SOME SPECIFIC SCHOOLROOM USES OF STORY-TELLING
In Chapter II., I have tried to give my conception of the general aim of
story-telling in school. From that conception, it is not difficult to
deduce certain specific uses. The one most plainly intimated is that of a
brief recreation period, a feature which has proved valuable in many
classes. Less definitely implied, but not to be ignored, was the use of
the story during, or accessory to, the lesson in science or history.
But more distinctive and valuable than these, I think, is a specific use
which I have recently had the pleasure of seeing exemplified in great
completeness in the schools of Providence, Rhode Island.
Some four years ago, the assistant superintendent of schools of that city,
Miss Ella L. Sweeney, introduced a rather unusual and extended application
of the story in her primary classes. While the experiment was in its early
stages, it was my good fortune to be allowed to make suggestions for its
development, and as the devices in question were those I had been
accustomed to use as a pastime for children, I was able to take some
slight hand in the formative work of its adoption as an educational
method. Carried out most ably by the teachers to whom it was entrusted,
the plan has evolved into a more inclusive and systematic one than was at
first hoped for; it is one from which I have been grateful to learn.
Tersely stated, the object of the general plan is the freeing and
developing of the power of expression in the pupils.
I think there can be no need of dwelling on the desirability of this
result. The apathy and "woodenness" of children under average modes of
pedagogy is apparent to anyone who is interested enough to observe. In
elementary work, the most noticeable lack of natural expression is
probably in the reading classes; the same drawback appears at a later
stage in English composition. But all along the line every thoughtful
teacher knows how difficult it is to obtain spontaneous, creative reaction
on material given.
Story-telling has a real mission to perform in setting free the natural
creative expression of children, and in vitalising the general atmosphere
of the school. The method in use for this purpose in Providence (and
probably elsewhere, as ideas usually germinate in more than one place at
once) is a threefold _giving back_ of the story by the children. Two of
the forms of reproduction are familiar to many teachers; the first is the
obvious one of telling the story back again.
It is such fun to listen to a good story that children remember it without
effort, and later, when asked if they can tell the story of _The
Red-Headed Woodpecker_ or _The Little Red Hen_, they are as eager to try
it as if it were a personal experience which they were burning to impart.
Each pupil, in the Providence classes, is given a chance to try each
story, at some time. Then that one which each has told especially well is
allotted to him for his own particular story, on which he has an especial
claim thereafter.
It is surprising to note how comparatively individual and distinctive the
expression of voice and manner becomes, after a short time. The child
instinctively emphasises the points which appeal to him, and the element
of fun in it all helps to bring forgetfulness of self. The main
inflections and the general tenor of the language, however, remain
imitative, as is natural with children. But this is a gain rather than
otherwise, for it is useful in forming good habit. In no other part of her
work, probably, has a teacher so good a chance to foster in her pupils
pleasant habits of enunciation and voice. And this is especially worth
while in the big city schools, where so many children come from homes
where the English of the tenement is spoken.
I have since wished that every city primary teacher could have visited
with me the first-grade room in Providence where the pupils were German,
Russian, or Polish Jews, and where some of them had heard no English
previous to that year,--it being then May. The joy that shone on their
faces was nothing less than radiance when the low-voiced teacher said,
"Would you like to tell these ladies some of your stories?"
They told us their stories, and there was truly not one told poorly or
inexpressively; all the children had learned something of the joy of
creative effort. But one little fellow stands out in my memory beyond all
the rest, yet as a type of all the rest.
Rudolph was very small, and square, and merry of eye; life was one
eagerness and expectancy to him. He knew no English beyond that of one
school year. But he stood staunchly in his place and told me the story of
the Little Half Chick with an abandon and bodily emphasis which left no
doubt of his sympathetic understanding of every word. The depth of moral
reproach in his tone was quite beyond description when he said, "Little
Half Chick, little Half Chick, when _I_ was in trubbul you wouldn't help
_me_!" He heartily relished that repetition, and became more dramatic each
time.
Through it all, in the tones of the tender little voice, the sidewise pose
of the neat dark head, and the occasional use of a chubby pointing finger,
one could trace a vague reflection of the teacher's manner. It was not
strong enough to dominate at all over the child's personality, but it was
strong enough to suggest possibilities.
In different rooms, I was told _The Half Chick_, _The Little Red Hen_,
_The Three Bears_, _The Red-Headed Woodpecker_, _The Fox and the Grapes_,
and many other simple stories, and in every instance there was a
noticeable degree of spontaneity and command of expression.
When the reading classes were held, the influence of this work was very
visible. It had crept into the teachers' method, as well as the children's
attitude. The story interest was still paramount. In the discussion, in
the teachers' remarks, and in the actual reading, there was a joyousness
and an interest in the subject-matter which totally precluded that
preoccupation with sounds and syllables so deadly to any real progress in
reading. There was less of the mechanical in the reading than in any I had
heard in my visits to schools; but it was exceptionally accurate.
The second form of giving back which has proved a keen pleasure and a
stimulus to growth is a kind of "seat-work." The children are allowed to
make original illustrations of the stories by cutting silhouette pictures.
It will be readily seen that no child can do this without visualising each
image very perfectly. In the simplest and most unconscious way possible,
the small artists are developing the power of conceiving and holding the
concrete image of an idea given, the power which is at the bottom of all
arts of expression.
Through the kindness of Miss Sweeney, I am able to insert several of these
illustrations. They are entirely original, and were made without any
thought of such a use as this.
The pictures and the retelling are both popular with children, but neither
is as dear to them as the third form of reproduction of which I wish to
speak. This third kind is taken entirely on the ground of play, and no
visibly didactic element enters into it. It consists simply of _playing
the story_.
When a good story with a simple sequence has been told, and while the
children are still athrill with the delight of it, they are told they may
play it.
[Illustration: THE FOX AND THE GRAPES]
[Illustration: "THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE"]
"Who would like to be Red Riding Hood?" says the teacher; up go the little
girls' hands, and Mary or Hannah or Gertrude is chosen.
"Who will be the wolf?" Johnny or Marcus becomes the wolf. The kind
woodchopper and the mother are also happily distributed, for in these
little dramatic companies it is an all-star cast, and no one realises any
indignity in a subordinate _rôle_.
"Now, where shall we have little Red Riding Hood's house? 'Over in that
corner,' Katie? Very well, Riding Hood shall live over there. And where
shall the grandmother's cottage be?"
The children decide that it must be a long distance through the
wood,--half-way round the schoolroom, in fact. The wolf selects the spot
where he will meet Red Riding Hood, and the woodchopper chooses a position
from which he can rush in at the critical moment, to save Red Riding
Hood's life.
Then, with gusto good to see, they play the game. The teacher makes no
suggestions; each actor creates his part. Some children prove extremely
expressive and facile, while others are limited by nature. But each is
left to his spontaneous action.
[Illustration: "Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats ...
followed the Piper for their lives."]
In the course of several days several sets of children have been allowed
to try; then if any of them are notably good in the several _rôles_, they
are given an especial privilege in that story, as was done with the
retelling. When a child expresses a part badly, the teacher sometimes asks
if anyone thinks of another way to do it; from different examples
offered, the children then choose the one they prefer; this is adopted. At
no point is the teacher apparently teaching. She lets the audience teach
itself and its actors.
The children played a good many stories for me during my visit in
Providence. Of them all, _Red Riding Hood_, _The Fox and the Grapes_, and
_The Lion and the Mouse_ were most vividly done.
It will be long before the chief of the Little Red Riding Hoods fades from
my memory. She had a dark, foreign little face, with a good deal of darker
hair tied back from it, and brown, expressive hands. Her eyes were so full
of dancing lights that when they met mine unexpectedly it was as if a
chance reflection had dazzled me. When she was told that she might play,
she came up for her riding hood like an embodied delight, almost dancing
as she moved. (Her teacher used a few simple elements of stage-setting for
her stories, such as bowls for the Bears, a cape for Riding Hood, and so
on.)
[Illustration: "The Piper piped and the children danced, ... all but one
little lame boy, who could not keep up with the rest."]
