mother decided to name her "Daylight," because she was so bright and
sweet. And of course they had a christening party. And of _course_ they
invited the fairies, because the good fairies had always been at the
christening party when a princess was born in the palace, and everybody
knew that they brought good gifts.
But, alas, no one knew about the swamp fairy, and she was not
invited,--which really pleased her, because it gave her an excuse for
doing something mean.
The good fairies came to the christening party, and, one after another,
five of them gave little Daylight good gifts. The other two stood among
the guests, so that no one noticed them. The swamp fairy thought there
were no more of them; so she stepped forward, just as the archbishop was
handing the baby back to the lady-in-waiting.
"I am just a little deaf," she said, mumbling a laugh with her toothless
gums. "Will your reverence tell me the baby's name again?"
"Certainly, my good woman," said the bishop; "the infant is little
Daylight."
"And little Daylight it shall be, forsooth," cried the bad fairy. "I
decree that she shall sleep all day." Then she laughed a horrid shrieking
laugh, "He, he, hi, hi!"
Everyone looked at everyone else in despair, but out stepped the sixth
good fairy, who by arrangement with her sisters had remained in the
background to undo what she could of any evil that the swamp fairy might
decree.
"Then at least she shall wake all night," she said, sadly.
"Ah!" screamed the swamp fairy, "you spoke before I had finished, which is
against the law, and gives me another chance." All the fairies started at
once to say, "I beg your pardon!" But the bad fairy said, "I had only
laughed 'he, he!' and 'hi, hi!' I had still 'ho, ho!' and 'hu, hu!' to
laugh."
The fairies could not gainsay this, and the bad fairy had her other
chance. She said,--
"Since she is to wake all night, I decree that she shall wax and wane with
the moon! Ho, ho, hu, hu!"
Out stepped the seventh good fairy. "Until a prince shall kiss her without
knowing who she is," she said, quickly.
The swamp fairy had been prepared for the trick of keeping back one good
fairy, but she had not suspected it of two, and she could not say a word,
for she had laughed "ho, ho!" and "hu, hu!"
The poor king and queen looked sad enough. "We don't know what you mean,"
they said to the good fairy who had spoken last. But the good fairy
smiled. "The meaning of the thing will come with the thing," she said.
That was the end of the party, but it was only the beginning of the
trouble. Can you imagine what a queer household it would be, where the
baby laughed and crowed all night, and slept all day? Little Daylight was
as merry and bright all night as any baby in the world, but with the first
sign of dawn she fell asleep, and slept like a little dormouse till dark.
Nothing could waken her while day lasted. Still, the royal family got used
to this; but the rest of the bad fairy's gift was a great deal
worse,--that about waxing and waning with the moon. You know how the moon
grows bigger and brighter each night, from the time it is a curly silver
thread low in the sky till it is round and golden, flooding the whole sky
with light? That is the waxing moon. Then, you know, it wanes; it grows
smaller and paler again, night by night, till at last it disappears for a
while, altogether. Well, poor little Daylight waxed and waned with it. She
was the rosiest, plumpest, merriest baby in the world when the moon was at
the full; but as it began to wane her little cheeks grew paler, her tiny
hands thinner, with every night, till she lay in her cradle like a
shadow-baby, without sound or motion. At first they thought she was dead,
when the moon disappeared, but after some months they got used to this
too, and only waited eagerly for the new moon, to see her revive. When it
shone again, faint and silver, on the horizon, the baby stirred weakly,
and then they fed her gently; each night she grew a little better, and
when the moon was near the full again, she was again a lively, rosy,
lovely child.
So it went on till she grew up. She grew to be the most beautiful maiden
the moon ever shone on, and everyone loved her so much, for her sweet ways
and her merry heart, that someone was always planning to stay up at night,
to be near her. But she did not like to be watched, especially when she
felt the bad time of waning coming on; so her ladies-in-waiting had to be
very careful. When the moon waned she became shrunken and pale and bent,
like an old, old woman, worn out with sorrow. Only her golden hair and her
blue eyes remained unchanged, and this gave her a terribly strange look.
At last, as the moon disappeared, she faded away to a little, bowed, old
creature, asleep and helpless.
No wonder she liked best to be alone! She got in the way of wandering by
herself in the beautiful wood, playing in the moonlight when she was
well, stealing away in the shadows when she was fading with the moon. Her
father had a lovely little house of roses and vines built for her, there.
It stood at the edge of a most beautiful open glade, inside the wood,
where the moon shone best. There the princess lived with her ladies. And
there she danced when the moon was full. But when the moon waned, her
ladies often lost her altogether, so far did she wander; and sometimes
they found her sleeping under a great tree, and brought her home in their
arms.
When the princess was about seventeen years old, there was a rebellion in
a kingdom not far from her father's. Wicked nobles murdered the king of
the country and stole his throne, and would have murdered the young
prince, too, if he had not escaped, dressed in peasant's clothes.
Dressed in his poor rags, the prince wandered about a long time, till one
day he got into a great wood, and lost his way. It was the wood where the
Princess Daylight lived, but of course he did not know anything about that
nor about her. He wandered till night, and then he came to a queer little
house. One of the good fairies lived there, and the minute she saw him she
knew all about everything; but to him she looked only like a kind old
woman. She gave him a good supper and a bed for the night, and told him
to come back to her if he found no better place for the next night. But
the prince said he must get out of the wood at once; so in the morning he
took leave of the fairy.
All day long he walked, and walked; but at nightfall he had not found his
way out of the wood, so he lay down to rest till the moon should rise and
light his path.
When he woke the moon was glorious; it was three days from the full, and
bright as silver. By its light he saw what he thought to be the edge of
the wood, and he hastened toward it. But when he came to it, it was only
an open space, surrounded with trees. It was so very lovely, in the white
moonlight, that the prince stood a minute to look. And as he looked,
something white moved out of the trees on the far side of the open space.
It was something slim and white, that swayed in the dim light like a young
birch.
"It must be a moon fairy," thought the prince; and he stepped into the
shadow.
The moon fairy came nearer and nearer, dancing and swaying in the
moonlight. And as she came, she began to sing a soft, gay little song.
But when she was quite close, the prince saw that she was not a fairy
after all, but a real human maiden,--the loveliest maiden he had ever
seen. Her hair was like yellow corn, and her smile made all the place
merry. Her white gown fluttered as she danced, and her little song sounded
like a bird note.
The prince watched her till she danced out of sight, and then until she
once more came toward him; and she seemed so like a moonbeam herself, as
she lifted her face to the sky, that he was almost afraid to breathe. He
had never seen anything so lovely. By the time she had danced twice round
the circle, he could think of nothing in the world except the hope of
finding out who she was, and staying near her.
But while he was waiting for her to appear the third time, his weariness
overcame him, and he fell asleep. And when he awoke, it was broad day, and
the beautiful maiden had vanished.
He hunted about, hoping to find where she lived, and on the other side of
the glade he came upon a lovely little house, covered with moss and
climbing roses. He thought she must live there, so he went round to the
kitchen door and asked the kind cook for a drink of water, and while he
was drinking it he asked who lived there. She told him it was the house of
the Princess Daylight, but she told him nothing else about her, because
she was not allowed to talk about her mistress. But she gave him a very
good meal and told him other things.
He did not go back to the little old woman who had been so kind to him
first, but wandered all day in the wood, waiting for the moontime. Again
he waited at the edge of the dell, and when the white moon was high in the
heavens, once more he saw the glimmering in the distance, and once more
the lovely maiden floated toward him. He knew her name was the Princess
Daylight, but this time she seemed to him much lovelier than before. She
was all in blue like the blue of the sky in summer. (She really was more
lovely, you know, because the moon was almost at the full.) All night he
watched her, quite forgetting that he ought not to be doing it, till she
disappeared on the opposite side of the glade. Then, very tired, he found
his way to the little old woman's house, had breakfast with her, and fell
fast asleep in the bed she gave him.
The fairy knew well enough by his face that he had seen Daylight, and when
he woke up in the evening and started off again she gave him a strange
little flask and told him to use it if ever he needed it.
This night the princess did not appear in the dell until midnight, at the
very full of the moon. But when she came, she was so lovely that she took
the prince's breath away. Just think!--she was dressed in a gown that
looked as if it were made of fireflies' wings, embroidered in gold. She
danced around and around, singing, swaying, and flitting like a beam of
sunlight, till the prince grew quite dazzled.
But while he had been watching her, he had not noticed that the sky was
growing dark and the wind was rising. Suddenly there was a clap of
thunder. The princess danced on. But another clap came louder, and then a
sudden great flash of lightning that lit up the sky from end to end. The
prince couldn't help shutting his eyes, but he opened them quickly to see
if Daylight was hurt. Alas, she was lying on the ground. The prince ran to
her, but she was already up again.
"Who are you?" she said.
"I thought," stammered the prince, "you might be hurt."
"There is nothing the matter. Go away."
The prince went sadly.
"Come back," said the princess. The prince came. "I like you, you do as
you are told. Are you good?"
"Not so good as I should like to be," said the prince.
"Then go and grow better," said the princess.
The prince went, more sadly.
"Come back," said the princess. The prince came. "I think you must be a
prince," she said.
"Why?" said the prince.
"Because you do as you are told, and you tell the truth. Will you tell me
what the sun looks like?"
"Why, everybody knows that," said the prince.
"I am different from everybody," said the princess,--"I don't know."
"But," said the prince, "do you not look when you wake up in the morning?"
