its depths, and finally found a black altar, whereon the devil had
sacrificed the bodies of people. Hard by he found the devil and
offered his services to him. Right gladly the devil took him into his
fellowship, and straightway took him on trips of deviltry and mischief.
But one day they came along by a hill in an Eastern land. On the top
of the hill there stood three crosses. The devil turned aside as if in
fear. Christopher was quick to notice this and he said to the devil:
“Why are you afraid?”
Then the devil said: “On that middle cross was crucified a man who is
greater than I, and I fear him.”
“What,” Christopher said, “you afraid? Why, then, I am done with you; I
want to serve him who is not afraid.”
And so he parted from the devil and as he went away the devil laughed
and mocked him. Christopher wandered a long time, inquiring here and
there for the man who had died upon the cross. Finally, one day he
found a priest, who lived in a cave that opened upon a beautiful river.
Tired, footsore and weary, he sat down at the invitation of the priest,
who brought him refreshing water from the spring and gave him food.
After he had rested a moment, he said to the priest: “Can you tell me
about the man who died on the cross?” for Christopher had never heard
of this man until the devil had told him. “Yes,” said the priest,
“right gladly will I tell you the story of his life.”
Then the priest told Christopher how the man of Galilee had lived, and
toiled, and suffered to make the world better; how he was crucified,
died, and rose again. The story was a new and beautiful one to
Christopher, the wonder of it! The priest told him that though this
man was dead, his spirit was still in the world to make the world
better. Then Christopher said to the priest: “He is the one that I wish
to serve. How can I serve him?” Then the priest said: “You see this
river?—there is no bridge for the people to cross; it is wide and at
times dangerous. If you would serve him, help those who try to cross
the river. You are tall, with broad shoulders and mighty strength. Day
after day people as they travel through this land come to this river
but cannot cross—you can help them across, and in that way you will
serve him who, though dead, still lives.”
That pleased Christopher so that he built a house of logs and boughs
by the river’s side, and when people came to the river he would wade
through the water, take them on his shoulders and bear them across.
Years passed by; Christopher grew grey in the service of humanity and
his Master. Those who saw him day after day admired him and looked for
him and he became a friend of all the country, loved by all.
One dark night when Christopher lay upon his bed, he heard some one
calling, like the voice of a child: “Oh! Christopher, kind, good
Christopher, come help me across!” Christopher arose from his bed and
seizing his great staff, waded through the water until he reached the
other side of the river, but there he found no one; all was silent,
save the ripple and murmur of the waves along the river’s margin.
“Strange,” he said, “I thought I heard some one calling.”
After looking all around, he said: “I must have been mistaken,” and
waded back through the water to the other side of the river and lay
down upon his couch again. But soon thereafter he heard the same
voice calling: “Oh! Christopher, kind, good Christopher, come help me
across!” “Strange,” said Christopher to himself, “some one must be
there,” and seizing his staff he again crossed the river.
But no one could he find, all was silent. Above his head the stars
shone, and he said to himself: “Strange it is I cannot find him who
called me.”
He went across the river and laid down upon his bed again. He had not
been lying there long before he heard the voice calling him a third
time: “Oh! Christopher, kind, good Christopher, come help me across!”
Christopher sat upon his bed—he was troubled. “Strange,” he said, “some
one calls me and yet I cannot find him.” But again seizing his staff
he said: “I will make one more trip.” When he reached the other side
of the river, there he saw a little boy, and he said: “My little man,
where were you,—twice I crossed the river to find you?” The little boy
said: “I was here.” And then Christopher bent low and took the little
man upon his shoulders and waded through the water, but the boy grew
heavier until he seemed as heavy as a man. When Christopher reached
the other side and put him down and turned to look to see why, what
seemed to be a little child should be so heavy—lo! he was more than
a child; a young man in appearance, with a shining face, and he said
to Christopher: “I am he whom you serve; bury your staff and after a
certain number of days buds will appear thereon.” Then he disappeared,
vanishing as a mist, or as a shadow, though Christopher saw not. He
went and lay down upon his couch and slept in great peace of mind and
body.
Years passed. Christopher was still beloved by all the people and
faithful to his work, but his days were numbered. Though somewhat
feeble, he still bore the people on his shoulders across the river.
