I
A thousand years ago boys and girls did not learn to read. Books were
very scarce and very precious, and only a few men could read them.
Each book was written with a pen or a brush. The pictures were painted
by hand, and some of them were very beautiful. A good book would
sometimes cost as much as a good house.
In those times there were even some kings who could not read. They
thought more of hunting and fighting than of learning.
There was one such king who had four sons, Ethelbald, Ethelbert,
Ethelred, and Alfred.[Footnote: Eth'el bald, Eth'el bert, Eth'el red,
Al'fred.] The three older boys were sturdy, half-grown lads; the
youngest, Alfred, was a slender, fair-haired child.
One day when they were with their mother, she showed them a wonderful
book that some rich friend had given her. She turned the leaves and
showed them the strange letters. She showed them the beautiful
pictures, and told them how they had been drawn and painted.
They admired the book very much, for they had never seen anything like
it. "But the best part of it is the story which it tells," said their
mother. "If you could only read, you might learn that story and enjoy
it. Now I have a mind to give this book to one of you"
"Will you give it to me, mother?" asked little Alfred.
"I will give it to the one who first learns to read in it" she
answered.
"I am sure I would rather have a good bow with arrows" said Ethelred.
"And I would rather have a young hawk that has been trained to hunt"
said Ethelbert.
"If I were a priest or a monk" said Ethelbald, "I would learn to read.
But I am a prince, and it is foolish for princes to waste their time
with such things."
"But I should like to know the story which this book tells," said
Alfred.