Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
A CHILD'S STORY GARDEN
[Illustration]
TO THE LITTLE CHILDREN
[Illustration]
By Various
Compiled by Elizabeth Heber
NOTE
These selected stories have been used by teachers of the kindergarten
and primary grades in the Indianapolis Schools. This little book has
been compiled for mothers and teachers with the purpose of meeting a
demand for children's literature that will not only add to the child's
literary culture, but will also suggest high ideals through the story
form. For material used we gratefully acknowledge our indebtedness to:
Rev. Neil McPherson, Sarah L. Kirlin, Leonore D. Eldridge, Martha A.
Gill, Bessie Brown Adkinson, Edith D. Wachstetter, Grace Erskine DeVere,
Fords Hulburt Publishing Co., for the selections, "The Anxious Leaf" and
"Coming and Going" from Henry Ward Beecher's, "Norwood."
ELIZABETH HEBER
Primary Teacher School No. 4 Indianapolis,--Indiana
Illustrations by
GRACE GARFIELD
CONTENTS
Siegfried, the King's Son
The Song of the Pine Tree
A Christmas Story
The Myth of Arachne
The Birds of Killingworth
The Myth of Pan
The Bell of Atri
The Anxious Leaf
Coming and Going
How the Dimples Came
The Proud Little Apple Blossom
The Brave Knight
King Robert of Sicily
The Great Stone Face
The First Christmas Tree
The Story of Abraham
The Story of Moses
The Story of David
The Story of Joseph
The Courtesy of the Spartan Boy
Twenty-third Psalm
SIEGFRIED, THE KING'S SON
Siegfried was the son of the good King Siegmund. He lived in the great
palace with his father and the gentle queen, his mother.
Siegfried had everything his heart could desire. He was loved by every
one about the palace. He had many servants to wait upon him, and
beautiful clothes to wear at all times. More than this, the stables of
the great palace were full of horses, and Siegfried could ride or drive
whenever he wished to do so.
Now, the king was as wise as he was good, and he knew that if Siegfried
would grow to be a good king he must learn to work with his hands. The
king and queen talked of it, and, although they disliked to part with
their son, they decided to send Siegfried to Mimer, the wonderful
blacksmith.
Mimer was a queer little man. His back was bent and his hair was long
and white. He had a long white beard and two very sharp, black eyes.
Mimer's shop was out in the great, dark forest, and many boys came to
learn of this wonderful master, for Mimer, you must know, was the best
blacksmith in all the king's country.
To this shop Siegfried was sent. At first he was very lonely and
unhappy. There were no servants now to wait upon him. His soft,
beautiful clothing had been exchanged for a suit of the coarsest
material and a huge leather apron. There was no soft bed waiting for him
at night, only a pile of straw in the corner. But Siegfried was a brave
boy, and lost no time complaining. He worked patiently at his anvil, day
after day, learning from his master to make strong chains of iron, as
well as dainty chains of gold and silver, for the queen to wear. One day
Mimer came into the shop and sat down beside Siegfried's anvil. The boys
could see that he was troubled, and they left their anvils and came to
the master, begging him to tell them what troubled him.
Slowly he raised his head and looked at them all. Then he said: "A giant
has come into the country, who says he is the most wonderful smith of
all. He says he has made a coat of armor that no sword can pierce. I
have worked day and night, and cannot make a strong sword. Who is
willing to try for me?"
The boys all hung their heads, for they knew not how to help Mimer. Then
Siegfried stood before his master and said: "Let me try, oh, Mimer!" And
the master was willing. Siegfried went to work at once, and for seven
long days he did not leave his place at the anvil.
At the end of the time he brought to Mimer a sword that was strong and
bright. "We will try it," said Mimer, and called together all the boys,
and took them to a little stream near the shop. Mimer then took a single
thread of wool and threw it into the water. As it was carried along,
Mimer took the sword and held it before the thread. The water carried
the thread along until it reached the sword. Then one half of the thread
passed to the right of the sword and the other to the left, and the
thread was not moved from its course. "This is a good blade," said Mimer
proudly. But Siegfried was not satisfied. He took the sword and broke it
in pieces and put it into the fire again. For three long weeks Siegfried
worked patiently at the anvil. Then he brought to Mimer a sword that was
sharper and brighter and stronger than the first.
Again the boys were taken to the little stream, and this time a handful
of wool was thrown into the water. When it reached the edge of the sword
half of the wool passed to the right and half to the left of the sword,
and not one single thread was moved from its place. Siegfried, however,
was not satisfied, and again broke the sword into pieces and put it back
into the fire.
Patiently and faithfully he worked for seven long weeks. The sword that
he brought to Mimer now was stronger and brighter and more beautiful
than either of the others. The handle was wound with flowers, and the
edge was as bright as the lightning.
This time, when the boys gathered at the little stream, a pack of wool
was thrown into the water. When the wool reached the edge of the blade,
half passed to one side and half to the other, and not one thread was
moved from its place.
"We will give it another trial," said Siegfried. He ran quickly to the
shop and paused a moment before the great anvil. Then he swung the
sword, once, twice, thrice, about his head, and then brought it down
onto the iron. There was no noise, but the great anvil fell apart, and
the sword was as sharp and bright as ever.
