HOW TO TELL STORIESTO CHILDREN

AND SOME STORIES TO TELL

BYSARA CONE BRYANT

[Illustration]

LONDON

GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD. 

2 & 3 PORTSMOUTH STREET KINGSWAY W. C. 

1918

=Books for Story-Tellers=

_UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_

=How to Tell Stories to Children= And Some Stories to Tell. By SARA CONE BRYANT. Tenth Impression. 

=Stories to Tell to Children= With Fifty-Three Stories to Tell. By SARA CONE BRYANT. Seventh Impression. 

=The Book of Stories for the Story-Teller= By FANNY COE. Fourth Impression. 

=Songs and Stories for the Little Ones= By E. GORDON BROWNE, M. A. With Melodies chosen and arranged by EVA BROWNE. New and Enlarged Edition. 

=Character Training= A Graded Series of Lessons in Ethics, largely through Story-telling. By E. L. CABOT and E. EYLES. Third Impression. 384 pages. 

=Stories for the Story Hour= From January to December. By ADA M. MARZIALS. Second Impression. 

=Stories for the History Hour= From Augustus to Rolf. By NANNIE NIEMEYER. Second Impression. 

=Stories for the Bible Hour= By R. BRIMLEY JOHNSON, B. A. 

=Nature Stories to Tell to Children= By H. WADDINGHAM SEERS. 

 * * * * *

MISS MAUD LINDSAY'S POPULAR BOOKS

=Mother Stories= With 16 Line Illustrations. 

=More Mother Stories= With 20 Line Illustrations. 

THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGHGREAT BRITAIN

_To My Mother_

THE FIRST, BEST STORY-TELLERTHIS LITTLE BOOK ISDEDICATED

PREFACE

The stories which are given in the following pages are for the most partthose which I have found to be best liked by the children to whom I havetold these and others. I have tried to reproduce the form in which Iactually tell them, --although that inevitably varies with everyrepetition, --feeling that it would be of greater value to anotherstory-teller than a more closely literary form. 

For the same reason, I have confined my statements of theory as to method, to those which reflect my own experience; my "rules" were drawn fromintrospection and retrospection, at the urging of others, long after theinstinctive method they exemplify had become habitual. 

These facts are the basis of my hope that the book may be of use to thosewho have much to do with children. 

It would be impossible, in the space of any pardonable preface, to namethe teachers, mothers, and librarians who have given me hints and helpsduring the past few years of story-telling. But I cannot let these pagesgo to press without recording my especial indebtedness to the few personswithout whose interested aid the little book would scarcely have come tobe. They are: Mrs Elizabeth Young Rutan, at whose generous instance Ifirst enlarged my own field of entertaining story-telling to include hers, of educational narrative, and from whom I had many valuable suggestions atthat time; Miss Ella L. Sweeney, assistant superintendent of schools, Providence, R. I. , to whom I owe exceptional opportunities forinvestigation and experiment; Mrs Root, children's librarian of ProvidencePublic Library, and Miss Alice M. Jordan, Boston Public Library, children's room, to whom I am indebted for much gracious and efficientaid. 

My thanks are due also to Mr David Nutt for permission to make use ofthree stories from _English Fairy Tales_, by Mr Joseph Jacobs, and_Raggylug_, from _Wild Animals I have Known_, by Mr Ernest Thompson Seton;to Messrs Frederick A. Stokes Company for _Five Little White Heads_, byWalter Learned, and for _Bird Thoughts_; to Messrs Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co. Ltd. For _The Burning of the Ricefields_, from _Gleanings inBuddha-Fields_, by Mr Lafcadio Hearn; to Messrs H. R. Allenson Ltd. Forthree stories from _The Golden Windows_, by Miss Laura E. Richards; and toMr Seumas McManus for _Billy Beg and his Bull_, from _In Chimney Corners_. 

S. C. B. 

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION PAGEThe Story-teller's ArtRecent RevivalThe Difference between telling a Story and reading it aloudSome Reasons why the Former is more effective 11

CHAPTER I

THE PURPOSE OF STORY-TELLING IN SCHOOL

Its immediate Advantages to the TeacherIts ultimate Gifts to the Child 19

CHAPTER II

SELECTION OF STORIES TO TELL

The Qualities Children like, and whyQualities necessary for Oral DeliveryExamples: _The Three Bears_, _The Three Little Pigs_, _The Old Woman and her Pig_Suggestions as to the Type of Story especially useful in the several primary GradesSelected List of familiar Fairy Tales 43

CHAPTER III

ADAPTATION OF STORIES FOR TELLING

How to make a long Story shortHow to fill out a short StoryGeneral Changes commonly desirableExamples: _The Nürnberg Stove_, by Ouida; _The King of the Golden River_, by Ruskin; _The Red Thread of Courage_, _The Elf and the Dormouse_Analysis of Method 67

CHAPTER IV

HOW TO TELL THE STORY

Essential Nature of the StoryKind of Appreciation necessarySuggestions for gaining Mastery of FactsArrangement of ChildrenThe Story-teller's MoodA few Principles of Method, Manner and Voice, from the psychological Point of View 93

CHAPTER V

SOME SPECIFIC SCHOOLROOM USES

Exercise in RetellingIllustrations cut by the Children as Seat-workDramatic GamesInfluence of Games on Reading Classes 117

STORIES SELECTED AND ADAPTED FOR TELLING

ESPECIALLY FOR KINDERGARTEN AND CLASS I. 

Nursery Rhymes 133Five Little White Heads 134Bird Thoughts 134How we came to have Pink Roses 135Raggylug 135The Golden Cobwebs 138Why the Morning-Glory climbs 142The Story of Little Tavwots 143The Pig Brother 145The Cake 148The Pied Piper of Hamelin Town 149Why the Evergreen Trees keep their Leaves in Winter 156The Star Dollars 159The Lion and the Gnat 161

ESPECIALLY FOR CLASSES II. AND III. 

The Cat and the Parrot 168The Rat Princess 172The Frog and the Ox 175The Fire-Bringer 176The Burning of the Ricefields 179The Story of Wylie 182Little Daylight 186The Sailor Man 199The Story of Jairus's Daughter 201

ESPECIALLY FOR CLASSES IV. AND V. 

Arthur and the Sword 204Tarpeia 208The Buckwheat 210The Judgment of Midas 211Why the Sea is salt 213Billy Beg and his Bull 221The Little Hero of Haarlem 233The Last Lesson 238The Story of Christmas 243

THE CHILD-MIND; AND HOW TO SATISFY IT

A short List of Books in which the Story-teller will findStories not too far from the Form in which they areneeded 247

INTRODUCTION

Not long ago, I chanced to open a magazine at a story of Italian lifewhich dealt with a curious popular custom. It told of the love of thepeople for the performances of a strangely clad, periodically appearingold man who was a professional story-teller. This old man repeated wholecycles of myth and serials of popular history, holding hisaudience-chamber in whatever corner of the open court or square hehappened upon, and always surrounded by an eager crowd of listeners. Sogreat was the respect in which the story-teller was held, that anyinterruption was likely to be resented with violence. 

As I read of the absorbed silence and the changing expressions of thecrowd about the old man, I was suddenly reminded of a company of people Ihad recently seen. They were gathered in one of the parlours of a women'scollege, and their serious young faces had, habitually, none of thechildlike responsiveness of the Italian populace; they were suggestive, rather, of a daily experience which precluded over-much surprise orcuriosity about anything. In the midst of the group stood a frail-lookingwoman with bright eyes. She was telling a story, a children's story, abouta good and a bad little mouse. 

She had been asked to do that thing, for a purpose, and she did it, therefore. But it was easy to see from the expressions of the listenershow trivial a thing it seemed to them. 

That was at first. But presently the room grew quieter; and yet quieter. The faces relaxed into amused smiles, sobered in unconscious sympathy, finally broke in ripples of mirth. The story-teller had come to her own. 

The memory of the college girls listening to the mouse-story brought othermemories with it. Many a swift composite view of faces passed before mymental vision, faces with the child's look on them, yet not the faces ofchildren. And of the occasions to which the faces belonged, those weremost vivid which were earliest in my experience. For it was those earlyexperiences which first made me realise the modern possibilities of theold, old art of telling stories. 

It had become a part of my work, some years ago, to give English lectureson German literature. Many of the members of my class were unable to readin the original the works with which I dealt, and as these were modernworks it was rarely possible to obtain translations. For this reason, Igradually formed the habit of telling the story of the drama or novel inquestion before passing to a detailed consideration of it. I enjoyed thispart of the lesson exceedingly, but it was some time before I realised howmuch the larger part of the lesson it had become to the class. Theyused--and they were mature women--to wait for the story as if it were asugarplum and they, children; and to grieve openly if it were omitted. Substitution of reading from a translation was greeted with precisely thesame abatement of eagerness that a child shows when he has asked you totell a story, and you offer, instead, to "read one from the pretty book. "And so general and constant were the tokens of enjoyment that there couldultimately be no doubt of the power which the mere story-telling exerted. 

The attitude of the grown-up listeners did but illustrate the generaldifference between the effect of telling a story and of reading one. Everyone who knows children well has felt the difference. With fewexceptions, children listen twice as eagerly to a story told as to oneread, and even a "recitation" or a so-called "reading" has not the charmfor them that the person wields who can "tell a story. " And there aresound reasons for their preference. 

The great difference, including lesser ones, between telling and readingis that the teller is free; the reader is bound. The book in hand, or thewording of it in mind, binds the reader. The story-teller is bound bynothing; he stands or sits, free to watch his audience, free to follow orlead every changing mood, free to use body, eyes, voice, as aids inexpression. Even his mind is unbound, because he lets the story come inthe words of the moment, being so full of what he has to say. For thisreason, a story told is more spontaneous than one read, however well read. And, consequently, the connection with the audience is closer, moreelectric, than is possible when the book or its wording intervenes. 

Beyond this advantage, is the added charm of the personal element instory-telling. When you make a story your own and tell it, the listenergets the story, _plus your appreciation of it_. It comes to him filteredthrough your own enjoyment. That is what makes the funny story thricefunnier on the lips of a jolly raconteur than in the pages of a memoir. Itis the filter of personality. Everybody has something of the curiosity ofthe primitive man concerning his neighbour; what another has in his ownperson felt and done has an especial hold on each one of us. The mostcultured of audiences will listen to the personal reminiscences of anexplorer with a different tingle of interest from that which it feels fora scientific lecture on the results of the exploration. The longing forthe personal in experience is a very human longing. And this instinct orlonging is especially strong in children. It finds expression in theirdelight in tales of what father or mother did when they were little, ofwhat happened to grandmother when she went on a journey, and so on, but italso extends to stories which are not in themselves personal: which taketheir personal savour merely from the fact that they flow from the lips inspontaneous, homely phrases, with an appreciative gusto which suggestsparticipation. 

The greater ease in holding the attention of children is, for teachers, asufficient practical reason for telling stories rather than reading them. It is incomparably easier to make the necessary exertion of "magnetism, "or whatever it may be called, when nothing else distracts the attention. One's eyes meet the children's gaze naturally and constantly; one'sexpression responds to and initiates theirs without effort; the connectionis immediate. For the ease of the teacher, then, no less than for the joyof the children, may the art of story-telling be urged as pre-eminent overthe art of reading. 

It is a very old, a very beautiful art. Merely to think of it carriesone's imaginary vision to scenes of glorious and touching antiquity. Thetellers of the stories of which Homer's _Iliad_ was compounded; thetransmitters of the legend and history which make up the _GestaRomanorum_; the travelling raconteurs whose brief heroic tales are woveninto our own national epic; the grannies of age-old tradition whosestories are parts of Celtic folk-lore, of Germanic myth, of Asiaticwonder-tales, --these are but younger brothers and sisters to thegenerations of story-tellers whose inventions are but vaguely outlined inresultant forms of ancient literatures, and the names of whose tribes areno longer even guessed. There was a time when story-telling was thechiefest of the arts of entertainment; kings and warriors could ask fornothing better; serfs and children were satisfied with nothing less. Inall times there have been occasional revivals of this pastime, and in notime has the art died out in the simple human realms of which mothers arequeens. But perhaps never, since the really old days, has story-telling sonearly reached a recognised level of dignity as a legitimate and generalart of entertainment as now. 

Its present popularity seems in a way to be an outgrowth of therecognition of its educational value which was given impetus by the Germanpedagogues of Froebel's school. That recognition has, at all events, beena noticeable factor in educational conferences of late. The function ofthe story is no longer considered solely in the light of its place in thekindergarten; it is being sought in the first, the second, and indeed inevery standard where the children are still children. Sometimes the demandfor stories is made solely in the interests of literary culture, sometimesin far ampler and vaguer relations, ranging from inculcation of scientificfact to admonition of moral theory; but whatever the reason given, theconclusion is the same: tell the children stories. 

The average teacher has yielded to the pressure, at least in theory. Cheerfully, as she has already accepted so many modifications of oldmethods by "new thought, " she accepts the idea of instilling mental andmoral desiderata into the receptive pupil, _viâ_ the charming tale. But, confronted with the concrete problem of what desideratum by which tale, and how, the average teacher sometimes finds her cheerfulness displaced bya sense of inadequacy to the situation. 

People who have always told stories to children, who do not know when theybegan or how they do it; whose heads are stocked with the accretions ofyears of fairyland-dwelling and nonsense-sharing, --these cannot understandthe perplexity of one to whom the gift and the opportunity have not "comenatural. " But there are many who can understand it, personally and alltoo well. To these, the teachers who have not a knack for story-telling, who feel as shy as their own youngest scholar at the thought of it, who donot know where the good stories are, or which ones are easy to tell, it ismy earnest hope that the following pages will bring something definite andpractical in the way of suggestion and reference. 

HOW TO TELL STORIES TO CHILDREN

CHAPTER I

THE PURPOSE OF STORY-TELLING IN SCHOOL

Let us first consider together the primary matter of the _aim_ ineducational story-telling. On our conception of this must depend verylargely all decisions as to choice and method; and nothing in the wholefield of discussion is more vital than a just and sensible notion of thisfirst point. What shall we attempt to accomplish by stories in theschoolroom? What can we reasonably expect to accomplish? And what, ofthis, is best accomplished by this means and no other?

These are questions which become the more interesting and practicalbecause the recent access of enthusiasm for stories in education has ledmany people to claim very wide and very vaguely outlined territory fortheir possession, and often to lay heaviest stress on their leastessential functions. The most important instance of this is the fervourwith which many compilers of stories for school use have directed theirefforts solely toward illustration of natural phenomena. Geology, zoology, botany, and even physics are taught by means of more or less happilyconstructed narratives based on the simpler facts of these sciences. Kindergarten teachers are familiar with such narratives: the littlestories of chrysalis-breaking, flower-growth, and the like. Now this is aperfectly proper and practicable aim, but it is not a primary one. Others, to which at best this is but secondary, should have first place andreceive greatest attention. 

What is a story, essentially? Is it a text-book of science, an appendix tothe geography, an introduction to the primer of history? Of course it isnot. A story is essentially and primarily a work of art, and its chieffunction must be sought in the line of the uses of art. Just as the dramais capable of secondary uses, yet fails abjectly to realise its purposewhen those are substituted for its real significance as a work of art, sodoes the story lend itself to subsidiary purposes, but claims first andmost strongly to be recognised in its real significance as a work of art. Since the drama deals with life in all its parts, it can exemplifysociological theory, it can illustrate economic principle, it can evenpicture politics; but the drama which does these things only, has nobreath of its real life in its being, and dies when the wind of populartendency veers from its direction. So, you can teach a child interestingfacts about bees and butterflies by telling him certain stories, and youcan open his eyes to colours and processes in nature by telling certainothers; but unless you do something more than that and before that, youare as one who should use the Venus of Milo for a demonstration inanatomy. 

The message of the story is the message of beauty, as effective as thatmessage in marble or paint. Its part in the economy of life is _to givejoy_. And the purpose and working of the joy is found in that quickeningof the spirit which answers every perception of the truly beautiful in thearts of man. To give joy; in and through the joy to stir and feed the lifeof the spirit: is not this the legitimate function of the story ineducation?

Because I believe it to be such, not because I ignore the value of otheruses, I venture to push aside all aims which seem secondary to this forlater mention under specific heads. Here in the beginning of ourconsideration I wish to emphasise this element alone. A story is a work ofart. Its greatest use to the child is in the everlasting appeal of beautyby which the soul of man is constantly pricked to new hungers, quickenedto new perceptions, and so given desire to grow. 

The obvious practical bearing of this is that story-telling is first ofall an art of entertainment; like the stage, its immediate purpose is thepleasure of the hearer, --his pleasure, not his instruction, first. 

Now the story-teller who has given the listening children such pleasure asI mean may or may not have added a fact to the content of their minds; shehas inevitably added something to the vital powers of their souls. She hasgiven a wholesome exercise to the emotional muscles of the spirit, hasopened up new windows to the imagination, and added some line or colour tothe ideal of life and art which is always taking form in the heart of achild. She has, in short, accomplished the one greatest aim ofstory-telling, --to enlarge and enrich the child's spiritual experience, and stimulate healthy reaction upon it. 

Of course this result cannot be seen and proved as easily and early as canthe apprehension of a fact. The most one can hope to recognise is itspromise, and this is found in the tokens of that genuine pleasure which isitself the means of accomplishment. It is, then, the signs of rightpleasure which the story-teller must look to for her guide, and which itmust be her immediate aim to evoke. As for the recognition of thesigns, --no one who has ever seen the delight of a real child over a realstory can fail to know the signals when given, or flatter himself intobelief in them when absent. 

Intimately connected with the enjoyment given are two very practicallybeneficial results which the story-teller may hope to obtain, and at leastone of which will be a kind of reward to herself. The first is arelaxation of the tense schoolroom atmosphere, valuable for its refreshingrecreative power. The second result, or aim, is not so obvious, but iseven more desirable; it is this: story-telling is at once one of thesimplest and quickest ways of establishing a happy relation betweenteacher and children, and one of the most effective methods of forming thehabit of fixed attention in the latter. 

If you have never seen an indifferent child aroused or a hostile oneconquered to affection by a beguiling tale, you can hardly appreciate thetruth of the first statement; but nothing is more familiar in thestory-teller's experience. An amusing, but--to me--touching experiencerecently reaffirmed in my mind this power of the story to establishfriendly relations. 

My three-year-old niece, who had not seen me since her babyhood, beingtold that Aunt Sara was coming to visit her, somehow confused the expectedguest with a more familiar aunt, my sister. At sight of me, her rush ofwelcome relapsed into a puzzled and hurt withdrawal, which yielded to noexplanations or proffers of affection. All the first day she followed meabout at a wistful distance, watching me as if I might at any moment turninto the well-known and beloved relative I ought to have been. Even byundressing time I had not progressed far enough to be allowed intimateapproach to small sacred nightgowns and diminutive shirts. The nextmorning, when I opened the door of the nursery where her maid was brushingher hair, the same dignity radiated from the little round figure perchedon its high chair, the same almost hostile shyness gazed at me from thegreat expressive eyes. Obviously, it was time for something to be done. 

Disregarding my lack of invitation, I drew up a stool, and seating myselfopposite the small unbending person, began in a conversational murmur:"M--m, I guess those are tingly-tanglies up there in that curl Lottie'scombing; did you ever hear about the tingly-tanglies? They live in littlegirls' hair, and they aren't any bigger than _that_, and when anybodytries to comb the hair they curl both weeny legs round, _so_, and hold ontight with both weeny hands, _so_, and won't let go!" As I paused, myniece made a queer little sound indicative of query battling with reserve. I pursued the subject: "They like best to live right over a little girl'sear, or down in her neck, because it is easier to hang on, there;tingly-tanglies are very smart, indeed. "

"What's ti-ly-ta-lies?" asked a curious, guttural little voice. 

I explained the nature and genesis of tingly-tanglies, as revealed to mesome decades before by my inventive mother, and proceeded to develop theirsimple adventures. When next I paused the small guttural voice demanded, "Say more, " and I joyously obeyed. 

When the curls were all curled and the last little button buttoned, mybaby niece climbed hastily down from her chair, and deliberately up intomy lap. With a caress rare to her habit she spoke my name, slowly andtentatively, "An-ty Sai-ry?" Then, in an assured tone, "Anty Sairy, I loveyou so much I don't know what to do!" And, presently, tucking a confidinghand in mine to lead me to breakfast, she explained sweetly, "I didn' knowyou when you comed las' night, but now I know you all th' time!"

"Oh, blessed tale, " thought I, "so easy a passport to a confidence sodesired, so complete!" Never had the witchery of the story to the ear of achild come more closely home to me. But the fact of the witchery was nonew experience. The surrender of the natural child to the story-teller isas absolute and invariable as that of a devotee to the priest of his ownsect. 

This power is especially valuable in the case of children whose naturalshyness has been augmented by rough environment or by the strangeness offoreign habit. And with such children even more than with others it isalso true that the story is a simple and effective means of forming thehabit of concentration, of fixed attention; any teacher who deals withthis class of children knows the difficulty of doing this fundamental andindispensable thing, and the value of any practical aid in doing it. 

More than one instance of the power of story-telling to developattentiveness comes to my mind, but the most prominent in memory is arather recent incident, in which the actors were boys and girls far pastthe child-stage of docility. 

I had been asked to tell stories to about sixty boys and girls of a club;the president warned me in her invitation that the children wereexceptionally undisciplined, but my previous experiences with similargatherings led me to interpret her words with a moderation which left metotally unready for the reality. When I faced my audience, I saw asquirming jumble of faces, backs of heads, and the various members of manysmall bodies, --not a person in the room was paying the slightest attentionto me; the president's introduction could scarcely be said to succeed ininterrupting the interchange of social amenities which was in progress, and which looked delusively like a free fight. I came as near stagefright in the first minutes of that occasion as it is comfortable to be, and if it had not been impossible to run away I think I should not haveremained. But I began, with as funny a tale as I knew, following the safeplan of not speaking very loudly, and aiming my effort at the nearestchildren. As I went on, a very few faces held intelligently to mine; themajority answered only fitfully; and not a few of my hearers conversedwith their neighbours as if I were non-existent. The sense of bafflement, the futile effort, forced the perspiration to my hands and face--yetsomething in the faces before me told me that it was no ill-will thatfought against me; it was the apathy of minds without the power or habitof concentration, unable to follow a sequence of ideas any distance, andrendered more restless by bodies which were probably uncomfortable, certainly undisciplined. 

The first story took ten minutes. When I began a second, a very short one, the initial work had to be done all over again, for the slight comparativequiet I had won had been totally lost in the resulting manifestation ofapproval. 

At the end of the second story, the room was really orderly to thesuperficial view, but where I stood I could see the small boy whodeliberately made a hideous face at me each time my eyes met his, the twogirls who talked with their backs turned, the squirms of a figure hereand there. It seemed so disheartening a record of failure that I hesitatedmuch to yield to the uproarious request for a third story, but finally Idid begin again, on a very long story which for its own sake I wanted themto hear. 

This time the little audience settled to attention almost at the openingwords. After about five minutes I was suddenly conscious of a sense ofease and relief, a familiar restful feeling in the atmosphere; and then, at last, I knew that my audience was "with me, " that they and I wereinteracting without obstruction. Absolutely quiet, entirely unconscious ofthemselves, the boys and girls were responding to every turn of thenarrative as easily and readily as any group of story-bred kindergartenchildren. From then on we had a good time together. 

The process which took place in that small audience was a condensedexample of what one may expect in habitual story-telling to a group ofchildren. Once having had the attention chained by crude force ofinterest, the children begin to expect something interesting from theteacher, and to wait for it. And having been led step by step from onegrade of a logical sequence to another, their minds--at first beguiled bythe fascination of the steps--glide into the habit of following anylogical sequence. My club formed its habit, as far as I was concerned, all in one session; the ordinary demands of school procedure lengthen theprocess, but the result is equally sure. By the end of a week in which thechildren have listened happily to a story every day, the habit oflistening and deducing has been formed, and the expectation ofpleasantness is connected with the opening of the teacher's lips. 

These two benefits are well worth the trouble they cost, and for thesetwo, at least, any teacher who tells a story well may confidentlylook--the quick gaining of a confidential relation with the children, andthe gradual development of concentration and interested attention in them. 

These are direct and somewhat clearly discernible results, comfortablyplaced in a near future. There are other aims, reaching on into the far, slow modes of psychological growth, which must equally determine thechoice of the story-teller's material and inform the spirit of her work. These other, less immediately attainable ends, I wish now to consider inrelation to the different types of story by which they are severally bestserved. 

First, unbidden claimant of attention, comes

THE FAIRY STORY

No one can think of a child and a story, without thinking of the fairytale. Is this, as some would have us believe, a bad habit of an ignorantold world? Or can the Fairy Tale justify her popularity with trulyedifying and educational results? Is she a proper person to introducehere, and what are her titles to merit?

Oh dear, yes! Dame Fairy Tale comes bearing a magic wand in her wrinkledold fingers, with one wave of which she summons up that very spirit of joywhich it is our chief effort to invoke. She raps smartly on the door, andopen sesames echo to every imagination. Her red-heeled shoes twinkle downan endless lane of adventures, and every real child's footsteps quickenafter. She is the natural, own great-grandmother of every child in theworld, and her pocketfuls of treasures are his by right of inheritance. Shut her out, and you truly rob the children of something which is theirs;something marking their constant kinship with the race-children of thepast, and adapted to their needs as it was to those of the generation oflong ago! If there were no other criterion at all, it would be enough thatthe children love the fairy tale; we give them fairy stories, first, because they like them. But that by no means lessens the importance of thefact that fairy tales are also good for them. 

How good? In various ways. First, perhaps, in their supreme power ofpresenting truth through the guise of images. This is the way therace-child took toward wisdom, and it is the way each child's individualinstinct takes, after him. Elemental truths of moral law and general typesof human experience are presented in the fairy tale, in the poetry oftheir images, and although the child is aware only of the image at thetime, the truth enters with it and becomes a part of his individualexperience, to be recognised in its relations at a later stage. Everytruth and type so given broadens and deepens the capacity of the child'sinner life, and adds an element to the store from which he draws his moralinferences. 

The most familiar instance of a moral truth conveyed under a fairy-storyimage is probably the story of the pure-hearted and loving girl whose lipswere touched with the wonderful power of dropping jewels with every spokenword, while her stepsister, whose heart was infested with malice and evildesires, let ugly toads fall from her mouth whenever she spoke. I mentionthe old tale because there is probably no one of my readers who has notheard it in childhood, and because there are undoubtedly many to whosemind it has often recurred in later life as a sadly perfect presentment ofthe fact that "out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. " Thatstory has entered into the forming consciousness of many of us, with itsimplications of the inevitable result of visible evil from evil in theheart, and its revelation of the loathsomeness of evil itself. 

And no less truly than this story has served to many as an embodiment ofmoral law has another household tale stood for a type of commonexperience. How much the poorer should we be, mentally, without our earlyprophecy of the "ugly ducklings" we are to meet later in life!--thoseawkward offspring of our little human duckyard who are mostly well kickedand buffeted about, for that very length of limb and breadth of back whichneeds must be, to support swan's wings. The story of the ugly duckling ismuch truer than many a bald statement of fact. The English-speaking worldbears witness to its verity in constant use of the title as an identifyingphrase: "It is the old story of the ugly duckling, " we say, or "He hasturned out a real ugly duckling. " And we know that our hearers understandthe whole situation. 

The consideration of such familiar types and expressions as that of theugly duckling suggests immediately another good reason for giving thechild his due of fairy lore. The reason is that to omit it is to deprivehim of one important element in the full appreciation of matureliterature. If one thinks of it, one sees that nearly all adult literatureis made by people who, in their beginnings, were bred on the wonder tale. Whether he will or no, the grown-up author must incorporate into his workthe tendencies, memories, kinds of feeling which were his in childhood. The literature of maturity is, naturally, permeated by the influence ofthe literature of childhood. Sometimes it is apparent merely in the use ofa name, as suggestive of certain kinds of experience; such are therecurrences of reference to the Cinderella story. Sometimes it is anallusion which has its strength in long association of certain qualitieswith certain characters in fairydom--like the slyness of Brother Fox, andthe cruelty of Brother Wolf. Sometimes the association of ideas lies belowthe surface, drawing from the hidden wells of poetic illusion which aresunk in childhood. The man or woman whose infancy was nourishedexclusively on tales adapted from science-made-easy, or from biographiesof good men and great, must remain blind to these beauties of literature. He may look up the allusion, or identify the reference, but when that isdone he is but richer by a fact or two; there is no remembered thrill init for him, no savour in his memory, no suggestion to his imagination; andthese are precisely the things which really count. Leaving out the fairyelement is a loss to literary culture much as would be the omission of theBible or of Shakespeare. Just as all adult literature is permeated by theinfluence of these, familiar in youth, so in less degree is it transfusedwith the subtle reminiscences of childhood's commerce with the wonderworld. 

To turn now from the inner to the outer aspects of the old-time tale is tomeet another cause of its value to children. This is the value of itsstyle. Simplicity, directness, and virility characterise the classic fairytales and the most memorable relics of folklore. And these are three ofthe very qualities which are most seriously lacking in much of the newwriting for children, and which are always necessary elements in theculture of taste. Fairy stories are not all well told, but the best fairystories are supremely well told. And most folk-tales have a movement, asweep, and an unaffectedness which make them splendid foundations fortaste in style. 

For this, and for poetic presentation of truths in easily assimilatedform, and because it gives joyous stimulus to the imagination, and isnecessary to full appreciation of adult literature, we may freely use thewonder tale. 

Closely related to, sometimes identical with, the fairy tale is the old, old source of children's love and laughter, THE NONSENSE TALE

Under this head I wish to include all the merely funny tales of childhood, embracing the cumulative stories like that of the old woman and the pigwhich would not go over the stile. They all have a specific use andbenefit, and are worth the repetition children demand for them. Theirvalue lies, of course, in the tonic and relaxing properties of humour. Nowhere is that property more welcome or needed than in the schoolroom. Itdoes us all good to laugh, if there is no sneer nor smirch in the laugh;fun sets the blood flowing more freely in the veins, and loosens thestrained cords of feeling and thought; the delicious shock of surprise atevery "funny spot" is a kind of electric treatment for the nerves. But itespecially does us good to laugh when we are children. Every little bodyis released from the conscious control school imposes on it, and huddlesinto restful comfort or responds gaily to the joke. 

More than this, humour teaches children, as it does their grown-upbrethren, some of the facts and proportions of life. What keener teacheris there than the kindly satire? What more penetrating and suggestive thanthe humour of exaggerated statement of familiar tendency? Is there one ofus who has not laughed himself out of some absurd complexity ofover-anxiety with a sudden recollection of "clever Alice" and her fate? Inour household clever Alice is an old _habituée_, and her timely arrivalhas saved many a situation which was twining itself about more "ifs" thanit could comfortably support. The wisdom which lies behind true humour isfound in the nonsense tale of infancy as truly as in mature humour, but inits own kind and degree. "Just for fun" is the first reason for thehumorous story; the wisdom in the fun is the second. 

And now we come to

THE NATURE STORY

No other type of fiction is more familiar to the teacher, and probably noother kind is the source of so much uncertainty of feeling. The naturestory is much used, as I have noticed above, to illustrate or to teach thehabits of animals and the laws of plant-growth; to stimulate scientificinterest as well as to increase culture in scientific fact. This is anentirely legitimate object. In view of its present preponderance, it iscertainly a pity, however, that so few stories are available, the accuracyof which, from this point of view, can be vouched for. The carefullyprepared book of to-day is refuted and scoffed at to-morrow. The teacherwho wishes to use story-telling chiefly as an element in nature study mustat least limit herself to a small amount of absolutely unquestionedmaterial, or else subject every new story to the judgment of an authorityin the line dealt with. This is not easy for the teacher at a distancefrom the great libraries, and for those who have access to well-equippedlibraries it is a matter of time and thought. 

