(because, you know, he was going to be judge, and all judges sit in big
chairs,) and Benjy sat in the middle of the circle.
“Now, what has the Boy done?” asked the Lion.
“He stones and drowns dogs, and he hurts and kills cats,” shouted the
beasts all together.
“Mr. Rough kills the cats,” said Benjy, because he was frightened.
“Very well,” said the Lion, “we will send some one down for Mr. Rough.”
So they all waited, and in a little while they heard the jingling of Mr.
Rough's collar, and he walked into the circle with his little short tail
standing right up.
“Mr. Rough,” said the Lion, “Benjy says it is you, and not he, who tease
and kill the cats.”
“Well,” said Mr. Rough, jumping about in an angry way, “am I to blame?
BOUF, BOUF, who taught me to do it? BOUF, BOUF, it was that Boy over
there. BOUF-BOUF!”
Then Mr. Rough told them that Benjy had made him tease and worry the
cats and dogs so often that he had quite learned to like it. All the
beasts were very angry at this, and said that Benjy must be punished.
The Lion said that he did not know just then what was best to be done
with Benjy, so he asked the beasts if they would wait till he had walked
around and thought about it. They said yes, so he walked around the
circle seven times, lashing his tail in the grandest way; then he took
his seat again and said:&&
“Gentle beasts, birds and fishes, you have all heard what this Boy has
done, and you would like him to be treated as he has treated you. We
will not abuse Benjy, but I do not think he is good enough to stay with
us. We will tie a tin-kettle to him and chase him from Beastland, and
Mr. Rough shall be our leader.”
This was no sooner said than done. The Lion gave one dreadful roar as a
signal for the animals to begin the chase.
With the tin-kettle fastened to him and hurting him at every step, and
with Mr. Rough at his very heels, Benjy was run out of Beastland. When
he got to the edge of the moon he jumped off, Mr. Rough after him.
Down, down, they went, oh! so fast and so far! Benjy screaming all the
way and Mr. Rough's collar jingling. They came to the river, and making
all the noise they could, in they fell. As Benjy sank he thought of all
the unkind things he had done. He came to the top, but sank again, and
sinking, thought of his papa and mamma and his little sisters, and of
his nice little bed, and of the prayers his dear mamma used to hear him
say. He rose for the last time, and saw Nox standing on the bank, and
thought, “Now he has come to do something to me because I have so often
hurt him.” Down, down he went, as a lark flew up in the summer sky. The
bird was almost out of sight when a soft black nose and great brown eyes
came close to his face, and a kind, gentle mouth took hold of him, and
paddling and swimming as hard as he could, Nox carried Benjy to the
shore and laid him under the willow-tree. There Benjy's papa found him,
and took him home, where he was sick for a long, long time. When he got
a little better he used to tell people of his visit to Beastland, but
they always said it was only a dream he had during the fever.
In the long weeks of his sickness he grew much kinder and sweeter. But
something happened when he was getting well which softened his little
heart once and forever.
While he was sick, Mr. Rough was given to one of the servants to be
cared for and fed well, but he did not treat him kindly, and besides,
the dog wanted his little master; he wanted to see him, but no one would
let him; so poor faithful Mr. Rough got thinner and weaker every day,
till at last he would not eat anything nor even go out for a little
walk.
One day the barn door was open and Mr. Rough thought of Benjy and crept
into the house. When he got into the front hall he smelled Benjy and ran
into the parlor; and when he got into the parlor he saw Benjy, who had
heard the jingle of his collar and who stood up and held out his arms
for him. Mr. Rough jumped into them, and then fell dead at his master's
feet.
Yes, dear children, Mr. Rough died of joy at seeing Benjy again. Benjy
felt very sorry for him, and it kept him from growing well for a long
time, but it did him good in other ways, for as the tears rolled down
his cheeks on to Mr. Bough's poor little scratched face, he felt as if
he never could hurt or be unkind to any animal again.
THE PORCELAIN STOVE.
Adapted From Ouida.
“The story-teller must take life into himself in its wholeness, must let
it live and work whole and free within him. He must give it out free
and unabbreviated, and yet STAND ABOVE THE LIFE which actually
is.”--Froebel.
