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Title: Children's Literature - A Textbook of Sources for Teachers and Teacher-Training Classes
Author: Curry, Charles Madison, 1869-1944, Clippinger, Erle Elsworth, 1875-
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Children's Literature - A Textbook of Sources for Teachers and Teacher-Training Classes" ***
When all the novelists and spinners of
elaborate fictions have been read and judged,
we shall find that the peasant and the nurse
are still unsurpassed as mere narrators. They
are the guardians of that treasury of legend
which comes to us from the very childhood of
nations; they and their tales are the abstract
and brief chronicles, not of an age merely, but
of the whole race of man. It is theirs to keep
alive the great art of telling stories as a
thing wholly apart from and independent of the
art of writing stories, and to pass on their
art to children and to children's children.
They abide in a realm of their own, in blessed
isolation from that world of professional
authors and their milk-and-water books "for
children."
--C. B. TINKER, "In Praise of Nursery
Lore," _The Unpopular Review_,
October-December, 1916.
CHILDREN'S LITERATURE
A TEXTBOOK OF SOURCES FOR TEACHERS AND TEACHER-TRAINING CLASSES
EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTIONS, NOTES, AND BIBLIOGRAPHIES
_BY_
CHARLES MADISON CURRY
_AND_
ERLE ELSWORTH CLIPPINGER
_Professors of Literature in the Indiana State Normal School_
[Illustration]
RAND McNALLY & COMPANY
CHICAGO NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1920, by_
RAND MCNALLY & COMPANY
_Copyright, 1921, by_
RAND MCNALLY & COMPANY
All rights reserved
Edition of 1926
[Illustration]
Made in U. S. A.
THE CONTENTS
SECTION I
PREFACE AND GENERAL INTRODUCTION
_General Bibliography_ 2
_The Preface_ 5
_General Introduction_ 7
1. Literature for Children 7
2. Literature in the Grades 8
3. Story-Telling and Dramatization 10
4. Courses of Study 13
SECTION II
MOTHER GOOSE JINGLES AND NURSERY RHYMES
_Bibliography_ 18
_Introductory_ 19
MOTHER GOOSE (Shorter rhymes):
1. A cat came fiddling out of a barn 23
2. A diller, a dollar 23
3. As I was going to St. Ives 23
4. As I was going up Pippen Hill 23
5. As I went to Bonner 23
6. As Tommy Snooks and Bessie Brooks 23
7. A swarm of bees in May 23
8. Baa, baa, black sheep 23
9. Barber, barber, shave a pig 23
10. Birds of a feather flock together 23
11. Bless you, bless you, burnie bee 23
12. Bobby Shafto's gone to sea 24
13. Bow, wow, wow 24
14. Bye, baby bunting 24
15. Come when you're called 24
16. Cross patch 24
17. Curly locks, curly locks 24
18. Dance, little baby 24
19. Diddle, diddle, dumpling 24
20. Ding, dong, bell 24
21. Doctor Foster 24
22. Eggs, butter, cheese, bread 24
23. For every evil under the sun 24
24. Four-and-twenty tailors 25
25. Great A, little a 25
26. Hark, hark 25
27. Here sits the Lord Mayor 25
28. Here we go up, up, up 25
29. Hey! diddle, diddle 25
30. Hickery, dickery, 6 and 7 25
31. Higgledy, Piggledy 25
32. Hickory, dickory, dock 25
33. Hogs in the garden 25
34. Hot-cross buns 26
35. Hub a dub dub 26
36. Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall 26
37. If all the sea were one sea 26
38. If all the world was apple-pie 26
39. If I'd as much money as I could spend 26
40. If "ifs" and "ands" 26
41. If wishes were horses 26
42. I had a little pony 26
43. I had a little hobby horse 26
44. I have a little sister 27
45. I'll tell you a story 27
46. In marble walls as white as milk 27
47. I went up one pair of stairs 27
48. Jack and Jill went up the hill 27
49. Jack be nimble 27
50. Jack Sprat could eat no fat 27
51. Knock at the door 27
52. Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home 27
53. Little boy blue, come blow your horn 27
54. Little girl, little girl, where have you been 27
55. Little Jack Horner 28
56. Little Jack Jingle 28
57. Little Johnny Pringle 28
58. Little Miss Muffet 28
59. Little Nancy Etticoat 28
60. Little Robin Redbreast 28
61. Little Tommy Tucker 28
62. Long legs, crooked thighs 28
63. Lucy Locket lost her pocket 28
64. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John 28
65. Mistress Mary, quite contrary 28
66. Multiplication is vexation 28
67. Needles and pins 29
68. Old King Cole 29
69. Once I saw a little bird 29
70. One for the money 29
71. One misty, moisty morning 29
72. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 29
73. One, two 29
74. Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man 29
75. Pease-porridge hot 29
76. Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater 30
77. Peter Piper picked a peck 30
78. Poor old Robinson Crusoe 30
79. Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been 30
80. Pussy sits beside the fire 30
81. Ride a cock-horse to Banbury-cross 30
82. Ride, baby, ride 30
83. Rock-a-bye, baby 30
84. Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green 30
85. See a pin and pick it up 30
86. See, saw, sacradown 31
87. Shoe the little horse 31
88. Sing a song of sixpence 31
89. Star light, star bright 31
90. The King of France went up the hill 31
91. The lion and the unicorn 31
92. The man in the moon 31
93. The north wind doth blow 31
94. The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts 31
95. There was a crooked man 31
96. There was a little boy went into a barn 32
97. There was a man and he had naught 32
98. There was a man in our town 32
99. There was an old man 32
100. There was an old woman, and what do you think 32
101. There was an old woman lived under a hill 32
102. There was an old woman of Leeds 32
103. There was an old woman of Norwich 32
104. There was an old woman tossed up in a basket 32
105. There was an old woman who lived in a shoe 33
106. There was an owl lived in an oak 33
107. This is the way the ladies ride 33
108. This little pig went to market 33
109. Three blind mice 33
110. Three wise men of Gotham 33
111. To market, to market, to buy a fat pig 33
112. Tom, Tom, the piper's son 33
113. Two-legs sat upon three-legs 33
114. When a twister a-twisting 34
115. "Willy boy, Willy boy, where are you going?" 34
WILHELMINA SEEGMILLER
116. Milkweed Seeds 34
117. An Anniversary 34
118. Twink! twink! 34
MOTHER GOOSE (Longer rhymes)
119. A Was an Apple-Pie 34
120. Tom Thumb's Alphabet 35
121. Where Are You Going 35
122. Molly and I 35
123. London Bridge 36
124. I Saw a Ship 36
125. There Was an Old Woman 36
126. Little Bo-Peep 37
127. Cock a Doodle Doo 37
128. Three Jovial Huntsmen 37
129. There Was a Little Man 37
130. Taffy 38
131. Simple Simon 38
132. A Farmer Went Trotting 38
133. Tom the Piper's Son 38
134. When I Was a Little Boy 39
135. The Babes in the Wood 39
136. The Fox and His Wife 40
137. For Want of a Nail 40
138. A Man of Words 40
139. Jemima 41
140. Mother Hubbard and Her Dog 41
141. The Courtship, Merry Marriage, and Picnic Dinner of Cock
Robin and Jenny Wren 42
142. The Burial of Poor Cock Robin 44
143. Dame Wiggins of Lee, and Her Seven Wonderful Cats 45
144. This Is the House That Jack Built 47
145. The Egg in the Nest 49
146. Change About 49
SECTION III
FAIRY STORIES--TRADITIONAL TALES
_Bibliography_ 52
_Introductory_ 53
ENGLISH:
147. The Old Woman and Her Pig 56
148. Henny-Penny 58
149. Teeny-Tiny 59
150. The Cat and the Mouse 60
151. The Story of the Three Little Pigs 61
152. Titty Mouse and Tatty Mouse 63
153. The Story of the Three Bears 64
154. The Three Sillies 67
155. Lazy Jack 69
156. The Story of Mr. Vinegar 71
157. Jack and the Beanstalk 73
158. Tom Thumb 79
159. Whittington and His Cat 84
160. Tom Tit Tot 89
FRENCH:
161. Little Red Riding Hood 92
162. True History of Little Golden Hood 94
163. Puss in Boots 97
164. Toads and Diamonds 100
165. Cinderella, or the Little Glass Slipper 102
166. Drakestail 106
167. Beauty and the Beast 110
NORWEGIAN:
168. Why the Bear Is Stumpy-Tailed 122
169. The Three Billy-Goats Gruff 123
170. The Husband Who Was to Mind the House 124
171. Boots and His Brothers 125
172. The Quern at the Bottom of the Sea 128
GERMAN:
173. The Traveling Musicians 131
174. The Blue Light 134
175. The Elves and the Shoemaker 136
176. The Fisherman and His Wife 138
177. Rose-Bud 142
178. Rumpelstiltskin 144
179. Snow-White and Rose-Red 146
INDIAN:
180. The Lambikin 150
181. Tit for Tat 151
182. The Tiger, the Brahman, and the Jackal 152
183. Pride Goeth before a Fall 154
JAPANESE:
184. The Mirror of Matsuyama 156
185. The Tongue-Cut Sparrow 158
SLAVIC:
186. The Straw Ox 160
IRISH:
187. Connla and the Fairy Maiden 162
188. The Horned Women 164
189. King O'Toole and His Goose 165
SECTION IV
FAIRY STORIES--MODERN FANTASTIC TALES
_Bibliography_ 170
_Introductory_ 171
ABRAM S. ISAACS
190. A Four-Leaved Clover 174
I. The Rabbi and the Diadem 174
II. Friendship 175
III. True Charity 175
IV. An Eastern Garden 176
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
191. The Lord Helpeth Man and Beast 177
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
192. The Real Princess 179
193. The Emperor's New Clothes 180
194. The Nightingale 183
195. The Fir Tree 190
196. The Tinder Box 195
197. The Hardy Tin Soldier 200
198. The Ugly Duckling 203
FRANCES BROWNE
199. The Story of Fairyfoot 209
OSCAR WILDE
200. The Happy Prince 217
RAYMOND MACDONALD ALDEN
201. The Knights of the Silver Shield 223
JEAN INGELOW
202. The Prince's Dream 227
FRANK R. STOCKTON
203. Old Pipes and the Dryad 233
JOHN RUSKIN
204. The King of the Golden River 245
SECTION V
FABLES AND SYMBOLIC STORIES
_Bibliography_ 262
_Introductory_ 263
ÆSOP
205. The Shepherd's Boy 266
206. The Lion and the Mouse 266
207. The Crow and the Pitcher 266
208. The Frog and the Ox 267
209. The Frogs Desiring a King 267
210. The Field Mouse and the Town Mouse 268
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
211. The City Mouse and the Garden Mouse 268
HORACE
212. The Country Mouse and the Town Mouse 268
ÆSOP
213. Androcles 269
THOMAS DAY
214. Androcles and the Lion 270
ÆSOP
215. The Wind and the Sun 272
216. The Goose with the Golden Eggs 272
LA FONTAINE
217. The Hen with the Golden Eggs 272
ÆSOP
218. The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing 273
219. The Hare and the Tortoise 273
220. The Miller, His Son, and Their Ass 274
221. The Travelers and the Bear 274
222. The Lark and Her Young Ones 275
223. The Old Man and His Sons 275
224. The Fox and the Grapes 276
225. The Widow and the Hen 276
226. The Kid and the Wolf 276
227. The Man and the Satyr 276
228. The Dog and the Shadow 276
229. The Swallow and the Raven 276
230. Mercury and the Woodman 276
231. The Mice in Council 277
232. The Mountebank and Countryman 277
233. The Milkmaid and Her Pail 278
LA FONTAINE
234. The Dairywoman and the Pot of Milk 278
From "THE ARABIAN NIGHTS"
235. The Story of Alnaschar 279
BIDPAI (Indian Fables)
236. The Camel and the Pig 280
237. The Ass in the Lion's Skin 281
238. The Talkative Tortoise 282
239. A Lion Tricked by a Rabbit 283
MARIE DE FRANCE
240. The Cock and the Fox 284
LA FONTAINE
241. The Grasshopper and the Ant 284
242. The Cock, the Cat, and the Young Mouse 285
JOHN GAY
243. The Hare with Many Friends 286
TOMAS YRIARTE
244. The Musical Ass 287
IVAN KRYLOV
245. The Swan, the Pike, and the Crab 287
From the BIBLE
246. The Bramble Is Made King 288
247. The Good Samaritan 289
248. The Prodigal Son 289
HENRY WARD BEECHER
249. The Anxious Leaf 290
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
250. The Whistle 291
251. The Ephemera 292
JOSEPH ADDISON
252. The Vision of Mirzah 294
JANE TAYLOR
253. The Discontented Pendulum 297
LEO TOLSTOI
254. Croesus and Solon 299
SECTION VI
MYTHS
_Bibliography_ 302
_Introductory_ 303
GREEK AND ROMAN:
GRACE H. KUPFER
255. A Story of the Springtime 306
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
256. The Paradise of Children 309
257. The Miraculous Pitcher 319
R. E. FRANCILLON
258. The Narcissus 330
259. The Apple of Discord 332
JOSEPHINE P. PEABODY
260. Icarus and Daedalus 335
261. Admetus and the Shepherd 337
THOMAS BULFINCH
262. Midas 338
CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY
263. Phaëthon 340
NORSE:
THOMAS BULFINCH
264. Thor's Visit to Jötunheim 343
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
265. Odin's Search for Wisdom 348
ETHEL M. WILMOT-BUXTON
266. How the Fenris Wolf was Chained 351
ANNA AND ELIZA KEARY
267. Frey 354
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
268. The Death of Balder 360
SECTION VII
POETRY
_Bibliography_ 368
_Introductory_ 369
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN
269. The Three Little Kittens 371
270. The Moon 371
271. Runaway Brook 372
272. Ding Dong! Ding Dong! 372
ELIZABETH PRENTISS
273. The Little Kitty 372
SARA J. HALE
274. Mary Had a Little Lamb 372
THEODORE TILTON
275. Baby Bye 373
LUCY LARCOM
276. The Brown Thrush 374
LYDIA MARIA CHILD
277. Thanksgiving Day 375
278. Who Stole the Bird's Nest 375
"SUSAN COOLIDGE"
279. How the Leaves Came Down 377
PHOEBE CARY
280. They Didn't Think 377
281. The Leak in the Dike 378
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
282. Whole Duty of Children 381
283. The Cow 381
284. Time to Rise 381
285. Rain 381
286. A Good Play 382
287. The Lamplighter 382
288. The Land of Nod 382
289. The Land of Story-Books 382
290. My Bed Is a Boat 383
291. My Shadow 383
292. The Swing 383
293. Where Go the Boats 384
294. The Wind 384
295. Windy Nights 384
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN
296. Spinning Top 384
297. Flying Kite 385
298. King Bell 385
299. Daisies 385
EUGENE FIELD
300. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod 385
301. The Sugar-Plum Tree 386
302. The Duel 387
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
303. The Treasures of the Wise Man 387
304. The Circus-Day Parade 388
305. The Raggedy Man 389
JAMES HOGG
306. A Boy's Song 389
MARY HOWITT
307. The Spider and the Fly 390
WILLIAM HOWITT
308. The Wind in a Frolic 391
ANN TAYLOR
309. The Cow 392
310. Meddlesome Matty 392
JANE TAYLOR
311. "I Like Little Pussy" 393
312. The Star 394
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
313. Seldom or Never 394
314. An Emerald Is as Green as Grass 394
315. Boats Sail on the Rivers 394
316. A Diamond or a Coal? 395
317. The Swallow 395
318. Who Has Seen the Wind? 395
319. Milking Time 395
WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS
320. The Peddler's Caravan 395
321. The Wonderful World 396
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES
322. Good-Night and Good-Morning 396
WILLIAM ROSCOE
323. The Butterfly's Ball 397
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
324. Can You? 398
ROBERT BROWNING
325. Pippa's Song 399
CHARLES MACKAY
326. Little and Great 399
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS
327. Casabianca 399
WILLIAM BLAKE
328. Three Things to Remember 400
329. The Lamb 401
330. The Shepherd 401
331. The Tiger 401
332. The Piper 401
ELIZA COOK
333. Try Again 402
EDWARD LEAR
334. The Owl and the Pussy-Cat 403
335. The Table and the Chair 404
336. The Pobble Who Has No Toes 404
"LEWIS CARROLL"
337. The Walrus and the Carpenter 405
338. A Strange Wild Song 406
ISAAC WATTS
339. Against Idleness and Mischief 407
340. Famous Passages from Dr. Watts 408
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
341. The Skeleton in Armor 408
342. The Day Is Done 410
343. A Psalm of Life 411
CHARLES KINGSLEY
344. The Three Fishers 412
345. The Sands of Dee 412
ALFRED TENNYSON
346. "What Does Little Birdie Say?" 413
347. Sweet and Low 413
348. The Poet's Song 413
349. Crossing the Bar 414
LEIGH HUNT
350. Abou Ben Adhem 414
JOAQUIN MILLER
351. For Those Who Fail 415
EDGAR ALLAN POE
352. Eldorado 415
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON
353. The Destruction of Sennacherib 416
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
354. To a Waterfowl 416
355. The Planting of the Apple-Tree 417
THOMAS EDWARD BROWN
356. My Garden 418
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
357. Daffodils 419
358. The Solitary Reaper 419
CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON
359. The Arab to His Favorite Steed 420
ROBERT SOUTHEY
360. The Inchcape Rock 421
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
361. Over Hill, Over Dale 423
362. A Fairy Scene in a Wood 423
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
363. Fable 424
364. Concord Hymn 424
SIR WALTER SCOTT
365. Breathes There the Man 424
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
366. Old Ironsides 425
WILLIAM COLLINS
367. How Sleep the Brave 425
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
368. The Ballad of Nathan Hale 425
SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE
369. The Red Thread of Honor 427
RUDYARD KIPLING
370. Recessional 428
WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY
371. Invictus 429
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
372. The Falcon 429
373. The Shepherd of King Admetus 430
SIR WILLIAM SCHENCK GILBERT
374. The Yarn of the Nancy Bell 430
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE
375. Darius Green and His Flying Machine 432
WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER
376. Beth Gêlert 436
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
377. King John and the Abbot of Canterbury 437
SECTION VIII
REALISTIC STORIES
_Bibliography_ 442
_Introductory_ 443
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
378. The Renowned History of Little Goody Two-Shoes 445
DR. JOHN AIKIN AND MRS. LETITIA BARBAULD
379. Eyes, and No Eyes 451
THOMAS DAY
380. The Good-Natured Little Boy 456
MARIA EDGEWORTH
381. Waste Not, Want Not 458
JULIANA HORATIA EWING
382. Jackanapes 478
HENRY SEIDEL CANBY
383. Betty's Ride 496
CHARLES MAJOR
384. The Big Bear 500
"O. HENRY"
385. The Gift of the Magi 505
SECTION IX
NATURE LITERATURE
_Bibliography_ 510
_Introductory_ 511
BEATRIX POTTER
386. The Tale of Peter Rabbit 513
THORNTON WALDO BURGESS
387. Johnny Chuck Finds the Best Thing in the World 514
ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE
388. Mr. 'Possum's Sick Spell 516
DALLAS LORE SHARP
389. Wild Life in the Farm-Yard 520
VERNON L. KELLOGG
390. The Vendetta 524
SEWELL FORD
391. Pasha, the Son of Selim 527
"OUIDA" (LOUISA DE LA RAMÉE)
392. Moufflou 534
OLIVE THORNE MILLER
393. Bird Habits: I. Where He Sleeps II. His Travels 548
ERNEST THOMPSON SETON
394. The Poacher and the Silver Fox 551
DAVID STARR JORDAN
395. The Story of a Salmon 556
RUDYARD KIPLING
396. Moti Guj--Mutineer 562
CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS
397. Last Bull 566
SECTION X
ROMANCE CYCLES AND LEGEND
_Bibliography_ 576
_Introductory_ 577
From ARABIAN NIGHTS
398. Ali Baba, and the Forty Thieves 579
"FELIX SUMMERLEY"
Reynard the Fox
399. How Bruin the Bear Sped with Reynard the Fox 586
400. The Battle Between the Fox and the Wolf 591
SIR THOMAS MALORY
King Arthur and His Round Table
401. How Arthur Became King 594
402. A Tourney with the French 597
403. Adventures of Arthur 598
MAUDE RADFORD WARREN
404. Arthur and Sir Accalon 603
CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA, MIGUEL DE
405-411. Stories from _Don Quixote_
I. Dreams and Shadows 606
II. Preparing for the Quest 608
III. The Quest Begins 610
IV. The Knightly Vigil 613
V. On Honor's Field 615
VI. The Return Home 617
VII. The Battle with the Windmills 618
HORACE E. SCUDDER
412. The Proud King 620
EVA MARCH TAPPAN
413. Robin and the Merry Little Old Woman 623
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
414. Allen-a-Dale 628
SECTION XI
BIOGRAPHY AND HERO STORIES
_Bibliography_ 632
_Introductory_ 633
ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS
415. How Columbus Got His Ships 635
HORACE E. SCUDDER
416. The Boyhood of Washington 642
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
417. The Autobiography 645
HELEN NICOLAY
418. Lincoln's Early Days 655
ANNA HOWARD SHAW
419. In the Western Wilderness 662
CHARLOTTE M. YONGE
420. The Pass of Thermopylae 671
SECTION XII
HOME READING LIST AND GENERAL INDEX
Home Reading Lists by Grades 679
General Index 687
SECTION I
PREFACE AND GENERAL INTRODUCTION
SELECTED GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY
I. GENERAL COLLECTIONS OF CHILDREN'S LITERATURE
Tappan, Eva March, _The Children's Hour_. 10 vols.
Neilson, William Patten, and others, _The Junior Classics_.
10 vols.
Sylvester, Charles H., _Journeys through Bookland_. 10 vols.
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, and others, _The Young Folks' Library_.
30 vols.
Mabie, Hamilton Wright, _After School Library_. 12 vols.
Scudder, Horace E., _The Children's Book_. [Best single-volume
collection for early grades.]
Barnes, Walter, _Types of Children's Literature_.
II. HISTORICAL DEVELOPMENT
Darton, F. J. Harvey, "Children's Books," in _Cambridge History
of English Literature_, Vol. XI, chap. xvi. [Best brief account
of development in England. Elaborate bibliography.]
Tassin, Algernon, "Books for Children," in _Cambridge History of
American Literature_, Vol. II, chap. vii. [Best account of
American development. Extended bibliography.]
Field, Mrs. E. M., _The Child and His Book_. The history and
progress of children's literature in England. [Stops with
1826.]
Moses, Montrose J., _Children's Books and Reading_. [Deals
with both English and American side. Book-lists and
bibliographies.]
Ashton, John, _Chapbooks of the Eighteenth Century_.
Halsey, Rosalie V., _Forgotten Books of the American Nursery_.
Welsh, Charles, _A Bookseller of the Last Century_. [John
Newbery.]
"Godfrey, Elizabeth," _English Children in the Olden Time_.
Earle, Florence Morse, _Child Life in Colonial Days_.
III. GUIDES IN TEACHING
1. SPECIFIC PEDAGOGY
Barnes, Walter, _English in the Country School_.
Carpenter, G. R., Baker, F. T., and Scott, F. N., _The Teaching
of English_. [Pp. 155-187, "Literature in the Elementary
Schools," by Professor Baker.]
Chubb, Percival, _The Teaching of English_.
Cox, John Harrington, _Literature in the Common School_.
Barron, Julia S., Bacon, Corinne, and Dana, J. C., _Course of
Study for Normal School Pupils on Literature for Children_.
[A syllabus.]
Hosic, James Fleming, _The Elementary Course in English_.
MacClintock, Porter Lander, _Literature in the Elementary
School_.
McMurry, Charles A., _Special Method in Reading in the Grades_.
Welch, John S., _Literature in the School: Aims, Methods, and
Interpretations_.
2. MORE GENERAL AND INSPIRATIONAL
Bates, Arlo, _Talks on the Teaching of Literature_.
Bennett, Arnold, _Literary Taste and How to Form It_.
Colby, J. Rose, _Literature and Life in School_.
Kerfoot, J. B., _How to Read_.
Lee, Gerald Stanley, _The Child and the Book_.
Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, _On the Art of Reading_. [Children's
Literature.]
Scudder, Horace E., _Literature in the Schools_.
Smith, C. Alphonso, _What Can Literature Do for Me?_
Woodberry, George E., _The Appreciation of Literature_. _The
Heart of Man._
3. GUIDES TO BOOKS FOR CHILDREN
Arnold, Gertrude W., _A Mother's List of Books for Children_.
Field, Walter Taylor, _Fingerposts to Children's Reading_.
Hunt, Clara W., _What Shall We Read to the Children?_
Lowe, Orton, _Literature for Children_.
Macy, John, _A Child's Guide to Reading_.
Moore, Annie Carroll, _Roads to Childhood_.
Olcott, Frances Jenkins, _The Children's Reading_.
_One Thousand Good Books for Children._ [Classified and graded
list prepared by National Congress of Mothers' Literature
Committee, Alice M. Jordan, Chairman. Issued by U. S. Bureau
of Education, Washington, D. C., as Home Education Circular
No. 1.]
Stevens, David Harrison, _The Home Guide to Good Reading_.
IV. BOOKS ON STORY-TELLING
Allison, S. B., and Perdue, H. A., _The Story in Primary
Education_.
Bailey, Carolyn Sherman, _For the Story-Teller_.
Bryant, Sarah Cone, _How to Tell Stories to Children_. _Stories
to Tell to Children._ [Introduction.]
Cather, Katherine D., _Educating by Story-Telling_.
Cowles, Julia D., _The Art of Story-Telling_.
Cross, Allen, and Statler, Nellie M., _Story-Telling for Upper
Grades_.
Forbush, William B., _Manual of Stories_.
Horne, H. H., _Story-Telling, Questioning, and Studying_.
Keyes, Angela M., _Stories and Story-Telling_.
Kready, Laura F., _A Study of Fairy Tales_. [Chap. iii, "The
Telling of Fairy Tales."]
Lindsay, Maud, _The Story-Teller for Little Children_.
Lyman, Edna, _Story Telling: What to Tell and How to Tell It_.
McMurry, Charles A., _Special Method in Reading in the Grades_.
Moore, Annie C., Article "Story-Telling," _Cyclopedia of
Education_. [Ed. Monroe.]
Partridge, Emelyn N., and George E., _Story-Telling in the School
and Home_.
Shedlock, Marie L., _The Art of the Story-Teller_.
St. John, Edward Porter, _Stories and Story-Telling in Moral and
Religious Education_.
Wiltse, Sara E., _The Place of the Story in Early Education_.
Wyche, Richard Thomas, _Some Great Stories and How to Tell Them_.
V. ON DRAMATIZATION
Briggs, T. H., and Coffman, L. D., _Reading in Public Schools_.
[Chap. x, "Dramatic Reading," and chap. xxiii, "Dramatics."]
Curtis, Elnora W., _The Dramatic Instinct in Education_.
Finlay-Johnson, Harriet, _The Dramatic Method of Teaching_.
Gesell, Arnold L., and Beatrice C., _The Normal Child and Primary
Education_. [Chapter on "Dramatic Expression."]
Herts, Alice M., _The Children's Educational Theatre_.
Nixon, Lillian E., _Fairy Tales a Child Can Read and Act_.
VI. THE BIBLE AS LITERATURE FOR CHILDREN
Moulton, Richard Green, _A Short Introduction to the Literature
of the Bible_.
The simplest and best discussion for teachers
of the Bible as literature. The books that
follow are good sources for story material from
the Bible.
Baldwin, James, _Old Stories from the East_.
Hodges, George, _The Garden of Eden_. _The Castle of Zion._ _When
the King Came._
Houghton, Louise Seymour, _Telling Bible Stories_.
Moulton, Richard Green, _Bible Stories: Old Testament_. _Bible
Stories: New Testament._ [Two volumes of _The Modern Reader's
Bible for Children_. The only variations from the text are by
omissions.]
Olcott, Frances Jenkins, _Bible Stories to Read and Tell_.
Smith, Nora Archibald, _Old, Old Tales from the Old, Old Book_.
Stewart, Mary, "_Tell Me a True Story_."
VII. SOME INTERPRETATIONS OF CHILDHOOD
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, _The Story of a Bad Boy_.
Du Bois, Patterson, _Beckonings from Little Hands_.
Gilson, Roy Rolfe, _In the Morning Glow_.
Grahame, Kenneth, _Dream Days_. _The Golden Age_.
Howells, William Dean, _A Boy's Town_.
Kelly, Myra, _Little Citizens_.
Larcom, Lucy, _A New England Girlhood_.
Loti, Pierre, _The Story of a Child_.
Martin, George Madden, _Emmy Lou, Her Book and Heart_.
Masters, Edgar Lee, _Mitch Miller_.
Pater, Walter, _The Child in the House_.
Shute, Henry A., _The Real Diary of a Real Boy_.
Smith, William Hawley, _The Evolution of Dodd_.
Stuart, Ruth McEnery, _Sonny_.
Walpole, Hugh, _Jeremy_.
Warner, Charles Dudley, _On Being a Boy_.
White, William Allen, _The Court of Boyville_.
VIII. SOCIAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL BACKGROUND
Addams, Jane, _Youth and Our City Streets_.
Adler, Felix, _The Moral Instruction of Children_.
Antin, Mary, _The Promised Land_.
Cabot, Ella Lyman, _The Seven Ages of Childhood_.
Dawson, George E., _The Child and His Religion_.
Engleman, J. O., _Moral Education_.
Griggs, Edward Howard, _Moral Education_.
Hall, G. Stanley, _Youth_.
Henderson, C. Hanford, _Education and the Larger Life_.
Hoyt, Franklin Chase, _Quicksands of Youth_.
Oppenheim, Nathan, _The Development of the Child_.
Puffer, J. Adams, _The Boy and His Gang_.
CHILDREN'S LITERATURE
SECTION I. PREFACE AND GENERAL INTRODUCTION
THE PREFACE
This book is primarily a handbook for teachers in the grades and for
students preparing to teach in the grades. Although it does not ignore
problems of grading and presentation, the chief purpose is to acquaint
teachers and prospective teachers with standard literature of the
various kinds suitable for use in the classroom and to give them
information regarding books and authors to aid them in directing the
selection of books by and for children.
In discussing the early training of children in literature with large
classes of young people preparing for teaching in the grades, the
compilers found themselves face to face with two difficulties. In the
first place, only a limited number of these prospective teachers were in
any real sense acquainted with what may be called the basic traditional
material. Rhymes, fables, myths, stories were so vaguely and
indistinctly held in mind that they were practically of no great value.
It was therefore not possible to assume much real acquaintance with the
material needed for use with children, and the securing of such an
acquaintance seemed the first essential. After all is said, a discussion
of ways and means must follow such a mastery of basic material.
In the second place, there was the difficulty of finding in any compact
form a body of material sufficient in extent and wide enough in its
range to serve as a satisfactory basis for such a course. No doubt the
ideal way would be to send the student to the many authoritative volumes
covering the various fields dealt with in this collection. But with
large classes and a limited amount of time such a plan was hardly
practicable. The young teacher cannot be much of a specialist in any of
the various fields of knowledge with the elements of which he is
expected to acquaint children. The principles of economy demand that the
brief courses which specifically prepare for teaching should be such as
will make the work in the schoolroom most helpful and least wasteful
from the very beginning. Hence this attempt to collect in one volume
what may somewhat roughly be spoken of as material for a minimum basic
course in Children's Literature.
The important thing about this book, then, is the actual literary
material included in it. The notes and suggestions scattered throughout
are aimed to direct attention to this material either in the way of
pointing out the sources of it, or helping in the understanding and
appreciation of it, or suggesting some ways of presenting it most
effectively to children.
In the case of folk material, an effort has been made to present
reliable versions of the stories used. Many of the folk stories, for
instance, appear in dozens of collections and in dozens of forms,
according to the artistic or pedagogic biases of the various compilers.
As a rule the most accessible stories are found in versions written
down to the supposed needs of children, and intended to be read by the
children themselves. Even if we grant the teacher the right to make
extensive modifications, it is still reasonable to insist that some
correct traditional form be used as the starting point. Such a plan
insures a mastery of one's material. The sources of the versions used in
this text are pointed out in order that teachers who wish to do so may
extend their acquaintance to other folk material by referring to the
various collections mentioned.
Such a book as this must necessarily be selective. No doubt omissions
will be noted of poems or stories that many teachers deem indispensable.
Others will find selections included that to their minds are
questionable. The editors can only plead in extenuation that they have
included what they have found by experience to offer a sound basis for
discussing with training classes the nature of this basic material and
the form in which it should be presented to children. To accomplish
these ends it has sometimes seemed well to give parallel versions, and
occasionally to give a version that will necessitate the discussion of
such subjects as the use of dialect, the inclusion of items of terror or
horror, and the soundness of the ethical appeal. These various problems
are indicated in the notes accompanying individual selections.
The editorial apparatus does not constitute a treatise on literary
criticism, or a manual of mythology or folklore, or a "pedagogy" of
children's literature as such, or anything like an exhaustive
bibliography of the fields of study touched upon. It aims at the very
modest purpose of immediate and practical utility. It hopes to fill a
place as a sort of first aid for the inexperienced teacher, and as soon
as the teacher gets some real grasp of the elements of the problem this
book must yield to the more elaborate and well-knit discussions of
specialists in the various subjects treated. The bibliographical
references throughout are intended to offer help in this forward step.
These bibliographies are, in all cases, frankly selective. As a rule
most of the books mentioned are books now in print. In the
bibliographies connected with the sections of traditional material some
of the more important works in the field of scholarship are named in
each case for the benefit of those who may be working where such books
are available in institutional or public libraries. Titles of books are
printed in italics, while titles of poems, separate stories, and
selections are printed in roman type inclosed in quotation marks.
The grouping of material is in no sense a hard and fast one. Those who
work in literary fields understand the pitfalls that beset one who
attempts such a classification. Only a general grouping under headings
used in the ordinary popular sense has been made. Fine distinctions are
beside the mark in such a book as this. Popular literature was not made
for classification, but for higher purposes, and anything that draws
attention from the pleasure-giving and spirit-invigorating qualities of
the literature itself should be avoided. Hence, the classifications
adopted are as simple and unobtrusive as possible.
Finally, the editors make no pretense to original scholarship. They have
not attempted to extend the limits of human knowledge, but to point out
pleasant paths leading to the limitless domains of literature. They have
tried to reflect accurately the best practices and theories, or to point
out how teachers may get at the best. Their obligations to others are
too extended to be noted in a preface, but will be apparent on every
page of the text. Their most important lessons have come from the
reactions secured from hundreds of teachers who have been under their
tuition.
Copyright obligations are indicated in connection with the selections
used.
GENERAL INTRODUCTION
1. LITERATURE FOR CHILDREN
_The beginnings._ During the eighteenth century the peoples of Europe
and America turned their attention in a remarkable way to a
consideration of the worth and rights of the individual. In America this
so-called democratic movement culminated in the Declaration of
Independence in 1776. The most dramatic manifestation of the movement in
Europe was the French Revolution of 1789, but every country of Europe
was thrilled and changed by the new thought. Every important democratic
movement leads to an awakened interest in the welfare of children, for
they are among the weak and helpless. This great movement of the
eighteenth century brought such a remarkable change of thought regarding
children as to mark the beginning of a new kind of literature, known as
literature for children.
Today we think of Andersen, Stevenson, Mrs. Ewing, and scores of others
as writers of literature for children. Such writers did not exist before
the democratic movement of the eighteenth century. It is true that a few
short books and articles had been written for children as early as the
fifteenth century, but they were written to teach children to be
obedient and respectful to parents and masters or to instruct them in
the customs of the church--they were not written primarily to entertain
children and give them pleasure. Within the last century and a half,
too, many authors have collected and retold for children innumerable
traditional stories from all parts of the earth--traditional fairy
stories, romantic stories of the Middle Ages, legends, and myths.
_The child's inheritance._ As has been indicated, children's literature
is of two kinds: first, the traditional kind that grew up among the folk
of long ago in the forms of rhyme, myth, fairy tale, fable, legend, and
romantic hero story; and, second, the kind that has been produced in
modern times by individual authors. The first, the traditional kind, was
produced by early civilization and by the childlike peasantry of long
ago. The best of the stories produced by the childhood of the race have
been bequeathed to the children of today, and to deprive children of the
pleasure they would get from this inheritance of folklore seems as
unjust as to deprive them of traditional games, which also help to make
the first years of a person's life, the period of childhood, the period
of imaginative play. The second kind of children's literature, that
produced in modern times by individual authors, has likewise been
bequeathed to children. Some of it is so new that its worth has not been
determined, but some of it has passed the test of the classics. The best
of both kinds is as priceless as is the classical literature for adults.
The world would not sell Shakespeare; yet one may well doubt that
Shakespeare is worth as much to humanity as is Mother Goose. To evaluate
truly the worth of such classics is impossible; but we may be assured
that the child who has learned to appreciate the pleasures and the
beauties of Mother Goose is the one most likely to appreciate the
pleasures and the beauties of Shakespeare when the proper time comes.
The true purpose of education is to bring the child into his
inheritance. For many years educators have talked about the use of
literature _in_ the grades as one means of accomplishing this purpose.
The results of attempts to teach literature in the grades have sometimes
been disappointing because often the literature used has not been _for_
the grades; that is, it has not been children's literature. In other
cases the attempts have failed because the literature has not been
presented as literature--it has, for example, been presented as reading
lessons or composition assignments. Students preparing to teach in the
grades have been studying textbooks from which literature for children
has been excluded, regardless of its artistic worth. Consequently many
teachers have not been prepared to teach literature in the grades. Often
they have assumed that the reading lesson would develop in the pupil an
appreciation of good literature, not realizing that the reading lesson
may cause pupils to dislike literature, especially poetry, unless it is
supplemented by appropriate work in children's literature. If the
student reads thoughtfully the literary selections in the following
sections of this book, he probably will realize that children's
literature is also literature for adults, and that it is not only the
child's inheritance, but also the inheritance of humanity.
The fact that literature for children is likely to have a strong
interest for adults is strikingly suggested in a few sentences in John
Macy's _A Child's Guide to Reading_:
When "juveniles" are really good, parents read
them after children have gone to bed. I do not
know whether _Tom Brown at Rugby_ is catalogued
by the careful librarian as a book for boys,
but I am sure it is a book for men. I dare say
that a good many pairs of eyes that have passed
over the pages of Mr. John T. Trowbridge and
Elijah Kellogg and Louisa M. Alcott have been
old enough to wear spectacles. And if Mrs. Kate
Douglas Wiggin ever thought that in _Timothy's
Quest_ and _Rebecca_ she was writing books
especially for the young, adult readers have
long since claimed her for their own. I have
enjoyed Mr. A. S. Pier's tales of the boys at
St. Timothy's, though he planned them for
younger readers. We are told on good authority
that _St. Nicholas_ and _The Youth's Companion_
appear in households where there are no
children, and they give a considerable portion
of their space to serial stories written for
young people. Between good "juveniles" and good
books for grown persons there is not much
essential difference.
2. LITERATURE IN THE GRADES
_Reading and literature distinguished._ A country school-teacher once
abruptly stopped the routine of daily work and, standing beside her
desk, told the story of the maid who counted her chickens before they
were hatched. One of her pupils, who is now a man, remembers vividly how
the incident impressed him. Although he was in the second grade, that
was the first time he had known a teacher to stop regular school work to
tell a story. Immediately the teacher was transformed. She had been
merely a teacher, one of those respected, awe-inspiring creatures whose
business it is to make the school mill go; but the magic of her story
established the relation of friendship between teacher and pupil. She
was no longer merely a teacher. If the story had been read as a part of
the reading lesson, it would not have impressed the pupil greatly. It
was impressive because it was presented as literature.
A clear distinction should be made between reading and literature,
especially in the primary grades. In the work of the reading course the
pupil should take the lead, being guided by the teacher. If the pupil is
to progress, he must master the mechanics of reading--he must learn to
pronounce printed words and to get the meaning of printed sentences and
paragraphs. The course in reading requires patient work on the part of
the pupil, just as the course in arithmetic does, and the chief pleasure
that the primary pupil can derive from the work is a consciousness of
enlarged power and of success in accomplishing what is undertaken.
In the work with literature, however, the teacher should take the lead.
She should open to the pupils the magic treasure house of the world's
best story and song. The literature period of the day should be the
pupil's imaginative play period, bringing relief from the tension of
tired nerves. The teacher who makes the study of literature a mechanical
grind instead of a joyous exercise of imagination misses at least two of
her greatest opportunities as a teacher. First, by failing to cultivate
in her pupils an appreciation of good literature, she misses an
opportunity to make the lives of her pupils brighter and happier.
Second, by failing to realize that the person with a story and a song is
everybody's friend, she misses an opportunity to win the friendship,
admiration, and love of her pupils. The inexperienced teacher who is
well-nigh distracted in her efforts to guide forty restless, disorderly
pupils through the program of a day's work might charm half her troubles
away by the magic of a simple story or by the music and imagery of a
juvenile poem. Her story or poem would do more than remove the cause of
disorder by giving the pupils relaxation from nerve-straining work: it
would help to establish that first essential to all true success in
teaching--a relation of friendship between pupils and teacher.
_Culture through literature._ He was a wise educator who said, "The boy
who has access to good books and who has learned to make them his close
friends is beyond the power of evil." Literature in the grades, in
addition to furnishing intellectual recreation, should so cultivate in
the pupil the power of literary appreciation that he will make good
books his close friends. The child who has heard good music from infancy
is not likely to be attracted by popular ragtime. The boy who has been
trained in habits of courtesy, industry, and pure thinking in his home
life, and school life is not likely to find pleasure in the rudeness,
idleness, and vulgarity of the village poolroom. The pupil who is taught
to appreciate the beautiful, the true, and the good in standard
literature is not likely to find pleasure in reading the melodramatic
and sentimental trash that now has prominence of place and space in many
book stores and in some public libraries. It is the duty of the teacher,
and it should be her pleasure, to cultivate in her pupils such a taste
for good literature as will lead them to choose the good and reject the
bad, a taste that will insure for them the culture that good literature
gives.
_Selection of material._ In choosing selections of literary worth to
present to her pupils, the teacher should keep in mind the pupil's stage
of mental development and she should not forget that the study of
literature should give pleasure. Often pupils do not like what moral
writers think they should like, and usually the pupils are right. Good
literature is sincere and is true in its appeal to the fundamental
emotions of humanity, and an obvious attempt to teach a moral theory at
the expense of truth is no more to be tolerated in literature for
children than in literature for adults. The childhood of the race has
produced much literature with a true appeal to the human heart, in the
form of fable, fairy story, myth, and hero story. Most of this
literature appeals strongly to the child of today. For several hundred
years the nursery rhymes of "Mother Goose" have delighted children with
their melody, humor, and imagery. As literature for the kindergarten and
first grade, they have not often been excelled by modern writers. The
task of selecting suitable material from the many poems, stories, and
books written for children in recent years is difficult, but if the
teacher has a keen appreciation of good literature and is guided by the
likes and dislikes of her pupils, she probably will not go far astray.
_Supplemental reading._ If the teacher examines the juvenile books
offered for sale by the book dealers of her town or city, she probably
will discover that most of them are trash not fit to be read by anyone,
and she will realize the importance of directing parents in the
selection of gift books for children. A good way to get better books
into the book stores and into the hands of children is to give the
pupils a list of good books, with the suggestion that they ask their
parents to buy one of them the next time a book is to be bought as a
present. Such lists of books also will improve the standard of books in
the town library, for librarians will be quick to realize the importance
of supplying standard literature if there is a demand for it.
3. STORY-TELLING AND DRAMATIZATION
_Story-telling._ Most stories are much more effective when well told
than they are when read, just as most lectures and sermons are most
effective when delivered without manuscript. To explain just why the
story well told is superior to the story read might not be easy, but
much of the superiority probably comes from the freedom of the "talk
style" and the more appropriate use of inflection and emphasis. Then,
too, the story-teller can look at her audience and is free to add a
descriptive word or phrase occasionally to produce vividness of
impression. Some stories, of course, are so constructed that they must
follow closely the diction of the original form. "Henny-Penny" and
Kipling's _Just-So Stories_ are of this type. Such stories should be
read. Most stories, however, are most effective when well told. The
teacher, especially the teacher of one of the primary grades, should not
consider herself prepared to teach literature until she has gained
something of the art of story-telling.
_Selection of stories._ Never attempt to tell a story that you do not
like. You are not prepared to interest pupils in a story, however
appropriate it otherwise may be, if you are not interested in it
yourself. Try to choose stories adapted in structure and content to the
age and experience of the children of your grade. For the first or
second grade, choose a few simple fables, a few short, simple fairy
tales, and a few short, simple nature stories, such as "Peter Rabbit,"
"How Johnny Chuck Finds the Best Thing in the World," and "Mr. 'Possum's
Sick Spell." Remember that a story for the first or second grade should
be short.
_Two principles._ Learn to apply readily the following principles of
method: First, use the past tense in telling a story except in direct
quotation. The rules of grammar require this, and it is an aid to
clearness and effectiveness. For example, do not say, "So he goes" or
"Then he says"; but say, "So he went" or "Then he said" (or, for
variety, _replied_, _growled_, _mumbled_, etc.). Second, use direct
discourse (the exact words of the characters) rather than indirect
discourse. For example, do not say, "The Troll asked who was tripping
over his bridge"; but say, "'WHO'S THAT tripping over my bridge?' roared
the Troll." Direct discourse always gives life and vividness to a story.
_Preparation and presentation._ When you have selected a suitable story,
read it carefully several times to learn the essential details and the
order in which they should come. Keep in mind the fact that you are to
use the past tense and direct discourse. If the story is a fable, you
probably will see that you should add much conversation and description
not in the text. A little description of the witch, giant, fairy, or
castle may give vividness to your story. If the story is a long fairy
tale, you may see that many details may be omitted. If the story is as
concise and dramatic as is the version of "The Three Billy-Goats Gruff"
in this book, it may be suitable for presentation without any changes.
When you have the story clearly in mind as you wish to present it, tell
it to the pupils several times, and then have some of them tell it.
Your story, of course, should not be told in a lifeless monotone. Some
parts should be told slowly, and others rapidly. In some parts the voice
should be low and soft, while in other parts it should be loud and gruff
or harsh. The words of the princess should not sound like those of the
old witch or the soldier. The daintiness and grace of elves and fairies
should be indicated in the delivery.
_Corroborative opinion._ The many books on the art of story-telling by
skilled practitioners and the emphasis placed upon the great practical
value of story-telling by all those charged with the oversight of the
education of children show conclusively that the story method in
teaching is having its grand renascence. The English education minister,
Mr. H. A. L. Fisher, speaking recently on the subject of "History
Teaching," set forth admirably the general principles back of this
revival:
There is no difficulty about interesting
children. The real difficulty is to bore them.
Almost any tale will interest a child. It need
not be well constructed or thrilling; it may be
filled with the most unexciting and trivial
incidents, but so long as it carries the mind
along at all, it will interest a child. The
hunger which intelligent children have for
stories is almost inexhaustible. They like to
have their stories repeated, and insist that
the characters should reappear over and over
again, for they have an appetite for reality
and a desire to fix these passing figments into
the landscape of the real life with which they
are surrounded.
One of the great qualities in childhood which
makes it apt for receiving historical
impressions is just this capacity for giving
body to the phantoms of the mind. The limits
between the real and the legendary or
miraculous which are drawn by the critical
intelligence do not exist for the childish
mind. . . . It would then be a great educational
disaster if this valuable faculty in childhood
were allowed to run to waste. There are certain
years in the development of every normal
intelligent child when the mind is full of
image-making power and eager to make a friend
or enemy of any god, hero, nymph, fairy, or
servant maid who may come along. Then is the
time when it is right and fitting to affect
some introductions to the great characters of
mythology and history; that is the age at which
children will eagerly absorb what they can
learn of Achilles and Orpheus, of King Arthur
and his Knights, of Alexander and Christopher
Columbus and the Duke of Wellington. I do not
think it is necessary to obtrude any moralizing
commentary when these great and vague images
are first brought into the landscape of the
child's intellectual experience. A little
description, a few stories, a picture or two,
will be enough to fix them in the memory and to
give them body and shape together with the
fairies and witches and pirate kings and
buccaneering captains with whom we have all at
one time been on such familiar terms. Let us
then begin by teaching the past to small
children by way of stories and pictures.
_Dramatization._ The play spirit that leads children to play lady,
doctor, church, and school will also lead them to enjoy dramatizing
stories, or "playing the stories," as they call it. Some stories, of
course, are so lacking in action as to be not well suited for
dramatization, and others have details of action, character, or
situation that may not well be represented in the schoolroom. The
teacher may be surprised, however, to see how ingenious her pupils are
in overcoming difficulties after they have had a little assistance in
playing two or three stories. Unconsciously the pupil will get from the
dramatization a training in oral English, reading, and literary
appreciation that can hardly be gained in any other way.
When the pupils have learned a story thoroughly, they are ready to make
plans for playing it. The stage setting may be considered first, and
here the child's imagination can work wonders in arranging details. The
opening under the teacher's desk may become a dungeon, a cave, a cellar,
or a well. If a two-story house is needed, it may be outlined on the
floor in the front part of the schoolroom, with a chalk-mark stairway,
up which Goldilocks can walk to lie down on three coats--the three beds
in the bed-chamber of the three bears.
The pupils can probably soon decide what characters are necessary, but
more time may be required to assign the parts. To play the part of a
spider, bear, wolf, fairy, sheep, or butterfly does not seem difficult
to a child who has entered into the spirit of the play.
The most difficult part of dramatization may be the plan for
conversation, especially if the text version of the story contains
little or no direct discourse. The pupils should know the general nature
of the conversation and action before they begin to play the story,
although they need not memorize the parts. Suppose that the fable "The
Shepherd's Boy" is to be dramatized. The first part of the dramatization
might be described about as follows:
The shepherd boy, tending his flock of
pupil-sheep in the pasture land at one side of
the teacher's-desk-mountain, looked toward the
pupil-desk-village at one side of the room and
said quietly, "It certainly is lonely here. I
believe I'll make those villagers think a wolf
has come to eat the sheep. Then perhaps they'll
come down here, and I'll have a little company
and some excitement." Then he jumped around
frantically, waving his yardstick-shepherd's
crook, and shouted to the villagers, "Wolf!
Wolf!"
The villagers came rushing down to the pasture
land, asking excitedly, "Where's the wolf? Has
he killed many of the sheep?"
"Oh, oh, oh," laughed the boy, "there wasn't
any wolf. I certainly did fool you that time."
"I don't think that's very funny," said one of
the villagers.
"Well, we might as well go back to our work,"
said another. Then they went back to the
village.
After they had gone, the boy said, "I guess
I'll try that joke again."
If the teacher puts much direct discourse in a story of this kind when
she tells it to the pupils, the task of dramatizing will naturally be
made easier.
Some stories lend themselves in the most natural manner to
dramatization. An interesting example of such a story may be found among
the tales dealing with the Wise Men of Gotham. These Wise Men are
referred to in one of the best known of the Mother Goose rhymes. It
would seem that the inhabitants of Gotham, in the reign of King John,
had some reason of their own for pretending to be mad, and out of this
event the legends took their rise. The number of fishermen may be
changed to seven or some other number to suit the number in the acting
group. Here is the story:
On a certain time there were twelve men of
Gotham that went to fish, and some stood on dry
land. And in going home, one said to the other
"We have ventured wonderfully in wading. I pray
God that none of us come home to be drowned."
"Nay, marry," said the other, "let us see that,
for there did twelve of us come out." Then they
counted themselves, and every one counted
eleven. Said the one to the other, "There is
one of us drowned." They went back to the brook
where they had been fishing and sought up and
down for him that was drowned, making great
lamentation.
A stranger coming by asked what it was they
sought for, and why they were sorrowful. "Oh!"
said they, "this day we went to fish in the
brook; twelve of us came together, and one is
drowned." Said the stranger, "Tell how many
there be of you." One of them, counting, said,
"Eleven," and again he did not count himself.
"Well," said the stranger, "what will you give
me if I find the twelfth man?" "Sir," said
they, "all the money we have got." "Give me the
money," said the stranger, and began with the
first, and gave him a stroke over the shoulders
with his whip, which made him groan, saying,
"Here is one," and so he served them all, and
they all groaned at the matter. When he came to
the last he paid him well, saying, "Here is the
twelfth man." "God's blessing on thy heart,"
said they, "for thus finding our dear brother."
4. COURSES OF STUDY
As an aid to inexperienced teachers, it seems well to suggest in a
summary how a selection of material suitable for each grade might be
made from the material of this book. The summary, however, should be
regarded as suggestive in a general way only. No detailed outline of a
course of study in literature for the grades can be ideal for all
schools because the pupils of a given grade in one school may be much
more advanced in the knowledge of literature and the ability to
understand and appreciate it than are the pupils of the same grade in
another school. Many literary selections, too, might appropriately be
taught in almost any grade if the method of presentation in each case
were suited to the understanding of the pupils. _Robinson Crusoe_, for
example, may appropriately be told to second-grade pupils, or it may be
read by fourth- or fifth-grade pupils, or it may be studied as fiction
by eighth-grade pupils or university students. All poems of remarkable
excellence that are suitable for primary pupils are also suitable for
pupils in the higher grades and for adults, and the same is true of many
prose selections.
The summary that follows, then, is to be regarded as "first aid" to the
untrained, inexperienced teacher. The teacher's own personal likes and
dislikes and her success in presenting various literary selections
should eventually lead her to modify any prescribed course of study. If
a teacher of the sixth grade discovers that her pupils should rank only
second grade in knowledge and appreciation of literature, she may very
properly begin with traditional fairy tales. Another outlined course of
study is given in Section XII of this book.
_First, second, and third grades._ Since pupils in the primary grades
read with difficulty if at all, the teacher should tell or read all
selections presented as literature in these grades.
No kind of prose is better suited for use in the primary grades than
traditional fairy tales. About half a dozen might well be presented in
each of the three grades. For the first grade, the simplest should be
chosen, such as "The Old Woman and Her Pig," "Teeny-Tiny," "The Cat and
the Mouse," "The Three Pigs," "The Three Bears," and "The Elves and the
Shoemaker." As suitable stories for the second grade, we might choose
"The Three Sillies," "Little Red Riding-Hood," "Cinderella," "The Three
Billy-Goats Gruff," "The Straw Ox," and "The Horned Women." For the
third grade, somewhat longer and more complex stories might be chosen.
About half a dozen fables might also be used appropriately in each of
the primary grades. Simple Aesopic fables in prose seem best for the
first two grades. More complex forms might be chosen for the third
grade, for example, "The Story of Alnaschar," "The Good Samaritan," "The
Discontented Pendulum," "The Musical Ass," "The Swan, the Pike, and the
Crab," and "The Hen with the Golden Eggs."
Much of the nature literature of the primary grades may be in the form
of verse, but some simple nature prose may be used successfully. From
the selections in this book, "Peter Rabbit" should be chosen for the
first grade, while "Johnny Chuck," and "Mr. 'Possum's Sick Spell" are
appropriate for the second and third grades.
The simplest of Andersen's _Fairy Tales_ may be used in the third grade,
and perhaps in the second. Some suitable stories are "The Real
Princess," "The Fir Tree," "The Tinder Box," "The Hardy Tin Soldier,"
and "The Ugly Duckling."
The ideal verse for the first grade is nursery rhymes, which may be
chosen from the first 135 selections of this book. These may be
supplemented by such simple verse as "The Three Kittens," "The Moon,"
"Ding Dong," "The Little Kitty," "Baby Bye," "Time to Rise," "Rain," "I
Like Little Pussy," and "The Star." In the second and third grades,
traditional verses from those following Number 135 in Section II may be
used. The poems by Stevenson are ideal for these grades, and those by
Field, Sherman, and Christina Rossetti are good. In addition the teacher
might select such poems as "The Brown Thrush," and "Who Stole the Bird's
Nest."
_Fourth, fifth, and sixth grades._ Although pupils in these intermediate
grades may be expected to read some library books, the teacher should
read and tell stories frequently, for this is the surest way to develop
in the pupil a taste for good literature. The teacher should remember,
too, that the story she recommends to the pupils as suitable reading
should be about two grades easier than those told or read by the
teacher. Probably every poem presented as literature in these grades
should be read or recited by the teacher because pupils are not likely
to get the charm of rhythm, melody, and rhyme if they do the reading.
Pupils who dislike poetry are pupils who have not heard good poetry well
read.
Myths are appropriate for each of the intermediate grades. Most teachers
prefer for the fourth grade the simpler classical myths, such as "A
Story of Springtime," "The Miraculous Pitcher," "The Narcissus," and
"The Apple of Discord." In the fifth grade, the teacher may use the more
difficult classical myths, reserving the Norse myths for the sixth
grade.
Modern fairy and fantastic stories are also appropriate for each of
these grades. Suitable stories for the fourth grade are "The Four-Leaved
Clover," "The Emperor's New Clothes," "The Nightingale," and "The Story
of Fairyfoot." Stories appropriate for the fifth grade are "The Happy
Prince," "The Knights of the Silver Shield," and "The Prince's Dream."
In the sixth grade, the teacher might use "Old Pipes and the Dryad" and
"The King of the Golden River."
Two or three symbolic stories or fables in verse from the last part of
Section V should be used in each of these grades.
Nature prose should appeal more and more to children as they advance
from the fourth to the eighth grade. Many pupils in the fourth grade
will enjoy reading for themselves books by Burgess and Paine, while
fifth- and sixth-grade pupils will get much pleasure from the simpler
books by Sharp, Seton, Long, Miller, and Roberts. In the intermediate
grades, the teacher may read such stories as "Wild Life in the Farm
Yard," "The Vendetta," "Pasha," "Moufflou," and "Bird Habits."
Stories of various other kinds may be read by the teacher in the
intermediate grades. "Goody Two-Shoes" and "Waste Not, Want Not," are
suitable for the fourth grade. The biographies "How Columbus Got His
Ships" and "Boyhood of Washington" are excellent in the fifth or sixth
grade as an introduction to history study, and the romance "Robin Hood
and the Merry Little Old Woman" may be used appropriately in any of
these grades, especially if it is made to supplement a discussion of the
Norman conquest.
Most of the poems up to about No. 342, and a few beyond that, are within
the range of the work for these grades.
_Seventh and eighth grades._ Although pupils in the seventh and eighth
grades may be expected to read simple narrative readily, the teacher
should read to the pupils frequently. It cannot be too much emphasized
that reading aloud to children is the surest way of developing an
appreciation of the best in literature. In poetry especially this is a
somewhat critical time, as the pupil is passing from the simpler and
more concrete verse to that which has a more prominent thought content.
The persuasion of the reading voice smooths over many obstacles here.
Outside the field of poetry, the teacher's work in these grades is
mainly one of guidance and direction in getting the children and the
right books in contact. Children at this period are likely to be
omnivorous readers, ready for any book that comes their way, and the job
of keeping them supplied with titles of enough available good books for
their needs is indeed one to tax all a teacher's knowledge and
experience.
The demand for highly sensational stories on the part of pupils in the
upper grades is so insistent that it constitutes a special problem for
the teacher. It is a perfectly natural demand, and no wise teacher will
attempt to stifle it. Such an attempt would almost certainly result in a
more or less surreptitious reading of a mass of unwholesome books which
have come to be known as "dime novels." Instead of trying to thwart this
desire for the thrilling story the teacher should be ready to recommend
books which have all the attractive adventure features of the "dime
novel," and which have in addition sound artistic and ethical qualities.
While many such books are mentioned in the bibliographies in the latter
part of this text, it has seemed well to bring together here a short
list of those which librarians over the country have found particularly
fitted to serve as substitutes for the dime novel.
Alden, W. L., _The Moral Pirate_.
Altsheler, Joseph A., _The Young Trailers_. _Horsemen of the
Plains._
Barbour, Ralph H., _The Crimson Sweater_.
Bennett, John, _The Treasure of Peyre Gaillard_.
Burton, Charles P., _The Boys of Bob's Hill_.
Carruth, Hayden, _Track's End_.
Cody, William F., _Adventures of Buffalo Bill_.
Drysdale, William, _The Fast Mail_.
Grinnell, George Bird, _Jack among the Indians_. _Jack, the
Young Ranchman._
Hunting, Henry G., _The Cave of the Bottomless Pool_.
Janvier, Thomas A., _The Aztec Treasure House_.
Kaler, James Otis, _Toby Tyler, or Ten Weeks with a Circus_.
London, Jack, _The Call of the Wild_.
Malone, Captain P. B., _Winning His Way to West Point_.
Masefield, John, _Jim Davis_.
Mason, Alfred B., _Tom Strong, Washington's Scout_.
Matthews, Brander, _Tom Paulding_.
Moffett, Cleveland, _Careers of Danger and Daring_.
Munroe, Kirk, _Cab and Caboose_. _Derrick Sterling._
O'Higgins, Harvey J., _The Smoke Eaters_.
Quirk, Leslie W., _The Boy Scouts of the Black Eagle Patrol_.
Sabin, Edwin L., _Bar B Boys_.
Schultz, James Willard, _With the Indians in the Rockies_.
Stevenson, Burton E., _The Young Train Despatcher_.
Stevenson, Robert Louis, _Treasure Island_.
Stoddard, William O., _Two Arrows_. _Talking Leaves._
Trowbridge, John T., _Cudjo's Cave_. _The Young Surveyor._
Verne, Jules, _20,000 Leagues under the Sea_.
Wallace, Dillon, _Wilderness Castaways_.
White, Stewart Edward, _The Magic Forest_.
SECTION II
MOTHER GOOSE JINGLES AND NURSERY RHYMES
BIBLIOGRAPHY
I. IMPORTANT IN TRACING THE MOTHER GOOSE CANON
c. 1760. _Mother Goose's Melody._ [Published by
John Newbery, London.]
No copy of this issue known to be in existence.
c. 1783. Ritson, Joseph, _Gammer Gurton's Garland, or the Nursery
Parnassus_. [1810, enlarged.]
c. 1785. _Mother Goose's Melody._ [Reprint of Newbery, by Isaiah Thomas,
Worcester, Mass.]
[1889. Whitmore, W. H., _The Original Mother
Goose's Melody_, as first issued by John
Newbery, of London, about A.D. 1760. Reproduced
in _facsimile_ from the edition as reprinted by
Isaiah Thomas, of Worcester, Mass., about A.D.
1785. With introduction and notes.]
1824 ff. _Mother Goose's Quarto, or Melodies Complete._ [Various issues
by Munroe and Francis, Boston.]
[Hale, Edward Everett, _The Only True Mother
Goose Melodies_. Exact reproduction of the text
and illustrations of the original edition
(_Mother Goose's Melodies: The Only Pure
Edition_) printed in Boston in 1834 by Monroe
and Francis. With an introduction.]
1826. Chambers, Robert, _Popular Rhymes of Scotland_. [1870, enlarged.]
1834. Ker, John Bellenden, _An Essay on the Archaeology of Popular
English Phrases and Nursery Rhymes_. [Supplemented 1840 and 1842.]
1842. Halliwell (Phillips), J. O., _The Nursery Rhymes of England_.
1849. Halliwell (Phillips), J. O., _Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales_.
1864. Rimbault, Edward F., _Old Nursery Rhymes with Tunes_.
II. IMPORTANT MODERN COLLECTIONS
Baring-Gould, Sabine, _A Book of Nursery Songs and Rhymes_.
Headland, I. T., _Chinese Mother Goose Rhymes_.
Jerrold, Walter, _The Big Book of Nursery Rhymes_.
Lang, Andrew, _The Nursery Rhyme Book_.
Newell, W. W., _Games and Songs of American Children_.
Saintsbury, G. E. B., _National Rhymes of the Nursery_.
Welsh, Charles, _A Book of Nursery Rhymes_.
Wheeler, William A., _Mother Goose's Melodies_.
III. NURSERY RHYMES WITH MUSIC
Crane, Walter, _The Baby's Bouquet, a Fresh Bunch of Old Rhymes
and Tunes_.
Homer, Sidney, _Songs from Mother Goose_.
Le Mair, H. Willebeck, _Our Old Nursery Rhymes_.
Le Mair, H. Willebeck, _Little Songs of Long Ago_.
Perkins, Raymond, _Thirty Old-Time Nursery Songs_.
IV. STUDIES
Bolton, H. C., _Counting-out Rhymes of Children, Their Antiquity,
Origin, and Wide Distribution_.
Earle, Alice Morse, _Child Life in Colonial Days_. [Especially
chap. xiv.]
Eckenstein, Lina, _Comparative Studies in Nursery Rhymes_.
Godfrey, Elizabeth, _English Children in the Olden Time_.
[Especially chap. ii.]
Gomme, A. B., _The Traditional Games of England, Scotland, and
Ireland_. 2 vols.
Green, P. B., _The History of Nursery Rhymes_.
Halsey, Rosalie V., _Forgotten Books of the American Nursery_.
Field, W. T., _Fingerposts to Children's Reading_, pp. 193 ff.
Moses, M. J., _Children's Books and Reading_, pp. 40 ff.
SECTION II. MOTHER GOOSE JINGLES AND NURSERY RHYMES
INTRODUCTORY
_A flawless literature._ The one literature that is supremely adapted to
its purpose is the collection of rhymes associated with Mother Goose. To
every child it comes with an irresistible appeal. It has a power so
natural and fundamental that it defies explanation. The child takes it
for granted just as he does his parents. It has a perfection of rhythm
and structure not attainable by modern imitators. It has been perfected
through the generations by the surest of all tests, that of constant
popular use. Much of it is common to many different nations. It is an
international literature of childhood. While much of it is known to
children long before they enter school, these jingles, like all folk
literature, never lose their charm through repetition. The schools have
long since learned the value of the familiar in teaching. The process of
learning to read is usually based on some of the better known rhymes.
Teachers of literature in more advanced classes think they can generally
detect the students who have been especially "learned" in "Mother Goose
her ways" by their quick responsiveness to the facts of verbal rhythm
and rhythmical structure in more sophisticated products. "If we have no
love for poetry to-day, it may not impossibly be due to the fact that we
have ceased to prize the old, old tales which have been the delight of
the child and the child-man since the foundations of the world. If you
want your child to love Homer, do not withhold Mother Goose."
_Who was Mother Goose?_ The answer to this, as to other questions
suggested below, may be of no direct or special interest to the children
themselves. But teachers should know some of the main conclusions
arrived at by folklorists and others in their investigations of the
traditional materials used for basic work in literature. All the
evidence shows that Mother Goose as the name of the familiar old lady of
the nursery came to us from France. Andrew Lang discovered a reference
to her in a French poem of 1650, where she figures as a teller of
stories. In 1697 Perrault's famous fairy tales were published with a
frontispiece representing an old woman spinning, and telling tales to a
man, a girl, a little boy, and a cat. On this frontispiece was the
legend, _Tales of Our Mother Goose_. (See note to No. 161.)
As a teller of prose tales, Mother Goose came to England with the
translation of Perrault about 1730. We do not find her name connected
with verse until after the middle of the eighteenth century. About the
year 1760 a little book called _Mother Goose's Melody_ was issued by
John Newbery, a London publisher and a most important figure in the
history of the production of books for children. It is a pleasant and
not improbable theory that this first collection of nursery rhymes, upon
which later ones were built, was the work of Oliver Goldsmith, who was
for some years in Newbery's employ. However that may be, it is certain
that from this date the name of Mother Goose has been almost exclusively
associated with nursery rhymes.
Newbery's _Mother Goose's Melody_ was soon reprinted by Isaiah Thomas,
of Worcester, Massachusetts, and thus came into the hands of American
children early in our national life. A long-since exploded theory was
advanced about 1870 that Mother Goose was a real woman of Boston in the
early eighteenth century, whose rhymes were published by her son-in-law,
Thomas Fleet, in 1719. But no one has identified any such publication
and there is no evidence whatever that this old lady in cap and
spectacles is other than purely mythical.
_Whence came the jingles themselves?_ It is certain that many nursery
rhymes are both widespread geographically in distribution and of great
antiquity. Halliwell and others have found references to some of them in
old books which prove that many of the English rhymes go back several
centuries. They are of popular origin; that is, they took root
anonymously among the folk and were passed on by word of mouth. When a
rhyme can be traced to any known authority we generally find that the
folk have extracted what pleased, have forgotten or modified any
original historical or other application the rhymes may have possessed,
and in general have shaped the rhyme to popular taste. "Thus our old
nursery rhymes," says Andrew Lang, "are smooth stones from the book of
time, worn round by constant friction of tongues long silent. We cannot
hope to make new nursery rhymes, any more than we can write new fairy
tales."
Here are a few illustrations of what scholars have been able to tell us
of the sources of the rhymes: "Jack and Jill" preserves the Icelandic
myth of two children caught up into the moon, where they can still be
seen carrying a bucket on a pole between them. "Three Blind Mice" is
traced to an old book called _Deuteromalia_ (1609). "Little Jack Horner"
is all that is left of an extended chapbook story, _The Pleasant History
of Jack Horner, Containing His Witty Tricks_, etc. "Poor Old Robinson
Crusoe" is a fragment from a song by the character Jerry Sneak in
Foote's _Mayor of Garratt_ (1763). "Simple Simon" gives all that the
nursery has preserved of a long chapbook verse story. "A Swarm of Bees
in May" was found by Halliwell quoted in Miege's _Great French
Dictionary_ (1687). These and numerous like facts serve only to impress
us with the long and honorable history of the nursery rhyme.
_Can nursery rhymes be helpfully classified?_ This question seems of
more consequence to the teacher than the previous ones because it deals
with the practical organization of his material. The most superficial
observer can see that Nos. 3, 36, 46, 59, 62, and 113, on the following
pages, are riddles; that Nos. 22 and 30 are counting-out rhymes; that
Nos. 37, 38, 39, 40, and 41 are replies that might be made to one who
indulged unduly in suppositions; that No. 27 is a face game, No. 75 a
hand game, and No. 108 a toe game; that Nos. 42, 81, 82, 107, and 111
are riding songs; that Nos. 7, 10, 23, 67, and 137 are proverbial
sayings; that Nos. 64 and 89 are charms; and so one might continue with
groupings based on the immediate use made of the rhyme, not forgetting
the great number that lend themselves to the purposes of the crooned
lullaby or soothing song.
Halliwell made the first attempt at any complete classification in his
_Nursery Rhymes of England_ (1842), using eighteen headings: (1)
Historical, (2) Literal, (3) Tales, (4) Proverbs, (5) Scholastic, (6)
Songs, (7) Riddles, (8) Charms, (9) Gaffers and Gammers, (10) Games,
(11) Paradoxes, (12) Lullabies, (13) Jingles, (14) Love and Matrimony,
(15) Natural History, (16) Accumulative Stories, (17) Local, (18)
Relics. Andrew Lang follows Halliwell, but reduces the classes to
fourteen by combining (2) and (5), (7) and (11), (8) and (12), and by
omitting (17). These classifications are made from the standpoint of the
folklore scholar, and are based on the sources from which the rhymes
originally sprang. Professor Saintsbury scouts the value of any such
arrangement, since all belong equally in the one class, "jingles," and
he also rightly points out that "all genuine nursery rhymes . . . have
never become nursery rhymes until the historical fact has been
practically forgotten by those who used them, and nothing but the
metrical and musical attraction remains."
Without denying the great significance of popular rhymes to the student
of folklore, we must look elsewhere for any practical suggestion for the
teacher in the matter of arrangement. Such a suggestion will be found in
the late Charles Welsh's _Book of Nursery Rhymes_, a little volume that
every teacher interested in children's literature must make use of. The
rhymes are grouped into three main divisions: (1) Mother Play, (2)
Mother Stories, and (3) Child Play, with subordinate groupings under
each. About 250 rhymes are included in Welsh's collection, and the
arrangement suggests the best order for using them practically, without
dropping into any ironclad system.
It may be argued that any attempt at classification of material so
freely and variously used as the Mother Goose rhymes is sure to stiffen
the work of the class and render it less enjoyable. Spontaneity is more
vital here than at any other stage of one's literary education.
_What is the secret of the nursery rhyme's appeal to children?_ Here at
least we are face to face with what may be called a final fact, that
these jingles do make an appeal so universal and remarkable that any
attempt to explain it seems always to fall far short of completeness.
Perhaps the best start may be made with Mr. Welsh's suggestion that this
appeal is threefold: first, that which comes from the rhyming jingle, as
in "Higgledy, piggledy, my fat hen"; second, that which comes from the
nonsense surprises, as in "Hey diddle diddle," "Three wise men of
Gotham," and "I'll tell you a story"; third, that which comes from the
dramatic action, as in "Little Miss Muffet," and "Little Jack Horner."
This summary does not differ much from Mr. Walter Taylor Field's
conclusions: "The child takes little thought as to what _any_ of these
verses mean. There are perhaps four elements in them that appeal to
him,--first, the jingle, and with it that peculiar cadence which modern
writers of children's poetry strive in vain to imitate; second, the
nonsense,--with just enough of sense in it to connect the nonsense with
the child's thinkable world; third, the action,--for the stories are
quite dramatic in their way; and fourth, the quaintness." Mr. Field also
emphasizes the probable charm of mystery in the face of the unknown
facts beyond the child's horizon, which appear in many of the rhymes.
Other commentators do little beyond expanding some of these suggestions.
All of them agree in stressing the appeal made by rhythm, the jingle,
the emphatic meter. This seems a fundamental thing in all literature,
though readers are mainly conscious of it in poetry. Just how
fundamental it is in human life has not been better hinted than in a
sentence by Mrs. MacClintock: "One who is trying to write a sober
treatise in a matter-of-fact way dares not, lest he be set down as the
veriest mystic, say all the things that might be said about the
function of rhythm, especially in its more pronounced form of meter,
among a community of children, no matter what the size of the group--how
rhythmic motion, or the flow of measured and beautiful sounds,
harmonizes their differences, tunes them up to their tasks, disciplines
their conduct, comforts their hurts, quiets their nerves; all this apart
from the facts more or less important from the point of view of
literature, that it cultivates their ear, improves their taste, and
provides them a genuinely artistic pleasure."
Professor Saintsbury, as usual, adds a fascinating turn to the
discussion when, after agreeing that we may see in the rhymes, "to a
great extent, the poetical appeal of sound as opposed to that of meaning
in its simplest and most unmistakable terms," he continues: "And we
shall find something else, which I venture to call the attraction of the
inarticulate. . . . In moments of more intense and genuine feeling . . .
[man] does not as a rule use or at least confine himself to articulate
speech. . . . All children . . . fall naturally, long after they are able
to express themselves as it is called rationally, into a sort of pleasant
gibberish when they are alone and pleased or even displeased. . . . It must
be a not infrequent experience of most people that one frequently falls
into pure jingle and nonsense verse of the nursery kind. . . . I should
myself, though I may not carry many people with me, go farther than this
and say that this 'attraction of the inarticulate,' this allurement of
mere sound and sequence, has a great deal more to do than is generally
thought with the charm of the very highest poetry. . . . In the best
nursery rhymes, as in the simpler and more genuine ballads which have so
close a connection with them, we find this attraction of the
inarticulate--this charm of pure sound, this utilizing of alliteration
and rhyme and assonance." Those who have noticed the tendency of
children to find vocal pleasure even of a physical or muscular sort in
nonsense combinations of sounds, and who also realize their own tendency
in this direction, will feel that Professor Saintsbury has hit upon a
suggestive term in his claim for "the attraction of the inarticulate" as
a partial explanation of the Mother Goose appeal.
Through song, game, memorization, and dramatization, traditional or
original, the rhymes may be made to contribute to the child's
satisfaction in all of the directions pointed out.
SUGGESTIONS FOR READING
(Books referred to by authors' names are listed
in preceding bibliography.)
For orientation read Chauncey B. Tinker, "In
Praise of Nursery Lore," _Unpopular Review_,
Vol. VI, p. 338 (Oct.-Dec., 1916). For a most
satisfactory presentation of the whole subject
read chap. x, "Mother Goose," in Field. For the
origin of Mother Goose as a character consult
Lang's introduction to his edition of
_Perrault's Popular Tales_. For the theory of
her American nativity see Wheeler and Whitmore.
For the origins of the rhymes themselves the
authorities are Halliwell and Eckenstein. For
pedagogical suggestions see Welsh, also his
article "Nursery Rhymes," _Cyclopedia of
Education_ (ed. Monroe). For many interesting
facts and suggestions on rhythm in nursery
rhymes consult Charles H. Sears, "Studies in
Rhythm," _Pedagogical Seminary_, Vol. VIII, p.
3. For the whole subject of folk songs look
into Martinengo-Cesaresco, _The Study of Folk
Songs_. Books and periodicals dealing with
primary education often contain brief
discussions of value on the use of rhymes. Many
Mother Goose records have been prepared by the
educational departments of the various
talking-machine companies, and may be used to
advantage in the work in rhythm.
The shorter rhymes (Nos. 1-115) are arranged in alphabetical order.
There are many slight variations in the form of the text as found in
printed versions and in the oral versions used by children in different
communities. While Halliwell has been used as the basis for rhymes given
in his collection, the following versions try to reproduce the forms of
expression that seem generally most pleasing to children.
1
A cat came fiddling out of a barn,
With a pair of bagpipes under her arm;
She could sing nothing but fiddle-de-dee,
The mouse has married the bumble-bee;
Pipe, cat--dance, mouse--
We'll have a wedding at our good house.
2
A diller, a dollar,
A ten o'clock scholar,
What makes you come so soon?
You used to come at ten o'clock,
And now you come at noon.
3
As I was going to St. Ives,
I met a man with seven wives;
Every wife had seven sacks,
Every sack had seven cats,
Every cat had seven kits:
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,
How many were there going to St. Ives?
(_One._)
4
As I was going up Pippen Hill,--
Pippen Hill was dirty,--
There I met a pretty miss,
And she dropped me a curtsy.
Little miss, pretty miss,
Blessings light upon you;
If I had half-a-crown a day,
I'd spend it all upon you.
5
As I went to Bonner,
I met a pig
Without a wig,
Upon my word of honor.
6
As Tommy Snooks and Bessie Brooks
Were walking out one Sunday,
Says Tommy Snooks to Bessie Brooks,
"To-morrow will be Monday."
7
A swarm of bees in May
Is worth a load of hay;
A swarm of bees in June
Is worth a silver spoon;
A swarm of bees in July
Is not worth a fly.
8
Baa, baa, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes, marry, have I,
Three bags full;
One for my master,
And one for my dame,
And one for the little boy
Who lives in the lane.
9
Barber, barber, shave a pig,
How many hairs will make a wig?
"Four and twenty, that's enough."
Give the barber a pinch of snuff.
10
Birds of a feather flock together,
And so will pigs and swine;
Rats and mice will have their choice,
And so will I have mine.
11
Bless you, bless you, burnie bee;
Say, when will your wedding be?
If it be to-morrow day,
Take your wings and fly away.
12
Bobby Shafto's gone to sea,
With silver buckles at his knee;
He'll come back and marry me,--
Pretty Bobby Shafto!
Bobby Shafto's fat and fair,
Combing out his yellow hair,
He's my love for evermore,--
Pretty Bobby Shafto!
13
Bow, wow, wow,
Whose dog art thou?
Little Tom Tinker's dog,
Bow, wow, wow.
14
Bye, baby bunting,
Daddy's gone a-hunting,
To get a little rabbit skin
To wrap the baby bunting in.
15
Come when you're called,
Do what you're bid,
Shut the door after you,
Never be chid.
16
Cross patch,
Draw the latch,
And sit by the fire and spin;
Take a cup,
And drink it up,
Then call your neighbors in.
17
Curly locks! curly locks! wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine.
But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,
And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream!
18
Dance, little baby, dance up high,
Never mind, baby, mother is by;
Crow and caper, caper and crow,
There, little baby, there you go;
Up to the ceiling, down to the ground,
Backward and forward, round and round;
Dance, little baby, and mother will sing,
With the merry coral, ding, ding, ding!
19
Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John,
He went to bed with his stockings on;
One shoe off, the other shoe on,
Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John.
20
Ding, dong, bell!
Pussy's in the well.
Who put her in?
Little Tommy Green.
Who pulled her out?
Little Johnny Stout.
What a naughty boy was that,
To drown the poor, poor pussy-cat,
Who never did him any harm,
But killed the mice in his father's barn.
21
Doctor Foster
Went to Glo'ster,
In a shower of rain;
He stepped in a puddle,
Up to his middle,
And never went there again.
22
Eggs, butter, cheese, bread,
Stick, stock, stone dead,
Stick him up, stick him down,
Stick him in the old man's crown.
23
For every evil under the sun,
There is a remedy, or there is none.
If there be one, try to find it,
If there be none, never mind it.
24
Four-and-twenty tailors went to kill a snail,
The bravest man among them dursn't touch her tail;
The snail put out her horns, like a little Kyloe cow,
Run, tailors, run, or she'll kill you all e'en now.
25
Great A, little a,
Bouncing B!
The cat's in the cupboard,
And she can't see.
26
Hark, hark,
The dogs do bark,
The beggars are coming to town:
Some in tags,
Some in rags,
And some in velvet gowns.
27
Here sits the Lord Mayor, (_touching forehead_)
Here sit his two men, (_eyes_)
Here sits the cock, (_right cheek_)
Here sits the hen, (_left cheek_)
Here sit the little chickens, (_tip of nose_)
Here they all run in; (_mouth_)
Chinchopper, chinchopper,
Chinchopper chin! (_chuck the chin_)
28
Here we go up, up, up,
And here we go down, down, down;
And here we go backwards and forwards,
And here we go round, round, round.
29
Given as usually known to children. In some
older versions the word "craft" was used
instead of "sport," thus making a rhyme. There
is an old story of an overly serious parent who
was greatly disturbed by the evident
exaggerations in this jingle. After calling the
attention of his children to the offensive
improbabilities, the good man suggested the
following "revised version."
Hey diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped _under_ the moon;
The little dog _barked_,
To see the sport,
And the _cat_ ran after the spoon!
Hey! diddle, diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
The little dog laughed
To see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
30
Hickery, dickery, 6 and 7,
Alabone Crackabone, 10 and 11,
Spin, span, muskidan;
Twiddle 'um, twaddle 'um, 21.
31
Higgledy, Piggledy,
My black hen,
She lays eggs
For gentlemen;
Sometimes nine,
And sometimes ten,
Higgledy, Piggledy,
My black hen!
32
Hickory, dickory, dock,
The mouse ran up the clock,
The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down;
Hickory, dickory, dock.
33
Hogs in the garden, catch 'em, Towser.
Cows in the cornfield, run, boys, run;
Cats in the cream-pot, run, girls, run, girls;
Fire on the mountains, run, boys, run.
34
Hot-cross buns!
Hot-cross buns!
One a penny, two a penny,
Hot-cross buns!
Hot-cross buns!
Hot-cross buns!
If you have no daughters,
Give them to your sons.
35
Hub a dub dub,
Three men in a tub;
The butcher, the baker,
The candlestick-maker,
They all fell out of a rotten potato.
36
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
Threescore men and threescore more
Cannot place Humpty Dumpty as he was before.
(_An egg._)
37
If all the sea were one sea,
What a _great_ sea that would be!
And if all the trees were one tree,
What a _great_ tree that would be!
And if all the axes were one axe,
What a _great_ axe that would be!
And if all the men were one man,
What a _great_ man he would be!
And if the _great_ man took the _great_ axe,
And cut down the _great_ tree,
And let it fall into the _great_ sea,
What a splish splash _that_ would be!
38
If all the world was apple-pie,
And all the sea was ink,
And all the trees were bread and cheese,
What should we have for drink?
39
If I'd as much money as I could spend,
I never would cry, "Old chairs to mend!
Old chairs to mend! Old chairs to mend!"
I never would cry, "Old chairs to mend!"
If I'd as much money as I could tell,
I never would cry, "Old clothes to sell!
Old clothes to sell! Old clothes to sell!"
I never would cry, "Old clothes to sell!"
40
If "ifs" and "ands"
Were pots and pans,
There would be no need for tinkers!
41
If wishes were horses,
Beggars might ride;
If turnips were watches,
I'd wear one by my side.
42
I had a little pony,
His name was Dapple-gray,
I lent him to a lady,
To ride a mile away;
She whipped him, she slashed him,
She rode him through the mire;
I would not lend my pony now
For all that lady's hire.
43
I had a little hobby horse,
His name was Tommy Gray,
His head was made of pease straw,
His body made of hay;
I saddled him and bridled him,
And rode him up to town,
There came a little puff of wind
And blew him up and down.
44
I have a little sister, they call her peep, peep;
She wades the waters deep, deep, deep;
She climbs the mountains high, high, high;
Poor little creature, she has but one eye.
(_A star._)
45
I'll tell you a story
Of Jack-a-Nory,
And now my story's begun.
I'll tell you another
About Jack's brother,
And now my story is done.
46
In marble walls as white as milk,
Lined with a skin as soft as silk;
Within a fountain crystal clear,
A golden apple doth appear.
No doors there are to this stronghold,
Yet thieves break in and steal the gold.
(_An egg._)
47
1. I went up one pair of stairs.
2. Just like me.
1. I went up two pair of stairs.
2. Just like me.
1. I went into a room.
2. Just like me.
1. I looked out of a window.
2. Just like me.
1. And there I saw a monkey.
2. Just like me.
48
Jack and Jill went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down, and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.
49
Jack be nimble,
Jack be quick,
Jack jump over the candlestick.
50
Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean;
And so between them both, you see,
They licked the platter clean.
51
Knock at the door, (_forehead_)
And peep in, (_lift eyelids_)
Open the door, (_mouth_)
And walk in.
Chinchopper, chinchopper,
Chinchopper chin!
52
These lines, common in similar form to many
countries, are said by children when they throw
the beautiful little insect into the air to
make it take flight.
Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,
Your house is on fire, your children all gone;
All but one, and her name is Ann,
And she crept under the pudding-pan.
53
Little boy blue, come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn;
Where is the boy that looks after the sheep?
He's under the haycock fast asleep.
Will you wake him? No, not I;
For if I do, he'll be sure to cry.
54
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.
55
Little Jack Horner
Sat in a corner,
Eating his Christmas pie.
He put in his thumb,
And he pulled out a plum,
And said, "What a good boy am I!"
56
Little Jack Jingle,
He used to live single,
But when he got tired of this kind of life,
He left off being single and lived with his wife.
57
Little Johnny Pringle had a little pig;
It was very little, so was not very big.
As it was playing beneath the shed,
In half a minute poor Piggie was dead.
So Johnny Pringle he sat down and cried,
And Betty Pringle she lay down and died.
This is the history of one, two, and three,
Johnny Pringle he,
Betty Pringle she,
And the Piggie-Wiggie.
58
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating of curds and whey;
There came a great spider,
And sat down beside her,
And frightened Miss Muffet away.
59
Little Nancy Etticoat,
In a white petticoat,
And a red nose;
The longer she stands,
The shorter she grows.
(_A candle._)
60
Little Robin Redbreast
Sat upon a rail;
Niddle naddle went his head,
Wiggle waggle went his tail.
61
Little Tommy Tucker
Sings for his supper;
What shall he eat?
White bread and butter.
How shall he cut it
Without e'er a knife?
How will he be married
Without e'er a wife?
62
Long legs, crooked thighs,
Little head and no eyes.
(_The tongs._)
63
Lucy Locket lost her pocket,
Kitty Fisher found it:
Nothing in it, nothing in it,
But the binding round it.
64
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
Guard the bed that I lie on!
Four corners to my bed,
Four angels round my head;
One to watch, one to pray,
And two to bear my soul away.
65
Mistress Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With cockle-shells, and silver bells,
And pretty maids all in a row.
66
Multiplication is vexation,
Division is as bad;
The Rule of Three perplexes me,
And Practice drives me mad.
67
Needles and pins, needles and pins,
When a man marries his trouble begins.
68
Old King Cole
Was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He called for his pipe,
And he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three.
Every fiddler, he had a fine fiddle,
And a very fine fiddle had he;
Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers.
Oh, there's one so rare,
As can compare
With old King Cole and his fiddlers three!
69
Once I saw a little bird
Come hop, hop, hop;
So I cried, "Little bird,
Will you stop, stop, stop?"
And was going to the window
To say, "How do you do?"
But he shook his little tail,
And far away he flew.
70
One for the money,
And two for the show;
Three to make ready,
And four to go.
71
One misty, moisty morning,
When cloudy was the weather,
I chanced to meet an old man
Clothed all in leather,
He began to compliment,
And I began to grin,--
"How do you do," and "How do you do,"
And "How do you do" again!
72
1, 2, 3, 4, 5!
I caught a hare alive;
6, 7, 8, 9, 10!
I let her go again.
73
One, two,
Buckle my shoe;
Three, four,
Shut the door;
Five, six,
Pick up sticks;
Seven, eight,
Lay them straight;
Nine, ten,
A good fat hen;
Eleven, twelve,
Who will delve?
Thirteen, fourteen,
Maids a-courting;
Fifteen, sixteen,
Maids a-kissing;
Seventeen, eighteen,
Maids a-waiting;
Nineteen, twenty,
My stomach's empty.
74
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man!
So I will, master, as fast as I can:
Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with T,
Put it in the oven for Tommy and me.
75
Pease-porridge hot,
Pease-porridge cold,
Pease-porridge in the pot,
Nine days old;
Some like it hot,
Some like it cold,
Some like it in the pot,
Nine days old.
76
Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater,
Had a wife and couldn't keep her;
He put her in a pumpkin-shell,
And there he kept her very well.
77
Halliwell suggests that "off a pewter plate" is
sometimes added at the end of each line. This
rhyme is famous as a "tongue twister," or
enunciation exercise.
Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers;
A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked;
If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,
Where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?
78
Poor old Robinson Crusoe!
Poor old Robinson Crusoe!
They made him a coat,
Of an old nanny goat,
I wonder how they could do so!
With a ring a ting tang,
And a ring a ting tang,
Poor old Robinson Crusoe!
79
Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been?
I've been to London to see the Queen.
Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there?
I frightened a little mouse under the chair.
80
Pussy sits beside the fire;
How can she be fair?
In comes the little dog,
"Pussy, are you there?
So, so, dear Mistress Pussy,
Pray tell me how do you do?"
"Thank you, thank you, little dog,
I'm very well just now."
81
Ride a cock-horse to Banbury-cross,
To see an old lady upon a white horse,
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,
And so she makes music wherever she goes.
82
Ride, baby, ride!
Pretty baby shall ride,
And have a little puppy-dog tied to her side;
And one little pussy-cat tied to the other,
And away she shall ride to see her grandmother,
To see her grandmother,
To see her grandmother.
83
Rock-a-bye, baby,
On the tree top,
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks
The cradle will fall,
Down will come baby,
Bough, cradle, and all.
84
Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green;
Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen;
And Betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring;
And Johnny's a drummer, and drums for the king.
85
See a pin and pick it up,
All the day you'll have good luck;
See a pin and let it lay,
Bad luck you'll have all the day!
86
See, saw, sacradown,
Which is the way to London town?
One foot up, the other foot down,
And that is the way to London town.
87
Shoe the little horse,
And shoe the little mare,
And let the little colt
Run bare, bare, bare.
88
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye;
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie;
When the pie was opened,
The birds began to sing;
Was not that a dainty dish
To set before the king?
The king was in his counting-house
Counting out his money;
The queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey;
The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes,
When along came a blackbird,
And pecked off her nose.
Jenny was so mad,
She didn't know what to do;
She put her finger in her ear,
And cracked it right in two.
89
Star light, star bright,
First star I see to-night;
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have the wish I wish to-night.
90
The King of France went up the hill,
With twenty thousand men;
The King of France came down the hill,
And ne'er went up again.
91
The lion and the unicorn
Were fighting for the crown;
The lion beat the unicorn
All round about the town.
Some gave them white bread,
And some gave them brown,
Some gave them plumcake,
And sent them out of town.
92
The man in the moon
Came tumbling down,
And asked the way to Norwich;
He went by the south
And burned his mouth
With supping cold pease porridge.
93
The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will the robin do then?
Poor thing!
He will sit in a barn,
And to keep himself warm,
Will hide his head under his wing,
Poor thing!
94
The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts,
All on a summer's day.
The Knave of Hearts he stole those tarts,
And hid them clean away.
The King of Hearts he missed those tarts,
And beat the Knave right sore,
The Knave of Hearts brought back the tarts,
And vowed he'd steal no more.
95
There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile,
And 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.
96
There was a little boy went into a barn,
And lay down on some hay;
An owl came out and flew about,
And the little boy ran away.
97
There was a man and he had naught,
And robbers came to rob him;
He crept up to the chimney top,
And then they thought they had him;
But he got down on t'other side,
And then they could not find him:
He ran fourteen miles in fifteen days,
And never looked behind him.
98
There was a man in our town,
And he was wondrous wise;
He jumped into a briar bush,
And scratched out both his eyes:
And when he saw his eyes were out,
With all his might and main
He jumped into another bush,
And scratched 'em in again.
99
There was an old man,
And he had a calf,
And that's half;
He took him out of the stall,
And put him on the wall;
And that's all.
100
There was an old woman, and what do you think?
She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink:
Victuals and drink were the chief of her diet;
Yet this little old woman could never keep quiet.
She went to the baker, to buy her some bread,
And when she came home, her old husband was dead;
She went to the clerk to toll the bell,
And when she came back her old husband was well.
101
There was an old woman lived under a hill,
And if she's not gone, she lives there still.
She put a mouse in a bag and sent it to mill;
The miller he swore by the point of his knife,
He never took toll of a mouse in his life.
102
There was an old woman of Leeds,
Who spent all her time in good deeds;
She worked for the poor,
Till her fingers were sore,
This pious old woman of Leeds!
103
There was an old woman of Norwich,
Who lived upon nothing but porridge!
Parading the town,
She turned cloak into gown!
This thrifty old woman of Norwich.
104
There was an old woman tossed up in a basket
Nineteen times as high as the moon;
Where she was going I couldn't but ask it,
For in her hand she carried a broom.
"Old woman, old woman, old woman," quoth I,
"O whither, O whither, O whither, so high?"
"To brush the cobwebs off the sky!"
"Shall I go with thee?" "Aye, by and by."
105
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children, she didn't know what to do.
She gave them some broth without any bread,
Then whipped them all soundly, and put them to bed.
106
There was an owl lived in an oak,
Wisky, wasky, weedle;
And every word he ever spoke,
Was fiddle, faddle, feedle.
A gunner chanced to come that way,
Wisky, wasky, weedle;
Says he, "I'll shoot you, silly bird,"
Fiddle, faddle, feedle.
107
This is the way the ladies ride;
Tri, tre, tre, tree, tri, tre, tre, tree!
This is the way the ladies ride,
Tri, tre, tre, tree, tri, tre, tre, tree!
This is the way the gentlemen ride;
Gallop-a-trot, gallop-a-trot!
This is the way the gentlemen ride,
Gallop-a-trot-a-trot!
This is the way the farmers ride;
Hobbledy-hoy, hobbledy-hoy!
This is the way the farmers ride,
Hobbledy-hobbledy-hoy!
108
1. This little pig went to market;
2. This little pig stayed at home;
3. This little pig had roast beef;
4. And this little pig had none;
5. This little pig said, "Wee, wee, wee!
I can't find my way home."
109
Three blind mice! see, how they run!
They all ran after the farmer's wife,
Who cut off their tails with the carving knife!
Did you ever see such a thing in your life?
Three blind mice!
110
Three wise men of Gotham
Went to sea in a bowl;
If the bowl had been stronger,
My song would have been longer.
111
To market, to market, to buy a fat pig,
Home again, home again, dancing a jig;
To market, to market, to buy a fat hog,
Home again, home again, jiggety-jog;
To market, to market, to buy a plum bun.
Home again, home again, market is done.
112
Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Stole a pig and away he run!
The pig was eat, and Tom was beat,
And Tom went roaring down the street!
113
Two-legs sat upon three-legs,
With one-leg in his lap;
In comes four-legs
And runs away with one-leg;
Up jumps two-legs,
Catches up three-legs,
Throws it after four-legs,
And makes him bring one-leg back.
(_One-leg is a leg of mutton;
two-legs, a man; three-legs,
a stool; four-legs, a dog._)
114
The following is another good "tongue twister"
(see No. 77). It is recommended for the little
lisper, and in former days it was recommended
as a sure cure for the hiccoughs.
When a twister a-twisting would twist him a twist,
For twisting a twist three twists he will twist;
But if one of the twists untwists from the twist,
The twist untwisting untwists the twist.
115
"Willy boy, Willy boy, where are you going?
I will go with you, if I may."
"I am going to the meadow to see them a-mowing,
I am going to see them make the hay."
116
No. 116 and the two rhymes following are by
Miss Wilhelmina Seegmiller. (By permission of
the publishers, Rand McNally & Co., Chicago.)
Their presence will allow teachers to compare
some widely and successfully used modern
efforts with the traditional jingles in the
midst of which they are placed.
MILKWEED SEEDS
As white as milk,
As soft as silk,
And hundreds close together:
They sail away,
On an autumn day,
When windy is the weather.
117
AN ANNIVERSARY
Pop! fizz! bang! whizz!
Don't you know what day this is?
Fizz! bang! whizz! pop!
Hurrah for the Fourth! and hippity-hop!
118
TWINK! TWINK!
Twink, twink, twink, twink,
Twinkety, twinkety, twink!
The fireflies light their lanterns,
Then put them out in a wink.
Twink, twink, twink, twink,
They light their light once more,
Then twinkety, twinkety, twink, twink,
They put them out as before.
Nos. 119-146 are in the main the longer nursery
favorites and may somewhat loosely be called
the novels and epics of the nursery as the
former group may be called the lyrics and short
stories. All of them are marked by dramatic
power, a necessary element in all true classics
for children whether in verse or prose. Nos.
119 and 120 are two of the favorite jingles
used in teaching the alphabet. Each letter
suggests a distinct image. In No. 119 the
images are all of actions, and connected by the
direction of these actions upon a single
object. In No. 120 the images are each complete
and independent. Here it may be noticed that
some of the elements of the pictures are
determined by the exigencies of rhyme, as, for
instance, what the archer shot at, and what the
lady had. The originator doubtless expected the
child to see the relation of cause and
consequence between Y and Z.
119
A WAS AN APPLE-PIE
A was an apple-pie;
B bit it;
C cut it;
D dealt it;
E eat it;
F fought for it;
G got it;
H had it;
J joined it:
K kept it;
L longed for it;
M mourned for it;
N nodded at it;
O opened it;
P peeped in it;
Q quartered it;
R ran for it;
S stole it;
T took it;
V viewed it;
W wanted it;
X, Y, Z, and Ampersand (&)
All wished for a piece in hand.
120
TOM THUMB'S ALPHABET
A was an archer, and shot at a frog;
B was a butcher, and kept a bull-dog.
C was a captain, all covered with lace;
D was a drunkard, and had a red face.
E was an esquire, with insolent brow;
F was a farmer, and followed the plough.
G was a gamester, who had but ill luck;
H was a hunter, and hunted a buck.
I was an innkeeper, who loved to carouse;
J was a joiner, and built up a house.
K was a king, so mighty and grand;
L was a lady, who had a white hand.
M was a miser, and hoarded up gold;
N was a nobleman, gallant and bold.
O was an oyster girl, and went about town;
P was a parson, and wore a black gown.
Q was a queen, who sailed in a ship;
R was a robber, and wanted a whip.
S was a sailor, and spent all he got;
T was a tinker, and mended a pot.
U was an usurer, a miserable elf;
V was a vintner, who drank all himself.
W was a watchman, and guarded the door;
X was expensive, and so became poor.
Y was a youth, that did not love school;
Z was a zany, a poor harmless fool.
121
WHERE ARE YOU GOING
Where are you going, my pretty maid?
"I'm going a-milking, sir," she said.
May I go with you, my pretty maid?
"You're kindly welcome, sir," she said.
What is your father, my pretty maid?
"My father's a farmer, sir," she said.
What is your fortune, my pretty maid?
"My face is my fortune, sir," she said.
Then I can't marry you, my pretty maid.
"Nobody asked you, sir," she said.
122
MOLLY AND I
Molly, my sister, and I fell out,
And what do you think it was about?
She loved coffee, and I loved tea,
And that was the reason we couldn't agree.
But Molly, my sister, and I made up,
And now together we can sup,
For Molly drinks coffee, and I drink tea,
And we both are happy as happy can be.
123
LONDON BRIDGE
London bridge is broken down,
Dance o'er my lady Lee;
London bridge is broken down,
With a gay lady.
How shall we build it up again?
Dance o'er my lady Lee;
How shall we build it up again?
With a gay lady.
Build it up with silver and gold,
Dance o'er my lady Lee;
Build it up with silver and gold,
With a gay lady.
Silver and gold will be stole away,
Dance o'er my lady Lee;
Silver and gold will be stole away,
With a gay lady.
Build it again with iron and steel,
Dance o'er my lady Lee;
Build it up with iron and steel,
With a gay lady.
Iron and steel will bend and bow,
Dance o'er my lady Lee;
Iron and steel will bend and bow,
With a gay lady.
Build it up with wood and clay,
Dance o'er my lady Lee;
Build it up with wood and clay,
With a gay lady.
Wood and clay will wash away,
Dance o'er my lady Lee;
Wood and clay will wash away,
With a gay lady.
Build it up with stone so strong,
Dance o'er my lady Lee;
Huzza! 'twill last for ages long,
With a gay lady.
124
I SAW A SHIP
I saw a ship a-sailing,
A-sailing on the sea;
And oh, it was all laden
With pretty things for thee!
There were comfits in the cabin,
And apples in the hold;
The sails were made of silk,
And the masts were made of gold!
The four and twenty sailors,
That stood between the decks,
Were four and twenty white mice,
With chains about their necks.
The captain was a duck,
With a packet on his back;
And when the ship began to move,
The captain said, "Quack! Quack!"
125
THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN
There was an old woman, as I've heard tell,
She went to market her eggs for to sell;
She went to market all on a market-day,
And she fell asleep on the king's highway.
By came a pedlar whose name was Stout,
He cut her petticoats all round about;
He cut her petticoats up to her knees,
Which made the old woman to shiver and freeze.
When this little woman first did wake,
She began to shiver and she began to shake,
She began to wonder, and she began to cry,
"Lauk a mercy on me, this is none of I!
"But if it be I, as I do hope it be,
I've a little dog at home, and he'll know me;
If it be I, he'll wag his little tail,
And if it be not I, he'll loudly bark and wail."
Home went the little woman all in the dark,
Up got the little dog, and he began to bark;
He began to bark, so she began to cry,
"Lauk a mercy on me, this is none of I!"
126
LITTLE BO-PEEP
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 they were still all fleeting.
Then up she took her little crook,
Determined for to find them;
She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed,
For they'd left their tails behind them.
It happened one day, as Bo-peep did stray,
Unto a meadow hard by:
There she espied their tails side by side,
All hung on a tree to dry.
127
COCK A DOODLE DOO
Cock a doodle doo!
My dame has lost her shoe;
My master's lost his fiddling stick,
And don't know what to do.
Cock a doodle doo!
What is my dame to do?
Till master finds his fiddling stick,
She'll dance without her shoe.
Cock a doodle doo!
My dame has found her shoe,
And master's found his fiddling stick,
Sing doodle doodle doo!
Cock a doodle doo!
My dame will dance with you,
While master fiddles his fiddling stick,
For dame and doodle doo.
128
THREE JOVIAL HUNTSMEN
There were three jovial huntsmen,
As I have heard them say,
And they would go a-hunting
All on a summer's day.
All the day they hunted,
And nothing could they find
But a ship a-sailing,
A-sailing with the wind.
One said it was a ship,
The other he said nay;
The third said it was a house
With the chimney blown away.
And all the night they hunted,
And nothing could they find,
But the moon a-gliding,
A-gliding with the wind.
One said it was the moon,
The other he said nay;
The third said it was a cheese,
And half o't cut away.
129
THERE WAS A LITTLE MAN
There was a little man,
And he had a little gun,
And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead;
He went to a brook,
And fired at a duck,
And shot it through the head, head, head.
He carried it home
To his old wife Joan,
And bade her a fire to make, make, make,
To roast the little duck,
He had shot in the brook,
And he'd go and fetch her the drake, drake, drake.
The drake was a-swimming,
With his curly tail;
The little man made it his mark, mark, mark!
He let off his gun,
But he fired too soon,
And the drake flew away with a quack, quack, quack.
130
TAFFY
Taffy was a Welshman;
Taffy was a thief;
Taffy came to my house,
And stole a piece of beef.
I went to Taffy's house;
Taffy wasn't home;
Taffy came to my house,
And stole a marrow-bone.
I went to Taffy's house;
Taffy was in bed;
I took up the marrow-bone
And flung it at his head!
131
SIMPLE SIMON
Simple Simon met a pieman
Going to the fair:
Says Simple Simon to the pieman,
"Let me taste your ware."
Says the pieman to Simple Simon,
"Show me first your penny."
Says Simple Simon to the pieman,
"Indeed I haven't any."
Simple Simon went a fishing
Just to catch a whale:
All the water he had got
Was in his mother's pail.
Simple Simon went to look
If plums grew on a thistle;
He pricked his fingers very much,
Which made poor Simon whistle.
132
A FARMER WENT TROTTING
A farmer went trotting upon his gray mare,
Bumpety, bumpety, bump!
With his daughter behind him so rosy and fair,
Lumpety, lumpety, lump!
A raven cried "Croak!" and they all tumbled down,
Bumpety, bumpety, bump!
The mare broke her knees, and the farmer his crown,
Lumpety, lumpety, lump!
The mischievous raven flew laughing away,
Bumpety, bumpety, bump!
And vowed he would serve them the same the next day,
Lumpety, lumpety, lump!
133
TOM THE PIPER'S SON
Tom he was a piper's son,
He learned to play when he was young,
But all the tunes that he could play,
Was "Over the hills and far away";
_Over the hills, and a great way off,_
_And the wind will blow my top-knot off._
Now Tom with his pipe made such a noise,
That he pleased both the girls and boys,
And they stopped to hear him play,
"Over the hills and far away."
Tom with his pipe did play with such skill,
That those who heard him could never keep still;
Whenever they heard him they began to dance,
Even pigs on their hind legs would after him prance.
As Dolly was milking her cow one day,
Tom took out his pipe and began to play;
So Doll and the cow danced "the Cheshire round,"
Till the pail was broke and the milk ran on the ground.
He met old dame Trot with a basket of eggs,
He used his pipes and she used her legs;
She danced about till the eggs were all broke,
She began for to fret, but he laughed at the joke.
He saw a cross fellow was beating an ass,
Heavy laden with pots, pans, dishes, and glass;
He took out his pipe and played them a tune,
And the jackass's load was lightened full soon.
134
WHEN I WAS A LITTLE BOY
When I was a little boy,
I lived by myself,
And all the bread and cheese I got,
I put upon my shelf.
The rats and the mice,
They made such a strife,
I had to go to London
To buy me a wife.
The streets were so broad,
And the lanes were so narrow,
I had to bring my wife home
On a wheelbarrow.
The wheelbarrow broke,
And my wife had a fall;
Down tumbled wheelbarrow,
Little wife and all.
135
THE BABES IN THE WOOD
My dear, you must know that a long time ago,
Two poor little children whose names I don't know,
Were stolen away on a fine summer's day,
And left in a wood, as I've heard people say.
_Poor babes in the wood, poor babes in the wood!_
_So hard was the fate of the babes in the wood._
And when it was night, so sad was their plight,
The sun it went down, and the stars gave no light.
They sobbed and they sighed, and they bitterly cried,
And the poor little things they lay down and died.
And when they were dead, the robins so red,
Brought strawberry leaves, and over them spread.
And all the day long, the branches among,
They sang to them softly, and this was their song:
_Poor babes in the wood, poor babes in the wood!_
_So hard was the fate of the babes in the wood._
136
THE FOX AND HIS WIFE
The fox and his wife they had a great strife,
They never ate mustard in all their whole life;
They ate their meat without fork or knife,
And loved to be picking a bone, e-oh!
The fox jumped up on a moonlight night;
The stars they were shining, and all things bright;
Oh, ho! said the fox, it's a very fine night
For me to go through the town, e-oh!
The fox when he came to yonder stile,
He lifted his ears and he listened awhile!
Oh, ho! said the fox, it's but a short mile
From this unto yonder wee town, e-oh!
The fox when he came to the farmer's gate,
Who should he see but the farmer's drake;
I love you well for your master's sake,
And long to be picking your bone, e-oh!
The gray goose she ran round the haystack,
Oh, ho! said the fox, you are very fat;
You'll grease my beard and ride on my back
From this into yonder wee town, e-oh!
The farmer's wife she jumped out of bed,
And out of the window she popped her head:
Oh, husband! oh, husband! the geese are all dead,
For the fox has been through the town, e-oh!
The farmer he loaded his pistol with lead,
And shot the old rogue of a fox through the head;
Ah, ha! said the farmer, I think you're quite dead;
And no more you'll trouble the town, e-oh!
137
FOR WANT OF A NAIL
For want of a nail, the shoe was lost;
For want of the shoe, the horse was lost;
For want of the horse, the rider was lost;
For want of the rider, the battle was lost;
For want of the battle, the kingdom was lost;
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail!
138
A MAN OF WORDS
A man of words and not of deeds
Is like a garden full of weeds;
And when the weeds begin to grow,
It's like a garden full of snow;
And when the snow begins to fall,
It's like a bird upon the wall;
And when the bird away does fly,
It's like an eagle in the sky;
And when the sky begins to roar,
It's like a lion at the door;
And when the door begins to crack,
It's like a stick across your back;
And when your back begins to smart,
It's like a penknife in your heart;
And when your heart begins to bleed,
You're dead, and dead, and dead, indeed.
139
The first stanza of this jingle was long
attributed to Longfellow as an impromptu made
on one of his children. He took occasion to
deny this, as well as the authorship of the
almost equally famous "Mr. Finney had a
turnip." The last two stanzas bear evidence of
a more sophisticated origin than that of real
nursery rhymes. Mr. Lucas, in his _Book of
Verses for Children_, gives two different
versions of these stanzas.
JEMIMA
There was a little girl, and she had a little curl,
Right down the middle of her forehead,
When she was good, she was very, very good,
But when she was bad, she was horrid.
One day she went upstairs, while her parents, unawares,
In the kitchen down below were occupied with meals,
And she stood upon her head, on her little truckle-bed,
And she then began hurraying with her heels.
Her mother heard the noise, and thought it was the boys,
A playing at a combat in the attic,
But when she climbed the stair and saw Jemima there,
She took and she did whip her most emphatic!
140
The following was one of the favorite
"toy-book" texts of the eighteenth century.
These little books generally had a crude
woodcut and one stanza of text on a page. It
can be seen how easily this story lends itself
to illustration. Each stanza is a chapter, and
the story-teller could continue as long as his
inventiveness held out. In one edition there
are these additional lines:
"Old Mother Hubbard sat down in a chair,
And danced her dog to a delicate air;
She went to the garden to buy him a pippin,
When she came back the dog was a-skipping."
MOTHER HUBBARD AND HER DOG
Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,
To get her poor dog a bone;
But when she came there,
The cupboard was bare,
And so the poor dog had none.
She went to the baker's
To buy him some bread;
But when she came back,
The poor dog was dead.
She went to the joiner's
To buy him a coffin;
But when she came back,
The poor dog was laughing.
She took a clean dish,
To get him some tripe;
But when she came back
He was smoking his pipe.
She went to the fishmonger's
To buy him some fish;
And when she came back
He was licking the dish.
She went to the ale-house
To get him some beer;
But when she came back
The dog sat in a chair.
She went to the tavern
For white wine and red;
But when she came back
The dog stood on his head.
She went to the hatter's
To buy him a hat;
But when she came back
He was feeding the cat.
She went to the barber's
To buy him a wig;
But when she came back
He was dancing a jig.
She went to the fruiterer's
To buy him some fruit;
But when she came back,
He was playing the flute.
She went to the tailor's
To buy him a coat;
But when she came back,
He was riding a goat.
She went to the cobbler's
To buy him some shoes;
But when she came back,
He was reading the news.
She went to the seamstress
To buy him some linen;
But when she came back,
The dog was spinning.
She went to the hosier's
To buy him some hose;
But when she came back,
He was dressed in his clothes.
The dame made a curtsy,
The dog made a bow;
The dame said, "Your servant,"
The dog said, "Bow, wow."
141
This story of a bird courtship and marriage
with its attendant feast and tragedy, all
followed by the long dirge of No. 142,
constitutes one of the longest nursery novels.
Its opportunities for the illustrator are very
marked, and a copy illustrated by the children
themselves would be an addition to the joy of
any schoolroom.
THE COURTSHIP, MERRY MARRIAGE, AND PICNIC DINNER OF COCK ROBIN AND JENNY
WREN;
TO WHICH IS ADDED
THE DOLEFUL DEATH OF COCK ROBIN
It was a merry time
When Jenny Wren was young,
So neatly as she danced,
And so sweetly as she sung,
Robin Redbreast lost his heart:
He was a gallant bird;
He doft his hat to Jenny,
And thus to her he said:--
"My dearest Jenny Wren,
If you will but be mine,
You shall dine on cherry pie,
And drink nice currant wine.
I'll dress you like a Goldfinch,
Or like a Peacock gay;
So if you'll have me, Jenny,
Let us appoint the day."
Jenny blushed behind her fan,
And thus declared her mind:
"Then let it be to-morrow, Bob,
I take your offer kind--
Cherry pie is very good!
So is currant wine!
But I will wear my brown gown,
And never dress too fine."
Robin rose up early
At the break of day;
He flew to Jenny Wren's house,
To sing a roundelay.
He met the Cock and Hen,
And bid the Cock declare,
This was his wedding-day
With Jenny Wren, the fair.
The Cock then blew his horn,
To let the neighbors know,
This was Robin's wedding-day,
And they might see the show.
And first came parson Rook,
With his spectacles and band,
And one of _Mother Hubbard's_ books
He held within his hand.
Then followed him the Lark,
For he could sweetly sing,
And he was to be clerk
At Cock Robin's wedding.
He sang of Robin's love
For little Jenny Wren;
And when he came unto the end,
Then he began again.
Then came the bride and bridegroom;
Quite plainly was she dressed,
And blushed so much, her cheeks were
As red as Robin's breast.
But Robin cheered her up:
"My pretty Jen," said he,
"We're going to be married
And happy we shall be."
The Goldfinch came on next,
To give away the bride;
The Linnet, being bride's maid,
Walked by Jenny's side;
And, as she was a-walking,
She said, "Upon my word,
I think that your Cock Robin
Is a very pretty bird."
The Bullfinch walked by Robin,
And thus to him did say,
"Pray, mark, friend Robin Redbreast,
That Goldfinch, dressed so gay;
What though her gay apparel
Becomes her very well,
Yet Jenny's modest dress and look
Must bear away the bell."
The Blackbird and the Thrush,
And charming Nightingale,
Whose sweet jug sweetly echoes
Through every grove and dale;
The Sparrow and Tom Tit,
And many more, were there:
All came to see the wedding
Of Jenny Wren, the fair.
"O then," says parson Rook,
"Who gives this maid away?"
"I do," says the Goldfinch,
"And her fortune I will pay:
Here's a bag of grain of many sorts,
And other things beside;
Now happy be the bridegroom,
And happy be the bride!"
"And will you have her, Robin,
To be your wedded wife?"
"Yes, I will," says Robin,
"And love her all my life."
"And will you have him, Jenny,
Your husband now to be?"
"Yes, I will," says Jenny,
"And love him heartily."
Then on her finger fair
Cock Robin put the ring;
"You're married now," says parson Rook,
While the Lark aloud did sing:
"Happy be the bridegroom,
And happy be the bride!
And may not man, nor bird, nor beast,
This happy pair divide."
The birds were asked to dine;
Not Jenny's friends alone,
But every pretty songster
That had Cock Robin known.
They had a cherry pie,
Besides some currant wine,
And every guest brought something,
That sumptuous they might dine.
Now they all sat or stood
To eat and to drink;
And every one said what
He happened to think;
They each took a bumper,
And drank to the pair:
Cock Robin, the bridegroom,
And Jenny Wren, the fair.
The dinner-things removed,
They all began to sing;
And soon they made the place
Near a mile round to ring.
The concert it was fine;
And every bird tried
Who best could sing for Robin
And Jenny Wren, the bride.
Then in came the Cuckoo,
And he made a great rout:
He caught hold of Jenny,
And pulled her about.
Cock Robin was angry,
And so was the Sparrow,
Who fetched in a hurry
His bow and his arrow.
His aim then he took,
But he took it not right;
His skill was not good,
Or he shot in a fright;
For the Cuckoo he missed,
But Cock Robin killed!--
And all the birds mourned
That his blood was so spilled.
142
THE BURIAL OF POOR COCK ROBIN
Who killed Cock Robin?
"I," said the Sparrow,
"With my bow and arrow;
And I killed Cock Robin."
Who saw him die?
"I," said the Fly,
"With my little eye;
And I saw him die."
Who caught his blood?
"I," said the Fish,
"With my little dish;
And I caught his blood."
Who made his shroud?
"I," said the Beetle,
"With my little needle;
And I made his shroud."
Who will be the parson?
"I," said the Rook;
"With my little book;
And I will be the parson."
Who will dig his grave?
"I," said the Owl,
"With my spade and shovel;
And I'll dig his grave."
Who will be the clerk?
"I," said the Lark,
"If 'tis not in the dark;
And I will be the clerk."
Who'll carry him to the grave?
"I," said the Kite,
"If 'tis not in the night;
And I'll carry him to the grave."
Who will be the chief mourner?
"I," said the Dove,
"Because of my love;
And I will be chief mourner."
Who will sing a psalm?
"I," said the Thrush,
As she sat in a bush;
"And I will sing a psalm."
Who will bear the pall?
"We," said the Wren,
Both the Cock and the Hen;
"And we will bear the pall."
Who will toll the bell?
"I," said the Bull,
"Because I can pull."
And so, Cock Robin, farewell.
All the birds of the air
Fell to sighing and sobbing
When they heard the bell toll
For poor Cock Robin.
143
The following tale was edited (1885) for
children by John Ruskin from a version "written
principally by a lady of ninety (Mrs. Sharp.)"
Ruskin himself added the third, fourth, eighth,
and ninth stanzas, because "in the old books no
account is given of what the cats learned when
they went to school, and I thought my younger
readers might be glad of some notice of such
particulars." But he thought his rhymes did not
ring like the real ones, of which he said: "I
aver these rhymes to possess the primary value
of rhyme--that is, to be rhythmical in a
pleasant and exemplary degree." The book was
illustrated with quaint woodcuts for each
stanza after the edition of 1823, with
additional drawings for the four new stanzas by
Kate Greenaway, one of the most famous
illustrators of children's books. Ruskin
commends the result "to the indulgence of the
Christmas fireside, because it relates nothing
that is sad, and portrays nothing that is
ugly."
DAME WIGGINS OF LEE, AND HER SEVEN WONDERFUL CATS
Dame Wiggins of Lee
Was a worthy old soul,
As e'er threaded a nee-
dle, or wash'd in a bowl;
She held mice and rats
In such antipa-thy,
That seven fine cats
Kept Dame Wiggins of Lee.
The rats and mice scared
By this fierce whisker'd crew,
The poor seven cats
Soon had nothing to do;
So, as any one idle
She ne'er loved to see,
She sent them to school,
Did Dame Wiggins of Lee.
The Master soon wrote
That they all of them knew
How to read the word "milk"
And to spell the word "mew."
And they all washed their faces
Before they took tea:
"Were there ever such dears!"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.
He had also thought well
To comply with their wish
To spend all their play-time
In learning to fish
For stitlings; they sent her
A present of three,
Which, fried, were a feast
For Dame Wiggins of Lee.
But soon she grew tired
Of living alone;
So she sent for her cats
From school to come home.
Each rowing a wherry,
Returning you see:
The frolic made merry
Dame Wiggins of Lee.
The Dame was quite pleas'd
And ran out to market;
When she came back
They were mending the carpet.
The needle each handled
As brisk as a bee;
"Well done, my good cats,"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.
To give them a treat,
She ran out for some rice;
When she came back,
They were skating on ice.
"I shall soon see one down,
Aye, perhaps, two or three,
I'll bet half-a-crown,"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.
When spring-time came back
They had breakfast of curds;
And were greatly afraid
Of disturbing the birds.
"If you sit, like good cats,
All the seven in a tree,
They will teach you to sing!"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.
So they sat in a tree,
And said "Beautiful! Hark!"
And they listened and looked
In the clouds for the lark.
Then sang, by the fireside,
Symphonious-ly
A song without words
To Dame Wiggins of Lee.
They called the next day
On the tomtit and sparrow,
And wheeled a poor sick lamb
Home in a barrow.
"You shall all have some sprats
For your humani-ty,
My seven good cats,"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.
While she ran to the field,
To look for its dam,
They were warming the bed
For the poor sick lamb:
They turn'd up the clothes
All as neat as could be;
"I shall ne'er want a nurse,"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.
She wished them good night,
And went up to bed:
When, lo! in the morning,
The cats were all fled.
But soon--what a fuss!
"Where can they all be?
Here, pussy, puss, puss!"
Cried Dame Wiggins of Lee.
The Dame's heart was nigh broke,
So she sat down to weep,
When she saw them come back
Each riding a sheep:
She fondled and patted
Each purring tom-my:
"Ah! welcome, my dears,"
Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.
The Dame was unable
Her pleasure to smother,
To see the sick lamb
Jump up to its mother.
In spite of the gout,
And a pain in her knee,
She went dancing about:
Did Dame Wiggins of Lee.
The Farmer soon heard
Where his sheep went astray,
And arrived at Dame's door
With his faithful dog Tray.
He knocked with his crook,
And the stranger to see,
Out the window did look
Dame Wiggins of Lee.
For their kindness he had them
All drawn by his team;
And gave them some field-mice,
And raspberry-cream.
Said he, "All my stock
You shall presently see;
For I honor the cats
Of Dame Wiggins of Lee."
He sent his maid out
For some muffins and crumpets;
And when he turn'd round
They were blowing of trumpets.
Said he, "I suppose
She's as deaf as can be,
Or this ne'er could be borne
By Dame Wiggins of Lee."
To show them his poultry,
He turn'd them all loose,
When each nimbly leap'd
On the back of a goose,
Which frighten'd them so
That they ran to the sea,
And half-drown'd the poor cats
Of Dame Wiggins of Lee.
For the care of his lamb,
And their comical pranks,
He gave them a ham
And abundance of thanks.
"I wish you good-day,
My fine fellows," said he;
"My compliments, pray,
To Dame Wiggins of Lee."
You see them arrived
At their Dame's welcome door;
They show her their presents,
And all their good store.
"Now come in to supper,
And sit down with me;
All welcome once more,"
Cried Dame Wiggins of Lee.
144
This is the perfect pattern of all the
accumulative stories, perhaps the best known
and most loved of children among all nursery
jingles. Halliwell thought it descended from
the mystical Hebrew hymn, "A kid, a kid," found
in the Talmud. Most commentators since have
followed his example in calling attention to
the parallel, though scholars have insisted
that the hymn referred to is a late
interpolation. The hymn opens:
"A kid, a kid, my father bought,
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid.
"Then came the cat, and ate the kid,
That my father bought," etc.
Then came the dog and bit the cat, then the
staff and beat the dog, then the fire and
burned the staff, then water and quenched the
fire, then the ox and drank the water, then the
butcher and slew the ox, then the angel of
death and killed the butcher, and the hymn
concludes:
"Then came the Holy One, blessed be He!
And killed the angel of death,
That killed the butcher,
That slew the ox,
That drank the water,
That quenched the fire,
That burned the staff,
That beat the dog,
That bit the cat,
That ate the kid,
That my father bought
For two pieces of money:
A kid, a kid."
There is an elaborate interpretation of the
symbolism of this hymn, going back at least as
far as 1731, in which the kid denotes the
Hebrews, the father is Jehovah, the cat is the
Assyrians, the dog is the Babylonians, the
staff is the Persians, the fire is Greece under
Alexander, the water is the Roman Empire, the
ox is the Saracens, the butcher is the
crusaders, the angel of death is the Turkish
power, while the concluding accumulation shows
that God will take vengeance on the enemies of
the chosen people. This is the interpretation
in barest outline only. Without the key no one
would ever guess its hidden meaning.
Fortunately, "The House That Jack Built" has no
such hidden meaning. But the important point
is that such accumulative stories are almost as
old as human records, and, like so many other
possessions of the race, seem to have come to
us from the Far East.
THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cock that crowed in the morn,
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the farmer sowing his corn,
That kept the cock that crowed in the morn,
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn,
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog,
That worried the cat,
That killed the rat,
That ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
145
THE EGG IN THE NEST
There was a tree stood in the ground,
The prettiest tree you ever did see;
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around.
And on this tree there was a limb,
The prettiest limb you ever did see;
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around.
And on this limb there was a bough,
The prettiest bough you ever did see;
The bough on the limb, and the limb on the tree,
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around.
Now on this bough there was a nest,
The prettiest nest you ever did see;
The nest on the bough, and the bough on the limb,
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around.
And in the nest there were some eggs,
The prettiest eggs you ever did see;
Eggs in the nest, and the nest on the bough,
The bough on the limb, and the limb on the tree,
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,
The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,
And the green grass growing all around,
_And the green grass growing all around_.
146
The following story is the same as that of the
Norwegian tale "The Husband Who Was to Mind the
House" (No. 170). In the Halliwell version the
final lines read,
"If his wife didn't do a day's work in her life,
She should ne'er be ruled by he."
A later reading, now generally accepted, avoids
the bad grammar by changing to direct
discourse.
CHANGE ABOUT
There was an old man, who lived in a wood,
As you may plainly see;
He said he could do as much work in a day,
As his wife could do in three.
With all my heart, the old woman said,
If that you will allow,
To-morrow you'll stay at home in my stead,
And I'll go drive the plough:
But you must milk the Tidy cow,
For fear that she go dry;
And you must feed the little pigs
That are within the sty;
And you must mind the speckled hen,
For fear she lay away;
And you must reel the spool of yarn,
That I spun yesterday.
The old woman took a staff in her hand,
And went to drive the plough:
The old man took a pail in his hand,
And went to milk the cow;
But Tidy hinched, and Tidy flinched,
And Tidy broke his nose,
And Tidy gave him such a blow,
That the blood ran down to his toes.
High! Tidy! ho! Tidy! high!
Tidy! do stand still;
If ever I milk you, Tidy, again,
'Twill be sore against my will!
He went to feed the little pigs
That were within the sty;
He hit his head against the beam,
And he made the blood to fly.
He went to mind the speckled hen,
For fear she'd lay astray,
And he forgot the spool of yarn
His wife spun yesterday.
So he swore by the sun, the moon, and the stars,
And the green leaves on the tree,
"If my wife doesn't do a day's work in her life,
She shall ne'er be ruled by me."
SECTION III
FAIRY STORIES--TRADITIONAL TALES
BIBLIOGRAPHY
I. STANDARD GENERAL COLLECTIONS
Jacobs, Joseph, _English Fairy Tales_, _More English Fairy Tales_,
_Celtic Fairy Tales_, _More Celtic Fairy Tales_, _Indian Fairy
Tales_, _Europa's Fairy Tales_.
Lang, Andrew, _The Blue Fairy Book_, _The Red Fairy Book_, _The
Green Fairy Book_, _The Yellow Fairy Book_.
The Perrault stories are included in the first.
Many other volumes named by colors (_Violet_,
_Orange_, etc.) were made under Mr. Lang's
direction, but these four include the cream.
II. NATIONAL COLLECTIONS
ENGLISH: Campbell, J. F., _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_.
4 vols.
Halliwell, J. O., _Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales_.
Hartland, E. S., _English Fairy and Folk Tales_.
GERMAN: Grimm, J. and W., _Kinder und Hausmärchen_ (_Household
Tales_).
Translated by Edgar Taylor as _Grimm's Popular
Stories_ (55 stories, 1823-1827), and
illustrated by George Cruikshank. Best reprint
is in one volume with introduction by John
Ruskin.
Translated complete by Margaret Hunt (2 vols.,
1884), Introduction by Andrew Lang.
Other excellent translations of selected
stories by Mrs. Lucas and by Lucy Crane.
INDIAN: Frere, Mary, _Old Deccan Days_.
Knowles, J. H., _Folk Tales of Kashmir_.
Steel, Flora Annie, _Tales of the Punjab_. (Notes by
Captain R. C. Temple.)
Stokes, Maive, _Indian Fairy Tales_.
IRISH: Curtin, J., _Hero Tales of Ireland_.
Graves, A. P., _The Irish Fairy Book_.
Hyde, Douglas, _Beside the Fire_.
Joyce, P. W., _Old Celtic Romances_.
Wilde, Lady Constance, _Ancient Irish Legends_.
Yeats, W. B., _Irish Fairy Tales_.
ITALIAN: Crane, T. F., _Italian Popular Tales_.
NORSE: Asbjörnsen, P. C., and Moe, J., _Norske Folke-eventyr_
(_Norwegian Folk Tales_, 1842-1844, with subsequent
additions).
Translated by Sir George Webbe Dasent in
_Popular Tales from the Norse_ and _Tales of
the Fjeld_; by H. L. Braekstad in _Round the
Yule Log_ and _Fairy Tales from the North_.
SLAVIC: Bain, R. Nesbit, _Cossack Fairy Tales_, _Russian Folk
Tales_.
III. THE SCIENCE OF FOLKLORE
Cox, Roalfe, _Cinderella_. (Introduction by Lang.)
Clouston, W. A., _Popular Tales and Fictions_. 2 vols.
Gomme, G. L., _Folklore as an Historical Science_.
Hartland, E. S., _The Science of Fairy Tales_.
Keightly, Thomas, _Fairy Mythology_.
Lang, Andrew, _Perrault's Popular Tales_. (Introduction.)
MacCulloch, J. A., _The Childhood of Fiction_.
IV. PEDAGOGY
Adler, Felix, _The Moral Instruction of Children_, pp. 63-79.
Kready, Laura F., _The Study of Fairy Tales_. (Indispensable.)
MacClintock, P. L., _Literature in the Elementary School_, pp.
92-112.
McMurry, Charles, _Special Method in Reading_, pp. 47-69.
SECTION III: FAIRY STORIES--TRADITIONAL TALES
INTRODUCTORY
The forty-three tales in this section have been chosen (1) in the light
of what experience shows children most enjoy, (2) to represent as fully
as possible the great variety of our traditional inheritance, (3) to
afford an opportunity of calling attention to additional riches in
various collections, and (4) to suggest a fair minimum of the amount of
such material to be used with children. As in all such questions of
judgment, there must inevitably be differences of opinion. Many will
doubtless find stories missing that seem necessary even to so small a
list, while others will find tales included that may seem questionable.
Such a selection can be, and is intended to be, only tentative, a
starting point from which there are many lines of departure.
_Folklore._ These tales are all from the traditional field. They are
mainly of anonymous and popular origin, handed down orally by peasants.
The investigation of their origin, distribution, and interrelations
belongs to the science of folklore. A good-sized library could be filled
entirely with the books concerned with the studies and disputations in
this interesting field. While the folklorists have very much of value to
tell the teacher, their questions may be largely ignored until the
latter is quite fully acquainted with a large body of the acknowledged
masterpieces among folk stories, especially those which the schools have
taken to themselves as useful in elementary work. Teachers interested in
pursuing the matter further--and it is to be hoped there are many
such--will find suggestions in the notes at the head of each tale and in
the preceding bibliography that may prove serviceable in directing them
some little way. Each book will point the student to many others; when
he is once started on the road of investigation, there will open up many
unexpected and fascinating vistas.
_Objections to fairy tales._ These objections seem to fall as a rule
under two main heads. First, there are those who object to any
stimulation of the fanciful in children, and who would have us confine
ourselves to what they call realities. They would eliminate as far as
possible all the imaginings of children. The make-believe world so dear
to infancy has no place in their creed. Second, there are those who
doubt the moral tendency of all fairy tales. They observe that many of
these tales come to us from a cruder and coarser social state than our
own, that they contain elements of a superstitious and animistic past,
that they often deal with cruelties and horrors, trickeries and
disloyalties, that they are full of romantic improbabilities and
impossibilities. It may as well be admitted at once that the folklore of
the world contains many stories to which these and other objections are
valid.
_Is there a proper line of defense for fairy tales?_ Dr. Felix Adler,
who certainly cannot be accused of being insensible to realities, puts
the case thus, as between defenders and objectors: "I venture to think
that, as in many other cases, the cause of the quarrel is what logicians
call an _undistributed middle_--in other words, that the parties to the
dispute have each a different kind of fairy tale in mind. This species
of literature can be divided broadly into two classes--one consisting of
tales which ought to be rejected because they are really harmful, and
children ought to be protected from their bad influence, the other of
tales which have a most beautiful and elevating effect, and which we
cannot possibly afford to leave unutilized." Dr. Adler proceeds to point
out that the chief pedagogic values of the latter class are (1) that
they exercise and cultivate the imagination, and (2) that they stimulate
the idealizing tendency.
John Ruskin, another teacher who constantly in his writings throws the
emphasis upon the necessity of a true ethical understanding, has this to
say about the mischievous habit of trying to remake the fairy story in
the service of morals: "And the effect of the endeavor to make stories
moral upon the literary merit of the work itself, is as harmful as the
motive of the effort is false. For every fairy tale worth recording at
all is the remnant of a tradition possessing true historical
value;--historical, at least in so far as it has naturally arisen out of
the mind of a people under special circumstances, and arisen not without
meaning, nor removed altogether from their sphere of religious faith. It
sustains afterwards natural changes from the sincere action of the fear
or fancy of successive generations; it takes new color from their manner
of life, and new form from their changing moral tempers. As long as
these changes are natural and effortless, accidental and inevitable, the
story remains essentially true, altering its form, indeed, like a flying
cloud, but remaining a sign of the sky; a shadowy image, as truly a part
of the great firmament of the human mind as the light of reason which it
seems to interrupt. But the fair deceit and innocent error of it cannot
be interpreted nor restrained by a wilful purpose, and all additions to
it by art do but defile, as the shepherd disturbs the flakes of morning
mist with smoke from his fire of dead leaves." Instead of retouching
stories "to suit particular tastes, or inculcate favorite doctrines,"
Ruskin would have the child "know his fairy tale accurately, and have
perfect joy or awe in the conception of it as if it were real; thus he
will always be exercising his power of grasping realities: but a
confused, careless, and discrediting tenure of the fiction will lead to
as confused and careless reading of fact." Still further, Ruskin defends
the vulgarity, or commonness of language, found in many of the tales as
"of a wholesome and harmless kind. It is not, for instance, graceful
English, to say that a thought 'popped into Catherine's head'; but it
nevertheless is far better, as an initiation into literary style, that a
child should be told this than that 'a subject attracted Catherine's
attention.'"
Finally, we cannot forbear adding one more quotation, from the most
delightful of attacks upon the attackers of fairy tales, by Miss
Repplier: "That which is vital in literature or tradition, which has
survived the obscurity and wreckage of the past, whether as legend, or
ballad, or mere nursery rhyme, has survived in right of some intrinsic
merit of its own, and will not be snuffed out of existence by any of our
precautionary or hygienic measures. . . . Puss in Boots is one long record
of triumphant effrontery and deception. An honest and self-respecting
lad would have explained to the king that he was not the Marquis of
Carabas at all; that he had no desire to profit by his cat's ingenious
falsehoods, and no weak ambition to connect himself with the
aristocracy. Such a hero would be a credit to our modern schoolrooms,
and lift a load of care from the shoulders of our modern critics. Only
the children would have none of him, but would turn wistfully back to
those brave old tales which are their inheritance from a splendid past,
and of which no hand shall rob them." And upon this ultimate fact that
in literature the final decision rests with the audience appealed to,
the discussion may end.
_How to use fairy stories._ Briefly, the whole matter may be summed up
thus: _Know your story perfectly. Don't read it (unless you can't do
better). Tell it--with all the graces of voice and action you can
command. Tell it naturally and simply, as the folk-tellers did, not with
studied and elaborate "elocutionary" effects. Tell it again and again.
If you do it well, the children will not soon tire of it--and they will
indicate what you should do next!_
SUGGESTIONS
(Books referred to by authors' name are listed
in bibliography.)
The one important full-length discussion for
teachers on the whole subject of the fairy tale
is Kready's _A Study of Fairy Tales_. It is
enthusiastic rather than severely critical, and
that adds to its helpfulness. It has exhaustive
bibliographies. The Ruskin quotations above are
from his introduction to Taylor's _Grimm_; it
may be found also in his collected works, in
_On the Old Road_. Miss Repplier's "Battle of
the Babies" in her _Essays in Miniature_ should
be read entire. A thoroughly stimulating
article is Brian Hooker's "Narrative and the
Fairy Tale," _Bookman_, Vol. XXXIII, pp. 389,
501; see also his "Types of Fairy Tales,"
_Forum_, Vol. XL, p. 375. For the scientific
phase start with Hartland's _Science of Fairy
Tales_. For pedagogy see Adler, MacClintock,
McMurry.
147
Many English folk tales have doubtless been
lost because no one made a serious attempt to
collect them until railroads, newspapers, and
popular education had greatly changed the life
of the English folk and destroyed many of the
traditions. For the preservation of many folk
tales that we have, English-speaking peoples
are indebted to the scholarly antiquarian James
Orchard Halliwell (afterwards
Halliwell-Phillips, 1820-1889), who in the year
1842 edited a collection of _The Nursery Rhymes
of England_ for the Percy Society. He followed
it a few years later with _Popular Rhymes and
Nursery Tales_. They have long been regarded as
the basic books in their field. These two
collections were reprinted as _Nursery Rhymes
and Tales_. This one-volume edition is the one
referred to in the following pages. Halliwell
should be remembered as the first person to
collect in a scientific way the folk literature
of England. He gathered these rhymes and tales
from the mouths of the folk, from chapbooks,
and from many other sources and endeavored to
tell them as they had been told by the folk.
"The Old Woman and Her Pig" is perhaps the most
familiar of all nursery stories. It belongs to
the type of story known as the "accumulative,"
of which "The House That Jack Built" is the
purest model. In such a story there is a
constant repetition of the plot, with an
addition or slight change at each repetition,
until at the end there is a quick unwinding
which carries us back to the initial situation
and solves the difficulty with which the story
started. Halliwell gives two versions of this
particular story. It is so widespread that many
slight variations would be expected in
successful retellings of it. The traditional
version which follows seems to be the favorite
with primary teachers. It introduces at the
sixth stage the attractive rhyme "I see by the
moonlight, etc.," which originally formed part
of another nursery tale.
THE OLD WOMAN AND HER PIG
Once upon a time, an old woman was sweeping her little house, when, to
her great joy, she found a silver sixpence.
"What," said she, "shall I do with this little sixpence? I think I will
go to market and buy a pig." So the next day, she went to market, and
bought a nice little white pig. She tied a string to one of the pig's
legs, and began to drive him home.
On the way, the old woman and her pig came to a stile, and she said,--
"Please, pig, get over the stile."
But the pig would not.
Just then a little dog came trotting up, and the old woman said to
him,--
"Dog, dog, bite pig;
Pig won't get over the stile,
And I sha'n't get home to-night."
But the dog would not.
So the old woman held up her stick, and said,--
"Stick, stick, beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Pig won't get over the stile,
And I sha'n't get home to-night."
But the stick would not.
So the old woman gathered some bits of wood together to make a fire, and
set them on fire, and then threw her stick into the fire, and said,--
"Fire, fire, burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Pig won't get over the stile,
And I sha'n't get home to-night."
But the fire would not.
So the old woman fetched a pail of water that was standing near, and
said,--
"Water, water, quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Pig won't get over the stile,
And I sha'n't get home to-night."
But the water would not.
Then the old woman saw an ox coming; so she said,--
"Ox, ox, drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Pig won't go.
I see by the moonlight,
It's long past midnight;
Time pig and I were home an hour and a half ago."
But the ox would not.
So the old woman turned round, and saw a butcher, and she said,--
"Butcher, butcher, kill ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Pig won't go.
I see by the moonlight,
It's long past midnight;
Time pig and I were home an hour and a half ago."
But the butcher would not.
So the old woman took a rope out of her pocket, and said,--
"Rope, rope, hang butcher;
Butcher won't kill ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Pig won't go.
I see by the moonlight,
It's long past midnight;
Time pig and I were home an hour and a half ago."
But the rope would not.
Just then a large brown mouse ran across the meadow, and she said,--
"Mouse, mouse, gnaw rope;
Rope won't hang butcher;
Butcher won't kill ox;
Ox won't drink water;
Water won't quench fire;
Fire won't burn stick;
Stick won't beat dog;
Dog won't bite pig;
Pig won't go.
I see by the moonlight,
It's long past midnight;
Time pig and I were home an hour and a half ago."
"Yes," said the mouse, "I will if you
will give me some cheese."
So the old woman put her hand in her pocket, and found a nice piece of
cheese; and when the mouse had eaten it,
The mouse began to gnaw the rope,
The rope began to hang the butcher,
The butcher began to kill the ox,
The ox began to drink the water,
The water began to quench the fire,
The fire began to burn the stick,
The stick began to beat the dog,
The dog began to bite the pig,
And the pig began to go.
But what time the old woman and her pig got home, you, nor I, nor nobody
knows.
148
Teachers and parents owe a greater debt of
gratitude to Joseph Jacobs than to any other
modern student of folklore. He was born in
Australia in 1854, spent most of his life in
scholarly pursuits in England, and died in
America in 1916. In his six volumes of English,
Celtic, Indian, and European fairy tales he
gave the world versions of its best known and
most representative folk stories in a form
suited to children while remaining true in all
essentials to the original oral versions of the
folk. This combination of scientific accuracy
and literary workmanship is very rare. In the
introductions and notes to these various
volumes may be found a wealth of information
which the general reader can understand without
the necessity of special training in the
science of folklore. And best of all, these
volumes can be had at prices that are
comparatively cheap.
The following story of "Henny-Penny" is given
in the fine version by Joseph Jacobs in his
_English Fairy Tales_. He heard it as a child
in Australia and he thinks "the fun consists in
the avoidance of all pronouns, which results in
jawbreaking sentences." This story is also very
familiar in the Halliwell version called
"Chicken-Licken," and there are numerous
European parallels.
HENNY-PENNY
One day Henny-penny was picking up corn in the cornyard
when--whack!--something hit her upon the head. "Goodness gracious me!"
said Henny-penny; "the sky's a-going to fall; I must go and tell the
king."
So she went along, and she went along, and she went along till she met
Cocky-locky. "Where are you going, Henny-penny?" says Cocky-locky. "Oh!
I'm going to tell the king the sky's a-falling," says Henny-penny. "May
I come with you?" says Cocky-locky. "Certainly," says Henny-penny. So
Henny-penny and Cocky-locky went to tell the king the sky was a-falling.
They went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met
Ducky-daddles. "Where are you going to, Henny-penny and Cocky-locky?"
says Ducky-daddles. "Oh! we're going to tell the king the sky's
a-falling," said Henny-penny and Cocky-locky. "May I come with you?"
says Ducky-daddles. "Certainly," said Henny-penny and Cocky-locky. So
Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, and Ducky-daddles went to tell the king the
sky was a-falling.
So they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they
met Goosey-poosey. "Where are you going to, Henny-penny, Cocky-locky,
and Ducky-daddles?" said Goosey-poosey. "Oh! we're going to tell the
king the sky's a-falling," said Henny-penny and Cocky-locky and
Ducky-daddles. "May I come with you?" said Goosey-poosey. "Certainly,"
said Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, and Ducky-daddles. So Henny-penny,
Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, and Goosey-poosey went to tell the king the
sky was a-falling.
So they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they
met Turkey-lurkey. "Where are you going, Henny-penny, Cocky-locky,
Ducky-daddles, and Goosey-poosey?" says Turkey-lurkey. "Oh! we're going
to tell the king the sky's a-falling," said Henny-penny, Cocky-locky,
Ducky-daddles, and Goosey-poosey. "May I come with you, Henny-penny,
Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, and Goosey-poosey?" said Turkey-lurkey. "Oh,
certainly, Turkey-lurkey," said Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
and Goosey-poosey. So Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey all went to tell the king the sky was
a-falling.
So they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they
met Foxy-woxy, and Foxy-woxy said to Henny-penny, Cocky-locky,
Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey: "Where are you going,
Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and
Turkey-lurkey?" And Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey said to Foxy-woxy: "We're going to tell
the king the sky's a-falling." "Oh! but this is not the way to the king,
Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and
Turkey-lurkey," says Foxy-woxy; "I know the proper way; shall I show it
you?" "Oh, certainly, Foxy-woxy," said Henny-Penny, Cocky-locky,
Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey. So Henny-penny,
Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, Turkey-lurkey, and Foxy-woxy
all went to tell the king the sky was a-falling.
So they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they
came to a narrow and dark hole. Now this was the door of Foxy-woxy's
cave. But Foxy-woxy said to Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey: "This is the short way to the king's
palace; you'll soon get there if you follow me. I will go first and you
come after, Henny-Penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and
Turkey-lurkey." "Why of course, certainly, without doubt, why not?" said
Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and
Turkey-lurkey.
So Foxy-woxy went into his cave, and he didn't go very far, but turned
round to wait for Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles,
Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey. So at last at first Turkey-lurkey went
through the dark hole into the cave. He hadn't got far when "Hrumph,"
Foxy-woxy snapped off Turkey-lurkey's head and threw his body over his
left shoulder. Then Goosey-poosey went in, and "Hrumph," off went her
head and Goosey-poosey was thrown beside Turkey-lurkey. Then
Ducky-daddles waddled down, and "Hrumph," snapped Foxy-woxy, and
Ducky-daddles' head was off and Ducky-daddles was thrown alongside
Turkey-lurkey and Goosey-poosey. Then Cocky-locky strutted down into the
cave, and he hadn't gone far when "Snap, Hrumph!" went Foxy-woxy and
Cocky-locky was thrown alongside of Turkey-lurkey, Goosey-poosey, and
Ducky-daddles.
But Foxy-woxy had made two bites at Cocky-locky, and when the first snap
only hurt Cocky-locky, but didn't kill him, he called out to
Henny-penny. But she turned tail and off she ran home, so she never told
the king the sky was a-falling.
149
The favorite story of "Teeny-Tiny" is taken
from Halliwell, who obtained it from oral
tradition, and by whom it was, apparently,
first put into print. "This simple tale," he
says, "seldom fails to rivet the attention of
children, especially if well told. The last two
words should be said loudly with a start." Many
modern story-tellers seem to prefer modified
forms of this story, presumably owing to a
feeling on their part that the bone and the
churchyard have gruesome suggestions. Carolyn
S. Bailey gives one of the best of these
modified forms in her _Firelight Stories_,
where the woman goes into a field instead of
the churchyard, finds a hen at the foot of a
tree, thinks this is a chance to have an egg
for her breakfast, puts the hen in her
reticule, goes home, puts the hen in her
cupboard, and goes upstairs to take a nap. Of
course the "teeny-tiny" goes in at every point.
Substituting "hen" for "bone," the story
continues substantially as given below.
TEENY-TINY
Once upon a time there was a teeny-tiny woman lived in a teeny-tiny
house in a teeny-tiny village. Now, one day this teeny-tiny woman put on
her teeny-tiny bonnet, and went out of her teeny-tiny house to take a
teeny-tiny walk. And when this teeny-tiny woman had gone a teeny-tiny
way, she came to a teeny-tiny gate; so the teeny-tiny woman opened the
teeny-tiny gate, and went into a teeny-tiny churchyard. And when this
teeny-tiny woman had got into the teeny-tiny churchyard, she saw a
teeny-tiny bone on a teeny-tiny grave, and the teeny-tiny woman said to
her teeny-tiny self, "This teeny-tiny bone will make me some teeny-tiny
soup for my teeny-tiny supper." So the teeny-tiny woman put the
teeny-tiny bone into her teeny-tiny pocket, and went home to her
teeny-tiny house.
Now when the teeny-tiny woman got home to her teeny-tiny house, she was
a teeny-tiny tired; so she went up her teeny-tiny stairs to her
teeny-tiny bed, and put the teeny-tiny bone into a teeny-tiny cupboard.
And when this teeny-tiny woman had been to sleep a teeny-tiny time, she
was awakened by a teeny-tiny voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard, which
said:
"GIVE ME MY BONE!"
And this teeny-tiny woman was a teeny-tiny frightened, so she hid her
teeny-tiny head under the teeny-tiny clothes and went to sleep again.
And when she had been to sleep again a teeny-tiny time, the teeny-tiny
voice again cried out from the teeny-tiny cupboard a teeny-tiny louder,
"GIVE ME MY BONE!"
This made the teeny-tiny woman a teeny-tiny more frightened, so she hid
her teeny-tiny head a teeny-tiny farther under the teeny-tiny clothes.
And when the teeny-tiny woman had been to sleep again a teeny-tiny time,
the teeny-tiny voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard said again a
teeny-tiny louder,
"GIVE ME MY BONE!"
And this teeny-tiny woman was a teeny-tiny bit more frightened, but she
put her teeny-tiny head out of the teeny-tiny clothes, and said in her
loudest teeny-tiny voice,
"TAKE IT!"
150
The very old story that follows is taken from
Halliwell, and is, according to Jacobs,
scarcely more than a variant of "The Old Woman
and Her Pig." Like that story, "The Cat and the
Mouse" appeals to small people by its
pronounced rhythmical structure, accentuated by
the rhyme which marks the transition to each
new section, and by the "run" at the close.
THE CAT AND THE MOUSE
The cat and the mouse
Played in the malt-house:
The cat bit the mouse's tail off. "Pray, puss, give me my tail."
"No," said the cat, "I'll not give you your tail till you go to the cow
and fetch me some milk."
First she leapt, and then she ran,
Till she came to the cow, and thus began:
"Pray, cow, give me milk, that I may give cat milk, that cat may give me
my own tail again."
"No," said the cow, "I will give you no milk till you go to the farmer
and fetch me some hay."
First she leapt, and then she ran,
Till she came to the farmer, and thus began:
"Pray, farmer, give me hay, that I may give cow hay, that cow may give
me milk, that I may give cat milk, that cat may give me my own tail
again."
"No," said the farmer, "I'll give you no hay till you go to the butcher
and fetch me some meat."
First she leapt, and then she ran,
Till she came to the butcher, and thus began:
"Pray, butcher, give me meat, that I may give farmer meat, that farmer
may give me hay, that I may give cow hay, that cow may give me milk,
that I may give cat milk, that cat may give me my own tail again."
"No," said the butcher, "I'll give you no meat till you go to the baker
and fetch me some bread."
First she leapt, and then she ran,
Till she came to the baker, and thus began:
"Pray, baker, give me bread, that I may give butcher bread, that butcher
may give me meat, that I may give farmer meat, that farmer may give me
hay, that I may give cow hay, that cow may give me milk, that I may give
cat milk, that cat may give me my own tail again."
"Yes," said the baker, "I'll give you some bread,
But if you eat my meal, I'll cut off your head."
Then the baker gave mouse bread, and mouse gave butcher bread, and
butcher gave mouse meat, and mouse gave farmer meat, and farmer gave
mouse hay, and mouse gave cow hay, and cow gave mouse milk, and mouse
gave cat milk, and cat gave mouse her own tail again.
151
The following story is in the most familiar
version of Halliwell's collection. Another
much-used form of the story may be found in
Lang's _Green Fairy Book_, in which the pigs
are distinctly characterized and given the
names of Browny, Whitey, and Blacky. Jacobs
uses the Halliwell version in his _English
Fairy Tales_, but prefixes to it an opening
formula which seems to have been much in use by
old story-tellers as a way of beginning almost
any oral story for children:
"Once upon a time when pigs spoke rhyme
And monkeys chewed tobacco,
And hens took snuff to make them tough,
And ducks went quack, quack, quack, O!"
THE STORY OF THE THREE LITTLE PIGS
Once upon a time there was an old sow with three little pigs, and as she
had not enough to keep them, she sent them out to seek their fortune.
The first that went off met a man with a bundle of straw, and said to
him:
"Please, man, give me that straw to build me a house."
Which the man did, and the little pig built a house with it. Presently
came along a wolf, and knocked at the door, and said:
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in."
To which the pig answered:
"No, no, by the hair of my chinny chin chin."
The wolf then answered to that:
"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 the
little pig.
The second little pig met a man with a bundle of furze and said:
"Please, man, give me that furze to build a house."
Which the man did, and the pig built his house. Then along came the
wolf, and said:
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in."
"No, no, by the hair of my chinny 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
he blew the house down, and he ate up the little pig.
The third little pig met a man with a load of bricks, and said:
"Please, man, give me those bricks to build a house with."
So the man gave him the bricks, and he built his house with them. So the
wolf came, as he did to the other little pigs, and said:
"Little pig, little pig, let me come in."
"No, no, by the hair on my chinny chin chin."
"Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in."
Well, he huffed, and he puffed, and he huffed and he puffed, and he
puffed and huffed; but he could _not_ get the house down. When he found
that he could not, 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 Home-field, and if you will be ready to-morrow
morning I will call for you, and we will go together and get some for
dinner."
"Very well," said the little pig, "I will be ready. What time do you
mean to go?"
"Oh, at six o'clock."
Well, the little pig got up at five and got the turnips before the wolf
came (which he did about six), who said:
"Little pig, are you ready?"
The little pig said: "Ready! I have been and come back again, and got a
nice potful for dinner."
The wolf felt very angry at this, but thought that he would be _up to_
the 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
me I will come for you at five o'clock tomorrow and we will go together
and get some apples."
Well, the little pig bustled up the next morning at four o'clock, and
went off for the apples, hoping to get back before the wolf came; but he
had farther to go and had to climb the tree, so that just as he was
coming down from it, he saw the wolf coming, which, as you may suppose,
frightened him very much. 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, the
little pig jumped down and ran home. The next day the wolf came again
and said to the little pig:
"Little pig, there is a fair at Shanklin this afternoon. Will you go?"
"Oh, yes," said the pig, "I will go. What time shall you be ready?"
"At three," said the wolf. So the little pig went off before the time as
usual, and got to the fair and bought a butter-churn, which he was going
home with, when he saw the wolf coming. Then he could not tell what to
do. So he got into the churn to hide, and by so 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 the fair. He went to the
little pig's house and told him how frightened he had been by a great
round thing which came down the hill past him. Then the little pig said:
"Hah, I frightened you, then. I had been to the fair and bought a
butter-churn, and when I saw you, I got into it and rolled down the
hill."
Then the wolf was very angry indeed, and declared he _would_ eat up the
little pig and that he would get down the chimney after him. When the
little pig saw what he was about, he hung on the pot full of water and
made up a blazing fire, and, just as the wolf was coming down, took off
the cover, and in fell the wolf; so the little pig put on the cover
again in an instant, boiled him up, and ate him for supper, and lived
happy ever afterwards.
152
How great calamities sometimes grow out of
small causes is illustrated in an old
proverbial saying of Poor Richard (see No.
137). The favorite English folk-tale version of
this theme, taken from Halliwell, is given
below. It takes the form of an accumulative
droll, or comic story. The overwhelming
catastrophe at the end is so complete and so
unexpected that it has a decidedly humorous
effect.
TITTY MOUSE AND TATTY MOUSE
Titty Mouse and Tatty Mouse both lived in a house,
Titty Mouse went a leasing and Tatty Mouse went a leasing,
So they both went a leasing.
Titty Mouse leased an ear of corn, and
Tatty Mouse leased an ear of corn,
So they both leased an ear of corn.
Titty Mouse made a pudding, and
Tatty Mouse made a pudding,
So they both made a pudding.
And Tatty Mouse put her pudding into the pot to boil,
But when Titty went to put hers in, the pot tumbled over, and
scalded her to death.
Then Tatty sat down and wept; then a three-legged stool said: "Tatty,
why do you weep?" "Titty's dead," said Tatty, "and so I weep." "Then,"
said the stool, "I'll hop," so the stool hopped.
Then a broom in the corner of the room said: "Stool, why do you hop?"
"Oh!" said the stool, "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, and so I hop."
"Then," said the broom, "I'll sweep," so the broom began to sweep.
"Then," said the door, "Broom, why do you sweep?" "Oh!" said the broom,
"Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and so I sweep."
"Then," said the door, "I'll jar," so the door jarred.
"Then," said the window, "Door, why do you jar?" "Oh," said the door,
"Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps,
and so I jar."
"Then," said the window, "I'll creak," so the window creaked. Now there
was an old form outside the house, and when the window creaked, the form
said: "Window, why do you creak?" "Oh!" said the window, "Titty's dead,
and Tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door
jars, and so I creak."
"Then," said the old form, "I'll run round the house"; then the old form
ran round the house. Now there was a fine large walnut-tree growing by
the cottage, and the tree said to the form: "Form, why do you run round
the house?" "Oh!" said the form, "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, and the
stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks,
and so I run round the house."
"Then," said the walnut-tree, "I'll shed my leaves," so the walnut-tree
shed all its beautiful green leaves. Now there was a little bird perched
on one of the boughs of the tree, and when all the leaves fell, it said:
"Walnut-tree, why do you shed your leaves?" "Oh!" said the tree,
"Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps,
the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house,
and so I shed my leaves."
"Then," said the little bird, "I'll moult all my feathers," so he
moulted all his pretty feathers. Now there was a little girl walking
below, carrying a jug of milk for her brothers' and sisters' supper, and
when she saw the poor little bird moult all its feathers, she said:
"Little bird, why do you moult all your feathers?" "Oh!" said the little
bird, "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom
sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round
the house, the walnut-tree sheds its leaves, and so I moult all my
feathers."
"Then," said the little girl, "I'll spill the milk," so she dropt the
pitcher and spilt the milk. Now there was an old man just by on the top
of a ladder thatching a rick, and when he saw the little girl spill the
milk, he said: "Little girl, what do you mean by spilling the
milk?--your little brothers and sisters must go without their supper."
Then said the little girl: "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, the stool
hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the
old form runs round the house, the walnut-tree sheds all its leaves, the
little bird moults all its feathers, and so I spill the milk."
"Oh!" said the old man, "then I'll tumble off the ladder and break my
neck," so he tumbled off the ladder and broke his neck; and when the old
man broke his neck, the great walnut-tree fell down with a crash and
upset the old form and house, and the house falling knocked the window
out, and the window knocked the door down, and the door upset the broom,
and the broom upset the stool, and poor little Tatty Mouse was buried
beneath the ruins.
153
"The Story of the Three Bears" is perhaps the
only instance in which a piece of literature by
a known English author is found among accepted
folk tales. It appeared in Robert Southey's
rambling miscellany, _The Doctor_ (1837). He
may have taken it from an old tale, but no
amount of investigation has located any certain
source. In the most familiar versions the
naughty old woman gives place to a little girl
whose name is Goldenhair, Goldilocks,
Silverhair, or Silverlocks. The point to the
story is lessened by the change, but the
popularity of these modifications seems to
suggest that children prefer to have the
ill-mannered old woman turned into an
attractive little girl. Southey apparently was
delighted with efforts to bring his story into
any form more pleasing to the folk, and we find
his son-in-law saying that he was especially
pleased with a versification "by G. N. and
published especially for the amusement of
'little people' lest in the volumes of _The
Doctor_ it should 'escape their sight.'"
However, it would appear that teachers at least
should know this masterpiece in the only form
in which its author put it. To that end this
version of "The Three Bears" follows Southey
with the change of a single word. At the head
of the story he placed these lines from
Gascoyne:
"A tale which may content the minds
Of learned men and grave philosophers."
THE STORY OF THE THREE BEARS
ROBERT SOUTHEY
[Transcriber's Note: For this story, different
sized text was used to indicate the size of the
different bears' voices. The largest text has
been denote by use of the ~ symbol and the
smallest text has been denoted by use of the +
symbol.]
Once upon a time there were Three Bears who lived together in a house of
their own in a wood. One of them was a Little, Small, Wee Bear; and one
was a Middle-sized Bear, and the other was a Great, Huge Bear. They had
each a pot for their porridge; a little pot for the Little, Small, Wee
Bear; and a middle-sized pot for the Middle Bear; and a great pot for
the Great, Huge Bear. And they had each a chair to sit in; a little
chair for the Little, Small, Wee Bear; and a middle-sized chair for the
Middle Bear; and a great chair for the Great, Huge Bear. And they had
each a bed to sleep in; a little bed for the Little, Small, Wee Bear;
and a middle-sized bed for the Middle Bear; and a great bed for the
Great, Huge Bear.
One day after they had made the porridge for their breakfast and poured
it into their porridge-pots, they walked out into the wood while the
porridge was cooling, that they might not burn their mouths by beginning
too soon to eat it. And while they were walking, a little old Woman came
to the house. She could not have been a good, honest old Woman; for
first she looked in at the window and then she peeped in at the keyhole;
and seeing nobody in the house, she lifted the latch. The door was not
fastened, because the Bears were good Bears, who did nobody any harm and
never suspected that anybody would harm them. So the little old Woman
opened the door and went in, and well pleased she was when she saw the
porridge on the table. If she had been a good little old Woman, she
would have waited till the Bears came home, and then perhaps they would
have asked her to breakfast, for they were good Bears--a little rough or
so, as the manner of Bears is, but for all that very good-natured and
hospitable. But she was an impudent, bad old Woman, and set about
helping herself.
So first she tasted the porridge of the Great, Huge Bear, and that was
too hot for her; and she said a bad word about that. And then she tasted
the porridge of the Middle Bear, and that was too cold for her; and she
said a bad word about that too. And then she went to the porridge of the
Little, Small, Wee Bear, and tasted that; and that was neither too hot
nor too cold, but just right; and she liked it so well that she ate it
all up. But the naughty old Woman said a bad word about the little
porridge-pot because it did not hold enough for her.
Then the little old Woman sat down in the chair of the Great, Huge Bear,
and that was too hard for her. And then she sat down in the chair of the
Middle Bear, and that was too soft for her. And then she sat down in the
chair of the Little, Small, Wee Bear, and that was neither too hard nor
too soft, but just right. So she seated herself in it, and there she sat
till the bottom of the chair came out, and down she came, plump upon the
ground. And the naughty old Woman said a wicked word about that too.
Then the little old Woman went upstairs into the bed-chamber in which
the three Bears 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 the bed of the Middle 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 that was neither too high at the head nor at the foot, but
just right. So she covered 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 the little old Woman had
left the spoon of the Great, Huge Bear standing in his porridge.
"~SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT MY PORRIDGE!~" said the Great, Huge Bear, in his
great, rough, gruff voice. And when the Middle Bear looked at his, he
saw that the spoon was standing in it too. They were wooden spoons; if
they had been silver ones, the naughty old Woman would have put them in
her pocket.
"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT MY PORRIDGE!" said the Middle Bear, in his middle
voice.
Then the Little, Small, Wee Bear looked at his, and there was the spoon
in the porridge-pot, but the porridge was all gone.
"+SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT MY PORRIDGE, AND HAS EATEN IT ALL UP!+" said the
Little, Small, Wee Bear, in his little, small, wee voice.
Upon this the Three Bears, seeing that some one had entered their house
and eaten up the Little, Small, Wee Bear's breakfast, began to look
about them. Now the little old Woman had not put the hard cushion
straight when she rose from the chair of the Great, Huge Bear.
"~SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR!~" said the Great, Huge Bear, in
his great, rough, gruff voice.
And the little old Woman had squatted down the soft cushion of the
Middle Bear.
"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR!" said the Middle Bear, in his
middle voice.
And you know what the little old Woman 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 further
search; so they went upstairs into their bed-chamber. Now the little old
Woman had pulled the pillow of the Great, Huge Bear out of its place.
"~SOMEBODY HAS BEEN LYING IN MY BED!~" said the Great, Huge Bear, in his
great, rough, gruff voice.
And the little old Woman had pulled the bolster of the Middle Bear out
of its place.
"SOMEBODY HAS BEEN LYING IN MY BED!" said the Middle Bear, in his middle
voice.
And when the Little, Small, Wee Bear came to look at his bed, there was
the bolster in its right place, and the pillow in its place upon the
bolster; and upon the pillow was the little old Woman's ugly, dirty
head,--which was not in its place, for she had no business there.
"+SOMEBODY HAS BEEN LYING IN MY BED,--AND HERE SHE IS!+" said the Little,
Small, Wee Bear, in his little, small, wee voice.
The little old Woman had heard in her sleep the great, rough, gruff
voice of the Great, Huge Bear; but she was so fast asleep that it was no
more to her than the roaring of wind or the rumbling of thunder. And she
had heard the middle voice of the Middle Bear, but it was only as if she
had heard some one 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 Three Bears on one side of the bed, she tumbled herself out at the
other and ran 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 they got up in the morning. Out the little old Woman jumped;
and whether she broke her neck in the fall, or ran into the wood and was
lost there, or found her way out of the wood and was taken up by the
constable and sent to the House of Correction for a vagrant, as she was,
I cannot tell. But the Three Bears never saw anything more of her.
154
A noodle story is a droll, or comic story, that
follows the fortunes of very simple or stupid
characters. There are many noodle stories among
the favorites of the folk, and the three
immediately following are among the best known.
This version of "The Three Sillies" was
collected from oral tradition in Suffolk,
England. In the original the dangerous tool was
an ax, but the collector informed Mr. Hartland,
in whose _English Fairy and Folk Tales_ it is
reprinted, that she had found it was really "a
great big wooden mallet, as some one had left
sticking there when they'd been _making-up_ the
beer." This change, following the example of
Jacobs, is made in the text of the story. This
particular droll is widespread. Grimms' "Clever
Elsie" is the same story, and a French version,
"The Six Sillies," is in Lang's _Red Fairy
Book_. A very fine Italian version, called
"Bastienelo," is given in Crane's _Italian
Popular Tales_. The tendency of people to
"borrow trouble" is so universal that stories
illustrating its ludicrous consequences have
always had wide appeal. Some details of these
variants are due to local environments. For
instance, in the Italian story wine takes the
place of beer, and it has been pointed out that
there are "borrowing trouble" stories found in
New York and Ohio in which the thing feared is
the heavy iron door closing the mouth of the
oven which in pioneer days was built in by the
side of the fireplace.
=THE THREE SILLIES=
Once upon a time there was a farmer and his wife who had one daughter,
and she was courted by a gentleman. Every evening he used to come and
see her, and stop to supper at the farmhouse, and the daughter used to
be sent down into the cellar to draw the beer for supper. So one evening
she had gone down to draw the beer, and she happened to look up at the
ceiling while she was drawing, and she saw a mallet stuck in one of the
beams. It must have been there a long, long time, but somehow or other
she had never noticed it before, and she began a-thinking. And she
thought it was very dangerous to have that mallet there, for she said to
herself: "Suppose him and me was to be married, and we was to have a
son, and he was to grow up to be a man, and come down into the cellar to
draw the beer, like as I'm doing now, and the mallet was to fall on his
head and kill him, what a dreadful thing it would be!" And she put down
the candle and the jug, and sat herself down and began a-crying.
Well, they began to wonder upstairs how it was that she was so long
drawing the beer, and her mother went down to see after her, and she
found her sitting on the settle crying, and the beer running over the
floor. "Why, whatever is the matter?" said her mother.
"Oh, mother!" says she, "look at that horrid mallet! Suppose we was to
be married, and was to have a son, and he was to grow up, and was to
come down to the cellar to draw the beer, and the mallet was to fall on
his head and kill him, what a dreadful thing it would be!"
"Dear, dear! what a dreadful thing it would be!" said the mother, and
she sat her down aside of the daughter and started a-crying too.
Then after a bit the father began to wonder that they didn't come back,
and he went down into the cellar to look after them himself, and there
they two sat a-crying, and the beer running all over the floor.
"Whatever is the matter?" says he.
"Why," says the mother, "look at that horrid mallet. Just suppose, if
our daughter and her sweetheart was to be married, and was to have a
son, and he was to grow up, and was to come down into the cellar to draw
the beer, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him, what a
dreadful thing it would be!"
"Dear, dear, dear! so it would!" said the father, and he sat himself
down aside of the other two, and started a-crying.
Now the gentleman got tired of stopping up in the kitchen by himself,
and at last he went down into the cellar too, to see what they were
after; and there they three sat a-crying side by side, and the beer
running all over the floor. And he ran straight and turned the tap. Then
he said: "Whatever are you three doing, sitting there crying, and
letting the beer run all over the floor?"
"Oh!" says the father, "look at that horrid mallet! Suppose you and our
daughter was to be married, and was to have a son, and he was to grow
up, and was to come down into the cellar to draw the beer, and the
mallet was to fall on his head and kill him!" And then they all started
a-crying worse than before.
But the gentleman burst out a-laughing, and reached up and pulled out
the mallet, and then he said: "I've traveled many miles, and I never met
three such big sillies as you three before; and now I shall start out on
my travels again, and when I can find three bigger sillies than you
three, then I'll come back and marry your daughter." So he wished them
good-bye, and started off on his travels, and left them all crying
because the girl had lost her sweetheart.
Well, he set out, and he traveled a long way, and at last he came to a
woman's cottage that had some grass growing on the roof. And the woman
was trying to get her cow to go up a ladder to the grass, and the poor
thing durst not go. So the gentleman asked the woman what she was doing.
"Why, lookye," she said, "look at all that beautiful grass. I'm going to
get the cow on to the roof to eat it. She'll be quite safe, for I shall
tie a string round her neck, and pass it down the chimney, and tie it to
my wrist as I go about the house, so she can't fall off without my
knowing it."
"Oh, you poor silly!" said the gentleman, "you should cut the grass and
throw it down to the cow!" But the woman thought it was easier to get
the cow up the ladder than to get the grass down, so she pushed her and
coaxed her and got her up, and tied a string round her neck, and passed
it down the chimney, and fastened it to her own wrist. And the gentleman
went on his way, but he hadn't gone far when the cow tumbled off the
roof, and hung by the string tied round her neck, and it strangled her.
And the weight of the cow tied to her wrist pulled the woman up the
chimney, and she stuck fast half-way and was smothered in the soot.
Well, that was one big silly.
And the gentleman went on and on, and he went to an inn to stop the
night, and they were so full at the inn that they had to put him in a
double-bedded room, and another traveller was to sleep in the other bed.
The other man was a very pleasant fellow, and they got very friendly
together; but in the morning, when they were both getting up, the
gentleman was surprised to see the other hang his trousers on the knobs
of the chest of drawers and run across the room and try to jump into
them, and he tried over and over again, and couldn't manage it; and the
gentleman wondered whatever he was doing it for. At last he stopped and
wiped his face with his handkerchief. "Oh, dear," he says, "I do think
trousers are the most awkwardest kind of clothes that ever were. I can't
think who could have invented such things. It takes me the best part of
an hour to get into mine every morning, and I get so hot! How do you
manage yours?" So the gentleman burst out a-laughing, and showed him how
to put them on; and he was very much obliged to him, and said he never
should have thought of doing it that way.
So that was another big silly.
Then the gentleman went on his travels again; and he came to a village,
and outside the village there was a pond, and round the pond was a crowd
of people. And they had got rakes, and brooms, and pitchforks, reaching
into the pond; and the gentleman asked what was the matter.
"Why," they said, "matter enough! Moon's tumbled into the pond, and we
can't rake her out anyhow!"
So the gentleman burst out a-laughing, and told them to look up into the
sky, and that it was only the shadow in the water. But they wouldn't
listen to him, and abused him shamefully, and he got away as quick as he
could.
So there was a whole lot of sillies bigger than the three sillies at
home. So the gentleman turned back home again and married the farmer's
daughter, and if they didn't live happy for ever after, that's nothing
to do with you or me.
155
There seemed to be a feeling common among the
folk that simple-minded persons were in the
special care of Providence. Hence, sometimes
the achievement of success beyond the power of
wiser and cleverer individuals. "Lazy Jack"
comes from the Halliwell collection. "The
humor lies in the contrast between what Jack
did and what anybody 'with sense' knows he
ought to have done." A parallel story is the
Grimms' "Hans in Luck." A most striking and
popular Americanization of it is Sara Cone
Bryant's "The Story of Epaminondas and His
Auntie" in her _Stories to Tell to Children_.
LAZY JACK
Once upon a time there was a boy whose name was Jack, and he lived with
his mother on a dreary common. They were very poor, and the old woman
got her living by spinning, but Jack was so lazy that he would do
nothing but bask in the sun in the hot weather and sit by the corner of
the hearth in the winter time. His mother could not persuade him to do
anything for her and was obliged at last to tell him that if he did not
begin to work for his porridge she would turn him out to get his living
as he could.
This threat at length roused Jack, and he went out and hired himself for
the day to a neighboring farmer for a penny; but as he was coming home,
never having had any money in his possession before, he lost it in
passing over a brook. "You stupid boy," said his mother, "you should
have put it in your pocket."
"I'll do so another time," replied Jack.
The next day Jack went out again and hired himself to a cowkeeper, who
gave him a jar of milk for his day's work. Jack took the jar and put it
into the large pocket of his jacket, spilling it all long before he got
home. "Dear me!" said the old woman; "you should have carried it on your
head."
"I'll do so another time," said Jack.
The following day Jack hired himself again to a farmer, who agreed to
give him a cream cheese for his services. In the evening Jack took the
cheese and went home with it on his head. By the time he got home the
cheese was completely spoilt, part of it being lost and part matted with
his hair. "You stupid lout," said his mother, "you should have carried
it very carefully in your hands."
"I'll do so another time," replied Jack.
The day after this Jack again went out and hired himself to a baker, who
would give him nothing for his work but a large tomcat. Jack took the
cat and began carrying it very carefully in his hands, but in a short
time pussy scratched him so much that he was compelled to let it go.
When he got home, his mother said to him: "You silly fellow, you should
have tied it with a string and dragged it along after you."
"I'll do so another time," said Jack.
The next day Jack hired himself to a butcher, who rewarded his labors by
the handsome present of a shoulder of mutton. Jack took the mutton, tied
it to a string, and trailed it along after him in the dirt, so that by
the time he had got home the meat was completely spoilt. His mother was
this time quite out of patience with him, for the next day was Sunday,
and she was obliged to content herself with cabbage for her dinner. "You
ninney-hammer," said she to her son, "you should have carried it on your
shoulder."
"I'll do so another time," replied Jack.
On the Monday Jack went once more and hired himself to a cattle-keeper,
who gave him a donkey for his trouble. Although Jack was very strong, he
found some difficulty in hoisting the donkey on his shoulders, but at
last he accomplished it and began walking slowly home with his prize.
Now it happened that in the course of his journey there lived a rich man
with his only daughter, a beautiful girl, but unfortunately deaf and
dumb. She had never laughed in her life, and the doctors said she would
never recover till somebody made her laugh. This young lady happened to
be looking out of the window when Jack was passing with the donkey on
his shoulders, the legs sticking up in the air, and the sight was so
comical and strange that she burst out into a great fit of laughter, and
immediately recovered her speech and hearing. Her father was overjoyed,
and fulfilled his promise by marrying her to Jack, who was thus made a
rich gentleman. They lived in a large house, and Jack's mother lived
with them in great happiness until she died.
156
The following noodle story is from Halliwell as
obtained from oral tradition in the west of
England. It is a variant of the "Lazy Jack"
type.
THE STORY OF MR. VINEGAR
Mr. and Mrs. Vinegar lived in a vinegar bottle. Now, one day when Mr.
Vinegar was from home and Mrs. Vinegar, who was a very good housewife,
was busily sweeping her house, an unlucky thump of the broom brought the
whole house clitter-clatter about her ears. In a paroxysm of grief she
rushed forth to meet her husband. On seeing him she exclaimed, "Oh, Mr.
Vinegar, Mr. Vinegar, we are ruined, we are ruined: I have knocked the
house down, and it is all to pieces!"
Mr. Vinegar then said: "My dear, let us see what can be done. Here is
the door; I will take it on my back, and we will go forth to seek our
fortune."
They walked all that day and at nightfall entered a thick forest. They
were both excessively tired, and Mr. Vinegar said: "My love, I will
climb up into a tree, drag up the door, and you shall follow." He
accordingly did so, and they both stretched their weary limbs on the
door, and fell fast asleep.
In the middle of the night Mr. Vinegar was disturbed by the sound of
voices beneath, and to his inexpressible dismay perceived that a party
of thieves were met to divide their booty. "Here, Jack," said one,
"here's five pounds for you; here, Bill, here's ten pounds for you;
here, Bob, here's three pounds for you."
Mr. Vinegar could listen no longer; his terror was so intense that he
trembled most violently and shook down the door on their heads. Away
scampered the thieves, but Mr. Vinegar dared not quit his retreat till
broad daylight. He then scrambled out of the tree and went to lift up
the door. What did he behold but a number of golden guineas! "Come down,
Mrs. Vinegar," he cried; "come down, I say; our fortune's made! Come
down, I say."
Mrs. Vinegar got down as fast as she could and saw the money with equal
delight. "Now, my dear," said she, "I'll tell you what you shall do.
There is a fair at the neighboring town; you shall take these forty
guineas and buy a cow. I can make butter and cheese, which you shall
sell at market, and we shall then be able to live very comfortably."
Mr. Vinegar joyfully assents, takes the money, and goes off to the fair.
When he arrived, he walked up and down, and at length saw a beautiful
red cow. It was an excellent milker and perfect in every respect. "Oh,"
thought Mr. Vinegar, "if I had but that cow, I should be the happiest
man alive." So he offers the forty guineas for the cow, and the owner
declaring that, as he was a friend, he'd oblige him, the bargain was
made. Proud of his purchase, he drove the cow backwards and forwards to
show it. By-and-by he saw a man playing the bagpipes--_tweedle-dum,
tweedle-dee_. The children followed him about, and he appeared to be
pocketing money on all sides. "Well," thought Mr. Vinegar, "if I had but
that beautiful instrument, I should be the happiest man alive--my
fortune would be made." So he went up to the man. "Friend," says he,
"what a beautiful instrument that is, and what a deal of money you must
make."
"Why, yes," said the man, "I make a great deal of money, to be sure, and
it is a wonderful instrument."
"Oh!" cried Mr. Vinegar, "how I should like to possess it!"
"Well," said the man, "as you are a friend, I don't much mind parting
with it; you shall have it for that red cow."
"Done!" said the delighted Mr. Vinegar. So the beautiful red cow was
given for the bagpipes. He walked up and down with his purchase; but in
vain he attempted to play a tune, and instead of pocketing pence, the
boys followed him hooting, laughing, and pelting.
Poor Mr. Vinegar, his fingers grew very cold, and heartily ashamed and
mortified, he was leaving the town, when he met a man with a fine thick
pair of gloves. "Oh, my fingers are so very cold," said Mr. Vinegar to
himself. "If I had but those beautiful gloves I should be the happiest
man alive." He went up to the man, and said to him: "Friend, you seem to
have a capital pair of gloves there."
"Yes, truly," cried the man; "and my hands are as warm as possible this
cold November day."
"Well," said Mr. Vinegar, "I should like to have them."
"What will you give?" said the man; "as you are a friend, I don't much
mind letting you have them for those bagpipes."
"Done!" cried Mr. Vinegar. He put on the gloves, and felt perfectly
happy as he trudged homewards.
At last he grew very tired, when he saw a man coming towards him with a
good stout stick in his hand. "Oh," said Mr. Vinegar, "that I but had
that stick! I should then be the happiest man alive." He accosted the
man: "Friend! what a rare good stick you have got."
"Yes," said the man; "I have used it for many a long mile, and a good
friend it has been; but if you have a fancy for it, as you are a friend,
I don't mind giving it to you for that pair of gloves." Mr. Vinegar's
hands were so warm, and his legs so tired, that he gladly exchanged.
As he drew near to the wood where he had left his wife, he heard a
parrot on a tree calling out his name: "Mr. Vinegar, you foolish man,
you blockhead, you simpleton; you went to the fair and laid out all your
money in buying a cow. Not content with that, you changed it for
bagpipes, on which you could not play and which were not worth one-tenth
of the money. You fool, you--you had no sooner got the bagpipes than you
changed them for the gloves, which were not worth one-quarter of the
money; and when you had got the gloves, you changed them for a poor
miserable stick; and now for your forty guineas, cow, bagpipes, and
gloves, you have nothing to show but that poor miserable stick, which
you might have cut in any hedge." On this the bird laughed immoderately,
and Mr. Vinegar, falling into a violent rage, threw the stick at its
head. The stick lodged in the tree, and he returned to his wife without
money, cow, bagpipes, gloves, or stick, and she instantly gave him such
a sound cudgelling that she almost broke every bone in his skin.
157
One of the greatest favorites among nursery
tales is the story of that Jack who showed "an
inquiring mind, a great courage and
enterprise," and who climbed the ladder of
fortune when he mounted his bean-stalk. The
traditional versions of this story are nearly
all crude and unsatisfactory, as are those of
many of the English tales. Joseph Jacobs made a
remarkably fine literary version in his
_English Fairy Tales_ from memories of his
Australian childhood. He materially shortens
the story by omitting the fairy lady, who, he
suggests, was put in "to prevent the tale
becoming an encouragement to theft." He also
made Jack's character more consistent by making
him more sympathetic and kind at the beginning
and less of a "ne'er-do-well," though the
noodle element in the selling of the cow could
not be eliminated. Andrew Lang, in his _Green
Fairy Book_, gives an excellent version of the
story in its most extended form. Both the
versions mentioned introduce, when the giant
comes in, the formula generally associated with
"Jack the Giant Killer":
"Fee-fi-fo-fum,
I smell the blood of an Englishman,
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I'll grind his bones to make my bread."
The version chosen for use here contains the
elements of the story most familiar to past
generations and is probably as near the
commoner oral traditions as it is possible to
secure. It is taken from Miss Mulock's _The
Fairy Book_, a very fine selection of tales,
first published in 1863, and still widely used.
Miss Muloch (Dinah Maria Craik, 1826-1887) is
best known as the author of the popular novel
_John Halifax, Gentleman_.
JACK AND THE BEAN-STALK
In the days of King Alfred there lived a poor woman, whose cottage was
in a remote country village, many miles from London. She had been a
widow some years, and had an only child named Jack, whom she indulged so
much that he never paid the least attention to anything she said, but
was indolent, careless, and extravagant. His follies were not owing to a
bad disposition, but to his mother's foolish partiality. By degrees he
spent all that she had--scarcely anything remained but a cow.
One day, for the first time in her life, she reproached him: "Cruel,
cruel boy! you have at last brought me to beggary. I have not money
enough to purchase even a bit of bread; nothing now remains to sell but
my poor cow! I am sorry to part with her; it grieves me sadly, but we
cannot starve."
For a few minutes Jack felt remorse, but it was soon over, and he began
asking his mother to let him sell the cow at the next village, teasing
her so much that she at last consented. As he was going along he met a
butcher, who inquired why he was driving the cow from home. Jack replied
that he was going to sell her. The butcher held some curious beans in
his hat; they were of various colors, and attracted Jack's attention.
This did not pass unnoticed by the man, who, knowing Jack's easy temper,
thought now was the time to take an advantage of it; and, determined not
to let slip so good an opportunity, asked what was the price of the cow,
offering at the same time all the beans in his hat for her. The silly
boy could not conceal the pleasure he felt at what he supposed so great
an offer. The bargain was struck instantly, and the cow exchanged for a
few paltry beans. Jack made the best of his way home, calling aloud to
his mother before he reached the door, thinking to surprise her.
When she saw the beans, and heard Jack's account, her patience quite
forsook her. She tossed the beans out of the window, where they fell on
the garden-bed below. Then she threw her apron over her head, and cried
bitterly. Jack attempted to console her, but in vain, and, not having
anything to eat, they both went supperless to bed.
Jack awoke early in the morning, and seeing something uncommon darkening
the window of his bed-chamber, ran down stairs into the garden, where he
found some of the beans had taken root and sprung up surprisingly. The
stalks were of an immense thickness, and had twined together until they
formed a ladder like a chain, and so high that the top appeared to be
lost in the clouds.
Jack was an adventurous lad; he determined to climb up to the top, and
ran to tell his mother, not doubting but that she would be equally
pleased with himself. She declared he should not go; said it would break
her heart if he did; entreated and threatened, but all in vain. Jack set
out, and after climbing for some hours reached the top of the
bean-stalk, quite exhausted. Looking around, he found himself in a
strange country. It appeared to be a barren desert; not a tree, shrub,
house, or living creature was to be seen; here and there were scattered
fragments of stone, and at unequal distances small heaps of earth were
loosely thrown together.
Jack seated himself pensively upon a block of stone and thought of his
mother. He reflected with sorrow upon his disobedience in climbing the
bean-stalk against her will, and concluded that he must die of hunger.
However, he walked on, hoping to see a house where he might beg
something to eat and drink. He did not find it; but he saw at a distance
a beautiful lady walking all alone. She was elegantly clad, and carried
a white wand, at the top of which sat a peacock of pure gold.
Jack, who was a gallant fellow, went straight up to her, when, with a
bewitching smile, she asked him how he came there. He told her all about
the bean-stalk. The lady answered him by a question, "Do you remember
your father, young man?"
"No, madam; but I am sure there is some mystery about him, for when I
name him to my mother she always begins to weep and will tell me
nothing."
"She dare not," replied the lady, "but I can and will. For know, young
man, that I am a fairy, and was your father's guardian. But fairies are
bound by laws as well as mortals; and by an error of mine I lost my
power for a term of years, so that I was unable to succor your father
when he most needed it, and he died." Here the fairy looked so sorrowful
that Jack's heart warmed to her, and he begged her earnestly to tell him
more.
"I will; only you must promise to obey me in everything, or you will
perish yourself."
Jack was brave, and, besides, his fortunes were so bad they could not
well be worse,--so he promised.
The fairy continued: "Your father, Jack, was a most excellent, amiable,
generous man. He had a good wife, faithful servants, plenty of money;
but he had one misfortune--a false friend. This was a giant, whom he had
succored in misfortune, and who returned his kindness by murdering him
and seizing on all his property; also making your mother take a solemn
oath that she would never tell you anything about your father, or he
would murder both her and you. Then he turned her off with you in her
arms, to wander about the wide world as she might. I could not help her,
as my power only returned on the day you went to sell your cow.
"It was I," added the fairy, "who impelled you to take the beans, who
made the bean-stalk grow, and inspired you with the desire to climb up
it to this strange country; for it is here the wicked giant lives who
was your father's destroyer. It is you who must avenge him, and rid the
world of a monster who never will do anything but evil. I will assist
you. You may lawfully take possession of his house and all his riches,
for everything he has belonged to your father, and is therefore yours.
Now, farewell! Do not let your mother know you are acquainted with your
father's history; this is my command, and if you disobey me you will
suffer for it. Now go."
Jack asked where he was to go.
"Along the direct road, till you see the house where the giant lives.
You must then act according to your own just judgment, and I will guide
you if any difficulty arises. Farewell!"
She bestowed on the youth a benignant smile, and vanished.
Jack pursued his journey. He walked on till after sunset, when, to his
great joy, he espied a large mansion. A plain-looking woman was at the
door. He accosted her, begging she would give him a morsel of bread and
a night's lodging. She expressed the greatest surprise, and said it was
quite uncommon to see a human being near their house; for it was well
known that her husband was a powerful giant, who would never eat
anything but human flesh, if he could possibly get it; that he would
walk fifty miles to procure it, usually being out the whole day for that
purpose.
This account greatly terrified Jack, but still he hoped to elude the
giant, and therefore he again entreated the woman to take him in for one
night only, and hide him where she thought proper. She at last suffered
herself to be persuaded, for she was of a compassionate and generous
disposition, and took him into the house. First, they entered a fine
large hall, magnificently furnished; they then passed through several
spacious rooms, in the same style of grandeur; but all appeared forsaken
and desolate. A long gallery came next, it was very dark, just light
enough to show that instead of a wall on one side, there was a grating
of iron which parted off a dismal dungeon, from whence issued the groans
of those victims whom the cruel giant reserved in confinement for his
own voracious appetite.
Poor Jack was half dead with fear, and would have given the world to
have been with his mother again, for he now began to doubt if he should
ever see her more; he even mistrusted the good woman, and thought she
had let him into the house for no other purpose than to lock him up
among the unfortunate people in the dungeon. However, she bade Jack sit
down, and gave him plenty to eat and drink; and he, not seeing anything
to make him uncomfortable, soon forgot his fear, and was just beginning
to enjoy himself, when he was startled by a loud knocking at the outer
door, which made the whole house shake.
"Ah! that's the giant; and if he sees you he will kill you and me too,"
cried the poor woman, trembling all over. "What shall I do?"
"Hide me in the oven," cried Jack, now as bold as a lion at the thought
of being face to face with his father's cruel murderer. So he crept into
the oven--for there was no fire near it--and listened to the giant's
loud voice and heavy step as he went up and down the kitchen scolding
his wife. At last he seated himself at the table, and Jack, peeping
through a crevice in the oven, was amazed to see what a quantity of food
he devoured. It seemed as if he never would have done eating and
drinking; but he did at last, and, leaning back, called to his wife in a
voice like thunder:
"Bring me my hen!"
She obeyed, and placed upon the table a very beautiful live hen.
"Lay!" roared the giant, and the hen laid immediately an egg of solid
gold.
"Lay another!" and every time the giant said this the hen laid a larger
egg than before.
He amused himself a long time with his hen, and then sent his wife to
bed, while he fell asleep by the fireside, and snored like the roaring
of cannon.
As soon as he was asleep Jack crept out of the oven, seized the hen, and
ran off with her. He got safely out of the house, and finding his way
along the road he had come, reached the top of the bean-stalk, which he
descended in safety.
His mother was overjoyed to see him. She thought he had come to some ill
end.
"Not a bit of it, mother. Look here!" and he showed her the hen. "Now
lay!" and the hen obeyed him as readily as the giant, and laid as many
golden eggs as he desired.
These eggs being sold, Jack and his mother got plenty of money, and for
some months lived very happily together; till Jack got another great
longing to climb the bean-stalk and carry away some more of the giant's
riches. He had told his mother of his adventure, but had been very
careful not to say a word about his father. He thought of his journey
again and again, but still he could not summon resolution enough to
break it to his mother, being well assured that she would endeavor to
prevent his going. However, one day he told her boldly that he must take
another journey up the bean-stalk. She begged and prayed him not to
think of it, and tried all in her power to dissuade him. She told him
that the giant's wife would certainly know him again, and that the giant
would desire nothing better than to get him into his power, that he
might put him to a cruel death in order to be revenged for the loss of
his hen. Jack, finding that all his arguments were useless, ceased
speaking, though resolved to go at all events. He had a dress prepared
which would disguise him, and something to color his skin. He thought
it impossible for any one to recollect him in this dress.
A few mornings after, he rose very early, and, unperceived by any one,
climbed the bean-stalk a second time. He was greatly fatigued when he
reached the top, and very hungry. Having rested some time on one of the
stones, he pursued his journey to the giant's mansion, which he reached
late in the evening. The woman was at the door as before. Jack addressed
her, at the same time telling her a pitiful tale, and requesting that
she would give him some victuals and drink, and also a night's lodging.
She told him (what he knew before very well) about her husband's being a
powerful and cruel giant, and also that she had one night admitted a
poor, hungry, friendless boy; that the little ungrateful fellow had
stolen one of the giant's treasures; and ever since that her husband had
been worse than before, using her very cruelly, and continually
upbraiding her with being the cause of his misfortune.
Jack felt sorry for her, but confessed nothing, and did his best to
persuade her to admit him, but found it a very hard task. At last she
consented, and as she led the way, Jack observed that everything was
just as he had found it before. She took him into the kitchen, and after
he had done eating and drinking, she hid him in an old lumber-closet.
The giant returned at the usual time, and walked in so heavily that the
house was shaken to its foundation. He seated himself by the fire, and
soon after exclaimed, "Wife, I smell fresh meat!"
The wife replied it was the crows, which had brought a piece of raw meat
and left it at the top of the house. While supper was preparing, the
giant was very ill-tempered and impatient, frequently lifting up his
hand to strike his wife for not being quick enough. He was also
continually upbraiding her with the loss of his wonderful hen.
At last, having ended his supper, he cried, "Give me something to amuse
me--my harp or my money-bags."
"Which will you have, my dear?" said the wife humbly.
"My money-bags, because they are the heaviest to carry," thundered he.
She brought them, staggering under the weight; two bags--one filled with
new guineas, and the other with new shillings. She emptied them out on
the table, and the giant began counting them in great glee. "Now you may
go to bed, you old fool." So the wife crept away.
Jack from his hiding-place watched the counting of the money, which he
knew was his poor father's, and wished it was his own; it would give him
much less trouble than going about selling the golden eggs. The giant,
little thinking he was so narrowly observed, reckoned it all up, and
then replaced it in the two bags, which he tied up very carefully and
put beside his chair, with his little dog to guard them. At last he fell
asleep as before, and snored so loud that Jack compared his noise to the
roaring of the sea in a high wind when the tide is coming in.
At last Jack, concluding all secure, stole out, in order to carry off
the two bags of money; but just as he laid his hands upon one of them,
the little dog, which he had not seen before, started from under the
giant's chair and barked most furiously. Instead of endeavoring to
escape, Jack stood still, though expecting his enemy to awake every
instant. Contrary, however, to his expectation, the giant continued in a
sound sleep, and Jack, seeing a piece of meat, threw it to the dog, who
at once ceased barking and began to devour it. So Jack carried off the
bags, one on each shoulder, but they were so heavy that it took him two
whole days to descend the bean-stalk and get back to his mother's door.
When he came he found the cottage deserted. He ran from one room to
another, without being able to find any one. He then hastened into the
village, hoping to see some of the neighbors who could inform him where
he could find his mother. An old woman at last directed him to a
neighboring house, where she was ill of a fever. He was greatly shocked
at finding her apparently dying, and blamed himself bitterly as the
cause of it all. However, at sight of her dear son, the poor woman
revived, and slowly recovered health. Jack gave her his two money-bags.
They had the cottage rebuilt and well furnished, and lived happier than
they had ever done before.
For three years Jack heard no more of the bean-stalk, but he could not
forget it, though he feared making his mother unhappy. It was in vain
endeavoring to amuse himself; he became thoughtful, and would arise at
the first dawn of day, and sit looking at the bean-stalk for hours
together.
His mother saw that something preyed upon his mind, and endeavored to
discover the cause; but Jack knew too well what the consequence would be
should she succeed. He did his utmost, therefore, to conquer the great
desire he had for another journey up the bean-stalk. Finding, however,
that his inclination grew too powerful for him, he began to make secret
preparations for his journey. He got ready a new disguise, better and
more complete than the former; and when summer came, on the longest day
he woke as soon as it was light, and, without telling his mother,
ascended the bean-stalk. He found, the road, journey, etc., much as it
was on the two former times. He arrived at the giant's mansion in the
evening, and found the wife standing, as usual, at the door. Jack had
disguised himself so completely that she did not appear to have the
least recollection of him; however, when he pleaded hunger and poverty
in order to gain admittance, he found it very difficult indeed to
persuade her. At last he prevailed, and was concealed in the copper.
When the giant returned, he said furiously, "I smell fresh meat!" But
Jack felt quite composed, as he had said so before and had been soon
satisfied. However, the giant started up suddenly, and, notwithstanding
all his wife could say, he searched all round the room. Whilst this was
going forward, Jack was exceedingly terrified, wishing himself at home a
thousand times; but when the giant approached the copper, and put his
hand on the lid, Jack thought his death was certain. However, nothing
happened; for the giant did not take the trouble to lift up the lid, but
sat down shortly by the fireside and began to eat his enormous supper.
When he had finished, he commanded his wife to fetch down his harp.
Jack peeped under the copper lid and saw a most beautiful harp. The
giant placed it on the table, said, "Play!" and it played of its own
accord, without anybody touching it, the most exquisite music
imaginable.
Jack, who was a very good musician, was delighted, and more anxious to
get this than any other of his enemy's treasures. But the giant not
being particularly fond of music, the harp had only the effect of
lulling him to sleep earlier than usual. As for the wife, she had gone
to bed as soon as ever she could.
As soon as he thought all was safe, Jack got out of the copper, and,
seizing the harp, was eagerly running off with it. But the harp was
enchanted by a fairy, and as soon as it found itself in strange hands,
it called out loudly, just as if it had been alive, "Master! Master!"
The giant awoke, started up, and saw Jack scampering away as fast as his
legs could carry him.
"Oh, you villain! It is you who have robbed me of my hen and my
money-bags, and now you are stealing my harp also. Wait till I catch
you, and I'll eat you up alive!"
"Very well; try!" shouted Jack, who was not a bit afraid, for he saw the
giant was so tipsy he could hardly stand, much less run; and he himself
had young legs and a clear conscience, which carry a man a long way. So,
after leading the giant a considerable race, he contrived to be first at
the top of the bean-stalk, and then scrambled down it as fast as he
could, the harp playing all the while the most melancholy music, till he
said, "Stop"; and it stopped.
Arrived at the bottom, he found his mother sitting at her cottage door,
weeping silently.
"Here, mother, don't cry; just give me a hatchet; make haste." For he
knew there was not a moment to spare. He saw the giant beginning to
descend the bean-stalk.
However, it was too late--the monster's ill deeds had come to an end.
Jack with his hatchet cut the bean-stalk close off at the root; the
giant fell headlong into the garden, and was killed on the spot.
Instantly the fairy appeared and explained everything to Jack's mother,
begging her to forgive Jack, who was his father's own son for bravery
and generosity, and who would be sure to make her happy for the rest of
her days.
So all ended well, and nothing was ever more heard or seen of the
wonderful bean-stalk.
158
Those wonder stories that concern themselves
with giants or with very little people have
always been favorites with children. Of the
little heroes Tom Thumb has always held the
center of the stage. His adventures in one form
or another are in the folk tales of most
European countries. He has the honor of being
the subject of a monograph by the great French
scholar Gaston Paris. Hans Christian Andersen
turned him into a delightful little girl in his
derivative story of "Thumbelina." The English
version of "Tom Thumb" seems to have been
printed first in ballad form in the seventeenth
century, and later in many chapbook versions in
prose. Its plot takes the form of a succession
of marvelous accidents by land and sea, limited
only by the inventive ingenuity of the
story-teller. "According to popular tradition
Tom Thumb died at Lincoln. . . . There was a
little blue flagstone in the pavement of the
Minster which was shown as Tom Thumb's
monument, and the country folks never failed to
marvel at it when they came to church on the
Assize Sunday; but during some of the modern
repairs which have been inflicted on that
venerable building, the flagstone was displaced
and lost, to the great discomfiture of the
holiday visitants." Thus wrote an ancient and
learned scholar in illustration of the tendency
to give a local habitation and a name to our
favorite fancies. The version of the story
given by Miss Mulock in her _Fairy Book_ is the
one used here. It follows closely the rambling
events of the various chapbook and ballad
versions.
TOM THUMB
In the days of King Arthur, Merlin, the most learned enchanter of his
time, was on a journey; and being very weary, stopped one day at the
cottage of an honest ploughman to ask for refreshment. The ploughman's
wife with great civility immediately brought him some milk in a wooden
bowl and some brown bread on a wooden platter.
Merlin could not help observing that although everything within the
cottage was particularly neat and clean and in good order, the ploughman
and his wife had the most sorrowful air imaginable; so he questioned
them on the cause of their melancholy and learned that they were very
miserable because they had no children.
The poor woman declared with tears in her eyes that she should be the
happiest creature in the world if she had a son, although he were no
bigger than his father's thumb.
Merlin was much amused with the notion of a boy no bigger than a man's
thumb, and as soon as he returned home he sent for the queen of the
fairies (with whom he was very intimate) and related to her the desire
of the ploughman and his wife to have a son the size of his father's
thumb. She liked the plan exceedingly and declared their wish should be
speedily granted. Accordingly the ploughman's wife had a son, who in a
few minutes grew as tall as his father's thumb.
The queen of the fairies came in at the window as the mother was sitting
up in bed admiring the child. Her majesty kissed the infant and, giving
it the name of Tom Thumb, immediately summoned several fairies from
Fairyland to clothe her new little favorite.
"An oak-leaf hat he had for his crown;
His shirt it was by spiders spun;
With doublet wove of thistledown,
His trousers up with points were done;
His stockings, of apple-rind, they tie
With eye-lash plucked from his mother's eye,
His shoes were made of a mouse's skin,
Nicely tann'd with hair within."
Tom was never any bigger than his father's thumb, which was not a large
thumb either; but as he grew older he became very cunning, for which his
mother did not sufficiently correct him, and by this ill quality he was
often brought into difficulties. For instance, when he had learned to
play with other boys for cherry-stones and had lost all his own, he used
to creep into the boys' bags, fill his pockets, and come out again to
play. But one day as he was getting out of a bag of cherry-stones, the
boy to whom it belonged chanced to see him.
"Ah, ha, my little Tom Thumb!" said he, "have I caught you at your bad
tricks at last? Now I will reward you for thieving." Then he drew the
string tight around Tom's neck and shook the bag. The cherry-stones
bruised Tom Thumb's legs, thighs, and body sadly, which made him beg to
be let out and promise never to be guilty of such things any more.
Shortly afterwards Tom's mother was making a batter-pudding, and that
he might see how she mixed it, he climbed on the edge of the bowl; but
his foot happening to slip, he fell over head and ears into the batter.
His mother not observing him, stirred him into the pudding and popped
him into the pot to boil. The hot water made Tom kick and struggle; and
the mother, seeing the pudding jump up and down in such a furious
manner, thought it was bewitched; and a tinker coming by just at the
time, she quickly gave him the pudding. He put it into his budget and
walked on.
As soon as Tom could get the batter out of his mouth he began to cry
aloud, and so frightened the poor tinker that he flung the pudding over
the hedge and ran away from it as fast as he could. The pudding being
broken to pieces by the fall, Tom was released, and walked home to his
mother, who gave him a kiss and put him to bed.
Tom Thumb's mother once took him with her when she went to milk the cow;
and it being a very windy day, she tied him with a needleful of thread
to a thistle, that he might not be blown away. The cow, liking his
oak-leaf hat, took him and the thistle up at one mouthful. While the cow
chewed the thistle, Tom, terrified at her great teeth, which seemed
ready to crush him to pieces, roared, "Mother, mother!" as loud as he
could bawl.
"Where are you, Tommy, my dear Tommy?" said the mother.
"Here, mother, here in the red cow's mouth."
The mother began to cry and wring her hands; but the cow, surprised at
such odd noises in her throat, opened her mouth and let him drop out.
His mother clapped him into her apron and ran home with him.
Tom's father made him a whip of a barley straw to drive the cattle with,
and one day when he was in the field he slipped into a deep furrow. A
raven flying over picked him up with a grain of corn and flew with him
to the top of a giant's castle by the seaside, where he left him; and
old Grumbo, the giant, coming soon after to walk upon his terrace,
swallowed Tom like a pill, clothes and all.
Tom presently made the giant very uncomfortable, and he threw him up
into the sea. A great fish then swallowed him. The fish was soon after
caught, and sent as a present to King Arthur. When it was cut open,
everybody was delighted with little Tom Thumb. The king made him his
dwarf; he was the favorite of the whole court, and by his merry pranks
often amused the queen and the knights of the Round Table.
The king, when he rode on horse-back, frequently took Tom in his hand;
and if a shower of rain came on, he used to creep into the king's
waist-coat pocket and sleep till the rain was over. The king also
sometimes questioned Tom concerning his parents; and when Tom informed
his majesty they were very poor people, the king led him into his
treasury and told him he should pay his friends a visit and take with
him as much money as he could carry. Tom procured a little purse, and
putting a threepenny piece into it, with much labor and difficulty got
it upon his back; and, after travelling two days and nights, arrived at
his father's house.
When his mother met him at the door, he was almost tired to death,
having in forty-eight hours traveled almost half a mile with a huge
silver threepence upon his back. Both his parents were glad to see him,
especially when he had brought such an amazing sum of money with him.
They placed him in a walnut-shell by the fireside and feasted him for
three days upon a hazel-nut, which made him sick, for a whole nut
usually served him for a month.
Tom got well, but could not travel because it had rained; therefore his
mother took him in her hand, and with one puff blew him into King
Arthur's court, where Tom entertained the king, queen, and nobility at
tilts and tournaments, at which he exerted himself so much that he
brought on a fit of sickness, and his life was despaired of.
At this juncture the queen of the fairies came in a chariot, drawn by
flying mice, placed Tom by her side, and drove through the air without
stopping till they arrived at her palace. After restoring him to health
and permitting him to enjoy all the gay diversions of Fairyland, she
commanded a fair wind, and, placing Tom before it, blew him straight to
the court of King Arthur. But just as Tom should have alighted in the
courtyard of the palace, the cook happened to pass along with the king's
great bowl of furmenty (King Arthur loved furmenty), and poor Tom Thumb
fell plump into the middle of it and splashed the hot furmenty into the
cook's eyes. Down went the bowl.
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" cried Tom.
"Murder! murder!" bellowed the cook; and away poured the king's nice
furmenty into the kennel.
The cook was a red-faced, cross fellow, and swore to the king that Tom
had done it out of mere mischief; so he was taken up, tried, and
sentenced to be beheaded. Tom hearing this dreadful sentence and seeing
a miller stand by with his mouth wide open, he took a good spring and
jumped down the miller's throat, unperceived by all, even the miller
himself.
Tom being lost, the court broke up, and away went the miller to his
mill. But Tom did not leave him long at rest; he began to roll and
tumble about, so that the miller thought himself bewitched and sent for
a doctor. When the doctor came, Tom began to dance and sing. The doctor
was as much frightened as the miller and sent in great haste for five
more doctors and twenty learned men.
While all these were debating upon the affair, the miller (for they were
very tedious) happened to yawn, and Tom, taking the opportunity, made
another jump and alighted on his feet in the middle of the table. The
miller, provoked to be thus tormented by such a little creature, fell
into a great passion, caught hold of Tom, and threw him out of the
window into the river. A large salmon swimming by snapped him up in a
minute. The salmon was soon caught and sold in the market to a steward
of a lord. The lord, thinking it an uncommonly fine fish, made a present
of it to the king, who ordered it to be dressed immediately. When the
cook cut open the salmon he found poor Tom and ran with him directly to
the king; but the king, being busy with state affairs, desired that he
might be brought another day.
The cook, resolving to keep him safely this time, as he had so lately
given him the slip, clapped him into a mouse-trap and left him to amuse
himself by peeping through the wires for a whole week. When the king
sent for him, he forgave him for throwing down the furmenty, ordered
him new clothes, and knighted him.
"His shirt was made of butterflies' wings;
His boots were made of chicken skins,
His coat and breeches were made with pride,
A tailor's needle hung by his side;
A mouse for a horse he used to ride."
Thus dressed and mounted, he rode a-hunting with the king and nobility,
who all laughed heartily at Tom and his prancing steed. As they rode by
a farm-house one day, a cat jumped from behind the door, seized the
mouse and little Tom, and began to devour the mouse; however, Tom boldly
drew his sword and attacked the cat, who then let him fall. The king and
his nobles, seeing Tom falling, went to his assistance, and one of the
lords caught him in his hat; but poor Tom was sadly scratched, and his
clothes were torn by the claws of the cat. In this condition he was
carried home, and a bed of down was made for him in a little ivory
cabinet.
The queen of the fairies came and took him again to Fairyland, where she
kept him for some years; and then, dressing him in bright green, sent
him flying once more through the air to the earth, in the days of King
Thunstone. The people flocked far and near to look at him; and the king,
before whom he was carried, asked him who he was, whence he came, and
where he lived? Tom answered:
"My name is Tom Thumb;
From the fairies I come;
When King Arthur shone,
This court was my home;
In me he delighted;
By him I was knighted.
Did you ever hear of
Sir Thomas Thumb?"
The king was so charmed with this address that he ordered a little chair
to be made, in order that Tom might sit on his table, and also a palace
of gold a span high with a door an inch wide, for little Tom to live in.
He also gave him a coach drawn by six small mice. This made the queen
angry, because she had not a new coach too; therefore, resolving to ruin
Tom, she complained to the king that he had behaved very insolently to
her. The king sent for him in a rage. Tom, to escape his fury, crept
into an empty snail-shell and there lay till he was almost starved;
then, peeping out of the hole, he saw a fine butterfly settle on the
ground. He then ventured out, and getting astride, the butterfly took
wing and mounted into the air with little Tom on his back. Away he flew
from field to field, from tree to tree, till at last he flew to the
king's court. The king, queen, and nobles all strove to catch the
butterfly, but could not. At length poor Tom, having neither bridle nor
saddle, slipped from his seat and fell into a watering-pot, where he was
found almost drowned.
The queen vowed he should be guillotined; but while the guillotine was
getting ready, he was secured once more in a mousetrap. The cat, seeing
something stir and supposing it to be a mouse, patted the trap about
till she broke it and set Tom at liberty.
Soon afterwards a spider, taking him for a fly, made at him. Tom drew
his sword and fought valiantly, but the spider's poisonous breath
overcame him:
"He fell dead on the ground where late he had stood,
And the spider suck'd up the last drop of his blood."
King Thunstone and his whole court went into mourning for little Tom
Thumb. They buried him under a rosebush and raised a nice white marble
monument over his grave, with the following epitaph:
"Here lies Tom Thumb, King Arthur's knight,
Who died by a spider's cruel bite.
He was well known in Arthur's court,
Where he afforded gallant sport;
He rode at tilt and tournament,
And on a mouse a-hunting went.
Alive he fill'd the court with mirth,
His death to sorrow soon gave birth.
Wipe, wipe your eyes, and shake your head,
And cry, 'Alas! Tom Thumb is dead.'"
159
This chapbook form of the famous "Whittington
and His Cat" is the one reprinted by Hartland
in his _English Fairy and Folk Tales_. It goes
back to the early eighteenth century. Sir
Richard Whittington, at least, was a historical
character and served his first term as Lord
Mayor of London in 1397. Like most popular
stories, this one of a fortune due to a cat is
common to all Europe. Mr. Clouston, in the
second volume of his _Popular Tales and
Fictions_, outlines a number of these stories,
and even points out a Persian parallel of an
earlier date than the birth of Sir Richard.