"This is the best I can do," said Siegfried. "Good master, my sword is
done!" Then Mimer sent his swiftest messenger to the king to tell him
that he was ready to meet the giant.
The day of the contest came. Mimer's friends sat on one side of the
road, the giant's friends on the other. At the top of the hill the two
masters were to meet, the giant with his armor, Mimer with his sword.
Soon a mighty shout arose! The giant, wearing the wonderful coat of
glittering steel, came up the hill. He sat down on a huge rock at the
top of the hill. As the people waited, a queer little man was seen
coming slowly up the hill. His back was bent, and his white hair hung
about his shoulders. At his side he carried a sword so bright that the
lightning seemed to play about its edge, as he walked.
Slowly he went to the top of the hill and stood before the giant. It was
Mimer, the master. He loosed the sword from his side and raised it above
his head. "Are you ready?" he asked. "Yes; strike," said the giant,
laughing, for he was not afraid. One, two, three times the sword flashed
about Mimer's head. Then it fell again at his side. "I do not wish to
hurt you," he said, "but if you will take off your armor and place it on
that stone, I will show you what this wonderful blade can do." The giant
only laughed again--laughed so loud and so long that the very earth
seemed to tremble. Then he took off the armor and laid it on the rock.
Mimer stepped back, raised the sword again, swung it about his head
until the light seemed to blind the people. Then it came down. The
people waited. There was no clash of iron. All was still.
Then Mimer stepped up to the armor and touched it with his foot. It fell
apart, and the rock beneath it fell apart, too. Half the rock started to
roll down the hill. On, on it went, faster and faster, and fell with a
mighty splash into the river at the foot of the hill, and if you should
go to that far-away country you could see it lying there, far down below
the surface of the water.
Then a mighty shout arose! Mimer's friends, and the great king, too,
joined in the applause. The giant, no longer boastful, stooped down,
gathered up the two parts of the armor, and went with his friends into a
far country. Mimer took the wonderful sword and went back to his place
in the blacksmith shop, still the master of all the smiths.
Very few people, however, knew that it was the king's own son,
Siegfried, who had made the wonderful sword.
THE SONG OF THE PINE TREE
It was a wee pine tree in a very large forest. It could not see anything
around it, for the other pine trees about it were so very tall. They
could only tell the little pine tree what they saw. At night the little
tree would often gaze at the sky and the stars that peeped out. And
sometimes the big, round moon would pass over the sky. And all day long,
all that the little pine tree could see above it was the blue sky, and
the beautiful white clouds that went sailing by like so many ships on
the sea. The little pine tree wished to grow and be tall, like the rest
of the trees, for it wanted to see what was in the world outside of the
forest. The tall pine trees would sing songs as the wind whistled
through their branches, and the little pine tree waited day after day,
so that it might be tall and sing songs, too. When summer came the birds
would rest on the branches of this wee tree, but would not build nests,
because it was too low. When winter came little white snowflakes came
fluttering down and rested on the branches of the little pine tree.
Year after year the little tree waited, but it grew all this time, and
seemed to stretch higher and higher its beautiful green branches.
One day, when the little snowflakes had fluttered down and made all the
world white, and the wind was whistling a merry tune, the little pine
tree heard some strange noises. The tall pine trees nodded their heads,
for they knew who were coming. They were the woodmen. They had a sled
with them, drawn by horses. The sight was strange to the pine tree, for
it had never before seen woodmen, nor a sled, nor horses. But the old
pine trees knew what it all meant, for they had seen the woodmen many
times. They wondered which tree the woodmen would choose. Now, the
little pine tree had grown, and it was not a wee tree any longer, but
was a straight, strong, beautiful tree. The woodmen walked about with
something very bright and shining in their hands. When they came to this
pine tree they looked at it, shook it and sounded the ax against its
trunk.
How queer the pine tree felt! It wondered what they were going to do
with it. Suddenly a sharp sound rang out in the air, and another, and
still another one. And the pine tree felt itself swaying and swaying,
and down it went, lower and lower, until its branches touched the soft
white snow on the ground. The woodmen lifted the pine tree very
carefully, placed it on the sled and drove the horses away. Pine Tree
was happy now, for he was going to see something of the great, wonderful
world.
The woodmen drove the horses out of the forest into the beautiful white
world. On and on they went until at last they came to a little village
by the sea. They drove through the village and into a great shipyard,
where saws were buzzing, hammers were pounding, and busy men were
hurrying about. Pine Tree had never seen anything like this before. He
was lifted from the sled and his beautiful branches were taken from the
trunk. Then he lay with, many other logs for a long time, until one day
the carpenters took him away, and he found that he was helping to make a
part of a ship. Boards were nailed on, and the busy carpenters worked
day after day.
At last the strong and stately ship was finished. It glided gracefully
into the water and sailed away. Pine Tree was very happy now, for he was
seeing new and strange things. The waves dashed carelessly against the
ship. They seemed to have a song, too. Pine Tree had not forgotten the
songs that the old pines used to sing. The waves did not always sing the
same song--sometimes they would rush and roll against the ship very hard
until they grew tired, and then they would roll on, and sing a quiet
song again.