In a little brown house, far, far away in Germany, there lived a father
and his children. There were ever so many of them,--let me see,--Hilda,
the dear eldest sister, and Hans, the big, strong brother; then Karl and
August, and the baby Marta. Just enough for the fingers of one hand. How
many is that? But it is Karl that I am going to tell you about. He was
nine years old, a rosy little fellow, with big bright eyes and a curly
head as brown as a ripe nut. The dear mother was dead, and the father
was very poor, so that Karl and his brothers and sisters sometimes knew
what it was to be hungry; but they were happy, for they loved each other
very dearly, and ate their brown bread and milk without wishing it were
something nicer. One afternoon Karl had been sent on a long journey. It
was winter time, and he had to run fast over the frozen fields of white
snow. The night was coming on, and he was hurrying home with a great jug
of milk, feeling cold and tired. The mountains looked high and white
and still in the cold moonlight, and the stars seemed to say, when
they twinkled, “Hurry, Karl! the children are hungry.” At last he saw
a little brown cottage, with a snow-laden roof and a shining window,
through which he could see the bright firelight dancing merrily,--for
Hilda never closed the shutters till all the boys were safely inside the
house. When he saw the dear home-light he ran as fast as his feet could
carry him, burst in at the low front door, kissed Hilda, and shouted:&&
“Oh! dear, dear Hirschvogel! I am so glad to get back to you again; you
are every bit as good as the summer time.”
Now, Hirschvogel was not one of the family, as you might think, nor
even a splendid dog, nor a pony, but it was a large, beautiful porcelain
stove, so tall that it quite touched the ceiling. It stood at the end of
the room, shining with all the hues of a peacock's tail, bright and warm
and beautiful; its great golden feet were shaped like the claws of a
lion, and there was a golden crown on the very top of all. You never
have seen a stove like it, for it was white where our stoves are black,
and it had flowers and birds and beautiful ladies and grand gentlemen
painted all over it, and everywhere it was brilliant with gold and
bright colors. It was a very old stove, for sixty years before, Karl's
grandfather had dug it up out of some broken-down buildings where he was
working, and, finding it strong and whole, had taken it home; and ever
since then it had stood in the big room, warming the children, who
tumbled like little flowers around its shining feet. The grandfather
did not know it, but it was a wonderful stove, for it had been made by a
great potter named Hirschvogel.
A potter, you know, children, is a man who makes all sorts of things,
dishes and tiles and vases, out of china and porcelain and clay. So the
family had always called the stove Hirschvogel, after the potter, just
as if it were alive.
To the children the stove was very dear indeed. In summer they laid a
mat of fresh moss all around it, and dressed it up with green boughs and
beautiful wild flowers. In winter, scampering home from school over the
ice and snow, they were always happy, knowing that they would soon be
cracking nuts or roasting chestnuts in the heat and light of the dear
old stove. All the children loved it, but Karl even more than the rest,
and he used to say to himself, “When I grow up I will make just such
things too, and then I will set Hirschvogel up in a beautiful room that
I will build myself. That's what I will do when I'm a man.”
After Karl had eaten his supper, this cold night, he lay down on the
floor by the stove, the children all around him, on the big wolf-skin
rug. With some sticks of charcoal he was drawing pictures for them of
what he had seen all day. When the children had looked enough at one
picture, he would sweep it out with his elbow and make another--faces,
and dogs' heads, and men on sleds, and old women in their furs, and
pine-trees, and all sorts of animals. When they had been playing in this
way for some time, Hilda, the eldest sister, said:&&
“It is time for you all to go to bed, children. Father is very late
to-night; you must not sit up for him.”
“Oh, just five minutes more, dear Hilda,” they begged. “Hirschvogel is
so warm; the beds are never so warm as he is.”
In the midst of their chatter and laughter the door opened, and in blew
the cold wind and snow from outside. Their father had come home. He
seemed very tired, and came slowly to his chair. At last he said, “Take
the children to bed, daughter.”
Karl stayed, curled up before the stove. When Hilda came back, the
father said sadly:
“Hilda, I have sold Hirschvogel! I have sold it to a traveling peddler,
for I need money very much; the winter is so cold and the children are
so hungry. The man will take it away to-morrow.”
Hilda gave a cry. “Oh, father! the children, in the middle of winter!”
and she turned as white as the snow outside.