Just how this very prosperous business man of
London, who was never in reality a poor boy,
came to be adopted as the hero of the English
version of this romantic tale has never been
made clear. Probably it was due to the common
tendency of the folk in all lands to attribute
unusual success in any field to other than
ordinary causes. However that may be, it is
certainly true that no story more completely
satisfies the ideal of complete success for
children than this "History of Sir Richard
Whittington." Mr. Jacobs calls attention to the
interesting fact that the chapbook places the
introduction of the potato into England rather
far back!
WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT
In the reign of the famous King Edward III, there was a little boy
called Dick Whittington, whose father and mother died when he was very
young, so that he remembered nothing at all about them and was left a
ragged little fellow, running about a country village. As poor Dick was
not old enough to work, he was very badly off; he got but little for his
dinner and sometimes nothing at all for his breakfast, for the people
who lived in the village were very poor indeed and could not spare him
much more than the parings of potatoes and now and then a hard crust of
bread.
For all this, Dick Whittington was a very sharp boy and was always
listening to what everybody talked about. On Sunday he was sure to get
near the farmers as they sat talking on the tombstones in the churchyard
before the parson was come; and once a week you might see little Dick
leaning against the sign post of the village alehouse, where people
stopped to drink as they came from the next market town; and when the
barber's shop door was open, Dick listened to all the news that his
customers told one another.
In this manner Dick heard a great many very strange things about the
city called London; for the foolish country people at that time thought
that folks in London were all fine gentlemen and ladies, and that there
was singing and music there all day long, and that the streets were all
paved with gold.
One day a large wagon and eight horses, all with bells at their heads,
drove through the village while Dick was standing by the signpost. He
thought that this wagon must be going to the fine town of London; so he
took courage and asked the wagoner to let him walk with him by the side
of the wagon. As soon as the wagoner heard that poor Dick had no father
or mother and saw by his ragged clothes that he could not be worse off
than he was, he told him he might go if he would, so they set off
together.
I could never find out how little Dick contrived to get meat and drink
on the road, nor how he could walk so far, for it was a long way, nor
what he did at night for a place to lie down to sleep in. Perhaps some
good-natured people in the towns that he passed through, when they saw
he was a poor little ragged boy, gave him something to eat; and perhaps
the wagoner let him get into the wagon at night and take a nap upon one
of the boxes or large parcels in the wagon.
Dick, however, got safe to London and was in such a hurry to see the
fine streets paved all over with gold that I am afraid he did not even
stay to thank the kind wagoner, but ran off as fast as his legs would
carry him through many of the streets, thinking every moment to come to
those that were paved with gold, for Dick had seen a guinea three times
in his own little village and remembered what a deal of money it brought
in change; so he thought he had nothing to do but to take up some little
bits of the pavement and should then have as much money as he could wish
for.
Poor Dick ran till he was tired and had quite forgotten his friend the
wagoner; but at last, finding it grow dark and that every way he turned
he saw nothing but dirt instead of gold, he sat down in a dark corner
and cried himself to sleep.
Little Dick was all night in the streets; and next morning, being very
hungry, he got up and walked about and asked everybody he met to give
him a halfpenny to keep him from starving. But nobody stayed to answer
him, and only two or three gave him a halfpenny; so that the poor boy
was soon quite weak and faint for the want of victuals.
At last a good-natured looking gentleman saw how hungry he looked. "Why
don't you go to work, my lad?" said he to Dick.
"That I would, but I do not know how to get any," answered Dick.
"If you are willing, come along with me," said the gentleman, and took
him to a hay-field, where Dick worked briskly and lived merrily till the
hay was made.
After this he found himself as badly off as before; and being almost
starved again, he laid himself down at the door of Mr. Fitzwarren, a
rich merchant. Here he was soon seen by the cook-maid, who was an
ill-tempered creature and happened just then to be very busy dressing
dinner for her master and mistress; so she called out to poor Dick:
"What business have you there, you lazy rogue? There is nothing else but
beggars. If you do not take yourself away, we will see how you will like
a sousing of some dish water; I have some here hot enough to make you
jump."
Just at that time Mr. Fitzwarren himself came home to dinner; and when
he saw a dirty ragged boy lying at the door, he said to him: "Why do you
lie there, my boy? You seem old enough to work. I am afraid you are
inclined to be lazy."
"No, indeed, sir," said Dick to him, "that is not the case, for I would
work with all my heart, but I do not know anybody, and I believe I am
very sick for the want of food."
"Poor fellow, get up; let me see what ails you."
Dick then tried to rise, but was obliged to lie down again, being too
weak to stand, for he had not eaten any food for three days and was no
longer able to run about and beg a halfpenny of people in the street. So
the kind merchant ordered him to be taken into the house, and have a
good dinner given him, and be kept to do what dirty work he was able for
the cook.
Little Dick would have lived very happy in this good family if it had
not been for the ill-natured cook, who was finding fault and scolding
him from morning to night, and besides she was so fond of basting that
when she had no meat to baste she would baste poor Dick's head and
shoulders with a broom or anything else that happened to fall in her
way. At last her ill-usage of him was told to Alice, Mr. Fitzwarren's
daughter, who told the cook she should be turned away if she did not
treat him kinder.
The ill-humor of the cook was now a little amended; but besides this
Dick had another hardship to get over. His bed stood in a garret where
there were so many holes in the floor and the walls that every night he
was tormented with rats and mice. A gentleman having given Dick a penny
for cleaning his shoes, he thought he would buy a cat with it. The next
day he saw a girl with a cat and asked her if she would let him have it
for a penny. The girl said she would and at the same time told him the
cat was an excellent mouser.
Dick hid his cat in the garret and always took care to carry a part of
his dinner to her, and in a short time he had no more trouble with the
rats and mice, but slept quite sound every night.
Soon after this his master had a ship ready to sail; and as he thought
it right that all his servants should have some chance for good fortune
as well as himself, he called them all into the parlor and asked them
what they would send out.
They all had something that they were willing to venture except poor
Dick, who had neither money nor goods, and therefore could send nothing.
For this reason he did not come into the parlor with the rest; but Miss
Alice guessed what was the matter and ordered him to be called in. She
then said she would lay down some money for him from her own purse; but
the father told her this would not do, for it must be something of his
own.
When poor Dick heard this, he said he had nothing but a cat which he
bought for a penny some time since of a little girl.
"Fetch your cat then, my good boy," said Mr. Fitzwarren, "and let her
go."
Dick went up stairs and brought down poor puss, with tears in his eyes,
and gave her to the captain, for he said he should now be kept awake
again all night by the rats and mice.
All the company laughed at Dick's odd venture; and Miss Alice, who felt
pity for the poor boy, gave him some money to buy another cat.
This and many other marks of kindness shown him by Miss Alice made the
ill-tempered cook jealous of poor Dick, and she began to use him more
cruelly than ever and always made game of him for sending his cat to
sea. She asked him if he thought his cat would sell for as much money as
would buy a stick to beat him.
At last poor Dick could not bear this usage any longer, and he thought
he would run away from his place; so he packed up his few things and
started very early in the morning on All-hallows Day, which is the first
of November. He walked as far as Holloway, and there sat down on a
stone, which to this day is called Whittington's stone, and began to
think to himself which road he should take as he proceeded.
While he was thinking what he should do, the Bells of Bow Church, which
at that time had only six, began to ring, and he fancied their sound
seemed to say to him:
"Turn again, Whittington,
Lord Mayor of London."
"Lord Mayor of London!" said he to himself. "Why, to be sure, I would
put up with almost anything now to be Lord Mayor of London and ride in a
fine coach when I grow to be a man! Well, I will go back and think
nothing of the cuffing and scolding of the old cook if I am to be Lord
Mayor of London at last."
Dick went back and was lucky enough to get into the house and set about
his work before the old cook came downstairs.
The ship, with the cat on board, was a long time at sea, and was at last
driven by the winds on a part of the coast of Barbary where the only
people were the Moors, whom the English had never known before.
The people then came in great numbers to see the sailors, who were of
different color from themselves, and treated them very civilly, and when
they became better acquainted were very eager to buy the fine things
that the ship was loaded with.
When the captain saw this, he sent patterns of the best things he had to
the king of the country, who was so much pleased with them that he sent
for the captain to the palace. Here they were placed, as it is the
custom of the country, on rich carpets marked with gold and silver
flowers. The king and queen were seated at the upper end of the room,
and a number of dishes were brought in for dinner. When they had sat but
a short time, a vast number of rats and mice rushed in, helping
themselves from almost every dish. The captain wondered at this and
asked if these vermin were not very unpleasant.
"Oh, yes," said they, "very offensive; and the king would give half his
treasure to be freed of them, for they not only destroy his dinner, as
you see, but they assault him in his chamber and even in bed, so that he
is obliged to be watched while he is sleeping for fear of them."
The captain jumped for joy; he remembered poor Whittington and his cat
and told the king he had a creature on board the ship that would
dispatch all these vermin immediately. The king's heart heaved so high
at the joy which this news gave him that his turban dropped off his
head. "Bring this creature to me," says he; "vermin are dreadful in a
court, and if she will perform what you say, I will load your ship with
gold and jewels in exchange for her."
The captain, who knew his business, took this opportunity to set forth
the merits of Mrs. Puss. He told his majesty that it would be
inconvenient to part with her, as, when she was gone, the rats and mice
might destroy the goods in the ship--but to oblige his majesty he would
fetch her. "Run, run!" said the queen; "I am impatient to see the dear
creature."
Away went the captain to the ship, while another dinner was got ready.
He put puss under his arm and arrived at the palace soon enough to see
the table full of rats.
When the cat saw them, she did not wait for bidding, but jumped out of
the captain's arms and in a few minutes laid almost all the rats and
mice dead at her feet. The rest of them in their fright scampered away
to their holes.
The king and queen were quite charmed to get so easily rid of such
plagues and desired that the creature who had done them so great a
kindness might be brought to them for inspection. The captain called,
"Pussy, pussy, pussy!" and she came to him. He then presented her to the
queen, who started back and was afraid to touch a creature who had made
such a havoc among the rats and mice. However, when the captain stroked
the cat and called, "Pussy, pussy," the queen also touched her and
cried, "Putty, putty," for she had not learned English. He then put her
down on the queen's lap; where she, purring, played with her majesty's
hand and then sang herself to sleep.
The king, having seen the exploits of Mrs. Puss and being informed that
she was with young and would stock the whole country, bargained with the
captain for the whole ship's cargo and then gave him ten times as much
for the cat as all the rest amounted to.
The captain then took leave of the royal party and set sail with a fair
wind for England, and after a happy voyage arrived safe in London.
One morning when Mr. Fitzwarren had just come to his counting-house and
seated himself at the desk, somebody came tap, tap, at the door. "Who's
there?" says Mr. Fitzwarren.
"A friend," answered the other; "I come to bring you good news of your
ship _Unicorn_." The merchant, bustling up instantly, opened the door,
and who should be seen waiting but the captain with a cabinet of jewels
and a bill of lading, for which the merchant lifted up his eyes and
thanked heaven for sending him such a prosperous voyage.
They then told the story of the cat and showed the rich present that the
king and queen had sent for her to poor Dick. As soon as the merchant
heard this, he called out to his servants:
"Go fetch him--we will tell him of the same;
Pray call him Mr. Whittington by name."
Mr. Fitzwarren now showed himself to be a good man; for when some of his
servants said so great a treasure was too much for him, he answered,
"God forbid I should deprive him of the value of a single penny."
He then sent for Dick, who at that time was scouring pots for the cook
and was quite dirty.
Mr. Fitzwarren ordered a chair to be set for him, and so he began to
think they were making game of him, at the same time begging them not to
play tricks with a poor simple boy, but to let him go down again, if
they pleased, to his work.
"Indeed, Mr. Whittington," said the merchant, "we are all quite in
earnest with you, and I most heartily rejoice in the news these
gentlemen have brought you, for the captain has sold your cat to the
King of Barbary and brought you in return for her more riches than I
possess in the whole world; and I wish you may long enjoy them!"
Mr. Fitzwarren then told the men to open the great treasure they had
brought with them, and said, "Mr. Whittington has nothing to do but to
put it in some place of safety."
Poor Dick hardly knew how to behave himself for joy. He begged his
master to take what part of it he pleased, since he owed it all to his
kindness. "No, no," answered Mr. Fitzwarren, "this is all your own, and
I have no doubt but you will use it well."
Dick next asked his mistress, and then Miss Alice, to accept a part of
his good fortune; but they would not, and at the same time told him they
felt great joy at his good success. But this poor fellow was too
kind-hearted to keep it all to himself; so he made a present to the
captain, the mate, and the rest of Mr. Fitzwarren's servants, and even
to the ill-natured old cook.
After this Mr. Fitzwarren advised him to send for a proper tradesman and
get himself dressed like a gentleman, and told him he was welcome to
live in his house till he could provide himself with a better.
When Whittington's face was washed, his hair curled, and his hat cocked,
and he was dressed in a nice suit of clothes, he was as handsome and
genteel as any young man who visited at Mr. Fitzwarren's; so that Miss
Alice, who had once been so kind to him and thought of him with pity,
now looked upon him as fit to be her sweetheart; and the more so, no
doubt, because Whittington was now always thinking what he could do to
oblige her and making her the prettiest presents that could be.
Mr. Fitzwarren soon saw their love for each other and proposed to join
them in marriage, and to this they both readily agreed. A day for the
wedding was soon fixed; and they were attended to church by the Lord
Mayor, the court of aldermen, the sheriffs, and a great number of the
richest merchants in London, whom they afterwards treated with a very
rich feast.
History tells us that Mr. Whittington and his lady lived in great
splendor and were very happy. They had several children. He was Sheriff
of London, also Mayor, and received the honor of knighthood by Henry V.
The figure of Sir Richard Whittington with his cat in his arms, carved
in stone, was to be seen till the year 1780 over the archway of the old
prison of Newgate that stood across Newgate Street.
160
The next story came from Suffolk, England, and
the original is in the pronounced dialect of
that county. Mr. Jacobs thinks it one of the
best folk tales ever collected. The version
given follows Jacobs in reducing the dialect.
There is enough left, however, to raise the
question of the use of dialect in stories for
children. Some modern versions eliminate the
dialect altogether. It is certain that the
retention of some of the qualities of the
folk-telling makes it more dramatically
effective and appropriate. The original form of
the story may be seen in Hartland's _English
Fairy and Folk Tales_. Teachers should feel
free to use their judgment as to the best form
in which to tell a story to children.
Name-guessing stories are very common, and may
be "a 'survival' of the superstition that to
know a man's name gives you power over him, for
which reason savages object to tell their
names." The Grimm story of "Rumpelstiltskin" is
the best known of many variants (No. 178). "Tom
Tit Tot" has a rude vigor and dramatic force
not in the continental versions, and it will be
interesting to compare it with the Grimm tale.
Jacobs suggests that "it may be necessary to
explain to the little ones that Tom Tit can be
referred to only as 'that,' because his name is
not known until the end."
TOM TIT TOT
Once upon a time there was a woman, and she baked five pies. And when
they came out of the oven, they were that over-baked the crusts were too
hard to eat. So she says to her daughter: "Darter," says she, "put you
them there pies on the shelf, and leave 'em there a little, and they'll
come again."--She meant, you know, the crust would get soft.
But the girl, she says to herself, "Well, if they'll come again, I'll
eat 'em now." And she set to work and ate 'em all, first and last.
Well, come supper-time the woman said, "Go you and get one o' them there
pies. I dare say they've come again now."
The girl went and she looked, and there was nothing but the dishes. So
back she came and says she, "Noo, they ain't come again."
"Not one of 'em?" says the mother.
"Not one of 'em," says she.
"Well, come again or not come again," said the woman, "I'll have one for
supper."
"But you can't if they ain't come," said the girl.
"But I can," says she. "Go you and bring the best of 'em."
"Best or worst," says the girl, "I've ate 'em all, and you can't have
one till that's come again."
Well, the woman she was done, and she took her spinning to the door to
spin, and as she span she sang:
"My darter ha' ate five, five pies to-day.
My darter ha' ate five, five pies to-day."
The king was coming down the street, and he heard her sing, but what she
sang he couldn't hear, so he stopped and said, "What was that you were
singing, my good woman?"
The woman was ashamed to let him hear what her daughter had been doing,
so she sang, instead of that:
"My darter ha' spun five, five skeins to-day.
My darter ha' spun five, five skeins to-day."
"Stars o' mine!" said the king, "I never heard tell of any one that
could do that."
Then he said, "Look you here, I want a wife, and I'll marry your
daughter. But look you here," says he, "eleven months out of the year
she shall have all she likes to eat, and all the gowns she likes to get,
and all the company she likes to keep; but the last month of the year
she'll have to spin five skeins every day, and if she don't I shall kill
her."
"All right," says the woman; for she thought what a grand marriage that
was. And as for the five skeins, when the time came, there'd be plenty
of ways of getting out of it, and likeliest, he'd have forgotten all
about it.
Well, so they were married. And for eleven months the girl had all she
liked to eat and all the gowns she liked to get and all the company she
liked to keep.
But when the time was getting over, she began to think about the skeins
and to wonder if he had 'em in mind. But not one word did he say about
'em, and she thought he'd wholly forgotten 'em.
However, the first day of the last month he takes her to a room she'd
never set eyes on before. There was nothing in it but a spinning-wheel
and a stool. And says he, "Now, my dear, here you'll be shut in
to-morrow with some victuals and some flax, and if you haven't spun
five skeins by the night, your head'll go off." And away he went about
his business.
Well, she was that frightened, she'd always been such a gatless girl,
that she didn't so much as know how to spin, and what was she to do
to-morrow with no one to come nigh her to help her? She sat down on a
stool in the kitchen, and law! how she did cry!
However, all of a sudden she heard a sort of a knocking low down on the
door. She upped and oped it, and what should she see but a small little
black thing with a long tail. That looked up at her right curious, and
that said, "What are you a-crying for?"
"What's that to you?" says she.
"Never you mind," that said, "but tell me what you're a-crying for."
"That won't do me no good if I do," says she.
"You don't know that," that said, and twirled that's tail round.
"Well," says she, "that won't do no harm, if that don't do no good," and
she upped and told about the pies and the skeins and everything.
"This is what I'll do," says the little black thing, "I'll come to your
window every morning and take the flax and bring it spun at night."
"What's your pay?" says she.
That looked out of the corner of that's eyes, and that said, "I'll give
you three guesses every night to guess my name, and if you haven't
guessed it before the month's up you shalt be mine."
Well, she thought she'd be sure to guess that's name before the month
was up. "All right," says she, "I agree."
"All right," that says, and law! how that twirled that's tail.
Well, the next day her husband took her into the room, and there was the
flax and the day's food.
"Now, there's the flax," says he, "and if that ain't spun up this night,
off goes your head." And then he went out and locked the door.
He'd hardly gone when there was a knocking against the window. She upped
and she oped it, and there sure enough was the little old thing sitting
on the ledge.
"Where's the flax?" says he.
"Here it be," says she. And she gave it to him.
Well, come the evening a knocking came again to the window. She upped
and she oped it, and there was the little old thing with five skeins of
flax on his arm.
"Here it be," says he, and he gave it to her. "Now, what's my name?"
says he. "What, is that Bill?" says she. "Noo, that ain't," says he, and
he twirled his tail. "Is that Ned?" says she. "Noo, that ain't," says
he, and he twirled his tail. "Well, is that Mark?" says she. "Noo, that
ain't," says he, and he twirled his tail harder, and away he flew.
Well, when her husband came in, there were the five skeins ready for
him. "I see I shan't have to kill you to-night, my dear," says he;
"you'll have your food and your flax in the morning," says he, and away
he goes.
Well, every day the flax and the food were brought, and every day that
there little black impet used to come mornings and evenings. And all the
day the girl sat trying to think of names to say to it when it came at
night. But she never hit on the right one. And as it got towards the end
of the month, the impet began to look so maliceful, and that twirled
that's tail faster and faster each time she gave a guess.
At last it came to the last day but one. The impet came at night along
with the five skeins, and that said, "What, ain't you got my name yet?"
"Is that Nicodemus?" says she. "Noo, 't ain't," that says. "Is that
Sammle?" says she. "Noo, 't ain't," that says. "A-well, is that
Methusalem?" says she. "Noo, 't ain't that neither," that says.
Then that looks at her with that's eyes like a coal o' fire, and that
says, "Woman, there's only to-morrow night, and then you'll be mine!"
And away it flew.
Well, she felt that horrid. However she heard the king coming along the
passage. In he came, and when he sees the five skeins, says he, "Well,
my dear, I don't see but what you'll have your skeins ready to-morrow
night as well and as I reckon I shan't have to kill you, I'll have
supper in here to-night." So they brought supper and another stool for
him, and down the two sat.
Well, he hadn't eaten but a mouthful or so, when he stops and begins to
laugh.
"What is it?" says she.
"A-why," says he, "I was out a-hunting to-day, and I got away to a place
in the wood I'd never seen before. And there was an old chalk-pit. And I
heard a kind of a sort of humming. So I got off my hobby, and I went
right quiet to the pit, and I looked down. Well, what should there be
but the funniest little black thing you ever set eyes on. And what was
that doing, but that had a little spinning-wheel, and that was spinning
wonderful fast, and twirling that's tail. And as that span that sang:
"Nimmy nimmy not
My name's Tom Tit Tot."
Well, when the girl heard this, she felt as if she could have jumped out
of her skin for joy, but she didn't say a word.
Next day that there little thing looked so maliceful when he came for
the flax. And when night came she heard that knocking against the window
panes. She oped the window, and that come right in on the ledge. That
was grinning from ear to ear, and Oo! that's tail was twirling round so
fast.
"What's my name?" that says, as that gave her the skeins. "Is that
Solomon?" she says, pretending to be afeard. "Noo, 't ain't," that says,
and that came further into the room. "Well, is that Zebedee?" says she
again. "Noo, 't ain't," says the impet. And then that laughed and
twirled that's tail till you couldn't hardly see it.
"Take time, woman," that says; "next guess, and you're mine." And that
stretched out that's black hands at her.
Well, she backed a step or two, and she looked at it, and then she
laughed out and says she, pointing her finger at it:
"Nimmy nimmy not
Your name's Tom Tit Tot."
Well, when that heard her, that gave an awful shriek and away that flew
into the dark, and she never saw it any more.
161
In 1697 the French author Charles Perrault
(1628-1703) published a little collection of
eight tales in prose familiarly known as _The
Tales of Mother Goose_ (_Contes de Ma Mère
l'Oye_). These tales were "The Fairies" ("Toads
and Diamonds"), "The Sleeping Beauty in the
Wood," "Bluebeard," "Little Red Riding Hood,"
"Puss-in-Boots," "Cinderella," "Rique with the
Tuft," and "Little Thumb." Perrault was
prominent as a scholar and may have felt it
beneath his dignity to write nursery tales. At
any rate he declared the stories were copied
from tellings by his eleven-year-old son. But
Perrault's fairies have not only saved him from
oblivion: in countless editions and
translations they have won him immortality. The
charming literary form of his versions,
"Englished by R. S., Gent," about 1730, soon
established them in place of the more somber
English popular versions. It is practically
certain that the name Mother Goose, as that of
the genial old lady who presides over the light
literature of the nursery, was established by
the work of Perrault.
"Little Red Riding Hood," a likely candidate
for first place in the affections of childish
story-lovers, is here given in its "correct"
form. Many versions are so constructed as to
have happy endings, either by having the
woodmen appear in the nick of time to kill the
wolf before any damage is done, or by having
the grandmother and Little Red Riding Hood
restored to life after recovering them from the
"innards" of the wolf. Andrew Lang thinks that
the tale as it stands is merely meant to waken
a child's terror and pity, after the fashion of
the old Greek tragedies, and that the narrator
properly ends it by making a pounce, in the
character of wolf, at the little listener. That
this was the correct "business" in Scotch
nurseries is borne out by a sentence in
Chambers' _Popular Rhymes of Scotland_: "The
old nurse's imitation of the _gnash, gnash_,
which she played off upon the youngest urchin
lying in her lap, was electric."
LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD
Once upon a time there lived in a certain village a little country girl,
the prettiest creature that was ever seen. Her mother was excessively
fond of her; and her grandmother doted on her still more. This good
woman got made for her a little red riding-hood, which became the girl
so extremely well that everybody called her Little Red Riding-Hood.
One day her mother, having made some custards, said to her, "Go, my
dear, and see how thy grandmamma does, for I hear that she has been very
ill; carry her a custard and this little pot of butter."
Little Red Riding-Hood set out immediately to go to her grandmother, who
lived in another village.
As she was going through the wood, she met with Gaffer Wolf, who had a
very great mind to eat her up, but he durst not because of some
fagot-makers hard by in the forest. He asked her whither she was going.
The poor child, who did not know that it was dangerous to stay and hear
a wolf talk, said to him, "I am going to see my grandmamma and carry her
a custard and a little pot of butter from my mamma."
"Does she live far off?" said the wolf.
"Oh! aye," answered Little Red Riding-Hood, "it is beyond the mill you
see there at the first house in the village."
"Well," said the wolf, "and I'll go and see her too. I'll go this way
and you go that, and we shall see who will be there soonest."
The wolf began to run as fast as he could, taking the nearest way, and
the little girl went by that farthest about, diverting herself by
gathering nuts, running after butterflies, and making nosegays of such
little flowers as she met with. The wolf was not long before he got to
the old woman's house. He knocked at the door--tap, tap.
"Who's there?"
"Your grandchild, Little Red Riding-Hood," replied the wolf,
counterfeiting her voice, "who has brought you a custard and a pot of
butter sent you by mamma."
The good grandmother, who was in bed because she was somewhat ill, cried
out, "Pull the bobbin and the latch will go up."
The wolf pulled the bobbin and the door opened, and then presently he
fell upon the good woman and ate her up in a moment, for it was above
three days that he had not touched a bit. He then shut the door and went
into the grandmother's bed, expecting Little Red Riding-Hood, who came
some time afterward and knocked at the door--tap, tap.
"Who's there?"
Little Red Riding-Hood, hearing the big voice of the wolf, was at first
afraid, but believing her grandmother had got a cold and was hoarse,
answered, "'Tis your grandchild, Little Red Riding-Hood, who has brought
you a custard and a little pot of butter mamma sends you."
The wolf cried out to her, softening his voice as much as he could,
"Pull the bobbin and the latch will go up."
Little Red Riding-Hood pulled the bobbin and the door opened.
The wolf, seeing her come in, said to her, hiding himself under the
bedclothes, "Put the custard and the little pot of butter upon the stool
and come and lie down with me."
Little Red Riding-Hood undressed herself and went into bed, where, being
greatly amazed to see how her grandmother looked in her night-clothes,
she said to her, "Grandmamma, what great arms you have got!"
"That is the better to hug thee, my dear."
"Grandmamma, what great legs you have got!"
"That is to run the better, my child."
"Grandmamma, what great ears you have got!"
"That is to hear the better, my child."
"Grandmamma, what great eyes you have got!"
"It is to see the better, my child."
"Grandmamma, what great teeth you have got!"
"That is to eat thee up."
And saying these words, this wicked wolf fell upon Little Red
Riding-Hood and ate her all up.
162
Because many modern teachers are distressed at
the tragedy of the real story of "Little Red
Riding Hood" as just given, they prefer some
softened form of the tale. The Grimm version,
"Little Red Cap," is generally used by those
who insist on a happy ending. There Little Red
Riding Hood and her grandmother are both
recovered and the wicked wolf destroyed. The
story that follows is from a modern French
author, Charles Marelles, and is given in the
translation found in Lang's _Red Fairy Book_.
In it the events are dramatically imagined in
detail, even if the writer does turn it all
into a sunflower myth at the close.
TRUE HISTORY OF LITTLE GOLDEN HOOD
You know the tale of poor Little Red Riding-Hood, that the wolf deceived
and devoured, with her cake, her little butter can, and her grandmother.
Well, the true story happened quite differently, as we know now. And
first of all, the little girl was called and is still called Little
Golden Hood; secondly, it was not she, nor the good granddame, but the
wicked wolf who was, in the end, caught and devoured.
Only listen.
The story begins something like the tale.
There was once a little peasant girl, pretty and nice as a star in its
season. Her real name was Blanchette, but she was more often called
Little Golden Hood, on account of a wonderful little cloak with a hood,
gold and fire colored, which she always had on. This little hood was
given her by her grandmother, who was so old that she did not know her
age; it ought to bring her good luck, for it was made of a ray of
sunshine, she said. And as the good old woman was considered something
of a witch, every one thought the little hood rather bewitched too.
And so it was, as you will see.
One day the mother said to the child: "Let us see, my little Golden
Hood, if you know now how to find your way by yourself. You shall take
this good piece of cake to your grandmother for a Sunday treat
to-morrow. You will ask her how she is, and come back at once, without
stopping to chatter on the way with people you don't know. Do you quite
understand?"
"I quite understand," replied Blanchette gayly. And off she went with
the cake, quite proud of her errand.
But the grandmother lived in another village, and there was a big wood
to cross before getting there. At a turn of the road under the trees
suddenly, "Who goes there?"
"Friend Wolf."
He had seen the child start alone, and the villain was waiting to devour
her, when at the same moment he perceived some wood-cutters who might
observe him, and he changed his mind. Instead of falling upon Blanchette
he came frisking up to her like a good dog.
"'Tis you! my nice Little Golden Hood," said he. So the little girl
stops to talk with the wolf, whom, for all that, she did not know in the
least.
"You know me, then!" said she. "What is your name?"
"My name is friend Wolf. And where are you going thus, my pretty one,
with your little basket on your arm?"
"I am going to my grandmother to take her a good piece of cake for her
Sunday treat to-morrow."
"And where does she live, your grandmother?"
"She lives at the other side of the wood in the first house in the
village, near the windmill, you know."
"Ah! yes! I know now," said the wolf. "Well, that's just where I'm
going. I shall get there before you, no doubt, with your little bits of
legs, and I'll tell her you're coming to see her; then she'll wait for
you."
Thereupon the wolf cuts across the wood, and in five minutes arrives at
the grandmother's house.
He knocks at the door: toc, toc.
No answer.
He knocks louder.
Nobody.
Then he stands up on end, puts his two fore paws on the latch, and the
door opens.
Not a soul in the house.
The old woman had risen early to sell herbs in the town, and had gone
off in such haste that she had left her bed unmade, with her great
night-cap on the pillow.
"Good!" said the wolf to himself, "I know what I'll do."
He shuts the door, pulls on the grandmother's night-cap down to his
eyes; then he lies down all his length in the bed and draws the
curtains.
In the meantime the good Blanchette went quietly on her way, as little
girls do, amusing herself here and there by picking Easter daisies,
watching the little birds making their nests, and running after the
butterflies which fluttered in the sunshine.
At last she arrives at the door.
Knock, knock.
"Who is there?" says the wolf, softening his rough voice as best he can.
"It's me, granny, your Little Golden Hood. I'm bringing you a big piece
of cake for your Sunday treat to-morrow."
"Press your finger on the latch; then push and the door opens."
"Why, you've got a cold, granny," said she, coming in.
"Ahem! a little, my dear, a little," replies the wolf, pretending to
cough. "Shut the door well, my little lamb. Put your basket on the
table, and then take off your frock and come and lie down by me; you
shall rest a little."
The good child undresses, but observe this:--she kept her little hood
upon her head. When she saw what a figure her granny cut in bed, the
poor little thing was much surprised.
"Oh!" cries she, "how like you are to friend Wolf, grandmother!"
"That's on account of my night-cap, child," replies the wolf.
"Oh! what hairy arms you've got, grandmother!"
"All the better to hug you, my child."
"Oh! what a big tongue you've got, grandmother!"
"All the better for answering, child."
"Oh! what a mouthful of great white teeth you have, grandmother!"
"That's for crunching little children with!" And the wolf opened his
jaws wide to swallow Blanchette.
But she put down her head, crying, "Mamma! mamma!" and the wolf only
caught her little hood.
Thereupon, oh, dear! oh, dear! he draws back, crying and shaking his jaw
as if he had swallowed red-hot coals.
It was the little fire-colored hood that had burnt his tongue right down
his throat.
The little hood, you see, was one of those magic caps that they used to
have in former times, in the stories, for making one's self invisible or
invulnerable.
So there was the wolf with his throat burned, jumping off the bed and
trying to find the door, howling and howling as if all the dogs in the
country were at his heels.
Just at this moment the grandmother arrives, returning from the town
with her long sack empty on her shoulder.
"Ah, brigand!" she cries, "wait a bit!" Quickly she opens her sack wide
across the door, and the maddened wolf springs in head downward.
It is he now that is caught, swallowed like a letter in the post. For
the brave old dame shuts her sack, so; and she runs and empties it in
the well, where the vagabond, still howling, tumbles in and is drowned.
"Ah, scoundrel! you thought you would crunch my little grandchild! Well,
to-morrow we will make her a muff of your skin, and you yourself shall
be crunched, for we will give your carcass to the dogs."
Thereupon the grandmother hastened to dress poor Blanchette, who was
still trembling with fear in the bed.
"Well," she said to her, "without my little hood where would you be now,
darling?" And, to restore heart and legs to the child, she made her eat
a good piece of her cake, and drink a good draught of wine, after which
she took her by the hand and led her back to the house.
And then, who was it who scolded her when she knew all that had
happened?
It was the mother.
But Blanchette promised over and over again that she would never more
stop to listen to a wolf, so that at last the mother forgave her.
And Blanchette, the Little Golden Hood, kept her word. And in fine
weather she may still be seen in the fields with her pretty little hood,
the color of the sun.
But to see her you must rise early.
163
The next Perrault story is given in the
traditional English form made by "R. S., Gent."
Perrault met the popular taste of his time for
"morals" by adding more or less playful ones in
verse to his stories. Here is a prose rendering
of a portion of the _Moralité_ attached to
"Puss-in-Boots": "However great may be the
advantage of enjoying a rich inheritance coming
down from father to son, industry and ingenuity
are worth more to young people as a usual thing
than goods acquired without personal effort."
In relation to this moral, Ralston says, "the
conclusion at which an ordinary reader would
arrive, if he were not dazzled by fairy-land
glamor, would probably be that far better than
either tact and industry on a master's part is
the loyalty of an unscrupulous retainer of an
imaginative turn of mind. The impropriety of
this teaching is not balanced by any other form
of instruction. What the story openly
inculcates is not edifying, and it does not
secretly convey any improving doctrine." But on
the other hand it may be argued that the
"moral" passes over the child's head. Miss
Kready, in her _Study of Fairy Tales_ (p. 275),
makes a very elaborate and proper defense of
"Puss-in-Boots" as a story for children. There
is delight in its strong sense of adventure, it
has a hero clever and quick, there is loyalty,
love, and sacrifice in Puss's devotion to his
master, the tricks are true to "cat-nature,"
there are touches of nature beauty, a simple
and pleasing plot, while we should not forget
the delightful Ogre and his transformations
into Lion and Mouse. The story is found in many
forms among many different peoples. Perhaps the
great stroke of genius which endears Perrault's
version is in the splendid boots with which his
tale provides the hero so that briers may not
interfere with his doings. (Extended studies of
this tale and its many parallels may be found
in Lang's _Perrault's Popular Tales_; in
McCulloch's _Childhood of Fiction_, chap. viii;
in an article by Ralston in the _Nineteenth
Century_, January, 1883, reprinted in _Living
Age_, Vol. CLVI, p. 362.)
PUSS-IN-BOOTS
There was once a miller who left no more estate to the three sons he had
than his mill, his ass, and his cat. The partition was soon made.
Neither the clerk nor the attorney was sent for. They would soon have
eaten up all the poor patrimony. The eldest had the mill, the second the
ass, and the youngest nothing but the cat.
The poor young fellow was quite comfortless at having so poor a lot. "My
brothers," said he, "may get their living handsomely enough by joining
their stocks together; but for my part, when I have eaten up my cat and
made me a muff of his skin, I must die with hunger."
The cat, who heard all this, but made as if he did not, said to him with
a grave and serious air; "Do not thus afflict yourself, my good master;
you have nothing else to do but to give me a bag and get a pair of
boots made for me, that I may scamper through the dirt and the brambles,
and you shall see that you have not so bad a portion of me as you
imagine."
Though the cat's master did not build very much upon what he said, he
had, however, often seen him play a great many cunning tricks to catch
rats and mice; as when he used to hang by the heels, or hide himself in
the meal and make as if he were dead; so he did not altogether despair
of his affording him some help in his miserable condition.
When the cat had what he asked for, he booted himself very gallantly;
and putting his bag about his neck, he held the strings of it in his two
fore paws and went into a warren where was a great abundance of rabbits.
He put bran and sow-thistles into his bag, and, stretching himself out
at length as if he had been dead, he waited for some young rabbits, not
yet acquainted with the deceits of the world, to come and rummage his
bag for what he had just put into it.
Scarce was he lain down but he had what he wanted. A rash and foolish
young rabbit jumped into his bag, and master Puss, immediately drawing
close the strings, took and killed him without pity. Proud of his prey,
he went with it to the palace and asked to speak with his majesty. He
was shown upstairs into the king's apartment, and, making a low
reverence, said to him: "I have brought you, sir, a rabbit of the warren
which my noble lord, the Marquis of Carabas" (for that was the title
which Puss was pleased to give his master), "has commanded me to present
to your majesty from him."
"Tell thy master," said the king, "that I thank him and that he gives me
a great deal of pleasure."
Another time he went and hid himself among some standing corn, holding
still his bag open; and when a brace of partridges ran into it, he drew
the strings and so caught them both. He went and made a present of these
to the king, as he had done before of the rabbit which he took in the
warren. The king in like manner received the partridges with great
pleasure and ordered him some money.
The cat continued for two or three months thus to carry his majesty,
from time to time, game of his master's taking. One day in particular,
when he knew for certain that he was to take the air along the riverside
with his daughter, the most beautiful princess in the world, he said to
his master: "If you will follow my advice, your fortune is made. You
have nothing else to do but go and wash yourself in the river, in that
part I shall show you, and leave the rest to me." The Marquis of Carabas
did what the cat advised him to, without knowing why or wherefore.
While he was washing, the king passed by, and the cat began to cry out
as loud as he could, "Help, help! my lord Marquis of Carabas is going to
be drowned." At this noise the king put his head out of his
coach-window, and, finding it was the cat who had so often brought him
such good game, he commanded his guards to run immediately to the
assistance of his lordship, the Marquis of Carabas.
While they were drawing the poor marquis out of the river, the cat came
up to the coach and told the king that while his master was washing
there came by some rogues, who went off with his clothes though he had
cried out, "Thieves, thieves," as loud as he could. This cunning cat had
hidden them under a great stone. The king immediately commanded the
officers of his wardrobe to run and fetch one of his best suits for the
lord Marquis of Carabas.
The king caressed him after a very extraordinary manner; and as the fine
clothes he had given him extremely set off his good mien (for he was
well made and very handsome in his person), the king's daughter took a
secret inclination to him, and the Marquis of Carabas had no sooner cast
two or three respectful and somewhat tender glances, but she fell in
love with him to distraction. The king would needs have him come into
his coach and take part of the airing. The cat, quite overjoyed to see
his project begin to succeed, marched on before, and meeting with some
countrymen who were mowing a meadow, he said to them, "Good people, you
who are mowing, if you do not tell the king, who will soon pass this
way, that the meadow you mow belongs to my lord Marquis of Carabas, you
shall be chopped as small as herbs for the pot."
The king did not fail asking of the mowers to whom the meadow they were
mowing belonged: "To my lord Marquis of Carabas," answered they, all
together, for the cat's threats had made them terribly afraid.
"You see, sir," said the marquis, "this is a meadow which never fails to
yield a plentiful harvest every year."
The master-cat, who went still on before, met with some reapers, and
said to them, "Good people, you who are reaping, if you do not tell the
king, who will presently go by, that all this corn belongs to the
Marquis of Carabas, you shall be chopped as small as herbs for the pot."
The king, who passed by a moment after, would needs know to whom all
that corn, which he then saw, did belong. "To my lord Marquis of
Carabas," replied the reapers; and the king was very well pleased with
it, as well as the marquis, whom he congratulated thereupon. The
master-cat, who went always before, said the same words to all he met;
and the king was astonished at the vast estates of my lord Marquis of
Carabas.
Master Puss came at last to a stately castle, the owner of which was an
ogre, the richest that had ever been known, for all the lands which the
king had then gone over belonged to this castle. The cat, who had taken
care to inform himself who the ogre was and what he could do, asked to
speak with him, saying he could not pass so near his castle without
having the honor of paying his respects to him.
The ogre received him as civilly as an ogre could do and made him sit
down. "I have been assured," said the cat, "that you have the gift of
being able to change yourself into all sorts of creatures you have a
mind to. You can, for example, transform yourself into a lion, or
elephant, and the like."
"This is true," answered the ogre very briskly, "and to convince you,
you shall see me now become a lion."
Puss was so sadly terrified at the sight of a lion so near him that he
immediately got into the gutter, not without abundance of trouble and
danger, because of his boots, which were of no use at all to him in
walking upon the tiles. A little while after, when Puss saw that the
ogre had resumed his natural form, he came down and owned he had been
very much frightened.
"I have been, moreover, informed," said the cat, "but I know not how to
believe it, that you have also the power to take on you the shape of the
smallest animals; for example, to change yourself into a rat or a mouse;
but I must own to you, I take this to be impossible."
"Impossible!" cried the ogre, "you shall see that presently," and at the
same time changed himself into a mouse, and began to run about the
floor. Puss no sooner perceived this but he fell upon him and ate him
up.
Meanwhile, the king, who saw, as he passed, this fine castle of the
ogre's, had a mind to go into it. Puss, who heard the noise of his
majesty's coach running over the drawbridge, ran out and said to the
king, "Your Majesty is welcome to this castle of my lord Marquis of
Carabas."
"What! my lord Marquis!" cried the king, "and does this castle also
belong to you? There can be nothing finer than this court and all the
stately buildings which surround it; let us go into it, if you please."
They passed into a spacious hall, where they found a magnificent
collation which the ogre had prepared for his friends, who were that
very day to visit him, but dared not to enter, knowing the king was
there. His majesty was perfectly charmed with the good qualities of my
lord Marquis of Carabas, as was his daughter, who had fallen in love
with him; and seeing the vast estate he possessed, said to him while
they sat at the feast, "It will be owing to yourself only, my lord
Marquis, if you are not my son-in-law." The marquis, making several low
bows, accepted the honor which his majesty conferred upon him, and
forthwith, that very same day, married the princess.
Puss became a great lord, and never ran after mice any more, but only
for his diversion.
164
Perrault attached to the next story this moral:
"Diamonds and dollars influence minds, and yet
gentle words have more effect and are more to
be esteemed. . . . It is a lot of trouble to be
upright and it requires some effort, but sooner
or later it finds its reward, and generally
when one is least expecting it." English
versions are usually given the title "Toads and
Diamonds," though Perrault's title was simply
"The Fairies" ("Les Fées"). Lang calls
attention to the fact that the origin of the
story is "manifestly moral." He thinks "it is
an obvious criticism that the elder girl should
have met the fairy first; she was not likely to
behave so rudely when she knew that politeness
would be rewarded." It would be interesting for
a story-teller to test the effect of relating
the incidents in the order suggested by Lang.
TOADS AND DIAMONDS
There was once upon a time a widow who had two daughters. The oldest was
so much like her in face and humor that whoever looked upon the daughter
saw the mother. They were both so disagreeable and so proud that there
was no living with them. The youngest, who was the very picture of her
father for courtesy and sweetness of temper, was withal one of the most
beautiful girls that was ever seen. As people naturally love their own
likenesses, this mother ever doted on her eldest daughter and at the
same time had a sad aversion for the youngest. She made her eat in the
kitchen and work continually.
Among other things, this poor child was forced twice a day to draw water
above a mile and a half from the house, and bring home a pitcher full of
it. One day as she was at this fountain there came to her a poor woman,
who begged of her to let her drink. "Oh, yes, with all my heart,
Goody," said this pretty little girl; and rinsing the pitcher, she took
up some water from the clearest place of the fountain and gave it to
her, holding up the pitcher all the while that she might drink the
easier.
The good woman having drunk, said to her, "You are so very pretty, my
dear, so good and so mannerly, that I cannot help giving you a
gift"--for this was a fairy, who had taken the form of a poor country
woman to see how far the civility and good manners of this pretty girl
would go. "I will give you for gift," continued the fairy, "that at
every word you speak, there shall come out of your mouth either a flower
or a jewel."
When this pretty girl came home, her mother scolded at her for staying
so long at the fountain. "I beg your pardon, mamma," said the poor girl,
"for not making more haste"; and, in speaking these words, there came
out of her mouth two roses, two pearls, and two large diamonds.
"What is it I see there?" said her mother quite astonished. "I think I
see pearls and diamonds come out of the girl's mouth! How happens this,
my child?"--This was the first time she ever called her her child.
The poor creature told her frankly all the matter, not without dropping
out infinite numbers of diamonds. "In good faith," cried the mother, "I
must send my child thither. Come hither, Fanny. Look what comes out of
your sister's mouth when she speaks! Would you not be glad, my dear, to
have the same gift given to you? You have nothing else to do but go draw
water out of the fountain, and when a certain poor woman asks you to let
her drink, to give it her very civilly."
"It would be a very fine sight, indeed," said this ill-bred minx, "to
see me go draw water!"
"You shall go, hussy," said the mother, "and this minute." So away she
went, but grumbling all the way and taking with her the best silver
tankard in the house.
She was no sooner at the fountain than she saw coming out of the wood a
lady most gloriously dressed, who came up to her and asked to drink.
This was, you must know, the very fairy who appeared to her sister, but
who had now taken the air and dress of a princess to see how far this
girl's rudeness would go. "Am I come hither," said the proud, saucy
maid, "to serve you with water, pray? I suppose the silver tankard was
brought purely for your ladyship, was it? However, you may drink out of
it, if you have a fancy."
"You are not over and above mannerly," answered the fairy, without
putting herself in a passion. "Well, then, since you have so little
breeding and are so disobliging, I give you for gift, that at every word
you speak there shall come out of your mouth a snake or a toad."
So soon as her mother saw her coming, she cried out, "Well, daughter."
"Well, mother," answered the pert hussy, throwing out of her mouth two
vipers and two toads.
"Oh, mercy!" cried the mother, "what is it I see? Oh, it is that wretch,
her sister, who has occasioned all this; but she shall pay for it"; and
immediately she ran to beat her. The poor child fled away from her and
went to hide herself in the forest, not far from thence.
The king's son, then on his return from hunting, met her, and seeing her
so very pretty, asked her what she did there alone, and why she cried.
"Alas, sir! my mamma has turned me out of doors." The king's son, who
saw five or six pearls, and as many diamonds, come out of her mouth,
desired her to tell him how that happened. She thereupon told him the
whole story; and so the king's son fell in love with her; and,
considering with himself that such a gift was worth more than any
marriage-portion whatsoever in another, he conducted her to the palace
of the king his father and there married her.
As for her sister, she made herself so much hated that her own mother
turned her off; and the miserable girl, having wandered about a good
while without finding anybody to take her in, went to a corner in the
wood and there died.
165
"Cinderella" is one of the world's greatest
romantic stories. Its theme is a favorite in
all folk literature. Young and old alike have
never tired of hearing of the victories won by
the deserving in the face of all sorts of
obstacles. Perrault in his verse moral observes
that "while beauty is a rare treasure for a
woman, yet a winning manner, or personality, is
worth even more." Still further, as if
conscious of the part influence plays in the
world, he says that "while it is doubtless a
great advantage to have wit and courage,
breeding and good sense, and other such natural
endowments, still they will be of no earthly
use for our advancement unless we have, to
bring them into play, either godfathers or
godmothers." One should not, however, take too
seriously any moralizing over a fairy story
whether by Perrault or another.
In one of the most thorough studies of a single
folk tale, Miss Roalfe Cox's _Cinderella_, with
an introduction by Andrew Lang, some three
hundred and fifty variants of the story have
been analyzed. The thing that marks a
Cinderella story is the presence in it of the
"slipper test." The finest versions are those
by Perrault and the Grimms, and they are almost
equally favorites with children. The Perrault
form as found in the old English translation is
given here for reasons stated by Ralston in his
study of the Cinderella type: "But Perrault's
rendering of the tale naturalised it in the
polite world, gave it for cultured circles an
attraction which it is never likely to lose. . . .
It is with human more than with mythological
interest that the story is replete, and
therefore it appeals to human hearts with a
force which no lapse of time can diminish. Such
supernatural machinery as is introduced,
moreover, has a charm for children which older
versions of the tale do not possess. The
pumpkin carriage, the rat coachman, the lizard
lacqueys, and all the other properties of the
transformation scene, appeal at once to the
imagination and the sense of humor of every
beholder." (_Nineteenth Century_, November,
1879.)
CINDERELLA, OR THE LITTLE GLASS SLIPPER
Once there was a gentleman who married, for his second wife, the
proudest and most haughty woman that was ever seen. She had, by a former
husband, two daughters of her own humor, who were indeed exactly like
her in all things. He had likewise, by another wife, a young daughter,
but of unparalleled goodness and sweetness of temper, which she took
from her mother, who was the best creature in the world.
No sooner were the ceremonies of the wedding over but the step-mother
began to show herself in her colors. She could not bear the good
qualities of this pretty girl; and the less because they made her own
daughters appear the more odious. She employed her in the meanest work
of the house; she scoured the dishes and tables, and cleaned madam's
room and the rooms of misses, her daughters; she lay up in a sorry
garret, upon a wretched straw-bed, while her sisters lay in fine rooms,
with floors all inlaid, upon beds of the very newest fashion, and where
they had looking-glasses so large that they might see themselves at
their full length, from head to foot.
The poor girl bore all patiently, and dared not tell her father, who
would have rattled her off, for his wife governed him entirely. When she
had done her work, she used to go into the chimney corner and sit down
among cinders and ashes, which made her commonly called Cinder-wench;
but the youngest, who was not so rude and uncivil as the eldest, called
her Cinderella. However, Cinderella, notwithstanding her mean apparel,
was a hundred times handsomer than her sisters, though they were always
dressed very richly.
It happened that the king's son gave a ball, and invited all persons of
fashion to it. Our young misses were also invited, for they cut a very
grand figure among the quality. They were mightily delighted at this
invitation, and wonderfully busy in choosing out such gowns, petticoats,
and head-clothes as might best become them. This was a new trouble to
Cinderella, for it was she who ironed her sisters' linen and plaited
their ruffles. They talked all day long of nothing but how they should
be dressed. "For my part," said the eldest, "I will wear my red velvet
suit with French trimmings."
"And I," said the youngest, "shall only have my usual petticoat; but
then, to make amends for that, I will put on my gold flowered manteau
and my diamond stomacher, which is far from being the most ordinary one
in the world." They sent for the best tire-woman they could get to make
up their head-dresses, and they had their patches from the very best
maker.
Cinderella was likewise called up to them to be consulted in all these
matters, for she had excellent notions and advised them always for the
best; nay, and offered her service to dress their heads, which they were
very willing she should do. As she was doing this, they said to her,
"Cinderella, would you not be glad to go to the ball?"
"Ah!" said she, "you only jeer at me; it is not for such as I am to go
thither."
"Thou art in the right of it," replied they; "it would make the people
laugh to see a cinder-wench at a ball."
Any one but Cinderella would have dressed their heads awry, but she was
very good, and dressed them perfectly well. They were almost two days
without eating, so much they were transported with joy. They broke above
a dozen of laces in trying to be laced up close, that they might have a
fine slender shape, and they were continually at their looking-glass. At
last the happy day came. They went to court, and Cinderella followed
them with her eyes as long as she could, and when she had lost sight of
them, she fell a-crying.
Her godmother, who saw her all in tears, asked her what was the matter.
"I wish I could--I wish I could--"; she was not able to speak the rest,
being interrupted by her tears and sobbing.
This godmother of hers, who was a fairy, said to her, "Thou wishest thou
couldest go to the ball. Is it not so?"
"Y--es," cried Cinderella with a great sigh.
"Well," said her godmother, "be but a good girl, and I will contrive
that thou shalt go."
Then she took her into her chamber and said to her, "Run into the garden
and bring me a pumpkin." Cinderella went immediately to gather the
finest she could get, and brought it to her godmother, not being able to
imagine how this pumpkin could make her go to the ball. Her godmother
scooped out all the inside of it, having left nothing but the rind;
which done, she struck it with her wand, and the pumpkin was instantly
turned into a fine coach, gilded all over with gold.
She then went to look into her mouse-trap, where she found six mice, all
alive, and ordered Cinderella to lift up a little the trap-door. Then
she gave each mouse, as it went out, a little tap with her wand, and the
mouse was that moment turned into a fair horse. All together the mice
made a very fine set of six horses of a beautiful mouse-colored
dapple-gray. Being at a loss for a coachman, "I will go and see," said
Cinderella, "if there be never a rat in the rat-trap, that we may make a
coachman of him."
"Thou art in the right," replied her godmother; "go and look."
Cinderella brought the trap to her, and in it there were three huge
rats. The fairy made choice of one of the three, which had the largest
beard, and, having touched him with her wand, he was turned into a fat,
jolly coachman, who had the smartest whiskers that eyes ever beheld.
After that her godmother said to her, "Go again into the garden and you
will find six lizards behind the watering pot; bring them to me." She
had no sooner done so, than the fairy turned them into six footmen, who
skipped up immediately behind the coach, with their liveries all
bedecked with gold and silver, and clung as close behind each other as
if they had done nothing else their whole lives. The fairy then said to
Cinderella, "Well, you see here an equipage fit to go to the ball with.
Are you not pleased with it?"
"Oh, yes," cried she, "but must I go thither as I am, in these filthy
rags?" Her godmother only just touched her with her wand, and at the
same instant her clothes were turned into cloth of gold and silver, all
beset with jewels. This done, she gave her a pair of glass slippers, the
prettiest in the whole world.
Being thus decked out, she got up into her coach; but her godmother,
above all things, commanded her not to stay till after midnight, telling
her that if she stayed at the ball one moment longer, her coach would be
a pumpkin again, her horses mice, her coachman a rat, her footmen
lizards, and her clothes just as they were before.
She promised her godmother she would not fail of leaving the ball before
midnight; and then away she drives, scarce able to contain herself for
joy. The king's son, who was told that a great princess, whom nobody
knew, was come, ran out to receive her. He gave her his hand as she
alighted from the coach, and led her into the hall among all the
company. There was immediately a profound silence. They left off
dancing, and the violins ceased to play, so attentive was every one to
contemplate the singular beauties of this unknown new-comer. Nothing was
then heard but a confused noise of, "Ha! how handsome she is! Ha! how
handsome she is!" The king himself, old as he was, could not help ogling
her and telling the queen softly that it was a long time since he had
seen so beautiful and lovely a creature. All the ladies were busied in
considering her clothes and head-dress, that they might have some made
next day after the same pattern, provided they could meet with such fine
materials and as able hands to make them.
The king's son conducted her to the most honorable seat and afterwards
took her out to dance with him. She danced so very gracefully that they
all more and more admired her. A fine collation was served up, whereof
the young prince ate not a morsel, so intently was he busied in gazing
on her. She went and sat down by her sisters, showing them a thousand
civilities, giving them part of the oranges and citrons which the prince
had presented her with; which very much surprised them, for they did not
know her. While Cinderella was thus amusing her sisters, she heard the
clock strike eleven and three quarters, whereupon she immediately made a
courtesy to the company and hasted away as fast as she could.
Being got home, she ran to seek out her godmother; and having thanked
her, she said she could not but heartily wish she might go next day to
the ball, because the king's son had desired her. As she was eagerly
telling her godmother whatever had passed at the ball, her two sisters
knocked at the door, which Cinderella ran and opened. "How long you have
stayed!" cried she, gaping, rubbing her eyes, and stretching herself as
if she had been just awakened out of her sleep; she had not, however,
any manner of inclination to sleep since they went from home.
"If thou hadst been at the ball," said one of her sisters, "thou
wouldest not have been tired with it. There came thither the finest
princess, the most beautiful ever seen with mortal eyes. She showed us a
thousand civilities and gave us oranges and citrons." Cinderella seemed
very indifferent in the matter; indeed, she asked them the name of the
princess, but they told her they did not know it and that the king's son
was very uneasy on her account and would give all the world to know who
she was.
At this Cinderella, smiling, replied, "She must then be very beautiful
indeed! How happy have you been! Could not I see her? Ah! dear Miss
Charlotte, do lend me your yellow suit of clothes, which you wear every
day."
"Ay, to be sure," cried Miss Charlotte, "lend my clothes to such a dirty
cinder-wench as thou art! Who's the fool then?" Cinderella indeed
expected some such answer and was very glad of the refusal, for she
would have been sadly put to it if her sister had lent her what she
asked for jestingly.
The next day the two sisters were at the ball, and so was Cinderella,
but dressed more magnificently than before. The king's son was always by
her side and never ceased his compliments and amorous speeches to her;
to whom all this was so far from being tiresome that she quite forgot
what her godmother had recommended to her, so that she at last counted
the clock striking twelve when she took it to be no more than eleven.
She then rose up and fled as nimble as a deer. The prince followed, but
could not overtake her. She left behind one of her glass slippers, which
the prince took up most carefully. She got home, but quite out of
breath, without coach or footmen, and in her old cinder clothes, having
nothing left of all her finery but one of the little slippers, fellow to
that she dropped. The guards at the palace gate were asked if they had
not seen a princess go out. They said they had seen nobody go out but a
young girl very meanly dressed, who had more the air of a poor country
wench than a gentlewoman.
When the two sisters returned from the ball, Cinderella asked them if
they had been well diverted and if the fine lady had been there. They
told her yes, but that she hurried away immediately when it struck
twelve and with so much haste that she dropped one of her little glass
slippers, the prettiest in the world, which the king's son had taken up;
that he had done nothing but look at her all the time of the ball, and
that most certainly he was very much in love with the beautiful person
who owned the little glass slipper.
What they said was very true, for a few days after, the king's son
caused to be proclaimed by sound of trumpets that he would marry her
whose foot this slipper would just fit. They whom he employed began to
try it on upon the princesses, then the duchesses, and all the court,
but in vain. It was brought to the two sisters, who did all they
possibly could to thrust their foot into the slipper, but they could not
effect it. Cinderella, who saw all this and knew her slipper, said to
them, laughing, "Let me see if it will not fit me!"
Her sisters burst out laughing and began to banter her. The gentleman
who was sent to try the slipper looked earnestly at Cinderella, and
finding her very handsome, said it was but just that she should try, and
that he had orders to let every one make trial. He obliged Cinderella to
sit down, and putting the slipper to her foot, he found it went in very
easily and fitted her as if it had been made of wax. The astonishment
her two sisters were in was excessively great, but still abundantly
greater when Cinderella pulled out of her pocket the other slipper and
put it on her foot. Thereupon in came her godmother, who having touched,
with her wand, Cinderella's clothes, made them richer and more
magnificent than any of those she had before.
And now her two sisters found her to be that fine beautiful lady whom
they had seen at the ball. They threw themselves at her feet to beg
pardon for all the ill treatment they had made her undergo. Cinderella
took them up, and as she embraced them, cried that she forgave them with
all her heart and desired them always to love her. She was conducted to
the young prince, dressed as she was. He thought her more charming than
ever, and a few days after, married her. Cinderella, who was no less
good than beautiful, gave her two sisters lodgings in the palace, and
that very same day matched them with two great lords of the court.
166
The hero of the next story is often known as
Drakesbill, which easily becomes Bill Drake.
The version that follows is a translation from
the French of Charles Marelles as given by Lang
in his _Red Fairy Book_. It has a raciness not
in those softened versions in which one friend
gets into a pocket, another under a wing, and
so on. The persistent energy of the little
hero, his resourcefulness in difficulty, his
loyal friends, the unexpected honor that comes
as recognition of his success, the humor that
pervades every character and incident, make
this one of the most delightful of children's
stories.
DRAKESTAIL
Drakestail was very little, that is why he was called Drakestail; but
tiny as he was he had brains, and he knew what he was about, for having
begun with nothing he ended by amassing a hundred crowns. Now the king
of the country, who was very extravagant and never kept any money,
having heard that Drakestail had some, went one day in his own person to
borrow his hoard, and, my word, in those days Drakestail was not a
little proud of having lent money to the king. But after the first and
second year, seeing that he never even dreamed of paying the interest,
he became uneasy, so much so that at last he resolved to go and see his
majesty himself, and get repaid. So one fine morning Drakestail, very
spruce and fresh, takes the road, singing: "Quack, quack, quack, when
shall I get my money back?"
He had not gone far when he met friend Fox, on his rounds that way.
"Good-morning, neighbor," says the friend; "where are you off to so
early?"
"I am going to the king for what he owes me."
"Oh! take me with thee!"
Drakestail said to himself: "One can't have too many friends." Aloud
says he, "I will, but going on all fours you will soon be tired. Make
yourself quite small, get into my throat--go into my gizzard, and I will
carry you."
"Happy thought!" says friend Fox.
He takes bag and baggage, and, presto! is gone like a letter into the
post.
And Drakestail is off again, all spruce and fresh, still singing:
"Quack, quack, quack, when shall I have my money back?"
He had not gone far when he met his lady friend, Ladder, leaning on her
wall.
"Good-morning, my duckling," says the lady friend, "whither away so
bold?"
"I am going to the king for what he owes me."
"Oh! take me with thee!"
Drakestail said to himself: "One can't have too many friends." Aloud
says he: "I will, but then with your wooden legs you will soon be tired.
Make yourself quite small, get into my throat--go into my gizzard, and I
will carry you."
"Happy thought!" says my friend Ladder, and nimble, bag and baggage,
goes to keep company with friend Fox.
And "Quack, quack, quack," Drakestail is off again, singing and spruce
as before. A little further he meets his sweetheart, my friend River,
wandering quietly in the sunshine.
"Thou, my cherub," says she, "whither so lonesome, with arching tail, on
this muddy road?"
"I am going to the king, you know, for what he owes me."
"Oh! take me with thee!"
Drakestail said to himself: "One can't have too many friends." Aloud
says he: "I will, but you who sleep while you walk will soon get tired.
Make yourself quite small, get into my throat--go into my gizzard, and I
will carry you."
"Ah! happy thought!" says my friend River.
She takes bag and baggage, and glou, glou, glou she takes her place
between friend Fox and my friend Ladder.
And "Quack, quack, quack," Drakestail is off again singing.
A little further on he meets comrade Wasp's-nest, maneuvering his wasps.
"Well, good-morning, friend Drakestail," said comrade Wasp's-nest,
"where are we bound for, so spruce and fresh?"
"I am going to the king for what he owes me."
"Oh! take me with thee!"
Drakestail said to himself, "One can't have too many friends." Aloud
says he: "I will, but then with your battalion to drag along, you will
soon be tired. Make yourself quite small, go into my throat--get into my
gizzard, and I will carry you."
"By Jove! that's a good idea!" says comrade Wasp's-nest.
And left file! he takes the same road to join the others with all his
party. There was not much room, but by closing up a bit they managed.
And Drakestail is off again singing.
He arrived thus at the capital, and threaded his way straight up the
High Street, still running and singing, "Quack, quack, quack, when shall
I get my money back?" to the great astonishment of the good folks, till
he came to the king's palace.
He strikes with the knocker: "Toc! toc!"
"Who is there?" asks the porter, putting his head out of the wicket.
"'Tis I, Drakestail. I wish to speak to the king."
"Speak to the king! That's easily said. The king is dining, and will not
be disturbed."
"Tell him that it is I, and I have come he well knows why."
The porter shuts his wicket and goes up to say it to the king, who was
just sitting down to dinner with a napkin round his neck, and all his
ministers.
"Good, good!" said the king, laughing. "I know what it is! Make him come
in, and put him with the turkeys and chickens."
The porter descends.
"Have the goodness to enter."
"Good!" says Drakestail to himself, "I shall now see how they eat at
court."
"This way, this way," says the porter. "One step further. There, there
you are."
"How? what? in the poultry-yard?"
Fancy how vexed Drakestail was!
"Ah! so that's it," says he. "Wait! I will compel you to receive me.
Quack, quack, quack, when shall I get my money back?" But turkeys and
chickens are creatures who don't like people that are not as themselves.
When they saw the new-comer and how he was made, and when they heard him
crying too, they began to look black at him.
"What is it? What does he want?"
Finally they rushed at him all together, to overwhelm him with pecks.
"I am lost!" said Drakestail to himself, when by good luck he remembers
his comrade friend Fox, and he cries:
"Reynard, Reynard, come out of your earth,
Or Drakestail's life is of little worth."
Then friend Fox, who was only waiting for these words, hastens out,
throws himself on the wicked fowls, and quick! quack! he tears them to
pieces; so much so that at the end of five minutes there was not one
left alive. And Drakestail, quite content, began to sing again, "Quack,
quack, quack, when shall I get my money back?"
When the king, who was still at table, heard this refrain, and the
poultry-woman came to tell him what had been going on in the yard, he
was terribly annoyed.
He ordered them to throw this tail of a drake into the well, to make an
end of him.
And it was done as he commanded. Drakestail was in despair of getting
himself out of such a deep hole, when he remembered his lady friend
Ladder.
"Ladder, Ladder, come out of thy hold,
Or Drakestail's days will soon be told."
My friend Ladder, who was only waiting for these words, hastens out,
leans her two arms on the edge of the well; then Drakestail climbs
nimbly on her back, and hop! he is in the yard, where he begins to sing
louder than ever.
When the king, who was still at table and laughing at the good trick he
had played his creditor, heard him again reclaiming his money, he became
livid with rage.
He commanded that the furnace should be heated, and this tail of a drake
thrown into it, because he must be a sorcerer.
The furnace was soon hot, but this time Drakestail was not so afraid; he
counted on his sweetheart, my friend River.
"River, River, outward flow,
Or to death Drakestail must go."
My friend River hastens out, and errouf! throws herself into the
furnace, which she floods, with all the people who had lighted it; after
which she flowed growling into the hall of the palace to the height of
more than four feet.
And Drakestail, quite content, begins to swim, singing deafeningly,
"Quack, quack, quack, when shall I get my money back?"
The king was still at table, and thought himself quite sure of his game;
but when he heard Drakestail singing again, and when they told him all
that had passed, he became furious and got up from the table brandishing
his fists.
"Bring him here, and I'll cut his throat! Bring him here quick!" cried
he.
And quickly two footmen ran to fetch Drakestail.
"At last," said the poor chap, going up the great stairs, "they have
decided to receive me."
Imagine his terror when on entering he sees the king as red as a turkey
cock, and all his ministers attending him standing sword in hand. He
thought this time it was all up with him. Happily he remembered that
there was still one remaining friend, and he cried with dying accents:
"Wasp's nest, Wasp's nest, make a sally,
Or Drakestail nevermore may rally."
Hereupon the scene changes.
"Bs, bs, bayonet them!" The brave Wasp's-nest rushes out with all his
wasps. They threw themselves on the infuriated king and his ministers,
and stung them so fiercely in the face that they lost their heads, and
not knowing where to hide themselves they all jumped pell-mell from the
window and broke their necks on the pavement.
Behold Drakestail much astonished, all alone in the big saloon and
master of the field. He could not get over it.
Nevertheless, he remembered shortly what he had come for to the palace,
and improving the occasion, he set to work to hunt for his dear money.
But in vain he rummaged in all the drawers; he found nothing; all had
been spent.
And ferreting thus from room to room he came at last to the one with the
throne in it, and feeling fatigued, he sat himself down on it to think
over his adventure. In the meanwhile the people had found their king and
his ministers with their feet in the air on the pavement, and they had
gone into the palace to know how it had occurred. On entering the
throne-room, when the crowd saw that there was already someone on the
royal seat, they broke out in cries of surprise and joy:
"The King is dead, long live the King!
Heaven has sent us down this thing."
Drakestail, who was no longer surprised at anything, received the
acclamations of the people as if he had never done anything else all his
life.
A few of them certainly murmured that a Drakestail would make a fine
king; those who knew him replied that a knowing Drakestail was a more
worthy king than a spendthrift like him who was lying on the pavement.
In short, they ran and took the crown off the head of the deceased, and
placed it on that of Drakestail, whom it fitted like wax.
Thus he became king.
"And now," said he after the ceremony, "ladies and gentlemen, let's go
to supper. I am so hungry!"
167
The story of "Beauty and the Beast," while very
old in its ruder forms, is known to us in a
fine version which comes from the middle of the
eighteenth century. Madame de Villeneuve, a
French writer of some note and a follower of
Perrault in the field of the fairy tale,
published in 1740 a collection of stories
(_Contes Marins_) supposed to be told by an old
woman during a voyage to St. Domingo. Among
these was "Beauty and the Beast" in a
long-winded style extending to more than 250
pages. In 1757, a greatly abridged form of this
version was published by Madame de Beaumont,
who was then living in England and who wrote
many spirited tales designed for children. Her
stories are full of the didactic element, and
"Beauty and the Beast" is no exception to the
rule. These "edifying commonplaces," however,
are so sound and fit into the story so
naturally that the reader does not suffer from
their presence. The artificial character of the
story is easily felt in contrast to the natural
qualities of a folk version. The plot has all
the perfection of a finished piece of literary
art, and for this quality especially Madame de
Beaumont's abridgement has always been heartily
and rightly admired.
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
Once upon a time, in a far-off country, there lived a merchant who had
been so fortunate in all his undertakings that he was enormously rich.
As he had, however, six sons and six daughters, he found that his money
was not too much to let them have everything they fancied, as they were
accustomed to do.
But one day a most unexpected misfortune befell them. Their house caught
fire and was speedily burned to the ground, with all the splendid
furniture, the books, pictures, gold, silver, and precious goods it
contained; and this was only the beginning of their troubles. Their
father, who had until this moment prospered in all ways, suddenly lost
every ship he had upon the sea, either by dint of pirates, shipwreck, or
fire. Then he heard that his clerks in distant countries, whom he had
trusted entirely, had proved unfaithful, and at last from great wealth
he fell into direst poverty.
All that he had left was a little house in a desolate place at least a
hundred leagues from the town in which he had lived, and to this he was
forced to retreat with his children, who were in despair at the idea of
leading such a different life. Indeed, the daughters at first hoped that
their friends, who had been so numerous while they were rich, would
insist on their staying in their houses now they no longer possessed
one. But they soon found that they were left alone, and that their
former friends even attributed their misfortunes to their own
extravagance, and showed no intention of offering them any help. So
nothing was left for them but to take their departure to the cottage,
which stood in the midst of a dark forest, and seemed to be the most
dismal place upon the face of the earth.
As they were too poor to have any servants, the girls had to work hard,
like peasants, and the sons, for their part, cultivated the fields to
earn their living. Roughly clothed, and living in the simplest way, the
girls regretted unceasingly the luxuries and amusements of their former
life; only the youngest tried to be brave and cheerful. She had been as
sad as anyone when the misfortune first overtook her father, but, soon
recovering her natural gayety, she set to work to make the best of
things, to amuse her father and brothers as well as she could, and to
try to persuade her sisters to join her in dancing and singing. But they
would do nothing of the sort, and because she was not as doleful as
themselves they declared that this miserable life was all she was fit
for. But she was really far prettier and cleverer than they were;
indeed, she was so lovely that she was always called Beauty. After two
years, when they were all beginning to get used to their new life,
something happened to disturb their tranquillity. Their father received
the news that one of his ships, which he had believed to be lost, had
come safely into port with a rich cargo.
All the sons and daughters at once thought that their poverty was at an
end and wanted to set out directly for the town, but their father, who
was more prudent, begged them to wait a little, and though it was
harvest-time and he could ill be spared, determined to go himself first
to make inquiries. Only the youngest daughter had any doubt but that
they would soon be as rich as they were before, or at least rich enough
to live comfortably in some town where they would find amusement and gay
companions once more. So they all loaded their father with commissions
for jewels and dresses which it would have taken a fortune to buy; only
Beauty, feeling sure that it was of no use, did not ask for anything.
Her father, noticing her silence, said: "And what shall I bring for you,
Beauty?"
"The only thing I wish for is to see you come home safely," she
answered.
But this reply vexed her sisters, who fancied she was blaming them for
having asked for such costly things. Her father was pleased, but as he
thought that at her age she certainly ought to like pretty presents, he
told her to choose something.
"Well, dear father," said she, "as you insist upon it, I beg that you
will bring me a rose. I have not seen one since we came here, and I love
them so much."
So the merchant set out and reached the town as quickly as possible, but
only to find that his former companions, believing him to be dead, had
divided between them the goods which the ship had brought; and after six
months of trouble and expense he found himself as poor as when he
started, having been able to recover only just enough to pay the cost
of the journey. To make matters worse, he was obliged to leave the town
in terrible weather, so that by the time he was within a few leagues of
his home he was almost exhausted with cold and fatigue. Though he knew
it would take some hours to get through the forest, he was so anxious to
be at his journey's end that he resolved to go on; but night overtook
him, and the deep snow and bitter frost made it impossible for his horse
to carry him any further. Not a house was to be seen. The only shelter
he could get was the hollow trunk of a great tree, and there he crouched
all the night, which seemed to him the longest he had ever known. In
spite of his weariness the howling of the wolves kept him awake, and
even when at last the day broke he was not much better off, for the
falling snow had covered up every path and he did not know which way to
turn.
At length he made out some sort of track, and though at the beginning it
was so rough and slippery that he fell down more than once, it presently
became easier and led him into an avenue of trees which ended in a
splendid castle. It seemed to the merchant very strange that no snow had
fallen in the avenue, which was entirely composed of orange-trees,
covered with flowers and fruit. When he reached the first court of the
castle he saw before him a flight of agate steps, and went up them and
passed through several splendidly furnished rooms. The pleasant warmth
of the air revived him and he felt very hungry; but there seemed to be
nobody in all this vast and splendid palace whom he could ask to give
him something to eat. Deep silence reigned everywhere, and at last,
tired of roaming through empty rooms and galleries, he stopped in a room
smaller than the rest, where a clear fire was burning and a couch was
drawn up cozily, close to it. Thinking that this must be prepared for
some one who was expected, he sat down to wait till he should come and
very soon fell into a sweet sleep.
When his extreme hunger wakened him after several hours he was still
alone, but a little table, upon which was a good dinner, had been drawn
up close to him, and as he had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours he
lost no time in beginning his meal, hoping that he might soon have an
opportunity of thanking his considerate entertainer, whoever it might
be. But no one appeared, and even after another long sleep, from which
he awoke completely refreshed, there was no sign of anybody, though a
fresh meal of dainty cakes and fruit was prepared upon a little table at
his elbow. Being naturally timid, the silence began to terrify him, and
he resolved to search once more through all the rooms; but it was of no
use. Not even a servant was to be seen; there was no sign of life in the
palace! He began to wonder what he should do, and to amuse himself by
pretending that all the treasures he saw were his own, and considering
how he would divide them among his children. Then he went down into the
garden, and though it was winter everywhere else, here the sun shone,
and the birds sang, and the flowers bloomed, and the air was soft and
sweet. The merchant, in ecstasies with all he saw and heard, said to
himself:
"All this must be meant for me. I will go this minute and bring my
children to share all these delights."
In spite of being so cold and weary when he reached the castle, he had
taken his horse to the stable and fed it. Now he thought he would saddle
it for his homeward journey, and he turned down the path which led to
the stable. This path had a hedge of roses on each side of it, and the
merchant thought he had never seen or smelled such exquisite flowers.
They reminded him of his promise to Beauty, and he stopped and had just
gathered one to take to her when he was startled by a strange noise
behind him. Turning round he saw a frightful beast, which seemed to be
very angry and said in a terrible voice: "Who told you that you might
gather my roses? Was it not enough that I allowed you to be in my palace
and was kind to you? This is the way you show your gratitude, by
stealing my flowers! But your insolence shall not go unpunished."
The merchant, terrified by these furious words, dropped the fatal rose,
and throwing himself on his knees cried: "Pardon me, noble sir. I am
truly grateful to you for your hospitality, which was so magnificent
that I could not imagine that you would be offended by my taking such a
little thing as a rose." But the beast's anger was not lessened by this
speech.
"You are very ready with excuses and flattery," he cried; "but that will
not save you from the death you deserve."
"Alas!" thought the merchant, "if my daughter Beauty could only know
what danger her rose has brought me into!"
And in despair be began to tell the beast all his misfortunes and the
reason of his journey, not forgetting to mention Beauty's request.
"A king's ransom would hardly have procured all that my other daughters
asked," he said, "but I thought that I might at least take Beauty her
rose. I beg you to forgive me, for you see I meant no harm."
The beast considered for a moment, and then he said in a less furious
tone:
"I will forgive you on one condition--that is, that you will give me one
of your daughters."
"Ah!" cried the merchant, "if I were cruel enough to buy my own life at
the expense of one of my children's, what excuse could I invent to bring
her here?"
"No excuse would be necessary," answered the beast. "If she comes at all
she must come willingly. On no other condition will I have her. See if
any one of them is courageous enough and loves you well enough to come
and save your life. You seem to be an honest man, so I will trust you to
go home. I give you a month to see if either of your daughters will come
back with you and stay here, to let you go free. If neither of them is
willing you must come alone, after bidding them good-by forever, for
then you will belong to me. And do not imagine that you can hide from
me, for if you fail to keep your word I will come and fetch you!" added
the beast grimly.
The merchant accepted this proposal, though he did not really think any
of his daughters would be persuaded to come. He promised to return at
the time appointed, and then, anxious to escape from the presence of the
beast, he asked permission to set off at once. But the beast answered
that he could not go until the next day.
"Then you will find a horse ready for you," he said. "Now go and eat
your supper and await my orders."
The poor merchant, more dead than alive, went back to his room, where
the most delicious supper was already served on the little table which
was drawn up before a blazing fire. But he was too terrified to eat, and
only tasted a few of the dishes, for fear the beast should be angry if
he did not obey his orders. When he had finished he heard a great noise
in the next room, which he knew meant that the beast was coming. As he
could do nothing to escape his visit, the only thing that remained was
to seem as little afraid as possible; so when the beast appeared and
asked roughly if he had supped well, the merchant answered humbly that
he had, thanks to his host's kindness. Then the beast warned him to
remember their agreement and to prepare his daughter exactly for what
she had to expect.
"Do not get up to-morrow," he added, "until you see the sun and hear a
golden bell ring. Then you will find your breakfast waiting for you
here, and the horse you are to ride will be ready in the court-yard. He
will also bring you back again when you come with your daughter a month
hence. Farewell. Take a rose to Beauty, and remember your promise."
The merchant was only too glad when the beast went away, and though he
could not sleep for sadness, he lay down until the sun rose. Then, after
a hasty breakfast, he went to gather Beauty's rose and mounted his
horse, which carried him off so swiftly that in an instant he had lost
sight of the palace, and he was still wrapped in gloomy thoughts when it
stopped before the door of the cottage.
His sons and daughters, who had been very uneasy at his long absence,
rushed to meet him, eager to know the result of his journey, which,
seeing him mounted upon a splendid horse and wrapped in a rich mantle,
they supposed to be favorable. But he hid the truth from them at first,
only saying sadly to Beauty as he gave her the rose:
"Here is what you asked me to bring you. You little know what it has
cost."
But this excited their curiosity so greatly that presently he told them
his adventures from beginning to end, and then they were all very
unhappy. The girls lamented loudly over their lost hopes, and the sons
declared that their father should not return to this terrible castle,
and began to make plans for killing the beast if it should come to fetch
him. But he reminded them that he had promised to go back. Then the
girls were very angry with Beauty and said it was all her fault, and
that if she had asked for something sensible this would never have
happened, and complained bitterly that they should have to suffer for
her folly.
Poor Beauty, much distressed, said to them:
"I have indeed caused this misfortune, but I assure you I did it
innocently. Who could have guessed that to ask for a rose in the middle
of summer would cause so much misery? But as I did the mischief it is
only just that I should suffer for it. I will therefore go back with my
father to keep his promise."
At first nobody would hear of this arrangement, and her father and
brothers, who loved her dearly, declared that nothing should make them
let her go; but Beauty was firm. As the time drew near she divided all
her little possessions between her sisters and said good-by to
everything she loved, and when the fatal day came she encouraged and
cheered her father as they mounted together the horse which had brought
him back. It seemed to fly rather than gallop, but so smoothly that
Beauty was not frightened; indeed, she would have enjoyed the journey if
she had not feared what might happen to her at the end of it. Her father
still tried to persuade her to go back, but in vain. While they were
talking the night fell, and then, to their surprise, wonderful colored
lights began to shine in all directions, and splendid fireworks blazed
out before them. All the forest was illuminated by them, and even felt
pleasantly warm, though it had been bitterly cold before. This lasted
until they reached the avenue of orange-trees, where were statues
holding flaming torches, and when they got nearer to the palace they saw
that it was illuminated from the roof to the ground, and music sounded
softly from the court-yard. "The beast must be very hungry," said
Beauty, trying to laugh, "if he makes all this rejoicing over the
arrival of his prey."
But in spite of her anxiety she could not help admiring all the
wonderful things she saw.
The horse stopped at the foot of the flight of steps leading to the
terrace, and when they had dismounted her father led her to the little
room he had been in before, where they found a splendid fire burning and
the table daintily spread with a delicious supper.
The merchant knew that this was meant for them, and Beauty, who was
rather less frightened now that she had passed through so many rooms and
seen nothing of the beast, was quite willing to begin, for her long ride
had made her very hungry. But they had hardly finished their meal when
the noise of the beast's footsteps was heard approaching, and Beauty
clung to her father in terror, which became all the greater when she saw
how frightened he was. But when the beast really appeared, though she
trembled at the sight of him, she made a great effort to hide her horror
and saluted him respectfully.
This evidently pleased the beast. After looking at her he said, in a
tone that might have struck terror into the boldest heart, though he did
not seem to be angry:
"Good-evening, old man. Good-evening, Beauty."
The merchant was too terrified to reply, but Beauty answered sweetly:
"Good-evening, beast."
"Have you come willingly?" asked the beast. "Will you be content to stay
here when your father goes away?"
Beauty answered bravely that she was quite prepared to stay.
"I am pleased with you," said the beast. "As you have come of your own
accord, you may stay. As for you, old man," he added, turning to the
merchant, "at sunrise to-morrow you will take your departure. When the
bell rings get up quickly and eat your breakfast, and you will find the
same horse waiting to take you home; but remember that you must never
expect to see my palace again."
Then turning to Beauty he said:
"Take your father into the next room and help him to choose everything
you think your brothers and sisters would like to have. You will find
two traveling-trunks there; fill them as full as you can. It is only
just that you should send them something very precious as a remembrance
of yourself."
Then he went away after saying, "Good-by, Beauty; good-by, old man"; and
though Beauty was beginning to think with great dismay of her father's
departure, she was afraid to disobey the beast's orders, and they went
into the next room, which had shelves and cupboards all round it. They
were greatly surprised at the riches it contained. There were splendid
dresses fit for a queen, with all the ornaments that were to be worn
with them; and when Beauty opened the cupboards she was quite dazzled by
the gorgeous jewels that lay in heaps upon every shelf. After choosing a
vast quantity, which she divided between her sisters--for she made a
heap of the wonderful dresses for each of them--she opened the last
chest, which was full of gold.
"I think, father," she said, "that as the gold will be more useful to
you we had better take out the other things again and fill the trunks
with it." So they did this; but the more they put in the more room there
seemed to be, and at last they put back all the jewels and dresses they
had taken out, and Beauty even added as many more of the jewels as she
could carry at once; and then the trunks were not too full, but they
were so heavy that an elephant could not have carried them!
"The beast was mocking us," cried the merchant. "He must have pretended
to give us all these things, knowing that I could not carry them away."
"Let us wait and see," answered Beauty. "I cannot believe that he meant
to deceive us. All we can do is to fasten them up and leave them ready."
So they did this and returned to the little room, where, to their
astonishment, they found breakfast ready. The merchant ate his with a
good appetite, as the beast's generosity made him believe that he might
perhaps venture to come back soon and see Beauty. But she felt sure that
her father was leaving her forever, so she was very sad when the bell
rang sharply for the second time and warned them that the time had come
for them to part. They went down into the court-yard, where two horses
were waiting, one loaded with the two trunks, the other for him to ride.
They were pawing the ground in their impatience to start, and, the
merchant was forced to bid Beauty a hasty farewell; and as soon as he
was mounted he went off at such a pace that she lost sight of him in an
instant.
Then Beauty began to cry and wandered back to her own room. But she soon
found that she was very sleepy, and as she had nothing better to do she
lay down and instantly fell asleep. And then she dreamed that she was
walking by a brook bordered with trees and lamenting her sad fate, when
a young prince, handsomer than anyone she had ever seen, and with a
voice that went straight to her heart, came and said to her: "Ah,
Beauty! you are not so unfortunate as you suppose. Here you will be
rewarded for all you have suffered elsewhere. Your every wish shall be
gratified. Only try to find me out, no matter how I may be disguised, as
I love you dearly, and in making me happy you will find your own
happiness. Be as true-hearted as you are beautiful, and we shall have
nothing left to wish for."
"What can I do, prince, to make you happy?" said Beauty.
"Only be grateful," he answered, "and do not trust too much to your
eyes. And above all, do not desert me until you have saved me from my
cruel misery."
After this she thought she found herself in a room with a stately and
beautiful lady, who said to her:
"Dear Beauty, try not to regret all you have left behind you, for you
are destined to a better fate. Only do not let yourself be deceived by
appearances."
Beauty found her dreams so interesting that she was in no hurry to
awake, but presently the clock roused her by calling her name softly
twelve times, and then she got up and found her dressing-table set out
with everything she could possibly want; and when her toilet was
finished she found dinner was waiting in the room next to hers. But
dinner does not take very long when you are all by yourself, and very
soon she sat down cozily in the corner of a sofa and began to think
about the charming prince she had seen in her dream.
"He said I could make him happy," said Beauty to herself. "It seems,
then, that this horrible beast keeps him a prisoner. How can I set him
free? I wonder why they both told me not to trust to appearances. I
don't understand it. But after all it is only a dream, so why should I
trouble myself about it? I had better go and find something to do to
amuse myself."
So she got up and began to explore some of the many rooms of the palace.
The first she entered was lined with mirrors, and Beauty saw herself
reflected on every side, and thought she had never seen such a charming
room. Then a bracelet which was hanging from a chandelier caught her
eye, and on taking it down she was greatly surprised to find that it
held a portrait of her unknown admirer, just as she had seen him in her
dream. With great delight she slipped the bracelet on her arm and went
on into a gallery of pictures, where she soon found a portrait of the
same handsome prince, as large as life and so well painted that as she
studied it he seemed to smile kindly at her.
Tearing herself away from the portrait at last, she passed through into
a room which contained every musical instrument under the sun, and here
she amused herself for a long while in trying some of them and singing
until she was tired. The next room was a library, and she saw everything
she had ever wanted to read, as well as everything she had read, and it
seemed to her that a whole lifetime would not be enough even to read the
names of the books, there were so many. By this time it was growing
dusk, and wax candles in diamond and ruby candlesticks were beginning to
light themselves in every room.
Beauty found her supper served just at the time she preferred to have
it, but she did not see anyone or hear a sound, and though her father
had warned her that she would be alone, she began to find it rather
dull.
But presently she heard the beast coming, and wondered tremblingly if he
meant to eat her up now.
However, as he did not seem at all ferocious, and only said gruffly,
"Good-evening, Beauty," she answered cheerfully and managed to conceal
her terror. Then the beast asked her how she had been amusing herself,
and she told him all the rooms she had seen.
Then he asked if she thought she could be happy in his palace, and
Beauty answered that everything was so beautiful that she would be very
hard to please if she could not be happy. And after about an hour's talk
Beauty began to think that the beast was not nearly so terrible as she
had supposed at first. Then he got up to leave her and said in his gruff
voice:
"Do you love me, Beauty? Will you marry me?"
"Oh! what shall I say?" cried Beauty, for she was afraid to make the
beast angry by refusing.
"Say 'yes' or 'no' without fear," he replied.
"Oh! no, beast," said Beauty hastily.
"Since you will not, good-night, Beauty," he said. And she answered,
"Good-night, beast," very glad to find that her refusal had not provoked
him. And after he was gone she was very soon in bed and asleep and
dreaming of her unknown prince. She thought he came and said to her:
"Ah, Beauty! why are you so unkind to me? I fear I am fated to be
unhappy for many a long day still."
And then her dreams changed, but the charming prince figured in them
all; and when morning came her first thought was to look at the portrait
and see if it was really like him, and she found that it certainly was.
This morning she decided to amuse herself in the garden, for the sun
shone and all the fountains were playing; but she was astonished to find
that every place was familiar to her, and presently she came to the
brook where the myrtle trees were growing where she had first met the
prince in her dream, and that made her think more than ever that he must
be kept a prisoner by the beast. When she was tired she went back to the
palace, and found a new room full of materials for every kind of
work--ribbons to make into bows and silks to work into flowers. Then
there was an aviary full of rare birds, which were so tame that they
flew to Beauty as soon as they saw her and perched upon her shoulders
and her head.
"Pretty little creatures," she said, "how I wish that your cage was
nearer to my room, that I might often hear you sing!"
So saying she opened a door and found to her delight that it led into
her own room, though she had thought it was quite the other side of the
palace.
There were more birds in a room further on, parrots and cockatoos that
could talk, and they greeted Beauty by name. Indeed, she found them so
entertaining that she took one or two back to her room, and they talked
to her while she was at supper; after which the beast paid her his usual
visit and asked the same questions as before, and then with a gruff
"good-night" he took his departure, and Beauty went to bed to dream of
her mysterious prince. The days passed swiftly in different amusements,
and after a while Beauty found out another strange thing in the palace,
which often pleased her when she was tired of being alone. There was one
room which she had not noticed particularly. It was empty, except that
under each of the windows stood a very comfortable chair, and the first
time she had looked out of the window it had seemed to her that a black
curtain prevented her from seeing anything outside. But the second time
she went into the room, happening to be tired, she sat down in one of
the chairs, and instantly the curtain was rolled aside and a most
amusing pantomime was acted before her. There were dances, and colored
lights, and music, and pretty dresses, and it was all so gay that Beauty
was in ecstasies. After that she tried the other seven windows in turn,
and there was some new and surprising entertainment to be seen from each
of them, so that Beauty never could feel lonely any more. Every evening
after supper the beast came to see her, and always before saying
good-night asked her in his terrible voice:
"Beauty, will you marry me?"
And it seemed to Beauty, now she understood him better, that when she
said, "No, beast," he went away quite sad. But her happy dreams of the
handsome young prince soon made her forget the poor beast, and the only
thing that at all disturbed her was to be constantly told to distrust
appearances, to let her heart guide her, and not her eyes, and many
other equally perplexing things, which, consider as she would, she could
not understand.
So everything went on for a long time, until at last, happy as she was,
Beauty began to long for the sight of her father and her brothers and
sisters; and one night, seeing her look very sad, the beast asked her
what was the matter. Beauty had quite ceased to be afraid of him now she
knew that he was really gentle in spite of his ferocious looks and his
dreadful voice. So she answered that she was longing to see her home
once more. Upon hearing this the beast seemed sadly distressed and cried
miserably:
"Ah! Beauty, have you the heart to desert an unhappy beast like this?
What more do you want to make you happy? Is it because you hate me that
you want to escape?"
"No, dear beast," answered Beauty softly, "I do not hate you, and I
should be very sorry never to see you any more, but I long to see my
father again. Only let me go for two months, and I promise to come back
to you and stay for the rest of my life."
The beast, who had been sighing dolefully while she spoke, now replied:
"I cannot refuse you anything you ask, even though it should cost me my
life. Take the four boxes you will find in the room next to your own and
fill them with everything you wish to take with you. But remember your
promise and come back when the two months are over, or you may have
cause to repent it, for if you do not come in good time you will find
your faithful beast dead. You will not need any chariot to bring you
back. Only say good-by to all your brothers and sisters the night before
you come away, and when you have gone to bed turn this ring round upon
your finger and say firmly: 'I wish to go back to my palace and see my
beast again.' Good-night, Beauty. Fear nothing, sleep peacefully, and
before long you shall see your father once more."
As soon as Beauty was alone she hastened to fill the boxes with all the
rare and precious things she saw about her, and only when she was tired
of heaping things into them did they seem to be full.
Then she went to bed, but could hardly sleep for joy. And when at last
she did begin to dream of her beloved prince she was grieved to see him
stretched upon a grassy bank, sad and weary and hardly like himself.
"What is the matter?" she cried.
But he looked at her reproachfully and said:
"How can you ask me, cruel one? Are you not leaving me to my death
perhaps?"
"Ah, don't be so sorrowful!" cried Beauty. "I am only going to assure my
father that I am safe and happy. I have promised the beast faithfully
that I will come back, and he would die of grief if I did not keep my
word!"
"What would that matter to you?" said the prince. "Surely you would not
care?"
"Indeed I should be ungrateful if I did not care for such a kind beast,"
cried Beauty indignantly. "I would die to save him from pain. I assure
you it is not his fault that he is so ugly."
Just then a strange sound woke her--someone was speaking not very far
away; and opening her eyes she found herself in a room she had never
seen before, which was certainly not nearly so splendid as those she was
used to in the beast's palace. Where could she be? She got up and
dressed hastily, and then saw that the boxes she had packed the night
before were all in the room. While she was wondering by what magic the
beast had transported them and herself to this strange place she
suddenly heard her father's voice, and rushed out and greeted him
joyfully. Her brothers and sisters were all astonished at her
appearance, as they had never expected to see her again, and there was
no end to the questions they asked her. She had also much to hear about
what had happened to them while she was away and of her father's journey
home. But when they heard that she had only come to be with them for a
short time, and then must go back to the beast's palace forever, they
lamented loudly. Then Beauty asked her father what he thought could be
the meaning of her strange dreams, and why the prince constantly begged
her not to trust to appearances. After much consideration he answered:
"You tell me yourself that the beast, frightful as he is, loves you
dearly and deserves your love and gratitude for his gentleness and
kindness. I think the prince must mean you to understand that you ought
to reward him by doing as he wishes you to, in spite of his ugliness."
Beauty could not help seeing that this seemed very probable. Still, when
she thought of her dear prince who was so handsome, she did not feel at
all inclined to marry the beast. At any rate, for two months she need
not decide, but could enjoy herself with her sisters. But though they
were rich now and lived in a town again and had plenty of acquaintances,
Beauty found that nothing amused her very much; and she often thought of
the palace where she was so happy, especially as at home she never once
dreamed of her dear prince, and she felt quite sad without him.
Then her sisters seemed to have got used to being without her, and even
found her rather in the way, so she would not have been sorry when the
two months were over but for her father and brothers, who begged her to
stay and seemed so grieved at the thought of her departure that she had
not the courage to say good-by to them. Every day when she got up she
meant to say it at night, and when night came she put it off again,
until at last she had a dismal dream which helped her to make up her
mind. She thought she was wandering in a lonely path in the palace
gardens, when she heard groans which seemed to come from some bushes
hiding the entrance of a cave, and running quickly to see what could be
the matter, she found the beast stretched out upon his side, apparently
dying. He reproached her faintly with being the cause of his distress,
and at the same moment a stately lady appeared and said very gravely:
"Ah, Beauty! you are only just in time to save his life. See what
happens when people do not keep their promises! If you had delayed one
day more you would have found him dead."
Beauty was so terrified by this dream that the next morning she
announced her intention of going back at once, and that very night she
said good-by to her father and all her brothers and sisters, and as soon
as she was in bed she turned her ring round upon her finger and said
firmly, "I wish to go back to my palace and see my beast again," as she
had been told to do.
Then she fell asleep instantly, and only woke up to hear the clock
saying "Beauty, Beauty," twelve times in its musical voice, which told
her at once that she was really in the palace once more. Everything was
just as before, and her birds were so glad to see her; but Beauty
thought she had never known such a long day, for she was so anxious to
see the beast again that she felt as if supper time would never come.
But when it did come and no beast appeared she was really frightened; so
after listening and waiting for a long time she ran down into the garden
to search for him. Up and down the paths and avenues ran poor Beauty,
calling him in vain, for no one answered and not a trace of him could
she find, until at last, quite tired, she stopped for a minute's rest
and saw that she was standing opposite the shady path she had seen in
her dream. She rushed down it, and, sure enough, there was the cave, and
in it lay the beast--asleep, as Beauty thought. Quite glad to have found
him, she ran up and stroked his head, but, to her horror, he did not
move or open his eyes.
"Oh! he is dead, and it is all my fault," said Beauty, crying bitterly.
But then, looking at him again, she fancied he still breathed, and
hastily fetching some water from the nearest fountain, she sprinkled it
over his face, and to her great delight he began to revive.
"Oh, beast! how you frightened me!" she cried. "I never knew how much I
loved you until just now, when I feared I was too late to save your
life."
"Can you really love such an ugly creature as I am?" said the beast
faintly. "Ah, Beauty! you only came just in time. I was dying because I
thought you had forgotten your promise. But go back now and rest. I
shall see you again by and by."
Beauty, who had half expected that he would be angry with her, was
reassured by his gentle voice and went back to the palace, where supper
was awaiting her; and afterward the beast came in as usual and talked
about the time she had spent with her father, asking if she had enjoyed
herself and if they had all been very glad to see her.
Beauty answered politely, and quite enjoyed telling him all that had
happened to her. And when at last the time came for him to go, and he
asked, as he had so often asked before, "Beauty, will you marry me?" she
answered softly: "Yes, dear beast."
As she spoke a blaze of light sprang up before the windows of the
palace; fireworks crackled and guns banged, and across the avenue of
orange trees, in letters all made of fireflies, was written: "Long live
the prince and his bride."
Turning to ask the beast what it could all mean, Beauty found that he
had disappeared, and in his place stood her long-loved prince! At the
same moment the wheels of a chariot were heard upon the terrace and two
ladies entered the room. One of them Beauty recognized as the stately
lady she had seen in her dreams; the other was also so grand and queenly
that Beauty hardly knew which to greet first.
But the one she already knew said to her companion:
"Well, queen, this is Beauty, who has had the courage to rescue your son
from the terrible enchantment. They love one another, and only your
consent to their marriage is wanting to make them perfectly happy."
"I consent with all my heart," cried the queen. "How can I ever thank
you enough, charming girl, for having restored my dear son to his
natural form?"
And then she tenderly embraced Beauty and the prince, who had meanwhile
been greeting the fairy and receiving her congratulations.
"Now," said the fairy to Beauty, "I suppose you would like me to send
for all your brothers and sisters to dance at your wedding?"
And so she did, and the marriage was celebrated the very next day with
the utmost splendor, and Beauty and the prince lived happily ever after.
168
Peter Asbjörnsen (1812-1885) and Jorgen Moe
(1813-1882) were the first scientific
collectors of the folk tales of Norway. Their
joint interest in folk tales began when they
were schoolboys wandering on foot through the
country and listening to peasant stories. This
interest continued after Moe had become a
theologian and Asbjörnsen a noted scientist.
The latter served the government as an expert
connected with the survey and development of
his country's natural resources. This resulted
in taking him to all parts of the land, and he
never lost an opportunity to hear and copy down
any folk tale that he found surviving in the
more isolated districts. In 1842-1844 appeared
_Norwegian Folk Tales_ by Moe and Asbjörnsen;
in 1845, _Norwegian Fairy Tales and Folk
Legends_; and there were subsequent additions.
The five tales following are from these Norse
collections. They were first made accessible in
English in Dasent's _Popular Tales from the
Norse_ (1858). This book with its long
introductory essay on the origin and diffusion
of popular tales constitutes a landmark in the
study of folklore. It and Dasent's later
volume, _Tales from the Fjeld_, are still,
perhaps, the best sources for versions of the
Norse popular tales. "Why the Bear Is
Stumpy-tailed" belongs to the class of stories
which explain how things happened to be as they
are. It is of great antiquity and is found over
most of the world. The greatest of all modern
nature fairy tales, Kipling's _Just So
Stories_, are of a similar type, though told at
greater length and, of course, with infinitely
greater art.
WHY THE BEAR IS STUMPY-TAILED
One day the Bear met the Fox, who came slinking along with a string of
fish he had stolen.
"Whence did you get those?" asked the Bear.
"Oh! my Lord Bruin, I've been out fishing and caught them," said the
Fox.
So the Bear had a mind to learn to fish too, and bade the Fox tell him
how he was to set about it.
"Oh! it's an easy craft for you," answered the Fox, "and soon learnt.
You've only got to go upon the ice, and cut a hole and stick your tail
down into it; and so you must go on holding it there as long as you can.
You're not to mind if your tail smarts a little; that's when the fish
bite. The longer you hold it there the more fish you'll get; and then
all at once out with it, with a cross pull sideways, and with a strong
pull too."
Yes; the Bear did as the Fox had said, and held his tail a long, long
time down in the hole, till it was fast frozen in. Then he pulled it out
with a cross pull, and it snapped short off. That's why Bruin goes about
with a stumpy tail this very day.
169
The following is from Dasent's _Popular Tales
from the Norse_ and has long been a favorite
with the younger children by reason of its
remarkable compactness and its strong
accumulative force. The Troll of northern
stories is the Ogre of those farther south. The
story has a closing formula which may often
have been used for other stories as well. (For
an opening verse formula see the note on "The
Story of the Three Little Pigs," No. 151.)
THE THREE BILLY-GOATS GRUFF
Once on a time there were three Billy-goats who were to go up to the
hillside to make themselves fat, and the name of all the three was
"Gruff."
On the way up was a bridge over a burn they had to cross; and under the
bridge lived a great ugly Troll, with eyes as big as saucers and a nose
as long as a poker.
So first of all came the youngest billy-goat Gruff to cross the bridge.
"Trip, trap; trip, trap!" went the bridge.
"WHO'S THAT tripping over my bridge?" roared the Troll.
"Oh! it is only I, the tiniest billy-goat Gruff; and I'm going up to the
hill-side to make myself fat," said the billy-goat, with such a small
voice.
"Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," said the Troll.
"Oh, no! pray don't take me. I'm too little, that I am," said the
billy-goat. "Wait a bit till the second billy-goat Gruff comes; he's
much bigger."
"Well! be off with you," said the Troll.
A little while after came the second billy-goat Gruff to cross the
bridge.
"TRIP, TRAP! TRIP, TRAP! TRIP, TRAP!" went the bridge.
"WHO'S THAT tripping over my bridge?" roared the Troll.
"Oh! it's the second billy-goat Gruff, and I'm going up to the hill-side
to make myself fat," said the billy-goat, who hadn't such a small voice.
"Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," said the Troll.
"Oh, no! don't take me. Wait a little till the big billy-goat Gruff
comes; he's much bigger."
"Very well! be off with you," said the Troll.
But just then up came the big billy-goat Gruff.
"TRIP, TRAP! TRIP, TRAP! TRIP, TRAP!" went the bridge, for the
billy-goat was so heavy that the bridge creaked and groaned under him.
"WHO'S THAT tramping over my bridge?" roared the Troll.
"It's I! THE BIG BILLY-GOAT GRUFF," said the billy-goat, who had an ugly
hoarse voice of his own.
"Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," roared the Troll.
"Well, come along! I've got two spears,
And I'll poke your eyeballs out at your ears;
I've got besides two curling-stones,
And I'll crush you to bits, body and bones."
That was what the big billy-goat said; and so he flew at the Troll and
poked his eyes out with his horns, and crushed him to bits, body and
bones, and tossed him out into the burn, and after that he went up to
the hill-side. There the billy-goats got so fat they were scarce able to
walk home again; and if the fat hasn't fallen off them, why they're
still fat; and so,--
"Snip, snap, snout,
This tale's told out."
170
The following droll seems to indicate that the
folk had a strain of satirical humor which they
could use with fine effect. The translation is
that of Dasent's _Popular Tales from the
Norse_. (An old English verse form of the same
story will be found in No. 146.) The old
proverb about the shoemaker sticking to his
last is sure to come to mind as one reads, but
it seems to lose force when we notice that the
"goody" has no trouble with the mowing, while
the good "man" has much with the housework!
THE HUSBAND WHO WAS TO MIND THE HOUSE
Once on a time there was a man so surly and cross he never thought his
wife did anything right in the house. So one evening in hay-making time
he came home scolding and swearing and showing his teeth and making a
dust.
"Dear love, don't be so angry; there's a good man," said his goody;
"to-morrow let's change our work. I'll go out with the mowers and mow,
and you shall mind the house at home."
Yes! the husband thought that would do very well. He was quite willing,
he said.
So, early next morning, his goody took a scythe over her neck and went
out into the hay-field with the mowers and began to mow; but the man was
to mind the house, and do the work at home.
First of all, he wanted to churn the butter; but when he had churned a
while, he got thirsty, and went down to the cellar to tap a barrel of
ale. So, just when he had knocked in the bung, and was putting the tap
into the cask, he heard overhead the pig come into the kitchen. Then off
he ran up the cellar steps, with the tap in his hand, as fast as he
could, to look after the pig lest it should upset the churn; but when he
got up, and saw the pig had already knocked the churn over, and stood
there, rooting and grunting amongst the cream which was running all over
the floor, he got so wild with rage that he quite forgot the ale-barrel,
and ran at the pig as hard as he could. He caught it, too, just as it
ran out of doors, and gave it such a kick that piggy lay for dead on the
spot. Then all at once he remembered he had the tap in his hand; but
when he got down to the cellar, every drop of ale had run out of the
cask.
Then he went into the dairy and found enough cream left to fill the
churn again, and so he began to churn, for butter they must have at
dinner. When he had churned a bit, he remembered that their milking cow
was still shut up in the byre, and hadn't had a bit to eat or a drop to
drink all the morning, though the sun was high. Then all at once he
thought 'twas too far to take her down to the meadow, so he'd just get
her up on the house-top--for the house, you must know, was thatched with
sods, and a fine crop of grass was growing there. Now their house lay
close up against a steep down, and he thought if he laid a plank across
to the thatch at the back he'd easily get the cow up.
But still he couldn't leave the churn, for there was his little babe
crawling about on the floor, and "if I leave it," he thought, "the
child is safe to upset it." So he took the churn on his back, and went
out with it; but then he thought he'd better first water the cow before
he turned her out on the thatch; so he took up a bucket to draw water
out of the well; but, as he stooped down at the well's brink, all the
cream ran out of the churn over his shoulders, and so down into the
well.
Now it was near dinner-time, and he hadn't even got the butter yet; so
he thought he'd best boil the porridge, and filled the pot with water
and hung it over the fire. When he had done that, he thought the cow
might perhaps fall off the thatch and break her legs or her neck. So he
got up on the house to tie her up. One end of the rope he made fast to
the cow's neck, and the other he slipped down the chimney and tied round
his own thigh; and he had to make haste, for the water now began to boil
in the pot, and he had still to grind the oatmeal.
So he began to grind away; but while he was hard at it, down fell the
cow off the house-top after all, and as she fell, she dragged the man up
the chimney by the rope. There he stuck fast; and as for the cow, she
hung half way down the wall, swinging between heaven and earth, for she
could neither get down nor up.
And now the goody had waited seven lengths and seven breadths for her
husband to come and call them home to dinner; but never a call they had.
At last she thought she'd waited long enough, and went home. But when
she got there and saw the cow hanging in such an ugly place, she ran up
and cut the rope in two with her scythe. But as she did this, down came
her husband out of the chimney; and so when his old dame came inside the
kitchen, there she found him standing on his head in the porridge pot.
171
The artistic qualities of "Boots and His
Brothers," from Dasent's _Popular Tales from
the Norse_, will impress every reader or
listener. It belongs to that very numerous
group of stories dealing with the success of
the youngest child in the face of opposition,
mistreatment, or lack of sympathy from others
of his family. "John was Boots, of course,
because he was the youngest"; which means that
it was the rule to give the most menial tasks
about the house to the youngest. But John had
the saving trait of always "wondering" about
things, which led him to find out what would
always be hidden from his more stupid and less
imaginative brothers.
BOOTS AND HIS BROTHERS
Once on a time there was a man who had three sons, Peter, Paul, and
John. John was Boots, of course, because he was the youngest. I can't
say the man had anything more than these three sons, for he hadn't one
penny to rub against another; and so he told his sons over and over
again they must go out into the world and try to earn their bread, for
there at home there was nothing to be looked for but starving to death.
Now, a bit off the man's cottage was the King's palace, and you must
know, just against the King's windows a great oak had sprung up, which
was so stout and big that it took away all the light from the King's
palace. The King had said he would give many, many dollars to the man
who could fell the oak, but no one was man enough for that, for as soon
as ever one chip of the oak's trunk flew off, two grew in its stead. A
well, too, the King would have dug, which was to hold water for the
whole year; for all his neighbors had wells, but he hadn't any, and that
he thought a shame. So the King said he would give any one who could dig
him such a well as would hold water for a whole year round, both money
and goods; but no one could do it, for the King's palace lay high, high
up on a hill, and they hadn't dug a few inches before they came upon the
living rock.
But as the King had set his heart on having these two things done, he
had it given out far and wide, in all the churches of his kingdom, that
he who could fell the big oak in the king's court-yard, and get him a
well that would hold water the whole year round, should have the
Princess and half the kingdom. Well! you may easily know there was many
a man who came to try his luck; but for all their hacking and hewing,
and all their digging and delving, it was no good. The oak got bigger
and stouter at every stroke, and the rock didn't get softer either. So
one day those three brothers thought they'd set off and try too, and
their father hadn't a word against it; for even if they didn't get the
Princess and half the kingdom, it might happen they might get a place
somewhere with a good master; and that was all he wanted. So when the
brothers said they thought of going to the palace, their father said
"yes" at once. So Peter, Paul, and Jack went off from their home.
Well! they hadn't gone far before they came to a fir wood, and up along
one side of it rose a steep hillside, and as they went, they heard
something hewing and hacking away up on the hill among the trees.
"I wonder now what it is that is hewing away up yonder?" said Jack.
"You're always so clever with your wonderings," said Peter and Paul both
at once. "What wonder is it, pray, that a woodcutter should stand and
hack up on a hillside?"
"Still, I'd like to see what it is, after all," said Jack; and up he
went.
"Oh, if you're such a child, 'twill do you good to go and take a
lesson," bawled out his brothers after him.
But Jack didn't care for what they said; he climbed the steep hillside
towards where the noise came, and when he reached the place, what do you
think he saw? Why, an axe that stood there hacking and hewing, all of
itself, at the trunk of a fir.
"Good day!" said Jack. "So you stand here all alone and hew, do you?"
"Yes; here I've stood and hewed and hacked a long, long time, waiting
for you," said the Axe.
"Well, here I am at last," said Jack, as he took the axe, pulled it off
its haft, and stuffed both head and haft into his wallet.
So when he got down again to his brothers, they began to jeer and laugh
at him.
"And now, what funny thing was it you saw up yonder on the hillside?"
they said.
"Oh, it was only an axe we heard," said Jack.
So when they had gone a bit farther, they came under a steep spur of
rock, and up there they heard something digging and shoveling.
"I wonder now," said Jack, "what it is digging and shoveling up yonder
at the top of the rock!"
"Ah, you're always so clever with your wonderings," said Peter and Paul
again, "as if you'd never heard a woodpecker hacking and pecking at a
hollow tree."
"Well, well," said Jack, "I think it would be a piece of fun just to see
what it really is."
And so off he set to climb the rock, while the others laughed and made
game of him. But he didn't care a bit for that; up he climbed, and when
he got near the top, what do you think he saw? Why, a spade that stood
there digging and delving.
"Good day!" said Jack. "So you stand here all alone, and dig and delve!"
"Yes, that's what I do," said the Spade, "and that's what I've done this
many a long day, waiting for you."
"Well, here I am," said Jack again, as he took the spade and knocked it
off its handle, and put it into his wallet, and then down again to his
brothers.
"Well, what was it, so rare and strange," said Peter and Paul, "that you
saw up there at the top of the rock?"
"Oh," said Jack, "nothing more than a spade; that was what we heard."
So they went on again a good bit, till they came to a brook. They were
thirsty, all three, after their long walk, and so they lay down beside
the brook to have a drink.
"I wonder now," said Jack, "where all this water comes from!"
"I wonder if you're right in your head," said Peter and Paul, in one
breath. "If you're not mad already, you'll go mad very soon, with your
wonderings. Where the brook comes from, indeed! Have you never heard how
water rises from a spring in the earth?"
"Yes! but still I've a great fancy to see where this brook comes from,"
said Jack.
So up alongside the brook he went, in spite of all that his brothers
bawled after him. Nothing could stop him. On he went. So, as he went up
and up, the brook got smaller and smaller, and at last, a little way
farther on, what do you think he saw? Why, a great walnut, and out of
that the water trickled.
"Good day!" said Jack again. "So you lie here, and trickle and run down
all alone?"
"Yes, I do," said the Walnut, "and here have I trickled and run this
many a long day, waiting for you."
"Well, here I am," said Jack, as he took up a lump of moss, and plugged
up the hole, that the water mightn't run out. Then he put the walnut
into his wallet, and ran down to his brothers.
"Well, now," said Peter and Paul, "have you found out where the water
comes from? A rare sight it must have been!"
"Oh, after all, it was only a hole it ran out of," said Jack; and so the
others laughed and made game of him again, but Jack didn't mind that a
bit.
"After all, I had the fun of seeing it," said he.
So when they had gone a bit farther, they came to the King's palace; but
as every one in the kingdom had heard how they might win the Princess
and half the realm, if they could only fell the big oak and dig the
King's well, so many had come to try their luck that the oak was now
twice as stout and big as it had been at first, for two chips grew for
every one they hewed out with their axes, as I dare say you all bear in
mind. So the King had now laid it down as a punishment, that if any one
tried and couldn't fell the oak, he should be put on a barren island,
and both his ears were to be clipped off. But the two brothers didn't
let themselves be scared by that; they were quite sure they could fell
the oak, and Peter, as he was eldest, was to try his hand first; but it
went with him as with all the rest who had hewn at the oak; for every
chip he cut out, two grew in its place. So the King's men seized him,
and clipped off both his ears, and put him out on the island.
Now Paul, he was to try his luck, but he fared just the same; when he
had hewn two or three strokes, they began to see the oak grow, and so
the King's men seized him too, and clipped his ears, and put him out on
the island; and his ears they clipped closer, because they said he ought
to have taken a lesson from his brother.
So now Jack was to try.
"If you _will_ look like a marked sheep, we're quite ready to clip your
ears at once, and then you'll save yourself some bother," said the King,
for he was angry with him for his brothers' sake.
"Well, I'd like just to try first," said Jack, and so he got leave. Then
he took his axe out of his wallet and fitted it to its haft.
"Hew away!" said he to his axe; and away it hewed, making the chips fly
again, so that it wasn't long before down came the oak.
When that was done, Jack pulled out his spade, and fitted it to its
handle.
"Dig away!" said he to the spade; and so the spade began to dig and
delve till the earth and rock flew out in splinters, and so he had the
well soon dug out, you may think.
And when he had got it as big and deep as he chose, Jack took out his
walnut and laid it in one corner of the well, and pulled the plug of
moss out.
"Trickle and run," said Jack; and so the nut trickled and ran, till the
water gushed out of the hole in a stream, and in a short time the well
was brimful.
Then Jack had felled the oak which shaded the King's palace, and dug a
well in the palace-yard, and so he got the Princess and half the
kingdom, as the King had said; but it was lucky for Peter and Paul that
they had lost their ears, else they had heard each hour and day how
every one said, "Well, after all, Jack wasn't so much out of his mind
when he took to wondering."
172
For the next story from the Norse group the
translation by H. L. Braekstad is used. It is
better known under the more familiar title of
the Dasent version, "Why the Sea Is Salt."
Braekstad's translation of the Asbjörnsen and
Moe stories, illustrated by Norwegian artists,
appeared in two volumes called _Round the Yule
Log_ and _Fairy Tales from the North_. The
story of the magic hand-mill is the story of
how an evil brother violated the Christmas
spirit and how his curse was turned into good
fortune for his better-disposed relative. The
naïve idea of the common folk as to the devil's
home is especially interesting, as is the
acceptance of the fact that a Christmas
celebration includes a fine open fire of wood,
even in a place of unusual warmth. But perhaps
we should remember that in Norse mythology the
evil place would be associated with intense
cold. Of more importance, however, is the fact
that the magic quern brings not good but
disaster to those who try to use it in the
service of greed.
THE QUERN AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA
Once upon a time in the old, old days there were two brothers, one of
whom was rich and the other poor. When Christmas Eve came the poor
brother had not a morsel in the house, neither of meat nor bread; and so
he went to his rich brother and asked for a trifle for Christmas, in
heaven's name. It was not the first time the brother had helped him, but
he was always very close-fisted, and was not particularly glad to see
him this time.
"If you'll do what I tell you, you shall have a whole ham," he said. The
poor brother promised he would, and was very grateful into the bargain.
"There it is, and now go to the devil!" said the rich brother, and threw
the ham across to him.
"Well, what I have promised I must keep," said the other one. He took
the ham, and set out. He walked and walked the whole day, and as it was
getting dark he came to a place where the lights were shining brightly.
"This is most likely the place," thought the man with the ham.
In the woodshed stood an old man with a long white beard, cutting
fire-wood for Christmas.
"Good evening," said he with the ham.
"Good evening to you," said the man. "Where are you going so late?"
"I am going to the devil--that is to say, if I am on the right way,"
answered the poor man.
"Yes, you are quite right; this is his place," said the old man. "When
you get in, they will all want to buy your ham, for ham is scarce food
here; but you must not sell it unless you get the hand-quern, which
stands just behind the door. When you come out again, I'll teach you how
to use it. You will find it useful in many ways."
The man with the ham thanked him for all the information, and knocked at
the door.
When he got in, it happened just as the old man had said. All the imps,
both big and small, flocked around him like ants in a field, and the one
outbid the other for the ham.
"Well," said the man, "my good woman and I were to have it for Christmas
Eve, but since you want it so badly I will let you have it. But if I am
going to part with it, I want that hand-quern which stands behind the
door."
The devil did not like to part with it, and higgled and haggled with the
man, but he stuck to what he had said, and in the end the devil had to
part with the quern.
When the man came out, he asked the old wood-cutter how he was to use
the quern, and when he had learned this, he thanked the old man and set
out homewards as quickly as he could; but after all he did not get home
till the clock struck twelve on Christmas Eve.
"Where in all the world have you been?" said his wife. "Here have I been
sitting, hour after hour, waiting and watching for you, and have not had
as much as two chips to lay under the porridge pot."
"Well, I couldn't get back before," said the man. "I have had a good
many things to look after, and I've had a long way to walk as well; but
now I'll show you something," said he, and put the quern on the table.
He asked it first to grind candles, then a cloth, and then food and
beer, and everything else that was good for Christmas cheer; and as he
spoke the quern brought them forth. The woman crossed herself time after
time and wanted to know where her husband had got the quern from; but
this he would not tell her.
"It does not matter where I got it from; you see the quern is good and
the mill stream is not likely to freeze," said the man. So he ground
food and drink and all good things during Christmas; and the third day
he invited his friends, as he wanted to give them a feast. When the rich
brother saw all that was in the house, he became both angry and furious,
for he begrudged his brother everything.
"On Christmas Eve he was so needy that he came to me and asked for a
trifle in heaven's name; and now he gives a feast, as if he were both a
count and a king," said the brother. "Where did you get all your riches
from?" he said to his brother.
"From just behind the door," he answered, for he did not care to tell
his brother much about it. But later in the evening, when he had drunk a
little freely, he could no longer resist, but brought out the quern.
"There you see that which has brought me all my riches," he said, and so
he let the quern grind first one thing and then another.
When the brother saw this, he was determined to have the quern at all
cost, and at last it was settled he should have it, but three hundred
dollars was to be the price of it. The brother was, however, to keep it
till the harvest began; "for if I keep it so long, I can grind out food
for many years to come," he thought.
During that time you may be sure the quern did not rust, and when the
harvest began the rich brother got it; but the other had taken great
care not to show him how to use it.
It was evening when the rich brother got the quern home, and in the
morning he asked his wife to go out and help the haymakers; he would get
the breakfast ready himself to-day, he said.
When it was near breakfast time he put the quern on the breakfast table.
"Grind herrings and broth, and do it quickly and well," said the man,
and the quern began to bring forth herrings and broth, and filled first
all the dishes and tubs, and afterwards began flooding the whole
kitchen.
The man fiddled and fumbled and tried to stop the quern, but however
much he twisted and fingered it, the quern went on grinding, and in a
little while the broth reached so high that the man was very near
drowning. He then pulled open the parlor door, but it was not long
before the quern had filled the parlor also, and it was just in the very
nick of time that the man put his hand down into the broth and got hold
of the latch, and when he had got the door open, he was soon out of the
parlor, you may be sure. He rushed out, and the herrings and the broth
came pouring out after him, like a stream, down the fields and meadows.
The wife, who was out haymaking, now thought it took too long a time to
get the breakfast ready.
"If my husband doesn't call us soon, we must go home whether or no: I
don't suppose he knows much about making broth, so I must go and help
him," said the wife to the haymakers.
They began walking homewards, but when they had got a bit up the hill
they met the stream of broth with the herrings tossing about in it and
the man himself running in front of it all.
"I wish all of you had a hundred stomachs each!" shouted the man; "but
take care you don't get drowned." And he rushed past them as if the Evil
One was at his heels, down to where his brother lived. He asked him for
heaven's sake to take back the quern, and that at once. "If it goes on
grinding another hour the whole parish will perish in broth and
herrings," he said. But the brother would not take it back on any
account before his brother had paid him three hundred dollars more, and
this he had to do. The poor brother now had plenty of money, and before
long he bought a farm much grander than the one on which his rich
brother lived, and with the quern he ground so much gold that he covered
the farmstead with gold plates and, as it lay close to the shore, it
glittered and shone far out at sea. All those who sailed past wanted to
call and visit the rich man in the golden house, and everybody wanted to
see the wonderful quern, for its fame had spread both far and wide, and
there was no one who had not heard it spoken of.
After a long while there came a skipper who wanted to see the quern; he
asked if it could grind salt. Yes, that it could, said he who owned it;
and when the skipper heard this he wanted the quern by hook or by crook,
cost what it might, for if he had it he thought he need not sail far
away across dangerous seas for cargoes of salt.
At first the man did not want to part with it, but the skipper both
begged and prayed, and at last he sold it and got many, many thousand
dollars for it.
As soon as the skipper had got the quern on his back he did not stop
long, for he was afraid the man would change his mind, and as for asking
how to use it, he had no time to do that; he made for his ship as
quickly as he could, and when he had got out to sea a bit he had the
quern brought up on deck.
"Grind salt, and that both quickly and well," said the skipper, and the
quern began to grind out salt so that it spurted to all sides.
When the skipper had got the ship filled he wanted to stop the quern,
but however much he tried and whatever he did the quern went on
grinding, and the mound of salt grew higher and higher, and at last the
ship sank.
There at the bottom of the sea stands the quern grinding till this very
day, and that is the reason why the sea is salt.
173
The next seven stories are from the best known
of all collections of folk tales, the _Kinder
und Hausmärchen_ (1812-1815) of the brothers
Jacob Grimm (1785-1863) and Wilhelm Grimm
(1786-1859). They worked together as scholarly
investigators in the field of philology. The
world is indebted to them for the creation of
the science of folklore. Other writers, such as
Perrault, had published collections of
folklore, but these two brothers were the first
to collect, classify, and publish folk tales in
a scientific way. With the trained judgment of
scholars they excluded from the stories all
details that seemed new or foreign, and put
them as nearly as possible into the form in
which they had been told by the folk. These
_Household Tales_ were first made accessible in
English in the translation of Edgar Taylor,
published in two volumes in 1823 and 1826, and
revised in 1837. There have been later
translations, notably the complete one by
Margaret Hunt in 1884, but the Taylor version
has been the main source of the popular
retellings for nearly a hundred years. It
included only about fifty of the two hundred
tales, and was illustrated by the famous artist
George Cruikshank. An edition including all the
Taylor translations and the original etchings
was issued in 1868 with an introduction by John
Ruskin. It is still reprinted under the title,
_Grimm's Popular Stories_.
"The Traveling Musicians" is from the Taylor
translation. It is sometimes called "The Bremen
Town Musicians," or simply "The Town
Musicians." The story is widespread, showing
its great popularity. Jacobs finds "the fullest
and most dramatic form" in the Irish "Jack and
His Comrades," which he includes in his _Celtic
Fairy Tales_. Jacobs also gives an English
version by way of America, "How Jack Sought His
Fortune," in his _English Fairy Tales_. The
successful outcome for these distressed and
deserving poor adventurers appeals as a fine
stroke of poetic justice.
THE TRAVELING MUSICIANS
An honest farmer had once an ass that had been a faithful servant to him
a great many years, but was now growing old and every day more and more
unfit for work. His master therefore was tired of keeping him and began
to think of putting an end to him; but the ass, who saw that some
mischief was in the wind, took himself slyly off and began his journey
towards the great city, "for there," thought he, "I may turn musician."
After he had traveled a little way, he spied a dog lying by the
road-side and panting as if he were very tired. "What makes you pant so,
my friend?" said the ass.
"Alas!" said the dog, "my master was going to knock me on the head
because I am old and weak and can no longer make myself useful to him in
hunting; so I ran away: but what can I do to earn my livelihood?"
"Hark ye!" said the ass, "I am going to the great city to turn musician:
suppose you go with me and try what you can do in the same way?" The dog
said he was willing, and they jogged on together.
Before they had gone far, they saw a cat sitting in the middle of the
road and making a most rueful face. "Pray, my good lady," said the ass,
"what's the matter with you? You look quite out of spirits!"
"Ah, me!" said the cat, "how can one be in good spirits when one's life
is in danger? Because I am beginning to grow old and had rather lie at
my ease by the fire than run about the house after the mice, my mistress
laid hold of me and was going to drown me; and though I have been lucky
enough to get away from her, I do not know what I am to live upon."
"Oh!" said the ass, "by all means go with us to the great city. You are
a good night-singer and may make your fortune as a musician." The cat
was pleased with the thought and joined the party.
Soon afterwards, as they were passing by a farmyard, they saw a cock
perched upon a gate, screaming out with all his might and main. "Bravo!"
said the ass; "upon my word you make a famous noise; pray what is all
this about?"
"Why," said the cock, "I was just now saying that we should have fine
weather for our washing-day, and yet my mistress and the cook don't
thank me for my pains, but threaten to cut off my head tomorrow and make
broth of me for the guests that are coming on Sunday."
"Heaven forbid!" said the ass; "come with us, Master Chanticleer; it
will be better, at any rate, than staying here to have your head cut
off! Besides, who knows? If we take care to sing in tune, we may get up
some kind of a concert: so come along with us."
"With all my heart," said the cock: so they all four went on jollily
together.
They could not, however, reach the great city the first day: so when
night came on they went into a wood to sleep. The ass and the dog laid
themselves down under a great tree, and the cat climbed up into the
branches; while the cock, thinking that the higher he sat the safer he
should be, flew up to the very top of the tree, and then, according to
his custom, before he went to sleep, looked out on all sides of him to
see that everything was well. In doing this, he saw afar off something
bright and shining; and calling to his companions said, "There must be a
house no great way off, for I see a light."
"If that be the case," said the ass, "we had better change our quarters,
for our lodging is not the best in the world!"
"Besides," added the dog, "I should not be the worse for a bone or two,
or a bit of meat." So they walked off together towards the spot where
Chanticleer had seen the light; and as they drew near, it became larger
and brighter, till they at last came close to a house in which a gang of
robbers lived.
The ass, being the tallest of the company, marched up to the window and
peeped in. "Well, Donkey," said Chanticleer, "what do you see?"
"What do I see?" replied the ass, "why I see a table spread with all
kinds of good things, and robbers sitting round it making merry."
"That would be a noble lodging for us," said the cock.
"Yes," said the ass, "if we could only get in": so they consulted
together how they should contrive to get the robbers out; and at last
they hit upon a plan. The ass placed himself upright on his hind-legs,
with his fore-feet resting against the window; the dog got upon his
back; the cat scrambled up to the dog's shoulders, and the cock flew up
and sat upon the cat's head. When all was ready, a signal was given, and
they began their music. The ass brayed, the dog barked, the cat mewed,
and the cock screamed; and then they all broke through the window at
once and came tumbling into the room, amongst the broken glass, with a
most hideous clatter! The robbers, who had been not a little frightened
by the opening concert, had now no doubt that some frightful hobgoblin
had broken in upon them, and scampered away as fast as they could.
The coast once clear, our travelers soon sat down and dispatched what
the robbers had left, with as much eagerness as if they had not expected
to eat again for a month. As soon as they had satisfied themselves, they
put out the lights and each once more sought out a resting-place to his
own liking. The donkey laid himself down upon a heap of straw in the
yard; the dog stretched himself upon a mat behind the door; the cat
rolled herself up on the hearth before the warm ashes; and the cock
perched upon a beam on the top of the house; and, as they were all
rather tired with their journey, they soon fell asleep.
But about midnight, when the robbers saw from afar that the lights were
out and that all seemed quiet, they began to think that they had been in
too great a hurry to run away; and one of them, who was bolder than the
rest, went to see what was going on. Finding everything still, he
marched into the kitchen and groped about till he found a match in order
to light a candle; and then, espying the glittering fiery eyes of the
cat, he mistook them for live coals and held the match to them to light
it. But the cat, not understanding this joke, sprung at his face, and
spit, and scratched at him. This frightened him dreadfully, and away he
ran to the back door; but there the dog jumped up and bit him in the
leg; and as he was crossing over the yard the ass kicked him; and the
cock, who had been awakened by the noise, crowed with all his might. At
this the robber ran back as fast as he could to his comrades and told
the captain "how a horrid witch had got into the house, and had spit at
him and scratched his face with her long bony fingers; how a man with a
knife in his hand had hidden himself behind the door and stabbed him in
the leg; how a black monster stood in the yard and struck him with a
club, and how the devil sat upon the top of the house and cried out,
'Throw the rascal up here!'"
After this the robbers never dared to go back to the house; but the
musicians were so pleased with their quarters that they took up their
abode there; and there they are, I dare say, at this very day.
174
The Taylor translation of Grimm is used for
"The Blue Light." This tale contains several of
the elements most popular in children's
stories. There is merit in distress, an old
witch, the magic blue light, the little black
dwarf, and the exceeding great reward at the
end. From this very story or some variant of it
Hans Christian Andersen must have drawn the
inspiration for "The Tinder Box" (No. 196).
THE BLUE LIGHT
A soldier had served a king his master many years, till at last he was
turned off without pay or reward. How he should get his living he did
not know; so he set out and journeyed homeward all day in a very
downcast mood, until in the evening he came to the edge of a deep wood.
The road leading that way, he pushed forward; but before he had gone
far, he saw a light glimmering through the trees, towards which he bent
his weary steps; and soon he came to a hut where no one lived but an old
witch. The poor fellow begged for a night's lodging and something to eat
and drink; but she would listen to nothing. However, he was not easily
got rid of; and at last she said, "I think I will take pity on you this
once; but if I do, you must dig over all my garden for me in the
morning." The soldier agreed very willingly to anything she asked, and
he became her guest.
The next day he kept his word and dug the garden very neatly. The job
lasted all day; and in the evening, when his mistress would have sent
him away, he said, "I am so tired with my work that I must beg you to
let me stay over the night."
The old lady vowed at first she would not do any such thing; but after a
great deal of talk he carried his point, agreeing to chop up a whole
cart-load of wood for her the next day.
This task too was duly ended; but not till towards night, and then he
found himself so tired that he begged a third night's rest; and this too
was given, but only on his pledging his word that he next day would
fetch the witch the blue light that burnt at the bottom of the well.
When morning came she led him to the well's mouth, tied him to a long
rope, and let him down. At the bottom sure enough he found the blue
light as the witch had said, and at once made the signal for her to draw
him up again. But when she had pulled him up so near to the top that she
could reach him with her hands, she said, "Give me the light: I will
take care of it,"--meaning to play him a trick by taking it for herself
and letting him fall again to the bottom of the well.
But the soldier saw through her wicked thoughts, and said, "No, I shall
not give you the light till I find myself safe and sound out of the
well."
At this she became very angry and dashed him, with the light she had
longed for many a year, down to the bottom. And there lay the poor
soldier for a while in despair, on the damp mud below, and feared that
his end was nigh. But his pipe happened to be in his pocket still half
full, and he thought to himself, "I may as well make an end of smoking
you out; it is the last pleasure I shall have in this world." So he lit
it at the blue light and began to smoke.
Up rose a cloud of smoke, and on a sudden a little black dwarf was seen
making his way through the midst of it. "What do you want with me,
soldier?" said he.
"I have no business with you," answered he.
But the dwarf said, "I am bound to serve you in every thing, as lord and
master of the blue light."
"Then first of all, be so good as to help me out of this well." No
sooner said than done: the dwarf took him by the hand and drew him up,
and the blue light of course with him. "Now do me another piece of
kindness," said the soldier: "pray let that old lady take my place in
the well."
When the dwarf had done this, and lodged the witch safely at the bottom,
they began to ransack her treasures; and the soldier made bold to carry
off as much of her gold and silver as he well could. Then the dwarf
said, "If you should chance at any time to want me, you have nothing to
do but to light your pipe at the blue light, and I will soon be with
you."
The soldier was not a little pleased at his good luck, and went to the
best inn in the first town he came to and ordered some fine clothes to
be made and a handsome room to be got ready for him. When all was ready,
he called his little man to him and said, "The king sent me away
penniless and left me to hunger and want. I have a mind to show him that
it is my turn to be master now; so bring me his daughter here this
evening, that she may wait upon me and do what I bid her."
"That is rather a dangerous task," said the dwarf. But away he went,
took the princess out of her bed, fast asleep as she was, and brought
her to the soldier.
Very early in the morning he carried her back; and as soon as she saw
her father, she said, "I had a strange dream last night. I thought I was
carried away through the air to a soldier's house, and there I waited
upon him as his servant." Then the king wondered greatly at such a
story; but told her to make a hole in her pocket and fill it with peas,
so that if it were really as she said, and the whole was not a dream,
the peas might fall out in the streets as she passed through, and leave
a clue to tell whither she had been taken. She did so; but the dwarf had
heard the king's plot; and when evening came, and the soldier said he
must bring him the princess again, he strewed peas over several of the
streets, so that the few that fell from her pocket were not known from
the others; and the people amused themselves all the next day picking up
peas and wondering where so many came from.
When the princess told her father what had happened to her the second
time, he said, "Take one of your shoes with you and hide it in the room
you are taken to."
The dwarf heard this also; and when the soldier told him to bring the
king's daughter again, he said, "I cannot save you this time; it will be
an unlucky thing for you if you are found out--as I think you will." But
the soldier would have his own way. "Then you must take care and make
the best of your way out of the city gate very early in the morning,"
said the dwarf.
The princess kept one shoe on as her father bid her, and hid it in the
soldier's room; and when she got back to her father, he ordered it to be
sought for all over the town; and at last it was found where she had hid
it. The soldier had run away, it is true; but he had been too slow and
was soon caught and thrown into a strong prison and loaded with chains.
What was worse, in the hurry of his flight, he had left behind him his
great treasure, the blue light, and all his gold, and had nothing left
in his pocket but one poor ducat.
As he was standing very sorrowful at the prison grating, he saw one of
his comrades, and calling out to him said, "If you will bring me a
little bundle I left in the inn, I will give you a ducat."
His comrade thought this very good pay for such a job; so he went away
and soon came back bringing the blue light and the gold. Then the
prisoner soon lit his pipe. Up rose the smoke, and with it came his old
friend, the little dwarf. "Do not fear, master," said he: "keep up your
heart at your trial and leave everything to take its course;--only mind
to take the blue light with you."
The trial soon came on; the matter was sifted to the bottom; the
prisoner found guilty, and his doom passed:--he was ordered to be hanged
forthwith on the gallows-tree.
But as he was led out, he said he had one favor to beg of the king.
"What is it?" said his majesty.
"That you will deign to let me smoke one pipe on the road."
"Two, if you like," said the king.
Then he lit his pipe at the blue light, and the black dwarf was before
him in a moment. "Be so good as to kill, slay, or put to flight all
these people," said the soldier: "and as for the king, you may cut him
into three pieces."
Then the dwarf began to lay about him, and soon got rid of the crowd
around: but the king begged hard for mercy; and, to save his life,
agreed to let the soldier have the princess for his wife and to leave
the kingdom to him when he died.
175
The following tale is from Taylor's translation
of Grimm. The cheerful industry and the kindly
gratitude of the shoemaker and his wife,
together with the gayety of the little elves,
make the story altogether charming. No doubt
its popularity was helped by Cruikshank's
famous accompanying etching, showing the scene
at the close, in which the two elves "are drawn
with a point at once so precise and vivacious,
so full of keen fun and inimitably happy
invention, that I have not found their equal in
comic etching anywhere. . . . The picturesque
details of the room are etched with the same
felicitous intelligence; but the marvel of the
work is in the expression of the strange little
faces, and the energy of the comical wee
limbs." (Hamerton, _Etching and Etchers_.)
THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER
There was once a shoemaker who worked very hard and was very honest; but
still he could not earn enough to live upon, and at last all he had in
the world was gone, except just leather enough to make one pair of
shoes. Then he cut them all ready to make up the next day, meaning to
get up early in the morning to work. His conscience was clear and his
heart light amidst all his troubles; so he went peaceably to bed, left
all his cares to heaven, and fell asleep. In the morning, after he had
said his prayers, he set himself down to his work, but to his great
wonder, there stood the shoes, all ready made, upon the table. The good
man knew not what to say or think of this strange event. He looked at
the workmanship: there was not one false stitch in the whole job, and
all was so neat and true that it was a complete masterpiece.
That same day a customer came in, and the shoes pleased him so well that
he willingly paid a price higher than usual for them; and the poor
shoemaker with the money bought leather enough to make two pairs more.
In the evening he cut out the work and went to bed early that he might
get up and begin betimes next day: but he was saved all the trouble, for
when he got up in the morning the work was finished ready to his hand.
Presently in came buyers, who paid him handsomely for his goods, so that
he bought leather enough for four pairs more. He cut out the work again
over night, and found it finished in the morning as before; and so it
went on for some time: what was got ready in the evening was always done
by daybreak, and the good man soon became thriving and prosperous again.
One evening about Christmas time, as he and his wife were sitting over
the fire chatting together, he said to her, "I should like to sit up and
watch to-night, that we may see who it is that comes and does my work
for me." The wife liked the thought; so they left a light burning and
hid themselves in the corner of the room behind a curtain that was hung
up there, and watched what should happen.
As soon as it was midnight, there came two little naked dwarfs; and they
sat themselves upon the shoemaker's bench, took up all the work that was
cut out, and began to ply with their little fingers, stitching and
rapping and tapping away at such a rate that the shoemaker was all
amazement and could not take his eyes off for a moment. And on they went
till the job was quite finished, and the shoes stood ready for use upon
the table. This was long before daybreak; and then they bustled away as
quick as lightning.
The next day the wife said to the shoemaker, "These little wights have
made us rich, and we ought to be thankful to them and do them a good
office in return. I am quite vexed to see them run about as they do;
they have nothing upon their backs to keep off the cold. I'll tell you
what, I will make each of them a shirt, and a coat and waistcoat, and a
pair of pantaloons into the bargain; do you make each of them a little
pair of shoes."
The thought pleased the good shoemaker very much; and one evening, when
all the things were ready, they laid them on the table instead of the
work that they used to cut out, and then went and hid themselves to
watch what the little elves would do. About midnight they came in and
were going to sit down to their work as usual; but when they saw the
clothes lying for them, they laughed and were greatly delighted. Then
they dressed themselves in the twinkling of an eye, and danced and
capered and sprang about as merry as could be, till at last they danced
out at the door and over the green; and the shoemaker saw them no more;
but everything went well with him from that time forward, as long as he
lived.
176
In a note regarding "The Fisherman and His
Wife," Taylor calls attention to the
interesting fact that this tale became a great
favorite after the battle of Waterloo "during
the fervor of popular feeling on the downfall
of the late Emperor of France." The catastrophe
attendant upon Napoleon's ambitious efforts
seemed to the popular mind to be paralleled by
the penalty following the final wish of the
wife "to be like unto God." But observe that
Taylor, unlike more recent translators, felt
under the necessity of softening "the boldness
of the lady's ambition." The versions of the
verse charm used in summoning the fish differ
strikingly in the various translations. That of
Taylor's first edition, used here, seems to fit
the story better than any other, though tellers
of the story may, properly enough, not agree.
Taylor's revised version of 1837 reads:
"O man of the sea!
Hearken to me!
My wife Ilsabill
Will have her own will,
And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"
Mrs. Hunt's version runs:
"Flounder, flounder in the sea,
Come, I pray thee, come to me;
For my wife, good Ilsabil,
Wills not as I'd have her will."
The moral of the story is plain for those who
need it: Greed overreaches itself. Who grasps
too much loses all. Don't ride a free horse to
death.
THE FISHERMAN AND HIS WIFE
There was once a fisherman who lived with his wife in a ditch, close by
the sea-side. The fisherman used to go out all day long a-fishing; and
one day, as he sat on the shore with his rod, looking at the shining
water and watching his line, all on a sudden his float was dragged away
deep under the sea: and in drawing it up he pulled a great fish out of
the water. The fish said to him, "Pray let me live: I am not a real
fish; I am an enchanted prince. Put me in the water again, and let me
go."
"Oh!" said the man, "you need not make so many words about the matter. I
wish to have nothing to do with a fish that can talk; so swim away as
soon as you please." Then he put him back into the water, and the fish
darted straight down to the bottom and left a long streak of blood
behind him.
When the fisherman went home to his wife in the ditch, he told her how
he had caught a great fish, and how it had told him it was an enchanted
prince, and that on hearing it speak he had let it go again.
"Did you not ask it for anything?" said the wife.
"No," said the man, "what should I ask for?"
"Ah!" said the wife, "we live very wretchedly here in this nasty
stinking ditch. Do go back, and tell the fish we want a little cottage."
The fisherman did not much like the business; however he went to the
sea, and when he came there the water looked all yellow and green. And
he stood at the water's edge, and said,
"O man of the sea!
Come listen to me,
For Alice my wife,
The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"
Then the fish came swimming to him, and said, "Well, what does she
want?"
"Ah!" answered the fisherman, "my wife says that when I had caught you,
I ought to have asked you for something before I let you go again. She
does not like living any longer in the ditch, and wants a little
cottage."
"Go home, then," said the fish. "She is in the cottage already."
So the man went home and saw his wife standing at the door of a cottage.
"Come in, come in," said she; "is not this much better than the ditch?"
And there was a parlor, and a bed-chamber, and a kitchen; and behind the
cottage there was a little garden with all sorts of flowers and fruits,
and a court-yard full of ducks and chickens.
"Ah!" said the fisherman, "how happily we shall live!"
"We will try to do so at least," said his wife.
Everything went right for a week or two, and then Dame Alice said,
"Husband, there is not room enough in this cottage; the court-yard and
garden are a great deal too small. I should like to have a large stone
castle to live in; so go to the fish again, and tell him to give us a
castle."
"Wife," said the fisherman, "I don't like to go to him again, for
perhaps he will be angry. We ought to be content with the cottage."
"Nonsense!" said the wife; "he will do it very willingly. Go along, and
try."
The fisherman went; but his heart was very heavy: and when he came to
the sea, it looked blue and gloomy, though it was quite calm, and he
went close to it and said,
"O man of the sea!
Come listen to me,
For Alice my wife,
The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"
"Well, what does she want now?" said the fish.
"Ah!" said the man very sorrowfully, "my wife wants to live in a stone
castle."
"Go home then," said the fish. "She is standing at the door of it
already." So away went the fisherman and found his wife standing before
a great castle.
"See," said she, "is not this grand?" With that they went into the
castle together and found a great many servants there and the rooms all
richly furnished and full of golden chairs and tables; and behind the
castle was a garden, and a wood half a mile long, full of sheep, and
goats, and hares, and deer; and in the court-yard were stables and
cow-houses.
"Well," said the man, "now will we live contented and happy in this
beautiful castle for the rest of our lives."
"Perhaps we may," said the wife; "but let us consider and sleep upon it
before we make up our minds": so they went to bed.
The next morning when Dame Alice awoke, it was broad daylight, and she
jogged the fisherman with her elbow and said, "Get up, husband, and
bestir yourself, for we must be king of all the land."
"Wife, wife," said the man, "why should we wish to be king? I will not
be king."
"Then I will," said Alice.
"But, wife," answered the fisherman, "how can you be king? The fish
cannot make you a king."
"Husband," said she, "say no more about it, but go and try. I will be
king!"
So the man went away, quite sorrowful to think that his wife should want
to be king. The sea looked a dark grey color, and was covered with foam
as he cried out,
"O man of the sea!
Come listen to me,
For Alice my wife,
The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"
"Well, what would she have now?" said the fish.
"Alas!" said the man, "my wife wants to be king."
"Go home," said the fish. "She is king already."
Then the fisherman went home; and as he came close to the palace, he saw
a troop of soldiers and heard the sound of drums and trumpets; and when
he entered in, he saw his wife sitting on a high throne of gold and
diamonds, with a golden crown upon her head; and on each side of her
stood six beautiful maidens, each a head taller than the other. "Well,
wife," said the fisherman, "are you king?"
"Yes," said she, "I am king."
And when he had looked at her for a long time, he said, "Ah, wife! what
a fine thing it is to be king! Now we shall never have anything more to
wish for."
"I don't know how that may be," said she; "never is a long time. I am
king, 'tis true, but I begin to be tired of it, and I think I should
like to be emperor."
"Alas, wife! why should you wish to be emperor?" said the fisherman.
"Husband," said she, "go to the fish; I say I will be emperor."
"Ah, wife!" replied the fisherman, "the fish cannot make an emperor, and
I should not like to ask for such a thing."
"I am king," said Alice, "and you are my slave, so go directly!"
So the fisherman was obliged to go; and he muttered as he went along,
"This will come to no good. It is too much to ask. The fish will be
tired at last, and then we shall repent of what we have done." He soon
arrived at the sea, and the water was quite black and muddy, and a
mighty whirlwind blew over it; but he went to the shore, and said,
"O man of the sea!
Come listen to me,
For Alice my wife,
The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"
"What would she have now!" said the fish.
"Ah!" said the fisherman, "she wants to be emperor."
"Go home," said the fish. "She is emperor already."
So he went home again; and as he came near he saw his wife sitting on a
very lofty throne made of solid gold, with a great crown on her head
full two yards high, and on each side of her stood her guards and
attendants in a row, each one smaller than the other, from the tallest
giant down to a little dwarf no bigger than my finger. And before her
stood princes, and dukes, and earls: and the fisherman went up to her
and said, "Wife, are you emperor?"
"Yes," said she, "I am emperor."
"Ah!" said the man as he gazed upon her, "what a fine thing it is to be
emperor!"
"Husband," said she, "why should we stay at being emperor; I will be
pope next."
"O wife, wife!" said he, "how can you be pope? There is but one pope at
a time in Christendom."
"Husband," said she, "I will be pope this very day."
"But," replied the husband, "the fish cannot make you pope."
"What nonsense!" said she, "if he can make an emperor, he can make a
pope. Go and try him."
So the fisherman went. But when he came to the shore the wind was
raging, and the sea was tossed up and down like boiling water, and the
ships were in the greatest distress and danced upon the waves most
fearfully. In the middle of the sky there was a little blue, but toward
the south it was all red as if a dreadful storm were rising. At this the
fisherman was terribly frightened, and trembled, so that his knees
knocked together: but he went to the shore and said,
"O man of the sea!
Come listen to me,
For Alice my wife,
The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"
"What does she want now?" said the fish.
"Ah!" said the fisherman, "my wife wants to be pope."
"Go home," said the fish. "She is pope already."
Then the fisherman went home and found his wife sitting on a throne that
was two miles high; and she had three great crowns on her head, and
around stood all the pomp and power of the Church; and on each side were
two rows of burning lights of all sizes, the greatest as large as the
highest and biggest tower in the world, and the least no larger than a
small rushlight. "Wife," said the fisherman as he looked at all this
grandeur, "are you pope?"
"Yes," said she, "I am pope."
"Well, wife," replied he, "it is a grand thing to be pope; and now you
must be content, for you can be nothing greater."
"I will consider of that," said the wife. Then they went to bed: but
Dame Alice could not sleep all night for thinking what she should be
next. At last morning came, and the sun rose. "Ha!" thought she as she
looked at it through the window, "cannot I prevent the sun rising?" At
this she was very angry, and she wakened her husband and said, "Husband,
go to the fish and tell him I want to be lord of the sun and moon." The
fisherman was half asleep, but the thought frightened him so much that
he started and fell out of bed. "Alas, wife!" said he, "cannot you be
content to be pope?"
"No," said she, "I am very uneasy, and cannot bear to see the sun and
moon rise without my leave. Go to the fish directly."
Then the man went trembling for fear; and as he was going down to the
shore a dreadful storm arose, so that the trees and the rocks shook; and
the heavens became black, and the lightning played, and the thunder
rolled; and you might have seen in the sea great black waves like
mountains with a white crown of foam upon them; and the fisherman said,
"O man of the sea!
Come listen to me,
For Alice my wife,
The plague of my life,
Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!"
"What does she want now?" said the fish.
"Ah!" said he, "she wants to be lord of the sun and moon." "Go home,"
said the fish, "to your ditch again!" And there they live to this very
day.
177
The Grimm version of "The Sleeping Beauty" is,
by all odds, the finest one. Its perfect
economy in the use of story materials has
always been admired. Perrault's version drags
in an unnecessary ogre and spoils a good story
by not knowing when to stop. The Grimm title is
"Dornröschen," and the more literal
translation, "Brier Rose," is the one generally
used as the English title, rather than the one
given by Taylor, whose translation follows.
Tennyson has a very beautiful poetic rendering
of this story in his "Day-Dream."
ROSE-BUD
Once upon a time there lived a king and queen who had no children; and
this they lamented very much. But one day as the queen was walking by
the side of the river, a little fish lifted its head out of the water
and said, "Your wish shall be fulfilled, and you shall soon have a
daughter."
What the little fish had foretold soon came to pass; and the queen had a
little girl that was so very beautiful that the king could not cease
looking on it for joy, and determined to hold a great feast. So he
invited not only his relations, friends, and neighbors, but also all the
fairies, that they might be kind and good to his little daughter.
Now there were thirteen fairies in his kingdom, and he had only twelve
golden dishes for them to eat out of, so he was obliged to leave one of
the fairies without an invitation. The rest came, and after the feast
was over they gave all their best gifts to the little princess: one gave
her virtue, another beauty, another riches, and so on till she had all
that was excellent in the world. When eleven had done blessing her, the
thirteenth, who had not been invited and was very angry on that account,
came in and determined to take her revenge. So she cried out, "The
king's daughter shall in her fifteenth year be wounded by a spindle, and
fall down dead."
Then the twelfth, who had not yet given her gift, came forward and said
that the bad wish must be fulfilled, but that she could soften it, and
that the king's daughter should not die, but fall asleep for a hundred
years.
But the king hoped to save his dear child from the threatened evil and
ordered that all the spindles in the kingdom should be bought up and
destroyed. All the fairies' gifts were in the meantime fulfilled, for
the princess was so beautiful, and well-behaved, and amiable, and wise
that every one who knew her loved her. Now it happened that on the very
day she was fifteen years old the king and queen were not at home, and
she was left alone in the palace. So she roved about by herself and
looked at all the rooms and chambers till at last she came to an old
tower, to which there was a narrow staircase ending with a little door.
In the door there was a golden key, and when she turned it the door
sprang open, and there sat an old lady spinning away very busily. "Why,
how now, good mother," said the princess, "what are you doing there?"
"Spinning," said the old lady, and nodded her head.
"How prettily that little thing turns round!" said the princess, and
took the spindle and began to spin. But scarcely had she touched it
before the prophecy was fulfilled, and she fell down lifeless on the
ground.
However, she was not dead, but had only fallen into a deep sleep; and
the king and the queen, who just then came home, and all their court,
fell asleep too; and the horses slept in the stables, and the dogs in
the court, the pigeons on the house-top and the flies on the walls. Even
the fire on the hearth left off blazing and went to sleep; and the meat
that was roasting stood still; and the cook, who was at that moment
pulling the kitchen-boy by the hair to give him a box on the ear for
something he had done amiss, let him go, and both fell asleep; and so
everything stood still, and slept soundly.
A large hedge of thorns soon grew round the palace, and every year it
became higher and thicker till at last the whole palace was surrounded
and hid, so that not even the roof or the chimneys could be seen. But
there went a report through all the land of the beautiful sleeping
Rose-Bud (for so was the king's daughter called); so that from time to
time several kings' sons came and tried to break through the thicket
into the palace. This they could never do, for the thorns and bushes
laid hold of them as it were with hands, and there they stuck fast and
died miserably.
After many many years there came a king's son into that land, and an old
man told him the story of the thicket of thorns, and how a beautiful
palace stood behind it, in which was a wondrous princess, called
Rose-Bud, asleep with all her court. He told, too, how he had heard from
his grandfather that many many princes had come, and had tried to break
through the thicket, but had stuck fast and died. Then the young prince
said, "All this shall not frighten me. I will go and see Rose-Bud." The
old man tried to dissuade him, but he persisted in going.
Now that very day were the hundred years completed; and as the prince
came to the thicket, he saw nothing but beautiful flowering shrubs,
through which he passed with ease, and they closed after him as firm as
ever. Then he came at last to the palace, and there in the court lay the
dogs asleep, and the horses in the stables, and on the roof sat the
pigeons fast asleep with their heads under their wings; and when he came
into the palace, the flies slept on the walls, and the cook in the
kitchen was still holding up her hand as if she would beat the boy, and
the maid sat with a black fowl in her hand ready to be plucked.
Then he went on still further, and all was so still that he could hear
every breath he drew; till at last he came to the old tower and opened
the door of the little room in which Rose-Bud was, and there she lay
fast asleep, and looked so beautiful that he could not take his eyes
off, and he stooped down and gave her a kiss. But the moment he kissed
her she opened her eyes and awoke and smiled upon him. Then they went
out together, and presently the king and queen also awoke, and all the
court, and they gazed on one another with great wonder. And the horses
got up and shook themselves, and the dogs jumped about and barked; the
pigeons took their heads from under their wings and looked about and
flew into the fields; the flies on the walls buzzed away; the fire in
the kitchen blazed up and cooked the dinner, and the roast meat turned
round again; the cook gave the boy the box on his ear so that he cried
out, and the maid went on plucking the fowl. And then was the wedding of
the prince and Rose-Bud celebrated, and they lived happily together all
their lives long.
178
The story of "Rumpelstiltskin" is taken from
Margaret Hunt's translation of Grimm. It is the
same story as "Tom Tit Tot" (No. 160), and is
given in order that the teacher may compare the
two. Grimm's is the most familiar of the many
versions of this tale and is probably the best
for use with children, although the "little
man" lacks some of the fascinating power of
"that" with its twirling tail.
RUMPELSTILTSKIN
Once there was a miller who was poor, but who had a beautiful daughter.
Now it happened that he had to go and speak to the King, and in order to
make himself appear important he said to him, "I have a daughter who can
spin straw into gold."
The King said to the miller, "That is an art which pleases me well. If
your daughter is as clever as you say, bring her tomorrow to my palace,
and I will try what she can do."
And when the girl was brought to him he took her into a room which was
quite full of straw, gave her a spinning-wheel and a reel, and said,
"Now set to work, and if by tomorrow morning early you have not spun
this straw into gold during the night, you must die." Thereupon he
himself locked up the room, and left her in it alone. So there sat the
poor miller's daughter, and for her life could not tell what to do. She
had no idea how straw could be spun into gold, and she grew more and
more miserable, until at last she began to weep.
But all at once the door opened, and in came a little man, and said,
"Good evening, Mistress Miller; why are you crying so?"
"Alas!" answered the girl, "I have to spin straw into gold, and I do not
know how to do it."
"What will you give me," said the manikin, "if I do it for you?"
"My necklace," said the girl. The little man took the necklace, seated
himself in front of the wheel, and "whir, whir, whir," three turns, and
the reel was full; then he put another on, and "whir, whir, whir," three
times round, and the second was full, too. And so it went on until the
morning, when all the straw was spun, and all the reels were full of
gold. By daybreak the King was already there, and when he saw the gold
he was astonished and delighted, but his heart became only more greedy.
He had the miller's daughter taken into another room full of straw,
which was much larger, and commanded her to spin that also in one night
if she valued her life. The girl knew not how to help herself, and was
crying, when the door again opened, and the little man appeared, and
said, "What will you give me if I spin the straw into gold for you?"
"The ring on my finger," answered the girl.
The little man took the ring, again began to turn the wheel, and by
morning had spun all the straw into glittering gold.
The King rejoiced beyond measure at the sight, but still he had not
gold enough; and he had the miller's daughter taken into a still larger
room full of straw, and said, "You must spin this, too, in the course of
this night; but if you succeed, you shall be my wife." "Even if she be a
miller's daughter," thought he, "I could not find a richer wife in the
whole world."
When the girl was alone the manikin came again for the third time, and
said, "What will you give me if I spin the straw for you this time
also?"
"I have nothing left that I could give," answered the girl.
"Then promise me, if you should become Queen, your first child."
"Who knows whether that will ever happen?" thought the miller's
daughter; and, not knowing how else to help herself in this strait, she
promised the manikin what he wanted, and for that he once more spun the
straw into gold.
And when the King came in the morning, and found all as he had wished,
he took her in marriage, and the pretty miller's daughter became a
Queen.
A year after, she had a beautiful child, and she never gave a thought to
the manikin. But suddenly he came into her room, and said, "Now give me
what you promised."
The Queen was horror-struck, and offered the manikin all the riches of
the kingdom if he would leave her the child. But the manikin said, "No,
something that is living is dearer to me than all the treasures in the
world."
Then the Queen began to weep and cry, so that the manikin pitied her. "I
will give you three days' time," said he; "if by that time you find out
my name, then shall you keep your child."
So the Queen thought the whole night of all the names that she had ever
heard, and she sent a messenger over the country to inquire, far and
wide, for any other names that there might be. When the manikin came the
next day, she began with Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar, and said all the
names she knew, one after another; but to every one the little man said,
"That is not my name." On the second day she had inquiries made in the
neighborhood as to the names of the people there, and she repeated to
the manikin the most uncommon and curious. "Perhaps your name is
Shortribs, or Sheepshanks, or Laceleg?" but he always answered, "That is
not my name."
On the third day the messenger came back again, and said, "I have not
been able to find a single new name, but as I came to a high mountain at
the end of the forest, where the fox and the hare bid each other
good-night, there I saw a little house, and before the house a fire was
burning, and round about the fire quite a ridiculous little man was
jumping; he hopped upon one leg, and shouted:
"To-day I bake, to-morrow brew,
The next I'll have the young Queen's child.
Ha! glad am I that no one knew
That Rumpelstiltskin I am styled.'"
You may think how glad the Queen was when she heard the name! And when
soon afterwards the little man came in, and asked, "Now, Mistress Queen,
what is my name?"
At first she said, "Is your name Conrad?"
"No."
"Is your name Harry?"
"No."
"Perhaps your name is Rumpelstiltskin?"
"The devil has told you that! the devil has told you that!" cried the
little man, and in his anger he plunged his right foot so deep into the
earth that his whole leg went in; and then in rage he pulled at his left
leg so hard with both hands that he tore himself in two.
179
Margaret Hunt's translation of Grimm's
"Snow-White and Rose-Red" follows. It has long
been recognized as one of the most beautiful
and appealing of folk tales. The scenic
effects, the domestic life with its maternal
and filial affection, the kindness to animals
and helpfulness to each other and to those in
distress, the adventures with dwarf and bear,
the magic enchantment of goodness through the
power of evil, and the happy conclusion
following the removal of this enchantment--all
these are blended into a perfect union that
never fails to delight the listener of any age.
SNOW-WHITE AND ROSE-RED
There was once a poor widow who lived in a lonely cottage. In front of
the cottage was a garden wherein stood two rose-trees, one of which bore
white and the other red roses. She had two children who were like the
two rose-trees, and one was called Snow-white, and the other Rose-red.
They were as good and happy, as busy and cheerful as ever two children
in the world were, only Snow-white was more quiet and gentle than
Rose-red. Rose-red liked better to run about in the meadows and fields
seeking flowers and catching butterflies; but Snow-white sat at home
with her mother, and helped her with her housework, or read to her when
there was nothing to do.
The two children were so fond of each other that they always held each
other by the hand when they went out together, and when Snow-white said,
"We will not leave each other," Rose-red answered, "Never so long as we
live," and their mother would add, "What one has she must share with the
other."
They often ran about the forest alone and gathered red berries, and no
beasts did them any harm, but came close to them trustfully. The little
hare would eat a cabbage-leaf out of their hands, the roe grazed by
their side, the stag leaped merrily by them, and the birds sat still
upon the boughs and sang whatever they knew.
No mishap overtook them; if they had stayed too late in the forest, and
night came on, they laid themselves down near each other upon the moss
and slept until morning came, and their mother knew this and had no
distress on their account.
Once when they had spent the night in the wood and the dawn had roused
them, they saw a beautiful child in a shining white dress sitting near
their bed. He got up and looked quite kindly at them, but said nothing
and went away into the forest. And when they looked round they found
that they had been sleeping quite close to a precipice, and would
certainly have fallen into it in the darkness if they had gone only a
few paces farther. And their mother told them that it must have been the
angel who watches over good children.
Snow-white and Rose-red kept their mother's little cottage so neat that
it was a pleasure to look inside it. In the summer Rose-red took care of
the house, and every morning laid a wreath of flowers by her mother's
bed before she awoke, in which was a rose from each tree. In the winter
Snow-white lit the fire and hung the kettle on the crane. The kettle was
of copper and shone like gold, so brightly was it polished. In the
evening, when the snowflakes fell, the mother said, "Go, Snow-white, and
bolt the door," and then they sat round the hearth, and the mother took
her spectacles and read aloud out of a large book, and the two girls
listened as they sat and spun. And close by them lay a lamb upon the
floor, and behind them upon a perch sat a white dove with its head
hidden beneath its wings.
One evening, as they were thus sitting comfortably together, some one
knocked at the door as if he wished to be let in. The mother said,
"Quick, Rose-red, open the door, it must be a traveler who is seeking
shelter." Rose-red went and pushed back the bolt, thinking that it was a
poor man, but it was not; it was a bear that stretched his broad, black
head within the door.
Rose-red screamed and sprang back, the lamb bleated, the dove fluttered,
and Snow-white hid herself behind her mother's bed. But the bear began
to speak and said, "Do not be afraid, I will do you no harm! I am
half-frozen, and only want to warm myself a little beside you."
"Poor bear," said the mother, "lie down by the fire, only take care that
you do not burn your coat." Then she cried, "Snow-white, Rose-red, come
out; the bear will do you no harm; he means well." So they both came
out, and by-and-by the lamb and dove came nearer, and were not afraid of
him.
The bear said, "Here, children, knock the snow out of my coat a little";
so they brought the broom and swept the bear's hide clean; and he
stretched himself by the fire and growled contentedly and comfortably.
It was not long before they grew quite at home and played tricks with
their clumsy guest. They tugged his hair with their hands, put their
feet upon his back and rolled him about, or they took a hazel-switch and
beat him, and when he growled they laughed. But the bear took it all in
good part, only when they were too rough he called out, "Leave me alive,
children--
"Snowy-white, Rosy-red,
Will you beat your lover dead?"
When it was bed-time, and the others went to bed, the mother said to the
bear, "You can lie there by the hearth, and then you will be safe from
the cold and the bad weather." As soon as day dawned the two children
let him out, and he trotted across the snow into the forest.
Henceforth the bear came every evening at the same time, laid himself
down by the hearth, and let the children amuse themselves with him as
much as they liked; and they got so used to him that the doors were
never fastened until their black friend had arrived.
When spring had come and all outside was green, the bear said one
morning to Snow-white, "Now I must go away, and cannot come back for the
whole summer."
"Where are you going, then, dear bear?" asked Snow-white.
"I must go into the forest and guard my treasures from the wicked
dwarfs. In the winter, when the earth is frozen hard, they are obliged
to stay below and cannot work their way through; but now, when the sun
has thawed and warmed the earth, they break through it, and come out to
pry and steal; and what once gets into their hands, and in their caves,
does not easily see daylight again."
Snow-white was quite sorry for his going away, and as she unbolted the
door for him, and the bear was hurrying out, he caught against the bolt
and a piece of his hairy coat was torn off, and it seemed to Snow-white
as if she had seen gold shining through it, but she was not sure about
it. The bear ran away quickly, and was soon out of sight behind the
trees.
A short time afterwards the mother sent her children into the forest to
get fire-wood. There they found a big tree which lay felled on the
ground, and close by the trunk something was jumping backwards and
forwards in the grass, but they could not make out what it was. When
they came nearer they saw a dwarf with an old withered face and a
snow-white beard a yard long. The end of the beard was caught in a
crevice of the tree, and the little fellow was jumping backwards and
forwards like a dog tied to a rope, and did not know what to do.
He glared at the girls with his fiery red eyes and cried, "Why do you
stand there? Can you not come here and help me?"
"What are you about there, little man?" asked Rose-red.
"You stupid, prying goose!" answered the dwarf; "I was going to split
the tree to get a little wood for cooking. The little bit of food that
one of us wants gets burnt up directly with thick logs; we do not
swallow so much as you coarse, greedy folk. I had just driven the wedge
safely in, and everything was going as I wished; but the wretched wood
was too smooth and suddenly sprang asunder, and the tree closed so
quickly that I could not pull out my beautiful white beard; so now it is
tight in and I cannot get away, and you silly, sleek, milk-faced things
laugh! Ugh! how odious you are!"
The children tried very hard, but they could not pull the beard out, it
was caught too fast. "I will run and fetch some one," said Rose-red.
"You senseless goose!" snarled the dwarf; "why should you fetch some
one? You are already two too many for me; can you not think of something
better?"
"Don't be impatient," said Snow-white, "I will help you," and she pulled
her scissors out of her pocket, and cut off the end of the beard.
As soon as the dwarf felt himself free he laid hold of a bag which lay
amongst the roots of the tree, and which was full of gold, and lifted it
up, grumbling to himself, "Uncouth people, to cut off a piece of my fine
beard. Bad luck to you!" and then he swung the bag upon his back, and
went off without even once looking at the children.
Some time after that Snow-white and Rose-red went to catch a dish of
fish. As they came near the brook they saw something like a large
grasshopper jumping towards the water, as if it were going to leap in.
They ran to it and found it was the dwarf. "Where are you going?" said
Rose-red; "you surely don't want to go into the water?"
"I am not such a fool!" cried the dwarf; "don't you see that the
accursed fish wants to pull me in?"
The little man had been sitting there fishing, and unluckily the wind
had twisted his beard with the fishing line; just then a big fish bit,
and the feeble creature had not strength to pull it out; the fish kept
the upper hand and pulled the dwarf towards him. He held on to all the
reeds and rushes, but it was of little good, he was forced to follow the
movements of the fish, and was in urgent danger of being dragged into
the water.
The girls came just in time; they held him fast and tried to free his
beard from the line, but all in vain, beard and line were entangled fast
together. Nothing was left but to bring out the scissors and cut the
beard, whereby a small part of it was lost. When the dwarf saw that he
screamed out, "Is that civil, you toadstool, to disfigure one's face?
Was it not enough to clip off the end of my beard? Now you have cut off
the best part of it. I cannot let myself be seen by my people. I wish
you had been made to run the soles off your shoes!" Then he took out a
sack of pearls which lay in the rushes, and without saying a word more
he dragged it away and disappeared behind a stone.
It happened that soon afterwards the mother sent the two children to the
town to buy needles and thread, and laces and ribbons. The road led them
across a heath upon which huge pieces of rock lay strewn here and there.
Now they noticed a large bird hovering in the air, flying slowly round
and round above them; it sank lower and lower, and at last settled near
a rock not far off. Directly afterwards they heard a loud, piteous cry.
They ran up and saw with horror that the eagle had seized their old
acquaintance the dwarf, and was going to carry him off.
The children, full of pity, at once took tight hold of the little man,
and pulled against the eagle so long that at last he let his booty go.
As soon as the dwarf had recovered from his first fright he cried with
his shrill voice, "Could you not have done it more carefully? You
dragged at my brown coat so that it is all torn and full of holes, you
helpless, clumsy creatures!" Then he took up a sack full of precious
stones, and slipped away again under the rock into his hole. The girls,
who by this time were used to his thanklessness, went on their way and
did their business in the town.
As they crossed the heath again on their way home they surprised the
dwarf, who had emptied out his bag of precious stones in a clean spot,
and had not thought that any one would come there so late. The evening
sun shone upon the brilliant stones; they glittered and sparkled with
all colors so beautifully that the children stood still and looked at
them. "Why do you stand gaping there?" cried the dwarf, and his
ashen-gray face became copper-red with rage. He was going on with his
bad words when a loud growling was heard, and a black bear came trotting
towards them out of the forest. The dwarf sprang up in a fright, but he
could not get to his cave, for the bear was already close. Then in the
dread of his heart he cried, "Dear Mr. Bear, spare me, I will give you
all my treasures; look, the beautiful jewels lying there! Grant me my
life; what do you want with such a slender little fellow as I? You would
not feel me between your teeth. Come, take these two wicked girls, they
are tender morsels for you, fat as young quails; for mercy's sake eat
them!" The bear took no heed of his words, but gave the wicked creature
a single blow with his paw, and he did not move again.
The girls had run away, but the bear called to them, "Snow-white and
Rose-red, do not be afraid; wait, I will come with you." Then they knew
his voice and waited, and when he came up to them suddenly his bearskin
fell off, and he stood there a handsome man, clothed all in gold. "I am
a King's son," he said, "and I was bewitched by that wicked dwarf, who
had stolen my treasures. I have had to run about the forest as a savage
bear until I was freed by his death. Now he has got his well-deserved
punishment."
Snow-white was married to him, and Rose-red to his brother, and they
divided between them the great treasures which the dwarf had gathered
together in his cave. The old mother lived peacefully and happily with
her children for many years. She took the two rose-trees with her, and
they stood before her window, and every year bore the most beautiful
roses, white and red.
180
Whether it is possible to trace all folk tales
to India, as some scholars have contended, is a
matter yet open to debate. But there can be no
doubt that some of the most instructing and
valuable of folk tales for use with children
are found in the various collections of Indian
stories made since the pioneer work of Mary
Frere in her _Old Deccan Days_ (1868). A
voluminous literature of collections and
comment has grown up and is constantly
increasing. Four stories that have won great
favor with children are given immediately
following as the ones probably best fitted for
an introductory course. "The Lambikin" is one
of the most popular of all. It is an
accumulative droll in character and should be
told early along with, say, "The Story of the
Three Little Pigs." The children will be sure
to notice that Lambikin trundling along in his
drumikin has some similarity to the wise pig
who traveled so fast down hill in his new
churn. The story is taken from _Tales from the
Punjab_, collected by Flora Annie Steel, with
very valuable notes and analyses by Captain R.
C. Temple.
THE LAMBIKIN
Once upon a time there was a wee wee Lambikin, who frolicked about on
his little tottery legs, and enjoyed himself amazingly. Now one day he
set off to visit his Granny, and was jumping with joy to think of all
the good things he should get from her, when whom should he meet but a
Jackal, who looked at the tender young morsel and said: "Lambikin!
Lambikin! I'll EAT YOU!"
But Lambikin only gave a little frisk and said:
"To Granny's house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so."
The Jackal thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.
By and by he met a Vulture, and the Vulture, looking hungrily at the
tender morsel before him, said: "Lambikin! Lambikin! I'll EAT YOU!"
But Lambikin only gave a little frisk, and said:
"To Granny's house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so."
The Vulture thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass.
And by and by he met a Tiger, and then a Wolf, and a Dog, and an Eagle,
and all these, when they saw the tender little morsel, said: "Lambikin!
Lambikin! I'll EAT YOU!"
But to all of them Lambikin replied, with a little frisk:
"To Granny's house I go,
Where I shall fatter grow,
Then you can eat me so."
At last he reached his Granny's house, and said, all in a great hurry,
"Granny, dear, I've promised to get very fat; so, as people ought to
keep their promises, please put me into the corn-bin _at once_."
So his Granny said he was a good boy, and put him into the corn-bin, and
there the greedy little Lambikin stayed for seven days, and ate, and
ate, and ate, until he could scarcely waddle, and his Granny said he was
fat enough for anything, and must go home. But cunning little Lambikin
said that would never do, for some animal would be sure to eat him on
the way back, he was so plump and tender.
"I'll tell you what you must do," said Master Lambikin, "you must make a
little drumikin out of the skin of my little brother who died, and then
I can sit inside and trundle along nicely, for I'm as tight as a drum
myself."
So his Granny made a nice little drumikin out of his brother's skin,
with the wool inside, and Lambikin curled himself up snug and warm in
the middle, and trundled away gayly. Soon he met with the Eagle, who
called out:
"Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?"
And Mr. Lambikin, curled up in his soft warm nest, replied:
"Lost in the forest, and so are you,
On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!"
"How very annoying!" sighed the Eagle, thinking regretfully of the
tender morsel he had let slip.
Meanwhile Lambikin trundled along, laughing to himself, and singing:
"Tum-pa, tum-too;
Tum-pa, tum-too!"
Every animal and bird he met asked him the same question:
"Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?"
And to each of them the little sly-boots replied:
"Lost in the forest, and so are you,
On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too;
Tum-pa, tum-too; tum-pa, tum-too!"
Then they all sighed to think of the tender little morsel they had let
slip.
At last the Jackal came limping along, for all his sorry looks as sharp
as a needle, and he too called out:
"Drumikin! Drumikin!
Have you seen Lambikin?"
And Lambikin, curled up in his snug little nest, replied gayly:
"Lost in the forest, and so are you,
On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa--"
But he never got any further, for the Jackal recognized his voice at
once, and cried: "Hullo! you've turned yourself inside out, have you?
Just you come out of that!"
Whereupon he tore open Drumikin and gobbled up Lambikin.
181
The next story, dealing with the idea of
"measure for measure," is from Mary Frere's
_Old Deccan Days_. Miss Frere spent many years
in India, where her father was a government
official. She took down the tales as told by
her _ayah_, or lady's maid, who in turn had
heard them from her hundred-year-old
grandmother. It may be said of this story that
while retaliation is certainly not the highest
law of conduct, yet the ungracious,
inconsiderate action of the jackal makes it
impossible to feel the least sympathy for him.
TIT FOR TAT
There once lived a Camel and a Jackal who were great friends. One day
the Jackal said to the Camel, "I know that there is a fine field of
sugar cane on the other side of the river. If you will take me across,
I'll show you the place. This plan will suit me as well as you. You will
enjoy eating the sugar cane, and I am sure to find many crabs, bones,
and bits of fish by the river side, on which to make a good dinner."
The Camel consented, and swam across the river, taking the Jackal, who
could not swim, on his back. When they reached the other side, the Camel
went to eat the sugar cane, and the Jackal ran up and down the river
bank, devouring all the crabs, bits of fish, and bones he could find.
But being so much smaller an animal, he had made an excellent meal
before the Camel had eaten more than two or three mouthfuls; and no
sooner had he finished his dinner than he ran round and round the
sugar-cane field, yelping and howling with all his might.
The villagers heard him, and thought, "There is a Jackal among the sugar
canes; he will be scratching holes in the ground and spoiling the roots
of the plants." And they went down to the place to drive him away. But
when they got there they found to their surprise not only a Jackal, but
a Camel who was eating the sugar canes! This made them very angry, and
they caught the poor Camel and drove him from the field and beat him
until he was nearly dead.
When the villagers had gone, the Jackal said to the Camel, "We had
better go home." And the Camel, said, "Very well; then jump upon my
back, as you did before."
So the Jackal jumped upon the Camel's back, and the Camel began to
recross the river. When they had got well into the water, the Camel
said, "This is a pretty way in which you have treated me, friend Jackal.
No sooner had you finished your own dinner than you must go yelping
about the place loud enough to arouse the whole village, and bring all
the villagers down to beat me black and blue, and turn me out of the
field before I had eaten two mouthfuls! What in the world did you make
such a noise for?"
"I don't know," said the Jackal. "It is a custom I have. I always like
to sing a little after dinner."
The Camel waded on through the river. The water reached up to his
knees--then above them--up, up, up, higher and higher, until at last he
was obliged to swim.
Then turning to the Jackal, he said, "I feel very anxious to roll."
"Oh, pray don't; why do you wish to do so?" asked the Jackal.
"I don't know," answered the Camel. "It is a custom I have. I always
like to have a little roll after dinner."
So saying, he rolled over in the water, shaking the Jackal off as he did
so. And the Jackal was drowned, but the Camel swam safely ashore.
182
The fine story following is from Steel's _Tales
of the Punjab_. Scholars have pointed out a
hundred or more variants. Such trickery as
that used by the jackal in trapping the tiger
is the common thing to find in folk tales where
oppressed weakness is matched against ruthless
and tyrannic power. The tiger's ingratitude
precludes any desire to "take his part." The
attitude of the three judges is determined in
each case by the fact that the experience of
each has hardened him and rendered him
completely hopeless and unsympathetic. "The
work of the buffalo in the oil-press," says
Captain Temple, "is the synonym all India
over--and with good reason--for hard and
thankless toil for another's benefit."
THE TIGER, THE BRAHMAN, AND THE JACKAL
Once upon a time a tiger was caught in a trap. He tried in vain to get
out through the bars, and rolled and bit with rage and grief when he
failed.
By chance a poor Brahman came by. "Let me out of this cage, O pious
one!" cried the tiger.
"Nay, my friend," replied the Brahman mildly; "you would probably eat me
if I did."
"Not at all!" swore the tiger with many oaths; "on the contrary, I
should be forever grateful, and serve you as a slave."
Now, when the tiger sobbed and sighed and wept and swore, the pious
Brahman's heart softened, and at last he consented to open the door of
the cage. Out popped the tiger, and, seizing the poor man, cried, "What
a fool you are! What is to prevent my eating you now, for after being
cooped up so long I am just terribly hungry?"
In vain the Brahman pleaded for his life; the most he could gain was a
promise to abide by the decision of the first three things he chose to
question as to the justice of the tiger's action.
So the Brahman first asked a _pipal_ tree what it thought of the matter,
but the _pipal_ tree replied coldly, "What have you to complain about?
Don't I give shade and shelter to every one who passes by, and don't
they in return tear down my branches to feed their cattle? Don't
whimper--be a man!"
Then the Brahman, sad at heart, went further afield till he saw a
buffalo turning a well-wheel; but he fared no better from it, for it
answered: "You are a fool to expect gratitude! Look at me! While I gave
milk they fed me on cotton-seed and oil-cake, but now I am dry they yoke
me here, and give me refuse as fodder!"
The Brahman, still more sad, asked the road to give him its opinion.
"My dear sir," said the road, "how foolish you are to expect anything
else! Here am I, useful to everybody, yet all, rich and poor, great and
small, trample on me as they go past, giving me nothing but the ashes of
their pipes and the husks of their grain!"
On this the Brahman turned back sorrowfully, and on the way he met a
jackal, who called out, "Why, what's the matter, Mr. Brahman? You look
as miserable as a fish out of water!"
The Brahman told him all that had occurred. "How very confusing!" said
the jackal, when the recital was ended; "would you mind telling me over
again, for everything seems so mixed up?"
The Brahman told it all over again, but the jackal shook his head in a
distracted sort of way, and still could not understand.
"It's very odd," said he sadly, "but it all seems to go in at one ear
and out at the other! I will go to the place where it all happened, and
then, perhaps, I shall be able to give a judgment."
So they returned to the cage, by which the tiger was waiting for the
Brahman, and sharpening his teeth and claws.
"You've been away a long time!" growled the savage beast, "but now let
us begin our dinner."
"_Our_ dinner!" thought the wretched Brahman, as his knees knocked
together with fright; "what a remarkably delicate way of putting it!"
"Give me five minutes, my lord!" he pleaded, "in order that I may
explain matters to the jackal here, who is somewhat slow in his wits."
The tiger consented, and the Brahman began the whole story over again,
not missing a single detail, and spinning as long a yarn as possible.
"Oh, my poor brain! oh, my poor brain!" cried the jackal, wringing its
paws. "Let me see! how did it all begin? You were in the cage, and the
tiger came walking by--"
"Pooh!" interrupted the tiger, "what a fool you are! _I_ was in the
cage."
"Of course!" cried the jackal, pretending to tremble with fright; "yes!
I was in the cage--no, I wasn't--dear! dear! where are my wits? Let me
see--the tiger was in the Brahman, and the cage came walking by--no,
that's not it, either! Well, don't mind me, but begin your dinner, for I
shall never understand!"
"Yes, you shall!" returned the tiger, in a rage at the jackal's
stupidity; "I'll _make_ you understand! Look here--I am the tiger--"
"Yes, my lord!"
"And that is the Brahman--"
"Yes, my lord!"
"And that is the cage--"
"Yes, my lord!"
"And I was in the cage--do you understand?"
"Yes--no----Please, my lord--"
"Well?" cried the tiger impatiently.
"Please, my lord! How did you get in?"
"How? Why in the usual way, of course!"
"Oh, dear me! my head is beginning to whirl again! Please don't be
angry, my lord, but what is the usual way?"
At this the tiger lost patience, and jumping into the cage, cried, "This
way! Now do you understand how it was?"
"Perfectly!" grinned the jackal, as he dexterously shut the door, "and
if you will permit me to say so, I think matters will remain as they
were!"
183
The story that follows is from Mrs. Kingscote's
_Tales of the Sun_, as reprinted in Joseph
Jacobs' _Indian Fairy Tales_. Mr. Jacobs
explains that he "changed the Indian mercantile
numerals into those of English 'back-slang,'
which make a very good parallel." As in other
cases, the value of Jacobs' collection must be
emphasized. If the teacher is limited to a
single book for story material from the
Hindoos, that book must be the one made by
Joseph Jacobs. With well-chosen tales, with the
slight changes here and there necessary for use
with children, with just enough scholarship
packed out of the way in the introduction and
notes, the book has no rival.
PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL
In a certain village there lived ten cloth merchants, who always went
about together. Once upon a time they had traveled far afield, and were
returning home with a great deal of money which they had obtained by
selling their wares. Now there happened to be a dense forest near their
village, and this they reached early one morning. In it there lived
three notorious robbers, of whose existence the traders had never heard,
and while they were still in the middle of it the robbers stood before
them, with swords and cudgels in their hands, and ordered them to lay
down all they had. The traders had no weapons with them, and so, though
they were many more in number, they had to submit themselves to the
robbers, who took away everything from them, even the very clothes they
wore, and gave to each only a small loin-cloth a span in breadth and a
cubit in length.
The idea that they had conquered ten men and plundered all their
property now took possession of the robbers' minds. They seated
themselves like three monarchs before the men they had plundered, and
ordered them to dance to them before returning home. The merchants now
mourned their fate. They had lost all they had, except their loin-cloth,
and still the robbers were not satisfied, but ordered them to dance.
There was among the ten merchants one who was very clever. He pondered
over the calamity that had come upon him and his friends, the dance they
would have to perform, and the magnificent manner in which the three
robbers had seated themselves on the grass. At the same time he observed
that these last had placed their weapons on the ground, in the assurance
of having thoroughly cowed the traders, who were now commencing to
dance; and, as a song is always sung by the leader on such occasions, to
which the rest keep time with hands and feet, he thus began to sing:
"We are enty men,
They are erith men:
If each erith man,
Surround eno men
Eno man remains.
_Tâ, tai tôm, tadingana._"
The robbers were all uneducated, and thought that the leader was merely
singing a song as usual. So it was in one sense; for the leader
commenced from a distance, and had sung the song over twice before he
and his companions commenced to approach the robbers. They had
understood his meaning, because they had been trained in trade.
When two traders discuss the price of an article in the presence of a
purchaser, they use a riddling sort of language.
"What is the price of this cloth?" one trader will ask.
"Enty rupees," another will reply, meaning "ten rupees."
Thus there is no possibility of the purchaser knowing what is meant
unless he be acquainted with trade language. By the rules of this secret
language erith means "three," enty means "ten," and eno means "one." So
the leader by his song meant to hint to his fellow-traders that they
were ten men, the robbers only three, that if three pounced upon each of
the robbers, nine of them could hold them down, while the remaining one
bound the robbers' hands and feet.
The three thieves, glorying in their victory, and little understanding
the meaning of the song and the intentions of the dancers, were proudly
seated chewing betel and tobacco. Meanwhile the song was sung a third
time. _Tâ tai tôm_ had left the lips of the singer; and, before
_tadingana_ was out of them, the traders separated into parties of
three, and each party pounced upon a thief. The remaining one--the
leader himself--tore up into long narrow strips a large piece of cloth,
six cubits long, and tied the hands and feet of the robbers. These were
entirely humbled now, and rolled on the ground like three bags of rice!
The ten traders now took back all their property, and armed themselves
with the swords and cudgels of their enemies; and when they reached
their village they often amused their friends and relatives by relating
their adventure.
184
In recent years several Japanese stories have
made their way into the list of those
frequently used in the lower grades. Some of
these are of unusual beauty and suggestiveness.
The oriental point of view is so different from
that of western children that these stories
often cannot be used in their fully original
form, although it would be a distinct loss if
the available elements were therefore
discarded. So, in this instance departing from
the plan of giving only authentic copies of the
tales here reprinted, the excellent retold
versions of two Japanese stories are given as
made by Teresa Peirce Williston in her
_Japanese Fairy Tales_. (Copyrighted. Used by
permission of the publishers, Rand McNally &
Co.) In these simple versions the point to the
story is made clear in natural fashion without
undue moralizing.
THE MIRROR OF MATSUYAMA
VERSION BY TERESA PEIRCE WILLISTON
In Matsuyama there lived a man, his wife, and their little daughter.
They loved each other very much, and were very happy together. One day
the man came home very sad. He had received a message from the Emperor,
which said that he must take a journey to far-off Tokio.
They had no horses and in those days there were no railroads in Japan.
The man knew that he must walk the whole distance. It was not the long
walk that he minded, however. It was because it would take him many days
from home.
Still he must obey his Emperor, so he made ready to start. His wife was
very sorry that he must go, and yet a little proud, too, for no one else
in the village had ever taken so long a journey.
She and the baby walked with him down to the turn in the road. There
they stood and watched him through their tears, as he followed the path
up through the pines on the mountain side. At last, no larger than a
speck, he disappeared behind the hills. Then they went home to await his
return.
For three long weeks they waited. Each day they spoke of him, and
counted the days until they should see his dear face again. At last the
time came. They walked down to the turn in the road to wait for his
coming. Up on the mountain side some one was walking toward them. As he
came nearer they could see that it was the one for whom they waited.
The good wife could scarcely believe that her husband was indeed safe
home again. The baby girl laughed and clapped her hands to see the toys
he brought her.
There was a tiny image of Uzume, the laughter-loving goddess. Next came
a little red monkey of cotton, with a blue head. When she pressed the
spring he ran to the top of the rod. Oh, how wonderful was the third
gift! It was a _tombo_, or dragon fly. When she first looked at it she
saw only a piece of wood shaped like a T. The cross piece was painted
with different bright colors. But the queer thing, when her father
twirled it between his fingers, would rise in the air, dipping and
hovering like a real dragon fly.
Last, of course, there was a _ninghio_, or doll, with a sweet face,
slanting eyes, and such wonderful hair. Her name was O-Hina-San.
He told of the Feast of the Dead which he had seen in Tokio. He told of
the beautiful lanterns, the Lanterns of the Dead; and the pine torches
burning before each house. He told of the tiny boats made of barley
straw and filled with food that are set floating away on the river,
bearing two tiny lanterns to guide them to the Land of the Dead.
At last her husband handed the wife a small white box. "Tell me what you
see inside," he said. She opened it and took out something round and
bright.
On one side were buds and flowers of frosted silver. The other side at
first looked as clear and bright as a pool of water. When she moved it a
little she saw in it a most beautiful woman.
"Oh, what a beautiful picture!" she cried. "It is of a woman and she
seems to be smiling and talking just as I am. She has on a blue dress
just like mine, too! How strange!"
Then her husband laughed and said: "That is a mirror. It is yourself you
see reflected in it. All the women in Tokio have them."
The wife was delighted with her present, and looked at it very often.
She liked to see the smiling red lips, the laughing eyes, and beautiful
dark hair.
After a while she said to herself: "How foolish this is of me to sit and
gaze at myself in this mirror! I am not more beautiful than other women.
How much better for me to enjoy others' beauty, and forget my own face.
I shall only remember that it must always be happy and smiling or it
will make no one else happy. I do not wish any cross or angry look of
mine to make any one sad."
She put the mirror carefully away in its box. Only twice in a year she
looked at it. Then it was to see if her face was still such as would
make others happy.
The years passed by in their sweet and simple life until the baby had
grown to be a big girl. Her _ninghio_, her _tombo_, the image of Uzume,
even the cotton monkey, were put carefully away for her own children.
This girl was the very image of her mother. She was just as sweet and
loving, just as kind and helpful.
One day her mother became very ill. Although the girl and her father did
all they could for her, she grew worse and worse.
At last she knew that she must die, so she called her daughter to her
and said: "My child, I know that I must soon leave you, but I wish to
leave something with you in my place. Open this box and see what you
find in it."
The girl opened the box and looked for the first time in a mirror. "Oh,
mother dear!" she cried. "I see you here. Not thin and pale as you are
now, but happy and smiling, as you have always been."
Then her mother said: "When I am gone, will you look in this every
morning and every night? If anything troubles you, tell me about it.
Always try to do right, so that you will see only happiness here."
Every morning when the sun rose and the birds began to twitter and sing,
the girl rose and looked in her mirror. There she saw the bright, happy
face that she remembered as her mother's.
Every evening when the shadows fell and the birds were asleep, she
looked again. She told it all that had happened during the day. When it
had been a happy day the face smiled back at her. When she was sad the
face looked sad, too. She was very careful not to do anything unkind,
for she knew how sad the face would be then.
So each day she grew more kind and loving, and more like the mother
whose face she saw each day and loved.
185
This favorite story of "The Tongue-Cut Sparrow"
is from Mrs. Williston's _Japanese Fairy
Tales_. (Copyrighted. Used by permission.)
THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW
VERSION BY TERESA PEIRCE WILLISTON
In a little old house in a little old village in Japan lived a little
old man and his little old wife.
One morning when the old woman slid open the screens which form the
sides of all Japanese houses, she saw, on the doorstep, a poor little
sparrow. She took him up gently and fed him. Then she held him in the
bright morning sunshine until the cold dew was dried from his wings.
Afterward she let him go, so that he might fly home to his nest, but he
stayed to thank her with his songs.
Each morning, when the pink on the mountain tops told that the sun was
near, the sparrow perched on the roof of the house and sang out his joy.
The old man and woman thanked the sparrow for this, for they liked to be
up early and at work. But near them there lived a cross old woman who
did not like to be awakened so early. At last she became so angry that
she caught the sparrow and cut his tongue. Then the poor little sparrow
flew away to his home, but he could never sing again.
When the kind woman knew what had happened to her pet she was very sad.
She said to her husband, "Let us go and find our poor little sparrow."
So they started together, and asked of each bird by the wayside: "Do you
know where the Tongue-Cut Sparrow lives? Do you know where the
Tongue-Cut Sparrow went?"
In this way they followed until they came to a bridge. They did not know
which way to turn, and at first could see no one to ask.
At last they saw a Bat hanging head downward, taking his daytime nap.
"Oh, friend Bat, do you know where the Tongue-Cut Sparrow went?" they
asked.
"Yes. Over the bridge and up the mountain," said the Bat. Then he
blinked his sleepy eyes and was fast asleep again.
They went over the bridge and up the mountain, but again they found two
roads and did not know which one to take. A little Field Mouse peeped
through the leaves and grass, so they asked him, "Do you know where the
Tongue-Cut Sparrow went?"
"Yes. Down the mountain and through the woods," said the Field Mouse.
Down the mountain and through the woods they went, and at last came to
the home of their little friend.
When he saw them coming the poor little sparrow was very happy indeed.
He and his wife and children all came and bowed their heads down to the
ground to show their respect. Then the Sparrow rose and led the old man
and the old woman into his house, while his wife and children hastened
to bring them boiled rice, fish, cress, and saké.
After they had feasted, the Sparrow wished to please them still more, so
he danced for them what is called the "sparrow-dance."
When the sun began to sink, the old man and woman started for home. The
Sparrow brought out two baskets. "I would like to give you one of
these," he said. "Which will you take?" One basket was large and looked
very full, while the other one seemed very small and light. The old
people thought they would not take the large basket, for that might have
all the Sparrow's treasure in it, so they said, "The way is long and we
are very old, so please let us take the smaller one."
They took it and walked home over the mountain and across the bridge,
happy and contented.
When they reached their own home they decided to open the basket and see
what the Sparrow had given them. Within the basket they found many rolls
of silk and piles of gold, enough to make them rich, so they were more
grateful than ever to the Sparrow.
The cross old woman who had cut the Sparrow's tongue was peering in
through the screen when they opened their basket. She saw the rolls of
silk and the piles of gold, and planned how she might get some for
herself.
The next morning she went to the kind woman and said: "I am so sorry
that I cut the tongue of your Sparrow. Please tell me the way to his
home so that I may go to him and tell him I am sorry."
The kind woman told her the way and she set out. She went across the
bridge, over the mountain, and through the woods. At last she came to
the home of the little Sparrow.
He was not so glad to see this old woman, yet he was very kind to her
and did everything to make her feel welcome. They made a feast for her,
and when she started home the Sparrow brought out two baskets as before.
Of course the woman chose the large basket, for she thought that would
have even more wealth than the other one.
It was very heavy, and caught on the trees as she was going through the
wood. She could hardly pull it up the mountain with her, and she was all
out of breath when she reached the top. She did not get to the bridge
until it was dark. Then she was so afraid of dropping the basket into
the river that she scarcely dared to step.
When at last she reached home she was so tired that she was half dead,
but she pulled the screens close shut, so that no one could look in, and
opened her treasure.
Treasure indeed! A whole swarm of horrible creatures burst from the
basket the moment she opened it. They stung her and bit her, they pushed
her and pulled her, they scratched her and laughed at her screams.
At last she crawled to the edge of the room and slid aside the screen to
get away from the pests. The moment the door was opened they swooped
down upon her, picked her up, and flew away with her. Since then nothing
has ever been heard of the old woman.
186
The tale of "The Straw Ox" as given in _Cossack
Fairy Tales_, by R. Nesbit Bain, is one of the
masterpieces among folk stories. It is of the
accumulative type, winding up rapidly to the
point where the old couple have secured,
through the straw ox, all the raw material
needed for comfortable clothing. Then comes the
surprising release of the captured animals
under promise to make contributions, each in
his own way, to the welfare of the
poverty-stricken couple. And then, the greatest
surprise of all, the quick unwinding of the
plot with the return of the grateful animals
according to promise. "And the old man was
glad, and the old woman was glad," and we are
glad for their sake, and also for the sake of
the bear and the wolf and the fox and the hare.
THE STRAW OX
There was once upon a time an old man and an old woman. The old man
worked in the fields as a pitch-burner, while the old woman sat at home
and spun flax. They were so poor that they could save nothing at all;
all their earnings went in bare food, and when that was gone there was
nothing left. At last the old woman had a good idea: "Look now,
husband," cried she, "make me a straw ox, and smear it all over with
tar."
"Why, you foolish woman!" said he, "what's the good of an ox of that
sort?"
"Never mind," said she, "you just make it. I know what I am about."
What was the poor man to do? He set to work and made the ox of straw,
and smeared it all over with tar.
The night passed away, and at early dawn the old woman took her distaff,
and drove the straw ox out into the steppe to graze, and she herself sat
down behind a hillock, and began spinning her flax, and cried: "Graze
away, little ox, while I spin my flax. Graze away, little ox, while I
spin my flax!"
And while she spun, her head drooped down and she began to doze, and
while she was dozing, from behind the dark wood and from the back of the
huge pines a bear came rushing out upon the ox and said: "Who are you?
Speak, and tell me!"
And the ox said: "A three-year-old heifer am I, made of straw and
smeared with tar."
"Oh!" said the bear, "stuffed with straw and trimmed with tar, are you?
Then give me your straw and tar, that I may patch up my ragged fur
again!"
"Take some," said the ox, and the bear fell upon him and began to tear
away at the tar.
He tore and tore, and buried his teeth in it till he found he couldn't
let go again. He tugged and he tugged but it was no good, and the ox
dragged him gradually off, goodness knows where.
Then the old woman awoke, and there was no ox to be seen. "Alas! old
fool that I am!" cried she, "perchance it has gone home." Then she
quickly caught up her distaff and spinning board, threw them over her
shoulders, and hastened off home, and she saw that the ox had dragged
the bear up to the fence, and in she went to her old man.
"Dad, dad," she cried, "look, look! The ox has brought us a bear. Come
out and kill it!" Then the old man jumped up, tore off the bear, tied
him up, and threw him in the cellar.
Next morning, between dark and dawn, the old woman took her distaff and
drove the ox into the steppe to graze. She herself sat down by a mound,
began spinning, and said: "Graze, graze away, little ox, while I spin
my flax! Graze, graze away, little ox, while I spin my flax!"
And while she spun, her head drooped down and she dozed. And lo! from
behind the dark wood, from the back of the huge pines, a gray wolf came
rushing out upon the ox and said: "Who are you? Come, tell me!"
"I am a three-year-old heifer, stuffed with straw and trimmed with tar,"
said the ox.
"Oh! trimmed with tar, are you? Then give me of your tar to tar my
sides, that the dogs and the sons of dogs tear me not!"
"Take some," said the ox. And with that the wolf fell upon him and tried
to tear the tar off. He tugged and tugged, and tore with his teeth, but
could get none off. Then he tried to let go, and couldn't; tug and worry
as he might, it was no good.
When the old woman woke, there was no heifer in sight. "Maybe my heifer
has gone home!" she cried. "I'll go home and see." When she got there
she was astonished for by the paling stood the ox with the wolf still
tugging at it. She ran and told her old man, and her old man came and
threw the wolf into the cellar also.
On the third day the old woman again drove her ox into the pastures to
graze, and sat down by a mound and dozed off. Then a fox came running
up. "Who are you?" it asked the ox.
"I'm a three-year-old heifer, stuffed with straw and daubed with tar."
"Then give me some of your tar to smear my sides with, when those dogs
and sons of dogs tear my hide!"
"Take some," said the ox. Then the fox fastened her teeth in him and
couldn't draw them out again. The old woman told her old man, and he
took and cast the fox into the cellar in the same way. And after that
they caught Pussy Swiftfoot likewise.
So when he had got them all safely the old man sat down on a bench
before the cellar and began sharpening a knife. And the bear said to
him: "Tell me, daddy, what are you sharpening your knife for?"
"To flay your skin off, that I may make a leather jacket for myself and
a pelisse for my old woman."
"Oh! Don't flay me, daddy dear! Rather let me go, and I'll bring you a
lot of honey."
"Very well, see you do it," and he unbound and let the bear go.
Then he sat down on the bench and again began sharpening his knife. And
the wolf asked him: "Daddy, what are you sharpening your knife for?"
"To flay off your skin, that I may make me a warm cap against the
winter."
"Oh! Don't flay me, daddy dear, and I'll bring you a whole herd of
little sheep."
"Well, see that you do it," and he let the wolf go.
Then he sat down, and began sharpening his knife again. The fox put out
her little snout, and asked him: "Be so kind, dear daddy, and tell me
why you are sharpening your knife!"
"Little foxes," said the old man, "have nice skins that do capitally for
collars and trimmings, and I want to skin you!"
"Oh! Don't take my skin away, daddy dear, and I will bring you hens and
geese."
"Very well, see that you do it," and he let the fox go.
The hare now alone remained, and the old man began sharpening his knife
on the hare's account.
"Why do you do that?" asked Puss. He replied: "Little hares have nice
little, soft, warm skins, which will make me nice gloves and mittens
against the winter!"
"Oh! daddy dear! Don't flay me, and I'll bring you kale and good
cauliflower, if only you let me go!"
Then he let the hare go also.
Then they went to bed; but very early in the morning, when it was
neither dusk nor dawn, there was a noise in the doorway like "Durrrrrr!"
"Daddy!" cried the old woman, "there's some one scratching at the door;
go and see who it is!"
The old man went out, and there was the bear carrying a whole hive full
of honey. The old man took the honey from the bear; but no sooner did he
lie down again than there was another "Durrrrr!" at the door. The old
man looked out and saw the wolf driving a whole flock of sheep into the
court-yard. Close on his heels came the fox, driving before him the
geese and hens, and all manner of fowls; and last of all came the hare,
bringing cabbage and kale, and all manner of good food.
And the old man was glad, and the old woman was glad. And the old man
sold the sheep and oxen, and got so rich that he needed nothing more.
As for the straw-stuffed ox, it stood in the sun till it fell to pieces.
187
"The Adventures of Connla the Comely" is one of
the romances in _The Book of the Dun Cow_, the
oldest manuscript of miscellaneous Gaelic
literature in existence. It was made about 1100
A.D. and is now preserved in the Royal Irish
Academy at Dublin. The contents were
transcribed from older books, some of the
stories being older by many centuries. The
story of Connla is "one of the many tales that
illustrate the ancient and widespread
superstition that fairies sometimes take away
mortals to their palaces in the fairy forts and
pleasant green hills." This conception is often
referred to as the Earthly Paradise or the Isle
of Youth. It is represented in the King Arthur
stories by the Vale of Avalon to which the
weeping queens carried the king after his
mortal wound in "that last weird battle in the
west." Conn the Hundred-fighter reigned in the
second century of the Christian era (123-157
A.D.), and this story of his son must have
sprung up soon after. According to Jacobs, it
is the oldest fairy tale of modern Europe.
The following version of the tale is from
Joseph Jacobs' _Celtic Fairy Tales_, which with
its companion volume, _More Celtic Fairy
Tales_, forms a standard source book for the
usable stories in that field. Mr. Jacobs, as
always, keeps to the authoritative versions
while reducing them to forms at once available
for educational purposes.
CONNLA AND THE FAIRY MAIDEN
Connla of the Fiery Hair was son of Conn of the Hundred Fights. One day
as he stood by the side of his father on the height of Usna, he saw a
maiden clad in strange attire towards him coming.
"Whence comest thou, maiden?" said Connla.
"I come from the Plains of the Ever Living," she said, "there where is
neither death nor sin. There we keep holiday alway, nor need we help
from any in our joy. And in all our pleasure we have no strife. And
because we have our homes in the round green hills, men call us the Hill
Folk."
The king and all with him wondered much to hear a voice when they saw no
one. For save Connla alone, none saw the Fairy Maiden.
"To whom art thou talking, my son?" said Conn the king.
Then the maiden answered, "Connla speaks to a young, fair maid, whom
neither death nor old age awaits. I love Connla, and now I call him away
to the Plain of Pleasure, Moy Mell, where Boadag is king for aye, nor
has there been sorrow or complaint in that land since he held the
kingship. Oh, come with me, Connla of the Fiery Hair, ruddy as the dawn,
with thy tawny skin. A fairy crown awaits thee to grace thy comely face
and royal form. Come, and never shall thy comeliness fade, nor thy
youth, till the last awful day of judgment."
The king in fear at what the maiden said, which he heard though he could
not see her, called aloud to his Druid, Coran by name. "O Coran of the
many spells," he said, "and of the cunning magic, I call upon thy aid. A
task is upon me too great for all my skill and wit, greater than any
laid upon me since I seized the kingship. A maiden unseen has met us,
and by her power would take from me my dear, my comely son. If thou help
not, he will be taken from thy king by woman's wiles and witchery."
Then Coran the Druid stood forth and chanted his spells towards the spot
where the maiden's voice had been heard. And none heard her voice again,
nor could Connla see her longer. Only as she vanished before the Druid's
mighty spell, she threw an apple to Connla.
For a whole month from that day Connla would take nothing, either to eat
or to drink, save only from that apple.
But as he ate, it grew again and always kept whole. And all the while
there grew within him a mighty yearning and longing after the maiden he
had seen.
But when the last day of the month of waiting came, Connla stood by the
side of the king his father on the Plain of Arcomin, and again he saw
the maiden come towards him, and again she spoke to him. "'Tis a
glorious place, forsooth, that Connla holds among shortlived mortals
awaiting the day of death. But now the folk of life, the ever-living
ones, beg and bid thee come to Moy Mell, the Plain of Pleasure, for they
have learnt to know thee, seeing thee in thy home among thy dear ones."
When Conn the king heard the maiden's voice he called to his men aloud
and said: "Summon swift my Druid Coran, for I see she has again this day
the power of speech."
Then the maiden said: "O mighty Conn, Fighter of a Hundred Fights, the
Druid's power is little loved; it has little honor in the mighty land,
peopled with so many of the upright. When the Law comes, it will do away
with the Druid's magic spells that issue from the lips of the false
black demon."
Then Conn the king observed that since the coming of the maiden Connla
his son spoke to none that spake to him. So Conn of the Hundred Fights
said to him, "Is it to thy mind what the woman says, my son?"
"'Tis hard upon me," said Connla; "I love my own folk above all things;
but yet a longing seizes me for the maiden."
When the maiden heard this, she answered and said: "The ocean is not so
strong as the waves of thy longing. Come with me in my curragh, the
gleaming, straight-gliding crystal canoe. Soon can we reach Boadag's
realm. I see the bright sun sink, yet far as it is, we can reach it
before dark. There is, too, another land worthy of thy journey, a land
joyous to all that seek it. Only wives and maidens dwell there. If thou
wilt, we can seek it and live there alone together in joy."
When the maiden ceased to speak, Connla of the Fiery Hair rushed away
from his kinsmen and sprang into the curragh, the gleaming,
straight-gliding crystal canoe. And then they all, king and court, saw
it glide away over the bright sea towards the setting sun, away and
away, till eye could see it no longer. So Connla and the Fairy Maiden
went forth on the sea, and were no more seen, nor did any know whither
they went.
188
One of the best of the volumes of Irish tales
is Lady Wilde's _Ancient Legends of Ireland_,
and one of the best stories in that volume is
her version of the witch story of "The Horned
Women." The story is compact and restrained in
the telling, and carries effectively to the
listener the "creepy" spell of the witches. The
way in which the house was prepared against the
enchantments of the returning witches furnishes
a good illustration of some of the deep-seated
superstitions of the folk.
THE HORNED WOMEN
A rich woman sat up late one night carding and preparing wool, while all
the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the
door, and a voice called, "Open! Open!"
"Who is there?" said the woman of the house.
"I am the Witch of the one Horn," was answered.
The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbors had called and
required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in her
hand a pair of wool carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if
growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card
the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said aloud: "Where
are the women; they delay too long."
Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before,
"Open! Open!"
The mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to the call, and
immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead,
and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool.
"Give me place," she said, "I am the Witch of the two Horns"; and she
began to spin as quick as lightning.
And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and the witches
entered, until at last, twelve women sat round the fire--the first with
one horn, the last with twelve horns.
And they carded the thread, and turned their spinning wheels, and wound
and wove.
All were singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak
to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear and frightful to look upon
were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels; and the
mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might call
for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry,
for the spell of the witches was upon her.
Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said, "Rise, woman, and
make us a cake." Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water
from the well that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she
could find none.
And they said to her, "Take a sieve, and bring water in it." And she
took the sieve and went to the well; but the water poured from it, and
she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and
wept.
Then came a voice by her, and said, "Take yellow clay and moss and bind
them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold."
This she did, and the sieve held the water for the cake; and the voice
said again: "Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the
house cry aloud three times, and say, 'The mountain of the Fenian women
and the sky over it is all on fire.'"
And she did so.
When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke
from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and
shrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon, where was their chief abode. But
the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to enter and
prepare her home against the enchantments of the witches, if they
returned again.
And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she
had washed her child's feet (the feet-water) outside the door on the
threshold; secondly, she took the cake which the witches had made in her
absence, of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family,
and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of each
sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the cloth they had woven,
and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the padlock; and,
lastly, she secured the door with a great crossbeam fastened in the
jambs, so that they could not enter, and having done these things she
waited.
Not long were the witches in coming, and they raged and called for
vengeance.
"Open! Open!" they screamed. "Open, feet-water!"
"I cannot," said the feet-water; "I am scattered on the ground, and my
path is down to the Lough."
"Open, open, wood and trees and beam!" they cried to the door.
"I cannot," said the door, "for the beam is fixed in the jambs, and I
have no power to move."
"Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!" they cried
again.
"I cannot," said the cake, "for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is
on the lips of the sleeping children."
Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back
to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the Well, who
had wished their ruin. But the woman and the house were left in peace,
and a mantle dropped by one of the witches was kept hung up by the
mistress as a sign of the night's awful contest; and this mantle was in
possession of the same family from generation to generation for five
hundred years after.
189
The story of "King O'Toole and His Goose" is
from Samuel Lover's _Stories and Legends of the
Irish Peasantry_, as reprinted in slightly
abridged form in William Butler Yeats's _Irish
Fairy Tales_. The extreme form of the dialect
is kept as in the original, since the humor is
largely dependent on the language of the
peasant who tells the story. It will serve as a
good illustration for practice work for the
amateur story-teller. Probably most teachers
would find it necessary to "reduce" this
dialect or to eliminate it altogether. Mr.
Jacobs, who includes this story in his _Celtic
Fairy Tales_, reduces the dialect very
materially, keeping just enough to remind one
that it is Irish. He also says the final word
as to the moral of the story: "This is a moral
apologue on the benefits of keeping your word.
Yet it is told with such humor and vigor, that
the moral glides insensibly into the heart."
KING O'TOOLE AND HIS GOOSE
"By Gor, I thought all the world, far and near, heerd o' King
O'Toole--well, well, but the darkness of mankind is ontellible! Well,
sir, you must know, as you didn't hear it afore, that there was a king,
called King O'Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times,
long ago; and it was him that owned the churches in the early days. The
king, you see, was the right sort; he was the rale boy, and loved sport
as he loved his life, and huntin' in partic'lar; and from the risin' o'
the sun, up he got, and away he wint over the mountains beyant afther
the deer; and the fine times them wor.
"Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but,
you see, in coorse of time the king grew ould, by raison he was stiff in
his limbs, and when he got sthriken in years, his heart failed him, and
he was lost intirely for want o' divarshin, bekase he couldn't go a
huntin' no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was obleeged at last for
to get a goose to divart him. Oh, you may laugh, if you like, but it's
truth I'm tellin' you; and the way the goose divarted him was
this-a-way: You see, the goose used for to swim across the lake, and go
divin' for throut, and cotch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew
every other day round about the lake, divartin' the poor king. All went
on mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose got sthriken in years like her
master, and couldn't divart him no longer, and then it was that the poor
king was lost complate. The king was walkin' one mornin' by the edge of
the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate, and thinkin' o' drownin' himself,
that could get no divarshun in life, when all of a suddint, turnin'
round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a mighty dacent young
man comin' up to him.
"'God save you,' says the king to the young man.
"'God save you kindly, King O'Toole,' says the young man. 'Thrue for
you,' says the king. 'I am King O'Toole,' says he, 'prince and
plennypennytinchery o' these parts,' says he; 'but how kem ye to know
that?' says he. 'Oh, never mind,' says Saint Kavin.
"You see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough--the saint himself in disguise,
and nobody else. 'Oh, never mind,' says he, 'I know more than that. May
I make bowld to ax how is your goose, King O'Toole?' says he.
'Bluran-agers, how kem ye to know about my goose?' says the king. 'Oh,
no matther; I was given to understand it,' says Saint Kavin. After some
more talk the king says, 'What are you?' 'I'm an honest man,' says Saint
Kavin. 'Well, honest man,' says the king, 'and how is it you make your
money so aisy?' 'By makin' ould things as good as new,' says Saint
Kavin. 'Is it a tinker you are?' says the king. 'No,' says the saint;
'I'm no tinker by thrade, King O'Toole; I've a betther thrade than a
tinker,' says he--'what would you say,' says he, 'if I made your ould
goose as good as new?'
"My dear, at the word o' makin' his goose as good as new, you'd think
the poor ould king's eyes was ready to jump out iv his head. With that
the king whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound,
waddlin' up to the poor cripple, her masther, and as like him as two
pays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, 'I'll do the job
for you,' says he, 'King O'Toole.' 'By _Jaminee_!' says King O'Toole,
'if you do, but I'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the sivin
parishes.' 'Oh, by dad,' says Saint Kavin, 'you must say more nor
that--my horn's not so soft all out,' says he, 'as to repair your ould
goose for nothin'; what'll you gi' me if I do the job for you?--that's
the chat,' says Saint Kavin. 'I'll give you whatever you ax,' says the
king; 'isn't that fair?' 'Divil a fairer,' says the saint; 'that's the
way to do business. Now,' says he, 'this is the bargain I'll make with
you, King O'Toole: will you gi' me all the ground the goose flies over,
the first offer, afther I make her as good as new?' 'I will,' says the
king, 'You won't go back o' your word?' says Saint Kavin. 'Honor
bright!' says King O'Toole, howldin' out his fist. 'Honor bright!' says
Saint Kavin, back agin, 'it's a bargain. Come here!' says he to the poor
ould goose--'come here, you unfort'nate ould cripple, and it's I that'll
make you the sportin' bird.' With that, my dear, he took up the goose by
the two wings--'Criss o' my crass and you,' says he, markin' her to
grace with the blessed sign at the same minute--and throwin' her up in
the air, 'whew,' says he, jist givin' her a blast to help her; and with
that, my jewel, she tuk to her heels, flyin' like one o' the aigles
themselves and cuttin' as many capers as a swallow before a shower of
rain.
"Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standin' with
his mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould goose flyin' as light as a
lark, and betther nor ever she was: and when she lit at his fut, patter
her an the head, and, '_Ma vourneen_,' says he, 'but you are the
_darlint_ o' the world.' 'And what do you say to me,' says Saint Kavin,
'for makin' her the like?' 'By gor,' says the king, 'I say nothin' bates
the art o' man, barrin' the bees.' 'And do you say no more nor that?'
says Saint Kavin. 'And that I'm behoulden to you,' says the king. 'But
will you give me all the ground the goose flew over?' says Saint Kavin.
'I will,' says King O'Toole, 'and you're welkim to it,' says he, 'though
it's the last acre I have to give.' 'But you'll keep your word thrue?'
says the saint. 'As thrue as the sun,' says the king. 'It's well for
you, King O'Toole, that you said that word,' says he; 'for if you didn't
say that word, _the devil receave the bit o' your goose id ever fly
agin_.'
"Whin the king was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was _plazed_ with
him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the king. 'And,' says
he, 'King O'Toole, you're a dacent man, for I only kem here to _thry
you_. You don't know me,' says he, 'bekase I'm disguised.' 'Musha!
thin,' says the king, 'who are you?' 'I'm Saint Kavin,' said the Saint,
blessin' himself. 'Oh, queen iv heaven!' says the king makin' the sign
o' the crass betune his eyes, and fallin' down on his knees before the
saint; 'is it the great Saint Kavin,' says he, 'that I've been
discoorsin' all this time without knowin' it,' says he, 'all as one as
if he was a lump iv a _gosson_?--and so you're a saint?' says the king.
'I am,' says Saint Kavin. 'By gor, I thought I was only talking to a
dacent boy,' says the king. 'Well, you know the differ now,' says the
saint. 'I'm Saint Kavin,' says he, 'the greatest of all the saints.'
"And so the king had his goose as good as new, to divart him as long as
he lived: and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property,
as I tould you, until the day iv his death--and that was soon afther;
for the poor goose thought he was ketchin' a throut one Friday; but, my
jewel, it was a mistake he made--and instead of a throut, it was a
thievin' horse-eel; and by gor, instead iv the goose killin' a throut
for the king's supper,--by dad, the eel killed the king's goose--and
small blame to him; but he didn't ate her, bekase he darn't ate what
Saint Kavin had laid his blessed hands on."
SECTION IV
FAIRY STORIES--MODERN FANTASTIC TALES
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Alden, Raymond Macdonald, _Why the Chimes Rang, and Other
Stories_.
Andersen, Hans Christian, _Fairy Tales_.
Barrie, Sir James Matthew, _The Little White Bird_. [Peter Pan.]
Baum, L. Frank, _The Wizard of Oz_.
Benson, A. C., _David Blaize and the Blue Door_.
Beston, H. B., _The Firelight Fairy Book_.
Brown, Abbie Farwell, _The Lonesomest Doll_.
Browne, Frances, _Granny's Wonderful Chair_.
Carryl, Charles E., _Davy and the Goblin_.
"Carroll, Lewis," _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_.
"Carroll, Lewis," _Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice
Found There_.
Chamisso, Adelbert von, _The Wonderful History of Peter
Schlemihl_.
"Collodi, C.," _The Adventures of Pinocchio_.
Cox, Palmer, _The Brownies: Their Book_.
Craik, Dinah Mulock, _Adventures of a Brownie_.
Craik, Dinah Mulock, _The Little Lame Prince and His
Traveling-Cloak_.
Crothers, Samuel McChord, _Miss Muffet's Christmas Party_.
Dickens, Charles, _A Christmas Carol_.
Ewald, Carl, _Two-Legs, and Other Stories_.
Grahame, Kenneth, _The Wind in the Willows_.
Harris, Joel Chandler, _Nights with Uncle Remus_.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, "The Snow Image," "Little Daffydowndilly,"
"A Rill from the Town Pump."
Ingelow, Jean, _Mopsa the Fairy_.
Ingelow, Jean, _Stories Told to a Child_. 2 vols.
Jordan, David Starr, _The Book of Knight and Barbara_.
Lagerlof, Selma, _The Wonderful Adventures of Nils_.
La Motte-Fouqué, F. de, _Undine_.
Lang, Andrew, _Prince Prigio_.
Kingsley, Charles, _The Water Babies_.
Maeterlinck, Maurice, _The Blue Bird_.
Macdonald, George, _The Princess and the Goblin_.
Macdonald, George, _At the Back of the North Wind_.
Pyle, Katherine, _In the Green Forest_.
Raspe, Rudolph Erich, _Baron Munchausen's Narrative_.
Richards, Laura E., _The Story of Toto_.
Richards, Laura E., _The Pig Brother_.
Ruskin, John, _The King of the Golden River_.
Stockton, Frank R., _Fanciful Tales_.
Swift, Jonathan, _Gulliver's Travels_.
Thackeray, William Makepeace, _The Rose and the Ring_.
Wilde, Oscar, _The Happy Prince, and Other Stories_.
Wilkins, Mary E., _The Pot of Gold_.
SECTION IV: FAIRY STORIES--MODERN FANTASTIC TALES
INTRODUCTORY
The difficulties of classification are very apparent here, and once more
it must be noted that illustrative and practical purposes rather than
logical ones are served by the arrangement adopted. The modern fanciful
story is here placed next to the real folk story instead of after all
the groups of folk products. The Hebrew stories at the beginning belong
quite as well, perhaps even better, in Section V, while the stories at
the end of Section VI shade off into the more modern types of short
tales. Then the fact that other groups of modern stories are to follow
later, illustrating more realistic studies of life and the very recent
and remarkably numerous writings centering around animal life, limits
the list here. Many of the animal stories might, with equal propriety,
be placed under the head of the fantastic.
_The child's natural literature._ The world has lost certain secrets as
the price of an advancing civilization. It is a commonplace of
observation that no one can duplicate the success of Mother Goose,
whether she be thought of as the maker of jingles or the teller of
tales. The conditions of modern life preclude the generally naïve
attitude that produced the folk rhymes, ballads, tales, proverbs,
fables, and myths. The folk saw things simply and directly. The complex,
analytic, questioning mind is not yet, either in or out of stories. The
motives from which people act are to them plain and not mixed.
Characters are good or bad. They feel no need of elaborately explaining
their joys and sorrows. Such experiences come with the day's work.
"To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new." The zest of life with them
is emphatic. Their humor is fresh, unbounded, sincere; there is no trace
of cynicism. In folk literature we do not feel the presence of a
"writer" who is mightily concerned about maintaining his reputation for
wisdom, originality, or style. Hence the freedom from any note of
straining after effect, of artificiality. In the midst of a life limited
to fundamental needs, their literature deals with fundamentals. On the
whole, it was a literature for entertainment. A more learned upper class
may have concerned itself then about "problems" and "purposes," as the
whole world does now, but the literature of the folk had no such
interests.
Without discussing the limits of the culture-epoch theory of human
development as a complete guide in education, it is clear that the young
child passes through a period when his mind looks out upon the world in
a manner analogous to that of the folk as expressed in their literature.
Quarrel with the fact as we may, it still remains a fact that his nature
craves these old stories and will not be satisfied with something "just
as good."
_The modern fairy story._ The advance of civilization has been
accompanied by a wistful longing for the simplicities left by the way.
In some periods this interest in the past has been more marked than in
others. When the machinery of life has weighed too heavily on the human
spirit, men have turned for relief to a contemplation of the "good old
times" and have preached crusades of a "return to nature." Many modern
writers have tried to recapture some of the power of the folk tale by
imitating its method. In many cases they have had a fair degree of
success: in one case, that of Hans Christian Andersen, the success is
admittedly very complete. As a rule, however, the sharpness of the sense
of wonder has been blunted, and many imitators of the old fairy tale
succeed in keeping only the shell. Another class of modern fantastic
tale is that of the _pourquoi_ story, which has the explanation of
something as its object. Such tales grow out of the attempt to use the
charm of old stories as a means of conveying instruction, somewhat after
the method of those parents who covered up our bitter medicine with some
of our favorite jam. Even "Little Red Riding Hood," as we saw, has been
turned into a flower myth. So compelling is this pedagogical motive that
so-called nature myths have been invented or made from existing stories
in great numbers. The practical results please many teachers, but it may
be questioned whether the gain is sufficient to compensate children for
the distorting results upon masterpieces.
_Wide range of the modern fairy tale._ The bibliography will suggest
something of the treasures in the field of the modern fanciful story.
From the delightful nonsense of _Alice in Wonderland_ and the
"travelers' tales" of _Baron Munchausen_ to the profound seriousness of
_The King of the Golden River_ and _Why the Chimes Rang_ is a far cry.
There are the rich fancies of Barrie and Maeterlinck, at the same time
delicate as the promises of spring and brilliant as the fruitions of
summer. One may be blown away to the land of Oz, he may lose his shadow
with Peter Schlemihl, he may outdo the magic carpet with his
Traveling-Cloak, he may visit the courts of kings with his Wonderful
Chair; Miss Muffet will invite us to her Christmas party, Lemuel
Gulliver will lead us to lands not marked in the school atlas; on every
side is a world of wonder.
_Some qualities of these modern tales._ Every age produces after its own
fashion, and we must expect to find the modern user of the fairy-story
method expressing through it the qualities of his own outlook upon the
world. Interest in the picturesque aspects of landscape will be
emphasized, as in the early portions of "The Story of Fairyfoot" and,
with especial magnificence of style, throughout _The King of the Golden
River_. There will appear the saddened mood of the modern in the face of
the human miseries that make happiness a mockery, as in "The Happy
Prince." The destructive effects of the possessive instinct upon all
that is finest in human nature is reflected in "The Prince's Dream."
That the most valuable efforts are often those performed with least
spectacular settings may be discerned in "The Knights of the Silver
Shield," while the lesson of kindly helpfulness is the burden of "Old
Pipes and the Dryad." In many modern stories the reader is too much
aware of the conscious efforts of style and structure. The thoughtful
child will sometimes be too much distressed by the more somber modern
story, and should not hear too many of the gloomy type.
_Andersen the consummate master._ Hans Christian Andersen is the
acknowledged master of the modern story for children. What are the
sources of his success? Genius is always unexplainable except in terms
of itself, but some things are clear. To begin, he makes a mark--drives
down a peg: "There came a soldier marching along the high road--_one,
two! one, two!_" and you are off. No backing and filling, no jockeying
for position, no elaborate setting of the stage. The story's the thing!
Next, the language is the language of common oral speech, free and
unrestrained. The rigid forms of the grammar are eschewed. There is no
beating around the bush. Seeing through the eyes of the child, he uses
the language that is natural to such sight: "Aha! there sat the dog with
eyes as big as mill-wheels." In quick dramatic fashion the story unrolls
before your vision: "So the soldier cut the witch's head off. There she
lay!" No agonizing over the cruelty of it, the lack of sympathy. It is a
joke after the child's own heart, and with a hearty laugh at this end to
an impostor, the listener is on with the story. The logic is the logic
of childhood: "And everyone could see she was a real princess, for she
was so lovely." When Andersen deals with some of the deeper truths of
existence, as in "The Nightingale" or "The Ugly Duckling," he still
manages to throw it all into the form that is natural and convincing and
simple to the child. He never mounts a pedestal and becomes a grown-up
philosopher. Perhaps Andersen's secret lay in the fact that some fairy
godmother invested him at birth with a power to see things so completely
as a child sees them that he never questioned the dignity of the method.
In few of his stories is there any evidence of a constraint due to a
conscious attempt to write down to the understandings of children.
SUGGESTIONS FOR READING
The most valuable discussion of the
difficulties to be mastered in writing the
literary fairy tale, and the story of the only
very complete mastery yet made, will be found
in the account of Hans Christian Andersen in
_Eminent Authors of the Nineteenth Century_, by
Georg Brandes. Now and then hints of importance
on such stories and their value for children
may be found in biographies of the more
prominent writers represented in the section
and mentioned in the bibliography, and in
magazine articles and reviews. These latter may
be located by use of the periodical indexes
found in most libraries. For the proper
attitude which the schools should have toward
fiction and fanciful writing in general,
nothing could be better than two lectures on
"Children's Reading," in _On the Art of
Reading_, by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch.
190
The rabbis of old were good story-tellers. They
were essentially teachers and they understood
that the best sermon is a story. "They were
fond of the parable, the anecdote, the apt
illustration, and their legends that have been
transmitted to us, all aglow with the light and
life of the Orient, possess perennial charm."
It is possible to find in rabbinical sources a
large number of brief stories that have the
power of entertaining as well as of emphasizing
some qualities of character that are important
in all ages. The plan of this book does not
include the wonderful stories of the Old
Testament, which are easy of access to any
teacher and may be used as experience directs.
The Hebrew stories following correspond very
nearly to the folk anecdote and are placed in
this section because of their literary form.
Dr. Abram S. Isaacs (1851--) is a professor in
New York University and is also a rabbi. The
selection that follows is from his _Stories
from the Rabbis_. (Copyrighted. Used by special
permission of The Bloch Publishing Company, New
York.) Taking advantage of the popular
superstition that a four-leaved clover is a
sign of good luck, Dr. Isaacs has grouped
together four parable-like stories, each of
which deals with wealth as a subject. The
editors are responsible for the special titles
given. The messages of these stories might be
summarized as follows: If you would be lucky,
(1) be honest because it is right to be honest,
(2) value good friends more highly than gold,
(3) let love accompany each gift of charity,
and (4) use common sense in your business
ventures.
A FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER
ABRAM S. ISAACS
1. THE RABBI AND THE DIADEM
Great was the alarm in the palace of Rome, which soon spread throughout
the entire city. The Empress had lost her costly diadem, and it could
not be found. They searched in every direction, but it was all in vain.
Half distracted, for the mishap boded no good to her or her house, the
Empress redoubled her exertions to regain her precious possession, but
without result. As a last resource it was proclaimed in the public
streets:
"The Empress has lost a priceless diadem. Whoever restores it within
thirty days shall receive a princely reward. But he who delays, and
brings it after thirty days, shall lose his head."
In those times all nationalities flocked toward Rome; all classes and
creeds could be met in its stately halls and crowded thoroughfares.
Among the rest was a rabbi, a learnèd sage from the East, who loved
goodness and lived a righteous life, in the stir and turmoil of the
Western world. It chanced one night as he was strolling up and down, in
busy meditation, beneath the clear, moonlit sky, he saw the diadem
sparkling at his feet. He seized it quickly, brought it to his dwelling,
where he guarded it carefully until the thirty days had expired, when he
resolved to return it to the owner.
He proceeded to the palace, and, undismayed at sight of long lines of
soldiery and officials, asked for an audience with the Empress.
"What dost thou mean by this?" she inquired, when he told her his story
and gave her the diadem. "Why didst thou delay until this hour? Dost
thou know the penalty? Thy head must be forfeited."
"I delayed until now," the rabbi answered calmly, "so that thou mightst
know that I return thy diadem, not for the sake of the reward, still
less out of fear of punishment; but solely to comply with the Divine
command not to withhold from another the property which belongs to him."
"Blessed be thy God!" the Empress answered, and dismissed the rabbi
without further reproof; for had he not done right for right's sake?
2. FRIENDSHIP
A certain father was doubly blessed--he had reached a good old age, and
had ten sons. One day he called them to his side, and after repeated
expressions of affection, told them that he had acquired a fortune by
industry and economy, and would give them one hundred gold pieces each
before his death, so that they might begin business for themselves, and
not be obliged to wait until he had passed away. It happened, however,
that, soon after, he lost a portion of his property, much to his regret,
and had only nine hundred and fifty gold pieces left. So he gave one
hundred to each of his nine sons. When his youngest son, whom he loved
most of all, asked naturally what was to be his share, the father
replied:
"My son, I promised to give each of thy brothers one hundred gold
pieces. I shall keep my word to them. I have fifty left. Thirty I shall
reserve for my funeral expenses, and twenty will be thy portion. But
understand this--I possess, in addition, ten friends, whom I give over
to thee as compensation for the loss of the eighty gold pieces. Believe
me, they are worth more than all the gold and silver."
The youth tenderly embraced his parent, and assured him that he was
content, such was his confidence and affection. In a few days the father
died, and the nine sons took their money, and without a thought of their
youngest brother and the small amount he had received, followed each his
own fancy. But the youngest son, although his portion was the least,
resolved to heed his father's words, and hold fast to the ten friends.
When a short time had elapsed he prepared a simple feast, went to the
ten friends of his father, and said to them: "My father, almost in his
last words, asked me to keep you, his friends, in honor. Before I leave
this place to seek my fortune elsewhere, will you not share with me a
farewell meal, and aid me thus to comply with his dying request?"
The ten friends, stirred by his earnestness and cordiality, accepted his
invitation with pleasure, and enjoyed the repast, although they were
used to richer fare. When the moment for parting arrived, however, one
of them rose and spoke: "My friends, it seems to me that of all the sons
of our dear friend that has gone, the youngest alone is mindful of his
father's friendship for us, and reverences his memory. Let us, then, be
true friends to him, for his own sake as well, and provide for him a
generous sum, that he may begin business here, and not be forced to live
among strangers."
The proposal, so unexpected and yet so merited, was received with
applause. The youth, proud of their friendship, soon became a prosperous
merchant, who never forgot that faithful friends were more valuable than
gold or silver, and left an honored name to his descendants.
3. TRUE CHARITY
There lived once a very wealthy man, who cared little for money, except
as a means for helping others. He used to adopt a peculiar plan in his
method of charitable relief. He had three boxes made for the three
different classes of people whom he desired to assist. In one box he put
gold pieces, which he distributed among artists and scholars, for he
honored knowledge and learning as the highest possession. In the second
box he placed silver pieces for widows and orphans, for whom his
sympathies were readily awakened. In the third were copper coins for the
general poor and beggars--no one was turned away from his dwelling
without some gift, however small.
That the man was beloved by all, need hardly be said. He rejoiced that
he was enabled to do so much good, retained his modest bearing, and
continued to regard his wealth as only an incentive to promote the
happiness of mankind, without distinction of creed or nationality.
Unhappily, his wife was just the opposite. She rarely gave food or
raiment to the poor, and felt angry at her husband's liberality, which
she considered shameless extravagance.
The day came when in the pressure of various duties he had to leave his
house, and could not return until the morrow. Unaware of his sudden
departure, the poor knocked at the door as usual for his kind gifts; but
when they found him absent, they were about to go away or remain in the
street, being terrified at the thought of asking his wife for alms.
Vexed at their conduct, she exclaimed impetuously: "I will give to the
poor according to my husband's method."
She seized the keys of the boxes, and first opened the box of gold. But
how great was her terror when she gazed at its contents--frogs jumping
here and there. Then she went to the silver box, and it was full of
ants. With troubled heart, she opened the copper box, and it was crowded
with creeping bugs. Loud then were her complaints, and bitter her tears,
at the deception, and she kept her room until her husband returned.
No sooner did the man enter the room, annoyed that so many poor people
were kept waiting outside, than she asked him: "Why did you give me keys
to boxes of frogs, ants, and bugs, instead of gold, silver, and copper?
Was it right thus to deceive your wife, and disappoint the poor?"
"Not so," rejoined her husband. "The mistake must be yours, not mine. I
have given you the right keys. I do not know what you have done with
them. Come, let me have them. I am guiltless of any deception." He took
the keys, quickly opened the boxes, and found the coins as he had left
them. "Ah, dear wife," said he, when she had regained her composure,
"your heart, I fear, was not in the gift, when you wished to give to the
poor. It is the feeling that prompts us to aid, not the mere money,
which is the chief thing after all."
And ever after, her heart was changed. Her gifts blessed the poor of the
land, and aroused their love and reverence.
4. AN EASTERN GARDEN
In an Eastern city a lovely garden flourished, whose beauty and
luxuriance awakened much admiration. It was the owner's greatest
pleasure to watch its growth, as leaf, flower, and tree seemed daily to
unfold to brighter bloom. One morning, while taking his usual stroll
through the well-kept paths, he was surprised to find that some
blossoms were picked to pieces. The next day he noticed more signs of
mischief, and rendered thus more observant he gave himself no rest until
he had discovered the culprit. It was a little trembling bird, whom he
managed to capture, and was about to kill in his anger, when it
exclaimed: "Do not kill me, I beg you, kind sir. I am only a wee, tiny
bird. My flesh is too little to satisfy you. I would not furnish
one-hundredth of a meal to a man of your size. Let me free without any
hesitation, and I shall teach you something that will be of much use to
you and your friends."
"I would dearly like to put an end to you," replied the man, "for you
were rapidly putting an end to my garden. It is a good thing to rid the
world of such annoyances. But as I am not revengeful, and am always glad
to learn something useful, I shall set you free this time." And he
opened his hand to give the bird more air.
"Attention!" cried the bird. "Here are three rules which should guide
you through life, and if you observe them you will find your path made
easier: Do not cry over spilt milk; do not desire what is unattainable,
and do not believe what is impossible."
The man was satisfied with the advice, and let the bird escape; but it
had scarcely regained its liberty, when, from a high tree opposite, it
exclaimed:
"What a silly man! The idea of letting me escape! If you only knew what
you have lost! But it is too late now."
"What have I lost?" the man asked, angrily.
"Why, if you had killed me, as you intended, you would have found inside
of me a huge pearl, as large as a goose's egg, and you would have been a
wealthy man forever."
"Dear little bird," the man said in his blandest tones; "sweet little
bird, I will not harm you. Only come down to me, and I will treat you as
if you were my own child, and give you fruit and flowers all day. I
assure you of this most sacredly."
But the bird shook its head sagely, and replied: "What a silly man, to
forget so soon the advice which was given him in all seriousness. I told
you not to cry over spilt milk, and here you are, worrying over what has
happened. I urged you not to desire the unattainable, and now you wish
to capture me again. And, finally, I asked you not to believe what is
impossible, and you are rashly imagining that I have a huge pearl inside
of me, when a goose's egg is larger than my whole body. You ought to
learn your lessons better in the future, if you would become wise,"
added the bird, as with another twist of its head it flew away, and was
lost in the distance.
191
A classic collection of short stories from the
ancient Hebrew sages is the little book,
_Hebrew Tales_, published in London in 1826 by
the noted Jewish scholar Hyman Hurwitz
(1770-1844). A modern handy edition of this
book (about sixty tales) is published as Vol.
II of the Library of Jewish Classics. Of
special interest is the fact that it contained
three stories by the poet Samuel Taylor
Coleridge, who had published them first in his
periodical, _The Friend_. Coleridge was much
interested in Hebrew literature, and especially
fond of speaking in parables, as those who know
"The Ancient Mariner" will readily recall. The
following is one of the three stories referred
to, and it had prefixed to it the significant
text, "The Lord helpeth man and beast." (Psalm
XXXVI, 6.)
THE LORD HELPETH MAN AND BEAST
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
During his march to conquer the world, Alexander, the Macedonian, came
to a people in Africa who dwelt in a remote and secluded corner, in
peaceful huts, and knew neither war nor conqueror. They led him to the
hut of their chief, who received him hospitably, and placed before him
golden dates, golden figs, and bread of gold.
"Do you eat gold in this country?" said Alexander.
"I take it for granted," replied the chief, "that thou wert able to find
eatable food in thine own country. For what reason, then, art thou come
amongst us?"
"Your gold has not tempted me hither," said Alexander, "but I would
become acquainted with your manners and customs."
"So be it," rejoined the other: "sojourn among us as long as it pleaseth
thee."
At the close of this conversation, two citizens entered, as into their
court of justice. The plaintiff said, "I bought of this man a piece of
land, and as I was making a deep drain through it, I found a treasure.
This is not mine, for I only bargained for the land, and not for any
treasure that might be concealed beneath it; and yet the former owner of
the land will not receive it." The defendant answered, "I hope I have a
conscience, as well as my fellow citizen. I sold him the land with all
its contingent, as well as existing advantages, and consequently, the
treasure inclusively."
The chief, who was at the same time their supreme judge, recapitulated
their words, in order that the parties might see whether or not he
understood them aright. Then, after some reflection, said: "Thou hast a
son, friend, I believe?"
"Yes."
"And thou," addressing the other, "a daughter?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, let thy son marry _thy_ daughter, and bestow the treasure
on the young couple for a marriage portion." Alexander seemed surprised
and perplexed. "Think you my sentence unjust?" the chief asked him.
"Oh, no!" replied Alexander; "but it astonishes me."
"And how, then," rejoined the chief, "would the case have been decided
in your country?"
"To confess the truth," said Alexander, "we should have taken both
parties into custody, and have seized the treasure for the king's use."
"For the king's use!" exclaimed the chief; "does the sun shine on that
country?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Does it rain there?"
"Assuredly."
"Wonderful! But are there tame animals in the country, that live on the
grass and green herbs?"
"Very many, and of many kinds."
"Ay, that must, then, be the cause," said the chief: "for the sake of
those innocent animals the All-gracious Being continues to let the sun
shine, and the rain drop down on your country; since its inhabitants are
unworthy of such blessings."
192
By almost common consent Hans Christian
Andersen (1805-1875), the Danish author, is the
acknowledged master of all modern writers of
fairy tales. He was born in poverty, the son of
a poor shoemaker. With a naturally keen
dramatic sense, his imagination was stirred by
stories from the _Arabian Nights_ and La
Fontaine's _Fables_, by French and Spanish
soldiers marching through his native city, and
by listening to the wonderful folk tales of his
country. On a toy stage and with toy actors,
these vivid impressions took actual form. The
world continued a dramatic spectacle to him
throughout his existence. His consuming
ambition was for the stage, but he had none of
the personal graces so necessary for success.
He was ungainly and awkward, like his "ugly
duckling." But when at last he began to write,
he had the power to transfer to the page the
vivid dramas in his mind, and this power
culminated in the creation of fairy stories for
children which he began to publish in 1835. It
is usual to say that Andersen, like Peter Pan,
"never grew up," and it is certain that he
never lost the power of seeing things as
children see them. Like many great writers
whose fame now rests on the suffrages of child
readers, Andersen seems at first to have felt
that the _Tales_ were slight and beneath his
dignity. They are not all of the same high
quality. Occasionally one of them becomes "too
sentimental and sickly sweet," but the best of
them have a sturdiness that is thoroughly
refreshing.
The most acute analysis of the elements of
Andersen's greatness as the ideal writer for
children is that made by his fellow-countryman
Georg Brandes in _Eminent Authors of the
Nineteenth Century_. A briefer account on
similar lines will be found in H. J. Boyesen's
_Scandinavian Literature_. A still briefer
account, eminently satisfactory for an
introduction to Andersen, by Benjamin W. Wells,
is in Warner's _Library of the World's Best
Literature_. The interested student cannot, of
course, afford to neglect Andersen's own _The
Story of My Life_. Among the more elaborate
biographies the _Life of Hans Christian
Andersen_ by R. Nisbet Bain is probably the
best. The first translation of the _Tales_ into
English was made by Mary Howitt in 1846 and, as
far as it goes, is still regarded as one of the
finest. However, Andersen has been very
fortunate in his many translators. The version
by H. W. Dulcken has been published in many
cheap forms and perhaps more widely read than
any other. In addition to the stories in the
following pages, some of those most suitable
for use are "The Little Match Girl," "The
Silver Shilling," "Five Peas in the Pod," "Hans
Clodhopper," and "The Snow Queen." The latter
is one of the longest and an undoubted
masterpiece.
The first two stories following are taken from
Mrs. Henderson's _Andersen's Best Fairy Tales_.
(Copyright. Rand McNally & Co.) This little
book contains thirteen stories in a very simple
translation and also an excellent story of
Andersen's life in a form most attractive to
children. "The Princess and the Pea" is a story
for the story's sake. The humor, perhaps
slightly satirical, is based upon the notion so
common in the old folk tales that royal
personages are decidedly more delicate than the
person of low degree. However, the tendency to
think oneself of more consequence than another
is not confined to any one class.
THE REAL PRINCESS
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
(Version by Alice Corbin Henderson)
There was once a Prince who wanted to marry a Princess. But it was only
a _real_ Princess that he wanted to marry.
He traveled all over the world to find a real one. But, although there
were plenty of princesses, whether they were _real_ princesses he could
never discover. There was always something that did not seem quite right
about them.
At last he had to come home again. But he was very sad, because he
wanted to marry a _real_ Princess.
One night there was a terrible storm. It thundered and lightened and the
rain poured down in torrents. In the middle of the storm there came a
knocking, knocking, knocking at the castle gate. The kind old King
himself went down to open the castle gate.
It was a young Princess that stood outside the gate. The wind and the
rain had almost blown her to pieces. Water streamed out of her hair and
out of her clothes. Water ran in at the points of her shoes and out
again at the heels. Yet she said that she was a _real_ Princess.
"Well, we will soon find out about that!" thought the Queen.
She said nothing, but went into the bedroom, took off all the bedding,
and put a small dried pea on the bottom of the bedstead. Then she piled
twenty mattresses on top of the pea, and on top of these she put twenty
feather beds. This was where the Princess had to sleep that night.
In the morning they asked her how she had slept through the night.
"Oh, miserably!" said the Princess. "I hardly closed my eyes the whole
night long! Goodness only knows what was in my bed! I slept upon
something so hard that I am black and blue all over. It was dreadful!"
So then they knew that she was a _real_ Princess. For, through the
twenty mattresses and the twenty feather beds, she had still felt the
pea. No one but a _real_ Princess could have had such a tender skin.
So the Prince took her for his wife. He knew now that he had a _real_
Princess.
As for the pea, it was put in a museum where it may still be seen if no
one has carried it away.
Now this is a true story!
193
With some dozen exceptions, all of Andersen's
_Tales_ are based upon older stories, either
upon some old folk tale or upon something that
he ran across in his reading. Dr. Brandes, in
his _Eminent Authors_, shows in detail how "The
Emperor's New Clothes" came into being. "One
day in turning over the leaves of Don Manuel's
_Count Lucanor_, Andersen became charmed by the
homely wisdom of the old Spanish story, with
the delicate flavor of the Middle Ages
pervading it, and he lingered over chapter vii,
which treats of how a king was served by three
rogues." But Andersen's story is a very
different one in many ways from his Spanish
original. For one thing, the meaning is so
universal that no one can miss it. Most of us
have, in all likelihood, at some time pretended
to know what we do not know or to be what we
are not in order to save our face, to avoid the
censure or ridicule of others. "There is much
concerning which people dare not speak the
truth, through cowardice, through fear of
acting otherwise than 'all the world,' through
anxiety lest they should appear stupid. And the
story is eternally new and it never ends. It
has its grave side, but just because of its
endlessness it has also its humorous side."
When the absurd bubble of the grand procession
is punctured by the child, whose mental honesty
has not yet been spoiled by the pressure of
convention, the Emperor "held himself stiffer
than ever, and the chamberlains carried the
invisible train." For it would never do to hold
up the procession!
THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
(Version by Alice Corbin Henderson)
Many years ago there lived an Emperor who thought so much of new clothes
that he spent all his money on them. He did not care for his soldiers;
he did not care to go to the theater. He liked to drive out in the park
only that he might show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every
hour of the day. They usually say of a king, "He is in the council
chamber." But of the Emperor they said, "He is in the clothes closet!"
It was a gay city in which the Emperor lived. And many strangers came to
visit it every day. Among these, one day, there came two rogues who set
themselves up as weavers. They said they knew how to weave the most
beautiful cloths imaginable. And not only were the colors and patterns
used remarkably beautiful, but clothes made from this cloth could not be
seen by any one who was unfit for the office he held or was too stupid
for any use.
"Those would be fine clothes!" thought the Emperor. "If I wore those I
could find out what men in my empire were not fit for the places they
held. I could tell the clever men from the dunces! I must have some
clothes woven for me at once!"
So he gave the two rogues a great deal of money that they might begin
their work at once.
The rogues immediately put up two looms and pretended to be working. But
there was nothing at all on their looms. They called for the finest
silks and the brightest gold, but this they put into their pockets. At
the empty looms they worked steadily until late into the night.
"I should like to know how the weavers are getting on with my clothes,"
thought the Emperor.
But he felt a little uneasy when he thought that any one who was stupid
or was not fit for his office would be unable to see the cloth. Of
course he had no fears for himself; but still he thought he would send
some one else first, just to see how matters stood.
"I will send my faithful old Minister to the weavers," thought the
Emperor. "He can see how the stuff looks, for he is a clever man, and no
one is so careful in fulfilling duties as he is!"
So the good old Minister went into the room where the two rogues sat
working at the empty looms.
"Mercy on us!" thought the old Minister, opening his eyes wide, "I can't
see a thing!" But he didn't care to say so.
Both the rascals begged him to be good enough to step a little nearer.
They pointed to the empty looms and asked him if he did not think the
pattern and the coloring wonderful. The poor old Minister stared and
stared as hard as he could, but he could not see anything, for, of
course, there was nothing to see!
"Mercy!" he said to himself. "Is it possible that I am a dunce? I never
thought so! Certainly no one must know it. Am I unfit for office? It
will never do to say that I cannot see the stuff!"
"Well, sir, why do you say nothing of it?" asked the rogue who was
pretending to weave.
"Oh, it is beautiful--charming!" said the old Minister, peering through
his spectacles. "What a fine pattern, and what wonderful colors! I shall
tell the Emperor that I am very much pleased with it."
"Well, we are glad to hear you say so," answered the two swindlers.
Then they named all the colors of the invisible cloth upon the looms,
and described the peculiar pattern. The old Minister listened intently,
so that he could repeat all that was said of it to the Emperor.
The rogues now began to demand more money, more silk, and more gold
thread in order to proceed with the weaving. All of this, of course,
went into their pockets. Not a single strand was ever put on the empty
looms at which they went on working.
The Emperor soon sent another faithful friend to see how soon the new
clothes would be ready. But he fared no better than the Minister. He
looked and looked and looked, but still saw nothing but the empty looms.
"Isn't that a pretty piece of stuff?" asked both rogues, showing and
explaining the handsome pattern which was not there at all.
"I am not stupid!" thought the man. "It must be that I am not worthy of
my good position. That is, indeed, strange. But I must not let it be
known!"
So he praised the cloth he did not see, and expressed his approval of
the color and the design that were not there. To the Emperor he said,
"It is charming!"
Soon everybody in town was talking about the wonderful cloth that the
two rogues were weaving.
The Emperor began to think now that he himself would like to see the
wonderful cloth while it was still on the looms. Accompanied by a number
of his friends, among whom were the two faithful officers who had
already beheld the imaginary stuff, he went to visit the two men who
were weaving, might and main, without any fiber and without any thread.
"Isn't it splendid!" cried the two statesmen who had already been there,
and who thought the others would see something upon the empty looms.
"Look, your Majesty! What colors! And what a design!"
"What's this?" thought the Emperor. "I see nothing at all! Am I a dunce?
Am I not fit to be Emperor? That would be the worst thing that could
happen to me, if it were true."
"Oh, it is very pretty!" said the Emperor aloud. "It has my highest
approval!"
He nodded his head happily, and stared at the empty looms. Never would
he say that he could see nothing!
His friends, too, gazed and gazed, but saw no more than had the others.
Yet they all cried out, "It is beautiful!" and advised the Emperor to
wear a suit made of this cloth in a great procession that was soon to
take place.
"It is magnificent, gorgeous!" was the cry that went from mouth to
mouth. The Emperor gave each of the rogues a royal ribbon to wear in his
buttonhole, and called them the Imperial Court Weavers.
The rogues were up the whole night before the morning of the procession.
They kept more than sixteen candles burning. The people could see them
hard at work, completing the new clothes of the Emperor. They took yards
of stuff down from the empty looms; they made cuts in the air with big
scissors; they sewed with needles without thread; and, at last, they
said, "The clothes are ready!"
The Emperor himself, with his grandest courtiers, went to put on his new
suit.
"See!" said the rogues, lifting their arms as if holding something.
"Here are the trousers! Here is the coat! Here is the cape!" and so on.
"It is as light as a spider's web. One might think one had nothing on.
But that is just the beauty of it!"
"Very nice," said the courtiers. But they could see nothing; for there
_was_ nothing!
"Will your Imperial Majesty be graciously pleased to take off your
clothes," asked the rogues, "so that we may put on the new ones before
this long mirror?"
The Emperor took off all his own clothes, and the two rogues pretended
to put on each new garment as it was ready. They wrapped him about, and
they tied and they buttoned. The Emperor turned round and round before
the mirror.
"How well his Majesty looks in his new clothes!" said the people. "How
becoming they are! What a pattern! What colors! It is a beautiful
dress!"
"They are waiting outside with the canopy which is to be carried over
your Majesty in the procession," said the master of ceremonies.
"I am ready," said the Emperor. "Don't the clothes fit well?" he asked,
giving a last glance into the mirror as though he were looking at all
his new finery.
The men who were to carry the train of the Emperor's cloak stooped down
to the floor as if picking up the train, and then held it high in the
air. They did not dare let it be known that they could see nothing.
So the Emperor marched along under the bright canopy. Everybody in the
streets and at the windows cried out: "How beautiful the Emperor's new
clothes are! What a fine train! And they fit to perfection!"
No one would let it be known that he could see nothing, for that would
have proved that he was unfit for office or that he was very, very
stupid. None of the Emperor's clothes had ever been as successful as
these.
"But he has nothing on!" said a little child.
"Just listen to the innocent!" said its father.
But one person whispered to another what the child had said. "He has
nothing on! A child says he has nothing on!"
"But he has nothing on!" at last cried all the people.
The Emperor writhed, for he knew that this was true. But he realized
that it would never do to stop the procession. So he held himself
stiffer than ever, and the chamberlains carried the invisible train.
194
In his story "The Nightingale," Andersen
suggests that the so-called upper class of
society may become so conventionalized as to be
unable to appreciate true beauty. Poor
fishermen and the little kitchen girl in the
story recognize the beauty of the exquisite
song of the nightingale, and Andersen shows his
regard for royalty by having the emperor
appreciate it twice. The last part of the story
is especially impressive. When Death approached
the emperor and took from him the symbols that
had made him rank above his fellows, the
emperor saw the realities of life and again
perceived the beauty of the nightingale's song.
This contact with real life made Death shrink
away. Then the emperor learned Andersen's
message to artificial society: If you would
behold true beauty, you must have it in your
own heart.
THE NIGHTINGALE
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
In China, you must know, the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all whom he has
about him are Chinamen too. It happened a good many years ago, but
that's just why it's worth while to hear the story before it is
forgotten. The Emperor's palace was the most splendid in the world; it
was made entirely of porcelain, very costly, but so delicate and brittle
that one had to take care how one touched it. In the garden were to be
seen the most wonderful flowers, and to the costliest of them silver
bells were tied, which sounded, so that nobody should pass by without
noticing the flowers. Yes, everything in the Emperor's garden was
admirably arranged. And it extended so far that the gardener himself did
not know where the end was. If a man went on and on, he came into a
glorious forest with high trees and deep lakes. The wood extended
straight down to the sea, which was blue and deep; great ships could
sail, too, beneath the branches of the trees; and in the trees lived a
Nightingale, which sang so splendidly that even the poor fisherman, who
had many other things to do, stopped still and listened, when he had
gone out at night to throw out his nets, and heard the Nightingale.
"How beautiful that is!" he said; but he was obliged to attend to his
property, and thus forgot the bird. But when the next night the bird
sang again, and the fisherman heard it, he exclaimed again, "How
beautiful that is!"
From all the countries of the world travelers came to the city of the
Emperor, and admired it, and the palace and the garden, but when they
heard the Nightingale, they said, "That is the best of all!"
And the travelers told of it when they came home; and the learnèd men
wrote many books about the town, the palace, and the garden. But they
did not forget the Nightingale; that was placed highest of all; and
those who were poets wrote most magnificent poems about the Nightingale
in the wood by the deep lake.
The books went through all the world, and a few of them once came to the
Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read, and read: every moment he
nodded his head, for it pleased him to peruse the masterly descriptions
of the city, the palace, and the garden. "But the Nightingale is the
best of all," it stood written there.
"What's that?" exclaimed the Emperor. "I don't know the Nightingale at
all! Is there such a bird in my empire, and even in my garden? I've
never heard of that. To think that I should have to learn such a thing
for the first time from books!"
And hereupon he called his cavalier. This cavalier was so grand that if
anyone lower in rank than himself dared to speak to him, or to ask him
any question, he answered nothing but "P!"--and that meant nothing.
"There is said to be a wonderful bird here called a Nightingale," said
the Emperor. "They say it is the best thing in all my great empire. Why
have I never heard anything about it?"
"I have never heard him named," replied the cavalier. "He has never been
introduced at Court."
"I command that he shall appear this evening, and sing before me," said
the Emperor. "All the world knows what I possess, and I do not know it
myself!"
"I have never heard him mentioned," said the cavalier. "I will seek for
him. I will find him."
But where was he to be found? The cavalier ran up and down all the
staircases, through halls and passages, but no one among all those whom
he met had heard talk of the Nightingale. And the cavalier ran back to
the Emperor, and said that it must be a fable invented by the writers of
books.
"Your Imperial Majesty cannot believe how much is written that is
fiction, besides something that they call the black art."
"But the book in which I read this," said the Emperor, "was sent to me
by the high and mighty Emperor of Japan and therefore it cannot be a
falsehood. I _will_ hear the Nightingale! It must be here this evening!
It has my imperial favor; and if it does not come, all the Court shall
be trampled upon after the Court has supped!"
"Tsing-pe!" said the cavalier; and again he ran up and down all the
staircases, and through all the halls and corridors; and half the Court
ran with him, for the courtiers did not like being trampled upon.
Then there was a great inquiry after the wonderful Nightingale, which
all the world knew excepting the people at Court.
At last they met with a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said:
"The Nightingale? I know it well; yes, it can sing gloriously. Every
evening I get leave to carry my poor sick mother the scraps from the
table. She lives down by the strand; and when I get back and am tired,
and rest in the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing. And then the
water comes into my eyes, and it is just as if my mother kissed me."
"Little kitchen girl," said the cavalier, "I will get you a place in the
Court kitchen, with permission to see the Emperor dine, if you will but
lead us to the Nightingale, for it is announced for this evening."
So they all went out into the wood where the Nightingale was accustomed
to sing; half the Court went forth. When they were in the midst of their
journey a cow began to low.
"Oh!" cried the Court pages, "now we have it! That shows a wonderful
power in so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before."
"No, those are cows lowing," said the little kitchen girl. "We are a
long way from the place yet."
Now the frogs began to croak in the marsh.
"Glorious!" said the Chinese Court preacher. "Now I hear it--it sounds
just like little church bells."
"No, those are frogs," said the little kitchen maid. "But now I think we
shall soon hear it."
And then the Nightingale began to sing.
"That is it!" exclaimed the little girl. "Listen, listen! and yonder it
sits."
And she pointed to a little gray bird up in the boughs.
"Is it possible?" cried the cavalier. "I should never have thought it
looked like that! How simple it looks! It must certainly have lost its
color at seeing such grand people around."
"Little Nightingale!" called the little kitchen maid, quite loudly, "our
gracious Emperor wishes you to sing before him."
"With the greatest pleasure!" replied the Nightingale, and began to sing
most delightfully.
"It sounds just like glass bells!" said the cavalier. "And look at its
little throat, how it's working! It's wonderful that we should never
have heard it before. That bird will be a great success at Court."
"Shall I sing once more before the Emperor?" inquired the Nightingale,
for it thought the Emperor was present.
"My excellent little Nightingale," said the cavalier, "I have great
pleasure in inviting you to a Court festival this evening, when you
shall charm his Imperial Majesty with your beautiful singing."
"My song sounds best in the green wood," replied the Nightingale; still
it came willingly when it heard what the Emperor wished.
The palace was festively adorned. The walls and the flooring, which were
of porcelain, gleamed in the rays of thousands of golden lamps. The most
glorious flowers, which could ring clearly, had been placed in the
passages. There was a running to and fro, and a thorough draught, and
all the bells rang so loudly that one could not hear one's self speak.
In the midst of the great hall, where the Emperor sat, a golden perch
had been placed, on which the Nightingale was to sit. The whole Court
was there, and the little cook-maid had got leave to stand behind the
door, as she had now received the title of a real Court cook. All were
in full dress, and all looked at the little gray bird, to which the
Emperor nodded.
And the Nightingale sang so gloriously that the tears came into the
Emperor's eyes, and the tears ran down over his cheeks; then the
Nightingale sang still more sweetly, that went straight to the heart.
The Emperor was so much pleased that he said the Nightingale should have
his golden slipper to wear round its neck. But the Nightingale declined
this with thanks, saying it had already received a sufficient reward.
"I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes--that is the real treasure to
me. An Emperor's tears have a peculiar power. I am rewarded enough!" And
then it sang again with a sweet, glorious voice.
"That's the most amiable coquetry I ever saw!" said the ladies who stood
round about, and then they took water in their mouths to gurgle when
anyone spoke to them. They thought they should be nightingales too. And
the lackeys and chambermaids reported that they were satisfied also; and
that was saying a good deal, for they are the most difficult to please.
In short, the Nightingale achieved a real success.
It was now to remain at Court, to have its own cage, with liberty to go
out twice every day and once at night. Twelve servants were appointed
when the Nightingale went out, each of whom had a silken string fastened
to the bird's legs, which they held very tight. There was really no
pleasure in an excursion of that kind.
The whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and whenever two people met,
one said nothing but "Nightin," and the other said "gale"; and then they
both sighed, and understood one another. Eleven pedlars' children were
named after the bird, but not one of them could sing a note.
One day the Emperor received a large parcel, on which was written, "The
Nightingale."
"There we have a new book about this celebrated bird," said the
Emperor.
But it was not a book, but a little work of art, contained in a box--an
artificial nightingale, which was to sing like a natural one, and was
brilliantly ornamented with diamonds, sapphires, and rubies. So soon as
the artificial bird was wound up, he could sing one of the pieces that
he really sang, and then his tail moved up and down, and shone with
silver and gold. Round his neck hung a little ribbon, and on that was
written, "The Emperor of China's nightingale is poor compared to that of
the Emperor of Japan."
"That is capital!" said they all, and he who had brought the artificial
bird immediately received the title, Imperial Head-Nightingale-Bringer.
"Now they must sing together; what a duet that will be!" cried the
courtiers.
And so they had to sing together; but it did not sound very well, for
the real Nightingale sang its own way, and the artificial bird sang
waltzes.
"That's not his fault," said the playmaster; "he's quite perfect, and
very much in my style."
Now the artificial bird was to sing alone. It had just as much success
as the real one, and then it was much handsomer to look at--it shone
like bracelets and breastpins.
Three and thirty times over did it sing the same piece, and yet was not
tired. The people would gladly have heard it again, but the Emperor said
that the living Nightingale ought to sing something now. But where was
it? No one had noticed that it had flown away out of the open window,
back to the green wood.
"But what has become of that?" asked the Emperor.
And all the courtiers abused the Nightingale, and declared that it was a
very ungrateful creature.
"We have the best bird after all," said they.
And so the artificial bird had to sing again, and that was the
thirty-fourth time that they listened to the same piece. For all that
they did not know it quite by heart, for it was so very difficult. And
the playmaster praised the bird particularly; yes, he declared that it
was better than a nightingale, not only with regard to its plumage and
the many beautiful diamonds, but inside as well.
"For you see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all, your Imperial
Majesty, with a real nightingale one can never calculate what is coming,
but in this artificial bird, everything is settled. One can explain it;
one can open it and make people understand where the waltzes come from,
how they go, and how one follows up another."
"Those are quite our own ideas," they all said.
And the speaker received permission to show the bird to the people on
the next Sunday. The people were to hear it sing too, the Emperor
commanded: and they did hear it, and were as much pleased as if they had
all got tipsy upon tea, for that's quite the Chinese fashion, and they
all said, "Oh!" and held up their forefingers and nodded. But the poor
fisherman, who had heard the real Nightingale, said:
"It sounds pretty enough, and the melodies resemble each other, but
there's something wanting, though I know not what!"
The real Nightingale was banished from the country and empire. The
artificial bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the
Emperor's bed; all the presents it had received, gold and precious
stones, were ranged about it; in title it had advanced to be the High
Imperial After-Dinner-Singer, and in rank to Number One on the left
hand; for the Emperor considered that side the most important on which
the heart is placed, and even in an Emperor the heart is on the left
side; and the playmaster wrote a work of five and twenty volumes about
the artificial bird; it was very learnèd and very long, full of the most
difficult Chinese words; but yet all the people declared that they had
read it and understood it, for fear of being considered stupid, and
having their bodies trampled on.
So a whole year went by. The Emperor, the Court, and all the other
Chinese knew every little twitter in the artificial bird's song by
heart. But just for that reason it pleased them best--they could sing
with it themselves, and they did so. The street boys sang,
"Tsi-tsi-tsi-glug-glug!" and the Emperor himself sang it too. Yes, that
was certainly famous.
But one evening, when the artificial bird was singing its best, and the
Emperor lay in bed listening to it, something inside the bird said,
"Whizz!" Something cracked. "Whir-r-r!" All the wheels ran round, and
then the music stopped.
The Emperor immediately sprang out of bed, and caused his body physician
to be called; but what could _he_ do? Then they sent for a watchmaker,
and after a good deal of talking and investigation, the bird was put
into something like order, but the watchmaker said that the bird must be
carefully treated, for the barrels were worn, and it would be impossible
to put new ones in in such a manner that the music would go. There was a
great lamentation; only once in the year was it permitted to let the
bird sing, and that was almost too much. But then the playmaster made a
little speech full of heavy words, and said this was just as good as
before--and so of course it was as good as before.
Now five years had gone by, and a real grief came upon the whole nation.
The Chinese were really fond of their Emperor, and now he was ill, and
could not, it was said, live much longer. Already a new Emperor had been
chosen, and the people stood out in the street and asked the cavalier
how the Emperor did.
"P!" said he, and shook his head.
Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his great, gorgeous bed; the whole
Court thought him dead, and each one ran to pay homage to the new ruler.
The chamberlains ran out to talk it over, and the ladies' maids had a
great coffee party. All about, in all the halls and passages, cloth had
been laid down so that no footstep could be heard, and therefore it was
quiet there, quite quiet. But the Emperor was not dead yet; stiff and
pale he lay on the gorgeous bed, with the long velvet curtains and the
heavy gold tassels; high up, a window stood open, and the moon shone in
upon the Emperor and the artificial bird.
The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it was just as if something lay
upon his chest; he opened his eyes, and then he saw that it was Death
who sat upon his chest, and had put on his golden crown, and held in one
hand the Emperor's sword, in the other his beautiful banner. And all
around, from among the folds of the splendid velvet curtains, strange
heads peered forth; a few very ugly, the rest quite lovely and mild.
These were all the Emperor's bad and good deeds, that stood before him
now that Death sat upon his heart.
"Do you remember this?" whispered one to the other. "Do you remember
that?" and then they told him so much that the perspiration ran from his
forehead.
"I did not know that!" said the Emperor. "Music! music! the great
Chinese drum!" he cried, "so that I need not hear all they say!"
And they continued speaking, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all
they said.
"Music! music!" cried the Emperor. "You little precious golden bird,
sing, sing! I have given you gold and costly presents; I have even hung
my golden slipper around your neck--sing now, sing!"
But the bird stood still; no one was there to wind him up, and he could
not sing without that; but Death continued to stare at the Emperor with
his great, hollow eyes, and it was quiet, fearfully quiet.
Then there sounded from the window, suddenly, the most lovely song. It
was the little live Nightingale, that sat outside on a spray. It had
heard of the Emperor's sad plight, and had come to sing to him of
comfort and hope. As it sang the specters grew paler and paler; the
blood ran quicker and more quickly through the Emperor's weak limbs; and
even Death listened, and said:
"Go on, little Nightingale, go on!"
"But will you give me that splendid golden sword? Will you give me that
rich banner? Will you give me the Emperor's crown?"
And Death gave up each of these treasures for a song. And the
Nightingale sang on and on; and it sang of the quiet churchyard where
the white roses grow, where the elder blossoms smell sweet, and where
the fresh grass is moistened by the tears of survivors. Then Death felt
a longing to see his garden, and floated out at the window in the form
of a cold white mist.
"Thanks! thanks!" said the Emperor. "You heavenly little bird; I know
you well. I banished you from my country and empire, and yet you have
charmed away the evil faces from my couch, and banished Death from my
heart! How can I reward you?"
"You have rewarded me!" replied the Nightingale. "I have drawn tears
from your eyes, when I sang the first time--I shall never forget that.
Those are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart. But now sleep, and
grow fresh and strong again. I will sing you something."
And it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet slumber. Ah! how mild and
refreshing that sleep was! The sun shone upon him through the windows
when he awoke refreshed and restored: not one of his servants had yet
returned, for they all thought he was dead; only the Nightingale still
sat beside him and sang.
"You must always stay with me," said the Emperor. "You shall sing as you
please; and I'll break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces."
"Not so," replied the Nightingale. "It did well as long as it could;
keep it as you have done till now. I cannot build my nest in the palace
to dwell in it, but let me come when I feel the wish; then I will sit in
the evening on the spray yonder by the window, and sing you something,
so that you may be glad and thoughtful at once. I will sing of those who
are happy and of those who suffer. I will sing of good and of evil that
remains hidden round about you. The little singing bird flies far
around, to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's roof, to everyone who
dwells far away from you and from your Court. I love your heart more
than your crown, and yet the crown has an air of sanctity about it. I
will come and sing to you--but one thing you must promise me."
"Every thing!" said the Emperor; and he stood there in his imperial
robes, which he had put on himself, and pressed the sword which was
heavy with gold to his heart.
"One thing I beg of you: tell no one that you have a little bird who
tells you everything. Then it will go all the better."
And the Nightingale flew away.
The servants came in to look at their dead Emperor, and--yes, there he
stood, and the Emperor said, "Good-morning!"
195
This story is a favorite for the Christmas
season. It is loosely constructed, and rambles
along for some time after it might have been
expected to finish. Such rambling is often very
attractive to childish listeners, as it allows
the introduction of unexpected incidents. Miss
Kready has some interesting suggestions about
dramatizing this story in her _Study of Fairy
Tales_, pp. 151-153. The translation is
Dulcken's.
THE FIR TREE
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
Out in the forest stood a pretty little Fir Tree. It had a good place;
it could have sunlight, air there was in plenty, and all around grew
many larger comrades--pines as well as firs. But the little Fir Tree
wished ardently to become greater. It did not care for the warm sun and
the fresh air; it took no notice of the peasant children, who went about
talking together, when they had come out to look for strawberries and
raspberries. Often they came with a whole pot-full, or had strung
berries on a straw; then they would sit down by the little Fir Tree and
say, "How pretty and small that one is!" and the Fir Tree did not like
to hear that at all.
Next year he had grown a great joint, and the following year he was
longer still, for in fir trees one can always tell by the number of
rings they have how many years they have been growing.
"Oh, if I were only as great a tree as the other!" sighed the little
Fir, "then I would spread my branches far around, and look out from my
crown into the wide world. The birds would then build nests in my
boughs, and when the wind blew I could nod just as grandly as the others
yonder."
It took no pleasure in the sunshine, in the birds, and in the red clouds
that went sailing over him morning and evening.
When it was winter, and the snow lay all around, white and sparkling, a
hare would often come jumping along, and spring right over the little
Fir Tree. Oh! this made him so angry. But two winters went by, and when
the third came the little Tree had grown so tall that the hare was
obliged to run round it.
"Oh! to grow, to grow, and become old; that's the only fine thing in the
world," thought the Tree.
In the autumn woodcutters always came and felled a few of the largest
trees; that was done this year too, and the little Fir Tree, that was
now quite well grown, shuddered with fear, for the great stately trees
fell to the ground with a crash, and their branches were cut off, so
that the trees looked quite naked, long, and slender--they could hardly
be recognized. But then they were laid upon wagons, and horses dragged
them away out of the wood. Where were they going? What destiny awaited
them?
In the spring, when the Swallows and the Stork came, the Tree asked
them, "Do you know where they were taken? Did you not meet them?"
The Swallows knew nothing about it, but the Stork looked thoughtful,
nodded his head, and said:
"Yes, I think so. I met many new ships when I flew out of Egypt; on the
ships were stately masts; I fancy these were the trees. They smelt like
fir. I can assure you they're stately--very stately."
"Oh that I were only big enough to go over the sea! What kind of thing
is this sea, and how does it look?"
"It would take too long to explain all that," said the Stork, and he
went away.
"Rejoice in thy youth," said the Sunbeams; "rejoice in thy fresh growth,
and in the young life that is within thee."
And the wind kissed the Tree, and the dew wept tears upon it; but the
Fir Tree did not understand that.
When Christmas-time approached, quite young trees were felled, sometimes
trees which were neither so old nor so large as this Fir Tree, that
never rested, but always wanted to go away. These young trees, which
were always the most beautiful, kept all their branches; they were put
upon wagons, and horses dragged them away out of the wood.
"Where are they all going?" asked the Fir Tree. "They are not greater
than I--indeed, one of them was much smaller. Why do they keep all their
branches? Whither are they taken?"
"We know that! We know that!" chirped the Sparrows. "Yonder in the town
we looked in at the windows. We know where they go. Oh! they are dressed
up in the greatest pomp and splendor that can be imagined. We have
looked in at the windows, and have perceived that they are planted in
the middle of a warm room, and adorned with the most beautiful
things--gilt apples, honey-cakes, playthings, and many hundred candles."
"And then?" asked the Fir Tree, and trembled through all its branches.
"And then? What happens then?"
"Why, we have not seen anything more. But it was incomparable."
"Perhaps I may be destined to tread this glorious path one day!" cried
the Fir Tree, rejoicingly. "That is even better than traveling across
the sea. How painfully I long for it! If it were only Christmas now! Now
I am great and grown up, like the rest who were led away last year. Oh,
if I were only on the carriage! If I were only in the warm room, among
all the pomp and splendor! And then? Yes, then something even better
will come, something far more charming, or else why should they adorn me
so? There must be something grander, something greater still to come;
but what? Oh! I'm suffering, I'm longing! I don't know myself what is
the matter with me!"
"Rejoice in us," said Air and Sunshine. "Rejoice in thy fresh youth here
in the woodland."
But the Fir Tree did not rejoice at all, but it grew and grew; winter
and summer it stood there, green, dark green. The people who saw it
said, "That's a handsome tree!" and at Christmas time it was felled
before any one of the others. The ax cut deep into its marrow, and the
tree fell to the ground with a sigh; it felt a pain, a sensation of
faintness, and could not think at all of happiness, for it was sad at
parting from its home, from the place where it had grown up; it knew
that it should never again see the dear old companions, the little
bushes and flowers all around--perhaps not even the birds. The parting
was not at all agreeable.
The Tree only came to itself when it was unloaded in a yard, with other
trees, and heard a man say:
"This one is famous; we want only this one!"
Now two servants came in gay liveries, and carried the Fir Tree into a
large, beautiful saloon. All around the walls hung pictures, and by the
great stove stood large Chinese vases with lions on the covers; there
were rocking-chairs, silken sofas, great tables covered with picture
books, and toys worth a hundred times a hundred dollars, at least the
children said so. And the Fir Tree was put into a great tub filled with
sand; but no one could see that it was a tub, for it was hung round with
green cloth, and stood on a large, many-colored carpet. Oh, how the Tree
trembled! What was to happen now? The servants, and the young ladies
also, decked it out. On one branch they hung little nets, cut out of
colored paper; every net was filled with sweetmeats; golden apples and
walnuts hung down, as if they grew there, and more than a hundred little
candles, red, white, and blue, were fastened to the different boughs.
Dolls that looked exactly like real people--the tree had never seen such
before--swung among the foliage, and high on the summit of the Tree was
fixed a tinsel star. It was splendid, particularly splendid.
"This evening," said all, "this evening it will shine."
"Oh," thought the Tree, "that it were evening already! Oh, that the
lights may be soon lit up! When may that be done? I wonder if trees will
come out of the forest to look at me? Will the sparrows fly against the
panes? Shall I grow fast here, and stand adorned in summer and winter?"
Yes, he did not guess badly. But he had a complete backache from mere
longing, and the backache is just as bad for a Tree as the headache for
a person.
At last the candles were lighted. What a brilliance, what splendor! The
Tree trembled so in all its branches that one of the candles set fire to
a green twig, and it was scorched.
"Heaven preserve us!" cried the young ladies; and they hastily put the
fire out.
Now the Tree might not even tremble. Oh, that was terrible! It was so
afraid of setting fire to some of its ornaments, and it was quite
bewildered with all the brilliance. And now the folding doors were
thrown open, and a number of children rushed in as if they would have
overturned the whole Tree; the older people followed more deliberately.
The little ones stood quite silent, but only for a minute; then they
shouted till the room rang: they danced gleefully round the Tree, and
one present after another was plucked from it.
"What are they about?" thought the Tree. "What's going to be done?"
And the candles burned down to the twigs, and as they burned down they
were extinguished, and then the children received permission to plunder
the Tree. Oh! they rushed in upon it, so that every branch cracked
again: if it had not been fastened by the top and by the golden star to
the ceiling, it would have fallen down.
The children danced about with their pretty toys. No one looked at the
Tree except one old man, who came up and peeped among the branches, but
only to see if a fig or an apple had not been forgotten.
"A story! A story!" shouted the children; and they drew a little fat man
toward the tree; and he sat down just beneath it--"for then we shall be
in the green wood," said he, "and the tree may have the advantage of
listening to my tale. But I can only tell one. Will you hear the story
of Ivede-Avede, or of Klumpey-Dumpey, who fell downstairs, and still was
raised up to honor and married the Princess?"
"Ivede-Avede!" cried some, "Klumpey-Dumpey!" cried others, and there was
a great crying and shouting. Only the Fir Tree was quite silent, and
thought, "Shall I not be in it? Shall I have nothing to do in it?" But
he had been in the evening's amusement, and had done what was required
of him.
And the fat man told about Klumpey-Dumpey who fell downstairs, and yet
was raised to honor and married the Princess. And the children clapped
their hands, and cried, "Tell another! tell another!" for they wanted to
hear about Ivede-Avede; but they only got the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.
The Fir Tree stood quite silent and thoughtful; never had the birds in
the wood told such a story as that. Klumpey-Dumpey fell downstairs, and
yet came to honor and married the Princess!
"Yes, so it happens in the world!" thought the Fir Tree, and believed it
must be true, because that was such a nice man who told it. "Well, who
can know? Perhaps I shall fall downstairs, too, and marry a Princess!"
And it looked forward with pleasure to being adorned again, the next
evening, with candles and toys, gold and fruit. "To-morrow I shall not
tremble," it thought.
"I will rejoice in all my splendor. To-morrow I shall hear the story of
Klumpey-Dumpey again, and perhaps that of Ivede-Avede, too."
And the Tree stood all night quiet and thoughtful.
In the morning the servants and the chambermaid came in.
"Now my splendor will begin afresh," thought the Tree. But they dragged
him out of the room, and upstairs to the garret, and here they put him
in a dark corner where no daylight shone.
"What's the meaning of this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here?
What is to happen?"
And he leaned against the wall, and thought, and thought. And he had
time enough, for days and nights went by, and nobody came up; and when
at length someone came, it was only to put some great boxes in a corner.
Now the Tree stood quite hidden away, and the supposition is that it was
quite forgotten.
"Now it's winter outside," thought the Tree. "The earth is hard and
covered with snow, and people cannot plant me; therefore I suppose I'm
to be sheltered here until spring comes. How considerate that is! How
good people are! If it were only not so dark here, and so terribly
solitary!--not even a little hare? That was pretty out there in the
wood, when the snow lay thick and the hare sprang past; yes, even when
he jumped over me; but then I did not like it. It is terribly lonely up
here!"
"Piep! piep!" said a little Mouse, and crept forward, and then came
another little one. They smelt at the Fir Tree, and then slipped among
the branches.
"It's horribly cold," said the two little Mice, "or else it would be
comfortable here. Don't you think so, you old Fir Tree?"
"I'm not old at all," said the Fir Tree. "There are many much older than
I."
"Where do you come from?" asked the Mice. "And what do you know?" They
were dreadfully inquisitive. "Tell us about the most beautiful spot on
earth. Have you been there? Have you been in the store room, where
cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from the ceiling, where one
dances on tallow candles, and goes in thin and comes out fat?"
"I don't know that," replied the Tree; "but I know the wood, where the
sun shines and the birds sing."
And then it told all about its youth.
And the little Mice had never heard anything of the kind; and they
listened and said:
"What a number of things you have seen! How happy you must have been!"
"I?" replied the Fir Tree; and it thought about what it had told. "Yes,
those were really quite happy times." But then he told of the Christmas
Eve, when he had been hung with sweetmeats and candles.
"Oh!" said the little Mice, "how happy you have been, you old Fir Tree!"
"I'm not old at all," said the Tree. "I only came out of the wood this
winter. I'm only rather backward in my growth."
"What splendid stories you can tell!" said the little Mice.
And next night they came with four other little Mice, to hear what the
Tree had to relate; and the more it said, the more clearly did it
remember everything, and thought, "Those were quite merry days! But they
may come again. Klumpey-Dumpey fell downstairs, and yet he married the
Princess. Perhaps I may marry a Princess too!" And the Fir Tree thought
of a pretty little Birch Tree that grew out in the forest; for the Fir
Tree, that Birch was a real Princess.
"Who's Klumpey-Dumpey?" asked the little Mice.
And then the Fir Tree told the whole story. It could remember every
single word; and the little Mice were ready to leap to the very top of
the tree with pleasure. Next night a great many more Mice came, and on
Sunday two Rats even appeared; but these thought the story was not
pretty, and the little Mice were sorry for that, for now they also did
not like it so much as before.
"Do you only know one story?" asked the Rats.
"Only that one," replied the Tree. "I heard that on the happiest evening
of my life; I did not think then how happy I was."
"That's a very miserable story. Don't you know any about bacon and
tallow candles--a store-room story?"
"No," said the Tree.
"Then we'd rather not hear you," said the Rats.
And they went back to their own people. The little Mice at last stayed
away also; and then the Tree sighed and said:
"It was very nice when they sat round me, the merry little Mice, and
listened when I spoke to them. Now that's past too. But I shall remember
to be pleased when they take me out."
But when did that happen? Why, it was one morning that people came and
rummaged in the garret: the boxes were put away, and the Tree brought
out; they certainly threw him rather roughly on the floor, but a servant
dragged him away at once to the stairs, where the daylight shone.
"Now life is beginning again!" thought the Tree.
It felt the fresh air and the first sunbeams, and now it was out in the
courtyard. Everything passed so quickly that the Tree quite forgot to
look at itself, there was so much to look at all round. The courtyard
was close to a garden, and here everything was blooming; the roses hung
fresh and fragrant over the little paling, the linden trees were in
blossom, and the swallows cried, "Quinze-wit! quinze-wit! my husband's
come!" But it was not the Fir Tree that they meant.
"Now I shall live!" said the Tree, rejoicingly, and spread its branches
far out; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow; and it lay in the
corner among nettles and weeds. The tinsel star was still upon it, and
shone in the bright sunshine.
In the courtyard a couple of the merry children were playing who had
danced round the tree at Christmas time, and had rejoiced over it. One
of the youngest ran up and tore off the golden star.
"Look what is sticking to the ugly old fir tree!" said the child, and he
trod upon the branches till they cracked again under his boots.
And the Tree looked at all the blooming flowers and the splendor of the
garden, and then looked at itself, and wished it had remained in the
dark corner of the garret; it thought of its fresh youth in the wood, of
the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice which had listened so
pleasantly to the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.
"Past! past!" said the old Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I could have
done so! Past! past!"
And the servant came and chopped the Tree into little pieces; a whole
bundle lay there; it blazed brightly under the great brewing copper, and
it sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a little shot; and the children
who were at play there ran up and seated themselves at the fire, looked
into it, and cried "Puff! puff!" But at each explosion, which was a deep
sigh, the Tree thought of a summer day in the woods, or of a winter
night there, when the stars beamed; he thought of Christmas Eve and of
Klumpey-Dumpey, the only story he had ever heard or knew how to tell;
and then the Tree was burned.
The boys played in the garden, and the youngest had on his breast a
golden star, which the Tree had worn on its happiest evening. Now that
was past, and the Tree's life was past, and the story is past too: past!
past!--and that's the way with all stories.
196
The tale that follows was one of the author's
earliest stories, published in 1835. It is
clearly based upon an old folk tale, one
variant of which is "The Blue Light" from the
Grimm collection (No. 174). "It was a lucky
stroke," says Brandes, "that made Andersen the
poet of children. After long fumbling, after
unsuccessful efforts, which must necessarily
throw a false and ironic light on the
self-consciousness of a poet whose pride based
its justification mainly on the expectancy of a
future which he felt slumbering within his
soul, after wandering about for long years,
Andersen . . . one evening found himself in front
of a little insignificant yet mysterious door,
the door of the nursery story. He touched it,
it yielded, and he saw, burning in the
obscurity within, the little 'Tinder-Box' that
became his Aladdin's lamp. He struck fire with
it, and the spirits of the lamp--the dogs with
eyes as large as tea-cups, as mill-wheels, as
the round tower in Copenhagen--stood before him
and brought him the three giant chests,
containing all the copper, silver, and gold
treasure stories of the nursery story. The
first story had sprung into existence, and the
'Tinder-Box' drew all the others onward in its
train. Happy is he who has found his
'tinder-box.'" The translation is by H. W.
Dulcken.
THE TINDER-BOX
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
There came a soldier marching along the high road--_one, two! one, two!_
He had his knapsack on his back and a saber by his side, for he had been
in the wars, and now he wanted to go home. And on the way he met with an
old witch; she was very hideous, and her under lip hung down upon her
breast. She said, "Good evening, soldier. What a fine sword you have,
and what a big knapsack! You're a proper soldier! Now you shall have as
much money as you like to have."
"I thank you, you old witch!" said the soldier.
"Do you see that great tree?" quoth the witch; and she pointed to a tree
which stood beside them. "It's quite hollow inside. You must climb to
the top, and then you'll see a hole, through which you can let yourself
down and get deep into the tree. I'll tie a rope round your body, so
that I can pull you up again when you call me."
"What am I to do down in the tree?" asked the soldier.
"Get money," replied the witch. "Listen to me. When you come down to the
earth under the tree, you will find yourself in a great hall: it is
quite light, for above three hundred lamps are burning there. Then you
will see three doors; those you can open, for the keys are hanging
there. If you go into the first chamber, you'll see a great chest in the
middle of the floor; on this chest sits a dog, and he's got a pair of
eyes as big as two tea-cups. But you need not care for that. I'll give
you my blue-checked apron, and you can spread it out upon the floor;
then go up quickly and take the dog, and set him on my apron; then open
the chest, and take as many shillings as you like. They are of copper:
if you prefer silver, you must go into the second chamber. But there
sits a dog with a pair of eyes as big as mill-wheels. But do not you
care for that. Set him upon my apron, and take some of the money. And if
you want gold, you can have that too--in fact, as much as you can
carry--if you go into the third chamber. But the dog that sits on the
money-chest there has two eyes as big as round towers. He is a fierce
dog, you may be sure; but you needn't be afraid, for all that. Only set
him on my apron, and he won't hurt you; and take out of the chest as
much gold as you like."
"That's not so bad," said the soldier. "But what am I to give you, old
witch? for you will not do it for nothing, I fancy."
"No," replied the witch, "not a single shilling will I have. You shall
only bring me an old tinder-box which my grandmother forgot when she was
down there last."
"Then tie the rope round my body," cried the soldier.
"Here it is," said the witch, "and here's my blue-checked apron."
Then the soldier climbed up into the tree, let himself slip down into
the hole, and stood, as the witch had said, in the great hall where the
three hundred lamps were burning.
Now he opened the first door. Ugh! there sat the dog with eyes as big as
tea-cups, staring at him. "You're a nice fellow!" exclaimed the soldier;
and he set him on the witch's apron, and took as many copper shillings
as his pockets would hold, and then locked the chest, set the dog on it
again, and went into the second chamber. Aha! there sat the dog with
eyes as big as mill-wheels.
"You should not stare so hard at me," said the soldier; "you might
strain your eyes." And he set the dog upon the witch's apron. And when
he saw the silver money in the chest, he threw away all the copper money
he had, and filled his pocket and his knapsack with silver only. Then he
went into the third chamber. Oh, but that was horrid! The dog there
really had eyes as big as towers, and they turned round and round in his
head like wheels.
"Good evening!" said the soldier; and he touched his cap, for he had
never seen such a dog as that before. When he had looked at him a little
more closely, he thought, "That will do," and lifted him down to the
floor, and opened the chest. Mercy! what a quantity of gold was there!
He could buy with it the whole town, and the sugar sucking-pigs of the
cake woman, and all the tin soldiers, whips, and rocking-horses in the
whole world. Yes, that was a quantity of money! Now the soldier threw
away all the silver coin with which he had filled his pockets and his
knapsack, and took gold instead: yes, all his pockets, his knapsack, his
boots, and his cap were filled, so that he could scarcely walk. Now
indeed he had plenty of money. He put the dog on the chest, shut the
door, and then called up through the tree, "Now pull me up, you old
witch."
"Have you the tinder-box?" asked the witch.
"Plague on it!" exclaimed the soldier, "I had clean forgotten that." And
he went and brought it.
The witch drew him up, and he stood on the high road again, with
pockets, boots, knapsack, and cap full of gold.
"What are you going to do with the tinder-box?" asked the soldier.
"That's nothing to you," retorted the witch. "You've had your
money--just give me the tinder-box."
"Nonsense!" said the soldier. "Tell me directly what you're going to do
with it, or I'll draw my sword and cut off your head."
"No!" cried the witch.
So the soldier cut off her head. There she lay! But he tied up all his
money in her apron, took it on his back like a bundle, put the
tinder-box in his pocket, and went straight off toward the town.
That was a splendid town! And he put up at the very best inn and asked
for the finest rooms, and ordered his favorite dishes, for now he was
rich, as he had so much money. The servant who had to clean his boots
certainly thought them a remarkably old pair for such a rich gentleman;
but he had not bought any new ones yet. The next day he procured proper
boots and handsome clothes. Now our soldier had become a fine gentleman;
and the people told him of all the splendid things which were in their
city, and about the King, and what a pretty Princess the King's daughter
was.
"Where can one get to see her?" asked the soldier.
"She is not to be seen at all," said they, all together; "she lives in a
great copper castle, with a great many walls and towers round about it;
no one but the King may go in and out there, for it has been prophesied
that she shall marry a common soldier, and the King can't bear that."
"I should like to see her," thought the soldier; but he could not get
leave to do so. Now he lived merrily, went to the theater, drove in the
King's garden, and gave much money to the poor; and this was very kind
of him, for he knew from old times how hard it is when one has not a
shilling. Now he was rich, had fine clothes, and gained many friends,
who all said he was a rare one, a true cavalier; and that pleased the
soldier well. But as he spent money every day and never earned any, he
had at last only two shillings left; and he was obliged to turn out of
the fine rooms in which he had dwelt, and had to live in a little garret
under the roof, and clean his boots for himself, and mend them with a
darning-needle. None of his friends came to see him, for there were too
many stairs to climb.
It was quite dark one evening, and he could not even buy himself a
candle, when it occurred to him that there was a candle-end in the
tinder-box which he had taken out of the hollow tree into which the
witch had helped him. He brought out the tinder-box and the candle-end;
but as soon as he struck fire and the sparks rose up from the flint, the
door flew open, and the dog who had eyes as big as a couple of tea-cups,
and whom he had seen in the tree, stood before him, and said:
"What are my lord's commands?"
"What is this?" said the soldier. "That's a famous tinder-box, if I can
get everything with it that I want! Bring me some money," said he to the
dog: and _whisk!_ the dog was gone, and _whisk!_ he was back again, with
a great bag full of shillings in his mouth.
Now the soldier knew what a capital tinder-box this was. If he struck it
once, the dog came who sat upon the chest of copper money; if he struck
it twice, the dog came who had the silver; and if he struck it three
times, then appeared the dog who had the gold. Now the soldier moved
back into the fine rooms, and appeared again in handsome clothes; and
all his friends knew him again, and cared very much for him indeed.
Once he thought to himself, "It is a very strange thing that one cannot
get to see the Princess. They all say she is very beautiful; but what is
the use of that, if she has always to sit in the great copper castle
with the many towers? Can I not get to see her at all? Where is my
tinder-box?" And so he struck a light, and _whisk!_ came the dog with
eyes as big as tea-cups.
"It is midnight, certainly," said the soldier, "but I should very much
like to see the Princess, only for one little moment."
And the dog was outside the door directly, and, before the soldier
thought it, came back with the Princess. She sat upon the dog's back and
slept; and everyone could see she was a real Princess, for she was so
lovely. The soldier could not refrain from kissing her, for he was a
thorough soldier. Then the dog ran back again with the Princess. But
when morning came, and the King and Queen were drinking tea, the
Princess said she had had a strange dream, the night before, about a dog
and a soldier--that she had ridden upon the dog, and the soldier had
kissed her.
"That would be a fine history!" said the Queen.
So one of the old Court ladies had to watch the next night by the
Princess's bed, to see if this was really a dream, or what it might be.
The soldier had a great longing to see the lovely Princess again; so the
dog came in the night, took her away, and ran as fast as he could. But
the old lady put on water-boots, and ran just as fast after him. When
she saw that they both entered a great house, she thought, "Now I know
where it is"; and with a bit of chalk she drew a great cross on the
door. Then she went home and lay down, and the dog came up with the
Princess; but when he saw that there was a cross drawn on the door where
the soldier lived, he took a piece of chalk too, and drew crosses on all
the doors in the town. And that was cleverly done, for now the lady
could not find the right door, because all the doors had crosses upon
them.
In the morning early came the King and the Queen, the old Court lady and
all the officers, to see where it was the Princess had been. "Here it
is!" said the King, when he saw the first door with a cross upon it.
"No, my dear husband, it is there!" said the Queen, who descried another
door which also showed a cross. "But there is one, and there is one!"
said all, for wherever they looked there were crosses on the doors. So
they saw that it would avail them nothing if they searched on.
But the Queen was an exceedingly clever woman, who could do more than
ride in a coach. She took her great gold scissors, cut a piece of silk
into pieces, and made a neat little bag: this bag she filled with fine
wheat flour, and tied it on the Princess's back; and when that was done,
she cut a little hole in the bag, so that the flour would be scattered
along all the way which the Princess should take.
In the night the dog came again, took the Princess on his back, and ran
with her to the soldier, who loved her very much, and would gladly have
been a prince, so that he might have her for his wife. The dog did not
notice at all how the flour ran out in a stream from the castle to the
windows of the soldier's house, where he ran up the wall with the
Princess. In the morning the King and Queen saw well enough where their
daughter had been, and they took the soldier and put him in prison.
There he sat. Oh, but it was dark and disagreeable there! And they said
to him, "To-morrow you shall be hanged." That was not amusing to hear,
and he had left his tinder-box at the inn. In the morning he could see,
through the iron grating of the little window, how the people were
hurrying out of the town to see him hanged. He heard the drums beat and
saw the soldiers marching. All the people were running out, and among
them was a shoemaker's boy with leather apron and slippers, and he
galloped so fast that one of his slippers flew off, and came right
against the wall where the soldier sat looking through the iron grating.
"Halloo, you shoemaker's boy! you needn't be in such a hurry," cried the
soldier to him: "it will not begin till I come. But if you will run to
where I lived, and bring me my tinder-box, you shall have four
shillings; but you must put your best leg foremost."
The shoemaker's boy wanted to get the four shillings, so he went and
brought the tinder-box, and--well, we shall hear now what happened.
Outside the town a great gallows had been built, and around it stood the
soldiers and many hundred thousand people. The King and Queen sat on a
splendid throne, opposite to the Judges and the whole Council. The
soldier already stood upon the ladder; but as they were about to put the
rope round his neck, he said that before a poor criminal suffered his
punishment an innocent request was always granted to him. He wanted very
much to smoke a pipe of tobacco, as it would be the last pipe he should
smoke in this world. The King would not say "No" to this; so the soldier
took his tinder-box and struck fire. One--two--three--! and there
suddenly stood all the dogs--the one with eyes as big as tea-cups, the
one with eyes as large as mill-wheels, and the one whose eyes were as
big as round towers.
"Help me now, so that I may not be hanged," said the soldier. And the
dogs fell upon the Judge and all the Council, seized one by the leg and
another by the nose, and tossed them all many feet into the air, so that
they fell down and were all broken to pieces.
"I won't!" cried the King; but the biggest dog took him and the Queen
and threw them after the others. Then the soldiers were afraid, and the
people cried, "Little soldier, you shall be our King, and marry the
beautiful Princess!"
So they put the soldier into the King's coach, and all the three dogs
darted on in front and cried "Hurrah!" and the boys whistled through
their fingers, and the soldiers presented arms. The Princess came out of
the copper castle, and became Queen, and she liked that well enough. The
wedding lasted a week, and the three dogs sat at the table too, and
opened their eyes wider than ever at all they saw.
197
The following is one of Andersen's early
stories, published in 1838. It has always been
a great favorite. Whimsically odd couples, in
this case so constant in their devotion to each
other, seemed to appeal to Andersen. The
romance of the Whip Top and the Ball in the
little story "The Lovers" deals with another
odd couple. "Constant" or "steadfast" are terms
sometimes used in the different versions
instead of "hardy," and, if they seem better to
carry the meaning intended, teachers should
feel free to substitute one of them in telling
or reading the story. The translation is by H.
W. Dulcken.
THE HARDY TIN SOLDIER
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
There were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers; they were all brothers,
for they had all been born of one old tin spoon. They shouldered their
muskets, and looked straight before them; their uniform was red and
blue, and very splendid. The first thing they had heard in the world,
when the lid was taken off their box, had been the words, "Tin
soldiers!" These words were uttered by a little boy, clapping his hands:
the soldiers had been given to him, for it was his birthday; and now he
put them upon the table. Each soldier was exactly like the rest; but one
of them had been cast last of all, and there had not been enough tin to
finish him; but he stood as firmly upon his one leg as the others on
their two; and it was just this Soldier who became remarkable.
On the table on which they had been placed stood many other playthings,
but the toy that attracted most attention was a neat castle of
cardboard. Through the little windows one could see straight into the
hall. Before the castle some little trees were placed round a little
looking-glass, which was to represent a clear lake. Waxen swans swam on
this lake, and were mirrored in it. This was all very pretty; but the
prettiest of all was a little lady, who stood at the open door of the
castle; she was also cut out in paper, but she had a dress of the
clearest gauze, and a little narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders, that
looked like a scarf; and in the middle of this ribbon was a shining
tinsel rose as big as her whole face. The little lady stretched out both
her arms, for she was a dancer; and then she lifted one leg so high that
the Tin Soldier could not see it at all, and thought that, like himself,
she had but one leg.
"That would be the wife for me," thought he; "but she is very grand. She
lives in a castle, and I have only a box, and there are five-and-twenty
of us in that. It is no place for her. But I must try to make
acquaintance with her."
And then he lay down at full length behind a snuff-box which was on the
table; there he could easily watch the little dainty lady, who continued
to stand upon one leg without losing her balance.
When the evening came all the other tin soldiers were put into their
box, and the people in the house went to bed. Now the toys began to play
at "visiting," and at "war," and "giving balls." The tin soldiers
rattled in their box, for they wanted to join, but could not lift the
lid. The nutcracker threw somersaults, and the pencil amused itself on
the table; there was so much noise that the canary woke up, and began to
speak too, and even in verse. The only two who did not stir from their
places were the Tin Soldier and the Dancing Lady: she stood straight up
on the point of one of her toes, and stretched out both her arms; and he
was just as enduring on his one leg; and he never turned his eyes away
from her.
Now the clock struck twelve--and, bounce! the lid flew off the
snuff-box; but there was no snuff in it, but a little black Goblin: you
see, it was a trick.
"Tin Soldier!" said the Goblin, "don't stare at things that don't
concern you."
But the Tin Soldier pretended not to hear him.
"Just you wait till to-morrow!" said the Goblin.
But when the morning came, and the children got up, the Tin Soldier was
placed in the window; and whether it was the Goblin or the draught that
did it, all at once the window flew open, and the Soldier fell head
over heels out of the third story. That was a terrible passage! He put
his leg straight up, and stuck with helmet downward and his bayonet
between the paving-stones.
The servant-maid and the little boy came down directly to look for him,
but though they almost trod upon him, they could not see him. If the
Soldier had cried out "Here I am!" they would have found him; but he did
not think it fitting to call out loudly, because he was in uniform.
Now it began to rain; the drops soon fell thicker, and at last it came
down into a complete stream. When the rain was past, two street boys
came by.
"Just look!" said one of them, "there lies a Tin Soldier. He must come
out and ride in the boat."
And they made a boat out of a newspaper, and put the Tin Soldier in the
middle of it, and so he sailed down the gutter, and the two boys ran
beside him and clapped their hands. Goodness preserve us! how the waves
rose in that gutter, and how fast the stream ran! But then it had been a
heavy rain. The paper boat rocked up and down, and sometimes turned
round so rapidly that the Tin Soldier trembled; but he remained firm,
and never changed countenance, and looked straight before him, and
shouldered his musket.
All at once the boat went into a long drain, and it became as dark as if
he had been in his box.
"Where am I going now?" he thought. "Yes, yes, that's the Goblin's
fault. Ah! if the little lady only sat here with me in the boat, it
might be twice as dark for what I should care."
Suddenly there came a great Water Rat, which lived under the drain.
"Have you a passport?" said the Rat. "Give me your passport."
But the Tin Soldier kept silence, and held his musket tighter than ever.
The boat went on, but the Rat came after it. Hu! how he gnashed his
teeth, and called out to the bits of straw and wood:
"Hold him! hold him! He hasn't paid toll--he hasn't shown his passport!"
But the stream became stronger and stronger. The Tin Soldier could see
the bright daylight where the arch ended; but he heard a roaring noise
which might well frighten a bolder man. Only think--just where the
tunnel ended, the drain ran into a great canal; and for him that would
have been as dangerous as for us to be carried down a great waterfall.
Now he was already so near it that he could not stop. The boat was
carried out, the poor Tin Soldier stiffening himself as much as he
could, and no one could say that he moved an eyelid. The boat whirled
round three or four times, and was full of water to the very edge--it
must sink. The Tin Soldier stood up to his neck in water, and the boat
sank deeper and deeper, and the paper was loosened more and more; and
now the water closed over the soldier's head. Then he thought of the
pretty little Dancer, and how he should never see her again; and it
sounded in the soldier's ears:
Farewell, farewell, thou warrior brave,
For this day thou must die!
And now the paper parted, and the Tin Soldier fell out; but at that
moment he was snapped up by a great fish.
Oh, how dark it was in that fish's body! It was darker yet than in the
drain tunnel; and then it was very narrow too. But the Tin Soldier
remained unmoved, and lay at full length shouldering his musket.
The fish swam to and fro; he made the most wonderful movements, and then
became quite still. At last something flashed through him like
lightning. The daylight shone quite clear, and a voice said aloud, "The
Tin Soldier!" The fish had been caught, carried to market, bought, and
taken into the kitchen, where the cook cut him open with a large knife.
She seized the Soldier round the body with both her hands and carried
him into the room, where all were anxious to see the remarkable man who
had traveled about in the inside of a fish; but the Tin Soldier was not
at all proud. They placed him on the table, and there--no! What curious
things may happen in the world. The Tin Soldier was in the very room in
which he had been before! He saw the same children, and the same toys
stood on the table; and there was the pretty castle with the graceful
little Dancer. She was still balancing herself on one leg, and held the
other extended in the air. She was hardy too. That moved the Tin
Soldier; he was very nearly weeping tin tears, but that would not have
been proper. He looked at her, but they said nothing to each other.
Then one of the little boys took the Tin Soldier and flung him into the
stove. He gave no reason for doing this. It must have been the fault of
the Goblin in the snuff-box.
The Tin Soldier stood there quite illuminated, and felt a heat that was
terrible; but whether this heat proceeded from the real fire or from
love he did not know. The colors had quite gone off from him; but
whether that had happened on the journey, or had been caused by grief,
no one could say. He looked at the little lady, she looked at him, and
he felt that he was melting; but he still stood firm, shouldering his
musket. Then suddenly the door flew open, and the draught of air caught
the Dancer, and she flew like a sylph just into the stove to the Tin
Soldier, and flashed up in a flame, and she was gone. Then the Tin
Soldier melted down into a lump; and when the servant-maid took the
ashes out next day, she found him in the shape of a little tin heart.
But of the Dancer nothing remained but the tinsel rose, and that was
burned as black as a coal.
198
"The Ugly Duckling" has always been regarded as
one of Andersen's most exquisite stories. No
one can fail to notice the parallel that
suggests itself between the successive stages
in the duckling's history and those in
Andersen's own life. In this story, remarks Dr.
Brandes, "there is the quintessence of the
author's entire life (melancholy, humor,
martyrdom, triumph) and of his whole nature:
the gift of observation and the sparkling
intellect which he used to avenge himself upon
folly and wickedness, the varied faculties
which constitute his genius." The standards of
judgment used by the ducks, the turkey, the
hen, and the cat are all delightfully and
humorously satirical of human stupidity and
shortsightedness. The translation used is by H.
W. Dulcken.
THE UGLY DUCKLING
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
It was glorious out in the country. It was summer, and the cornfields
were yellow, and the oats were green; the hay had been put up in stacks
in the green meadows, and the stork went about on his long red legs, and
chattered Egyptian, for this was the language he had learned from his
good mother. All around the fields and meadows were great forests, and
in the midst of these forests lay deep lakes. Yes, it was really
glorious out in the country. In the midst of the sunshine there lay an
old farm, surrounded by deep canals, and from the wall down to the water
grew great burdocks, so high that little children could stand upright
under the loftiest of them. It was just as wild there as in the deepest
wood. Here sat a Duck upon her nest, for she had to hatch her young
ones; but she was almost tired out before the little ones came; and then
she so seldom had visitors. The other ducks liked better to swim about
in the canals than to run up to sit down under a burdock and cackle with
her.
At last one eggshell after another burst open. "Piep! piep!" it cried,
and in all the eggs there were little creatures that stuck out their
heads.
"Rap! rap!" they said; and they all came rapping out as fast as they
could, looking all round them under the green leaves; and the mother let
them look as much as they chose, for green is good for the eyes.
"How wide the world is!" said the young ones, for they certainly had
much more room now than when they were in the eggs.
"Do you think this is all the world!" asked the mother. "That extends
far across the other side of the garden, quite into the parson's field,
but I have never been there yet. I hope you are all together," she
continued, and stood up. "No, I have not all. The largest egg still lies
there. How long is that to last? I am really tired of it." And she sat
down again.
"Well, how goes it?" asked an old Duck who had come to pay her a visit.
"It lasts a long time with that one egg," said the Duck who sat there.
"It will not burst. Now, only look at the others; are they not the
prettiest ducks one could possibly see? They are all like their father;
the bad fellow never comes to see me."
"Let me see the egg which will not burst," said the old visitor.
"Believe me, it is a turkey's egg. I was once cheated in that way, and
had much anxiety and trouble with the young ones, for they are afraid of
the water. I could not get them to venture in. I quacked and clucked,
but it was of no use. Let me see the egg. Yes, that's a turkey's egg!
Let it lie there, and you teach the other children to swim."
"I think I will sit on it a little longer," said the Duck. "I've sat so
long now that I can sit a few days more."
"Just as you please," said the old Duck; and she went away.
At last the great egg burst. "Piep! piep!" said the little one, and
crept forth. It was very large and very ugly. The Duck looked at it.
"It's a very large duckling," said she; "none of the others look like
that; can it really be a turkey chick? Now we shall soon find out. It
must go into the water, even if I have to thrust it in myself."
The next day the weather was splendidly bright, and the sun shone on all
the green trees. The Mother-Duck went down to the water with all her
little ones. Splash! she jumped into the water. "Quack! quack!" she
said, and then one duckling after another plunged in. The water closed
over their heads, but they came up in an instant, and swam capitally;
their legs went of themselves, and there they were, all in the water.
The ugly gray Duckling swam with them.
"No, it's not a turkey," said she; "look how well it can use its legs,
and how upright it holds itself. It is my own child! On the whole it's
quite pretty, if one looks at it rightly. Quack! quack! come with me,
and I'll lead you out into the great world, and present you in the
poultry-yard; but keep close to me, so that no one may tread on you; and
take care of the cats!"
And so they came into the poultry-yard. There was a terrible riot going
on in there, for two families were quarreling about an eel's head, and
the cat got it after all.
"See, that's how it goes in the world!" said the Mother-Duck; and she
whetted her beak, for she, too, wanted the eel's head. "Only use your
legs," she said. "See that you bustle about, and bow your heads before
the old Duck yonder. She's the grandest of all here; she's of Spanish
blood--that's why she's so fat; and do you see, she has a red rag round
her leg; that's something particularly fine, and the greatest
distinction a duck can enjoy; it signifies that one does not want to
lose her, and that she's to be recognized by man and beast. Shake
yourselves--don't turn in your toes; a well-brought-up Duck turns its
toes quite out, just like father and mother, so! Now bend your necks and
say 'Rap!'"
And they did so; but the other Ducks round about looked at them, and
said quite boldly:
"Look there! now we're to have these hanging on, as if there were not
enough of us already! And--fie--! how that Duckling yonder looks; we
won't stand that!" And one duck flew up immediately, and bit it in the
neck.
"Let it alone," said the mother; "it does no harm to anyone."
"Yes, but it's too large and peculiar," said the Duck who had bitten it;
"and therefore it must be buffeted."
"Those are pretty children that the mother has there," said the old Duck
with the rag round her leg. "They're all pretty but that one; that was a
failure. I wish she could alter it."
"That cannot be done, my lady," replied the Mother-Duck. "It is not
pretty, but it has a really good disposition, and swims as well as any
other; I may even say it swims better. I think it will grow up pretty,
and become smaller in time; it has lain too long in the egg, and
therefore is not properly shaped." And then she pinched it in the neck,
and smoothed its feathers. "Moreover, it is a drake," she said, "and
therefore it is not of so much consequence. I think he will be very
strong; he makes his way already."
"The other ducklings are graceful enough," said the old Duck. "Make
yourself at home; and if you find an eel's head, you may bring it me."
And now they were at home. But the poor Duckling which had crept last
out of the egg, and looked so ugly, was bitten and pushed and jeered, as
much by the ducks as by the chickens.
"It is too big!" they all said. And the turkey-cock, who had been born
with spurs, and therefore thought himself an Emperor, blew himself up
like a ship in full sail, and bore straight down upon it; then he
gobbled, and grew quite red in the face. The poor Duckling did not know
where it should stand or walk; it was quite melancholy, because it
looked ugly and was scoffed at by the whole yard.
So it went on the first day; and afterward it became worse and worse.
The poor Duckling was hunted about by every one; even its brothers and
sisters were quite angry with it, and said, "If the cat would only catch
you, you ugly creature!" And the mother said, "If you were only far
away!" And the ducks bit it, and the chickens beat it, and the girl who
had to feed the poultry kicked at it with her foot.
Then it ran and flew over the fence, and the little birds in the bushes
flew up in fear.
"That is because I am so ugly!" thought the Duckling; and it shut its
eyes, but flew no farther; thus it came out into the great moor, where
the Wild Ducks lived. Here it lay the whole night long; and it was weary
and downcast.
Toward morning the Wild Ducks flew up, and looked at their new
companion.
"What sort of a one are you?" they asked; and the Duckling turned in
every direction, and bowed as well as it could. "You are remarkably
ugly!" said the Wild Ducks. "But that is very indifferent to us, so long
as you do not marry into our family."
Poor thing! It certainly did not think of marrying, and only hoped to
obtain leave to lie among the reeds and drink some of the swamp-water.
Thus it lay two whole days; then came thither two Wild Geese, or,
properly speaking, two wild ganders. It was not long since each had
crept out of an egg, and that's why they were so saucy.
"Listen, comrade," said one of them. "You're so ugly that I like you.
Will you go with us, and become a bird of passage? Near here, in another
moor, there are a few sweet lovely wild geese, all unmarried, and all
able to say, 'Rap!' You've a chance of making your fortune, ugly as you
are!"
"Piff! paff!" resounded through the air; and the two ganders fell down
dead in the swamp, and the water became blood-red. "Piff! paff!" it
sounded again, and whole flocks of wild geese rose up from the reeds.
And then there was another report. A great hunt was going on. The
hunters were lying in wait all round the moor, and some were even
sitting up in the branches of the trees, which spread far over the
reeds. The blue smoke rose up like clouds among the dark trees, and was
wafted far away across the water; and the hunting dogs came--splash,
splash!--into the swamp, and the rushes and the reeds bent down on every
side. That was a fright for the poor Duckling! It turned its head, and
put it under its wing; but at that moment a frightful great dog stood
close by the Duckling. His tongue hung far out of his mouth and his eyes
gleamed horrible and ugly; he thrust out his nose close against the
Duckling, showed his sharp teeth, and--splash, splash!--on he went
without seizing it.
"Oh, Heaven be thanked!" sighed the Duckling. "I am so ugly that even
the dog does not like to bite me!"
And so it lay quite quiet, while the shots rattled through the reeds and
gun after gun was fired. At last, late in the day, silence was restored;
but the poor Duckling did not dare to rise up; it waited several hours
before it looked round, and then hastened away out of the moor as fast
as it could. It ran on over field and meadow; there was such a storm
raging that it was difficult to get from one place to another.
Toward evening the Duck came to a little miserable peasant's hut. This
hut was so dilapidated that it did not know on which side it should
fall; and that's why it remained standing. The storm whistled round the
Duckling in such a way that the poor creature was obliged to sit down,
to stand against it; and the tempest grew worse and worse. Then the
Duckling noticed that one of the hinges of the door had given way, and
the door hung so slanting that the Duckling could slip through the crack
into the room; and it did so.
Here lived a woman with her Tom Cat and her Hen. And the Tom Cat, whom
she called Sonnie, could arch his back and purr. He could even give out
sparks; but for that one had to stroke his fur the wrong way. The Hen
had quite little short legs, and therefore she was called
Chickabiddy-shortshanks; she laid good eggs, and the woman loved her as
her own child.
In the morning the strange Duckling was at once noticed, and the Tom Cat
began to purr, and the Hen to cluck.
"What's this?" said the woman, and looked all round; but she could not
see well, and therefore she thought the Duckling was a fat duck that had
strayed. "This is a rare prize," she said. "Now I shall have duck's
eggs. I hope it is not a drake. We must try that."
And so the Duckling was admitted on trial for three weeks; but no eggs
came. And the Tom Cat was master of the house, and the Hen was the lady,
and they always said, "We and the world!" for they thought they were
half the world, and by far the better half. The Duckling thought one
might have a different opinion, but the Hen would not allow it.
"Can you lay eggs?" she asked.
"No."
"Then you'll have the goodness to hold your tongue."
And the Tom Cat said, "Can you curve your back, and purr, and give out
sparks?"
"No."
"Then you cannot have any opinion of your own when sensible people are
speaking."
And the Duckling sat in a corner and was melancholy; then the fresh air
and the sunshine streamed in; and it was seized with such a strange
longing to swim on the water that it could not help telling the Hen of
it.
"What are you thinking of?" cried the Hen. "You have nothing to do;
that's why you have these fancies. Purr or lay eggs, and they will pass
over."
"But it is so charming to swim on the water!" said the Duckling, "so
refreshing to let it close above one's head, and to dive down to the
bottom."
"Yes, that must be a mighty pleasure, truly," quoth the Hen. "I fancy
you must have gone crazy. Ask the Cat about it--he's the cleverest
animal I know--ask him if he likes to swim on the water, or to dive
down: I won't speak about myself. Ask our mistress, the old woman; no
one in the world is cleverer than she. Do you think she has any desire
to swim, and to let the water close above her head?"
"You don't understand me," said the Duckling.
"We don't understand you? Then pray who is to understand you? You surely
don't pretend to be cleverer than the Tom Cat and the old woman--I won't
say anything of myself. Don't be conceited, child, and be grateful for
all the kindness you have received. Did you not get into a warm room,
and have you not fallen into company from which you may learn something?
But you are a chatterer, and it is not pleasant to associate with you.
You may believe me, I speak for your good. I tell you disagreeable
things, and by that one may always know one's true friends. Only take
care that you learn to lay eggs, or to purr and give out sparks!"
"I think I will go out into the wide world," said the Duckling.
"Yes, do go," replied the Hen.
And the Duckling went away. It swam on the water, and dived, but it was
slighted by every creature because of its ugliness.
Now came the autumn. The leaves in the forest turned yellow and brown;
the wind caught them so that they danced about, and up in the air it was
very cold. The clouds hung low, heavy with hail and snow-flakes, and on
the fence stood the raven, crying, "Croak! croak!" for mere cold; yes,
it was enough to make one feel cold to think of this. The poor little
Duckling certainly had not a good time. One evening--the sun was just
setting in his beauty--there came a whole flock of great handsome birds
out of the bushes; they were dazzlingly white, with long flexible necks;
they were swans. They uttered a very peculiar cry, spread forth their
glorious great wings, and flew away from that cold region to warmer
lands, to fair open lakes. They mounted so high, so high! and the ugly
little Duckling felt quite strange as it watched them. It turned round
and round in the water like a wheel, stretched out its neck toward them,
and uttered such a strange loud cry as frightened itself. Oh! it could
not forget those beautiful, happy birds; and so soon as it could see
them no longer, it dived down to the very bottom, and when it came up
again, it was quite beside itself. It knew not the name of those birds,
and knew not whither they were flying; but it loved them more than it
had ever loved anyone. It was not at all envious of them. How could it
think of wishing to possess such loveliness as they had? It would have
been glad if only the ducks would have endured its company--the poor
ugly creature!
And the winter grew cold, very cold! The Duckling was forced to swim
about in the water, to prevent the surface from freezing entirely; but
every night the hole in which it swam about became smaller and smaller.
It froze so hard that the icy covering crackled again; and the Duckling
was obliged to use its legs continually to prevent the hole from
freezing up. At last it became exhausted, and lay quite still, and thus
froze fast into the ice.
Early in the morning a peasant came by, and when he saw what had
happened, he took his wooden shoe, broke the ice-crust to pieces, and
carried the Duckling home to his wife. Then it came to itself again. The
children wanted to play with it; but the Duckling thought they would do
it an injury, and in its terror fluttered up into the milk-pan, so that
the milk spurted down into the room. The woman clapped her hands, at
which the Duckling flew down into the butter-tub, and then into the
meal-barrel and out again. How it looked then! The woman screamed, and
struck at it with the fire-tongs; the children tumbled over one another
in their efforts to catch the Duckling; and they laughed and screamed
finely. Happily the door stood open, and the poor creature was able to
slip out between the shrubs into the newly-fallen snow; and there it
lay quite exhausted.
But it would be too melancholy if I were to tell all the misery and care
which the Duckling had to endure in the hard winter. It lay out on the
moor among the reeds when the sun began to shine again and the larks to
sing; it was a beautiful spring.
Then all at once the Duckling could flap its wings; they beat the air
more strongly than before, and bore it strongly away; and before it well
knew how all this had happened, it found itself in a great garden, where
the elder trees smelt sweet, and bent their long green branches down to
the canal that wound through the region. Oh, here it was so beautiful,
such a gladness of spring! and from the thicket came three glorious
white swans; they rustled their wings, and swam lightly on the water.
The Duckling knew the splendid creatures, and felt oppressed by a
peculiar sadness.
"I will fly away to them, to the royal birds! and they will kill me,
because I, that am so ugly, dare to approach them. But it is of no
consequence! Better to be killed by _them_ than to be pursued by ducks,
and beaten by fowls, and pushed about by the girl who takes care of the
poultry-yard, and to suffer hunger in winter!" And it flew out into the
water, and swam toward the beautiful swans: these looked at it, and came
sailing down upon it with outspread wings. "Kill me!" said the poor
creature, and bent its head down upon the water, expecting nothing but
death. But what was this that it saw in the clear water? It beheld its
own image--and, lo! it was no longer a clumsy dark-gray bird, ugly and
hateful to look at, but--a swan.
It matters nothing if one was born in a duck-yard, if one has only lain
in a swan's egg.
It felt quite glad at all the need and misfortune it had suffered, now
it realized its happiness in all the splendor that surrounded it. And
the great swans swam round it, and stroked it with their beaks.
Into the garden came little children, who threw bread and corn into the
water; the youngest cried, "There is a new one!" and the other children
shouted joyously, "Yes, a new one has arrived!" And they clapped their
hands and danced about, and ran to their father and mother; and bread
and cake were thrown into the water; and they all said, "The new one is
the most beautiful of all! so young and handsome!" and the old swans
bowed their heads before him.
Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wing, for he did
not know what to do; he was so happy, and yet not at all proud. He
thought how he had been persecuted and despised; and now he heard them
saying that he was the most beautiful of all the birds. Even the elder
tree bent its branches straight down into the water before him, and the
sun shone warm and mild. Then his wings rustled, he lifted his slender
neck, and cried rejoicingly from the depths of his heart:
"I never dreamed of so much happiness when I was still the Ugly
Duckling!"
199
One of the really successful modern attempts at
telling new fairy stories was _Granny's
Wonderful Chair_ (1857) by the blind poet
Frances Browne (1816-1887). In spite of the
obstacles due to blindness, poverty, and
ill-health, she succeeded in educating herself,
and after achieving some fame as a poet left
her mountain village in county Donegal,
Ireland, to make a literary career in Edinburgh
and London. She published many volumes of
poems, novels, and children's books. Only one
of these is now much read or remembered, but it
has taken a firm place in the affections of
children. In _Granny's Wonderful Chair_ there
are seven stories, set in an interesting
framework which tells of the adventures of the
little girl Snowflower and her chair at the
court of King Winwealth. This chair had magic
power to transport Snowflower wherever she
wished to go, like the magic carpet in the
_Arabian Nights_. When she laid down her head
and said, "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a
story," a clear voice from under the cushion
would at once begin to speak. Besides the story
that follows, two of the most satisfactory in
the collection are "The Greedy Shepherd" and
"The Story of Merrymind." Perhaps one of the
secrets of their charm is in the power of
visualization which the author possessed. The
pictures are all clear and definite, yet
touched with the glamor of fairyland.
THE STORY OF FAIRYFOOT
FRANCES BROWNE
Once upon a time there stood far away in the west country a town called
Stumpinghame. It contained seven windmills, a royal palace, a market
place, and a prison, with every other convenience befitting the capital
of a kingdom. A capital city was Stumpinghame, and its inhabitants
thought it the only one in the world. It stood in the midst of a great
plain, which for three leagues round its walls was covered with corn,
flax, and orchards. Beyond that lay a great circle of pasture land,
seven leagues in breadth, and it was bounded on all sides by a forest so
thick and old that no man in Stumpinghame knew its extent; and the
opinion of the learned was that it reached to the end of the world.
There were strong reasons for this opinion. First, that forest was known
to be inhabited time out of mind by the fairies, and no hunter cared to
go beyond its border--so all the west country believed it to be solidly
full of old trees to the heart. Secondly, the people of Stumpinghame
were no travelers--man, woman, and child had feet so large and heavy
that it was by no means convenient to carry them far. Whether it was the
nature of the place or the people, I cannot tell, but great feet had
been the fashion there time immemorial, and the higher the family the
larger were they. It was, therefore, the aim of everybody above the
degree of shepherds, and such-like rustics, to swell out and enlarge
their feet by way of gentility; and so successful were they in these
undertakings that, on a pinch, respectable people's slippers would have
served for panniers.
Stumpinghame had a king of its own, and his name was Stiffstep; his
family was very ancient and large-footed. His subjects called him Lord
of the World, and he made a speech to them every year concerning the
grandeur of his mighty empire. His queen, Hammerheel, was the greatest
beauty in Stumpinghame. Her majesty's shoe was not much less than a
fishing-boat; their six children promised to be quite as handsome, and
all went well with them till the birth of their seventh son.
For a long time nobody about the palace could understand what was the
matter--the ladies-in-waiting looked so astonished, and the king so
vexed; but at last it was whispered through the city that the queen's
seventh child had been born with such miserably small feet that they
resembled nothing ever seen or heard of in Stumpinghame, except the feet
of the fairies.
The chronicles furnished no example of such an affliction ever before
happening in the royal family. The common people thought it portended
some great calamity to the city; the learnèd men began to write books
about it; and all the relations of the king and queen assembled at the
palace to mourn with them over their singular misfortune. The whole
court and most of the citizens helped in this mourning, but when it had
lasted seven days they all found out it was of no use. So the relations
went to their homes, and the people took to their work. If the learnèd
men's books were written, nobody ever read them; and to cheer up the
queen's spirits, the young prince was sent privately out to the pasture
lands, to be nursed among the shepherds.
The chief man there was called Fleecefold, and his wife's name was Rough
Ruddy. They lived in a snug cottage with their son Blackthorn and their
daughter Brownberry, and were thought great people, because they kept
the king's sheep. Moreover, Fleecefold's family were known to be
ancient; and Rough Ruddy boasted that she had the largest feet in all
the pastures. The shepherds held them in high respect, and it grew still
higher when the news spread that the king's seventh son had been sent to
their cottage. People came from all quarters to see the young prince,
and great were the lamentations over his misfortune in having such small
feet.
The king and queen had given him fourteen names, beginning with
Augustus--such being the fashion in that royal family; but the honest
country people could not remember so many; besides, his feet were the
most remarkable thing about the child, so with one accord they called
him Fairyfoot. At first it was feared this might be high treason, but
when no notice was taken by the king or his ministers, the shepherds
concluded it was no harm, and the boy never had another name throughout
the pastures. At court it was not thought polite to speak of him at all.
They did not keep his birthday, and he was never sent for at Christmas,
because the queen and her ladies could not bear the sight. Once a year
the undermost scullion was sent to see how he did, with a bundle of his
next brother's cast-off clothes; and, as the king grew old and cross, it
was said he had thoughts of disowning him.
So Fairyfoot grew in Fleecefold's cottage. Perhaps the country air made
him fair and rosy--for all agreed that he would have been a handsome boy
but for his small feet, with which nevertheless he learned to walk, and
in time to run and to jump, thereby amazing everybody, for such doings
were not known among the children of Stumpinghame. The news of court,
however, traveled to the shepherds, and Fairyfoot was despised among
them. The old people thought him unlucky; the children refused to play
with him. Fleecefold was ashamed to have him in his cottage, but he
durst not disobey the king's orders. Moreover, Blackthorn wore most of
the clothes brought by the scullion. At last, Rough Ruddy found out that
the sight of such horrid jumping would make her children vulgar; and, as
soon as he was old enough, she sent Fairyfoot every day to watch some
sickly sheep that grazed on a wild, weedy pasture, hard by the forest.
Poor Fairyfoot was often lonely and sorrowful; many a time he wished his
feet would grow larger, or that people wouldn't notice them so much; and
all the comfort he had was running and jumping by himself in the wild
pasture, and thinking that none of the shepherds' children could do the
like, for all their pride of their great feet.
Tired of this sport, he was lying in the shadow of a mossy rock one warm
summer's noon, with the sheep feeding around, when a robin, pursued by a
great hawk, flew into the old velvet cap which lay on the ground beside
him. Fairyfoot covered it up, and the hawk, frightened by his shout,
flew away.
"Now you may go, poor robin!" he said, opening the cap: but instead of
the bird, out sprang a little man dressed in russet-brown, and looking
as if he were an hundred years old. Fairyfoot could not speak for
astonishment, but the little man said--
"Thank you for your shelter, and be sure I will do as much for you. Call
on me if you are ever in trouble; my name is Robin Goodfellow"; and
darting off, he was out of sight in an instant. For days the boy
wondered who that little man could be, but he told nobody, for the
little man's feet were as small as his own, and it was clear he would be
no favorite in Stumpinghame. Fairyfoot kept the story to himself, and at
last midsummer came. That evening was a feast among the shepherds. There
were bonfires on the hills, and fun in the villages. But Fairyfoot sat
alone beside his sheepfold, for the children of his village had refused
to let him dance with them about the bonfire, and he had gone there to
bewail the size of his feet, which came between him and so many good
things. Fairyfoot had never felt so lonely in all his life, and
remembering the little man, he plucked up spirit, and cried--
"Ho! Robin Goodfellow!"
"Here I am," said a shrill voice at his elbow; and there stood the
little man himself.
"I am very lonely, and no one will play with me, because my feet are not
large enough," said Fairyfoot.
"Come then and play with us," said the little man. "We lead the merriest
lives in the world, and care for nobody's feet; but all companies have
their own manners, and there are two things you must mind among us:
first, do as you see the rest doing; and secondly, never speak of
anything you may hear or see, for we and the people of this country have
had no friendship ever since large feet came in fashion."
"I will do that, and anything more you like," said Fairyfoot; and the
little man, taking his hand, led him over the pasture into the forest
and along a mossy path among old trees wreathed with ivy (he never knew
how far), till they heard the sound of music and came upon a meadow
where the moon shone as bright as day, and all the flowers of the
year--snowdrops, violets, primroses, and cowslips--bloomed together in
the thick grass. There were a crowd of little men and women, some clad
in russet color, but far more in green, dancing round a little well as
clear as crystal. And under great rose-trees which grew here and there
in the meadow, companies were sitting round low tables covered with cups
of milk, dishes of honey, and carved wooden flagons filled with clear
red wine. The little man led Fairyfoot up to the nearest table, handed
him one of the flagons, and said--
"Drink to the good company."
Wine was not very common among the shepherds of Stumpinghame, and the
boy had never tasted such drink as that before; for scarcely had it gone
down when he forgot all his troubles--how Blackthorn and Brownberry wore
his clothes, how Rough Ruddy sent him to keep the sickly sheep, and the
children would not dance with him: in short, he forgot the whole
misfortune of his feet, and it seemed to his mind that he was a king's
son, and all was well with him. All the little people about the well
cried--"Welcome! welcome!" and every one said--"Come and dance with me!"
So Fairyfoot was as happy as a prince, and drank milk and ate honey till
the moon was low in the sky, and then the little man took him by the
hand, and never stopped nor stayed till he was at his own bed of straw
in the cottage corner.
Next morning Fairyfoot was not tired for all his dancing. Nobody in the
cottage had missed him, and he went out with the sheep as usual; but
every night all that summer, when the shepherds were safe in bed, the
little man came and took him away to dance in the forest. Now he did not
care to play with the shepherds' children, nor grieve that his father
and mother had forgotten him, but watched the sheep all day, singing to
himself or plaiting rushes; and when the sun went down, Fairyfoot's
heart rejoiced at the thought of meeting that merry company.
The wonder was that he was never tired nor sleepy, as people are apt to
be who dance all night; but before the summer was ended Fairyfoot found
out the reason. One night, when the moon was full, and the last of the
ripe corn rustling in the fields, Robin Goodfellow came for him as
usual, and away they went to the flowery green. The fun there was high,
and Robin was in haste. So he only pointed to the carved cup from which
Fairyfoot every night drank the clear red wine.
"I am not thirsty, and there is no use losing time," thought the boy to
himself, and he joined the dance; but never in all his life did
Fairyfoot find such hard work as to keep pace with the company. Their
feet seemed to move like lightning, the swallows did not fly so fast or
turn so quickly. Fairyfoot did his best, for he never gave in easily,
but at length, his breath and strength being spent, the boy was glad to
steal away and sit down behind a mossy oak, where his eyes closed for
very weariness. When he awoke the dance was nearly over, but two little
ladies clad in green talked close beside him.
"What a beautiful boy!" said one of them. "He is worthy to be a king's
son. Only see what handsome feet he has!"
"Yes," said the other, with a laugh, that sounded spiteful; "they are
just like the feet Princess Maybloom had before she washed them in the
Growing Well. Her father has sent far and wide throughout the whole
country searching for a doctor to make them small again, but nothing in
this world can do it except the water of the Fair Fountain, and none but
I and the nightingales know where it is."
"One would not care to let the like be known," said the first little
lady: "there would come such crowds of these great coarse creatures of
mankind, nobody would have peace for leagues round. But you will surely
send word to the sweet princess!--she was so kind to our birds and
butterflies, and danced so like one of ourselves!"
"Not I, indeed!" said the spiteful fairy. "Her old skinflint of a father
cut down the cedar which I loved best in the whole forest, and made a
chest of it to hold his money in; besides, I never liked the
princess--everybody praised her so. But come, we shall be too late for
the last dance."
When they were gone, Fairyfoot could sleep no more with astonishment. He
did not wonder at the fairies admiring his feet, because their own were
much the same; but it amazed him that Princess Maybloom's father should
be troubled at hers growing large. Moreover, he wished to see that same
princess and her country, since there were really other places in the
world than Stumpinghame.
When Robin Goodfellow came to take him home as usual he durst not let
him know that he had overheard anything; but never was the boy so
unwilling to get up as on that morning, and all day he was so weary that
in the afternoon Fairyfoot fell asleep, with his head on a clump of
rushes. It was seldom that any one thought of looking after him and the
sickly sheep; but it so happened that towards evening the old shepherd,
Fleecefold, thought he would see how things went on in the pastures. The
shepherd had a bad temper and a thick staff, and no sooner did he catch
sight of Fairyfoot sleeping, and his flock straying away, than shouting
all the ill names he could remember, in a voice which woke up the boy,
he ran after him as fast as his great feet would allow; while Fairyfoot,
seeing no other shelter from his fury, fled into the forest, and never
stopped nor stayed till he reached the banks of a little stream.
Thinking it might lead him to the fairies' dancing-ground, he followed
that stream for many an hour, but it wound away into the heart of the
forest, flowing through dells, falling over mossy rocks, and at last
leading Fairyfoot, when he was tired and the night had fallen, to a
grove of great rose-trees, with the moon shining on it as bright as day,
and thousands of nightingales singing in the branches. In the midst of
that grove was a clear spring, bordered with banks of lilies, and
Fairyfoot sat down by it to rest himself and listen. The singing was so
sweet he could have listened for ever, but as he sat the nightingales
left off their songs, and began to talk together in the silence of the
night.
"What boy is that," said one on a branch above him, "who sits so lonely
by the Fair Fountain? He cannot have come from Stumpinghame with such
small and handsome feet."
"No, I'll warrant you," said another, "he has come from the west
country. How in the world did he find the way?"
"How simple you are!" said a third nightingale. "What had he to do but
follow the ground-ivy which grows over height and hollow, bank and bush,
from the lowest gate of the king's kitchen garden to the root of this
rose-tree? He looks a wise boy, and I hope he will keep the secret, or
we shall have all the west country here, dabbling in our fountain, and
leaving us no rest to either talk or sing."
Fairyfoot sat in great astonishment at this discourse, but by and by,
when the talk ceased and the songs began, he thought it might be as well
for him to follow the ground-ivy, and see the Princess Maybloom, not to
speak of getting rid of Rough Ruddy, the sickly sheep, and the crusty
old shepherd. It was a long journey; but he went on, eating wild
berries by day, sleeping in the hollows of old trees by night, and never
losing sight of the ground-ivy, which led him over height and hollow,
bank and bush, out of the forest, and along a noble high road, with
fields and villages on every side, to a great city, and a low
old-fashioned gate of the king's kitchen-garden, which was thought too
mean for the scullions, and had not been opened for seven years.
There was no use knocking--the gate was overgrown with tall weeds and
moss; so, being an active boy, he climbed over, and walked through the
garden, till a white fawn came frisking by, and he heard a soft voice
saying sorrowfully--
"Come back, come back, my fawn! I cannot run and play with you now, my
feet have grown so heavy"; and looking round he saw the loveliest young
princess in the world, dressed in snow-white, and wearing a wreath of
roses on her golden hair; but walking slowly, as the great people did in
Stumpinghame, for her feet were as large as the best of them.
After her came six young ladies, dressed in white and walking slowly,
for they could not go before the princess; but Fairyfoot was amazed to
see that their feet were as small as his own. At once he guessed that
this must be the Princess Maybloom, and made her an humble bow, saying--
"Royal princess, I have heard of your trouble because your feet have
grown large; in my country that's all the fashion. For seven years past
I have been wondering what would make mine grow, to no purpose; but I
know of a certain fountain that will make yours smaller and finer than
ever they were, if the king, your father, gives you leave to come with
me, accompanied by two of your maids that are the least given to
talking, and the most prudent officer in all his household; for it would
grievously offend the fairies and the nightingales to make that fountain
known."
When the princess heard that, she danced for joy in spite of her large
feet, and she and her six maids brought Fairyfoot before the king and
queen, where they sat in their palace hall, with all the courtiers
paying their morning compliments. The lords were very much astonished to
see a ragged, bare-footed boy brought in among them, and the ladies
thought Princess Maybloom must have gone mad; but Fairyfoot, making an
humble reverence, told his message to the king and queen, and offered to
set out with the princess that very day. At first the king would not
believe that there could be any use in his offer, because so many great
physicians had failed to give any relief. The courtiers laughed
Fairyfoot to scorn, the pages wanted to turn him out for an impudent
impostor, and the prime minister said he ought to be put to death for
high treason.
Fairyfoot wished himself safe in the forest again, or even keeping the
sickly sheep; but the queen, being a prudent woman, said--
"I pray your majesty to notice what fine feet this boy has. There may be
some truth in his story. For the sake of our only daughter, I will
choose two maids who talk the least of all our train, and my
chamberlain, who is the most discreet officer in our household. Let them
go with the princess; who knows but our sorrow may be lessened?"
After some persuasion the king consented, though all his councillors
advised the contrary. So the two silent maids, the discreet
chamberlain, and her fawn, which would not stay behind, were sent with
Princess Maybloom, and they all set out after dinner. Fairyfoot had hard
work guiding them along the track of the ground-ivy. The maids and the
chamberlain did not like the brambles and rough roots of the
forest--they thought it hard to eat berries and sleep in hollow trees;
but the princess went on with good courage, and at last they reached the
grove of rose-trees, and the spring bordered with lilies.
The chamberlain washed--and though his hair had been grey, and his face
wrinkled, the young courtiers envied his beauty for years after. The
maids washed--and from that day they were esteemed the fairest in all
the palace. Lastly, the princess washed also--it could make her no
fairer, but the moment her feet touched the water they grew less, and
when she had washed and dried them three times, they were as small and
finely-shaped as Fairyfoot's own. There was great joy among them, but
the boy said sorrowfully--
"Oh! if there had been a well in the world to make my feet large, my
father and mother would not have cast me off, nor sent me to live among
the shepherds."
"Cheer up your heart," said the Princess Maybloom; "if you want large
feet, there is a well in this forest that will do it. Last summer time I
came with my father and his foresters to see a great cedar cut down, of
which he meant to make a money chest. While they were busy with the
cedar, I saw a bramble branch covered with berries. Some were ripe and
some were green, but it was the longest bramble that ever grew; for the
sake of the berries, I went on and on to its root, which grew hard by a
muddy-looking well, with banks of dark green moss, in the deepest part
of the forest. The day was warm and dry and my feet were sore with the
rough ground, so I took off my scarlet shoes and washed my feet in the
well; but as I washed they grew larger every minute, and nothing could
ever make them less again. I have seen the bramble this day; it is not
far off, and as you have shown me the Fair Fountain, I will show you the
Growing Well."
Up rose Fairyfoot and Princess Maybloom, and went together till they
found the bramble, and came to where its root grew, hard by the
muddy-looking well, with banks of dark green moss in the deepest dell of
the forest. Fairyfoot sat down to wash, but at that minute he heard a
sound of music, and knew it was the fairies going to their dancing
ground.
"If my feet grow large," said the boy to himself, "how shall I dance
with them?" So, rising quickly, he took the Princess Maybloom by the
hand. The fawn followed them; the maids and the chamberlain followed it,
and all followed the music through the forest. At last they came to the
flowery green. Robin Goodfellow welcomed the company for Fairyfoot's
sake, and gave every one a drink of the fairies' wine. So they danced
there from sunset till the grey morning, and nobody was tired; but
before the lark sang, Robin Goodfellow took them all safe home, as he
used to take Fairyfoot.
There was great joy that day in the palace because Princess Maybloom's
feet were made small again. The king gave Fairyfoot all manner of fine
clothes and rich jewels; and when they heard his wonderful story, he and
the queen asked him to live with them and be their son. In process of
time Fairyfoot and Princess Maybloom were married, and still live
happily. When they go to visit at Stumpinghame, they always wash their
feet in the Growing Well, lest the royal family might think them a
disgrace, but when they come back, they make haste to the Fair Fountain;
and the fairies and the nightingales are great friends to them, as well
as the maids and the chamberlain, because they have told nobody about
it, and there is peace and quiet yet in the grove of rose-trees.
200
The ill-fated Oscar Wilde (1856-1900) was born
in Ireland, was educated at Oxford, came into
great notoriety as the reputed leader of the
"aesthetic movement," was prominent in the
London literary world from 1885 to 1895, fell
under the obloquy of most of his countrymen,
and died in distressing circumstances in Paris.
In addition to some remarkable plays, poems,
and prose books, he wrote a number of unusual
stories especially fascinating to children,
which were collected under the title _The Happy
Prince, and Other Tales_. These stories were at
once recognized as classic in quality. While
they contain much implied criticism of certain
features of modern civilization, the whole tone
is so idealistic and the workmanship so fine
that they convey no strong note of bitterness
to the child. "The Happy Prince" suggests that
Wilde saw on the one hand "the white faces of
starving children looking out listlessly at the
black streets"; while on the other hand he saw
the Pyramids, marble angels sculptured on the
cathedral tower, and the gold-covered statue of
the Prince of the Palace of the Care-Free.
Wilde also suggests a remedy for the starvation
and wretchedness that exist, especially among
children, in most cities where great wealth is
displayed. The important thing in presenting
this story to children is to get the full
sympathetic response due to the sacrifice made
by the Happy Prince and the little swallow. So
much of the effect depends upon the wonderful
beauty of the language that teachers will, as a
rule, get better results from reading or
reciting than from any kind of oral paraphrase.
Another story in this same volume widely and
successfully used by teachers is the one called
"The Selfish Giant."
THE HAPPY PRINCE
OSCAR WILDE
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy
Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes
he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his
sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock,"
remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for
having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing
lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
"Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her
little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams
of crying for anything."
"I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered
a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
"He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came
out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean
white pinafores.
"How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master; "you have never seen
one."
"Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the
Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not
approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a Little Swallow. His friends had
gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he
was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the
spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had
been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to
her.
"Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at
once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her,
touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was
his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
"It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has
no money, and far too many relations"; and indeed the river was quite
full of Reeds. Then when the autumn came they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love.
"She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a
coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly,
whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I
admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love traveling, and my
wife, consequently, should love traveling also."
"Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook
her head, she was so attached to her home.
"You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids.
Good-bye!" and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where
shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations."
Then he saw the statue on the tall column.
"I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of
fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
"I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round,
and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head
under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious
thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are
quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north
of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that
was merely her selfishness."
Then another drop fell.
"What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said;
"I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up,
and saw--Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were
running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the
moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
"Who are you?" he said.
"I am the Happy Prince."
"Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite drenched
me."
"When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did
not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where
sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my
companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the
Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to
ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My
courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if
pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead
they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all
the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot
choose but weep."
"What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too
polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
"Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a
little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and
through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and
worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she
is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for
the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honor to wear at the next
Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying
ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing
to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little
Swallow, will you not take her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet
are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move."
"I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up
and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they
will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there
himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and
embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and
his hands are like withered leaves."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay
with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and
the mother so sad."
"I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I
was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons,
who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we
swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family
famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect."
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry.
"It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one
night, and be your messenger."
"Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and
flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were
sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A
beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful
the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of
love!"
"I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she
answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but
the seamstresses are so lazy."
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of
the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining
with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he
came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on
his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he
hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble.
Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his
wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy. "I must be getting better"; and
he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had
done. "It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although
it is so cold."
"That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the
little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always
made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a
remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was
passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long
letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full
of so many words that they could not understand.
"To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits
at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long
time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows
chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so
he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any
commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay
with me one night longer?"
"I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends
will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among
the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All
night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he
utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions
come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green
beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across
the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk
covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of
withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a
pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a
play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any
more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint."
"I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really
had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?"
"Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I
have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of
India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He
will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his
play."
"Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to
weep.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command
you."
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the
student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in
the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man
had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the
bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire
lying on the withered violets.
"I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great
admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbor. He sat on the mast of
a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the
hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I
am going to Egypt!" cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the
moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
"I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay
with me one night longer?"
"It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be
here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the
crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are
building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves
are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave
you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back
two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby
shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as
the great sea."
"In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little
match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all
spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money,
and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is
bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will
not beat her."
"I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot
pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command
you."
So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He
swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her
hand. "What a lovely bit of glass," cried the little girl; and she ran
home, laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said,
"so I will stay with you always."
"No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt."
"I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the
Prince's feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories
of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who
stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch goldfish in their
beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in
the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by
the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the
King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and
worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a
palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of
the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are
always at war with the butterflies.
"Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvelous
things, but more marvelous than anything is the suffering of men and of
women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little
Swallow, and tell me what you see there."
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry
in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates.
He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children
looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a
bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try to keep
themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie
here," shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
"I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince; "you must take it off,
leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold
can make them happy."
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy
Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he
brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they
laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets
looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and
glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves
of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore
scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave
the Prince; he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the
baker's door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself
warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to
fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he
murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?"
"I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said
the Prince. "You have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the
lips, for I love you."
"It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to
the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?"
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his
feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if
something had suddenly broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had
snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in
company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked
up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said.
"How shabby indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with
the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.
"The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is
golden no longer," said the Mayor; "in fact, he is little better than a
beggar!"
"Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors.
"And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor.
"We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed
to die here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer
beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the
University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting
of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We
must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue
of myself."
"Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled.
When I last heard of them they were quarreling still.
"What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry.
"This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it
away." So they threw it on a dustheap where the dead Swallow was also
lying.
"Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of
His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead
bird.
"You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this
little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy
Prince shall praise me."
201
Two stories of unusual interest and charm for
children are found in the collection of eleven
by Raymond M. Alden (1873--), _Why the Chimes
Rang_. One is the title story of the volume;
the other is "The Knights of the Silver
Shield." The latter follows by permission of
the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co.,
Indianapolis. (Copyright, 1906, 1908.) It is of
striking dramatic interest and emphasizes a
much-needed quality of character, the
importance of a loyal performance of the
lowlier duties of life. The salvation of a
nation may depend upon the humble guardian of
the gate quite as much as upon those who are
engaged in the more spectacular struggle with
giants. Mr. Alden is a scholarly professor of
literature in Leland Stanford Jr. University,
and it may interest the reader to know that he
is the son of the author of the _Pansy Books_,
a type of religious or Sunday-school fiction
widely read throughout the country by a
generation or two of young people.
THE KNIGHTS OF THE SILVER SHIELD
RAYMOND MACDONALD ALDEN
There was once a splendid castle in a forest, with great stone walls and
a high gateway, and turrets that rose away above the tallest trees. The
forest was dark and dangerous, and many cruel giants lived in it; but in
the castle was a company of knights, who were kept there by the king of
the country, to help travelers who might be in the forest and to fight
with the giants whenever they could.
Each of these knights wore a beautiful suit of armor and carried a long
spear, while over his helmet there floated a great red plume that could
be seen a long way off by any one in distress. But the most wonderful
thing about the knights' armor was their shields. They were not like
those of other knights, but had been made by a great magician who had
lived in the castle many years before. They were made of silver, and
sometimes shone in the sunlight with dazzling brightness; but at other
times the surface of the shields would be clouded as though by a mist,
and one could not see his face reflected there as he could when they
shone brightly.
Now, when each young knight received his spurs and his armor, a new
shield was also given him from among those that the magician had made;
and when the shield was new its surface was always cloudy and dull. But
as the knight began to do service against the giants, or went on
expeditions to help poor travelers in the forest, his shield grew
brighter and brighter, so that he could see his face clearly reflected
in it. But if he proved to be a lazy or cowardly knight, and let the
giants get the better of him, or did not care what became of the
travelers, then the shield grew more and more cloudy, until the knight
became ashamed to carry it.
But this was not all. When any one of the knights fought a particularly
hard battle, and won the victory, or when he went on some hard errand
for the lord of the castle, and was successful, not only did his silver
shield grow brighter, but when one looked into the center of it he could
see something like a golden star shining in its very heart. This was the
greatest honor that a knight could achieve, and the other knights always
spoke of such a one as having "won his star." It was usually not till he
was pretty old and tried as a soldier that he could win it. At the time
when this story begins, the lord of the castle himself was the only one
of the knights whose shield bore the golden star.
There came a time when the worst of the giants in the forest gathered
themselves together to have a battle against the knights. They made a
camp in a dark hollow not far from the castle, and gathered all their
best warriors together, and all the knights made ready to fight them.
The windows of the castle were closed and barred; the air was full of
the noise of armor being made ready for use; and the knights were so
excited that they could scarcely rest or eat.
Now there was a young knight in the castle, named Sir Roland, who was
among those most eager for the battle. He was a splendid warrior, with
eyes that shone like stars whenever there was anything to do in the way
of knightly deeds. And although he was still quite young, his shield had
begun to shine enough to show plainly that he had done bravely in some
of his errands through the forest. This battle, he thought, would be the
great opportunity of his life. And on the morning of the day when they
were to go forth to it, and all the knights assembled in the great hall
of the castle to receive the commands of their leaders, Sir Roland hoped
that he would be put in the most dangerous place of all, so that he
could show what knightly stuff he was made of.
But when the lord of the castle came to him, as he went about in full
armor giving his commands, he said: "One brave knight must stay behind
and guard the gateway of the castle, and it is you, Sir Roland, being
one of the youngest, whom I have chosen for this."
At these words Sir Roland was so disappointed that he bit his lip and
closed his helmet over his face so that the other knights might not see
it. For a moment he felt as if he must reply angrily to the commander
and tell him that it was not right to leave so sturdy a knight behind
when he was eager to fight. But he struggled against this feeling and
went quietly to look after his duties at the gate. The gateway was high
and narrow, and was reached from outside by a high, narrow bridge that
crossed the moat, which surrounded the castle on every side. When an
enemy approached, the knight on guard rang a great bell just inside the
gate, and the bridge was drawn up against the castle wall, so that no
one could come across the moat. So the giants had long ago given up
trying to attack the castle itself.
To-day the battle was to be in the dark hollow in the forest, and it was
not likely that there would be anything to do at the castle gate, except
to watch it like a common doorkeeper. It was not strange that Sir Roland
thought some one else might have done this.
Presently all the other knights marched out in their flashing armor,
their red plumes waving over their heads, and their spears in their
hands. The lord of the castle stopped only to tell Sir Roland to keep
guard over the gate until they had all returned and to let no one enter.
Then they went into the shadows of the forest and were soon lost to
sight.
Sir Roland stood looking after them long after they had gone, thinking
how happy he would be if he were on the way to battle like them. But
after a little he put this out of his mind and tried to think of
pleasanter things. It was a long time before anything happened, or any
word came from the battle.
At last Sir Roland saw one of the knights come limping down the path to
the castle, and he went out on the bridge to meet him. Now this knight
was not a brave one, and he had been frightened away as soon as he was
wounded.
"I have been hurt," he said, "so that I can not fight any more. But I
could watch the gate for you, if you would like to go back in my place."
At first Sir Roland's heart leaped with joy at this, but then he
remembered what the commander had told him on going away, and he said:
"I should like to go, but a knight belongs where his commander has put
him. My place is here at the gate, and I can not open it even for you.
Your place is at the battle."
The knight was ashamed when he heard this, and he presently turned about
and went into the forest again.
So Sir Roland kept guard silently for another hour. Then there came an
old beggar woman down the path to the castle and asked Sir Roland if she
might come in and have some food. He told her that no one could enter
the castle that day, but that he would send a servant out to her with
food, and that she might sit and rest as long as she would.
"I have been past the hollow in the forest where the battle is going
on," said the old woman, while she was waiting for her food.
"And how do you think it is going?" asked Sir Roland.
"Badly for the knights, I am afraid," said the old woman. "The giants
are fighting as they have never fought before. I should think you had
better go and help your friends."
"I should like to, indeed," said Sir Roland. "But I am set to guard the
gateway of the castle and can not leave."
"One fresh knight would make a great difference when they are all weary
with fighting," said the old woman. "I should think that, while there
are no enemies about, you would be much more useful there."
"You may well think so," said Sir Roland, "and so may I; but it is
neither you nor I that is commander here."
"I suppose," said the old woman then, "that you are one of the kind of
knights who like to keep out of fighting. You are lucky to have so good
an excuse for staying at home." And she laughed a thin and taunting
laugh.
Then Sir Roland was very angry, and thought that if it were only a man
instead of a woman, he would show him whether he liked fighting or no.
But as it was a woman, he shut his lips and set his teeth hard together,
and as the servant came just then with the food he had sent for, he gave
it to the old woman quickly and shut the gate that she might not talk to
him any more.
It was not very long before he heard some one calling outside. Sir
Roland opened the gate and saw standing at the other end of the
drawbridge a little old man in a long black cloak. "Why are you knocking
here?" he said. "The castle is closed to-day."
"Are you Sir Roland?" said the little old man.
"Yes," said Sir Roland.
"Then you ought not to be staying here when your commander and his
knights are having so hard a struggle with the giants, and when you have
the chance to make of yourself the greatest knight in this kingdom.
Listen to me! I have brought you a magic sword."
As he said this, the old man drew from under his coat a wonderful sword
that flashed in the sunlight as if it were covered with diamonds. "This
is the sword of all swords," he said, "and it is for you, if you will
leave your idling here by the castle gate and carry it to the battle.
Nothing can stand before it. When you lift it the giants will fall back,
your master will be saved, and you will be crowned the victorious
knight--the one who will soon take his commander's place as lord of the
castle."
Now Sir Roland believed that it was a magician who was speaking to him,
for it certainly appeared to be a magic sword. It seemed so wonderful
that the sword should be brought to him, that he reached out his hand as
though he would take it, and the little old man came forward, as though
he would cross the drawbridge into the castle. But as he did so, it came
to Sir Roland's mind again that that bridge and the gateway had been
intrusted to him, and he called out "No!" to the old man, so that he
stopped where he was standing. But he waved the shining sword in the air
again, and said: "It is for you! Take it, and win the victory!"
Sir Roland was really afraid that if he looked any longer at the sword
or listened to any more words of the old man, he would not be able to
hold himself within the castle. For this reason he struck the great bell
at the gateway, which was the signal for the servants inside to pull in
the chains of the drawbridge, and instantly they began to pull, and the
drawbridge came up, so that the old man could not cross it to enter the
castle, nor Sir Roland to go out.
Then, as he looked across the moat, Sir Roland saw a wonderful thing.
The little old man threw off his black cloak, and as he did so he began
to grow bigger and bigger, until in a minute more he was a giant as tall
as any in the forest. At first Sir Roland could scarcely believe his
eyes. Then he realized that this must be one of their giant enemies, who
had changed himself to a little old man through some magic power, that
he might make his way into the castle while all the knights were away.
Sir Roland shuddered to think what might have happened if he had taken
the sword and left the gate unguarded. The giant shook his fist across
the moat that lay between them, and then, knowing that he could do
nothing more, he went angrily back into the forest.
Sir Roland now resolved not to open the gate again, and to pay no
attention to any other visitor. But it was not long before he heard a
sound that made him spring forward in joy. It was the bugle of the lord
of the castle, and there came sounding after it the bugles of many of
the knights that were with him, pealing so joyfully that Sir Roland was
sure they were safe and happy. As they came nearer, he could hear their
shouts of victory. So he gave the signal to let down the drawbridge
again, and went out to meet them. They were dusty and bloodstained and
weary, but they had won the battle with the giants; and it had been such
a great victory that there had never been a happier home-coming.
Sir Roland greeted them all as they passed in over the bridge, and then,
when he had closed the gate and fastened it, he followed them into the
great hall of the castle. The lord of the castle took his place on the
highest seat, with the other knights about him, and Sir Roland came
forward with the key of the gate, to give his account of what he had
done in the place to which the commander had appointed him. The lord of
the castle bowed to him as a sign for him to begin, but just as he
opened his mouth to speak, one of the knights cried out:
"The shield! the shield! Sir Roland's shield!"
Every one turned and looked at the shield which Sir Roland carried on
his left arm. He himself could see only the top of it and did not know
what they could mean. But what they saw was the golden star of
knighthood, shining brightly from the center of Sir Roland's shield.
There had never been such amazement in the castle before.
Sir Roland knelt before the lord of the castle to receive his commands.
He still did not know why every one was looking at him so excitedly, and
wondered if he had in some way done wrong.
"Speak, Sir Knight," said the commander, as soon as he could find his
voice after his surprise, "and tell us all that has happened to-day at
the castle. Have you been attacked? Have any giants come hither? Did you
fight them alone?"
"No, my Lord," said Sir Roland. "Only one giant has been here, and he
went away silently when he found he could not enter."
Then he told all that had happened through the day.
When he had finished, the knights all looked at one another, but no one
spoke a word. Then they looked again at Sir Roland's shield, to make
sure that their eyes had not deceived them, and there the golden star
was still shining.
After a little silence the lord of the castle spoke.
"Men make mistakes," he said, "but our silver shields are never
mistaken. Sir Roland has fought and won the hardest battle of all
to-day."
Then the others all rose and saluted Sir Roland, who was the youngest
knight that ever carried the golden star.
202
Jean Ingelow (1820-1897) was an English poet,
novelist, and writer of stories for children,
who lived in the fen district of Lincolnshire.
Her most noted poem deals with a terrible
catastrophe that happened there more than three
centuries ago. It is called "The High Tide on
the Coast of Lincolnshire." Many reading books
for the third or fourth grade contain her
dainty and melodious "Seven Times One," in
which a little girl expresses the joy and sense
of power felt on reaching a seventh birthday.
Of her children's books, the favorite is _Mopsa
the Fairy_, which some one has called a
"delightful succession of breezy
impossibilities." Her shorter stories for
children are collected under the title _Stories
Told to a Child_ (two series), from which "The
Prince's Dream" is taken. It is somewhat old
fashioned in method and style, reminding one of
the stories of the days of Addison and Steele.
Its seriousness is in striking contrast with
the more flippant note in much modern writing
for children, and it is sure to suggest some
questions on the dangers and advantages of
great possessions in their effects on labor,
liberty, and human happiness in general.
However, the moral will take care of itself,
and the attention should rest on the means used
by the old man to teach the young prince the
things he is shut out from learning by
experience. The children will easily see that
it is an anticipation of the moving-picture
method. Some other good stories in the
collection mentioned are "I Have a Right," "The
Fairy Who Judged Her Neighbors," and "Anselmo."
THE PRINCE'S DREAM
JEAN INGELOW
If we may credit the fable, there is a tower in the midst of a great
Asiatic plain, wherein is confined a prince who was placed there in his
earliest infancy, with many slaves and attendants, and all the luxuries
that are compatible with imprisonment.
Whether he was brought there from some motive of state, whether to
conceal him from enemies, or to deprive him of rights, has not
transpired; but it is certain that up to the date of this little history
he had never set his foot outside the walls of that high tower, and that
of the vast world without he knew only the green plains which surrounded
it; the flocks and the birds of that region were all his experience of
living creatures, and all the men he saw outside were shepherds.
And yet he was not utterly deprived of change, for sometimes one of his
attendants would be ordered away, and his place would be supplied by a
new one. This fresh companion the prince would never weary of
questioning, and letting him talk of cities, of ships, of forests, of
merchandise, of kings; but though in turns they all tried to satisfy his
curiosity, they could not succeed in conveying very distinct notions to
his mind; partly because there was nothing in the tower to which they
could compare the external world, partly because, having chiefly lived
lives of seclusion and indolence in Eastern palaces, they knew it only
by hearsay themselves.
At length, one day, a venerable man of a noble presence was brought to
the tower, with soldiers to guard him and slaves to attend him. The
prince was glad of his presence, though at first he seldom opened his
lips, and it was manifest that confinement made him miserable. With
restless feet he would wander from window to window of the stone tower,
and mount from story to story; but mount as high as he would there was
still nothing to be seen but the vast unvarying plain, clothed with
scanty grass, and flooded with the glaring sunshine; flocks and herds,
and shepherds, moved across it sometimes, but nothing else, not even a
shadow, for there was no cloud in the sky to cast one.
The old man, however, always treated the prince with respect, and
answered his questions with a great deal of patience, till at length he
found a pleasure in satisfying his curiosity, which so much pleased the
young prisoner, that, as a great condescension, he invited him to come
out on the roof of the tower and drink sherbet with him in the cool of
the evening, and tell him of the country beyond the desert, and what
seas are like, and mountains, and towns.
"I have learnt much from my attendants, and know this world pretty well
by hearsay," said the prince, as they reclined on the rich carpet which
was spread on the roof.
The old man smiled, but did not answer; perhaps because he did not care
to undeceive his young companion, perhaps because so many slaves were
present, some of whom were serving them with fruit, and others burning
rich odors on a little chafing-dish that stood between them.
"But there are some words to which I never could attach any particular
meaning," proceeded the prince, as the slaves began to retire, "and
three in particular that my attendants cannot satisfy me upon, or are
reluctant to do so."
"What words are those, my prince?" asked the old man. The prince turned
on his elbow to be sure that the last slave had descended the tower
stairs, then replied--
"O man of much knowledge, the words are these--Labor, and Liberty, and
Gold."
"Prince," said the old man, "I do not wonder that it has been hard to
make thee understand the first, the nature of it, and the cause why most
men are born to it; as for the second, it would be treason for thee and
me to do more than whisper it here, and sigh for it when none are
listening; but the third need hardly puzzle thee, thy hookah is bright
with it; all thy jewels are set in it; gold is inlaid in the ivory of
thy bath; thy cup and thy dish are of gold, and golden threads are
wrought into thy raiment."
"That is true," replied the prince, "and if I had not seen and handled
this gold, perhaps I might not find its merits so hard to understand;
but I possess it in abundance, and it does not feed me, nor make music
for me, nor fan me when the sun is hot, nor cause me to sleep when I am
weary; therefore when my slaves have told me how merchants go out and
brave the perilous wind and sea, and live in the unstable ships, and run
risks from shipwreck and pirates, and when, having asked them why they
have done this, they have answered, 'For gold,' I have found it hard to
believe them; and when they have told me how men have lied, and robbed,
and deceived; how they have murdered one another, and leagued together
to depose kings, to oppress provinces, and all for gold; then I have
said to myself, either my slaves have combined to make me believe that
which is not, or this gold must be very different from the yellow stuff
that this coin is made of, this coin which is of no use but to have a
hole pierced through it and hang to my girdle, that it may tinkle when I
walk."
"Notwithstanding," said the old man, "nothing can be done without gold;
for look you, prince, it is better than bread, and fruit, and music, for
it can buy them all, since men love it, and have agreed to exchange it
for whatever they may need."
"How so?" asked the prince.
"If a man has many loaves he cannot eat them all," answered the old man;
"therefore he goes to his neighbor and says, 'I have bread and thou
hast a coin of gold--let us change'; so he receives the gold and goes to
another man, saying, 'Thou hast two houses and I have none; lend me one
of thy houses to live in, and I will give thee my gold'; thus again they
change, and he that has the gold says, 'I have food enough and goods
enough, but I want a wife, I will go to the merchant and get a marriage
gift for her father, and for it I will give him this gold.'"
"It is well," said the prince; "but in time of drought, if there is no
bread in a city, can they make it of gold?"
"Not so," answered the old man, "but they must send their gold to a city
where there is food, and bring that back instead of it."
"But if there was a famine all over the world," asked the prince, "what
would they do then?"
"Why then, and only then," said the old man, "they must starve, and the
gold would be nought, for it can only be changed for that which _is_; it
cannot make that which is not."
"And where do they get gold?" asked the prince; "is it the precious
fruit of some rare tree, or have they whereby they can draw it down from
the sky at sunset?"
"Some of it," said the old man, "they dig out of the ground."
Then he told the prince of ancient rivers running through terrible
deserts, whose sands glitter, with golden grains and are yellow in the
fierce heat of the sun, and of dreary mines where the Indian slaves work
in gangs tied together, never seeing the light of day; and lastly (for
he was a man of much knowledge, and had traveled far), he told him of
the valley of the Sacramento in the New World, and of those mountains
where the people of Europe send their criminals, and where now their
free men pour forth to gather gold, and dig for it as hard as if for
life; sitting up by it at night lest any should take it from them,
giving up houses and country, and wife and children, for the sake of a
few feet of mud, whence they dig clay that glitters as they wash it; and
how they sift it and rock it as patiently as if it were their own
children in the cradle, and afterwards carry it in their bosoms, and
forego on account of it safety and rest.
"But, prince," he proceeded, observing that the young man was absorbed
in his narrative, "if you would pass your word to me never to betray me,
I would procure for you a sight of the external world, and in a trance
you should see those places where gold is dug, and traverse those
regions forbidden to your mortal footsteps."
Upon this, the prince threw himself at the old man's feet, and promised
heartily to observe the secrecy required, and entreated that, for
however short time, he might be suffered to see this wonderful world.
Then, if we may credit the story, the old man drew nearer to the
chafing-dish which stood between them, and having fanned the dying
embers in it, cast upon them a certain powder and some herbs, from
whence as they burnt a peculiar smoke arose. As their vapors spread, he
desired the prince to draw near and inhale them, and then (says the
fable) when he should sleep he should find himself, in his dream, at
whatever place he might desire, with this strange advantage, that he
should see things in their truth and reality as well as in their outward
shows.
So the prince, not without some fear, prepared to obey; but first he
drank his sherbet, and handed over the golden cup to the old man by way
of recompense; then he reclined beside the chafing-dish and inhaled the
heavy perfume till he became overpowered with sleep, and sank down upon
the carpet in a dream.
The prince knew not where he was, but a green country was floating
before him, and he found himself standing in a marshy valley, where a
few wretched cottages were scattered here and there with no means of
communication. There was a river, but it had overflowed its banks and
made the central land impassable, the fences had been broken down by it,
and the fields of corn laid low; a few wretched peasants were wandering
about there; they looked half clad and half starved. "A miserable valley
indeed!" exclaimed the prince; but as he said it a man came down from
the hills with a great bag of gold in his hand.
"This valley is mine," said he to the people; "I have bought it for
gold. Now make banks that the river may not overflow, and I will give
you gold; also make fences and plant fields, and cover in the roofs of
your houses, and buy yourselves richer clothing." So the people did so,
and as the gold got lower in the bag the valley grew fairer and greener,
till the prince exclaimed, "O gold, I see your value now! O wonderful,
beneficent gold!"
But presently the valley melted away like a mist, and the prince saw an
army besieging a city; he heard a general haranguing his soldiers to
urge them on, and the soldiers shouting and battering the walls; but
shortly, when the city was well-nigh taken, he saw some men secretly
throwing gold among the soldiers, so much of it that they threw down
their arms to pick it up, and said that the walls were so strong that
they could not throw them down. "O powerful gold!" thought the prince;
"thou art stronger than the city walls!"
After that it seemed to himself that he was walking about in a desert
country, and in his dream he thought, "Now I know what labor is, for I
have seen it, and its benefits; and I know what liberty is, for I have
tasted it; I can wander where I will, and no man questions me; but gold
is more strange to me than ever, for I have seen it buy both liberty and
labor." Shortly after this he saw a great crowd digging upon a barren
hill, and when he drew near he understood that he had reached the summit
of his wishes, and that he was to see the place where the gold came
from.
He came up and stood a long time watching the people as they toiled
ready to faint in the sun, so great was the labor of digging the gold.
He saw who had much and could not trust any one to help them to carry
it, binding it in bundles over their shoulders, and bending and groaning
under its weight; he saw others hide it in the ground, and watch the
place clothed in rags, that none might suspect that they were rich; but
some, on the contrary, who had dug up an unusual quantity, he saw
dancing and singing, and vaunting their success, till robbers waylaid
them when they slept, and rifled their bundles and carried their golden
sand away.
"All these men are mad," thought the prince, "and this pernicious gold
has made them so."
After this, as he wandered here and there, he saw groups of people
smelting the gold under the shadow of the trees, and he observed that a
dancing, quivering vapor rose up from it, which dazzled their eyes, and
distorted everything that they looked at; arraying it also in different
colors from the true one. He observed that this vapor from the gold
caused all things to rock and reel before the eyes of those who looked
through it, and also, by some strange affinity, it drew their hearts
towards those that carried much gold on their persons, so that they
called them good and beautiful; it also caused them to see darkness and
dullness in the faces of those who carried none. "This," thought the
prince, "is very strange"; but not being able to explain it, he went
still further, and there he saw more people. Each of these had adorned
himself with a broad golden girdle, and was sitting in the shade, while
other men waited on them.
"What ails these people?" he inquired of one who was looking on, for he
observed a peculiar air of weariness and dullness in their faces. He was
answered that the girdles were very tight and heavy, and being bound
over the regions of the heart, were supposed to impede its action, and
prevent it from beating high, and also to chill the wearer, as being of
opaque material, the warm sunshine of the earth could not get through to
warm him.
"Why, then, do they not break them asunder," exclaimed the prince, "and
fling them away?"
"Break them asunder!" cried the man; "why what a madman you must be;
they are made of the purest gold!"
"Forgive my ignorance," replied the prince; "I am a stranger."
So he walked on, for feelings of delicacy prevented him from gazing any
longer at the men with the golden girdles; but as he went he pondered on
the misery he had seen, and thought to himself that this golden sand did
more mischief than all the poisons of the apothecary; for it dazzled the
eyes of some, it strained the hearts of others, it bowed down the heads
of many to the earth with its weight; it was a sore labor to gather it,
and when it was gathered, the robber might carry it away; it would be a
good thing, he thought, if there were none of it.
After this he came to a place where were sitting some aged widows and
some orphan children of the gold-diggers, who were helpless and
destitute; they were weeping and bemoaning themselves, but stopped at
the approach of a man, whose appearance attracted the prince, for he had
a very great bundle of gold on his back, and yet it did not bow him down
at all; his apparel was rich but he had no girdle on, and his face was
anything but sad.
"Sir," said the prince to him, "you have a great burden; you are
fortunate to be able to stand under it."
"I could not do so," he replied, "only that as I go on I keep lightening
it"; and as he passed each of the widows, he threw gold to her, and
stooping down, hid pieces of it in the bosoms of the children.
"You have no girdle," said the prince.
"I once had one," answered the gold gatherer; "but it was so tight over
my breast that my very heart grew cold under it, and almost ceased to
beat. Having a great quantity of gold on my back, I felt almost at the
last gasp; so I threw off my girdle and being on the bank of a river,
which I knew not how to cross, I was about to fling it in, I was so
vexed! 'But no,' thought I, 'there are many people waiting here to cross
besides myself. I will make my girdle into a bridge, and we will cross
over on it.'"
"Turn your girdle into a bridge!" exclaimed the prince doubtfully, for
he did not quite understand.
The man explained himself.
"And then, sir, after that," he continued, "I turned one half of my
burden into bread, and gave it to these poor people. Since then I have
not been oppressed by its weight, however heavy it may have been; for
few men have a heavier one. In fact, I gather more from day to day."
As the man kept speaking, he scattered his gold right and left with a
cheerful countenance, and the prince was about to reply, when suddenly a
great trembling under his feet made him fall to the ground. The refining
fires of the gold gatherers sprang up into flames, and then went out;
night fell over everything on the earth, and nothing was visible in the
sky but the stars of the southern cross, which were glittering above
him.
"It is past midnight," thought the prince, "for the stars of the cross
begin to bend."
He raised himself upon his elbow, and tried to pierce the darkness, but
could not. At length a slender blue flame darted out, as from ashes in a
chafing-dish, and by the light of it he saw the strange pattern of his
carpet and the cushions lying about. He did not recognise them at first,
but presently he knew that he was lying in his usual place, at the top
of his tower.
"Wake up, prince," said the old man.
The prince sat up and sighed, and the old man inquired what he had seen.
"O man of much learning!" answered the prince, "I have seen that this is
a wonderful world; I have seen the value of labor, and I know the uses
of it; I have tasted the sweetness of liberty, and am grateful, though
it was but in a dream; but as for that other word that was so great a
mystery to me, I only know this, that it must remain a mystery forever,
since I am fain to believe that all men are bent on getting it; though,
once gotten, it causeth them endless disquietude, only second to their
discomfort that are without it. I am fain to believe that they can
procure with it whatever they most desire, and yet that it cankers their
hearts and dazzles their eyes; that it is their nature and their duty to
gather it; and yet that, when once gathered, the best thing they can do
is to scatter it!"
Alas! the prince visited this wonderful world no more; for the next
morning, when he awoke, the old man was gone. He had taken with him the
golden cup which the prince had given him. And the sentinel was also
gone, none knew whither. Perhaps the old man had turned his golden cup
into a golden key.
203
Few modern writers have given their readers
more genuine delight than Frank R. Stockton
(1834-1902). The most absurd and illogical
situations and characters are presented with an
air of such quiet sincerity that one refuses to
question the reality of it all. _Rudder Grange_
established his reputation in 1879, and was
followed by a long list of stories of
delightfully impossible events. For several
years Stockton was one of the editors of _St.
Nicholas_, and some of his stories for
children, of first quality in both form and
content, deserve to be better known than they
are. Five of the best of them for school use
have been brought together in a little volume
called _Fanciful Tales_. One of these, "Old
Pipes and the Dryad," is given here by
permission of the publishers, Charles
Scribner's Sons, New York. (Copyright, 1894.)
This story is based upon the old mythical
belief that the trees are inhabited by guardian
deities known as dryads, or hamadryads. To
injure a tree meant to injure its guardian
spirit and was almost certain to insure
disaster for the guilty person. On the other
hand, to protect a tree would bring some token
of appreciation from the dryad. A good
introduction to the story would be the telling
of one or two of these tree myths as found in
Gayley's _Classic Myths_ or Bulfinch's _Age of
Fable_. A fine literary version of one of them
is in Lowell's "Rhoecus." But the beautiful and
kindly helpfulness of Old Pipes will carry its
own message whether one knows any mythology or
not.
OLD PIPES AND THE DRYAD
FRANK R. STOCKTON
A Mountain brook ran through a little village. Over the brook there was
a narrow bridge, and from the bridge a foot-path led out from the
village and up the hill-side, to the cottage of Old Pipes and his
mother.
For many, many years Old Pipes had been employed by the villagers to
pipe the cattle down from the hills. Every afternoon, an hour before
sunset, he would sit on a rock in front of his cottage and play on his
pipes. Then all the flocks and herds that were grazing on the mountains
would hear him, wherever they might happen to be, and would come down to
the village--the cows by the easiest paths, the sheep by those not quite
so easy, and the goats by the steep and rocky ways that were hardest of
all.
But now, for a year or more, Old Pipes had not piped the cattle home. It
is true that every afternoon he sat upon the rock and played upon his
pipes; but the cattle did not hear him. He had grown old, and his breath
was feeble. The echoes of his cheerful notes, which used to come from
the rocky hill on the other side of the valley, were heard no more; and
twenty yards from Old Pipes one could scarcely tell what tune he was
playing. He had become somewhat deaf, and did not know that the sound of
his pipes was so thin and weak, and that the cattle did not hear him.
The cows, the sheep, and the goats came down every afternoon as before;
but this was because two boys and a girl were sent up after them. The
villagers did not wish the good old man to know that his piping was no
longer of any use; so they paid him his little salary every month, and
said nothing about the two boys and the girl.
Old Pipes's mother was, of course, a great deal older than he was, and
was as deaf as a gate--post, latch, hinges, and all--and she never knew
that the sound of her son's pipe did not spread over all the
mountain-side and echo back strong and clear from the opposite hills.
She was very fond of Old Pipes, and proud of his piping; and as he was
so much younger than she was, she never thought of him as being very
old. She cooked for him, and made his bed, and mended his clothes; and
they lived very comfortably on his little salary.
One afternoon, at the end of the month, when Old Pipes had finished his
piping, he took his stout staff and went down the hill to the village to
receive the money for his month's work. The path seemed a great deal
steeper and more difficult than it used to be; and Old Pipes thought
that it must have been washed by the rains and greatly damaged. He
remembered it as a path that was quite easy to traverse either up or
down. But Old Pipes had been a very active man, and as his mother was so
much older than he was, he never thought of himself as aged and infirm.
When the Chief Villager had paid him, and he had talked a little with
some of his friends, Old Pipes started to go home. But when he had
crossed the bridge over the brook, and gone a short distance up the
hill-side, he became very tired, and sat down upon a stone. He had not
been sitting there half a minute, when along came two boys and a girl.
"Children," said Old Pipes, "I'm very tired to-night, and I don't
believe I can climb up this steep path to my home. I think I shall have
to ask you to help me."
"We will do that," said the boys and the girl, quite cheerfully; and one
boy took him by the right hand and the other by the left, while the girl
pushed him in the back. In this way he went up the hill quite easily,
and soon reached his cottage door. Old Pipes gave each of the three
children a copper coin, and then they sat down for a few minutes' rest
before starting back to the village.
"I'm sorry that I tired you so much," said Old Pipes.
"Oh, that would not have tired us," said one of the boys, "if we had not
been so far to-day after the cows, the sheep, and the goats. They
rambled high up on the mountain, and we never before had such a time in
finding them."
"Had to go after the cows, the sheep, and the goats!" exclaimed Old
Pipes. "What do you mean by that?"
The girl, who stood behind the old man, shook her head, put her hand on
her mouth, and made all sorts of signs to the boy to stop talking on
this subject; but he did not notice her, and promptly answered Old
Pipes.
"Why, you see, good sir," said he, "that as the cattle can't hear your
pipes now, somebody has to go after them every evening to drive them
down from the mountain, and the Chief Villager has hired us three to do
it. Generally it is not very hard work, but to-night the cattle had
wandered far."
"How long have you been doing this?" asked the old man.
The girl shook her head and clapped her hand on her mouth as before, but
the boy went on.
"I think it is about a year now," he said, "since the people first felt
sure that the cattle could not hear your pipes; and from that time we've
been driving them down. But we are rested now, and will go home.
Good-night, sir."
The three children then went down the hill, the girl scolding the boy
all the way home. Old Pipes stood silent a few moments, and then he went
into his cottage.
"Mother," he shouted, "did you hear what those children said?"
"Children!" exclaimed the old woman; "I did not hear them. I did not
know there were any children here."
Then Old Pipes told his mother--shouting very loudly to make her
hear--how the two boys and the girl had helped him up the hill, and what
he had heard about his piping and the cattle.
"They can't hear you?" cried his mother. "Why, what's the matter with
the cattle?"
"Ah, me!" said Old Pipes; "I don't believe there's anything the matter
with the cattle. It must be with me and my pipes that there is something
the matter. But one thing is certain: if I do not earn the wages the
Chief Villager pays me, I shall not take them. I shall go straight down
to the village and give back the money I received to-day."
"Nonsense!" cried his mother. "I'm sure you've piped as well as you
could, and no more can be expected. And what are we to do without the
money?"
"I don't know," said Old Pipes; "but I'm going down to the village to
pay it back."
The sun had now set; but the moon was shining very brightly on the
hill-side, and Old Pipes could see his way very well. He did not take
the same path by which he had gone before, but followed another, which
led among the trees upon the hill-side, and, though longer, was not so
steep.
When he had gone about half-way, the old man sat down to rest, leaning
his back against a great oak tree. As he did so, he heard a sound like
knocking inside the tree, and then a voice said:
"Let me out! let me out!"
Old Pipes instantly forgot that he was tired, and sprang to his feet.
"This must be a Dryad tree!" he exclaimed. "If it is, I'll let her out."
Old Pipes had never, to his knowledge, seen a Dryad tree, but he knew
there were such trees on the hill-sides and the mountains, and that
Dryads lived in them. He knew, too, that in the summer time, on those
days when the moon rose before the sun went down, a Dryad could come out
of her tree if any one could find the key which locked her in, and turn
it. Old Pipes closely examined the trunk of the tree, which stood in the
full moonlight. "If I see that key," he said, "I shall surely turn it."
Before long he found a piece of bark standing out from the tree, which
looked to him very much like the handle of a key. He took hold of it,
and found he could turn it quite around. As he did so, a large part of
the side of the tree was pushed open, and a beautiful Dryad stepped
quickly out.
For a moment she stood motionless, gazing on the scene before her--the
tranquil valley, the hills, the forest, and the mountain-side, all lying
in the soft clear light of the moon. "Oh, lovely! lovely!" she
exclaimed. "How long it is since I have seen anything like this!" And
then, turning to Old Pipes, she said: "How good of you to let me out! I
am so happy, and so thankful, that I must kiss you, you dear old man!"
And she threw her arms around the neck of Old Pipes, and kissed him on
both cheeks.
"You don't know," she then went on to say, "how doleful it is to be shut
up so long in a tree. I don't mind it in the winter, for then I am glad
to be sheltered, but in summer it is a rueful thing not to be able to
see all the beauties of the world. And it's ever so long since I've been
let out. People so seldom come this way; and when they do come at the
right time, they either don't hear me or they are frightened and run
away. But you, you dear old man, you were not frightened, and you looked
and looked for the key, and you let me out; and now I shall not have to
go back till winter has come, and the air grows cold. Oh, it is
glorious! What can I do for you, to show you how grateful I am?"
"I am very glad," said Old Pipes, "that I let you out, since I see that
it makes you so happy; but I must admit that I tried to find the key
because I had a great desire to see a Dryad. But, if you wish to do
something for me, you can, if you happen to be going down toward the
village."
"To the village!" exclaimed the Dryad. "I will go anywhere for you, my
kind old benefactor."
"Well, then," said Old Pipes, "I wish you would take this little bag of
money to the Chief Villager and tell him that Old Pipes cannot receive
pay for the services which he does not perform. It is now more than a
year that I have not been able to make the cattle hear me, when I piped
to call them home. I did not know this until to-night; but now that I
know it, I cannot keep the money, and so I send it back." And, handing
the little bag to the Dryad, he bade her good-night, and turned toward
his cottage.
"Good-night," said the Dryad. "And I thank you over, and over, and over
again, you good old man!"
Old Pipes walked toward his home, very glad to be saved the fatigue of
going all the way down to the village and back again. "To be sure," he
said to himself, "this path does not seem at all steep, and I can walk
along it very easily; but it would have tired me dreadfully to come up
all the way from the village, especially as I could not have expected
those children to help me again." When he reached home his mother was
surprised to see him returning so soon.
"What!" she exclaimed; "have you already come back? What did the Chief
Villager say? Did he take the money?"
Old Pipes was just about to tell her that he had sent the money to the
village by a Dryad, when he suddenly reflected that his mother would be
sure to disapprove such a proceeding, and so he merely said he had sent
it by a person whom he had met.
"And how do you know that the person will ever take it to the Chief
Villager?" cried his mother. "You will lose it, and the villagers will
never get it. Oh, Pipes! Pipes! when will you be old enough to have
ordinary common-sense?"
Old Pipes considered that, as he was already seventy years of age, he
could scarcely expect to grow any wiser; but he made no remark on this
subject, and, saying that he doubted not that the money would go safely
to its destination, he sat down to his supper. His mother scolded him
roundly, but he did not mind it; and after supper he went out and sat on
a rustic chair in front of the cottage to look at the moonlit village,
and to wonder whether or not the Chief Villager really received the
money. While he was doing these two things, he went fast asleep.
When Old Pipes left the Dryad, she did not go down to the village with
the little bag of money. She held it in her hand, and thought about what
she had heard. "This is a good and honest old man," she said; "and it is
a shame that he should lose this money. He looked as if he needed it,
and I don't believe the people in the village will take it from one who
has served them so long. Often, when in my tree, have I heard the sweet
notes of his pipes. I am going to take the money back to him." She did
not start immediately, because there were so many beautiful things to
look at; but after awhile she went up to the cottage, and, finding Old
Pipes asleep in his chair, she slipped the little bag into his
coat-pocket, and silently sped away.
The next day Old Pipes told his mother that he would go up the mountain
and cut some wood. He had a right to get wood from the mountain, but for
a long time he had been content to pick up the dead branches which lay
about his cottage. To-day, however, he felt so strong and vigorous that
he thought he would go and cut some fuel that would be better than
this. He worked all the morning, and when he came back he did not feel
at all tired, and he had a very good appetite for his dinner.
Now, Old Pipes knew a good deal about Dryads; but there was one thing
which, although he had heard, he had forgotten. This was, that a kiss
from a Dryad made a person ten years younger.
The people of the village knew this, and they were very careful not to
let any child of ten years or younger go into the woods where the Dryads
were supposed to be; for, if they should chance to be kissed by one of
these tree-nymphs, they would be set back so far that they would cease
to exist.
A story was told in the village that a very bad boy of eleven once ran
away into the woods, and had an adventure of this kind; and when his
mother found him he was a little baby of one year old. Taking advantage
of her opportunity, she brought him up more carefully than she had done
before, and he grew to be a very good boy indeed.
Now Old Pipes had been kissed twice by the Dryad, once on each cheek,
and he therefore felt as vigorous and active as when he was a hale man
of fifty. His mother noticed how much work he was doing, and told him
that he need not try in that way to make up for the loss of his piping
wages; for he would only tire himself out, and get sick. But her son
answered that he had not felt so well for years, and that he was quite
able to work.
In the course of the afternoon, Old Pipes, for the first time that day,
put his hand in his coat-pocket, and there, to his amazement, he found
the little bag of money. "Well, well!" he exclaimed, "I am stupid,
indeed! I really thought that I had seen a Dryad; but when I sat down by
that big oak tree I must have gone to sleep and dreamed it all; and then
I came home, thinking I had given the money to a Dryad, when it was in
my pocket all the time. But the Chief Villager shall have the money. I
shall not take it to him to-day, but to-morrow I wish to go to the
village to see some of my old friends; and then I shall give up the
money."
Toward the close of the afternoon, Old Pipes, as had been his custom for
so many years, took his pipes from the shelf on which they lay, and went
out to the rock in front of the cottage.
"What are you going to do?" cried his mother. "If you will not consent
to be paid, why do you pipe?"
"I am going to pipe for my own pleasure," said her son. "I am used to
it, and I do not wish to give it up. It does not matter now whether the
cattle hear me or not, and I am sure that my piping will injure no one."
When the good man began to play upon his favorite instrument he was
astonished at the sound that came from it. The beautiful notes of the
pipes sounded clear and strong down into the valley, and spread over the
hills, and up the sides of the mountain beyond, while, after a little
interval, an echo came back from the rocky hill on the other side of the
valley.
"Ha! ha!" he cried, "what has happened to my pipes? They must have been
stopped up of late, but now they are as clear and good as ever."
Again the merry notes went sounding far and wide. The cattle on the
mountain heard them, and those that were old enough remembered how these
notes had called them from their pastures every evening, and so they
started down the mountain-side, the others following.
The merry notes were heard in the village below, and the people were
much astonished thereby. "Why, who can be blowing the pipes of Old
Pipes?" they said. But, as they were all very busy, no one went up to
see. One thing, however, was plain enough: the cattle were coming down
the mountain. And so the two boys and the girl did not have to go after
them, and had an hour for play, for which they were very glad.
The next morning Old Pipes started down to the village with his money,
and on the way he met the Dryad. "Oh, ho!" he cried, "is that you? Why,
I thought my letting you out of the tree was nothing but a dream."
"A dream!" cried the Dryad; "if you only knew how happy you have made
me, you would not think it merely a dream. And has it not benefited you?
Do you not feel happier? Yesterday I heard you playing beautifully on
your pipes."
"Yes, yes," cried he. "I did not understand it before, but I see it all
now. I have really grown younger. I thank you, I thank you, good Dryad,
from the bottom of my heart. It was the finding of the money in my
pocket that made me think it was a dream."
"Oh, I put it in when you were asleep," she said, laughing, "because I
thought you ought to keep it. Good-by, kind, honest man. May you live
long, and be as happy as I am now."
Old Pipes was greatly delighted when he understood that he was really a
younger man; but that made no difference about the money, and he kept on
his way to the village. As soon as he reached it, he was eagerly
questioned as to who had been playing his pipes the evening before, and
when the people heard that it was himself they were very much surprised.
Thereupon Old Pipes told what had happened to him, and then there was
greater wonder, with hearty congratulations and hand-shakes; for Old
Pipes was liked by everyone. The Chief Villager refused to take his
money; and although Old Pipes said that he had not earned it, everyone
present insisted that, as he would now play on his pipes as before, he
should lose nothing because, for a time, he was unable to perform his
duty.
So Old Pipes was obliged to keep his money, and after an hour or two
spent in conversation with his friends he returned to his cottage.
There was one person, however, who was not pleased with what had
happened to Old Pipes. This was an Echo-dwarf who lived on the hills
across the valley. It was his work to echo back the notes of the pipes
whenever they could be heard.
A great many other Echo-dwarfs lived on these hills. They all worked,
but in different ways. Some echoed back the songs of maidens, some the
shouts of children, and others the music that was often heard in the
village. But there was only one who could send back the strong notes of
the pipes of Old Pipes, and this had been his sole duty for many years.
But when the old man grew feeble, and the notes of his pipes could not
be heard on the opposite hills, this Echo-dwarf had nothing to do, and
he spent his time in delightful idleness; and he slept so much and grew
so fat that it made his companions laugh to see him walk.
On the afternoon on which, after so long an interval, the sound of the
pipes was heard on the echo hills, this dwarf was fast asleep behind a
rock. As soon as the first notes reached them, some of his companions
ran to wake him up. Rolling to his feet, he echoed back the merry tune
of Old Pipes.
Naturally, he was very angry at being thus obliged to give up his life
of comfort, and he hoped very much that this pipe-playing would not
occur again. The next afternoon he was awake and listening, and, sure
enough, at the usual hour, along came the notes of the pipes as clear
and strong as they ever had been; and he was obliged to work as long as
Old Pipes played. The Echo-dwarf was very angry. He had supposed, of
course, that the pipe-playing had ceased forever, and he felt that he
had a right to be indignant at being thus deceived. He was so much
disturbed that he made up his mind to go and try to find out how long
this was to last. He had plenty of time, as the pipes were played but
once a day, and he set off early in the morning for the hill on which
Old Pipes lived. It was hard work for the fat little fellow, and when he
had crossed the valley and had gone some distance into the woods on the
hill-side, he stopped to rest, and in a few minutes the Dryad came
tripping along.
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the dwarf; "what are you doing here? and how did you
get out of your tree?"
"Doing!" cried the Dryad; "I am being happy; that's what I am doing. And
I was let out of my tree by the good old man who plays the pipes to call
the cattle down from the mountain. And it makes me happier to think that
I have been of service to him. I gave him two kisses of gratitude, and
now he is young enough to play his pipes as well as ever."
The Echo-dwarf stepped forward, his face pale with passion. "Am I to
believe," he said, "that you are the cause of this great evil that has
come upon me? and that you are the wicked creature who has again started
this old man upon his career of pipe-playing? What have I ever done to
you that you should have condemned me for years and years to echo back
the notes of those wretched pipes?"
At this the Dryad laughed loudly.
"What a funny little fellow you are!" she said. "Anyone would think you
had been condemned to toil from morning till night; while what you
really have to do is merely to imitate for half an hour every day the
merry notes of Old Pipes's piping. Fie upon you, Echo-dwarf! You are
lazy and selfish; and that is what is the matter with you. Instead of
grumbling at being obliged to do a little wholesome work, which is less,
I am sure, than that of any other echo-dwarf upon the rocky hill-side,
you should rejoice at the good fortune of the old man who has regained
so much of his strength and vigor. Go home and learn to be just and
generous; and then, perhaps, you may be happy. Good-by."
"Insolent creature!" shouted the dwarf, as he shook his fat little fist
at her. "I'll make you suffer for this. You shall find out what it is to
heap injury and insult upon one like me, and to snatch from him the
repose that he has earned by long years of toil." And, shaking his head
savagely, he hurried back to the rocky hill-side.
Every afternoon the merry notes of the pipes of Old Pipes sounded down
into the valley and over the hills and up the mountain-side; and every
afternoon when he had echoed them back, the little dwarf grew more and
more angry with the Dryad. Each day, from early morning till it was time
for him to go back to his duties upon the rocky hill-side, he searched
the woods for her. He intended, if he met her, to pretend to be very
sorry for what he had said, and he thought he might be able to play a
trick upon her which would avenge him well.
One day, while thus wandering among the trees, he met Old Pipes. The
Echo-dwarf did not generally care to see or speak to ordinary people;
but now he was so anxious to find the object of his search, that he
stopped and asked Old Pipes if he had seen the Dryad. The piper had not
noticed the little fellow, and he looked down on him with some surprise.
"No," he said; "I have not seen her, and I have been looking everywhere
for her."
"You!" cried the dwarf, "what do you wish with her?"
Old Pipes then sat down on a stone, so that he should be nearer the ear
of his small companion, and he told what the Dryad had done for him.
When the Echo-dwarf heard that this was the man whose pipes he was
obliged to echo back every day, he would have slain him on the spot, had
he been able; but, as he was not able, he merely ground his teeth and
listened to the rest of the story.
"I am looking for the Dryad now," Old Pipes continued, "on account of my
aged mother. When I was old myself, I did not notice how very old my
mother was; but now it shocks me to see how feeble her years have caused
her to become; and I am looking for the Dryad to ask her to make my
mother younger, as she made me."
The eyes of the Echo-dwarf glistened. Here was a man who might help him
in his plans.
"Your idea is a good one," he said to Old Pipes, "and it does you honor.
But you should know that a Dryad can make no person younger but one who
lets her out of her tree. However, you can manage the affair very
easily. All you need do is to find the Dryad, tell her what you want,
and request her to step into her tree and be shut up for a short time.
Then you will go and bring your mother to the tree; she will open it,
and everything will be as you wish. Is not this a good plan?"
"Excellent!" cried Old Pipes; "and I will go instantly and search more
diligently for the Dryad."
"Take me with you," said the Echo-dwarf. "You can easily carry me on
your strong shoulders; and I shall be glad to help you in any way that I
can."
"Now then," said the little fellow to himself, as Old Pipes carried him
rapidly along, "if he persuades the Dryad to get into a tree,--and she
is quite foolish enough to do it,--and then goes away to bring his
mother, I shall take a stone or a club and I will break off the key of
that tree, so that nobody can ever turn it again. Then Mistress Dryad
will see what she has brought upon herself by her behavior to me."
Before long they came to the great oak tree in which the Dryad had
lived, and at a distance they saw that beautiful creature herself coming
toward them.
"How excellently well everything happens!" said the dwarf. "Put me
down, and I will go. Your business with the Dryad is more important
than mine; and you need not say anything about my having suggested your
plan to you. I am willing that you should have all the credit of it
yourself."
Old Pipes put the Echo-dwarf upon the ground, but the little rogue did
not go away. He hid himself between some low, mossy rocks, and he was so
much like them in color that you would not have noticed him if you had
been looking straight at him.
When the Dryad came up, Old Pipes lost no time in telling her about his
mother, and what he wished her to do. At first, the Dryad answered
nothing, but stood looking very sadly at Old Pipes.
"Do you really wish me to go into my tree again?" she said. "I should
dreadfully dislike to do it, for I don't know what might happen. It is
not at all necessary, for I could make your mother younger at any time
if she would give me the opportunity. I had already thought of making
you still happier in this way, and several times I have waited about
your cottage, hoping to meet your aged mother, but she never comes
outside, and you know a Dryad cannot enter a house. I cannot imagine
what put this idea into your head. Did you think of it yourself?"
"No, I cannot say that I did," answered Old Pipes. "A little dwarf whom
I met in the woods proposed it to me."
"Oh!" cried the Dryad; "now I see through it all. It is the scheme of
that vile Echo-dwarf--your enemy and mine. Where is he? I should like to
see him."
"I think he has gone away," said Old Pipes.
"No, he has not," said the Dryad, whose quick eyes perceived the
Echo-dwarf among the rocks, "there he is. Seize him and drag him out, I
beg of you."
Old Pipes saw the dwarf as soon as he was pointed out to him; and
running to the rocks, he caught the little fellow by the arm and pulled
him out.
"Now, then," cried the Dryad, who had opened the door of the great oak,
"just stick him in there, and we will shut him up. Then I shall be safe
from his mischief for the rest of the time I am free."
Old Pipes thrust the Echo-dwarf into the tree; the Dryad pushed the door
shut; there was a clicking sound of bark and wood, and no one would have
noticed that the big oak had ever had an opening in it.
"There," said the Dryad; "now we need not be afraid of him. And I assure
you, my good piper, that I shall be very glad to make your mother
younger as soon as I can. Will you not ask her to come out and meet me?"
"Of course I will," cried Old Pipes; "and I will do it without delay."
And then, the Dryad by his side, he hurried to his cottage. But when he
mentioned the matter to his mother, the old woman became very angry
indeed. She did not believe in Dryads; and, if they really did exist,
she knew they must be witches and sorceresses, and she would have
nothing to do with them. If her son had ever allowed himself to be
kissed by one of them, he ought to be ashamed of himself. As to its
doing him the least bit of good, she did not believe a word of it. He
felt better than he used to feel, but that was very common. She had
sometimes felt that way herself, and she forbade him ever to mention a
Dryad to her again.
That afternoon, Old Pipes, feeling very sad that his plan in regard to
his mother had failed, sat down upon the rock and played upon his pipes.
The pleasant sounds went down the valley and up the hills and mountain,
but, to the great surprise of some persons who happened to notice the
fact, the notes were not echoed back from the rocky hill-side, but from
the woods on the side of the valley on which Old Pipes lived. The next
day many of the villagers stopped in their work to listen to the echo of
the pipes coming from the woods. The sound was not as clear and strong
as it used to be when it was sent back from the rocky hill-side, but it
certainly came from among the trees. Such a thing as an echo changing
its place in this way had never been heard of before, and nobody was
able to explain how it could have happened. Old Pipes, however, knew
very well that the sound came from the Echo-dwarf shut up in the great
oak tree. The sides of the tree were thin, and the sound of the pipes
could be heard through them, and the dwarf was obliged by the laws of
his being to echo back those notes whenever they came to him. But Old
Pipes thought he might get the Dryad in trouble if he let anyone know
that the Echo-dwarf was shut up in the tree, and so he wisely said
nothing about it.
One day the two boys and the girl who had helped Old Pipes up the hill
were playing in the woods. Stopping near the great oak tree, they heard
a sound of knocking within it, and then a voice plainly said:
"Let me out! let me out!"
For a moment the children stood still in astonishment, and then one of
the boys exclaimed:
"Oh, it is a Dryad, like the one Old Pipes found! Let's let her out!"
"What are you thinking of?" cried the girl. "I am the oldest of all, and
I am only thirteen. Do you wish to be turned into crawling babies? Run!
run! run!"
And the two boys and the girl dashed down into the valley as fast as
their legs could carry them. There was no desire in their youthful
hearts to be made younger than they were, and for fear that their
parents might think it well that they should commence their careers
anew, they never said a word about finding the Dryad tree.
As the summer days went on, Old Pipes's mother grew feebler and feebler.
One day when her son was away, for he now frequently went into the woods
to hunt or fish, or down into the valley to work, she arose from her
knitting to prepare the simple dinner. But she felt so weak and tired
that she was not able to do the work to which she had been so long
accustomed. "Alas! alas!" she said, "the time has come when I am too old
to work. My son will have to hire some one to come here and cook his
meals, make his bed, and mend his clothes. Alas! alas! I had hoped that
as long as I lived I should be able to do these things. But it is not
so. I have grown utterly worthless, and some one else must prepare the
dinner for my son. I wonder where he is." And tottering to the door, she
went outside to look for him. She did not feel able to stand, and
reaching the rustic chair, she sank into it, quite exhausted, and soon
fell asleep.
The Dryad, who had often come to the cottage to see if she could find an
opportunity of carrying out Old Pipes's affectionate design, now
happened by; and seeing that the much-desired occasion had come, she
stepped up quietly behind the old woman and gently kissed her on each
cheek, and then as quietly disappeared.
In a few minutes the mother of Old Pipes awoke, and looking up at the
sun, she exclaimed: "Why, it is almost dinner-time! My son will be here
directly, and I am not ready for him." And rising to her feet, she
hurried into the house, made the fire, set the meat and vegetables to
cook, laid the cloth, and by the time her son arrived the meal was on
the table.
"How a little sleep does refresh one," she said to herself, as she was
bustling about. She was a woman of very vigorous constitution, and at
seventy had been a great deal stronger and more active than her son was
at that age. The moment Old Pipes saw his mother, he knew that the Dryad
had been there; but, while he felt as happy as a king, he was too wise
to say anything about her.
"It is astonishing how well I feel to-day," said his mother; "and either
my hearing has improved or you speak much more plainly than you have
done of late."
The summer days went on and passed away, the leaves were falling from
the trees, and the air was becoming cold.
"Nature has ceased to be lovely," said the Dryad, "and the night winds
chill me. It is time for me to go back into my comfortable quarters in
the great oak. But first I must pay another visit to the cottage of Old
Pipes."
She found the piper and his mother sitting side by side on the rock in
front of the door. The cattle were not to go to the mountain any more
that season, and he was piping them down for the last time. Loud and
merrily sounded the pipes of Old Pipes, and down the mountain-side came
the cattle, the cows by the easiest paths, the sheep by those not quite
so easy, and the goats by the most difficult ones among the rocks; while
from the great oak tree were heard the echoes of the cheerful music.
"How happy they look, sitting there together," said the Dryad; "and I
don't believe it will do them a bit of harm to be still younger." And
moving quietly up behind them, she first kissed Old Pipes on his cheek
and then kissed his mother.
Old Pipes, who had stopped playing, knew what it was, but he did not
move, and said nothing. His mother, thinking that her son had kissed
her, turned to him with a smile and kissed him in return. And then she
arose and went into the cottage, a vigorous woman of sixty, followed by
her son, erect and happy, and twenty years younger than herself.
The Dryad sped away to the woods, shrugging her shoulders as she felt
the cool evening wind.
When she reached the great oak, she turned the key and opened the door.
"Come out," said she to the Echo-dwarf, who sat blinking within. "Winter
is coming on, and I want the comfortable shelter of my tree for myself.
The cattle have come down from the mountain for the last time this year,
the pipes will no longer sound, and you can go to your rocks and have a
holiday until next spring."
Upon hearing these words the dwarf skipped quickly out, and the Dryad
entered the tree and pulled the door shut after her. "Now, then," she
said to herself, "he can break off the key if he likes. It does not
matter to me. Another will grow out next spring. And although the good
piper made me no promise, I know that when the warm days arrive next
year, he will come and let me out again."
The Echo-dwarf did not stop to break the key of the tree. He was too
happy to be released to think of anything else, and he hastened as fast
as he could to his home on the rocky hill-side.
The Dryad was not mistaken when she trusted in the piper. When the warm
days came again he went to the oak tree to let her out. But, to his
sorrow and surprise, he found the great tree lying upon the ground. A
winter storm had blown it down, and it lay with its trunk shattered and
split. And what became of the Dryad no one ever knew.
204
John Ruskin (1819-1900), the most eloquent of
English prose writers, was much interested in
the question of literature for both grown-ups
and children. He edited a reissue of Taylor's
translation of Grimms' _Popular Stories_,
issued "Dame Wiggins of Lee and Her Seven
Wonderful Cats" (see No. 143), and wrote that
masterpiece among modern stories for children,
_The King of the Golden River_. Its fine
idealism, splendidly imagined structure,
wonderful word-paintings, and perfect English
all combine to justify the high place assigned
to it. Ruskin wrote the story in 1841, at a
"couple of sittings," though it was not
published until ten years later. Speaking of it
later in life, he said that it "was written to
amuse a little girl; and being a fairly good
imitation of Grimm and Dickens, mixed with a
little true Alpine feeling of my own, it has
been rightly pleasing to nice children, and
good for them. But it is totally valueless, for
all that. I can no more write a story than
compose a picture." The final statement may be
taken for what it is worth, written as it was
at a time of disillusionment. The first part of
Ruskin's analysis is certainly true and has
been thus expanded by his biographer, Sir E. T.
Cook: "The grotesque and the German setting of
the tale were taken from Grimm; from Dickens it
took its tone of pervading kindliness and
geniality. The Alpine ecstasy and the eager
pressing of the moral were Ruskin's own; and so
also is the style, delicately poised between
poetry and comedy."
THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER OR THE BLACK BROTHERS
JOHN RUSKIN
CHAPTER I
HOW THE AGRICULTURAL SYSTEM OF THE BLACK BROTHERS WAS INTERFERED WITH BY
SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQUIRE
In a secluded and mountainous part of Stiria there was, in old time, a
valley of the most surprising and luxuriant fertility. It was
surrounded, on all sides, by steep and rocky mountains, rising into
peaks, which were always covered with snow, and from which a number of
torrents descended in constant cataracts. One of these fell westward,
over the face of a crag so high, that, when the sun had set to
everything else, and all below was darkness, his beams still shone full
upon this waterfall, so that it looked like a shower of gold. It was,
therefore, called by the people of the neighborhood, the Golden River.
It was strange that none of these streams fell into the valley itself.
They all descended on the other side of the mountains, and wound away
through broad plains and by populous cities. But the clouds were drawn
so constantly to the snowy hills, and rested so softly in the circular
hollow, that in time of drought and heat, when all the country round was
burnt up, there was still rain in the little valley; and its crops were
so heavy, and its hay so high, and its apples so red, and its grapes so
blue, and its wine so rich, and its honey so sweet, that it was a marvel
to every one who beheld it, and was commonly called the Treasure Valley.
The whole of this little valley belonged to three brothers, called
Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck. Schwartz and Hans, the two elder brothers,
were very ugly men, with overhanging eyebrows and small dull eyes, which
were always half shut, so that you couldn't see into _them_, and always
fancied they saw very far into _you_. They lived by farming the Treasure
Valley, and very good farmers they were. They killed everything that did
not pay for its eating. They shot the blackbirds because they pecked the
fruit; and killed the hedgehogs, lest they should suck the cows; they
poisoned the crickets for eating the crumbs in the kitchen; and
smothered the cicadas, which used to sing all summer in the lime trees.
They worked their servants without any wages, till they would not work
any more, and then quarreled with them, and turned them out of doors
without paying them. It would have been very odd if, with such a farm,
and such a system of farming, they hadn't got very rich; and very rich
they _did_ get. They generally contrived to keep their corn by them till
it was very dear, and then sell it for twice its value; they had heaps
of gold lying about on their floors, yet it was never known that they
had given so much as a penny or a crust in charity; they never went to
mass; grumbled perpetually at paying tithes; and were, in a word, of so
cruel and grinding a temper as to receive from all those with whom they
had any dealings the nickname of the "Black Brothers."
The youngest brother, Gluck, was as completely opposed, in both
appearance and character, to his seniors as could possibly be imagined
or desired. He was not above twelve years old, fair, blue-eyed, and kind
in temper to every living thing. He did not, of course, agree
particularly well with his brothers, or rather, they did not agree with
_him_. He was usually appointed to the honorable office of turnspit,
when there was anything to roast, which was not often; for, to do the
brothers justice, they were hardly less sparing upon themselves than
upon other people. At other times he used to clean the shoes, floors,
and sometimes the plates, occasionally getting what was left on them, by
way of encouragement, and a wholesome quantity of dry blows, by way of
education.
Things went on in this manner for a long time. At last came a very wet
summer, and everything went wrong in the country around. The hay had
hardly been got in, when the haystacks were floated bodily down to the
sea by an inundation; the vines were cut to pieces with the hail; the
corn was all killed by a black blight; only in the Treasure Valley, as
usual, all was safe. As it had rain when there was rain nowhere else, so
it had sun when there was sun nowhere else. Everybody came to buy corn
at the farm, and went away pouring maledictions on the Black Brothers.
They asked what they liked, and got it, except from the poor people, who
could only beg, and several of whom were starved at their very door,
without the slightest regard or notice.
It was drawing towards winter, and very cold weather, when one day the
two elder brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little
Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody in, and
give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it was
raining very hard, and the kitchen walls were by no means dry or
comfortable looking. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and
brown. "What a pity," thought Gluck, "my brothers never ask anybody to
dinner. I'm sure, when they've got such a nice piece of mutton as this,
and nobody else has got so much as a piece of dry bread, it would do
their hearts good to have somebody to eat it with them."
Just as he spoke, there came a double knock at the house door, yet heavy
and dull, as though the knocker had been tied up--more like a puff than
a knock.
"It must be the wind," said Gluck; "nobody else would venture to knock
double knocks at our door."
No; it wasn't the wind; there it came again very hard, and what was
particularly astounding, the knocker seemed to be in a hurry, and not to
be in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck went to the window,
opened it, and put his head out to see who it was.
It was the most extraordinary looking little gentleman he had ever seen
in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-colored; his
cheeks were very round, and very red, and might have warranted a
supposition that he had been blowing a refractory fire for the last
eight-and-forty hours; his eyes twinkled merrily through long silky
eyelashes, his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew on each
side of his mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed pepper-and-salt
color, descended far over his shoulders. He was about four-feet-six in
height, and wore a conical pointed cap of nearly the same altitude,
decorated with a black feather some three feet long. His doublet was
prolonged behind into something resembling a violent exaggeration of
what is now termed a "swallowtail," but was much obscured by the
swelling folds of an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak, which must
have been very much too long in calm weather, as the wind, whistling
round the old house, carried it clear out from the wearer's shoulders to
about four times his own length.
Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the singular appearance of his
visitor, that he remained fixed without uttering a word, until the old
gentleman, having performed another, and a more energetic concerto on
the knocker, turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. In so doing
he caught sight of Gluck's little yellow head jammed in the window, with
its mouth and eyes very wide open indeed.
"Hollo!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the
door: I'm wet; let me in!"
To do the little gentleman justice, he _was_ wet. His feather hung down
between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an umbrella;
and from the ends of his mustaches the water was running into his
waistcoat pockets, and out again like a mill stream.
"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, "I'm very sorry, but I really can't."
"Can't what?" said the old gentleman.
"I can't let you in, sir,--I can't indeed; my brothers would beat me to
death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?"
"Want?" said the old gentleman, petulantly. "I want fire, and shelter;
and there's your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the
walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say; I only want to warm
myself."
Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window, that he
began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold, and when he turned, and
saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long bright
tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savory
smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should
be burning away for nothing. "He does look _very_ wet," said little
Gluck; "I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour." Round he went to
the door, and opened it; and as the little gentleman walked in, there
came a gust of wind through the house that made the old chimneys totter.
"That's a good boy," said the little gentleman. "Never mind your
brothers. I'll talk to them."
"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let you stay
till they come; they'd be the death of me."
"Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm very sorry to hear that. How
long may I stay?"
"Only till the mutton's done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very
brown."
Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen, and sat himself down on
the hob, with the top of his cap accommodated up the chimney, for it was
a great deal too high for the roof.
"You'll soon dry there, sir," said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the
mutton. But the old gentleman did _not_ dry there, but went on drip,
drip, dripping among the cinders, and the fire fizzed and sputtered, and
began to look very black and uncomfortable; never was such a cloak;
every fold in it ran like a gutter.
"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck at length, after watching the water
spreading in long, quicksilver-like streams over the floor for a quarter
of an hour; "mayn't I take your cloak?"
"No thank you," said the old gentleman.
"Your cap, sir?"
"I am all right, thank you," said the old gentleman rather gruffly.
"But--sir--I'm very sorry," said Gluck hesitatingly; "but--really,
sir--you're--putting the fire out."
"It'll take longer to do the mutton, then," replied his visitor dryly.
Gluck was very much puzzled by the behavior of his guest; it was such a
strange mixture of coolness and humility. He turned away at the string
meditatively for another five minutes.
"That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentleman at length. "Can't
you give me a little bit?"
"Impossible, sir," said Gluck.
"I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; "I've had nothing to eat
yesterday nor to-day. They surely couldn't miss a bit from the knuckle!"
He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's
heart. "They promised me one slice to-day, sir," said he; "I can give
you that, but not a bit more."
"That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again.
Then Gluck warmed a plate, and sharpened a knife. "I don't care if I do
get beaten for it," thought he. Just as he had cut a large slice out of
the mutton, there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman
jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly become inconveniently warm.
Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, with desperate efforts at
exactitude, and ran to open the door.
"What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he
walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face. "Ay! what for, indeed,
you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an educational box on the
ear, as he followed his brother into the kitchen.
"Bless my soul!" said Schwartz when he opened the door.
"Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off and was
standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost possible
velocity.
"Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning to
Gluck with a fierce frown.
"I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck in great terror.
"How did he get in?" roared Schwartz.
"My dear brother," said Gluck, deprecatingly, "he was so _very_ wet!"
The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but, at the instant, the
old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a
shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very
odd, the rolling pin no sooner touched the cap, than it flew out of
Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the
corner at the farther end of the room.
"Who are you, sir?" demanded Schwartz, turning upon him.
"What's your business?" snarled Hans.
"I'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman began very modestly,
"and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a
quarter of an hour."
"Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said Schwartz. "We've quite
enough water in our kitchen, without making it a drying house."
"It is a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray
hairs." They hung down to his shoulders, as I told you before.
"Ay!" said Hans, "there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!"
"I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't you spare me a bit of bread before
I go?"
"Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do you suppose we've nothing to do with
our bread but to give it to such red-nosed fellows as you?"
"Why don't you sell your feather?" said Hans, sneeringly. "Out with
you!"
"A little bit," said the old gentleman.
"Be off!" said Schwartz.
"Pray, gentlemen--"
"Off, and be hanged!" cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had
no sooner touched the old gentleman's collar, than away he went after
the rolling-pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the corner
on the top of it. Then Schwartz was very angry, and ran at the old
gentleman to turn him out; but he also had hardly touched him, when away
he went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the
wall as he tumbled into the corner. And so there they lay, all three.
Then the old gentleman spun himself round with velocity in the opposite
direction; continued to spin until his long cloak was all wound neatly
about him, clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side (for it
could not stand upright without going through the ceiling), gave an
additional twist to his corkscrew mustaches, and replied with perfect
coolness: "Gentlemen, I wish you a very good morning. At twelve o'clock
to-night I'll call again; after such a refusal of hospitality as I have
just experienced, you will not be surprised if that visit is the last I
ever pay you."
"If ever I catch you here again," muttered Schwartz, coming, half
frightened, out of the corner--but, before he could finish his sentence,
the old gentleman had shut the house door behind him with a great bang:
and there drove past the window, at the same instant, a wreath of ragged
cloud that whirled and rolled away down the valley in all manner of
shapes; turning over and over in the air, and melting away at last in a
gush of rain.
"A very pretty business, indeed, Mr. Gluck!" said Schwartz. "Dish the
mutton, sir. If ever I catch you at such a trick again--bless me, why
the mutton's been cut!"
"You promised me one slice, brother, you know," said Gluck.
"Oh! and you were cutting it hot, I suppose, and going to catch all the
gravy. It'll be long before I promise you such a thing again. Leave the
room, sir; and have the kindness to wait in the coal-cellar till I call
you."
Gluck left the room melancholy enough. The brothers ate as much mutton
as they could, locked the rest in the cupboard, and proceeded to get
very drunk after dinner.
Such a night as it was! Howling wind and rushing rain, without
intermission! The brothers had just sense enough left to put up all the
shutters, and double bar the door, before they went to bed. They usually
slept in the same room. As the clock struck twelve, they were both
awakened by a tremendous crash. Their door burst open with a violence
that shook the house from top to bottom.
"What's that?" cried Schwartz, starting up in his bed.
"Only I," said the little gentleman.
The two brothers sat up on their bolster and stared into the darkness.
The room was full of water, and by a misty moonbeam, which found its way
through a hole in the shutter, they could see in the midst of it an
enormous foam globe, spinning round, and bobbing up and down like a
cork, on which, as on a most luxurious cushion, reclined the little old
gentleman, cap and all. There was plenty of room for it now, for the
roof was off.
"Sorry to incommode you," said their visitor, ironically. "I'm afraid
your beds are dampish; perhaps you had better go to your brother's room;
I've left the ceiling on, there."
They required no second admonition, but rushed into Gluck's room, wet
through, and in an agony of terror.
"You'll find my card on the kitchen table," the old gentleman called
after them. "Remember, the _last_ visit."
"Pray Heaven it may!" said Schwartz, shuddering. And the foam globe
disappeared.
Dawn came at last, and the two brothers looked out of Gluck's little
window in the morning. The Treasure Valley was one mass of ruin and
desolation. The inundation had swept away trees, crops, and cattle, and
left in their stead a waste of red sand and gray mud. The two brothers
crept shivering and horror-struck into the kitchen. The water had gutted
the whole first floor; corn, money, almost every movable thing had been
swept away, and there was left only a small white card on the kitchen
table. On it, in large, breezy long-legged letters, were engraved the
words:--
SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQUIRE.
CHAPTER II
OF THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE THREE BROTHERS AFTER THE VISIT OF SOUTH-WEST
WIND, ESQUIRE; AND HOW LITTLE GLUCK HAD AN INTERVIEW WITH THE KING OF
THE GOLDEN RIVER
South-West Wind, Esquire, was as good as his word. After the momentous
visit above related, he entered the Treasure Valley no more; and, what
was worse, he had so much influence with his relations, the West Winds
in general, and used it so effectually, that they all adopted a similar
line of conduct. So no rain fell in the valley from one year's end to
another. Though everything remained green and flourishing in the plains
below, the inheritance of the Three Brothers was a desert. What had once
been the richest soil in the kingdom, became a shifting heap of red
sand; and the brothers, unable longer to contend with the adverse skies,
abandoned their valueless patrimony in despair, to seek some means of
gaining a livelihood among the cities and people of the plains. All
their money was gone, and they had nothing left but some curious,
old-fashioned pieces of gold plates, the last remnants of their
ill-gotten wealth.
"Suppose we turn goldsmiths?" said Schwartz to Hans, as they entered the
large city. "It is a good knave's trade; we can put a great deal of
copper into the gold, without any one's finding it out."
The thought was agreed to be a very good one; they hired a furnace, and
turned goldsmiths. But two slight circumstances affected their trade;
the first, that people did not approve of the coppered gold; the second,
that the two elder brothers, whenever they had sold anything, used to
leave little Gluck to mind the furnace, and go and drink out the money
in the ale-house next door. So they melted all their gold, without
making money enough to buy more, and were at last reduced to one large
drinking mug, which an uncle of his had given to little Gluck, and which
he was very fond of, and would not have parted with for the world;
though he never drank anything out of it but milk and water. The mug was
a very odd mug to look at. The handle was formed of two wreaths of
flowing golden hair, so finely spun that it looked more like silk than
metal, and these wreaths descended into, and mixed with, a beard and
whiskers of the same exquisite workmanship, which surrounded and
decorated a very fierce little face, of the reddest gold imaginable,
right in the front of the mug, with a pair of eyes in it which seemed to
command its whole circumference. It was impossible to drink out of the
mug without being subjected to an intense gaze out of the side of these
eyes; and Schwartz positively averred that once, after emptying it, full
of Rhenish, seventeen times, he had seen them wink! When it came to the
mug's turn to be made into spoons, it half broke poor little Gluck's
heart; but the brothers only laughed at him, tossed the mug into the
melting-pot, and staggered out to the ale-house; leaving him, as usual,
to pour the gold into bars, when it was all ready.
When they were gone, Gluck took a farewell look at his old friend in the
melting-pot. The flowing hair was all gone; nothing remained but the red
nose, and the sparkling eyes, which looked more malicious than ever.
"And no wonder," thought Gluck, "after being treated in that way." He
sauntered disconsolately to the window, and sat himself down to catch
the fresh evening air, and escape the hot breath of the furnace. Now
this window commanded a direct view of the range of mountains, which, as
I told you before, overhung the Treasure Valley, and more especially of
the peak from which fell the Golden River. It was just at the close of
the day, and when Gluck sat down at the window, he saw the rocks of the
mountain tops, all crimson and purple with the sunset; and there were
bright tongues of fiery cloud burning and quivering about them; and the
river, brighter than all, fell, in a waving column of pure gold, from
precipice to precipice, with the double arch of a broad purple rainbow
stretched across it, flushing and fading alternately in the wreaths of
spray.
"Ah!" said Gluck aloud, after he had looked at it for a while, "if that
river were really all gold, what a nice thing it would be."
"No, it wouldn't, Gluck," said a clear metallic voice, close at his ear.
"Bless me! what's that?" exclaimed Gluck, jumping up. There was nobody
there. He looked round the room, and under the table, and a great many
times behind him, but there was certainly nobody there, and he sat down
again at the window. This time he didn't speak, but he couldn't help
thinking again that it would be very convenient if the river were really
all gold.
"Not at all, my boy," said the same voice, louder than before.
"Bless me!" said Gluck again; "what _is_ that?" He looked again into all
the corners, and cupboards, and then began turning round, and round, as
fast as he could in the middle of the room, thinking there was somebody
behind him, when the same voice struck again on his ear. It was singing
now very merrily, "Lala-lira-la"; no words, only a soft running
effervescent melody, something like that of a kettle on the boil. Gluck
looked out of the window. No, it was certainly in the house. Upstairs,
and downstairs. No, it was certainly in that very room, coming in
quicker time, and clearer notes, every moment. "Lala-lira-la." All at
once it struck Gluck that it sounded louder near the furnace. He ran to
the opening, and looked in; yes, he saw right, it seemed to be coming,
not only out of the furnace, but out of the pot. He uncovered it, and
ran back in a great fright, for the pot was certainly singing! He stood
in the farthest corner of the room, with his hands up, and his mouth
open, for a minute or two, when the singing stopped, and the voice
became clear, and pronunciative.
"Hollo!" said the voice.
Gluck made no answer.
"Hollo! Gluck, my boy," said the pot again.
Gluck summoned all his energies, walked straight up to the crucible,
drew it out of the furnace, and looked in. The gold was all melted, and
its surface as smooth and polished as a river; but instead of reflecting
little Gluck's head, as he looked in, he saw, meeting his glance from
beneath the gold, the red nose and sharp eyes of his old friend of the
mug, a thousand times redder and sharper than ever he had seen them in
his life.
"Come, Gluck, my boy," said the voice out of the pot again, "I'm all
right; pour me out."
But Gluck was too much astonished to do anything of the kind.
"Pour me out, I say," said the voice rather gruffly.
Still Gluck couldn't move.
"_Will_ you pour me out?" said the voice passionately. "I'm too hot."
By a violent effort, Gluck recovered the use of his limbs, took hold of
the crucible, and sloped it so as to pour out the gold. But instead of a
liquid stream, there came out, first, a pair of pretty little yellow
legs, then some coat tails, then a pair of arms stuck a-kimbo, and,
finally, the well-known head of his friend the mug; all which articles,
uniting as they rolled out, stood up energetically on the floor, in the
shape of a little golden dwarf, about a foot and a half high.