Sometimes the ship would stop at strange countries, people would get
off, other people would get on, and then the ship would sail off out
into the sea again. Now, the pine tree had been a part of the ship for
many years, when one night while the ship was sailing the seas the waves
grew so high and strong that the parts of the ship could not stay
together. So Pine Tree was thrown out upon the angry waves and was
rocked all night long--very roughly at first, but gently afterwards.
When the sunshine looked down upon the sand the next morning it saw Pine
Tree. Pine Tree lay there many days.
How lonesome Pine Tree was! He seemed to hear the songs of the old
pines, and sometimes the songs of the waves. One day he heard another
song. It was a new song to the pine tree, for the song was sung by some
little children who were digging in the sand close by. They came here
every day to play, and once a man came with them. When he saw Pine Tree
lying upon the sand he said: "This is just what I have been looking for.
I will use this for the ridge-pole for my little cottage." So he took
Pine Tree away with him. After a time Pine Tree found himself a part of
the man's cottage, and, of course, he could not hear the songs of the
forest, nor the songs of the waves, but he heard new songs. They were
rock-a-bye-baby songs that the mother in this little cottage would sing
to her children in the evening, when it was time for them to go to
sleep.
Years passed, and the children grew to be men and women, and after a
while all the songs Pine Tree heard were those of the grandmother, which
were soft and low. At last these, too, were heard no more--the little
cottage grew quiet and everything was still. Pine Tree wondered where
everybody was. The only company he had were the birds that came in
through the window and built nests in the attic. Now the cottage was no
longer a home, but was used as a barn, and the gentle cows, the woolly
sheep and the kind horses rested there at night. They, too, seemed to
sing a song to Pine Tree, but by and by even their song could not be
heard--nothing but the wind and the owls in the trees outside--because
what had once been the cottage, and then a barn, was now a forsaken
little hut.
One day Pine Tree heard a man whistling. Oh! how he hoped he would come
in, for he had not seen anybody nor heard any of the songs he had loved
for so long. Pine Tree heard the whistle come nearer and nearer, and at
last the man stepped through the doorway. He looked about him and saw
the spider webs hanging in the corners and the birds flying in and out
of the windows, and he wondered how long it had been since people had
lived there. He looked up and saw the ridge-pole, which had once been
Pine Tree. "Oh!" he said, "I have found what I have long been looking
for." So he climbed up and loosened the boards and took Pine Tree out of
his resting place. Now Pine Tree was going once more out into the world.
The man carried him on and took him into a little shop. It was a queer
shop, too, for there were many bright, shining things lying on the
work-bench. They were tools, you know. The man had a kind face and he
handled Pine Tree very carefully. He sawed and smoothed Pine Tree many
days, and as he worked he whistled and sang, for he was happy. Sometimes
he would whistle some of the songs that Pine Tree had heard when he
lived in the forest, and then sometimes those he had heard on the ocean,
and again he would whistle the songs that Pine Tree had heard in the
home of the children.
At last the man's work was finished. Pine Tree had been made into a
wonderful musical instrument--a violin. The man took a bow and drew it
across the strings, and as he did so he smiled and nodded his head, for
the music was very sweet. The violin, which had once been Pine Tree, and
then part of a ship, and the ridge-pole of the cottage and the barn,
seemed to sing to the man the songs of the forest, the songs of the
ocean, the songs of the home, and the songs of the lowly barn.
One day the man put the violin in a case and took it away on a long
journey. When the case was opened, the violin saw that they were in a
strange hall full of people, and many of them were talking of this
man--the violin-maker.
The man lifted the violin from the case and went out upon a large
platform before the people, and began playing for them. He seemed to say
to the violin, "Sing for me," and as he drew the bow across the strings
the violin sang. It sang to the people, first the very songs that the
tall pines sang in the forest. The song changed, and the lap of the
waters, and the dip of the oar could be heard as on a moonlight summer
night; then the angry wind and the dash of the waves could be heard as
in a fierce storm. Slowly this song died, and everything was quiet.
Then, after a little while, the faraway sound of children's
voices--their laughter and singing--was heard, and then came the sweet
lullaby to the sleepy babes.
These songs all died away, and the violin sang the songs of the birds in
the summer-time, and the lowing of cattle, and the bleating of sheep in
the cold winter-time.
At last the violin could sing no longer the songs it knew, but a new
song came forth which was also very beautiful, and which caused the
people to bend forward and listen with eager faces, for it was the song
that came from the heart of the old man who was master of the violin.
A CHRISTMAS STORY
It was so long ago that the whole world has forgotten the date and even
the name of the little town in which lived a little boy whose name was
Hans.
Little Hans lived with his aunt, who was quite an old lady. She was not
always kind to Hans, but this made no difference to him. He loved her
just the same, and forgot that she was ever cross and very unkind to him
at times.
Hans went to school with many other boys, but he was not clothed as they
were. He had to wear the same clothes both week days and Sundays; the
same even in the summer that he wore in the winter.