"That's just it," said the princess, "I never do wake up in the morning. I
never can wake up until--" Then the princess remembered that she was
talking to a prince, and putting her hands over her face she walked
swiftly away. The prince followed her, but she turned and put up her hand
to tell him not to. And like the gentleman prince that he was, he obeyed
her at once.
Now all this time, the wicked swamp fairy had not known a word about what
was going on. But now she found out, and she was furious, for fear that
little Daylight should be delivered from her spell. So she cast her spells
to keep the prince from finding Daylight again. Night after night the poor
prince wandered and wandered, and never could find the little dell. And
when daytime came, of course, there was no princess to be seen. Finally,
at the time that the moon was almost gone, the swamp fairy stopped her
spells, because she knew that by this time Daylight would be so changed
and ugly that the prince would never know her if he did see her. She said
to herself with a wicked laugh:--
"No fear of his wanting to kiss her now!"
That night the prince did find the dell, but no princess came. A little
after midnight he passed near the lovely little house where she lived, and
there he overheard her waiting-women talking about her. They seemed in
great distress. They were saying that the princess had wandered into the
woods and was lost. The prince didn't know, of course, what it meant, but
he did understand that the princess was lost somewhere, and he started off
to find her. After he had gone a long way without finding her, he came to
a big old tree, and there he thought he would light a fire to show her the
way if she should happen to see it.
As the blaze flared up, he suddenly saw a little black heap on the other
side of the tree. Somebody was lying there. He ran to the spot, his heart
beating with hope. But when he lifted the cloak which was huddled about
the form, he saw at once that it was not Daylight. A pinched, withered,
white, little old woman's face shone out at him. The hood was drawn close
down over her forehead, the eyes were closed, and as the prince lifted
the cloak, the old woman's lips moaned faintly.
"Oh, poor mother," said the prince, "what is the matter?" The old woman
only moaned again. The prince lifted her and carried her over to the warm
fire, and rubbed her hands, trying to find out what was the matter. But
she only moaned, and her face was so terribly strange and white that the
prince's tender heart ached for her. Remembering his little flask, he
poured some of his liquid between her lips, and then he thought the best
thing he could do was to carry her to the princess's house, where she
could be taken care of.
As he lifted the poor little form in his arms, two great tears stole out
from the old woman's closed eyes and ran down her wrinkled cheeks.
"Oh, poor, poor mother," said the prince pityingly; and he stooped and
kissed her withered lips.
As he walked through the forest with the old woman in his arms, it seemed
to him that she grew heavier and heavier; he could hardly carry her at
all; and then she stirred, and at last he was obliged to set her down, to
rest. He meant to lay her on the ground. But the old woman stood upon her
feet.
And then the hood fell back from her face. As she looked up at the prince,
the first, long, yellow ray of the rising sun struck full upon her,--and
it was the Princess Daylight! Her hair was golden as the sun itself, and
her eyes as blue as the flower that grows in the corn.
The prince fell on his knees before her. But she gave him her hand and
made him rise.
"You kissed me when I was an old woman," said the princess, "I'll kiss you
now that I am a young princess." And she did.
And then she turned her face toward the dawn.
"Dear Prince," she said, "is that the sun?"
THE SAILOR MAN[1]
[Footnote 1: From _The Golden Windows_, by Laura E. Richards. (H.R.
Allenson Ltd. 2s. 6d. net.)]
Once upon a time, two children came to the house of a sailor man, who
lived beside the salt sea; and they found the sailor man sitting in his
doorway knotting ropes.
"How do you do?" asked the sailor man.
"We are very well, thank you," said the children, who had learned manners,
"and we hope you are the same. We heard that you had a boat, and we
thought that perhaps you would take us out in her, and teach us how to
sail, for that is what we most wish to know."
"All in good time," said the sailor man. "I am busy now, but by-and-by,
when my work is done, I may perhaps take one of you if you are ready to
learn. Meantime here are some ropes that need knotting; you might be doing
that, since it has to be done." And he showed them how the knots should be
tied, and went away and left them.
When he was gone the first child ran to the window and looked out.
"There is the sea," he said. "The waves come up on the beach, almost to
the door of the house. They run up all white, like prancing horses, and
then they go dragging back. Come and look!"
"I cannot," said the second child. "I am tying a knot."
"Oh!" cried the first child, "I see the boat. She is dancing like a lady
at a ball; I never saw such a beauty. Come and look!"
"I cannot," said the second child. "I am tying a knot."
"I shall have a delightful sail in that boat," said the first child. "I
expect that the sailor man will take me, because I am the eldest and I
know more about it. There was no need of my watching when he showed you
the knots, because I knew how already."
Just then the sailor man came in.
"Well," he said, "my work is over. What have you been doing in the
meantime?"
"I have been looking at the boat," said the first child. "What a beauty
she is! I shall have the best time in her that ever I had in my life."
"I have been tying knots," said the second child.
"Come, then," said the sailor man, and he held out his hand to the second
child. "I will take you out in the boat, and teach you to sail her."
"But I am the eldest," cried the first child, "and I know a great deal
more than she does."
"That may be," said the sailor man; "but a person must learn to tie a knot
before he can learn to sail a boat."
"But I have learned to tie a knot," cried the child. "I know all about
it!"
"How can I tell that?" asked the sailor man.
THE STORY OF JAIRUS'S DAUGHTER[1]
[Footnote 1: This should usually be prefaced by a brief statement of Jesus
habit of healing and comforting all with whom He came in close contact.
The exact form of the preface must depend on how much of His life has
already been given in stories.]
Once, while Jesus was journeying about, He passed near a town where a man
named Jairus lived. This man was a ruler in the synagogue, and he had just
one little daughter about twelve years of age. At the time that Jesus was
there the little daughter was very sick, and at last she lay a-dying.
Her father heard that there was a wonderful man near the town, who was
healing sick people whom no one else could help, and in his despair he ran
out into the streets to search for Him. He found Jesus walking in the
midst of a crowd of people, and when he saw Him he fell down at Jesus feet
and besought Him to come into his house, to heal his daughter. And Jesus
said, Yes, he would go with him. But there were so many people begging to
be healed, and so many looking to see what happened, that the crowd
thronged them, and kept them from moving fast. And before they reached the
house one of the man's servants came to meet them, and said, "Thy daughter
is dead; trouble not the Master to come farther."
But instantly Jesus turned to the father and said, "Fear not; only
believe, and she shall be made whole." And He went on with Jairus, to the
house.
When they came to the house, they heard the sound of weeping and
lamentation; the household was mourning for the little daughter, who was
dead. Jesus sent all the strangers away from the door, and only three of
His disciples and the father and mother of the child went in with Him. And
when He was within, He said to the mourning people, "Weep not; she is not
dead; she sleepeth."
When He had passed, they laughed Him to scorn, for they knew that she was
dead.
Then Jesus left them all, and went alone into the chamber where the little
daughter lay. And when He was there, alone, He went up to the bed where
she was, and bent over her, and took her by the hand. And He said,
"Maiden, arise."
And her spirit came unto her again! And she lived, and grew up in her
father's house.
ESPECIALLY FOR CLASSES IV. AND V.
ARTHUR AND THE SWORD[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from Sir Thomas Malory.]
Once there was a great king in Britain named Uther, and when he died the
other kings and princes disputed over the kingdom, each wanting it for
himself. But King Uther had a son named Arthur, the rightful heir to the
throne, of whom no one knew, for he had been taken away secretly while he
was still a baby by a wise old man called Merlin, who had him brought up
in the family of a certain Sir Ector, for fear of the malice of wicked
knights. Even the boy himself thought Sir Ector was his father, and he
loved Sir Ector's son, Sir Kay, with the love of a brother.
When the kings and princes could not be kept in check any longer, and
something had to be done to determine who was to be king, Merlin made the
Archbishop of Canterbury send for them all to come to London. It was
Christmas time, and in the great cathedral a solemn service was held, and
prayer was made that some sign should be given, to show who was the
rightful king. When the service was over, there appeared a strange stone
in the churchyard, against the high altar. It was a great white stone,
like marble, with something sunk in it that looked like a steel anvil; and
in the anvil was driven a great glistening sword. The sword had letters of
gold written on it, which read: "Whoso pulleth out this sword of this
stone and anvil is rightwise king born of all England."
All wondered at the strange sword and its strange writing; and when the
archbishop himself came out and gave permission, many of the knights tried
to pull the sword from the stone, hoping to be king. But no one could move
it a hair's breadth.
"He is not here," said the archbishop, "that shall achieve the sword; but
doubt not, God will make him known."
Then they set a guard of ten knights to keep the stone, and the archbishop
appointed a day when all should come together to try at the stone,--kings
from far and near. In the meantime, splendid jousts were held, outside
London, and both knights and commons were bidden.
Sir Ector came up to the jousts, with others, and with him rode Kay and
Arthur. Kay had been made a knight at Allhallowmas, and when he found
there was to be so fine a joust he wanted a sword, to join it. But he had
left his sword behind, where his father and he had slept the night
before. So he asked young Arthur to ride for it.
"I will well," said Arthur, and rode back for it. But when he came to the
castle, the lady and all her household were at the jousting, and there was
none to let him in.
Thereat Arthur said to himself, "My brother Sir Kay shall not be without a
sword this day." And he remembered the sword he had seen in the
churchyard. "I will to the churchyard," he said, "and take that sword with
me." So he rode into the churchyard, tied his horse to the stile, and went
up to the stone. The guards were away to the tourney, and the sword was
there, alone.
Going up to the stone, young Arthur took the great sword by the hilt, and
lightly and fiercely he drew it out of the anvil.