It does not so greatly trouble the teacher who uses the nature story as astory, rather than as a text-book, for she will not be so keenly attractedtoward the books prepared with a didactic purpose. She will find a goodgift for the child in nature stories which are stories, over and above anystimulus to his curiosity about fact. That good gift is a certainpossession of all good fiction. 

One of the best things good fiction does for any of us is to broaden ourcomprehension of other lots than our own. The average man or woman haslittle opportunity actually to live more than one kind of life. Thechances of birth, occupation, family ties, determine for most of us a lineof experience not very inclusive and but little varied; and this is anatural barrier to our complete understanding of others, whose life-lineis set at a different angle. It is not possible wholly to sympathise withemotions engendered by experience which one has never had. Yet we all longto be broad in sympathy and inclusive in appreciation; we long, greatly, to know the experience of others. This yearning is probably one of thegood but misconceived appetites so injudiciously fed by the gossip of thedaily press. There is a hope, in the reader, of getting for the momentinto the lives of people who move in wholly different sets ofcircumstances. But the relation of dry facts in newspapers, however tingedwith journalistic colour, helps very little to enter such other life. Theentrance has to be by the door of the imagination, and the journalist israrely able to open it for us. But there is a genius who can open it. Theauthor who can write fiction of the right sort can do it; his is the giftof seeing inner realities, and of showing them to those who cannot seethem for themselves. Sharing the imaginative vision of the story-writer, we can truly follow out many other roads of life than our own. The girl ona lone country farm is made to understand how a girl in a citysweating-den feels and lives; the London exquisite realises the life of aCalifornian ranchman; royalty and tenement dwellers become acquainted, through the power of the imagination working on experience shown in thelight of a human basis common to both. Fiction supplies an element ofculture, --that of the sympathies, which is invaluable. And the beginningsof this culture, this widening and clearing of the avenues of humansympathy, are especially easily made with children in the nature story. 

When you begin, "There was once a little furry rabbit, "[1] the child'scuriosity is awakened by the very fact that the rabbit is not a child, but something of a different species altogether. "Now for something newand adventuresome, " says his expectation, "we are starting off into aforeign world. " He listens wide-eyed, while you say, "and he lived in awarm, cosy nest, down under the long grass with his mother"--howdelightful, to live in a place like that; so different from little boys'homes!--"his name was Raggylug, and his mother's name was MollyCottontail. And every morning, when Molly Cottontail went out to get theirfood, she said to Raggylug, 'Now, Raggylug, remember you are only a babyrabbit, and don't move from the nest. No matter what you hear, no matterwhat you see, don't you move!'"--all this is different still, yet it isfamiliar, too; it appears that rabbits are rather like folks. So the taleproceeds, and the little furry rabbit passes through experiences strangeto little boys, yet very like little boys' adventures in some respects; heis frightened by a snake, comforted by his mammy, and taken to a newhouse, under the long grass a long way off. These are all situations towhich the child has a key. There is just enough of strangeness to entice, just enough of the familiar to relieve any strain. When the child haslived through the day's happenings with Raggylug, the latter has begun toseem veritably a little brother of the grass to him. And because he hasentered imaginatively into the feelings and fate of a creature differentfrom himself, he has taken his first step out into the wide world of thelives of others. 

[Footnote 1: See _Raggylug_, page 135. ]

It may be a recognition of this factor and its value which has led so manywriters of nature stories into the error of over-humanising theirfour-footed or feathered heroes and heroines. The exaggeration isunnecessary, for there is enough community of lot suggested in thesternest scientific record to constitute a natural basis for sympathy onthe part of the human animal. Without any falsity of presentationwhatever, the nature story may be counted on as a help in the beginningsof culture of the sympathies. It is not, of course, a help confined to thepowers of the nature story; all types of story share in some degree thepowers of each. But each has some especial virtue in dominant degree, andthe nature story is, on this ground, identified with the thought given. 

The nature story shares its influence especially with

THE HISTORICAL STORY

As the one widens the circle of connection with other kinds of life, theother deepens the sense of relation to past lives; it gives the sense ofbackground, of the close and endless connection of generation withgeneration. A good historical story vitalises the conception of pastevents and brings their characters into relation with the present. This isespecially true of stories of things and persons in the history of our ownrace. They foster race-consciousness, the feeling of kinship and communityof blood. It is this property which makes the historical story so good anagent for furthering a proper national pride in children. Genuinepatriotism, neither arrogant nor melodramatic, is so generally recognisedas having its roots in early training that I need not dwell on thispossibility, further than to note its connection with the instinct ofhero-worship which is quick in the healthy child. Let us feed that hungerfor the heroic which gnaws at the imagination of every boy and of moregirls than is generally admitted. There have been heroes in plenty in theworld's records, --heroes of action, of endurance, of decision, of faith. Biographical history is full of them. And the deeds of these heroes areevery one a story. We tell these stories, both to bring the great pastinto its due relation with the living present, and to arouse that generousadmiration and desire for emulation which is the source of so muchinspiration in childhood. When these stories are tales of the doings andhappenings of our own heroes, the strong men and women whose lives are apart of our own country's history, they serve the double demands ofhero-worship and patriotism. Stories of wise and honest statesmanship, ofstruggle with primitive conditions, of generous love and sacrifice, and--in some measure--of physical courage, form a subtle and powerfulinfluence for pride in one's people, the intimate sense of kinship withone's own nation, and the desire to serve it in one's own time. 

It is not particularly useful to tell batches of unrelated anecdote. It ismuch more profitable to take up the story of a period and connect it witha group of interesting persons whose lives affected it or were affected byit, telling the stories of their lives, or of the events in which theywere concerned, as "true stories. " These biographical stories must, usually, be adapted for use. But besides these there is a certain numberof pure stories--works of art--which already exist for us, and whichilluminate facts and epochs almost without need of sidelights. Such maystand by themselves, or be used with only enough explanation to givebackground. Probably the best story of this kind known to lovers of modernliterature is Daudet's famous _La Dernière Classe_. [1]

[Footnote 1: See _The Last Lesson_, page 238. ]

The historical story, to recapitulate, gives a sense of the reality andhumanness of past events, is a valuable aid in patriotic training, andstirs the desire of emulating goodness and wisdom. 

CHAPTER II

SELECTION OF STORIES TO TELL

There is one picture which I can always review, in my own collection ofpast scenes, though many a more highly coloured one has been irrevocablycurtained by the folds of forgetfulness. It is the picture of a littlegirl, standing by an old-fashioned marble-topped dressing-table in a pink, sunny room. I can never see the little girl's face, because, somehow, I amalways looking down at her short skirts or twisting my head round againstthe hand which patiently combs her stubborn curls. But I can see thebrushes and combs on the marble table quite plainly, and the pinkerstreaks of sun on the pink walls. And I can hear. I can hear a low, wonder-working voice which goes smoothly on and on, as the fingers run upthe little girl's locks or stroke the hair into place on her forehead. Thevoice says, "And little Goldilocks came to a little bit of a house. Andshe opened the door and went in. It was the house where three Bears lived;there was a great Bear, a little Bear, and a middle-sized Bear; and theyhad gone out for a walk. Goldilocks went in, and she saw"--the littlegirl is very still; she would not disturb that story by so much as a loudbreath; but presently the comb comes to a tangle, pulls, --and the littlegirl begins to squirm. Instantly the voice becomes impressive, mysterious:"she went up to the table, and there were _three plates of porridge_. Shetasted the first one"--the little girl swallows the breath she was goingto whimper with, and waits--"and it was too hot! She tasted the next one, and _that_ was too hot. Then she tasted the little bit of a plate, andthat--was--just--right!"

How I remember the delightful sense of achievement which stole into thelittle girl's veins when the voice behind her said "just right. " I thinkshe always chuckled a little, and hugged her stomach. So the storyprogressed, and the little girl got through her toilet without crying, owing to the wonder-working voice and its marvellous adaptation ofclimaxes to emergencies. Nine times out of ten, it was the story of _TheThree Bears_ she demanded when, with the appearance of brush and comb, thevoice asked, "Which story shall mother tell?"

It was a memory of the little girl in the pink room which made it easy forme to understand some other children's preferences when I recently hadoccasion to inquire about them. By asking many individual children whichstory of all they had heard they liked best, by taking votes on the beststory of a series, after telling it, and by getting some obliging teachersto put similar questions to their pupils, I found three prime favouritescommon to a great many children of about the kindergarten age. They were_The Three Bears_, _Three Little Pigs_, and _The Little Pig that wouldn'tgo over the Stile_. 

Some of the teachers were genuinely disturbed because the few stories theyhad introduced merely for amusement had taken so pre-eminent a place inthe children's affection over those which had been given seriously. It wasof no use, however, to suggest substitutes. The children knew definitelywhat they liked, and though they accepted the recapitulation of scientificand moral stories with polite approbation, they returned to the originalanswer at a repetition of the question. 

Inasmuch as the slightest of the things we hope to do for children bymeans of stories is quite impossible unless the children enjoy thestories, it may be worth our while to consider seriously these three whichthey surely do enjoy, to see what common qualities are in them, explanatory of their popularity, by which we may test the probable successof other stories we wish to tell. 

Here they are, --three prime favourites of proved standing. 

THE STORY OF THE THREE LITTLE PIGS[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from Joseph Jacobs's _English Fairy Tales_ (DavidNutt, 57-59 Long Acre, W. C. 6s. ). ]

Once upon a time there were three little pigs, who went from home to seektheir fortune. The first that went off met a man with a bundle of straw, and said to him:--

"Good man, give me that straw to build me a house. "

The man gave the straw, and the little pig built his house with it. Presently came along a wolf, and knocked at the door, and said:--

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in. "

But the pig answered:--

"No, no, by the hair of my chiny-chin-chin. "

So the wolf said:--

"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in. "

So he huffed, and he puffed, and he blew his house in, and ate up thelittle pig. 

The second little pig met a man with a bundle of furze, and said:--

"Good man, give me that furze to build me a house. "

The man gave the furze, and the pig built his house. Then once more camethe wolf, and said:

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in. "

"No, no, by the hair of my chiny-chin-chin. "

"Then I'll puff, and I'll huff, and I'll blow your house in. "

So he huffed, and he puffed, and he puffed and he huffed, and at last heblew the house in, and ate up the little pig. 

The third little pig met a man with a load of bricks, and said:--

"Good man, give me those bricks to build me a house with. "

The man gave the bricks, and he built his house with them. Again the wolfcame, and said:--

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in. "

"No, no, by the hair of my chiny-chin-chin. "

"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in. "

So he huffed, and he puffed, and he huffed, and he puffed, and he puffedand huffed; but he could not get the house down. Finding that he couldnot, with all his huffing and puffing, blow the house down, he said:--

"Little pig, I know where there is a nice field of turnips. "

"Where?" said the little pig. 

"Oh, in Mr Smith's field, and if you will be ready to-morrow morning wewill go together, and get some for dinner. "

"Very well, " said the little pig. "What time do you mean to go?"

"Oh, at six o'clock. "

So the little pig got up at five, and got the turnips before the wolfcame crying:--

"Little pig, are you ready?"

The little pig said: "Ready! I have been and come back again, and got anice potful for dinner. "

The wolf felt very angry at this, but thought that he would be a match forthe little pig somehow or other, so he said:--

"Little pig, I know where there is a nice apple-tree. "

"Where?" said the pig. 

"Down at Merry-garden, " replied the wolf, "and if you will not deceive meI will come for you, at five o'clock to-morrow, and get some apples. "

The little pig got up next morning at four o'clock, and went off for theapples, hoping to get back before the wolf came; but it took long to climbthe tree, and just as he was coming down from it, he saw the wolf coming. When the wolf came up he said:--

"Little pig, what! are you here before me? Are they nice apples?"

"Yes, very, " said the little pig. "I will throw you down one. "

And he threw it so far that, while the wolf was gone to pick it up, thelittle pig jumped down and ran home. The next day the wolf came again, andsaid to the little pig:--

"Little pig, there is a fair in town this afternoon; will you go?"

"Oh yes, " said the pig, "I will go; what time?"

"At three, " said the wolf. As usual the little pig went off before thetime, and got to the fair, and bought a butter-churn, which he was rollinghome when he saw the wolf coming. So he got into the churn to hide, and inso doing turned it round, and it rolled down the hill with the pig in it, which frightened the wolf so much that he ran home without going to thefair. He went to the little pig's house, and told him how frightened hehad been by a great round thing which came past him down the hill. Thenthe little pig said:--

"Ha! ha! I frightened you, then!"

Then the wolf was very angry indeed, and tried to get down the chimney inorder to eat up the little pig. When the little pig saw what he was about, he put a pot full of water on the blazing fire, and, just as the wolf wascoming down, he took off the cover, and in fell the wolf. Quickly thelittle pig clapped on the cover, and when the wolf was boiled ate him forsupper. 

THE STORY OF THE THREE BEARS[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from Joseph Jacobs's _English Fairy Tales_ (DavidNutt, 57-59 Long Acre, W. C. 6s. ). ]

Once upon a time there were Three Bears, who lived together in a house oftheir own, in a wood. One of them was a Little Small Wee Bear, and onewas a Middle-sized Bear, and the other was a Great Huge Bear. They hadeach a pot for their porridge, --a little pot for the Little Small WeeBear, and a middle-sized pot for the Middle-sized Bear, and a great potfor the Great Huge Bear. And they had each a chair to sit in, --a littlechair for the Little Small Wee Bear, and a middle-sized chair for theMiddle-sized Bear, and a great chair for the Great Huge Bear. And they hadeach a bed to sleep in, --a little bed for the Little Small Wee Bear, and amiddle-sized bed for the Middle-sized Bear, and a great bed for the GreatHuge Bear. 

One day, after they had made the porridge for their breakfast, and pouredit into their porridge-pots, they walked out into the wood while theporridge was cooling, that they might not burn their mouths, by beginningtoo soon to eat it. And while they were walking, a little girl namedGoldilocks came to the house. She had never seen the little house before, and it was such a strange little house that she forgot all the things hermother had told her about being polite: first she looked in at the window, and then she peeped in at the keyhole; and seeing nobody in the house, shelifted the latch. The door was not fastened, because the Bears were goodBears, who did nobody any harm, and never suspected that anybody wouldharm them. So Goldilocks opened the door, and went in; and well pleasedshe was when she saw the porridge on the table. If Goldilocks hadremembered what her mother had told her, she would have waited till theBears came home, and then, perhaps, they would have asked her tobreakfast; for they were good Bears--a little rough, as the manner ofBears is, but for all that very good-natured and hospitable. ButGoldilocks forgot, and set about helping herself. 

So first she tasted the porridge of the Great Huge Bear, and that was toohot. And then she tasted the porridge of the Middle-sized Bear, and thatwas too cold. And then she went to the porridge of the Little Small WeeBear, and tasted that: and that was neither too hot nor too cold, but justright; and she liked it so well, that she ate it all up. 

Then Goldilocks sat down in the chair of the Great Huge Bear, and that wastoo hard for her. And then she sat down in the chair of the Middle-sizedBear, and that was too soft for her. And then she sat down in the chair ofthe Little Small Wee Bear, and that was neither too hard nor too soft, butjust right. So she seated herself in it, and there she sat till the bottomof the chair came out, and down she came, plump upon the ground. 

Then Goldilocks went upstairs into the bed-chamber in which the ThreeBears slept. And first she lay down upon the bed of the Great Huge Bear;but that was too high at the head for her. And next she lay down upon thebed of the Middle-sized Bear, and that was too high at the foot for her. And then she lay down upon the bed of the Little Small Wee Bear; and thatwas neither too high at the head nor at the foot, but just right. So shecovered herself up comfortably, and lay there till she fell fast asleep. 

By this time the Three Bears thought their porridge would be cool enough;so they came home to breakfast. Now Goldilocks had left the spoon of theGreat Huge Bear standing in his porridge. 

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT MY PORRIDGE!" said the Great Huge Bear, in hisgreat, rough, gruff voice. And when the Middle-sized Bear looked at his, he saw that the spoon was standing in it too. 

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT MY PORRIDGE!" said the Middle-sized Bear, in hismiddle-sized voice. 

Then the Little Small Wee Bear looked at his, and there was the spoon inthe porridge-pot, but the porridge was all gone. 

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT MY PORRIDGE, AND HAS EATEN IT ALL UP!" said theLittle Small Wee Bear, in his little, small, wee voice. 

Upon this, the Three Bears, seeing that someone had entered their house, and eaten up the Little Small Wee Bear's breakfast, began to look aboutthem. Now Goldilocks had not put the hard cushion straight when she rosefrom the chair of the Great Huge Bear. 

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR!" said the Great Huge Bear, in hisgreat, rough, gruff voice. 

And Goldilocks had crushed down the soft cushion of the Middle-sized Bear. 

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR!" said the Middle-sized Bear, inhis middle-sized voice. 

And you know what Goldilocks had done to the third chair. 

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR AND HAS SAT THE BOTTOM OUT OF IT!"said the Little Small Wee Bear, in his little, small, wee voice. 

Then the Three Bears thought it necessary that they should make furthersearch; so they went upstairs into their bed-chamber. Now Goldilocks hadpulled the pillow of the Great Huge Bear out of its place. 

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN LYING IN MY BED!" said the Great Huge Bear, in hisgreat, rough, gruff voice. 

And Goldilocks had pulled the bolster of the Middle-sized Bear out of itsplace. 

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN LYING IN MY BED!" said the Middle-sized Bear, in hismiddle-sized voice. 

And when the Little Small Wee Bear came to look at his bed, there was thebolster in its place; and the pillow in its place upon the bolster; andupon the pillow was the shining, yellow hair of little Goldilocks!

"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN LYING IN MY BED, --AND HERE SHE IS!" said the LittleSmall Wee Bear, in his little, small, wee voice. 

Goldilocks had heard in her sleep the great, rough, gruff voice of theGreat Huge Bear; but she was so fast asleep that it was no more to herthan the roaring of wind or the rumbling of thunder. And she had heard themiddle-sized voice of the Middle-sized Bear, but it was only as if she hadheard someone speaking in a dream. But when she heard the little, small, wee voice of the Little Small Wee Bear, it was so sharp, and so shrill, that it awakened her at once. Up she started, and when she saw the ThreeBears on one side of the bed, she tumbled herself out at the other, andran to the window. Now the window was open, because the Bears, like good, tidy Bears as they were, always opened their bed-chamber window when theygot up in the morning. 

Out little Goldilocks jumped, and ran away home to her mother, as fast asever she could. 

THE OLD WOMAN AND HER PIG[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from Joseph Jacobs's _English Fairy Tales_ (DavidNutt, 57-59 Long Acre, W. C. 6s. ). ]

It happened one day that as an old woman was sweeping her house she founda little crooked sixpence. "What, " said she, "shall I do with this littlesixpence? I will go to market, and buy a little pig. "

On the way home she came to a stile; but the piggy wouldn't go over thestile. 

So she left the piggy and went on a little further, till she met a dog. She said to him, "Dog, dog, bite pig; piggy won't go over the stile; and Isha'n't get home to-night. " But the dog wouldn't bite piggy. 

A little further on she met a stick. So she said: "Stick! stick! beat dog!dog won't bite pig; piggy won't go over the stile; and I sha'n't get hometo-night. " But the stick wouldn't beat the dog. 

A little further on she met a fire. So she said: "Fire! fire! burn stick!stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile;and I sha'n't get home to-night. " But the fire wouldn't burn the stick. 

A little further on she met some water. So she said: "Water! water! quenchfire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig;piggy won't get over the stile; and I sha'n't get home to-night. " But thewater wouldn't quench the fire. 

A little further on she met an ox. So she said: "Ox! ox! drink water;water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dogwon't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I sha'n't get hometo-night. " But the ox wouldn't drink the water. 

A little further on she met a butcher. So she said: "Butcher! butcher!kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burnstick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over thestile; and I sha'n't get home to-night. " But the butcher wouldn't kill theox. 

A little further on she met a rope. So she said: "Rope! rope! hangbutcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quenchfire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig;piggy won't get over the stile; and I sha'n't get home to-night. " But therope wouldn't hang the butcher. 

A little further on she met a rat. So she said: "Rat! rat! gnaw rope; ropewon't hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; waterwon't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won'tbite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and I sha'n't get hometo-night. " But the rat wouldn't gnaw the rope. 

A little further on she met a cat. So she said: "Cat! cat! kill rat; ratwon't gnaw rope; rope won't hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won'tdrink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won'tbeat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and Isha'n't get home to-night. " But the cat said to her, "If you will go toyonder cow, and fetch me a saucer of milk, I will kill the rat. " So awaywent the old woman to the cow. 

But the cow refused to give the milk unless the old woman first gave her ahandful of hay. So away went the old woman to the haystack; and shebrought the hay to the cow. 

When the cow had eaten the hay, she gave the old woman the milk; and awayshe went with it in a saucer to the cat. 

As soon as it had lapped up the milk, the cat began to kill the rat; therat began to gnaw the rope; the rope began to hang the butcher; thebutcher began to kill the ox; the ox began to drink the water; the waterbegan to quench the fire; the fire began to burn the stick; the stickbegan to beat the dog; the dog began to bite the pig; the little pig in afright jumped over the stile; and so the old woman did get home thatnight. 

 * * * * *

The briefest examination of these three stories reveals the fact that oneattribute is beyond dispute in each. Something happens, all the time. Every step in each story is an event. There is no time spent inexplanation, description, or telling how people felt; the stories tellwhat people did, and what they said. And the events are the links of asequence of the closest kind; in point of time and of cause they follow asimmediately as it is possible for events to follow. There are no gaps, andno complications of plot requiring a return on the road. 

A second common characteristic appears on briefest examination. As you runover the little stories you will see that each event presents a distinctpicture to the imagination, and that these pictures are made out of verysimple elements. The elements are either familiar to the child oranalogous to familiar ones. Each object and happening is very likeeveryday, yet touched with a subtle difference, rich in mystery. Forexample, the details of the pictures in the Goldilocks story are parts ofeveryday life, --house, chairs, beds, and so on; but they are the house, chairs, and beds of three bears; that is the touch of marvel whichtransforms the scene. The old woman who owned the obstinate pig is thecentre of a circle in which stand only familiar images, --stick, fire, water, cow, and the rest; but the wonder enters with the fact that theseusually inanimate or dumb objects of nature enter so humanly into thecontest of wills. So it is, also, with the doings of the three littlepigs. Every image is explicable to the youngest hearer, while nonesuggests actual familiarity, because the actors are not children, butpigs. Simplicity, with mystery, is the keynote of all the pictures, andthese are clear and distinct. 

Still a third characteristic common to the stories quoted is a certainamount of repetition. It is more definite, and of what has been called the"cumulative" kind, in the story of the old woman; but in all it is adistinctive feature. 

Here we have, then, three marked characteristics common to three storiesalmost invariably loved by children, --action, in close sequence; familiarimages, tinged with mystery; some degree of repetition. 

It is not hard to see why these qualities appeal to a child. The first isthe prime characteristic of all good stories, --"stories as is stories";the child's demand for it but bears witness to the fact that hisinstinctive taste is often better than the taste he later develops underartificial culture. The second is a matter of common-sense. How could theimagination create new worlds, save out of the material of the old? Tooffer strange images is to confuse the mind and dull the interest; tooffer familiar ones "with a difference" is to pique the interest andengage the mind. 

The charm of repetition, to children, is a more complex matter; there areundoubtedly a good many elements entering into it, hard to trace inanalysis. But one or two of the more obvious may be seized and brought toview. The first is the subtle flattery of an unexpected sense of mastery. When the child-mind, following with toilful alertness a new train ofthought, comes suddenly on a familiar epithet or expression, I fancy it iswith much the same sense of satisfaction that we older people feel when inthe midst of a long programme of new music the orchestra strikes intosomething we have heard before, --Handel, maybe, or one of the morefamiliar Beethoven sonatas. "I know that! I have heard that before!" wethink, triumphant, and settle down to enjoyment without effort. So it is, probably, with the "middle-sized" articles of the bears' house and the"and I sha'n't get home to-night" of the old woman. Each recurrencedeepens the note of familiarity, tickles the primitive sense of humour, and eases the strain of attention. 

When the repetition is cumulative, like the extreme instance of _The Housethat Jack Built_, I have a notion that the joy of the child is thepleasure of intellectual gymnastics, not too hard for fun, but not tooeasy for excitement. There is a deal of fun to be got out of purelyintellectual processes, and childhood is not too soon for the rudimentsof such fun to show. The delight the healthy adult mind takes in workingout a neat problem in geometry, the pleasure a musician finds in followingthe involutions of a fugue, are of the same type of satisfaction as theliking of children for cumulative stories. Complexity and mass, arrived atby stages perfectly intelligible in themselves, mounting steadily from astarting-point of simplicity; then the same complexity and mass resolvingitself as it were miraculously back into simplicity, this is anintellectual joy. It does not differ materially, whether found in thestudy of counterpoint, at thirty, or in the story of the old woman and herpig, at five. It is perfectly natural and wholesome, and it may perhaps bea more powerful developing force for the budding intellect than we areaware. 

For these reasons let me urge you, when you are looking for stories totell little children, to apply this threefold test as a kind of touchstoneto their quality of fitness: Are they full of action, in close naturalsequence? Are their images simple without being humdrum? Are theyrepetitive? The last quality is not an absolute requisite; but it is atleast very often an attribute of a good child-story. 

Having this touchstone in mind for general selection, we can now pass tothe matter of specific choices for different ages of children. No one canspeak with absolute conviction in this matter, so greatly do the taste andcapacity of children of the same age vary. Any approach to an exactclassification of juvenile books according to their suitability fordifferent ages will be found impossible. The same book in the hands of askilful narrator may be made to afford delight to children both of fiveand ten. The following are merely the inferences drawn from my ownexperience. They must be modified by each teacher according to theconditions of her small audience. In general, I believe it to be wise toplan the choice of stories much as indicated in the table given on page 64. 

At a later stage, varying with the standard of capacity of differentclasses, we find the temper of mind which asks continually, "Is thattrue?" To meet this demand, one draws on historical and scientificanecdote, and on reminiscence. But the demand is never so exclusive thatfictitious narrative need be cast aside. All that is necessary is to statefrankly that the story you are telling is "just a story, " or--if it be thecase--that it is "part true and part story. "

At all stages I would urge the telling of Bible stories, as far as isallowed by the special circumstances of the school. These are storiesfrom a source unsurpassed in our literature for purity of style andloftiness of subject. More especially I urge the telling of theChrist-story, in such parts as seem likely to be within the grasp of theseveral classes. In all Bible stories it is well to keep as near aspossible to the original unimprovable text. [1] Some amplification can bemade, but no excessive modernising or simplifying is excusable in face ofthe austere grace and majestic simplicity of the original. Such adaptationas helps to cut the long narrative into separate units, making each anintelligible story, I have ventured to illustrate according to my ownpersonal taste, in two stories given in Chapter VI. The object of theusual modernising or enlarging of the text may be far better attained forthe child listener by infusing into the text as it stands a strongrealising sense of its meaning and vitality, letting it give its ownmessage through a fit medium of expression. 

[Footnote 1: _Stories from the Old Testament_, by S. Platt, retells theOld Testament story as nearly as possible in the actual words of theAuthorised Version. ]

The stories given in pages 133 to 246 are grouped as illustrations of thetypes suitable for different stages. They are, however, very ofteninterchangeable; and many stories can be told successfully to all classes. A vitally good story is little limited in its appeal. It is, nevertheless, a help to have certain plain results of experience as abasis for choice; that which is given is intended only for such a basis, not in the least as a final list. 

CERTAIN TYPES OF STORY CLASSIFIED

FOR KINDERGARTEN AND CLASS I. :

 Little Rhymed Stories (including the best of the nursery rhymes and the more poetic fragments of Mother Goose) Stories with Rhyme in Parts Nature Stories (in which the element of personification is strong) Nonsense Tales Wonder Tales

FOR CLASSES II. AND III. :

 Nonsense Tales Wonder Tales Fairy and Folk Tales Fables Legends Nature Stories (especially stories of animals)

FOR CLASSES IV. AND V. :

 Folk Tales Fables Myths and Allegories Developed Animal Stories Legends: Historic and Heroic Historical Stories Humorous Adventure Stories "True Stories"

The wonder tales most familiar and accessible to the teacher are probablythose included in the collections of Andersen and the Brothers Grimm. Soconstant is the demand for these that the following list may be founduseful, as indicating which of the stories are more easily and effectivelyadapted for telling, and commonly most successful. 

It must be remembered that many of these standard tales need such adaptingas has been suggested, cutting them down, and ridding them of vulgar orsophisticated detail. 

From the Brothers Grimm:

The Star DollarsThe Cat and the MouseThe NailThe Hare and the HedgehogSnow-White and Rose-RedMother HolleThumblingThree BrothersThe Little Porridge PotLittle Snow-WhiteThe Wolf and the Seven Little KidsThe Sea Mouse

From Andersen:

Little TinyThe Lark and the DaisyThe Ugly DucklingThe Seven Stories of the Snow QueenThe FlaxThe Little Match GirlThe Fir-TreeThe Red ShoesOlé Luköié Monday Saturday SundayThe Elf of the RoseFive Peas in a PodThe Portuguese DuckThe Little Mermaid (much shortened)The Nightingale (shortened)The Girl who trod on a LoafThe Emperor's New Clothes

Another familiar and easily attainable type of story is the classic myth, as retold in Kupfer's _Legends of Greece and Rome_. [1] Of these, again, certain tales are more successfully adapted to children than others. Amongthe best for telling are:

ArachnePandoraMidasApollo and DaphneApollo and HyacinthusNarcissusLatona and the RusticsProserpine

[Footnote 1: A well-nigh indispensable book for teachers is Guerber's_Myths of Greece and Rome_, which contains in brief form a completecollection of the classic myths. ]

CHAPTER III

ADAPTATION OF STORIES FOR TELLING

It soon becomes easy to pick out from a collection such stories as can bewell told; but at no time is it easy to find a sufficient number of suchstories. Stories simple, direct, and sufficiently full of incident fortelling, yet having the beautiful or valuable motive we desire forchildren, do not lie hidden in every book. And even many of the storieswhich are most charming to read do not answer the double demand, for theappeal to the eye differs in many important respects from that to the ear. Unless one is able to change the form of a story to suit the needs of oraldelivery, one is likely to suffer from poverty of material. Perhaps thecommonest need of change is in the case of a story too long to tell, yetembodying some one beautiful incident or lesson; or one including a seriesof such incidents. The story of _The Nürnberg Stove_, by Ouida, [1] is agood example of the latter kind; Ruskin's _King of the Golden River_ willserve as an illustration of the former. 

[Footnote 1: See _Bimbi_, by Ouida. (Chatto. 2s. )]

The problem in one case is chiefly one of elimination; in the other it isalso in a large degree one of rearrangement. In both cases I havepurposely chosen extreme instances, as furnishing plainer illustration. The usual story needs less adaptation than these, but the same kind, inits own degree. Condensation and rearrangement are the commonest forms ofchange required. 

Pure condensation is probably the easier for most persons. With _TheNürnberg Stove_ in mind for reference, let us see what the processincludes. This story can be readily found by anyone who is interested inthe following example of adaptation, for nearly every library includes inits catalogue the juvenile works of Mlle. De la Ramée (Ouida). Thesuggestions given assume that the story is before my readers. 

The story as it stands is two thousand four hundred words long, obviouslytoo long to tell. What can be left out? Let us see what must be kept in. 

The dramatic climax toward which we are working is the outcome of August'sstrange exploit, --his discovery by the king and the opportunity for him tobecome an artist. The joy of this climax is twofold: August may stay withhis beloved Hirschvogel, and he may learn to make beautiful things likeit. To arrive at the twofold conclusion we must start from a doublepremise, --the love of the stove and the yearning to be an artist. It will, then, be necessary to include in the beginning of the story enough detailsof the family life to show plainly how precious and necessary Hirschvogelwas to the children; and to state definitely how August had learned toadmire and wish to emulate Hirschvogel's maker. We need no detail beyondwhat is necessary to make this clear. 