It was now midwinter, when everything was wrapped in snow and glazed
with ice, while the north winds sang loud and whistled down the
chimneys, played very roughly with the bare trees, and crept through
every crack and crevice of the house. The frost, too, was busy pinching
the cheeks and biting the toes of the boys, and making them run, jump
and dance to keep warm.
The children were wild with the excitement and the joy that was astir at
this time. For there were secrets in the air. Every one was busy making
gifts for some loved one.
It was the night before Christmas, the one great birthday on which the
whole world rejoiceth and when all endeavor to make their fellow men
happy.
The schoolmaster and all of his pupils started for the midnight worship
and prayer at the church. All of the boys were well clothed, with heavy
coats, fur caps, thick mittens, and very heavy and warm shoes. But
little Hans had only a poor, plain, ragged suit, with no overcoat, no
mittens, and his shoes were only wooden ones. It was a very cold night,
and the boys and the schoolmaster had to walk very fast to keep warm.
But little Hans did not mind the cold so much, because the stars smiled
down upon him and seemed like so many diamonds set in a deep blue
canopy, each one glittering and flashing in the darkness. The snow, too,
was a sparkling mass, and Hans wondered if the stars could see
themselves reflected in the tiny snow crystals which covered the earth.
At last they reached the church, whose windows were shedding forth a
soft, golden light on the stillness and darkness of the cold winter
night. This little group of worshipers quietly passed into the church
and sank noiselessly into their pews. It was a beautiful place to Hans.
He loved it dearly, and was always happy to come here. The candles were
all lighted, and they burned steadily brighter and brighter, filling the
church with a beautiful mellow light. The grand old organ softly and
clearly sent forth its tones, each one growing richer, deeper and
sweeter, and gradually the voices of the choir boys and the tones of the
organ filled the old church with such beautiful music that little Hans's
heart seemed to bound within him, and his whole soul was enraptured,
while there shone from his face a radiance that only a divine
inspiration could bring forth.
At length, after the people had sung, each one knelt and offered
thanksgiving to the Heavenly Father, little Hans, too, knelt and offered
thanks for the blessings which he had received during that year, and for
the tender care of the Father of all.
The people then quietly passed out of the warm church into the cold of
the night. Hans was the last one out, and as he carefully made his way
down the icy steps he noticed a little boy no larger than himself
sitting on the steps, with his head resting against the church. He was
fast asleep. His face was beautiful, and seemed clothed in a golden
light. Beside him, tied in a cloth, were a square, a hammer, a saw and
other tools of a carpenter. He had neither shoes nor stockings on his
feet, although his clothing was spotless and of the purest white. It
grieved Hans that the child should have no shoes, not even one to place
for the Christ-child to fill with gifts.
Hans stooped and took from his right foot the wooden shoe and placed it
in front of the sleeping child, so that the Christ-child would not pass
him by. Hans then limped along on the ice and snow, not feeling how cold
it was, but only thinking of the poor child asleep out in the cold.
The other boys were talking of the good things awaiting them at home, of
the feasts, the plum pudding, the Christmas trees, and the many drums,
wagons and blocks the Christ-child would put in their shoes that night.
When Hans arrived home he found his aunt awaiting him, and when she saw
that he had only one shoe, and he had told her all about the other one,
she was very angry with him, and sent him to bed. Hans placed the wooden
shoe from his left foot at the fireside, hoping that the Christ-child
would remember him as he passed by.
The first sunbeam that crept into Hans's bedroom and kissed him the next
morning awoke him, and he bounded downstairs, and flew to the great open
fireplace to find his shoe.
Hans rubbed his eyes and caught his breath, for, to his great surprise,
there were both of his wooden shoes, filled with beautiful toys; by the
fireside he found warm clothing and many other things to make him
comfortable and happy.
Hearing loud voices, Hans went to the door. The people were standing in
a crowd about the priest, who was talking to them. He told Hans that
where he had seen the child asleep on the church steps there was now in
the window above a beautiful crown set with precious jewels. He said
that the child was the Christ-child, whom the Heavenly Father had again
sent among men on earth for that night, and that it was He with whom
Hans had shared his wooden shoes.
The people bowed themselves before that miracle that the good God had
seen fit to work, to reward the faith and charity of a child.
Francois Coppee, [Adapted]
THE MYTH OF ARACHNE
A long time ago there lived a maiden whose name was Arachne. She could
weave the most beautiful fabrics that people had ever seen. She chose
the most exquisite colors. They were the colors that were found in the
flowers, the green of the trees and grass, and the varied, dainty tints
and shades from the blue sky and its gorgeous sunsets.
People had said that Arachne learned to weave from the birds, although
some of them thought that Arachne had been taught to weave by the
goddess Athena. When Arachne heard that the people thought that Athena
had taught her to weave she became very angry. She declared that Athena
had not taught her to weave; that no one had taught her. She said she
would compete with the goddess Athena in weaving. The goddess Athena was
a noble goddess. She was the Goddess of Wisdom, and of all the Arts and
Crafts. When she heard what Arachne had declared she said: "It is very
wrong that Arachne should be so proud and envious. I will go to see
her."
The goddess Athena disguised herself in humble apparel and visited
Arachne. She talked with her about her weaving, and still Arachne
boasted of the wonderful weaving she could do; but the goddess told her
that she was foolish to be so boastful.