"That's right!" said the dwarf, stretching out first his legs and then
his arms, and then shaking his head up and down, and as far round as it
would go, for five minutes, without stopping; apparently with the view
of ascertaining if he were quite correctly put together, while Gluck
stood contemplating him in speechless amazement. He was dressed in a
slashed doublet of spun gold, so fine in its texture that the prismatic
colors gleamed over it, as if on a surface of mother of pearl; and, over
this brilliant doublet, his hair and beard fell full halfway to the
ground in waving curls so exquisitely delicate that Gluck could hardly
tell where they ended; they seemed to melt into air. The features of the
face, however, were by no means finished with the same delicacy; they
were rather coarse, slightly inclining to coppery in complexion, and
indicative, in expression, of a very pertinacious and intractable
disposition in their small proprietor. When the dwarf had finished his
self-examination, he turned his small sharp eyes full on Gluck and
stared at him deliberately for a minute or two. "No, it wouldn't, Gluck,
my boy," said the little man.
This was certainly rather an abrupt and unconnected mode of commencing
conversation. It might indeed be supposed to refer to the course of
Gluck's thoughts, which had first produced the dwarf's observations out
of the pot; but whatever it referred to, Gluck had no inclination to
dispute the dictum.
"Wouldn't it, sir?" said Gluck, very mildly and submissively indeed.
"No," said the dwarf, conclusively. "No, it wouldn't." And with that,
the dwarf pulled his cap hard over his brows, and took two turns, of
three feet long, up and down the room, lifting his legs up very high,
and setting them down very hard. This pause gave time for Gluck to
collect his thoughts a little, and, seeing no great reason to view his
diminutive visitor with dread, and feeling his curiosity overcome his
amazement, he ventured on a question of peculiar delicacy.
"Pray, sir," said Gluck rather hesitatingly, "were you my mug?"
On which the little man turned sharp round, walked straight up to Gluck,
and drew himself up to his full height. "I," said the little man, "am
the King of the Golden River." Whereupon he turned about again, and took
two more turns, some six feet long, in order to allow time for the
consternation which this announcement produced in his auditor to
evaporate. After which, he again walked up to Gluck and stood still, as
if expecting some comment on his communication.
Gluck determined to say something at all events. "I hope your Majesty is
very well," said Gluck.
"Listen!" said the little man, deigning no reply to this polite inquiry.
"I am the King of what you mortals call the Golden River. The shape you
saw me in, was owing to the malice of a stronger king, from whose
enchantments you have this instant freed me. What I have seen of you,
and your conduct to your wicked brothers, renders me willing to serve
you; therefore, attend to what I tell you. Whoever shall climb to the
top of that mountain from which you see the Golden River issue, and
shall cast into the stream at its source three drops of holy water, for
him, and for him only, the river shall turn to gold. But no one failing
in his first, can succeed in a second attempt; and if any one shall cast
unholy water into the river, it will overwhelm him, and he will become a
black stone." So saying, the King of the Golden River turned away and
deliberately walked into the center of the hottest flame of the furnace.
His figure became red, white, transparent, dazzling--a blaze of intense
light--rose, trembled, and disappeared. The King of the Golden River had
evaporated.
"Oh!" cried poor Gluck, running to look up the chimney after him; "Oh,
dear, dear, dear me! My mug! my mug! my mug!"
CHAPTER III
HOW MR. HANS SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW HE
PROSPERED THEREIN
The King of the Golden River had hardly made the extraordinary exit,
related in the last chapter, before Hans and Schwartz came roaring into
the house, very savagely drunk. The discovery of the total loss of their
last piece of plate had the effect of sobering them just enough to
enable them to stand over Gluck, beating him very steadily for a quarter
of an hour; at the expiration of which period they dropped into a couple
of chairs, and requested to know what he had got to say for himself.
Gluck told them his story, of which, of course, they did not believe a
word. They beat him again, till their arms were tired, and staggered to
bed. In the morning, however, the steadiness with which he adhered to
his story obtained him some degree of credence; the immediate
consequence of which was, that the two brothers, after wrangling a long
time on the knotty question, which of them should try his fortune first,
drew their swords and began fighting. The noise of the fray alarmed the
neighbors, who, finding they could not pacify the combatants, sent for
the constable.
Hans, on hearing this, contrived to escape, and hid himself; but
Schwartz was taken before the magistrate, fined for breaking the peace,
and, having drunk out his last penny the evening before, was thrown into
prison till he should pay.
When Hans heard this, he was much delighted, and determined to set out
immediately for the Golden River. How to get the holy water was the
question. He went to the priest, but the priest could not give any holy
water to so abandoned a character. So Hans went to vespers in the
evening for the first time in his life, and, under pretense of crossing
himself, stole a cupful, and returned home in triumph.
Next morning he got up before the sun rose, put the holy water into a
strong flask, and two bottles of wine and some meat in a basket, slung
them over his back, took his alpine staff in his hand, and set off for
the mountains.
On his way out of the town he had to pass the prison, and as he looked
in at the windows, whom should he see but Schwartz himself peeping out
of the bars, and looking very disconsolate.
"Good morning, brother," said Hans; "have you any message for the King
of the Golden River?"
Schwartz gnashed his teeth with rage, and shook the bars with all his
strength; but Hans only laughed at him, and advising him to make himself
comfortable till he came back again, shouldered his basket, shook the
bottle of holy water in Schwartz's face till it frothed again, and
marched off in the highest spirits in the world.
It was, indeed, a morning that might have made any one happy, even with
no Golden River to seek for. Level lines of dewy mist lay stretched
along the valley, out of which rose the massy mountains--their lower
cliffs in pale gray shadow, hardly distinguishable from the floating
vapor, but gradually ascending till they caught the sunlight, which ran
in sharp touches of ruddy color along the angular crags, and pierced, in
long level rays, through their fringes of spear-like pine. Far above,
shot up red splintered masses of castellated rock, jagged and shivered
into myriads of fantastic forms, with here and there a streak of sunlit
snow, traced down their chasms like a line of forked lightning; and, far
beyond, and far above all these, fainter than the morning cloud, but
purer and changeless, slept, in the blue sky, the utmost peaks of the
eternal snow.
The Golden River, which sprang from one of the lower and snowless
elevations, was now nearly in shadow; all but the uppermost jets of
spray, which rose like slow smoke above the undulating line of the
cataract, and floated away in feeble wreaths upon the morning wind.
On this object, and on this alone, Hans's eyes and thoughts were fixed;
forgetting the distance he had to traverse, he set off at an imprudent
rate of walking, which greatly exhausted him before he had scaled the
first range of the green and low hills. He was, moreover, surprised, on
surmounting them, to find that a large glacier, of whose existence,
notwithstanding his previous knowledge of the mountains, he had been
absolutely ignorant, lay between him and the source of the Golden River.
He entered on it with the boldness of a practised mountaineer; yet he
thought he had never traversed so strange or so dangerous a glacier in
his life. The ice was excessively slippery, and out of all its chasms
came wild sounds of gushing water; not monotonous or low, but changeful
and loud, rising occasionally into drifting passages of wild melody;
then breaking off into short melancholy tones, or sudden shrieks,
resembling those of human voices in distress or pain. The ice was broken
into thousands of confused shapes, but none, Hans thought, like the
ordinary forms of splintered ice. There seemed a curious _expression_
about all their outlines--a perpetual resemblance to living features,
distorted and scornful. Myriads of deceitful shadows, and lurid lights,
played and floated about and through the pale blue pinnacles, dazzling
and confusing the sight of the traveler; while his ears grew dull and
his head giddy with the constant gush and roar of the concealed waters.
These painful circumstances increased upon him as he advanced; the ice
crashed and yawned into fresh chasms at his feet, tottering spires
nodded around him, and fell thundering across his path; and though he
had repeatedly faced these dangers on the most terrific glaciers, and in
the wildest weather, it was with a new and oppressive feeling of panic
terror that he leaped the last chasm, and flung himself, exhausted and
shuddering, on the firm turf of the mountain.
He had been compelled to abandon his basket of food, which became a
perilous encumbrance on the glacier, and had now no means of refreshing
himself but by breaking off and eating some of the pieces of ice. This,
however, relieved his thirst; an hour's repose recruited his hardy
frame, and with the indomitable spirit of avarice, he resumed his
laborious journey.
His way now lay straight up a ridge of bare red rocks, without a blade
of grass to ease the foot, or a projecting angle to afford an inch of
shade from the south sun. It was past noon, and the rays beat intensely
upon the steep path, while the whole atmosphere was motionless and
penetrated with heat. Intense thirst was soon added to the bodily
fatigue with which Hans was now afflicted; glance after glance he cast
on the flask of water which hung at his belt. "Three drops are enough,"
at last thought he; "I may, at least, cool my lips with it."
He opened the flask, and was raising it to his lips, when his eye fell
on an object lying on the rock beside him; he thought it moved. It was a
small dog, apparently in the last agony of death from thirst. Its tongue
was out, its jaws dry, its limbs extended lifelessly, and a swarm of
black ants were crawling about its lips and throat. Its eye moved to the
bottle which Hans held in his hand. He raised it, drank, spurned the
animal with his foot, and passed on. And he did not know how it was, but
he thought that a strange shadow had suddenly come across the blue sky.
The path became steeper and more rugged every moment; and the high hill
air, instead of refreshing him, seemed to throw his blood into a fever.
The noise of the hill cataracts sounded like mockery in his ears; they
were all distant, and his thirst increased every moment. Another hour
passed, and he again looked down to the flask at his side; it was half
empty, but there was much more than three drops in it. He stopped to
open it; and again, as he did so, something moved in the path above him.
It was a fair child, stretched nearly lifeless on the rock, its breast
heaving with thirst, its eyes closed, and its lips parched and burning.
Hans eyed it deliberately, drank, and passed on. And a dark gray cloud
came over the sun, and long, snake-like shadows crept up along the
mountain sides. Hans struggled on. The sun was sinking, but its descent
seemed to bring no coolness; the leaden weight of the dead air pressed
upon his brow and heart, but the goal was near. He saw the cataract of
the Golden River springing from the hillside, scarcely five hundred feet
above him. He paused for a moment to breathe, and sprang on to complete
his task.
At this instant a faint cry fell on his ear. He turned, and saw a
gray-haired old man extended on the rocks. His eyes were sunk, his
features deadly pale, and gathered into an expression of despair.
"Water!" he stretched his arms to Hans, and cried feebly, "Water! I am
dying."
"I have none," replied Hans; "thou hast had thy share of life." He
strode over the prostrate body, and darted on. And a flash of blue
lightning rose out of the East, shaped like a sword; it shook thrice
over the whole heaven, and left it dark with one heavy, impenetrable
shade. The sun was setting; it plunged toward the horizon like a red-hot
ball.
The roar of the Golden River rose on Hans's ear. He stood at the brink
of the chasm through which it ran. Its waves were filled with the red
glory of the sunset; they shook their crests like tongues of fire, and
flashes of bloody light gleamed along their foam. Their sound came
mightier and mightier on his senses; his brain grew giddy with the
prolonged thunder. Shuddering he drew the flask from his girdle, and
hurled it into the center of the torrent. As he did so, an icy chill
shot through his limbs; he staggered, shrieked, and fell. The waters
closed over his cry. And the moaning of the river rose wildly into the
night, as it gushed over
THE BLACK STONE.
CHAPTER IV
HOW MR. SCHWARTZ SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW
HE PROSPERED THEREIN
Poor little Gluck waited very anxiously alone in the house for Hans's
return. Finding he did not come back, he was terribly frightened and
went and told Schwartz in the prison, all that had happened. Then
Schwartz was very much pleased, and said that Hans must certainly have
been turned into a black stone, and he should have all the gold to
himself. But Gluck was very sorry, and cried all night. When he got up
in the morning there was no bread in the house, nor any money; so Gluck
went and hired himself to another goldsmith, and he worked so hard, and
so neatly, and so long every day, that he soon got money enough together
to pay his brother's fine, and he went and gave it all to Schwartz, and
Schwartz got out of prison. Then Schwartz was quite pleased, and said he
should have some of the gold of the river. But Gluck only begged he
would go and see what had become of Hans.
Now when Schwartz had heard that Hans had stolen the holy water, he
thought to himself that such a proceeding might not be considered
altogether correct by the King of the Golden River, and determined to
manage matters better. So he took some more of Gluck's money, and went
to a bad priest, who gave him some holy water very readily for it. Then
Schwartz was sure it was all quite right. So Schwartz got up early in
the morning before the sun rose, and took some bread and wine, in a
basket, and put his holy water in a flask, and set off for the
mountains. Like his brother, he was much surprised at the sight of the
glacier, and had great difficulty in crossing it, even after leaving his
basket behind him. The day was cloudless, but not bright; there was a
heavy purple haze hanging over the sky, and the hills looked lowering
and gloomy. And as Schwartz climbed the steep rock path, the thirst came
upon him, as it had upon his brother, until he lifted his flask to his
lips to drink. Then he saw the fair child lying near him on the rocks,
and it cried to him, and moaned for water.
"Water, indeed," said Schwartz; "I haven't half enough for myself," and
passed on. And as he went he thought the sunbeams grew more dim, and he
saw a low bank of black cloud rising out of the West; and, when he had
climbed for another hour the thirst overcame him again, and he would
have drunk. Then he saw the old man lying before him on the path, and
heard him cry out for water. "Water, indeed," said Schwartz, "I haven't
enough for myself," and on he went.
Then again the light seemed to fade before his eyes, and he looked up,
and, behold, a mist, of the color of blood, had come over the sun; and
the bank of black cloud had risen very high, and its edges were tossing
and tumbling like the waves of the angry sea. And they cast long
shadows, which flickered over Schwartz's path.
Then Schwartz climbed for another hour, and again his thirst returned;
and as he lifted his flask to his lips, he thought he saw his brother
Hans lying exhausted on the path before him, and, as he gazed, the
figure stretched its arms to him, and cried for water. "Ha, ha," laughed
Schwartz, "are you there? Remember the prison bars, my boy. Water,
indeed! do you suppose I carried it all the way up here for _you_?" And
he strode over the figure; yet, as he passed, he thought he saw a
strange expression of mockery about its lips. And, when he had gone a
few yards farther, he looked back; but the figure was not there.
And a sudden horror came over Schwartz, he knew not why; but the thirst
for gold prevailed over his fear, and he rushed on. And the bank of
black cloud rose to the zenith, and out of it came bursts of spiry
lightning, and waves of darkness seemed to heave and float between their
flashes over the whole heavens. And the sky where the sun was setting
was all level, and like a lake of blood; and a strong wind came out of
that sky, tearing its crimson cloud into fragments, and scattering them
far into the darkness. And when Schwartz stood by the brink of the
Golden River, its waves were black, like thunder clouds, but their foam
was like fire; and the roar of the waters below, and the thunder above,
met, as he cast the flask into the stream. And, as he did so, the
lightning glared into his eyes, and the earth gave way beneath him, and
the waters closed over his cry. And the moaning of the river rose wildly
into the night, as it gushed over the
TWO BLACK STONES.
CHAPTER V
HOW LITTLE GLUCK SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW
HE PROSPERED THEREIN; WITH OTHER MATTERS OF INTEREST
When Gluck found that Schwartz did not come back he was very sorry, and
did not know what to do. He had no money, and was obliged to go and hire
himself again to the goldsmith, who worked him very hard, and gave him
very little money. So, after a month or two, Gluck grew tired, and made
up his mind to go and try his fortune with the Golden River. "The little
King looked very kind," thought he. "I don't think he will turn me into
a black stone." So he went to the priest, and the priest gave him some
holy water as soon as he asked for it. Then Gluck took some bread in his
basket, and the bottle of water, and set off very early for the
mountains.
If the glacier had occasioned a great deal of fatigue to his brothers,
it was twenty times worse for him, who was neither so strong nor so
practised on the mountains. He had several bad falls, lost his basket
and bread, and was very much frightened at the strange noises under the
ice. He lay a long time to rest on the grass, after he had got over,
and began to climb the hill just in the hottest part of the day. When he
had climbed for an hour, he got dreadfully thirsty, and was going to
drink like his brothers, when he saw an old man coming down the path
above him, looking very feeble, and leaning on a staff. "My son," said
the old man, "I am faint with thirst. Give me some of that water." Then
Gluck looked at him, and when he saw that he was pale and weary, he gave
him the water; "Only pray don't drink it all," said Gluck. But the old
man drank a great deal, and gave him back the bottle two-thirds empty.
Then he bade him good speed, and Gluck went on again merrily. And the
path became easier to his feet, and two or three blades of grass
appeared upon it, and some grasshoppers began singing on the bank beside
it; and Gluck thought he had never heard such merry singing.
Then he went on for another hour, and the thirst increased on him so
that he thought he should be forced to drink. But, as he raised the
flask, he saw a little child lying panting by the road-side, and it
cried out piteously for water. Then Gluck struggled with himself, and
determined to bear the thirst a little longer; and he put the bottle to
the child's lips, and it drank it all but a few drops. Then it smiled on
him, and got up and ran down the hill; and Gluck looked after it, till
it became as small as a little star, and then turned and began climbing
again. And then there were all kinds of sweet flowers growing on the
rocks, bright green moss with pale pink starry flowers, and soft belled
gentians, more blue than the sky at its deepest, and pure white
transparent lilies. And crimson and purple butterflies darted hither and
thither, and the sky sent down such pure light that Gluck had never felt
so happy in his life.
Yet, when he had climbed for another hour, his thirst became intolerable
again; and, when he looked at his bottle, he saw that there were only
five or six drops left in it, and he could not venture to drink. And, as
he was hanging the flask to his belt again, he saw a little dog lying on
the rocks, gasping for breath--just as Hans had seen it on the day of
his ascent. And Gluck stopped and looked at it, and then at the Golden
River, not five hundred yards above him; and he thought of the dwarf's
words, "that no one could succeed, except in his first attempt"; and he
tried to pass the dog, but it whined piteously, and Gluck stopped again.
"Poor beastie," said Gluck, "it'll be dead when I come down again, if I
don't help it." Then he looked closer and closer at it, and its eye
turned on him so mournfully that he could not stand it. "Confound the
King and his gold, too," said Gluck; and he opened the flask, and poured
all the water into the dog's mouth.
The dog sprang up and stood on its hind legs. Its tail disappeared, its
ears became long, longer, silky, golden; its nose became very red, its
eyes became very twinkling; in three seconds the dog was gone, and
before Gluck stood his old acquaintance, the King of the Golden River.
"Thank you," said the monarch; "but don't be frightened, it's all
right"; for Gluck showed manifest symptoms of consternation at this
unlooked-for reply to his last observation. "Why didn't you come
before," continued the dwarf, "instead of sending me those rascally
brothers of yours, for me to have the trouble of turning into stones?
Very hard stones they make, too."
"Oh, dear me!" said Gluck, "have you really been so cruel?"
"Cruel!" said the dwarf: "they poured unholy water into my stream; do
you suppose I'm going to allow that?"
"Why," said Gluck, "I am sure, sir--your Majesty, I mean,--they got the
water out of the church font."
"Very probably," replied the dwarf; "but," and his countenance grew
stern as he spoke, "the water which has been refused to the cry of the
weary and dying is unholy, though it had been blessed by every saint in
heaven; and the water which is found in the vessel of mercy is holy,
though it had been defiled with corpses."
So saying, the dwarf stooped and plucked a lily that grew at his feet.
On its white leaves there hung three drops of clear dew. And the dwarf
shook them into the flask which Gluck held in his hand. "Cast these into
the river," he said, "and descend on the other side of the mountains
into the Treasure Valley, and so good speed."
As he spoke, the figure of the dwarf became indistinct. The playing
colors of his robe formed themselves into a prismatic mist of dewy
light: he stood for an instant veiled with them as with the belt of a
broad rainbow. The colors grew faint, the mist rose into the air; the
monarch had evaporated.
And Gluck climbed to the brink of the Golden River and its waves were as
clear as crystal, and as brilliant as the sun. And, when he cast the
three drops of dew into the stream, there opened where they fell, a
small circular whirlpool, into which the waters descended with a musical
noise.
Gluck stood watching it for some time, very much disappointed, because
not only the river was not turned into gold but its waters seemed much
diminished in quantity. Yet he obeyed his friend the dwarf, and
descended the other side of the mountains, towards the Treasure Valley;
and, as he went, he thought he heard the noise of water working its way
under the ground. And when he came in sight of the Treasure Valley,
behold, a river, like the Golden River, was springing from a new cleft
of the rocks above it, and was flowing in innumerable streams among the
dry heaps of red sand.
And, as Gluck gazed, fresh grass sprang beside the new streams, and
creeping plants grew, and climbed among the moistening soil. Young
flowers opened suddenly along the river sides, as stars leap out when
twilight is deepening, and thickets of myrtle, and tendrils of vine,
cast lengthening shadows over the valley as they grew. And thus the
Treasure Valley became a garden again, and the inheritance, which had
been lost by cruelty, was regained by love.
And Gluck went and dwelt in the valley, and the poor were never driven
from his door; so that his barns became full of corn, and his house of
treasure. And for him, the river had, according to the dwarf's promise,
become a River of Gold.
And, to this day, the inhabitants of the valley point out the place
where the three drops of holy dew were cast into the stream, and trace
the course of the Golden River under the ground, until it emerges in the
Treasure Valley. And at the top of the cataract of the Golden River are
still to be seen TWO BLACK STONES, round which the waters howl
mournfully every day at sunset; and these stones are still called by the
people of the valley
THE BLACK BROTHERS.
SECTION V
FABLES AND SYMBOLIC STORIES
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Jacobs, Joseph, _History of the Aesopic Fable_.
The only elaborate and scholarly study in
English. Vol. I of a reprint of _Caxton's
Aesop_. [Bibliothèque de Carabas Series.]
Published in 1889 in a limited edition and not
easily accessible.
Jacobs, Joseph, _The Fables of Aesop_. [Illustrated by Richard
Heighway.]
Eighty-two selected fables. The Introduction is
a summary of all the essential conclusions
reached in the study above.
Wiggin, Kate D., and Smith, Nora A., _The Talking Beasts_.
The best general collection from all fields,
including both the folk fable and the modern
literary fable.
Babbitt, Ellen C., _Jataka Tales Retold_.
Dutton, Maude Barrows, _The Tortoise and the Geese, and Other
Fables of Bidpai_.
Ramaswami Raju, P. V., _Indian Folk Stories and Fables_.
These three books are excellent for simplified
versions of the eastern group. Those desiring
to get closer to the sources may refer to
Cowell [ed.], _The Jataka, or Stories of the
Buddha's Former Births_; Rhys-Davids, _Buddhist
Birth Stories_; Keith-Falconer, _Bidpai's
Fables_.
SUGGESTIONS FOR READING
It is possible to piece out a very satisfactory account of the nature
and history of the traditional fable by looking up in any good
encyclopedia the brief articles under the following heads: Folklore,
Fable, Parable, Apologue, Æsop, Demetrius of Phalerum, Babrias,
Phaedrus, Avian, Romulus, Maximus Planudes, Jataka, Bidpai,
Panchatantra, Hitopadesa.
For a popular account of the whole philosophy of the apologue consult
Newbigging, _Fables and Fabulists: Ancient and Modern_.
For distinctions between various kinds of symbolic tales see Canby, _The
Short Story in English_ (pp. 23 ff.); Trench, _Notes on the Parables_
(Introduction); Smith, "The Fable and Kindred Forms," _Journal of
English and Germanic Philology_, Vol. XIV, p. 519.
For origins and parallels read Müller, "On the Migration of Fables,"
_Selected Essays_, Vol. I (reprinted in large part in Warner, _Library
of the World's Best Literature_, Vol. XVIII); Clouston, _Popular Tales
and Fictions_, Vol. I, p. 266, and Vol. II, p. 432. The more general
treatises on folklore all touch on these problems.
For suggestions on the use of fables with children see MacClintock,
_Literature in the Elementary School_ (chap. xi); Adler, _Moral
Instruction of Children_ (chaps. vii and viii); McMurry, _Special Method
in Reading in the Grades_ (p. 70).
For a clear and helpful account of the French writers of fables, the
most important modern group, read Collins, _La Fontaine and Other French
Fabulists_. Representative examples are given in most excellent
translation. The best complete translation of La Fontaine is by Elizur
Wright; of Krylov, in verse by I. H. Harrison, in prose by W. R. S.
Ralston; of Yriarte, by R. Rockliffe. Gay's complete collection may be
found in any edition of his poems.
Satisfactory collections of proverbial sayings useful in finding
expressions for the wisdom found in fables are Christy, _Proverbs,
Maxims, and Phrases of All Ages_; Hazlitt, _English Proverbs and
Proverbial Phrases_; Trench, _Proverbs and Their Lessons_.
A book of great suggestive value covering the whole field of the prose
story is Fansler, _Types of Prose Narratives_. It contains elaborate
classifications, discussions and examples of each type, and an extended
bibliography. Pp. 83-127 deal with fables, parables, and allegories.
SECTION V: FABLES AND SYMBOLIC STORIES
INTRODUCTORY
_The character and value of fables._ Some one has pointed out that there
are two kinds of ideals by which we are guided in life and that these
ideals may be compared to lighthouses and lanterns. By means of the
lighthouse, remote and lofty, we are able to lay a course and to know at
any time whether we are headed in the right direction. But while we are
moving along a difficult road we need more immediate illumination to
avoid the mudholes and stumbling-places close at hand. We need the
humble lantern to show us where we may safely step.
Fables are lanterns by which our feet are guided. They embody the
practical rules for everyday uses, rules of prudence that have been
tested and approved by untold generations of travelers along the arduous
road of life. They chart only minor dangers and difficult places as a
rule, but these are the ones with which we are always in direct contact.
Being honest because it is the "best policy" is not the highest reason
for honesty, but it is what a practical world has found to be best in
practice. Fables simply give us the "rules of the road," and these rules
contribute greatly to our convenience and safety. Such rules are the
result of the common sense of man working upon his everyday problems. To
violate one of these practical rules is to be a blunderer, and
blundering is a subject for jest rather than bitter denouncement. Hence
the humorous and satirical note in fables.
The practical, self-made men of the world, who have done things and
inspired others to do them, have always placed great emphasis upon
common-sense ideals. Benjamin Franklin, by his _Poor Richard's Almanac_,
kept the incentives to industry and thrift before a people who needed to
practice these everyday rules if they were to conquer an unwilling
wilderness. So well did he do his work that after nearly two hundred
years we are still quoting his pithy sayings. It may be that his
proverbs were all borrowed, but the rules of the road are not matters
for constant experiment. Again, no account of Abraham Lincoln can omit
his use of Æsop or of Æsop-like stories to enforce his ideas. His homely
stories were so "pat" that there was nothing left for the opposition to
say. Only one who grasps the heart of a problem can use concrete
illustrations with such effect.
No one really questions the truths enforced by the more familiar fables.
But since these teachings are so commonplace and obvious, they cannot be
impressed upon us by mere repetition of the teachings as such. To secure
the emphasis needed the world gradually evolved a body of striking
stories and proverbs by which the standing rules of everyday life are
displayed in terms that cling like burrs. "The peculiar value of the
fable," says Dr. Adler, "is that they are instantaneous photographs,
which reproduce, as it were, in a single flash of light, some one aspect
of human nature, and which, excluding everything else, permit the entire
attention to be fixed on that one."
_Æsop and Bidpai._ The type of fable in mind in the above account is
that known as the Æsopic, a brief beast-story in which the characters
are, as a rule, conventionalized animals, and which points out some
practical moral. The fox may represent crafty people, the ass may
represent stupid people, the wind may represent boisterous people, the
tortoise may represent plodding people who "keep everlastingly at it."
When human beings are introduced, such as the Shepherd Boy, or
Androcles, or the Travelers, or the Milkmaid, they are as wholly
conventionalized as the animals and there is never any doubt as to their
motives. Æsop, if he ever existed at all, is said to have been a Greek
slave of the sixth century B.C., very ugly and clever, who used fables
orally for political purposes and succeeded in gaining his freedom and a
high position. Later writers, among them Demetrius of Phalerum about 300
B.C. and Phaedrus about 30 A.D., made versions of fables ascribed to
Æsop. Many writers in the Middle Ages brought together increasing
numbers of fables under Æsop's name and enlarged upon the few
traditional facts in Herodotus about Æsop himself until several hundred
fables and an elaborate biography of the supposed author were in
existence. Joseph Jacobs said he had counted as many as 700 different
fables going under Æsop's name. The number included in a present-day
book of Æsop usually varies from 200 to 350. Another name associated
with the making of fables is that of Bidpai (or Pilpay), said to have
been a philosopher attached to the court of some oriental king. Bidpai,
a name which means "head scholar," is a more shadowy figure even than
Æsop. What we can be sure of is that there were two centers, Greece and
India, from which fables were diffused. Whether they all came originally
from a single source, and, if so, what that source was, are questions
still debated by scholars.
_Modern fabulists._ Modern fables are no more possible than a new Mother
Goose or a new fairy story. For modern times the method of the fable is
"at once too simple and too roundabout. Too roundabout; for the truths
we have to tell we prefer to speak out directly and not by way of
allegory. And the truths the fable has to teach are too simple to
correspond to the facts in our complex civilization." No modern fabulist
has duplicated in his field the success of Hans Christian Andersen in
the field of the nursery story. A few fables from La Fontaine, a few
from Krylov, one or two each from Gay, Cowper, Yriarte, and Lessing may
be used to good advantage with children. The general broadening of
literary variety has, of course, given us in recent times many valuable
stories of the symbolistic kind. Suggestive parable-like or allegorical
stories, such as a few of Hawthorne's in _Twice Told Tales_ and _Mosses
from an Old Manse_, or a few of Tolstoy's short tales, are simple enough
for children.
_The use of fables in school._ Not all fables are good for educational
purposes. There is, however, plenty of room for choice, and those that
present points of view no longer accepted by the modern world should be
eliminated from the list. Objections based on the unreality of the
fables, their "unnatural natural history," are hardly valid. Rousseau's
elimination of fables from his scheme of education in _Emile_ is based
on this objection and on the further point that the child will often
sympathize with the wrong character in the story, thus going astray in
the moral lesson. Other objectors down to the present day simply echo
Rousseau. Such a view does little justice to the child's natural sense
of values. He is certain to see that the Frog is foolish in competing
with the Ox in size, and certain to recognize the common sense of the
Country Mouse. He will no more be deceived by a fable than he will by
the painted clown in a circus.
The oral method of presentation is the ideal one. Tell the story in as
vivid a form as possible. In the earlier grades the interest in the
story may be a sufficient end, but almost from the beginning children
will see the lesson intended. They will catch the phrases that have come
from fables into our everyday speech. Thus, "sour grapes," "dog in the
manger," "to blow hot and cold," "to kill the goose that lays the golden
eggs," "to cry 'Wolf!'" will take on more significant meanings. If some
familiar proverb goes hand in hand with the story, it will help the
point to take fast hold in the mind. Applications of the fable to real
events should be encouraged. That is what fables were made for and that
is where their chief value for us is still manifest. Only a short time
need be spent on any one fable, but every opportunity should be taken to
call up and apply the fables already learned. For they are not merely
for passing amusement, nor is their value confined to childhood. Listen
to John Locke, one of the "hardest-headed" of philosophers: "As soon as
a child has learned to read, it is desirable to place in his hands
pleasant books, suited to his capacity, wherein the entertainment that
he finds might draw him on, and reward his pains in reading; and yet not
such as should fill his head with perfectly useless trumpery, or lay the
principles of vice and folly. To this purpose I think _Æsop's Fables_
the best, which being stories apt to delight and entertain a child, may
yet afford useful reflections to a grown man, and if his memory retain
them all his life after, he will not repent to find them there, amongst
his manly thoughts and serious business."
The best Æsop collection for teachers and
pupils alike is _The Fables of Æsop_, edited by
Joseph Jacobs. It contains eighty-two selected
fables, including those that are most familiar
and most valuable for children. The versions
are standards of what such retellings should
be, and may well serve as models for teachers
in their presentation of other short symbolic
stories. The introduction, "A Short History of
the Æsopic Fable," and the notes at the end of
the book contain, in concise form, all the
practical information needed. The text of the
Jacobs versions was the one selected for
reproduction in Dr. Eliot's _Harvard Classics_.
Nos. 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 213, and 233 in
the following group are by Mr. Jacobs. The
other Æsopic fables given are from various
collections of the traditional versions. Almost
any of the many reprints called Æsop are
satisfactory for fables not found in Jacobs.
Perhaps the one most common in recent times is
that made by Thomas James in 1848, which had
the good fortune to be illustrated by Tenniel.
The versions are brief and not overloaded with
editorial "filling."
205
THE SHEPHERD'S BOY
There was once a young Shepherd Boy who tended his sheep at the foot of
a mountain near a dark forest. It was rather lonely for him all day, so
he thought upon a plan by which he could get a little company and some
excitement. He rushed down towards the village calling out "Wolf! Wolf!"
and the villagers came out to meet him, and some of them stopped with
him for a considerable time. This pleased the boy so much that a few
days afterwards he tried the same trick, and again the villagers came to
his help. But shortly after this a Wolf actually did come out from the
forest, and began to worry the sheep, and the boy of course cried out
"Wolf! Wolf!" still louder than before. But this time the villagers, who
had been fooled twice before, thought the boy was again deceiving them,
and nobody stirred to come to his help. So the Wolf made a good meal off
the boy's flock, and when the boy complained, the wise man of the
village said:
"_A liar will not be believed, even when he speaks the truth._"
206
THE LION AND THE MOUSE
Once when a Lion was asleep a little Mouse began running up and down
upon him; this soon wakened the Lion, who placed his huge paw upon him
and opened his big jaws to swallow him. "Pardon, O King," cried the
little Mouse; "forgive me this time; I shall never forget it. Who knows
but what I may be able to do you a good turn some of these days?" The
Lion was so tickled at the idea of the Mouse being able to help him,
that he lifted up his paw and let him go. Some time after the Lion was
caught in a trap, and the hunters, who desired to carry him alive to the
King, tied him to a tree while they went in search of a wagon to carry
him on. Just then the little Mouse happened to pass by, and seeing the
sad plight in which the Lion was, went up to him and soon gnawed away
the ropes that bound the King of the Beasts. "Was I not right?" said the
little Mouse.
_Little friends may prove great friends._
207
THE CROW AND THE PITCHER
A Crow, half-dead with thirst, came upon a Pitcher which had once been
full of water; but when the Crow put its beak into the mouth of the
Pitcher he found that only very little water was left in it, and that he
could not reach far enough down to get at it. He tried and he tried, but
at last had to give up in despair. Then a thought came to him, and he
took a pebble and dropped it into the Pitcher. Then he took another
pebble and dropped it into the Pitcher. Then he took another pebble and
dropped that into the Pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped
that into the Pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped that into
the Pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped that into the
Pitcher. At last, at last, he saw the water mount up near him; and after
casting in a few more pebbles he was able to quench his thirst and save
his life.
_Little by little does the trick._
208
THE FROG AND THE OX
"Oh, Father," said a little Frog to the big one sitting by the side of a
pool, "I have seen such a terrible monster! It was as big as a mountain,
with horns on its head, and a long tail, and it had hoofs divided in
two."
"Tush, child, tush," said the old Frog, "that was only Farmer White's
Ox. It isn't so big either; he may be a little bit taller than I, but I
could easily make myself quite as broad; just you see." So he blew
himself out, and blew himself out, and blew himself out. "Was he as big
as that?" asked he.
"Oh, much bigger than that," said the young Frog.
Again the old one blew himself out, and asked the young one if the Ox
was as big as that.
"Bigger, Father, bigger," was the reply.
So the Frog took a deep breath, and blew and blew and blew, and swelled
and swelled and swelled. And then he said: "I'm sure the Ox is not as
big as--" But at this moment he burst.
_Self-conceit may lead to self-destruction._
209
THE FROGS DESIRING A KING
Frogs were living as happy as could be in a marshy swamp that just
suited them; they went splashing about, caring for nobody and nobody
troubling with them. But some of them thought that this was not right,
that they should have a king and a proper constitution, so they
determined to send up a petition to Jove to give them what they wanted.
"Mighty Jove," they cried, "send unto us a king that will rule over us
and keep us in order." Jove laughed at their croaking, and threw down
into the swamp a huge Log, which came down--kersplash--into the water.
The Frogs were frightened out of their lives by the commotion made in
their midst, and all rushed to the bank to look at the horrible monster;
but after a time, seeing that it did not move, one or two of the boldest
of them ventured out towards the Log, and even dared to touch it; still
it did not move. Then the greatest hero of the Frogs jumped upon the Log
and commenced dancing up and down upon it; thereupon all the Frogs came
and did the same; and for some time the Frogs went about their business
every day without taking the slightest notice of their new King Log
lying in their midst. But this did not suit them, so they sent another
petition to Jove, and said to him: "We want a real king; one that will
really rule over us." Now this made Jove angry, so he sent among them a
big Stork that soon set to work gobbling them all up. Then the Frogs
repented when too late.
_Better no rule than cruel rule._
210
The following fable is found in the folklore of
many countries. Its lesson of consolation for
those who are not blessed with abundance of
worldly goods may account for its widespread
popularity. Independence and freedom from fear
have advantages that make up for poorer fare.
THE FIELD MOUSE AND THE TOWN MOUSE
A Field Mouse had a friend who lived in a house in town. Now the Town
Mouse was asked by the Field Mouse to dine with him, and out he went and
sat down to a meal of corn and wheat.
"Do you know, my friend," said he, "that you live a mere ant's life out
here? Why, I have all kinds of things at home. Come, and enjoy them."
So the two set off for town, and there the Town Mouse showed his beans
and meal, his dates, too, and his cheese and fruit and honey. And as the
Field Mouse ate, drank, and was merry, he thought how rich his friend
was, and how poor he was.
But as they ate, a man all at once opened the door, and the Mice were in
such a fear that they ran into a crack.
Then, when they would eat some nice figs, in came a maid to get a pot of
honey or a bit of cheese; and when they saw her, they hid in a hole.
Then the Field Mouse would eat no more, but said to the Town Mouse, "Do
as you like, my good friend; eat all you want and have your fill of good
things, but you will be always in fear of your life. As for me, poor
Mouse, who have only corn and wheat, I will live on at home in no fear
of any one."
211
This simple poem is based upon the old fable
preceding. It does not follow out the idea of
the fable, but limits itself to awakening our
sympathy for the garden mouse.
THE CITY MOUSE AND THE GARDEN MOUSE
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
The city mouse lives in a house;--
The garden mouse lives in a bower;
He's friendly with the frogs and toads,
And sees the pretty plants in flower.
The city mouse eats bread and cheese;--
The garden mouse eats what he can;
We will not grudge him seeds and stocks,
Poor little timid furry man.
212
The most famous use of this fable in literature
is found in the _Satires_ of the great Roman
poet, Horace (B.C. 65-8). He is regarded as one
of the most polished of writers, and the
ancient world's most truthful painter of social
life and manners. Horace had a country seat
among the Sabine hills to which he could retire
from the worries and distractions of the world.
His delight in his Sabine farm is shown clearly
in his handling of the story. The passage is a
part of Book II, Satire 6, and is in
Conington's translation. Some well-known
appearances of this same fable in English
poetry may be found in Prior and Montagu's
_City Mouse and Country Mouse_ and in Pope's
_Imitations of Horace_.
THE COUNTRY MOUSE AND THE TOWN MOUSE
HORACE
One day a country mouse in his poor home
Received an ancient friend, a mouse from Rome.
The host, though close and careful, to a guest
Could open still; so now he did his best.
He spares not oats or vetches; in his chaps
Raisins he brings, and nibbled bacon-scraps,
Hoping by varied dainties to entice
His town-bred guest, so delicate and nice.
Who condescended graciously to touch
Thing after thing, but never would take much,
While he, the owner of the mansion, sate
On threshed-out straw, and spelt and darnels ate.
At length the town mouse cries, "I wonder how
You can live here, friend, on this hill's rough brow!
Take my advice, and leave these ups and downs,
This hill and dale, for humankind and towns.
Come, now, go home with me; remember, all
Who live on earth are mortal, great and small.
Then take, good sir, your pleasure while you may;
With life so short, 'twere wrong to lose a day."
This reasoning made the rustic's head turn round;
Forth from his hole he issues with a bound,
And they two make together for their mark,
In hopes to reach the city during dark.
The midnight sky was bending over all,
When they set foot within a stately hall,
Where couches of wrought ivory had been spread
With gorgeous coverlets of Tyrian red,
And viands piled up high in baskets lay,
The relics of a feast of yesterday.
The town mouse does the honors, lays his guest
At ease upon a couch with crimson dressed,
Then nimbly moves in character of host,
And offers in succession boiled and roast;
Nay, like a well-trained slave, each wish prevents,
And tastes before the titbits he presents.
The guest, rejoicing in his altered fare,
Assumes in turn a genial diner's air,
When, hark, a sudden banging of the door!
Each from his couch is tumbled on the floor.
Half dead, they scurry round the room, poor things,
While the whole house with barking mastiffs rings.
Then says the rustic, "It may do for you,
This life, but I don't like it; so, adieu.
Give me my hole, secure from all alarms;
I'll prove that tares and vetches still have charms."
213
The following is the Androcles story as retold
by Jacobs. Scholars think this fable is clearly
oriental in its origin, constituting as it does
a sort of appeal to tyrannical rulers for
leniency toward their subjects.
ANDROCLES
A Slave named Androcles once escaped from his master and fled to the
forest. As he was wandering about there he came upon a Lion lying down
moaning and groaning. At first he turned to flee, but finding that the
Lion did not pursue him, he turned back and went up to him. As he came
near, the Lion put out his paw, which was all swollen and bleeding, and
Androcles found that a huge thorn had got into it, and was causing all
the pain. He pulled out the thorn and bound up the paw of the Lion, who
was soon able to rise and lick the hand of Androcles like a dog. Then
the Lion took Androcles to his cave, and every day used to bring him
meat from which to live. But shortly afterwards both Androcles and the
Lion were captured, and the slave was sentenced to be thrown to the
Lion, after the latter had been kept without food for several days. The
Emperor and all his Court came to see the spectacle, and Androcles was
led out into the middle of the arena. Soon the Lion was let loose from
his den, and rushed bounding and roaring towards his victim. But as soon
as he came near to Androcles he recognized his friend, and fawned upon
him, and licked his hands like a friendly dog. The Emperor, surprised at
this, summoned Androcles to him, who told him the whole story. Whereupon
the slave was pardoned and freed, and the Lion let loose to his native
forest.
_Gratitude is the sign of noble souls._
214
The preceding fable is here given in the form
used in Thomas Day's very famous, but probably
little read, _History of Sandford and Merton_.
(See No. 380.) Day's use of the story is
probably responsible for its modern popularity.
Jacobs points out that it dropped out of Æsop,
although it was in some of the medieval fable
books. A very similar tale, "Of the Remembrance
of Benefits," is in the _Gesta Romanorum_ (Tale
104). The most striking use of the fable in
modern literature is in George Bernard Shaw's
play _Androcles_. It will be instructive to
compare the force of Day's rather heavy and
slow telling of the story with that of the
concise, unelaborated version by Jacobs.
ANDROCLES AND THE LION
THOMAS DAY
There was a certain slave named Androcles, who was so ill-treated by his
master that his life became insupportable. Finding no remedy for what he
suffered, he at length said to himself, "It is better to die than to
continue to live in such hardships and misery as I am obliged to suffer.
I am determined therefore to run away from my master. If I am taken
again, I know that I shall be punished with a cruel death; but it is
better to die at once than to live in misery. If I escape, I must betake
myself to deserts and woods, inhabited only by wild beasts; but they
cannot use me more cruelly than I have been used by my fellow-creatures.
Therefore I will rather trust myself with them than continue to be a
miserable slave."
Having formed this resolution, he took an opportunity of leaving his
master's house, and hid himself in a thick forest, which was at some
miles' distance from the city. But here the unhappy man found that he
had only escaped from one kind of misery to experience another. He
wandered about all day through a vast and trackless wood, where his
flesh was continually torn by thorns and brambles. He grew hungry, but
could find no food in this dreary solitude. At length he was ready to
die with fatigue, and lay down in despair in a large cavern which he
found by accident.
This unfortunate man had not lain long quiet in the cavern, before he
heard a dreadful noise, which seemed to be the roar of some wild beast,
and terrified him very much. He started up with a design to escape and
had already reached the mouth of the cave when he saw coming towards him
a lion of prodigious size, who prevented any possibility of retreat. The
unfortunate man then believed his destruction to be inevitable; but, to
his great astonishment, the beast advanced towards him with a gentle
pace, without any mark of enmity or rage, and uttered a kind of mournful
voice, as if he demanded the assistance of the man.
Androcles, who was naturally of a resolute disposition, acquired courage
from this circumstance, to examine his monstrous guest, who gave him
sufficient leisure for that purpose. He saw, as the lion approached him,
that he seemed to limp upon one of his legs and that the foot was
extremely swelled as if it had been wounded. Acquiring still more
fortitude from the gentle demeanor of the beast, he advanced up to him
and took hold of the wounded paw, as a surgeon would examine a patient.
He then perceived that a thorn of uncommon size had penetrated the ball
of the foot and was the occasion of the swelling and lameness he had
observed. Androcles found that the beast, far from resenting this
familiarity, received it with the greatest gentleness and seemed to
invite him by his blandishments to proceed. He therefore extracted the
thorn, and, pressing the swelling, discharged a considerable quantity of
matter, which had been the cause of so much pain and uneasiness.
As soon as the beast felt himself thus relieved, he began to testify his
joy and gratitude by every expression within his power. He jumped about
like a wanton spaniel, wagged his enormous tail, and licked the feet and
hands of his physician. Nor was he contented with these demonstrations
of kindness; from this moment Androcles became his guest; nor did the
lion ever sally forth in quest of prey without bringing home the produce
of his chase and sharing it with his friend. In this savage state of
hospitality did the man continue to live during the space of several
months. At length, wandering unguardedly through the woods, he met with
a company of soldiers sent out to apprehend him, and was by them taken
prisoner and conducted back to his master. The laws of that country
being very severe against slaves, he was tried and found guilty of
having fled from his master, and, as a punishment for his pretended
crime, he was sentenced to be torn in pieces by a furious lion, kept
many days without food to inspire him with additional rage.
When the destined moment arrived, the unhappy man was exposed, unarmed,
in the midst of a spacious area, enclosed on every side, round which
many thousand people were assembled to view the mournful spectacle.
Presently a dreadful yell was heard, which struck the spectators with
horror; and a monstrous lion rushed out of a den, which was purposely
set open, and darted forward with erected mane, and flaming eyes, and
jaws that gaped like an open sepulchre.--A mournful silence instantly
prevailed! All eyes were turned upon the destined victim, whose
destruction now appeared inevitable. But the pity of the multitude was
soon converted into astonishment, when they beheld the lion, instead of
destroying his defenceless prey, crouch submissively at his feet; fawn
upon him as a faithful dog would do upon his master, and rejoice over
him as a mother that unexpectedly recovers her offspring. The governor
of the town, who was present, then called out with a loud voice and
ordered Androcles to explain to them this unintelligible mystery, and
how a savage beast of the fiercest and most unpitying nature should thus
in a moment have forgotten his innate disposition, and be converted into
a harmless and inoffensive animal.
Androcles then related to the assembly every circumstance of his
adventures in the woods, and concluded by saying that the very lion
which now stood before them had been his friend and entertainer in the
woods. All the persons present were astonished and delighted with the
story, to find that even the fiercest beasts are capable of being
softened by gratitude and moved by humanity; and they unanimously joined
to entreat for the pardon of the unhappy man from the governor of the
place. This was immediately granted to him, and he was also presented
with the lion, who had in this manner twice saved the life of Androcles.
215
THE WIND AND THE SUN
A dispute once arose between the North Wind and the Sun as to which was
the stronger of the two. Seeing a Traveler on his way, they agreed to
try which could the sooner get his cloak off him. The North Wind began,
and sent a furious blast, which, at the onset, nearly tore the cloak
from its fastenings; but the Traveler, seizing the garment with a firm
grip, held it round his body so tightly that Boreas spent his remaining
force in vain.
The Sun, dispelling the clouds that had gathered, then darted his genial
beams on the Traveler's head. Growing faint with the heat, the Man flung
off his coat and ran for protection to the nearest shade.
_Mildness governs more than anger._
216
The following brief fable has given us one of
the best known expressions in common speech,
"killing the goose that lays the golden eggs."
People who never heard of Æsop know what that
expression means. It is easy to connect the
fable with our "get rich quick" craze. (Compare
with No. 254.)
THE GOOSE WITH THE GOLDEN EGGS
A certain Man had a Goose that laid him a golden egg every day. Being of
a covetous turn, he thought if he killed his Goose he should come at
once to the source of his treasure. So he killed her and cut her open,
but great was his dismay to find that her inside was in no way different
from that of any other goose.
_Greediness overreaches itself._
217
The most successful of modern literary
fabulists was the French poet Jean de la
Fontaine (1621-1695). A famous critic has said
that his fables delight the child with their
freshness and vividness, the student of
literature with their consummate art, and the
experienced man with their subtle reflections
on life and character. He drew most of his
stories from Æsop and other sources. While he
dressed the old fables in the brilliant style
of his own day, he still succeeded in being
essentially simple and direct. A few of his 240
fables may be used to good effect with
children, though they have their main charm for
the more sophisticated older reader. (See Nos.
234, 241, and 242.) The best complete
translation is that made in 1841 by Elizur
Wright, an American scholar. The following
version is from his translation. Notice that La
Fontaine has changed the goose to a hen.
THE HEN WITH THE GOLDEN EGGS
LA FONTAINE
How avarice loseth all,
By striving all to gain,
I need no witness call
But him whose thrifty hen,
As by the fable we are told,
Laid every day an egg of gold.
"She hath a treasure in her body,"
Bethinks the avaricious noddy.
He kills and opens--vexed to find
All things like hens of common kind.
Thus spoil'd the source of all his riches,
To misers he a lesson teaches.
In these last changes of the moon,
How often doth one see
Men made as poor as he
By force of getting rich too soon!
218
THE WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING
A Wolf wrapped himself in the skin of a Sheep and by that means got
admission into a sheep-fold, where he devoured several of the young
Lambs. The Shepherd, however, soon found him out and hung him up to a
tree, still in his disguise.
Some other Shepherds, passing that way, thought it was a Sheep hanging,
and cried to their friend, "What, brother! is that the way you serve
Sheep in this part of the country?"
"No, friends," cried he, turning the hanging body around so that they
might see what it was; "but it is the way to serve Wolves, even though
they be dressed in Sheep's clothing."
_The credit got by a lie lasts only till the truth comes out._
219
THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE
The Hare one day laughed at the Tortoise for his short feet, slowness,
and awkwardness.
"Though you may be swift as the wind," replied the Tortoise
good-naturedly, "I can beat you in a race."
The Hare looked on the challenge as a great joke, but consented to a
trial of speed, and the Fox was selected to act as umpire and hold the
stakes.
The rivals started, and the Hare, of course, soon left the Tortoise far
behind. Having reached midway to the goal, she began to play about,
nibble the young herbage, and amuse herself in many ways. The day being
warm, she even thought she would take a little nap in a shady spot, for
she thought that if the Tortoise should pass her while she slept, she
could easily overtake him again before he reached the end.
The Tortoise meanwhile plodded on, unwavering and unresting, straight
towards the goal.
The Hare, having overslept herself, started up from her nap and was
surprised to find that the Tortoise was nowhere in sight. Off she went
at full speed, but on reaching the winning-post, found that the Tortoise
was already there, waiting for her arrival.
_Slow and steady wins the race._
220
THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THEIR ASS
A Miller and his Son were driving their Ass to a neighboring fair to
sell him. They had not gone far when they met with a troop of women
collected round a well, talking and laughing.
"Look there," cried one of them, "did you ever see such fellows, to be
trudging along the road on foot when they might ride?"
The Miller, hearing this, quickly made his Son mount the Ass, and
continued to walk along merrily by his side. Presently they came up to a
group of old men in earnest debate.
"There," said one of them, "it proves what I was saying. What respect is
shown to old age in these days? Do you see that idle lad riding while
his old father has to walk? Get down, you young scapegrace, and let the
old man rest his weary limbs."
Upon this, the Miller made his Son dismount, and got up himself. In this
manner they had not proceeded far when they met a company of women and
children.
"Why, you lazy old fellow," cried several tongues at once, "how can you
ride upon the beast while that poor little lad there can hardly keep
pace by the side of you?"
The good-natured Miller immediately took up his Son behind him. They had
now almost reached the town.
"Pray, honest friend," said a citizen, "is that Ass your own?"
"Yes," replied the old man.
"Oh, one would not have thought so," said the other, "by the way you
load him. Why, you two fellows are better able to carry the poor beast
than he you."
"Anything to please you," said the Miller; "we can but try."
So, alighting with his Son, they tied the legs of the Ass together, and
by the help of a pole endeavored to carry him on their shoulders over a
bridge near the entrance of the town. This entertaining sight brought
the people in crowds to laugh at it, till the Ass, not liking the noise
nor the strange handling that he was subject to, broke the cords that
bound him and, tumbling off the pole, fell into the river. Upon this,
the old man, vexed and ashamed, made the best of his way home again,
convinced that by trying to please everybody he had pleased nobody, and
lost his Ass into the bargain.
_He who tries to please everybody pleases nobody._
221
THE TRAVELERS AND THE BEAR
Two Men, about to journey through a forest, agreed to stand by each
other in any dangers that might befall. They had not gone far before a
savage Bear rushed out from a thicket and stood in their path. One of
the Travelers, a light, nimble fellow, got up into a tree. The other,
seeing that there was no chance to defend himself single-handed, fell
flat on his face and held his breath. The Bear came up and smelled at
him, and taking him for dead, went off again into the wood. The Man in
the tree came down and, rejoining his companion, asked him, with a sly
smile, what was the wonderful secret which he had seen the Bear whisper
into his ear.
"Why," replied the other, "he told me to take care for the future and
not to put any confidence in such cowardly rascals as you are."
_Trust not fine promises._
222
THE LARK AND HER YOUNG ONES
A Lark, who had Young Ones in a field of grain which was almost ripe,
was afraid that the reapers would come before her young brood were
fledged. So every day when she flew off to look for food, she charged
them to take note of what they heard in her absence and to tell her of
it when she came home.
One day when she was gone, they heard the owner of the field say to his
son that the grain seemed ripe enough to be cut, and tell him to go
early the next day and ask their friends and neighbors to come and help
reap it.
When the old Lark came home, the Little Ones quivered and chirped round
her and told her what had happened, begging her to take them away as
fast as she could. The mother bade them be easy; "for," said she, "if he
depends on his friends and his neighbors, I am sure the grain will not
be reaped tomorrow."
Next day she went out again and left the same orders as before. The
owner came, and waited. The sun grew hot, but nothing was done, for not
a soul came. "You see," said the owner to his son, "these friends of
ours are not to be depended upon; so run off at once to your uncles and
cousins, and say I wish them to come early to-morrow morning and help us
reap."
This the Young Ones, in a great fright, told also to their mother. "Do
not fear, children," said she. "Kindred and relations are not always
very forward in helping one another; but keep your ears open and let me
know what you hear to-morrow."
The owner came the next day, and, finding his relations as backward as
his neighbors, said to his son, "Now listen to me. Get two good sickles
ready for to-morrow morning, for it seems we must reap the grain by
ourselves."
The Young Ones told this to their mother.
"Then, my dears," said she, "it is time for us to go; for when a man
undertakes to do his work himself, it is not so likely that he will be
disappointed." She took away her Young Ones at once, and the grain was
reaped the next day by the old man and his son.
_Depend upon yourself alone._
223
THE OLD MAN AND HIS SONS
An Old Man had several Sons, who were always falling out with one
another. He had often, but to no purpose, exhorted them to live together
in harmony. One day he called them around him and, producing a bundle of
sticks, bade them try each in turn to break it across. Each put forth
all his strength, but the bundle resisted their efforts. Then, cutting
the cord which bound the sticks together, he told his Sons to break them
separately. This was done with the greatest ease.
"See, my Sons," exclaimed he, "the power of unity! Bound together by
brotherly love, you may defy almost every mortal ill; divided, you will
fall a prey to your enemies."
_A house divided against itself cannot stand._
224
THE FOX AND THE GRAPES
A Fox, just at the time of the vintage, stole into a vineyard where the
ripe sunny Grapes were trellised up on high in most tempting show. He
made many a spring and a jump after the luscious prize; but, failing in
all his attempts, he muttered as he retreated, "Well! what does it
matter! The Grapes are sour!"
225
THE WIDOW AND THE HEN
A Widow woman kept a Hen that laid an egg every morning. Thought the
woman to herself, "If I double my Hen's allowance of barley, she will
lay twice a day." So she tried her plan, and the Hen became so fat and
sleek that she left off laying at all.
_Figures are not always facts._
226
THE KID AND THE WOLF
A Kid being mounted on the roof of a lofty house and seeing a Wolf pass
below, began to revile him. The Wolf merely stopped to reply, "Coward!
It is not you who revile me, but the place on which you are standing."
227
THE MAN AND THE SATYR
A Man and a Satyr having struck up an acquaintance, sat down together to
eat. The day being wintry and cold, the Man put his fingers to his mouth
and blew upon them.
"What's that for, my friend?" asked the Satyr.
"My hands are so cold," said the Man, "I do it to warm them."
In a little while some hot food was placed before them, and the Man,
raising the dish to his mouth, again blew upon it. "And what's the
meaning of that, now?" said the Satyr.
"Oh," replied the Man, "my porridge is so hot I do it to cool it."
"Nay, then," said the Satyr, "from this moment I renounce your
friendship, for I will have nothing to do with one who blows hot and
cold with the same mouth."
228
THE DOG AND THE SHADOW
A Dog had stolen a piece of meat out of a butcher's shop, and was
crossing a river on his way home, when he saw his own shadow reflected
in the stream below. Thinking that it was another dog with another piece
of meat, he resolved to make himself master of that also; but in
snapping at the supposed treasure, he dropped the bit he was carrying,
and so lost all.
_Grasp at the shadow and lose the substance--the common fate of those
who hazard a real blessing for some visionary good._
229
THE SWALLOW AND THE RAVEN
The Swallow and the Raven contended which was the finer bird. The Raven
ended by saying, "Your beauty is but for the summer, but mine will stand
many winters."
_Durability is better than show._
230
MERCURY AND THE WOODMAN
A Woodman was felling a tree on the bank of a river, and by chance let
slip his axe into the water, when it immediately sank to the bottom.
Being thereupon in great distress, he sat down by the side of the stream
and lamented his loss bitterly. But Mercury, whose river it was, taking
compassion on him, appeared at the instant before him; and hearing from
him the cause of his sorrow, dived to the bottom of the river, and
bringing up a golden axe, asked the Woodman if that were his. Upon the
Man's denying it, Mercury dived a second time, and brought up one of
silver. Again the Man denied that it was his. So diving a third time, he
produced the identical axe which the Man had lost. "That is mine!" said
the Woodman, delighted to have recovered his own; and so pleased was
Mercury with the fellow's truth and honesty that he at once made him a
present of the other two.
The Man goes to his companions, and giving them an account of what had
happened to him, one of them determined to try whether he might not have
the like good fortune. So repairing to the same place, as if for the
purpose of cutting wood, he let slip his axe on purpose into the river
and then sat down on the bank and made a great show of weeping. Mercury
appeared as before, and hearing from him that his tears were caused by
the loss of his axe, dived once more into the stream; and bringing up a
golden axe, asked him if that was the axe he had lost.
"Aye, surely," said the Man, eagerly; and he was about to grasp the
treasure, when Mercury, to punish his impudence and lying, not only
refused to give him that, but would not so much as restore him his own
axe again.
_Honesty is the best policy._
231
THE MICE IN COUNCIL
Once upon a time the Mice being sadly distressed by the persecution of
the Cat, resolved to call a meeting to decide upon the best means of
getting rid of this continual annoyance. Many plans were discussed and
rejected.
At last a young Mouse got up and proposed that a Bell should be hung
round the Cat's neck, that they might for the future always have notice
of her coming and so be able to escape. This proposition was hailed with
the greatest applause, and was agreed to at once unanimously. Upon this,
an old Mouse, who had sat silent all the while, got up and said that he
considered the contrivance most ingenious, and that it would, no doubt,
be quite successful; but he had only one short question to put; namely,
which of them it was who would Bell the Cat?
_It is one thing to propose, another to execute._
232
THE MOUNTEBANK AND THE COUNTRYMAN
A certain wealthy patrician, intending to treat the Roman people with
some theatrical entertainment, publicly offered a reward to any one who
would produce a novel spectacle. Incited by emulation, artists arrived
from all parts to contest the prize, among whom a well-known witty
Mountebank gave out that he had a new kind of entertainment that had
never yet been produced on any stage. This report, being spread abroad,
brought the whole city together. The theater could hardly contain the
number of spectators. And when the artist appeared alone upon the stage,
without any apparatus or any assistants, curiosity and suspense kept
the spectators in profound silence. On a sudden he thrust down his head
into his bosom, and mimicked the squeaking of a young pig so naturally
that the audience insisted upon it that he had one under his cloak and
ordered him to be searched, which, being done and nothing appearing,
they loaded him with the most extravagant applause.
A Countryman among the audience observed what passed. "Oh!" says he, "I
can do better than this"; and immediately gave out that he would perform
the next day. Accordingly on the morrow a yet greater crowd was
collected. Prepossessed, however, in favor of the Mountebank, they came
rather to laugh at the Countryman than to pass a fair judgment on him.
They both came out upon the stage. The Mountebank grunts away at first,
and calls forth the greatest clapping and applause. Then the Countryman,
pretending that he concealed a little pig under his garments (and he
had, in fact, really got one) pinched its ear till he made it squeak.
The people cried out that the Mountebank had imitated the pig much more
naturally, and hooted to the Countryman to quit the stage; but he, to
convict them to their face, produced the real pig from his bosom. "And
now, gentlemen, you may see," said he, "what a pretty sort of judges you
are!"
_It is easier to convict a man against his senses than against his
will._
233
Stories dealing with the disastrous effects of
"day-dreaming" are very common in the world's
literature. The three selections that follow
are given as very familiar samples for
comparison. The first is a simple version by
Jacobs.
THE MILKMAID AND HER PAIL
Patty, the Milkmaid, was going to market, carrying her milk in a Pail on
her head. As she went along she began calculating what she could do with
the money she would get for the milk. "I'll buy some fowls from Farmer
Brown," said she, "and they will lay eggs each morning, which I will
sell to the parson's wife. With the money that I get from the sale of
these eggs I'll buy myself a new dimity frock and a chip hat; and when I
go to market, won't all the young men come up and speak to me! Polly
Shaw will be that jealous; but I don't care. I shall just look at her
and toss my head like this." As she spoke, she tossed her head back, the
Pail fell off it and all the milk was spilt. So she had to go home and
tell her mother what had occurred.
"Ah, my child," said her mother,
"_Do not count your chickens before they are hatched._"
234
The next is Wright's translation of La
Fontaine's famous fable on the day-dreaming
theme. Notice how much more complicated its
application becomes in contrast with the
obvious truth of the proverb in the preceding
version. La Fontaine is responsible for the
story's popularity in modern times. The most
fascinating study on the way fables have come
down to us is Max Müller's "On the Migration of
Fables," in which he follows this story from
India through all its many changes until it
reaches us in La Fontaine.
THE DAIRYWOMAN AND THE POT OF MILK
LA FONTAINE
A pot of milk upon her cushioned crown,
Good Peggy hastened to the market town,
Short clad and light, with speed she went,
Not fearing any accident;
Indeed, to be the nimble tripper,
Her dress that day,
The truth to say,
Was simple petticoat and slipper.
And thus bedight,
Good Peggy, light,--
Her gains already counted,--
Laid out the cash
At single dash,
Which to a hundred eggs amounted.
Three nests she made,
Which, by the aid
Of diligence and care, were hatched.
"To raise the chicks,
I'll easy fix,"
Said she, "beside our cottage thatched.
The fox must get
More cunning yet,
Or leave enough to buy a pig.
With little care
And any fare,
He'll grow quite fat and big;
And then the price
Will be so nice,
For which the pork will sell!
Twill go quite hard
But in our yard
I'll bring a cow and calf to dwell--
A calf to frisk among the flock!"
The thought made Peggy do the same;
And down at once the milk-pot came,
And perished with the shock.
Calf, cow, and pig, and chicks, adieu!
Your mistress' face is sad to view;
She gives a tear to fortune spilt;
Then with the downcast look of guilt
Home to her husband empty goes,
Somewhat in danger of his blows.
Who buildeth not, sometimes, in air
His cots, or seats, or castles fair?
From kings to dairywomen,--all,--
The wise, the foolish, great and small,--
Each thinks his waking dream the best.
Some flattering error fills the breast:
The world with all its wealth is ours,
Its honors, dames, and loveliest bowers.
Instinct with valor, when alone,
I hurl the monarch from his throne;
The people, glad to see him dead,
Elect me monarch in his stead,
And diadems rain on my head.
Some accident then calls me back,
And I'm no more than simple Jack.
235
The day-dreaming idea is next presented in the
form found in the story of the barber's fifth
brother in the _Arabian Nights_. Would this
story be any more effective if it had a
paragraph at the end stating and emphasizing
the moral?
THE STORY OF ALNASCHAR
Alnaschar, my fifth brother, was very lazy, and of course wretchedly
poor. On the death of our father we divided his property, and each of us
received a hundred drachms of silver for his share. Alnaschar, who hated
labor, laid out his money in fine glasses, and having displayed his
stock to the best advantage in a large basket, he took his stand in the
market-place, with his back against the wall, waiting for customers. In
this posture he indulged in a reverie, talking aloud to himself as
follows:
"This glass cost me a hundred drachms of silver, which is all I have in
the world. I shall make two hundred by retailing it, and of these very
shortly four hundred. It will not be long before these produce four
thousand. Money, they say, begets money. I shall soon therefore be
possessed of eight thousand, and when these become ten thousand I will
no longer be a glass-seller. I will trade in pearls and diamonds; and
as I shall become rich apace, I will have a splendid palace, a great
estate, slaves, and horses; I will not, however, leave traffic till I
have acquired a hundred thousand drachms. Then I shall be as great as a
prince, and will assume manners accordingly.
"I will demand the daughter of the grand vizier in marriage, who, no
doubt, will be glad of an alliance with a man of my consequence. The
marriage ceremony shall be performed with the utmost splendor and
magnificence. I will have my horse clothed with the richest housings,
ornamented with diamonds and pearls, and will be attended by a number of
slaves, all richly dressed, when I go to the vizier's palace to conduct
my wife thence to my own. The vizier shall receive me with great pomp,
and shall give me the right hand and place me above himself, to do me
the more honor. On my return I will appoint two of my handsomest slaves
to throw money among the populace, that every one may speak well of my
generosity.
"When we arrive at my own palace, I will take great state upon me, and
hardly speak to my wife. She shall dress herself in all her ornaments,
and stand before me as beautiful as the full moon, but I will not look
at her. Her slaves shall draw near and entreat me to cast my eyes upon
her; which, after much supplication, I will deign to do, though with
great indifference. I will not suffer her to come out of her apartment
without my leave; and when I have a mind to visit her there, it shall be
in a manner that will make her respect me. Thus will I begin early to
teach her what she is to expect the rest of her life.
"When her mother comes to visit her she will intercede with me for her.
'Sir,' she will say (for she will not dare to call me son, for fear of
offending me by so much familiarity), 'do not, I beseech, treat my
daughter with scorn; she is as beautiful as an Houri, and entirely
devoted to you.' But my mother-in-law may as well hold her peace, for I
will take no notice of what she says. She will then pour out some wine
into a goblet, and give it to my wife, saying, 'Present it to your lord
and husband; he will not surely be so cruel as to refuse it from so fair
a hand.' My wife will then come with the glass, and stand trembling
before me; and when she finds that I do not look on her, but continue to
disdain her, she will kneel and entreat me to accept it; but I will
continue inflexible. At last, redoubling her tears, she will rise and
put the goblet to my lips, when, tired with her importunities, I will
dart a terrible look at her and give her such a push with my foot as
will spurn her from me." Alnaschar was so interested in this imaginary
grandeur that he thrust forth his foot to kick the lady, and by that
means overturned his glasses and broke them into a thousand pieces.
236
"The Camel and the Pig" is from P. V. Ramaswami
Raju's _Indian Folk Stories and Fables_, an
excellent book of adaptations for young
readers. The idea that every situation in life
has its advantages as well as its disadvantages
is one of those common but often overlooked
truths which serve so well as the themes of
fable. Emerson's "Fable," the story of the
quarrel between the mountain and the squirrel,
is a most excellent presentation of the same
idea (see No. 363). "The Little Elf," by John
Kendrick Bangs, makes the same point for
smaller folks.
THE CAMEL AND THE PIG
ADAPTED BY P. V. RAMASWAMI RAJU
A camel said, "Nothing like being tall! See how tall I am!"
A Pig who heard these words said, "Nothing like being short; see how
short I am!"
The Camel said, "Well, if I fail to prove the truth of what I said, I
will give up my hump."
The Pig said, "If I fail to prove the truth of what I have said, I will
give up my snout."
"Agreed!" said the Camel.
"Just so!" said the Pig.
They came to a garden inclosed by a low wall without any opening. The
Camel stood on this side the wall, and, reaching the plants within by
means of his long neck, made a breakfast on them. Then he turned
jeeringly to the Pig, who had been standing at the bottom of the wall,
without even having a look at the good things in the garden, and said,
"Now, would you be tall or short?"
Next they came to a garden inclosed by a high wall, with a wicket gate
at one end. The Pig entered by the gate and, after having eaten his fill
of the vegetables within, came out, laughing at the poor Camel, who had
to stay outside, because he was too tall to enter the garden by the
gate, and said, "Now, would you be tall or short?"
Then they thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that the
Camel should keep his hump and the Pig his snout, observing,--
"Tall is good, where tall would do;
Of short, again, 'tis also true!"
237
Many scholars have believed that all fables
originated in India. The great Indian
collection of symbolic stories known as Jataka
Tales, or Buddhist Birth Stories, has been
called "the oldest, most complete, and most
important collection of folklore extant." They
are called Birth Stories because each one gives
an account of something that happened in
connection with the teaching of Buddha in some
previous "birth" or incarnation. There are
about 550 of these Jatakas, including some 2000
stories. They have now been made accessible in
a translation by a group of English scholars
and published in six volumes under the general
editorship of Professor Cowell. Many of them
have long been familiar in eastern collections
and have been adapted in recent times for use
in schools. Each Jataka is made up of three
parts. There is a "story of the present" giving
an account of an incident in Buddha's life
which calls to his mind a "story of the past"
in which he had played a part during a former
incarnation. Then, there is a conclusion
marking the results. Nos. 237 and 238 are
literal translations of Jatakas by T. W.
Rhys-Davids in his _Buddhist Birth Stories_. In
adapting for children, the stories of the
present may be omitted. In fact, everything
except the direct story should be eliminated.
The "gathas," or verses, were very important in
connection with the original purpose of
religious teaching, but are only incumbrances
in telling the story either for its own sake or
for its moral.
THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN
At the same time when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the future
Buddha was born one of a peasant family; and when he grew up he gained
his living by tilling the ground.
At that time a hawker used to go from place to place, trafficking in
goods carried by an ass. Now at each place he came to, when he took the
pack down from the ass's back, he used to clothe him in a lion's skin
and turn him loose in the rice and barley fields. And when the watchmen
in the fields saw the ass they dared not go near him, taking him for a
lion.
So one day the hawker stopped in a village; and while he was getting his
own breakfast cooked, he dressed the ass in a lion's skin and turned him
loose in a barley field. The watchmen in the field dared not go up to
him; but going home, they published the news. Then all the villagers
came out with weapons in their hands; and blowing chanks, and beating
drums, they went near the field and shouted. Terrified with the fear of
death, the ass uttered a cry--the bray of an ass!
And when he knew him then to be an ass, the future Buddha pronounced the
first verse:
"This is not a lion's roaring,
Nor a tiger's nor a panther's;
Dressed in a lion's skin,
'Tis a wretched ass that roars!"
But when the villagers knew the creature to be an ass, they beat him
till his bones broke; and, carrying off the lion's skin, went away. Then
the hawker came; and seeing the ass fallen into so bad a plight,
pronounced the second verse:
"Long might the ass,
Clad in a lion's skin,
Have fed on the barley green;
But he brayed
And that moment he came to ruin."
And even while he was yet speaking the ass died on the spot.
238
THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE
The future Buddha was once born in a minister's family, when
Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares; and when he grew up he became the
king's adviser in things temporal and spiritual.
Now this king was very talkative; while he was speaking others had no
opportunity for a word. And the future Buddha, wanting to cure this
talkativeness of his, was constantly seeking for some means of doing so.
At that time there was living, in a pond in the Himalaya mountains, a
tortoise. Two young hamsas, or wild ducks, who came to feed there, made
friends with him, and one day, when they had become very intimate with
him, they said to the tortoise:
"Friend tortoise! the place where we live, at the Golden Cave on Mount
Beautiful in the Himalaya country, is a delightful spot. Will you come
there with us?"
"But how can I get there?"
"We can take you if you can only hold your tongue, and will say nothing
to anybody."
"Oh! that I can do. Take me with you."
"That's right," said they. And making the tortoise bite hold of a stick,
they themselves took the two ends in their teeth, and flew up into the
air.
Seeing him thus carried by the hamsas, some villagers called out, "Two
wild ducks are carrying a tortoise along on a stick!" Whereupon the
tortoise wanted to say, "If my friends choose to carry me, what is that
to you, you wretched slaves!" So just as the swift flight of the wild
ducks had brought him over the king's palace in the city of Benares, he
let go of the stick he was biting, and falling in the open courtyard,
split in two! And there arose a universal cry, "A tortoise has fallen in
the open courtyard, and has split in two!"
The king, taking the future Buddha, went to the place, surrounded by his
courtiers; and looking at the tortoise, he asked the Bodisat, "Teacher!
how comes he to be fallen here?"
The future Buddha thought to himself, "Long expecting, wishing to
admonish the king, have I sought for some means of doing so. This
tortoise must have made friends with the wild ducks; and they must have
made him bite hold of the stick, and have flown up into the air to take
him to the hills. But he, being unable to hold his tongue when he hears
any one else talk, must have wanted to say something, and let go the
stick; and so must have fallen down from the sky, and thus lost his
life." And saying, "Truly, O king! those who are called
chatter-boxes--people whose words have no end--come to grief like this,"
he uttered these verses:
"Verily the tortoise killed himself
While uttering his voice;
Though he was holding tight the stick,
By a word himself he slew.
"Behold him then, O excellent by strength!
And speak wise words, not out of season.
You see how, by his talking overmuch,
The tortoise fell into this wretched plight!"
The king saw that he was himself referred to, and said, "O Teacher! are
you speaking of us?"
And the Bodisat spake openly, and said, "O great king! be it thou, or be
it any other, whoever talks beyond measure meets with some mishap like
this."
And the king henceforth refrained himself, and became a man of few
words.
239
The following is, also, an oriental story. It
is taken from the _Hitopadesa_ (Book of Good
Counsel), a collection of Sanskrit fables. This
collection was compiled from older sources,
probably in the main from the _Panchatantra_
(Five Books), which belonged to about the fifth
century. Observe the emphasis placed upon the
teaching of the fable by putting the statement
of it at the beginning and recurring to it at
the close.
A LION TRICKED BY A RABBIT
_He who hath sense hath strength. Where hath he strength who wanteth
judgment? See how a lion, when intoxicated with anger, was overcome by a
rabbit._
Upon the mountain Mandara there lived a lion, whose name was Durganta
(hard to go near), who was very exact in complying with the ordinance
for animal sacrifices. So at length all the different species assembled,
and in a body represented that, as by his present mode of proceeding the
forest would be cleared all at once, if it pleased his Highness, they
would each of them in his turn provide him an animal for his daily food.
And the lion gave his consent accordingly. Thus every beast delivered
his stipulated provision, till at length, it coming to the rabbit's
turn, he began to meditate in this manner: "Policy should be practiced
by him who would save his life; and I myself shall lose mine if I do not
take care. Suppose I lead him after another lion? Who knows how that may
turn out for me? I will approach him slowly, as if fatigued."
The lion by this time began to be very hungry; so, seeing the rabbit
coming toward him, he called out in a great passion, "What is the reason
thou comest so late?"
"Please your Highness," said the rabbit, "as I was coming along I was
forcibly detained by another of your species; but having given him my
word that I would return immediately, I came here to represent it to
your Highness."
"Go quickly," said the lion in a rage, "and show me where this vile
wretch may be found!"
Accordingly, the rabbit conducted the lion to the brink of a deep well,
where being arrived, "There," said the rabbit, "look down and behold
him." At the same time he pointed to the reflected image of the lion in
the water, who, swelling with pride and resentment, leaped into the
well, as he thought, upon his adversary; and thus put an end to his
life.
I repeat, therefore:
_He who hath sense hath strength. Where hath he strength who wanteth
judgment?_
240
Marie de France lived probably in the latter
part of the twelfth century and was one of the
most striking figures in Middle English
literature. She seems to have been born in
France, lived much in England, translated from
the Anglo-Norman dialect into French, and is
spoken of as the first French poet. One of her
three works, and the most extensive, is a
collection of 103 fables, which she says she
translated from the English of King Alfred. Her
original, whatever it may have been, is lost.
One of her fables, in a translation by
Professor W. W. Skeat, is given below. It
contains the germ of Chaucer's "Nun's Priest's
Tale," in _The Canterbury Tales_.
THE COCK AND THE FOX
MARIE DE FRANCE
A Cock our story tells of, who
High on a trash hill stood and crew.
A Fox, attracted, straight drew nigh,
And spake soft words of flattery.
"Dear Sir!" said he, "your look's divine;
I never saw a bird so fine!
I never heard a voice so clear
Except your father's--ah! poor dear!
His voice rang clearly, loudly--but
Most clearly when his eyes were shut!"
"The same with me!" the Cock replies,
And flaps his wings, and shuts his eyes.
Each note rings clearer than the last--
The Fox starts up and holds him fast;
Toward the wood he hies apace.
But as he crossed an open space,
The shepherds spy him; off they fly;
The dogs give chase with hue and cry.
The Fox still holds the Cock, though fear
Suggests his case is growing queer.
"Tush!" cries the Cock, "cry out, to grieve 'em,
'The cock is mine! I'll never leave him!'"
The Fox attempts, in scorn, to shout,
And opes his mouth; the Cock slips out,
And in a trice has gained a tree.
Too late the Fox begins to see
How well the Cock his game has played;
For once his tricks have been repaid.
In angry language, uncontrolled,
He 'gins to curse the mouth that's bold
To speak, when it should silent be.
"Well," says the Cock, "the same with me;
I curse the eyes that go to sleep
Just when they ought sharp watch to keep
Lest evil to their lord befall."
Thus fools contrariously do all;
They chatter when they should be dumb,
And, when they _ought_ to speak, are mum.
241
The following is Wright's translation of the
first fable in La Fontaine's collection.
Rousseau, objecting to fables in general,
singled out this particular one as an example
of their bad effects on children, and echoes of
his voice are still in evidence. It would, he
said, give children a lesson in inhumanity.
"You believe you are making an example of the
grasshopper, but they will choose the ant . . .
they will take the more pleasant part, which is
a very natural thing." Another observer said:
"As for me, I love neither grasshopper nor ant,
neither avarice nor prodigality, neither the
miserly people who lend nor the spendthrifts
who borrow." These statements represent
complex, analytic points of view which are
probably outside the range of most children.
They will see the grasshopper simply as a type
of thorough shiftlessness and the ant as a type
of forethought, although La Fontaine does
suggest that the ant might on general
principles be a little less "tight-fisted." The
lesson that idleness is the mother of want, the
necessity of looking ahead, of providing for
the future, of laying up for a rainy day--these
are certainly common-sense conclusions and the
only ones the story itself will suggest to the
child.
THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT
LA FONTAINE
A grasshopper gay
Sang the summer away,
And found herself poor
By the winter's first roar.
Of meat or of bread,
Not a morsel she had!
So a begging she went,
To her neighbor the ant,
For the loan of some wheat,
Which would serve her to eat,
Till the season came round.
"I will pay you," she saith,
"On an animal's faith,
Double weight in the pound
Ere the harvest be bound."
The ant is a friend
(And here she might mend)
Little given to lend.
"How spent you the summer?"
Quoth she, looking shame
At the borrowing dame.
"Night and day to each comer
I sang, if you please."
"You sang! I'm at ease;
For 'tis plain at a glance,
Now, ma'am, you must dance."
242
The translation of the following fable is that
of W. Lucas Collins, in his _La Fontaine and
Other French Fabulists_. This fable has always
been a great favorite among the French, and the
translator has caught much of the sprightly
tone of his original.
THE COCK, THE CAT, AND THE YOUNG MOUSE
LA FONTAINE
A pert young Mouse, to whom the world was new,
Had once a near escape, if all be true.
He told his mother, as I now tell you:
"I crossed the mountains that beyond us rise,
And, journeying onwards, bore me
As one who had a great career before me,
When lo! two creatures met my wondering eyes,--
The one of gracious mien, benign and mild;
The other fierce and wild,
With high-pitched voice that filled me with alarm;
A lump of sanguine flesh grew on his head,
And with a kind of arm
He raised himself in air,
As if to hover there;
His tail was like a horseman's plume outspread."
(It was a farmyard Cock, you understand,
That our young friend described in terms so grand,
As 'twere some marvel come from foreign land.)
"With arms raised high
He beat his sides, and made such hideous cry,
That even I,
Brave as I am, thank heaven! had well-nigh fainted:
Straightway I took to flight,
And cursed him left and right.
Ah! but for him, I might have got acquainted
With that sweet creature,
Who bore attractiveness in every feature:
A velvet skin he had, like yours and mine,
A tail so long and fine,
A sweet, meek countenance, a modest air--
Yet, what an eye was there!
I feel that, on the whole,
He must have strong affinities of soul
With our great race--our ears are shaped the same.
I should have made my bow, and asked his name,
But at the fearful cry
Raised by that monster, I was forced to fly."
"My child," replied his mother, "you have seen
That demure hypocrite we call a Cat:
Under that sleek and inoffensive mien
He bears a deadly hate of Mouse and Rat.
The other, whom you feared, is harmless--quite;
Nay, perhaps may serve us for a meal some night.
As for your friend, for all his innocent air,
We form the staple of his bill of fare."
_Take, while you live, this warning as your guide--_
_Don't judge by the outside._
243
John Gay (1685-1732) was an English poet and
dramatist. His work as a whole has been pretty
well forgotten, but he has been recently
brought back to the mind of the public by the
revival of his satirical _Beggar's Opera_, the
ancestor of the modern comic opera. Gay
published a collection of fables in verse in
1727, "prepared for the edification of the
young Duke of Cumberland." A second group,
making sixty-six in all, was published after
his death. Since these fables are probably the
best of their kind in English, a few of them
are frequently met with in collections. "The
Hare with Many Friends" has been the favorite,
and rightly so, as it has something of the
humor and point that belong to the real fable.
Perhaps the fact that it has a personal
application enabled Gay to write with more
vigor and sincerity than elsewhere.
THE HARE WITH MANY FRIENDS
JOHN GAY
Friendship, like love, is but a name,
Unless to one you stint the flame.
The child whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father's care.
'Tis thus in friendship; who depend
On many rarely find a friend.
A Hare, who, in a civil way,
Complied with everything, like Gay,
Was known by all the bestial train
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain.
Her care was, never to offend,
And every creature was her friend.
As forth she went at early dawn,
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies.
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;
She hears the near advance of death;
She doubles, to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round:
Till, fainting in the public way,
Half dead with fear she gasping lay.
What transport in her bosom grew,
When first the Horse appeared in view!
"Let me," says she, "your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend.
You know my feet betray my flight;
To friendship every burden's light."
The Horse replied: "Poor honest Puss,
It grieves my heart to see thee thus;
Be comforted; relief is near,
For all your friends are in the rear."
She next the stately Bull implored;
And thus replied the mighty lord,
"Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend,
To take the freedom of a friend;
Love calls me hence; a favorite cow
Expects me near yon barley-mow;
And when a lady's in the case,
You know, all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind;
But see, the Goat is just behind."
The Goat remarked her pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye;
"My back," says he, "may do you harm;
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm."
The Sheep was feeble, and complained
His sides a load of wool sustained:
Said he was slow, confessed his fears,
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares.
She now the trotting Calf addressed,
To save from death a friend distressed.
"Shall I," says he, "of tender age,
In this important care, engage?
Older and abler passed you by;
How strong are those, how weak am I!
Should I presume to bear you hence,
Those friends of mine may take offence.
Excuse me, then. You know my heart.
But dearest friends, alas, must part!
How shall we all lament! Adieu!
For see, the hounds are just in view."
244
Tomas de Yriarte (1750-1791) was a Spanish poet
of some note, remembered now mainly as the
author of _Literary Fables_, the first attempt
at literary fable-writing in Spanish. As the
name is meant to imply, they concern themselves
with the follies and weaknesses of authors.
There are about eighty fables in the complete
collection, and they are full of ingenuity and
cleverness. One of the simplest and best of
these is given here in the translation by R.
Rockliffe, which first appeared in _Blackwood's
Magazine_ in 1839. It laughs at the lucky
chance by which even stupidity sometimes "makes
a hit" and then stupidly proceeds to pat itself
on the back.
THE MUSICAL ASS
TOMAS YRIARTE
The fable which I now present
Occurred to me by accident;
And whether bad or excellent,
Is merely so by accident.
A stupid ass one morning went
Into a field by accident
And cropp'd his food and was content,
Until he spied by accident
A flute, which some oblivious gent
Had left behind by accident;
When, sniffing it with eager scent,
He breathed on it by accident,
And made the hollow instrument
Emit a sound by accident.
"Hurrah! hurrah!" exclaimed the brute,
"How cleverly I play the flute!"
_A fool, in spite of nature's bent._
_May shine for once--by accident._
245
Ivan Andreevitch Krylov (1768-1844) was a
Russian author whose fame rests almost entirely
upon his popular verse fables (200 in number)
which have been used extensively as textbooks
in Russian schools. They have "joyousness,
simplicity, wit, and good humor." The following
specimen is from I. H. Harrison's translation
of Krylov's _Original Fables_. It gives a good
illustration of the necessity of "teamwork."
THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB
IVAN KRYLOV
When partners with each other don't agree,
Each project must a failure be,
And out of it no profit come, but sheer vexation.
A Swan, a Pike, and Crab once took their station
In harness, and would drag a loaded cart;
But, when the moment came for them to start,
They sweat, they strain, and yet the cart stands still; what's lacking?
The load must, as it seemed, have been but light;
The Swan, though, to the clouds takes flight,
The Pike into the water pulls, the Crab keeps backing.
Now which of them was right, which wrong, concerns us not;
The cart is still upon the selfsame spot.
246
This fable from the Old Testament is one of the
very oldest on record in which a story is
practically applied to a human problem. The
causes of political corruption apparently have
not changed much in three thousand years.
American citizens gather together at certain
times to choose mayors and other officers to
rule over them, and when they say to the
fruitful olive tree, or fig tree, or vine,
"Come thou and reign over us," he replies,
"Should I forsake my productive factory, or
mine, or profession, to be mayor?" But when
they say to the bramble, "Come thou and reign
over us," he replies, "Put your trust in me,
and let those suffer who object to my
management of public affairs." Jotham's lesson
of political duty is one greatly needed in the
present-day attempt to raise our standard of
citizenship.
THE BRAMBLE IS MADE KING
_Judges ix: 6-16_
And all the men of Shechem gathered together, and all the house of
Millo, and went, and made Abimelech king, by the plain of the pillar
that was in Shechem. And when they told it to Jotham, he went and stood
in the top of Mount Gerizim, and lifted up his voice, and cried, and
said unto them:--
"Hearken unto me, ye men of Shechem, that God may hearken unto you. The
trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said
unto the olive tree, 'Reign thou over us.' But the olive tree said unto
them, 'Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honor God and
man, and go to be promoted over the trees?'
"And the trees said to the fig tree, 'Come thou and reign over us.' But
the fig tree said unto them, 'Should I forsake my sweetness and my good
fruit, and go to be promoted over the trees?'
"Then said the trees unto the vine, 'Come thou and reign over us.' And
the vine said unto them, 'Should I leave my wine, which cheereth God and
man, and go to be promoted over the trees?'
"Then said all the trees unto the bramble, 'Come thou and reign over
us.' And the bramble said unto the trees, 'If in truth ye anoint me
king over you, then come and put your trust in my shadow: and if not,
let fire come out of the bramble and devour the cedars of Lebanon.'"
247
The concrete illustrations by means of which
Jesus constantly taught are called parables.
"Without a parable spake he not unto them." The
parable differs from the fable proper in
dealing with more fundamental or ideal truth.
The fable moves on the plane of the prudential
virtues, the parable on the plane of the higher
self-forgetting virtues. Because of that
difference there is in the parable "no jesting
nor raillery at the weakness, the follies, or
the crimes of men." All is deeply earnest,
befitting its high spiritual point of view. As
a rule the parables use for illustration
stories of what might actually happen. Two of
the most familiar of the parables follow. What
true neighborliness means is the message of
"The Good Samaritan."
THE GOOD SAMARITAN
_Luke x:25-37_
And behold, a certain lawyer stood up and tempted him, saying, "Master,
what shall I do to inherit eternal life?" He said unto him, "What is
written in the law? how readest thou?" And he answering said, "Thou
shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul,
and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbor as
thyself." And He said unto him, "Thou hast answered right; this do, and
thou shalt live." But he, willing to justify himself, said unto Jesus,
"And who is my neighbor?"
And Jesus answering said, "A certain man went down from Jerusalem to
Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and
wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead. And by chance there
came down a certain priest that way; and when he saw him, he passed by
on the other side. And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came
and looked on him, and passed by on the other side. But a certain
Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was; and when he saw him, he
had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring
in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an
inn, and took care of him. And on the morrow, when he departed, he took
out two pence and gave them to the host and said unto him, 'Take care of
him: and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again I will repay
thee.'
"Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbor unto him that
fell among the thieves?"
And he said, "He that showed mercy on him."
Then said Jesus unto him, "Go and do thou likewise."
248
THE PRODIGAL SON
_Luke xv:10-32_
"Likewise I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of
God over one sinner that repenteth."
And he said, "A certain man had two sons; and the younger of them said
to his father, 'Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to
me.' And he divided unto them his living.
"And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and
took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with
riotous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine
in that land; and he began to be in want. And he went and joined
himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to
feed swine. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that
the swine did eat; and no man gave unto him.
"And when he came to himself, he said, 'How many hired servants of my
father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I
will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, "Father, I have
sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be
called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants."'
"And he arose and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way
off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his
neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, 'Father, I have sinned
against heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy
son.' But the father said to his servants, 'Bring forth the best robe
and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet;
and bring hither the fatted calf and kill it; and let us eat and be
merry; for this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is
found.' And they began to be merry.
"Now his elder son was in the field; and as he came and drew nigh to the
house, he heard music and dancing. And he called one of the servants and
asked what these things meant. And he said unto him, 'Thy brother is
come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath
received him safe and sound.' And he was angry and would not go in;
therefore came his father out and entreated him. And he answering, said
to his father, 'Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither
transgressed I at any time thy commandment; and yet thou never gavest me
a kid that I might make merry with my friends. But as soon as this thy
son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast
killed for him the fatted calf.' And he said unto him, 'Son, thou art
ever with me; and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should
make merry, and be glad; for this thy brother was dead, and is alive
again; and was lost, and is found.'"
249
This little apologue is taken from _Norwood_
(1867), a novel written by Henry Ward Beecher
for the New York _Ledger_ in the days when that
periodical, under the direction of Robert
Bonner, was the great family weekly of America.
In the course of the fiction Mr. Beecher
emphasizes the value of stories for children.
"Story-hunger in children," he says, "is even
more urgent than bread-hunger." And after the
story has been told: "How charming it is to
narrate fables for children. . . . Children are
unconscious philosophers. They refuse to pull
to pieces their enjoyments to see what they are
made of. Rose knew as well as her father that
leaves never talked. Yet, Rose never saw a leaf
without feeling that there was life and meaning
in it."
THE ANXIOUS LEAF
HENRY WARD BEECHER
Once upon a time a little leaf was heard to sigh and cry, as leaves
often do when a gentle wind is about.
And the twig said, "What is the matter, little leaf?"
And the leaf said, "The wind just told me that one day it would pull me
off and throw me down to die on the ground!"
The twig told it to the branch on which it grew, and the branch told it
to the tree. And when the tree heard it, it rustled all over, and sent
back word to the leaf, "Do not be afraid; hold on tightly, and you shall
not go till you want to." And so the leaf stopped sighing, but went on
nestling and singing.
Every time the tree shook itself and stirred up all its leaves, the
branches shook themselves, and the little twig shook itself, and the
little leaf danced up and down merrily, as if nothing could ever pull it
off.
And so it grew all summer long till October. And when the bright days of
autumn came, the little leaf saw all the leaves around becoming very
beautiful. Some were yellow, and some scarlet, and some striped with
both colors.
Then it asked the tree what it meant. And the tree said, "All these
leaves are getting ready to fly away, and they have put on these
beautiful colors, because of joy."
Then the little leaf began to want to go, and grew very beautiful in
thinking of it, and when it was very gay in color, it saw that the
branches of the tree had no color in them, and so the leaf said, "Oh,
branches! why are you lead color and we golden?"
"We must keep on our work clothes, for our life is not done; but your
clothes are for holiday, because your tasks are over."
Just then, a little puff of wind came, and the leaf let go without
thinking of it, and the wind took it up, and turned it over and over,
and whirled it like a spark of fire in the air and then it fell gently
down under the edge of the fence among hundreds of leaves, and fell into
a dream and never waked up to tell what it dreamed about!
250
Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790), more than any
other American, has emphasized for us the value
of proverbial sayings and the significance of
the symbolic story. This account of how one may
pay too much for a whistle was written in 1779
while Franklin was representing the colonies at
Paris, and addressed to his friend Madame
Brillon. The making of apologues seemed to be a
favorite sort of game in the circle in which
Franklin moved, and his plain common sense is
always uppermost in whatever he produces. The
lesson of the whistle is always needed; we are
prone to put aside the essential thing for the
temporary and showy. More than a century ago
Noah Webster put this story in his
school-reader, and most school-readers since
have contained it. The selection is here
reprinted complete. Teachers usually omit some
of the opening and closing paragraphs.
THE WHISTLE
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
I am charmed with your description of Paradise, and with your plan of
living there; and I approve much of your conclusion, that, in the mean
time, we should draw all the good we can from this world. In my opinion,
we might all draw more good than we do, and suffer less evil, if we
would take care not to give too much for _whistles_. For to me it seems
that most of the unhappy people we meet with are become so by neglect of
that caution.
You ask what I mean? You love stories, and will excuse my telling one of
myself.
When I was a child of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled
my pockets with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys
for children; and being charmed with the sound of a _whistle_, that I
met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and
gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over
the house, much pleased with my _whistle_, but disturbing all the
family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain
I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was
worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest
of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with
vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the _whistle_
gave me pleasure.
This, however, was afterward of use to me, the impression continuing on
my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary
thing, I said to myself, _Don't give too much for the whistle_; and I
saved my money.
As I grew up I thought I met with many, very many, who _gave too much
for the whistle_.
When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time, his
repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it,
I have said to myself, _This man gives too much for his whistle._
When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in
political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that
neglect, _He pays, indeed_, said I, _too much for his whistle._
If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the
pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens,
and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating
wealth, _Poor man_, said I, _you pay too much for your whistle._
When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable
improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporal sensations,
and ruining his health in their pursuit, _Mistaken man_, said I, _you
are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure; you give too much
for your whistle._
If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine
furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts
debts, and ends his career in a prison, _Alas!_ say I, _he has paid
dear, very dear, for his whistle._
When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured
brute of a husband, _What a pity_, say I, _that she should pay so much
for a whistle!_
In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are
brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of
things, and by their _giving too much for their whistles_.
Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider
that, with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain
things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John,
which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put to sale by
auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and
find that I had once more given too much for the _whistle_.
251
"The Ephemera" was also addressed to Madame
Brillon, the "amiable Brillante" of the final
sentence. It is an allegorical story
emphasizing the relative shortness of human
life. Franklin's "Alas! art is long and life is
short!" anticipates Longfellow's "Art is long
and time is fleeting." But hundreds of writers
had preceded both of them in calling attention
to this at the same time commonplace and
significant fact. At the end, Franklin's quiet
acceptance of the rather gloomy outlook
suggested by the ephemeral nature of life is
noteworthy, and is characteristic of his
general temper.
THE EPHEMERA
_An Emblem of Human Life_
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
You may remember, my dear friend, that when we lately spent that happy
day in the delightful garden and sweet society of the Moulin Joly, I
stopped a little in one of our walks, and stayed some time behind the
company. We had been shown numberless skeletons of a kind of little fly,
called an ephemera, whose successive generations, we were told, were
bred and expired within the day. I happened to see a living company of
them on a leaf, who appeared to be engaged in conversation. You know I
understand all the inferior animal tongues. My too great application to
the study of them is the best excuse I can give for the little progress
I have made in your charming language. I listened through curiosity to
the discourse of these little creatures; but as they, in their national
vivacity, spoke three or four together, I could make but little of their
conversation. I found, however, by some broken expressions that I heard
now and then, they were disputing warmly on the merit of two foreign
musicians, one a _cousin_, the other a _moscheto_; in which dispute they
spent their time, seemingly as regardless of the shortness of life as if
they had been sure of living a month. Happy people! thought I; you live
certainly under a wise, just, and mild government, since you have no
public grievances to complain of, nor any subject of contention but the
perfections and imperfections of foreign music. I turned my head from
them to an old grey-headed one, who was single on another leaf, and
talking to himself. Being amused with his soliloquy, I put it down in
writing, in hopes it will likewise amuse her to whom I am so much
indebted for the most pleasing of all amusements, her delicious company
and heavenly harmony.
"It was," said he, "the opinion of learnèd philosophers of our race, who
lived and flourished long before my time, that this vast world, the
Moulin Joly, could not itself subsist more than eighteen hours; and I
think there was some foundation for that opinion, since, by the apparent
motion of the great luminary that gives life to all nature, and which in
my time has evidently declined considerably towards the ocean at the end
of our earth, it must then finish its course, be extinguished in the
waters that surround us, and leave the world in cold and darkness,
necessarily producing universal death and destruction. I have lived
seven of those hours, a great age, being no less than four hundred and
twenty minutes of time. How very few of us continue so long! I have seen
generations born, flourish, and expire. My present friends are the
children and grandchildren of the friends of my youth, who are now,
also, no more! And I must soon follow them; for, by the course of
nature, though still in health, I cannot expect to live above seven or
eight minutes longer. What now avails all my toil and labor in amassing
honey-dew on this leaf, which I cannot live to enjoy! What the political
struggles I have been engaged in, for the good of my compatriot
inhabitants of this bush, or my philosophical studies for the benefit of
our race in general! for, in politics, what can laws do without morals?
Our present race of ephemerae will in a course of minutes become
corrupt, like those of other and older bushes, and consequently as
wretched. And in philosophy how small is our progress! Alas! art is
long, and life is short! My friends would comfort me with the idea of a
name, they say, I shall leave behind me; and they tell me I have lived
long enough to nature and to glory. But what will fame be to an ephemera
who no longer exists? And what will become of all history in the
eighteenth hour, when the world itself, even the whole Moulin Joly,
shall come to its end, and be buried in universal ruin?"
To me, after all my eager pursuits, no solid pleasures now remain, but
the reflection of a long life spent in meaning well, the sensible
conversation of a few good lady ephemerae, and now and then a kind smile
and a tune from the ever amiable _Brillante_.
252
The brief allegory that follows is very
generally regarded as the finest and noblest
specimen of its type. It is here reprinted
approximately in the form of its first
appearance, now more than two hundred years
ago, as more in keeping with its spirit than a
modern dress would be. The world of recent
times is not so much given to this kind of
writing as the eighteenth century was. Like
Franklin's "Ephemera," Addison's vision grows
out of "profound contemplation on the vanity of
human life." The key to the symbolism is found
in the "threescore and ten arches" of the
bridge, representing the scriptural limit of
physical existence, with some broken arches for
any excess of that limit. The fact that "the
bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches"
is a reference to the great number of years
assigned to some of the patriarchs. The
splendid concluding vision in which Mirzah sees
the compensations for the ills of this life
suggests a very different type of mind from
that of the "this-worldly" closing paragraph in
Franklin's apologue. "The Vision of Mirzah" is
No. 159 of the _Spectator_ (September 1, 1711).
THE VISION OF MIRZAH
JOSEPH ADDISON
When I was at Grand Cairo I picked up several oriental manuscripts,
which I have still by me. Among others I met with one entitled The
Visions of Mirzah, which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend
to give it to the public when I have no other entertainment for them;
and I shall begin with the first vision, which I have translated word
for word as follows:
On the fifth day of the moon, which according to the custom of my
forefathers I always kept holy, after having washed myself, and offered
up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order
to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here
airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into profound
contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought
to another, surely, said I, man is but a shadow and life a dream. Whilst
I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was
not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with
a musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to
his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding
sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly
melodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. They
put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed
souls of good men upon their first arrival in paradise to wear out the
impressions of their last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of
that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures.
I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius;
and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it,
but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When
he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played, to
taste the pleasure of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one
astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me
to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence
which is due to a superior nature: and as my heart was entirely subdued
by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and
wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability
that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the
fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from
the ground, and taking me by the hand, Mirzah, said he, I have heard
thee in thy soliloquies: follow me.
He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placed me on the
top of it. Cast thy eyes eastward, said he, and tell me what thou seest.
I see, said I, a huge valley and a prodigious tide of water rolling
through it. The valley that thou seest, said he, is the vale of misery,
and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of
eternity. What is the reason, said I, that the tide I see rises out of a
thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the
other? What thou seest, says he, is that portion of eternity which is
called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of
the world to its consummation. Examine now, said he, this sea that is
thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou
discoverest in it. I see a bridge, said I, standing in the midst of the
tide. The bridge thou seest, said he, is human life; consider it
attentively. Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it
consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken
arches, which added to those that were entire, made up the number about
an hundred. As I was counting the arches the genius told me that the
bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great flood
swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now
beheld it. But tell me further, said he, what thou discoverest on it. I
see multitudes of people passing over it, said I, and a black cloud
hanging on each end of it. As I looked more attentively, I saw several
of the passengers dropping through the bridge, into the great tide that
flowed underneath it; and upon further examination, perceived there were
innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge which the
passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide
and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick
at the entrance of the bridge, so that the throngs of people no sooner
broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew
thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together
towards the end of the arches that were entire.
There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that
continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell
through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a
walk.
I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and
the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled
with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst
of mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them to
save themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens in a
thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell
out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of baubles that
glittered in their eyes and danced before them, but often when they
thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed and
down they sank. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with
scimetars in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting
several persons upon trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way,
and which they might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon
them.
The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told me
I had dwelt long enough upon it: take thine eyes off the bridge, said
he, and tell me if thou seest anything thou dost not comprehend. Upon
looking up, what mean, said I, those great flights of birds that are
perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to
time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other
feathered creatures several little wingèd boys, that perch in great
numbers upon the middle arches. These, said the genius, are envy,
avarice, superstition, despair, love, with the like cares and passions
that infect human life.
I here fetched a deep sigh; alas, said I, man was made in vain! How is
he given away to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed
up in death! The genius, being moved with compassion towards me, bid me
quit so uncomfortable a prospect. Look no more, said he, on a man in the
first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity; but cast
thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several
generations of mortals that fall into it. I directed my sight as was
ordered, and (whether or no the good genius strengthened it with any
supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before too
thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the farther
end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean that had a huge rock of
adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal
parts. The clouds still rested on one-half of it, insomuch that I could
discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean
planted with innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits and
flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that ran
among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits with garlands
upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of
the fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and could hear a confused
harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical
instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a
scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to
those happy seats; but the genius told me there was no passage to them
except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon
the bridge. The islands, said he, that lie so fresh and green before
thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far
as thou canst see, are more in number than the sands of the sea-shore;
there are myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest,
reaching farther than thy eyes, or even than thine imagination, can
extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who,
according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are
distributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of
different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of
those who are settled in them; every island is a paradise, accommodated
to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirzah, habitations
worth contending for? Does life appear miserable that gives the
opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared that will
convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not a man was made in vain
who has such an eternity reserved for him. I gazed with inexpressible
pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said I, Show me now, I
beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which
cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant. The genius
making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him a second
time, but I found that he had left me. I then turned again to the vision
which I had been so long contemplating, but, instead of the rolling
tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the
long hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon
the sides of it.
253
"The Discontented Pendulum" was one of
seventy-nine brief prose selections by Jane
Taylor (1783-1824) which appeared first in a
paper for young people and were, after the
author's death, gathered together and published
as _Contributions of Q. Q._ (1826). This one
selection only from that volume still lives, is
reprinted often in school-readers, and by
virtue of its cleverness and point deserves its
happy fate. The author attached to it a "Moral"
almost as long as the story itself, and that
has long since fallen by the wayside. Perhaps
that is because the story is too clear to need
the "Moral." Here are a few sentences from it:
"The _present_ is all we have to manage: the
past is irrecoverable; the future is uncertain;
nor is it fair to burden one moment with the
weight of the next. Sufficient unto the
_moment_ is the trouble thereof. . . . One moment
comes laden with its own _little_ burden, then
flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier
than the last; if _one_ could be sustained, so
can another, and another. . . . Let any one
resolve to do right _now_, leaving _then_ to do
as it can, and if he were to live to the age of
Methuselah, he would never err. . . . Let us then,
'whatever our hands find to do, do it with all
our might, recollecting that _now_ is the
proper and the accepted time.'"
THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM
JANE TAYLOR
An old clock that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen
without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's
morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped.
Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable) changed
countenance with alarm: the hands made an ineffectual effort to continue
their course; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights
hung speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the
others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause
of the stagnation; when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice,
protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below, from
the pendulum, who thus spoke:
"I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and am
willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth
is that I am tired of ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became
so enraged that it was on the point of _striking_.
"Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands.
"Very good!" replied the pendulum, "it is vastly easy for you, Mistress
Dial, who have always, as everybody knows, set yourself up above me--it
is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! You,
who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people
in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the
kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life
in this dark closet, and wag backwards and forwards, year after year, as
I do."
"As to that," said the dial, "is there not a window in your house on
purpose for you to look through?"
"For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it is very dark here; and
although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to
look out. Besides, I am really weary of my way of life; and if you
please, I'll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. This
morning I happened to be calculating how many times I should have to
tick in the course only of the next twenty-four hours: perhaps some of
you, above there, can give me the exact sum."
The minute hand, being _quick at figures_, instantly replied,
"Eighty-six thousand four hundred times."
"Exactly so," replied the pendulum: "well, I appeal to you all, if the
thought of this was not enough to fatigue one? And when I began to
multiply the stroke of one day by those of months and years, really it
is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect; so after a great
deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself--I'll stop."
The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but,
resuming its gravity, thus replied:
"Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful,
industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this sudden
suggestion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time.
So we have all, and are likely to do; and although this may fatigue us
to _think_ of, the question is, whether it it will fatigue us to _do_:
would you now do me the favor to give about half a dozen strokes to
illustrate my argument?"
The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. "Now,"
resumed the dial, "may I be allowed to inquire if that exertion was at
all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?"
"Not in the least," replied the pendulum;--"It is not of six strokes
that I complain, nor of sixty, but of _millions_."
"Very good," replied the dial, "but recollect that although you may
_think_ of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to
_execute_ but one; and that however often you may hereafter have to
swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in."
"That consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum.
"Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, "we shall all immediately return
to our duty; for the maids will lie in bed till noon if we stand idling
thus."
Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of _light_ conduct,
used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as with one
consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum
began to wag, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a beam
of the rising sun that streamed through a hole in the kitchen shutter,
shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up as if nothing had
been the matter.
When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the
clock he declared that his watch had gained half an hour in the night.
254
Count Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) was a Russian
novelist, poet, and social reformer; author,
among other important works, of _War and Peace_
and _Anna Karenina_. He wrote many short
stories and sketches, a number of which are
markedly symbolic in character. The one that
follows is a good illustration of a type of
such tales pleasing to modern minds. We no
longer produce the formal fable or allegory. In
Tolstoy's story are two historical characters
of so pronounced individuality that their names
always suggest definite ideas--Croesus, riches
and worldly greatness; Solon, wisdom and
worldly poverty and lowliness. These ideas are
brought into conflict, and the outcome allows
us to see which is the basic one in Tolstoy's
theory of life. Who is the happy warrior? One
would merely have to quote some words from the
story to have an answer. And if the reader
feels the force of the answer, as Tolstoy
evidently hoped he would, it means a new or at
least a more distinctly held ideal of living.
CROESUS AND SOLON
LEO TOLSTOY
In olden times--long, long before the coming of Christ--there reigned
over a certain country a great king called Croesus. He had much gold and
silver, and many precious stones, as well as numberless soldiers and
slaves. Indeed, he thought that in all the world there could be no
happier man than himself.
But one day there chanced to visit the country which Croesus ruled a
Greek philosopher named Solon. Far and wide was Solon famed as a wise
man and a just; and, inasmuch as his fame had reached Croesus also, the
king commanded that he should be conducted to his presence.
Seated upon his throne, and robed in his most gorgeous apparel, Croesus
asked of Solon: "Have you ever seen aught more splendid than this?"
"Of a surety have I," replied Solon. "Peacocks, cocks, and pheasants
glitter with colors so diverse and so brilliant that no art can compare
with them."
Croesus was silent as he thought to himself: "Since this is not enough,
I must show him something more, to surprise him."
So he exhibited the whole of his riches before Solon's eyes, as well as
boasted of the number of foes he had slain, and the number of
territories he had conquered. Then he said to the philosopher:
"You have lived long in the world, and have visited many countries. Tell
me whom you consider to be the happiest man living?"
"The happiest man living I consider to be a certain poor man who lives
in Athens," replied Solon.
The king was surprised at this answer, for he had made certain that
Solon would name him himself; yet, for all that, the philosopher had
named a perfectly obscure individual!
"Why do you say that?" asked Croesus.
"Because," replied Solon, "the man of whom I speak has worked hard all
his life, has been content with little, has reared fine children, has
served his city honorably, and has achieved a noble reputation."
When Croesus heard this he exclaimed:
"And do you reckon my happiness as nothing, and consider that I am not
fit to be compared with the man of whom you speak?"
To this Solon replied:
"Often it befalls that a poor man is happier than a rich man. Call no
man happy until he is dead."
The king dismissed Solon, for he was not pleased at his words, and had
no belief in him.
"A fig for melancholy!" he thought. "While a man lives he should live
for pleasure."
So he forgot about Solon entirely.
Not long afterwards the king's son went hunting, but wounded himself by
a mischance, and died of the wound. Next, it was told to Croesus that
the powerful Emperor Cyrus was coming to make war upon him.
So Croesus went out against Cyrus with a great army, but the enemy
proved the stronger, and, having won the battle and shattered Croesus'
forces, penetrated to the capital.
Then the foreign soldiers began to pillage all King Croesus' riches, and
to slay the inhabitants, and to sack and fire the city. One soldier
seized Croesus himself, and was just about to stab him, when the king's
son darted forward to defend his father, and cried aloud:
"Do not touch him! That is Croesus, the king!"
So the soldiers bound Croesus, and carried him away to the Emperor; but
Cyrus was celebrating his victory at a banquet, and could not speak with
the captive, so orders were sent out for Croesus to be executed.
In the middle of the city square the soldiers built a great
burning-pile, and upon the top of it they placed King Croesus, bound him
to a stake, and set fire to the pile.
Croesus gazed around him, upon his city and upon his palace. Then he
remembered the words of the Greek philosopher, and, bursting into tears,
could only say:
"Ah, Solon, Solon!"
The soldiers were closing in about the pile when the Emperor Cyrus
arrived in person to view the execution. As he did so he caught these
words uttered by Croesus, but could not understand them.
So he commanded Croesus to be taken from the pile, and inquired of him
what he had just said. Croesus answered:
"I was but naming the name of a wise man--of one who told me a great
truth--a truth that is of greater worth than all earthly riches, than
all our kingly glory."
And Croesus related to Cyrus his conversation with Solon. The story
touched the heart of the Emperor, for he bethought him that he too was
but a man, that he too knew not what Fate might have in store for him.
So in the end he had mercy upon Croesus, and became his friend.
SECTION VI
MYTHS
BIBLIOGRAPHY
I. GENERAL HANDBOOKS
Bulfinch, Thomas, _Mythology: The Age of Fable_.
Gayley, Charles Mills, _Classic Myths in English Literature and
in Art_.
II. GREEK AND ROMAN
Baker, Emilie Kip, _Stories of Old Greece and Rome_.
Baldwin, James, _Old Greek Stories_.
Francillon, R. E., _Gods and Heroes, or the Kingdom of Jupiter_.
Guerber, H. A., _Myths of Greece and Rome_.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, _A Wonder-Book for Boys and Girls_.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, _Tanglewood Tales: A Second Wonder-Book_.
Kingsley, Charles, _Greek Heroes_.
Kupfer, Grace H., _Stories of Long Ago_.
Peabody, Josephine P., _Old Greek Folk Stories_.
III. NORTHERN MYTHS
Anderson, R. B., _Norse Mythology, or The Religion of Our
Forefathers_.
Baker, Emilie Kip, _Stories of Northern Myths_.
Boult, Katherine F., _Heroes of the Northland_.
Brown, Abbie Farwell, _In the Days of the Giants_.
Colum, Padraic, _The Children of Odin_.
Guerber, H. A., _Myths of Northern Lands_.
Keary, Anna and Eliza, _The Heroes of Asgard_.
Mabie, Hamilton Wright, _Norse Stories_.
Wilmot-Buxton, E. M., _Stories of Norse Heroes_.
IV. NATURE MYTHS ("POURQUOI" STORIES)
Cook, Flora J., _Nature Myths_.
Holbrook, Florence, _The Book of Nature Myths_.
V. CRITICAL WORKS
Cox, Sir G. W., _Mythology of the Aryan Nations_. 2 vols.
Fiske, John, _Myths and Myth-Makers_.
Frazer, J. G., _The Golden Bough_. 12 vols.
Hartland, E. S., _The Legend of Perseus_. 3 vols.
Lang, Andrew, _Myth, Ritual, and Religion_. 2 vols.
Müller, Max, _Contributions to the Science of Mythology_.
Ruskin, John, _Athena, Queen of the Air_.
Spencer, Herbert, _Principles of Sociology_.
Tylor, E. B., _Primitive Culture_. 2 vols.
SECTION VI. MYTHS
INTRODUCTORY
_What myths are._ It seems that every race of people in the period of
barbarism and early civilization has created fanciful, childlike stories
to explain such things as the origin of earth, sun, stars, clouds, life,
death, fire, man, lower animals, and plants, and the characteristics of
particular plants and animals. In most cases, if not all, they have
accounted for the origin of such things by the theory that they were
created by gods and super-human heroes. Among such peoples as the Greek
and Norse folk, many stories also grew up regarding the gods and
super-human heroes and their relations with one another and with men.
All of these old stories about the creation of things and about the gods
and super-human heroes are called myths. As time went on and the peoples
became civilized, the original myths were regarded merely as fanciful
tales, and were used to furnish characters and plots for many stories
told chiefly for entertainment. Often, as in the story of Ulysses,
legends of national heroes were combined with them. Even in our time
such writers as Hawthorne and Kingsley and Lowell have used these old
characters and plots as the basis of stories, many of which differ
greatly from the original myths.
_Myths and other folk stories._ Myths were pretty largely matters of
faith to begin with. They were the basis of old-time religious beliefs,
explaining to the mind of primitive man how things came to be as they
are. This tendency to adopt what are to educated minds fanciful
explanations of all that is beyond their understanding is easily
observable in the way children explain the unknown. It seems fairly
clear, on the other hand, that fairy stories were told by the folk as
matter of entertainment. They did not believe that pigs actually talked,
that a princess could sleep a hundred years, that a bean-stalk could
grow as fast and as far as Jack's did, or that toads and diamonds could
actually come out of one's mouth. It may be, as some theorists insist,
that remains of myth survive in some of these fairy stories. On the
whole, however, the folk believed these tales only in the sense in which
we believe in a fine story such as "The Vision of Sir Launfal" or "Enoch
Arden." They express the pleasing imaginings and longings of the human
spirit, its ideals of character and conduct, its sense of the wonder and
mystery of the universe. The fairy tale, in general, is nearer the
surface of life; the myth was concerned with the most fundamental
problems of the _whence_ and the _why_ of things.
Such distinctions, however, belong to the realm of scientific
scholarship. The teacher is concerned with myths simply as splendid
stories that have come down to us from a time when human beings seemed
to feel themselves bound into a unity with nature and all mysterious
powers around them; stories that through constant repetition were
rounded and perfected, and finally, through use by the poets, have
reached us in a fairly systematic form. The so-called "poetic mythology"
is the one of special value for our purposes. It comes to us through
Ovid in the South, and does not distinguish between the gods of Greece
and Rome. It comes through the Eddas of the North. It is this poetic
mythology that furnishes the basis of allusion in literature and in art,
and which is retold for us in the various versions for modern readers.
If we hold fast to this correct idea that as teachers in elementary
schools our interest in myths is exactly like our interest in other folk
products, an interest in them as stories tested by the ages, an interest
in them as presenting familiar and suggestive types of character and
conduct, an interest in them as stimulating our sense of wonder and
mystery, we shall not be disturbed by the violent discussions that
sometimes rage over the advisability of using myths with children.
_Values of myth._ To make the above proposition as clear as possible,
let us first tabulate briefly the values of myth, borrowing a suggestion
from Jeremiah Curtin:
1. A wonderful story told in most effective
fashion. To realize this value, one needs to
recall only the efforts of Prometheus in
bringing down fire for man and his heroic
endurance of vengeful tyranny as a result. The
work of Hercules in slaying the many-headed
serpent or in cleansing the Augean stables, the
adventures of Theseus culminating in the
labyrinth of the horrible Minotaur, the
beautiful hospitality of Baucis and Philemon,
the equally beautiful sadness of the death of
Balder--all these simply hint the riches of the
myth as story. This story interest is the one
that appeals to all human beings as human
beings and is therefore fundamental.
2. Myth preserves much material of social and
antiquarian interest. It helps us understand
the institutions and customs of primitive
stages in human development, and as such has
great value for scientific students of human
society.
3. Myth preserves evidences of how the mind of
man looked out upon his surroundings and what
it did in the way of interpreting them. It
makes most valuable contributions, therefore,
to the history of the human mind, and must be
taken into account in the science of
anthropology.
It must be evident that the second and third values are only in the
slightest degree within the range of the child in his early years of
school work.
_Objections to myth._ The objections to the use of myths in school may
also be brought under three heads:
1. They come from a plane of ethics much lower
than our own. This is the one strong argument
against all folk material, and it has a
validity that must be frankly recognized. There
are the miscellaneous love affairs of Jupiter,
and certain stories that have elements of
horror and brutality. Such stories we cannot
use, "though an error on that side is better
than effeminancy." Occasional defects cannot
outweigh the great positive ethical worth of
myth. We must simply make intelligent choice.
The situation is not different from what it is
in choosing from modern poetry and story. It
would be poor evidence of our sanity if we
ruled out all poetry because some of it is not
fit. Let us, however, omit entirely those myths
that are not suitable rather than attempt
making them over to suit modern conceptions. We
may properly allow liberties to a literary
artist like Hawthorne that a mere artisan
should not take.
2. Myth deals with the worn-out and obsolete
ideas of the past, and will give children false
religious and scientific notions. But one does
not rule out _Paradise Lost_ because Milton's
cosmogony is so purely fanciful, nor Dante
because of his equally fantastic structure of
the Inferno. Neither children nor older readers
are ever led astray by these purely incidental
backgrounds against which and by means of which
the human interest is powerfully projected.
3. Myth is too deeply symbolical. But readers
of different ages and abilities find results up
to their stature. We do not demand that the
children shall be able to understand all that
is back of _Gulliver's Travels_, or _Pilgrim's
Progress_, before we give them those books.
What is worth while in literature has an
increasing message as the powers of the reader
increase.
_How to use myths._ We may sum up the conclusions thus: Select those
myths that tell stories of dramatic force and that have sound ethical
worth. So far as possible let these be the ones most familiar in
literary allusion and in common speech. Present the myth as you would
any other folk story. Since myth naturally comes along a little later
than fairy stories, probably beginning not earlier than the third grade,
the discussion of its meanings may take a wider range. Keep the poetic
elements of the story prominent, as in most of the examples following.
SUGGESTIONS
For the soundest and most illuminating
discussion of the values and proper use of
myths in education see Edward Howard Griggs,
_Moral Education_, chap, xxi, "The Ethical
Value of Mythology and Folk-Lore." For some
good suggestions and lists consult Ezra Allen,
"The Pedagogy of Myth in the Grades,"
_Pedagogical Seminary_, Vol. VIII, p. 258. A
very interesting plan for the use of myths may
be found in two articles by O. O. Norris,
"Myths and the Teaching of Myths," _The
American Schoolmaster_, Vol. IX, p. 96 and p.
145. Consult also MacClintock, _Literature in
the Elementary School_, chap, vii, and McMurry,
_Special Method in Reading_, pp. 92-105.
The first nine myths in this section came
originally from Greek mythology. The Romans
adopted the mythology of the Greeks, but
changed the names of the gods. English-speaking
peoples have usually used these Latin versions.
Hence in the following Greek myths the Roman
names of the gods are used. In this note the
Greek name is usually given in parenthesis
after the Roman.
According to mythology, Saturn once ruled the
universe. After a great war he was overthrown
and the universe was divided into three
kingdoms, each governed by one of his sons.
Jupiter (Zeus) ruled the heavens and the earth;
Neptune (Poseidon) ruled the sea; and Pluto
(Dis) ruled Hades, or Tartarus, the gloomy
region of the dead in a cavern far under the
surface of the earth. The home of Jupiter and
the many other gods of heaven was represented
as being the top of Mount Olympus, in Thessaly.
Here each of the gods of heaven had a separate
dwelling, but all assembled at times in the
palace of Jupiter. Sometimes these gods went to
earth, through a gate of clouds kept by
goddesses called the Seasons.
The relations between these divinities were
much like those between people on earth. Some
had greater power than others, and rivalries
and quarrels frequently arose. Jupiter, the
supreme ruler, governed by wisdom as well as by
the power of his thunderbolt. He had three
sisters: Juno, Vesta, and Ceres. Juno (Hera)
was the wife of Jupiter and the noblest of the
goddesses. Vesta (Hestia), the goddess of
health, was not married. Ceres (Demeter), the
goddess of agriculture, was the mother of
Proserpine, who became wife of Pluto and queen
of Hades. Minerva (Athena), goddess of wisdom
and Jupiter's favorite daughter, had no mother,
as she sprang fully armed from Jupiter's head.
Venus (Aphrodite) was goddess of beauty and
mother of Cupid, god of love. Two other
goddesses were Diana (Artemis), modest virgin
goddess of the moon, who protects brute
creation, and Hebe, cup-bearer to the gods.
Among the greatest of the gods were three sons
of Jupiter: Apollo, Mars, and Vulcan. Apollo,
or Phoebus, was god of the sun and patron of
music, archery, and prophecy. Mars (Ares) was
god of war, and Vulcan (Hephaestus), the lame
god of fire, was the blacksmith of the gods.
255
This version of the myth of Ceres and
Proserpine is taken by permission of the author
and the publishers from _Stories of Long Ago_,
by Grace H. Kupfer. (Copyright. D. C. Heath &
Co., Boston.) "Of all the beautiful fictions of
Greek mythology," said Aubrey DeVere, "there
are few more exquisite than the story of
Proserpine, and none deeper in symbolical
meaning." That portion of its meaning fitted to
the understanding of children is indicated in
the final paragraphs of Miss Kupfer's version.
Teachers should realize that "the fable has,
however, its moral significance also, being
connected with that great mystery of Joy and
Grief, of Life and of Death, which pressed so
heavily on the mind of Pagan Greece, and
imparts to the whole of her mythology a
profound interest, spiritual as well as
philosophical. It was the restoration of Man,
not of flowers, the victory over Death, not
over Winter, with which that high Intelligence
felt itself to be really concerned."
Hawthorne's version of this story appears in
_Tanglewood Tales_ as "The Pomegranate Seeds."
A STORY OF THE SPRINGTIME
GRACE H. KUPFER
PART I
In the blue Mediterranean Sea, which washes the southern shore of
Europe, lies the beautiful island of Sicily. Long, long ago, there lived
on this island a goddess named Ceres. She had power to make the earth
yield plentiful crops of grain, or to leave it barren; and on her
depended the food, and therefore the life of all the people on the
great, wide earth.
Ceres had one fair young daughter, whom she loved very dearly. And no
wonder, for Proserpine was the sunniest, happiest girl you could
imagine.
Her face was all white and pink, like apple blossoms in spring, and
there was just enough blue in her eyes to give you a glimpse of an April
morning sky. Her long, golden curls reminded you of the bright sunlight.
In fact there was something so young and fair and tender about the
maiden that if you could imagine anything so strange as the whole
springtime, with all its loveliness, changed into a human being, you
would have looked but an instant at Proserpine and said, "She is the
Spring."
Proserpine spent the long, happy days in the fields, helping her mother,
or dancing and singing among the flowers, with her young companions.
Way down under the earth, in the land of the dead, lived dark King
Pluto; and the days were very lonely for him with only shadows to talk
to. Often and often, he had tried to urge some goddess to come and share
his gloomy throne; but not the richest jewels or wealth could tempt any
one of them to leave the bright sunlight above and dwell in the land of
shades.
One day Pluto came up to earth and was driving along in his swift
chariot, when, behind some bushes, he heard such merry voices and
musical laughter that he drew rein, and stepping down, parted the bushes
to see who was on the other side. There he saw Proserpine standing in
the center of a ring of laughing young girls who were pelting her with
flowers.
The stern old king felt his heart beat quicker at sight of all these
lovely maidens, and he singled out Proserpine, and said to himself, "She
shall be my queen. That fair face can make even dark Hades light and
beautiful." But he knew it would be useless to ask the girl for her
consent; so, with a bold stride, he stepped into the midst of the happy
circle.
The young girls, frightened at his dark, stern face, fled to right and
left. But Pluto grasped Proserpine by the arm and carried her to his
chariot, and then the horses flew along the ground, leaving Proserpine's
startled companions far behind.
King Pluto knew that he must hasten away with his prize, lest Ceres
should discover her loss; and to keep out of her path, he drove his
chariot a roundabout way. He came to a river; but as he neared its
banks, it suddenly began to bubble and swell and rage, so that Pluto did
not dare to drive through its waters. To go back another way would mean
great loss of time; so with his scepter he struck the ground thrice. It
opened, and, in an instant, horses, chariot, and all, plunged into the
darkness below.
But Proserpine knew that the nymph of the stream had recognized her, and
had tried to save her by making the waters of the stream rise. So, just
as the ground was closing over her, the girl seized her girdle and threw
it far out into the river. She hoped that in some way the girdle might
reach Ceres and help her to find her lost daughter.
PART II
In the evening Ceres returned to her home; but her daughter, who usually
came running to meet her, was nowhere to be seen. Ceres searched for her
in all the rooms, but they were empty. Then she lighted a great torch
from the fires of a volcano, and went wandering among the fields,
looking for her child. When morning broke, and she had found no trace of
Proserpine, her grief was terrible to see.
On that sad day, Ceres began a long, long wandering. Over land and sea
she journeyed, bearing in her right hand the torch which had been
kindled in the fiery volcano.
All her duties were neglected, and everywhere the crops failed, and the
ground was barren and dry. Want and famine took the place of wealth and
plenty throughout the world. It seemed as though the great earth grieved
with the mother for the loss of beautiful Proserpine.
When the starving people came to Ceres and begged her to resume her
duties and to be their friend again, Ceres lifted her great eyes,
wearied with endless seeking, and answered that until Proserpine was
found, she could think only of her child, and could not care for the
neglected earth. So all the people cried aloud to Jupiter that he should
bring Proserpine back to her mother, for they were sadly in need of
great Ceres' help.
At last, after wandering over all the earth in her fruitless search,
Ceres returned to Sicily. One day, as she was passing a river, suddenly
a little swell of water carried something to her feet. Stooping to see
what it was, she picked up the girdle which Proserpine had long ago
thrown to the water nymph.
While she was looking at it, with tears in her eyes, she heard a
fountain near her bubbling louder and louder, until at last it seemed to
speak. And this is what it said:
"I am the nymph of the fountain, and I come from the inmost parts of the
earth, O Ceres, great mother! There I saw your daughter seated on a
throne at the dark king's side. But in spite of her splendor, her cheeks
were pale and her eyes were heavy with weeping. I can stay no longer
now, O Ceres, for I must leap into the sunshine. The bright sky calls
me, and I must hasten away."
Then Ceres arose and went to Jupiter and said, "I have found the place
where my daughter is hidden. Give her back to me, and the earth shall
once more be fruitful, and the people shall have food."
Jupiter was moved, both by the mother's sorrow and by the prayers of the
people on earth; and he said that Proserpine might return to her home if
she had tasted no food while in Pluto's kingdom.
So the happy mother hastened down into Hades. But alas! that very day
Proserpine had eaten six pomegranate seeds; and for every one of those
seeds she was doomed each year to spend a month underground.
For six months of the year Ceres is happy with her daughter. At
Proserpine's coming, flowers bloom and birds sing and the earth
everywhere smiles its welcome to its young queen.
Some people say that Proserpine really is the springtime, and that while
she is with us all the earth seems fair and beautiful. But when the time
comes for Proserpine to rejoin King Pluto in his dark home underground,
Ceres hides herself and grieves through all the weary months until her
daughter's return.
Then the earth, too, is somber and sad. The leaves fall to the ground,
as though the trees were weeping for the loss of the fair, young queen;
and the flowers hide underground, until the eager step of the maiden,
returning to earth, awakens all nature from its winter sleep.
256
Because of his beautiful idealism and the
artistic nature of his work, Hawthorne
(1804-1864) is one of America's most loved
story-tellers. His stories are never idle
tales, for each one reveals secret motives and
impulses that determine human action. This
characteristic makes his works wholesome and
inspiring for both children and adults. Four
volumes of his short stories, intended
primarily for children, are classics for the
upper grades. _Grandfather's Chair_ is a group
of stories about life in New England in early
times. _True Stories from History and
Biography_ makes the child acquainted with such
historical characters as Franklin and Newton.
_A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys_ and
_Tanglewood Tales_ are Hawthorne's versions of
old Greek myths.
In his two volumes of Greek myths, Hawthorne
does not hold to the plot or style of the
original stories; but here, as in all his work,
he shows how incidents in life determine human
character. The following quotation from the
Preface to _A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys_
explains in Hawthorne's own words the nature of
his version of the myths: "He [the author] does
not plead guilty to a sacrilege in having
sometimes shaped anew, as his fancy dictated,
the forms that have been hallowed by an
antiquity of two or three thousand years. No
epoch of time can claim a copyright in these
immortal fables. They seem never to have been
made; and certainly, so long as man exists,
they can never perish; but, by their
indestructibility itself, they are legitimate
subjects for every age to clothe with its own
garniture of manners and sentiment, and to
imbue with its own morality."
The story "The Paradise of Children," taken
from _A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys_, is
Hawthorne's version of the Greek myth of
Pandora's Box, which is an attempt to explain
how pain and suffering came to humanity.
According to the Greek myth, Jupiter was angry
when he learned that Prometheus, one of the
Titans, had given men fire stolen from heaven.
That men might not have this blessing without
an affliction to compensate, the gods filled a
box with ills, but put Hope also in the box.
Then, fearing that neither Prometheus nor his
brother Epimetheus would open the box, they
created Pandora. Mercury, the messenger of
Jupiter, carried Pandora and the box as a gift
to Epimetheus, and the curiosity of Pandora led
her to open the box.
THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
Long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was
a child named Epimetheus, who never had either father or mother; and,
that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless
like himself, was sent from a far country to live with him and be his
playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pandora.
The first thing that Pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where
Epimetheus dwelt, was a great box. And almost the first question which
she put to him, after crossing the threshold, was this,--
"Epimetheus, what have you in that box?"
"My dear little Pandora," answered Epimetheus, "that is a secret, and
you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it. The box was
left here to be kept safely, and I do not myself know what it
contains."
"But who gave it to you?" asked Pandora. "And where did it come from?"
"That is a secret, too," replied Epimetheus.
"How provoking!" exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. "I wish the great,
ugly box were out of the way!"
"Oh, come, don't think of it any more," cried Epimetheus. "Let us run
out of doors, and have some nice play with the other children."
It is thousands of years since Epimetheus and Pandora were alive; and
the world, nowadays, is a very different sort of thing from what it was
in their time. Then, everybody was a child. There needed no fathers and
mothers to take care of the children; because there was no danger, nor
trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there was always
plenty to eat and drink. Whenever a child wanted his dinner, he found it
growing on a tree; and, if he looked at the tree in the morning, he
could see the expanding blossom of that night's supper; or, at eventide,
he saw the tender bud of to-morrow's breakfast. It was a very pleasant
life, indeed. No labor to be done, no tasks to be studied; nothing but
sports and dances, and sweet voices of children talking, or caroling
like birds, or gushing out in merry laughter, throughout the livelong
day.
What was most wonderful of all, the children never quarreled among
themselves; neither had they any crying fits; nor, since time first
began, had a single one of these little mortals ever gone apart into a
corner, and sulked. Oh, what a good time was that to be alive in! The
truth is, those ugly little winged monsters, called Troubles, which are
now almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet been seen on the
earth. It is probable that the very greatest disquietude which a child
had ever experienced was Pandora's vexation at not being able to
discover the secret of the mysterious box.
This was at first only the faint shadow of a Trouble; but, every day, it
grew more and more substantial, until, before a great while, the cottage
of Epimetheus and Pandora was less sunshiny than those of the other
children.
"Whence can the box have come?" Pandora continually kept saying to
herself and to Epimetheus. "And what in the world can be inside of it!"
"Always talking about this box!" said Epimetheus, at last; for he had
grown extremely tired of the subject. "I wish, dear Pandora, you would
try to talk of something else. Come, let us go and gather some ripe
figs, and eat them under the trees, for our supper. And I know a vine
that has the sweetest and juiciest grapes you ever tasted."
"Always talking about grapes and figs!" cried Pandora, pettishly.
"Well, then," said Epimetheus, who was a very good-tempered child, like
a multitude of children in those days, "let us run out and have a merry
time with our playmates."
"I am tired of merry times, and don't care if I never have any more!"
answered our pettish little Pandora. "And, besides, I never do have any.
This ugly box! I am so taken up with thinking about it all the time. I
insist upon your telling me what is inside of it."
"As I have already said, fifty times over, I do not know!" replied
Epimetheus, getting a little vexed. "How, then, can I tell you what is
inside?"
"You might open it," said Pandora, looking sideways at Epimetheus, "and
then we could see for ourselves."
"Pandora, what are you thinking of?" exclaimed Epimetheus.
And his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a box
which had been confided to him on the condition of his never opening it,
that Pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more. Still, however,
she could not help thinking and talking about the box.
"At least," said she, "you can tell me how it came here."
"It was left at the door," replied Epimetheus, "just before you came, by
a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could hardly
forbear laughing as he put it down. He was dressed in an odd kind of a
cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of feathers, so
that it looked almost as if it had wings."
"What sort of a staff had he?" asked Pandora.
"Oh, the most curious staff you ever saw!" cried Epimetheus. "It was
like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so naturally
that I, at first, thought the serpents were alive."
"I know him," said Pandora, thoughtfully. "Nobody else has such a staff.
It was Quicksilver; and he brought me hither, as well as the box. No
doubt he intended it for me; and, most probably, it contains pretty
dresses for me to wear, or toys for you and me to play with, or
something very nice for us both to eat!"
"Perhaps so," answered Epimetheus, turning away. "But until Quicksilver
comes back and tells us so, we have neither of us any right to lift the
lid of the box."
"What a dull boy he is!" muttered Pandora, as Epimetheus left the
cottage. "I do wish he had a little more enterprise!"
For the first time since her arrival, Epimetheus had gone out without
asking Pandora to accompany him. He went to gather figs and grapes by
himself, or to seek whatever amusement he could find, in other society
than his little playfellow's. He was tired to death of hearing about the
box, and heartily wished that Quicksilver, or whatever was the
messenger's name, had left it at some other child's door, where Pandora
would never have set eyes on it. So perseveringly as she did babble
about this one thing! The box, the box, and nothing but the box! It
seemed as if the box were bewitched, and as if the cottage were not big
enough to hold it, without Pandora's continually stumbling over it, and
making Epimetheus stumble over it likewise, and bruising all four of
their shins.
Well, it was really hard that poor Epimetheus should have a box in his
ears from morning till night; especially as the little people of the
earth were so unaccustomed to vexations, in those happy days, that they
knew not how to deal with them. Thus, a small vexation made as much
disturbance, then, as a far bigger one would in our own times.
After Epimetheus was gone, Pandora stood gazing at the box. She had
called it ugly, above a hundred times; but, in spite of all that she had
said against it, it was positively a very handsome article of furniture,
and would have been quite an ornament to any room in which it should be
placed. It was made of a beautiful kind of wood, with dark and rich
veins spreading over its surface, which was so highly polished that
little Pandora could see her face in it. As the child had no other
looking-glass, it is odd that she did not value the box, merely on this
account.
The edges and corners of the box were carved with most wonderful skill.
Around the margin there were figures of graceful men and women, and the
prettiest children ever seen, reclining or sporting amid a profusion of
flowers and foliage; and these various objects were so exquisitely
represented, and were wrought together in such harmony, that flowers,
foliage, and human beings seemed to combine into a wreath of mingled
beauty. But here and there, peeping forth from behind the carved
foliage, Pandora once or twice fancied that she saw a face not so
lovely, or something or other that was disagreeable, and which stole the
beauty out of all the rest. Nevertheless, on looking more closely, and
touching the spot with her finger, she could discover nothing of the
kind. Some face, that was really beautiful, had been made to look ugly
by her catching a sideway glimpse at it.
The most beautiful face of all was done in what is called high relief,
in the center of the lid. There was nothing else, save the dark, smooth
richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the center, with a
garland of flowers about its brow. Pandora had looked at this face a
great many times, and imagined that the mouth could smile if it liked,
or be grave when it chose, the same as any living mouth. The features,
indeed, all wore a very lively and rather mischievous expression, which
looked almost as if it needs must burst out of the carved lips, and
utter itself in words.
Had the mouth spoken, it would probably have been something like this:
"Do not be afraid, Pandora! What harm can there be in opening the box?
Never mind that poor, simple Epimetheus! You are wiser than he, and have
ten times as much spirit. Open the box, and see if you do not find
something very pretty!"
The box, I had almost forgotten to say, was fastened; not by a lock, nor
by any other such contrivance, but by a very intricate knot of gold
cord. There appeared to be no end to this knot, and no beginning. Never
was a knot so cunningly twisted, nor with so many ins and outs, which
roguishly defied the skilfullest fingers to disentangle them. And yet,
by the very difficulty that there was in it, Pandora was the more
tempted to examine the knot, and just see how it was made. Two or three
times, already, she had stooped over the box, and taken the knot between
her thumb and forefinger, but without positively trying to undo it.
"I really believe," said she to herself, "that I begin to see how it was
done. Nay, perhaps I could tie it up again, after undoing it. There
would be no harm in that, surely. Even Epimetheus would not blame me for
that. I need not open the box, and should not, of course, without the
foolish boy's consent, even if the knot were untied."
It might have been better for Pandora if she had had a little work to
do, or anything to employ her mind upon, so as not to be so constantly
thinking of this one subject. But children led so easy a life, before
any Troubles came into the world, that they had really a great deal too
much leisure. They could not be forever playing at hide-and-seek among
the flower-shrubs, or at blind-man's-buff with garlands over their eyes,
or at whatever other games had been found out while Mother Earth was in
her babyhood. When life is all sport, toil is the real play. There was
absolutely nothing to do. A little sweeping and dusting about the
cottage, I suppose, and the gathering of fresh flowers (which were only
too abundant everywhere), and arranging them in vases,--and poor little
Pandora's day's work was over. And then, for the rest of the day, there
was the box!
After all, I am not quite sure that the box was not a blessing to her in
its way. It supplied her with such a variety of ideas to think of, and
to talk about, whenever she had anybody to listen! When she was in good
humor, she could admire the bright polish of its sides, and the rich
border of beautiful faces and foliage that ran all around it. Or, if she
chanced to be ill-tempered, she could give it a push, or kick it with
her naughty little foot. And many a kick did the box--(but it was a
mischievous box, as we shall see, and deserved all it got)--many a kick
did it receive. But, certain it is, if it had not been for the box, our
active-minded little Pandora would not have known half so well how to
spend her time as she now did.
For it was really an endless employment to guess what was inside. What
could it be, indeed? Just imagine, my little hearers, how busy your wits
would be, if there were a great box in the house, which, as you might
have reason to suppose, contained something new and pretty for your
Christmas or New-Year's gifts. Do you think that you should be less
curious than Pandora? If you were alone with the box, might you not feel
a little tempted to lift the lid? But you would not do it. Oh, fie! No,
no! Only, if you thought there were toys in it, it would be so very hard
to let slip an opportunity of taking just one peep! I know not whether
Pandora expected any toys; for none had yet begun to be made, probably,
in those days, when the world itself was one great plaything for the
children that dwelt upon it. But Pandora was convinced that there was
something very beautiful and valuable in the box; and therefore she felt
just as anxious to take a peep as any of these girls, here around me,
would have felt. And, possibly, a little more so; but of that I am not
quite so certain.
On this particular day, however, which we have so long been talking
about, her curiosity grew so much greater than it usually was, that, at
last, she approached the box. She was more than half determined to open
it, if she could. Ah, naughty Pandora!
First, however, she tried to lift it. It was heavy; quite too heavy for
the slender strength of a child, like Pandora. She raised one end of the
box a few inches from the floor, and let it fall again, with a pretty
loud thump. A moment afterwards, she almost fancied that she heard
something stir, inside of the box. She applied her ear as closely as
possible, and listened. Positively, there did seem to be a kind of
stifled murmur, within! Or was it merely the singing in Pandora's ears?
Or could it be the beating of her heart? The child could not quite
satisfy herself whether she had heard anything or no. But, at all
events, her curiosity was stronger than ever.
As she drew back her head, her eyes fell upon the knot of gold cord.
"It must have been a very ingenious person who tied this knot," said
Pandora to herself. "But I think I could untie it, nevertheless. I am
resolved, at least, to find the two ends of the cord."
So she took the golden knot in her fingers, and pried into its
intricacies as sharply as she could. Almost without intending it, or
quite knowing what she was about, she was soon busily engaged in
attempting to undo it. Meanwhile, the bright sunshine came through the
open window; as did likewise the merry voices of the children, playing
at a distance, and perhaps the voice of Epimetheus among them. Pandora
stopped to listen. What a beautiful day it was! Would it not be wiser if
she were to let the troublesome knot alone, and think no more about the
box, but run and join her little playfellows, and be happy?
All this time, however, her fingers were half unconsciously busy with
the knot; and, happening to glance at the flower-wreathed face on the
lid of the enchanted box, she seemed to perceive it slyly grinning at
her.
"That face looks very mischievous," thought Pandora. "I wonder whether
it smiles because I am doing wrong! I have the greatest mind in the
world to run away!"
But just then, by the merest accident, she gave the knot a kind of a
twist, which produced a wonderful result. The gold cord untwined itself,
as if by magic, and left the box without a fastening.
"This is the strangest thing I ever knew!" said Pandora. "What will
Epimetheus say? And how can I possibly tie it up again?"
She made one or two attempts to restore the knot, but soon found it
quite beyond her skill. It had disentangled itself so suddenly that she
could not in the least remember how the strings had been doubled into
one another; and when she tried to recollect the shape and appearance of
the knot, it seemed to have gone entirely out of her mind. Nothing was
to be done, therefore, but let the box remain as it was, until
Epimetheus should come in.
"But," said Pandora, "when he finds the knot untied, he will know that I
have done it. How shall I make him believe that I have not looked into
the box?"
And then the thought came into her naughty little heart, that, since she
would be suspected of having looked into the box, she might just as well
do so, at once. Oh, very naughty and very foolish Pandora! You should
have thought only of doing what was right, and of leaving undone what
was wrong, and not of what your playfellow Epimetheus would have said or
believed. And so perhaps she might, if the enchanted face on the lid of
the box had not looked so bewitchingly persuasive at her, and if she had
not seemed to hear, more distinctly than before, the murmur of small
voices within. She could not tell whether it was fancy or no; but there
was quite a little tumult of whispers in her ear,--or else it was her
curiosity that whispered:
"Let us out, dear Pandora,--pray let us out! We will be such nice pretty
playfellows for you! Only let us out!"
"What can it be?" thought Pandora. "Is there something alive in the box?
Well!--yes!--I am resolved to take just one peep! Only one peep; and
then the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever! There cannot possibly
be any harm in just one little peep!"
But it is now time for us to see what Epimetheus was doing.
This was the first time, since his little playmate had come to dwell
with him, that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did
not partake. But nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on
other days. He could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if Epimetheus
had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs); or, if ripe at
all, they were over-ripe, and so sweet as to be cloying. There was no
mirth in his heart, such as usually made his voice gush out, of its own
accord, and swell the merriment of his companions. In short, he grew so
uneasy and discontented, that the other children could not imagine what
was the matter with Epimetheus. Neither did he himself know what ailed
him, any better than they did. For you must recollect that at the time
we are speaking of, it was everybody's nature, and constant habit, to be
happy. The world had not yet learned to be otherwise. Not a single soul
or body, since these children were first sent to enjoy themselves on the
beautiful earth, had ever been sick, or out of sorts.
At length, discovering that, somehow or other, he put a stop to all the
play, Epimetheus judged it best to go back to Pandora, who was in a
humor better suited to his own. But, with a hope of giving her pleasure,
he gathered some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which he meant to
put upon her head. The flowers were very lovely,--roses, and lilies, and
orange-blossoms, and a great many more, which left a trail of fragrance
behind, as Epimetheus carried them along; and the wreath was put
together with as much skill as could reasonably be expected of a boy.
The fingers of little girls, it has always appeared to me, are the
fittest to twine flower-wreaths; but boys could do it, in those days,
rather better than they can now.
And here I must mention that a great black cloud had been gathering in
the sky, for some time past, although it had not yet overspread the sun.
But, just as Epimetheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to
intercept the sunshine, and thus to make a sudden and sad obscurity.
He entered softly; for he meant, if possible, to steal behind Pandora,
and fling the wreath of flowers over her head, before she should be
aware of his approach. But, as it happened, there was no need of his
treading so very lightly. He might have trod as heavily as he
pleased,--as heavily as a grown man,--as heavily, I was going to say, as
an elephant,--without much probability of Pandora's hearing his
footsteps. She was too intent upon her purpose. At the moment of his
entering the cottage, the naughty child had put her hand to the lid, and
was on the point of opening the mysterious box. Epimetheus beheld her.
If he had cried out, Pandora would probably have withdrawn her hand, and
the fatal mystery of the box might never have been known.
But Epimetheus himself, although he said very little about it, had his
own share of curiosity to know what was inside. Perceiving that Pandora
was resolved to find out the secret, he determined that his playfellow
should not be the only wise person in the cottage. And if there were
anything pretty or valuable in the box, he meant to take half of it to
himself. Thus, after all his sage speeches to Pandora about restraining
her curiosity, Epimetheus turned out to be quite as foolish, and nearly
as much in fault, as she. So, whenever we blame Pandora for what
happened, we must not forget to shake our heads at Epimetheus likewise.
As Pandora raised the lid, the cottage grew very dark and dismal; for
the black cloud had now swept quite over the sun, and seemed to have
buried it alive. There had, for a little while past, been a low growling
and muttering, which all at once broke into a heavy peal of thunder. But
Pandora, heeding nothing of all this, lifted the lid nearly upright, and
looked inside. It seemed as if a sudden swarm of winged creatures
brushed past her, taking flight out of the box, while, at the same
instant, she heard the voice of Epimetheus, with a lamentable tone, as
if he were in pain.
"Oh, I am stung!" cried he. "I am stung! Naughty Pandora; why have you
opened this wicked box?"
Pandora let fall the lid, and, starting up, looked about her, to see
what had befallen Epimetheus. The thunder-cloud had so darkened the room
that she could not very clearly discern what was in it. But she heard a
disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies, or gigantic
mosquitoes, or those insects which we call dor-bugs and pinching-dogs,
were darting about. And, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the
imperfect light, she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, with bats'
wings, looking abominably spiteful, and armed with terribly long stings
in their tails. It was one of these that had stung Epimetheus. Nor was
it a great while before Pandora herself began to scream, in no less pain
and affright than her playfellow, and making a vast deal more hubbub
about it. An odious little monster had settled on her forehead, and
would have stung her I know not how deeply, if Epimetheus had not run
and brushed it away.
Now, if you wish to know what these ugly things might be, which had made
their escape out of the box, I must tell you that they were the whole
family of earthly Troubles. There were evil Passions; there were a great
many species of Cares; there were more than a hundred and fifty Sorrows;
there were Diseases, in a vast number of miserable and painful shapes;
there were more kinds of Naughtiness than it would be of any use to talk
about. In short, everything that has since afflicted the souls and
bodies of mankind had been shut up in the mysterious box, and given to
Epimetheus and Pandora to be kept safely, in order that the happy
children of the world might never be molested by them. Had they been
faithful to their trust, all would have gone well. No grown person would
ever have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed a single tear,
from that hour until this moment.
But--and you may see by this how a wrong act of any one mortal is a
calamity to the whole world--by Pandora's lifting the lid of that
miserable box, and by the fault of Epimetheus, too, in not preventing
her, these Troubles have obtained a foothold among us, and do not seem
very likely to be driven away in a hurry. For it was impossible, as you
will easily guess, that the two children should keep the ugly swarm in
their own little cottage. On the contrary, the first thing that they did
was to fling open the doors and windows, in hopes of getting rid of
them; and, sure enough, away flew the winged Troubles all abroad, and
so pestered and tormented the small people, everywhere about, that none
of them so much as smiled for many days afterwards. And what was very
singular, all the flowers and dewy blossoms on earth, not one of which
had hitherto faded, now began to droop and shed their leaves, after a
day or two. The children, moreover, who before seemed immortal in their
childhood, now grew older, day by day, and came soon to be youths and
maidens, and men and women by and by, and aged people, before they
dreamed of such a thing.
Meanwhile, the naughty Pandora, and hardly less naughty Epimetheus,
remained in their cottage. Both of them had been grievously stung, and
were in a good deal of pain, which seemed the more intolerable to them
because it was the very first pain that had ever been felt since the
world began. Of course, they were entirely unaccustomed to it, and could
have no idea what it meant. Besides all this, they were in exceedingly
bad humor, both with themselves and with one another. In order to
indulge it to the utmost, Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with
his back towards Pandora; while Pandora flung herself upon the floor and
rested her head on the fatal and abominable box. She was crying
bitterly, and sobbing as if her heart would break.
Suddenly there was a gentle little tap on the inside of the lid.
"What can that be?" cried Pandora, lifting her head.
But either Epimetheus had not heard the tap, or was too much out of
humor to notice it. At any rate, he made no answer.
"You are very unkind," said Pandora, sobbing anew, "not to speak to me!"
Again the tap! It sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy's hand,
knocking lightly and playfully on the inside of the box.
"Who are you?" asked Pandora, with a little of her former curiosity.
"Who are you, inside of this naughty box?"
A sweet little voice spoke from within,
"Only lift the lid, and you shall see."
"No, no," answered Pandora, again beginning to sob. "I have had enough
of lifting the lid! You are inside of the box, naughty creature, and
there you shall stay! There are plenty of your ugly brothers and sisters
already flying about the world. You need never think that I shall be so
foolish as to let you out!"
She looked towards Epimetheus, as she spoke, perhaps expecting that he
would commend her for her wisdom. But the sullen boy only muttered that
she was wise a little too late.
"Ah," said the sweet little voice again, "you had much better let me
out. I am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their
tails. They are no brothers and sisters of mine, as you would see at
once, if you were only to get a glimpse of me. Come, come, my pretty
Pandora! I am sure you will let me out!"
And, indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone that made
it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice asked.
Pandora's heart had insensibly grown lighter at every word that came
from within the box. Epimetheus, too, though still in the corner, had
turned half round, and seemed to be in rather better spirits than
before.
"My dear Epimetheus," cried Pandora, "have you heard this little voice?"
"Yes, to be sure I have," answered he, but in no very good humor as yet.
"And what of it?"
"Shall I lift the lid again?" asked Pandora.
"Just as you please," said Epimetheus. "You have done so much mischief
already that perhaps you may as well do a little more. One other
Trouble, in such a swarm as you have let adrift about the world, can
make no very great difference."
"You might speak a little more kindly!" murmured Pandora, wiping her
eyes.
"Ah, naughty boy!" cried the little voice within the box, in an arch and
laughing tone. "He knows he is longing to see me. Come, my dear Pandora,
lift up the lid. I am in a great hurry to comfort you. Only let me have
some fresh air, and you shall soon see that matters are not quite so
dismal as you think them."
"Epimetheus," exclaimed Pandora, "come what may, I am resolved to open
the box."
"And, as the lid seems very heavy," cried Epimetheus, running across the
room, "I will help you!"
So, with one consent, the two children again lifted the lid. Out flew a
sunny and smiling little personage, and hovered about the room, throwing
a light wherever she went. Have you never made the sunshine dance into
the dark corners by reflecting it from a bit of looking-glass? Well, so
looked the winged cheerfulness of this fairy-like stranger amid the
gloom of the cottage. She flew to Epimetheus, and laid the least touch
of her finger on the inflamed spot where the Trouble had stung him, and
immediately the anguish of it was gone. Then she kissed Pandora on the
forehead, and her hurt was cured likewise.
After performing these good offices, the bright stranger fluttered
sportively over the children's heads, and looked so sweetly at them,
that they both began to think it not so very much amiss to have opened
the box, since, otherwise, their cheery guest must have been kept a
prisoner among those naughty imps with stings in their tails.
"Pray, who are you, beautiful creature?" inquired Pandora.
"I am to be called Hope!" answered the sunshiny figure. "And because I
am such a cheery little body, I was packed into the box to make amends
to the human race for that swarm of ugly Troubles which was destined to
be let loose among them. Never fear! we shall do pretty well, in spite
of them all."
"Your wings are colored like the rainbow!" exclaimed Pandora. "How very
beautiful!"
"Yes, they are like the rainbow," said Hope, "because, glad as my nature
is, I am partly made of tears as well as smiles."
"And will you stay with us," asked Epimetheus, "forever and ever?"
"As long as you need me," said Hope, with her pleasant smile,--"and that
will be as long as you live in the world,--I promise never to desert
you. There may come times and seasons, now and then, when you will think
that I have utterly vanished. But again, and again, and again, when
perhaps you least dream of it, you shall see the glimmer of my wings on
the ceiling of your cottage. Yes, my dear children, and I know
something very good and beautiful that is to be given you hereafter!"
"Oh, tell us," they exclaimed--"tell us what it is!"
"Do not ask me," replied Hope, putting her finger on her rosy mouth.
"But do not despair, even if it should never happen while you live on
this earth. Trust in my promise, for it is true."
"We do trust you!" cried Epimetheus and Pandora, both in one breath.
And so they did; and not only they, but so has everybody trusted Hope,
that has since been alive. And, to tell you the truth, I cannot help
being glad--(though, to be sure, it was an uncommonly naughty thing for
her to do)--but I cannot help being glad that our foolish Pandora peeped
into the box. No doubt--no doubt--the Troubles are still flying about
the world, and have increased in multitude, rather than lessened, and
are a very ugly set of imps, and carry most venomous stings in their
tails. I have felt them already, and expect to feel them more as I grow
older. But then that lovely and lightsome little figure of Hope! What in
the world could we do without her? Hope spiritualizes the earth; Hope
makes it always new; and, even in the earth's best and brightest aspect,
Hope shows it to be only the shadow of an infinite bliss hereafter!
257
"The Miraculous Pitcher," taken from _A
Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys_, is Hawthorne's
version of the Greek myth of Baucis and
Philemon. The two mysterious visitors are
Jupiter and Mercury, who, according to the
Greek myth, visited earth in disguise and were
entertained by Baucis and Philemon.
THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE
One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his old wife Baucis sat
at their cottage door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. They had
already eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend a quiet
hour or two before bedtime. So they talked together about their garden
and their cow, and their bees, and their grape-vine, which clambered
over the cottage-wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn
purple. But the rude shouts of children and the fierce barking of dogs,
in the village near at hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it
was hardly possible for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other speak.
"Ah, wife," cried Philemon, "I fear some poor traveler is seeking
hospitality among our neighbors yonder, and, instead of giving him food
and lodging, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!"
"Well-a-day!" answered old Baucis, "I do wish our neighbors felt a
little more kindness for their fellow-creatures. And only think of
bringing up their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the
head when they fling stones at strangers!"
"Those children will never come to any good," said Philemon, shaking his
white head. "To tell you the truth, wife, I should not wonder if some
terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village, unless
they mend their manners. But, as for you and me, so long as Providence
affords us a crust of bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor,
homeless stranger that may come along and need it."
"That's right, husband!" said Baucis. "So we will!"
These old folks, you must know, were quite poor, and had to work pretty
hard for a living. Old Philemon toiled diligently in his garden, while
Baucis was always busy with her distaff, or making a little butter and
cheese with their cow's milk, or doing one thing and another about the
cottage. Their food was seldom anything but bread, milk, and vegetables,
with sometimes a portion of honey from their beehive, and now and then a
bunch of grapes, that had ripened against the cottage wall. But they
were two of the kindest old people in the world, and would cheerfully
have gone without their dinners, any day, rather than refuse a slice of
their brown loaf, a cup of nice milk, and a spoonful of honey, to the
weary traveler who might pause before their door. They felt as if such
guests had a sort of holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to treat
them better and more bountifully than their own selves.
Their cottage stood on a rising ground, at some short distance from a
village, which lay in a hollow valley, that was about half a mile in
breadth. This valley, in past ages, when the world was new, had probably
been the bed of a lake. There, fishes had glided to and fro in the
depths, and water-weeds had grown along the margin, and trees and hills
had seen their reflected images in the broad and peaceful mirror. But,
as the waters subsided, men had cultivated the soil, and built houses on
it, so that it was now a fertile spot, and bore no traces of the ancient
lake, except a very small brook, which meandered through the midst of
the village, and supplied the inhabitants with water. The valley had
been dry land so long that oaks had sprung up, and grown great and high,
and perished with old age, and been succeeded by others, as tall and
stately as the first. Never was there a prettier or more fruitful
valley. The very sight of the plenty around them should have made the
inhabitants kind and gentle and ready to show their gratitude to
Providence by doing good to their fellow-creatures.
But, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were not
worthy to dwell in a spot on which Heaven had smiled so beneficently.
They were a very selfish and hard-hearted people, and had no pity for
the poor, nor sympathy with the homeless. They would only have laughed
had anybody told them that human beings owe a debt of love to one
another, because there is no other method of paying the debt of love and
care which all of us owe to Providence. You will hardly believe what I
am going to tell you. These naughty people taught their children to be
no better than themselves, and used to clap their hands, by way of
encouragement, when they saw the little boys and girls run after some
poor stranger, shouting at his heels, and pelting him with stones. They
kept large and fierce dogs, and whenever a traveler ventured to show
himself in the village street, this pack of disagreeable curs scampered
to meet him, barking, snarling, and showing their teeth. Then they would
seize him by his leg, or by his clothes, just as it happened; and if he
were ragged when he came, he was generally a pitiable object before he
had time to run away. This was a very terrible thing to poor travelers,
as you may suppose, especially when they chanced to be sick, or feeble,
or lame, or old. Such persons (if they once knew how badly these unkind
people, and their unkind children and curs, were in the habit of
behaving) would go miles and miles out of their way rather than try to
pass through the village again.
What made the matter seem worse, if possible, was that when rich persons
came in their chariots, or riding on beautiful horses, with their
servants in rich liveries attending on them, nobody could be more civil
and obsequious than the inhabitants of the village. They would take off
their hats, and make the humblest bows you ever saw. If the children
were rude, they were pretty certain to get their ears boxed; and as for
the dogs, if a single cur in the pack presumed to yelp, his master
instantly beat him with a club, and tied him up without any supper. This
would have been all very well, only it proved that the villagers cared
much about the money that a stranger had in his pocket, and nothing
whatever for the human soul, which lives equally in the beggar and the
prince.
So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke so sorrowfully when he
heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the dogs at the
further extremity of the village street. There was a confused din, which
lasted a good while, and seemed to pass quite through the breadth of the
valley.
"I never heard the dogs so loud!" observed the good old man.
"Nor the children so rude!" answered his good old wife.
They sat shaking their heads, one to another, while the noise came
nearer and nearer; until, at the foot of the little eminence on which
their cottage stood, they saw two travelers approaching on foot. Close
behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their very heels. A little
farther off, ran a crowd of children, who sent up shrill cries, and
flung stones at the two strangers, with all their might. Once or twice,
the younger of the two men (he was a slender and very active figure)
turned about, and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in
his hand. His companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly
along, as if disdaining to notice either the naughty children or the
pack of curs, whose manners the children seemed to imitate.
Both of the travelers were very humbly clad, and looked as if they might
not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a night's lodging. And
this, I am afraid, was the reason why the villagers had allowed their
children and dogs to treat them so rudely.
"Come, wife," said Philemon to Baucis, "let us go and meet these poor
people. No doubt they feel almost too heavy-hearted to climb the hill."
"Go you and meet them," answered Baucis, "while I make haste within
doors and see whether we can get them anything for supper. A comfortable
bowl of bread and milk would do wonders towards raising their spirits."
Accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. Philemon, on his part, went
forward and extended his hand with so hospitable an aspect that there
was no need of saying, what nevertheless he did say, in the heartiest
tone imaginable,--
"Welcome, strangers! welcome!"
"Thank you!" replied the younger of the two, in a lively kind of way,
notwithstanding his weariness and trouble. "This is quite another
greeting than we have met with yonder, in the village. Pray, why do you
live in such a bad neighborhood?"
"Ah," observed old Philemon, with a quiet and benign smile, "Providence
put me here, I hope, among other reasons, in order that I may make you
what amends I can for the inhospitality of my neighbors."
"Well said, old father!" said the traveler, laughing; "and, if the truth
must be told, my companion and myself need some amends. Those children
(the little rascals!) have bespattered us finely with their mud-balls;
and one of the curs has torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already.
But I took him across the muzzle with my staff; and I think you may have
heard him yelp, even thus far off."
Philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits; nor, indeed, would
you have fancied, by the traveler's look and manner, that he was weary
with a long day's journey, besides being disheartened by rough treatment
at the end of it. He was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of
cap on his head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. Though it
was a summer evening, he wore a cloak, which he kept wrapt closely about
him, perhaps because his under garments were shabby. Philemon perceived,
too, that he had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing
dusk, and as the old man's eyesight was none the sharpest, he could not
precisely tell in what the strangeness consisted. One thing, certainly,
seemed queer. The traveler was so wonderfully light and active, that it
appeared as if his feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own
accord, or could only be kept down by an effort.
"I used to be light-footed, in my youth," said Philemon to the traveler.
"But I always found my feet grow heavier towards nightfall."
"There is nothing like a good staff to help one along," answered the
stranger; "and I happen to have an excellent one, as you see."
This staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that Philemon had ever
beheld. It was made of olive-wood, and had something like a little pair
of wings near the top. Two snakes, carved in the wood, were represented
as twining themselves about the staff, and were so very skillfully
executed that old Philemon (whose eyes, you know, were getting rather
dim) almost thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling and
twisting.
"A curious piece of work, sure enough!" said he. "A staff with wings! It
would be an excellent kind of stick for a little boy to ride astride
of!"
By this time, Philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage door.
"Friends," said the old man, "sit down and rest yourselves here on this
bench. My good wife Baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper.
We are poor folks; but you shall be welcome to whatever we have in the
cupboard."
The younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the bench, letting his
staff fall as he did so. And here happened something rather marvelous,
though trifling enough, too. The staff seemed to get up from the ground
of its own accord, and, spreading its little pair of wings, it half
hopped, half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage.
There it stood quite still, except that the snakes continued to wriggle.
But, in my private opinion, old Philemon's eyesight had been playing him
tricks again.
Before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger drew his attention
from the wonderful staff by speaking to him.
"Was there not," asked the stranger, in a remarkably deep tone of voice,
"a lake, in very ancient times, covering the spot where now stands
yonder village?"
"Not in my day, friend," answered Philemon; "and yet I am an old man, as
you see. There were always the fields and meadows, just as they are now,
and the old trees, and the little stream murmuring through the midst of
the valley. My father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise,
so far as I know; and doubtless it will still be the same when old
Philemon shall be gone and forgotten!"
"That is more than can be safely foretold," observed the stranger; and
there was something very stern in his deep voice. He shook his head,
too, so that his dark and heavy curls were shaken with the movement.
"Since the inhabitants of yonder village have forgotten the affections
and sympathies of their nature, it were better that the lake should be
rippling over their dwellings again!"
The traveler looked so stern that Philemon was really almost frightened;
the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight seemed suddenly to grow
darker, and that, when he shook his head, there was a roll as of thunder
in the air.
But, in a moment afterwards, the stranger's face became so kindly and
mild that the old man quite forgot his terror. Nevertheless, he could
not help feeling that this elder traveler must be no ordinary personage,
although he happened now to be attired so humbly, and to be journeying
on foot. Not that Philemon fancied him a prince in disguise, or any
character of that sort; but rather some exceedingly wise man, who went
about the world in this poor garb, despising wealth and all worldly
objects, and seeking everywhere to add a mite to his wisdom. This idea
appeared the more probable, because, when Philemon raised his eyes to
the stranger's face, he seemed to see more thought there, in one look,
than he could have studied out in a lifetime.
While Baucis was getting the supper, the travelers both began to talk
very sociably with Philemon. The younger, indeed, was extremely
loquacious, and made such shrewd and witty remarks, that the good old
man continually burst out a-laughing, and pronounced him the merriest
fellow whom he had seen for many a day.
"Pray, my young friend," said he, as they grew familiar together, "what
may I call your name?"
"Why, I am very nimble, as you see," answered the traveler. "So, if you
call me Quicksilver, the name will fit tolerably well."
"Quicksilver? Quicksilver!" repeated Philemon, looking in the traveler's
face, to see if he were making fun of him. "It is a very odd name! And
your companion there? Has he as strange a one?"
"You must ask the thunder to tell you it!" replied Quicksilver, putting
on a mysterious look. "No other voice is loud enough."
This remark, whether it were serious or in jest, might have caused
Philemon to conceive a very great awe of the elder stranger, if, on
venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much beneficence in his
visage. But, undoubtedly, here was the grandest figure that ever sat so
humbly beside a cottage door. When the stranger conversed, it was with
gravity, and in such a way that Philemon felt irresistibly moved to tell
him everything which he had most at heart. This is always the feeling
that people have, when they meet with any one wise enough to comprehend
all their good and evil, and to despise not a tittle of it.
But Philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that he was, had not many
secrets to disclose. He talked, however, quite garrulously, about the
events of his past life, in the whole course of which he had never been
a score of miles from this very spot. His wife Baucis and himself had
dwelt in the cottage from their youth upward, earning their bread by
honest labor, always poor, but still contented. He told what excellent
butter and cheese Baucis made and how nice were the vegetables which he
raised in his garden. He said, too, that, because they loved one another
so very much, it was the wish of both that death might not separate
them, but that they should die, as they had lived, together.
As the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his countenance, and made
its expression as sweet as it was grand.
"You are a good old man," said he to Philemon, "and you have a good old
wife to be your helpmeet. It is fit that your wish be granted."
And it seemed to Philemon, just then, as if the sunset clouds threw up a
bright flash from the west, and kindled a sudden light in the sky.
Baucis had now got supper ready, and coming to the door, began to make
apologies for the poor fare which she was forced to set before her
guests.
"Had we known you were coming," said she, "my good man and myself would
have gone without a morsel, rather than you should lack a better supper.
But I took the most part of to-day's milk to make cheese; and our last
loaf is already half eaten. Ah me! I never feel the sorrow of being
poor, save when a poor traveler knocks at our door."
"All will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my good dame," replied
the elder stranger, kindly. "An honest hearty welcome to a guest works
miracles with the fare, and is capable of turning the coarsest food to
nectar and ambrosia."
"A welcome you shall have," cried Baucis, "and likewise a little honey
that we happen to have left, and a bunch of purple grapes besides."
"Why, Mother Baucis, it is a feast!" exclaimed Quicksilver, laughing,
"an absolute feast! And you shall see how bravely I will play my part at
it! I think I never felt hungrier in my life."
"Mercy on us!" whispered Baucis to her husband. "If the young man has
such a terrible appetite, I am afraid there will not be half enough
supper!"
They all went into the cottage.
And now, my little auditors, shall I tell you something that will make
you open your eyes very wide? It is really one of the oddest
circumstances in the whole story. Quicksilver's staff, you recollect,
had set itself up against the wall of the cottage. Well, when its master
entered the door, leaving this wonderful staff behind, what should it do
but immediately spread its little wings, and go hopping and fluttering
up the doorsteps! Tap, tap, went the staff, on the kitchen floor; nor
did it rest until it had stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity
and decorum, beside Quicksilver's chair. Old Philemon, however, as well
as his wife, was so taken up in attending to their guests, that no
notice was given to what the staff had been about.
As Baucis had said, there was but a scanty supper for two hungry
travelers. In the middle of the table was the remnant of a brown loaf,
with a piece of cheese on one side of it, and a dish of honeycomb on the
other. There was a pretty good bunch of grapes for each of the guests.
A moderately sized earthen pitcher, nearly full of milk, stood at a
corner of the board; and when Baucis had filled two bowls, and set them
before the strangers, only a little milk remained in the bottom of the
pitcher. Alas! it is a very sad business, when a bountiful heart finds
itself pinched and squeezed among narrow circumstances. Poor Baucis kept
wishing that she might starve for a week to come, if it were possible,
by so doing, to provide these hungry folks a more plentiful supper.
And, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she could not help
wishing that their appetites had not been quite so large. Why, at their
very first sitting down, the travelers both drank off all the milk in
their two bowls, at a draught.
"A little more milk, kind Mother Baucis, if you please," said
Quicksilver. "The day has been hot, and I am very much athirst."
"Now, my dear people," answered Baucis, in great confusion, "I am so
sorry and ashamed! But the truth is, there is hardly a drop more milk in
the pitcher. O husband! husband! why didn't we go without our supper?"
"Why, it appears to me," cried Quicksilver, starting up from the table
and taking the pitcher by the handle, "it really appears to me that
matters are not quite so bad as you represent them. Here is certainly
more milk in the pitcher."
So saying, and to the vast astonishment of Baucis, he proceeded to fill,
not only his own bowl, but his companion's likewise, from the pitcher,
that was supposed to be almost empty. The good woman could scarcely
believe her eyes. She had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and
had peeped in afterwards, and seen the bottom of the pitcher, as she set
it down upon the table.
"But I am old," thought Baucis to herself, "and apt to be forgetful. I
suppose I must have made a mistake. At all events, the pitcher cannot
help being empty now, after filling the bowls twice over."
"What excellent milk!" observed Quicksilver, after quaffing the contents
of the second bowl. "Excuse me, my kind hostess, but I must really ask
you for a little more."
Now Baucis had seen, as plainly as she could see anything, that
Quicksilver had turned the pitcher upside down, and consequently had
poured out every drop of milk, in filling the last bowl. Of course,
there could not possibly be any left. However, in order to let him know
precisely how the case was, she lifted the pitcher, and made a gesture
as if pouring milk into Quicksilver's bowl, but without the remotest
idea that any milk would stream forth. What was her surprise, therefore,
when such an abundant cascade fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was
immediately filled to the brim, and overflowed upon the table! The two
snakes that were twisted about Quicksilver's staff (but neither Baucis
nor Philemon happened to observe this circumstance) stretched out their
heads, and began to lap up the spilt milk.
And then what a delicious fragrance the milk had! It seemed as if
Philemon's only cow must have pastured, that day, on the richest herbage
that could be found anywhere in the world. I only wish that each of you,
my beloved little souls, could have a bowl of such nice milk at
supper-time!
"And now a slice of your brown loaf, Mother Baucis," said Quicksilver,
"and a little of that honey!"
Baucis cut him a slice, accordingly; and though the loaf, when she and
her husband ate of it, had been rather too dry and crusty to be
palatable, it was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of
the oven. Tasting a crumb, which had fallen on the table, she found it
more delicious than bread ever was before, and could hardly believe that
it was a loaf of her own kneading and baking. Yet, what other loaf could
it possibly be?
But, oh, the honey! I may just as well let it alone, without trying to
describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked. Its color was that of the
purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odor of a thousand
flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to
seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds. The wonder
is, that, after alighting on a flower-bed of so delicious fragrance and
immortal bloom, they should have been content to fly down again to their
hive in Philemon's garden. Never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt.
The perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful, that,
had you closed your eyes, you would instantly have forgotten the low
ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor, with
celestial honeysuckles creeping over it.
Although good Mother Baucis was a simple old dame, she could not but
think that there was something rather out of the common way in all that
had been going on. So, after helping the guests to bread and honey, and
laying a bunch of grapes by each of their plates, she sat down by
Philemon, and told him what she had seen, in a whisper.
"Did you ever hear the like?" asked she.
"No, I never did," answered Philemon, with a smile. "And I rather think,
my dear old wife, you have been walking about in a sort of a dream. If I
had poured out the milk, I should have seen through the business at
once. There happened to be a little more in the pitcher than you
thought,--that is all."
"Ah, husband," said Baucis, "say what you will, these are very uncommon
people."
"Well, well," replied Philemon, still smiling, "perhaps they are. They
certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and I am heartily
glad to see them making so comfortable a supper."
Each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate.
Baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more clearly) was of
opinion that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each
separate grape seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice. It
was entirely a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have been
produced from the old stunted vine that climbed against the cottage
wall.
"Very admirable grapes, these!" observed Quicksilver, as he swallowed
one after another, without apparently diminishing his cluster. "Pray, my
good host, whence did you gather them?"
"From my own vine," answered Philemon. "You may see one of its branches
twisting across the window, yonder. But wife and I never thought the
grapes very fine ones."
"I never tasted better," said the guest. "Another cup of this delicious
milk, if you please, and I shall then have supped better than a
prince."
This time, old Philemon bestirred himself, and took up the pitcher; for
he was curious to discover whether there was any reality in the marvels
which Baucis had whispered to him. He knew that his good old wife was
incapable of falsehood, and that she was seldom mistaken in what she
supposed to be true; but this was so very singular a case that he wanted
to see into it with his own eyes. On taking up the pitcher, therefore,
he slyly peeped into it, and was fully satisfied that it contained not
so much as a single drop. All at once, however, he beheld a little white
fountain, which gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher, and speedily
filled it to the brim with foaming and deliciously fragrant milk. It was
lucky that Philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous
pitcher from his hand.
"Who are ye, wonder-working strangers?" cried he, even more bewildered
than his wife had been.
"Your guests, my good Philemon, and your friends," replied the elder
traveler, in his mild, deep voice, that had something at once sweet and
awe-inspiring in it. "Give me likewise a cup of the milk; and may your
pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, any more than for
the needy wayfarer!"
The supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their
place of repose. The old people would gladly have talked with them a
little longer, and have expressed the wonder which they felt, and their
delight at finding the poor and meager supper prove so much better and
more abundant than they hoped. But the elder traveler had inspired them
with such reverence that they dared not ask him any questions. And when
Philemon drew Quicksilver aside, and inquired how under the sun a
fountain of milk could have got into an old earthen pitcher, this latter
personage pointed to his staff.
"There is the whole mystery of the affair," quoth Quicksilver; "and if
you can make it out, I'll thank you to let me know. I can't tell what to
make of my staff. It is always playing such odd tricks as this;
sometimes getting me a supper, and quite as often stealing it away. If I
had any faith in such nonsense, I should say the stick was bewitched!"
He said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces, that they rather
fancied he was laughing at them. The magic staff went hopping at his
heels, as Quicksilver quitted the room. When left alone, the good old
couple spent some little time in conversation about the events of the
evening, and then lay down on the floor, and fell fast asleep. They had
given up their sleeping-room to the guests, and had no other bed for
themselves, save these planks, which I wish had been as soft as their
own hearts.
The old man and his wife were stirring, betimes, in the morning, and the
strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to
depart. Philemon hospitably entreated them to remain a little longer,
until Baucis could milk the cow, and bake a cake upon the hearth, and,
perhaps, find them a few fresh eggs, for breakfast. The guests, however,
seemed to think it better to accomplish a good part of their journey
before the heat of the day should come on. They, therefore, persisted in
setting out immediately, but asked Philemon and Baucis to walk forth
with them a short distance, and show them the road which they were to
take.
So they all four issued from the cottage, chatting together like old
friends. It was very remarkable, indeed, how familiar the old couple
insensibly grew with the elder traveler, and how their good and simple
spirits melted into his, even as two drops of water would melt into the
illimitable ocean. And as for Quicksilver, with his keen, quick,
laughing wits, he appeared to discover every little thought that but
peeped into their minds, before they suspected it themselves. They
sometimes wished, it is true, that he had not been quite so
quick-witted, and also that he would fling away his staff, which looked
so mysteriously mischievous, with the snakes always writhing about it.
But then, again, Quicksilver showed himself so very good-humored, that
they would have been rejoiced to keep him in their cottage, staff,
snakes, and all, every day, and the whole day long.
"Ah, me! Well-a-day!" exclaimed Philemon, when they had walked a little
way from their door. "If our neighbors only knew what a blessed thing it
is to show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs,
and never allow their children to fling another stone."
"It is a sin and shame for them to behave so,--that it is!" cried good
old Baucis, vehemently. "And I mean to go this very day and tell some of
them what naughty people they are!"
"I fear," remarked Quicksilver, slyly smiling, "that you will find none
of them at home."
The elder traveler's brow, just then, assumed such a grave, stern, and
awful grandeur, yet serene withal, that neither Baucis nor Philemon
dared to speak a word. They gazed reverently into his face, as if they
had been gazing at the sky.
"When men do not feel towards the humblest stranger as if he were a
brother," said the traveler, in tones so deep they sounded like those of
an organ, "they are unworthy to exist on earth, which was created as the
abode of a great human brotherhood!"
"And, by the by, my dear old people," cried Quicksilver, with the
liveliest look of fun and mischief in his eyes, "where is this same
village that you talk about? On which side of us does it lie? Methinks I
do not see it hereabouts."
Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where, at sunset, only
the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the
clumps of trees, the wide, green-margined street, with children playing
in it, and all the tokens of business, enjoyment, and prosperity. But
what was their astonishment! There was no longer any appearance of a
village! Even the fertile vale, in the hollow of which it lay, had
ceased to have existence. In its stead, they beheld the broad, blue
surface of a lake, which filled the great basin of the valley from brim
to brim, and reflected the surrounding hills in its bosom, with as
tranquil an image as if it had been there ever since the creation of the
world. For an instant, the lake remained perfectly smooth. Then, a
little breeze sprang up, and caused the water to dance, glitter, and
sparkle in the early sunbeams, and to dash, with a pleasant rippling
murmur, against the hither shore.
The lake seemed so strangely familiar, that the old couple were greatly
perplexed, and felt as if they could only have been dreaming about a
village having lain there. But, the next moment, they remembered the
vanished dwellings, and the faces and characters of the inhabitants,
far too distinctly for a dream. The village had been there yesterday,
and now was gone!
"Alas!" cried these kind-hearted old people, "what has become of our
poor neighbors!"
"They exist no longer as men and women," said the elder traveler, in his
grand and deep voice, while a roll of thunder seemed to echo it at a
distance. "There was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs;
for they never softened or sweetened the hard lot of mortality by the
exercise of kindly affections between man and man. They retained no
image of the better life in their bosoms: therefore, the lake, that was
of old, has spread itself forth again, to reflect the sky!"
"And as for those foolish people," said Quicksilver, with his
mischievous smile, "they are all transformed to fishes. There needed but
little change, for they were already a scaly set of rascals, and the
coldest-blooded beings in existence. So, kind Mother Baucis, whenever
you or your husband have an appetite for a dish of broiled trout, he can
throw in a line, and pull out half a dozen of your old neighbors!"
"Ah," cried Baucis, shuddering, "I would not, for the world, put one of
them on the gridiron!"
"No," added Philemon, making a wry face, "we could never relish them!"
"As for you, good Philemon," continued the elder traveler,--"and you,
kind Baucis,--you, with your scanty means, have mingled so much
heartfelt hospitality with your entertainment of the homeless stranger,
that the milk became an inexhaustible fount of nectar, and the brown
loaf and the honey were ambrosia. Thus, the divinities have feasted, at
your board, off the same viands that supply their banquets on Olympus.
You have done well, my dear old friends. Wherefore, request whatever
favor you have most at heart, and it is granted."
Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then,--I know not which
of the two it was who spoke, but that one uttered the desire of both
their hearts.
"Let us live together, while we live, and leave the world at the same
instant, when we die! For we have always loved one another!"
"Be it so!" replied the stranger, with majestic kindness. "Now, look
towards your cottage!"
They did so. But what was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of
white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the spot where their
humble residence had so lately stood!
"There is your home," said the stranger, beneficently smiling on them
both. "Exercise your hospitality in yonder palace as freely as in the
poor hovel to which you welcomed us last evening."
The old folks fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold! neither he
nor Quicksilver was there.
So Philemon and Baucis took up their residence in the marble palace, and
spent their time, with vast satisfaction to themselves, in making
everybody jolly and comfortable who happened to pass that way. The
milk-pitcher, I must not forget to say, retained its marvelous quality
of being never empty, when it was desirable to have it full. Whenever an
honest, good-humored, and free-hearted guest took a draught from this
pitcher, he invariably found it the sweetest and most invigorating fluid
that ever ran down his throat. But, if a cross and disagreeable
curmudgeon happened to sip, he was pretty certain to twist his visage
into a hard knot, and pronounce it a pitcher of sour milk!
Thus the old couple lived in their palace a great, great while, and grew
older and older, and very old indeed. At length, however, there came a
summer morning when Philemon and Baucis failed to make their appearance,
as on other mornings, with one hospitable smile overspreading both their
pleasant faces, to invite the guests of over-night to breakfast. The
guests searched everywhere, from top to bottom of the spacious palace,
and all to no purpose. But, after a great deal of perplexity, they
espied, in front of the portal, two venerable trees, which nobody could
remember to have seen there the day before. Yet there they stood, with
their roots fastened deep into the soil, and a huge breadth of foliage
overshadowing the whole front of the edifice. One was an oak, and the
other a linden-tree. Their boughs--it was strange and beautiful to
see--were intertwined together, and embraced one another, so that each
tree seemed to live in the other's bosom, much more than in its own.
While the guests were marveling how these trees, that must have required
at least a century to grow, could have come to be so tall and venerable
in a single night, a breeze sprang up, and set their intermingled boughs
astir. And then there was a deep, broad murmur in the air, as if the two
mysterious trees were speaking.
"I am old Philemon!" murmured the oak.
"I am old Baucis!" murmured the linden-tree.
But, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke at
once,--"Philemon! Baucis! Baucis! Philemon!"--as if one were both and
both were one, and talking together in the depths of their mutual heart.
It was plain enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed
their age, and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or
so, Philemon as an oak, and Baucis as a linden-tree. And oh, what a
hospitable shade did they fling around them! Whenever a wayfarer paused
beneath it, he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head,
and wondered how the sound should so much resemble words like these:--
"Welcome, welcome, dear traveler, welcome!"
And some kind soul, that knew what would have pleased old Baucis and old
Philemon best, built a circular seat around both their trunks, where,
for a great while afterwards, the weary, and the hungry, and the thirsty
used to repose themselves, and quaff milk abundantly out of the
miraculous pitcher.
And I wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here now!
258
One of the very satisfactory attempts to retell
the classic myths for young readers is to be
found in _Gods and Heroes_ by R. E. Francillon.
The stories are brought together into a "single
_saga_, free from inconsistencies and
contradictions." This gives the book all the
charm of a single story made of many dramatic
episodes. Francillon's version of the familiar
tale of Narcissus and Echo follows by
permission of the publishers. (Copyright. Ginn
& Co., Boston.)
THE NARCISSUS
R. E. FRANCILLON
There was a very beautiful nymph named Echo, who had never, in all her
life, seen anybody handsomer than the god Pan. You have read that Pan
was the chief of all the Satyrs, and what hideous monsters the Satyrs
were. So, when Pan made love to her, she very naturally kept him at a
distance: and, as she supposed him to be no worse-looking than the rest
of the world, she made up her mind to have nothing to do with love or
lovemaking, and was quite content to ramble about the woods all alone.
But one day, to her surprise, she happened to meet with a young man who
was as different from Pan as any creature could be. Instead of having a
goat's legs and long hairy arms, he was as graceful as Apollo himself:
no horns grew out of his forehead, and his ears were not long, pointed,
and covered with hair, but just like Echo's own. And he was just as
beautiful in face as he was graceful in form. I doubt if Echo would have
thought even Apollo himself so beautiful.
The nymphs were rather shy, and Echo was the very shyest of them all.
But she admired him so much she could not leave the spot, and at last
she even plucked up courage enough to ask him, "What is the name of the
most beautiful being in the whole world?"
"Whom do you mean?" asked he. "Yourself? If you want to know your own
name, you can tell it better than I can."
"No," said Echo, "I don't mean myself. I mean _you_. What is _your_
name?"
"My name is Narcissus," said he. "But as for my being beautiful--that is
absurd."
"Narcissus!" repeated Echo to herself. "It is a beautiful name. Which of
the nymphs have you come to meet here in these woods all alone? She is
lucky--whoever she may be."
"I have come to meet nobody," said Narcissus. "But--am I really so
beautiful? I have often been told so by other girls, of course; but
really it is more than I can quite believe."
"And you don't care for any of those girls?"
"Why, you see," said Narcissus, "when all the girls one knows call one
beautiful, there's no reason why I should care for one more than
another. They all seem alike when they are all always saying just the
same thing. Ah! I do wish I could see myself, so that I could tell if it
was really true. I would marry the girl who could give me the wish of my
heart--to see myself as other people see me. But as nobody can make me
do that, why, I suppose I shall get on very well without marrying
anybody at all."
Looking-glasses had not been invented in those days, so that Narcissus
had really never seen even so much of himself as his chin.
"What!" cried Echo, full of hope and joy; "if I make you see your own
face, you will marry _me_?"
"I said so," said he. "And of course what I say I'll do, I'll do."
"Then--come with me!"
Echo took him by the hand and led him to the edge of a little lake in
the middle of the wood, full of clear water.
"Kneel down, Narcissus," said she, "and bend your eyes over the
waterside. That lake is the mirror where Diana comes every morning to
dress her hair, and in which, every night, the moon and the stars behold
themselves. Look into that water, and see what manner of man you are!"
Narcissus kneeled down and looked into the lake. And, better than in any
common looking-glass, he saw the reflected image of his own face--and he
looked, and looked, and could not take his eyes away.
But Echo at last grew tired of waiting. "Have you forgotten what you
promised me?" asked she. "Are you content now? Do you see now that what
I told you is true?"
He lifted his eyes at last. "Oh, beautiful creature that I am!" said he.
"I am indeed the most divine creature in the whole wide world. I love
myself madly. Go away. I want to be with my beautiful image, with
myself, all alone. I can't marry you. I shall never love anybody but
myself for the rest of my days." And he kneeled down and gazed at
himself once more, while poor Echo had to go weeping away.
Narcissus had spoken truly. He loved himself and his own face so much
that he could think of nothing else: he spent all his days and nights by
the lake, and never took his eyes away. But unluckily his image, which
was only a shadow in the water, could not love him back again. And so he
pined away until he died. And when his friends came to look for his
body, they found nothing but a flower, into which his soul had turned.
So they called it the Narcissus, and we call it so still. And yet I
don't know that it is a particularly conceited or selfish flower.
As for poor Echo, she pined away too. She faded and faded until nothing
was left of her but her voice. There are many places where she can even
now be heard. And she still has the same trick of saying to vain and
foolish people whatever they say to themselves, or whatever they would
like best to hear said to them. If you go where Echo is, and call out
loudly, "I am beautiful!"--she will echo your very words.
259
"The Apple of Discord" is also taken, by
permission of the publishers, from Francillon's
_Gods and Heroes_. It is the story of how the
world's first great war was brought about.
Teachers who wish to use some of the stories
from Homer's _Iliad_ might well follow this
story with some selected episodes from that
work. The prose translation of the _Iliad_ by
Lang, Leaf, and Myers is the most satisfactory.
Of versions adapted for children, Church's
_Story of the Iliad_ has long been a favorite.
THE APPLE OF DISCORD
R. E. FRANCILLON
Never was such a wedding-feast known as that of Peleus and Thetis. And
no wonder; for Peleus was King of Thessaly, and Thetis was a
goddess--the goddess who keeps the gates of the West, and throws them
open for the chariot of the Sun to pass through when its day's journey
is done.
Not only all the neighboring kings and queens came to the feast, but the
gods and goddesses besides, bringing splendid presents to the bride and
bridegroom. Only one goddess was not there, because she had not been
invited; and she had not been invited for the best of all reasons. Her
name was Ate, which means Mischief; and wherever she went she caused
quarreling and confusion. Jupiter had turned her out of heaven for
setting even the gods by the ears; and ever since then she had been
wandering about the earth, making mischief, for they would not have her
even in Hades.
"So they won't have _Me_ at their feast!" she said to herself, when she
heard the sound of the merriment to which she had not been bidden. "Very
well; they shall be sorry. I see a way to make a bigger piece of
mischief than ever was known."
So she took a golden apple, wrote some words upon it, and, keeping
herself out of sight, threw it into the very middle of the feasters,
just when they were most merry.
Nobody saw where the apple came from; but of course they supposed it had
been thrown among them for frolic; and one of the guests, taking it up,
read aloud the words written on it. The words were:
"FOR THE MOST BEAUTIFUL!"
--nothing more.
"What a handsome present somebody has sent me!" said Juno, holding out
her hand for the apple.
"Sent _you_?" asked Diana. "What an odd mistake, to be sure! Don't you
see it is for the most beautiful? I will thank you to hand me what is so
clearly intended for _Me_."
"You seem to forget _I_ am present!" said Vesta, making a snatch at the
apple.
"Not at all!" said Ceres; "only I happen to be here, too. And who doubts
that where I am there is the most beautiful?"
"Except where _I_ am," said Proserpine.
"What folly is all this!" said Minerva, the wise. "Wisdom is the only
true beauty; and everybody knows that I am the wisest of you all."
"But it's for the _most_ beautiful!" said Venus. "The idea of its being
for anybody but _Me_!"
Then every nymph and goddess present, and even every woman, put in her
claim, until from claiming and disputing it grew to arguing and
wrangling and downright quarreling: insults flew about, until the
merriment grew into an angry din, the like of which had never been
heard. But as it became clear that it was impossible for everybody to be
the most beautiful, the claimants gradually settled down into three
parties--some taking the side of Venus, others of Juno, others of
Minerva.
"We shall never settle it among ourselves," said one, when all were
fairly out of breath with quarreling. "Let the gods decide."
For the gods had been silent all the while; and now they looked at one
another in dismay at such an appeal. Jupiter, in his heart, thought
Venus the most beautiful; but how could he dare decide against either
his wife Juno or his daughter Minerva? Neptune hated Minerva on account
of their old quarrel; but it was awkward to choose between his daughter
Venus and his sister Juno, of whose temper he, as well as Jupiter, stood
in awe. Mars was ready enough to vote for Venus; but then he was afraid
of a scandal. And so with all the gods--not one was bold enough to
decide on such a terrible question as the beauty of three rival
goddesses who were ready to tear out each other's eyes. For Juno was
looking like a thundercloud, and Minerva like lightning, and Venus like
a smiling but treacherous sea.
"I have it," said Jupiter at last. "Men are better judges of beauty than
the gods are, who never see anything but its perfection. King Priam of
Troy has a son named Paris, whose judgment as a critic I would take even
before my own. I propose that you, Juno, and you, Minerva, and you,
Venus, shall go together before Paris and submit yourselves to his
decision, whatever it may be."
And so it was settled, for each of the three goddesses was equally sure
that, whoever the judge might be, the golden apple was safe to be hers.
The quarrel came to an end, and the feast ended pleasantly; but Ate, who
had been watching and listening, laughed in her sleeve.
Troy, where King Priam reigned, was a great and ancient city on the
shore of Asia: it was a sacred city, whose walls had been built by
Neptune, and it possessed the Palladium, the image of Minerva, which
kept it from all harm. Priam--who had been the friend of Hercules--and
his wife Hecuba had many sons and daughters, all brave and noble princes
and beautiful princesses; and of his sons, while the bravest and noblest
was his first-born, Hector, the handsomest and most amiable was Paris,
whom Jupiter had appointed to be the judge of beauty.
Paris, unlike his brothers, cared nothing for affairs of State, but
lived as a shepherd upon Mount Ida with his wife Oenone, a nymph of that
mountain, in perfect happiness and peace, loved and honored by the whole
country round, which had given him the name of "Alexander," which means
"The Helper." One would think that if anybody was safe from the mischief
of Ate, it was he.
But one day, while he was watching his flocks and thinking of Oenone,
there came to him what he took for three beautiful women--the most
beautiful he had ever seen. Yet something told him they were more than
mere women, or even than Oreads, before the tallest said--
"There is debate in Olympus which is the most beautiful of us three, and
Jupiter has appointed you to be the judge between us. I am Juno, the
queen of gods and men, and if you decide for me, I will make you king of
the whole world."
"And I," said the second, "am Minerva, and you shall know everything in
the whole universe if you decide for me."
"But I," said the third, "am Venus, who can give neither wisdom nor
power; but if you decide for me, I will give you the love of the most
beautiful woman that ever was or ever will be born."
Paris looked from one to the other, wondering to which he should award
the golden apple, the prize of beauty. He did not care for power; he
would be quite content to rule his sheep, and even that was not always
easy. Nor did he care for wisdom or knowledge: he had enough for all his
needs. Nor ought he to have desired any love but Oenone's. But then
Venus was really the most beautiful of all the goddesses--the very
goddess of beauty; no mortal could refuse anything she asked him, so
great was her charm. So he took the apple and placed it in the hands of
Venus without a word, while Juno and Minerva departed in a state of
wrath with Paris, Venus, and each other, which made Ate laugh to herself
more than ever.
Now the most beautiful woman in the whole world was Helen, step-daughter
of King Tyndarus of Sparta, and sister of Castor and Pollux: neither
before her nor after her has there been any to compare with her for
beauty. Thirty-one of the noblest princes in Greece came to her father's
Court at the same time to seek her in marriage, so that Tyndarus knew
not what to do, seeing that, whomsoever he chose for his son-in-law, he
would make thirty powerful enemies. The most famous among them were
Ulysses, King of the island of Ithaca; Diomed, King of Aetolia; Ajax,
King of Salamis, the bravest and strongest man in Greece; his brother
Teucer; Philoctetes, the friend of Hercules; and Menelaus, King of
Sparta. At last, as there was no other way of deciding among them, an
entirely new idea occurred to Ulysses--namely, that Helen should be
allowed to choose her own husband herself, and that, before she chose,
all the rival suitors should make a great and solemn oath to approve her
choice, and to defend her and her husband against all enemies
thenceforth and forever. This oath they all took loyally and with one
accord, and Helen chose Menelaus, King of Sparta, who married her with
great rejoicing, and took her away to his kingdom.
And all would have gone well but for that wretched apple. For Venus was
faithful to her promise that the most beautiful of all women should be
the wife of Paris: and so Menelaus, returning from a journey, found that
a Trojan prince had visited his Court during his absence, and had gone
away, taking Helen with him to Troy. This Trojan prince was Paris, who,
seeing Helen, had forgotten Oenone, and could think of nothing but her
whom Venus had given him.
Then, through all Greece and all the islands, went forth the summons of
King Menelaus, reminding the thirty princes of their great oath: and
each and all of them, and many more, came to the gathering-place with
all their ships and all their men, to help Menelaus and to bring back
Helen. Such a host as gathered together at Aulis had never been seen
since the world began; there were nearly twelve hundred ships and more
than a hundred thousand men: it was the first time that all the Greeks
joined together in one cause. There, besides those who had come for
their oath's sake, were Nestor, the old King of Pylos--so old that he
remembered Jason and the Golden Fleece, but, at ninety years old, as
ready for battle as the youngest there; and Achilles, the son of Peleus
and Thetis, scarcely more than a boy, but fated to outdo the deeds of
the bravest of them all. The kings and princes elected Agamemnon, King
of Mycenae and Argos, and brother of Menelaus, to be their
general-in-chief; and he forthwith sent a herald to Troy to demand the
surrender of Helen.
But King Priam was indignant that these chiefs of petty kingdoms should
dare to threaten the sacred city of Troy: and he replied to the demand
by a scornful challenge, and by sending out his summons also to his
friends and allies. And it was as well answered as that of Menelaus had
been. There came to his standard Rhesus, with a great army from Thrace;
and Sarpedon, the greatest king in all Asia; and Memnon, king of
Aethiopia, with twenty thousand men--the hundred thousand Greeks were
not so many as the army of Priam. Then Agamemnon gave the order to sail
for Troy: and Ate laughed aloud, for her apple had brought upon mankind
the First Great War.
260
The little book of _Old Greek Folk Stories_, by
Josephine P. Peabody, is especially valuable,
not only for its fine versions of many of the
more interesting myths, but because it
supplements the dozen retold by Hawthorne in
his _Wonder-Book_ and _Tanglewood Tales_. The
two stories that follow are taken from that
book and are used by permission of and by
special arrangement with the publishers.
(Copyright: Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.) It
is worth noticing that the idea of being able
to fly through the air successfully is found in
a very remote past, and that Daedalus discarded
his invention because of the tragedy related
below. Only a few years since, most people
looked upon one who tried to work out
practically the problem of flying as somewhat
"short" mentally. Hence the use of such efforts
for comic effect as in "Darius Green and His
Flying Machine" (No. 375).
ICARUS AND DAEDALUS
JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
Among all those mortals who grew so wise that they learned the secrets
of the gods, none was more cunning than Daedalus.
He once built, for King Minos of Crete, a wonderful Labyrinth of winding
ways so cunningly tangled up and twisted around that, once inside, you
could never find your way out again without a magic clue. But the king's
favor veered with the wind, and one day he had his master architect
imprisoned in a tower. Daedalus managed to escape from his cell; but it
seemed impossible to leave the island, since every ship that came or
went was well guarded by order of the king.
At length, watching the sea gulls in the air,--the only creatures that
were sure of liberty,--he thought of a plan for himself and his young
son Icarus, who was captive with him.
Little by little, he gathered a store of feathers great and small. He
fastened these together with thread, moulded them in with wax, and so
fashioned two great wings like those of a bird. When they were done,
Daedalus fitted them to his own shoulders, and after one or two efforts,
he found that by waving his arms he could winnow the air and cleave it,
as a swimmer does the sea. He held himself aloft, wavered this way and
that with the wind, and at last, like a great fledgling, he learned to
fly.
Without delay, he fell to work on a pair of wings for the boy Icarus,
and taught him carefully how to use them, bidding him beware of rash
adventures among the stars. "Remember," said the father, "never to fly
very low or very high, for the fogs about the earth would weigh you
down, but the blaze of the sun will surely melt your feathers apart if
you go too near."
For Icarus, these cautions went in at one ear and out by the other. Who
could remember to be careful when he was to fly for the first time? Are
birds careful? Not they! And not an idea remained in the boy's head but
the one joy of escape.
The day came, and the fair wind that was to set them free. The father
bird put on his wings, and, while the light urged them to be gone, he
waited to see that all was well with Icarus, for the two could not fly
hand in hand. Up they rose, the boy after his father. The hateful ground
of Crete sank beneath them; and the country folk, who caught a glimpse
of them when they were high above the tree-tops, took it for a vision of
the gods,--Apollo, perhaps, with Cupid after him.
At first there was a terror in the joy. The wide vacancy of the air
dazed them,--a glance downward made their brains reel. But when a great
wind filled their wings, and Icarus felt himself sustained, like a
halcyon-bird in the hollow of a wave, like a child uplifted by his
mother, he forgot everything in the world but joy. He forgot Crete and
the other islands that he had passed over: he saw but vaguely that
winged thing in the distance before him that was his father Daedalus. He
longed for one draught of flight to quench the thirst of his captivity:
he stretched out his arms to the sky and made towards the highest
heavens.
Alas for him! Warmer and warmer grew the air. Those arms, that had
seemed to uphold him, relaxed. His wings wavered, drooped. He fluttered
his young hands vainly,--he was falling,--and in that terror he
remembered. The heat of the sun had melted the wax from his wings; the
feathers were falling, one by one, like snowflakes; and there was none
to help.
He fell like a leaf tossed down the wind, down, down, with one cry that
overtook Daedalus far away. When he returned, and sought high and low
for the poor boy, he saw nothing but the bird-like feathers afloat on
the water, and he knew that Icarus was drowned.
The nearest island he named Icaria, in memory of the child; but he, in
heavy grief, went to the temple of Apollo in Sicily, and there hung up
his wings as an offering. Never again did he attempt to fly.
261
This story of how Apollo, god of music and
poetry, was sent to earth for a space to serve
a mortal is also from _Old Greek Folk Stories_,
by arrangement with the publishers. (Houghton
Mifflin Co., Boston.) James Russell Lowell
wrote a very fine poetic treatment of this same
story in "The Shepherd of King Admetus" (No.
373).
ADMETUS AND THE SHEPHERD
JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY
Apollo did not live always free of care, though he was the most glorious
of the gods. One day, in anger with the Cyclopes who work at the forges
of Vulcan, he sent his arrows after them, to the wrath of all the gods,
but especially of Zeus. (For the Cyclopes always make his thunderbolts,
and make them well.) Even the divine archer could not go unpunished, and
as a penalty he was sent to serve some mortal for a year. Some say one
year and some say nine, but in those days time passed quickly; and as
for the gods, they took no heed of it.
Now there was a certain king in Thessaly, Admetus by name, and there
came to him one day a stranger, who asked leave to serve about the
palace. None knew his name, but he was very comely, and moreover, when
they questioned him he said that he had come from a position of high
trust. So without further delay they made him chief shepherd of the
royal flocks.
Every day thereafter, he drove his sheep to the banks of the river
Amphrysus, and there he sat to watch them browse. The country folk that
passed drew near to wonder at him, without daring to ask questions. He
seemed to have a knowledge of leech-craft, and knew how to cure the ills
of any wayfarer with any weed that grew near by; and he would pipe for
hours in the sun. A simple-spoken man he was, yet he seemed to know much
more than he would say, and he smiled with a kindly mirth when the
people wished him sunny weather.
Indeed, as days went by, it seemed as if summer had come to stay, and,
like the shepherd, found the place friendly. Nowhere else were the
flocks so white and fair to see, like clouds loitering along a bright
sky; and sometimes, when he chose, their keeper sang to them. Then the
grasshoppers drew near and the swans sailed close to the river banks,
and the countrymen gathered about to hear wonderful tales of the slaying
of the monster Python, and of a king with ass's ears, and of a lovely
maiden, Daphne, who grew into a laurel-tree. In time the rumor of these
things drew the king himself to listen; and Admetus, who had been to see
the world in the ship Argo, knew at once that this was no earthly
shepherd, but a god. From that day, like a true king, he treated his
guest with reverence and friendliness, asking no questions; and the god
was well pleased.
Now it came to pass that Admetus fell in love with a beautiful maiden,
Alcestis, and, because of the strange condition that her father Pelias
had laid upon all suitors, he was heavy-hearted. Only that man who
should come to woo her in a chariot drawn by a wild boar and a lion
might ever marry Alcestis; and this task was enough to puzzle even a
king.
As for the shepherd, when he heard of it he rose, one fine morning, and
left the sheep and went his way,--no one knew whither. If the sun had
gone out, the people could not have been more dismayed. The king himself
went, late in the day, to walk by the river Amphrysus, and wonder if his
gracious keeper of the flocks had deserted him in a time of need. But at
that very moment, whom should he see returning from the woods but the
shepherd, glorious as sunset, and leading side by side a lion and a
boar, as gentle as two sheep! The very next morning, with joy and
gratitude, Admetus set out in his chariot for the kingdom of Pelias, and
there he wooed and won Alcestis, the most loving wife that was ever
heard of.
It was well for Admetus that he came home with such a comrade, for the
year was at an end, and he was to lose his shepherd. The strange man
came to take leave of the king and queen whom he had befriended.
"Blessed be your flocks, Admetus," he said, smiling. "They shall prosper
even though I leave them. And, because you can discern the gods that
come to you in the guise of wayfarers, happiness shall never go far from
your home, but ever return to be your guest. No man may live on earth
forever, but this one gift have I obtained for you. When your last hour
draws near, if any one shall be willing to meet it in your stead, he
shall die, and you shall live on, more than the mortal length of days.
Such kings deserve long life."
So ended the happy year when Apollo tended sheep.
262
This version of the Midas story is taken from
Bulfinch's _Age of Fable_, which is still one
of the most valuable and interesting handbooks
in its field. One who wishes simply good
versions of the old myths without any of the
apparatus of scholarship will find Bulfinch
excellent. It serves well for younger or
general readers who would be worried by
references or interpretations. Hawthorne's
version of this favorite myth may be found in
his _Wonder-Book_ as "The Golden Touch."
MIDAS
Bacchus, on a certain occasion, found his old schoolmaster and
foster-father, Silenus, missing. The old man had been drinking, and in
that state had wandered away, and was found by some peasants, who
carried him to their king, Midas. Midas recognized him and treated him
hospitably, entertaining him for ten days and nights with an unceasing
round of jollity. On the eleventh day he brought Silenus back, and
restored him in safety to his pupil. Whereupon Bacchus offered Midas his
choice of whatever reward he might wish. He asked that whatever he might
touch should be changed into _gold_. Bacchus consented, though sorry
that he had not made a better choice.
Midas went his way, rejoicing in his newly acquired power, which he
hastened to put to the test. He could scarce believe his eyes when he
found that a twig of an oak, which he plucked from the branch, became
gold in his hand. He took up a stone--it changed to gold. He touched a
sod--it did the same. He took an apple from the tree--you would have
thought he had robbed the garden of the Hesperides. His joy knew no
bounds, and as soon as he got home, he ordered the servants to set a
splendid repast on the table. Then he found to his dismay that whether
he touched bread, it hardened in his hand; or put a morsel to his lips,
it defied his teeth. He took a glass of wine, but it flowed down his
throat like melted gold.
In consternation at the unprecedented affliction, he strove to divest
himself of his power; he hated the gift he had lately coveted. But all
in vain; starvation seemed to await him. He raised his arms, all shining
with gold, in prayer to Bacchus, begging to be delivered from his
glittering destruction. Bacchus, merciful deity, heard and consented.
"Go," said he, "to the River Pactolus, trace the stream to its
fountain-head, there plunge in your head and body and wash away your
fault and its punishment." He did so, and scarce had he touched the
waters before the gold-creating power passed into them, and the river
sands became changed into _gold_, as they remain to this day.
Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the country and
became a worshipper of Pan, the god of the fields. On a certain occasion
Pan had the temerity to compare his music with that of Apollo, and to
challenge the god of the lyre to a trial of skill. The challenge was
accepted; and Tmolus, the mountain-god, was chosen umpire. Tmolus took
his seat and cleared away the trees from his ears to listen. At a given
signal Pan blew on his pipes, and with his rustic melody gave great
satisfaction to himself and his faithful follower Midas, who happened to
be present. Then Tmolus turned his head toward the sun-god, and all his
trees turned with him. Apollo rose, his brow wreathed with Parnassian
laurel, while his robe of Tyrian purple swept the ground. In his left
hand he held the lyre, and with his right hand struck the strings.
Ravished with the harmony, Tmolus at once awarded the victory to the god
of the lyre, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment. He dissented,
and questioned the justice of the award. Apollo would not suffer such a
depraved pair of ears any longer to wear the human form, but caused them
to increase in length, grow hairy within and without, and to become
movable on their roots; in short, to be on the perfect pattern of those
of an ass.
Mortified enough was King Midas at this mishap; but he consoled himself
with the thought that it was possible to hide his misfortune, which he
attempted to do by means of an ample turban or headdress. But his
hairdresser of course knew the secret. He was charged not to mention it,
and threatened with dire punishment if he presumed to disobey. But he
found it too much for his discretion to keep such a secret; so he went
out into the meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down,
whispered the story, and covered it up. Before long a thick bed of reeds
sprang up in the meadow, and as soon as it had gained its growth, began
whispering the story, and has continued to do so, from that day to this,
with every breeze which passes over the place.
263
The story of Phaëthon is taken by permission
from Gayley's _Classic Myths in English
Literature and Art_. (Copyright. Ginn & Co.,
Boston.) Gayley is by all odds the one handbook
for the whole field of mythology that teachers
should always have access to. Based upon the
older Bulfinch, it brings the whole subject up
to date and reflects all the results of later
scholarship on the matters of origins and
interpretations. Its bibliographies and
extended commentaries make it invaluable. The
story of Phaëthon is usually thought of as a
warning against presumption, conceit, whim,
self-will. It was probably invented in the
first place to account for the extremely hot
weather of the summer months.