Karl lay half blind with sleep, staring at his father. “It can't be
true, it can't be true!” he cried. “You are making fun, father.” It
seemed to him that the skies must fall if Hirschvogel were taken away.
“Yes,” said the father, “you will find it true enough. The peddler has
paid half the money to-night, and will pay me the other half to-morrow
when he packs up the stove and takes it away.”
“Oh, father! dear father!” cried poor little Karl, “you cannot mean what
you say. Send our stove away? We shall all die in the dark and cold.
Listen! I will go and try to get work to-morrow. I will ask them to let
me cut ice or make the paths through the snow. There must be something I
can do, and I will beg the people we owe money to, to wait. They are all
neighbors; they will be patient. But sell Hirschvogel! Oh, never, never,
never! Give the money back to the man.”
The father was so sorry for his little boy that he could not speak. He
looked sadly at him; then took the lamp that stood on the table, and
left the room.
Hilda knelt down and tried to comfort Karl, but he was too unhappy to
listen. “I shall stay here,” was all he said, and he lay there all the
night long. The lamp went out; the rats came and ran across the room;
the room grew colder and colder. Karl did not move, but lay with his
face down on the floor by the lovely rainbow-colored stove. When it grew
light, his sister came down with a lamp in her hand to begin her morning
work. She crept up to him, and laid her cheek on his softly, and said:&&
“Dear Karl, you must be frozen. Karl! do look up; do speak.”
“Ah!” said poor Karl, “it will never be warm again.”
Soon after some one knocked at the door. A strange voice called through
the keyhole,&&
“Let me in! quick! there is no time to lose. More snow like this and the
roads will all be blocked. Let me in! Do you hear? I am come to take the
great stove.”
Hilda unfastened the door. The man came in at once, and began to wrap
the stove in a great many wrappings, and carried it out into the snow,
where an ox-cart stood in waiting. In another moment it was gone; gone
forever!
Karl leaned against the wall, his tears falling like rain down his pale
cheeks.
An old neighbor came by just then, and, seeing the boy, said to him:
“Child, is it true your father is selling that big painted stove?”
Karl nodded his head, and began to sob again. “I love it! I love it!” he
said.
“Well, if I were you I would do better than cry. I would go after it
when I grew bigger,” said the neighbor, trying to cheer him up a little.
“Don't cry so loud; you will see your stove again some day,” and the old
man went away, leaving a new idea in Karl's head.
“Go after it,” the old man had said. Karl thought, “Why not go with it?”
He loved it better than anything else in the world, even better than
Hilda. He ran off quickly after the cart which was carrying the dear
Hirschvogel to the station. How he managed it he never knew very well
himself, but it was certain that when the freight train moved away from
the station Karl was hidden behind the stove. It was very dark, but he
wasn't frightened. He was close beside Hirschvogel, but he wanted to be
closer still; he meant to get inside the stove. He set to work like a
little mouse to make a hole in the straw and hay. He gnawed and nibbled,
and pushed and pulled, making a hole where he guessed that the door
might be. At last he found it; he slipped through it, as he had so often
done at home for fun, and curled himself up. He drew the hay and straw
together carefully, and fixed the ropes, so that no one could have
dreamed that a little mouse had been at them. Safe inside his dear
Hirschvogel, he went as fast asleep as if he were in his own little bed
at home. The train rumbled on in its heavy, slow way, and Karl slept
soundly for a long time. When he awoke the darkness frightened him, but
he felt the cold sides of Hirschvogel, and said softly, “Take care of
me, dear Hirschvogel, oh, please take care of me!”
Every time the train stopped, and he heard the banging, stamping, and
shouting, his heart seemed to jump up into his mouth. When the people
came to lift the stove out, would they find him? and if they did find
him, would they kill him? The thought, too, of Hilda, kept tugging
at his heart now and then, but he said to himself, “If I can take
Hirschvogel back to her, how pleased she will be, and how she will clap
her hands!” He was not at all selfish in his love for Hirschvogel; he
wanted it for them at home quite as much as for himself. That was what
he kept thinking of all the way in the darkness and stillness which
lasted so long. At last the train stopped, and awoke him from a half
sleep. Karl felt the stove lifted by some men, who carried it to a cart,
and then they started again on the journey, up hill and down, for what
seemed miles and miles. Where they were going Karl had no idea. Finally
the cart stopped; then it seemed as though they were carrying the stove
up some stairs. The men rested sometimes, and then moved on again,
and their feet went so softly he thought they must be walking on thick
carpets. By and by the stove was set down again, happily for Karl, for
he felt as though he should scream, or do something to make known that
he was there. Then the wrappings were taken off, and he heard a voice
say, “What a beautiful, beautiful stove!”