One dark stormy night, when the wind roared through the treetops and
the rain fell, Christopher, lying upon his bed, heard a voice call. He
tried to rise and answer; he did go in response to the voice, but it
was his spirit only that went, the last call had come to him.
The next morning the storm was gone and the sky was blue. People came
to cross the river and called as usual to Christopher, but there was no
response. They thought perhaps he was asleep and went to the cottage.
There they found him-— asleep, but it was the long sleep. And a smile
was on his face. Because of his service to the people they afterwards
called him Saint Christopher.
SOULS THAT HAVE TOIL’D AND WROUGHT AND THOUGHT WITH ME—
THAT EVER WITH A FROLIC WELCOME TOOK
THE THUNDER AND THE SUNSHINE, AND OPPOSED
FREE HEARTS, FREE FOREHEADS—YOU AND I ARE OLD;
OLD AGE HATH YET HIS HONOR AND HIS TOIL,
DEATH CLOSES ALL: BUT SOMETHING ERE THE END,
SOME WORK OF NOBLE NOTE MAY YET BE DONE,
NOT UNBECOMING MEN THAT STROVE WITH GODS.
THE LIGHTS BEGIN TO TWINKLE FROM THE ROCKS:
THE LONG DAY WANES: THE SLOW MOON CLIMBS: THE DEEP
MOANS ROUND WITH MANY VOICES.
TENNYSON.
The Story of England’s First Poet[C]
By George Philip Krapp
On the northern coast of England in the town of Whitby (White-town) was
built a monastery many centuries ago by a woman whose name was Hild;
and when the monastery was completed she became the abbess. In this
monastery ruled over by the Abbess Hild, there were not only monks and
nuns, but also a number of servants and helpers who had not devoted
themselves to the religious life. Among these was a poor herdsman whose
name was Cadmon. He could neither read nor write, and his work in the
monastery consisted in taking care of the cows and other cattle which
were needed to supply the monastery table with milk and butter.
[C] Reprinted by permission from “In Oldest England” by George Philip
Krapp. Copyright, 1912, by Longmans, Green & Co.
Now it was a common custom for Cadmon and his friends to entertain
themselves, when the day’s work was done, by sitting around the fire
telling stories and singing songs. Among other amusements they had one
especially which is known as “passing the harp.” According to this
custom, the harp was passed along from one person to another, and
as it came each man’s turn, he took the harp and sang a song to its
accompaniment. Most people in those days knew many stories which they
could recite in this way, but unfortunately for Cadmon, this was an
accomplishment which he could never learn. Consequently when he saw the
harp approaching him, he would get up and leave the circle, ashamed to
confess that he could not sing a song as the others had done.
It happened that one night Cadmon left the group of his friends in this
way, as he had often done before, and went into the stable where he was
to pass the night watching the cattle. After a time he fell asleep. As
he lay sleeping, he heard a voice calling to him, which said: “Cadmon,
sing for me.” Then Cadmon answered the voice, saying: “I cannot sing;
and it is for that reason that I have left the company of my friends
and have come hither.” “Nevertheless, I say you must sing for me,” the
voice continued. “What shall I sing?” asked Cadmon. “Sing for me,” the
voice answered, “the story of how all things were created.” And then
Cadmon, greatly to his own astonishment, found that he was able to
sing, and he began to sing the praises of God the Creator in verses
which he had never heard before.
The next morning, when Cadmon awoke from the sleep in which he had had
this dream or vision, the strangest part of it was that he remembered
perfectly what he had sung in his sleep during the night, and better
still, he was able to add other verses to these. He told what had
happened to him to his master, and his master went directly to Abbess
Hild and repeated the story to her. Hild immediately called Cadmon to
her, and, sending for several learned monks, she bade them recite a
passage of Scripture in English to Cadmon, and then she asked Cadmon
to turn what he had heard into verse. The next morning Cadmon came
back and recited to her in perfect and melodious verse all that he had
been told by the learned monks. Then Hild immediately perceived that
this poor cowherd in her monastery was possessed of a very precious
gift. She gave orders that he should be accepted as a monk into her
monastery, and that the other monks should teach him all the story of
the Bible. This was so done, and being unable to read, Cadmon learned
all the stories of the Bible by having them told to him, and then he
turned them into poetical form. The monks were glad to write down the
poems as Cadmon recited them, and thus together they put into verse the
whole story of the creation of the world, of the fall of man, of the
children of Israel and the Exodus out of Egypt into the Promised Land,
and many other stories contained in the Bible.