The beginning and the end of a story decided upon, its body becomes thebridge from one to the other; in this case it is August's strange journey, beginning with the catastrophe and his grief-dazed decision to follow thestove. The journey is long, and each stage of it is told in full. As thisis impossible in oral reproduction, it becomes necessary to choose typicalincidents, which will give the same general effect as the whole. Theincidents which answer this purpose are: the beginning of the journey, theexperience on the luggage train, the jolting while being carried on men'sshoulders, the final fright and suspense before the king opens the door. 

The episode of the night in the bric-a-brac shop introduces a wholly newand confusing train of thought; therefore, charming as it is, it must beomitted. And the secondary thread of narrative interest, that of theprices for which the stove was sold, and the retribution visited on thecheating dealers, is also "another story, " and must be ignored. Each ofthese destroys the clear sequence and the simplicity of plot which must bekept for telling. 

We are reduced, then, for the whole, to this: a brief preliminarystatement of the place Hirschvogel held in the household affections, andthe ambition aroused in August; the catastrophe of the sale; August'sdecision; his experiences on the train, on the shoulders of men, and justbefore the discovery; his discovery, and the _dénouement_. 

This not only reduces the story to tellable form, but it also leaves asuggestive interest which heightens later enjoyment of the original. Isuggest the adaptation of Kate Douglas Wiggin, in _The Story Hour_, sincein view of the existence of a satisfactory adaptation it seemsunappreciative to offer a second. The one I made for my own use some yearsago is not dissimilar to this, and I have no reason to suppose it moredesirable. 

Ruskin's _King of the Golden River_ is somewhat difficult to adapt. Notonly is it long, but its style is mature, highly descriptive, and closelyallegorical. Yet the tale is too beautiful and too suggestive to be lostto the story-teller. And it is, also, so recognised a part of the standardliterary equipment of youth that teachers need to be able to introducechildren to its charm. To make it available for telling, we must choosethe most essential events of the series leading up to the climax, andpresent these so simply as to appeal to children's ears, and so briefly asnot to tire them. 

The printed story is eight thousand words in length. The first threethousand words depict the beauty and fertility of the Treasure Valley, andthe cruel habits of Hans and Schwartz, its owners, and give theculminating incident which leads to their banishment by "West Wind. " Thisepisode, --the West Wind's appearance in the shape of an aged traveller, his kind reception by the younger brother, little Gluck, and thesubsequent wrath of Hans and Schwartz, with their resultingpunishment, --occupies about two thousand words. The rest of the storydeals with the three brothers after the decree of West Wind has turnedTreasure Valley into a desert. In the little house where they are plyingtheir trade of goldsmiths, the King of the Golden River appears to Gluckand tells him the magic secret of turning the river's waters to gold. Hansand Schwartz in turn attempt the miracle, and in turn incur the penaltyattached to failure. Gluck tries, and wins the treasure throughself-sacrifice. The form of the treasure is a renewal of the fertility ofTreasure Valley, and the moral of the whole story is summed up inRuskin's words, "So the inheritance which was lost by cruelty was regainedby love. "

It is easy to see that the dramatic part of the story and that which mostpointedly illustrates the underlying idea, is the triple attempt to winthe treasure, --the two failures and the one success. But this isnecessarily introduced by the episode of the King of the Golden River, which is, also, an incident sure to appeal to a child's imagination. Andthe regaining of the inheritance is meaningless without the fact of itsprevious loss, and the reason for the loss, as a contrast with the reasonfor its recovery. We need, then, the main facts recorded in the firstthree thousand words. But the West Wind episode must be avoided, not onlyfor brevity, but because two supernatural appearances, so similar, yet ofdifferent personalities, would hopelessly confuse a told story. 

Our oral story is now to be made out of a condensed statement of thecharacter of the Valley and of its owners, and the manner of its loss; theintervention of the King of the Golden River; the three attempts to turnthe river to gold, and Gluck's success. Gluck is to be our hero, and ourunderlying idea is the power of love _versus_ cruelty. Description is tobe reduced to its lowest terms, and the language made simple and concrete. 

With this outline in mind, it may be useful to compare the followingadaptation with the original story. The adaptation is not intended in anysense as a substitute for the original, but merely as that form of itwhich can be _told_, while the original remains for reading. 

THE GOLDEN RIVER[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from Ruskin's _King of the Golden River_. ]

There was once a beautiful little valley, where the sun was warm, and therains fell softly; its apples were so red, its corn so yellow, its grapesso blue, that it was called the Treasure Valley. Not a river ran into it, but one great river flowed down the mountains on the other side, andbecause the setting sun always tinged its high cataract with gold afterthe rest of the world was dark, it was called the Golden River. The lovelyvalley belonged to three brothers. The youngest, little Gluck, washappy-hearted and kind, but he had a hard life with his brothers, for Hansand Schwartz were so cruel and so mean that they were known everywherearound as the "Black Brothers. " They were hard to their farm hands, hardto their customers, hard to the poor, and hardest of all to Gluck. 

At last the Black Brothers became so bad that the Spirit of the West Windtook vengeance on them; he forbade any of the gentle winds, south andwest, to bring rain to the valley. Then, since there were no rivers in it, it dried up, and instead of a treasure valley it became a desert of dry, red sand. The Black Brothers could get nothing out of it, and theywandered out into the world on the other side of the mountain-peaks; andlittle Gluck went with them. 

Hans and Schwartz went out every day, wasting their time in wickedness, but they left Gluck in the house to work. And they lived on the gold andsilver they had saved in Treasure Valley, till at last it was all gone. The only precious thing left was Gluck's gold mug. This the Black Brothersdecided to melt into spoons, to sell; and in spite of Gluck's tears, theyput it in the melting pot, and went out, leaving him to watch it. 

Poor little Gluck sat at the window, trying not to cry for his dear goldenmug, and as the sun began to go down, he saw the beautiful cataract of theGolden River turn red, and yellow, and then pure gold. 

"Oh, dear!" he said to himself, "how fine it would be if the river werereally golden! I needn't be poor, then. "

"It wouldn't be fine at all!" said a thin, metallic little voice, in hisear. 

"Mercy, what's that!" said Gluck, looking all about. But nobody was there. 

Suddenly the sharp little voice came again. 

"Pour me out, " it said, "I am too hot!"

It seemed to come right from the oven, and as Gluck stood, staring infright, it came again, "Pour me out; I'm too hot!"

Gluck was very much frightened, but he went and looked in the melting pot. When he touched it, the little voice said, "Pour me out, I say!" And Glucktook the handle and began to pour the gold out. 

First came out a tiny pair of yellow legs; then a pair of yellowcoat-tails; then a strange little yellow body, and, last, a wee yellowface, with long curls of gold hair. And the whole put itself together asit fell, and stood up on the floor, --the strangest little yellow dwarf, about a foot high!

"Dear, me!" said Gluck. 

But the little yellow man said, "Gluck, do you know who I am? I am theKing of the Golden River. "

Gluck did not know what to say, so he said nothing; and, indeed, thelittle man gave him no chance. He said, "Gluck, I have been watching you, and what I have seen of you, I like. Listen, and I will tell you somethingfor your good. Whoever shall climb to the top of the mountain from whichthe Golden River falls, and shall cast into its waters three drops of holywater, for him and him only shall its waters turn to gold. But no one cansucceed except at the first trial, and anyone who casts unholy water inthe river will be turned into a black stone. "

And then, before Gluck could draw his breath, the King walked straightinto the hottest flame of the fire, and vanished up the chimney!

When Gluck's brothers came home, they beat him black and blue, because themug was gone. But when he told them about the King of the Golden Riverthey quarrelled all night, as to which should go to get the gold. At last, Hans, who was the stronger, got the better of Schwartz, and started off. The priest would not give such a bad man any holy water, so he stole abottleful. Then he took a basket of bread and wine, and began to climb themountain. 

He climbed fast, and soon came to the end of the first hill. But there hefound a great glacier, a hill of ice, which he had never seen before. Itwas horrible to cross, --the ice was slippery, great gulfs yawned beforehim, and noises like groans and shrieks came from under his feet. He losthis basket of bread and wine, and was quite faint with fear and exhaustionwhen his feet touched firm ground again. 

Next he came to a hill of hot, red rock, without a bit of grass to easethe feet, or a particle of shade. After an hour's climb he was so thirstythat he felt that he must drink. He looked at the flask of water. "Threedrops are enough, " he thought; "I will just cool my lips. " He was liftingthe flask to his lips when he saw something beside him in the path. It wasa small dog, and it seemed to be dying of thirst. Its tongue was out, itslegs were lifeless, and a swarm of black ants were crawling about itslips. It looked piteously at the bottle which Hans held. Hans raised thebottle, drank, kicked at the animal, and passed on. 

A strange black shadow came across the blue sky. 

Another hour Hans climbed; the rocks grew hotter and the way steeper everymoment. At last he could bear it no longer; he must drink. The bottle washalf empty, but he decided to drink half of what was left. As he liftedit, something moved in the path beside him. It was a child, lying nearlydead of thirst on the rock, its eyes closed, its lips burning, its breathcoming in gasps. Hans looked at it, drank, and passed on. 

A dark cloud came over the sun, and long shadows crept up themountain-side. 

It grew very steep now, and the air weighed like lead on Hans's forehead, but the Golden River was very near. Hans stopped a moment to breathe, thenstarted to climb the last height. 

As he clambered on, he saw an old, old man lying in the path. His eyeswere sunken, and his face deadly pale. 

"Water!" he said; "water!"

"I have none for you, " said Hans; "you have had your share of life. " Hestrode over the old man's body and climbed on. 

A flash of blue lightning dazzled him for an instant, and then the heavenswere dark. 

At last Hans stood on the brink of the cataract of the Golden River. Thesound of its roaring filled the air. He drew the flask from his side andhurled it into the torrent. As he did so, an icy chill shot through him;he shrieked and fell. And the river rose and flowed over

The Black Stone. 

When Hans did not come back Gluck grieved, but Schwartz was glad. Hedecided to go and get the gold for himself. He thought it might not do tosteal the holy water, as Hans had done, so he took the money little Gluckhad earned, and bought holy water of a bad priest. Then he took a basketof bread and wine, and started off. 

He came to the great hill of ice, and was as surprised as Hans had been, and found it as hard to cross. Many times he slipped, and he was muchfrightened at the noises, and was very glad to get across, although he hadlost his basket of bread and wine. Then he came to the same hill of sharp, red stone, without grass or shade, that Hans had climbed. And like Hans hebecame very thirsty. Like Hans, too, he decided to drink a little of thewater. As he raised it to his lips, he suddenly saw the same fair childthat Hans had seen. 

"Water!" said the child. "Water! I am dying. "

"I have not enough for myself, " said Schwartz, and passed on. 

A low bank of black cloud rose out of the west. 

When he had climbed for another hour, the thirst overcame him again, andagain he lifted the flask to his lips. As he did so, he saw an old man whobegged for water. 

"I have not enough for myself, " said Schwartz, and passed on. 

A mist, of the colour of blood, came over the sun. 

Then Schwartz climbed for another hour, and once more he had to drink. This time, as he lifted the flask, he thought he saw his brother Hansbefore him. The figure stretched its arms to him, and cried out for water. 

"Ha, ha, " laughed Schwartz, "do you suppose I brought the water up herefor you?" And he strode over the figure. But when he had gone a few yardsfarther, he looked back, and the figure was not there. 

Then he stood at the brink of the Golden River, and its waves were black, and the roaring of the waters filled all the air. He cast the flask intothe stream. And as he did so the lightning glared in his eyes, the earthgave way beneath him, and the river flowed over

The Two Black Stones. 

When Gluck found himself alone, he at last decided to try his luck withthe King of the Golden River. The priest gave him some holy water as soonas he asked for it, and with this and a basket of bread he started off. 

The hill of ice was much harder for Gluck to climb, because he was not sostrong as his brothers. He lost his bread, fell often, and was exhaustedwhen he got on firm ground. He began to climb the hill in the hottest partof the day. When he had climbed for an hour he was very thirsty, andlifted the bottle to drink a little water. As he did so he saw a feebleold man coming down the path toward him. 

"I am faint with thirst, " said the old man; "will you give me some of thatwater?"

Gluck saw that he was pale and tired, so he gave him the water, saying, "Please don't drink it all. " But the old man drank a great deal, and gaveback the bottle two-thirds emptied. Then he bade Gluck good speed, andGluck went on merrily. 

Some grass appeared on the path, and the grasshoppers began to sing. 

At the end of another hour, Gluck felt that he must drink again. But, ashe raised the flask, he saw a little child lying by the roadside, and itcried out pitifully for water. After a struggle with himself Gluck decidedto bear the thirst a little longer. He put the bottle to the child's lips, and it drank all but a few drops. Then it got up and ran down the hill. 

All kinds of sweet flowers began to grow on the rocks, and crimson andpurple butterflies flitted about in the air. 

At the end of another hour, Gluck's thirst was almost unbearable. He sawthat there were only five or six drops of water in the bottle, however, and he did not dare to drink. So he was putting the flask away again whenhe saw a little dog on the rocks, gasping for breath. He looked at it, andthen at the Golden River, and he remembered the dwarf's words, "No one cansucceed except at the first trial"; and he tried to pass the dog. But itwhined piteously, and Gluck stopped. He could not bear to pass it. "Confound the King and his gold, too!" he said; and he poured the fewdrops of water into the dog's mouth. 

The dog sprang up; its tail disappeared, its nose grew red, and its eyestwinkled. The next minute the dog was gone, and the King of the GoldenRiver stood there. He stooped and plucked a lily that grew beside Gluck'sfeet. Three drops of dew were on its white leaves. These the dwarf shookinto the flask which Gluck held in his hand. 

"Cast these into the river, " he said, "and go down the other side of themountains into the Treasure Valley. " Then he disappeared. 

Gluck stood on the brink of the Golden River, and cast the three drops ofdew into the stream. Where they fell, a little whirlpool opened; but thewater did not turn to gold. Indeed, the water seemed vanishing altogether. Gluck was disappointed not to see gold, but he obeyed the King of theGolden River, and went down the other side of the mountains. 

When he came out into the Treasure Valley, a river, like the Golden River, was springing from a new cleft in the rocks above, and flowing among theheaps of dry sand. And then fresh grass sprang beside the river, flowersopened along its sides, and vines began to cover the whole valley. TheTreasure Valley was becoming a garden again. 

Gluck lived in the Valley, and his grapes were blue, and his apples werered, and his corn was yellow; and the poor were never driven from hisdoor. For him, as the King had promised, the river was really a River ofGold. 

 * * * * *

It will probably be clear to anyone who has followed these attempts, thatthe first step in adaptation is analysis, careful analysis of the storyas it stands. One asks oneself, What is the story? Which events arenecessary links in the chain? How much of the text is pure description?

Having this essential body of the story in mind, one then decides which ofthe steps toward the climax are needed for safe arrival there, and keepsthese. When two or more steps can be covered in a single stride, one makesthe stride. When a necessary explanation is unduly long, or is woven intothe story in too many strands, one disposes of it in an introductorystatement, or perhaps in a side remark. If there are two or more threadsof narrative, one chooses among them, and holds strictly to the onechosen, eliminating details which concern the others. 

In order to hold the simplicity of plot so attained, it is also desirableto have but few personages in the story, and to narrate the action fromthe point of view of one of them, --usually the hero. To shift the point ofview of the action is confusing to the child's mind. 

When the analysis and condensation have been accomplished, the whole mustbe cast in simple language, keeping if possible the same kind of speech asthat used in the original, but changing difficult or technical terms toplain, and complex images to simple and familiar ones. 

All types of adaptation share in this need of simple language, --storieswhich are too short, as well as those which are too long, have thisfeature in their changed form. The change in a short story is appliedoftenest where it becomes desirable to amplify a single anecdote, orperhaps a fable, which is told in very condensed form. Such an instance isthe following anecdote of heroism, which in the original is quoted in oneof F. W. Robertson's lectures on Poetry. 

 A detachment of troops was marching along a valley, the cliffs overhanging which were crested by the enemy. A sergeant, with eleven men, chanced to become separated from the rest by taking the wrong side of a ravine, which they expected soon to terminate, but which suddenly deepened into an impassable chasm. The officer in command signalled to the party an order to return. They mistook the signal for a command to charge; the brave fellows answered with a cheer, and charged. At the summit of the steep mountain was a triangular platform, defended by a breastwork, behind which were seventy of the foe. On they went, charging up one of those fearful paths, eleven against seventy. The contest could not long be doubtful with such odds. One after another they fell; six upon the spot, the remainder hurled backwards; but not until they had slain nearly twice their own number. 

 There is a custom, we are told, amongst the hillsmen, that when a great chieftain of their own falls in battle, his wrist is bound with a thread either of red or green, the red denoting the highest rank. According to custom, they stripped the dead, and threw their bodies over the precipice. When their comrades came, they found their corpses stark and gashed; but round both wrists of every British hero was twined the red thread!

This anecdote serves its purpose of illustration perfectly well, butconsidered as a separate story it is somewhat too explanatory in diction, and too condensed in form. Just as the long story is analysed forreduction of given details, so this must be analysed, --to find the detailsimplied. We have to read into it again all that has been left between thelines. 

Moreover, the order must be slightly changed, if we are to end with theproper "snap, " the final sting of surprise and admiration given by thepoint of the story; the point must be prepared for. The purpose of theoriginal is equally well served by the explanation at the end, but we mustnever forget that the place for the climax, or effective point in a storytold, is the last thing said. That is what makes a story "go off" well. 

Imagining vividly the situation suggested, and keeping the logicalsequence of facts in mind, shall we not find the story telling itself toboys and girls in somewhat this form?

THE RED THREAD OF COURAGE[1]

[Footnote 1: See also _The Red Thread of Honour_, by Sir Francis Doyle, in_Lyra Heroica_. ]

This story which I am going to tell you is a true one. It happened whilethe English troops in India were fighting against some of the nativetribes. The natives who were making trouble were people from thehill-country, called Hillsmen, and they were strong enemies. The Englishknew very little about them, except their courage, but they had noticedone peculiar custom, after certain battles, --the Hillsmen had a way ofmarking the bodies of their greatest chiefs who were killed in battle bybinding a red thread about the wrist; this was the highest tribute theycould pay a hero. The English, however, found the common men of them quiteenough to handle, for they had proved themselves good fighters and cleverat ambushes. 

One day, a small body of the English had marched a long way into the hillcountry, after the enemy, and in the afternoon they found themselves in apart of the country strange even to the guides. The men moved forward veryslowly and cautiously, for fear of an ambush. The trail led into a narrowvalley with very steep, high, rocky sides, topped with woods in which theenemy might easily hide. 

Here the soldiers were ordered to advance more quickly, though withcaution, to get out of the dangerous place. 

After a little they came suddenly to a place where the passage was dividedin two by a big three-cornered boulder which seemed to rise from the midstof the valley. The main line of men kept to the right; to save crowdingthe path, a sergeant and eleven men took the left, meaning to go roundthe rock and meet the rest beyond it. 

They had been in the path only a few minutes when they saw that the rockwas not a single boulder at all, but an arm of the left wall of thevalley, and that they were marching into a deep ravine with no outletexcept the way they came. Both sides were sheer rock, almostperpendicular, with thick trees at the top; in front of them the groundrose in a steep hill, bare of woods. As they looked up, they saw that thetop was barricaded by the trunks of trees, and guarded by a strong body ofHillsmen. As the English hesitated, looking at this, a shower of spearsfell from the wood's edge, aimed by hidden foes. The place was a deathtrap. 

At this moment, their danger was seen by the officer in command of themain body, and he signalled to the sergeant to retreat. 

By some terrible mischance, the signal was misunderstood. The men took itfor the signal to charge. Without a moment's pause, straight up the slope, they charged on the run, cheering as they ran. 

Some were killed by the spears that were thrown from the cliffs, beforethey had gone half way; some were stabbed as they reached the crest, andhurled backward from the precipice; two or three got to the top, andfought hand to hand with the Hillsmen. They were outnumbered, seven toone; but when the last of the English soldiers lay dead, twice theirnumber of Hillsmen lay dead around them!

When the relief party reached the spot, later in the day, they found thebodies of their comrades, full of wounds, huddled over and in thebarricade, or crushed on the rocks below. They were mutilated andbattered, and bore every sign of the terrible struggle. _But round bothwrists of every British soldier was bound the red thread!_

The Hillsmen had paid greater honour to their heroic foes than to thebravest of their own brave dead. 

 * * * * *

Another instance is the short poem, which, while being perfectly simple, is rich in suggestion of more than the young child will see for himself. The following example shows the working out of details in order to providea satisfactorily rounded story. 

THE ELF AND THE DORMOUSE[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _The Elf and the Dormouse_, by Oliver Herford, in _A Treasury of Verse for Little Children_. (Harrap. 1s. Net. )]

Once upon a time a dormouse lived in the wood with his mother. She hadmade a snug little nest, but Sleepy-head, as she called her littlemousie, loved to roam about among the grass and fallen leaves, and it wasa hard task to keep him at home. One day the mother went off as usual tolook for food, leaving Sleepy-head curled up comfortably in a corner ofthe nest. "He will lie there safely till I come back, " she thought. Presently, however, Sleepy-head opened his eyes and thought he would liketo take a walk out in the fresh air. So he crept out of the nest andthrough the long grass that nodded over the hole in the bank. He ran hereand he ran there, stopping again and again to cock his little ears forsound of any creeping thing that might be close at hand. His little furcoat was soft and silky as velvet. Mother had licked it clean beforestarting her day's work, you may be sure. As Sleepy-head moved from placeto place his long tail swayed from side to side and tickled the daisies sothat they could not hold themselves still for laughing. 

Presently something very cold fell on Sleepy-head's nose. What could itbe? He put up his little paw and dabbed at the place. Then the same thinghappened to his tail. He whisked it quickly round to the front. Ah, it wasraining! Now Sleepy-head couldn't bear rain, and he had got a long wayfrom home. What would mother say if his nice furry coat got wet anddraggled? He crept under a bush, but soon the rain found him out. Then heran to a tree, but this was poor shelter. He began to think that he was infor a soaking when what should he spy, a little distance off, but a finetoadstool which stood bolt upright just like an umbrella. The next momentSleepy-head was crawling underneath the friendly shelter. He fixed himselfup as snugly as he could, with his little nose upon his paws and hislittle tail curled round all, and before you could count six, eight, ten, twenty, he was fast asleep. 

Now it happened that Sleepy-head was not the only creature that was caughtby the rain that morning in the wood. A little elf had been flitting aboutin search of fun or mischief, and he, too, had got far from home when theraindrops began to come pattering through the leafy roof of the beautifulwood. It would never do to get his pretty wings wet, for he hated towalk--it was such slow work and, besides, he might meet some big wretchedanimal that could run faster than himself. However, he was beginning tothink that there was no help for it, when, on a sudden, there before himwas the toadstool, with Sleepy-head snug and dry underneath! There wasroom for another little fellow, thought the elf, and ere long he hadsafely bestowed himself under the other half of the toadstool, which wasjust like an umbrella. 

Sleepy-head slept on, warm and comfortable in his furry coat, and the elfbegan to feel annoyed with him for being so happy. He was always a greatmischief, and he could not bear to sit still for long at a time. Presentlyhe laughed a queer little laugh. He had got an idea! Putting his two smallarms round the stem of the toadstool he tugged and he pulled until, of asudden, snap! He had broken the stem, and a moment later was soaring inair safely sheltered under the toadstool, which he held upright by itsstem as he flew. 

Sleepy-head had been dreaming, oh, so cosy a dream! It seemed to him thathe had discovered a storehouse filled with golden grain and soft juicynuts with little bunches of sweet-smelling hay, where tired mousies mightsleep dull hours away. He thought that he was settled in the sweetestbunch of all, with nothing in the world to disturb his nap, when graduallyhe became aware that something had happened. He shook himself in his sleepand settled down again, but the dream had altered. He opened his eyes. Rain was falling, pit-a-pat, and he was without cover on a wet patch ofgrass. What could be the matter? Sleepy-head was now wide awake. Said he, "DEAR ME, WHERE IS MY TOADSTOOL?"

From these four instances we may, perhaps, deduce certain generalprinciples of adaptation which have at least proved valuable to thoseusing them. 

These are suggestions which the practised story-teller will find trite. But to others they may prove a fair foundation on which to build apersonal method to be developed by experience. I have given them a tabulararrangement below. 

The preliminary step in all cases is _Analysis of the Story. _The aim, then, is to _reduce_ a long story or to _amplify_ a short one. 

For the first, the need is _Elimination_ of secondary threads of narrative, extra personages, description, irrelevant events. 

For the second, the great need is of _Realising Imagination_. 

For both, it is desirable to keep

 _Close Logical Sequence_, _A Single Point of View_, _Simple Language_, _The Point at the End. _

CHAPTER IV

HOW TO TELL THE STORY

Selection, and, if necessary, adaptation--these are the preliminaries tothe act of telling. That, after all, is the real test of one's power. Thatis the real joy, when achieved; the real bugbear, when dreaded. And thatis the subject of this chapter, "How to tell a story. "

How to tell a story: it is a short question which demands a long answer. The right beginning of the answer depends on a right conception of thething the question is about; and that naturally reverts to an earlierdiscussion of the real nature of a story. In that discussion it was statedthat a story is a work of art, --a message, as all works of art are. 

To tell a story, then, is to pass on the message, to share the work ofart. The message may be merely one of humour, --of nonsense, even; works ofart range all the way from the "Victory" to a "Dresden Shepherdess, " froman "Assumption" to a "Broken Pitcher, " and farther. Each has its ownplace. But whatever its quality, the story-teller is the passer-on, theinterpreter, the transmitter. He comes bringing a gift. Always he gives;always he bears a message. 

This granted, the first demand of the story-teller is not far to seek. Noone can repeat a message he has not heard, or interpret what he does notunderstand. You cannot give, unless you first possess. The first demand ofthe story-teller is that he possess. He must _feel_ the story. Whateverthe particular quality and appeal of the work of art, from the lightest tothe grandest emotion or thought, he must have responded to it, grasped it, felt it intimately, before he can give it out again. Listen, humbly, forthe message. 

I realise that this has an incongruous sound, when applied to such storiesas that of the little pig at the stile or of the greedy cat who ate up manand beast. But, believe me, it does apply even to those. For thetransmittable thing in a story is the identifying essence, thecharacterising savour, the peculiar quality and point of view of thehumour, pathos, or interest. Every tale which claims a place in goodfiction has this identifying savour and quality, each different from everyother. The laugh which echoes one of Seumas McManus's rigmaroles is notthe chuckle which follows one of Joel Chandler Harris's anecdotes; thegentle sadness of an Andersen allegory is not the heart-searching tragedyof a tale from the Greek; nor is any one story of an author just like anyother of the same making. Each has its personal likeness, its facialexpression, as it were. 

And the mind must be sensitised to these differences. No one can tellstories well who has not a keen and just feeling of such emotional values. 

A positive and a negative injunction depend on this premise, --thepositive, cultivate your feeling, striving toward increasingly justappreciation; the negative, never tell a story you do not feel. 

Fortunately, the number and range of stories one can appreciate grow withcultivation; but it is the part of wisdom not to step outside the range atany stage of its growth. 

I feel the more inclined to emphasise this caution because I once had arather embarrassing and pointed proof of its desirability, --which I relatefor the enlightening of the reader. 

There is a certain nonsense tale which a friend used to tell with sucheffect that her hearers became helpless with laughter, but which for somereason never seemed funny to me. I could not laugh at it. But my friendconstantly urged me to use it, quoting her own success. At last, with muchcuriosity and some trepidation, I included it in a programme before peoplewith whom I was so closely in sympathy that no chill was likely to emanatefrom their side. I told the story as well as I knew how, putting into itmore genuine effort than most stories can claim. The audience smiledpolitely, laughed gently once or twice, relapsed into the mildest ofamusement. The most one could say was that the story was not a hopelessfailure. I tried it again, after study, and yet again; but the audienceswere all alike. And in my heart I should have been startled if they hadbehaved otherwise, for all the time I was telling it I was conscious in mysoul that it was a stupid story! At last I owned my defeat to myself, andput the thing out of mind. 

Some time afterward, I happened to take out the notes of the story, andidly looked them over; and suddenly, I do not know how, I got the point ofview! The salt of the humour was all at once on my lips; I felt the tickleof the pure folly of it; it _was_ funny. 

The next afternoon I told the story to a hundred or so children and asmany mothers, --and the battle was won. Chuckles punctuated my periods;helpless laughter ran like an under-current below my narrative; it was astruggle for me to keep sober, myself. The nonsense tale had found its ownatmosphere. 

Now of course I had known all along that the humour of the story emanatedfrom its very exaggeration, its absurdly illogical smoothness. But I hadnot _felt_ it. I did not really "see the joke. " And that was why I couldnot tell the story. I undoubtedly impressed my own sense of its fatuity onevery audience to which I gave it. The case is very clear. 

Equally clear have been some happy instances where I have found audiencesresponding to a story I myself greatly liked, but which commonappreciation usually ignored. This is an experience even more persuasivethan the other, certainly more to be desired. 

Every story-teller has lines of limitation; certain types of story willalways remain his or her best effort. There is no reason why any type ofstory should be told really ill, and of course the number of kinds onetells well increases with the growth of the appreciative capacity. Butnone the less, it is wise to recognise the limits at each stage, and nottry to tell any story to which the honest inner consciousness says, "I donot like you. "

Let us then set down as a prerequisite for good story-telling, _a genuineappreciation of the story_. 

Now, we may suppose this genuine appreciation to be your portion. You havechosen a story, have felt its charm, and identified the quality of itsappeal. 

You are now to tell it in such wise that your hearers will get the samekind of impression you yourself received from it. How?

I believe the inner secret of success is the measure of force with whichthe teller wills the conveyance of his impression to the hearer. 

Anyone who has watched, or has himself been, the teller of a story whichheld an audience, knows that there is something approaching hypnoticsuggestion in the close connection of effort and effect, and in theelimination of self-consciousness from speaker and listeners alike. 

I would not for a moment lend the atmosphere of charlatanry, or of theultra-psychic, to the wholesome and vivid art of story-telling. But Iwould, if possible, help the teacher to realise how largely success inthat art is a subjective and psychological matter, dependent on hercontrol of her own mood and her sense of direct, intimate communion withthe minds attending her. The "feel" of an audience, --that indescribablesense of the composite human soul waiting on the initiative of your own, the emotional currents interplaying along a medium so delicate that ittakes the baffling torture of an obstruction to reveal itsexistence, --cannot be taught. But it can and does develop with use. And arealisation of the immense latent power of strong desire and resolutionvitalises and disembarrasses the beginner. 

That is, undoubtedly, rather an intangible beginning; it sets the root ofthe matter somewhat in the realm of "spirits and influences. " There are, however, outward and visible means of arriving at results. Every art hasits technique. The art of story-telling, intensely personal and subjectiveas it is, yet comes under the law sufficiently not to be a matter of sheer"knack. " It has its technique. The following suggestions are an attempt tostate what seem the foundation principles of that technique. The generalstatements are deduced from many consecutive experiences; partly, too, they are the results of introspective analysis, confirmed by observation. They do not make up an exclusive body of rules, wholly adequate to producegood work, of themselves; they do include, so far as my observation andexperience allow, the fundamental requisites of good work, --being thequalities uniformly present in successful work of many story-tellers. 