Then he rode straight to Sir Kay, and gave it to him.
Sir Kay knew instantly that it was the sword of the stone, and he rode off
at once to his father and said, "Sir, lo, here is the sword of the stone;
I must be king of the land." But Sir Ector asked him where he got the
sword. And when Sir Kay said, "From my brother," he asked Arthur how he
got it. When Arthur told him, Sir Ector bowed his head before him. "Now I
understand ye must be king of this land," he said to Arthur.
"Wherefore I?" said Arthur.
"For God will have it so," said Ector; "never man should have drawn out
this sword but he that shall be rightwise king of this land. Now let me
see whether ye can put the sword as it was in the stone, and pull it out
again."
Straightway Arthur put the sword back.
Then Sir Ector tried to pull it out, and after him Sir Kay; but neither
could stir it. Then Arthur pulled it out. Thereupon, Sir Ector and Sir Kay
kneeled upon the ground before him.
"Alas," said Arthur, "mine own dear father and brother, why kneel ye to
me?"
Sir Ector told him, then, all about his royal birth, and how he had been
taken privily away by Merlin. But when Arthur found Sir Ector was not
truly his father, he was so sad at heart that he cared not greatly to be
king. And he begged his father and brother to love him still. Sir Ector
asked that Sir Kay might be seneschal when Arthur was king. Arthur
promised with all his heart.
Then they went to the archbishop and told him that the sword had found its
master. The archbishop appointed a day for the trial to be made in the
sight of all men, and on that day the princes and knights came together,
and each tried to draw out the sword, as before. But as before, none could
so much as stir it.
Then came Arthur, and pulled it easily from its place.
The knights and kings were terribly angry that a boy from nowhere in
particular had beaten them, and they refused to acknowledge him king. They
appointed another day, for another great trial.
Three times they did this, and every time the same thing happened.
At last, at the feast of Pentecost, Arthur again pulled out the sword
before all the knights and the commons. And then the commons rose up and
cried that he should be king, and that they would slay any who denied him.
So Arthur became king of Britain, and all gave him allegiance.
TARPEIA
There was once a girl named Tarpeia, whose father was guard of the outer
gate of the citadel of Rome. It was a time of war,--the Sabines were
besieging the city. Their camp was close outside the city wall.
Tarpeia used to see the Sabine soldiers when she went to draw water from
the public well, for that was outside the gate. And sometimes she stayed
about and let the strange men talk with her, because she liked to look at
their bright silver ornaments. The Sabine soldiers wore heavy silver
rings and bracelets on their left arms,--some wore as many as four or
five.
The soldiers knew she was the daughter of the keeper of the citadel, and
they saw that she had greedy eyes for their ornaments. So day by day they
talked with her, and showed her their silver rings, and tempted her. And
at last Tarpeia made a bargain, to betray her city to them. She said she
would unlock the great gate and let them in, _if they would give her what
they wore on their left arms._
The night came. When it was perfectly dark and still, Tarpeia stole from
her bed, took the great key from its place, and silently unlocked the gate
which protected the city. Outside, in the dark, stood the soldiers of the
enemy, waiting. As she opened the gate, the long shadowy files pressed
forward silently, and the Sabines entered the citadel.
As the first man came inside, Tarpeia stretched forth her hand for her
price. The soldier lifted high his left arm. "Take thy reward!" he said,
and as he spoke he hurled upon her that which he wore upon it. Down upon
her head crashed--not the silver rings of the soldier, but the great brass
shield he carried in battle!
She sank beneath it, to the ground.
"Take thy reward," said the next; and his shield rang against the first.
"Thy reward," said the next--and the next--and the next--and the next;
every man wore his shield on his left arm.
So Tarpeia lay buried beneath the reward she had claimed, and the Sabines
marched past her dead body, into the city she had betrayed.
THE BUCKWHEAT[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from Hans Christian Andersen.]
Down by the river were fields of barley and rye and golden oats. Wheat
grew there, too, and the heaviest and richest ears bent lowest, in
humility. Opposite the corn was a field of buckwheat, but the buckwheat
never bent; it held its head proud and stiff on the stem.
The wise old willow-tree by the river looked down on the fields, and
thought his thoughts.
One day a dreadful storm came. The field-flowers folded their leaves
together, and bowed their heads. But the buckwheat stood straight and
proud.
"Bend your head, as we do," called the field-flowers.
"I have no need to," said the buckwheat.
"Bend your head, as we do!" warned the golden wheat-ears; "the angel of
the storm is coming; he will strike you down."
"I will not bend my head," said the buckwheat.
Then the old willow-tree spoke: "Close your flowers and bend your leaves.
Do not look at the lightning when the cloud bursts. Even men cannot do
that; the sight of heaven would strike them blind. Much less can we who
are so inferior to them!"
"'Inferior,' indeed!" said the buckwheat. "Now I _will_ look!" And he
looked straight up, while the lightning flashed across the sky.
When the dreadful storm had passed, the flowers and the wheat raised their
drooping heads, clean and refreshed in the pure, sweet air. The
willow-tree shook the gentle drops from its leaves.
But the buckwheat lay like a weed in the field, scorched black by the
lightning.
THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from _Old Greek Folk-Stories_, by Josephine Preston
Peabody. (Harrap & Co. 9d.)]
The Greek God Pan, the god of the open air, was a great musician. He
played on a pipe of reeds. And the sound of his reed-pipe was so sweet
that he grew proud, and believed himself greater than the chief musician
of the gods, Apollo, the sun-god. So he challenged great Apollo to make
better music than he.
Apollo consented to the test, for he wished to punish Pan's vanity, and
they chose the mountain Tmolus for judge, since no one is so old and wise
as the hills.
When Pan and Apollo came before Tmolus, to play, their followers came
with them, to hear, and one of those who came with Pan was a mortal named
Midas.
First Pan played; he blew on his reed-pipe, and out came a tune so wild
and yet so coaxing that the birds hopped from the trees to get near; the
squirrels came running from their holes; and the very trees swayed as if
they wanted to dance. The fauns laughed aloud for joy as the melody
tickled their furry little ears. And Midas thought it the sweetest music
in the world.
Then Apollo rose. His hair shook drops of light from its curls; his robes
were like the edge of the sunset cloud; in his hands he held a golden
lyre. And when he touched the strings of the lyre, such music stole upon
the air as never god nor mortal heard before. The wild creatures of the
wood crouched still as stone; the trees kept every leaf from rustling;
earth and air were silent as a dream. To hear such music cease was like
bidding farewell to father and mother.
When the charm was broken, the hearers fell at Apollo's feet and
proclaimed the victory his. All but Midas. He alone would not admit that
the music was better than Pan's.
"If thine ears are so dull, mortal," said Apollo, "they shall take the
shape that suits them." And he touched the ears of Midas. And straightway
the dull ears grew long, pointed, and furry, and they turned this way and
that. They were the ears of an ass!
For a long time Midas managed to hide the tell-tale ears from everyone;
but at last a servant discovered the secret. He knew he must not tell, yet
he could not bear not to; so one day he went into the meadow, scooped a
little hollow in the turf, and whispered the secret into the earth. Then
he covered it up again, and went away. But, alas, a bed of reeds sprang up
from the spot, and whispered the secret to the grass. The grass told it to
the tree-tops, the tree-tops to the little birds, and they cried it all
abroad.
And to this day, when the wind sets the reeds nodding together, they
whisper, laughing, "Midas has the ears of an ass! Oh, hush, hush!"
WHY THE SEA IS SALT[1]
[Footnote 1: There are many versions of this tale, in different
collections. This one is the story which grew up in my mind, about the
bare outline related to me by one of Mrs Rutan's hearers. What the
original teller said, I never knew, but what the listener felt was clear.
And in this form I have told it a great many times.]
Once there were two brothers. One was rich, and one was poor; the rich one
was rather mean. When the Poor Brother used to come to ask for things it
annoyed him, and finally one day he said, "There, I'll give it to you this
time, but the next time you want anything, you can go Below for it!"
Presently the Poor Brother did want something, and he knew it wasn't any
use to go to his brother; he must go Below for it. So he went, and he
went, and he went, till he came Below.
It was the queerest place! There were red and yellow fires burning all
around, and kettles of boiling oil hanging over them, and a queer sort of
men standing round, poking the fires. There was a Chief Man; he had a long
curly tail that curled up behind, and two ugly little horns just over his
ears; and one foot was very queer indeed. And as soon as anyone came in
the door, these men would catch him up and put him over one of the fires,
and turn him on a spit. And then the Chief Man, who was the worst of all,
would come and say, "Eh, how do you feel now? How do you feel now?" And of
course the poor people screamed and screeched and said, "Let us out! Let
us out!" That was just what the Chief Man wanted.
When the Poor Brother came in, they picked him up at once, and put him
over one of the hottest fires, and began to turn him round and round like
the rest; and of course the Chief Man came up to him and said, "Eh, how do
you feel now? How do you feel now?" But the Poor Brother did not say, "Let
me out! Let me out!" He said, "Pretty well, thank you."
The Chief Man grunted and said to the other men, "Make the fire hotter."
But the next time he asked the Poor Brother how he felt, the Poor Brother
smiled and said, "Much better now, thank you." The Chief Man did not like
this at all, because, of course, the whole object in life of the people
Below was to make their victims uncomfortable. So he piled on more fuel
and made the fire hotter still. But every time he asked the Poor Brother
how he felt, the Poor Brother would say, "Very much better"; and at last
he said, "Perfectly comfortable, thank you; couldn't be better."
