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SOME SUGGESTIONS FOR THE
STORY-TELLER

Concerning the fundamental points of
method in telling a story, I have little to
add to the principles which I have already
stated as necessary, in my opinion, in the
book of which this is, in a way, the
continuation.  But in the two years which
have passed since that book was written, I
have had the happiness of working on
stories and the telling of them, among
teachers and students all over this country,
and in that experience certain secondary
points of method have come to seem more
important, or at least more in need of
emphasis, than they did before.  As so
often happens, I had assumed that "those
things are taken for granted;" whereas, to
the beginner or the teacher not naturally
a story-teller, the secondary or implied
technique is often of greater difficulty than
the mastery of underlying principles.  The
few suggestions which follow are of this
practical, obvious kind.

Take your story seriously.  No matter
how riotously absurd it is, or how full of
inane repetition, remember, if it is good
enough to tell, it is a real story, and must
be treated with respect.  If you cannot feel
so toward it, do not tell it.  Have faith in
the story, and in the attitude of the children
toward it and you.  If you fail in this, the
immediate result will be a touch of shame-
facedness, affecting your manner unfavorably,
and, probably, influencing your
accuracy and imaginative vividness.

Perhaps I can make the point clearer
by telling you about one of the girls in a
class which was studying stories last
winter; I feel sure if she or any of her fellow
students recognizes the incident, she will
not resent being made to serve the good
cause, even in the unattractive guise of a
warning example.

A few members of the class had prepared
the story of "The Fisherman and
his Wife."  The first girl called on was
evidently inclined to feel that it was rather
a foolish story.  She tried to tell it well,
but there were parts of it which produced
in her the touch of shamefacedness to
which I have referred.

When she came to the rhyme,--

 "O man of the sea, come, listen to me,
 For Alice, my wife, the plague of my life,
 Has sent me to beg a boon of thee,"

she said it rather rapidly.  At the first
repetition she said it still more rapidly; the
next time she came to the jingle she said it
so fast and so low that it was unintelligible;
and the next recurrence was too much for
her.  With a blush and a hesitating smile
she said, "And he said that same thing,
you know!"  Of course everybody laughed,
and of course the thread of interest and
illusion was hopelessly broken for everybody.

Now, any one who chanced to hear Miss
Shedlock tell that same story will remember
that the absurd rhyme gave great opportunity
for expression, in its very repetition;
each time that the fisherman came to the
water's edge his chagrin and unwillingness
was greater, and his summons to the magic
fish mirrored his feeling.  The jingle IS
foolish; that is a part of the charm.  But if
the person who tells it FEELS foolish, there
is no charm at all!  It is the same principle
which applies to any address to any
assemblage: if the speaker has the air of
finding what he has to say absurd or
unworthy of effort, the audience naturally
tends to follow his lead, and find it not
worth listening to.

Let me urge, then, take your story
seriously.

Next, "take your time."  This suggestion
needs explaining, perhaps.  It does
not mean license to dawdle.  Nothing is
much more annoying in a speaker than too
great deliberateness, or than hesitation of
speech.  But it means a quiet realization of
the fact that the floor is yours, everybody
wants to hear you, there is time enough
for every point and shade of meaning and
no one will think the story too long.  This
mental attitude must underlie proper control
of speed.  Never hurry.  A business-like
leisure is the true attitude of the storyteller.

And the result is best attained by
concentrating one's attention on the episodes
of the story.  Pass lightly, and comparatively
swiftly, over the portions between
actual episodes, but take all the time you
need for the elaboration of those.  And
above all, do not FEEL hurried.

The next suggestion is eminently plain
and practical, if not an all too obvious one.
It is this: if all your preparation and
confidence fails you at the crucial moment, and
memory plays the part of traitor in some
particular, if, in short, you blunder on a
detail of the story, NEVER ADMIT IT.  If it was
an unimportant detail which you misstated,
pass right on, accepting whatever you said,
and continuing with it; if you have been so
unfortunate as to omit a fact which was a
necessary link in the chain, put it in, later,
as skillfully as you can, and with as
deceptive an appearance of its being in the
intended order; but never take the children
behind the scenes, and let them hear
the creaking of your mental machinery.
You must be infallible.  You must be in
the secret of the mystery, and admit your
audience on somewhat unequal terms;
they should have no creeping doubts as
to your complete initiation into the secrets
of the happenings you relate.

Plainly, there can be lapses of memory
so complete, so all-embracing, that frank
failure is the only outcome, but these are
so few as not to need consideration, when
dealing with so simple material as that of
children's stories.  There are times, too,
before an adult audience, when a speaker
can afford to let his hearers be amused with
him over a chance mistake.  But with children
it is most unwise to break the spell of
the entertainment in that way.  Consider,
in the matter of a detail of action or
description, how absolutely unimportant the
mere accuracy is, compared with the effect
of smoothness and the enjoyment of the
hearers.  They will not remember the detail,
for good or evil, half so long as they
will remember the fact that you did not
know it.  So, for their sakes, as well as for
the success of your story, cover your slips
of memory, and let them be as if they were
not.

And now I come to two points in method
which have to do especially with humorous
stories.  The first is the power of initiating
the appreciation of the joke.  Every natural
humorist does this by instinct and the
value of the power to story-teller can
hardly be overestimated.  To initiate
appreciation does not mean that one
necessarily gives way to mirth, though even that
is sometimes natural and effective; one
merely feels the approach of the humorous
climax, and subtly suggests to the hearers
that it will soon be "time to laugh."  The
suggestion usually comes in the form of
facial expression, and in the tone.  And
children are so much simpler, and so much
more accustomed to following another's
lead than their elders, that the expression
can be much more outright and unguarded
than would be permissible with a mature
audience.

Children like to feel the joke coming, in
this way; they love the anticipation of a
laugh, and they will begin to dimple, often,
at your first unconscious suggestion of
humor.  If it is lacking, they are sometimes
afraid to follow their own instincts.
Especially when you are facing an audience
of grown people and children together, you
will find that the latter are very hesitant
about initiating their own expression of
humor.  It is more difficult to make them
forget their surroundings then, and more
desirable to give them a happy lead.  Often
at the funniest point you will see some
small listener in an agony of endeavor to
cloak the mirth which he--poor mite--
fears to be indecorous.  Let him see that it
is "the thing" to laugh, and that everybody
is going to.

Having so stimulated the appreciation
of the humorous climax, it is important to
give your hearers time for the full savor
of the jest to permeate their consciousness.
It is really robbing an audience of its rights,
to pass so quickly from one point to
another that the mind must lose a new one if
it lingers to take in the old.  Every vital
point in a tale must be given a certain
amount of time: by an anticipatory pause,
by some form of vocal or repetitive
emphasis, and by actual time.  But even
more than other tales does the funny story
demand this.  It cannot be funny without it.

Every one who is familiar with the theatre
must have noticed how careful all comedians
are to give this pause for appreciation
and laughter.  Often the opportunity
is crudely given, or too liberally offered;
and that offends.  But in a reasonable degree
the practice is undoubtedly necessary
to any form of humorous expression.

A remarkably good example of the type
of humorous story to which these principles
of method apply, is the story of "Epaminondas."
It will be plain to
any reader that all the several funny crises
are of the perfectly unmistakable sort children
like, and that, moreover, these funny
spots are not only easy to see; they are easy
to foresee.  The teller can hardly help sharing
the joke in advance, and the tale is
an excellent one with which to practice for
power in the points mentioned.

Epaminondas is a valuable little rascal
from other points of view, and I mean to
return to him, to point a moral.  But just
here I want space for a word or two about
the matter of variety of subject and style
in school stories.

There are two wholly different kinds of
story which are equally necessary for
children, I believe, and which ought to be
given in about the proportion of one to
three, in favor of the second kind; I make
the ratio uneven because the first kind is
more dominating in its effect.

The first kind is represented by such
stories as the "Pig Brother," which has now
grown so familiar to teachers that it will
serve for illustration without repetition here.
It is the type of story which specifically
teaches a certain ethical or conduct lesson,
in the form of a fable or an allegory,--it
passes on to the child the conclusions as to
conduct and character, to which the race
has, in general, attained through centuries
of experience and moralizing.  The story
becomes a part of the outfit of received
ideas on manners and morals which is an
inescapable and necessary possession of the
heir of civilization.

Children do not object to these stories
in the least, if the stories are good ones.
They accept them with the relish which
nature seems to maintain for all truly
nourishing material.  And the little tales
are one of the media through which we
elders may transmit some very slight share
of the benefit received by us, in turn, from
actual or transmitted experience.

The second kind has no preconceived
moral to offer, makes no attempt to affect
judgment or to pass on a standard.  It
simply presents a picture of life, usually
in fable or poetic image, and says to the
hearer, "These things are."  The hearer,
then, consciously or otherwise, passes judgment
on the facts.  His mind says, "These
things are good;" or, "This was good, and
that, bad;" or, "This thing is desirable,"
or the contrary.

The story of "The Little Jackal and the
Alligator" is a good illustration
of this type.  It is a character-story.  In the
naive form of a folk tale, it doubtless
embodies the observations of a seeing eye, in a
country and time when the little jackal and
the great alligator were even more vivid
images of certain human characters than
they now are.  Again and again, surely, the
author or authors of the tales must have
seen the weak, small, clever being triumph
over the bulky, well-accoutred, stupid
adversary.  Again and again they had laughed
at the discomfiture of the latter, perhaps
rejoicing in it the more because it removed
fear from their own houses.  And probably
never had they concerned themselves particularly
with the basic ethics of the struggle.
It was simply one of the things they
saw.  It was life.  So they made a picture
of it.

The folk tale so made, and of such
character, comes to the child somewhat as an
unprejudiced newspaper account of to-
day's happenings comes to us.  It pleads
no cause, except through its contents; it
exercises no intentioned influence on our
moral judgment; it is there, as life is there,
to be seen and judged.  And only through
such seeing and judging can the individual
perception attain to anything of power or
originality.  Just as a certain amount of
received ideas is necessary to sane development,
so is a definite opportunity for
first-hand judgments essential to power.

In this epoch of well-trained minds we
run some risk of an inundation of accepted
ethics.  The mind which can make independent
judgments, can look at new facts
with fresh vision, and reach conclusions
with simplicity, is the perennial power in
the world.  And this is the mind we are
not noticeably successful in developing, in
our system of schooling.  Let us at least
have its needs before our consciousness,
in our attempts to supplement the regular
studies of school by such side-activities as
story-telling.  Let us give the children a
fair proportion of stories which stimulate
independent moral and practical decisions.

And now for a brief return to our little
black friend.  "Epaminondas" belongs to
a very large, very ancient type of funny
story: the tale in which the jest depends
wholly on an abnormal degree of stupidity
on the part of the hero.  Every race which
produces stories seems to have found this
theme a natural outlet for its childlike
laughter.  The stupidity of Lazy Jack, of
Big Claus, of the Good Man, of Clever
Alice, all have their counterparts in the
folly of the small Epaminondas.

Evidently, such stories have served a
purpose in the education of the race.  While
the exaggeration of familiar attributes
easily awakens mirth in a simple mind,
it does more: it teaches practical lessons
of wisdom and discretion.  And possibly
the lesson was the original cause of the
story.

Not long ago, I happened upon an
instance of the teaching power of these
nonsense tales, so amusing and convincing
that I cannot forbear to share it.  A
primary teacher who heard me tell "Epaminondas"
one evening, told it to her pupils
the next morning, with great effect.  A
young teacher who was observing in the
room at the time told me what befell.
She said the children laughed very heartily
over the story, and evidently liked it
much.  About an hour later, one of them
was sent to the board to do a little problem.
It happened that the child made an
excessively foolish mistake, and did not
notice it.  As he glanced at the teacher for
the familiar smile of encouragement, she
simply raised her hands, and ejaculated
"`For the law's sake!'"

It was sufficient.  The child took the cue
instantly.  He looked hastily at his work,
broke into an irrepressible giggle, rubbed
the figures out, without a word, and began
again.  And the whole class entered into
the joke with the gusto of fellow-fools, for
once wise.

It is safe to assume that the child in
question will make fewer needless
mistakes for a long time because of the wholesome
reminder of his likeness with one
who "ain't got the sense he was born with."
And what occurred so visibly in his case
goes on quietly in the hidden recesses of
the mind in many cases.  One "Epaminondas"
is worth three lectures.

I wish there were more of such funny
little tales in the world's literature, all
ready, as this one is, for telling to the
youngest of our listeners.  But masterpieces
are few in any line, and stories for
telling are no exception; it took generations,
probably, to make this one.  The
demand for new sources of supply comes
steadily from teachers and mothers, and
is the more insistent because so often met
by the disappointing recommendations of
books which prove to be for reading only,
rather than for telling.  It would be a
delight to print a list of fifty, twenty-five,
even ten books which would be found
full of stories to tell without much adapting.
But I am grateful to have found even
fewer than the ten, to which I am sure the
teacher can turn with real profit.  The
following names are, of course, additional
to the list contained in "How to Tell Stories
to Children."

ALL ABOUT JOHNNIE JONES.  By Carolyn Verhoeff.
Milton Bradley Co., Springfield, Mass.  Valuable
for kindergartners as a supply of realistic
stories with practical lessons in simplest form.

OLD DECCAN DAYS.  By Mary Frere.  Joseph
McDonough, Albany, New York.  A splendid collection
of Hindu folk tales, adaptable for all ages.

THE SILVER CROWN.  By Laura E. Richards.
Little, Brown & Co., Boston.  Poetic fables with
beautiful suggestions of ethical truths.

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.  BY Eva March Tappan.
Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston, New York,
and Chicago.  A classified collection, in ten
volumes, of fairy, folk tales, fables, realistic,
historical, and poetical stories.

FOR THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.  BY Carolyn Bailey
and Clara Lewis.  Milton Bradley Co., Springfield.
A general collection of popular stories, well
told.

THE SONS OF CORMAC.  By Aldis Dunbar.  Longmans,
Green & Co., London.  Rather mature
but very fine Irish stories.


For the benefit of suggestion to teachers
in schools where story-telling is newly
or not yet introduced in systematic form,
I am glad to append the following list of
stories which have been found, on several
years' trial, to be especially tellable and
likable, in certain grades of the Providence
schools, in Rhode Island.  The list is not
mine, although it embodies some of my
suggestions.  I offer it merely as a practical
result of the effort to equalize and extend
the story-hour throughout the schools.  Its
makers would be the last to claim ideal
merit for it, and they are constantly
improving and developing it.  I am indebted
for the privilege of using it to the primary
teachers of Providence, and to their supervisor,
Miss Ella L. Sweeney.

STORIES FOR REPRODUCTION

FIRST GRADE
Chicken Little             The Dog and his Shadow
Barnyard Talk              The Hare and the Hound
Little Red Hen             Five Little Rabbits
Little Gingerbread Boy     The Three Bears
The Lion and the Mouse     The Red-headed Wood-
The Hungry Lion               pecker
The Wind and the Sun       Little Red Riding-Hood
The Fox and the Crow       Little Half-Chick
The Duck and the Hen       The Rabbit and the Turtle
The Hare and the Tortoise  The Shoemaker and the
The Three Little Robins       Fairies
The Wolf and the Kid       The Wolf and the Crane
The Crow and the Pitcher   The Cat and the Mouse
The Fox and the Grapes     Snow-White and Rose-Red

SECOND GRADE
The North Wind             The Lark and her Little
The Mouse Pie                 Ones
The Wonderful Traveler     The Wolf and the Goslings
The Wolf and the Fox       The Ugly Duckling
The Star Dollars           The Country Mouse and the
The Water-Lil              City Mouse
The Three Goats            The Three Little Pigs
The Boy and the Nuts       Diamonds and Toads
The Honest Woodman         The Thrifty Squirrel
The Pied Piper             How the Robin's Breast
King Midas                   became   Red
The Town Musicians         The Old Woman and her
Raggylug                      Pig
Peter Rabbit               The Sleeping Apple
The Boy who cried "Wolf" The Cat and the Parrot

THIRD GRADE
The Crane Express          How the Mole became
Little Black Sambo               Blind
The Lantern and the Fan    How Fire was brought to
Why the Bear has a Short         the Indians
    Tail                   Echo
Why the Fox has a White    Piccola
    Tip to his Tail        The Story of the Morning-
Why the Wren flies low        Glory Seed
Jack and the Beanstalk     The Discontented Pine
The Talkative Tortoise        Tree
Fleet Wing and Sweet Voice The Bag of Winds
The Golden Fleece          The Foolish Weather-Vane
The Little Boy who wanted  The Shut-up Posy
   the Moon                Pandora's Box
Benjy in Beastland         The Little Match Girl
Tomtit's Peep at the World

FOURTH GRADE
Arachne                       The First Snowdrop
The Porcelain Stove           The Three Golden Apples
Moufflou                      Androclus and the Lion
Clytie                        The Old Man and his
The Legend of the Trailing       Donkey
   Arbutus                     The Leak in the Dike
Latona and the Frogs           King Tawny Mane
Dick Whittington and his       The Little Lame Prince
   Cat                         Appleseed John
Dora, the Little Girl of the   Narcissus
   Lighthouse                  Why the Sea is Salt
Proserpine                     The Little Hero of Haarlem
The Miraculous Pitcher
The Bell of Justice



STORY-TELLING IN TEACHING ENGLISH

I have to speak now of a phase of
elementary education which lies very close to
my warmest interest, which, indeed, could
easily become an active hobby if other
interests did not beneficently tug at my skirts
when I am minded to mount and ride too
wildly.  It is the hobby of many of you who
are teachers, also, and I know you want to
hear it discussed.  I mean the growing
effort to teach English and English literature
to children in the natural way: by speaking
and hearing,--orally.

We are coming to a realization of the fact
that our ability, as a people, to use English
is pitifully inadequate and perverted.  Those
Americans who are not blinded by a limited
horizon of cultured acquaintance, and who
have given themselves opportunity to hear
the natural speech of the younger generation
in varying sections of the United States,
must admit that it is no exaggeration to say
that this country at large has no standard
of English speech.  There is no general
sense of responsibility to our mother tongue
(indeed, it is in an overwhelming degree
not our mother tongue) and no general
appreciation of its beauty or meaning.  The
average young person in every district save
a half-dozen jealously guarded little
precincts of good taste, uses inexpressive, ill-
bred words, spoken without regard to their
just sound-effects, and in a voice which is an
injury to the ear of the mind, as well as a
torment to the physical ear.

The structure of the language and the
choice of words are dark matters to most of
our young Americans; this has long been
acknowledged and struggled against.  But
even darker, and quite equally destructive
to English expression, is their state of mind
regarding pronunciation, enunciation, and
voice.  It is the essential connection of these
elements with English speech that we have
been so slow to realize.  We have felt that
they were externals, desirable but not necessary
adjuncts,--pretty tags of an exceptional
gift or culture.  Many an intelligent
school director to-day will say, "I don't care
much about HOW you say a thing; it is WHAT
you say that counts."  He cannot see that
voice and enunciation and pronunciation
are essentials.  But they are.  You can no
more help affecting the meaning of your
words by the way you say them than you
can prevent the expressions of your face
from carrying a message; the message may
be perverted by an uncouth habit, but it
will no less surely insist on recognition.

The fact is that speech is a method
of carrying ideas from one human soul to
another, by way of the ear.  And these
ideas are very complex.  They are not
unmixed emanations of pure intellect,
transmitted to pure intellect: they are
compounded of emotions, thoughts, fancies, and
are enhanced or impeded in transmission
by the use of word-symbols which have
acquired, by association, infinite complexities
in themselves.  The mood of the moment,
the especial weight of a turn of
thought, the desire of the speaker to share
his exact soul-concept with you,--these
seek far more subtle means than the mere
rendering of certain vocal signs; they
demand such variations and delicate
adjustments of sound as will inevitably affect the
listening mind with the response desired.

There is no "what" without the "how"
in speech.  The same written sentence
becomes two diametrically opposite ideas,
given opposing inflection and accompanying
voice-effect.  "He stood in the front
rank of the battle" can be made praiseful
affirmation, scornful skepticism, or simple
question, by a simple varying of voice and
inflection.  This is the more unmistakable
way in which the "how" affects the "what."
Just as true is the less obvious fact.  The
same written sentiment, spoken by Wendell
Phillips and by a man from the Bowery
or an uneducated ranchman, is not the
same to the listener.  In one case the sentiment
comes to the mind's ear with certain
completing and enhancing qualities of
sound which give it accuracy and poignancy.
The words themselves retain all
their possible suggestiveness in the speaker's
just and clear enunciation, and have a
borrowed beauty, besides, from the
associations of fine habit betrayed in the voice
and manner of speech.  And, further, the
immense personal equation shows itself in
the beauty and power of the vocal expressiveness,
which carries shades of meaning,
unguessed delicacies of emotion, intimations
of beauty, to every ear.  In the other
case, the thought is clouded by unavoidable
suggestions of ignorance and ugliness,
brought by the pronunciation and voice,
even to an unanalytical ear; the meaning is
obscured by inaccurate inflection and
uncertain or corrupt enunciation; but, worst
of all, the personal atmosphere, the aroma,
of the idea has been lost in transmission
through a clumsy, ill-fitted medium.

The thing said may look the same on a
printed page, but it is not the same when
spoken.  And it is the spoken sentence
which is the original and the usual mode
of communication.

The widespread poverty of expression in
English, which is thus a matter of "how,"
and to which we are awakening, must be
corrected chiefly, at least at first, by the
common schools.  The home is the ideal
place for it, but the average home of the
United States is no longer a possible place
for it.  The child of foreign parents, the
child of parents little educated and bred in
limited circumstances, the child of powerful
provincial influences, must all depend
on the school for standards of English.

And it is the elementary school which
must meet the need, if it is to be met at all.
For the conception of English expression
which I am talking of can find no mode of
instruction adequate to its meaning, save
in constant appeal to the ear, at an age so
early that unconscious habit is formed.  No
rules, no analytical instruction in later
development, can accomplish what is needed.
Hearing and speaking; imitating, unwittingly
and wittingly, a good model; it is to
this method we must look for redemption
from present conditions.

I believe we are on the eve of a real
revolution in English teaching,--only it is a
revolution which will not break the peace.
The new way will leave an overwhelming
preponderance of oral methods in use up to
the fifth or sixth grade, and will introduce
a larger proportion of oral work than has
ever been contemplated in grammar and
high school work.  It will recognize the fact
that English is primarily something spoken
with the mouth and heard with the ear.
And this recognition will have greatest
weight in the systems of elementary teaching.

It is as an aid in oral teaching of English
that story-telling in school finds its second
value; ethics is the first ground of its
usefulness, English the second,--and after
these, the others.  It is, too, for the oral uses
that the secondary forms of story-telling
are so available.  By secondary I mean
those devices which I have tried to indicate,
as used by many American teachers, in the
chapter on "Specific Schoolroom Uses,"
in my earlier book.  They are re-telling,
dramatization, and forms of seat-work.
All of these are a great power in the hands
of a wise teacher.  If combined with much
attention to voice and enunciation in the
recital of poetry, and with much good reading
aloud BY THE TEACHER, they will go far
toward setting a standard and developing
good habit.

But their provinces must not be
confused or overestimated.  I trust I may be
pardoned for offering a caution or two
to the enthusiastic advocate of these
methods,--cautions the need of which
has been forced upon me, in experience
with schools.

A teacher who uses the oral story as an
English feature with little children must
never lose sight of the fact that it is an aid
in unconscious development; not a factor
in studied, conscious improvement.  This
truth cannot be too strongly realized.
Other exercises, in sufficiency, give the
opportunity for regulated effort for definite
results, but the story is one of the play-
forces.  Its use in English teaching is most
valuable when the teacher has a keen
appreciation of the natural order of growth in
the art of expression: that art requires, as
the old rhetorics used often to put it, "a
natural facility, succeeded by an acquired
difficulty."  In other words, the power of
expression depends, first, on something
more fundamental than the art-element;
the basis of it is something to say,
ACCOMPANIED BY AN URGENT DESIRE TO SAY IT, and
YIELDED TO WITH FREEDOM; only after this
stage is reached can the art-phase be of
any use.  The "why" and "how," the
analytical and constructive phases, have no
natural place in this first vital epoch.

Precisely here, however, does the
dramatizing of stories and the paper-cutting, etc.,
become useful.  A fine and thoughtful principal
of a great school asked me, recently,
with real concern, about the growing use of
such devices.  He said, "Paper-cutting is
good, but what has it to do with English?"
And then he added:  "The children use
abominable language when they play the
stories; can that directly aid them to speak
good English?"  His observation was close
and correct, and his conservatism more
valuable than the enthusiasm of some of
his colleagues who have advocated sweeping
use of the supplementary work.  But
his point of view ignored the basis of
expression, which is to my mind so important.
Paper-cutting is external to English,
of course.  Its only connection is in its
power to correlate different forms of
expression, and to react on speech-expression
through sense-stimulus.  But playing the
story is a closer relative to English than
this.  It helps, amazingly, in giving the
"something to say, the urgent desire to say
it," and the freedom in trying.  Never mind
the crudities,--at least, at the time; work
only for joyous freedom, inventiveness,
and natural forms of reproduction of the
ideas given.  Look for very gradual changes
in speech, through the permeating power
of imitation, but do not forget that this is
the stage of expression which inevitably
precedes art.

All this will mean that no corrections are
made, except in flagrant cases of slang or
grammar, though all bad slips are mentally
noted, for introduction at a more favorable
time.  It will mean that the teacher
will respect the continuity of thought and
interest as completely as she would wish an
audience to respect her occasional prosy
periods if she were reading a report.  She
will remember, of course that she is not
training actors for amateur theatricals,
however tempting her show-material may be;
she is simply letting the children play with
expression, just as a gymnasium teacher
introduces muscular play,--for power
through relaxation.

When the time comes that the actors lose
their unconsciousness it is the end of the
story-play.  Drilled work, the beginning of
the art, is then the necessity.

I have indicated that the children may be
left undisturbed in their crudities and
occasional absurdities.  The teacher, on the
other hand, must avoid, with great judgment,
certain absurdities which can easily
be initiated by her.  The first direful
possibility is in the choice of material.  It is
very desirable that children should not be
allowed to dramatize stories of a kind so
poetic, so delicate, or so potentially valuable
that the material is in danger of losing
future beauty to the pupils through its present
crude handling.  Mother Goose is a
hardy old lady, and will not suffer from the
grasp of the seven-year-old; and the familiar
fables and tales of the "Goldilocks"
variety have a firmness of surface which
does not let the glamour rub off; but
stories in which there is a hint of the beauty
just beyond the palpable--or of a dignity
suggestive of developed literature--are
sorely hurt in their metamorphosis, and
should be protected from it.  They are for
telling only.

Another point on which it is necessary to
exercise reserve is in the degree to which
any story can be acted.  In the justifiable
desire to bring a large number of children
into the action one must not lose sight of
the sanity and propriety of the presentation.
For example, one must not make a ridiculous
caricature, where a picture, however
crude, is the intention.  Personally represent
only such things as are definitely and
dramatically personified in the story.  If a
natural force, the wind, for example, is
represented as talking and acting like a
human being in the story, it can be imaged
by a person in the play; but if it remains a
part of the picture in the story, performing
only its natural motions, it is a caricature to
enact it as a role.  The most powerful
instance of a mistake of this kind which I have
ever seen will doubtless make my meaning
clear.  In playing a pretty story about
animals and children, some children in a
primary school were made by the teacher to
take the part of the sea.  In the story, the
sea was said to "beat upon the shore," as
a sea would, without doubt.  In the play,
the children were allowed to thump the
floor lustily, as a presentation of their
watery functions!  It was unconscionably
funny.  Fancy presenting even the crudest
image of the mighty sea, surging up on the
shore, by a row of infants squatted on the
floor and pounding with their fists!  Such
pitfalls can be avoided by the simple rule
of personifying only characters that actually
behave like human beings.

A caution which directly concerns the
art of story telling itself, must be added
here.  There is a definite distinction
between the arts of narration and dramatization
which must never be overlooked.  Do
not, yourself, half tell and half act the
story; and do not let the children do it.  It
is done in very good schools, sometimes,
because an enthusiasm for realistic and
lively presentation momentarily obscures
the faculty of discrimination.  A much
loved and respected teacher whom I
recently listened to, and who will laugh if she
recognizes her blunder here, offers a good
"bad example" in this particular.  She said
to an attentive audience of students that she
had at last, with much difficulty, brought
herself to the point where she could forget
herself in her story: where she could,
for instance, hop, like the fox, when she
told the story of the "sour grapes."  She
said, "It was hard at first, but now it is a
matter of course; AND THE CHILDREN DO IT TOO,
WHEN THEY TELL THE STORY."  That was the pity!
I saw the illustration myself a little later.
The child who played fox began with a
story: he said, "Once there was an old fox,
and he saw some grapes;" then the child
walked to the other side of the room, and
looked up at an imaginary vine, and said,
"He wanted some; he thought they would
taste good, so he jumped for them;" at
this point the child did jump, like his role;
then he continued with his story, "but he
couldn't get them."  And so he proceeded,
with a constant alternation of narrative and
dramatization which was enough to make
one dizzy.

The trouble in such work is, plainly, a
lack of discriminating analysis.  Telling a
story necessarily implies non-identification
of the teller with the event; he relates what
occurs or occurred, outside of his circle of
conciousness.  Acting a play necessarily
implies identification of the actor with the
event; he presents to you a picture of the
thing, in himself.  It is a difference wide
and clear, and the least failure to recognize
it confuses the audience and injures both
arts.

In the preceding instances of secondary
uses of story-telling I have come some
distance from the great point, the fundamental
point, of the power of imitation in
breeding good habit.  This power is less
noticeably active in the dramatizing than in
simple re-telling; in the listening and the re-
telling, it is dominant for good.  The child
imitates what he hears you say and sees
you do, and the way you say and do it, far
more closely in the story-hour than in any
lesson-period.  He is in a more absorbent
state, as it were, because there is no
preoccupation of effort.  Here is the great
opportunity of the cultured teacher; here is
the appalling opportunity of the careless or
ignorant teacher.  For the implications of
the oral theory of teaching English are evident,
concerning the immense importance
of the teacher's habit.  This is what it all
comes to ultimately; the teacher of young
children must be a person who can speak
English as it should be spoken,--purely,
clearly, pleasantly, and with force.