First of all, most fundamental of all, is a rule without which any otherwould be but folly: _Know your story. _

One would think so obvious a preliminary might be taken for granted. Butalas, even slight acquaintance with the average story-teller proves thedire necessity of the admonition. The halting tongue, the slip in name orincident, the turning back to forge an omitted link in the chain, therepetition, the general weakness of statement consequent on imperfectgrasp: these are common features of the stories one hears told. And theyare features which will deface the best story ever told. 

One must know the story absolutely; it must have been so assimilated thatit partakes of the nature of personal experience; its essence must be soclearly in mind that the teller does not have to think of it at all in theact of telling, but rather lets it flow from his lips with the unconsciousfreedom of a vivid reminiscence. 

Such knowledge does not mean memorising. Memorising utterly destroys thefreedom of reminiscence, takes away the spontaneity, and substitutes amastery of form for a mastery of essence. It means, rather, a perfectgrasp of the gist of the story, with sufficient familiarity with its formto determine the manner of its telling. The easiest way to obtain thismastery is, I think, to analyse the story into its simplest elements ofplot. Strip it bare of style, description, interpolation, and find outsimply _what happened_. Personally, I find that I get first an especiallyvivid conception of the climax; this then has to be rounded out by a clearperception of the successive steps which lead up to the climax. One has, so, the framework of the story. The next process is the filling in. 

There must be many ways of going about this filling in. Doubtless many ofmy readers, in the days when it was their pet ambition to make a goodrecitation in school, evolved personally effective ways of doing it; forit is, after all, the same thing as preparing a bit of history or arecitation in literature. But for the consideration of those who find ithard to gain mastery of fact without mastery of its stated form, I give myown way. I have always used the childlike plan of talking it out. Sometimes inaudibly, sometimes in loud and penetrating tones which arousethe sympathetic curiosity of my family, I tell it over and over, to animaginary hearer. That hearer is as present to me, always has been, asStevenson's "friend of the children" who takes the part of the enemy intheir solitary games of war. His criticism (though he is a most compositedouble-sexed creature who should not have a designating personal pronoun)is all-revealing. For talking it out instantly brings to light the weakspots in one's recollection. "What was it the little crocodile said?""Just how did the little pig get into his house?" "What was that link inthe chain of circumstances which brought the wily fox to confusion?" Theslightest cloud of uncertainty becomes obvious in a moment. And as obviousbecomes one's paucity of expression, one's week-kneed imagination, one'simperfect assimilation of the spirit of the story. It is not a flatteringprocess. 

But when these faults have been corrected by several attempts, the methodgives a confidence, a sense of sureness, which makes the real telling to areal audience ready and spontaneously smooth. Scarcely an epithet or asentence comes out as it was in the preliminary telling; but epithets andsentences in sufficiency do come; the beauty of this method is that itbrings freedom instead of bondage. 

A valuable exception to the rule against memorising must be noted here. Especially beautiful and indicative phrases of the original should beretained, and even whole passages, where they are identified with thebeauty of the tale. And in stories like _The Three Bears_ or _Red RidingHood_ the exact phraseology of the conversation as given in familiarversions should be preserved; it is in a way sacred, a classic, and not tobe altered. But beyond this the language should be the teller's own, andprobably never twice the same. Sureness, ease, freedom, and the effect ofpersonal reminiscence come only from complete mastery. I repeat, withemphasis: Know your story. 

The next suggestion is a purely practical one concerning the preparationof physical conditions. See that the children are seated in close anddirect range of your eye; the familiar half-circle is the best arrangementfor small groups of children, but the teacher should be at a point_opposite_ the centre of the arc, _not in_ its centre: thus[Illustration], not thus [Illustration]; it is important also not to havethe ends too far at the side, and to have no child directly behindanother, or in such a position that he has not an easy view of theteacher's full face. Little children have to be physically close in orderto be mentally close. It is, of course, desirable to obtain a hushed quietbefore beginning; but it is not so important as to preserve your own moodof holiday, and theirs. If the fates and the atmosphere of the day areagainst you, it is wiser to trust to the drawing power of the tale itself, and abate the irritation of didactic methods. And never break into thatmagic tale, once begun, with an admonition to Ethel or Tommy to stopsquirming, or a rebuke to "that little girl over there who is notlistening. " Make her listen! It is probably your fault if she is not. Ifyou are telling a good story, and telling it well, she can't helplistening, --unless she is an abnormal child; and if she is abnormal youought not to spoil the mood of the others to attend to her. 

I say "never" interrupt your story; perhaps it is only fair to amend that, after the fashion of dear little Marjorie Fleming, and say "never--if youcan help it. " For, of course, there are exceptional occasions, andexceptional children; some latitude must be left for the decisions ofgood common sense acting on the issue of the moment. 

The children ready, your own mood must be ready. It is desirable that thespirit of the story should be imposed upon the room from the beginning, and this result hangs on the clearness and intensity of the teller'sinitiatory mood. An act of memory and of will is the requisite. Thestory-teller must call up--it comes with the swiftness of thought--theessential emotion of the story as he felt it first. A single volition putshim in touch with the characters and the movement of the tale. This isscarcely more than a brief and condensed reminiscence; it is the steppingback into a mood once experienced. 

Let us say, for example, that the story to be told is the immortal fableof _The Ugly Duckling_. Before you open your lips the whole patheticseries of the little swan's mishaps should flash across your mind, --notaccurately and in detail, but blended to a composite of undeservedignominy, of baffled innocent wonderment, and of delicious underlyingsatire on average views. With this is mingled the feeling of Andersen'sdelicate whimsicality of style. The dear little Ugly Duckling waddles, bodily, into your consciousness, and you pity his sorrows and anticipatehis triumph, before you begin. 

This preliminary recognition of mood is what brings the deliciousquizzical twitch to the mouth of a good raconteur who begins an anecdotethe hearers know will be side-splitting. It is what makes grandmother sighgently and look far over your heads, when her soft voice commences thestory of "the little girl who lived long, long ago. " It is a natural andinstinctive thing with the born story-teller; a necessary thing for anyonewho will become a story-teller. 

From the very start, the mood of the tale should be definite andauthoritative, beginning with the mood of the teller and emanatingtherefrom in proportion as the physique of the teller is a responsivemedium. 

Now we are off. Knowing your story, having your hearers well arranged, andbeing as thoroughly as you are able in the right mood, you begin to tellit. Tell it, then, simply, directly, dramatically, with zest. 

_Simply_ applies both to manner and matter. As to manner, I mean withoutaffectation, without any form of pretence, in short, without posing. It isa pity to "talk down" to the children, to assume a honeyed voice, to thinkof the edifying or educational value of the work one is doing. Naturalness, being oneself, is the desideratum. I wonder why we so oftenuse a preposterous voice, --a super-sweetened whine, in talking tochildren? Is it that the effort to realise an ideal of gentleness andaffectionateness overreaches itself in this form of the grotesque? Somegood intention must be the root of it. But the thing is none the lesspernicious. A "cant" voice is as abominable as a cant phraseology. Bothare of the very substance of evil. 

"But it is easier to _say, _ 'Be natural' than to _be_ it, " said oneteacher to me desperately. 

Beyond dispute. To those of us who are cursed with an over-abundantmeasure of self-consciousness, nothing is harder than simple naturalness. The remedy is to lose oneself in one's art. Think of the story soabsorbingly and vividly that you have no room to think of yourself. Liveit. Sink yourself in that mood you have summoned up, and let it carry you. 

If you do this, simplicity of matter will come easily. Your choice ofwords and images will naturally become simple. 

It is, I think, a familiar precept to educators, that children should nothave their literature too much simplified for them. We are told that theylike something beyond them, and that it is good for them to have a senseof mystery and power beyond the sense they grasp. That may be true; but ifso it does not apply to story-telling as it does to reading. We haveconstantly to remember that the movement of a story told is very swift. Aconcept not grasped in passing is irrevocably lost; there is nopossibility of turning back, or lingering over the page. Also, since theart of story-telling is primarily an art of entertainment, its veryobject is sacrificed if the ideas and images do not slip into the child'sconsciousness smoothly enough to avoid the sense of strain. For thisreason short, familiar, vivid words are best. 

Simplicity of manner and of matter are both essential to the right appealto children. 

_Directness_ in telling is a most important quality. The story, listenedto, is like the drama, beheld. Its movement must be unimpeded, increasingly swift, winding up "with a snap. " Long-windedness, or talkinground the story, utterly destroys this movement. The incidents should betold, one after another, without explanation or description beyond what isabsolutely necessary; and _they should be told in logical sequence. _Nothing is more distressing than the cart-before-the-horsemethod, --nothing more quickly destroys interest than the failure to get aclue in the right place. 

Sometimes, to be sure, a side remark adds piquancy and a personal savour. But the general rule is, great discretion in this respect. 

Every epithet or adjective beyond what is needed to give the image, is afive-barred gate in the path of the eager mind travelling to a climax. 

Explanations and moralising are usually sheer clatter. Some few storiesnecessarily include a little explanation, and stories of the fable ordermay quaintly end with an obvious moral. But here again, the rule is--greatdiscretion. 

It is well to remember that you have one great advantage over the writerof stories. The writer must present a clear image and make a vividimpression, --all with words. The teller has face, and voice, and body todo it with. The teller needs, consequently, but one swiftly incisive verbto the writer's two; but one expressive adjective to his three. Often, indeed, a pause and an expressive gesture do the whole thing. 

It may be said here that it is a good trick of description to repeat anepithet or phrase once used, when referring again to the same thing. Therecurrent adjectives of Homer were the device of one who entertained achildlike audience. His trick is unconscious and instinctive with peoplewho have a natural gift for children's stories. Of course this matter alsodemands common sense in the degree of its use; in moderation it is a mostsuccessful device. 

Brevity, close logical sequence, exclusion of foreign matter, unhesitantspeech, --to use these is to tell a story directly. 

After simplicity and directness, comes that quality which to advise, is tobecome a rock of offence to many. It is the suggestion, "Tell the story_dramatically_. " Yet when we quite understand each other as to the meaningof "dramatically, " I think you will agree with me that a goodstory-teller includes this in his qualities of manner. It means, not inthe manner of the elocutionist, not excitably, not any of the things whichare incompatible with simplicity and sincerity; but with a whole-heartedthrowing of oneself into the game, which identifies one in a manner withthe character or situation of the moment. It means responsively, vividly, without interposing a blank wall of solid self between the drama of thetale and the mind's eye of the audience. 

It is such fun, pure and simple, so to throw oneself into it, and to seethe answering expressions mimic one's own, that it seems superfluous tourge it. Yet many persons do find it difficult. The instant, slight butsuggestive change of voice, the use of onomatopoetic words, the responseof eyes and hands, which are all immediate and spontaneous with sometemperaments, are to others a matter of shamefacedness and labour. Tothose, to all who are not by nature bodily expressive, I would reiteratethe injunction already given, --not to pretend. Do nothing you cannot donaturally and happily. But lay your stress on the inner and spiritualeffort to appreciate, to feel, to imagine out the tale; and let theexpressiveness of your body grow gradually with the increasing freedomfrom crippling self-consciousness. The physique will become more mobileas the emotion does. 

The expression must, however, always _remain suggestive rather thanillustrative_. This is the side of the case which those who areover-dramatic must not forget. The story-teller is not playing the partsof his stories; he is merely arousing the imagination of his hearers topicture the scenes for themselves. One element of the dual consciousnessof the tale-teller remains always the observer, the reporter, the quietoutsider. 

I like to think of the story-teller as a good fellow standing at a greatwindow overlooking a busy street or a picturesque square, and reportingwith gusto to the comrade in the rear of the room what of mirth or sadnesshe sees; he hints at the policeman's strut, the organ-grinder's shrug, theschoolgirl's gaiety, with a gesture or two which is born of anirresistible impulse to imitate; but he never leaves his fascinating postto carry the imitation further than a hint. 

The verity of this figure lies in the fact that the dramatic quality ofstory-telling depends closely upon the _clearness and power with which thestory-teller visualises the events and characters he describes_. You musthold the image before the mind's eye, using your imagination to embody toyourself every act, incident and appearance. You must, indeed, stand atthe window of your consciousness and watch what happens. 

This is a point so vital that I am tempted to put it in ornate type. Youmust _see_ what you _say_!

It is not too much, even, to say, "You must see more than you say. " Truevividness is lent by a background of picture realised by the listenerbeyond what you tell him. Children see, as a rule, no image you do notsee; they see most clearly what you see most largely. Draw, then, from afull well, not from a supply so low that the pumps wheeze at every pull. 

Dramatic power of the reasonably quiet and suggestive type demanded fortelling a story will come pretty surely in the train of effort along theselines; it follows the clear concept and sincerity in imparting it, and isa natural consequence of the visualising imagination. 

It is inextricably bound up, also, with the causes and results of thequality which finds place in my final injunction, to tell your story _withzest_. It might almost be assumed that the final suggestion renders thepreceding one superfluous, so direct is the effect of a lively interest onthe dramatic quality of a narration; but it would not of itself beadequate; the necessity of visualising imagination is paramount. Zest is, however, a close second to this clearness of mental vision. It is entirelynecessary to be interested in your own story, to enjoy it as you tell it. If you are bored and tired, the children will soon be bored and tired, too. If you are not interested your manner cannot get that vitalisedspontaneity which makes dramatic power possible. Nothing else will givethat relish on the lips, that gusto, which communicates its joy to theaudience and makes it receptive to every impression. I used to say toteachers, "Tell your story with all your might, " but I found that this bya natural misconception was often interpreted to mean "laboriously. " Andof course nothing is more injurious to the enjoyment of an audience thanobvious effort on the part of the entertainer. True zest can be--oftenis--extremely quiet, but it gives a savour nothing else can impart. 

"But how, at the end of a hard morning's work, can I be interested in astory I have told twenty times before?" asks the kindergarten or primaryteacher, not without reason. 

There are two things to be said. The first is a reminder of the wisdom ofchoosing stories in which you originally have interest; and of having astore large enough to permit variety. The second applies to thoseinevitable times of weariness which attack the most interested andwell-stocked story-teller. You are, perhaps, tired out physically. Youhave told a certain story till it seems as if a repetition of it mustproduce bodily effects dire to contemplate, yet that happens to be thevery story you must tell. What can you do? I answer, "Make believe. " Thedevice seems incongruous with the repeated warnings against pretence; butit is necessary, and it is wise. Pretend as hard as ever you can to beinterested. And the result will be--before you know it--that you will _be_interested. That is the chief cause of the recommendation; it brings aboutthe result it simulates. Make believe, as well as you know how, and theprobability is that you will not even know when the transition frompretended to real interest comes. 

And fortunately, the children never know the difference. They have notthat psychological infallibility which is often attributed to them. Theymight, indeed, detect a pretence which continued through a whole tale; butthat is so seldom necessary that it needs little consideration. 

So then: enjoy your story; be interested in it, --if you possibly can; andif you cannot, pretend to be, till the very pretence brings about thevirtue you have assumed. 

There is much else which might be said and urged regarding the method ofstory-telling, even without encroaching on the domain of personalvariations. A whole chapter might, for example, be devoted to voice andenunciation, and then leave the subject fertile. But voice andenunciation are after all merely single manifestations of degree andquality of culture, of taste, and of natural gift. No set rules can bringcharm of voice and speech to a person whose feeling and habitual point ofview are fundamentally wrong; the person whose habitual feeling and mentalattitude are fundamentally right needs few or no rules. As the wholematter of story-telling is in the first instance an expression of thecomplex personal product, so will this feature of it vary in perfectionaccording to the beauty and culture of the human mechanism manifesting it. 

A few generally applicable suggestions may, however, be useful, --alwaysassuming the story-teller to have the fundamental qualifications of fineand wholesome habit. These are not rules for the art of speaking; they aremerely some practical considerations regarding speaking to an audience. 

First, I would reiterate my earlier advice, be simple. Affectation is theworst enemy of voice and enunciation alike. Slovenly enunciation iscertainly very dreadful, but the unregenerate may be pardoned if theyprefer it to the affected mouthing which some over-nice people without duesense of values expend on every syllable which is so unlucky as to fallbetween their teeth. 

Next I would urge avoidance of a fault very common with those who speakmuch in large rooms, --the mistaken effort at loudness. This results intightening and straining the throat, finally producing nasal head-tones ora voice of metallic harshness. And it is entirely unnecessary. There is noneed to speak loudly. The ordinary schoolroom needs no vocal effort. Ahall seating three or four hundred persons demands no effort whateverbeyond a certain clearness and definiteness of speech. A hall seating fromfive to eight hundred needs more skill in aiming the voice, but stilldemands no shouting. 

It is indeed largely the psychological quality of a tone that makes itreach in through the ear to the comprehension. The quiet, clear, restful, persuasive tone of a speaker who knows his power goes straight home; butloud speech confuses. Never speak loudly. In a small room, speak as gentlyand easily as in conversation; in a large room, think of the peoplefarthest away, and speak clearly, with a slight separation between words, and with definite phrasing, --aiming your _mind_ toward the distantlisteners. 

If one is conscious of nasality or throatiness of voice, it certainly paysto study the subject seriously with an intelligent teacher. But a good, natural speaking-voice, free from extraordinary vices, will fill all therequirements of story-telling to small audiences, without other attentionthan comes indirectly from following the general principles of the art. 

To sum it all up, then, let us say of the method likely to bring successin telling stories, that it includes sympathy, grasp, spontaneity: onemust appreciate the story, and know it; and then, using the realisingimagination as a constant vivifying force, and dominated by the mood ofthe story, one must tell it with all one's might, --simply, vitally, joyously. 

CHAPTER V

SOME SPECIFIC SCHOOLROOM USES OF STORY-TELLING

In Chapter II. , I have tried to give my conception of the general aim ofstory-telling in school. From that conception, it is not difficult todeduce certain specific uses. The one most plainly intimated is that of abrief recreation period, a feature which has proved valuable in manyclasses. Less definitely implied, but not to be ignored, was the use ofthe story during, or accessory to, the lesson in science or history. 

But more distinctive and valuable than these, I think, is a specific usewhich I have recently had the pleasure of seeing exemplified in greatcompleteness in the schools of Providence, Rhode Island. 

Some four years ago, the assistant superintendent of schools of that city, Miss Ella L. Sweeney, introduced a rather unusual and extended applicationof the story in her primary classes. While the experiment was in its earlystages, it was my good fortune to be allowed to make suggestions for itsdevelopment, and as the devices in question were those I had beenaccustomed to use as a pastime for children, I was able to take someslight hand in the formative work of its adoption as an educationalmethod. Carried out most ably by the teachers to whom it was entrusted, the plan has evolved into a more inclusive and systematic one than was atfirst hoped for; it is one from which I have been grateful to learn. 

Tersely stated, the object of the general plan is the freeing anddeveloping of the power of expression in the pupils. 

I think there can be no need of dwelling on the desirability of thisresult. The apathy and "woodenness" of children under average modes ofpedagogy is apparent to anyone who is interested enough to observe. Inelementary work, the most noticeable lack of natural expression isprobably in the reading classes; the same drawback appears at a laterstage in English composition. But all along the line every thoughtfulteacher knows how difficult it is to obtain spontaneous, creative reactionon material given. 

Story-telling has a real mission to perform in setting free the naturalcreative expression of children, and in vitalising the general atmosphereof the school. The method in use for this purpose in Providence (andprobably elsewhere, as ideas usually germinate in more than one place atonce) is a threefold _giving back_ of the story by the children. Two ofthe forms of reproduction are familiar to many teachers; the first is theobvious one of telling the story back again. 

It is such fun to listen to a good story that children remember it withouteffort, and later, when asked if they can tell the story of _TheRed-Headed Woodpecker_ or _The Little Red Hen_, they are as eager to tryit as if it were a personal experience which they were burning to impart. 

Each pupil, in the Providence classes, is given a chance to try eachstory, at some time. Then that one which each has told especially well isallotted to him for his own particular story, on which he has an especialclaim thereafter. 

It is surprising to note how comparatively individual and distinctive theexpression of voice and manner becomes, after a short time. The childinstinctively emphasises the points which appeal to him, and the elementof fun in it all helps to bring forgetfulness of self. The maininflections and the general tenor of the language, however, remainimitative, as is natural with children. But this is a gain rather thanotherwise, for it is useful in forming good habit. In no other part of herwork, probably, has a teacher so good a chance to foster in her pupilspleasant habits of enunciation and voice. And this is especially worthwhile in the big city schools, where so many children come from homeswhere the English of the tenement is spoken. 

I have since wished that every city primary teacher could have visitedwith me the first-grade room in Providence where the pupils were German, Russian, or Polish Jews, and where some of them had heard no Englishprevious to that year, --it being then May. The joy that shone on theirfaces was nothing less than radiance when the low-voiced teacher said, "Would you like to tell these ladies some of your stories?"

They told us their stories, and there was truly not one told poorly orinexpressively; all the children had learned something of the joy ofcreative effort. But one little fellow stands out in my memory beyond allthe rest, yet as a type of all the rest. 

Rudolph was very small, and square, and merry of eye; life was oneeagerness and expectancy to him. He knew no English beyond that of oneschool year. But he stood staunchly in his place and told me the story ofthe Little Half Chick with an abandon and bodily emphasis which left nodoubt of his sympathetic understanding of every word. The depth of moralreproach in his tone was quite beyond description when he said, "LittleHalf Chick, little Half Chick, when _I_ was in trubbul you wouldn't help_me_!" He heartily relished that repetition, and became more dramatic eachtime. 

Through it all, in the tones of the tender little voice, the sidewise poseof the neat dark head, and the occasional use of a chubby pointing finger, one could trace a vague reflection of the teacher's manner. It was notstrong enough to dominate at all over the child's personality, but it wasstrong enough to suggest possibilities. 

In different rooms, I was told _The Half Chick_, _The Little Red Hen_, _The Three Bears_, _The Red-Headed Woodpecker_, _The Fox and the Grapes_, and many other simple stories, and in every instance there was anoticeable degree of spontaneity and command of expression. 

When the reading classes were held, the influence of this work was veryvisible. It had crept into the teachers' method, as well as the children'sattitude. The story interest was still paramount. In the discussion, inthe teachers' remarks, and in the actual reading, there was a joyousnessand an interest in the subject-matter which totally precluded thatpreoccupation with sounds and syllables so deadly to any real progress inreading. There was less of the mechanical in the reading than in any I hadheard in my visits to schools; but it was exceptionally accurate. 

The second form of giving back which has proved a keen pleasure and astimulus to growth is a kind of "seat-work. " The children are allowed tomake original illustrations of the stories by cutting silhouette pictures. 

It will be readily seen that no child can do this without visualising eachimage very perfectly. In the simplest and most unconscious way possible, the small artists are developing the power of conceiving and holding theconcrete image of an idea given, the power which is at the bottom of allarts of expression. 

Through the kindness of Miss Sweeney, I am able to insert several of theseillustrations. They are entirely original, and were made without anythought of such a use as this. 

The pictures and the retelling are both popular with children, but neitheris as dear to them as the third form of reproduction of which I wish tospeak. This third kind is taken entirely on the ground of play, and novisibly didactic element enters into it. It consists simply of _playingthe story_. 

When a good story with a simple sequence has been told, and while thechildren are still athrill with the delight of it, they are told they mayplay it. 

[Illustration: THE FOX AND THE GRAPES]

[Illustration: "THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN WHO LIVED IN A SHOE"]

"Who would like to be Red Riding Hood?" says the teacher; up go the littlegirls' hands, and Mary or Hannah or Gertrude is chosen. 

"Who will be the wolf?" Johnny or Marcus becomes the wolf. The kindwoodchopper and the mother are also happily distributed, for in theselittle dramatic companies it is an all-star cast, and no one realises anyindignity in a subordinate _rôle_. 

"Now, where shall we have little Red Riding Hood's house? 'Over in thatcorner, ' Katie? Very well, Riding Hood shall live over there. And whereshall the grandmother's cottage be?"

The children decide that it must be a long distance through thewood, --half-way round the schoolroom, in fact. The wolf selects the spotwhere he will meet Red Riding Hood, and the woodchopper chooses a positionfrom which he can rush in at the critical moment, to save Red RidingHood's life. 

Then, with gusto good to see, they play the game. The teacher makes nosuggestions; each actor creates his part. Some children prove extremelyexpressive and facile, while others are limited by nature. But each isleft to his spontaneous action. 

[Illustration: "Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats ... Followed the Piper for their lives. "]

In the course of several days several sets of children have been allowedto try; then if any of them are notably good in the several _rôles_, theyare given an especial privilege in that story, as was done with theretelling. When a child expresses a part badly, the teacher sometimes asksif anyone thinks of another way to do it; from different examplesoffered, the children then choose the one they prefer; this is adopted. Atno point is the teacher apparently teaching. She lets the audience teachitself and its actors. 

The children played a good many stories for me during my visit inProvidence. Of them all, _Red Riding Hood_, _The Fox and the Grapes_, and_The Lion and the Mouse_ were most vividly done. 

It will be long before the chief of the Little Red Riding Hoods fades frommy memory. She had a dark, foreign little face, with a good deal of darkerhair tied back from it, and brown, expressive hands. Her eyes were so fullof dancing lights that when they met mine unexpectedly it was as if achance reflection had dazzled me. When she was told that she might play, she came up for her riding hood like an embodied delight, almost dancingas she moved. (Her teacher used a few simple elements of stage-setting forher stories, such as bowls for the Bears, a cape for Riding Hood, and soon. )

[Illustration: "The Piper piped and the children danced, ... All but onelittle lame boy, who could not keep up with the rest. "]

The game began at once. Riding Hood started from the rear corner of theroom, basket on arm; her mother gave her strict injunctions as tolingering on the way, and she returned a respectful "Yes, mother. " Thenshe trotted round the aisle, greeting the woodchopper on the way, to thedeep wood which lay close by the teacher's desk. There master wolf waswaiting, and there the two held converse, --master wolf very crafty indeed, Red Riding Hood extremely polite. The wolf then darted on ahead andcrouched down in the corner which represented grandmother's bed. RidingHood tripped sedately to the imaginary door, and knocked. The familiardialogue followed, and with the words "the better to eat you with, mydear!" the wolf clutched Red Riding Hood, to eat her up. But we were notforced to undergo the threatened scene of horrid carnage, as thewoodchopper opportunely arrived, and stated calmly, "I will not let youkill Little Red Riding Hood. "

All was now happily culminated, and with the chopper's grave injunction asto future conduct in her ears, the rescued heroine tiptoed out of thewoods, to her seat. 

I wanted to applaud, but I realised in the nick of time that we were allplaying, and held my peace. 

[Illustration: HIAWATHA PICTURES]

_The Fox and the Grapes_ was more dramatically done, but was given by asingle child. He was the chosen "fox" of another primary room, and had thefair colouring and sturdy frame which matched his Swedish name. He wasnaturally dramatic. It was easy to see that he instinctively visualisedeverything, and this he did so strongly that he suggested to theonlooker every detail of the scene. 

He chose for his grape-trellis the rear wall of the room. 

Standing there, he looked longingly up at the invisible bunch of grapes. "My gracious, " he said, "what fine grapes! I will have some. "

Then he jumped for them. 

"Didn't get them, " he muttered, "I'll try again, " and he jumped higher. 

"Didn't get them this time, " he said disgustedly, and hopped up once more. Then he stood still, looked up, shrugged his shoulders, and remarked in anabsurdly worldly-wise tone, "Those grapes are sour!" After which he walkedaway. 

Of course the whole thing was infantile, and without a touch of grace; butit is no exaggeration to say that the child did what many grown-up actorsfail to do, --he preserved the illusion. 

It was in still another room that I saw the lion and mouse fable played. 

The lion lay flat on the floor for his nap, but started up when he foundhis paw laid on the little mouse, who crouched as small as she couldbeside him. (The mouse was by nature rather larger than the lion, but shecalled what art she might to her assistance. ) The mouse persuaded thelion to lift his paw, and ran away. 

Presently a most horrific groaning emanated from the lion. The mouse ranup, looked him over, and soliloquised in precise language, --evidentlyremembered, "What is the matter with the lion? Oh, I see; he is caught ina trap. " And then she gnawed with her teeth at the imaginary rope whichbound him. 

"What makes you so kind to me, little Mouse?" said the rescued lion. 

"You let me go, when I asked you, " said the mouse demurely. 

"Thank you, little Mouse, " answered the lion; and therewith, finis. 

It is not impossible that all this play atmosphere may seem incongruousand unnecessary to teachers used to more conventional methods, but I feelsure that an actual experience of it would modify that point of viewconclusively. The children of the schools where story-telling and"dramatising" were practised were startlingly better in reading, inattentiveness, and in general power of expression, than the pupils of likesocial conditions in the same grades of other cities which I visited soonafter, and in which the more conventional methods were exclusively used. The teachers, also, were stronger in power of expression. 

But the most noticeable, though the least tangible, difference was in themoral atmosphere of the schoolroom. There had been a great gain invitality in all the rooms where stories were a part of the work. It hadacted and reacted on pupils and teachers alike. The telling of a storywell so depends on being thoroughly vitalised that, naturally, habitualtelling had resulted in habitual vitalisation. 

This result was not, of course, wholly due to the practice ofstory-telling, but it was in some measure due to that. And it was a resultworth the effort. 

I beg to urge these specific uses of stories, as both recreative anddeveloping, and as especially tending toward enlarged power of expression:retelling the story; illustrating the story in seat-work; dramatisation. 

STORIES SELECTED AND ADAPTED FOR TELLING

ESPECIALLY FOR KINDERGARTEN AND CLASS I. 

 Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town, Upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown, Rapping at the window, crying through the lock, "Are the children in their beds, for now it's eight o'clock?"

 * * * * *

 There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile, He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile; He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all lived together in a little crooked house. 

 * * * * *

 Cushy cow bonny, let down thy milk, And I will give thee a gown of silk; A gown of silk and a silver tee, If thou wilt let down thy milk to me. 

 * * * * *

 "Little girl, little girl, where have you been?" "Gathering roses to give to the queen. " "Little girl, little girl, what gave she you?" "She gave me a diamond as big as my shoe. "

 * * * * *

 Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And can't tell where to find them; Leave them alone, and they'll come home, And bring their tails behind them. 

 Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep, And dreamt she heard them bleating; But when she awoke, she found it a joke, For still they all were fleeting. 

 Then up she took her little crook, Determin'd for to find them; She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed, For they'd left their tails behind them. 

FIVE LITTLE WHITE HEADS[1]

[Footnote 1: From _Mother-Song and Child-Song_, Charlotte BrewsterJordan. ]

BY WALTER LEARNED

 Five little white heads peeped out of the mould, When the dew was damp and the night was cold; And they crowded their way through the soil with pride; "Hurrah! We are going to be mushrooms!" they cried. 

 But the sun came up, and the sun shone down, And the little white heads were withered and brown; Long were their faces, their pride had a fall-- They were nothing but toadstools, after all. 

BIRD THOUGHTS[2]

[Footnote 2: _Ibid_. ]

 I lived first in a little house, And lived there very well; I thought the world was small and round, And made of pale blue shell. 

 I lived next in a little nest, Nor needed any other; I thought the world was made of straw, And brooded by my mother. 

 One day I fluttered from the nest To see what I could find. I said, "The world is made of leaves; I have been very blind. "

 At length I flew beyond the tree, Quite fit for grown-up labours. I don't know how the world _is_ made, And neither do my neighbours!

HOW WE CAME TO HAVE PINK ROSES[1]

[Footnote 1: Told me by Miss Elizabeth McCracken. ]

Once, ever and ever so long ago, we didn't have any pink roses. All theroses in the world were white. There weren't any red ones at all, anyyellow ones, or any pink ones, --only white roses. 

And one morning, very early, a little white rosebud woke up, and saw thesun looking at her. He stared so hard that the little white rosebud didnot know what to do; so she looked up at him and said, "Why are youlooking at me so hard?"

"Because you are so pretty!" said the big round sun. And the little whiterosebud blushed! She blushed pink. And all her children after her werelittle pink roses!