The game began at once. Riding Hood started from the rear corner of the
room, basket on arm; her mother gave her strict injunctions as to
lingering on the way, and she returned a respectful "Yes, mother." Then
she trotted round the aisle, greeting the woodchopper on the way, to the
deep wood which lay close by the teacher's desk. There master wolf was
waiting, and there the two held converse,--master wolf very crafty indeed,
Red Riding Hood extremely polite. The wolf then darted on ahead and
crouched down in the corner which represented grandmother's bed. Riding
Hood tripped sedately to the imaginary door, and knocked. The familiar
dialogue followed, and with the words "the better to eat you with, my
dear!" the wolf clutched Red Riding Hood, to eat her up. But we were not
forced to undergo the threatened scene of horrid carnage, as the
woodchopper opportunely arrived, and stated calmly, "I will not let you
kill Little Red Riding Hood."
All was now happily culminated, and with the chopper's grave injunction as
to future conduct in her ears, the rescued heroine tiptoed out of the
woods, to her seat.
I wanted to applaud, but I realised in the nick of time that we were all
playing, and held my peace.
[Illustration: HIAWATHA PICTURES]
_The Fox and the Grapes_ was more dramatically done, but was given by a
single child. He was the chosen "fox" of another primary room, and had the
fair colouring and sturdy frame which matched his Swedish name. He was
naturally dramatic. It was easy to see that he instinctively visualised
everything, and this he did so strongly that he suggested to the
onlooker every detail of the scene.
He chose for his grape-trellis the rear wall of the room.
Standing there, he looked longingly up at the invisible bunch of grapes.
"My gracious," he said, "what fine grapes! I will have some."
Then he jumped for them.
"Didn't get them," he muttered, "I'll try again," and he jumped higher.
"Didn't get them this time," he said disgustedly, and hopped up once more.
Then he stood still, looked up, shrugged his shoulders, and remarked in an
absurdly worldly-wise tone, "Those grapes are sour!" After which he walked
away.
Of course the whole thing was infantile, and without a touch of grace; but
it is no exaggeration to say that the child did what many grown-up actors
fail to do,--he preserved the illusion.
It was in still another room that I saw the lion and mouse fable played.
The lion lay flat on the floor for his nap, but started up when he found
his paw laid on the little mouse, who crouched as small as she could
beside him. (The mouse was by nature rather larger than the lion, but she
called what art she might to her assistance.) The mouse persuaded the
lion to lift his paw, and ran away.
Presently a most horrific groaning emanated from the lion. The mouse ran
up, looked him over, and soliloquised in precise language,--evidently
remembered, "What is the matter with the lion? Oh, I see; he is caught in
a trap." And then she gnawed with her teeth at the imaginary rope which
bound him.
"What makes you so kind to me, little Mouse?" said the rescued lion.
"You let me go, when I asked you," said the mouse demurely.
"Thank you, little Mouse," answered the lion; and therewith, finis.
It is not impossible that all this play atmosphere may seem incongruous
and unnecessary to teachers used to more conventional methods, but I feel
sure that an actual experience of it would modify that point of view
conclusively. The children of the schools where story-telling and
"dramatising" were practised were startlingly better in reading, in
attentiveness, and in general power of expression, than the pupils of like
social conditions in the same grades of other cities which I visited soon
after, and in which the more conventional methods were exclusively used.
The teachers, also, were stronger in power of expression.
But the most noticeable, though the least tangible, difference was in the
moral atmosphere of the schoolroom. There had been a great gain in
vitality in all the rooms where stories were a part of the work. It had
acted and reacted on pupils and teachers alike. The telling of a story
well so depends on being thoroughly vitalised that, naturally, habitual
telling had resulted in habitual vitalisation.
This result was not, of course, wholly due to the practice of
story-telling, but it was in some measure due to that. And it was a result
worth the effort.
I beg to urge these specific uses of stories, as both recreative and
developing, and as especially tending toward enlarged power of expression:
retelling the story; illustrating the story in seat-work; dramatisation.
STORIES SELECTED AND ADAPTED FOR TELLING
ESPECIALLY FOR KINDERGARTEN AND CLASS I.
Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,
Upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown,
Rapping at the window, crying through the lock,
"Are the children in their beds, for now it's eight o'clock?"
* * * * *
There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile;
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.
* * * * *
Cushy cow bonny, let down thy milk,
And I will give thee a gown of silk;
A gown of silk and a silver tee,
If thou wilt let down thy milk to me.
* * * * *
"Little girl, little girl, where have you been?"
"Gathering roses to give to the queen."
"Little girl, little girl, what gave she you?"
"She gave me a diamond as big as my shoe."
* * * * *
Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep,
And can't tell where to find them;
Leave them alone, and they'll come home,
And bring their tails behind them.
Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep,
And dreamt she heard them bleating;
But when she awoke, she found it a joke,
For still they all were fleeting.
Then up she took her little crook,
Determin'd for to find them;
She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,
For they'd left their tails behind them.
FIVE LITTLE WHITE HEADS[1]
[Footnote 1: From _Mother-Song and Child-Song_, Charlotte Brewster
Jordan.]
BY WALTER LEARNED
Five little white heads peeped out of the mould,
When the dew was damp and the night was cold;
And they crowded their way through the soil with pride;
"Hurrah! We are going to be mushrooms!" they cried.
But the sun came up, and the sun shone down,
And the little white heads were withered and brown;
Long were their faces, their pride had a fall--
They were nothing but toadstools, after all.
BIRD THOUGHTS[2]
[Footnote 2: _Ibid_.]
I lived first in a little house,
And lived there very well;
I thought the world was small and round,
And made of pale blue shell.
I lived next in a little nest,
Nor needed any other;
I thought the world was made of straw,
And brooded by my mother.
One day I fluttered from the nest
To see what I could find.
I said, "The world is made of leaves;
I have been very blind."
At length I flew beyond the tree,
Quite fit for grown-up labours.
I don't know how the world _is_ made,
And neither do my neighbours!
HOW WE CAME TO HAVE PINK ROSES[1]
[Footnote 1: Told me by Miss Elizabeth McCracken.]
Once, ever and ever so long ago, we didn't have any pink roses. All the
roses in the world were white. There weren't any red ones at all, any
yellow ones, or any pink ones,--only white roses.
And one morning, very early, a little white rosebud woke up, and saw the
sun looking at her. He stared so hard that the little white rosebud did
not know what to do; so she looked up at him and said, "Why are you
looking at me so hard?"
"Because you are so pretty!" said the big round sun. And the little white
rosebud blushed! She blushed pink. And all her children after her were
little pink roses!
RAGGYLUG[2]
[Footnote 2: Adapted from Mr Ernest Thompson Seton's _Wild Animals I have
known._ (David Nutt, 57-59 Long Acre, W.C. 6s. net.)]
Once there was a little furry rabbit, who lived with his mother deep down
in a nest under the long grass. His name was Raggylug, and his mother's
name was Molly Cottontail. Every morning, when Molly Cottontail went out
to hunt for food, she said to Raggylug, "Now, Raggylug, lie still, and
make no noise. No matter what you hear, no matter what you see, don't you
move. Remember you are only a baby rabbit, and lie low." And Raggylug
always said he would.
One day, after his mother had gone, he was lying very still in the nest,
looking up through the feathery grass. By just cocking his eye, so, he
could see what was going on up in the world. Once a big blue-jay perched
on a twig above him, and scolded someone very loudly; he kept saying,
"Thief! thief!" But Raggylug never moved his nose, nor his paws; he lay
still. Once a lady-bird took a walk down a blade of grass, over his head;
she was so top-heavy that pretty soon she tumbled off and fell to the
bottom, and had to begin all over again. But Raggylug never moved his nose
nor his paws; he lay still.
The sun was warm, and it was very still.
Suddenly Raggylug heard a little sound, far off. It sounded like "Swish,
swish," very soft and far away. He listened. It was a queer little sound,
low down in the grass, "rustle--rustle--rustle"; Raggylug was interested.
But he never moved his nose or his paws; he lay still. Then the sound came
nearer, "rustle--rustle--rustle"; then grew fainter, then came nearer; in
and out, nearer and nearer, like something coming; only, when Raggylug
heard anything coming he always heard its feet, stepping ever so softly.
What could it be that came so smoothly,--rustle--rustle--without any feet?
He forgot his mother's warning, and sat up on his hind paws; the sound
stopped then. "Pooh," thought Raggylug, "I'm not a baby rabbit, I am three
weeks old; I'll find out what this is." He stuck his head over the top of
the nest, and looked--straight into the wicked eyes of a great big snake.
"Mammy, Mammy!" screamed Raggylug. "Oh, Mammy, Mam--" But he couldn't
scream any more, for the big snake had his ear in his mouth and was
winding about the soft little body, squeezing Raggylug's life out. He
tried to call "Mammy!" again, but he could not breathe.