It is a hard ideal to live up to, but it is
a valuable ideal to try to live up to.  And
one of the best chances to work toward
attainment is in telling stories, for there you
have definite material, which you can work
into shape and practice on in private.
That practice ought to include conscious
thought as to one's general manner in the
schoolroom, and intelligent effort to understand
and improve one's own voice.  I hope
I shall not seem to assume the dignity of
an authority which no personal taste can
claim, if I beg a hearing for the following
elements of manner and voice, which appeal
to me as essential.  They will, probably,
appear self-evident to my readers, yet
they are often found wanting in the public
school-teacher; it is so much easier to say
"what were good to do" than to do it!

Three elements of manner seem to me
an essential adjunct to the personality of a
teacher of little children: courtesy, repose
vitality.  Repose and vitality explain themselves;
by courtesy I specifically do NOT
mean the habit of mind which contents
itself with drilling children in "Good-
mornings" and in hat-liftings.  I mean
the attitude of mind which recognizes in
the youngest, commonest child, the potential
dignity, majesty, and mystery of the
developed human soul.  Genuine reverence
for the humanity of the "other fellow"
marks a definite degree of courtesy in the
intercourse of adults, does it not?  And
the same quality of respect, tempered by
the demands of a wise control, is exactly
what is needed among children.  Again
and again, in dealing with young minds,
the teacher who respects personality as
sacred, no matter how embryonic it be,
wins the victories which count for true
education.  Yet, all too often, we forget the
claims of this reverence, in the presence
of the annoyances and the needed corrections.

As for voice: work in schoolrooms brings
two opposing mistakes constantly before
me: one is the repressed voice, and the
other, the forced.  The best way to avoid
either extreme, is to keep in mind that
the ideal is development of one's own
natural voice, along its own natural lines.
A "quiet, gentle voice" is conscientiously
aimed at by many young teachers, with so
great zeal that the tone becomes painfully
repressed, "breathy," and timid.  This is
quite as unpleasant as a loud voice, which
is, in turn, a frequent result of early
admonitions to "speak up."  Neither is natural.
It is wise to determine the natural volume
and pitch of one's speaking voice by a
number of tests, made when one is thoroughly
rested, at ease, and alone.  Find out
where your voice lies when it is left to
itself, under favorable conditions, by reading
something aloud or by listening to yourself
as you talk to an intimate friend.  Then
practise keeping it in that general range,
unless it prove to have a distinct fault, such
as a nervous sharpness, or hoarseness.  A
quiet voice is good; a hushed voice is
abnormal.  A clear tone is restful, but a loud
one is wearying.

Perhaps the common-sense way of setting
a standard for one's own voice is to
remember that the, purpose of a speaking
voice is to communicate with others; their
ears and minds are the receivers of our
tones.  For this purpose, evidently, a voice
should be, first of all, easy to hear; next,
pleasant to hear; next, susceptible of
sufficient variation to express a wide range of
meaning; and finally, indicative of personality.

Is it too quixotic to urge teachers who
tell stories to little children to bear these
thoughts, and better ones of their own,
in mind?  Not, I think, if it be fully
accepted that the story hour, as a play hour,
is a time peculiarly open to influences
affecting the imitative faculty; that this
faculty is especially valuable in forming
fine habits of speech; and that an increasingly
high and general standard of English
speech is one of our greatest needs
and our most instant opportunities in the
American schools of to-day.

And now we come to the stories!



STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN

TWO LITTLE RIDDLES IN RHYME[1]

[1]  These riddles were taken from the Gaelic, and are charming
examples of the naive beauty of the old Irish, and of Dr.
Hyde's accurate and sympathetic modern rendering.  From
"Beside the Fire" (David Nutt, London).

There's a garden that I ken,
Full of little gentlemen;
Little caps of blue they wear,
And green ribbons, very fair.
(Flax.)

From house to house he goes,
A messenger small and slight,
And whether it rains or snows,
He sleeps outside in the night.
(The path.)



THE LITTLE PINK ROSE


Once there was a little pink Rosebud,
and she lived down in a little dark house
under the ground.  One day she was sitting
there, all by herself, and it was very
still.  Suddenly, she heard a little TAP, TAP,
TAP, at the door.

"Who is that?" she said.

"It's the Rain, and I want to come in;"
said a soft, sad, little voice.

"No, you can't come in," the little Rosebud said.

By and by she heard another little TAP,
TAP, TAP on the window pane.

"Who is there?" she said.

The same soft little voice answered,
"It's the Rain, and I want to come in!"

"No, you can't come in," said the little
Rosebud.

Then it was very still for a long time.  At
last, there came a little rustling, whispering
sound, all round the window: RUSTLE,
WHISPER, WHISPER.

"Who is there?" said the little Rosebud.

"It's the Sunshine," said a little, soft,
cheery voice, "and I want to come in!"

"N--no," said the little pink rose, "you
can't come in."  And she sat still again.

Pretty soon she heard the sweet little
rustling noise at the key-hole.

"Who is there?" she said.

"It's the Sunshine," said the cheery
little voice, "and I want to come in, I
want to come in!"

"No, no," said the little pink rose,
"you cannot come in."

By and by, as she sat so still, she heard
TAP, TAP, TAP, and RUSTLE, WHISPER, RUSTLE,
all up and down the window pane, and
on the door, and at the key-hole.

"WHO IS THERE?" she said.

"It's the Rain and the Sun, the Rain
and the Sun," said two little voices,
together, "and we want to come in!  We
want to come in!  We want to come in!"

"Dear, dear!" said the little Rosebud,
"if there are two of you, I s'pose I shall
have to let you in."

So she opened the door a little wee
crack, and in they came.  And one took
one of her little hands, and the other
took her other little hand, and they ran,
ran, ran with her, right up to the top of
the ground.  Then they said,--

"Poke your head through!"

So she poked her head through; and she
was in the midst of a beautiful garden.
It was springtime, and all the other flowers
had their heads poked through; and
she was the prettiest little pink rose in the
whole garden!


THE COCK-A-DOO-DLE-DOO[1]

[1] From "The Ignominy of being Grown Up," by Dr. Samuel
M. Crothers, in the Atlantic Monthly for July, 1906.


A very little boy made this story up
"out of his head," and told it to his papa
I think you littlest ones will like it; I do.

Once upon a time there was a little boy,
and he wanted to be a cock-a-doo-dle-doo
So he was a cock-a-doo-dle-doo.  And
he wanted to fly up into the sky.  So he
did fly up into the sky.  And he wanted
to get wings and a tail.  So he did get
some wings and a tail.



THE CLOUD[2]

[2] Adapted from the German of Robert Reinick's Maarchen,
Lieder-und Geschichtenbuch (Velhagen und Klasing, Bielefeld
and Leipsic).


One hot summer morning a little Cloud
rose out of the sea and floated lightly
and happily across the blue sky.  Far
below lay the earth, brown, dry, and
desolate, from drouth.  The little Cloud
could see the poor people of the earth
working and suffering in the hot fields,
while she herself floated on the morning
breeze, hither and thither, without a care.

"Oh, if I could only help the poor
people down there!" she thought.  "If I could
but make their work easier, or give the
hungry ones food, or the thirsty a drink!"

And as the day passed, and the Cloud
became larger, this wish to do something
for the people of earth was ever greater in
her heart.

On earth it grew hotter and hotter; the
sun burned down so fiercely that the people
were fainting in its rays; it seemed as if
they must die of heat, and yet they were
obliged to go on with their work, for they
were very poor.  Sometimes they stood and
looked up at the Cloud, as if they were
praying, and saying, "Ah, if you could
help us!"

"I will help you; I will!" said the Cloud.
And she began to sink softly down toward
the earth.

But suddenly, as she floated down, she
remembered something which had been
told her when she was a tiny Cloud-child,
in the lap of Mother Ocean: it had been
whispered that if the Clouds go too near
the earth they die.  When she remembered
this she held herself from sinking, and
swayed here and there on the breeze,
thinking,--thinking.  But at last she stood
quite still, and spoke boldly and proudly.
She said, "Men of earth, I will help you,
come what may!"

The thought made her suddenly marvelously
big and strong and powerful.  Never
had she dreamed that she could be so big.
Like a mighty angel of blessing she stood
above the earth, and lifted her head and
spread her wings far over the fields and
woods.  She was so great, so majestic, that
men and animals were awe-struck at the
sight; the trees and the grasses bowed
before her; yet all the earth-creatures felt that
she meant them well.

"Yes, I will help you," cried the Cloud
once more.  "Take me to yourselves; I will
give my life for you!"

As she said the words a wonderful light
glowed from her heart, the sound of thunder
rolled through the sky, and a love greater
than words can tell filled the Cloud; down,
down, close to the earth she swept, and gave
up her life in a blessed, healing shower of
rain.

That rain was the Cloud's great deed;
it was her death, too; but it was also her
glory.  Over the whole country-side, as far
as the rain fell, a lovely rainbow sprang its
arch, and all the brightest rays of heaven
made its colors; it was the last greeting of
a love so great that it sacrificed itself.

Soon that, too, was gone, but long, long
afterward the men and animals who were
saved by the Cloud kept her blessing in
their hearts.



THE LITTLE RED HEN


The little Red Hen was in the farmyard
with her chickens, when she found a grain
of wheat.

"Who will plant this wheat?" she said.

"Not I," said the Goose.

"Not I," said the Duck.

"I will, then," said the little Red Hen,
and she planted the grain of wheat.

When the wheat was ripe she said, "Who
will take this wheat to the mill?"

"Not I," said the Goose.

"Not I," said the Duck.

"I will, then," said the little Red Hen,
and she took the wheat to the mill.

When she brought the flour home she
said, "Who will make some bread with
this flour?"

"Not I," said the Goose.

"Not I," said the Duck.

"I will, then," said the little Red Hen.

When the bread was baked, she said,
"Who will eat this bread?"

"I will," said the Goose

"I will," said the Duck

"No, you won't," said the little Red Hen.
"I shall eat it myself.  Cluck! cluck!"  And
she called her chickens to help her.


THE GINGERBREAD MAN[1]

[1] I have tried to give this story in the most familiar form; it
varies a good deal in the hands of different story-tellers, but
this is substantially the version I was "brought up on."  The
form of the ending was suggested to me by the story in Carolyn
Bailey's For the Children's Hour (Milton Bradley Co.).


Once upon a time there was a little old
woman and a little old man, and they
lived all alone in a little old house.  They
hadn't any little girls or any little boys,
at all.  So one day, the little old woman
made a boy out of gingerbread; she made
him a chocolate jacket, and put cinnamon
seeds in it for buttons; his eyes were made
of fine, fat currants; his mouth was made
of rose-colored sugar; and he had a gay
little cap of orange sugar-candy.  When
the little old woman had rolled him out,
and dressed him up, and pinched his
gingerbread shoes into shape, she put him in
a pan; then she put the pan in the oven
and shut the door; and she thought, "Now
I shall have a little boy of my own."

When it was time for the Gingerbread
Boy to be done she opened the oven door
and pulled out the pan.  Out jumped the
little Gingerbread Boy on to the floor, and
away he ran, out of the door and down the
street!  The little old woman and the little
old man ran after him as fast as they could,
but he just laughed, and shouted,--

"Run! run! as fast as you can!

"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"

And they couldn't catch him.

The little Gingerbread Boy ran on and
on, until he came to a cow, by the roadside.
"Stop, little Gingerbread Boy," said
the cow; "I want to eat you."  The little
Gingerbread Boy laughed, and said,--

"I have run away from a little old woman,

"And a little old man,

"And I can run away from you, I can!"

And, as the cow chased him, he looked
over his shoulder and cried,--

"Run! run! as fast as you can!

"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"

And the cow couldn't catch him.

The little Gingerbread Boy ran on, and
on, and on, till he came to a horse, in
the pasture.  "Please stop, little Gingerbread
Boy," said the horse, "you look very
good to eat."  But the little Gingerbread
Boy laughed out loud.  "Oho! oho!" he
said,--

"I have run away from a little old woman,

"A little old man,

"A cow,

"And I can run away from you, I can!"

And, as the horse chased him, he looked
over his shoulder and cried,--

"Run! run! as fast as you can!

"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"

And the horse couldn't catch him.

By and by the little Gingerbread Boy
came to a barn full of threshers.  When
the threshers smelled the Gingerbread Boy,
they tried to pick him up, and said, "Don't
run so fast, little Gingerbread Boy; you
look very good to eat."  But the little
Gingerbread Boy ran harder than ever, and as
he ran he cried out,--

"I have run away from a little old woman,

"A little old man,

"A cow,

"A horse,

"And I can run away from you, I can!"

And when he found that he was ahead
of the threshers, he turned and shouted
back to them,--

"Run! run! as fast as you can!

"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"

And the threshers couldn't catch him.

Then the little Gingerbread Boy ran
faster than ever.  He ran and ran until he
came to a field full of mowers.  When the
mowers saw how fine he looked, they ran
after him, calling out, "Wait a bit! wait a
bit, little Gingerbread Boy, we wish to eat
you!"  But the little Gingerbread Boy
laughed harder than ever, and ran like the
wind.  "Oho! oho!" he said,--

"I have run away from a little old woman,

"A little old man,

"A cow,

"A horse,

"A barn full of threshers,

"And I can run away from you, I can!"

And when he found that he was ahead
of the mowers, he turned and shouted
back to them,--

"Run! run! as fast as you can!

"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"

And the mowers couldn't catch him.

By this time the little Gingerbread Boy
was so proud that he didn't think anybody
could catch him.  Pretty soon he saw a
fox coming across a field.  The fox looked
at him and began to run.  But the little
Gingerbread Boy shouted across to him,
"You can't catch me!"  The fox began to
run faster, and the little Gingerbread Boy
ran faster, and as he ran he chuckled,--

"I have run away from a little old woman,

"A little old man,

"A cow,

"A horse,

"A barn full of threshers,

"A field full of mowers,

"And I can run away from you, I can!

"Run! run! as fast as you can!

"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"

"Why," said the fox, "I would not catch
you if I could.  I would not think of
disturbing you."

Just then, the little Gingerbread Boy
came to a river.  He could not swim across,
and he wanted to keep running away from
the cow and the horse and the people.

"Jump on my tail, and I will take you
across," said the fox.

So the little Gingerbread Boy jumped on
the fox's tail, and the fox swam into the
river.  When he was a little way from shore
he turned his head, and said, "You are too
heavy on my tail, little Gingerbread Boy,
I fear I shall let you get wet; jump on my
back."

The little Gingerbread Boy jumped on
his back.

A little farther out, the fox said, "I am
afraid the water will cover you, there; jump
on my shoulder."

The little Gingerbread Boy jumped on
his shoulder.

In the middle of the stream the fox said,
"Oh, dear! little Gingerbread Boy, my
shoulder is sinking; jump on my nose,
and I can hold you out of water."

So the little Gingerbread Boy jumped
on his nose.

The minute the fox got on shore he
threw back his head, and gave a snap!

"Dear me!" said the little Gingerbread
Boy, "I am a quarter gone!"  The next
minute he said, "Why, I am half gone!"
The next minute he said, "My goodness
gracious, I am three quarters gone!"

And after that, the little Gingerbread
Boy never said anything more at all.



THE LITTLE JACKALS AND THE LION[1]

[1] The four stories of the little Jackal, in this book, are
adapted from stories in Old Deccan Days, a collection of orally
transmitted Hindu folk tales, which every teacher would gain by
knowing.  In the Hindu animal legends the Jackal seems to
play the role assigned in Germanic lore to Reynard the Fox,
and to "Bre'r Rabbit" in the stories of our Southern negroes:
he is the clever and humorous trickster who comes out of every
encounter with a whole skin, and turns the laugh on every
enemy, however mighty.


Once there was a great big jungle; and in
the jungle there was a great big Lion; and
the Lion was king of the jungle.  Whenever
he wanted anything to eat, all he had to
do was to come up out of his cave in the
stones and earth and ROAR.  When he had
roared a few times all the little people of
the jungle were so frightened that they
came out of their holes and hiding-places
and ran, this way and that, to get away.
Then, of course, the Lion could see where
they were.  And he pounced on them,
killed them, and gobbled them up.

He did this so often that at last there
was not a single thing left alive in the jungle
besides the Lion, except two little Jackals,
--a little father Jackal and a little mother
Jackal.

They had run away so many times that
they were quite thin and very tired, and
they could not run so fast any more.  And
one day the Lion was so near that the little
mother Jackal grew frightened; she said,--

"Oh, Father Jackal, Father Jackal! I
b'lieve our time has come! the Lion will
surely catch us this time!"

"Pooh! nonsense, mother!" said the
little father Jackal.  "Come, we'll run on
a bit!"

And they ran, ran, ran very fast, and the
Lion did not catch them that time.

But at last a day came when the Lion
was nearer still and the little mother Jackal
was frightened about to death.

"Oh, Father Jackal, Father Jackal!"
she cried; "I'm sure our time has come!
The Lion's going to eat us this time!"

"Now, mother, don't you fret," said the
little father Jackal; "you do just as I tell
you, and it will be all right."

Then what did those cunning little Jackals
do but take hold of hands and run up
towards the Lion, as if they had meant
to come all the time.  When he saw them
coming he stood up, and roared in a terrible
voice,--

"You miserable little wretches, come
here and be eaten, at once!  Why didn't
you come before?"

The father Jackal bowed very low.

"Indeed, Father Lion," he said, "we
meant to come before; we knew we ought
to come before; and we wanted to come
before; but every time we started to come,
a dreadful great lion came out of the woods
and roared at us, and frightened us so that
we ran away."

"What do you mean?" roared the Lion.
"There's no other lion in this jungle, and
you know it!"

"Indeed, indeed, Father Lion," said the
little Jackal, "I know that is what everybody
thinks; but indeed and indeed there
is another lion!  And he is as much bigger
than you as you are bigger than I!  His face
is much more terrible, and his roar far, far
more dreadful.  Oh, he is far more fearful
than you!"

At that the Lion stood up and roared so
that the jungle shook.

"Take me to this lion," he said; "I'll
eat him up and then I'll eat you up."

The little Jackals danced on ahead, and
the Lion stalked behind.  They led him to
a place where there was a round, deep well
of clear water.  They went round on one
side of it, and the Lion stalked up to the
other.

"He lives down there, Father Lion!"
said the little Jackal.  "He lives down
there!"

The Lion came close and looked down
into the water,--and a lion's face looked
back at him out of the water!

When he saw that, the Lion roared and
shook his mane and showed his teeth.  And
the lion in the water shook his mane and
showed his teeth.  The Lion above shook
his mane again and growled again, and
made a terrible face.  But the lion in the
water made just as terrible a one, back.
The Lion above couldn't stand that.  He
leaped down into the well after the other
lion.

But, of course, as you know very well,
there wasn't any other lion!  It was only
the reflection in the water!

So the poor old Lion floundered about
and floundered about, and as he couldn't
get up the steep sides of the well, he was
drowned dead.  And when he was drowned
the little Jackals took hold of hands and
danced round the well, and sang,--

"The Lion is dead! The Lion is dead!

"We have killed the great Lion who
would have killed us!

"The Lion is dead!  The Lion is dead!

"Ao! Ao! Ao!"



THE COUNTRY MOUSE AND THE CITY MOUSE[1]

[1] The following story of the two mice, with the similar fables
of The Boy who cried Wolf, The Frog King, and The Sun and
the Wind, are given here with the hope that they may be of use
to the many teachers who find the over-familiar material of the
fables difficult to adapt, and who are yet aware of the great
usefulness of the stories to young minds.  A certain degree of
vividness and amplitude must be added to the compact statement
of the famous collections, and yet it is not wise to change the
style-effect of a fable, wholly.  I venture to give these
versions, not as perfect models, surely, but as renderings which
have been acceptable to children, and which I believe retain the
original point simply and strongly.


Once a little mouse who lived in the
country invited a little Mouse from the city
to visit him.  When the little City Mouse
sat down to dinner he was surprised to find
that the Country Mouse had nothing to eat
except barley and grain.

"Really," he said, "you do not live well
at all; you should see how I live!  I have all
sorts of fine things to eat every day.  You
must come to visit me and see how nice it
is to live in the city."

The little Country Mouse was glad to do
this, and after a while he went to the city
to visit his friend.

The very first place that the City Mouse
took the Country Mouse to see was the
kitchen cupboard of the house where he
lived.  There, on the lowest shelf, behind
some stone jars, stood a big paper bag
of brown sugar.  The little City Mouse
gnawed a hole in the bag and invited his
friend to nibble for himself.

The two little mice nibbled and nibbled,
and the Country Mouse thought he
had never tasted anything so delicious in
his life.  He was just thinking how lucky
the City Mouse was, when suddenly the
door opened with a bang, and in came the
cook to get some flour.

"Run!" whispered the City Mouse.
And they ran as fast as they could to the
little hole where they had come in.  The
little Country Mouse was shaking all over
when they got safely away, but the little
City Mouse said, "That is nothing; she will
soon go away and then we can go back."

After the cook had gone away and shut
the door they stole softly back, and this
time the City Mouse had something new
to show: he took the little Country Mouse
into a corner on the top shelf, where a
big jar of dried prunes stood open.  After
much tugging and pulling they got a large
dried prune out of the jar on to the shelf
and began to nibble at it.  This was even
better than the brown sugar.  The little
Country Mouse liked the taste so much
that he could hardly nibble fast enough.
But all at once, in the midst of their eating,
there came a scratching at the door and a
sharp, loud MIAOUW!

"What is that?" said the Country
Mouse.  The City Mouse just whispered,
"Sh!" and ran as fast as he could to the
hole.  The Country Mouse ran after, you
may be sure, as fast as HE could.  As soon
as they were out of danger the City Mouse
said, "That was the old Cat; she is the
best mouser in town,--if she once gets
you, you are lost."

"This is very terrible," said the little
Country Mouse; "let us not go back to the
cupboard again."

"No," said the City Mouse, "I will take
you to the cellar; there is something especial
there."

So the City Mouse took his little friend
down the cellar stairs and into a big cupboard
where there were many shelves.  On
the shelves were jars of butter, and cheeses
in bags and out of bags.  Overhead hung
bunches of sausages, and there were spicy
apples in barrels standing about.  It
smelled so good that it went to the little
Country Mouse's head.  He ran along the
shelf and nibbled at a cheese here, and a
bit of butter there, until he saw an especially
rich, very delicious-smelling piece of
cheese on a queer little stand in a corner.
He was just on the point of putting his
teeth into the cheese when the City Mouse
saw him.

"Stop! stop!" cried the City Mouse.
"That is a trap!"

The little Country Mouse stopped and
said, "What is a trap?"

"That thing is a trap," said the little
City Mouse.  "The minute you touch the
cheese with your teeth something comes
down on your head hard, and you're dead."

The little Country Mouse looked at the
trap, and he looked at the cheese, and he
looked at the little City Mouse.  "If you'll
excuse me," he said, "I think I will go
home.  I'd rather have barley and grain
to eat and eat it in peace and comfort, than
have brown sugar and dried prunes and
cheese,--and be frightened to death all
the time!"

So the little Country Mouse went back
to his home, and there he stayed all the rest
of his life.



LITTLE JACK ROLLAROUND[1]

[1] Based on Theodor Storm's story of Der Kleine Hawelmanu
(George Westermann, Braunschweig).  Very freely adapted from
the German story.


Once upon a time there was a wee little
boy who slept in a tiny trundle-bed near
his mother's great bed.  The trundle-bed
had castors on it so that it could be rolled
about, and there was nothing in the world
the little boy liked so much as to have
it rolled.  When his mother came to bed
he would cry, "Roll me around! roll me
around!"  And his mother would put out
her hand from the big bed and push the
little bed back and forth till she was tired.
The little boy could never get enough; so
for this he was called "Little Jack Rollaround."

One night he had made his mother roll
him about, till she fell asleep, and even then
he kept crying, "Roll me around! roll me
around!"  His mother pushed him about
in her sleep, until she fell too soundly
aslumbering; then she stopped.  But Little
Jack Rollaround kept on crying, "Roll
around! roll around!"

By and by the Moon peeped in at the
window.  He saw a funny sight: Little
Jack Rollaround was lying in his trundle-
bed, and he had put up one little fat leg
for a mast, and fastened the corner of his
wee shirt to it for a sail, and he was blowing
at it with all his might, and saying,
"Roll around! roll around!"  Slowly,
slowly, the little trundle-bed boat began
to move; it sailed along the floor and up
the wall and across the ceiling and down
again!

"More! more!" cried Little Jack
Rollaround; and the little boat sailed faster up
the wall, across the ceiling, down the wall,
and over the floor.  The Moon laughed at
the sight; but when Little Jack Rollaround
saw the Moon, he called out, "Open the
door, old Moon! I want to roll through
the town, so that the people can see me!"

The Moon could not open the door, but
he shone in through the keyhole, in a broad
band.  And Little Jack Rollaround sailed
his trundle-bed boat up the beam, through
the keyhole, and into the street.

"Make a light, old Moon," he said; "I
want the people to see me!"

So the good Moon made a light and
went along with him, and the little trundle-
bed boat went sailing down the streets
into the main street of the village.  They
rolled past the town hall and the schoolhouse
and the church; but nobody saw
little Jack Rollaround, because everybody
was in bed, asleep.

"Why don't the people come to see me?"
he shouted.

High up on the church steeple, the
Weather-vane answered, "It is no time for
people to be in the streets; decent folk are
in their beds."

"Then I'll go to the woods, so that the
animals may see me," said Little Jack.
"Come along, old Moon, and make a
light!"

The good Moon went along and made
a light, and they came to the forest.  "Roll!
roll!" cried the little boy; and the trundle-
bed went trundling among the trees in the
great wood, scaring up the chipmunks and
startling the little leaves on the trees.  The
poor old Moon began to have a bad time
of it, for the tree-trunks got in his way so
that he could not go so fast as the bed, and
every time he got behind, the little boy
called, "Hurry up, old Moon, I want the
beasts to see me!"

But all the animals were asleep, and
nobody at all looked at Little Jack Rollaround
except an old White Owl; and all
she said was, "Who are you?"

The little boy did not like her, so he
blew harder, and the trundle-bed boat
went sailing through the forest till it came
to the end of the world.

"I must go home now; it is late," said
the Moon.

"I will go with you; make a path!" said
Little Jack Rollaround.

The kind Moon made a path up to the
sky, and up sailed the little bed into the
midst of the sky.  All the little bright Stars
were there with their nice little lamps.  And
when he saw them, that naughty Little
Jack Rollaround began to tease.  "Out of
the way, there!  I am coming!" he shouted,
and sailed the trundle-bed boat straight at
them.  He bumped the little Stars right
and left, all over the sky, until every one
of them put his little lamp out and left it
dark.

"Do not treat the little Stars so," said
the good Moon.

But Jack Rollaround only behaved the
worse:  "Get out of the way, old Moon!"
he shouted, "I am coming!"

And he steered the little trundle-bed
boat straight into the old Moon's face,
and bumped his nose!

This was too much for the good Moon;
he put out his big light, all at once, and
left the sky pitch-black.

"Make a light, old Moon!  Make a
light!" shouted the little boy.  But the
Moon answered never a word, and Jack
Rollaround could not see where to steer.
He went rolling criss-cross, up and down,
all over the sky, knocking into the planets
and stumbling into the clouds, till he did
not know where he was.

Suddenly he saw a big yellow light at
the very edge of the sky.  He thought it
was the Moon.  "Look out, I am coming!"
he cried, and steered for the light.

But it was not the kind old Moon at all;
it was the great mother Sun, just coming
up out of her home in the sea, to begin her
day's work.

"Aha, youngster, what are you doing
in my sky?" she said.  And she picked
Little Jack Rollaround up and threw him,
trundle-bed boat and all, into the middle
of the sea!

And I suppose he is there yet, unless
somebody picked him out again.


HOW BROTHER RABBIT FOOLED THE WHALE AND THE ELEPHANT[1]

[1] Adapted from two tales included in the records of the
American Folk-Lore Society.


One day little Brother Rabbit was running
along on the sand, lippety, lippety,
when he saw the Whale and the Elephant
talking together.  Little Brother Rabbit
crouched down and listened to what they
were saying.  This was what they were saying:--

"You are the biggest thing on the land,
Brother Elephant," said the Whale, "and
I am the biggest thing in the sea; if we join
together we can rule all the animals in the
world, and have our way about everything."

"Very good, very good," trumpeted the
Elephant; "that suits me; we will do it."

Little Brother Rabbit snickered to
himself.  "They won't rule me," he said.  He
ran away and got a very long, very strong
rope, and he got his big drum, and hid the
drum a long way off in the bushes.  Then
he went along the beach till he came to the
Whale.

"Oh, please, dear, strong Mr. Whale,"
he said, "will you have the great kindness
to do me a favor?  My cow is stuck in the
mud, a quarter of a mile from here.  And
I can't pull her out.  But you are so strong
and so obliging, that I venture to trust you
will help me out."

The Whale was so pleased with the compliment
that he said, "Yes," at once.

"Then," said the Rabbit, "I will tie this
end of my long rope to you, and I will run
away and tie the other end round my cow,
and when I am ready I will beat my big
drum.  When you hear that, pull very, very
hard, for the cow is stuck very deep in the
mud."

"Huh!" grunted the Whale, "I'll pull
her out, if she is stuck to the horns."

Little Brother Rabbit tied the rope-end
to the whale, and ran off, lippety, lippety,
till he came to the place where the Elephant was.

"Oh, please, mighty and kindly Elephant,"
he said, making a very low bow
"will you do me a favor?"

"What is it?" asked the Elephant.

"My cow is stuck in the mud, about a
quarter of a mile from here," said little
Brother Rabbit, "and I cannot pull her
out.  Of course you could.  If you will be
so very obliging as to help me--"

"Certainly," said the Elephant grandly,
"certainly."

