to go into the presence of the caliph. There he produced some of the
roasted berries, which were boiled according to his direction, and the
governor and council drank of the water. They pronounced it a kingly
beverage, and the decree went forth that Hadji Omar was to go free.
Thereafter he lived with the caliph, who loved and trusted him as before
and led a more exemplary life because of the influence of the goodly
dervish.
Hadji Omar was honored during his remaining years, and after his death
was revered as a saint, not only because he was wise and righteous, but
because he discovered to Arabia the beverage of the coffee berry.
SOURCES OF MATERIAL TO USE IN DOMESTIC SCIENCE AND MANUAL TRAINING
CLINCH, GEORGE: _English Costume from Prehistoric Times to the
End of the Eighteenth Century_.
GOLDENBERG, SAMUEL L.: _Lace, Its Origin and History_.
KNIGHT, JAMES: _Food and Its Functions_.
LOWES, EMILY LEIGH: _Chats on Old Lace and Needlework_.
MORSE, FRANCES CLARY: _Furniture of the Olden Time_.
NORTON, EDITH ELIZA: _Rugs in their Native Land_.
PLANCHÉ, JAMES ROBINSON: _History of British Costume_.
RANSOM, CAROLINE LOUISE: _Studies in Ancient Furniture_.
SINGLETON, ESTHER: _Furniture of Our Forefathers_.
_Stories of the Ancient World Retold from St. Nicholas_
(Clothing).
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DOES THE WORK OF THE STORY-TELLER PAY?
And now arises the question, Does all this effort on the part of the
story-teller pay? Is it worth the labor required for the domestic-science
supervisor, the manual-arts director, the music, literature, geography,
or history teacher, to prepare stories that touch upon his work? That
question can best be answered by estimating results.
As stated in the opening chapter of Part One, story-telling can simplify
the entire education problem. It will create noble ideas in boys and
girls of today just as it created ideals and established standards in
those of the past. It will arouse an ambition to live and to achieve so
that they may be worthy of the emulation of children of the future even
as they emulate the heroes of days gone by. In no other way can such deep
desire be awakened as through story hearing and reading. In no other way
do children realize so completely the truth of Longfellow’s words:
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.
Yet in many homes story-telling is almost unknown because the mother
does not deem it of sufficient value to make some sacrifice of her time
and provide for it. She does not know that the story-telling mothers of
the past have been those whose children have risen up and called them
blessed; that the confidence of their boys and girls, won around the
fireside as old-time tales were told, has been held unshaken to the end.
The force that in the long ago moved men to great achievement has lost
none of its power. Twentieth-century children respond to stories as
eagerly as did boys and girls by the sea of Hellas when Greece was young,
as they did in medieval castle hall to the strains of minnesinger and
harper, because child nature does not change. The story hour in the home
is a formidable rival of the street and the nickelodeon, and the teacher
whose fund of tales is large and who tells them joyously has little
trouble with discipline. Her charges know that she holds the key to Magic
Land, and that if they are good she will open the gate. They remember her
with affection, and best of all remember the dreams that came into being
under her spell. She is queen of her little realm through the royal right
of the minstrel, and no pretender can dislodge her from her throne in the
hearts that she has won.
Yet some school officials, men of education and refinement, regard
story-telling as a very good means of entertainment, but unworthy of a
place in the curriculum, and when urged to include it ask, “Does it pay?”
If it is worth anything to make formal schoolroom subjects joyous instead
of boresome, then story-telling pays; if it is necessary to give the
child something that will be a perennial rainbow in his soul, something
that will keep him sweet and full of faith and hope when disappointments
come and illusions go, that will cause him to laugh at age even in
the time of white hairs and wrinkles, then story-telling is vitally
necessary. He cannot grow bitter who possesses Aladdin’s lamp. Dark
skies may lower over his head and the thunder crash ominously about him,
but if the seeds of romance have been planted in his soul, if poesy has
been nurtured into flower there by the world’s best stories heard in his
youth, he will retain, even in the midst of blackness and tempest, a
vision of turquoise skies behind the clouds, a dream of sun-kissed fields
where grow everlasting flowers of fragrance and beauty.