Ah, but Mammy had heard the first cry. Straight over the fields she flew,
leaping the stones and hummocks, fast as the wind, to save her baby. She
wasn't a timid little cottontail rabbit then; she was a mother whose child
was in danger. And when she came to Raggylug and the big snake, she took
one look, and then hop! hop! she went over the snake's back; and as she
jumped she struck at the snake with her strong hind claws so that they
tore his skin. He hissed with rage, but he did not let go.
Hop! hop! she went again, and this time she hurt him so that he twisted
and turned; but he held on to Raggylug.
Once more the mother rabbit hopped, and once more she struck and tore the
snake's back with her sharp claws. Zzz! How she hurt! The snake dropped
Raggy to strike at her, and Raggy rolled on to his feet and ran.
"Run, Raggylug, run!" said his mother, keeping the snake busy with her
jumps; and you may believe Raggylug ran! Just as soon as he was out of the
way his mother came too, and showed him where to go. When she ran, there
was a little white patch that showed under her tail; that was for Raggy to
follow,--he followed it now.
Far, far away she led him, through the long grass, to a place where the
big snake could not find him, and there she made a new nest. And this
time, when she told Raggylug to lie low you'd better believe he minded!
THE GOLDEN COBWEBS[1]
A STORY TO TELL BY THE CHRISTMAS TREE
[Footnote 1: This story was told me in the mother-tongue of a German
friend, at the kindly instance of a common friend of both; the narrator
had heard it at home from the lips of a father of story-loving children
for whom he often invented such little tales. The present adaptation has
passed by hearsay through so many minds that it is perhaps little like the
original, but I venture to hope it has a touch of the original fancy, at
least.]
I am going to tell you a story about something wonderful that happened to
a Christmas Tree like this, ever and ever so long ago, when it was once
upon a time.
It was before Christmas, and the tree was trimmed with bright spangled
threads and many-coloured candles and (name the trimmings of the tree
before you), and it stood safely out of sight in a room where the doors
were locked, so that the children should not see it before the proper
time. But ever so many other little house-people had seen it. The big
black pussy saw it with her great green eyes; the little grey kitty saw it
with her little blue eyes; the kind house-dog saw it with his steady brown
eyes; the yellow canary saw it with his wise, bright eyes. Even the wee,
wee mice that were so afraid of the cat had peeped one peep when no one
was by.
But there was someone who hadn't seen the Christmas tree. It was the
little grey spider!
You see, the spiders lived in the corners,--the warm corners of the sunny
attic and the dark corners of the nice cellar. And they were expecting to
see the Christmas Tree as much as anybody. But just before Christmas a
great cleaning-up began in the house. The house-mother came sweeping and
dusting and wiping and scrubbing, to make everything grand and clean for
the Christ-child's birthday. Her broom went into all the corners, poke,
poke,--and of course the spiders had to run. Dear, dear, _how_ the spiders
had to run! Not one could stay in the house while the Christmas cleanness
lasted. So, you see, they couldn't see the Christmas Tree.
Spiders like to know all about everything, and see all there is to see,
and these were very sad. So at last they went to the Christ-child and told
him about it.
"All the others see the Christmas Tree, dear Christ-child," they said;
"but we, who are so domestic and so fond of beautiful things, we are
_cleaned up_! We cannot see it, at all."
The Christ-child was sorry for the little spiders when he heard this, and
he said they should see the Christmas Tree.
The day before Christmas, when nobody was noticing, he let them all go in,
to look as long as ever they liked.
They came creepy, creepy, down the attic stairs, creepy, creepy, up the
cellar stairs, creepy, creepy, along the halls,--and into the beautiful
room. The fat mother spiders and the old papa spiders were there, and all
the little teeny, tiny, curly spiders, the baby ones. And then they
looked! Round and round the tree they crawled, and looked and looked and
looked. Oh, what a good time they had! They thought it was perfectly
beautiful. And when they had looked at everything they could see from the
floor, they started up the tree to see more. All over the tree they ran,
creepy, crawly, looking at every single thing. Up and down, in and out,
over every branch and twig, the little spiders ran, and saw every one of
the pretty things right up close.
They stayed till they had seen all there was to see, you may be sure, and
then they went away at last, _quite_ happy.
Then, in the still, dark night before Christmas Day, the dear Christ-child
came, to bless the tree for the children. But when he looked at it--_what_
do you suppose?--it was covered with cobwebs! Everywhere the little
spiders had been they had left a spider-web; and you know they had been
everywhere. So the tree was covered from its trunk to its tip with
spider-webs, all hanging from the branches and looped round the twigs; it
was a strange sight.
What could the Christ-child do? He knew that house-mothers do not like
cobwebs; it would never, never do to have a Christmas Tree covered with
those. No, indeed.
So the dear Christ-child touched the spider's webs, and turned them all to
gold! Wasn't that a lovely trimming? They shone and shone, all over the
beautiful tree. And that is the way the Christmas Tree came to have
golden cobwebs on it.
WHY THE MORNING-GLORY CLIMBS[1]
[Footnote 1: This story was given me by Miss Elisabeth McCracken, who
wrote it some years ago in a larger form, and who told it to me in the way
she had told it to many children of her acquaintance.]
Once the Morning-Glory was flat on the ground. She grew that way, and she
had never climbed at all. Up in the top of a tree near her lived Mrs
Jennie Wren and her little baby Wren. The little Wren was lame; he had a
broken wing and couldn't fly. He stayed in the nest all day. But the
mother Wren told him all about what she saw in the world, when she came
flying home at night. She used to tell him about the beautiful
Morning-Glory she saw on the ground. She told him about the Morning-Glory
every day, until the little Wren was filled with a desire to see her for
himself.
"How I wish I could see the Morning-Glory!" he said.
The Morning-Glory heard this, and she longed to let the little Wren see
her face. She pulled herself along the ground, a little at a time, until
she was at the foot of the tree where the little Wren lived. But she could
not get any farther, because she did not know how to climb. At last she
wanted to go up so much, that she caught hold of the bark of the tree,
and pulled herself up a little. And little by little, before she knew it,
she was climbing.
And she climbed right up the tree to the little Wren's nest, and put her
sweet face over the edge of the nest, where the little Wren could see.
That was how the Morning-Glory came to climb.
THE STORY OF LITTLE TAVWOTS[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from _The Basket Woman_, by Mary Austin.]
This is the story an Indian woman told a little white boy who lived with
his father and mother near the Indians' country; and Tavwots is the name
of the little rabbit.
But once, long ago, Tavwots was not little,--he was the largest of all
four-footed things, and a mighty hunter. He used to hunt every day; as
soon as it was day, and light enough to see, he used to get up, and go to
his hunting. But every day he saw the track of a great foot on the trail,
before him. This troubled him, for his pride was as big as his body.
"Who is this," he cried, "that goes before me to the hunting, and makes so
great a stride? Does he think to put me to shame?"
"T'-sst!" said his mother, "there is none greater than thou."
"Still, there are the footprints in the trail," said Tavwots.
And the next morning he got up earlier; but still the great footprints and
the mighty stride were before him. The next morning he got up still
earlier; but there were the mighty foot-tracks and the long, long stride.
"Now I will set me a trap for this impudent fellow," said Tavwots, for he
was very cunning. So he made a snare of his bowstring and set it in the
trail overnight.
And when in the morning he went to look, behold, he had caught the sun in
his snare! All that part of the earth was beginning to smoke with the heat
of it.
"Is it you who made the tracks in my trail?" cried Tavwots.
"It is I," said the sun; "come and set me free, before the whole earth is
afire."
Then Tavwots saw what he had to do, and he drew his sharp hunting-knife
and ran to cut the bowstring. But the heat was so great that he ran back
before he had done it; and when he ran back he was melted down to half his
size! Then the earth began to burn, and the smoke curled up against the
sky.
"Come again, Tavwots," cried the sun.
And Tavwots ran again to cut the bowstring. But the heat was so great that
he ran back before he had done it, and he was melted down to a quarter of
his size!
"Come again, Tavwots, and quickly," cried the sun, "or all the world will
be burnt up."
And Tavwots ran again; this time he cut the bowstring and set the sun
free. But when he got back he was melted down to the size he is now! Only
one thing is left of all his greatness: you may still see by the print of
his feet as he leaps in the trail, how great his stride was when he caught
the sun in his snare.
THE PIG BROTHER[1]
[Footnote 1: From _The Golden Windows_, by Laura E. Richards. (H.R.