You see when the Poor Brother was on earth he had never once had money
enough to buy coal enough to keep him warm; so he liked the heat.
At last the Chief Man could stand it no longer.
"Oh, look here," he said, "you can go home."
"Oh no, thank you," said the Poor Brother, "I like it here."
"You _must_ go home," said the Chief Man.
"But I won't go home," said the Poor Brother.
The Chief Man went away and talked with the other men; but no matter what
they did they could not make the Poor Brother uncomfortable; so at last
the Chief Man came back and said,--
"What'll you take to go home?"
"What have you got?" said the Poor Brother.
"Well," said the Chief Man, "if you'll go home quietly I'll give you the
Little Mill that stands behind my door."
"What's the good of it?" said the Poor Brother.
"It is the most wonderful mill in the world," said the Chief Man.
"Anything at all that you want, you have only to name it, and say, 'Grind
this, Little Mill, and grind quickly,' and the Mill will grind that thing
until you say the magic word, to stop it."
"That sounds nice," said the Poor Brother. "I'll take it." And he took the
Little Mill under his arm, and went up, and up, and up, till he came to
his own house.
When he was in front of his little old hut, he put the Little Mill down on
the ground and said to it, "Grind a fine house, Little Mill, and grind
quickly." And the Little Mill ground, and ground, and ground the finest
house that ever was seen. It had fine big chimneys, and gable windows,
and broad piazzas; and just as the Little Mill ground the last step of the
last flight of steps, the Poor Brother said the magic word, and it
stopped.
Then he took it round to where the barn was, and said, "Grind cattle,
Little Mill, and grind quickly." And the Little Mill ground, and ground,
and ground, and out came great fat cows, and little woolly lambs, and fine
little pigs; and just as the Little Mill ground the last curl on the tail
of the last little pig, the Poor Brother said the magic word, and it
stopped.
He did the same thing with crops for his cattle, pretty clothes for his
daughters, and everything else they wanted. At last he had everything he
wanted, and so he stood the Little Mill behind his door.
All this time the Rich Brother had been getting more and more jealous, and
at last he came to ask the Poor Brother how he had grown so rich. The Poor
Brother told him all about it. He said, "It all comes from that Little
Mill behind my door. All I have to do when I want anything is to name it
to the Little Mill, and say, 'Grind that, Little Mill, and grind quickly,'
and the Little Mill will grind that thing until--"
But the Rich Brother didn't wait to hear any more. "Will you lend me the
Little Mill?" he said.
"Why, yes," said the Poor Brother, "I will."
So the Rich Brother took the Little Mill under his arm and started across
the fields to his house. When he got near home he saw the farm-hands
coming in from the fields for their luncheon. Now, you remember, he was
rather mean. He thought to himself, "It is a waste of good time for them
to come into the house; they shall have their porridge where they are." He
called all the men to him, and made them bring their porridge-bowls. Then
he set the Little Mill down on the ground, and said to it, "Grind oatmeal
porridge, Little Mill, and grind quickly!" The Little Mill ground, and
ground, and ground, and out came delicious oatmeal porridge. Each man held
his bowl under the spout. When the last bowl was filled, the porridge ran
over on the ground.
"That's enough, Little Mill," said the Rich Brother. "You may stop, and
stop quickly."
But this was not the magic word, and the Little Mill did not stop. It
ground, and ground, and ground, and the porridge ran all round and made a
little pool. The Rich Brother said, "No, no, Little Mill, I said, 'Stop
grinding, and stop quickly.'" But the Little Mill ground, and ground,
faster than ever; and presently there was a regular pond of porridge,
almost up to their knees. The Rich Brother said, "Stop grinding," in
every kind of way; he called the Little Mill names; but nothing did any
good. The Little Mill ground porridge just the same. At last the men said,
"Go and get your brother to stop the Little Mill, or we shall be drowned
in porridge."
So the Rich Brother started for his brother's house. He had to swim before
he got there, and the porridge went up his sleeves, and down his neck, and
it was horrid and sticky. His brother laughed when he heard the story, but
he came with him, and they took a boat and rowed across the lake of
porridge to where the Little Mill was grinding. And then the Poor Brother
whispered the magic word, and the Little Mill stopped.
But the porridge was a long time soaking into the ground, and nothing
would ever grow there afterwards except oatmeal.
The Rich Brother didn't seem to care much about the Little Mill after
this, so the Poor Brother took it home again and put it behind the door;
and there it stayed a long, long while.
Years afterwards a Sea Captain came there on a visit. He told such big
stories that the Poor Brother said, "Oh, I daresay you have seen wonderful
things, but I don't believe you ever saw anything more wonderful than the
Little Mill that stands behind my door."
"What is wonderful about that?" said the Sea Captain.
"Why," said the Poor Brother, "anything in the world you want,--you have
only to name it to the Little Mill and say, 'Grind that, Little Mill, and
grind quickly,' and it will grind that thing until--"
The Sea Captain didn't wait to hear another word. "Will you lend me that
Little Mill?" he said eagerly.
The Poor Brother smiled a little, but he said, "Yes," and the Sea Captain
took the Little Mill under his arm, and went on board his ship and sailed
away.
They had head-winds and storms, and they were so long at sea that some of
the food gave out. Worst of all, the salt gave out. It was dreadful, being
without salt. But the Captain happened to remember the Little Mill.
"Bring up the salt box!" he said to the cook. "We will have salt enough."
He set the Little Mill on deck, put the salt box under the spout, and
said,--
"Grind salt, Little Mill, and grind quickly!"
And the Little Mill ground beautiful, white, powdery salt. When they had
enough, the Captain said, "Now you may stop, Little Mill, and stop
quickly." The Little Mill kept on grinding; and the salt began to pile up
in little heaps on the deck. "I said, 'Stop,'" said the Captain. But the
Little Mill ground, and ground, faster than ever, and the salt was soon
thick on the deck like snow. The Captain called the Little Mill names and
told it to stop, in every language he knew, but the Little Mill went on
grinding. The salt covered all the decks and poured down into the hold,
and at last the ship began to settle in the water; salt is very heavy. But
just before the ship sank to the water-line, the Captain had a bright
thought: he threw the Little Mill overboard!
It fell right down to the bottom of the sea. _And it has been grinding
salt ever since._
BILLY BEG AND HIS BULL[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from _In Chimney Corners_, by Seumas McManus. I have
ventured to give this in the somewhat Hibernian phraseology suggested by
the original, because I have found that the humour of the manner of it
appeals quite as readily to the boys and girls of my acquaintance as to
maturer friends, and they distinguish as quickly between the savour of it
and any unintentional crudeness of diction.]
Once upon a time, there was a king and a queen, and they had one son,
whose name was Billy. And Billy had a bull he was very fond of, and the
bull was just as fond of him. And when the queen came to die, she put it
as her last request to the king, that come what might, come what may, he'd
not part Billy and the bull. And the king promised that, come what might,
come what may, he would not. Then the good queen died, and was buried.
After a time, the king married again, and the new queen could not abide
Billy; no more could she stand the bull, seeing him and Billy so thick. So
she asked the king to have the bull killed. But the king said he had
promised, come what might, come what may, he'd not part Billy Beg and his
bull, so he could not.
Then the queen sent for the Hen-Wife, and asked what she should do. "What
will you give me," said the Hen-Wife, "and I'll very soon part them?"
"Anything at all," said the queen.
"Then do you take to your bed, very sick with a complaint," said the
Hen-Wife, "and I'll do the rest."
So the queen took to her bed, very sick with a complaint, and the king
came to see what could be done for her. "I shall never be better of this,"
she said, "till I have the medicine the Hen-Wife ordered."
"What is that?" said the king.
"A mouthful of the blood of Billy Beg's bull."
"I can't give you that," said the king, and went away, sorrowful.
Then the queen got sicker and sicker, and each time the king asked what
would cure her she said, "A mouthful of the blood of Billy Beg's bull."
And at last it looked as if she were going to die. So the king finally
set a day for the bull to be killed. At that the queen was so happy that
she laid plans to get up and see the grand sight. All the people were to
be at the killing, and it was to be a great affair.
When Billy Beg heard all this, he was very sorrowful, and the bull noticed
his looks. "What are you doitherin' about?" said the bull to him. So Billy
told him. "Don't fret yourself about me," said the bull, "it's not I
that'll be killed!"
The day came, when Billy Beg's bull was to be killed; all the people were
there, and the queen, and Billy. And the bull was led out, to be seen.
When he was led past Billy he bent his head. "Jump on my back, Billy, my
boy," says he, "till I see what kind of a horseman you are!" Billy jumped
on his back, and with that the bull leaped nine miles high and nine miles
broad and came down with Billy sticking between his horns. Then away he
rushed, over the head of the queen, killing her dead, where you wouldn't
know day by night or night by day, over high hills, low hills, sheep walks
and bullock traces, the Cove o' Cork, and old Tom Fox with his bugle horn.
When at last he stopped he said, "Now, Billy, my boy, you and I must
undergo great scenery; there's a mighty great bull of the forest I must
fight, here, and he'll be hard to fight, but I'll be able for him. But
first we must have dinner. Put your hand in my left ear and pull out the
napkin you'll find there, and when you've spread it, it will be covered
with eating and drinking fit for a king."
So Billy put his hand in the bull's left ear, and drew out the napkin, and
spread it; and, sure enough, it was spread with all kinds of eating and
drinking, fit for a king. And Billy Beg ate well.