Is the reward to the worker not worth the price? One guerdon lies in the
thought that he who joins the ranks of story-tellers becomes a member of
a glorious company, one with which the greatest souls of the world were
not unwilling to be identified. Goethe never felt it beneath his dignity
to gather a group of children about him and delight them with a tale, and
nothing speaks more eloquently of the sweetness of Verdi’s nature than
one of his letters to his librettist that relates how, in his visits back
to the hill town where he was born, it gladdened him to see gamins swarm
from every quarter, exclaiming, “Una favola, signor, una favola!”
“He is a happy man,” says Châteaubriand, “who keeps through a turbulent
lifetime the heart of a child, who carries with him to the end of his
journey some of the illusions stored up in his youth, for contact with
envy and calumny and deception are apt to cause them to take flight.”
The author of _Faust_ and the creator of _Otello_ each had his share
of brushing against the things that make men bitter. They had sounded
the depths of discouragement and disappointment, yet they had the
hearts of children, and who knows but that telling stories to children
had something to do with keeping them young? During Verdi’s period of
struggle and heartbreak, when Milan jeered at his compositions and
critics declared him a man of no talent, when obstacles piled so high
it seemed beyond mortal power to remove them, when no one in the city
but himself and his wife believed in him, instead of becoming sour and
worthless, as any but a granitic nature like his would have done, he
returned to his native highlands and told stories to children who thought
him more wonderful than a king; then he went back to his labor strong and
fit. Forgetting himself in delighting the village _bambinos_ bolstered
up his courage and his faith and helped to make him an exuberant giver.
Perhaps the present-day story-teller, like that master at Roncone, if he
approach his work reverently and keep in mind a thought of what it has
meant to the world, may receive as much as he gives.
STORIES FOR TELLING
THE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE MOON
(_Alsatian Folk Tale—Christmas Story—Ethics, teaching honesty_)
The man in the moon was once a merry peasant, who ever so long ago lived
quite amicably with his good wife and children, and had a hut with a
wooden floor and a roof whose thatch was as thick as any in the village.
Always there was plenty of black bread and goat’s milk, and sometimes on
Sundays or holidays the family felt rich enough to afford a bit of pork.
But one Holy Night that peasant turned dishonest, and then something
happened.
“What shall we have for the Christmas feast?” asked his wife, who was fat
and jolly. “Shall it be our good rye bread and a fine joint of meat?”
“To be sure,” the merry husband answered, “but that is not enough. There
shall be cabbage too.”
At his words the wife opened her mouth so wide that it looked like a big
round window in her face.
“Cabbage!” she gasped. “Pray, how can that be, since we have not a leaf
in the hut?”
The peasant nodded in a knowing way and answered, “To be sure, there is
none there now, but there will be by and by.”
Then he held his tongue as if he thought it unwise to talk too freely
to a woman, took a basket, and went out of the door. His wife was much
excited. She was sure he had some secret message from the fairies, for it
was in that far-away time when strange and marvelous things happened.
Down along the road the peasant hurried, smiling like a village maiden
on the way to meet her sweetheart at the fair. Everywhere lights gleamed
from the windows, and he laughed at the sight of them, for he knew people
were inside, thinking of the feast and the Holy Night.
“Which makes it safe for me,” he murmured. On and on he went, never
stopping until he came to a cabbage patch, the largest and finest in the
village. They were bigger than his head, those cabbages, and every one of
them belonged to the mayor.
“But some shall go into my good wife’s pot,” he laughed as he saw them,
and climbing the fence he went into the patch and began to help himself.
Then suddenly along the road came a child on a snow-white horse. He rode
as if nothing could halt him, but seeing the man in the patch, he stopped
and shouted, “What are you doing?” The peasant looked to right and left
and began to stammer, “Just b-b-b-borrowing some of the m-m-m-mayor’s
cabbages,” he replied, as he threw a plump one into his basket.
The clear, strong tones rang out again, “You steal, and on the Holy Night
too! So you and your basket shall go to the moon.”
Then, whisk! Up the peasant started and never stopped until he came to
the middle of the moon, and there he has stayed ever since. Whether or
not he ate the cabbages, no one knows, but he and his basket are there to
this day, and every night when the moon is full you may see them.