[Illustration:
“The Singing Royal Museum
Angels” Berlin
Van Eyck
“_It was a common custom for Cadmon and his friends to sing songs._”]
For many years Cadmon continued to live in the monastery at Whitby,
making noble use of this poet’s gift that had been granted to him.
And it was here at Whitby that he finally died. He had been unwell
for several weeks before his death, but it was not supposed that his
sickness was serious. One night, however, the night on which he died,
he asked his nurse to take him to the infirmary, which was the part
of the monastery where those brothers who were dangerously sick and
on the point of death were usually cared for together. The man was
surprised that Cadmon should want to be taken to the infirmary, but
he did as he was asked to do. Cadmon seemed to be bright and happy,
and talked cheerfully with the other sick people in the infirmary.
When it was about midnight, he asked if the Eucharist was there in the
infirmary. “Why do you ask that?” his friends said. “You are not so
near to death that you need ask for the Eucharist.” But Cadmon asked
for the Eucharist again, and when he had it in his hand he inquired
whether they were all kindly disposed and at peace with him. When they
said they were, then Cadmon continued: “And I, too, am at peace with
all men.” Having made his last communion, he asked if the time was near
when the brothers of the monastery should arise and say the prayers
known as nocturns. “It is almost time,” they answered. “Let us then
wait for it,” he said; and blessing himself with the sign of the cross,
he lay back upon his pillow, and so falling asleep, as peacefully and
as gently as he had lived, he passed to his final rest.
This is the simple story of the blameless life of the first English
poet whose name has come down to us. Other poets there must have been
before Cadmon, poets who sang the stories of the bloody combats of
English heroes before the days of Augustine and Aidan. From the very
earliest times the English have had their bards or minstrels, whose
task it was to keep alive the fame of the nation’s great men. But not
even the names of any of these earlier heathen poets are known to us,
and but a few fragments of their songs have survived to our day. These
songs were of the kind which Cadmon could not sing, but which his
companions, at their feasts and banquets, all sang so freely to the
accompaniment of the harp. This heathen minstrelsy is now all lost and
silent, while down through the ages the clear voice of Cadmon is heard,
singing the old story of the Creation of the World and of the ways of
God to man. From Cadmon to Milton it is a thousand years, but the poor
cowherd who became the chief ornament of Hild’s ancient monastery on
the cliff above Whitby sang his songs in the same spirit as the author
of “Paradise Lost.”
The “Uncle Remus” Stories
Their Evolution and Place in the Curriculum
By Josephine Leach
Part One
The fame of the “Uncle Remus” stories, according to Joel Chandler
Harris, himself, was an accident. But it is quite possible, that the
fame has not been quite as much of an accident as his modesty declares
it to be.
Mr. Harris was the son of a very poor woman in Georgia. She had very
little to give her children, and very early Joel Chandler was put out
to work. When, but a mere lad, he went to work as printer boy on the
plantation of Mr. Joseph A. Turner. Mr. Turner was a well educated and
cultured gentleman, who spent his leisure hours in publishing (on his
own plantation) a small paper, voicing the sentiment of the times.
Mr. Turner became very much interested in the Harris boy. He recognized
the lad’s ability, for very frequently he found unsigned paragraphs,
quite good in quality, in his paper, which had been composed by the
printer boy Harris, who inserted them as he set up the type. Mr. Turner
gave the boy free access to his very large and splendid library. When
Joel Chandler was not seated, during leisure hours, in the chimney
corner of a cabin in the negro quarters, listening to negro folk-lore,
he was delving deep into the best literature of all ages. He lived so
completely with the great masters in the library, that it is said, that
this quite largely influenced his charming literary style in years to
come.
Here on the plantation, in the negro cabins, he came, through the
stories, to feel the emotions of the negro. No one has ever been so
capable of putting himself in another’s place as has Joel Chandler
Harris. He became possessed of all the curious knowledge of the negro,
he learned of dogs and horses, he knew the path of the red stream in
the swamp, and the way of the wild folk in the woods. In fact, one
writer has gone so far as to say, that had Joel Chandler Harris not
spent these boyhood days in the plantation home of Joseph A. Turner,
there would have been no “Uncle Remus” with all that he now means to
literature.
