CHAPTER XII

Story-Telling as an Art

The artist in colors works out his conception of a picture upon canvas.

It is finished, and he steps aside. Personally he has nothing further to

do with the presentation of that picture. But if his own individuality

has not entered into the work, if something of himself has not permeated

it, it can never be a work of true art.

The story-teller also presents a picture—a word picture—and, like that of

the artist of the brush, if her own individuality has not entered into

it, if something of herself has not permeated it, it can not be true art.

But, unlike the painter, her picture is never completed; she is never

able to step aside and say, “It is finished.” And here the story-teller

has the advantage of the painter, for each re-telling of her story is a

new presentation, and in each re-telling her own personality may lend a

deeper pathos, a rarer glint of humor, a more searching vision of truth.

The story itself is the picture; its theme forms the subject; its

literary quality corresponds to canvas and color. Hence a story, to be

artistically told, must be well chosen. In its inherent character it

must awaken the imagination; it must satisfy the love of beauty; it must

mirror truth; and it must appeal to both the intellect and the emotion.

Art’s chief charm lies in its power to awaken the imagination, to stir

the fancy, to suggest something above and beyond the actual portrayal.

The subject of artistic story-telling must always be beautiful, but

there are many types of beauty, many forms and fancies which appeal to

our aesthetic sense. Again, no story which is not painted against “a

universal background of truth” can be artistic, for truth, not error, is

beautiful. Finally, a story, to be great, must of necessity appeal to the

intellect; but if its appeal be to the intellect alone, it is cold and

formal. It must touch the emotions as well: it must have a human interest.

Every well-told story, as every gem from the artist’s brush, must have

atmosphere—that indefinable something which casts its glamour over the

whole. In story-telling, this sense of atmosphere must come from the

personality of the teller. That is why there is such a variety of charm

in hearing the same story told by different persons. This sense of

atmosphere is created by the story-teller’s losing herself wholly in the

story. She completely absorbs the story, its setting, its characters,

its ideals, and when she gives it forth again, it takes op something

of herself. This cannot be the case if the story is told as something

assumed, external, or borrowed. In the latter, no matter how good the

technique, the art is lost. Perhaps this point, which is most essential

to artistic story-telling, may be more deeply impressed by a concrete

example:

The story-lovers of one of our large cities recently had the pleasure

of listening to two well-known story-tellers, each giving an hour with

Uncle Remus. Only a few days elapsed between the two presentations. In

the first instance the story-teller had scarcely more than commenced when

we felt that we were sitting in Uncle Remus’ cabin, away down South,

listening to the adventures of Brer Wolf, Brer Fox, and Brer Rabbit, told

by the old man who loved them as his own brothers of the woods. _We were_

the little boy, to whom Uncle Remus was telling the stories in his own

inimitable way.

In the second instance we were an audience in the North, listening to a

well-told—a thoroughly well-told—account of Uncle Remus’ telling to a

little boy the adventures of Brer Wolf, Brer Fox, and Brer Rabbit. We

laughed with the little boy; we enjoyed it with the little boy, but we

ourselves were not that little boy sitting at the feet of Uncle Remus.

Do you see the contrast? The first story-teller created the true “Uncle

Remus atmosphere”; his story-telling was an art.

What was the difference in the telling? It was very simple. The one

became Uncle Remus in spirit. In all conscious simplicity he _was_ the

old colored story-teller whom Joel Chandler Harris created, and he was

telling his story to the little boy—not to an “audience.” The other told

us—most delightfully—_about_ the old colored story-teller, and reproduced

for us his stories. His technique was above reproach, and he satisfied

the intellect. The first also satisfied the intellect, but he reached far

beyond it and touched the heart.

The artistic story must have perspective. One which lacks this quality

is like a diagram; it is not a picture. There must be relative values,

and the “witching glamour of the past.” Give the old stories their

appropriate setting in time and place. Let the modern story be the

central figure against the universal background of truth—a background

which will soften its sharper outlines, and mellow its cruder tones.

Preserve in the classic the classical spirit, as well as the classical

form—that classical spirit which kindles the fancy and stirs the

imagination. Let the hearers see their heroes through the vista of

vanishing years.

Technique is a necessary part of any artistic production. Note how

carefully the artist selects his brushes and prepares his palette.

The story-teller should do no less. As the brush of the artist must,

to a certain extent, influence the effect of his colors, so the voice

and manner of the story-teller must, to a certain degree, affect the

presentation of the story. Even the manner of dress has its influence.

And so, with the example of the artist before us, let us choose these

minor tools of our art with the single purpose of their suitability.

Let them be natural, simple, harmonious. No judge of a picture thinks of

the canvas or the pigments. They are wholly lost sight of. So will it be

with the elements of the story-teller’s equipment if they are suitable;

in other words, if they are in harmony with her real purpose. But let us

also bear in mind the fact that a true artist can do much with a poor

brush, and the true story-teller can achieve good results even though the

details of her equipment are not at their best.

There must be variety in the story-pictures. No one cares to look

continually at the paintings of even the greatest master, be he a Michael

Angelo, or a Velasquez. The water colors of a Turner, or even the

vagaries of a Whistler afford needed change and variety—each arousing

our admiration, each presenting its own phase of art. So we need not

always tell the stories of a Homer or a Shakespeare. These may well be

interspersed with the tales of an Anderson, a Dickens, or a Joel Chandler

Harris.

There is an “indefinite something” about art which raises it above

the commonplace. Perfection of craftsmanship does not produce this

indescribable charm. It must emanate from the personality of the worker.

Let us never confuse art with artificiality. Art is nothing assumed; it

is something felt. Until we feel our story we can never tell it at its

best.

Not all are artists, few are great artists; but you and I may do our

best toward artistic attainment, and comfort ourselves over any lack

of achievement by the reflection that while only the favored few see

the great masterpieces of painting, the lives of the multitude are made

brighter and happier by the work of the lesser artists, who, striving

against their limitations, have yet given to the world their best.

PART II

SELECTED STORIES TO TELL

Selected Stories to Tell

The following stories are selected with a view to fulfilling various

purposes, to meeting varied needs. Though not all are _great_ stories,

yet the object to be attained by telling them is great; for the work of

molding the mind of a child can be nothing less. Each story is worth

while: most of them lie outside the beaten path.

The Robin’s Carol[4]

This is the carol the robin throws

Over the edge of the valley;

Listen how boldly it flows,

Sally on sally:

Tirra-lirra,

Down the river,

Laughing water

All a quiver.

Day is near,

Clear, clear,

Fish are breaking,

Time for waking.

Tup, tup, tup!

Do you hear?

All clear—

Wake up!

The Little Baldhead[5]

You dear little baby,

Don’t you cry;

Your father’s drawing water

In the south, near by.

A red tasseled hat

He wears on his head;

Your mother’s in the kitchen

Making up bread.

Walk a step, walk a step,

Off he goes,

See from his shoe-tips

Peep three toes.

Why the Bear Sleeps All Winter[6]

Once upon a time, little Brother Rabbit lived, quite sober and

industrious, in the woods, and just close by lived a big, brown Bear.

Now little Brother Rabbit never troubled his neighbors in those days, nor

meddled with their housekeeping, nor played any tricks the way he does

now. In the fall, he gathered his acorns, and his pignuts, and his rabbit

tobacco. On a frosty morning, he would set out with Brother Fox for the

farmer’s; and while Brother Fox looked after the chicken yards, little

Brother Rabbit picked cabbage, and pulled turnips, and gathered carrots

and parsnips for his cellar. When the winter came, he never failed to

share his store with a wandering chipmunk.

Now, in those days, old Bear was not content to do his own housekeeping,

and doze in the sun, and gather wild honey in the summer, and fish

through the ice in the winter. He was full of mischief, and was always

playing tricks. Of all the beasts of the wood, the one he loved best to

trouble was sober little Brother Rabbit.

Just as soon as Brother Rabbit moved to a new tree stump, and filled his

bins with vegetables, and his pantry with salad, along came old Bear and

carried off all his stores.

Just as soon as Brother Rabbit filled his house with dry, warm leaves for

a bed, along came old Bear, and tried to squeeze himself into the bed,

too, and of course he was too big.

At last, Brother Rabbit could stand it no longer, and he went to all the

beasts in the wood to ask their advice.

The first one he met was Brother Frog, sitting on the edge of the pond,

and sticking his feet in the nice, cool mud.

“What shall I do, Brother Frog?” asked Brother Rabbit; “Brother Bear will

not leave me alone.”

“Let us ask Brother Squirrel,” said Brother Frog.

So the two went to Brother Squirrel, cracking nuts in the hickory tree.

“What shall we do, Brother Squirrel?” asked Brother Frog; “Brother Bear

will not leave Brother Rabbit alone.”

“Let us ask Brother Mole,” said Brother Squirrel, dropping his nuts.

So the three went to where Brother Mole was digging the cellar for a new

house, and they said:

“What shall we do, Brother Mole? Brother Bear will not leave Brother

Rabbit alone.”

“Let us ask Brother Fox,” said Brother Mole.

So Brother Mole, Brother Squirrel, Brother Frog, and Brother Rabbit went

to where Brother Fox was combing his brush behind a bush, and they said

to him:

“What shall we do, Brother Fox? Brother Bear will not leave Brother

Rabbit alone.”

“Let us go to Brother Bear,” said Brother Fox.

So they all went along with little Brother Rabbit, and they hunted and

hunted for old Bear, but they could not find him anywhere. They hunted

and hunted some more, and at last they peeped into a hollow tree. There

lay old Bear, fast asleep.