"Then," said little Brother Rabbit, "I
will tie one end of this long rope to your
trunk, and the other to my cow, and as
soon as I have tied her tightly I will beat
my big drum.  When you hear that, pull;
pull as hard as you can, for my cow is very
heavy."

"Never fear," said the Elephant, "I
could pull twenty cows."

"I am sure you could," said the Rabbit,
politely, "only be sure to begin gently, and
pull harder and harder till you get her."

Then he tied the end of the rope tightly
round the Elephant's trunk, and ran away
into the bushes.  There he sat down and
beat the big drum.

The Whale began to pull, and the Elephant
began to pull, and in a jiffy the rope
tightened till it was stretched as hard as
could be.

"This is a remarkably heavy cow," said
the Elephant; "but I'll fetch her!"  And
he braced his forefeet in the earth, and gave
a tremendous pull.

"Dear me!" said the Whale.  "That
cow must be stuck mighty tight;" and he
drove his tail deep in the water, and gave
a marvelous pull.

He pulled harder; the Elephant pulled
harder.  Pretty soon the Whale found
himself sliding toward the land.  The
reason was, of course, that the Elephant
had something solid to brace against,
and, too, as fast as he pulled the rope in
a little, he took a turn with it round his
trunk!

But when the Whale found himself
sliding toward the land he was so provoked
with the cow that he dove head first,
down to the bottom of the sea.  That was
a pull!  The Elephant was jerked off his
feet, and came slipping and sliding to the
beach, and into the surf.  He was terribly
angry.  He braced himself with all his
might, and pulled his best.  At the jerk, up
came the Whale out of the water.

"Who is pulling me?" spouted the Whale.

"Who is pulling me?" trumpeted the Elephant.

And then each saw the rope in the other's hold.

"I'll teach you to play cow!" roared the Elephant.

"I'll show you how to fool me!" fumed
the Whale.  And they began to pull again.
But this time the rope broke, the Whale
turned a somersault, and the Elephant fell
over backwards.

At that, they were both so ashamed that
neither would speak to the other.  So that
broke up the bargain between them.

And little Brother Rabbit sat in the bushes
and laughed, and laughed, and laughed.



THE LITTLE HALF-CHICK


There was once upon a time a Spanish
Hen, who hatched out some nice little
chickens.  She was much pleased with their
looks as they came from the shell.  One,
two, three, came out plump and fluffy; but
when the fourth shell broke, out came a little
half-chick!  It had only one leg and one
wing and one eye!  It was just half a chicken.

The Hen-mother did not know what in
the world to do with the queer little Half-
Chick.  She was afraid something would
happen to it, and she tried hard to protect
it and keep it from harm.  But as soon as
it could walk the little Half-Chick showed
a most headstrong spirit, worse than any
of its brothers.  It would not mind, and it
would go wherever it wanted to; it walked
with a funny little hoppity-kick, hoppity-
kick, and got along pretty fast.

One day the little Half-Chick said,
"Mother, I am off to Madrid, to see the
King!  Good-by."

The poor Hen-mother did everything
she could think of, to keep him from doing
so foolish a thing, but the little Half-Chick
laughed at her naughtily.  "I'm for seeing
the King," he said; "this life is too quiet
for me."  And away he went, hoppity-kick,
hoppity-kick, over the fields.

When he had gone some distance the
little Half-Chick came to a little brook
that was caught in the weeds and in much
trouble.

"Little Half-Chick," whispered the
Water, "I am so choked with these weeds
that I cannot move; I am almost lost,
for want of room; please push the sticks
and weeds away with your bill and help
me."

"The idea!" said the little Half-Chick.
"I cannot be bothered with you; I am off
for Madrid, to see the King!"  And in spite
of the brook's begging he went away,
hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick.

A bit farther on, the Half-Chick came
to a Fire, which was smothered in damp
sticks and in great distress.

"Oh, little Half-Chick," said the Fire,
"you are just in time to save me.  I am
almost dead for want of air.  Fan me a
little with your wing, I beg."

"The idea!" said the little Half-Chick.
"I cannot be bothered with you; I am off
to Madrid, to see the King!"  And he
went laughing off, hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick.

When he had hoppity-kicked a good way,
and was near Madrid, he came to a clump
of bushes, where the Wind was caught
fast.  The Wind was whimpering, and begging
to be set free.

"Little Half-Chick," said the Wind, "you
are just in time to help me; if you will brush
aside these twigs and leaves, I can get my
breath; help me, quickly!"

"Ho! the idea!" said the little Half-
Chick.  "I have no time to bother with you.
I am going to Madrid, to see the King."
And he went off, hoppity-kick, hoppity-
kick, leaving the Wind to smother.

After a while he came to Madrid and
to the palace of the King.  Hoppity-kick,
hoppity-kick, the little Half-Chick skipped
past the sentry at the gate, and hoppity-
kick, hoppity-kick, he crossed the court.
But as he was passing the windows of the
kitchen the Cook looked out and saw him.

"The very thing for the King's dinner!"
she said.  "I was needing a chicken!"  And
she seized the little Half-Chick by his one
wing and threw him into a kettle of water
on the fire.

The Water came over the little Half-
Chick's feathers, over his head, into his
eye; It was terribly uncomfortable.  The
little Half-Chick cried out,--

"Water, don't drown me!  Stay down,
don't come so high!"

But the Water said, "Little Half-Chick,
little Half-Chick, when I was in trouble
you would not help me," and came higher
than ever.

Now the Water grew warm, hot, hotter,
frightfully hot; the little Half-Chick cried
out, "Do not burn so hot, Fire!  You are
burning me to death!  Stop!"

But the Fire said, "Little Half-Chick,
little Half-Chick, when I was in trouble
you would not help me," and burned hotter
than ever.

Just as the little Half-Chick thought he
must suffocate, the Cook took the cover
off, to look at the dinner.  "Dear me,"
she said, "this chicken is no good; it is
burned to a cinder."  And she picked the
little Half-Chick up by one leg and threw
him out of the window.

In the air he was caught by a breeze
and taken up higher than the trees.  Round
and round he was twirled till he was so
dizzy he thought he must perish.  "Don't
blow me so?  Wind," he cried, "let me
down!"

"Little Half-Chick, little Half-Chick,"
said the Wind, "when I was in trouble
you would not help me!"  And the Wind
blew him straight up to the top of the
church steeple, and stuck him there, fast!

There he stands to this day, with his one
eye, his one wing, and his one leg.  He
cannot hoppity-kick any more, but he turns
slowly round when the wind blows, and
keeps his head toward it, to hear what it
says.



THE LAMBIKIN[1]

[1] From Indian Fairy Tales.  By Joseph Jacobs (David Nutt).


Once upon a time there was a wee, wee
Lambikin, who frolicked about on his
little tottery legs, and enjoyed himself
amazingly.

Now one day he set off to visit his
Granny, and was jumping with joy to
think of all the good things he should get
from her, when whom should he meet but
a Jackal, who looked at the tender young
morsel and said, "Lambikin!  Lambikin!
I'll EAT YOU!"

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk
and said,--

 "To Granny's house I go,
 Where I shall fatter grow;
 Then you can eat me so."


The Jackal thought this reasonable,
and let Lambikin pass.

By and by he met a Vulture, and the
Vulture, looking hungrily at the tender
morsel before him, said, "Lambikin!
Lambikin!  I'll EAT YOU!"

But Lambikin only gave a little frisk,
and said,--

 "To Granny's house I go,
 Where I shall fatter grow;
 Then you can eat me so."


The Vulture thought this reasonable,
and let Lambikin pass.

And by and by he met a Tiger, and
then a Wolf and a Dog and an Eagle,
and all these, when they saw the tender
little morsel, said, "Lambikin!  Lambikin!
I'll EAT YOU!"

But to all of them Lambikin replied,
with a little frisk,--

 "To Granny's house I go,
 Where I shall fatter grow;
 Then you can eat me so."


At last he reached his Granny's house,
and said, all in a great hurry, "Granny,
dear, I've promised to get very fat; so, as
people ought to keep their promises, please
put me into the corn-bin AT ONCE."

So his Granny said he was a good boy,
and put him into the corn-bin, and there
the greedy little Lambikin stayed for seven
days, and ate, and ate, and ate, until he
could scarcely waddle, and his Granny
said he was fat enough for anything,
and must go home.  But cunning little
Lambikin said that would never do, for
some animal would be sure to eat him
on the way back, he was so plump and
tender.

"I'll tell you what you must do," said
Master Lambikin; "you must make a little
drumikin out of the skin of my little brother
who died, and then I can sit inside and
trundle along nicely, for I'm as tight as a
drum myself."

So his Granny made a nice little drumikin
out of his brother's skin, with the wool
inside, and Lambikin curled himself up
snug and warm in the middle and trundled
away gayly.  Soon he met with the
Eagle, who called out,--

 "Drumikin!  Drumikin!
 Have you seen Lambikin?"


And Mr.  Lambikin, curled up in his soft,
warm nest, replied,--

 "Fallen into the fire, and so will you
 On little Drumikin!  Tum-pa, tum-too!"


"How very annoying!" sighed the Eagle,
thinking regretfully of the tender morsel
he had let slip.

Meanwhile Lambikin trundled along,
laughing to himself, and singing,--

 "Tum-pa, tum-too;
 Tum-pa, tum-too!"


Every animal and bird he met asked him
the same question,--

 "Drumikin!  Drumikin!
 Have you seen Lambikin?"


And to each of them the little slyboots
replied,--

 "Fallen into the fire, and so will you
 On little Drumikin!  Tum-pa, tum-too!"
 Tum-pa, tum-too! tum-pa, tum-too!"


Then they all sighed to think of the tender
little morsel they had let slip.

At last the Jackal came limping along,
for all his sorry looks as sharp as a needle,
and he, too, called out,--

 "Drumikin!  Drumikin!
 Have you seen Lambikin?"


And Lambikin, curled up in his snug
little nest, replied gayly,--

 "Fallen into the fire, and so will you
 On little Drumikin!  Tum-pa--"


But he never got any further, for the
Jackal recognized his voice at once, and
cried, "Hullo! you've turned yourself
inside out, have you?  Just you come out
of that!"

Whereupon he tore open Drumikin and
gobbled up Lambikin.



THE BLACKBERRY-BUSH[1]

[1] From Celia Thaxter's Stories and Poems for Children.


A little boy sat at his mother's knees, by
the long western window, looking out into
the garden.  It was autumn, and the wind
was sad; and the golden elm leaves lay
scattered about among the grass, and on
the gravel path.  The mother was knitting
a little stocking; her fingers moved the
bright needles; but her eyes were fixed on
the clear evening sky.

As the darkness gathered, the wee boy
laid his head on her lap and kept so still
that, at last, she leaned forward to look
into his dear round face.  He was not
asleep, but was watching very earnestly a
blackberry-bush, that waved its one tall,
dark-red spray in the wind outside the
fence.

"What are you thinking about, my
darling?" she said, smoothing his soft,
honey-colored hair.

"The blackberry-bush, mamma; what
does it say?  It keeps nodding, nodding to
me behind the fence; what does it say,
mamma?"

"It says," she answered, `I see a happy
little boy in the warm, fire-lighted room.
The wind blows cold, and here it is dark
and lonely; but that little boy is warm
and happy and safe at his mother's knees.
I nod to him, and he looks at me.  I
wonder if he knows how happy he is!

"`See, all my leaves are dark crimson.
Every day they dry and wither more and
more; by and by they will be so weak they
can scarcely cling to my branches, and the
north wind will tear them all away, and
nobody will remember them any more.
Then the snow will sink down and wrap
me close.  Then the snow will melt again
and icy rain will clothe me, and the bitter
wind will rattle my bare twigs up and
down.

"`I nod my head to all who pass, and
dreary nights and dreary days go by; but
in the happy house, so warm and bright,
the little boy plays all day with books and
toys.  His mother and his father cherish
him; he nestles on their knees in the red
firelight at night, while they read to him
lovely stories, or sing sweet old songs to
him,--the happy little boy!  And outside
I peep over the snow and see a stream of
ruddy light from a crack in the window-
shutter, and I nod out here alone in the
dark, thinking how beautiful it is.

"`And here I wait patiently.  I take the
snow and the rain and the cold, and I am
not sorry, but glad; for in my roots I feel
warmth and life, and I know that a store
of greenness and beauty is shut up safe in
my small brown buds.  Day and night go
again and again; little by little the snow
melts all away; the ground grows soft;
the sky is blue; the little birds fly over
crying, "It is spring! it is spring!"  Ah!
then through all my twigs I feel the slow
sap stirring.

"`Warmer grow the sunbeams, and
softer the air.  The small blades of grass
creep thick about my feet; the sweet rain
helps swell my shining buds.  More and
more I push forth my leaves, till out I burst
in a gay green dress, and nod in joy and
pride.  The little boy comes running to
look at me, and cries, "Oh, mamma! the
little blackberry-bush is alive and beautiful
and green.  Oh, come and see!"  And
I hear; and I bow my head in the summer
wind; and every day they watch me grow
more beautiful, till at last I shake out
blossoms, fair and fragrant.

"`A few days more, and I drop the white
petals down among the grass, and, lo! the
green tiny berries!  Carefully I hold them
up to the sun; carefully I gather the dew
in the summer nights; slowly they ripen;
they grow larger and redder and darker,
and at last they are black, shining,
delicious.  I hold them as high as I can for
the little boy, who comes dancing out.  He
shouts with joy, and gathers them in his
dear hand; and he runs to share them with
his mother, saying, "Here is what the
patient blackberry-bush bore for us: see how
nice, mamma!"

"`Ah! then indeed I am glad, and would
say, if I could, "Yes, take them, dear little
boy; I kept them for you, held them long
up to sun and rain to make them sweet and
ripe for you;" and I nod and nod in full
content, for my work is done.  From the
window he watches me and thinks, "There
is the little blackberry-bush that was so
kind to me.  I see it and I love it.  I know
it is safe out there nodding all alone, and
next summer it will hold ripe berries up
for me to gather again." '"


Then the wee boy smiled, and liked the
little story.  His mother took him up in her
arms, and they went out to supper and left
the blackberry-bush nodding up and down
in the wind; and there it is nodding yet.



THE FAIRIES[1]

[1] By William Allingham.

 Up the airy mountain,
   Down the rushy glen,
 We daren't go a-hunting
   For fear of little men.
 Wee folk, good folk,
   Trooping all together;
 Green jacket, red cap,
   And white owl's feather!

 Down along the rocky shore
   Some make their home--
 They live on crispy pancakes
   Of yellow tide-foam;
 Some in the reeds
   Of the black mountain-lake,
 With frogs for their watch-dogs,
   All night awake.

 High on the hilltop
   The old King sits;
 He is now so old and gray,
   He's nigh lost his wits.
 With a bridge of white mist
   Columbkill he crosses,
 On his stately journeys
   From Slieveleague to Rosses;
 Or going up with music
   On cold starry nights,
 To sup with the Queen
   Of the gay Northern Lights.

 They stole little Bridget
   For seven years long;
 When she came down again
   Her friends were all gone.
 They took her lightly back,
   Between the night and morrow;
 They thought that she was fast
      asleep,
   But she was dead with sorrow.
 They have kept her ever since
   Deep within the lake,
 On a bed of flag-leaves,
   Watching till she wake.

 By the craggy hillside,
   Through the mosses bare,
 They have planted thorn-trees,
   For pleasure here and there.
 Is any man so daring
   As dig them up in spite,
 He shall find their sharpest thorns
   In his bed at night.

 Up the airy mountain,
   Down the rushy glen,
 We daren't go a-hunting
   For fear of little men.
 Wee folk, good folk,
   Trooping all together;
 Green jacket, red cap,
   And white owl's feather!



THE ADVENTURES OF THE LITTLE FIELD MOUSE


Once upon a time, there was a little brown
Field Mouse; and one day he was out in
the fields to see what he could see.  He was
running along in the grass, poking his nose
into everything and looking with his two
eyes all about, when he saw a smooth,
shiny acorn, lying in the grass.  It was such
a fine shiny little acorn that he thought
he would take it home with him; so he put
out his paw to touch it, but the little acorn
rolled away from him.  He ran after it, but
it kept rolling on, just ahead of him, till it
came to a place where a big oak-tree had
its roots spread all over the ground.  Then
it rolled under a big round root.

Little Mr. Field Mouse ran to the root
and poked his nose under after the acorn,
and there he saw a small round hole in
the ground.  He slipped through and saw
some stairs going down into the earth.
The acorn was rolling down, with a soft
tapping sound, ahead of him, so down he
went too.  Down, down, down, rolled the
acorn, and down, down, down, went the
Field Mouse, until suddenly he saw a tiny
door at the foot of the stairs.

The shiny acorn rolled to the door and
struck against it with a tap.  Quickly the
little door opened and the acorn rolled
inside.  The Field Mouse hurried as fast as
he could down the last stairs, and pushed
through just as the door was closing.  It
shut behind him, and he was in a little
room.  And there, before him, stood a
queer little Red Man!  He had a little red
cap, and a little red jacket, and odd little
red shoes with points at the toes.

"You are my prisoner," he said to the
Field Mouse.


"What for?" said the Field Mouse.

"Because you tried to steal my acorn,"
said the little Red Man.

"It is my acorn," said the Field Mouse;
"I found it."

"No, it isn't," said the little Red Man,
"I have it; you will never see it again."

The little Field Mouse looked all about
the room as fast as he could, but he could
not see any acorn.  Then he thought he
would go back up the tiny stairs to his own
home.  But the little door was locked, and
the little Red Man had the key.  And he
said to the poor mouse,--

"You shall be my servant; you shall
make my bed and sweep my room and
cook my broth."

So the little brown Mouse was the little
Red Man's servant, and every day he made
the little Red Man's bed and swept the
little Red Man's room and cooked the little
Red Man's broth.  And every day the
little Red Man went away through the tiny
door, and did not come back till afternoon.
But he always locked the door after him,
and carried away the key.

At last, one day he was in such a hurry
that he turned the key before the door was
quite latched, which, of course, didn't lock
it at all.  He went away without noticing,
--he was in such a hurry.

The little Field Mouse knew that his
chance had come to run away home.  But
he didn't want to go without the pretty,
shiny acorn.  Where it was he didn't know,
so he looked everywhere.  He opened every
little drawer and looked in, but it wasn't
in any of the drawers; he peeped on every
shelf, but it wasn't on a shelf; he hunted
in every closet, but it wasn't in there.
Finally, he climbed up on a chair and
opened a wee, wee door in the chimney-
piece,--and there it was!

He took it quickly in his forepaws, and
then he took it in his mouth, and then he
ran away.  He pushed open the little door;
he climbed up, up, up the little stairs; he
came out through the hole under the root;
he ran and ran through the fields; and at
last he came to his own house.

When he was in his own house he set
the shiny acorn on the table.  I guess he
set it down hard, for all at once, with a little
snap, it opened!--exactly like a little box.

And what do you think!  There was a
tiny necklace inside!  It was a most beautiful
tiny necklace, all made of jewels, and
it was just big enough for a lady mouse.
So the little Field Mouse gave the tiny
necklace to his little Mouse-sister.  She
thought it was perfectly lovely.  And when
she wasn't wearing it she kept it in the
shiny acorn box.

And the little Red Man never knew what
had become of it, because he didn't know
where the little Field Mouse lived.



ANOTHER LITTLE RED HEN[1]

[1] Adapted from the verse version, which is given here as an
alternative.


Once upon a time there was a little Red
Hen, who lived on a farm all by herself.
An old Fox, crafty and sly, had a den in the
rocks, on a hill near her house.  Many and
many a night this old Fox used to lie awake
and think to himself how good that little
Red Hen would taste if he could once get
her in his big kettle and boil her for dinner.
But he couldn't catch the little Red Hen,
because she was too wise for him.  Every
time she went out to market she locked the
door of the house behind her, and as soon
as she came in again she locked the door
behind her and put the key in her apron
pocket, where she kept her scissors and a
sugar cooky.

At last the old Fox thought up a way
to catch the little Red Hen.  Early in the
morning he said to his old mother, "Have
the kettle boiling when I come home to-
night, for I'll be bringing the little Red
Hen for supper."  Then he took a big bag
and slung it over his shoulder, and walked
till he came to the little Red Hen's house.
The little Red Hen was just coming out of
her door to pick up a few sticks for kindling
wood.  So the old Fox hid behind the wood-
pile, and as soon as she bent down to get a
stick, into the house he slipped, and scurried
behind the door.

In a minute the little Red Hen came
quickly in, and shut the door and locked
it.  "I'm glad I'm safely in," she said.
Just as she said it, she turned round, and
there stood the ugly old Fox, with his big
bag over his shoulder.  Whiff! how scared
the little Red Hen was!  She dropped her
apronful of sticks, and flew up to the big
beam across the ceiling.  There she perched,
and she said to the old Fox, down below,
"You may as well go home, for you can't
get me."

"Can't I, though!" said the Fox.  And
what do you think he did?  He stood on
the floor underneath the little Red Hen
and twirled round in a circle after his own
tail.  And as he spun, and spun, and spun,
faster, and faster, and faster, the poor little
Red Hen got so dizzy watching him that
she couldn't hold on to the perch.  She
dropped off, and the old Fox picked her up
and put her in his bag, slung the bag over
his shoulder, and started for home, where
the kettle was boiling.

He had a very long way to go, up hill,
and the little Red Hen was still so dizzy
that she didn't know where she was.  But
when the dizziness began to go off, she
whisked her little scissors out of her apron
pocket, and snip! she cut a little hole in the
bag; then she poked her head out and saw
where she was, and as soon as they came
to a good spot she cut the hole bigger and
jumped out herself.  There was a great big
stone lying there, and the little Red Hen
picked it up and put it in the bag as quick
as a wink.  Then she ran as fast as she
could till she came to her own little farm-
house, and she went in and locked the door
with the big key.

The old Fox went on carrying the stone
and never knew the difference.  My, but it
bumped him well!  He was pretty tired
when he got home.  But he was so pleased
to think of the supper he was going to have
that he did not mind that at all.  As soon
as his mother opened the door he said, "Is
the kettle boiling?"

"Yes," said his mother; "have you got
the little Red Hen?"

"I have," said the old Fox.  "When I
open the bag you hold the cover off the kettle
and I'll shake the bag so that the Hen
will fall in, and then you pop the cover on,
before she can jump out."

"All right," said his mean old mother;
and she stood close by the boiling kettle,
ready to put the cover on.

The Fox lifted the big, heavy bag up
till it was over the open kettle, and gave
it a shake.  Splash! thump! splash!  In
went the stone and out came the boiling
water, all over the old Fox and the old
Fox's mother!

And they were scalded to death.

But the little Red Hen lived happily ever
after, in her own little farmhouse.



THE STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN[1]

[1] From Horace E. Scudder's Doings of the Bodley Family in
Town and Country (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.).


 There was once't upon a time
   A little small Rid Hin,
 Off in the good ould country
   Where yees ha' nivir bin.

 Nice and quiet shure she was,
   And nivir did any harrum;
 She lived alane all be herself,
   And worked upon her farrum.

 There lived out o'er the hill,
   In a great din o' rocks,
 A crafty, shly, and wicked
   Ould folly iv a Fox.

 This rashkill iv a Fox,
   He tuk it in his head
 He'd have the little Rid Hin:
   So, whin he wint to bed,

 He laid awake and thaught
   What a foine thing 'twad be
 To fetch her home and bile her up
   For his ould marm and he.

 And so he thaught and thaught,
   Until he grew so thin
 That there was nothin' left of him
   But jist his bones and shkin.

 But the small Rid Hin was wise,
   She always locked her door,
 And in her pocket pit the key,
   To keep the Fox out shure.

 But at last there came a schame
   Intil his wicked head,
 And he tuk a great big bag
   And to his mither said,--

 "Now have the pot all bilin'
   Agin the time I come;
 We'll ate the small Rid Hin to-night,
   For shure I'll bring her home."

 And so away he wint
   Wid the bag upon his back,
 An' up the hill and through the woods
   Saftly he made his track.

 An' thin he came alang,
   Craping as shtill's a mouse,
 To where the little small Rid Hin
   Lived in her shnug ould house.

 An' out she comes hersel',
   Jist as he got in sight,
 To pick up shticks to make her fire:
   "Aha!" says Fox, "all right.

 "Begorra, now, I'll have yees
   Widout much throuble more;"
 An' in he shlips quite unbeknownst,
   An' hides be'ind the door.

 An' thin, a minute afther,
   In comes the small Rid Hin,
 An' shuts the door, and locks it, too,
   An' thinks, "I'm safely in."

 An' thin she tarns around
   An' looks be'ind the door;
 There shtands the Fox wid his big tail
   Shpread out upon the floor.

 Dear me! she was so schared
   Wid such a wondrous sight,
 She dropped her apronful of shticks,
   An' flew up in a fright,

 An' lighted on the bame
   Across on top the room;
 "Aha!" says she, "ye don't have me;
   Ye may as well go home."

 "Aha!" says Fox, "we'll see;
   I'll bring yees down from that."
 So out he marched upon the floor
   Right under where she sat.

 An' thin he whiruled around,
   An' round an' round an' round,
 Fashter an' fashter an' fashter,
   Afther his tail on the ground.

 Until the small Rid Hin
   She got so dizzy, shure,
 Wid lookin' at the Fox's tail,
   She jist dropped on the floor.

 An' Fox he whipped her up,
   An' pit her in his bag,
 An' off he started all alone,
   Him and his little dag.

 All day he tracked the wood
   Up hill an' down again;
 An' wid him, shmotherin' in the bag,
   The little small Rid Hin.

 Sorra a know she knowed
   Awhere she was that day;
 Says she, "I'm biled an' ate up, shure,
   An' what'll be to pay?"

 Thin she betho't hersel',
   An' tuk her schissors out,
 An' shnipped a big hole in the bag,
   So she could look about.

 An' 'fore ould Fox could think
   She lept right out--she did,
 An' thin picked up a great big shtone,
   An' popped it in instid.

 An' thin she rins off home,
   Her outside door she locks;
 Thinks she, "You see you don't have me,
   You crafty, shly ould Fox."

 An' Fox, he tugged away
   Wid the great big hivy shtone,
 Thimpin' his shoulders very bad
   As he wint in alone.

 An' whin he came in sight
   O' his great din o' rocks,
 Jist watchin' for him at the door
   He shpied ould mither Fox.

 "Have ye the pot a-bilin'?"
   Says he to ould Fox thin;
 "Shure an' it is, me child," says she;
   "Have ye the small Rid Hin?"

 "Yes, jist here in me bag,
   As shure as I shtand here;
 Open the lid till I pit her in:
   Open it--niver fear."

 So the rashkill cut the sthring,
   An' hild the big bag over;
 "Now when I shake it in," says he,
   "Do ye pit on the cover."

 "Yis, that I will;" an' thin
   The shtone wint in wid a dash,
 An' the pot oy bilin' wather
   Came over them ker-splash.

 An' schalted 'em both to death,
   So they couldn't brathe no more;
 An' the little small Rid Hin lived safe,
   Jist where she lived before.



THE STORY OF EPAMINONDAS AND HIS AUNTIE[1]

[1] A Southern nonsense tale.

Epaminondas used to go to see his Auntie
'most every day, and she nearly always
gave him something to take home to his
Mammy.

One day she gave him a big piece of cake;
nice, yellow, rich gold-cake.

Epaminondas took it in his fist and held
it all scrunched up tight, like this, and
came along home.  By the time he got home
there wasn't anything left but a fistful of
crumbs.  His Mammy said,--

"What you got there, Epaminondas?"

"Cake, Mammy," said Epaminondas.

"Cake!" said his Mammy.  "Epaminondas,
you ain't got the sense you was born
with!  That's no way to carry cake.  The
way to carry cake is to wrap it all up nice
in some leaves and put it in your hat, and
put your hat on your head, and come along
home.  You hear me, Epaminondas?"

"Yes, Mammy," said Epaminondas.

Next day Epaminondas went to see his
Auntie, and she gave him a pound of
butter for his Mammy; fine, fresh, sweet
butter.

Epaminondas wrapped it up in leaves
and put it in his hat, and put his hat on his
head, and came along home.  It was a very
hot day.  Pretty soon the butter began to
melt.  It melted, and melted, and as it
melted it ran down Epaminondas' forehead;
then it ran over his face, and in his
ears, and down his neck.  When he got
home, all the butter Epaminondas had was
ON HIM.  His Mammy looked at him, and
then she said,--

"Law's sake! Epaminondas, what you
got in your hat?"

"Butter, Mammy," said Epaminondas;
"Auntie gave it to me."

"Butter!" said his Mammy.  "Epaminondas,
you ain't got the sense you was
born with!  Don't you know that's no way
to carry butter?  The way to carry butter
is to wrap it up in some leaves and take
it down to the brook, and cool it in the
water, and cool it in the water, and cool
it in the water, and then take it on
your hands, careful, and bring it along
home."

"Yes, Mammy," said Epaminondas.

By and by, another day, Epaminondas
went to see his Auntie again, and this time
she gave him a little new puppy-dog to
take home.

Epaminondas put it in some leaves and
took it down to the brook; and there he
cooled it in the water, and cooled it in the
water, and cooled it in the water; then he
took it in his hands and came along home.
When he got home, the puppy-dog was
dead.  His Mammy looked at it, and she
said,--

"Law's sake! Epaminondas, what you
got there?"

"A puppy-dog, Mammy," said Epaminondas.

"A PUPPY-DOG!" said his Mammy.  "My
gracious sakes alive, Epaminondas, you
ain't got the sense you was born with!
That ain't the way to carry a puppy-dog!
The way to carry a puppy-dog is to take a
long piece of string and tie one end of it
round the puppy-dog's neck and put the
puppy-dog on the ground, and take hold
of the other end of the string and come
along home, like this."

"All right, Mammy," said Epaminondas.

Next day, Epaminondas went to see his
Auntie again, and when he came to go
home she gave him a loaf of bread to carry
to his Mammy; a brown, fresh, crusty loaf
of bread.

So Epaminondas tied a string around the
end of the loaf and took hold of the end of
the string and came along home, like this.
(Imitate dragging something along the
ground.)  When he got home his Mammy
looked at the thing on the end of the string,
and she said,--

"My laws a-massy! Epaminondas, what
you got on the end of that string?"