Allenson Ltd. 2s. 6d. net.)]
There was once a child who was untidy. He left his books on the floor, and
his muddy shoes on the table; he put his fingers in the jam pots, and
spilled ink on his best pinafore; there was really no end to his
untidiness.
One day the Tidy Angel came into his nursery.
"This will never do!" said the Angel. "This is really shocking. You must
go out and stay with your brother while I set things to rights here."
"I have no brother!" said the child.
"Yes, you have," said the Angel. "You may not know him, but he will know
you. Go out in the garden and watch for him, and he will soon come."
"I don't know what you mean!" said the child; but he went out into the
garden and waited.
Presently a squirrel came along, whisking his tail.
"Are you my brother?" asked the child.
The squirrel looked him over carefully.
"Well, I should hope not!" he said. "My fur is neat and smooth, my nest is
handsomely made, and in perfect order, and my young ones are properly
brought up. Why do you insult me by asking such a question?"
He whisked off, and the child waited.
Presently a wren came hopping by.
"Are you my brother?" asked the child.
"No, indeed!" said the wren. "What impertinence! You will find no tidier
person than I in the whole garden. Not a feather is out of place, and my
eggs are the wonder of all for smoothness and beauty. Brother, indeed!" He
hopped off, ruffling his feathers, and the child waited.
By-and-by a large Tommy Cat came along.
"Are you my brother?" asked the child.
"Go and look at yourself in the glass," said the Tommy Cat haughtily, "and
you will have your answer. I have been washing myself in the sun all the
morning, while it is clear that no water has come near you for a long
time. There are no such creatures as you in my family, I am humbly
thankful to say."
He walked on, waving his tail, and the child waited.
Presently a pig came trotting along.
The child did not wish to ask the pig if he were his brother, but the pig
did not wait to be asked.
"Hallo, brother!" he grunted.
"I am not your brother!" said the child.
"Oh yes, you are!" said the pig. "I confess I am not proud of you, but
there is no mistaking the members of our family. Come along, and have a
good roll in the barnyard! There is some lovely black mud there."
"I don't like to roll in mud!" said the child.
"Tell that to the hens!" said the Pig Brother. "Look at your hands and
your shoes, and your pinafore! Come along, I say! You may have some of the
pig-wash for supper, if there is more than I want."
"I don't want pig-wash!" said the child; and he began to cry.
Just then the Tidy Angel came out.
"I have set everything to rights," she said, "and so it must stay. Now,
will you go with the Pig Brother, or will you come back with me, and be a
tidy child?"
"With you, with you!" cried the child; and he clung to the Angel's dress.
The Pig Brother grunted.
"Small loss!" he said. "There will be all the more wash for me!" And he
trotted off.
THE CAKE[1]
[Footnote 1: From _The Golden Windows_, by Laura E. Richards. (H.R.
Allenson Ltd. 2s. 6d. net.)]
A child quarrelled with his brother one day about a cake.
"It is my cake!" said the child.
"No, it is mine!" said his brother.
"You shall not have it!" said the child. "Give it to me this minute!" And
he fell upon his brother and beat him.
Just then came by an Angel who knew the child.
"Who is this that you are beating?" asked the Angel.
"It is my brother," said the child.
"No, but truly," said the Angel, "who is it?"
"It is my brother, I tell you!" said the child.
"Oh no," said the Angel, "that cannot be; and it seems a pity for you to
tell an untruth, because that makes spots on your soul. If it were your
brother, you would not beat him."
"But he has my cake!" said the child.
"Oh," said the Angel, "now I see my mistake. You mean that the cake is
your brother; and that seems a pity, too, for it does not look like a
very good cake,--and, besides, it is all crumbled to pieces."
THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN TOWN[1]
[Footnote 1: From traditions, with rhymes from Browning's _The Pied Piper
of Hamelin_.]
Once I made a pleasure trip to a country called Germany; and I went to a
funny little town, where all the streets ran uphill. At the top there was
a big mountain, steep like the roof of a house, and at the bottom there
was a big river, broad and slow. And the funniest thing about the little
town was that all the shops had the same thing in them; bakers' shops,
grocers' shops, everywhere we went we saw the same thing,--big chocolate
rats, rats and mice, made out of chocolate. We were so surprised that
after a while, "Why do you have rats in your shops?" we asked.
"Don't you know this is Hamelin town?" they said. "What of that?" said we.
"Why, Hamelin town is where the Pied Piper came," they told us; "surely
you know about the Pied Piper?" "_What_ about the Pied Piper?" we said.
And this is what they told us about him.
It seems that once, long, long ago, that little town was dreadfully
troubled with rats. The houses were full of them, the shops were full of
them, the churches were full of them, they were _everywhere_. The people
were all but eaten out of house and home. Those rats,
They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats!
At last it got so bad that the people simply couldn't stand it any longer.
So they all came together and went to the town hall, and they said to the
Mayor (you know what a mayor is?), "See here, what do we pay you your
salary for? What are you good for, if you can't do a little thing like
getting rid of these rats? You must go to work and clear the town of them;
find the remedy that's lacking, or--we'll send you packing!"
Well, the poor Mayor was in a terrible way. What to do he didn't know. He
sat with his head in his hands, and thought and thought and thought.
Suddenly there came a little _rat-tat_ at the door. Oh! how the Mayor
jumped! His poor old heart went pit-a-pat at anything like the sound of a
rat. But it was only the scraping of shoes on the mat. So the Mayor sat
up, and said, "Come in!"
And in came the strangest figure! It was a man, very tall and very thin,
with a sharp chin and a mouth where the smiles went out and in, and two
blue eyes, each like a pin; and he was dressed half in red and half in
yellow--he really was the strangest fellow!--and round his neck he had a
long red and yellow ribbon, and on it was hung a thing something like a
flute, and his fingers went straying up and down it as if he wanted to be
playing.
He came up to the Mayor and said, "I hear you are troubled with rats in
this town."
"I should say we were," groaned the Mayor.
"Would you like to get rid of them? I can do it for you."
"You can?" cried the Mayor. "How? Who are you?"
"Men call me the Pied Piper," said the man, "and I know a way to draw
after me everything that walks, or flies, or swims. What will you give me
if I rid your town of rats?"
"Anything, anything," said the Mayor. "I don't believe you can do it, but
if you can, I'll give you a thousand guineas."
"All right," said the Piper, "it is a bargain."
And then he went to the door and stepped out into the street and stood,
and put the long flute-like thing to his lips, and began to play a little
tune. A strange, high, little tune. And before
three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling!
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives--
Followed the Piper for their lives!
From street to street he piped, advancing, from street to street they
followed, dancing. Up one street and down another, till they came to the
edge of the big river, and there the piper turned sharply about and
stepped aside, and all those rats tumbled hurry skurry, head over heels,
down the bank into the river _and--were--drowned_. Every single one. No,
there was one big old fat rat; he was so fat he didn't sink, and he swam
across, and ran away to tell the tale.
Then the Piper came back to the town hall. And all the people were waving
their hats and shouting for joy. The Mayor said they would have a big
celebration, and build a tremendous bonfire in the middle of the town. He
asked the Piper to stay and see the bonfire,--very politely.
"Yes," said the Piper, "that will be very nice; but first, if you please,
I should like my thousand guineas."
"H'm,--er--ahem!" said the Mayor. "You mean that little joke of mine; of
course that was a joke." (You see it is always harder to pay for a thing
when you no longer need it.)
"I do not joke," said the Piper very quietly; "my thousand guineas, if you
please."
"Oh, come, now," said the Mayor, "you know very well it wasn't worth
sixpence to play a little tune like that; call it one guinea, and let it
go at that."
"A bargain is a bargain," said the Piper; "for the last time,--will you
give me my thousand guineas?"
"I'll give you a pipe of tobacco, something good to eat, and call you
lucky at that!" said the Mayor, tossing his head.
Then the Piper's mouth grew strange and thin, and sharp blue and green
lights began dancing in his eyes, and he said to the Mayor very softly, "I
know another tune than that I played; I play it to those who play me
false."
"Play what you please! You can't frighten me! Do your worst!" said the
Mayor, making himself big.
Then the Piper stood high up on the steps of the town hall, and put the
pipe to his lips, and began to play a little tune. It was quite a
different little tune, this time, very soft and sweet, and very, very
strange. And before he had played three notes, you heard
a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling;
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,
And like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
"Stop, stop!" cried the people. "He is taking our children! Stop him, Mr
Mayor!"