“Hush,” said Brother Fox.

Then he whispered to Brother Frog, “Bring a little mud.”

And he whispered to Brother Squirrel, “Bring some leaves.”

And he whispered to Brother Mole, “Bring some dirt, little brother.”

And to Brother Rabbit he said, “Stand ready to do what I tell you.”

So Brother Frog brought mud, Brother Squirrel brought leaves, Brother

Mole brought dirt, and Brother Rabbit stood ready to do what Brother Fox

told him.

Then Brother Fox said to Brother Rabbit, “Stop up the ends of Brother

Bear’s log.”

So Brother Rabbit took the mud and the leaves and the dirt, and he

stopped up the ends of the log. Then he hammered hard with his two back

feet, which are good for hammering. And they all went home, for they

thought that old Bear would never, never get out of the log.

Well, old Bear slept and slept, but after a while he awoke, and he opened

one eye. He saw no sunshine, so he thought it was still night, and he

went to sleep again.

After another while, he awoke again, but he heard the rain and sleet

beating outside, and it was very warm and dry inside.

“What a very long night,” said old Bear, and he curled up his paws, and

he went to sleep again.

This time, he just slept, and slept, until it began to be very warm

inside the log, and he heard in his dreams the footsteps of birds outside.

Then he awoke, and he stretched himself, and he shook himself. He rubbed

his eyes with his paws, and he poked away the mud, and the leaves, and

the dirt, and he went outside.

But was he not surprised?

It had been a frosty night when he had gone to sleep, and now the woods

were green. Old Bear had slept all winter.

“That was a fine long sleep,” said old Bear, as he set out for little

Brother Rabbit’s house to see if he had anything good for breakfast; “and

I shall go to sleep again, next fall.”

So every summer, old Bear plays tricks on little Brother Rabbit, but when

fall comes, he creeps away to a warm, dark place to sleep until spring.

And so have his grandchildren, and his great-grandchildren, and his

great-great-grandchildren ever since.

The Little Boy Who Forgot to Wash His Hands[7]

Once upon a time, so very long ago that of course there are no children

like that now, there was a little boy who almost _never_ washed his

hands. He wrote with ink and got ink on his fat little fore-finger; he

made pictures with his paints and daubed his thumbs with red and yellow

and blue color; he made mud pies and splashed mud all over his chubby

palms and he never washed off the ink or the paint or the mud.

And when anyone spoke of his dirty hands, Bobby—that was the little

boy’s name—would say, “Oh, I forgot.” And then he would keep right on

forgetting all about nice warm soap and soft dry towels, and pretty,

clean, pink hands.

One day, Bobby decided that he wanted to play, very hard. The sun was up,

there was a soft, singing wind out in the garden, and the whole world

looked clean and happy. So Bobby put on his cap, and because it is always

better to play with someone than to play alone, Bobby called his big

white pussy cat who often loved to chase up and down the path that ran

between the hedges.

“Come, pussy, pussy dear!” called Bobby, “come and play with me.”

Then, because the white cat did not seem to hear, Bobby stooped over and

picked her up in his arms. But the white cat wriggled and scratched and

spit at Bobby and jumped out of his arms. She ran away from him and hid

beneath a chair.

“I wonder why she will not play with me,” Bobby said as he went out

into the garden. There, on the door-step, stood Bobby’s white dove with

the pink, pink toes. Bobby loved the white dove, who was very tame and

often flew to his shoulder, cooing gently in his ear. He put his hand in

his pocket and pulled out a handful of grain which he scattered on the

door-step for the dove—pretty yellow grain it was. But the white dove

would not eat it, and when Bobby called her, she flew away from him, as

far as the green gables at the very top of the house.

“I wonder why she will not play with me,” said Bobby, as he ran down

the garden path to the little round pond where his six yellow gold fish

lived. The six yellow gold fish were Bobby’s friends and they often

played with him as well as they knew how. When he threw crumbs into the

pond they would come to the top with their little mouths wide open, and

would dart about in the shining water as if they wanted Bobby to jump in

and swim about and enjoy the feast with them.

But today, when Bobby gave them some crumbs which he had in his pocket,

they did not come up to eat them. They stayed deep, deep down in the pond.

“I wonder why—” Bobby began, and then he happened to look down at the

water. The top of the pond was a shining mirror and in it Bobby saw a

picture of two little black hands.

The crumbs that he had thrown to the six yellow gold fish were black,

too. The pretty yellow grain that he gave the dove had been black, and

when he had lifted the white pussy cat, his hands had left two big, black

smudges upon her beautiful white fur.

“Why, my hands are dirty,” exclaimed Bobby.

You see, he had never really thought about his hands before. So he went

right into the house to wash them and he never, _never_ forgot to wash

them again.

The Honest Woodman[8]

Once upon a time a poor woodman lived with his family near a great

forest. Every week day he shouldered his ax very early in the morning,

and bidding his wife and children good-by, went out to cut wood for his

master.

One day when he was chopping at the trunk of a great tree growing near

a stream, his ax suddenly slipped out of his hands and dropped with a

splash into the water.

Oh, how troubled the poor man was! He couldn’t earn a penny without an

ax, and he was too poor to buy one. He sat down on the bank and wept as

though his heart would break.

“What is the trouble, my good man?” asked a voice at his side. It was a

fairy! And such a jolly-looking fairy, too. He had wings on his cap, and

wings on his shoes, and even on his staff!

“I dropped my ax in the stream, and I can’t chop wood any more, and my

family will starve,” sobbed the man.

Instantly Mercury, for that was the fairy’s name, dived down into the

water, and came up, dripping wet, holding a beautiful golden ax in his

hand.

“Is this your ax?” he asked.

“No, that is not mine.”

The good fairy dived into the stream again, and this time brought up a

silver ax.

“Is this yours?”

“No, that isn’t mine, either.” The poor man needed an ax very much, but

he would not claim one that did not belong to him, of course.

Once more Mercury plunged into the water, but this time he came up with a

common ax in his hand.

“Is this your ax?” he asked.

“Yes! Oh, yes! that is mine!” cried the man, joyfully. “Thank you so much

for your kindness. I am sorry you are so wet.”

“I don’t mind that,” said Mercury. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet such

an honest man. I will give you both the gold and the silver axes as well

as your own, and you can sell them for much gold, and you shall never be

poor again.” And he was gone before the woodcutter had time to thank him.

The woodcutter went home a very happy man, for now he would always have

plenty for his family. When his neighbors heard about his good fortune,

one of them who was a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow decided to try his

luck in the same way. He went to the stream, threw his ax in, and sitting

down on the bank, wept aloud as the honest woodman had done.

Suddenly Mercury appeared to him.

“What is the trouble, my good man?” he asked, as before.

“I dropped my ax in the river,” sobbed the man.

Instantly the fairy dived into the water, and in a moment came up with a

golden ax in his hand.

“Is this your ax?”

“Yes! Oh, yes! that is mine,” the dishonest man cried, reaching out

eagerly for the beautiful golden tool.

But Mercury knew he was not speaking the truth, and was very angry with

him. Instead of giving him the golden ax, he dropped it into the stream

and disappeared without trying to find the man’s own ax. So, instead of

going home a rich man, as he had expected, he went home poorer than he

had come.

Tabby and the Mice[9]

Three little mice once lived in an old box.

“I am going to make a new house,” said the largest mouse, whose name was

Rus.

“_I_ am going to make a new house,” said the next mouse, whose name was

Fus.

“_I_ am going to make a new house,” said the third mouse, who name was

Mus.

“My house shall be made of hay,” said Rus, who did not like to be cold.

“My house shall be made of paper,” said Fus, who was fond of books.

“My house shall be made of bricks,” said Mus, who was as wise as he could

be.

So the three little mice made their homes.

One day Tabby Cat came along. She saw the three houses that the little

mice had made.

She was a very polite old cat, so she knocked at the door of the first

house.

“Come, Mr. Rus; please let me in!” said she.

“Oh, no,” said Rus; “you can’t come in.”

Tabby was a wise old cat. She put her soft paw into the hay and caught

poor Rus.

Then she went to the next house. “Come, Mr. Fus; let me in,” she said.

“Oh, no!” said Fus, “you can’t come in.”

But Tabby knew better than that. She put her paw through the paper door

and caught poor Fus. Then she went to the next house.

“Come, Mr. Mus; let me in!” said she.

“Oh, yes!” said Mus; “when I am ready.”

So Tabby sat down to wait. She laughed when she thought what a nice

supper Mus would make.

When she had waited a long time, she grew tired.

“Are you ready now, Mr. Mus?” she asked.

“Not yet,” said Mus.

By and by Tabby knocked loudly on the door.

“I am coming in now, Mr. Mus,” said she.

“Very well; come in if you like,” said Mus; but he did not open the door.

So Tabby tried and tried to open the door.

Then she tried to push down the house. Then she tried to make Mus come

out. At last she told Mus just what she thought of him.

This did not trouble Mus at all. He had curled himself up in a snug

corner of his house and was fast asleep.

The Gold Bugs[10]

Once upon a time there were two green and glittering gold bugs, and one

said to the other:

“The day is warm and sunny; let us go out and play.”

“We will,” said the second gold bug, and they decided to play at dancing.

So the two green, glittering gold bugs went down to a brook near by, and

there, shining and floating above the water, they saw two glorious dragon

flies, one green, and one blue.