In 1876, Mr. Harris was invited to take a place on the paper called
“The Constitution,” published at Atlanta, Georgia. Samuel Small was
then writing humorous sketches for this paper. Small suddenly resigned.
His sketches had been very popular, and the editor immediately looked
around for some one who could continue the work. Mr. Harris was given
the place. He went about his new task with much foreboding. He was
steeped in the quaint stories of the plantation, but would the people
accept these? He resolved to make the attempt, and then came the Uncle
Remus stories for their first appearance.
The stories grew in popularity, and for the same reason that made
Æsop’s fables an imperishable classic, these stories have taken their
permanent place in literature. They were the simple stories that had
been linked with the thoughts and emotions since earliest time, and
have now, for the first time, been put in artistic form, by one who
had so entered into the life of the negro, that he was able to express
the negro’s emotions in the negro’s way. In quoting from an article
on Joel Chandler Harris in “The Bookman,” Volume 27, the author says,
“When Mr. Harris chose for his subject, the plantation negro, he had a
character of much subtility to deal with. His subject is a creature of
extremes, carelessly happy one day, deeply despondent the next, which
characteristic has sprung from his very helplessness; with a never
failing sense of humor, which acts as a continual balance wheel. He is
a being, whose mystical side has been highly developed, and one to whom
the “creeturs” have become brothers and sisters, being endowed by him,
with human virtues and vices.”
“Uncle Remus” gave to literature and the world a new type of negro,
that of a good kind-hearted, sympathetic old man, who was willing to
spend hours in telling stories to a little boy. So little is said of
Uncle Remus himself. He is merely the teller of the stories and yet one
feels him to be just such an old man, for his character is interpreted
by the stories he tells. Indeed, some one once asked the author, “Mr.
Harris, really, don’t you suppose that Uncle Remus would steal chickens
if he had a chance?” and Mr. Harris replied, “If I follow Uncle Remus
all day, you surely can’t expect me to know what he does all night.”
Joel Chandler Harris in writing his “Uncle Remus” stories, did not
labor to place them in logical sequence. He cared little about their
value to students of comparative folk-lore, and had little notion of
their evolution when he wrote them. The series cannot be placed into
one great cycle that follows a hero through a number of incidents and
at last brings him to the end, victorious. Mr. Harris told them for the
pure enjoyment, and he was much surprised to find such a demand for a
thing that was all pleasure and no work to him. He loved the simple
tales because they were so near to nature’s heart, because they were
full of primitive wonder, quaint flashes of humor, homely philosophy,
and simple goodness.
The stories, however, readily group themselves into four classes.
I. Those that account for Certain Animal Traits, or Characteristics.
II. Stories with Brer Rabbit as a Hero.
III. Those stories told to the little Boy for their Ethical Value.
IV. Stories that attempt to Account for some Natural Phenomena.
Under the first group, Stories that account for certain animal
characteristics, I have placed the following:
Why the Hawk Catches Chickens.
Miss Partridge has a Fit.
Why Brer Possum has no Hair on his Tail.
Why Brer Fox’s Legs are Black.
Why Mr. Possum Loves Peace.
Why Brother Bull Growls and Complains.
How Mr. Rabbit Lost His Fine Bushy Tail.
Mr. Terrapin Shows His Strength.
Brer Buzzard Teaches Brer Terrapin to Fly.
The stories that show the shrewdness of Brer Rabbit, might be taken as
a small cycle which has Brer Rabbit as a hero.
The following are examples:
The Wonderful Tar Baby Story.
Old Mr. Rabbit, He’s a good Fisherman.
Brer Rabbit and de’ skeeters.
Brer Fox Says Grace.
Brer Rabbit Has Fun at the Ferry.
Why Brer Wolf didn’t eat the little Rabbits.
Brer Fox “Smells Smoke.”
Brer Rabbit Frightens Brer Tiger.
Brer Rabbit Conquers Mr. Lion.
Heyo House.
Sis Cow Falls a Victim to Mr. Rabbit.
How Mr. Rabbit Saved his Meat.
The Sad Fate of Mr. Fox.
Brer Rabbit Nibbles up de Butter.
The third group of stories that were told to the little boy for their
ethical value, presents quite a modern idea of the purpose of a good
story; namely, that in order to teach, a moral must be tacked on. When
Uncle Remus found the little boy in mischief, he straightway told him
a story with a homely moral. As for example the story of “Brother Bear
and the Honey Orchard.” Uncle Remus caught the little boy eating a
great piece of cake, while his little brother stood by, crying for
some. ’Tis then that he relates of the selfishment of Brer B’ar with
his own conclusion, that “to his membrence stingy folks nevah come to
no good ’een.”