PHAËTHON
CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY
Phaëthon was the son of Apollo and the nymph Clymene. One day Epaphus,
the son of Jupiter and Io, scoffed at the idea of Phaëthon's being the
son of a god. Phaëthon complained of the insult to his mother Clymene.
She sent him to Phoebus to ask for himself whether he had not been truly
informed concerning his parentage. Gladly Phaëthon traveled toward the
regions of sunrise and gained at last the palace of the sun. He
approached his father's presence, but stopped at a distance, for the
light was more than he could bear.
Phoebus Apollo, arrayed in purple, sat on a throne that glittered with
diamonds. Beside him stood the Day, the Month, the Year, the Hours, and
the Seasons. Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun beheld the youth
dazzled with the novelty and splendor of the scene, and inquired the
purpose of his errand. The youth replied, "Oh, light of the boundless
world, Phoebus, my father--if thou dost yield me that name--give me some
proof, I beseech thee, by which I may be known as thine!"
He ceased. His father, laying aside the beams that shone around his
head, bade him approach, embraced him, owned him for his son, and swore
by the river Styx that whatever proof he might ask should be granted.
Phaëthon immediately asked to be permitted for one day to drive the
chariot of the sun. The father repented of his promise and tried to
dissuade the boy by telling him the perils of the undertaking. "None but
myself," he said, "may drive the flaming car of day. Not even Jupiter,
whose terrible right arm hurls the thunderbolts. The first part of the
way is steep and such as the horses when fresh in the morning can hardly
climb; the middle is high up in the heavens, whence I myself can
scarcely, without alarm, look down and behold the earth and sea
stretched beneath me. The last part of the road descends rapidly and
requires most careful driving. Tethys, who is waiting to receive me,
often trembles for me lest I should fall headlong. Add to this that the
heaven is all the time turning round and carrying the stars with it.
Couldst thou keep thy course while the sphere revolved beneath thee? The
road, also, is through the midst of frightful monsters. Thou must pass
by the horns of the Bull, in front of the Archer, and near the Lion's
jaws, and where the Scorpion stretches its arms in one direction and the
Crab in another. Nor wilt thou find it easy to guide those horses, with
their breasts full of fire that they breathe forth from their mouths and
nostrils. Beware, my son, lest I be the donor of a fatal gift; recall
the request while yet thou canst." He ended; but the youth rejected
admonition and held to his demand. So, having resisted as long as he
might, Phoebus at last led the way to where stood the lofty chariot.
It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan,--the axle of gold, the pole and
wheels of gold, the spokes of silver. Along the seat were rows of
chrysolites and diamonds, reflecting the brightness of the sun. While
the daring youth gazed in admiration, the early Dawn threw open the
purple doors of the east and showed the pathway strewn with roses. The
stars withdrew, marshaled by the Daystar, which last of all retired
also. The father, when he saw the earth beginning to glow and the Moon
preparing to retire, ordered the Hours to harness up the horses. They
led forth from the lofty stalls the steeds full fed with ambrosia, and
attached the reins. Then the father, smearing the face of his son with a
powerful unguent, made him capable of enduring the brightness of the
flame. He set the rays on the lad's head, and, with a foreboding sigh,
told him to spare the whip and hold tight the reins; not to take the
straight road between the five circles, but to turn off to the left; to
keep within the limit of the middle zone and avoid the northern and the
southern alike; finally, to keep in the well-worn ruts and to drive
neither too high nor too low, for the middle course was safest and best.
Forthwith the agile youth sprang into the chariot, stood erect, and
grasped the reins with delight, pouring out thanks to his reluctant
parent. But the steeds soon perceived that the load they drew was
lighter than usual; and as a ship without its accustomed weight, was
dashed about as if empty. The horses rushed headlong and left the
traveled road. Then, for the first time, the Great and Little Bears were
scorched with heat, and would fain, if it were possible, have plunged
into the water; and the Serpent which lies coiled round the north pole,
torpid and harmless, grew warm, and with warmth felt its rage revive.
Boötes, they say, fled away, though encumbered with his plow and unused
to rapid motion.
When hapless Phaëthon looked down upon the earth, now spreading in vast
extent beneath him, he grew pale, and his knees shook with terror. He
lost his self-command and knew not whether to draw tight the reins or
throw them loose; he forgot the names of the horses. But when he beheld
the monstrous forms scattered over the surface of heaven,--the Scorpion
extending two great arms, his tail, and his crooked claws over the space
of two signs of the zodiac,--when the boy beheld him, reeking with
poison and menacing with fangs, his courage failed, and the reins fell
from his hands. The horses, unrestrained, went off into unknown regions
of the sky in among the stars, hurling the chariot over pathless places,
now up in high heaven, now down almost to the earth. The moon saw with
astonishment her brother's chariot running beneath her own. The clouds
began to smoke. The forest-clad mountains burned,--Athos and Taurus and
Tmolus and Oete; Ida, once celebrated for fountains; the Muses' mountain
Helicon, and Haemus; Aetna, with fires within and without, and
Parnassus, with his two peaks, and Rhodope, forced at last to part with
his snowy crown. Her cold climate was no protection to Scythia; Caucasus
burned, and Ossa and Pindus, and, greater than both, Olympus,--the Alps
high in air, and the Apennines crowned with clouds.
Phaëthon beheld the world on fire and felt the heat intolerable. Then,
too, it is said, the people of Aethiopia became black because the blood
was called by the heat so suddenly to the surface; and the Libyan desert
was dried up to the condition in which it remains to this day. The
Nymphs of the fountains, with disheveled hair, mourned their waters, nor
were the rivers safe beneath their banks; Tanaïs smoked, and Caïcus,
Xanthus, and Maeander; Babylonian Euphrates and Ganges, Tagus, with
golden sands, and Caÿster, where the swans resort. Nile fled away and
hid his head in the desert, and there it still remains concealed. Where
he used to discharge his waters through seven mouths into the sea, seven
dry channels alone remained. The earth cracked open and through the
chinks light broke into Tartarus and frightened the king of shadows and
his queen. The sea shrank up. Even Nereus and his wife Doris with the
Nereïds, their daughters, sought the deepest caves for refuge. Thrice
Neptune essayed to raise his head above the surface and thrice was
driven back by the heat. Earth, surrounded as she was by waters, yet
with head and shoulders bare, screening her face with her hand, looked
up to heaven, and with husky voice prayed Jupiter, if it were his will
that she should perish by fire, to end her agony at once by his
thunderbolts, or else to consider his own Heaven, how both the poles
were smoking that sustained his palace, and that all must fall if they
were destroyed.
Earth, overcome with heat and thirst, could say no more. Then Jupiter,
calling the gods to witness that all was lost unless some speedy remedy
were applied, thundered, brandished a lightning bolt in his right hand,
launched it against the charioteer, and struck him at the same moment
from his seat and from existence. Phaëthon, with his hair on fire, fell
headlong, like a shooting star which marks the heavens with its
brightness as it falls, and Eridanus, the great river, received him and
cooled his burning frame. His sisters, the Heliades, as they lamented
his fate, were turned into poplar trees on the banks of the river; and
their tears, which continued to flow, became amber as they dropped into
the stream. The Italian Naiads reared a tomb for him and inscribed
these words upon the stone:
Driver of Phoebus' chariot, Phaëthon,
Struck by Jove's thunder, rests beneath this stone.
He could not rule his father's car of fire,
Yet was it much so nobly to aspire.
* * * * *
The Norse myths originated among peoples who lived in the country which
is now Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Iceland. In these lands of the
North, winter is long and dark, and the intense cold is not easily
endured; but summer brings sunshine, warmth, and happiness. It is not
strange, therefore, that the evil spirits of Norse mythology should be
represented as huge frost giants and mountain giants. These giants, or
Jotuns, were first formed from the mist that came from fields of ice.
They lived in a dreary country called Jötunheim, and were enemies of the
gods, who lived in the bright, beautiful city of Asgard.
To live the life of the old Norse folk required strength and courage,
for the little boats in which they went to fish were too small for
storm-tossed Arctic seas, and the weapons with which they hunted in the
cold, lonely forests were primitive. It is but natural, therefore, that
they should have idealized strength and courage and that they should
have represented the gods of Asgard as being large, strong, and
courageous. Although Thor, the eldest son of Odin, was small in
comparison with the giants, we are told in one of the myths that he was
a mile in height; also he had great strength and a wonderful hammer,
called Mjolmer, with which he always defeated the giants and kept them
from Asgard. Thunder was caused by the stroke of Thor's hammer; hence
Thor was called the Thunderer.
The spiritual ideals in Norse mythology are more important than the
physical ideals. The long, cold winter nights kept the Norse folk at
home; hence they had a love for home and family relations and a respect
for women that may not be found revealed in the mythology of Greece.
Wisdom and judgment, too, were more essential than craft and fraud in
encountering the hardships of their life; therefore they represented
Odin, the supreme god of Asgard, as being the god of wisdom. The gods of
Greek mythology often used craft and fraud to accomplish their purposes,
but only Loke among the inhabitants of Asgard relied upon deception.
Loke was descended from the giants, but was also related to the gods; so
he was permitted to live in Asgard. It is significant of the spirit of
the Norse folk that the gods did not trust Loke and came to regard him
as their enemy; and it was he who finally brought misfortune to the
gods.
264
This story of Thor's visit to the land of the
giants is taken from Bulfinch. It deals with
one of the favorite sections of Norse
mythology, satisfying, as it does, the
listeners' demand for courageous struggle
against great and mysterious forces. The use of
illusion by the giant forces of evil as a
method of defeating the open-minded forces of
truth is strikingly exemplified in the various
contests staged at Jötunheim.
THOR'S VISIT TO JÖTUNHEIM
One day the god Thor, with his servant Thialfi, and accompanied by Loki,
set out on a journey to the giants' country. Thialfi was of all men the
swiftest of foot. He bore Thor's wallet, containing their provisions.
When night came on they found themselves in an immense forest, and
searched on all sides for a place where they might pass the night, and
at last came to a very large hall, with an entrance that took the whole
breadth of one end of the building. Here they lay down to sleep, but
towards midnight were alarmed by an earthquake which shook the whole
edifice. Thor, rising up, called on his companions to seek with him a
place of safety. On the right they found an adjoining chamber, into
which the others entered, but Thor remained at the doorway with his
mallet in his hand, prepared to defend himself, whatever might happen. A
terrible groaning was heard during the night, and at dawn of day Thor
went out and found lying near him a huge giant, who slept and snored in
the way that had alarmed them so. It is said that for once Thor was
afraid to use his mallet, and as the giant soon waked up, Thor contented
himself with simply asking his name.
"My name is Skrymir," said the giant, "but I need not ask thy name, for
I know that thou art the god Thor. But what has become of my glove?"
Thor then perceived that what they had taken overnight for a hall was
the giant's glove, and the chamber where his two companions had sought
refuge was the thumb. Skrymir then proposed that they should travel in
company, and Thor consenting, they sat down to eat their breakfast, and
when they had done, Skrymir packed all the provisions into one wallet,
threw it over his shoulder, and strode on before them, taking such
tremendous strides that they were hard put to it to keep up with him. So
they traveled the whole day, and at dusk Skrymir chose a place for them
to pass the night in under a large oak tree. Skrymir then told them he
would lie down to sleep. "But take ye the wallet," he added, "and
prepare your supper."
Skrymir soon fell asleep and began to snore strongly; but when Thor
tried to open the wallet, he found the giant had tied it up so tight he
could not untie a single knot. At last Thor became wroth, and grasping
his mallet with both hands he struck a furious blow on the giant's head.
Skrymir, awakening, merely asked whether a leaf had not fallen on his
head, and whether they had supped and were ready to go to sleep. Thor
answered that they were just going to sleep, and so saying went and laid
himself down under another tree. But sleep came not that night to Thor,
and when Skrymir snored again so loud that the forest reëchoed with the
noise, he arose, and grasping his mallet launched it with such force at
the giant's skull that it made a deep dint in it. Skrymir, awakening,
cried out, "What's the matter? Are there any birds perched on this tree?
I felt some moss from the branches fall on my head. How fares it with
thee Thor?" But Thor went away hastily, saying that he had just then
awoke, and that as it was only midnight, there was still time for sleep.
He, however, resolved that if he had an opportunity of striking a third
blow, it should settle all matters between them.
A little before daybreak he perceived that Skrymir was again fast
asleep, and again grasping his mallet, he dashed it with such violence
that it forced its way into the giant's skull up to the handle. But
Skrymir sat up, and stroking his cheek said, "An acorn fell on my head.
What! Art thou awake, Thor? Methinks it is time for us to get up and
dress ourselves; but you have not now a long way before you to the city
called Utgard. I have heard you whispering to one another that I am not
a man of small dimensions; but if you come to Utgard you will see there
many men much taller than I. Wherefore, I advise you, when you come
there, not to make too much of yourselves, for the followers of
Utgard-Loki will not brook the boasting of such little fellows as you
are. You must take the road that leads eastward, mine lies northward, so
we must part here."
Hereupon he threw his wallet over his shoulders and turned away from
them into the forest, and Thor had no wish to stop him or to ask for any
more of his company.
Thor and his companions proceeded on their way, and towards noon
descried a city standing in the middle of a plain. It was so lofty that
they were obliged to bend their necks quite back on their shoulders in
order to see to the top of it. On arriving they entered the city, and
seeing a large palace before them with the door wide open, they went in,
and found a number of men of prodigious stature, sitting on benches in
the hall. Going further, they came before the king, Utgard-Loki, whom
they saluted with great respect. The king, regarding them with a
scornful smile, said, "If I do not mistake me, that stripling yonder
must be the god Thor." Then addressing himself to Thor, he said,
"Perhaps thou mayst be more than thou appearest to be. What are the
feats that thou and thy fellows deem yourselves skilled in, for no one
is permitted to remain here who does not, in some feat or other, excel
all other men?"
"The feat that I know," said Loki, "is to eat quicker than any one else,
and in this I am ready to give a proof against any one here who may
choose to compete with me."
"That will indeed be a feat," said Utgard-Loki, "if thou performest what
thou promisest, and it shall be tried forthwith."
He then ordered one of his men who was sitting at the farther end of the
bench, and whose name was Logi, to come forward and try his skill with
Loki. A trough filled with meat having been set on the hall floor, Loki
placed himself at one end, and Logi at the other, and each of them began
to eat as fast as he could, until they met in the middle of the trough.
But it was found that Loki had only eaten the flesh, while his adversary
had devoured both flesh and bone, and the trough to boot. All the
company therefore adjudged that Loki was vanquished.
Utgard-Loki then asked what feat the young man who accompanied Thor
could perform. Thialfi answered that he would run a race with any one
who might be matched against him. The king observed that skill in
running was something to boast of, but if the youth would win the match
he must display great agility. He then arose and went with all who were
present to a plain where there was good ground for running on, and
calling a young man named Hugi, bade him run a match with Thialfi. In
the first course Hugi so much outstripped his competitor that he turned
back and met him not far from the starting place. Then they ran a second
and a third time, but Thialfi met with no better success.
Utgard-Loki then asked Thor in what feats he would choose to give proofs
of that prowess for which he was so famous. Thor answered that he would
try a drinking-match with any one. Utgard-Loki bade his cup-bearer bring
the large horn which his followers were obliged to empty when they had
trespassed in any way against the law of the feast. The cup-bearer
having presented it to Thor, Utgard-Loki said, "Whoever is a good
drinker will empty that horn at a single draught, though most men make
two of it, but the most puny drinker can do it in three."
Thor looked at the horn, which seemed of no extraordinary size though
somewhat long; however, as he was very thirsty, he set it to his lips,
and without drawing breath, pulled as long and as deeply as he could,
that he might not be obliged to make a second draught of it; but when he
set the horn down and looked in, he could scarcely perceive that the
liquor was diminished.
After taking breath, Thor went to it again with all his might, but when
he took the horn from his mouth, it seemed to him that he had drunk
rather less than before, although the horn could now be carried without
spilling.
"How now, Thor?" said Utgard-Loki; "thou must not spare thyself. If thou
meanest to drain the horn at the third draught thou must pull deeply;
and I must needs say that thou wilt not be called so mighty a man here
as thou art at home if thou showest no greater prowess in other feats
than methinks will be shown in this."
Thor, full of wrath, again set the horn to his lips and did his best to
empty it; but on looking in found the liquor was only a little lower, so
he resolved to make no further attempt, but gave back the horn to the
cup-bearer.
"I now see plainly," said Utgard-Loki, "that thou art not quite so stout
as we thought thee; but wilt thou try any other feat, though methinks
thou art not likely to bear any prize away with thee hence?"
"What new trial hast thou to propose?" said Thor.
"We have a very trifling game here," answered Utgard-Loki, "in which we
exercise none but children. It consists in merely lifting my cat from
the ground; nor should I have dared to mention such a feat to the great
Thor if I had not already observed that thou art by no means what we
took thee for."
As he finished speaking, a large gray cat sprang on the hall floor. Thor
put his hand under the cat's belly and did his utmost to raise him from
the floor, but the cat, bending his back, had, notwithstanding all
Thor's efforts, only one of his feet lifted up, seeing which Thor made
no further attempt.
"This trial has turned out," said Utgard-Loki, "just as I imagined it
would. The cat is large, but Thor is little in comparison to our men."
"Little as ye call me," answered Thor, "let me see who among you will
come hither now I am in wrath and wrestle with me."
"I see no one here," said Utgard-Loki, looking at the men sitting on the
benches, "who would not think it beneath him to wrestle with thee; let
somebody, however, call hither that old crone, my nurse Elli, and let
Thor wrestle with her if he will. She has thrown to the ground many a
man not less strong than this Thor is."
A toothless old woman then entered the hall, and was told by Utgard-Loki
to take hold of Thor. The tale is shortly told. The more Thor tightened
his hold on the crone the firmer she stood. At length after a very
violent struggle Thor began to lose his footing, and was finally brought
down upon one knee. Utgard-Loki then told them to desist, adding that
Thor had now no occasion to ask any one else in the hall to wrestle with
him, and it was also getting late; so he showed Thor and his companions
to their seats, and they passed the night there in good cheer.
The next morning, at break of day, Thor and his companions dressed
themselves and prepared for their departure. Utgard-Loki ordered a table
to be set for them, on which there was no lack of victuals or drink.
After the repast Utgard-Loki led them to the gate of the city, and on
parting asked Thor how he thought his journey had turned out, and
whether he had met with any men stronger than himself. Thor told him
that he could not deny but that he had brought great shame on himself.
"And what grieves me most," he added, "is that ye will call me a person
of little worth."
"Nay," said Utgard-Loki, "it behooves me to tell thee the truth, now
thou art out of the city, which so long as I live and have my way thou
shalt never enter again. And, by my troth, had I known beforehand that
thou hadst so much strength in thee, and wouldst have brought me so near
to a great mishap, I would not have suffered thee to enter this time.
Know then that I have all along deceived thee by my illusions; first in
the forest, where I tied up the wallet with iron wire so that thou
couldst not untie it. After this thou gavest me three blows with thy
mallet; the first, though the least, would have ended my days had it
fallen on me, but I slipped aside and thy blows fell on the mountain,
where thou wilt find three glens, one of them remarkably deep. These are
the dints made by thy mallet. I have made use of similar illusions in
the contests you have had with my followers. In the first, Loki, like
hunger itself, devoured all that was set before him, but Logi was in
reality nothing else than Fire, and therefore consumed not only the
meat, but the trough which held it. Hugi, with whom Thialfi contended in
running, was Thought, and it was impossible for Thialfi to keep pace
with that. When thou in thy turn didst attempt to empty the horn, thou
didst perform, by my troth, a deed so marvelous that had I not seen it
myself I should never have believed it. For one end of that horn reached
the sea, which thou wast not aware of, but when thou comest to the shore
thou wilt perceive how much the sea has sunk by thy draughts. Thou didst
perform a feat no less wonderful by lifting up the cat, and to tell thee
the truth, when we saw that one of his paws was off the floor, we were
all of us terror-stricken, for what thou tookest for a cat was in
reality the Midgard serpent that encompasseth the earth, and he was so
stretched by thee that he was barely long enough to enclose it between
his head and tail. Thy wrestling with Elli was also a most astonishing
feat, for there was never yet a man, nor ever will be, whom Old Age, for
such in fact was Elli, will not sooner or later lay low. But now, as we
are going to part, let me tell thee that it will be better for both of
us if thou never come near me again, for shouldst thou do so, I shall
again defend myself by other illusions, so that thou wilt only lose thy
labor and get no fame from the contest with me."
On hearing these words Thor in a rage laid hold of his mallet and would
have launched it at him, but Utgard-Loki had disappeared, and when Thor
would have returned to the city to destroy it, he found nothing around
him but a verdant plain.
265
One of the very best sources for the stories of
Norse mythology is the little book called
_Norse Stories_, by Hamilton Wright Mabie
(1846-1916). (Edited by Katherine Lee Bates,
and published by Rand McNally & Co., Chicago.
Copyright, and used here by permission.) It
reads well as a connected story and the
versions follow closely the originals as found
in the ancient Eddas. In his introduction Mr.
Mabie comments upon those who made these
stories, in language that suggests something of
the value of the stories to us: "They thought
of life as a tremendous fight, and they wanted
to acquit themselves like men; enduring
hardship without repining, doing hard work
honestly and with a whole heart, and dying with
their faces toward their foes. Their heaven was
a place for heroes, and their gods were men of
heroic size and spirit." Of the subject of the
following myth it has been said, "Odin had no
less than two hundred names, as, Father of the
Ages, Father of Hosts, Father of Victory, the
High One, the Swift One, the Wanderer,
Long-Beard, Burning-Eye, Slouchy-Hat. Odin is a
one-eyed god, because the sky has but one sun.
His raiment is sometimes blue and sometimes
gray, as the weather is fair or cloudy."
ODIN'S SEARCH FOR WISDOM
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
The wonderful ash-tree, Ygdrasil, made a far-spreading shade against the
fierce heat of the sun in summer, and a stronghold against the piercing
winds of winter. No man could remember when it had been young. Little
children played under its branches, grew to be strong men and women,
lived to be old and weary and feeble, and died; and yet the ash-tree
gave no signs of decay. Forever preserving its freshness and beauty, it
was to live as long as there were men to look upon it, animals to feed
under it, birds to flutter among its branches.
This mighty ash-tree touched and bound all the worlds together in its
wonderful circle of life. One root it sent deep down into the sightless
depths of Hel, where the dead lived; another it fastened firmly in
Jötunheim, the dreary home of the giants; and with the third it grasped
Midgard, the dwelling place of men. Serpents and all kinds of worms
gnawed continually at its roots, but were never able to destroy them.
Its branches spread out over the whole earth, and the topmost boughs
swayed in the clear air of Asgard itself, rustling against the Valhal,
the home of the heroes who had done great deeds or died manfully in
battle. At the foot of the tree sat the three Norns, wonderful spinners
of fate, who weave the thread of every man's life, making it what they
will; and a strange weaving it often was, cut off when the pattern was
just beginning to show itself. And every day these Norns sprinkled the
tree with the water of life from the Urdar fountain, and so kept it
forever green. In the topmost branches sat an eagle singing a strange
song about the birth of the world, its decay and death. Under its
branches browsed all manner of animals; among its leaves every kind of
bird made its nest; by day the rainbow hung under it; at night the pale
northern light flashed over it, and as the winds swept through its
rustling branches, the multitudinous murmur of the leaves told strange
stories of the past and of the future.
The giants were older than the gods, and knew so much more of the past
that the gods had to go to them for wisdom. After a time, however, the
gods became wiser than the giants, or they would have ceased to be gods,
and been destroyed by the giants, instead of destroying them. When the
world was still young, and there were still many things which even the
gods had to learn, Odin was so anxious to become wise that he went to a
deep well whose waters touched the roots of Ygdrasil itself. The keeper
of the well was a very old and very wise giant, named Mimer, or Memory,
and he gave no draughts out of the well until he was well paid; for the
well contained the water of wisdom, and whoever drank of it became
straightway wonderfully wise.
"Give me a draught of this clear water, O Mimer," said Odin, when he had
reached the well, and was looking down into its clear, fathomless
depths.
Mimer, the keeper, was so old that he could remember everything that had
ever happened. His eyes were clear and calm as the stars, his face was
noble and restful, and his long white beard flowed down to his waist.
"This water is only to be had at a great price," he said in a
wonderfully sweet, majestic tone. "I cannot give to all who ask, but
only to those who are able and willing to give greatly in return," he
continued.
If Odin had been less of a god he would have thought longer and
bargained sharper, but he was so godlike that he cared more to be wise
and great than for anything else.
"I will give you whatever you ask," he answered.
Mimer thought a moment. "You must leave an eye," he said at last.
Then he drew up a great draught of the sparkling water, and Odin
quenched his divine thirst and went away rejoicing, although he had left
an eye behind. Even the gods could not be wise without struggle and toil
and sacrifice.
So Odin became the wisest in all the worlds, and there was no god or
giant that could contend with him. There was one giant, however, who was
called all-wise in Jötunheim, with whom many had contended in knowledge,
with curious and difficult questions, and had always been silenced and
killed, for then, as now, a man's life often depended on his wisdom. Of
this giant, Vafthrudner, and his wisdom many wonderful stories were
told, and even among the gods his fame was great. One day as Odin sat
thinking of many strange things in the worlds, and many mysterious
things in the future, he thought of Vafthrudner. "I will go to Jötunheim
and measure wisdom with Vafthrudner, the wisest of the giants," said he
to Frigg, his wife, who was sitting by.
Then Frigg remembered those who had gone to contend with the all-wise
giant and had never come back, and a fear came over her that the same
fate might befall Odin.
"You are wisest in all the worlds, All-Father," she said; "why should
you seek a treacherous giant who knows not half so much as you?"
But Odin, who feared nothing, could not be persuaded to stay, and Frigg
sadly said good-by as he passed out of Asgard on his journey to
Jötunheim. His blue mantle set with stars and his golden helmet he left
behind him, and as he journeyed swiftly those who met him saw nothing
godlike in him; nor did Vafthrudner when at last he stood at the giant's
door.
"I am a simple traveler, Gangraad by name," he said, as Vafthrudner came
gruffly toward him. "I ask your hospitality and a chance to strive with
you in wisdom." The giant laughed scornfully at the thought of a man
coming to contend with him for mastery in knowledge.
"You shall have all you want of both," he growled, "and if you cannot
answer my questions you shall never go hence alive."
He did not even ask Odin to sit down, but let him stand in the hall,
despising him too much to show him any courtesy. After a time he began
to ask questions.
"Tell me, if you can, O wise Gangraad, the name of the river which
divides Asgard from Jötunheim."
"The river Ifing, which never freezes over," answered Odin quickly, as
if it were the easiest question in the world; and indeed it was to him,
although no man could have answered it. Vafthrudner looked up in great
surprise when he heard the reply.
"Good," he said, "you have answered rightly. Tell me, now, the names of
the horses that carry day and night across the sky."
Before the words were fairly spoken Odin replied, "Skinfaxe and
Hrimfaxe." The giant could not conceal his surprise that a man should
know these things.
"Once more," he said quickly, as if he were risking everything on one
question; "tell me the name of the plain where the Last Battle will be
fought."
This was a terrible question, for the Last Battle was still far off in
the future, and only the gods and the greatest of the giants knew where
and when it would come. Odin bowed his head when he heard the words, for
to be ready for that battle was the divine work of his life, and then
said, slowly and solemnly, "On the plain of Vigrid, which is one hundred
miles on each side."
Vafthrudner rose trembling from his seat. He knew now that Gangraad was
some great one in disguise, and that his own life hung on the answers he
himself would soon be forced to make.
"Sit here beside me," he said, "for whoever you are, worthier antagonist
has never entered these walls."
Then they sat down together in the rude stone hall, the mightiest of the
gods and the wisest of the giants, and the great contest in wisdom, with
a life hanging in either scale, went on between them. Wonderful secrets
of the time when no man was and the time when no man will be, those
silent walls listened to as Vafthrudner asked Odin one deep question
after another, the answer coming swiftly and surely.
After a time the giant could ask no more, for he had exhausted his
wisdom.
"It is my turn now," said Odin, and one after another he drew out from
Vafthrudner the events of the past and then the wonderful things of the
race of giants, and finally he began to question him of that dim,
mysterious future whose secrets only the gods know; and as he touched
these wonderful things Odin's eyes began to flash, and his form to grow
larger and nobler until he seemed no longer the humble Gangraad, but the
mighty god he was, and Vafthrudner trembled as he felt the coming doom
nearing him with every question.
So hours went by, until at last Odin paused in his swift questioning,
stooped down, and asked the giant, "What did Odin whisper in the ear of
Balder as he ascended the funeral pile?"
Only Odin himself could answer this question, and Vafthrudner replied
humbly and with awe, "Who but thyself, All-Father, knoweth the words
thou didst say to thy son in the days of old? I have brought my doom
upon myself, for in my ignorance I have contended with wisdom itself.
Thou art ever the wisest of all."
So Odin conquered, and Wisdom was victorious, as she always has been
even when she has contended with giants.
266
The story of the splendid courage of Tyr at the
time of the chaining up of the terrible Fenris
wolf has always been one of the favorite Norse
tales. The three repulsive giant monsters in
whom the forces of evil are embodied are well
imagined to suggest to us powers that may
finally be stronger than the gods themselves.
The failures to find a chain strong enough, and
the final success with the magic bond made in
Dwarfland, form a series of powerfully dramatic
steps in the story. The elements of which the
slender rope is made never fail to fascinate
hearers, young or old, with a sense of the most
profound mystery. "Why the dwarfs should be
able to make a chain strong enough to bind him,
which the gods had failed to do, is a puzzle.
May it mean that subtlety can compass ends
which force has to relinquish, or possibly a
better thing than subtlety, gentleness?" And
the final need of a hero willing to take
extreme risks for some good greater than
himself is amply and admirably satisfied in the
brave Tyr. The version of the story used here
is from Miss E. M. Wilmot-Buxton's _Stories of
Norse Heroes_.
HOW THE FENRIS WOLF WAS CHAINED
E. M. WILMOT-BUXTON
Fair as were the meads of Asgard, we have seen that the Asa folk were
fond of wandering far afield in other regions. Most restless of all was
Red Loki, that cunning fellow who was always bringing trouble upon
himself or upon his kindred. And because he loved evil, he would often
betake himself to the gloomy halls of Giantland and mingle with the
wicked folk of that region.
Now one day he met a hideous giantess named Angur-Boda. This creature
had a heart of ice, and because he loved ugliness and evil she had a
great attraction for him, and in the end he married her, and they lived
together in a horrible cave in Giantland.
Three children were born to Loki and Angur-Boda in this dread abode, and
they were even more terrible in appearance than their mother. The first
was an immense wolf called Fenris, with a huge mouth filled with long
white teeth, which he was constantly gnashing together. The second was a
wicked-looking serpent with a fiery-red tongue lolling from its mouth.
The third was a hideous giantess, partly blue and partly flesh color,
whose name was Hela.
No sooner were these three terrible children born than all the wise men
of the earth began to foretell the misery they would bring upon the Asa
folk.
In vain did Loki try to keep them hidden within the cave wherein their
mother dwelt. They soon grew so immense in size that no dwelling would
contain them, and all the world began to talk of their frightful
appearance.
It was not long, of course, before All-Father Odin, from his high seat
in Asgard, heard of the children of Loki. So he sent for some of the
Asas, and said: "Much evil will come upon us, O my children, from this
giant brood, if we defend not ourselves against them. For their mother
will teach them wickedness, and still more quickly will they learn the
cunning wiles of their father. Fetch me them here, therefore, that I may
deal with them forthwith."
So, after somewhat of a struggle, the Asas captured the three
giant-children and brought them before Odin's judgment seat.
Then Odin looked first at Hela, and when he saw her gloomy eyes, full of
misery and despair, he was sorry, and dealt kindly with her, saying:
"Thou art the bringer of Pain to man, and Asgard is no place for such as
thou. But I will make thee ruler of the Mist Home, and there shalt thou
rule over that unlighted world, the Region of the Dead."
Forthwith he sent her away over rough roads to the cold, dark region of
the North called the Mist Home. And there did Hela rule over a grim
crew, for all those who had done wickedness in the world above were
imprisoned by her in those gloomy regions. To her came also all those
who had died, not on the battlefield, but of old age or disease. And
though these were treated kindly enough, theirs was a joyless life in
comparison with that of the dead warriors who were feasting and fighting
in the halls of Valhalla, under the kindly rule of All-Father Odin.
Having thus disposed of Hela, Odin next turned his attention to the
serpent. And when he saw his evil tongue and cunning, wicked eyes, he
said: "Thou art he who bringest Sin into the world of men; therefore the
ocean shall be thy home forever."
Then he threw that horrid serpent into the deep sea which surrounds all
lands, and there the creature grew so fast that when he stretched
himself one day he encircled all the earth, and held his own tail fast
in his mouth. And sometimes he grew angry to think that he, the son of a
god, had thus been cast out; and at those times he would writhe with his
huge body and lash his tail till the sea spouted up to the sky. And when
that happened the men of the North said that a great tempest was raging.
But it was only the serpent-son of Loki writhing in his wrath.
Then Odin turned to the third child. And behold! the Fenris Wolf was so
appalling to look upon that Odin feared to cast him forth, and he
decided to endeavor to tame him by kindness so that he should not wish
them ill.
But when he bade them carry food to the Fenris Wolf, not one of the Asas
would do so, for they feared a snap from his great jaws. Only the brave
Tyr had courage enough to feed him, and the wolf ate so much and so fast
that the business took him all his time. Meantime, too, the Fenris grew
so rapidly, and became so fierce, that the gods were compelled to take
counsel and consider how they should get rid of him. They remembered
that it would make their peaceful halls unholy if they were to slay him,
and so they resolved instead to bind him fast, that he should be unable
to do them harm.
So those of the Asa folk who were clever smiths set to work and made a
very strong, thick chain; and when it was finished they carried it out
to the yard where the wolf dwelt, and said to him, as though in jest:
"Here is a fine proof of thy boasted strength, O Fenris. Let us bind
this about thee, that we may see if thou canst break it asunder."
Then the wolf gave a great grin with his wide jaws, and came and stood
still that they might bind the chain about him; for he knew what he
could do. And it came to pass that directly they had fastened the chain,
and had slipped aside from him, the great beast gave himself a shake,
and the chain fell about him in little bits. At this the Asas were much
annoyed, but they tried not to show it, and praised him for his
strength.
Then they set to work again upon a chain much stronger than the last,
and brought it to the Fenris Wolf, saying: "Great will be thy renown, O
Fenris, if thou canst break this chain as thou didst the last."
But the wolf looked at them askance, for the chain they brought was very
much thicker than the one he had already broken. He reflected, however,
that since that time he himself had grown stronger and bigger, and
moreover, that one must risk something in order to win renown.
So he let them put the chain upon him, and when the Asas said that all
was ready, he gave a good shake and stretched himself a few times, and
again the fetters lay in fragments on the ground.
Then the gods began to fear that they would never hold the wolf in
bonds; and it was All-Father Odin who persuaded them to make one more
attempt. So they sent a messenger to Dwarfland bidding him ask the
Little Men to make a chain which nothing could possibly destroy.
Setting at once to work, the clever little smiths soon fashioned a
slender silken rope, and gave it to the messenger, saying that no
strength could break it, and that the more it was strained the stronger
it would become.
It was made of the most mysterious things--the sound of a cat's
footsteps, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of
fishes, and other such strange materials, which only the dwarfs knew how
to use. With this chain the messenger hastened back over the Rainbow
Bridge to Asgard.
By this time the Fenris Wolf had grown too big for his yard, so he lived
on a rocky island in the middle of the lake that lies in the midst of
Asgard. And here the Asas now betook themselves with their chain, and
began to play their part with wily words.
"See," they cried, "O Fenris! Here is a cord so soft and thin that none
would think of it binding such strength as thine." And they laughed
great laughs, and handed it to one another, and tried its strength by
pulling at it with all their might, but it did not break.
Then they came nearer and used more wiles, saying: "_We_ cannot break
the cord, though 'tis stronger than it looks, but thou, O mighty one,
will be able to snap it in a moment."
But the wolf tossed his head in scorn, and said: "Small renown would
there be to me, O Asa folk, if I were to break yon slender string. Save,
therefore, your breath, and leave me now alone."
"Aha!" cried the Asas, "thou fearest the might of the silken cord, thou
false one, and that is why thou wilt not let us bind thee!"
"Not I," said the Fenris Wolf, growing rather suspicious, "but if it is
made with craft and guile it shall never come near my feet."
"But," said the Asas, "thou wilt surely be able to break this silken
cord with ease, since thou hast already broken the great iron fetters."
To this the wolf made no answer, pretending not to hear.
"Come!" said the Asas again, "why shouldst thou fear? For even if thou
couldst not break the cord we would immediately let thee free again. To
refuse is a coward's piece of work."
Then the wolf gnashed his teeth at them in anger, and said: "Well I know
you Asas! For if you bind me so fast that I cannot get loose you will
skulk away, and it will be long before I get any help from you; and
therefore am I loth to let this band be laid upon me."
But still the Asas continued to persuade him and to twit him with
cowardice until at length the Fenris Wolf said, with a sullen growl:
"Have it your own way then. But, as a pledge that this is done without
deceit, let one of you lay his hand in my mouth while you are binding
me, and afterwards while I try to break the bonds."
Then the Asa folk looked at one another in dismay, for they knew very
well what this would mean. And while they consulted together the wolf
stood gnashing his teeth at them with a horrid grin.
At length Tyr the Brave hesitated no longer. Boldly he stalked up to the
wolf and thrust his arm into his enormous mouth, bidding the Asas bind
fast the beast. Scarce had they done so when the wolf began to strain
and pull, but the more he did so the tighter and stiffer the rope
became.
The gods shouted and laughed with glee when they saw how all his efforts
were in vain. But Tyr did not join in their mirth, for the wolf in his
rage snapped his great teeth together and bit off his hand at the wrist.
Now when the Asas discovered that the animal was fast bound, they took
the chain which was fixed to the rope and drew it through a huge rock,
and fastened this rock deep down in the earth, so that it could never be
moved. And this they fastened to another great rock which was driven
still deeper into the ground.
When the Fenris Wolf found that he had been thus secured he opened his
mouth terribly wide, and twisted himself right and left, and tried his
best to bite the Asa folk. He uttered, moreover, such terrible howls
that at length the gods could bear it no longer. So they took a sword
and thrust it into his mouth, so that the hilt rested on his lower, and
the point against his upper, jaw. And there he was doomed to remain
until the end of All Things shall come, when he
"Freed from the Chain
Shall range the Earth."
267
The story of Frey in the Norse mythology
corresponds to that of Persephone (Proserpine)
in classic mythology. (See No. 255.) Frey is
"the god of the earth's fruitfulness, presiding
over rain, sunshine, and all the fruits of the
earth, and dispensing wealth among men."
Skirnir is the sun-warmed air, and Gerda is the
seed. The version of the story used below is
from _The Heroes of Asgard_ by Annie and Eliza
Keary. This book was first published in 1854,
and while a little old-fashioned in style is
still one of the most pleasing attempts to tell
the Norse myths for young people.
FREY
A. AND E. KEARY
PART I
ON TIPTOE IN AIR THRONE
Wherever Frey came there was summer and sunshine. Flowers sprang up
under his footsteps, and bright-winged insects, like flying flowers,
hovered round his head. His warm breath ripened the fruit on the trees,
and gave a bright yellow color to the corn, and purple bloom to the
grapes, as he passed through fields and vineyards.
When he rode along in his car, drawn by the stately boar, Golden
Bristles, soft winds blew before him, filling the air with fragrance and
spreading abroad the news, "Van Frey is coming!" and every half-closed
flower burst into perfect beauty, and forest, and field, and hill
flushed their richest colors to greet his presence.
Under Frey's care and instruction the pretty little light elves forgot
their idle ways and learned all the pleasant tasks he had promised to
teach them. It was the prettiest possible sight to see them in the
evening filling their tiny buckets, and running about among the woods
and meadows to hang the dew-drops deftly on the slender tips of the
grass-blades, or to drop them into the half-closed cups of the sleepy
flowers. When this last of their day's tasks was over they used to
cluster round their summer-king, like bees about the queen, while he
told them stories about the wars between the Aesir and the giants, or of
the old time when he lived alone with his father Niörd, in Noatun, and
listened to the waves singing songs of far distant lands. So pleasantly
did they spend their time in Alfheim.
But in the midst of all this work and play Frey had a wish in his mind,
of which he could not help often talking to his clear-minded messenger
and friend Skirnir. "I have seen many things," he used to say, "and
traveled through many lands; but to see all the world at once, as Asa
Odin does from Air Throne, _that_ must be a splendid sight."
"Only Father Odin may sit on Air Throne," Skirnir would say; and it
seemed to Frey that this answer was not so much to the purpose as his
friend's sayings generally were.
At length, one very clear summer evening, when Odin was feasting with
the other Aesir in Valhalla, Frey could restrain his curiosity no
longer. He left Alfheim, where all the little elves were fast asleep,
and, without asking any one's advice, climbed into Air Throne, and stood
on tiptoe in Odin's very seat. It was a clear evening, and I had,
perhaps, better not even try to tell you what Frey saw.
He looked first all round him over Manheim, where the rosy light of the
set sun still lingered, and where men, and birds, and flowers were
gathering themselves up for their night's repose; then he glanced
towards the heavenly hills where Bifröst rested, and then towards the
shadowy land which deepened down into Niflheim. At length he turned his
eyes northward to the misty land of Jötunheim. There the shades of
evening had already fallen; but from his high place Frey could still see
distinct shapes moving about through the gloom. Strange and monstrous
shapes they were, and Frey stood a little higher, on tiptoe, that he
might look further after them. In this position he could just descry a
tall house standing on a hill in the very middle of Jötunheim. While he
looked at it a maiden came and lifted up her arms to undo the latch of
the door. It was dusk in Jötunheim; but when this maiden lifted up her
white arms, such a dazzling reflection came from them, that Jötunheim,
and the sky, and all the sea were flooded with clear light. For a moment
everything could be distinctly seen; but Frey saw nothing but the face
of the maiden with the uplifted arms; and when she had entered the house
and shut the door after her, and darkness fell again on earth, and sky,
and sea,--darkness fell, too, upon Frey's heart.
PART II
THE GIFT
The next morning, when the little elves awoke up with the dawn, and came
thronging round their king to receive his commands, they were surprised
to see that he had changed since they last saw him.
"He has grown up in the night," they whispered one to another
sorrowfully. And in truth he was no longer so fit a teacher and
playfellow for the merry little people as he had been a few hours
before.
It was to no purpose that the sweet winds blew, and the flowers opened,
when Frey came forth from his chamber. A bright white light still danced
before him, and nothing now seemed to him worth looking at. That evening
when the sun had set, and work was over, there were no stories for the
light elves.
"Be still," Frey said, when they pressed round. "If you will be still
and listen, there are stories enough to be heard better than mine."
I do not know whether the elves heard anything; but to Frey it seemed
that flowers, and birds, and winds, and the whispering rivers, united
that day in singing one song, which he never wearied of hearing. "We are
fair," they said; "but there is nothing in the whole world so fair as
Gerda, the giant-maiden whom you saw last night in Jötunheim."
"Frey has dew-drops in his eyes," the little elves said to each other in
whispers as they sat round looking up at him, and they felt very much
surprised; for only to men and the Aesir is it permitted to be sorrowful
and weep. Soon, however, wiser people noticed the change that had come
over the summer-king, and his good-natured father, Niörd, sent Skirnir
one day into Alfheim to inquire into the cause of Frey's sorrow.
He found him walking alone in a shady place, and Frey was glad enough to
tell his trouble to his wise friend.
When he had related the whole story, he said, "And now you will see that
there is no use in asking me to be merry as I used to be; for how can I
ever be happy in Alfheim, and enjoy the summer and sunshine, while my
dear Gerda, whom I love, is living in a dark, cold land, among cruel
giants?"
"If she be really as beautiful and beloved as you say," answered
Skirnir, "she must be sadly out of place in Jötunheim. Why do not you
ask her to be your wife, and live with you in Alfheim?"
"That would I only too gladly do," answered Frey; "but if I were to
leave Alfheim only for a few hours, the cruel giant Ryme,--the Frost
Giant--would rush in to take my place; all the labors of the year would
be undone in a night, and the poor, toiling men, who are watching for
the harvest, would wake some morning to find their corn fields and
orchards buried in snow."
"Well," said Skirnir, thoughtfully, "I am neither so strong nor so
beautiful as you, Frey; but, if you will give me the sword that hangs by
your side, I will undertake the journey to Jötunheim; and I will speak
in such a way of you, and of Alfheim, to the lovely Gerda, that she
will gladly leave her land and the house of her giant-father to come to
you."
Now, Frey's sword was a gift, and he knew well enough that he ought not
to part with it, or trust it in any hands but his own; and yet how could
he expect Skirnir to risk all the dangers of Jötunheim for any less
recompense than an enchanted sword? And what other hope had he of ever
seeing his dear Gerda again?
He did not allow himself a moment to think of the choice he was making.
He unbuckled his sword from his side and put it into Skirnir's hands;
and then he turned rather pettishly away, and threw himself down on a
mossy bank under a tree.
"You will be many days in traveling to Jötunheim," he said, "and all
that time I shall be miserable."
Skirnir was too sensible to think this speech worth answering. He took a
hasty farewell of Frey, and prepared to set off on his journey; but,
before he left the hill, he chanced to see the reflection of Frey's face
in a little pool of water that lay near. In spite of its sorrowful
expression, it was as beautiful as the woods are in full summer, and a
clever thought came into Skirnir's mind. He stooped down, without Frey's
seeing him, and, with cunning touch, stole the picture out of the water;
then he fastened it up carefully in his silver drinking-horn, and,
hiding it in his mantle, he mounted his horse and rode towards
Jötunheim, secure of succeeding in his mission, since he carried a
matchless sword to conquer the giant, and a matchless picture to win the
maiden.
PART III
FAIREST GERDA
The house of Gymir, Gerda's father, stood in the middle of Jötunheim, so
it will not be difficult for you to imagine what a toilsome and wondrous
journey Skirnir had. He was a brave hero, and he rode a brave horse;
but, when they came to the barrier of murky flame that surrounds
Jötunheim, a shudder came over both.
"Dark it is without," said Skirnir to his horse, "and you and I must
leap through flame, and go over hoar mountains among Giant Folk. The
giants will take us both, or we shall return victorious together." Then
he patted his horse's neck, and touched him with his armed heel, and
with one bound he cleared the barrier, and his hoofs rang on the frozen
land.
Their first day's journey was through the land of the Frost Giants,
whose prickly touch kills, and whose breath is sharper than swords. Then
they passed through the dwellings of the horse-headed and vulture-headed
giants--monsters terrible to see. Skirnir hid his face, and the horse
flew along swifter than the wind.
On the evening of the third day they reached Gymir's house. Skirnir rode
round it nine times; but though there were twenty doors, he could find
no entrance; for fierce three-headed dogs guarded every doorway.
At length he saw a herdsman pass near, and he rode up and asked him how
it was possible for a stranger to enter Gymir's house, or get a sight of
his fair daughter Gerda.
"Are you doomed to death, or are you already a dead man," answered the
herdsman, "that you talk of seeing Gymir's fair daughter, or entering a
house from which no one ever returns?"
"My death is fixed for one day," said Skirnir, in answer, and his voice,
the voice of an Asa, sounded loud and clear through the misty air of
Jötunheim. It reached the ears of the fair Gerda as she sat in her
chamber with her maidens.
"What is that noise of noises," she said, "that I hear? The earth shakes
with it, and all Gymir's halls tremble."
Then one of the maidens got up, and peeped out of the window. "I see a
man," she said; "he has dismounted from his horse, and he is fearlessly
letting it graze before the door."
"Go out and bring him in stealthily, then," said Gerda; "I must again
hear him speak; for his voice is sweeter than the ringing of bells."
So the maiden rose, and opened the house-door softly, lest the grim
giant, Gymir, who was drinking mead in the banquet-hall with seven other
giants, should hear and come forth.
Skirnir heard the door open, and understanding the maiden's sign, he
entered with stealthy steps, and followed her to Gerda's chamber. As
soon as he entered the doorway the light from her face shone upon him,
and he no longer wondered that Frey had given up his sword.
"Are you the son of an Asa, or an Alf, or of a wise Van?" asked Gerda;
"and why have you come through flame and snow to visit our halls?"
Then Skirnir came forward and knelt at Gerda's feet, and gave his
message, and spoke as he had promised to speak of Van Frey and of
Alfheim.
Gerda listened; and it was pleasant enough to talk to her, looking into
her bright face; but she did not seem to understand much of what he
said.
He promised to give her eleven golden apples from Iduna's grove if she
would go with him, and that she should have the magic ring Draupnir from
which every day a still fairer jewel fell. But he found there was no use
in talking of beautiful things to one who had never in all her life seen
anything beautiful. Gerda smiled at him as a child smiles at a fairy
tale.
At length he grew angry. "If you are so childish, maiden," he said,
"that you can believe only what you have seen, and have no thought of
Aesirland or the Aesir, then sorrow and utter darkness shall fall upon
you; you shall live alone on the Eagle Mount turned towards Hel. Terrors
shall beset you; weeping shall be your lot. Men and Aesir will hate you,
and you shall be doomed to live for ever with the Frost Giant, Ryme, in
whose cold arms you will wither away like a thistle on a house-top."
"Gently," said Gerda, turning away her bright head, and sighing. "How am
I to blame? You make such a talk of your Aesir and your Aesir; but how
can I know about it, when all my life long I have lived with giants?"
At these words, Skirnir rose as if he would have departed, but Gerda
called him back. "You must drink a cup of mead," she said, "in return
for your sweet-sounding words."
Skirnir heard this gladly, for now he knew what he would do. He took the
cup from her hand, drank off the mead, and, before he returned it, he
contrived cleverly to pour in the water from his drinking-horn, on which
Frey's image was painted; then he put the cup into Gerda's hand, and
bade her look.
She smiled as she looked; and the longer she looked, the sweeter grew
her smile; for she looked for the first time on a face that loved her,
and many things became clear to her that she had never understood
before. Skirnir's words were no longer like fairy tales. She could now
believe in Aesirland, and in all beautiful things.
"Go back to your master," she said, at last, "and tell him that in nine
days I will meet him in the warm wood Barri."
After hearing these joyful words, Skirnir made haste to take leave, for
every moment that he lingered in the giant's house he was in danger. One
of Gerda's maidens conducted him to the door, and he mounted his horse
again, and rode from Jötunheim with a glad heart.
PART IV
THE WOOD BARRI
When Skirnir got back to Alfheim, and told Gerda's answer to Frey, he
was disappointed to find that his master did not immediately look as
bright and happy as he expected.
"Nine days!" he said; "but how can I wait nine days? One day is long,
and three days are very long, but 'nine days' might as well be a whole
year."
I have heard children say such things when one tells them to wait for a
new toy.
Skirnir and old Niörd only laughed at it; but Freyja and all the ladies
of Asgard made a journey to Alfheim, when they heard the story, to
comfort Frey, and hear all the news about the wedding.
"Dear Frey," they said, "it will never do to lie still here, sighing
under a tree. You are quite mistaken about the time being long; it is
hardly long enough to prepare the marriage presents, and talk over the
wedding. You have no idea how busy we are going to be; everything in
Alfheim will have to be altered a little."
At these words Frey really did lift up his head, and wake up from his
musings. He looked, in truth, a little frightened at the thought; but,
when all the Asgard ladies were ready to work for his wedding, how could
he make any objection? He was not allowed to have much share in the
business himself; but he had little time, during the nine days, to
indulge in private thought, for never before was there such a commotion
in Alfheim. The ladies found so many things that wanted overlooking, and
the little light elves were not of the slightest use to any one. They
forgot all their usual tasks, and went running about through groves and
fields, and by the sedgy banks of rivers, peering into earth-holes, and
creeping down into flower-cups and empty snail-shells, every one hoping
to find a gift for Gerda.
Some stole the light from glowworms' tails, and wove it into a necklace,
and others pulled the ruby spots from cowslip leaves, to set with jewels
the acorn cups that Gerda was to drink from; while the swiftest runners
chased the butterflies, and pulled feathers from their wings to make
fans and bonnet-plumes.
All the work was scarcely finished when the ninth day came, and Frey set
out from Alfheim with all his elves, to the warm wood Barri.
The Aesir joined him on the way, and they made, together, something like
a wedding procession. First came Frey in his chariot, drawn by Golden
Bristles, and carrying in his hand the wedding ring, which was none
other than Draupnir, the magic ring of which so many stories are told.
Odin and Frigga followed with their wedding gift, the Ship Skidbladnir,
in which all the Aesir could sit and sail, though it could afterwards be
folded up so small that you might carry it in your hand.
Then came Iduna, with eleven golden apples in a basket on her fair head,
and then two and two all the heroes and ladies with their gifts.
All round them flocked the elves, toiling under the weight of their
offerings. It took twenty little people to carry one gift, and yet there
was not one so large as a baby's finger. Laughing, and singing, and
dancing, they entered the warm wood, and every summer flower sent a
sweet breath after them. Everything on earth smiled on the wedding-day
of Frey and Gerda, only--when it was all over, and every one had gone
home, and the moon shone cold into the wood--it seemed as if the Vanir
spoke to one another.
"Odin," said one voice, "gave his eye for wisdom, and we have seen that
it was well done."
"Frey," answered the other, "has given his sword for happiness. It may
be well to be unarmed while the sun shines and bright days last; but
when Ragnarök has come, and the sons of Muspell ride down to the last
fight, will not Frey regret his sword?"
268
Balder represented sunlight. He was a son of
Odin. If we try to imagine how welcome the
sunlight of spring must have been to the Norse
folk after the long Arctic night of winter, we
may understand why everything in the world,
except the evil Loke, was willing to weep in
order to bring Balder back from Helheim. Some
knowledge of the geography of Norse mythology
will aid the reader in understanding the myth
of Balder. Far below Asgard, the home of the
gods, was Niflheim, the region of cold and
darkness. Here in a deep cavern was Helheim,
the city of the dead, over which Hel ruled.
Midway between Asgard and Niflheim was Midgard,
the earth. The whole universe was supported by
Ygdrasil, a wonderful ash-tree, one root of
which extended into Midgard, one into
Jötunheim, and one into Niflheim.
"Balder is another figure of that radiant type
to which belong all bright and genial heroes,
righters of wrong, blazing to consume evil,
gentle and strong to uplift weakness: Apollo,
Hercules, Perseus, Achilles, Sigard, St.
George, and many another." Balder has been a
favorite subject for poetic treatment, perhaps
to best effect in Matthew Arnold's dignified
"Balder Dead."
THE DEATH OF BALDER
HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
There was one shadow which always fell over Asgard. Sometimes in the
long years the gods almost forgot it, it lay so far off, like a dim
cloud in a clear sky; but Odin saw it deepen and widen as he looked out
into the universe, and he knew that the last great battle would surely
come, when the gods themselves would be destroyed and a long twilight
would rest on all the worlds; and now the day was close at hand.
Misfortunes never come singly to men, and they did not to the gods.
Idun, the beautiful goddess of youth, whose apples were the joy of all
Asgard, made a resting place for herself among the massive branches of
Ygdrasil, and there every evening came Brage, and sang so sweetly that
the birds stopped to listen, and even the Norns, those implacable
sisters at the foot of the tree, were softened by the melody. But
poetry cannot change the purposes of fate, and one evening no song was
heard of Brage or birds, the leaves of the world-tree hung withered and
lifeless on the branches, and the fountain from which they had daily
been sprinkled was dry at last. Idun had fallen into the dark valley of
death, and when Brage, Heimdal, and Loke went to question her about the
future she could answer them only with tears. Brage would not leave his
beautiful wife alone amid the dim shades that crowded the dreary valley,
and so youth and genius vanished out of Asgard forever.
Balder was the most god-like of all the gods, because he was the purest
and the best. Wherever he went his coming was like the coming of
sunshine, and all the beauty of summer was but the shining of his face.
When men's hearts were white like the light, and their lives clear as
the day, it was because Balder was looking down upon them with those
soft, clear eyes that were open windows to the soul of God. He had
always lived in such a glow of brightness that no darkness had ever
touched him; but one morning, after Idun and Brage had gone, Balder's
face was sad and troubled. He walked slowly from room to room in his
palace Breidablik, stainless as the sky when April showers have swept
across it because no impure thing had ever crossed the threshold, and
his eyes were heavy with sorrow. In the night terrible dreams had broken
his sleep, and made it a long torture. The air seemed to be full of
awful changes for him, and for all the gods. He knew in his soul that
the shadow of the last great day was sweeping on; as he looked out and
saw the worlds lying in light and beauty, the fields yellow with waving
grain, the deep fiords flashing back the sunbeams from their clear
depths, the verdure clothing the loftiest mountains, and knew that over
all this darkness and desolation would come, with silence of reapers and
birds, with fading of leaf and flower, a great sorrow fell on his heart.
Balder could bear the burden no longer. He went out, called all the gods
together, and told them the terrible dreams of the night. Every face was
heavy with care. The death of Balder would be like the going out of the
sun, and after a long, sad council the gods resolved to protect him from
harm by pledging all things to stand between him and any hurt. So Frigg,
his mother, went forth and made everything promise, on a solemn oath,
not to injure her son. Fire, iron, all kinds of metal, every sort of
stone, trees, earth, diseases, birds, beasts, snakes, as the anxious
mother went to them, solemnly pledged themselves that no harm should
come near Balder. Everything promised, and Frigg thought she had driven
away the cloud; but fate was stronger than her love, and one little
shrub had not sworn.
Odin was not satisfied even with these precautions, for whichever way he
looked the shadow of a great sorrow spread over the worlds. He began to
feel as if he were no longer the greatest of the gods, and he could
almost hear the rough shouts of the frost-giants crowding the rainbow
bridge on their way into Asgard. When trouble comes to men it is hard to
bear, but to a god who had so many worlds to guide and rule it was a new
and terrible thing. Odin thought and thought until he was weary, but no
gleam of light could he find anywhere; it was thick darkness
everywhere.
At last he could bear the suspense no longer, and saddling his horse he
rode sadly out of Asgard to Niflheim, the home of Hel, whose face was as
the face of death itself. As he drew near the gates, a monstrous dog
came out and barked furiously, but Odin rode a little eastward of the
shadowy gates to the grave of a wonderful prophetess. It was a cold,
gloomy place, and the soul of the great god was pierced with a feeling
of hopeless sorrow as he dismounted from Sleipner, and bending over the
grave began to chant weird songs, and weave magical charms over it. When
he had spoken those wonderful words which could waken the dead from
their sleep, there was an awful silence for a moment, and then a faint
ghost-like voice came from the grave.
"Who art thou?" it said. "Who breaketh the silence of death, and calleth
the sleeper out of her long slumbers? Ages ago I was laid at rest here,
snow and rain have fallen upon me through myriad years; why dost thou
disturb me?"
"I am Vegtam," answered Odin, "and I come to ask why the couches of Hel
are hung with gold and the benches strewn with shining rings?"
"It is done for Balder," answered the awful voice; "ask me no more."
Odin's heart sank when he heard these words; but he was determined to
know the worst.
"I will ask thee until I know all. Who shall strike the fatal blow?"
"If I must, I must," moaned the prophetess. "Hoder shall smite his
brother Balder and send him down to the dark home of Hel. The mead is
already brewed for Balder, and the despair draweth near."
Then Odin, looking into the future across the open grave, saw all the
days to come.
"Who is this," he said, seeing that which no mortal could have
seen,--"who is this that will not weep for Balder?"
Then the prophetess knew that it was none other than the greatest of the
gods who had called her up.
"Thou are not Vegtam," she exclaimed, "thou art Odin himself, the king
of men."
"And thou," answered Odin angrily, "art no prophetess, but the mother of
three giants."
"Ride home, then, and exult in what thou hast discovered," said the dead
woman. "Never shall my slumbers be broken again until Loke shall burst
his chains and the great battle come."
And Odin rode sadly homeward knowing that already Niflheim was making
itself beautiful against the coming of Balder.
The other gods meanwhile had become merry again; for had not everything
promised to protect their beloved Balder? They even made sport of that
which troubled them, for when they found that nothing could hurt Balder,
and that all things glanced aside from his shining form, they persuaded
him to stand as a target for their weapons; hurling darts, spears,
swords, and battle-axes at him, all of which went singing through the
air and fell harmless at his feet. But Loke, when he saw these sports,
was jealous of Balder, and went about thinking how he could destroy him.
It happened that as Frigg sat spinning in her house Fensal, the soft
wind blowing in at the windows and bringing the merry shouts of the gods
at play, an old woman entered and approached her.
"Do you know," asked the newcomer, "what they are doing in Asgard? They
are throwing all manner of dangerous weapons at Balder. He stands there
like the sun for brightness, and against his glory, spears and
battle-axes fall powerless to the ground. Nothing can harm him."
"No," answered Frigg, joyfully; "nothing can bring him any hurt, for I
have made everything in heaven and earth swear to protect him."
"What!" said the old woman, "has everything sworn to guard Balder?"
"Yes," said Frigg, "everything has sworn except one little shrub which
is called Mistletoe, and grows on the eastern side of Valhal. I did not
take an oath from that because I thought it too young and weak."
When the old woman heard this a strange light came into her eyes; she
walked off much faster than she had come in, and no sooner had she
passed beyond Frigg's sight than this same feeble old woman grew
suddenly erect, shook off her woman's garments, and there stood Loke
himself. In a moment he had reached the slope east of Valhal, had
plucked a twig of the unsworn Mistletoe, and was back in the circle of
the gods, who were still at their favorite pastime with Balder. Hoder
was standing silent and alone outside the noisy throng, for he was
blind. Loke touched him.
"Why do you not throw something at Balder?"
"Because I cannot see where Balder stands, and have nothing to throw if
I could," replied Hoder.
"If that is all," said Loke, "come with me. I will give you something to
throw, and direct your aim."
Hoder, thinking no evil, went with Loke and did as he was told.
The little sprig of Mistletoe shot through the air, pierced the heart of
Balder, and in a moment the beautiful god lay dead upon the field. A
shadow rose out of the deep beyond the worlds and spread itself over
heaven and earth, for the light of the universe had gone out.
The gods could not speak for horror. They stood like statues for a
moment, and then a hopeless wail burst from their lips. Tears fell like
rain from eyes that had never wept before, for Balder, the joy of
Asgard, had gone to Niflheim and left them desolate. But Odin was
saddest of all, because he knew the future, and he knew that peace and
light had fled from Asgard forever, and that the last day and the long
night were hurrying on.
Frigg could not give up her beautiful son, and when her grief had spent
itself a little, she asked who would go to Hel and offer her a rich
ransom if she would permit Balder to return to Asgard.
"I will go," said Hermod; swift at the word of Odin, Sleipner was led
forth, and in an instant Hermod was galloping furiously away.
Then the gods began with sorrowful hearts to make ready for Balder's
funeral. When the once beautiful form had been arrayed in grave-clothes
they carried it reverently down to the deep sea, which lay, calm as a
summer afternoon, waiting for its precious burden. Close to the water's
edge lay Balder's Ringhorn, the greatest of all the ships that sailed
the seas, but when the gods tried to launch it they could not move it an
inch. The great vessel creaked and groaned, but no one could push it
down to the water. Odin walked about it with a sad face, and the gentle
ripple of the little waves chasing each other over the rocks seemed a
mocking laugh to him.
"Send to Jötunheim for Hyrroken," he said at last; and a messenger was
soon flying for that mighty giantess.
In a little time, Hyrroken came riding swiftly on a wolf so large and
fierce that he made the gods think of Fenris. When the giantess had
alighted, Odin ordered four Berserkers of mighty strength to hold the
wolf, but he struggled so angrily that they had to throw him on the
ground before they could control him. Then Hyrroken went to the prow of
the ship and with one mighty effort sent it far into the sea, the
rollers underneath bursting into flame, and the whole earth trembling
with the shock. Thor was so angry at the uproar that he would have
killed the giantess on the spot if he had not been held back by the
other gods. The great ship floated on the sea as she had often done
before, when Balder, full of life and beauty, set all her sails and was
borne joyfully across the tossing seas. Slowly and solemnly the dead god
was carried on board, and as Nanna, his faithful wife, saw her husband
borne for the last time from the earth which he had made dear to her and
beautiful to all men, her heart broke with sorrow, and they laid her
beside Balder on the funeral pyre.
Since the world began no one had seen such a funeral. No bell tolled, no
long procession of mourners moved across the hills, but all the worlds
lay under a deep shadow, and from every quarter came those who had loved
or feared Balder. There at the very water's edge stood Odin himself, the
ravens flying about his head, and on his majestic face a gloom that no
sun would ever lighten again; and there was Frigg, the desolate mother,
whose son had already gone so far that he would never come back to her;
there was Frey standing sad and stern in his chariot; there was Freyja,
the goddess of love, from whose eyes fell a shining rain of tears;
there, too, was Heimdal on his horse Goldtop; and around all these
glorious ones from Asgard crowded the children of Jötunheim, grim
mountain-giants seamed with scars from Thor's hammer, and frost-giants
who saw in the death of Balder the coming of that long winter in which
they should reign through all the worlds.
A deep hush fell on all created things, and every eye was fixed on the
great ship riding near the shore, and on the funeral pyre rising from
the deck crowned with the forms of Balder and Nanna. Suddenly a gleam of
light flashed over the water; the pile had been kindled, and the flames,
creeping slowly at first, climbed faster and faster until they met over
the dead and rose skyward. A lurid light filled the heavens and shone on
the sea, and in the brightness of it the gods looked pale and sad, and
the circle of giants grew darker and more portentous. Thor struck the
fast burning pyre with his consecrating hammer, and Odin cast into it
the wonderful ring Draupner. Higher and higher leaped the flames, more
and more desolate grew the scene; at last they began to sink, the
funeral pyre was consumed. Balder had vanished forever, the summer was
ended, and winter waited at the doors.
Meanwhile Hermod was riding hard and fast on his gloomy errand. Nine
days and nights he rode through valleys so deep and dark that he could
not see his horse. Stillness and blackness and solitude were his only
companions until he came to the golden bridge which crosses the river
Gjol. The good horse Sleipner, who had carried Odin on so many strange
journeys, had never traveled such a road before, and his hoofs rang
drearily as he stopped short at the bridge, for in front of him stood
its porter, the gigantic Modgud.
"Who are you?" she asked, fixing her piercing eyes on Hermod. "What is
your name and parentage? Yesterday five bands of dead men rode across
the bridge, and beneath them all it did not shake as under your single
tread. There is no color of death in your face. Why ride you hither, the
living among the dead?"
"I come," said Hermod, "to seek for Balder. Have you seen him pass this
way?"
"He has already crossed the bridge and taken his journey northward to
Hel."
Then Hermod rode slowly across the bridge that spans the abyss between
life and death, and found his way at last to the barred gates of Hel's
dreadful home. There he sprang to the ground, tightened the girths,
remounted, drove the spurs deep into the horse, and Sleipner, with a
mighty leap, cleared the wall. Hermod rode straight to the gloomy
palace, dismounted, entered, and in a moment was face to face with the
terrible queen of the kingdom of the dead. Beside her, on a beautiful
throne, sat Balder, pale and wan, crowned with a withered wreath of
flowers, and close at hand was Nanna, pallid as her husband, for whom
she had died. And all night long, while ghostly forms wandered restless
and sleepless through Helheim, Hermod talked with Balder and Nanna.
There is no record of what they said, but the talk was sad enough,
doubtless, and ran like a still stream among the happy days in Asgard
when Balder's smile was morning over the earth and the sight of his face
the summer of the world.
When the morning came, faint and dim, through the dusky palace, Hermod
sought Hel, who received him as cold and stern as fate.
"Your kingdom is full, O Hel!" he said, "and without Balder, Asgard is
empty. Send him back to us once more, for there is sadness in every
heart and tears are in every eye. Through heaven and earth all things
weep for him."
"If that is true," was the slow, icy answer, "if every created thing
weeps for Balder, he shall return to Asgard; but if one eye is dry he
remains henceforth in Helheim."
Then Hermod rode swiftly away, and the decree of Hel was soon told in
Asgard. Through all the worlds the gods sent messengers to say that all
who loved Balder should weep for his return, and everywhere tears fell
like rain. There was weeping in Asgard, and in all the earth there was
nothing that did not weep. Men and women and little children, missing
the light that had once fallen into their hearts and homes, sobbed with
bitter grief; the birds of the air, who had sung carols of joy at the
gates of the morning since time began, were full of sorrow; the beasts
of the fields crouched and moaned in their desolation; the great trees,
that had put on their robes of green at Balder's command, sighed as the
wind wailed through them; and the sweet flowers, that waited for
Balder's footstep and sprang up in all the fields to greet him, hung
their frail blossoms and wept bitterly for the love and the warmth and
the light that had gone out. Throughout the whole earth there was
nothing but weeping, and the sound of it was like the wailing of those
storms in autumn that weep for the dead summer as its withered leaves
drop one by one from the trees.
The messengers of the gods went gladly back to Asgard, for everything
had wept for Balder; but as they journeyed they came upon a giantess,
called Thok, and her eyes were dry.
"Weep for Balder," they said.
"With dry eyes only will I weep for Balder," she answered. "Dead or
alive, he never gave me gladness. Let him stay in Helheim."
When she had spoken these words a terrible laugh broke from her lips,
and the messengers looked at each other with pallid faces, for they knew
it was the voice of Loke.
Balder never came back to Asgard, and the shadows deepened over all
things, for the night of death was fast coming on.
SECTION VII
POETRY
BIBLIOGRAPHY
I. SOME IMPORTANT GENERAL COLLECTIONS
Bryant, William Cullen, _Library of Poetry and Song_.
Child, Francis J., _English and Scottish Popular Ballads_. [Ed.
by Sargent and Kittredge.]
Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, _Oxford Book of English Verse_.
Stedman, Edmund Clarence, _An American Anthology_. _A Victorian
Anthology._
Stevenson, Burton E., _The Home Book of Verse_.
The finest single-volume general collection yet
made. It runs to nearly 4,000 pages, but is
printed on thin paper so that the volume is not
unwieldy.
Stevenson, Burton E., _Poems of American History_.
II. COLLECTIONS FOR CHILDREN
Chisholm, L., _The Golden Staircase_.
Grahame, Kenneth, _The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children_.
Henley, William Ernest, _Lyra Heroica_.
Ingpen, Roger, _One Thousand Poems for Children_.
Lang, Andrew, _The Blue Poetry Book_.
Lucas, Edward Verrall, _A Book of Verses for Children_. _Another
Book of Verses for Children._
Olcott, Frances J., _Story Telling Ballads_. _Story Telling Poems
for Children._
Palgrave, Francis T., _The Children's Treasury of Poetry and Song_.
Repplier, Agnes, _A Book of Famous Verse_.
Smith, J. C., _A Book of Verse for Boys and Girls_.
Stevenson, Burton E., _The Home Book of Verse for Young Folks_.
Thacher, Lucy W., _The Listening Child_.
Whittier, John Greenleaf, _Child Life in Poetry_.
Wiggin, K. D., and Smith, N. A., _The Posy Ring_. _Golden Numbers._
III. INDIVIDUAL AUTHORS
Blake, William, _Songs of Innocence_.
Cary, Alice and Phoebe, _Poems for Children_. [In _Complete
Works._]
Dodge, Mary Mapes, _Rhymes and Jingles_.
Field, Eugene, _Songs of Childhood_.
Greenaway, Kate, _Marigold Garden_. _Under the Window._
Lamb, Charles and Mary, _Poetry for Children_.
Lear, Edward, _Nonsense Songs_.
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, _Complete Poetical Works_.
Richards, Laura E., _In My Nursery_.
Riley, James Whitcomb, _Rhymes of Childhood_.
Sherman, Frank Dempster, _Little-Folk Lyrics_.
Stevenson, Robert Louis, _A Child's Garden of Verses_.
Rands, William Brighty, _Lilliput Lyrics_.
Rossetti, Christina G., _Sing-Song_. _Goblin Market_.
Seegmiller, Wilhelmina, _Little Rhymes for Little Readers_.
Tabb, John B., _Poems_.
Taylor, Ann and Jane, _"Original Poems" and Others_. [Ed. by
E. V. Lucas.]
Watts, Isaac, _Divine and Moral Songs_.
Wells, Carolyn, _The Jingle Book_.
SECTION VII. POETRY
INTRODUCTORY
Many teachers have more difficulty in interesting their pupils in poetry
than in any other form of literature. This difficulty may be due to any
one of a number of causes. It may be due to a lack of poetic
appreciation on the part of the teacher, leading to poor judgment in
selecting and presenting poetry. It may be due to the feeling that there
is something occult and mysterious about poetry that puts it outside the
range of common interests, or to the idea that the technique of verse
must in some way be emphasized. The first step in using poetry
successfully with children is to brush away all these and other
extraneous matters and to realize that poetry is in essence a simple and
natural mode of expression, and that all attempts to explain how poetry
does its work may be left for later stages of study. It is not necessary
even for the teacher to be able to recognize and name all the varieties
of rhythm to be able to present poetry enthusiastically and
understandingly. Least of all is it necessary to have a prescribed list
of the hundred "best poems." Some of the best poems for children would
not belong in any such list.
The selections in this section cover a wide variety. They are not all
equally great, but no teacher can fail to find here something suitable
and interesting for any grade. The few suggestions which it is possible
to make in this brief introduction may best, perhaps, and without any
intention of being exhaustive, be thrown into the form of dogmatic
statements:
1. If in doubt about what to use beyond the
material in the following pages, depend upon
some of the fine collections mentioned in the
bibliography. Every teacher should have access
to Stevenson's _Home Book of Verse for Young
Folks_, which contains many poems from recent
writers as well as the older favorites. If
possible, have the advantage of the fine taste
and judgment of the collections made by Andrew
Lang, Miss Repplier, E. V. Lucas, and as many
of the others as are available.
2. Remember that in poetry, more than
elsewhere, one can present only what one is
really interested in and, as a consequence,
enthusiastic about. Even poems about whose
fitness all judges agree should be omitted
rather than run the risk of deadening them for
children by a dead and formal handling.
3. Mainly, poetry should be presented orally.
The appeal is first to the ear just as in
music. The teacher should read or, better,
recite the poem in order to get the best
results. There should be no effort at
"elocution" in its worst sense, but a simple,
sincere rendering of the language of the poem.
The more informal the process is, the better.
There should be much repetition of favorite
poems, so that the rich details and pictures
may sink into the mind.
4. There should be great variety in choice that
richness and breadth of impression may thus be
gained. It is a mistake to confine the work in
poetry entirely to lyrics or entirely to
ballads. Wordsworth's "Daffodils" and Gilbert's
"Yarn of the Nancy Bell" are far apart, but
there is a place for each. Teachers should
always be on the lookout for poetry old or new,
in the magazines or elsewhere, which they can
bring into the schoolroom. Such "finds" are
often fresh with some timely suggestion and may
prove just what is needed to start some
hesitating pupil to reading poetry.
5. The earliest poetry should be that in which
the music is very prominent and the idea absent
or not prominent. The perfection of the Mother
Goose jingles for little folks is in their
fulfillment of this principle. Use and
encourage strongly emphasized rhythm in reading
poetry, especially in the early work. Gradually
the meaning in poetry takes on more prominence
as the work proceeds.
6. Children should be encouraged to commit much
poetry to memory. They do this very easily
after hearing it repeated a time or two. Such
memorizing should not be done usually as a
task. Children are, however, very obliging
about liking what a teacher is enthusiastic
about, and what they like they can hold in mind
with surprising ease. The game of giving
quotations that no one else in the class has
given is always a delight. Don't be misled by
the fun poked at the "memory gem method" of
studying poetry. The error is not in memorizing
complete poems and fine poetic passages, but in
doing this in a mechanical fashion.
7. It is a mistake to use too much poetry at
one time. Children, as well as grown people,
tire of it more quickly than they do of prose.
The mind seems soon to reach the saturation
point where it is unable to take in any more.
Frequent returns to a poem rather than long
periods of study give the best results.
8. Encourage children to read poetry aloud. By
example and suggestion help them keep their
minds on the ideas, the pictures, the
characters. Only by doing this can they really
read so as to interpret a poem. No one can read
with a lazy mind, or merely by imitation.
Encourage them to croon or recite the lines
when alone.
9. It is not necessary that children should
understand everything in a poem. If it is worth
while they will get enough of its meaning to
justify its use and they will gradually see
more and more in it as time passes. In fact it
is this constantly growing content of a poem
that makes its possession in memory such a
treasure. Neither should the presence of
difficult words be allowed to rule out a poem
that possesses some large element of accessible
value. Many words are understood by the ear
that are not recognized by sight.
SUGGESTIONS FOR READING
Books such as Woodberry's _Heart of Man_ and
_Appreciation of Literature_ are of especial
value for getting the right attitude toward
poetry. The most illuminating practical help
would come from consulting the published
lectures of Lafcadio Hearn, explaining poetry
to Japanese students. His problem was not
unlike that faced by the teacher of poetry in
the grades. These lectures have been edited by
John Erskine as _Interpretations of Literature_
(2 vols.), _Appreciations of Poetry_, and _Life
and Literature_. The whole philosophy of poetry
is treated compactly in Professor Gayley's "The
Principles of Poetry," which forms the
introduction to Gayley and Young's _Principles
and Progress of English Poetry_.
269
Mrs. Follen (1787-1860) was a rather voluminous
writer and adapter of juvenile material. Her
verses are old-fashioned, simple, and
child-like, and have pleased several
generations of children. While they have no
such air of distinction as belongs to
Stevenson's poems for children, they are full
of the fancies that children enjoy, and deserve
their continued popularity.
THE THREE LITTLE KITTENS
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN
Three little kittens lost their mittens;
And they began to cry,
"Oh, mother dear,
We very much fear
That we have lost our mittens."
"Lost your mittens!
You naughty kittens!
Then you shall have no pie!"
"Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."
"No, you shall have no pie."
The three little kittens found their mittens;
And they began to cry,
"Oh, mother dear,
See here, see here!
See, we have found our mittens!"
"Put on your mittens,
You silly kittens,
And you may have some pie."
"Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r,
Oh, let us have the pie!
Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r."
The three little kittens put on their mittens,
And soon ate up the pie;
"Oh, mother dear,
We greatly fear
That we have soiled our mittens!"
"Soiled your mittens!
You naughty kittens!"
Then they began to sigh,
"Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."
Then they began to sigh,
"Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."
The three little kittens washed their mittens,
And hung them out to dry;
"Oh, mother dear,
Do not you hear
That we have washed our mittens?"
"Washed your mittens!
Oh, you're good kittens!
But I smell a rat close by;
Hush, hush! Mee-ow, mee-ow."
"We smell a rat close by,
Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow."
270
THE MOON
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN
O look at the moon!
She is shining up there;
O mother, she looks
Like a lamp in the air.
Last week she was smaller,
And shaped like a bow;
But now she's grown bigger,
And round as an O.
Pretty moon, pretty moon,
How you shine on the door,
And make it all bright
On my nursery floor!
You shine on my playthings,
And show me their place,
And I love to look up
At your pretty bright face.
And there is a star
Close by you, and maybe
That small twinkling star
Is your little baby.
271
RUNAWAY BROOK
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN
"Stop, stop, pretty water!"
Said Mary one day,
To a frolicsome brook
That was running away.
"You run on so fast!
I wish you would stay;
My boat and my flowers
You will carry away.
"But I will run after:
Mother says that I may;
For I would know where
You are running away."
So Mary ran on;
But I have heard say,
That she never could find
Where the brook ran away.
272
DING DONG! DING DONG!
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN
Ding dong! ding dong!
I'll sing you a song;
'Tis about a little bird;
He sat upon a tree,
And he sang to me,
And I never spoke a word.
Ding dong! ding dong!
I'll sing you a song;
'Tis about a little mouse;
He looked very cunning,
As I saw him running
About my father's house.
Ding dong! ding dong!
I'll sing you a song
About my little kitty;
She's speckled all over,
And I know you'll love her,
For she is very pretty.
273
Mrs. Prentiss (1818-1878) was the author of
_The Susy Books_, published from 1853 to 1856,
forerunners of many series of such juvenile
publications. The following poem has retained
its hold on the affections of children.
THE LITTLE KITTY
ELIZABETH PRENTISS
Once there was a little kitty
Whiter than snow;
In a barn she used to frolic,
Long time ago.
In the barn a little mousie
Ran to and fro;
For she heard the kitty coming,
Long time ago.
Two eyes had little kitty
Black as a sloe;
And they spied the little mousie,
Long time ago.
Four paws had little kitty,
Paws soft as dough;
And they caught the little mousie,
Long time ago.
Nine teeth had little kitty,
All in a row;
And they bit the little mousie,
Long time ago.
When the teeth bit little mousie,
Little mouse cried, "Oh!"
But she got away from kitty,
Long time ago.
274
Mrs. Hale (1788-1879), left a widow with five
children to support, devoted herself to a
literary career. She wrote fiction, edited the
_Ladies' Magazine_ of Boston, afterward the
_Ladies' Book_ of Philadelphia, compiled a book
of poetical quotations, and biographies of
celebrated women. Most of her work was
ephemeral in character, and she lives for us in
the one poem that follows. It is usually
printed without the last stanza which is here
restored. Younger children, as a rule, do not
object to such moralizing.
MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB
SARA J. HALE
Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,
And everywhere that Mary went,
The lamb was sure to go.
He followed her to school one day,
That was against the rule;
It made the children laugh and play,
To see a lamb at school.
And so the Teacher turned him out,
But still he lingered near,
And waited patiently about,
Till Mary did appear:
And then he ran to her, and laid
His head upon her arm,
As if he said, "I'm not afraid,
You'll save me from all harm."
"What makes the lamb love Mary so?"
The eager children cry--
"Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know,"
The Teacher did reply.
And you each gentle animal
In confidence may bind,
And make them follow at your will,
If you are only kind.
275
Theodore Tilton (1835-1907) was a very
brilliant New York orator, poet, and
journalist. His poetry, published in a complete
volume in 1897, contains some really
distinguished verse. He is largely known to the
new generation, however, by some stanzas from
the following poem, which are usually found in
readers and poetic compilations for children.
The entire poem is given here. Does our "Swat
the fly" campaign of recent years negate the
kindly attitude emphasized in the poem?
BABY BYE
THEODORE TILTON
Baby bye,
Here's a fly;
Let us watch him, you and I.
How he crawls
Up the walls,
Yet he never falls!
I believe with six such legs
You and I could walk on eggs.
There he goes
On his toes,
Tickling baby's nose.
Spots of red
Dot his head;
Rainbows on his back are spread;
That small speck
Is his neck;
See him nod and beck.
I can show you, if you choose,
Where to look to find his shoes,--
Three small pairs,
Made of hairs;
These he always wears.
Black and brown
Is his gown;
He can wear it upside down;
It is laced
Round his waist;
I admire his taste.
Yet though tight his clothes are made
He will lose them, I'm afraid,
If to-night
He gets sight
Of the candle-light.
In the sun
Webs are spun;
What if he gets into one?
When it rains
He complains
On the window-panes.
Tongue to talk have you and I;
God has given the little fly
No such things,
So he sings
With his buzzing wings.
He can eat
Bread and meat;
There's his mouth between his feet.
On his back
Is a pack
Like a pedler's sack.
Does the baby understand?
Then the fly shall kiss her hand;
Put a crumb
On her thumb,
Maybe he will come.
Catch him? No,
Let him go,
Never hurt an insect so;
But no doubt
He flies out
Just to gad about.
Now you see his wings of silk
Drabbled in the baby's milk;
Fie, oh fie,
Foolish fly!
How will he get dry?
All wet flies
Twist their thighs,
Thus they wipe their head and eyes;
Cats, you know,
Wash just so,
Then their whiskers grow.
Flies have hair too short to comb,
So they fly bareheaded home;
But the gnat
Wears a hat,
Do you believe that?
Flies can see
More than we.
So how bright their eyes must be!
Little fly,
Ope your eye;
Spiders are near by.
For a secret I can tell,--
Spiders never use flies well.
Then away!
Do not stay.
Little fly, good-day!
276
Prominent among American writers who have
contributed to the happiness of children is
Lucy Larcom (1826-1893). One of a numerous
family, she worked as a child in the Lowell
mills, later taught school in Illinois, was one
of the editors of _Our Young Folks_, and wrote
a most fascinating autobiography called _A New
England Girlhood_. Several of her poems are
still used in schools. The one that follows is,
perhaps, the most popular of these. It is
semi-dramatic, and the three voices of the poem
can be easily discovered. Miss Larcom's finest
poem is the one entitled "Hannah Binding
Shoes."
THE BROWN THRUSH
LUCY LARCOM
There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree,
He's singing to me! He's singing to me!
And what does he say, little girl, little boy?
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!
Don't you hear? Don't you see?
Hush! Look! In my tree
I'm as happy as happy can be!"
And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see,
And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree?
Don't meddle! Don't touch! little girl, little boy,
Or the world will lose some of its joy!
Now I'm glad! Now I'm free!
And I always shall be,
If you never bring sorrow to me."
So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree,
To you and to me, to you and to me.
And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy,
"Oh, the world's running over with joy!"
But long it won't be,
Don't you know? don't you see?
Unless we are as good as can be.
277
Mrs. Child (1802-1880) was the editor of the
first monthly for children in the United
States, the _Juvenile Miscellany_. She wrote
and compiled several works for children, and
her optimistic outlook has led someone to speak
of her as the "Apostle of Cheer." She wrote a
novel, _Hobomak_ (1821), which is still spoken
of with respect, and she was a prominent figure
in the anti-slavery agitation. The two poems
following have held their own with children for
reasons easily recognized.
THANKSGIVING DAY
LYDIA MARIA CHILD
Over the river and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river and through the wood--
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring,
"Ting-a-ling-ding!"
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting-hound!
For this is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river and through the wood,
And straight through the barnyard gate.
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait!
Over the river and through the wood--
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for pumpkin-pie!
278
WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST?
LYDIA MARIA CHILD
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do.
I gave you a wisp of hay,
But didn't take your nest away.
Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo!
Such a thing I'd never do."
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree, to-day?"
"Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!
I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow!
I gave the hairs the nest to make,
But the nest I did not take.
Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow!
I'm not so mean, anyhow."
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree, to-day?"
"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
Let me speak a word, too!
Who stole that pretty nest
From little yellow-breast?"
"Not I," said the sheep; "oh, no!
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.
I gave wool the nest to line,
But the nest was none of mine.
Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no,
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so."
"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!
Will you listen to me?
Who stole four eggs I laid,
And the nice nest I made?"
"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!
Now what do you think?
Who stole a nest away
From the plum-tree, to-day?"
"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!
Let me speak a word, too!
Who stole that pretty nest
From little yellow-breast?"
"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow;
"I should like to know
What thief took away
A bird's nest to-day?"
"Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen;
"Don't ask me again,
Why, I haven't a chick
Would do such a trick.
We all gave her a feather,
And she wove them together.
I'd scorn to intrude
On her and her brood.
Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen,
"Don't ask me again."
"Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr!
All the birds make a stir!
Let us find out his name,
And all cry 'For shame!'"
"I would not rob a bird,"
Said little Mary Green;
"I think I never heard
Of anything so mean."
"It is very cruel, too,"
Said little Alice Neal;
"I wonder if he knew
How sad the bird would feel?"
A little boy hung down his head,
And went and hid behind the bed,
For he stole that pretty nest
From poor little yellow-breast;
And he felt so full of shame,
He didn't like to tell his name.
279
"Susan Coolidge" was the pseudonym used
by Sarah C. Woolsey (1845-1905). She
wrote numerous tales and verses for young
people, and her series of _Katy Books_ was
widely known and enjoyed. The poem
that follows is a very familiar one, and its
treatment of its theme may be compared
with that in Henry Ward Beecher's little
prose apologue (No. 249).
HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN
"SUSAN COOLIDGE"
I'll tell you how the leaves came down:
The great Tree to his children said,
"You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,
Yes, very sleepy, little Red;
It is quite time to go to bed."
"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,
"Let us a little longer stay;
Dear Father Tree, behold our grief!
'Tis such a very pleasant day,
We do not want to go away."
So, just for one more merry day
To the great Tree the leaflets clung,
Frolicked and danced and had their way
Upon the autumn breezes swung,
Whispering all their sports among,
"Perhaps the great Tree will forget
And let us stay until the spring,
If we all beg and coax and fret."
But the great Tree did no such thing;
He smiled to hear their whispering.
"Come, children all, to bed," he cried;
And ere the leaves could urge their prayer,
He shook his head, and far and wide,
Fluttering and rustling everywhere,
Down sped the leaflets through the air.
I saw them; on the ground they lay,
Golden and red, a huddled swarm,
Waiting till one from far away,
White bedclothes heaped up on her arm,
Should come to wrap them safe and warm.
The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.
"Good-night, dear little leaves," he said;
And from below each sleepy child
Replied, "Good-night," and murmurèd,
"It is _so_ nice to go to bed."
The poems for young readers produced by the
sisters Alice Cary (1820-1871) and Phoebe Cary
(1824-1871) constitute the most successful body
of juvenile verse yet produced in this country.
One of Alice Cary's poems, "An Order for a
Picture," is of a very distinguished quality,
but as its appeal is largely to mature readers,
two of Phoebe Cary's poems of simpler quality
are chosen for use here. The first of these
marks, by means of three illustrations within
the range of children's observation, a very
common defect of child nature and is, by the
force of these illustrations, a good lesson in
practical ethics. The appeal of the second is
to that inherent ideal of disinterested heroism
which is so strong in children. The setting of
the story amidst the ever-present threat of the
sea affords a good chance for the teacher to do
effective work in emphasizing the geographical
background. This should be done, however, not
as geography merely, but with the attention on
the human elements involved.
280
THEY DIDN'T THINK
PHOEBE CARY
Once a trap was baited
With a piece of cheese;
Which tickled so a little mouse
It almost made him sneeze;
An old rat said, "There's danger,
Be careful where you go!"
"Nonsense!" said the other,
"I don't think you know!"
So he walked in boldly--
Nobody in sight;
First he took a nibble,
Then he took a bite;
Close the trap together
Snapped as quick as wink,
Catching mousey fast there,
'Cause he didn't think.
Once a little turkey,
Fond of her own way,
Wouldn't ask the old ones
Where to go or stay;
She said, "I'm not a baby,
Here I am half-grown;
Surely, I am big enough
To run about alone!"
Off she went, but somebody
Hiding saw her pass;
Soon like snow her feathers
Covered all the grass.
So she made a supper
For a sly young mink,
'Cause she was so headstrong
That she wouldn't think.
Once there was a robin
Lived outside the door,
Who wanted to go inside
And hop upon the floor.
"Ho, no," said the mother,
"You must stay with me;
Little birds are safest
Sitting in a tree."
"I don't care," said Robin,
And gave his tail a fling,
"I don't think the old folks
Know quite everything."
Down he flew, and Kitty seized him.
Before he'd time to blink.
"Oh," he cried, "I'm sorry,
But I didn't think."
Now my little children,
You who read this song,
Don't you see what trouble
Comes of thinking wrong?
And can't you take a warning
From their dreadful fate
Who began their thinking
When it was too late?
Don't think there's always safety
Where no danger shows,
Don't suppose you know more
Than anybody knows;
But when you're warned of ruin,
Pause upon the brink,
And don't go under headlong,
'Cause you didn't think.
281
THE LEAK IN THE DIKE
A Story of Holland
PHOEBE CARY
The good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play:
"Come, Peter, come! I want you to go,
While there is light to see,
To the hut of the blind old man who lives
Across the dike, for me;
And take these cakes I made for him--
They are hot and smoking yet;
You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set."
Then the good-wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,
And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;
And set the turf a-blazing,
And brought the coarse black bread;
That he might find a fire at night,
And find the table spread.
And Peter left the brother,
With whom all day he had played,
And the sister who had watched their sports
In the willow's tender shade;
And told them they'd see him back before
They saw a star in sight,
Though he wouldn't be afraid to go
In the very darkest night!
For he was a brave, bright fellow,
With eye and conscience clear;
He could do whatever a boy might do,
And he had not learned to fear.
Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest,
Nor brought a stork to harm,
Though never a law in Holland
Had stood to stay his arm!
And now, with his face all glowing,
And eyes as bright as the day
With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,
He trudged along the way;
And soon his joyous prattle
Made glad a lonesome place--
Alas! if only the blind old man
Could have seen that happy face!
Yet he somehow caught the brightness
Which his voice and presence lent;
And he felt the sunshine come and go
As Peter came and went.
And now, as the day was sinking,
And the winds began to rise,
The mother looked from her door again,
Shading her anxious eyes;
And saw the shadows deepen
And birds to their homes come back,
But never a sign of Peter
Along the level track.
But she said: "He will come at morning,
So I need not fret or grieve--
Though it isn't like my boy at all
To stay without my leave."
But where was the child delaying?
On the homeward way was he,
And across the dike while the sun was up
An hour above the sea.
He was stopping now to gather flowers,
Now listening to the sound,
As the angry waters dashed themselves
Against their narrow bound.
"Ah! well for us," said Peter,
"That the gates are good and strong,
And my father tends them carefully,
Or they would not hold you long!
You're a wicked sea," said Peter;
"I know why you fret and chafe;
You would like to spoil our lands and homes;
But our sluices keep you safe!"
But hark! Through the noise of waters
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound;
And the child's face pales with terror,
And his blossoms drop to the ground.
He is up the bank in a moment,
And stealing through the sand,
He sees a stream not yet so large
As his slender, childish hand.
'_Tis a leak in the dike!_ He is but a boy,
Unused to fearful scenes;
But, young as he is, he has learned to know
The dreadful thing that means.
_A leak in the dike!_ The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,
And the bravest man in all the land
Turns white with mortal fear.
For he knows the smallest leak may grow
To a flood in a single night;
And he knows the strength of the cruel sea
When loosed in its angry might.
And the boy! He has seen the danger,
And, shouting a wild alarm,
He forces back the weight of the sea
With the strength of his single arm!
He listens for the joyful sound
Of a footstep passing nigh;
And lays his ear to the ground, to catch
The answer to his cry.
And he hears the rough winds blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,
But never an answer comes to him,
Save the echo of his call.
He sees no hope, no succor,
His feeble voice is lost;
Yet what shall he do but watch and wait,
Though he perish at his post!
So, faintly calling and crying
Till the sun is under the sea;
Crying and moaning till the stars
Come out for company;
He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their safe warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,
Of himself as dying--and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last:
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.
The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all night.
And now she watches the pathway,
As yester eve she had done;
But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?
Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door;
Her child is coming home, but not
As he ever came before!
"He is dead!" she cries; "my darling!"
And the startled father hears,
And comes and looks the way she looks,
And fears the thing she fears:
Till a glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife--
"Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,
And God has saved his life!"
So, there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy;
And every head was bared and bent
In tearful, reverent joy.
'Tis many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and true and good.
For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.
They have many a valiant hero,
Remembered through the years:
But never one whose name so oft
Is named with loving tears.
And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told to the child on the knee,
So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea!
The world's greatest writer of verse for
children, Robert Louis Stevenson, was born in
Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1850. After he was
twenty-five years old he spent much of the rest
of his short life traveling in search of
health. From 1889 to the time of his death in
1894 he resided in Samoa. The verses given here
(Nos. 282-295) are taken from his famous book,
_A Child's Garden of Verses_, which, says
Professor Saintsbury, "is, perhaps, the most
perfectly natural book of the kind. It was
supplemented later by other poems for children;
and some of his work outside this, culminating
in the widely known epitaph
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill,
has the rarely combined merits of simplicity,
sincerity, music, and strength." One of the
best of Stevenson's poems for children outside
the _Child's Garden of Verses_ is the
powerfully dramatic story called _Heather Ale_.
In attempting to solve the secret of
Stevenson's supremacy, Edmund Gosse calls
attention to the "curiously candid and
confidential attitude of mind" in these poems,
to the "extraordinary clearness and precision
with which the immature fancies of eager
childhood" are reproduced, and particularly, to
the fact that they give us "a transcript of
that child-mind which we have all possessed and
enjoyed, but of which no one, except Mr.
Stevenson, seems to have carried away a
photograph." It is this ability to hand on a
photographic transcript of the child's way of
seeing things that, according to Mr. Gosse,
puts Stevenson in a class which contains only
two other members, Hans Christian Andersen in
nursery stories, and Juliana Horatia Ewing in
the more realistic prose tale. Children find
expressed in these poems their own active
fancies. It has been objected to them that the
child pictured there is a lonely child, but
every child, like every mature person, has an
inner world of dreams and experiences in which
he delights now and then to dwell. The presence
of the qualities mentioned put at least two of
Stevenson's prose romances among the most
splendid adventure stories for young people,
_Treasure Island_ and _Kidnapped_. Perhaps no
book is more popular among pupils of the
seventh and eighth grades than the former. It
has been called a "sublimated dime novel," that
is, it has all the decidedly attractive
features of the "dime novel" plus the fine art
of story-telling which is always lacking in
that sensational type of story.
282
WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
A child should always say what's true,
And speak when he is spoken to,
And behave mannerly at table;
At least as far as he is able.
283
THE COW
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
The friendly cow all red and white,
I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple-tart.
She wanders lowing here and there,
And yet she cannot stray,
All in the pleasant open air,
The pleasant light of day;
And blown by all the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers,
She walks among the meadow grass
And eats the meadow flowers.
284
TIME TO RISE
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
A birdie with a yellow bill
Hopped upon the window-sill,
Cocked his shining eye and said:
"Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head?"
285
RAIN
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
The rain is raining all around,
It falls on field and tree,
It rains on the umbrellas here,
And on the ships at sea.
286
A GOOD PLAY
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
We built a ship upon the stairs
All made of the back-bedroom chairs,
And filled it full of sofa pillows
To go a-sailing on the billows.
We took a saw and several nails,
And water in the nursery pails;
And Tom said, "Let us also take
An apple and a slice of cake;"--
Which was enough for Tom and me
To go a-sailing on, till tea.
We sailed along for days and days,
And had the very best of plays;
But Tom fell out and hurt his knee,
So there was no one left but me.
287
THE LAMPLIGHTER
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky;
It's time to take the window to see Leerie going by;
For every night at tea-time and before you take your seat,
With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street.
Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea,
And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be;
But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do,
O Leerie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you!
For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,
And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more;
And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light,
O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night!
288
THE LAND OF NOD
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
From breakfast on through all the day
At home among my friends I stay,
But every night I go abroad
Afar into the land of Nod.
All by myself I have to go,
With none to tell me what to do--
All alone beside the streams
And up the mountain sides of dreams.
The strangest things are there for me,
Both things to eat and things to see,
And many frightening sights abroad,
Till morning in the land of Nod.
Try as I like to find the way,
I never can get back by day,
Nor can remember plain and clear
The curious music that I hear.
289
THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lion comes to drink.
I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.
So when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear Land of Story-books.
290
MY BED IS A BOAT
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
My bed is like a little boat;
Nurse helps me in when I embark:
She girds me in my sailor's coat
And starts me in the dark.
At night, I go on board and say
Good-night to all my friends on shore;
I shut my eyes and sail away
And see and hear no more.
And sometimes things to bed I take,
As prudent sailors have to do;
Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake,
Perhaps a toy or two.
All night across the dark we steer;
But when the day returns at last,
Safe in my room, beside the pier,
I find my vessel fast.
291
MY SHADOW
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
292
THE SWING
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside--
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown--
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
293
WHERE GO THE BOATS?
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along forever
With trees on either hand.
Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating--
Where will all come home?
On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.
Away down the river,
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore.
294
THE WIND
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
295
WINDY NIGHTS
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.
The four poems that follow are from
_Little-Folk Lyrics_, by Frank Dempster Sherman
(1860--), and are used here by permission of
and special arrangement with the publishers,
Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston. Many of Sherman's
poems have been found pleasing to children,
particularly those dealing with nature themes
and with outdoor activities.
296
SPINNING TOP
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN
When I spin round without a stop
And keep my balance like the top,
I find that soon the floor will swim
Before my eyes; and then, like him,
I lie all dizzy on the floor
Until I feel like spinning more.
297
FLYING KITE
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN
I often sit and wish that I
Could be a kite up in the sky,
And ride upon the breeze, and go
Whatever way it chanced to blow.
Then I could look beyond the town,
And see the river winding down,
And follow all the ships that sail
Like me before the merry gale,
Until at last with them I came
To some place with a foreign name.
298
KING BELL
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN
Long ago there lived a King
A mighty man and bold,
Who had two sons, named Dong and Ding,
Of whom this tale is told.
Prince Ding was clear of voice, and tall,
A Prince in every line;
Prince Dong, his voice was very small,
And he but four feet nine.
Now both these sons were very dear
To Bell, the mighty King.
They always hastened to appear
When he for them would ring.
Ding never failed the first to be,
But Dong, he followed well,
And at the second summons he
Responded to King Bell.
This promptness of each royal Prince
Is all of them we know,
Except that all their kindred since
Have done exactly so.
And if you chance to know a King
Like this one of the dong,
Just listen once--and there is Ding;
Again--and there is Dong.
299
DAISIES
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN
At evening when I go to bed
I see the stars shine overhead;
They are the little daisies white
That dot the meadows of the Night.
And often while I'm dreaming so,
Across the sky the Moon will go;
It is a lady, sweet and fair,
Who comes to gather daisies there.
For, when at morning I arise,
There's not a star left in the skies;
She's picked them all and dropped them down
Into the meadows of the town.
The three poems by Eugene Field (Nos. 300-302)
are used by special permission of the
publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York
City. Field was born at St. Louis in 1850, and
died at Chicago in 1895. The quaint fantastical
conceptions in these poems have made them
supreme favorites with children. No. 300
belongs to the list of the world's great
lullabies.
300
WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD
EUGENE FIELD
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea--
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,
Never afeard are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam,--
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:--
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
301
THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE
EUGENE FIELD
Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?
'Tis a marvel of great renown!
It blooms on the shore of the Lollypop sea
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town;
The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet
(As those who have tasted it say)
That good little children have only to eat
Of that fruit to be happy next day.
When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time
To capture the fruit which I sing;
The tree is so tall that no person could climb
To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing!
But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat,
And a gingerbread dog prowls below--
And this is the way you contrive to get at
Those sugar-plums tempting you so:
You say but the word to that gingerbread dog
And he barks with such terrible zest
That the chocolate cat is at once all agog,
As her swelling proportions attest.
And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around
From this leafy limb unto that,
And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground--
Hurrah for that chocolate cat!
There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes
With stripings of scarlet or gold,
And you carry away of the treasure that rains,
As much as your apron can hold!
So come, little child, cuddle closer to me
In your dainty white nightcap and gown,
And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.
302
THE DUEL
EUGENE FIELD
The gingham dog and the calico cat
Side by side on the table sat;
'Twas half past twelve, and (what do you think!)
Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink!
The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate
Appeared to know as sure as fate
There was going to be a terrible spat.
(_I wasn't there; I simply state
What was told to me by the Chinese plate!_)
The gingham dog went "Bow-wow-wow!"
And the calico cat replied "Mee-ow!"
The air was littered, an hour or so,
With bits of gingham and calico,
While the old Dutch clock in the chimney place
Up with its hands before its face,
For it always dreaded a family row!
(_Now mind: I'm only telling you
What the old Dutch clock declares is true!_)
The Chinese plate looked very blue,
And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"
But the gingham dog and the calico cat
Wallowed this way and tumbled that,
Employing every tooth and claw
In the awfullest way you ever saw--
And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!
(_Don't fancy I exaggerate--
I got my news from the Chinese plate!_)
Next morning, where the two had sat
They found no trace of dog or cat:
And some folks think unto this day
That burglars stole that pair away!
But the truth about the cat and pup
Is this: they ate each other up!
Now what do you really think of that!
(_The old Dutch clock it told me so,
And that is how I came to know._)
303
James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield,
Indiana, in 1849, and died at Indianapolis in
1916. His success was largely due to his
ability to present homely phases of life in the
Hoosier dialect. "The Raggedy Man" is a good
illustration of this skill. In his prime Mr.
Riley was an excellent oral interpreter of his
own work, and his personifications of the
Hoosier types in his poems in recitals all over
the country had much to do with giving him an
understanding body of readers. He had much of
the power in which Stevenson was so
supreme--that power of remembering accurately
and giving full expression to the points of
view of childhood. The perennial fascination of
the circus as in "The Circus Day Parade"
illustrates this particularly well. "The
Treasures of the Wise Man" represents another
class of Mr. Riley's poems in which he
moralizes in a fashion that makes people
willing to be preached at. It may be said very
truly that most of his poems have their chief
attraction in enabling older readers to recall
the almost vanished thrilling delights of
youth, but poems that do that are generally
found to interest children also.
THE TREASURES OF THE WISE MAN[1]
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
O the night was dark and the night was late,
And the robbers came to rob him;
And they picked the locks of his palace gate,
The robbers that came to rob him--
They picked the locks of his palace gate,
Seized his jewels and gems of state,
His coffers of gold and his priceless plate--
The robbers that came to rob him.
But loud laughed he in the morning red!--
For of what had the robbers robbed him?--
Ho! hidden safe, as he slept in bed,
When the robbers came to rob him,--
They robbed him not of a golden shred
Of the childish dreams in his wise old head--
"And they're welcome to all things else," he said,
When the robbers came to rob him.
304
THE CIRCUS-DAY PARADE[1]
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
Oh, the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!
And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes, and neighed,
As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time
Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!
How the grand band-wagon shone with a splendor all its own,
And glittered with a glory that our dreams had never known!
And how the boys behind, high and low of every kind,
Marched in unconscious capture, with a rapture undefined!
How the horsemen, two and two, with their plumes of white and blue,
And crimson, gold and purple, nodding by at me and you,
Waved the banners that they bore, as the Knights in days of yore,
Till our glad eyes gleamed and glistened like the spangles that
they wore!
How the graceless-graceful stride of the elephant was eyed,
And the capers of the little horse that cantered at his side!
How the shambling camels, tame to the plaudits of their fame,
With listless eyes came silent, masticating as they came.
How the cages jolted past, with each wagon battened fast,
And the mystery within it only hinted of at last
From the little grated square in the rear, and nosing there
The snout of some strange animal that sniffed the outer air!
And, last of all, The Clown, making mirth for all the town,
With his lips curved ever upward and his eyebrows ever down,
And his chief attention paid to the little mule that played
A tattoo on the dashboard with his heels, in the parade.
Oh! the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played!
And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed,
As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time
Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime!
FOOTNOTE:
[1] From the Biographical Edition of the _Complete Works of James
Whitcomb Riley_. Copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the
publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co.
305
THE RAGGEDY MAN[2]
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
O The Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;
An' he opens the shed--an' we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobblely calf;
An' nen--ef our hired girl says he can--
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann.--
Aint he a' awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
W'y, The Raggedy Man--he's ist so good
He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood;
An' nen he spades in our garden, too,
An' does most things 'at _boys_ can't do!--
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An' shooked a' apple down fer me--
An' nother'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann--
An' nother'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man--
Aint he a' awful kind Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes
An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes:
Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves,
An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers therselves!
An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,
He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got,
'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can
Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann!
Aint he a funny old Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man--one time when he
Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me,
Says "When _you're_ big like your Pa is,
Air you go' to keep a fine store like his--
An' be a rich merchunt--an' wear fine clothes?--
Er what _air_ you go' to be, goodness knows!"
An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann,
An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man!
I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!"
FOOTNOTE:
[2] From the Biographical Edition of the _Complete Works of James
Whitcomb Riley_. Copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the
publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co.
306
James Hogg (1770-1835) was a poet of Scotland
and a contemporary of Sir Walter Scott. He was
known as the Ettrick Shepherd, from the place
of his birth and from the fact that as a boy he
tended the sheep. He had little schooling and
was a thoroughly self-made man. The strongly
marked and energetic swing of the rhythm,
fitting in so well with the vigorous
out-of-door experiences suggested, has made "A
Boy's Song" a great favorite. Other poems of
his that are still read are "The Skylark" and
the verse fairy tale called "Kilmeny."
A BOY'S SONG
JAMES HOGG
Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the gray trout lies asleep,
Up the river and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play,
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the river and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.
307
Mary Howitt (1799-1888), an English author and
translator, was the first to put Hans Christian
Andersen's tales into English. She wrote on a
great variety of subjects, and much of her work
was useful and pleasing to a multitude of
readers old and young. Besides the following
poem, she is known well to young readers by her
"The Fairies of Caldon-Low."
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY
MARY HOWITT
"Will you walk into my parlor?"
Said the Spider to the Fly;
"'Tis the prettiest little parlor
That ever you did spy.
"The way into my parlor
Is up a winding stair,
And I have many curious things
To show when you are there."
"Oh, no, no," said the little Fly,
"To ask me is in vain;
For who goes up your winding stair
Can ne'er come down again."
"I'm sure you must be weary, dear,
With soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?"
Said the Spider to the Fly.
"There are pretty curtains drawn around;
The sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile,
I'll snugly tuck you in!"
"Oh, no, no," said the little Fly,
"For I've often heard it said,
They never, never wake again,
Who sleep upon your bed."
Said the cunning Spider to the Fly:
"Dear friend, what can I do
To prove the warm affection
I've always felt for you?
"I have within my pantry
Good store of all that's nice:
I'm sure you're very welcome--
Will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh, no, no," said the little Fly,
"Kind sir, that cannot be;
I've heard what's in your pantry,
And I do not wish to see."
"Sweet creature!" said the Spider,
"You're witty and you're wise;
How handsome are your gauzy wings
How brilliant are your eyes!
"I have a little looking-glass
Upon my parlor shelf;
If you'll step in one moment, dear,
You shall behold yourself."
"I thank you, gentle sir," she said,
"For what you're pleased to say,
And, bidding you good-morning now,
I'll call another day."
The Spider turned him round about.
And went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly
Would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web
In a little corner sly,
And set his table ready
To dine upon the Fly.
Then came out to his door again,
And merrily did sing:
"Come hither, hither, pretty Fly,
With the pearl and silver wing;
"Your robes are green and purple--
There's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright,
But mine are dull as lead!"
Alas, alas! how very soon
This silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words,
Came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft,
Then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes,
And green and purple hue--
Thinking only of her crested head--
Poor, foolish thing! At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider,
And fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair,
Into his dismal den,
Within his little parlor--
But she ne'er came out again.
And now, dear little children,
Who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words,
I pray you ne'er give heed.
Unto an evil counsellor
Close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale
Of the Spider and the Fly.
308
William Howitt (1792-1879) and his wife, author
of the preceding poem, worked together on many
literary projects. One of William Howitt's
poems, "The Wind in a Frolic," has long found a
place in collections for children. It presents
the wind in a sprightly, mischievous, and
boisterous mood.
THE WIND IN A FROLIC
WILLIAM HOWITT
The wind one morning sprang up from sleep,
Saying, "Now for a frolic! now for a leap!
Now for a madcap galloping chase!
I'll make a commotion in every place!"
So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,
Cracking the signs and scattering down
Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls,
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls,
There never was heard a much lustier shout,
As the apples and oranges trundled about;
And the urchins that stand with their thievish eyes
For ever on watch, ran off each with a prize.
Then away to the field it went, blustering and humming,
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming;
It plucked by the tails the grave matronly cows,
And tossed the colts' manes all over their brows;
Till, offended at such an unusual salute,
They all turned their backs, and stood sulky and mute.
So on it went capering and playing its pranks,
Whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks,
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveller grave on the king's highway.
It was not too nice to hustle the bags
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags;
'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke
With the doctor's wig or the gentleman's cloak.
Through the forest it roared, and cried gaily, "Now,
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow!"
And it made them bow without more ado,
Or it cracked their great branches through and through.
Then it rushed like a monster on cottage and farm,
Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm;
And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm;--
There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps,
To see if their poultry were free from mishaps;
The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,
And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd;
There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on,
Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.
But the wind had swept on, and had met in a lane
With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain;
For it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood
With his hat in a pool and his shoes in the mud.
Then away went the wind in its holiday glee,
And now it was far on the billowy sea,
And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow,
And the little boats darted to and fro.
But lo! it was night, and it sank to rest
On the sea-bird's rock in the gleaming West,
Laughing to think, in its fearful fun,
How little of mischief it really had done.
Ann Taylor (1782-1866) and Jane Taylor
(1783-1824), English writers of verse and prose
for children, have earned a permanent place in
the history of juvenile literature on account
of the real worth of their work and because
they were among the first authors to write
poetry especially for children. They published
jointly three volumes of verse for children:
_Original Poems for Infant Minds_, _Rhymes for
the Nursery_, and _Hymns for Infant Minds_.
Many of their poems seem a little too didactic,
but they were genuine in their ethical
earnestness and largely succeeded in putting
things in terms of the child's own
comprehension. The four poems given here
represent them at their best, which was good
enough to win the admiration of Sir Walter
Scott.
309
THE COW
ANN TAYLOR
Thank you, pretty cow, that made
Pleasant milk to soak my bread,
Every day and every night,
Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.
Do not chew the hemlock rank,
Growing on the weedy bank;
But the yellow cowslips eat,
That will make it very sweet.
Where the purple violet grows,
Where the bubbling water flows,
Where the grass is fresh and fine,
Pretty cow, go there and dine.
310
MEDDLESOME MATTY
ANN TAYLOR
One ugly trick has often spoiled
The sweetest and the best;
Matilda, though a pleasant child,
One ugly trick possessed,
Which, like a cloud before the skies,
Hid all her better qualities.
Sometimes she'd lift the tea-pot lid,
To peep at what was in it;
Or tilt the kettle, if you did
But turn your back a minute.
In vain you told her not to touch,
Her trick of meddling grew so much.
Her grandmamma went out one day
And by mistake she laid
Her spectacles and snuff-box gay
Too near the little maid;
"Ah! well," thought she, "I'll try them on,
As soon as grandmamma is gone."
Forthwith she placed upon her nose
The glasses large and wide;
And looking round, as I suppose,
The snuff-box too she spied:
"Oh! what a pretty box is that;
I'll open it," said little Matt.
"I know that grandmamma would say,
'Don't meddle with it, dear,'
But then, she's far enough away,
And no one else is near:
Besides, what can there be amiss
In opening such a box as this?"
So thumb and finger went to work
To move the stubborn lid,
And presently a mighty jerk
The mighty mischief did;
For all at once, ah! woeful case,
The snuff came puffing in her face.
Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth beside
A dismal sight presented;
In vain, as bitterly she cried,
Her folly she repented.
In vain she ran about for ease;
She could do nothing else but sneeze.
She dashed the spectacles away,
To wipe her tingling eyes,
And as in twenty bits they lay,
Her grandmamma she spies.
"Heyday! and what's the matter now?"
Says grandmamma with lifted brow.
Matilda, smarting with the pain,
And tingling still, and sore,
Made many a promise to refrain
From meddling evermore.
And 'tis a fact, as I have heard,
She ever since has kept her word.
311
"I LIKE LITTLE PUSSY"
JANE TAYLOR
I like little Pussy,
Her coat is so warm;
And if I don't hurt her
She'll do me no harm.
So I'll not pull her tail,
Nor drive her away,
But Pussy and I
Very gently will play;
She shall sit by my side,
And I'll give her some food;
And she'll love me because
I am gentle and good.
I'll pat little Pussy,
And then she will purr,
And thus show her thanks
For my kindness to her;
I'll not pinch her ears,
Nor tread on her paw,
Lest I should provoke her
To use her sharp claw;
I never will vex her,
Nor make her displeased,
For Pussy can't bear
To be worried or teased.
312
THE STAR
JANE TAYLOR
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are.
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveler in the dark
Thanks you for your tiny spark;
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye
Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveler in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
Although Christina G. Rossetti (1830-1894) is
not known primarily as a writer for children,
her _Sing-Song_, from which the next seven
poems are taken, is a juvenile classic. She
ranks very high among the women poets of the
nineteenth century, her only equal being Mrs.
Browning. Besides the brief poems in
_Sing-Song_, Miss Rossetti's "Goblin Market"
and "Uphill" please young people of a
contemplative mood. While there is an
undercurrent of sadness in much of her work, it
is a natural accompaniment of her themes and is
not unduly emphasized.
313
SELDOM OR NEVER
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
Seldom "can't,"
Seldom "don't";
Never "shan't,"
Never "won't."
314
AN EMERALD IS AS GREEN AS GRASS
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
An emerald is as green as grass;
A ruby, red as blood;
A sapphire shines as blue as heaven;
A flint lies in the mud.
A diamond is a brilliant stone
To catch the world's desire;
An opal holds a fiery spark;
But a flint holds fire.
315
BOATS SAIL ON THE RIVERS
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
Boats sail on the rivers,
And ships sail on the seas;
But clouds that sail across the sky
Are prettier far than these.
There are bridges on the rivers,
As pretty as you please;
But the bow that bridges heaven,
And overtops the trees,
And builds a road from earth to sky,
Is prettier far than these.
316
A DIAMOND OR A COAL?
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
A diamond or a coal?
A diamond, if you please;
Who cares about a clumsy coal
Beneath the summer trees?
A diamond or a coal?
A coal, sir, if you please;
One comes to care about the coal
At times when waters freeze.
317
THE SWALLOW
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
Fly away, fly away over the sea,
Sun-loving swallow, for summer is done;
Come again, come again, come back to me,
Bringing the summer and bringing the sun.
318
WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND?
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing thro'.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
319
MILKING TIME
CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI
When the cows come home the milk is coming;
Honey's made while the bees are humming;
Duck and drake on the rushy lake,
And the deer live safe in the breezy brake;
And timid, funny, pert little bunny
Winks his nose, and sits all sunny.
320
William Brighty Rands (1823-1882), an English
author writing under the name of "Matthew
Browne," produced in his _Lilliput Lyrics_ a
juvenile masterpiece containing much verse
worthy to live. The two poems that follow are
decidedly successful in catching that elusive
something called the child's point of view.
THE PEDDLER'S CARAVAN
WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS
I wish I lived in a caravan
With a horse to drive, like a peddler-man!
Where he comes from nobody knows,
Or where he goes to, but on he goes!
His caravan has windows two,
And a chimney of tin, that the smoke comes through;
He has a wife, with a baby brown,
And they go riding from town to town.
Chairs to mend, and delf to sell!
He clashes the basins like a bell;
Tea-trays, baskets ranged in order,
Plates, with alphabets round the border!
The roads are brown, and the sea is green,
But his house is like a bathing-machine;
The world is round, and he can ride,
Rumble and slash, to the other side!
With the peddler-man I should like to roam,
And write a book when I came home;
All the people would read my book,
Just like the Travels of Captain Cook!
321
THE WONDERFUL WORLD
WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
With the wonderful water round you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast--
World, you are beautifully dressed!
The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree--
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the top of the hills.
You friendly Earth, how far do you go,
With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,
With cities and gardens and cliffs and isles,
And the people upon you for thousands of miles?
Ah! you are so great, and I am so small,
I hardly can think of you, World, at all;
And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,
My mother kissed me, and said, quite gay,
"If the wonderful World is great to you,
And great to father and mother, too,
You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot!
You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"
322
Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton,
1809-1885), an English poet, wrote one poem
that has held its own in children's
collections. Its quiet mood of industry at one
with the gentler influences of nature is
especially appealing.
GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES
A fair little girl sat under a tree,
Sewing as long as her eyes could see;
Then smoothed her work and folded it right
And said, "Dear work, good-night, good-night!"
Such a number of rooks came over her head,
Crying "Caw! Caw!" on their way to bed,
She said, as she watched their curious flight,
"Little black things, good-night, good-night!"
The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed,
The sheep's "Bleat! Bleat!" came over the road;
All seeming to say, with a quiet delight,
"Good little girl, good-night, good-night!"
She did not say to the sun, "Good-night!"
Though she saw him there like a ball of light;
For she knew he had God's time to keep
All over the world and never could sleep.
The tall pink foxglove bowed his head;
The violets curtsied, and went to bed;
And good little Lucy tied up her hair,
And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.
And while on her pillow she softly lay,
She knew nothing more till again it was day;
And all things said to the beautiful sun,
"Good-morning, good-morning! our work is begun."
323
It is quite impossible for us to realize why
the English reading public should have been so
excited over the following poem in the years
immediately following its first appearance in
1806. It attracted the attention of royalty,
was set to music, had a host of imitators, and
established itself as a nursery classic. It was
written by William Roscoe (1753-1831),
historian, banker, and poet, for his son
Robert, and was merely an entertaining skit
upon an actual banquet. Probably the fact that
the characters at the butterfly's ball were
drawn with human faces in the original
illustrations to represent the prominent guests
at the actual banquet had much to do with the
initial success. The impulse which it received
a hundred years ago, coupled with its own
undoubted power of fancy, has projected it thus
far, and children seem inclined to approve and
still further insure its already long life.
THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL
WILLIAM ROSCOE
"Come, take up your hats, and away let us haste
To the Butterfly's Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast,
The Trumpeter, Gadfly, has summon'd the crew,
And the Revels are now only waiting for you."
So said little Robert, and pacing along,
His merry Companions came forth in a throng,
And on the smooth Grass by the side of a Wood,
Beneath a broad oak that for ages had stood,
Saw the Children of Earth and the Tenants of Air
For an Evening's Amusement together repair.
And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black,
Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back,
And there was the Gnat and the Dragonfly too,
With all their Relations, green, orange and blue.
And there came the Moth, with his plumage of down,
And the Hornet in jacket of yellow and brown;
Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring,
But they promised that evening to lay by their sting.
And the sly little Dormouse crept out of his hole,
And brought to the Feast his blind Brother, the Mole;
And the Snail, with his horns peeping out of his shell,
Came from a great distance, the length of an ell.
A Mushroom, their Table, and on it was laid
A water-dock leaf, which a table-cloth made.
The Viands were various, to each of their taste,
And the Bee brought her honey to crown the Repast.
Then close on his haunches, so solemn and wise,
The Frog from a corner look'd up to the skies;
And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversion to see,
Mounted high overhead and look'd down from a tree.
Then out came the Spider, with finger so fine,
To show his dexterity on the tight-line,
From one branch to another his cobwebs he slung,
Then quick as an arrow he darted along,
But just in the middle--oh! shocking to tell,
From his rope, in an instant, poor Harlequin fell.
Yet he touch'd not the ground, but with talons outspread,
Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread.
Then the Grasshopper came with a jerk and a spring,
Very long was his Leg, though but short was his Wing;
He took but three leaps, and was soon out of sight,
Then chirp'd his own praises the rest of the night.
With step so majestic the Snail did advance,
And promised the Gazers a Minuet to dance;
But they all laughed so loud that he pulled in his head,
And went in his own little chamber to bed.
Then as Evening gave way to the shadows of Night,
Their Watchman, the Glowworm, came out with a light.
"Then Home let us hasten while yet we can see,
For no Watchman is waiting for you and for me."
So said little Robert, and pacing along,
His merry Companions return'd in a throng.
324
CAN YOU?
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Can you put the spider's web back in place
That once has been swept away?
Can you put the apple again on the bough
Which fell at our feet to-day?
Can you put the lily-cup back on the stem
And cause it to live and grow?
Can you mend the butterfly's broken wing
That you crush with a hasty blow?
Can you put the bloom again on the grape
And the grape again on the vine?
Can you put the dewdrops back on the flowers
And make them sparkle and shine?
Can you put the petals back on the rose?
If you could, would it smell as sweet?
Can you put the flour again in the husk,
And show me the ripened wheat?
Can you put the kernel again in the nut,
Or the broken egg in the shell?
Can you put the honey back in the comb,
And cover with wax each cell?
Can you put the perfume back in the vase
When once it has sped away?
Can you put the corn-silk back on the corn,
Or down on the catkins, say?
You think my questions are trifling, lad,
Let me ask you another one:
Can a hasty word be ever unsaid,
Or a deed unkind, undone?
325
In 1841 Robert Browning (1812-1889) published a
drama in verse entitled _Pippa Passes_. Pippa
was a little girl who worked in the silkmills
of an Italian city. When her one holiday of the
year came, she arose early and went singing out
of town to the hills to enjoy the day. Various
people who were planning to do evil heard her
songs as she passed and did not do the wicked
things they had intended to do. The next day
Pippa returned to her usual work and never knew
that her songs had changed the lives of many
people. The following is the first of Pippa's
songs.
PIPPA'S SONG
ROBERT BROWNING
The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His Heaven--
All's right with the world!
326
Charles Mackay (1814-1889) was an English
journalist, poet, and miscellaneous writer. He
was especially popular as a writer of songs,
composing both words and music. Other
well-known poems of his are "The Miller of Dee"
and "Tubal Cain." "Little and Great" presents a
familiar idea through a series of
illustrations--the idea that great and lasting
results may spring from unstudied deeds of
helpfulness and love.
LITTLE AND GREAT
CHARLES MACKAY
A traveler on a dusty road
Strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening-time,
To breathe its early vows;
And Age was pleased, in heats of noon,
To bask beneath its boughs.
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs,
The birds sweet music bore--
It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore.
A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern;
A passing stranger scooped a well
Where weary men might turn;
He walled it in, and hung with care
A ladle at the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that Toil might drink.
He passed again; and lo! the well,
By summer never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parchèd tongues,
And saved a life beside.
A dreamer dropped a random thought;
'Twas old, and yet 'twas new;
A simple fancy of the brain,
But strong in being true.
It shone upon a genial mind,
And, lo! its light became
A lamp of life, a beacon ray,
A monitory flame.
The thought was small; its issue great;
A watch-fire on the hill,
It sheds its radiance far adown,
And cheers the valley still.
A nameless man, amid the crowd
That thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of hope and love,
Unstudied from the heart,--
A whisper on the tumult thrown,
A transitory breath,--
It raised a brother from the dust,
It saved a soul from death.
O germ! O fount! O word of love!
O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first,
But mighty at the last.
327
The following poem by Mrs. Hemans (1793-1835),
an English poet, is remembered for its historic
interest. Louis Casabianca, a Frenchman,
served on a war ship that helped convey French
troops to America, to aid the colonists during
the Revolution. Later, when Napoleon attempted
to conquer Egypt, he was captain of the
admiral's flagship during the battle of the
Nile. When the admiral was killed, he took
command of the fleet at the moment of defeat.
He blew up his ship, after the crew had been
saved, rather than surrender it. His
ten-year-old son refused to leave and perished
with his father.
CASABIANCA
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rolled on; he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud, "Say, father, say,
If yet my task be done!"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him, fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound:
The boy,--oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,--
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part,--
But the noblest thing that perished there,
Was that young, faithful heart.
The five numbers that follow are from the works
of the great English poet and mystic William
Blake (1757-1827). All except the first are
given in their entirety. No. 328 is made up of
three couplets taken from the loosely strung
together _Auguries of Innocence_. Nos. 329,
330, and 332 are from _Songs of Innocence_
(1789), where the last was printed as an
introduction without any other title. No. 331
is from _Songs of Experience_ (1794). Blake
labored in obscurity and poverty, though he has
now come to be regarded as one of England's
most important poets. It is not necessary that
children should understand fully all that Blake
says, but it is important for teachers to
realize that most children are natural mystics
and that Blake's poetry, more than any other,
is the natural food for them.
328
THREE THINGS TO REMEMBER
WILLIAM BLAKE
A Robin Redbreast in a cage,
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A skylark wounded on the wing
Doth make a cherub cease to sing.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.
329
THE LAMB
WILLIAM BLAKE
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bade thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little lamb, I'll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek and he is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee,
Little lamb, God bless thee.
330
THE SHEPHERD
WILLIAM BLAKE
How sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot;
From the morn to the evening he strays;
He shall follow his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
For he hears the lambs' innocent call,
And he hears the ewes' tender reply;
He is watchful while they are in peace,
For they know when their shepherd is nigh.
331
THE TIGER
WILLIAM BLAKE
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize thy fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand formed thy dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
332
THE PIPER
WILLIAM BLAKE
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:--
"Pipe a song about a lamb":
So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again":
So I piped; he wept to hear.
"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer":
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
"Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read."
So he vanish'd from my sight;
And I pluck'd a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
333
Eliza Cook (1818-1889) was an English poet who
had quite a vogue in her day, and whose poem
"Try Again" deals with one of those incidents
held in affectionate remembrance by youth.
Bruce and the spider may be less historically
true, but it seems destined to eternal life
alongside Leonidas and his Spartans. Older
readers may remember Miss Cook's "My Old Arm
Chair," which is usually given the place of
honor as her most popular poem.
TRY AGAIN
ELIZA COOK
King Bruce of Scotland flung himself down
In a lonely mood to think:
'Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown,
But his heart was beginning to sink.
For he had been trying to do a great deed,
To make his people glad;
He had tried and tried, but couldn't succeed;
And so he became quite sad.
He flung himself down in low despair,
As grieved as man could be;
And after a while as he pondered there,
"I'll give it all up," said he.
Now, just at the moment, a spider dropped,
With its silken, filmy clue;
And the King, in the midst of his thinking, stopped
To see what the spider would do.
'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome,
And it hung by a rope so fine,
That how it would get to its cobweb home
King Bruce could not divine.
It soon began to cling and crawl
Straight up, with strong endeavor;
But down it came with a slippery sprawl,
As near to the ground as ever.
Up, up it ran, not a second to stay,
To utter the least complaint,
Till it fell still lower, and there it lay,
A little dizzy and faint.
Its head grew steady--again it went,
And traveled a half yard higher;
'Twas a delicate thread it had to tread,
And a road where its feet would tire.
Again it fell and swung below,
But again it quickly mounted;
Till up and down, now fast, now slow,
Nine brave attempts were counted.
"Sure," cried the King, "that foolish thing
Will strive no more to climb;
When it toils so hard to reach and cling,
And tumbles every time."
But up the insect went once more;
Ah me! 'tis an anxious minute;
He's only a foot from his cobweb door.
Oh, say, will he lose or win it?
Steadily, steadily, inch by inch,
Higher and higher he got;
And a bold little run at the very last pinch
Put him into his native cot.
"Bravo, bravo!" the King cried out;
"All honor to those who _try_;
The spider up there, defied despair;
He conquered, and why shouldn't I?"
And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind,
And gossips tell the tale,
That he tried once more as he tried before,
And that time did not fail.
Pay goodly heed, all ye who read,
And beware of saying, "I _can't_";
'Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead
To idleness, folly, and want.
Whenever you find your heart despair
Of doing some goodly thing,
Con over this strain, try bravely again,
And remember the spider and King!
334
Nonsense verse seems to have its special place
in the economy of life as a sort of balance to
the over-serious tendency. One of the two great
masters of verse of this sort was the English
author Edward Lear (1812-1888). He was also a
famous illustrator of books and magazines.
Among his juvenile books, illustrated by
himself, were _Nonsense Songs_ and _More
Nonsense Songs_. All his verse is now generally
published under the first title. Good nonsense
verse precludes explanation, the mind of the
hearer being too busy with the delightfully odd
combinations to figure on how they happened.
THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT
EDWARD LEAR
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"
Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
335
THE TABLE AND THE CHAIR
EDWARD LEAR
Said the Table to the Chair,
"You can hardly be aware
How I suffer from the heat
And from chilblains on my feet.
If we took a little walk,
We might have a little talk;
Pray let us take the air,"
Said the Table to the Chair.
Said the Chair unto the Table,
"Now, you _know_ we are not able:
How foolishly you talk,
When you know we _cannot_ walk!"
Said the Table with a sigh,
"It can do no harm to try.
I've as many legs as you:
Why can't we walk on two?"
So they both went slowly down,
And walked about the town
With a cheerful bumpy sound
As they toddled round and round;
And everybody cried,
As they hastened to their side,
"See! the Table and the Chair
Have come out to take the air!"
But in going down an alley,
To a castle in a valley,
They completely lost their way,
And wandered all the day;
Till, to see them safely back,
They paid a Ducky-quack,
And a Beetle, and a Mouse,
Who took them to their house.
Then they whispered to each other,
"O delightful little brother,
What a lovely walk we've taken!
Let us dine on beans and bacon."
So the Ducky and the leetle
Browny-mousy and the Beetle
Dined, and danced upon their heads
Till they toddled to their beds.
336
THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES
EDWARD LEAR
The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said, "Some day you may lose them all";
He replied--"Fish fiddle-de-dee!"
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink,
For she said, "The world in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"
The Pobble who has no toes
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harm
Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
Are safe--provided he minds his nose."
The Pobble swam fast and well,
And when boats or ships came near him
He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell,
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the farther side,--
"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"
But before he touched the shore,
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green Porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet,
Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
His face at once became forlorn
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!
And nobody ever knew,
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away--
Nobody knew; and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!
The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up
To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish;--
And she said,--"It's a fact the whole world knows,
That Pobbles are happier without their toes."
337
The two great classics among modern nonsense
books are Lewis Carroll's _Alice in Wonderland_
and _Through the Looking Glass_. They are in
prose with poems interspersed. "The Walrus and
the Carpenter," is from _Through the Looking
Glass_, while "A Strange Wild Song," is from
_Sylvie and Bruno_. This latter book never
achieved the success of its forerunners, though
it has some delightful passages, as in the case
of the poem given. Lewis Carroll was the
pseudonym of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson
(1832-1898), an English mathematician at Oxford
University.
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER
"LEWIS CARROLL"
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be.
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky;
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing wax
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut me another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," cried the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?"
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
338
A STRANGE WILD SONG
"LEWIS CARROLL"
He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister's Husband's Niece.
"Unless you leave this house," he said,
"I'll send for the Police."
He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
"The one thing I regret," he said,
"Is that it cannot speak!"
He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk
Descending from the 'bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
"If this should stay to dine," he said,
"There won't be much for us!"
He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill;
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
"Were I to swallow this," he said,
"I should be very ill."
He thought he saw a Coach and Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!
It's waiting to be fed!"
He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the Lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny Postage-Stamp.
"You'd best be getting home," he said:
"The nights are very damp!"
He thought he saw a Garden Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double-Rule-of-Three:
"And all its mystery," he said,
"Is clear as day to me!"
He thought he saw an Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
"A fact so dread," he faintly said,
"Extinguishes all hope!"
339
Isaac Watts (1674-1748) was an English minister
and the writer of many hymns still included in
our hymn books. He had a notion that verse
might be used as a means of religious and
ethical instruction for children, and wrote
some poems as illustrations of his theory so
that they might suggest to better poets how to
carry out the idea. But Watts did this work so
well that two or three of his poems and several
of his stanzas have become common possessions.
They are dominated, of course, by the heavy
didactic moralizing, but are all so genuine and
true that young readers feel their force and
enjoy them.
AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF
ISAAC WATTS
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!
How skilfully she builds her cell,
How neat she spreads the wax!
And labors hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.
In works of labor or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.
In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.
340
FAMOUS PASSAGES FROM DOCTOR WATTS
O 'tis a lovely thing for youth
To walk betimes in wisdom's way;
To fear a lie, to speak the truth,
That we may trust to all they say.
But liars we can never trust,
Though they should speak the thing that's true;
And he that does one fault at first,
And lies to hide it, makes it two.
(From "Against Lying")
Whatever brawls disturb the street,
There should be peace at home;
Where sisters dwell and brothers meet,
Quarrels should never come.
Birds in their little nests agree:
And 'tis a shameful sight,
When children of one family
Fall out, and chide, and fight.
(From "Love between Brothers and Sisters")
How proud we are! how fond to show
Our clothes, and call them rich and new!
When the poor sheep and silk-worm wore
That very clothing long before.
The tulip and the butterfly
Appear in gayer coats than I;
Let me be dressed fine as I will,
Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.
Then will I set my heart to find
Inward adornings of the mind;
Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace,
These are the robes of richest dress.
(From "Against Pride in Clothes")
Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God hath made them so;
Let bears and lions growl and fight,
For 'tis their nature to.
But, children, you should never let
Such angry passions rise;
Your little hands were never made
To tear each other's eyes.
(From "Against Quarreling and Fighting")
Most of the work of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807-1882) is within the range of children's
interests and comprehension. Three poems are
given here, "The Skeleton in Armor," as
representative of Longfellow's large group of
narrative poems, "The Day Is Done," as an
expression of the value of poetry in everyday
life, and "The Psalm of Life," as the finest
and most popular example of his hortatory
poems.
341
"The Skeleton in Armor" is one of Longfellow's
first and best American art ballads. In
Newport, Rhode Island, is an old stone tower
known as the "Round Tower," which some people
think was built by the Northmen, though it
probably was not. In 1836 workmen unearthed a
strange skeleton at Fall River, Massachusetts.
It was wrapped in bark and coarse cloth. On the
breast was a plate of brass, and around the
waist was a belt of brass tubes. Apparently it
was not the skeleton of an Indian, and people
supposed it might have been that of one of the
old Norsemen. Longfellow used these two
historic facts as a basis for the plot of his
poem, which he wrote in 1840.
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
Why dost thou haunt me?"
Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;
And, like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of woe
From the heart's chamber.
"I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man's curse!
For this I sought thee.
"Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic's strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the ger-falcon;
And, with my skates fast-bound.
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on.
"Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grisly bear,
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf's bark,
Until the soaring lark
Sang from the meadow.
"But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair's crew,
O'er the dark sea I flew
With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
By our stern orders.
"Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long Winter out;
Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks crowing,
As we the Berserk's tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail,
Filled to o'erflowing.
"Once, as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning, yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine
Fell their soft splendor.
"I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest's shade
Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest
Fluttered her little breast,
Like birds within their nest
By the hawk frighted.
"Bright in her father's hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,
Chanting his glory:
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter's hand,
Mute did the minstrel stand
To hear my story.
"While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind-gusts waft
The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.
"She was a Prince's child,
I but a Viking wild,
And though she blushed and smiled,
I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea-new's flight,
Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?
"Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,--
Fairest of all was she
Among the Norsemen!--
When on the white-sea strand,
Waving his armèd hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,
With twenty horsemen.
"Then launched they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,
When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw
Laugh as he hailed us.
"And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,
Death without quarter!
Mid-ships with iron-keel
Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black hulk did reel
Through the black water.
"As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey laden;
So toward the open main,
Beating the sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
Bore I the maiden.
"Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o'er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore
Stretching to leeward;
There for my lady's bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,
Stands looking seaward.
"There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden's tears;
She had forgot her fears,
She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes,
Under that tower she lies;
Ne'er shall the sun arise
On such another!
"Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,
Oh, death was grateful!
"Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars
My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior's soul,
_Skoal!_ to the Northland! _Skoal!_"
--Thus the tale ended.
342
THE DAY IS DONE
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night.
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in its flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
343
A PSALM OF LIFE
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!--
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife.
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
344
Historians usually mention Charles Kingsley
(1819-1875) only as an English novelist, but it
seems probable that eventually he will be
remembered chiefly for his work in juvenile
literature. His _Water Babies_ is popular with
children of the fourth and fifth grade, while
his book of Greek myths entitled _The Heroes_
is a classic for older children. The next two
poems are popular with both adults and
children. Kingsley was a minister and his
church was located in Devon so that the
tragedies of the sea among the fisher folk were
often brought to his attention. Both these
poems deal with such tragedies.
THE THREE FISHERS
CHARLES KINGSLEY
Three fishers went sailing out into the west,--
Out into the west as the sun went down;
Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep;
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the light-house tower,
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown;
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are watching and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come back to the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,--
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,--
And good-by to the bar and its moaning.
345
THE SANDS OF DEE
CHARLES KINGSLEY
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee!"
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.
"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
A tress of golden hair,
A drownèd maiden's hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the sailing foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee!
The next two poems, by Alfred Tennyson
(1809-1892), are very well-known songs. "What
Does Little Birdie Say" is the mother's song in
"Sea Dreams." "Sweet and Low" is one of the
best of the lyrics in "The Princess," and a
favorite among the greatest lullabies.
346
"WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY?"
ALFRED TENNYSON
What does little birdie say,
In her nest at peep of day?
"Let me fly," says little birdie,
"Mother, let me fly away."
"Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger."
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
"Let me rise and fly away."
"Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger."
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby too shall fly away.
347
SWEET AND LOW
ALFRED TENNYSON
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
348
This poem is a great poet's expression of what
a poet's ideal of his mission should be. It is
summed up in the last two lines. An interesting
comparison could be made of the purpose of
poetry as reflected here with that suggested by
Longfellow in No. 342.
THE POET'S SONG
ALFRED TENNYSON
The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
He pass'd by the town and out of the street,
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,
And waves of shadow went over the wheat,
And he sat him down in a lonely place,
And chanted a melody loud and sweet,
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,
And the lark drop down at his feet.
The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee,
The snake slipt under a spray,
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,
And stared, with his foot on the prey,
And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs,
But never a one so gay,
For he sings of what the world will be
When the years have died away."
349
Those who live near the sea know that outside a
harbor a bar is formed of earth washed down
from the land. At low tide this may be so near
the surface as to be dangerous to ships passing
in and out, and the waves may beat against it
with a moaning sound. In his eighty-first year
Tennyson wrote "Crossing the Bar" to express
his thought about death. He represents the soul
as having come from the boundless deep of
eternity into this world-harbor of Time and
Place, and he represents death as the departure
from the harbor. He would have no lingering
illness to bar the departure. He would have the
end of life's day to be peaceful and without
sadness of farewell, for he trusts that his
journey into the sea of eternity will be guided
by "my Pilot." This poem may be somewhat beyond
the comprehension of eighth-grade pupils, but
they can perceive the beauty of the imagery and
music, and later in life it will be a source of
hope and comfort.
CROSSING THE BAR
ALFRED TENNYSON
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
350
Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) was an English essayist,
journalist, and poet. His one universally known
poem is "Abou Ben Adhem." The secret of its
appeal is no doubt the emphasis placed on the
idea that a person's attitude toward his
fellows is more important than mere
professions. The line "Write me as one that
loves his fellow men" is on Hunt's tomb in
Kensal Green Cemetery, London.
ABOU BEN ADHEM
LEIGH HUNT
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"--the vision rais'd its head,
And with a look made all of sweet accord,
Answer'd, "The names of those that love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And show'd the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
351
Cincinnatus Heine Miller, generally known as
Joaquin Miller (1841-1912), revealed in his
verse much of the restless energy of Western
America, where most of his life was passed.
"Columbus" is probably his best known poem.
"For Those Who Fail" suggests the important
truth that he who wins popular applause is not
usually the one who most deserves to be
honored.
FOR THOSE WHO FAIL
JOAQUIN MILLER
"All honor to him who shall win the prize,"
The world has cried for a thousand years;
But to him who tries and who fails and dies,
I give great honor and glory and tears.
O great is the hero who wins a name,
But greater many and many a time,
Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame,
And lets God finish the thought sublime.
And great is the man with a sword undrawn,
And good is the man who refrains from wine;
But the man who fails and yet fights on,
'Lo! he is the twin-born brother of mine!
352
Numerous poems have been written about the
futility of searching on earth for a place of
perfect happiness. The next poem, by Edgar
Allan Poe (1809-1849), seems to deal with this
subject. Some lines from Longfellow are good to
suggest its special message:
"No endeavor is in vain,
Its reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing
Is the prize the vanquished gain."
ELDORADO
EDGAR ALLAN POE
Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
But he grew old--
This knight so bold--
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow--
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be--
This land of Eldorado?"
"Over the mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow
Ride, boldly ride,"
The Shade replied,
"If you seek for Eldorado!"
353
Lord Byron (1788-1824) was the most popular
of English poets in his day. His fame
has since declined, although his fiery,
impetuous nature, expressing itself in
rapid verse of great rhetorical and satiric
power, still reaches kindred spirits. His
"Prisoner of Chillon" is often studied in
the upper grades. It is full of the passion
for freedom which was the dominating
idea in Byron's work as it was in his life.
He gave his life for this idea, striving to
help the Greeks gain their independence.
The poem which follows is from an early
work called _Hebrew Melodies_. We learn
from II Chronicles 32:21 that Sennacherib,
King of Assyria, having invaded
Judah, Hezekiah cried unto heaven, "And
the Lord sent an angel, which cut off the
mighty men of valor, and the leaders and
captains in the camp of the King of Assyria.
So he returned with shame of face to his
own land." Byron's title seems to indicate
that Sennacherib was himself destroyed.
The fine swinging measure of the lines, and
the vivid picture of the destroyed hosts in
contrast to the brilliant glory of their
triumphant invasion, are two of the chief
elements in its appeal.
THE DESTRUCTION OF
SENNACHERIB
LORD BYRON
The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
The host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.
354
The next two poems may represent the youth and
the maturity of America's first great nature
poet, William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878),
although neither is in the style that
characterizes his nature verse. He wrote "To a
Waterfowl" in 1815. When he had completed his
study of law, he set out on foot to find a
village where he might begin work as a lawyer.
He was poor and without friends. At the end of
a day's journey, when he began to feel
discouraged, he saw a wild duck flying alone
high in the sky. Then the thought came to him
that he would be guided aright, just as the
bird was, and he wrote "To a Waterfowl," the
most artistic of all his poems. The poem is
suitable for the seventh or eighth grade.
TO A WATERFOWL
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast--
The desert and illimitable air--
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
355
Bryant wrote this poem in 1849 after he had
been planting fruit trees on his country place
on Long Island.
THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Come, let us plant the apple-tree.
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade:
Wide let its hollow bed be made;
There gently lay the roots, and there
Sift the dark mould with kindly care,
And press it o'er them tenderly,
As, round the sleeping infant's feet,
We softly fold the cradle-sheet;
So plant we the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Buds, which the breath of summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;
Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,
Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest;
We plant, upon the sunny lea,
A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,
When we plant the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs
To load the May-wind's restless wings,
When, from the orchard row, he pours
Its fragrance through our open doors;
A world of blossoms for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room,
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,
We plant with the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop, when gentle airs come by,
That fan the blue September sky,
While children come, with cries of glee,
And seek them where the fragrant grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass,
At the foot of the apple-tree.
And when, above this apple-tree,
The winter stars are quivering bright,
And winds go howling through the night,
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth,
Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth,
And guests in prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine
And golden orange of the line,
The fruit of the apple-tree.
The fruitage of this apple-tree
Winds and our flag of stripe and star
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,
Where men shall wonder at the view,
And ask in what fair groves they grew;
And sojourners beyond the sea
Shall think of childhood's careless day,
And long, long hours of summer play,
In the shade of the apple-tree.
Each year shall give this apple-tree
A broader flush of roseate bloom,
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.
The years shall come and pass, but we
Shall hear no longer, where we lie,
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh,
In the boughs of the apple-tree.
And time shall waste this apple-tree.
Oh, when its agèd branches throw
Thin shadows on the ground below,
Shall fraud and force and iron will
Oppress the weak and helpless still?
What shall the tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
Of those who live when length of years
Is wasting this apple-tree?
"Who planted this old apple-tree?"
The children of that distant day
Thus to some agèd man shall say;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,
The gray-haired man shall answer them:
"A poet of the land was he,
Born in the rude but good old times;
'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes,
On planting the apple-tree."
356
The next poem, by the English poet Thomas
Edward Brown (1830-1897), deserves to be
classed with the most beautiful and artistic
verse in our language. Students will notice the
allusion to the biblical tradition that God
walked in the Garden of Eden in the cool of the
evening.
MY GARDEN
THOMAS EDWARD BROWN
A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!
Rose plot,
Fringed pool,
Ferned grot--
The veriest school
Of peace; and yet the fool
Contends that God is not--
Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?
Nay, but I have a sign;
'T is very sure God walks in mine.
357
William Wordsworth (1770-1850) ranks very high
among English poets. He endeavored to bring
poetry close to actual life and to get rid of
the stilted language of conventional verse. The
struggle was long and difficult, but Wordsworth
lived long enough to know that the world had
realized his greatness. Many of his poems are
suitable for use with children. Their
simplicity, their directness, and their utter
sincerity made many of them, while not written
especially for the young, seem as if directly
addressed to the childlike mind. "We are
Seven," "Lucy Gray," and "Michael" belong to
this number, as do the two masterpieces among
short poems which are quoted here. "How many
people," exclaims Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes,
"have been waked to a quicker consciousness of
life by Wordsworth's simple lines about the
daffodils, and what he says of the thoughts
suggested to him by 'the meanest flower that
blows'!" In both poems the imagery is of the
utmost importance. Through it the reader is
able to put himself with the poet and see
things as the poet saw them. In "The Daffodils"
the flowers, jocund in the breeze, drive away
the melancholy mood with which the poet had
approached them and enable him to carry away a
picture in his memory that can be drawn upon
for help on future occasions of gloom. In "The
Solitary Reaper" the weird and haunting notes
of the song coming to his ear in an unknown
tongue suggest possible ideas back of the
strong feeling which he recognizes in the
singer. Here also, the poet's memory carries
something away,
"The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more."
One of the purposes in teaching poetry should
be to store the mind, not with words only, but
with impressions that may later be recalled to
beautify and strengthen life.
DAFFODILS
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
I wander'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
358
THE SOLITARY REAPER
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh, listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chant
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travelers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago!
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending:
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
359
Lady Norton (1808-1877) does not belong among
the great poets, but she wrote several poems
that were immense favorites with a generation
now passing away. Among them are "Bingen on the
Rhine," "The King of Denmark's Ride" and the
one given below. It will no doubt show that her
work still has power to stir readers of the
present day, although we are likely to think of
her poems as being too emotional or
sentimental. She wrote the words of the very
popular song "Juanita."
THE ARAB TO HIS FAVORITE STEED
CAROLINE E. NORTON
My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by,
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy wingèd speed;
I may not mount on thee again,--thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof,--snuff not the breezy wind,--
The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle-rein,--thy master hath his gold,--
Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell; thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt
sold.
Farewell! those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare,
Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care!
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be;
Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.
Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master's house,--from all of these my exiled one must fly;
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright;--
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I, starting, wake to feel,--thou'rt sold, my Arab steed.
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:
And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought--but no, it cannot be,--
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free:
And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,
Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return?
Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears
Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears;
Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone,
Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;
And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,
"It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!"
When last I saw thee drink!--Away! the fevered dream is o'er,--
I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong,--
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou wast sold?
'T is false!--'t is false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains;
Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains!
360
Robert Southey (1774-1843) was poet laureate of
England, and a most prolific writer of poetry
and miscellaneous prose. His great prominence
in his own day has been succeeded by an
obscurity so complete that only a few items of
his work are now remembered. Among these are
"The Battle of Blenheim," a very brief and
effective satire against war, "The Well of St.
Keyne," a humorous poem based on an old
superstition, and "The Inchcape Rock," a
stirring narrative of how evil deeds return
upon the evil doer. (See also No. 153.)
THE INCHCAPE ROCK
ROBERT SOUTHEY
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was as still as she could be;
Her sails from Heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The holy Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.
When the rock was hid by the surges' swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
The Sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled around,
And there was joyance in their sound.
The buoy of the Inchcape Rock was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph, the Rover, walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess;
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat;
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound;
The bubbles rose, and burst around.
Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock
Will not bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
Sir Ralph, the Rover, sailed away,
He scoured the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plundered store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They cannot see the Sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day;
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand;
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising Moon."
"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?
For yonder, methinks, should be the shore.
Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell."
They hear no sound; the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,--
"O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock."
Sir Ralph, the Rover, tore his hair;
He cursed himself in his despair.
The waves rush in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound he seemed to hear,--
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The Devil below was ringing his knell.
The Shakespeare passages which follow are from
the fairy play "A Midsummer Night's Dream." A
teacher well acquainted with that play would
find it possible to delight children with it.
The fairy and rustic scenes could be given
almost in their entirety, the other scenes
could be summarized.
361
OVER HILL, OVER DALE
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
362
A FAIRY SCENE IN A WOOD
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
FAIRY QUEEN TITANIA (_calls to her_ FAIRIES _following her_)
Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;
Then, for the third part of a minute, hence;
Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds,
Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,
To make my small elves coats, and some keep back
The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders
At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;
Then to your offices and let me rest.
_She lies down to sleep, and the_ FAIRIES _sing as follows_:
You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,
Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby:
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh:
So good-night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence.
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail, do no offence.
Philomel, with melody
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby:
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good-night, with lullaby.
A FAIRY
Hence, away! now all is well:
One aloof stand sentinel.
363
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) is America's
greatest spiritual teacher. His essays, such as
"Self-Reliance" and "The American Scholar," are
his chief claim to fame. The two brief poems
given here are well known. "Fable" should be
studied along with No. 236, since they
emphasize the same lesson that size is after
all a purely relative matter. "Concord Hymn" is
a splendidly dignified expression of the debt
of gratitude we owe to the memory of those who
made our country possible. Of course no reader
will fail to notice the famous last two lines
of the first stanza.
FABLE
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
The mountain and the squirrel
Had a quarrel,
And the former called the latter "Little Prig";
Bun replied,
"You are doubtless very big;
But all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year
And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace
To occupy my place.
If I'm not so large as you,
You are not so small as I,
And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make
A very pretty squirrel track;
Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
If I cannot carry forests on my back,
Neither can you crack a nut!"
364
CONCORD HYMN
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
365
Almost any of the works of Sir Walter Scott
(1771-1832), whether in prose or verse, is
within the range of children in the grades.
Especially the fine ballads, such as
"Lochinvar" and "Allen-a-Dale," are sure to
interest them. Children should be encouraged to
read one of the long story-poems, "The Lady of
the Lake" or "The Lay of the Last Minstrel."
The famous expression of patriotism quoted
below is from the latter poem.
BREATHES THERE THE MAN
SIR WALTER SCOTT
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there be, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
366
When Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894) was
twenty-one years old, he read that the Navy
Department had decided to destroy the old,
unseaworthy frigate "Constitution," which had
become famous in the War of 1812. In one
evening he wrote the poem "Old Ironsides." This
not only made Holmes immediately famous as a
poet, but so aroused the American people that
the Navy Department changed its plans and
rebuilt the ship.
OLD IRONSIDES
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar:--
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;--
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!
367
William Collins (1721-1759), English poet,
wrote only a few poems, but among them is this
short dirge which keeps his name alive in
popular memory. It was probably in honor of his
countrymen who fell at Fontenoy in 1745, the
year before its composition. Its austere
brevity, its well-known personifications, its
freedom from fulsome expressions, place it very
high among patriotic utterances.
HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE
WILLIAM COLLINS
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
368
The anonymous ballad dealing with the familiar
story of Nathan Hale, of Revolutionary times,
is the nearest approach to the old folk ballad
in our history. Its repetitions help it in
catching something of the breathless suspense
accompanying his daring effort, betrayal, and
execution. The pathos of the closing incidents
of Hale's career has attracted the tributes of
poets and dramatists. Francis Miles Finch,
author of "The Blue and the Gray," wrote a
well-known poetic account of Hale, while Clyde
Fitch's drama of _Nathan Hale_ had a great
popular success.
THE BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE
The breezes went steadily through the tall pines,
A-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "Oh! hu-ush!"
As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse,
For Hale in the bush; for Hale in the bush.
"Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young,
In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road.
"For the tyrants are near, and with them appear
What bodes us no good; what bodes us no good."
The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home
In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook;
With mother and sister and memories dear,
He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook.
Cooling shades of the night were coming apace,
The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat.
The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place,
To make his retreat; to make his retreat.
He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves,
As he passed through the wood; as he passed through the wood;
And silently gained his rude launch on the shore,
As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood.
The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night,
Had a murderous will; had a murderous will.
They took him and bore him afar from the shore,
To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill.
No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer,
In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell.
But he trusted in love, from his Father above.
In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well.
An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice,
Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by;
"The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice,
For he must soon die; for he must soon die."
The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,--
The cruel general! the cruel general!--
His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained,
And said that was all; and said that was all.
They took him and bound him and bore him away,
Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side.
'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array,
His cause did deride; his cause did deride.
Five minutes were given, short moments, no more,
For him to repent; for him to repent.
He prayed for his mother, he asked not another,
To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went.
The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed,
As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage.
And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood,
As his words do presage; as his words do presage:
"Thou pale King of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,
Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave;
Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe.
No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave."
369
That men of great courage are certain to
recognize and pay tribute to courage in others,
even if those others are their enemies, is the
theme of "The Red Thread of Honor." Sir Francis
Hastings Doyle (1810-1888) wrote two other
stirring poems of action, "The Loss of the
Birkenhead" and "The Private of the Buffs."
THE RED THREAD OF HONOR
FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE
Eleven men of England
A breastwork charged in vain;
Eleven men of England
Lie stripp'd, and gash'd, and slain.
Slain; but of foes that guarded
Their rock-built fortress well,
Some twenty had been mastered,
When the last soldier fell.
The robber-chief mused deeply,
Above those daring dead;
"Bring here," at length he shouted,
"Bring quick, the battle thread.
Let Eblis blast forever
Their souls, if Allah will:
But we must keep unbroken
The old rules of the Hill.
"Before the Ghiznee tiger
Leapt forth to burn and slay;
Before the holy Prophet
Taught our grim tribes to pray;
Before Secunder's lances
Pierced through each Indian glen;
The mountain laws of honor
Were framed for fearless men.
"Still, when a chief dies bravely,
We bind with green one wrist--
Green for the brave, for heroes
One crimson thread we twist.
Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen,
For these, whose life has fled,
Which is the fitting color,
The green one, or the red?"
"Our brethren, laid in honor'd graves, may wear
Their green reward," each noble savage said;
"To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear,
Who dares deny the red?"
Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right,
Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came;
Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height
Rolled back its loud acclaim.
Once more the chief gazed keenly
Down on those daring dead;
From his good sword their heart's blood
Crept to that crimson thread.
Once more he cried, "The judgment,
Good friends, is wise and true,
But though the red be given,
Have we not more to do?
"These were not stirred by anger,
Nor yet by lust made bold;
Renown they thought above them,
Nor did they look for gold.
To them their leader's signal
Was as the voice of God:
Unmoved, and uncomplaining,
The path it showed they trod.
"As, without sound or struggle,
The stars unhurrying march,
Where Allah's finger guides them,
Through yonder purple arch,
These Franks, sublimely silent,
Without a quickened breath,
Went, in the strength of duty,
Straight to their goal of death.
"If I were now to ask you,
To name our bravest man,
Ye all at once would answer,
They call'd him Mehrab Khan.
He sleeps among his fathers,
Dear to our native land,
With the bright mark he bled for
Firm round his faithful hand.
"The songs they sing of Roostum
Fill all the past with light;
If truth be in their music,
He was a noble knight.
But were those heroes living,
And strong for battle still,
Would Mehrab Khan or Roostum
Have climbed, like these, the Hill?"
And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave,
As chief, he chose himself what risks to run;
Prince Roostum lied, his forfeit life to save,
Which these had never done."
"Enough!" he shouted fiercely;
"Doomed though they be to hell,
Bind fast the crimson trophy
Round BOTH wrists--bind it well.
Who knows but that great Allah
May grudge such matchless men,
With none so decked in heaven,
To the fiend's flaming den?"
Then all those gallant robbers
Shouted a stern "Amen!"
They raised the slaughter'd sergeant,
They raised his mangled ten.
And when we found their bodies
Left bleaching in the wind,
Around BOTH wrists in glory
That crimson thread was twined.
370
In the year 1897 a great diamond jubilee was
held in England in honor of the completion of
sixty years of rule by Queen Victoria. Many
poems were written for the occasion, most of
which praised the greatness of Britain, the
extent of her dominion, the strength of her
army and navy, and the abundance of her wealth.
The "Recessional" was written for the occasion
by Rudyard Kipling (1865--). It is in the form
of a prayer, but its purpose was to tell the
British that they were forgetting the "God of
our fathers" and putting their trust in wealth
and navies and the "reeking tube and iron
shard" of the cannon. The poem rang through
England like a bugle call and stirred the
British people more deeply than any other poem
of recent times.
RECESSIONAL
RUDYARD KIPLING
God of our fathers, known of old--
Lord of our far flung battle-line--
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies--
The captains and the kings depart--
Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,
A humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
Far-called our navies sink away--
On dune and headland sinks the fire
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe--
Such boasting as the Gentiles use
Or lesser breeds without the law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard--
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard--
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
371
William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) was an
English critic and journalist of great force
and a poet whose verse is full of manliness and
tenderness. His life was a constant and
courageous struggle against disease. The spirit
in which he faced conditions that would have
conquered a weaker man breathes through the
famous poem quoted below. Such a spirit is not
confined to any particular stage of maturity as
represented by years, and many young people
will find themselves buoyed up in the face of
difficulties by coming into touch with the
unconquered and unconquerable voice in this
poem. The last two lines in particular are
often quoted.
INVICTUS
WILLIAM E. HENLEY
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud:
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
372
James Russell Lowell (1819-1891) is a poet of
such high idealisms that many of his poems seem
to form the natural heritage of youth. Among
such are "The Vision of Sir Launfal," "The
Present Crisis," "The Fatherland," and
"Aladdin." "The Falcon" is not so well known as
any of these, but its fine image for the seeker
after truth should appeal to most children of
upper grades. "The Shepherd of King Admetus" is
a very attractive poetizing of an old myth (see
No. 261) and lets us see something of how the
public looks upon its poets and other artistic
folk.
THE FALCON
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
I know a falcon swift and peerless
As e'er was cradled in the pine;
No bird had ever eye so fearless,
Or wing so strong as this of mine.
The winds not better love to pilot
A cloud with molten gold o'errun,
Than him, a little burning islet,
A star above the coming sun.
For with a lark's heart he doth tower,
By a glorious upward instinct drawn;
No bee nestles deeper in the flower
Than he in the bursting rose of dawn.
No harmless dove, no bird that singeth,
Shudders to see him overhead;
The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth
To innocent hearts no thrill of dread.
Let fraud and wrong and baseness shiver,
For still between them and the sky
The falcon Truth hangs poised forever
And marks them with his vengeful eye.
373
THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
There came a youth upon the earth,
Some thousand years ago,
Whose slender hands were nothing worth,
Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.
Upon an empty tortoise-shell
He stretched some chords, and drew
Music that made men's bosoms swell
Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.
Then King Admetus, one who had
Pure taste by right divine,
Decreed his singing not too bad
To hear between the cups of wine:
And so, well pleased with being soothed
Into a sweet half-sleep,
Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,
And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.
His words were simple words enough,
And yet he used them so,
That what in other mouths was rough
In his seemed musical and low.
Men called him but a shiftless youth,
In whom no good they saw;
And yet, unwittingly, in truth,
They made his careless words their law.
They knew not how he learned at all,
For idly, hour by hour,
He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
Or mused upon a common flower.
It seemed the loveliness of things
Did teach him all their use,
For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,
He found a healing power profuse.
Men granted that his speech was wise,
But, when a glance they caught
Of his slim grace and woman's eyes,
They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.
Yet after he was dead and gone,
And e'en his memory dim,
Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,
More full of love, because of him.
And day by day more holy grew
Each spot where he had trod,
Till after-poets only knew
Their first-born brother as a god.
374
Sir William S. Gilbert (1837-1911), an English
dramatist, is known to us as the librettist of
the popular Gilbert and Sullivan operas, _The
Mikado_, _Pinafore_, etc. In his earlier days
he wrote a book of humorous poetry called _The
Bab Ballads_. Many of these still please
readers who like a little nonsense now and then
of a supremely ridiculous type. "The Yarn of
the Nancy Bell" is a splendid take-off on
"travelers' tales," and is not likely to
deceive anyone. However, Gilbert said that when
he sent the poem to _Punch_, the editor made
objection to its extremely cannibalistic
nature!
THE YARN OF THE NANCY BELL
WILLIAM S. GILBERT
'Twas on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Ramsgate span,
That I found alone on a piece of stone
An elderly naval man.
His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
And weedy and long was he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:
"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,
Till I really felt afraid,
For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I simply said:
"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I'll eat my hand if I understand
However you can be
"At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,
And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun this painful yarn:
"'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell
That we sailed to the Indian Sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.
"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned
(There was seventy-seven o' soul),
And only ten of the Nancy's men
Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.
"There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig.
"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,
Till a-hungry we did feel,
So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot
The captain for our meal.
"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.
"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig;
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.
"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, 'Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,
And we argued it out as sich.
"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,
And the cook he worshipped me;
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed
In the other chap's hold, you see.
"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom;
'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,'--
'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I;
And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.
"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do;
For don't you see that you can't cook me,
While I can--and will--cook _you_!'
"So he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper in portions true
(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,
And some sage and parsley, too.
"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features tell,
''T will soothing be if I let you see
How extremely nice you'll smell.'
"And he stirred it round and round and round
And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels and smothers his squeals
In the scum of the boiling broth.
"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And--as I eating be
The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,
For a wessel in sight I see!
* * * * *
"'And I never larf, and never smile,
And I never lark nor play,
But sit and croak, and a single joke
I have--which is to say:
"'Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig!'"
375
John T. Trowbridge (1827-1916) is one of the
important figures in modern literature for
young folks. He wrote a popular series of books
for them beginning with _Cudjo's Cave_, and
many poems, the most famous of which are "The
Vagabonds" and the one given below.
Trowbridge's autobiography will interest
children with its story of a literary life
devoted to the problems of their entertainment.
"Darius Green and His Flying Machine" first
appeared in _Our Young Folks_ in 1867. It is to
be read for its fun--fun of dialect, fun of
character, and fun of incident. If it has any
lesson, it must be that dreamers may come to
grief unless they have some plain practical
common sense to balance their enthusiasm!
DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING MACHINE
JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE
If ever there lived a Yankee lad,
Wise or otherwise, good or bad,
Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump
With flapping arms from stake or stump,
Or, spreading the tail of his coat for a sail,
Take a soaring leap from post or rail,
And wonder why he couldn't fly,
And flap and flutter and wish and try,--
If ever you knew a country dunce
Who didn't try that as often as once,
All I can say is, that's a sign
He never would do for a hero of mine.
An aspiring genius was D. Green;
The son of a farmer,--age fourteen;
His body was long and lank and lean,--
Just right for flying, as will be seen;
He had two eyes as bright as a bean,
And a freckled nose that grew between,
A little awry;--for I must mention
That he had riveted his attention
Upon his wonderful invention,
Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings,
And working his face as he worked the wings,
And with every turn of gimlet and screw
Turning and screwing his mouth round too,
Till his nose seemed bent to catch the scent,
Around some corner, of new-baked pies,
And his wrinkled cheek and his squinting eyes
Grew puckered into a queer grimace,
That made him look very droll in the face,
And also very wise.
And wise he must have been, to do more
Than ever a genius did before,
Excepting Daedalus of yore
And his son Icarus, who wore
Upon their backs those wings of wax
He had read of in the old almanacs.
Darius was clearly of the opinion,
That the air was also man's dominion,
And that with paddle or fin or pinion,
We soon or late should navigate
The azure as now we sail the sea.
The thing looks simple enough to me;
And, if you doubt it,
Hear how Darius reasoned about it:
"The birds can fly, an' why can't I?
Must we give in," says he with a grin,
"'T the bluebird an' phoebe are smarter'n we be?
Jest fold our hands, an' see the swaller
An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler?
Does the leetle chatterin', sassy wren,
No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men?
Jest show me that! er prove 't bat
Hez got more brains than's in my hat,
An' I'll back down, an' not till then!"
He argued further: "Ner I can't see
What's the use o' wings to a bumble-bee,
Fer to git a livin' with, more'n to me;--
Ain't my business importanter'n his'n is?
That Icarus was a silly cuss,--
Him an' his daddy Daedalus;
They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax
Wouldn't stan' sun-heat an' hard whacks:
I'll make mine o' luther, er suthin' er other."
And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned:
"But I ain't goin' to show my hand
To nummies that never can understand
The fust idee that's big an' grand.
They'd 'a' laft an' made fun
O' Creation itself afore it was done!"
So he kept his secret from all the rest,
Safely buttoned within his vest;
And in the loft above the shed
Himself he locks, with thimble and thread
And wax and hammer and buckles and screws,
And all such things as geniuses use;--
Two bats for patterns, curious fellows!
A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;
An old hoop-skirt or two, as well as
Some wire, and several old umbrellas;
A carriage-cover, for tail and wings;
A piece of harness; and straps and strings;
And a big strong box, in which he locks
These and a hundred other things.
His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke
And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk
Around the corner to see him work,--
Sitting cross-leggèd, like a Turk,
Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk,
And boring the holes with a comical quirk
Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk.
But vainly they mounted each other's backs,
And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks;
With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks
He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks;
And a bucket of water, which one would think
He had brought up into the loft to drink
When he chanced to be dry,
Stood always nigh, for Darius was sly!
And, whenever at work he happened to spy,
At chink or crevice a blinking eye,
He let a dipper of water fly:
"Take that! an', ef ever ye git a peep,
Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!"
And he sings as he locks his big strong box;
"The weasel's head is small an' trim,
An' he is leetle an' long an' slim,
An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb,
An', ef yeou'll be advised by me,
Keep wide awake when ye're ketching him!"
So day after day
He stitched and tinkered and hammered away,
Till at last 'twas done,--
The greatest invention under the sun.
"An' now," says Darius, "hooray fer some fun!"
'Twas the Fourth of July, and the weather was dry,
And not a cloud was on all the sky,
Save a few light fleeces, which here and there,
Half mist, half air,
Like foam on the ocean went floating by,
Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen
For a nice little trip in a flying-machine.
Thought cunning Darius, "Now I shan't go
Along 'ith the fellers to see the show:
I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough!
An' then, when the folks have all gone off,
I'll hev full swing fer to try the thing,
An' practyse a little on the wing."
"Ain't goin' to see the celebration?"
Says brother Nate. "No; botheration!
I've got sich a cold--a toothache--I--
My gracious! feel's though I should fly!"
Said Jotham, "Sho! guess ye better go."
But Darius said, "No!
Shouldn't wonder 'f yeou might see me, though,
'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red
O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain in my head."
For all the while to himself he said,--
"I tell ye what!
I'll fly a few times around the lot,
To see how 't seems; then soon's I've got
The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not,
I'll astonish the nation, an' all creation,
By flying over the celebration!
Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle;
I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull;
I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stan' on the steeple;
I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people!
I'll light on the libbe'ty-pole, an' crow;
An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below,
'What world's this here that I've come near?'
Fer I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm the moon;
An' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' balloon!"
He crept from his bed;
And, seeing the others were gone, he said,
"I'm a-gittin' over the cold 'n my head."
And away he sped,
To open the wonderful box in the shed.
His brothers had walked but a little way,
When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say,
"What on airth is he up to, hey?"
"Don'o',--the's suthin' er other to pay,
Er he wouldn't 'a' stayed to hum to-day."
Says Burke, "His toothache's all'n his eye!
He never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July,
Ef he hadn't got some machine to try."
Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn!
Le's hurry back, an' hide'n the barn,
An' pay him fer tellin' us that yarn!"
"Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back,
Along by the fences, behind the stack,
And one by one, through a hole in the wall,
In under the dusty barn they crawl,
Dressed in their Sunday garments all;
And a very astonishing sight was that,
When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat
Came up through the floor like an ancient rat.
And there they hid; and Reuben slid
The fastenings back, and the door undid.
"Keep dark," said he,
"While I squint an' see what the' is to see."
As knights of old put on their mail,--
From head to foot in an iron suit,
Iron jacket and iron boot,
Iron breeches, and on the head
No hat, but an iron pot instead,
And under the chin the bail,--
(I believe they call the thing a helm,--)
And, thus accoutred, they took the field,
Sallying forth to overwhelm
The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm;
So this modern knight prepared for flight,
Put on his wings and strapped them tight--
Jointed and jaunty, strong and light,--
Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip,--
Ten feet they measured from tip to tip!
And a helm he had, but that he wore,
Not on his head, like those of yore,
But more like the helm of a ship.
"Hush!" Reuben said, "he's up in the shed!
He's opened the winder,--I see his head!
He stretches it out, an' pokes it about
Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear,
An' nobody near;--
Guess he don'o' who's hid in here!
He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill!
Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still!
He's climbin' out now--Of all the things!
What's he got on? I vum, it's wings!
An' that t'other thing? I vum, it's a tail!
And there he sets like a hawk on a rail!
Steppin' careful, he travels the length
Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength,
Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat;
Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that,
Fer to see 'f the's anyone passin' by;
But the's o'ny a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh.
They turn up at him a wonderin' eye,
To see--The dragon! he's goin' to fly!
Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump!
Flop--flop--an' plump to the ground with a thump!
Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin', all'n a lump!"
As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear,
Heels over head, to his proper sphere,--
Heels over head, and head over heels,
Dizzily down the abyss he wheels,--
So fell Darius. Upon his crown,
In the midst of the barnyard, he came down,
In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings,
Broken braces and broken springs,
Broken tail and broken wings,
Shooting stars, and various things,--
Barnyard litter of straw and chaff,
And much that wasn't so sweet by half.
Away with a bellow flew the calf,
And what was that? Did the gosling laugh?
'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door,
And he hears the voice of Jotham crying;
"Say, D'rius! how de yeou like flyin'?"
Slowly, ruefully, where he lay,
Darius just turned and looked that way,
As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff,
"Wal, I like flyin' well enough,"
He said, "but the' ain't sich a thunderin' sight
O' fun in't when ye come to light."
I just have room for the MORAL here:
And this is the moral,--Stick to your sphere;
Or, if you insist, as you have the right,
On spreading your wings for a loftier flight,
The moral is,--Take care how you light.
376
The poem of "Beth Gêlert" (Grave of Gêlert) is
really a verse version of an old folk story
that has localized itself in many places over
the world. In Wales they can show you where
Gêlert is buried, which illustrates how such a
favorite story takes hold of the popular mind.
The poem by William Robert Spencer (1769-1834)
has so much of the spirit of the old ballads
which it imitates that it was believed at first
to be a genuine example of one.
BETH GÊLERT
WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER
The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Obeyed Llewellyn's horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a lustier cheer,
"Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last
Llewellyn's horn to hear.
"Oh, where does faithful Gêlert roam.
The flow'r of all his race,
So true, so brave,--a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?"
'Twas only at Llewellyn's board
The faithful Gêlert fed;
He watched, he served, he cheered his lord,
And sentineled his bed.
In sooth he was a peerless hound,
The gift of royal John;
But now no Gêlert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
And now, as o'er the rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
The many-mingled cries!
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart and hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gêlert was not there.
Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal seat,
His truant Gêlert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.
But, when he gained his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound all o'er was smeared with gore;
His lips, his fangs, ran blood.
Llewellyn gazed with fierce surprise;
Unused such looks to meet,
His favorite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched, and licked his feet.
Onward, in haste, Llewellyn passed,
And on went Gêlert too;
And still, where'er his eyes he cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained covert rent;
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
He called his child,--no voice replied--
He searched with terror wild;
Blood, blood he found on every side,
But nowhere found his child.
"Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured,"
The frantic father cried;
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gêlert's side.
His suppliant looks, as prone he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gêlert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh:
What words the parent's joy could tell,
To hear his infant's cry!
Concealed beneath a tumbled heap
His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kissed.
Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.
Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear;
His gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewellyn's heir:
Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic blow which laid thee low
This heart shall ever rue."
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles storied with his praise
Poor Gêlert's bones protect.
There, never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;
There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And there he hung his horn and spear,
And there, as evening fell,
In fancy's ear he oft would hear
Poor Gêlert's dying yell.
And, till great Snowdon's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of "Gêlert's Grave."
377
This old ballad is one of the best of the
humorous type. Many old stories turn upon some
such riddling series of questions, generally
three in number, to which unexpected answers
come from an unexpected quarter. Of course the
questions are intended to be unanswerable. As a
matter of fact they are, but a clever person
may discover a riddling answer to a riddling
question. King John bows, not to a master in
knowledge, but to a master in cleverness.
KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY
An ancient story I'll tell you anon
Of a notable prince, that was called King John;
And he ruled England with maine and with might,
For he did great wrong and maintein'd little right.
And I'll tell you a story, a story so merrye,
Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye;
How for his house-keeping and high renowne,
They rode poste for him to fair London towne.
An hundred men, the king did heare say,
The abbot kept in his house every day;
And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt,
In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
"How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,
Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,
And for thy house-keeping and high renowne,
I fear thou work'st treason against my crown."
"My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne,
I never spend nothing but what is my owne;
And I trust your grace will do me no deere
For spending of my owne true-gotten geere."
"Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,
And now for the same thou needest must dye;
For except thou canst answer me questions three,
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
"And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead,
With my crown of golde so faire on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
"Secondlye tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride the whole worlde about.
And at the third question thou must not shrinke,
But tell me here truly what I do thinke."
"O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet;
But if you will give me but three weekes space,
I'll do my endeavour to answer your grace."
"Now three weekes space to thee will I give,
And that is the longest thou hast to live;
For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
Thy lands and thy living are forfeit to mee."
Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,
And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,
And he mett his shephard a-going to fold:
"How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;
What newes do you bring us from good King John?"
"Sad newes, sad newes, shephard, I must give;
That I have but three days more to live:
For if I do not answer him questions three,
My head will be smitten from my bodie.
"The first is to tell him there in that stead,
With his crowne of golde so faire on his head,
Among all his liege-men so noble of birthe,
To within one penny of what he is worthe.
"The seconde, to tell him without any doubt,
How soone he may ride this whole worlde about:
And at the third question I must not shrinke,
But tell him there truly what he does thinke."
"Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet
That a fool he may learn a wise man witt?
Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,
And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.
"Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
I am like your lordship, as ever may bee;
And if you will but lend me your gowne,
There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne."
"Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave;
With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope,
Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope."
"Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say,
"'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day:
For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
"And, first, when thou see'st me here in this stead,
With my crown of golde so fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Tell me to one penny what I am worthe."
"For thirty pence our Saviour was sold
Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told:
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,
For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than Hee."
The king he laugh'd, and swore by St. Bittel,
"I did not think I had been worth so littel!
--Now secondly, tell me, without any doubt,
How soone I may ride this whole world about."
"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same,
Until the next morning he riseth againe;
And then your grace need not make any doubt,
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
The king he laugh'd, and swore by St. Jone,
"I did not think it could be done so soone!
--Now from the third question you must not shrinke,
But tell me here truly what I do thinke."
"Yes, that shall I do and make your grace merry:
You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterburye;
But I'm his poor shephard, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee."
The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
"I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!"
"Now nay, my liege, be not in such speede,
For alacke I can neither write, ne reade."
"Four nobles a weeke, then, I will give thee,
For this merry jest thou hast showne unto me;
And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,
Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."
SECTION VIII
REALISTIC STORIES
BIBLIOGRAPHY
ARRANGED CHRONOLOGICALLY AS A BASIS FOR TRACING THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE
REALISTIC STORY FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
Most of the authors in the following list wrote
other books of a realistic nature, in some
cases greater books than the one mentioned. The
book named is usually the first important one
in this field by its author and has, therefore,
unusual historical value.
1765. Goldsmith, Oliver, _The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes_.
1783-1789. Day, Thomas, _The History of Sandford and Merton_.
1792-1796. Aikin, Dr. John, and Barbauld, Mrs. L. E., _Evenings
at Home_.
[?]-1795. More, Hannah, _The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain_.
1796-1800. Edgeworth, Maria, _The Parent's Assistant, or Stories
for Children_.
1808. Lamb, Mary and Charles, _Mrs. Leicester's School_.
1818. Sherwood, Mrs. M. M., _The History of the Fairchild Family_.
1840. Dana, Richard Henry, _Two Years Before the Mast_.
1841. Martineau, Harriet, _The Crofton Boys_.
1856. Yonge, Charlotte M., _The Daisy Chain_.
1857. Hughes, Thomas, _Tom Brown's School Days_.
1863. Whitney, Mrs. A. D. T., _Faith Gartney's Girlhood_.
1864. Trowbridge, J. T., _Cudjo's Cave_.
1865. Dodge, Mary Mapes, _Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates_.
1867. Kaler, James Otis, _Toby Tyler, or Ten Weeks with a
Circus_.
1868. Alcott, Louisa May, _Little Women_.
1868. Hale, Edward Everett, _The Man without a Country_.
1871. Eggleston, Edward, _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_.
1876. Twain, Mark, _Adventures of Tom Sawyer_.
1878. Jackson, Helen Hunt, _Nelly's Silver Mine_.
1879. Ewing, Juliana Horatia, _Jackanapes_.
1882. Hale, Lucretia P., _Peterkin Papers_.
1883. Stevenson, Robert Louis, _Treasure Island_.
1887. Wiggin, Kate Douglas, _The Birds' Christmas Carol_.
1890. Jewett, Sarah Orne, _Betty Leicester_.
1895. Bennett, John, _Master Skylark_.
1897. Kipling, Rudyard, _Captains Courageous_.
1899. Garland, Hamlin, _Boy Life on the Prairie_.
1906. Stein, Evaleen, _Gabriel and the Hour-Book_.
1908. Montgomery, L. M., _Anne of Green Gables_.
1912. Masefield, John, _Jim Davis_.
1917. Crownfield, Gertrude, _The Little Taylor of the Winding Way_.
1920. Latham, Harold S., _Jimmy Quigg, Office Boy_.
SECTION VIII. REALISTIC STORIES
INTRODUCTORY
_Origin._ The history of realistic stories for children may well begin
with the interest in juvenile education awakened by the great French
teacher and author Rousseau (1712-1778). He taught that formal methods
should be discarded in juvenile education and that children should be
taught to know the things about them. The new method of education is
illustrated, probably unintentionally, in _The Renowned History of
Little Goody Two-Shoes_, the first selection in this section. Rousseau
directly influenced the thought of such writers as Thomas Day, Maria
Edgeworth, Dr. Aiken, and Mrs. Barbauld. The stories produced by these
authors in the last quarter of the eighteenth century are among the
first written primarily for the purpose of entertaining children. To
these writers we are indebted for the creation of types of children's
literature that modern authors have developed into the fascinating
stories of child life, the thrilling stories of adventure, and the
interesting accounts of nature that now abound in libraries and book
stores.
_The didactic period._ When we read these first stories written for the
entertainment of children, we can hardly fail to observe that each one
presents a lesson, either moral or practical. The didactic purpose is so
prominent that the term "Didactic Period" may be applied to the period
from 1765 (the publication of _Goody Two-Shoes_) to 1825, or even later.
The small amount of writing for children before this period was
practically all for the purpose of moral or religious instruction; hence
it was but natural for these first writers of juvenile entertainment
stories to feel it their duty to present moral and practical lessons. It
would be a mistake, however, to assume that these quaint old stories
would not be interesting to children today, for they deal with
fundamental truths, which are new and interesting to children of all
ages.
In addition to the writers already mentioned, and represented by
selections in the following pages, there were several others whose books
are yet accessible and now and then read for their historical interest
if not for any intrinsic literary value they may possess. One of these
was Mrs. Sarah K. Trimmer (1741-1810), who, associated with the early
days of the Sunday-school movement, wrote many books full of the
overwrought piety which was supposed to be necessary for children of
that earlier time. One of her books, _The History of the Robins_, stands
out from the mass for its strong appeal of simple incident, and is still
widely popular with very young readers. Hannah More (1745-1833) occupied
a prominent place in the thought of her day as a teacher of religious
and social ideas among the poorer classes. Her _Repository Tracts_, many
of them in the form of stories, were devoted to making the poor
contented with their lot through the consolations of a pious life. "The
Shepherd of Salisbury Plain" was the most famous of these story-tracts,
and there are still many people living whose childhood was fed upon this
and like stories. Mrs. Sherwood's _History of the Fairchild Family_ has
never been out of print since the date of its first publication (1818),
and in recent years has had two or three sumptuous revivals at the hands
of editors and publishers. The almost innumerable books of Jacob Abbott
and S. G. Goodrich ("Peter Parley") in America belong to this didactic
movement. They were, however, more devoted to the process of instilling
a knowledge of all the wonders of this great world round about us, and
were considerably less pietistic than their English neighbors. _The
Rollo Books_ (24 vols.) are typical of this school.
_The modern period._ Charles Lamb apparently was one of the first to get
the modern thought that literature for children should be just as
artistic, just as dignified in its presentation of truth, and just as
worthy of literary recognition, as literature for adults. In the hundred
years since Lamb advanced his theory, students have gradually come to
recognize the fact that good literature for children is also good
literature for adults because art is art, whatever its form. In this
connection, Lamb's feeling about the necessity for making children's
books more vital found expression in a famous and much-quoted passage in
a letter to Coleridge:
"_Goody Two-Shoes_ is almost out of print. Mrs.
Barbauld's stuff has banished all the old
classics of the nursery; and the shopman at
Newbery's hardly deigned to reach them off an
old exploded corner of a shelf, when Mary asked
for them. Mrs. B.'s and Mrs. Trimmer's nonsense
lay in piles about. Knowledge insignificant and
vapid as Mrs. Barbauld's books convey, it seems
must come to a child in the _shape of
knowledge_, and his empty noodle must be turned
with conceit of his own powers when he has
learnt that a horse is an animal, and Billy is
better than a horse, and such like; instead of
that beautiful interest in wild tales, which
made the child a man, while all the while he
suspected himself to be no bigger than a child.
Science has succeeded to poetry no less in the
little walks of children than with men. Is
there no possibility of averting this sore
evil? Think what you would have been now, if,
instead of being fed with tales and old wives'
fables in childhood, you had been crammed with
geography and natural history!"
The danger Lamb saw was averted. The bibliography on a preceding page
indicates that about the middle of the nineteenth century many writers
of first-rate literary ability began to write for young people. Among
the number were Harriet Martineau, Captain Marryat, Charlotte M. Yonge,
Thomas Hughes, and others. As we pass toward the end of that century and
the beginning of the twentieth, the great names associated with juvenile
classics are very noticeable, and with Miss Alcott, Mrs. Ewing, "Mark
Twain," Stevenson, Kipling, Masefield, and a kindred host, childhood has
come into its own.
SUGGESTIONS FOR READING
For tracing the stages in the development of
writing for children consult the books named in
the General Bibliography (p. 17, II,
"Historical Development.")
378
Among those authors of the past whom the
present still regards affectionately, Oliver
Goldsmith (1728-1774) holds a high place. At
least five of his works--a novel, a poem, a
play, a book of essays, a nursery story--rank
as classics. He had many faults; he was vain,
improvident almost beyond belief, certainly
dissipated throughout a part of his life. But
with all these faults he had the saving grace
of humor, a kind heart that led him to share
even his last penny with one in need, a genius
for friendships that united him with such men
as Burke and Johnson and Reynolds. Always "hard
up," he wrote much as a publisher's "hack" in
order merely to live. It was in this capacity
that he probably wrote the famous story that
follows--a story that stands at the beginning
of the long and constantly broadening current
of modern literature for children. While it has
generally been attributed to Goldsmith, no
positive evidence of his authorship has been
discovered. It was published at a time when he
was in the employ of John Newbery, the London
publisher, who issued many books for children.
We know that Goldsmith helped with the _Mother
Goose's Melody_ and other projects of Newbery,
and there are many reasons for supposing that
the general attribution of _Goody Two-Shoes_ to
him may be correct. Charles Welsh, who edited
the best recent edition for schools, says it
"will always deserve a place among the classics
of childhood for its literary merit, the purity
and loftiness of its tone, and its sound sense,
while the whimsical, confidential, affectionate
style which the author employs, makes it
attractive even to children who have long since
passed the spelling-book stage." The version
that follows has been shortened by the omission
of passages that have less importance for the
modern child than they may have had for that of
the eighteenth century. The story is thus
rendered more compact, and contains nothing to
draw attention away from the fine qualities
mentioned above. The quaint phrasing of the
title, in itself one of the proofs of
Goldsmith's authorship, furnishes a good
comment on the meaning of the story: "The
history of little Goody Two-Shoes/otherwise
called Mrs. Margery Two-Shoes/the means by
which she acquired her learning and wisdom, and
in consequence thereof her estate; set forth at
large for the benefit of those/
Who from a state of Rags and Care,
And having Shoes but half a Pair;
Their Fortune and their fame would fix,
And gallop in a Coach and Six."
[For the benefit of those who may overlook the
point, it may be explained that "Mrs." was
formerly used as a term of dignified courtesy
applied to both married and unmarried women.]
THE RENOWNED HISTORY OF LITTLE GOODY TWO-SHOES
ASCRIBED TO OLIVER GOLDSMITH
All the world must allow that Two-Shoes was not her real name. No; her
father's name was Meanwell, and he was for many years a considerable
farmer in the parish where Margery was born; but by the misfortunes
which he met with in business, and the wicked persecutions of Sir
Timothy Gripe, and an overgrown farmer called Graspall, he was
effectually ruined. These men turned the farmer, his wife, Little
Margery, and her brother out of doors, without any of the necessaries of
life to support them.
Care and discontent shortened the days of Little Margery's father. He
was seized with a violent fever, and died miserably. Margery's poor
mother survived the loss of her husband but a few days, and died of a
broken heart, leaving Margery and her little brother to the wide world.
It would have excited your pity and done your heart good to have seen
how fond these two little ones were of each other, and how, hand in
hand, they trotted about.
They were both very ragged, and Tommy had no shoes, and Margery had but
one. They had nothing, poor things, to support them but what they picked
from the hedges or got from the poor people, and they lay every night in
a barn. Their relatives took no notice of them; no, they were rich, and
ashamed to own such a poor little ragged girl as Margery and such a
dirty little curl-pated boy as Tommy. But such wicked folks, who love
nothing but money and are proud and despise the poor, never come to any
good in the end, as we shall see by and by.
Mr. Smith was a very worthy clergyman who lived in the parish where
Little Margery and Tommy were born; and having a relative come to see
him, he sent for these children. The gentleman ordered Little Margery a
new pair of shoes, gave Mr. Smith some money to buy her clothes, and
said he would take Tommy and make him a little sailor.
The parting between these two little children was very affecting. Tommy
cried, and Margery cried, and they kissed each other an hundred times.
At last Tommy wiped off her tears with the end of his jacket, and bid
her cry no more, for he would come to her again when he returned from
sea.
As soon as Little Margery got up the next morning, which was very early,
she ran all round the village, crying for her brother; and after some
time returned greatly distressed. However, at this instant, the
shoemaker came in with the new shoes, for which she had been measured by
the gentleman's order.
Nothing could have supported Little Margery under the affliction she was
in for the loss of her brother but the pleasure she took in her two
shoes. She ran out to Mrs. Smith as soon as they were put on, and,
stroking down her ragged apron, cried out, "Two shoes, mamma, see, two
shoes!"
And she so behaved to all the people she met, and by that means obtained
the name of Goody Two-Shoes, though her playmates called her Old Goody
Two-Shoes.
Little Margery was very happy in being with Mr. and Mrs. Smith, who were
very charitable and good to her, and had agreed to breed her up with
their family. But at last they were obliged to send her away, for the
people who had ruined her father commanded them to do this, and could at
any time have ruined them.
Little Margery saw how good and how wise Mr. Smith was, and concluded
that this was owing to his great learning; therefore she wanted, of all
things, to learn to read. For this purpose she used to meet the little
boys and girls as they came from school, borrow their books, and sit
down and read till they returned. By this means she soon got more
learning than any of her playmates, and laid the following scheme for
instructing those who were more ignorant than herself. She found that
only the following letters were required to spell all the words in the
world; but as some of these letters are large and some small, she with
her knife cut out of several pieces of wood ten sets of each of these:
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z
And six sets of these:
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
And having got an old spelling-book, she made her companions set up all
the words they wanted to spell, and after that she taught them to
compose sentences. You know what a sentence is, my dear. _I will be
good_, is a sentence; and is made up, as you see, of several words.
Every morning she used to go round to teach the children, with these
rattletraps in a basket. I once went her rounds with her. It was about
seven o'clock in the morning when we set out on this important business,
and the first house we came to was Farmer Wilson's. Here Margery
stopped, and ran up to the door, tap, tap, tap.
"Who's there?"
"Only little Goody Two-Shoes," answered Margery, "come to teach Billy."
"Oh! little Goody," said Mrs. Wilson, with pleasure in her face, "I am
glad to see you. Billy wants you sadly, for he has learned all his
lesson."
Then out came the little boy. "How do, Doody Two-Shoes," said he, not
able to speak plain. Yet this little boy had learned all his letters;
for she threw down this alphabet mixed together thus:
b d f h k m o q s u w y z a c e g i l n p r t v x j
and he picked them up, called them by their right names, and put them
all in order thus:
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z.
The next place we came to was Farmer Simpson's. "Bow, bow, bow," said
the dog at the door.
"Sirrah," said his mistress, "why do you bark at Little Two-Shoes? Come
in, Madge; here, Sally wants you sadly; she has learned all her lesson."
Then out came the little one.
"So, Madge!" says she.
"So, Sally!" answered the other. "Have you learned your lesson?"
"Yes, that's what I have," replied the little one in the country manner;
and immediately taking the letters she set up these syllables:
ba be bi bo bu, ca ce ci co cu,
da de di do du, fa fe fi fo fu,
and gave them their exact sounds as she composed them.
After this, Little Two-Shoes taught her to spell words of one syllable,
and she soon set up pear, plum, top, ball, pin, puss, dog, hog, fawn,
buck, doe, lamb, sheep, ram, cow, bull, cock, hen, and many more.
The next place we came to was Gaffer Cook's cottage. Here a number of
poor children were met to learn. They all came round Little Margery at
once; and, having pulled out her letters, she asked the little boy next
her what he had for dinner. He answered, "Bread." (The poor children in
many places live very hard.) "Well, then," said she, "set the first
letter."
He put up the letter _B_, to which the next added _r_, and the next _e_,
the next _a_, the next _d_ and it stood thus, "_Bread_".
"And what had you, Polly Comb, for your dinner?" "Apple-pie," answered
the little girl: upon which the next in turn set up a great _A_, the two
next a _p_ each, and so on until the two words _Apple_ and _pie_ were
united and stood thus, "_Apple-pie_."
The next had Potatoes, the next Beef and Turnips, which were spelt, with
many others, until the game of spelling was finished. She then set them
another task, and we went on.
The next place we came to was Farmer Thompson's, where there were a
great many little ones waiting for her.
"So, little Mrs. Goody Two-Shoes," said one of them. "Where have you
been so long?"
"I have been teaching," says she, "longer than I intended, and am afraid
I am come too soon for you now."
"No, but indeed you are not," replied the other, "for I have got my
lesson, and so has Sally Dawson, and so has Harry Wilson, and so have we
all"; and they capered about as if they were overjoyed to see her.
"Why, then," says she, "you are all very good, and God Almighty will
love you; so let us begin our lesson."
They all huddled round her, and though at the other place they were
employed about words and syllables, here we had people of much greater
understanding, who dealt only in sentences.
_The Lord have mercy upon me, and grant I may always be good, and say my
prayers, and love the Lord my God with all my heart, and with all my
soul, and with all my strength; and honor government and all good men in
authority._
Little Margery then set them to compose the following:
LESSON FOR THE CONDUCT OF LIFE
He that will thrive
Must rise by five.
He that hath thriv'n
May lie till seven.
Truth may be blamed,
But cannot be shamed.
Tell me with whom you go,
And I'll tell what you do.
A friend in your need
Is a friend indeed.
They ne'er can be wise
Who good counsel despise.
As we were returning home, we saw a gentleman, who was very ill, sitting
under a shady tree at the corner of his rookery. Though ill, he began to
joke with Little Margery, and said laughing, "So, Goody Two-Shoes! They
tell me you are a cunning little baggage; pray, can you tell me what I
shall do to get well?"
"Yes," said she, "go to bed when your rooks do and get up with them in
the morning; earn, as they do, every day what you eat, and eat and drink
no more than you earn, and you will get health and keep it."
The gentleman, laughing, gave Margery sixpence, and told her she was a
sensible hussy.
Mrs. Williams, who kept a college for instructing little gentlemen and
ladies in the science of A, B, C, was at this time very old and infirm,
and wanted to decline that important trust. This being told to Sir
William Dove, who lived in the parish, he sent for Mrs. Williams, and
desired she would examine Little Two-Shoes and see whether she was
qualified for the office.
This was done, and Mrs. Williams made the following report in her favor;
namely, that Little Margery was the best scholar, and had the best head
and the best heart of any one she had examined. All the country had a
great opinion of Mrs. Williams, and her words gave them also a great
opinion of Mrs. Margery, for so we must now call her.
No sooner was Mrs. Margery settled in this office than she laid every
possible scheme to promote the welfare and happiness of all her
neighbors, and especially of the little ones, in whom she took great
delight; and all those whose parents could not afford to pay for their
education, she taught for nothing but the pleasure she had in their
company; for you are to observe that they were very good, or were soon
made so by her good management.
The school where she taught was that which was before kept by Mrs.
Williams. The room was large, and as she knew that nature intended
children should be always in action, she placed her different letters,
or alphabets, all round the school, so that every one was obliged to get
up to fetch a letter or spell a word when it came to his turn; which not
only kept them in health but fixed the letters and points firmly in
their minds.
She had the following assistants to help her, and I will tell you how
she came by them. One day as she was going through the next village she
met with some wicked boys who had got a young raven, which they were
going to throw at; she wanted to get the poor creature out of their
cruel hands, and therefore gave them a penny for him, and brought him
home. She called his name Ralph, and a fine bird he was.
Some days after she had met with the raven, as she was walking in the
fields she saw some naughty boys who had taken a pigeon and tied a
string to its leg, in order to let it fly and draw it back again when
they pleased; and by this means they tortured the poor animal with the
hopes of liberty and repeated disappointment. This pigeon she also
bought. He was a very pretty fellow, and she called him Tom.
Some time after this a poor lamb had lost its dam, and the farmer being
about to kill it, she bought it of him and brought it home with her to
play with the children and teach them when to go to bed: for it was a
rule with the wise men of that age (and a very good one, let me tell
you) to
_Rise with the lark and lie down with the lamb._
This lamb she called Will, and a pretty fellow he was.
Soon after this a present was made to Mrs. Margery of a little dog,
Jumper, and a pretty dog he was. Jumper, Jumper, Jumper! He was always
in good humor and playing and jumping about, and therefore he was called
Jumper. The place assigned for Jumper was that of keeping the door, so
that he may be called the porter of the college, for he would let nobody
go out or any one come in without the leave of his mistress.
But one day a dreadful accident happened in the school. It was on a
Thursday morning, I very well remember, when the children having learned
their lessons soon, she had given them leave to play, and they were all
running about the school and diverting themselves with the birds and the
lamb. At this time the dog, all of a sudden, laid hold of his mistress's
apron and endeavored to pull her out of the school. She was at first
surprised; however, she followed him to see what he intended.
No sooner had he led her into the garden than he ran back and pulled out
one of the children in the same manner; upon which she ordered them all
to leave the school immediately; and they had not been out five minutes
before the top of the house fell in. What a miraculous deliverance was
here! How gracious! How good was God Almighty, to save all these
children from destruction, and to make use of such an instrument as a
little sagacious animal to accomplish His divine will! I should have
observed that as soon as they were all in the garden, the dog came
leaping round them to express his joy, and when the house had fallen,
laid himself down quietly by his mistress.
Some of the neighbors, who saw the school fall and who were in great
pain for Margery and the little ones, soon spread the news through the
village, and all the parents, terrified for their children, came
crowding in abundance; they had, however, the satisfaction to find them
all safe, and upon their knees, with their mistress, giving God thanks
for their happy deliverance.
You are not to wonder, my dear reader, that this little dog should have
more sense than you, or your father, or your grandfather.
Though God Almighty has made man the lord of creation, and endowed him
with reason, yet in many respects He has been altogether as bountiful to
other creatures of His forming. Some of the senses of other animals are
more acute than ours, as we find by daily experience.
The downfall of the school was a great misfortune to Mrs. Margery; for
she not only lost all her books, but was destitute of a place to teach
in. Sir William Dove, being informed of this, ordered the house to be
built at his own expense, and till that could be done, Farmer Grove was
so kind as to let her have his large hall to teach in.
While at Mr. Grove's, which was in the heart of the village, she not
only taught the children in the daytime, but the farmer's servants, and
all the neighbors, to read and write in the evening. This gave not only
Mr. Grove but all the neighbors a high opinion of her good sense and
prudent behavior; and she was so much esteemed that most of the
differences in the parish were left to her decision.
One gentleman in particular, I mean Sir Charles Jones, had conceived
such a high opinion of her that he offered her a considerable sum to
take care of his family and the education of his daughter, which,
however, she refused. But this gentleman, sending for her afterwards
when he had a dangerous fit of illness, she went and behaved so
prudently in the family and so tenderly to him and his daughter that he
would not permit her to leave his house, but soon after made her
proposals of marriage. She was truly sensible of the honor he intended
her, but, though poor, she would not consent to be made a lady until he
had effectually provided for his daughter.
All things being settled and the day fixed, the neighbors came in crowds
to see the wedding; for they were all glad that one who had been such a
good little girl, and was become such a virtuous and good woman, was
going to be made a lady. But just as the clergyman had opened his book,
a gentleman richly dressed, ran into the church, and cried, "Stop!
stop!"
This greatly alarmed the congregation, particularly the intended bride
and bridegroom, whom he first accosted and desired to speak with them
apart. After they had been talking some little time, the people were
greatly surprised to see Sir Charles stand motionless and his bride cry
and faint away in the stranger's arms. This seeming grief, however, was
only a prelude to a flood of joy which immediately succeeded; for you
must know, gentle reader, that this gentleman, so richly dressed and
bedizened with lace, was that identical little boy whom you before saw
in the sailor's habit; in short, it was little Tom Two-Shoes, Mrs.
Margery's brother, who had just come from beyond sea, where he had made
a large fortune. Hearing, as soon as he landed, of his sister's intended
wedding, he had ridden in haste to see that a proper settlement was made
on her; which he thought she was now entitled to, as he himself was both
able and willing to give her an ample fortune. They soon returned to
their places and were married in tears, but they were tears of joy.
379
_Evenings at Home_, one of the important books
in the history of the development of literature
for children, was published in six small
volumes, from 1792 to 1796. It was a result of
a newly awakened interest in the real world
round about us and represented the profound
reaction against the "fantastic visions" and
"sweetmeats" of popular literature. The main
purpose was to give instruction by showing
things as they really are. The plan of the book
is very simple. The Fairbornes, with a large
"progeny of children, boys and girls," kept a
sort of open house for friends and relatives.
Many of these visitors, accustomed to writing,
would frequently produce a fable, a story, or a
dialogue, adapted to the age and understanding
of the young people. These papers were dropped
into a box until the children should all be
assembled at holidays. Then one of the youngest
was sent to "rummage the budget," which meant
to reach into the box and take the paper that
he happened to touch. It was brought in and
read and considered; then the process was
repeated. "Eyes, and No Eyes" was drawn out on
the twentieth evening. _Evenings at Home_ was
written by Dr. John Aikin (1747-1822) and his
sister Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld (1743-1825).
Dr. Aikin seems to have written the larger
number of the hundred papers composing the
book. Mrs. Barbauld's share is placed at
fifteen papers by authority of the _Dictionary
of National Biography_. Some of the children in
these stories may perceive more closely than
normal children do, but this defect may add a
charm if the reader keeps in mind that this is
one of the earliest nature books for children.
Stories of this kind require the presence of
some omniscient or "encyclopedic" character to
whom all the things requiring an answer may be
referred. Mr. Andrews in "Eyes, and No Eyes,"
Mr. Barlow in Day's _Sandford and Merton_, and
Mr. Gresham in Miss Edgeworth's "Waste Not,
Want Not" are good illustrations of this type.
EYES, AND NO EYES
OR
THE ART OF SEEING
DR. AIKIN AND MRS. BARBAULD
"Well, Robert, whither have you been walking this afternoon?" said Mr.
Andrews to one of his pupils at the close of a holiday.
R. I have been, sir, to Broom-heath, and so round by the windmill upon
Camp-mount, and home through the meadows by the river side.
Mr. A. Well, that's a pleasant round.
R. I thought it very dull, sir; I scarcely met with a single person. I
had rather by half have gone along the turnpike-road.
Mr. A. Why, if seeing men and horses were your object, you would,
indeed, have been better entertained on the high-road. But did you see
William?
R. We set out together, but he lagged behind in the lane, so I walked on
and left him.
Mr. A. That was a pity. He would have been company for you.
R. Oh, he is so tedious, always stopping to look at this thing and that!
I had rather walk alone. I dare say he has not got home yet.
Mr. A. Here he comes. Well, William, where have you been?
W. Oh, sir, the pleasantest walk! I went all over Broom-heath, and so up
to the mill at the top of the hill, and then down among the green
meadows, by the side of the river.
Mr. A. Why, that is just the round Robert has been taking, and he
complains of its dullness, and prefers the high-road.
W. I wonder at that. I am sure I hardly took a step that did not delight
me, and I have brought home my handkerchief full of curiosities.
Mr. A. Suppose, then, you give us some account of what amused you so
much. I fancy it will be as new to Robert as to me.
W. I will, sir. The lane leading to the heath, you know, is close and
sandy; so I did not mind it much, but made the best of my way. However,
I spied a curious thing enough in the hedge. It was an old crab-tree,
out of which grew a great bunch of something green, quite different from
the tree itself. Here is a branch of it.
Mr. A. Ah! this is mistletoe, a plant of great fame for the use made of
it by the Druids of old in their religious rites and incantations. It
bears a very slimy white berry, of which birdlime may be made, whence
its Latin name of Viscus. It is one of those plants which do not grow in
the ground by a root of their own, but fix themselves upon other plants;
whence they have been humorously styled _parasitical_, as being
hangers-on, or dependents. It was the mistletoe of the oak that the
Druids particularly honored.
W. A little further on, I saw a green woodpecker fly to a tree, and run
up the trunk like a cat.
Mr. A. That was to seek for insects in the bark, on which they live.
They bore holes with their strong bills for that purpose, and do much
damage to the trees by it.
W. What beautiful birds they are!
Mr. A. Yes; the woodpecker has been called, from its color and size, the
English parrot.
W. When I got upon the open heath, how charming it was! The air seemed
so fresh, and the prospect on every side so free and unbounded! Then it
was all covered with gay flowers, many of which I had never observed
before. There were, at least, three kinds of heath (I have got them in
my handkerchief here), and gorse, and broom, and bell-flower, and many
others of all colors that I will beg you presently to tell me the names
of.
Mr. A. That I will, readily.
W. I saw, too, several birds that were new to me. There was a pretty
greyish one, of the size of a lark, that was hopping about some great
stones; and when he flew, he showed a great deal of white about his
tail.
Mr. A. That was a wheat-ear. They are reckoned very delicious birds to
eat, and frequent the open downs in Sussex, and some other counties, in
great numbers.
W. There was a flock of lapwings upon a marshy part of the heath, that
amused me much. As I came near them, some of them kept flying round and
round, just over my head, and crying _pewet_, so distinctly, one might
almost fancy they spoke. I thought I should have caught one of them, for
he flew as though one of his wings was broken, and often tumbled close
to the ground; but as I came near, he always made a shift to get away.
Mr. A. Ha, ha! you were finely taken in then! This was all an artifice
of the bird's, to entice you away from its nest; for they build upon the
bare ground, and their nests would easily be observed, did they not draw
off the attention of intruders by their loud cries and counterfeit
lameness.
W. I wish I had known that, for he led me a long chase, often over-shoes
in water. However, it was the cause of my falling in with an old man and
a boy who were cutting and piling up turf for fuel, and I had a good
deal of talk with them about the manner of preparing the turf, and the
price it sells at. They gave me, too, a creature I never saw before--a
young viper, which they had just killed, together with its dam. I have
seen several common snakes, but this is thicker in proportion, and of a
darker color than they are.
Mr. A. True. Vipers frequent those turfy, boggy grounds pretty much; and
I have known several turf-cutters bitten by them.
W. They are very venomous, are they not?
Mr. A. Enough so to make their wounds painful and dangerous, though they
seldom prove fatal.
W. Well--I then took my course up to the windmill, on the mount. I
climbed up the steps of the mill, in order to get a better view of the
country around. What an extensive prospect! I counted fifteen
church-steeples; and I saw several gentlemen's houses peeping out from
the midst of green woods and plantations; and I could trace the windings
of the river all along the low grounds, till it was lost behind a ridge
of hills. But I'll tell you what I mean to do, sir, if you will give me
leave.
Mr. A. What is that?
W. I will go again, and take with me the county map, by which I shall
probably be able to make out most of the places.
Mr. A. You shall have it, and I will go with you, and take my pocket
spying-glass.
W. I shall be very glad of that. Well--a thought struck me, that as the
hill is called Camp-mount, there might probably be some remains of
ditches and mounds, with which I have read that camps were surrounded.
And I really believe I discovered something of that sort running round
one side of the mound.
Mr. A. Very likely you might. I know antiquaries have described such
remains as existing there, which some suppose to be Roman, others
Danish. We will examine them further, when we go.
W. From the hill, I went straight down to the meadows below, and walked
on the side of a brook that runs into the river. It was all bordered
with reeds and flags, and tall flowering plants, quite different from
those I had seen on the heath. As I was getting down the bank, to reach
one of them, I heard something plunge into the water near me. It was a
large water-rat, and I saw it swim over to the other side, and go into
its hole. There were a great many large dragonflies all about the
stream. I caught one of the finest, and have got him here in a leaf. But
how I longed to catch a bird that I saw hovering over the water, and
that every now and then darted down into it! It was all over a mixture
of the most beautiful green and blue, with some orange-color. It was
somewhat less than a thrush, and had a large head and bill, and a short
tail.
Mr. A. I can tell you what that bird was--a kingfisher, the celebrated
halcyon of the ancients, about which so many tales are told. It lives on
fish, which it catches in the manner you saw. It builds in holes in the
banks, and is a shy, retired bird, never to be seen far from the stream
which it inhabits.
W. I must try to get another sight of him, for I never saw a bird that
pleased me so much. Well--I followed this little brook till it entered
the river, and then took the path that runs along the bank. On the
opposite side, I observed several little birds running along the shore,
and making a piping noise. They were brown and white, and about as big
as a snipe.
Mr. A. I suppose they were sandpipers, one of the numerous family of
birds that get their living by wading among the shallows, and picking up
worms and insects.