“We will dance with these dragon flies,” said one gold bug. “I choose

the blue one.”

“You cannot have her,” said the other gold bug, “I choose her.”

“I will dance with the blue dragon fly,” said the second gold bug.

So they quarreled until two other gold bugs came along, and asked the

dragon flies to dance with them, so that was an end of the matter.

The two green and glittering gold bugs then said they would play at

something else.

“We will play hide and seek,” said the first gold bug.

“No, we will play tag,” said the second gold bug.

“I will play nothing but hide and seek,” said the first gold bug.

“And I will play nothing but tag,” said the second gold bug.

“I am going to hide,” said the first gold bug; so he went away and hid

himself beneath a clover leaf, but, ah, there was no one to blind, and

then go and look for him.

“I will run,” said the second gold bug; so he ran, but, ah, there was no

one to catch him. It was not fun to play that way, and there was an end

of the matter.

The two green and glittering gold bugs then said they would play at

something else, so they went to a tall bell flower to swing.

“I will sit inside, and you shall rock me,” said the first gold bug.

“No, I will sit inside first, and you shall rock me,” said the second

gold bug.

So they quarreled as to which should swing first, and in their quarreling

they tore a petal of the beautiful bell flower, so they could not swing

at all, and there was an end of the matter.

“Tut, tut, what is the meaning of this?” asked an old gold bug who came

crawling along just then. “Why do you two green and glittering young

things quarrel this bright morning?”

“We cannot play, and we are very unhappy, grandfather,” said the two gold

bugs. “We do not both wish to play at the same games.”

“Silly, silly,” said the old gold bug, and as he crawled away, he turned

his head about, and he said, “Take turns, take turns. Turn about is fair

play.”

Now it had never occurred to the two green and glittering gold bugs that

to take turns is the best way to play, and they decided to try.

They went back to the brook, and there were the two beautiful dragon

flies, again floating over the water. So the first gold bug danced with

the green dragon fly, and the second gold bug danced with the blue dragon

fly; and then they changed about until they could dance no longer.

After that they played tag, and the first gold bug chased the second gold

bug until they were tired. Then the first gold bug hid himself, and the

second gold bug tried to find him, which was very good fun indeed.

And last of all they found another bell flower, and they rocked each

other all the afternoon, until it was time to go home.

So they had a very good day after all, did those green and glittering

gold bugs, for they had learned that to take turns is the best way to

play.

The History of Tip-Top[11]

Under the window of a certain pretty cottage there grew a great old apple

tree, which in the spring had thousands and thousands of lovely pink

blossoms on it, and in the autumn had many bright red apples.

The nursery of this cottage was a little bower of a room, and here five

little children used to come to be dressed and have their hair brushed

and curled every morning.

Now it used to happen, every morning, that the five little heads would be

peeping out of the window, together, into the flowery boughs of the apple

tree; and the reason was this. A pair of robins had built a very pretty,

smooth-lined nest directly under the window. The robins, at first, had

been rather shy of this inspection; but, as they got better acquainted,

they seemed to think no more of the little curly heads in the window than

of the pink blossoms about them, or the daisies and buttercups at the

foot of the tree.

When the little nest was finished, it was so neat, and workmanlike, that

the children all exulted over it, and called it “our nest,” and the two

robins they called “our birds.” But wonderful was the joy when the little

eyes, opening one morning, saw in the nest a beautiful pale-green egg;

and the joy grew from day to day, for every day there came another egg,

and so on till there were five little eggs.

After that the mother bird began to sit on the eggs, and then it seemed

a very long time for the children to wait. But one morning, when they

pushed their five curly heads out of the window, the patient little bird

was gone and there seemed to be nothing left in the little nest but a

bunch of something hairy.

“O, mamma, do come here!” they cried, “the bird has gone and left her

nest!” But at that five little red mouths opened wide, and then they saw

that the hairy bunch of stuff was five little birds.

“They are dreadful looking things,” said one of the children; “I didn’t

know that little birds began by looking so bad.”

But after this it was great fun to watch the parent birds feed this

nestful of little red mouths, until it became a nestful of little, fat,

speckled robins.

Then, as there were five children, and five robins, they each chose one

bird for his own, and they named them Brown-Eyes, Tip-Top, Singer, Toddy,

and Speckle.

Time went on, and as Brown-Eyes, Tip-Top, Singer, Toddy, and Speckle

grew bigger, they began to make a very crowded nestful of birds.

Now the children had been taught a little verse which said:

Birds in their little nests agree,

And ’tis a shameful sight

When children of one family

Fall out, and chide, and fight;

and they thought anything really written and printed must be true;

therefore they were very much astonished to see, from day to day, that

_their_ little birds in their nest did _not_ agree.

Tip-Top was the biggest and strongest bird, and he was always shuffling

and crowding the others, and clamoring for the most food. Speckle was a

bird of spirit, and he used to peck at Tip-Top, while Brown-Eyes was a

meek, tender little fellow. As for Toddy and Singer, they turned out to

be sister birds, and showed quite a feminine talent for chattering.

“I say,” said Tip-Top one day, “this old nest is a dull, crowded hole,

and it’s quite time some of us were out of it.”

“My dear boy,” said Mother Robin, “we shall teach you to fly as soon as

your wings are strong enough.”

“Humbug!” cried Tip-Top, balancing with his short little tail on the edge

of the nest. “Look at those swallows, skimming and diving through the

blue air! That’s the way I want to do.”

“My dear boy,” said his mother, “do go into the nest and be a good little

bird, and then you will be happy.”

“I’m too big for the nest,” said Tip-Top, “and I want to see the world.

It’s full of beautiful things, I know. Now there’s the most lovely

creature with bright eyes, that comes under the tree every day, and wants

me to come down in the grass and play with her.”

“My son, my son, beware!” said the frightened mother; “that seemingly

lovely creature is our dreadful enemy, the cat—a horrid monster, with

teeth and claws.”

At this all the little birds shuddered and cuddled deeper into the

nest—all but Tip-Top, who _didn’t believe it_.

So the next morning, after the father and mother were gone, Tip-Top got

on the edge of the nest again, and looked over and saw lovely Miss Pussy

washing her face among the daisies under the tree, and her hair was

smooth and white as the daisies, and her eyes were yellow and beautiful

to behold, and she looked up to the tree bewitchingly and said, “Little

birds, little birds, come down. Pussy wants to play with you.”

“Only look at her!” said Tip-Top; “her eyes are like gold.”

“No, don’t look,” said Singer and Speckle. “She will bewitch you and then

eat you up; mother said so.”

“I’d like to see her try to eat me up,” said Tip-Top, again balancing his

short tail over the edge of the nest. “Her paws are as white as velvet,

and so soft! I don’t believe she has any claws.”

“Don’t go, brother, don’t!” screamed both sisters.

A moment after, a dreadful scream was heard from the nursery window. “O,

mamma, mamma, do come here! Tip-Top’s fallen out of the nest, and the cat

has got him!”

Poor, foolish Tip-Top!

But in another moment the children were in the yard, and Jamie plunged

under a bush and caught the cat, with luckless Tip-Top in her mouth.

Tip-Top was not dead, but some of his pretty feathers were gone, and one

of his wings was broken.

“Oh, what _shall_ we do for him!” cried the children. “Poor Tip-Top!”

“We will put him back into the nest, children,” said mamma. “His mother

will know best what to do for him.”

So a ladder was brought, and papa climbed up and put poor Tip-Top safely

into the nest. The cat had shaken all the nonsense well out of him, and

he was a dreadfully humbled young robin.

And when the time came for all the other little birds to learn to fly,

poor Tip-Top was still confined to the nest with his broken wing.

The Good King[12]

Once upon a time there was a King in Spain who had only one leg. He was a

Good King, and he had a big Animal Farm where he kept all the animals who

had lost one or more of their legs.

In another part of Spain there was a Little Half Chick with only one eye,

one wing, and one leg. The other chickens with two eyes and two legs

gobbled up the corn so fast that Little Half Chick was nearly starved.

One day a Donkey told Little Half Chick about the Good King and his

Animal Farm. Little Half Chick at once started hoppity-hop for Mother Hen

and said:

“Mother Hen, I am going to Madrid to see the Good King.”

“All right,” said Mother Hen, “good luck to you.”

So Little Half Chick started off, hoppity-hop, hoppity-hop, along the

road to Madrid to see the Good King.

Soon she met a Two-legged Cat going along hippity-hip, hippity-hip, on

her leg and crutch. The Cat said:

“Hello, Little Half Chick, where are you going so fast?”

Little Half Chick said, “I am going to Madrid to see the Good King.”

“May I go too?” said the Two-legged Cat.

“Yes,” said Little Half Chick, “fall in behind.”

So the Cat fell in behind. Hoppity-hop, hoppity-hop, went Little Half

Chick. Hippity-hip, hippity-hip, went the Two-legged Cat.

Soon they met a Three-legged Dog going along humpity-hump, humpity-hump.

The Dog said:

“Hello, Little Half Chick, where are you going so fast?”

Little Half Chick said, “I am going to Madrid to see the Good King.”

“May I go too?” said the Three-legged Dog.

“Yes,” said Little Half Chick, “fall in behind.”

So the Dog fell in behind. Hoppity-hop, hoppity-hop, went Little Half

Chick. Hippity-hip, hippity-hip, went the Two-legged Cat.

Humpity-hump, humpity-hump, went the Three-legged Dog.

Soon they met a One-legged Crow going along jumpity-jump, jumpity-jump.