"Bread, Mammy," said Epaminondas;
"Auntie gave it to me."

"Bread!!!" said his Mammy.  "O
Epaminondas, Epaminondas, you ain't got the
sense you was born with; you never did
have the sense you was born with; you
never will have the sense you was born
with!  Now I ain't gwine tell you any more
ways to bring truck home.  And don't you
go see your Auntie, neither.  I'll go see
her my own self.  But I'll just tell you one
thing, Epaminondas!  You see these here
six mince pies I done make?  You see how
I done set 'em on the doorstep to cool?
Well, now, you hear me, Epaminondas,
YOU BE CAREFUL HOW YOU STEP ON THOSE PIES!"

"Yes, Mammy," said Epaminondas.

Then Epaminondas' Mammy put on
her bonnet and her shawl and took a basket
in her hand and went away to see
Auntie.  The six mince pies sat cooling in
a row on the doorstep.

And then,--and then,--Epaminondas
WAS careful how he stepped on those
pies!

He stepped (imitate)--right--in--
the--middle--of--every--one.
  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .
And, do you know, children, nobody knows
what happened next!  The person who told
me the story didn't know; nobody knows.
But you can guess.



THE BOY WHO CRIED "WOLF!"


There was once a shepherd-boy who
kept his flock at a little distance from the
village.  Once he thought he would play a
trick on the villagers and have some fun
at their expense.  So he ran toward the
village crying out, with all his might,--

"Wolf!  Wolf!  Come and help!  The
wolves are at my lambs!"

The kind villagers left their work and
ran to the field to help him.  But when
they got there the boy laughed at them
for their pains; there was no wolf there.

Still another day the boy tried the same
trick, and the villagers came running to
help and got laughed at again.
Then one day a wolf did break into the
fold and began killing the lambs.  In great
fright, the boy ran for help.  "Wolf!  Wolf!"
he screamed.  "There is a wolf in the flock!
Help!"

The villagers heard him, but they thought
it was another mean trick; no one paid the
least attention, or went near him.  And the
shepherd-boy lost all his sheep.

That is the kind of thing that happens
to people who lie: even when they tell the
truth no one believes them.



THE FROG KING


Did you ever hear the old story about
the foolish Frogs?  The Frogs in a certain
swamp decided that they needed a king;
they had always got along perfectly well
without one, but they suddenly made up
their minds that a king they must have.
They sent a messenger to Jove and begged
him to send a king to rule over them.

Jove saw how stupid they were, and sent
a king who could not harm them: he tossed
a big log into the middle of the pond.

At the splash the Frogs were terribly
frightened, and dove into their holes to
hide from King Log.  But after a while,
when they saw that the king never moved,
they got over their fright and went and
sat on him.  And as soon as they found he
really could not hurt them they began to
despise him; and finally they sent another
messenger to Jove to ask for a new king.

Jove sent an eel.

The Frogs were much pleased and a
good deal frightened when King Eel came
wriggling and swimming among them.  But
as the days went on, and the eel was
perfectly harmless, they stopped being afraid;
and as soon as they stopped fearing King
Eel they stopped respecting him.

Soon they sent a third messenger to
Jove, and begged that they might have a
better king,--a king who was worth
while.

It was too much; Jove was angry at their
stupidity at last.  "I will give you a king
such as you deserve!" he said; and he
sent them a Stork.

As soon as the Frogs came to the surface
to greet the new king, King Stork caught
them in his long bill and gobbled them up.
One after another they came bobbing up,
and one after another the stork ate them.
He was indeed a king worthy of them!


THE SUN AND THE WIND


The Sun and the Wind once had a quarrel
as to which was the stronger.  Each
believed himself to be the more powerful.
While they were arguing they saw a traveler
walking along the country highway,
wearing a great cloak.

"Here is a chance to test our strength,"
said the Wind; "let us see which of us is
strong enough to make that traveler take
off his cloak; the one who can do that shall
be acknowledged the more powerful."

"Agreed," said the Sun.

Instantly the Wind began to blow; he
puffed and tugged at the man's cloak, and
raised a storm of hail and rain, to beat at
it.  But the colder it grew and the more it
stormed, the tighter the traveler held his
cloak around him.  The Wind could not
get it off.

Now it was the Sun's turn.  He shone
with all his beams on the man's shoulders.
As it grew hotter and hotter, the man
unfastened his cloak; then he threw it back;
at last he took it off!  The Sun had won.



THE LITTLE JACKAL AND THE ALLIGATOR


The little Jackal was very fond of shell-
fish.  He used to go down by the river and
hunt along the edges for crabs and such
things.  And once, when he was hunting
for crabs, he was so hungry that he put his
paw into the water after a crab without
looking first,--which you never should
do!  The minute he put in his paw, SNAP!
--the big Alligator who lives in the mud
down there had it in his jaws.

"Oh, dear!" thought the little Jackal;
"the big Alligator has my paw in his
mouth!  In another minute he will pull me
down and gobble me up!  What shall I
do? what shall I do?"  Then he thought,
suddenly, "I'll deceive him!"

So he put on a very cheerful voice, as if
nothing at all were the matter, and he
said,--

"Ho! ho! Clever Mr. Alligator!  Smart
Mr. Alligator, to take that old bulrush
root for my paw!  I'll hope you'll find it
very tender!"

The old Alligator was hidden away
beneath the mud and bulrush leaves, and
he couldn't see anything.  He thought,
"Pshaw!  I've made a mistake."  So he
opened his mouth and let the little Jackal
go.

The little Jackal ran away as fast as he
could, and as he ran he called out,--

"Thank you, Mr. Alligator!  Kind Mr.
Alligator!  SO kind of you to let me go!"

The old Alligator lashed with his tail
and snapped with his jaws, but it was
too late; the little Jackal was out of
reach.

After this the little Jackal kept away
from the river, out of danger.  But after
about a week he got such an appetite for
crabs that nothing else would do at all;
he felt that he must have a crab.  So he
went down by the river and looked all
around, very carefully.  He didn't see the
old Alligator, but he thought to himself,
"I think I'll not take any chances."  So
he stood still and began to talk out loud
to himself.  He said,--

"When I don't see any little crabs on
the land I most generally see them sticking
out of the water, and then I put my
paw in and catch them.  I wonder if there
are any fat little crabs in the water today?"

The old Alligator was hidden down in
the mud at the bottom of the river, and
when he heard what the little Jackal said,
he thought, "Aha!  I'll pretend to be a
little crab, and when he puts his paw in,
I'll make my dinner of him."  So he stuck
the black end of his snout above the water
and waited.

The little Jackal took one look, and
then he said,--

"Thank you, Mr. Alligator!  Kind Mr.
Alligator!  You are EXCEEDINGLY kind to
show me where you are!  I will have dinner
elsewhere."  And he ran away like the
wind.

The old Alligator foamed at the mouth,
he was so angry, but the little Jackal was
gone.

For two whole weeks the little Jackal
kept away from the river.  Then, one day
he got a feeling inside him that nothing
but crabs could satisfy; he felt that he
must have at least one crab.  Very
cautiously, he went down to the river and
looked all around.  He saw no sign of the
old Alligator.  Still, he did not mean to
take any chances.  So he stood quite still
and began to talk to himself,--it was
a little way he had.  He said,--

"When I don't see any little crabs on
the shore, or sticking up out of the water,
I usually see them blowing bubbles from
under the water; the little bubbles go PUFF,
PUFF, PUFF, and then they go POP, POP, POP,
and they show me where the little juicy
crabs are, so I can put my paw in and
catch them.  I wonder if I shall see any
little bubbles to-day?"

The old Alligator, lying low in the mud
and weeds, heard this, and he thought,
"Pooh!  THAT'S easy enough; I'll just
blow some little crab-bubbles, and then
he will put his paw in where I can get it."

So he blew, and he blew, a mighty blast,
and the bubbles rose in a perfect whirlpool,
fizzing and swirling.

The little Jackal didn't have to be told
who was underneath those bubbles: he
took one quick look, and off he ran.  But
as he went, he sang,--

"Thank you, Mr. Alligator!  Kind Mr.
Alligator!  You are the kindest Alligator
in the world, to show me where you are, so
nicely!  I'll breakfast at another part of
the river."

The old Alligator was so furious that he
crawled up on the bank and went after
the little Jackal; but, dear, dear, he
couldn't catch the little Jackal; he ran
far too fast.

After this, the little Jackal did not like to
risk going near the water, so he ate no more
crabs.  But he found a garden of wild figs,
which were so good that he went there every
day, and ate them instead of shell-fish.

Now the old Alligator found this out,
and he made up his mind to have the little
Jackal for supper, or to die trying.  So
he crept, and crawled, and dragged himself
over the ground to the garden of wild figs.
There he made a huge pile of figs under
the biggest of the wild fig trees, and hid
himself in the pile.

After a while the little Jackal came
dancing into the garden, very happy and
care-free,--BUT looking all around.  He
saw the huge pile of figs under the big fig
tree.

"H-m," he thought, "that looks
singularly like my friend, the Alligator.  I'll
investigate a bit."

He stood quite still and began to talk
to himself,--it was a little way he had.  He
said,--

"The little figs I like best are the fat,
ripe, juicy ones that drop off when the
breeze blows; and then the wind blows
them about on the ground, this way and
that; the great heap of figs over there is
so still that I think they must be all bad
figs."

The old Alligator, underneath his fig
pile, thought,--

"Bother the suspicious little Jackal,
I shall have to make these figs roll about,
so that he will think the wind moves
them."  And straightway he humped himself
up and moved, and sent the little figs
flying,--and his back showed through.

The little Jackal did not wait for a
second look.  He ran out of the garden
like the wind.  But as he ran he called
back,--

"Thank you, again, Mr. Alligator; very
sweet of you to show me where you are; I
can't stay to thank you as I should like:
good-by!"

At this the old Alligator was beside
himself with rage.  He vowed that he
would have the little Jackal for supper
this time, come what might.  So he crept
and crawled over the ground till he came
to the little Jackal's house.  Then he crept
and crawled inside, and hid himself there
in the house, to wait till the little Jackal
should come home.

By and by the little Jackal came dancing
home, happy and care-free,--BUT
looking all around.  Presently, as he came
along, he saw that the ground was all
scratched up as if something very heavy
had been dragged over it.  The little Jackal
stopped and looked.

"What's this? what's this?" he said.

Then he saw that the door of his house
was crushed at the sides and broken, as
if something very big had gone through it.

"What's this?  What's this?" the little
Jackal said.  "I think I'll investigate a
little!"

So he stood quite still and began to talk
to himself (you remember, it was a little
way he had), but loudly.  He said,--

"How strange that my little House
doesn't speak to me!  Why don't you
speak to me, little House?  You always
speak to me, if everything is all right,
when I come home.  I wonder if anything
is wrong with my little House?"

The old Alligator thought to himself
that he must certainly pretend to be the
little House, or the little Jackal would
never come in.  So he put on as pleasant
a voice as he could (which is not saying
much) and said,--

"Hullo, little Jackal!"

Oh! when the little Jackal heard that,
he was frightened enough, for once.

"It's the old Alligator," he said, "and
if I don't make an end of him this time he
will certainly make an end of me.  What
shall I do?"

He thought very fast.  Then he spoke
out pleasantly.

"Thank you, little House," he said,
"it's good to hear your pretty voice, dear
little House, and I will be in with you in a
minute; only first I must gather some
firewood for dinner."

Then he went and gathered firewood,
and more firewood, and more firewood;
and he piled it all up solid against the door
and round the house; and then he set fire
to it!

And it smoked and burned till it smoked
that old Alligator to smoked herring!



THE LARKS IN THE CORNFIELD


There was once a family of little Larks
who lived with their mother in a nest in a
cornfield.  When the corn was ripe the
mother Lark watched very carefully to see
if there were any sign of the reapers'
coming, for she knew that when they came
their sharp knives would cut down the
nest and hurt the baby Larks.  So every
day, when she went out for food, she told
the little Larks to look and listen very
closely to everything that went on, and to
tell her all they saw and heard when she
came home.

One day when she came home the little
Larks were much frightened.

"Oh, Mother, dear Mother," they said,
"you must move us away to-night!  The
farmer was in the field to-day, and he said,
`The corn is ready to cut; we must call in
the neighbors to help.'  And then he told his
son to go out to-night and ask all the neighbors
to come and reap the corn to-morrow."

The mother Lark laughed.  "Don't be
frightened," she said; "if he waits for his
neighbors to reap the corn we shall have
plenty of time to move; tell me what he
says to-morrow."

The next night the little Larks were quite
trembling with fear; the moment their
mother got home they cried out, "Mother,
you must surely move us to-night!  The
farmer came to-day and said, `The corn
is getting too ripe; we cannot wait for our
neighbors; we must ask our relatives to
help us.'  And then he called his son and
told him to ask all the uncles and cousins
to come to-morrow and cut the corn.  Shall
we not move to-night?"

"Don't worry," said the mother Lark;
"the uncles and cousins have plenty of
reaping to do for themselves; we'll not
move yet."

The third night, when the mother Lark
came home, the baby Larks said, "Mother,
dear, the farmer came to the field to-day,
and when he looked at the corn he was
quite angry; he said, `This will never do!
The corn is getting too ripe; it's no use to
wait for our relatives, we shall have to cut
this corn ourselves.'  And then he called
his son and said, `Go out to-night and
hire reapers, and to-morrow we will begin
to cut.'"

"Well," said the mother, "that is
another story; when a man begins to do his
own business, instead of asking somebody
else to do it, things get done.  I will
move you out to-night."



A TRUE STORY ABOUT A GIRL


Once there were four little girls who
lived in a big, bare house, in the country.
They were very poor, but they had the
happiest times you ever heard of, because they
were very rich in everything except just
money.  They had a wonderful, wise father,
who knew stories to tell, and who taught
them their lessons in such a beautiful way
that it was better than play; they had a
lovely, merry, kind mother, who was never
too tired to help them work or watch them
play; and they had all the great green
country to play in.  There were dark,
shadowy woods, and fields of flowers, and
a river.  And there was a big barn.

One of the little girls was named Louisa.
She was very pretty, and ever so strong;
she could run for miles through the woods
and not get tired.  And she had a splendid
brain in her little head; it liked study, and
it thought interesting thoughts all day long.

Louisa liked to sit in a corner by herself,
sometimes, and write thoughts in her
diary; all the little girls kept diaries.  She
liked to make up stories out of her own
head, and sometimes she made verses.

When the four little sisters had finished
their lessons, and had helped their mother
sew and clean, they used to go to the big
barn to play; and the best play of all was
theatricals.  Louisa liked theatricals better
than anything.

They made the barn into a theatre, and
the grown people came to see the plays they
acted.  They used to climb up on the hay-
mow for a stage, and the grown people
sat in chairs on the floor.  It was great fun.
One of the plays they acted was Jack and
the Bean-Stalk.  They had a ladder from
the floor to the loft, and on the ladder they
tied a squash vine all the way up to the
loft, to look like the wonderful bean-stalk.
One of the little girls was dressed up to
look like Jack, and she acted that part.
When it came to the place in the story
where the giant tried to follow Jack, the
little girl cut down the bean-stalk, and
down came the giant tumbling from the
loft.  The giant was made out of pillows,
with a great, fierce head of paper, and
funny clothes.

Another story that they acted was
Cinderella.  They made a wonderful big pumpkin
out of the wheelbarrow, trimmed with
yellow paper, and Cinderella rolled away
in it, when the fairy godmother waved her
wand.

One other beautiful story they used to
play.  It was the story of Pilgrim's Progress;
if you have never heard it, you must
be sure to read it as soon as you can read
well enough to understand the old-fashioned
words.  The little girls used to put
shells in their hats for a sign they were on
a pilgrimage, as the old pilgrims used to
do; then they made journeys over the hill
behind the house, and through the woods,
and down the lanes; and when the pilgrimage
was over they had apples and nuts to
eat, in the happy land of home.

Louisa loved all these plays, and she
made some of her own and wrote them
down so that the children could act them.

But better than fun or writing Louisa
loved her mother, and by and by, as the
little girl began to grow into a big girl, she
felt very sad to see her dear mother work
so hard.  She helped all she could with the
housework, but nothing could really help
the tired mother except money; she needed
money for food and clothes, and some one
grown up, to help in the house.  But there
never was enough money for these things,
and Louisa's mother grew more and more
weary, and sometimes ill.  I cannot tell you
how much Louisa suffered over this.

At last, as Louisa thought about it,
she came to care more about helping her
mother and her father and her sisters
than about anything else in all the world.
And she began to work very hard to earn
money.  She sewed for people, and when
she was a little older she taught some
little girls their lessons, and then she wrote
stories for the papers.  Every bit of money
she earned, except what she had to use,
she gave to her dear family.  It helped very
much, but it was so little that Louisa never
felt as if she were doing anything.

Every year she grew more unselfish, and
every year she worked harder.  She liked
writing stories best of all her work, but
she did not get much money for them, and
some people told her she was wasting her
time.

At last, one day, a publisher asked
Louisa, who was now a woman, to write
a book for girls.  Louisa was not very well,
and she was very tired, but she always
said, "I'll try," when she had a chance to
work; so she said, "I'll try," to the
publisher.  When she thought about the book
she remembered the good times she used
to have with her sisters in the big, bare
house in the country.  And so she wrote a
story and put all that in it; she put her
dear mother and her wise father in it, and
all the little sisters, and besides the jolly
times and the plays, she put the sad, hard
times in,--the work and worry and going
without things.

When the book was written, she called
it "Little Women," and sent it to the publisher.

And, children, the little book made
Louisa famous.  It was so sweet and
funny and sad and real,--like our own
lives,--that everybody wanted to read it.
Everybody bought it, and much money
came from it.  After so many years, little
Louisa's wish came true: she bought a
nice house for her family; she sent one
of her sisters to Europe, to study; she
gave her father books; but best of all, she
was able to see to it that the beloved
mother, so tired and so ill, could have rest
and happiness.  Never again did the dear
mother have to do any hard work, and
she had pretty things about her all the rest
of her life.

Louisa Alcott, for that was Louisa's
name, wrote many beautiful books after
this, and she became one of the most
famous women of America.  But I think the
most beautiful thing about her is what I
have been telling you: that she loved her
mother so well that she gave her whole
life to make her happy.


MY KINGDOM


The little Louisa I told you about, who
wrote verses and stories in her diary, used
to like to play that she was a princess, and
that her kingdom was her own mind.
When she had unkind or dissatisfied
thoughts, she tried to get rid of them by
playing they were enemies of the kingdom;
and she drove them out with soldiers;
the soldiers were patience, duty, and love.
It used to help Louisa to be good to play
this, and I think it may have helped make
her the splendid woman she was afterward.
Maybe you would like to hear a
poem she wrote about it, when she was
only fourteen years old.[1]  It will help you,
too, to think the same thoughts.

[1] From Louisa M. Alcott's Life, Letters, and Journals (Little,
Brown & Co.).  Copyright, 1878, by Louisa M. Alcott.  Copyright,
1906, by J. S. P. Alcott.


 A little kingdom I possess,
   Where thoughts and feelings dwell,
 And very hard I find the task
   Of governing it well;
 For passion tempts and troubles me,
   A wayward will misleads,
 And selfishness its shadow casts
   On all my words and deeds.

 How can I learn to rule myself,
   To be the child I should,
 Honest and brave, nor ever tire
   Of trying to be good?
 How can I keep a sunny soul
   To shine along life's way?
 How can I tune my little heart
   To sweetly sing all day?

 Dear Father, help me with the love
   That casteth out my fear,
 Teach me to lean on thee, and feel
   That thou art very near,

 That no temptation is unseen,
   No childish grief too small,
 Since thou, with patience infinite,
   Doth soothe and comfort all.

 I do not ask for any crown
   But that which all may win,
 Nor seek to conquer any world,
   Except the one within.
 Be thou my guide until I find,
   Led by a tender hand,
 Thy happy kingdom in MYSELF,
   And dare to take command.



PICCOLA[1]

[1] From Celia Thaxter's Stories and Poems for Children
Houghton, Mifflin & Co.).

 Poor, sweet Piccola!  Did you hear
 What happened to Piccola, children dear?
 'T is seldom Fortune such favor grants
 As fell to this little maid of France.

 'Twas Christmas-time, and her parents poor
 Could hardly drive the wolf from the door,
 Striving with poverty's patient pain
 Only to live till summer again.

 No gifts for Piccola!  Sad were they
 When dawned the morning of Christmas-day;
 Their little darling no joy might stir,
 St. Nicholas nothing would bring to her!

 But Piccola never doubted at all
 That something beautiful must befall
 Every child upon Christmas-day,
 And so she slept till the dawn was gray.

 And full of faith, when at last she woke,
 She stole to her shoe as the morning broke;
 Such sounds of gladness filled all the air,
 'T was plain St. Nicholas had been there!

 In rushed Piccola sweet, half wild:
 Never was seen such a joyful child.
 "See what the good saint brought!" she cried,
 And mother and father must peep inside.

 Now such a story who ever heard?
 There was a little shivering bird!
 A sparrow, that in at the window flew,
 Had crept into Piccola's tiny shoe!

 "How good poor Piccola must have been!"
 She cried, as happy as any queen,
 While the starving sparrow she fed and
      warmed,
 And danced with rapture, she was so
      charmed.

 Children, this story I tell to you,
 Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true.
 In the far-off land of France, they say,
 Still do they live to this very day.


THE LITTLE FIR TREE


[When I was a very little girl some one,
probably my mother, read to me Hans
Christian Andersen's story of the Little Fir
Tree.  It happened that I did not read it
for myself or hear it again during my
childhood.  One Christmas day, when I was
grown up, I found myself at a loss for the
"one more" story called for by some little
children with whom I was spending the holiday.
In the mental search for buried treasure
which ensued, I came upon one or
two word-impressions of the experiences
of the Little Fir Tree, and forthwith wove
them into what I supposed to be something
of a reproduction of the original.  The latter
part of the story had wholly faded from my
memory, so that I "made up" to suit the
tastes of my audience.  Afterward I told the
story to a good many children, at one time
or another, and it gradually took the shape
it has here.  It was not until several years
later that, in re-reading Andersen for other
purposes, I came upon the real story of
the Little Fir Tree, and read it for
myself.  Then indeed I was amused, and
somewhat distressed, to find how far I had
wandered from the text.

I give this explanation that the reader
may know I do not presume to offer the
little tale which follows as an "adaptation"
of Andersen's famous story.  I offer it
plainly as a story which children have
liked, and which grew out of my early
memories of Andersen's "The Little Fir
Tree"].

Once there was a Little Fir Tree, slim
and pointed, and shiny, which stood in the
great forest in the midst of some big fir
trees, broad, and tall, and shadowy green.
The Little Fir Tree was very unhappy
because he was not big like the others.  When
the birds came flying into the woods and
lit on the branches of the big trees and
built their nests there, he used to call up
to them,--

"Come down, come down, rest in my
branches!"  But they always said,--
"Oh, no, no; you are too little!"

And when the splendid wind came blowing
and singing through the forest, it bent
and rocked and swung the tops of the big
trees, and murmured to them.  Then the
Little Fir Tree looked up, and called,--

"Oh, please, dear wind, come down and
play with me!"  But he always said,--

"Oh, no; you are too little, you are too
little!"

And in the winter the white snow fell
softly, softly, and covered the great trees
all over with wonderful caps and coats of
white.  The Little Fir Tree, close down in
the cover of the others, would call up,--

"Oh, please, dear snow, give me a cap,
too!  I want to play, too!"  But the snow
always said,--

"Oh no, no, no; you are too little, you
are too little!"

The worst of all was when men came
into the wood, with sledges and teams of
horses.  They came to cut the big trees
down and carry them away.  And when one
had been cut down and carried away the
others talked about it, and nodded their
heads.  And the Little Fir Tree listened,
and heard them say that when you were
carried away so, you might become the
mast of a mighty ship, and go far away over
the ocean, and see many wonderful things;
or you might be part of a fine house in a
great city, and see much of life.  The Little
Fir Tree wanted greatly to see life, but he
was always too little; the men passed him by.

But by and by, one cold winter's morning,
men came with a sledge and horses,
and after they had cut here and there they
came to the circle of trees round the Little
Fir Tree, and looked all about.

"There are none little enough," they
said.

Oh! how the Little Fir Tree pricked
up his needles!

"Here is one," said one of the men,
"it is just little enough."  And he touched
the Little Fir Tree.

The Little Fir Tree was happy as a bird,
because he knew they were about to cut
him down.  And when he was being carried
away on the sledge he lay wondering,
SO contentedly, whether he should be the
mast of a ship or part of a fine city house.
But when they came to the town he was
taken out and set upright in a tub and
placed on the edge of a sidewalk in a row
of other fir trees, all small, but none so little
as he.  And then the Little Fir Tree began
to see life.

People kept coming to look at the trees
and to take them away.  But always when
they saw the Little Fir Tree they shook
their heads and said,--

"It is too little, too little."

Until, finally, two children came along,
hand in hand, looking carefully at all the
small trees.  When they saw the Little Fir
Tree they cried out,--

"We'll take this one; it is just little
enough!"

They took him out of his tub and carried
him away, between them.  And the
happy Little Fir Tree spent all his time
wondering what it could be that he was just
little enough for; he knew it could hardly
be a mast or a house, since he was going
away with children.

He kept wondering, while they took him
in through some big doors, and set him up
in another tub, on the table, in a bare little
room.  Pretty soon they went away, and
came back again with a big basket, carried
between them.  Then some pretty ladies,
with white caps on their heads and white
aprons over their blue dresses, came bringing
little parcels.  The children took things
out of the basket and began to play with
the Little Fir Tree, just as he had often
begged the wind and the snow and the
birds to do.  He felt their soft little touches
on his head and his twigs and his branches.
And when he looked down at himself, as
far as he could look, he saw that he was
all hung with gold and silver chains!  There
were strings of white fluffy stuff drooping
around him; his twigs held little gold nuts
and pink, rosy balls and silver stars; he
had pretty little pink and white candles in
his arms; but last, and most wonderful of
all, the children hung a beautiful white,
floating doll-angel over his head!  The
Little Fir Tree could not breathe, for joy
and wonder.  What was it that he was,
now?  Why was this glory for him?

After a time every one went away and
left him.  It grew dusk, and the Little Fir
Tree began to hear strange sounds through
the closed doors.  Sometimes he heard a
child crying.  He was beginning to be lonely.
It grew more and more shadowy.

All at once, the doors opened and the
two children came in.  Two of the pretty
ladies were with them.  They came up to
the Little Fir Tree and quickly lighted all
the little pink and white candles.  Then
the two pretty ladies took hold of the table
with the Little Fir Tree on it and pushed
it, very smoothly and quickly, out of the
doors, across a hall, and in at another door.

The Little Fir Tree had a sudden sight
of a long room with many little white beds
in it, of children propped up on pillows in the
beds, and of other children in great wheeled
chairs, and others hobbling about or sitting
in little chairs.  He wondered why all the
little children looked so white and tired;
he did not know that he was in a hospital.
But before he could wonder any more his
breath was quite taken away by the shout
those little white children gave.

"Oh! oh! m-m! m-m!" they cried.

"How pretty!  How beautiful!  Oh,
isn't it lovely!"

He knew they must mean him, for all
their shining eyes were looking straight at
him.  He stood as straight as a mast, and
quivered in every needle, for joy.  Presently
one little weak child-voice called out,--

"It's the nicest Christmas tree I ever
saw!"

And then, at last, the Little Fir Tree
knew what he was; he was a Christmas
tree!  And from his shiny head to his feet
he was glad, through and through, because
he was just little enough to be the nicest
kind of tree in the world!



HOW MOSES WAS SAVED


Thousands of years ago, many years
before David lived, there was a very wise
and good man of his people who was a
friend and adviser of the king of Egypt.
And for love of this friend, the king of
Egypt had let numbers of the Israelites
settle in his land.  But after the king and
his Israelitish friend were dead, there was a
new king, who hated the Israelites.  When
he saw how strong they were, and how
many there were of them, he began to be
afraid that some day they might number
more than the Egyptians, and might take
his land from him.

Then he and his rulers did a wicked
thing.  They made the Israelites slaves.
And they gave them terrible tasks to do,
without proper rest, or food, or clothes.
For they hoped that the hardship would
kill off the Israelites.  They thought the
old men would die and the young men
be so ill and weary that they could not
bring up families, and so the race would
vanish away.

But in spite of the work and suffering,
the Israelites remained strong, and more
and more boys grew up, to make the king
afraid.

Then he did the wickedest thing of all.
He ordered his soldiers to kill every boy
baby that should be born in an Israelitish
family; he did not care about the girls,
because they could not grow up to fight.

Very soon after this evil order, a boy
baby was born in a certain Israelitish
family.  When his mother first looked at
him her heart was nearly broken, for he
was even more beautiful than most babies
are,--so strong and fair and sweet.  But
he was a boy!  How could she save him
from death?

Somehow, she contrived to keep him
hidden for three whole months.  But at
the end of that time, she saw that it was
not going to be possible to keep him safe
any longer.  She had been thinking all this
time about what she should do, and now
she carried out her plan.

First, she took a basket made of
bulrushes and daubed it all over with pitch
so that it was water-tight, and then she laid
the baby in it; then she carried it to the
edge of the river and laid it in the flags by
the river's brink.  It did not show at all,
unless one were quite near it.  Then she
kissed her little son and left him there.
But his sister stood far off, not seeming to
watch, but really watching carefully to see
what would happen to the baby.

Soon there was the sound of talk and
laughter, and a train of beautiful women
came down to the water's edge.  It was the
king's daughter, come down to bathe in
the river, with her maidens.  The maidens
walked along by the river's side.

As the king's daughter came near to the
water, she saw the strange little basket
lying in the flags, and she sent her maid to
bring it to her.  And when she had opened
it, she saw the child; the poor baby was
crying.  When she saw him, so helpless
and so beautiful, crying for his mother,
the king's daughter pitied him and loved
him.  She knew the cruel order of her
father, and she said at once, "This is one
of the Hebrews' children."