{Illustration: “Oh let me stay please let me stay”}
Next some one turned the round handle of the brass door, and poor little
Karl's heart stood still.
“What is this?” said the man. “A live child!”
Then Karl sprang out of the stove and fell at the feet of the man who
had spoken.
“Oh, let me stay, please let me stay!” he said. “I have come all the way
with my darling Hirschvogel!”
The man answered kindly, “Poor little child! tell me how you came to
hide in the stove. Do not be afraid. I am the king.”
Karl was too much in earnest to be afraid; he was so glad, so glad it
was the king, for kings must be always kind, he thought.
“Oh, dear king!” he said with a trembling voice, “Hirschvogel was ours,
and we have loved it all our lives, and father sold it, and when I saw
that it really did go from us I said to myself that I would go with it;
and I do beg you to let me live with it, and I will go out every morning
and cut wood for it and for all your other stoves, if only you will let
me stay beside it. No one has ever fed it with wood but me since I grew
big enough, and it loves me; it does indeed!” And then he lifted up
his little pale face to the young king, who saw that great tears were
running down his cheeks.
“Can't I stay with Hirschvogel?” he pleaded.
“Wait a little,” said the king. “What do you want to be when you are a
man? Do you want to be a wood-chopper?”
“I want to be a painter,” cried Karl. “I want to be what Hirschvogel
was. I mean the potter that made my Hirschvogel.”
“I understand,” answered the king, and he looked down at the child, and
smiled. “Get up, my little man,” he said in a kind voice; “I will let
you stay with your Hirschvogel. You shall stay here, and you shall be
taught to be a painter, but you must grow up very good, and when you are
twenty-one years old, if you have done well, then I will give you back
your beautiful stove.” Then he smiled again and stretched out his hand.
Karl threw his two arms about the king's knees and kissed his feet, and
then all at once he was so tired and so glad and hungry and happy, that
he fainted quite away on the floor.
Then the king had a letter written to Karl's father, telling him that
Karl had drawn him some beautiful charcoal pictures, and that he liked
them so much he was going to take care of him until he was old enough to
paint wonderful stoves like Hirschvogel. And he did take care of him for
a long time, and when Karl grew older, he often went for a few days to
his old home, where his father still lives.
In the little brown house stands Hirschvogel, tall and splendid, with
its peacock colors as beautiful as ever,--the king's present to Hilda;
and Karl never goes home without going into the great church and giving
his thanks to God, who blessed his strange winter's journey in the great
porcelain stove.
THE BABES IN THE WOOD
“Nature and life speak very early to man.”--FROEBEL.
A great many years ago three little girls lived in an old-fashioned
house in the East. They had a very lovely home, and a kind father and
mother, who tried to make them happy. All through the summer they used
to roam over the hills and fields, catching butterflies, watching
the birds and bees at work, and studying the flowers and trees in the
beautiful meadows and woods. Then when winter came, and the days grew
cold, they went to school; and in the evening, when the fire was burning
brightly, they read and studied in books about all they had seen in the
summer.
Besides all these lovely things, and perhaps best of all, they had a
very large yard to play in, so large that it took up a whole block, and
seemed like a little farm in the middle of the town. There was a lovely
lawn and flower beds; a vegetable garden, barnyard and stable; and an
orchard where all kinds of fruit trees grew, apple, peach, pear, and
many others. A cow lived down in the meadows of clover, and old Bob,
the horse, was sometimes turned out to pasture there. But nicest of
all, there was the wood yard. You must remember that every winter, where
these little girls lived, the snow fell, and lay so deep on the roads
that no one could bring in wood from the forest, and without it all the
people would have frozen in their cold homes.