This made Arachne angry, and she said: "I am not afraid at all, not of
any one in the world." At this moment the goddess threw aside her plain
garments and revealed herself the goddess Athena. This did not frighten
Arachne. She looked calmly at Athena and told her that she would give up
anything, even her life, to prove to the people that she could weave
even better than the goddess.
They then set about to arrange their looms, to select their threads, and
to begin work. At last they began. Whirr! Whirr! went the shuttles.
Spin! Spin! they sang, faster and faster, in and out, over and under,
flew the shuttles.
Arachne had chosen the most delicate, lovely threads that she could
find, but while she wove these beautiful threads she was thinking of her
revenge and other evil and wicked thoughts, while her skillful and swift
fingers moved faster and faster.
At the same time Athena was sitting in the sunlight, busily and
carefully weaving over and under, and in and out, her dainty, beautiful
silken threads, which seemed to have come from the very sunbeams
themselves. The colors were most harmonious and exquisite. Even the
rainbow was surpassed. Athena was thinking of the fleecy clouds, which
were to her as white ships that sailed through the blue sea of the sky.
She thought of the brown earth, with its emerald decking of trees and
meadows; of the buttercups and daisies of gold, and the roses and lilies
which dotted Mother Earth's carpet. She thought of the butterflies that
flitted about, and of the birds, in coats of red, blue, glossy black,
and dazzling gold.
When Arachne looked at Athena's work she shuddered with shame, for,
although her own work had been skillfully done, it was marred by the
envy, malice and evil thoughts she had woven into it. While Athena's
work was no more skillfully woven, it was by far the more beautiful. The
azure sky, with fluffy white clouds; the meadows, dotted with flowers,
and fields, with their shady green trees, filled with birds of gorgeous
hues, all made a wonderful picture.
Poor Arachne knew her fate. She hastened away and took with her the
threads that she had been using in weaving, and wrapped them about her
neck. She thought she would end her life by hanging to a tree. This made
the beautiful and kind Athena sad, and she said to Arachne: "You must
live--live on forever," and she touched Arachne and changed her form.
Arachne gradually grew smaller and smaller, until she was no larger than
a honeybee. She had many legs and wore a brown, fuzzy coat. Instead of
hanging by the threads she had used she now hung from a dainty silken
spider web, for Arachne was still a weaver, but not a weaver as of old.
Today, perchance, if you should see a busy little spider, it might be
one of Arachne's children, or perhaps Arachne herself. No one
knows--neither you nor I.
THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH
It was spring, and the little town of Killingworth told of the joy of
living again. Every little rivulet had broken from its frozen chain,
which had held it fast during the long winter, and was rushing on,
rejoicing at its freedom. The purple buds, holding wonderful secrets of
things to come, were bursting forth from every tree and bush, while from
the topmost boughs the birds called and sang to their mates: "Oh! be
happy, be happy, for spring has come!"
There were all the messengers of spring--the robin, the oriole, and the
bluebird--filling the orchard with their glad melody. The little sparrow
chirped in glee for the very joy of living, and the hungry crows, in
great crowds, called loudly the tidings of spring. But not long could
they stop to sing, for the homes must be made, and soon from every tree
and bush could be seen these dainty, downy nests, and in every nest the
eggs, and in every egg a wonderful secret about which all the happy
birds twittered and sang together.
The farmers, as they plowed their fields and made their gardens that
spring, heard these tree-top concerts, and saw the multitude playing and
working about them, and they shook their heads and said: "Never before
have we had so many birds in Killingworth. We must surely do something,
or they will eat up half of our crops, and take the grain and fruits
that should go to feed our own children." Then it was decided to have a
meeting. All in the town were free to come, and here they were to decide
what was to be done with the troublesome birds. The meeting was held in
the new town hall, and to it came all the great men of the town, and
from far and near the farmers gathered. The great hall was crowded. The
doors and windows were open, and through them came a beautiful flood of
bird music, but the sturdy farmers and great men shook their heads as
they heard it. And then they told how the birds were eating the grains
and spoiling the fruit, and every one said the birds must go. There
seemed to be not a single friend to the singers outside, until one man
arose--the teacher in the town, much loved by the children, and himself
loving everything that God had made. He looked sadly on the men around
him, and then he said:
"My friends, can you drive away these birds that God has made and sent
to us, for a few handfuls of grain and a little fruit? Will you lose all
this music that you hear outside? Think of the woods and orchard without
the birds, and of the empty nests you will see. You say the birds are
robbing you; but instead they are your greatest helpers. With their
bright little eyes they see the little bugs and worms which destroy the
fruit. Think who has made them. Who has taught them the songs and the
secret of building their nests. You will be sorry when they are gone and
will wish them back."
But still the farmers shook their heads and said: "The birds must go."
So the birds of Killingworth were driven away, until not a single note
was heard, and only empty nests were left. The little children of the
town were hoping each day to see their friends again, and a strange
stillness and loneliness seemed to fill the little town, for the music
in the air had ceased.