The Crow said:

“Hello, Little Half Chick, where are you going so fast?”

Little Half Chick said, “I am going to Madrid to see the Good King.”

“May I go too?” said the One-legged Crow.

“Yes,” said Little Half Chick, “fall in behind.”

So the Crow fell in behind. Hoppity-hop, hoppity-hop, went Little Half

Chick. Hippity-hip, hippity-hip, went the Two-legged Cat. Humpity-hump,

humpity-hump, went the Three-legged Dog. Jumpity-jump, jumpity-jump, went

the One-legged Crow.

Soon they met a Snake with no legs at all. He had caught his tail in his

teeth, and was rolling along, loopity-loop, loopity-loop. The Snake said:

“Hello, Little Half Chick, where are you going so fast?”

“I am going to Madrid to see the Good King,” said Little Half Chick.

“May I go too?” said the Snake.

“Yes,” said Little Half Chick, “fall in behind.”

So the Snake fell in behind. Hoppity-hop, hoppity-hop, went Little Half

Chick. Hippity-hip, hippity-hip, went the Two-legged Cat. Humpity-hump,

humpity-hump, went the Three-legged Dog. Jumpity-jump, jumpity-jump, went

the One-legged Crow. Loopity-loop, loopity-loop, went the Snake with no

legs at all.

Soon they came to Madrid and saw the Good King. With the King was his

little daughter Margaret. They both laughed as all these funny animals

came up. The King said to Little Margaret:

“Do you want to see us all go out to the Animal Farm?”

“Yes,” said Little Margaret, “I will lead the way.”

So she led the way along the street to the Animal Farm. Behind Margaret

came the One-legged King. Next came Little Half Chick, next the

Two-legged Cat, next the Three-legged Dog, next the One-legged Crow, and

last of all the Snake with no legs at all. So they all went out to the

Animal Farm. And there they lived happily ever after.

The Plowman Who Found Content[13]

A plowman paused in his work one day to rest. As he sat on the handle of

his plow he fell a-thinking. The world had not been going well with him

of late, and he could not help feeling downhearted. Just then he saw an

old woman looking at him over the hedge.

“Good-morning!” she said. “If you are wise you will take my advice.”

“And what is your advice?” he asked.

“Leave your plow, and walk straight on for two days. At the end of that

time you will find yourself in the middle of a forest, and in front of

you there will be a tree towering high above the others. Cut it down, and

your fortune will be made.”

With these words the old woman hobbled down the road, leaving the plowman

wondering. He unharnessed his horses, drove them home, and said good-by

to his wife; and then taking his ax, started out.

At the end of two days he came to the tree, and set to work to cut it

down. As it crashed to the ground a nest containing two eggs fell from

its topmost branches. The shells of the eggs were smashed, and out of one

came a young eagle, while from the other rolled a small gold ring.

The eagle rapidly became larger and larger, till it was of full size;

then, flapping its wings, it flew up.

“I thank you, honest man, for giving me my freedom,” it called out.

“In token of my gratitude take the ring—it is a wishing ring. If you

wish anything as you turn it round on your finger, your wish will be

fulfilled. But remember this—the ring contains but one wish, so think

well before you use it.”

The man put the ring on his finger, and set off on his homeward journey.

Night was coming on when he entered a town. Almost the first person he

saw was a goldsmith standing at the door of his shop. So he went up to

him, and asked him what the ring was worth.

The goldsmith looked at it carefully, and handed it back to the man with

a smile.

“It is of very little value,” he said.

The plowman laughed.

“Ah, Mr. Goldsmith,” he cried, “you have made a mistake this time. My

ring is worth more than all you have in your shop; it’s a wishing-ring,

and will give me anything I care to wish for.”

The goldsmith felt annoyed and asked to see it again.

“Well, my good man,” he said, “never mind about the ring. I dare say you

are far from home, and are in want of some supper and a bed for the

night. Come in and spend the night in my house.”

The man gladly accepted the offer, and was soon sound asleep. In the

middle of the night the goldsmith took the ring from his finger, and put

another just like it in its place without disturbing him in the least.

Next morning the countryman went on his way, all unconscious of the trick

that had been played on him. When he had gone the goldsmith closed the

shutters of his shop, and bolted the door; then turning the ring on his

finger he said, “I wish for a hundred thousand sovereigns!”

Scarcely had the sound of his voice died away than there fell about him a

shower of hard, bright, golden sovereigns. They struck him on the head,

on the shoulders, on the hands. They covered the floor. Presently the

floor gave way beneath the weight, and the goldsmith and his gold fell

into the cellar beneath.

Next morning, when the goldsmith did not open the shop as usual, the

neighbors forced open the door, and found him buried beneath the pile.

Meanwhile the countryman reached his home, and told his wife of the ring.

“Now, good wife,” said he, “here is the ring; our fortune is made. Of

course we must consider the matter well; then, when we have made up our

minds as to what is best, we can express some very big wish as I turn the

ring on my finger.”

“Suppose,” said the woman, “we were to wish for a nice farm; the land we

have now is so small as to be almost useless.”

“Yes,” said the husband; “but, on the other hand, if we work hard and

spend little for a year or two we might be able to buy as much as we

want. Then we could get something else with the wishing-ring.”

So it was agreed. For a year the man and his wife worked hard. Harvest

came, and the crops were splendid. At the end of the year they were able

to buy a nice farm, and still had some money left.

“There,” said the man, “we have the land, and we still have our wish.”

“Well,” said his wife, “we could do very well with a horse and a cow.”

“They are not worth wishing for,” said he; “we can get them as we got the

land.”

So they went on working steadily and spending wisely for another year. At

the end of that time they bought both a horse and a cow. Husband and wife

were greatly pleased with their good fortune, for, said they, “We have

got the things we wanted and we have still our wish.”

As time went on everything prospered with the worthy couple. They worked

hard, and were happy. Indeed, the husband would probably have forgotten

all about the ring had not his wife constantly asked him to wish for

something.

“Let us work while we are young,” her husband would answer. “Life is

still before us, and who can say how badly we may need our wish some day.”

So the years passed away. Every season saw the bounds of the farm

increase and the granaries grow fuller. All day long the farmer was about

in the fields, while his wife looked after the house and the dairy.

Sometimes, as they sat alone of an evening, she would remind him of the

unused wishing-ring, and would talk of things she would like to have for

the house. But he always replied that there was still plenty of time for

that.

The man and his wife grew old and gray. Then came a day when they both

died—and the wishing-ring had not been used. It was still on his finger

as he had worn it for forty years. One of his sons was going to take it

off, but the oldest said:

“Do not disturb it; there has been some secret in connection with it.

Perhaps our mother gave it to him, for I have often seen her look

longingly at it.”

Thus the old man was buried with the ring, which was supposed to be a

wishing-ring, but which, as we know, was not, though it brought the old

couple more good fortune and happiness than all the wishing in the world

could ever have given them.

King of the Frogs[14]

Once upon a time—so long ago that the oldest frog now living does not

remember it—all the frogs of a far-away country came together in solemn

council.

“I propose,” said a big green fellow with a very deep voice, “that we ask

to have a king appointed to rule over us.”

“What do we want of a king?” asked a small and inquisitive frog.

But his voice was hardly heard, for all the other frogs shouted together,

“Yes, let us have a king. Let us have a king.”

“Haven’t we all we need, now, to make us happy?” asked the little,

inquisitive frog again. But nobody paid the slightest attention to him.

So the other frogs sent a request to the Great Ruler of the land, asking

that he appoint a king to rule over them.

“A king of the frogs!” said the Great Ruler, when he heard their request.

And then he knit his brows and thought for a very long time.

But nobody knew that his thoughts were the same as those of the little,

inquisitive frog to whom nobody had paid any attention.

At last the Great Ruler spoke.

“Why do you want a king?” he asked. “Have you not, now, everything you

need to make you happy?”

But all the frogs shouted in chorus, “Give us a king. Give us a king.”

So the Great Ruler knit his brows and thought again for a very long time.

At length he spoke. “I will give you a great log for a king. It will bear

you upon the water and the sun will shine upon you as you rest on its

broad surface.”

But the frogs were angry at this. “The idea!” they shouted. “We want a

living king; we want no dead log for a king.”

So the Great Ruler knit his brows and thought again for a very long time.

At length he spoke. “Since you insist upon it, I will give you the stork

for your king.”

Then all the frogs sang joyfully, “Yes, we will have the stork for our

king. The stork is our king! The stork is our king!”

So the stork was sent to rule over them, and as soon as he came among

them he began to eat. And he ate and ate—till he had swallowed _every

frog in the land_.

The Adder That Did Not Hear[15]

Away in the midst of the forest, there lived a tiny adder. He was so

very little that the great beasts never thought of talking to him. But

the spiders and the wasps and the frogs often stopped to visit at his

doorway.

One morning, as a frog hopped down the path, he stopped and called “Good

morning. I’ve a bit of news for you.”

“Good morning,” replied the adder. “I hope it is good news, I am sure.”

“What’s good news to one person may be bad news to another,” croaked the

frog. “But listen! As I came along through the forest I heard a great

chattering among the monkeys, and I stopped to hear what it was all about.

“One little monkey sat crying in the midst of them, and the others were

all saying, ‘You know you tried to steal—’”

But the adder had rolled over so that one ear lay close to the ground,

and he had stuck the end of his tail in the other ear. Of course he

couldn’t hear another word of what the frog was saying.