THE DISCONTENTED PIG
(_Thuringian Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching contentment_)
Ever so long ago, in the time when there were fairies, and men and
animals talked together, there was a curly-tailed pig. He lived by
himself in a house at the edge of the village, and every day he worked in
his garden. Whether the sun shone or the rain fell he hoed and dug and
weeded, turning the earth around his tomato vines and loosening the soil
of the carrot plot, until word of his fine vegetables traveled through
seven counties, and each year he won the royal prize at the fair.
But after a time that little pig grew tired of the endless toil.
“What matters it if I do have the finest vegetables in the kingdom,” he
thought, “since I must work myself to death getting them to grow? I mean
to go out and see the world and find an easier way of making a living.”
So he locked the door of his house and shut the gate of his garden and
started down the road.
A good three miles he traveled, till he came to a cottage almost hidden
in a grove of trees. Lovely music sounded around him and Little Pig
smiled, for he had an ear for sweet sounds.
“I will go look for it,” he said, following in the direction from which
it seemed to come.
Now it happened that in that house dwelt Thomas, a cat, who made his
living playing on the violin. Little Pig saw him standing in the door
pushing the bow up and down across the strings. It put a thought into his
head. Surely this must be easier and far more pleasant than digging in a
garden!
“Will you teach me to play the violin, friend cat?” he asked.
Thomas looked up from his bow and nodded his head.
“To be sure,” he answered; “just do as I am doing.”
And he gave him the bow and fiddle.
Little Pig took them and began to saw, but squeak! quang! No sweet music
fell upon his ear. The sounds he heard were like the squealing of his
baby brother pigs when a wolf came near them.
“Oh!” he cried; “this isn’t music!”
Thomas, the cat, nodded his head.
“Of course not,” he said. “You haven’t tried long enough. He who would
play the violin must work.”
“Then I think I’ll look for something else,” Piggywig answered, “because
this is quite as hard as weeding my garden.”
And he gave back the bow and fiddle and started down the road.
He walked on and on, until he came to a hut where lived a dog who made
cheese. He was kneading and molding the curd into cakes, and Little Pig
thought it looked quite easy.
“I think I’d like to go into the cheese business myself,” he said to
himself. So he asked the dog if he would teach him.
This the dog was quite willing to do, and a moment later Little Pig was
working beside him.
Soon he grew hot and tired and stopped to rest and fan himself.
“No, no!” exclaimed the dog, “you will spoil the cheese. There can be no
rest time until the work is done.”
Little Pig opened his eyes in amazement.
“Indeed!” he replied. “Then this is just as hard as growing vegetables or
learning to play a violin. I mean to look for something easier.”
And he started down the road.
On the other side of the river, in a sweet green field, a man was taking
honey out of beehives. Little Pig saw him as he crossed the bridge and
thought that of all the trades he had seen, this suited him best. It must
be lovely there in the meadow among the flowers. Honey was not heavy to
lift, and once in a while he could have a mouthful of it. He ran as fast
as he could go to ask the man if he would take him into his employ.
This plan pleased the bee man as much as it pleased the pig.
“I’ve been looking for a helper for a year and a day,” he said. “Begin
work at once.”
He gave Little Pig a veil and a pair of gloves, telling him to fasten
them on well. Then he told him to lift a honeycomb out of a hive.
Little Pig ran to do it, twisting his curly tail in the joy of having at
last found a business that suited him. But buzz, buzz! The bees crept
under his veil and inside his gloves. They stung him on his fingers, his
mouth, his ears, and the end of his nose, and he squealed and dropped the
honey and ran.
“Come back, come back!” the man called.
“No, no!” Little Pig answered with a big squeal. “No, no, the bees hurt
me!”
The man nodded his head.
“Of course they do,” he said. “They hurt me too! That is part of the
work. You cannot be a beekeeper without getting stung.”
Little Pig blinked his beady eyes and began to think hard.
“It seems that every kind of work has something unpleasant about it. To
play the violin you must practice until your arm aches. When you make
cheese you dare not stop a minute until the work is done, and in taking
honey from a hive the bees sting you until your head is on fire. Work in
my garden is not so bad after all, and I am going back to it.”