RAGGYLUG[2]

[Footnote 2: Adapted from Mr Ernest Thompson Seton's _Wild Animals I haveknown. _ (David Nutt, 57-59 Long Acre, W. C. 6s. Net. )]

Once there was a little furry rabbit, who lived with his mother deep downin a nest under the long grass. His name was Raggylug, and his mother'sname was Molly Cottontail. Every morning, when Molly Cottontail went outto hunt for food, she said to Raggylug, "Now, Raggylug, lie still, andmake no noise. No matter what you hear, no matter what you see, don't youmove. Remember you are only a baby rabbit, and lie low. " And Raggylugalways said he would. 

One day, after his mother had gone, he was lying very still in the nest, looking up through the feathery grass. By just cocking his eye, so, hecould see what was going on up in the world. Once a big blue-jay perchedon a twig above him, and scolded someone very loudly; he kept saying, "Thief! thief!" But Raggylug never moved his nose, nor his paws; he laystill. Once a lady-bird took a walk down a blade of grass, over his head;she was so top-heavy that pretty soon she tumbled off and fell to thebottom, and had to begin all over again. But Raggylug never moved his nosenor his paws; he lay still. 

The sun was warm, and it was very still. 

Suddenly Raggylug heard a little sound, far off. It sounded like "Swish, swish, " very soft and far away. He listened. It was a queer little sound, low down in the grass, "rustle--rustle--rustle"; Raggylug was interested. But he never moved his nose or his paws; he lay still. Then the sound camenearer, "rustle--rustle--rustle"; then grew fainter, then came nearer; inand out, nearer and nearer, like something coming; only, when Raggylugheard anything coming he always heard its feet, stepping ever so softly. What could it be that came so smoothly, --rustle--rustle--without any feet?

He forgot his mother's warning, and sat up on his hind paws; the soundstopped then. "Pooh, " thought Raggylug, "I'm not a baby rabbit, I am threeweeks old; I'll find out what this is. " He stuck his head over the top ofthe nest, and looked--straight into the wicked eyes of a great big snake. "Mammy, Mammy!" screamed Raggylug. "Oh, Mammy, Mam--" But he couldn'tscream any more, for the big snake had his ear in his mouth and waswinding about the soft little body, squeezing Raggylug's life out. Hetried to call "Mammy!" again, but he could not breathe. 

Ah, but Mammy had heard the first cry. Straight over the fields she flew, leaping the stones and hummocks, fast as the wind, to save her baby. Shewasn't a timid little cottontail rabbit then; she was a mother whose childwas in danger. And when she came to Raggylug and the big snake, she tookone look, and then hop! hop! she went over the snake's back; and as shejumped she struck at the snake with her strong hind claws so that theytore his skin. He hissed with rage, but he did not let go. 

Hop! hop! she went again, and this time she hurt him so that he twistedand turned; but he held on to Raggylug. 

Once more the mother rabbit hopped, and once more she struck and tore thesnake's back with her sharp claws. Zzz! How she hurt! The snake droppedRaggy to strike at her, and Raggy rolled on to his feet and ran. 

"Run, Raggylug, run!" said his mother, keeping the snake busy with herjumps; and you may believe Raggylug ran! Just as soon as he was out of theway his mother came too, and showed him where to go. When she ran, therewas a little white patch that showed under her tail; that was for Raggy tofollow, --he followed it now. 

Far, far away she led him, through the long grass, to a place where thebig snake could not find him, and there she made a new nest. And thistime, when she told Raggylug to lie low you'd better believe he minded!

THE GOLDEN COBWEBS[1]

A STORY TO TELL BY THE CHRISTMAS TREE

[Footnote 1: This story was told me in the mother-tongue of a Germanfriend, at the kindly instance of a common friend of both; the narratorhad heard it at home from the lips of a father of story-loving childrenfor whom he often invented such little tales. The present adaptation haspassed by hearsay through so many minds that it is perhaps little like theoriginal, but I venture to hope it has a touch of the original fancy, atleast. ]

I am going to tell you a story about something wonderful that happened toa Christmas Tree like this, ever and ever so long ago, when it was onceupon a time. 

It was before Christmas, and the tree was trimmed with bright spangledthreads and many-coloured candles and (name the trimmings of the treebefore you), and it stood safely out of sight in a room where the doorswere locked, so that the children should not see it before the propertime. But ever so many other little house-people had seen it. The bigblack pussy saw it with her great green eyes; the little grey kitty saw itwith her little blue eyes; the kind house-dog saw it with his steady browneyes; the yellow canary saw it with his wise, bright eyes. Even the wee, wee mice that were so afraid of the cat had peeped one peep when no onewas by. 

But there was someone who hadn't seen the Christmas tree. It was thelittle grey spider!

You see, the spiders lived in the corners, --the warm corners of the sunnyattic and the dark corners of the nice cellar. And they were expecting tosee the Christmas Tree as much as anybody. But just before Christmas agreat cleaning-up began in the house. The house-mother came sweeping anddusting and wiping and scrubbing, to make everything grand and clean forthe Christ-child's birthday. Her broom went into all the corners, poke, poke, --and of course the spiders had to run. Dear, dear, _how_ the spidershad to run! Not one could stay in the house while the Christmas cleannesslasted. So, you see, they couldn't see the Christmas Tree. 

Spiders like to know all about everything, and see all there is to see, and these were very sad. So at last they went to the Christ-child and toldhim about it. 

"All the others see the Christmas Tree, dear Christ-child, " they said;"but we, who are so domestic and so fond of beautiful things, we are_cleaned up_! We cannot see it, at all. "

The Christ-child was sorry for the little spiders when he heard this, andhe said they should see the Christmas Tree. 

The day before Christmas, when nobody was noticing, he let them all go in, to look as long as ever they liked. 

They came creepy, creepy, down the attic stairs, creepy, creepy, up thecellar stairs, creepy, creepy, along the halls, --and into the beautifulroom. The fat mother spiders and the old papa spiders were there, and allthe little teeny, tiny, curly spiders, the baby ones. And then theylooked! Round and round the tree they crawled, and looked and looked andlooked. Oh, what a good time they had! They thought it was perfectlybeautiful. And when they had looked at everything they could see from thefloor, they started up the tree to see more. All over the tree they ran, creepy, crawly, looking at every single thing. Up and down, in and out, over every branch and twig, the little spiders ran, and saw every one ofthe pretty things right up close. 

They stayed till they had seen all there was to see, you may be sure, andthen they went away at last, _quite_ happy. 

Then, in the still, dark night before Christmas Day, the dear Christ-childcame, to bless the tree for the children. But when he looked at it--_what_do you suppose?--it was covered with cobwebs! Everywhere the littlespiders had been they had left a spider-web; and you know they had beeneverywhere. So the tree was covered from its trunk to its tip withspider-webs, all hanging from the branches and looped round the twigs; itwas a strange sight. 

What could the Christ-child do? He knew that house-mothers do not likecobwebs; it would never, never do to have a Christmas Tree covered withthose. No, indeed. 

So the dear Christ-child touched the spider's webs, and turned them all togold! Wasn't that a lovely trimming? They shone and shone, all over thebeautiful tree. And that is the way the Christmas Tree came to havegolden cobwebs on it. 

WHY THE MORNING-GLORY CLIMBS[1]

[Footnote 1: This story was given me by Miss Elisabeth McCracken, whowrote it some years ago in a larger form, and who told it to me in the wayshe had told it to many children of her acquaintance. ]

Once the Morning-Glory was flat on the ground. She grew that way, and shehad never climbed at all. Up in the top of a tree near her lived MrsJennie Wren and her little baby Wren. The little Wren was lame; he had abroken wing and couldn't fly. He stayed in the nest all day. But themother Wren told him all about what she saw in the world, when she cameflying home at night. She used to tell him about the beautifulMorning-Glory she saw on the ground. She told him about the Morning-Gloryevery day, until the little Wren was filled with a desire to see her forhimself. 

"How I wish I could see the Morning-Glory!" he said. 

The Morning-Glory heard this, and she longed to let the little Wren seeher face. She pulled herself along the ground, a little at a time, untilshe was at the foot of the tree where the little Wren lived. But she couldnot get any farther, because she did not know how to climb. At last shewanted to go up so much, that she caught hold of the bark of the tree, and pulled herself up a little. And little by little, before she knew it, she was climbing. 

And she climbed right up the tree to the little Wren's nest, and put hersweet face over the edge of the nest, where the little Wren could see. 

That was how the Morning-Glory came to climb. 

THE STORY OF LITTLE TAVWOTS[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _The Basket Woman_, by Mary Austin. ]

This is the story an Indian woman told a little white boy who lived withhis father and mother near the Indians' country; and Tavwots is the nameof the little rabbit. 

But once, long ago, Tavwots was not little, --he was the largest of allfour-footed things, and a mighty hunter. He used to hunt every day; assoon as it was day, and light enough to see, he used to get up, and go tohis hunting. But every day he saw the track of a great foot on the trail, before him. This troubled him, for his pride was as big as his body. 

"Who is this, " he cried, "that goes before me to the hunting, and makes sogreat a stride? Does he think to put me to shame?"

"T'-sst!" said his mother, "there is none greater than thou. "

"Still, there are the footprints in the trail, " said Tavwots. 

And the next morning he got up earlier; but still the great footprints andthe mighty stride were before him. The next morning he got up stillearlier; but there were the mighty foot-tracks and the long, long stride. 

"Now I will set me a trap for this impudent fellow, " said Tavwots, for hewas very cunning. So he made a snare of his bowstring and set it in thetrail overnight. 

And when in the morning he went to look, behold, he had caught the sun inhis snare! All that part of the earth was beginning to smoke with the heatof it. 

"Is it you who made the tracks in my trail?" cried Tavwots. 

"It is I, " said the sun; "come and set me free, before the whole earth isafire. "

Then Tavwots saw what he had to do, and he drew his sharp hunting-knifeand ran to cut the bowstring. But the heat was so great that he ran backbefore he had done it; and when he ran back he was melted down to half hissize! Then the earth began to burn, and the smoke curled up against thesky. 

"Come again, Tavwots, " cried the sun. 

And Tavwots ran again to cut the bowstring. But the heat was so great thathe ran back before he had done it, and he was melted down to a quarter ofhis size!

"Come again, Tavwots, and quickly, " cried the sun, "or all the world willbe burnt up. "

And Tavwots ran again; this time he cut the bowstring and set the sunfree. But when he got back he was melted down to the size he is now! Onlyone thing is left of all his greatness: you may still see by the print ofhis feet as he leaps in the trail, how great his stride was when he caughtthe sun in his snare. 

THE PIG BROTHER[1]

[Footnote 1: From _The Golden Windows_, by Laura E. Richards. (H. R. Allenson Ltd. 2s. 6d. Net. )]

There was once a child who was untidy. He left his books on the floor, andhis muddy shoes on the table; he put his fingers in the jam pots, andspilled ink on his best pinafore; there was really no end to hisuntidiness. 

One day the Tidy Angel came into his nursery. 

"This will never do!" said the Angel. "This is really shocking. You mustgo out and stay with your brother while I set things to rights here. "

"I have no brother!" said the child. 

"Yes, you have, " said the Angel. "You may not know him, but he will knowyou. Go out in the garden and watch for him, and he will soon come. "

"I don't know what you mean!" said the child; but he went out into thegarden and waited. 

Presently a squirrel came along, whisking his tail. 

"Are you my brother?" asked the child. 

The squirrel looked him over carefully. 

"Well, I should hope not!" he said. "My fur is neat and smooth, my nest ishandsomely made, and in perfect order, and my young ones are properlybrought up. Why do you insult me by asking such a question?"

He whisked off, and the child waited. 

Presently a wren came hopping by. 

"Are you my brother?" asked the child. 

"No, indeed!" said the wren. "What impertinence! You will find no tidierperson than I in the whole garden. Not a feather is out of place, and myeggs are the wonder of all for smoothness and beauty. Brother, indeed!" Hehopped off, ruffling his feathers, and the child waited. 

By-and-by a large Tommy Cat came along. 

"Are you my brother?" asked the child. 

"Go and look at yourself in the glass, " said the Tommy Cat haughtily, "andyou will have your answer. I have been washing myself in the sun all themorning, while it is clear that no water has come near you for a longtime. There are no such creatures as you in my family, I am humblythankful to say. "

He walked on, waving his tail, and the child waited. 

Presently a pig came trotting along. 

The child did not wish to ask the pig if he were his brother, but the pigdid not wait to be asked. 

"Hallo, brother!" he grunted. 

"I am not your brother!" said the child. 

"Oh yes, you are!" said the pig. "I confess I am not proud of you, butthere is no mistaking the members of our family. Come along, and have agood roll in the barnyard! There is some lovely black mud there. "

"I don't like to roll in mud!" said the child. 

"Tell that to the hens!" said the Pig Brother. "Look at your hands andyour shoes, and your pinafore! Come along, I say! You may have some of thepig-wash for supper, if there is more than I want. "

"I don't want pig-wash!" said the child; and he began to cry. 

Just then the Tidy Angel came out. 

"I have set everything to rights, " she said, "and so it must stay. Now, will you go with the Pig Brother, or will you come back with me, and be atidy child?"

"With you, with you!" cried the child; and he clung to the Angel's dress. 

The Pig Brother grunted. 

"Small loss!" he said. "There will be all the more wash for me!" And hetrotted off. 

THE CAKE[1]

[Footnote 1: From _The Golden Windows_, by Laura E. Richards. (H. R. Allenson Ltd. 2s. 6d. Net. )]

A child quarrelled with his brother one day about a cake. 

"It is my cake!" said the child. 

"No, it is mine!" said his brother. 

"You shall not have it!" said the child. "Give it to me this minute!" Andhe fell upon his brother and beat him. 

Just then came by an Angel who knew the child. 

"Who is this that you are beating?" asked the Angel. 

"It is my brother, " said the child. 

"No, but truly, " said the Angel, "who is it?"

"It is my brother, I tell you!" said the child. 

"Oh no, " said the Angel, "that cannot be; and it seems a pity for you totell an untruth, because that makes spots on your soul. If it were yourbrother, you would not beat him. "

"But he has my cake!" said the child. 

"Oh, " said the Angel, "now I see my mistake. You mean that the cake isyour brother; and that seems a pity, too, for it does not look like avery good cake, --and, besides, it is all crumbled to pieces. "

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN TOWN[1]

[Footnote 1: From traditions, with rhymes from Browning's _The Pied Piperof Hamelin_. ]

Once I made a pleasure trip to a country called Germany; and I went to afunny little town, where all the streets ran uphill. At the top there wasa big mountain, steep like the roof of a house, and at the bottom therewas a big river, broad and slow. And the funniest thing about the littletown was that all the shops had the same thing in them; bakers' shops, grocers' shops, everywhere we went we saw the same thing, --big chocolaterats, rats and mice, made out of chocolate. We were so surprised thatafter a while, "Why do you have rats in your shops?" we asked. 

"Don't you know this is Hamelin town?" they said. "What of that?" said we. "Why, Hamelin town is where the Pied Piper came, " they told us; "surelyyou know about the Pied Piper?" "_What_ about the Pied Piper?" we said. And this is what they told us about him. 

It seems that once, long, long ago, that little town was dreadfullytroubled with rats. The houses were full of them, the shops were full ofthem, the churches were full of them, they were _everywhere_. The peoplewere all but eaten out of house and home. Those rats, They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats!

At last it got so bad that the people simply couldn't stand it any longer. So they all came together and went to the town hall, and they said to theMayor (you know what a mayor is?), "See here, what do we pay you yoursalary for? What are you good for, if you can't do a little thing likegetting rid of these rats? You must go to work and clear the town of them;find the remedy that's lacking, or--we'll send you packing!"

Well, the poor Mayor was in a terrible way. What to do he didn't know. Hesat with his head in his hands, and thought and thought and thought. 

Suddenly there came a little _rat-tat_ at the door. Oh! how the Mayorjumped! His poor old heart went pit-a-pat at anything like the sound of arat. But it was only the scraping of shoes on the mat. So the Mayor satup, and said, "Come in!"

And in came the strangest figure! It was a man, very tall and very thin, with a sharp chin and a mouth where the smiles went out and in, and twoblue eyes, each like a pin; and he was dressed half in red and half inyellow--he really was the strangest fellow!--and round his neck he had along red and yellow ribbon, and on it was hung a thing something like aflute, and his fingers went straying up and down it as if he wanted to beplaying. 

He came up to the Mayor and said, "I hear you are troubled with rats inthis town. "

"I should say we were, " groaned the Mayor. 

"Would you like to get rid of them? I can do it for you. "

"You can?" cried the Mayor. "How? Who are you?"

"Men call me the Pied Piper, " said the man, "and I know a way to drawafter me everything that walks, or flies, or swims. What will you give meif I rid your town of rats?"

"Anything, anything, " said the Mayor. "I don't believe you can do it, butif you can, I'll give you a thousand guineas. "

"All right, " said the Piper, "it is a bargain. "

And then he went to the door and stepped out into the street and stood, and put the long flute-like thing to his lips, and began to play a littletune. A strange, high, little tune. And before

 three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling! Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- Followed the Piper for their lives!

From street to street he piped, advancing, from street to street theyfollowed, dancing. Up one street and down another, till they came to theedge of the big river, and there the piper turned sharply about andstepped aside, and all those rats tumbled hurry skurry, head over heels, down the bank into the river _and--were--drowned_. Every single one. No, there was one big old fat rat; he was so fat he didn't sink, and he swamacross, and ran away to tell the tale. 

Then the Piper came back to the town hall. And all the people were wavingtheir hats and shouting for joy. The Mayor said they would have a bigcelebration, and build a tremendous bonfire in the middle of the town. Heasked the Piper to stay and see the bonfire, --very politely. 

"Yes, " said the Piper, "that will be very nice; but first, if you please, I should like my thousand guineas. "

"H'm, --er--ahem!" said the Mayor. "You mean that little joke of mine; ofcourse that was a joke. " (You see it is always harder to pay for a thingwhen you no longer need it. )

"I do not joke, " said the Piper very quietly; "my thousand guineas, if youplease. "

"Oh, come, now, " said the Mayor, "you know very well it wasn't worthsixpence to play a little tune like that; call it one guinea, and let itgo at that. "

"A bargain is a bargain, " said the Piper; "for the last time, --will yougive me my thousand guineas?"

"I'll give you a pipe of tobacco, something good to eat, and call youlucky at that!" said the Mayor, tossing his head. 

Then the Piper's mouth grew strange and thin, and sharp blue and greenlights began dancing in his eyes, and he said to the Mayor very softly, "Iknow another tune than that I played; I play it to those who play mefalse. "

"Play what you please! You can't frighten me! Do your worst!" said theMayor, making himself big. 

Then the Piper stood high up on the steps of the town hall, and put thepipe to his lips, and began to play a little tune. It was quite adifferent little tune, this time, very soft and sweet, and very, verystrange. And before he had played three notes, you heard

 a rustling, that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 

"Stop, stop!" cried the people. "He is taking our children! Stop him, MrMayor!"

"I will give you your money, I will!" cried the Mayor, and tried to runafter the Piper. 

But the very same music that made the children dance made the grown-uppeople stand stock-still; it was as if their feet had been tied to theground; they could not move a muscle. There they stood and saw the Pipermove slowly down the street, playing his little tune, with the children athis heels. On and on he went; on and on the children danced; till he cameto the bank of the river. 

"Oh, oh! He will drown our children in the river!" cried the people. Butthe Piper turned and went along by the bank, and all the children followedafter. Up, and up, and up the hill they went, straight toward the mountainwhich is like the roof of a house. And just as they got to it, themountain _opened_, --like two great doors, and the Piper went in throughthe opening, playing the little tune, and the children danced afterhim--and--just as they got through--the great doors slid together againand shut them all in! Every single one. No, there was one little lamechild, who couldn't keep up with the rest and didn't get there in time. But none of his little companions ever came back any more, not one. 

But years and years afterward, when the fat old rat who swam across theriver was a grandfather, his children used to ask him, "What made youfollow the music, Grandfather?" and he used to tell them, "My dears, whenI heard that tune I thought I heard the moving aside of pickle-tub boards, and the leaving ajar of preserve cupboards, and I smelled the mostdelicious old cheese in the world, and I saw sugar barrels ahead of me;and then, just as a great yellow cheese seemed to be saying, 'Come, boreme'--I felt the river rolling o'er me!"

And in the same way the people asked the little lame child, "What made youfollow the music?" "I do not know what the others heard, " he said, "butI, when the Piper began to play, I heard a voice that told of a wonderfulcountry hard by, where the bees had no stings and the horses had wings, and the trees bore wonderful fruits, where no one was tired or lame, andchildren played all day; and just as the beautiful country was but onestep away--the mountain closed on my playmates, and I was left alone. "

That was all the people ever knew. The children never came back. All thatwas left of the Piper and the rats was just the big street that led to theriver; so they called it the Street of the Pied Piper. 

And that is the end of the story. 

WHY THE EVERGREEN TREES KEEP THEIR LEAVES IN WINTER[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from Florence Holbrook's _A Book of Nature Myths_. (Harrap & Co. 9d. )]

One day, a long, long time ago, it was very cold; winter was coming. Andall the birds flew away to the warm south, to wait for the spring. But onelittle bird had a broken wing and could not fly. He did not know what todo. He looked all round, to see if there was any place where he could keepwarm. And he saw the trees of the great forest. 

"Perhaps the trees will keep me warm through the winter, " he said. 

So he went to the edge of the forest, hopping and fluttering with hisbroken wing. The first tree he came to was a slim silver birch. 

"Beautiful birch-tree, " he said, "will you let me live in your warmbranches until the springtime comes?"

"Dear me!" said the birch-tree, "what a thing to ask! I have to take careof my own leaves through the winter; that is enough for me. Go away. "

The little bird hopped and fluttered with his broken wing until he came tothe next tree. It was a great, big oak-tree. 

"O big oak-tree, " said the little bird, "will you let me live in your warmbranches until the springtime comes?"

"Dear me, " said the oak-tree, "what a thing to ask! If you stay in mybranches all winter you will be eating my acorns. Go away. "

So the little bird hopped and fluttered with his broken wing till he cameto the willow-tree by the edge of the brook. 

"O beautiful willow-tree, " said the little bird, "will you let me live inyour warm branches until the springtime comes?"

"No, indeed, " said the willow-tree; "I never speak to strangers. Go away. "

The poor little bird did not know where to go; but he hopped andfluttered along with his broken wing. Presently the spruce-tree saw him, and said, "Where are you going, little bird?"

"I do not know, " said the bird; "the trees will not let me live with them, and my wing is broken so that I cannot fly. "

"You may live on one of my branches, " said the spruce; "here is thewarmest one of all. "

"But may I stay all winter?"

"Yes, " said the spruce; "I shall like to have you. "

The pine-tree stood beside the spruce, and when he saw the little birdhopping and fluttering with his broken wing, he said, "My branches are notvery warm, but I can keep the wind off because I am big and strong. "

So the little bird fluttered up into the warm branch of the spruce, andthe pine-tree kept the wind off his house; then the juniper-tree saw whatwas going on, and said that she would give the little bird his dinner allthe winter, from her branches. Juniper berries are very good for littlebirds. 

The little bird was very comfortable in his warm nest sheltered from thewind, with juniper berries to eat. 

The trees at the edge of the forest remarked upon it to each other:

"I wouldn't take care of a strange bird, " said the birch. 

"I wouldn't risk my acorns, " said the oak. 

"I would not speak to strangers, " said the willow. And the three treesstood up very tall and proud. 

That night the North Wind came to the woods to play. He puffed at theleaves with his icy breath, and every leaf he touched fell to the ground. He wanted to touch every leaf in the forest, for he loved to see the treesbare. 

"May I touch every leaf?" he said to his father, the Frost King. 

"No, " said the Frost King, "the trees which were kind to the bird with thebroken wing may keep their leaves. "

So North Wind had to leave them alone, and the spruce, the pine, and thejuniper-tree kept their leaves through all the winter. And they have doneso ever since. 

THE STAR DOLLARS[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from Grimms' _Fairy Tales_. ]

There was once a little girl who was very, very poor. Her father andmother had died, and at last she had no little room to stay in, and nolittle bed to sleep in, and nothing more to eat except one piece of bread. So she said a prayer, put on her little jacket and her hood, and took herpiece of bread in her hand, and went out into the world. 

When she had walked a little way, she met an old man, bent and thin. Helooked at the piece of bread in her hand, and said, "Will you give me yourbread, little girl? I am very hungry. " The little girl said, "Yes, " andgave him her piece of bread. 

When she had walked a little farther she came upon a child, sitting by thepath, crying. "I am so cold!" said the child. "Won't you give me yourlittle hood, to keep my head warm?" The little girl took off her hood andtied it on the child's head. Then she went on her way. 

After a time, as she went, she met another child. This one shivered withthe cold, and she said to the little girl, "Won't you give me your jacket, little girl?" And the little girl gave her her jacket. Then she went onagain. 

By-and-by she saw another child, crouching almost naked by the wayside. "Olittle girl, " said the child, "won't you give me your dress? I havenothing to keep me warm. " So the little girl took off her dress and gaveit to the other child. And now she had nothing left but her little shirt. It grew dark, and the wind was cold, and the little girl crept into thewoods, to sleep for the night. But in the woods a child stood, weeping andnaked. "I am cold, " she said, "give me your little shirt!" And the littlegirl thought, "It is dark, and the woods will shelter me; I will give hermy little shirt"; so she did, and now she had nothing left in all theworld. 

She stood looking up at the sky, to say her night-time prayer. As shelooked up, the whole skyful of stars fell in a shower round her feet. There they were, on the ground, shining bright, and round. The little girlsaw that they were silver dollars. And in the midst of them was the finestlittle shirt, all woven out of silk! The little girl put on the littlesilk shirt, and gathered the star dollars; and she was rich, all the daysof her life. 

THE LION AND THE GNAT[1]

[Footnote 1: This story has been told by the Rev. Albert E. Sims tochildren in many parts of England. On one occasion it was told to anaudience of over three thousand children in the Great Assembly Hall, MileEnd, London. ]

Far away in Central Africa, that vast land where dense forests and wildbeasts abound, the shades of night were once more descending, warning allcreatures that it was time to seek repose. 

All day long the sun had been like a great burning eye, but now, afterpainting the western sky with crimson and scarlet and gold, he haddisappeared into his fleecy bed; the various creatures of the forest hadsought their holes and resting-places; the last sound had rumbled itsrumble, the last bee had mumbled his mumble, and the last bear hadgrumbled his grumble; even the grasshoppers that had been chirruping, chirruping, through all the long hours without a pause, at length hadceased their shrill music, tucked up their long legs, and given themselvesto slumber. 

There on a nodding grass-blade, a tiny Gnat had made a swinging couch, andhe too had folded his wings, closed his tiny eyes, and was fast asleep. Darker, darker, darker became the night until the darkness could almost befelt, and over all was a solemn stillness as though some powerful fingerhad been raised, and some potent voice had whispered, "HU--SH!"

Just when all was perfectly still, there came suddenly from the far awaydepths of the forest, like the roll of thunder, a mighty ROAR--R--R--R!

In a moment all the beasts and birds were wide awake, and the poor littleGnat was nearly frightened out of his little senses, and his little heartwent pit-a-pat. He rubbed his little eyes with his feelers, and thenpeered all around trying to penetrate the deep gloom as he whispered interror--_"What--was--that?"_

What do _you_ think it was?... Yes, a LION! A great, big lion who, whilemost other denizens of the forest slept, was out hunting for prey. Hecame rushing and crashing through the thick undergrowth of the forest, swirling his long tail and opening wide his great jaws, and as he rushedhe RO-AR-R-R-ED!

Presently he reached the spot where the little Gnat hung panting at thetip of the waving grass-blade. Now the little Gnat was not afraid oflions, so when he saw it was only a lion, he cried out--

"Hi, stop, stop! What are you making that horrible noise about?"

The Lion stopped short, then backed slowly and regarded the Gnat withscorn. 

"Why, you tiny, little, mean, insignificant creature you, how DARE youspeak to ME?" he raged. 

"How dare I speak to you?" repeated the Gnat quietly. "By the virtue of_right_, which is always greater than _might_. Why don't you keep to yourown part of the forest? What right have you to be here, disturbing folksat this time of night?"

By a mighty effort the Lion restrained his anger--he knew that to obtainmastery over others one must be master over oneself. 

"What _right_?" he repeated in dignified tones. "_Because I'm King of theForest. _ That's why. I can do no wrong, for all the other creatures of theforest are afraid of me. I DO what I please, I SAY what I please, I EATwhom I please, I GO where I please--simply because I'm King of theForest. "

"But who told you you were King?" demanded the Gnat. "Just answer methat!"

"Who told ME?" roared the Lion. "Why, everyone acknowledges it--don't Itell you that everyone is afraid of me?"

"Indeed!" cried the Gnat disdainfully. "Pray don't say _all_, for I'm notafraid of you. And further, I deny your right to be King. "

This was too much for the Lion. He now worked himself into a perfect fury. 

"You--you--YOU deny my right as King?"

"I _do_, and, what is more, you shall never be King until you have foughtand conquered me. "

The Lion laughed a great lion laugh, and a lion laugh cannot be laughed atlike a cat laugh, as everyone ought to know. 

"Fight--did you say fight?" he asked. "Who ever heard of a lion fighting agnat? Here, out of my way, you atom of nothing! I'll blow you to the otherend of the world. "

But though the Lion puffed his cheeks until they were like great bellows, and then blew with all his might, he could not disturb the little Gnat'shold on the swaying grass-blade. 

"You'll blow all your whiskers away if you are not careful, " he said, witha laugh--"but you won't move me. And if you dare leave this spot withoutfighting me, I'll tell all the beasts of the forest that you are afraid ofme, and they'll make _me_ King. "

"Ho, ho!" roared the Lion. "Very well, since you will fight, let it beso. "

"You agree to the conditions, then? The one who conquers shall be King?"

"Oh, certainly, " laughed the Lion, for he expected an easy victory. "Areyou ready?"

"Quite ready. "

"Then--GO!" roared the Lion. 

And with that he sprang forward with open jaws, thinking he could easilyswallow a million gnats. But just as the great jaws were about to closeupon the blade of grass whereto the Gnat clung, what should happen butthat the Gnat suddenly spread his wings and nimbly flew--where do youthink?--right into one of the Lion's nostrils! And there he began tosting, sting, sting. The Lion wondered, and thundered, and blundered--butthe Gnat went on stinging; he foamed, and he moaned, and he groaned--stillthe Gnat went on stinging; he rubbed his head on the ground in agony, heswirled his tail in furious passion, he roared, he spluttered, he sniffed, he snuffed--and still the Gnat went on stinging. 

"O my poor nose, my nose, my nose!" the Lion began to moan. "Come down, come DOWN, come DOWN! My nose, my NOSE, my NOSE!! You're King of theForest, you're King, you're King--only come down. My nose, my NOSE, myNOSE!"

So at last the Gnat flew out from the Lion's nostril and went back to hiswaving grass-blade, while the Lion slunk away into the depths of theforest with his tail between his legs--_beaten_, and by a tiny Gnat!

"What a fine fellow am I, to be sure!" exclaimed the Gnat, as he proudlyplumed his wings. "I've beaten a lion--a lion! Dear me, I ought to havebeen King long ago, I'm so clever, so big, so strong--_oh!_"

The Gnat's frightened cry was caused by finding himself entangled in somesilky sort of threads. While gloating over his victory, the wind hadrisen, and his grass-blade had swayed violently to and fro unnoticed byhim. A stronger gust than usual had bent the blade downward close to theground, and then something caught it and held it fast and with it thevictorious Gnat. Oh, the desperate struggles he made to get free! Alas! hebecame more entangled than ever. You can guess what it was--a spider'sweb, hung out from the overhanging branch of a tree. Then--flipperty-flopperty, flipperty-flopperty, flop, flip, flop--down hisstairs came cunning Father Spider and quickly gobbled up the little Gnatfor his supper, and that was the end of him. 