But just as he finished he heard a great roar, and out of the forest came
a mighty bull, snorting and running.
And the two bulls at it and fought. They knocked the hard ground into
soft, the soft into hard, the rocks into spring wells, and the spring
wells into rocks. It was a terrible fight. But in the end, Billy Beg's
bull was too much for the other bull, and he killed him, and drank his
blood.
Then Billy jumped on the bull's back, and the bull off and away, where you
wouldn't know day from night or night from day, over high hills, low
hills, sheep walks and bullock traces, the Cove o' Cork, and old Tom Fox
with his bugle horn. And when he stopped he told Billy to put his hand in
his left ear and pull out the napkin, because he'd to fight another great
bull of the forest. So Billy pulled out the napkin and spread it, and it
was covered with all kinds of eating and drinking, fit for a king.
And, sure enough, just as Billy finished eating, there was a frightful
roar, and a mighty great bull, greater than the first, rushed out of the
forest. And the two bulls at it and fought. It was a terrible fight! They
knocked the hard ground into soft, the soft into hard, the rocks into
spring wells, and the spring wells into rocks. But in the end, Billy Beg's
bull killed the other bull, and drank his blood.
Then he off and away, with Billy.
But when he came down, he told Billy Beg that he was to fight another
bull, the brother of the other two, and that this time the other bull
would be too much for him, and would kill him and drink his blood.
"When I am dead, Billy, my boy," he said, "put your hand in my left ear
and draw out the napkin, and you'll never want for eating or drinking; and
put your hand in my right ear, and you'll find a stick there, that will
turn into a sword if you wave it three times round your head, and give you
the strength of a thousand men beside your own. Keep that; then cut a
strip of my hide, for a belt, for when you buckle it on, there's nothing
can kill you."
Billy Beg was very sad to hear that his friend must die. And very soon he
heard a more dreadful roar than ever he heard, and a tremendous bull
rushed out of the forest. Then came the worst fight of all. In the end,
the other bull was too much for Billy Beg's bull, and he killed him and
drank his blood.
Billy Beg sat down and cried for three days and three nights. After that
he was hungry; so he put his hand in the bull's left ear, and drew out the
napkin, and ate all kinds of eating and drinking. Then he put his hand in
the right ear and pulled out the stick which was to turn into a sword if
waved round his head three times, and to give him the strength of a
thousand men beside his own. And he cut a strip of the hide for a belt,
and started off on his adventures.
Presently he came to a fine place; an old gentleman lived there. So Billy
went up and knocked, and the old gentleman came to the door.
"Are you wanting a boy?" says Billy.
"I am wanting a herd-boy," says the gentleman, "to take my six cows, six
horses, six donkeys, and six goats to pasture every morning, and bring
them back at night. Maybe you'd do."
"What are the wages?" says Billy.
"Oh, well," says the gentleman, "it's no use to talk of that now; there's
three giants live in the wood by the pasture, and every day they drink up
all the milk and kill the boy that looks after the cattle; so we'll wait
to talk about wages till we see if you come back alive."
"All right," says Billy, and he entered service with the old gentleman.
The first day, he drove the six cows, six horses, six donkeys, and six
goats to pasture, and sat down by them. About noon he heard a kind of
roaring from the wood; and out rushed a giant with two heads, spitting
fire out of his two mouths.
"Oh! my fine fellow," says he to Billy, "you are too big for one swallow
and not big enough for two; how would you like to die, then? By a cut with
the sword, a blow with the fist, or a swing by the back?"
"That is as may be," says Billy, "but I'll fight you." And he buckled on
his hide belt, and swung his stick three times round his head, to give him
the strength of a thousand men besides his own, and went for the giant.
And at the first grapple Billy Beg lifted the giant up and sunk him in the
ground, to his armpits.
"Oh, mercy! mercy! Spare my life!" cried the giant.
"I think not," said Billy; and he cut off his heads.
That night, when the cows and the goats were driven home, they gave so
much milk that all the dishes in the house were filled, and the milk ran
over and made a little brook in the yard.
"This is very queer," said the old gentleman; "they never gave any milk
before. Did you see nothing in the pasture?"
"Nothing worse than myself," said Billy. And next morning he drove the
six cows, six horses, six donkeys, and six goats to pasture again.
Just before noon he heard a terrific roar; and out of the wood came a
giant with six heads.
"You killed my brother," he roared, fire coming out of his six mouths,
"and I'll very soon have your blood! Will you die by a cut of the sword,
or a swing by the back?"
"I'll fight you," said Billy. And buckling on his belt and swinging his
stick three times round his head, he ran in and grappled the giant. At the
first hold, he sunk the giant up to the shoulders in the ground.
"Mercy, mercy, kind gentleman!" cried the giant. "Spare my life!"
"I think not," said Billy, and cut off his heads.
That night the cattle gave so much milk that it ran out of the house and
made a stream, and turned a mill wheel which had not been turned for seven
years!
"It's certainly very queer," said the old gentleman; "did you see nothing
in the pasture, Billy?"
"Nothing worse than myself," said Billy.
And the next morning the gentleman said, "Billy, do you know, I only heard
one of the giants roaring in the night, and the night before only two.
What can ail them, at all?"
"Oh, maybe they are sick or something," says Billy; and with that he
drove the six cows, six horses, six donkeys, and six goats to pasture.
At about ten o'clock there was a roar like a dozen bulls, and the brother
of the two giants came out of the wood, with twelve heads on him, and fire
spouting from every one of them.
"I'll have you, my fine boy," cries he; "how will you die, then?"
"We'll see," says Billy; "come on!"
And swinging his stick round his head, he made for the giant, and drove
him up to his twelve necks in the ground. All twelve of the heads began
begging for mercy, but Billy soon cut them short. Then he drove the beasts
home.
And that night the milk overflowed the mill-stream and made a lake, nine
miles long, nine miles broad, and nine miles deep; and there are salmon
and whitefish there to this day.
"You are a fine boy," said the gentleman, "and I'll give you wages."
So Billy was herd.
The next day, his master told him to look after the house while he went up
to the king's town, to see a great sight. "What will it be?" said Billy.
"The king's daughter is to be eaten by a fiery dragon," said his master,
"unless the champion fighter they've been feeding for six weeks on
purpose kills the dragon." "Oh," said Billy.
After he was left alone, there were people passing on horses and afoot, in
coaches and chaises, in carriages and in wheelbarrows, all going to see
the great sight. And all asked Billy why he was not on his way. But Billy
said he didn't care about going.
When the last passer-by was out of sight, Billy ran and dressed himself in
his master's best suit of clothes, took the brown mare from the stable,
and was off to the king's town.
When he came there, he saw a big round place with great high seats built
up around it, and all the people sitting there. Down in the midst was the
champion, walking up and down proudly, with two men behind him to carry
his heavy sword. And up in the centre of the seats was the princess, with
her maidens; she was looking very pretty, but nervous.
The fight was about to begin when Billy got there, and the herald was
crying out how the champion would fight the dragon for the princess's
sake, when suddenly there was heard a fearsome great roaring, and the
people shouted, "Here he is now, the dragon!"
The dragon had more heads than the biggest of the giants, and fire and
smoke came from every one of them. And when the champion saw the creature,
he never waited even to take his sword,--he turned and ran; and he never
stopped till he came to a deep well, where he jumped in and hid himself,
up to the neck.
When the princess saw that her champion was gone, she began wringing her
hands, and crying, "Oh, please, kind gentlemen, fight the dragon, some of
you, and keep me from being eaten! Will no one fight the dragon for me?"
But no one stepped up, at all. And the dragon made to eat the princess.
Just then, out stepped Billy from the crowd, with his fine suit of clothes
and his hide belt on him. "I'll fight the beast," he says, and swinging
his stick three times round his head, to give him the strength of a
thousand men besides his own, he walked up to the dragon, with easy gait.
The princess and all the people were looking, you may be sure, and the
dragon raged at Billy with all his mouths, and they at it and fought. It
was a terrible fight, but in the end Billy Beg had the dragon down, and he
cut off his heads with the sword.
There was great shouting, then, and crying that the strange champion must
come to the king to be made prince, and to the princess, to be seen. But
in the midst of the hullabaloo Billy Begs slips on the brown mare and is
off and away before anyone has seen his face. But, quick as he was, he was
not so quick but that the princess caught hold of him as he jumped on his
horse, and he got away with one shoe left in her hand. And home he rode,
to his master's house, and had his old clothes on and the mare in the
stable before his master came back.
When his master came back, he had a great tale for Billy, how the
princess's champion had run from the dragon, and a strange knight had come
out of the clouds and killed the dragon, and before anyone could stop him
had disappeared in the sky. "Wasn't it wonderful?" said the old gentleman
to Billy. "I should say so," said Billy to him.
Soon there was proclamation made that the man who killed the dragon was to
be found, and to be made son of the king and husband of the princess; for
that, everyone should come up to the king's town and try on the shoe which
the princess had pulled from off the foot of the strange champion, that he
whom it fitted should be known to be the man. On the day set, there was
passing of coaches and chaises, of carriages and wheelbarrows, people on
horseback and afoot, and Billy's master was the first to go.
While Billy was watching, at last came along a raggedy man.
"Will you change clothes with me, and I'll give you boot?" said Billy to
him.
"Shame to you to mock a poor raggedy man!" said the raggedy man to Billy.
"It's no mock," said Billy, and he changed clothes with the raggedy man,
and gave him boot.