The summer came, and never before had it been so hot. The little insects
and worms which the little birds had always driven away covered every
tree and bush, eating the leaves until nothing was left but the bare
twigs. The streets were hot and shadeless. In the orchard the fruit
dropped, scorched and dried by the sun. When the grains were gathered
one-half of the crop had been destroyed by the insects. Now the old
farmers said among themselves:
"We have made a great mistake. We need the birds."
One day in the early spring a strange sight was seen in the little town
of Killingworth. A great wagon covered with green branches was driven
down the main street, and among the branches were huge cages, and the
cages were filled with birds. Oh! they were all there--the robin, the
bluebird, the lark and the oriole--birds of every color and kind. When
the great wagon reached the town hall it stopped. The cages were taken
down from the branches of green, and little children, with eager hands
and happy eyes, threw open the doors. Out came the birds and away they
flew to field and orchard and wood, singing again and again:
"Oh! we are glad to be here! We are glad to be here!"
The little children sang, too, and the gray-haired farmers said: "The
birds must always stay in Killingworth."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [Adapted]
THE MYTH OF PAN
In a very far-away country, a long time ago, there lived a man who loved
music and little children and the birds and flowers. And the little
children loved Pan--for that was his name--because he told them such
beautiful stories and played on a set of pipes which he had made from
the reeds which grew by the river. Every evening, when it was time for
the sun to go to sleep and all the little stars to wake up, Pan would
take his pipes, go down to the river side, and play all the songs he
knew. Everybody could hear Pan's music for miles and miles, but many of
them did not like his music, and wished that he would not play. Once
some of these people gathered together and planned how they could stop
Pan from playing his pipes, and while they were talking, some beetles
near by heard their plans. Now, one of these beetles had hurt his wing
at one time and had fallen down in the dust on the road, and could go no
farther. It was a very hot day, and the poor little beetle was almost
dead from the heat. Soon Pan came walking along and saw the beetle, and,
picking it up very carefully, he carried it on some green leaves to a
shady place, where he left it to rest and get well. The beetle had never
forgotten Pan's kindness, and when he heard the plans these bad people
had made he said: "Come, friends, and go with me, for we must hurry and
tell Pan what the wicked people have planned, so that he will not be
there when they go to push him into the river."
The beetles had only one day in which to reach Pan, for the evil people
were going to carry out their plans the next night, so they spread their
wings and flew as fast as they could fly. They could not travel far at a
time, because their wings grew very tired and their bodies were so
heavy. When they could fly no longer they would walk, and when they were
tired walking they would fly again. In this way they hurried on and on,
for the day was growing into night, and they could hear Pan playing his
beautiful songs way down by the river bank. They had almost reached him
when they heard what seemed to be a crowd of people running through the
bushes and among the trees, and it seemed that they were going toward
the river. Next there was a big splash and many voices talking loudly,
and after that--silence. When the beetles reached the place where Pan
always sat they could not find him; but there in the river were his
pipes, which he loved so well.
The people had reached Pan before the beetles, and had pushed him into
the river, and his pipes fell in, too, but Pan did not wait to get them.
He climbed out and ran as fast as his feet would carry him. The people
ran after him, but he leaped and bounded over the bushes and flowers,
and ran on and on. Sometimes they were almost upon him, but he always
out-ran them. He wished to hide, but could find no place. He could not
climb the trees, for the people could climb trees, too, and he could not
hide in the grass or under the bushes, for they would be sure to find
him there.
At last, along the river bank, he spied the little violets that had
closed their eyes, but were still gazing at the stars. One little violet
seemed to say to him, "I will hide you," and it folded its little petals
around him. Pan was safe now, and from his hiding place he could hear
the people searching for him. They looked for a long time, but they did
not find him. He was happy and thankful, and, as he was very tired and
the soft petals of the violets made a pleasant resting place, he was
soon fast asleep.
Away back on the river bank, where Pan always sat, were the beetles.
They were very sorry that they had not reached him in time to tell him
that the people were coming, and that they could not get his pipes out
of the water, where they had fallen. And, though they never saw him
again, they always remembered him and the beautiful music he used to
play.
One day some little children were picking violets by the river, and they
found one little violet that had eyes just like Pan's eyes. They took it
home and named it Pan's Eye, in memory of their old friend, but, as that
was rather a hard name for the little children to say, they called it
Pansy.
THE BELL OF ATRI
In the little town of Atri, which was nestled on the side of a wooded
hill, there was a strange custom.
The king had one day brought to the town a great bell, which he hung in
the market place beneath a shed, protected from the sun and rain. Then
he went forth with all his knightly train through the streets of Atri
and proclaimed to all the people that whenever a wrong was done to any
one, he should go to the market place and ring the great bell, and
immediately the king would see that the wrong was righted.
Many years had gone by. Many times the great bell had rung in the little
town of Atri, and, as the king had said, the wrongs of which it told,
were always righted.
In time, however, the great rope by which the bell was rung, unraveled
at the end and was unwound, thread by thread. For a long time it
remained this way, while the great bell hung silent. But close by, a
grape-vine grew, and, reaching upward, finally entwined its tendrils
around the ragged end of the bell rope, making it strong and firm again
as it grew around it, up toward the great bell itself.
