Jingles, Fables, and Folk-Lore
The first stories told to a child are almost invariably the Mother Goose
rhymes and jingles, beginning perhaps with:
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man!
So I will, master, as fast as I can:
Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with T,
And toss in the oven for Tommy and me.
Or this, from the _Chinese Mother Goose_ (Fleming H. Revell Company):
Pat, pat,
A swallow’s nest we’ll make,
And if we pat some money out
We’ll buy ourselves a cake.
These are usually accompanied by appropriate finger plays.
Can we give a tangible reason for this choice? Why do all mothers turn to
them with unwavering fidelity? Why do all children love them?
There can be but one answer. Before a child is able to follow the thread
of the simplest story, he can enjoy the musical cadence of these rhymes.
There is rhythm in their measure, an allurement of sound in their words
and phrases which pleases his ear and satisfies his senses long before
their words carry any intelligent thought to his mind.
Why are “memory gems” taught in the primary grades of the schools? The
children understand but little of their true beauty of thought, but the
cadence of the lines fixes them in the memory, and the deeper meaning
comes with later years.
It is because this is so, because the children love musical cadence
before they understand words, that mothers can follow or mingle the
Mother Goose melodies with more modern verses such as those of Field or
Stevenson. The little child will love such lines as these, by Henry van
Dyke:
I guess the pussy-willows now
Are creeping out on every bough
Along the brook; and robins look
For early worms behind the plough.
Or the introduction to “The Fountain,” in James Russell Lowell’s _Poems_
(Houghton, Mifflin Company):
Into the sunshine,
Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn till night.
Into the moonlight,
Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like
When the winds blow.
Into the star-light
Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight,
Happy by day.
The true poetry of these lines will not appeal to him in the beginning,
but the cadence of the lines will, and they will become fixed in his
mind. The beauty of the poems will be his in later years.
As soon as a child is old enough to follow the thread of a simple
story, fables and folk-lore will lead him into the realm of the world’s
earliest literature. These are the stories which delighted the race
in its childhood, and they have delighted childhood in all succeeding
generations. These old fables are so familiar that they are incorporated
into our everyday conversation. How often do we refer to “The Hare and
the Tortoise,” to the “Dog in the Manger,” or to “The Goose That Laid the
Golden Egg?” How frequently do we illustrate a point by a reference to
“Sour Grapes,” or to “A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing?” Yet probably not one
in twenty knows that all these familiar illustrations find their origin
in the fables of Aesop or La Fontaine.
These old classic fables are a part of the literature “which the world
has chosen to remember.” They have become a part of the literary coin of
the realm. In his introduction to Aesop’s Fables, Joseph Jacobs says:
“In their grotesque grace, in their quaint humor, in their trust in
the simpler virtues, in their insight into the cruder vices, in their
innocence of the fact of sex, Aesop’s Fables are as little children.” As
an example:
It happened that a fisher, after fishing all day, caught only
a little fish. “Pray, let me go, master,” said the fish. “I am
much too small for your eating just now. If you put me back
into the river I shall soon grow, then you can make a fine meal
off me.”
“Nay, nay, my little fish,” said the fisher, “I have you now. I
may not catch you hereafter.”
It has been well said that the fables are the child’s best introduction
to the study of human nature. They are “an interpretation of life.” That
animals are made to talk, and to exhibit human traits, only adds to the
charm of the story without lessening its ethical value. The child applies
to all nature his own standard of ethics.
The child’s ability to understand is far in advance of his ability to
read, and the old folk-tales which have been handed down orally from
generation to generation, and later gathered into volumes for the
children of all nations to enjoy together, are a veritable mine of
delight to both story-teller and listener.
Folk tales and fairy tales are so interwoven that it is difficult to
separate them. That some of both are open to criticism is conceded, but
with such abundance of supply there is no need of telling a story which
presents even a doubt as to its value.
In her introduction to “The Story Hour,” Kate Douglas Wiggin says:
“Some universal spiritual truth underlies the really fine old fairy
tale; but there can be no educational influence in the so-called fairy
stories, which are merely jumbles of impossible incidents, and which not
infrequently present dishonesty, deceit, and cruelty in attractive or
amusing guise.” Here we have the true test which anyone may apply: an
underlying “universal spiritual truth.” Does our story contain such?
Two very familiar nursery tales which owe their origin to the folk-lore
of old—namely, “Jack, the Giant Killer,” and “Cinderella”—have recently
been brought into question upon the ground of their moral teaching.
