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Title: Educating by Story-Telling - Showing the Value of Story-Telling as an Educational Tool for the Use of All Workers with Children
Author: Cather, Katherine Dunlap
Language: English
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Play School Series
Edited by Clark W. Hetherington
EDUCATING BY STORY-TELLING
Showing the
Value of Story-Telling as an Educational
Tool for the Use of All Workers
with Children
by
KATHERINE DUNLAP CATHER
Author of “Boyhood Stories of Famous Men,”
“Pan and His Pipes and Other Stories,”
“The Singing Clock”
[Illustration]
Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York
World Book Company
1918
* * * * * *
WORLD BOOK COMPANY
THE HOUSE OF APPLIED KNOWLEDGE
Established, 1905, by Caspar W. Hodgson
YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK
2126 PRAIRIE AVENUE, CHICAGO
The Play School Series, of which _Educating by Story-Telling_ is a
member, is based on the work of the Demonstration Play School of the
University of California. Breaking away from the traditional idea of
the subjects of study, this school has substituted a curriculum of
activities—the natural activities of child life—out of which subjects
of study naturally evolve. Succeeding volumes now in active preparation
will relate to the other activities which form the educational basis
for the work of the Play School, including Social, Linguistic, Moral,
Big-Muscle, Rhythmic and Musical, Environmental and Nature, and Economic
Activities. Each volume will be written by a recognized authority in the
subject dealt with, as the author of _Educating by Story-Telling_ is in
her special field.
PSS: CES-I
Copyright, 1918, by World Book Company
All rights reserved
* * * * * *
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
This book has grown out of years of experience with children of all ages
and all classes, and with parents, teachers, librarians, and Sunday
School, social center, and settlement workers. The material comprising
it was first used in something like its present form in the University
of California Summer Session, 1914, and since then has been the basis
of courses given in that institution, as well as in private classes and
lecture work. The author does not claim that it is the final word upon
the subject of story-telling, or that it will render obsolete any one of
the several excellent works already upon the market. But the response
of children to the stories given and suggested, and the eagerness with
which the principles herein advocated have been received by parents and
teachers, have convinced her that the book contains certain features that
are unique and valuable to those engaged in directing child thought.
Other works have shown in a general way how vast a field is the realm of
the narrator, but they have not worked out a detailed plan that the busy
mother or teacher can follow in her effort to establish standards, to
lead her small charges to an appreciation of the beautiful in literature
and art, and to endow them with knowledge that shall result in creating a
higher code of thought and action. No claim is made that all the problems
of the school and home are solved in the ensuing pages, and the title,
“Educating by Story-Telling,” makes no assumption that story-telling can
accomplish everything. The author does assume, however, that when used
with wisdom and skill, the story is a powerful tool in the hands of the
educator, and she attempts to indicate how, by this means, some portion
of drudgery may be eliminated from the schoolroom, and a more pleasurable
element be put into it. She undertakes to demonstrate how it is possible
to intensify the child’s interest in most of the subjects composing the
curriculum, not by advancing an untried theory, but by traveling along
a path that has been found to be a certain road to attainment, not only
for the gifted creative teacher, but for the average ordinary one who is
often baffled by the bigness of the problem she has to solve.
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to use copyrighted
material as follows: to the Whitaker, Ray, Wiggin Company for the story
entitled “The Search for the Seven Cities” (page 149); to Dr. David Starr
Jordan and A. C. McClurg & Co. for “The Story of a Salmon” (page 255) and
“The Story of a Stone” (page 331); to the David C. Cook Company for “The
Pigeons of Venice” (page 263), “The Duty That Wasn’t Paid” (page 278),
“Wilhelmina’s Wooden Shoes” (page 283), “The Luck Boy of Toy Valley”
(page 302), and “The Pet Raven” (page 317); and to Henry Holt & Co. for
“The Emperor’s Vision” (page 306).
KATHERINE DUNLAP CATHER
CONTENTS
PAGE
AUTHOR’S PREFACE iii
EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION ix
PART ONE
STORY-TELLING AND THE ARTS OF EXPRESSION—ESTABLISHING
STANDARDS
CHAPTER
I. THE PURPOSE AND AIM OF STORY-TELLING 1
II. THE STORY INTERESTS OF CHILDHOOD—A. RHYTHMIC PERIOD 12
Sources of Story Material for the Rhythmic Period 19
III. THE STORY INTERESTS OF CHILDHOOD—B. IMAGINATIVE PERIOD 20
Bibliography of Fairy Tales 31
IV. THE STORY INTERESTS OF CHILDHOOD—C. HEROIC PERIOD 32
Sources of Story Material for the Heroic Period 41
V. THE STORY INTERESTS OF CHILDHOOD—D. ROMANTIC PERIOD 42
Sources of Story Material for the Romantic Period 51
VI. BUILDING THE STORY 52
VII. TELLING THE STORY 58
Books on Story-Telling 68
VIII. STORY-TELLING TO LEAD TO AN APPRECIATION OF LITERATURE 69
Some Authors and Selections That Can Be Presented through
the Story-Telling Method 81
Sources of Material to Lead to an Appreciation of
Literature 82
IX. STORY-TELLING TO AWAKEN AN APPRECIATION OF MUSIC 83
Illustrative Story, “A Boy of Old Vienna” 89
Sources of Material to Awaken an Appreciation of Music 94
Pictures to Use in Telling Musical Stories 94
X. STORY-TELLING TO AWAKEN AN APPRECIATION OF ART 95
Artists and Paintings That Can Be Presented to Young
Children through the Story-Telling Method 102
Artists and Paintings for Children of the Intermediate
Period 103
Artists and Paintings That Lead to Appreciation of the
Beautiful and to Respect for Labor 104
Artists and Paintings for the Heroic and Epic Periods 105
Bibliography of Art Story Material 105
Sources for Moderate-Priced Reproductions of Masterpieces 106
XI. DRAMATIZATION 107
Pictures Containing Subjects for Dramatization 116
Books and Stories for Use in Dramatic Work with Little
Children 116
Bibliography of Material for Dramatization 117
XII. BIBLE STORIES 118
Sources of Material for Bible Stories 131
XIII. STORY-TELLING AND THE TEACHING OF ETHICS 132
Stories to Develop or Stamp out Certain Traits and
Instincts 137
Sources of Material to Use in the Teaching of Ethics 140
PART TWO
THE USE OF STORY-TELLING TO ILLUMINATE SOME SCHOOLROOM
SUBJECTS—STORIES FOR TELLING
XIV. STORY-TELLING TO INTENSIFY INTEREST IN HISTORY 143
Illustrative Story, “The Search for the Seven Cities” 149
XV. STORY-TELLING TO INTENSIFY INTEREST IN GEOGRAPHY 168
Illustrative Story, “The God of the Thundering Water” 174
Sources of Material to Use in History and Geography 177
XVI. STORY-TELLING TO INTENSIFY INTEREST IN NATURE STUDY 178
Illustrative Story, “The Wonderful Builders” 188
Sources of Material for Science Stories 191
XVII. STORY-TELLING IN DOMESTIC SCIENCE AND MANUAL TRAINING 192
Illustrative Story, “The Dervish of Mocha” 195
Sources of Material to Use in Domestic Science and
Manual Training 197
XVIII. DOES THE WORK OF THE STORY-TELLER PAY? 198
STORIES FOR TELLING
The Story of the Man in the Moon (_Alsatian Folk Tale—Christmas
Story—Ethics, teaching honesty_) 203
The Discontented Pig (_Thuringian Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching
contentment_) 204
The Bat and His Partners (_Old Bavarian Folk Tale—Helpful in
Nature Study_) 208
Brier Rose (_Wonder Tale_) 209
The Coat of All Colors (_Thuringian Wonder Tale_) 212
The Poor Man and the Rich Man (_Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching
kindness_) 218
The Silver Cones (_Ethics—Geography_) 222
The Forget-Me-Not (_Thuringian Folk Tale—Helpful in Nature
Study_) 226
The Little Stepmother (_Thuringian Folk Tale—Nature Study_) 227
The Rabbit and the Easter Eggs (_Bavarian Folk Tale_) 228
The Easter Eggs (_Ethics_) 229
Prince Unexpected (_Slavic Wonder Tale_) 239
The Greedy Cobbler (_Welsh Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching
contentment_) 251
The Story of a Salmon (_Science_) 255
The Pigeons of Venice (_History_) 263
The Coming of the Wonder Tree (_Geography—Nature Study_) 269
The Gift of the Gnomes (_Geography—Ethics_) 274
The Duty That Wasn’t Paid (_Biography—Music—Ethics_) 278
Wilhelmina’s Wooden Shoes (_Biography—Art Teaching_) 283
The Lady of Stavoren (_Geography—Ethics_) 289
The Luck Boat of Lake Geneva (_Geography_) 295
Why the Japanese Love the Stork (_Geography_) 296
Why Grizzly Bear Goes on All Fours (_Indian Folk
Tale—Geography—Ethics_) 299
The Luck Boy of Toy Valley (_Geography—Ethics—Manual Training_) 302
The Emperor’s Vision (_Medieval Legend—Ethics_) 306
The Shepherd Who Turned Back (_Ethics_) 311
The Pet Raven (_Geography—Ethics_) 317
Jussieu and the Heliotrope (_Science—Nature Study_) 325
The Fall of London Bridge (_History_) 326
How They Came to Have Kite Day in China (_Physical Education_) 330
The Story of a Stone (_Science_) 331
LIST OF STORIES BY MONTHS
FIRST GRADE: September to June 341
SECOND GRADE: September to June 345
THIRD GRADE: September to June 348
FOURTH GRADE: September to June 352
FIFTH GRADE: September to June 356
SIXTH GRADE: September to June 360
SEVENTH GRADE: September to June 363
EIGHTH GRADE: September to June 367
COMPLETE BIBLIOGRAPHY 371
INDEX 389
EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION
The story is a phase of communication—the instinctive tendency to signal
and transmit feelings and ideas and to respond to such expressions—and
communication is associated with the social complex of instincts and
emotions as indicated by these responses. Through the power of social
sympathy in this complex, curiosity and the imagination are brought
under the sway of communication, especially in the story. Indeed, the
psychology of the story reveals how deeply social sympathy influences
the imagination and controls curiosity. The primitive side of this
social sympathy is seen in the responses of social animals to the calls
of their kind, in the rush of dogs and men to the cries of battle. Its
power over the imagination is shown in the swaying of the spectator to
the movements of the athlete, his ejaculations and his cries of distress
or delight. Through sympathy in imagination the spectator enters the
contest. Further, so socially minded are we, and so dependent upon
social guidance, that curiosity is nowhere so keen, nor the imagination
so active, as in the communication of a life situation. Any incident or
accumulation of incidents that we call a plot in the experience of an
individual or group of individuals, grips the mind. This explains the
fascination of the story. Gossip and scandal are the less worthy forms.
The novel is exalted gossip or scandal; the drama the same acted out.
They all feed the tremendous hunger for insight into life. They unroll
the curtain on the content of life, or some phase of life. Hence the
story is the natural form for revealing life.
Communication, like life, may be either serious or frivolous; hence
the story carries both functions. It pictures or expresses life in
both phases. But the form of the story itself is pleasurable; and thus
story-telling may degenerate into mere amusement. This possibly has led
to both its abuse and its neglect.
The fact that the story is so enjoyable to children has led teachers and
parents to use it merely as amusement, irrespective of content, or even
of artistic form. This tendency has been met by publishers. As proof,
note the books exhibited at Christmas time in any bookshop. They show
the enormous amount of trash set up in book form for child consumption.
This is a more serious danger than the trash read by adults, because they
are food for hungry minds at the growing age. The importance is shown
of selecting stories according to recognized criteria. While the child
enjoys the story, he has no judgment of values in the story other than
its pleasure-giving qualities. As judgment is a product of education, so
judging values is an adult function; the adult must study all stories,
but not tell all stories. The story-teller must analyze the story plot,
criticize the values, select and adapt stories to age periods and to
other child needs. This task Mrs. Cather has performed in her book.
The mere fact that the story amuses has caused a neglect of its larger
functions in education. This is due to the traditional attitude toward
the pleasurable in education. Education is life, and synonymous with
the joys and griefs of life; but the traditions of the school when
it was a place simply to master the three R’s, and the traditions of
intellectualism, monkish asceticism, and Puritanism, have conspired to
perpetuate the idea of education as a “hard” process. That it is “hard”
is demonstrated by the vast number of children who dislike school and
drop out of it before finishing the grades, and by the small number
of those who go through its process and think of education and its
discipline with delight. Yet this is what all normal, vigorous children
should feel. There is probably no more profound or serious issue in
education or democracy—and democracy depends on education—than this
conflict between the advocates of a school process that is “hard” and the
advocates of a process that is “pleasurable.” The arguments exhibit the
two extremes in all such controversies: the advocates of “discipline,”
“iron,” “the bitter pill” on the one hand, and the advocates of “freedom”
and “enjoyment,”—really soft pedagogy and license,—on the other. The
truth, as is usually the case, lies between the two schools. Both are
right in part, and both are wrong in part. Both see an essential, and
both fail to see the reverse side of what each advocates. There is no
conflict between real discipline and real pleasure; they cannot be
separated in child life. This being so, the story is bound to take a
large place in the teaching of the future.
The story amuses, but its function is not merely to amuse. Pleasure is
not the aim of life, nor even its sole guide; it is an index of life,
especially in the young.
The point needs to be emphasized that the story is the carrier, always
has been the carrier, and will remain the natural carrier of racial
tradition or information and ideals. The story in education has two
functions: (1) it is the molder of ideals, and (2) it is the illuminator
of facts.
(1) The highest and most difficult achievement in educational effort is
the establishment of standards or ideals that function in judgment and
behavior. The place of the story in moral education has been emphasized
by many writers. Its place in developing an appreciation of artistic
forms in language, in music, and in the graphic arts is splendidly
illustrated in this book.
Appreciation is an emotional response, primarily instinctive, but
developed through experience and according to high or low artistic
standards by social approval or disapproval. In the emotional response
lies interest and in the character of the emotional response lies the
character of the interest. The interest may be crude, vulgar, or vicious,
or it may be ideal, but in either case it is a product of developed
emotional habits. In the life of the child this emotional response
precedes the intellectual judgment of artistic values which comes later
and only through contrast and comparison, and the former is vastly more
important in social significance for the pleasure of the mass than the
latter. This development of the artistic emotional response may be
cleverly guided through the story, as Mrs. Cather shows, and she gives a
wealth of suggestions for the use of the teacher.
But the story itself is a form of artistic expression and thus subject
to the application of standardizing judgments. A good story must be
judged by a double standard. It may be good in the sense that it is well
told—and well told means simply that the incident or plot is related in
sequence, with such emphasis and form of language that it grips the human
instinctive response to the dramatic; or it may be good in the sense
that it carries a good content in meaning or ideal. These two standards
may not, frequently do not, coincide. A story may be so told that it is
most fascinating, and yet the content be mere rubbish or even vicious; or
the content may be correct and the telling so poorly done that it kills
interest.
Many stories are told because of their “beauty” of form, where the
content is not true. Some such stories are valuable because of the
standardizing sentiments they carry, but truth is as important at least
as the æsthetic. The human intellect evolved to interpret meanings and
progressively perfect behavior adjustments. Each age of racial experience
brings on its new interpretations, and broadly, each age makes advances
upon that which preceded. Old theories fall, new truths arise; but
old theories hold sway over the imagination of the masses long after
the leaders have accepted higher truths because the old is well told
while the new lacks the poetic expression of the artist. Literature is
well-told information, yet under the guise of literature goblins and
superstitions and worn-out theories parade in the imagination and thus
mold ideals and behavior.
The problem of the professional story-teller of the future is to tell the
best information of the age in as fascinating a form as the old myths
and fables are now told after years of repetition. Only in this way can
contemporary popular opinion be kept abreast of the scientific truth of
the time, instead of dragging along in the superstitions of the past.
Some stories are told though untrue, because they “develop the
imagination,” but this by itself is a dangerous criterion. The function
of the imagination is to reconstruct the world in mental terms which will
guide behavior. The functioning of the imagination in any kind of images
will develop “power,” but the power may be detrimental individually and
socially if the images cause crooked thinking. Straight thinking depends
on the imagination—on the kind of emotionalized images which habitually
arise in any thought situation or problem. Just so far as stories are
untrue and without great moral value, yet are fascinatingly told, so
far do they encourage untrue imagining and emotional attitudes, and
therefore untrue thinking. And inasmuch as the emotional response to
the single interpretative concept, the single vision of life, is vastly
stronger through tradition than the interest in the discovery of complex
relationships,—and truth comes finally only through the latter,—the
emotionalized habits of imagination in interpretation are profoundly
important for democracy.
Democracy cannot exist with a population of fuzzy thinkers.
Story-telling, like all educational effort, must develop the imagination
in mental terms that will function in life today.
(2) The story is an illuminator of facts. The child gets his information
by activities in relation to the environment, by exploration,
observation, experimentation, with the everlasting play of the
interpretative processes, and by responding to and accepting or
rejecting the communicated interpretations put upon phenomena by his
social group. In this process of interpretation there is the immediate
environment which can be sensed, but is understood only through its
reconstruction in the imagination, largely in linguistic terms;
and the remote environment which cannot be sensed and which can be
understood only as it is built in the imagination as an extension of the
reconstructed sensed environment. In these reconstructive processes the
story is the most powerful correlating and illuminating educational force
we have, as may be indicated by a brief analysis.
The activities of the school curriculum dealing with the environment
have two natural foci of interest for the child. (_a_) The
civic-geographical-historical complex (when rightly organized just one
subject) and (_b_) the physical-biological complex, which is now coming
to be called “general science.” For the child these two groups of the
environmental activities cover the whole of adult science, philosophy,
and religion, and both require a tremendous reconstructive functioning of
the imagination.
(_a_) The first group is a new coming correlation which naturally must
carry with it organized communication or the larger share of language
and literature. The investigation of the local social environment is the
basis of all “civics,” “geography,” and “history.” It expands as civics.
When the child projects his interpretations of any human activity into
another environment so that he is reconstructing in his imagination the
life habits and customs of the people in relation to the physical and
biological characteristics of the country, he is studying geography.
When he goes backward in time in this process, he is studying history.
In this concentric widening of the intellectual horizon concerning human
life and its relationships to the environment, the imagination must
reconstruct a world which it cannot sense. The facts may be gained from
pictures, maps, descriptions, but to become functional in thought in any
other than in a mere commercial sense, the reconstruction must touch the
emotions so that the life and conditions of living of the people will
be felt. When felt the life will be dwelt upon in imagination, and when
dwelt upon in imagination it will function in the life activities of the
child. Giving this vivid, felt insight into the life conditions of other
people is the function of the story. Through the hunger to feel life the
story reveals life.
(_b_) The story also functions for children in the interpretation of the
physical-biological environment or “general science.”
Between six and fourteen years of age is the neglected period for
science, and it is the age when the story may function in the biggest
way as a natural educational tool. Yet so absorbed are school men in
the problem of drilling children in the dissected elements of the
written language that they do not even understand one of the two chief
characteristics of child nature at this age,—the rapidly expanding
curiosity concerning nature. It is the age of the first crude control of
the “scientific instinct,” the tendency to experiment and explore. It
is the age for fixing the questioning habit and building a common-sense
confidence in and familiarity with nature. These results follow from the
logical processes involved in the activities, not from being presented
with the formalized and logical results of adult science. The child
will have none of this latter if he can help it; he wants to do his own
experimenting. In this process again the story gives the larger insight.
The child acquires facts by experimentation, observation, exploration,
but the larger meanings and relationships require imaginative
reconstruction. The child can observe the fish or the fly at different
stages of their development, but the story of the life history of the
fish or fly gives what observation cannot supply. It is as fascinating as
any fairy tale when told with the same consideration for dramatic form,
and the story is true besides. The child cannot understand evolution as
presented by Darwin, or by the teacher of biology in the high schools;
but the child even of eight revels in the stories that carry the facts
of evolution, and thus he gains a right feeling towards the wonderful
meaning of the progress of natural things, which makes later thinking
true and easy. So strong is the response to the story that even the
history of physical things when set in a natural story form, stimulates.
The fairy tales of the future will be well-told stories from our sciences
or human life and nature, the two natural centers of interest in the
environment, and we may expect as results in public opinion a broader
common sense and a lessened gullibility. In this organization of science
and modern thought in story form for its larger use in education the
professional story-teller has still a great unfinished task to perform.
Its beginnings are in this book, and Mrs. Cather is already at work on
a broader compilation of materials for a later volume. In this larger
functioning of the story the old fairy tales and myths will take their
place as historical data to give comparative insight into the beliefs of
people in the past, a sympathetic understanding of their limitations in
knowledge, and an appreciation of our privileges in civilization, due
largely to the struggles of the past.
CLARK W. HETHERINGTON
EDUCATING BY STORY-TELLING
PART ONE
STORY-TELLING AND THE ARTS OF EXPRESSION—ESTABLISHING STANDARDS
CHAPTER ONE
THE PURPOSE AND AIM OF STORY-TELLING
Ever since the beginning of things the story-teller has been a personage
of power, an individual welcomed by young and old alike. Hailed as a joy
bringer and heeded as an oracle, his tales have been the open sesame to
admit him to any throng and his departure has always been attended with
regret. During the Middle Ages he was a privileged character, free to
wander at will into camp or court. The Piso manuscript in the museum at
Budapest tells of the solicitous effort made by Ladislaus of Hungary to
secure safe-conduct through Bohemia and Austria for a favorite narrator,
and many other old chronicles attest to the fact that in France, Germany,
Italy, and the British Isles passports were given to minstrels and
raconteurs when no one else could obtain them. Long before this period,
during the nomadic existence of the race, the mightiest men of the tribe
were the chieftain and the story-teller, the one receiving homage because
of his ability to vanquish his adversaries in battle, the other because
of his skill in entertaining his fellows as they huddled around the fire
at night. Each ability was believed to be evidence of divine gifts, and
the possessor of each was revered as being a little higher than a mortal,
a little lower than a god.
Primitive man, like civilized man, was fond of power, and realizing that
his talents made him mighty, the narrator exercised them in such a
manner as to promote their development. Every emotional response on the
part of his hearers served as a key to unlock doors into the land of his
desire, and as he listened to exclamations of approval, condemnation, or
delight, he saw ways of arousing these emotions to even greater degrees
of intensity and, possessing an elemental love of the spectacular, made
the most of his opportunity. Thus he evolved from a crude declaimer
into something of an artist. As the race emerged from a barbaric into
a pastoral state, he grew to be more than an entertainer; he imparted
knowledge to the young by keeping alive the tribal traditions.
On the Asiatic highlands, before the Aryan migration, it was the
story-teller who preserved the tales of the fathers, the nature
myths that were primitive man’s explanation of the things he did not
understand. The journey of the sun across the heavens, the shifting of
clouds from one fantastic form to another, the chromatic skies of sunrise
and sunset, and the starry firmament of night aroused his curiosity and
awakened his awe. He wondered about them just as children today wonder
about them, and just as the twentieth-century child questions his mother,
so he questioned one whom he deemed wiser than himself. This consulted
oracle gave as an explanation something that out of his own wondering
and puzzling had grown into a vague belief, and consequently the clouds
that presaged showers came to be regarded as heavenly cows from whose
exuberant udders came the rains that refreshed the earth; stormy oceans
and rugged mountains with ravines beset with perils held giants that
avenged and destroyed; while the sun, a beneficent creature that drove
away the monster of darkness, and all the saving forces of nature, were
metamorphosed in the fancy of these early men into protecting heroes and
divinities.
As generation succeeded generation and the young received their allotment
of lore from the old, these stories became fixed so firmly in the minds
of the people that they were carried with them at the scattering of the
tribes, told and retold in the new-found homes, and modified to suit
conditions of life in strange lands the wanderers came to inhabit; and
they still survive as present-day fairy tales. There are various theories
of how these old beliefs came to be disseminated, how it happened that
tales supposed to be indigenous to Finland or Madagascar are found in
slightly different dress among the tribes of Central Africa and in other
sections of the world remote from each other; but no matter how much
folklorists disagree as to the process through which the tales evolved
to their present form, they do not differ as to their significance, and
whether they accept the Aryan theory promulgated by Max Müller or the
totemistic theory of Andrew Lang, they unite in a belief that these
ancient tales represent the religion of primitive man, a religion growing
out of fear of the unknown.
Always it was by the lips of the story-teller that the legends were kept
alive. It was his mission to teach children the tales their fathers
knew, and as the race evolved toward civilization he gave them something
besides nature myths. He recounted and reiterated the achievements of
the heroes of his people until youths who heard were fired with desire
to emulate. Because he was deemed a man of supernal powers, his words
were believed; consequently he created the ideals of the age in which he
lived, and just as his own standards were fine or base, so the ideals
for which he was responsible came to be high or low. Fortunately for the
world, however, these old-time narrators were wiser than their fellows.
They were poets and dreamers who saw life through eyes vision clear.
They glorified virtue and deprecated vice, taught that right triumphs
over wrong and that sinning brings inevitable punishment, and explained
in a crude way the workings of the law of compensation. They fired
men to achievement just as they fired boys with desire to emulate the
heroes of whom they told, and as centuries passed and they grew in skill
and power, their tales came to be the inspiration of some of the most
thrilling chapters in the annals of man. Alexander the Great declared
that the lays of a wandering bard, Homer, made him thirst for conquest.
In Germany, in the twelfth century, the influence of a penniless gleeman,
Walther von der Vogelweide, was greater than that of the Pope. There was
no more puissant man in Ireland when Ireland was in its golden day and
Tara in its glory than the low-born minstrel, Brian of Fermanagh; and the
Crusades, which recreated Europe by the introduction of Eastern culture
and the breaking down of old traditions, might never have been undertaken
but for tales of defilement of holy places from the lips of Peter the
Hermit. Storytellers every one of them, swaying their fellows and making
history, subjects of kings and nobles, yet often mightier than the
masters who held their destinies in their hands.
The power of the narrator did not die with chivalry. As recently as
during the middle of the last century the clergy of Scotland united in
an effort to suppress story-telling in the Highlands because it kept
alive beliefs of pagan origin, beliefs so deep-seated that the combined
eloquence of prelates could not eradicate them, and the strength of
the church was impaired because of the sheltering of these waifs of
the past. To this day there are peasants in Germany who doubt not that
every year at harvest time Charlemagne walks beside the Rhine under the
midnight moon and blesses the vineyard region of Winkel and Ingelheim.
In central Switzerland are hundreds of simple folk who believe that on
the summit where they met to take the oath that fired the land against
Austria, sleep the immortal “Brothers of the Grütli,” and that they will
slumber on until the liberty of Helvetia is imperiled; while in the
southern portion of that mountain land the country folk are certain that
prosperity will be the lot of every husbandman when the swan-drawn luck
boat returns to Lake Geneva. Why? Because their fathers in the far-off
days believed these tales; because they have come down to them by the
lips of the story-teller, and wherever there is no written language,
wherever the people are too unlettered to read what is written, or where
they live in isolated communities and mingle little with the outside
world, they still believe the legends. They love to hear them told and
retold, and nothing brings so much pleasure on a winter night or in a
summer gloaming as the complete family circle and the father or uncle or
stranger from another community sitting in the midst repeating the old,
old tales.
As it is with unlettered peasants today, as it was with tribesmen in
primitive times and with the great in medieval castle halls, it still
is with the child. He lives over the experience of his fathers on the
Asiatic highlands and sits entranced listening to the record of it in
stories. The element of suspense, the wondering what will happen next,
holds him in a viselike grip, and the story hour is to him a period of
joy. The here and now disappears as the narrator lifts his invisible
wand, and the listener journeys by roads of never ceasing wonders into
lands of enchantment. According to the skill of the raconteur, and the
vividness with which he himself sees and feels the pictures he strives to
portray, he makes his listeners see and feel them, rejoicing in the good
fortune and sympathizing in the sorrows of the just and righteous; and
they not only follow along the highroad where he leads them, but roam off
into pleasant bypaths where the fancy has free play.
There is no age or racial limit to this story love. Representing, as it
does, an emotional hunger that is the human heritage, it is universal.
Several years ago at Five Points in New York City, a settlement worker
discovered that a very effective means of gaining the confidence of
immigrant women was to tell fairy tales, and recently some of the most
gratifying results obtained in the Telegraph Hill district of San
Francisco were made possible by a leader there gaining the good will of
a group of Sicilian hoodlums because she knew the plot of _Jerusalem
Delivered_ and told the story magnetically and well. It was like a breeze
from their native island, where they had heard it from the lips of the
village story-teller and seen it pictured on the market carts, and the
fact that she knew something that had fascinated them gained their
sympathy and coöperation. Those who have even a limited knowledge of
child life know that before the babe can read he delights in listening to
a nursery tale, and that even after he journeys into bookland he is more
interested in the story told him than in the one he reads for himself.
Why? Because the voice and personality of the speaker make it alive
and vital. Because, as Seumas MacManus says, “The spoken word is the
remembered word.”
The tales heard during childhood become fixed and lasting possessions.
They stay with the hearer through the years, and because their ideals
become his ideals, do much toward shaping his character. The child who
hears many good stories and unconsciously learns to distinguish between
the tawdry and the real, reads good stories when a boy and becomes a man
for whom sensational best sellers have no charm.
There is much talk about the vicious tastes of the youth of this
generation, and unfavorable comparisons between them and their elders
at a similar age are frequently made. There is some foundation for this
belief, but it is not the fault of the children that it is so. Because of
the abundance and cheapness of books, many of them of questionable merit,
boys and girls are left to browse unguided, and just as the range man is
to blame if his hungry herd strays into a loco patch and eats of noxious
weeds when he fails to drive it to the place of wholesome herbage, so it
is the fault of parents and teachers if their charges acquire a taste for
sensational yarns instead of for good literature. The very hunger that
impels them toward that which contaminates, if satisfied in a wholesome
manner would make them lovers of the best, and the reason why children
become devourers of “yellow” stories is because they have failed to
stumble upon a more fascinating and less dangerous highway, and no one
has led them to it. There is no surer way of keeping a boy from becoming
a devotee of the funny page of the Sunday supplement or a follower of
“Nick Carter” than that of studying his tastes and giving him tales from
good literature that will satisfy them. There is no more powerful means
to use in diverting a child from the undesirable to the desirable than
that of throwing a searchlight upon the attractions of the latter and
presenting them to him through joyful experience. The narrator’s art is
in truth a magic luminary, an unfailing means of bringing hidden beauties
to sight and causing them to be loved because they give pleasure.
For a number of years it has been conceded that story-telling is of
value in the kindergarten and primary school, but little provision
has been made for it in the educational scheme for the older child.
Gradually, however, educators in America have come to realize what their
European colleagues realized long ago, that the narrator’s art can be
a powerful element in the mental, moral, and religious development of
the boy and girl and can mean as much to the adolescent child as to the
tiny tot. Consequently they are now giving it an honored place. The
story period has become a part of the program of every well-regulated
library. Teachers of elementary and grammar grades are recognizing its
value in the classroom, and in some states story-telling is included
in the curriculum. Each year brings new texts and collections from the
publishers, until it seems that the art so much honored in the past is
coming again into its own.
Yet, with all the interest that is manifested throughout the country,
story-telling is not doing its greatest, most vital work, because so
little thought is given to the selection of material, so little study
to the response of children who hear the tales and the effect upon
them. Before even half of its possibilities can be realized, those who
tell stories must know the story interests of childhood and must choose
materials, not only because they are beautiful in theme and language and
embody high ideals, but because they are fitted to the psychological
period of the child who is to hear them. They must realize that the
purpose of story-telling is not merely to entertain, although it does
entertain, but that in addition to delighting young listeners there must
be a higher aim, of which the narrator never loses sight. Every tale
selected must contribute something definite toward the mental, moral, or
spiritual growth of the child, just as each pigment chosen by an artist
must blend into the picture to help make a beautiful and perfect whole.
The golden age of childhood will come and fear that young people’s tastes
are being vitiated will die out when parents and teachers realize that
much of the noblest culture of the past has been given through the
medium of the story, and that it can be given through this medium now and
in the future, because there is almost no type of information the child
should receive that he will not receive joyously through this means,
and with deep, lasting results. Story-telling planned and carried out
to fit conditions will help to solve many of the problems that confront
educators today. Besides developing the emotional nature and giving moral
and religious instruction, it will intensify the interest in history,
geography, nature study, manual training, and domestic science, awaken
an appreciation of literature, art, and music, enrich the child’s powers
of discrimination, and teach him to distinguish between the cheap and
ephemeral and the great and lasting. It will help to eliminate much of
what he considers the drudgery of school life and give him information
that will fit him for broad, sympathetic, useful living.
This does not mean that the teacher is to do all the work, thereby fixing
children in habits of idleness, nor does it mean the addition of an extra
subject to an already overcrowded curriculum. It simply means leading the
child to do things for himself because of the incentive that interest
gives. It means illuminating the formal subjects and sending pupils to
them with greater eagerness.
In order to accomplish these ends, story-telling must be unmarred by
creaking machinery, and it must be sympathetic. The narrator must rise
above the level of a mere lesson giver and approach the plane of the
artist, which he can do only by giving an artist’s preparation to his
work. The old-time raconteur swayed the destiny of nations because he
was an artist, because he himself believed in the message he brought.
He put heart and labor into his work, which gave his words a sincerity
that never failed to convince. So too must the present-day narrator
believe in the power of the story and in the dignity of his work, and he
must choose material with thought and judgment instead of snatching it
up indifferently, thinking that any story will do if only it holds the
interest. The racial tales should be given freely in the psychological
period to which they belong, but not the racial tales only. There is
much modern material close to present-day life and conditions, without
which the child’s education is not complete, and it must be classified
and graded. This entails reference work for which the non-professional
has neither time nor opportunity, and to this fact is due much of the
valueless story-telling of today. Experience with hundreds of parents,
teachers, and workers with children has brought conviction that a belief
in the value of story-telling as an educational tool is sincere and
general, but that sources of classified material are not available to the
average child leader. It is partly to meet this need that the present
work is planned.
CHAPTER TWO
THE STORY INTERESTS OF CHILDHOOD
A. RHYTHMIC PERIOD
If the work of the narrator is to be of real value, he must have a
knowledge of the story interests of childhood, for otherwise the talent
of a Scheherazade, careful preparation, and an extensive repertoire will
fail to produce the desired results, because a narrative that deals with
mythical heroes cannot make a lasting impression upon a child who craves
animal and primitive wonder tales, even though it be written in language
and style suited to his understanding. The heart or framework of the
story must be made up of events that are fraught with interest in his
particular period of mental development, and must introduce personages
with whom he would like to companion, and whose movements he will follow
with approval, pity, condemnation, or rejoicing. Under such conditions
the boys or girls or dogs who contribute to the action of the tale are
not strangers out of a book, but mean as much to him as the people and
animals he knows, and because they do mean much he lives the tale. It
becomes part of him and he of the story. His emotional nature is stirred,
his power of evaluating is strengthened, and some of the foundation
blocks of character are laid.
Naturally the question arises, “How is one to know which tales to choose,
when there is such a wealth of stories and such a diversity of interests?
Is there any rule or guide to keep the conscientious but untrained worker
from the pitfalls and show him the right road from the wrong?” Such a
guide there is—the psychological axiom that the child between birth and
maturity passes through several periods or stages of mental growth which
determines his interests.
The little child, the one from the age of about three to six, is
interested in familiar things. He has not yet reached the period of
fancy during which he wanders into a world of make-believe and revels
with fairies and nixies, but dwells in a realm of realism. His attention
is centered on the things and the personages he knows,—the mother, the
father, dogs, cats, pigs, horses, cows, chickens, and children of his
own age,—and consequently he enjoys stories and jingles about these
creatures. He chuckles over the accounts of their merry experiences and
sympathizes with them in their misfortunes, because they lie close to his
interests. This is why Mother Goose has been and is beloved of little
children. The rhymes do not introduce griffins and ogres and monsters
that must be seen through eyes of fancy to be seen at all, but abound in
accounts of creatures he has beheld from his windows and associated with
in his home. Mother Hubbard and her unfortunate dog, the crooked man and
his grotesque cat, the pigs that went to market, and the old woman in the
shoe lie close to his world because he knows dogs and cats and pigs and
kind old women, and therefore the rhymes and jingles that portray them
are dear to his heart.
Especially fascinating in this period of early childhood are stories
that contain much repetition. “The Old Woman and Her Pig,” “Little Red
Hen,” “Chicken Little,” “The Gingerbread Man,” and “The Three Billy
Goats” delight little people, and although they have heard them again and
again they always watch eagerly for the “Fire, fire, burn stick,” “I saw
it with my eyes, I heard it with my ears, and a piece of it fell on my
tail,” and are disappointed if the well-known expressions are omitted.
The repetition strengthens the dramatic element and helps to make the
pictures vivid, and the child loves to experience again the thrill he
felt upon first listening to the tale.
Stories introducing the cries and calls of animals are much loved at this
period. The squealing of the pig, the barking of the dog, the clucking of
the hen, and the quacking of the duck give charm to a narrative because
the child has heard those sounds in his own garden, in his own dooryard,
and along the road, and knowing them, is interested in them. This is the
secret of the success of many kindergarten tales that fall far below the
requirements of a good story. Often almost devoid of plot and lacking in
suspense element, still they hold the attention because of the animal
cries and calls they contain. The little hearer chuckles as the baby pig
squeals, the mother pig grunts, or the dog barks, and listens delightedly
to what, without these cries and calls, would not interest him.
This too is why the racial tales fascinate today just as they fascinated
five hundred years ago. They have a clearly defined plot that of itself
would hold the interest, they introduce familiar characters, contain much
repetition, and abound in animal cries and calls.
Broadly speaking, then, for the period of early childhood, the time
of realism which extends from the age of about three to five or six,
the narrator should choose stories of animal and child life, those
which introduce sounds peculiar to the characters and which abound in
repetition.
But he should not make the mistake of following this rule too literally
or his efforts will result in failure, because children live under widely
different conditions. The boy of the city slums, whose horizon extends
only from his own row of tenements to the next row up the street, will
not be held by tales of cows and sheep, because he does not know cows
and sheep. His knowledge of four-footed creatures is confined to dogs
and cats and an occasional horse that goes by hitched to the wagon of a
fruit or vegetable vender, and the tales that mean something to him are
those of animals of his world, and of children. Many a settlement and
social worker has learned the truth of this through sad experience. A
most gifted story-teller in a New York settlement house gave to her group
“The Ugly Duckling,” and gave it exquisitely too, but it meant nothing
to the children because they never had been in the country. A barnyard
was as remote from their interest as a treatise on philology is from that
of a Finnish peasant. They did not know ducks and geese and chickens,
and consequently punched their neighbors and grew pestiferous during the
recital of a tale that would have entranced country children.
The same mistake was made by a professional story-teller who gave a
coyote tale to a group of Italian children. They never had met this
“outcast in gray,” never had shivered as he howled in the night, and the
story brought no pictures before their eyes. They were inattentive and
disorderly throughout its rendition, and the narrator declared them
an impossible group. Yet that same afternoon a college girl with no
special training in story-telling told them of a lost nanny goat, and
they sat fascinated. In the first instance the trouble was not with the
children but with the narrator. She knew much of technique but little of
psychology and could not hold the children’s attention, while the other
girl, possessed of far less native ability, entertained them because she
understood the story interests of childhood. The narrator must have,
not only an understanding of the psychological periods and interests of
childhood, but a knowledge of the environment of the children with whom
she works.
There is a wealth of sources from which to draw for this early period.
Often it is necessary to adapt material, because many a tale whose
framework is suited to little people is told in language beyond their
understanding. “David and Jonathan,” by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, is a
good example. Written for adults, yet it is so universal in its appeal
that the lad of six listens to it with as much sympathy as his father or
mother. The account of the affection of dog and master for each other,
the pathos of the separation and the joy of the reunion, touch him as
much as they touch his parents, and to receive it from the lips of one
who feels and loves the tale will make him kinder to dumb animals and
gentler to the aged.