"I will give you your money, I will!" cried the Mayor, and tried to run
after the Piper.
But the very same music that made the children dance made the grown-up
people stand stock-still; it was as if their feet had been tied to the
ground; they could not move a muscle. There they stood and saw the Piper
move slowly down the street, playing his little tune, with the children at
his heels. On and on he went; on and on the children danced; till he came
to the bank of the river.
"Oh, oh! He will drown our children in the river!" cried the people. But
the Piper turned and went along by the bank, and all the children followed
after. Up, and up, and up the hill they went, straight toward the mountain
which is like the roof of a house. And just as they got to it, the
mountain _opened_,--like two great doors, and the Piper went in through
the opening, playing the little tune, and the children danced after
him--and--just as they got through--the great doors slid together again
and shut them all in! Every single one. No, there was one little lame
child, who couldn't keep up with the rest and didn't get there in time.
But none of his little companions ever came back any more, not one.
But years and years afterward, when the fat old rat who swam across the
river was a grandfather, his children used to ask him, "What made you
follow the music, Grandfather?" and he used to tell them, "My dears, when
I heard that tune I thought I heard the moving aside of pickle-tub boards,
and the leaving ajar of preserve cupboards, and I smelled the most
delicious old cheese in the world, and I saw sugar barrels ahead of me;
and then, just as a great yellow cheese seemed to be saying, 'Come, bore
me'--I felt the river rolling o'er me!"
And in the same way the people asked the little lame child, "What made you
follow the music?" "I do not know what the others heard," he said, "but
I, when the Piper began to play, I heard a voice that told of a wonderful
country hard by, where the bees had no stings and the horses had wings,
and the trees bore wonderful fruits, where no one was tired or lame, and
children played all day; and just as the beautiful country was but one
step away--the mountain closed on my playmates, and I was left alone."
That was all the people ever knew. The children never came back. All that
was left of the Piper and the rats was just the big street that led to the
river; so they called it the Street of the Pied Piper.
And that is the end of the story.
WHY THE EVERGREEN TREES KEEP THEIR LEAVES IN WINTER[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from Florence Holbrook's _A Book of Nature Myths_.
(Harrap & Co. 9d.)]
One day, a long, long time ago, it was very cold; winter was coming. And
all the birds flew away to the warm south, to wait for the spring. But one
little bird had a broken wing and could not fly. He did not know what to
do. He looked all round, to see if there was any place where he could keep
warm. And he saw the trees of the great forest.
"Perhaps the trees will keep me warm through the winter," he said.
So he went to the edge of the forest, hopping and fluttering with his
broken wing. The first tree he came to was a slim silver birch.
"Beautiful birch-tree," he said, "will you let me live in your warm
branches until the springtime comes?"
"Dear me!" said the birch-tree, "what a thing to ask! I have to take care
of my own leaves through the winter; that is enough for me. Go away."
The little bird hopped and fluttered with his broken wing until he came to
the next tree. It was a great, big oak-tree.
"O big oak-tree," said the little bird, "will you let me live in your warm
branches until the springtime comes?"
"Dear me," said the oak-tree, "what a thing to ask! If you stay in my
branches all winter you will be eating my acorns. Go away."
So the little bird hopped and fluttered with his broken wing till he came
to the willow-tree by the edge of the brook.
"O beautiful willow-tree," said the little bird, "will you let me live in
your warm branches until the springtime comes?"
"No, indeed," said the willow-tree; "I never speak to strangers. Go away."
The poor little bird did not know where to go; but he hopped and
fluttered along with his broken wing. Presently the spruce-tree saw him,
and said, "Where are you going, little bird?"
"I do not know," said the bird; "the trees will not let me live with them,
and my wing is broken so that I cannot fly."
"You may live on one of my branches," said the spruce; "here is the
warmest one of all."
"But may I stay all winter?"
"Yes," said the spruce; "I shall like to have you."
The pine-tree stood beside the spruce, and when he saw the little bird
hopping and fluttering with his broken wing, he said, "My branches are not
very warm, but I can keep the wind off because I am big and strong."
So the little bird fluttered up into the warm branch of the spruce, and
the pine-tree kept the wind off his house; then the juniper-tree saw what
was going on, and said that she would give the little bird his dinner all
the winter, from her branches. Juniper berries are very good for little
birds.
The little bird was very comfortable in his warm nest sheltered from the
wind, with juniper berries to eat.
The trees at the edge of the forest remarked upon it to each other:
"I wouldn't take care of a strange bird," said the birch.
"I wouldn't risk my acorns," said the oak.
"I would not speak to strangers," said the willow. And the three trees
stood up very tall and proud.
That night the North Wind came to the woods to play. He puffed at the
leaves with his icy breath, and every leaf he touched fell to the ground.
He wanted to touch every leaf in the forest, for he loved to see the trees
bare.
"May I touch every leaf?" he said to his father, the Frost King.
"No," said the Frost King, "the trees which were kind to the bird with the
broken wing may keep their leaves."
So North Wind had to leave them alone, and the spruce, the pine, and the
juniper-tree kept their leaves through all the winter. And they have done
so ever since.
THE STAR DOLLARS[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from Grimms' _Fairy Tales_.]
There was once a little girl who was very, very poor. Her father and
mother had died, and at last she had no little room to stay in, and no
little bed to sleep in, and nothing more to eat except one piece of bread.
So she said a prayer, put on her little jacket and her hood, and took her
piece of bread in her hand, and went out into the world.
When she had walked a little way, she met an old man, bent and thin. He
looked at the piece of bread in her hand, and said, "Will you give me your
bread, little girl? I am very hungry." The little girl said, "Yes," and
gave him her piece of bread.
When she had walked a little farther she came upon a child, sitting by the
path, crying. "I am so cold!" said the child. "Won't you give me your
little hood, to keep my head warm?" The little girl took off her hood and
tied it on the child's head. Then she went on her way.
After a time, as she went, she met another child. This one shivered with
the cold, and she said to the little girl, "Won't you give me your jacket,
little girl?" And the little girl gave her her jacket. Then she went on
again.
By-and-by she saw another child, crouching almost naked by the wayside. "O
little girl," said the child, "won't you give me your dress? I have
nothing to keep me warm." So the little girl took off her dress and gave
it to the other child. And now she had nothing left but her little shirt.
It grew dark, and the wind was cold, and the little girl crept into the
woods, to sleep for the night. But in the woods a child stood, weeping and
naked. "I am cold," she said, "give me your little shirt!" And the little
girl thought, "It is dark, and the woods will shelter me; I will give her
my little shirt"; so she did, and now she had nothing left in all the
world.
She stood looking up at the sky, to say her night-time prayer. As she
looked up, the whole skyful of stars fell in a shower round her feet.
There they were, on the ground, shining bright, and round. The little girl
saw that they were silver dollars. And in the midst of them was the finest
little shirt, all woven out of silk! The little girl put on the little
silk shirt, and gathered the star dollars; and she was rich, all the days
of her life.
THE LION AND THE GNAT[1]
[Footnote 1: This story has been told by the Rev. Albert E. Sims to
children in many parts of England. On one occasion it was told to an
audience of over three thousand children in the Great Assembly Hall, Mile
End, London.]
Far away in Central Africa, that vast land where dense forests and wild
beasts abound, the shades of night were once more descending, warning all
creatures that it was time to seek repose.
All day long the sun had been like a great burning eye, but now, after
painting the western sky with crimson and scarlet and gold, he had
disappeared into his fleecy bed; the various creatures of the forest had
sought their holes and resting-places; the last sound had rumbled its
rumble, the last bee had mumbled his mumble, and the last bear had
grumbled his grumble; even the grasshoppers that had been chirruping,
chirruping, through all the long hours without a pause, at length had
ceased their shrill music, tucked up their long legs, and given themselves
to slumber.
There on a nodding grass-blade, a tiny Gnat had made a swinging couch, and
he too had folded his wings, closed his tiny eyes, and was fast asleep.
Darker, darker, darker became the night until the darkness could almost be
felt, and over all was a solemn stillness as though some powerful finger
had been raised, and some potent voice had whispered, "HU--SH!"
Just when all was perfectly still, there came suddenly from the far away
depths of the forest, like the roll of thunder, a mighty ROAR--R--R--R!