When Billy came to the king's town, in his dreadful old clothes, no one
knew him for the champion at all, and none would let him come forward to
try the shoe. But after all had tried, Billy spoke up that he wanted to
try. They laughed at him, and pushed him back, with his rags. But the
princess would have it that he should try. "I like his face," said she;
"let him try, now."
So up stepped Billy, and put on the shoe, and it fitted him like his own
skin.
Then Billy confessed that it was he that killed the dragon. And that he
was a king's son. And they put a velvet suit on him, and hung a gold chain
round his neck, and everyone said a finer-looking boy they'd never seen.
So Billy married the princess, and was the prince of that place.
THE LITTLE HERO OF HAARLEM[1]
[Footnote 1: Told from memory of the story told me when a child.]
A long way off, across the ocean, there is a little country where the
ground is lower than the level of the sea, instead of higher, as it is
here. Of course the water would run in and cover the land and houses, if
something were not done to keep it out. But something is done. The people
build great, thick walls all round the country, and the walls keep the sea
out. You see how much depends on those walls,--the good crops, the houses,
and even the safety of the people. Even the small children in that country
know that an accident to one of the walls is a terrible thing. These walls
are really great banks, as wide as roads, and they are called "dikes."
Once there was a little boy who lived in that country, whose name was
Hans. One day, he took his little brother out to play. They went a long
way out of the town, and came to where there were no houses, but ever so
many flowers and green fields. By-and-by, Hans climbed up on the dike, and
sat down; the little brother was playing about at the foot of the bank.
Suddenly the little brother called out, "Oh, what a funny little hole! It
bubbles!"
"Hole? Where?" said Hans.
"Here in the bank," said the little brother; "water's in it."
"What!" said Hans, and he slid down as fast as he could to where his
brother was playing.
There was the tiniest little hole in the bank. Just an air-hole. A drop of
water bubbled slowly through.
"It is a hole in the dike!" cried Hans. "What shall we do?"
He looked all round; not a person or a house in sight. He looked at the
hole; the little drops oozed steadily through; he knew that the water
would soon break a great gap, because that tiny hole gave it a chance. The
town was so far away--if they ran for help it would be too late; what
should he do? Once more he looked; the hole was larger, now, and the water
was trickling.
Suddenly a thought came to Hans. He stuck his little forefinger right into
the hole, where it fitted tight; and he said to his little brother, "Run,
Dieting! Go to the town and tell the men there's a hole in the dike. Tell
them I will keep it stopped till they get here."
The little brother knew by Hans' face that something very serious was the
matter, and he started for the town, as fast as his legs could run. Hans,
kneeling with his finger in the hole, watched him grow smaller and smaller
as he got farther away.
Soon he was as small as a chicken; then he was only a speck; then he was
out of sight. Hans was alone, his finger tight in the bank.
He could hear the water, slap, slap, slap, on the stones; and deep down
under the slapping was a gurgling, rumbling sound. It seemed very near.
By-and-by, his hand began to feel numb. He rubbed it with the other hand;
but it got colder and more numb, colder and more numb, every minute. He
looked to see if the men were coming; the road was bare as far as he could
see. Then the cold began creeping, creeping, up his arm; first his wrist,
then his arm to the elbow, then his arm to the shoulder; how cold it was!
And soon it began to ache. Ugly little cramp-pains streamed up his finger,
up his palm, up his arm, till they reached into his shoulder, and down the
back of his neck. It seemed hours since the little brother went away. He
felt very lonely, and the hurt in his arm grew and grew. He watched the
road with all his eyes, but no one came in sight. Then he leaned his head
against the dike, to rest his shoulder.
As his ear touched the dike, he heard the voice of the great sea,
murmuring. The sound seemed to say,--
"I am the great sea. No one can stand against me. What are you, a little
child, that you try to keep me out? Beware! Beware!"
Hans' heart beat in heavy knocks. Would they never come? He was
frightened.
And the water went on beating at the wall, and murmuring, "I will come
through, I will come through, I will get you, I will get you,
run--run--before I come through!"
Hans started to pull out his finger; he was so frightened that he felt as
if he must run for ever. But that minute he remembered how much depended
on him; if he pulled out his finger, the water would surely make the hole
bigger, and at last break down the dike, and the sea would come in on all
the land and houses. He set his teeth, and stuck his finger tighter than
ever.
"You shall _not_ come through!" he whispered, "I will _not_ run!"
At that moment, he heard a far-off shout. Far in the distance he saw a
black something on the road, and dust. The men were coming! At last, they
were coming. They came nearer, fast, and he could make out his own father,
and the neighbours. They had pickaxes and shovels, and they were running.
And as they ran they shouted, "We're coming; take heart, we're coming!"
The next minute, it seemed, they were there. And when they saw Hans, with
his pale face, and his hand tight in the dike, they gave a great
cheer,--just as people do for soldiers back from war; and they lifted him
up and rubbed his aching arm with tender hands, and they told him that he
was a real hero and that he had saved the town.
When the men had mended the dike, they marched home like an army, and Hans
was carried high on their shoulders, because he was a hero. And to this
day the people of Haarlem tell the story of how a little boy saved the
dike.
THE LAST LESSON[1]
[Footnote 1: Adapted from the French of Alphonse Daudet.]
Little Franz didn't want to go to school, that morning. He would much
rather have played truant. The air was so warm and still,--you could hear
the blackbird singing at the edge of the wood, and the sound of the
Prussians drilling, down in the meadow behind the old sawmill. He would
_so_ much rather have played truant! Besides, this was the day for the
lesson in the rule of participles; and the rule of participles in French
is very, very long, and very hard, and it has more exceptions than rule.
Little Franz did not know it at all. He did not want to go to school.
But, somehow, he went. His legs carried him reluctantly into the village
and along the street. As he passed the official bulletin-board before the
town hall, he noticed a little crowd round it, looking at it. That was the
place where the news of lost battles, the requisition for more troops, the
demands for new taxes were posted. Small as he was, little Franz had seen
enough to make him think, "What _now_, I wonder?" But he could not stop to
see; he was afraid of being late.
When he came to the school-yard his heart beat very fast; he was afraid he
_was_ late, after all, for the windows were all open, and yet he heard no
noise,--the schoolroom was perfectly quiet. He had been counting on the
noise and confusion before school,--the slamming of desk covers, the
banging of books, the tapping of the master's cane and his "A little less
noise, please,"--to let him slip quietly into his seat unnoticed. But no;
he had to open the door and walk up the long aisle, in the midst of a
silent room, with the master looking straight at him. Oh, how hot his
cheeks felt, and how hard his heart beat! But to his great surprise the
master didn't scold at all. All he said was, "Come quickly to your place,
my little Franz; we were just going to begin without you!"
Little Franz could hardly believe his ears; that wasn't at all the way the
master was accustomed to speak. It was very strange! Somehow--everything
was very strange. The room looked queer. Everybody was sitting so still,
so straight--as if it were an exhibition day, or something very
particular. And the master--he looked strange, too; why, he had on his
fine lace jabot and his best coat, that he wore only on holidays, and his
gold snuff-box in his hand. Certainly it was very odd. Little Franz looked
all round, wondering. And there in the back of the room was the oddest
thing of all. There, on a bench, sat _visitors_. Visitors! He could not
make it out; people never came except on great occasions,--examination
days and such. And it was not a holiday. Yet there were the agent, the
old blacksmith, the farmer, sitting quiet and still. It was very, very
strange.
Just then the master stood up and opened school. He said, "My children,
this is the last time I shall ever teach you. The order has come from
Berlin that henceforth nothing but German shall be taught in the schools
of Alsace and Lorraine. This is your last lesson in French. I beg you, be
very attentive."
_His last lesson in French!_ Little Franz could not believe his ears; his
last lesson--ah, _that_ was what was on the bulletin-board! It flashed
across him in an instant. That was it! His last lesson in French--and he
scarcely knew how to read and write--why, then, he should never know how!
He looked down at his books, all battered and torn at the corners; and
suddenly his books seemed quite different to him, they
seemed--somehow--like friends. He looked at the master, and he seemed
different, too,--like a very good friend. Little Franz began to feel
strange himself. Just as he was thinking about it, he heard his name
called, and he stood up to recite.
It was the rule of participles.
Oh, what wouldn't he have given to be able to say it off from beginning to
end, exceptions and all, without a blunder! But he could only stand and
hang his head; he did not know a word of it. Then through the hot
pounding in his ears he heard the master's voice; it was quite gentle; not
at all the scolding voice he expected. And it said, "I'm not going to
punish you, little Franz. Perhaps you are punished enough. And you are not
alone in your fault. We all do the same thing,--we all put off our tasks
till to-morrow. And--sometimes--to-morrow never comes. That is what it has
been with us. We Alsatians have been always putting off our education till
the morrow; and now they have a right, those people down there, to say to
us, 'What! You call yourselves French, and cannot even read and write the
French language? Learn German, then!'"
And then the master spoke to them of the French language. He told them how
beautiful it was, how clear and musical and reasonable, and he said that
no people could be hopelessly conquered so long as it kept its language,
for the language was the key to its prison-house. And then he said he was
going to tell them a little about that beautiful language, and he
explained the rule of participles.
And do you know, it was just as simple as ABC! Little Franz understood
every word. It was just the same with the rest of the grammar lesson. I
don't know whether little Franz listened harder, or whether the master
explained better; but it was all quite clear, and simple.
But as they went on with it, and little Franz listened and looked, it
seemed to him that the master was trying to put the whole French language
into their heads in that one hour. It seemed as if he wanted to teach them
all he knew, before he went,--to give them all he had,--in this last
lesson.