This is true of many another story that is the creation of an artist. I
mention particularly Ouida’s “Dog of Flanders,” John Muir’s “Stickeen,”
and Ernest Thompson Seton’s “Monarch, the Big Bear of Tallac,” each of
which I have used with children of all ages. The characters in them are
living, breathing creatures, the kind that if met in real life would
arouse affection and awaken both laughter and tears, and whether these
stories are told in monosyllabic language or colored by fine rhetorical
effects, they strike the tender places and appeal to the best. When the
child meets Nello before the altar of the cathedral in Antwerp, kneeling
in front of a painting by Rubens and fondling his dog, he instinctively
feels that this boy is not a stranger living in a far-away land and
speaking a foreign language, but that he represents all the orphaned
children in the world, and that his affection for his dog is the same tie
that binds every other child to the pet he loves. So too with Monarch,
the majestic captive of Golden Gate Park. He is not just a bear, a
creature larger and more ferocious than many other animals. He typifies
wild life caged, and the boy who has pitied him in listening to the
account of his tramp, tramp, tramp about the pit, never quite forgets
that proud but eternal unrest, the ever present longing for the white
peaks and the pines.
One need not fear that putting these stories into simple language may
be deemed a sacrilegious act, or that telling the plot of a masterpiece
will kill delight in that masterpiece itself. Goethe’s mother, sitting
in the firelight in their home, gave her boy tales from the old poets,
creating in him a desire to read that helped to make him a profound
student and master thinker. And the twentieth-century child will doubly
enjoy reading a beautiful piece of literature at some future day,
because in the magical long ago it touched his heart. Workers with little
children should be ever on the alert, seeking stories that deserve the
name of literature, with plot and characters that will appeal to their
small charges, because such stories mold a child’s taste and give a key
that will unlock doors into the great treasure house of art. Whenever the
mother or teacher or librarian reads a story that is a literary gem, let
her analyze it and determine whether or not, if told in simple language,
it would delight a child. The old-time narrators who molded national
taste and ideals did this constantly, and the great story-tellers are
doing it today.
Sicilian peasants, for instance, have a knowledge of the classics that
amazes the average American. The stories are pictured on the market
carts, those gaudy conveyances that brighten the island highways from
Catania to Palermo, and the conversation of these simple folk is colored
with allusions that would do credit to a professor of literature. Most
of them cannot read, but they know the plots of _Jerusalem Delivered_,
“Sindbad the Sailor,” “The Merchant of Bagdad,” and many more of the
world’s great stories. They heard the tales in childhood, and their
fathers before them heard them from the lips of men who loved to tell
them, and so they have become a national heritage. Let us do as much for
the children of our land, that the men and women of the future may have a
noble culture and more splendid possessions than their parents have, and
let us do it in the world-old way, by story-telling.
SOURCES OF STORY MATERIAL FOR THE RHYTHMIC PERIOD
ADAMS, WILLIAM: _Fables and Rhymes—Æsop and Mother Goose_.
BAILEY, CAROLYN SHERWIN: _Firelight Stories_.
BAILEY, CAROLYN SHERWIN, and LEWIS, CLARA: _For the Children’s
Hour_.
BRYCE, CATHERINE T.: _That’s Why Stories_.
BURNHAM, MAUD: _Descriptive Stories for All the Year_.
COOKE, FLORA J.: _Nature Myths and Stories for Little Children_.
DAVIS, MARY H., and CHOW-LEUNG: _Chinese Fables and Folk
Stories_.
DILLINGHAM, ELIZABETH, and EMERSON, ADELLE: _“Tell It Again”
Stories_.
HARRISON, ELIZABETH: _In Story-land_.
HOLBROOK, FLORENCE: _’Round the Year in Myth and Song_.
HOXIE, JANE: _A Kindergarten Story Book_.
JORDAN, DAVID STARR: _The Book of Knight and Barbara_.
LINDSAY, MAUD: _Mother Stories_; _More Mother Stories_.
MILLER, OLIVE THORNE: _True Bird Stories_.
MILTON BRADLEY COMPANY: _Half a Hundred Stories_.
MOULTON, LOUISE CHANDLER: _Bed-time Stories_.
PIERSON, CLARA D.: _Among the Farmyard People_.
POULSSON, EMILIE: _Child Stories and Rhymes_.
RICHARDS, LAURA E.: _The Golden Windows_; _Five-Minute
Stories_; _The Pig Brother_.
SKINNER, ADA M.: _Stories of Wakeland and Dreamland_.
VERHOEFF, CAROLYN: _All about Johnnie Jones_.
WIGGIN, KATE DOUGLAS, and SMITH, NORA A.: _The Children’s Hour_.
CHAPTER THREE
THE STORY INTERESTS OF CHILDHOOD (_Continued_)
B. IMAGINATIVE PERIOD
When the child leaves the rhythmic, realistic period he enters a world
of make-believe and no longer desires tales and jingles that are nothing
more than a recounting of facts he already knows. He delights in playing
he is some one other than himself, in pretending he is doing things
beyond the range of his possibilities, and because he craves a larger
experience he craves also fanciful, imaginative tales in which he may
have those experiences. He knows that bees sting, that the dog has a
cold, wet nose, that the cat lands on its feet, and the squirrel holds
its tail up. He wonders about these things, but he is still too limited
in experience and in mental capacity to give them real theoretical
meaning. Consequently he enjoys the wonder tale, or, as some authorities
term it, the “primitive-why story.” Early racial tales are those of
forest and plain, varying according to the locality in which they
originated, from the lion and tiger stories of India and Central Africa
to the kangaroo fables of the Australian aborigine.
Primitive man through fear and fancy personified the forces of nature and
gave them human attributes, and because they were less tangible than the
creatures of jungle and plain that figured in his earliest fables, his
mind visioned them as fantastic beings, sometimes lovely and sometimes
grotesque, fairies and goblins, destructive monsters and demons, and
avenging giants who preserved him from that which he feared. Thus
originated the fairy story that was the expression of his religion. The
child enjoys these tales.
The narrator can gather this material with comparative ease, because
the science of ethnology has brought to light many of these tales
from primitive literature, and not a few of them have been put into
collections available to child workers.
The fairy tale that grew out of the life of the race is also rich in
material for children of this period. By “fairy tale” is meant that
type of story usually associated with the names of Grimm, Perrault, and
Bechstein. Little people delight in it, and will listen to it again and
again. Yet because of lack of understanding on the part of parents and
teachers, the fairy story often proves to be the rock upon which the
child craft meets disaster. Because these tales have had a mighty place
in the history of the race and still have their work in the education
of the child, it does not follow that they should be fed to young
listeners as so much unassorted grain is fed to chickens. There are many
that should not be used at all. Those that are used should be carefully
graded, because a child will enjoy a narrative in which children are
heroes, long before he enjoys one in which adults hold the center of
the stage. The father and mother, brothers, sisters, uncles, cousins,
and aunts mean much to him because they are part of his experience. But
he does not know officers of the state and nation. He does not know
lawmakers and magistrates and judges, and tales in which they have a part
are less interesting to him than those whose characters are familiar
personages. For instance, he is charmed by “Little Red Hen” or “The Three
Bears” at an age when “Beauty and the Beast” or “Sleeping Beauty” mean
little to him, and a good rule to guide the story-teller in the grading
of fairy tales is the well-known pedagogical one, “Proceed from the
known to the unknown, from the simple to the complex.” Give first those
stories whose heroes are familiar personages, then introduce those with
characters not so well known.
The mention of fairy tales in education often raises the question, “Is
there not danger of making liars of children by feeding them on these
stories?” It seems to me the best answer is given by Georg Ebers, the
Egyptologist and novelist, in his fascinating autobiography, _The
Story of My Life_. Out of his own experience, he handles the subject
of fairy tales sincerely and convincingly, and his words are worthy of
consideration by every child worker.
“When the time for rising came,” he says, “I climbed joyfully into my
mother’s warm bed, and never did I listen to more beautiful fairy tales
than at those hours. They became instinct with life to me and have always
remained so. How real became the distress of persecuted innocence, the
terrors and charm of the forest, the joys and splendors of the fairy
realm! If the flowers in the garden had raised their voices in song, if
the birds on the boughs had called and spoken to me, nay, if a tree had
changed into a beautiful fairy or the toad in the damp path of our shaded
avenue into a witch, it would have been only natural.
“It is a singular thing that actual events which happened in those early
days have largely vanished from my memory, but the fairy tales I heard
and secretly experienced became firmly impressed on my mind. Education
and life provided for my familiarity with reality in all its harshness
and angles, its strains and hurts, but who, in those later years, could
have flung wide the gates of the kingdom where everything is beautiful
and good, and where ugliness is as surely doomed to destruction as evil
to punishment? Therefore I plead with voice and pen in behalf of fairy
tales. Therefore I give them to my children and grandchildren and have
even written a volume of them myself.
“All sensible mothers will doubtless, like ours, take care that the
children do not believe the stories which they tell them to be true. I do
not remember any time when, if my mind had been called upon to decide,
I should have thought anything I invented myself really happened; but I
know that we were often unable to distinguish whether the plausible tale
invented by some one else belonged to the realm of fact or fiction. On
such occasions we appealed to my mother, and her answer instantly set all
doubts at rest, for we thought she could never be mistaken and knew that
she always told the truth.
“As to the stories I invented myself, I fared like other imaginative
children. I could imagine the most marvelous things about every member of
the household, and while telling them, but only during that time, I often
fancied they were true. Yet the moment I was asked whether these things
had actually occurred, it seemed that I woke from a dream. I at once
separated what I imagined from what I actually experienced, and it never
would have occurred to me to persist against my better knowledge. So the
vividly awakened power of imagination led neither me, my brothers and
sisters, nor my children and grandchildren into falsehood.”
Dr. Ebers’ words are based on sound psychology. The child’s imaginative
nature should be developed, but there should never be any doubt in his
mind as to what is make-believe and what is real. Let him wander at will
through every realm of fancy, along its sun-kissed highways, among its
shadowy glens and wild cascades, but let him realize it is a world of
make-believe, not of fact, which he inhabits during that period. His
imagination will be as much aroused, his emotional nature will be stirred
as deeply, and there will be no discovery later that his mother or
teacher deceived him, no temptation to present as fact what he knows to
be purely fancy, which is a certain step toward the field of falsehood.
If he questions whether a fairy story is true or not, tell him, “No, but
once upon a time people thought it was true,” and picture how the early
tribesmen sat around the fire at night listening to tales told by some
of their wise men, just as Indians and Eskimos do to this day. It will
make him sympathetic toward the struggles of his remote forefathers, and
he will not think the narrator tried to dupe him, nor will he regard the
narrative itself as a silly yarn. It will be a dignified tale to him
because it was believed in the long ago.
Since we can give only according to the measure in which we possess,
whoever tells fairy stories to children ought to know something of their
history and meaning. He should have some understanding of how they have
come from the depths of the past to their present form, some idea of
the work of notable collectors, and some insight into the fundamental
principles of the science of folklore.
There are several theories about the origin of these tales, the first and
oldest being that they are sun myths and can be traced back to the Vedas,
and the exponents of this belief offer many arguments to prove the truth
of their contention. The similarity of tales found among people of widely
separated regions, they claim, is evidence that they must have come from
a common source. “Little Half-Chick,” a Spanish folk tale, is found in
slightly different dress among the Kabyles of Africa; “Cinderella,” in
some form or other, is common to every country of Europe and to several
oriental lands; while the Teutonic tale of “Brier Rose” and the French
of “Sleeping Beauty” are modifications of the same _conte_. Therefore,
the orientalists contend, they must have come from a common source and
have been modified to suit conditions of life in lands to which they were
carried.
Another theory is that all European fairy tales are remnants of the old
mythology of the north, the nucleus of the stories having been carried
abroad by the Vikings, while still another theory, the most notable
advocate of which was the late Andrew Lang, traces fairy tales to the
practices and customs of early man and a totemistic belief in man’s
descent from animals.
Then there are those also who contend that fairy tales are primitive
man’s philosophy of nature, his explanation of the working of forces he
did not understand. The adherents of this theory admit the similarity of
tales found among different tribes, but claim that the incidents, which
are few, and the characters, who are types, might occur anywhere. In the
French story of “Blue Beard” and the Greek tale of “Psyche” curiosity
leads to destruction—in the one case of life, in the other of happiness.
In the French “Diamonds and Toads,” the Teutonic “Snow White and the
Seven Dwarfs,” and the Bohemian “The Twelve Months,” selfishness brings
punishment and kindness reward, while the cruel stepmother, the good
prince, and the fairy godmother are common to tales of every nation.
But however authorities disagree as to the origin of these stories, they
unite in declaring them to be one of the oldest forms of literature.
The first collection of fairy tales of which we have any record was
published in Venice in 1550 by Straparola, and was a translation of
stories from oriental sources. From Italian the book was done into French
and, for those early days when books were rare and costly, had a wide
circulation. For almost a century this was the only collection of fairy
tales in existence. Then, in 1637, a book was published in Naples, _Il
Pentamerone_, which Keightley declares is the best collection of fairy
tales ever written. The stories were told in the Neapolitan dialect and
were drawn from Sicily, Candia, and Italy proper, where Giambattista
Basile had gathered them from the people during years of wandering.
About sixty years later, in a magazine published at The Hague, appeared
a story, “La Belle au Bois Dormant,” by Charles Perrault, which was none
other than the tale we know as “Sleeping Beauty.” It did not originate
with Perrault, but had been told him in childhood by his nurse, who was
a peasant from Picardy. A year later seven other stories appeared, “Red
Riding Hood,” “Blue Beard,” “Puss in Boots,” “The Fairy,” “Cinderella,”
“Riquet o’ the Tuft,” and “Hop o’ My Thumb.” They were published under
the title, _Contes du Temps Passé avec Moralités_, and signed, “P.
Darmancour.” Darmancour was a stepson of Perrault, and wrote them at the
older man’s request from the nurse’s tales; so they live in literature as
Perrault’s work. After this French collector came the German scholars,
the Grimms, who gathered and preserved the folklore of the Thuringian
peasants; Goethe, the Sage of Weimar; Madame Villeneuve; Ruskin; Andrew
Lang; and several others. Each of these added to the work begun by
Straparola and Basile, until now we have tales from almost every nation,
tales proving that a belief in the supernatural is common to primitive
people in every clime.
Another aspect wonderfully interesting in the study of fairy tales is the
distinctive features of those of different regions, which are so marked
that they can be classified according to the locality and topography
of the region in which they originated. The largest number of these
supernatural beliefs is found among nations whose scenery is wild and
rugged, where there are mountains, morasses, dangerous cataracts, and
tempestuous oceans, while in flat, cultivated countries away from the sea
the fairy superstition is not so strong and the tales are less fantastic.
This fact argues powerfully in favor of the Aryan theory that they are
primitive man’s philosophy of nature, the expression of his religion, and
some educators claim that as they were religious stories to the race,
they still are religious to the child.
Whether this theory is accepted or refuted, there can be no doubt in the
mind of a thinking person that if fairy tales are given to children
they should be given intelligently and with discrimination. The narrator
should exercise care in their selection, and have some fixed principles
to govern that selection, because of the quantity and doubtful literary
and ethical quality of much juvenile material.
Many modern fairy stories are not fit to give to children. In selecting
fanciful tales for this period of childhood, choose first of all the old
ones, those that originated in the childhood of the race, the stories of
Grimm, Perrault, and Bechstein. They have stood the test of the ages.
They are expressed in beautiful language, they create ideals and arouse
inspiration, they feed and satisfy.
There are some fairy tales of later origin that are the works of great
writers and deserve the name of literature. First on this list come
those of Hans Christian Andersen. “The Three Bears” of Robert Southey is
another good example, and sometimes we find floating through magazines
and in books of recent issue, fairy tales that are excellent ones to give
to children, because they have all the elements of the racial tales.
Notable among these is “The Wonder Box” by Will Bradley. But, if there be
any doubt in the mind of the narrator about the merit of modern stories,
he had better eliminate them from his list and use only those that have
stood the test of the ages.
However, even among racial tales the narrator will come upon pitfalls
unless judgment mark his selection. The conditions governing his struggle
for existence gave primitive man a harsh standard, and consequently
his literature is often tinged with a vindictive spirit wholly out of
keeping with the ideals of today. Stories in which cruelty, revenge, and
bloodshed have a large part should never be told to the young child, no
matter what their age or origin. “Blue Beard” is a good example. Although
itself a classic, and a recital of the deeds of a French ruler whose name
is a synonym of infamy, this tale and all similar tales should be tabooed
from the world of little people.
Charles Dickens was the first man in England whose voice carried weight
to plead for fairy tales as a part of the school curriculum, and within
a few years Dickens found it necessary to oppose the usage of stories
that were corrupting the children of the British Isles. Because they
were urged to tell fairy tales, unthinking teachers told any that they
found, even those in which all the savagery of early man was portrayed.
Accounts of beheadings and man-eatings became part of the daily program,
and many acts of cruelty among children were traceable to these stories.
Instead of teaching forbearance, courtesy, consideration of the poor
and aged, and abhorrence of brute force, which the wisely chosen fairy
tale will do, story-telling was turning the children into young savages.
If the dominant element in a story is cruelty, strike that tale from
the list; for even though the deed be punished in the end, the fact
that the attention of an unkind child is focused upon cruel acts often
leads him to experiment and see what will happen. And I plead also for
the elimination from the story-teller’s list of every tale in which an
unkind or drunken parent plays a part, even though the tale itself be a
literary gem. The father or mother is the child’s ideal, and it is not
the mission of the narrator to shatter that ideal. Even if little folk
have discovered that there are delinquent parents in the world, it is a
mental shock to have that fact emphasized, and the story that shocks in
any way had better be left untold.
Sometimes the elimination or modification of a cruel feature of a tale
makes it suitable for telling to children, as in “Hansel and Gretel.”
The ending Humperdinck uses in his opera, wherein the old witch turns to
gingerbread instead of being baked in the oven by the orphans, is far
better ethically than the original one, yet the elemental part of the
story is left unspoiled. Narrators cannot be too careful in this respect;
for the function of story-telling is to refine rather than to brutalize,
to give pleasure and not to shock, and there is no excuse for using tales
that corrupt or injure in any way when there are enough lovely ones to
satisfy every normal desire of the child. Let the test of selection
be the question, Does this story contain an element or picture that
will shock a sensitive child or whet the cruel tendencies of a rough,
revengeful one? If it does, do not use it even though the list of fairy
tales may be reduced to a very limited one, but choose the other material
for this period from the lore of science that will feed the fancy and
not warp the soul or distort the character. (See Part II, Chapter XVI,
“Story-Telling to Intensify Interest in Nature Study.”)
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF FAIRY TALES
ANDERSEN, HANS CHRISTIAN: _Wonder Stories Told to Children_.
ASBJØRNSEN, PETER CHRISTEN: _Fairy Tales from the Far North_.
BALLARD, SUSAN: _Fairy Tales from Far Japan_.
BLUMENTHAL, VERRA X. K. DE: _Folk Tales from the Russian_.
BUNCE, JOHN THACKERAY: _Fairy Tales: Their Origin and Meaning_.
CHODZKO, ALEXANDER E. B.: _Fairy Tales of the Slav Peasants and
Herdsmen_.
CROKER, THOMAS CROFTON: _Legends and Fairy Tales of Ireland_.
CURTIN, JEREMIAH: _Myths and Folk Tales of the Russians,
Western Slavs, and Magyars_.
DUMAS, ALEXANDRE: _Black Diamonds_; _The Golden Fairy Book_.
EDWARDS, CHARLES LINCOLN: _Bahama Songs and Stories_.
FORTIER, ALCÉE: _Louisiana Folk Tales_.
GRAVES, ALFRED PERCEVAL: _The Irish Fairy Book_.
GRIMM, JACOB: _German Household Tales_.
HAIGHT, RACHEL WEBB: _Index of Fairy Tales_.
HARTLAND, E. SIDNEY: _The Science of Fairy Tales_.
JACOBS, JOSEPH: _Europa’s Fairy Book_; _English Fairy Tales_;
_Celtic Fairy Tales_.
KEIGHTLEY, THOMAS: _Fairy Mythology_.
KENNEDY, HOWARD ANGUS: _The New World Fairy Book_.
LABOULAYE, EDOUARD RENÉ: _The Fairy Book_; _Last Fairy Tales_.
LANG, ANDREW: _The Blue Fairy Book_; _The Orange Fairy Book_;
_The Lilac Fairy Book_; _The Green Fairy Book_; _The Yellow
Fairy Book_; _The Red Fairy Book_.
MACDONNELL, ANNE: _The Italian Fairy Book_.
MACMANUS, SEUMAS: _Donegal Fairy Stories_.
MITFORD, FREEMAN: _Tales of Old Japan_.
OZAKI, YEI THEODORA: _Japanese Fairy Tales_.
PERRAULT, CHARLES: _Tales for Children from Many Lands_.
PYLE, HOWARD: _The Wonder Clock_.
RAMASWAMI RAJU: _Indian Fables_.
SCUDDER, HORACE E.: _The Children’s Book_.
SHARMAN, LYON: _Bamboo: Tales of the Orient-born_.
SKEAT, WALTER W.: _Fables and Folk Tales from an Eastern
Forest_.
STANLEY, HENRY M.: _My Dark Companions and Their Strange
Stories_.
STEELE, FLORA A.: _Tales from the Punjab_.
TAPPAN, EVA MARCH: _The Golden Goose_.
WILLISTON, TERESA: _Japanese Fairy Tales_.
WRATISLAW, A. H.: _Slavonian Fairy Tales_.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE STORY INTERESTS OF CHILDHOOD (_Continued_)
C. HEROIC PERIOD
When the child leaves the imaginative period, he enters another realm
of realism. The fairy world is no longer a place of enchantment to him.
He is now in a condition corresponding to that of primitive man when he
was not satisfied to sit by the tribal fire and listen to stories about
creatures who personified the elements, but fared forth on the path of
adventure, eager to know what lay beyond the lodge place of his people,
feverish with desire to conquer and remove whatever obstructed his way.
The barbaric, fighting instinct manifests itself, and in many children a
destructive curiosity is apparent. They long to repeat the experiences
of their ancestors in this same period. They want to live through nights
of danger and days of daring, and since the juvenile court and probation
officers hover Argus-eyed about them, ready to swoop down upon every
lad who would go pirating or pathfinding, the nearest approach to the
experience consists in listening to and in reading tales of adventure.
This age is usually from about eight to twelve, although there are no
tightly drawn lines of demarcation. Individual cases differ, and some
children of ten are still delighted by fairy tales, while other lads of
seven are well into the heroic period. Broadly speaking, however, this
period begins about the age of eight.
There is no time in the child life during which the story-teller has a
finer opportunity of sowing seeds that shall come into splendid fruition
by and by than in the heroic period, and because parents and teachers do
not realize this fact clearly enough, boys read stories whose tendency
is to brutalize and lead them into trouble. It does not follow, because
they are drawn as steel to steel to such literature, that the boys are
depraved. They crave action, danger, daring. It is a cry of nature
that cannot be silenced, and because the hunger is not satisfied in a
wholesome way, they go where they can find the food they must have, for
numerous doors are open to them.
Dozens of writers are doing pernicious work for the youth of the country
by pouring forth a flood of adventure stories, perhaps not with malicious
intent, but with the little knowledge that often brings dire results.
Knowing the demand for the heroic, they write yarns whose only claim to
recognition is a clever, spectacular plot. These books embody no ideals,
and the aspirations they arouse had better be left to slumber. Sometimes,
as a result of such reading, boys run away from home to fight Indians
or turn pirate, and many a lad has begun a career of lawlessness ending
in crime, who with a little direction might have been an individual
of value to the world. Such cases are so common that they have come
under the notice of almost every child worker, and the pity of it is
that literature is rich in tales that satisfy the adventure craving,
yet arouse high ideals and inspire to worth-while deeds. Instead of
originating in the brain of some modern craftsman who is actuated by
a desire for money-making, they grew out of the life of the race and
perpetuate the noblest traditions of the race.
Human nature is much the same in all climes and in all ages. Until
man reaches a very high state of enlightenment he is more thrilled by
manifestations of physical bravery than by mental and moral courage, and
he who possesses muscular strength is the hero in his eyes. A Hercules
or Samson is mightier to him than a Savonarola facing persecution with
sublime tenacity of purpose and dying steadfast to his ideal, because
he can understand the brute strength of the one, while the spiritual
fortitude of the other is beyond his comprehension. He is thrilled by
action, physical action, and he craves and will have literature every
page of which is colored by feats of prowess.
It is useless to try to substitute something else for children in this
period. When we hunger for bread and meat, after-dinner mints will not
satisfy, even though they be very delectable confections. This ravenous
appetite of boys and girls must be satisfied, and if they are to grow
into well-balanced men and women we must feed it with wholesome food
instead of allowing them to roam unguided and eat of that which poisons.
There is no finer adventure tale in any literature than that of Robin
Hood, none more satisfying to children in the early heroic period. This
statement often brings a cry of remonstrance, and the objection is made
that there is danger in portraying an outlaw as a hero, or in picturing
the allurement of a brigandish career. But Robin Hood an outlaw? He lived
in an age of injustice when might made right. The man of the people was
but the chattel of a king, with no rights his lord was bound to respect.
Bold Robin, in the depths of Sherwood Forest, devoted his life to
redressing wrongs. He took from the oppressor and gave to the oppressed.
He strove to stamp out injustice and tyranny, and his spirit is the
foundation of the democracy that underlies every just government today.
He was an outlaw, not because he was a criminal, but because he rebelled
against the monstrous injustice of his age and strove to ameliorate the
condition of the poor and downtrodden. In the time of Henry the Second he
was hunted like a deer, but in the twentieth century he would be honored
as a great reformer.
Robin’s sense of justice appeals to boys and girls, and his fearlessness
and kindliness awaken their admiration. They respond sympathetically
to the story from the opening chapter, when he enters the forest and
Little John joins his band, through the closing one where the hero of the
greenwood goes to his final rest. If the tale is told with emphasis upon
the true spirit of Robin Hood instead of with a half apology, it will
prove wholesome food for the children and will help to make them juster,
kinder, and more democratic men and women.
The national epics are splendid sources of story material for children
in the heroic period, especially those originating in Teutonic lands and
those formalized among nations not yet in a high state of civilization.
Their characters are elemental, and their incidents appeal to boys and
girls. Some of the stories of King Arthur and his knights, of Beowulf, of
Sigurd the Volsung, of Frithjof, of Pwyll, hero of the Welsh Mabinogion,
as well as many from the Nibelungenlied, the Iliad, and the Odyssey,
can also be used with excellent results. Naturally the tales of an
elemental type should be chosen first rather than those that are more
highly refined and poetic. It has been my experience that the Mabinogion
is enjoyed before the Arthuriad. Boys, especially, delight in hearing
of Pwyll, lord of the Seven Countries of Dyved, and the adventures that
befell him as he hunted in the forests of his dominions. These stories
are of very ancient origin and are simple, strong, and dramatic. They
were sung by harpers (mabinogs) in the castle halls of Wales, and finally
were gathered into the Mabinogion, which was done into English by Lady
Charlotte Gest. The story-teller will find _The Boy’s Mabinogion_, by
Sidney Lanier, an excellent handbook for this period, as it embodies the
most desirable of this ancient Gaelic material, and is put into modern
form by an artist.
Follow the Mabinogion with the less poetic of the King Arthur stories.
The account of how Arthur won his sword and became king, of Percival
and the Red Knight, and of Arthur fighting the giant mean more to the
ten-year-old than does Sir Galahad and the Holy Grail. The Greek myths
too should be drawn from during this period—not the highly poetic,
finished tales of the Hellenes, but the elemental ones whose heroes
are rugged characters that awaken child admiration. Hercules, Perseus,
Achilles, and several other demigods vie for honors with King Arthur and
Beowulf in the mind of the fourth-grade boy, and the story-teller should
not fail to draw from the rich field of southern literature as well
as from that of the north. But let her exercise care in selection and
keep to the realm of heroism instead of entering that of romance. Such
stories as “Cupid and Psyche,” “Pygmalion and Galatea,” and “Apollo and
Daphne” mean little to boys and girls of ten, yet teachers and librarians
often use them and wonder why their audiences respond with so little
enthusiasm. There are those who contend that all the epical stories
should be given in simplified form during this period, but why spoil the
romantic, poetic ones which are so much more enjoyed a little later and
so much better understood, when there are hundreds that can be given
without pruning them to the heart? Certain investigations and statistics
show that the telling of the highly refined Greek myths to boys and girls
in the early heroic period gives an erroneous idea of Greek standards,
and dulls an interest in mythology later on. The story-teller should
bear this fact in mind, and remember that literature rich in symbolism
and formulated among people refined to a degree of æstheticism is not
the literature to give to adventure-craving children, no matter to what
simple language it may be reduced.
Splendidly dramatic is the tale of Roland and Oliver, which every boy
loves, of Ogier the Dane, and of some of the other heroes of the time
of Charlemagne. Children listen spellbound to the account of the first
meeting and disagreement of the two lads whose friendship makes such a
sweet and colorful story, and of Charles the Great in council with his
peers and knights, and delight in the swinging lines of the old ballad:
The emperor sits in an orchard wide,
Roland and Oliver by his side:
With them many a gallant lance,
Full fifteen thousand of gentle France.
Upon a throne of beaten gold
The lord of ample France behold:
White his hair and beard were seen,
Fair of body and proud of mien.
The story of Bayard is an admirable one for this period, as well as that
of the Spanish hero, the Cid; and “St. George and the Dragon” is always a
favorite.
I plead, too, that more of the narrator’s time be devoted to the telling
of our own American epic of _Hiawatha_. The answer comes, “That is read
in school.” To be sure it is, and one reason why it is read so badly and
appreciated so little is that it was not given in story form first. The
German child uses the Nibelungenlied as a classroom text, but before
he studies the epic he knows its tales. Gunther, Hagen, Siegfried, and
Dankwart are familiar characters to him, and consequently he enjoys the
poem.
The same principle applies to _Hiawatha_. If boys and girls are
acquainted with Hiawatha himself, if they know Nokomis and Chibiabos
and Kwasind and Iagoo before they are given the poem to study, it means
something to them that it cannot mean otherwise. Perhaps one reason why
Longfellow’s masterpiece has been so little used by story-tellers is
that the work of putting it into story form is a task with which the
non-professional is unable to cope. Now, however, an excellent retold
work is on the market—Winston’s _Story of Hiawatha_—which makes it
possible for every narrator to have her children know the American epic
as well as German young people know the Nibelungenlied.
In considering stories for the heroic period of childhood, let us not
forget the biographical and historical narratives that fulfill every
requirement of hero tales. Boys and girls love the epical stories because
they are true in spirit, but they love also those that are true in fact.
It is a mistake to think that biography is dull and uninteresting to
them, because stories of the boyhood of great men, great rulers, great
discoverers and path-finders, great lawgivers, painters, musicians, and
writers, are hero tales of the highest type. Many of them have been told
admirably for young people, and the narrator does no more valuable work
than when he uses them freely. Sir Walter Raleigh, De Soto, Coronado,
Frederick the Great, Napoleon, Garibaldi, Solyman the Magnificent, Robert
the Bruce, Kosciusko, William Wallace, William Tell, and dozens of others
are as fascinating as Beowulf or Hercules and have an influence even more
powerful, because children know that these heroes have actually lived.
Never mind what some authorities say about the man of Switzerland being
a mythical personage. Let American young people know him as those of the
Alpine land know him, as the defender of his ancient rights and native
mountains, the embodiment of the spirit of Helvetia. They will be finer
men and women because of it, and that, more than anything else, concerns
the story-teller.
Then, too, there are history tales, hundreds of them, from every age
and every land. There are brave deeds done by children that every child
should know. The little girl on the St. Lawrence, holding the blockhouse
of Vercheres against the Iroquois, the boy whose courage and presence of
mind saved Lucerne, the event through which William of Orange came to
be known as William the Silent, and many other similar narratives are
intensely interesting to boys and girls. Some of the Old Testament tales
belong in this period; for a detailed account of them see Chapter Twelve,
on “Bible Stories.”
At this age, when the adventure spirit runs high, when pathfinding and
Indian fighting are desired above all other things, how are we to keep
boys and girls from running away to lead such lives themselves? One way
is by letting them live the lives of the heroes who thrill them—in other
words, by dramatizing. It is the hunger for experience that causes boys
to turn vagabond, and juvenile-court records show that many of the ten-
and twelve-year-olds who are lured by the call of adventure come from
homes that offer nothing to feed the adventure craving, whereas those who
have some of the desired experiences at home are less likely to start out
seeking them. It is a wise mother who encourages her boys to make pirate
caves in their own back yards, to be youthful Crusoes, Kit Carsons,
Daniel Boones, and Robin Hoods for a Saturday morning, and the school
or public playground that provides for much out-of-door acting is doing
something that will prevent many evils. In some children this desire is
so strong that it is almost a fever, and if not satisfied in a wholesome
manner is likely to lead to lamentable ends. I remember how much it meant
to me in my own childhood, when I burned to lead the lives of some of the
heroes of whom I had read or heard, to be permitted to participate in the
Indian warfare of the neighborhood boys and be the maiden who was carried
away into captivity. It was such a blissful experience that I joyfully
contributed my small allowance to buy red ink for war paint and to help
costume the braves, and when a Sioux band came to town, I ecstatically
trudged after the wagon and lived for a day in a realm far removed from
my accustomed one. The boys had feeling to even a greater degree, and
who knows but that without this Indian play some of them might have gone
forth in search of adventure and become criminals, whereas every one is
now a law-abiding, useful citizen.
SOURCES OF STORY MATERIAL FOR THE HEROIC PERIOD
ANDERSON, RASMUS BJÖRN: _The Younger Edda_.
BALDWIN, JAMES: _The Story of Roland_; _American Book of Golden
Deeds_.
BOLTON, SARAH K.: _Poor Boys Who Became Famous_.
BRADISH, SARAH P.: _Old Norse Stories_.
BROOKS, ELBRIDGE S.: _Historic Girls_.
CHURCH, ALFRED J.: _Stories from the Iliad_; _Stories from the
Odyssey_.
COE, FANNIE E.: _Heroes of Everyday Life_.
FARMER, FLORENCE V.: _Boy and Girl Heroes_.
FOA, MADAME EUGÉNIE: _Boy Life of Napoleon_.
GRIERSON, E. W.: _Tales from Scottish Ballads_.
KINGSLEY, CHARLES: _Greek Heroes_.
LANG, JEANIE: _The Story of Robert the Bruce_; _The Story of
General Gordon_.
LANIER, SIDNEY: _The Boy’s Mabinogion_.
LANSING, M. F.: _Page, Esquire, and Knight_.
MABIE, H. W.: _Norse Stories from the Eddas_.
MARSHALL, H. E.: _The Story of William Tell_; _The Story of
Roland_.
MATTHEWS, AGNES R.: _Seven Champions of Christendom_ (St.
George and the Dragon).
MORRIS, WILLIAM: _Sigurd the Volsung_.
NEPOS, C.: _Tales of Great Generals_.
NIEBUHR, B. G.: _Greek Heroes_.
PYLE, HOWARD: _Some Merry Adventures of Robin Hood_; _Stories
of King Arthur and His Knights_.
RAGOZIN, Z. A.: _Siegfried and Beowulf_.
TAPPAN, EVA M.: _In the Days of Alfred the Great_; _In the Days
of William the Conqueror_.
WARREN, MAUDE RADFORD: _Robin Hood and His Merry Men_.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE STORY INTERESTS OF CHILDHOOD (_Continued_)
D. ROMANTIC PERIOD
At about the age of twelve or thirteen the child’s rougher instincts
begin to soften. Romance and sentiment develop. He becomes particular
about his appearance. It is less of a task than formerly to get the boy
to wash his face and hands, and he has not the antipathy toward civilized
attire that he had in the days when Robinson Crusoe was the hero.
Instead, he manifests a liking for being dressed according to prevailing
modes, sometimes changing so suddenly from a dirty cave dweller into a
dandy that it is like the metamorphosis from grub to butterfly. He craves
socks and ties of bright colors and clothes that attract attention. If
fashion prescribes peg-topped or straight, spare trousers, he wants them
extremely wide or extremely narrow, and is willing to have his chin
sawed unmercifully if high collars are the vogue, not because of a fit
of hysteria, but because he has entered the period when sex awakens. He
is becoming interested in the girls and wishes to be dressed in a manner
that will cause them to be interested in him; and very often his taste
for literature changes as completely as his personal habits. He desires
stories of a higher type of heroism than those he craved in an earlier
period, stories of romance and chivalry, and now is the time to give him
the epic in its entirety, because of the deep racial emotions therein
expressed.
He has had many of the adventure tales from the epics during the earlier
period. Now he is ready for those tinged with romance, those pervaded
by a spirit of fiery idealism in which knights risk limb and life in
loyalty to principle, for fealty to king, or in defense of some fair
lady. Percival seeking the Grail is a finer hero to him than Percival
battling with the Red Knight, and the vow of the men of the Round Table
means something because he can understand it. In a vague, indefinite way
romance is touching his own life, and his noblest emotions are awakened
by the noble words:
To reverence the king, as if he were
Their conscience, and their conscience as their king,
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,
To honor his own word as if his God’s,
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,
To love one maiden only, cleave to her,
And worship her by years of noble deeds.
Boys and girls in the heroic period enjoyed only the Arthurian stories
that glorify physical bravery, those of jousting and conflict into which
women do not enter. But now they delight in such tales as those of
Geraint and Enid, of Launcelot and Elaine, and some of the adventures of
Tristram.
Here a word of caution is necessary. Like the Old Testament stories,
these romantic tales will arouse the noblest emotions and highest ideals
if given with wisdom, but if told thoughtlessly may create an almost
morbid desire for the vulgar. Therefore the non-professional narrator
should use for his work some retold version of the King Arthur tales
instead of adapting from _Le Morte d’Arthur_, because there is much in
the original that should be eliminated in presenting it to those in the
adolescent period. The Pyle or Radford editions are excellent, likewise
_The Boy’s King Arthur_, by Sidney Lanier, each of which keeps the spirit
of the poem, but omits everything objectionable.
The story of King Arthur, embracing as it does the Grail legend, should
be followed by the German tale of “Parsifal,”—not the Wagner opera
version, but the original medieval legend, “The Knightly Song of Songs”
of Wolfram von Eschenbach. This has been retold beautifully by Anna Alice
Chapin in _The Story of Parsifal_, a book with which every child in the
romantic period should be familiar. Miss Guerber, in her _Legends of the
Middle Ages_, relates the tale of Titurel and the Holy Grail, which will
be helpful to the narrator because of the light it throws on the origin
of the legend. But for a telling version there is none equal to that of
Miss Chapin, none in which the lofty chivalric spirit of the medieval
poem is portrayed so faithfully.
The romantic portion of all the national epics, as well as that of _Le
Morte d’Arthur_, is excellent material for the story-teller in the early
adolescent period. The Nibelungenlied, the Iliad, the Odyssey, and parts
of _Jerusalem Delivered_ feed boys and girls in the early teens as pure
adventure stories fed them a year or two before. And if the narrator
would have his young listeners enjoy the epical tales to the uttermost,
let him quote freely from the epic itself as he tells them. During this
age, when romance and sentiment run high and life is beheld through
a rainbow-hued glamour, poetry is a serious and beautiful thing. The
frequent interpolation of it into a story heightens the pleasure in that
story, and young people listen with the gleaming eyes of intense feeling
to words like these of Siegfried:
“Ever,” said he, “your brethren I’ll serve as best I may,
Nor once while I have being, will head on pillow lay,
Till I have done to please them whate’er they bid me do;
And this, my Lady Kriemhild, is all for love of you.”
Moreover, young people should understand that the epics were first given
to the race in poetic form, and in leading them to that knowledge we can
lead them also to an appreciation of the majestic, sweeping measures of
the Iliad or Odyssey or Nibelungenlied, which is in itself worth thought
and labor on the part of the story-teller.
The Langobardian myths, Dietrich von Bern, the story of Gudrun, of
Charlemagne and Frastrada and Huon of Bordeaux, are intensely interesting
in this period. Joan of Arc never fails to charm, while tales of the
minnesingers, the troubadours, and the Crusaders open gates into lands of
enchantment.