“Dear me!” said the frog, looking very much offended. “That is a great

way to treat a friend, I am sure.” And he hopped off into the rushes.

Presently a wasp flew down by the adder’s home and settled upon a leaf

near by.

“Good morning,” said the adder politely. “What a beautiful day this is.”

“Yes,” buzzed the wasp, “it’s nice today, but there’s sure to be a storm—”

But the adder had rolled over so that one ear lay close to the ground,

and he had stuck the end of his tail into the other ear.

“Well, I declare,” buzzed the wasp angrily. “What an impertinent fellow.”

And she flew away as fast as ever she could.

The adder straightened himself out and went about his work once more,

thinking as he did so how bright the sunlight was, and how soft and warm

the air felt, and how beautifully the birds were singing.

Presently a little brown spider dropped a thread from her web and ran

down to the adder’s doorway.

“Good morning,” she said. “I have come to invite you to a forest revel.

Why are you always so quiet? You should come with us and not mind what

the sober workers tell you. We will have music and dancing and wine and

song—”

But the adder had rolled over so that one ear lay close to the ground and

he had stuck the end of his tail into the other ear.

“Such manners!” exclaimed the spider, and she climbed the thread back to

her web.

And so it came about that the small people of the forest began to have

this saying amongst them, “He’s as deaf as an adder.”

The North Star[16]

Three Ojibway hunters had been out hunting for meat many days; it was in

a new place. The woods were very thick, but there were no deer in them.

The hunters had nothing to eat; they had no water, for there was none;

they were lost in the thick forest.

The hunters sat down and smoked the pipe of peace. They offered the smoke

to the Manitous who might live in the woods. They asked the Manitous to

help them. The day sun was gone and there was no night sun.

The chief covered his head with his blanket and chanted: “Our wigwams

will see us no more. We will stay here forever. We can go no further.”

A little Pukwudjinnie came out of a hollow tree when the chief had

chanted his story. The Little One was like a little papoose, but he was

very old and knew very much.

He said: “I will help the hunters. I will show you the trail.”

He pulled the thick bushes apart, and the hunters followed. He found the

trail and soon came upon a herd of deer feeding in the bush. The hunters

shot two deer and ate much meat; they were stronger after they had eaten

the meat. The Little One did not eat; he was not hungry.

There was no rain, and the hunters had no water; they lost their strength

and could not walk on the trail. The Pukwudjinnie left them; then the

hunters put their blankets over their heads and sat down. They said no

words. They could not smoke the pipe of peace, for their strength was all

gone.

The Little One came back with a deer-skin full of drink for them; he

poured it into their mouths; it was not water; it was like no drink they

ever had before. They became very strong and wanted nothing more to eat

or drink for more than one moon.

He led them on a long trail, to the land of his Little People; he took

them to his own chief. The chief was like a little papoose, but he knew

all the trails in the forest. He knew all the trails in the sky.

The little chief showed the Ojibway chief the star in the north, the star

that never moves. The little chief showed them how to watch this star and

not lose their trail. He found their lost trail for them and sent them

home.

The three hunters came back to their own wigwams. They talked in the

council and showed their people the star that never moves.

Other nations and tribes know this star now, but the Ojibways believe

that their people were the first to know where to find it in the Great

Blue Wigwam.

The Cobbler[17]

Once upon a time there lived a cobbler who sat day after day in his shop,

working away at his cobbler’s last—just making shoes.

After a time he came to think that because he had made so very many pairs

of shoes, he knew more about them than anybody else in the world.

He grew quite puffed up with pride, and was always looking for some way

of showing his knowledge.

One day as he was walking in the public square of the town,

he saw a statue which had been made by a great artist. And he

discovered—ha-ha-ha—he discovered that the shoe-latchet of the statue was

not made just right.

“Aha, aha!” he said, and his chest swelled with pride and delight.

“Here is a statue made by a great artist—but he does not know how a

shoe-latchet is made. Surely, I am greater than he!”

Then he began to look the statue over to see what other mistakes he might

find. And after a while it seemed to him that the legs of the statue were

not shaped just right, either.

“I will go to the Lord Mayor of the town,” he said to himself, “and order

the statue removed from our public square.”

So he went to the Lord Mayor’s palace, and when he came into the Lord

Mayor’s presence, he said, “May it please your Honor, I have discovered

great errors in the statue which is in our public square, and I have come

to petition your Honor to have it removed.”

Then the Lord Mayor looked the cobbler over gravely, and asked, “Can you

make a better statue to put in its place?”

At that the cobbler turned quite red and stammered, “Oh, no, your Honor;

but I can make a better shoe-latchet.”

“Then, Sir Cobbler,” replied the Lord Mayor, “I would advise you to stick

to your last.”

Opechee the Robin Redbreast[18]

A great hunter among the Chippewas, or Ojibways, wanted his son to secure

a powerful spirit to protect him in war and all danger. To gain the help

of the strong Manitou the boy must fast twelve days.

Many Indian boys can do this, but not all. Many try and fail.

The boy did as his father commanded, for when the time came he went into

the secret lodge in the deep forest and laid himself down alone on the

mat his mother had woven for him. He did not fear, but his strength was

weak. All night he lay there alone.

In the morning his father came and asked him if the strong spirit had

come to him in his dreams. The boy shook his head. No dreams had come to

him.

Each day for ten days the father came to the little lodge in the

wilderness and asked his son if the strong Manitou had come to him.

“It is not for me to have such dreams, my father, I am not brave. The

strong Manitou will not come to me. Let me give up my fast.”

“If you give up now, the Manitou will never come. Hunger makes my son

weak, but his heart is strong. It is only a short time more to wait. Then

my son shall be the strongest of all.”

The Indian boy covered his face and lay still upon the mat. He would obey

his father.

On the morning of the eleventh day the boy saw his father enter the

wigwam. He slowly turned his face toward him and whispered: “Let me break

my fast; I have no dreams.”

“Tomorrow I will bring you food. Tomorrow you shall come to the lodge of

your father.”

The boy closed his eyes and said no more. He was very weak and faint.

The next morning the father went with the earliest morning light to

the little lodge in the forest. Peeping through the door he saw his

son sitting up. Beside his mat were brushes and paint. He was painting

himself red and brown.

“The Manitou will free me, but it is not the spirit my father wanted,” he

heard the boy say.

The father rushed into the lodge, but as he touched his boy the lad

changed into a bird and flew out of the open doorway. Sitting on the top

of the lodge he sang these words:

“Do not mourn for me, my father, for I am happy. I did not want to be a

warrior. I wanted only to be free. I shall find food upon the fields and

the hills. I will comfort you.” Then he flew away.

Opechee lives near the homes of men. He loves to comfort them when they

are sad. He is happy when they are happy.

His songs are for the little children and for the fathers and mothers who

want their little ones to be brave. Opechee is not afraid in the storm,

and many have heard him singing just after the great thunder-birds had

called to each other and the water was coming fast from the sky to find a

place to hide in the ground. Opechee is brave, but not strong.

The Country Cat[19]

The big white cat trotting across the lawn with a rat in his mouth

started Meriky on a story this afternoon.

“Huh!” exclaimed Meriky, “cats and mouses didn’t used to be sich bad

friends as dey is now.

“Once upon a time dey visited back an’ forth like yo’ ma an’ Miz

Paterson.”

“What made them fall out?”

“Hit come ’bout dis-er-way. Ol’ Miz Cat live in de country, but she

mighty hongry to know ’bout town doin’s. She tell round ’mongst her

friends ’bout greatly she’s honin’ to see de sights.

“Middle of de night come little Mr. Gray Mouse knockin’ on de door, and

say he got a cousin goin’ up to town, an’ if Miz Cat still wantin’ to

see de sights, dis hyer cousin be proud to give her a lift.

“Den Miz Pussy Cat put on her bonnet an’ put on her shawl, an’ tuck her

a poke full o’ victuals an’ started out wid Mr. Mouse. Mouses does dey

travelin’ by night an’ de cat an’ mouse travel all night and git to town

de next day.

“When dey come where all de people was, Mr. Mouse pick up his foot and

run in a rat hole; but Miz Cat set down by de side de road for to eat the

snack.

“She was a-sittin’ dar, spreadin’ out all dat good country sassige, and

good country ham and sich truck, when a town cat come along past.

“Dis hyer town cat was hongry; he was all raggety same as de beggar man

what yo’ ma give a dinner to yisstiddy. He want Miz Cat’s victuals mighty

bad. ‘M’lan’!’ he say, ‘whar you git dat pig mess?’

“‘Dat my snack,’ say Miz Cat, mighty polite. ‘I brung hit wid me from

home. Won’t you jine, sir?’

“Now, dat dar ol’ hungry town cat want every bit of Miz Pussy Cat’s

snack. He never want to jine; so he say, ‘Does dey really eat sich a

mess as dat in de country whar you come from?’

“‘Yes, indeed,’ say de country cat, mighty glad to meet up wid town

folks, an’ larn town ways. ‘Don’t you eat sich in town? What you eat in

town, anyhow?’

“De town cat look all ’bout. He boun’ to sen’ Miz Pussy Cat on a arrant

dat’ll take her ’way from dem good victuals. Right den he see Mr. Mouse

peep out a hole to ax Miz Cat how she come on. He boun’ if Miz Cat git to

runnin’ after Mr. Swif’ Foot Mouse he have time to steal her dinner.

“‘We eats mices,’ he say, in de grandest way imaginable. ‘You never will

larn town ways tell you larn to eat mices!’