At that moment the baby's sister came
to the princess and said, "Shall I go and
find thee a nurse from the Hebrew women,
so that she may nurse the child for thee?"
Not a word did she say about whose child
it was, but perhaps the princess guessed;
I don't know.  At all events, she told the
little girl to go.

So the maiden went, and brought her
mother!

Then the king's daughter said to the
baby's mother, "Take this child away and
nurse it for me, and I will give thee wages."

Was not that a strange thing?  And can
you think how happy the baby's mother
was?  For now the baby would be known
only as the princess's adopted child, and
would be safe.

And it was so.  The mother kept him
until he was old enough to be taken to the
princess's palace.  Then he was brought
and given to the king's daughter, and he
became her son.  And she named him Moses.

But the strangest part of the whole story
is, that when Moses grew to be a man he
became so strong and wise that it was he
who at last saved his people from the king
and conquered the Egyptians.  The one
child saved by the king's own daughter
was the very one the king would most have
wanted to kill, if he had known.



THE TEN FAIRIES[1]

[1] Adapted from the facts given in the German of Die Zehn
{Feeen?}, by H. A. Guerber.


Once upon a time there was a dear little
girl, whose name was Elsa.  Elsa's father
and mother worked very hard and became
rich.  But they loved Elsa so much that
they did not like to have her do any work;
very foolishly, they let her play all the
time.  So when Elsa grew up, she did not
know how to do anything; she could not
make bread, she could not sweep a room,
she could not sew a seam; she could only
laugh and sing.  But she was so sweet and
merry that everybody loved her.  And by
and by, she married one of the people who
loved her, and had a house of her own to
take care of.

Then, then, my dears, came hard times
for Elsa!  There were so many things to
be done in the house, and she did not know
how to do any of them!  And because she
had never worked at all it made her very
tired even to try; she was tired before
the morning was over, every day.  The
maid would come and say, "How shall I
do this?" or "How shall I do that?"
And Elsa would have to say, "I don't
know."  Then the maid would pretend
that she did not know, either; and when
she saw her mistress sitting about doing
nothing, she, too, sat about, idle.

Elsa's husband had a hard time of it;
he did not have good things to eat, and they
were not ready at the right time, and the
house looked all in a clutter.  It made him
sad, and that made Elsa sad, for she wanted
to do everything just right.

At last, one day, Elsa's husband went
away quite cross; he said to her, as he
went out the door, "It is no wonder that
the house looks so, when you sit all day
with your hands in your lap!"

Little Elsa cried bitterly when he was
gone, for she did not want to make her
husband unhappy and cross, and she
wanted the house to look nice.  "Oh, dear,"
she sobbed, "I wish I could do things
right!  I wish I could work!  I wish--I
wish I had ten good fairies to work for me!
Then I could keep the house!"

As she said the words, a great gray man
stood before her; he was wrapped in a
strange gray cloak that covered him from
head to foot; and he smiled at Elsa.
"What is the matter, dear?" he said.  "Why
do you cry?"

"Oh, I am crying because I do not know
how to keep the house," said Elsa.  "I
cannot make bread, I cannot sweep, I
cannot sew a seam; when I was a little
girl I never learned to work, and now I
cannot do anything right.  I wish I had
ten good fairies to help me!"

"You shall have them, dear," said the
gray man, and he shook his strange gray
cloak.  Pouf!  Out hopped ten tiny fairies,
no bigger than that!

"These shall be your servants, Elsa,"
said the gray man; "they are faithful
and clever, and they will do everything
you want them to, just right.  But the
neighbors might stare and ask questions if
they saw these little chaps running about
your house, so I will hide them away for
you.  Give me your little useless hands."

Wondering, Elsa stretched out her pretty,
little, white hands.

"Now stretch out your little useless
fingers, dear!"

Elsa stretched out her pretty pink fingers.

The gray man touched each one of the
ten little fingers, and as he touched them
he said their names:  "Little Thumb; Fore-
finger; Thimble-finger; Ring-finger;
Little Finger; Little Thumb; Forefinger;
Thimble-finger; Ring-finger; Little Finger!"
And as he named the fingers, one
after another, the tiny fairies bowed their
tiny heads; there was a fairy for every
name.

"Hop! hide yourselves away!" said the
gray man.

Hop, hop!  The fairies sprang to Elsa's
knee, then to the palms of her hands, and
then-whisk! they were all hidden away
in her little pink fingers, a fairy in every
finger!  And the gray man was gone.

Elsa sat and looked with wonder at her
little white hands and the ten useless
fingers.  But suddenly the little fingers
began to stir.  The tiny fairies who were
hidden away there weren't used to staying
still, and they were getting restless.
They stirred so that Elsa jumped up and
ran to the cooking table, and took hold
of the bread board.  No sooner had she
touched the bread board than the little
fairies began to work: they measured the
flour, mixed the bread, kneaded the loaves,
and set them to rise, quicker than you
could wink; and when the bread was done,
it was the nicest you could wish.  Then the
little fairy-fingers seized the broom, and in
a twinkling they were making the house
clean.  And so it went, all day.  Elsa flew
about from one thing to another, and the
ten fairies did it all, just right.

When the maid saw her mistress working,
she began to work, too; and when she
saw how beautifully everything was done,
she was ashamed to do anything badly
herself.  In a little while the housework was
going smoothly, and Elsa could laugh and
sing again.

There was no more crossness in that
house.  Elsa's husband grew so proud of
her that he went about saying to everybody,
"My grandmother was a fine housekeeper,
and my mother was a fine housekeeper, but
neither of them could hold a candle to my
wife.  She has only one maid, but, to see
the work done, you would think she had
as many servants as she has fingers on her
hands!"

When Elsa heard that, she used to laugh,
but she never, never told.



THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER


Once upon a time there was an honest
shoemaker, who was very poor.  He worked
as hard as he could, and still he could not
earn enough to keep himself and his wife.
At last there came a day when he had
nothing left but one piece of leather, big
enough to make one pair of shoes.  He
cut out the shoes, ready to stitch, and left
them on the bench; then he said his prayers
and went to bed, trusting that he could
finish the shoes on the next day and sell
them.

Bright and early the next morning, he
rose and went to his work-bench.  There
lay a pair of shoes, beautifully made, and
the leather was gone!  There was no sign
of any one's having been there.  The shoemaker
and his wife did not know what to
make of it.  But the first customer who
came was so pleased with the beautiful
shoes that he bought them, and paid so
much that the shoemaker was able to buy
leather enough for two pairs.

Happily, he cut them out, and then, as
it was late, he left the pieces on the bench,
ready to sew in the morning.  But when
morning came, two pairs of shoes lay on the
bench, most beautifully made, and no sign
of any one who had been there.  The shoemaker
and his wife were quite at a loss.

That day a customer came and bought
both pairs, and paid so much for them that
the shoemaker bought leather for four
pairs, with the money.

Once more he cut out the shoes and left
them on the bench.  And in the morning
all four pairs were made.

It went on like this until the shoemaker
and his wife were prosperous people.  But
they could not be satisfied to have so much
done for them and not know to whom they
should be grateful.  So one night, after the
shoemaker had left the pieces of leather
on the bench, he and his wife hid themselves
behind a curtain, and left a light in
the room.

Just as the clock struck twelve the door
opened softly, and two tiny elves came
dancing into the room, hopped on to the
bench, and began to put the pieces
together.  They were quite naked, but they
had wee little scissors and hammers and
thread.  Tap! tap! went the little hammers;
stitch, stitch, went the thread, and
the little elves were hard at work.  No one
ever worked so fast as they.  In almost no
time all the shoes were stitched and
finished.  Then the tiny elves took hold of
each other's hands and danced round the
shoes on the bench, till the shoemaker and
his wife had hard work not to laugh aloud.
But as the clock struck two, the little
creatures whisked away out of the window,
and left the room all as it was before.

The shoemaker and his wife looked at
each other, and said, "How can we thank
the little elves who have made us happy
and prosperous?"

"I should like to make them some pretty
clothes," said the wife, "they are quite
naked."

"I will make the shoes if you will make
the coats," said her husband.

That very day they set about it.  The
wife cut out two tiny, tiny coats of green,
two weeny, weeny waistcoats of yellow,
two little pairs of trousers, of white, two
bits of caps, bright red (for every one
knows the elves love bright colors), and
her husband made two little pairs of shoes
with long, pointed toes.  They made the
wee clothes as dainty as could be, with
nice little stitches and pretty buttons; and
by Christmas time, they were finished.

On Christmas eve, the shoemaker cleaned
his bench, and on it, instead of leather,
he laid the two sets of gay little fairy-
clothes.  Then he and his wife hid away
as before, to watch.

Promptly at midnight, the little naked
elves came in.  They hopped upon the
bench; but when they saw the little clothes
there, they laughed and danced for joy.
Each one caught up his little coat and
things and began to put them on.  Then
they looked at each other and made all
kinds of funny motions in their delight.
At last they began to dance, and when
the clock struck two, they danced quite
away, out of the window.

They never came back any more, but
from that day they gave the shoemaker
and his wife good luck, so that they never
needed any more help.



WHO KILLED THE OTTER'S BABIES[1]?


[1] Adapted from the story as told in Fables and Folk Tales
From an Eastern Forest, by Walter Skeat.


Once the Otter came to the Mouse-deer
and said, "Friend Mouse-deer, will you
please take care of my babies while I go
to the river, to catch fish?"

"Certainly," said the Mouse-deer, "go
along."

But when the Otter came back from the
river, with a string of fish, he found his
babies crushed flat.

"What does this mean, Friend Mouse-
deer?" he said.  "Who killed my children
while you were taking care of them?"

"I am very sorry," said the Mouse-deer,
"but you know I am Chief Dancer of the
War-dance, and the Woodpecker came
and sounded the war-gong, so I danced.
I forgot your children, and trod on them."

"I shall go to King Solomon," said the
Otter, "and you shall be punished."

Soon the Mouse-deer was called before
King Solomon.

"Did you kill the Otter's babies?" said
the king.

"Yes, your Majesty," said the Mouse-
deer, "but I did not mean to."

"How did it happen?" said the king.

"Your Majesty knows," said the Mouse-
deer, "that I am Chief Dancer of the
War-dance.  The Woodpecker came and
sounded the war-gong, and I had to dance;
and as I danced I trod on the Otter's
children."

"Send for the Woodpecker," said King
Solomon.  And when the Woodpecker
came, he said to him, "Was it you who
sounded the war-gong?"

"Yes, your Majesty," said the Woodpecker,
"but I had to."

"Why?" said the king.

"Your Majesty knows," said the Woodpecker,
"that I am Chief Beater of the
War-gong, and I sounded the gong because
I saw the Great Lizard wearing his
sword."

"Send for the Great Lizard," said King
Solomon.  When the Great Lizard came,
he asked him, "Was it you who were wearing
your sword?"

"Yes, your Majesty," said the Great
Lizard; "but I had to."

"Why?" said the king.

"Your Majesty knows," said the Great
Lizard, "that I am Chief Protector of the
Sword.  I wore my sword because the
Tortoise came wearing his coat of mail."

So the Tortoise was sent for.

"Why did you wear your coat of mail?"
said the king.

"I put it on, your Majesty," said the
Tortoise, "because I saw the King-crab
trailing his three-edged pike."

Then the King-crab was sent for.

"Why were you trailing your three-
edged pike?" said King Solomon.

"Because, your Majesty," said the
Kingerab, "I saw that the Crayfish had
shouldered his lance."

Immediately the Crayfish was sent for.

"Why did you shoulder your lance?"
said the king.

"Because, your Majesty," said the
Crayfish, "I saw the Otter coming down to the
river to kill my children."

"Oh," said King Solomon, "if that is
the case, the Otter killed the Otter's children.
And the Mouse-deer cannot be
held, by the law of the land!"



EARLY[1]

[1] From The singing Leaves, by Josephine Preston Peabody
(Houghton, Mifflin and Co.).

 I like to lie and wait to see
   My mother braid her hair.
 It is as long as it can be,
   And yet she doesn't care.
 I love my mother's hair.

 And then the way her fingers go;
   They look so quick and white,--
 In and out, and to and fro,
   And braiding in the light,
 And it is always right.

 So then she winds it, shiny brown,
 Around her head into a crown,
   Just like the day before.
 And then she looks and pats it down,
   And looks a minute more;
 While I stay here all still and cool.
 Oh, isn't morning beautiful?



THE BRAHMIN, THE TIGER, AND THE JACKAL


Do you know what a Brahmin is?  A
Brahmin is a very good and gentle kind of
man who lives in India, and who treats all
the beasts as if they were his brothers.
There is a great deal more to know about
Brahmins, but that is enough for the story.

One day a Brahmin was walking along
a country road when he came upon a
Tiger, shut up in a strong iron cage.  The
villagers had caught him and shut him up
there for his wickedness.

"Oh, Brother Brahmin, Brother Brahmin,"
said the Tiger, "please let me out,
to get a little drink!  I am so thirsty, and
there is no water here."

"But Brother Tiger," said the Brahmin,
"you know if I should let you out, you
would spring on me and eat me up."

"Never, Brother Brahmin!" said the
Tiger.  "Never in the world would I do
such an ungrateful thing!  Just let me out
a little minute, to get a little, little drink
of water, Brother Brahmin!"

So the Brahmin unlocked the door and
let the Tiger out.  The moment he was
out he sprang on the Brahmin, and was
about to eat him up.

"But, Brother Tiger," said the Brahmin,
"you promised you would not.  It is not
fair or just that you should eat me, when
I set you free."

"It is perfectly right and just," said the
Tiger, "and I shall eat you up."

However, the Brahmin argued so hard
that at last the Tiger agreed to wait and
ask the first five whom they should meet,
whether it was fair for him to eat the
Brahmin, and to abide by their decision.

The first thing they came to, to ask,
was an old Banyan Tree, by the wayside.
(A banyan tree is a kind of fruit tree.)

"Brother Banyan," said the Brahmin,
eagerly, "does it seem to you right or just
that this Tiger should eat me, when I set
him free from his cage?"

The Banyan Tree looked down at them
and spoke in a tired voice.

"In the summer," he said, "when the
sun is hot, men come and sit in the cool of
my shade and refresh themselves with the
fruit of my branches.  But when evening
falls, and they are rested, they break my
twigs and scatter my leaves, and stone
my boughs for more fruit.  Men are an
ungrateful race.  Let the Tiger eat the
Brahmin."

The Tiger sprang to eat the Brahmin,
but the Brahmin said,--

"Wait, wait; we have asked only one.
We have still four to ask."

Presently they came to a place where an
old Bullock was lying by the road.  The
Brahmin went up to him and said,--

"Brother Bullock, oh, Brother Bullock,
does it seem to you a fair thing that this
Tiger should eat me up, after I have just
freed him from a cage?"

The Bullock looked up, and answered
in a deep, grumbling voice,--

"When I was young and strong my
master used me hard, and I served him
well.  I carried heavy loads and carried
them far.  Now that I am old and weak
and cannot work, he leaves me without
food or water, to die by the wayside.  Men
are a thankless lot.  Let the Tiger eat the
Brahmin."

The Tiger sprang, but the Brahmin
spoke very quickly:--

"Oh, but this is only the second, Brother
Tiger; you promised to ask five."

The Tiger grumbled a good deal, but at
last he went on again with the Brahmin.
And after a time they saw an Eagle, high
overhead.  The Brahmin called up to him
imploringly,--

"Oh, Brother Eagle, Brother Eagle!
Tell us if it seems to you fair that this
Tiger should eat me up, when I have just
saved him from a frightful cage?"

The Eagle soared slowly overhead a
moment, then he came lower, and spoke
in a thin, clear voice.

"I live high in the air," he said, "and I
do no man any harm.  Yet as often as they
find my eyrie, men stone my young and rob
my nest and shoot at me with arrows.
Men are a cruel breed.  Let the Tiger eat
the Brahmin!"

The Tiger sprang upon the Brahmin,
to eat him up; and this time the Brahmin
had very hard work to persuade him to
wait.  At last he did persuade him,
however, and they walked on together.  And
in a little while they saw an old Alligator,
lying half buried in mud and slime, at the
river's edge.

"Brother Alligator, oh, Brother Alligator!"
said the Brahmin, "does it seem
at all right or fair to you that this Tiger
should eat me up, when I have just now
let him out of a cage?"

The old Alligator turned in the mud,
and grunted, and snorted; then he said,

"I lie here in the mud all day, as
harmless as a pigeon; I hunt no man, yet every
time a man sees me, he throws stones at
me, and pokes me with sharp sticks, and
jeers at me.  Men are a worthless lot.  Let
the Tiger eat the Brahmin!"

At this the Tiger was bound to eat the
Brahmin at once.  The poor Brahmin
had to remind him, again and again, that
they had asked only four.

"Wait till we've asked one more!  Wait
until we see a fifth!" he begged.

Finally, the Tiger walked on with him.

After a time, they met the little Jackal,
coming gayly down the road toward them.

"Oh, Brother Jackal, dear Brother
Jackal," said the Brahmin, "give us your
opinion!  Do you think it right or fair that
this Tiger should eat me, when I set him
free from a terrible cage?"

"Beg pardon?" said the little Jackal.

"I said," said the Brahmin, raising his
voice, "do you think it is fair that the
Tiger should eat me, when I set him free
from his cage?"

"Cage?" said the little Jackal, vacantly.

"Yes, yes, his cage," said the Brahmin.
"We want your opinion.  Do you think--"

"Oh," said the little Jackal, "you want
my opinion?  Then may I beg you to speak
a little more loudly, and make the matter
quite clear?  I am a little slow of
understanding.  Now what was it?"

"Do you think," said the Brahmin, "it
is right for this Tiger to eat me, when I
set him free from his cage?"

"What cage?" said the little Jackal.

"Why, the cage he was in," said the
Brahmin.  "You see--"

"But I don't altogether understand,"
said the little Jackal, "You `set him free,'
you say?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" said the Brahmin.

"It was this way:  I was walking along,
and I saw the Tiger--"

"Oh, dear, dear!" interrupted the little
Jackal; "I never can see through it, if you
go on like that, with a long story.  If you
really want my opinion you must make the
matter clear.  What sort of cage was it?"

"Why, a big, ordinary cage, an iron
cage," said the Brahmin.

"That gives me no idea at all," said the
little Jackal.  "See here, my friends, if we
are to get on with this matter you'd best
show me the spot.  Then I can understand
in a jiffy.  Show me the cage."

So the Brahmin, the Tiger, and the little
Jackal walked back together to the spot
where the cage was.

"Now, let us understand the situation,"
said the little Jackal.  "Brahmin, where
were you?"

"I stood here by the roadside," said the
Brahmin.

"Tiger, where were you?" said the little
Jackal.

"Why, in the cage, of course," roared
the Tiger.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Father Tiger,"
said the little Jackal, "I really am SO stupid;
I cannot QUITE understand what happened.
If you will have a little patience,--HOW
were you in the cage?  What position
were you in?"

"I stood here," said the Tiger, leaping
into the cage, "with my head over my
shoulder, so."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," said the
little Jackal, "that makes it MUCH clearer;
but I still don't QUITE understand--forgive
my slow mind--why did you not come
out, by yourself?"

"Can't you see that the door shut me
in?" said the Tiger.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon," said the
little Jackal.  "I know I am very slow; I
can never understand things well unless I
see just how they were if you could show
me now exactly how that door works I am
sure I could understand.  How does it
shut?"

"It shuts like this," said the Brahmin,
pushing it to.

"Yes; but I don't see any lock," said
the little Jackal, "does it lock on the
outside?"

"It locks like this," said the Brahmin.
And he shut and bolted the door!

"Oh, does it, indeed?" said the little
Jackal.  "Does it, INDEED!  Well, Brother
Brahmin, now that it is locked, I should
advise you to let it stay locked!  As for
you, my friend," he said to the Tiger, "I
think you will wait a good while before
you'll find any one to let you out again!

Then he made a very low bow to the Brahmin.

"Good-by, Brother," he said.  "Your
way lies that way, and mine lies this;
good-by!"



THE LITTLE JACKAL AND THE CAMEL


All these stories about the little Jackal
that I have told you, show how clever the
little Jackal was.  But you know--if you
don't, you will when you are grown up--
that no matter how clever you are, sooner
or later you surely meet some one who is
cleverer.  It is always so in life.  And it
was so with the little Jackal.  This is what
happened.

The little Jackal was, as you know,
exceedingly fond of shell-fish, especially of
river crabs.  Now there came a time when
he had eaten all the crabs to be found on
his own side of the river.  He knew there
must be plenty on the other side, if he
could only get to them, but he could not
swim.

One day he thought of a plan.  He went
to his friend the Camel, and said,--

"Friend Camel, I know a spot where the
sugar-cane grows thick; I'll show you the
way, if you will take me there."

"Indeed I will," said the Camel, who
was very fond of sugar-cane.  "Where is
it?"

"It is on the other side of the river,"
said the little Jackal; "but we can manage
it nicely, if you will take me on your back
and swim over."

The Camel was perfectly willing, so the
little Jackal jumped on his back, and the
Camel swam across the river, carrying him.
When they were safely over, the little Jackal
jumped down and showed the Camel the
sugar-cane field; then he ran swiftly
along the river bank, to hunt for crabs;
the Camel began to eat sugar-cane.  He ate
happily, and noticed nothing around him.

Now, you know, a Camel is very big,
and a Jackal is very little.  Consequently,
the little Jackal had eaten his fill by the
time the Camel had barely taken a mouthful.
The little Jackal had no mind to wait
for his slow friend; he wanted to be off
home again, about his business.  So he ran
round and round the sugar-cane field, and
as he ran he sang and shouted, and made
a great hullabaloo.

Of course, the villagers heard him at
once.

"There is a Jackal in the sugar-cane,"
they said; "he will dig holes and destroy
the roots; we must go down and drive him
out."  So they came down, with sticks and
stones.  When they got there, there was no
Jackal to be seen; but they saw the great
Camel, eating away at the juicy sugar-
cane.  They ran at him and beat him, and
stoned him, and drove him away half
dead.

When they had gone, leaving the poor
Camel half killed, the little Jackal came
dancing back from somewhere or other.

"I think it's time to go home, now," he
said; "don't you?"

"Well, you ARE a pretty friend!" said the
Camel.  "The idea of your making such
a noise, with your shouting and singing!
You brought this upon me.  What in the
world made you do it?  Why did you shout
and sing?"

"Oh, I don't know WHY," said the little
Jackal,--"I always sing after dinner!"

"So?" said the Camel, "Ah, very well,
let us go home now."

He took the little Jackal kindly on his
back and started into the water.  When
he began to swim he swam out to where
the river was the very deepest.  There he
stopped, and said,--

"Oh, Jackal!"

"Yes," said the little Jackal.

"I have the strangest feeling," said the
Camel,--"I feel as if I must roll over."

"`Roll over'!" cried the Jackal.  "My
goodness, don't do that!  If you do that,
you'll drown me!  What in the world makes
you want to do such a crazy thing?  Why
should you want to roll over?"

"Oh, I don't know WHY," said the Camel
slowly, "but I always roll over after dinner!"

So he rolled over.

And the little Jackal was drowned, for
his sins, but the Camel came safely home.



THE GULLS OF SALT LAKE


The story I am going to tell you is about
something that really happened, many
years ago, when most of the mothers and
fathers of the children here were not born,
themselves.  At that time, nearly all the
people in the United States lived between
the Atlantic Ocean and the Mississippi
River.  Beyond were plains, reaching to the
foot of the mighty Rocky Mountains, where
Indians and wild beasts roamed.  The only
white men there were a few hunters and
trappers.

One year a brave little company of people
traveled across the plains in big covered
wagons with many horses, and finally
succeeded in climbing to the top of the
great Rockies and down again into a valley
in the very midst of the mountains.  It
was a valley of brown, bare, desert soil,
in a climate where almost no rain falls;
but the snows on the mountain-tops sent
down little streams of pure water, the winds
were gentle, and lying like a blue jewel at
the foot of the western hills was a marvelous
lake of salt water,--an inland sea.
So the pioneers settled there and built them
huts and cabins for the first winter.

It had taken them many months to make
the terrible journey; many had died of
weariness and illness on the way; many
died of hardship during the winter; and the
provisions they had brought in their wagons
were so nearly gone that, by spring, they
were living partly on roots, dug from the
ground.  All their lives now depended on
the crops of grain and vegetables which
they could raise in the valley.  They made
the barren land good by spreading water
from the little streams over it,--what we
call "irrigating;" and they planted enough
corn and grain and vegetables for all the
people.  Every one helped, and every one
watched for the sprouting, with hopes, and
prayers, and careful eyes.

In good time the seeds sprouted, and
the dry, brown earth was covered with a
carpet of tender, green, growing things.
No farmer's garden at home in the East
could have looked better than the great
garden of the desert valley.  And from day
to day the little shoots grew and flourished
till they were all well above the ground.

Then a terrible thing happened.  One
day the men who were watering the crops
saw a great number of crickets swarming
over the ground at the edge of the gardens
nearest the mountains.  They were hopping
from the barren places into the young,
green crops, and as they settled down they
ate the tiny shoots and leaves to the ground.
More came, and more, and ever more, and
as they came they spread out till they
covered a big corner of the grain field.  And
still more and more, till it was like an
army of black, hopping, crawling crickets,
streaming down the side of the mountain
to kill the crops.

The men tried to kill the crickets by
beating the ground, but the numbers were
so great that it was like beating at the sea.
Then they ran and told the terrible news,
and all the village came to help.  They
started fires; they dug trenches and filled
them with water; they ran wildly about in
the fields, killing what they could.  But
while they fought in one place new armies
of crickets marched down the mountain-
sides and attacked the fields in other places.
And at last the people fell on their knees
and wept and cried in despair, for they saw
starvation and death in the fields.

A few knelt to pray.  Others gathered
round and joined them, weeping.  More
left their useless struggles and knelt
beside their neighbors.  At last nearly all the
people were kneeling on the desolate fields
praying for deliverance from the plague of
crickets.

Suddenly, from far off in the air toward
the great salt lake, there was the sound
of flapping wings.  It grew louder.  Some
of the people looked up, startled.  They
saw, like a white cloud rising from the lake,
a flock of sea gulls flying toward them.
Snow-white in the sun, with great wings
beating and soaring, in hundreds and
hundreds, they rose and circled and came on.

"The gulls! the gulls!" was the cry.
"What does it mean?"

The gulls flew overhead, with a shrill
chorus of whimpering cries, and then, in
a marvelous white cloud of spread wings
and hovering breasts, they settled down
over the seeded ground.

"Oh! woe! woe!" cried the people.
"The gulls are eating what the crickets
have left! they will strip root and branch!"

But all at once, some one called out,--

"No, no!  See! they are eating the
crickets!  They are eating only the crickets!"

It was true.  The gulls devoured the
crickets in dozens, in hundreds, in swarms.
They ate until they were gorged, and then
they flew heavily back to the lake, only to
come again with new appetite.  And when
at last they finished, they had stripped the
fields of the cricket army; and the people
were saved.

To this day, in the beautiful city of Salt
Lake, which grew out of that pioneer village,
the little children are taught to love
the sea gulls.  And when they learn drawing
and weaving in the schools, their first
design is often a picture of a cricket and a
gull.




THE NIGHTINGALE[1]


[1] Adapted from Hans Christian Andersen.


A long, long time ago, as long ago as when
there were fairies, there lived an emperor
in China, who had a most beautiful palace,
all made of crystal.  Outside the palace
was the loveliest garden in the whole world,
and farther away was a forest where the
trees were taller than any other trees in the
world, and farther away, still, was a deep
wood.  And in this wood lived a little
Nightingale.  The Nightingale sang so
beautifully that everybody who heard her
remembered her song better than anything
else that he heard or saw.  People came
from all over the world to see the crystal
palace and the wonderful garden and the
great forest; but when they went home
and wrote books about these things they
always wrote, "But the Nightingale is the
best of all."

At last it happened that the Emperor
came upon a book which said this, and he
at once sent for his Chamberlain.

"Who is this Nightingale?" said the
Emperor.  "Why have I never heard him
sing?"

The Chamberlain, who was a very
important person, said, "There cannot be
any such person; I have never heard his
name."

"The book says there is a Nightingale,"
said the Emperor.  "I command that the
Nightingale be brought here to sing for me
this evening."

The Chamberlain went out and asked
all the great lords and ladies and pages
where the Nightingale could be found, but
not one of them had ever heard of him.
So the Chamberlain went back to the Emperor
and said, "There is no such person."

"The book says there is a Nightingale,"
said the Emperor; "if the Nightingale is
not here to sing for me this evening I will
have the court trampled upon, immediately
after supper."

The Chamberlain did not want to be
trampled upon, so he ran out and asked
everybody in the palace about the Nightingale.
At last, a little girl who worked in
the kitchen to help the cook's helper, said,
"Oh, yes, I know the Nightingale very
well.  Every night, when I go to carry
scraps from the kitchen to my mother,
who lives in the wood beyond the forest,
I hear the Nightingale sing."

The Chamberlain asked the little cook-
maid to take him to the Nightingale's
home, and many of the lords and ladies
followed after.  When they had gone a
little way, they heard a cow moo.

"Ah!" said the lords and ladies, "that
must be the Nightingale; what a large
voice for so small a creature!"

"Oh, no," said the little girl, "that is
just a cow, mooing."

A little farther on they heard some bull-
frogs, in a swamp.  "Surely that is the
Nightingale," said the courtiers; "it really
sounds like church-bells!"

"Oh, no," said the little girl, "those are
bullfrogs, croaking."

At last they came to the wood where the
Nightingale was.  "Hush!" said the little
girl, "she is going to sing."  And, sure
enough, the little Nightingale began to
sing.  She sang so beautifully that you
have never in all your life heard anything
like it.

"Dear, dear," said the courtiers, "that
is very pleasant; does that little gray bird
really make all that noise?  She is so pale
that I think she has lost her color for fear
of us."

The Chamberlain asked the little Nightingale
to come and sing for the Emperor.
The little Nightingale said she could sing
better in her own greenwood, but she was
so sweet and kind that she came with them.