Oh, the romance in the lives of these medieval wanderers! Walther von der
Vogelweide, too poor to buy him a coat, yet swaying the thought of the
German lands; Bernard of Ventadour, among the flaming roses of Provence,
making music at the court of Eleanor of Aquitaine; Richard Cœur de
Lion, riding with a singing heart toward Palestine; De Coucy, Frederick
Barbarossa, and scores of others who lived and achieved in that distant,
colorful time! Their lives are gleaming pages in the history of their
age, and their stories are glorious ones to give to boys and girls who
crave the romantic.
Wonderful, too, is the account of the Children’s Crusade, of Stephen, a
happy shepherd on the hills of Cloyes, and that other lad of Cologne,
who, fired with desire to restore to the Christian world places the
Moslem had defiled, sailed away with their followers to shipwreck and
slavery. In connection with this tale the children should hear, if
possible, some of the music from Gabriel Pierne’s great cantata, _The
Children’s Crusade_. It will give them a clearer, more vivid idea of the
preaching of the boy apostle, of the gathering of the company, of the
pilgrimage along the Rhine and Seine, of their rejoicing upon reaching
the port of Marseilles, and of the light of noble purpose that glorified
their eyes as they went singing to the ships. Perhaps historians have
proved the account of this crusade to be just a myth. Tell it anyway, for
whether it be fact or fiction the tale is too lovely for young folk to
miss.
There is another type of biographical story, that of the man and woman
of moral courage whose life was not so chromatically picturesque as that
of him who fought the Saracens or sang in old Provence, but nevertheless
thrills, fascinates, and influences. Florence Nightingale is a good
example. Beautiful, the daughter of rich and distinguished parents, she
might have reigned a social queen in England; yet she spent her young
womanhood studying how to alleviate human suffering, toiling under the
burning sun of the East, battling with disease at the risk of health and
life, and well deserving the title given her by those she comforted,
“The Angel of the Crimea.” I have seen girls of sixteen listen with tears
in their eyes to the story of this noble Englishwoman, and have watched
the throats of boys throb and pulsate upon hearing the account of the
British Army and Navy banquet at which the question was asked, “Who, of
all the workers in the Crimea, will be remembered longest?” and every
voice replied in refrain, “Florence Nightingale!” Several years ago a
questionnaire, distributed at a convention of nurses, revealed the fact
that ten per cent of those there had been influenced toward their life
career by the story of this great English nurse. Yet there are dubious
souls who wonder if story-telling pays! If the narrator can have only a
few books from which to draw material for the romantic period, Laura E.
Richards’ _Life of Florence Nightingale_ ought to be one of the number.
It is sympathetically and beautifully told, an artist’s tribute to an
immortal woman.
Workers with youths in the adolescent period are brought face to face
with one of the gravest problems educators have to solve. What is to
be done about lovesick boys and girls, those in whom the elemental
passions have awakened yet who have not the judgment and self-control
that age and experience bring? How are we to keep them, in their first
emotional upheaval, from losing all sense of proportion and from
pursuing a course that may lead to disaster? The freedom given in these
days of coeducation, and the unrestricted circulation of novels and
stories dealing with the relations of the sexes, which may be worthy
creations from the standpoint of art, but which distort the ideas of
unformed youth, make possible a condition that often appalls parents and
high-school teachers and sets them to wondering how to meet it.
Ellen Key suggests a remedy. In this period when the world-old emotions
are first aroused, she advocates the use of love stories that are pure
in tone and high in ideal. We cannot change human nature and keep the
boy of sixteen from being drawn as if by a magnet to the maid who is
lovely in his eyes, but we can give him an ideal that will make his
feeling an elevating thing instead of a debasing one. We can put into
the heart of the girl a poetry and idealism that will keep her worthy
of the prince, and we can do it through literature. Instead of leaving
her free to roam unguided and read whatever falls into her hand, or of
sitting like a board of censors beside her and goading her toward the
forbidden, which always allures, we can lead her to delightful, wholesome
stories, of which there are a goodly number. This does not mean confining
her to writers of several generations ago. Present-day youths know that
almost every one reads current books, and they intend to have them, too.
Therefore let the story-teller use the best of the new, even as he uses
the best of the old. Let him refer frequently to it and tell enough of it
to awaken such an interest that it will be read. A good plan is for the
teacher of English to devote a few minutes each week to the discussion
of some recent book or books, and to give lists of those that boys and
girls will enjoy. In public libraries slips should be posted, upon which
are named the most desirable of recent publications, and problem novels
should be excluded from shelves to which the public has access. Thus our
adolescent children may be led to glean from the best of the new. But
meanwhile let us not neglect the old.
One of the lovely works with which to familiarize high-school pupils is
_Ekkehard_, by Joseph Victor von Scheffel, which, aside from its value
as a historical novel, is one of the noblest love stories ever written.
It is a charming picture of life in the tenth century, when the Hunnic
hordes swept like a devastating flame into the peaceful Bodensee region.
Hadwig, proud duchess of Suabia, Ekkehard, the dreaming, handsome monk
who goes from the monastery of St. Gall to become Latin instructor at
Castle Hohentwiel and learns far more than he teaches, Praxedis, the
winsome Greek maid, Hadumoth the goose girl, and the goat boy Audifax,
all are fascinating, appealing characters. From beginning to end the
book is intensely interesting, and as Nathan Haskell Dole says, “full of
undying beauty.”
Another charming work of a German writer is _Moni the Goat Boy_, by
Johanna Spyri. The novels of Eugénie Marlitt are wholesome and well
written, and give vivid pictures of life in the smaller courts of Europe.
Those of Louisa Mühlbach portray in a remarkable manner the lives of
some of the notable figures of history, and the intimate glimpses they
give of such characters as Frederick the Great, Schiller, Goethe, Marie
Antoinette, and Maria Theresa, with their reflection of the color
and ceremony of a bygone day, cause them to mean in this period what
adventure tales mean to boys and girls of ten.
In drawing from Germany, let us not forget Georg Ebers, who lifts
the cloud of mystery that veils old Egypt and permits us to share
the romance, the loves, the joys and sorrows of men and women of the
Pharaohs’ time. His works are not dull inscriptions gathered from
sepulchers and mummies, but moving pictures of living, breathing men and
women, filmed by the genius of a master; and the triumphs of the Princess
Bent-Anat, the sufferings of the captive Uarda, and the spectacular
victory of the royal charioteer are so real that they seem to be in the
here and now instead of in the early morning of the world.
From France we may glean without limit. Georges Ohnet, Jacques Vincent,
Ludovic Halévy, and dozens of other writers have produced works that
are not only a part of the education of every one who aspires to become
a cultured man or woman, but are as fascinating as fairy tales to a
child. Then there is the great treasure house of English and American
literature, as rich in priceless things of pen and brain as the gallery
of the Vatican is rich in paintings and sculpture. Boys and girls will
not draw from this wealth unguided, because they do not know where it is
stored. But if we give them frequent glimpses of its brightness, if we
half open the door of the repository and let them peep inside, they will
follow, seeking it, as the miner follows the half-revealed ore vein, or
as Ortnit of old pursued the Fata Morgana. They need not drift into pools
that breed disease, when by enough story-telling to awaken their interest
in the beautiful and fine they may sail into open streams where the water
is clear, and where there are no submerged reefs to wreck their fragile
crafts.
SOURCES OF STORY MATERIAL FOR THE ROMANTIC PERIOD
ANTIN, MARY: _The Promised Land_.
BOLTON, SARAH K.: _Famous Leaders among Men_.
BOUTET DE MONVEL, L. M.: _The Story of Joan of Arc_.
BROOKS, ELBRIDGE STREETER: _Historic Girls_.
BUELL, AUGUSTUS C.: _John Paul Jones, Founder of the American
Navy_.
BUXTON, ETHEL M. WILMOT: _A Book of Noble Women_; _Stories of
Persian Heroes_.
CHAPIN, ANNA ALICE: _The Story of Parsival_.
CHURCH, ALFRED JAMES: _Stories from the Iliad_; _Stories from
the Odyssey_.
CREIGHTON, LOUISE VON GLEHN: _Some Famous Women_.
GILBERT, ARIADNE: _More than Conquerors_.
GILCHRIST, BETH BRADFORD: _Life of Mary Lyon_.
GUERBER, HELÈNE A.: _Legends of the Middle Ages_.
LANIER, SIDNEY: _The Boy’s King Arthur_.
LOCKHART, JOHN GIBSON: _Ancient Spanish Ballads_.
LOWELL, FRANCIS CABOT: _Joan of Arc_.
NICHOLSON, J. S.: _Tales from Ariosto_.
QUILLER-COUCH, SIR ARTHUR THOMAS: _The Roll Call of Honor_.
RICHARDS, LAURA E.: _Florence Nightingale, the Angel of the
Crimea_.
SNEDEKER, CAROLINE D.: _The Coward of Thermopylæ_.
SOUTHEY, ROBERT: _The Life of Nelson_.
STERLING, MARY BLACKWELL: _The Story of Parzival_; _The Story
of Sir Galahad_.
STRICKLAND, AGNES: _The Queens of England_; _The Queens of
Scotland_.
CHAPTER SIX
BUILDING THE STORY
Story-telling is a creative art, and therefore a knowledge of underlying
principles is as indispensable to the narrator as to the sculptor or
painter. Without this knowledge he cannot hope to adapt material to his
needs, but must be limited in his choice to what is already in form to
give to children; with it he can avail himself of many opportunities
to bring to his charges treasures of which they could know nothing but
for his ability to dig them from the profound tomes in which they are
hidden, polish and clarify them, and put them in a setting within the
understanding of the child. For this reason a course in story-writing
is a part of the training of the professional story-teller, and while
the mother or teacher cannot make such extensive preparation, she may to
advantage master and apply a few cardinal principles of construction.
The beginning of the oral story should never be an introduction, because
from the first word the child expects something to happen, and if nothing
does happen his attention scatters and interest is lost. Therefore
the narrator must bring his actors on the stage and get them to work
at once; he must not let them stand around waiting while he gives a
detailed description of their hair and eyes and of the clothes they
wear, but must have them do something. It is often necessary to make
some explanatory remarks in the beginning, but it should be done in such
a way that the hearer has no time to wonder when the story is going
to begin. For instance, if your tale is about a boy in Holland, do not
delay bringing the boy in while you tell about the country. Let him enter
at the beginning, and then, by a sentence here and a clause or phrase
there, give the setting with the action. The story must bristle with
human interest; for while the child knows nothing about the meaning of
that term, he nevertheless demands that something happen, and if nothing
does happen you lose his attention. The written story may depend for its
charm upon character drawing and local color, but the oral story demands
_plot_, and if this plot is badly hung together the story fails in its
aim, for it does not make a deep impression.
The narrative style is better adapted to beginning the oral story than
dialogue, because it is more easily handled by the novice. Of course the
professional story-teller is not restricted to one field, and genius is
privileged to range at large and ignore rules with no dire results. But
it is safe for the amateur to keep to the narrative style. In the depths
of dialogue, his little craft may founder, but the much-loved words “Once
upon a time” or “Long, long ago” arrest the attention immediately, even
though the teller be not an artist; and having made a good beginning, he
is reasonably sure of holding his hearers to the end. On the other hand,
if he does not get them at the start, his story-telling time is apt to
end in failure.
There are no set phrases or clauses with which one must begin a story,
and it would be a mistake to say that dialogue can never be used safely
in opening the oral story, for the professional often uses it with fine
effect; but it is easier and safer for the amateur to use the narrative
beginning, and introduce dialogue as the plot develops.
Dr. Berg Esenwein, whose excellent work, _Writing the Short Story_, will
be of value to the story-teller as well as to the story-writer, lays down
these rules:
“Do not strike one note in the beginning and another in the body of the
story.
“Do not touch anything that is not a live wire leading direct to the
heart of the story.
“Do not describe where you can suggest.”
An examination of some of the perfect stories of the world shows that
these rules hold good in every case. The tales of Grimm, Andersen,
Perrault, and Bechstein are flawless in construction, and each plunges
directly into the thread of the story. Take, for instance, “The Three
Tasks” of Grimm:
There once lived a poor maiden who was young and fair, but she
had lost her own mother, and her stepmother did all she could
to make her miserable.
“The Pea Blossom,” of Hans Christian Andersen:
There were once five peas in a pod. They were green and the pod
was green, and they thought all the world was green.
“Red Riding Hood,” as written by Perrault, begins thus:
Once upon a time there lived in a small village in the country
a little girl, the prettiest, sweetest creature that ever was
seen. Her mother loved her fondly, and her grandmother doted on
her still more.
“The Twin Brothers” by Grimm:
There were once two brothers, one of whom was rich and the
other poor. The rich brother was a goldsmith and had a wicked
heart. The poor brother supported himself by making brooms, and
was good and honest.
It is the same in Ruskin’s “King of the Golden River,” in Robert
Southey’s “Three Bears,” in all the tales of De Maupassant that are
suitable for telling, and in those of Alphonse Daudet. Note the beginning
of Daudet’s “Last Lesson”:
Little Franz did not want to go to school that morning. He
would much rather have played. The air was so warm and still.
You could hear the blackbirds singing at the edge of the wood,
and the sound of the Prussians drilling down by the old sawmill.
Every one of these stories begins with narrative, and every one is a
perfect tale for telling.
Next in consideration comes the body of the story, which our rhetoric
teachers taught us is a succession of events moving toward the climax.
Until the climax is reached the oral story must be full of suspense.
In other words, the hearer must be kept guessing about what is going
to happen. The child does not care about a story in which he sees the
end. He does enjoy hearing the same story told over and over again if
it thrilled him at the first telling, because he likes to re-experience
that thrill. But if a new tale holds no suspense, it falls flat.
Stevenson says: “The one rule is to be infinitely various—to interest, to
disappoint, to surprise, yet still to gratify. To be ever changing, as it
were, the stitch, yet still to give the effect of an ingenious neatness.”
In other words, the succession of events must follow one another in a
regular sequence, and each must contribute something to the one following
it.
As a rather homely illustration of the meaning of this, we may say that
plot centers around a hole, and in a well-constructed story the steps by
which the hero gets into the hole are traced, and then those by which he
gets out. The getting out is the climax or, as Dr. Barrett says, “the
apex of interest and emotion.” In other words, it is the top of a ladder,
and the story must move in an unbroken line toward that topmost rung. If
it does not do this, if the thread of the tale is broken to interpolate
something that should have been told in the beginning, the narrator loses
his audience.
The climax must be a surprise to the child. This holds good in all the
great oral stories. Take as an example “The Ugly Duckling”:
And he flew toward the beautiful swans. As soon as they saw him
they ran to meet him with outstretched wings.
“Kill me,” he said.
But as he bent his head he saw reflected in the water, not a
dark, gray bird ugly to see, but a beautiful swan.
In Hawthorne’s “Great Stone Face” the climax lies in the discovery that
Ernest is the likeness of the Great Stone Face, a delightful surprise to
the child.
It is the same in “Red Riding Hood,” in “Tarpeia,” in “Why the Sea Is
Salt.” It is the same in Daudet’s “Last Lesson.” Note the splendid climax
of that masterpiece, the surprise that comes to Franz as he sits awaiting
punishment, when the teacher, in all kindness, makes this announcement:
“My children, this is the last time I shall ever teach you. The
order has come from Berlin that henceforth nothing but German
shall be taught in the schools of Alsace and Lorraine. This is
your last lesson in French.”
With very young children the surprise element should be simple.
Repetition used in a sequence, or jingle, accomplishes it well, as in the
“Fee, fi, faugh, fum” in “Jack and the Beanstalk,” or “Who’s been sitting
in my chair?” in “The Three Bears,” or “The better to see you, hear you,
eat you” in “Red Riding Hood.” Each time the child hears the expression
his interest is roused to a higher pitch, and his imagination is fired to
such a point that he expects almost anything to happen.
After the climax is reached, the oral story should descend rapidly to a
close. Many of the best oral stories end in the climax, and those that
do not, add but a sentence or two or a paragraph at most to round out to
completion. But they do not moralize and point out a lesson to the child.
They leave him to see the moral for himself, and he sees it more clearly
and is the more deeply impressed by it if he is allowed a few moments of
silence after the completion of the story, instead of being drawn into
conversation concerning it. Marie Shedlock, the English story-teller
who has done so much to put the narrator’s art upon the plane where
it deserves to be, advocates five minutes of silence after each story
period, and in my own experience I have found that it is of value to the
child. Conditions under which one works will, of course, govern this;
but above all, do not end a story that delights a boy or girl and then
kill the whole effect by saying, “Now, Peter, what does that story teach
you?” Give the child credit for being an intelligent human being, and do
not spoil a tale for him by turning it into a sermon while he is still
tingling with the wonder and joy of it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TELLING THE STORY
Since story-telling, like music, is an art, it is no more possible for
every mother, teacher, or librarian to become a Scheherazade than it is
possible for every child who takes music lessons to blossom into a Mozart
or a Mendelssohn. The inspiration, the creative fire that beguiles the
wrath of a sultan or gives birth to a symphony, emanates from within,
from the fairy germs planted somewhere in the soul and nurtured into
fruition through unceasing effort. Yet it is possible for every worker
with children, provided he be willing to devote some time and labor
to the study of technique, to learn to tell stories convincingly and
entertainingly, although not with the artistry of the professional.
First of all, whenever possible, he should choose stories that appeal to
him, those he will enjoy giving his listeners because they fit his own
moods, for he cannot hope to tell every variety of tale with consummate
excellence any more than an actor can be supreme in all types of rôles.
The genius of Sothern displays itself to best advantage in the tragedies
of Shakespeare, while that of Henry Miller, Forbes-Robertson, or David
Warfield is suited to dramas of another kind. Each of these artists
tried various rôles until he found his forte. Then he kept to the field
in which he could excel, concentrating all his effort upon it. So it
should be with the story-teller. He should experiment with every kind of
narrative, then make a specialty of the one in which he can be at his
best, and use it to accomplish his most far-reaching results. Of course
the mother or teacher cannot confine herself to one variety of story. Her
interests being varied and many, she cannot hope to reach the height of
specialization attained by the artist who has but one purpose, one aim,
and never swerves from it. She must endeavor to acquire a fair degree of
proficiency in the rendition of every type of story, that she may not be
found wanting by her youthful auditors; but she should specialize with
the kind of tale that is nearest an expression of her own moods, because
in this way she can obtain the most gratifying results.
Perhaps she is particularly skilled in presenting humorous material. Then
let her use that ability as a magnet to draw her hearers to the story
period and to hold them through it to the end. A good plan is to begin
the program with a merry tale to put the group into a happy, receptive
mood, follow it with a serious one containing the message or information
the children should receive, and then give another humorous one. The
serious narrative may be difficult for her to handle, and may not be
given with the skill and charm that mark her rendition of another type
of _conte_, but the children, understanding that one of her delightful
“funny” stories is to follow, will listen through the less desired number
and unconsciously receive its lesson, because of their eagerness to hear
the succeeding one. Thus, by knowing her field of excellence and making
the most of it, she can carry children into other fields because of their
delight in meeting her in the one in which she is most at home.
After the story is selected, the atmosphere and setting should be
studied. The teller should have a clear idea of the topography of the
country in which the events occur, of the customs of the people who move
through it, of their homes, their modes of life, and their manner of
dress, because the more into the spirit of the tale he can put himself,
the more effectively will he give it. If it be a narrative of Scotland
in the days of Bruce, he should try to hear the bagpipes, see the lochs
and glens of the Highlands, and walk side by side with the heroes of
that time. This means gleaning many fields for materials and giving
something of an artist’s labor to preparation, in which, of course,
he will be limited by the time at his disposal. But according to the
preparation will be the result, and to believe previous thought and study
unnecessary because one has natural facility for story-telling is to
be gravely mistaken. Artists of the stage discovered long ago that no
matter how gifted they may be, nothing can take the place of preparation.
Adrienne Lecouvreur demonstrated the truth of this statement several
centuries ago when she revolutionized acting, and theatrical folk are
still demonstrating it, for in just this respect lies the difference
between the third- and fourth-rate player and the great dramatic star.
The leading man or woman who is satisfied to learn lines and do nothing
more, does not get beyond stock. But one ambitious to climb to the top
rung of the histrionic ladder will travel every bypath that may possibly
yield him a fuller and richer comprehension of the part he has to play.
Geraldine Farrar read everything obtainable about Japan and Japanese
life before attempting to create the rôle of “Madame Butterfly,” and
Maude Adams spent months studying the life of the Maid of Orleans,
following every step of her career from the hills of Domrémy to the pyre
at Rouen, before being satisfied to present “Jeanne d’Arc” at the Harvard
Stadium. So it must be with the story-teller. Only the professional can
devote weeks, or even days, to the preparation of one program, but every
one who attempts to tell stories must know more than the plot of the tale
and must have felt its events in all their possibilities, if his hearers
in their turn are to feel them.
The amount of preparation necessary varies with the individual. Those
possessing natural facility and those who heard much story-telling
in childhood need less than those whom Nature has not gifted, or who
were not so fortunate in early environment. But every one needs some
preparation, and there is much slovenly, valueless story-telling because
this fact is not generally recognized. Many teachers do not regard
story-telling seriously enough, and devote far less thought to it than to
other branches of their work, because the idea is prevalent that any one
can spin a yarn or two. Consequently they accomplish little through the
medium of the story. But there is another group of workers who believe
that story-telling means as much today as it meant centuries ago, and
its members are sending children into the libraries. As nearly as time
and the conditions of their work will permit them, they are following
in the footsteps of the medieval narrator. Like him, they are giving an
artist’s labor to their work because they realize that great results
come only through great effort. But the number of these story-tellers,
compared with the workers with children, is very small, and consequently
results are not yet gratifying. They can become gratifying only when
child leaders cease to think that the story period is the one period of
the day for which no preparation need be made, and realize that every
minute devoted to previous thought and study will make the language come
more spontaneously and fluently and will bring before the eyes of the
listeners pictures that are clear because they first have been clear
before the eyes of the teller.
Every scene in a story should be visualized until it is as vivid as a
painting on a canvas. It must be studied and imagined until it shifts
smoothly and rapidly into the succeeding one. Then there will be no
danger of the teller having to pause and think what comes next, or of
having to interpolate something that should have been introduced at an
earlier stage of the tale. This is not equally easy for every one. Those
who are imaginative by nature will find it no task, while for others
it will be difficult at first. But no one need be discouraged. Each
succeeding attempt will bring clearer pictures and smoother shifting of
scenes, and gratifying results will follow labor and perseverance. It is
a good plan for the beginner to jot down in outline form the successive
events of the story and study them until he can carry the sequence in his
mind.
When the pictures are clear and the order of events is fixed, the story
should be practiced. This does not mean that it should be learned
verbatim. Untrained narrators often make the mistake of memorizing
paragraph by paragraph and sentence by sentence, and then giving the
tale like a recitation, which is not story-telling at all. Story-telling
is a constructive, creative art, and the tale that grips and convinces
and inspires must be told in a manner that makes it seem like the
teller’s own. Practicing the story means facing an imaginary audience and
describing so vividly and clearly what is seen that others may see the
pictures that pass before the mind’s eye.
Shall gesture and facial gymnastics be used? This depends entirely upon
the temperament and personality of the narrator. If it is natural for
him to gesticulate as he speaks, gesture will come spontaneously and
will heighten the effect of the tale. But if movements of hand and head
and body are not spontaneous, they will mar the rendition and scatter
the interest of the listeners by dividing it between the teller and the
tale. Story-telling then becomes touched with affectation and loses its
artistry. It degrades the story-teller into a sort of acrobatic performer
and makes him a personage upon whom the attention is centered, which is
not as it should be. He is simply the medium through which the picture
is made clear to the audience. He is not an actor, and should not occupy
the center of the stage. As Dr. Partridge says: “The story-teller should
pleasingly suggest the mood and scene of the story, then step into the
background, turn down the lights on the present, and carry his hearers to
a distant region, which he must make, for the time being, more real than
the here and now.” This is why the story-teller is at his best away from
the glare of electricity, among the shadows of a summer gloaming, or by
the open hearth when the firelight is dim, because then his hearers do
not see him or think of him, but only of the pictures and scenes painted
by his voice and words.
Therefore let the guiding rule of the narrator be, “I must describe
pictures so that others will see them, and think, not of me, but of the
scenes to which I lead them.” And he must do it in his individual way.
If gesture comes naturally, it belongs in the tale. If it is studied
and artificial, it destroys the effect and value. Some of the greatest
story-tellers of the past used no gesture, while others used body,
head, and hands with wonderful effect. They were persons of strong
individuality and did things in an individual way. Let the present-day
story-teller profit by their example.
Change of voice in dialogue adds to clearness of pictures. Nothing is
more colorless than a reading by one whose intonation is not in keeping
with the part he interprets, and the story told in a monotone is boresome
and valueless to the child. He associates tone and action and wants them
to be true to each other. He is dissatisfied if the old witch speaks like
a loving mother, while the heavy tones of the wicked giant, the gentle
ones of the good fairy, and the mirthful, rippling notes of the joyous,
beautiful maiden delight him and make him responsive to the tale. They
transform the personages of the story into living, breathing creatures
who walk in his presence and smile or frown in his face.
Pauses are wonderfully effective in heightening the interest in a story.
Children fairly quiver with expectation if frequent pauses are used when
the moments of suspense grow big. They creep nearer in their eagerness
to hear about what happens next, fearing that they will miss a bit of
the attractive thread. One small boy, asked why he took such delight in
listening to a certain story-teller, said: “I don’t know if it’s the
way she looks or the way she says it. She’ll be going along, telling
about what happens, and all at once she’ll say, ‘And then——’ and stop a
little bit until you think all kinds of things are going to happen.” This
feeling is general with children, although they may not voice it, and
behind the naïve words is a psychological truth. The pause heightens the
dramatic effect and focuses the interest on the coming sentences.
Above all things, there should be no stopping in the midst of a tale to
correct a child. If one shows evidence of lagging interest, mention his
name as if the story were being told for him. “And, John, when little Red
Riding Hood reached her grandmother’s house she knocked on the door.”
This makes him feel that although many children are listening to the
story, it is being given solely for his benefit. It touches his pride
and grips his attention long enough to enable the narrator to muster all
his forces and heighten the interest in the tale so that it will abound
in suspense from that point. If it fails to do that, something is wrong,
either with the selection or the presentation. Perhaps the pictures are
not being made clear because they were not first clear in the mind of the
teller. Perhaps the story is not an interesting one to that particular
group of children. It is the narrator’s business to find the reason,
just as artists in Europe must learn what is at fault when their hearers
hiss. Audiences on the Continent are not so polite as those in America,
and there is no mistaking their feeling about a performance. When sounds
of disapproval sweep over the house, the performer must rise to heights
that will compel admiration or face a ruined career. Likewise, when a
small boy becomes troublesome, the story-teller should not pause to
correct him, but should make the tale so thrillingly fascinating that
the lad forgets to be naughty. Mothers seldom meet with this problem,
but settlement workers are having to solve it constantly, and they do it
successfully only by knowing what lies close to the child’s interests and
telling stories that touch those interests.
There are those who denounce story-telling in the schoolroom because they
happen to have known of poor story-telling and the disorderly conduct
that often ensues when the children’s interest is not held. Not long ago
I came across this statement in the report of a lecture delivered at a
teachers’ institute:
“It is to be hoped that story-telling will soon be eliminated from the
primary grades, and that the spectacle of a teacher pausing in the
midst of a tale to grasp a child by the arm and exclaim, ‘Here, Johnny,
straighten up and listen,’ will become past history.”
It certainly is to be hoped that such story-telling will be eliminated,
but it is no more fair to condemn story-telling as an art or to deprecate
its value as an educational or ethical factor because there is poor
story-telling, than it is to decry painting and sculpture because there
are bunglers with brushes and chisels. The remedy does not lie in
abolishing it, but in elevating the standard of the workers to a higher
plane and in demonstrating that story-telling syncopated by scoldings
and admonitions is not story-telling at all.
When shall we tell stories? Whenever, in the opinion of the teacher, a
story will do more effective work than something else. Do not depend
wholly on regular periods. These have a place on every school, library,
or settlement program, but the story period should not be the only time
for telling stories, because often a tale told at the psychological
moment will make a deeper and more lasting impression than those given
during a dozen regular periods. When the children are tired, tell a story
for rest and relaxation. If there has been a fight or swearing, follow up
the incident as soon as possible with an apt narrative. It will do more
good than moralizing. If the geography class is struggling over the map
of Turkey and can see nothing but a series of dots and marks on a piece
of paper, put aside the formal recitation for that day and tell them of
the building of the Mosque of Ahmed the First on the Golden Horn, of the
merry craftsmen who raised the dome of St. Sophia, and give them some
idea of how this glorious waif of the Orient came to stand on European
soil. Make story-telling fit occasions and conditions instead of trying
to make conditions fit story-telling.
And above all, never moralize! As one authority says, “It is bad pedagogy
and worse art.” Remember what Dr. van Dyke says: “If a story is worth
telling, moralizing is not necessary.” It is not only unnecessary,
but harmful. The child sees for himself that virtue is rewarded and
evil-doing is punished. He resents not being given credit for having
sufficient intelligence to understand it, and a personal application
antagonizes him.
Tell the tale in a direct, unassuming manner—not as if you are talking
down to a group of children, but as if you are one of the number, talking
with them. Boys and girls dislike the patronizing story-teller as much
as adults dislike the patronizing person, and are quick to detect
affectation and insincerity. They will not receive the message a posing
raconteur has to give, because his manner of delivering it irritates and
estranges them. The successful story-teller must be like the poet, a joy
bringer, and he can be that only when his work is marked by sincerity and
genuineness as clear as brook water.
BOOKS ON STORY-TELLING
ALLISON, S. B., and PERDUE, H. A.: _The Story in Primary
Education_.
BAILEY, CAROLYN SHERWIN: _For the Story-Teller_.
BRYANT, SARA CONE: _How to Tell Stories to Children_.
COE, FANNY E.: _First Book of Stories for the Story-Teller_;
_Second Book of Stories for the Story-Teller_.
COWLES, JULIA D.: _The Art of Story-Telling_.
DYE, CHARITY: _The Story-Teller’s Art_.
FORBUSH, WILLIAM B.: _Story-Telling in the Home_.
KEYES, ANGELA M.: _Stories and Story-Telling_.
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 Primary Reading and
Oral Work, with Stories_.
PARTRIDGE, EMELYN N. and GEORGE E.: _Story-Telling in the Home
and School_.
ST. JOHN, PORTER: _The Story in Moral and Religious Education_.
SHEDLOCK, MARIE L.: _The Art of the Story-Teller_.
WILTSE, SARA E.: _The Place of the Story in Early Education_.
WYCHE, RICHARD THOMAS: _Some Great Stories and How to Tell
Them_.
CHAPTER EIGHT
STORY-TELLING TO LEAD TO AN APPRECIATION OF LITERATURE
One of the specific aims of education is to endow children with an
appreciation of literature, and to this end much of a teacher’s energy
is directed. From the elementary school through the university the
curriculum includes a course in English, and even in kindergarten and
primary grades a point is made of introducing children to those authors
whose work is conceded to have a strong appeal for them. The first,
second, or third grade boy is required to read and memorize selections
from Stevenson, Riley, and Eugene Field; not infrequently he is
detained after school because of failure to have his lesson prepared at
recitation time, and responds to the requirement in a mood that brings
discouragement to his teacher.
On the other hand, there are schools in which the literature or reading
hour is a period of joy, where the learning of songs of the singers of
childhood is accomplished without coercion. These schools are the ones in
which the teachers have learned that the acquisition of knowledge, to be
of real value, must be attended with enjoyment.
It is a mistake to believe that although the function of the school is
to equip the man, the aim of education is only to give enjoyment in the
future. It is also the aim of education to give enjoyment now, because
in this way capacity for enjoyment in the future is made possible. The
boy or girl whose early association with poetry or beautiful prose is
attended with displeasure and discomfort is no more likely to be drawn
to the finer types of literature later than the man or woman is apt to
be fond of a person, the first meeting with whom was a disagreeable
experience. If we would have the man love good literature, we must first
lead the child to love good literature, and we can do this only through
having him enjoy good literature.
Because story-telling brings pleasure to the child, it is a most
effective means of leading him to an appreciation of literature.
Through the medium of the story we not only can heighten his capacity
for enjoyment and elevate the standard of his taste, but we can equip
him with knowledge he will never acquire if the literature period is
associated with force and punishment. If a tale brings pleasing pictures
before his eyes and is beautiful in theme and language, he unconsciously
forms a taste for beautiful language, for he is not only getting the
succession of events that make the plot, but is also absorbing words and
expressions. Certain sentences stick in his memory, and teachers who
have children reproduce stories know that frequently they use the exact
phrases and sentences that have been used by the teller. They do not
remember these for a day or an hour and then forget them; they remember
them as years go by, and associate certain words with certain narratives.
William McKinley once said that the mention of willows by a river made
him think of the story of Moses in the bulrushes, and brought to mind
this sentence: “And she hid the basket among the rushes in a spot where
willows hung over the river.” The story had been told him in childhood
and brought him enjoyment, and some of the narrator’s expressions left
a lasting imprint on his mind. “I believe that story, more than anything
else,” he once said, “gave me a fondness for elegant English.”
James A. Garfield voiced almost the same thought, declaring that his
taste for literature was shaped by stories from great authors told him by
his mother during his early years, and many other men of achievement have
attested to the same truth. They have proved conclusively out of their
own experience that even with little children it is possible to lay a
foundation upon which a noble and enduring structure can be built. We can
give them an appreciation of stories and poems that are among the gems of
literature.
We can also interest children in the life of an author so that they
will want to know something of his work. This statement often brings
the question, “How, since little children want stories that are full of
action, and not biographies of men and women they never have seen?” Is
it not true that the childhood of all great men contained interesting
experiences, that if told as stories will lead little people to want to
know about what these boys and girls did when they grew up?
Robert Louis Stevenson is a good example. Every child will listen
sympathetically to the tale of the poor little rich boy who was often so
ill that he could not run and play, but who made the best of things and
amused himself with toys on his bed. He built cities out of blocks. He
watched the lamplighter go on his evening rounds along the street, and
sometimes in the summer, the dewy, Scotch summer that can be pictured so
attractively to children, when he went with his nurse to the country or
the shore, he put leaves and chips in the river and pretended that they
were boats. He dug holes in the sand with his wooden spade and laughed
to see the vagrant waves come up and fill them. The child who hears
about his various experiences will become intensely interested in little
Robert, and will grow to love “The Land of Counterpane,” “The River,” “At
the Seashore,” and other selections from _A Child’s Garden of Verses_.
Every time he reads or hears them he will see a picture of the wee Scotch
lad whose story touched his heart.
This is no untried theory. Through story-telling, the author of _Treasure
Island_ has become a living personage and _A Child’s Garden of Verses_ a
source of delight in more than one first grade. A teacher who had charge
of forty little Italians devoted fifteen minutes each morning to stories
of writers and their works, and by the end of the term the children had
a knowledge of Stevenson and Field that amazed the superintendent. More
valuable than the knowledge acquired was the capacity for real enjoyment
of some of the works of these men, enjoyment so intense that during the
half hour of song and games that was a feature of every Friday, it was
not unusual for a small Tony or Gulielmo to flutter a brown hand and ask
to be permitted to recite:
Of speckled eggs the birdie sings,
And nests among the trees.
Another teacher was rewarded for her work by hearing the mother of one of
her pupils tell at a parent-teachers’ meeting of how a certain little
lad amused himself while recuperating from measles by entertaining the
household with songs from Stevenson and stories about little Robert, who
became the big Robert that wrote the book.
In doing this sort of work, however, it is necessary to keep in mind the
story interests of childhood, to remember that children are interested
in children, and not begin, “When Robert Louis Stevenson was a little
boy,” but rather, “Once there was a little boy who lived far away from
here, and his name was Robert.” Let the approach be from the child to the
man instead of from the man to the child. Focus the interest of children
upon one like themselves, then lead in a natural way to the man and his
achievements.
Sometimes children can be interested in a piece of literature through
a story about it or suggested by it, because often one tale helps to
illuminate and clarify and add interest to another.
Suppose a primary teacher or a mother wishes to take up Tennyson’s “Sweet
and Low,” a piece of literature that is either a succession of vivid,
delightful pictures or a vague group of words, according to the manner
in which it is presented. Tell of the baby who lived with the father and
mother in a fishing village on the Isle of Wight. Each day the father
had to go far out to sea in a boat to catch fish to sell for money with
which to buy food for his dear ones, and each night the baby laughed and
crowed when he came home. Once he stayed later than usual, and baby did
not want to go to bed without seeing him; but the mother sang a pretty
song, saying that father would soon be home, and crooned and rocked her
little one until he fell asleep. It was a pleasant evening, with a big,
silver moon, and a man was out walking—a rich man who lived in a house on
a hill high above the fishers’ huts. As he went by the cottage where the
baby lived, he heard the mother singing, and the song was so sweet that
he hurried home and wrote what it made him think about. Then follow with
the poem, and the children will receive it gladly.
This same plan can be used with older children, but let the material be
given in story form instead of as a series of disconnected incidents.
An excellent method is to give the story of a great writer’s work. This
is effective with children of all ages, and often leads to the reading
of books that otherwise would never be opened. Sometimes the objection
is made that it is wrong to substitute the story of a work for the work
itself, a statement no thinking person will gainsay. But this does
not mean substitution. It means whetting the appetite until the child
hungers for the thing you want him to have. Instead of telling him
what he should read, arouse his curiosity to the point where he wants
to read it, and the desired result will follow. Fifty years ago it was
safe to give a boy or a girl a beautiful piece of literature and tell
him he ought to read it, but it is not safe now, not because there is
anything wrong with the children of our time, but because conditions
are different. Books were rare and costly then, and young people
read whatever came to hand. Today books are cheap and plentiful, and
present-day literature plunges directly into the complications of the
story. People are in a hurry to know what it is all about, because of
the spirit of the age. There is less leisure now than there was half a
century ago, as there is more competition, and results must be realized
more rapidly than our forefathers realized them. Consequently we travel
faster, get rich faster, and move more speedily in every way. Present-day
literature reflects present-day spirit, and the story must begin with
the opening sentence. Boys and girls simply will not go through pages
of introductions and descriptions before striking the plot of the tale,
no matter how beautiful those introductions and descriptions may be.
They want books that get somewhere from the beginning. So the problem
confronts all who are interested in the education of children: “How can
we make them as eager to read Dickens, Scott, and Thackeray as they are
to read Jack London and Phillips Oppenheim? How can they be made to go
as gladly to Bulwer Lytton as they go to the Henty books?” By means
of story-telling. Give them an idea of the plots of the masters of
literature, enough to whet the desire to know more about them.
It is not sufficient just to tell the story, because it was not the plots
of these writers that made them great artists. It was their manner of
handling their plots, their delineation of character, the philosophy
and human wisdom they put into the mouths of their heroes, and the boy
or girl who does not become acquainted with these great creators during
school days is likely never to know them, because he forms a taste for
reading of a more ephemeral nature, and he may go through life a devourer
of books, yet be only half educated.
Why is it that so many young people never look at the English classics
after they leave high school, and would rather spend a morning at hard
labor than in reading _As You Like It_ or _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_?
Because too much attention was given to the dissecting process when they
studied these plays. Instead of being taught to see the beautiful and
finished creation of some master, they were made to see the skeleton and
to pull it to pieces. Some teachers assign a certain number of pages or
paragraphs or stanzas for a lesson, and the pupils look up the words in
the dictionary, point out the figures of speech, and scan the lines.
Sometimes the teacher reads the assignment when it is made. Sometimes
children dramatize it after they have torn it into shreds, or write a
paraphrase. But the heart and soul of the masterpiece, the sheer beauty
of it, are considered least of all, and students end by heartily hating
something that they might have enjoyed and loved. Yet people wonder why
the average American has so little appreciation of good literature,
and think something is wrong with young folk who, after a high-school
course in English, will read nothing but popular novels. There is nothing
whatsoever the matter with the boys and girls. They simply follow the
bent of all human beings and steer from the unpleasant toward the
pleasant. They go to the books of the day that they can understand,
because much of our great literature, presented as it is, means nothing
to them. Less fortunate than youths of fifty years ago, they are not
forced to read good books if they read at all. There are verdant, if less
beautiful, meadows on every side where they may browse, and into them
they go.