“I done told you dat Miz Pussy Cat plumb crazy ’bout larnin’ to do like

town folks does. She hop up and leave dat lunch, quick as you could

wink—an’ dat ol’ hongry town cat grab hit des’ as quick. She ran dat

mouse plumb down all de way to de Co’t House. Dar she ketch him, an’

right dar she eat him—all but de squeak an’ de teef.

“Den, by dat, she got de taste; and all cats been eatin’ rats and mouses

to dis good day.”

Legend of the Arbutus[20]

An old tepee stood by a frozen river in the forest where there are many

pine trees. The tops of the trees were white with snow. The tepee was

almost covered with the snow. An old chief sat in this tepee; his hair

was like the icicles that hang from dead pine-tree branches; he was very

old.

He was covered with furs. The floor of his tepee was covered with the

skins of the bear and the elk. He had been a great hunter. His name

was Peboan. Peboan was faint with hunger, and he was cold. He had been

hunting for three days. He had killed nothing. All the moose, deer, and

bear had gone. They had left no trail. Wabasso, the rabbit, had hidden in

the bushes. There was no food, no meat, for Peboan.

He called upon the great Menabozho for help.

“Come, Menabozho, come help Peboan, the chief of the winter Manitous.

Come, for Mukwa, the bear, has gone from me. Come, or Peboan must go to

the far north to find Mahto, the white bear. Peboan is old, and his feet

are weary.”

Peboan crawled on his knees over the furs to the little fire in the

middle of the tepee. He blew on the coals with his faint breath, and the

coals grew very red. His breath was like a wind; the coals made the wind

warm like a south wind. The deerskins that covered the tepee trembled

like leaves, for the warm wind blew them.

Peboan sat on the furs on the floor of his tepee and waited. He knew

Menabozho would hear him.

Peboan heard no sound, but he looked toward the door of his tepee. It was

lifted back, and he saw a beautiful Indian maiden.

She carried a great bundle of willow buds in her arms. Her dress was of

sweet grass and early maple leaves. Her eyes were like a young deer. Her

hair was like the blackest feathers of a crow, and it was so long that

it was like a blanket over her shoulders. She was small; her feet were

hidden in two moccasin flowers.

“Menabozho heard Peboan, the winter Manitou. He has sent me. I am Segun.”

“You are welcome, Segun. Sit by my fire; it is warm. I have no meat. Sit

down and tell me what you can do.”

“Peboan may tell first,” said Segun.

Peboan said: “I am a winter Manitou; I blow my breath, and the flowers

die. The waters stand still; the leaves fall and die.”

Segun said: “I am a summer Manitou; I blow my breath, and the flowers

open their eyes. The waters follow me on my trail.”

Peboan said: “I shake my hair, and the snow falls on the mountains, like

the feathers of Waubese, the great white swan.”

Segun said: “I shake my hair, and warm rain falls from the clouds. I

call, and the birds answer me. The trees put on their leaves, and the

grass grows thick like the fur of the bear. The summer sky is my tepee.

Menabozho has said that the time has come for you to go.”

Peboan’s head bent over on his shoulder. The sun melted the snow on the

pine trees; it melted the snow on the tepee. Segun waved her hands over

Peboan, and a strange thing happened.

Peboan grew smaller and smaller. His deer-skin clothes turned to leaves

and covered Peboan on the ground.

Segun looked, but Peboan was gone. She took some flowers from her hair

and hid them under the leaves on the ground. There was ice on the leaves,

but it did not hurt the pink flowers. Segun breathed on the flowers, and

they became sweet.

She said: “I go, but the flowers shall stay to tell of Segun’s visit to

Peboan. The children shall find them and know that Segun has sent Peboan

away. It shall be so each time the snows melt and the rivers begin to

run. This flower shall tell that spring has come.”

Peboan’s tepee was sweet with the breath of the flowers, but Segun was

gone.

Why the Dog Cannot Endure the Cat, Nor the Cat the Mouse[21]

Long years ago it was the custom to give the dog all the meat that fell

from the master’s table. But one day when all the dogs met in council,

one of them said, “It might be a wise plan to have an agreement drawn up

for the dogs and their masters to sign.

“Some time,” said he, “one of our masters might drink too much wine, or

get into a rage, and forbid us to have the meat. And then what could we

do? It is best to be on the safe side,” and he shook his head sagely.

“That is a very good plan,” agreed the other dogs. “Let us carry it out

at once.”

So the secretary of the dogs’ council drew up a document and wrote

it upon parchment. It stated that all the dogs of every country were

entitled to the meat that fell from their masters’ tables. It was a very

carefully worded document, and it was written out in the most learned

form by the lawyer of the council.

Then the secretary took the parchment, rolled it up and went about the

whole land until it had been signed by all the masters of dogs.

The parchment was then given to the King of the Dogs, to be carefully

kept.

The King of the Dogs gave the parchment to his private secretary, the

Tomcat, telling him that it was a very important document, and must be

put away with the greatest care.

Tomcat took the parchment and went softly away to the garret, where he

hid the precious document behind a beam.

For a long time there was no need of bringing out the parchment, for all

the masters did as they had agreed, and the dogs fared well.

But one day it happened that Master Miller had a new cook who was very

careless, and when this cook brought in a prime roast of beef, he let it

slip from the platter to the floor.

Instantly it was seized upon by Dog Trophy, who started off with it.

But Master Miller was in no mood to lose his dinner, and he snatched the

roast from Dog Trophy, telling him that he was a thief. Then he rubbed

Dog Trophy’s paw with hot ashes to teach him not to steal.

Dog Trophy’s heart burned with indignation, and his paw burned with the

hot ashes, and he went away on three legs as fast as ever he could to the

King of the Dogs.

When he reached the King’s house, he set forth his case.

“Bring out the official parchment,” called the King, when Dog Trophy had

told his story.

Tomcat ran quickly to the garret, sprang to the beam where he had tucked

the precious document, and then set up a “maou” of anger and dismay. The

mice had nibbled the valuable parchment into tiny scraps!

Tomcat vowed, then and there, that no mouse should escape his claws from

that day on.

The King of the Dogs sent Tomcat away in disgrace, and the dogs agreed

that thereafter they would chase a cat whenever they should see one.

But, Dog Trophy lost his roast of beef.

The Miser of Takhoma[22]

Long, long ago, Miser lived near the foot of Takhoma. He never was happy.

When food was scarce and the tribe were starving, Miser could find

fish in secret places in the streams. When the snows were deep and the

black-necked elk hid in the dark places of the forest, he could still

secure meat. His skill as a hunter and fisherman was known to all his

tribe. But Miser cared only for hiaqua, or shell money. Now Moosmoos, the

elk, was Miser’s tomanowos, or guardian spirit. Therefore, he tried to

talk with the elk, even while hunting them. He wanted more hiaqua.

* * * * *

One night Moosmoos whispered to Miser the secret hiding-place of the

hiaqua of the tomanowos. The hiding-place was high up on Takhoma. Early

in the morning, Miser began to make ready for his search. He sent his

klootchman, or squaw, to dig camas roots. Thus he could work secretly.

He made two elk-horn picks by taking off all the prongs except the upper

ones. He filled his ikta, or bag, with kinnikinnick, and with dried

salmon. At sunset Miser began to climb the mountain.

All night he climbed the trail. All the next day he climbed. By night

again he was above the snow line, cold and tired and hungry. When the

moon arose, he climbed again. Over vast snow fields, across wide cracks

in the ice, over the slippery shoulders of the lower peaks he climbed. At

sunrise he reached the top. Now Takhoma was the home of the tomanowos,

therefore, Miser was afraid. But Moosmoos had told him where the hiaqua

was hidden.

In the white snow field which covered the crater was a black lake. Beyond

it were three stones of equal height, all as tall as a giant. The top of

the first was shaped like a salmon’s head, the top of the second was like

a camas root, and the third like an elk’s head. Then Miser believed the

voice of Moosmoos.

Miser threw down his ikta. He unwrapped his elk-horn pick. Then he began

to dig in the snow at the foot of the elk’s head.

Miser struck the first blow. As an echo he heard a sudden puff. Startled,

he turned to see a huge otter climbing out of the black waters of the

lake. Big Otter struck his tail with a loud thump on the snow. Another

otter appeared, then another. At last twelve otters gathered in a circle

around their huge leader. They formed a circle around Miser, digging with

his pick at the foot of the elk’s head. Then Big Otter leaped to the top

of the elk’s head. All the others gave a loud puff.

Miser kept digging. At every thirteenth blow of the pick Big Otter

thumped with his tail on the elk’s head. Then the circle of twelve

thumped with theirs on the snow.

Miser became tired and stopped digging for a moment. Big Otter turned on

the elk’s head. With his tail he struck Miser on the shoulder. Then the

twelve turned, walked backward, and struck him with their tails. Miser

began to dig again.

As he dug in the rock, his pick broke. Big Otter jumped from the elk’s

head. He seized the second pick in his mouth and gave it to him.

Miser dared not stop. With each thirteenth blow of the pick and the thump

of the tails, the otters came nearer. He could feel their breath as he

lifted the last stone. Beneath lay a great hole, filled with hiaqua. As

he lifted out the shells, the otters returned to their larger circle.

Miser lifted out handful after handful of the shell money. He strung the

hiaqua on elk sinews, twenty strings in all. The rest he covered again.

He hurried, for it was after noon and he must return below the snow line.