Now, in the town of Atri there lived a knight, who, in his younger days,
had loved to ride and hunt; but as he grew old he cared no more for
these things. He sold his lands, his horses and hounds, for he now loved
only the gold which the sale of them brought to him. This he hoarded and
saved, living poorly, that he might save the more.
Only one thing he kept--his favorite horse, who had served him
faithfully all his life. But even this faithful friend he kept in a poor
old stable, often allowing him to go cold and hungry.
Finally the old man said: "Why should I keep this beast now? He is old
and lazy, and no longer of any use to me. Besides, his food costs me
much that I might save for myself. I will turn him out and let him find
food where he can."
So the faithful old horse, who had served his master all his days, was
turned out without a home. He wandered through the streets of the town,
trying to find something to eat. Often the dogs barked at him, and the
cold winds made him shiver as he wandered about, hungry and homeless,
with no one to care for him.
One summer afternoon, when all the drowsy little town seemed sleeping,
the tones of the great bell rang out, loud and clear, waking the people
from their naps and calling them forth to see who was ringing the bell
of justice.
The judge, with a great crowd following, hurried to the market place,
but when they came near, they stopped in surprise. No man was near, who
might have rung the bell; no one but a thin old horse, who stood quietly
munching the vine which grew around the bell rope. He had spied the
green leaves growing there, and, being hungry, had reached for them,
thus ringing the great bell of Atri, and calling forth the judge and all
the people.
"'Tis the old knight's horse," the people cried. Then many told the tale
of how the old horse had been turned out to starve, while his master
hoarded and saved his gold.
"The horse has rung the bell for justice, and justice he shall have,"
said the judge. "Go, bring the old knight to me."
The knight was hurried to the place, where, before all the people, the
judge censured him for his cruel treatment of his faithful old horse,
and asked him to give a reason for it.
"The old beast is useless," said his master. "He is mine, and I have a
right to do with him as I wish."
"Not so," said the judge. "He has served you faithfully all his life. He
can not speak to tell of his wrongs, so we must speak for him. Go, now;
take him home. Build a new stable and care for him well."
The old knight walked slowly home, while the horse was led behind by the
crowd.
So the Great Bell of Atri had righted one more wrong, for it was even as
the judge had commanded. The faithful old horse lived in comfort all the
rest of his life, for his master, in caring for him, learned to love him
again, and treated him as only a faithful friend should be treated.
When the king heard the story he said:
"Surely, never will the bell ring in a better cause than in speaking for
a suffering dumb creature who can not speak for himself."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [Adapted]
THE ANXIOUS LEAF
Once upon a time a little leaf was heard to sigh and cry, as leaves
often do when a gentle wind is about. And the twig said: "What is the
matter, little leaf?" And the leaf said: "The wind just told me that one
day it would pull me off and throw me down to die on the ground!"
The twig told it to the branch on which it grew, and the branch told it
to the tree. And when the tree heard it, it rustled all over, and sent
back word to the leaf: "Do not be afraid. Hold on tightly, and you shall
not go till you want to."
And so the leaf stopped sighing, but went on nestling and singing. Every
time the tree shook itself and stirred up all its leaves, the branches
shook themselves, and the little twig shook itself, and the little leaf
danced up and down merrily, as if nothing could ever pull it off. And so
it grew all summer long, till October.
And when the bright days of autumn came the little leaf saw all the
leaves around becoming very beautiful. Some were yellow and some
scarlet, and some striped with both colors. Then it asked the tree what
it meant. And the tree said: "All these leaves are getting ready to fly
away, and they have put on these beautiful colors because of joy."
Then the little leaf began to want to go, too, and grew very beautiful
in thinking of it, and when it was very gay in color it saw that the
branches of the tree had no bright color in them, and so the leaf said:
"O branches! why are you lead-color and we golden?"
"We must keep on our work-clothes, for our life is not done; but your
clothes are for holiday, because your tasks are over," said the
branches.
Just then a little puff of wind came, and the leaf let go, without
thinking of it, and the wind took it up and turned it over and over, and
whirled it like a spark of fire in the air, and then it dropped gently
down under the edge of the fence, among hundreds of leaves, and fell
into a dream, and it never waked up to tell what it dreamed about.
COMING AND GOING
There came to our fields a pair of birds that had never built a nest nor
seen a winter. How beautiful was everything! The fields were full of
flowers and the grass was growing tall, and the bees were humming
everywhere. Then one of the birds began singing, and the other bird
said: "Who told you to sing?" And he answered: "The flowers told me, and
the bees told me, and the winds and leaves told me, and the blue sky
told me, and you told me to sing." Then his mate answered: "When did I
tell you to sing?" And he said: "Every time you brought in tender grass
for the nest, and every time your soft wings fluttered off again for
hair and feathers to line the nest." Then his mate said: "What are you
singing about?" And he answered: "I am singing about everything and
nothing. It is because I am so happy that I sing."
By and by five little speckled eggs were in the nest, and his mate said:
"Is there anything in all the world as pretty as my eggs?" Then they
both looked down on some people that were passing by and pitied them
because they were not birds.
In a week or two, one day, when the father bird came home, the mother
bird said: "Oh, what do you think has happened?"
"What?"