So he said good-by to the bee man and was soon back in his carrot patch.
He hoed and raked and weeded, singing as he worked, and there was no more
contented pig in all that kingdom. Every autumn he took his vegetables to
the fair and brought home the royal prize, and sometimes, on holidays,
the cat and the dog and the bee man came to call.
THE BAT AND HIS PARTNERS
(_Old Bavarian Folk Tale—Helpful in Nature Study_)
Once upon a time a strange thing happened. A cormorant, a bat, and a
bramble met at the mouth of the river Elbe one day and told a sorrowful
story. Each was almost bankrupt; so they decided to postpone paying
their debts, put their remaining possessions together, and share in the
consequent weal or woe.
They bought a merchant vessel, a ship large and strong, and so seaworthy
it seemed it could sail to the nethermost parts of the Spanish Main. Wool
was precious then as now, and in a country far away a hundredweight of
sheep’s fleece brought many a gold doubloon. So they freighted the vessel
with the best wool that was to be had and joyfully watched the white
sails disappear in the pearl-gray mist. But a storm arose and angry winds
dashed their galleon against demon-like rocks. Instead of reaching a
distant land of gold doubloons the ship went to Davy Jones’s locker, and
her precious cargo made couches for the mermaids.
Then sad indeed was the plight of these partners on the North Sea shore!
Bailiffs began to sue them for payment of their debts, and ever since
that time the bat has flown by night, for in no other way can he avoid
his creditors. The cormorant, a solitary black figure, still broods
beside the waves and dives into the sea, hoping to retrieve his shattered
fortune, while the bramble has turned thief. Whenever a sheep goes by, he
seizes a bit of the fleece, trying in this way to make up for the loss of
the wool that went to the bottom of the Spanish Main instead of bringing
him the gold of which he had dreamed.
BRIER ROSE
RETOLD FROM GRIMM
(_Wonder Tale_)
In olden times there lived a king and queen, who lamented day by day that
they had no children; and yet never a one was born. One day, as the queen
was bathing and thinking of her wishes, a frog skipped out of the water
and said to her: “Your wish shall be fulfilled. Before a year passes you
shall have a daughter.”
As the frog had said, so it happened, and a little girl was born who was
so beautiful that the king almost lost his senses; but he ordered a great
feast to be held, and invited to it not only his relatives, friends, and
acquaintances, but also all the wise women who were kind and affectionate
to children. There happened to be thirteen in his dominions, but since
he had only twelve golden plates out of which they could eat, one had
to stay at home. The feast was celebrated with all the magnificence
possible, and, as soon as it was over, the wise women presented the
infant with their wonderful gifts: one with virtue, another with beauty,
a third with riches, and so on, so that the child had everything that
is to be desired in the world. Just as eleven had given their presents,
the thirteenth old lady stepped in suddenly. She was in a tremendous
passion because she had not been invited, and, without greeting any one
or looking at any one, she exclaimed loudly, “The princess shall prick
herself with a spindle on her fifteenth birthday and shall die!” and
without a word further she turned her back and left the hall. All were
terrified, but the twelfth fairy, who had not yet given her wish, then
stepped up. Because she could not take away the evil wish, but could only
soften it, she said, “She shall not die, but shall fall into a sleep of a
hundred years’ duration.”
The king, who naturally wished to protect his child from this misfortune,
issued a decree commanding that every spindle in the kingdom should be
burnt. Meanwhile all the gifts of the wise women were fulfilled, and the
maiden became so beautiful, gentle, virtuous, and clever, that every one
who saw her fell in love with her. It happened on the day when she was
just fifteen years old that the queen and the king were not at home, and
so she was left alone in the castle. The maiden looked about in every
place, going through all the rooms and chambers just as she pleased,
until she came at last to an old tower. Up the narrow winding staircase
she tripped until she arrived at a door, in the lock of which was a rusty
key. This she turned, and the door sprang open, and there in the little
room sat an old woman with a spindle, spinning flax.
“Good day to you,” said the princess, “what is this that you are doing
here?”