In a moment all the beasts and birds were wide awake, and the poor little
Gnat was nearly frightened out of his little senses, and his little heart
went pit-a-pat. He rubbed his little eyes with his feelers, and then
peered all around trying to penetrate the deep gloom as he whispered in
terror--_"What--was--that?"_
What do _you_ think it was?... Yes, a LION! A great, big lion who, while
most other denizens of the forest slept, was out hunting for prey. He
came rushing and crashing through the thick undergrowth of the forest,
swirling his long tail and opening wide his great jaws, and as he rushed
he RO-AR-R-R-ED!
Presently he reached the spot where the little Gnat hung panting at the
tip of the waving grass-blade. Now the little Gnat was not afraid of
lions, so when he saw it was only a lion, he cried out--
"Hi, stop, stop! What are you making that horrible noise about?"
The Lion stopped short, then backed slowly and regarded the Gnat with
scorn.
"Why, you tiny, little, mean, insignificant creature you, how DARE you
speak to ME?" he raged.
"How dare I speak to you?" repeated the Gnat quietly. "By the virtue of
_right_, which is always greater than _might_. Why don't you keep to your
own part of the forest? What right have you to be here, disturbing folks
at this time of night?"
By a mighty effort the Lion restrained his anger--he knew that to obtain
mastery over others one must be master over oneself.
"What _right_?" he repeated in dignified tones. "_Because I'm King of the
Forest._ That's why. I can do no wrong, for all the other creatures of the
forest are afraid of me. I DO what I please, I SAY what I please, I EAT
whom I please, I GO where I please--simply because I'm King of the
Forest."
"But who told you you were King?" demanded the Gnat. "Just answer me
that!"
"Who told ME?" roared the Lion. "Why, everyone acknowledges it--don't I
tell you that everyone is afraid of me?"
"Indeed!" cried the Gnat disdainfully. "Pray don't say _all_, for I'm not
afraid of you. And further, I deny your right to be King."
This was too much for the Lion. He now worked himself into a perfect fury.
"You--you--YOU deny my right as King?"
"I _do_, and, what is more, you shall never be King until you have fought
and conquered me."
The Lion laughed a great lion laugh, and a lion laugh cannot be laughed at
like a cat laugh, as everyone ought to know.
"Fight--did you say fight?" he asked. "Who ever heard of a lion fighting a
gnat? Here, out of my way, you atom of nothing! I'll blow you to the other
end of the world."
But though the Lion puffed his cheeks until they were like great bellows,
and then blew with all his might, he could not disturb the little Gnat's
hold on the swaying grass-blade.
"You'll blow all your whiskers away if you are not careful," he said, with
a laugh--"but you won't move me. And if you dare leave this spot without
fighting me, I'll tell all the beasts of the forest that you are afraid of
me, and they'll make _me_ King."
"Ho, ho!" roared the Lion. "Very well, since you will fight, let it be
so."
"You agree to the conditions, then? The one who conquers shall be King?"
"Oh, certainly," laughed the Lion, for he expected an easy victory. "Are
you ready?"
"Quite ready."
"Then--GO!" roared the Lion.
And with that he sprang forward with open jaws, thinking he could easily
swallow a million gnats. But just as the great jaws were about to close
upon the blade of grass whereto the Gnat clung, what should happen but
that the Gnat suddenly spread his wings and nimbly flew--where do you
think?--right into one of the Lion's nostrils! And there he began to
sting, sting, sting. The Lion wondered, and thundered, and blundered--but
the Gnat went on stinging; he foamed, and he moaned, and he groaned--still
the Gnat went on stinging; he rubbed his head on the ground in agony, he
swirled his tail in furious passion, he roared, he spluttered, he sniffed,
he snuffed--and still the Gnat went on stinging.
"O my poor nose, my nose, my nose!" the Lion began to moan. "Come down,
come DOWN, come DOWN! My nose, my NOSE, my NOSE!! You're King of the
Forest, you're King, you're King--only come down. My nose, my NOSE, my
NOSE!"
So at last the Gnat flew out from the Lion's nostril and went back to his
waving grass-blade, while the Lion slunk away into the depths of the
forest with his tail between his legs--_beaten_, and by a tiny Gnat!
"What a fine fellow am I, to be sure!" exclaimed the Gnat, as he proudly
plumed his wings. "I've beaten a lion--a lion! Dear me, I ought to have
been King long ago, I'm so clever, so big, so strong--_oh!_"
The Gnat's frightened cry was caused by finding himself entangled in some
silky sort of threads. While gloating over his victory, the wind had
risen, and his grass-blade had swayed violently to and fro unnoticed by
him. A stronger gust than usual had bent the blade downward close to the
ground, and then something caught it and held it fast and with it the
victorious Gnat. Oh, the desperate struggles he made to get free! Alas! he
became more entangled than ever. You can guess what it was--a spider's
web, hung out from the overhanging branch of a tree.
Then--flipperty-flopperty, flipperty-flopperty, flop, flip, flop--down his
stairs came cunning Father Spider and quickly gobbled up the little Gnat
for his supper, and that was the end of him.
A strong Lion--and what overcame him? _A Gnat._
A clever Gnat--and what overcame him? _A Spider's web!_ He who had beaten
the strong lion had been overcome by the subtle snare of a spider's
thread.
ESPECIALLY FOR CLASSES II. AND III.
THE CAT AND THE PARROT
Once there was a cat, and a parrot. And they had agreed to ask each other
to dinner, turn and turn about: first the cat should ask the parrot, then
the parrot should invite the cat, and so on. It was the cat's turn first.
Now the cat was very mean. He provided nothing at all for dinner except a
pint of milk, a little slice of fish, and a biscuit. The parrot was too
polite to complain, but he did not have a very good time.
When it was his turn to invite the cat, he cooked a fine dinner. He had a
roast of meat, a pot of tea, a basket of fruit, and, best of all, he baked
a whole clothes-basketful of little cakes!--little, brown, crispy, spicy
cakes! Oh, I should say as many as five hundred. And he put four hundred
and ninety-eight of the cakes before the cat, keeping only two for
himself.
Well, the cat ate the roast, and drank the tea, and sucked the fruit, and
then he began on the pile of cakes. He ate all the four hundred and
ninety-eight cakes, and then he looked round and said:--
"I'm hungry; haven't you anything to eat?"
"Why," said the parrot, "here are my two cakes, if you want them?"
The cat ate up the two cakes, and then he licked his chops and said, "I am
beginning to get an appetite; have you anything to eat?"
"Well, really," said the parrot, who was now rather angry, "I don't see
anything more, unless you wish to eat me!" He thought the cat would be
ashamed when he heard that--but the cat just looked at him and licked his
chops again,--and slip! slop! gobble! down his throat went the parrot!
Then the cat started down the street. An old woman was standing by, and
she had seen the whole thing, and she was shocked that the cat should eat
his friend. "Why, cat!" she said, "how dreadful of you to eat your friend
the parrot!"
"Parrot, indeed!" said the cat. "What's a parrot to me?--I've a great mind
to eat you, too." And--before you could say "Jack Robinson"--slip! slop!
gobble! down went the old woman!
Then the cat started down the road again, walking like this, because he
felt so fine. Pretty soon he met a man driving a donkey. The man was
beating the donkey, to hurry him up, and when he saw the cat he said, "Get
out of my way, cat; I'm in a hurry and my donkey might tread on you."
"Donkey, indeed!" said the cat, "much I care for a donkey! I have eaten
five hundred cakes, I've eaten my friend the parrot, I've eaten an old
woman,--what's to hinder my eating a miserable man and a donkey?"
And slip! slop! gobble! down went the old man and the donkey.
Then the cat walked on down the road, jauntily, like this. After a little,
he met a procession, coming that way. The king was at the head, walking
proudly with his newly married bride, and behind him were his soldiers,
marching, and behind them were ever and ever so many elephants, walking
two by two. The king felt very kind to everybody, because he had just been
married, and he said to the cat, "Get out of my way, pussy, get out of my
way,--my elephants might hurt you."
"Hurt me!" said the cat, shaking his fat sides. "Ho, ho! I've eaten five
hundred cakes, I've eaten my friend the parrot, I've eaten an old woman,
I've eaten a man and a donkey; what's to hinder my eating a beggarly
king?"
And slip! slop! gobble! down went the king; down went the queen; down went
the soldiers,--and down went all the elephants!
Then the cat went on, more slowly; he had really had enough to eat, now.
But a little farther on he met two land-crabs, scuttling along in the
dust. "Get out of our way, pussy," they squeaked.
"Ho, ho ho!" cried the cat in a terrible voice. "I've eaten five hundred
cakes, I've eaten my friend the parrot, I've eaten an old woman, a man
with a donkey, a king, a queen, his men-at-arms, and all his elephants;
and now I'll eat you too."