"One of my eggs has been peeping and moving!" Pretty soon another egg
moved under her feathers, and then another and another, till five little
birds were hatched! Now the father bird sang louder and louder than
ever. The mother bird, too, wanted to sing, but she had no time, and she
turned her song into work. So hungry were these little birds that it
kept both parents busy feeding them. Away each one flew. The moment the
little birds heard their wings fluttering among the leaves, five little
yellow mouths flew open wide, so that nothing could be seen but five
yellow mouths!
"Can anybody be happier?" said the father bird to the mother bird. "We
will live in this tree always, for there is no sorrow here. It is a tree
that always bears joy."
Soon the little birds were big enough to fly, and great was their
parents' joy to see them leave the nest and sit crumpled up upon the
branches. There was then a great time, the two old birds talking and
chatting to make the young ones go alone! In a little time they had
learned to use their own wings, and they flew away and away, and found
their own food, and built their own nests, and sang their own songs with
joy.
Then the old birds sat silent and looked at each other, until the mother
bird said: "Why don't you sing?" And he answered: "I can't sing--I can
only think and think." "What are you thinking of?" "I am thinking how
everything changes. The leaves are falling off from this tree, and soon
there will be no roof over our heads; the flowers are all going; last
night there was a frost; almost all the birds have flown away. Something
calls me, and I feel as if I would like to fly away."
"Let us fly away together!"
Then they arose silently, and, lifting themselves far up in the air,
they looked to the north. Far away they saw the snow coming. They looked
to the south. There they saw flowers and green leaves. All day they
flew, and all night they flew and flew, till they found a land where
there was no winter--where flowers always blossom, and birds always
sing.
HOW THE DIMPLES CAME
One bright, beautiful spring day, when the earth was fresh in its new
green dress decked with flowers, while the birds sang their sweetest
songs, and the brooks babbled merrily on their way to the rivers, two
wee dimples were sent by Mother Nature on a journey to find their work
in the world.
It was a delightful journey through the blue sky and past the fleecy
white clouds.
They played and danced with the sunbeams who led them on their way to
the earth.
The dimples could see nothing for them to do, so on they went,
frolicking and playing.
At last they found themselves among the trees and the bright flowers of
the earth.
They chased the sunbeams under the leaves, they rode on the butterflies'
wings, they sipped the honey with the bees from the flowers. Still, they
could find nothing to do. The sunbeams bade the dimples good-by and
silently crept home. "Oh," said the dimples, "what shall we do? We have
no place to rest tonight." "Here is a bird's nest; let us rest in this,"
said one dimple. "No, that will never do," said the other dimple, "for
there is the mother bird, who rests in her nest all night."
Just then they spied a window swing open on its hinges. The tiny stars
came out and peeped into the window, and the lady-moon sent silvery
moonbeams down to help the dimples find a resting place. Then the
dimples flew through the window, and there, close by, in her crib,
curtained around with white, was a wee baby, rosy, sweet, and bright.
"Oh," said one dimple, "I would love to rest on that rosy cheek." "So
would I," said the other dimple. And they each took a rosy cheek for a
couch, and here they rested the whole night long.
The robins early in the dawn sat on the cheery boughs and sang loud and
long, thus waking the dimples, who now knew not what to do. "But," said
one dimple, "we have not yet found our work." The other dimple said:
"Let us stay here. Baby's eyes are opening, and we must hide," and each
dimple nestled away in baby's cheeks. Then her big, blue eyes opened
wide, to see the sunbeams that had crept through the windows to her
crib.
The sunbeams coaxed the dimples to come out and play, but the dimples
would only peep out, and when they did, they brought smiles around
baby's rosy lips and sunny eyes.
"So you have found your work at last," said the sunbeams. And they had,
for they helped to bring out the smiles in baby's cheeks. If you look
the next time you see baby you may see the dimples playing hide and
seek.
THE PROUD LITTLE APPLE BLOSSOM
It was the month of May, but the wind still blew cool, for the sun was
not yet ready to shed his warmest rays on the waiting earth.
Yet some of the birds had come, and more were on their way, and many
beautiful blossoms were already showing their pink and white blooms, so
that from bush and tree, field and flower, came the glad cry, "Spring is
here! Spring is here." Now, it happened that a young princess rode by a
beautiful orchard in full bloom, and she stopped to pick a branch of
apple blossoms to take to her palace. All who saw the apple blossom
praised its beauty and fragrance until the blossom became proud, and
thought that beauty was the only valuable thing in the world. But as the
apple blossom looked out upon the field she thought: "Not all of the
plants are rich and beautiful, as I am, some seem poor and plain." And
she noticed a little, common, yellow flower, which seemed to lift up its
sunny head and grow everywhere.
The apple blossom said to the plain little flower, "What is your name?"
"I am called the dandelion," replied the little flower.
"Poor little plant," said the apple blossom. "It is not your fault; but
how sad you must feel to be so plain and to bear such an ugly name."
Before the little plant could reply a lovely little sunbeam came dancing
along and said: "I see no ugly flowers. They are all beautiful alike to
me." And he kissed the apple blossom; but he stooped low and lingered
long to kiss the little yellow dandelion in the field.