Then Miser left the elk’s head. He offered no shells to Moosmoos or to

Sahale. He had forgotten the tomanowos.

As he crossed the crater, the otters, one by one, with a loud puff,

jumped into the black lake. They began to beat the black water with their

tails. He heard them beat the water as he plunged through the snow to the

edge of the crater. Miser felt that the shells were very heavy.

As he stepped over the edge of the crater, he glanced hack. The three

stones had vanished. A thick mist rose from the black waters of the

lake. Under the mist was a black cloud, hiding the water. Miser feared

tomanowos in the clouds.

Then the storm seized him. It flung him over an ice bank. The blackness

of all darkness lay around him. Colenass, the storm god, came down upon

the mountain. Tootah, the thunder, deafened him with its roar. The storm

crashed about him. Fiery blasts melted the snow into great torrents. Icy

winds froze them solid again. In the roar and thunder, Miser heard the

voices of all the tomanowos, “Ha, ha, hiaqua! Ha, ha, hiaqua!”

Miser threw away a string of hiaqua. The storm slackened for a moment.

Then all began louder than ever. Kakahete screamed, “Ha, ha, hiaqua! Ha,

ha, hiaqua!”

One by one Miser threw away the strings of hiaqua, strung on the sinews

of Moosmoos, the elk. Always the tomanowos screamed after him. Then when

the last string was gone, with a last gust the storm blew him down, flat

upon the ground.

Miser slept a long time. When he awoke, Takhoma glistened above him,

shining white in the sunlight. All around him grew camas roots. Rocky

ridges lay where once the forest had stretched. Sunny meadows lay around

him. Miser stretched himself and arose. Only dry leaves and dead grass

remained in the rotted ikta. Miser wondered. Then he went down the

mountain side. He ate berries for food until he came to a cabin in the

valley. There lived a very old woman. He talked with her and found she

was his klootchman. Klootchman said he had slept thirty snows. Miser

looked at himself in a pool. He was very old. His hair was white. Many,

many snows had the angry tomanowos made him sleep. But Miser was happy.

He no longer cared for hiaqua.

Little Sister Kindness and the Loving Stitches[23]

Once, when the world was new, there lived a beautiful princess whose

father was the King of Forgotten Land. The King loved his daughter very

much, but he was a very wise King; the more he loved the Princess, the

more he realized that she must learn obedience, and many other hard

lessons.

The King knew that if he allowed his little daughter to be worshipped as

many Princesses are, her face would grow hard and full of ugly lines,

so the wee Princess was taught to divide her treasures, and to care for

the poor in her father’s kingdom. And so, instead of growing hard and

selfish, the King’s daughter grew lovelier every day, and she was known

as Princess Tender-heart.

At last, when the Princess had grown, there came a Prince from the land

of Bye-and-Bye, to marry the Princess Tender-heart. For a wedding gift

he presented her with five hundred and forty-three mansions, surrounding

his palace. And the Princess was to give these mansions to the friends

she loved best, so that she should not be lonely when she went with the

Prince to live in the land of Bye-and-Bye.

But one day the King found his daughter very unhappy, and when he begged

her to tell him why she was in tears, she said that she had given away

five hundred and forty-two mansions, but she still had many friends, and

she did not know what to do with the one mansion that remained. It was

the one which stood the very nearest to the palace of the Prince.

Then the wise King said, “There, there! We’ll settle this matter easily.

That one home shall go to the one who loves you best.”

“But how—,” began the Princess.

“Never mind how,” interrupted her father, and then they both laughed so

merrily that all the canary birds in the kingdom began to sing.

The very next day the King of Forgotten Land issued a proclamation which

set all the people to talking.

Among those who read the copy that was posted outside the palace gates

was a maiden known as Little Sister Kindness.

“So the Princess is to be married one month from today,” she exclaimed.

Then, turning, she saw a blind man standing by, who had no one with him

to tell him what the King’s message contained.

Little Sister Kindness stepped to his side, and explained to him the

contents of the proclamation.

“The Princess Tender-heart is to be married,” she said, “and instead of

having her wedding garments made by the court dressmaker, the King wishes

everyone who loves the Princess to come to the palace and help make her

clothes. To the one whose work proves that she loves the Princess best,

shall be given the finest gift house of the five hundred and forty-three

presented by the Prince of Bye-and-Bye.”

“I beg you to tell me more,” urged the blind man. “My daughter is a

dressmaker. How shall it be known who best loves the Princess?”

“How fortunate that your daughter is a dressmaker!” exclaimed Little

Sister Kindness. “I wish that I were a dressmaker, too. The King

announces that by examining the wardrobe when it is completed he will

know at a glance who best loves Her Royal Highness. Everyone adores the

Princess, so only by magic will the King know who loves her best.”

“I thank you,” the blind man said with a low bow. “I must hasten now to

tell my daughter this good news.”

“And I must hasten, too,” agreed Little Sister Kindness, “for I have many

friends who are skillful with the needle, and I must carry the news to

each one.”

From that hour the sewing room of the palace became a busy, bustling

place. For the seamstresses, and the embroiderers, and the lace-makers

came from all parts of the kingdom, to sew upon the wardrobe of the

Princess Tender-heart.

One day, a week later, Little Sister Kindness called at the palace with

a message for a friend who was a noted lace-maker. And while she waited

she watched the busy workers, and heard them talking. It did not take her

long to discover that each worker was striving to make some great piece

of work which should attract the attention of the King, and that each

was eager to secure the most showy garment to work upon. She saw, too,

that the lace-makers used knots in the end of the threads, and that the

stitches which would not show, were carelessly made and finished.

Finally, Little Sister Kindness became so distressed by what she saw in

the workroom that she begged to stay.

“But, what can you do?” inquired the manager of the wardrobe.

“Nothing that will count,” replied Little Sister Kindness, “but I can tie

loose ends of threads, and darn little holes neatly, and finish seams

inside and—”

“There, there!” exclaimed the manager of the wardrobe. “Do get a needle

and begin. I have been so worried lest the Princess should not have one

perfect garment.”

So Little Sister Kindness began her work and was soon the busiest maiden

in the palace. Scarcely a garment escaped her loving fingers. Everything

needed a little stitch here and a little stitch there; a button and

button-hole in place of a pin; a bit of trimming to be firmly fastened;

a bow to be sewed securely in place; always a stitch here and a stitch

there; never a piece of work that would show; not so much as a collar

or a belt that the King might say, “Ah! This was made by Little Sister

Kindness.”

There were days when the maiden felt discouraged and wished that she,

too, might be doing something worth while for love of the beautiful

Princess. But the unfinished seams and the hastily caught bows kept her

too busy to grow dissatisfied, and she knew that she was not skillful

enough to fashion beautiful garments, or make filmy bits of lace.

At last, when the wardrobe was completed, the King gave a banquet to

which all in the kingdom were invited. Then, in the presence of his

subjects, he walked into the great hall where all the wardrobe was

displayed. Some of the garments were of linen, some of silk, some of

satin, and others of lace; and when the King appeared each robe began to

glow with a soft light, and to shine with a hundred little stars; here a

star and there a star.

“Oh, oh!” exclaimed all the people, “oh, oh, oh! There are tiny gold

stitches shining like stars on every garment. Why do those stitches shine

like golden stars? Who put them there? Whose are the golden stitches?”

“Those are the stitches of the one who loves the Princess best!” the King

made answer.

Then came a low wondering murmur from all who had worked upon the royal

wardrobe, and the murmur sounded like sweet music that sang over and over:

“Little Sister Kindness! It is Little Sister Kindness!”

So it came about that Little Sister Kindness and her family went to live

in the home that was nearest the palace of the Prince and Princess in

Bye-and-Bye, and there they all lived happily ever after.

The Queen’s Necklace[24]

Once upon a time there lived an old king whom you could not very well

call good, in fact he was very disagreeable and horrid.

Now, in his old age, the king had a fancy for marrying and he cast his

eye over his many kingdoms to spy out a suitable wife for himself.

In this way his eye fell upon quite a young princess who was called

Blanzeflor.

“She is as fair as a sunny day, as mild as a dove, and as meek as a lamb,

and she is only seventeen years old, too! She will suit me admirably,”

said the king.

But when her father came to her and said:

“Blanzeflor, our sovereign lord, the king, would have you for his queen,”

she wept and said she would rather sit upon a stone and spin goats’ wool,

than sit as queen at _that_ king’s side.

But when her father said that she must realize that if she refused the

king he would come and hang both her father and mother and all the family

upon a tree like so many bunches of onions, then the princess bowed her

head and said, “Then I will marry him.”

So they clad her in silk and in gold, and set a crown upon her head and

combed her long golden hair over her shoulders, then they lifted her upon

a white palfrey and rode forth with her to the king, and thus the wedding

took place.

On her wedding day the king hung a necklace of pearls around her neck.

“I threaded them myself on this silken cord,” said the king. “These are

pearls of the East and there are three hundred and sixty-five of them,

the smallest being a little crooked; and I warn you,” he added, “take

great care of them, for on the day you lose the necklace, I warrant you

will not care to look me in the eyes;” and the king began to roll his

eyes so horribly that the young queen felt cold shivers all down her

spine. Thus Blanzeflor became queen.

Every morning the king ate porridge and cream in bed, and the queen

carried it to him in a golden bowl and fed him like a baby, for such

was his command. Every evening the king and queen would play chess, and

then the queen always had to let the king win, otherwise he would get

bad-tempered.