W. There were a great many swallows, too, sporting upon the surface of
the water, that entertained me with their motions. Sometimes they dashed
into the stream; sometimes they pursued one another so quickly that the
eye could scarcely follow them. In one place, where a high, steep
sand-bank rose directly above the river, I observed many of them go in
and out of holes, with which the bank was bored full.
Mr. A. Those were sand-martins, the smallest of our species of swallows.
They are of a mouse-color above, and white beneath. They make their
nests and bring up their young in these holes, which run a great depth,
and by their situation are secure from all plunderers.
W. A little further, I saw a man in a boat, who was catching eels in an
odd way. He had a long pole with broad iron prongs at the end, just like
Neptune's trident, only there were five, instead of three. This he
pushed straight down among the mud, in the deepest parts of the river,
and fetched up the eels sticking between the prongs.
Mr. A. I have seen this method. It is called spearing of eels.
W. While I was looking at him, a heron came flying over my head, with
his large, flagging wings. He alighted at the next turn of the river,
and I crept softly behind the bank to watch his motions. He had waded
into the water as far as his long legs would carry him, and was standing
with his neck drawn in, looking intently on the stream. Presently, he
darted his long bill, as quick as lightning, into the water, and drew
out a fish, which he swallowed. I saw him catch another in the same
manner. He then took alarm at some noise I made, and flew away slowly to
a wood at some distance, where he settled.
Mr. A. Probably his nest was there, for herons build upon the loftiest
trees they can find, and sometimes in society together, like rooks.
Formerly, when these birds were valued for the amusement of hawking,
many gentlemen had their _heronries_, and a few are still remaining.
W. I think they are the largest wild birds we have.
Mr. A. They are of great length and spread of wing, but their bodies are
comparatively small.
W. I then turned homeward, across the meadows, where I stopped awhile to
look at a large flock of starlings, which kept flying about at no great
distance. I could not tell at first what to make of them; for they
arose all together from the ground as thick as a swarm of bees, and
formed themselves into a sort of black cloud, hovering over the field.
After taking a short round, they settled again, and presently arose
again in the same manner. I dare say there were hundreds of them.
Mr. A. Perhaps so; for in the fenny countries their flocks are so
numerous as to break down whole acres of reeds by settling on them. This
disposition of starlings to fly in close swarms was remarked even by
Homer, who compares the foe flying from one of his heroes, to a _cloud_
of _stares_ retiring dismayed at the approach of the hawk.
W. After I had left the meadows, I crossed the corn-fields in the way
to our house, and passed close by a deep marlpit. Looking into it, I saw
in one of the sides a cluster of what I took to be shells; and, upon
going down, I picked up a clod of marl, which was quite full of them;
but how sea-shells could get there, I cannot imagine.
Mr. A. I do not wonder at your surprise, since many philosophers have
been much perplexed to account for the same appearance. It is not
uncommon to find great quantities of shells and relics of marine animals
even in the bowels of high mountains, very remote from the sea. They are
certainly proofs that the earth was once in a very different state from
what it is at present; but in what manner, and how long ago these
changes took place, can only be guessed at.
W. I got to the high field next our house just as the sun was setting,
and I stood looking at it till it was quite lost. What a glorious sight!
The clouds were tinged purple and crimson and yellow of all shades and
hues, and the clear sky varied from blue to a fine green at the horizon.
But how large the sun appears just as it sets! I think it seems twice as
big as when it is overhead.
Mr. A. It does so; and you may probably have observed the same apparent
enlargement of the moon at its rising?
W. I have; but, pray, what is the reason of this?
Mr. A. It is an optical deception, depending upon principles which I
cannot well explain to you till you know more of that branch of science.
But what a number of new ideas this afternoon's walk has afforded you! I
do not wonder that you found it amusing; it has been very instructive,
too. Did _you_ see nothing of all these sights, Robert?
R. I saw some of them, but I did not take particular notice of them.
Mr. A. Why not?
R. I don't know. I did not care about them, and I made the best of my
way home.
Mr. A. That would have been right if you had been sent with a message;
but as you walked only for amusement, it would have been wiser to have
sought out as many sources of it as possible. But so it is--one man
walks through the world with his eyes open, and another with them shut;
and upon this difference depends all the superiority of knowledge the
one acquires above the other. I have known sailors who had been in all
the quarters of the world, and could tell you nothing but the signs of
the tippling-houses they frequented in different ports, and the price
and quality of the liquor. On the other hand, a Franklin could not cross
the Channel without making some observations useful to mankind. While
many a vacant, thoughtless youth is whirled throughout Europe without
gaining a single idea worth crossing a street for, the observing eye and
inquiring mind find matter of improvement and delight in every ramble in
town or country. Do _you_, then, William, continue to make use of your
eyes; and _you_, Robert, learn that eyes were given you to use.
380
Thomas Day's _History of Sandford and Merton_
was published in three volumes, 1783-1789. Day
died in the latter year at the early age of
forty-one. He was a "benevolent eccentric."
Since he was well to do he could devote himself
to the attempt to carry out the schemes of
social reform which he had at heart. Influenced
by Rousseau and the doctrines of the French
Revolution, he believed human nature could be
made over by an educational scheme. _Sandford
and Merton_ is an elaborate setting forth of
the concrete workings of this process. The
inculcation of greater sympathy for the lower
classes and for animals, and a return to the
natural, commonplace virtues as opposed to the
artificial organization of society formed the
main burden of the book. Tommy Merton,
six-year-old spoiled darling of an
over-indulgent gentleman of great fortune, and
Harry Sandford, wonderfully perfect son of a
"plain, honest farmer," are placed under the
tuition of a minister-philosopher, named
Barlow. This philosopher is evidently Mr. Day's
fictitious portrayal of himself. The story
given below is one of a number by means of
which the "encyclopedic" Barlow educates Tommy
and Harry. Another story from this group,
"Androcles and the Lion," may be found in the
fables (No. 214). _Sandford and Merton_ is
still, according to Sir Leslie Stephen, "among
the best children's books in the language, in
spite of its quaint didacticism, because it
succeeds in forcibly expressing his [Day's]
high sense of manliness, independence, and
sterling qualities of character."
THE GOOD-NATURED LITTLE BOY
THOMAS DAY
A little Boy went out, one morning, to walk to a village about five
miles from the place where he lived, and carried with him, in a basket,
the provision that was to serve him the whole day. As he was walking
along, a poor little half-starved dog came up to him, wagging his tail,
and seeming to entreat him to take compassion on him. The little Boy at
first took no notice of him, but at length, remarking how lean and
famished the creature seemed to be, he said, "This animal is certainly
in very great necessity: if I give him part of my provision, I shall be
obliged to go home hungry myself; however, as he seems to want it more
than I do, he shall partake with me." Saying this, he gave the dog part
of what he had in the basket, who ate as if he had not tasted victuals
for a fortnight.
The little Boy then went on a little farther, his dog still following
him, and fawning upon him with the greatest gratitude and affection;
when he saw a poor old horse lying upon the ground, and groaning as if
he was very ill, he went up to him, and saw that he was almost starved,
and so weak that he was unable to rise. "I am very much afraid," said
the little Boy, "if I stay to assist this horse, that it will be dark
before I can return; and I have heard that there are several thieves in
the neighborhood; however, I will try; it is doing a good action to
attempt to relieve him; and God Almighty will take care of me." He then
went and gathered some grass, which he brought to the horse's mouth, who
immediately began to eat with as much relish as if his chief disease was
hunger. He then fetched some water in his hat, which the animal drank
up, and seemed immediately to be so much refreshed, that, after a few
trials, he got up, and began grazing.
The little Boy then went on a little farther, and saw a man wading about
in a pond of water, without being able to get out of it, in spite of all
his endeavors. "What is the matter, good man," said the little Boy to
him; "can't you find your way out of this pond?" "No, God bless you, my
worthy master, or miss," said the man; "for such I take you to be by
your voice: I have fallen into this pond, and know not how to get out
again, as I am quite blind, and I am almost afraid to move for fear of
being drowned." "Well," said the little Boy, "though I shall be wetted
to the skin, if you will throw me your stick, I will try to help you out
of it." The blind man then threw the stick to that side on which he
heard the voice; the little Boy caught it, and went into the water,
feeling very carefully before him, lest he should unguardedly go beyond
his depth; at length he reached the blind man, took him very carefully
by the hand, and led him out. The blind man then gave him a thousand
blessings, and told him he could grope out his way home; and the little
Boy ran on as hard as he could, to prevent being benighted.
But he had not proceeded far, before he saw a poor Sailor who had lost
both his legs in an engagement by sea, hopping along upon crutches. "God
bless you, my little master!" said the Sailor; "I have fought many a
battle with the French, to defend poor old England: but now I am
crippled, as you see, and have neither victuals nor money, although I am
almost famished." The little Boy could not resist his inclination to
relieve him; so he gave him all his remaining victuals, and said, "God
help you, poor man! This is all I have, otherwise you should have more."
He then ran along, and presently arrived at the town he was going to,
did his business, and returned towards his own home with all the
expedition he was able.
But he had not gone much more than half way, before the night shut in
extremely dark, without either moon or stars to light him. The poor
little Boy used his utmost endeavors to find his way, but unfortunately
missed it in turning down a lane which brought him into a wood, where he
wandered about a great while without being able to find any path to lead
him out. Tired out at last, and hungry, he felt himself so feeble that
he could go no farther, but set himself down upon the ground, crying
most bitterly. In this situation he remained for some time, till at last
the little dog, who had never forsaken him, came up to him, wagging his
tail, and holding something in his mouth. The little Boy took it from
him, and saw it was a handkerchief nicely pinned together, which
somebody had dropped and the dog had picked up; and on opening it, he
found several slices of bread and meat, which the little Boy ate with
great satisfaction, and, felt himself extremely refreshed with his meal.
"So," said the little Boy, "I see that if I have given you a breakfast,
you have given me a supper; and a good turn is never lost, done even to
a dog."
He then once more attempted to escape from the wood; but it was to no
purpose; he only scratched his legs with briars, and slipped down in the
dirt, without being able to find his way out. He was just going to give
up all farther attempts in despair, when he happened to see a horse
feeding before him, and, going up to him, saw by the light of the moon,
which just then began to shine a little, that it was the very same he
had fed in the morning. "Perhaps," said the little Boy, "this creature,
as I have been so good to him, will let me get upon his back, and he may
bring me out of the wood, as he is accustomed to feed in this
neighborhood." The little Boy then went up to the horse, speaking to him
and stroking him, and the horse let him mount his back without
opposition; and then proceeded slowly through the wood, grazing as he
went, till he brought him to an opening which led to the high road. The
little Boy was much rejoiced at this, and said, "If I had not saved this
creature's life in the morning, I should have been obliged to have staid
here all night; I see by this that a good turn is never lost."
But the poor little Boy had yet a greater danger to undergo; for, as he
was going along a solitary lane, two men rushed out upon him, laid hold
of him, and were going to strip him of his clothes; but, just as they
were beginning to do it, the little dog bit the leg of one of the men
with so much violence that he left the little Boy and pursued the dog,
that ran howling and barking away. In this instant a voice was heard
that cried out, "There the rascals are; let us knock them down!" which
frightened the remaining man so much that he ran away, and his companion
followed him. The little Boy then looked up, and saw that it was the
Sailor, whom he had relieved in the morning, carried upon the shoulders
of the blind man whom he had helped out of the pond. "There, my little
dear," said the Sailor, "God be thanked! We have come in time to do you
a service, in return for what you did us in the morning. As I lay under
a hedge I heard these villains talk of robbing a little Boy, who, from
the description, I concluded must be you: but I was so lame that I
should not have been able to come time enough to help you, if I had not
met this honest blind man, who took me upon his back while I showed him
the way."
The little Boy thanked him very sincerely for thus defending him; and
they went all together to his father's house, which was not far off;
where they were all kindly entertained with a supper and a bed. The
little Boy took care of his faithful dog as long as he lived, and never
forgot the importance and necessity of doing good to others, if we wish
them to do the same to us.
381
It has been no unusual thing for critics and
others following in their wake to sneer at
Maria Edgeworth (1767-1849) and her school as
hopelessly utilitarian. But to find fault with
her on that score is to blame her for having
achieved the very end she set out to reach. Sir
Walter Scott, who certainly knew what good
story-telling was, had the highest opinion of
her abilities, and it is difficult to see how
any reader with a fair amount of catholicity in
his nature can fail to be impressed with her
power to build up a story in skillful dramatic
fashion, to portray various types of character
in most convincing manner, and to emphasize in
unforgettable ways the old and basic verities
of life. Of course fashions change in outward
matters, and we must not quarrel with a taste
that prefers the newest in literature any more
than with one that prefers the newest in dress.
Miss Edgeworth helped her eccentric father
present in _Practical Education_ an extended
discussion for the layman of the whole question
of the ways and means of educating people. That
was one of the very first modern treatments of
that much-discussed subject, and its ideas are
not all obsolete yet by any means. _Castle
Rackrent_ belongs in the list of classic
fiction. However, her chief interest for this
collection rests in the most important of her
books for children, _The Parent's Assistant or,
Stories for Children_ (1796-1800). The
forbidding primary title was something the
publisher was mainly responsible for, and has
been relegated to second place in modern
reprints. In these stories, according to the
preface, "only such situations are described as
children can easily imagine, and which may
consequently interest their feelings. Such
examples of virtue are painted as are not above
their conceptions of excellence, and their
powers of sympathy and emulation." Miss
Edgeworth knew children thoroughly. She was
surrounded by a crowd of brothers and sisters
for whom she had to invent means of
entertainment as well as instruction. They
really collaborated in the making of the
stories. As the stories were written out on a
slate, the sections were read to eager
listeners, and the author had the advantage of
their honest expressions of approval or
dissent. "Waste Not, Want Not" first appeared
in the final form given to _The Parent's
Assistant_, the third edition published in six
volumes in 1800. It is perhaps the best to
represent Miss Edgeworth's work, though "Simple
Susan," "Lazy Lawrence," and others have their
admirers. In judging her work the student
should keep in mind (1) that she wrote at a
time when, unlike the present, the best authors
thought it beneath their dignity to write for
children, (2) that the too repressive and
dogmatic attitude towards children which one
now and then feels in her stories was due to a
conscious effort to offset the undisciplined
enthusiasms and sentimentalisms of her day, and
(3) that she has been a living influence in the
lives of countless men and women for over a
century. She was a real pioneer.
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
OR
TWO STRINGS TO YOUR BOW
MARIA EDGEWORTH
Mr. Gresham, a Bristol merchant, who had by honorable industry and
economy accumulated a considerable fortune, retired from business to a
new house which he had built upon the Downs, near Clifton. Mr. Gresham,
however, did not imagine that a new house alone could make him happy: he
did not purpose to live in idleness and extravagance, for such a life
would have been equally incompatible with his habits and his principles.
He was fond of children, and as he had no sons, he determined to adopt
one of his relations. He had two nephews, and he invited both of them to
his house, that he might have an opportunity of judging of their
dispositions, and of the habits which they had acquired.
Hal and Benjamin, Mr. Gresham's nephews, were about ten years old; they
had been educated very differently. Hal was the son of the elder branch
of the family; his father was a gentleman, who spent rather more than he
could afford; and Hal, from the example of the servants in his father's
family, with whom he had passed the first years of his childhood,
learned to waste more of everything than he used. He had been told that
"gentlemen should be above being careful and saving"; and he had
unfortunately imbibed a notion that extravagance is the sign of a
generous, and economy of an avaricious disposition.
Benjamin, on the contrary, had been taught habits of care and foresight:
his father had but a very small fortune, and was anxious that his son
should early learn that economy insures independence, and sometimes puts
it in the power of those who are not very rich, to be very generous.
The morning after these two boys arrived at their uncle's, they were
eager to see all the rooms in the house. Mr. Gresham accompanied them,
and attended to their remarks, and exclamations.
"Oh! what an excellent motto!" exclaimed Ben, when he read the following
words which were written in large characters over the chimneypiece, in
his uncle's spacious kitchen:
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT
"Waste not, want not!" repeated his cousin Hal, in rather a contemptuous
tone; "I think it looks stingy to servants; and no gentleman's servants,
cooks especially, would like to have such a mean motto always staring
them in the face."
Ben, who was not so conversant as his cousin in the ways of cooks and
gentleman's servants, made no reply to these observations.
Mr. Gresham was called away while his nephews were looking at the other
rooms in the house. Some time afterwards, he heard their voices in the
hall.
"Boys," said he, "what are you doing there?"
"Nothing, Sir," said Hal; "you were called away from us, and we did not
know which way to go."
"And have you nothing to do?" said Mr. Gresham.
"No, Sir, nothing," answered Hal, in a careless tone, like one who was
well content with the state of habitual idleness.
"No, Sir, nothing!" replied Ben, in a voice of lamentation.
"Come," said Mr. Gresham, "if you have nothing to do, lads, will you
unpack these two parcels for me?"
The two parcels were exactly alike, both of them well tied up with good
whipcord. Ben took his parcel to a table, and, after breaking off the
sealing wax, began carefully to examine the knot, and then to untie it.
Hal stood still exactly in the spot where the parcel was put into his
hands, and tried first at one corner, and then at another, to pull the
string off by force: "I wish these people wouldn't tie up their parcels
so tight, as if they were never to be undone," cried he, as he tugged at
the cord; and he pulled the knot closer instead of loosening it.
"Ben! why how did you get yours undone, man? What's in your parcel? I
wonder what is in mine! I wish I could get this string off--I must cut
it."
"Oh, no," said Ben, who now had undone the last knot of his parcel, and
who drew out the length of string with exultation, "don't cut it,
Hal--look what a nice cord this is, and yours is the same; it's a pity
to cut it; '_Waste not, want not!_' you know."
"Pooh!" said Hal, "what signifies a bit of pack-thread?"
"It is whipcord," said Ben.
"Well, whipcord! What signifies a bit of whipcord! You can get a bit of
whipcord twice as long as that for twopence; and who cares for twopence!
Not I, for one! So here it goes," cried Hal, drawing out his knife; and
he cut the cord, precipitately, in sundry places.
"Lads! Have you undone the parcels for me?" said Mr. Gresham, opening
the parlor door as he spoke.
"Yes, Sir," cried Hal; and he dragged off his half-cut, half-entangled
string--"here's the parcel."
"And here's my parcel, Uncle; and here's the string," said Ben.
"You may keep the string for your pains," said Mr. Gresham.
"Thank you, Sir," said Ben: "what an excellent whipcord it is!"
"And you, Hal," continued Mr. Gresham, "you may keep your string too, if
it will be of any use to you."
"It will be of no use to me, thank you, Sir," said Hal.
"No, I am afraid not, if this be it," said his uncle taking up the
jagged, knotted remains of Hal's cord.
A few days after this, Mr. Gresham gave to each of his nephews a new
top.
"But how's this?" said Hal; "these tops have no strings; what shall we
do for strings?"
"I have a string that will do very well for mine," said Ben; and he
pulled out of his pocket the fine long smooth string which had tied up
the parcel. With this he soon set up his top, which spun admirably well.
"Oh, how I wish that I had but a string!" said Hal: "what shall I do for
a string? I'll tell you what: I can use the string that goes round my
hat."
"But then," said Ben, "what will you do for a hatband?"
"I'll manage to do without one," said Hal and he took the string off his
hat for his top. It soon was worn through; and he split his top by
driving the peg too tightly into it. His cousin Ben let him set up his
the next day; but Hal was not more fortunate or more careful when he
meddled with other people's things than when he managed his own. He had
scarcely played half an hour before he split it, by driving in the peg
too violently.
Ben bore this misfortune with good humor. "Come," said he, "it can't be
helped! But give me the string, because _that_ may still be of use for
something else."
It happened some time afterwards, that a lady who had been intimately
acquainted with Hal's mother at Bath, that is to say, who had frequently
met her at the card table during the winter, now arrived at Clifton. She
was informed by his mother that Hal was at Mr. Gresham's: and her sons,
who were _friends_ of his, came to see him, and invited him to spend the
next day with them.
Hal joyfully accepted the invitation. He was always glad to go out to
dine, because it gave him something to do, something to think of, or, at
least, something to say. Besides this, he had been educated to think it
was a fine thing to visit fine people; and Lady Diana Sweepstakes (for
that was the name of his mother's acquaintance) was a very fine lady;
and her two sons intended to be very _great_ gentlemen.
He was in a prodigious hurry when these young gentlemen knocked at his
uncle's door the next day; but just as he got to the hall door, little
Patty called to him from the top of the stairs, and told him that he
had dropped his pocket-handkerchief.
"Pick it up, then, and bring it to me, quick, can't you, child," cried
Hal, "for Lady Di.'s sons are waiting for me?"
Little Patty did not know anything about Lady Di.'s sons; but as she was
very good-natured, and saw that her cousin Hal was, for some reason or
other, in a desperate hurry, she ran down stairs as fast as she possibly
could towards the landing-place, where the handkerchief lay:--but alas!
Before she reached the handkerchief she fell, rolling down a whole
flight of stairs; and, when her fall was at last stopped by the
landing-place, she did not cry, but she writhed as if she was in great
pain.
"Where are you hurt, my love?" said Mr. Gresham, who came instantly, on
hearing the noise of some one falling down stairs.
"Where are you hurt, my dear?"
"Here, Papa," said the little girl, touching her ankle, which she had
decently covered with her gown: "I believe I am hurt here, but not
much," added she, trying to rise; "only it hurts me when I move."
"I'll carry you, don't move then," said her father; and he took her up
in his arms.
"My shoe, I've lost one of my shoes," said she. Ben looked for it upon
the stairs, and he found it sticking in a loop of whipcord, which was
entangled round one of the balusters. When this cord was drawn forth, it
appeared that it was the very same jagged, entangled piece which Hal had
pulled off his parcel. He had diverted himself with running up and down
stairs, whipping the balusters with it, as he thought he could convert
it to no better use; and with his usual carelessness, he at last left it
hanging just where he happened to throw it, when the dinner-bell rang.
Poor little Patty's ankle was terribly sprained, and Hal reproached
himself for his folly, and would have reproached himself longer,
perhaps, if Lady Di. Sweepstakes' sons had not hurried him away.
In the evening, Patty could not run about as she used to do; but she sat
upon the sofa, and she said that "she did not feel the pain of her ankle
so _much_ whilst Ben was so good as to play at _jack-straws_ with her."
"That's right, Ben; never be ashamed of being good-natured to those who
are younger and weaker than yourself," said his uncle, smiling at seeing
him produce his whipcord, to indulge his little cousin with a game at
her favorite cat's-cradle. "I shall not think you one bit less manly,
because I see you playing at cat's-cradle with a child six years old."
Hal, however, was not precisely of his uncle's opinion; for when he
returned in the evening and saw Ben playing with his little cousin, he
could not help smiling contemptuously, and asked if he had been playing
at cat's-cradle all night. In a heedless manner he made some inquiries
after Patty's sprained ankle, and then he ran on to tell all the news he
had heard at Lady Diana Sweepstakes'--news which he thought would make
him appear a person of vast importance.
"Do you know, Uncle--Do you know, Ben," said he--"there's to be the most
_famous_ doings that ever were heard of, upon the Downs here, the first
day of next month, which will be in a fortnight, thank my stars! I wish
the fortnight were over; I shall think of nothing else I know, till that
happy day comes."
Mr. Gresham inquired why the first of September was to be so much
happier than any other day in the year.
"Why," replied Hal, "Lady Diana Sweepstakes, you know, is a _famous_
rider, and archer, and _all that_--"
"Very likely," said Mr. Gresham, soberly--"but what then?"
"Dear Uncle!" cried Hal, "but you shall hear. There's to be a race upon
the Downs the first of September, and, after the race, there's to be an
archery meeting for the ladies, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes is to be one
of _them_. And after the ladies have done shooting--now, Ben, comes the
best part of it! we boys are to have our turn, and Lady Di. is to give a
prize to the best marksman amongst us, of a very handsome bow and arrow!
Do you know I've been practising already, and I'll show you tomorrow, as
soon as it comes home, the _famous_ bow and arrow that Lady Diana has
given me: but, perhaps," added he, with a scornful laugh, "you like a
cat's-cradle better than a bow and arrow."
Ben made no reply to this taunt at the moment; but the next day, when
Hal's new bow and arrow came home, he convinced him that he knew how to
use it very well.
"Ben," said his uncle, "you seem to be a good marksman, though you have
not boasted of yourself. I'll give you a bow and arrow; and perhaps, if
you practise, you may make yourself an archer before the first of
September; and, in the meantime, you will not wish the fortnight to be
over, for you will have something to do."
"Oh, Sir," interrupted Hal, "but if you mean that Ben should put in for
the prize, he must have a uniform."
"Why _must_ he?" said Mr. Gresham.
"Why, Sir, because everybody has--I mean everybody that's anybody;--and
Lady Diana was talking about the uniform all dinner-time, and it's
settled all about it except the buttons; the young Sweepstakes are to
get theirs made first for patterns; they are to be white, faced with
green; and they'll look very handsome, I'm sure; and I shall write to
Mamma to-night, as Lady Diana bid me, about mine; and I shall tell her
to be sure to answer my letter, without fail, by return of the post; and
then, if Mamma makes no objection, which I know she won't, because she
never thinks much about expense, and _all that_--then I shall bespeak my
uniform, and get it made by the same tailor that makes for Lady Diana
and the young Sweepstakes."
"Mercy upon us!" said Mr. Gresham, who was almost stunned by the rapid
vociferation with which this long speech about a uniform was pronounced.
"I don't pretend to understand these things," added he, with an air of
simplicity, "but we will inquire, Ben, into the necessity of the case,
and if it is necessary--or if you think it necessary--that you should
have a uniform, why--I'll give you one."
"_You_, Uncle!--Will you, _indeed_?" exclaimed Hal, with amazement
painted in his countenance. "Well, that's the last thing in the world I
should have expected!--You are not at all the sort of person I should
have thought would care about a uniform; and I should have supposed
you'd have thought it extravagant to have a coat on purpose only for one
day; and I'm sure Lady Diana Sweepstakes thought as I do: for when I
told her that motto over your kitchen chimney, WASTE NOT, WANT NOT, she
laughed, and said that I had better not talk to you about uniforms, and
that my mother was the proper person to write to about my uniform; but
I'll tell Lady Diana, Uncle, how good you are, and how much she was
mistaken."
"Take care how you do that," said Mr. Gresham; "for, perhaps, the lady
was not mistaken."
"Nay, did not you say, just now, you would give poor Ben a uniform?"
"I said I would, if he thought it necessary to have one."
"Oh, I'll answer for it, he'll think it necessary," said Hal, laughing,
"because it is necessary."
"Allow him, at least, to judge for himself," said Mr. Gresham.
"My dear Uncle, but I assure you," said Hal, earnestly, "there's no
judging about the matter, because really, upon my word, Lady Diana said
distinctly that her sons were to have uniforms, white faced with green,
and a green and white cockade in their hats."
"May be so," said Mr. Gresham, still with the same look of calm
simplicity; "put on your hats, boys, and come with me. I know a
gentleman whose sons are to be at this archery meeting, and we will
inquire into all the particulars from him. Then, after we have seen him
(it is not eleven o'clock yet), we shall have time enough to walk on to
Bristol and choose the cloth for Ben's uniform, if it be necessary."
"I cannot tell what to make of all he says," whispered Hal, as he
reached down his hat; "do you think, Ben, he means to give you this
uniform, or not?"
"I think," said Ben, "that he means to give me one, if it be necessary;
or, as he said, if I think it is necessary."
"And that, to be sure, you will; won't you? or else you'll be a great
fool, I know, after all I've told you. How can any one in the world know
so much about the matter as I, who have dined with Lady Diana
Sweepstakes but yesterday; and heard all about it, from beginning to
end? And as for this gentleman that we are going to, I'm sure, if he
knows anything about the matter, he'll say exactly the same as I do."
"We shall hear," said Ben, with a degree of composure, which Hal could
by no means comprehend, when a uniform was in question.
The gentleman upon whom Mr. Gresham called had three sons, who were all
to be at this archery meeting, and they unanimously assured him, in the
presence of Hal and Ben, that they had never thought of buying uniforms
for this grand occasion; and that amongst the number of their
acquaintance, they knew of but three boys whose friends intended to be
at such _an unnecessary_ expense. Hal stood amazed--"Such are the
varieties of opinion upon all the grand affairs of life," said Mr.
Gresham, looking at his nephews--"what amongst one set of people you
hear asserted to be absolutely necessary, you will hear from another set
of people is quite unnecessary. All that can be done, my dear boys, in
these difficult cases, is to judge for yourselves, which opinions, and
which people, are the most reasonable."
Hal, who had been more accustomed to think of what was fashionable than
of what was reasonable, without at all considering the good sense of
what his uncle said to him, replied with childish petulance, "Indeed,
sir, I don't know what other people think; I only know what Lady Diana
Sweepstakes said."
The name of Lady Diana Sweepstakes, Hal thought, must impress all
present with respect: he was highly astonished, when, as he looked
round, he saw a smile of contempt upon every one's countenance; and he
was yet further bewildered when he heard her spoken of as a very silly,
extravagant, ridiculous woman, whose opinion no prudent person would ask
upon any subject, and whose example was to be shunned, instead of being
imitated.
"Ay, my dear Hal," said his uncle, smiling at his look of amazement,
"these are some of the things that young people must learn from
experience. All the world do not agree in opinion about characters: you
will hear the same person admired in one company, and blamed in another;
so that we must still come round to the same point, _Judge for
yourself_."
Hal's thoughts were, however, at present, too full of the uniform to
allow his judgment to act with perfect impartiality. As soon as their
visit was over, and all the time they walked down the hill from
Prince's-buildings, towards Bristol, he continued to repeat nearly the
same arguments which he had formerly used; respecting necessity, the
uniform, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes.
To all this Mr. Gresham made no reply; and longer had the young
gentleman expatiated upon the subject, which had so strongly seized upon
his imagination, had not his senses been forcibly assailed at this
instant by the delicious odors and tempting sight of certain cakes and
jellies in a pastry-cook's shop.
"Oh, Uncle," said he, as his uncle was going to turn the corner to
pursue the road to Bristol, "look at those jellies!" pointing to a
confectioner's shop; "I must buy some of those good things; for I have
got some half-pence in my pocket."
"Your having half-pence in your pocket is an excellent reason for
eating," said Mr. Gresham, smiling.
"But I really am hungry," said Hal; "you know, Uncle, it is a good while
since breakfast."
His uncle, who was desirous to see his nephews act without restraint,
that he might judge of their characters, bid them do as they pleased.
"Come, then, Ben, if you've any half-pence in your pocket."
"I'm not hungry," said Ben.
"I suppose _that_ means that you've no half-pence," said Hal, laughing,
with the look of superiority which he had been taught to think _the
rich_ might assume towards those who were convicted either of poverty or
economy.
"Waste not, want not," said Ben to himself. Contrary to his cousin's
surmise, he happened to have two pennyworth of half-pence actually in
his pocket.
At the very moment Hal stepped into the pastry-cook's shop, a poor
industrious man, with a wooden leg, who usually sweeps the dirty corner
of the walk which turns at this spot to the Wells, held his hat to Ben,
who, after glancing his eye at the petitioner's well-worn broom,
instantly produced his two-pence. "I wish I had more half-pence for you,
my good man," said he; "but I've only two-pence."
Hal came out of Mr. Millar's, the confectioner's shop, with a hatful of
cakes in his hand.
Mr. Millar's dog was sitting on the flags before the door; and he looked
up, with a wistful, begging eye, at Hal, who was eating a queen-cake.
Hal, who was wasteful even in his good nature, threw a whole queen-cake
to the dog, who swallowed it for a single mouthful.
"There go two-pence in the form of a queen-cake," said Mr. Gresham.
Hal next offered some of his cakes to his uncle and cousin; but they
thanked him, and refused to eat any, because, they said, they were not
hungry; so he ate and ate, as he walked along, till at last he stopped,
and said, "This bun tastes so bad after the queen-cakes, I can't bear
it!" and he was going to fling it from him into the river.
"Oh, it is a pity to waste that good bun; we may be glad of it yet,"
said Ben; "give it to me, rather than throw it away."
"Why, I thought you said you were not hungry," said Hal.
"True, I am not hungry now; but that is no reason why I should never be
hungry again."
"Well, there is the cake for you; take it, for it has made me sick; and
I don't care what becomes of it."
Ben folded the refuse bit of his cousin's bun in a piece of paper, and
put it into his pocket.
"I'm beginning to be exceedingly tired, or sick, or something," said
Hal, "and as there is a stand of coaches somewhere hereabouts, had we
not better take a coach, instead of walking all the way to Bristol?"
"For a stout archer," said Mr. Gresham, "you are more easily tired than
one might have expected. However, with all my heart; let us take a
coach; for Ben asked me to show him the cathedral yesterday, and I
believe I should find it rather too much for me to walk so far, though I
am not sick with eating good things."
"_The cathedral!_" said Hal, after he had been seated in the coach about
a quarter of an hour, and had somewhat recovered from his sickness. "The
cathedral! Why, are we only going to Bristol to see the cathedral? I
thought we came out to see about a uniform."
There was a dullness and melancholy kind of stupidity in Hal's
countenance, as he pronounced these words, like one wakening from a
dream, which made both his uncle and cousin burst out a laughing.
"Why," said Hal, who was now piqued, "I'm sure you _did_ say, Uncle, you
would go to Mr. ----'s, to choose the cloth for the uniform."
"Very true: and so I will," said Mr. Gresham; "but we need not make a
whole morning's work, need we, of looking at a piece of cloth? Cannot we
see a uniform and a cathedral both in one morning?"
They went first to the cathedral. Hal's head was too full of the uniform
to take any notice of the painted window, which immediately caught Ben's
unembarrassed attention. He looked at the large stained figures on the
Gothic window; and he observed their colored shadows on the floor and
walls.
Mr. Gresham, who perceived that he was eager on all subjects to gain
information, took this opportunity of telling him several things about
the lost art of painting on glass, Gothic arches, etc., which Hal
thought extremely tiresome.
"Come! come! we shall be late, indeed," said Hal; "surely you've looked
long enough, Ben, at this blue and red window."
"I'm only thinking about these colored shadows," said Ben.
"I can show you, when we go home, Ben," said his uncle, "an entertaining
paper on such shadows."
"Hark!" cried Ben, "did you hear that noise?"
They all listened, and heard a bird singing in the cathedral.
"It's our old robin, sir," said the lad who had opened the cathedral
door for them.
"Yes," said Mr. Gresham, "there he is, boys--look--perched upon the
organ; he often sits there, and sings whilst the organ is playing."
"And," continued the lad who showed the cathedral, "he has lived here
this many winters; they say he is fifteen years old; and he is so tame,
poor fellow, that if I had a bit of bread he'd come down and feed in my
hand."
"I've a bit of bun here," cried Ben, joyfully, producing the remains of
the bun which Hal, but an hour before, would have thrown away. "Pray let
us see the poor robin eat out of your hand."
The lad crumbled the bun, and called to the robin, who fluttered and
chirped, and seemed rejoiced at the sight of the bread; but yet he did
not come down from his pinnacle on the organ.
"He is afraid of _us_," said Ben; "he is not used to eat before
strangers, I suppose."
"Ah, no, Sir," said the young man, with a deep sigh, "that is not the
thing: he is used enough to eat afore company; time was, he'd have come
down for me, before ever so many fine folks, and have ate his crumbs out
of my hand, at my first call; but, poor fellow, it's not his fault now;
he does not know me now, Sir, since my accident, because of this great
black patch."
The young man put his hand to his right eye, which was covered with a
huge black patch.
Ben asked what _accident_ he meant; and the lad told him that, a few
weeks ago, he had lost the sight of his eye by the stroke of a stone,
which reached him as he was passing under the rocks of Clifton,
unluckily, when the workmen were blasting.
"I don't mind so much for myself, Sir," said the lad; "but I can't work
so well now, as I used to do before my accident, for my old mother, who
has had a stroke of the palsy; and I've a many little brothers and
sisters, not well able yet to get their own livelihood, though they be
as willing, as willing can be."
"Where does your mother live?" said Mr. Gresham.
"Hard by, Sir, just close to the church here: it was _her_ that always
had the showing of it to strangers, till she lost the use of her poor
limbs."
"Shall we, may we, go that way?--This is the house: is it not?" said
Ben, when they went out of the cathedral.
They went into the house: it was rather a hovel than a house; but, poor
as it was, it was as neat as misery could make it.
The old woman was sitting up in her wretched bed, winding worsted; four
meager, ill-clothed, pale children were all busy, some of them sticking
pins in paper for the pin-maker, and others sorting rags for the
paper-maker.
"What a horrid place it is!" said Hal, sighing; "I did not know there
were such shocking places in the world. I've often seen
terrible-looking, tumble-down places, as we drove through the town in
Mamma's carriage; but then I did not know who lived in them; and I never
saw the inside of any of them. It is very dreadful, indeed, to think
that people are forced to live in this way. I wish Mamma would send me
some more pocket-money, that I might do something for them. I had
half-a-crown; but," continued he, feeling in his pockets, "I'm afraid I
spent the last shilling of it this morning, upon those cakes that made
me sick. I wish I had my shilling now, I'd give it to _these poor
people_."
Ben, though he was all this time silent, was as sorry as his talkative
cousin, for all these poor people. But there was some difference between
the sorrow of these two boys.
Hal, after he was again seated in the hackney-coach, and had rattled
through the busy streets of Bristol for a few minutes, quite forgot the
spectacle of misery which he had seen; and the gay shops in Wine-street,
and the idea of his green and white uniform, wholly occupied his
imagination.
"Now for our uniforms!" cried he, as he jumped eagerly out of the coach,
when his uncle stopped at the woolen-draper's door.
"Uncle," said Ben, stopping Mr. Gresham before he got out of the
carriage, "I don't think a uniform is at all necessary for me. I'm very
much obliged to you, but I would rather not have one. I have a very good
coat--and I think it would be waste."
"Well, let me out of the carriage and we will see about it," said Mr.
Gresham "perhaps the sight of the beautiful green and white cloth, and
the epaulettes (have you ever considered the epaulettes?) may tempt you
to change your mind."
"Oh, no," said Ben, laughing; "I shall not change my mind."
The green cloth, and the white cloth, and the epaulettes, were produced,
to Hal's infinite satisfaction. His uncle took up a pen, and calculated
for a few minutes; then, showing the back of the letter, upon which he
was writing, to his nephews, "Cast up these sums, boys," said he, "and
tell me whether I am right."
"Ben, do you do it," said Hal, a little embarrassed; "I am not quick at
figures."
Ben _was_, and he went over his uncle's calculation very expeditiously.
"It is right, is it?" said Mr. Gresham.
"Yes, Sir, quite right."
"Then by this calculation, I find I could for less than half the money
your uniforms would cost, purchase for each of you boys a warm
great-coat, which you will want, I have a notion, this winter upon the
Downs."
"Oh, Sir," said Hal, with an alarmed look; "but it is not winter _yet_;
it is not cold weather yet. We sha'n't want great-coats _yet_."
"Don't you remember how cold we were, Hal, the day before yesterday, in
that sharp wind, when we were flying our kite upon the Downs?--and
winter will come, though it is not come yet; I am sure, I should like to
have a good warm great-coat very much," said Ben.
Mr. Gresham took six guineas out of his purse; and he placed three of
them before Hal, and three before Ben.
"Young gentlemen," said he, "I believe your uniforms would come to about
three guineas apiece. Now I will lay out this money for you just as you
please: Hal, what say you?"
"Why, Sir," said Hal, "a great-coat is a good thing, to be sure; and
then, after the great-coat, as you said it would only cost half as much
as the uniform, there would be some money to spare, would not there?"
"Yes, my dear, about five-and-twenty shillings."
"Five-and-twenty shillings! I could buy and do a great many things, to
be sure, with five-and-twenty shillings; but then, _the thing is_, I
must go without the uniform, if I have the great-coat."
"Certainly," said his uncle.
"Ah!" said Hal, sighing as he looked at the epaulettes, "Uncle, if you
would not be displeased if I choose the uniform--"
"I shall not be displeased at your choosing whatever you like best,"
said Mr. Gresham.
"Well, then, thank you, Sir, I think I had better have the uniform,
because if I have not the uniform now directly it will be of no use to
me, as the archery meeting is the week after next, you know; and as to
the great-coat, perhaps, between this time and the _very_ cold weather,
which, perhaps, won't be till Christmas, Papa will buy a great-coat for
me; and I'll ask Mamma to give me some pocket-money to give away, and
she will perhaps."
To all this conclusive conditional reasoning, which depended upon
_perhaps_, three times repeated, Mr. Gresham made no reply; but he
immediately bought the uniform for Hal, and desired that it should be
sent to Lady Diana Sweepstakes' sons' tailor, to be made up. The measure
of Hal's happiness was now complete.
"And how am I to lay out the three guineas for you, Ben?" said Mr.
Gresham. "Speak, what do you wish for first?"
"A great-coat, Uncle, if you please."
Mr. Gresham bought the coat; and after it was paid for, five-and-twenty
shillings of Ben's three guineas remained.
"What's next, my boy?" said his uncle.
"Arrows, Uncle, if you please: three arrows."
"My dear, I promised you a bow and arrows."
"No, Uncle, you only said a bow."
"Well, I meant a bow and arrows. I'm glad you are so exact, however. It
is better to claim less than more than what is promised. The three
arrows you shall have. But go on: how shall I dispose of these
five-and-twenty shillings for you?"
"In clothes, if you will be so good, Uncle, for that poor boy, who has
the great black patch on his eye."
"I always believed," said Mr. Gresham, shaking hands with Ben, "that
economy and generosity were the best friends, instead of being enemies,
as some silly, extravagant people would have us think them. Choose the
poor blind boy's coat, my dear nephew, and pay for it. There's no
occasion for my praising you about the matter; your best reward is in
your own mind, child; and you want no other, or I'm mistaken. Now jump
into the coach, boys, and let's be off. We shall be late, I'm afraid,"
continued he, as the coach drove on; "but I must let you stop, Ben, with
your goods, at the poor boy's door."
When they came to the house, Mr. Gresham opened the coach door, and Ben
jumped out with his parcel under his arm.
"Stay, stay! you must take me with you," said his pleased uncle; "I like
to see people made happy as well as you do."
"And so do I too!" said Hal; "let me come with you. I almost wish my
uniform was not gone to the tailor's, so I do."
And when he saw the look of delight and gratitude with which the poor
boy received the clothes which Ben gave him; and when he heard the
mother and children thank him, Hal sighed, and said, "Well, I hope Mamma
will give me some more pocket-money soon."
Upon his return home, however, the sight of the _famous_ bow and arrow
which Lady Diana Sweepstakes had sent him, recalled to his imagination
all the joys of his green and white uniform; and he no longer wished
that it had not been sent to the tailor's.
"But I don't understand, cousin Hal," said little Patty, "why you call
this bow a _famous_ bow; you say _famous_ very often; and I don't know
exactly what it means--a _famous_ uniform--_famous_ doings--I remember
you said there are to be _famous_ doings the first of September upon the
Downs--What does _famous_ mean?"
"Oh, why _famous_ means--Now don't you know what _famous_ means? It
means--it is a word that people say--It is the fashion to say it. It
means--it means _famous_."
Patty laughed, and said, "_This_ does not explain it to me."
"No," said Hal, "nor can it be explained: if you don't understand it,
that's not my fault: everybody but little children, I suppose,
understands it; but there's no explaining _those sorts_ of words, if you
don't _take them_ at once. There's to be _famous_ doings upon the Downs
the first of September; that is, grand, fine. In short, what does it
signify talking any longer, Patty, about the matter? Give me my bow; for
I must go upon the Downs, and practise."
Ben accompanied him with the bow and the three arrows which his uncle
had now given to him; and every day these two boys went out upon the
Downs, and practised shooting with indefatigable perseverance. Where
equal pains are taken, success is usually found to be pretty nearly
equal. Our two archers, by constant practice, became expert marksmen;
and before the day of trial they were so exactly matched in point of
dexterity, that it was scarcely possible to decide which was superior.
The long-expected first of September at length arrived.
"What sort of a day is it?" was the first question that was asked by Hal
and Ben, the moment that they awakened.
The sun shone bright; but there was a sharp and high wind.
"Ha!" said Ben, "I shall be glad of my good great-coat to-day; for I've
a notion it will be rather cold upon the Downs, especially when we are
standing still, as we must, while all the people are shooting."
"Oh, never mind! I don't think I shall feel it cold at all," said Hal,
as he dressed himself in his new white and green uniform: and he viewed
himself with much complacency.
"Good morning to you, Uncle; how do you do?" said he, in a voice of
exultation, when he entered the breakfast-room.
How do you do? seemed rather to mean, How do you like me in my uniform?
And his uncle's cool, "Very well, I thank you, Hal," disappointed him,
as it seemed only to say, "Your uniform makes no difference in my
opinion of you."
Even little Patty went on eating her breakfast much as usual, and talked
of the pleasure of walking with her father to the Downs, and of all the
little things which interested her; so that Hal's epaulettes were not
the principal object in any one's imagination but his own.
"Papa," said Patty, "as we go up the hill where there is so much red
mud, I must take care to pick my way nicely; and I must hold up my
frock, as you desired me; and perhaps you will be so good, if I am not
troublesome, to lift me over the very bad place where there are no
stepping-stones. My ankle is entirely well, and I'm glad of that, or
else I should not be able to walk so far as the Downs. How good you were
to me, Ben, when I was in pain, the day I sprained my ankle! You played
at jack-straws, and at cat's-cradle with me. Oh, that puts me in
mind--Here are your gloves, which I asked you that night to let me mend.
I've been a great while about them, but are not they very neatly mended,
Papa? Look at the sewing."
"I am not a very good judge of sewing, my dear little girl," said Mr.
Gresham, examining the work with a close and scrupulous eye; "but in my
opinion, here is one stitch that is rather too long; the white teeth are
not quite even."
"O Papa, I'll take out that long tooth in a minute," said Patty
laughing; "I did not think that you would have observed it so soon."
"I would not have you trust to my blindness," said her father, stroking
her head fondly: "I observe everything. I observe, for instance, that
you are a grateful little girl, and that you are glad to be of use to
those who have been kind to you; and for this I forgive you the long
stitch."
"But it's out, it's out, Papa," said Patty; "and the next time your
gloves want mending, Ben, I'll mend them better."
"They are very nice, I think," said Ben, drawing them on; "and I am much
obliged to you. I was just wishing I had a pair of gloves to keep my
fingers warm to-day, for I never can shoot well when my hands are
numbed. Look, Hal--you know how ragged these gloves were; you said they
were good for nothing but to throw away; now look, there's not a hole in
them," said he, spreading his fingers.
"Now, is it not very extraordinary," said Hal to himself, "that they
should go on so long talking about an old pair of gloves, without
scarcely saying a word about my new uniform? Well, the young Sweepstakes
and Lady Diana will talk enough about it; that's one comfort."
"Is not it time to think of setting out, Sir?" said Hal to his uncle;
"the company, you know, are to meet at the Ostrich at twelve, and the
race to begin at one, and Lady Diana's horses, I know, were ordered to
be at the door at ten."
Mr. Stephen, the butler, here interrupted the hurrying young gentleman
in his calculations. "There's a poor lad, Sir, below, with a great black
patch on his right eye, who is come from Bristol, and wants to speak a
word with the young gentlemen, if you please. I told him they were just
going out with you, but he says he won't detain them above half a
minute."
"Show him up, show him up," said Mr. Gresham.
"But I suppose," said Hal, with a sigh, "that Stephen mistook, when he
said the young _gentlemen_; he only wants to see Ben, I dare say; I'm
sure he has no reason to want to see me."
"Here he comes--O Ben, he is dressed in the new coat you gave him,"
whispered Hal, who was really a good-natured boy, though extravagant.
"How much better he looks than he did in the ragged coat! Ah! he looked
at you first, Ben; and well he may!"
The boy bowed without any cringing servility, but with an open, decent
freedom in his manner, which expressed that he had been obliged, but
that he knew his young benefactor was not thinking of the obligation. He
made as little distinction as possible between his bows to the two
cousins.
"As I was sent with a message, by the clerk of our parish, to Redland
Chapel, out on the Downs, to-day, Sir," said he to Mr. Gresham, "knowing
your house lay in my way, my mother, Sir, bid me call, and make bold to
offer the young gentlemen two little worsted balls that she had worked
for them," continued the lad, pulling out of his pocket two worsted
balls worked in green and orange colored stripes: "they are but poor
things, Sir, she bid me say, to look at; but considering she had but one
hand to work with, and _that_ her left hand, you'll not despise 'em, we
hopes."
He held the balls to Ben and Hal. "They are both alike, gentlemen," said
he; "if you'll be pleased to take 'em, they are better than they look,
for they bound higher than your head; I cut the cork round for the
inside myself, which was all I could do."
"They are nice balls, indeed; we are much obliged to you," said the
boys, as they received them, and they proved them immediately. The balls
struck the floor with a delightful sound, and rebounded higher than Mr.
Gresham's head. Little Patty clapped her hands joyfully; but now a
thundering double rap at the door was heard.
"The Master Sweepstakes, Sir," said Stephen, "are come for Master Hal;
they say that all the young gentlemen who have archery uniforms are to
walk together in a body, I think they say, Sir; and they are to parade
along the Well-Walk, they desired me to say, Sir, with a drum and fife,
and so up the hill, by Prince's Place, and all to go upon the Downs
together, to the place of meeting. I am not sure I'm right, Sir, for
both the young gentlemen spoke at once, and the wind is very high at the
street door, so that I could not well make out all they said; but I
believe this is the sense of it."
"Yes, yes," said Hal, eagerly, "it's all right; I know that is just what
was settled the day I dined at Lady Diana's; and Lady Diana and a great
party of gentlemen are to ride--"
"Well, that is nothing to the purpose," interrupted Mr. Gresham. "Don't
keep the Master Sweepstakes waiting; decide--do you choose to go with
them, or with us?"
"Sir--Uncle--Sir, you know, since all the _uniforms_ agreed to go
together--"
"Off with you then, Mr. Uniform, if you mean to go," said Mr. Gresham.
Hal ran downstairs in such a hurry that he forgot his bow and arrows.
Ben discovered this when he went to fetch his own; and the lad from
Bristol, who had been ordered by Mr. Gresham to eat his breakfast before
he proceeded to Redland Chapel, heard Ben talking about his cousin's bow
and arrows.
"I know," said Ben, "he will be sorry not to have his bow with him,
because here are the green knots tied to it, to match his cockade; and
he said that the boys were all to carry their bows as part of the
show."
"If you'll give me leave, sir," said the poor Bristol lad, "I shall have
plenty of time; and I'll run down to the Well-Walk after the young
gentleman, and take him his bow and arrows."
"Will you? I shall be much obliged to you," said Ben; and away went the
boy with the bow that was ornamented with green ribands.
The public walk leading to the Wells was full of company. The windows of
all the houses in St. Vincent's parade were crowded with well-dressed
ladies, who were looking out in expectation of the archery procession.
Parties of gentlemen and ladies, and a motley crowd of spectators, were
seen moving backwards and forwards under the rocks, on the opposite side
of the water. A barge, with colored streamers flying, was waiting to
take up a party, who were going upon the water. The bargemen rested upon
their oars, and gazed with broad faces of curiosity on the busy scene
that appeared upon the public walk.
The archers and archeresses were now drawn up on the flags under the
semi-circular piazza just before Mrs. Yearsley's library. A little band
of children, who had been mustered by Lady Diana Sweepstakes' _spirited
exertions_, closed the procession. They were now all in readiness. The
drummer only waited for her ladyship's signal; and the archers' corps
only waited for her ladyship's word of command to march.
"Where are your bow and arrows, my little man?" said her ladyship to
Hal, as she reviewed her Lilliputian regiment. "You can't march, man,
without your arms!"
Hal had dispatched a messenger for his forgotten bow, but the messenger
returned not; he looked from side to side in great distress. "Oh,
there's my bow coming, I declare!" cried he; "look, I see the bow and
the ribands; look now, between the trees, Charles Sweepstakes, on the
Hot-well Walk; it is coming."
"But you've kept us all waiting a confounded time," said his impatient
friend.
"It is that good-natured poor fellow from Bristol, I protest, that has
brought it to me; I'm sure I don't deserve it from him," said Hal to
himself, when he saw the lad with the black patch on his eye running
quite out of breath towards him with his bow and arrows.
"Fall back, my good friend, fall back," said the military lady, as soon
as he had delivered the bow to Hal: "I mean stand out of the way, for
your great patch cuts no figure amongst us. Don't follow so close, now,
as if you belonged to us, pray."
The poor boy had no ambition to partake the triumph; he _fell back_ as
soon as he understood the meaning of the lady's words. The drum beat,
the fife played, the archers marched, the spectators admired. Hal
stepped proudly, and felt as if the eyes of the whole universe were upon
his epaulettes, or upon the facings of his uniform; whilst all the time
he was considered only as part of a show. The walk appeared much shorter
than usual; and he was extremely sorry that Lady Diana, when they were
half way up the hill leading to Prince's Place, mounted her horse,
because the road was dirty, and all the gentlemen and ladies who
accompanied her, followed her example. "We can leave the children to
walk, you know," said she to the gentleman who helped her to mount her
horse. "I must call to some of them, though, and leave orders where they
are to _join_."
She beckoned: and Hal, who was foremost, and proud to show his alacrity,
ran on to receive her ladyship's orders. Now, as we have before
observed, it was a sharp and windy day; and though Lady Diana
Sweepstakes was actually speaking to him, and looking at him, he could
not prevent his nose from wanting to be blown; he pulled out his
handkerchief, and out rolled the new ball, which had been given to him
just before he left home, and which, according to his usual careless
habits, he had stuffed into his pocket in a hurry. "Oh, my new ball!"
cried he, as he ran after it. As he stooped to pick it up, he let go his
hat, which he had hitherto held on with anxious care; for the hat,
though it had a fine green and white cockade, had no band or string
round it. The string, as we may recollect, our wasteful hero had used in
spinning his top. The hat was too large for his head without this band;
a sudden gust of wind blew it off--Lady Diana's horse started and
reared. She was a _famous_ horse-woman, and sat him to the admiration of
all beholders; but there was a puddle of red clay and water in this
spot, and her ladyship's uniform-habit was a sufferer by the accident.
"Careless brat!" said she. "Why can't he keep his hat upon his head?"
In the meantime, the wind blew the hat down the hill, and Hal ran after
it, amidst the laughter of his kind friends, the young Sweepstakes, and
the rest of the little regiment. The hat was lodged at length, upon a
bank. Hal pursued it: he thought this bank was hard. But, alas! the
moment he set his foot upon it, the foot sank. He tried to draw it back,
his other foot slipped, and he fell prostrate, in his green and white
uniform, into the treacherous bed of red mud. His companions, who had
halted upon the top of the hill, stood laughing spectators of his
misfortune.
It happened that the poor boy with the black patch upon his eye, who had
been ordered by Lady Diana to "_fall back_" and to "_keep at a
distance_," was now coming up the hill; and the moment he saw our fallen
hero, he hastened to his assistance. He dragged poor Hal, who was a
deplorable spectacle, out of the red mud; the obliging mistress of a
lodging-house, as soon as she understood that the young gentleman was
nephew to Mr. Gresham, to whom she had formerly let her house, received
Hal, covered as he was with dirt.
The poor Bristol lad hastened to Mr. Gresham's for clean stockings and
shoes for Hal. He was unwilling to give up his uniform; it was rubbed
and rubbed, and a spot here and there was washed out; and he kept
continually repeating, "When it's dry it will all brush off; when it's
dry it will all brush off, won't it?" But soon the fear of being too
late at the archery meeting began to balance the dread of appearing in
his stained habiliments; and he now as anxiously repeated, while the
woman held the wet coat to the fire, "Oh, I shall be too late; indeed I
shall be too late; make haste; it will never dry: hold it nearer--nearer
to the fire. I shall lose my turn to shoot. Oh, give me the coat; I
don't mind how it is, if I can but get it on."
Holding it nearer and nearer to the fire dried it quickly, to be sure,
but it shrank it also, so that it was no easy matter to get the coat on
again.
However, Hal, who did not see the red splashes, which, in spite of all
the operations, were too visible upon his shoulders and upon the skirts
of his white coat behind, was pretty well satisfied to observe that
there was not one spot upon the facings. "Nobody," said he, "will take
notice of my coat behind, I dare say. I think it looks as smart almost
as ever!" and under this persuasion our young archer resumed his
bow--his bow with green ribands now no more! And he pursued his way to
the Downs.
All his companions were far out of sight. "I suppose," said he to his
friend with the black patch, "I suppose my uncle and Ben had left home
before you went for the shoes and stockings for me?"
"Oh, yes, Sir; the butler said they had been gone to the Downs a matter
of a good half hour or more."
Hal trudged on as fast as he possibly could. When he got on the Downs,
he saw numbers of carriages, and crowds of people, all going towards the
place of meeting, at the Ostrich. He pressed forwards; he was at first
so much afraid of being late, that he did not take notice of the mirth
his motley appearance excited in all beholders. At length he reached the
appointed spot. There was a great crowd of people. In the midst, he
heard Lady Diana's loud voice betting upon some one who was just going
to shoot at the mark.
"So then, the shooting is begun, is it?" said Hal. "Oh, let me in; pray
let me into the circle! I'm one of the archers--I am, indeed; don't you
see my green and white uniform?"
"Your red and white uniform, you mean," said the man to whom he
addressed himself: and the people, as they opened a passage for him,
could not refrain from laughing at the mixture of dirt and finery which
it exhibited. In vain, when he got into the midst of the formidable
circle, he looked to his friends, the young Sweepstakes, for their
countenance and support: they were amongst the most unmerciful of the
laughers. Lady Diana also seemed more to enjoy than to pity his
confusion.
"Why could you not keep your hat upon your head, man?" said she, in her
masculine tone. "You have been almost the ruin of my poor uniform-habit;
but I've escaped rather better than you have. Don't stand there in the
middle of the circle, or you'll have an arrow in your eye presently,
I've a notion."
Hal looked round in search of better friends. "Oh, where's my
uncle?--where's Ben," said he. He was in such confusion, that, amongst
the number of faces, he could scarcely distinguish one from another; but
he felt somebody at this moment pull his elbow, and, to his great
relief, he heard the friendly voice, and saw the good-natured face, of
his cousin Ben.
"Come back; come behind these people," said Ben, "and put on my
great-coat; here it is for you."
Right glad was Hal to cover his disgraced uniform with the rough
great-coat, which he had formerly despised. He pulled the stained,
drooping cockade out of his unfortunate hat; and he was now sufficiently
recovered from his vexation to give an intelligible account of his
accident to his uncle and Patty, who anxiously inquired what had
detained him so long, and what had been the matter. In the midst of the
history of his disaster, he was just proving to Patty that his taking
the hat-band to spin his top had nothing to do with his misfortune; and
he was at the same time endeavoring to refute his uncle's opinion, that
the waste of the whipcord that tied the parcel, was the original cause
of all his evils, when he was summoned to try his skill with his
_famous_ bow.
"My hands are numbed; I can scarcely feel," said he, rubbing them, and
blowing upon the ends of his fingers.
"Come, come," cried young Sweepstakes, "I'm within one inch of the mark;
who'll go nearer, I should like to see. Shoot away, Hal; but first,
understand our laws: we settled them before you came on the green. You
are to have three shots, with your own bow and your own arrows; and
nobody's to borrow or lend under pretence of other bows being better or
worse, or under any pretence. Do you hear, Hal?"
This young gentleman had good reasons for being so strict in these laws,
as he had observed that none of his companions had such an excellent bow
as he had provided for himself. Some of the boys had forgotten to bring
more than one arrow with them, and by his cunning regulation, that each
person should shoot with his own arrows, many had lost one or two of
their shots.
"You are a lucky fellow; you have your three arrows," said young
Sweepstakes. "Come, we can't wait whilst you rub your fingers,
man--shoot away."
Hal was rather surprised at the asperity with which his friend spoke. He
little knew how easily acquaintances, who call themselves friends, can
change, when their interest comes, in the slightest degree, in
competition with their friendship. Hurried by his impatient rival, and
with his hand so much benumbed that he could scarcely feel how to fix
the arrow in the string, he drew the bow. The arrow was within a quarter
of an inch of Master Sweepstakes' mark, which was the nearest that had
yet been hit. Hal seized his second arrow. "If I have any luck," said he
but just as he pronounced the word _luck_ and as he bent his bow, the
string broke in two, and the bow fell from his hands.
"There, it's all over with you," cried Master Sweepstakes, with a
triumphant laugh.
"Here's my bow for him and welcome," said Ben.
"No, no, Sir; that is not fair; that's against the regulation. You may
shoot with your own bow, if you choose it, or you may not, just as you
think proper but you must not lend it, Sir."
It was now Ben's turn to make his trial. His first arrow was not
successful. His second was exactly as near as Hal's first.
"You have but one more," said Master Sweepstakes: "now for it!"
Ben, before he ventured his last arrow prudently examined the string of
his bow; and as he pulled it to try its strength, it cracked.
Master Sweepstakes clapped his hands with loud exultations, and
insulting laughter. But his laughter ceased when our provident hero
calmly drew from his pocket an excellent piece of whipcord.
"The everlasting whipcord, I declare!" exclaimed Hal, when he saw that
it was the very same that had tied up the parcel.
"Yes," said Ben, as he fastened it to his bow, "I put it into my pocket
to-day, on purpose, because I thought I might happen to want it."
He drew his bow the third and last time.
"O Papa," cried little Patty, as his arrow hit the mark, "it's the
nearest, is not it the nearest?"
Master Sweepstakes, with anxiety, examined the hit. There could be no
doubt. Ben was victorious! The bow, the prize bow, was now delivered to
him; and Hal, as he looked at the whipcord, exclaimed, "How _lucky_ this
whipcord has been to you, Ben!"
"It is _lucky_ perhaps you mean, that he took care of it," said Mr.
Gresham.
"Ay," said Hal, "very true; he might well say, 'Waste not, want not'; it
is a good thing to have two strings to one's bow."
382
Only a few of those who have written
immediately for children have produced work
distinguished by the same high artistic
qualities found in the work of writers for
readers of mature minds. Of these few one is
Mrs. Juliana Horatia Ewing (1841-1885). Edmund
Gosse has said that of the numerous English
authors who have written successfully on or for
children only two "have shown a clear
recollection of the mind of healthy childhood
itself. . . . Mrs. Ewing in prose and Mr.
Stevenson in verse have sat down with them
without disturbing their fancies, and have
looked into the world of 'make-believe' with
the children's own eyes." They might lead, he
thinks, "a long romp in the attic when nurse
was out shopping, and not a child in the house
should know that a grown-up person had been
there." This is very high praise indeed and it
suggests the reason for the immense popularity
of "Jackanapes," "The Story of a Short Life,"
"Daddy Darwin's Dovecot,"
"Lob-Lie-by-the-Fire," "Mrs. Overtheway's
Remembrances," and many another of the stories
that delighted young readers when they first
appeared in the pages of _Aunt Judy's
Magazine_. The preëminence of "Jackanapes"
among these many splendid stories may at least
partly be accounted for by the fact that it
grew out of the heat of a great conviction
about life. Early in 1879 the news reached
England of the death of the Prince Imperial of
France, who fell while serving with the English
forces in South Africa during the war with the
Zulus. Perhaps the present-day reader needs to
be reminded that the Prince Imperial was the
only son of the ex-Empress Eugenie, who, with
her husband Napoleon III had taken refuge in
England after the loss of the French throne at
the close of the Franco-Prussian War in 1871.
Napoleon's death shortly after made the young
prince a central figure in all considerations
of the possible recouping of the fortunes of
the Napoleonic dynasty. Full of the spirit of
adventure and courage, he had joined the
English forces to learn something of the
soldier's profession. Unexpectedly ambushed,
the prince was killed while the young officer
who had been assigned to look after him escaped
unhurt. There immediately ensued a wide
discussion of the action of this young officer
in saving himself and, apparently, leaving the
Prince to his fate. Now, Mrs. Ewing was a
soldier's wife and believed in the standard of
honor which would naturally be reflected in
military circles on such an incident. But
hearing the rule of "each man for himself" so
often emphasized in other circles, she was
moved to write the protest against such a view
which forms the central motive in "Jackanapes."
There is no argument, however, no undue
moralizing. With the finest art she embodies
that central doctrine in a great faith that the
saving of a man's life lies in his readiness to
lose it. It was Satan who said, "Skin for skin,
yea, all that a man hath will he give for his
life." The pathos in the story is naturally
inherent in the situation and is never
emphasized for its own sake. Mrs. Ewing was
always a thoroughly conscientious artist. She
believed that the laws of artistic composition
laid down by Ruskin in his _Elements of
Drawing_ applied with equal force to
literature. "For example," says her brother in
an article on her methods, "in the story of
'Jackanapes' the law of Principality is very
clearly demonstrated. Jackanapes is the one
important figure. The doting aunt, the
weak-kneed but faithful Tony Johnson, the
irascible general, the punctilious postman, the
loyal boy-trumpeter, the silent major, and the
ever-dear, faithful, loving Lollo,--all and
each of them conspire with one consent to
reflect forth the glory and beauty of the
noble, generous, recklessly brave, and gently
tender spirit of the hero 'Jackanapes.'" As to
the laws of repetition and contrast: "Again and
again is the village green introduced to the
imagination. It is a picture of eternal peace
and quietness, amid the tragedies of our
ever-changing life which are enacted around
it."
JACKANAPES
JULIANA HORATIA EWING
CHAPTER I
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,
The morn the marshaling in arms--the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent.
Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine:
Yet one would I select from that proud throng.
* * * * *
To thee, to thousands, of whom each
And one and all a ghastly gap did make
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake;
The Archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake
Those whom they thirst for.
--BYRON
Two Donkeys and the Geese lived on the Green, and all other residents of
any social standing lived in houses round it. The houses had no names.
Everybody's address was "The Green," but the Postman and the people of
the place knew where each family lived. As to the rest of the world,
what has one to do with the rest of the world when he is safe at home on
his own Goose Green? Moreover, if a stranger did come on any lawful
business, he might ask his way at the shop. Most of the inhabitants were
long-lived, early deaths (like that of the little Miss Jessamine) being
exceptional; and most of the old people were proud of their age,
especially the sexton, who would be ninety-nine come Martinmas, and
whose father remembered a man who had carried arrows, as a boy, for the
battle of Flodden Field. The Gray Goose and the big Miss Jessamine were
the only elderly persons who kept their ages secret. Indeed, Miss
Jessamine never mentioned any one's age, or recalled the exact year in
which anything had happened. She said that she had been taught that it
was bad manners to do so "in a mixed assembly." The Gray Goose also
avoided dates; but this was partly because her brain, though
intelligent, was not mathematical, and computation was beyond her. She
never got farther than "last Michaelmas," "the Michaelmas before that,"
and "the Michaelmas before the Michaelmas before that." After this her
head, which was small, became confused, and she said, "Ga, ga!" and
changed the subject.
But she remembered the little Miss Jessamine, the Miss Jessamine with
the "conspicuous hair." Her aunt, the big Miss Jessamine, said it was
her only fault. The hair was clean, was abundant, was glossy; but do
what you would with it, it never looked quite like other people's. And
at church, after Saturday night's wash, it shone like the best brass
fender after a spring cleaning. In short, it was conspicuous, which does
not become a young woman, especially in church.
Those were worrying times altogether, and the Green was used for strange
purposes. A political meeting was held on it with the village Cobbler in
the chair, and a speaker who came by stage-coach from the town, where
they had wrecked the bakers' shops, and discussed the price of bread. He
came a second time by stage; but the people had heard something about
him in the meanwhile, and they did not keep him on the Green. They took
him to the pond and tried to make him swim, which he could not do, and
the whole affair was very disturbing to all quiet and peaceable fowls.
After which another man came, and preached sermons on the Green, and a
great many people went to hear him; for those were "trying times," and
folk ran hither and thither for comfort. And then what did they do but
drill the ploughboys on the Green, to get them ready to fight the
French, and teach them the goose-step! However, that came to an end at
last; for Bony was sent to St. Helena, and the ploughboys were sent back
to the plough.
Everybody lived in fear of Bony in those days, especially the naughty
children, who were kept in order during the day by threats of "Bony
shall have you," and who had nightmares about him in the dark. They
thought he was an Ogre in a cocked hat. The Gray Goose thought he was a
Fox, and that all the men of England were going out in red coats to hunt
him. It was no use to argue the point; for she had a very small head,
and when one idea got into it there was no room for another.
Besides, the Gray Goose never saw Bony, nor did the children, which
rather spoilt the terror of him, so that the Black Captain became more
effective as a Bogy with hardened offenders. The Gray Goose remembered
_his_ coming to the place perfectly. What he came for she did not
pretend to know. It was all part and parcel of the war and bad times. He
was called the Black Captain, partly because of himself and partly
because of his wonderful black mare. Strange stories were afloat of how
far and how fast that mare could go when her master's hand was on her
mane and he whispered in her ear. Indeed, some people thought we might
reckon ourselves very lucky if we were not out of the frying-pan into
the fire, and had not got a certain well-known Gentleman of the Road to
protect us against the French. But that, of course, made him none the
less useful to the Johnsons' Nurse when the little Miss Johnsons were
naughty.
"You leave off crying this minnit, Miss Jane, or I'll give you right
away to that horrid wicked officer. Jemima! just look out o' the windy,
if you please, and see if the Black Cap'n's a-coming with his horse to
carry away Miss Jane."
And there, sure enough, the Black Captain strode by, with his sword
clattering as if it did not know whose head to cut off first. But he did
not call for Miss Jane that time. He went on to the Green, where he came
so suddenly upon the eldest Master Johnson, sitting in a puddle on
purpose, in his new nankeen skeleton suit, that the young gentleman
thought judgment had overtaken him at last, and abandoned himself to the
howlings of despair. His howls were redoubled when he was clutched from
behind and swung over the Black Captain's shoulder; but in five minutes
his tears were stanched, and he was playing with the officer's
accoutrements. All of which the Gray Goose saw with her own eyes, and
heard afterwards that that bad boy had been whining to go back to the
Black Captain ever since, which showed how hardened he was, and that
nobody but Bonaparte himself could be expected to do him any good.
But those were "trying times." It was bad enough when the pickle of a
large and respectable family cried for the Black Captain; when it came
to the little Miss Jessamine crying for him, one felt that the sooner
the French landed and had done with it, the better.
The big Miss Jessamine's objection to him was that he was a soldier; and
this prejudice was shared by all the Green. "A soldier," as the speaker
from the town had observed, "is a bloodthirsty, unsettled sort of a
rascal, that the peaceable, home-loving, bread-winning citizen can never
conscientiously look on as a brother till he has beaten his sword into a
ploughshare and his spear into a pruning-hook."
On the other hand, there was some truth in what the Postman (an old
soldier) said in reply,--that the sword has to cut a way for us out of
many a scrape into which our bread-winners get us when they drive their
ploughshares into fallows that don't belong to them. Indeed, whilst our
most peaceful citizens were prosperous chiefly by means of cotton, of
sugar, and of the rise and fall of the money-market (not to speak of
such salable matters as opium, firearms, and "black ivory"),
disturbances were apt to arise in India, Africa, and other outlandish
parts, where the fathers of our domestic race were making fortunes for
their families. And for that matter, even on the Green, we did not wish
the military to leave us in the lurch, so long as there was any fear
that the French were coming.[3]
To let the Black Captain have little Miss Jessamine, however, was
another matter. Her aunt would not hear of it; and then, to crown all,
it appeared that the Captain's father did not think the young lady good
enough for his son. Never was any affair more clearly brought to a
conclusion.
But those were "trying times"; and one moonlight night, when the Gray
Goose was sound asleep upon one leg, the Green was rudely shaken under
her by the thud of a horse's feet. "Ga, ga!" said she, putting down the
other leg and running away.
By the time she returned to her place not a thing was to be seen or
heard. The horse had passed like a shot. But next day there was hurrying
and scurrying and cackling at a very early hour, all about the white
house with the black beams, where Miss Jessamine lived. And when the sun
was so low and the shadows so long on the grass that the Gray Goose felt
ready to run away at the sight of her own neck, little Miss Jane Johnson
and her "particular friend" Clarinda sat under the big oak tree on the
Green, and Jane pinched Clarinda's little finger till she found that she
could keep a secret, and then she told her in confidence that she had
heard from Nurse and Jemima that Miss Jessamine's niece had been a very
naughty girl, and that that horrid wicked officer had come for her on
his black horse and carried her right away.
"Will she never come back?" asked Clarinda.
"Oh, no!" said Jane, decidedly. "Bony never brings people back."
"Not never no more?" sobbed Clarinda, for she was weak-minded, and could
not bear to think that Bony never, never let naughty people go home
again.
Next day Jane had heard more.
"He has taken her to a Green."
"A Goose Green?" asked Clarinda.
"No. A Gretna Green. Don't ask so many questions, child," said Jane,
who, having no more to tell, gave herself airs.
Jane was wrong on one point. Miss Jessamine's niece did come back, and
she and her husband were forgiven. The Gray Goose remembered it well; it
was Michaelmas-tide, the Michaelmas before the Michaelmas before the
Michaelmas--but, ga, ga! What does the date matter? It was autumn,
harvest-time, and everybody was so busy prophesying and praying about
the crops, that the young couple wandered through the lanes, and got
blackberries for Miss Jessamine's celebrated crab and blackberry jam,
and made guys of themselves with bryony wreaths, and not a soul troubled
his head about them, except the children and the Postman. The children
dogged the Black Captain's footsteps (his bubble reputation as an Ogre
having burst) clamoring for a ride on the black mare. And the Postman
would go somewhat out of his postal way to catch the Captain's dark eye,
and show that he had not forgotten how to salute an officer.
But they were "trying times." One afternoon the black mare was stepping
gently up and down the grass, with her head at her master's shoulder,
and as many children crowded on to her silky back as if she had been an
elephant in a menagerie; and the next afternoon she carried him away,
sword and _sabre-tache_ clattering war music at her side, and the old
Postman waiting for them, rigid with salutation, at the four
cross-roads.
War and bad times! It was a hard winter; and the big Miss Jessamine and
the little Miss Jessamine (but she was Mrs. Black-Captain now) lived
very economically, that they might help their poorer neighbors. They
neither entertained nor went into company; but the young lady always
went up the village as far as the _George and Dragon_, for air and
exercise when the London Mail[4] came in.
One day (it was a day in the following June) it came in earlier than
usual, and the young lady was not there to meet it.
But a crowd soon gathered round the _George and Dragon_, gaping to see
the Mail Coach dressed with flowers and oak-leaves, and the guard
wearing a laurel wreath over and above his royal livery. The ribbons
that decked the horses were stained and flecked with the warmth and foam
of the pace at which they had come, for they had pressed on with the
news of Victory.
Miss Jessamine was sitting with her niece under the oak tree on the
Green, when the Postman put a newspaper silently into her hand. Her
niece turned quickly,--
"Is there news?"
"Don't agitate yourself, my dear," said her aunt. "I will read it aloud,
and then we can enjoy it together; a far more comfortable method, my
love, than when you go up the village, and come home out of breath,
having snatched half the news as you run."
"I am all attention, dear aunt," said the little lady, clasping her
hands tightly on her lap.
Then Miss Jessamine read aloud,--she was proud of her reading,--and the
old soldier stood at attention behind her, with such a blending of pride
and pity on his face as it was strange to see:--
"Downing Street
_June_ 22, 1815, 1 A. M."
"That's one in the morning," gasped the Postman; "beg your pardon, mum."
But though he apologized, he could not refrain from echoing here and
there a weighty word: "Glorious victory,"--"Two hundred pieces of
artillery,"--"Immense quantity of ammunition,"--and so forth.
"The loss of the British Army upon this
occasion has unfortunately been most severe. It
had not been possible to make out a return of
the killed and wounded when Major Percy left
headquarters. The names of the officers killed
and wounded, as far as they can be collected,
are annexed.
I have the honor--"
"The list, aunt! Read the list!"
"My love--my darling--let us go in and--"
"No. Now! now!"
To one thing the supremely afflicted are entitled in their sorrow,--to
be obeyed; and yet it is the last kindness that people commonly will do
them. But Miss Jessamine did. Steadying her voice, as best she might,
she read on; and the old soldier stood bareheaded to hear that first
Roll of the Dead at Waterloo, which began with the Duke of Brunswick and
ended with Ensign Brown.[5] Five-and-thirty British Captains fell asleep
that day on the Bed of Honor, and the Black Captain slept among them.
* * * * *
There are killed and wounded by war of whom no returns reach Downing
Street.
Three days later, the Captain's wife had joined him, and Miss Jessamine
was kneeling by the cradle of their orphan son, a purple-red morsel of
humanity with conspicuously golden hair.
"Will he live, Doctor?"
"Live? God bless my soul, ma'am. Look at him! The young Jackanapes!"
CHAPTER II
And he wandered away and away
With Nature, the dear old Nurse.
--LONGFELLOW
The Gray Goose remembered quite well the year that Jackanapes began to
walk, for it was the year that the speckled hen for the first time in
all her motherly life got out of patience when she was sitting. She had
been rather proud of the eggs,--they were unusually large,--but she
never felt quite comfortable on them, and whether it was because she
used to get cramp and go off the nest, or because the season was bad, or
what, she never could tell; but every egg was addled but one, and the
one that did hatch gave her more trouble than any chick she had ever
reared.
It was a fine, downy, bright yellow little thing, but it had a monstrous
big nose and feet, and such an ungainly walk as she knew no other
instance of in her well-bred and high-stepping family. And as to
behavior, it was not that it was either quarrelsome or moping, but
simply unlike the rest. When the other chicks hopped and cheeped on the
Green about their mother's feet, this solitary yellow brat went waddling
off on its own responsibility, and do or cluck what the speckled hen
would, it went to play in the pond.
It was off one day as usual, and the hen was fussing and fuming after
it, when the Postman, going to deliver a letter at Miss Jessamine's
door, was nearly knocked over by the good lady herself, who, bursting
out of the house with her cap just off and her bonnet just not on, fell
into his arms, crying,--
"Baby! Baby! Jackanapes! Jackanapes!"
If the Postman loved anything on earth, he loved the Captain's
yellow-haired child; so, propping Miss Jessamine against her own
door-post, he followed the direction of her trembling fingers and made
for the Green.
Jackanapes had had the start of the Postman by nearly ten minutes. The
world--the round green world with an oak tree on it--was just becoming
very interesting to him. He had tried, vigorously but ineffectually, to
mount a passing pig the last time he was taken out walking; but then he
was encumbered with a nurse. Now he was his own master, and might, by
courage and energy, become the master of that delightful downy, dumpy,
yellow thing that was bobbing along over the green grass in front of
him. Forward! Charge! He aimed well, and grabbed it, but only to feel
the delicious downiness and dumpiness slipping through his fingers as he
fell upon his face. "Quawk!" said the yellow thing, and wabbled off
sideways. It was this oblique movement that enabled Jackanapes to come
up with it, for it was bound for the Pond, and therefore obliged to come
back into line. He failed again from top-heaviness, and his prey escaped
sideways as before, and, as before, lost ground in getting back to the
direct road to the Pond.
And at the Pond the Postman found them both,--one yellow thing rocking
safely on the ripples that lie beyond duckweed, and the other washing
his draggled frock with tears because he too had tried to sit upon the
Pond and it wouldn't hold him.
CHAPTER III
If studious, copie fair what time hath blurred,
Redeem truth from his jawes: if souldier,
Chase brave employments with a naked sword
Throughout the world. Fool not; for all may have,
If they dare try, a glorious life, or grave.
* * * * *
In brief, acquit thee bravely; play the man.
Look not on pleasures as they come, but go.
Defer not the least vertue: life's poore span
Make not an ell, by trifling in thy woe.
If thou do ill, the joy fades, not the pains.
If well: the pain doth fade, the joy remains.
--GEORGE HERBERT
Young Mrs. Johnson, who was a mother of many, hardly knew which to pity
more,--Miss Jessamine for having her little ways and her antimacassars
rumpled by a young Jackanapes, or the boy himself for being brought up
by an old maid.
Oddly enough, she would probably have pitied neither, had Jackanapes
been a girl. (One is so apt to think that what works smoothest, works to
the highest ends, having no patience for the results of friction.) That
father in God who bade the young men to be pure and the maidens brave,
greatly disturbed a member of his congregation, who thought that the
great preacher had made a slip of the tongue.
"That the girls should have purity, and the boys courage, is what you
would say, good father?"
"Nature has done that," was the reply; "I meant what I said."
In good sooth, a young maid is all the better for learning some robuster
virtues than maidenliness and not to move the antimacassars; and the
robuster virtues require some fresh air and freedom. As, on the other
hand, Jackanapes (who had a boy's full share of the little beast and the
young monkey in his natural composition) was none the worse, at his
tender years, for learning some maidenliness,--so far as maidenliness
means decency, pity, unselfishness, and pretty behavior.
And it is due to him to say that he was an obedient boy, and a boy whose
word could be depended on, long before his grandfather the General came
to live at the Green.
He was obedient; that is, he did what his great-aunt told him. But--oh,
dear! oh, dear!--the pranks he played, which it had never entered into
her head to forbid!
It was when he had just been put into skeletons (frocks never suited
him) that he became very friendly with Master Tony Johnson, a younger
brother of the young gentleman who sat in the puddle on purpose. Tony
was not enterprising, and Jackanapes led him by the nose. One summer's
evening they were out late, and Miss Jessamine was becoming anxious,
when Jackanapes presented himself with a ghastly face all besmirched
with tears. He was unusually subdued.
"I'm afraid," he sobbed,--"if you please, I'm very much afraid that Tony
Johnson's dying in the churchyard."
Miss Jessamine was just beginning to be distracted, when she smelt
Jackanapes.
"You naughty, naughty boys! Do you mean to tell me that you've been
smoking?"
"Not pipes," urged Jackanapes; "upon my honor, aunty, not pipes. Only
cigars like Mr. Johnson's! and only made of brown paper with a very,
very little tobacco from the shop inside them."
Whereupon Miss Jessamine sent a servant to the churchyard, who found
Tony Johnson lying on a tombstone, very sick, and having ceased to
entertain any hopes of his own recovery.
If it could be possible that any "unpleasantness" could arise between
two such amiable neighbors as Miss Jessamine and Mrs. Johnson, and if
the still more incredible paradox can be that ladies may differ over a
point on which they are agreed, that point was the admitted fact that
Tony Johnson was "delicate"; and the difference lay chiefly in this:
Mrs. Johnson said that Tony was delicate,--meaning that he was more
finely strung, more sensitive, a properer subject for pampering and
petting, than Jackanapes, and that, consequently, Jackanapes was to
blame for leading Tony into scrapes which resulted in his being chilled,
frightened, or (most frequently) sick. But when Miss Jessamine said that
Tony Johnson was delicate, she meant that he was more puling, less
manly, and less healthily brought up than Jackanapes, who, when they got
into mischief together, was certainly not to blame because his friend
could not get wet, sit a kicking donkey, ride in the giddy-go-round,
bear the noise of a cracker, or smoke brown paper with impunity, as he
could.
Not that there was ever the slightest quarrel between the ladies. It
never even came near it, except the day after Tony had been so very
sick with riding Bucephalus on the giddy-go-round. Mrs. Johnson had
explained to Miss Jessamine that the reason Tony was so easily upset was
the unusual sensitiveness (as a doctor had explained it to her) of the
nervous centers in her family--"Fiddlestick!" So Mrs. Johnson understood
Miss Jessamine to say; but it appeared that she only said
"Treaclestick!" which is quite another thing, and of which Tony was
undoubtedly fond.
It was at the Fair that Tony was made ill by riding on Bucephalus. Once
a year the Goose Green became the scene of a carnival. First of all,
carts and caravans were rumbling up all along, day and night. Jackanapes
could hear them as he lay in bed, and could hardly sleep for speculating
what booths and whirligigs he should find fairly established when he and
his dog Spitfire went out after breakfast. As a matter of fact, he
seldom had to wait so long for news of the Fair. The Postman knew the
window out of which Jackanapes's yellow head would come, and was ready
with his report.
"Royal Theayter, Master Jackanapes, in the old place, but be careful o'
them seats, sir; they're rickettier than ever. Two sweets and a ginger
beer under the Oak tree, and the Flying Boats is just a-coming along the
road."
No doubt it was partly because he had already suffered severely in the
Flying Boats that Tony collapsed so quickly in the giddy-go-round. He
only mounted Bucephalus (who was spotted, and had no tail) because
Jackanapes urged him, and held out the ingenious hope that the
round-and-round feeling would very likely cure the up-and-down
sensation. It did not, however, and Tony tumbled off during the first
revolution.
Jackanapes was not absolutely free from qualms; but having once mounted
the Black Prince, he stuck to him as a horseman should. During the first
round he waved his hat, and observed with some concern that the Black
Prince had lost an ear since last Fair; at the second, he looked a
little pale, but sat upright, though somewhat unnecessarily rigid; at
the third round he shut his eyes. During the fourth his hat fell off,
and he clasped his horse's neck. By the fifth he had laid his yellow
head against the Black Prince's mane, and so clung anyhow till the
hobby-horses stopped, when the proprietor assisted him to alight, and he
sat down rather suddenly and said he had enjoyed it very much.
The Gray Goose always ran away at the first approach of the caravans,
and never came back to the Green till there was nothing left of the Fair
but footmarks and oyster-shells. Running away was her pet principle; the
only system, she maintained, by which you can live long and easily and
lose nothing. If you run away when you see danger, you can come back
when all is safe. Run quickly, return slowly, hold your head high, and
gabble as loud as you can, and you'll preserve the respect of the Goose
Green to a peaceful old age. Why should you struggle and get hurt, if
you can lower your head and swerve, and not lose a feather?! Why in the
world should any one spoil the pleasure of life, or risk his skin, if he
can help it?
"'What's the use?'
Said the Goose."
Before answering which one might have to consider what world, which
life, and whether his skin were a goose-skin; but the Gray Goose's head
would never have held all that.
Grass soon grows over footprints, and the village children took the
oyster-shells to trim their gardens with; but the year after Tony rode
Bucephalus there lingered another relic of Fair-time in which Jackanapes
was deeply interested. "The Green" proper was originally only part of a
straggling common, which in its turn merged into some wilder waste land
where gypsies sometimes squatted if the authorities would allow them,
especially after the annual Fair. And it was after the Fair that
Jackanapes, out rambling by himself, was knocked over by the Gypsy's son
riding the Gypsy's red-haired pony at breakneck pace across the common.
Jackanapes got up and shook himself, none the worse except for being
heels over head in love with the red-haired pony. What a rate he went
at! How he spurned the ground with his nimble feet! How his red coat
shone in the sunshine! And what bright eyes peeped out of his dark
forelock as it was blown by the wind!
The Gypsy boy had had a fright, and he was willing enough to reward
Jackanapes for not having been hurt, by consenting to let him have a
ride.
"Do you mean to kill the little fine gentleman, and swing us all on the
gibbet, you rascal?" screamed the Gypsy mother, who came up just as
Jackanapes and the pony set off.
"He would get on," replied her son. "It'll not kill him. He'll fall on
his yellow head, and it's as tough as a cocoanut."
But Jackanapes did not fall. He stuck to the red-haired pony as he had
stuck to the hobby-horse; but, oh, how different the delight of this
wild gallop with flesh and blood! Just as his legs were beginning to
feel as if he did not feel them, the Gypsy boy cried, "Lollo!" Round
went the pony so unceremoniously that with as little ceremony Jackanapes
clung to his neck; and he did not properly recover himself before Lollo
stopped with a jerk at the place where they had started.
"Is his name Lollo?" asked Jackanapes, his hand lingering in the wiry
mane.
"Yes."
"What does Lollo mean?"
"Red."
"Is Lollo your pony?"
"No. My father's." And the Gypsy boy led Lollo away.
At the first opportunity Jackanapes stole away again to the common. This
time he saw the Gypsy father, smoking a dirty pipe.
"Lollo is your pony, isn't he?" said Jackanapes.
"Yes."
"He's a very nice one."
"He's a racer."
"You don't want to sell him, do you?"
"Fifteen pounds," said the Gypsy father; and Jackanapes sighed and went
home again. That very afternoon he and Tony rode the two donkeys; and
Tony managed to get thrown, and even Jackanapes's donkey kicked. But it
was jolting, clumsy work after the elastic swiftness and the dainty
mischief of the red-haired pony.
A few days later, Miss Jessamine spoke very seriously to Jackanapes. She
was a good deal agitated as she told him that his grandfather the
General was coming to the Green, and that he must be on his very best
behavior during the visit. If it had been feasible to leave off calling
him Jackanapes and to get used to his baptismal name of Theodore before
the day after to-morrow (when the General was due), it would have been
satisfactory. But Miss Jessamine feared it would be impossible in
practice, and she had scruples about it on principle. It would not seem
quite truthful, although she had always most fully intended that he
should be called Theodore when he had outgrown the ridiculous
appropriateness of his nickname. The fact was that he had not outgrown
it, but he must take care to remember who was meant when his grandfather
said Theodore.
Indeed, for that matter, he must take care all along.
"You are apt to be giddy, Jackanapes," said Miss Jessamine.
"Yes, aunt," said Jackanapes, thinking of the hobby-horses.
"You are a good boy, Jackanapes. Thank God, I can tell your grandfather
that. An obedient boy, an honorable boy, and a kind-hearted boy. But you
are--in short, you _are_ a Boy, Jackanapes. And I hope," added Miss
Jessamine, desperate with the results of experience, "that the General
knows that Boys will be Boys."
What mischief could be foreseen, Jackanapes promised to guard against.
He was to keep his clothes and his hands clean, to look over his
catechism, not to put sticky things in his pockets, to keep that hair of
his smooth ("It's the wind that blows it, aunty," said Jackanapes--"I'll
send by the coach for some bear's-grease," said Miss Jessamine, tying a
knot in her pocket-handkerchief), not to burst in at the parlor door,
not to talk at the top of his voice, not to crumple his Sunday frill,
and to sit quite quiet during the sermon, to be sure to say "sir" to the
General, to be careful about rubbing his shoes on the door-mat, and to
bring his lesson-books to his aunt at once that she might iron down the
dogs'-ears. The General arrived; and for the first day all went well,
except that Jackanapes's hair was as wild as usual, for the hair-dresser
had no bear's-grease left. He began to feel more at ease with his
grandfather, and disposed to talk confidentially with him, as he did
with the Postman. All that the General felt, it would take too long to
tell; but the result was the same. He was disposed to talk
confidentially with Jackanapes.
"Mons'ous pretty place this," he said, looking out of the lattice on to
the Green, where the grass was vivid with sunset and the shadows were
long and peaceful.
"You should see it in Fair-week, sir," said Jackanapes, shaking his
yellow mop, and leaning back in his one of the two Chippendale
arm-chairs in which they sat.
"A fine time that, eh?" said the General, with a twinkle in his left eye
(the other was glass).
Jackanapes shook his hair once more. "I enjoyed this last one the best
of all," he said. "I'd so much money."
"By George, it's not a common complaint in these bad times. How much had
ye?"
"I'd two shillings. A new shilling aunty gave me, and elevenpence I had
saved up, and a penny from the Postman,--_sir_!" added Jackanapes with a
jerk, having forgotten it.
"And how did ye spend it,--_sir_?" inquired the General.
Jackanapes spread his ten fingers on the arms of his chair, and shut his
eyes that he might count the more conscientiously.
"Watch-stand for aunty, threepence. Trumpet for myself, twopence; that's
fivepence. Gingernuts for Tony, twopence, and a mug with a Grenadier on
for the Postman, fourpence; that's elevenpence. Shooting-gallery a
penny; that's a shilling. Giddy-go-round, a penny; that's one and a
penny. Treating Tony, one and twopence. Flying Boats (Tony paid for
himself), a penny, one and threepence. Shooting-gallery again, one and
fourpence; Fat Woman a penny, one and fivepence. Giddy-go-round again,
one and sixpence. Shooting-gallery, one and sevenpence. Treating Tony,
and then he wouldn't shoot, so I did, one and eightpence. Living
Skeleton, a penny--no, Tony treated me, the Living Skeleton doesn't
count. Skittles, a penny, one and ninepence. Mermaid (but when we got
inside she was dead), a penny, one and tenpence. Theater, a penny
(Priscilla Partington, or the Green Lane Murder. A beautiful young lady,
sir, with pink cheeks and a real pistol); that's one and elevenpence.
Ginger beer, a penny (I _was_ so thirsty!), two shillings. And then the
Shooting-gallery man gave me a turn for nothing, because, he said, I was
a real gentleman, and spent my money like a man."
"So you do, sir, so you do!" cried the General. "Egad, sir, you spent it
like a prince. And now I suppose you've not got a penny in your pocket?"
"Yes, I have," said Jackanapes. "Two pennies. They are saving up." And
Jackanapes jingled them with his hand.
"You don't want money except at Fair-times, I suppose?" said the
General.
Jackanapes shook his mop.
"If I could have as much as I want, I should know what to buy," said he.
"And how much do you want, if you could get it?"
"Wait a minute, sir, till I think what twopence from fifteen pounds
leaves. Two from nothing you can't, but borrow twelve. Two from twelve,
ten, and carry one. Please remember ten, sir, when I ask you. One from
nothing you can't, borrow twenty. One from twenty, nineteen, and carry
one. One from fifteen, fourteen. Fourteen pounds nineteen and--what did
I tell you to remember?"
"Ten," said the General.
"Fourteen pounds nineteen shillings and tenpence, then, is what I want,"
said Jackanapes.
"God bless my soul! what for?"
"To buy Lollo with. Lollo means red, sir. The Gypsy's red-haired pony,
sir. Oh, he _is_ beautiful! You should see his coat in the sunshine! You
should see his mane! You should see his tail! Such little feet, sir, and
they go like lightning! Such a dear face, too, and eyes like a mouse!
But he's a racer, and the Gypsy wants fifteen pounds for him."
"If he's a racer you couldn't ride him. Could you?"
"No--o, sir, but I can stick to him. I did the other day."
"The dooce you did! Well, I'm fond of riding myself; and if the beast is
as good as you say, he might suit me."
"You're too tall for Lollo, I think," said Jackanapes, measuring his
grandfather with his eye.
"I can double up my legs, I suppose. We'll have a look at him
to-morrow."
"Don't you weigh a good deal?" asked Jackanapes.
"Chiefly waistcoats," said the General, slapping the breast of his
military frock-coat. "We'll have the little racer on the Green the first
thing in the morning. Glad you mentioned it, grandson; glad you
mentioned it."
The General was as good as his word. Next morning the Gypsy and Lollo,
Miss Jessamine, Jackanapes and his grandfather and his dog Spitfire,
were all gathered at one end of the Green in a group, which so aroused
the innocent curiosity of Mrs. Johnson, as she saw it from one of her
upper windows, that she and the children took their early promenade
rather earlier than usual. The General talked to the Gypsy, and
Jackanapes fondled Lollo's mane, and did not know whether he should be
more glad or miserable if his grandfather bought him.
"Jackanapes!"
"Yes, sir!"
"I've bought Lollo, but I believe you were right. He hardly stands high
enough for me. If you can ride him to the other end of the Green, I'll
give him to you."
How Jackanapes tumbled on to Lollo's back he never knew. He had just
gathered up the reins when the Gypsy father took him by the arm.
"If you want to make Lollo go fast, my little gentleman--"
"_I_ can make him go!" said Jackanapes; and drawing from his pocket the
trumpet he had bought in the Fair, he blew a blast both loud and shrill.
Away went Lollo, and away went Jackanapes's hat. His golden hair flew
out, an aureole from which his cheeks shone red and distended with
trumpeting. Away went Spitfire, mad with the rapture of the race and the
wind in his silky ears. Away went the geese, the cocks, the hens, and
the whole family of Johnson. Lucy clung to her mamma, Jane saved Emily
by the gathers of her gown, and Tony saved himself by a somersault.
The Gray Goose was just returning when Jackanapes and Lollo rode back,
Spitfire panting behind.
"Good, my little gentleman, good!" said the Gypsy. "You were born to the
saddle. You've the flat thigh, the strong knee, the wiry back, and the
light caressing hand; all you want is to learn the whisper. Come here!"
"What was that dirty fellow talking about, grandson?" asked the General.
"I can't tell you, sir. It's a secret."
They were sitting in the window again, in the two Chippendale
arm-chairs, the General devouring every line of his grandson's face,
with strange spasms crossing his own.
"You must love your aunt very much, Jackanapes?"
"I do, sir," said Jackanapes, warmly.
"And whom do you love next best to your aunt?"
The ties of blood were pressing very strongly on the General himself,
and perhaps he thought of Lollo. But love is not bought in a day, even
with fourteen pounds nineteen shillings and tenpence. Jackanapes
answered quite readily, "The Postman."
"Why the Postman?"
"He knew my father," said Jackanapes, "and he tells me about him and
about his black mare. My father was a soldier, a brave soldier. He died
at Waterloo. When I grow up I want to be a soldier too."
"So you shall, my boy; so you shall."
"Thank you, grandfather. Aunty doesn't want me to be a soldier, for fear
of being killed."
"Bless my life! Would she have you get into a feather-bed and stay
there? Why, you might be killed by a thunderbolt if you were a
butter-merchant!"
"So I might. I shall tell her so. What a funny fellow you are, sir! I
say, do you think my father knew the Gypsy's secret? The Postman says he
used to whisper to his black mare."
"Your father was taught to ride, as a child, by one of those horsemen of
the East who swoop and dart and wheel about a plain like swallows in
autumn. Grandson! love me a little too. I can tell you more about your
father than the Postman can."
"I do love you," said Jackanapes. "Before you came I was frightened. I'd
no notion you were so nice."
"Love me always, boy, whatever I do or leave undone. And--God help
me!--whatever you do or leave undone, I'll love you. There shall never
be a cloud between us for a day; no, sir, not for an hour. We're
imperfect enough, all of us--we needn't be so bitter; and life is
uncertain enough at its safest--we needn't waste its opportunities. God
bless my soul! Here sit I, after a dozen battles and some of the worst
climates in the world, and by yonder lych gate lies your mother, who
didn't move five miles, I suppose, from your aunt's apron-strings,--dead
in her teens; my golden-haired daughter, whom I never saw!"
Jackanapes was terribly troubled.
"Don't cry, grandfather," he pleaded, his own blue eyes round with
tears. "I will love you very much, and I will try to be very good. But I
should like to be a soldier."
"You shall, my boy; you shall. You've more claims for a commission than
you know of. Cavalry, I suppose; eh, ye young Jackanapes? Well, well; if
you live to be an honor to your country, this old heart shall grow young
again with pride for you; and if you die in the service of your
country--egad, sir, it can but break for ye!"
And beating the region which he said was all waistcoats, as if they
stifled him, the old man got up and strode out on to the Green.
CHAPTER IV
_Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for
his friends._--John 15:13.
Twenty and odd years later the Gray Goose was still alive, and in full
possession of her faculties, such as they were. She lived slowly and
carefully, and she lived long. So did Miss Jessamine; but the General
was dead.
He had lived on the Green for many years, during which he and the
Postman saluted each other with a punctiliousness that it almost drilled
one to witness. He would have completely spoiled Jackanapes if Miss
Jessamine's conscience would have let him; otherwise he somewhat
dragooned his neighbors, and was as positive about parish matters as a
rate-payer about the army. A stormy-tempered, tender-hearted soldier,
irritable with the suffering of wounds of which he never spoke, whom all
the village followed to his grave with tears.
The General's death was a great shock to Miss Jessamine, and her nephew
stayed with her for some little time after the funeral. Then he was
obliged to join his regiment, which was ordered abroad.
One effect of the conquest which the General had gained over the
affections of the village was a considerable abatement of the popular
prejudice against "the military." Indeed, the village was now somewhat
importantly represented in the army. There was the General himself, and
the Postman, and the Black Captain's tablet in the church, and
Jackanapes, and Tony Johnson, and a Trumpeter.
Tony Johnson had no more natural taste for fighting than for riding, but
he was as devoted as ever to Jackanapes. And that was how it came about
that Mr. Johnson bought him a commission in the same cavalry regiment
that the General's grandson (whose commission had been given him by the
Iron Duke) was in; and that he was quite content to be the butt of the
mess where Jackanapes was the hero; and that when Jackanapes wrote home
to Miss Jessamine, Tony wrote with the same purpose to his
mother,--namely, to demand her congratulations that they were on active
service at last, and were ordered to the front. And he added a
postscript, to the effect that she could have no idea how popular
Jackanapes was, nor how splendidly he rode the wonderful red charger
which he had named after his old friend Lollo.
* * * * *
"Sound Retire!"
A Boy Trumpeter, grave with the weight of responsibilities and
accoutrements beyond his years, and stained so that his own mother would
not have known him, with the sweat and dust of battle, did as he was
bid; and then, pushing his trumpet pettishly aside, adjusted his weary
legs for the hundredth time to the horse which was a world too big for
him, and muttering, "'Tain't a pretty tune," tried to see something of
this his first engagement before it came to an end.
Being literally in the thick of it, he could hardly have seen less or
known less of what happened in that particular skirmish if he had been
at home in England. For many good reasons,--including dust and smoke,
and that what attention he dared distract from his commanding officer
was pretty well absorbed by keeping his hard-mouthed troop-horse in
hand, under pain of execration by his neighbors in the mélée. By and by,
when the newspapers came out, if he could get a look at one before it
was thumbed to bits, he would learn that the enemy had appeared from
ambush in overwhelming numbers, and that orders had been given to fall
back, which was done slowly and in good order, the men fighting as they
retired.
Born and bred on the Goose Green, the youngest of Mr. Johnson's
gardener's numerous offspring, the boy had given his family no "peace"
till they let him "go for a soldier" with Master Tony and Master
Jackanapes. They consented at last, with more tears than they shed when
an elder son was sent to jail for poaching; and the boy was perfectly
happy in his life, and full of _esprit de corps_. It was this which had
been wounded by having to sound retreat for "the young gentlemen's
regiment," the first time he served with it before the enemy; and he was
also harassed by having completely lost sight of Master Tony. There had
been some hard fighting before the backward movement began, and he had
caught sight of him once, but not since. On the other hand, all the
pulses of his village pride had been stirred by one or two visions of
Master Jackanapes whirling about on his wonderful horse. He had been
easy to distinguish, since an eccentric blow had bared his head without
hurting it; for his close golden mop of hair gleamed in the hot sunshine
as brightly as the steel of the sword flashing round it.
Of the missiles that fell pretty thickly, the Boy Trumpeter did not take
much notice. First, one can't attend to everything, and his hands were
full; secondly, one gets used to anything; thirdly, experience soon
teaches one, in spite of proverbs, how very few bullets find their
billet. Far more unnerving is the mere suspicion of fear or even of
anxiety in the human mass around you. The Boy was beginning to wonder if
there were any dark reason for the increasing pressure, and whether they
would be allowed to move back more quickly, when the smoke in front
lifted for a moment, and he could see the plain, and the enemy's line
some two hundred yards away. And across the the plain between them, he
saw Master Jackanapes galloping alone at the top of Lollo's speed, their
faces to the enemy, his golden head at Lollo's ear.
But at this moment noise and smoke seemed to burst out on every side;
the officer shouted to him to sound Retire! and between trumpeting and
bumping about on his horse, he saw and heard no more of the incidents of
his first battle.
Tony Johnson was always unlucky with horses, from the days of the
giddy-go-round onwards. On this day--of all days in the year--his own
horse was on the sick list, and he had to ride an inferior,
ill-conditioned beast, and fell off that, at the very moment when it was
matter of life or death to be able to ride away. The horse fell on him,
but struggled up again, and Tony managed to keep hold of it. It was in
trying to remount that he discovered, by helplessness and anguish, that
one of his legs was crushed and broken, and that no feat of which he was
master would get him into the saddle. Not able even to stand alone,
awkwardly, agonizingly, unable to mount his restive horse, his life was
yet so strong within him! And on one side of him rolled the dust and
smoke-cloud of his advancing foes, and on the other, that which covered
his retreating friends.
He turned one piteous gaze after them, with a bitter twinge, not of
reproach, but of loneliness; and then, dragging himself up by the side
of his horse, he turned the other way and drew out his pistol, and
waited for the end. Whether he waited seconds or minutes he never knew,
before some one gripped him by the arm.
"_Jackanapes! God bless you!_ It's my left leg. If you _could_ get me
on--"
It was like Tony's luck that his pistol went off at his horse's tail,
and made it plunge; but Jackanapes threw him across the saddle.
"Hold on anyhow, and stick your spur in. I'll lead him. Keep your head
down; they're firing high."
And Jackanapes laid his head down--to Lollo's ear.
It was when they were fairly off, that a sudden upspringing of the enemy
in all directions had made it necessary to change the gradual retirement
of our force into as rapid a retreat as possible. And when Jackanapes
became aware of this, and felt the lagging and swerving of Tony's horse,
he began to wish he had thrown his friend across his own saddle and left
their lives to Lollo.
When Tony became aware of it, several things came into his head: 1. That
the dangers of their ride for life were now more than doubled; 2. That
if Jackanapes and Lollo were not burdened with him they would
undoubtedly escape; 3. That Jackanapes's life was infinitely valuable,
and his--Tony's--was not; 4. That this, if he could seize it, was the
supremest of all the moments in which he had tried to assume the virtues
which Jackanapes had by nature; and that if he could be courageous and
unselfish now--
He caught at his own reins and spoke very loud,--
"Jackanapes! It won't do. You and Lollo must go on. Tell the fellows I
gave you back to them with all my heart. Jackanapes, if you love me,
leave me!"
There was a daffodil light over the evening sky in front of them, and it
shone strangely on Jackanapes's hair and face. He turned with an odd
look in his eyes that a vainer man than Tony Johnson might have taken
for brotherly pride. Then he shook his mop, and laughed at him,
"_Leave you?_ To save my skin? No, Tony, not to save my soul!"
CHAPTER V
MR. VALIANT _summoned. His Will. His last
Words._
Then said he, "I am going to my Father's. . . . My
Sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my
Pilgrimage, and my Courage and Skill to him
that can get it." . . . And as he went down
deeper, he said, "Grave, where is thy Victory?"
So he passed over, and all the Trumpets sounded
for him on the other side.
BUNYAN, _Pilgrim's Progress_
Coming out of a hospital tent, at headquarters, the surgeon cannoned
against, and rebounded from, another officer,--a sallow man, not young,
with a face worn more by ungentle experiences than by age, with weary
eyes that kept their own counsel, iron-gray hair, and a moustache that
was as if a raven had laid its wing across his lips and sealed them.
"Well?"
"Beg pardon, Major. Didn't see you. Oh, compound fracture and bruises.
But it's all right; he'll pull through."
"Thank God."
It was probably an involuntary expression; for prayer and praise were
not much in the Major's line, as a jerk of the surgeon's head would have
betrayed to an observer. He was a bright little man, with his feelings
showing all over him, but with gallantry and contempt of death enough
for both sides of his profession; who took a cool head, a white
handkerchief, and a case of instruments, where other men went hot
blooded with weapons, and who was the biggest gossip, male or female, of
the regiment. Not even the major's taciturnity daunted him.
"Didn't think he'd as much pluck about him as he has. He'll do all right
if he doesn't fret himself into a fever about poor Jackanapes."
"Whom are you talking about?" asked the Major, hoarsely.
"Young Johnson. He--"
"What about Jackanapes?"
"Don't you know? Sad business. Rode back for Johnson, and brought him
in; but, monstrous ill-luck, hit as they rode. Left lung--"
"Will he recover?"
"No. Sad business. What a frame--what limbs--what health--and what good
looks! Finest young fellow--"
"Where is he?"
"In his own tent," said the surgeon, sadly.
The Major wheeled and left him.
* * * * *
"Can I do anything else for you?"
"Nothing, thank you. Except--Major! I wish I could get you to appreciate
Johnson."
"This is not an easy moment, Jackanapes."
"Let me tell you, sir--_he_ never will--that if he could have driven me
from him, he would be lying yonder at this moment, and I should be safe
and sound."
The Major laid his hand over his mouth, as if to keep back a wish he
would have been ashamed to utter.
"I've known old Tony from a child. He's a fool on impulse, a good man
and a gentleman in principle. And he acts on principle, which it's not
every--Some water, please! Thank you, sir. It's very hot, and yet one's
feet get uncommonly cold. Oh, thank you, thank you. He's no fire-eater,
but he has a trained conscience and a tender heart, and he'll do his
duty when a braver and more selfish man might fail you. But he wants
encouragement; and when I'm gone--"
"He shall have encouragement. You have my word for it. Can I do nothing
else?"
"Yes, Major. A favor."
"Thank you, Jackanapes."
"Be Lollo's master, and love him as well as you can. He's used to it."
"Wouldn't you rather Johnson had him?"
The blue eyes twinkled in spite of mortal pain.
"Tony _rides_ on principle, Major. His legs are bolsters, and will be to
the end of the chapter. I couldn't insult dear Lollo; but if you don't
care--"
"While I live--which will be longer than I desire or deserve--Lollo
shall want nothing but--you. I have too little tenderness for--My dear
boy, you're faint. Can you spare me for a moment?"
"No, stay--Major!"
"What? What?"
"My head drifts so--if you wouldn't mind."
"Yes! Yes!"
"Say a prayer by me. Out loud, please; I am getting deaf."
"My dearest Jackanapes--my dear boy--"
"One of the Church Prayers--Parade Service, you know."
"I see. But the fact is--God forgive me, Jackanapes!--I'm a very
different sort of fellow to some of you youngsters. Look here, let me
fetch--"
But Jackanapes's hand was in his, and it would not let go.
There was a brief and bitter silence.
"'Pon my soul I can only remember the little one at the end."
"Please," whispered Jackanapes.
Pressed by the conviction that what little he could do it was his duty
to do, the Major, kneeling, bared his head, and spoke loudly, clearly,
and very reverently,--
"The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ--"
Jackanapes moved his left hand to his right one, which still held the
Major's.
"The love of God--"
And with that--Jackanapes died.
CHAPTER VI
Und so ist der blaue Himmel grösser als jedes
Gewölk darin, und dauerhafter dazu.
--JEAN PAUL RICHTER
Jackanapes's death was sad news for the Goose Green, a sorrow just
qualified by honorable pride in his gallantry and devotion. Only the
Cobbler dissented; but that was his way. He said he saw nothing in it
but foolhardiness and vainglory. They might both have been killed, as
easy as not; and then where would ye have been? A man's life was a man's
life, and one life was as good as another. No one would catch him
throwing his away. And, for that matter, Mrs. Johnson could spare a
child a great deal better than Miss Jessamine.
But the parson preached Jackanapes's funeral sermon on the text,
"Whosoever will save his life shall lose it, and whosoever will lose his
life for my sake shall find it"; and all the village went and wept to
hear him.
Nor did Miss Jessamine see her loss from the Cobbler's point of view. On
the contrary, Mrs. Johnson said she never to her dying day should
forget how, when she went to condole with her, the old lady came
forward, with gentlewomanly self-control, and kissed her, and thanked
God that her dear nephew's effort had been blessed with success, and
that this sad war had made no gap in her friend's large and happy
home-circle.
"But she's a noble, unselfish woman," sobbed Mrs. Johnson, "and she
taught Jackanapes to be the same; and that's how it is that my Tony has
been spared to me. And it must be sheer goodness in Miss Jessamine, for
what can she know of a mother's feelings? And I'm sure most people seem
to think that if you've a large family you don't know one from another
any more than they do, and that a lot of children are like a lot of
store apples,--if one's taken it won't be missed."
Lollo--the first Lollo, the Gypsy's Lollo--very aged, draws Miss
Jessamine's bath-chair slowly up and down the Goose Green in the
sunshine.
The Ex-postman walks beside him, which Lollo tolerates to the level of
his shoulder. If the Postman advances any nearer to his head, Lollo
quickens his pace; and were the Postman to persist in the injudicious
attempt, there is, as Miss Jessamine says, no knowing what might happen.
In the opinion of the Goose Green, Miss Jessamine has borne her troubles
"wonderfully." Indeed, to-day, some of the less delicate and less
intimate of those who see everything from the upper windows say (well,
behind her back) that "the old lady seems quite lively with her military
beaux again."
The meaning of this is, that Captain Johnson is leaning over one side of
her chair, while by the other bends a brother officer who is staying
with him, and who has manifested an extraordinary interest in Lollo. He
bends lower and lower, and Miss Jessamine calls to the Postman to
request Lollo to be kind enough to stop, while she is fumbling for
something which always hangs by her side, and has got entangled with her
spectacles.
It is a twopenny trumpet, bought years ago in the village fair; and over
it she and Captain Johnson tell, as best they can, between them, the
story of Jackanapes's ride across the Goose Green; and how he won
Lollo--the Gypsy's Lollo--the racer Lollo--dear Lollo--faithful
Lollo--Lollo the never vanquished--Lollo the tender servant of his old
mistress. And Lollo's ears twitch at every mention of his name.
Their hearer does not speak, but he never moves his eyes from the
trumpet; and when the tale is told, he lifts Miss Jessamine's hand and
presses his heavy black moustache in silence to her trembling fingers.
The sun, setting gently to his rest, embroiders the somber foliage of
the oak tree with threads of gold. The Gray Goose is sensible of an
atmosphere of repose, and puts up one leg for the night. The grass glows
with a more vivid green, and, in answer to a ringing call from Tony, his
sisters fluttering over the daisies in pale-hued muslins, come out of
their ever-open door, like pretty pigeons from a dovecote.
And if the good gossips' eyes do not deceive them, all the Miss Johnsons
and both the officers go wandering off into the lanes, where bryony
wreaths still twine about the brambles.
* * * * *
A sorrowful story, and ending badly?
Nay, Jackanapes, for the End is not yet.
A life wasted that might have been useful?
Men who have died for men, in all ages, forgive the thought!
There is a heritage of heroic example and noble obligation, not reckoned
in the Wealth of Nations, but essential to a nation's life; the contempt
of which, in any people, may, not slowly, mean even its commercial fall.
Very sweet are the uses of prosperity, the harvests of peace and
progress, the fostering sunshine of health and happiness, and length of
days in the land.
But there be things--oh, sons of what has deserved the name of Great
Britain, forget it not!--"the good of" which and "the use of" which are
beyond all calculation of worldly goods and earthly uses: things such as
Love, and Honor, and the Soul of Man, which cannot be bought with a
price, and which do not die with death. And they who would fain live
happily ever after should not leave these things out of the lessons of
their lives.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] "The political men declare war, and generally for commercial
interests; but when the nation is thus embroiled with its neighbors, the
soldier . . . draws the sword at the command of his country. . . . One
word as to thy comparison of military and commercial persons. What manner
of men be they who have supplied the Caffres with the firearms and
ammunition to maintain their savage and deplorable wars? Assuredly they
are not military. . . . Cease then, if thou wouldst be counted among the
just, to vilify soldiers" (W. Napier, _Lieutenant-General_, November,
1851). [Author's Note.]
[4] The Mail Coach it was that distributed over the face of the land,
like the opening of apocalyptic vials, the heart-shaking news of
Trafalgar, of Salamanca, of Vittoria, of Waterloo. . . . The grandest
chapter of our experience, within the whole Mail-Coach service, was on
those occasions when we went down from London with the news of Victory.
Five years of life it was worth paying down for the privilege of an
outside place.--(De Quincey.) [Author's Note.]
[5] "Brunswick's fated chieftain" fell at Quatre Bras the day before
Waterloo; but this first (very imperfect) list, as it appeared in the
newspapers of the day, did begin with his name and end with that of an
Ensign Brown. [Author's Note.]
383
The story that follows was first published in
_Harper's Round Table_, June 25, 1895, as the
winner of first place in a short story contest
conducted by that periodical. The author at
that time was seventeen years of age. It seems
quite fitting that a writer beginning his
career in such fashion should finally write the
most scholarly historical and critical account
of the development of the short story, _The
Short Story in English_ (1909). Mr. Canby was
for several years assistant professor of
English in the Sheffield Scientific School,
Yale University, and is now the editor of _The
Literary Review_, the literary section of the
New York _Evening Post_. ("Betty's Ride" is
used here by special arrangement with the
author.)
BETTY'S RIDE: A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION
HENRY S. CANBY
The sun was just rising and showering his first rays on the gambrel-roof
and solid stone walls of a house surrounded by a magnificent grove of
walnuts, and overlooking one of the beautiful valleys so common in
southeastern Pennsylvania. Close by the house, and shaded by the same
great trees, stood a low building of the most severe type, whose
time-stained bricks and timbers green with moss told its age without the
aid of the half-obliterated inscription over the door, which read,
"Built A. D. 1720." One familiar with the country would have pronounced
it without hesitation a Quaker meeting-house, dating back almost to the
time of William Penn.
When Ezra Dale had become the leader of the little band of Quakers which
gathered here every First Day, he had built the house under the
walnut-trees, and had taken his wife Ann and his little daughter Betty
to live there. That was in 1770, seven years earlier, and before war had
wrought sorrow and desolation throughout the country.
The sun rose higher, and just as his beams touched the broad stone step
in front of the house the door opened, and Ann Dale, a sweet-faced woman
in the plain Quaker garb, came out, followed by Betty, a little
blue-eyed Quakeress of twelve years, with a gleam of spirit in her face
which ill became her plain dress.
"Betty," said her mother, as they walked out towards the great
horse-block by the road-side, "thee must keep house to-day. Friend
Robert has just sent thy father word that the redcoats have not crossed
the Brandywine since Third Day last, and thy father and I will ride to
Chester to-day, that there may be other than corn-cakes and bacon for
the friends who come to us after monthly meeting. Mind thee keeps near
the house and finishes thy sampler."
"Yes, mother," said Betty; "but will thee not come home early? I shall
miss thee sadly."
Just then Ezra appeared, wearing his collarless Quaker coat, and leading
a horse saddled with a great pillion, into which Ann laboriously climbed
after her husband, and with a final warning and "farewell" to Betty,
clasped him tightly around the waist lest she should be jolted off as
they jogged down the rough and winding lane into the broad Chester
highway.
Friend Ann had many reasons for fearing to leave Betty alone for a whole
day, and she looked back anxiously at her waving "farewell" with her
little bonnet.
It was a troublous time.
The Revolution was at its height, and the British, who had a short time
before disembarked their army near Elkton, Maryland, were now encamped
near White Clay Creek, while Washington occupied the country bordering
on the Brandywine. His force, however, was small compared to the extent
of the country to be guarded, and bands of the British sometimes crossed
the Brandywine and foraged in the fertile counties of Delaware and
Chester. As Betty's father, although a Quaker and a non-combatant, was
known to be a patriot, he had to suffer the fortunes of war with his
neighbors.
Thus it was with many forebodings that Betty's mother watched the slight
figure under the spreading branches of a great chestnut, which seemed to
rustle its innumerable leaves as if to promise protection to the little
maid. However, the sun shone brightly, the swallows chirped as they
circled overhead, and nothing seemed farther off than battle and
bloodshed.
Betty skipped merrily into the house, and snatching up some broken
corn-cake left from the morning meal, ran lightly out to the paddock
where Daisy was kept, her own horse, which she had helped to raise from
a colt.
"Come thee here, Daisy," she said, as she seated herself on the top rail
of the mossy snake fence. "Come thee here, and thee shall have some of
thy mistress's corn-cake. Ah! I thought thee would like it. Now go and
eat all thee can of this good grass, for if the wicked redcoats come
again, thee will not have another chance, I can tell thee."
Daisy whinnied and trotted off, while Betty, feeding the few chickens
(sadly reduced in numbers by numerous raids), returned to the house, and
getting her sampler, sat down under a walnut-tree to sew on the stint
which her mother had given her.
All was quiet save the chattering of the squirrels overhead and the
drowsy hum of the bees, when from around the curve in the road she heard
a shot; then another nearer, and then a voice shouting commands, and the
thud of hoof-beats farther down the valley. She jumped up with a
startled cry: "The redcoats! The redcoats! Oh, what shall I do!"
Just then the foremost of a scattered band of soldiers, their buff and
blue uniforms and ill-assorted arms showing them to be Americans,
appeared in full flight around the curve in the road, and springing over
the fence, dashed across the pasture straight for the meeting-house.
Through the broad gateway they poured, and forcing open the door of the
meeting-house, rushed within and began to barricade the windows.
Their leader paused while his men passed in, and seeing Betty, came
quickly towards her.
"What do you here, child?" he said, hurriedly. "Go quickly, before the
British reach us, and tell your father that, Quaker or no Quaker, he
shall ride to Washington, on the Brandywine, and tell him that we, but
one hundred men, are besieged by three hundred British cavalry in
Chichester Meeting-house, with but little powder left. Tell him to make
all haste to us."
Turning, he hastened into the meeting-house, now converted into a fort,
and as the doors closed behind him Betty saw a black muzzle protruding
from every window.
With trembling fingers the little maid picked up her sampler, and as the
thud of horses' hoofs grew louder and louder, she ran fearfully into the
house, locked and bolted the massive door, and then flying up the broad
stairs, she seated herself in a little window overlooking the
meeting-house yard. She had gone into the house none too soon. Up the
road, with their red coats gleaming and their harness jangling, was
sweeping a detachment of British cavalry, never stopping until they
reached the meeting-house--and then it was too late.
A sheet of flame shot out from the wall before them, and half a dozen
troopers fell lifeless to the ground, and half a dozen riderless horses
galloped wildly down the road. The leader shouted a sharp command, and
the whole troop retreated in confusion.
Betty drew back shuddering, and when she brought herself to look again
the troopers had dismounted, had surrounded the meeting-house, and were
pouring volley after volley at its doors and windows. Then for the first
time Betty thought of the officer's message, and remembered that the
safety of the Americans depended upon her alone, for her father was
away, no neighbor within reach, and without powder she knew they could
not resist long.
Could she save them? All her stern Quaker blood rose at the thought, and
stealing softly to the paddock behind the barn, she saddled Daisy and
led her through the bars into the wood road, which opened into the
highway just around the bend. Could she but pass the pickets without
discovery there would be little danger of pursuit; then there would be
only the long ride of eight miles ahead of her.
Just before the narrow wood road joined the broader highway Betty
mounted Daisy by means of a convenient stump, and starting off at a
gallop, had just turned the corner when a voice shouted "Halt!" and a
shot whistled past her head. Betty screamed with terror, and bending
over, brought down her riding-whip with all her strength upon Daisy,
then, turning for a moment, saw three troopers hurriedly mounting.
Her heart sank within her, but, beginning to feel the excitement of the
chase, she leaned over and patting Daisy on the neck, encouraged her to
do her best. Onward they sped. Betty, her curly hair streaming in the
wind, the color now mounting to, now retreating from her cheeks, led by
five hundred yards.
But Daisy had not been used for weeks, and already felt the unusual
strain. Now they thundered over Naaman's Creek, now over Concord, with
the nearest pursuer only four hundred yards behind; and now they raced
beside the clear waters of Beaver Brook, and as Betty dashed through its
shallow ford, the thud of horse's hoofs seemed just over her shoulder.
Betty, at first sure of success, now knew that unless in some way she
could throw her pursuers off her track she was surely lost. Just then
she saw ahead of her a fork in the road, the lower branch leading to the
Brandywine, the upper to the Birmingham Meeting-house. Could she but get
the troopers on the upper road while she took the lower, she would be
safe; and, as if in answer to her wish, there flashed across her mind
the remembrance of the old cross-road which, long disused, and with its
entrance hidden by drooping boughs, led from a point in the upper road
just out of sight of the fork down across the lower, and through the
valley of the Brandywine. Could she gain this road unseen she still
might reach Washington.
Urging Daisy forward, she broke just in time through the dense growth
which hid the entrance, and sat trembling, hidden behind a dense growth
of tangled vines, while she heard the troopers thunder by. Then, riding
through the rustling woods, she came at last into the open, and saw
spread out beneath her the beautiful valley of the Brandywine, dotted
with the white tents of the Continental army.
Starting off at a gallop, she dashed around a bend in the road into the
midst of a group of officers riding slowly up from the valley.
"Stop, little maiden, before you run us down," said one, who seemed to
be in command. "Where are you going in such hot haste?"
"Oh, sir," said Betty, reining in Daisy, "can thee tell me where I can
find General Washington?"
"Yes, little Quakeress," said the officer who had first spoken to her;
"I am he. What do you wish?"
Betty, too exhausted to be surprised, poured forth her story in a few
broken sentences, and (hearing as if in a dream the hasty commands for
the rescue of the soldiers in Chichester Meeting-house) fell forward in
her saddle, and, for the first time in her life, fainted, worn out by
her noble ride.
A few days later, when recovering from the shock of her long and
eventful ride, Betty, awaking from a deep sleep, found her mother
kneeling beside her little bed, while her father talked with General
Washington himself beside the fireplace; and it was the proudest and
happiest moment of her life when Washington, coming forward and taking
her by the hand, said, "You are the bravest little maid in America, and
an honor to your country."
Still the peaceful meeting-house and the gambrel-roofed home stand
unchanged, save that their time-beaten timbers and crumbling bricks have
taken on a more sombre tinge, and under the broad walnut-tree another
little Betty sits and sews.
If you ask it, she will take down the great key from its nail, and
swinging back the new doors of the meeting-house, will show you the old
worm-eaten ones inside, which, pierced through and through with bullet-holes,
once served as a rampart against the enemy. And she will tell you, in the
quaint Friend's language, how her great-great-grandmother carried, over a
hundred years ago, the news of the danger of her countrymen to Washington,
on the Brandywine, and at the risk of her own life saved theirs.
384
Some two decades ago thousands were reading
about the highly romantic career of Charles
Brandon in _When Knighthood Was in Flower_
(1898), and other thousands were applauding
Julia Marlowe's impersonation of the beautiful
and fascinating Princess Mary in the dramatic
version of that book. The author was Charles
Major (1856-1913), an Indiana lawyer turned
novelist, who wrote, also, the equally romantic
story of _Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall_
(1902). Between these two pieces of delightful
romance, he wrote a series of sketches of
pioneer life in Indiana under the title of _The
Bears of Blue River_ (1901). It is an account
of boy life in the early days, full of dramatic
interest, simply written, and entirely worthy
of the high place which it has already taken
among stories of its type. The first adventure
in that book follows by special arrangement
with the publishers. (Copyright. The Macmillan
Company, New York.)
THE BIG BEAR
CHARLES MAJOR
Away back in the "twenties," when Indiana was a baby state, and great
forests of tall trees and tangled underbrush darkened what are now her
bright plains and sunny hills, there stood upon the east bank of Big
Blue River, a mile or two north of the point where that stream crosses
the Michigan road, a cozy log cabin of two rooms--one front and one
back.
The house faced the west, and stretching off toward the river for a
distance equal to twice the width of an ordinary street, was a
blue-grass lawn, upon which stood a dozen or more elm and sycamore
trees, with a few honey-locusts scattered here and there. Immediately at
the water's edge was a steep slope of ten or twelve feet. Back of the
house, mile upon mile, stretched the deep dark forest, inhabited by deer
and bears, wolves and wildcats, squirrels and birds, without number.
In the river the fish were so numerous that they seemed to entreat the
boys to catch them, and to take them out of their crowded quarters.
There were bass and black suckers, sunfish and catfish, to say nothing
of the sweetest of all, the big-mouthed redeye.
South of the house stood a log barn, with room in it for three horses
and two cows; and enclosing this barn, together with a piece of ground,
five or six acres in extent, was a palisade fence, eight or ten feet
high, made by driving poles into the ground close together. In this
enclosure the farmer kept his stock, consisting of a few sheep and
cattle, and here also the chickens, geese, and ducks were driven at
nightfall to save them from "varmints," as all prowling animals were
called by the settlers.
The man who had built this log hut, and who lived in it and owned the
adjoining land at the time of which I write, bore the name of Balser
Brent. "Balser" is probably a corruption of Baltzer, but, however that
may be, Balser was his name, and Balser was the hero of the bear stories
which I am about to tell you.
Mr. Brent and his young wife had moved to the Blue River settlement from
North Carolina, when young Balser was a little boy five or six years of
age. They had purchased the "eighty" upon which they lived, from the
United States, at a sale of public land held in the town of Brookville
on Whitewater, and had paid for it what was then considered a good round
sum--one dollar per acre. They had received a deed for their "eighty"
from no less a person than James Monroe, then President of the United
States. This deed, which is called a patent, was written on sheepskin,
signed by the President's own hand, and is still preserved by the
descendants of Mr. Brent as one of the title-deeds to the land it
conveyed. The house, as I have told you, consisted of two large rooms,
or buildings, separated by a passageway six or eight feet broad which
was roofed over, but open at both ends--on the north and south. The back
room was the kitchen, and the front room was parlor, bedroom, sitting
room and library all in one.
At the time when my story opens Little Balser, as he was called to
distinguish him from his father, was thirteen or fourteen years of age,
and was the happy possessor of a younger brother, Jim, aged nine, and a
little sister one year old, of whom he was very proud indeed.
On the south side of the front room was a large fireplace. The chimney
was built of sticks, thickly covered with clay. The fireplace was almost
as large as a small room in one of our cramped modern houses, and was
broad and deep enough to take in backlogs which were so large and heavy
that they could not be lifted, but were drawn in at the door and rolled
over the floor to the fireplace.
The prudent father usually kept two extra backlogs, one on each side of
the fireplace, ready to be rolled in as the blaze died down; and on
these logs the children would sit at night, with a rough slate made from
a flat stone, and do their "ciphering," as the study of arithmetic was
then called. The fire usually furnished all the light they had, for
candles and "dips," being expensive luxuries, were used only when
company was present.
The fire, however, gave sufficient light, and its blaze upon a cold
night extended halfway up the chimney, sending a ruddy, cozy glow to
every nook and corner of the room.
The back room was the storehouse and kitchen; and from the beams and
along the walls hung rich hams and juicy sidemeat, jerked venison, dried
apples, onions, and other provisions for the winter. There was a
glorious fireplace in this room also, and a crane upon which to hang
pots and cooking utensils.
The floor of the front room was made of logs split in halves with the
flat, hewn side up; but the floor of the kitchen was of clay, packed
hard and smooth.
The settlers had no stoves, but did their cooking in round pots called
Dutch ovens. They roasted their meats on a spit or steel bar like the
ramrod of a gun. The spit was kept turning before the fire, presenting
first one side of the meat and then the other, until it was thoroughly
cooked. Turning the spit was the children's work.
South of the palisade enclosing the barn was the clearing--a tract of
twenty or thirty acres of land, from which Mr. Brent had cut and burned
the trees. On this clearing the stumps stood thick as the hair on an
angry dog's back; but the hard-working farmer ploughed between and
around them, and each year raised upon the fertile soil enough wheat and
corn to supply the wants of his family and his stock, and still had a
little grain left to take to Brookville, sixty miles away, where he had
bought his land, there to exchange for such necessities of life as
could not be grown upon the farm or found in the forests.
The daily food of the family all came from the farm, the forest, or the
creek. Their sugar was obtained from the sap of the sugar-trees; their
meat was supplied in the greatest abundance by a few hogs, and by the
inexhaustible game of which the forests were full. In the woods were
found deer just for the shooting; and squirrels, rabbits, wild turkeys,
pheasants, and quails, so numerous that a few hours' hunting would
supply the table for days. The fish in the river, as I told you, fairly
longed to be caught.
One day Mrs. Brent took down the dinner horn and blew upon it two strong
blasts. This was a signal that Little Balser, who was helping his father
down in the clearing, should come to the house. Balser was glad enough
to drop his hoe and to run home. When he reached the house his mother
said:
"Balser, go up to the drift and catch a mess of fish for dinner. Your
father is tired of deer meat three times a day, and I know he would like
a nice dish of fried redeyes at noon."
"All right, mother," said Balser. And he immediately took down his
fishing-pole and line, and got the spade to dig bait. When he had
collected a small gourdful of angle-worms, his mother called to him:
"You had better take a gun. You may meet a bear; your father loaded the
gun this morning, and you must be careful in handling it."
Balser took the gun, which was a heavy rifle considerably longer than
himself, and started up the river toward the drift, about a quarter of a
mile away.
There had been rain during the night and the ground near the drift was
soft.
Here, Little Balser noticed fresh bear tracks, and his breath began to
come quickly. You may be sure he peered closely into every dark thicket,
and looked behind all the large trees and logs, and had his eyes wide
open lest perchance "Mr. Bear" should step out and surprise him with an
affectionate hug, and thereby put an end to Little Balser forever.
So he walked on cautiously, and, if the truth must be told, somewhat
tremblingly, until he reached the drift.
Balser was but a little fellow, yet the stern necessities of a settler's
life had compelled his father to teach him the use of a gun; and
although Balser had never killed a bear, he had shot several deer, and
upon one occasion had killed a wildcat, "almost as big as a cow," he
said.
I have no doubt the wildcat seemed "almost as big as a cow" to Balser
when he killed it, for it must have frightened him greatly, as wildcats
were sometimes dangerous animals for children to encounter. Although
Balser had never met a bear face to face and alone, yet he felt, and
many a time had said, that there wasn't a bear in the world big enough
to frighten him, if he but had his gun.
He had often imagined and minutely detailed to his parents and little
brother just what he would do if he should meet a bear. He would wait
calmly and quietly until his bearship should come within a few yards of
him, and then he would slowly lift his gun. Bang! and Mr. Bear would be
dead with a bullet in his heart.
But when he saw the fresh bear tracks, and began to realize that he
would probably have an opportunity to put his theories about bear
killing into practice, he began to wonder if, after all, he would
become frightened and miss his aim. Then he thought of how the bear, in
that case, would be calm and deliberate, and would put _his_ theories
into practice by walking very politely up to him, and making a very
satisfactory dinner of a certain boy whom he could name. But as he
walked on and no bear appeared, his courage grew stronger as the
prospect of meeting the enemy grew less, and he again began saying to
himself that no bear could frighten him, because he had his gun and he
could and would kill it.
So Balser reached the drift; and having looked carefully about him,
leaned his gun against a tree, unwound his fishing-line from the pole,
and walked out to the end of a log which extended into the river some
twenty or thirty feet.
Here he threw in his line, and soon was so busily engaged drawing out
sunfish and redeyes, and now and then a bass, which was hungry enough to
bite at a worm, that all thought of the bear went out of his mind.
After he had caught enough fish for a sumptuous dinner he bethought him
of going home, and as he turned toward the shore, imagine, if you can,
his consternation when he saw upon the bank, quietly watching him, a
huge black bear.
If the wildcat had seemed as large as a cow to Balser, of what size do
you suppose that bear appeared? A cow! An elephant, surely, was small
compared with the huge black fellow standing upon the bank.
It is true Balser had never seen an elephant, but his father had, and so
had his friend Tom Fox, who lived down the river; and they all agreed
that an elephant was "purt nigh as big as all outdoors."
The bear had a peculiar, determined expression about him that seemed to
say:
"That boy can't get away; he's out on the log where the water is deep,
and if he jumps into the river I can easily jump in after him and catch
him before he can swim a dozen strokes. He'll _have_ to come off the log
in a short time, and then I'll proceed to devour him."
About the same train of thought had also been rapidly passing through
Balser's mind. His gun was on the bank where he had left it, and in
order to reach it he would have to pass the bear. He dared not jump into
the water, for any attempt to escape on his part would bring the bear
upon him instantly. He was very much frightened, but, after all, was a
cool-headed little fellow for his age; so he concluded that he would not
press matters, as the bear did not seem inclined to do so, but so long
as the bear remained watching him on the bank would stay upon the log
where he was, and allow the enemy to eye him to his heart's content.
There they stood, the boy and the bear, each eyeing the other as though
they were the best of friends, and would like to eat each other, which,
in fact, was literally true.
Time sped very slowly for one of them, you may be sure; and it seemed to
Balser that he had been standing almost an age in the middle of Blue
River on that wretched shaking log, when he heard his mother's dinner
horn, reminding him that it was time to go home.
Balser quite agreed with his mother and gladly would he have gone, I
need not tell you; but there stood the bear, patient, determined, and
fierce; and Little Balser soon was convinced in his mind that his time
had come to die.
He hoped that when his father should go home to dinner and find him
still absent, he would come up the river in search of him, and frighten
away the bear. Hardly had this hope sprung up in his mind, when it
seemed that the same thought had also occurred to the bear, for he began
to move down toward the shore end of the log upon which Balser was
standing.
Slowly came the bear until he reached the end of the log, which for a
moment he examined suspiciously, and then, to Balser's great alarm,
cautiously stepped out upon it and began to walk toward him.
Balser thought of the folks at home, and, above all, of his baby sister;
and when he felt that he should never see them again, and that they
would in all probability never know of his fate, he began to grow
heavy-hearted and was almost paralyzed with fear.
On came the bear, putting one great paw in front of the other, and
watching Balser intently with his little black eyes. His tongue hung
out, and his great red mouth was open to its widest, showing the sharp,
long, glittering teeth that would soon be feasting on a first-class boy
dinner.
When the bear got within a few feet of Balser--so close he could almost
feel the animal's hot breath as it slowly approached--the boy grew
desperate with fear, and struck at the bear with the only weapon he
had--his string of fish.
Now, bears love fish and blackberries above all other food; so when
Balser's string of fish struck the bear in the mouth, he grabbed at
them, and in doing so lost his foothold on the slippery log and fell
into the water with a great splash and plunge.
This was Balser's chance for life, so he flung the fish to the bear, and
ran for the bank with a speed worthy of the cause.
When he reached the bank his self-confidence returned, and he remembered
all the things he had said he would do if he should meet a bear.
The bear had caught the fish, and again had climbed upon the log, where
he was deliberately devouring them.
This was Little Balser's chance for death--to the bear. Quickly
snatching up the gun, he rested it in the fork of a small tree near by,
took deliberate aim at the bear, which was not five yards away, and shot
him through the heart. The bear dropped into the water dead, and floated
downstream a little way, where he lodged at a ripple a short distance
below.
Balser, after he had killed the bear, became more frightened than he had
been at any time during the adventure, and ran home screaming. That
afternoon his father went to the scene of battle and took the bear out
of the water. It was very fat and large, and weighed, so Mr. Brent said,
over six hundred pounds.
Balser was firmly of the opinion that he himself was also very fat and
large, and weighed at least as much as the bear. He was certainly
entitled to feel "big"; for he had got himself out of an ugly scrape in
a brave, manly, and cool-headed manner, and had achieved a victory of
which a man might have been proud.
The news of Balser's adventure soon spread among the neighbors and he
became quite a hero; for the bear he had killed was one of the largest
that had ever been seen in that neighborhood, and, besides the gallons
of rich bear oil it yielded, there were three or four hundred pounds of
bear meat; and no other food is more strengthening for winter diet.
There was also the soft, furry skin, which Balser's mother tanned, and
with it made a coverlid for Balser's bed, under which he and his little
brother lay many a cold night, cozy and "snug as a bug in a rug."
385
The selection that follows may serve as an
example of an effective Christmas story in the
latest fashion. It was not written especially
for young people, but neither were many of the
books that now stand on the shelf that holds
their favorites. It is not only one of the
great short stories, but one of the shortest of
great-stories. It is quite worthy of use in
company with Dickens' _Christmas Carol_, Henry
van Dyke's _The Other Wise Man_, and Thomas
Nelson Page's _Santa Claus's Partner_, at the
Christmas season, and it has the advantages of
extreme brevity, a fresh breeziness of style,
surprise in the plot, and romantic interest.
The magi brought various gifts to the Child in
the manger--gold, frankincense, myrrh--but only
one gift, that of love. O. Henry does not often
moralize, but no reader ever finds fault with
his concluding paragraph. The author's real
name was William Sidney Porter. He was born in
Greensboro, N. C., in 1862, and died in New
York City, in 1910, the most widely read of
short-story writers. "The Gift of the Magi" is
taken from the volume called _The Four Million_
by special arrangement with the publishers.
(Copyright, Doubleday, Page & Co. New York.)
THE GIFT OF THE MAGI
O. HENRY
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it
was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the
grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned
with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied.
Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the
next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch
and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that
life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles
predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first
stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8.00
per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had
that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go,
and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring.
Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James
Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of
prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the
income was shrunk to $20, the letters of "Dillingham" looked blurred, as
though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and
unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and
reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs.
James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all
very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag.
She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking a
grey fence in a grey backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she
had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving
every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a
week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated.
They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a
happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something
fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being
worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have
seen a pier-glass in an $8.00 flat. A very thin and very agile person
may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal
strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being
slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her
eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within
twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its
full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which
they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been
his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the
Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have
let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her
Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all
his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his
watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from
envy.
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like
a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself
almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and
quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or
two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of
skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered
out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All
Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame,
large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at
the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed
metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else.
There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all
of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in
design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by
meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even
worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be
Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to
both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home
with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly
anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he
sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap
that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence
and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went
to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is
always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls
that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at
her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second
look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what
could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"
At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying pan was on the back of
the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on
the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she
heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she
turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent
prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered;
"Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and
very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened
with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of
quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in
them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger,
nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments
that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with
that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut
off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without
giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I
just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!'
Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice--what a beautiful,
nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not
arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well,
anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
Jim looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and
gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you.
Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with a sudden
serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I
put the chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For
ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential
object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a
year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you
the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not
among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think
there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that
could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package
you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an
ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to
hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of
all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had
worshipped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise
shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful
vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had
simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of
possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have
adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up
with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him
eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with
a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have
to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I
want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands
under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a
while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get
the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought
gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving
Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones,
possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And
here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two
foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other
the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of
these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the
wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest.
Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
SECTION IX
NATURE LITERATURE
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Andrews, Jane, _The Stories Mother Nature Told Her Children_.
Atkinson, Eleanor S., _Greyfriars Bobby_.
Bertelli, Luigi, _The Prince and His Ants_.
Brown, Dr. John, _Rab and His Friends_.
Bullen, Frank, _The Cruise of the Cachelot_.
Burgess, Thornton W., _Old Mother West Wind Stories_.
Burroughs, John, _Squirrels and Other Fur Bearers_. _Wake Robin._
Chapman, William G., _Green-Timber Trails: Wild Animal Stories
of the Upper Fur Country_.
Ford, Sewell, _Horses Nine_.
Hawkes, Clarence, _Shaggycoat_.
Hudson, W. H., _A Little Boy Lost_.
Jordan, David Starr, _Science Sketches_.
Kellogg, Vernon L., _Insect Stories_. _Nuova, the New Bee._
Kingsley, Charles, _Madame How and Lady Why_.
Kipling, Rudyard, _Just-So Stories_. _The Jungle Book_ (Two
Series).
London, Jack, _The Call of the Wild_.
Long, William J., _Wood-Folk Comedies_. _A Little Brother to
the Bear._
Miller, Joaquin, _True Bear Stories_.
Miller, Olive Thorne, _The Children's Book of Birds_.
Mills, Enos A., _Scotch_. _The Thousand Year Old Pine._
Muir, John, _Stickeen_. _Our National Parks._
Ollivant, Alfred, _Bob, Son of Battle_.
"Ouida" (Louisa de la Ramée), _Moufflou_. _The Dog of Flanders._
Paine, Albert Bigelow, _Hollow-Tree Nights and Days_. _Arkansaw
Bear._
Potter, Beatrix, _Peter Rabbit_. _Benjamin Bunny._
Roberts, Charles G. D., _Kings in Exile_. _Children of the Wild._
Saunders, Marshall, _Beautiful Joe_.
Sègur, Sophie, Comtesse de, _The Story of a Donkey_.
Seton, Ernest Thompson, _Wild Animals at Home_. _The Biography of
a Grizzly._
Sewell, Anna, _Black Beauty_.
Sharp, Dallas Lore, _Beyond the Pasture Bars_. _A Watcher in the
Woods._
Terhune, Albert Payson, _Lad: A Dog_.
Thoreau, Henry David, _A Week on the Concord and Merrimac
Rivers_.
Walton, Izaak, _The Compleat Angler_.
White, Gilbert, _The Natural History of Selborne_.
The three books that stand at the end of this
brief list are probably not ones that any
teacher would recommend indiscriminately to
pupils of the grades. They are the greatest of
the classic books in nature literature and, in
a way, constitute the goal of nature lovers.
SECTION IX. NATURE LITERATURE
INTRODUCTORY
_What it is._ In recent years teachers have heard much talk about
"nature study" in the grades. The demand for this study has led
publishers to print many so-called "nature books" that have neither
scientific fact nor literary worth to justify their existence. Confusion
may be avoided and time may be saved if teachers will remember that
nature literature, as here defined, is a form of _literature_, and that
its purpose therefore is primarily to present truth (not necessarily
facts) in an entertaining way.
The selections in this section are not intended to furnish material for
a scientific study of nature. They are nature literature. Some of them
present scientific facts that add to the literary worth by making the
stories more entertaining, but the selections are given because they
illustrate various types of nature literature and the work of famous
writers of nature literature, not because they present scientific facts.
_Some types of nature literature._ One of the oldest forms of nature
literature is the beast tale in which animals are represented as talking
and acting like human beings. Stories of this type entertain while they
reveal the general nature of various kinds of animals. Fables should not
be called nature literature, because their chief purpose is to criticize
the follies of human beings. Some of the Negro folk tales that Joel
Chandler Harris collected are nature literature of this type. Beast
tales, however, are not all old. Stories by such modern authors as
Thornton W. Burgess and Albert Bigelow Paine, who are represented in
this section, may be called beast tales. They are popular in the primary
grades.
Another type of nature literature, quite different from that just
discussed, has been produced during the last century by students of
nature who endeavor to hold strictly to facts in their writing. This may
be called realistic nature literature. Henry Thoreau, John Burroughs,
Olive Thorne Miller, and Dallas Lore Sharp may be mentioned as writers
of this kind of literature. As we read their books, we usually feel that
they are endeavoring to relate incidents as they actually occurred. Also
we recognize that they are great students of nature, for they perceive
details that we might not notice and they draw or suggest conclusions
that we may accept as true, although we might never think of drawing the
conclusions. Nature literature of this kind may be no less entertaining
than fairy tales, for it may, in a pleasing way, reveal wonders in
nature. The selections by Dallas Lore Sharp and Olive Thorne Miller in
this section are of this kind. Most of the writings of Henry Thoreau and
John Burroughs are in a style too difficult for pupils in the grades.
A third type may be called nature romance. Its purpose is both to
entertain and to awaken sympathy and love for animals. Stories of this
kind, like other romances, idealize the characters and may have a strong
appeal to the emotions. Of the stories in this section, we may classify
as nature romance Beatrix Potter's "Peter Rabbit," Sewell Ford's "Pasha,
the Son of Selim," Ouida's "Moufflou," and Rudyard Kipling's "Moti
Guj--Mutineer."
A fourth kind of nature literature, sometimes called nature fiction, has
been developed within the last quarter of a century and is already
recognized as excellent. The plot is created by the author, although it
may be based on fact, and usually is simple and rambling. One purpose of
these stories is to show truly how animals live and act, just as one
purpose of a novel or typical short story is to show truly how people
live and act. If the author is a skillful story-teller and a good
student of nature, the story may make the reader feel that he has become
acquainted with a particular kind of animal and even with an individual
animal. For example, the story "Last Bull," by Charles G. D. Roberts,
has an effect on the reader not entirely unlike that of one of Cooper's
_Leatherstocking Tales_. Prominent among the authors of this very
interesting and instructive form of literature may be mentioned Charles
G. D. Roberts, Ernest Thompson Seton, William J. Long, and Dallas Lore
Sharp.
_Its place in the grades._ Nature literature seems to have a place of
increasing importance in schools, especially in grades above the third.
Many excellent books of what we have called the fiction type and the
realistic type have a charming spirit of outdoor life and adventure that
makes them pleasing substitutes for the objectionable dime novel. One
should not assume that these nature stories would be of less interest
and value to the country child than to the city child. Too often country
children have not been taught to think of animals as "little brothers of
the field and the air." These nature stories, without any spirit of
preaching or moralizing, show children how to enjoy nature, whether it
be in the country or the city. They teach the child to form habits of
observation that encourage healthful recreation. A boy who has
understood the spirit of Roberts, Seton, and Sharp is not likely to find
the village poolroom attractive. Nature literature, however, need not be
taught merely for moral and practical purposes, for it has come to be
literature of artistic worth, and as such it has earned a place among
other kinds of literature for children.
SUGGESTIONS FOR READING
A good summary article is "The Rise of the
Nature Writers," by F. W. Halsey, in _Review of
Reviews_, Vol. XXVI, p. 567 (November, 1902).
The most valuable critical article is "The
Literary Treatment of Nature" in John
Burroughs, _Ways of Nature_ (also in _Atlantic
Monthly_, Vol. XCIV, p. 38 [July, 1904]). In
the violent controversy about "nature-faking"
which raged some years ago, two articles will
give clearly the positions of the contending
parties: first, the attack by John Burroughs in
"Real and Sham Natural History," _Atlantic
Monthly_, Vol. XCI, p. 298 (March, 1903), and,
second, the reply to Burroughs by William J.
Long in "The School of Nature Study and Its
Critics," _North American Review_, Vol. CLXXVI,
p. 688 (May, 1903).
386
One of the most popular series for very young
children is that known as the _Peter Rabbit
Books_ after the favorite hero of the early
tales. The author is Beatrix Potter, an
Englishwoman. In plan these little books
resemble the "toy-books" of the eighteenth
century in having a bit of text on the
left-hand page face a picture on the right. The
entire text of "The Tale of Peter Rabbit" is
given, but of course text and pictures are so
completely one that much is lost by separating
them. Children should meet Peter Rabbit before
their school days begin.
THE TALE OF PETER RABBIT
BEATRIX POTTER
Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were
Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter.
They lived with their mother in a sand bank, underneath the root of a
very big fir tree.
"Now, my dears," said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, "you may go into the
fields or down the lane, but don't go into Mr. McGregor's garden. Your
father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor. Now
run along, and don't get into mischief. I am going out."
Then old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella, and went through
the wood to the baker's. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five
currant buns.
Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail, who were good little bunnies, went down
the lane to gather blackberries; but Peter, who was very naughty, ran
straight to Mr. McGregor's garden, and squeezed under the gate.
First he ate some lettuces and some French beans; and then he ate some
radishes; and then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some
parsley.
But round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but Mr.
McGregor!
Mr. McGregor was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages, but
he jumped up and ran after Peter, waving a rake and calling out, "Stop
thief!"
Peter was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden, for
he had forgotten the way back to the gate.
He lost one of his shoes amongst the cabbages, and the other shoe
amongst the potatoes.
After losing them, he ran on four legs and went faster, so that I think
he might have got away altogether if he had not unfortunately run into a
gooseberry net, and got caught by the large buttons on his jacket. It
was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.
Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were
overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great
excitement, and implored him to exert himself.
Mr. McGregor came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon the top
of Peter; but Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind
him, and rushed into the tool-shed, and jumped into a can. It would have
been a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had not had so much water in
it.
Mr. McGregor was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the tool-shed,
perhaps hidden underneath a flower-pot. He began to turn them over
carefully, looking under each.
Presently Peter sneezed--"Kerty-schoo!" Mr. McGregor was after him in no
time, and tried to put his foot upon Peter, who jumped out of a window,
upsetting three plants. The window was too small for Mr. McGregor, and
he was tired of running after Peter. He went back to his work.
Peter sat down to rest; he was out of breath and trembling with fright,
and he had not the least idea which way to go. Also he was very damp
with sitting in that can.
After a time he began to wander about, going lippity--lippity--not very
fast, and looking all around.
He found a door in a wall; but it was locked, and there was no room for
a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath.
An old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying
peas and beans to her family in the wood. Peter asked her the way to the
gate, but she had such a large pea in her mouth that she could not
answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry.
Then he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became
more and more puzzled. Presently, he came to a pond where Mr. McGregor
filled his water-cans. A white cat was staring at some goldfish; she sat
very, very still, but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it
were alive. Peter thought it best to go away without speaking to her; he
had heard about cats from his cousin, little Benjamin Bunny.
He went back towards the tool-shed, but suddenly, quite close to him, he
heard the noise of a hoe,--scr-r-ritch scratch, scratch, scritch. Peter
scuttered underneath the bushes. But presently, as nothing happened, he
came out, and climbed upon a wheelbarrow and peeped over. The first
thing he saw was Mr. McGregor hoeing onions. His back was turned towards
Peter, and beyond him was the gate!
Peter got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow, and started running as
fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some black
currant-bushes.
Mr. McGregor caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not care.
He slipped underneath the gate, and was safe at last in the wood outside
the garden.
Mr. McGregor hung up the little jacket and the shoes for a scare-crow to
frighten the blackbirds.
Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the
big fir-tree.
He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the
floor of the rabbit-hole, and shut his eyes. His mother was busy
cooking; she wondered what he had done with his clothes. It was the
second little jacket and a pair of shoes that Peter had lost in a
fortnight!
I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening.
His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a
doze of it to Peter!
"One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time."
But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries
for supper.
387
The next selection illustrates well the kind of
stories in the _Bedtime Story_ series of twenty
volumes by Thornton Waldo Burgess (1874--). The
books of this series are entitled _Adventures
of Johnny Chuck_, _Adventures of Buster Bear_,
_Adventures of Ol' Mistah Buzzard_, etc. These
books and the _Old Mother West Wind_ series of
eight volumes by the same author are enjoyed by
children in the second and third grades. Mr.
Burgess is an American author who has been
editor of several American magazines. (The
following selection is from _Old Mother West
Wind_, by permission of the publishers, Little,
Brown & Co., Boston.)
JOHNNY CHUCK FINDS THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD
THORNTON W. BURGESS
Old Mother West Wind had stopped to talk with the Slender Fir Tree.
"I've just come across the Green Meadows," said Old Mother West Wind,
"and there I saw the Best Thing in the World."
Striped Chipmunk was sitting under the Slender Fir Tree and he couldn't
help hearing what Old Mother West Wind said. "The Best Thing in the
World--now what can that be?" thought Striped Chipmunk. "Why, it must be
heaps and heaps of nuts and acorns! I'll go and find it."
So Striped Chipmunk started down the Lone Little Path through the wood
as fast as he could run. Pretty soon he met Peter Rabbit.
"Where are you going in such a hurry, Striped Chipmunk?" asked Peter
Rabbit.
"Down in the Green Meadows to find the Best Thing in the World," replied
Striped Chipmunk, and ran faster.
"The Best Thing in the World," said Peter Rabbit, "why, that must be a
great pile of carrots and cabbage! I think I'll go and find it."
So Peter Rabbit started down the Lone Little Path through the wood as
fast as he could go after Striped Chipmunk.
As they passed the great hollow tree Bobby Coon put his head out. "Where
are you going in such a hurry?" asked Bobby Coon.
"Down in the Green Meadows to find the Best Thing in the World!" shouted
Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit, and both began to run faster.
"The Best Thing in the World," said Bobby Coon to himself, "why, that
must be a whole field of sweet milky corn! I think I'll go and find it."
So Bobby Coon climbed down out of the great hollow tree and started down
the Lone Little Path through the wood as fast as he could go after
Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit, for there is nothing that Bobby Coon
likes to eat so well as sweet milky corn.
At the edge of the wood they met Jimmy Skunk.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" asked Jimmy Skunk.
"Down in the Green Meadows to find the Best Thing in the World!" shouted
Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon. Then they all tried to
run faster.
"The Best Thing in the World," said Jimmy Skunk. "Why, that must be
packs and packs of beetles!" And for once in his life Jimmy Skunk began
to hurry down the Lone Little Path after Striped Chipmunk and Peter
Rabbit and Bobby Coon.
They were all running so fast that they didn't see Reddy Fox until he
jumped out of the long grass and asked:
"Where are you going in such a hurry?"
"To find the Best Thing in the World!" shouted Striped Chipmunk and
Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon and Jimmy Skunk, and each did his best to
run faster.
"The Best Thing in the World," said Reddy Fox to himself. "Why, that
must be a whole pen full of tender young chickens, and I must have
them."
So away went Reddy Fox as fast as he could run down the Lone Little Path
after Striped Chipmunk, Peter Rabbit, Bobby Coon and Jimmy Skunk.
By and by they all came to the house of Johnny Chuck.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" asked Johnny Chuck.
"To find the Best Thing in the World," shouted Striped Chipmunk and
Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon and Jimmy Skunk and Reddy Fox.
"The Best Thing in the World," said Johnny Chuck. "Why I don't know of
anything better than my own little home and the warm sunshine and the
beautiful blue sky."
So Johnny Chuck stayed at home and played all day among the flowers with
the Merry Little Breezes of Old Mother West Wind and was as happy as
could be.
But all day long Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon and
Jimmy Skunk and Reddy Fox ran this way and ran that way over the Green
Meadows trying to find the Best Thing in the World. The sun was very,
very warm and they ran so far and they ran so fast that they were very,
very hot and tired, and still they hadn't found the Best Thing in the
World.
When the long day was over they started up the Lone Little Path past
Johnny Chuck's house to their own homes. They didn't hurry now for they
were so very, very tired! And they were cross--oh so cross! Striped
Chipmunk hadn't found a single nut. Peter Rabbit hadn't found so much as
the leaf of a cabbage. Bobby Coon hadn't found the tiniest bit of sweet
milky corn. Jimmy Skunk hadn't seen a single beetle. Reddy Fox hadn't
heard so much as the peep of a chicken. And all were as hungry as hungry
could be.
Half way up the Lone Little Path they met Old Mother West Wind going to
her home behind the hill. "Did you find the Best Thing in the World?"
asked Old Mother West Wind.
"No!" shouted Striped Chipmunk and Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon and Jimmy
Skunk and Reddy Fox all together.
"Johnny Chuck has it," said Old Mother West Wind. "It is being happy
with the things you have and not wanting things which some one else has.
And it is called Con-tent-ment."
388
Albert Bigelow Paine (1861--), an American
author at one time connected with the editorial
department of _St. Nicholas Magazine_, has for
more than twenty years been known as the
biographer of Mark Twain. He is a popular
writer of stories for children. Pupils in the
fifth grade like his story _The Arkansaw Bear_.
Some of his books suitable for the third and
fourth grades are _Hollow-Tree Nights and
Days_, _The Hollow Tree_, and _The Deep Woods_.
("Mr. 'Possum's Sick Spell" is from _Hollow-Tree
Nights and Days_, and is used by permission of
the publishers, Harper & Brothers, New York.)
MR. 'POSSUM'S SICK SPELL
ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE
Once upon a time, said the Story Teller, something very sad nearly
happened in the Hollow Tree. It was Mr. 'Possum's turn, one night, to
go out and borrow a chicken from Mr. Man's roost, and coming home he
fell into an old well and lost his chicken. He nearly lost himself, too,
for the water was icy cold and Mr. 'Possum thought he would freeze to
death before he could climb out, because the rocks were slippery and he
fell back several times.
As it was, he got home almost dead, and next morning was sicker than he
had ever been before in his life. He had pains in his chest and other
places, and was all stuffed up in his throat and very scared. The 'Coon
and the Crow who lived in the Hollow Tree with him were scared, too.
They put him to bed in the big room down-stairs, and said they thought
they ought to send for somebody, and Mr. Crow said that Mr. Owl was a
good hand with sick folks, because he looked so wise and didn't say
much, which always made the patient think he knew something.
So Mr. Crow hurried over and brought Mr. Owl, who put on his glasses and
looked at Mr. 'Possum's tongue, and felt of his pulse, and listened to
his breathing, and said that the cold water seemed to have struck in and
that the only thing to do was for Mr. 'Possum to stay in bed and drink
hot herb tea and not eat anything, which was a very bad prescription for
Mr. 'Possum, because he hated herb tea and was very partial to eating.
He groaned when he heard it and said he didn't suppose he'd ever live to
enjoy himself again, and that he might just as well have stayed in the
well with the chicken, which was a great loss and doing no good to
anybody. Then Mr. Owl went away, and told the Crow outside that Mr.
'Possum was a very sick man, and that at his time of life and in his
state of flesh his trouble might go hard with him.
So Mr. Crow went back into the kitchen and made up a lot of herb tea and
kept it hot on the stove, and Mr. 'Coon sat by Mr. 'Possum's bed and
made him drink it almost constantly, which Mr. 'Possum said might cure
him if he didn't die of it before the curing commenced.
He said if he just had that chicken, made up with a good platter of
dumplings, he believed it would do him more good than anything, and he
begged the 'Coon to go and fish it out, or to catch another one, and try
it on him, and then if he did die he would at least have fewer regrets.
But the Crow and the 'Coon said they must do as Mr. Owl ordered, unless
Mr. 'Possum wanted to change doctors, which was not a good plan until
the case became hopeless, and that would probably not be before some
time in the night. Mr. 'Coon said, though, there was no reason why that
nice chicken should be wasted, and as it would still be fresh, he would
rig up a hook and line and see if he couldn't save it. So he got out his
fishing things and made a grab hook and left Mr. Crow to sit by Mr.
'Possum until he came back. He could follow Mr. 'Possum's track to the
place, and in a little while he had the fine, fat chicken, and came home
with it and showed it to the patient, who had a sinking spell when he
looked at it, and turned his face to the wall and said he seemed to have
lived in vain.
Mr. Crow, who always did the cooking, said he'd better put the chicken
on right away, under the circumstances, and then he remembered a bottle
of medicine he had once seen sitting on Mr. Man's window-sill outside,
and he said while the chicken was cooking he'd just step over and get
it, as it might do the patient good, and it didn't seem as if anything
now could do him any harm.
So the Crow dressed the nice chicken and put it in the pot with the
dumplings, and while Mr. 'Coon dosed Mr. 'Possum with the hot herb tea
Mr. Crow slipped over to Mr. Man's house and watched a good chance when
the folks were at dinner, and got the bottle and came back with it and
found Mr. 'Possum taking a nap and the 'Coon setting the table; for the
dinner was about done and there was a delicious smell of dumplings and
chicken, which made Mr. 'Possum begin talking in his sleep about
starving to death in the midst of plenty. Then he woke up and seemed to
suffer a good deal, and the Crow gave him a dose of Mr. Man's medicine,
and said that if Mr. 'Possum was still with them next morning they'd
send for another doctor.
Mr. 'Possum took the medicine and choked on it, and when he could speak
said he wouldn't be with them. He could tell by his feelings, he said,
that he would never get through this day of torture, and he wanted to
say some last words. Then he said that he wanted the 'Coon to have his
Sunday suit, which was getting a little tight for him and would just
about fit Mr. 'Coon, and that he wanted the Crow to have his pipe and
toilet articles, to remember him by. He said he had tried to do well by
them since they had all lived together in the Hollow Tree, and he
supposed it would be hard for them to get along without him, but that
they would have to do the best they could. Then he guessed he'd try to
sleep a little, and closed his eyes. Mr. 'Coon looked at Mr. Crow and
shook his head, and they didn't feel like sitting down to dinner right
away, and pretty soon when they thought Mr. 'Possum was asleep they
slipped softly up to his room to see how sad it would seem without him.
Well, they had only been gone a minute when Mr. 'Possum woke up, for the
smell of that chicken and dumpling coming in from Mr. Crow's kitchen was
too much for him. When he opened his eyes and found that Mr. 'Coon and
Mr. Crow were not there, and that he felt a little better--perhaps
because of Mr. Man's medicine--he thought he might as well step out and
take one last look at chicken and dumpling, anyway.
It was quite warm, but, being all in a sweat, he put the bed-sheet
around him to protect him from the draughts and went out to the stove
and looked into the pot, and when he saw how good it looked he thought
he might as well taste of it to see if it was done. So he did, and it
tasted so good and seemed so done that he got out a little piece of
dumpling on a fork, and blew on it to cool it, and ate it, and then
another piece and then the whole dumpling, which he sopped around in the
gravy after each bite. Then when the dumpling was gone he fished up a
chicken leg and ate that and then a wing, and then the gizzard and felt
better all the time, and pretty soon poured out a cup of coffee and
drank that, all before he remembered that he was sick abed and not
expected to recover. Then he happened to think and started back to bed,
but on the way there he heard Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow talking softly in
his room and he forgot again that he was so sick and went up to see
about it.
Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow had been quite busy up in Mr. 'Possum's room.
They had looked at all the things, and Mr. Crow remarked that there
seemed to be a good many which Mr. 'Possum had not mentioned, and which
they could divide afterward. Then he picked up Mr. 'Possum's pipe and
tried it to see if it would draw well, as he had noticed, he said, that
Mr. 'Possum sometimes had trouble with it, and the 'Coon went over to
the closet and looked at Mr. 'Possum's Sunday suit, and pretty soon got
it out and tried on the coat, which wouldn't need a thing done to it to
make it fit exactly. He said he hoped Mr. 'Possum was resting well,
after the medicine, which he supposed was something to make him sleep,
as he had seemed drowsy so soon after taking it. He said it would be
sad, of course, though it might seem almost a blessing, if Mr. 'Possum
should pass away in his sleep, without knowing it, and he hoped Mr.
'Possum would rest in peace and not come back to distress people, as one
of Mr. 'Coon's own ancestors had done, a good while ago. Mr. 'Coon said
his mother used to tell them about it when she wanted to keep them at
home nights, though he didn't really believe in such things much, any
more, and he didn't think Mr. 'Possum would be apt to do it, anyway,
because he was always quite a hand to rest well. Of course, _any one_
was likely to _think_ of such things, he said, and get a little nervous,
especially at a time like this--and just then Mr. 'Coon looked toward
the door that led down to the big room, and Mr. Crow he looked toward
that door, too, and Mr. 'Coon gave a great jump, and said:
"Oh, my goodness!" and fell back over Mr. 'Possum's trunk.
And Mr. Crow he gave a great jump, too, and said:
"Oh, my gracious!" and fell back over Mr. 'Possum's chair.
For there in the door stood a figure shrouded all in white, all except
the head, which was Mr. 'Possum's, though very solemn, its eyes looking
straight at Mr. 'Coon, who still had on Mr. 'Possum's coat, though he
was doing his best to get it off, and at Mr. Crow, who still had Mr.
'Possum's pipe, though he was trying every way to hide it, and both of
them were scrabbling around on the floor and saying, "Oh, Mr. 'Possum,
go away--please go away, Mr. 'Possum--we always loved you, Mr.
'Possum--we can prove it."
But Mr. 'Possum looked straight at Mr. 'Coon, and said in a deep voice:
"What were you doing with my Sunday coat on?"
And Mr. 'Coon tried to say something, but only made a few weak noises.
And Mr. 'Possum looked at Mr. Crow and said:
"What were you doing with my pipe?"
And a little sweat broke out on Mr. Crow's bill, and he opened his mouth
as if he were going to say something, but couldn't make a sound.
Then Mr. 'Possum said, in a slow voice, so deep that it seemed to come
from down in the ground:
"_Give me my things!_"
And Mr. 'Coon and Mr. Crow said, very shaky:
"Oh y-yes, Mr. 'Possum, w-we meant to, a-all the t-time."
And they tried to get up, but were so scared and weak they couldn't, and
all at once Mr. 'Possum gave a great big laugh and threw off his sheet
and sat down on a stool, and rocked and laughed, and Mr. 'Coon and Mr.
Crow realized then that it was Mr. 'Possum himself, and not just his
appearance, as they had thought. Then they sat up, and pretty soon began
to laugh, too, though not very gaily at first, but feeling more cheerful
every minute, because Mr. 'Possum himself seemed to enjoy it so much.
Then Mr. 'Possum told them about everything, and how Mr. Man's medicine
must have made him well, for all his pains and sorrows had left him, and
he invited them down to help finish up the chicken which had cost him so
much suffering.
So then they all went down to the big room and the Crow brought in the
big platter of dumplings, and a pan of biscuits and some molasses, and a
pot of coffee, and they all sat down and celebrated Mr. 'Possum's
recovery. And when they were through, and everything was put away, they
smoked, and Mr. 'Possum said he was glad he was there to use his
property a little more, and that probably his coat would fit him again
now, as his sickness had caused him to lose flesh. He said that Mr.
Man's medicine was certainly wonderful, but just then Mr. Rabbit dropped
in, and when they told him about it, he said of course the medicine
might have had some effect, but that the dumplings and chicken caused
the real cure. He said there was an old adage to prove that--one that
his thirty-fifth great-grandfather had made for just such a case of this
kind. This, Mr. Rabbit said, was the adage:
"If you want to live forever
Stuff a cold and starve a fever."
Mr. 'Possum's trouble had come from catching cold, he said, so the
dumplings were probably just what he needed. Then Mr. Owl dropped in to
see how his patient was, and when he saw him sitting up, and smoking,
and well, he said it was wonderful how his treatment had worked, and the
Hollow Tree people didn't tell him any different, for they didn't like
to hurt Mr. Owl's feelings.
389
Prominent among writers of the new realistic
nature literature is Dallas Lore Sharp
(1870--), professor of English in Boston
University. Mr. Sharp's stories and descriptive
sketches of nature reveal charming details in
out-of-door life that the ordinary observer
overlooks, and they encourage the reader to
seek entertainment in fields and woods. Most of
his nature writings are suitable for pupils in
grades from the fifth to the eighth. Some of
his books are _Beyond the Pasture Bars_, _A
Watcher in the Woods_, _Roof and Meadow_, and
_Where Rolls the Oregon_. ("Wild Life in the
Farm Yard," from _Beyond the Pasture Bars_, is
used by permission of The Century Co., New York
City.)
WILD LIFE IN THE FARM-YARD
DALLAS LORE SHARP
I want you to visit a farm where there are turkeys and geese and
guineas. If you live in New York City or in Chicago you may not be able
to do so for some time. Then take a trip to the market or to the
zoölogical gardens. But most of you live close enough to the country, so
that you could easily find a farmer who would invite you out to see his
prize gobbler and his great hissing gander.
However, I shall not wait to _send_ you for I am going to _take_
you--now--out to an old farm that I loved as a boy where there are
turkeys and geese and guineas and pigs and pigeons, cows and horses and
mules, cats and dogs, chickens and bees and sheep, and a hornets' nest
and a nest of flying squirrels in the same old grindstone apple-tree,
and a pair of barn owls in the old wagon house, and--I don't know what
else; for there was everything on the old farm when I was a boy, and I
suppose we shall find everything there yet.
I want you to see the turkeys. I want you to follow an old hen turkey to
her stolen nest. I want you to watch the old gobbler turkey take his
family to bed--to roost, I mean. For unless you are a boy, and are
living in the wild portions of Georgia and the southeastern states, you
may never see a wild turkey. For that reason I want you to watch this
tame turkey, because he is almost as wild as a wild turkey in everything
except his fear of you. He has been tamed, we know, since the year 1526,
yet not one of his wild habits has been changed.
So it is with the house cat. We have tamed the house cat, but we have
not changed the wild, night-prowling hunter in him. You have to smooth a
cat the right way, or the _wild_ cat in him will scratch and bite you.
Have you never seen his tail twitch, his eyes blaze, his claws work as
he has crouched watching at a rat's hole, or crawled stealthily upon a
bird in the meadow grass?
So, if you will watch, you shall see a real wild turkey in the tamest
old gobbler on the farm.
Watch him go to roost. Watch him get _ready_ to go to roost, I should
say, for a turkey seems to begin to think of roosting about noon-time,
especially in the winter; and it takes him from about noon till night to
make up his mind that he really must go to roost.
He comes along under the apple-tree of a December afternoon and looks up
at the leafless limbs where he has been roosting since summer. He
stretches his long neck, lays his little brainless head over on one
side, then over on the other. He takes a good _long_ look at the limb.
Then bobs his head--one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-_ten_
times, or perhaps twenty-two or -three times, and takes a still _longer_
look at the limb, saying to himself--_quint, quint, quint, quint!_ which
means: "I think I'll go to roost! I think _I'll_ go to roost! I think
I'll go to _roost_! I think I'll _go_ to roost! I think I'll go _to_
roost! I _think_ I'll go to roost!" He _thinks_ he will, but he hasn't
made up his mind quite.
Then he stretches his long neck again, lays his little witless head on
the side again, bobs and bobs, looks and looks and looks, says _quint,
quint, quint, quint_--"I _think_ I'll go to roost," but is just as
undecided as ever.
He does the performance over and over again and would never go to roost
if the darkness did not come and compel him. He would stand under that
tree stretching, turning, looking, bobbing, "squinting," _thinking_,
until he thought his head off, saying all the while--
One for the money; two for the show;
Three to get ready; and four to--_get ready to go!_
But after a while, along toward dusk (and awfully suddenly!)--_flop!
gobble! splutter! whoop!_--and there he is, up on the limb, safe! Really
safe! But it was an exceedingly close call.
And this is the very way the wild turkey acts. The naturalists who had a
chance to study the great flocks of wild turkeys years ago describe
these same absurd actions. This lack of snap and decision is not
something the tame turkey has learned in the farm-yard. The fact is he
does not seem to have learned anything during his 350 years in the
barn-yard, nor does he seem to have forgotten anything that he knew as a
wild turkey in the woods, except his fear of man.
Late in October the wild turkeys of a given neighborhood would get
together in flocks of from ten to a hundred and travel on foot through
the rich bottom lands in search of food. In these journeys the males
would go ahead, apart from the females, and lead the way. The hens, each
conducting her family in a more or less separate group, came straggling
leisurely along in the rear. As they advanced, they would meet other
flocks, thus swelling their numbers.
After a time they were sure to come to a river--a dreadful thing, for,
like the river of the old song, it was a river _to cross_. Up and down
the banks would stalk the gobblers, stretching their necks out over the
water and making believe to start, as they do when going to roost in the
apple-trees.
All day long, all the next day, all the third day, if the river was
wide, they would strut and cluck along the shore, making up their minds.
The ridiculous creatures have wings; they can fly; but they are afraid!
After all these days, however, the whole flock has mounted the tallest
trees along the bank. One of the gobblers has come forward as leader in
the emergency. Suddenly, from his perch, he utters a single cluck--the
signal for the start,--and every turkey sails into the air. There is a
great flapping--and the terrible river is crossed.
A few weak members fall on the way over, but not to drown. Drawing their
wings close in against their sides, and spreading their round fan-like
tails to the breeze, they strike out as if born to swim, and come
quickly to land.
The tame turkey-hen is notorious for stealing her nest. The wild hen
steals hers--not to plague her owner, of course, as is the common belief
about the domestic turkey, but to get away from the gobbler, who, in
order to prolong the honeymoon, will break the eggs as fast as they are
laid. He has just enough brains to be sentimental, jealous, and
boundlessly fond of himself. His wives, too, are foolish enough to
worship him, until--there is an egg in the nest. That event makes them
wise. They understand this strutting coxcomb, and quietly turning their
backs on him, leave him to parade alone.
There are crows, also, and buzzards from whom the wild turkey hen must
hide the eggs. Nor dare she forget her own danger while sitting, for
there are foxes, owls, and prowling lynxes ready enough to pounce upon
her. On the farm there are still many of these enemies besides the worst
of them all, the farmer himself.
For a nest the wild hen, like the tame turkey of the pasture, scratches
a slight depression in the ground, usually under a thick bush, sometimes
in a hollow log, and there lays from twelve to twenty eggs, which are
somewhat smaller and more elongated than the tame turkey's, but of the
same color: dull cream, sprinkled with reddish dots.
I have often hunted for stolen turkey nests, and hunted in vain, because
the cautious mother had covered her eggs when leaving them. This is one
of the wild habits that has persisted. The wild hen, as the hatching
approaches, will not trust even this precaution, however, but remains
without food and drink upon the nest until the chicks can be led off.
She can scarcely be driven from the nest, often allowing herself to be
captured first.
Mother-love burns fierce in her. Such helpless things are her chicks!
She hears them peeping in the shell and breaks it to help them out. She
preens and dries them and keeps them close under her for days.
Not for a week after they are hatched does she allow them out in a rain.
If, after that, they get a cold wetting, the wild mother, it is said,
will feed the buds of the spice-bush to her brood, as our grandmothers
used to administer mint tea to us.
The tame hen does seem to have lost something of this wild-mother skill,
doubtless because for many generations she has been entirely freed of
the larger part of the responsibility.
I never knew a tame mother turkey to doctor her infants for vermin. But
the wild hen will. The woods are full of ticks and detestable vermin as
deadly as cold rains. When her brood begins to lag and pine, the wild
mother knows, and leading them to some old ant-hill, she gives them a
sousing dust-bath. The vermin hate the odor of the ant-scented dust, and
after a series of these baths disappear.
This is wise; and if this report be true, then the wild turkey is as
wise and far-seeing a mother as the woods contain. One observer even
tells of three hens that stole off together and fixed up a nest between
themselves. Each put in her eggs--forty-two in all--and each took turns
guarding, so that the nest was never left alone.
What special enemy caused this unique partnership the naturalist does
not say. The three mothers built together, brooded together, and
together guarded the nest. But how did those three mothers divide the
babies?
I said I wanted you to visit a farm where there are turkeys. And you
will have to if you would see the turkey at home. For, though I have
traveled through the South, and been in the swamps and river "bottoms"
there all along the Savannah, with wild turkeys around me, I have never
seen a live one.
I was in a small steamboat on the Savannah River one night. We were tied
up till morning along the river bank under the trees of the deep swamp.
Twilight and the swamp silence had settled about us. The moon came up. A
banjo had been twanging, but the breakdown was done, the shuffling feet
quiet. The little cottonboat had become a part of the moonlit silence
and the river swamp.
Two or three roustabouts were lounging upon some rosin-barrels near by,
under the spell of the round autumnal moon. There was frost in the air,
and fragrant odors, but not a sound, not a cry or call of beast or bird,
until, suddenly, breaking through the silence with a jarring eery echo,
was heard the hoot of the great horned owl.
One of the roustabouts dropped quickly to the deck and held up his hand
for silence. We all listened. And again came the uncanny
_Whoo-hoo-hoo-whoo-you-oh-oh!_
"Dat ol' King Owl," whispered the darky. "Him's lookin' fer turkey. Ol'
gobbler done gone hid, I reckon. Listen! Ol' King Owl gwine make ol'
gobbler talk back."
We listened, but there was no frightened "gobble" from the tree-tops.
There were wild turkeys all around me in the swamp; but, though I sat up
until the big southern moon rode high overhead, I heard no answer, no
challenge to the echoing hoot of the great owl. The next day a colored
boy brought aboard the boat a wild turkey which he had shot in the
swamp; but I am still waiting to see and hear the great bronze bird
alive in its native haunts.
390
Vernon L. Kellogg (1867--) is a professor in
Leland Stanford Junior University whose
writings have been chiefly scientific. His
_Insect Stories_, from which the next selection
is taken, is an interesting and instructive
group of stories suitable for pupils in the
third, fourth, or fifth grade. A later book is
called _Nuova, the New Bee_. ("The Vendetta" is
used by permission of the publishers, Henry
Holt & Co., New York City.)
THE VENDETTA
VERNON L. KELLOGG
This is the story of a fight. In the first story of this book, I said
that Mary and I had seen a remarkable fight one evening at sundown on
the slopes of the bare brown foothills west of the campus. It was not a
battle of armies--we have seen that, too, in the little world we
watch,--but a combat of gladiators, a struggle between two champions
born and bred for fighting, and particularly for fighting each other.
One champion was Eurypelma, the great, black, hairy, eight-legged,
strong-fanged tarantula of California, and the other was Pepsis, a
mighty wasp in dull-blue mail, with rusty-red wings and a poisonous
javelin of a sting that might well frighten either you or me. Do you
have any wasp in your neighborhood of the ferocity and strength and size
of Pepsis? If not, you can hardly realize what a terrible creature she
is. With her strong hard-cased body an inch and a half long, borne on
powerful wings that expand fully three inches, and her long and strong
needle-pointed sting that darts in and out like a flash and is always
full of virulent poison, Pepsis is certainly queen of all the wasp
amazons. But if that is so, no less is Eurypelma greatest, most
dreadful, and fiercest, and hence king, of all the spiders in this
country. In South America and perhaps elsewhere in the tropics, live the
fierce bird-spiders with thick legs extending three inches or more on
each side of their ugly hairy bodies. Eurypelma, the California
tarantula, is not quite so large as that, nor does he stalk, pounce on
and kill little birds as his South American cousin is said to do, but he
is nevertheless a tremendous and fear-inspiring creature among the small
beasties of field and meadow.
But not all Eurypelmas are so ferocious; or at least are not ferocious
all the time. There are individual differences among them. Perhaps it is
a matter of age or health. Anyway, I had a pet tarantula which I kept in
an open jar in my room for several weeks, and I could handle him with
impunity. He would sit gently on my hand, or walk deliberately up my
arm, with his eight, fixed, shining, little reddish eyes staring hard
at me, and his long seven-jointed hairy legs swinging gently and
rhythmically along, without a sign of hesitation or excitement. His hair
was almost gray and perhaps this hoariness and general sedateness
betokened a ripe old age. But his great fangs were unblunted, his supply
of poison undiminished, and his skill in striking and killing his prey
still perfect, as often proved at his feeding times. He is quite the
largest Eurypelma I have ever seen. He measures--for I still have his
body, carefully stuffed, and fastened on a block with legs all spread
out--five inches from tip to tip of opposite legs.
At the same time that I had this hoary old tarantula, I had another
smaller, coal-black fellow who went into a perfect ecstasy of anger and
ferocity every time any one came near him. He would stand on his hind
legs and paw wildly with fore legs and palpi, and lunge forward fiercely
at my inquisitive pencil. I found him originally in the middle of an
entry into a classroom, holding at bay an entire excited class of art
students armed with mahl-sticks and paint-brushes. The students were
mostly women, and I was hailed as deliverer and greatest _dompteur_ of
beasts when I scooped Eurypelma up in a bottle and walked off with him.
But this is not telling of the sundown fight that Mary and I saw
together. We had been over to the sand-cut by the golf links, after
mining-bees, and were coming home with a fine lot of their holes and
some of the bees themselves, when Mary suddenly called to me to "see the
nice tarantula."
Perhaps nice isn't the best word for him, but he certainly was an
unusually imposing and fluffy-haired and fierce-looking brute of a
tarantula. He had rather an owly way about him, as if he had come out
from his hole too early and was dazed and half-blinded by the light.
Tarantulas are night prowlers; they do all their hunting after dark, dig
their holes and, indeed, carry on all the various businesses of their
life in the night-time. The occasional one found walking about in
daytime has made a mistake, someway, and he blunders around quite like
an owl in the sunshine.
All of a sudden, while Mary and I were smiling at this too early bird of
a tarantula, he went up on his hind legs in fighting attitude, and at
the same instant down darted a great tarantula hawk, that is, a Pepsis
wasp. Her armored body glinted cool and metallic in the red sunset
light, and her great wings had a suggestive shining of dull fire about
them. She checked her swoop just before reaching Eurypelma, and made a
quick dart over him, and then a quick turn back, intending to catch the
tarantula in the rear. But lethargic and owly as Eurypelma had been a
moment before, he was now all alertness and agility. He had to be. He
was defending his life. One full fair stab of the poisoned javelin,
sheathed but ready at the tip of the flexible, blue-black body hovering
over him, and it would be over with Eurypelma. And he knew it. Or
perhaps he didn't. But he acted as if he did. He was going to do his
best not to be stabbed; that was sure. And Pepsis was going to do her
best to stab; that also was quickly certain.
At the same time Pepsis knew--or anyway acted as if she did--that to be
struck by one or both of those terrible vertical, poison-filled fangs
was sure death. It would be like a blow from a battle-axe, with the
added horror of mortal poison poured into the wound.
So Eurypelma about-faced like a flash, and Pepsis was foiled in her
strategy. She flew up and a yard away, then returned to the attack. She
flew about in swift circles over his head, preparatory to darting in
again. But Eurypelma was ready. As she swooped viciously down, he lunged
up and forward with a half-leap, half-forward fall, and came within an
ace of striking the trailing blue-black abdomen with his reaching fangs.
Indeed it seemed to Mary and me as if they really grazed the metallic
body. But evidently they had not pierced the smooth armor. Nor had
Pepsis in that breathless moment of close quarters been able to plant
her lance. She whirled, up high this time but immediately back, although
a little more wary evidently, for she checked her downward plunge three
or four inches from the dancing champion on the ground. And so for wild
minute after minute it went on; Eurypelma always up and tip-toeing on
those strong hind legs, with open, armed mouth always toward the point
of attack, and Pepsis ever darting down, up, over, across, and in and
out in dizzy dashes, but never quite closing.
Were Mary and I excited? Not a word could we utter; only now and then a
swift intake of breath; a stifled "O" or "Ah" or "See." And then of a
sudden came the end. Pepsis saw her chance. A lightning swoop carried
her right on to the hairy champion. The quivering lance shot home. The
poison coursed into the great soft body. But at the same moment the
terrible fangs struck fair on the blue armor and crashed through it. Two
awful wounds, and the wings of dull fire beat violently only to strike
up a little cloud of dust and whirl the mangled body around and around.
Fortunately Death was merciful, and the brave amazon made a quick end.
But what of Eurypelma, the killer? Was it well with him? The sting-made
wound itself was of little moment; it closed as soon as the lancet
withdrew. But not before the delicate poison sac at its base inside the
wasp-body had contracted and squirted down the slender hollow of the
sting a drop of liquid fire. And so it was not well with Eurypelma in
his insides. Victor he seemed to be, but if he could think, he must have
had grave doubts about the joys of victory.
For a curious drowsiness was coming over him. Perhaps, disquieting
thought, it was the approaching stupor of the poison's working. His
strong long legs became limp, they would not work regularly, they could
not hold his heavy hairy body up from the ground. He would get into his
hole and rest. But it was too late. And after a few uneven steps, victor
Eurypelma settled heavily down beside his amazon victim, inert and
forevermore beyond fighting. He was paralyzed.
And so Mary and I brought him home in our collecting box, together with
the torn body of Pepsis with her wings of slow fire dulled by the dust
of her last struggles. And though it is a whole month now since
Eurypelma received his stab from the poisoned javelin of Pepsis, he has
not recovered; nor will he ever. When you touch him, he draws up slowly
one leg after another, or moves a palpus feebly. But it is living death;
a hopeless paralytic is the king.
Dear reader, you are of course as bright as Mary, and so you have
noticed, as she did right away, the close parallel between what happened
to Eurypelma and what happened to the measuring-worms brought by
Ammophila to her nest burrow as described in the first story in this
book. And so, like Mary, you realize that the vendetta or life feud
between the tarantula family and the family of Pepsis, the tarantula
hawk, is based on reasons of domestic economy rather than on those of
sentiment, which determine vendettas in Corsica and feuds in Kentucky.
To be quite plain, Pepsis fights Eurypelma to get his huge, juicy body
for food for her young; and Eurypelma fights Pepsis to keep from
becoming paralyzed provender. If Pepsis had escaped unhurt in the combat
at which Mary and I "assisted," as the French say, as enthralled
spectators, we should have seen her drag by mighty effort the limp,
paralyzed, spider giant to her nest hole not far distant--a great hole
twelve inches deep and with a side chamber at the bottom. There she
would have thrust him down the throat of the burrow, and then crawled in
and laid an egg on the helpless beast, from which in time would have
hatched the carnivorous wasp grub. Pepsis has many close allies among
the wasps, all black or steely blue with smoky or dull-bronze wings, and
they all use spiders, stung and paralyzed, to store their nest holes
with.
"Do the little black and blue wasps hunt the little spiders and the
larger ones the big spiders?" asked Mary.
"Exactly," I respond, "and the giant wasp of them all, Pepsis, the queen
of the wasp amazons, hunts only the biggest spider of them all,
Eurypelma, the tarantula king, and we have seen her do it."
"Well," says Mary, "even if she wants him for her children to eat, it's
a real vendetta, isn't it?"
"Indeed it is," I answer, "it's more real, and fiercer, and more
relentless, and more persistent than any human vendetta that ever was.
For every Pepsis mother in the world is always hunting for Eurypelmas to
fight. And not _all_ Corsicans have a vendetta on hand, nor all
Kentuckians a feud."
391
Sewell Ford (1868-) is noted for his fine
stories about horses, especially those in
_Horses Nine_, from which the following story
of "Pasha" is taken. (By permission of the
publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.)
Pasha plays a most important part in a human
romance with war as a background, and the
combination is very effective. Mr. Ford's
_Torchy_ stories are also very popular with
young people.
PASHA, THE SON OF SELIM
SEWELL FORD
Long, far too long, has the story of Pasha, son of Selim, remained
untold.
The great Selim, you know, was brought from far across the seas, where
he had been sold for a heavy purse by a venerable sheik, who tore his
beard during the bargain and swore by Allah that without Selim there
would be for him no joy in life. Also he had wept quite convincingly on
Selim's neck--but he finished by taking the heavy purse. That was how
Selim, the great Selim, came to end his days in Fayette County,
Kentucky. Of his many sons, Pasha was one.
In almost idyllic manner were spent the years of Pasha's coltdom. They
were years of pasture roaming and blue grass cropping. When the time was
ripe, began the hunting lessons. Pasha came to know the feel of the
saddle and the voice of the hounds. He was taught the long, easy lope.
He learned how to gather himself for a sail through the air over a
hurdle or a water-jump. Then when he could take five bars clean, when he
could clear an eight-foot ditch, when his wind was so sound that he
could lead the chase from dawn until high noon, he was sent to the
stables of a Virginia tobacco-planter who had need of a new hunter and
who could afford Arab blood.
In the stalls at Gray Oaks stables were many good hunters, but none
better than Pasha. Cream-white he was, from the tip of his splendid,
yard-long tail to his pink-lipped muzzle. His coat was as silk plush,
his neck as supple as a swan's, and out of his big, bright eyes there
looked such intelligence that one half expected him to speak. His lines
were all long, graceful curves, and when he danced daintily on his
slender legs one could see the muscles flex under the delicate skin.
Miss Lou claimed Pasha for her very own at first sight. As no one at
Gray Oaks denied Miss Lou anything at all, to her he belonged from that
instant. Of Miss Lou, Pasha approved thoroughly. She knew that
bridle-reins were for gentle guidance, not for sawing or jerking, and
that a riding-crop was of no use whatever save to unlatch a gate or to
cut at an unruly hound. She knew how to rise on the stirrup when Pasha
lifted himself in his stride, and how to settle close to the pig-skin
when his hoofs hit the ground. In other words, she had a good seat,
which means as much to the horse as it does to the rider.
Besides all this, it was Miss Lou who insisted that Pasha should have
the best of grooming, and she never forgot to bring the dainties which
Pasha loved, an apple or a carrot or a sugarplum. It is something, too,
to have your nose patted by a soft gloved hand and to have such a person
as Miss Lou put her arm around your neck and whisper in your ear. From
no other than Miss Lou would Pasha permit such intimacy.
No paragon, however, was Pasha. He had a temper, and his whims were as
many as those of a school-girl. He was particular as to who put on his
bridle. He had notions concerning the manner in which a currycomb should
be used. A red ribbon or a bandanna handkerchief put him in a rage,
while green, the holy color of the Mohammedan, soothed his nerves. A
lively pair of heels he had, and he knew how to use his teeth. The black
stable-boys found that out, and so did the stern-faced man who was known
as "Mars" Clayton. This "Mars" Clayton had ridden Pasha once, had ridden
him as he rode his big, ugly, hard-bitted roan hunter, and Pasha had not
enjoyed the ride. Still, Miss Lou and Pasha often rode out with "Mars"
Clayton and the parrot-nosed roan. That is, they did until the coming of
Mr. Dave.
In Mr. Dave, Pasha found a new friend. From a far Northern State was Mr.
Dave. He had come in a ship to buy tobacco, but after he had bought his
cargo he still stayed at Gray Oaks, "to complete Pasha's education," so
he said.
Many ways had Mr. Dave which Pasha liked. He had a gentle manner of
talking to you, of smoothing your flanks and rubbing your ears, which
gained your confidence and made you sure that he understood. He was firm
and sure in giving command, yet so patient in teaching one tricks, that
it was a pleasure to learn.
So, almost before Pasha knew it, he could stand on his hind legs, could
step around in a circle in time to a tune which Mr. Dave whistled, and
could do other things which few horses ever learn to do. His chief
accomplishment, however, was to kneel on his forelegs in the attitude of
prayer. A long time it took Pasha to learn this, but Mr. Dave told him
over and over again, by word and sign, until at last the son of the
great Selim could strike a pose such as would have done credit to a
Mecca pilgrim.
"It's simply wonderful!" declared Miss Lou.
But it was nothing of the sort. Mr. Dave had been teaching tricks to
horses ever since he was a small boy, and never had he found such an apt
pupil as Pasha.
Many a glorious gallop did Pasha and Miss Lou have while Mr. Dave stayed
at Gray Oaks, Dave riding the big bay gelding that Miss Lou, with all
her daring, had never ventured to mount. It was not all galloping
though, for Pasha and the big bay often walked for miles through the
wood lanes, side by side and very close together, while Miss Lou and Mr.
Dave talked, talked, talked. How they could ever find so much to say to
each other Pasha wondered.
But at last Mr. Dave went away, and with his going ended good times for
Pasha, at least for many months. There followed strange doings. There
was much excitement among the stable-boys, much riding about, day and
night, by the men of Gray Oaks, and no hunting at all. One day the
stables were cleared of all horses save Pasha.
"Some time, if he is needed badly, you may have Pasha, but not now."
Miss Lou had said. And then she had hidden her face in his cream-white
mane and sobbed. Just what the trouble was Pasha did not understand, but
he was certain "Mars" Clayton was at the bottom of it.
No longer did Miss Lou ride about the country. Occasionally she galloped
up and down the highway, to the Pointdexters and back, just to let Pasha
stretch his legs. Queer sights Pasha saw on these trips. Sometimes he
would pass many men on horses riding close together in a pack, as the
hounds run when they have the scent. They wore strange clothing, did
these men, and they carried, instead of riding-crops, big shiny knives
that swung at their sides. The sight of them set Pasha's nerves
tingling. He would sniff curiously after them and then prick forward his
ears and dance nervously.
Of course Pasha knew that something unusual was going on, but what it
was he could not guess. There came a time, however, when he found out
all about it. Months had passed when, late one night, a hard-breathing,
foam-splotched, mud-covered horse was ridden into the yard and taken
into the almost deserted stable. Pasha heard the harsh voice of "Mars"
Clayton swearing at the stable-boy. Pasha heard his own name spoken, and
guessed that it was he who was wanted. Next came Miss Lou to the
stable.
"I'm very sorry," he heard "Mars" Clayton say, "but I've got to get out
of this. The Yanks are not more than five miles behind."
"But you'll take good care of him, won't you?" he heard Miss Lou ask
eagerly.
"Oh, yes; of course," replied "Mars" Clayton, carelessly.
A heavy saddle was thrown on Pasha's back, the girths pulled cruelly
tight, and in a moment "Mars" Clayton was on his back. They were barely
clear of Gray Oaks driveway before Pasha felt something he had never
known before. It was as if someone had jabbed a lot of little knives
into his ribs. Roused by pain and fright, Pasha reared in a wild attempt
to unseat this hateful rider. But "Mars" Clayton's knees seemed glued to
Pasha's shoulders. Next Pasha tried to shake him off by sudden leaps,
sidebolts, and stiff-legged jumps. These man[oe]uvres brought vicious
jerks on the wicked chain-bit that was cutting Pasha's tender mouth
sorrily and more jabs from the little knives. In this way did Pasha
fight until his sides ran with blood and his breast was plastered thick
with reddened foam.
In the meantime he had covered miles of road, and at last, along in the
cold gray of the morning, he was ridden into a field where were many
tents and horses. Pasha was unsaddled and picketed to a stake. This
latter indignity he was too much exhausted to resent. All he could do
was to stand, shivering with cold, trembling from nervous excitement,
and wait for what was to happen next.
It seemed ages before anything did happen. The beginning was a tripping
bugle-blast. This was answered by the voice of other bugles blown here
and there about the field. In a moment men began to tumble out of the
white tents. They came by twos and threes and dozens, until the field
was full of them. Fires were built on the ground, and soon Pasha could
scent coffee boiling and bacon frying. Black boys began moving about
among the horses with hay and oats and water. One of them rubbed Pasha
hurriedly with a wisp of straw. It was little like the currying and
rubbing with brush and comb and flannel to which he was accustomed and
which he needed just then, oh, how sadly. His strained muscles had
stiffened so much that every movement gave him pain. So matted was his
coat with sweat and foam and mud that it seemed as if half the pores of
his skin were choked.
He had cooled his parched throat with a long draught of somewhat muddy
water, but he had eaten only half of the armful of hay when again the
bugles sounded and "Mars" Clayton appeared. Tightening the girths, until
they almost cut into Pasha's tender skin, he jumped into the saddle and
rode off to where a lot of big black horses were being reined into line.
In front of this line Pasha was wheeled. He heard the bugles sound once
more, heard his rider shout something to the men behind, felt the wicked
little knives in his sides, and then, in spite of aching legs, was
forced into a sharp gallop. Although he knew it not, Pasha had joined
the Black Horse Cavalry.
The months that followed were to Pasha one long, ugly dream. Not that he
minded the hard riding by day and night. In time he became used to all
that. He could even endure the irregular feeding, the sleeping in the
open during all kinds of weather, and the lack of proper grooming. But
the vicious jerks on the torture-provoking cavalry bit, the flat sabre
blows on the flank which he not infrequently got from his ill-tempered
master, and, above all, the cruel digs of the spur-wheels--these things
he could not understand. Such treatment he was sure he did not merit.
"Mars" Clayton he came to hate more and more. Some day, Pasha told
himself, he would take vengeance with teeth and heels, even if he died
for it.
In the meantime he had learned the cavalry drill. He came to know the
meaning of each varying bugle-call, from reveille, when one began to paw
and stamp for breakfast, to mournful taps, when lights went out, and the
tents became dark and silent. Also, one learned to slow from a gallop
into a walk; when to wheel to the right or to the left, and when to
start on the jump as the first notes of a charge were sounded. It was
better to learn the bugle-calls, he found, than to wait for a jerk on
the bits or a prod from the spurs.
No more was he terror-stricken, as he had been on his first day in the
cavalry, at hearing behind him the thunder of many hoofs. Having once
become used to the noise, he was even thrilled by the swinging metre of
it. A kind of wild harmony was in it, something which made one forget
everything else. At such times Pasha longed to break into his long,
wind-splitting lope, but he learned that he must leave the others no
more than a pace or two behind, although he could have easily
outdistanced them all.
Also, Pasha learned to stand under fire. No more did he dance at the
crack of carbines or the zipp-zipp of bullets. He could even hold his
ground when shells went screaming over him, although this was hardest of
all to bear. One could not see them, but their sound, like that of great
birds in flight, was something to try one's nerves. Pasha strained his
ears to catch the note of each shell that came whizzing overhead, and,
as it passed, looked inquiringly over his shoulder as if to ask, "Now
what on earth was that?"
But all this experience could not prepare him for the happenings of that
never-to-be-forgotten day in June. There had been a period full of hard
riding and ending with a long halt. For several days hay and oats were
brought with some regularity. Pasha was even provided with an apology
for a stall. It was made by leaning two rails against a fence. Some hay
was thrown between the rails. This was a sorry substitute for the roomy
box-stall, filled with clean straw, which Pasha always had at Gray Oaks,
but it was as good as any provided for the Black Horse Cavalry.
And how many, many horses there were! As far as Pasha could see in
either direction the line extended. Never before had he seen so many
horses at one time. And men! The fields and woods were full of them;
some in brown butternut, some in homespun gray, and many in clothes
having no uniformity of color at all. "Mars" Clayton was dressed better
than most, for on his butternut coat were shiny shoulder-straps, and it
was closed with shiny buttons. Pasha took little pride in this. He knew
his master for a cruel and heartless rider, and for nothing more.
One day there was a great parade, when Pasha was carefully groomed for
the first time in months. There were bands playing and flags flying.
Pasha, forgetful of his ill-treatment and prancing proudly at the head
of a squadron of coal-black horses, passed in review before a big,
bearded man wearing a slouch hat fantastically decorated with long
plumes and sitting a great black horse in the midst of a little knot of
officers.
Early the next morning Pasha was awakened by the distant growl of heavy
guns. By daylight he was on the move, thousands of other horses with
him. Nearer and nearer they rode to the place where the guns were
growling. Sometimes they were on roads, sometimes they crossed fields,
and again they plunged into the woods where the low branches struck
one's eyes and scratched one's flanks. At last they broke clear of the
trees to come suddenly upon such a scene as Pasha had never before
witnessed.
Far across the open field he could see troop on troop of horses coming
toward him. They seemed to be pouring over the crest of a low hill, as
if driven onward by some unseen force behind. Instantly Pasha heard,
rising from the throats of thousands of riders, on either side and
behind him, that fierce, wild yell which he had come to know meant the
approach of trouble. High and shrill and menacing it rang as it was
taken up and repeated by those in the rear. Next the bugles began to
sound, and in quick obedience the horses formed in line just on the edge
of the woods, a line which stretched on either flank until one could
hardly see where it ended.
From the distant line came no answering cry, but Pasha could hear the
bugles blowing and he could see the fronts massing. Then came the order
to charge at a gallop. This set Pasha to tugging eagerly at the bit, but
for what reason he did not know. He knew only that he was part of a
great and solid line of men and horses sweeping furiously across a field
toward that other line which he had seen pouring over the hill crest.
He could scarcely see at all now. The thousands of hoofs had raised a
cloud of dust that not only enveloped the onrushing line, but rolled
before it. Nor could Pasha hear anything save the thunderous thud of
many feet. Even the shrieking of the shells was drowned. But for the
restraining bit Pasha would have leaped forward and cleared the line.
Never had he been so stirred. The inherited memory of countless desert
raids, made by his Arab ancestors, was doing its work. For what seemed a
long time this continued, and then, in the midst of the blind and
frenzied race, there loomed out of the thick air, as if it had appeared
by magic, the opposing line.
Pasha caught a glimpse of something which seemed like a heaving wall of
tossing heads and of foam-whitened necks and shoulders. Here and there
gleamed red, distended nostrils and straining eyes. Bending above was
another wall, a wall of dusty blue coats, of grim faces, and of
dust-powdered hats. Bristling above all was a threatening crest of
waving blades.
What would happen when the lines met? Almost before the query was
thought there came the answer. With an earth-jarring crash they came
together. The lines wavered back from the shock of impact and then the
whole struggle appeared to Pasha to centre about him. Of course this was
not so. But it was a fact that the most conspicuous figure in either
line had been that of the cream-white charger in the very centre of the
Black Horse regiment.
For one confused moment Pasha heard about his ears the whistle and clash
of sabres, the spiteful crackle of small arms, the snorting of horses,
and the cries of men. For an instant he was wedged tightly in the
frenzied mass, and then, by one desperate leap, such as he had learned
on the hunting field, he shook himself clear.
Not until some minutes later did Pasha notice that the stirrups were
dangling empty and that the bridle-rein hung loose on his neck. Then he
knew that at last he was free from "Mars" Clayton. At the same time he
felt himself seized by an overpowering dread. While conscious of a
guiding hand on the reins Pasha had abandoned himself to the fierce joy
of the charge. But now, finding himself riderless in the midst of a
horrid din, he knew not what to do, nor which way to turn. His only
impulse was to escape. But where? Lifting high his fine head and
snorting with terror he rushed about, first this way and then that,
frantically seeking a way out of this fog-filled field of dreadful
pandemonium. Now he swerved in his course to avoid a charging squad, now
he was turned aside by prone objects at sight of which he snorted
fearfully. Although the blades still rang and the carbines still spoke,
there were no more to be seen either lines or order. Here and there in
the dust-clouds scurried horses, some with riders and some without, by
twos, by fours, or in squads of twenty or more. The sound of shooting
and slashing and shouting filled the air.
To Pasha it seemed an eternity that he had been tearing about the field
when he shied at the figure of a man sitting on the ground. Pasha was
about to wheel and dash away when the man called to him. Surely the
tones were familiar. With wide-open, sniffing nostrils and trembling
knees, Pasha, stopped and looked hard at the man on the ground.
"Pasha! Pasha!" the man called weakly. The voice sounded like that of
Mr. Dave.
"Come, boy! Come, boy!" said the man in a coaxing tone, which recalled
to Pasha the lessons he had learned at Gray Oaks years before. Still
Pasha sniffed and hesitated.
"Come here, Pasha, old fellow. For God's sake, come here!"
There was no resisting this appeal. Step by step Pasha went nearer. He
continued to tremble, for this man on the ground, although his voice was
that of Mr. Dave, looked much different from the one who had taught him
tricks. Besides, there was about him the scent of fresh blood. Pasha
could see the stain of it on his blue trousers.
"Come, boy. Come, Pasha," insisted the man on the ground, holding out an
encouraging hand. Slowly Pasha obeyed until he could sniff the man's
fingers. Another step and the man was smoothing his nose, still speaking
gently and coaxingly in a faint voice. In the end Pasha was assured that
the man was really the Mr. Dave of old, and glad enough Pasha was to
know it.
"Now, Pasha," said Mr. Dave, "we'll see if you've forgotten your tricks,
and may the good Lord grant you haven't. Down, sir! Kneel, Pasha,
kneel!"
It had been a long time since Pasha had been asked to do this, a very
long time; but here was Mr. Dave asking him, in just the same tone as
of old, and in just the same way. So Pasha, forgetting his terror under
the soothing spell of Mr. Dave's voice, forgetting the fearful sights
and sounds about him, remembering only that here was the Mr. Dave whom
he loved, asking him to do his old trick--well, Pasha knelt.
"Easy now, boy; steady!" Pasha heard him say. Mr. Dave was dragging
himself along the ground to Pasha's side. "Steady now, Pasha; steady,
boy!" He felt Mr. Dave's hand on the pommel. "So-o-o, boy; so-o-o-o!"
Slowly, oh, so slowly, he felt Mr. Dave crawling into the saddle, and
although Pasha's knees ached from the unfamiliar strain, he stirred not
a muscle until he got the command, "Up, Pasha, up!"
Then, with a trusted hand on the bridle-rein, Pasha joyfully bounded
away through the fog, until the battle-field was left behind. Of the
long ride that ensued only Pasha knows, for Mr. Dave kept his seat in
the saddle more by force of muscular habit than anything else. A man who
has learned to sleep on horseback does not easily fall off, even though
he has not the full command of his senses. Only for the first hour or so
did Pasha's rider do much toward guiding their course. In
hunting-horses, however, the sense of direction is strong. Pasha had
it--especially for one point of the compass. This point was south. So,
unknowing of the possible peril into which he might be taking his rider,
south he went. How Pasha ever did it, as I have said, only Pasha knows;
but in the end he struck the Richmond Pike.
It was a pleading whinny which aroused Miss Lou at early daybreak. Under
her window she saw Pasha, and on his back a limp figure in a blue,
dust-covered, dark-stained uniform. And that was how Pasha's cavalry
career came to an end. That one fierce charge was his last.
* * * * *
In the Washington home of a certain Maine Congressman you may see, hung
in a place of honor and lavishly framed, the picture of a horse. It is
very creditably done in oils, is this picture. It is of a cream-white
horse, with an arched neck, clean, slim legs, and a splendid flowing
tail.
Should you have any favors of state to ask of this Maine Congressman it
would be the wise thing, before stating your request, to say something
nice about the horse in the picture. Then the Congressman will probably
say, looking fondly at the picture: "I must tell Lou--er--my wife, you
know, what you have said. Yes, that was Pasha. He saved my neck at
Brandy Station. He was one-half Arab, Pasha was, and the other half,
sir, was human."
392
Louisa de la Ramée (1839-1908), an English
novelist, is generally known by her pseudonym
"Ouida," which was the result of a child's
attempt to pronounce her first name. Her novels
had strong popular qualities: intensely
dramatic, with sentiment rather high-pitched
and always verging on the sensational. The
intense human interest is constantly present in
her work and accounts for her great vogue. Two
of her stories, "The Dog of Flanders" and
"Moufflou," have gained a permanent place in
juvenile literature. They are popular among
sixth, seventh, and eighth grade pupils.
MOUFFLOU
"OUIDA"
Moufflou's masters were some boys and girls. They were very poor, but
they were very merry. They lived in an old, dark, tumble-down place, and
their father had been dead five years; their mother's care was all they
knew; and Tasso was the eldest of them all, a lad of nearly twenty, and
he was so kind, so good, so laborious, so cheerful, so gentle, that the
children all younger than he adored him. Tasso was a gardener. Tasso,
however, though the eldest and mainly the bread-winner, was not so much
Moufflou's master as was little Romolo, who was only ten, and a cripple.
Romolo, called generally Lolo, had taught Moufflou all he knew; and that
all was a very great deal, for nothing cleverer than was Moufflou had
ever walked upon four legs.
Why Moufflou?
Well, when the poodle had been given to them by a soldier who was going
back to his home in Piedmont, he had been a white woolly creature a year
old, and the children's mother, who was a Corsican by birth, had said
that he was just like a _moufflon_, as they call sheep in Corsica. White
and woolly this dog remained, and he became the handsomest and biggest
poodle in all the city, and the corruption of Moufflou from Moufflon
remained the name by which he was known; it was silly, perhaps, but it
suited him and the children, and Moufflou he was.
They lived in an old quarter of Florence, in that picturesque zigzag
which goes round the grand church of Or San Michele, and which is almost
more Venetian than Tuscan in its mingling of color, charm, stateliness,
popular confusion, and architectural majesty. The tall old houses are
weather-beaten into the most delicious hues; the pavement is
enchantingly encumbered with peddlers and stalls and all kinds of trades
going on in the open air, in that bright, merry, beautiful Italian
custom which, alas, alas! is being driven away by new-fangled laws which
deem it better for the people to be stuffed up in close, stewing rooms
without air, and would fain do away with all the good-tempered politics
and the sensible philosophies and the wholesome chatter which the
open-street trades and street gossipry encourage, for it is good for the
populace to _sfogare_ and in no other way can it do so one-half so
innocently. Drive it back into musty shops, and it is driven at once to
mutter sedition. . . . But you want to hear about Moufflou.