It is infinitely better that a child’s school life provide him with a
capacity for the enjoyment of literature than that he have a technical
knowledge of a few pieces of literature, because the latter endows him
with a narrow, academic viewpoint, while the former makes possible a
future growth, without a capacity for which life must be narrow and
one-sided. A boy or girl may know that Shakespeare wrote _Twelfth Night_
or _Macbeth_, that Milton created “The Hymn to the Nativity” or Shelley
“The Skylark,” be able to paraphrase each and analyze the sentences that
comprise them, and not be a bit better fitted for life than he would be
without that knowledge. But he is better equipped for life if he has
acquired a capacity for the enjoyment of literature, so that to read a
great book gives him pleasure or causes him to respond with sympathy, and
the English teacher who does not develop this capacity in children has
failed in his function.
The approach to the great field of literature must be through specific
examples, just as the approach to an understanding of art or architecture
must be through the canvases of Raphael, Cimabue, or Giotto, or the
temples that were the triumphs of Egyptian, Babylonian, or Hellenic
builders. But if they are to be enjoyed, acquaintance with these specific
examples must be made in a pleasurable manner. They first must be beheld
in a perspective that gives glimpses of them as complete and beautiful
wholes, and not through the detailed workmanship of architrave or abacus
or by focusing the attention on the massing of figures according to
square or triangular outline. And just as the understanding and enjoyment
of one great structure or painting give added interest to every other
one, so, in the realm of literature, each masterpiece enjoyed gives
capacity for the enjoyment of every other masterpiece met with in the
future. Therefore the story, because it is a means of flashing the entire
structure on the screen and making it possible for children to see the
completed whole in all its beauty, is the English teacher’s most valuable
tool.
Take _Evangeline_ as an example. Most children leave school knowing that
Longfellow wrote that poem, and that Evangeline lost her lover on the
wedding day and spent the remainder of her life seeking him. But you
cannot coax them to read the poem again because of the memory of the
time when they studied it. And the pity of it is that there is no work
of American literature so appealing to boys and girls in the adolescent
period as _Evangeline_, if it is presented wisely.
Before they are asked to study it, if the story of the Acadian girl is
told sympathetically and feelingly they are touched by its pathos and
fired by the idealism of its characters, and they feel the charm of life
in the quaint old village of Grand Pré. If, before they are told to read
it, they have gone with the heroine through the magic of the narrator’s
picturing, in her wanderings over mountain and lowland, into Indian camp
and sequestered mission, living among strange peoples and sleeping by
strange fires, they will read it with enthusiasm. It will become a joy
instead of a burden, because they will have felt something of what was in
the heart of the poet who wrote it, and not merely what appeared on the
printed page.
Besides the main thread of the story, there are many sub-stories that,
if told in connection with the poem, will add to the child’s enjoyment
and understanding of it. Sometimes a name is rich in story material, yet
often it is passed over with nothing more than a definition found in the
pronouncing gazetteer, and a golden opportunity is lost.
Take, for instance, the line, “Now in the Tents of Grace of the gentle
Moravian missions.” There is a footnote in most editions stating, “This
refers to the Moravian mission of Gnädenhütten.” But what does that
signify to children, since there were many missions in those early days?
But if they are told of how the Moravians came from the distant German
mountains to plant the tree of their faith in the Western wilds, they
grow interested. They are fascinated as the tale goes on, picturing how
these simple folk founded a mission in the woods of Ohio, which they
named “Gnädenhütten” or “Tents of Grace,” and telling how a massacre
occurred there in 1790, not savages killing off whites, but a band of
marauding British troops slaughtering Christianized Indians as they
toiled peacefully in their cornfields. Then, as Evangeline roams over the
Southwest, into the bayou country of Louisiana, if pictures of the early
life there are painted vividly by the story-teller, if she gives some
of the events of old Creole days, the children will look forward to the
_Evangeline_ period.
This same method will add enjoyment to the study of other pieces of
literature. _The Courtship of Miles Standish_, aside from the main plot,
is rich in stories from the Bible. The children should look up these
allusions, but the teacher should put life into them by giving the
story. In fact, there is no piece of literature studied below the high
school, or even during the early part of the high-school course, that
cannot be presented with splendid results through the story-telling
method. The concrete precedes the abstract in the order in which
selections are considered, those through which a story thread runs being
given in advance of the essay or treatise. By making the most of this
story thread, literature study will become pleasurable and bring splendid
response from the children. It requires effort and preparation, but it
pays. It is worth much to the teacher who loves good literature, to look
back over the years and think of the children she has led to appreciate
and enjoy it. It is a tremendous satisfaction to have boys come back
long after leaving her schoolroom and seek her out, because through
her they learned to know something of the comfort that is to be found
in good old books. One teacher, speaking of her experience, said: “It
made all the effort seem richly worth while, when a broad-shouldered,
sun-burned man went three hundred miles out of his way to see me on a
home visit to America, and thank me for having led him to enjoy poetry.”
As a boy he became intensely interested in _The Lady of the Lake_ because
his teacher gave the stories of Fitz-James and Roderick Dhu and of the
clan life of the Highlands, and a pocket edition of Scott was a source
of comfort to him during a surveying expedition in the wilds of West
Australia, and took away the loneliness of nights spent by a camp fire
with no companions save the native woodmen. He had learned to know Scott
during his boyhood, and the capacity for enjoyment acquired through
that association was a priceless possession to the man. If more teachers
realized that story-telling is a direct road to the understanding of
literature, and that it has its place in grammar and high-school grades
as much as in the kindergarten, there would be less drudgery for them and
more satisfying results.
SOME AUTHORS AND SELECTIONS THAT CAN BE PRESENTED THROUGH THE
STORY-TELLING METHOD
BROWNING: Hervé Riel (Give picture of life of sailors on the
Breton coast. Hervé Riel was so accustomed to taking fishing
boats through the passage that the piloting of the ship did
not seem any feat to him); How They Brought the Good News from
Ghent to Aix; An Incident of the French Camp; The Pied Piper of
Hamelin (Tell how the poet came to write this work—to entertain
a child who was visiting him).
BRYANT: The White-footed Deer; The Woodman and the Sandal Tree;
The Donkey and the Mocking Bird, and other poems from the
Spanish.
DICKENS: Little Nell (_Old Curiosity Shop_); Tiny Tim
(_Christmas Carol_); Nicholas Nickleby; David Copperfield, and
other child characters of Dickens.
GEORGE ELIOT: Maggie Tulliver Cutting her Hair, Maggie Running
Away to Live with the Gypsies, Tom and the Ferrets (_The Mill
on the Floss_); Silas Marner and Little Eppie (_Silas Marner_).
IRVING: Legend of Sleepy Hollow (_The Sketch Book_); The
Governor and the Notary (Other stories from _Tales from the
Alhambra_); The Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus (Many
chapters in this contain fascinating stories, which if told to
the children will lead them to read the work); Rip Van Winkle
(_The Sketch Book_) (Tell also the German story of Peter Claus,
from which Irving drew his inspiration to write this tale; also
the Chinese story, “The Feast of Lanterns,” the hero of which
is an oriental Rip Van Winkle).
KINGSLEY: How They Took the Gold Train (_Westward Ho!_); Water
Babies; Hypatia.
LONGFELLOW: Evangeline; Courtship of Miles Standish; Hiawatha;
King Robert of Sicily; St. Francis’ Sermon to the Birds (Tell
story of St. Francis of Assisi); Paul Revere’s Ride; The
Emperor’s Bird’s Nest; Walther von der Vogelweide (In this
connection tell story of Walther and the Minnesingers. Story
can be found in _Pan and His Pipes, and Other Stories_, Victor
Talking Machine Company).
SOUTHEY: Inchcape Rock; Bishop Hatto and the Mouse Tower; The
Well of St. Keyne.
STEVENSON: Treasure Island; Kidnapped; Island Nights’
Entertainment.
TENNYSON: The Holy Grail (This poem is beyond the understanding
of boys and girls of grammar grades, or even early high-school
years, but they may be familiarized with portions of it, and
the Grail story is a wonderful one to give them. It should
include also the tale of “Parsifal” and “Lohengrin,” as related
by Wolfram von Eschenbach and Wagner).
This list is in no way comprehensive, but the wide-awake teacher will
find it suggestive of a much longer one, which is as much as the author
of a single text-book may hope for.
SOURCES OF MATERIAL TO LEAD TO AN APPRECIATION OF LITERATURE
LAMB, CHARLES and MARY: _Tales from Shakespeare_.
LANG, JEANIE: _Stories from Shakespeare Told to the Children_.
SWEETSER, KATE D.: _Boys and Girls from George Eliot_; _Boys
and Girls from Thackeray_; _Ten Boys from Dickens_.
SWINTON, WILLIAM, and CATHCART, GEORGE R.: _Book of Tales from
Fine Authors_.
CHAPTER NINE
STORY-TELLING TO AWAKEN AN APPRECIATION OF MUSIC
The public school aims not only to give boys and girls a training that
shall equip them with ability to gain a livelihood and provide for their
material wants, but to give them resources within themselves from which
to draw pleasure, broaden and deepen the emotional powers, enrich the
soul by endowing it with capacity to respond to the beautiful and fine,
and make them more sympathetic toward the joys and sorrows of their
fellows. That is why the curriculum includes a course in music, drawing,
and subjects that are branches of a great art. We do not expect to make
professional musicians or painters of all the children who receive
instruction, but aim to give the average child, the one who will grow
to be an average, ordinary man, an appreciation of the things that give
color and beauty to life and make him richer in mind and happier.
Taste is formed by what is heard in youth, and the child whose early
years are associated with ragtime grows to be a devotee of ragtime,
while he who hears the music of the masters becomes a man who loves
great music. This is why the average European has a knowledge and love
of melody that amazes Americans. He has heard good music from infancy.
It is sung in the public meeting places of his town and whistled in the
streets. The gamin of Naples, Rome, and Venice knows the arias from the
operas as well as American children know their national anthem, and
Verdi, Donizetti, and Rossini are more than names to him. He has heard
their melodies from infancy, and his father or uncle or some street
story-teller has familiarized him with the plots of their librettos. He
knows something of the artists who sing the rôles, also, because the
tailor and the barber and the baker not infrequently go to hear them, and
they are a topic of conversation in the home. Here in America we have not
had such opportunities. With us the opera and the symphony orchestra are
exotics which only a minority has been trained to enjoy, and consequently
we cannot be regarded as a musical people.
It is natural that this should be so, because, as compared with
Continental lands, we are very young, and youth cannot hope to compete
with maturity. But artistic standards in the United States are being
raised steadily. Most of our great cities now have symphony orchestras
and a season of opera, while the municipal band concert is part of the
life of comparatively small towns, and the programs are of a higher order
than formerly. We are on the upward move, and meanwhile every leader of
children should do his part in the great work of helping to elevate the
national musical standard.
The schools are doing something, but not enough, because much of the
instruction they give is of a technical nature, and although pupils can
read in several keys and beat time correctly, it does not follow that
they are acquiring a capacity for the enjoyment of good music. Until one
has sufficient mental development to understand something of the price
that must be paid for artistic success, much attention to the technical
vitiates interest in music, just as the dissecting method of study kills
interest in literature. Many teachers make more of an effort to have
children learn to read music than they do to have them enjoy it, and
this close attention to the mechanics of the art makes the music period
burdensome instead of enjoyable. Before the child can see any incentive
in learning do—re—mi, he must hear and enjoy music and must understand
that do—re—mi is a key that will unlock gates into larger fields of
enjoyment. Because the hour is replete with drudgery rather than joy,
the discipline of the music class is often a good deal of a problem, and
although it is not an ideal condition, it exists more frequently than
most people realize. A teacher whose class distinguished itself in sight
singing at an institute, was asked how she made its members so proficient.
“Simply by keeping a strap on my desk and using it about every seven
minutes,” she replied; “and those who did not have actual contact with it
kept straight because they knew it was there.”
This is perhaps an extreme case, but the school-rooms in which the music
lesson is a period of nervous strain for both teacher and pupils are
numerous, and it is not strange that sometimes trustees question whether
it might not be well to eliminate music from the list of public-school
subjects.
An adage of the old Italian school of vocalists, whose methods have given
so many glorious songsters to the world, was, “To sing, you must be
happy,” and one of the most celebrated prima donnas of today attributes a
large measure of her success to the fact that during childhood her mother
had the wisdom never to make music burdensome by forcing her to it,
but played for her and sang to her without stint, giving her countless
opportunities of hearing music and leading her to love it. Then when
she began formal study at twelve, her teacher did not harass her with
exercises, but gave simple songs that she liked to sing, songs chosen to
give her voice the exercise it needed and to appeal to the natural love
of melody.
We might well apply this plan to our public-school music, and arrange
courses so that children will hear much good music, even if the amount of
technical work has to be greatly lessened. It is here that the story may
do its far-reaching work in helping to make the music period pleasurable
to the children and causing them to respond with keener pleasure to a
higher standard of music.
Many narrators exclaim, “It is not possible for me to lead children to
appreciate the great music when I do not know the great music myself.”
But it is possible. Of course it is easier for one who is familiar
with the masterpieces of melody to lead children to them than for one
who is not; but even though the mother or teacher was not in her own
childhood familiar with Mozart or Mendelssohn, she can bring children
to appreciate these artists because the talking machine has made it
possible. She need not try to acquaint them with the technical terms,
and mechanics of music, but she can arouse an interest that is the twin
sister of inspiration, and she can do it in such a way that every minute
devoted to the work is filled with delight. She can tell the life story
of some great composer and familiarize the child with selections from
his work that will guide him away from the cheap and tawdry. She can
give him incidents connected with the composition of musical gems, and
a glimpse into the great treasure house of musical literature that will
cause him to want to know more of the achievements of the immortal melody
makers. It is not necessary that one be a musician in order to do this.
Most schools and many homes are now supplied with talking machines, and
the records manufactured by the different companies bring masterpieces
within the reach of all. Even the catalogs are rich in suggestion,
and following the cues supplied by them, a little thought and labor
will bring most gratifying results. Almost all the great composers had
eventful childhoods, and the early days of Mendelssohn, Mozart, Bach,
Haydn, Handel, Beethoven, Chopin, Verdi, Wagner, and many others are rich
in incidents that children enjoy hearing. These biographies, sources
for which are listed in the appended bibliography (page 94), if told
in story form and followed by selections from the artist’s works, will
make an impression and arouse an interest as nothing else can do. Do
not, however, make the mistake of beginning with the man and leading
down to his childhood. Begin with his early years and lead up to his
achievements. The child will become interested in the man only through
his childhood, because children are near his own interests, while adults
are not. Many inexperienced story-tellers do not understand this, and
are disappointed in their failure to hold their little hearers. This was
demonstrated not long ago in a university course in story-telling. An
incident in the childhood of Mozart was to be given in story form to
introduce some of that composer’s works to a group of children. Eighty
per cent of the five hundred preparing the paper began thus: “When the
great Mozart was a little boy.” That introduction meant nothing to the
children, because they did not know “the great Mozart,” and were not
interested in strange men. But they were intensely interested in hearing
about a child who long, long ago was sailing down the Danube with his
father and sister Marianne and was very much distressed because the
father would have to pay duty on the harp they carried and therefore,
when they reached Vienna, Marianne could not have a new dress that she
sadly needed. Little eyes sparkled and little hands clapped when the
children heard how, as they reached the customhouse of the Austrian
capital, young Wolfgang asked his father if he might play something on
the harp, and his rendition so delighted and amazed the officials that
the duty was waived and Marianne was shabbily clad no longer.
There are many musical stories besides those of lives of the composers
that should be given to children: tales of the violin makers of Cremona,
the minnesingers, the troubadours, the meistersingers, Pan and his pipes,
Apollo and the lyre, David and the harp, King Alfred and the harp, the
harp at Tara, the Crusaders bringing some stringed instruments into
Europe, the development of the orchestra, the evolution of the harp from
the bended bow of the early tribesmen, and the making of the piano.
Stories of some of the operas, especially those based on the legends of
the Grail and the Rhinegold, are delightful tales to give to children.
A good way to introduce children to a composer is by combining the story
of his life with selections from his work, as in the following story
about Schubert. This method may be applied to the study of any composer.
Libraries are rich in materials, and the talking-machine companies
bring the music within the reach of all; so there is no reason why the
story-teller should not do his part in making our nation a music-loving
land, as well as give pleasure to the children under his guidance.
“Whoever puts a beautiful thought or melody into the world,” writes an
Indian poet, “gives more than a diamond of Golconda.” Whoever helps a
child to understand and enjoy beautiful thoughts and melodies, gives in
almost as great a measure as their creator. He too is a builder, leaving
behind him something fit to stand, and labor of that kind does not go
unrequited.
A BOY OF OLD VIENNA
Little Franz could hardly wait for the sun to rise. He had lain awake all
night thinking of what morning would bring, and it seemed as if the long,
dark hours would never end. But now it was dawn, and he knew that very
soon the sun would gild the hilltops, and then the thing of which he had
dreamed for days would come to pass.
“Are you up, Franz?” his mother called from below.
“Yes,” he answered cheerily, “up and dressing.”
The mother smiled at him as he ran down into the kitchen, for she
knew how eagerly he had looked forward to this day. Josef, the kindly
neighbor, had promised to take him that very morning to a warehouse
where many fine pianos were kept, and he would spend hours among the
beautiful instruments there. No wonder he was glad! The one his father
provided for him was cheap and harsh, for Herr Schubert was just a poor
schoolmaster and had few coins to spend for anything besides food and
clothing. But that did not keep Franz from doing wonders with his music.
He learned all he could from his brothers, and worked away at the poor
piano because he could not help it. Now that he was soon to touch the
keyboard of a really splendid instrument, he felt like a prince in a
fairy tale.
They went out of the house and along the dingy street in which the
Schuberts lived. Across the Danube they passed by the old stone bridge
that led to the Ringstrasse, then northward into that part of the city
where the warehouses stood. Groups of citizens in holiday attire hurried
by, and now and then some great lord or lady in a fine carriage passed
them on the way to worship at St. Stephen’s. But Franz thought only of
reaching the warehouse, and he walked so fast that Josef, who was short
and fat, began to grow red in the face and pant, and he was quite as glad
as the boy when they reached the building.
Franz lost no time in getting to a piano. Sunday comes just once a week,
and another would not come for seven long days. He sat down at one of
the lovely instruments, playing and singing as if nothing in the world
mattered so much as music. He was only eleven years old, and boys of that
age usually want to be out with others, engaged in the sports and games
boys love. But not so with Franz Schubert. He was happiest at his music.
He played and played and was so busy that he did not see a stranger come
into the warehouse or hear his voice in earnest conversation with Josef.
“You say he has had no music masters?” the man asked wonderingly.
Josef shook his head. “None but his brothers, Ignace and Ferdinand, and
once, for a very short time, his father sent him to a singing tutor. But
he said he could teach him nothing, for when he thought to give him
something new he found he had learned it already.”
“Surely he is a wonder child,” the stranger remarked. “Be sure to tell
his father to bring him tomorrow and we will try him.”
Then he passed out, but Franz did not see him. Nor did he know a word
that had been spoken until on the way home, when Josef told him that the
emperor’s choirmaster had passed by and was so pleased with his singing
and playing that he wanted him in the royal choir.
So little Franz Schubert became a choir boy, and the master wondered more
and more that one so young could know so much of music.
Then he went to a boys’ school. His clothes were not very fine, for he
was poor. But he wore the best he had, a light gray suit that was far
from handsome. Some of the richer boys thought it funny and nicknamed
him “the miller.” But when Franz passed the severe singing examination
so well that he was given one of the gold-braided honor uniforms, they
did not tease him again. No one else did as well in the orchestra as
the little Schubert lad. No one else sang as understandingly as he,
and his master and fellow students, like the royal choirmaster, called
him a wonder child. Every boy in the school liked him, and Franz liked
them all too, but especially a young man named Spaun. And Spaun’s name
is remembered to this day just because once upon a time he was kind to
little Franz Schubert. He was almost twenty when Franz was but eleven,
but they were jolly companions and the best of friends.
One day Franz said, “If I had some paper I know I could write a song.”
But paper he had not, because his father could not afford to buy it.
Spaun always had a little money to spend, however, so Franz got the paper
and wrote the song, and after that his friend supplied him with writing
material. He enjoyed doing it because he liked the lad, but he did
not realize that it would mean much to the world. It did mean a great
deal, however, for some of the songs Franz wrote during his school days
are still sung as among the sweetest in the world, and perhaps but for
Spaun’s paper they might not have been written.
Well, Franz grew up just as other boys grow, and still he went on loving
music and working at it, playing and writing songs. Almost everything he
read or saw made him think of a melody, and every melody that formed in
his brain was beautiful.
One evening he went into a restaurant in Vienna for his dinner. He had a
small copy of Shakespeare in his pocket, and as he waited to be served he
took it out and read. His eye fell upon the lines:
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
And Phœbus ’gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies.
They made him think of a song, and he looked about for paper upon which
to write it. He asked the waiter to get him a piece, but the waiter could
find nothing but a bill of fare. Schubert took that and wrote his melody,
and when Shakespeare’s words were sung to it, the song sounded like this:
[At this point in the story run a record of “Hark, hark the lark.”]
Another time he was passing through a poor quarter of Vienna and heard a
peasant serenading a girl. Schubert did not think the song a very pretty
one, and he went home and wrote one that he liked better. This is how it
sounds:
[Record of “The Serenade.”]
When Franz Schubert was a little child, he heard his father tell an old
German story. It was called “The Erl King” and was about a witchlike
creature who was supposed to take children from their parents. Franz
always remembered it, and after he grew to manhood and read Goethe’s
poem, “The Erl King,” a friend told him how the master came to write it.
One wild winter night the poet was visiting in the home of a physician
and a man came riding through the storm, seeking help for the child
he had with him. The little fellow was delirious with fever and kept
clinging to his father, crying and begging him not to let the Erl King
take him away. The incident affected Goethe so deeply that he wrote the
poem, and Schubert, hearing the story, was so touched by it that he
composed wonderful music to go with the master’s words.
[Record of “The Erl King.”]
Another poem of Goethe’s that he read told of a wild rose growing on a
heath. A boy saw the rose and said, “I will pluck you.” The rose said,
“No, no. If you do I will prick you.” The foolish boy laughed and picked
the rose, and it kept its word. This is the song Schubert made of the
poem:
[Record of “Hedge Roses.”]
So you see that almost everything made Franz Schubert think of music. He
wrote many, many songs and much other music, and although it is almost a
hundred years since he died, his name and his works will live as long as
men love melody. The greatest singers in the world use his songs over and
over because rich and poor alike love them, and whenever singers want to
be very sure of pleasing they sing some of the songs of him who was once
a boy in old Vienna, Franz Schubert.
SOURCES OF MATERIAL TO AWAKEN AN APPRECIATION OF MUSIC
BARBER: _Wagner Opera Stories_.
BENDER: _Some Great Opera Stories_ (General Operas).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: _Pan and His Pipes and Other
Stories_; _Boyhood Stories of Famous Men_.
CHAPIN, ANNA ALICE: _The Heart of Music_; _Makers of Song_;
_Stories of the Wagner Operas_; _The Story of the Rhinegold_.
CROWEST, FREDERICK JAMES: _The Life of Verdi_.
DOLE, NATHAN HASKELL: _A Score of Famous Composers_.
DUTTON COMPANY: _The Master Musician Series_.
FRYBERGER, AGNES: _Listening Lessons in Music_.
GUERBER, HELÈNE A.: _Stories of the Wagner Operas_.
HENSEL, SEBASTIAN: _The History of the Mendelssohn Family_.
LISZT, FRANZ: _Life of Chopin_.
PICTURES TO USE IN TELLING MUSICAL STORIES
BEYSCHLAG: Orpheus and Eurydice.
BORCKMAN: Mozart and His Sisters before Maria Theresa;
Beethoven and the Rusmnowsky Quartette.
CARLO DOLCI: St. Cecilia at the Organ.
DUNCAN: Story of Minstrelsy.
GIULIO ROMANO: Apollo and the Muses.
HAMMAN: Mozart at Vienna; Preludes of Bach; Haydn Crossing the
English Channel; Handel and George I of England.
HARPFER: Mozart at the Organ.
LEYDENDECKER: Beethoven at Bonn.
MERLE: Beethoven at the House of Mozart.
ROSENTHAL: Morning Prayers in the Family of Bach.
SCHLOESSER: Beethoven in His Study.
SCHNEIDER: Mozart and His Sister.
SHIELDS: Mozart Singing His Requiem.
Portraits of all the great musicians.[1]
[1] Brown, Perry, or Cosmos Pictures, or they may be obtained from Victor
Talking Machine Company, especially the living artists.
CHAPTER TEN
STORY-TELLING TO AWAKEN AN APPRECIATION OF ART
The child who is surrounded by good pictures from his earliest years
grows to love good pictures, and gaudily colored, cheap ones have no
charm for him. His taste has been formed for the fine and true, and
nothing else will satisfy him. To behold a beautiful painting gives
him pleasure, while to see a glaring chromo produces an unpleasant
sensation. This is not because he is different by nature from one to whom
masterpieces have no meaning, but because he has learned to know them.
Here again we have one of the striking differences between the average
American and the average European. The Italian, French, Austrian, or
German laborer sees masterpieces from infancy. His earliest recollection
of religious worship is associated with them. Every continental town
has its art gallery or picture exhibit, and on certain days there is no
admission fee. The laborer avails himself of this opportunity. On Sunday,
when he is free from toil, he makes a festival of the occasion and takes
his family to some park or place of amusement, and very frequently the
jaunt includes a trip to the picture gallery. Consequently, even the
children of those lands have a knowledge of the masterpieces of art far
surpassing that of the average adult American.
In most respects the Italian street gamin does not differ from the
guttersnipe of our own land, but in one he is vastly his superior. He
knows the free days at the galleries as well as he knows the alleys
of his native town, and is a liberal patron of such places on those
occasions. I once made the acquaintance of a little chap in Rome who was
an excellent guide. He piloted me among the treasures of the Vatican with
the ease and security that bespeaks thorough knowledge, for he had been
there so often that he knew in just which rooms or alcoves to find his
favorites. He knew much of the artists, too, of their lives and times,
their discouragements and successes. Yet this Roman street boy was no
exception to his class. Along the Piazza di Spagna, in fact, on any of
the highways, are dozens like him, rich in knowledge of the statues and
fountains that glorify the streets and parks of the Holy City. The names
of Brunelleschi, Michelangelo, Fra Angelico, Giotto, and those other men
who built or carved or painted with marvelous power, are fraught with
meaning to them, and it is not strange that it should be so. Children in
Italy have grown up among beautiful things. For centuries beauty has been
almost a religion to this joy-loving, sun-loving race, and the country of
the Apennines, as Francis Hopkinson Smith says, is the one place in the
world where a song or a sunset is worth more than a soldo. Consequently,
the Italians are a nation of art lovers. Each individual regards the
masterpieces as his property, and the reason the Italian people hate the
memory of Napoleon is not only that he conquered parts of their land,
but that he robbed Italy of some of her art treasures. These were things
they and their fathers had seen and loved, and they could not forgive the
vandal who carried them away, even after the wound left by the victor
had ceased to rankle.
Here in America we have not had the opportunity of the average European,
but already we have made a beginning, and we now possess a number of art
galleries that deserve the name. At the present time these are found only
in the large cities, but they are helping to form national standards.
Meanwhile every worker with children ought to try to lead those intrusted
to his care to a knowledge and appreciation of great pictures.
It is not enough to place reproductions of masterpieces in schools and
homes and say nothing about them. If children are to have an appreciation
of them, they must be led to see their beauty, to understand what they
mean, to have some idea of the infinite patience and labor that made
their creation possible. The child of an artistic bent will observe and
study them without aid or guidance and unconsciously grow into loving
them, because beauty in any form attracts him as a magnet draws a bar of
steel. But teachers and parents do not work solely with budding genius,
and in the great scheme of human advancement it may mean as much for many
_average_ children to appreciate and love art, as for one who is gifted
to reach immortal heights of achievement. The average child must be led
and directed. His interest must be aroused before we can hope to mold
his taste as we would have it molded. He must be taught to see that a
Gainsborough is more beautiful than an advertising chromo, that a face
by Raphael is the expression of an inspiration that is almost divine.
Only through an association that gives pleasure will he come to see
and appreciate, and here again story-telling can work wonders, because
through it we can intensify a child’s delight in a picture.
In the field of art the biographical tale is of immeasurable value, for
the story of an artist’s life, illustrated by reproductions of his works,
can be made the pathway to appreciation.
In establishing standards of art appreciation, as well as those of music,
we must not lose sight of the story interests of childhood, because many
a picture that is a great artistic achievement is not suitable to present
to little children. The “Venus and Cupid” of Velasquez is a glorious
masterpiece, but we cannot expect little folk to admire it any more than
we can expect those in the rhythmic period to listen to a King Arthur
story and ask to hear it again. As the little child does not know Venus
and Cupid, a portrayal of them means nothing to him. But he does know
horses and dogs and cats. He knows other children and babies and mothers,
and therefore he enjoys pictures of animal and child life and will be
interested in hearing about their portrayers.
Sir Joshua Reynolds is an excellent artist to begin with, because his
best work is built around themes dear to the heart of childhood. His
“Age of Innocence,” “Infant Samuel,” “Robinetta,” “Heads of Angels,”
“Simplicity,” and “The Strawberry Girl” are ideal works to present to the
small child, and this painter’s early years make a charming story.
Sir Edwin Landseer is another artist with whom we can acquaint little
children, through the following works: “Uncle Tom and His Wife
for Sale,” “Low Life and High Life,” “Dignity and Impudence,” “A
Distinguished Member of the Humane Society,” “The Sick Monkey,” “King
Charles Spaniels,” and many other paintings, all of which will be loved
by children because they love the subjects.
Rosa Bonheur and her paintings should be used in this period. Children
are especially fond of “The Horse Fair,” “Coming from the Fair,”
“Brittany Sheep,” “Highland Cattle,” and “A Norman Sire.” In fact,
everything this painter created, like all the work of Landseer, is
fraught with interest to the child, because she was solely a portrayer of
animal life.
An artist of whom little folk have been taught almost nothing is
Gainsborough. Usually we think of him only as a portrait painter, because
in America his likenesses of women are better known than his other
pictures. But it is a mistake to associate him only with “the dashing,
smashing hats worn by the Duchess of Devonshire.” Until recently only
Americans who had traveled in England had an opportunity of seeing or
knowing the greater part of this artist’s other work, because the British
copyright law protected much of it in such a way that cheap prints could
not be made. Now, however, it is possible to get good reproductions of
these long-protected Gainsboroughs at a very reasonable price. Most
valuable of the works of this artist to use with little children are the
following: “The Market Cart,” “The Watering Place,” “Two Dogs,” “Rustic
Children,” and “Study of an Old Horse.”
Murillo is an ideal painter to introduce to the little child, because
his childhood story is as fascinating as his creations are glorious.
Children never tire of hearing about this joyous little Spanish boy, and
of the time when he transformed the family picture, turning the halo of
the Christ-child into a gorgeous sombrero, and making a dog of the sheep.
As they laugh or sympathize with the wonder child of Seville and feel
something of the charm of life in that old city, its street children,
immortalized on canvas by its most illustrious son, become comrades
because little Bartolome sometimes played with them and big Bartolome
painted them. There is a long list of this master’s works from which to
choose, but the following are particularly enjoyed: “Mother and Child,”
“The Adoration of the Shepherds,” “St. John and the Lamb,” “The Melon
Eaters,” “The Dice Players,” “Beggar Boys,” “The Good Shepherd,” “The
Marriage of St. Catherine,” and “The Immaculate Conception.” No attempt
should be made to interpret the two last-named pictures. Familiarize
little people with them and lead them to see their beauty, but waive all
idea of religious symbolism until years bring maturity of thought and the
child makes his own interpretation.
All Madonna pictures are interesting to little children, so by all means
acquaint them with Raphael, the king. Let them drink in the beauty of
“The Sistine Madonna,” “The Madonna of the Chair,” “The Madonna of the
Goldfinch,” and as many others as can be obtained. The story of Raphael
belongs more properly in the intermediate period than in the very early
one, because so little is known of this painter’s life before he began
his career. Just tell the children of the little boy who lived in
far-away Urbino long, long ago. His mother died when he was a wee little
fellow, and he lived alone with his father, who was very kind to him.
Instead of playing much, as the other children did, he loved to sit and
listen to stories about saints and good people who lived before his time.
He loved to draw pictures, too, and when he grew to be a man he became a
wonderful painter.
Closely following Raphael may come Correggio, through his “Holy Night,”
“Repose in Egypt,” and “Cherubs.”
Van Dyck, too, may be made familiar to little children. From his
works choose “Children of Charles I” and several details from this
picture—“Baby Stuart,” “Charles II,” and “Henrietta.” But present first
the complete picture, so that when “Baby Stuart” is seen the children
will know that it is only part of a painting. Many a grown person does
not realize that it is a detail from another work, and this fact should
be understood by every child who sees the royal baby. Other works by this
artist suitable to introduce to tiny people are “The Repose in Egypt,”
“Madonna and Child,” and “The Donators.”
There are many painters whose pictures will be enjoyed by children of
from five to eight, and the teacher or parent who knows art and art
literature can choose for himself, keeping always in mind the story
interests. To those who have little or no knowledge of art, yet who want
to lead children along this path, the following list will be helpful:
ARTISTS AND PAINTINGS THAT CAN BE PRESENTED TO YOUNG CHILDREN THROUGH THE
STORY-TELLING METHOD
ADAM: Kittens; Wide Awake; The Hungry Quartette; In the Boudoir.
BOTTICELLI: Adoration of the Magi; The Holy Family.
BOUGUEREAU: Virgin and Angels; Virgin, Infant Jesus, and St.
John; Going Home from School; The Flight into Egypt.
DELAROCHE: The Finding of Moses; Children of Edward IV.
GREUZE: The Broken Pitcher; Innocence; Head of Girl with Apple.
HERRING: Pharaoh’s Horses; Three Members of the Temperance
Society; The Village Blacksmith; Farmyard.
VIGÉE LEBRUN: Marie Antoinette and Children; Girl with Muff;
Mother and Daughter.
MILLET: Feeding the Hens; Feeding Her Birds; The First Step;
Feeding the Nestlings.
LUCA DELLA ROBBIA: Singing Boys; Trumpeters and Dancing Boys;
Dancing Boys with Cymbals; Children Dancing to Fife and Tambor;
Madonna, Child, and Saints.
RUBENS: Portrait of his Wife and Children; The Holy Family;
Infant Christ, St. John, and Angels; The Virgin under an Apple
Tree; The Adoration of the Magi.
Children of the intermediate period enjoy the works of the great
landscape painters, Claude Lorrain, Corot, Breton, and others who
portrayed the woods and fields, especially when they know something of
the childhood of these men. In this period, too, they should become
better acquainted with some of the artists they have already met. Add
to the interest previously created in Raphael by taking up such works
as “Madonna of the Fish,” “Madonna of the Well,” and “Madonna of the
Diadem.” In telling the story of his life use Ouida’s beautiful tale,
“The Child of Urbino,” which is so exquisitely told that there is nothing
lovelier in literature. Show the children his portrait of himself, his
“St. Catherine,” “St. Cecilia,” “St. John in the Desert,” “Peter and
John at the Beautiful Gate,” and “The Miraculous Draught of Fishes.”
Add to the interest already created in Rubens by taking up his “Portrait
of Himself,” “The Flight of Lot,” and the paintings illustrating the life
of Maria de’ Medici.
Pictures representing the Crucifixion, the Descent from the Cross, and
the Entombment, no matter how glorious they may be as works of art,
should not be presented to children. They are too highly religious for
children’s understanding, and the tragedy portrayed in them should not
enter into childhood. The Madonnas and Holy Families may be used freely,
because they portray dear and familiar characters and are saturated with
an atmosphere of happiness that gladdens the child.
The following list will aid those who are not connoisseurs:
ARTISTS AND PAINTINGS FOR CHILDREN OF THE INTERMEDIATE PERIOD
JULES BRETON: Song of the Lark; The Gleaners; The Reapers; The
Weeders; The Recall of the Gleaners; Blessing the Wheat; The
Vintagers; The End of Labor.
JACQUES: The Sheepfold; Pasturage in the Forest; Shepherd and
Sheep.
MILLET: The Sower; The Gleaners; The Angelus; The Grafter;
Sheep Shearing; Potato Planting; Bundling Wheat; Returning to
the Farm; Shepherdess Knitting; Woman Churning; Labor.
There is a twofold reason for introducing children to such painters as
Millet, Breton, and Jacques. Besides giving them a knowledge of the
works of the artists in question and adding to their appreciation of the
beautiful, it will dignify labor in their eyes to learn that it inspired
these great creators. If leaders of the “back to the land” movement would
make free use of the art of the world among children, if during the
years when impressions made are deep and lasting they would tell stories
and show pictures that have been inspired by toilers in the fields, a
sentiment would be created that would tell in results, because of boys
and girls having learned to respect those who till the soil and work with
their hands.
ARTISTS AND PAINTINGS THAT LEAD TO APPRECIATION OF THE BEAUTIFUL AND TO
RESPECT FOR LABOR
COROT: Dance of the Children; Dance of Nymphs; Landscape with
Willows; Paysage; Pond of Ville d’Avray; The Lake.
REMBRANDT: Portrait of Himself; Portrait of His Mother; The
Mill; The Burgomasters.
TROYON: Return to the Farm; Going to Work; Landscape with Sheep.
VAN DYCK (Add to interest already aroused): Henrietta Maria,
Wife of Charles I; William of Orange and Mary Stuart;
Equestrian Portrait of Charles I; Portrait of Charles I with
Groom and Horse.
VELAZQUEZ: Portrait of Himself; The Tapestry Weavers; Prince
Balthazar; The Lancers; Equestrian Portrait of Philip IV;
Infanta Maria Theresa.
When children reach the period during which they crave the heroic, when
they are eager for the great epic stories, give them the great paintings
that portray epic and mythological subjects. The following list contains
names of artists and works that children in this stage will enjoy:
ARTISTS AND PAINTINGS FOR THE HEROIC AND EPIC PERIODS
ALMA-TADEMA: Sappho; Reading from Homer.
BURNE-JONES: The Golden Stair; The First Day of Creation;
Second Day of Creation; Third Day of Creation; Fourth Day of
Creation; Fifth Day of Creation; Sixth Day of Creation; Hope;
Circe; Enchantment of Merlin; King Cophetua and the Beggar
Maid; The Furies.
LEIGHTON: Helen of Troy; Captive Andromache; Greek Girls
Playing Ball.
MICHELANGELO: David; Moses; Saul; The Three Fates; Jeremiah;
Ezekiel; Zachariah; Isaiah; Daniel; Jonas; The Delphic Sibyl;
The Cumæan Sibyl; The Libyan Sibyl.
RAPHAEL: St. George and the Dragon.
GUIDO RENI: Jesus and John; St. Michael and the Dragon; Aurora;
Beatrice Cenci; St. Sebastian; The Annunciation; L’Adorata.
ROSSETTI: The Sea Spell; The Blessed Damozel; Ancilla Domini.
ANDREA DEL SARTO: John the Baptist; Virgin in Glory; St. Agnes;
Charity.
TINTORETTO: The Forge of Vulcan; Marriage at Cana; Paradise;
Paolo Veronese; Feast at House of Simon; Feast at House of
Levi; Europa and Jupiter.
TITIAN: John the Baptist; Tribute Money; Titian’s Daughter
Lavinia; Flora; Head of Venus.
