.
RAB AND HIS FRIENDS, by
Dr John Brown.
A CHILD'S GARDEN OF
VERSES, by R. L. Stevenson.
Longmans, 2s. 6d. net.
A TREASURY OF VERSE FOR
LITTLE CHILDREN, compiled by Madalen Edgar, M. A.
Harrap, 1s. net.
p>A TREASURY OF
VERSE FOR BOYS AND GIRLS, compiled by Madalen Edgar, M. A.
Harrap, 2s. 6d. net.
p>A TREASURY OF
BALLADS, compiled by Madalen Edgar, M. A.
Harrap, 1s. 6d. net.
THE HIAWATHA PRIMER, by
Florence Holbrook.
Harrap, 1s. 6d.
BIMBI, by Ouida.
Chatto, 2s.
LAMB'S TALES FROM
SHAKESPEARE.
STORIES FROM THE FAERIE
QUEENE, by Lawrence H. Dawson.
Harrap, 5s. net.
MORAL TALES, by Maria
Edgeworth.
Macmillan, 2s. net.
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS,
by John Bunyan.
STORIES OF JESUS, by
Mrs H. A. Farley.
Collins, 1s. net.
STORIES FORM THE OLD
TESTAMENT, by Mrs S. Platt.
Harrap, 1s. 6d.
[1] 1 Readers may be interested in A History of Story-telling, by Arthur
Ransome. (Jack. 10s. 6d. net.)