So every September the gates were thrown wide open, and into the yard
load after load of wood was drawn and piled up under the shed. Then,
when it was too cold to play out on the hills, the little girls used to
have a fine time in the yard, piling up the wood, making beds, tables,
chairs, and stoves of the sticks that had once been the waving branches
and strong, sturdy trunks of trees.
Toward spring they often found a strange yellow powder on the ground
under the wood. At first they played with it, calling it flour, and made
pies and cakes out of it. But at last they began to wonder where the
flour came from, and after watching and studying a long time this is
what they found out.
But first I must tell you that all the time the three little girls were
happy and busy in this beautiful place, they were not the only family
there. There were the robins' children, whose mammas were trying to make
them good and happy too. There were the beetles' children, the ants'
children, and families of toads, butterflies, and spiders. And while
the three little girls were playing with the sticks of wood, there lay,
tucked snugly away inside of them, many families of children, warm and
safe in their wooden home.
Now I want the smallest of you little children to hold up her hand. How
small it is compared with your body! Now let us see the little finger
on that hand,--it is smaller still; and now look at the nail on
that finger: the brothers and sisters of one of these families were
altogether about as large as that tiny nail. Their mamma was a wasp,
with light, gauzy wings and a strong body with a long sting on the end
of it, about the length of a needle. With this little sting or saw, as
it really was, she had bored many holes in the wood when it was still
a green tree, and at the bottom of each hole she had laid a tiny egg.
There it lay for a long time, all white and still, until one day it
cracked open, and out came a funny little white grub, with six short
white feet, and black jaws very strong and large for such a tiny thing.
This little creature had never had anything to eat, and as it was very
hungry indeed, it fell to eating--what do you think? Wood--its own
house! You wouldn't like a stick of wood for your breakfast, I know, but
the wasp-mamma knew what her little grub-children would want, so she
put them in just the right place; for they couldn't have eaten anything
else. And the hungry little grubs ate and ate and ate as long as they
could, pushing away from the hole the part they did not want, and this
fell upon the ground as the strange yellow powder the children found in
the wood-yard, every spring.
And so, while the little girls were placing away in the sunshine the
little grubs were eating away in the wood, until at last, one day, they
grew satisfied, and one after another went to sleep. There they lay in
their dark homes, fast asleep, through long weeks, while the snow was
melting and the grass coming up, and the birds and bees beginning their
summer work again; until one day these lazy little creatures, that had
never done anything in their lives but eat and sleep, woke up and began
to stretch themselves. But what had happened to them? Instead of the
soft white bodies they had gone to sleep with, they now had black ones
and four gauzy wings; while six slender legs had taken the place of the
six short ones. There were still the strong black jaws to do all needful
work with, and in addition, delicate mouth-parts, for their food was now
to be the honey from flowers. In fact, they looked and were just like
their mamma, the gauzy wasp. One after another they crept to the end of
the passage that led from their dark homes to the bright world without.
They stood one minute at the little dark hole, and then, spreading their
wings, flitted out into the beautiful world of sunshine and flowers.
THE STORY OF CHRISTMAS,
“A great spiritual efficiency lies in story-telling.”--FROEBEL.
Christmas Day, you knew, dear children, is Christ's day, Christ's
birthday, and I want to tell you why we love it so much, and why we try
to make every one happy when it comes each year.
A long, long time ago--more than eighteen hundred years--the baby Christ
was born on Christmas Day: a baby so wonderful and so beautiful, who
grew up to be a man so wise, so good, so patient and sweet, that, every
year, the people who know about him love him better and better, and are
more and more glad when his birthday comes again. You see that he must
have been very good and wonderful; for people have always remembered his
birthday, and kept it lovingly for eighteen hundred years.
He was born, long years ago, in a land far, far away across the seas.
Before the baby Christ was born, Mary, his mother, had to make a long
journey with her husband, Joseph. They made this journey to be taxed
or counted; for in those days this could not be done in the town where
people happened to live, but they must be numbered in the place where
they were born.
In that far-off time, the only way of traveling was on a horse, or a
camel, or a good, patient donkey. Camels and horses cost a great deal
of money, and Mary was very poor; so she rode on a quiet, safe donkey,
while Joseph walked by her side, leading him and leaning on his stick.
Mary was very young, and beautiful, I think, but Joseph was a great deal
older than she.