That evening the palace was all trimmed
with the most beautiful flowers you can
imagine, and rows and rows of little silver
bells, that tinkled when the wind blew
in, and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds
of wax candles, that shone like tiny
stars.  In the great hall there was a gold
perch for the Nightingale, beside the
Emperor's throne.

When all the people were there, the
Emperor asked the Nightingale to sing.  Then
the little gray Nightingale filled her throat
full, and sang.  And, my dears, she sang
so beautifully that the Emperor's eyes
filled up with tears!  And, you know,
emperors do not cry at all easily.  So he asked
her to sing again, and this time she sang
so marvelously that the tears came out of
his eyes and ran down his cheeks.  That
was a great success.  They asked the little
Nightingale to sing, over and over again,
and when they had listened enough the
Emperor said that she should be made
"Singer in Chief to the Court."  She was
to have a golden perch near the Emperor's
bed, and a little gold cage, and was
to be allowed to go out twice every day.
But there were twelve servants appointed
to wait on her, and those twelve servants
went with her every time she went out, and
each of the twelve had hold of the end
of a silken string which was tied to the
little Nightingale's leg!  It was not so very
much fun to go out that way!

For a long, long time the Nightingale
sang every evening to the Emperor and his
court, and they liked her so much that
the ladies all tried to sound like her; they
used to put water in their mouths and then
make little sounds like this: glu-glu-glug.
And when the courtiers met each other in
the halls, one would say "Night," and
the other would say "ingale," and that
was conversation.

At last, one day, there came a little package
to the Emperor, on the outside of which
was written, "The Nightingale."  Inside
was an artificial bird, something like a
Nightingale, only it was made of gold, and
silver, and rubies, and emeralds, and
diamonds.  When it was wound up it played
a waltz tune, and as it played it moved its
little tail up and down.  Everybody in the
court was filled with delight at the music
of the new nightingale.  They made it sing
that same tune thirty-three times, and still
they had not had enough.  They would
have made it sing the tune thirty-four times,
but the Emperor said, "I should like to
hear the real Nightingale sing, now."

But when they looked about for the real
little Nightingale, they could not find her
anywhere!  She had taken the chance,
while everybody was listening to the waltz
tunes, to fly away through the window to
her own greenwood.

"What a very ungrateful bird!" said the
lords and ladies.  "But it does not matter;
the new nightingale is just as good."

So the artificial nightingale was given
the real Nightingale's little gold perch, and
every night the Emperor wound her up,
and she sang waltz tunes to him.  The
people in the court liked her even better
than the old Nightingale, because they
could all whistle her tunes,--which you
can't do with real nightingales.

About a year after the artificial nightingale
came, the Emperor was listening to
her waltz-tune, when there was a SNAP
and WHIR-R-R inside the bird, and the music
stopped.  The Emperor ran to his doctor
but he could not do anything.  Then he
ran to his clock-maker, but he could not
do much.  Nobody could do much.  The
best they could do was to patch the gold
nightingale up so that it could sing once
a year; even that was almost too much,
and the tune was pretty shaky.  Still, the
Emperor kept the gold nightingale on the
perch in his own room.

A long time went by, and then, at last,
the Emperor grew very ill, and was about
to die.  When it was sure that he could
not live much longer, the people chose a
new emperor and waited for the old one
to die.  The poor Emperor lay, quite cold
and pale, in his great big bed, with velvet
curtains, and tall candlesticks all about.
He was quite alone, for all the courtiers
had gone to congratulate the new emperor,
and all the servants had gone to talk it
over.

When the Emperor woke up, he felt a
terrible weight on his chest.  He opened
his eyes, and there was Death, sitting on
his heart.  Death had put on the Emperor's
gold crown, and he had the gold sceptre in
one hand, and the silken banner in the
other; and he looked at the Emperor with
his great hollow eyes.  The room was full
of shadows, and the shadows were full of
faces.  Everywhere the Emperor looked,
there were faces.  Some were very, very
ugly, and some were sweet and lovely;
they were all the things the Emperor had
done in his life, good and bad.  And as he
looked at them they began to whisper.
They whispered, "DO YOU REMEMBER THIS?"
"DO YOU REMEMBER THAT?"  The Emperor
remembered so much that he cried out loud,
"Oh, bring the great drum!  Make music,
so that I may not hear these dreadful
whispers!"  But there was nobody there
to bring the drum.

Then the Emperor cried, "You little
gold nightingale, can you not sing something
for me?  I have given you gifts of
gold and jewels, and kept you always by
my side; will you not help me now?"  But
there was nobody to wind the little gold
nightingale up, and of course it could not
sing.

The Emperor's heart grew colder and
colder where Death crouched upon it,
and the dreadful whispers grew louder and
louder, and the Emperor's life was almost
gone.  Suddenly, through the open window,
there came a most lovely song.  It was so
sweet and so loud that the whispers died
quite away.  Presently the Emperor felt
his heart grow warm, then he felt the blood
flow through his limbs again; he listened
to the song until the tears ran down his
cheeks; he knew that it was the little real
Nightingale who had flown away from him
when the gold nightingale came.

Death was listening to the song, too;
and when it was done and the Emperor
begged for more, Death, too, said, "Please
sing again, little Nightingale!"

"Will you give me the Emperor's gold
crown for a song?" said the little Nightingale.

"Yes," said Death; and the little Nightingale
bought the Emperor's crown for a song.

"Oh, sing again, little Nightingale,"
begged Death.

"Will you give me the Emperor's sceptre
for another song?" said the little gray
Nightingale.

"Yes," said Death; and the little Nightingale
bought the Emperor's sceptre for
another song.

Once more Death begged for a song,
and this time the little Nightingale got the
banner for her singing.  Then she sang one
more song, so sweet and so sad that it
made Death think of his garden in the
churchyard, where he always liked best
to be.  And he rose from the Emperor's
heart and floated away through the window.

When Death was gone, the Emperor
said to the little Nightingale, "Oh, dear
little Nightingale, you have saved me from
Death!  Do not leave me again.  Stay with
me on this little gold perch, and sing to me
always!"


"No, dear Emperor," said the little
Nightingale, "I sing best when I am free;
I cannot live in a palace.  But every night
when you are quite alone, I will come
and sit in the window and sing to you, and
tell you everything that goes on in your
kingdom: I will tell you where the poor
people are who ought to be helped, and
where the wicked people are who ought
to be punished.  Only, dear Emperor, be
sure that you never let anybody know that
you have a little bird who tells you everything."

After the little Nightingale had flown
away, the Emperor felt so well and strong
that he dressed himself in his royal robes
and took his gold sceptre in his hand.
And when the courtiers came in to see if he
were dead, there stood the Emperor with
his sword in one hand and his sceptre in
the other, and said, "Good-morning!"



MARGERY'S GARDEN[1]

[1] I have always been inclined to avoid, in my work among
children, the "how to make" and "how to do" kind of story;
it is too likely to trespass on the ground belonging by right to
its more artistic and less intentional kinsfolk.  Nevertheless,
there is a legitimate place for the instruction-story.  Within
its own limits, and especially in a school use, it has a real
purpose to serve, and a real desire to meet.  Children have a
genuine taste for such morsels of practical information, if the
bites aren't made too big and too solid.  And to the teacher of
the first grades, from whom so much is demanded in the way of
practical instruction, I know that these stories are a boon.
They must be chosen with care, and used with discretion, but they
need never be ignored.

I venture to give some little stories of this type, which I hope
may be of use in the schools where country life and country
work is an unknown experience to the children.


There was once a little girl named Margery,
who had always lived in the city.
The flat where her mother and father lived
was at the top of a big apartment-house,
and you couldn't see a great deal from the
windows, except clothes-lines on other people's
roofs.  Margery did not know much
about trees and flowers, but she loved
them dearly; whenever it was a pleasant
Sunday she used to go with her mother
and father to the park and look at the
lovely flower-beds.  They seemed always
to be finished, though, and Margery
was always wishing she could see them
grow.

One spring, when Margery was nine,
her father's work changed so that he could
move into the country, and he took a little
house a short distance outside the town
where his new position was.  Margery was
delighted.  And the very first thing she
said, when her father told her about it,
was, "Oh, may I have a garden?  MAY
I have a garden?"

Margery's mother was almost as eager
for a garden as she was, and Margery's
father said he expected to live on their
vegetables all the rest of his life!  So it was
soon agreed that the garden should be the
first thing attended to.

Behind the little house were apple trees,
a plum tree, and two or three pear trees;
then came a stretch of rough grass, and
then a stone wall, with a gate leading into
the pasture.  It was in the grassy land that
the garden was to be.  A big piece was to be
used for corn and peas and beans, and a
little piece at the end was to be saved for
Margery.

"What shall we have in it?" asked her
mother.

"Flowers," said Margery, with shining
eyes,--"blue, and white, and yellow, and
pink,--every kind of flower!"

"Surely, flowers," said her mother,
"and shall we not have a little salad garden
in the midst, as they do in England?"

"What is a salad garden?" Margery asked.

"It is a garden where you have all the
things that make nice salad," said her
mother, laughing, for Margery was fond of
salads; "you have lettuce, and endive, and
romaine, and parsley, and radishes, and
cucumbers, and perhaps little beets and
young onions."

"Oh! how good it sounds!" said
Margery.  "I vote for the salad garden."

That very evening, Margery's father took
pencil and paper, and drew out a plan for
her garden; first, they talked it all over,
then he drew what they decided on; it
looked like the diagram on the next page.

"The outside strip is for flowers," said
Margery's father, "and the next marks
mean a footpath, all the way round the
beds; that is so you can get at the flowers
to weed and to pick; there is a wider path
through the middle, and the rest is all for
rows of salad vegetables."

"Papa, it is glorious!" said Margery.

Papa laughed.  "I hope you will still
think it glorious when the weeding time
comes," he said, "for you know, you and
mother have promised to take care of this
garden, while I take care of the big one."

"I wouldn't NOT take care of it for
anything!" said Margery.  "I want to feel that
it is my very own."

Her father kissed her, and said it was
certainly her "very own."

Two evenings after that, when Margery
was called in from her first ramble in a
"really, truly pasture," she found the
expressman at the door of the little house.

"Something for you, Margery," said
her mother, with the look she had when
something nice was happening.

It was a box, quite a big box, with a
label on it that said:--

               MISS MARGERY BROWN,
               WOODVILLE, MASS.

From Seeds and Plants Company, Boston.


Margery could hardly wait to open it.
It was filled with little packages, all with
printed labels; and in the packages, of
course, were seeds.  It made Margery
dance, just to read the names,--nasturtium,
giant helianthus, coreopsis, calendula,
Canterbury bells: more names than
I can tell you, and other packages,
bigger, that said, "Peas: Dwarf Telephone,"
and "Sweet Corn," and such things!  Margery
could almost smell the posies, she
was so excited.  Only, she had seen so
little of flowers that she did not always
know what the names meant.  She did not
know that a helianthus was a sunflower
till her mother told her, and she had never
seen the dear, blue, bell-shaped flowers
that always grow in old-fashioned gardens,
and are called Canterbury bells.  She
thought the calendula must be a strange,
grand flower, by its name; but her mother
told her it was the gay, sturdy, every-dayish
little posy called a marigold.  There was
a great deal for a little city girl to be
surprised about, and it did seem as if morning
was a long way off!

"Did you think you could plant them in
the morning?" asked her mother.  "You
know, dear, the ground has to be made
ready first; it takes a little time,--it may
be several days before you can plant."

That was another surprise.  Margery
had thought she could begin to sow the
seed right off.

But this was what was done.  Early the
next morning, a man came driving into
the yard, with two strong white horses; in
his wagon was a plough.  I suppose you
have seen ploughs, but Margery never had,
and she watched with great interest, while
the man and her father took the plough from
the cart and harnessed the horses to it.
It was a great, three-cornered piece of
sharp steel, with long handles coming up
from it, so that a man could hold it in
place.  It looked like this:--

"I brought a two-horse plough because
it's green land," the man said.  Margery
wondered what in the world he meant; it
was green grass, of course, but what had
that to do with the kind of plough?  "What
does he mean, father?" she whispered,
when she got a chance.  "He means that
this land has not been ploughed before, or
not for many years; it will be hard to turn
the soil, and one horse could not pull the
plough," said her father.  So Margery had
learned what "green land" was.

The man was for two hours ploughing
the little strip of land.  He drove the sharp
end of the plough into the soil, and held it
firmly so, while the horses dragged it along
in a straight line.  Margery found it
fascinating to see the long line of dark earth
and green grass come rolling up and turn
over, as the knife passed it.  She could see
that it took real skill and strength to keep
the line even, and to avoid the stones.
Sometimes the plough struck a hidden stone,
and then the man was jerked almost off
his feet.  But he only laughed, and said,
"Tough piece of land; be a lot better the
second year."

When he had ploughed, the man went
back to his cart and unloaded another
farm implement.  This one was like a
three-cornered platform of wood, with a
long, curved, strong rake under it.  It was
called a harrow, and it looked like this:--

The man harnessed the horses to it, and
then he stood on the platform and drove all
over the strip of land.  It was fun to watch,
but perhaps it was a little hard to do.  The
man's weight kept the harrow steady, and
let the teeth of the rake scratch and cut
the ground up, so that it did not stay in
ridges.

"He scrambles the ground, father!"
said Margery.

"It needs scrambling," laughed her
father.  "We are going to get more weeds
than we want on this green land, and the
more the ground is broken, the fewer there
will be."

After the ploughing and harrowing, the
man drove off, and Margery's father said
he would do the rest of the work in the
late afternoons, when he came home from
business; they could not afford too much
help, he said, and he had learned to take
care of a garden when he was a boy.  So
Margery did not see any more done until
the next day.

But the next day there was hard work
for Margery's father!  Every bit of that
"scrambled" turf had to be broken up
still more with a mattock and a spade,
and then the pieces which were full of
grass-roots had to be taken on a fork and
shaken, till the earth fell out; then the
grass was thrown to one side.  That would
not have had to be done if the land had
been ploughed in the fall; the grass would
have rotted in the ground, and would have
made fertilizer for the plants.  Now,
Margery's father put the fertilizer on the top,
and then raked it into the earth.

At last, it was time to make the place for
the seeds.  Margery and her mother helped.
Father tied one end of a cord to a little
stake, and drove the stake in the ground
at one end of the garden.  Then he took
the cord to the other end of the garden
and pulled it tight, tied it to another stake,
and drove that down.  That made a straight
line for him to see.  Then he hoed a trench,
a few inches deep, the whole length of the
cord, and scattered fertilizer in it.  Pretty
soon the whole garden was in lines of
little trenches.

"Now for the corn," said father.

Margery ran and brought the seed
box, and found the package of corn.  It
looked like kernels of gold, when it was
opened.

"May I help?" Margery asked, when
she saw how pretty it was.

"If you watch me sow one row, I think
you can do the next," said her father.

So Margery watched.  Her father took a
handful of kernels, and, stooping, walked
slowly along the line, letting the kernels
fall, five or six at a time, in spots about a
foot apart; he swung his arm with a gentle,
throwing motion, and the golden seeds
trickled out like little showers, very
exactly.  It was pretty to watch; it made
Margery think of a photograph her teacher
had, a photograph of a famous picture
called "The Sower."  Perhaps you have
seen it.

Putting in the seed was not so easy to do
as to watch; sometimes Margery got in too
much, and sometimes not enough; but
her father helped fix it, and soon she did
better.

They planted peas, beans, spinach,
carrots, and parsnips.  And Margery's father
made a row of holes, after that, for the
tomato plants.  He said those had to be
transplanted; they could not be sown from
seed.

When the seeds were in the trenches
they had to be covered up, and Margery
really helped at that.  It is fun to do it.
You stand beside the little trench and
walk backward, and as you walk you hoe
the loose earth back over the seeds; the
same dirt that was hoed up you pull back
again.  Then you rake very gently over
the surface, with the back of a rake, to
even it all off.  Margery liked it, because
now the garden began to look LIKE a
garden.

But best of all was the work next day,
when her own little particular garden was
begun.  Father Brown loved Margery and
Margery's mother so much that he wanted
their garden to be perfect, and that meant
a great deal more work.  He knew very
well that the old grass would begin to
come through again on such "green"
soil, and that it would make terribly hard
weeding.  He was not going to have any
such thing for his two "little girls," as he
called them.  So he fixed that little garden
very fine!  This is what he did.

After he had thrown out all the turf, he
shoveled clean earth on to the garden,--
as much as three solid inches of it; not a
bit of grass was in that.  Then it was ready
for raking and fertilizing, and for the lines.
The little footpaths were marked out by
Father Brown's feet; Margery and her
mother laughed well when they saw it, for
it looked like some kind of dance.  Mr.
Brown had seen gardeners do it when he
was a little boy, and he did it very nicely:
he walked along the sides of the square,
with one foot turned a little out, and the
other straight, taking such tiny steps that
his feet touched each other all the time.
This tramped out a path just wide enough
for a person to walk.

The wider path was marked with lines
and raked.

Margery thought, of course, all the
flowers would be put in as the vegetables
were; but she found that it was not so.
For some, her father poked little holes
with his finger; for some, he made very
shallow ditches; and some very small seeds
were just scattered lightly over the top of
the ground.

Margery and her mother had taken so
much pains in thinking out how the flowers
would look prettiest, that maybe you will
like to hear just how they designed that
garden.  At the back were the sweet peas,
which would grow tall, like a screen; on the
two sides, for a kind of hedge, were yellow
sunflowers; and along the front edge were
the gay nasturtiums.  Margery planned
that, so that she could look into the garden
from the front, but have it shut away
from the vegetable patch by the tall flowers
on the sides.  The two front corners
had coreopsis in them.  Coreopsis is a tall,
pretty, daisy-like flower, very dainty and
bright.  And then, in little square patches
all round the garden, were planted white
sweet alyssum, blue bachelor's buttons,
yellow marigolds, tall larkspur, many-
colored asters and zinnias.  All these lovely
flowers used to grow in our grandmothers'
gardens, and if you don't know what they
look like, I hope you can find out next
summer.

Between the flowers and the middle
path went the seeds for that wonderful
salad garden; all the things Mrs. Brown
had named to Margery were there.  Margery
had never seen anything so cunning
as the little round lettuce-seeds.  They
looked like tiny beads; it did not seem
possible that green lettuce leaves could
come from those.  But they surely would.

Mother and father and Margery were
all late to supper that evening.  But they
were all so happy that it did not matter.
The last thing Margery thought of, as she
went to sleep at night, was the dear,
smooth little garden, with its funny foot-
path, and with the little sticks standing
at the end of the rows, labeled "lettuce,"
"beets," "helianthus," and so on.

"I have a garden!  I have a garden!"
thought Margery, and then she went off
to dreamland.



THE LITTLE COTYLEDONS


This is another story about Margery's
garden.

The next morning after the garden was
planted, Margery was up and out at six
o'clock.  She could not wait to look at her
garden.  To be sure, she knew that the
seeds could not sprout in a single night,
but she had a feeling that SOMETHING might
happen while she was not looking.  The
garden was just as smooth and brown as
the night before, and no little seeds were
in sight.

But a very few mornings after that,
when Margery went out, there was a funny
little crack opening up through the earth,
the whole length of the patch.  Quickly
she knelt down in the footpath, to see.
Yes!  Tiny green leaves, a whole row of
them, were pushing their way through the
crust!  Margery knew what she had put
there: it was the radish-row; these must
be radish leaves.  She examined them very
closely, so that she might know a radish
next time.  The little leaves, no bigger
than half your little-finger nail, grew in
twos,--two on each tiny stem; they were
almost round.

Margery flew back to her mother, to say
that the first seeds were up.  And her
mother, nearly as excited as Margery,
came to look at the little crack.

Each day, after that, the row of radishes
grew, till, in a week, it stood as high as
your finger, green and sturdy.  But about
the third day, while Margery was stooping
over the radishes, she saw something very,
very small and green, peeping above
ground, where the lettuce was planted.
Could it be weeds?  No, for on looking
very closely she saw that the wee leaves
faintly marked a regular row.  They did
not make a crack, like the radishes; they
seemed too small and too far apart to push
the earth up like that.  Margery leaned
down and looked with all her eyes at the
baby plants.  The tiny leaves grew two on
a stem, and were almost round.  The more
she looked at them the more it seemed to
Margery that they looked exactly as the
radish looked when it first came up.  "Do
you suppose," Margery said to herself,
"that lettuce and radish look alike?  They
don't look alike in the market!"

Day by day the lettuce grew, and soon
the little round leaves were easier to
examine; they certainly were very much like
radish leaves.

Then, one morning, while she was
searching the ground for signs of seeds,
Margery discovered the beets.  In irregular
patches on the row, hints of green were
coming.  The next day and the next they
grew, until the beet leaves were big enough
to see.

Margery looked.  Then she looked again.
Then she wrinkled her forehead.  "Can
we have made a mistake?" she thought.
"Do you suppose we can have planted all
radishes?"

For those little beet leaves were almost
round, and they grew two on a stem,
precisely like the lettuce and the radish;
except for the size, all three rows looked alike.

It was too much for Margery.  She ran to
the house and found her father.  Her little
face was so anxious that he thought something
unpleasant had happened.  "Papa,"
she said, all out of breath, "do you think
we could have made a mistake about my
garden?  Do you think we could have put
radishes in all the rows?"

Father laughed.  "What makes you
think such a thing?" he asked.

"Papa," said Margery, "the little leaves
all look exactly alike! every plant has just
two tiny leaves on it, and shaped the same;
they are roundish, and grow out of the
stem at the same place."

Papa's eyes began to twinkle.  "Many
of the dicotyledonous plants look alike at
the beginning," he said, with a little drawl
on the big word.  That was to tease Margery,
because she always wanted to know
the big words she heard.

"What's `dicotyledonous'?" said
Margery, carefully.

"Wait till I come home to-night, dear,"
said her father, "and I'll tell you."

That evening Margery was waiting
eagerly for him, when her father finished
his supper.  Together they went to the
garden, and father examined the seedlings
carefully.  Then he pulled up a little
radish plant and a tiny beet.

"These little leaves," he said, "are not
the real leaves of the plant; they are only
little food-supply leaves, little pockets to
hold food for the plant to live on till it gets
strong enough to push up into the air.  As
soon as the real leaves come out and begin
to draw food from the air, these little
substitutes wither up and fall off.  These two
lie folded up in the little seed from the
beginning, and are full of plant food.  They
don't have to be very special in shape, you
see, because they don't stay on the plant
after it is grown up."

"Then every plant looks like this at
first?" said Margery.

"No, dear, not every one; plants are
divided into two kinds: those which have
two food leaves, like these plants, and
those which have only one; these are called
dicotyledonous, and the ones which have
but one food leaf are monocotyledonous.
Many of the dicotyledons look alike."

"I think that is interesting," said
Margery.  "I always supposed the plants were
different from the minute they began to
grow."

"Indeed, no," said father.  "Even some
of the trees look like this when they first
come through; you would not think a
birch tree could look like a vegetable or a
flower, would you?  But it does, at first;
it looks so much like these things that in
the great nurseries, where trees are raised
for forests and parks, the workmen have
to be very carefully trained, or else they
would pull up the trees when they are
weeding.  They have to be taught the
difference between a birch tree and a weed."

"How funny!" said Margery dimpling.

"Yes, it sounds funny," said father;
"but you see, the birch tree is dicotyledonous,
and so are many weeds, and the
dicotyledons look much alike at first."

"I am glad to know that, father," said
Margery, soberly.  "I believe maybe I shall
learn a good deal from living in the country;
don't you think so?"

Margery's father took her in his arms.
"I hope so, dear," he said; "the country
is a good place for little girls."

And that was all that happened, that day.



THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE[1]

[1] Very freely adapted from one of the Fables of Bidpai.


Once upon a time, a Tortoise lived in a
pond with two Ducks, who were her very
good friends.  She enjoyed the company
of the Ducks, because she could talk with
them to her heart's content; the Tortoise
liked to talk.  She always had something
to say, and she liked to hear herself say it.


After many years of this pleasant living,
the pond became very low, in a dry season;
and finally it dried up.  The two Ducks
saw that they could no longer live there,
so they decided to fly to another region,
where there was more water.  They went
to the Tortoise to bid her good-by.

"Oh, don't leave me behind!" begged
the Tortoise.  "Take me with you; I must
die if I am left here."

"But you cannot fly!" said the Ducks.
"How can we take you with us?"

"Take me with you! take me with you!"
said the Tortoise.

The Ducks felt so sorry for her that at
last they thought of a way to take her.
"We have thought of a way which will
be possible," they said, "if only you can
manage to keep still long enough.  We will
each take hold of one end of a stout stick,
and do you take the middle in your mouth;
then we will fly up in the air with you and
carry you with us.  But remember not to
talk!  If you open your mouth, you are
lost."

The Tortoise said she would not say a
word; she would not so much as move her
mouth; and she was very grateful.  So the
Ducks brought a strong little stick and
took hold of the ends, while the Tortoise
bit firmly on the middle.  Then the two
Ducks rose slowly in the air and flew away
with their burden.

When they were above the treetops,
the Tortoise wanted to say, "How high
we are!"  But she remembered, and kept
still.  When they passed the church steeple
she wanted to say, "What is that which
shines?"  But she remembered, and held
her peace.  Then they came over the village
square, and the people looked up and
saw them.  "Look at the Ducks carrying
a Tortoise!" they shouted; and every one
ran to look.  The Tortoise wanted to say,
"What business is it of yours?"  But she
didn't.  Then she heard the people shout,
"Isn't it strange!  Look at it!  Look!"

The Tortoise forgot everything except
that she wanted to say, "Hush, you foolish
people!"  She opened her mouth,--
and fell to the ground.  And that was the
end of the Tortoise.

It is a very good thing to be able to hold
one's tongue!



ROBERT OF SICILY[1]


[1] Adapted from Longfellow's poem.


An old legend says that there was once
a king named Robert of Sicily, who was
brother to the great Pope of Rome and
to the Emperor of Allemaine.  He was
a very selfish king, and very proud; he
cared more for his pleasures than for the
needs of his people, and his heart was so
filled with his own greatness that he had
no thought for God.

One day, this proud king was sitting in
his place at church, at vesper service; his
courtiers were about him, in their bright
garments, and he himself was dressed in
his royal robes.  The choir was chanting
the Latin service, and as the beautiful
voices swelled louder, the king noticed one
particular verse which seemed to be
repeated again and again.  He turned to a
learned clerk at his side and asked what
those words meant, for he knew no Latin.

"They mean, `He hath put down the
mighty from their seats, and hath exalted
them of low degree,'" answered the clerk.

"It is well the words are in Latin, then,"
said the king angrily, "for they are a lie.
There is no power on earth or in heaven
which can put me down from my seat!"
And he sneered at the beautiful singing,
as he leaned back in his place.

Presently the king fell asleep, while the
service went on.  He slept deeply and long.
When he awoke the church was dark and
still, and he was all alone.  He, the king,
had been left alone in the church, to awake
in the dark!  He was furious with rage and
surprise, and, stumbling through the dim
aisles, he reached the great doors and beat
at them, madly, shouting for his servants.

The old sexton heard some one shouting
and pounding in the church, and thought
it was some drunken vagabond who had
stolen in during the service.  He came to
the door with his keys and called out,
"Who is there?"

"Open! open!  It is I, the king!" came
a hoarse, angry voice from within.

"It is a crazy man," thought the sexton;
and he was frightened.  He opened the
doors carefully and stood back, peering
into the darkness.  Out past him rushed
the figure of a man in tattered, scanty
clothes, with unkempt hair and white,
wild face.  The sexton did not know that
he had ever seen him before, but he looked
long after him, wondering at his wildness
and his haste.

In his fluttering rags, without hat or
cloak, not knowing what strange thing
had happened to him, King Robert rushed
to his palace gates, pushed aside the
startled servants, and hurried, blind with
rage, up the wide stair and through the
great corridors, toward the room where
he could hear the sound of his courtiers'
voices.  Men and women servants tried to
stop the ragged man, who had somehow
got into the palace, but Robert did not
even see them as he fled along.  Straight
to the open doors of the big banquet hall
he made his way, and into the midst of
the grand feast there.

The great hall was filled with lights and
flowers; the tables were set with everything
that is delicate and rich to eat; the courtiers,
in their gay clothes, were laughing
and talking; and at the head of the feast,
on the king's own throne, sat a king.  His
face, his figure, his voice were exactly like
Robert of Sicily; no human being could
have told the difference; no one dreamed
that he was not the king.  He was dressed
in the king's royal robes, he wore the royal
crown, and on his hand was the king's
own ring.  Robert of Sicily, half naked,
ragged, without a sign of his kingship on
him, stood before the throne and stared
with fury at this figure of himself.

The king on the throne looked at him.
"Who art thou, and what dost thou here?"
he asked.  And though his voice was just
like Robert's own, it had something in it
sweet and deep, like the sound of bells.

"I am the king!" cried Robert of Sicily.
"I am the king, and you are an impostor!"

The courtiers started from their seats,
and drew their swords.  They would have
killed the crazy man who insulted their
king; but he raised his hand and stopped
them, and with his eyes looking into
Robert's eyes he said, "Not the king; you
shall be the king's jester!  You shall wear
the cap and bells, and make laughter for
my court.  You shall be the servant of
the servants, and your companion shall be
the jester's ape."

With shouts of laughter, the courtiers
drove Robert of Sicily from the banquet
hall; the waiting-men, with laughter, too,
pushed him into the soldiers' hall; and there
the pages brought the jester's wretched
ape, and put a fool's cap and bells on
Robert's head.  It was like a terrible dream;
he could not believe it true, he could not
understand what had happened to him.
And when he woke next morning, he believed
it was a dream, and that he was
king again.  But as he turned his head,
he felt the coarse straw under his cheek
instead of the soft pillow, and he saw that
he was in the stable, with the shivering
ape by his side.  Robert of Sicily was a
jester, and no one knew him for the king.