“I am spinning,” said the old woman, nodding her head.
“What thing is that which twists round so merrily?” inquired the maiden,
and she took the spindle to try her hand at spinning. Scarcely had she
done so when the prophecy was fulfilled, for she pricked her finger;
and at the very same moment she fell back in a deep sleep upon a bed
which stood near. This sleep extended over the whole palace. The king
and queen, who had just come in, fell asleep in the hall, and all their
courtiers with them; the horses in the stables, the doves upon the eaves,
the flies upon the walls, and even the fire upon the hearth, all ceased
to stir; the meat which was cooking ceased to frizzle; and the cook at
the instant of pulling the hair of the kitchen boy lost his hold and
began to snore, too. The wind also fell entirely, and not a leaf rustled
on the trees round the castle.
Now around the palace a thick hedge of briers began growing, which every
year grew higher and higher, till the castle was quite hidden from view,
so that one could not even see the flag upon the tower. Then there went
a legend through the land, of the beautiful maiden Brier Rose, for so
was the sleeping princess named, and from time to time princes came,
endeavoring to penetrate through the hedge into the castle; but it was
not possible, for the thorns held them as if by hands, and the youths
were unable to release themselves, and so perished miserably.
After the lapse of many years, there came another king’s son into the
country, and heard an old man tell the legend of the hedge of briers;
how that behind it stood a castle where slept a wonderfully beauteous
princess called Brier Rose, who had slumbered nearly a hundred years,
and with her the queen and king and all their court. The old man further
related what he had heard from his grandfather, that many princes had
come and tried to penetrate the hedge, and had died a miserable death.
But the youth was not to be daunted, and, however much the old man tried
to dissuade him, he would not listen, but cried out, “I fear not, I will
see this hedge of briers!”
Just at that time came the last day of the hundred years, when Brier Rose
was to wake again. As the young prince approached the hedge, the thorns
turned to fine large flowers, which of their own accord made a way for
him to pass through, and again closed up behind him. In the courtyard
he saw the horses and dogs lying fast asleep, and on the eaves were the
doves with their heads beneath their wings. As soon as he went into the
house, there were the flies asleep upon the wall, the cook still stood
with his hands on the hair of the kitchen boy, and the maid stood at the
board with the unplucked fowl in her hand. He went on, and in the hall
he found the courtiers lying asleep, and above, by the throne, were the
king and queen. He went on farther, and all was so quiet that he could
hear himself breathe, until at last he came to the tower and opened the
door of the little room where slept Brier Rose. There she lay, looking
so beautiful that he could not turn away his eyes, and he bent over her
and kissed her. Just as he did so she opened her eyes, awoke, and greeted
him with smiles. Then they went down together, and immediately the king
and queen awoke, and the whole court, and all stared at each other
wonderingly. Now the horses in the stable got up and shook themselves;
the dogs wagged their tails; the doves upon the eaves drew their heads
from under their wings, looked around, and flew away; the flies upon the
walls began to crawl; the fire began to burn brightly and to cook the
meat; the meat began again to frizzle; the cook gave his lad a box upon
the ear which made him call out; and the maid began to pluck the fowl
furiously. The whole palace was once more in motion as if nothing had
occurred, for the hundred years’ sleep had made no change in any one.
By and by the wedding of the prince with Brier Rose was celebrated with
great splendor, and to the end of their lives they lived happily and
contented.
THE COAT OF ALL COLORS
RETOLD FROM GRIMM
(_Thuringian Wonder Tale_)
There was once a king whose wife had golden hair and was altogether so
beautiful that her equal was not to be found in the world. It happened
that she fell ill, and when she felt she must soon die she called the
king and said, “If you marry again after my death, take no one who is not
as beautiful as I have been, nor one who has not golden hair like mine,
and this you must promise me.” After the king had promised she closed her
eyes, and soon died.
For a long time the king would not be comforted and thought not of taking
a second wife, but his councillors at last said that he must marry
again. Then messengers were sent far and wide to seek a bride who should
be as beautiful as the late queen, but there was no one to be found in
the whole world so beautiful and with such golden hair. So the messengers
returned home without accomplishing anything.