And slip! slop! gobble! down went the two land-crabs.
When the land-crabs got down inside, they began to look around. It was
very dark, but they could see the poor king sitting in a corner with his
bride on his arm; she had fainted. Near them were the men-at-arms,
treading on one another's toes, and the elephants, still trying to form in
twos,--but they couldn't, because there was not room. In the opposite
corner sat the old woman, and near her stood the man and his donkey. But
in the other corner was a great pile of cakes, and by them perched the
parrot, his feathers all drooping.
"Let's get to work!" said the land-crabs. And, snip, snap, they began to
make a little hole in the side, with their sharp claws. Snip, snap, snip,
snap,--till it was big enough to get through. Then out they scuttled.
Then out walked the king, carrying his bride; out marched the men-at-arms;
out tramped the elephants, two by two; out came the old man, beating his
donkey; out walked the old woman, scolding the cat; and last of all, out
hopped the parrot, holding a cake in each claw. (You remember, two cakes
were all he wanted?)
But the poor cat had to spend the whole day sewing up the hole in his
coat!
THE RAT PRINCESS[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from Frank Rinder's _Old World Japan_. In telling
this story the voice should be changed for the Sun, Cloud, Wind, and Wall,
as is always done in the old story of _The Three Bears_.]
Once upon a time, there was a Rat Princess, who lived with her father, the
Rat King, and her mother, the Rat Queen, in a ricefield in far away Japan.
The Rat Princess was so pretty that her father and mother were quite
foolishly proud of her, and thought no one good enough to play with her.
When she grew up, they would not let any of the rat princes come to visit
her, and they decided at last that no one should marry her till they had
found the most powerful person in the whole world; no one else was good
enough. And the Father Rat started out to find the most powerful person in
the whole world. The wisest and oldest rat in the ricefield said that the
Sun must be the most powerful person, because he made the rice grow and
ripen; so the Rat King went to find the Sun. He climbed up the highest
mountain, ran up the path of a rainbow, and travelled and travelled across
the sky till he came to the Sun's house.
"What do you want, little brother?" the Sun said, when he saw him.
"I come," said the Rat King, very importantly, "to offer you the hand of
my daughter, the princess, because you are the most powerful person in the
world; no one else is good enough."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the jolly round Sun, and winked with his eye. "You are
very kind, little brother, but if that is the case the princess is not for
me; the Cloud is more powerful than I am; when he passes over me I cannot
shine."
"Oh, indeed," said the Rat King, "then you are not my man at all"; and he
left the Sun without more words. The Sun laughed and winked to himself.
And the Rat King travelled and travelled across the sky till he came to
the Cloud's house.
"What do you want, little brother?" sighed the Cloud when he saw him.
"I come to offer you the hand of my daughter, the princess," said the Rat
King, "because you are the most powerful person in the world; the Sun said
so, and no one else is good enough."
The Cloud sighed again. "I am not the most powerful person," he said;
"the Wind is stronger than I,--when he blows, I have to go wherever he
sends me."
"Then you are not the person for my daughter," said the Rat King proudly;
and he started at once to find the Wind. He travelled and travelled across
the sky, till he came at last to the Wind's house, at the very edge of the
world.
When the Wind saw him coming he laughed a big, gusty laugh, "Ho, ho!" and
asked him what he wanted; and when the Rat King told him that he had come
to offer him the Rat Princess's hand because he was the most powerful
person in the world, the Wind shouted a great gusty shout, and said, "No,
no, I am not the strongest; the Wall that man has made is stronger than I;
I cannot make him move, with all my blowing; go to the Wall, little
brother!"
And the Rat King climbed down the sky-path again, and travelled and
travelled across the earth till he came to the Wall. It was quite near his
own ricefield.
"What do you want, little brother?" grumbled the Wall when he saw him.
"I come to offer you the hand of the princess, my daughter, because you
are the most powerful person in the world, and no one else is good
enough."
"Ugh, ugh," grumbled the Wall, "I am not the strongest; the big grey Rat
who lives in the cellar is stronger than I. When he gnaws and gnaws at me
I crumble and crumble, and at last I fall; go to the Rat, little brother."
And so, after going all over the world to find the strongest person, the
Rat King had to marry his daughter to a rat, after all; but the princess
was very glad of it, for she wanted to marry the grey Rat, all the time.
THE FROG AND THE OX
Once a little Frog sat by a big Frog, by the side of a pool. "Oh, father,"
said he, "I have just seen the biggest animal in the world; it was as big
as a mountain, and it had horns on its head, and it had hoofs divided in
two."
"Pooh, child," said the old Frog, "that was only Farmer White's Ox. He is
not so very big. I could easily make myself as big as he." And he blew,
and he blew, and he blew, and swelled himself out.
"Was he as big as that?" he asked the little Frog.
"Oh, much bigger," said the little Frog.
The old Frog blew, and blew, and blew again, and swelled himself out, more
than ever.
"Was he bigger than that?" he said.
"Much, much bigger," said the little Frog.
"I can make myself as big," said the old Frog. And once more he blew, and
blew, and blew, and swelled himself out,--and he burst!
Self-conceit leads to self-destruction.
THE FIRE-BRINGER[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from _The Basket Woman_, by Mary Austin.]
This is the Indian story of how fire was brought to the tribes. It was
long, long ago, when men and beasts talked together with understanding,
and the grey Coyote was friend and counsellor of man.
There was a Boy of the tribe who was swift of foot and keen of eye, and he
and the Coyote ranged the wood together. They saw the men catching fish in
the creeks with their hands, and the women digging roots with sharp
stones. This was in summer. But when winter came on, they saw the people
running naked in the snow, or huddled in caves of the rocks, and most
miserable. The Boy noticed this, and was very unhappy for the misery of
his people.
"I do not feel it," said the Coyote.
"You have a coat of good fur," said the Boy, "and my people have not."
"Come to the hunt," said the Coyote.
"I will hunt no more, till I have found a way to help my people against
the cold," said the Boy. "Help me, O Counsellor!"
Then the Coyote ran away, and came back after a long time; he said he had
found a way, but it was a hard way.
"No way is too hard," said the Boy. So the Coyote told him that they must
go to the Burning Mountain and bring fire to the people.
"What is fire?" said the Boy. And the Coyote told him that fire was red
like a flower, yet not a flower; swift to run in the grass and to destroy,
like a beast, yet no beast; fierce and hurtful, yet a good servant to keep
one warm, if kept among stones and fed with small sticks.
"We will get this fire," said the Boy.
First the Boy had to persuade the people to give him one hundred swift
runners. Then he and they and the Coyote started at a good pace for the
far away Burning Mountain. At the end of the first day's trail they left
the weakest of the runners, to wait; at the end of the second, the next
stronger; at the end of the third, the next; and so for each of the
hundred days of the journey; and the Boy was the strongest runner, and
went to the last trail with the Counsellor. High mountains they crossed,
and great plains, and giant woods, and at last they came to the Big Water,
quaking along the sand at the foot of the Burning Mountain.
It stood up in a high peaked cone, and smoke rolled out from it endlessly
along the sky. At night, the Fire Spirits danced, and the glare reddened
the Big Water far out.
There the Counsellor said to the Boy, "Stay thou here till I bring thee a
brand from the burning; be ready and right for running, for I shall be far
spent when I come again, and the Fire Spirits will pursue me."
Then he went up to the mountain; and the Fire Spirits only laughed when
they saw him, for he looked so slinking, inconsiderable, and mean, that
none of them thought harm from him. And in the night, when they were at
their dance about the mountain, the Coyote stole the fire, and ran with it
down the slope of the burning mountain. When the Fire Spirits saw what he
had done they streamed out after him, red and angry, with a humming sound
like a swarm of bees. But the Coyote was still ahead; the sparks of the
brand streamed out along his flanks, as he carried it in his mouth; and he
stretched his body to the trail.
The Boy saw him coming, like a falling star against the mountain; he heard
the singing sound of the Fire Spirits close behind, and the labouring
breath of the Counsellor. And when the good beast panted down beside him,
the Boy caught the brand from his jaws and was off, like an arrow from a
bent bow. Out he shot on the homeward path, and the Fire Spirits snapped
and sang behind him. But fast as they pursued he fled faster, till he saw
the next runner standing in his place, his body bent for the running. To
him he passed it, and it was off and away, with the Fire Spirits raging in
chase.