Three long years passed.  Sicily was
happy and all things went well under the
king, who was not Robert.  Robert was
still the jester, and his heart was harder
and bitterer with every year.  Many times,
during the three years, the king, who had
his face and voice, had called him to
himself, when none else could hear, and had
asked him the one question, "Who art
thou?"  And each time that he asked it
his eyes looked into Robert's eyes, to find
his heart.  But each time Robert threw
back his head and answered, proudly,
"I am the king!"  And the king's eyes
grew sad and stern.

At the end of three years, the Pope bade
the Emperor of Allemaine and the King
of Sicily, his brothers, to a great meeting
in his city of Rome.  The King of Sicily
went, with all his soldiers and courtiers
and servants,--a great procession of
horsemen and footmen.  Never had been a
gayer sight than the grand train, men in
bright armor, riders in wonderful cloaks
of velvet and silk, servants, carrying
marvelous presents to the Pope.  And at the
very end rode Robert, the jester.  His
horse was a poor old thing, many-colored,
and the ape rode with him.  Every one
in the villages through which they passed
ran after the jester, and pointed and
laughed.

The Pope received his brothers and
their trains in the square before Saint
Peter's.  With music and flags and
flowers he made the King of Sicily welcome,
and greeted him as his brother.  In the
midst of it, the jester broke through the
crowd and threw himself before the Pope.
"Look at me!" he cried; "I am your
brother, Robert of Sicily!  This man is
an impostor, who has stolen my throne.
I am Robert, the king!"

The Pope looked at the poor jester
with pity, but the Emperor of Allemaine
turned to the King of Sicily, and said, "Is
it not rather dangerous, brother, to keep
a madman as jester?"  And again Robert
was pushed back among the serving-men.

It was Holy Week, and the king and
the emperor, with all their trains, went
every day to the great services in the
cathedral.  Something wonderful and holy
seemed to make all these services more
beautiful than ever before.  All the people
of Rome felt it: it was as if the presence
of an angel were there.  Men thought of
God, and felt his blessing on them.  But
no one knew who it was that brought the
beautiful feeling.  And when Easter Day
came, never had there been so lovely, so
holy a day: in the great churches, filled
with flowers, and sweet with incense, the
kneeling people listened to the choirs
singing, and it was like the voices of angels;
their prayers were more earnest than ever
before, their praise more glad; there was
something heavenly in Rome.

Robert of Sicily went to the services
with the rest, and sat in the humblest
place with the servants.  Over and over
again he heard the sweet voices of the
choirs chant the Latin words he had heard
long ago:  "He hath put down the mighty
from their seat, and hath exalted them of
low degree."  And at last, as he listened,
his heart was softened.  He, too, felt the
strange blessed presence of a heavenly
power.  He thought of God, and of his
own wickedness; he remembered how
happy he had been, and how little good
he had done; he realized, that his power
had not been from himself, at all.  On
Easter night, as he crept to his bed of straw,
he wept, not because he was so wretched,
but because he had not been a better king
when power was his.

At last all the festivities were over, and
the King of Sicily went home to his own
land again, with his people.  Robert the
jester came home too.

On the day of their home-coming, there
was a special service in the royal church,
and even after the service was over for
the people, the monks held prayers of
thanksgiving and praise.  The sound of
their singing came softly in at the palace
windows.  In the great banquet room, the
king sat, wearing his royal robes and his
crown, while many subjects came to greet
him.  At last, he sent them all away, saying
he wanted to be alone; but he commanded
the jester to stay.  And when they were
alone together the king looked into Robert's
eyes, as he had done before, and said,
softly, "Who art thou?"

Robert of Sicily bowed his head.  "Thou
knowest best," he said, "I only know that
I have sinned."

As he spoke, he heard the voices of the
monks singing, "He hath put down the
mighty from their seat,"--and his head
sank lower.  But suddenly the music
seemed to change; a wonderful light shone
all about.  As Robert raised his eyes, he
saw the face of the king smiling at him
with a radiance like nothing on earth,
and as he sank to his knees before the glory
of that smile, a voice sounded with the
music, like a melody throbbing on a single
string:--

"I am an angel, and thou art the king!"

Then Robert of Sicily was alone.  His
royal robes were upon him once more;
he wore his crown and his royal ring.  He
was king.  And when the courtiers came
back they found their king kneeling by
his throne, absorbed in silent prayer.



THE JEALOUS COURTIERS[1]

[1] Adapted from the facts given in the German of H. A. Guerber's
Marchen und Erzahlungen (D. C. Heath & Co.).


I wonder if you have ever heard the
anecdote about the artist of Dusseldorf and
the jealous courtiers.  This is it.  It seems
there was once a very famous artist who
lived in the little town of Dusseldorf.  He
did such fine work that the Elector, Prince
Johann Wilhelm, ordered a portrait statue
of himself, on horseback, to be done in
bronze.  The artist was overjoyed at the
commission, and worked early and late
at the statue.

At last the work was done, and the artist
had the great statue set up in the public
square of Dusseldorf, ready for the
opening view.  The Elector came on the
appointed day, and with him came his favorite
courtiers from the castle.  Then the statue
was unveiled.  It was very beautiful,--
so beautiful that the prince exclaimed in
surprise.  He could not look enough, and
presently he turned to the artist and shook
hands with him, like an old friend.  "Herr
Grupello," he said, "you are a great artist,
and this statue will make your fame even
greater than it is; the portrait of me is perfect!"

When the courtiers heard this, and saw
the friendly hand-grasp, their jealousy of
the artist was beyond bounds.  Their one
thought was, how could they safely do
something to humiliate him.  They dared
not pick flaws in the portrait statue, for
the prince had declared it perfect.  But at
last one of them said, with an air of great
frankness, "Indeed, Herr Grupello, the
portrait of his Royal Highness is perfect;
but permit me to say that the statue of the
horse is not quite so successful: the head
is too large; it is out of proportion."

"No," said another, "the horse is really
not so successful; the turn of the neck,
there, is awkward."

"If you would change the right hind-
foot, Herr Grupello," said a third, "it
would be an improvement."

Still another found fault with the horse's
tail.

The artist listened, quietly.  When they
had all finished, he turned to the prince and
said, "Your courtiers, Prince, find a good
many flaws in the statue of the horse;
will you permit me to keep it a few days
more, to do what I can with it?"

The Elector assented, and the artist
ordered a temporary screen built around
the statue, so that his assistants could
work undisturbed.  For several days the
sound of hammering came steadily from
behind the enclosure.  The courtiers, who
took care to pass that way, often, were
delighted.  Each one said to himself, "I
must have been right, really; the artist
himself sees that something was wrong;
now I shall have credit for saving the
prince's portrait by my artistic taste!"

Once more the artist summoned the
prince and his courtiers, and once more the
statue was unveiled.  Again the Elector
exclaimed at its beauty, and then he turned
to his courtiers, one after another, to see
what they had to say.

"Perfect!" said the first.  "Now that
the horse's head is in proportion, there
is not a flaw."

"The change in the neck was just what
was needed," said the second; "it is very
graceful now."

"The rear right foot is as it should be,
now," said a third, "and it adds so much
to the beauty of the whole!"

The fourth said that he considered the
tail greatly improved.

"My courtiers are much pleased now,"
said the prince to Herr Grupello; "they
think the statue much improved by the
changes you have made."

Herr Grupello smiled a little.  "I am
glad they are pleased," he said, "but the
fact is, I have changed nothing!"

"What do you mean?" said the prince
in surprise.  "Have we not heard the sound
of hammering every day?  What were you
hammering at then?"

"I was hammering at the reputation of
your courtiers, who found fault simply
because they were jealous," said the artist.
"And I rather think that their reputation
is pretty well hammered to pieces!"

It was, indeed.  The Elector laughed
heartily, but the courtiers slunk away,
one after another, without a word.



PRINCE CHERRY[1]

[1] A shortened version of the familiar tale.


There was once an old king, so wise and
kind and true that the most powerful
good fairy of his land visited him and
asked him to name the dearest wish of his
heart, that she might grant it.

"Surely you know it," said the good
king; "it is for my only son, Prince Cherry;
do for him whatever you would have done
for me."

"Gladly," said the great fairy; "choose
what I shall give him.  I can make him the
richest, the most beautiful, or the most
powerful prince in the world; choose."

"None of those things are what I want,"
said the king.  "I want only that he shall
be good.  Of what use will it be to him to
be beautiful, rich, or powerful, if he grows
into a bad man?  Make him the best prince
in the world, I beg you!"

"Alas, I cannot make him good," said
the fairy; "he must do that for himself.
I can give him good advice, reprove him
when he does wrong, and punish him if he
will not punish himself; I can and will be
his best friend, but I cannot make him
good unless he wills it."

The king was sad to hear this, but he
rejoiced in the friendship of the fairy for
his son.  And when he died, soon after,
he was happy to know that he left Prince
Cherry in her hands.

Prince Cherry grieved for his father
and often lay awake at night, thinking of
him.  One night, when he was all alone
in his room, a soft and lovely light
suddenly shone before him, and a beautiful
vision stood at his side.  It was the good
fairy.  She was clad in robes of dazzling
white, and on her shining hair she wore
a wreath of white roses.

"I am the Fairy Candide," she said to
the prince.  "I promised your father that
I would be your best friend, and as long
as you live I shall watch over your happiness.
I have brought you a gift; it is not
wonderful to look at, but it has a wonderful
power for your welfare; wear it, and
let it help you."

As she spoke, she placed a small gold
ring on the prince's little finger.  "This
ring," she said, "will help you to be good;
when you do evil, it will prick you, to
remind you.  If you do not heed its warnings
a worse thing will happen to you, for
I shall become your enemy."  Then she
vanished.

Prince Cherry wore his ring, and said
nothing to any one of the fairy's gift.  It
did not prick him for a long time, because
he was good and merry and happy.  But
Prince Cherry had been rather spoiled by
his nurse when he was a child; she had
always said to him that when he should
become king he could do exactly as he
pleased.  Now, after a while, he began to
find out that this was not true, and it made
him angry.

The first time that he noticed that even
a king could not always have his own way
was on a day when he went hunting.  It
happened that he got no game.  This put
him in such a bad temper that he grumbled
and scolded all the way home.  The
little gold ring began to feel tight and
uncomfortable.  When he reached the palace
his pet dog ran to meet him.

"Go away!" said the prince, crossly.

But the little dog was so used to being
petted that he only jumped up on his
master, and tried to kiss his hand.  The
prince turned and kicked the little creature.
At the instant, he felt a sharp prick in his
little finger, like a pin prick.

"What nonsense!" said the prince to
himself.  "Am I not king of the whole
land?  May I not kick my own dog, if I
choose?  What evil is there in that?"

A silver voice spoke in his ear:  "The
king of the land has a right to do good,
but not evil; you have been guilty of bad
temper and of cruelty to-day; see that
you do better to-morrow."

The prince turned sharply, but no one
was to be seen; yet he recognized the voice
as that of Fairy Candide.

He followed her advice for a little, but
presently he forgot, and the ring pricked
him so sharply that his finger had a drop
of blood on it.  This happened again and
again, for the prince grew more self-willed
and headstrong every day; he had some
bad friends, too, who urged him on, in the
hope that he would ruin himself and give
them a chance to seize the throne.  He
treated his people carelessly and his servants
cruelly, and everything he wanted
he felt that he must have.

The ring annoyed him terribly; it was
embarrassing for a king to have a drop
of blood on his finger all the time!  At
last he took the ring off and put it out
of sight.  Then he thought he should be
perfectly happy, having his own way; but
instead, he grew more unhappy as he grew
less good.  Whenever he was crossed, or
could not have his own way instantly, he
flew into a passion,

Finally, he wanted something that he
really could not have.  This time it was a
most beautiful young girl, named Zelia;
the prince saw her, and loved her so much
that he wanted at once to make her his
queen.  To his great astonishment, she
refused.

"Am I not pleasing to you?" asked the
prince in surprise.

"You are very handsome, very charming,
Prince," said Zelia; "but you are not
like the good king, your father; I fear you
would make me very miserable if I were
your queen."

In a great rage, Prince Cherry ordered
the young girl put in prison; and the key of
her dungeon he kept.  He told one of his
friends, a wicked man who flattered him
for his own purposes, about the thing,
and asked his advice.

"Are you not king?" said the bad friend,
"May you not do as you will?  Keep the
girl in a dungeon till she does as you command,
and if she will not, sell her as a
slave."

"But would it not be a disgrace for me
to harm an innocent creature?" said the
prince.

"It would be a disgrace to you to have
it said that one of your subjects dared
disobey you!" said the courtier.

He had cleverly touched the Prince's
worst trait, his pride.  Prince Cherry went
at once to Zelia's dungeon, prepared to
do this cruel thing.

Zelia was gone.  No one had the key
save the prince himself; yet she was gone.
The only person who could have dared
to help her, thought the prince, was his
old tutor, Suliman, the only man left who
ever rebuked him for anything.  In fury,
he ordered Suliman to be put in fetters
and brought before him.

As his servants left him, to carry out
the wicked order, there was a clash, as of
thunder, in the room, and then a blinding
light.  Fairy Candide stood before him.
Her beautiful face was stern, and her silver
voice rang like a trumpet, as she said,
"Wicked and selfish prince, you have
become baser than the beasts you hunt;
you are furious as a lion, revengeful as a
serpent, greedy as a wolf, and brutal as a
bull; take, therefore, the shape of those
beasts whom you resemble!"

With horror, the prince felt himself
being transformed into a monster.  He tried
to rush upon the fairy and kill her, but
she had vanished with her words.  As he
stood, her voice came from the air, saying,
sadly, "Learn to conquer your pride by
being in submission to your own subjects."
At the same moment, Prince Cherry felt
himself being transported to a distant
forest, where he was set down by a clear
stream.  In the water he saw his own
terrible image; he had the head of a lion, with
bull's horns, the feet of a wolf, and a tail
like a serpent.  And as he gazed in horror,
the fairy's voice whispered, "Your soul
has become more ugly than your shape is;
you yourself have deformed it."

The poor beast rushed away from the
sound of her words, but in a moment he
stumbled into a trap, set by bear-catchers.
When the trappers found him they were
delighted to have caught a curiosity, and
they immediately dragged him to the palace
courtyard.  There he heard the whole
court buzzing with gossip.  Prince Cherry
had been struck by lightning and killed,
was the news, and the five favorite courtiers
had struggled to make themselves
rulers, but the people had refused them,
and offered the crown to Suliman, the
good old tutor.

Even as he heard this, the prince saw
Suliman on the steps of the palace, speaking
to the people.  "I will take the crown
to keep in trust," he said.  "Perhaps the
prince is not dead."

"He was a bad king; we do not want
him back," said the people.

"I know his heart," said Suliman, "it
is not all bad; it is tainted, but not corrupt;
perhaps he will repent and come back to
us a good king."

When the beast heard this, it touched
him so much that he stopped tearing at
his chains, and became gentle.  He let his
keepers lead him away to the royal
menagerie without hurting them.

Life was very terrible to the prince, now,
but he began to see that he had brought
all his sorrow on himself, and he tried to
bear it patiently.  The worst to bear was
the cruelty of the keeper.  At last, one
night, this keeper was in great danger; a
tiger got loose, and attacked him.  "Good
enough!  Let him die!" thought Prince
Cherry.  But when he saw how helpless
the keeper was, he repented, and sprang
to help.  He killed the tiger and saved the
keeper's life.

As he crouched at the keeper's feet, a
voice said, "Good actions never go
unrewarded!"  And the terrible monster was
changed into a pretty little white dog.

The keeper carried the beautiful little
dog to the court and told the story, and
from then on, Cherry was carefully treated,
and had the best of everything.  But in
order to keep the little dog from growing,
the queen ordered that he should be fed
very little, and that was pretty hard for
the poor prince.  He was often half starved,
although so much petted.

One day he had carried his crust of
bread to a retired spot in the palace woods,
where he loved to be, when he saw a poor
old woman hunting for roots, and seeming
almost starved.

"Poor thing," he thought, "she is even
hungrier than I;" and he ran up and
dropped the crust at her feet.

The woman ate it, and seemed greatly
refreshed.

Cherry was glad of that, and he was
running happily back to his kennel when
he heard cries of distress, and suddenly he
saw some rough men dragging along a
young girl, who was weeping and crying for
help.  What was his horror to see that the
young girl was Zelia!  Oh, how he wished
he were the monster once more, so that
he could kill the men and rescue her!  But
he could do nothing except bark, and bite
at the heels of the wicked men.  That
could not stop them; they drove him off,
with blows, and carried Zelia into a palace
in the wood.

Poor Cherry crouched by the steps, and
watched.  His heart was full of pity and
rage.  But suddenly he thought, "I was
as bad as these men; I myself put Zelia in
prison, and would have treated her worse
still, if I had not been prevented."  The
thought made him so sorry and ashamed
that he repented bitterly the evil he had
done.

Presently a window opened, and Cherry
saw Zelia lean out and throw down a piece
of meat.  He seized it and was just going
to devour it, when the old woman to whom
he had given his crust snatched it away
and took him in her arms.  "No, you shall
not eat it, you poor little thing," she said,
"for every bit of food in that house is
poisoned."

At the same moment, a voice said, "Good
actions never go unrewarded!"  And
instantly Prince Cherry was transformed
into a little white dove.

With great joy, he flew to the open
palace window to seek out his Zelia, to try
to help her.  But though he hunted in
every room, no Zelia was to be found.
He had to fly away, without seeing her.
He wanted more than anything else to
find her, and stay near her, so he flew out
into the world, to seek her.

He sought her in many lands, until one
day, in a far eastern country, he found
her sitting in a tent, by the side of an old,
white-haired hermit.  Cherry was wild with
delight.  He flew to her shoulder, caressed
her hair with his beak, and cooed in her
ear.

"You dear, lovely little thing!" said
Zelia.  "Will you stay with me?  If you will,
I will love you always."

"Ah, Zelia, see what you have done!"
laughed the hermit.  At that instant, the
white dove vanished, and Prince Cherry
stood there, as handsome and charming
as ever, and with a look of kindness and
modesty in his eyes which had never been
there before.  At the same time, the hermit
stood up, his flowing hair changed to shining
gold, and his face became a lovely
woman's face; it was the Fairy Candide.
"Zelia has broken your spell," she said to
the Prince, "as I meant she should, when
you were worthy of her love."

Zelia and Prince Cherry fell at the fairy's
feet.  But with a beautiful smile she bade
them come to their kingdom.  In a trice,
they were transported to the Prince's palace,
where King Suliman greeted them with
tears of joy.  He gave back the throne,
with all his heart, and King Cherry ruled
again, with Zelia for his queen.

He wore the little gold ring all the rest
of his life, but never once did it have to
prick him hard enough to make his finger
bleed.



THE GOLD IN THE ORCHARD[1]

[1] An Italian folk tale.


There was once a farmer who had a fine
olive orchard.  He was very industrious,
and the farm always prospered under
his care.  But he knew that his three
sons despised the farm work, and were
eager to make wealth fast, through adventure.

When the farmer was old, and felt that
his time had come to die, he called the
three sons to him and said, "My sons,
there is a pot of gold hidden in the olive
orchard.  Dig for it, if you wish it."

The sons tried to get him to tell them
in what part of the orchard the gold was
hidden; but he would tell them nothing more.

After the farmer was dead, the sons
went to work to find the pot of gold; since
they did not know where the hiding-place
was, they agreed to begin in a line, at one
end of the orchard, and to dig until one of
them should find the money.

They dug until they had turned up the
soil from one end of the orchard to the
other, round the tree-roots and between
them.  But no pot of gold was to be found.
It seemed as if some one must have stolen
it, or as if the farmer had been wandering
in his wits.  The three sons were bitterly
disappointed to have all their work for
nothing.

The next olive season, the olive trees in
the orchard bore more fruit than they had
ever given; the fine cultivating they had
had from the digging brought so much
fruit, and of so fine a quality, that when it
was sold it gave the sons a whole pot of gold!

And when they saw how much money
had come from the orchard, they suddenly
understood what the wise father had meant
when he said, "There is gold hidden in
the orchard; dig for it."



MARGARET OF NEW ORLEANS


If you ever go to the beautiful city
of New Orleans, somebody will be sure
to take you down into the old business
part of the city, where there are banks
and shops and hotels, and show you a
statue which stands in a little square there.
It is the statue of a woman, sitting in a low
chair, with her arms around a child, who
leans against her.  The woman is not at
all pretty: she wears thick, common shoes,
a plain dress, with a little shawl, and a
sun-bonnet; she is stout and short, and
her face is a square-chinned Irish face;
but her eyes look at you like your mother's.

Now there is something very surprising
about this statue: it was the first one that
was ever made in this country in honor of a
woman.  Even in old Europe there are not
many monuments to women, and most of
the few are to great queens or princesses,
very beautiful and very richly dressed.
You see, this statue in New Orleans is not
quite like anything else.

It is the statue of a woman named
Margaret.  Her whole name was Margaret
Haughery, but no one in New Orleans
remembers her by it, any more than you
think of your dearest sister by her full
name; she is just Margaret.  This is her
story, and it tells why people made a
monument for her.

When Margaret was a tiny baby, her
father and mother died, and she was
adopted by two young people as poor and
as kind as her own parents.  She lived with
them until she grew up.  Then she married,
and had a little baby of her own.  But very
soon her husband died, and then the baby
died, too, and Margaret was all alone in
the world.  She was poor, but she was
strong, and knew how to work.

All day, from morning until evening,
she ironed clothes in a laundry.  And every
day, as she worked by the window, she
saw the little motherless children from the
orphan asylum, near by, working and playing
about.  After a while, there came a
great sickness upon the city, and so many
mothers and fathers died that there were
more orphans than the asylum could
possibly take care of.  They needed a good
friend, now.  You would hardly think,
would you, that a poor woman who worked
in a laundry could be much of a friend
to them?  But Margaret was.  She went
straight to the kind Sisters who had the
asylum and told them she was going to
give them part of her wages and was
going to work for them, besides.  Pretty soon
she had worked so hard that she had some
money saved from her wages.  With this,
she bought two cows and a little delivery
cart.  Then she carried her milk to her
customers in the little cart every morning;
and as she went, she begged the left-over
food from the hotels and rich houses, and
brought it back in the cart to the hungry
children in the asylum.  In the very hardest
times that was often all the food the
children had.

A part of the money Margaret earned
went every week to the asylum, and after a
few years that was made very much larger
and better.  And Margaret was so careful
and so good at business that, in spite
of her giving, she bought more cows and
earned more money.  With this, she built
a home for orphan babies; she called it
her baby house.

After a time, Margaret had a chance
to get a bakery, and then she became a
bread-woman instead of a milk-woman.
She carried the bread just as she had
carried the milk, in her cart.  And still she
kept giving money to the asylum.  Then
the great war came, our Civil War.  In all
the trouble and sickness and fear of that
time, Margaret drove her cart of bread;
and somehow she had always enough to
give the starving soldiers, and for her
babies, besides what she sold.  And
despite all this, she earned enough so that
when the war was over she built a big
steam factory for her bread.  By this time
everybody in the city knew her.  The children
all over the city loved her; the business
men were proud of her; the poor people
all came to her for advice.  She used to
sit at the open door of her office, in a calico
gown and a little shawl, and give a good
word to everybody, rich or poor.

Then, by and by, one day, Margaret
died.  And when it was time to read her
will, the people found that, with all her
giving, she had still saved a great deal of
money, and that she had left every cent
of it to the different orphan asylums of
the city,--each one of them was given
something.  Whether they were for white
children or black, for Jews, Catholics, or
Protestants, made no difference; for
Margaret always said, "They are all orphans
alike."  And just think, dears, that splendid,
wise will was signed with a cross
instead of a name, for Margaret had never
learned to read or write!

When the people of New Orleans knew
that Margaret was dead, they said, "She
was a mother to the motherless; she was
a friend to those who had no friends;
she had wisdom greater than schools can
teach; we will not let her memory go from
us."  So they made a statue of her, just as
she used to look, sitting in her own office
door, or driving in her own little cart.  And
there it stands to-day, in memory of the
great love and the great power of plain
Margaret Haughery, of New Orleans.



THE DAGDA'S HARP[1]

[1] The facts from which this story was constructed are found
in the legend as given in Ireland's Story, Johnston and Spencer
(Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.).


You know, dears, in the old countries
there are many fine stories about things
which happened so very long ago that
nobody knows exactly how much of them is
true.  Ireland is like that.  It is so old that
even as long ago as four thousand years
it had people who dug in the mines, and
knew how to weave cloth and to make
beautiful ornaments out of gold, and who
could fight and make laws; but we do
not know just where they came from, nor
exactly how they lived.  These people left
us some splendid stories about their kings,
their fights, and their beautiful women;
but it all happened such a long time ago
that the stories are mixtures of things that
really happened and what people said about
them, and we don't know just which is
which.  The stories are called LEGENDS.  One
of the prettiest legends is the story I am
going to tell you about the Dagda's harp.

It is said that there were two quite
different kinds of people in Ireland: one set
of people with long dark hair and dark
eyes, called Fomorians--they carried long
slender spears made of golden bronze
when they fought--and another race of
people who were golden-haired and blue-
eyed, and who carried short, blunt, heavy
spears of dull metal.

The golden-haired people had a great
chieftain who was also a kind of high
priest, who was called the Dagda.  And
this Dagda had a wonderful magic harp.
The harp was beautiful to look upon,
mighty in size, made of rare wood, and
ornamented with gold and jewels; and it
had wonderful music in its strings, which
only the Dagda could call out.  When the
men were going out to battle, the Dagda
would set up his magic harp and sweep
his hand across the strings, and a war song
would ring out which would make every
warrior buckle on his armor, brace his
knees, and shout, "Forth to the fight!"
Then, when the men came back from the
battle, weary and wounded, the Dagda
would take his harp and strike a few
chords, and as the magic music stole out
upon the air, every man forgot his weariness
and the smart of his wounds, and
thought of the honor he had won, and of
the comrade who had died beside him,
and of the safety of his wife and children.
Then the song would swell out louder,
and every warrior would remember only
the glory he had helped win for the king;
and each man would rise at the great tables
his cup in his hand, and shout "Long live
the King!"

There came a time when the Fomorians
and the golden-haired men were at war;
and in the midst of a great battle, while
the Dagda's hall was not so well guarded
as usual, some of the chieftains of the
Fomorians stole the great harp from the
wall, where it hung, and fled away with
it.  Their wives and children and some few
of their soldiers went with them, and they
fled fast and far through the night, until
they were a long way from the battlefield.
Then they thought they were safe, and they
turned aside into a vacant castle, by the
road, and sat down to a banquet, hanging
the stolen harp on the wall.

The Dagda, with two or three of his
warriors, had followed hard on their track.
And while they were in the midst of their
banqueting, the door was suddenly burst
open, and the Dagda stood there, with his
men.  Some of the Fomorians sprang to
their feet, but before any of them could
grasp a weapon, the Dagda called out to
his harp on the wall, "Come to me, O my
harp!"

The great harp recognized its master's
voice, and leaped from the wall.  Whirling
through the hall, sweeping aside and killing
the men who got in its way, it sprang to its
master's hand.  And the Dagda took his
harp and swept his hand across the strings
in three great, solemn chords.  The harp
answered with the magic Music of Tears.
As the wailing harmony smote upon the
air, the women of the Fomorians bowed
their heads and wept bitterly, the strong
men turned their faces aside, and the little
children sobbed.

Again the Dagda touched the strings,
and this time the magic Music of Mirth
leaped from the harp.  And when they
heard that Music of Mirth, the young
warriors of the Fomorians began to laugh;
they laughed till the cups fell from their
grasp, and the spears dropped from their
hands, while the wine flowed from the
broken bowls; they laughed until their
limbs were helpless with excess of glee.

Once more the Dagda touched his harp,
but very, very softly.  And now a music
stole forth as soft as dreams, and as sweet
as joy: it was the magic Music of Sleep.
When they heard that, gently, gently, the
Fomorian women bowed their heads in
slumber; the little children crept to their
mothers' laps; the old men nodded; and
the young warriors drooped in their seats
and closed their eyes: one after another
all the Fomorians sank into sleep.

When they were all deep in slumber,
the Dagda took his magic harp, and he and
his golden-haired warriors stole softly
away, and came in safety to their own
homes again.



THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS[1]

[1] From Beside the Fire, Douglas Hyde (David Nutt, London).


There was once a tailor in Galway, and
he started out on a journey to go to the
king's court at Dublin.

He had not gone far till he met a white
horse, and he saluted him.

"God save you," said the tailor.

"God save you," said the horse.  "Where
are you going?"

"I am going to Dublin," said the tailor,
"to build a court for the king and to get a
lady for a wife, if I am able to do it."  For,
it seems the king had promised his daughter
and a great lot of money to any one who
should be able to build up his court.  The
trouble was, that three giants lived in the
wood near the court, and every night they
came out of the wood and threw down
all that was built by day.  So nobody could
get the court built.

"Would you make me a hole," said
the old white garraun, "where I could go
a-hiding whenever the people are for bringing
me to the mill or the kiln, so that they
won't see me; for they have me perished
doing work for them."

"I'll do that, indeed," said the tailor,
"and welcome."

He brought his spade and shovel, and
he made a hole, and he said to the old white
horse to go down into it till he would see
if it would fit him.  The white horse went
down into the hole, but when he tried to
come up again, he was not able.

"Make a place for me now," said the
white horse, "by which I'll come up out
of the hole here, whenever I'll be hungry."

"I will not," said the tailor; "remain
where you are until I come back, and I'll
lift you up."

The tailor went forward next day, and
the fox met him.

"God save you," said the fox.

"God save you," said the tailor.

"Where are you going," said the fox.

"I'm going to Dublin, to try will I be
able to make a court for the king."

"Would you make a place for me where
I'd go hiding?" said the fox.  "The rest
of the foxes do be beating me, and they
don't allow me to eat anything with
them."

"I'll do that for you," said the tailor.

He took his axe and his saw, and he
made a thing like a crate, and he told the
fox to get into it till he would see whether
it would fit him.  The fox went into it,
and when the tailor got him down, he
shut him in.  When the fox was satisfied at
last that he had a nice place of it within,
he asked the tailor to let him out, and the
tailor answered that he would not.