From the grammar he went on to the writing lesson. And for this, quite new
copies had been prepared. They were written on clean, new slips of paper,
and they were:--
France: Alsace.
France: Alsace.
All up and down the aisles they hung out from the desks like little
banners, waving:--
France: Alsace.
France: Alsace.
And everybody worked with all his might,--not a sound could you hear but
the scratching of pens on the "France: Alsace."
Even the little ones bent over their up and down strokes with their
tongues stuck out to help them work.
After the writing came the reading lesson, and the little ones sang their
_ba_, _be_, _bi_, _bo_, _bu_.
Right in the midst of it, Franz heard a curious sound, a big deep voice
mingling with the children's voices. He turned round, and there, on the
bench in the back of the room, the old blacksmith sat with a big ABC book
open on his knees. It was his voice Franz had heard. He was saying the
sounds with the little children,--_ba_, _be_, _bi_, _bo_, _bu_. His voice
sounded so odd, with the little voices,--so very odd,--it made little
Franz feel queer. It seemed so funny that he thought he would laugh; then
he thought he wouldn't laugh, he felt--he felt very queer.
So it went on with the lessons; they had them all. And then, suddenly, the
town clock struck noon. And at the same time they heard the tramp of the
Prussians' feet, coming back from drill.
It was time to close school.
The master stood up. He was very pale. Little Franz had never seen him
look so tall. He said:--
"My children--my children"--but something choked him; he could not go on.
Instead he turned and went to the blackboard and took up a piece of chalk.
And then he wrote, high up, in big white letters, "Vive la France!"
And he made a little sign to them with his head, "That is all; go away."
THE STORY OF CHRISTMAS
There was once a nation which was very powerful, very fortunate, and very
proud. Its lands were fruitful; its armies were victorious in battle; and
it had strong kings, wise lawgivers, and great poets. But after a great
many years, everything changed. The nation had no more strong kings, no
more wise lawgivers; its armies were beaten in battle, and neighbouring
tribes conquered the country and took the fruitful lands; there were no
more poets except a few who made songs of lamentation. The people had
become a captive and humiliated people; and the bitterest part of all its
sadness was the memory of past greatness.
But in all the years of failure and humiliation, there was one thing which
kept this people from despair; one hope lived in their hearts and kept
them from utter misery. It was a hope which came from something one of the
great poets of the past had said, in prophecy. This prophecy was whispered
in the homes of the poor, taught in the churches, repeated from father to
son among the rich; it was like a deep, hidden well of comfort in a desert
of suffering. The prophecy said that some time a deliverer should be born
for the nation, a new king even stronger than the old ones, mighty enough
to conquer its enemies, set it free, and bring back the splendid days of
old. This was the hope and expectation all the people looked for; they
waited through the years for the prophecy to come true.
In this nation, in a little country town, lived a man and a woman whose
names were Joseph and Mary. And it happened, one year, that they had to
take a little journey up to the town which was the nearest tax-centre, to
have their names put on the census list; because that was the custom in
that country.
But when they got to the town, so many others were there for the same
thing, and it was such a small town, that every place was crowded. There
was no room for them at the inn. Finally, the innkeeper said they might
sleep in the stable, on the straw. So they went there for the night.
And while they were there, in the stable, their first child was born to
them, a little son. And because there was no cradle to put Him in, the
mother made a little warm nest of the hay in the big wooden manger where
the oxen had eaten, and wrapped the baby in swaddling clothes, and laid
Him in the manger, for a bed!
That same night, on the hills outside the town, there were shepherds,
keeping their flocks through the darkness. They were tired with watching
over the sheep, and they stood or sat about, drowsily, talking and
watching the stars. And as they watched, behold, an angel of the Lord
appeared unto them! And the glory of the Lord shone round about them! And
they were sore afraid. But the angel said unto them, "Fear not, for
behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all
people. _For unto you is born, this day, in the city of David, a
saviour,--which is Christ the Lord._ And this shall be a sign unto you: ye
shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes, _lying in a manger_."
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host,
praising God, and saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth
peace, good will toward men."
When the angels were gone up from them into heaven, the shepherds said to
one another, "Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which
is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us." And they came,
with haste, and they found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a
manger. And when they saw Him in the manger, they knew that the wonderful
thing the angel said had really happened, and that the great deliverer was
born at last.
THE CHILD-MIND; AND HOW TO SATISFY IT
"It is the grown people who make the nursery stories," wrote Stevenson,
"all the children do is jealously to preserve the text." And the grown
person, whether he makes his stories with pen or with tongue, should bring
two qualities at least to the work--simplicity of language and a serious
sincerity. The reason for the simplicity is obvious, for no one, child or
otherwise, can thoroughly enjoy a story clouded by words which convey no
meaning to him.
The second quality is less obvious but equally necessary. No absence of
fun is intended by the words "serious sincerity," but they mean that the
story-teller should bring to the child an equal interest in what is about
to be told; an honest acceptance, for the time being, of the fairies, or
the heroes, or the children, or the animals who talk, with which the tale
is concerned. The child deserves this equality of standpoint, and without
it there can be no entire success.
As for the stories themselves, the difficulty lies with the material, not
with the _child_. Styles may be varied generously, but the matter must be
quarried for. Out of a hundred children's books it is more than likely
that ninety-nine will be useless; yet perhaps out of one autobiography may
be gleaned an anecdote, or a reminiscence which can be amplified into an
absorbing tale. Almost every story-teller will find that the open eye and
ear will serve him better than much arduous searching. No one book will
yield him the increase to his repertoire which will come to him by
listening, by browsing in chance volumes and magazines, and even
newspapers, by observing everyday life, and in all remembering his own
youth, and his youthful, waiting audience.
And that youthful audience? A rather too common mistake is made in
allowing overmuch for the creative imagination of the normal child. It is
not creative imagination which the normal child possesses so much as an
enormous credulity and no limitations. If we consider for a moment we see
that there has been little or nothing to limit things for him, therefore
anything is possible. It is the years of our life as they come which
narrow our fancies and set a bound to our beliefs; for experience has
taught us that for the most part a certain cause will produce a certain
effect. The child, on the contrary, has but little knowledge of causes,
and as yet but an imperfect realisation of effects. If we, for instance,
go into the midst of a savage country, we know that there is the chance of
our meeting a savage. But to the young child it is quite as possible to
meet a Red Indian coming round the bend of the brook at the bottom of the
orchard, as it is to meet him in his own wigwam.
The child is an adept at make-believe, but his make-believes are, as a
rule, practical and serious. It is credulity rather than imagination which
helps him. He takes the tales he has been _told_, the facts he has
observed, and for the most part reproduces them to the best of his
ability. And "nothing," as Stevenson says, "can stagger a child's faith;
he accepts the clumsiest substitutes and can swallow the most staring
incongruities. The chair he has just been besieging as a castle is taken
away for the accommodation of a morning visitor and he is nothing abashed;
he can skirmish by the hour with a stationary coal-scuttle; in the midst
of the enchanted pleasuance he can see, without sensible shock, the
gardener soberly digging potatoes for the day's dinner."
The child, in fact, is neither undeveloped "grown-up" nor unspoiled angel.
Perhaps he has a dash of both, but most of all he is akin to the grown
person who dreams. With the dreamer and with the child there is that
unquestioning acceptance of circumstances as they arise, however unusual
and disconcerting they may be. In dreams the wildest, most improbable and
fantastic things happen, but they are not so to the dreamer. The veriest
cynic amongst us must take his dreams seriously and without a sneer,
whether he is forced to leap from the edge of a precipice, whether he
finds himself utterly incapable of packing his trunk in time for the
train, whether in spite of his distress at the impropriety, he finds
himself at a dinner-party minus his collar, or whether the riches of El
Dorado are laid at his feet. For him at the time it is all quite real and
harassingly or splendidly important.
To the child and to the dreamer all things are possible; frogs may talk,
bears may be turned into princes, gallant tailors may overcome giants,
fir-trees may be filled with ambitions. A chair may become a horse, a
chest of drawers a coach and six, a hearthrug a battlefield, a newspaper a
crown of gold. And these are facts which the story-teller must realise,
and choose and shape the stories accordingly.
Many an old book, which to a modern grown person may seem prim and
over-rigid, will be to the child a delight; for him the primness and the
severity slip away, the story remains. Such a book as Mrs Sherwood's
_Fairchild Family_ is an example of this. To a grown person reading it for
the first time, the loafing propensities of the immaculate Mrs Fairchild,
who never does a hand's turn of good work for anyone from cover to cover,
the hard piety, the snobbishness, the brutality of taking the children to
the old gallows and seating them before the dangling remains of a
murderer, while the lesson of brotherly love is impressed are shocking
when they are not amusing; but to the child the doings of the naughty and
repentant little Fairchilds are engrossing; and experience proves to us
that the twentieth-century child is as eager for the book as were ever his
nineteenth-century grandfather and grandmother.
Good Mrs Timmin's _History of the Robins_, too, is a continuous delight;
and from its pompous and high-sounding dialogue a skilful adapter may
glean not only one story, but one story with two versions; for the infant
of eighteen months can follow the narrative of the joys and troubles,
errors and kindnesses of Robin, Dicky, Flopsy and Pecksy; while the child
of five or ten or even more will be keenly interested in a fuller account
of the birds' adventures and the development of their several characters
and those of their human friends and enemies.