TURNER (_Mythological_): Apollo and the Python; Jason in Search
of the Golden Fleece; The Goddess of Discord; Dido Building
Carthage; Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus. (_Historical_): Prince
of Orange; The Death of Nelson; Boat’s Crew Recovering an
Anchor; Hannibal and Army Crossing the Alps; The Field of
Waterloo; Agrippina Landing with the Ashes of Germanicus; The
Fighting Téméraire.
WATTS: Sir Galahad; Orpheus and Eurydice; Endymion.
GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY OF ART STORY MATERIAL
BACON, MARY S. H.: _Pictures That Every Child Should Know_.
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: _Boyhood Stories of Famous Men_.
COLLMANN, SOPHIE MARIE: _Art Talks with Young Folks_.
DE LA RAMÉE, LOUISE: _Child of Urbino_ (_“Bimbi” Stories_).
ENNIS, LUNA MAY: _Music in Art_.
HARTMANN, SADAKICHI: _Japanese Art_.
HORNE, OLIVE B., and SCOBEY, KATHRINE L.: _Stories of Great
Artists_.
HOURTICQ, LOUIS: _Art in France_.
HURLL, ESTELLE M.: _The Madonna in Art_.
MENEFEE, MAUD: _Child Stories from the Masters_.
SWEETSER, M. F.: _Artist Biographies: Raphael and Leonardo,
Angelo and Titian, Claude Lorrain and Reynolds, Turner and
Landseer, Dürer and Rembrandt, Van Dyck and Angelico, Murillo
and Allston_.
VASARI, GIORGIO: _Lives of the Italian Painters, Sculptors, and
Architects_.
WATERS, CLARA ERSKINE: _Saints in Art_; _Stories of Art and
Artists_.
SOURCES FOR MODERATE-PRICED REPRODUCTIONS OF MASTERPIECES
The Brown Pictures, Milton Bradley Company, Springfield,
Mass.; Emery School Art Company, Boston, Mass.; Maison Braun
et Cie., New York, N.Y.; Frederick A. Stokes Company, New
York, N.Y. (has American rights to many pictures); The Perry
Pictures, Malden, Mass.; The Prang Company, New York, N.Y.; The
University Prints, Boston, Mass.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DRAMATIZATION
Contemporaneous with what may be termed a renaissance in story-telling
is a strong sentiment in favor of dramatization. Child leaders have
observed that children dramatize spontaneously, and that after they have
heard a tale they often play it without suggestion from an older person.
They impersonate the characters, crudely perhaps, but they represent the
action and portray the story as they understand it.
This they do because the dramatic instinct is a universal instinct.
We are all born imitators, and we like to experience the feelings and
experiences of others. That is why the little girl impersonates her
mother and takes delight in dressing in grown-up attire and playing
lady. It is what actuates the boy to play Indian or soldier or fireman.
He wants to live through the experiences of Indians and soldiers and
firemen; so he goes into the world of make-believe and acts the part.
During that time he is a larger and a different personality. He is not a
little boy who must go to bed before he wants to, and must stay inside
the yard when he longs to be out on the highway; he is a grown man in
a uniform dashing along on an engine; he is a mighty chief in feathers
and war paint, leading his tribe against the enemy or speaking words of
wisdom around the council fire.
There was a time when this sort of play was believed to be of no value
beyond that of a romp that helped to stretch the muscles, but today there
is a very different attitude toward it. Close observation of children
and a more general knowledge of psychology have brought educators to
realize that imitative play is a big factor in mental development. As the
boy impersonates a fireman or Indian he must choose movements in keeping
with the part and reject those not in keeping with it. He must select and
evaluate, and in doing this he is acquiring a power of discrimination
that will be of great value to him later.
The childhood of many famous men of the past was distinguished by an
unusual amount of imitative play, a free expression of the dramatic
instinct. Goethe, in his memories, speaks lovingly of his early years
thus:
From my father I have my stature,
My earnest aim in living;
From little mother, my joyous nature,
My love of story weaving.
Continuing, he tells of the tales he heard, and what they meant to him as
he played them:
Sometimes I was a prince and sometimes a peasant. Now I was
rewarded for being a bountiful and considerate king, then
punished according to the deserts of a wicked and revengeful
giant; and always as I played these parts I was learning the
unchangeable laws of life.
What Goethe learned through acting tales his mother told him, the child
of today is learning as he dramatizes stories, although not always in as
great a measure as was learned by the author of _Faust_ and _Werther_.
But he is learning according to his ability and within his limitations.
When he has played the part, the laws involved in it become fixed
principles with him, and a big step is taken in the direction of his
moral training. Because of a growing recognition of this truth the
present strong interest in dramatization in schools is becoming general
throughout the country. Teachers are beginning to realize that they can
give no more eloquent sermon on truthtelling than to tell the story
of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf,” and then let the children dramatize it.
There is no more effective means of giving a lesson in contentment than
presenting the tale of the pig who thought his life hard and leading the
boys and girls to play it.
Therefore it follows that dramatization should be encouraged, and to
be most far-reaching in its results, it should be done by means of
story-telling, because by proceeding from the story to the action the
child creates the play and makes it his own.
There are many books of plays for children, carefully written and adapted
to their interests in word, style, and theme. But such plays do not mean
as much to the child as those he makes for himself. They are not as much
his own, and consequently they contribute less toward his growth and
development.
The natural way is for the child to hear the story and then act it.
Therefore every story-teller should have in his possession a number of
tales with dramatic possibilities. He should tell one of these vividly
and dramatically, using much dialogue, and then, while it is still fresh
in the minds of the children, encourage them to play it. It is well to
use the published plays also, because there are many excellent ones, but
the narrator should read them over, get the plot, and tell the story,
before putting them into the hands of the children.
Shall dialogue be dictated by the story-teller and the children drilled
in their parts? No. Conversation used in telling the tale will suggest
to the children what to say, and they will make up their own parts. They
must be led and directed, but help from the teacher or leader should be
given in such a way that the children feel they are _making_ the play
themselves. Help them by questions that will lead them to think and act
instead of telling them what to do and say.
Suppose “The Pied Piper of Hamelin” is to be dramatized. After the story
has been told, say to the children, “Do you want to play it?” Of course
they will want to. Then, by questioning, lead them to constructive effort.
How many people shall we need? Immediately the answers will come, and as
the different characters are named make a list, thus getting the cast.
Who can be the mayor, members of the council, the piper, rats, mothers
and fathers, lame boy, etc.?
There will be two divisions, those who are forward, eager to take a
prominent part, and the shy, retiring ones who will not offer. This
latter group must not be ignored, and to draw its members into the work
requires much tact. Sometimes when it is impossible to get a child to
take a speaking part, he can be encouraged to be one of a group of
“supers,” as they are called on the professional stage, because although
he lacks the confidence necessary to make him lift his voice, his
diffidence vanishes in doing pantomime with a number of other children.
He will be a rat or a citizen when he cannot be coaxed or driven into
being the piper, and after many pantomime performances he gains the
confidence in himself that enables him to take a speaking part.
One of the difficulties incident to dramatization in the schoolroom
is that the same children always clamor to take the star parts, and
sometimes sulk if not permitted to do so, or sneer at the efforts of
others. This situation must be met as any other problem in discipline is
met, by skill on the part of the teacher and by inculcating a sense of
fairness and courtesy that holds selfishness in check. Lead the child
to see that what gives him pleasure gives some one else pleasure also,
and that it is the right of each member of the class to experience
that pleasure. Once the boy or girl realizes that well-bred people are
considerate and do not deride the efforts of others, no matter how
imperfect their achievement may be, the dramatization period loses its
greatest bugbear and shy children do not hesitate to take part because of
fear that they will be laughed at. This result cannot be brought about
instantly, but persistence and tact will finally accomplish it.
Do not be discouraged because it seems that some of the shy or less
capable children will never take a speaking part. Sometimes even after
they perform in pantomime they still hang back and will speak only in
chorus. But this last is at least a step in the desired direction. Keep
working them in groups, and gradually from group speaking they will
advance to individual speaking. Sometimes this process is slow and
discouraging, but the teacher should remember that mental development is
never a mushroom growth, and that great achievement is not wrought in a
day. The marble block yields so slowly to the shaping of the sculptor’s
chisel that sometimes it seems it never will take the form he visions for
it, but ceaseless effort always brings results. So it is with the teacher
in molding human material. Results are sure to come if persistence and
patience are unflagging and faith is deep and strong. It is worth much
for a shy, self-conscious child to grow to the point where he can lose
himself in the rôle of a play, and no matter how crudely he does it, he
should be encouraged and given frequent opportunities to express himself,
because as a means of self-development his crude performance is of as
much value as the artistic one of the talented child, although it may be
less enjoyable to spectators.
With little children especially, it is desirable to use some play whose
cast will include every member of the class. It gives the eager child
a chance to be “in it,” as children say, and makes it easier to draw
the diffident child to participate, because he wants to do what all the
others are doing. “The Pied Piper” is ideal for this, because of the
flexibility of groups. There can be enough rats, parents, children, or
council members to include twenty or forty children, and the larger the
groups the more intense the interest.
After the cast is decided upon, plan the scenes, again by questioning
the children. What is the first thing to be done and where is it done?
Thus, by question and suggestion, work up the lines. In other words,
have the children create the parts themselves and they will play them
spontaneously. The production may not be highly artistic, but it will
have greater educational value than one worked out by an adult and
merely acted by the children. After it has been created in this way it
may be put into finished permanent form. Little children may practice
it until they memorize the lines, while those in the grammar grades may
write parts, thus making a play that can be used many times. This sort of
work is very valuable, and may form a composition or language exercise
that will be enjoyed by the class.
Another method is to have the various members suggest lines to be spoken
by the different characters and choose the best for the play. Sometimes
a child who does little in the usual composition work and never gets a
high mark, will suggest an excellent line or sentence, and to have it go
into the play is a tremendous joy to him, especially if he doubts his own
ability. Another plan that makes the class interest keen, is for each
member to plan or write a scene, and without the members knowing the
authorship of the various papers, have them read, and select the best by
vote, whereupon the name of the writer is revealed. This method can be
used in writing parts for one character or for all the characters, and in
several other ways that will be of much value to the children.
Of course the teacher or leader must be the guiding spirit, because a
well-built, correctly proportioned plot is necessary. But her suggestion
should be chiefly by way of question, leaving the children to feel that
they, and not the instructor, are doing the work, although in reality the
teacher’s judgment is the foundation upon which the structure stands, and
she must use it in building the play just as she uses it in telling the
story.
For little people there are many stories with dramatic possibilities,
some of which may be acted wholly in pantomime, some with combined
pantomime and spoken parts, and others entirely of spoken parts. In
working with foreign children it is well to begin with pantomime plays,
as the child who knows he cannot express himself easily in English
will always balk at taking a speaking part. Some of Æsop’s fables lend
themselves particularly well to pantomime, especially “The Lion and the
Mouse,” “The Fox and the Grapes,” “The Dog and His Shadow,” and “The Hare
and the Tortoise.” _The Dramatic Festival_, by Craig, and _Festivals and
Plays_, by Chubb, give valuable suggestions for pantomime work, as well
as a list of plays adapted to it, and the worker with older children will
also find these books to be excellent guides.
There is an equally large amount of material for dramatic work with
older children. _Hiawatha_ never fails to delight fourth and fifth grade
boys and girls. _Robin Hood_ in dramatic form is loved even more than in
story, as are some of the exploits of King Arthur and his knights and of
Pwyll, the hero of the Mabinogion. Any of these tales may be carried out
simply or may be worked into elaborate performances with costumes and
stage settings. If the latter be the choice, much pleasure and useful
experience will come to the children through making the properties. Any
boy who can whittle can fashion spears and swords, and gold and silver
paper is wonderfully effective in supplying glitter. Does a knight need
colored hose to be in keeping with his doublet? Let him borrow a pair of
his mother’s or sister’s white ones and coat them with blackboard crayon
of the desired hue. One laundering will make them spotless again, and
there is no outlay of money for something that must be discarded at the
end of the performance. Helmets, shields, and pilgrim hats can be made by
the manual-training boys, and girls in the domestic-science class will
enjoy sewing the costumes.
The teacher in the ungraded school is particularly fortunate in
opportunities for this kind of work, because she can correlate it with
other subjects in ways that workers in schools using the departmental
system cannot do. One country teacher had her eighth-grade history class
give a pageant portraying the French exploration in the Mississippi
Valley. The class devoted a term to the preparation; the subject was made
the nucleus of their reading, language, history, and manual work, and the
results were most gratifying. Boys who never had written a readable paper
did some astonishingly good work in composition because of their interest
in the play and their desire to contribute to it, and the standard of
class scholarship was raised, to say nothing of the joy the children
derived from it.
Many other historical subjects are equally rich in possibilities. The
Spanish exploration in Florida, the Dutch in New York, the Spanish
settlement of California, the framing and adoption of the Declaration
of Independence, John Smith and Pocahontas, Ponce de Leon seeking the
fountain of youth, the story of Columbus, and many similar themes afford
good opportunities for class play-making and correlation of school
subjects.
Sometimes a picture will suggest an entire scene in a dramatization, or
even an entire play; the following are especially good for this purpose:
BACON: The Burial of Miles Standish.
BALACA: Departure of Columbus from Palos.
BOUGHTON: Pilgrims Going to Church; Pilgrim Exiles; The Return
of the Mayflower; Priscilla.
KAULBACH: The Pied Piper of Hamelin.
PILOTY: Columbus on the Deck of the Santa Maria.
VAN DER LYN: The Landing of Columbus.
Those wishing to make a specialty of dramatization will find the
following books helpful:
CHUBB: _Festivals and Plays_.
CRAIG: _The Dramatic Festival_.
CURTIS: _The Dramatic Instinct in Education_.
The following are excellent stories for dramatic work with little
children, and are included in so many books that they are available to
every teacher:
Three Billy Goats Gruff; The Wolf and the Seven Little Kids;
Chicken Little; The Old Woman and Her Pig; The Pig Brother; The
Gingerbread Boy; The Boy Who Cried Wolf; The Town Musicians;
Mother Goose Rhymes; The Three Bears; The Pancake; The
Discontented Pig.
Many others will be found in the list of story collections for children
in the rhythmic period, and in the bibliography on the following page.
BIBLIOGRAPHY OF MATERIAL FOR DRAMATIZATION
_For Primary Grade Children_
BELL, FLORENCE E.: _Fairy Tale Plays and How to Act Them_.
CHADWICK, M. L. PRATT-, and FREEMAN, E. GRAY: _Chain Stories
and Playlets_.
NIXON-ROULET, M. F.: _Fairy Tales a Child Can Read and Act_.
NOYES, M. I., and RAY, B. H.: _Little Plays for Little People_.
PERRY, S. G. S.: _When Mother Lets Us Act_.
STEVENSON, AUGUSTA: _Children’s Classics in Dramatic Form,
Books 1-3_.
WELLS, CAROLYN: _Jolly Plays for Holidays_.
_For Intermediate Grade Children_
HARRIS, F. J.: PLAYS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.
SIDGWICK, ETHEL: _Four Plays for Children_.
SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRESCOTT: _The Fairy Changeling_.
STEVENSON, AUGUSTA: _Children’s Classics in Dramatic Form,
Books 4-6_.
_St. Nicholas Book of Operettas and Plays._
_For Grammar Grade Children_
FRANK: _Short Plays about Famous Authors_.
LANSING, M. F.: _Quaint Old Stories to Read and Act_.
LÜTKENHAUS, A. M., and KNOX, MARGARET: _Plays for School
Children_.
RUCKER and RYAN: _Historical Plays of Colonial Days_.
CHAPTER TWELVE
BIBLE STORIES
One of the glaring defects of our modern educational system is that
almost no provision is made for the study of the Bible as a great
classic, and as a result boys and girls complete grammar and high-school
courses without sufficient knowledge of the epic of the Hebrews to enable
them to understand the world’s best literature. The myths of Greece and
Rome are studied because of their cultural value, yet from universities
throughout the country comes the complaint that many of the works of
famous authors are beyond the enjoyment of students because the Biblical
allusions have no meaning for them. What should be as familiar as “Red
Riding Hood” and “Cinderella” is known in name only, and the immortal
book is regarded as a repository of golden texts and maxims instead of as
a glorious artistic creation.
The masses of children know almost nothing of the story of Israel,
because outside of the Sunday school and the exceptional home, it is
rarely told. Yet educators emphasize its need in the intellectual as
well as in the spiritual development of the child, and declare that the
Old Testament tales should be as much a part of the school curriculum
as are the myths of Greece and Rome and the northland. Rein, the great
German educator, advocates using them in the third and fourth grades to
the exclusion of all others, which is done in the state schools of Baden,
while in America Dr. G. Stanley Hall pleads eloquently in behalf of Bible
stories.
“To eliminate the Bible from education,” says this famous psychologist,
“is as preposterous pedagogically as it would have been in the days of
Plato to taboo Homer from the education of Greek youth. It is not only a
model of English, but it is impossible to understand the culture history
of Europe without it, as it has influenced the literature, history, and
life of Western nations as no other book has begun to do.”
The secular narrator, as well as the teacher of religion, should use
the Bible tales freely, that men and women of the future may have a
broader knowledge of literature, history, and life than they can have
without them. This is no impossible task, even for the amateur, because
the Biblical narratives are perfect ones for telling. Nowhere else in
literature do we find such thrilling tales of adventure, such exquisite
idylls, such sublime ballads, such annals of high purpose and noble
achievement, as in the epic of Israel. Nowhere else are there more
spectacular, perfectly constructed plots. Ruskin said, “It would be
pre-eminently the child’s book even though it had no religious value
above other books”; and Dr. Fuchs of Vienna declares that we might, if
we lacked material, give children nothing but Bible stories and yet
satisfy every craving of their natures, because the Bible contains every
type of tale that appeals to the child. From Genesis to Revelation
it is an incomparable record of human desire, human endeavor, human
failure, and human success. In the Old Testament we find myth, fairy
tale, fable, romance, legend, and history, told in simple, elemental
beauty by the Hebrew story-tellers, tinged with that varied color and
imagery so characteristic of oriental literature and so fascinating to
children,—stories that, as Mrs. Houghton says, “are the product of a
child nation, and therefore very close to the heart of the child.”
The Old Testament, rather than the New, is the child’s storybook, because
it is the expression of a primitive people, and its tales picture
primitive, rugged heroes that boys and girls can understand, whereas
the second division of the Bible, except that portion centering around
the childhood and boyhood of Christ, is adult in character. But it is
a mistake to think that all Old Testament tales can be presented with
gratifying results. To tell the story of Ruth and Boaz to tiny tots would
be as absurd as to give them the _Decameron_ of Boccaccio or Goethe’s
_Faust_, because the characters and incidents are remote from their
interest. In using material from the Bible, as from any other source, it
is necessary to keep in mind the story interests of childhood, and to
remember that the skeletons of tales, not the style and vocabulary in
which they are written, must be the test for selection. If the framework
is suited to the period of mental development, the language can be
adapted, while otherwise no amount of simplifying can bring it within the
understanding and powers of enjoyment.
The Old Testament is particularly rich in stories for children, because
it was formulated in a period when the Hebrew nation was a child nation.
The men and women of Israel were grown to adult stature, but they had
the hearts of children. They thought concretely, as the child thinks,
and consequently their literary expression is concrete and illustrative.
This, added to the facts that they, like all other orientals, loved
the story and brought it to a high artistic point, and that the Old
Testament heroes are not refined to the point of æstheticism, but are
strong, rugged, elemental men, thoroughly human and far removed from
goody-goodies, makes it an ideal book for the child. Gideon and Joshua
possess virtues, but they possess faults also. They are punished and they
are rewarded, and because they have much in common with children, the
lessons learned through their victories and defeats are more valuable
than a thousand admonitions.
In advocating the use of Bible stories a word of caution seems
necessary, lest the narrator, actuated by the laudable desire to enrich
the intellectual and spiritual life of the child, may harm instead of
benefit. The Hebrew people were in a state of advanced barbarism when
their tribal achievements grew into an epic, and the deeds of their
heroes are often so bloodthirsty and revengeful that they cannot be
reconciled with modern views. Boys and girls are quick to realize this,
and consequently many of the Old Testament tales must be softened by the
elimination of objectionable features, just as many fairy and epical
tales must be softened.
Nor are gore and revenge the only elements we must cut away from these
old tales. Those who give the narrative of Israel to boys and girls of
twelve and fourteen should be careful to eliminate from it everything
that may be suggestive of the vulgar, for which, at this age, many
children are on the lookout. It is better to omit than to veil and
modify questionable portions of a tale, because young people are very
discerning, and to see through gossamer is to arouse curiosity. Dr.
Bodley cites instances of youths in the romantic period reading the Bible
because of lewd thoughts. This danger leads some persons to decry the use
of Bible stories by the average narrator, in whose hands they believe
them to be dangerous. However, if he uses judgment, if he makes it a
rule to omit whatever awakens a doubt in his mind, even the amateur may
tell Bible stories with beneficial results. It is possible to eliminate
from many an Old Testament narrative without breaking the thread of the
story, just as it is possible to give boys and girls a clear idea of the
man Chopin without introducing the George Sand episode. So much of the
Old Testament is pure adventure tale that the story-teller may use the
portion that feeds the elemental hero love without touching upon what
might arouse morbid curiosity or desire, or that which sanctions gore and
revenge.
Those who have not had training in gathering and adapting story material
from the Bible will be aided greatly in their work by Frances Jenkins
Olcott’s book, _Bible Stories to Read and Tell_. Miss Olcott gives the
stories as they are given in the King James Version, preserving all the
beauty of language of the Hebrew story-tellers, but she has excluded
everything that might prove objectionable; and with this book as a guide
there is little danger of making a mistake in telling the Hebrew hero
tales to children.
Bible stories should be graded as carefully as fairy stories are graded.
In choosing for little children, select those whose heroes are children,
and give to the boy who craves the heroic the incomparable tales of
the Hebrew wanderers, those men whose lives were a varied succession of
adventures. For the child of each period there is a wealth of material.
The stories of the baby Moses, little Samuel, the boy Joseph, the boy
Timothy, the boy David, and the baby Isaac are very appealing to six-
and seven-year-olds. They love also to hear of the mother and the
baby Samson, of Ishmael and Hagar, and those other mothers and babies
of long ago, and especially dear to them is the story of the Babe of
Bethlehem. This lovely narrative is a part of the birthright of every
child, and is exquisite enough to merit careful preparation on the
part of the story-teller. The Bible itself should be the storehouse to
which the narrator goes for material, but those not especially gifted
in visualizing and imagination will derive much help from the work of
modern literary artists who have told again the story of the Christ
Child. The eleventh and twelfth chapters of the first book of _Ben Hur_,
the creation of a man whose reverence was as great as his talent, should
be re-read by every one who attempts to tell of the song and the star
in Judea, and the works of Henry van Dyke, Selma Lagerlöf, and John of
Hildesheim will aid greatly in giving color and atmosphere. This means
time and labor, but no amount of preparation is too great to put upon
the world’s noblest stories. The narrator should approach them, not
arrogantly, and satisfied of his ability to tell them because he has
known them from childhood, but as the artist approaches the masterpiece
he aspires to copy, willing to labor that he may be worthy of the task,
willing to read them over and over again and count each reading a return
to the fount of inspiration. This should be the attitude toward all great
stories, but especially toward the immortal ones of the Bible.
For the child in the heroic period the Old Testament is a gold mine,
and it is a pity that its superb adventure tales are so little used by
story-tellers, since they are so fascinating to boys and girls. Even when
told as separate stories they arouse interest and hold the attention, but
they are most valuable when given in a sequence, because then the child
regards the Old Testament as a great human drama, the epic of a people.
A good plan is to begin with the call of Abraham, as related in the
twelfth chapter of Genesis. Picture the patriarch, with Lot and Sarah,
going into exile out of the land of Haran, through Canaan to the plain
of Moreh, building there the altar under the soothsayer’s oak, and
journeying southward over the desert to Egypt. Tell of the banishment by
Pharaoh and the return to Bethel, of the strife between the herdsmen and
the survey of the land, of the captivity and rescue of Lot. Paint vividly
the highway along which they traveled, now over the desert, now across
the fertile plain skirting the sea, often footsore and weary, often
suffering from heat and thirst as wanderers in the East suffered, and the
story will cause children to turn from the cheap adventure tale of today
as music lovers turn from ragtime to a Chopin prelude.
Then there are tales of those other Old Testament wanderers, Isaac, “the
Ulysses of the Hebrews,” and Jacob, whose life was so eventful. Take the
boys over the routes these men traveled. Let them share their exploits
and adventures, resting in fertile places where the wanderers rested,
now by the well outside Nahor, the servants praying beside the kneeling
camels as Bethuel’s lovely daughter came down the hillside with the
pitcher on her shoulder, now moving as the caravan moved, over roads
the Hebrew armies traveled on their way to war, along which tradesfolk
journeyed in times of peace. There is marvelous color and romance in
these Old Testament thoroughfares, and they are highways of fascination
even today. Still across their yellow sands turbaned Arabs go up and
down, singing praise to Allah just as men sang to God in the remote time
of Israel. They bear with them skin bags filled with water from the pools
and streams, dates, figs, and dried goat’s flesh, such as formed the
noontide repast of Isaac and his men, for in the changeless East life is
today as it was in the beginning of things. When the caravans rest, they
sit under the palm trees in some oasis, telling stories their fathers
told, and using the Old Testament forms of speech. Still in that land of
nomads to see is to “lift up the eyes,” and maidens go to draw water when
the day’s heat is over just as Rebecca went to the well of Nahor.
The book of Joshua is a glorious adventure story. The siege and
destruction of Jericho, the victories of Joshua, the slave boy from Egypt
who became the first soldier of the Hebrews, the distribution of Canaan
among the tribes of Israel, and Othniel’s valor and reward satisfy every
desire of the child who craves hero stories. They satisfy now as they
satisfied two thousand years ago, because they grew out of the life of a
people and run the entire gamut of human emotion as only racial tales can
do.
The book of Judges is a collection of incomparable narratives. The
enslavement of Israel by Jabin, the defeat and death of Sisera, and
Gideon’s deliverance and victory never fail to hold boys and girls who
crave the heroic. Moreover, these stories will arouse interest in perhaps
the finest ode known to any literature, the song of Deborah in the fifth
chapter of Judges. Give the children some idea of what it has meant to
the world. Ruskin said the memorizing of it in his boyhood shaped his
taste for literature, and Macaulay declared it inspired him to write
“Horatius at the Bridge.” Read the work of the English poet, and bring
out the lovely pictures in the great Hebrew ode, for it is not fair to
our young people that we allow them to go through life without knowing
this gem, without leading them to see the beauty of these exquisite words:
Speak, ye that ride on white asses, ye that sit in judgment and
walk by the way.
They that are delivered from the noise of archers in the places
of drawing water, there shall they rehearse the righteous acts
of the Lord.
Visualize the scenes in those lines: sumptuous, haughty Hebrews,
traveling as only the prosperous traveled; men in the fine linen of
lawgivers, holding places of power in the land; vagabonds lounging along
the highways, begging alms of passers-by; husbandmen tilling fields far
from the sound of conflict; men in every walk of life, widely separated
by material conditions, yet brothers in a common weal, rejoicing in a
common blessing, the victory of Barak over the foe of Israel. It is as
rich in color as a canvas by Titian, and pupils in the upper grammar
grades will grow to love it if it is presented as it should be, through
the medium of the story.
The books of Samuel, with their tales of Saul and of David, of the
shepherd boy from the Hebron hills making music for Israel’s king, his
meeting and slaying Goliath, Saul and the Witch of Endor, and all the
eventful life of David are glorious materials for the story-teller. Here
again inspiration may be obtained from the work of a modern writer.
Browning’s “Saul” will greatly aid the narrator in telling the story of
the boy David, for the picture the poet gives of the afflicted monarch
in his tent, the son of Jesse standing beside him singing the Hebrew
gleaning songs, is as vivid as it is exquisite.
Where can we find a more splendid narrative than that of Solomon, in the
second book of Kings? Where is the boy or girl who does not delight in
listening to the account of the visit of Hiram, king of Tyre, when two
sumptuous monarchs met; of the collection of materials and the building
of the temple; of the visit of the Queen of Sheba, the adversity and
death of Solomon, and that succession of events that led to the captivity
of Israel? Here, too, we find the great story of the invasion of Judah
and the destruction of Sennacherib; and Byron’s poem will vivify this
tale just as Browning’s “Saul” vivifies that of the boy David.
The only reason why children look upon the Bible as a dull, ponderous
book is that they are not familiar with the Old Testament adventure
tales, and it is a mistake to think that present-day boys and girls will
turn away from them. If playground and settlement workers would give
more time and attention to the stories of the Hebrews, they would have
less difficulty in reaching hoodlumish boys. It is necessary to use tact
in presentation,—“sense,” as Lilian Bell says, “of the brand commonly
known as horse,”—for to preface a narrative with, “Now I shall tell you
a Bible story,” might mean an insurrection. The only way is to bring the
hero on the stage and tell his tale so vividly that the listeners are
held by it to the end. After they come to know such men as Gideon and
Joshua, they will regard the Bible as a great storybook.
A settlement worker had this experience not long ago. She told the tale
of Joshua to a group of young ruffians, who sat through it as if held
by a spell, and at its conclusion the leader of the band remarked,
“That was some story!” Other Old Testament heroes were then introduced
with excellent effect, and the lads were amazed to learn that the Bible
contained such stories. But results of this kind cannot be obtained
without effort and preparation on the part of the raconteur.
Bible stories, being the perfect tales of the world, should be told as
nearly as possible in the language and style in which they were written.
Some modification is necessary for the purpose of clarifying, but the
Biblical expressions should be used frequently. Quote freely from the
original or follow the story with a Bible reading, that the child who
hears the tales may catch something of the majestic beauty of expression
of the Hebrew story-tellers. There can be no more pitiful mistake than
to tell these matchless narratives in the vernacular of the street. To
use modern slang in recounting the wanderings of Isaac or the passing of
the Children of Israel through the Red Sea is to profane a marvelous
artistic creation, even though it had no religious significance, and
unfortunately story-tellers sometimes do this, thinking they will make
the tales more interesting to children. That sort of narration will amuse
and hold young folk only as long as it lasts, and leaders of children
are not working merely for the here and now. Their effort is for time
and eternity, and they should have sufficient vision to see beyond the
present, sufficient sense of proportion to estimate values. The Old
Testament tales need no modern strokes to make them attractive, because
they abound in color and incidents that lead to superb climaxes, and
never fail to fascinate when given with sincerity. Therefore they should
be told in simple, dignified language, as the men of Israel told them
when the world was young, and while they fire the imagination, they will
lead children unconsciously to an appreciation of beautiful English,
which is one of the cardinal aims of every story-teller who is worthy of
the name.
The teller of Bible stories should draw from music and art, as well as
from literature, because to follow a tale with a picture or musical
number inspired by it is to heighten enjoyment and strengthen the
impression already made. If children see Bendemann’s masterpiece, “By
the Waters of Babylon,” after they have heard the story of the captivity
of Israel, they will have a sympathy for the exiled Hebrews that they
cannot have otherwise. Saul, David, and many other Old Testament
heroes will seem more than ever like living, breathing men when viewed
as Michelangelo portrayed them, while Giulio Romano’s frescoes, “The
Story of Joseph,” or Pellafrino da Modena’s “Story of Solomon,” will
intensify their color and romance and help to lead to an appreciation
of art. Cheap reproductions bring these and other masterpieces within
the reach of the narrator, and he should travel every bypath in which
he may glean materials that will help children to love these old tales.
He should keep ever before him the thought of how they have enriched
the world, and how powerfully lives are influenced by stories heard in
childhood. When Bertel Thorwaldsen was a blue-eyed boy in Copenhagen,
he heard a tale that long afterward became the inspiration of “The Lion
of Lucerne,” and young Richard Wagner, playing in a Dresden street
one day, crept into a group to which a strolling bard was telling the
medieval legend of “Parsifal.” It was a seed planted in a creative mind,
and years afterward it flowered in two noble operas of the Holy Grail.
So it was with Goethe, with Browning, with Byron, and many other great
men. Perhaps in your group of youthful hearers there may be a boy or a
girl who will listen as gifted children of the past have listened to an
old, old story, and perhaps your telling it may result, long after your
work is ended, in his giving to some branch of art a creation that will
enrich the world through generations yet to come. But even though there
be no budding genius among your auditors, sincere, artistic telling of
the Bible stories cannot fail to produce great results. It will develop
the emotional nature of the average child; it will broaden his sympathy
and increase his capacity for feeling, make him more sympathetic, more
responsive to the joys and sorrows of his fellow men, and better fitted
to become a useful citizen.
SOURCES OF MATERIAL FOR BIBLE STORIES
ABBOTT, LYMAN: _Life and Literature of the Ancient Hebrews_.
AGUILAR, GRACE: _The Women of Israel_.
BARING-GOULD, S.: _Lives of the Saints_.
CANTON, WILLIAM: _A Child’s Book of Saints_.
DEARMER, MABEL: _A Child’s Life of Christ_.
DOANE, T. W.: _Bible Myths_.
FISKE, JOHN: _The Myths of Israel_; _The Great Epic of Israel_.
HODGES, GEORGE: _A Child’s Guide to the Bible_.
HOUGHTON, LOUISE S.: _Telling Bible Stories_; _Hebrew Life and
Thought_.
KENT, CHARLES FOSTER: _Heroes and Crises of Early Hebrew
History_.
LAGERLÖF, SELMA: _Christ Legends_.
OLCOTT, FRANCES JENKINS: _Bible Stories to Read and Tell_.
SANGSTER, MARGARET E., and YONGE, CHARLOTTE M.: _Stories from
the Best of Books_.
SMITH, GEORGE A.: _A Historical Geography of the Holy Land_.
SMITH, NORA A.: _Old, Old Tales from the Old, Old Book_.
VAN DYKE, HENRY, ABBOTT, LYMAN, and OTHERS: _Women of the
Bible_.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
STORY-TELLING AND THE TEACHING OF ETHICS
The function of education is not only to give the child knowledge and
a capacity for acquiring further knowledge that shall equip him for
the life struggle and make success a possible attainment, but also to
give him an ethical standard that shall make him fit to live among his
fellows and a respect for the rights and feelings of others, or, as
Goethe says in _Wilhelm Meister_, “Reverence for what is above, reverence
for what is beneath, reverence for what is equal.” He must be taught to
realize that he is part of a great unit and that individual desires must
often give way to the welfare of the many. He must be taught that as an
individual he owes to society obedience to the laws that govern society
and allegiance to the principles that make possible a harmonious family,
civic, and national life. Consequently it is required of every teacher
that she give ethical instruction, that she endeavor to bring children
to an understanding of what is generally accepted as right and wrong,
and implant in them convictions strong enough to cause them to adhere to
those standards.
In establishing ethical standards, as in establishing standards in art,
literature, or music, we must appeal to the emotional side of the child
as well as to the intellectual side. We must lead him to feel that the
right act is the one that he wants to do, and this cannot be accomplished
by a presentation of dry facts and precepts. Every teacher knows that
the time spent in admonishing a child what he _ought_ to do brings no
gratifying results. He is not swayed to repugnance for one act or to
admiration for another by being told “Thou shalt,” or “Thou shalt not.”
At the time the command is given, fear may cause him to obey it; but
conduct that is the result of force does not strengthen the character or
teach high standards of action. It tends instead to harden the child and
make him determined to act differently at the first opportunity. Ethical
training does not mean to attempt to control the child, but to enlighten
him and direct his volition to the point where he will attempt to control
himself. As Ella Lyman Cabot says, “Its aim is to make the best there
is so inviting to the child that he will work eagerly and persistently
to win it.” The ideal that is held up to him must be so beautiful that
he will be willing to sacrifice and endure hardship in order to attain
to it, and through story-telling he may be led to see this ideal more
vividly than in any other way, because the story makes right acts
appealing and wrong acts repugnant. Moreover, through the narrator’s
art the child lives the experiences of the tales he hears. He suffers
with the evildoer and is rewarded with the virtuous, and because he is
powerfully moved by a narrative, his character is lastingly affected by
it.
In giving ethical instruction, it is necessary to use the right material.
Tales selected for this purpose should be suited to the child’s
particular period of mental development, they should contain a lesson
the boy or the girl ought to learn, and they should be strong and virile
and true to life. Much harm is done by telling stories of unusually
good children. Such young folk are unpopular with boys and girls, and
the story about them is as distasteful as is the “goody-goody” that is
met with in real life. Instead of being an influence toward commendable
action and the acceptance of a higher standard of right and wrong, the
over-idealistic tale antagonizes the child and goads him toward that from
which we would have him veer aside. Perhaps this accounts for the fact
that girls often enjoy boys’ stories more than those written especially
for girls. The normal girl wants to read and hear about live, natural
young folk, and the heroine who has drawing-room manners and nothing else
is very far from her ideal. Story characters that influence children
must be human, full of human faults and virtues. From their failures and
successes young people will learn many valuable lessons, but they will
learn no lesson from one who poses as an unnatural young saint.
Moral training should begin with the babe, and therefore the mother and
primary teacher need stories that have ethical values as early as they
need Mother Goose tales and jingles. Very early in life the child must be
brought to realize that there is a higher law than that of its own will
or desire. It must be taught obedience, cleanliness, kindness to animals,
consideration for the rights of others, truthfulness, industry, honesty,
and courtesy, and these lessons can be inculcated more effectively by
means of story-telling than in any other way. The tale of “The Little Red
Hen” doing the work and reaping the reward of her labor is a sermon on
industry that little people do not forget. The story of the farmer boy
who rolled the stone out of the highway because he feared it might cause
injury to some one, and then of the compensation that came to him at the
hands of the lord of the village who placed it there, will help to make
children thoughtful and kindly.
In telling stories of this type, the narrator should emphasize the fact
that the greatest reward is the mental satisfaction that follows a good
action, because the child who hears much of material reward sometimes
thinks chiefly of the money or picnic or good time commendable conduct
may bring, and if it happens that he does not receive remuneration,
decides it is useless to perform good deeds. A case of this kind that
came under my observation was that of a boy in a country school, a lazy,
thoughtless little fellow. One day when a man drove through the school
yard, his brother, who was very considerate, ran to open the gate. The
stranger tossed a penny to the child, and the teacher, thinking to give a
lasting lesson in consideration to the thoughtless boy, dwelt at length
upon the stick of candy the money would buy. Several days later another
man drove through the school yard and the thoughtless boy ran to open the
gate. He received a smile and a “Thank you” but no money, and he could
not be persuaded to open the gate again.
It is well to give stories in which children are materially rewarded, but
they should be taught to see that material reward is not the only reward,
and that desire for it should not be the motive that prompts a good
action. The fireman who risks his life in saving the property or life of
another is not bountifully paid, and seldom does he receive a purse for
bravery. But he is true to his duty. He is giving to society the thing
that he owes it, service, and his greatest guerdon is the satisfaction
that comes from being steadfast to a trust. Examples of this kind are of
great value to the child who is inclined to be selfish, and they are very
effective in bringing all children to realize the truth of Alice Cary’s
words:
There are no fairy folk who ride about the world at night,
To give you rings and other things to pay for doing right,
But if you’ll do to others what you’d have them do to you,
You’ll be as blest as if the best of fairy tales were true.
Very young children can be taught to realize that the true reward
of right conduct comes from added self-respect and from winning the
esteem of others, and whenever a child is given a tale in which a boy
or a girl receives some wonderful treasure for kindness or courtesy or
truthfulness, the narrator will do well to interpolate a sentence like
this: “And the best part of it was that Albert was happy because he had
done what was right. That thought gave him a glad feeling even more than
the big, shiny dollar.”
Many fairy tales and fables are of particular ethical value for little
children, and the narrator can draw much from the field of general
literature; biography and history hold many good examples, while the
Bible is a rich storehouse of material. Ella Lyman Cabot’s excellent
work, _Ethics for Children_, discusses the ethical side of story-telling
in such a detailed and complete way that it should be in the hands of
every mother and teacher. The book gives valuable suggestions, not only
to workers with little folk, but to those who have the training of
grammar grade and high-school pupils also. Carolyn Sherwin Bailey’s
_Stories for Sunday Telling_ contains some good material for the mother
and the primary teacher, while the several books by Sara Cone Bryant
(listed in Chapter Seven, “Telling the Story”) will be helpful.