Well, Moufflou lived here in that high house with the sign of the lamb
in wrought iron, which shows it was once a warehouse of the old guild of
the Arte della Lana. They are all old houses here, drawn round about
that grand church which I called once, and will call again, like a
mighty casket of oxidized silver. A mighty casket indeed, holding the
Holy Spirit within it; and with the vermilion and the blue and the
orange glowing in its niches and its lunettes like enamels, and its
statues of the apostles strong and noble, like the times in which they
were created,--St. Peter with his keys, and St. Mark with his open book,
and St. George leaning on his sword, and others also, solemn and austere
as they, austere though benign, for do they not guard the White
Tabernacle of Oreagna within?
The church stands firm as a rock, square as a fortress of stone, and the
winds and the waters of the skies may beat about it as they will, they
have no power to disturb its sublime repose. Sometimes I think of all
the noble things in all our Italy Or San Michele is the noblest,
standing there in its stern magnificence, amidst people's hurrying feet
and noisy laughter, a memory of God.
The little masters of Moufflou lived right in its shadow, where the
bridge of stone spans the space between the houses and the church high
in mid-air; and little Lolo loved the church with a great love. He loved
it in the morning-time, when the sunbeams turned it into dusky gold and
jasper; he loved it in the evening-time, when the lights of its altars
glimmered in the dark, and the scent of its incense came out into the
street; he loved it in the great feasts, when the huge clusters of
lilies were borne inside it; he loved it in the solemn nights of winter;
the flickering gleam of the dull lamps shone on the robes of an apostle,
or the sculpture of a shield, or the glow of a casement-moulding in
majolica. He loved it always, and, without knowing why, he called it _la
mia chiesa_.
Lolo, being lame and of delicate health, was not enabled to go to school
or to work, though he wove the straw covering of wine-flasks and plaited
the cane matting with busy fingers. But for the most part he did as he
liked, and spent most of his time sitting on the parapet of Or San
Michele, watching the venders of earthenware at their trucks, or
trotting with his crutch (and he could trot a good many miles when he
chose) out with Moufflou down a bit of the Stocking-makers' Street,
along under the arcades of the Uffizi, and so over the Jewellers'
Bridge, and out of byways that he knew into the fields on the hill-side
upon the other bank of Arno. Moufflou and he would spend half the
day--all the day--out there in daffodil-time; and Lolo would come home
with great bundles and sheaves of golden flowers, and he and Moufflou
were happy.
His mother never liked to say a harsh word to Lolo, for he was lame
through her fault; she had let him fall in his babyhood, and the
mischief had been done to his hip never again to be undone. So she never
raised her voice to him, though she did often to the others,--to
curly-pated Cecco, and pretty black-eyed Dina, and saucy Bice, and
sturdy Beppo, and even to the good, manly, hard-working Tasso. Tasso was
the mainstay of the whole, though he was but a gardener's lad, working
in the green Cascine at small wages. But all he earned he brought home
to his mother; and he alone kept in order the lazy, high-tempered
Sandro, and he alone kept in check Bice's love of finery, and he alone
could with shrewdness and care make both ends meet and put _minestra_
always in the pot and bread always in the cupboard.
When his mother thought, as she thought indeed almost ceaselessly, that
with a few months he would be of the age to draw his number, and might
draw a high one and be taken from her for three years, the poor soul
believed her very heart would burst and break; and many a day at
twilight she would start out unperceived and creep into the great church
and pour her soul forth in supplication before the White Tabernacle.
Yet, pray as she would, no miracle could happen to make Tasso free of
military service: if he drew a fatal number, go he must, even though he
take all the lives of them to their ruin with him.
One morning Lolo sat as usual on the parapet of the church, Moufflou
beside him. It was a brilliant morning in September. The men at the
hand-barrows and at the stall were selling the crockery, the silk
handkerchiefs, and the straw hats which form the staple of the commerce
that goes on round about Or San Michele,--very blithe, good-natured, gay
commerce, for the most part, not got through, however, of course,
without bawling and screaming, and shouting and gesticulating, as if the
sale of a penny pipkin or a twopenny pie-pan were the occasion for the
exchange of many thousands of pounds sterling and cause for the whole
world's commotion. It was about eleven o'clock; the poor petitioners
were going in for alms to the house of the fraternity of San Giovanni
Battista; the barber at the corner was shaving a big man with a cloth
tucked about his chin, and his chair set well out on the pavement; the
sellers of the pipkins and pie-pans were screaming till they were
hoarse, "_Un soldo l'uno, due soldi tre!_" big bronze bells were booming
till they seemed to clang right up to the deep-blue sky; some brethren
of the Misericordia went by bearing a black bier; a large sheaf of
glowing flowers--dahlias, zinnias, asters, and daturas--was borne
through the huge arched door of the church near St. Mark and his open
book. Lolo looked on at it all, and so did Moufflou, and a stranger
looked at them as he left the church.
"You have a handsome poodle there, my little man," he said to Lolo, in a
foreigner's too distinct and careful Italian.
"Moufflou is beautiful," said Lolo, with pride. "You should see him when
he is just washed; but we can only wash him on Sundays, because then
Tasso is at home."
"How old is your dog?"
"Three years old."
"Does he do any tricks?"
"Does he!" said Lolo, with a very derisive laugh: "why, Moufflou can do
anything! He can walk on two legs ever so long; make ready, present, and
fire; die; waltz; beg, of course; shut a door; make a wheelbarrow of
himself; there is nothing he will not do. Would you like to see him do
something?"
"Very much," said the foreigner.
To Moufflou and to Lolo the street was the same thing as home; this
cheery _piazzetta_ by the church, so utterly empty sometimes, and
sometimes so noisy and crowded, was but the wider threshold of their
home to both the poodle and the child.
So there, under the lofty and stately walls of the old church, Lolo put
Moufflou through his exercises. They were second nature to Moufflou, as
to most poodles. He had inherited his address at them from clever
parents, and, as he had never been frightened or coerced, all his
lessons and acquirements were but play to him. He acquitted himself
admirably, and the crockery-venders came and looked on, and a sacristan
came out of the church and smiled, and the barber left his customer's
chin all in a lather while he laughed, for the good folk of the quarter
were all proud of Moufflou and never tired of him, and the pleasant,
easy-going, good-humored disposition of the Tuscan populace is so far
removed from the stupid buckram and whale-bone in which the new-fangled
democracy wants to imprison it.
The stranger also was much diverted by Moufflou's talents, and said,
half aloud, "How this clever dog would amuse poor Victor! Would you
bring your poodle to please a sick child I have at home!" he said, quite
aloud, to Lolo, who smiled and answered that he would. Where was the
sick child?
"At the Gran Bretagna; not far off," said the gentleman. "Come this
afternoon, and ask for me by this name."
He dropped his card and a couple of francs into Lolo's hand, and went
his way. Lolo, with Moufflou scampering after him, dashed into his own
house, and stumped up the stairs, his crutch making a terrible noise on
the stone.
"Mother, mother! see what I have got because Moufflou did his tricks,"
he shouted. "And now you can buy those shoes you want so much, and the
coffee that you miss so of a morning, and the new linen for Tasso, and
the shirts for Sandro."
For to the mind of Lolo two francs was as two millions,--source
unfathomable of riches inexhaustible!
With the afternoon he and Moufflou trotted down the arcades of the
Uffizi and down the Lung' Arno to the hotel of the stranger, and,
showing the stranger's card, which Lolo could not read, they were shown
at once into a great chamber, all gilding and fresco and velvet
furniture.
But Lolo, being a little Florentine, was never troubled by externals, or
daunted by mere sofas and chairs: he stood and looked around him with
perfect composure; and Moufflou, whose attitude, when he was not
romping, was always one of magisterial gravity, sat on his haunches and
did the same.
Soon the foreigner he had seen in the forenoon entered and spoke to him,
and led him into another chamber, where stretched on a couch was a
little wan-faced boy about seven years old; a pretty boy, but so pallid,
so wasted, so helpless. This poor little boy was heir to a great name
and a great fortune, but all the science in the world could not make him
strong enough to run about among the daisies, or able to draw a single
breath without pain. A feeble smile lit up his face as he saw Moufflou
and Lolo; then a shadow chased it away.
"Little boy is lame like me," he said, in a tongue Lolo did not
understand.
"Yes, but he is a strong little boy, and can move about, as perhaps the
suns of his country will make you do," said the gentleman, who was the
poor little boy's father. "He has brought you his poodle to amuse you.
What a handsome dog! is it not?"
"Oh, _buffins_!" said the poor little fellow, stretching out his wasted
hands to Moufflou, who submitted his leonine crest to the caress.
Then Lolo went through the performance, and Moufflou acquitted himself
ably as ever; and the little invalid laughed and shouted with his tiny
thin voice, and enjoyed it all immensely, and rained cakes and biscuits
on both the poodle and its master. Lolo crumped the pastries with
willing white teeth, and Moufflou did no less. Then they got up to go,
and the sick child on the couch burst into fretful lamentations and
outcries.
"I want the dog! I will have the dog!" was all he kept repeating.
But Lolo did not know what he said, and was only sorry to see him so
unhappy.
"You shall have the dog to-morrow," said the gentleman, to pacify his
little son; and he hurried Lolo and Moufflou out of the room, and
consigned them to a servant, having given Lolo five francs this time.
"Why, Moufflou," said Lolo, with a chuckle of delight, "if we could find
a foreigner every day, we could eat meat at supper, Moufflou, and go to
the theatre every evening?"
And he and his crutch clattered home with great eagerness and
excitement, and Moufflou trotted on his four frilled feet, the blue bow
with which Bice had tied up his curls on the top of his head, fluttering
in the wind. But, alas! even his five francs could bring no comfort at
home. He found his whole family wailing and mourning in utterly
inconsolable distress.
Tasso had drawn his number that morning, and the number was seven, and
he must go and be a conscript for three years.
The poor young man stood in the midst of his weeping brothers and
sisters, with his mother leaning against his shoulder, and down his own
brown cheeks the tears were falling. He must go, and lose his place in
the public gardens, and leave his people to starve as they might, and be
put in a tomfool's jacket, and drafted off among cursing and swearing
and strange faces, friendless, homeless, miserable! And the
mother,--what would become of the mother?
Tasso was the best of lads and the mildest. He was quite happy sweeping
up the leaves in the long alleys of the Cascine, or mowing the green
lawns under the ilex avenues, and coming home at supper-time, among the
merry little people and the good woman that he loved. He was quite
contented; he wanted nothing, only to be let alone; and they would not
let him alone. They would haul him away to put a heavy musket in his
hand and a heavy knapsack on his back, and drill him, and curse him, and
make him into a human target, a live popinjay.
No one had any heed for Lolo and his five francs, and Moufflou,
understanding that some great sorrow had fallen on his friends, sat down
and lifted up his voice and howled.
Tasso must go away!--that was all they understood. For three long years
they must go without the sight of his face, the aid of his strength, the
pleasure of his smile: Tasso must go! When Lolo understood the calamity
that had befallen them, he gathered Moufflou up against his breast, and
sat down too on the floor beside him and cried as if he would never stop
crying.
There was no help for it; it was one of those misfortunes which are, as
we say in Italian, like a tile tumbled on the head. The tile drops from
a height, and the poor head bows under the unseen blow. That is all.
"What is the use of that?" said the mother, passionately, when Lolo
showed her his five francs. "It will not buy Tasso's discharge."
Lolo felt that his mother was cruel and unjust, and crept to bed with
Moufflou. Moufflou always slept on Lolo's feet.
The next morning Lolo got up before sunrise, and he and Moufflou
accompanied Tasso to his work in the Cascine.
Lolo loved his brother, and clung to every moment whilst they could
still be together.
"Can nothing keep you, Tasso?" he said, despairingly, as they went down
the leafy aisles, whilst the Arno water was growing golden as the sun
rose.
Tasso sighed.
"Nothing, dear. Unless Gesu would send me a thousand francs to buy a
substitute."
And he knew he might as well have said, "If one could coin gold ducats
out of the sunbeams on Arno water."
Lolo was very sorrowful as he lay on the grass in the meadow where Tasso
was at work, and the poodle lay stretched beside him.
When Lolo went home to dinner (Tasso took his wrapped in a handkerchief)
he found his mother very agitated and excited. She was laughing one
moment, crying the next. She was passionate and peevish, tender and
jocose by turns; there was something forced and feverish about her which
the children felt but did not comprehend. She was a woman of not very
much intelligence, and she had a secret, and she carried it ill, and
knew not what to do with it; but they could not tell that. They only
felt a vague sense of disturbance and timidity at her unwonted manner.
The meal over (it was only bean-soup, and that is soon eaten), the
mother said sharply to Lolo, "Your aunt Anita wants you this afternoon.
She has to go out, and you are needed to stay with the children: be off
with you."
Lolo was an obedient child; he took his hat and jumped up as quickly as
his halting hip would let him. He called Moufflou, who was asleep.
"Leave the dog," said his mother, sharply. "'Nita will not have him
messing and carrying mud about her nice clean rooms. She told me so.
Leave him. I say."
"Leave Moufflou!" echoed Lolo, for never in all Moufflou's life had Lolo
parted from him. Leave Moufflou! He stared open-eyed and open-mouthed at
his mother. What could have come to her?
"Leave him, I say," she repeated, more sharply than ever. "Must I speak
twice to my own children? Be off with you, and leave the dog, I say."
And she clutched Moufflou by his long silky mane and dragged him
backwards, whilst with the other hand she thrust out of the door Lolo
and Bice.
Lolo began to hammer with his crutch at the door thus closed on him; but
Bice coaxed and entreated him.
"Poor mother has been so worried about Tasso," she pleaded. "And what
harm can come to Moufflou? And I do think he was tired, Lolo; the
Cascine is a long way; and it is quite true that Aunt 'Nita never liked
him."
So by one means and another she coaxed her brother away; and they went
almost in silence to where their Aunt Anita dwelt, which was across the
river, near the dark-red bell-shaped dome of Santa Spirito.
It was true that her aunt had wanted them to mind her room and her
babies whilst she was away carrying home some lace to a villa outside
the Roman gate, for she was a lace-washer and clear-starcher by trade.
There they had to stay in the little dark room with the two babies, with
nothing to amuse the time except the clang of the bells of the church of
the Holy Spirit, and the voices of the lemonade-sellers shouting in the
street below. Aunt Anita did not get back till it was more than dusk,
and the two children trotted homeward hand in hand, Lolo's leg dragging
itself painfully along, for without Moufflou's white figure dancing on
before him he felt very tired indeed. It was pitch dark when they got to
Or San Michele, and the lamps burned dully.
Lolo stumped up the stairs wearily, with a vague, dull fear at his small
heart.
"Moufflou, Moufflou!" he called. Where was Moufflou? Always at the first
sound of his crutch the poodle came flying towards him. "Moufflou,
Moufflou!" he called all the way up the long, dark twisting stone stair.
He pushed open the door, and he called again, "Moufflou, Moufflou!"
But no dog answered to his call.
"Mother, where is Moufflou?" he asked, staring with blinking, dazzled
eyes into the oil-lit room where his mother sat knitting. Tasso was not
then home from work. His mother went on with her knitting; there was an
uneasy look on her face.
"Mother, what have you done with Moufflou, _my_ Moufflou?" said Lolo,
with a look that was almost stern on his ten-year-old face.
Then his mother, without looking up and moving her knitting-needles very
rapidly, said,--
"Moufflou is sold!"
And little Dina, who was a quick, pert child, cried, with a shrill
voice,--
"Mother has sold him for a thousand francs to the foreign gentleman."
"Sold him!"
Lolo grew white and grew cold as ice; he stammered, threw up his hands
over his head, gasped a little for breath, then fell down in a dead
swoon, his poor useless limb doubled under him.
When Tasso came home that sad night and found his little brother
shivering, moaning, and half delirious, and when he heard what had been
done, he was sorely grieved.
"Oh, mother, how could you do it?" he cried. "Poor, poor Moufflou! and
Lolo loves him so!"
"I have got the money," said his mother, feverishly, "and you will not
need to go for a soldier: we can buy your substitute. What is a poodle,
that you mourn about it? We can get another poodle for Lolo."
"Another will not be Moufflou," said Tasso, and yet was seized with such
a frantic happiness himself at the knowledge that he would not need go
to the army, that he too felt as if he were drunk on new wine, and had
not the heart to rebuke his mother.
"A thousand francs!" he muttered; "a thousand francs! _Dio mio!_ Who
could ever have fancied anybody would have given such a price for a
common white poodle? One would think the gentleman had bought the church
and the tabernacle!"
"Fools and their money are soon parted," said his mother, with cross
contempt.
It was true: she had sold Moufflou.
The English gentleman had called on her while Lolo and the dog had been
in the Cascine, and had said that he was desirous of buying the poodle,
which had so diverted his sick child that the little invalid would not
be comforted unless he possessed it. Now, at any other time the good
woman would have sturdily refused any idea of selling Moufflou; but that
morning the thousand francs which would buy Tasso's substitute were
forever in her mind and before her eyes. When she heard the foreigner
her heart gave a great leap, and her head swam giddily, and she thought,
in a spasm of longing--if she could get those thousand francs! But
though she was so dizzy and so upset she retained her grip on her native
Florentine shrewdness. She said nothing of her need of the money; not a
syllable of her sore distress. On the contrary, she was coy and wary,
affected great reluctance to part with her pet, invented a great offer
made for him by a director of a circus, and finally let fall a hint that
less than a thousand francs she could never take for poor Moufflou.
The gentleman assented with so much willingness to the price that she
instantly regretted not having asked double. He told her that if she
would take the poodle that afternoon to his hotel the money should be
paid to her; so she despatched her children after their noonday meal in
various directions, and herself took Moufflou to his doom. She could not
believe her senses when ten hundred-franc notes were put into her hand.
She scrawled her signature, Rosina Calabucci, to a formal receipt, and
went away, leaving Moufflou in his new owner's rooms, and hearing his
howls and moans pursue her all the way down the staircase and out into
the air.
She was not easy at what she had done.
"It seemed," she said to herself, "like selling a Christian."
But then to keep her eldest son at home,--what a joy that was! On the
whole, she cried so and laughed so as she went down the Lung' Arno that
once or twice people looked at her, thinking her out of her senses, and
a guard spoke to her angrily.
Meanwhile, Lolo was sick and delirious with grief. Twenty times he got
out of his bed and screamed to be allowed to go with Moufflou, and
twenty times his mother and his brothers put him back again and held him
down and tried in vain to quiet him.
The child was beside himself with misery. "Moufflou! Moufflou!" he
sobbed at every moment; and by night he was in a raging fever, and when
his mother, frightened, ran in and called in the doctor of the quarter,
that worthy shook his head and said something as to a shock of the
nervous system, and muttered a long word,--"meningitis."
Lolo took a hatred to the sight of Tasso, and thrust him away, and his
mother too.
"It is for you Moufflou is sold," he said, with his little teeth and
hands tight clinched.
After a day or two Tasso felt as if he could not bear his life, and went
down to the hotel to see if the foreign gentleman would allow him to
have Moufflou back for half an hour to quiet his little brother by a
sight of him. But at the hotel he was told that the _Milord Inglese_ who
had bought the dog of Rosina Calabucci had gone that same night of the
purchase to Rome, to Naples, to Palermo, _chi sa_?
"And Moufflou with him?" asked Tasso.
"The _barbone_ he had bought went with him," said the porter of the
hotel. "Such a beast! Howling, shrieking, raging all the day, and all
the paint scratched off the _salon_ door."
Poor Moufflou! Tasso's heart was heavy as he heard of that sad helpless
misery of their bartered favorite and friend.
"What matter?" said his mother, fiercely, when he told her. "A dog is a
dog. They will feed him better than we could. In a week he will have
forgotten--_che!_"
But Tasso feared that Moufflou would not forget. Lolo certainly would
not. The doctor came to the bedside twice a day, and ice and water were
kept on the aching hot little head that had got the malady with the long
name, and for the chief part of the time Lolo lay quiet, dull, and
stupid, breathing heavily, and then at intervals cried and sobbed and
shrieked hysterically for Moufflou.
"Can you not get what he calls for to quiet him with a sight of it?"
said the doctor. But that was not possible, and poor Rosina covered her
head with her apron and felt a guilty creature.
"Still, you will not go to the army," she said to Tasso. Clinging to
that immense joy for her consolation. "Only think! we can pay Guido
Squarcione to go for you. He always said he would go if anybody would
pay him. Oh, my Tasso, surely to keep you is worth a dog's life!"
"And Lolo's?" said Tasso, gloomily. "Nay, mother, it works ill to meddle
too much with fate. I drew my number; I was bound to go. Heaven would
have made it up to you somehow."
"Heaven sent me the foreigner; the Madonna's own self sent him to ease a
mother's pain," said Rosina, rapidly and angrily. "There are the
thousand francs safe to hand in the _cassone_, and what, pray, is it we
miss? Only a dog like a sheep, that brought gallons of mud in with him
every time it rained, and ate as much as any one of you."
"But Lolo?" said Tasso, under his breath.
His mother was so irritated and so tormented by her own conscience that
she upset all the cabbage broth into the burning charcoal.
"Lolo was always a little fool, thinking of nothing but the church and
the dog and nasty field-flowers," she said, angrily. "I humored him ever
too much because of the hurt to his hip, and so--and so--"
Then the poor soul made matters worse by dropping her tears into the
saucepan, and fanning the charcoal so furiously that the flame caught
her fan of cane-leaves, and would have burned her arm had not Tasso been
there.
"You are my prop and safety always. Who would not have done what I did?
Not Santa Felicita herself," she said, with a great sob.
But all this did not cure poor Lolo.
The days and the weeks of the golden autumn weather passed away, and he
was always in danger, and the small close room where he slept with
Sandro and Beppo and Tasso was not one to cure such an illness as had
now beset him. Tasso went to his work with a sick heart in the Cascine,
where the colchicum was all lilac among the meadow grass, and the ashes
and elms were taking their first flush of the coming autumnal change. He
did not think Lolo would ever get well, and the good lad felt as if he
had been the murderer of his little brother.
True, he had had no hand or voice in the sale of Moufflou, but Moufflou
had been sold for his sake. It made him feel half guilty, very unhappy,
quite unworthy of all the sacrifice that had been made for him. "Nobody
should meddle with fate," thought Tasso, who knew his grandfather had
died in San Bonifazio because he had driven himself mad over the
dream-book trying to get lucky numbers for the lottery and become a rich
man at a stroke.
It was rapture, indeed, to know that he was free of the army for a time
at least, that he might go on undisturbed at his healthful labor, and
get a rise in wages as time went on, and dwell in peace with his family,
and perhaps--perhaps in time earn enough to marry pretty flaxen-haired
Biondina, the daughter of the barber in the piazzetta. It was rapture
indeed; but then poor Moufflou!--and poor, poor Lolo! Tasso felt as if
he had bought his own exemption by seeing his little brother and the
good dog torn in pieces and buried alive for his service.
And where was poor Moufflou?
Gone far away somewhere south in the hurrying, screeching, vomiting,
braying train it made Tasso giddy only to look at as it rushed by the
green meadows beyond the Cascine on its way to the sea.
"If he could see the dog he cries so for, it might save him," said the
doctor, who stood with grave face watching Lolo.
But that was beyond any one's power. No one could tell where Moufflou
was. He might be carried away to England, to France, to Russia, to
America,--who could say? They did not know where his purchaser had gone.
Moufflou even might be dead.
The poor mother, when the doctor said that, went and looked at the ten
hundred-franc notes that were once like angels' faces to her, and said
to them,--
"Oh, you children of Satan, why did you tempt me? I sold the poor,
innocent, trustful beast to get you, and now my child is dying!"
Her eldest son would stay at home, indeed; but if this little lame one
died! Rosina Calabucci would have given up the notes and consented never
to own five francs in her life if only she could have gone back over the
time and kept Moufflou, and seen his little master running out with him
into the sunshine.
More than a month went by, and Lolo lay in the same state, his yellow
hair shorn, his eyes dilated and yet stupid, life kept in him by a
spoonful of milk, a lump of ice, a drink of lemon-water; always
muttering, when he spoke at all, "Moufflou, Moufflou, _dov' e_
Moufflou?" and lying for days together in somnolence and
unconsciousness, with the fire eating at his brain and the weight lying
on it like a stone.
The neighbors were kind, and brought fruit and the like, and sat up with
him, and chattered so all at once in one continuous brawl that they were
enough in themselves to kill him, for such is ever the Italian fashion
of sympathy in all illness.
But Lolo did not get well, did not even seem to see the light at all, or
to distinguish any sounds around him; and the doctor in plain words told
Rosina Calabucci that her little boy must die. Die, and the church so
near! She could not believe it. Could St. Mark, and St. George, and the
rest that he had loved so do nothing for him? No, said the doctor, they
could do nothing; the dog might do something, since the brain had so
fastened on that one idea; but then they had sold the dog.
"Yes; I sold him!" said the poor mother, breaking into floods of
remorseful tears.
So at last the end drew so nigh that one twilight time the priest came
out of the great arched door that is next it. Mark, with the Host
uplifted, and a little acolyte ringing the bell before it, and passed
across the piazzetta, and went up the dark staircase of Rosina's
dwelling, and passed through the weeping, terrified children, and went
to the bedside of Lolo.
Lolo was unconscious, but the holy man touched his little body and limbs
with the sacred oil, and prayed over him, and then stood sorrowful with
bowed head.
Lolo had had his first communion in the summer, and in his preparation
for it had shown an intelligence and devoutness that had won the
priest's gentle heart.
Standing there, the holy man commended the innocent soul to God. It was
the last service to be rendered to him save that very last of all when
the funeral office should be read above his little grave among the
millions of nameless dead at the sepulchres of the poor at Trebbiano.
All was still as the priest's voice ceased; only the sobs of the mother
and of the children broke the stillness as they kneeled; the hand of
Biondina had stolen into Tasso's.
Suddenly, there was a loud scuffling noise; hurrying feet came patter,
patter, patter up the stairs, a ball of mud and dust flew over the heads
of the kneeling figures, fleet as the wind Moufflou dashed through the
room and leaped upon the bed.
Lolo opened his heavy eyes, and a sudden light of consciousness gleamed
in them like a sunbeam. "Moufflou!" he murmured, in his little thin
faint voice. The dog pressed close to his breast and kissed his wasted
face.
Moufflou was come home!
And Lolo came home too, for death let go its hold upon him. Little by
little, very faintly and flickeringly and very uncertainly at the first,
life returned to the poor little body, and reason to the tormented,
heated little brain. Moufflou was his physician; Moufflou, who, himself
a skeleton under his matted curls, would not stir from his side and
looked at him all day long with two beaming brown eyes full of
unutterable love.
Lolo was happy; he asked no questions,--was too weak, indeed, even to
wonder. He had Moufflou; that was enough.
Alas! though they dared not say so in his hearing, it was not enough for
his elders. His mother and Tasso knew that the poodle had been sold and
paid for; that they could lay no claim to keep him; and that almost
certainly his purchaser would seek him out and assert his indisputable
right to him. And then how would Lolo ever bear that second
parting?--Lolo, so weak that he weighed no more than if he had been a
little bird.
Moufflou had, no doubt, traveled a long distance and suffered much. He
was but skin and bone; he bore the marks of blows and kicks; his once
silken hair was all discolored and matted; he had, no doubt, traveled
far. But then his purchaser would be sure to ask for him, soon or late,
at his old home; and then? Well, then if they did not give him up
themselves, the law would make them.
Rosina Calabucci and Tasso, though they dared say nothing before any of
the children, felt their hearts in their mouths at every step on the
stair, and the first interrogation of Tasso every evening when he came
from his work was, "Has any one come for Moufflou?" For ten days no one
came, and their first terrors lulled a little.
On the eleventh morning, a feast-day, on which Tasso was not going to
his labors in the Cascine, there came a person, with a foreign look, who
said the words they so much dreaded to hear: "Has the poodle that you
sold to an English gentleman come back to you?"
Yes: his English master claimed him!
The servant said that they had missed the dog in Rome a few days after
buying him and taking him there; that he had been searched for in vain,
and that his master had thought it possible the animal might have found
his way back to his old home: there had been stories of such wonderful
sagacity in dogs: anyhow, he had sent for him on the chance; he was
himself back on the Lung' Arno. The servant pulled from his pocket a
chain, and said his orders were to take the poodle away at once: the
little sick gentleman had fretted very much about his loss.
Tasso heard in a very agony of despair. To take Moufflou away now would
be to kill Lolo,--Lolo so feeble still, so unable to understand, so
passionately alive to every sight and sound of Moufflou, lying for hours
together motionless with his hand buried in the poodle's curls, saying
nothing, only smiling now and then, and murmuring a word or two in
Moufflou's ear.
"The dog did come home," said Tasso, at length, in a low voice; "angels
must have shown him the road, poor beast! From Rome! Only to think of
it, from Rome! And he a dumb thing! I tell you he is here, honestly: so
will you not trust me just so far as this? Will you let me go with you
and speak to the English lord before you take the dog away? I have a
little brother sorely ill--"
He could not speak more, for tears that choked his voice.
At last the messenger agreed so far as this: Tasso might go first and
see the master, but he would stay here and have a care they did not
spirit the dog away,--"for a thousand francs were paid for him," added
the man, "and a dog that can come all the way from Rome by itself must
be an uncanny creature."
Tasso thanked him, went up-stairs, was thankful that his mother was at
mass and could not dispute with him, took the ten hundred-franc notes
from the old oak _cassone_, and with them in his breast-pocket walked
out into the air. He was but a poor working lad, but he had made up his
mind to do an heroic act. He went straightway to the hotel where the
English _milord_ was, and when he had got there remembered that still he
did not know the name of Moufflou's owner; but the people of the hotel
knew him as Rosina Calabucci's son, and guessed what he wanted, and said
the gentleman who had lost the poodle was within, up-stairs, and they
would tell him.
Tasso waited some half-hour with his heart beating sorely against the
packet of hundred-franc notes. At last he was beckoned up-stairs, and
there he saw a foreigner with a mild fair face, and a very lovely lady,
and a delicate child who was lying on a couch. "Moufflou! Where is
Moufflou?" cried the little child, impatiently, as he saw the youth
enter.
Tasso took his hat off, and stood in the door-way an embrowned, healthy,
not ungraceful figure, in his working-clothes of rough blue stuff.
"If you please, most illustrious," he stammered, "poor Moufflou has come
home."
The child gave a cry of delight; the gentleman and lady one of wonder.
Come home! All the way from Rome!
"Yes, he has, most illustrious," said Tasso, gaining courage and
eloquence; "and now I want to beg something of you. We are poor, and I
drew a bad number, and it was for that my mother sold Moufflou. For
myself, I did not know anything of it; but she thought she would buy my
substitute, and of course she could; but Moufflou is come home, and my
little brother Lolo, the little boy your most illustrious first saw
playing with the poodle, fell ill of the grief of losing Moufflou, and
for a month has lain saying nothing sensible, but only calling for the
dog, and my old grandfather died of worrying himself mad over the
lottery numbers, and Lolo was so near dying that the Blessed Host had
been brought, and the holy oil had been put on him, when all at once
there rushes in Moufflou, skin and bone, and covered with mud, and at
the sight of him Lolo comes back to his senses, and that is now ten days
ago, and though Lolo is still as weak as a new-born thing, he is always
sensible, and takes what we give him to eat, and lies always looking at
Moufflou, and smiling, and saying, 'Moufflou! Moufflou!' and, most
illustrious, I know well you have bought the dog, and the law is with
you, and by the law you claim it, but I thought perhaps, as Lolo loves
him so, you would let us keep the dog, and would take back the thousand
francs, and myself I will go and be a soldier, and heaven will take care
of them all somehow."
Then Tasso, having said all this in one breathless, monotonous
recitative, took the thousand francs out of his breast-pocket and held
them out timidly towards the foreign gentleman, who motioned them aside
and stood silent.
"Did you understand, Victor?" he said, at last, to his little son.
The child hid his face in his cushions.
"Yes, I did understand something: let Lolo keep him; Moufflou was not
happy with me."
But he burst out crying as he said it.
Moufflou had run away from him.
Moufflou had never loved him, for all his sweet cakes and fond caresses
and platefuls of delicate savory meats. Moufflou had run away and found
his own road over two hundred miles and more to go back to some little
hungry children, who never had enough to eat themselves and so,
certainly, could never give enough to eat to the dog. Poor little boy!
He was so rich and so pampered and so powerful, and yet he could never
make Moufflou love him!
Tasso, who understood nothing that was said, laid the ten hundred-franc
notes down on a table near him.
"If you would take them, most illustrious, and give me back what my
mother wrote when she sold Moufflou," he said, timidly, "I would pray
for you night and day, and Lolo would too; and as for the dog, we will
get a puppy and train him for your little _signorino_; they can all do
tricks, more or less, it comes by nature; and as for me, I will go to
the army willingly; it is not right to interfere with fate; my old
grandfather died mad because he would try to be a rich man, by dreaming
about it and pulling destiny by the ears, as if she were a kicking mule;
only, I do pray of you, do not take away Moufflou. And to think he
trotted all those miles and miles, and you carried him by train too, and
he never could have seen the road, and he had no power of speech to
ask--"
Tasso broke down again in his eloquence, and drew the back of his hand
across his wet eyelashes.
The English gentleman was not altogether unmoved.
"Poor faithful dog!" he said, with a sigh. "I am afraid we were very
cruel to him, meaning to be kind. No; we will not claim him, and I do
not think you should go for a soldier; you seem so good a lad, and your
mother must need you. Keep the money, my boy, and in payment you shall
train up the puppy you talk of, and bring him to my little boy. I will
come and see your mother and Lolo to-morrow. All the way from Rome! What
wonderful sagacity! what matchless fidelity!"
You can imagine, without any telling of mine, the joy that reigned in
Moufflou's home when Tasso returned thither with the money and the good
tidings both. His substitute was bought without a day's delay, and Lolo
rapidly recovered. As for Moufflou, he could never tell them his
troubles, his wanderings, his difficulties, his perils; he could never
tell them by what miraculous knowledge he had found his way across
Italy, from the gates of Rome to the gates of Florence. But he soon grew
plump again, and merry, and his love for Lolo was yet greater than
before.
By the winter all the family went to live on an estate near Spezia that
the English gentleman had purchased, and there Moufflou was happier than
ever. The little English boy is gaining strength in the soft air, and he
and Lolo are great friends, and play with Moufflou and the poodle puppy
half the day upon the sunny terraces and under the green orange boughs.
Tasso is one of the gardeners there; he will have to serve as a soldier
probably in some category or another, but he is safe for the time, and
is happy. Lolo, whose lameness will always exempt him from military
service, when he grows to be a man means to be a florist, and a great
one. He has learned to read, as the first step on the road of his
ambition.
"But oh, Moufflou, how _did_ you find your way home?" he asks the dog a
hundred times a week.
How indeed!
No one ever knew how Moufflou had made that long journey on foot, so
many weary miles; but beyond a doubt he had done it alone and unaided,
for if any one had helped him they would have come home with him to
claim the reward.
393
Olive Thorne Miller (1831-1918) is remembered
in the history of American juvenile literature
as a writer on birds. Her purpose was to show
truly the characteristics and habits of the
"little brothers of the air." The following
selection illustrates the style of much of her
work. Some of her books that may appropriately
be used as literature in the third, fourth, or
fifth grade are _The Children's Book of Birds_,
_Little Brothers of the Air_, _Little Folks in
Feathers and Fur_, and _Four Handed Folk_. (The
selection that follows is from the first-named
book, and is used by permission of and by
special arrangement with the publishers, The
Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.)
BIRD HABITS
OLIVE THORNE MILLER
I. WHERE HE SLEEPS
Most birds sleep on their feet.
You know how a canary goes to sleep, all puffed out like a ball, with
his head buried in the feathers of his shoulder. He may stick his bill
over behind the top of the wing, but he never "puts his head under his
wing," as you have heard.
Sometimes he stands straight up on one leg, with the other drawn up out
of sight in his feathers, but more often he sits down on the perch,
still resting on his feet. Most wild birds of the perching kind sleep in
the same way.
It is only lately that we have begun to find out where birds sleep,
because it is dark when they go to bed, and they get up before it is
light enough for us to see them.
The only way to catch them in bed is to go out in the evening, and start
them up after they have gone to sleep. And this is not very kind to the
poor little birds. Some men who are trying to learn about the habits of
birds have tried this way, and so have found out some of their
sleeping-places.
One thing they have learned is that the nest is not often used for a
bed, except for the mother while she is sitting and keeping her little
ones warm.
Robins and orioles, and others, creep into the thick branches of an
evergreen tree, close up to the trunk. Some crawl under the edge of a
haystack, others into thick vines or thorny bushes. All these are meant
for hiding-places, so that beasts that prowl about at night, and like to
eat birds, will not find them.
Tree sparrows like to sleep in holes in the ground like little caves.
The men who found these cosy little bedrooms think they are places dug
out by field mice, and other small animals, for their own use. And when
they are left, the birds are glad to take them.
When the weather is cold, some birds sleep under the snow. You may think
that would not be very warm, and it is not so warm as a bed in the house
with plenty of blankets. But it is much warmer than a perch in a tree,
with nothing but leaves to keep off the wind.
While the snow is falling, some birds find it as good as blankets for
their use. Grouse, who live on the ground, dive into a snow-bank and
snuggle down quietly, while the snow falls and covers them all over and
keeps the cold wind off. Air comes through the snow, so they do not
smother.
Some birds creep into a pile of brush that is covered with snow, and
find under the twigs little places like tents, where the snow has been
kept out by the twigs, and they sleep there, away from the wind and
storm outside.
Water birds find the best sleeping-places on the water, where they float
all night like tiny boats. Some of them leave one foot hanging down and
paddling a little, while they sleep, to keep from being washed to the
shore.
Bob-white and his family sleep in a close circle on the ground, all with
their heads turned outward, so that they can see or hear an enemy,
whichever way he comes.
Hawks and eagles are said to sleep standing, never sitting on the feet
like a canary. Some ducks and geese do even more: they sleep standing on
one foot. Woodpeckers and chimney swifts hang themselves up by their
claws, using their stiff tail for a brace, as if it were a third leg.
Some birds, like the crows, sleep in great flocks. They agree upon a
piece of woods, and all the crows for miles around come there every
night. Sometimes thousands of them sleep in this one bedroom, called a
crow roost. Robins do the same, after the young are big enough to fly so
far.
Audubon, who has told us so much about birds, once found a hollow tree
which was the sleeping-room of chimney swifts. The noise they made going
out in the morning was like the roar of a great mill-wheel.
He wanted to see the birds asleep. So in the daytime, when they were
away, he had a piece cut out at the foot of the tree, big enough to let
him in, and then put back, so the birds would not notice anything
unusual.
At night, after the swifts were abed, he took a dark lantern and went
in. He turned the light upon them little by little, so as not to startle
them. Then he saw the whole inside of the tree full of birds. They were
hanging by their claws, side by side, as thick as they could hang. He
thought there were as many as twelve thousand in that one bedroom.
II. HIS TRAVELS
Most of our birds take two long journeys every year, one in the fall to
the south, and the other in the spring back to the north. These journeys
are called "migrations."
The birds do not go all at once, but in many cases those of a kind who
live near each other collect in a flock and travel together. Each
species or kind has its own time to go.
It might be thought that it is because of the cold that so many birds
move to a warmer climate. But it is not so; they are very well dressed
to endure cold. Their feather suits are so warm that some of our
smallest and weakest birds are able to stay with us, like the chickadee
and the golden-crowned kinglet. It is simply because they cannot get
food in winter, that they have to go.
The fall travel begins soon after the first of July. The bobolink is one
of the first to leave us, though he does not start at once on his long
journey. By that time his little folk are full grown, and can take care
of themselves, and he is getting on his winter suit, or moulting.
Then some morning all the bobolinks in the country are turned out of
their homes in the meadows, by men and horses and mowing machines, for
at that time the long grass is ready to cut.
Then he begins to think about the wild rice that is getting just right
to eat. Besides, he likes to take his long journey to South America in
an easy way, stopping here and there as he goes. So some morning we miss
his cheerful call, and if we go to the meadow we shall not be able to
see a single bobolink.
There, too, are the swallows, who eat only small flying insects. As the
weather grows cooler, these tiny flies are no longer to be found. So the
swallows begin to flock, as it is called. For a few days they will be
seen on fences and telegraph wires, chattering and making a great noise,
and then some morning they will all be gone.
They spend some time in marshes and lonely places before they at last
set out for the south.
As the days grow shorter and cooler, the warblers go. These are the
bright-colored little fellows, who live mostly in the tops of trees.
Then the orioles and the thrushes and the cuckoos leave us, and most
birds who live on insects.
By the time that November comes in, few of them will be left. Birds who
can live on seeds and winter berries, such as cedar-berries and
partridge-berries, and others, often stay with us,--bluebirds, finches,
and sometimes robins.
Many birds take their journey by night. Think of it! Tiny creatures,
that all summer go to bed at dark, start off some night, when it seems
as if they ought to be asleep, and fly all night in the dark.
When it grows light, they stop in some place where they can feed and
rest. And the next night, or two or three nights later, they go on
again. So they do until they reach their winter home, hundreds or
thousands of miles away.
These night flyers are the timid birds, and those who live in the woods
and do not like to be seen,--thrushes, wrens, vireos, and others. Birds
with strong wings, who are used to flying hours every day, and bolder
birds, who do not mind being seen, take their journey by daylight.
Most of them stop now and then, a day or two at a time, to feed and
rest. They fly very high, and faster than our railroad trains can go.
In the spring the birds take their second long journey, back to their
last year's home.
How they knew their way on these journeys, men have been for many years
trying to find out. They have found that birds travel on regular roads,
or routes, that follow the rivers and the shore of the ocean. They can
see much better than we can, and even in the night they can see water.
One such road, or highway, is over the harbor of New York. When the
statue of Liberty was set up on an island in the harbor a few years ago,
it was put in the birds' path.
Usually they fly too high to mind it; but when there is a rain or fog
they come much lower, and, sad to say, many of them fly against it and
are killed.
We often see strange birds in our city streets and parks, while they are
passing through on their migration, for they sometimes spend several
days with us.
394
Ernest Thompson Seton (1860--) was born in
England, but has lived most of his life in
America. He began his career as an artist. He
made more than 1,000 drawings of birds and
animals for the _Century Dictionary_. Later he
began to write about animals and has achieved
unusual success in that field. His _Wild
Animals at Home_, _Wild Animal Ways_, _The
Biography of a Grizzly_, and _Wild Animals I
Have Known_ are all greatly enjoyed by young
people. ("The Poacher and the Silver Fox" is
taken from the first-mentioned book, by
permission of the publishers, Doubleday, Page &
Co., Garden City, New York.)
THE POACHER AND THE SILVER FOX
ERNEST THOMPSON SETON
How is it that all mankind has a sneaking sympathy with a poacher? A
burglar or a pickpocket has our unmitigated contempt; he clearly is a
criminal; but you will notice that the poacher in the story is
generally a reckless daredevil with a large and compensatory amount of
good-fellow in his make-up--yes, I almost said, of good citizenship. I
suppose, because in addition to the breezy, romantic character of his
calling, seasoned with physical danger as well as moral risk, there is
away down in human nature a strong feeling that, in spite of man-made
laws, the ancient ruling holds that "wild game belongs to no man till
some one makes it his property by capture." It may be wrong, it may be
right, but I have heard this doctrine voiced by red men and white, as
primitive law, once or twice; and have seen it lived up to a thousand
times.
Well, Josh Cree was a poacher. This does not mean that every night in
every month he went forth with nefarious tricks and tools, to steal the
flesh and fur that legally were not his. Far from it. Josh never poached
but once. But that's enough; he had crossed the line, and this is how it
came about:
As you roll up the Yellowstone from Livingston to Gardiner you may note
a little ranch-house on the west of the track with its log stables, its
corral, its irrigation ditch, and its alfalfa patch of morbid green. It
is a small affair, for it was founded by the handiwork of one honest
man, who with his wife and small boy left Pennsylvania, braved every
danger of the plains, and secured this claim in the late '80's. Old man
Cree--he was only forty, but every married man is "Old Man" in the
West--was ready to work at any honest calling from logging or sluicing
to grading and muling. He was strong and steady, his wife was steady and
strong. They saved their money, and little by little they got the small
ranch-house built and equipped; little by little they added to their
stock on the range with the cattle of a neighbour, until there came the
happy day when they went to live on their own ranch--father, mother, and
fourteen-year-old Josh, with every prospect of making it pay. The
spreading of that white tablecloth for the first time was a real
religious ceremony, and the hard workers gave thanks to the All-father
for His blessing on their every effort.
One year afterward a new event brought joy: there entered happily into
their happy house a little girl, and all the prairie smiled about them.
Surely their boat was well beyond the breakers.
But right in the sunshine of their joy the trouble cloud arose to block
the sky. Old man Cree was missing one day. His son rode long and far on
the range for two hard days before he sighted a grazing pony, and down a
rocky hollow near, found his father, battered and weak, near death, with
a broken leg and a gash in his head.
He could only gasp "Water" as Josh hurried up, and the boy rushed off to
fill his hat at the nearest stream.
They had no talk, for the father swooned after drinking, and Josh had to
face the situation; but he was Western trained. He stripped himself of
all spare clothing, and his father's horse of its saddle blanket; then,
straightening out the sick man, he wrapped him in the clothes and
blanket, and rode like mad for the nearest ranch-house. The neighbour, a
young man, came at once, with a pot to make tea, an axe, and a rope.
They found the older Cree conscious but despairing. A fire was made, and
hot tea revived him. Then Josh cut two long poles from the nearest
timber and made a stretcher, or travois, Indian fashion, the upper ends
fast to the saddle of a horse, while the other ends trailed on the
ground. Thus by a long, slow journey the wounded man got back. All he
had prayed for was to get home. Every invalid is sure that if only he
can get home all will soon be well. Mother was not yet strong, the baby
needed much care, but Josh was a good boy, and the loving best of all
was done for the sick one. His leg, set by the army surgeon of Fort
Yellowstone, was knit again after a month, but had no power. He had no
force; the shock of those two dire days was on him. The second month
went by, and still he lay in bed. Poor Josh was the man of the place
now, and between duties, indoors and out, he was worn body and soul.
Then it was clear they must have help. So Jack S---- was engaged at the
regular wages of $40 a month for outside work, and a year of struggle
went by, only to see John Cree in his grave, his cattle nearly all gone,
his widow and boy living in a house on which was still $500 of the
original mortgage. Josh was a brave boy and growing strong, but
unboyishly grave with the weight of care. He sold off the few cattle
that were left, and set about keeping the roof over his mother and baby
sister by working a truck farm for the market supplied by the summer
hotels of the Park, and managed to come out even. He would in time have
done well, but he could not get far enough ahead to meet that 10 per
cent mortgage already overdue.
The banker was not a hard man, but he was in the business for the
business. He extended the time, and waited for interest again and again,
but it only made the principal larger, and it seemed that the last ditch
was reached, that it would be best to let the money-man foreclose,
though that must mean a wipe-out and would leave the fatherless family
homeless.
Winter was coming on, work was scarce, and Josh went to Gardiner to see
what he could get in the way of house or wage. He learned of a chance to
'substitute' for the Park mail-carrier, who had sprained his foot. It
was an easy drive to Fort Yellowstone, and there he readily agreed, when
they asked him, to take the letters and packages and go on farther to
the Canyon Hotel. Thus it was that on the 20th day of November 189-,
Josh Cree, sixteen years old, tall and ruddy, rode through the snow to
the kitchen door of the Canyon Hotel and was welcomed as though he were
old Santa Claus himself.
Two Magpies on a tree were among the onlookers. The Park Bears were
denned up, but there were other fur-bearers about. High on the wood-pile
sat a Yellow Red Fox in a magnificent coat. Another was in front of the
house, and the keeper said that as many as a dozen came some days. And
sometimes, he said, there also came a wonderful Silver Fox, a size
bigger than the rest, black as coal, with eyes like yellow diamonds, and
a silver frosting like little stars on his midnight fur.
"My! but he's a beauty. That skin would buy the best team of mules on
the Yellowstone." That was interesting and furnished talk for a while.
In the morning when they were rising for their candlelight breakfast,
the hotel man glancing from the window exclaimed, "Here he is now!" and
Josh peered forth to see in the light of sunrise something he had often
heard of, but never before seen, a coal-black Fox, a giant among his
kind. How slick and elegant his glossy fur, how slim his legs, and what
a monstrous bushy tail; and the other Foxes moved aside as the patrician
rushed in impatient haste to seize the food thrown out by the cook.
"Ain't he a beauty?" said the hotel man. "I'll bet that pelt would fetch
five hundred."
Oh, why did he say "five hundred," the exact sum, for then it was that
the tempter entered into Josh Cree's heart. Five hundred dollars! just
the amount of the mortgage. "Who owns wild beasts? The man that kills
them," said the tempter, and the thought was a live one in his breast as
Josh rode back to Fort Yellowstone.
At Gardiner he received his pay, $6.00, for three days' work and,
turning it into groceries, set out for the poor home that soon would be
lost to him, and as he rode he did some hard and gloomy thinking. On his
wrist there hung a wonderful Indian quirt of plaited rawhide and
horsehair with beads on the shaft, and a band of Elk teeth on the butt.
It was a pet of his, and "good medicine," for a flat piece of elkhorn
let in the middle was perforated with a hole, through which the distant
landscape was seen much clearer--a well-known law, an ancient trick, but
it made the quirt prized as a thing of rare virtue, and Josh had refused
good offers for it. Then a figure afoot was seen, and coming nearer, it
turned out to be a friend, Jack Day, out a-gunning with a .22 rifle. But
game was scarce and Jack was returning to Gardiner empty-handed and
disgusted. They stopped for a moment's greeting when Day said: "Huntin's
played out now. How'll you swap that quirt for my rifle?" A month before
Josh would have scorned the offer. A ten-dollar quirt for a five-dollar
rifle, but now he said briefly: "For rifle with cover, tools and
ammunition complete, I'll go ye." So the deal was made and in an hour
Josh was home. He stabled Grizzle, the last of their saddle stock, and
entered.
Love and sorrow dwelt in the widow's home, but the return of Josh
brought its measure of joy. Mother prepared the regular meal of tea,
potatoes, and salt pork; there was a time when they had soared as high
as canned goods, but those prosperous days were gone. Josh was dandling
baby sister on his lap as he told of his trip, and he learned of two
things of interest: First, the bank must have its money by February;
second, the stable at Gardiner wanted a driver for the Cook City stage.
Then the little events moved quickly. His half-formed plan of getting
back to the Canyon was now frustrated by the new opening, and, besides
this, hope had been dampened by the casual word of one who reported that
"that Silver Fox had not been seen since at the Canyon."
Then began long days of dreary driving through the snow, with a noon
halt at Yancey's and then three days later the return, in the cold, the
biting cold. It was freezing work, but coldest of all was the chill
thought at his heart that February 1st would see him homeless.
Small bands of Mountain Sheep he saw at times on the slope of Evarts,
and a few Blacktail, and later, when the winter deepened, huge bull Elk
were seen along the trail. Sometimes they moved not more than a few
paces to let him pass. These were everyday things to him, but in the
second week of his winter work he got a sudden thrill. He was coming
down the long hill back of Yancey's when what should he see there,
sitting on its tail, shiny black with yellow eyes like a huge black cat
unusually long and sharp in the nose, but a wonderful Silver Fox!
Possibly the same as the one he saw at the Canyon, for that one he knew
had disappeared and there were not likely to be two in the Park. Yes, it
might be the same, and Josh's bosom surged with mingled feelings. Why
did he not carry that little gun? Why did he not realize? were the
thoughts that came--$500! A noble chance! broad daylight only
twenty-five yards! and gone!
The Fox was still there when Josh drove on. On the next trip he brought
the little rifle. He had sawed off the stock so he could hide it easily
in his overcoat if need be. No man knew that he carried arms, but the
Foxes seemed to know. The Red ones kept afar and the Black one came no
more. Day after day he drove and hoped but the Black Fox has cunning
measured to his value. He came not, or if he came, was wisely hidden,
and so the month went by, till late in the cold Moon of Snow he heard
old Yancey say, "There's a Silver Fox bin a-hanging around the stable
this last week. Leastwise Dave says he seen him." There were soldiers
sitting around that stove, game guardians of the Park, and still more
dangerous, a scout, the soldiers' guide, a mountaineer. Josh turned not
an inch, he made no sound in response, but his heart gave a jump. Half
an hour later he went out to bed his horses for the night, and peering
around the stable he saw a couple of shadowy forms that silently shifted
until swallowed by the gloom.
Then the soldiers came to bed their horses, and Josh went back to the
stove. His big driving coat hung with the little sawed-off rifle in the
long pocket. He waited till the soldiers one by one went up the ladder
to the general bunk-room. He rose again, got the lantern, lighted it,
carried it out behind the lonely stable. The horses were grinding their
hay, the stars were faintly lighting the snow. There was no one about as
he hung the lantern under the eaves outside so that it could be seen
from the open valley, but not from the house.
A faint Yap-yah of a Fox was heard on the piney hillside, as he lay down
on the hay in the loft, but there were no signs of life on the snow. He
had come to wait all night if need be, and waited. The lantern might
allure, it might scare, but it was needed in this gloom, and it tinged
the snow with faint yellow light below him. An hour went by, then a
big-tailed form came near and made a little bark at the lantern. It
looked very dark, but it had a paler patch on the throat. This waiting
was freezing work; Josh's teeth were chattering in spite of his
overcoat. Another gray form came, then a much larger black one shaped
itself on the white. It dashed at the first, which fled, and the second
one followed but a little and then sat down on the snow, gazing at that
bright light. When you are sure, you are so sure--Josh knew him now, he
was facing the Silver Fox. But the light was dim. Josh's hand trembled
as he bared it to lay the back on his lips and suck so as to make a
mousey squeak. The effect on the Fox was instant. He glided forward
intent as a hunting cat. Again he stood in, oh! such a wonderful pose,
still as a statue, frozen like a hiding Partridge, unbudging as a lone
kid Antelope in May. And Josh raised--yes, he had come for that--he
raised that fatal gun. The lantern blazed in the Fox's face at twenty
yards; the light was flung back doubled by its shining eyes; it looked
perfectly clear. Josh lined the gun, but, strange to tell, the sights so
plain were lost at once, and the gun was shaking like a sorghum stalk
while the Gopher gnaws its root. He laid the weapon down with a groan,
cursed his own poor trembling hand, and in an instant the wonder Fox was
gone.
Poor Josh! He wasn't bad-tongued, but now he used all the evil words he
had ever heard, and he was Western bred. Then he reacted on himself.
"The Fox might come back!" Suddenly he remembered something. He got out
a common sulphur match. He wet it on his lips and rubbed it on the
muzzle sight: Then on each side of the notch on the breech sight. He
lined it for a tree. Yes! surely! What had been a blur of blackness had
now a visible form.
A faint bark on a far hillside might mean a coming or a going Fox. Josh
waited five minutes, then again he squeaked on his bare hand. The effect
was a surprise when from the shelter of the stable wall ten feet below
there leaped the great dark Fox. At fifteen feet it paused. Those yellow
orbs were fiery in the light and the rifle sights with the specks of
fire were lined. There was a sharp report and the black-robed fur was
still and limp in the snow.
Who can tell the crack of a small rifle among the louder cracks of green
logs splitting with the fierce frost of a Yellowstone winter's night?
Why should travel-worn travelers wake at each slight, usual sound? Who
knows? Who cares?
And afar in Livingston what did the fur dealer care? It was a great
prize. Or the banker? he got his five hundred, and mother found it easy
to accept the Indians' creed: "Who owns wild beasts? The man who kills
them."
"I did not know how it would come," she said; "I only knew it would
come, for I prayed and believed."
We know that it came when it meant the most. The house was saved. It was
the turn in their fortune's tide, and the crucial moment of the change
was when those three bright sulphur spots were lined with the living
lamps in the head of the Silver Fox. Yes! Josh was a poacher. Just once.
395
David Starr Jordan (1851--) was for many years
president, now president emeritus, of Leland
Stanford Junior University, and is known
internationally for his books on science and on
the prevention of war; he also is author of
several books for children. The story that
follows is taken from his _Science Sketches_,
by permission of the publishers, A. C. McClurg
& Co., Chicago. It may stand as a perfect
illustration of the modern informational story
based on recognized scientific facts. "The
Story of a Stone," from the same book, is
equally good. These stories may be taught in
the seventh or eighth grade.
THE STORY OF A SALMON
DAVID STARR JORDAN
In the realm of the Northwest Wind, on the boundary-line between the
dark fir-forests and the sunny plains, there stands a mountain,--a
great white cone two miles and a half in perpendicular height. On its
lower mile the dense fir-woods cover it with never-changing green; on
its next half-mile a lighter green of grass and bushes gives place in
winter to white; and on its uppermost mile the snows of the great ice
age still linger in unspotted purity. The people of Washington Territory
say that their mountain is the great "King-pin of the Universe," which
shows that even in its own country Mount Tacoma is not without honor.
Flowing down from the southwest slope of Mount Tacoma is a cold, clear
river, fed by the melting snows of the mountain. Madly it hastens down
over white cascades and beds of shining sands, through birch-woods and
belts of dark firs, to mingle its waters at last with those of the great
Columbia. This river is the Cowlitz; and on its bottom, not many years
ago, there lay half buried in the sand a number of little orange-colored
globules, each about as large as a pea. These were not much in
themselves, but great in their possibilities. In the waters above them
little suckers and chubs and prickly sculpins strained their mouths to
draw these globules from the sand, and vicious-looking crawfishes picked
them up with their blundering hands and examined them with their
telescopic eyes. But one, at least, of the globules escaped their
curiosity, else this story would not be worth telling. The sun shone
down on it through the clear water, and the ripples of the Cowlitz said
over it their incantations, and in it at last awoke a living being. It
was a fish,--a curious little fellow, not half an inch long, with great,
staring eyes, which made almost half his length, and with a body so
transparent that he could not cast a shadow. He was a little salmon, a
very little salmon; but the water was good, and there were flies and
worms and little living creatures in abundance for him to eat, and he
soon became a larger salmon. Then there were many more little salmon
with him, some larger and some smaller, and they all had a merry time.
Those who had been born soonest and had grown largest used to chase the
others around and bite off their tails, or, still better, take them by
the heads and swallow them whole; for, said they, "Even young salmon are
good eating." "Heads I win, tails you lose," was their motto. Thus, what
was once two small salmon became united into a single larger one, and
the process of "addition, division, and silence" still went on.
By-and-by, when all the salmon were too large to be swallowed, they
began to grow restless. They saw that the water rushing by seemed to be
in a great hurry to get somewhere, and it was somehow suggested that its
hurry was caused by something good to eat at the other end of its
course. Then they all started down the stream, salmon-fashion,--which
fashion is to get into the current, head up-stream; and thus to drift
backward as the river sweeps along.
Down the Cowlitz River the salmon went for a day and a night, finding
much to interest them which we need not know. At last they began to grow
hungry; and coming near the shore, they saw an angle-worm of rare size
and beauty floating in an eddy of the stream. Quick as thought one of
them opened his mouth, which was well filled with teeth of different
sizes, and put it around the angle-worm. Quicker still he felt a sharp
pain in his gills, followed by a smothering sensation, and in an instant
his comrades saw him rise straight into the air. This was nothing new to
them; for they often leaped out of the water in their games of
hide-and-seek, but only to come down again with a loud splash not far
from where they went out. But this one never came back, and the others
went on their course wondering.
At last they came to where the Cowlitz and the Columbia join, and they
were almost lost for a time; for they could find no shores, and the
bottom and the top of the water were so far apart. Here they saw other
and far larger salmon in the deepest part of the current, turning
neither to the right nor to the left, but swimming right on up-stream,
just as rapidly as they could. And these great salmon would not stop for
them, and would not lie and float with the current. They had no time to
talk, even in the simple sign language by which fishes express their
ideas, and no time to eat. They had important work before them, and the
time was short. So they went on up the river, keeping their great
purposes to themselves; and our little salmon and his friends from the
Cowlitz drifted down the stream.
By-and-by the water began to change. It grew denser, and no longer
flowed rapidly along; and twice a day it used to turn about and flow the
other way. Then the shores disappeared, and the water began to have a
different and peculiar flavor,--a flavor which seemed to the salmon much
richer and more inspiring than the glacier-water of their native
Cowlitz. There were many curious things to see,--crabs with hard shells
and savage faces, but so good when crushed and swallowed! Then there
were luscious squid swimming about; and, to a salmon, squid are like
ripe peaches and cream. There were great companies of delicate sardines
and herring, green and silvery, and it was such fun to chase and capture
them! Those who eat sardines packed in oil by greasy fingers, and
herrings dried in the smoke, can have little idea how satisfying it is
to have a meal of them, plump and sleek and silvery, fresh from the sea.
Thus the salmon chased the herrings about, and had a merry time. Then
they were chased about in turn by great sea-lions,--swimming monsters
with huge half-human faces, long thin whiskers, and blundering ways. The
sea-lions liked to bite out the throat of a salmon, with its precious
stomach full of luscious sardines, and then to leave the rest of the
fish to shift for itself. And the seals and the herrings scattered the
salmon about, till at last the hero of our story found himself quite
alone, with none of his own kind near him. But that did not trouble him
much, and he went on his own way, getting his dinner when he was hungry,
which was all the time, and then eating a little between meals for his
stomach's sake.
So it went on for three long years; and at the end of this time our
little fish had grown to be a great, fine salmon of twenty-two pounds'
weight, shining like a new tin pan, and with rows of the loveliest round
black spots on his head and back and tail. One day, as he was swimming
about, idly chasing a big sculpin with head so thorny that he never was
swallowed by anybody, all of a sudden the salmon noticed a change in the
water around him.
Spring had come again, and south-lying snow-drifts on the Cascade
Mountains once more felt that the "earth was wheeling sunwards." The
cold snow waters ran down from the mountains and into the Columbia
River, and made a freshet on the river. The high water went far out into
the sea, and out in the sea our salmon felt it on his gills. He
remembered how the cold water used to feel in the Cowlitz when he was a
little fish. In a blundering, fishy fashion he thought about it; he
wondered whether the little eddy looked as it used to look, and whether
caddis-worms and young mosquitoes were really as sweet and tender as he
used to think they were. Then he thought some other things; but as the
salmon's mind is located in the optic lobes of his brain, and ours is in
a different place, we cannot be quite certain what his thoughts really
were.
What our salmon did, we know. He did what every grown salmon in the
ocean does when he feels the glacier-water once more upon his gills. He
became a changed being. He spurned the blandishment of soft-shelled
crabs. The pleasures of the table and of the chase, heretofore his only
delights, lost their charms for him. He turned his course straight
toward the direction whence the cold water came, and for the rest of his
life never tasted a mouthful of food. He moved on toward the
river-mouth, at first playfully, as though he were not really certain
whether he meant anything after all. Afterward, when he struck the full
current of the Columbia, he plunged straight forward with an unflinching
determination that had in it something of the heroic. When he had passed
the rough water at the bar, he was not alone. His old neighbors of the
Cowlitz, and many more from the Clackamas and the Spokane and Des Chûtes
and Kootenay,--a great army of salmon,--were with him. In front were
thousands pressing on, and behind them were thousands more, all moved by
a common impulse which urged them up the Columbia.
They were all swimming bravely along where the current was deepest, when
suddenly the foremost felt something tickling like a cobweb about their
noses and under their chins. They changed their course a little to brush
it off, and it touched their fins as well. Then they tried to slip down
with the current, and thus leave it behind. But, no! the thing, whatever
it was, although its touch was soft, refused to let go, and held them
like a fetter. The more they struggled, the tighter became its grasp,
and the whole foremost rank of the salmon felt it together; for it was a
great gill-net, a quarter of a mile long, stretched squarely across the
mouth of the river.
By-and-by men came in boats, and hauled up the gill-net and the helpless
salmon that had become entangled in it. They threw the fishes into a
pile in the bottom of the boat, and the others saw them no more. We that
live outside the water know better what befalls them, and we can tell
the story which the salmon could not.
All along the banks of the Columbia River, from its mouth to nearly
thirty miles away, there is a succession of large buildings, looking
like great barns or warehouses, built on piles in the river, high enough
to be out of the reach of floods. There are thirty of these buildings,
and they are called canneries. Each cannery has about forty boats, and
with each boat are two men and a long gill-net. These nets fill the
whole river as with a nest of cobwebs from April to July, and to each
cannery nearly a thousand great salmon are brought every day. These
salmon are thrown in a pile on the floor; and Wing Hop, the big
Chinaman, takes them one after another on the table, and with a great
knife dexterously cuts off the head, the tail, and the fins; then with a
sudden thrust he removes the intestines and the eggs. The body goes into
a tank of water; and the head is dropped into a box on a flat-boat, and
goes down the river to be made into salmon oil. Next, the body is
brought to another table; and Quong Sang, with a machine like a
feed-cutter, cuts it into pieces each just as long as a one-pound can.
Then Ah Sam, with a butcher-knife, cuts these pieces into strips just as
wide as the can. Next Wan Lee, the "China boy," brings down a hundred
cans from the loft where the tinners are making them, and into each puts
a spoonful of salt. It takes just six salmon to fill a hundred cans.
Then twenty Chinamen put the pieces of meat into the cans, fitting in
little strips to make them exactly full. Ten more solder up the cans,
and ten more put the cans into boiling water till the meat is thoroughly
cooked, and five more punch a little hole in the head of each can to let
out the air. Then they solder them up again, and little girls paste on
them bright-colored labels showing merry little cupids riding the happy
salmon up to the cannery door, with Mount Tacoma and Cape Disappointment
in the background; and a legend underneath says that this is "Booth's,"
or "Badollet's Best," or "Hume's," or "Clark's," or "Kinney's Superfine
Salt Water Salmon." Then the cans are placed in cases, forty-eight in a
case, and five hundred thousand cases are put up every year. Great ships
come to Astoria, and are loaded with them; and they carry them away to
London and San Francisco and Liverpool and New York and Sidney and
Valparaiso; and the man at the corner grocery sells them at twenty cents
a can.
All this time our salmon is going up the river, eluding one net as by a
miracle, and soon having need of more miracles to escape the rest;
passing by Astoria on a fortunate day,--which was Sunday, the day on
which no man may fish if he expects to sell what he catches,--till
finally he came to where nets were few, and, at last, to where they
ceased altogether. But there he found that scarcely any of his many
companies were with him; for the nets cease when there are no more
salmon to be caught in them. So he went on, day and night, where the
water was deepest, stopping not to feed or loiter on the way, till at
last he came to a wild gorge, where the great river became an angry
torrent, rushing wildly over a huge staircase of rocks. But our hero did
not falter; and summoning all his forces, he plunged into the Cascades.
The current caught him and dashed him against the rocks. A whole row of
silvery scales came off and glistened in the water like sparks of fire,
and a place on his side became black-and-red, which, for a salmon, is
the same as being black-and-blue for other people. His comrades tried to
go up with him; and one lost his eye, one his tail, and one had his
lower jaw pushed back into his head like the joint of a telescope. Again
he tried to surmount the Cascades; and at last he succeeded, and an
Indian on the rocks above was waiting to receive him. But the Indian
with his spear was less skillful than he was wont to be, and our hero
escaped, losing only a part of one of his fins; and with him came one
other, and henceforth these two pursued their journey together.
Now a gradual change took place in the looks of our salmon. In the sea
he was plump and round and silvery, with delicate teeth in a symmetrical
mouth. Now his silvery color disappeared, his skin grew slimy, and the
scales sank into it; his back grew black, and his sides turned red,--not
a healthy red, but a sort of hectic flush. He grew poor, and his back,
formerly as straight as need be, now developed an unpleasant hump at the
shoulders. His eyes--like those of all enthusiasts who forsake eating
and sleeping for some loftier aim--became dark and sunken. His
symmetrical jaws grew longer and longer, and meeting each other, as the
nose of an old man meets his chin, each had to turn aside to let the
other pass. His beautiful teeth grew longer and longer, and projected
from his mouth, giving him a savage and wolfish appearance, quite at
variance with his real disposition. For all the desires and ambitions of
his nature had become centered into one. We may not know what this one
was, but we know that it was a strong one; for it had led him on and
on,--past the nets and horrors of Astoria; past the dangerous Cascades;
past the spears of Indians; through the terrible flume of the Dalles,
where the mighty river is compressed between huge rocks into a channel
narrower than a village street; on past the meadows of Umatilla and the
wheat-fields of Walla Walla; on to where the great Snake River and the
Columbia join; on up the Snake River and its eastern branch, till at
last he reached the foot of the Bitter Root mountains in the Territory
of Idaho, nearly a thousand miles from the ocean which he had left in
April. With him still was the other salmon which had come with him
through the Cascades, handsomer and smaller than he, and, like him,
growing poor and ragged and tired.
At last, one October afternoon, our finny travelers came together to a
little clear brook, with a bottom of fine gravel, over which the water
was but a few inches deep. Our fish painfully worked his way to it; for
his tail was all frayed out, his muscles were sore, and his skin covered
with unsightly blotches. But his sunken eyes saw a ripple in the stream,
and under it a bed of little pebbles and sand. So there in the sand he
scooped out with his tail a smooth round place, and his companion came
and filled it with orange-colored eggs. Then our salmon came back again;
and softly covering the eggs, the work of their lives was done, and, in
the old salmon fashion, they drifted tail foremost down the stream.
They drifted on together for a night and a day, but they never came to
the sea. For the salmon has but one life to live, and it ascends the
river but once. The rest lies with its children. And when the April
sunshine fell on the globules in the gravel, these were wakened into
life. With the early autumn rains, the little fishes were large enough
to begin their wanderings. They dropped down the current in the old
salmon fashion. And thus they came into the great river and drifted away
to the sea.
396
Probably no short-story writer now living is
better known than Rudyard Kipling, an English
author born in Bombay, India, in 1865. Among
his many stories are some that may be classed
as juvenile romantic nature literature.
_Just-So Stories_ is a collection of humorous
stories of this type, excellent for the fifth
and sixth grades. _The Jungle Book_ and _The
Second Jungle Book_, of a more serious nature,
may be used in the seventh and eighth grades.
The story that follows, taken from one of his
earlier volumes, illustrates well Mr. Kipling's
style of writing. It is suitable for the
seventh or eighth grade.
MOTI GUJ--MUTINEER
RUDYARD KIPLING
Once upon a time there was a coffee-planter in India who wished to clear
some forest land for coffee-planting. When he had cut down all the trees
and burned the underwood, the stumps still remained. Dynamite is
expensive and slow fire slow. The happy medium for stump-clearing is the
lord of all beasts, who is the elephant. He will either push the stump
out of the ground with his tusks, if he has any, or drag it out with
ropes. The planter, therefore, hired elephants by ones and twos and
threes, and fell to work. The very best of all the elephants belonged to
the very worst of all the drivers or mahouts; and this superior beast's
name was Moti Guj. He was the absolute property of his mahout, which
would never have been the case under native rule: for Moti Guj was a
creature to be desired by kings, and his name, being translated, meant
the Pearl Elephant. Because the British government was in the land,
Deesa, the mahout, enjoyed his property undisturbed. He was dissipated.
When he had made much money through the strength of his elephant, he
would get extremely drunk and give Moti Guj a beating with a tent-peg
over the tender nails of the forefeet. Moti Guj never trampled the life
out of Deesa on these occasions, for he knew that after the beating was
over, Deesa would embrace his trunk and weep and call him his love and
his life and the liver of his soul, and give him some liquor. Moti Guj
was very fond of liquor--arrack for choice, though he would drink
palm-tree toddy if nothing better offered. Then Deesa would go to sleep
between Moti Guj's forefeet, and as Deesa generally chose the middle of
the public road, and as Moti Guj mounted guard over him, and would not
permit horse, foot, or cart to pass by, traffic was congested till Deesa
saw fit to wake up.
There was no sleeping in the daytime on the planter's clearing: the
wages were too high to risk. Deesa sat on Moti Guj's neck and gave him
orders, while Moti Guj rooted up the stumps--for he owned a magnificent
pair of tusks; or pulled at the end of a rope--for he had a magnificent
pair of shoulders--while Deesa kicked him behind the ears and said he
was the king of elephants. At evening time Moti Guj would wash down his
three hundred pounds' weight of green food with a quart of arrack, and
Deesa would take a share, and sing songs between Moti Guj's legs till it
was time to go to bed. Once a week Deesa led Moti Guj down to the river,
and Moti Guj lay on his side luxuriously in the shallows, while Deesa
went over him with a coir-swab and a brick. Moti Guj never mistook the
pounding blow of the latter for the smack of the former that warned him
to get up and turn over on the other side. Then Deesa would look at his
feet and examine his eyes, and turn up the fringes of his mighty ears in
case of sores or budding ophthalmia. After inspection the two would
"come up with a song from the sea," Moti Guj, all black and shining,
waving a torn tree branch twelve feet long in his trunk, and Deesa
knotting up his own long wet hair.
It was a peaceful, well-paid life till Deesa felt the return of the
desire to drink deep. He wished for an orgy. The little draughts that
led nowhere were taking the manhood out of him.
He went to the planter, and "My mother's dead," he said, weeping.
"She died on the last plantation two months ago, and she died once
before that when you were working for me last year," said the planter,
who knew something of the ways of nativedom.
"Then it's my aunt, and she was just the same as a mother to me," said
Deesa, weeping more than ever. "She has left eighteen small children
entirely without bread, and it is I who must fill their little
stomachs," said Deesa, beating his head on the floor.
"Who brought you the news?" said the planter.
"The post," said Deesa.
"There hasn't been a post here for the past week. Get back to your
lines!"
"A devastating sickness has fallen on my village, and all my wives are
dying," yelled Deesa, really in tears this time.
"Call Chihun, who comes from Deesa's village," said the planter.
"Chihun, has this man got a wife?"
"He?" said Chihun. "No. Not a woman of our village would look at him.
They'd sooner marry the elephant."
Chihun snorted. Deesa wept and bellowed.
"You will get into a difficulty in a minute," said the planter. "Go back
to your work!"
"Now I will speak Heaven's truth," gulped Deesa, with an inspiration. "I
haven't been drunk for two months. I desire to depart in order to get
properly drunk afar off and distant from this heavenly plantation. Thus
I shall cause no trouble."
A flickering smile crossed the planter's face. "Deesa," said he, "you've
spoken the truth, and I'd give you leave on the spot if anything could
be done with Moti Guj while you're away. You know that he will only obey
your orders."
"May the light of the heavens live forty thousand years. I shall be
absent but ten little days. After that, _upon_ my faith and honor and
soul, I return. As to the inconsiderable interval, have I the gracious
permission of the heaven-born to call up Moti Guj?"
Permission was granted, and in answer to Deesa's shrill yell, the mighty
tusker swung out of the shade of a clump of trees where he had been
squirting dust over himself till his master should return.
"Light of my heart, protector of the drunken, mountain of might, give
ear!" said Deesa, standing in front of him.
Moti Guj gave ear, and saluted with his trunk. "I am going away!" said
Deesa.
Moti Guj's eyes twinkled. He liked jaunts as well as his master. One
could snatch all manner of nice things from the road-side then.
"But you, you fussy old pig, must stay behind and work."
The twinkle died out as Moti Guj tried to look delighted. He hated
stump-hauling on the plantation. It hurt his teeth.
"I shall be gone for ten days, oh delectable one! Hold up your near
forefoot and I'll impress the fact upon it, warty toad of a dried
mud-puddle." Deesa took a tent-peg and banged Moti Guj ten times on the
nails. Moti Guj grunted and shuffled from foot to foot.
"Ten days," said Deesa, "you will work and haul and root the trees as
Chihun here shall order you. Take up Chihun and set him on your neck!"
Moti Guj curled the tip of his trunk, Chihun put his foot there, and was
swung on to the neck. Deesa handed Chihun the heavy _ankus_--the iron
elephant goad.
Chihun thumped Moti Guj's bald head as a paver thumps a curbstone.
Moti Guj trumpeted.
"Be still, hog of the backwoods! Chihun's your mahout for ten days. And
now bid me good-by, beast after mine own heart. Oh, my lord, my king!
Jewel of all created elephants, lily of the herd, preserve your honored
health; be virtuous. Adieu!"
Moti Guj lapped his trunk round Deesa and swung him into the air twice.
That was his way of bidding him good-by.
"He'll work now," said Deesa to the planter. "Have I leave to go?"
The planter nodded, and Deesa dived into the woods. Moti Guj went back
to haul stumps.
Chihun was very kind to him, but he felt unhappy and forlorn for all
that. Chihun gave him a ball of spices, and tickled him under the chin,
and Chihun's little baby cooed to him after work was over, and Chihun's
wife called him a darling; but Moti Guj was a bachelor by instinct, as
Deesa was. He did not understand the domestic emotions. He wanted the
light of his universe back again--the drink and the drunken slumber, the
savage beatings and the savage caresses.
None the less he worked well, and the planter wondered. Deesa had
wandered along the roads till he met a marriage procession of his own
caste, and, drinking, dancing, and tippling, had drifted with it past
all knowledge of the lapse of time.
The morning of the eleventh day dawned, and there returned no Deesa.
Moti Guj was loosed from his ropes for the daily stint. He swung clear,
looked round, shrugged his shoulders, and began to walk away, as one
having business elsewhere.
"Hi! ho! Come back you!" shouted Chihun. "Come back and put me on your
neck, misborn mountain! Return, splendor of the hill-sides! Adornment of
all India, heave to, or I'll bang every toe off your fat forefoot!"
Moti Guj gurgled gently, but did not obey. Chihun ran after him with a
rope and caught him up. Moti Guj put his ears forward, and Chihun knew
what that meant, though he tried to carry it off with high words.
"None of your nonsense with me," said he. "To your pickets, devil-son!"
"Hrrump!" said Moti Guj, and that was all--that and the forebent ears.
Moti Guj put his hands in his pockets, chewed a branch for a toothpick,
and strolled about the clearing, making fun of the other elephants who
had just set to work.
Chihun reported the state of affairs to the planter, who came out with a
dog-whip and cracked it furiously. Moti Guj paid the white man the
compliment of charging him nearly a quarter of a mile across the
clearing and "Hrrumphing" him into his veranda. Then he stood outside
the house, chuckling to himself and shaking all over with the fun of it
as an elephant will.
"We'll thrash him," said the planter. "He shall have the finest
thrashing ever elephant received. Give Kala Nag and Nazim twelve foot of
chain apiece, and tell them to lay on twenty."
Kala Nag--which means Black Snake--and Nazim were two of the biggest
elephants in the lines, and one of their duties was to administer the
graver punishment, since no man can beat an elephant properly.
They took the whipping-chains and rattled them in their trunks as they
sidled up to Moti Guj, meaning to hustle him between them. Moti Guj had
never, in all his life of thirty-nine years, been whipped, and he did
not intend to begin a new experience. So he waited, waving his head from
right to left, and measuring the precise spot in Kala Nag's fat side
where a blunt tusk could sink deepest. Kala Nag had no tusks; the chain
was the badge of his authority; but for all that, he swung wide of Moti
Guj at the last minute, and tried to appear as if he had brought the
chain out for amusement. Nazim turned round and went home early. He did
not feel fighting fit that morning and so Moti Guj was left, standing
alone with his ears cocked.
That decided the planter to argue no more, and Moti Guj rolled back to
his amateur inspection of the clearing. An elephant who will not work
and is not tied up is about as manageable as an eighty-one-ton gun loose
in a heavy seaway. He slapped old friends on the back and asked them if
the stumps were coming away easily; he talked nonsense concerning labor
and the inalienable rights of elephants to a long "nooning"; and,
wandering to and fro, he thoroughly demoralized the garden till sundown,
when he returned to his picket for food.
"If you won't work, you shan't eat," said Chihun, angrily. "You're a
wild elephant, and no educated animal at all. Go back to your jungle."
Chihun's little brown baby was rolling on the floor of the hut, and
stretching out its fat arms to the huge shadow in the doorway. Moti Guj
knew well that it was the dearest thing on earth to Chihun. He swung out
his trunk with a fascinating crook at the end, and the brown baby threw
itself, shouting upon it. Moti Guj made fast and pulled up till the
brown baby was crowing in the air twelve feet above his father's head.
"Great Lord!" said Chihun. "Flour cakes of the best, twelve in number,
two feet across and soaked in rum, shall be yours on the instant, and
two hundred pounds weight of fresh-cut young sugar-cane therewith. Deign
only to put down safely that insignificant brat who is my heart and my
life to me!"
Moti Guj tucked the brown baby comfortably between his forefeet, that
could have knocked into toothpicks all Chihun's hut, and waited for his
food. He ate it, and the brown baby crawled away. Moti Guj dozed and
thought of Deesa. One of many mysteries connected with the elephant is
that his huge body needs less sleep than anything else that lives. Four
or five hours in the night suffice--two just before midnight, lying down
on one side; two just after one o'clock, lying down on the other. The
rest of the silent hours are filled with eating and fidgeting, and long
grumbling soliloquies.
At midnight, therefore, Moti Guj strode out of his pickets, for a
thought had come to him that Deesa might be lying drunk somewhere in the
dark forest with none to look after him. So all that night he chased
through the undergrowth, blowing and trumpeting and shaking his ears. He
went down to the river and blared across the shallows where Deesa used
to wash him, but there was no answer. He could not find Deesa, but he
disturbed all the other elephants in the lines, and nearly frightened to
death some gypsies in the woods.
At dawn Deesa returned to the plantation. He had been very drunk indeed,
and he expected to get into trouble for outstaying his leave. He drew a
long breath when he saw that the bungalow and the plantation were still
uninjured, for he knew something of Moti Guj's temper, and reported
himself with many lies and salaams. Moti Guj had gone to his pickets for
breakfast. The night exercises had made him hungry.
"Call up your beast," said the planter; and Deesa shouted in the
mysterious elephant language that some mahouts believe came from China
at the birth of the world, when elephants and not men were masters. Moti
Guj heard and came. Elephants do not gallop. They move from places at
varying rates of speed. If an elephant wished to catch an express train
he could not gallop, but he could catch the train. So Moti Guj was at
the planter's door almost before Chihun noticed that he had left his
pickets. He fell into Deesa's arms, trumpeting with joy, and the man and
beast wept and slobbered over each other, and handled each other from
head to heel to see that no harm had befallen.
"Now we will get to work," said Deesa. "Lift me up, my son and my joy!"
Moti Guj swung him up, and the two went to the coffee-clearing to look
for difficult stumps.
The planter was too astonished to be very angry.
397
Among the writers of nature fiction, probably
no one deserves higher rank than Charles G. D.
Roberts (1860--), a Canadian. Mr. Roberts does
not tell of his own adventures. His stories are
truly nature fiction because the characters are
animals and the purpose is to reveal the nature
of these characters by showing how they would
act when placed in various imaginary
situations. _Kings in Exile_, from which the
following selection is taken, is a book of
splendid stories of large animals. Other
excellent books by Mr. Roberts, suitable for
the seventh and eighth grades, are _Hoof and
Claw_, _Children of the Wild_, _Secret Trails_,
and _Watchers of the Trails_, ("Last Bull" is
used by permission of the publishers, The
Macmillan Co., New York.)
LAST BULL
CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS
That was what two grim old sachems of the Dacotahs had dubbed him; and
though his official title, on the lists of the Zoological Park, was
"Kaiser," the new and more significant name had promptly supplanted it.
The Park authorities--people of imagination and of sentiment, as must
all be who would deal successfully with wild animals--had felt at once
that the name aptly embodied the tragedies and the romantic memories of
his all-but-vanished race. They had felt, too, that the two old braves
who had been brought East to adorn a city pageant, and who had stood
gazing stoically for hours at the great bull buffalo through the barrier
of the steel-wire fence, were fitted, before all others, to give him a
name. Between him and them there was surely a tragic bond, as they stood
there islanded among the swelling tides of civilization which had
already engulfed their kindreds. "Last Bull" they had called him, as he
answered their gaze with little, sullen, melancholy eyes from under his
ponderous and shaggy front. "Last Bull"--and the passing of his race was
in the name.
Here, in his fenced, protected range, with a space of grassy meadow,
half a dozen clumps of sheltering trees, two hundred yards of the run of
a clear, unfailing brook, and a warm shed for refuge against the winter
storms, the giant buffalo ruled his little herd of three tawny cows, two
yearlings, and one blundering, butting calf of the season. He was a
magnificent specimen of his race--surpassing, it was said, the finest
bull in the Yellowstone preserves or in the guarded Canadian herd of the
North. Little short of twelve feet in length, a good five foot ten in
height at the tip of his humped and huge fore-shoulders, he seemed to
justify the most extravagant tales of pioneer and huntsman. His
hind-quarters were trim and fine-lined, built apparently for speed,
smooth-haired, and of a grayish lion-color. But his fore-shoulders,
mounting to an enormous hump, were of an elephantine massiveness, and
clothed in a dense, curling, golden-brown growth of matted hair. His
mighty head was carried low, almost to the level of his knees, on a neck
of colossal strength, which was draped, together with the forelegs down
to the knees, in a flowing brown mane tipped with black. His head, too,
to the very muzzle, wore the same luxuriant and sombre drapery, out of
which curved viciously the keen-tipped crescent of his horns. Dark,
huge, and ominous, he looked curiously out of place in the secure and
familiar tranquillity of his green pasture.
For a distance of perhaps fifty yards, at the back of the pasture, the
range of the buffalo herd adjoined that of the moose, divided from it by
that same fence of heavy steel-wire mesh, supported by iron posts, which
surrounded the whole range. One sunny and tingling day in late
October--such a day as makes the blood race full red through all healthy
veins--a magnificent stranger was brought to the Park, and turned into
the moose-range.
The newcomer was a New Brunswick bull moose, captured on the Tobique
during the previous spring when the snow was deep and soft, and
purchased for the Park by one of the big Eastern lumber-merchants. The
moose-herd had consisted, hitherto, of four lonely cows, and the
splendid bull was a prize which the Park had long been coveting. He took
lordly possession, forthwith, of the submissive little herd, and led
them off at once from the curious crowds about the gate to explore the
wild-looking thickets at the back of the pasture. But no sooner had he
fairly entered these thickets than he found his further progress barred
by the steel-meshed fence. This was a bitter disappointment, for he had
expected to go striding through miles of alder swamp and dark spruce
woods, fleeing the hated world of men and bondage, before setting
himself to get acquainted with his new followers. His high-strung temper
was badly jarred. He drew off, shaking his vast antlers, and went
shambling with spacious stride down along the barrier towards the brook.
The four cows, in single file, hurried after him anxiously, afraid he
might be snatched away from them.
Last Bull, standing solitary and morose on a little knoll in his
pasture, caught sight of the strange, dark figure of the running moose.
A spark leapt into his heavy eyes. He wheeled, pawed the sod, put his
muzzle to the ground, and bellowed a sonorous challenge. The moose
stopped short and stared about him, the stiff hair lifting angrily along
the ridge of his massive neck. Last Bull lowered his head and tore up
the sod with his horns.
This vehement action caught the eyes of the moose. At first he stared in
amazement, for he had never seen any creature that looked like Last
Bull. The two were only about fifty or sixty yards apart, across the
little valley of the bushy swamp. As he stared, his irritation speedily
overcame his amazement. The curious-looking creature over there on the
knoll was defying him, was challenging him. At this time of year his
blood was hot and quick for any challenge. He gave vent to a short,
harsh, explosive cry, more like a grumbling bleat than a bellow, and as
unlike the buffalo's challenge as could well be imagined. Then he fell
to thrashing the nearest bushes violently with his antlers. This, for
some reason unknown to the mere human chronicler, seemed to be taken by
Last Bull as a crowning insolence. His long, tasselled tail went stiffly
up into the air, and he charged wrathfully down the knoll. The moose,
with his heavy-muzzled head stuck straight out scornfully before him,
and his antlers laid flat along his back, strode down to the encounter
with a certain deadly deliberation. He was going to fight. There was no
doubt whatever on that score. But he had not quite made up his wary mind
as to how he would deal with this unknown and novel adversary.
They looked not so unequally matched, these two, the monarch of the
Western plains, and the monarch of the Northeastern forests. Both had
something of the monstrous, the uncouth, about them, as if they belonged
not to this modern day, but to some prehistoric epoch when Earth moulded
her children on more lavish and less graceful lines. The moose was like
the buffalo in having his hind-quarters relatively slight and low, and
his back sloping upwards to a hump over the immensely developed
fore-shoulders. But he had much less length of body, and much less bulk,
though perhaps eight or ten inches more of height at the tip of the
shoulder. His hair was short, and darker than that of his shaggy rival,
being almost black except on legs and belly. Instead of carrying his
head low, like the buffalo, for feeding on the level prairies, he bore
it high, being in the main a tree-feeder. But the greatest difference
between the two champions was in their heads and horns. The antlers of
the moose formed a huge, fantastic, flatly palmated or leaflike
structure, separating into sharp prongs along the edges, and spreading
more than four feet from tip to tip. To compare them with the short,
polished crescent of the horns of Last Bull was like comparing a
two-handed broadsword to a bowie-knife. And his head, instead of being
short, broad, ponderous, and shaggy, like Last Bull's, was long,
close-haired, and massively horse-faced, with a projecting upper lip
heavy and grim.
Had there been no impregnable steel barrier between them, it is hard to
say which would have triumphed in the end, the ponderous weight and fury
of Last Bull, or the ripping prongs and swift wrath of the moose. The
buffalo charged down the knoll at a thundering gallop; but just before
reaching the fence he checked himself violently. More than once or twice
before had those elastic but impenetrable meshes given him his lesson,
hurling him back with humiliating harshness when he dashed his bulk
against them. He had too lively a memory of past discomfitures to risk a
fresh one now in the face of this insolent foe. His matted front came
against the wire with a force so cunningly moderated that he was not
thrown back by the recoil. And the keen points of his horns went through
the meshes with a vehemence which might indeed have done its work
effectively had they come in contact with the adversary. As it was,
however, they but prodded empty air.
The moose, meanwhile, had been in doubt whether to attack with his
antlers, as was his manner when encountering foes of his own kind, or
with his knife-edged fore-hoofs, which were the weapons he used against
bears, wolves, or other alien adversaries. Finally he seemed to make up
his mind that Last Bull, having horns and a most redoubtable stature,
must be some kind of moose. In that case, of course, it became a
question of antlers. Moreover, in his meetings with rival bulls it had
never been his wont to depend upon a blind, irresistible
charge,--thereby leaving it open to an alert opponent to slip aside and
rip him along the flank,--but rather to fence warily for an advantage in
the locking of antlers, and then bear down his foe by the fury and speed
of his pushing. It so happened, therefore, that he, too, came not too
violently against the barrier. Loudly his vast spread of antlers clashed
upon the steel meshes; and one short prong, jutting low over his brow,
pierced through and furrowed deeply the matted forehead of the buffalo.
As the blood streamed down over his nostrils, obscuring one eye, Last
Bull quite lost his head with rage. Drawing off, he hurled himself
blindly upon the barrier--only to be hurled back again with a vigor that
brought him to his knees. But at the same time the moose, on the other
side of the fence, got a huge surprise. Having his antlers against the
barrier when Last Bull charged, he was forced back irresistibly upon his
haunches with a rudeness quite unlike anything that he had ever before
experienced. His massive neck felt as if a pine tree had fallen upon it,
and he came back to the charge quite beside himself with bewilderment
and rage.
By this time, however, the keepers and Park attendants were arriving on
the scene, armed with pitchforks and other unpleasant executors of
authority. Snorting, and bellowing, and grunting, the monstrous
duellists were forced apart; and Last Bull, who had been taught
something of man's dominance, was driven off to his stable and
imprisoned. He was not let out again for two whole days. And by that
time another fence, parallel with the first and some five or six feet
distant from it, had been run up between his range and that of the
moose. Over this impassable zone of neutrality, for a few days, the two
rivals flung insult and futile defiance, till suddenly, becoming tired
of it all, they seemed to agree to ignore each other's existence.
After this, Last Bull's sullenness of temper appeared to grow upon him.
He was fond of drawing apart from the little herd, and taking up his
solitary post on the knoll, where he would stand for an hour at a time
motionless except for the switching of his long tail, and staring
steadily westward as if he knew where the great past of his race had
lain. In that direction a dense grove of chestnuts, maples, and oaks
bounded the range, cutting off the view of the city roofs, the roar of
the city traffic. Beyond the city were mountains and wide waters which
he could not see; but beyond the waters and the mountains stretched the
green, illimitable plains--which perhaps (who knows?) in some faint
vision inherited from the ancestors whose myriads had possessed them,
his sombre eyes, in some strange way, _could_ see. Among the keepers and
attendants generally it was said, with anxious regret, that perhaps Last
Bull was "going bad." But the headkeeper, Payne, himself a son of the
plains, repudiated the idea. _He_ declared sympathetically that the
great bull was merely homesick, pining for the wind-swept levels of the
open country (God's country, Payne called it!) which his imprisoned
hoofs had never trodden.
Be this as it may, the fact could not be gainsaid that Last Bull was
growing more and more morose. The spectators, strolling along the wide
walk which skirted the front of his range, seemed to irritate him, and
sometimes, when a group had gathered to admire him, he would turn his
low-hung head and answer their staring eyes with a kind of heavy fury,
as if he burned to break forth upon them and seek vengeance for
incalculable wrongs. This smouldering indignation against humanity
extended equally, if not more violently, to all creatures who appeared
to him as servants or allies of humanity. The dogs whom he sometimes saw
passing, held in leash by their masters or mistresses, made him paw the
earth scornfully if he happened to be near the fence. The patient horses
who pulled the road-roller or the noisy lawn-mower made his eyes redden
savagely. And he hated with peculiar zest the roguish little trick
elephant, Bong, who would sometimes, his inquisitive trunk swinging from
side to side, go lurching lazily by with a load of squealing children on
his back.
Bong, who was a favored character, amiable and trustworthy, was allowed
the freedom of the Park in the early morning, before visitors began to
arrive who might be alarmed at seeing an elephant at large. He was
addicted to minding his own business, and never paid the slightest
attention to any occupants of cage or enclosure. He was quite unaware of
the hostility which he had aroused in the perverse and brooding heart of
Last Bull.
One crisp morning in late November, when all the grass in the Park had
been blackened by frost, and the pools were edged with silver rims of
ice, and mists were white and saffron about the scarce-risen sun, and
that autumn thrill was in the air which gives one such an appetite, Bong
chanced to be strolling past the front of Last Bull's range. He did not
see Last Bull, who was nothing to him. But, being just as hungry as he
ought to be on so stimulating a morning, he did see, and note with
interest, some bundles of fresh hay on the other side of the fence.
Now, Bong was no thief. But hay had always seemed to him a free largess,
like grass and water, and this looked like very good hay. So clear a
conscience had he on the subject that he never thought of glancing
around to see if any of the attendants were looking. Innocently he
lurched up to the fence, reached his lithe trunk through, gathered a
neat wisp of the hay, and stuffed it happily into his curious, narrow,
pointed mouth. Yes, he had not been mistaken. It was good hay. With
great satisfaction he reached in for another mouthful.
Last Bull, as it happened, was standing close by, but a little to one
side. He had been ignoring, so far, his morning ration. He was not
hungry. And, moreover, he rather disapproved of the hay because it had
the hostile man-smell strong upon it. Nevertheless, he recognized it
very clearly as his property, to be eaten when he should feel inclined
to eat it. His wrath, then, was only equalled by his amazement when he
saw the little elephant's presumptuous gray trunk reach in and coolly
help itself. For a moment he forgot to do anything whatever about it.
But when, a few seconds later, that long, curling trunk of Bong's
insinuated itself again and appropriated another bundle of the now
precious hay, the outraged owner bestirred himself. With a curt roar,
that was more of a cough or a grunt than a bellow, he lunged forward and
strove to pin the intruding trunk to the ground.
With startled alacrity Bong withdrew his trunk, but just in time to save
it from being mangled. For an instant he stood with the member held high
in air, bewildered by what seemed to him such a gratuitous attack. Then
his twinkling little eyes began to blaze, and he trumpeted shrilly with
anger. The next moment, reaching over the fence, he brought down the
trunk on Last Bull's hump with such a terrible flail-like blow that the
great buffalo stumbled forward upon his knees.
He was up again in an instant and hurling himself madly against the
inexorable steel which separated him from his foe. Bong hesitated for a
second, then, reaching over the fence once more, clutched Last Bull
maliciously around the base of his horns and tried to twist his neck.
This enterprise, however, was too much even for the elephant's titanic
powers, for Last Bull's greatest strength lay in the muscles of his
ponderous and corded neck. Raving and bellowing, he plunged this way and
that, striving in vain to wrench himself free from that
incomprehensible, snake-like thing which had fastened upon him. Bong,
trumpeting savagely, braced himself with widespread pillars of legs, and
between them it seemed that the steel fence must go down under such
cataclysmic shocks as it was suffering. But the noisy violence of the
battle presently brought its own ending. An amused but angry squad of
attendants came up and stopped it, and Bong, who seemed plainly the
aggressor, was hustled off to his stall in deep disgrace.
Last Bull was humiliated. In this encounter things had happened which
he could in no way comprehend; and though, beyond an aching in neck and
shoulders, he felt none the worse physically, he had nevertheless a
sense of having been worsted, of having been treated with ignominy, in
spite of the fact that it was his foe, and not he, who had retired from
the field. For several days he wore a subdued air and kept about meekly
with his docile cows. Then his old, bitter moodiness reasserted itself,
and he resumed his solitary broodings on the crest of the knoll.
When the winter storms came on, it had been Last Bull's custom to let
himself be housed luxuriously at nightfall, with the rest of the herd,
in the warm and ample buffalo-shed. But this winter he made such
difficulty about going in that at last Payne decreed that he should have
his own way and stay out. "It will do him no harm, and may cool his
peppery blood some!" had been the keeper's decision. So the door was
left open, and Last Bull entered or refrained, according to his whim. It
was noticed, however,--and this struck a chord of answering sympathy in
the plainsman's imaginative temperament,--that, though on ordinary
nights he might come in and stay with the herd under shelter, on nights
of driving storm, if the tempest blew from the west or northwest, Last
Bull was sure to be out on the naked knoll to face it. When the fine
sleet or stinging rain drove past him, filling his nostrils with their
cold, drenching his matted mane, and lashing his narrowed eyes, what
visions swept through his troubled, half-comprehending brain, no one may
know. But Payne, with understanding born of sympathy and a common native
soil, catching sight of his dark bulk under the dark of the low sky, was
wont to declare that _he_ knew. He would say that Last Bull's eyes
discerned, black under the hurricane, but lit strangely with the flash
of keen horns and rolling eyes and frothed nostrils, the endless and
innumerable droves of the buffalo, with the plains wolf skulking on
their flanks, passing, passing, southward into the final dark. In the
roar of the wind, declared Payne, Last Bull, out there in the night,
listened to the trampling of all those vanished droves. And though the
other keepers insisted to each other, quite privately, that their chief
talked a lot of nonsense about "that there mean-tempered old buffalo,"
they nevertheless came gradually to look upon Last Bull with a kind of
awe, and to regard his surly whims as privileged.
It chanced that winter that men were driving a railway tunnel beneath a
corner of the Park. The tunnel ran for a short distance under the front
of Last Bull's range, and passed close by the picturesque cottage
occupied by Payne and two of his assistants. At this point the level of
the Park was low, and the shell of earth was thin above the tunnel roof.
There came a Sunday afternoon, after days of rain and penetrating
January thaw, when sun and air combined to cheat the earth with an
illusion of spring. The buds and the mould breathed of April, and gay
crowds flocked to the Park, to make the most of winter's temporary
repulse. Just when things were at their gayest, with children's voices
clamoring everywhere like starlings, and Bong, the little elephant,
swinging good-naturedly up the broad white track with all the load he
had room for on his back, there came an ominous jar and rumble, like the
first of an earthquake, which ran along the front of Last Bull's range.
With sure instinct, Bong turned tail and fled with his young charges
away across the grassland. The crowds, hardly knowing what they fled
from, with screams and cries and blanched faces, followed the elephant's
example. A moment later and, with a muffled crash, all along the front
of the range, the earth sank into the tunnel, carrying with it half a
dozen panels of Last Bull's hated fence.
Almost in a moment the panic of the crowd subsided. Every one realized
just what had happened. Moreover, thanks to Bong's timely alarm, every
one had got out of the way in good season. All fear of earthquake being
removed, the crowd flocked back eagerly to stare down into the wrecked
tunnel, which formed now a sort of gaping, chaotic ditch, with sides at
some points precipitous and at others brokenly sloping. The throng was
noisy with excited interest and with relief at having escaped so
cleanly. The break had run just beneath one corner of the keepers'
cottage, tearing away a portion of the foundation and wrenching the
structure slightly aside without overthrowing it. Payne, who had been in
the midst of his Sunday toilet, came out upon his twisted porch, half
undressed and with a shaving-brush covered with lather in his hand. He
gave one look at the damage which had been wrought, then plunged indoors
again to throw his clothes on, at the same time sounding the hurry call
for the attendants in other quarters of the Park.
Last Bull, who had been standing on his knoll, with his back to the
throngs, had wheeled in astonishment at the heavy sound of the cave-in.
For a few minutes he had stared sullenly, not grasping the situation.
Then very slowly it dawned on him that his prison walls had fallen. Yes,
surely, there at last lay his way to freedom, his path to the great open
spaces for which he dumbly and vaguely hungered. With stately
deliberation he marched down from his knoll to investigate.
But presently another idea came into his slow mind. He saw the clamorous
crowds flocking back and ranging themselves along the edge of the chasm.
These were his enemies. They were coming to balk him. A terrible madness
surged through all his veins. He bellowed savage warning and came
thundering down the field, nose to earth, dark, mountainous,
irresistible.
The crowd yelled and shrank back. "He can't get across!" shouted some.
But others cried: "He can! He's coming! Save yourselves!" And with
shrieks they scattered wildly across the open, making for the kiosks,
the pavilions, the trees, anything that seemed to promise hiding or
shelter from that on-rushing doom.
At the edge of the chasm--at this point forming not an actual drop, but
a broken slide--Last Bull hardly paused. He plunged down, rolled over in
the débris, struggled to his feet again instantly, and went ploughing
and snorting up the opposite steep. As his colossal front, matted with
mud, loomed up over the brink, his little eyes rolling and flaming, and
the froth flying from his red nostrils, he formed a very nightmare of
horror to those fugitives who dared to look behind them.
Surmounting the brink, he paused. There were so many enemies, he knew
not which to pursue first. But straight ahead, in the very middle of the
open, and far from any shelter, he saw a huddled group of children and
nurses fleeing impotently and aimlessly. Shrill cries came from the
cluster, which danced with colors, scarlet and yellow and blue and vivid
pink. To the mad buffalo, these were the most conspicuous and the
loudest of his foes, and therefore the most dangerous. With a bellow he
flung his tail straight in the air, and charged after them.
An appalling hush fell, for a few heartbeats, all over the field. Then
from different quarters appeared uniformed attendants, racing and
shouting frantically to divert the bull's attention. From fleeing groups
black-coated men leapt forth, armed only with their walking-sticks, and
rushed desperately to defend the flock of children, who now, in the
extremity of their terror, were tumbling as they ran. Some of the nurses
were fleeing far in front, while others, the faithful ones, with eyes
starting from their heads, grabbed up their little charges and struggled
on under the burden.
Already Last Bull was halfway across the space which divided him from
his foes. The ground shook under his ponderous gallop. At this moment
Payne reappeared on the broken porch.
One glance showed him that no one was near enough to intervene. With a
face stern and sorrowful he lifted the deadly .405 Winchester which he
had brought out with him. The spot he covered was just behind Last
Bull's mighty shoulder.
The smokeless powder spoke with a small, venomous report, unlike the
black powder's noisy reverberation. Last Bull stumbled. But recovering
himself instantly, he rushed on. He was hurt, and he felt it was those
fleeing foes who had done it. A shade of perplexity darkened Payne's
face. He fired again. This time his aim was true. The heavy expanding
bullet tore straight through bone and muscle and heart, and Last Bull
lurched forward upon his head, ploughing up the turf for yards. As his
mad eyes softened and filmed, he saw once more, perhaps,--or so the
heavy-hearted keeper who had slain him would have us believe,--the
shadowy plains unrolling under the wild sky, and the hosts of his
vanished kindred drifting past into the dark.
SECTION X
ROMANCE CYCLES AND LEGEND
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Baldwin, James, _The Story of Roland_. _The Story of Siegfried._
Baring-Gould, Sabine, _Curious Myths of the Middle Ages_.
Becquer, G. A., _Romantic Legends of Spain_.
Canton, W. V., _Child's Book of Saints_.
Cervantes-Saavedra, Miguel de, _Don Quixote_. [In translation, or
as retold by Havell or Parry.]
Church, Alfred J., _Stories from the Iliad_. _Stories from the
Odyssey._ _Heroes of Chivalry and Romance._ _Stories of Charlemagne
and the Twelve Peers of France._
Colum, Padraic, _The Adventures of Odysseus and the Tale of Troy_.
Crommelin, Emeline G., _Famous Legends_.
Darton, F. J. H., _Wonder Book of Old Romance_.
Farrington, Margaret V., _Tales of King Arthur_.
Finnemore, John, _The Story of Robin Hood and His Merry Men_.
Guerber, H. A., _Legends of the Middle Ages_.
Guest, Lady Charlotte, _The Mabinogion_.
Herbertson, Agnes G., _Heroic Legends_.
Homer, _Iliad_. [Prose translation by Lang, Leaf, and Myers;
poetic by Bryant.]
Homer, _Odyssey_. [Prose translation by George H. Palmer; poetic
by Bryant.]
Hull, Eleanor, _The Boys' Cuchulain: Heroic Legends of Ireland_.
Lamb, Charles, _The Adventures of Ulysses_.
Lane, E. W., _Arabian Nights' Entertainments_.
Lang, Andrew, _A Book of Romance_.
Lanier, Sidney, _The Boy's King Arthur_. _The Boy's Mabinogion_.
MacLeod, Mary, _King Arthur and His Noble Knights_.
Marshall, H. E., _The Story of William Tell_. _The Story of
Roland._
Marvin, Frank S. (and others), _Adventures of Odysseus_.
Morris, William, _Sigurd, the Volsung_.
Newbolt, Henry, _Stories from Froissart_.
Pyle, Howard, _Stories of King Arthur and His Knights_. _Some
Merry Adventures of Robin Hood._
Plummer, Mary W., _Stories from the Chronicle of the Cid_.
Ragozin, Z. A., _Frithjof and Roland_. _Siegfried and Beowulf._
Rolleston, T. W., _High Deeds of Finn_.
Scudder, Horace E., _The Book of Legends_.
Tappan, Eva March, _Robin Hood: His Book_.
Tennyson, Alfred, _The Idylls of the King_.
Warren, Maude Radford, _King Arthur and His Knights_. _Robin Hood
and His Merry Men._
Wilson, C. D., _Story of the Cid for Young People_.
SECTION X. ROMANCE CYCLES AND LEGEND
INTRODUCTORY
_The material included._ The heading adopted for this section is used
somewhat loosely to include those many and varied collections of stories
which have with the passage of time been gradually brought together into
so-called cycles, unified around some central figure, or by means of
some kind of framework. It would thus bring into its scope the series of
stories which make up the Greek _Odyssey_, the Anglo-Saxon _Beowulf_,
the Finnish _Kalevala_, and other national epics. It would include the
stories centering around King Arthur, Siegfried, Roland, the Cid,
Alexander, Charlemagne, Robin Hood, and Reynard the Fox. Besides all
these cycles and others like them, there is a great body of separate
legends of persons and places, exemplified by "The Proud King," that
seem almost to constitute a work by themselves. The extended body of
eastern stories known as _The Arabian Nights_ are also placed here, as
is Cervantes' _Don Quixote_. The last inclusion may seem to violate even
the wide range of the heading, as _Don Quixote_ is distinctly one of the
world's great modern masterpieces, and is by a known author. But that
book is after all a cycle of adventures with a central figure not unlike
the romance cycles, and, since it is popularly supposed to have had its
origin in the purpose of humorously satirizing the romances of chivalry,
it may be allowed to stand in connection with them.
_The place for such stories._ The developing child soon passes out of
the period where the old fairy stories and their modern analogues
satisfy his needs. He comes into a period of hero-worship where he
demands not only courage and prowess of magnificent proportions, but
also a sinking of self in as equally magnificent and disinterested
service of great causes. To the child's mind there is nothing
fantastical about the chivalric ideas of courtesy, and friendship, and
all high personal ideals. It is the natural food of his mind. He will
allow nothing mean or unclean. It seems, roughly speaking, that the time
of greatest appeal for such stories is about the fourth, fifth, and
sixth grades. By the end of that period he is already well along toward
an interest in the real men and women of history, toward a more
realistic and practical conception of the problems of human life.
_The problems of choice and adaptation._ The wealth of material
available is so great as to be bewildering. As yet there is no common
agreement as to just which stories are best for our purpose, nor is
there any as to where particular stories should be used. The adapters
and story-tellers differ much in their views on these questions. Young
teachers, it is clear, cannot be expected to know this vast field in any
detail. The saving fact is that teachers can hardly make a mistake by
using any story that has awakened their own interest and enthusiasm, and
which, for that reason, they will be able to present in a simple and
striking form. Having in mind, then, the beginning teacher, we make the
following specific suggestions:
1. _Beowulf._ The inexperienced teacher will
find a splendid version, "The Story of
Beowulf," ready-made in Wyche's _Some Great
Stories and How to Tell Them_. To work from the
complete epic, use any of the translations by
Child, Tinker, Gummere, or Hall. "Perhaps it is
not too much to assert . . . that in its lofty
spirit, its vigor, and its sincerity, . . . it
reflects traits which are distinctive of
English-speaking people throughout the world."
2. _King Arthur._ The final source must be Sir
Thomas Malory's _Le Morte D'Arthur_,
represented in the following pages by Nos. 401,
402, and 403. Some passages from Malory should
be read to the class. For suggestions as to
method in handling the stories, see Wyche as
above, where there is a fine brief version. In
_King Arthur and His Knights_, by Mrs. Warren
(Maude Radford), may be found a good working
version of the whole cycle. ". . . In delicacy of
feeling, in reverence for women, in courtesy to
friend and foe, the Arthurian story
foreshadowed much that is gentlest and best in
modern civilization."
3. _Robin Hood._ Go at once to one of the
simple prose versions of the story.
Satisfactory ones are those by Miss Tappan, by
Mrs. Warren, or by Howard Pyle (the shorter
version). As time and opportunity offer read
the simple old ballads which are the source of
the story of "merry" Sherwood. "If ever verse
lashed abuse with a smile, it is this. The sun
shines brightly overhead; it is a good world to
be alive in, its wrongs are being righted, and
its very misfortunes are ultimately to bring
happier times."
4. A few stories about Roland, Siegfried, the
Cid, Charlemagne, and others may be used by
teachers who have had opportunity to get
acquainted with those great figures, or who
have access to some of the authorities listed
in the bibliography. This material is more
difficult to handle satisfactorily than that
already discussed, and may well be sparingly
used, if not omitted altogether. For a general
collection of legends, the ideal as to choice
and method of presentation is Scudder's _The
Book of Legends_ (No. 412). From _The Arabian
Nights_ use "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves"
(No. 398), "Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp,"
and "The Stories of Sindbad the Sailor." Almost
any of the accessible versions will be
satisfactory. For _Reynard the Fox_, the one
adaptation that presents the story in a fairly
good form for children is that made by Sir
Henry Cole, available as edited by Joseph
Jacobs (Nos. 399 and 400). Perhaps as much of
_Don Quixote_ is given in this text (Nos.
405-411) as teachers can use. A full
translation is a satisfactory source for this
story, although the shortened forms by Havell
or Parry are admirable.
SUGGESTIONS FOR READING
Most of the books on story-telling have
discussions of the best ways of dealing with
the romance material. Especially valuable in
this connection are Wyche, _Great Stories and
How to Tell Them_, and Lyman, _Story Telling_.
For scholarly and yet not too difficult books
giving a perspective of the entire field see W.
W. Lawrence, _Medieval Story and the Beginnings
of the Social Ideals of English-speaking
People_, or W. P. Ker, _Epic and Romance_.
Consult MacClintock, "Hero-Tales and Romances,"
_Literature in the Elementary School_, chap.
viii.
398
_The Arabian Nights' Entertainment_ or
_Thousand and One Nights_ is a collection of
about four hundred old oriental stories,
chiefly from Persia, India, and Arabia. They
were brought together probably in the
thirteenth century and told orally as stories
told to entertain King Shahriyar; but scholars
think the collection was not written until some
time between the years 1350 and 1550. Some of
the stories probably were told as early as the
ninth century. The stories are of various
kinds--fables, anecdotes, legends, hero
stories, wonder stories, and romances. "The
Story of Alnaschar" (No. 235 in this book) is
one of the fables. The collection became known
to European readers in 1704, when it was
translated from the Arabic by a French scholar
named Galland. Since that time the fables have
been translated extensively. The translation
into English by Lane is the most valuable one
for a teacher who wishes to have all of the
book that is fit for public use. Like many of
the world's great compilations of this sort, it
is made up of a mixture of good and bad. The
oriental play of imagination in these stories
and the background of old Eastern scenery and
customs have made them a source of
entertainment and instruction for all civilized
nations. The story that follows has always been
one of the favorites among oriental wonder
stories, and is given in a familiar traditional
version.
ALI BABA, AND THE FORTY THIEVES
In a town in Persia there lived two brothers, the sons of a poor man;
the one was named Cassim, and the other Ali Baba. Cassim, the elder,
married a wife with a considerable fortune, and lived at his ease in a
handsome house, with plenty of servants; but the wife of Ali Baba was as
poor as himself; they dwelt in a mean cottage in the suburbs of the
city, and he maintained his family by cutting wood in a neighboring
forest.
One day when Ali Baba was in the forest and preparing to load his three
asses with the wood he had cut, he saw a troop of horsemen coming
towards him. He had often heard of robbers who infested that forest,
and, in a great fright, he hastily climbed a large thick tree, which
stood near the foot of a rock, and hid himself among the branches.
The horsemen soon galloped up to the rock, where they all dismounted.
Ali Baba counted forty of them, and he could not doubt but they were
thieves, by their ill-looking countenances. They each took a loaded
portmanteau from his horse; and he who seemed to be their captain,
turning to the rock, said, "Open Sesame," and immediately a door opened
in the rock, and all the robbers passed in, when the door shut itself.
In a short time the door opened again, and the forty robbers came out,
followed by their captain, who said, "Shut Sesame." The door instantly
closed; and the troop, mounting their horses, were presently out of
sight.
Ali Baba remained in the tree a long time, and seeing that the robbers
did not return, he ventured down, and, approaching close to the rock,
said, "Open Sesame." Immediately the door flew open, and Ali Baba beheld
a spacious cavern, very light, and filled with all sorts of
possessions,--merchandise, rich stuffs, and heaps of gold and silver
coin, which these robbers had taken from merchants and travelers.
Ali Baba then went in search of his asses, and having brought them to
the rock, took as many bags of gold coin as they could carry, and put
them on their backs, covering them with some loose fagots of wood.
Afterwards (not forgetting to say "Shut Sesame") he drove the asses back
to the city; and having unloaded them in the stable belonging to his
cottage, carried the bags into the house and spread the gold coin out
upon the floor before his wife.
His wife, delighted with so much money, wanted to count it; but finding
it would take up too much time, she was resolved to measure it, and
running to the house of Ali Baba's brother, she entreated them to lend
her a small measure. Cassim's wife was very proud and envious. "I
wonder," she said to herself, "what sort of grain such poor people can
have to measure; but I am determined I will find out what they are
doing." So before she gave the measure, she artfully rubbed the bottom
with some suet.
Away ran Ali Baba's wife, measured her money, and helped her husband to
bury it in the yard. Then she carried back the measure to her
brother-in-law's house, without perceiving that a piece of gold was left
sticking to the bottom of it. "Fine doings, indeed!" cried Cassim's wife
to her husband, after examining the measure. "Your brother there, who
pretends to be so poor, is richer than you are, for he does not count
his money, but measures it."
Cassim, hearing these words and seeing the piece of gold, grew as
envious as his wife; and hastening to his brother, threatened to inform
the Cadi of his wealth if he did not confess to him how he came by it.
Ali Baba without hesitation told him the history of the robbers and the
secret of the cave, and offered him half his treasure; but the envious
Cassim disdained so poor a sum, resolving to have fifty times more than
that out of the robbers' cave. Accordingly he rose early the next
morning and set out with ten mules loaded with great chests. He found
the rock easily enough by Ali Baba's description; and having said "Open
Sesame," he gained admission into the cave, where he found more treasure
than he had expected to behold even from his brother's account of it.
He immediately began to gather bags of gold and pieces of rich brocade,
all which he piled close to the door; but when he had got together as
much as his ten mules could possibly carry, or even more, and wanted to
get out to load them, the thoughts of his wonderful riches had made him
entirely forget the word which caused the door to open. In vain he tried
"Bame," "Fame," "Lame," "Tetame," and a thousand others. The door
remained as immovable as the rock itself, notwithstanding Cassim kicked
and screamed till he was ready to drop with fatigue and vexation.
Presently he heard the sound of horses' feet, which he rightly concluded
to be the robbers, and he trembled lest he should now fall a victim to
his thirst for riches. He resolved, however, to make an effort to
escape; and when he heard the "Sesame" pronounced, and saw the door
open, he sprang out, but was instantly put to death by the swords of the
robbers.
The thieves now held a council, but not one of them could possibly guess
by what means Cassim had got into the cave. They saw the heaps of
treasure he had piled ready to take away, but they did not miss what Ali
Baba had secured before. At length they agreed to cut Cassim's body into
four quarters and hang the pieces within the cave, that it might
terrify any one from further attempts; and also determined not to return
themselves for some time to the cave for fear of being watched and
discovered.
When Cassim's wife saw night come on, and her husband not returned, she
became greatly terrified; she watched at her window till daybreak and
then went to tell Ali Baba of her fears. Cassim had not informed him of
his design of going to the cave; but Ali Baba, now hearing of his
journey thither, went immediately in search of him. He drove his asses
to the forest without delay. He was alarmed to see blood near the rock;
and on entering the cave, he found the body of his unfortunate brother
cut to pieces and hung up within the door. It was now too late to save
him; but he took down the quarters and put them upon one of his asses,
covering them with fagots of wood; and, weeping for the miserable end of
his brother, he regained the city. The door of his brother's house was
opened by Morgiana, an intelligent, faithful female slave, who, Ali Baba
knew, was worthy to be trusted with the secret.
He therefore delivered the body to Morgiana, and went himself to impart
the sad tidings to the wife of Cassim. The poor woman was deeply
afflicted, and reproached herself with her foolish envy and curiosity,
as being the cause of her husband's death; but Ali Baba having convinced
her of the necessity of being very discreet, she checked her
lamentations and resolved to leave everything to the management of
Morgiana.
Morgiana, having washed the body, hastened to an apothecary's and asked
for some particular medicine, saying that it was for her master Cassim,
who was dangerously ill. She took care to spread the report of Cassim's
illness throughout the neighborhood; and as they saw Ali Baba and his
wife going daily to the house of their brother, in great affliction,
they were not surprised to hear shortly that Cassim had died of his
disorder.
The next difficulty was to bury him without discovery; but Morgiana was
ready to contrive a plan for that also. She put on her veil and went to
a distant part of the city very early in the morning, where she found a
poor cobbler just opening his stall. She put a piece of gold into his
hand, and told him he should have another, if he would suffer himself to
be blindfolded and go with her, carrying his tools with him. Mustapha,
the cobbler, hesitated at first, but the gold tempted him and he
consented; when Morgiana, carefully covering his eyes, so that he could
not see a step of the way, led him to Cassim's house; and taking him
into the room where the body was lying, removed the bandage from his
eyes, and bade him sew the mangled limbs together. Mustapha obeyed her
order; and having received two pieces of gold, was led blindfold the
same way back to his own stall.
Morgiana then covered the body with a winding-sheet and sent for the
undertaker to make preparations for the funeral. Cassim was buried with
all due solemnity the same day. Ali Baba now removed his few goods, and
all the gold coin that he had brought home from the cavern, to the house
of his deceased brother, of which he took possession; and Cassim's widow
received every kind attention from both Ali Baba and his wife.
After an interval of some months, the troop of robbers again visited
their retreat in the forest, and were completely astonished to find the
body taken away from the cave, and everything else remaining in its
usual order. "We are discovered," said the captain, "and shall certainly
be undone, if you do not adopt speedy measures to prevent our ruin.
Which of you, my brave comrades, will undertake to search out the
villain who is in possession of our secret?"
One of the boldest of the troop advanced, and offered himself; and was
accepted on the following conditions: namely, that if he succeeded in
his enterprise, he was to be made second in command of the troop; but
that if he brought false intelligence, he was immediately to be put to
death. The bold robber readily agreed to the conditions; and having
disguised himself, he proceeded to the city.
He arrived there about daybreak, and found the cobbler Mustapha in his
stall, which was always open before any other shop in the town. "Good
morrow, friend," said the robber, as he passed the stall, "you rise
betimes; I should think old as you are, you could scarcely see to work
by this light."
"Indeed, sir," replied the cobbler, "old as I am, I do not want for good
eyesight; as you must needs believe, when I tell you I sewed a dead body
together the other day, where I had not so good a light as I have now."
"A dead body!" exclaimed the robber; "you mean, I suppose, that you
sewed up the winding-sheet for a dead body."
"I mean no such thing," replied Mustapha; "I tell you that I sewed the
four quarters of a man together."
This was enough to convince the robber he had luckily met with the very
man who could give him the information he was in search of. However he
did not wish to appear eager to learn the particulars, lest he should
alarm the cobbler. "Ha! ha!" said he, "I find, good Mr. Cobbler, that
you perceive I am a stranger here, and you wish to make me believe that
the people of your city do impossible things."
"I tell you," said Mustapha in a loud and angry tone, "I sewed a dead
body together with my own hands."--"Then I suppose you can tell me also
where you performed this wonderful business." Upon this, Mustapha
related every particular of his being led blindfold to the house, etc.
"Well, my friend," said the robber, "it is a fine story, I confess, but
not very easy to believe; however, if you will convince me by showing me
the house you talk of, I will give you four pieces of gold to make
amends for my unbelief."
"I think," said the cobbler, after considering awhile, "that if you were
to blindfold me, I should remember every turning we made; but with my
eyes open I am sure I should never find it." Accordingly the robber
covered Mustapha's eyes with his handkerchief; and the cobbler led him
through most of the principal streets, and stopping by Cassim's door,
said, "Here it is; I went no further than this house."
The robber immediately marked the door with a piece of chalk; and,
giving Mustapha his four pieces of gold, dismissed him. Shortly after
the thief and Mustapha had quitted the door, Morgiana, coming home from
market, perceived the little mark of white chalk on the door. Suspecting
something was wrong, she directly marked four doors on one side and five
on the other of her master's, in exactly the same manner, without saying
a word to any one.
The robber meantime rejoined his troop and boasted greatly of his
success. His captain and comrades praised his diligence; and being well
armed, they proceeded to the town in different disguises, and in
separate parties of three and four together.
It was agreed among them that they were to meet in the market-place at
the dusk of evening, and that the captain and the robber who had
discovered the house were to go there first, to find out to whom it
belonged. When they arrived in the street, having a lantern with them,
they began to examine the doors, and found to their confusion and
astonishment that ten doors were marked exactly alike. The robber, who
was the captain's guide, could not say a word in explanation of this
mystery; and when the disappointed troop got back to the forest, his
enraged companions ordered him to be put to death.
Another now offered himself upon the same conditions as the former; and
having bribed Mustapha, and discovered the house, he made a mark with
the dark red chalk upon the door, in a part that was not in the least
conspicuous; and carefully examined the surrounding doors, to be certain
that no such marks were upon them. But nothing could escape the prying
eyes of Morgiana; scarcely had the robber departed, when she discovered
the red mark; and getting some red chalk, she marked seven doors on each
side, precisely in the same place and in the same manner. The robber,
valuing himself highly upon the precautions he had taken, triumphantly
conducted his captain to the spot; but great indeed was his confusion
and dismay when he found it impossible to say which, among fifteen
houses marked exactly alike, was the right one. The captain, furious
with his disappointment, returned again with the troop to the forest;
and the second robber was also condemned to death.
The captain having lost two of his troop, judged that their hands were
more active than their heads in such services; and he resolved to employ
no other of them, but to go himself upon the business. Accordingly he
repaired to the city and addressed himself to the cobbler Mustapha, who,
for six pieces of gold, readily performed the services for him he had
done for the other two strangers. The captain, much wiser than his men,
did not amuse himself with setting a mark upon the door, but attentively
considered the house, counted the number of windows, and passed by it
very often, to be certain that he should know it again.
He then returned to the forest, and ordered his troop to go into the
town, and buy nineteen mules and thirty-eight large jars, one full of
oil and the rest empty. In two or three days the jars were bought, and
all things in readiness; and the captain having put a man into each jar,
properly armed, the jars being rubbed on the outside with oil, and the
covers having holes bored in them for the men to breathe through, loaded
his mules, and in the habit of an oil-merchant entered the town in the
dusk of the evening. He proceeded to the street where Ali Baba dwelt,
and found him sitting in the porch of his house. "Sir," said he to Ali
Baba, "I have brought this oil a great way to sell, and am too late for
this day's market. As I am quite a stranger in this town, will you do me
the favor to let me put my mules into your court-yard, and direct me
where I may lodge to-night?"
Ali Baba, who was a very good-natured man, welcomed the pretended
oil-merchant very kindly, and offered him a bed in his own house; and
having ordered the mules to be unloaded in the yard, and properly fed,
he invited his guest in to supper. The captain, having seen the jars
placed ready in the yard, followed Ali Baba into the house, and after
supper was shown to the chamber where he was to sleep.
It happened that Morgiana was obliged to sit up later that night than
usual, to get ready her master's bathing linen for the following
morning; and while she was busy about the fire, her lamp went out, and
there was no more oil in the house. After considering what she could
possibly do for a light, she recollected the thirty-eight oil jars in
the yard and determined to take a little oil out of one of them for her
lamp. She took her oil pot in her hand and approached the first jar; the
robber within said, "Is it time, captain?"
Any other slave, on hearing a man in an oil jar, would have screamed
out; but the prudent Morgiana instantly recollected herself, and replied
softly, "No, not yet; lie still till I call you." She passed on to every
jar, receiving the same question and making the same answer, till she
came to the last, which was really filled with oil.
Morgiana was now convinced that this was a plot of the robbers to murder
her master, Ali Baba; so she ran back to the kitchen and brought out a
large kettle, which she filled with oil, and set it on a great wood
fire; and as soon as it boiled she went and poured into the jars
sufficient of the boiling oil to kill every man within them. Having done
this she put out her fire and her lamp, and crept softly to her chamber.
The captain of the robbers, finding everything quiet in the house, and
perceiving no light anywhere, arose and went down into the yard to
assemble his men. Coming to the first jar, he felt the steam of the
boiled oil; he ran hastily to the rest and found every one of his troop
put to death in the same manner. Full of rage and despair at having
failed in his design, he forced the lock of a door that led into the
garden and made his escape over the walls.
On the following morning Morgiana related to her master, Ali Baba, his
wonderful deliverance from the pretended oil-merchant and his gang of
robbers. Ali Baba at first could scarcely credit her tale; but when he
saw the robbers dead in the jars, he could not sufficiently praise her
courage and sagacity; and without letting any one else into the secret,
he and Morgiana the next night buried the thirty-seven thieves in a deep
trench at the bottom of the garden. The jars and mules, as he had no use
for them, were sent from time to time to the different markets and sold.
While Ali Baba took these measures to prevent his and Cassim's
adventures in the forest from being known, the captain returned to his
cave, and for some time abandoned himself to grief and despair. At
length, however, he determined to adopt a new scheme for the destruction
of Ali Baba. He removed by degrees all the valuable merchandise from the
cave to the city and took a shop exactly opposite to Ali Baba's house.
He furnished this shop with everything that was rare and costly, and
went by the name of the merchant Cogia Hassan. Many persons made
acquaintance with the stranger; among others, Ali Baba's son went every
day to the shop. The pretended Cogia Hassan soon appeared to be very
fond of Ali Baba's son, offered him many presents, and often detained
him at dinner, on which occasions he treated him in the handsomest
manner.
Ali Baba's son thought it was necessary to make some return to these
civilities, and pressed his father to invite Cogia Hassan to supper. Ali
Baba made no objection, and the invitation was accordingly given. The
artful Cogia Hassan would not too hastily accept this invitation, but
pretended he was not fond of going into company, and that he had
business which demanded his presence at home. These excuses only made
Ali Baba's son the more eager to take him to his father's house; and
after repeated solicitations, the merchant consented to sup at Ali
Baba's house the next evening.
A most excellent supper was provided, which Morgiana cooked in the best
manner, and as was her usual custom, she carried in the first dish
herself. The moment she looked at Cogia Hassan, she knew it was the
pretended oil-merchant. The prudent Morgiana did not say a word to any
one of this discovery, but sent the other slaves into the kitchen and
waited at table herself; and while Cogia Hassan was drinking, she
perceived he had a dagger hid under his coat.
When supper was ended, and the dessert and wine on the table, Morgiana
went away and dressed herself in the habit of a dancing-girl; she next
called Abdalla, a fellow slave, to play on his tabor while she danced.
As soon as she appeared at the parlor door, her master, who was very
fond of seeing her dance, ordered her to come in to entertain his guest
with some of her best dancing. Cogia Hassan was not very well satisfied
with this entertainment, yet was compelled, for fear of discovering
himself, to seem pleased with the dancing, while, in fact, he wished
Morgiana a great way off, and was quite alarmed lest he should lose his
opportunity of murdering Ali Baba and his son.
Morgiana danced several dances with the utmost grace and agility; and
then drawing a poniard from her girdle, she performed many surprising
things with it, sometimes presenting the point to one and sometimes to
another, and then seemed to strike it into her own bosom. Suddenly she
paused, and holding the poniard in the right hand, presented her left to
her master as if begging some money; upon which Ali Baba and his son
each gave her a small piece of money. She then turned to the pretended
Cogia Hassan, and while he was putting his hand into his purse, she
plunged the poniard into his heart.
"Wretch!" cried Ali Baba, "thou hast ruined me and my family."
"No, sir," replied Morgiana, "I have preserved, and not ruined you and
your son. Look well at this traitor, and you will find him to be the
pretended oil-merchant who came once before to rob and murder you."
Ali Baba pulled off the turban and the cloak which the false Cogia
Hassan wore and discovered that he was not only the pretended
oil-merchant, but the captain of the forty robbers who had slain his
brother Cassim; nor could he doubt that his perfidious aim had been to
destroy him, and probably his son, with the concealed dagger. Ali Baba,
who felt the new obligation he owed to Morgiana for thus saving his life
a second time, embraced her and said, "My dear Morgiana, I give you
your liberty; but my gratitude must not stop there: I will also marry
you to my son, who can esteem and admire you no less than does his
father." Then turning to his son, he added, "You, my son, will not
refuse the wife I offer; for, in marrying Morgiana, you take to wife the
preserver and benefactor of yourself and family." The son, far from
showing any dislike, readily and joyfully accepted his proposed bride,
having long entertained an affection for the good slave Morgiana.
Having rejoiced in their deliverance, they buried the captain that night
with great privacy, in the trench along with his troop of robbers; and a
few days afterwards, Ali Baba celebrated the marriage of his son and
Morgiana with a sumptuous entertainment. Every one who knew Morgiana
said she was worthy of her good fortune, and highly commended her
master's generosity toward her.
During a twelvemonth Ali Baba forbore to go near the forest, but at
length his curiosity incited him to make another journey.
When he came to the cave he saw no footsteps of either men or horses;
and having said, "Open Sesame," he went in, and judged by the state of
things deposited in the cavern that no one had been there since the
pretended Cogia Hassan had removed the merchandise to his shop in the
city. Ali Baba took as much gold home as his horse could carry.
Afterwards he carried his son to the cave and taught him the secret.
This secret they handed down to their posterity; and using their good
fortune with moderation, they lived in honor and splendor, and served
with dignity some of the chief offices in the city.
A quaint and interesting cycle of animal
stories was formed in the Middle Ages with the
fox, called Reynard, as the hero or central
character. Their origin was not different from
that of the cycles that grew up concerning such
popular heroes as King Arthur, Robin Hood,
Charlemagne, and Siegfried; but one difference
at least may be observed--Reynard is always
represented as evil, though clever and
successful. These stories of Reynard have
furnished material for many workers in the
field of literature and they have generally
served as a vehicle for satire. Indeed, there
was much satire in the original versions of the
folk. Perhaps the greatest of these modern
recensions is that of the German poet Goethe.
The best version for use with children is that
made by Sir Henry Cole ("Felix Summerley") and
edited more recently by Joseph Jacobs in his
usual masterly fashion. The introduction to
this edition gives just the facts that the
reader needs for understanding the significance
of the Reynard cycle.
399
It may be noted that King Lion, after hearing
many complaints about Reynard's evil ways,
decides to bring him to court for trial. The
first special constable sent to summon Reynard
was Bruin the Bear, and now we are to learn--
HOW BRUIN THE BEAR SPED WITH REYNARD THE FOX
The next morning away went _Bruin_ the bear in quest of the fox, armed
against all plots of deceit whatsoever. And as he came through a dark
forest, in which _Reynard_ had a bypath, which he used when he was
hunted, he saw a high mountain, over which he must pass to go to
_Malepardus_. For though _Reynard_ has many houses, yet _Malepardus_ is
his chiefest and most ancient castle, and in it he lay both for defense
and ease. Now at last when _Bruin_ was come to _Malepardus_, he found
the gates close shut, at which after he had knocked, sitting on his
tail, he called aloud, "Sir _Reynard_, are you at home? I am _Bruin_
your kinsman, whom the King hath sent to summon you to the court, to
answer many foul accusations exhibited against you, and hath taken a
great vow, that if you fail to appear to this summons, your life shall
answer your contempt, and your goods and honors shall lie confiscate at
his highness's mercy. Therefore, fair kinsman, be advised of your
friend, and go with me to the court to shun the danger that else will
fall upon you."
_Reynard_, lying close by the gate, as his custom was for the warm sun's
sake, hearing those words, departed into one of his holes, for
_Malepardus_ is full of many intricate and curious rooms, which
labyrinth-wise he could pass through, when either his danger or the
benefit of any prey required the same. There he meditated awhile with
himself how he might counterplot and bring the bear to disgrace (who he
knew loved him not) and himself to honor; at last he came forth, and
said, "Dear uncle _Bruin_, you are exceeding welcome. Pardon my slowness
in coming, for at your first speech I was saying my even song, and
devotion must not be neglected. Believe me, he hath done you no good
service, nor do I thank him which hath sent you this weary and long
journey, in which your much sweat and toil far exceeds the worth of the
labor. Certainly had you not come, I had to-morrow been at the court of
my own accord, yet at this time my sorrow is much lessened, inasmuch as
your counsel at this present may return me double benefit. Alas, cousin,
could his Majesty find no meaner a messenger than your noble self to
employ in these trivial affairs? Truly it appears strange to me,
especially since, next his royal self, you are of greatest renown both
in blood and riches. For my part, I would we were both at court, for I
fear our journey will be exceeding troublesome. To speak truth, since I
made mine abstinence from flesh, I have eaten such strange new meats,
that my body is very much distempered, and swelleth as if it would
break."
"Alas, dear cousin," said the bear, "what meat is that which maketh you
so ill?"
"Uncle," answered he, "what will it profit you to know? The meat was
simple and mean. We poor men are no lords, you know, but eat that for
necessity which others eat for wantonness; yet not to delay you, that
which I ate was honeycombs, great, full, and most pleasant, which,
compelled by hunger, I ate too unmeasurably and am thereby infinitely
distempered."
"Ha," quoth _Bruin_, "honeycombs? Do you make such slight respect of
them, nephew? Why it is meat for the greatest emperor in the world. Fair
nephew, help me but to some of that honey, and command me whilst I live;
for one little part thereof I will be your servant everlastingly."
"Sure," said the fox, "uncle, you but jest with me."
"But jest with you?" replied _Bruin_, "beshrew my heart then, for I am
in that serious earnest, that for one lick thereat you shall make me the
faithfullest of all your kindred."
"Nay," said the fox, "if you be in earnest, then know I will bring you
where so much is, that ten of you shall not be able to devour it at a
meal, only for your love's sake, which above all things I desire,
uncle."
"Not ten of us?" said the bear, "it is impossible; for had I all the
honey betwixt _Hybla_ and _Portugal_, yet I could in a short space eat
it all myself."
"Then know, uncle," quoth the fox, "that near at hand here dwelleth a
husbandman named _Lanfert_, who is master of so much honey that you
cannot consume it in seven years, which for your love and friendship's
sake I will put into your safe possession."
_Bruin_, mad upon the honey, swore, that to have one good meal thereof
he would not only be his faithful friend, but also stop the mouths of
all his adversaries.
_Reynard_, smiling at his easy belief, said, "If you will have seven
ton, uncle, you shall have it."
These words pleased the bear so well, and made him so pleasant, that he
could not stand for laughing.
Well, thought the fox, this is good fortune. Sure I will lead him where
he shall laugh more measurably; and then said, "Uncle, we must delay no
time, and I will spare no pains for your sake, which for none of my kin
I would perform."
The bear gave him many thanks, and so away they went, the fox promising
him as much honey as he could bear, but meant as many strokes as he
could undergo. In the end they came to _Lanfert's_ house, the sight
whereof made the bear rejoice. This _Lanfert_ was a stout and lusty
carpenter, who the other day had brought into his yard a great oak,
which, as their manner is, he began to cleave, and had struck into it
two wedges in such wise that the cleft stood a great way open, at which
the fox rejoiced much, for it was answerable to his wish. So with a
laughing countenance he said to the bear, "Behold now, dear uncle, and
be careful of yourself, for within this tree is so much honey that it is
unmeasurable. Try if you can get into it; yet, good uncle, eat
moderately, for albeit the combs are sweet and good, yet a surfeit is
dangerous, and may be troublesome to your body, which I would not for a
world, since no harm can come to you but must be my dishonor."
"Sorrow not for me, nephew _Reynard_," said the bear, "nor think me such
a fool that I cannot temper mine appetite."
"It is true, my best uncle, I was too bold. I pray you enter in at the
end, and you shall find your desire."
The bear with all haste entered the tree, with his two feet forward, and
thrust his head into the cleft, quite over the ears, which when the fox
perceived, he instantly ran and pulled the wedges out of the tree, so
that he locked the bear fast therein, and then neither flattery nor
anger availed the bear. For the nephew had by his deceit brought the
uncle into so false a prison that it was impossible by any art to free
himself of the same. Alas, what profited now his great strength and
valor? Why, they were both causes of more vexation; and finding himself
destitute of all relief, he began to howl and bray, and with scratching
and tumbling to make such a noise that _Lanfert_, amazed, came hastily
out of his house, having in his hand a sharp hook, whilst the bear lay
wallowing and roaring within the tree.
The fox from afar off said to the bear in scorn and mocking, "Is the
honey good, uncle, which you eat? How do you? Eat not too much, I
beseech you. Pleasant things are apt to surfeit, and you may hinder your
journey to the court. When _Lanfert_ cometh (if your belly be full) he
will give you drink to digest it, and wash it down your throat."
And having thus said, he went towards his castle. But by this time,
_Lanfert_, finding the bear fast taken in the tree, he ran to his
neighbors and desired them to come into his yard, for there was a bear
fast taken there. This was noised through all the town, so that there
was neither man, nor woman, nor child but ran thither, some with one
weapon, and some with another--as goads, rakes, broom-staves, or what
they could gather up. The priest had the handle of the cross, the clerk
the holy water sprinkler, and the priest's wife, Dame _Jullock_, with
her distaff, for she was then spinning; nay, the old beldames came that
had ne'er a tooth in their heads. This army put _Bruin_ into a great
fear, being none but himself to withstand them, and hearing the clamor
of the noise which came thundering upon him, he wrestled and pulled so
extremely that he got out his head, but he left behind him all the skin,
and his ears also; insomuch that never creature beheld a fouler or more
deformed beast. For the blood covering all his face, and his hands
leaving the claws and skin behind them, nothing remained but ugliness.
It was an ill market the bear came to, for he lost both motion and
sight--that is, feet and eyes. But notwithstanding this torment,
_Lanfert_, the priest, and the whole parish came upon him, and so
becudgeled him about his body part, that it might well be a warning to
all his misery, to know that ever the weakest shall still go most to the
wall. This the bear found by experience, for every one exercised the
height of their fury upon him. Even _Houghlin_ with the crooked leg, and
_Ludolf_ with the long broad nose, the one with a leaden mall, and the
other with an iron whip, all belashed poor sir _Bruin_; not so much but
sir _Bertolf_ with the long fingers, _Lanfert_ and _Ortam_ did him more
annoyance than all the rest, the one having a sharp Welsh hook, the
other a crooked staff well leaded at the end, which he used to play at
stab ball withal. There was _Birkin_ and _Armes Ablequack_, _Bane_ the
priest with his staff, and Dame _Jullock_ his wife; all these so
belabored the bear, that his life was in great danger. The poor bear in
this massacre sat and sighed extremely, groaning under the burden of
their strokes, of which _Lanfert's_ were the greatest and thundered most
dreadfully; for Dame _Podge_ of _Casport_ was his mother, and his father
was _Marob_ the steeple-maker, a passing stout man when he was alone.
_Bruin_ received of him many showers of stones till _Lanfert's_ brother,
rushing before the rest with a staff, struck the bear in the head such a
blow that he could neither hear nor see, so that awaking from his
astonishment the bear leaped into the river adjoining, through a cluster
of wives there standing together, of which he threw divers into the
water, which was large and deep, amongst whom the parson's wife was one;
which the parson seeing how she floated like a sea-mew, he left striking
the bear, and cried to the rest of the company, "Help! oh, help! Dame
_Jullock_ is in the water; help, both men and women, for whosoever saves
her, I give free pardon of all their sins and transgressions, and remit
all penance imposed whatsoever." This heard, every one left the bear to
help Dame _Jullock_, which as soon as the bear saw, he cut the stream
and swam away as fast as he could, but the priest with a great noise
pursued him, crying in his rage, "Turn, villain, that I may be revenged
of thee"; but the bear swam in the strength of the stream and suspected
not his calling, for he was proud that he was so escaped from them. Only
he bitterly cursed the honey tree and the fox, which had not only
betrayed him, but had made him lose his hood from his face, and his
gloves from his fingers. In this sort he swam some three miles down the
water, in which time he grew so weary that he went on land to get ease,
where blood trickled down his face; he groaned, sighed, and drew his
breath so short, as if his last hour had been expiring.
Now whilst these things were in doing, the fox in his way home stole a
fat hen, and threw her into his mail, and running through a bypath that
no man might perceive him, he came towards the river with infinite joy;
for he suspected that the bear was certainly slain: therefore he said to
himself, "My fortune is as I wished it, for the greatest enemy I had in
the court is now dead, nor can any man suspect me guilty thereof." But
as he spake these words, looking towards the river, he espied where
_Bruin_ the bear lay and rested, which struck his heart with grief, and
he railed against _Lanfert_ the carpenter, saying, "Silly fool that thou
art, what madman would have lost such good venison, especially being so
fat and wholesome, and for which he took no pains, for he was taken to
his hand; any man would have been proud of the fortune which thou
neglectest." Thus fretting and chiding, he came to the river, where he
found the bear all wounded and bloody, of which _Reynard_ was only
guilty; yet in scorn he said to the bear, "_Monsieur, Dieu vous garde_."
"O thou foul red villain," said the bear to himself, "what impudence is
like to this?"
But the fox went on with his speech, and said, "What, uncle? Have you
forgot anything at _Lanfert's_, or have you paid him for the honeycombs
you stole? If you have not, it will redound much to your disgrace, which
before you shall undergo, I will pay him for them myself. Sure the honey
was excellent good, and I know much more of the same price. Good uncle,
tell me before I go, into what order do you mean to enter, that you wear
this new-fashioned hood? Will you be a monk, an abbot, or a friar?
Surely he that shaved your crown hath cropped your ears; also your
foretop is lost, and your gloves are gone; fie, sloven, go not
bare-handed; they say you can sing _peccavi_ rarely."
These taunts made _Bruin_ mad with rage, but because he could not take
revenge, he was content to let him talk his pleasure. Then after a small
rest he plunged again into the river, and swam down the stream, and
landed on the other side, where he began with much grief to meditate how
he might get to the court, for he had lost his ears, his talons, and all
the skin off his feet, so that had a thousand deaths followed him, he
could not go. Yet of necessity he must move, that in the end compelled
by extremity, he set his tail on the ground, and tumbled his body over
and over; so by degrees, tumbling now half a mile, and then half a mile,
in the end he tumbled to the court, where divers beholding his strange
manner of approach, they thought some prodigy had come towards them;
but in the end the King knew him, and grew angry, saying, "It is sir
_Bruin_, my servant; what villains have wounded him thus, or where hath
he been that he brings his death thus along with him?"
"O my dread Sovereign Lord the King," cried out the bear, "I complain me
grievously unto you; behold how I am massacred, which I humbly beseech
you revenge on that false _Reynard_, who, for doing your royal pleasure,
hath brought me to this disgrace and slaughter."
Then said the King, "How durst he do this? Now by my crown I swear I
will take the revenge which shall make the traitors tremble!"
Whereupon the King sent for all his council, and consulted how and in
what sort to persecute against the fox, where it was generally concluded
that he should be again summoned to appear and answer his trespasses;
and the party to summon him they appointed to be _Tibert_ the cat, as
well for his gravity as wisdom; all which pleased the King well.
400
After many ups and downs in fortune Reynard is
finally on good terms with the king when
Isegrim the Wolf appears with another
accusation. Reynard's denial of the charges led
the Wolf to challenge him to mortal combat, a
well known medieval way of settling the truth
of conflicting evidence. The result appears in
the following:
THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE FOX AND THE WOLF
The fox answered not a word, but bowing himself down humbly to the
earth, both before the King and the Queen's Majesties, went forth into
the field; and at the same time the wolf was also ready, and stood
boasting, and giving out many proud and vainglorious speeches. The
marshals and rulers of the lists were the leopard and the loss. These
brought forth a book, on which the wolf swore and maintained his
assertion that the fox was a traitor and a murderer, which he would
prove on his body, or else be counted a recreant. Then _Reynard_ took
the book, and swore he lied as a false traitor and a thief, which he
would prove on his body, or be accounted a recreant.
When these ceremonies were done, the marshals of the field bade them do
their devoir. And then every creature avoided the lists, save Dame
_Rukenaw_, who stood by the fox, and bade him remember the words and
instructions she had given him, and call to mind how, when he was scarce
seven years old, he had then wisdom enough to pass the darkest night
without lantern or candle-light, or the help of the moon, when any
occasion required him; and that his experience was much greater, and his
reputation of wisdom more frequent with his companions; and therefore to
work so as he might win the day, which would be an eternal monument to
him and his family for ever.
To this the fox answered, "My best aunt, assure yourself I will do my
best, and not forget a tittle of your counsel. I doubt not but my
friends shall reap honor and my foes shame by my actions." To this the
ape said amen, and so departed.
When none but the combatants were in the lists, the wolf went toward the
fox with infinite rage and fury, and thinking to take the fox in his
forefeet, the fox leaped nimbly from him and the wolf pursued him, so
that there began a tedious chase between them, on which their friends
gazed. The wolf taking larger strides than the fox often overtook him,
and lifting up his feet to strike him, the fox avoided the blow and
smote him on the face with his tail, so that the wolf was stricken
almost blind, and he was forced to rest while he cleared his eyes; which
advantage when _Reynard_ saw, he scratched up the dust with his feet,
and threw it in the eyes of the wolf.
This grieved him worse than the former, so that he durst follow him no
longer, for the dust and sand sticking in his eyes smarted so sore, that
of force he must rub and wash it away, which _Reynard_ seeing, with all
the fury he had he ran upon him, and with his teeth gave him three sore
wounds on his head, and scoffing said, "Have I hit you, Mr. Wolf? I will
yet hit you better; you have killed many a lamb and many an innocent
beast, and would impose the fault upon me, but you shall find the price
of your knavery. I am marked to punish thy sins, and I will give thee
thy absolution bravely. It is good for thee that thou use patience, for
thy evil life is at my mercy. Yet, notwithstanding, if thou wilt kneel
down and ask my forgiveness, and confess thyself vanquished, though thou
be the worst thing living, yet I will spare thy life, for my pity makes
me loath to kill thee."
These words made _Isegrim_ both mad and desperate, so that he knew not
how to express his fury; his wounds bled, his eyes smarted, and his
whole body was oppressed. So that in the height of his fury he lifted up
his foot and struck the fox so great a blow that he felled him to the
ground. But _Reynard_, being nimble, quickly rose up again and
encountered the wolf, that between them began a dreadful and doubtful
combat.
The wolf was exceeding furious, and ten times he leaped to catch
_Reynard_ fast, but his skin was so slippery and oily he could not hold
him. Nay, so wondrous nimble was he in the fight, that when the wolf
thought to have him surest, he would shift himself between his legs and
under his belly, and every time gave the wolf a bite with his teeth, or
a slap on the face with his tail, that the poor wolf found nothing but
despair in the conflict, albeit his strength was much the greater.
Thus many wounds and bitings passing on either side, the one expressing
cunning, and the other strength; the one fury, the other temperance. In
the end the wolf being enraged that the battle had continued so long,
for had his feet been sound it had been much shorter, he said to
himself, "I will make an end of this combat, for I know my very weight
is able to crush him to pieces; and I lose much of my reputation, to
suffer him thus long to contend against me."
And this said, he struck the fox again so sore a blow on the head with
his foot, that he fell down to the ground, and ere he could recover
himself and arise, he caught him in his feet and threw him under him,
lying upon him in such wise, as if he would have pressed him to death.
Now began the fox to be grievously afraid, and all his friends also, and
all _Isegrim's_ friends began to shout for joy; but the fox defended
himself as well as he could with his claws, lying along, and the wolf
could not hurt him with his claws, his feet were so sore; only with his
teeth he snatched at him to bite him, which, when the fox saw, he smote
the wolf on the head with his fore-claws, so that he tore the skin
between his brows and his ears, and one of his eyes hung out of his
head, which put the wolf to infinite torment, and he howled out
extremely. Then _Isegrim_ wiping his face, the fox took advantage
thereof, and with his struggling got upon his feet.
At which the wolf was angry, and striking after him, caught the fox in
his arms, and held him fast; never was _Reynard_ in so great a strait as
then, for at that time great was their contention; but anger now made
the wolf forget his smart, and gripping the fox altogether under him, as
_Reynard_ was defending himself his hand lighted into _Isegrim's_ mouth,
so that he was in danger of losing it. Then said the wolf to the fox,
"Now either yield thyself as vanquished, or else certainly I will kill
thee; neither thy dust, thy mocks, nor any subtle invention shall now
save thee; thou art now left utterly desperate, and my wounds must have
their satisfaction."
When the fox heard this he thought it was a hard election, for both
brought his ruin; and suddenly concluding, he said, "Dear uncle, since
fortune commands me, I yield to be your servant, and at your
commandments will travel for you to the Holy Land, or any other
pilgrimage, or do any service which shall be beneficial to your soul or
the souls of your forefathers. I will do for the King or for our holy
father the Pope, I will hold of you my lands and revenues, and as I, so
shall all the rest of my kindred; so that you shall be a lord of many
lords, and none shall dare to move against you.
"Besides, whatsoever I get of pullets, geese, partridges, or clover,
flesh or fish, you, your wife, and children shall have the first choice,
ere any are eaten by me. I will ever stand by your side, and wheresoever
you go, no danger shall come near you; you are strong, and I am subtle;
we two joined together, what force can prevail against us? Again, we are
so near in blood that nature forbids there should be any enmity between
us; I would not have fought against you had I been sure of victory, but
that you first appealed me, and then you know of necessity I must do my
uttermost. I have also in this battle been courteous to you, and not
shown my worst violence, as I would on a stranger, for I know it is the
duty of a nephew to spare his uncle; and this you might well perceive by
my running from you. I tell you, it was an action much contrary to my
nature, for I might often have hurt you when I refused, nor are you
worse for me by anything more than the blemish of your eye, for which I
am sorry, and wished it had not happened; yet thereby know that you
shall reap rather benefit than loss thereby, for when other beasts in
their sleep shut two windows, you shall shut but one.
"As for my wife, children, and lineage, they shall fall down at your
feet before you in any presence; therefore, I humbly desire you, that
you will suffer poor _Reynard_ to live. I know you will kill me, but
what will that avail you, when you shall never live in safety for fear
of revengement of my kindred? Therefore, temperance in any man's wrath
is excellent, whereas rashness is ever the mother of repentance. But,
uncle, I know you to be valiant, wise, and discreet, and you rather seek
honor, peace, and good fame than blood and revenge."
_Isegrim_ the wolf said, "Infinite dissembler, how fain wouldst thou be
freed of my servitude? Too well I understand thee, and know that if
thou wert safe on thy feet thou wouldst forswear this submission; but
know all the wealth in the world shall not buy out thy ransom, for thee
and thy friends I esteem them not, nor believe anything thou hast
uttered. Too well I know thee, and am no bird for thy lime bush; chaff
cannot deceive me. Oh, how wouldst thou triumph if I should believe
thee, and say I wanted wit to understand thee; but thou shalt know I can
look both on this side and beyond thee. Thy many deceits used upon me
have now armed me against thee. Thou sayest thou hast spared me in the
battle; but look upon me, and my wounds will show how falsely thou
liest; thou never gavest me a time to breathe in, nor will I now give
thee a minute to repent in."
Now whilst _Isegrim_ was thus talking, the fox bethought himself how he
might best get free, and thrusting his other hand down he caught the
wolf fast by the neck, and he wrung him so extremely hard thereby, that
he made him shriek and howl out with the anguish; then the fox drew his
other hand out of his mouth, for the wolf was in such wondrous torment
that he had much ado to contain himself from swooning; for this torment
exceeded above the pain of his eye, and in the end he fell over and over
in a swoon; then presently _Reynard_ leaped upon him, and drew him about
the lists and dragged him by the legs, and struck, wounded, and bit him
in many places, so that all the whole field might take notice thereof.
At this, all _Isegrim's_ friends were full of sorrow, and with great
weeping and lamentation went to the King and prayed him to be pleased to
appease the combat and take it into his own hands; which suit the King
granted, and then the leopard and the loss, being marshals, entered the
lists and told the fox and the wolf that the King would speak with them,
and that the battle should there end, for he would take it into his own
hands and determine thereof; as for themselves they had done
sufficiently, neither would the King lose either of them. And to the fox
they said the whole field gave him the victory.
The greatest and most inspiring cycle of
medieval romances is that concerned with the
adventures of King Arthur and his Knights of
the Round Table. Developing largely as separate
stories, these romances were brought together
into an organic collection by Sir Thomas Malory
in the third quarter of the fifteenth century.
This work, called _Le Morte D'Arthur_, has
remained the standard Arthuriad and is the
source of most modern versions. It is one of
the great monuments of English prose, and,
while at first the strangeness of its style may
repel, the wonderful dignity of the story and
the sonorous quality of the language make a
strong appeal to children as well as to older
readers. Teachers should at least be acquainted
with a portion of Malory, and the three
selections following are taken from his text.
No. 404 is added as a suggestion as to how this
material may be worked up to tell to children.
401
According to a tradition in _Le Morte
D'Arthur_, Uther Pendragon, the father of
Arthur, was a powerful king in England. To
fulfill a promise made to Merlin, Uther
Pendragon allowed Merlin to take Arthur on the
day of his birth, that the child might not be
known as the son of the king. Merlin took the
child to Sir Ector, and the wife of Sir Ector
reared Arthur as one of her own children. The
following story is an account of how Arthur
learned of his parentage.
HOW ARTHUR BECAME KING
SIR THOMAS MALORY
After the death of Uther Pendragon, stood the realm in great jeopardy
long while, for every lord that was mighty of men made him strong, and
many weened to have been king. Then Merlin went to the Archbishop of
Canterbury and counselled him to send for all the lords of the realm and
all the gentlemen of arms, that they should to London come by Christmas.
So the Archbishop, by the advice of Merlin, sent for all the lords and
gentlemen of arms that they should come by Christmas even unto London.
So in the greatest church of London, whether it were Paul's or not the
French book maketh no mention, all the estates were long or day in the
church for to pray. And when matins and the first mass were done, there
was seen in the churchyard, against the high altar, a great stone four
square, like unto a marble stone, and in midst thereof was like an anvil
of steel a foot on high, and therein stuck a fair sword, and letters
there were written in gold about the sword that said thus:
"Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and
anvil, is rightwise king born of all England."
Then the people marveled and told it to the Archbishop. "I command,"
said the Archbishop, "that you keep you within your church, and pray
unto God still; that no man touch the sword till the high mass be all
done."
So when all masses were done, all the lords went to behold the stone and
the sword. And when they saw the scripture, some assayed; such as would
have been king. But none might stir the sword nor move it. "He is not
here," said the Archbishop, "that shall achieve the sword, but doubt not
God will make him known. But this is my counsel," said the Archbishop,
"that we provide ten knights, men of good fame, and they to keep this
sword."
So it was ordained, and there was made a cry, that every man should
essay that would, for to win the sword. And upon New Year's Day the
barons let make a jousts and a tournament, that all knights that would
joust or tourney there might play, and all this was ordained for to keep
the lords and the commons together, for the Archbishop trusted that God
would make him known that should win the sword. So upon New Year's Day,
when the service was done, the barons rode unto the field, some to joust
and some to tourney, and so it happened that Sir Ector rode unto the
jousts, and with him rode Sir Kay his son, and young Arthur that was his
nourished brother; and Sir Kay had been made knight at All Hallowmass
afore.
So as they rode to the joustsward, Sir Kay had lost his sword, for he
had left it at his father's lodging, and so he prayed young Arthur for
to ride for his sword. "I will well," said Arthur, and rode fast after
the sword, and when he came home, the lady and all were out to see the
jousting. Then was Arthur wroth, and said to himself, "I will ride to
the churchyard and take the sword with me that sticketh in the stone,
for my brother Sir Kay shall not be without a sword this day." So when
he came to the churchyard, Sir Arthur alit and tied his horse to the
stile, and so he went to the tent and found no knights there, for they
were at jousting; and so he handled the sword by the handles, and
lightly and fiercely pulled it out of the stone, and took his horse and
rode his way until he came to his brother Sir Kay, and delivered him the
sword.
As soon as Sir Kay saw the sword, he wist well it was the sword of the
stone, and so he rode to his father, Sir Ector, and said, "Sir, lo here
is the sword of the stone, wherefore I must be king of this land."
When Sir Ector beheld the sword, he returned again and came to the
church, and there they alit, all three, and went into the church. And
anon he made Sir Kay to swear upon a book how he came to that sword.
"Sir," said Sir Kay, "by my brother Arthur, for he brought it to me."
"How gat ye this sword?" said Sir Ector to Arthur.
"Sir, I will tell you. When I came home for my brother's sword, I found
nobody at home to deliver me his sword, and so I thought my brother Sir
Kay should not be swordless, and so I came hither eagerly and pulled it
out of the stone without any pain."
"Found ye any knights about this sword?" said Sir Ector.
"Nay," said Arthur.
"Now," said Sir Ector to Arthur, "I understand ye must be king of this
land."
"Wherefore I," said Arthur, "and for what cause?"
"Sir," said Ector, "for God will have it so, for there should never man
have drawn out this sword, but he that shall be rightways king of this
land. Now let me see whether ye can put the sword there as it was and
pull it out again."
"That is no mastery," said Arthur, and so he put it in the stone;
therewithal Sir Ector essayed to pull out the sword and failed.
"Now essay," said Sir Ector unto Sir Kay. And anon he pulled at the
sword with all his might, but it would not be.
"Now shall ye essay," said Ector to Arthur.
"I will well," said Arthur, and pulled it out easily. And therewithal
Sir Ector knelt down to the earth, and Sir Kay. "Alas," said Arthur, "my
own dear father and brother, why kneel ye to me?"
"Nay, nay, my lord Arthur, it is not so. I was never your father nor of
your blood, but I wot well ye are of an higher blood than I weened ye
were." And then Sir Ector told him all, how he had taken him for to
nourish him, and by whose commandment, and by Merlin's deliverance. Then
Arthur made great doole when he understood that Sir Ector was not his
father.
"Sir," said Ector unto Arthur, "will ye be my good and gracious lord
when ye are king?"
"Else were I to blame," said Arthur, "for ye are the man in the world
that I am most beholden to, and my good lady and mother your wife, that
as well as her own hath fostered me and kept. And if ever it be God's
will that I be king as ye say, God forbid that I should fail you."
"Sir," said Sir Ector, "I will ask no more of you but that ye will make
my son, your foster brother, Sir Kay, seneschal of all your lands."
"That shall be done," said Arthur, "and more, by the faith of my body,
that never man shall have that office but he, while he and I live."
Therewithal they went unto the Archbishop and told him how the sword was
achieved, and by whom; and on the Twelfth-day all the barons came
thither, and to essay to take the sword, who that would essay. But there
afore them all, there might none take it out but Arthur; wherefore
there were many lords wroth, and said it was great shame unto them all
and the realm to be over-governed with a boy of no high blood born, and
so they fell out at that time that it was put off until Candlemas, and
then all the barons should meet there again; but always the ten knights
were ordained to watch the sword day and night, and so they set a
pavilion over the stone and the sword, and five always watched. So at
Candlemas many more great lords came thither for to have won the sword,
but there might none prevail. And right as Arthur did at Christmas, he
did at Candlemas, and pulled out the sword easily, whereof the barons
were sore agrieved and put it off in delay till the high feast of
Easter, yet there were some of the great lords had indignation that
Arthur should be king, and put it off in a delay till the feast of
Pentecost. And at the feast of Pentecost all manner of men essayed to
pull at the sword that would essay, but none might prevail but Arthur,
and he pulled it out afore all the lords and commons that were there,
wherefore all the commons cried at once, "We will have Arthur unto our
king. We will put him no more in delay, for we all see that it is God's
will that he shall be our king, and who that holdeth against it, we will
slay him." And therewith they all kneeled at once, both rich and poor,
and cried Arthur mercy because they had delayed him so long, and Arthur
forgave them, and took the sword between both his hands, and offered it
upon the altar where the Archbishop was, and so was he made knight of
the best man that was there. And so anon was the coronation made. And
there was he sworn unto his lords and the commons for to be a true king
and to stand with true justice from thenceforth the days of his life.
402
After Arthur was made king, he spent several
years in war with his lawless barons before he
finally established a stable government in
England. Malory's accounts of these wars are
interspersed with stories of miraculous
incidents, accounts of the adventures of
knights, and descriptions of feasts,
tournaments, and jousts. The following is a
description of the jousting between the knights
of King Arthur and those of two French kings,
Ban and Bors, who had come to aid Arthur in his
wars.
A TOURNEY WITH THE FRENCH
SIR THOMAS MALORY
Then the king let purvey for a great feast, and let cry a great jousts.
And by All Hallowmass the two kings were come over the sea with three
hundred knights well arrayed both for peace and for war. And King Arthur
met with them ten miles out of London, and there was great joy as could
be thought or made. And on All Hallowmass at the great feast, sat in the
hall the three kings, and Sir Kay seneschal served in the hall, and Sir
Lucas the butler, and Sir Griflet. These three knights had the rule of
all the service that served the kings. And anon, as they had washed and
risen, all knights that would joust made them ready. By when they were
ready on horseback there were seven hundred knights. And Arthur, Ban,
and Bors, with the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Sir Ector, Kay's
father, they were in a place covered with cloth of gold like an hall,
with ladies and gentlewomen, for to behold who did the best, and thereon
to give judgment.
And King Arthur and the two kings let depart the seven hundred knights
into two parties. And there were three hundred knights of the realm of
Benwick and of Gaul turned on the other side. Then they dressed their
shields, and began to couch their spears many good knights. So Griflet
was the first that met with a knight, one Ladinas, and they met so
eagerly that all men had wonder; and they so fought that their shields
fell to pieces, and horse and man fell to the earth; and both French
knight and English knight lay so long that all men weened they had been
dead. When Lucas the butler saw Griflet so lie, he horsed him again
anon, and they two did marvelous deeds of arms with many bachelors. Also
Sir Kay came out of an enbushment with five knights with him, and they
six smote other six down. But Sir Kay did that day marvelous deeds of
arms that there was none did so well as he that day. Then there come
Ladinas and Gracian, two knights of France, and did passing well, that
all men praised them. Then come there Sir Placidas, a good knight, and
met with Sir Kay, and smote him down horse and man, wherefore Sir
Griflet was wroth, and met with Sir Placidas so hard that horse and man
fell to the earth. But when the five knights wist that Sir Kay had a
fall, they were wroth out of wit, and therewith each of them five bare
down a knight. When King Arthur and the two kings saw them begin to wax
wroth on both parties, they leaped on small hackneys and let cry that
all men should depart unto their lodging. And so they went home and
unarmed them, and so to evensong and supper. And after, the three kings
went into a garden and gave the prize unto Sir Kay, and to Lucas the
butler, and unto Sir Griflet.
403
One part of _Le Morte D'Arthur_ will illustrate
almost as well as another the nature of the
adventure stories that grew up in the Middle
Ages regarding the traditional heroes of
chivalry. The following selection is taken from
the first part of the book.
ADVENTURES OF ARTHUR
SIR THOMAS MALORY
Then on a day there came in the court a squire on horseback, leading a
knight before him wounded to the death. He said, "There is a knight in
the forest who hath reared up a pavilion by a well, and hath slain my
master, a good knight whose name was Miles; wherefore I beseech you that
my master may be buried, and that some knight may revenge my master's
death."
Then the noise was great of that knight's death in the court, and every
man said his advice. Then came Griflet that was but a squire, and he was
but young, of the age of King Arthur; so he besought the king for all
his service that he had done him to give him the order of knighthood.
"Thou art full young and tender of age," said Arthur, "for to take so
high an order on thee."
"Sir," said Griflet, "I beseech you make me knight."
"Sir," said Merlin, "it were great pity to lose Griflet, for he will be
a passing good man when he is of age, abiding with you the term of his
life. And if he adventure his body with yonder knight at the fountain,
it is in great peril if ever he come again, for he is one of the best
knights in the world, and the strongest man of arms."
"Well," said Arthur. So at the desire of Griflet the king made him
knight. "Now," said Arthur unto Sir Griflet, "sith I have made you
knight thou must give me a gift."
"What ye will," said Griflet.
"Thou shalt promise me by the faith of thy body, when thou hast jousted
with the knight at the fountain, whether it fall ye to be on foot or on
horseback, that right so ye shall come again unto me without making any
more debate."
"I will promise you," said Griflet, "as you desire."
Then took Griflet his horse in great haste, and dressed his shield and
took a spear in his hand, and so he rode at a great wallop till he came
to the fountain, and thereby he saw a rich pavilion, and thereby under a
cloth stood a fair horse well saddled and bridled, and on a tree a
shield of divers colors and a great spear. Then Griflet smote on the
shield with the butt of his spear, that the shield fell down to the
ground. With that the knight came out of the pavilion and said, "Fair
knight, why smote ye down my shield?"
"For I will joust with you," said Griflet.
"It is better ye do not," said the knight, "for ye are but young, and
late made knight, and your might is nothing to mine."
"As for that," said Griflet, "I will joust with you."
"That is me loath," said the knight, "but sith I must needs, I will
dress me thereto. Of whence be ye?" said the knight.
"Sir, I am of Arthur's court."
So the two knights ran together that Griflet's spear all to-shivered;
and therewithal he smote Griflet through the shield and the left side,
and brake the spear that the truncheon stuck in his body, that horse and
knight fell down.
When the knight saw him lie so on the ground, he alit, and was passing
heavy, for he weened he had slain him, and then he unlaced his helm and
gat him wind, and so with the truncheon he set him on his horse and gat
him wind, and so betook him to God, and said he had a mighty heart, and
if he might live he would prove a passing good knight. And so Sir
Griflet rode to the court, where great dole was made for him. But
through good leeches he was healed and saved.
Right so came into the court twelve knights, who were aged men, and they
came from the Emperor of Rome, and they asked of Arthur truage for this
realm, other-else the emperor would destroy him and his land.
"Well," said King Arthur, "ye are messengers, therefore ye may say what
ye will, other-else ye should die therefore. But this is mine answer: I
owe the emperor no truage, nor none will I hold him, but on a fair field
I shall give him my truage that shall be with a sharp spear, or else
with a sharp sword, and that shall not be long."
And therewith the messengers departed passingly wroth, and King Arthur
as wroth, for in evil time came they then; for the king was passingly
wroth for the hurt of Sir Griflet. And so he commanded a privy man of
his chamber that or it be day his best horse and armor with all that
longeth unto his person, be without the city or to-morrow day. Right so
or to-morrow day he met with his man and his horse, and so mounted up
and dressed his shield and took his spear, and bade his chamberlain
tarry there till he came again. And so Arthur rode a soft pace till it
was day, and then was he ware of three churls chasing Merlin, and would
have slain him. Then the king rode unto them and bade them, "Flee,
churls!" Then were they afeard when they saw a knight, and fled.
"O Merlin," said Arthur, "here hadst thou been slain for all thy crafts
had I not been."
"Nay," said Merlin, "not so, for I could save myself an I would; and
thou art more near thy death than I am, for thou goest to the deathward,
an God be not thy friend."
So as they went thus talking they came to the fountain and the rich
pavilion there by it. Then King Arthur was ware where sat a knight armed
in a chair. "Sir knight," said Arthur, "for what cause abidest thou
here, that there may no knight ride this way but he joust with thee? I
rede thee leave that custom," said Arthur.
"This custom," said the knight, "have I used and will use maugre who
saith nay, and who is grieved with my custom let him amend it that
will."
"I will amend it," said Arthur.
"I shall defend thee," said the knight.
Anon he took his horse and dressed his shield and took a spear, and they
met so hard either on other's shield, that all to-shivered their spears.
Therewith anon Arthur pulled out his sword. "Nay, not so," said the
knight; "it is fairer that we twain run more together with sharp
spears."
"I will well," said Arthur, "an I had any more spears."
"I have enow," said the knight, so there came a squire and brought two
good spears, and Arthur chose one and he another; so they spurred their
horses and came together with all their mights, that either brake their
spears to their hands. Then Arthur set hand on his sword. "Nay," said
the knight, "ye shall do better. Ye are a passing good jouster as ever I
met withal, and once more for the love of the high order of knighthood
let us joust once again."
"I assent me," said Arthur.
Anon there were brought two great spears, and every knight gat a spear,
and therewith they ran together that Arthur's spear all to-shivered. But
the other knight hit him so hard in midst of the shield that horse and
man fell to the earth, and therewith Arthur was eager, and pulled out
his sword and said, "I will assay thee, sir knight, on foot, for I have
lost the honor on horseback."
"I will be on horseback," said the knight.
Then was Arthur wroth, and dressed his shield toward him with his sword
drawn. When the knight saw that, he alit, for him thought no worship to
have a knight at such avail, he to be on horseback and he on foot, and
so he alit and dressed his shield unto Arthur. And there began a strong
battle with many great strokes, and so hewed with their swords that the
cantels flew in the fields, and much blood they bled both, that all the
place there as they fought was overbled with blood, and thus they fought
long and rested them, and then they went to battle again, and so hurtled
together like two rams that either fell to the earth. So at the last
they smote together that both their swords met even together. But the
sword of the knight smote King Arthur's sword in two pieces, wherefore
he was heavy. Then said the knight unto Arthur, "Thou art in my daunger
whether me list to save thee or slay thee, and but thou yield thee as
overcome and recreant, thou shalt die."
"As for death," said King Arthur, "welcome be it when it cometh, but to
yield me unto thee as recreant I had liefer die than be so shamed."
And therewithal the king leaped unto Pellinore, and took him by the
middle and threw him down, and raised off his helm. When the knight felt
that, he was adread, for he was a passing big man of might, and anon he
brought Arthur under him, and raised off his helm and would have smitten
off his head.
Therewithal came Merlin and said, "Knight, hold thy hand, for an thou
slay that knight thou puttest this realm in the greatest damage that
ever was realm; for this knight is a man of more worship that thou
wotest of."
"Why, who is he?" said the knight.
"It is King Arthur."
Then would he have slain him for dread of his wrath, and heaved up his
sword, and therewith Merlin cast an enchantment to the knight, that he
fell to the earth in a great sleep. Then Merlin took up King Arthur, and
rode forth on the knight's horse.
"Alas!" said Arthur, "what hast thou done, Merlin? Hast thou slain this
good knight by thy crafts? There liveth not so worshipful a knight as he
was; I had liefer than the stint of my land a year that he were alive."
"Care ye not," said Merlin, "for he is wholer than ye; for he is but
asleep, and will awake within three hours. I told you," said Merlin,
"what a knight he was; here had ye been slain had I not been. Also there
liveth not a bigger knight than he is one, and he shall hereafter do you
right good service; and his name is Pellinore, and he shall have two
sons that shall be passing good men; save one they shall have no fellow
of prowess and of good living, and their names shall be Percivale of
Wales and Lamerake of Wales."
Right so the king and he departed and went unto an hermit that was a
good man and a great leech. So the hermit searched all his wounds and
gave him good salves; so the king was there three days, and then were
his wounds well amended that he might ride and go, and so departed.
And as they rode, Arthur said, "I have no sword."
"No force," said Merlin, "hereby is a sword that shall be yours, an I
may."
So they rode till they came to a lake, the which was a fair water and
broad, and in the midst of the lake Arthur was ware of an arm clothed in
white samite, that held a fair sword in that hand.
"Lo!" said Merlin, "yonder is that sword that I spake of."
With that they saw a damosel going upon the lake. "What damosel is
that?" said Arthur.
"That is the Lady of the Lake," said Merlin; "and within that lake is a
rock, and therein is as fair a place as any on earth, and richly beseen;
and this damosel will come to you anon, and then speak ye fair to her
that she will give you that sword."
Anon withal came the damosel unto Arthur and saluted him, and he her
again. "Damosel," said Arthur, "what sword is that, that yonder the arm
holdeth above the water? I would it were mine, for I have no sword."
"Sir Arthur, king," said the damosel, "that sword is mine, and if ye
will give me a gift when I ask it you, ye shall have it."
"By my faith," said Arthur, "I will give you what gift ye will ask."
"Well!" said the damosel. "Go ye into yonder barge, and row yourself to
the sword, and take it and the scabbard with you, and I will ask my gift
when I see my time."
So Sir Arthur and Merlin alit and tied their horses to two trees, and so
they went into the ship, and when they came to the sword that the hand
held, Sir Arthur took it up by the handles, and took it with him, and
the arm and the hand went under the water. And so they came unto the
land and rode forth, and then Sir Arthur saw a rich pavilion.
"What signifieth yonder pavilion?"
"It is the knight's pavilion," said Merlin, "that ye fought with last,
Sir Pellinore; but he is out; he is not there. He hath ado with a knight
of yours that hight Egglame, and they have foughten together, but at the
last Egglame fled, and else he had been dead, and he hath chased him
even to Carlion, and we shall meet with him anon in the highway."
"That is well said," said Arthur, "now have I a sword; now will I wage
battle with him, and be avenged on him."
"Sir, you shall not so," said Merlin, "for the knight is weary of
fighting and chasing, so that ye shall have no worship to have ado with
him; also he will not be lightly matched of one knight living, and
therefore it is my counsel, let him pass, for he shall do you good
service in short time, and his sons after his days. Also ye shall see
that day in short space, you shall be right glad to give him your sister
to wed."
"When I see him, I will do as ye advise me," said Arthur. Then Sir
Arthur looked on the sword, and liked it passing well.
"Whether liketh you the better," said Merlin, "the sword or the
scabbard?"
"Me liketh better the sword," said Arthur.
"Ye are more unwise," said Merlin, "for the scabbard is worth ten of the
swords, for whiles ye have the scabbard upon you, ye shall never lose no
blood be ye never so sore wounded, therefore keep well the scabbard
always with you."
So they rode unto Carlion, and by the way they met with Sir Pellinore;
but Merlin had done such a craft, that Pellinore saw not Arthur, and he
passed by without any words.
"I marvel," said Arthur, "that the knight would not speak."
"Sir," said Merlin, "he saw you not, for an he had seen you, ye had not
lightly departed."
So they came unto Carlion, whereof his knights were passing glad. And
when they heard of his adventures, they marveled that he would jeopard
his person so, alone. But all men of worship said it was merry to be
under such a chieftain, that would put his person in adventure as other
poor knights did.
This meanwhile came a messenger from King Rience of North Wales, and
king he was of all Ireland, and of many isles. And this was his message,
greeting well King Arthur in this manner wise, saying that King Rience
had discomfited and overcome eleven kings, and every each of them did
him homage, and that was this, they gave him their beards clean flayed
off, as much as there was; wherefore the messenger came for King
Arthur's beard. For King Rience had purfled a mantle with king's beards,
and there lacked one place of the mantle; wherefore he sent for his
beard, or else he would enter his lands, and burn and slay, and never
leave till he have the head and the beard.
"Well," said Arthur, "thou hast said thy message, the which is the most
villainous and lewdest message that ever man heard sent unto a king;
also thou mayest see my beard is full young yet to make a purfle of it.
But tell thou thy king this: I owe him none homage, nor none of mine
elders, but or it be long to, he shall do me homage on both his knees,
or else he shall lose his head, by the faith of my body, for this is the
most shamefulest message that ever I heard speak of. I have espied thy
king met never yet with worshipful man, but tell him I will have his
head without he do me homage." Then the messenger departed.
"Now is there any here," said Arthur, "that knoweth King Rience?"
Then answered a knight that hight Naram, "Sir, I know the king well. He
is a passing good man of his body, as few be living, and a passing proud
man, and Sir, doubt ye not he will make war on you with a mighty
puissance."
"Well," said Arthur, "I shall ordain for him in short time."
404
The story of "Arthur and Sir Accalon" is taken
from Maude Radford Warren's _King Arthur and
His Knights_. (By permission of the publishers,
Rand McNally & Co., Chicago.) The stories in
Malory are retold in a simple and direct style
that can be read easily by children in the
fifth grade. Most teachers will probably find
themselves obliged to use some such book for
any of these great cycles which they desire to
teach, owing to the amount of time and energy
required for working it up from the original
source.
ARTHUR AND SIR ACCALON
MAUDE RADFORD WARREN
There was a woman in Arthur's Court named Morgan le Fay, who had learned
a great deal about magic. She was a wicked woman, and hated the king
because he was more powerful than she, and because he was so good.
However, she pretended to be a true friend to him, and the king believed
in her. One day when they were talking together, she asked him if he
would not let her take charge of his wonderful sword Excalibur, and its
scabbard. She said that she would guard them so carefully that they
would never be stolen. As she was very eager, Arthur granted her
request.
One day in time of peace, King Arthur went out hunting with a certain
knight named Sir Accalon, who was the lover of Morgan le Fay. They rode
for a long time, and when they were tired, stopped to rest beside a
great lake. As they looked over its shining waters, they saw a beautiful
little ship, which sailed straight towards them, and ran up to the sands
at their feet. It was all covered with golden silks, which waved in the
gentle wind. King Arthur and Sir Accalon climbed into it and examined it
thoroughly, but they found no one on board.
They rested on two couches which were on the deck, until it grew dark.
Then they were about to return home, when all at once, a hundred torches
set on the sides of the ship were lighted, and suddenly there appeared
twelve beautiful damsels who told the two that they were welcome, and
that they should be served with a banquet.
Presently the maidens led the king and the knight into a room which had
a table covered with a white cloth embroidered in purple. It bore many
golden dishes, and each dish had a beautiful design carved upon it. Some
dishes had vine-leaves, others ivy-leaves; some had angels with long
robes sweeping back in graceful lines; and all these dishes held choice
food. The king and Sir Accalon ate to their hearts' content.
Then the damsels led them into two separate chambers. King Arthur was
tired and so sleepy that he gave but one glance at his bedroom. He saw
that it was hung in red silk embroidered with gold dragons and griffins.
Then he threw himself on his bed and slept very soundly.
When he awoke, he found himself not in the pretty bed-chamber, but in a
dark place. He could see nothing, but all about him he heard the sound
of complaining and weeping. He was much bewildered, but in a moment he
cried:
"What is this? Where am I?"
Then a voice answered:
"You are in prison, as we are."
"Who are you?" asked Arthur.
The voice replied:
"We are twenty knights, prisoners, and some of us have been here as long
as seven years. We are in the dungeons of a wicked lord named Sir Damas.
He has a younger brother, and the two brothers are enemies, quarreling
about their inheritance. Now the younger brother, Sir Ontzlake, is very
strong, but Sir Damas is not strong, and moreover, he is a coward. So he
tries to find a knight who will fight for him against Sir Ontzlake.
"But Sir Damas is so much hated that no one will fight for him. So he
goes about the country with a body of rough men, and whenever he sees a
knight, he captures him. Then he asks him to fight with Sir Ontzlake. So
far, all the knights have refused, and have been thrown into prison. We
do not have food enough, but we would rather die here than fight for Sir
Damas, who is so wicked."
At that moment a damsel entered the prison with a torch, which faintly
lighted the dismal place, and advanced to the king.
"Sir," she said, "will you fight for my lord, Sir Damas? If you will,
you shall be taken from this prison. If you will not, you shall die
here."
Arthur considered for some time, and then said:
"I would rather fight than die in prison. If I fight, will you deliver
also all these prisoners?"
The damsel promised, and Arthur consented to fight. While she went to
tell Sir Damas, Arthur said to the other prisoners:
"My friends, I do not know Sir Damas, and I do not know Sir Ontzlake. I
do not know whether they are bad or good. But I will fight, and then,
when I have conquered, I shall judge between them, and do justice to
both."
"That is a good plan," said the knights, "but why are you so sure that
you will conquer?"
"I am Arthur, the King," he replied.
At that the knights set up a great cry of joy, and the king continued:
"I shall send for my good sword Excalibur and the scabbard, and with
these I shall surely win."
So when Arthur and the knights were let out of prison, the king sent the
damsel who had visited them to Morgan le Fay for his sword and
scabbard.
Meantime, the knight who had accompanied Arthur on the little ship, Sir
Accalon, also awoke. He found himself in the palace of Morgan le Fay,
and he wondered very much where Arthur was. He went to the lady, who
said to him:
"My dear lord, the day has come when you can have great power if you
want it. Should you like to be king of this land, instead of Arthur?"
Now Sir Accalon was a traitor at heart. He wanted very much to be king,
even if the good Arthur was to be killed; so he said:
"Yes, truly."
Then she said:
"You shall be king, and I shall be your queen. All you need to do is to
fight a great battle, which you shall win. I have been using my magic.
It was I who sent the ship of silk to you and Arthur. I had him put into
prison, and I had you brought here."
Sir Accalon wondered very much. Then she told him of the fight King
Arthur was to make against Sir Ontzlake.
"But I have caused Sir Ontzlake to fall sick," she said, "and he cannot
fight. I shall go with you to his castle and you can offer to fight for
him."
"I to fight with the king!" cried Sir Accalon. "He would surely
overthrow me."
"He cannot," said Morgan le Fay, "because you are to fight with his
sword. A little while ago he sent to me for Excalibur and the scabbard,
but I returned him a false sword which looks like Excalibur, and a false
scabbard. You shall take the true ones, and then you will surely
overcome him and rule this land."
Then Sir Accalon was glad, and he hastened with the lady to the castle
of Sir Ontzlake. They found him groaning because he was ill and because
Sir Damas had sent him a challenge to fight with a knight, and he could
not accept it. He was much relieved when Morgan le Fay told him that Sir
Accalon would fight in his place.
Early in the afternoon, King Arthur and Sir Accalon rode into the field
where the combat was to be held. Arthur did not know who Sir Accalon
was, nor did any one else, except Morgan le Fay. Two sides of the field
were full of people, who came to watch, half of whom were friends of Sir
Damas, and the other half were friends of Sir Ontzlake.
Arthur and Sir Accalon rode at each other so furiously that at the shock
of the meeting both fell off their horses. Then they began to fight
fiercely with their swords. The king could make no headway with his
false steel, but whenever Sir Accalon struck at Arthur he drew blood.
The king was much amazed. He grew weaker and weaker, but still he kept
on his feet. Those who watched him were sorry for him; they thought they
had never seen a man fight so bravely. At last Arthur's sword broke, and
fell in two pieces on the ground. When Sir Accalon saw this, he cried:
"Now, yield to me."
"I will never yield," said the king, "and if you do not get me another
sword, you will be shamed before all men, for it is an unknightly thing
to fight with a defenseless man."
"I do not care," said Sir Accalon. "If you will not yield, defend
yourself with your shield as best you can."
He rushed at the king. Arthur was so weak that he could hardly stand,
but he guarded himself as well as he could with his shield. Soon he
could do no more, and fell to the ground.
At this moment the Lady of the Lake, who had given Arthur his sword,
came upon the field. She was invisible, but anyone who had listened
intently could have heard a sound like a ripple of water as she walked.
She caused Excalibur to fall out of the hand of Sir Accalon and drop
near Arthur.
When it fell, Arthur saw that it was his own Excalibur. He grasped its
handle and some of his strength came back. He struggled to his feet, and
rushing up to Sir Accalon, seized the scabbard of Excalibur and threw it
far over the field.
"Now," he said, "send for a second sword and fight with me."
Then Sir Accalon was afraid. Yet he thought that Arthur was so weak that
he could still be overcome. So he sent for a second sword, and they
began to fight again. Arthur's strength, however, had largely returned,
and in a short time he gave Sir Accalon a mortal stroke.
Sir Accalon fell to the ground, and the king, leaning over him, cried:
"Tell me who you are."
Then Sir Accalon was filled with remorse, and he said:
"Oh, my King, I have been a traitor to you, but now I am dying, and I am
sorry for what I have done. I deserve my death."
He told the king his name, and all about his treachery, and that of
Morgan le Fay.
King Arthur was sad.
"It is very hard to be deceived in a friend," he said, "but I forgive
you freely. I will try to cure your wound, and sometime I shall trust
you again."
"You cannot cure me," said Sir Accalon. "I am dying. Let them carry me
off the field."
So he was taken to a neighboring abbey, while the people crowded about
the king to congratulate him, but Arthur said:
"I am sad at heart. My victory is no comfort to me, for to-day I have
lost a friend whom I believed true."
Then he called the two brothers, Sir Damas and Sir Ontzlake, and judged
their cause. He decided that their property must be divided equally
between them, and that they must be friends. They promised never to
quarrel again. Arthur told them that they must be kind to other knights
and to all people. He said that if he heard that they were not, he could
come and punish them.
After this, Sir Damas gave back to the twenty knights all their money,
and they went on their way rejoicing. King Arthur mounted his horse and
rode over to the abbey, where he sat by the bed of Sir Accalon till the
poor knight died. Then the king went back alone to his Court at Camelot.
405-411
Miguel de Cervantes, the greatest literary
genius of Spain, was born in 1547 in a small
town near Madrid, and he died in 1616, the year
of the death of Shakespeare. He received a fair
education, and by reading he gained a thorough
knowledge of the romantic poetry of Spain and
Italy and of the romances of chivalry. At the
age of twenty-one he went to Italy. For several
years he was a soldier in the Spanish army.
When he was twenty-eight years old, he was
captured by pirates of Algiers and was held a
prisoner for five years. When he returned to
Spain, he attempted to make a living by writing
dramas and romances, and later he secured an
unimportant governmental position as commissary
and tax-collector in Seville. In 1606 he
published the first part of _Don Quixote_. This
book immediately became very popular, but it
did not bring him much money nor did it win for
him the recognition of literary men. All his
life he was poor, and sometimes apparently he
was actually in want of food. In 1615, one year
before his death, he published the second part
of _Don Quixote_, the greatest national book of
Spain.
_Don Quixote_ is a humorous satire upon the
romances of chivalry, which at the time were so
popular in Spain as to corrupt the national
life by their loose morals and false ideals. So
complete was the success of Cervantes that the
whole nation began to laugh at the absurdities
of the romances of chivalry, and it is said
that not one new edition of any book of
chivalry appeared in Spain after the
publication of _Don Quixote_.
Although the world no longer takes serious
consideration of the ideals of the romances of
chivalry, _Don Quixote_ will always be
remembered as a great book, for it abounds in
good-humored satire of human follies that are
found in all ages and countries. Sancho Panza
represents the type of person who does not have
imagination or spiritual ideals. Not much less
ridiculous, though much more deserving of
sympathy, is Don Quixote, who represents the
type of person who is controlled by imagination
and fanciful ideals, unbalanced by practical
judgment. The life of a person of either type
must be filled with absurdities.
The following selections are taken from
_Stories of Don Quixote_ retold by H. L.
Havell.
STORIES FROM DON QUIXOTE
I. DREAMS AND SHADOWS
The scene is laid in a village of La Mancha, a high and arid district of
Central Spain; and the time is towards the close of the sixteenth
century. On the outskirts of the village there stood at the time
mentioned a house of modest size, adjoining a little farm, the property
of a retired gentleman whose real name was Quisada or Quijada, but who
is now known to all mankind by the immortal title of Don Quixote. How he
came to alter his name we shall see presently.
On a hot summer afternoon this worthy gentleman was sitting in a small
upper room, which served him as a study, absorbed in the contents of a
huge folio volume, which lay open on the table before him. Other
volumes, of like bulky proportions, were piled up on chairs or strewn on
the floor around him. The reader was a man some fifty years of age, tall
and spare of figure, and with high, stern features of the severest
Spanish type. In his eyes, when from time to time he paused in his
reading and gazed absently before him, there was a look of wild
abstraction, as of one who lives in a world of dreams and shadows. One
hand, with bony, nervous fingers, rested on the open page; with the
other he grasped his sword, which lay sheathed on his lap.
No sound disturbs the sultry stillness of the chamber, save only the
droning of an imprisoned bee and the rustling of paper when the eager
student turned a leaf. Deeper and deeper grew his absorption; his eyes
seemed to devour the lines, and he clutched his hair with both hands, as
if he would tear it out by the roots. At last, overpowered by a frenzied
impulse, he leaped from his seat, and plucking his sword from the
scabbard, began cutting and thrusting at some invisible object, shouting
in a voice of thunder: "Unhand the maiden, foul caitiff! Give place, I
say, and let the princess go! What, wilt thou face me, vile robber?
Have at thee, then, and take the wages of thy villainy." As he uttered
the last words he aimed a tremendous thrust at his visionary opponent
and narrowly escaped transfixing the comely person of a young lady who
at this very moment entered the room, with signs of haste and alarm.
Behind her, in the dimly-lighted passage, appeared the portly figure of
an elderly dame, who was proclaimed, by the bunch of keys which hung at
her girdle, to be the gentleman's housekeeper.
"Dear uncle, what ails thee?" said the young lady, gazing with pity and
wonder at the poor distracted man, who stood arrested in his last
attitude, with rolling eyes and hair in wild disorder, while great beads
of sweat poured down his face. But he, whose mind was still soaring in
the regions of high romance, at once converted his niece into a rescued
princess, saved from violence by his prowess; and, lowering his blade
and dropping gracefully on one knee, he raised her hand to his lips and
said: "Fear nothing, gentle lady! There lies thine enemy in his gore";
and he pointed to a table which had been overset in one of his wild
rushes, carrying with it an inkstand, the contents of which were now
trickling in a black stream across the uncarpeted boards.
His niece was accustomed to the strange fits of her eccentric relative,
and, humoring his fancy, she answered: "Thou hast done well, and I thank
thee. But sit down now and rest awhile after thy toils; and I will bring
thee something to drink." With that she led him to a couch and left the
room, taking the housekeeper with her. In a few moments she returned,
bearing a great pitcher of cold water.
"'Tis a most rare elixir," said he, after taking a deep draught,
"prepared by the great enchanter Alquife, and of a magic potency." Then,
being exhausted by his violent exertions of body and mind he stretched
himself on the couch and soon sank into a quiet sleep.
II. PREPARING FOR THE QUEST
The extraordinary scene which has just been described was only one among
many which had occurred during several months, down to the time when our
story begins; and we must now go back a little and give some account of
our hero's habits and studies, which ended by bringing him to so
desperate a state. At that time by far the most popular form of light
literature was the Romances of Chivalry,--huge interminable fictions,
filled with the most extravagant visions that ever visited the slumbers
of a mad poet. Merely to unravel the story of one of these gigantic
romances is a task which would tax the strongest brain. They dealt with
the adventures of Knights-Errant, who wandered about the earth
redressing grievances and succoring the oppressed. Those who venture
into these vast jungles of romance are occasionally rewarded by passages
of great sweetness, nobility, and charm; but the modern reader soon
grows weary of enchanted forests, haunted by giants, dragons, and other
impossible monsters, of deserts where despairing lovers roam haggard and
forlorn, of dwarfs, goblins, wizards, and all the wild and grotesque
creations of the mediæval fancy.
But in the times of which we are writing the passion for Books of
Chivalry rose to such a height that it became a serious public evil. In
Spain it reached its climax; and our humble gentleman of La Mancha is
only an extreme example of the effect which such studies produced on the
national mind. Being bitten by the craze for chivalrous fiction, he
gradually forsook all the healthy pursuits of a country life and gave
himself up entirely to reading such books as Amadis of Gaul, Palmerin of
England, and Belianis of Greece; and his infatuation reached such a
point that he sold several acres of good arable land to provide himself
with funds for the purchase of those ponderous folios with which we saw
him surrounded when he was first introduced to our notice. From dawn
till eve he pored over his darling books, and sometimes passed whole
nights in the same pursuit, until at last, having crammed his brain with
this perilous stuff, he began to imagine that these wild inventions were
sober reality. From this delusion there was but one step to the belief
that he himself was a principal actor in the adventures of which he
read; and when the fit was on him, he would take his sword and engage in
single combat with the creatures of his brain, stamping his feet and
alarming the household with his cries.
At first his frenzy was intermittent, and each attack was followed by a
lucid interval; but finally he lost his wits altogether and came to the
insane resolution of turning knight-errant and going out into the world
as the redresser of wrongs and the champion of the innocent. His
intention once formed, he at once took steps to carry it into effect.
From a dark corner of the house he brought out an old suit of armor,
which had been lying neglected for generations and was now covered with
mould and eaten with rust. He cleaned the pieces and repaired them as
well as he could; and observing that the helmet was a simple morion,
wanting a protection for the face, he made a vizor of pasteboard to
supply the defect. Then, wishing to prove the strength of his vizor, he
drew his sword and with one stroke destroyed what had cost him the labor
of a week. He was considerably shocked by the ease with which he had
demolished his handiwork; but having made a second vizor and
strengthened it with bars of iron, he did not choose to try any further
experiments, but accepted the helmet, thus fortified, as the finest
headpiece in the world.
Then he paid a visit to his old horse, and though the poor beast was a
mere living skeleton, broken-winded and with his feet full of
sandcracks, to his master's eyes he seemed a nobler steed than
Bucephalus, or Bavieca, the famous charger of the Cid. It was evident
that such a noble steed, who was to carry a warrior so famous, must have
a name by which all the world might know him; and accordingly, after
deliberating for four days and passing in review a multitude of titles,
he determined to call the beast Rozinante.
Having settled this weighty question, he next began to consider what
name he should assume himself, being by no means satisfied with that
which he had received from his father. Eight days were passed in
debating a matter so important to himself and to posterity, and at the
end of that time he resolved to call himself Don Quixote. But,
remembering that Amadis, not contented with his simple name, had taken
the additional title of Amadis of Gaul, he determined, in imitation of
that illustrious hero, his model and teacher in all things, to style
himself Don Quixote de La Mancha, and thereby confer immortal honor on
the land of his birth.
Nothing now remained but to choose a lady to be the mistress of his
affections and the load-star of his life; for, as he wisely reflected, a
knight-errant without a lady-love was like a tree without fruit or a
body without a soul. "If," he said to himself, "I should encounter some
giant, as commonly happens to knights-errant, and cut him in twain or
otherwise vanquish him and make him my prisoner, will it not be well to
have some lady to whom I may send him as a gift, so that he may enter
the presence of my sweet mistress and bow the knee before her, saying in
a humble and submissive voice: 'Lady, _I am the giant Caraculiambro,
vanquished in single combat by the knight Don Quixote de La Mancha,
whose praise no tongue can tell, and I have been commanded by him to
present myself to your grace, that you may dispose of me as your
Highness pleases_.'"
Our good knight was highly pleased with his own eloquence, and still
more so when he had made choice of his lady. In a neighboring village
there was a young girl, employed on a farm, with whom he had at one time
been in love, though he had never brought himself to declare his
passion. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and her he resolved to constitute
the queen of his heart, having conferred on her the sounding title of
Dulcinea del Toboso, or "The Sweet Lady of Toboso," the village where
she was born.
III. THE QUEST BEGINS
"The world is waiting for me," murmured our enthusiast, leaping from his
bed at the first peep of dawn and arming himself from head to foot. Then
treading softly, so as not to alarm the household, he went to the
stable, saddled Rozinante, and leading him out through a back gate of
the yard, mounted and rode forth into the plain, hugely delighted to
find himself fairly started on his great enterprise.
But hardly had he reached the open country when the terrible thought
occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a knight and by the laws of
chivalry was not entitled to engage in combat with any one who bore that
rank, and further, even if he were already a knight, he was obliged as a
novice to wear plain armor, without device of any kind. So much was he
perturbed by these reflections that he was within an ace of giving up
his whole design, and would have done so but for a happy inspiration,
which saved mankind from so dire a calamity. Many of the heroes of his
books of chivalry had got themselves dubbed knight by the first person
whom they met, and remembering this, he resolved to follow their
example. And as to his armor, he would rub and polish it until it was
whiter than ermine.
His scruples thus removed, he continued his journey, leaving his good
steed to choose what direction he pleased, as was the fashion with
knights-errant when they set out on their adventures. Thus pacing along
and dreaming of mighty deeds, he gave vent to his feelings in the
following rhapsody: "What a theme for the eloquence of some great master
of style--the feats of high emprise wrought by the valiant arm of Don
Quixote de La Mancha! Happy the pen which shall describe them, happy the
age which shall read the wondrous tale! And thou, brave steed, shalt
have thy part in the honor which is done to thy master, when poet and
sculptor and painter shall vie with one another in raising an eternal
monument to his fame."
Then recalling his part as an afflicted lover, he began to mourn his
hard lot in soft and plaintive tones: "O lady Dulcinea, queen of this
captive heart! Why hast thou withdrawn from me the light of thy
countenance and banished thy faithful servant from thy presence?
Shorten, I implore thee, the term of my penance and leave me not to
wither in solitude and despair."
Lost in these sublime and melancholy thoughts he rode slowly on from
hour to hour, until the sun became so hot that it was enough to melt his
brains, if he had possessed any. All that day he continued his journey
without meeting with any adventure, which vexed him sorely, for he was
eager to encounter some foeman worthy of his steel. Evening came on, and
both he and his horse were ready to drop with hunger and fatigue, when,
looking about him in search of some castle--or some hovel--where he
might find shelter and refreshment, he saw not far from the roadside a
small inn, and, setting spurs to Rozinante, rode up to the door at a
hobbling canter just as night was falling.
The inn was of the poorest and meanest description, frequented by
muleteers and other rude wayfarers; but to his perverted fancy it seemed
a turreted castle, with battlements of silver, drawbridge, and moat, and
all that belonged to a feudal fortress. Before the door were standing
two women, vagabonds of the lowest class, who were traveling in the
company of certain mule-drivers; but for him they were instantly
transformed into a pair of high-born maidens taking the air before the
castle gate.
To complete his illusion, just at this moment a swineherd, who was
collecting his drove from a neighboring stubble field, sounded a few
notes on his horn. This Don Quixote took for a signal which had been
given by some dwarf from the ramparts, to inform the inmates of the
castle of his approach; and so, with huge satisfaction, he lifted his
pasteboard vizor, and uncovering his haggard and dusty features, thus
addressed the women who were eyeing him with looks of no small alarm,
and evidently preparing to retreat: "Fly not, gracious ladies, neither
wrong me by dreaming that ye have aught to fear from me, for the order
of chivalry which I profess suffers not that I should do harm to any,
least of all to maidens of lofty lineage, such as I perceive you to be."
Hearing themselves accosted by that extraordinary figure in language to
which they were so little used, the women could not restrain their
mirth, but laughed so long and loud that Don Quixote began to be vexed
and said in a tone of grave rebuke, "Beauty and discourtesy are
ill-matched together, and unseemly is the laugh which folly breeds in a
vacant mind. Take not my words amiss, for I mean no offence, but am
ready to serve you with heart and hand."
At this dignified reproof, the damsels only laughed louder than before,
and there is no saying what might have come of it if the innkeeper, who
appeared at this moment, had not undertaken the office of peacemaker,
for which he was well fitted, being a fat, good-humored fellow, who
loved a quiet life. At first, when he saw that fantastic warrior on his
spectral steed, he was much inclined to join the girls in their noisy
merriment. But finding some ground for alarm in so many engines of war,
he contrived to swallow his laughter, and going up to Don Quixote, said
to him civilly enough: "If your honor is in search of quarters for the
night, you will find in this inn all that you require excepting a bed,
which is not to be had here."
Finding the governor of the fortress--that is to say, the landlord of
the inn--so obsequious, Don Quixote replied cheerfully: "Sir Castellan,
you will not find me hard to please, for
Arms are all my rich array,
My repose to fight alway."
"If that be your case, then," answered the innkeeper, humoring his
strange guest, "'tis plain that
Your couch is the field, your pillow a shield,
Your slumber a vigil from dusk until day:
and therefore you may dismount in the full assurance of finding under my
humble roof divers good reasons for keeping awake for a twelvemonth,
should such be your desire."
As he said this, he went and held the stirrup for Don Quixote, who was
so weak from his long fast that it cost him much pain and effort to
dismount. "I commend to thy especial care this my good steed," said he,
as soon as he had found his feet: "he is the rarest piece of horseflesh
that ever lived by bread."
The innkeeper bestowed but one glance on poor Rozinante, and finding
little to admire in him, he thrust him hastily into the stable and came
back to attend to the wants of his guest. Meanwhile Don Quixote
submitted to be disarmed by the young women, who had now made their
peace. Having removed his body armor, they tried to relieve him of his
helmet, which was attached to his neck by green ribbons. Being unable to
loose the knots, they proposed to cut the ribbons, but as he would not
allow them to do this, he was obliged to keep his helmet on all that
night, which made him the strangest and most diverting object that could
be imagined.
While the ladies were thus employed, our brave adventurer entertained
them with a strain of high-flown gallantry, seasoned with scraps from
the old ballads and romances which he had read. Not understanding a word
of what he said, they simply asked him, when they had finished, if he
wanted anything to eat. "A slight refection would not be ill-timed,"
answered Don Quixote, and learning that there was nothing to be had but
a "little trout," he bade them bring it with all speed. "Many little
trouts," he added jestingly, "will serve my turn as well as one big one.
Only let it be brought at once, for I begin to be conscious of a
wondrous void within the compass of my sword-belt."
The "little trout" proved to be neither more nor less than a dish of
stockfish, Poor John, or in plain English, salted cod, and that of the
rankest. An odor the reverse of savory heralded its approach, and Don
Quixote sat down at the table, which had been set, for coolness, before
the door, and applied himself to his lenten fare. But being much
incommoded by his helmet, he could not find the way to his mouth, and
remained staring in dismay at the reeking mess and the filthy black
bread which accompanied it, until one of the damsels, perceiving his
distress, came to his relief and fed him with small morsels, which she
deftly conveyed to their proper destination through the opening of his
helmet. To give him drink was a harder matter, but this problem was
solved with great ingenuity by the landlord, who brought a hollow cane,
and placing one end in his mouth, poured the wine in at the other.
And so in solemn silence, broken now and then by the stifled laughter of
the onlookers, the strange meal proceeded; and when it was nearly at an
end, a clownish fellow passed by, blowing on a rustic pipe. But for Don
Quixote, who had transformed the inn into a castle, the fat publican
into a powerful governor, and the vagabond damsels into high-born
ladies, it was an easy matter to find in those rude notes a strain of
rare music, provided for his delectation while he sat at table; and he
concluded his repast in a state of high satisfaction with his first
day's adventures.
IV. THE KNIGHTLY VIGIL
But one uncomfortable thought chilled the heat of his enthusiasm--he had
not yet been dubbed a knight and was therefore still unqualified to
engage in any chivalrous adventure. Accordingly, as soon as he had
finished his scanty and sordid meal, he took the landlord aside, and
shutting himself up with him in the stable and falling on his knees
before him, said: "I will never rise from this posture, valiant knight,
until thou hast granted me of thy courtesy the favor which I desire, and
which shall redound to thine honor and to the benefit of the human
race."
Dumbfoundered at the strange attitude and still stranger language of his
guest, the landlord stared at him, not knowing what to do or say. He
begged him to rise, but Don Quixote steadily refused, so that at last he
was obliged to give the promise required.
"I expected no less from your High Mightiness," answered Don Quixote.
"And now hear what I desire: to-morrow at dawn you shall dub me knight,
and to that end I will this night keep the vigil of arms in the chapel
of your castle, so that I may be ready to receive the order of chivalry
in the morning and forthwith set out on the path of toil and glory which
awaits those who follow the perilous profession of knight-errant."
By this time the landlord began to perceive that Don Quixote was not
right in his wits, and being somewhat of a wag he resolved to make
matter for mirth by humoring his whim; and so he replied that such
ambition was most laudable, and just what he would have looked for in a
gentleman of his gallant presence. He had himself, he said, been a
cavalier of fortune in his youth--which in a certain sense was true, for
he had been a notorious thief and rogue, known to every magistrate in
Spain--and now, in his declining years, he was living in the retirement
of his castle, where his chief pleasure was to entertain wandering
knights; which, being interpreted, meant that he was a rascally landlord
and grew fat by cheating the unfortunate travelers who stayed at his
inn.
Then he went on to say that, with regard to the vigil of arms, it could
be held in the courtyard of the castle, as the chapel had been pulled
down to make place for a new one. "And to-morrow," he concluded, "you
shall be dubbed a knight--a full knight, and a perfect knight, so that
none shall be more so in all the world."
Having thanked the landlord for his kindness, and promised to obey him,
as his adoptive father, in all things, Don Quixote at once prepared to
perform the vigil of arms. Collecting his armor, he laid the several
pieces in a horse-trough which stood in the center of the inn-yard, and
then, taking his shield on his arm and grasping his lance, he began to
pace up and down with high-bred dignity before the trough.
The landlord had lost no time in informing those who were staying at the
inn of the mad freaks of his guest, and a little crowd was gathered to
watch his proceedings from a distance, which they were the better able
to do as the moon was shining with unusual brightness. Sometimes they
saw him stalking to and fro, with serene composure, and sometimes he
would pause in his march and stand for a good while leaning on his lance
and scanning his armor with a fixed and earnest gaze.
While this was going on, one of the mule-drivers took it into his head
to water his team, and approaching the horse-trough prepared to remove
Don Quixote's armor, which was in his way. Perceiving his intentions,
Don Quixote cried to him in a loud voice, saying: "O thou, whoever thou
art, audacious knight who drawest near to touch the armor of the bravest
champion that ever girt on sword, look what thou doest, and touch it
not, if thou wouldst not pay for thy rashness with thy life!"
The valiant defiance was thrown away on the muleteer, whose thick head
needed other arguments, and taking the armor by the straps, he flung it
a good way from him. Which when Don Quixote saw, he raised his eyes to
heaven, and fixing his thoughts (as may be supposed) on his lady
Dulcinea, he exclaimed: "Shine on me, light of my life, now, when the
first insult is offered to my devoted heart! Let not thy countenance and
favor desert me in this, my first adventure."
As he put up this pious appeal he let go his shield, and lifting his
lance in both hands, brought it down with such force on the muleteer's
head that he fell senseless to the ground; and if the blow had been
followed by another, he would have needed no physician to cure him.
Having done this, Don Quixote collected his armor, and began pacing up
and down again, with the same tranquility as before.
Presently another muleteer, knowing nothing of what had happened, came
up to the trough with the same intention as the first and was about to
lay hands on the armor when Don Quixote, without uttering a word or
asking favor of any one, once more lifted his lance and dealt the fellow
two smart strokes, which made two cross gashes on his crown.
Meanwhile the alarm had been raised in the house, and the whole troop of
muleteers now came running to avenge their comrades. Seeing himself
threatened by a general assault, Don Quixote drew his sword, and
thrusting his arm into his shield cried: "Queen of Beauty, who givest
power and might to this feeble heart, now let thine eyes be turned upon
thy slave, who stands on the threshold of so great a peril."
His words were answered by the muleteers with a shower of stones, which
he kept off as well as he could with his shield. At the noise of the
fray the innkeeper came puffing up, and called upon the muleteers to
desist. "The man is mad," said he, "as I told you before, and the law
cannot touch him, though he should kill you all."
"Ha! art thou there, base and recreant knight?" shouted Don Quixote in a
voice of thunder. "Is this thy hospitality to knights-errant? 'Tis well
for thee that I have not yet received the order of knighthood, or I
would have paid thee home for this outrage. As to you, base and sordid
pack, I care not for you a straw. Come one, come all, and take the wages
of your folly and presumption."
His tones were so threatening, and his aspect was so formidable, that he
struck terror into the hearts of his assailants, who drew back and left
off throwing stones; and, after some further parley, he allowed them to
carry off the wounded, and returned with unruffled dignity to the vigil
of arms.
The landlord was now thoroughly tired of his guest's wild antics, and,
resolving to make an end of the business, lest worse should come of it,
he went up to Don Quixote and asked pardon for the violence of that
low-born rabble, who had acted, he said, without his knowledge, and had
been properly chastised for their temerity. He added that the ceremony
of conferring knighthood might be performed in any place, and that two
hours sufficed for the vigil of arms, so that Don Quixote had fulfilled
this part of his duty twice over, as he had now been watching for double
that time.
All this was firmly believed by Don Quixote, and he requested that he
might be made a knight without further delay; for if, he said, he were
attacked again, after receiving the order of chivalry, he was determined
not to leave a soul alive in the castle, excepting those to whom he
might show mercy at the governor's desire.