The critics in question look upon Jack as a thief and a murderer, who
“lived happily ever after” upon his ill-gotten gains. For my own part,
I find less to condemn in Jack’s treatment of the Giant, than in making
a hero of a boy who was lazy and disobedient. The Giant had robbed and
killed Jack’s father, and he was wicked and cruel to all, and Jack could
scarcely be blamed for trying to regain his father’s stolen wealth, or
for cutting down the bean-stalk when the Giant was descending for the
purpose of killing him and, in all probability, his mother. But the false
note in the story, to my mind, lies in selecting a boy who was avowedly
lazy, idle, disobedient, and neglectful of his mother, for the hero of
a tale of such marvelous deeds. The tale of Jack, the Giant Killer,
however, has many versions, and there is no need whatever, when telling
the story, of giving to Jack any of these undesirable traits. Rather,
picture him as a boy capable of performing heroic deeds. The change is
easily made.
On the other hand, I would champion the story of “Cinderella.” The recent
criticism brought against this story is that it leads boys and girls to
believe that all step-mothers are cruel. I do not think so. The stories
of “The Babes in the Woods,” and of “The Princes in the Tower,” do not
teach that all uncles are cruel. Of course the fact that Cinderella’s
step-mother was a _step_-mother might be so emphasized in the telling
as to give this impression, but it is not emphasized in the story—not,
at least, in most of the versions which I have read. Selfishness and
pride are set forth in the half-sisters in all their unattractiveness;
while Cinderella’s final triumph serves as a means of showing her gentle
and forgiving nature. These are the points to be brought out in the
story-telling, and it would seem to me to be an unjustifiable robbery
to take the story of Cinderella from the child’s early store of fairy
tales. What a thrill of exquisite delight is felt by the child when the
magic of the god-mother’s wand turns Cinderella’s rags into the robe
of a princess and she is whirled away in her golden chariot to meet the
prince. It is a story of goodness rewarded and of evil punished, but all
in such a magical and wonderful way! I can feel the early thrill of it
yet—and so can you.
There are different versions of both these stories, and it is not a
difficult matter to tell either one in such a way as to do away with all
objectionable features. As was shown in a previous chapter, much of the
impression which a story leaves is due to the manner of its telling.
The story of Cinderella certainly contains the “underlying universal,
spiritual truth,” and so answers to the test of a truly “fine old fairy
tale.”
American story tellers should not go far afield for their tales of folk
lore, and overlook the two distinctive sources afforded by our own
country. The stories of the North American Indian, told by camp fire or
in tepee, are full of poetic imagery, of symbolic truth, and of heroic
valor. They form the original legendary lore of our land, and they should
be told to the children, preparing them for a later reading of the poets
and authors who have shown us the picturesque as well as the tragic side
of the history of the Red Man.
The other American source of folk lore tales is found in the south, and
is typified at its best in “Uncle Remus,” though not confined to him. As
has been said, the dialect story is difficult for a child to read, and
Uncle Remus is undoubtedly most thoroughly appreciated by children of a
larger growth. But no child can resist the drollery or the rollicking fun
of the true darkey story when it is _told_ to him.
The following story of “Ithenthiela” which closes this chapter is a good
example of the folk lore tales of the Indian. Only a portion of the
original story is here given, but it is to be found, with other good
stories for telling, in _Tales of the Red Children_, by Abbie F. Brown,
and James M. Bell (D. Appleton and Company).
“The Story of Ithenthiela”[2]
Many years ago there was a brave Indian boy named Ithenthiela, the
Caribou-Footed, who lived far away in the great northwest.
One day, as Ithenthiela went through the woods, he saw a squirrel in
the branches of a tall red spruce tree, and, raising his bow, he shot an
arrow at it. Down fell the squirrel, but the arrow lodged in the branches.
Then Ithenthiela started to climb after the arrow, but he had not climbed
far when he heard a great pack of wolves howling at the foot of the tree.
So he climbed higher, and as he mounted, the arrow went up, too.
Up, up, it went, until at last it came to the sky itself. The arrow
passed through the thin blue, and Ithenthiela wriggled after it.
Great was Ithenthiela’s surprise when he entered the Sky Country; it
was so different from what he had expected. He had imagined a glorious
country where the sun always shone, and where huge herds of musk-oxen,
caribou, and moose roamed at large. He had expected to find many of his
own people camped in wigwams here and there, preparing to fight with
other tribes. But instead, the air was damp, dreary, and cold; no trees
or flowers grew; no herds of animals ran on the silent plains; the smoke
of no wigwam greeted his anxious eyes; no war-whoop or hunting cry was
heard. But far in the distance against the sky shimmered a great white
mass, like a pile of snow when the sun shines upon it in the early
summer. Toward this great white wonder ran a winding path from the very
spot where Ithenthiela stood.