The following list is one that has been used with good results:
STORIES TO DEVELOP OR STAMP OUT CERTAIN TRAITS AND INSTINCTS
_Deceit_
ÆSOP: The Fox that Lost Its Tail (ADAMS, WILLIAM: _Fables and
Rhymes—Æsop and Mother Goose_).
_Malice_
ÆSOP: The Dog in the Manger (ADAMS, WILLIAM: _Fables and
Rhymes—Æsop_).
_Sympathy and Compassion_
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: A Lesson for Kings (_Ethics for Children_).
SAWYER, RUTH: The Gipsy Mother’s Story of Joseph and Mary
(_This Way to Christmas_).
_Honesty_
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: The Little Loaf (_Ethics for Children_).
_Faithfulness to Duty_
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Little Hero of Haarlem (_How to Tell
Stories_).
CARY, PHŒBE: The Leak in the Dike (_Poems_).
_Inattention_
BRYANT, SARA CONE: Epaminondas and His Auntie (_How to Tell
Stories_).
GRIMM, JACOB: Stupid Hans (_German Household Tales_).
_Obedience_
PARTRIDGE, E. N. and G. E.: The Little Cowherd Brother
(_Story-Telling in the Home and School_).
_Generosity_
BAILEY, CAROLYN SHERWIN: The Boy Who Had a Picnic (_Stories and
Rhymes for the Child_).
BAILEY, C. S., and LEWIS, CLARA M.: The Woodpecker Who Was
Selfish (_For the Children’s Hour_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Cloud (_How to Tell Stories_).
BULFINCH, THOMAS: Baucis and Philemon (_The Age of Fable_).
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: Margaret of New Orleans (_Ethics for
Children_).
CARY, ALICE: The Pig and the Hen (_Poems_).
GRIMM, JACOB: The Star Dollars (_German Household Tales_).
GRIMM, JOSEPH: The Elves and the Shoemaker (_German Household
Tales_).
WILDE, OSCAR: The Happy Prince.
_Love and Sweetness_
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Mirror of Matsuyama (_How to Tell
Stories_).
TOLSTOÏ, LEO: Where Love Is, There God Is Also (See BRYANT:
_How to Tell Stories_).
_Forgiveness_
BIBLE: The Prodigal Son.
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: Lincoln and William Scott (_Ethics for
Children_).
HUGO, VICTOR: The Bishop and Jean Valjean (_Les Misérables_).
MOULTON, LOUISE CHANDLER: Coals of Fire (In CABOT: _Ethics for
Children_).
TOLSTOÏ, LEO: A Spark Neglected Burns the Whole House (In
CABOT: _Ethics for Children_).
_Cleanliness_
BAILEY, CAROLYN S.: The Child Who Forgot to Wash
(_Story-Telling Time_).
KINGSLEY, CHARLES: Tom, the Chimney Sweep (_Water Babies_).
LINDSAY, MAUD: Dust under the Rug (_Mother Stories_).
RICHARDS, LAURA E.: The Pig Brother (_The Pig Brother and Other
Stories_).
_Perseverance_
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: The Story of Helen Keller (_Ethics for
Children_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: Old Jan’s Twilight Tale; The Joyous
Vagabond; The Whittler of Cremona; The Border Wonderful;
Jacopo, the Little Dyer (_Boyhood Stories of Famous Men_).
HOLLAND, RUPERT S.: The Boy of the Medici Gardens (_Historic
Boyhoods_).
_Industry_
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Gold in the Orchard; The Castle of
Fortune; The Sailor Man (_How to Tell Stories_).
_Contentment_
BROWNING, ROBERT: Pippa Passes (_Poems_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Rat Princess (_How to Tell Stories_).
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: The Discontented Pendulum (_Ethics for
Children_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: The Discontented Pig.
MENEFEE, MAUD: Pippa Passes (_Child Stories from the Masters_).
_Kindness_
ÆSOP: The Lion and the Mouse (ADAMS: _Fables and Rhymes—Æsop
and Mother Goose_).
ANDERSEN, H. C.: Five Peas in a Pod (_Wonder Stories Told to
Children_).
BAILEY, C. S.: The Little Brown Lady (_Story-telling Time_).
BROWN, ABBIE FARWELL: St. Francis of Assisi and the Wolf (_Book
of Saints and Friendly Beasts_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: Prince Cherry (_Stories to Tell to
Children_); Why Evergreen Trees Keep Their Leaves (_How to Tell
Stories_).
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: Dama’s Jewels (_Ethics for Children_).
GRIMM, JACOB: Snow White and Rose Red; Snow White and the Seven
Dwarfs; Queen Bee (_German Household Tales_).
LONGFELLOW, HENRY: The Bell of Atri (_Poems_); (see also WIGGIN
and SMITH: _The Children’s Hour_).
PARTRIDGE, E. N. and G. E.: The Stone Lion; Little Paulina’s
Christmas (_Story-Telling in the Home and School_).
RICHARDS, LAURA E.: Florence Nightingale and the Shepherd Dog
(_Florence Nightingale, the Angel of the Crimea_).
STOCKTON, FRANK R.: Old Pipes and the Dryad (LYMAN:
_Story-Telling: What to Tell and How to Tell It_).
_Greed_
ÆSOP: The Dog and His Shadow (In ADAMS: _Fables and Rhymes—Æsop
and Mother Goose_).
HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL: The Golden Touch (_Wonder-Book_).
_Courtesy_
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: A Four-Footed Gentleman (_Ethics for
Children_).
History and biography offer a particularly rich field from which to draw
material for older children, for nothing drives home with more force a
lesson in patriotism, loyalty, faithfulness, heroism, or obedience than
to read of some one who has been put to the test and has triumphed.
Dozens of characters worth emulating will occur to any teacher, and the
following books will be found of particular value:
SOURCES OF MATERIAL TO USE IN THE TEACHING OF ETHICS
BALDWIN, JAMES: _American Book of Golden Deeds_.
BOLTON, SARAH K.: _Famous Leaders among Men_; _Lives of Poor
Boys Who Became Famous_; _Lives of Girls Who Became Famous_.
LANG, ANDREW: _The True Story Book_.
LANG, JEANIE: _The Story of Robert the Bruce_.
RICHARDS, LAURA E.: _Florence Nightingale, the Angel of the
Crimea_.
PART TWO
THE USE OF STORY-TELLING TO ILLUMINATE SOME SCHOOLROOM SUBJECTS—STORIES
FOR TELLING
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
STORY-TELLING TO INTENSIFY INTEREST IN HISTORY
It has been said by Walter Prichard Eaton, “The pupil who gets a mark
of one hundred and thereafter hates Shakespeare, has failed—rather, his
teacher has,”—and it is equally true that the instructor also has failed
whose classes look upon history as a series of dates and dull facts
instead of a colorful story.
To teach history successfully means to give the child vivid pictures of
the past, to enable him to see as a whole the march of a race or of a
nation across the canvas of time, to watch the legions of warriors go
to victory or defeat, to hear the voices of statesmen whose wisdom has
builded empires, to walk side by side with the men and women whose lives
make up the annals of the world. To be of value to the child, history
must be felt, just as a work of literature must be felt. He must live
it, must approve the worthy and disapprove the unworthy, must rejoice in
and sympathize with the fortunes and misfortunes of its characters, else
it cannot be anything more to him than the chronology in the almanac,
disliked during his school days and forgotten as soon as they are over.
Story-telling can make history alive and vital because of its power
to convey the child to distant scenes and ages, and through it he may
become, not only a spectator, but a participant in every human activity.
If our libraries were to be swept away and publishing houses should
shut their doors, we could still teach history to children, and teach
it successfully, through the art of the narrator. By the medium of the
story we can make the child see what has been done by his ancestors
and other people in the past; by it we can interpret to him how his
forefathers lived and acted, how other people have attempted to do what
he is trying to do or sees done, and give him a vivid idea of human ways
of living and conduct. This is history in the larger sense, and it was
taught successfully by the story-teller in the past.
Before the days of printing, when books were manuscripts that no one but
monks could read and kings could afford to own, story-telling was the
only way in which this subject was taught. Tales of bygone days were told
in castle halls and to groups of eager listeners on the village green,
and boys and girls of King Alfred’s time knew as much of their country’s
story from the lips of wandering bards as those of our generation know
from cramming the contents of textbooks. They knew it because through
the tales they heard they were able to relive it, and what has been done
before can be done again. Because of the story’s power to vivify, modern
children can relive the world’s story just as those in medieval times
relived it, and history can be made a subject fraught with delight to the
child.
Child attention centers first upon familiar things, and radiates from
them to the unknown. Through his interest in creatures that are a
part of his environment, the kindergarten tot becomes interested in
those of other regions, in the men, women, children, and animals that
are part of the life of some other child. Through knowledge of his
immediate surroundings he comes to acquire knowledge of life in other
surroundings, and according to the appeal it makes to his imagination, he
understands and sympathizes with it, and his social sense is broadened.
Therefore, in the study of history, the attention should be focused
upon local environment, and from it should radiate to other sections
of the world. In other words, by what the child sees happening around
him, he must be led to see what has happened in the past and what is
happening now in distant regions. This requires imagination, and a boy
or a girl cannot see or feel these events if they are presented as a
dry chronology, because under those conditions they do not arouse the
imagination. He must behold them flashed on a canvas like a colorful
picture, and because the story can do this, because it can make real to
the imagination situations that cannot be experienced, through it he can
be led to see and feel all that we desire him to see and feel.
The biographical story, the tale of the leader who towers above his
fellows like the Matterhorn above the Valais foothills, is a boon to
every teacher of history. Because it is unified in plot and dramatic
in appeal to the imagination, it is the most easily handled of all the
history material, and should be used freely. But if children are not to
have a distorted idea of the story of the human race, we must not stop
with the biographical tale. We must give them also a conception of the
part the masses have had in the making of the great human story, of the
yeomen of England, upon whose sturdy shoulders the foundation of British
liberty stands, of the vassals of Italy, France, and Germany, of the
army of unknown toilers who built the Pyramids and the Chinese Wall.
Sometimes, in satisfying the child’s hero-love, we make him one-sided by
laying too much stress upon individual achievement and not enough upon
the work of the multitude. We do not lead him to value the importance of
the humble who toil in the rank and file. This is not as it should be. We
should make it clear to him that the stokers who feed the furnace of the
man-of-war are as splendidly patriotic as the admiral who commands the
fleet, and are as necessary to their land, because, were there no coal
heavers, there could be no navy.
Sometimes, too, because martial events are more spectacular than those of
peace, we give the impression that they are the only important and heroic
ones, and fail to convince the children of the fact that the peasants
of Lorraine, who tilled their fields until they blossomed like gardens,
served their land as loyally as the soldiers who marched to victory under
the oriflamme of Henry of Navarre. We are too prone to center the child
interest around military affairs, and neglect to emphasize the importance
of conflicts of another kind. The history of every modern industry, of
every achievement that has meant anything to the world, is a story of
struggle, of victory over opposing forces. It has its succession of
events, its periods of triumph and defeat, its moments of suspense, and
its thrilling climax, and if presented in all its possibilities, is as
fascinating to childhood as Napoleon’s Russian campaign. Let us not fail
to give these narratives of struggle that are unstained by human blood,
and in doing it lead children to understand that there are other ways of
serving one’s land besides riding a war horse or carrying a musket.
We teach that Robert Fulton invented the first steamboat, but it is only
the exceptional child-leader who makes the most of that event, who throws
upon the canvas, for youth to behold, the story of the struggle and
disappointment, the triumph and despair, of the young American engineer.
To give them the fact that the _Clermont_ made a successful trip from New
York to Albany in 1807, is like telling the end of a story without the
beginning or intervening chapters, and a snatch of a tale never has the
effect of the whole. But if the children have all the light and shade of
that splendid narrative of invention, of the labor beside the Seine, of
the hope and discouragement there, it becomes a fascinating, unforgotten
tale. They remember the _Clermont_ episode because they have enjoyed
a story, and years afterward, when they see a ferryboat or an ocean
greyhound, they will think of the New Englander through whose dreams and
labor it came to be.
To the teacher who looks upon history as a great, fascinating tale, who
regards it as a narrative instead of a mere bunch of dates and periods,
who knows the story of man’s inner development as well as that of his
outer, and who uses the myths, legends, and epics of a land as side
lights to illuminate its true story, great results are possible. There is
no phase or period of history that he cannot make intensely interesting
to the child, no page of the world’s story that will not teem with life
and color to the boy or girl who receives it from such an instructor. It
may be an account of events in his own land, of happenings in the stern,
white north country or in the opalescent south, it may be of knights in
glittering armor or of serene-faced, brown-cowled friars, of men from the
masses or from the ranks of the exalted, but it will breathe and pulsate
for him, it will give him the information that he should receive, and it
will give him an understanding that no memorizing of dates and outlines
can give, because he has lived with those who made history, because he
has suffered, rejoiced, and achieved with them.
Every great historian is more than a recounter of events of the past. He
is an artist who fits himself into the moods of men and women who lived
and accomplished before his time, puts them into his pages as creatures
of flesh and blood, and gives to their activities as much freshness
and interest as have the events that happen before our eyes. Motley,
Guizot, Hume, Hallam, Froissart, and our own Parkman, Lodge, Prescott,
and Bancroft created as splendidly as ever Hugo, Corneille, or Balzac
created, because they endowed characters of fact with as much life as
these other men gave to characters of fiction; and consequently, with
sources rich in inspiration from which to draw, the teacher who aspires
to vivify history by story-telling is confronted by no hopeless task. He
need only go to the works of the standard historians for his background,
and then, by giving the imagination sufficient play to supply setting and
detail of situation, he can carry a joyful lesson to the children. This
is well illustrated in the following story of Western discovery. Children
love it and ask to have it told again and again, while if the bare facts
are given them in outline form, it means little to them. Not every
teacher is gifted to the degree of Miss Hood and can hope to weave a fact
of history into a tale that deserves to rank as a children’s classic; but
every teacher can put history into story form with enough skill to make
it hold delight for his pupils and cause them to go from his instruction
with a fondness for history, an understanding of what history really
means, which is worth infinitely more than a thousand dates or outlines
crammed into the mind for an examination or recitation, or stored there
permanently to rust and grow useless, because they have no meaning, and
therefore no broadening or illuminating effect upon his life.
THE SEARCH FOR THE SEVEN CITIES
By MARGARET GRAHAM HOOD
_The Story of Tejos_
In the year 1530, when Nuño de Guzmán was governor of New Spain, he had
an Indian slave of whom he was very fond and who was likewise fond of his
master. He was a good servant and different in many ways from all the
other slaves in the palace, and it often pleased Nuño de Guzmán to talk
with him.
“Tejos,” said De Guzmán to him one day, “tell me of your home when you
were a boy, and tell me of your father and mother.”
Then Tejos turned away from his master and stood for a long time silent.
“Master,” he said at last, “when Tejos was a boy he lived not in this
land, nor was he a slave. His home was in a land far, far to the
northward. My lord, it was a great land. Beyond the home of my father
there was yet another country greater still. In that farther land were
seven great cities, and even the smallest of them was as great as this
city of Mexico. So rich were the people of those cities that they made
arrowheads of emeralds, and scraped the sweat from their bodies with
scrapers made of gold, and put precious stones over their doors. Their
houses were wide and high. My father carried to these people the feathers
that they wore upon their heads, and in return they gave him gold and
turquoises and emeralds. My father took Tejos with him twice, my lord,
when he journeyed with feathers to those cities, and though Tejos was
then but a small boy, he still remembers the long streets where were only
the stores of jewelers who sold the precious stones and made them into
ornaments for the people.”
“And where,” asked Nuño de Guzmán breathlessly, “where is this land?”
“It is far away from here, my lord,” answered Tejos, sadly. “Forty days
you must journey to reach it, and the land through which you must travel
is a desert lying between two seas, and there is neither water nor food
to be had.”
Scarcely waiting to sleep, De Guzmán began to gather a force to march in
search of this wonderful land. Far and wide the story spread and on all
sides the talk was of
_The Land of the Seven Cities_
With four hundred Spaniards and twenty thousand Indians, De Guzmán
marched from Mexico, and the people waited each day to hear that he had
conquered a great empire in the north.
As he went, rumors of the Seven Cities kept coming to him, and his men
were often so excited he could hardly get them to sleep enough. For days
they pressed eagerly forward, hoping each day to find the Seven Cities
at hand; but instead of this, the country each day grew more desolate,
the mountains grew steeper and the roads harder to find, while the Seven
Cities, instead of coming nearer, were always farther and farther to the
north.
Then the Indians began to desert and the Spaniards to complain. “We have
been deceived,” they said, “and we shall all die in this bleak land. Let
us return to Mexico.”
For a while Nuño de Guzmán cheered them by holding ever before them the
reward that awaited them, but at last he too grew discouraged and afraid;
they all turned about and marched sadly back to Mexico.
“We will go back now,” said Nuño de Guzmán, “but some day I will have the
right sort of an army and I will come again. Tejos himself shall lead me,
and I will yet find and conquer those Seven Cities.”
But when he returned to Mexico, Tejos was dead, and the story of Nuño de
Guzmán’s misfortunes discouraged others; so for six years no one went to
seek the Seven Cities. Then a strange thing happened.
_The Wanderings of Cabeza de Vaca_
Into the town of Culiacan there one day came wandering four strange men.
They were barefooted and almost naked. The little clothing they wore was
made of skins and hung in rags about them. Their hair lay in a tangled
mass upon their shoulders, and their beards reached almost to their knees.
They fell at the feet of the first Spaniard they met, crying, “Thank God!
Thank God! At last! At last!” Then they seized his hands and kissed them,
kissed each other, and danced about, clapping their hands and shouting
for joy.
“They are madmen,” said the people who gathered around to look at them.
“What shall we do with them?”
“No, no,” cried the oldest of the strangers. “No, no! You do not
understand. We are poor wanderers who have been lost for years among the
Indians. We have been slaves; our companions have died, but at last we
have escaped and now, for the first time in years, we see Christians and
Spaniards and our joy overcomes us. Can you wonder at it, dear friends?”
“Lost among the Indians!” murmured the people in astonishment. “Made
slaves by the Indians! Terrible! What can it mean?”
“There is something very strange about it,” said one.
“Let us take them before our Capitán,” said another, and they took them
at once to the Capitán.
“Who are you?” he asked rudely, looking with disgust at their dirt and
rags.
“I am Cabeza de Vaca,” said the oldest man. “I am a noble of Castile who
came with Narvaez to conquer Florida. The fleet was wrecked and all were
lost save these three companions and me. We have been all these years
since among the Indians.”
“I do not believe a word of it,” said the Capitán. “There is something
strange about it. These men may be criminals. Put them into prison until
we find out.”
For three months they lay in the prison. Then they were sent for by the
Alcalde Melchior Diaz. He received them with all kindness, and to him
they were allowed to tell their story.
“Is it true,” he said to the oldest man, “that you are Cabeza de Vaca of
Castile?”
“It is true,” answered Cabeza de Vaca. “Ten years ago I sailed with
Narvaez to the Florida coast to take part in his great expedition, but,
alas! all our ships were wrecked and only a few of us escaped to the
mainland. There most of those who did escape died, and we four, three
of us Spaniards and one a negro, have wandered ever since among the
Indians. We wept for joy at sight of our own people when we reached your
town, but they have treated us worse than did the Indians.”
“Do not think of that now,” said kind Melchior Diaz. “It was a mistake;
you shall now be treated with all the kindness that is your due. Tell me
your story.”
Then Cabeza de Vaca began the story of his wanderings:
“After Narvaez and the ships were lost,” said he, “we escaped to the
mainland and were taken captive by the Indians. They were a poor, starved
people who lived on roots and berries and whatever they could get, and
who often went for days without a mouthful. I do not know how many years
they held us as slaves, but it was for many years and our sufferings were
great.
“We tried always to get to the north, and little by little we got further
westward and northward.
“At last we escaped from those Indians who held us as slaves and fell in
with others farther west who had never seen a white man. We had with us a
rattle such as is used by their medicine men, and this, with our beards,
made them think we were from heaven. They fell on their faces before us
and gave us all that they had.
“We told these people we wished to go to where the sun sets, and they
said, ‘No, you cannot go there. The people are too far away.’
“‘It makes no difference,’ I said, ‘you must still lead us there.’
“We saw they were in great fear, but at last they sent off two of their
women to see if they could find the other people and tell them of our
coming. In five days they came back. ‘They have found no people,’ said
the Indians to us. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘lead us to the northward,’ and again
they said: ‘There are no people there. Neither is there food or water.’
“At this I became offended and went apart from them, and at night went
away by myself to sleep. But they came at once where I was and remained
all night without sleep. They talked to me in great fear, telling me how
great was their fright, begging us to be no longer angry; and they said
they would lead us whatsoever way we wished to go, though they knew they
should die on the way.
“We still pretended to be angry, lest their fright should leave them, and
while we were thus pretending a remarkable thing happened: the very next
day many of them became ill, and eight men died. They believed we had
caused their death by willing it, and it seemed as if they must all die
of fear.
“In truth, it caused us so much pain to see them suffer that it could not
be greater, and we prayed to God, our Lord, to relieve them, and they
soon got better.
“News of our strange power spread through the land, and the people
trembled at our coming. Sometimes they would come to meet us, and bring
all they owned and offer it to us. Or, again, when they heard we were
coming, they would go into their houses and pile all their goods in a
heap in the middle of the floor for us, and then sit down, with their
faces to the wall, their heads bowed, and their hair drawn over their
eyes. Thus they waited until we came and spoke to them. Then they gave us
whatever we would take from them.
“Wherever we went, they brought their sick to us and begged us to cure
them. We always examined them carefully, and treated them as best we knew
how, and prayed earnestly to God to help us, and they nearly always got
well. Whenever a sick man got well, he not only gave us all that he had,
but all his friends did likewise.
“As we pressed westward and northward we came all the time to finer
Indians who had more wealth and better homes than those farther east.
“At last we came to a land of plenty. The people lived in houses and had
beans, pumpkins, and calabashes for food and covered themselves with
blankets made of hides. They were the finest-looking and strongest people
we had seen and intelligent beyond any of the others. They had nothing
they did not give to us. They begged us to pray for rain and told us that
for two years not a drop had fallen. When we asked where they had got
their food, they told us from the land of the maize. Then I bade them
tell me of this land of the maize, and they told that beyond them was
a land of many people and large houses, where maize grew all over the
land; that the people of that land were wealthy and wore beautiful plumes
and feathers of parrots, and used precious stones for arrowheads and to
decorate their houses. And they brought to me five beautiful emeralds cut
into arrowheads, and many fine turquoises and beads made of coral such as
come from the South Seas. When I asked whence they got these stones, they
pointed to some lofty mountains that stand toward the north and told us
that from there came the precious stones, and that near those mountains
were large cities. They said that in those cities the houses were so
large that there were sometimes three or four lofts one above the other.”
“And did you not go to those cities?” asked Melchior Diaz, eagerly.
“No,” answered Cabeza de Vaca. “I did not go because I heard that toward
the sunset were other men of my kind, and I hurried westward, hoping to
meet them. Therefore I did not go to the land of the cities. I longed
once more to look upon the face of a Spaniard.”
“You have suffered much,” said Melchior Diaz, “but do not think of it,
and now rest.”
Then Melchior Diaz sent off a messenger to Mexico to carry a letter to
the Viceroy de Mendoza, telling him of Cabeza de Vaca and his strange
tale.
Forthwith the messenger returned with a letter commanding Cabeza de
Vaca and his companions to come at once to Mexico and appear before the
viceroy.
To Mexico they went, and again Cabeza told the strange story of their
wanderings.
“It is a wonderful story,” said the viceroy, when he had finished, “and
you certainly deserve to spend the rest of your life in ease. Say the
word, and I myself will send you home to Spain.”
Cabeza de Vaca almost wept for joy at these words. “Gladly will I go,
dear friend. Gladly will I go, for I am weary of wandering and would once
more see my own country.”
So Cabeza de Vaca and two of his companions sailed off to Spain, and
the Viceroy de Mendoza thought much of the wonderful cities far to the
northward.
_The Journey of Fray Marcos_
The story of Cabeza de Vaca set all New Spain talking once more of the
Seven Cities.
“Of course,” said the people, as they talked, “of course they are the
same seven cities Nuño de Guzmán learned of from Tejos, the Indian. He
did not get the right directions, and so he failed to reach them. But now
we know they are there,” and many were eager to set out at once.
But the Viceroy de Mendoza was a quiet and careful statesman.
“There have been many lives lost already,” he said, “and it will be
better not to be in too great a hurry. I believe these are the seven
cities sought for by Nuño de Guzmán, but I shall not send an army until I
am sure.”
Then he thought of a monk called Fray Marcos of Niza, who had been much
among the Indians of the north, and he sent for him to come at once to
Mexico.
Fray Marcos came, and the Viceroy de Mendoza told him the story of Cabeza
de Vaca.
“Now, Fray Marcos,” said the viceroy, after finishing the story, “if we
should send an army, these Indians would surely make war upon us and both
for them and for us there would be many lives lost. You understand them,
and it might be that they would let you come among them and learn what we
desire. Perhaps there lies to the northward as great a nation as Peru or
Mexico. It must be taken for the church and the crown. Will you not be
the one to carry the message of the cross and to take possession of the
country for the king of Spain?”
“I will,” said Fray Marcos, eagerly.
“Very well,” said Mendoza, smiling. “The negro Stephen who was with
Cabeza de Vaca is here, and he shall be your guide. Remember that this
expedition is to be undertaken more to spread our knowledge of God than
for great wealth. Therefore, bear in mind that the natives are to be
treated with the utmost kindness, and my displeasure will fall heavy upon
whosoever shall offend them. Say to them that the Emperor is very angry
at those Christians who have been unkind to them, and that never again
shall they be enslaved or taken from their homes.
“Take special note of their number, and of their manner of life, and
whether they are at peace or at war among themselves. Notice the nature
of the country, the fertility of the soil, and the character of its
products. Learn what wild animals there are there, and find out if there
are any rivers great or small. Search for precious stones and metals and,
if possible, bring back specimens of them. Also make careful inquiry if
the natives have any knowledge of a neighboring sea.
“If you shall succeed in reaching the Southern Sea, write out an account
of all your discoveries and bury it at the foot of the tallest tree and
then mark the tree with a cross. Do the same at the mouth of all rivers,
and those who are sent after you will be on the lookout for such a sign.
Take enough Indians with you so that you can send them back from time to
time to bring to us reports of the route you have taken and how you are
treated by the Indians you meet. If you shall come to any great city, do
not send back word but come yourself and tell me about it. And lastly,
although all the world belongs to the Emperor, be sure and plant the
cross in those new lands and take possession of them in the name of the
Spanish crown, and never forget that your life is of great value to your
church and your country, and do not risk it needlessly. Now, go. Make all
your plans and set out as soon as may be.”
Fray Marcos hastened to make his plans, and on the seventh of March,
1539, he set out from Culiacan with the negro Stephen and a few faithful
Indians.
Several months went by; then, at the end of September, 1539, a traveler
in a monk’s gown came walking alone into Culiacan.
“It is Fray Marcos!” cried the people. “It is Fray Marcos, who went to
search for the Seven Cities!” “Did you find them, Fray Marcos?” “Where is
Stephen, the negro?” “Are the Seven Cities full of wealth?”
But Fray Marcos would not answer. “I have much to tell,” he said to them,
“but I will tell it only to the Lord de Mendoza himself.”
To the Lord de Mendoza he told a story even more wonderful than the story
of Tejos, the Indian, or that of Cabeza de Vaca.
“All the way,” he said, “I found great entertainment, for after I told
the Indians they were not to be enslaved, they could not do enough to
show their love for me. I went where the Holy Ghost did lead me. The
Indians guided me from place to place, and some went ahead to tell others
that I was coming. Everywhere they came to meet me and gave me welcome.
They had food ready for me; and where there were no houses, they built
bowers of trees and flowers that I might rest safe from the sun.
“I saw naught that was worthy of notice until there came to me some
Indians from an island off the coast, and these wore about their necks
great shells that were of mother-of-pearl. To these I showed the pearls
which I carried with me for show, and they told me that in their islands
there were great stores of such, and that there were thirty islands.
“And then I passed through a desert of four days’ journey, and there went
with me the Indians from the island and from the mountains I had passed.
At the end of this desert I found other Indians, who marveled much to
see me, because they had not before seen a white man. They gave me great
stores of food and sought to touch my garments, and called me Hayota,
which in their language means ‘A man come from Heaven.’
“As best I could, I told to all these Indians of our Lord God in Heaven,
and of our great Emperor over the sea. Then I asked them if they knew of
any great kingdom thereabout or of any great cities.
“And they told me that farther on were high mountains, and at the foot
of those mountains was a large and mighty plain on which were many great
towns and people clad in cotton. Then I showed them metals that I carried
with me and said to them, ‘Have the people of those cities any of these?’
And they took the gold metal from my hand and said: ‘Of this do the
people of those cities make the vessels from which they eat, and also do
they make of it thin plates to scrape the sweat from their bodies, and
the walls of their temples are covered therewith.’
“Then I asked concerning the precious stones known to the people of the
cities, and the Indians answered that they had round, green stones that
they prized much and wore hanging from their noses and ears.
“The Indians offered to take me to the cities, but because it was a long
journey from the sea, and your lordship had commanded me to keep close to
the coast, I did not go.
“It was now Passion Sunday, and I felt inclined to tarry among the people
I was with. I did so, but I sent on ahead of me the negro Stephen.
“I told him to go to the northward fifty or threescore leagues, and to
take with him Indians, of whom he should send back from time to time
messengers bearing me news of all that he learned.
“We agreed that if it were the mean country of which he learned, he
should send me a cross no longer than my hand; but if it were a great
country, he should send me a cross the length of two hands; and if it
were a country greater and richer than New Spain, he should send a great
cross.
“Stephen went from me on Passion Sunday, after dinner, and within four
days there came to me messengers bearing a cross as high as a man. He
sent me also word that I should at once come after him, for he had news
of a mighty province; that he had with him certain Indians who had been
to that province, and one of them he sent to me.
“The Indian whom Stephen had sent told me it was thirty days’ journey
beyond the town where Stephen was, to the first city of the province,
which was called Cibola. He said there were seven great cities in this
province all under one lord. The houses, he said, were made of stone and
the smallest of them were of two lofts, one above the other; and the
house of the lord of the province had four lofts and was wide and long.
He said, too, that the gates of the finest houses were cunningly wrought
with turquoises, whereof they had plenty.
“The same day that Stephen’s messenger came to me there came also another
Indian from the seacoast, and he told again of the many islands in the
sea and of people who have many pearls and much gold.
“And that same day there came to me three Indians with their faces and
breasts and arms painted.
“They came, they said, from a province toward the east that bordered upon
that of the Seven Cities. They had heard of me and wished to see me. They
told me of the Seven Cities of Cibola, the people, and the houses, in the
same manner that Stephen had sent me word. I sent back the Indians who
had come from the islands on the seacoast, and hurried on after Stephen.
“Each day messengers came to me from Stephen, all carrying large crosses
and all telling of Cibola.
“At last came Indian messengers who told me of three other kingdoms
called Marata, Acus, and Tonteac. They said that the people of those
provinces dressed even as the people of Cibola, with gowns of cotton that
hang to their feet, and they bound them with girdles of turquoises. And
they told me much more, to make me know that these provinces were in all
ways as great as Cibola.
“I traveled on for days, stopping to know the people among whom I passed
and always being received by them with all tenderness.
“They brought me their sick that I might heal them and sought always to
touch my garments. They gave to me cowhides so well tanned that I could
not well believe them to have been dressed by savage people.
“As I went on, I came to great crosses set up in the ground by Stephen
to let me know that the good news of the country increased. I came to a
pleasant town at last where indeed were people clad in cotton, both men
and women, and they wore turquoises in their noses and ears. The lord
of the village came with his brethren to greet me, and they were well
dressed in robes of cotton and hides and wore collars of turquoises about
their necks.
“It was a fair country, better than any I had yet seen; so I set up two
great crosses and took possession of it for His Majesty, the Emperor.
They offered me gifts of all they had, but I took not one thing save food.
“I came now to a desert and went into it, and I found that the Indians
had gone on ahead of me and built bowers beneath which I ate and slept,
and in this manner I traveled for four days.
“Then I entered a valley where were many people; men and women came to
meet me with food. All of them had turquoises hanging from their noses
and ears and collars of turquoises three or four times double about their
necks.
“Here they knew of Cibola as much as we in New Spain know of Mexico and
could answer all I wished to ask about the people.
“As I went on I met more and more people, and passed through a fine
country where is much grass and water. The people were in all ways civil
and kind and told me about Cibola and Acus, and Tonteac and Marata and
Quivira. Here I saw a thousand oxhides all nicely dressed and chains of
turquoise, and they told me they all came from Cibola.
“And now I had two deserts to cross and was fifteen days’ journey from
Cibola.
“I entered the desert, and many Indians went with me, and others went on
ahead to make ready for me; and each day there came word from Stephen,
telling me all was true and to hurry after him.
“For twelve days I journeyed thus, and then there came running to meet us
an Indian in great fright—his body covered with sweat and dust and his
face showing the greatest sadness.
“He told us that the day before, Stephen had reached Cibola, and had sent
messengers into the city with presents for its lord, and to let him know
they came in peace.
“But the lord of the city fell into a great rage, and dashed the presents
of Stephen to the ground. In his fury he drove the messengers out of the
city, and told them that if they again appeared they would surely be
killed, as would also Stephen, if he dared to come near.
“The messengers hurried to Stephen and told him what had happened, but he
was in no wise afraid; he answered he should go, nevertheless, and bade
the Indians fear not, but to come with him.
“They went on, but as they were about to enter the city, many of its
people met them and seized them and cast them into a great house that
stood just outside. They took from them all that they had, and left them
all night without food or drink. The next morning Stephen and his Indians
tried to escape, but they were scarce outside their prison when the
people of the city set upon them, and Stephen and all the Indians, except
the messenger and one other, were killed. These two had been struck down
and left for dead, but were only stunned. They had lain under the dead
bodies of the others until the angry people had gone back into the city.
Then they had crept away.
“My Lord de Mendoza, so great was my grief at this terrible news that
it seemed for a moment I must indeed die, but when I saw all my Indians
begin to weep and lament, I knew I must not give way.
“I straightway gave to them many of the presents I had intended for the
people of Cibola, and then I resolved that though I might not enter the
city I would still look upon it, and I told them I would nevertheless
go on. They begged me not to go, but when they saw I was firm two of
them agreed to go with me. So we left the others to await our return and
journeyed forwards. We traveled one day, and then we came to a round
hill. This I climbed, and on looking down saw at its foot the city of
Cibola. It was a fair city, my lord. The houses were as the Indians told
me, of two and three and four stories and built of stone. The people
were somewhat white and dressed in white garments. Greatly was I tempted
to risk my life and go thither, but knowing that if I were killed all
knowledge of the country would be lost, I gave it up and contented myself
with planting a cross upon the hilltop in token that I took possession
for the crown of Spain.”
“You have done well, Fray Marcos,” cried Mendoza, “and now it is time to
send an army.”
_The Disappointment of Coronado_
When Mendoza wanted to send an army, the first person he thought of was a
brave soldier and fine nobleman named Francisco de Coronado, who sat by
his side, listening eagerly.
Coronado knew all about the expedition of Nuño de Guzmán, and had heard
the story of Cabeza de Vaca. Also, he had talked with Mendoza before
the viceroy had sent Fray Marcos on his journey, and had said he would
be willing to spend a fortune in fitting out an army to take the Seven
Cities.
So Mendoza turned to Coronado and said: “Is it still your wish, my noble
friend, to lead an army against this kingdom of Cibola?”
“It is,” said Coronado.
“Well, then, make ready at once, and I will help you in every way that I
can,” said the viceroy.
The news spread rapidly, and again all New Spain was talking of the Seven
Cities. In a short time three hundred Spaniards and eight hundred Indians
had enlisted, and so many gentlemen of noble birth had offered to go that
the viceroy was much embarrassed in choosing officers, for of course he
must take the noblest gentlemen, and there were too many!
A fine sight they were—those cavaliers of Spain—in their glittering
armor, mounted on prancing horses, their lances gleaming in the sunlight
and their banners flying. Out of Compostela they marched in the gayest
spirits, thinking of the loads of gold and jewels they would bring back
with them.
But it was very different when they reached the desert and the mountains.
They did not know how to bear the fatigue of such a journey, nor how to
care for their horses and cattle and sheep. The animals died in large
numbers, and the courage of the soldiers weakened rapidly as they grew
weary.
The soldiers had come with the thought of conquest, so they did not treat
the Indians they met so kindly as Fray Marcos had done, and of course the
Indians did not like them very well, and in a little while there began to
be trouble.
At last they came to a narrow pass in the mountains.
“I am afraid the Indians will try to keep us from passing,” said Coronado
to the Master of the Field. “Go you with a company of soldiers and guard
that pass until all the army come up. Then we will go through.”
The Master of the Field took his company and stood guard at the pass. But
that night, while all but the sentries were asleep, the Indians crept
down upon them and the sleeping camp was roused by a shower of stones and
arrows and the wild yells of the Indians.
Now the men had lain down with their guns beside them; so they were
ready, and they sprang up and began fighting bravely. For a while the
battle raged hotly, the Spaniards firing their guns and the Indians
replying with stones and arrows. But when the Indians saw some of their
number falling dead, they were frightened and fled away in the darkness,
and the Spaniards held the pass.
After that the Spaniards had little peace, but nevertheless Coronado
managed to keep up their courage. On they went, up through that country
we now call Arizona, over almost the same road that Fray Marcos had
traveled. They paused where is now the city of Tucson, and then marching
northeastward, crossed the Gila River and moved on toward Cibola. At
last, where today stands the town of Zuñi, they reached the first city of
the kingdom whose fame had so long filled with golden dreams the minds of
the Spaniards. But instead of the great, fine, glittering city they had
expected they saw only a village of a few hundred houses.
The hearts of the Spaniards sank as they gazed upon it. Coronado called
three of his men and said to them, “Go into the city and say to the
people that we are not enemies, but have come in the name of the Emperor,
our lord, to defend them and to join with them in friendship.”
The messengers went into the city and delivered Coronado’s message, but
the people of Cibola received it with scorn.
“We did not ask you to come,” they replied, “and your lord had no right
to send you. This is our land and we can defend it. Go back to your lord
and to your own land, for if you stay here you shall not one of you live.”
The messengers turned to go back to Coronado, and even as they went the
people of Cibola began firing arrows at them.
Coronado got his men quickly together and gave the command to attack. The
people of Cibola were gathered upon the walls of their city and rained
down arrows and stones upon the Spaniards as they came. The Spaniards
were many of them so weary from their long journey that they had not
strength enough left to pull a crossbow. Indeed, for a time it seemed
they must be beaten, so fiercely did the Indians battle against them. The
glittering armor of Coronado and the earnestness with which he cheered
on his men, told the Indians that he was the leader of the Spaniards,
and they tried particularly to kill him. Twice they felled him to the
ground, and once he must surely have been killed had not a brave knight
stood across his body and guarded him from the rain of stones until he
recovered. He would not give up. Weak from the blows he had received,
aching in every part, and with an arrow sticking in his foot, he led the
last charge, shouting “Santiago!” as he rode.
“Santiago!” echoed his soldiers as they followed him straight into the
town. The Indians fled as the Spaniards entered, and the battle was over.
The Spaniards almost wept with rage and despair as they looked about
them. The houses, it is true, were made of stone and were large, as
had been said, but there were no jeweled gates, no vessels of gold and
silver, no fine city, no stores of wealth to carry back to Spain.
So great was Coronado’s despair that he fell ill almost unto death. He
could not bear to give up. It seemed he must find those seven wonderful
cities. As soon as he was able he sent out parties in all directions to
see what could be found.