The landlord, whose anxiety was increased by this alarming threat, went
and fetched a book in which he kept his accounts, and came back,
attended by a boy who carried a stump of candle, and by the two damsels
aforesaid. Then, bidding Don Quixote to kneel before him, he began to
murmur words from his book, in the tone of one who was saying his
prayers, and in the midst of his reading he raised his hand and gave Don
Quixote a smart blow on the neck, and then taking the sword laid it
gently on his shoulder, muttering all the time between his teeth with
the same air of devotion. Then he directed one of the ladies to gird on
his sword, which she did with equal liveliness and discretion--and she
had much need of the latter quality to prevent an explosion of
laughter--; however, the specimen which the new knight had just given of
his prowess kept their merriment in check.
When his spurs had been buckled on by the other damsel, the ceremony was
completed, and after some further compliments Don Quixote saddled
Rozinante and rode forth, a new-made knight, ready to astonish the world
with feats of arms and chivalry. The innkeeper, who was glad to see the
last of him, let him go without making any charge for what he had
consumed.
V. ON HONOR'S FIELD
On leaving the inn Don Quixote turned his horse's steps homewards, being
resolved to obtain a supply of money, and, above all, to provide himself
with a squire before seeking more distant scenes of adventure. Presently
he came to a cross-road, and after hesitating a moment, he resolved to
imitate his favorite heroes by leaving the direction to his steed, who
immediately took the nearest way to his stable. After advancing about
two leagues, our knight came in view of a great troop of people, who, as
it afterwards turned out, were merchants of Toledo, on their way to
Murcia to buy silk. There were six of them jogging comfortably along
under their umbrellas, with four servants on horseback, and three
mule-drivers walking and leading their beasts.
Here was a new opportunity, as Don Quixote thought, of displaying his
knightly valor, so he settled himself firmly in his stirrups, grasped
his lance, covered his breast with his shield, and stood waiting for the
arrival of those knights-errant,--for such he judged them to be; and
when they were come within hearing, he raised his voice and cried with
an air of proud defiance: "Halt, every mother's son of you, and confess
that in all the world there is no damsel more beautiful than the empress
of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso!"
Hearing the strange words and seeing the extravagant figure of him who
uttered them, the merchants drew up, and one of them, who was of a
waggish disposition, answered for the whole company and said: "Sir
Knight, we do not know the good lady of whom you speak; let us see her,
and if she is of such beauty as you describe, we will most gladly make
the confession which you require."
"If you were to see her," replied Don Quixote, "you must needs be
convinced that what I say is true, and that would be a poor triumph for
me. No, on the faith of my word alone, you must believe it, confess it,
assert it, swear to it, and maintain it! If not, I defy you to battle,
ye sons of lawlessness and arrogance! Here I stand ready to receive you,
whether ye come singly, as the rule of knighthood demands, or all
together, as is the custom with churls like you."
"Sir Knight," answered the merchant, "I entreat you in the name of all
this noble company, that you constrain us not to lay perjury to our
souls by swearing to a thing which we have neither seen nor heard. Show
us, at least, some portrait of this lady, though it be no bigger than a
grain of wheat, that our scruples may be satisfied. For so strongly are
we disposed in favor of the fair dame, that even if the picture should
exhibit her squinting with one eye, and dropping brimstone and vermilion
from the other, for all that we will vow and profess that she is as
lovely as you say."
"There drops not from her," shouted Don Quixote, aflame with fury,
"there drops not, I say, that which thou namest, but only sweet perfumes
and pearly dew. Neither is she cross-eyed nor hunch-backed, but straight
and slender as a peak of Guadarrama. But ye shall pay for the monstrous
blasphemy which ye have spoken against the angelic beauty of my lady and
queen."
With these words he leveled his lance and hurled himself upon the
speaker with such vigor and frenzy that if Rozinante had not chanced to
stumble and fall in mid career, the rash merchant would have paid dear
for his jest. Down went Rozinante, and his master rolled over and over
for some distance across the plain. Being brought up at last by a
projecting rock, he made frantic efforts to rise, but was kept down by
the weight of his armor and lay plunging and kicking on his back, but
ceased not for a moment to hurl threats and defiances at his laughing
foes. "Fly not, ye cowards, ye dastards! Wait awhile! Tis not by my
fault, but by the fault of my horse that I lie prostrate here."
One of the mule-drivers, who was somewhat hot-tempered, was so provoked
by the haughty language of the poor fallen knight, that he resolved to
give him the answer on his ribs, and running up he snatched the lance
from Don Quixote's hands, broke it in pieces, and taking one of them
began to beat him with such good-will that in spite of the armor he
bruised him like wheat in a mill-hopper. And he found the exercise so
much to his liking that he continued it until he had shivered every
fragment of the broken lance into splinters. Nevertheless he could not
stop the mouth of our valiant knight, who during all that tempest of
blows went on defying heaven and earth and shouting menaces against
those bandits, as he now supposed them to be.
At length the mule-driver grew weary, and the whole party rode off,
leaving the battered champion on the ground. When they were gone he made
another attempt to rise. But if he failed when he was sound and whole,
how much less could he do it now that he was almost hammered to pieces!
Notwithstanding, his heart was light and gay, for in his own fancy he
was a hero of romance, lying covered with wounds on honor's field.
VI. THE RETURN HOME
Two days had passed since Don Quixote left his home, and his niece and
his housekeeper were growing very anxious about him. More than once they
had heard him declare his intention to turn knight-errant, and they
began to fear that he had carried out his mad design. On the evening of
the second day, a few hours after he had been so roughly handled by the
muleteer, they heard a loud voice calling outside the street door: "Open
to Sir Baldwin and the Lord Marquis of Mantua, who is brought to your
gates grievously wounded." They made haste to unbar the door, and when
it was opened they saw a strange sight: mounted on an ass, whose head
was held by a laboring man of the village, sat Don Quixote, huddled
together in a most uncavalier-like posture, his armor all battered and
his face begrimed with dirt. Hard by stood Rozinante, a woeful object,
crooking his knees and drooping his head; and tied in a bundle on his
back were the splintered fragments of Don Quixote's lance.
When they saw who it was, they gathered round him with eager questions
and cries of welcome; but he checked them with a gesture and said:
"Control yourselves, all of you! I am grievously hurt, and if it be
possible let some one go and fetch Urganda the wise woman, that she may
examine and heal my wounds."
"Alack-a-day!" cried the housekeeper, lifting up her hands. "Did I not
tell you, gentlemen, that I knew on which foot my master halted? Come,
dear sir, and we will cure you, without the help of Urganda or anyone
else." And with many maledictions against the books of chivalry which
had done the kind gentleman so ill a turn, she assisted him to dismount,
and amongst them they carried him to his room, took off his armor, and
laid him on his bed. Then they inquired where he was hurt, and Don
Quixote exclaimed that he was bruised from head to foot, having been
thrown from his horse in an encounter with ten giants, the most
outrageous and ferocious in the world.
VII. THE BATTLE WITH THE WINDMILLS
For two weeks Don Quixote remained peacefully at home, and many were the
pleasant discussions which passed between him and his old friends, the
priest and barber, on his favorite theme--the pressing need of reviving
the profession of knight-errantry, and his own peculiar fitness for
rendering this great service to the world. All this time he was secretly
negotiating with a certain peasant, a neighbor of his, whose name was
Sancho Panza, an honest, poor man, not much better furnished with wits
than the knight himself. This simple fellow lent a ready ear to his
grand tales of glory and conquest, and at last consented to follow him
as his squire, being especially tempted by certain mysterious hints
which Don Quixote let fall concerning an "Isle," of which his new master
promised to make him governor at the first opportunity.
This matter being arranged Don Quixote patched up his armor, obtained a
new lance, and having provided himself with a sum of money, gave notice
to his squire of the day on which he proposed to start. Sancho, who was
short and fat and little used to traveling on foot, asked leave to bring
his ass, remarking that it was a very good one. This proposal gave the
knight pause, for, try as he would, he could remember no authority for a
squire on a long-eared charger; but finally he gave the required
permission, resolving to furnish him with a worthier steed as soon as
possible, by taking the horse of the first discourteous knight whom he
met.
When all was ready they set off together one night, without taking leave
of their families, and rode steadily on, so that by daybreak they were
beyond the reach of pursuit. Sancho Panza sat his ass like a patriarch,
carrying with him his saddle-bags and leather bottle; and all his
thoughts were of the Isle which his master had promised him. Don Quixote
was lost in loftier meditations until he was roused from his reverie by
the voice of his squire, who said: "I hope your Grace has not forgotten
the Isle which I was to have, for I shall know well how to govern it,
however big it may be."
"As to that," replied Don Quixote "thou needest have no fear; I shall
only be complying with an ancient and honorable custom of
knights-errant, and, indeed, I purpose to improve on their practice,
for, instead of waiting, as they often did, until thou art worn out in
my service, I shall seek the first occasion to bestow on thee this gift;
and it may be that before a week has passed thou wilt be crowned king of
that Isle."
"Well," said Sancho, "if this miracle should come to pass, my good wife
Joan will be a queen and my sons young princes."
"Who doubts it?" answered Don Quixote.
"I do," rejoined Sancho. "My Joan a queen! Nay, if it rained crowns, I
don't believe that one would ever settle on my dame's head. Believe me,
your honor, she's not worth three farthings as a queen; she might manage
as a countess, though that would be hard enough."
"Think not so meanly of thyself, Sancho," said Don Quixote, gravely.
"Marquis is the very least title which I intend for thee, if thou wilt
be content with that."
"That I will, and heaven bless your honor," said Sancho heartily. "I
will take what you give and be thankful, knowing that you will not make
the burden too heavy for my back."
Chatting thus, they reached the top of rising ground and saw before them
thirty or forty windmills in the plain below; and as soon as Don Quixote
set eyes on them he said to his squire: "Friend Sancho, we are in luck
to-day! See, there stands a troop of monstrous giants, thirty or more,
and with them I will forthwith do battle and slay them every one. With
their spoils we will lay the foundation of our fortune, as is the
victor's right; moreover it is doing heaven good service to sweep this
generation of vipers from off the face of the earth."
"What giants do you mean?" asked Sancho Panza.
"Those whom thou seest yonder," answered his master, "with the long
arms, which in such creatures are sometimes two leagues in length."
"What is your honor thinking of?" cried Sancho. "Those are not giants,
but windmills, and their arms, as you call them, are the sails, which,
being driven by the wind, set the millstones going."
"'Tis plain," said Don Quixote, "that thou hast still much to learn in
our school of adventures. I tell thee they are giants, and if thou art
afraid, keep out of the way and pass the time in prayer while I am
engaged with them in fierce and unequal battle."
Saying this, he set spurs to Rozinante, and turning a deaf ear to the
cries of Sancho, who kept repeating that the supposed giants were
nothing but windmills, he thundered across the plain, shouting at the
top of his voice: "Fly not, ye cowardly loons, for it is only a single
knight who is coming to attack you!"
Just at this moment there came a puff of wind, which set the sails in
motion; seeing which, Don Quixote cried: "Ay, swing your arms! If ye had
more of them than Briareos himself, I would make you pay for it." Then,
with a heartfelt appeal to his lady Dulcinea, he charged full gallop at
the nearest mill, and pierced the descending sail with his lance. The
weapon was shivered to pieces, and horse and rider, caught by the sweep
of the sail, were sent rolling with great violence across the plain.
"Heaven preserve us!" cried Sancho, who had followed as fast as his ass
could trot, and found his master lying very still by the side of his
steed. "Did I not warn your honor that those things were windmills and
not giants at all? Surely none could fail to see it, unless he had such
another whirligig in his own pate!"
"Be silent, good Sancho!" replied Don Quixote, "and know that the things
of war, beyond all others, are subject to continual mutation. Moreover,
in the present case I think, nay, I am sure, that an alien power has
been at work, even that wicked enchanter Friston; he it is who has
changed those giants into windmills to rob me of the honor of their
defeat. But in the end all his evil devices shall be baffled by my good
sword."
"Heaven grant that it may be so!" said Sancho, assisting him to rise;
and the knight then remounted Rozinante, whose shoulders were almost
splayed by his fall, and turned his face towards the Puerto Lapice, a
rugged mountain pass through which ran the main road from Madrid to
Andalusia; for such a place, he thought, could not fail to afford rich
and varied matter for adventures.
412
One of the best of Mr. Scudder's many fine
compilations for children is his _Book of
Legends_ from which the following story is
taken. It is the same story that Longfellow
tells in his _Tales of a Wayside Inn_ under the
title of "King Robert of Sicily." ("The Proud
King" is used here by permission of and special
arrangement with the publishers, The Houghton
Mifflin Co., Boston.)
THE PROUD KING
HORACE E. SCUDDER
There was once a king who ruled over many lands; he went to war, and
added one country after another to his kingdom. At last he came to be
emperor, and that is as much as any man can be. One night, after he was
crowned emperor, he lay awake and thought about himself.
"Surely," he said, "no one can be greater than I am, on earth or in
heaven."
The proud king fell asleep with these thoughts. When he awoke, the day
was fair, and he looked out on the pleasant world.
"Come," he said to the men about him; "to-day we will go a-hunting."
The horses were brought, the dogs came leaping, the horns sounded, and
the proud king with his courtiers rode off to the sport. They had hunted
all the morning, and were now in a deep wood. In the fields the sun had
beat upon their heads, and they were glad of the shade of the trees; but
the proud king wished for something more. He saw a lake not far off, and
he said to his men:
"Bide ye here, while I bathe in the lake and cool myself."
Then he rode apart till he came to the shore of the lake. There he got
down from his horse, laid aside his clothes, and plunged into the cool
water. He swam about, and sometimes dived beneath the surface, and so
was once more cool and fresh.
Now while the proud king was swimming away from the shore and diving to
the bottom, there came one who had the same face and form as the king.
He drew near the shore, dressed himself in the king's clothes, mounted
the king's horse and rode away. So when the proud king was once more
cool and fresh, and came to the place where he had left his clothes and
his horse, there were no clothes to be seen, and no horse.
The proud king looked about, but saw no man. He called, but no one heard
him. The air was mild, but the wood was dark, and no sunshine came
through to warm him after his cool bath. He walked by the shore of the
lake and cast about in his mind what he should do.
"I have it," he cried at last. "Not far from here lives a knight. It was
but a few days ago that I made him a knight and gave him a castle. I
will go to him, and he will be glad enough to clothe his king."
The proud king wove some reeds into a mat and bound the mat about him,
and then he walked to the castle of the knight. He beat loudly at the
gate of the castle and called for the porter. The porter came and stood
behind the gate. He did not draw the bolt at once, but asked:--
"Who is there?"
"Open the gate," said the proud king, "and you will see who I am."
The porter opened the gate, and was amazed at what he saw.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Wretch!" said the proud king; "I am the emperor. Go to your master. Bid
him come to me with clothes. I have lost both clothes and horse."
"A pretty emperor!" the porter laughed. "The great emperor was here not
an hour ago. He came with his court from a hunt. My master was with him
and sat at meat with him. But stay you here. I will call my master. Oh,
yes! I will show him the emperor," and the porter wagged his beard and
laughed, and went within.
He came forth again with the knight and pointed at the proud king.
"There is the emperor!" he said. "Look at him! look at the great
emperor!"
"Draw near," said the proud king to the knight, "and kneel to me. I gave
thee this castle. I made thee knight. I give thee now a greater gift. I
give thee the chance to clothe thy emperor with clothes of thine own."
"You dog!" cried the knight. "You fool! I have just ridden with the
emperor, and have come back to my castle. Here!" he shouted to his
servants, "beat this fellow and drive him away from the gate."
The porter looked on and laughed.
"Lay on well," he said to the other servants. "It is not every day that
you can flog an emperor."
Then they beat the proud king, and drove him from the gate of the
castle.
"Base knight!" said the proud king. "I gave him all he has, and this is
how he repays me. I will punish him when I sit on my throne again. I
will go to the duke who lives not far away. Him I have known all my
days. He will know me. He will know his emperor."
So he came to the gate of the duke's great hall, and knocked three
times. At the third knock the porter opened the gate, and saw before him
a man clad only in a mat of reeds, and stained and bleeding.
"Go, I pray you, to the duke," said the proud king, "and bid him come to
me. Say to him that the emperor stands at the gate. He has been robbed
of his clothes and of his horse. Go quickly to your master."
The porter closed the gate between them, and went within to the duke.
"Your Grace," said he, "there is a madman at the gate. He is unclad and
wild. He bade me come to you and tell you that he was the emperor."
"Here is a strange thing indeed," said the duke; "I will see it for
myself."
So he went to the gate, followed by his servants, and when the porter
opened it there stood the proud king. The proud king knew the duke, but
the duke saw only a bruised and beaten madman.
"Do you not know me?" cried the proud king. "I am your emperor. Only
this morning you were on the hunt with me. I left you that I might bathe
in the lake. While I was in the water, some wretch took both my clothes
and my horse, and I--I have been beaten by a base knight."
"Put him in chains," said the duke to his servants. "It is not safe to
have such a man free. Give him some straw to lie on, and some bread and
water."
The duke turned away and went back to his hall, where his friends sat at
table.
"That was a strange thing," he said. "There was a madman at the gate. He
must have been in the wood this morning, for he told me that I was on
the hunt with the emperor, and so I was; and he told me that the
emperor went apart to bathe in the lake, and so he did. But he said that
some one stole the clothes and the horse of the emperor, yet the emperor
rode back to us cool and fresh, and clothed and on his horse. And he
said"--And the duke looked around on his guests.
"What did he say?"
"He said that he was the emperor."
Then the guests fell to talking and laughing, and soon forgot the
strange thing. But the proud king lay in a dark prison, far even from
the servants of the duke. He lay on straw, and chains bound his feet.
"What is this that has come upon me?" he said. "Am I brought so low? Am
I so changed that even the duke does not know me? At least there is one
who will know me, let me wear what I may."
Then, by much labor, he loosed the chains that bound him, and fled in
the night from the duke's prison. When the morning came, he stood at the
door of his own palace. He stood there awhile; perhaps some one would
open the door and let him in. But no one came, and the proud king lifted
his hand and knocked; he knocked at the door of his own palace. The
porter came at last and looked at him.
"Who are you?" he asked, "and what do you want?"
"Do you not know me?" cried the proud king. "I am your master. I am the
king. I am the emperor. Let me pass"; and he would have thrust him
aside. But the porter was a strong man; he stood in the doorway, and
would not let the proud king enter.
"You my master! you the emperor! poor fool, look here!" and he held the
proud king by the arm while he pointed to a hall beyond. There sat the
emperor on his throne, and by his side was the queen.
"Let me go to her! she will know me," cried the proud king, and he tried
to break away from the porter. The noise without was heard in the hall.
The nobles came out, and last of all came the emperor and the queen.
When the proud king saw these two, he could not speak. He was choked
with rage and fear, and he knew not what.
"You know me!" at last he cried. "I am your lord and husband."
The queen shrank back.
"Friends," said the man who stood by her, "what shall be done to this
wretch?"
"Kill him," said one.
"Put out his eyes," said another.
"Beat him," said a third.
Then they all hustled the proud king out of the palace court. Each one
gave him a blow, and so he was thrust out, and the door was shut behind
him.
The proud king fled, he knew not whither. He wished he were dead. By and
by he came to the lake where he had bathed. He sat down on the shore. It
was like a dream, but he knew he was awake, for he was cold and hungry
and faint. Then he knelt on the ground and beat his breast, and said:
"I am no emperor. I am no king. I am a poor, sinful man. Once I thought
there was no one greater than I, on earth or in heaven. Now I know that
I am nothing, and there is no one so poor and so mean. God forgive me
for my pride."
As he said this, tears stood in his eyes. He wiped them away and rose to
his feet. Close by him he saw the clothes which he had once laid aside.
Near at hand was his horse, eating the soft grass. The king put on his
clothes; he mounted his horse and rode to his palace. As he drew near,
the door opened and servants came forth. One held his horse; another
helped him dismount. The porter bowed low.
"I marvel I did not see thee pass out, my lord," he said.
The king entered, and again saw the nobles in the great hall. There
stood the queen also, and by her side was the man who called himself
emperor. But the queen and the nobles did not look at him; they looked
at the king, and came forward to meet him.
This man also came forward, but he was clad in shining white, and not in
the robes of the emperor. The king bowed his head before him.
"I am thy angel," said the man. "Thou wert proud, and made thyself to be
set on high. Therefore thou hast been brought low. I have watched over
thy kingdom. Now I give it back to thee, for thou art once again humble,
and the humble only are fit to rule."
Then the angel disappeared. No one else heard his voice, and the nobles
thought the king had bowed to them. So the king once more sat on the
throne, and ruled wisely and humbly ever after.
413
Eva March Tappan (1854--) has compiled many
books for children, including the popular
collection in ten volumes called _The
Children's Hour_. Among her most delightful
books is _Robin Hood: His Book_, from which the
following story is taken, (by permission of the
publishers, Little, Brown & Co., Boston). Some
few moralists have been distressed about giving
stories of an outlaw to children, but Robin
Hood was really the champion of the people
against tyrannous oppression and injustice.
This is the fact that children never miss, and
the thing that endears Robin and his followers
in Lincoln green. There is, of course, the
further interesting fact that these stories
take place out in the open and have the charm
that comes from adventures and wanderings
through the secrecies of ancient Sherwood
Forest. Against this outdoor background are
displayed the good old "virtues of courage,
forbearance, gentleness, courtesy, justice, and
championship."
ROBIN AND THE MERRY LITTLE OLD WOMAN
EVA MARCH TAPPAN
"Monday I wash and Tuesday I iron,
Wednesday I cook and I mend;
Thursday I brew and Friday I sweep,
And baking day brings the end."
So sang the merry little old woman as she sat at her wheel and spun; but
when she came to the last line she really could not help pushing back
the flax-wheel and springing to her feet. Then she held out her skirt
and danced a gay little jig as she sang,--
"Hey down, down, an a down!"
She curtseyed to one side of the room and then to another, and before
she knew it she was curtseying to a man who stood in the open door.
"Oh, oh, oh!" cried the merry little old woman. "Whatever shall I do? An
old woman ought to sit and spin and not be dancing like a young girl.
Oh, but it's Master Robin! Glad am I to set eyes on you, Master Robin.
Come in, and I'll throw my best cloak over the little stool for a
cushion. Don't be long standing on the threshold, Master Robin."
"It'll mayhap come to pass that I'll wish I had something to stand on,"
said Robin, grimly, "for the proud bishop is in the forest, and he's
after me with all his men. It's night and day that he's been following
me, and now he's caught me surely. You've no meal chest, have you, and
you've no press, and you've no feather-bed that'll hide me? There's but
the one wee bit room, and there's not even a mousehole."
The little woman's heart beat fast. What could she do?
"I mind me well of a Saturday night," said she, "when I'd but little
firewood and it was bitter cold, that you and your men brought me such
fine logs as the great folks at the hall don't have; and then you came
in yourself and gave me a pair of shoon and some brand-new hosen, all
soft and fine and woolly--I don't believe the king himself has such a
pair--oh, Master Robin, I've thought of something. Give me your mantle
of green and your fine gray tunic, and do you put on my kirtle and
jacket and gown, and tie my red and blue kerchief over your head--you
gave it to me yourself, you did; it was on Easter Day in the
morning--and do you sit down at the wheel and spin. See, you put your
foot on the treadle _so_, to turn the wheel, and you twist the flax with
your fingers _so_. Don't you get up, but just turn the wheel and grumble
and mumble to yourself."
It was not long before the bishop and all his men came riding up to the
little old woman's house. The bishop thrust open the door and called:--
"Old woman, what have you done with Robin Hood?" but Robin sat grumbling
and mumbling at the wheel and answered never a word to the proud bishop.
"She's mayhap daft," said one of the bishop's men. "We'll soon find
him"; and in a minute he had looked up the chimney and behind the
dresser and under the wooden bedstead. Then he turned to the corner
cupboard.
"You're daft yourself," said the bishop, "to look in that little place
for a strong man like Robin." And all the time the spinner at the wheel
sat grumbling and mumbling. It was a queer thread that was wound on the
spool, but no one thought of that. It was Robin that they wanted, and
they cared little what kind of thread an old woman in a cottage was
a-spinning.
"He's here, your Reverence," called a man who had opened the lower door
of the corner cupboard.
"Bring him out and set him on the horse," ordered the bishop, "and see
to it that you treat him like a wax candle in the church. The king's
bidden that the thief and outlaw be brought to him, and I well know
he'll hang the rogue on a gallows so high that it will show over the
whole kingdom; but he has given orders that no one shall have the reward
if the rascal has but a bruise on his finger, save that it came in a
fair fight."
So the merry little old woman in Robin's tunic and Robin's green cloak
was set gently on a milk-white steed. The bishop himself mounted a
dapple-gray, and down the road they went.
It was the cheeriest party that one can imagine. The bishop went
laughing all the way for pure delight that he had caught Robin Hood. He
told more stories than one could make up in an age of leap-years, and
they were all about where he went and what he did in the days before he
became bishop. The men were so happy at the thought of having the great
reward the king had offered that they laughed at the bishop's stories
louder than any one had ever laughed at them before. And as for the
merry little old woman, she had the gayest time of all, though she had
to keep her face muffled in her hood, and couldn't laugh aloud the least
bit, and couldn't jump down from the great white horse and dance the gay
little jig that her feet were fairly aching to try.
While the merry little old woman was riding off with the bishop and his
men, Robin sat at the flax-wheel and spun and spun till he could no
longer hear the beat of the horses' hoofs on the hard ground. No time
had he to take off the kirtle and the jacket and the kerchief of red and
blue, for no one knew when the proud bishop might find out that he had
the wrong prisoner, and would come galloping back to the cottage on the
border of the forest.
"If I can only get to my good men and true!" thought Robin; and he
sprang up from the little flax-wheel with the distaff in his hand, and
ran out of the open door.
All the long day had Robin been away from his bowmen, and as the
twilight time drew near, they were more and more fearful of what might
have befallen him. They went to the edge of the forest, and there they
sat with troubled faces.
"I've heard that the sheriff was seen but two days ago on the eastern
side of the wood," said Much the miller's son.
"And the proud bishop's not in his palace," muttered Will Scarlet.
"Where he's gone I know not, but may the saints keep Master Robin from
meeting him. He hates us men of the greenwood worse than the sheriff
does, and he'd hang any one of us to the nearest oak."
"He'd not hang Master Robin," declared Much the miller's son, "for the
bishop likes good red gold, and the king's offered a great reward for
him alive and unhurt." The others laughed, but in a moment they were
grave again, and peered anxiously through the trees in one way and then
in another, while nearer came the twilight.
"There are folks who say the forest is haunted," said Little John. "I
never saw anything, but one night when I was close to the little black
pond that lies to the westward, I heard a cry that wasn't from bird or
beast; I know that."
"And didn't you see anything?" asked Much the miller's son.
"No," answered Little John, "but where there's a cry, there's something
to make the cry, and it wasn't bird or beast; I'm as sure of that as I
am that my name is Little John."
"But it isn't," declared Friar Tuck. "You were christened John Little."
No one smiled, for they were too much troubled about Robin.
"When I was a youngster," said William Scarlet, "I had an old nurse, and
she told me that a first cousin of hers knew a woman whose husband was
going through the forest by night, and he saw a witch carry a round
bundle under her arm. It was wrapped up in a brown kerchief; and while
he looked, the wind blew the kerchief away, and he saw that the round
bundle was a man's head. The mouth of it opened and called, 'Help!
help!' He shot an arrow through the old witch, and then he said to the
head, 'Where do you want to go? Whose head are you?' The head answered,
'I'm your head, and I want to go on your shoulders.' Then he put up his
hand, and, sure enough, his own head was gone, and there it lay on the
ground beside the dead witch with the arrow sticking through her. He
took up the head and set it on his shoulders. This was the story that he
told when he came back in the morning, but no one knew whether really to
believe it all or not. After that night he always carried his head a bit
on one side, and some said it was because he hadn't set it back quite
straight: but there are some folks that won't believe anything unless
they see it themselves, and they said he had had a drink or two more
than he should and that he took cold in his neck from sleeping with his
head on the wet moss."
"Everybody knows there are witches," said Will Scarlet, "and folks say
that wherever they may be through the day, they run to the forest when
the sun begins to sink, and while they're running they can't say any
magic words to hurt a man if he shoots them."
"What's that?" whispered Much the miller's son softly, and he fitted an
arrow to the string.
"Wait; make a cross on it first," said Little John.
Something was flitting over the little moor. The soft gray mist hid the
lower part of it, but the men could see what looked like the upper part
of a woman's body, scurrying along through the fog in some mysterious
fashion. Its arms were tossing wildly about, and it seemed to be
beckoning. The head was covered with what might have been a kerchief,
but it was too dusky to see clearly.
"Don't shoot till it's nearer," whispered William Scarlet. "They say if
you hurt a witch and don't kill her outright, you'll go mad forever
after."
Nearer came the witch, but still Much the miller's son waited with his
bow bent and the arrow aimed. The witch ran under the low bough of a
tree, the kerchief was caught on a broken limb, and--
"Why, it's Master Robin!" shouted Much the miller's son. "It's Master
Robin himself"; and so it was. No time had he taken to throw off the
gray kirtle and the black jacket and the blue and red kerchief about his
head; for as soon as ever he could no longer hear the tramp of the
horses's hoofs, he had run with the distaff still in his hand to the
shelter of the good greenwood and the help of his own faithful men and
true.
Meanwhile the bishop was still telling stories of what he did before he
was a bishop, and the men were laughing at them, and the merry little
old woman was having the gayest time of all, even though she dared not
laugh out loud.
Now that the bishop had caught Robin Hood he had no fear of the
greenwood rangers; and as the forest road was much nearer than the
highway, down the forest road the happy company went. The merry little
old woman had sometimes sat on a pillion and ridden a farm beast from
the plough; but to be on a great horse like this, one that held his head
so high and stepped so carefully where it was rough, and galloped so
lightly and easily where it was smooth--why, she had never even dreamed
of such a magnificent ride. Not a word did she speak, not even when the
bishop began to tell her that no gallows would be high enough to hang
such a wicked outlaw. "You've stolen gold from the knights," said he,
"you've stolen from the sheriff of Nottingham, and you've even stolen
from me. Glad am I to see Robin Hood--but what's that?" the bishop
cried. "Who are those men, and who is their leader? And who are you?" he
demanded of the merry little old woman.
Now the little woman had been taught to order herself lowly and
reverently to all her betters, so before she answered the bishop she
slipped down from the tall white horse and made a deep curtsey to the
great man.
"If you please, sir," said she, "I think it's Robin Hood and his men."
"And who are you?" he demanded again.
"Oh, I'm nobody but a little old woman that lives in a cottage alone and
spins," and then she sang in a lightsome little chirrup of a voice:--
"Monday I wash and Tuesday I iron,
Wednesday I cook and I mend;
Thursday I brew and Friday I sweep,
And baking day brings the end."
I fear that the bishop did not hear the little song, for the arrows were
flying thick and fast. The little old woman slipped behind a big tree,
and there she danced her
"Hey down, down, an a down!"
to her heart's content, while the fighting went on.
It was not long before the great bishop was Robin's prisoner, and ere he
could go free, he had to open his strong leather wallet and count out
more gold than the moon had shone on in the forest for many and many a
night. He laid down the goldpieces one by one, and at every piece he
gave a groan that seemed to come from the very bottom of his boots.
"That's for all the world like the cry I heard from the little black
pond to the westward," said Little John. "It wasn't like bird and it
wasn't like beast, and now I know what it was; it was the soul of a
stingy man, and he had to count over and over the money that he ought to
have given away when he was alive."
As for the merry little old woman, she was a prisoner too, and such a
time as she had! First there was a bigger feast than she had ever
dreamed of before, and every man of Robin's followers was bound that she
should eat the bit that he thought was nicest. They made her a little
throne of soft green moss, and on it they laid their hunting cloaks.
They built a shelter of fresh boughs over her head, and then they sang
songs to her. They set up great torches all round about the glade. They
wrestled and they vaulted and they climbed. They played every game that
could be played by torchlight, and it was all to please the kind little
woman who had saved the life of their master.
The merry little woman sat and clapped her hands at all their feats, and
she laughed until she cried. Then she wiped her eyes and sang them her
one little song.
The men shouted and cheered, and cheered and shouted, and the woods
echoed so long and so loud that one would have thought they, too, were
trying to shout.
By and by the company all set out together to carry the little old woman
to her cottage. She was put upon their very best and safest horse, and
Robin Hood would have none lead it but himself. After the horse came a
long line of good bowmen and true. One carried a new cloak of the finest
wool. Another bore a whole armful of silken kerchiefs to make up for the
one that Robin had worn away. There were "shoon and hosen," and there
was cloth of scarlet and of blue, and there were soft, warm blankets for
her bed. There were so many things that when they were all piled up in
the little cottage, there was no chance for one tenth of the men to get
into the room. Those that were outside pushed up to the window and
stretched their heads in at the door: and they tried their best to pile
up the great heap of things so she could have room to go to bed that
night and to cook her breakfast in the morning.
"And to-morrow's sweeping day," cried Robin. "'Thursday I brew and
Friday I sweep,' and how'll she sweep if she has no floor?"
"We'll have to make her a floor," declared Friar Tuck.
"So we will," said Robin. "There's a good man not far away who can work
in wood, and he shall come in the morning and build her another room."
"Oh, oh!" cried the merry little old woman with delight, "I never
thought I should have a house with two rooms; but I'll always care for
this room the most, for there's just where Master Robin stood when he
came in at the door, and there's where he sat when he was spinning the
flax. But, Master Robin, Master Robin, did any one ever see such a
thread as you've left on the spool!"
It was so funny that the merry little old woman really couldn't help
jumping up and dancing.
"Hey down, down, an a down!"
And then the brave men and true all said good-night and went back to the
forest.
414
All attempts to prove the historical existence
of Robin Hood have been unsuccessful. His story
has come down to us in a group of old folk
ballads, about forty in number, dating from
about the beginning of the fifteenth century.
One of these old ballads is given below. They
were sung to a recurrent melody, which was as
much a part of them as the words of the story.
Other ballads in the group that are likely to
be very interesting to children are "Robin Hood
and Little John," "Robin Hood and Maid Marian,"
"Robin Hood Rescuing the Three Squires," "Robin
Hood's Death and Burial." The best source for
these ballads is Child's _English and Scottish
Popular Ballads_ (ed. Sargent and Kittredge).
Tennyson dramatized the Robin Hood story in
_The Foresters_, as did Alfred Noyes in
_Sherwood_. Reginald De Koven made a very
successful comic opera out of it, while Thomas
Love Peacock's _Maid Marian_ is an interesting
novelization of the theme.
ALLEN-A-DALE
Come listen to me, you gallants so free,
All you that love mirth for to hear,
And I will tell you of a bold outlaw,
That lived in Nottinghamshire.
As Robin Hood in the forest stood,
All under the greenwood tree,
There was he ware of a brave young man,
As fine as fine might be.
The youngster was clothed in scarlet red,
In scarlet fine and gay,
And he did frisk it over the plain,
And chanted a roundelay.
As Robin Hood next morning stood,
Amongst the leaves so gay,
There did he spy the same young man
Come drooping along the way.
The scarlet he wore the day before,
It was clean cast away;
And every step he fetched a sigh,
"Alack! and well-a-day!"
Then stepped forth brave Little John.
And Nick, the miller's son,
Which made the young man bend his bow,
When as he saw them come.
"Stand off! stand off!" the young man said;
"What is your will with me?"
"You must come before our master straight,
Under yon greenwood tree."
And when he came bold Robin before,
Robin asked him courteously,
"O hast thou any money to spare
For my merry men and me?"
"I have no money," the young man said,
"But five shillings and a ring;
And that I have kept this seven long years,
To have it at my wedding.
"Yesterday I should have married a maid,
But she is now from me ta'en,
And chosen to be an old knight's delight,
Whereby my poor heart is slain."
"What is thy name?" then said Robin Hood;
"Come tell me without any fail."
"By the faith of my body," then said the young man,
"My name it is Allen-a-Dale."
"What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood,
"In ready gold or fee,
To help thee to thy truelove again,
And deliver her unto thee?"
"I have no money," then quoth the young man,
"No ready gold nor fee,
But I will swear upon a book
Thy true servant for to be."
"How many miles is it to thy truelove?
Come tell me without any guile:"
"By the faith of my body," then said the young man,
"It is but five little mile."
Then Robin he hasted over the plain,
He did neither stint nor lin,
Until he came unto the church
Where Allen should keep his wedding.
"What dost thou here?" the bishop he said,
"I prithee now tell to me"
"I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood,
"And the best in the north country."
"O welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said.
"That music best pleaseth me."
"You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood,
"Till the bride and bridegroom I see."
With that came in a wealthy knight,
Which was both grave and old,
And after him a finikin lass,
Did shine like glistering gold.
"This is no fit match," quoth bold Robin Hood,
"That you do seem to make here;
For since we are come unto the church,
The bride she shall choose her own dear."
Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth,
And blew blasts two or three;
When four and twenty bowmen bold
Came leaping over the lea.
And when they came into the churchyard,
Marching all in a row,
The first man was Allen-a-Dale,
To give bold Robin his bow.
"This is thy truelove," Robin he said,
"Young Allen, as I hear say;
And you shall be married at this same time,
Before we depart away."
"That shall not be," the bishop he said,
"For thy word shall not stand;
They shall be three times asked in the church,
As the law is of our land."
Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat,
And put it upon Little John;
"By the faith of my body," then Robin said,
"This cloth doth make thee a man."
When Little John went into the choir,
The people began for to laugh;
He asked them seven times in the church,
Lest three times should not be enough.
"Who gives me this maid?" then said Little John;
Quoth Robin, "That do I,
And he that doth take her from Allen-a-Dale
Full dearly he shall her buy."
And thus having ended this merry wedding,
The bride looked as fresh as a queen,
And so they returned to the merry greenwood,
Amongst the leaves so green.
SECTION XI
BIOGRAPHY AND HERO STORIES
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Abbott, J. S. C., _Christopher Carson_. _David Crockett._
Antin, Mary, _The Promised Land_.
Baldwin, James, _Four Great Americans_. [Washington, Franklin,
Webster, Lincoln.] _An American Book of Golden Deeds._
Bolton, Sarah K., _Lives of Girls Who Became Famous_. _Lives of
Poor Boys Who Became Famous._
Boutet de Monvel, Louis Maurice, _Joan of Arc_.
Brooks, Elbridge S., _True Story of Christopher Columbus_.
Cody, Col. W. F., _Adventures of Buffalo Bill_.
Franklin, Benjamin, _Autobiography_.
Golding, V., _Story of David Livingston_.
Gould, F. J., _The Children's Plutarch_. [2 vols., one of Greeks,
the other of Romans.]
Hathaway, Esse V., _Napoleon, the Little Corsican_.
Hughes, Thomas, _Alfred the Great_.
Jefferson, Joseph, _Autobiography_.
Jenks, Tudor, _Captain John Smith_.
Keller, Helen, _The Story of My Life_.
Larcom, Lucy, _A New England Girlhood_.
Mabie, Hamilton W., _Heroines Every Child Should Know_.
Moores, Charles W., _Life of Abraham Lincoln for Boys and Girls_.
Muir, John, _Story of My Boyhood and Youth_.
Nicolay, Helen, _Boy's Life of Abraham Lincoln_.
Page, Thomas Nelson, _Robert E. Lee: Man and Soldier_.
Paine, Albert Bigelow, _Boy's Life of Mark Twain_.
Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, _Roll Call of Honor_. [Bolivar, John
Brown, Abraham Lincoln, Garibaldi, David Livingston, Florence
Nightingale, Pasteur, Gordon, Father Damien.]
Richards, Laura E., _Florence Nightingale_.
Riis, Jacob, _Making of an American_.
Roosevelt, Theodore, and Lodge, Henry Cabot, _Hero Tales from
American History_.
Scudder, Horace E., _George Washington_.
Shaw, Anna Howard, _The Story of a Pioneer_.
Tarbell, Ida M., _Life of Abraham Lincoln_.
Thwaites, Reuben G., _Daniel Boone_.
Washington, Booker T., _Up from Slavery_.
White, John S., _Boys' and Girls' Plutarch_. [Preserves parallel
arrangement.]
Yonge, Charlotte M., _A Book of Golden Deeds_.
SECTION XI. BIOGRAPHY AND HERO STORIES
INTRODUCTORY
_Biography and its value._ The great charm of biography for both young
and old is in its perfect concreteness. Nothing fascinates like the
story of a real person at grips with realities. Nothing inspires like
the story of a hard-won victory over difficulties. Here are instances of
men and women, our own kindred, facing great crises in the physical or
moral realm with the calm courage and the clear mind of which we have
dreamed. Here are others who have fought the brave fight in opposition
to the stupidities and long-entrenched prejudices of their fellows. Here
are still others who have wrested from nature her innermost secrets, who
have won for us immunity against lurking diseases and dangers, who have
labored successfully against great odds to make life more safe, more
comfortable, or more beautiful. All these records of real accomplishment
appeal to the youthful spirit of emulation, and there can be no stronger
inspiration in facing the unsolved problems of the future. "What men
have done men can still do."
_The material and its presentation._ Most teachers will find the
biographical or historical story easier to handle than the imaginative
story, because there is a definite outline of fact from which to work.
Only those life stories with which the teacher is in sympathy can be
handled satisfactorily. For that reason no definite list of suitable
material is worth much, except as illustrating the wide range of choice.
Keeping these limitations in mind, we may venture a few practical hints:
1. There is a large list of heroic figures
hovering on the border line between reality and
legend of whose stories children never tire. In
such a list are the names of Leonidas, who held
the pass at Thermopylae, William Tell and
Arnold von Winkelried, favorite heroes of
Switzerland, Robert Bruce of Scotland, and that
pair of immortally faithful friends, Damon and
Pythias.
2. With Marco Polo we may visit the wonderlands
of the East, we may go with Captain Cook
through the islands of the southern seas, with
Stanley through darkest Africa, with the brave
Scott in his tragic dash for the South Pole.
Best of all, perhaps, we may, with Columbus,
discover another America.
3. How Elihu Burritt became the "learned
blacksmith," how Hugh Miller brought himself to
be an authority on the old red sandstone, are
always inspiring stories to the ambitious
student. And in any list of achievements by
those bound in by untoward circumstance must be
placed that of Booker T. Washington as told by
himself in _Up from Slavery_.
4. From our earlier history we may draw upon
such lives as those of Franklin, Washington,
and Patrick Henry. There are numberless
stirring episodes from the careers of Francis
Marion, Israel Putnam, Nathan Hale, and others
that will occur to any reader of our history.
Lincoln's life history offers an almost
inexhaustible treasure. Grant, grimly silent
and persevering, and Lee, kindly gentleman and
military genius, belong in any course that
stresses our national achievements.
5. Stories of men who have mastered the secrets
of the forces of nature never fail of interest.
Stephenson and the locomotive engine, Sir
Humphry Davy and the safety lamp, Whitney and
the cotton gin, Marconi and the wonders of
wireless communication, the Wright brothers and
the airplane, Edison and the incandescant light
and the motion picture, Luther Burbank and his
marvelous work with plants--these are only a
few to place near the head of any list.
6. Especially interesting for work in the
grades are the stories of the pioneer and
plainsman days, of Kit Carson, Davy Crockett,
Daniel Boone, and Buffalo Bill.
7. We must not neglect stories of achievement
by those who have been handicapped by great
physical disability, such as are found in the
careers of Henry Fawcett, the blind statesman
of England, and of our own Helen Keller, whose
_Story of My Life_ has become a classic source
of material.
8. The life of Joan of Arc has long been a
supreme favorite for biographical story. Its
simple directness, its fiery patriotism, its
pathetic and tragic close, give it all the
force of some great consciously designed
masterpiece. The events of such a life can be
arranged in a series or cycle of stories. Of
very different type, but of almost equally
strong appeal, is the story of the work of
Florence Nightingale, whose efforts among the
British soldiers in the terrible scenes of the
Crimean War set in motion those humanitarian
enterprises so splendidly exemplified in the
work of the Red Cross organizations.
9. Finally, no teacher should fail to make use
of many modern careers that impress upon
children the devotion of lives spent in
bettering the conditions under which people
live. Among some of these may be mentioned
Colonel George E. Waring, the sanitary engineer
who really cleaned the streets of New York;
General W. C. Gorgas, who led in the conquest
of the great yellow fever plague; Dr. Wilfred
Grenfell, still spending his life for the
natives of bleak Labrador; and the famous
French scientist, Louis Pasteur, who found out
for us how to preserve milk and how to escape
the dread hydrophobia. Such careers devoted to
ameliorating the evils incident to civilization
are of great value in stirring into active
existence the latent spirit of service in every
pupil.
10. Wide-awake teachers will constantly find in
the periodicals of the day many episodes of
achievement by men and women working in various
fields of helpfulness. Such present-day
accomplishments should be emphasized. We live
in the present, and the duties and
opportunities of the present are to furnish the
inspirations and indicate the fields of
possible achievement for us.
SUGGESTIONS FOR READING
For a very practical discussion of biographical
stories see Lyman, _Story Telling_, chap. v.
The great classic sources of inspiration on the
subject are Carlyle, _Heroes and Hero Worship_,
and Emerson, _Representative Men_. Of special
value is the opening chapter in the latter
book, "Uses of Great Men."
415
Elbridge S. Brooks (1846-1902) was a well-known
American writer of juvenile books on history,
government, and biography. His _True Story of
Christopher Columbus_, from which the following
selection was taken, is a well-written book
that pupils in the fifth and sixth grades read
with pleasure. _The Century Book for Young
Americans_ is a story of our government. Other
books by the same author are _The True Story of
George Washington_, _The True Story of
Lafayette_, and _The True Story of U. S.
Grant_. ("How Columbus Got His Ships" is used
here by permission of the publishers, Lothrop,
Lee & Shepard Co., Boston.)
HOW COLUMBUS GOT HIS SHIPS
ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS
When Columbus was at school he had studied about a certain man named
Pythagoras, who had lived in Greece thousands of years before he was
born, and who had said that the earth was round "like a ball or an
orange." As Columbus grew older and made maps and studied the sea, and
read books and listened to what other people said, he began to believe
that this man named Pythagoras might be right, and that the earth was
round, though everybody declared it was flat. "If it is round," he said
to himself, "what is the use of trying to sail around Africa to get to
Cathay? Why not just sail west from Italy or Spain and keep going right
around the world until you strike Cathay? I believe it could be done,"
said Columbus.
By this time Columbus was a man. He was thirty years old and was a great
sailor. He had been captain of a number of vessels; he had sailed north
and south and east; he knew all about a ship and all about the sea. But,
though he was a good sailor, when he said that he believed the earth was
round, everybody laughed at him and said that he was crazy. "Why, how
can the earth be round?" they cried. "The water would all spill out if
it were, and the men who live on the other side would all be standing on
their heads with their feet waving in the air." And then they laughed
all the harder.
But Columbus did not think it was anything to laugh at. He believed it
so strongly and felt so sure that he was right, that he set to work to
find some king or prince or great lord to let him have ships and sailors
and money enough to try to find a way to Cathay by sailing out into the
West and across the Atlantic Ocean.
Now this Atlantic Ocean, the western waves of which break upon our rocks
and beaches, was thought in Columbus's day to be a dreadful place.
People called it the Sea of Darkness, because they did not know what was
on the other side of it, or what dangers lay beyond that distant blue
rim where the sky and water seem to meet, and which we call the horizon.
They thought the ocean stretched to the end of a flat world, straight
away to a sort of "jumping-off place," and that in this jumping-off
place were giants and goblins and dragons and monsters and all sorts of
terrible things that would catch the ships and destroy them and the
sailors.
So when Columbus said that he wanted to sail away toward this dreadful
jumping-off place, the people said that he was worse than crazy. They
said he was a wicked man and ought to be punished.
But they could not frighten Columbus. He kept on trying. He went from
place to place trying to get the ships and sailors he wanted and was
bound to have. As you will see later, he tried to get help wherever he
thought it could be had. He asked the people of his own home, the city
of Genoa, where he had lived and played when a boy; he asked the people
of the beautiful city that is built in the sea--Venice; he tried the
king of Portugal, the king of England, the king of France, the king and
queen of Spain. But for a long time nobody cared to listen to such a
wild and foolish and dangerous plan--to go to Cathay by the way of the
Sea of Darkness and the jumping-off place. "You would never get there
alive," they said.
And so Columbus waited. And his hair grew white while he waited, though
he was not yet an old man. He had thought and worked and hoped so much
that he began to look like an old man when he was forty years old. But
still he would never say that perhaps he was wrong, after all. He said
he knew he was right, and that some day he should find the Indies and
sail to Cathay.
I do not wish you to think that Columbus was the first man to say that
the earth was round, or the first to sail to the West over the Atlantic
Ocean. He was not. Other men had said that they believed the earth was
round; other men had sailed out into the Atlantic Ocean. But no sailor
who believed the earth was round had ever tried to prove that it was by
crossing the Atlantic. So, you see, Columbus was really the first man to
say, I believe the earth is round and I will show you that it is by
sailing to the lands that are on the other side of the earth.
He even figured out how far it was around the world. Your geography, you
know, tells you now that what is called the circumference of the
earth--that is, a straight line drawn right around it--is nearly
twenty-five thousand miles. Columbus had figured it up pretty carefully
and he thought it was about twenty thousand miles. "If I could start
from Genoa," he said, "and walk straight ahead until I got back to Genoa
again, I should walk about twenty thousand miles." Cathay, he thought,
would take up so much land on the other side of the world that, if he
went west instead of east, he would only need to sail about twenty-five
hundred or three thousand miles.
If you have studied your geography carefully you will see what a mistake
he made.
It is really about twelve thousand miles from Spain to China (or Cathay
as he called it). But America is just about three thousand miles from
Spain, and if you read all this story you will see how Columbus's
mistake really helped him to discover America.
I have told you that Columbus had a longing to do something great from
the time when, as a little boy, he had hung around the wharves in Genoa
and looked at the ships sailing east and west and talked with the
sailors and wished that he could go to sea. Perhaps what he had learned
at school--how some men said that the earth was round--and what he had
learned on the wharves about the wonders of Cathay set him to thinking
and dreaming that it might be possible for a ship to sail around the
world without falling off. At any rate, he kept on thinking and dreaming
and longing until, at last, he began doing.
Some of the sailors sent out by Prince Henry of Portugal, of whom I have
told you, in their trying to sail around Africa discovered two groups
of islands out in the Atlantic that they called the Azores, or Isles of
Hawks, and the Canaries, or Isles of Dogs. When Columbus was in Portugal
in 1470 he became acquainted with a young woman whose name was Philippa
Perestrelo. In 1473 he married her.
Now Philippa's father, before his death, had been governor of Porto
Santo, one of the Azores, and Columbus and his wife went off there to
live. In the governor's house Columbus found a lot of charts and maps
that told him about parts of the ocean that he had never before seen,
and made him feel certain that he was right in saying that if he sailed
away to the West he should find Cathay.
At that time there was an old man who lived in Florence, a city of
Italy. His name was Toscanelli. He was a great scholar and studied the
stars and made maps, and was a very wise man. Columbus knew what a wise
old scholar Toscanelli was, for Florence is not very far from Genoa. So
while he was living in the Azores he wrote to this old scholar asking
him what he thought about his idea that a man could sail around the
world until he reached the land called the Indies and at last found
Cathay.
Toscanelli wrote to Columbus saying that he believed his idea was the
right one, and he said it would be a grand thing to do, if Columbus
dared to try it. "Perhaps," he said, "you can find all those splendid
things that I know are in Cathay--the great cities with marble bridges,
the houses of marble covered with gold, the jewels and the spices and
the precious stones, and all the other wonderful and magnificent things.
I do not wonder you wish to try," he said, "for if you find Cathay it
will be a wonderful thing for you and for Portugal."
That settled it with Columbus. If this wise old scholar said he was
right, he must be right. So he left his home in the Azores and went to
Portugal. This was in 1475, and from that time on, for seventeen long
years he was trying to get some king or prince to help him sail to the
West to find Cathay.
But not one of the people who could have helped him, if they had really
wished to, believed in Columbus. As I told you, they said that he was
crazy. The king of Portugal, whose name was John, did a very unkind
thing--I am sure you would call it a mean trick. Columbus had gone to
him with his story and asked for ships and sailors. The king and his
chief men refused to help him; but King John said to himself, "Perhaps
there is something in this worth looking after and, if so, perhaps I can
have my own people find Cathay and save the money that Columbus will
want to keep for himself as his share of what he finds." So one day he
copied off the sailing directions that Columbus had left with him, and
gave them to one of his own captains without letting Columbus know
anything about it. The Portuguese captain sailed away to the West in the
direction Columbus had marked down, but a great storm came up and so
frightened the sailors that they turned around in a hurry. Then they
hunted up Columbus and began to abuse him for getting them into such a
scrape. "You might as well expect to find land in the sky," they said,
"as in those terrible waters."
And when, in this way, Columbus found out that King John had tried to
use his ideas without letting him know anything about it, he was very
angry. His wife had died in the midst of this mean trick of the
Portuguese king, and so, taking with him his little five-year-old son,
Diego, he left Portugal secretly and went over into Spain.
Near the little town of Palos, in western Spain, is a green hill looking
out toward the Atlantic. Upon this hill stands an old building that,
four hundred years ago, was used as a convent or home for priests. It
was called the Convent of Rabida, and the priest at the head of it was
named the Friar Juan Perez. One autumn day, in the year 1484, Friar Juan
Perez saw a dusty traveler with a little boy talking with the
gate-keeper of the convent. The stranger was so tall and fine-looking,
and seemed such an interesting man, that Friar Juan went out and began
to talk with him. This man was Columbus.
As they talked, the priest grew more and more interested in what
Columbus said. He invited him into the convent to stay for a few days,
and he asked some other people--the doctors of Palos and some of the sea
captains and sailors of the town--to come and talk with this stranger
who had such a singular idea about sailing across the Atlantic.
It ended in Columbus's staying some months in Palos, waiting for a
chance to go and see the king and queen. At last, in 1485, he set out
for the Spanish court with a letter to a priest who was a friend of
Friar Juan's, and who could help him to see the king and queen.
At that time the king and queen of Spain were fighting to drive out of
Spain the people called the Moors. These people came from Africa, but
they had lived in Spain for many years and had once been a very rich and
powerful nation. They were not Spaniards; they were not Christians. So
all Spaniards and all Christians hated them and tried to drive them out
of Europe.
The king and queen of Spain who were fighting the Moors were named
Ferdinand and Isabella. They were pretty good people as kings and queens
went in those days, but they did a great many very cruel and very mean
things, just as the kings and queens of those days were apt to do. I am
afraid we should not think they were very nice people nowadays. We
certainly should not wish our American boys and girls to look up to them
as good and true and noble.
When Columbus first came to them, they were with the army in the camp
near the city of Cordova. The king and queen had no time to listen to
what they thought were crazy plans, and poor Columbus could get no one
to talk with him who could be of any help. So he was obliged to go back
to drawing maps and selling books to make enough money to support
himself and his little Diego.
But at last, through the friend of good Friar Juan Perez of Rabida, who
was a priest at the court, and named Talavera, and to whom he had a
letter of introduction, Columbus found a chance to talk over his plans
with a number of priests and scholars in the city of Salamanca where
there was a famous college and many learned men.
Columbus told his story. He said what he wished to do, and asked these
learned men to say a good word for him to Ferdinand and Isabella so that
he could have the ships and sailors to sail to Cathay. But it was of no
use.
"What! sail away around the world?" those wise men cried in horror.
"Why, you are crazy! The world is not round; it is flat. Your ships
would tumble off the edge of the world and all the king's money and all
the king's men would be lost. No, no; go away; you must not trouble the
queen or even mention such a ridiculous thing again."
So the most of them said. But one or two thought it might be worth
trying. Cathay was a very rich country, and if this foolish fellow were
willing to run the risk and did succeed, it would be a good thing for
Spain, as the king and queen would need a great deal of money after the
war with the Moors was over. At any rate, it was a chance worth thinking
about.
And so, although Columbus was dreadfully disappointed, he thought that
if he had only a few friends at Court who were ready to say a good word
for him he must not give up, but must try, try again. And so he stayed
in Spain.
When you wish very much to do a certain thing, it is dreadfully hard to
be patient: it is harder still to have to wait. Columbus had to do both.
The wars against the Moors were of much greater interest to the king and
queen of Spain than was the finding of a new and very uncertain way to
get to Cathay. If it had not been for the patience and what we call the
persistence of Columbus, America would never have been discovered--at
least not in his time.
He stayed in Spain. He grew poorer and poorer. He was almost friendless.
It seemed as if his great enterprise must be given up. But he never lost
hope. He never stopped trying. Even when he failed, he kept on hoping
and kept on trying. He felt certain that sometime he should succeed.
As we have seen, he tried to interest the rulers of different countries,
but without success. He tried to get help from his old home-town of
Genoa and failed; he tried Portugal and failed; he tried the Republic of
Venice and failed; he tried the king and queen of Spain and failed; he
tried some of the richest and most powerful of the nobles of Spain and
failed; he tried the king of England (whom he got his brother,
Bartholomew Columbus, to see) and failed. There was still left the king
of France. He would make one last attempt to win the king and queen of
Spain to his side and if he failed with them he would try the last of
the rulers of Western Europe, the king of France.
He followed the king and queen of Spain as they went from place to place
fighting the Moors. He hoped that some day, when they wished to think of
something besides fighting, they might think of him and the gold and
jewels and spices of Cathay.
The days grew into months, the months into years, and still the war
against the Moors kept on; and still Columbus waited for the chance that
did not come. People grew to know him as "the crazy explorer" as they
met him in the streets or on the church steps of Seville or Cordova, and
even ragged little boys of the town, sharp-eyed and shrill-voiced as
such ragged little urchins are, would run after this big man with the
streaming white hair and the tattered cloak, calling him names or
tapping their brown little foreheads with their dirty fingers to show
that even they knew that he was "as crazy as a loon."
At last he decided to make one more attempt before giving it up in
Spain. His money was gone; his friends were few; but he remembered his
acquaintances at Palos and so he journeyed back to see once more his
good friend Friar Juan Perez at the Convent of Rabida on the hill that
looked out upon the Atlantic he was so anxious to cross.
It was in the month of November, 1491, that he went back to the Convent
of Rabida. If he could not get any encouragement there, he was
determined to stay in Spain no longer but to go away and try the king of
France.
Once more he talked over the finding of Cathay with the priests and the
sailors of Palos. They saw how patient he was; how persistent he was;
how he would never give up his ideas until he had tried them. They were
moved by his determination. They began to believe in him more and more.
They resolved to help him. One of the principal sea captains of Palos
was named Martin Alonso Pinzon. He became so interested that he offered
to lend Columbus money enough to make one last appeal to the king and
queen of Spain, and if Columbus should succeed with them, this Captain
Pinzon said he would go into partnership with Columbus and help him out
when it came to getting ready to sail to Cathay.
This was a move in the right direction. At once a messenger was sent to
the splendid Spanish camp before the city of Granada, the last
unconquered city of the Moors of Spain. The king and queen of Spain had
been so long trying to capture Granada that this camp was really a city,
with gates and walls and houses. It was called Santa Fé. Queen Isabella,
who was in Santa Fé, after some delay, agreed to hear more about the
crazy scheme of this persistent Genoese sailor, and the Friar Juan Perez
was sent for. He talked so well in behalf of his friend Columbus that
the queen became still more interested. She ordered Columbus to come and
see her, and sent him sixty-five dollars to pay for a mule, a new suit
of clothes, and the journey to court.
About Christmas time, in the year 1491, Columbus, mounted upon his mule,
rode into the Spanish camp before the city of Granada. But even now,
when he had been told to come, he had to wait. Granada was almost
captured; the Moors were almost conquered. At last the end came. On the
second of January, 1492, the Moorish king gave up the keys of his
beloved city, and the great Spanish banner was hoisted on the highest
tower of the Alhambra--the handsomest building in Granada and one of the
most beautiful in the world. The Moors were driven out of Spain and
Columbus's chance had come.
So he appeared before Queen Isabella and her chief men and told them
again of all his plans and desires. The queen and her advisers sat in a
great room in that splendid Alhambra I have told you of. King Ferdinand
was not there. He did not believe in Columbus and did not wish to let
him have money, ships, or sailors to lose in such a foolish way. But as
Columbus stood before her and talked so earnestly about how he expected
to find the Indies and Cathay and what he hoped to bring away from
there, Queen Isabella listened and thought the plan worth trying.
Then a singular thing happened. You would think if you wished for
something very much that you would be willing to give up a good deal for
the sake of getting it. Columbus had worked and waited for seventeen
years. He had never got what he wanted. He was always being
disappointed. And yet, as he talked to the queen and told her what he
wished to do, he said he must have so much as a reward for doing it that
the queen and her chief men were simply amazed at his--well, what the
boys to-day call "cheek"--that they would have nothing to do with him.
This man really is crazy, they said. This poor Genoese sailor comes here
without a thing except his very odd ideas and almost "wants the earth"
as a reward. This is not exactly what they said, but it is what they
meant.
His few friends begged him to be more modest. "Do not ask so much," they
said, "or you will get nothing." But Columbus was determined. "I have
worked and waited all these years," he replied. "I know just what I can
do and just how much I can do for the king and queen of Spain. They must
pay me what I ask and promise what I say, or I will go somewhere else."
"Go, then!" said the queen and her advisers. And Columbus turned his
back on what seemed almost his last hope, mounted his mule, and rode
away.
Then something else happened. As Columbus rode off to find the French
king, sick and tired of all his long and useless labor at the Spanish
court, his few firm friends there saw that, unless they did something
right away, all the glory and all the gain of this enterprise Columbus
had taught them to believe in would be lost to Spain. So two of them,
whose names were Santangel and Quintanilla, rushed into the queen's room
and begged her, if she wished to become the greatest queen in
Christendom, to call back this wandering sailor, agree to his terms, and
profit by his labors.
What if he does ask a great deal? they said. He has spent his life
thinking his plan out; no wonder he feels that he ought to have a good
share of what he finds. What he asks is really small compared with what
Spain will gain. The war with the Moors has cost you ever so much; your
money chests are empty; Columbus will fill them up. The people of Cathay
are heathen; Columbus will help you make them Christian men. The Indies
and Cathay are full of gold and jewels; Columbus will bring you home
shiploads of treasures. Spain has conquered the Moors; Columbus will
help you conquer Cathay.
In fact, they talked to Queen Isabella so strongly and so earnestly,
that she, too, became excited over this chance for glory and riches that
she had almost lost. "Quick! send for Columbus. Call him back!" said
she. "I agree to his terms. If King Ferdinand cannot or will not take
the risk, I, the queen, will do it all. Quick! do not let the man get
into France. After him. Bring him back!"
And without delay a royal messenger, mounted on a swift horse, was sent
at full gallop to bring Columbus back.
All this time poor Columbus felt bad enough. Everything had gone wrong.
Now he must go away into a new land and do it all over again. Kings and
queens, he felt, were not to be depended upon, and he remembered a place
in the Bible where it said: "Put not your trust in princes." Sad,
solitary, and heavy-hearted, he jogged slowly along toward the
mountains, wondering what the king of France would say to him, and
whether it was really worth trying.
Just as he was riding across the little bridge called the Bridge of
Pinos, some six miles from Granada, he heard the quick hoof-beats of a
horse behind him. It was a great spot for robbers, and Columbus felt of
the little money he had in his traveling pouch, and wondered whether he
must lose it all. The hoof-beats came nearer. Then a voice hailed him.
"Turn back, turn back!" the messenger cried out. "The queen bids you
return to Granada. She grants you all you ask."
Columbus hesitated. Ought he to trust this promise, he wondered. Put not
your trust in princes, the verse in the Bible had said. If I go back I
may only be put off and worried as I have been before. And yet, perhaps
she means what she says. At any rate, I will go back and try once more.
So, on the little Bridge of Pinos, he turned his mule around and rode
back to Granada. And, sure enough, when he saw Queen Isabella she agreed
to all that he asked. If he found Cathay, Columbus was to be made
admiral for life of all the new seas and oceans into which he might
sail; he was to be chief ruler of all the lands he might find; he was to
keep one tenth part of all the gold and jewels and treasures he should
bring away, and was to have his "say" in all questions about the new
lands. For his part (and this was because of the offer of his friend at
Palos, Captain Pinzon) he agreed to pay one eighth of all the expenses
of this expedition and of all new enterprises, and was to have one
eighth of all the profits from them.
So Columbus had his wish at last. The queen's men figured up how much
money they could let him have; they called him "Don Christopher
Columbus," "Your Excellency," and "Admiral," and at once he set about
getting ready for his voyage.
416
Most children who read public library books
know something about the work of Horace E.
Scudder (1838-1902). For eight years he was
editor of the _Atlantic Monthly_, but he is
more widely known as a writer and compiler of
books for children. The entertaining and
informing _Bodley Books_ were widely read by a
former generation and are still decidedly worth
reading. Perhaps his most popular work is _The
Children's Book_, a collection of literature
suitable for the first four grades. Pupils in
the third, fourth, and fifth grades read with
pleasure _The Book of Fables_, _The Book of
Folk Stories_, _Fables and Folk Stories_, and
_The Book of Legends_. Mr. Scudder was the
leading advocate of introducing literature into
the schools at a time when such advocacy was
uphill work, and he edited a great number of
literary classics for school use. He wrote a
number of historical and biographical works of
value. _George Washington_, from which the next
selection is taken, is considered by many to be
the best biography of Washington that has been
written for children. (The chapter below is
used by permission of and special arrangement
with The Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.)
THE BOYHOOD OF WASHINGTON
HORACE E. SCUDDER
It was near the shore of the Potomac River, between Pope's Creek and
Bridge's Creek, that Augustine Washington lived when his son George was
born. The land had been in the family ever since Augustine's
grandfather, John Washington, had bought it, when he came over from
England in 1657. John Washington was a soldier and a public-spirited
man, and so the parish in which he lived--for Virginia was divided into
parishes as some other colonies into townships--was named Washington.
It is a quiet neighborhood; not a sign remains of the old house, and the
only mark of the place is a stone slab, broken and overgrown with weeds
and brambles, which lies on a bed of bricks taken from the remnants of
the old chimney of the house. It bears the inscription:--
Here
The 11th of February, 1732 (old style)
George Washington
was born
The English had lately agreed to use the calendar of Pope Gregory, which
added eleven days to the reckoning, but people still used the old style
as well as the new. By the new style, the birthday was February 22, and
that is the day which is now observed. The family into which the child
was born consisted of the father and mother, Augustine and Mary
Washington, and two boys, Lawrence and Augustine. These were sons of
Augustine Washington by a former wife who had died four years before.
George Washington was the eldest of the children of Augustine and Mary
Washington; he had afterward three brothers and two sisters, but one of
the sisters died in infancy.
It was not long after George Washington's birth that the house in which
he was born was burned, and as his father was at the time especially
interested in some iron-works at a distance, it was determined not to
rebuild upon the lonely place. Accordingly Augustine Washington removed
his family to a place which he owned in Stafford County, on the banks of
the Rappahannock River opposite Fredericksburg. The house is not now
standing, but a picture was made of it before it was destroyed. It was,
like many Virginia houses of the day, divided into four rooms on a
floor, and had great outside chimneys at either end.
Here George Washington spent his childhood. He learned to read, write,
and cipher at a small school kept by Hobby, the sexton of the parish
church. Among his playmates was Richard Henry Lee, who was afterward a
famous Virginian. When the boys grew up, they wrote to each other of
grave matters of war and state, but here is the beginning of their
correspondence, written when they were nine years old:--
"Richard Henry Lee to George Washington:
"Pa brought me two pretty books full of
pictures he got them in Alexandria they have
pictures of dogs and cats and tigers and
elefants and ever so many pretty things cousin
bids me send you one of them it has a picture
of an elefant and a little Indian boy on his
back like uncle jo's sam pa says if I learn my
tasks good he will let uncle jo bring me to see
you will you ask your ma to let you come to see
me.
"Richard henry Lee."
"George Washington to Richard Henry Lee:
"Dear Dickey I thank you very much for the
pretty picturebook you gave me. Sam asked me to
show him the pictures and I showed him all the
pictures in it; and I read to him how the tame
elephant took care of the master's little boy,
and put him on his back and would not let
anybody touch his master's little son. I can
read three or four pages sometimes without
missing a word. Ma says I may go to see you,
and stay all day with you next week if it be
not rainy. She says I may ride my pony Hero if
Uncle Ben will go with me and lead Hero. I have
a little piece of poetry about the picture book
you gave me, but I mustn't tell you who wrote
the poetry.
"G. W.'s compliments to R. H. L.,
And likes his book full well,
Henceforth will count him his friend,
And hopes many happy days he may spend.
"Your good friend,
"George Washington.
"I am going to get a whip top soon, and you may
see it and whip it."
It looks very much as if Richard Henry sent his letter off just as it
was written. I suspect that his correspondent's letter was looked over,
corrected, and copied before it was sent. Very possibly Augustine
Washington was absent at the time on one of his journeys; but at any
rate the boy owed most of his training to his mother, for only two years
after this his father died, and he was left to his mother's care.
She was a woman born to command, and since she was left alone with a
family and an estate to care for, she took the reins into her own hands,
and never gave them up to any one else. She used to drive about in an
old-fashioned open chaise, visiting the various parts of her farm, just
as a planter would do on horseback. The story is told that she had given
an agent directions how to do a piece of work, and he had seen fit to do
it differently, because he thought his way a better one. He showed her
the improvement.
"And pray," said the lady, "who gave you any exercise of judgment in the
matter? I command you, sir; there is nothing left for you but to obey."
In those days, more than now, a boy used very formal language when
addressing his mother. He might love her warmly, but he was expected to
treat her with a great show of respect. When Washington wrote to his
mother, even after he was of age, he began his letter, "Honored Madam,"
and signed it, "Your dutiful son." This was a part of the manners of the
time. It was like the stiff dress which men wore when they paid their
respects to others; it was put on for the occasion, and one would have
been thought very unmannerly who did not make a marked difference
between his every-day dress and that which he wore when he went into the
presence of his betters. So Washington, when he wrote to his mother,
would not be so rude as to say, "Dear Mother."
Such habits as this go deeper than mere forms of speech. I do not
suppose that the sons of this lady feared her, but they stood in awe of
her, which is quite a different thing.
"We were all as mute as mice, when in her presence," says one of
Washington's companions; and common report makes her to have been very
much such a woman as her son afterward was a man.
I think that George Washington owed two strong traits to his mother--a
governing spirit and a spirit of order and method. She taught him many
lessons and gave him many rules; but, after all, it was her character
shaping his which was most powerful. She taught him to be truthful, but
her lessons were not half so forcible as her own truthfulness.
There is a story told of George Washington's boyhood--unfortunately
there are not many stories--which is to the point. His father had taken
a great deal of pride in his blooded horses, and his mother afterward
took pains to keep the stock pure. She had several young horses that had
not yet been broken, and one of them in particular, a sorrel, was
extremely spirited. No one had been able to do anything with it, and it
was pronounced thoroughly vicious, as people are apt to pronounce horses
which they have not learned to master. George was determined to ride
this colt, and told his companions that if they would help him catch it,
he would ride and tame it.
Early in the morning they set out for the pasture, where the boys
managed to surround the sorrel and then to put a bit into its mouth.
Washington sprang upon its back, the boys dropped the bridle, and away
flew the angry animal. Its rider at once began to command; the horse
resisted, backing about the field, rearing and plunging. The boys became
thoroughly alarmed, but Washington kept his seat, never once losing his
self-control or his mastery of the colt. The struggle was a sharp one;
when suddenly, as if determined to rid itself of its rider, the creature
leaped into the air with a tremendous bound. It was its last. The
violence burst a blood-vessel, and the noble horse fell dead.
Before the boys could sufficiently recover to consider how they should
extricate themselves from the scrape, they were called to breakfast; and
the mistress of the house, knowing that they had been in the fields,
began to ask after her stock.
"Pray, young gentlemen," said she, "have you seen my blooded colts in
your rambles? I hope they are well taken care of. My favorite, I am
told, is as large as his sire."
The boys looked at one another, and no one liked to speak. Of course the
mother repeated her question.
"The sorrel is dead, madam," said her son. "I killed him!"
And then he told the whole story. They say that his mother flushed with
anger, as her son often used to, and then, like him, controlled herself,
and presently said, quietly:--
"It is well; but while I regret the loss of my favorite, I rejoice in my
son who always speaks the truth."
The story of Washington's killing the blooded colt is of a piece with
other stories less particular, which show that he was a very athletic
fellow. Of course, when a boy becomes famous, every one likes to
remember the wonderful things he did before he was famous; and
Washington's playmates, when they grew up, used to show the spot by the
Rappahannock, near Fredericksburg, where he stood and threw a stone to
the opposite bank; and at the celebrated Natural Bridge, the arch of
which is two hundred feet above the ground, they always tell the visitor
that George Washington threw a stone in the air the whole height. He
undoubtedly took part in all the sports which were the favorites of his
country at that time--he pitched heavy bars, tossed quoits, ran, leaped,
and wrestled; for he was a powerful, large-limbed young fellow, and he
had a very large and strong hand.
417
The _Autobiography_ by Benjamin Franklin
(1706-1790) has become a classic in American
literature. Its simple style, practical
doctrine of industry and economy, and pleasing
revelation of the character of one of America's
greatest statesmen make it appropriate for use
in the seventh and eighth grades. (See also
note to No. 250.)
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
At ten years old I was taken home to assist my father in his business,
which was that of a tallow-chandler and soap-boiler, a business he was
not bred to, but had assumed on his arrival in New England, and on
finding his dyeing trade would not maintain his family, being in little
request. Accordingly, I was employed in cutting wick for the candles,
filling the dipping mold and the molds for cast candles, attending the
shop, going of errands, etc.
I continued thus employed in my father's business for two years, that
is, till I was twelve years old; and my brother John, who was bred to
that business, having left my father, married, and set up for himself at
Rhode Island, there was all appearance that I was destined to supply his
place, and become a tallow-chandler. But my dislike to the trade
continuing, my father was under apprehensions that if he did not find
one for me more agreeable, I should break away and get to sea, as his
son Josiah had done, to his great vexation. He therefore sometimes took
me to walk with him, and see joiners, bricklayers, turners, braziers,
etc., at their work, that he might observe my inclination, and endeavor
to fix it on some trade or other on land. It has ever since been a
pleasure to me to see good workmen handle their tools; and it has been
useful to me, having learned so much by it as to be able to do little
jobs myself in my house when a workman could not readily be got, and to
construct little machines for my experiments, while the intention of
making the experiment was fresh and warm in my mind. My father at last
fixed upon the cutler's trade, and my uncle Benjamin's son Samuel, who
was bred to that business in London, being about that time established
in Boston, I was sent to be with him some time on liking. But his
expectations of a fee with me displeasing my father, I was taken home
again.
From a child I was fond of reading, and all the little money that came
into my hands was ever laid out in books. Pleased with the _Pilgrim's
Progress_, my first collection was of John Bunyan's works in separate
little volumes. I afterward sold them to enable me to buy R. Burton's
_Historical Collections_. They were small chapmen's books, and cheap, 40
or 50 in all. My father's little library consisted chiefly of books in
polemic divinity, most of which I read, and have since often regretted
that, at a time when I had such a thirst for knowledge, more proper
books had not fallen in my way, since it was now resolved I should not
be a clergyman. Plutarch's _Lives_ there was in which I read abundantly,
and I still think that time spent to great advantage. There was also a
book of De Foe's, called an _Essay on Projects_, and another of Dr.
Mather's, called _Essays to do Good_, which perhaps gave me a turn of
thinking that had an influence on some of the principal future events of
my life.
This bookish inclination at length determined my father to make me a
printer, though he had already one son (James) of that profession. In
1717 my brother James returned from England with a press and letters to
set up his business in Boston. I liked it much better than that of my
father, but still had a hankering for the sea. To prevent the
apprehended effect of such an inclination, my father was impatient to
have me bound to my brother. I stood out some time, but at last was
persuaded, and signed the indentures when I was yet but twelve years
old. I was to serve as an apprentice till I was twenty-one years of age,
only I was to be allowed journeyman's wages during the last year. In a
little time I made great proficiency in the business, and became a
useful hand to my brother. I now had access to better books. An
acquaintance with the apprentices of booksellers enabled me sometimes to
borrow a small one, which I was careful to return soon and clean. Often
I sat up in my room reading the greatest part of the night, when the
book was borrowed in the evening and to be returned early in the
morning, lest it should be missed or wanted.
And after some time an ingenious tradesman, Mr. Matthew Adams, who had a
pretty collection of books, and who frequented our printing-house, took
notice of me, invited me to his library, and very kindly lent me such
books as I chose to read. I now took a fancy to poetry, and made some
little pieces; my brother, thinking it might turn to account, encouraged
me, and put me on composing occasional ballads. One was called _The
Lighthouse Tragedy_, and contained an account of the drowning of Captain
Worthilake, with his two daughters: the other was a sailor's song, on
the taking of _Teach_ (or Blackbeard) the pirate. They were wretched
stuff, in the Grub-street-ballad style; and when they were printed he
sent me about the town to sell them. The first sold wonderfully, the
event being recent, having made a great noise. This flattered my vanity;
but my father discouraged me by ridiculing my performances, and telling
me verse-makers were generally beggars. So I escaped being a poet, most
probably a very bad one; but as prose writing has been of great use to
me in the course of my life, and was a principal means of my
advancement, I shall tell you how, in such a situation, I acquired what
little ability I have in that way.
There was another bookish lad in the town, John Collins by name, with
whom I was intimately acquainted. We sometimes disputed, and very fond
we were of argument, and very desirous of confuting one another, which
disputatious turn, by the way, is apt to become a very bad habit, making
people often extremely disagreeable in company by the contradiction that
is necessary to bring it into practice; and thence, besides souring and
spoiling the conversation, is productive of disgusts and, perhaps,
enmities where you may have occasion for friendship. I had caught it by
reading my father's books of dispute about religion. Persons of good
sense, I have since observed, seldom fall into it, except lawyers,
university men, and men of all sorts that have been bred at Edinburgh.
A question was once, somehow or other, started between Collins and me,
of the propriety of educating the female sex in learning, and their
abilities for study. He was of opinion that it was improper, and that
they were naturally unequal to it. I took the contrary side, perhaps a
little for dispute's sake. He was naturally more eloquent, had a ready
plenty of words; and sometimes, as I thought, bore me down more by his
fluency than by the strength of his reasons. As we parted without
settling the point, and were not to see one another again for some time,
I sat down to put my arguments in writing, which I copied fair and sent
to him. He answered, and I replied. Three or four letters of a side had
passed, when my father happened to find my papers and read them. Without
entering into the discussion, he took occasion to talk to me about the
manner of my writing; observed that, though I had the advantage of my
antagonist in correct spelling and pointing (which I owed to the
printing-house), I fell far short in elegance of expression, in method
and in perspicuity, of which he convinced me by several instances. I saw
the justice of his remarks, and thence grew more attentive to the manner
in writing, and determined to endeavor at improvement.
About this time I met with an odd volume of the _Spectator_. It was the
third. I had never before seen any of them. I bought it, read it over
and over, and was much delighted with it. I thought the writing
excellent, and wished, if possible, to imitate it. With this view I took
some of the papers, and, making short hints of the sentiment in each
sentence, laid them by a few days, and then, without looking at the
book, tried to complete the papers again, by expressing each hinted
sentiment at length, and as fully as it had been expressed before, in
any suitable words that should come to hand. Then I compared my
_Spectator_ with the original, discovered some of my faults, and
corrected them. But I found I wanted a stock of words, or a readiness in
recollecting and using them, which I thought I should have acquired
before that time if I had gone on making verses; since the continual
occasion for words of the same import, but of different length, to suit
the measure, or of different sound for the rhyme, would have laid me
under a constant necessity of searching for variety, and also have
tended to fix that variety in my mind, and make me master of it.
Therefore I took some of the tales and turned them into verse; and,
after a time, when I had pretty well forgotten the prose, turned them
back again. I also sometimes jumbled my collections of hints into
confusion, and after some weeks endeavored to reduce them into the best
order, before I began to form the full sentences and complete the paper.
This was to teach me method in the arrangement of thoughts. By comparing
my work afterwards with the original, I discovered many faults and
amended them; but I sometimes had the pleasure of fancying that, in
certain particulars of small import, I had been lucky enough to improve
the method or the language, and this encouraged me to think I might
possibly in time come to be a tolerable English writer, of which I was
extremely ambitious. My time for these exercises and for reading was at
night, after work or before it began in the morning, or on Sundays, when
I contrived to be in the printing-house alone, avoiding as much as I
could the common attendance on public worship which my father used to
exact of me when I was under his care, and which indeed I still thought
a duty, though I could not, as it seemed to me, afford time to practice
it.
When about 16 years of age I happened to meet with a book, written by
one Tryon, recommending a vegetable diet. I determined to go into it.
My brother, being yet unmarried, did not keep house, but boarded himself
and his apprentices in another family. My refusing to eat flesh
occasioned an inconveniency, and I was frequently chid for my
singularity. I made myself acquainted with Tryon's manner of preparing
some of his dishes, such as boiling potatoes or rice, making hasty
pudding, and a few others, and then proposed to my brother, that if he
would give me, weekly, half the money he paid for my board, I would
board myself. He instantly agreed to it, and I presently found that I
could save half what he paid me. This was an additional fund for buying
books. But I had another advantage in it. My brother and the rest going
from the printing-house to their meals, I remained there alone, and,
dispatching presently my light repast, which often was no more than a
biscuit or a slice of bread, a handful of raisins or a tart from the
pastry-cook's, and a glass of water, had the rest of the time till their
return for study, in which I made the greater progress, from that
greater clearness of head and quicker apprehension which usually attend
temperance in eating and drinking.
And now it was that, being on some occasion made ashamed of my ignorance
in figures, which I had twice failed in learning when at school, I took
Cocker's book of arithmetic, and went through the whole by myself with
great ease. I also read Seller's and Shermy's books of navigation, and
became acquainted with the little geometry they contain; but never
proceeded far in that science. And I read about this time Locke _On
Human Understanding_, and the _Art of Thinking_, by Messrs. du Port
Royal.
While I was intent on improving my language, I met with an English
grammar (I think it was Greenwood's), at the end of which there were two
little sketches of the arts of rhetoric and logic, the latter finishing
with a specimen of a dispute in the Socratic method; and soon after I
procured Xenophon's _Memorable Things of Socrates_, wherein there are
many instances of the same method. I was charmed with it, adopted it,
dropped my abrupt contradiction and positive argumentation, and put on
the humble inquirer and doubter. And being then, from reading
Shaftesbury and Collins, become a real doubter in many points of our
religious doctrine, I found this method safest for myself and very
embarrassing to those against whom I used it; therefore I took a delight
in it, practiced it continually, and grew very artful and expert in
drawing people, even of superior knowledge, into concessions, the
consequences of which they did not foresee, entangling them in
difficulties out of which they could not extricate themselves, and so
obtaining victories that neither myself nor my cause always deserved. I
continued this method some few years, but gradually left it, retaining
only the habit of expressing myself in terms of modest diffidence; never
using, when I advanced any thing that may possibly be disputed, the
words _certainly_, _undoubtedly_, or any others that give the air of
positiveness to an opinion; but rather say, I conceive or apprehend a
thing to be so and so; it appears to me, or _I should think it so or
so_, for such and such reasons; or _I imagine it to be so_; or _it is
so, if I am not mistaken_. This habit, I believe, has been of great
advantage to me when I have had occasion to inculcate my opinion, and
persuade men into measures that I have been from time to time engaged
in promoting; and, as the chief ends of conversation are to _inform_ or
to be _informed_, to _please_ or to _persuade_, I wish well-meaning,
sensible men would not lessen their power of doing good by a positive,
assuming manner, that seldom fails to disgust, tends to create
opposition, and to defeat every one of those purposes for which speech
was given to us, to wit, giving or receiving information or pleasure.
For, if you would inform, a positive and dogmatical manner in advancing
your sentiments may provoke contradiction and prevent a candid
attention. If you wish information and improvement from the knowledge of
others, and yet at the same time express yourself as firmly fixed in
your present opinions, modest, sensible men, who do not love
disputation, will probably leave you undisturbed in the possession of
your error. And by such a manner, you can seldom hope to recommend
yourself in _pleasing_ your hearers, or to persuade those whose
concurrence you desire. Pope says, judiciously:
"Men should be taught as if you taught them not,
And things unknown propos'd as things forgot";
farther recommending to us
"To speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffidence."
And he might have coupled with this line that which he has coupled with
another, I think, less properly:
"For want of modesty is want of sense."
If you ask, Why less properly? I must repeat the lines:
"Immodest words admit of no defense,
For want of modesty is want of sense."
Now, is not _want of sense_ (where a man is so unfortunate as to want
it) some apology for his _want of modesty_? and would not the lines
stand more justly thus?
"Immodest words admit _but_ this defense,
That want of modesty is want of sense."
This, however, I should submit to better judgments.
My brother had, in 1720 or 1721, begun to print a newspaper. It was the
second that appeared in America, and was called the _New England
Courant_. The only one before it was the _Boston News-Letter_. I
remember his being dissuaded by some of his friends from the
undertaking, as not likely to succeed, one newspaper being, in their
judgment, enough for America. At this time (1771) there are not less
than five-and-twenty. He went on, however, with the undertaking, and
after having worked in composing the types and printing off the sheets,
I was employed to carry the papers through the streets to the customers.
He had some ingenious men among his friends, who amused themselves by
writing little pieces for this paper, which gained it credit and made it
more in demand, and these gentlemen often visited us. Hearing their
conversations, and their accounts of the approbation their papers were
received with, I was excited to try my hand among them; but, being still
a boy, and suspecting that my brother would object to printing any thing
of mine in his paper if he knew it to be mine, I contrived to disguise
my hand, and, writing an anonymous paper, I put it in at night under the
door of the printing-house. It was found in the morning, and
communicated to his writing friends when they called in as usual. They
read it, commented on it in my hearing, and I had the exquisite pleasure
of finding it met with their approbation, and that, in their different
guesses at the author, none were named but men of some character among
us for learning and ingenuity. I suppose now that I was rather lucky in
my judges and that perhaps they were not really so very good ones as I
then esteemed them.
* * * * *
I then thought of going to New York, as the nearest place where there
was a printer; and I was rather inclined to leave Boston when I
reflected that I had already made myself a little obnoxious to the
governing party, and, from the arbitrary proceedings of the Assembly in
my brother's case, it was likely I might, if I stayed, soon bring myself
into scrapes; and farther, that my indiscrete disputations about
religion began to make me pointed at with horror by good people as an
infidel or atheist. I determined on the point, but my father now siding
with my brother, I was sensible that, if I attempted to go openly, means
would be used to prevent me. My friend Collins, therefore, undertook to
manage a little for me. He agreed with the captain of a New York sloop
for my passage, under the notion of my being a young acquaintance of
his, that had got into trouble, and therefore could not appear or come
away publicly. So I sold some of my books to raise a little money, was
taken on board privately, and as we had a fair wind, in three days I
found myself in New York, near 300 miles from home, a boy of but 17,
without the least recommendation to, or knowledge of any person in the
place, and with very little money in my pocket.
My inclinations for the sea were by this time worn out, or I might now
have gratified them. But, having a trade, and supposing myself a pretty
good workman, I offered my service to the printer in the place, old Mr.
William Bradford, who had been the first printer in Pennsylvania, but
removed from thence upon the quarrel of George Keith. He could give me
no employment, having little to do, and help enough already; but says
he, "My son at Philadelphia has lately lost his principal hand, Aquila
Rose, by death; if you go thither, I believe he may employ you."
Philadelphia was a hundred miles further; I set out, however, in a boat
for Amboy, leaving my chest and things to follow me round by sea.
In crossing the bay, we met with a squall that tore our rotten sails to
pieces, prevented our getting into the Kill, and drove us upon Long
Island. On our way, a drunken Dutchman, who was a passenger too, fell
overboard; when he was sinking, I reached through the water to his shock
pate, and drew him up, so that we got him in again. His ducking sobered
him a little, and he went to sleep, taking first out of his pocket a
book, which he desired I would dry for him. It proved to be my old
favorite author, Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_, in Dutch, finely printed
on good paper, with copper cuts, a dress better than I had ever seen it
wear in its own language. I have since found that it has been translated
into most of the languages of Europe, and suppose it has been more
generally read than any other book, except perhaps the Bible. Honest
John was the first that I know of who mixed narration and dialogue; a
method of writing very engaging to the reader, who in the most
interesting parts finds himself, as it were, brought into the company
and present at the discourse. De Foe in his _Crusoe_, his _Moll
Flanders_, _Religious Courtship_, _Family Instructor_, and other pieces,
has imitated it with success; and Richardson has done the same in his
_Pamela_, etc.
When we drew near the island, we found it was at a place where there
could be no landing, there being a great surf on the stony beach. So we
dropped anchor, and swung around towards the shore. Some people came
down to the water edge and hallooed to us, as we did to them; but the
wind was so high, and the surf so loud, that we could not hear so as to
understand each other. There were canoes on the shore, and we made
signs, and hallooed that they should fetch us; but they either did not
understand us, or thought it impracticable, so they went away, and night
coming on, we had no remedy but to wait till the wind should abate; and,
in the meantime, the boatman and I concluded to sleep, if we could; and
so crowded into the scuttle, with the Dutchman, who was still wet, and
the spray beating over the head of our boat, leaked through to us, so
that we were soon almost as wet as he. In this manner we lay all night,
with very little rest; but, the wind abating the next day, we made a
shift to reach Amboy before night, having been thirty hours on the
water, without victuals, or any drink but a bottle of filthy rum, the
water we sailed on being salt.
In the evening I found myself very feverish, and went in to bed; but,
having read somewhere that cold water drunk plentifully was good for a
fever, I followed the prescription, sweat plentifully most of the night,
my fever left me, and in the morning, crossing the ferry, I proceeded on
my journey on foot, having fifty miles to Burlington, where I was told I
should find boats that would carry me the rest of the way to
Philadelphia.
It rained very hard all the day; I was thoroughly soaked, and by noon a
good deal tired; so I stopped at a poor inn, where I stayed all night,
beginning now to wish that I had never left home. I cut so miserable a
figure, too, that I found, by the questions asked me, I was suspected to
be some runaway servant, and in danger of being taken up on that
suspicion. However, I proceeded the next day, and got in the evening to
an inn, within eight or ten miles of Burlington, kept by one Dr. Brown.
He entered into conversation with me while I took some refreshment, and,
finding I had read a little, became very sociable and friendly. Our
acquaintance continued as long as he lived. He had been, I imagine, an
itinerant doctor, for there was no town in England, or country in
Europe, of which he could not give a very particular account. He had
some letters, and was ingenious, but much of an unbeliever, and wickedly
undertook, some years after, to travesty the Bible in doggerel verse, as
Cotton had done Virgil. By this means he set many of the facts in a very
ridiculous light, and might have hurt weak minds if his work had been
published; but it never was.
At his house I lay that night, and the next morning reached Burlington,
but had the mortification to find that the regular boats were gone a
little before my coming, and no other expected to go before Tuesday,
this being Saturday; wherefore I returned to an old woman in the town,
of whom I had bought gingerbread to eat on the water, and asked her
advice. She invited me to lodge at her house till a passage by water
should offer; and being tired with my foot traveling, I accepted the
invitation. She understanding I was a printer, would have had me stay at
that town and follow my business, being ignorant of the stock necessary
to begin with. She was very hospitable, gave me a dinner of ox-cheek
with great good will, accepting only of a pot of ale in return; and I
thought myself fixed till Tuesday should come. However, walking in the
evening by the side of the river, a boat came by, which I found was
going towards Philadelphia, with several people in her. They took me in,
and, as there was no wind, we rowed all the way; and about midnight, not
having yet seen the city, some of the company were confident we must
have passed it, and would row no farther; the others knew not where we
were; so we put toward the shore, got into a creek, landed near an old
fence, with the rails of which we made a fire, the night being cold, in
October, and there we remained till daylight. Then one of the company
knew the place to be Cooper's Creek, a little above Philadelphia, which
we saw as soon as we got out of the creek, and arrived there about eight
or nine o'clock on the Sunday morning, and landed at the Market Street
wharf.
I have been the more particular in this description of my journey, and
shall be so of my first entry into that city, that you may in your mind
compare such unlikely beginnings with the figure I have since made
there. I was in my working dress, my best clothes being to come round by
sea. I was dirty from my journey; my pockets were stuffed out with
shirts and stockings, and I knew no soul nor where to look for lodging.
I was fatigued with traveling, rowing, and want of rest; I was very
hungry; and my whole stock of cash consisted of a Dutch dollar and about
a shilling in copper. The latter I gave the people of the boat for my
passage, who at first refused it, on account of my rowing; but I
insisted on their taking it. A man being sometimes more generous when he
has but a little money than when he has plenty, perhaps through fear of
being thought to have but little.
Then I walked up the street, gazing about till near the market-house I
met a boy with bread. I had made many a meal on bread, and, inquiring
where he got it, I went immediately to the baker's he directed me to, in
Second Street, and asked for biscuit, intending such as we had in
Boston; but they, it seems, were not made in Philadelphia. Then I asked
for a three-penny loaf, and was told they had none such. So not
considering or knowing the difference of money, and the greater
cheapness nor the names of his bread, I bade him give me three-penny
worth of any sort. He gave me, accordingly, three great puffy rolls. I
was surprised at the quantity, but took it, and, having no room in my
pockets, walked off with a roll under each arm, and eating the other.
Thus I went up Market Street as far as Fourth Street, passing by the
door of Mr. Read, my future wife's father; when she, standing at the
door, saw me, and thought I made, as I certainly did, a most awkward,
ridiculous appearance. Then I turned and went down Chestnut Street and
part of Walnut Street, eating my roll all the way, and, coming round,
found myself again at Market Street wharf, near the boat I came in, to
which I went for a draught of the river water; and, being filled with
one of my rolls, gave the other two to a woman and her child that came
down the river in the boat with us, and were waiting to go farther.
Thus refreshed, I walked again up the street, which by this time had
many clean-dressed people in it, who were all walking the same way. I
joined them, and thereby was led into the great meeting-house of the
Quakers near the market. I sat down among them, and, after looking round
awhile and hearing nothing said, being very drowsy through labor and
want of rest the preceding night, I fell fast asleep, and continued so
till the meeting broke up, when one was kind enough to rouse me. This
was, therefore, the first house I was in, or slept in, in Philadelphia.
Walking down again toward the river, and, looking in the faces of
people, I met a young Quaker man, whose countenance I liked, and,
accosting him, requested he would tell me where a stranger could get
lodging. We were then near the sign of the Three Mariners. "Here," says
he, "is one place that entertains strangers, but it is not a reputable
house; if thee wilt walk with me I'll show thee a better." He brought me
to the Crooked Billet, in Water Street. Here I got a dinner; and, while
I was eating it, several sly questions were asked me, as it seemed to be
suspected from my youth and appearance that I might be some runaway.
After dinner my sleepiness returned, and being shown to a bed, I lay
down without undressing, and slept till six in the evening, was called
to supper, went to bed again very early, and slept soundly till next
morning. Then I made myself as tidy as I could, and went to Andrew
Bradford the printer's. I found in the shop the old man his father, whom
I had seen at New York, and who, traveling on horseback, had got to
Philadelphia before me. He introduced me to his son, who received me
civilly, gave me a breakfast, but told me he did not at present want a
hand, being lately supplied with one; but there was another printer in
town, lately set up, one Keimer, who, perhaps, might employ me; if not,
I should be welcome to lodge at his house, and he would give me a little
work to do now and then till fuller business should offer.
The old gentleman said he would go with me to the new printer; and when
we found him, "Neighbor," says Bradford, "I have brought to see you a
young man of your business; perhaps you may want such a one." He asked
me a few questions, put a composing stick in my hand to see how I
worked, and then said he would employ me soon, though he had just then
nothing for me to do; and, taking old Bradford, whom he had never seen
before, to be one of the townspeople that had a good will for him,
entered into a conversation on his present undertaking and prospects;
while Bradford, not discovering that he was the other printer's father,
on Keimer's saying he expected soon to get the greatest part of the
business into his own hands, drew him on by artful questions, and
starting little doubts, to explain all his views, what interest he
relied on, and in what manner he intended to proceed. I, who stood by
and heard all, saw immediately that one of them was a crafty old
sophister, and the other a mere novice. Bradford left me with Keimer,
who was greatly surprised when I told him who the old man was.
Keimer's printing-house, I found, consisted of an old shattered press
and one small, worn-out font of English, which he was then using
himself, composing an Elegy on Aquila Rose, before mentioned, an
ingenious young man, of excellent character, much respected in the town,
clerk of the Assembly, and a pretty poet. Keimer made verses too, but
very indifferently. He could not be said to write them, for his manner
was to compose them in the types directly out of his head. So there
being no copy, but one pair of cases, and the Elegy likely to require
all the letters, no one could help him. I endeavored to put his press
(which he had not yet used and of which he understood nothing) into
order fit to be worked with; and, promising to come and print off his
Elegy as soon as he should have got it ready, I returned to Bradford's,
who gave me a little job to do for the present, and there I lodged and
dieted. A few days after, Keimer sent for me to print off the Elegy. And
now he had got another pair of cases, and a pamphlet to reprint, on
which he set me to work.
These two printers I found poorly qualified for their business. Bradford
had not been bred to it, and was very illiterate; and Keimer, though
something of a scholar, was a mere compositor, knowing nothing of
presswork. He had been one of the French prophets, and could act their
enthusiastic agitations. At this time he did not profess any particular
religion, but something of all on occasion; was very ignorant of the
world, and had, as I afterward found, a good deal of the knave in his
composition. He did not like my lodging at Bradford's while I worked
with him. He had a house, indeed, but without furniture, so he could not
lodge me; but he got me a lodging at Mr. Read's, before mentioned, who
was the owner of his house; and, my chest and clothes being come by this
time, I made rather a more respectable appearance in the eyes of Miss
Read than I had done when she first happened to see me eating my roll in
the street.
418
Of the numerous biographies of Abraham Lincoln,
none seems better suited for use in the grades
than _The Boy's Life of Abraham Lincoln_, by
Helen Nicolay (1866--), from which the next
selection was taken. John George Nicolay,
father of Helen Nicolay, was private secretary
to Abraham Lincoln from 1860 to 1865, and later
he wrote an excellent biography of Lincoln.
(The following selection is used by permission
of the Century Company, New York.)
LINCOLN'S EARLY DAYS
HELEN NICOLAY
The story of this wonderful man begins and ends with a tragedy, for his
grandfather, also named Abraham, was killed by a shot from an Indian's
rifle while peaceably at work with his three sons on the edge of their
frontier clearing. Eighty-one years later the President himself met
death by an assassin's bullet. The murderer of one was a savage of the
forest; the murderer of the other that far more cruel thing, a savage of
civilization.
When the Indian's shot laid the pioneer farmer low, his second son,
Josiah, ran to a neighboring fort for help, and Mordecai, the eldest,
hurried to the cabin for his rifle. Thomas, a child of six years, was
left alone beside the dead body of his father; and as Mordecai snatched
the gun from its resting-place over the door of the cabin, he saw, to
his horror, an Indian in his war-paint, just stooping to seize the
child. Taking quick aim at a medal on the breast of the savage, he
fired, and the Indian fell dead. The little boy, thus released, ran to
the house, where Mordecai, firing through the loopholes, kept the
Indians at bay until help arrived from the fort.
It was this child Thomas who grew up to be the father of President
Abraham Lincoln. After the murder of his father the fortunes of the
little family grew rapidly worse, and doubtless because of poverty, as
well as by reason of the marriage of his older brothers and sisters,
their home was broken up, and Thomas found himself, long before he was
grown, a wandering laboring boy. He lived for a time with an uncle as
his hired servant, and later he learned the trade of carpenter. He grew
to manhood entirely without education, and when he was twenty-eight
years old could neither read nor write. At that time he married Nancy
Hanks, a good-looking young woman of twenty-three, as poor as himself,
but so much better off as to learning that she was able to teach her
husband to sign his own name. Neither of them had any money, but living
cost little on the frontier in those days, and they felt that his trade
would suffice to earn all that they should need. Thomas took his bride
to a tiny house in Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where they lived for about a
year, and where a daughter was born to them.
Then they moved to a small farm thirteen miles from Elizabethtown, which
they bought on credit, the country being yet so new that there were
places to be had for mere promises to pay. Farms obtained on such terms
were usually of very poor quality, and this one of Thomas Lincoln's was
no exception to the rule. A cabin ready to be occupied stood on it,
however; and not far away, hidden in a pretty clump of trees and bushes,
was a fine spring of water, because of which the place was known as Rock
Spring Farm. In the cabin on this farm the future President of the
United States was born on February 12, 1809, and here the first four
years of his life were spent. Then the Lincolns moved to a much bigger
and better farm on Knob Creek, six miles from Hodgensville, which Thomas
Lincoln bought, again on credit, selling the larger part of it soon
afterward to another purchaser. Here they remained until Abraham was
seven years old.
About this early part of his childhood almost nothing is known. He never
talked of these days, even to his most intimate friends. To the pioneer
child a farm offered much that a town lot could not give him--space;
woods to roam in; Knob Creek with its running water and its deep, quiet
pools for a playfellow; berries to be hunted for in summer and nuts in
autumn; while all the year round birds and small animals pattered across
his path to people the solitude in place of human companions. The boy
had few comrades. He wandered about playing his lonesome little games,
and, when these were finished, returned to the small and cheerless
cabin. Once, when asked what he remembered about the War of 1812 with
Great Britain, he replied: "Only this: I had been fishing one day and
had caught a little fish, which I was taking home. I met a soldier in
the road, and having always been told at home that we must be good to
soldiers, I gave him my fish." It is only a glimpse into his life, but
it shows the solitary, generous child, and the patriotic household.
It was while living on this farm that Abraham and his sister Sarah first
began going to A-B-C schools. Their earliest teacher was Zachariah
Riney, who taught near the Lincoln cabin; the next was Caleb Hazel, four
miles away.
In spite of the tragedy that darkened his childhood, Thomas Lincoln
seems to have been a cheery, indolent, good-natured man. By means of a
little farming and occasional jobs at his trade, he managed to supply
his family with the absolutely necessary food and shelter, but he never
got on in the world. He found it much easier to gossip with his friends,
or to dream about rich new lands in the West, than to make a thrifty
living in the place where he happened to be. The blood of the pioneer
was in his veins too--the desire to move westward; and hearing glowing
accounts of the new territory of Indiana, he resolved to go and see it
for himself. His skill as a carpenter made this not only possible but
reasonably cheap, and in the fall of 1816 he built himself a little
flatboat, launched it half a mile from his cabin, at the mouth of Knob
Creek on the waters of the Rolling Fork, and floated on it down that
stream to Salt River, down Salt River to the Ohio, and down the Ohio to
a landing called Thompson's Ferry on the Indiana shore.
Sixteen miles out from the river, near a small stream known as Pigeon
Creek, he found a spot in the forest that suited him; and as his boat
could not be made to float upstream, he sold it, stored his goods with
an obliging settler, and trudged back to Kentucky, all the way on foot,
to fetch his wife and children--Sarah, who was now nine years old, and
Abraham, seven. This time the journey to Indiana was made with two
horses, used by the mother and children for riding, and to carry their
little camping outfit for the night. The distance from their old home
was, in a straight line, little more than fifty miles, but they had to
go double that distance because of the very few roads it was possible to
follow.
Reaching the Ohio River and crossing to the Indiana shore, Thomas
Lincoln hired a wagon which carried his family and their belongings the
remaining sixteen miles through the forest to the spot he had chosen--a
piece of heavily wooded land, one and a half miles east of what has
since become the village of Gentryville in Spencer County. The lateness
of the autumn made it necessary to put up a shelter as quickly as
possible, and he built what was known on the frontier as a half-faced
camp, about fourteen feet square. This differed from a cabin in that it
was closed on only three sides, being quite open to the weather on the
fourth. A fire was usually made in front of the open side, and thus the
necessity for having a chimney was done away with. Thomas Lincoln
doubtless intended this only for a temporary shelter, and as such it
would have done well enough in pleasant summer weather; but it was a
rude provision against the storms and winds of an Indiana winter. It
shows his want of energy that the family remained housed in this poor
camp for nearly a whole year; but, after all, he must not be too hastily
blamed. He was far from idle. A cabin was doubtless begun, and there
was the very heavy work of clearing away the timber--cutting down large
trees, chopping them into suitable lengths, and rolling them together
into great heaps to be burned, or of splitting them into rails to fence
the small field upon which he managed to raise a patch of corn and other
things during the following summer.
Though only seven years old, Abraham was unusually large and strong for
his age, and he helped his father in all this heavy labor of clearing
the farm. In after years, Mr. Lincoln said that an ax "was put into his
hands at once, and from that till within his twenty-third year he was
almost constantly handling that most useful instrument--less, of course,
in ploughing and harvesting seasons." At first the Lincolns and their
seven or eight neighbors lived in the unbroken forest. They had only the
tools and household goods they brought with them, or such things as they
could fashion with their own hands. There was no sawmill to saw lumber.
The village of Gentryville was not even begun. Breadstuff could be had
only by sending young Abraham seven miles on horseback with a bag of
corn to be ground in a hand grist-mill.
About the time the new cabin was ready relatives and friends followed
from Kentucky, and some of these in turn occupied the half-faced camp.
During the autumn a severe and mysterious sickness broke out in their
little settlement, and a number of people died, among them the mother of
young Abraham. There was no help to be had beyond what the neighbors
could give each other. The nearest doctor lived fully thirty miles away.
There was not even a minister to conduct the funerals. Thomas Lincoln
made the coffins for the dead out of green lumber cut from the forest
trees with a whip-saw, and they were laid to rest in a clearing in the
woods. Months afterward, largely through the efforts of the sorrowing
boy, a preacher who chanced to come that way was induced to hold a
service and preach a sermon over the grave of Mrs. Lincoln.
Her death was indeed a serious blow to her husband and children.
Abraham's sister, Sarah, was only eleven years old, and the tasks and
cares of the little household were altogether too heavy for her years
and experience. Nevertheless they struggled bravely through the winter
and following summer; then in the autumn of 1819 Thomas Lincoln went
back to Kentucky and married Sarah Bush Johnston, whom he had known, and
it is said courted, when she was only Sally Bush. She had married about
the time Lincoln married Nancy Hanks, and her husband had died, leaving
her with three children. She came of a better station in life than
Thomas, and was a woman with an excellent mind as well as a warm and
generous heart. The household goods that she brought with her to the
Lincoln home filled a four-horse wagon, and not only were her own
children well clothed and cared for, but she was able at once to provide
little Abraham and Sarah with comforts to which they had been strangers
during the whole of their young lives. Under her wise management all
jealousy was avoided between the two sets of children; urged on by her
stirring example, Thomas Lincoln supplied the yet unfinished cabin with
floor, door, and windows, and life became more comfortable for all its
inmates, contentment if not happiness reigning in the little home.
The new stepmother quickly became very fond of Abraham, and encouraged
him in every way in her power to study and improve himself. The chances
for this were few enough. Mr. Lincoln has left us a vivid picture of the
situation. "It was," he once wrote, "a wild region, with many bears and
other wild animals still in the woods. There I grew up. There were some
schools, so-called, but no qualification was ever required of a teacher
beyond readin', writin', and cipherin' to the Rule of Three. If a
straggler supposed to understand Latin happened to sojourn in the
neighborhood, he was looked upon as a wizard."
The school-house was a low cabin of round logs, with split logs or
"puncheons" for a floor, split logs roughly leveled with an ax and set
up on legs for benches, and holes cut out in the logs and the space
filled in with squares of greased paper for window-panes. The main light
came in through the open door. Very often Webster's "Elementary
Spelling-book" was the only text-book. This was the kind of school most
common in the Middle West during Mr. Lincoln's boyhood, though already
in some places there were schools of a more pretentious character.
Indeed, back in Kentucky, at the very time that Abraham, a child of six,
was learning his letters from Zachariah Riney, a boy only a year older
was attending a Catholic seminary in the very next county. It is
doubtful if they ever met, but the destinies of the two were strangely
interwoven, for the older boy was Jefferson Davis, who became head of
the Confederate government shortly after Lincoln was elected President
of the United States.
As Abraham was only seven years old when he left Kentucky, the little
beginnings he learned in the schools kept by Riney and Hazel in that
state must have been very slight, probably only his alphabet, or at most
only three or four pages of Webster's "Elementary Spelling-book." The
multiplication-table was still a mystery to him, and he could read or
write only the words he spelled. His first two years in Indiana seem to
have passed without schooling of any sort, and the school he attended
shortly after coming under the care of his stepmother was of the
simplest kind, for the Pigeon Creek settlement numbered only eight or
ten poor families, and they lived deep in the forest, where, even if
they had had the money for such luxuries, it would have been impossible
to buy books, slates, pens, ink, or paper. It is worthy of note,
however, that in our western country, even under such difficulties, a
school-house was one of the first buildings to rise in every frontier
settlement. Abraham's second school in Indiana was held when he was
fourteen years old, and the third in his seventeenth year. By that time
he had more books and better teachers, but he had to walk four or five
miles to reach them. We know that he learned to write, and was provided
with pen, ink, and a copy-book, and a very small supply of writing
paper, for copies have been printed of several scraps on which he
carefully wrote down tables of long measure, land measure, and dry
measure, as well as examples in multiplication and compound division,
from his arithmetic. He was never able to go to school again after this
time, and though the instruction he received from his five teachers--two
in Kentucky and three in Indiana--extended over a period of nine years,
it must be remembered that it made up in all less than one twelvemonth;
"that the aggregate of all his schooling did not amount to one year."
The fact that he received this instruction, as he himself said, "by
littles," was doubtless an advantage. A lazy or indifferent boy would of
course have forgotten what was taught him at one time before he had
opportunity at another; but Abraham was neither indifferent nor lazy,
and these widely separated fragments of instruction were precious steps
to self-help. He pursued his studies with very unusual purpose and
determination not only to understand them at the moment, but to fix them
firmly in his mind. His early companions all agree that he employed
every spare moment in keeping on with some one of his studies. His
stepmother tells us that "When he came across a passage that struck him,
he would write it down on boards if he had no paper, and keep it there
until he did get paper. Then he would rewrite it, look at it, repeat it.
He had a copy-book, a kind of scrap-book, in which he put down all
things, and thus preserved them." He spent long evenings doing sums on
the fire-shovel. Iron fire-shovels were a rarity among pioneers. Instead
they used a broad, thin clapboard with one end narrowed to a handle,
arranging with this the piles of coals upon the hearth, over which they
set their "skillet" and "oven" to do their cooking. It was on such a
wooden shovel that Abraham worked his sums by the flickering firelight,
making his figures with a piece of charcoal, and, when the shovel was
all covered, taking a drawing-knife and shaving it off clean again.
The hours that he was able to devote to his penmanship, his reading, and
his arithmetic were by no means many; for, save for the short time that
he was actually in school, he was, during all these years, laboring hard
on his father's farm, or hiring his youthful strength to neighbors who
had need of help in the work of field or forest. In pursuit of his
knowledge he was on an up-hill path; yet in spite of all obstacles he
worked his way to so much of an education as placed him far ahead of his
schoolmates and quickly abreast of his various teachers. He borrowed
every book in the neighborhood. The list is a short one: "Robinson
Crusoe," "Aesop's Fables," Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," Weems's "Life
of Washington," and a "History of the United States." When everything
else had been read, he resolutely began on the "Revised Statutes of
Indiana," which Dave Turnham, the constable, had in daily use, but
permitted him to come to his house and read.
Though so fond of his books, it must not be supposed that he cared only
for work and serious study. He was a social, sunny-tempered lad, as fond
of jokes and fun as he was kindly and industrious. His stepmother said
of him: "I can say, what scarcely one mother in a thousand can say, Abe
never gave me a cross word or look, and never refused . . . to do anything
I asked him . . . I must say . . . that Abe was the best boy I ever saw or
expect to see."
He and John Johnston, his stepmother's son, and John Hanks, a relative
of his own mother's, worked barefoot together in the fields, grubbing,
plowing, hoeing, gathering and shucking corn, and taking part, when
occasion offered, in the practical jokes and athletic exercises that
enlivened the hard work of the pioneers. For both work and play Abraham
had one great advantage. He was not only a tall, strong country boy; he
soon grew to be a tall, strong, sinewy man. He early reached the unusual
height of six feet four inches, and his long arms gave him a degree of
power as an axman that few were able to rival. He therefore usually led
his fellows in efforts of muscle as well as of mind. That he could
outrun, outlift, outwrestle his boyish companions, that he could chop
faster, split more rails in a day, carry a heavier log at a "raising,"
or excel the neighborhood champion in any feat of frontier athletics,
was doubtless a matter of pride with him; but stronger than all else was
his eager craving for knowledge. He felt instinctively that the power of
using the mind rather than the muscles was the key to success. He wished
not only to wrestle with the best of them, but to be able to talk like
the preacher, spell and cipher like the school-master, argue like the
lawyer, and write like the editor. Yet he was as far as possible from
being a prig. He was helpful, sympathetic, cheerful. In all the
neighborhood gatherings, when settlers of various ages came together at
corn-huskings or house-raisings, or when mere chance brought half a
dozen of them at the same time to the post-office or the country store,
he was able, according to his years, to add his full share to the gaiety
of the company. By reason of his reading and his excellent memory, he
soon became the best story-teller among his companions; and even the
slight training gained from his studies greatly broadened and
strengthened the strong reasoning faculty with which he had been gifted
by nature. His wit might be mischievous, but it was never malicious, and
his nonsense was never intended to wound or to hurt the feelings. It is
told of him that he added to his fund of jokes and stories humorous
imitations of the sermons of eccentric preachers.
Very likely too much is made of all these boyish pranks. He grew up very
like his fellows. In only one particular did he differ greatly from the
frontier boys around him. He never took any pleasure in hunting. Almost
every youth of the backwoods early became an excellent shot and a
confirmed sportsman. The woods still swarmed with game, and every cabin
depended largely upon this for its supply of food. But to his strength
was added a gentleness which made him shrink from killing or inflicting
pain, and the time the other boys gave to lying in ambush, he preferred
to spend in reading or in efforts at improving his mind.
Only twice during his life in Indiana was the routine of his employment
changed. When he was about sixteen years old he worked for a time for a
man who lived at the mouth of Anderson's Creek, and here part of his
duty was to manage a ferry-boat which carried passengers across the Ohio
River. It was very likely this experience which, three years later,
brought him another. Mr. Gentry, the chief man of the village of
Gentryville that had grown up a mile or so from his father's cabin,
loaded a flatboat on the Ohio River with the produce his store had
collected--corn, flour, pork, bacon, and other miscellaneous
provisions--and putting it in charge of his son Allen Gentry and of
Abraham Lincoln, sent them with it down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers,
to sell its cargo at the plantations of the lower Mississippi, where
sugar and cotton were the principal crops, and where other food supplies
were needed to feed the slaves. No better proof is needed of the
reputation for strength, skill, honesty, and intelligence that this tall
country boy had already won for himself, than that he was chosen to
navigate the flatboat a thousand miles to the "sugar-coast" of the
Mississippi River, sell its load, and bring back the money. Allen Gentry
was supposed to be in command, but from the record of his after life we
may be sure that Abraham did his full share both of work and management.
The elder Gentry paid Lincoln eight dollars a month and his passage home
on a steamboat for this service. The voyage was made successfully,
although not without adventure; for one night, after the boat was tied
up to the shore, the boys were attacked by seven negroes, who came
aboard intending to kill and rob him. There was a lively scrimmage, in
which, though slightly hurt, they managed to beat off their assailants,
and then, hastily cutting their boat adrift, swung out on the stream.
The marauding band little dreamed that they were attacking the man who
in after years was to give their race its freedom; and though the future
was equally hidden from Abraham, it is hard to estimate the vistas of
hope and ambition that this long journey opened to him. It was his first
look into the wide, wide world.
419
Anna Howard Shaw (1847-1919) was national
lecturer for the National American Woman
Suffrage Association from 1886 to 1904, and was
president of that association from 1904 to
1915. She was known as a lecturer rather than
as an author, but her autobiography, entitled
_The Story of a Pioneer_, is a charming book
that will help us realize some of the tragedy
and humor of pioneer days and some of the
difficulties that had to be overcome by a woman
who was determined to follow a career
practically closed to women. (The selection
below is from the early part of _The Story of a
Pioneer_, and is used here by permission of the
publishers, Harper & Brothers, New York.)
IN THE WESTERN WILDERNESS
ANNA HOWARD SHAW
My father was one of a number of Englishmen who took up tracts in the
northern forests of Michigan, with the old dream of establishing a
colony there. None of these men had the least practical knowledge of
farming. They were city men or followers of trades which had no
connection with farm life. They went straight into the thick
timber-land, instead of going to the rich and waiting prairies, and they
crowned this initial mistake by cutting down the splendid timber instead
of letting it stand. Thus bird's-eye maple and other beautiful woods
were used as fire-wood and in the construction of rude cabins, and the
greatest asset of the pioneer was ignored.
Father preceded us to the Michigan woods, and there, with his oldest
son, James, took up a claim. They cleared a space in the wilderness just
large enough for a log cabin, and put up the bare walls of the cabin
itself. Then father returned to Lawrence and his work, leaving James
behind. A few months later (this was in 1859), my mother, my two
sisters, Eleanor and Mary, my youngest brother, Henry, eight years of
age, and I, then twelve, went to Michigan to work on and hold down the
claim while father, for eighteen months longer, stayed on in Lawrence,
sending us such remittances as he could. His second and third sons, John
and Thomas, remained in the East with him.
Every detail of our journey through the wilderness is clear in my mind.
At that time the railroad terminated at Grand Rapids, Michigan, and we
covered the remaining distance--about one hundred miles--by wagon,
riding through a dense and often trackless forest. My brother James met
us at Grand Rapids with what, in those days, was called a lumber-wagon,
but which had a horrible resemblance to a vehicle from the health
department. My sisters and I gave it one cold look and turned from it;
we were so pained by its appearance that we refused to ride in it
through the town. Instead, we started off on foot, trying to look as if
we had no association with it, and we climbed into the unwieldy vehicle
only when the city streets were far behind us. Every available inch of
space in the wagon was filled with bedding and provisions. As yet we had
no furniture; we were to make that for ourselves when we reached our
cabin; and there was so little room for us to ride that we children
walked by turns, while James, from the beginning of the journey to its
end, seven days later, led our weary horses.
To my mother, who was never strong, the whole experience must have been
a nightmare of suffering and stoical endurance. For us children there
were compensations. The expedition took on the character of a high
adventure, in which we sometimes had shelter and sometimes failed to
find it, sometimes were fed, but often went hungry. We forded
innumerable streams, the wheels of the heavy wagon sinking so deeply
into the stream-beds that we often had to empty our load before we could
get them out again. Fallen trees lay across our paths, rivers caused
long detours, while again and again we lost our way or were turned aside
by impenetrable forest tangles.
Our first day's journey covered less than eight miles, and that night we
stopped at a farm-house which was the last bit of civilization we saw.
Early the next morning we were off again, making the slow progress due
to the rough roads and our heavy load. At night we stopped at a place
called Thomas's Inn, only to be told by the woman who kept it that there
was nothing in the house to eat. Her husband, she said, had gone
"outside" (to Grand Rapids) to get some flour, and had not returned--but
she added that we could spend the night, if we chose, and enjoy shelter,
if not food. We had provisions in our wagon, so we wearily entered,
after my brother had got out some of our pork and opened a barrel of
flour. With this help the woman made some biscuits, which were so green
that my poor mother could not eat them. She had admitted to us that the
one thing she had in the house was saleratus, and she had used this
ingredient with an unsparing hand. When the meal was eaten she broke the
further news that there were no beds.
"The old woman can sleep with me," she suggested, "and the girls can
sleep on the floor. The boys will have to go to the barn."
She and her bed were not especially attractive, and mother decided to
lie on the floor with us. We had taken our bedding from the wagon, and
we slept very well; but though she was usually superior to small
annoyances, I think my mother resented being called an "old woman." She
must have felt like one that night, but she was only about forty-eight
years of age.
At dawn the next morning we resumed our journey, and every day after
that we were able to cover the distance demanded by the schedule
arranged before we started. This meant that some sort of shelter usually
awaited us at night. But one day we knew there would be no houses
between the place we left in the morning and that where we were to
sleep. The distance was about twenty miles, and when twilight fell we
had not made it. In the back of the wagon my mother had a box of little
pigs, and during the afternoon these had broken loose and escaped into
the woods. We had lost much time in finding them, and we were so
exhausted that when we came to a hut made of twigs and boughs we decided
to camp in it for the night, though we knew nothing about it. My brother
had unharnessed the horses, and my mother and sister were cooking
dough-god--a mixture of flour, water, and soda, fried in a pan--when two
men rode up on horseback and called my brother to one side. Immediately
after the talk which followed James harnessed his horses again and
forced us to go on, though by that time darkness had fallen. He told
mother, but did not tell us children until long afterward, that a man
had been murdered in the hut only the night before. The murderer was
still at large in the woods, and the new-comers were members of a posse
who were searching for him. My brother needed no urging to put as many
miles as he could between us and the sinister spot.
In that fashion we made our way to our new home. The last day, like the
first, we traveled only eight miles, but we spent the night in a house I
shall never forget. It was beautifully clean, and for our evening meal
its mistress brought out loaves of bread which were the largest we had
ever seen. She cut great slices of this bread for us and spread maple
sugar on them, and it seemed to us that never before had anything tasted
so good.
The next morning we made the last stage of our journey, our hearts
filled with the joy of nearing our new home. We all had an idea that we
were going to a farm, and we expected some resemblance at least to the
prosperous farms we had seen in New England. My mother's mental picture
was, naturally, of an English farm. Possibly she had visions of red
barns and deep meadows, sunny skies and daisies. What we found awaiting
us were the four walls and the roof of a good-sized log-house, standing
in a small cleared strip of the wilderness, its doors and windows
represented by square holes, its floor also a thing of the future, its
whole effect achingly forlorn and desolate. It was late in the afternoon
when we drove up to the opening that was its front entrance, and I shall
never forget the look my mother turned upon the place. Without a word
she crossed its threshold, and, standing very still, looked slowly
around her. Then something within her seemed to give way, and she sank
upon the ground. She could not realize even then, I think, that this was
really the place father had prepared for us, that here he expected us to
live. When she finally took it in she buried her face in her hands, and
in that way she sat for hours without moving or speaking. For the first
time in her life she had forgotten us; and we, for our part, dared not
speak to her. We stood around her in a frightened group, talking to one
another in whispers. Our little world had crumbled under our feet. Never
before had we seen our mother give way to despair.
Night began to fall. The woods became alive with night creatures, and
the most harmless made the most noise. The owls began to hoot, and soon
we heard the wildcat, whose cry--a screech like that of a lost and
panic-stricken child--is one of the most appalling sounds of the forest.
Later the wolves added their howls to the uproar, but though darkness
came and we children whimpered around her, our mother still sat in her
strange lethargy.
At last my brother brought the horses close to the cabin and built fires
to protect them and us. He was only twenty, but he showed himself a man
during those early pioneer days. While he was picketing the horses and
building his protecting fires my mother came to herself, but her face
when she raised it was worse than her silence had been. She seemed to
have died and to have returned to us from the grave, and I am sure she
felt that she had done so. From that moment she took up again the burden
of her life, a burden she did not lay down until she passed away; but
her face never lost the deep lines those first hours of her pioneer life
had cut upon it.
That night we slept on boughs spread on the earth inside the cabin
walls, and we put blankets before the holes which represented our doors
and windows, and kept our watch-fires burning. Soon the other children
fell asleep, but there was no sleep for me. I was only twelve years old,
but my mind was full of fancies. Behind our blankets, swaying in the
night wind, I thought I saw the heads and pushing shoulders of animals
and heard their padded footfalls.
We faced our situation with clear and unalarmed eyes the morning after
our arrival. The problem of food, we knew, was at least temporarily
solved. We had brought with us enough coffee, pork, and flour to last
for several weeks; and the one necessity father had put inside the cabin
walls was a great fireplace, made of mud and stones, in which our food
could be cooked. The problem of our water-supply was less simple, but my
brother James solved it for the time by showing us a creek a long
distance from the house, and for months we carried from this creek, in
pails, every drop of water we used, save that which we caught in troughs
when the rain fell.
We held a family council after breakfast, and in this, though I was only
twelve, I took an eager and determined part. I loved work--it has always
been my favorite form of recreation--and my spirit rose to the
opportunities of it which smiled on us from every side. Obviously the
first thing to do was to put doors and windows into the yawning holes
father had left for them, and to lay a board flooring over the earth
inside our cabin walls, and these duties we accomplished before we had
occupied our new home a fortnight. There was a small saw-mill nine miles
from our cabin, on the spot that is now Big Rapids, and there we bought
our lumber. The labor we supplied ourselves, and though we put our
hearts into it and the results at the time seemed beautiful to our
partial eyes, I am forced to admit, in looking back upon them, that they
halted this side of perfection. We began by making three windows and two
doors; then, inspired by these achievements, we ambitiously constructed
an attic and divided the ground floor with partitions, which gave us
four rooms.
The general effect was temperamental and sketchy. The boards which
formed the floor were never even nailed down; they were fine, wide
planks without a knot in them, and they looked so well that we merely
fitted them together as closely as we could and light-heartedly let them
go at that. Neither did we properly chink the house. Nothing is more
comfortable than a log cabin which has been carefully built and
finished; but for some reason--probably because there seemed always a
more urgent duty calling to us around the corner--we never plastered our
house at all. The result was that on many future winter mornings we
awoke to find ourselves chastely blanketed by snow, while the only warm
spot in our living-room was that directly in front of the fireplace,
where great logs burned all day. Even there our faces scorched while our
spines slowly congealed, until we learned to revolve before the fire
like a bird upon a spit. No doubt we would have worked more thoroughly
if my brother James, who was twenty years old and our tower of strength,
had remained with us; but when we had been in our new home only a few
months he fell ill and was forced to go East for an operation. He was
never able to return to us, and thus my mother, we three young girls,
and my youngest brother--Harry, who was only eight years old--made our
fight alone until father came to us, more than a year later.
Mother was practically an invalid. She had a nervous affection which
made it impossible for her to stand without the support of a chair. But
she sewed with unusual skill, and it was due to her that our clothes,
notwithstanding the strain to which we subjected them, were always in
good condition. She sewed for hours every day, and she was able to move
about the house, after a fashion, by pushing herself around on a stool
which James made for her as soon as we arrived. He also built for her a
more comfortable chair with a high back.
The division of labor planned at the first council was that mother
should do our sewing, and my older sisters, Eleanor and Mary, the
housework, which was far from taxing, for of course we lived in the
simplest manner. My brothers and I were to do the work out of doors, an
arrangement that suited me very well, though at first, owing to our lack
of experience, our activities were somewhat curtailed. It was too late
in the season for plowing or planting, even if we had possessed anything
with which to plow, and, moreover, our so-called "cleared" land was
thick with sturdy tree-stumps. Even during the second summer plowing was
impossible; we could only plant potatoes and corn, and follow the most
primitive method in doing even this. We took an ax, chopped up the sod,
put the seed under it, and let the seed grow. The seed did grow, too--in
the most gratifying and encouraging manner. Our green corn and potatoes
were the best I have ever eaten. But for the present we lacked these
luxuries.
We had, however, in their place, large quantities of wild
fruit--gooseberries, raspberries, and plums--which Harry and I gathered
on the banks of our creek. Harry also became an expert fisherman. We had
no hooks or lines, but he took wires from our hoop-skirts and made
snares at the ends of poles. My part of this work was to stand on a log
and frighten the fish out of their holes by making horrible sounds,
which I did with impassioned earnestness. When the fish hurried to the
surface of the water to investigate the appalling noises they had heard,
they were easily snared by our small boy, who was very proud of his
ability to contribute in this way to the family table.
During our first winter we lived largely on cornmeal, making a little
journey of twenty miles to the nearest mill to buy it; but even at that
we were better off than our neighbors, for I remember one family in our
region who for an entire winter lived solely on coarse-grained yellow
turnips, gratefully changing their diet to leeks when these came in the
spring.
Such furniture as we had we made ourselves. In addition to my mother's
two chairs and the bunks which took the place of beds, James made a
settle for the living-room, as well as a table and several stools. At
first we had our tree-cutting done for us, but we soon became expert in
this gentle art, and I developed such skill that in later years, after
father came, I used to stand with him and "heart" a log.
On every side, and at every hour of the day, we came up against the
relentless limitations of pioneer life. There was not a team of horses
in our entire region. The team with which my brother had driven us
through the wilderness had been hired at Grand Rapids for that occasion,
and, of course, immediately returned. Our lumber was delivered by
ox-teams, and the absolutely essential purchases we made "outside" (at
the nearest shops, forty miles away) were carried through the forest on
the backs of men. Our mail was delivered once a month by a carrier who
made the journey in alternate stages of horseback riding and canoeing.
But we had health, youth, enthusiasm, good appetites, and the
wherewithal to satisfy them, and at night in our primitive bunks we sank
into abysses of dreamless slumber such as I have never known since.
Indeed, looking back upon them, those first months seem to have been a
long-drawn-out and glorious picnic, interrupted only by occasional hours
of pain or panic, when we were hurt or frightened.
Naturally, our two greatest menaces were wild animals and Indians, but
as the days passed the first of these lost the early terrors with which
we had associated them. We grew indifferent to the sounds that had made
our first night a horror to us all--there was even a certain homeliness
in them--while we regarded with accustomed, almost blase eyes the
various furred creatures of which we caught distant glimpses as they
slunk through the forest. Their experience with other settlers had
taught them caution; it soon became clear that they were as eager to
avoid us as we were to shun them, and by common consent we gave each
other ample elbow-room. But the Indians were all around us, and every
settler had a collection of hair-raising tales to tell of them. It was
generally agreed that they were dangerous only when they were drunk; but
as they were drunk whenever they could get whisky, and as whisky was
constantly given them in exchange for pelts and game, there was a
harrowing doubt in our minds whenever they approached us.
In my first encounter with them I was alone in the woods at sunset with
my small brother Harry. We were hunting a cow James had bought, and our
young eyes were peering eagerly among the trees, on the alert for any
moving object. Suddenly, at a little distance, coming directly toward
us, we saw a party of Indians. There were five of them, all men, walking
in single file, as noiselessly as ghosts, their moccasined feet causing
not even a rustle among the dry leaves that carpeted the woods. All the
horrible stories we had heard of Indian cruelty flashed into our minds,
and for a moment we were dumb with terror. Then I remembered having been
told that the one thing one must not do before them is to show fear.
Harry was carrying a rope with which we had expected to lead home our
reluctant cow, and I seized one end of it and whispered to him that we
would "play horse," pretending he was driving me. We pranced toward the
Indians on feet that felt like lead, and with eyes so glazed by terror
that we could see nothing save a line of moving figures; but as we
passed them they did not give to our little impersonation of care-free
children even the tribute of a side-glance. They were, we realized,
headed straight for our home; and after a few moments we doubled on our
tracks and, keeping at a safe distance from them among the trees, ran
back to warn our mother that they were coming.
As it happened, James was away, and mother had to meet her unwelcome
guests supported only by her young children. She at once prepared a
meal, however, and when they arrived she welcomed them calmly and gave
them the best she had. After they had eaten they began to point at and
demand objects they fancied in the room--my brother's pipe, some
tobacco, a bowl, and such trifles--and my mother, who was afraid to
annoy them by refusal, gave them what they asked. They were quite sober,
and though they left without expressing any appreciation of her
hospitality, they made her a second visit a few months later, bringing a
large quantity of venison and a bag of cranberries as a graceful return.
These Indians were Ottawas; and later we became very friendly with them
and their tribe, even to the degree of attending one of their dances,
which I shall describe later.
Our second encounter with Indians was a less agreeable experience. There
were seven "Marquette warriors" in the next group of callers, and they
were all intoxicated. Moreover, they had brought with them several jugs
of bad whisky--the raw and craze-provoking product supplied them by the
fur-dealers--and it was clear that our cabin was to be the scene of an
orgy. Fortunately, my brother James was at home on this occasion, and as
the evening grew old and the Indians, grouped together around the fire,
became more and more irresponsible, he devised a plan for our safety.
Our attic was finished, and its sole entrance was by a ladder through a
trap-door. At James's whispered command my sister Eleanor slipped up
into the attic, and from the back window let down a rope, to which he
tied all the weapons we had--his gun and several axes. These Eleanor
drew up and concealed in one of the bunks. My brother then directed that
as quietly as possible, and at long intervals, one member of the family
after another was to slip up the ladder and into the attic, going quite
casually, that the Indians might not realize what we were doing. Once
there, with the ladder drawn up after us and the trap-door closed, we
would be reasonably safe, unless our guests decided to burn the cabin.
The evening seemed endless, and was certainly nerve-racking. The Indians
ate everything in the house, and from my seat in a dim corner I watched
them while my sisters waited on them. I can still see the tableau they
made in the firelit room and hear the unfamiliar accents of their speech
as they talked together. Occasionally one of them would pull a hair from
his head, seize his scalping-knife, and cut the hair with it--a most
unpleasant sight! When either of my sisters approached them some of the
Indians would make gestures, as if capturing and scalping her. Through
it all, however, the whisky held their close attention, and it was due
to this that we succeeded in reaching the attic unobserved, James coming
last of all and drawing the ladder after him. Mother and the children
were then put to bed; but through that interminable night James and
Eleanor lay flat upon the floor, watching through the cracks between the
boards the revels of the drunken Indians, which grew wilder with every
hour that crawled toward sunrise. There was no knowing when they would
miss us or how soon their mood might change. At any moment they might
make an attack upon us or set fire to the cabin. By dawn, however, their
whisky was all gone, and they were in so deep a stupor that, one after
the other, the seven fell from their chairs to the floor, where they
sprawled unconscious. When they awoke they left quietly and without
trouble of any kind. They seemed a strangely subdued and chastened band;
probably they were wretchedly ill after their debauch on the adulterated
whisky the traders had given them.
That autumn the Ottawa tribe had a great corn celebration, to which we
and the other settlers were invited. James and my older sisters attended
it, and I went with them, by my own urgent invitation. It seemed to me
that as I was sharing the work and the perils of our new environment, I
might as well share its joys; and I finally succeeded in making my
family see the logic of this position. The central feature of the
festivity was a huge kettle, many feet in circumference, into which the
Indians dropped the most extraordinary variety of food we had ever seen
combined. Deer heads went into it whole, as well as every kind of meat
and vegetable the members of the tribe could procure. We all ate some of
this agreeable mixture, and later, with one another, and even with the
Indians, we danced gaily to the music of a tom-tom and a drum. The
affair was extremely interesting until the whisky entered and did its
unpleasant work. When our hosts began to fall over in the dance and
slumber where they lay, and when the squaws began to show the same ill
effects of their refreshments, we unostentatiously slipped away.
During the winter, life offered us few diversions and many hardships.
Our creek froze over, and the water problem became a serious one, which
we met with increasing difficulty as the temperature steadily fell. We
melted snow and ice, and existed through the frozen months, but with an
amount of discomfort which made us unwilling to repeat at least that
special phase of our experience. In the spring, therefore, I made a
well. Long before this, James had gone, and Harry and I were now the
only out-door members of our working-force. Harry was still too small to
help with the well; but a young man, who had formed the neighborly habit
of riding eighteen miles to call on us, gave me much friendly aid. We
located the well with a switch, and when we had dug as far as we could
reach with our spades, my assistant descended into the hole and threw
the earth up to the edge, from which I in turn removed it. As the well
grew deeper we made a halfway shelf, on which I stood, he throwing the
earth on the shelf, and I shoveling it up from that point. Later, as he
descended still farther into the hole we were making, he shoveled the
earth into buckets and passed them up to me, I passing them on to my
sister, who was now pressed into service. When the excavation was deep
enough we made the wall of slabs of wood, roughly joined together. I
recall that well with calm content. It was not a thing of beauty, but it
was a thoroughly practical well, and it remained the only one we had
during the twelve years the family occupied the cabin.
The second spring after our arrival Harry and I extended our operations
by tapping the sugar-bushes, collecting all the sap, and carrying it
home in pails slung from our yoke-laden shoulders. Together we made one
hundred and fifty pounds of sugar and a barrel of syrup, but here again,
as always, we worked in primitive ways. To get the sap we chopped a gash
in the tree and drove in a spile. Then we dug out a trough to catch the
sap. It was no light task to lift these troughs full of sap and empty
the sap into buckets, but we did it successfully, and afterward built
fires and boiled it down. By this time we had also cleared some of our
ground, and during the spring we were able to plow, dividing the work in
a way that seemed fair to us both. These were strenuous occupations for
a boy of nine and a girl of thirteen, but, though we were not
inordinately good children, we never complained; we found them very
satisfactory substitutes for more normal bucolic joys. Inevitably, we
had our little tragedies. Our cow died, and for an entire winter we went
without milk. Our coffee soon gave out, and as a substitute we made and
used a mixture of browned peas and burnt rye. In the winter we were
always cold, and the water problem, until we had built our well, was
ever with us.
When I was fifteen years old I was offered a situation as
school-teacher. By this time the community was growing around us with
the rapidity characteristic of these Western settlements, and we had
nearer neighbors whose children needed instruction. I passed an
examination before a school-board consisting of three nervous and
self-conscious men whose certificate I still hold, and I at once began
my professional career on the modest salary of two dollars a week and my
board. The school was four miles from my home, so I "boarded round" with
the families of my pupils, staying two weeks in each place, and often
walking from three to six miles a day to and from my little log
school-house in every kind of weather. During the first year I had about
fourteen pupils, of varying ages, sizes, and temperaments, and there
was hardly a book in the schoolroom except those I owned. One little
girl, I remembered, read from an almanac, while a second used a
hymn-book.
In winter the school-house was heated by a wood-stove to which the
teacher had to give close personal attention. I could not depend on my
pupils to make the fires or carry in the fuel; and it was often
necessary to fetch the wood myself, sometimes for long distances through
the forest. Again and again, after miles of walking through winter
storms, I reached the school-house with my clothing wet through, and in
these soaked garments I taught during the day. In "boarding round" I
often found myself in one-room cabins, with bunks at the end and the
sole partition a sheet or a blanket, behind which I slept with one or
two of the children. It was the custom on these occasions for the man of
the house to delicately retire to the barn while we women got to bed,
and to disappear again in the morning while we dressed. In some places
the meals were so badly cooked that I could not eat them, and often the
only food my poor little pupils brought to school for their noonday meal
was a piece of bread or a bit of raw pork.
420
Hero stories have a special place in the
literature of childhood, and of all such
stories none has ever surpassed that of
Leonidas and his brave Spartans. The account of
that famous event is given from Miss Yonge's _A
Book of Golden Deeds_ (1864), which is yet one
of the best storehouses of hero stories. It is
published in a variety of editions by different
publishers, and teachers will find it an
excellent source for usable material.
THE PASS OF THERMOPYLAE
CHARLOTTE M. YONGE
_B. C. 430_
There was trembling in Greece. "The Great King," as the Greeks called
the chief potentate of the East, whose domains stretched from the Indian
Caucasus to the Aegæus, from the Caspian to the Red Sea, was marshaling
his forces against the little free states that nestled amid the rocks
and gulfs of the Eastern Mediterranean. Already had his might devoured
the cherished colonies of the Greeks on the eastern shore of the
Archipelago, and every traitor to home institutions found a ready asylum
at that despotic court, and tried to revenge his own wrongs by
whispering incitements to invasion. "All people, nations, and
languages," was the commencement of the decrees of that monarch's court;
and it was scarcely a vain boast, for his satraps ruled over subject
kingdoms, and among his tributary nations he counted the Chaldean, with
his learning and old civilization, the wise and steadfast Jew, the
skillful Ph[oe]nician, the learned Egyptian, the wild freebooting Arab
of the desert, the dark-skinned Ethiopian, and over all these ruled the
keen witted, active native Persian race, the conquerors of all the rest,
and led by a chosen band proudly called the Immortal. His many
capitals--Babylon the great, Susa, Persepolis, and the like--were names
of dreamy splendor to the Greeks, described now and then by Ionians from
Asia Minor who had carried their tribute to the King's own feet, or by
courtier slaves who had escaped with difficulty from being all too
serviceable at the tyrannic court. And the lord of this enormous empire
was about to launch his countless host against the little cluster of
states, the whole of which together would hardly equal one province of
the huge Asiatic realm! Moreover, it was a war not only on the men but
on their gods. The Persians were zealous adorers of the sun and of fire,
they abhorred the idol-worship of the Greeks, and defiled and plundered
every temple that fell in their way. Death and desolation were almost
the best that could be looked for at such hands--slavery and torture
from cruelly barbarous masters would only too surely be the lot of
numbers, should their land fall a prey to the conquerors.
True it was that ten years back the former Great King had sent his best
troops to be signally defeated upon the coast of Attica; but the losses
at Marathon had but stimulated the Persian lust of conquest, and the new
King Xerxes was gathering together such myriads of men as should crush
down the Greeks and overrun their country by mere force of numbers.
The muster place was at Sardis, and there Greek spies had seen the
multitudes assembling and the state and magnificence of the king's
attendants. Envoys had come from him to demand earth and water from each
state in Greece, as emblems that land and sea were his, but each state
was resolved to be free, and only Thessaly, that which lay first in his
path, consented to yield the token of subjugation. A council was held at
the Isthmus of Corinth, and attended by deputies from all the states of
Greece to consider of the best means of defense. The ships of the enemy
would coast round the shores of the Aegean sea, the land army would
cross the Hellespont on a bridge of boats lashed together, and march
southwards into Greece. The only hope of averting the danger lay in
defending such passages as, from the nature of the ground, were so
narrow that only a few persons could fight hand to hand at once, so that
courage would be of more avail than numbers.
The first of these passes was called Tempe, and a body of troops was
sent to guard it; but they found that this was useless and impossible,
and came back again. The next was at Thermopylae. Look in your map of
the Archipelago, or Aegean Sea, as it was then called, for the great
island of Negropont, or by its old name, Eub[oe]a. It looks like a piece
broken off from the coast, and to the north is shaped like the head of a
bird, with the beak running into a gulf, that would fit over it, upon
the main land, and between the island and the coast is an exceedingly
narrow strait. The Persian army would have to march round the edge of
the gulf. They could not cut straight across the country, because the
ridge of mountains called Oeta rose up and barred their way. Indeed, the
woods, rocks, and precipices came down so near the sea-shore that in two
places there was only room for one single wheel track between the steeps
and the impassable morass that formed the border of the gulf on its
south side. These two very narrow places were called the gates of the
pass, and were about a mile apart. There was a little more width left in
the intervening space; but in this there were a number of springs of
warm mineral water, salt and sulphurous, which were used for the sick to
bathe in, and thus the place was called Thermopylae, or the Hot Gates. A
wall had once been built across the westernmost of these narrow places,
when the Thessalians and Phocians, who lived on either side of it, had
been at war with one another; but it had been allowed to go to decay,
since the Phocians had found out that there was a very steep narrow
mountain path along the bed of a torrent, by which it was possible to
cross from one territory to the other without going round this marshy
coast road.
This was, therefore, an excellent place to defend. The Greek ships were
all drawn up on the further side of Eub[oe]a to prevent the Persian
vessels from getting into the strait and landing men beyond the pass,
and a division of the army was sent off to guard the Hot Gates. The
council at the Isthmus did not know of the mountain pathway, and thought
that all would be safe as long as the Persians were kept out of the
coast path.
The troops sent for this purpose were from different cities, and
amounted to about 4,000 who were to keep the pass against two millions.
The leader of them was Leonidas, who had newly become one of the two
kings of Sparta, the city that above all in Greece trained its sons to
be hardy soldiers, dreading death infinitely less than shame. Leonidas
had already made up his mind that the expedition would probably be his
death, perhaps because a prophecy had been given at the Temple at Delphi
that Sparta should be saved by the death of one of her kings of the race
of Hercules. He was allowed by law to take with him 300 men, and these
he chose most carefully, not merely for their strength and courage, but
selecting those who had sons, so that no family might altogether be
destroyed. These Spartans, with their helots or slaves, made up his own
share of the numbers, but all the army was under his generalship. It is
even said that the 300 celebrated their own funeral rites before they
set out lest they should be deprived of them by the enemy, since, as we
have already seen, it was the Greek belief that the spirits of the dead
found no rest till their obsequies had been performed. Such preparations
did not daunt the spirits of Leonidas and his men, and his wife, Gorgo,
was not a woman to be faint-hearted or hold him back. Long before, when
she was a very little girl, a word of hers had saved her father from
listening to a traitorous message from the King of Persia; and every
Spartan lady was bred up to be able to say to those she best loved that
they must come home from battle "with the shield or on it"--either
carrying it victoriously or borne upon it as a corpse.
When Leonidas came to Thermopylae, the Phocians told him of the mountain
path through the chestnut woods of Mount Oeta, and begged to have the
privilege of guarding it on a spot high up on the mountain side,
assuring him that it was very hard to find at the other end, and that
there was every probability that the enemy would never discover it. He
consented, and encamping around the warm springs, caused the broken wall
to be repaired, and made ready to meet the foe.
The Persian army were seen covering the whole country like locusts, and
the hearts of some of the southern Greeks in the pass began to sink.
Their homes in the Peloponnesus were comparatively secure--had they not
better fall back and reserve themselves to defend the Isthmus of
Corinth? But Leonidas, though Sparta was safe below the Isthmus, had no
intention of abandoning his northern allies, and kept the other
Peloponnesians to their posts, only sending messengers for further
help.
Presently a Persian on horseback rode up to reconnoiter the pass. He
could not see over the wall, but in front of it and on the ramparts, he
saw the Spartans, some of them engaged in active sports, and others in
combing their long hair. He rode back to the king, and told him what he
had seen. Now, Xerxes had in his camp an exiled Spartan Prince, named
Demaratus, who had become a traitor to his country, and was serving as
counselor to the enemy. Xerxes sent for him, and asked whether his
countrymen were mad to be thus employed instead of fleeing away; but
Demaratus made answer that a hard fight was no doubt in preparation, and
that it was the custom of the Spartans to array their hair with especial
care when they were about to enter upon any great peril. Xerxes would,
however, not believe that so petty a force could intend to resist him,
and waited four days, probably expecting his fleet to assist him, but as
it did not appear, the attack was made.
The Greeks, stronger men and more heavily armed, were far better able to
fight to advantage than the Persians with their short spears and wicker
shields, and beat them off with great ease. It is said that Xerxes three
times leapt off his throne in despair at the sight of his troops being
driven backwards; and thus for two days it seemed as easy to force a way
through the Spartans as through the rocks themselves. Nay, how could
slavish troops, dragged from home to spread the victories of an
ambitious king, fight like freemen who felt that their strokes were to
defend their homes and children?
But on that evening a wretched man, named Ephialtes, crept into the
Persian camp, and offered, for a great sum of money, to show the
mountain path that would enable the enemy to take the brave defenders in
the rear! A Persian general, named Hydarnes, was sent off at night-fall
with a detachment to secure this passage, and was guided through the
thick forests that clothed the hillside. In the stillness of the air, at
daybreak, the Phocian guards of the path were startled by the crackling
of the chestnut leaves under the tread of many feet. They started up,
but a shower of arrows was discharged on them, and forgetting all save
the present alarm, they fled to a higher part of the mountain, and the
enemy, without waiting to pursue them, began to descend.
As day dawned, morning light showed the watchers of the Grecian camp
below a glittering and shimmering in the torrent bed where the shaggy
forests opened; but it was not the sparkle of water, but the shine of
gilded helmets and the gleaming of silvered spears. Moreover, a
Cimmerian crept over to the wall from the Persian camp with tidings that
the path had been betrayed, that the enemy were climbing it, and would
come down beyond the Eastern Gate. Still, the way was rugged and
circuitous, the Persians would hardly descend before midday, and there
was ample time for the Greeks to escape before they could thus be shut
in by the enemy.
There was a short council held over the morning sacrifice. Megistias,
the seer, on inspecting the entrails of the slain victim, declared, as
well he might, that their appearance boded disaster. Him Leonidas
ordered to retire, but he refused, though he sent home his only son.
There was no disgrace to an ordinary tone of mind in leaving a post that
could not be held, and Leonidas recommended all the allied troops under
his command to march away while yet the way was open. As to himself and
his Spartans, they had made up their minds to die at their post, and
there could be no doubt that the example of such a resolution would do
more to save Greece than their best efforts could ever do if they were
careful to reserve themselves for another occasion.
All the allies consented to retreat, except the eighty men who came from
Mycenae and the 700 Thespians, who declared that they would not desert
Leonidas. There were also 400 Thebans who remained; and thus the whole
number that stayed with Leonidas to confront two million of enemies were
1400 warriors, besides the helots or attendants on the 300 Spartans,
whose number is not known, but there was probably at least one to each.
Leonidas had two kinsmen in the camp, like himself, claiming the blood
of Hercules, and he tried to save them by giving them letters and
messages to Sparta; but one answered that "he had come to fight, not to
carry letters"; and the other, that "his deeds would tell all that
Sparta wished to know." Another Spartan, named Dienices, when told that
the enemy's archers were so numerous that their arrows darkened the sun,
replied, "So much the better, we shall fight in the shade." Two of the
300 had been sent to a neighboring village, suffering severely from a
complaint in the eyes. One of them, called Eurytus, put on his armor,
and commanded his helot to lead him to his place in the ranks; the
other, called Aristodemus, was so overpowered with illness that he
allowed himself to be carried away with the retreating allies. It was
still early in the day when all were gone, and Leonidas gave the word to
his men to take their last meal. "To-night," he said, "we shall sup with
Pluto."
Hitherto, he had stood on the defensive, and had husbanded the lives of
his men; but he now desired to make as great a slaughter as possible, so
as to inspire the enemy with dread of the Grecian name. He therefore
marched out beyond the wall, without waiting to be attacked, and the
battle began. The Persian captains went behind their wretched troops and
scourged them on to the fight with whips! Poor wretches, they were
driven on to be slaughtered, pierced with the Greek spears, hurled into
the sea, or trampled into the mud of the morass; but their inexhaustible
numbers told at length. The spears of the Greeks broke under hard
service, and their swords alone remained; they began to fall, and
Leonidas himself was among the first of the slain. Hotter than ever was
the fight over his corpse, and two Persian princes, brothers of Xerxes,
were there killed; but at length word was brought that Hydarnes was over
the pass, and that the few remaining men were thus enclosed on all
sides. The Spartans and Thespians made their way to a little hillock
within the wall, resolved to let this be the place of their last stand;
but the hearts of the Thebans failed them, and they came towards the
Persians holding out their hands in entreaty for mercy. Quarter was
given to them, but they were all branded with the king's mark as
untrustworthy deserters. The helots probably at this time escaped into
the mountains; while the small desperate band stood side by side on the
hill still fighting to the last, some with swords, others with daggers,
others even with their hands and teeth, till not one living man
remained amongst them when the sun went down. There was only a mound of
slain, bristled over with arrows.
Twenty thousand Persians had died before that handful of men! Xerxes
asked Demaratus if there were many more at Sparta like these, and was
told there were 8,000. It must have been with a somewhat failing heart
that he invited his courtiers from the fleet to see what he had done to
the men who dared to oppose him, and showed them the head and arm of
Leonidas set up upon a cross; but he took care that all his own slain,
except 1,000, should first be put out of sight. The body of the brave
king was buried where he fell, as were those of the other dead. Much
envied were they by the unhappy Aristodemus, who found himself called by
no name but the "Coward," and was shunned by all his fellow-citizens. No
one would give him fire or water, and after a year of misery, he
redeemed his honor by perishing in the forefront of the battle of
Platæa, which was the last blow that drove the Persians ingloriously
from Greece.
The Greeks then united in doing honor to the brave warriors who, had
they been better supported, might have saved the whole country from
invasion. The poet Simonides wrote the inscriptions that were engraved
upon the pillars that were set up in the pass to commemorate this great
action. One was outside the wall, where most of the fighting had been.
It seems to have been in honor of the whole number who had for two days
resisted--
"Here did four thousand men from Pelops' land
Against three hundred myriads bravely stand."
In honor of the Spartans was another column--
"Go, traveler, to Sparta tell
That here, obeying her, we fell."
On the little hillock of the last resistance was placed the figure of a
stone lion, in memory of Leonidas, so fitly named the lion-like; and
Simonides, at his own expense, erected a pillar to his friend, the seer
Megistias--
"The great Megistias' tomb you here may view,
Who slew the Medes, fresh from Spercheius fords;
Well the wise seer the coming death foreknew,
Yet scorn'd he to forsake his Spartan lords."
The names of the 300 were likewise engraven on a pillar at Sparta.
Lion, pillars, and inscriptions have all long since passed away, even
the very spot itself has changed; new soil has been formed, and there
are miles of solid ground between Mount Oeta and the gulf, so that the
Hot Gates no longer exist. But more enduring than stone or brass--nay,
than the very battle-field itself--has been the name of Leonidas. Two
thousand three hundred years have sped since he braced himself to perish
for his country's sake in that narrow, marshy coast road, under the brow
of the wooded crags, with the sea by his side. Since that time how many
hearts have glowed, how many arms have been nerved at the remembrance of
the Pass of Thermopylae, and the defeat that was worth so much more than
a victory!
SECTION XII
HOME READING LIST AND GENERAL INDEX
". . . Forsooth he cometh unto you with a tale
which holdeth children from play, and old men
from the chimney corner; and, pretending no
more, doth intend the winning of the mind from
wickedness to virtue even as the child is often
brought to take most wholesome things by hiding
them in such others as have a pleasant
taste. . . ."
--Sir Philip Sidney, _An Apologie for Poetrie_.
SECTION XII. HOME READING LIST AND GENERAL INDEX
A HOME READING LIST
Children are such omnivorous readers that teachers and parents are
constantly at their wit's end, not only in naming enough books to supply
their demands, but in grouping these books according to the order of
difficulty. Most public libraries can furnish such lists based upon
their experience with children. In fact no modern public library can
carry on its work successfully without an especially prepared librarian
in charge of the books for children. The arrangement of any list by
grades must at best be only approximate, but if done in the light of a
wide experience may be of the greatest practical help to the young
teacher or to the parent. The following list is one issued by the
Chicago Public Library, and is used here through the great kindness of
Miss Adah F. Whitcomb, supervisor of the children's room and director of
the training class. Any well-selected collection for children will
contain a large proportion of these titles, and the list is extended
enough and varied enough to furnish attractive reading material for any
young person. At need it may be supplemented by the more elaborate lists
found in some of the guides mentioned in the General Bibliography (p.
2).
FIRST GRADE
Banta, N. Moore, and Benson, Alpha B., _Brownie Primer_.
Blaisdell, Mary Frances, _Mother Goose Children_.
Brooke, Leonard Leslie, _Johnny Crow's Garden_.
----, _Johnny Crow's Party_.
Buffum, Katharine G., _Mother Goose in Silhouettes_.
Craik, Georgiana Marion, _So-fat and Mew-mew_.
Crane, Walter, _Beauty and the Beast Picture Book_.
----, _Bluebeard's Picture Book_.
----, _Cinderella's Picture Book_.
----, _Goody Two Shoes Picture Book_.
----, _Mother Hubbard, Her Picture Book_.
----, _Red Riding Hood's Picture Book_.
----, _Song of Sixpence_.
----, _This Little Pig, His Picture Book_.
----, _Buckle My Shoe_.
Fox, Florence Cornelia, _The Indian Primer_.
Gaynor, Mrs. Jessie Love, and Riley, Alice C. D., _Songs of the
Child-World_.
Greenaway, Kate, _Under the Window_.
Haaren, John Henry, _Rhymes and Fables_.
Howard, Frederick Ward, _Banbury Cross Stories_.
Lansing, Marion Florence, _The Child's World Garden_.
Le Fèvre, Felicité, _The Cock, the Mouse, and the Little Red
Hen_.
Lucas, Edward Verrall, _Four and Twenty Toilers_.
Mother Goose, _The Real Mother Goose_ (illus. by Blanche Fisher
Wright).
Noyes, Marion, _The Sunshine Primer_.
Saxby, Lewis, _Life of a Wooden Doll_.
Seton, Ernest Thompson, _Wild Animal Play for Children_.
Skinner, A. M., and Lawrence, L. N., _Little Dramas for Primary
Grades_.
Smith, Elmer Boyd, _Chicken World_.
Varney, A. S., _The Robin Reader_.
Welsh, Charles, (ed.), _Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes_.
Wiltse, Sara E., _Folklore Stories and Proverbs_.
SECOND GRADE
Adelborg, Ottilia, _Clean Peter and the Children of Grubbylea_.
Æsopus, _Fables_ (Dalkeith ed.).
Bannerman, Mrs. Helen, _Story of Little Black Sambo_.
Bass, Florence, _Nature Stories for Young Readers: Animal Life_.
----, _Nature Stories for Young Readers: Plant Life_.
Bryce, Catherine Turner, _Stevenson Reader_.
Burgess, Gelett, _Goops, and How to Be Them_.
----, _More Goops, and How Not to Be Them_.
Caldecott, Randolph, _Come Lasses Picture Book_.
----, _Hey Diddle Diddle Picture Book_.
Coe, Ida, _Story Hour Readers_. Vols. 3, 4.
Cooke, Flora J., _Nature Myths and Stories for Little Children_.
Craik, Georgiana Marion, _Bow-wow and Mew-mew_.
Crane, Walter, _Baby's Own Æsop_.
Deming, Therese Osterheld, _Little Indian Folk_.
----, _Little Red People_.
Dodge, Mary Mapes, _Rhymes and Jingles_.
Greenaway, Kate, _Marigold Garden_.
Haaren, John Henry, _Songs and Stories_.
Hix, Melvin, _Once-upon-a-Time Stories_.
Ivimey, John William, _Three Blind Mice_.
McCullough, Annie Willis, _Little Stories for Little People_.
Moore, Annie E., _Pennies and Plans_.
Murray, Clara, _The Child at Play_.
Poulsson, Emilie, _The Runaway Donkey and Other Rhymes_.
----, _Through the Farmyard Gate_.
Smith, Elmer Boyd, _Farm Book_.
----, _Santa Claus Book_.
----, _Seashore Book_.
Smith, Gertrude, _Lovable Tales of Janey and Josey and Joe_.
----, _Roggie and Reggie Stories_.
Tileston, Mary Wilder Foote, _Sugar and Spice and All That's
Nice_.
Tolman, Stella Webster Carroll, _Around the World_, Vol. 1.
Turpin, Edna Henry Lee, _Classic Fables_.
Weatherly, F. E., _The Book of Gnomes_.
THIRD GRADE
Aspinwall, Mrs. Alicia, _Short Stories for Short People_.
Bailey, Carolyn Sherwin, _Boys and Girls of Colonial Days_.
Brocks, Dorothy, _Red Children_.
Brooke, Leonard Leslie, _Golden Goose Book_.
Brown, Abbie Farwell, _Christmas Angel_.
----, _Lonesomest Doll_.
Browning, Robert, _Pied Piper of Hamelin_ (illus. by Hope
Dunlap).
Chisholm, Louey, _Nursery Rhymes_.
Deming, Mrs. Therese Osterheld, _Children of the Wild_.
----, _Little Brothers of the West_.
Dodge, Mrs. Mary Mapes, _New Baby World_.
Field, Eugene, _Lullaby-land: Songs of Childhood_.
Foulke, Elizabeth E., _Braided Straws_.
----, _Twilight Stories_.
Francis, Joseph Greene, _Book of Cheerful Cats and Other Animated
Animals_.
Gates, Mrs. Josephine Scribner, _Story of Live Dolls_.
Gerson, Virginia, _Happy Heart Family_.
Grimm, Jacob L. K., and Wilhelm, K., _Fairy Tales_ (Lucas ed.).
----, _Fairy Tales_ (Wiltse ed.).
Haaren, John Henry, _Fairy Life_.
Lang, Andrew, _Prince Darling, and Other Stories_.
Lansing, Marion Florence, _Rhymes and Stories_.
McMurry, Mrs. Lida Brown, _Classic Stories for the Little Ones_.
Morley, Margaret Warner, _Seed-Babies_.
Peary, Mrs. Josephine Diebitsch, _Snow Baby_.
Perkins, Lucy Fitch, _Dutch Twins_.
----, _Japanese Twins_.
Pierson, Clara Dillingham, _Among the Farmyard People_.
Pyle, Katharine, _Careless Jane, and Other Tales_.
Shute, Katherine H., _Land of Song_, Vol. 1.
Tappan, Eva March, _Dixie Kitten_.
----, _Golden Goose_.
Thorne-Thomsen, Mrs. Gudrun, _East o' the Sun_.
Trimmer, Mrs. Sarah K., _History of the Robins_.
Valentine, Mrs. Laura Jewry, _Aunt Louisa's Book of Fairy Tales_.
Woodward, Alice B., _Peter Pan Picture Book_.
FOURTH GRADE
Alden, Raymond Macdonald, _Why the Chimes Rang_.
Andersen, Hans Christian, _Fairy Tales_ (Lucas ed.).
Barrie, James Matthew, _Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens_.
Brown, Abbie Farwell, _John of the Woods_.
Brown, Helen Dawes, _Little Miss Phoebe Gay_.
Browne, Frances, _Granny's Wonderful Chair, and Its Tales of
Fairy Times_.
Campbell, Helen LeRoy, _Story of Konrad, the Swiss Boy_.
Carryl, Charles Edward, _Davy and the Goblin_.
Craik, Mrs. Dinah Maria, _Adventures of a Brownie_.
Crichton, Mrs. F. E., _Peep-in-the-World_.
Drummond, Henry, _Monkey That Would Not Kill_.
Faulkner, Georgene, _Italian Fairy Tales_.
----, _Russian Fairy Tales_.
Grimm, Jacob L. K., and Wilhelm K., _Household Fairy Tales_, tr.
by L. Crane.
Hopkins, William John, _Sandman: His Farm Stories_.
Houghton, Mrs. Louise Seymour, _Russian Grandmother's Wonder
Tales_.
Ingelow, Jean, _Mopsa the Fairy_.
Lang, Andrew, _Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp_.
----, _Nursery Rhyme Book_.
----, _Pretty Goldilocks_.
----, _Snow Man_.
----, _Snow Queen_.
Lindsay, Maud, and Poulsson, Emilie, _Joyous Travelers_.
Lorenzini, Carlo, _Adventures of Pinocchio_.
Lucas, Edward Verrall, _Book of Verses for Children_.
Macdonald, George, _Princess and the Goblin_.
Morley, Margaret Warner, _Donkey John of Toy Valley_.
O'Shea, Michael Vincent, _Old World Wonder Stories_.
Paine, Albert Bigelow, _How Mr. Dog Got Even_.
----, _How Mr. Rabbit Lost His Tail_.
Peck, Harry Thurston, _Adventures of Mabel_.
Pierson, Mrs. Clara Dillingham, _Three Little Millers_.
Pyle, Katharine, _As the Goose Flies_.
----, _Christmas Angel_.
----, _Counterpane Fairy_.
Richards, Mrs. Laura E., _Joyous Story of Toto_.
----, _Toto's Merry Winter_.
Schwartz, Julia Augusta, _Five Little Strangers_.
Scudder, Horace E., _Book of Fables_.
----, _Book of Folk Stories_.
----, _Children's Book_.
Sègur, Sophie R. de, _Story of a Donkey_.
Thorne-Thomsen, Mrs. Gudrun, _Birch and the Star_.
Walker, Margaret Coulson, _Lady Hollyhock and Her Friends_.
Welsh, Charles, _Fairy Tales Children Love_.
Wette, A. H., _Hansel and Gretel_ (illus. in colors).
White, Eliza Orne, _When Molly Was Six_.
Williston, Teresa Peirce, _Japanese Fairy Tales_.
Zwilgmeyer, Dikken, _Johnny Blossom_.
FIFTH GRADE
Alden, William Livingston, _Cruise of the Canoe Club_.
----, _Cruise of the "Ghost."_
----, _Moral Pirates_.
Baldwin, James, _Old Greek Stories_.
Brown, Abbie Farwell, _In the Days of Giants_.
Burnett, Frances Hodgson, _Little Lord Fauntleroy_.
Caldwell, Frank, _Wolf, the Storm Leader_.
Coburn, Claire Martha, _Our Little Swedish Cousin_.
Colum, Padraic, _Boy Who Knew What the Birds Said_.
Dodgson, Charles Lutwidge, _Alice in Wonderland_.
Duncan, Norman, _Adventures of Billy Topsail_.
French, Allen, _Story of Rolf and the Viking's Bow_.
Golding, Vautier, _Story of David Livingstone_.
Gordy, Wilbur Fisk, _American Leaders and Heroes_.
Grinnell, George Bird, _Jack among the Indians_.
Hall, Jennie, _Viking Tales_.
Jacobs, Joseph, _Celtic Fairy Tales_.
----, _English Fairy Tales_.
Jenks, Albert Ernest, _Childhood of Ji-shib, the Ojibway_.
Kaler, James Otis, _Mr. Stubbs' Brother_.
----, _Toby Tyler_.
Kipling, Rudyard, _Just-So Stories_.
Lucas, Edward Verrall, _Book of Verses for Children_.
Mabie, Hamilton Wright, _Norse Stories_.
Mighels, Philip Verrill, _Sunnyside Tad_.
Olcott, Frances Jenkins, _Fairies and Elves_.
----, _Arabian Nights_.
Paine, Albert Bigelow, _Arkansaw Bear_.
Pendleton, Louis B., _In the Camp of the Creeks_.
Pyle, Howard, _Garden behind the Moon_.
----, _Story of King Arthur and His Knights_.
----, _Wonder Clock_.
Pyle, Katharine, _Nancy Rutledge_.
Richards, Laura E., _Captain January_.
Schultz, James Willard, _With the Indians in the Rockies_.
Seton, Ernest Thompson, _Lives of the Hunted_.
Spyri, Mrs. Johanna, _Heidi_.
Stockton, Frank R., _Fanciful Tales_.
Stoddard, William Osborn, _Little Smoke_.
Tappan, Eva March, _Robin Hood: His Book_.
Thackeray, William Makepeace, _Rose and the Ring_.
Wesselhoeft, Lily F., _Sparrow, the Tramp_.
Wiggin, Kate Douglas, _Birds' Christmas Carol_.
Wiggin, Kate Douglas, and Smith, Nora A., _Fairy Ring_.
Wyss, Johann David, _Swiss Family Robinson_.
Zollinger, Gulielma, _Widow O'Callaghan's Boys_.
SIXTH GRADE
Alcott, Louisa M., _Eight Cousins_.
----, _Jack and Jill_.
Baldwin, James, _Story of the Golden Age_.
----, _Story of Roland_.
----, _Story of Siegfried_.
Bennett, John, _Barnaby Lee_.
Bond, Alexander Russell, _Pick, Shovel and Pluck_.
Bostock, Frank Charles, _Training of Wild Animals_.
Brooks, Elbridge Streeter, _Master of the Strong Hearts_.
Brooks, Noah, _Boy Emigrants_ (illus. ed.).
Browne, Belmore, _Quest of the Golden Valley_.
Burnett, Mrs. Frances Hodgson, _Little Princess_.
Crump, Irving, _Boys' Book of Firemen_.
Daviess, Marie Thompson, _Phyllis_.
Defoe, Daniel, _Robinson Crusoe_.
Dix, Beulah Marie, _Merrylips_.
Dodge, Mrs. Mary Mapes, _Hans Brinker_.
DuBois, Mary Constance, _Lass of the Silver Sword_.
Eggleston, George Cary, _Last of the Flatboats_.
Ford, Sewell. _Horses Nine_.
French, Allen, _Story of Greltir the Strong_.
----, _Junior Cup_.
Greene, Frances N., and Kirk, Dolly W., _With Spurs of Gold_.
Greene, Homer, _Blind Brother_.
Gregor, Elmer Russell, _Red Arrow_.
Hamp, Sidford Frederick, _Treasure of Mushroom Rock_.
Hawkes, Clarence, _Shaggycoat: the Biography of a Beaver_.
Hudson, William Henry, _Little Boy Lost_.
Inman, Henry, _Ranche on the Oxhide_.
Irving, Washington, _Rip Van Winkle_.
Jacobs, Joseph, _Indian Fairy Tales_.
Johnston, William Allen, _Deeds of Doing and Daring_.
Kipling, Rudyard, _Jungle Book_.
Lang, Andrew, _Red True Story Book_.
Little, Francis, _Camp Jolly_.
Lothrop, Mrs. Harriet Mulford, _Five Little Peppers_.
Munroe, Kirk, _Flamingo Feather_.
Page, Thomas Nelson, _Two Little Confederates_.
Pyle, Katharine, _Theodora_.
Rankin, Mrs. Carroll Watson, _Dandelion Cottage_.
Roberts, Theodore, _Red Feathers_.
Seaman, Augusta Huiell, _Boarded-up House_.
Seawell, Molly Elliot, _Little Jarvis_.
Seton, Ernest Thompson, _Wild Animals I Have Known_.
Stockton, Frank R., _Bee-Man of Orn_.
Stoddard, William Osborn, _Red Mustang_.
Swift, Jonathan, _Gulliver's Travels_.
Wade, Mrs. Mary Hazelton B., _Wonder Workers_.
Wallace, Dillon, _Arctic Stowaways_.
Wesselhoeft, Mrs. Elizabeth Foster, _Jack, the Fire Dog_.
SEVENTH GRADE
Adams, Joseph Henry, _Harper's Indoor Book for Boys_. _Harper's
Outdoor Book for Boys._
Alcott, Louisa M., _Jo's Boys_. _Old-fashioned Girl._ _Under the
Lilacs._
Altsheler, Joseph Alexander, _Forest Runners_. _Free Rangers._
_Young Trailers._
Barnes, James, _Hero of Erie: Oliver Hazard Perry_. _Yankee Ships
and Yankee Sailors._
Browne, Belmore, _White Blanket_.
Bullen, Frank Thomas, _Cruise of the Cachalot_.
Burton, Charles Pierce, _The Boys of Bob's Hill_.
Canavan, Michael Joseph, _Ben Comee: a Tale of Roger's Rangers_.
Day, Holman Francis, _Eagle Badge_.
Deland, Ellen Douglas, _Oakleigh_.
Dix, Beulah Marie, _Little Captive Lad_.
Dodge, Mrs. Mary Mapes, _Donald and Dorothy_.
Drysdale, William, _Beach Patrol_. _Cadet Standish of the "St.
Louis."_ _Fast Mail._ _Young Supercargo._
Foa, Eugénie, _Boy Life of Napoleon_.
Garland, Hamlin, _Long Trail_.
Greene, Homer, _Pickett's Gap_.
Grey, Zane, _Young Forester_. _Young Pitcher._
Grinnell, George Bird, _Jack among the Indians_. _Jack in the
Rockies._ _Jack, the Young Ranchman._
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, _Grandfather's Chair_.
Henley, William Ernest, _Lyra Heroica: Book of Verse for Boys_.
Hill, T., _Fighting a Fire_.
Hough, Emerson, _Young Alaskans_.
Hughes, Thomas, _Tom Brown's School Days_.
Jackson, Mrs. Helen Hunt, _Nellie's Silver Mine_.
Jacobs, Caroline Emilia, _Joan's Jolly Vacation_. _Joan of Juniper
Inn._
Kieffer, Henry Martyn, _Recollections of a Drummer-Boy_.
Munroe, Kirk, _At War with Pontiac_. _Cab and Caboose._
Pyle, Howard, _Otto of the Silver Hand_.
Quirk, Leslie W., _Baby Elton, Quarterback_.
Roberts, Charles G. D., _Kindred of the Wild_.
Seton, Ernest Thompson, _Two Little Savages_.
Stockton, Frank R., _Buccaneers and Pirates of Our Coast_.
Stoddard, William Osborn, _Red Patriot_. _White Cave._ _Lost
Gold of the Montezumas._
Tolman, Albert Walter, _Jim Spurling, Fisherman_.
Tomlinson, Everett Titsworth, _Search for Andrew Field._ _Three
Colonial Boys._ _Red Chief._ _Marching against the Iroquois._
Wiggin, Kate Douglas, _Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm_.
Zollinger, Gulielma, _Maggie McLanehan_.
EIGHTH GRADE
Adams, Andy, _Wells Brothers: the Young Cattle Kings_.
Ashmun, Margaret Eliza, _Isabel Carlton's Year_.
Barbour, Ralph Henry, _Behind the Line_. _Crimson Sweater._
Beach, Edward Latimer, _Annapolis First Classman_.
Bennett, John, _Master Skylark_.
Catherwood, Mary Hartwell, _Story of Tonty_.
Cervantes-Saavedra M. de, _Don Quixote_.
Clemens, Samuel L., _Prince and the Pauper_.
Coffin, Charles Carleton, _Boys of '76_.
Cooper, James Fenimore, _Deerslayer_.
Dana, Richard Henry, _Two Years before the Mast_.
Doubleday, Russell, _Cattle-Ranch to College_.
Driggs, Lawrence La Tourette, _Adventures of Arnold Adair,
American Ace_.
Duncan, Norman, _Adventures of Billy Topsail_.
Eggleston, George Cary, _Bale Marked Circle X_.
French, Harry W., _The Lance of Kanana_.
Gilbert, A., _More than Conquerors_.
Gordon, Charles William, _Glengarry School Days_.
Goss, Warren Lee, _Jed_.
Hamp, Sidford Frederick, _Dale and Fraser, Sheepmen_.
Hill, Frederick Trevor, _On the Trail of Grant and Lee_.
Homer, _Adventures of Odysseus_. (Colum ed.).
Hughes, Rupert, _Lakerim Athletic Club_.
Johnston, Charles Haven L., _Famous Scouts_.
Kipling, Rudyard, _Captains Courageous_.
London, Jack, _Call of the Wild_.
Macleod, Mary, _Shakespeare Story Book_.
Malory, Sir Thomas, _Book of King Arthur and His Noble Knights_.
Masefield, John, _Martin Hyde_.
Meigs, Cornelia, _Master Simon's Garden_.
Moffett, Cleveland, _Careers of Danger and Daring_.
Montgomery, Lucy Maud, _Anne of Green Gables_.
Nicolay, Helen, _Boys' Life of Abraham Lincoln_.
Ollivant, Alfred, _Bob, Son of Battle_.
Parkman, Mary, _Heroes of To-day_.
Pendleton, Louis B., _King Tom and the Runaways_.
Pyle, Howard, _Men of Iron_. _Story of Jack Ballister's Fortunes_.
Rice, Alice Caldwell H., _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_.
Richards, Laura E., _Florence Nightingale_.
Richmond, Grace L., _Round the Corner in Gay Street_.
Roberts, Charles G. D., _Heart of the Ancient Wood_.
Rolt-Wheeler, Francis William, _Boy with the U. S. Foresters_.
Schultz, James William, _Quest of the Fish-Dog Skin_.
Seaman, Augusta Huiell, _Girl Next Door_.
Singmaster, Elsie, _Emmeline_.
Tappan, Eva March, _In the Days of Queen Elizabeth_.
Thompson, Arthur Ripley, _Gold-Seeking on the Dalton Trail_.
Thompson, James Maurice, _Alice of Old Vincennes_.
Thurston, Ida Treadwell, _Bishop's Shadow_.
Trowbridge, John Townsend, _Cudjo's Cave_.
Verne, Jules, _Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea_.
Verrill, Alpheus Hyatt, _Marooned in the Forest_.
Wallace, Dillon, _Wilderness Castaways_.
Wallace, Lewis, _Ben Hur_.
Waller, Mary Ella, _Daughter of the Rich_.
INDEX
(A number in blackface type refers to a page on which appears a literary
selection under the title, by the author, or from the book preceding the
number. Book titles are in italics; selection titles and index topics in
roman type; names of authors in capitals and small capitals; and first
lines of nursery rhymes within quotation marks. See Bibliography for
authors and book titles not given in this Index.)
Abou Ben Adhem, =414=
"A cat came fiddling out of a barn," =23=
Accumulative story; _See_ Stories
ADDISON, J., =294=
"A diller, a dollar," =23=
ADLER, F., 53, 263
Admetus and the Shepherd, =337=
Adventures of Arthur, =598=
ÆSOP, =266-268=, =272=, =273-278=, =264=
Against Idleness and Mischief, =407=
_Age of Fable, The_, =339=, =343=, 338
AIKIN, J., =451=
ALDEN, R. M., =223=
Ali Baba, and the Forty Thieves, =579=
_Alice in Wonderland_, 405
Allegory, =292=, =294=. _See also_ Fables
Allen-a-Dale, =628=
Alnaschar, 279, 579
_Ancient Legends of Ireland_, 164
ANDERSEN, H. C., =179-203=, 79, 134, 381, 390;
appreciation of, 172-173;
work of, =179=
_Andersen's Best Fairy Tales_, =179=, =181=
Androcles, =269=
Androcles and the Lion, =270=
Anniversary, An, =34=
Anxious Leaf, The, =290=
Apologue, 290, =291=. _See also_ Fable
Apple of Discord, The, 332
_Arabian Nights' Entertainment, The_, =579=, 235, 578, 579
Arab to His Favorite Steed, The, =420=
Arthur and Sir Accalon, =603=
Arthur, King, =595-603=, 577, 578, 594
ASBJÖRNSEN, P., =122-128=;
work of, 122
"As I was going to St. Ives," =23=
"As I was going up Pippen Hill," =23=
"As I went to Bonner," =23=
Ass in the Lion's Skin, The, =281=
"As Tommy Snooks and Bessie Brooks," =23=
"A swarm of bees in May," =23=
Autobiography; _See_ Biography
Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, The, =646=
A Was an Apple-Pie, =34=
"Baa, baa, black sheep," =23=
Babes in the Wood, The, =39=
Baby Bye, =373=
BAILEY, C. S., =59=
BAIN, R. N., =160=
Ballad, =425=, =436=, =628=, 437, 628
Ballad of Nathan Hale, The, =425=
BARBAULD, A. L., =451=
"Barber, barber, shave a pig," =23=
Battle between the Fox and the Wolf, The, =591=
_Bears of Blue River, The_, =500=
BEAUMONT, MADAME DE, =110=
Beauty and the Beast, =110=
BEECHER, H. W., =290=
_Beowulf_, 577
Beth Gêlert, =436=
Betty's Ride, A Tale of the Revolution, =496=
_Beyond the Pasture Bars_, =520=
_Bible, The_, =288=, =289=
Bibliography:
(_a_). General; 2-4;
Bible as literature for children, 3;
collections of literature for children, 2;
dramatization, 3;
guides in teaching, 2-3;
historical development, 2;
interpretations of childhood, 4;
social and psychological backgrounds, 4;
story-telling, 3.
(_b_). Special;
biography and hero stories, 632;
fables and symbolic stories, 262;
fairy stories, modern fantastic tales, 170;
fairy stories, traditional tales, 52;
Mother Goose and nursery rhymes, 18;
myths, 302;
nature literature, 510;
poetry, 368;
realistic stories, 442;
romance and legend, 576.
(_c_). Special reading for teachers;
biography and hero stories, 634;
modern fairy stories, 173;
myths, 305;
nature literature, 512;
nursery rhymes, 22;
poetry, 370;
romance and legend, 578.
(_d_). Graded lists for children, 12-14, =679-686=
BIDPAI; history of, 264
Big Bear, The, =500=
Biography and hero stories, =635-676=;
discussion of, 633-634;
selection of, 633-634;
value of, 633
Bird Habits, =549=
"Birds of a feather flock together," =23=
BLAKE, W., =400-401=
"Bless you, bless you, burnie bee," =23=
Blue Light, The, =134=, 195
Boats Sail on the Rivers, =394=
"Bobby Shafto's gone to sea," =24=
_Book of Golden Deeds, The_, =671=
_Book of Legends, The_, =620=, 578
_Book of Nursery Rhymes_ =21=
_Book of the Dun Cow_, =162=
Books for children; _See_ Bibliography
Boots and His Brothers, =125=
"Bow, wow, wow," =24=
Boyhood of Washington, The, =642=
_Boy's Life of Abraham Lincoln, The_, =655=
Boy's Song, A, =389=
BRAEKSTAD, H. L., =128=
Bramble Is Made King, The, =288=
BRANDES, G., 179, 180, 196, 203
Breathes There the Man, =424=
Brier Rose, =142=
BROOKS, E. S., =635=
BROWN, T. E., =418=
BROWNE, F., =210=, =209=
BROWNING, R., =399=, 398
Brown Thrush, The, =374=
BRYANT, S. C., 70
BRYANT, W. C., =417=, 416
_Buddhist Birth Stories_, =282=, =283=, 281
BULFINCH, T., =339=, =343=
BURGESS, T. W. =515=, 514
Burial of Poor Cock Robin, The, =44=
Butterfly's Ball, The, =397=
"Bye, baby bunting," =24=
BYRON, LORD, =416=
Camel and the Pig, The, =281=
CANBY, H. S., =496=
Can You, =398=
CARROLL, L., =405=
CARY, P., =377=, =378=
Casabianca, =400=
Cat and the Mouse, The, =60=
_Celtic Fairy Tales_, =162=
CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA, M. DE, =607=, 606
Change About, =49=
CHILD, L. M., =375=
_Children's Book, The_, 642
Children's Literature; _See_ Literature
_Child's Guide to Reading, A_, =8=
Christmas stories, 505
Cinderella, =102=
Circus-Day Parade, The, =388=
City Mouse and the Garden Mouse, The, =268=
_Classic Myths in English Literature and Art_, 340
Cock a Doodle Doo, =37=
Cock and the Fox, The, =284=
Cock Robin, 42, 44
Cock, the Cat, and the Young Mouse, The, =285=
COLE, H., =586=, =591=, 578
COLERIDGE, S. T., =178=
COLLINS, WM., =425=
COLLINS, W. L., =285=
"Come when you're called," =24=
Concord Hymn, =424=
Connla and the Fairy Maiden, =162=
COOK, E., =402=
COOLIDGE, S., =377=
_Cossack Fairy Tales_, =160=
Country Mouse and the Town Mouse, The, =269=
Course of Study, 8, 9, 10, 13-16, 512, 577, 633-634
Courtship of Cock Robin and Jenny Wren, =42=
Cow, The, =381=
Cow, The, =392=
COX, R., 112
CRAIK, D. M.; _See_ MULOCK
Croesus and Solon, =299=
Crossing the Bar, =414=
"Cross patch," =24=
Crow and the Pitcher, The, =266=
"Curly locks! curly locks!" =24=
Daffodils, =419=
Dairywoman and the Pot of Milk, The, =278=
Daisies, =385=
Dame Wiggins of Lee and Her Seven Wonderful Cats, =45=, 245
"Dance, little baby, dance up high," =24=
Darius Green and His Flying Machine, =432=, 336
DASENT, G. W., =122-125=
Day Is Done, The, =410=
DAY, T., =270=, =456=, 270
Death of Balder, The, =360=
Destruction of Sennacherib, The, =416=
Diamond, or a Coal, A, =394=
Didactic period, 443
"Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John," =24=
"Ding, dong, bell," =24=
Ding Dong! Ding Dong! =372=
Discontented Pendulum, The, =297=
"Doctor Foster," =24=
_Doctor, The_, =64=
DODGSON, C. L.; _See_ CARROLL, L.
Dog and the Shadow, The, =276=
_Don Quixote_, =607-618=, 577
DOYLE, F. H., =427=
Drakestail, =107=
Dramatization, 11-12, 190
Droll, or noodle story, =63=, =71=, =150=;
defined, 67
Duel, The, =387=
DULCKEN, H. W., =190-203=, 179
EDGEWORTH, M., =459=, 458
Egg in the Nest, The, =49=
"Eggs, butter, cheese, bread," =24=
Eldorado, =415=
Elves and the Shoemaker, The, =137=
Emerald Is as Green as Grass, An, =394=
EMERSON, R. W., =424=, 423
Emperor's New Clothes, The, =181=
_English Fairy and Folk Tales_, =67=, =84=
_English Fairy Tales_, =58=, 61, 73
_Evenings at Home_, =451=
EWING, J. H., =478=, 381, 477
Eyes, and No Eyes, =451=
Fables, =266-289=;
discussion of, 263-265;
defined =264=;
presentation of, 264-265;
selection of, 264, 284;
use in school, =264=;
symbolistic and allegorical stories, =290-300=;
Æsopic, =266 ff.=;
Biblical, =288 ff.=;
Buddhistic, =281 ff.=;
English, =270=, =286=;
French, =273=, =278=, =284=, =285=;
Indian, =281=;
Roman, =269=;
Russian, =287=;
Sanskrit, =283=;
Spanish, =287=
_Fables of Æsop, The_, =266=, =267=, =269=, =278=
_Fairy Book, The_, =73=, =80=
Fairy Scene in a Wood, A, =423=
Fairy stories:
(_a_) Modern fantastic tales, =174-260=;
discussion of, 171-173;
some qualities of, 172.
(_b_) Traditional or folk tales, =56-168=;
discussion of, 53-55, 56;
how to use, 55;
vs. myths, =303=;
English, =56-92=;
French, =92-122=;
Gaelic, =162-164=;
German, =131-150=;
Indian, =150-156=;
Irish, =164-168=;
Japanese, =156-159=;
Norse, =122-131=;
Russian, =160-162=
Falcon, The, =429=
Famous Passages from Dr. Watts, =408=
_Fanciful Tales_, =234=
Farmer Went Trotting, A, =38=
FIELD, E., =385-387=
FIELD, W. T., 21
Field Mouse and the Town Mouse, The, =268=
Fir Tree, The, =190=
Fisherman and His Wife, The, =138=
Flying Kite, =385=
Folklore, 5, 10, 53, 56, 131, 171, 268, 281.
_See also_ Fables, Fairy Stories, Myths, Poetry, and Romance
Folk tales; _See_ Fairy stories
FOLLEN, E. L., =371-372=
FORD, S., =527=
"For every evil under the sun," =24=
For Those Who Fail, =415=
For Want of a Nail, =40=
"Four-and-twenty tailors," =25=
Four Leaved Clover, A, =174=
_Four Million, The_, =505=
Fox and His Wife, The, =40=
Fox and the Grapes, The, =276=
FRANCE, MARIE DE, =284=
FRANCILLON, R. E., =330=, =332=
FRANKLIN, B., =250=, =291=, =293=, =646=, 263
FRERE, M., =152=, 150
Frey, =354=
Frog and the Ox, The, =267=
Frogs Desiring a King, The, =267=
GAY, J., =286=
GAYLEY, C. M., =340=
_George Washington_, =642=
Gift of the Magi, The, =505=
GILBERT, W. S., =430=
_Gods and Heroes_, =330=, =332=
GOLDSMITH, O., 19, =445=;
work of, 445
Good-Natured Little Boy, The, =456=
Good-Night and Good-Morning, =396=
Good Play, A, =382=
Good Samaritan, The, =289=
Goody Two-Shoes, =445=
Goose with the Golden Eggs, The, =272=
GOSSE, E., 381, 477
Grading; _See_ Course of study
_Granny's Wonderful Chair_, =209=
Grasshopper and the Ant, The, =285=
"Great A, little a," =25=
_Green Fairy Book_, 73
GRIMM, JACOB and WILHELM, =132-146=, 89;
work of, 131
_Grimm's Popular Stories_, =132-142=
HALE, S. J., =373=, 372
HALLIWELL, J. O., =23 ff.=, =60-63=, 70-71, 20, 47, 59;
work of, 56
Happy Prince, The, =217=
Hardy Tin Soldier, The, =200=
Hare and the Tortoise, The, =273=
Hare with Many Friends, The, =286=
"Hark, hark," =25=
HARRIS, J. C., 511
HARRISON, I. H., =288=
HARTLAND, E. S., =67=, =84=, 89
HAVELL, H. L., =607-618=
HAWTHORNE, N., =309=, =319=, 336;
work of, 309
_Hebrew Tales_, 177
HEMANS, F. D., =400=
HENDERSON, A. C., =179=
HENLEY, W. E., =429=
Henny-Penny, =58=
HENRY, O., =505=
Hen with the Golden Eggs, The, =273=
"Here sits the Lord Mayor," =25=
"Here we go up, up, up," =25=
_Heroes of Asgard, The_, =354=
Hero stories; _See_ Romance
"Hey! diddle, diddle," =25=
"Hickery, dickery, 6 and 7," =25=
"Hickory, dickory, dock," =25=
"Higgledy, Piggledy," =25=
_History of Sandford and Merton_, =270=, =456=
_Hitopadesa_, =283=
HOGG, J., =389=
"Hogs in the garden, catch 'em Towser," =25=
_Hollow Tree Nights and Days_, =516=
HOLMES, O. W., =425=, 419, 424
HORACE, =269=, 268
Horned Women, The, =164=
_Horses Nine_, =527=
"Hot-cross buns," =26=
_Household Tales_; _See Kinder und Hausmärchen_
House that Jack Built, This is the, =48=;
origin of, 47
How Arthur Became King, =595=
How Bruin the Bear Sped with Reynard the Fox, =586=
How Columbus Got His Ships, =635=
HOWITT, M., =390=, 179
HOWITT, W., =391=
How Sleep the Brave, =425=
How the Fenris Wolf Was Chained, =351=
How the Leaves Came Down, =377=
"Hub a dub dub," =26=
"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall," =26=
HUNT, L., =414=
HUNT, M., =144=, =146=, 132, 138
HURWITZ, H., 177
Husband Who Was To Mind the House, The, =124=
Icarus and Daedalus, =336=
"If all the sea were one sea," =26=
"If all the world was apple-pie," =26=
"If I'd as much money," =26=
"If ifs and ands," =26=
"If wishes were horses," =26=
"I had a little hobby horse," =26=
"I had a little pony," =26=
"I have a little sister," =27=
I Like Little Pussy, =393=
"I'll tell you a story," =27=
Inchcape Rock, The, =421=
_Indian Fairy Tales_, =154=
_Indian Folk Stories and Fables_, 281, 280
INGELOW, J., =227=
"In marble walls as white as milk," =27=
_Insect Stories_, =524=
In the Western Wilderness, =662=
Invictus, =429=
_Irish Fairy Tales_, =166=
ISAACS, A. S., =174=
I Saw a Ship, =36=
"I went up one pair of stairs," =27=
Jackanapes, =478=, 477
"Jack and Jill went up the hill," =27=
Jack and the Beanstalk, =73=
"Jack be nimble," =27=
"Jack Sprat could eat no fat," =27=
JACOBS, J., =89=, =154=, =162=, =266=, =267=, =269=, =278=, 73, 586;
work of, 58
_Japanese Fairy Tales_, =156=, =158=
_Jataka Tales_; _See Buddhistic Birth Stories_
Jemima, =41=
Johnny Chuck Finds the Best Thing in the World, =515=
JORDAN, D. S., =556=
_Just-So Stories_, 562
KEARY, A. and E., =354=
KELLOGG, V. L., =524=
Kid and the Wolf, The, =276=
Kinder und Hausmärchen, =132-146=, 131
King Arthur; _See_ Arthur
King Arthur and His Knights, =603=
King Bell, =385=
King John and the Bishop of Canterbury, =437=
King of the Golden River, The, =245=
King O'Toole and His Goose, =166=
KINGSCOTE, MRS., =154=
_Kings in Exile_, =566=
KINGSLEY, C., =412=
KIPLING, R., =428=, =562=, 122
Knights of the Silver Shield, The, =223=
"Knock at the door," =27=
KREADY, L. F., 97, 190
KRYLOV, I. A., =288=, 287
KUPFER, G. H., =306=
"Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home," =27=
LA FONTAINE, J. DE, =273=, =278=, =284=, =285=, 272
_La Fontaine and Other French Fabulists_, =285=
Lamb, The, =401=
LAMB, C., 444
Lambikin, The, =150=
Lamplighter, The, =382=
Land of Nod, The, =382=
Land of Story-Books, The, =382=
LANG, A., =94=, =106=, 20, 21, 49, 61, 73, 93, 100
LARCOM, L., =374=
Lark and Her Young Ones, The, =275=
Last Bull, =566=
Lazy Jack, =70=
Leak in the Dyke, The, =378=
LEAR, E., =403-404=
Legend; _See_ Romance
_Le Morte D'Arthur_, =595-598=, 594
Library; improvement of, =10=
Lincoln's Early Days, =655=
Lion and the Mouse, The, =266=
Lion Tricked by a Rabbit, A, =283=
Literature for children;
general discussion of, 5-16;
artistic worth of, 7, 9, 19, 444;
course of study in, 13-16, 633-634;
cultural value of, 9, 19, 264, 577, 633;
democratic origin of, 7, 20;
didactic, 443;
kinds, traditional vs. modern, 7, 171-172;
presentation of, 8, 9, 10, 11, 14, 55, 173, 265, 369, 443, 511, 633;
purpose of, 9, 21, 443, 511;
selection of, 9, 264, 305, 369, 370;
vs. reading, 8-9.
_See also_ Poetry, Stories, etc.
Little and Great, =399=
Little Bo-Peep, =37=
"Little boy blue," =27=
"Little girl, little girl," =27=
Little Golden Hood, True History of, =94=
"Little Jack Horner," =28=
"Little Jack Jingle," =28=
"Little Johnny Pringle had a little pig," =28=
Little Kitty, The, =372=
"Little Miss Muffet," =28=
"Little Nancy Etticoat," =28=
Little Red Riding-Hood, =93=
"Little Robin Redbreast," =28=
"Little Tommy Tucker," =28=
LOCKE, J., 265
London Bridge, =36=
LONGFELLOW, H. W., =408-411=, 415, 620
"Long legs, crooked thighs," =28=
Lord Helpeth Man and Beast, The, =178=
LOVER, S., =165=
LOWELL, J. R., =429=, =430=
"Lucy Locket lost her pocket," =28=
MABIE, H. W., =348=, =360=, 348
MACCLINTOCK, P. L., 21
MACKAY, C., =399=
MACY, J., 8
MAJOR, C., =500=
MALORY, SIR T., =595-598=, 578, 594
Man and the Satyr, The, =276=
Man of Words, A, =40=
MARELLES, C., =94=, =106=
Mary Had a Little Lamb, =373=
"Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John," =28=
Meddlesome Mattie, =393=
Mediaeval stories; _See_ Romance
Memorizing, 370
Mercury and the Woodman, =276=
Mice in Council, The, =277=
Midas, =339=
Milking Time, =394=
Milkmaid and Her Pail, The, =278=
Milkweed Seeds, =34=
Miller, His Son, and the Ass, The, =274=
MILLER, J., =415=
MILLER, O. T., =549=, 548
MILNES, R. M., =396=
Miraculous Pitcher, The, =319=
Mirror of Matsuyama, The, =156=
"Mistress Mary, quite contrary," =28=
MOE, J.; _See_ ASBJÖRNSEN
Molly and I, =35=
Moon, The, =371=
Mother Goose, 7, 10, 19-22, 93, 171, 370;
history of, 19-21.
_See also_ Poetry, traditional
_Mother Goose's Melody_, 19, 20, 445
Mother Hubbard and Her Dog, =41=
Moti Guj--Mutineer, =562=
Moufflou, =535=
Mountain and the Squirrel, The, =424=
Mountebank and the Countryman, The, =277=
Mr. 'Possum's Sick Spell, =516=
Mr. Vinegar, The Story of, =71=
MULOCK, MISS, =73=, =80=
"Multiplication is vexation," =28=
Musical Ass, The, =287=
My Bed Is a Boat, =383=
My Garden, =418=
My Shadow, =383=
Myths, =306-366=;
discussion of, 303-305;
definition of, 303;
objections to, 304;
use in school, 305;
value of, 304;
Greek and Roman, =306-343=;
explanatory introduction to, 306;
Norse, =343-366=;
explanatory introduction to, 343, 348, 360
Narcissus, The, =330=
Nathan Hale, The Ballad of, =425=
Nature literature, =513-574=;
discussion of, 511-512;
place in the grades, 13, 512;
some types of, 511-512;
what it is, 511
"Needles and pins, needles and pins," =29=
NEWBERY, J., 19, 20, 445
NICOLAY, H., =655=
Nightingale, The, =184=
Noodle story; _See_ Droll
_Norse Stories_, =348=, =360=
NORTON, C. E., =420=
Nursery rhymes; _See_ Poetry
_Nursery Rhymes and Tales_, =59-63=, 56, 71
_Nursery Rhymes of England_, 20
_Odyssey, The_, 577
_Old Deccan Days_, =152=, 150, 151
_Old Greek Folk Stories_, =335=, =337=
Old Ironsides, =425=
"Old King Cole," =29=
Old Man and His Sons, The, =275=
_Old Mother West Wind_, =515=
Old Pipes and the Dryad, =234=
Old Woman and Her Pig, The, =56=
"Once I saw a little bird," =29=
"One for the money," =29=
"One misty, moisty morning," =29=
"1, 2, 3, 4, 5," =29=
"One, two," =29=
OUIDA, =535=, 534
Over Hill, Over Dale, =423=
Owl and the Pussy-Cat, The, =403=
PAINE, A. B., =516=
Pandora's Box, 309
Parables, =289=;
defined, 289
Paradise of Children, The, =309=
PARENT'S ASSISTANT, THE, =459=
Pass of Thermopylae, The, =671=
"Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake," =29=
PEABODY, J. P., =336=, =337=, 335
"Pease-porridge hot," =29=
Peddler's Caravan, The, =395=
PERRAULT, C. =93=, =97=, =100=, =102=, 19;
work of, 92
"Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater," =30=
"Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers," =30=
_Peter Rabbit Books_, =513=
Phaëthon, =340=
Piper, The, =401=
Pippa's Song, =399=
Planting of the Apple-Tree, The, =417=
Poacher and the Silver Fox, The, =551=
Pobble Who Has No Toes, The, =404=
POE, E. A., =415=
Poetry:
(_a_) modern, =371-437=;
discussion of, 369-370;
reading of, 14, 370;
selection of, 14, 369;
teaching of, 9, 14, 369;
(_b_) traditional, or nursery rhymes, =23-50=;
discussion of, 19-22;
appeal to children, 7, 10, 19, 21, 34;
history of, 19-22.
_See also_ Mother Goose, Literature, and Course of study
Poet's Song, The, =413=
"Poor old Robinson Crusoe," =30=
_Popular Tales from the Norse_, =123-125=, 122
PORTER, W. S., _See_ HENRY
POTTER, B., =513=
Pourquoi story, 172
PRENTISS, E., =372=
Pride Goeth before a Fall, =154=
Prince's Dream, The, =227=
Prodigal Son, The, =289=
Proserpine, 354. _See also_ Story of the Springtime
Proud King, The, =620=
Psalm of Life, The, =411=
Puss-in-Boots, =97=
"Pussy-cat, pussy-cat," =30=
"Pussy sits beside the fire," =30=
Quern at the Bottom of the Sea, The, =129=
Raggedy Man, The, =389=
Rain, =381=
RAMASWAMI RAJU, P. V., =281=, 280
RAMÉE, L. DE LA; _See_ OUIDA
RANDS, W. B., =395=, =396=
Reading; distinguished from literature, 8-9;
lists for various grades, (_See_ Course of study);
of literature, 14, 369-370;
supplemental, 10
Realistic Stories, =445-508=;
discussion of, 443-444;
Christmas, 505;
didactic or 18th century, =445-459=, 443-444;
modern, =478-508=, 444;
Sunday-school, 443
Real Princess, The, =179=
Recessional, =428=
_Red Fairy Book_, =94=, =106=
Red Thread of Honor, The, =427=
_Renowned History of Little Goody Two-Shoes, The_, =445=, 443, 444
REPPLIER, A., 54
Reynard the Fox, =586=, =591=, 284, 577
Rhymes; _See_ Poetry
RHYS-DAVIDS, T. W., =281=, =282=
"Ride a cock-horse," =30=
"Ride, baby, ride," =30=
RILEY, J. W., =388-389=
ROBERTS, C. G. D., =566=
Robin and the Merry Little Old Woman, =623=
Robin Hood, =623=, =628=
_Robin Hood: His Book_, =623=
"Rock-a-bye, baby," =30=
"Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green," =30=
Romance and Legend, =579-630=;
discussion of, 577-578;
stories and versions recommended, 577-578;
use in school, 577
ROSCOE, W., =397=
Rose-Bud, =142=
ROSSETTI, C. G., =268=, =394=
ROUSSEAU, J. J., 264, 284, 443
R. S., GENT, =97=, 93
Rumpelstiltskin, =144=
Runaway Brook, The, =372=
RUSKIN, J., =45=, =245=;
work of, 245
SAINTSBURY, G. E. B., =21=, =22=
Sands of Dee, The, =412=
_Science Sketches_, =556=
SCOTT, SIR W., =424=
SCUDDER, H. E., =620=, =642=, 578;
work of, 642
"See a pin and pick it up," =30=
SEEGMILLER, W., =34=
"See, saw, sacradown," =31=
Seldom or Never, =394=
SETON, E. T., =551=
SHAKESPEARE, W., =423=
SHARP, D. L., =520=
SHAW, A. H., =662=
Shepherd of King Admetus, The, =430=
Shepherd's Boy, The, =266=, 11-12
Shepherd, The, =401=
SHERMAN, F. D., =384-385=
"Shoe the little horse," =31=
Simple Simon, =38=
"Sing a song of sixpence," =31=
_Sing-Song_, =394=
SKEAT, W. W., =284=
Skeleton in Armor, The, =408=
Snow-White and Rose-Red, =146=
Solitary Reaper, The, =419=
_Songs of Innocence_, =400=
SOUTHEY, R., =421=
SPENCER, W. R., =436=
Spider and the Fly, The, =390=
Spinning Top, =384=
"Star light, star bright," =31=
Star, The, =394=
STEEL, F. A., =150=, 153
STEVENSON, R. L., =381-384=, 380
STOCKTON, F. R., =234=, 233
Stories; dramatization of, 11-12;
selection of, 9, 10, 264, 284-285, 305, 577, 633;
accumulative, 47, 56, 150, 160;
biographical, =635-676=;
Christmas, 505;
didactic, 443;
fable, =266-289=;
fairy, =56-168=, =174-260=;
hero, (_See_ biographical);
legend, (_See_ romance);
myth, =306-366=;
nature, =513-574=;
noodle, 67;
pourquoi, 172;
realistic, =445-508=;
romance, =579-630=;
_See also_ Story-telling.
_Stories and Legends of the Irish Peasantry_, =165=
_Stories from Don Quixote_, =607-618=
_Stories from the Rabbis_, =174=
_Stories of Long Ago_, =306=
_Stories of Norse Heroes_, =351=
_Stories Told to a Child_, =228=
Story of Alnaschar, The, =279=
_Story of a Pioneer, The_, =662=
Story of a Salmon, The, =556=
Story of Fairyfoot, The, =210=
Story of Mr. Vinegar, The, =71=
Story of the Springtime, A, =306=
Story-telling, 9, 55;
discussion of, 10-11;
Andersen's method of, 173;
direct discourse in, 11;
effectiveness of, 10;
of fables, 265;
preparation for, 11;
selections for, 10;
tense in, 10
Strange Wild Song, A, =406=
Straw Ox, The, =160=
Sugar-Plum Tree, The, =386=
Supplemental reading, 10.
_See also_ Course of study
Swallow and the Raven, The, =229=
Swallow, The, =394=
Swan, the Pike, and the Crab, The, =288=
Sweet and Low, =413=
Swing, The, =383=
Symbolic stories; _See_ Fables
Table and the Chair, The, =404=
Taffy, =38=
Tale of Peter Rabbit, The, =513=
_Tales from the Punjab_, =150=, =153=
_Tales of Our Mother Goose, The_, =93=, =97-102=, 19, 92-93
Tales of the Sun, =154=
Talkative Tortoise, The, =282=
TAPPAN, E. M., =623=
TAYLOR, A., =392=, =393=
TAYLOR, E., =132-142=, 131
TAYLOR, J., =297=, =393=, =394=
Teeny-Tiny, =60=
TENNYSON, A., =413-414=, 628
Thanksgiving Day, =375=
"The King of France went up the hill," =31=
"The lion and the unicorn," =31=
"The man in the moon," =31=
"The north wind doth blow," =31=
"The Queen of Hearts," =31=
"There was a crooked man," 31
"There was a little boy," =32=
There Was a Little Man, =37=
"There was a little man and he had naught," =32=
"There was a man in our town," =32=
"There was an old man," =32=
There was an Old Woman, =36=
"There was an old woman," =32=
"There was an old woman lived under a hill," =32=
"There was an old woman of Leeds," =32=
"There was an old woman of Norwich," =32=
"There was an old woman tossed up in a basket," =32=
"There was an old woman who lived in a shoe," =33=
"There was an owl lived in an oak," =33=
They Didn't Think, =377=
"This is the way the ladies ride," 33
"This little pig went to market," =33=
THOMPSON, E. S., _See_ SETON
Thor's Visit to Jötunheim, =343=
Three Bears, Story of the, =65=
Three Billy-Goats Gruff, The, =123=
"Three blind mice! see, how they run," =33=
Three Fishers, The, =412=
Three Jovial Huntsmen, =37=
Three Little Kittens, The, =371=
Three Little Pigs, Story of the, =61=
Three Sillies, The, =67=
Three Things to Remember, =400=
"Three wise men of Gotham," =33=
Tiger, The, =401=
Tiger, the Brahman, and the Jackal, The, =153=
TILTON, T., =373=
Time to Rise, =381=
Tit for Tat, =152=
Titty Mouse and Tatty Mouse, =63=
Toads and Diamonds, =100=
To a Waterfowl, =417=
TOLSTOI, L., =299=
"To market, to market," =33=
Tom the Piper's Son, =38=
Tom Thumb, =80=
Tom Thumb's Alphabet, =35=
Tom Tit Tot, =90=, 144
"Tom, Tom, the piper's son," =33=
Tongue-Cut Sparrow, The, =158=
Toy-books, =41=
Travelers and the Bear, The, =274=
Traveling Musicians, The, =132=
_Treasure Island_, 381
Treasures of the Wise Man, The, =388=
TROWBRIDGE, J. T., =432=
True History of Little Golden Hood, =94=
_True Story of Christopher Columbus_, =635=
Try Again, =402=
Twink! Twink! =34=
"Two-legs sat upon three-legs", =33=
Ugly Duckling, The, =203=
Vendetta, The, =524=
VILLENEUVE, MADAME DE, =110=
Vision of Mirzah, The, =294=
Walrus and the Carpenter, The, =405=
WARREN, M. R., =603=
Waste Not, Want Not, =459=
WATTS, I., =407=, =408=
WELSH, C., 21, 445
What Does Little Birdie Say, =413=
"When a twister a-twisting", =34=
When I Was a Little Boy, =38=
Where Are You Going, =35=
Where Go the Boats, =384=
Whistle, The, =291=
Whittington and His Cat, =84=
Who Has Seen the Wind, =394=
Whole Duty of Children, =381=
Who Stole the Bird's Nest, =375=
Why the Bear Is Stumpy-Tailed, =122=
_Why the Chimes Rang_, =223=
Why the Sea Is Salt, 128
Widow and the Hen, The, =276=
_Wild Animals at Home_, =551=
WILDE, LADY, =164=
WILDE, O., =217=
Wild Life in the Farm-Yard, =520=
WILLISTON, T. P., =156=, =158=
"Willy boy, Willy boy," =34=
WILMOT-BUXTON, E. M., =351=
Wind and the Sun, The, =272=
Wind in a Frolic, The, =391=
Wind, The, =384=
Windy Nights, =384=
Wolf in Sheep's Clothing, The, =273=
_Wonder Book for Girls and Boys, A_, =309=, =319=
Wonderful World, The, =396=
WOOLSEY, S. C.; _See_ COOLIDGE
WORDSWORTH, W., =419=
WRIGHT, E., =273=, =278=, =284=
Wyche, R. T., 577
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, =385=
Yarn of the Nancy Bell, The, =430=
YEATS, W. B., =166=
YONGE, C. M., =671=
YRIARTE, T. de, =287=
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired. In this text the oe-ligature is
represented by brackets [oe]. Bold text is represented by = and italic
by _. In addition, the text used / as punctuation in one story.
Page vi, "Rocky" changed to "Rock" (83. Rock-a-bye)
Page x, "Gelert" changed to "Gêlert" (Beth Gêlert)
Page 2, "Literatary" changed to "Literary" (Literary Taste and)
Page 19, "withold" changed to "withhold" (do not withhold Mother)
Page 155, "Ta, tai tom" changed to "Tâ, tai tôm" (Tâ, tai tôm,
tadingana)
Page 180, "Emporer's" changed to "Emperor's" (The Emperor's New)
Page 202, "warrier" changed to "warrior" (thou warrior brave)
Page 236, "Dyrad" changed to "Dryad" (beautiful Dryad stepped)
Page 299, "wordly" changed to "worldly" (worldly greatness; Solon)
Page 302, "Column" changed to "Colum" (Colum, Padraic, _The Children of
Odin_.)
Page 437, "Lleweylln's" changed to "Llewellyn's" (Llewellyn's sorrow
proved)
Page 448, "be" changed to "he" (Though ill, he began)
Footnote: Page 482 originally, added [Author's Note.] to conform to rest
of text. Footnote begins: (The Mail Coach it was)
Page 487, "hair-dressser" changed to "hair-dresser" (for the
hair-dresser)
Page 498, "hurridly" changed to "hurriedly" (hurriedly. "Go quickly)
Page 510, "Thorton" changed to "Thornton" (Burgess, Thornton W.)
Page 521, word "a" moved up from the end of the line below. Original
read:
So, if you will watch, you shall see
real wild turkey in the tamest old a
Page 578, "it" changed to "in" (in its lofty spirit)
Page 662, "Misisssippi" changed to "Mississippi" (lower Mississippi,
where)
Page 663, "unwildy" changed to "unwieldy" (the unwieldy vehicle)
Page 687, "a" changed to "the" (Breathes There the Man)
Page 682, "Segur" changed to "Sègur" (Sègur, Sophie R. de)
Page 688, small-caps were added to Mulock to conform to rest of the
index.
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