A strong Lion--and what overcame him? _A Gnat. _

A clever Gnat--and what overcame him? _A Spider's web!_ He who had beatenthe strong lion had been overcome by the subtle snare of a spider'sthread. 

ESPECIALLY FOR CLASSES II. AND III. 

THE CAT AND THE PARROT

Once there was a cat, and a parrot. And they had agreed to ask each otherto dinner, turn and turn about: first the cat should ask the parrot, thenthe parrot should invite the cat, and so on. It was the cat's turn first. 

Now the cat was very mean. He provided nothing at all for dinner except apint of milk, a little slice of fish, and a biscuit. The parrot was toopolite to complain, but he did not have a very good time. 

When it was his turn to invite the cat, he cooked a fine dinner. He had aroast of meat, a pot of tea, a basket of fruit, and, best of all, he bakeda whole clothes-basketful of little cakes!--little, brown, crispy, spicycakes! Oh, I should say as many as five hundred. And he put four hundredand ninety-eight of the cakes before the cat, keeping only two forhimself. 

Well, the cat ate the roast, and drank the tea, and sucked the fruit, andthen he began on the pile of cakes. He ate all the four hundred andninety-eight cakes, and then he looked round and said:--

"I'm hungry; haven't you anything to eat?"

"Why, " said the parrot, "here are my two cakes, if you want them?"

The cat ate up the two cakes, and then he licked his chops and said, "I ambeginning to get an appetite; have you anything to eat?"

"Well, really, " said the parrot, who was now rather angry, "I don't seeanything more, unless you wish to eat me!" He thought the cat would beashamed when he heard that--but the cat just looked at him and licked hischops again, --and slip! slop! gobble! down his throat went the parrot!

Then the cat started down the street. An old woman was standing by, andshe had seen the whole thing, and she was shocked that the cat should eathis friend. "Why, cat!" she said, "how dreadful of you to eat your friendthe parrot!"

"Parrot, indeed!" said the cat. "What's a parrot to me?--I've a great mindto eat you, too. " And--before you could say "Jack Robinson"--slip! slop!gobble! down went the old woman!

Then the cat started down the road again, walking like this, because hefelt so fine. Pretty soon he met a man driving a donkey. The man wasbeating the donkey, to hurry him up, and when he saw the cat he said, "Getout of my way, cat; I'm in a hurry and my donkey might tread on you. "

"Donkey, indeed!" said the cat, "much I care for a donkey! I have eatenfive hundred cakes, I've eaten my friend the parrot, I've eaten an oldwoman, --what's to hinder my eating a miserable man and a donkey?"

And slip! slop! gobble! down went the old man and the donkey. 

Then the cat walked on down the road, jauntily, like this. After a little, he met a procession, coming that way. The king was at the head, walkingproudly with his newly married bride, and behind him were his soldiers, marching, and behind them were ever and ever so many elephants, walkingtwo by two. The king felt very kind to everybody, because he had just beenmarried, and he said to the cat, "Get out of my way, pussy, get out of myway, --my elephants might hurt you. "

"Hurt me!" said the cat, shaking his fat sides. "Ho, ho! I've eaten fivehundred cakes, I've eaten my friend the parrot, I've eaten an old woman, I've eaten a man and a donkey; what's to hinder my eating a beggarlyking?"

And slip! slop! gobble! down went the king; down went the queen; down wentthe soldiers, --and down went all the elephants!

Then the cat went on, more slowly; he had really had enough to eat, now. But a little farther on he met two land-crabs, scuttling along in thedust. "Get out of our way, pussy, " they squeaked. 

"Ho, ho ho!" cried the cat in a terrible voice. "I've eaten five hundredcakes, I've eaten my friend the parrot, I've eaten an old woman, a manwith a donkey, a king, a queen, his men-at-arms, and all his elephants;and now I'll eat you too. "

And slip! slop! gobble! down went the two land-crabs. 

When the land-crabs got down inside, they began to look around. It wasvery dark, but they could see the poor king sitting in a corner with hisbride on his arm; she had fainted. Near them were the men-at-arms, treading on one another's toes, and the elephants, still trying to form intwos, --but they couldn't, because there was not room. In the oppositecorner sat the old woman, and near her stood the man and his donkey. Butin the other corner was a great pile of cakes, and by them perched theparrot, his feathers all drooping. 

"Let's get to work!" said the land-crabs. And, snip, snap, they began tomake a little hole in the side, with their sharp claws. Snip, snap, snip, snap, --till it was big enough to get through. Then out they scuttled. 

Then out walked the king, carrying his bride; out marched the men-at-arms;out tramped the elephants, two by two; out came the old man, beating hisdonkey; out walked the old woman, scolding the cat; and last of all, outhopped the parrot, holding a cake in each claw. (You remember, two cakeswere all he wanted?)

But the poor cat had to spend the whole day sewing up the hole in hiscoat!

THE RAT PRINCESS[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from Frank Rinder's _Old World Japan_. In tellingthis story the voice should be changed for the Sun, Cloud, Wind, and Wall, as is always done in the old story of _The Three Bears_. ]

Once upon a time, there was a Rat Princess, who lived with her father, theRat King, and her mother, the Rat Queen, in a ricefield in far away Japan. The Rat Princess was so pretty that her father and mother were quitefoolishly proud of her, and thought no one good enough to play with her. When she grew up, they would not let any of the rat princes come to visither, and they decided at last that no one should marry her till they hadfound the most powerful person in the whole world; no one else was goodenough. And the Father Rat started out to find the most powerful person inthe whole world. The wisest and oldest rat in the ricefield said that theSun must be the most powerful person, because he made the rice grow andripen; so the Rat King went to find the Sun. He climbed up the highestmountain, ran up the path of a rainbow, and travelled and travelled acrossthe sky till he came to the Sun's house. 

"What do you want, little brother?" the Sun said, when he saw him. 

"I come, " said the Rat King, very importantly, "to offer you the hand ofmy daughter, the princess, because you are the most powerful person in theworld; no one else is good enough. "

"Ha, ha!" laughed the jolly round Sun, and winked with his eye. "You arevery kind, little brother, but if that is the case the princess is not forme; the Cloud is more powerful than I am; when he passes over me I cannotshine. "

"Oh, indeed, " said the Rat King, "then you are not my man at all"; and heleft the Sun without more words. The Sun laughed and winked to himself. And the Rat King travelled and travelled across the sky till he came tothe Cloud's house. 

"What do you want, little brother?" sighed the Cloud when he saw him. 

"I come to offer you the hand of my daughter, the princess, " said the RatKing, "because you are the most powerful person in the world; the Sun saidso, and no one else is good enough. "

The Cloud sighed again. "I am not the most powerful person, " he said;"the Wind is stronger than I, --when he blows, I have to go wherever hesends me. "

"Then you are not the person for my daughter, " said the Rat King proudly;and he started at once to find the Wind. He travelled and travelled acrossthe sky, till he came at last to the Wind's house, at the very edge of theworld. 

When the Wind saw him coming he laughed a big, gusty laugh, "Ho, ho!" andasked him what he wanted; and when the Rat King told him that he had cometo offer him the Rat Princess's hand because he was the most powerfulperson in the world, the Wind shouted a great gusty shout, and said, "No, no, I am not the strongest; the Wall that man has made is stronger than I;I cannot make him move, with all my blowing; go to the Wall, littlebrother!"

And the Rat King climbed down the sky-path again, and travelled andtravelled across the earth till he came to the Wall. It was quite near hisown ricefield. 

"What do you want, little brother?" grumbled the Wall when he saw him. 

"I come to offer you the hand of the princess, my daughter, because youare the most powerful person in the world, and no one else is goodenough. "

"Ugh, ugh, " grumbled the Wall, "I am not the strongest; the big grey Ratwho lives in the cellar is stronger than I. When he gnaws and gnaws at meI crumble and crumble, and at last I fall; go to the Rat, little brother. "

And so, after going all over the world to find the strongest person, theRat King had to marry his daughter to a rat, after all; but the princesswas very glad of it, for she wanted to marry the grey Rat, all the time. 

THE FROG AND THE OX

Once a little Frog sat by a big Frog, by the side of a pool. "Oh, father, "said he, "I have just seen the biggest animal in the world; it was as bigas a mountain, and it had horns on its head, and it had hoofs divided intwo. "

"Pooh, child, " said the old Frog, "that was only Farmer White's Ox. He isnot so very big. I could easily make myself as big as he. " And he blew, and he blew, and he blew, and swelled himself out. 

"Was he as big as that?" he asked the little Frog. 

"Oh, much bigger, " said the little Frog. 

The old Frog blew, and blew, and blew again, and swelled himself out, morethan ever. 

"Was he bigger than that?" he said. 

"Much, much bigger, " said the little Frog. 

"I can make myself as big, " said the old Frog. And once more he blew, andblew, and blew, and swelled himself out, --and he burst!

Self-conceit leads to self-destruction. 

THE FIRE-BRINGER[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _The Basket Woman_, by Mary Austin. ]

This is the Indian story of how fire was brought to the tribes. It waslong, long ago, when men and beasts talked together with understanding, and the grey Coyote was friend and counsellor of man. 

There was a Boy of the tribe who was swift of foot and keen of eye, and heand the Coyote ranged the wood together. They saw the men catching fish inthe creeks with their hands, and the women digging roots with sharpstones. This was in summer. But when winter came on, they saw the peoplerunning naked in the snow, or huddled in caves of the rocks, and mostmiserable. The Boy noticed this, and was very unhappy for the misery ofhis people. 

"I do not feel it, " said the Coyote. 

"You have a coat of good fur, " said the Boy, "and my people have not. "

"Come to the hunt, " said the Coyote. 

"I will hunt no more, till I have found a way to help my people againstthe cold, " said the Boy. "Help me, O Counsellor!"

Then the Coyote ran away, and came back after a long time; he said he hadfound a way, but it was a hard way. 

"No way is too hard, " said the Boy. So the Coyote told him that they mustgo to the Burning Mountain and bring fire to the people. 

"What is fire?" said the Boy. And the Coyote told him that fire was redlike a flower, yet not a flower; swift to run in the grass and to destroy, like a beast, yet no beast; fierce and hurtful, yet a good servant to keepone warm, if kept among stones and fed with small sticks. 

"We will get this fire, " said the Boy. 

First the Boy had to persuade the people to give him one hundred swiftrunners. Then he and they and the Coyote started at a good pace for thefar away Burning Mountain. At the end of the first day's trail they leftthe weakest of the runners, to wait; at the end of the second, the nextstronger; at the end of the third, the next; and so for each of thehundred days of the journey; and the Boy was the strongest runner, andwent to the last trail with the Counsellor. High mountains they crossed, and great plains, and giant woods, and at last they came to the Big Water, quaking along the sand at the foot of the Burning Mountain. 

It stood up in a high peaked cone, and smoke rolled out from it endlesslyalong the sky. At night, the Fire Spirits danced, and the glare reddenedthe Big Water far out. 

There the Counsellor said to the Boy, "Stay thou here till I bring thee abrand from the burning; be ready and right for running, for I shall be farspent when I come again, and the Fire Spirits will pursue me. "

Then he went up to the mountain; and the Fire Spirits only laughed whenthey saw him, for he looked so slinking, inconsiderable, and mean, thatnone of them thought harm from him. And in the night, when they were attheir dance about the mountain, the Coyote stole the fire, and ran with itdown the slope of the burning mountain. When the Fire Spirits saw what hehad done they streamed out after him, red and angry, with a humming soundlike a swarm of bees. But the Coyote was still ahead; the sparks of thebrand streamed out along his flanks, as he carried it in his mouth; and hestretched his body to the trail. 

The Boy saw him coming, like a falling star against the mountain; he heardthe singing sound of the Fire Spirits close behind, and the labouringbreath of the Counsellor. And when the good beast panted down beside him, the Boy caught the brand from his jaws and was off, like an arrow from abent bow. Out he shot on the homeward path, and the Fire Spirits snappedand sang behind him. But fast as they pursued he fled faster, till he sawthe next runner standing in his place, his body bent for the running. Tohim he passed it, and it was off and away, with the Fire Spirits raging inchase. 

So it passed from hand to hand, and the Fire Spirits tore after it throughthe scrub, till they came to the mountains of the snows; these they couldnot pass. Then the dark, sleek runners with the backward streaming brandbore it forward, shining starlike in the night, glowing red in sultrynoons, violet pale in twilight glooms, until they came in safety to theirown land. 

And there they kept it among stones and fed it with small sticks, as theCounsellor advised; and it kept the people warm. 

Ever after the Boy was called the Fire-Bringer; and ever after the Coyotebore the sign of the bringing, for the fur along his flanks was singed andyellow from the flames that streamed backward from the brand. 

THE BURNING OF THE RICEFIELDS[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _Gleanings in Buddha-Fields_, by Lafcadio Hearn. (Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner and Co. Ltd. 5s. Net. )]

Once there was a good old man who lived up on a mountain, far away inJapan. All round his little house the mountain was flat, and the groundwas rich; and there were the ricefields of all the people who lived in thevillage at the mountain's foot. Mornings and evenings, the old man andhis little grandson, who lived with him, used to look far down on thepeople at work in the village, and watch the blue sea which lay all roundthe land, so close that there was no room for fields below, only forhouses. The little boy loved the ricefields, dearly, for he knew that allthe good food for all the people came from them; and he often helped hisgrand father to watch over them. 

One day, the grandfather was standing alone, before his house, looking fardown at the people, and out at the sea, when, suddenly, he saw somethingvery strange far off where the sea and sky meet. Something like a greatcloud was rising there, as if the sea were lifting itself high into thesky. The old man put his hands to his eyes and looked again, hard as hisold sight could. Then he turned and ran to the house. "Yone, Yone!" hecried, "bring a brand from the hearth!"

The little grandson could not imagine what his grandfather wanted withfire, but he always obeyed, so he ran quickly and brought the brand. Theold man already had one, and was running for the ricefields. Yone ranafter. But what was his horror to see his grandfather thrust his burningbrand into the ripe dry rice, where it stood. 

"Oh, Grandfather, Grandfather!" screamed the little boy, "what are youdoing?"

"Quick, set fire! thrust your brand in!" said the grandfather. 

Yone thought his dear grandfather had lost his mind, and he began to sob;but a little Japanese boy always obeys, so though he sobbed, he thrust historch in, and the sharp flame ran up the dry stalks, red and yellow. In aninstant, the field was ablaze, and thick black smoke began to pour up, onthe mountain side. It rose like a cloud, black and fierce, and in no timethe people below saw that their precious ricefields were on fire. Ah, howthey ran! Men, women, and children climbed the mountain, running as fastas they could to save the rice; not one soul stayed behind. 

And when they came to the mountain top, and saw the beautiful rice-cropall in flames, beyond help, they cried bitterly, "Who has done this thing?How did it happen?"

"I set fire, " said the old man, very solemnly; and the little grandsonsobbed, "Grandfather set fire. "

But when they came fiercely round the old man, with "Why? Why?" he onlyturned and pointed to the sea. "Look!" he said. 

They all turned and looked. And there, where the blue sea had lain, socalm, a mighty wall of water, reaching from earth to sky, was rolling in. No one could scream, so terrible was the sight. The wall of water rolledin on the land, passed quite over the place where the village had been, and broke, with an awful sound, on the mountain side. One wave more, andstill one more, came; and then all was water, as far as they could look, below; the village where they had been was under the sea. 

But the people were all safe. And when they saw what the old man had done, they honoured him above all men for the quick wit which had saved them allfrom the tidal wave. 

THE STORY OF WYLIE[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _Rab and his Friends_, by Dr John Brown. ]

This is a story about a dog, --not the kind of dog you often see in thestreet here; not a fat, wrinkly pugdog, nor a smooth-skinned bulldog, noreven a big shaggy fellow, but a slim, silky-haired, sharp-eared littledog, the prettiest thing you can imagine. Her name was Wylie, and shelived in Scotland, far up on the hills, and helped her master take care ofhis sheep. 

You can't think how clever she was! She watched over the sheep and thelittle lambs like a soldier, and never let anything hurt them. She drovethem out to pasture when it was time, and brought them safely home when itwas time for that. When the silly sheep got frightened and ran this wayand that, hurting themselves and getting lost, Wylie knew exactly what todo, --round on one side she would run, barking and scolding, driving themback; then round on the other, barking and scolding, driving them back, till they were all bunched together in front of the right gate. Then shedrove them through as neatly as any person. She loved her work, and was awonderfully fine sheepdog. 

At last her master grew too old to stay alone on the hills, and so he wentaway to live. Before he went, he gave Wylie to two kind young men wholived in the nearest town; he knew they would be good to her. They grewvery fond of her, and so did their old grandmother and the littlechildren: she was so gentle and handsome and well behaved. 

So now Wylie lived in the city where there were no sheep farms, onlystreets and houses, and she did not have to do any work at all, --she wasjust a pet dog. She seemed very happy and she was always good. 

But after a while, the family noticed something odd, something verystrange indeed, about their pet. Every single Tuesday night, about nineo'clock, Wylie _disappeared_. They would look for her, call her, --no, shewas gone. And she would be gone all night. But every Wednesday morning, there she was at the door, waiting to be let in. Her silky coat was allsweaty and muddy and her feet heavy with weariness, but her bright eyeslooked up at her masters as if she were trying to explain where she hadbeen. 

Week after week the same thing happened. Nobody could imagine where Wyliewent every Tuesday night. They tried to follow her to find out, but shealways slipped away; they tried to shut her in, but she always found a wayout. It grew to be a real mystery. Where in the world did Wylie go?

You never could guess, so I am going to tell you. 

In the city near the town where the kind young men lived was a big marketlike (naming one in the neighbourhood). Every sort of thing was soldthere, even live cows and sheep and hens. On Tuesday nights, the farmersused to come down from the hills with their sheep to sell, and drive themthrough the city streets into the pens, ready to sell on Wednesdaymorning; that was the day they sold them. 

The sheep weren't used to the city noises and sights, and they always grewafraid and wild, and gave the farmers and the sheepdogs a great deal oftrouble. They broke away and ran about, in everybody's way. 

But just as the trouble was worst, about sunrise, the farmers would see alittle silky, sharp-eared dog come trotting all alone down the road, intothe midst of them. 

And then!

In and out the little dog ran like the wind, round and about, always inthe right place, driving--coaxing--pushing--making the sheep mind like agood school-teacher, and never frightening them, till they were all safelyin! All the other dogs together could not do as much as the little strangedog. She was a perfect wonder. And no one knew whose dog she was or whereshe came from. The farmers grew to watch for her, every week, and theycalled her "the wee fell yin" which is Scots for "the little terror"; theyused to say when they saw her coming, "There's the wee fell yin! Now we'llget them in. "

Every farmer would have liked to keep her, but she let no one catch her. As soon as her work was done she was off and away like a fairy dog, no oneknew where. Week after week this happened, and nobody knew who the littlestrange dog was. 

But one day Wylie went to walk with her two masters, and they happened tomeet some sheep farmers. The sheep farmers stopped short and stared atWylie, and then they cried out, "Why, _that's the dog_! That's the weefell yin!" And so it was. The little strange dog who helped with the sheepwas Wylie. 

Her masters, of course, didn't know what the farmers meant, till they weretold all about what I have been telling you. But when they heard aboutthe pretty strange dog who came to market all alone, they knew at lastwhere Wylie went, every Tuesday night. And they loved her better thanever. 

Wasn't it wise of the dear little dog to go and work for other people whenher own work was taken away? I fancy she knew that the best people and thebest dogs always work hard at something. Any way she did that same thingas long as she lived, and she was always just as gentle, and silky-haired, and loving as at first. 

LITTLE DAYLIGHT[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _At the Back of the North Wind_, by GeorgeMacdonald. ]

Once there was a beautiful palace, which had a great wood at one side. Theking and his courtiers hunted in the wood near the palace, and there itwas kept open, free from underbrush. But farther away it grew wilder andwilder, till at last it was so thick that nobody knew what was there. Itwas a very great wood indeed. 

In the wood lived eight fairies. Seven of them were good fairies, who hadlived there always; the eighth was a bad fairy, who had just come. And theworst of it was that nobody but the other fairies knew she _was_ a fairy;people thought she was just an ugly old witch. The good fairies lived inthe dearest little houses! One lived in a hollow silver birch, one in alittle moss cottage, and so on. But the bad fairy lived in a horrid mudhouse in the middle of a dark swamp. 

Now when the first baby was born to the king and queen, her father andmother decided to name her "Daylight, " because she was so bright andsweet. And of course they had a christening party. And of _course_ theyinvited the fairies, because the good fairies had always been at thechristening party when a princess was born in the palace, and everybodyknew that they brought good gifts. 

But, alas, no one knew about the swamp fairy, and she was notinvited, --which really pleased her, because it gave her an excuse fordoing something mean. 

The good fairies came to the christening party, and, one after another, five of them gave little Daylight good gifts. The other two stood amongthe guests, so that no one noticed them. The swamp fairy thought therewere no more of them; so she stepped forward, just as the archbishop washanding the baby back to the lady-in-waiting. 

"I am just a little deaf, " she said, mumbling a laugh with her toothlessgums. "Will your reverence tell me the baby's name again?"

"Certainly, my good woman, " said the bishop; "the infant is littleDaylight. "

"And little Daylight it shall be, forsooth, " cried the bad fairy. "Idecree that she shall sleep all day. " Then she laughed a horrid shriekinglaugh, "He, he, hi, hi!"

Everyone looked at everyone else in despair, but out stepped the sixthgood fairy, who by arrangement with her sisters had remained in thebackground to undo what she could of any evil that the swamp fairy mightdecree. 

"Then at least she shall wake all night, " she said, sadly. 

"Ah!" screamed the swamp fairy, "you spoke before I had finished, which isagainst the law, and gives me another chance. " All the fairies started atonce to say, "I beg your pardon!" But the bad fairy said, "I had onlylaughed 'he, he!' and 'hi, hi!' I had still 'ho, ho!' and 'hu, hu!' tolaugh. "

The fairies could not gainsay this, and the bad fairy had her otherchance. She said, --

"Since she is to wake all night, I decree that she shall wax and wane withthe moon! Ho, ho, hu, hu!"

Out stepped the seventh good fairy. "Until a prince shall kiss her withoutknowing who she is, " she said, quickly. 

The swamp fairy had been prepared for the trick of keeping back one goodfairy, but she had not suspected it of two, and she could not say a word, for she had laughed "ho, ho!" and "hu, hu!"

The poor king and queen looked sad enough. "We don't know what you mean, "they said to the good fairy who had spoken last. But the good fairysmiled. "The meaning of the thing will come with the thing, " she said. 

That was the end of the party, but it was only the beginning of thetrouble. Can you imagine what a queer household it would be, where thebaby laughed and crowed all night, and slept all day? Little Daylight wasas merry and bright all night as any baby in the world, but with the firstsign of dawn she fell asleep, and slept like a little dormouse till dark. Nothing could waken her while day lasted. Still, the royal family got usedto this; but the rest of the bad fairy's gift was a great dealworse, --that about waxing and waning with the moon. You know how the moongrows bigger and brighter each night, from the time it is a curly silverthread low in the sky till it is round and golden, flooding the whole skywith light? That is the waxing moon. Then, you know, it wanes; it growssmaller and paler again, night by night, till at last it disappears for awhile, altogether. Well, poor little Daylight waxed and waned with it. Shewas the rosiest, plumpest, merriest baby in the world when the moon was atthe full; but as it began to wane her little cheeks grew paler, her tinyhands thinner, with every night, till she lay in her cradle like ashadow-baby, without sound or motion. At first they thought she was dead, when the moon disappeared, but after some months they got used to thistoo, and only waited eagerly for the new moon, to see her revive. When itshone again, faint and silver, on the horizon, the baby stirred weakly, and then they fed her gently; each night she grew a little better, andwhen the moon was near the full again, she was again a lively, rosy, lovely child. 

So it went on till she grew up. She grew to be the most beautiful maidenthe moon ever shone on, and everyone loved her so much, for her sweet waysand her merry heart, that someone was always planning to stay up at night, to be near her. But she did not like to be watched, especially when shefelt the bad time of waning coming on; so her ladies-in-waiting had to bevery careful. When the moon waned she became shrunken and pale and bent, like an old, old woman, worn out with sorrow. Only her golden hair and herblue eyes remained unchanged, and this gave her a terribly strange look. At last, as the moon disappeared, she faded away to a little, bowed, oldcreature, asleep and helpless. 

No wonder she liked best to be alone! She got in the way of wandering byherself in the beautiful wood, playing in the moonlight when she waswell, stealing away in the shadows when she was fading with the moon. Herfather had a lovely little house of roses and vines built for her, there. It stood at the edge of a most beautiful open glade, inside the wood, where the moon shone best. There the princess lived with her ladies. Andthere she danced when the moon was full. But when the moon waned, herladies often lost her altogether, so far did she wander; and sometimesthey found her sleeping under a great tree, and brought her home in theirarms. 

When the princess was about seventeen years old, there was a rebellion ina kingdom not far from her father's. Wicked nobles murdered the king ofthe country and stole his throne, and would have murdered the youngprince, too, if he had not escaped, dressed in peasant's clothes. 

Dressed in his poor rags, the prince wandered about a long time, till oneday he got into a great wood, and lost his way. It was the wood where thePrincess Daylight lived, but of course he did not know anything about thatnor about her. He wandered till night, and then he came to a queer littlehouse. One of the good fairies lived there, and the minute she saw him sheknew all about everything; but to him she looked only like a kind oldwoman. She gave him a good supper and a bed for the night, and told himto come back to her if he found no better place for the next night. Butthe prince said he must get out of the wood at once; so in the morning hetook leave of the fairy. 

All day long he walked, and walked; but at nightfall he had not found hisway out of the wood, so he lay down to rest till the moon should rise andlight his path. 

When he woke the moon was glorious; it was three days from the full, andbright as silver. By its light he saw what he thought to be the edge ofthe wood, and he hastened toward it. But when he came to it, it was onlyan open space, surrounded with trees. It was so very lovely, in the whitemoonlight, that the prince stood a minute to look. And as he looked, something white moved out of the trees on the far side of the open space. It was something slim and white, that swayed in the dim light like a youngbirch. 

"It must be a moon fairy, " thought the prince; and he stepped into theshadow. 

The moon fairy came nearer and nearer, dancing and swaying in themoonlight. And as she came, she began to sing a soft, gay little song. 

But when she was quite close, the prince saw that she was not a fairyafter all, but a real human maiden, --the loveliest maiden he had everseen. Her hair was like yellow corn, and her smile made all the placemerry. Her white gown fluttered as she danced, and her little song soundedlike a bird note. 

The prince watched her till she danced out of sight, and then until sheonce more came toward him; and she seemed so like a moonbeam herself, asshe lifted her face to the sky, that he was almost afraid to breathe. Hehad never seen anything so lovely. By the time she had danced twice roundthe circle, he could think of nothing in the world except the hope offinding out who she was, and staying near her. 

But while he was waiting for her to appear the third time, his wearinessovercame him, and he fell asleep. And when he awoke, it was broad day, andthe beautiful maiden had vanished. 

He hunted about, hoping to find where she lived, and on the other side ofthe glade he came upon a lovely little house, covered with moss andclimbing roses. He thought she must live there, so he went round to thekitchen door and asked the kind cook for a drink of water, and while hewas drinking it he asked who lived there. She told him it was the house ofthe Princess Daylight, but she told him nothing else about her, becauseshe was not allowed to talk about her mistress. But she gave him a verygood meal and told him other things. 

He did not go back to the little old woman who had been so kind to himfirst, but wandered all day in the wood, waiting for the moontime. Againhe waited at the edge of the dell, and when the white moon was high in theheavens, once more he saw the glimmering in the distance, and once morethe lovely maiden floated toward him. He knew her name was the PrincessDaylight, but this time she seemed to him much lovelier than before. Shewas all in blue like the blue of the sky in summer. (She really was morelovely, you know, because the moon was almost at the full. ) All night hewatched her, quite forgetting that he ought not to be doing it, till shedisappeared on the opposite side of the glade. Then, very tired, he foundhis way to the little old woman's house, had breakfast with her, and fellfast asleep in the bed she gave him. 

The fairy knew well enough by his face that he had seen Daylight, and whenhe woke up in the evening and started off again she gave him a strangelittle flask and told him to use it if ever he needed it. 

This night the princess did not appear in the dell until midnight, at thevery full of the moon. But when she came, she was so lovely that she tookthe prince's breath away. Just think!--she was dressed in a gown thatlooked as if it were made of fireflies' wings, embroidered in gold. Shedanced around and around, singing, swaying, and flitting like a beam ofsunlight, till the prince grew quite dazzled. 

But while he had been watching her, he had not noticed that the sky wasgrowing dark and the wind was rising. Suddenly there was a clap ofthunder. The princess danced on. But another clap came louder, and then asudden great flash of lightning that lit up the sky from end to end. Theprince couldn't help shutting his eyes, but he opened them quickly to seeif Daylight was hurt. Alas, she was lying on the ground. The prince ran toher, but she was already up again. 

"Who are you?" she said. 

"I thought, " stammered the prince, "you might be hurt. "

"There is nothing the matter. Go away. "

The prince went sadly. 

"Come back, " said the princess. The prince came. "I like you, you do asyou are told. Are you good?"

"Not so good as I should like to be, " said the prince. 

"Then go and grow better, " said the princess. 

The prince went, more sadly. 

"Come back, " said the princess. The prince came. "I think you must be aprince, " she said. 

"Why?" said the prince. 

"Because you do as you are told, and you tell the truth. Will you tell mewhat the sun looks like?"

"Why, everybody knows that, " said the prince. 

"I am different from everybody, " said the princess, --"I don't know. "

"But, " said the prince, "do you not look when you wake up in the morning?"

"That's just it, " said the princess, "I never do wake up in the morning. Inever can wake up until--" Then the princess remembered that she wastalking to a prince, and putting her hands over her face she walkedswiftly away. The prince followed her, but she turned and put up her handto tell him not to. And like the gentleman prince that he was, he obeyedher at once. 

Now all this time, the wicked swamp fairy had not known a word about whatwas going on. But now she found out, and she was furious, for fear thatlittle Daylight should be delivered from her spell. So she cast her spellsto keep the prince from finding Daylight again. Night after night the poorprince wandered and wandered, and never could find the little dell. Andwhen daytime came, of course, there was no princess to be seen. Finally, at the time that the moon was almost gone, the swamp fairy stopped herspells, because she knew that by this time Daylight would be so changedand ugly that the prince would never know her if he did see her. She saidto herself with a wicked laugh:--

"No fear of his wanting to kiss her now!"

That night the prince did find the dell, but no princess came. A littleafter midnight he passed near the lovely little house where she lived, andthere he overheard her waiting-women talking about her. They seemed ingreat distress. They were saying that the princess had wandered into thewoods and was lost. The prince didn't know, of course, what it meant, buthe did understand that the princess was lost somewhere, and he started offto find her. After he had gone a long way without finding her, he came toa big old tree, and there he thought he would light a fire to show her theway if she should happen to see it. 

As the blaze flared up, he suddenly saw a little black heap on the otherside of the tree. Somebody was lying there. He ran to the spot, his heartbeating with hope. But when he lifted the cloak which was huddled aboutthe form, he saw at once that it was not Daylight. A pinched, withered, white, little old woman's face shone out at him. The hood was drawn closedown over her forehead, the eyes were closed, and as the prince liftedthe cloak, the old woman's lips moaned faintly. 