For almost two years they searched. Whenever an Indian told them a new
tale, they started off at once to see if it were true. They heard of a
great river to the westward, and Arellano, one of the brave officers, led
a party at once in search of it. Across the dry, hot desert of Arizona
they went, and never stopped until they came to the Grand Cañon of the
Colorado. Below them flowed the mighty river between walls hundreds of
feet deep and so steep they could not descend to the water, though they
were almost dying of thirst as they stood over it.
Scarcely had they got back before the army was again all excitement
because an Indian had told a tale of a great city to the northeastward.
Coronado himself led them in search of it. Up they went through New
Mexico, traveling for days among herds of buffaloes that reached farther
than they could see.
They went so far north as to enter that part of our country now called
Kansas. They found in reward for their long journey only a few Indian
villages.
At last, when more than two thirds of his men were dead, Coronado gave up
and marched back to Mexico. And this was the last search for the Seven
Cities that were not.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
STORY-TELLING TO INTENSIFY INTEREST IN GEOGRAPHY
In the study of geography the story means as much as in history. The
child is keenly interested in what he is doing and in what those around
him are doing, and when he discovers that people in China, in South
America, in Australia, or in Russia are doing the very things he is
attempting to do or sees done, that they are engaged in industrial
occupation very much as his father or uncle or neighbor is engaged in
it, that distant occupation loses its remote quality, and the country
with which it is associated becomes real and near to him. In the larger
sense geography is something that must be felt and imagined. It is an
interpretation of foreign activities and the regions in which they take
place, and because the story can interpret these activities, because
it can make situations real and familiar instead of aloof, it is of
inestimable value in teaching the subject. Here the myth and fairy tale
can be used with excellent results, because through them the child sees
something of the struggle of man in his effort to interpret the world
and comes to have a broader sympathy for the ideals of people of other
regions. Moreover, in many instances it tends to fix definite information
concerning a certain locality and to invest distant regions with vivid
interest, for to the boy who associates the Rhine or Danube or Himalayas
with the tale of a hero or people who once lived and did brave deeds
there, those rivers and mountains will be more than black specks on a
map. If he hears of the two frogs in Japan who started out to see the
world, he will not say that Kioto is somewhere in South America, because
the spot has been fixed in his mind by a story. Because it is associated
with something he has enjoyed, it stays there, and while the highest aim
of the study of geography is not merely to stuff the mind with facts,
but to broaden the horizon and bring the world within the child’s own
dooryard, the acquisition of certain information tends to give him that
broad outlook which makes all people seem creatures of his world and all
activities a part of his own experience. Unfortunately, however, teachers
sometimes lose sight of this fact, and the larger aim is made subservient
to a memorizing of data.
Geography and history are so closely related that it is difficult to
separate them, and in making one vivid we must draw constantly from the
other. The field is limitless. In fact, there are so many stories to give
the geography class that teachers sometimes say, “When are we to have
time for formal recitations?”
Too much recitation and not enough story is responsible for the fact that
boys and girls sometimes give startling information about the location
of places. Shorten the recitation period, if necessary, but do not fail
to give the stories that bring far-away places as near as one’s own
dooryard, and let tests and examinations prove which method is better. We
must possess before we can give, and the pupil who is assigned a number
of pages and expected to recite about them often fails miserably, because
interest, which must underlie the acquisition of knowledge, has not been
aroused. We may tell him to study the course of the Rhine and locate
the cities that dot its banks, and one will mean no more to him than the
other. But if he hears the tale of the building of the king of German
cathedrals and the legend of the architect’s compact with the Evil One,
Cologne will have an individuality very different from that of Coblenz
with its bridge of boats. If he listens to the tale of Maui fishing up
New Zealand from the bottom of the ocean, of the demigod chieftain who
was the discoverer of Hawaii and the patriarch of his people, there will
pass before his eyes at the mention of places among the Pacific Islands
pictures of a dark-skinned, sea-loving race with a history fully as
fascinating as that of his own people.
If there is not time for him to recite it all, let him write about it.
This will help to solve the composition problem, because the reason for
much of the miserable written English work is due to the fact that the
child has nothing to give. He is told to elaborate upon a subject that
lies far from his interest, one of which he has little knowledge, with
results that every English teacher knows. But if he has been interested
in it by a story, he can give that story back in oral or written form,
even though the construction be far from perfect.
Another value of using stories with a geographical or historical
background is that they develop the child’s social instinct and give him
something of a realization of the brotherhood of man. Through hearing and
reading them he becomes broader and more tolerant. He sees that in every
part of the world men have their standards and ideals, which, although
they may be greatly at variance with his own, are entitled to respect
because they represent deep convictions and desires. Instead of viewing
the world through a keyhole, he sees it across unobstructed fields and
comes to have a bigger human understanding. In the study of geography
there is a finer opportunity than anywhere else in elementary education
to divert the child’s feet from a narrow, provincial trail into the broad
highway of cosmopolitanism.
As in the study of history, so in geography the story should radiate from
local environment to other sections of the world, and every worker with
girls and boys, whether mother, teacher, or librarian, should endeavor to
give them some idea of the story of their own locality. The child should
know something of the legends of the people who built their camp fires on
the spots that are his public parks and gardens, and teachers especially
should aid the earnest group of men and women that is patiently
collecting and preserving our American folklore, by giving some of it
to the children. It will not only heighten pride in their own locality,
but it will broaden their understanding of other lands and races and
their sympathy with the struggles of different peoples. This kind of work
belongs to the field of history, but it so greatly increases interest in
geography that the teacher should not miss the opportunity of using this
material.
There are legends clustering about every section of our country that the
people of that locality should know, and it is a matter of regret that
the average man or woman has seldom heard of them. Europeans are inclined
to say we are a people of no traditions. While the charge is untrue,
and our land is rich in legendary lore, it is true that only a small
percentage of Americans are familiar with it. One reason for this general
ignorance is that much of it has been buried in scientific treatises,
which are unavailable to the layman. But within the last few years a
large amount has been put within reach of the story-teller. The unceasing
work of the American Folklore Society has resulted in unearthing and
preserving much that would otherwise have been lost and that is important
enough to have a place in our schools. Nothing is more fascinating to the
child than stories of his own region, and our young people ought to be
privileged to share in that joy with boys and girls of the Old World.
There are peasant lads in France, Italy, and other European countries who
can entertain by the hour with tales of their rivers and mountains—not
those of some distant province, but the peaks that tower above their
native village, the streams along which they trudge on their way to
school. California, Washington, and Oregon children should be given
legends of the Yosemite, of Lake Tahoe, of Mount Shasta, of the Columbia
River, and of Mount Rainier. Boys and girls among Southern bayous should
be taught the traditions of their region, of the Indians and Creoles
who made history there when that section was a province of France;
while along Northern lake and inland river are tales of forest folk, of
pathfinder and black-robed message bringer, of knights of the Old World
come to seek fortune in the New, that are a part of the heritage of
every youth living there. Let us give them to our young people, that
they may love their home spots, not just because they are beautiful and
are theirs, but as the French child loves the Rhone or the Austrian the
Danube, because of the stories that tend to make them enchanted ground.
In using the story in geography the teacher’s work does not end with
telling the story. The places mentioned in it should be located on the
map, that their exact position may be fixed in the mind of the child.
Interest in the story will make this a pleasure rather than a task for
the boy, just as it becomes a delight rather than a hardship for him to
follow the route taken by his father or uncle when he goes on a journey,
or to work out the itinerary of a trip he hopes to take himself. One
small boy studied the geography of Virginia with keen interest after
reading _Lord Cornwallis’ Silver Buckles_, and more than one man and
woman attest to the fact that some book read and loved during their
school days did more to fix the location of river, city, and mountain in
their minds than hours of classroom recitation spent in bounding states
and countries and tracing the courses of rivers.
The following legend of Niagara Falls is illustrative of one type of tale
that will greatly add to the child’s interest in geography by investing
certain localities with story associations. Much other material is given
in the appended bibliography, and the wide-awake teacher will be able to
glean much more from libraries and adapt it to her work.
THE GOD OF THE THUNDERING WATER
RETOLD FROM AN IROQUOIS LEGEND
Before the white man sailed westward across the Atlantic, in fact, before
Columbus was born or anybody even dreamed about a short route to the
Indies, a little Indian girl lived on the shore of Niagara not so very
far above the cataract. She was a happy little thing, and as she grew to
maidenhood she became the fairest girl of her tribe, and her father, who
was a mighty chieftain, promised her in marriage to the most powerful of
his braves. This Indian was a swift runner, and around the council fire
not another tongue was so nimble or eloquent as his, and never did his
arrows fail to pierce the heart of the deer at which he aimed them. But
that mattered little to the girl. He was not her ideal of a husband, and
she could think of nothing more dreadful than becoming the mistress of
his wigwam. Yet her father had spoken and she must obey, and with a sad
heart she made ready for the wedding, weaving the handsomest of wampum
belts and ornamenting her moccasins with gay beads and bits of woodpecker
feather.
The wedding morning dawned, and the Indians began the games and
merrymaking that always marked a marriage. The bridegroom and the young
braves vied in races and wrestling matches, and the women too had a part
in the festivities, singing and chanting weird songs as they tended the
fire and roasted venison for the feast. Everybody was happy,—every one
but the bride, who did not want to marry, and who sat in her wigwam
looking sadly out upon the sport. Suddenly came the decision that she
would not be the squaw of the man she detested.
Quickly, softly, she crept from the wigwam and hurried to the river bank.
The others were so busy with their merrymaking that they did not see her
go, and soon she came to where her canoe was moored to some bushes.
She stepped into it, pushed it from shore, and began drifting down the
stream. It was good to be there on the water, for, like all Indian girls,
she loved to paddle, and in her joy of skimming along with the current
she began to sing.
Suddenly a whoop went up from the village of her people. It was not
the cry of those victorious in a game, it was a shout of anger, a cry
of alarm, for they had seen her and believed she was trying to escape
from the marriage every one knew was distasteful to her. The bridegroom
started in pursuit, then another Indian and another, until every man in
the village was rushing to the river and some had already begun the chase
in canoes.
“They shall not take me back,” the girl murmured. “I will not go back to
the village and become Kunawa’s squaw.”
With swift, powerful strokes she paddled down the stream. She forgot
that the cataract was roaring below her, forgot that her canoe was going
rapidly and surely toward the bright foam from which no boat could come
back. She thought only that she was fleeing from a wedding, and not until
she saw the rapids beneath her did she realize her fate. Then she began
her death song, and those in pursuit heard it for a moment, loud, clear,
and plaintive as the canoe cut into the cataract, then suddenly silenced
as it shot down to the rapids. Some of the women wailed and joined in
the funeral dirge, and some of the others cried out in fear to the Great
Spirit.
“It is the last of Kunawa’s bride!” they exclaimed. “She is now on her
way to the Spirit Land.”
But it was not the last of the girl. Far down in the mist of the
cataract, Heno, the Thunder God, had seen her. He held forth his arms,
and as the canoe dropped to the rapids, she went into them, and bearing
her through the watery depths, he placed her in a cavern behind the fall
where he had lived since the beginning of things, and where the girl
would live with him henceforth.
Many years passed. She was no longer a young maiden, but a tall, sturdy
woman, and Heno gave her to one of his sons to be his squaw. She lived
there in happiness with him in the cavern under Niagara, and often she
thought of her people and her native village above beside the river.
Because she remembered and loved them, Heno was kind to them, and when
pestilence came to the region he lifted her to the shore that she might
tell them where to go to escape the disease.
Once a great monster, a snake all green and white, came trailing his
body through the forest like a river between hills, and made straight
for the village by Niagara to feed upon the people there. But through
the Indian girl Heno had told them of the coming danger, and they fled
before the monster so fast that when it reached the village it found only
a place of deserted camps. The great creature hissed with wrath, but
Heno saw it from the mists and struck it dead with a thunderbolt. The
great mass rolled to the river, floated down the stream, and lodged so
tight above the cataract that a fold in its body sent a great volume of
water out of its course, forming the Horseshoe Fall. The flood centered
there destroyed the home of Heno too, but the Thunder God arose with his
children and the Indian girl, and ascending to the heavens, has lived
there ever since, where he thunders in the cloud mists as he once did in
those of the fall. His voice is so mighty that the echo of it is always
sounding above Niagara, and although white men say it is nothing but the
noise of falling water, the Indians know better. They know it is the song
of the god of the Thundering Water.
SOURCES OF MATERIAL TO USE IN HISTORY AND GEOGRAPHY
The history and geography references have been combined because each
of the books listed here is valuable in both lines of work. This plan
also carries out the Play School idea, which is that there is no line of
demarcation between the two subjects.
BALDWIN, JAMES: _The Discovery of the Old Northwest_.
BECQUER, GUSTAVO ADOLFO: _Romantic Legends of Spain_.
BRABOURNE, LORD (EDWARD KNATCHBULL-HUGESSEN): _River Legends_
(London and England).
CONVERSE, HARRIET CLARKE: _Myths and Legends of New York State
Iroquois_.
GRIFFIS, WILLIAM ELLIOT: _The Unmannerly Tiger and Other Tales_
(Korean).
GUERBER, HELÈNE A.: _The Story of the English_; _Legends of the
Rhine_; _Legends of Switzerland_.
HARDY, MARY E.: _Indian Legends from Geyser-land_ (Yellowstone).
HEARN, LAFCADIO: _Kwaidan_ (Japan).
JANVIER, THOMAS A.: _Legends of the City of Mexico_.
JOHONNOT, JAMES: _Ten Great Events in History_.
JUDSON, KATHARINE B.: _Myths of California and the Old
Southwest_; _Myths and Legends of the Great Plains_; _Myths
and Legends of Alaska_; _Myths and Legends of the Pacific
Northwest_.
LANG, ANDREW: _True Story Book_.
MCMURRY, CHARLES A.: _Pioneers of the Mississippi Valley_.
PERRY, F. M., and BEEBE, KATHERINE: _Four American Pioneers_.
PITMAN, LEILA WEBSTER: _Stories of Old France_.
SKINNER, CHARLES M.: _American Myths and Legends_; _Myths and
Legends beyond Our Borders_ (Mexico and Peru).
SMITH, BERTHA H.: _Yosemite Legends_.
WARREN, HENRY PITT (Ed.): _Stories from English History_.
WESTERVELT, H. D.: _Legends of Old Honolulu_.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STORY-TELLING TO INTENSIFY INTEREST IN NATURE STUDY
Nature study, as a formal subject in the elementary schools, is often
uninteresting to the child, because many teachers think that there
the bare truth should prevail, and present information concerning
the sciences as a series of dry, emasculated facts. The result is
indifference toward what might be a keen pleasure, and sometimes even
distaste for it. But if the nature lesson is presented in a manner that
brings vivid pictures to the mind of the child, if he is given some
vision of what cannot be understood by mere description, it becomes a
living reality, and not only fixes information that is the foundation
for scientific study later, but enlarges the emotional life and quickens
the imagination. It gives him a feeling of close contact with nature and
makes him so responsive to its varied life, moods, and aspects, that he
comes to love it.
Those who understand nature love it more than those who do not. The man
who knows the elm, the beech, the hemlock, and various other forest
brethren, finds a pleasure in the woods that is impossible to him to whom
a tree is just a tree. The latter is like Peter Bell, of whom Wordsworth
wrote:
A primrose by a river’s brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.
He goes on his way thinking that trees are good for lumber, to produce
shade and break the force of winds that might otherwise blight his
crops, but he has little conception of how they affect human happiness
and human life. When tired and nerve worn, he does not yearn for the
peace of the redwoods, but for some artificial stimulus in a city distant
from the one in which he has his cares. Why? Because he was not born with
a love of nature that is as rare as genius, and was not fortunate enough
to be led along the path on which it is acquired. That there are many men
and women of this type is proved by the ruthless way in which our forests
have been destroyed, by the abuse of privileges in public parks and
gardens, by the way in which trees are slaughtered in city streets. It
is certain that love of nature is not born with every one, and that what
is the fortunate heritage of the few must be instilled into the many.
This can be done, and it can be done through story-telling. The careless
child, the unobservant child, to whom a flower is just a flower or a bird
a bunch of feathers, can be led to open his eyes and see what he did not
see before, while the one who has already found joy in the life of field
and stream will respond with intense pleasure because a new and roseate
light is flashed upon what is already familiar.
Children learn to love nature just as they learn to love a picture,
a dog, or a swimming hole, through experience with it that gives
joyous results. The country lad, whose Saturdays and vacation days
are associated with cowslips, dragon flies, and quiet hours beside a
trout stream casting a line for the elusive catch, is not likely to
find schoolroom nature study a dull subject, because, through hours of
enjoyment, he is equipped with an emotional and imaginative background
that gives color to every fact presented. But he who has not had this
opportunity, who knows as little of wild life as a cormorant knows of the
Colorado crags, will not respond eagerly to a series of facts, because
experience has not previously aroused his imagination concerning them,
and he cannot comprehend their mystery and wonder. If these facts are
presented through the medium of the story, if they depict the life of
the open as vividly as some painting that meets the eye, they will give
pleasure and furnish incentive for further investigation. They will
not only awaken the uninformed child to a realization of the wonders
and delights nature holds for him, but they will give the other, more
fortunate child additional pleasure, just as a favorite fairy tale does
when told again and again by one who loves it and can make its moods his
own.
This does not mean that all information should be presented through
the medium of the story. The story should be used only to give such
information as is natural to the story form. But nature study can be
wonderfully illuminated by the story, because many of the truths of
science do lend themselves to plot, and where they have been put in
parallel literary form, they are as replete with beauty and imagery as
the fairy tale, and afford the fancy as free play as do the adventures of
sprites and goblins. The marvel of the brown bulb or seed metamorphosing
into the brilliant-hued blossom, of the homely caterpillar evolving
into a bit of flying color, of the majestic movements of stars and
planets through worlds remote but as exquisitely constructed as our
own, fascinates the child and furnishes wide, untrammeled avenues along
which his imagination may roam. There is almost no branch of science
that is not rich in material for the story-teller. Dr. Carrel, the great
French specialist, once said that some day an artist will arise who will
weave the facts concerning the circulation of the blood into a tale as
fascinating as any _conte_ from the _Arabian Nights_.
It is not likely that physiology will ever be the nucleus of stories to
give to children in the early years of school life, but Dr. Carrel’s
words hold a valuable hint for the narrator, who should not fail to
draw from truth as freely as he draws from myth and fable. An overdose
of one kind of food, no matter how wholesome, disarranges the digestive
apparatus, and an overdose of one kind of literature makes a one-sided
man. There are some facts to show that a too free feeding on fairy tales
has led to crooked thinking and susceptibility to superstition, and the
story-teller should balance his work in improbable tales with those of
fact that fire the imagination because of the marvels related in them.
This is not so difficult as it may seem, for many of the truths of
science have been put into simple language by men who were poet enough
to bring to children something of their mystery and beauty, and there is
no dearth of books that can be used with gratifying results by workers
among children as young as those of six to nine years. Part of the story
of evolution is enjoyed in this period. The boy in the age of fancy
is fascinated by listening to an account of early man’s struggle with
nature, and tales of the tree dwellers, of cave and cliff dwellers, of
the discovery of fire and the adventures of the first wanderers, mean as
much to him as any fairy tale, because they have the very characteristic
that makes the fairy tale delightful—an element of mystery that permits
the fancy to roam unchecked.
Older children revel in the truths of science, if they are presented in
story form. Take, for instance, David Starr Jordan’s “Story of a Stone.”
Where is there a fairy tale more fascinating than this narrative of “a
bit of petrified honeycomb,” plowed up by a Wisconsin husbandman as he
made ready to sow his winter wheat? The style and language have the charm
of Andersen, the plot is as well sustained as that of any Thuringian folk
tale collected by Grimm, and it begins as fairy tales have begun since
the beginning of time:
Once upon a time, a great many years ago, so many, many years
that one grows very tired in trying to think how long ago it
was; in those old days when the great Northwest consisted of
a few ragged and treeless hills, full of copper and quartz
and bordered by a dreary waste of sand flats, over which
the Gulf of Mexico rolled its warm and turbid waters as far
north as Escanaba and Eau Claire; in the days when Marquette
harbor opened out toward Baffin’s Bay, and the northern ocean
washed the crest of Mount Washington and wrote its name on the
pictured rocks; when the tide of the Pacific, hemmed in by
no snow-capped Sierras, came rushing through the Golden Gate
between the Ozarks and the northern peninsula of Michigan,
swept over Plymouth Rock, and surged up against Bunker Hill;
in the days when it would have been fun to study geography,
because there were no capitals, nor any products, and all the
towns were seaports,—in fact, an immensely long time ago,
there lived somewhere in the northeastern part of Wisconsin a
little jellyfish.
Dr. Jordan has also woven into story form information concerning the
animal life of sea and stream, of a mother and baby seal, in the
delightful tale of “Matka and Kotik,” and there is not a boy or a girl
in the heroic period who does not listen eagerly to the adventures of
a salmon, “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.” The account of the battle
of the fish there under the ripples of the Cowlitz, the beginning of the
eventful journey down the river, the merry conflict with the herring and
the terrible one with the sea lions, swimming always and always, growing
larger and more daring, and having in his watery realm as many adventures
as bold Robin had in his greenwood, hold the children from the beginning
to the end of the story. They sympathize as he struggles up the stream
again, “growing poor and ragged and tired,” and through his life and
adventures they come to have an interest in the world of fishes that they
will not have without the tale. Such stories demonstrate the fact that
information concerning the sciences can be put into fascinating story
form, and every worker with young folk should endeavor to present some of
it through this delightful medium.
The child will find such tales far more appealing than the so-called
nature stories in which animals are over-personified and in which they
meet man in situations that every intelligent boy or girl knows are
impossible. A lad is not brought into harmony with nature by being given
yarns that caricature nature, and many of the modern nature stories
do this very thing. Children know that a wild bear does not walk into
a little girl’s flower garden, and then politely say “I am sorry” and
back out because the small mistress of the garden is kind and instead of
throwing stones at him explains in elegant English that it is rude to go
into another’s property unbidden. They know that animals and children do
not converse together in the same language, and that bears do not have
courses in ethics. The nature story that fascinates the child must be
true to nature’s laws. He may listen to some of the sugary, impossible
yarns written to point a moral, but they do not give him keen pleasure,
and because they are ridiculous in his eyes, he draws no lesson from
them. One of the aims of story-telling is to give ethical instruction,
but there is a wealth of tales that reflect nature and life correctly
that should be used for this purpose, and the facts of science should not
be distorted in an attempt to emphasize a lesson.
Tales pervaded by over-sentimentalism will not stir deep response in
children. This is why the nature story that is true to the facts of
science is the one that interests the boy or girl. It is like the racial
tale, full of conflict, of temporary defeat and final triumph. The young
salmon grown old, struggling up Snake River to the foot of the Bitter
Root Mountains, was sore of muscle and unsightly of skin, and his tail
was frayed and torn, but the desire of his nature was fulfilled at last.
He scooped out a nest and covered the eggs of his companion, and then,
because the work of his life was done, was free to drift downstream.
Such stories give insight into nature and engender a love of nature; and
besides quickening the imagination and enriching the emotional life, they
help to give stability to the child character, because through them he
learns the workings of certain inexorable laws.
There is such a vast amount of material to use in teaching nature study,
that the suggestions and bibliography given in this chapter can by no
means be comprehensive. In the realm of geology there is the story of
limestone, of slate, of quartz and granite, of rock salt and sandstone,
and particularly interesting to the child is the story of coal. For him
it abounds in color, and beautiful indeed are the pictures that he sees
as he listens to this narrative of the carboniferous forests that grew
in the beginning of time, of the lush, dank swamps of the Permian or
Triassic or Miocene Period, and the strange animal life that peopled
them. From astronomy and botany one may glean as much as from geology,
while entomology, zoölogy, and ichthyology hold untold delights for the
child.
A wonderful science story is that of the coral polyp, building from
some submerged cliff or crag until a little island rises above the blue
water. In my own childhood it meant as much as ever a fairy tale meant,
and I can still feel the pleasure I experienced the first time I heard
it. It is full of mystery and wonder, and a story of rare beauty for the
child. I have used it often in story-telling, and it never fails to bring
enthusiastic response; and very popular with the children is this song of
the insect builders, of which I do not know the authorship, but which is
one of the fragrant memories of my childhood:
Far down in the depths of the deep blue sea,
An insect train works ceaselessly;
Moment by moment and day by day,
Never stopping to rest or play,
Rock upon rock they are rearing high,
Till the top looks out on the sunny sky:
The gentle winds and the balmy air
Little by little bring verdure there,
Till the summer sunbeams gayly smile
On the birds and flowers of the little isle.
Older children enjoy hearing about the different forms of coral, of the
characteristics of that of the Mediterranean Sea and the Indian Ocean,
and of the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic. They enjoy, too, hearing about
the coral industry, of the fishing for it along the shores of Africa,
of the departure of the seekers from Sicily, of the Feast of the Coral
Fishers that is such a picturesque feature of the island life, of the
polishing and carving and preparing the product for trade; they like
the legend the southern Italians tell of how the first medallion in
Sicily was made as an offering of gratitude by a fisher lad to the young
Princess of Naples. From beginning to end the coral story is a narrative
that charms the child, and it is but one of the forms of sea life, which
holds rich opportunities for the narrator, while sea life is but one of
the fields of science from which he can glean with splendid results.
In fact, the possibilities for story work in the teaching of science
are almost beyond imagining until one begins to survey the field and
enumerate sources of material, and the story-teller will be restricted
in it only by her ability to organize material and present it to the
children in story form.
Sometimes writers, thinking they will make nature stories more enjoyable
to boys and girls, people them with supernatural folk who are supposed to
be responsible for the marvels that occur in them. It is a practice that
scientists decry, and it is condemned by all who believe that a story
fit to give to children must be worthy of the name of literature, and
consequently, whether fact or fiction, must be true in spirit. The tale
that portrays a fairy up in the sky keeping the planets in motion like
so many checkers on a board, or one in which enchanted creatures bury
their beads in the ground, causing them to send up roses and lilies and
other beautiful blossoms, is not a nature story. It may be a charming
fanciful tale, but it should not be given to teach the truths of science.
Science stories, like Bible stories, need no sugar coating to make them
attractive. When given as stories, and not as a string of facts, they
are full of suspense, and accounts of actual happenings in star land,
under the waves, or deep in the earth are as fascinating to the child as
the fancied ones of nature’s forces were to primitive man in the forest,
when he crept close to the tribal story-teller and in big-eyed, wondering
awe sought to know the meaning of the great globule that gleamed in the
sky by day and the numberless tiny ones that gleamed there by night. The
primitive animal tale, which gives early man’s belief as to how certain
creatures came by their characteristics, is very interesting to the
child, and while in a broader sense it belongs to the field of geography,
my own experience has been that if told in connection with animals or
flowers studied, it is received with enthusiasm by boys and girls. But
the child should understand that these narratives are primitive man’s
conception, and that the science stories are the real “why” and “how”
stories.
THE WONDERFUL BUILDERS
Out in the heart of the Pacific, far out where the blue waves roll their
shining masses between Samoa and the Australian mainland, where the
brown-skinned islanders and the white-winged sea birds seem always happy,
a little animal floated around one day, floated from among the shoals of
Tutuila toward the open sea. It was a tiny creature, and as curious as
it was tiny, for it looked more like a spot of clear jelly than anything
else, and its name was Polyp.
Quite lazily it floated about in the water, now under a stretch of
seaweed, all purple and opalescent like ropes of wonderful colors, now
through the clear, bright current past the gaping mouth of a shark. But
the shark, although always on the watch for something to devour, did not
get the little polyp, and soon it came to a submerged rock deep under the
waves. This seemed a very good resting place, and there the polyp stayed.
Days passed, weeks lengthened into months, and still the polyp kept to
its place on the under-sea rock. But it was not drowsing and sleeping
like a lazy creature. It was busily at work, for the very minute it
landed on the rock it decided to make a house.
Now you must not think that it could not work, because, although it did
look like a drop of jelly and was small and curious, it was alive. It had
arms, very, very tiny arms, finer than the finest silk thread in your
mother’s workbasket, and so thin and delicate looking that nobody could
see them. But those arms were stronger than they looked, and with them it
held on to the rock tight and fast.
Then, what a queer house-making! The little, jellylike body began to
swell. It raised itself up in the shape of a tube, and around the edge of
the tube came a little rim. This rim was the beginning of the house of
the polyp.
The waves rolled on. The sun beat down brightly and hotly as it always
beats down in the South Sea country, and then came another change. A knot
rose in the middle of the jelly, and out of that knot reached a mouth and
feelers.
Now the work began in earnest. The polyp began to eat, to eat as greedily
as a boy who has had not a bit for a whole day. It took in chalk and
phosphorus from the sea food that came its way, yet it seemed never to
get enough, and all the while the little feelers kept reaching out for
more food and pouring it into the open mouth. As it ate, the chalk it
took in piled around the little rim, which I told you was the beginning
of the house, and although the polyp wanted much to hold some of that
nice chalk food in its mouth long enough to get the full taste, it could
not. The white substance went right down and piled up on the rim; so it
is no wonder that the little creature was always hungry.
Well, it ate and it ate. The rim kept growing and growing, as of course
it must with so much chalk piling up on it, and as the house grew higher
and higher the polyp kept moving to the top. The part below was hard and
white like stone, and still the polyp kept eating, eating, and building,
building.
For a long time it kept on, until finally it died. Then one day another
drop of living jelly floated that way, and finding the chalk house of the
other polyp, stopped there and began building on top of it. The waves
rolled on. The sun shone, and all the while the house went steadily
higher. Other polyps too came and began building beside and above it, and
as they died they left their hard, white homes behind them as the first
polyp had done. Others and still others came, until, as many, many years
passed, the chalk houses reached the top of the water and men called
them an island.
The waves rolled by. Seaweed drifted that way and lodged itself on the
chalk reefs. It decayed and turned to soil. Sometimes the water and
sometimes the wind brought bits of plant and seed from some other older
islands, until at last there were flowers and trees and birds singing in
the branches.
Now the ships of the world sail by, going toward China or Australia or
to the American shores far, far away, and sometimes they stop at the
little island, and sometimes those on board rest there among the palms
and think it so delightful a land that they wish they never had to go
away, but might stay there always and always. Yet but for a wee, curious
sea creature that island would not be, for it had its beginning in a tiny
animal, more like a drop of jelly than anything else, that floated one
day between Samoa and the Australian mainland, and made its house upon a
bit of submerged rock.
SOURCES OF MATERIAL FOR SCIENCE STORIES
BEARD, JAMES CARTER: _Humor in Animals_.
BERGEN, FANNY DICKERSON: _Plant Work_.
BURROUGHS, JOHN: _Squirrels and Other Fur-bearers_.
COLLINS, ARCHIE FREDERICK: _The Book of Stars_.
COMSTOCK, JOHN HENRY: _Insect Life_.
DU CHAILLU, PAUL B.: _The World of the Great Forest_.
FABRE, HENRI: _Insect Adventures_; _The Life of a Fly_; _The
Hunting Wasps_; _The Mason Bees_; _The Life of a Caterpillar_.
FRYE, ALEXIS EVERETT: _Brooks and Brook Basins_.
GRINNELL, JOSEPH and ELIZABETH: _Birds of Song and Story_.
GRINNELL, MORTON: _Neighbors of Field, Wood, and Stream_.
GROOS, KARL: _The Play of Animals_.
HAWKES, CLARENCE: _Shovelhorns: The Biography of a Moose_.
HOLDER, CHARLES F.: _Stories of Animal Life_.
INGERSOLL, ERNEST: _Wild Life of Orchard and Field_.
JORDAN, DAVID STARR: _Science Sketches_.
LEA, JOHN: _The Romance of Bird Life_.
MILES, ALFRED H.: _Animal Anecdotes_.
MILLER, ELLEN R.: _Butterfly and Moth Book_.
MORLEY, MARGARET W.: _Butterflies and Bees_.
PORTER, GENE STRATTON: _Moths of the Limberlost_.
PORTER, JERMAIN G.: _Stars in Song and Legend_.
ROBERTS, CHARLES G. D.: _Earth’s Enigmas_; _Haunters of the
Silences_; _Kindred of the Wild_; _Kings in Exile_.
THOMPSON, JEANETTE MAY: _Water Wonders Every Child Should Know_.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
STORY-TELLING IN DOMESTIC SCIENCE AND MANUAL TRAINING
People are likely to smile when a story-telling enthusiast suggests that
his art will intensify the interest in manual training and domestic
science, but a little investigation usually convinces them that this
contention is not merely a wild theory. Cooking and sewing and wood,
metal, and leather working each has an interesting story, and through
understanding how these crafts originated and how they have developed
with the progress of the race, he comes to have an appreciation of their
true dignity and value. In a broad sense these tales belong to the field
of history and geography, for domestic science and manual training have
a background in history and present-day geography. But since the school
gives them as separate subjects, a consideration of story materials
touching them will be valuable to teachers of these subjects.
It is a far cry from the first roast meat of primitive man, discovered
by accident to be more delectable than that untouched by heat, to the
banquet of the twentieth-century gourmet, but they are chapters of the
same tale, each intervening portion of which is interesting. There seems
to be no relation between the grass skirt of the prehistoric belle and
the creations of Worth or Paquin, but they are links in the same chain,
beads strung upon the same thread, as are the rush mats of the cave woman
and the rugs of Teheran. There are dozens of stories to give to girls
that will increase their interest and delight in household crafts. Tales
of the lace makers of Italy and Spain, of medieval tapestry weavers, of
dower chests of European peasant maids, the contents of which pass from
generation to generation, of royal costumers and court tailors, their
problems, patience, and artistry, all tend to give a touch of romance to
something many girls are inclined to hold in contempt. They enjoy hearing
about cookery in foreign lands, of ways of serving meals that are very
different from our own, and no one is more amused by Lamb’s “Dissertation
on Roast Pig” than she who deals with problems of roasting and baking.
Domestic-science girls who are told something of the legends clustering
around various foodstuffs enjoy the cooking class more than those who
hear nothing but lectures on chemistry, dietetics, and comparative
nutritive values, and they take more pleasure in preparing a meal because
they know stories about the various dishes that comprise that meal.
This is no unproved theory, but one that has been tried successfully with
a group of fourteen-year-old girls, who took keener delight in bread
making after being told of the bakers of Nuremberg and who brewed coffee
with more interest when they knew the tale of how Arabians discovered the
use of coffee.
There are stories of wood, metal, and leather workers that should be
given to every boy, not only because they throw new light upon what he is
doing and add interest to it, but because they lead him to respect those
who toil with their hands. Stories of medieval carving, of house building
in different lands and ages, now of the brush hut of the Australian
aborigine, now of the workmanship in the palace of a sultan or czar; of
the poet craftsmen of Nuremberg, of the pottery making of the Aztecs, of
the building of Venice upon piles hewn from Tyrolean forests, these and
dozens of kindred subjects are rich in materials that will give children
pleasure and knowledge. To the boy or girl who loves the work in manual
training and domestic science they bring additional pleasure, while in
the indifferent they awaken interest; and, moreover, the snobbish child
who is inclined to think handcraft beneath his respect, will be led
to see that the carpenter who strives to make each effort more worthy
than the preceding one, or the housewife who puts the best of herself
into the preparation of a meal, is in the same class with Phidias or
Shakespeare in earnestness of purpose, even though not in results, and is
as deserving of honor. The first step toward success with these branches
is to dignify them in the eyes of children, and nothing accomplishes this
as effectually and rapidly as the story. To know that the crafts were
worthy of the best efforts of those of other times and lands is to make
them feel they are worthy also of their best effort.
There is another reason why these stories should be told. In the midst
of the agitation in favor of vocational training, the force of which is
sweeping away and modifying some of the old educational standards, there
is danger that in catering to the demand for the practical in schools we
neglect that which conduces to dreams and ideals.
A man may advance beyond the ranks of a journeyman joiner and make a good
living if he has no thought beyond the work of each day as it dawns, but
without vision he cannot become the master builder, and romance is the
corner stone upon which the temple of vision stands. The palaces of old
Hellas were built to strains of music, for the beauty-loving Greeks knew
that melody gave men lofty thoughts, and believed work performed to its
accompaniment would be of higher order than that performed without it.
Bands were hired to play as the toilers worked, and boys who were to
become builders were inspired to emulate the efforts of great craftsmen
by being told stories of their achievement. In our day we cannot expect
the state to provide bands and symphony orchestras to inspire toilers,
but during the days of their apprenticeship we can give them tales that
will have a tendency to glorify their chosen craft. We can cause them
to feel that only the best efforts of hand and brain are fit to go into
this craft, because it is a monument to the memory of those who lived and
died in its ranks, and that every worthy effort of each succeeding toiler
helps to make that monument nobler and more enduring.
THE DERVISH OF MOCHA
RETOLD FROM AN ARABIAN FOLK TALE
The dervish Hadji Omar was a fortunate man. No one of his day was so well
versed in lore of the ancients and in the knowledge of his own time, no
one was so highly esteemed by his people or so loved and trusted by the
caliph. At every royal banquet he sat in a seat of honor, and whenever he
went through the streets of Mocha the populace shouted, “Hail, Omar!”
But there came a time when the fortunes of the dervish changed. One
afternoon as he sat in the court garden he heard a conversation that
dismayed him. Beyond the palm trees that screened him from their sight,
the caliph and his council were planning how to defraud the common people
and enrich themselves. Hadji Omar listened, grieved, and that night went
to his friend, told what he had heard, and tried to dissuade him from a
course of dishonor.
Then the caliph forgot all the happy hours he had spent with the dervish,
forgot that he had loved him even as a brother, and remembered only that
the dervish was trying to interfere in his plan. He flew into a rage and
declared that Omar should be exiled from Mocha, and that a price would
be upon his head should he ever return. Never again should he sit at the
royal banquet table. Never again should he pass through the streets amid
cries and calls of endearment. He should live in the wilds like a hunted
creature and get his food as the birds of the field get theirs.
So out from the city that he loved went the wise and righteous dervish.
He took the camel trail into the desert, and after a time came to an
oasis where he stayed. A miserable existence he had there, because few
food plants grew in the spot. Sometimes a caravan came by, and a merchant
or camel driver pitied him and gave him dates or milk. But sometimes he
had nothing to eat, and always his meals were so scanty that he grew thin
and weak and haggard.
One day—he had been a long time without food and was faint from hunger—he
found some berries growing on a tree beside a spring. They were so bitter
that he could not eat them; so he tried the experiment of roasting them
over the coals. This made them more palatable, but still they were
viciously hard. Hadji Omar was so hungry that he was willing to do any
amount of work to get food; so he boiled the berries, hoping they would
soften. Still they were hard, but he managed to eat a few of them and
drank of the water. His hunger and fatigue seemed gone, and he realized
he had made a great discovery.
Hastening back to the city, he told the guard his story and was allowed
to go into the presence of the caliph. There he produced some of the
roasted berries, which were boiled according to his direction, and the
governor and council drank of the water. They pronounced it a kingly
beverage, and the decree went forth that Hadji Omar was to go free.
Thereafter he lived with the caliph, who loved and trusted him as before
and led a more exemplary life because of the influence of the goodly
dervish.
Hadji Omar was honored during his remaining years, and after his death
was revered as a saint, not only because he was wise and righteous, but
because he discovered to Arabia the beverage of the coffee berry.
SOURCES OF MATERIAL TO USE IN DOMESTIC SCIENCE AND MANUAL TRAINING
CLINCH, GEORGE: _English Costume from Prehistoric Times to the
End of the Eighteenth Century_.
GOLDENBERG, SAMUEL L.: _Lace, Its Origin and History_.
KNIGHT, JAMES: _Food and Its Functions_.
LOWES, EMILY LEIGH: _Chats on Old Lace and Needlework_.
MORSE, FRANCES CLARY: _Furniture of the Olden Time_.
NORTON, EDITH ELIZA: _Rugs in their Native Land_.
PLANCHÉ, JAMES ROBINSON: _History of British Costume_.
RANSOM, CAROLINE LOUISE: _Studies in Ancient Furniture_.
SINGLETON, ESTHER: _Furniture of Our Forefathers_.
_Stories of the Ancient World Retold from St. Nicholas_
(Clothing).