The following stories were told with this idea in mind:
Brother Bear and the Honey Orchard.
The Man and the Wild Cattle.
Brer Rabbit’s Money Mint.
Brother Billy Goat’s Dinner.
The King that talked Biggity.
According to how the Drap Falls.
Under the fourth heading I have grouped such stories as:
The Story of the Deluge and how it came about.
Where the Hurricane Comes from.
The Creation.
Why the Negro is Black.
No one can doubt but that these simple stories were first told when the
human race was very young. The things that are at present accomplished
by science were then met by magic. Whether or not we believe that the
child in his development passes through much the same experience as the
race has in its development, there are certain things that are evident:
the child makes human and holds conversation with everything in his
backyard world. The same voices speak to him that spoke to his cave
dwelling ancestors. To him the wind is a person of might and power,
that moans when in anguish and sighs when weary.
(_To be concluded in next issue_)
The Three Goats
By Jessica Childs
This story, contributed by Miss Jessica Childs of the Pittsburgh (Pa.)
Training School for Teachers, is a translation from the Norse Folk
Lore. It is very popular, Miss Childs finds, with children in the
first school year.
Now you shall hear!
There was once a Boy who had three Goats. All day they leaped and
pranced and skipped and climbed up on the rocky hill, but at night the
Boy drove them home. One night, when he went to meet them, the frisky
things leaped into a turnip field and he could not get them out. Then
the Boy sat down on the hillside and cried.
As he sat there a Hare came along. “Why do you cry?” asked the Hare.
“I cry because I can’t get the Goats out of the field,” answered the
Boy.
“I’ll do it,” said the Hare. So he tried, but the Goats would not come.
Then the Hare, too, sat down and cried.
Along came a Fox.
“Why do you cry?” asked the Fox.
“I am crying because the Boy cries,” said the Hare; “and the Boy is
crying because he cannot get the Goats out of the turnip field.”
“I’ll do it,” said the Fox. So the Fox tried, but the Goats would not
come. Then the Fox also sat down and cried.
Soon after, a Wolf came along. “Why do you cry,” asked the Wolf. “I
am crying because the Hare cries,” said the Fox; “and the Hare cries
because the Boy cries; and the Boy cries because he can’t get the Goats
out of the turnip field.”
“I’ll do it,” said the Wolf. He tried, but the Goats would not leave
the field. So he sat down beside the others and began to cry too.
After a while, a Bee flew over the hill and saw them all sitting there
crying. “Why do you cry?” said the Bee to the Wolf.
“I am crying because the Fox cries, and the Fox cries because the Hare
cries; and the Hare cries because the Boy cries; and the Boy cries
because he can’t get the Goats out of the turnip field.”
“I’ll do it,” said the Bee.
Then the big animals and the Boy all stopped crying a moment to laugh
at the tiny Bee. He to do it, indeed, when they could not! But the tiny
Bee flew away into the turnip field and lit upon the ear of one of the
Goats and said,
“Buz-z-z-z-z!” And out ran the Goats every one!
“_The child makes human and holds conversation with everything in his
backyard world._
”_The same voices speak to him that spoke to his cave-dwelling
ancestors._
“_To him the wind is a person of might and power, that moans when in
anguish and sighs when weary._”JOSEPHINE LEACH.
Story Telling in Washington, D. C.
By Marietta Stockard
To the Kindergarten perhaps more than to any other department of
education, must be conceded the credit for having recognized the power
of the story in the life of the child. The best Kindergarten training
schools would no more omit a well organized course in story telling
than they would a course in psychology or child study, so it is with no
claim of something new or different that I respond to the invitation
of the STORYTELLERS’ MAGAZINE to tell of the work as it is done in the
Washington Normal School.
We are fortunate in having a Principal who has been willing to allow
a full two years’ course in stories. This makes possible a broader
literary basis, better developed principles of selection, more of
adaptation and practical story telling than could be accomplished in a
shorter time. It also makes possible a more leisurely, more psychologic
approach to the subject, and therefore launches us upon the actual
story telling with much of the beginner’s painful self-consciousness
eliminated.