"Oh, poor mother, " said the prince, "what is the matter?" The old womanonly moaned again. The prince lifted her and carried her over to the warmfire, and rubbed her hands, trying to find out what was the matter. Butshe only moaned, and her face was so terribly strange and white that theprince's tender heart ached for her. Remembering his little flask, hepoured some of his liquid between her lips, and then he thought the bestthing he could do was to carry her to the princess's house, where shecould be taken care of. 

As he lifted the poor little form in his arms, two great tears stole outfrom the old woman's closed eyes and ran down her wrinkled cheeks. 

"Oh, poor, poor mother, " said the prince pityingly; and he stooped andkissed her withered lips. 

As he walked through the forest with the old woman in his arms, it seemedto him that she grew heavier and heavier; he could hardly carry her atall; and then she stirred, and at last he was obliged to set her down, torest. He meant to lay her on the ground. But the old woman stood upon herfeet. 

And then the hood fell back from her face. As she looked up at the prince, the first, long, yellow ray of the rising sun struck full upon her, --andit was the Princess Daylight! Her hair was golden as the sun itself, andher eyes as blue as the flower that grows in the corn. 

The prince fell on his knees before her. But she gave him her hand andmade him rise. 

"You kissed me when I was an old woman, " said the princess, "I'll kiss younow that I am a young princess. " And she did. 

And then she turned her face toward the dawn. 

"Dear Prince, " she said, "is that the sun?"

THE SAILOR MAN[1]

[Footnote 1: From _The Golden Windows_, by Laura E. Richards. (H. R. Allenson Ltd. 2s. 6d. Net. )]

Once upon a time, two children came to the house of a sailor man, wholived beside the salt sea; and they found the sailor man sitting in hisdoorway knotting ropes. 

"How do you do?" asked the sailor man. 

"We are very well, thank you, " said the children, who had learned manners, "and we hope you are the same. We heard that you had a boat, and wethought that perhaps you would take us out in her, and teach us how tosail, for that is what we most wish to know. "

"All in good time, " said the sailor man. "I am busy now, but by-and-by, when my work is done, I may perhaps take one of you if you are ready tolearn. Meantime here are some ropes that need knotting; you might be doingthat, since it has to be done. " And he showed them how the knots should betied, and went away and left them. 

When he was gone the first child ran to the window and looked out. 

"There is the sea, " he said. "The waves come up on the beach, almost tothe door of the house. They run up all white, like prancing horses, andthen they go dragging back. Come and look!"

"I cannot, " said the second child. "I am tying a knot. "

"Oh!" cried the first child, "I see the boat. She is dancing like a ladyat a ball; I never saw such a beauty. Come and look!"

"I cannot, " said the second child. "I am tying a knot. "

"I shall have a delightful sail in that boat, " said the first child. "Iexpect that the sailor man will take me, because I am the eldest and Iknow more about it. There was no need of my watching when he showed youthe knots, because I knew how already. "

Just then the sailor man came in. 

"Well, " he said, "my work is over. What have you been doing in themeantime?"

"I have been looking at the boat, " said the first child. "What a beautyshe is! I shall have the best time in her that ever I had in my life. "

"I have been tying knots, " said the second child. 

"Come, then, " said the sailor man, and he held out his hand to the secondchild. "I will take you out in the boat, and teach you to sail her. "

"But I am the eldest, " cried the first child, "and I know a great dealmore than she does. "

"That may be, " said the sailor man; "but a person must learn to tie a knotbefore he can learn to sail a boat. "

"But I have learned to tie a knot, " cried the child. "I know all aboutit!"

"How can I tell that?" asked the sailor man. 

THE STORY OF JAIRUS'S DAUGHTER[1]

[Footnote 1: This should usually be prefaced by a brief statement of Jesushabit of healing and comforting all with whom He came in close contact. The exact form of the preface must depend on how much of His life hasalready been given in stories. ]

Once, while Jesus was journeying about, He passed near a town where a mannamed Jairus lived. This man was a ruler in the synagogue, and he had justone little daughter about twelve years of age. At the time that Jesus wasthere the little daughter was very sick, and at last she lay a-dying. 

Her father heard that there was a wonderful man near the town, who washealing sick people whom no one else could help, and in his despair he ranout into the streets to search for Him. He found Jesus walking in themidst of a crowd of people, and when he saw Him he fell down at Jesus feetand besought Him to come into his house, to heal his daughter. And Jesussaid, Yes, he would go with him. But there were so many people begging tobe healed, and so many looking to see what happened, that the crowdthronged them, and kept them from moving fast. And before they reached thehouse one of the man's servants came to meet them, and said, "Thy daughteris dead; trouble not the Master to come farther. "

But instantly Jesus turned to the father and said, "Fear not; onlybelieve, and she shall be made whole. " And He went on with Jairus, to thehouse. 

When they came to the house, they heard the sound of weeping andlamentation; the household was mourning for the little daughter, who wasdead. Jesus sent all the strangers away from the door, and only three ofHis disciples and the father and mother of the child went in with Him. Andwhen He was within, He said to the mourning people, "Weep not; she is notdead; she sleepeth. "

When He had passed, they laughed Him to scorn, for they knew that she wasdead. 

Then Jesus left them all, and went alone into the chamber where the littledaughter lay. And when He was there, alone, He went up to the bed whereshe was, and bent over her, and took her by the hand. And He said, "Maiden, arise. "

And her spirit came unto her again! And she lived, and grew up in herfather's house. 

ESPECIALLY FOR CLASSES IV. AND V. 

ARTHUR AND THE SWORD[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from Sir Thomas Malory. ]

Once there was a great king in Britain named Uther, and when he died theother kings and princes disputed over the kingdom, each wanting it forhimself. But King Uther had a son named Arthur, the rightful heir to thethrone, of whom no one knew, for he had been taken away secretly while hewas still a baby by a wise old man called Merlin, who had him brought upin the family of a certain Sir Ector, for fear of the malice of wickedknights. Even the boy himself thought Sir Ector was his father, and heloved Sir Ector's son, Sir Kay, with the love of a brother. 

When the kings and princes could not be kept in check any longer, andsomething had to be done to determine who was to be king, Merlin made theArchbishop of Canterbury send for them all to come to London. It wasChristmas time, and in the great cathedral a solemn service was held, andprayer was made that some sign should be given, to show who was therightful king. When the service was over, there appeared a strange stonein the churchyard, against the high altar. It was a great white stone, like marble, with something sunk in it that looked like a steel anvil; andin the anvil was driven a great glistening sword. The sword had letters ofgold written on it, which read: "Whoso pulleth out this sword of thisstone and anvil is rightwise king born of all England. "

All wondered at the strange sword and its strange writing; and when thearchbishop himself came out and gave permission, many of the knights triedto pull the sword from the stone, hoping to be king. But no one could moveit a hair's breadth. 

"He is not here, " said the archbishop, "that shall achieve the sword; butdoubt not, God will make him known. "

Then they set a guard of ten knights to keep the stone, and the archbishopappointed a day when all should come together to try at the stone, --kingsfrom far and near. In the meantime, splendid jousts were held, outsideLondon, and both knights and commons were bidden. 

Sir Ector came up to the jousts, with others, and with him rode Kay andArthur. Kay had been made a knight at Allhallowmas, and when he foundthere was to be so fine a joust he wanted a sword, to join it. But he hadleft his sword behind, where his father and he had slept the nightbefore. So he asked young Arthur to ride for it. 

"I will well, " said Arthur, and rode back for it. But when he came to thecastle, the lady and all her household were at the jousting, and there wasnone to let him in. 

Thereat Arthur said to himself, "My brother Sir Kay shall not be without asword this day. " And he remembered the sword he had seen in thechurchyard. "I will to the churchyard, " he said, "and take that sword withme. " So he rode into the churchyard, tied his horse to the stile, and wentup to the stone. The guards were away to the tourney, and the sword wasthere, alone. 

Going up to the stone, young Arthur took the great sword by the hilt, andlightly and fiercely he drew it out of the anvil. 

Then he rode straight to Sir Kay, and gave it to him. 

Sir Kay knew instantly that it was the sword of the stone, and he rode offat once to his father and said, "Sir, lo, here is the sword of the stone;I must be king of the land. " But Sir Ector asked him where he got thesword. And when Sir Kay said, "From my brother, " he asked Arthur how hegot it. When Arthur told him, Sir Ector bowed his head before him. "Now Iunderstand ye must be king of this land, " he said to Arthur. 

"Wherefore I?" said Arthur. 

"For God will have it so, " said Ector; "never man should have drawn outthis sword but he that shall be rightwise king of this land. Now let mesee whether ye can put the sword as it was in the stone, and pull it outagain. "

Straightway Arthur put the sword back. 

Then Sir Ector tried to pull it out, and after him Sir Kay; but neithercould stir it. Then Arthur pulled it out. Thereupon, Sir Ector and Sir Kaykneeled upon the ground before him. 

"Alas, " said Arthur, "mine own dear father and brother, why kneel ye tome?"

Sir Ector told him, then, all about his royal birth, and how he had beentaken privily away by Merlin. But when Arthur found Sir Ector was nottruly his father, he was so sad at heart that he cared not greatly to beking. And he begged his father and brother to love him still. Sir Ectorasked that Sir Kay might be seneschal when Arthur was king. Arthurpromised with all his heart. 

Then they went to the archbishop and told him that the sword had found itsmaster. The archbishop appointed a day for the trial to be made in thesight of all men, and on that day the princes and knights came together, and each tried to draw out the sword, as before. But as before, none couldso much as stir it. 

Then came Arthur, and pulled it easily from its place. 

The knights and kings were terribly angry that a boy from nowhere inparticular had beaten them, and they refused to acknowledge him king. Theyappointed another day, for another great trial. 

Three times they did this, and every time the same thing happened. 

At last, at the feast of Pentecost, Arthur again pulled out the swordbefore all the knights and the commons. And then the commons rose up andcried that he should be king, and that they would slay any who denied him. 

So Arthur became king of Britain, and all gave him allegiance. 

TARPEIA

There was once a girl named Tarpeia, whose father was guard of the outergate of the citadel of Rome. It was a time of war, --the Sabines werebesieging the city. Their camp was close outside the city wall. 

Tarpeia used to see the Sabine soldiers when she went to draw water fromthe public well, for that was outside the gate. And sometimes she stayedabout and let the strange men talk with her, because she liked to look attheir bright silver ornaments. The Sabine soldiers wore heavy silverrings and bracelets on their left arms, --some wore as many as four orfive. 

The soldiers knew she was the daughter of the keeper of the citadel, andthey saw that she had greedy eyes for their ornaments. So day by day theytalked with her, and showed her their silver rings, and tempted her. Andat last Tarpeia made a bargain, to betray her city to them. She said shewould unlock the great gate and let them in, _if they would give her whatthey wore on their left arms. _

The night came. When it was perfectly dark and still, Tarpeia stole fromher bed, took the great key from its place, and silently unlocked the gatewhich protected the city. Outside, in the dark, stood the soldiers of theenemy, waiting. As she opened the gate, the long shadowy files pressedforward silently, and the Sabines entered the citadel. 

As the first man came inside, Tarpeia stretched forth her hand for herprice. The soldier lifted high his left arm. "Take thy reward!" he said, and as he spoke he hurled upon her that which he wore upon it. Down uponher head crashed--not the silver rings of the soldier, but the great brassshield he carried in battle!

She sank beneath it, to the ground. 

"Take thy reward, " said the next; and his shield rang against the first. 

"Thy reward, " said the next--and the next--and the next--and the next;every man wore his shield on his left arm. 

So Tarpeia lay buried beneath the reward she had claimed, and the Sabinesmarched past her dead body, into the city she had betrayed. 

THE BUCKWHEAT[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from Hans Christian Andersen. ]

Down by the river were fields of barley and rye and golden oats. Wheatgrew there, too, and the heaviest and richest ears bent lowest, inhumility. Opposite the corn was a field of buckwheat, but the buckwheatnever bent; it held its head proud and stiff on the stem. 

The wise old willow-tree by the river looked down on the fields, andthought his thoughts. 

One day a dreadful storm came. The field-flowers folded their leavestogether, and bowed their heads. But the buckwheat stood straight andproud. 

"Bend your head, as we do, " called the field-flowers. 

"I have no need to, " said the buckwheat. 

"Bend your head, as we do!" warned the golden wheat-ears; "the angel ofthe storm is coming; he will strike you down. "

"I will not bend my head, " said the buckwheat. 

Then the old willow-tree spoke: "Close your flowers and bend your leaves. Do not look at the lightning when the cloud bursts. Even men cannot dothat; the sight of heaven would strike them blind. Much less can we whoare so inferior to them!"

"'Inferior, ' indeed!" said the buckwheat. "Now I _will_ look!" And helooked straight up, while the lightning flashed across the sky. 

When the dreadful storm had passed, the flowers and the wheat raised theirdrooping heads, clean and refreshed in the pure, sweet air. Thewillow-tree shook the gentle drops from its leaves. 

But the buckwheat lay like a weed in the field, scorched black by thelightning. 

THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _Old Greek Folk-Stories_, by Josephine PrestonPeabody. (Harrap & Co. 9d. )]

The Greek God Pan, the god of the open air, was a great musician. Heplayed on a pipe of reeds. And the sound of his reed-pipe was so sweetthat he grew proud, and believed himself greater than the chief musicianof the gods, Apollo, the sun-god. So he challenged great Apollo to makebetter music than he. 

Apollo consented to the test, for he wished to punish Pan's vanity, andthey chose the mountain Tmolus for judge, since no one is so old and wiseas the hills. 

When Pan and Apollo came before Tmolus, to play, their followers camewith them, to hear, and one of those who came with Pan was a mortal namedMidas. 

First Pan played; he blew on his reed-pipe, and out came a tune so wildand yet so coaxing that the birds hopped from the trees to get near; thesquirrels came running from their holes; and the very trees swayed as ifthey wanted to dance. The fauns laughed aloud for joy as the melodytickled their furry little ears. And Midas thought it the sweetest musicin the world. 

Then Apollo rose. His hair shook drops of light from its curls; his robeswere like the edge of the sunset cloud; in his hands he held a goldenlyre. And when he touched the strings of the lyre, such music stole uponthe air as never god nor mortal heard before. The wild creatures of thewood crouched still as stone; the trees kept every leaf from rustling;earth and air were silent as a dream. To hear such music cease was likebidding farewell to father and mother. 

When the charm was broken, the hearers fell at Apollo's feet andproclaimed the victory his. All but Midas. He alone would not admit thatthe music was better than Pan's. 

"If thine ears are so dull, mortal, " said Apollo, "they shall take theshape that suits them. " And he touched the ears of Midas. And straightwaythe dull ears grew long, pointed, and furry, and they turned this way andthat. They were the ears of an ass!

For a long time Midas managed to hide the tell-tale ears from everyone;but at last a servant discovered the secret. He knew he must not tell, yethe could not bear not to; so one day he went into the meadow, scooped alittle hollow in the turf, and whispered the secret into the earth. Thenhe covered it up again, and went away. But, alas, a bed of reeds sprang upfrom the spot, and whispered the secret to the grass. The grass told it tothe tree-tops, the tree-tops to the little birds, and they cried it allabroad. 

And to this day, when the wind sets the reeds nodding together, theywhisper, laughing, "Midas has the ears of an ass! Oh, hush, hush!"

WHY THE SEA IS SALT[1]

[Footnote 1: There are many versions of this tale, in differentcollections. This one is the story which grew up in my mind, about thebare outline related to me by one of Mrs Rutan's hearers. What theoriginal teller said, I never knew, but what the listener felt was clear. And in this form I have told it a great many times. ]

Once there were two brothers. One was rich, and one was poor; the rich onewas rather mean. When the Poor Brother used to come to ask for things itannoyed him, and finally one day he said, "There, I'll give it to you thistime, but the next time you want anything, you can go Below for it!"

Presently the Poor Brother did want something, and he knew it wasn't anyuse to go to his brother; he must go Below for it. So he went, and hewent, and he went, till he came Below. 

It was the queerest place! There were red and yellow fires burning allaround, and kettles of boiling oil hanging over them, and a queer sort ofmen standing round, poking the fires. There was a Chief Man; he had a longcurly tail that curled up behind, and two ugly little horns just over hisears; and one foot was very queer indeed. And as soon as anyone came inthe door, these men would catch him up and put him over one of the fires, and turn him on a spit. And then the Chief Man, who was the worst of all, would come and say, "Eh, how do you feel now? How do you feel now?" And ofcourse the poor people screamed and screeched and said, "Let us out! Letus out!" That was just what the Chief Man wanted. 

When the Poor Brother came in, they picked him up at once, and put himover one of the hottest fires, and began to turn him round and round likethe rest; and of course the Chief Man came up to him and said, "Eh, how doyou feel now? How do you feel now?" But the Poor Brother did not say, "Letme out! Let me out!" He said, "Pretty well, thank you. "

The Chief Man grunted and said to the other men, "Make the fire hotter. "But the next time he asked the Poor Brother how he felt, the Poor Brothersmiled and said, "Much better now, thank you. " The Chief Man did not likethis at all, because, of course, the whole object in life of the peopleBelow was to make their victims uncomfortable. So he piled on more fueland made the fire hotter still. But every time he asked the Poor Brotherhow he felt, the Poor Brother would say, "Very much better"; and at lasthe said, "Perfectly comfortable, thank you; couldn't be better. "

You see when the Poor Brother was on earth he had never once had moneyenough to buy coal enough to keep him warm; so he liked the heat. 

At last the Chief Man could stand it no longer. 

"Oh, look here, " he said, "you can go home. "

"Oh no, thank you, " said the Poor Brother, "I like it here. "

"You _must_ go home, " said the Chief Man. 

"But I won't go home, " said the Poor Brother. 

The Chief Man went away and talked with the other men; but no matter whatthey did they could not make the Poor Brother uncomfortable; so at lastthe Chief Man came back and said, --

"What'll you take to go home?"

"What have you got?" said the Poor Brother. 

"Well, " said the Chief Man, "if you'll go home quietly I'll give you theLittle Mill that stands behind my door. "

"What's the good of it?" said the Poor Brother. 

"It is the most wonderful mill in the world, " said the Chief Man. "Anything at all that you want, you have only to name it, and say, 'Grindthis, Little Mill, and grind quickly, ' and the Mill will grind that thinguntil you say the magic word, to stop it. "

"That sounds nice, " said the Poor Brother. "I'll take it. " And he took theLittle Mill under his arm, and went up, and up, and up, till he came tohis own house. 

When he was in front of his little old hut, he put the Little Mill down onthe ground and said to it, "Grind a fine house, Little Mill, and grindquickly. " And the Little Mill ground, and ground, and ground the finesthouse that ever was seen. It had fine big chimneys, and gable windows, and broad piazzas; and just as the Little Mill ground the last step of thelast flight of steps, the Poor Brother said the magic word, and itstopped. 

Then he took it round to where the barn was, and said, "Grind cattle, Little Mill, and grind quickly. " And the Little Mill ground, and ground, and ground, and out came great fat cows, and little woolly lambs, and finelittle pigs; and just as the Little Mill ground the last curl on the tailof the last little pig, the Poor Brother said the magic word, and itstopped. 

He did the same thing with crops for his cattle, pretty clothes for hisdaughters, and everything else they wanted. At last he had everything hewanted, and so he stood the Little Mill behind his door. 

All this time the Rich Brother had been getting more and more jealous, andat last he came to ask the Poor Brother how he had grown so rich. The PoorBrother told him all about it. He said, "It all comes from that LittleMill behind my door. All I have to do when I want anything is to name itto the Little Mill, and say, 'Grind that, Little Mill, and grind quickly, 'and the Little Mill will grind that thing until--"

But the Rich Brother didn't wait to hear any more. "Will you lend me theLittle Mill?" he said. 

"Why, yes, " said the Poor Brother, "I will. "

So the Rich Brother took the Little Mill under his arm and started acrossthe fields to his house. When he got near home he saw the farm-handscoming in from the fields for their luncheon. Now, you remember, he wasrather mean. He thought to himself, "It is a waste of good time for themto come into the house; they shall have their porridge where they are. " Hecalled all the men to him, and made them bring their porridge-bowls. Thenhe set the Little Mill down on the ground, and said to it, "Grind oatmealporridge, Little Mill, and grind quickly!" The Little Mill ground, andground, and ground, and out came delicious oatmeal porridge. Each man heldhis bowl under the spout. When the last bowl was filled, the porridge ranover on the ground. 

"That's enough, Little Mill, " said the Rich Brother. "You may stop, andstop quickly. "

But this was not the magic word, and the Little Mill did not stop. Itground, and ground, and ground, and the porridge ran all round and made alittle pool. The Rich Brother said, "No, no, Little Mill, I said, 'Stopgrinding, and stop quickly. '" But the Little Mill ground, and ground, faster than ever; and presently there was a regular pond of porridge, almost up to their knees. The Rich Brother said, "Stop grinding, " inevery kind of way; he called the Little Mill names; but nothing did anygood. The Little Mill ground porridge just the same. At last the men said, "Go and get your brother to stop the Little Mill, or we shall be drownedin porridge. "

So the Rich Brother started for his brother's house. He had to swim beforehe got there, and the porridge went up his sleeves, and down his neck, andit was horrid and sticky. His brother laughed when he heard the story, buthe came with him, and they took a boat and rowed across the lake ofporridge to where the Little Mill was grinding. And then the Poor Brotherwhispered the magic word, and the Little Mill stopped. 

But the porridge was a long time soaking into the ground, and nothingwould ever grow there afterwards except oatmeal. 

The Rich Brother didn't seem to care much about the Little Mill afterthis, so the Poor Brother took it home again and put it behind the door;and there it stayed a long, long while. 

Years afterwards a Sea Captain came there on a visit. He told such bigstories that the Poor Brother said, "Oh, I daresay you have seen wonderfulthings, but I don't believe you ever saw anything more wonderful than theLittle Mill that stands behind my door. "

"What is wonderful about that?" said the Sea Captain. 

"Why, " said the Poor Brother, "anything in the world you want, --you haveonly to name it to the Little Mill and say, 'Grind that, Little Mill, andgrind quickly, ' and it will grind that thing until--"

The Sea Captain didn't wait to hear another word. "Will you lend me thatLittle Mill?" he said eagerly. 

The Poor Brother smiled a little, but he said, "Yes, " and the Sea Captaintook the Little Mill under his arm, and went on board his ship and sailedaway. 

They had head-winds and storms, and they were so long at sea that some ofthe food gave out. Worst of all, the salt gave out. It was dreadful, beingwithout salt. But the Captain happened to remember the Little Mill. 

"Bring up the salt box!" he said to the cook. "We will have salt enough. "

He set the Little Mill on deck, put the salt box under the spout, andsaid, --

"Grind salt, Little Mill, and grind quickly!"

And the Little Mill ground beautiful, white, powdery salt. When they hadenough, the Captain said, "Now you may stop, Little Mill, and stopquickly. " The Little Mill kept on grinding; and the salt began to pile upin little heaps on the deck. "I said, 'Stop, '" said the Captain. But theLittle Mill ground, and ground, faster than ever, and the salt was soonthick on the deck like snow. The Captain called the Little Mill names andtold it to stop, in every language he knew, but the Little Mill went ongrinding. The salt covered all the decks and poured down into the hold, and at last the ship began to settle in the water; salt is very heavy. Butjust before the ship sank to the water-line, the Captain had a brightthought: he threw the Little Mill overboard!

It fell right down to the bottom of the sea. _And it has been grindingsalt ever since. _

BILLY BEG AND HIS BULL[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _In Chimney Corners_, by Seumas McManus. I haveventured to give this in the somewhat Hibernian phraseology suggested bythe original, because I have found that the humour of the manner of itappeals quite as readily to the boys and girls of my acquaintance as tomaturer friends, and they distinguish as quickly between the savour of itand any unintentional crudeness of diction. ]

Once upon a time, there was a king and a queen, and they had one son, whose name was Billy. And Billy had a bull he was very fond of, and thebull was just as fond of him. And when the queen came to die, she put itas her last request to the king, that come what might, come what may, he'dnot part Billy and the bull. And the king promised that, come what might, come what may, he would not. Then the good queen died, and was buried. 

After a time, the king married again, and the new queen could not abideBilly; no more could she stand the bull, seeing him and Billy so thick. Soshe asked the king to have the bull killed. But the king said he hadpromised, come what might, come what may, he'd not part Billy Beg and hisbull, so he could not. 

Then the queen sent for the Hen-Wife, and asked what she should do. "Whatwill you give me, " said the Hen-Wife, "and I'll very soon part them?"

"Anything at all, " said the queen. 

"Then do you take to your bed, very sick with a complaint, " said theHen-Wife, "and I'll do the rest. "

So the queen took to her bed, very sick with a complaint, and the kingcame to see what could be done for her. "I shall never be better of this, "she said, "till I have the medicine the Hen-Wife ordered. "

"What is that?" said the king. 

"A mouthful of the blood of Billy Beg's bull. "

"I can't give you that, " said the king, and went away, sorrowful. 

Then the queen got sicker and sicker, and each time the king asked whatwould cure her she said, "A mouthful of the blood of Billy Beg's bull. "And at last it looked as if she were going to die. So the king finallyset a day for the bull to be killed. At that the queen was so happy thatshe laid plans to get up and see the grand sight. All the people were tobe at the killing, and it was to be a great affair. 

When Billy Beg heard all this, he was very sorrowful, and the bull noticedhis looks. "What are you doitherin' about?" said the bull to him. So Billytold him. "Don't fret yourself about me, " said the bull, "it's not Ithat'll be killed!"

The day came, when Billy Beg's bull was to be killed; all the people werethere, and the queen, and Billy. And the bull was led out, to be seen. When he was led past Billy he bent his head. "Jump on my back, Billy, myboy, " says he, "till I see what kind of a horseman you are!" Billy jumpedon his back, and with that the bull leaped nine miles high and nine milesbroad and came down with Billy sticking between his horns. Then away herushed, over the head of the queen, killing her dead, where you wouldn'tknow day by night or night by day, over high hills, low hills, sheep walksand bullock traces, the Cove o' Cork, and old Tom Fox with his bugle horn. 

When at last he stopped he said, "Now, Billy, my boy, you and I mustundergo great scenery; there's a mighty great bull of the forest I mustfight, here, and he'll be hard to fight, but I'll be able for him. Butfirst we must have dinner. Put your hand in my left ear and pull out thenapkin you'll find there, and when you've spread it, it will be coveredwith eating and drinking fit for a king. "

So Billy put his hand in the bull's left ear, and drew out the napkin, andspread it; and, sure enough, it was spread with all kinds of eating anddrinking, fit for a king. And Billy Beg ate well. 

But just as he finished he heard a great roar, and out of the forest camea mighty bull, snorting and running. 

And the two bulls at it and fought. They knocked the hard ground intosoft, the soft into hard, the rocks into spring wells, and the springwells into rocks. It was a terrible fight. But in the end, Billy Beg'sbull was too much for the other bull, and he killed him, and drank hisblood. 

Then Billy jumped on the bull's back, and the bull off and away, where youwouldn't know day from night or night from day, over high hills, lowhills, sheep walks and bullock traces, the Cove o' Cork, and old Tom Foxwith his bugle horn. And when he stopped he told Billy to put his hand inhis left ear and pull out the napkin, because he'd to fight another greatbull of the forest. So Billy pulled out the napkin and spread it, and itwas covered with all kinds of eating and drinking, fit for a king. 

And, sure enough, just as Billy finished eating, there was a frightfulroar, and a mighty great bull, greater than the first, rushed out of theforest. And the two bulls at it and fought. It was a terrible fight! Theyknocked the hard ground into soft, the soft into hard, the rocks intospring wells, and the spring wells into rocks. But in the end, Billy Beg'sbull killed the other bull, and drank his blood. 

Then he off and away, with Billy. 

But when he came down, he told Billy Beg that he was to fight anotherbull, the brother of the other two, and that this time the other bullwould be too much for him, and would kill him and drink his blood. 

"When I am dead, Billy, my boy, " he said, "put your hand in my left earand draw out the napkin, and you'll never want for eating or drinking; andput your hand in my right ear, and you'll find a stick there, that willturn into a sword if you wave it three times round your head, and give youthe strength of a thousand men beside your own. Keep that; then cut astrip of my hide, for a belt, for when you buckle it on, there's nothingcan kill you. "

Billy Beg was very sad to hear that his friend must die. And very soon heheard a more dreadful roar than ever he heard, and a tremendous bullrushed out of the forest. Then came the worst fight of all. In the end, the other bull was too much for Billy Beg's bull, and he killed him anddrank his blood. 

Billy Beg sat down and cried for three days and three nights. After thathe was hungry; so he put his hand in the bull's left ear, and drew out thenapkin, and ate all kinds of eating and drinking. Then he put his hand inthe right ear and pulled out the stick which was to turn into a sword ifwaved round his head three times, and to give him the strength of athousand men beside his own. And he cut a strip of the hide for a belt, and started off on his adventures. 

Presently he came to a fine place; an old gentleman lived there. So Billywent up and knocked, and the old gentleman came to the door. 

"Are you wanting a boy?" says Billy. 

"I am wanting a herd-boy, " says the gentleman, "to take my six cows, sixhorses, six donkeys, and six goats to pasture every morning, and bringthem back at night. Maybe you'd do. "

"What are the wages?" says Billy. 

"Oh, well, " says the gentleman, "it's no use to talk of that now; there'sthree giants live in the wood by the pasture, and every day they drink upall the milk and kill the boy that looks after the cattle; so we'll waitto talk about wages till we see if you come back alive. "

"All right, " says Billy, and he entered service with the old gentleman. 

The first day, he drove the six cows, six horses, six donkeys, and sixgoats to pasture, and sat down by them. About noon he heard a kind ofroaring from the wood; and out rushed a giant with two heads, spittingfire out of his two mouths. 

"Oh! my fine fellow, " says he to Billy, "you are too big for one swallowand not big enough for two; how would you like to die, then? By a cut withthe sword, a blow with the fist, or a swing by the back?"

"That is as may be, " says Billy, "but I'll fight you. " And he buckled onhis hide belt, and swung his stick three times round his head, to give himthe strength of a thousand men besides his own, and went for the giant. And at the first grapple Billy Beg lifted the giant up and sunk him in theground, to his armpits. 

"Oh, mercy! mercy! Spare my life!" cried the giant. 

"I think not, " said Billy; and he cut off his heads. 

That night, when the cows and the goats were driven home, they gave somuch milk that all the dishes in the house were filled, and the milk ranover and made a little brook in the yard. 

"This is very queer, " said the old gentleman; "they never gave any milkbefore. Did you see nothing in the pasture?"

"Nothing worse than myself, " said Billy. And next morning he drove thesix cows, six horses, six donkeys, and six goats to pasture again. 

Just before noon he heard a terrific roar; and out of the wood came agiant with six heads. 

"You killed my brother, " he roared, fire coming out of his six mouths, "and I'll very soon have your blood! Will you die by a cut of the sword, or a swing by the back?"

"I'll fight you, " said Billy. And buckling on his belt and swinging hisstick three times round his head, he ran in and grappled the giant. At thefirst hold, he sunk the giant up to the shoulders in the ground. 

"Mercy, mercy, kind gentleman!" cried the giant. "Spare my life!"

"I think not, " said Billy, and cut off his heads. 

That night the cattle gave so much milk that it ran out of the house andmade a stream, and turned a mill wheel which had not been turned for sevenyears!

"It's certainly very queer, " said the old gentleman; "did you see nothingin the pasture, Billy?"

"Nothing worse than myself, " said Billy. 

And the next morning the gentleman said, "Billy, do you know, I only heardone of the giants roaring in the night, and the night before only two. What can ail them, at all?"

"Oh, maybe they are sick or something, " says Billy; and with that hedrove the six cows, six horses, six donkeys, and six goats to pasture. 

At about ten o'clock there was a roar like a dozen bulls, and the brotherof the two giants came out of the wood, with twelve heads on him, and firespouting from every one of them. 