But the very worst was at mealtime, for the king was so proud he would

not let anyone sit at table with the queen and himself. The young queen

would sit with downcast eyes, scarcely daring to swallow a morsel, so

greatly did she tremble for fear lest something should displease the

king, for then he became quite terrible.

The only pleasure the court had was to stand and stare at Blanzeflor, for

she glowed with a beauty more bright and radiant than all the torchlights

in the banqueting hall, and when she bowed and smiled it warmed the heart

like the sun in summer.

Now, dreadful stories came to the queen’s ears of how the king would

fling people into prison for the smallest offence, or wring their necks

like chickens; but alas! what could she do in the matter? She, herself,

sat like a prisoner in the royal castle, and never was she allowed to go

out on foot but only on horseback followed by a royal retinue and closely

guarded.

It happened one day, however, that the queen was in church—there at least

the king could not prevent her from going—and as she knelt in prayer

before the high altar, she noticed how meanly and poorly God’s holy altar

was adorned.

Then the queen wept bitterly and said to herself: “I drink out of golden

goblets, and silver torches are lighted on my table, but upon God’s

altar the candlesticks are of pewter and the velvet cloth which covers

the Lord’s table is all faded and patched. I cannot bear to see it.” And

thereupon she slowly and carefully unclasped her necklace, drew off seven

of the largest pearls and laid them upon the altar.

That evening she had her hair combed back and fastened in a knot upon her

neck, so that the king might not see that the pearls were missing.

Now it happened one night that the queen lay awake. She could not sleep

because she thought she heard strange sounds of sighing and sobbing out

in the night. It all sounded so piteous and heartrending that the queen

wept upon her silken pillow. “Here I lie upon my bed of satin,” she

sighed, “whilst outside, perhaps little children go barefooted in the

snow. I cannot bear to think of it.”

There was a sound of twittering and chirping, and now she saw how one

little half-frozen bird after another flew up and tapped upon the

window-pane with its beak, in search of a chance grain of corn.

“Alas, alas!” sighed the queen, “I eat roast venison out of a golden dish

and drink mulled wine, and there outside the poor little birds starve to

death in the cold. I cannot bear to think of it;” and the next day she

begged leave of the king to collect the crumbs after meals and to place

them in a basket outside her window for the birds.

Well, of course the king thought it was asking a good deal, but as the

queen never begged for anything for herself, and the crumbs were, after

all, of not much use for anything else, he allowed her to take them, and

from that day the queen always sat and rolled bread between her white

fingers during meals, and crumbled one little piece after another into

little bits, whilst she chatted and jested with the king, so that he

might not pay any heed to what she was doing, and when she rose from the

table she would sign to her page, and then he would brush all the crumbs

into a small basket which was hung outside the queen’s chamber window,

and at sunrise she was always awakened by the chirping of the small

hungry birds when they came to empty her basket.

Now it happened one morning when the queen took in her basket to have it

refilled, that she thought she saw a large snowflake lying at the bottom,

but it was really a little piece of paper which had been folded around

a small stone and thrown up at the window, and on it was written an

appealing tale of misery.

“The queen who takes pity upon the starving birds of the air,” it said,

“will surely take pity upon the starving children upon earth;” and the

queen read it over and over again, whilst her tears fell like rain in

spring.

But, how could she help them? At last she hit upon a plan.

The king had given the queen a page, who was as young and beautiful as

herself. He carried her long velvet train embroidered with golden crowns,

he filled her goblet with wine, and lit the torch which was to light her

upon her way through the dark passages of the castle, and he slept on a

bear skin outside her door with his drawn sword beside him to protect her

from all harm and danger.

Now when the page came to carry the train of her sky-blue velvet gown,

the queen bent down as if to adjust it, and at the same time she slipped

a little piece of paper into the page’s hand. In it she had placed one of

the pearls from off her necklace, and had written down where she wished

him to carry it.

Away he flew as swiftly as a swallow, and when he took up the queen’s

train again that evening, he placed his hands upon his breast and bowed

in silence, but the queen could read in his face that his errand had well

sped.

From that day prayers and petitions simply rained down upon the queen’s

window-sill.

What could she do but take the pearls from her necklace? And so with

trembling hands she drew off one pearl after another, and finally one

morning there was not a single pearl left.

The king was not in a good temper at dinner that day, and he saw that the

necklace was missing!

“Where is the necklace?” he shrieked. His voice sounded like the caw of a

hoarse old crow. “Where is the necklace?”

The queen looked confused.

“Oh, I have not got it on today,” she said. But the king had her eight

tire-women and her eight ladies-in-waiting called up, and they had to

search over and over through all the queen’s drawers and presses, till

they were as red as cranberries, but the necklace was not to be found.

“Have you lost the necklace?” roared the king.

“No,” said the queen, timidly.

“Have you given it away?” shouted the king. “To whom have you given it?”

The queen dropped her eyelids and said nothing.

Then the king had the queen thrown into prison; there she was to remain

until the necklace was found.

Now you can imagine what a hurly-burly there was after this. The king in

front, with six attendants at his heels, searched the whole castle from

garret to cellar. But still the necklace was not to be found.

Alas for the queen, poor young Blanzeflor! She sat in the darkest of

dungeons. No one could get to her.

She fell on her knees upon the straw lying on the prison floor, and

prayed to God that he might perform a miracle and set the guiltless free.

“Thou, O God, canst break through prison walls as easily as the sun

breaks through the mists,” she said. “Thou canst also set an innocent

prisoner free.”

But scarcely had she ended her prayer when she saw in the pale morning

light how the thick prison walls fell apart, and between them came a

swallow flying, as easily and as quickly as if it were merely flying

through the air.

In its beak it held a white pearl, which it dropped upon the queen’s

knees.

“This is one of the tears you shed before the high altar,” twittered the

swallow, “God gives it you back in the likeness of a pearl.”

At the same moment came another swallow through the wall, and another and

another, and in a twinkling the whole prison was filled with a flight of

birds.

Each had a white pearl in its beak, which it laid upon Blanzeflor’s lap.

“Here are the tears you shed for those who were poor and sad at heart,”

they chirped; “not one has fallen in vain.”

At last came a little bird with a maimed wing; in its beak was the little

crooked pearl, for this, too, had been threaded on the necklace.

Blanzeflor sat perfectly still and let the pearls lie upon her knees, for

she could not touch them with her fettered hands. Then the sun rose red

in the East and shone into the prison so that it streamed with light like

heaven itself.

But just then the king came in with all his retinue. He had come to take

the queen away to be beheaded. But when he saw her sitting with a halo

of light around her and with the pearls in her lap, he stood stock-still

with amazement. Then he began to count the pearls, and every single one

was there, all three hundred and sixty-five, even to the little crooked

one! But the silken cord on which they had been strung was missing.

Away went the king hobbling up the stairs to his own apartments to fetch

a new silken cord. He was afraid to ask anyone else to go for it because

he feared they would steal something.

When the king had snipped off his cord he hurried back so quickly down to

the prison again, that he tripped over his own feet and fell and broke

his neck, and there he lay dead on his way down to the dungeons where he

had let so many innocent people suffer and pine to death.

The king was buried, and the queen was proclaimed the only reigning

sovereign in all the land.

And never was there a gentler queen than she. If any one was in any

trouble or distress they simply said:

“We shall go to the queen, there is sure to be one more pearl left on

her Majesty’s necklace!”

Robin Hood and Sir Richard-at-the-Lee[25]

Listen, and I will tell you about a good yeoman whose name was Robin

Hood. All his life he was a proud outlaw, but so courteous an outlaw as

he was never found, and he would never do any harm to a company in which

there was a woman, for he held all women in great respect and honor.

Now one day Robin Hood stood in the forest of Barnsdale and leant against

a tree, and beside him stood his good yeoman, Little John, and Scarlet

also, and Much, the miller’s son.

Then Little John spoke to Robin, saying: “Master, ’tis time to dine.”

But Robin answered, “I will not dine till I have some bold baron or a

knight or a squire with me who will pay for his dinner.”

Then Little John and Much and William Scarlet set out in search of a

guest, and after a time they saw a knight riding towards them with his

retinue. He made but a sorry appearance, and seemed to have lost his

pride, for he had but one foot in the stirrup, and his hood hung down

over his eyes, and his clothes and trappings were mean and old.

But Little John showed him courtesy, and knelt before him saying:

“Welcome, gentle knight; welcome to the greenwood. My master has been

waiting for you, fasting these three hours.”

“Who is your master?” asked the knight; and John answered, “Robin Hood.”

“He is a good yeoman,” said the knight, “and I have heard men speak well

of him.”

So the knight, whose name was Sir Richard-at-the-Lee, rode on his way

with Little John, till they came to where Robin was waiting; and Robin

took off his hood and went on his knee, saying, courteously:

“Welcome, Sir Knight. I have awaited thee these three hours.”

And the gentle knight replied with fair words:

“God save thee, good Robin, and all thy company.”

When they had thus exchanged greetings, they washed and wiped their

hands, and sat them down to their dinner. They had bread and wine and

venison, with swans and pheasants and many other birds. And Robin bade

the knight make good cheer, and the knight thanked him heartily.

“For,” said he, “I have not had such a dinner for three weeks; and if I

come this way again, Robin, I will give thee as good a dinner as thou

hast given me.”

“I thank thee, knight,” said Robin; “but methinks it is right that thou

shouldst pay ere thou goest. It was never the custom, by Heaven, for a

yeoman to pay for a knight.”