“I will follow it,” thought he, “and see what I find in that shining
wigwam over there.”
As he passed along he met an old woman who said to him: “Who are you, and
where are you going?”
“I have come from far,” said Ithenthiela. “I am the Caribou-Footed. Can
you tell me who lives over there in that big white wigwam?”
“Ah,” said Capoteka—for that was the old woman’s name—“I know you,
Ithenthiela! Long have I known that sometime you would come here. But
you have done wrong; this is no country for man. In that great wigwam
over there lives Itakempka; and he is unhappy because he has lost his
great medicine belt. Until he gets it again, no one will be happy in the
Sky Country. The belt is at the tepee of the two blind women who live
far beyond the wigwam which shines so white, and no one has been able to
get it from them. But whoever captures it, and takes it from the blind
women, will have the daughter of Itakempka, the beautiful Etanda, for his
wife.”
At these words off started Ithenthiela, and, traveling hard, he soon came
to a tepee which stood alone; the home of the two old blind women.
Dull and gloomy was the covering of the wigwam; but from the tiny hole
in the smoke-begrimed moose skins came a strange, bright light at which
Ithenthiela marveled.
But when he entered he saw what it was that gave the mysterious light.
It came from the great medicine belt which hung upon the wall, and
surrounding the belt were the skulls of many men.
The belt was studded with gems. From great rubies sparkled the rays
of crimson; from huge amethysts shone streams of purple; from mighty
sapphires came the deepest blue, and gorgeous emeralds shot rays of
green; while great cairngorms scintillated with yellow glow. The lights
changed from blood-red to purple, from purple to blue, from blue to
green, from green to yellow, and ever and anon faded altogether, to be
succeeded by the mixed rainbow of color from fair opals or by the pure
white light of great diamonds. This was the magic belt of Itakempka.
The blind women bade Ithenthiela welcome and said to him:
“Tell us, Ithenthiela, when you are about to leave, so that we may bid
you good-by.”
Now, Ithenthiela had noticed that each of the old women had behind her
back a knife of copper, long and sharp and gleaming; and that one sat on
either side of the door, waiting.
“Ah!” thought he, “when I leave they mean to kill me. But, I shall fool
them.”
In one part of the wigwam lay a muskamoot, or bag, of bones and feathers.
To this he tied a string, which he pulled over the pole above the door.
Then, said he:
“I am going now, Blind Women. Remember that I am old and fat, and when I
leave I make much noise.”
With this he pulled the string, whereat the bag of bones and feathers
trundled toward the door. Immediately the two old hags stabbed; but
striking only feathers, the long knife of each passed through the bag
into the body of the other, and both were killed.
Then Ithenthiela took the precious belt and hastened with all speed
toward the wigwam of Itakempka. As he neared the great Chief’s home he
heard no sound of man or beast. Entering, he saw that all the camp was
sleeping. Around the long-cold fire lay the warriors and maidens, the
old men and women, and in their midst the tall Chief, decked with faded
plumes.
Then for the first time, Ithenthiela drew from beneath his leathern
shirt the belt of medicine. Around the wigwam flashed the rays of red,
purple, green, and gold. Instantly the warriors and maidens, the old men
and women, awoke. Up rose the Chief, fine and stately among them, as the
color came back to his gorgeous head-dress, and as the fire on the hearth
sparkled into life.
Then said Ithenthiela: “Great Chief, be you happy now. I have brought you
back your healing belt, the band of life, of hope, of war, and of peace.
Henceforth it shall abide here in its true place with you.”
Then said Itakempka: “Greatly I rejoice, O Ithenthiela! You have saved
my people. Now shall the sun shine again. Now shall musk-oxen, caribou,
moose, and bears live once more in our country. Again shall we see the
smoke of many wigwams. Once more shall we hear the voice of many hunters,
and ever and anon the war-whoop of the warriors. You have wakened us from
our long winter sleep. Take you now my daughter, the fair Etanda, for
your wife. But leave me not. You shall stay with me, and be a great chief
after me.” So Ithenthiela remained in the shining white home of Itakempka.
And still the Red Children in the distant northern lands tell of
Ithenthiela when the northern lights flit across the sky.
“Ah!” they cry, with their faces bowed before that splendid light, which
is to them the most mysterious thing of nature. “See the fingers of
Ithenthiela are beckoning us to the home which he found for us beyond the
sky.”
FOOTNOTES
[2] Adapted for telling. By permission of the publishers.