"I'll have you, my fine boy, " cries he; "how will you die, then?"

"We'll see, " says Billy; "come on!"

And swinging his stick round his head, he made for the giant, and drovehim up to his twelve necks in the ground. All twelve of the heads beganbegging for mercy, but Billy soon cut them short. Then he drove the beastshome. 

And that night the milk overflowed the mill-stream and made a lake, ninemiles long, nine miles broad, and nine miles deep; and there are salmonand whitefish there to this day. 

"You are a fine boy, " said the gentleman, "and I'll give you wages. "

So Billy was herd. 

The next day, his master told him to look after the house while he went upto the king's town, to see a great sight. "What will it be?" said Billy. "The king's daughter is to be eaten by a fiery dragon, " said his master, "unless the champion fighter they've been feeding for six weeks onpurpose kills the dragon. " "Oh, " said Billy. 

After he was left alone, there were people passing on horses and afoot, incoaches and chaises, in carriages and in wheelbarrows, all going to seethe great sight. And all asked Billy why he was not on his way. But Billysaid he didn't care about going. 

When the last passer-by was out of sight, Billy ran and dressed himself inhis master's best suit of clothes, took the brown mare from the stable, and was off to the king's town. 

When he came there, he saw a big round place with great high seats builtup around it, and all the people sitting there. Down in the midst was thechampion, walking up and down proudly, with two men behind him to carryhis heavy sword. And up in the centre of the seats was the princess, withher maidens; she was looking very pretty, but nervous. 

The fight was about to begin when Billy got there, and the herald wascrying out how the champion would fight the dragon for the princess'ssake, when suddenly there was heard a fearsome great roaring, and thepeople shouted, "Here he is now, the dragon!"

The dragon had more heads than the biggest of the giants, and fire andsmoke came from every one of them. And when the champion saw the creature, he never waited even to take his sword, --he turned and ran; and he neverstopped till he came to a deep well, where he jumped in and hid himself, up to the neck. 

When the princess saw that her champion was gone, she began wringing herhands, and crying, "Oh, please, kind gentlemen, fight the dragon, some ofyou, and keep me from being eaten! Will no one fight the dragon for me?"But no one stepped up, at all. And the dragon made to eat the princess. 

Just then, out stepped Billy from the crowd, with his fine suit of clothesand his hide belt on him. "I'll fight the beast, " he says, and swinginghis stick three times round his head, to give him the strength of athousand men besides his own, he walked up to the dragon, with easy gait. The princess and all the people were looking, you may be sure, and thedragon raged at Billy with all his mouths, and they at it and fought. Itwas a terrible fight, but in the end Billy Beg had the dragon down, and hecut off his heads with the sword. 

There was great shouting, then, and crying that the strange champion mustcome to the king to be made prince, and to the princess, to be seen. Butin the midst of the hullabaloo Billy Begs slips on the brown mare and isoff and away before anyone has seen his face. But, quick as he was, he wasnot so quick but that the princess caught hold of him as he jumped on hishorse, and he got away with one shoe left in her hand. And home he rode, to his master's house, and had his old clothes on and the mare in thestable before his master came back. 

When his master came back, he had a great tale for Billy, how theprincess's champion had run from the dragon, and a strange knight had comeout of the clouds and killed the dragon, and before anyone could stop himhad disappeared in the sky. "Wasn't it wonderful?" said the old gentlemanto Billy. "I should say so, " said Billy to him. 

Soon there was proclamation made that the man who killed the dragon was tobe found, and to be made son of the king and husband of the princess; forthat, everyone should come up to the king's town and try on the shoe whichthe princess had pulled from off the foot of the strange champion, that hewhom it fitted should be known to be the man. On the day set, there waspassing of coaches and chaises, of carriages and wheelbarrows, people onhorseback and afoot, and Billy's master was the first to go. 

While Billy was watching, at last came along a raggedy man. 

"Will you change clothes with me, and I'll give you boot?" said Billy tohim. 

"Shame to you to mock a poor raggedy man!" said the raggedy man to Billy. 

"It's no mock, " said Billy, and he changed clothes with the raggedy man, and gave him boot. 

When Billy came to the king's town, in his dreadful old clothes, no oneknew him for the champion at all, and none would let him come forward totry the shoe. But after all had tried, Billy spoke up that he wanted totry. They laughed at him, and pushed him back, with his rags. But theprincess would have it that he should try. "I like his face, " said she;"let him try, now. "

So up stepped Billy, and put on the shoe, and it fitted him like his ownskin. 

Then Billy confessed that it was he that killed the dragon. And that hewas a king's son. And they put a velvet suit on him, and hung a gold chainround his neck, and everyone said a finer-looking boy they'd never seen. 

So Billy married the princess, and was the prince of that place. 

THE LITTLE HERO OF HAARLEM[1]

[Footnote 1: Told from memory of the story told me when a child. ]

A long way off, across the ocean, there is a little country where theground is lower than the level of the sea, instead of higher, as it ishere. Of course the water would run in and cover the land and houses, ifsomething were not done to keep it out. But something is done. The peoplebuild great, thick walls all round the country, and the walls keep the seaout. You see how much depends on those walls, --the good crops, the houses, and even the safety of the people. Even the small children in that countryknow that an accident to one of the walls is a terrible thing. These wallsare really great banks, as wide as roads, and they are called "dikes. "

Once there was a little boy who lived in that country, whose name wasHans. One day, he took his little brother out to play. They went a longway out of the town, and came to where there were no houses, but ever somany flowers and green fields. By-and-by, Hans climbed up on the dike, andsat down; the little brother was playing about at the foot of the bank. 

Suddenly the little brother called out, "Oh, what a funny little hole! Itbubbles!"

"Hole? Where?" said Hans. 

"Here in the bank, " said the little brother; "water's in it. "

"What!" said Hans, and he slid down as fast as he could to where hisbrother was playing. 

There was the tiniest little hole in the bank. Just an air-hole. A drop ofwater bubbled slowly through. 

"It is a hole in the dike!" cried Hans. "What shall we do?"

He looked all round; not a person or a house in sight. He looked at thehole; the little drops oozed steadily through; he knew that the waterwould soon break a great gap, because that tiny hole gave it a chance. Thetown was so far away--if they ran for help it would be too late; whatshould he do? Once more he looked; the hole was larger, now, and the waterwas trickling. 

Suddenly a thought came to Hans. He stuck his little forefinger right intothe hole, where it fitted tight; and he said to his little brother, "Run, Dieting! Go to the town and tell the men there's a hole in the dike. Tellthem I will keep it stopped till they get here. "

The little brother knew by Hans' face that something very serious was thematter, and he started for the town, as fast as his legs could run. Hans, kneeling with his finger in the hole, watched him grow smaller and smalleras he got farther away. 

Soon he was as small as a chicken; then he was only a speck; then he wasout of sight. Hans was alone, his finger tight in the bank. 

He could hear the water, slap, slap, slap, on the stones; and deep downunder the slapping was a gurgling, rumbling sound. It seemed very near. 

By-and-by, his hand began to feel numb. He rubbed it with the other hand;but it got colder and more numb, colder and more numb, every minute. Helooked to see if the men were coming; the road was bare as far as he couldsee. Then the cold began creeping, creeping, up his arm; first his wrist, then his arm to the elbow, then his arm to the shoulder; how cold it was!And soon it began to ache. Ugly little cramp-pains streamed up his finger, up his palm, up his arm, till they reached into his shoulder, and down theback of his neck. It seemed hours since the little brother went away. Hefelt very lonely, and the hurt in his arm grew and grew. He watched theroad with all his eyes, but no one came in sight. Then he leaned his headagainst the dike, to rest his shoulder. 

As his ear touched the dike, he heard the voice of the great sea, murmuring. The sound seemed to say, --

"I am the great sea. No one can stand against me. What are you, a littlechild, that you try to keep me out? Beware! Beware!"

Hans' heart beat in heavy knocks. Would they never come? He wasfrightened. 

And the water went on beating at the wall, and murmuring, "I will comethrough, I will come through, I will get you, I will get you, run--run--before I come through!"

Hans started to pull out his finger; he was so frightened that he felt asif he must run for ever. But that minute he remembered how much dependedon him; if he pulled out his finger, the water would surely make the holebigger, and at last break down the dike, and the sea would come in on allthe land and houses. He set his teeth, and stuck his finger tighter thanever. 

"You shall _not_ come through!" he whispered, "I will _not_ run!"

At that moment, he heard a far-off shout. Far in the distance he saw ablack something on the road, and dust. The men were coming! At last, theywere coming. They came nearer, fast, and he could make out his own father, and the neighbours. They had pickaxes and shovels, and they were running. And as they ran they shouted, "We're coming; take heart, we're coming!"

The next minute, it seemed, they were there. And when they saw Hans, withhis pale face, and his hand tight in the dike, they gave a greatcheer, --just as people do for soldiers back from war; and they lifted himup and rubbed his aching arm with tender hands, and they told him that hewas a real hero and that he had saved the town. 

When the men had mended the dike, they marched home like an army, and Hanswas carried high on their shoulders, because he was a hero. And to thisday the people of Haarlem tell the story of how a little boy saved thedike. 

THE LAST LESSON[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from the French of Alphonse Daudet. ]

Little Franz didn't want to go to school, that morning. He would muchrather have played truant. The air was so warm and still, --you could hearthe blackbird singing at the edge of the wood, and the sound of thePrussians drilling, down in the meadow behind the old sawmill. He would_so_ much rather have played truant! Besides, this was the day for thelesson in the rule of participles; and the rule of participles in Frenchis very, very long, and very hard, and it has more exceptions than rule. Little Franz did not know it at all. He did not want to go to school. 

But, somehow, he went. His legs carried him reluctantly into the villageand along the street. As he passed the official bulletin-board before thetown hall, he noticed a little crowd round it, looking at it. That was theplace where the news of lost battles, the requisition for more troops, thedemands for new taxes were posted. Small as he was, little Franz had seenenough to make him think, "What _now_, I wonder?" But he could not stop tosee; he was afraid of being late. 

When he came to the school-yard his heart beat very fast; he was afraid he_was_ late, after all, for the windows were all open, and yet he heard nonoise, --the schoolroom was perfectly quiet. He had been counting on thenoise and confusion before school, --the slamming of desk covers, thebanging of books, the tapping of the master's cane and his "A little lessnoise, please, "--to let him slip quietly into his seat unnoticed. But no;he had to open the door and walk up the long aisle, in the midst of asilent room, with the master looking straight at him. Oh, how hot hischeeks felt, and how hard his heart beat! But to his great surprise themaster didn't scold at all. All he said was, "Come quickly to your place, my little Franz; we were just going to begin without you!"

Little Franz could hardly believe his ears; that wasn't at all the way themaster was accustomed to speak. It was very strange! Somehow--everythingwas very strange. The room looked queer. Everybody was sitting so still, so straight--as if it were an exhibition day, or something veryparticular. And the master--he looked strange, too; why, he had on hisfine lace jabot and his best coat, that he wore only on holidays, and hisgold snuff-box in his hand. Certainly it was very odd. Little Franz lookedall round, wondering. And there in the back of the room was the oddestthing of all. There, on a bench, sat _visitors_. Visitors! He could notmake it out; people never came except on great occasions, --examinationdays and such. And it was not a holiday. Yet there were the agent, theold blacksmith, the farmer, sitting quiet and still. It was very, verystrange. 

Just then the master stood up and opened school. He said, "My children, this is the last time I shall ever teach you. The order has come fromBerlin that henceforth nothing but German shall be taught in the schoolsof Alsace and Lorraine. This is your last lesson in French. I beg you, bevery attentive. "

_His last lesson in French!_ Little Franz could not believe his ears; hislast lesson--ah, _that_ was what was on the bulletin-board! It flashedacross him in an instant. That was it! His last lesson in French--and hescarcely knew how to read and write--why, then, he should never know how!He looked down at his books, all battered and torn at the corners; andsuddenly his books seemed quite different to him, theyseemed--somehow--like friends. He looked at the master, and he seemeddifferent, too, --like a very good friend. Little Franz began to feelstrange himself. Just as he was thinking about it, he heard his namecalled, and he stood up to recite. 

It was the rule of participles. 

Oh, what wouldn't he have given to be able to say it off from beginning toend, exceptions and all, without a blunder! But he could only stand andhang his head; he did not know a word of it. Then through the hotpounding in his ears he heard the master's voice; it was quite gentle; notat all the scolding voice he expected. And it said, "I'm not going topunish you, little Franz. Perhaps you are punished enough. And you are notalone in your fault. We all do the same thing, --we all put off our taskstill to-morrow. And--sometimes--to-morrow never comes. That is what it hasbeen with us. We Alsatians have been always putting off our education tillthe morrow; and now they have a right, those people down there, to say tous, 'What! You call yourselves French, and cannot even read and write theFrench language? Learn German, then!'"

And then the master spoke to them of the French language. He told them howbeautiful it was, how clear and musical and reasonable, and he said thatno people could be hopelessly conquered so long as it kept its language, for the language was the key to its prison-house. And then he said he wasgoing to tell them a little about that beautiful language, and heexplained the rule of participles. 

And do you know, it was just as simple as ABC! Little Franz understoodevery word. It was just the same with the rest of the grammar lesson. Idon't know whether little Franz listened harder, or whether the masterexplained better; but it was all quite clear, and simple. 

But as they went on with it, and little Franz listened and looked, itseemed to him that the master was trying to put the whole French languageinto their heads in that one hour. It seemed as if he wanted to teach themall he knew, before he went, --to give them all he had, --in this lastlesson. 

From the grammar he went on to the writing lesson. And for this, quite newcopies had been prepared. They were written on clean, new slips of paper, and they were:--

France: Alsace. France: Alsace. 

All up and down the aisles they hung out from the desks like littlebanners, waving:--

France: Alsace. France: Alsace. 

And everybody worked with all his might, --not a sound could you hear butthe scratching of pens on the "France: Alsace. "

Even the little ones bent over their up and down strokes with theirtongues stuck out to help them work. 

After the writing came the reading lesson, and the little ones sang their_ba_, _be_, _bi_, _bo_, _bu_. 

Right in the midst of it, Franz heard a curious sound, a big deep voicemingling with the children's voices. He turned round, and there, on thebench in the back of the room, the old blacksmith sat with a big ABC bookopen on his knees. It was his voice Franz had heard. He was saying thesounds with the little children, --_ba_, _be_, _bi_, _bo_, _bu_. His voicesounded so odd, with the little voices, --so very odd, --it made littleFranz feel queer. It seemed so funny that he thought he would laugh; thenhe thought he wouldn't laugh, he felt--he felt very queer. 

So it went on with the lessons; they had them all. And then, suddenly, thetown clock struck noon. And at the same time they heard the tramp of thePrussians' feet, coming back from drill. 

It was time to close school. 

The master stood up. He was very pale. Little Franz had never seen himlook so tall. He said:--

"My children--my children"--but something choked him; he could not go on. Instead he turned and went to the blackboard and took up a piece of chalk. And then he wrote, high up, in big white letters, "Vive la France!"

And he made a little sign to them with his head, "That is all; go away. "

THE STORY OF CHRISTMAS

There was once a nation which was very powerful, very fortunate, and veryproud. Its lands were fruitful; its armies were victorious in battle; andit had strong kings, wise lawgivers, and great poets. But after a greatmany years, everything changed. The nation had no more strong kings, nomore wise lawgivers; its armies were beaten in battle, and neighbouringtribes conquered the country and took the fruitful lands; there were nomore poets except a few who made songs of lamentation. The people hadbecome a captive and humiliated people; and the bitterest part of all itssadness was the memory of past greatness. 

But in all the years of failure and humiliation, there was one thing whichkept this people from despair; one hope lived in their hearts and keptthem from utter misery. It was a hope which came from something one of thegreat poets of the past had said, in prophecy. This prophecy was whisperedin the homes of the poor, taught in the churches, repeated from father toson among the rich; it was like a deep, hidden well of comfort in a desertof suffering. The prophecy said that some time a deliverer should be bornfor the nation, a new king even stronger than the old ones, mighty enoughto conquer its enemies, set it free, and bring back the splendid days ofold. This was the hope and expectation all the people looked for; theywaited through the years for the prophecy to come true. 

In this nation, in a little country town, lived a man and a woman whosenames were Joseph and Mary. And it happened, one year, that they had totake a little journey up to the town which was the nearest tax-centre, tohave their names put on the census list; because that was the custom inthat country. 

But when they got to the town, so many others were there for the samething, and it was such a small town, that every place was crowded. Therewas no room for them at the inn. Finally, the innkeeper said they mightsleep in the stable, on the straw. So they went there for the night. 

And while they were there, in the stable, their first child was born tothem, a little son. And because there was no cradle to put Him in, themother made a little warm nest of the hay in the big wooden manger wherethe oxen had eaten, and wrapped the baby in swaddling clothes, and laidHim in the manger, for a bed!

That same night, on the hills outside the town, there were shepherds, keeping their flocks through the darkness. They were tired with watchingover the sheep, and they stood or sat about, drowsily, talking andwatching the stars. And as they watched, behold, an angel of the Lordappeared unto them! And the glory of the Lord shone round about them! Andthey were sore afraid. But the angel said unto them, "Fear not, forbehold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to allpeople. _For unto you is born, this day, in the city of David, asaviour, --which is Christ the Lord. _ And this shall be a sign unto you: yeshall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes, _lying in a manger_. "

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earthpeace, good will toward men. "

When the angels were gone up from them into heaven, the shepherds said toone another, "Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing whichis come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us. " And they came, with haste, and they found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in amanger. And when they saw Him in the manger, they knew that the wonderfulthing the angel said had really happened, and that the great deliverer wasborn at last. 

THE CHILD-MIND; AND HOW TO SATISFY IT

"It is the grown people who make the nursery stories, " wrote Stevenson, "all the children do is jealously to preserve the text. " And the grownperson, whether he makes his stories with pen or with tongue, should bringtwo qualities at least to the work--simplicity of language and a serioussincerity. The reason for the simplicity is obvious, for no one, child orotherwise, can thoroughly enjoy a story clouded by words which convey nomeaning to him. 

The second quality is less obvious but equally necessary. No absence offun is intended by the words "serious sincerity, " but they mean that thestory-teller should bring to the child an equal interest in what is aboutto be told; an honest acceptance, for the time being, of the fairies, orthe heroes, or the children, or the animals who talk, with which the taleis concerned. The child deserves this equality of standpoint, and withoutit there can be no entire success. 

As for the stories themselves, the difficulty lies with the material, notwith the _child_. Styles may be varied generously, but the matter must bequarried for. Out of a hundred children's books it is more than likelythat ninety-nine will be useless; yet perhaps out of one autobiography maybe gleaned an anecdote, or a reminiscence which can be amplified into anabsorbing tale. Almost every story-teller will find that the open eye andear will serve him better than much arduous searching. No one book willyield him the increase to his repertoire which will come to him bylistening, by browsing in chance volumes and magazines, and evennewspapers, by observing everyday life, and in all remembering his ownyouth, and his youthful, waiting audience. 

And that youthful audience? A rather too common mistake is made inallowing overmuch for the creative imagination of the normal child. It isnot creative imagination which the normal child possesses so much as anenormous credulity and no limitations. If we consider for a moment we seethat there has been little or nothing to limit things for him, thereforeanything is possible. It is the years of our life as they come whichnarrow our fancies and set a bound to our beliefs; for experience hastaught us that for the most part a certain cause will produce a certaineffect. The child, on the contrary, has but little knowledge of causes, and as yet but an imperfect realisation of effects. If we, for instance, go into the midst of a savage country, we know that there is the chance ofour meeting a savage. But to the young child it is quite as possible tomeet a Red Indian coming round the bend of the brook at the bottom of theorchard, as it is to meet him in his own wigwam. 

The child is an adept at make-believe, but his make-believes are, as arule, practical and serious. It is credulity rather than imagination whichhelps him. He takes the tales he has been _told_, the facts he hasobserved, and for the most part reproduces them to the best of hisability. And "nothing, " as Stevenson says, "can stagger a child's faith;he accepts the clumsiest substitutes and can swallow the most staringincongruities. The chair he has just been besieging as a castle is takenaway for the accommodation of a morning visitor and he is nothing abashed;he can skirmish by the hour with a stationary coal-scuttle; in the midstof the enchanted pleasuance he can see, without sensible shock, thegardener soberly digging potatoes for the day's dinner. "

The child, in fact, is neither undeveloped "grown-up" nor unspoiled angel. Perhaps he has a dash of both, but most of all he is akin to the grownperson who dreams. With the dreamer and with the child there is thatunquestioning acceptance of circumstances as they arise, however unusualand disconcerting they may be. In dreams the wildest, most improbable andfantastic things happen, but they are not so to the dreamer. The veriestcynic amongst us must take his dreams seriously and without a sneer, whether he is forced to leap from the edge of a precipice, whether hefinds himself utterly incapable of packing his trunk in time for thetrain, whether in spite of his distress at the impropriety, he findshimself at a dinner-party minus his collar, or whether the riches of ElDorado are laid at his feet. For him at the time it is all quite real andharassingly or splendidly important. 

To the child and to the dreamer all things are possible; frogs may talk, bears may be turned into princes, gallant tailors may overcome giants, fir-trees may be filled with ambitions. A chair may become a horse, achest of drawers a coach and six, a hearthrug a battlefield, a newspaper acrown of gold. And these are facts which the story-teller must realise, and choose and shape the stories accordingly. 

Many an old book, which to a modern grown person may seem prim andover-rigid, will be to the child a delight; for him the primness and theseverity slip away, the story remains. Such a book as Mrs Sherwood's_Fairchild Family_ is an example of this. To a grown person reading it forthe first time, the loafing propensities of the immaculate Mrs Fairchild, who never does a hand's turn of good work for anyone from cover to cover, the hard piety, the snobbishness, the brutality of taking the children tothe old gallows and seating them before the dangling remains of amurderer, while the lesson of brotherly love is impressed are shockingwhen they are not amusing; but to the child the doings of the naughty andrepentant little Fairchilds are engrossing; and experience proves to usthat the twentieth-century child is as eager for the book as were ever hisnineteenth-century grandfather and grandmother. 

Good Mrs Timmin's _History of the Robins_, too, is a continuous delight;and from its pompous and high-sounding dialogue a skilful adapter mayglean not only one story, but one story with two versions; for the infantof eighteen months can follow the narrative of the joys and troubles, errors and kindnesses of Robin, Dicky, Flopsy and Pecksy; while the childof five or ten or even more will be keenly interested in a fuller accountof the birds' adventures and the development of their several charactersand those of their human friends and enemies. 

From these two books, from Miss Edgeworth's wonderful _Moral Tales_; fromMiss Wetherell's delightful volume _Mr Rutherford's Children_; from Janeand Ann Taylor's _Original Poems_; from Thomas Day's _Sandford andMerton_; from Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_ and Lamb's _Tales fromShakespeare_, and from many another old friend, stories may be gathered, but the story-teller will find that in almost all cases adaptation is anecessity. The joy of the hunt, however, is a real joy, and with a fieldwhich stretches from the myths of Greece to _Uncle Remus_, from _Le Morted'Arthur_ to the _Jungle Books_, there need be no more lack of pleasurefor the seeker than for the receiver of the spoil. 

 * * * * *

The following is a list of valuable sources for the story-teller, allyielding either good original material for adaptation, or stories whichneed only a slight alteration in the telling. [1]

[Footnote 1: Readers may be interested in _A History of Story-telling_, byArthur Ransome. (Jack. )]

THE BIBLE. MOTHER GOOSE'S MELODY. (Bullen. )THE STORY HOUR, by _Kate Douglas Wiggin_. (Gay & Hancock. )STORIES FOR KINDERGARTEN. (Ginn. )ST NICHOLAS MAGAZINE, bound volumes. (Warne. )LITTLE FOLKS, bound volumes. (Cassell. )FABLES AND NURSERY TALES, edited by _Prof. Charles Eliot Norton_. (Heath. )STORIES TO TELL THE LITTLEST ONES, by _Sara Gone Bryant_. (Harrap. )MOTHER STORIES, by _Maud Lindsay_. (Harrap. )MORE MOTHER STORIES, by _Maud Lindsay_. (Harrap. )ÆSOP'S FABLES. STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN, by _Sara Cone Bryant_. (Harrap. )THE BOOK OF STORIES FOR THE STORY-TELLER, by _Fanny Coe_. (Harrap. )SONGS AND STORIES FOR THE LITTLE ONES, by _Gordon Browne_. (Harrap. )CHARACTER TRAINING (stories with an ethical bearing), by _E. L. Cabot_ and _E. Eyles_. (Harrap. )STORIES FOR THE STORY HOUR, by _Ada M. Marzials_. (Harrap. )STORIES FOR THE HISTORY HOUR, by _Nannie Niemeyer_. (Harrap. )STORIES FOR THE BIBLE HOUR, by _R. Brimley Johnson_. (Harrap. )NATURE STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN, by _H. Waddingham Seers_. (Harrap. )OLD TIME TALES, by _Florence Dugdale_. (Collins. )THE MABINOGION. (Dent. )PERCY'S RELIQUES. (Warne. )

TOLD THROUGH THE AGES SERIES. (Harrap. ) LEGENDS OF GREECE AND ROME, by _G. H. Kupfer, M. A. _ FAVOURITE GREEK MYTHS, by _L. S. Hyde_. STORIES OF ROBIN HOOD, by _J. W. McSpadden_. STORIES OF KING ARTHUR, by _U. W. Cutler. _ STORIES FROM GREEK HISTORY, by _H. L. Havell, B. A. _ STORIES FROM WAGNER, by _J. W. McSpadden_. BRITAIN LONG AGO (stories from old English and Celtic sources), by _E. M. Wilmot-Buxton, F. R. Hist. S. _ STORIES FROM SCOTTISH HISTORY (selected from "Tales of a Grandfather"), by _Madalen Edgar, M. A. _ STORIES FROM GREEK TRAGEDY, by _H. L. Havell, B. A. _ STORIES FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE, by _Madalen Edgar, M. A. _ STORIES FROM CHAUCER, by _J. W. McSpadden_. STORIES FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT, by _Mrs S. Platt_. TOLD BY THE NORTHMEN (stories from the Norse eddas and sagas), by _E. M. Wilmot-Buxton, F. R. Hist. S_. STORIES FROM DON QUIXOTE, by _H. L. Havell, B. A. _ THE STORY OF ROLAND AND THE PEERS OF CHARLEMAGNE, by _James Baldwin_. 

 (Teachers in need of good stories should keep themselves acquainted with the development of this series, as fresh volumes are constantly added. The material is precisely the right kind for the story-teller, since the stories have come to us from distant days when, as the national inheritance of this race or that, they were told in homely cabins by parents to their children, or sung by bards to festive companies. )

STORIES OF THE ENGLISH, by _F_. (Blackwood. )OLD GREEK FOLK STORIES, by _Josephine Peabody_. (Harrap. )RED CAP TALES, by _S. R. Crockett_. (Black. )A CHILD'S BOOK OF SAINTS, by _Wm. Canton_. (Dent. )CUCHULAIN, THE HOUND OF ULSTER, by _Eleanor Hull_. (Harrap. )THE HIGH DEEDS OF FINN, by _T. W. Rolleston, M. A. _ (Harrap. )THE BOOK OF THE EPIC, by _H. A. Guerber_. (Harrap. )THE MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME, by _H. A. Guerber_. (Harrap. )MYTHS OF THE NORSEMEN, by _H. A. Guerber_. (Harrap. )MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE MIDDLE AGES, by _H. A. Guerber_. (Harrap. )HERO-MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE BRITISH RACE, by _M. I. Ebbutt, M. A. _ (Harrap. )THE MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. GLEANINGS IN BUDDHA-FIELDS, by _Lafcadio Hearn_. (Kegan Paul. )THE GOLDEN WINDOWS, by _Laura E. Richards_. (Allenson. )HANS ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES. GRIMM'S FAIRY TALES. ENGLISH FAIRY TALES, by _Joseph Jacobs_. (Nutt. )FOLK-TALES FROM MANY LANDS, by _Lilian Gask_. (Harrap. )CELTIC FAIRY TALES, by _Joseph Jacobs_. (Nutt. )INDIAN FAIRY TALES, by _Joseph Jacobs_. (Nutt. )WEST AFRICAN FOLK-TALES, by _W. H. Barker_ and _C. Sinclair_. (Harrap. )RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES, by _R. Nisbet Bain_. (Harrap. )COSSACK FAIRY TALES, by _R. Nisbet Bain_. (Harrap. )THE HAPPY PRINCE, by _Oscar Wilde_. (Nutt. )DONEGAL FAIRY TALES, by _Seumas McManus_. IN CHIMNEY CORNERS, by _Seumas McManus_. THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK (and others), by _Andrew Lang_. (Longmans. )FAIRY STORIES, by _John Finnemore_. (S. S. Union. )THE JAPANESE FAIRY BOOK. (Constable. )FAIRY TALES FROM FAR JAPAN, translated by _Susan Bollard_. (Religious Tract Society. )IN THE CHILD'S WORLD. (Philip. )LEGENDS FROM FAIRYLAND, by _Holme Lee_. (Warne. )THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER, by _John Ruskin_. (Grant Allen. )THE WELSH FAIRY BOOK, by _Jenkyn Thomas_. (Unwin. )AT THE BACK OF THE NORTH WIND, by _George Macdonald_. (Blackie. )TELL-ME-WHY STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS, by _C. H. Claudy_. (Harrap. )TELL-ME-WHY STORIES ABOUT GREAT DISCOVERIES, by _C. H. Claudy_. (Harrap. )UNCLE REMUS, by _Joel Chandler Harris_. (Routledge. )MACAULAY'S LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME. LE MORTE D'ARTHUR, by _Sir Thomas Malory_. (Macmillan. )THE BOY'S FROISSART, by _Henry Newbolt_. (Macmillan. )STORIES FROM DANTE, by _Susan Cunnington_. (Harrap. )THE JUNGLE BOOKS, by _Rudyard Kipling_. (Macmillan. )JUST SO STORIES, by _Rudyard Kipling_. (Macmillan. )WOOD MAGIC, by _Richard Jefferies_. (Longmans. )AMONG THE FARMYARD PEOPLE, by _Clara D. Pierson_. (Murray. )AMONG THE NIGHT PEOPLE, by _Clara D. Pierson_. (Murray. )AMONG THE MEADOW PEOPLE, by _Clara D. Pierson_. (Murray. )THE ANIMAL STORY BOOK, by _Andrew Lang_. (Longmans. )WILD ANIMALS I HAVE KNOWN, by _Ernest Thompson Seton_. (Nutt. )A BOOK OF NATURE MYTHS, by _Florence Holbrook_. (Harrap. )MORE NATURE MYTHS, by _F. V. Farmer_. (Harrap. )PARABLES FROM NATURE, by _Mrs A. Gatty_. (Bell. )NORTHERN TRAILS, by _W. J. Long_. (Ginn. )THE KINDRED OF THE WILD, by _Chas. G. D. Roberts_. (Duckworth. )RAB AND HIS FRIENDS, by _Dr John Brown_. A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES, by _R. L. Stevenson_. (Longmans. )A TREASURY OF VERSE FOR LITTLE CHILDREN, compiled by _Madalen Edgar, M. A. _ (Harrap. )A TREASURY OF VERSE FOR BOYS AND GIRLS, compiled by _Madalen Edgar, M. A. _ (Harrap. )A TREASURY OF BALLADS, compiled by _Madalen Edgar, M. A. _ (Harrap. )BIMBI, by _Ouida_. (Chatto. )STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE, by _Dr Thomas Carter_. (Harrap. )STORIES FROM THE FAERIE QUEENE, by _Laurence H. Dawson_. (Harrap. )MORAL TALES, by _Maria Edgeworth_. (Macmillan. )