So it passed from hand to hand, and the Fire Spirits tore after it through
the scrub, till they came to the mountains of the snows; these they could
not pass. Then the dark, sleek runners with the backward streaming brand
bore it forward, shining starlike in the night, glowing red in sultry
noons, violet pale in twilight glooms, until they came in safety to their
own land.
And there they kept it among stones and fed it with small sticks, as the
Counsellor advised; and it kept the people warm.
Ever after the Boy was called the Fire-Bringer; and ever after the Coyote
bore the sign of the bringing, for the fur along his flanks was singed and
yellow from the flames that streamed backward from the brand.
THE BURNING OF THE RICEFIELDS[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from _Gleanings in Buddha-Fields_, by Lafcadio Hearn.
(Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner and Co. Ltd. 5s. net.)]
Once there was a good old man who lived up on a mountain, far away in
Japan. All round his little house the mountain was flat, and the ground
was rich; and there were the ricefields of all the people who lived in the
village at the mountain's foot. Mornings and evenings, the old man and
his little grandson, who lived with him, used to look far down on the
people at work in the village, and watch the blue sea which lay all round
the land, so close that there was no room for fields below, only for
houses. The little boy loved the ricefields, dearly, for he knew that all
the good food for all the people came from them; and he often helped his
grand father to watch over them.
One day, the grandfather was standing alone, before his house, looking far
down at the people, and out at the sea, when, suddenly, he saw something
very strange far off where the sea and sky meet. Something like a great
cloud was rising there, as if the sea were lifting itself high into the
sky. The old man put his hands to his eyes and looked again, hard as his
old sight could. Then he turned and ran to the house. "Yone, Yone!" he
cried, "bring a brand from the hearth!"
The little grandson could not imagine what his grandfather wanted with
fire, but he always obeyed, so he ran quickly and brought the brand. The
old man already had one, and was running for the ricefields. Yone ran
after. But what was his horror to see his grandfather thrust his burning
brand into the ripe dry rice, where it stood.
"Oh, Grandfather, Grandfather!" screamed the little boy, "what are you
doing?"
"Quick, set fire! thrust your brand in!" said the grandfather.
Yone thought his dear grandfather had lost his mind, and he began to sob;
but a little Japanese boy always obeys, so though he sobbed, he thrust his
torch in, and the sharp flame ran up the dry stalks, red and yellow. In an
instant, the field was ablaze, and thick black smoke began to pour up, on
the mountain side. It rose like a cloud, black and fierce, and in no time
the people below saw that their precious ricefields were on fire. Ah, how
they ran! Men, women, and children climbed the mountain, running as fast
as they could to save the rice; not one soul stayed behind.
And when they came to the mountain top, and saw the beautiful rice-crop
all in flames, beyond help, they cried bitterly, "Who has done this thing?
How did it happen?"
"I set fire," said the old man, very solemnly; and the little grandson
sobbed, "Grandfather set fire."
But when they came fiercely round the old man, with "Why? Why?" he only
turned and pointed to the sea. "Look!" he said.
They all turned and looked. And there, where the blue sea had lain, so
calm, a mighty wall of water, reaching from earth to sky, was rolling in.
No one could scream, so terrible was the sight. The wall of water rolled
in on the land, passed quite over the place where the village had been,
and broke, with an awful sound, on the mountain side. One wave more, and
still one more, came; and then all was water, as far as they could look,
below; the village where they had been was under the sea.
But the people were all safe. And when they saw what the old man had done,
they honoured him above all men for the quick wit which had saved them all
from the tidal wave.
THE STORY OF WYLIE[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from _Rab and his Friends_, by Dr John Brown.]
This is a story about a dog,--not the kind of dog you often see in the
street here; not a fat, wrinkly pugdog, nor a smooth-skinned bulldog, nor
even a big shaggy fellow, but a slim, silky-haired, sharp-eared little
dog, the prettiest thing you can imagine. Her name was Wylie, and she
lived in Scotland, far up on the hills, and helped her master take care of
his sheep.
You can't think how clever she was! She watched over the sheep and the
little lambs like a soldier, and never let anything hurt them. She drove
them out to pasture when it was time, and brought them safely home when it
was time for that. When the silly sheep got frightened and ran this way
and that, hurting themselves and getting lost, Wylie knew exactly what to
do,--round on one side she would run, barking and scolding, driving them
back; then round on the other, barking and scolding, driving them back,
till they were all bunched together in front of the right gate. Then she
drove them through as neatly as any person. She loved her work, and was a
wonderfully fine sheepdog.
At last her master grew too old to stay alone on the hills, and so he went
away to live. Before he went, he gave Wylie to two kind young men who
lived in the nearest town; he knew they would be good to her. They grew
very fond of her, and so did their old grandmother and the little
children: she was so gentle and handsome and well behaved.
So now Wylie lived in the city where there were no sheep farms, only
streets and houses, and she did not have to do any work at all,--she was
just a pet dog. She seemed very happy and she was always good.
But after a while, the family noticed something odd, something very
strange indeed, about their pet. Every single Tuesday night, about nine
o'clock, Wylie _disappeared_. They would look for her, call her,--no, she
was gone. And she would be gone all night. But every Wednesday morning,
there she was at the door, waiting to be let in. Her silky coat was all
sweaty and muddy and her feet heavy with weariness, but her bright eyes
looked up at her masters as if she were trying to explain where she had
been.
Week after week the same thing happened. Nobody could imagine where Wylie
went every Tuesday night. They tried to follow her to find out, but she
always slipped away; they tried to shut her in, but she always found a way
out. It grew to be a real mystery. Where in the world did Wylie go?
You never could guess, so I am going to tell you.
In the city near the town where the kind young men lived was a big market
like (naming one in the neighbourhood). Every sort of thing was sold
there, even live cows and sheep and hens. On Tuesday nights, the farmers
used to come down from the hills with their sheep to sell, and drive them
through the city streets into the pens, ready to sell on Wednesday
morning; that was the day they sold them.
The sheep weren't used to the city noises and sights, and they always grew
afraid and wild, and gave the farmers and the sheepdogs a great deal of
trouble. They broke away and ran about, in everybody's way.
But just as the trouble was worst, about sunrise, the farmers would see a
little silky, sharp-eared dog come trotting all alone down the road, into
the midst of them.
And then!
In and out the little dog ran like the wind, round and about, always in
the right place, driving--coaxing--pushing--making the sheep mind like a
good school-teacher, and never frightening them, till they were all safely
in! All the other dogs together could not do as much as the little strange
dog. She was a perfect wonder. And no one knew whose dog she was or where
she came from. The farmers grew to watch for her, every week, and they
called her "the wee fell yin" which is Scots for "the little terror"; they
used to say when they saw her coming, "There's the wee fell yin! Now we'll
get them in."
Every farmer would have liked to keep her, but she let no one catch her.
As soon as her work was done she was off and away like a fairy dog, no one
knew where. Week after week this happened, and nobody knew who the little
strange dog was.
But one day Wylie went to walk with her two masters, and they happened to
meet some sheep farmers. The sheep farmers stopped short and stared at
Wylie, and then they cried out, "Why, _that's the dog_! That's the wee
fell yin!" And so it was. The little strange dog who helped with the sheep
was Wylie.
Her masters, of course, didn't know what the farmers meant, till they were
told all about what I have been telling you. But when they heard about
the pretty strange dog who came to market all alone, they knew at last
where Wylie went, every Tuesday night. And they loved her better than
ever.
Wasn't it wise of the dear little dog to go and work for other people when
her own work was taken away? I fancy she knew that the best people and the
best dogs always work hard at something. Any way she did that same thing
as long as she lived, and she was always just as gentle, and silky-haired,
and loving as at first.
LITTLE DAYLIGHT[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from _At the Back of the North Wind_, by George
Macdonald.]
Once there was a beautiful palace, which had a great wood at one side. The
king and his courtiers hunted in the wood near the palace, and there it
was kept open, free from underbrush. But farther away it grew wilder and
wilder, till at last it was so thick that nobody knew what was there. It
was a very great wood indeed.
In the wood lived eight fairies. Seven of them were good fairies, who had
lived there always; the eighth was a bad fairy, who had just come. And the
worst of it was that nobody but the other fairies knew she _was_ a fairy;
people thought she was just an ugly old witch. The good fairies lived in
the dearest little houses! One lived in a hollow silver birch, one in a
little moss cottage, and so on. But the bad fairy lived in a horrid mud
house in the middle of a dark swamp.