From these two books, from Miss Edgeworth's wonderful _Moral Tales_; from
Miss Wetherell's delightful volume _Mr Rutherford's Children_; from Jane
and Ann Taylor's _Original Poems_; from Thomas Day's _Sandford and
Merton_; from Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_ and Lamb's _Tales from
Shakespeare_, and from many another old friend, stories may be gathered,
but the story-teller will find that in almost all cases adaptation is a
necessity. The joy of the hunt, however, is a real joy, and with a field
which stretches from the myths of Greece to _Uncle Remus_, from _Le Morte
d'Arthur_ to the _Jungle Books_, there need be no more lack of pleasure
for the seeker than for the receiver of the spoil.
* * * * *
The following is a list of valuable sources for the story-teller, all
yielding either good original material for adaptation, or stories which
need only a slight alteration in the telling.[1]
[Footnote 1: Readers may be interested in _A History of Story-telling_, by
Arthur Ransome. (Jack.)]
THE BIBLE.
MOTHER GOOSE'S MELODY. (Bullen.)
THE STORY HOUR, by _Kate Douglas Wiggin_. (Gay & Hancock.)
STORIES FOR KINDERGARTEN. (Ginn.)
ST NICHOLAS MAGAZINE, bound volumes. (Warne.)
LITTLE FOLKS, bound volumes. (Cassell.)
FABLES AND NURSERY TALES, edited by _Prof. Charles Eliot Norton_. (Heath.)
STORIES TO TELL THE LITTLEST ONES, by _Sara Gone Bryant_. (Harrap.)
MOTHER STORIES, by _Maud Lindsay_. (Harrap.)
MORE MOTHER STORIES, by _Maud Lindsay_. (Harrap.)
ÆSOP'S FABLES.
STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN, by _Sara Cone Bryant_. (Harrap.)
THE BOOK OF STORIES FOR THE STORY-TELLER, by _Fanny Coe_. (Harrap.)
SONGS AND STORIES FOR THE LITTLE ONES, by _Gordon Browne_. (Harrap.)
CHARACTER TRAINING (stories with an ethical bearing),
by _E.L. Cabot_ and _E. Eyles_. (Harrap.)
STORIES FOR THE STORY HOUR, by _Ada M. Marzials_. (Harrap.)
STORIES FOR THE HISTORY HOUR, by _Nannie Niemeyer_. (Harrap.)
STORIES FOR THE BIBLE HOUR, by _R. Brimley Johnson_. (Harrap.)
NATURE STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN, by _H. Waddingham Seers_. (Harrap.)
OLD TIME TALES, by _Florence Dugdale_. (Collins.)
THE MABINOGION. (Dent.)
PERCY'S RELIQUES. (Warne.)
TOLD THROUGH THE AGES SERIES. (Harrap.)
LEGENDS OF GREECE AND ROME, by _G.H. Kupfer, M.A._
FAVOURITE GREEK MYTHS, by _L.S. Hyde_.
STORIES OF ROBIN HOOD, by _J.W. McSpadden_.
STORIES OF KING ARTHUR, by _U.W. Cutler._
STORIES FROM GREEK HISTORY, by _H.L. Havell, B.A._
STORIES FROM WAGNER, by _J.W. McSpadden_.
BRITAIN LONG AGO (stories from old English and Celtic sources),
by _E.M. Wilmot-Buxton, F.R.Hist.S._
STORIES FROM SCOTTISH HISTORY (selected from "Tales of a Grandfather"),
by _Madalen Edgar, M.A._
STORIES FROM GREEK TRAGEDY, by _H.L. Havell, B.A._
STORIES FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE, by _Madalen Edgar, M.A._
STORIES FROM CHAUCER, by _J.W. McSpadden_.
STORIES FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT, by _Mrs S. Platt_.
TOLD BY THE NORTHMEN (stories from the Norse eddas and sagas),
by _E.M. Wilmot-Buxton, F.R.Hist.S_.
STORIES FROM DON QUIXOTE, by _H.L. Havell, B.A._
THE STORY OF ROLAND AND THE PEERS OF CHARLEMAGNE, by _James Baldwin_.
(Teachers in need of good stories should keep themselves acquainted with
the development of this series, as fresh volumes are constantly added.
The material is precisely the right kind for the story-teller, since the
stories have come to us from distant days when, as the national
inheritance of this race or that, they were told in homely cabins by
parents to their children, or sung by bards to festive companies.)
STORIES OF THE ENGLISH, by _F_. (Blackwood.)
OLD GREEK FOLK STORIES, by _Josephine Peabody_. (Harrap.)
RED CAP TALES, by _S.R. Crockett_. (Black.)
A CHILD'S BOOK OF SAINTS, by _Wm. Canton_. (Dent.)
CUCHULAIN, THE HOUND OF ULSTER, by _Eleanor Hull_. (Harrap.)
THE HIGH DEEDS OF FINN, by _T.W. Rolleston, M.A._ (Harrap.)
THE BOOK OF THE EPIC, by _H.A. Guerber_. (Harrap.)
THE MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME, by _H.A. Guerber_. (Harrap.)
MYTHS OF THE NORSEMEN, by _H.A. Guerber_. (Harrap.)
MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE MIDDLE AGES, by _H.A. Guerber_. (Harrap.)
HERO-MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE BRITISH RACE,
by _M.I. Ebbutt, M.A._ (Harrap.)
THE MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER.
GLEANINGS IN BUDDHA-FIELDS, by _Lafcadio Hearn_. (Kegan Paul.)
THE GOLDEN WINDOWS, by _Laura E. Richards_. (Allenson.)
HANS ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES.
GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES.
ENGLISH FAIRY TALES, by _Joseph Jacobs_. (Nutt.)
FOLK-TALES FROM MANY LANDS, by _Lilian Gask_. (Harrap.)
CELTIC FAIRY TALES, by _Joseph Jacobs_. (Nutt.)
INDIAN FAIRY TALES, by _Joseph Jacobs_. (Nutt.)
WEST AFRICAN FOLK-TALES, by _W.H. Barker_ and _C. Sinclair_. (Harrap.)
RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES, by _R. Nisbet Bain_. (Harrap.)
COSSACK FAIRY TALES, by _R. Nisbet Bain_. (Harrap.)
THE HAPPY PRINCE, by _Oscar Wilde_. (Nutt.)
DONEGAL FAIRY TALES, by _Seumas McManus_.
IN CHIMNEY CORNERS, by _Seumas McManus_.
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.
THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK (and others), by _Andrew Lang_. (Longmans.)
FAIRY STORIES, by _John Finnemore_. (S.S. Union.)
THE JAPANESE FAIRY BOOK. (Constable.)
FAIRY TALES FROM FAR JAPAN, translated by _Susan Bollard_.
(Religious Tract Society.)
IN THE CHILD'S WORLD. (Philip.)
LEGENDS FROM FAIRYLAND, by _Holme Lee_. (Warne.)
THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER, by _John Ruskin_. (Grant Allen.)
THE WELSH FAIRY BOOK, by _Jenkyn Thomas_. (Unwin.)
AT THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND, by _George Macdonald_. (Blackie.)
TELL-ME-WHY STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS, by _C.H. Claudy_. (Harrap.)
TELL-ME-WHY STORIES ABOUT GREAT DISCOVERIES, by _C.H. Claudy_. (Harrap.)
UNCLE REMUS, by _Joel Chandler Harris_. (Routledge.)
MACAULAY'S LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME.
LE MORTE D'ARTHUR, by _Sir Thomas Malory_. (Macmillan.)
THE BOY'S FROISSART, by _Henry Newbolt_. (Macmillan.)
STORIES FROM DANTE, by _Susan Cunnington_. (Harrap.)
THE JUNGLE BOOKS, by _Rudyard Kipling_. (Macmillan.)
JUST SO STORIES, by _Rudyard Kipling_. (Macmillan.)
WOOD MAGIC, by _Richard Jefferies_. (Longmans.)
AMONG THE FARMYARD PEOPLE, by _Clara D. Pierson_. (Murray.)
AMONG THE NIGHT PEOPLE, by _Clara D. Pierson_. (Murray.)
AMONG THE MEADOW PEOPLE, by _Clara D. Pierson_. (Murray.)
THE ANIMAL STORY BOOK, by _Andrew Lang_. (Longmans.)
WILD ANIMALS I HAVE KNOWN, by _Ernest Thompson Seton_. (Nutt.)
A BOOK OF NATURE MYTHS, by _Florence Holbrook_. (Harrap.)
MORE NATURE MYTHS, by _F.V. Farmer_. (Harrap.)
PARABLES FROM NATURE, by _Mrs A. Gatty_. (Bell.)
NORTHERN TRAILS, by _W.J. Long_. (Ginn.)
THE KINDRED OF THE WILD, by _Chas. G.D. Roberts_. (Duckworth.)
RAB AND HIS FRIENDS, by _Dr John Brown_.
A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES, by _R.L. Stevenson_. (Longmans.)
A TREASURY OF VERSE FOR LITTLE CHILDREN,
compiled by _Madalen Edgar, M.A._ (Harrap.)
A TREASURY OF VERSE FOR BOYS AND GIRLS,
compiled by _Madalen Edgar, M.A._ (Harrap.)
A TREASURY OF BALLADS, compiled by _Madalen Edgar, M.A._ (Harrap.)
BIMBI, by _Ouida_. (Chatto.)
STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE, by _Dr Thomas Carter_. (Harrap.)
STORIES FROM THE FAERIE QUEENE, by _Laurence H. Dawson_. (Harrap.)
MORAL TALES, by _Maria Edgeworth_. (Macmillan.)