"Wait there until I come back again,"
says he.

The tailor went forward the next day,
and he had not walked very far until he
met a modder-alla; and the lion greeted
him.

"God save you," said the lion.

"God save you," said the tailor.

"Where are you going?" said the lion.

"I'm going to Dublin till I make a court
for the king if I'm able to make it," said
the tailor.

"If you were to make a plough for me,"
said the lion, "I and the other lions could
be ploughing and harrowing until we'd
have a bit to eat in the harvest."

"I'll do that for you," said the tailor.

He brought his axe and his saw, and he
made a plough.  When the plough was
made he put a hole in the beam of it, and
he said to the lion to go in under the plough
till he'd see was he any good of a ploughman.
He placed the lion's tail in the hole
he had made for it, and then clapped in a
peg, and the lion was not able to draw out
his tail again.

"Loose me out now," said the lion, "and
we'll fix ourselves and go ploughing."

The tailor said he would not loose him
out until he came back himself.  He left
him there then, and he came to Dublin.

When he came to Dublin, he got workmen
and began to build the court.  At the
end of the day he had the workmen put a
great stone on top of the work.  When the
great stone was raised up, the tailor put
some sort of contrivance under it, that he
might be able to throw it down as soon as
the giant would come as far as it.  The
workpeople went home then, and the tailor
went in hiding behind the big stone.

When the darkness of the night was come,
he saw the three giants arriving, and they
began throwing down the court until they
came as far as the place where the tailor
was in hiding up above, and a man of them
struck a blow of his sledge on the place
where he was.  The tailor threw down the
stone, and it fell on him and killed him.
They went home then and left all of the
court that was remaining without throwing
it down, since a man of themselves was
dead.

The tradespeople came again the next
day, and they were working until night,
and as they were going home the tailor
told them to put up the big stone on the
top of the work, as it had been the night
before.  They did that for him, went home,
and the tailor went in hiding the same as
he did the evening before.

When the people had all gone to rest, the
two giants came, and they were throwing
down all that was before them, and as soon
as they began, they put two shouts out of
them.  The tailor was going on manoeuvring
until he threw down the great stone,
and it fell upon the skull of the giant that
was under him, and it killed him.  There
was only the one giant left in it then, and
he never came again until the court was
finished.

Then when the work was over, the tailor
went to the king and told him to give him
his wife and his money, as he had the court
finished; and the king said he would not
give him any wife until he would kill the
other giant, for he said that it was not by
his strength he killed the two giants
before that, and that he would give him
nothing now until he killed the other one
for him.  Then the tailor said that he
would kill the other giant for him, and
welcome; that there was no delay at all
about that.

The tailor went then till he came to the
place where the other giant was, and asked
did he want a servant-boy.  The giant said
he did want one, if he could get one who
would do everything that he would do himself.

"Anything that you will do, I will do
it," said the tailor.

They went to their dinner then, and
when they had it eaten, the giant asked
the tailor "would it come with him to swallow
as much broth as himself, up out of
its boiling."  The tailor said, "It will come
with me to do that, but that you must give
me an hour before we begin on it."  The
tailor went out then, and he got a sheep-
skin, and he sewed it up till he made a bag
of it, and he slipped it down under his
coat.  He came in then and said to the giant
to drink a gallon of the broth himself first.
The giant drank that up out of its boiling.
"I'll do that," said the tailor.  He was
going on until he had it all poured into the
skin, and the giant thought he had it drunk.
The giant drank another gallon then, and
the tailor let another gallon down into the
skin, but the giant thought he was drinking it.

"I'll do a thing now that it won't come
with you to do," said the tailor.

"You will not," said the giant.  "What
is it you would do?"

"Make a hole and let out the broth
again," said the tailor.

"Do it yourself first," said the giant.

The tailor gave a prod of the knife, and
he let the broth out of the skin.

"Do that you," said he.

"I will," said the giant, giving such a
prod of the knife into his own stomach
that he killed himself.  That is the way
the tailor killed the third giant.

He went to the king then, and desired
him to send him out his wife and his money,
for that he would throw down the court
again unless he should get the wife.  They
were afraid then that he would throw down
the court, and they sent the wife to him.

When the tailor was a day gone,
himself and his wife, they repented and
followed him to take his wife off him again.
The people who were after him were
following him till they came to the place
where the lion was, and the lion said to
them:  "The tailor and his wife were here
yesterday.  I saw them going by, and if ye
loose me now, I am swifter than ye, and I
will follow them till I overtake them."
When they heard that, they loosed out the
lion.

The lion and the people of Dublin went
on, and they were pursuing him, until they
came to the place where the fox was, and
the fox greeted them, and said:  "The tailor
and his wife were here this morning, and
if ye will loose me out, I am swifter than
ye, and I will follow them, and overtake
them."  They loosed out the fox then.

The lion and the fox and the army of
Dublin went on then, trying would they
catch the tailor, and they were going till
they came to the place where the old white
garraun was, and the old white garraun
said to them that the tailor and his wife
were there in the morning, and "Loose me
out," said he; "I am swifter than ye, and
I'll overtake them."  They loosed out the
old white garraun then, and the old white
garraun, the fox, the lion, and the army
of Dublin pursued the tailor and his wife
together, and it was not long till they came
up with him, and saw himself and the wife
out before them.

When the tailor saw them coming, he
got out of the coach with his wife, and he
sat down on the ground.

When the old white garraun saw the
tailor sitting down on the ground, he said,
"That's the position he had when he made
the hole for me, that I couldn't come up
out of, when I went down into it.  I'll go
no nearer to him."

"No!" said the fox, "but that's the way
he was when he was making the thing for
me, and I'll go no nearer to him."

"No!" says the lion, "but that's the very
way he had, when he was making the plough
that I was caught in.  I'll go no nearer
to him."

They all went from him then and
returned.  The tailor and his wife came home
to Galway.



THE CASTLE OF FORTUNE[1]

[1] Adapted from the German of Der Faule und der Fleissige
by Robert Reinick.


One lovely summer morning, just as the
sun rose, two travelers started on a journey.
They were both strong young men, but one
was a lazy fellow and the other was a
worker.

As the first sunbeams came over the
hills, they shone on a great castle standing
on the heights, as far away as the eye
could see.  It was a wonderful and beautiful
castle, all glistening towers that gleamed
like marble, and glancing windows that
shone like crystal.  The two young men
looked at it eagerly, and longed to go
nearer.

Suddenly, out of the distance, something
like a great butterfly, of white and gold,
swept toward them.  And when it came
nearer, they saw that it was a most beautiful
lady, robed in floating garments as fine as
cobwebs and wearing on her head a crown
so bright that no one could tell whether
it was of diamonds or of dew.  She stood,
light as air, on a great, shining, golden ball,
which rolled along with her, swifter than
the wind.  As she passed the travelers, she
turned her face to them and smiled.

"Follow me!" she said.

The lazy man sat down in the grass
with a discontented sigh.  "She has an easy
time of it!" he said.

But the industrious man ran after the
lovely lady and caught the hem of her
floating robe in his grasp.  "Who are you,
and whither are you going?" he asked.

"I am the Fairy of Fortune," the
beautiful lady said, "and that is my castle.  You
may reach it to-day, if you will; there is
time, if you waste none.  If you reach it
before the last stroke of midnight, I will
receive you there, and will be your friend.
But if you come one second after midnight,
it will be too late."

When she had said this, her robe slipped
from the traveler's hand and she was gone.

The industrious man hurried back to his
friend, and told him what the fairy had
said.

"The idea!" said the lazy man, and he
laughed; "of course, if a body had a horse
there would be some chance, but WALK all
that way?  No, thank you!"

"Then good-by," said his friend, "I am
off."  And he set out, down the road
toward the shining castle, with a good steady
stride, his eyes straight ahead.

The lazy man lay down in the soft grass,
and looked rather wistfully at the faraway
towers.  "If I only had a good horse!"
he sighed.

Just at that moment he felt something
warm nosing about at his shoulder, and
heard a little whinny.  He turned round,
and there stood a little horse!  It was a
dainty creature, gentle-looking, and finely
built, and it was saddled and bridled.

"Hola!" said the lazy man.  "Luck
often comes when one isn't looking for
it!"  And in an instant he had leaped on
the horse, and headed him for the castle
of fortune.  The little horse started at a
fine pace, and in a very few minutes they
overtook the other traveler, plodding along
on foot.

"How do you like shank's mare?"
laughed the lazy man, as he passed his
friend.

The industrious man only nodded, and
kept on with his steady stride, eyes straight
ahead.

The horse kept his good pace, and by
noon the towers of the castle stood out
against the sky, much nearer and more
beautiful.  Exactly at noon, the horse
turned aside from the road, into a shady
grove on a hill, and stopped.

"Wise beast," said his rider; "`haste
makes waste,' and all things are better
in moderation.  I'll follow your example,
and eat and rest a bit."  He dismounted
and sat down in the cool moss, with his
back against a tree.  He had a lunch in his
traveler's pouch, and he ate it comfortably.
Then he felt drowsy from the heat and the
early ride, so he pulled his hat over his
eyes, and settled himself for a nap.  "It
will go all the better for a little rest," he
said.

That WAS a sleep!  He slept like the seven
sleepers, and he dreamed the most beautiful
things you could imagine.  At last, he
dreamed that he had entered the castle of
fortune and was being received with great
festivities.  Everything he wanted was
brought to him, and music played while
fireworks were set off in his honor.  The
music was so loud that he awoke.  He
sat up, rubbing his eyes, and behold, the
fireworks were the very last rays of the
setting sun, and the music was the voice
of the other traveler, passing the grove
on foot!

"Time to be off," said the lazy man,
and looked about him for the pretty horse.
No horse was to be found.  The only living
thing near was an old, bony, gray donkey.
The man called, and whistled, and looked,
but no little horse appeared.  After a long
while he gave it up, and, since there was
nothing better to do, he mounted the old
gray donkey and set out again.

The donkey was slow, and he was hard
to ride, but he was better than nothing;
and gradually the lazy man saw the
towers of the castle draw nearer.

Now it began to grow dark; in the castle
windows the lights began to show.  Then
came trouble!  Slower, and slower, went the
gray donkey; slower, and slower, till, in
the very middle of a pitch-black wood, he
stopped and stood still.  Not a step would
he budge for all the coaxing and scolding
and beating his rider could give.  At last
the rider kicked him, as well as beat him,
and at that the donkey felt that he had had
enough.  Up went his hind heels, and down
went his head, and over it went the lazy
man on to the stony ground.

There he lay groaning for many minutes,
for it was not a soft place, I can assure
you.  How he wished he were in a soft,
warm bed, with his aching bones
comfortable in blankets!  The very thought of
it made him remember the castle of fortune,
for he knew there must be fine beds
there.  To get to those beds he was even
willing to bestir his bruised limbs, so he
sat up and felt about him for the donkey.

No donkey was to be found.

The lazy man crept round and round
the spot where he had fallen, scratched his
hands on the stumps, tore his face in the
briers, and bumped his knees on the stones.
But no donkey was there.  He would have
lain down to sleep again, but he could
hear now the howls of hungry wolves in
the woods; that did not sound pleasant.
Finally, his hand struck against
something that felt like a saddle.  He grasped
it, thankfully, and started to mount his
donkey.

The beast he took hold of seemed very
small, and, as he mounted, he felt that
its sides were moist and slimy.  It gave
him a shudder, and he hesitated; but at
that moment he heard a distant clock strike.
It was striking eleven!  There was still
time to reach the castle of fortune, but no
more than enough; so he mounted his new
steed and rode on once more.  The animal
was easier to sit on than the donkey, and
the saddle seemed remarkably high behind;
it was good to lean against.  But
even the donkey was not so slow as this;
the new steed was slower than he.  After
a while, however, he pushed his way out of
the woods into the open, and there stood
the castle, only a little way ahead!  All its
windows were ablaze with lights.  A ray
from them fell on the lazy man's beast,
and he saw what he was riding: it was a
gigantic snail! a snail as large as a calf!

A cold shudder ran over the lazy man's
body, and he would have got off his horrid
animal then and there, but just then the
clock struck once more.  It was the first
of the long, slow strokes that mark mid-
night!  The man grew frantic when he
heard it.  He drove his heels into the snail's
sides, to make him hurry.  Instantly, the
snail drew in his head, curled up in his
shell, and left the lazy man sitting in a heap
on the ground!

The clock struck twice.  If the man had
run for it, he could still have reached the
castle, but, instead, he sat still and shouted
for a horse.

"A beast, a beast!" he wailed, "any kind
of a beast that will take me to the castle!"

The clock struck three times.  And as it
struck the third note, something came
rustling and rattling out of the darkness,
something that sounded like a horse with
harness.  The lazy man jumped on its back,
a very queer, low back.  As he mounted, he
saw the doors of the castle open, and saw
his friend standing on the threshold,
waving his cap and beckoning to him.

The clock struck four times, and the
new steed began to stir; as it struck five,
he moved a pace forward; as it struck
six, he stopped; as it struck seven, he
turned himself about; as it struck eight,
he began to move backward, away from
the castle!

The lazy man shouted, and beat him,
but the beast went slowly backward.  And
the clock struck nine.  The man tried to
slide off, then, but from all sides of his
strange animal great arms came reaching
up and held him fast.  And in the next ray
of moonlight that broke the dark clouds, he
saw that he was mounted on a monster crab!

One by one, the lights went out, in the
castle windows.  The clock struck ten.
Backward went the crab.  Eleven!  Still
the crab went backward.  The clock struck
twelve!  Then the great doors shut with a
clang, and the castle of fortune was closed
forever to the lazy man.

What became of him and his crab no
one knows to this day, and no one cares.
But the industrious man was received by
the Fairy of Fortune, and made happy in
the castle as long as he wanted to stay.
And ever afterward she was his friend,
helping him not only to happiness for
himself, but also showing him how to help
others, wherever he went.



DAVID AND GOLIATH[1]

[1] From the text of the King James version of the Old
Testament, with introduction and slight interpolations, changes
of order, and omissions.


A long time ago, there was a boy named
David, who lived in a country far east of
this.  He was good to look upon, for he
had fair hair and a ruddy skin; and he
was very strong and brave and modest.
He was shepherd-boy for his father, and
all day--often all night--he was out in
the fields, far from home, watching over
the sheep.  He had to guard them from
wild animals, and lead them to the right
pastures, and care for them.

By and by, war broke out between the
people of David's country and a people
that lived near at hand; these men were
called Philistines, and the people of David's
country were named Israel.  All the strong
men of Israel went up to the battle, to
fight for their king.  David's three older
brothers went, but he was only a boy, so
he was left behind to care for the sheep.

After the brothers had been gone some
time, David's father longed very much to
hear from them, and to know if they were
safe; so he sent for David, from the fields,
and said to him, "Take now for thy brothers
an ephah of this parched corn, and
these ten loaves, and run to the camp,
where thy brothers are; and carry these
ten cheeses to the captain of their thousand,
and see how thy brothers fare, and bring
me word again."  (An ephah is about three
pecks.)

David rose early in the morning, and
left the sheep with a keeper, and took the
corn and the loaves and the cheeses, as his
father had commanded him, and went to
the camp of Israel.

The camp was on a mountain; Israel
stood on a mountain on the one side, and
the Philistines stood on a mountain on the
other side; and there was a valley between
them.  David came to the place where the
Israelites were, just as the host was going
forth to the fight, shouting for the battle.
So he left his gifts in the hands of the keeper
of the baggage, and ran into the army,
amongst the soldiers, to find his brothers.
When he found them, he saluted them and
began to talk with them.

But while he was asking them the
questions his father had commanded, there
arose a great shouting and tumult among
the Israelites, and men came running back
from the front line of battle; everything
became confusion.  David looked to see
what the trouble was, and he saw a strange
sight: on the hillside of the Philistines, a
warrior was striding forward, calling out
something in a taunting voice; he was a
gigantic man, the largest David had ever
seen, and he was all dressed in armor,
that shone in the sun: he had a helmet of
brass upon his head, and he was armed
with a coat of mail, and he had greaves of
brass upon his legs, and a target of brass
between his shoulders; his spear was so
tremendous that the staff of it was like a
weaver's beam, and his shield so great that
a man went before him, to carry it.

"Who is that?" asked David.

"It is Goliath, of Gath, champion of
the Philistines," said the soldiers about.
"Every day, for forty days, he has come
forth, so, and challenged us to send a man
against him, in single combat; and since
no one dares to go out against him alone,
the armies cannot fight."  (That was one
of the laws of warfare in those times.)

"What!" said David, "does none dare
go out against him?"

As he spoke, the giant stood still, on
the hillside opposite the Israelitish host,
and shouted his challenge, scornfully.  He
said, "Why are ye come out to set your
battle in array?  Am I not a Philistine,
and ye servants of Saul?  Choose you a
man for you, and let him come down
to me.  If he be able to fight with me,
and to kill me, then will we be your
servants; but if I prevail against him, and
kill him, then shall ye be our servants,
and serve us.  I defy the armies of Israel
this day; give me a man, that we may
fight together!"

When King Saul heard these words, he
was dismayed, and all the men of Israel,
when they saw the man, fled from him
and were sore afraid.  David heard them
talking among themselves, whispering and
murmuring.  They were saying, "Have ye
seen this man that is come up?  Surely
if any one killeth him that man will the
king make rich; perhaps he will give him
his daughter in marriage, and make his
family free in Israel!"

David heard this, and he asked the men
if it were so.  It was surely so, they said.

"But," said David, "who is this Philistine,
that he should defy the armies of
the living God?"  And he was stirred with
anger.

Very soon, some of the officers told the
king about the youth who was asking so
many questions, and who said that a mere
Philistine should not be let defy the armies
of the living God.  Immediately Saul sent
for him.  When David came before Saul,
he said to the king, "Let no man's heart
fail because of him; thy servant will go and
fight with this Philistine."

But Saul looked at David, and said,
"Thou art not able to go against this
Philistine, to fight with him, for thou art but a
youth, and he has been a man of war from
his youth."

Then David said to Saul, "Once I was
keeping my father's sheep, and there came
a lion and a bear, and took a lamb out of
the flock; and I went out after the lion,
and struck him, and delivered the lamb
out of his mouth, and when he arose against
me, I caught him by the beard, and struck
him, and slew him!  Thy servant slew both
the lion and the bear; and this Philistine
shall be as one of them, for he hath defied
the armies of the living God.  The Lord,
who delivered me out of the paw of the
lion and out of the paw of the bear, he will
deliver me out of the hand of this Philistine."

"Go," said Saul, "and the Lord be with
thee!"

And he armed David with his own armor,
--he put a helmet of brass upon his head,
and armed him with a coat of mail.  But
when David girded his sword upon his
armor, and tried to walk, he said to Saul,
"I cannot go with these, for I am not
used to them."  And he put them off.

Then he took his staff in his hand and
went and chose five smooth stones out of
the brook, and put them in a shepherd's
bag which he had; and his sling was in his
hand; and he went out and drew near to
the Philistine.

And the Philistine came on and drew
near to David; and the man that bore his
shield went before him.  And when the
Philistine looked about and saw David, he
disdained him, for David was but a boy,
and ruddy, and of a fair countenance.  And
he said to David, "Am I a dog, that thou
comest to me with a cudgel?"  And with
curses he cried out again, "Come to me,
and I will give thy flesh unto the fowls of
the air, and to the beasts of the field."

But David looked at him, and answered,
"Thou comest to me with a sword, and
with a spear, and with a shield; but I come
to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts,
the God of the armies of Israel, whom
thou hast defied.  This day will the Lord
deliver thee into my hand; and I will smite
thee, and take thy head from thee, and I
will give the carcasses of the host of the
Philistines this day unto the fowls of the
air, and to the wild beasts of the earth,
that all the earth may know that there is a
God in Israel!  And all this assembly shall
know that the Lord saveth not with sword
and spear; for the battle is the Lord's,
and he will give you into our hands."

And then, when the Philistine arose,
and came, and drew nigh to meet David,
David hasted, and ran toward the army
to meet the Philistine.  And when he was
a little way from him, he put his hand in
his bag, and took thence a stone, and put
it in his sling, and slung it, and smote the
Philistine in the forehead, so that the stone
sank into his forehead; and he fell on his
face to the earth.

And David ran, and stood upon the
Philistine, and took his sword, and drew
it out of its sheath, and slew him with it.

Then, when the Philistines saw that their
champion was dead, they fled.  But the
army of Israel pursued them, and victory
was with the men of Israel.

And after the battle, David was taken
to the king's tent, and made a captain over
many men; and he went no more to his
father's house, to herd the sheep, but became
a man, in the king's service.



THE SHEPHERD'S SONG


David had many fierce battles to fight
for King Saul against the enemies of Israel,
and he won them all.  Then, later, he had
to fight against the king's own soldiers, to
save himself, for King Saul grew wickedly
jealous of David's fame as a soldier, and
tried to kill him.  Twice, when David had
a chance to kill the king, he let him go
safe; but even then, Saul kept on trying to
take his life, and David was kept away
from his home and land as if he were an
enemy.

But when King Saul died, the people
chose David for their king, because there
was no one so brave, so wise, or so faithful
to God.  King David lived a long time,
and made his people famous for victory
and happiness; he had many troubles
and many wars, but he always trusted
that God would help him, and he never
deserted his own people in any hard
place.

After a battle, or when it was a holiday,
or when he was very thankful for
something, King David used to make songs,
and sing them before the people.  Some
of these songs were so beautiful that they
have never been forgotten.  After all these
hundreds and hundreds of years, we sing
them still; we call them Psalms.

Often, after David had made a song, his
chief musician would sing with him, as the
people gathered to worship God.  Sometimes
the singers were divided into two
great choruses, and went to the service in
two processions; then one chorus would
sing a verse of David's song, and the
other procession would answer with the
next, and then both would sing together;
it was very beautiful to hear.  Even now,
we sometimes do that with the songs of
David in our churches.

One of the Psalms that everybody loves
is a song that David made when he remembered
the days before he came to Saul's
camp.  He remembered the days and nights
he used to spend in the fields with the
sheep, when he was just a shepherd boy;
and he thought to himself that God had
taken care of him just as carefully as he
used to care for the little lambs.  It is a
beautiful song; I wish we knew the music
that David made for it, but we only
know his words.  I will tell it to you now,
and then you may learn it, to say for
yourselves.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not
want.

He maketh me to lie down in green
pastures; he leadeth me beside the still
waters.

He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me
in the paths of righteousness for his
name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil;
for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff
they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the
presence of mine enemies: thou anointest
my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow
me all the days of my life; and I will
dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS[1]

[1] Adapted, with quotations, from the poem in The Hidden
Servants, by Francesca Alexander (Little, Brown & Co.).


This is a legend about a hermit who lived
long ago.  He lived high up on the mountain-
side in a tiny cave; his food was roots
and acorns, a bit of bread given by a
peasant, or a cheese brought by a woman
who wanted his prayers; his work was
praying, and thinking about God.  For
forty years he lived so, preaching to the
people, praying for them, comforting them
in trouble, and, most of all, worshiping
in his heart.  There was just one thing he
cared about: it was to make his soul so
pure and perfect that it could be one of the
stones in God's great Temple of Heaven.

One day, after the forty years, he had a
great longing to know how far along he
had got with his work,--how it looked to
the Heavenly Father.  And he prayed that
he might be shown a man--

   "Whose soul in the heavenly grace had grown
   To the selfsame measure as his own;
   Whose treasure on the celestial shore
   Could neither be less than his nor more."


As he looked up from his prayer, a
white-robed angel stood in the path before
him.  The hermit bowed before the
messenger with great gladness, for he knew
that his wish was answered.  "Go to the
nearest town," the angel said, "and there,
in the public square, you will find a
mountebank (a clown) making the people laugh
for money.  He is the man you seek, his
soul has grown to the selfsame stature as
your own; his treasure on the celestial
shore is neither less than yours nor more."

When the angel had faded from sight,
the hermit bowed his head again, but this
time with great sorrow and fear.  Had his
forty years of prayer been a terrible
mistake, and was his soul indeed like a clown,
fooling in the market-place?  He knew not
what to think.  Almost he hoped he should
not find the man, and could believe that he
had dreamed the angel vision.  But when
he came, after a long, toilful walk, to the
village, and the square, alas! there was the
clown, doing his silly tricks for the crowd.

The hermit stood and looked at him
with terror and sadness, for he felt that he
was looking at his own soul.  The face he
saw was thin and tired, and though it kept
a smile or a grin for the people, it seemed
very sad to the hermit.  Soon the man felt
the hermit's eyes; he could not go on with
his tricks.  And when he had stopped and
the crowd had left, the hermit went and
drew the man aside to a place where they
could rest; for he wanted more than
anything else on earth to know what the man's
soul was like, because what it was, his was.

So, after a little, he asked the clown, very
gently, what his life was, what it had been.
And the clown answered, very sadly, that
it was just as it looked,--a life of foolish
tricks, for that was the only way of earning
his bread that he knew.

"But have you never been anything
different?" asked the hermit, painfully.

The clown's head sank in his hands.
"Yes, holy father," he said, "I have been
something else.  I was a thief!  I once
belonged to the wickedest band of mountain
robbers that ever tormented the land, and
I was as wicked as the worst."

Alas!  The hermit felt that his heart was
breaking.  Was this how he looked to the
Heavenly Father,--like a thief, a cruel
mountain robber?  He could hardly speak,
and the tears streamed from his old eyes,
but he gathered strength to ask one more
question.  "I beg you," he said, "if you
have ever done a single good deed in
your life, remember it now, and tell it
to me;" for he thought that even one
good deed would save him from utter
despair.

"Yes, one," the clown said, "but it was
so small, it is not worth telling; my life
has been worthless."

"Tell me that one!" pleaded the hermit.

"Once," said the man, "our band broke
into a convent garden and stole away one
of the nuns, to sell as a slave or to keep for
a ransom.  We dragged her with us over
the rough, long way to our mountain camp,
and set a guard over her for the night.  The
poor thing prayed to us so piteously to
let her go!  And as she begged, she looked
from one hard face to another with trusting,
imploring eyes, as if she could not
believe men could be really bad.  Father,
when her eyes met mine something pierced
my heart!  Pity and shame leaped up, for
the first time, within me.  But I made my
face as hard and cruel as the rest, and she
turned away, hopeless.

"When all was dark and still, I stole like
a cat to where she lay bound.  I put my
hand on her wrist and whispered, `Trust
me, and I will take you safely home.'
I cut her bonds with my knife, and she
looked at me to show that she trusted.
Father, by terrible ways that I knew,
hidden from the others, I took her safe
to the convent gate.  She knocked; they
opened; and she slipped inside.  And, as
she left me, she turned and said, `God will
remember.'

"That was all.  I could not go back to
the old bad life, and I had never learned
an honest way to earn my bread.  So I
became a clown, and must be a clown until
I die."

"No! no! my son," cried the hermit,
and now his tears were tears of joy.  "God
has remembered; your soul is in his sight
even as mine, who have prayed and
preached for forty years.  Your treasure
waits for you on the heavenly shore just
as mine does."

"As YOURS?  Father, you mock me!"
said the clown.

But when the hermit told him the story
of his prayer and the angel's answer, the
poor clown was transfigured with joy,
for he knew that his sins were forgiven.
And when the hermit went home to his
mountain, the clown went with him.  He,
too, became a hermit, and spent his time
in praise and prayer.

Together they lived, and worked, and
helped the poor.  And when, after two
years, the man who had been a clown
died, the hermit felt that he had lost a
brother holier than himself.

For ten years more the hermit lived in
his mountain hut, thinking always of God,
fasting and praying, and doing no least
thing that was wrong.  Then, one day, the
wish once more came, to know how his
work was growing, and once more he
prayed that he might see a being--

   "Whose soul in the heavenly grace had grown
   To the selfsame measure as his own;
   Whose treasure on the celestial shore
   Could neither be less than his nor more."


Once more his prayer was answered.
The angel came to him, and told him to
go to a certain village on the other side
of the mountain, and to a small farm
in it, where two women lived.  In them
he should find two souls like his own, in
God's sight.

When the hermit came to the door of the
little farm, the two women who lived there
were overjoyed to see him, for every one
loved and honored his name.  They put
a chair for him on the cool porch, and
brought food and drink.  But the hermit
was too eager to wait.  He longed greatly
to know what the souls of the two women
were like, and from their looks he could
see only that they were gentle and honest.
One was old, and the other of middle age.

Presently he asked them about their
lives.  They told him the little there was to
tell: they had worked hard always, in the
fields with their husbands, or in the house;
they had many children; they had seen
hard times,--sickness, sorrow; but they
had never despaired.

"But what of your good deeds," the
hermit asked,--"what have you done for
God?"

"Very little," they said, sadly, for they
were too poor to give much.  To be sure,
twice every year, when they killed a sheep
for food, they gave half to their poorer
neighbors.

"That is very good, very faithful," the
hermit said.  "And is there any other good
deed you have done?"

"Nothing," said the older woman,
"unless, unless--it might be called a good
deed--"  She looked at the younger
woman, who smiled back at her.

"What?" said the hermit.

Still the woman hesitated; but at last
she said, timidly, "It is not much to tell,
father, only this, that it is twenty years
since my sister-in-law and I came to live
together in the house; we have brought
up our families here; and in all the
twenty years there has never been a cross
word between us, or a look that was
less than kind."

The hermit bent his head before the
two women, and gave thanks in his heart.
"If my soul is as these," he said, "I am
blessed indeed."

And suddenly a great light came into
the hermit's mind, and he saw how many
ways there are of serving God.  Some
serve him in churches and in hermit's cells,
by praise and prayer; some poor souls who
have been very wicked turn from their
wickedness with sorrow, and serve him
with repentance; some live faithfully and
gently in humble homes, working, bringing
up children, keeping kind and cheerful;
some bear pain patiently, for his sake.
Endless, endless ways there are, that only
the Heavenly Father sees.

And so, as the hermit climbed the mountain
again, he thought,--

 "As he saw the star-like glow
 Of light, in the cottage windows far,
 How many God's hidden servants are!"




End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Stories To Tell Children