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DOES THE WORK OF THE STORY-TELLER PAY?
And now arises the question, Does all this effort on the part of the
story-teller pay? Is it worth the labor required for the domestic-science
supervisor, the manual-arts director, the music, literature, geography,
or history teacher, to prepare stories that touch upon his work? That
question can best be answered by estimating results.
As stated in the opening chapter of Part One, story-telling can simplify
the entire education problem. It will create noble ideas in boys and
girls of today just as it created ideals and established standards in
those of the past. It will arouse an ambition to live and to achieve so
that they may be worthy of the emulation of children of the future even
as they emulate the heroes of days gone by. In no other way can such deep
desire be awakened as through story hearing and reading. In no other way
do children realize so completely the truth of Longfellow’s words:
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.
Yet in many homes story-telling is almost unknown because the mother
does not deem it of sufficient value to make some sacrifice of her time
and provide for it. She does not know that the story-telling mothers of
the past have been those whose children have risen up and called them
blessed; that the confidence of their boys and girls, won around the
fireside as old-time tales were told, has been held unshaken to the end.
The force that in the long ago moved men to great achievement has lost
none of its power. Twentieth-century children respond to stories as
eagerly as did boys and girls by the sea of Hellas when Greece was young,
as they did in medieval castle hall to the strains of minnesinger and
harper, because child nature does not change. The story hour in the home
is a formidable rival of the street and the nickelodeon, and the teacher
whose fund of tales is large and who tells them joyously has little
trouble with discipline. Her charges know that she holds the key to Magic
Land, and that if they are good she will open the gate. They remember her
with affection, and best of all remember the dreams that came into being
under her spell. She is queen of her little realm through the royal right
of the minstrel, and no pretender can dislodge her from her throne in the
hearts that she has won.
Yet some school officials, men of education and refinement, regard
story-telling as a very good means of entertainment, but unworthy of a
place in the curriculum, and when urged to include it ask, “Does it pay?”
If it is worth anything to make formal schoolroom subjects joyous instead
of boresome, then story-telling pays; if it is necessary to give the
child something that will be a perennial rainbow in his soul, something
that will keep him sweet and full of faith and hope when disappointments
come and illusions go, that will cause him to laugh at age even in
the time of white hairs and wrinkles, then story-telling is vitally
necessary. He cannot grow bitter who possesses Aladdin’s lamp. Dark
skies may lower over his head and the thunder crash ominously about him,
but if the seeds of romance have been planted in his soul, if poesy has
been nurtured into flower there by the world’s best stories heard in his
youth, he will retain, even in the midst of blackness and tempest, a
vision of turquoise skies behind the clouds, a dream of sun-kissed fields
where grow everlasting flowers of fragrance and beauty.
Is the reward to the worker not worth the price? One guerdon lies in the
thought that he who joins the ranks of story-tellers becomes a member of
a glorious company, one with which the greatest souls of the world were
not unwilling to be identified. Goethe never felt it beneath his dignity
to gather a group of children about him and delight them with a tale, and
nothing speaks more eloquently of the sweetness of Verdi’s nature than
one of his letters to his librettist that relates how, in his visits back
to the hill town where he was born, it gladdened him to see gamins swarm
from every quarter, exclaiming, “Una favola, signor, una favola!”
“He is a happy man,” says Châteaubriand, “who keeps through a turbulent
lifetime the heart of a child, who carries with him to the end of his
journey some of the illusions stored up in his youth, for contact with
envy and calumny and deception are apt to cause them to take flight.”
The author of _Faust_ and the creator of _Otello_ each had his share
of brushing against the things that make men bitter. They had sounded
the depths of discouragement and disappointment, yet they had the
hearts of children, and who knows but that telling stories to children
had something to do with keeping them young? During Verdi’s period of
struggle and heartbreak, when Milan jeered at his compositions and
critics declared him a man of no talent, when obstacles piled so high
it seemed beyond mortal power to remove them, when no one in the city
but himself and his wife believed in him, instead of becoming sour and
worthless, as any but a granitic nature like his would have done, he
returned to his native highlands and told stories to children who thought
him more wonderful than a king; then he went back to his labor strong and
fit. Forgetting himself in delighting the village _bambinos_ bolstered
up his courage and his faith and helped to make him an exuberant giver.
Perhaps the present-day story-teller, like that master at Roncone, if he
approach his work reverently and keep in mind a thought of what it has
meant to the world, may receive as much as he gives.
STORIES FOR TELLING
THE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE MOON
(_Alsatian Folk Tale—Christmas Story—Ethics, teaching honesty_)
The man in the moon was once a merry peasant, who ever so long ago lived
quite amicably with his good wife and children, and had a hut with a
wooden floor and a roof whose thatch was as thick as any in the village.
Always there was plenty of black bread and goat’s milk, and sometimes on
Sundays or holidays the family felt rich enough to afford a bit of pork.
But one Holy Night that peasant turned dishonest, and then something
happened.
“What shall we have for the Christmas feast?” asked his wife, who was fat
and jolly. “Shall it be our good rye bread and a fine joint of meat?”
“To be sure,” the merry husband answered, “but that is not enough. There
shall be cabbage too.”
At his words the wife opened her mouth so wide that it looked like a big
round window in her face.
“Cabbage!” she gasped. “Pray, how can that be, since we have not a leaf
in the hut?”
The peasant nodded in a knowing way and answered, “To be sure, there is
none there now, but there will be by and by.”
Then he held his tongue as if he thought it unwise to talk too freely
to a woman, took a basket, and went out of the door. His wife was much
excited. She was sure he had some secret message from the fairies, for it
was in that far-away time when strange and marvelous things happened.
Down along the road the peasant hurried, smiling like a village maiden
on the way to meet her sweetheart at the fair. Everywhere lights gleamed
from the windows, and he laughed at the sight of them, for he knew people
were inside, thinking of the feast and the Holy Night.
“Which makes it safe for me,” he murmured. On and on he went, never
stopping until he came to a cabbage patch, the largest and finest in the
village. They were bigger than his head, those cabbages, and every one of
them belonged to the mayor.
“But some shall go into my good wife’s pot,” he laughed as he saw them,
and climbing the fence he went into the patch and began to help himself.
Then suddenly along the road came a child on a snow-white horse. He rode
as if nothing could halt him, but seeing the man in the patch, he stopped
and shouted, “What are you doing?” The peasant looked to right and left
and began to stammer, “Just b-b-b-borrowing some of the m-m-m-mayor’s
cabbages,” he replied, as he threw a plump one into his basket.
The clear, strong tones rang out again, “You steal, and on the Holy Night
too! So you and your basket shall go to the moon.”
Then, whisk! Up the peasant started and never stopped until he came to
the middle of the moon, and there he has stayed ever since. Whether or
not he ate the cabbages, no one knows, but he and his basket are there to
this day, and every night when the moon is full you may see them.
THE DISCONTENTED PIG
(_Thuringian Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching contentment_)
Ever so long ago, in the time when there were fairies, and men and
animals talked together, there was a curly-tailed pig. He lived by
himself in a house at the edge of the village, and every day he worked in
his garden. Whether the sun shone or the rain fell he hoed and dug and
weeded, turning the earth around his tomato vines and loosening the soil
of the carrot plot, until word of his fine vegetables traveled through
seven counties, and each year he won the royal prize at the fair.
But after a time that little pig grew tired of the endless toil.
“What matters it if I do have the finest vegetables in the kingdom,” he
thought, “since I must work myself to death getting them to grow? I mean
to go out and see the world and find an easier way of making a living.”
So he locked the door of his house and shut the gate of his garden and
started down the road.
A good three miles he traveled, till he came to a cottage almost hidden
in a grove of trees. Lovely music sounded around him and Little Pig
smiled, for he had an ear for sweet sounds.
“I will go look for it,” he said, following in the direction from which
it seemed to come.
Now it happened that in that house dwelt Thomas, a cat, who made his
living playing on the violin. Little Pig saw him standing in the door
pushing the bow up and down across the strings. It put a thought into his
head. Surely this must be easier and far more pleasant than digging in a
garden!
“Will you teach me to play the violin, friend cat?” he asked.
Thomas looked up from his bow and nodded his head.
“To be sure,” he answered; “just do as I am doing.”
And he gave him the bow and fiddle.
Little Pig took them and began to saw, but squeak! quang! No sweet music
fell upon his ear. The sounds he heard were like the squealing of his
baby brother pigs when a wolf came near them.
“Oh!” he cried; “this isn’t music!”
Thomas, the cat, nodded his head.
“Of course not,” he said. “You haven’t tried long enough. He who would
play the violin must work.”
“Then I think I’ll look for something else,” Piggywig answered, “because
this is quite as hard as weeding my garden.”
And he gave back the bow and fiddle and started down the road.
He walked on and on, until he came to a hut where lived a dog who made
cheese. He was kneading and molding the curd into cakes, and Little Pig
thought it looked quite easy.
“I think I’d like to go into the cheese business myself,” he said to
himself. So he asked the dog if he would teach him.
This the dog was quite willing to do, and a moment later Little Pig was
working beside him.
Soon he grew hot and tired and stopped to rest and fan himself.
“No, no!” exclaimed the dog, “you will spoil the cheese. There can be no
rest time until the work is done.”
Little Pig opened his eyes in amazement.
“Indeed!” he replied. “Then this is just as hard as growing vegetables or
learning to play a violin. I mean to look for something easier.”
And he started down the road.
On the other side of the river, in a sweet green field, a man was taking
honey out of beehives. Little Pig saw him as he crossed the bridge and
thought that of all the trades he had seen, this suited him best. It must
be lovely there in the meadow among the flowers. Honey was not heavy to
lift, and once in a while he could have a mouthful of it. He ran as fast
as he could go to ask the man if he would take him into his employ.
This plan pleased the bee man as much as it pleased the pig.
“I’ve been looking for a helper for a year and a day,” he said. “Begin
work at once.”
He gave Little Pig a veil and a pair of gloves, telling him to fasten
them on well. Then he told him to lift a honeycomb out of a hive.
Little Pig ran to do it, twisting his curly tail in the joy of having at
last found a business that suited him. But buzz, buzz! The bees crept
under his veil and inside his gloves. They stung him on his fingers, his
mouth, his ears, and the end of his nose, and he squealed and dropped the
honey and ran.
“Come back, come back!” the man called.
“No, no!” Little Pig answered with a big squeal. “No, no, the bees hurt
me!”
The man nodded his head.
“Of course they do,” he said. “They hurt me too! That is part of the
work. You cannot be a beekeeper without getting stung.”
Little Pig blinked his beady eyes and began to think hard.
“It seems that every kind of work has something unpleasant about it. To
play the violin you must practice until your arm aches. When you make
cheese you dare not stop a minute until the work is done, and in taking
honey from a hive the bees sting you until your head is on fire. Work in
my garden is not so bad after all, and I am going back to it.”
So he said good-by to the bee man and was soon back in his carrot patch.
He hoed and raked and weeded, singing as he worked, and there was no more
contented pig in all that kingdom. Every autumn he took his vegetables to
the fair and brought home the royal prize, and sometimes, on holidays,
the cat and the dog and the bee man came to call.
THE BAT AND HIS PARTNERS
(_Old Bavarian Folk Tale—Helpful in Nature Study_)
Once upon a time a strange thing happened. A cormorant, a bat, and a
bramble met at the mouth of the river Elbe one day and told a sorrowful
story. Each was almost bankrupt; so they decided to postpone paying
their debts, put their remaining possessions together, and share in the
consequent weal or woe.
They bought a merchant vessel, a ship large and strong, and so seaworthy
it seemed it could sail to the nethermost parts of the Spanish Main. Wool
was precious then as now, and in a country far away a hundredweight of
sheep’s fleece brought many a gold doubloon. So they freighted the vessel
with the best wool that was to be had and joyfully watched the white
sails disappear in the pearl-gray mist. But a storm arose and angry winds
dashed their galleon against demon-like rocks. Instead of reaching a
distant land of gold doubloons the ship went to Davy Jones’s locker, and
her precious cargo made couches for the mermaids.
Then sad indeed was the plight of these partners on the North Sea shore!
Bailiffs began to sue them for payment of their debts, and ever since
that time the bat has flown by night, for in no other way can he avoid
his creditors. The cormorant, a solitary black figure, still broods
beside the waves and dives into the sea, hoping to retrieve his shattered
fortune, while the bramble has turned thief. Whenever a sheep goes by, he
seizes a bit of the fleece, trying in this way to make up for the loss of
the wool that went to the bottom of the Spanish Main instead of bringing
him the gold of which he had dreamed.
BRIER ROSE
RETOLD FROM GRIMM
(_Wonder Tale_)
In olden times there lived a king and queen, who lamented day by day that
they had no children; and yet never a one was born. One day, as the queen
was bathing and thinking of her wishes, a frog skipped out of the water
and said to her: “Your wish shall be fulfilled. Before a year passes you
shall have a daughter.”
As the frog had said, so it happened, and a little girl was born who was
so beautiful that the king almost lost his senses; but he ordered a great
feast to be held, and invited to it not only his relatives, friends, and
acquaintances, but also all the wise women who were kind and affectionate
to children. There happened to be thirteen in his dominions, but since
he had only twelve golden plates out of which they could eat, one had
to stay at home. The feast was celebrated with all the magnificence
possible, and, as soon as it was over, the wise women presented the
infant with their wonderful gifts: one with virtue, another with beauty,
a third with riches, and so on, so that the child had everything that
is to be desired in the world. Just as eleven had given their presents,
the thirteenth old lady stepped in suddenly. She was in a tremendous
passion because she had not been invited, and, without greeting any one
or looking at any one, she exclaimed loudly, “The princess shall prick
herself with a spindle on her fifteenth birthday and shall die!” and
without a word further she turned her back and left the hall. All were
terrified, but the twelfth fairy, who had not yet given her wish, then
stepped up. Because she could not take away the evil wish, but could only
soften it, she said, “She shall not die, but shall fall into a sleep of a
hundred years’ duration.”
The king, who naturally wished to protect his child from this misfortune,
issued a decree commanding that every spindle in the kingdom should be
burnt. Meanwhile all the gifts of the wise women were fulfilled, and the
maiden became so beautiful, gentle, virtuous, and clever, that every one
who saw her fell in love with her. It happened on the day when she was
just fifteen years old that the queen and the king were not at home, and
so she was left alone in the castle. The maiden looked about in every
place, going through all the rooms and chambers just as she pleased,
until she came at last to an old tower. Up the narrow winding staircase
she tripped until she arrived at a door, in the lock of which was a rusty
key. This she turned, and the door sprang open, and there in the little
room sat an old woman with a spindle, spinning flax.
“Good day to you,” said the princess, “what is this that you are doing
here?”
“I am spinning,” said the old woman, nodding her head.
“What thing is that which twists round so merrily?” inquired the maiden,
and she took the spindle to try her hand at spinning. Scarcely had she
done so when the prophecy was fulfilled, for she pricked her finger;
and at the very same moment she fell back in a deep sleep upon a bed
which stood near. This sleep extended over the whole palace. The king
and queen, who had just come in, fell asleep in the hall, and all their
courtiers with them; the horses in the stables, the doves upon the eaves,
the flies upon the walls, and even the fire upon the hearth, all ceased
to stir; the meat which was cooking ceased to frizzle; and the cook at
the instant of pulling the hair of the kitchen boy lost his hold and
began to snore, too. The wind also fell entirely, and not a leaf rustled
on the trees round the castle.
Now around the palace a thick hedge of briers began growing, which every
year grew higher and higher, till the castle was quite hidden from view,
so that one could not even see the flag upon the tower. Then there went
a legend through the land, of the beautiful maiden Brier Rose, for so
was the sleeping princess named, and from time to time princes came,
endeavoring to penetrate through the hedge into the castle; but it was
not possible, for the thorns held them as if by hands, and the youths
were unable to release themselves, and so perished miserably.
After the lapse of many years, there came another king’s son into the
country, and heard an old man tell the legend of the hedge of briers;
how that behind it stood a castle where slept a wonderfully beauteous
princess called Brier Rose, who had slumbered nearly a hundred years,
and with her the queen and king and all their court. The old man further
related what he had heard from his grandfather, that many princes had
come and tried to penetrate the hedge, and had died a miserable death.
But the youth was not to be daunted, and, however much the old man tried
to dissuade him, he would not listen, but cried out, “I fear not, I will
see this hedge of briers!”
Just at that time came the last day of the hundred years, when Brier Rose
was to wake again. As the young prince approached the hedge, the thorns
turned to fine large flowers, which of their own accord made a way for
him to pass through, and again closed up behind him. In the courtyard
he saw the horses and dogs lying fast asleep, and on the eaves were the
doves with their heads beneath their wings. As soon as he went into the
house, there were the flies asleep upon the wall, the cook still stood
with his hands on the hair of the kitchen boy, and the maid stood at the
board with the unplucked fowl in her hand. He went on, and in the hall
he found the courtiers lying asleep, and above, by the throne, were the
king and queen. He went on farther, and all was so quiet that he could
hear himself breathe, until at last he came to the tower and opened the
door of the little room where slept Brier Rose. There she lay, looking
so beautiful that he could not turn away his eyes, and he bent over her
and kissed her. Just as he did so she opened her eyes, awoke, and greeted
him with smiles. Then they went down together, and immediately the king
and queen awoke, and the whole court, and all stared at each other
wonderingly. Now the horses in the stable got up and shook themselves;
the dogs wagged their tails; the doves upon the eaves drew their heads
from under their wings, looked around, and flew away; the flies upon the
walls began to crawl; the fire began to burn brightly and to cook the
meat; the meat began again to frizzle; the cook gave his lad a box upon
the ear which made him call out; and the maid began to pluck the fowl
furiously. The whole palace was once more in motion as if nothing had
occurred, for the hundred years’ sleep had made no change in any one.
By and by the wedding of the prince with Brier Rose was celebrated with
great splendor, and to the end of their lives they lived happily and
contented.
THE COAT OF ALL COLORS
RETOLD FROM GRIMM
(_Thuringian Wonder Tale_)
There was once a king whose wife had golden hair and was altogether so
beautiful that her equal was not to be found in the world. It happened
that she fell ill, and when she felt she must soon die she called the
king and said, “If you marry again after my death, take no one who is not
as beautiful as I have been, nor one who has not golden hair like mine,
and this you must promise me.” After the king had promised she closed her
eyes, and soon died.
For a long time the king would not be comforted and thought not of taking
a second wife, but his councillors at last said that he must marry
again. Then messengers were sent far and wide to seek a bride who should
be as beautiful as the late queen, but there was no one to be found in
the whole world so beautiful and with such golden hair. So the messengers
returned home without accomplishing anything.
Now the king had a daughter who was just as beautiful as her dead mother.
She had also the same golden hair, and, as she grew up, the king saw how
like she was to his lost wife. He told his councilors that he wished to
marry his daughter to his oldest councilor, and that she should be as
queen. When the oldest councilor heard this he was delighted. But the
daughter was frightened at the resolve of the king, and hoped yet to
turn him from his intention. So she said to him, “Before I fulfill your
wish I must first have three dresses: one as golden as the sun, another
as silver as the moon, and a third as shining as the stars; further, I
desire a cloak composed of thousands of skins and hides, and to which
every beast in your kingdom must contribute a portion of his skin.”
The princess thought this would be impossible to do, and so she should
reclaim her father from his intention. But the king would not give it up,
and the cleverest maidens in his kingdom had to weave the three dresses,
one as golden as the sun, a second as silver as the moon, and a third as
shining as the stars, while his huntsmen had to catch all the beasts in
the whole kingdom and from each take a piece of skin wherewith a mantle
of a thousand pieces was made. At length, when all was ready, the king
let the mantle be fetched, and, spreading it before him, said, “Tomorrow
shall the wedding be.”
When the king’s daughter now saw that there was no hope left of turning
her father from his resolve, she determined to flee away. In the night,
while all slept, she got up and took three of her treasures, a golden
ring, a gold spinning wheel, and a gold reel; she put also in a nutshell
the three dresses of the sun, moon, and stars, and putting on the
mantle of all skins, she dyed her hands and face black with soot. Then,
commending herself to God, she set off and traveled the whole night till
she came to a large wood, where, feeling very tired, she took refuge in
a hollow tree and went to sleep. The sun rose, and she still slept and
slept on till it was again far into the morning. Then it happened that
the king who owned this forest came to hunt in it. As soon as his dogs
ran to the tree they snapped about it, barked, and growled, so that the
king said to his huntsmen, “See what wild animal it is that is concealed
there.” The hunters obeyed his orders, and, when they returned, they
said, “In that hollow lies a wonderful creature whose like we have never
before seen; its skin is composed of a thousand different colors, but it
lies quite quiet and asleep.” The king said, “Try if you can catch it
alive, and then bind it to the carriage, and we will take it with us.”
As soon as the hunters caught hold of the maiden, she awoke full of
terror, and called out to them, “I am a poor child forsaken by both
father and mother! Pray pity me, and take me with you!” They named her
“Allerleirauh,” because of her mantle, and took her home with them to
serve in the kitchen and rake out the ashes. They went to the royal
palace, and there they showed her a little stable under the step where
no daylight could enter, and told her she could live and sleep there.
Afterwards she went into the kitchen, and there she had to carry water
and wood to make the fire, to pluck the fowls, to peel the vegetables, to
rake out the ashes, and to do all manner of dirty work.
Here, for a length of time, Allerleirauh lived wretchedly; but it
happened once that a feast was held in the palace, and she asked the
cook, “May I go and look on for a little while? I will place myself just
outside the door.” The cook said, “Yes, but in half an hour’s time you
must return and rake out the ashes.”
Allerleirauh took an oil lamp, and, going to her stable, put off the
gown of skins and washed the soot from her face and hands so that her
real beauty was displayed. Then she opened her nut and took out the
dress which shone as the sun, and as soon as she was ready she went up
to the ballroom, where every one made way for her, supposing that she
was certainly some princess. The king himself soon came up to her, and,
taking her hand, danced with her, thinking the while in his heart that he
had never seen any one like her. As soon as the dance was finished she
disappeared, and nobody knew whither. The watchmen stationed at the gates
were called and questioned, but they had not seen her.
She had run back to her stable and, having quickly taken off her dress,
had again blackened her face and hands, put on the dress of all skins,
and became “Allerleirauh” once more. As soon as she went into the kitchen
to do her work in sweeping up the ashes, the cook said, “Let that be for
once till the morning, and cook the king’s supper for me instead, while
I go upstairs to have a peep; but mind you do not let one of your hairs
fall in, or you will get nothing to eat for the future.”
So saying, he went away, and Allerleirauh cooked the king’s supper,
making some soup as good as she possibly could, and when it was ready she
went into the stable, and fetched her gold ring, and laid it in the dish.
When the dance was at an end, the king ordered his supper to be brought,
which, when he had tasted, he thought he had never eaten anything so nice
before. Just as he nearly finished it he saw a gold ring at the bottom,
and, not being able to imagine how it came there, he commanded the cook
to be brought before him. The cook was terrified when he heard this
order, and said to Allerleirauh, “Are you certain you did not let a hair
fall into the soup? For if it is so, you will catch a beating.”
Then he came before the king, who asked who had cooked the supper, and he
answered, “I did.” But the king said, “That is not true; for it is of a
much better kind and much better cooked than usual.” Then the cook said,
“I must confess that not I, but Allerleirauh, cooked it.” So that the
king commanded that she should be brought up.
When Allerleirauh came, the king asked, “Who are you?”
“I am a poor child, without father or mother,” replied she.
“Why did you come to my palace?” then inquired the king.
“I am good for nothing else but to have the boots thrown at my head,”
said she.
The king asked again, “Where did you get this ring, then, which was in
the soup?”
Allerleirauh said, “I know nothing of it.” And, as she would say no more,
she was at last sent away.
After a time there was another ball, and Allerleirauh asked the cook’s
permission to go again and look on, and he consented, and told her,
“Return here in half an hour to cook the king again the same soup which
he liked so much before.”
Allerleirauh ran into the stable and, washing herself quickly, took out
of the shell the dress which was silver as the moon, and put it on. Then
she went up to the ballroom and appeared like a princess, and the king,
stepping up to her, was very glad to see her again; and, as the dancing
had just begun, they joined it. But as soon as it was over, his partner
disappeared so quickly that the king did not notice where she went. She
ran to her stable and changed her garments again, and then went into the
kitchen to make the soup. While the cook was upstairs, she fetched the
golden spinning wheel and put it in the tureen, so that the soup was
served up with it. Afterwards it was brought before the king, who ate it,
and found it tasted as good as the former; and the cook was called, who
was obliged to confess again that Allerleirauh had made it. Allerleirauh
was accordingly taken before the king, but she repeated what she had
before said, that she was of no use but to have boots thrown at her, and
that she knew nothing of the gold spinning wheel.
Not long afterwards a third feast was given by the king, at which
everything went as before. The cook said to Allerleirauh when she asked
leave to go, “You are certainly a witch, and always put something in the
soup which makes it taste better than mine. Still, since you beg so hard,
you shall go at the usual time.” This time she put on the dress shining
as the stars, and stepped with it into the ballroom. The king danced
again with her, and thought he had never seen any maiden so beautiful,
and while the dance went on he slipped the gold ring on to her finger
without her perceiving it and told the musicians to prolong the time.
When at last it ended, he would have kept fast hold of her hand, but she
tore herself away, and sprang so quickly in among the people that she
disappeared from his sight. Allerleirauh ran as well as she could back to
her stable; but she had stayed over and above the half hour, and she had
not time to pull off her beautiful dress, but was obliged to throw over
it her cloak of skins. Neither did she quite finish the blacking of her
skin, but left one finger white. Then she ran into the kitchen, cooked
the soup for the king, and put in it the reel, while the cook stayed
upstairs. Afterwards, when the king found the reel at the bottom of his
soup, he summoned Allerleirauh, and perceived at once her white finger,
and the ring which he had put on it during the dance. He took her by the
hand and held her fast, and when she tried to force herself from him and
run away, her cloak of skins fell partly off and the starry dress was
displayed to view. The king then pulled the cloak wholly off, and down
came her golden hair, and there she stood in all her beauty, and could no
longer conceal herself. As soon, then, as the soot and ashes were washed
off her face, she stood up and appeared more beautiful than any one could
conceive possible on earth. But the king said to her, “You are my dear
bride, and we will never separate from each other.” Thereupon was the
wedding celebrated, and they lived happily to the end of their lives.
THE POOR MAN AND THE RICH MAN
RETOLD FROM GRIMM
(_Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching kindness_)
In olden times, when the good angels walked the earth in the form of men,
it happened that one of them, while he was wandering about very tired,
saw night coming upon him before he had found a shelter. But there stood
on the road close by two houses opposite to one another, one of which
was large and handsome, while the other appeared miserably poor. The
former belonged to a rich man, and the other to a poor man, so that the
angel thought he could lodge with the former, because it would be less
burdensome to him than to the other to entertain a guest. Accordingly
he knocked at the door, and the rich man, opening the window, asked the
stranger what he sought. The angel replied, “I seek a night’s lodging.”
Then the rich man scanned the stranger from head to foot, and perceiving
that he wore ragged clothes, and seemed like one who had not much money
in his pocket, he shook his head and said, “I cannot take you in; my
rooms are full of herbs and seeds, and, should I shelter every one who
knocks at my door, I might soon take the beggar’s staff into my own hand.
Seek a welcome elsewhere.”
So saying, he shut his window to, and left the good angel, who
immediately turned his back upon him and went over to the little house.
Here he had scarcely knocked, when the door was opened and the poor man
bade the wanderer welcome, and said, “Stop here this night with me; it
is quite dark, and today you can go no farther.” This reception pleased
the angel much, and he walked in; and the wife of the poor man also bade
him welcome and, holding out her hand, said, “Make yourself at home, and
though it is not much that we have, we will give it to you with all our
heart.” Then she placed some potatoes at the fire, and while they roasted
she milked her goat for something to drink with them. When the table was
laid, the good angel sat down and ate with them, and the rude fare tasted
good, because they who partook of it had happy faces. After they had
finished, when bedtime came, the wife called the husband aside and said
to him, “Let us sleep tonight on straw, my dear, that this poor wanderer
may have our bed whereon to rest himself, for he has been walking all day
long, and is doubtless very tired.”
“With all my heart,” replied her husband; “I will offer it to him;” and,
going up to the angel, he begged him, if he pleased, to lie in their bed
that he might rest his limbs thoroughly. The good angel at first refused
to take the bed of his hosts, but at last he yielded to their entreaties
and lay down, while they made a straw couch upon the ground. The next
morning they arose early and cooked their guest a breakfast of the best
that they had, and when the sun shone through the window he got up, too,
and, after eating with them, prepared to set out again. When he stood in
the doorway he turned round and said to his hosts, “Because you are so
compassionate and pious, you may wish three times and I will grant, each
time, what you desire.”
The poor man replied, “Ah, what else can I wish than eternal happiness,
and that we two, so long as we live, may have health and strength and
our necessary daily bread? For the third thing I know not what to wish.”
“Will you not wish for a new house in place of this old one?” asked the
angel.
“Oh, yes!” said the man, “if I may keep on this spot, so would it be
welcome.”
Then the good angel fulfilled his wishes and changed their old house into
a new one, and, giving them once more his blessing, went out of the house.
It was already broad daylight when the rich man arose and, looking out
of his window, saw a handsome new house of red brick where formerly an
old hut had stood. The sight made him open his eyes, and he called his
wife up and asked, “Tell me what has happened; yesterday evening an old,
miserable hut stood opposite, and today there is a fine new house! Run
out and hear how this has happened!”
The wife went and asked the poor man, who related that the evening before
a wanderer had come, seeking a night’s lodging, and that in the morning
he had taken his leave, and granted them three wishes—eternal happiness,
health and food during their lives, and instead of their old hut, a fine
new house. When he had finished his tale, the wife of the rich man ran
home and told her husband all that had passed, and he exclaimed, “Ah! had
I only known it! The stranger had been here before, and would have passed
the night with us, but I sent him away.”
“Hasten, then!” returned his wife. “Mount your horse, and perhaps you may
overtake the man, and then you must ask three wishes for yourself also.”
The rich man followed this advice, and soon overtook the angel. He spoke
softly and glibly, begging that the angel would not take it ill that he
had not let him in at first, for that he had gone to seek the key of the
house door, and meanwhile he had gone away, but if the angel came back
the same way he would be glad if he would call again. The angel promised
that he would come on his return, and the rich man then asked if he might
not wish thrice as his neighbor had been allowed. “Yes,” said the angel,
“you may certainly, but it will not be good for you, and it were better
you did not wish.”
But the rich man thought he might easily obtain something which would
tend to his happiness, if he only knew that it would be fulfilled, and
so the angel at length said, “Ride home, and the three wishes which you
shall make shall be answered.”
The rich man now had what he desired, and, as he rode homewards, began
to consider what he should wish. While he thought he let his rein fall
loose, and his horse presently began to jump, so that he was jerked
about, and so much so that he could fix his mind on nothing. He patted
his horse on the neck, and said, “Be quiet, Bess!” but it only began
fresh friskings, so that at last he became savage, and cried quite
impatiently, “I wish you might break your neck!” No sooner had he said
so than down it fell upon the ground and never moved again, and thus the
first wish was fulfilled. But the rich man, being covetous by nature,
would not leave the saddle behind, and so, cutting it off, he slung it
over his back and went onwards on foot. “You still have two wishes,”
thought he to himself, and so was comforted, but as he slowly passed
over the sandy common the sun scorched him terribly, for it was midday,
and he soon became vexed and passionate; moreover, the saddle hurt his
back; and besides, he had not yet decided what to wish for. “If I should
wish for all the treasures and riches in the world,” said he to himself,
“hereafter something or other will occur to me, I know beforehand; but I
will so manage that nothing at all shall remain for me to wish for.”
Many times he thought he knew what to wish, but soon it appeared too
little. Then it came into his thoughts how well his wife was situated,
sitting at home in a cool room, and appropriately dressed. This idea
angered him uncommonly, and, without knowing it, he said aloud, “I wish
she were sitting upon this saddle, and could not get off it, instead of
its being slipping about on my back.”
As soon as these words were out of his mouth, the saddle disappeared
from his back, and he perceived that his second wish had passed its
fulfillment. Now he became very hot, and began to run, intending to
lock himself up in his room and consider there something great for his
last wish. But when he arrived and opened the house door he found his
wife sitting upon the saddle in the middle of the room, and crying
and shrieking because she could not get off. So he said to her, “Be
contented; I will wish for the riches in all the world, only keep sitting
there.”
But his wife shook her head, saying, “Of what use are all the riches of
the world to me, if I sit upon this saddle? You have wished me on it, and
you must also wish me off.”
So, whether he liked it or not, he was forced to utter his third wish,
that his wife might be freed from the saddle, and immediately it was
done. Thus the rich man gained nothing from his wishes but vexation,
trouble, scolding, and a lost horse; but the poor people lived contented
and pious to their lives’ end.
THE SILVER CONES
ADAPTED FROM STORY BY JOHANNA SPYRI
(_Ethics—Geography_)
In the mountain land of Bohemia there lived in the long ago a miner with
his wife and little daughter. They were happy in their hut in the forest,
but after a time the father and mother died, and the child was left
alone in the world. She had no money, and no aunts or cousins to take her
in, and it seemed as if she would have to go hungry. But always there are
kindly hearts among the poor, and one of the miners opened his house that
she might have a home. He had six children of his own and little bread
and meat to spare, but his good wife said, “We will divide what we have.”
So little Hilda became one of the family, and they grew to love her very
much.
It was midwinter, and Christmas day not far away. The children thought of
nothing but the coming of St. Nicholas, who they hoped would not forget
them on the Holy Night, when every boy and girl in Bohemia expects a
visit from the gift bringer. But when they spoke to the miner about it he
shook his head and said, “Do not set your hearts upon his coming. Our hut
is very small and stands so far in the forest that he may not be able to
find it.”
Gretchen, his little daughter, had a very different idea. She declared
St. Nicholas could find a house in the dark if it were no bigger than an
ant hill, and went to bed to dream of the toys and sweetmeats he would
bring.
Day after day passed, and nearer, nearer came the season of Christ’s
birth. The children talked of him as they sat by the fire at night, as
they picked up dead branches in the forest, and as they bedded the goats
and shut them in, for Bohemian mountain folk are a toiling people, and
even boys and girls must work.
At last the day before Christmas came, and in the afternoon little Hilda
started out with her basket to get some cones. She wanted the fire to be
brighter and more cheerful than ever that night, and perhaps if she met
a servant from the castle, he might take some to feed the prince’s fire,
and give her a silver piece.
“And if he does,” she thought as she trudged on her way, “I can buy
something for the miner and his dear children.”
Now, in that land of Bohemia, on the summit of a lofty mountain, a
creature named Rübezahl made his home. He possessed all magic powers, and
was so mighty that his sway extended to the very center of the earth.
There he had chambers of gold and silver, and diamonds and jewels without
number, and often gave of his treasures to those who were good enough to
deserve them. He could change himself at will into any form. Now he was
a bat flying in the night, now a country swain selling his wares at the
fair, and now a woodman cutting down trees in the forest, because thus he
was able to find out who was worthy and who unworthy, and to reward or
punish them as they deserved.
Hilda had often heard of the strange ways of Rübezahl, and wondered if he
would ever cross her path.
“I suppose not,” she murmured, “because I am just a little girl.”
As she came near the fir trees, a tiny white-haired man walked out of the
shadow. He had a long white beard and a jolly red face, and looked as if
he were the friend of children.
“What are you doing?” he called to her.
“I’ve come to gather cones,” she replied; “some for our fire and some to
sell, if the servant from the castle will only buy.”
Then she told him of the miner’s family, of how eager she was to get some
money that she might buy a gift for his children, and of her hope that
St. Nicholas would not forget them on the Holy Night.
The little old man seemed much interested, and when she finished her
story he said, “The largest cones are on that tree. If you hope to sell,
gather the best ones.”
He pointed to a great, dark fir just beyond them, and then went back into
the shadows of the forest.
Little Hilda thanked him and ran to the spot. She could see the cones
like beehives on the branches, and just as she came under them there was
such a downfall of beautiful brown things it frightened her and she
began to run. But thinking of what she could do with such big ones, she
went back, filled her basket, and started homeward.
It was very heavy, and the farther she went the heavier it grew.
“I’ll have to ask little Gretchen to help me take it up the hill path
to the castle,” she thought. But by the time she reached the hut it had
become such a load she could not move it, and the miner had to carry it
in himself.
“They are lovely big ones and of a beautiful brown color,” she said as
the children crowded around to see.
But when they looked at the basket again, they saw no brown at all.
Instead there was a gleam brighter than that of the moonbeams through the
fir trees, for a wonderful thing had happened. In the twinkling of an eye
every one of those cones had turned into shining silver, which sparkled
and glistened so that they dazzled the eyes.
Then the little girl remembered the old man in the forest and told the
miner about him.
He nodded his head in a knowing way and said, “Surely it was Rübezahl,
and he has rewarded you for being sweet and gentle.”
All of which seemed like a dream to little Hilda, but when she looked
into the basket she knew it was true. And so knew all the other mountain
folk, when the stars of the Holy Night shone out and the children went
from door to door distributing silver cones. The good folk who gave her a
home received so many that never again were they poor. They built a fine
house with a porch and twenty windows, and were as rich as any one in
Bohemia.
To make things lovelier still, St. Nicholas found the hut, just as
Gretchen had said he would, and left some sweets and toys for the
children. He laughed loud and long when he saw the shining cones, for he
had heard all about it from Rübezahl himself.
This all happened very, very long ago, in the time so far away that
even the oldest grandmother cannot remember the Holy Night when Hilda
gave precious gifts to the miners; but the story has come down from the
fathers and the fathers’ fathers, and that is why, even to this day, the
mountain folk of Bohemia still deck their Christmas trees with silvered
cones.
THE FORGET-ME-NOT
ADAPTED FROM VERSION BY HOFFMAN VON FALLERSLEBEN
(_Thuringian Folk Tale—Helpful in Nature Study_)
In the beginning of things, when God the Father created every beast
of the forest and every bird and tree and blossom, he gave each one a
name, and the snowdrop, the lily, the pansy, the violet, and all the
other flower sisterhood rejoiced and were glad, for each thought its own
name the loveliest in the world. Everywhere in field and woodland there
was happiness, and the blossoms lifted their faces toward heaven in
gratitude, thanking the Gracious Giver.
But suddenly there was a sound of weeping. Somewhere in the meadow a
flower had raised its voice in sorrow, and all the other flowers looked
to see. At first they could not tell whence the sound came, then they
beheld a tiny blossom, with petals the color of heaven and a heart the
color of gold. It was sobbing bitterly, and the lily, looking down in
pity, asked, “Why weepest thou?”
“Alas,” came the reply, “I have forgotten my name.” Then—wonderful
sound—the primrose and the violet and the pansy heard the voice of God
the Father, for although the blossom was very tiny and half hidden by the
grasses of the field, He heard and saw and knew.
“Forgotten your name?” He spake in tones that were sweet and tender.
“Then shalt thou be called ‘Forget-me-not,’ for that thou canst always
remember.”
“Forget-me-not,” repeated the gorgeous rose and the modest violet, and
the tiny one smiled through its tears and said, “Forget-me-not.”
And ever since that day at creation time, when God the Father named every
beast of the forest and every bird and flower and tree, the wee blossom
whose petals are the color of heaven and whose heart is the color of
gold, has been called “Forget-me-not.”
THE LITTLE STEPMOTHER
(_Thuringian Folk Tale—Nature Study_)
Once upon a time, say the peasants of the Rhineland, a woodman lived with
his wife and two daughters in a little hut in the forest. They were very
poor, but what mattered that, since they were very happy?
They had five chairs,—one apiece, and one for company,—clean, sweet
feather beds to keep them warm at night, a bit of soup to eat with their
black bread, and once each year they went to the fair.
But after a time the mother died, and things were different. The father
took another wife, who had two children of her own, and she was very
unkind to her husband’s little daughters. She forced them to do all the
work, and if the poor woodman so much as opened his mouth to object, she
beat him with her slipper. You will know how greedy she was when I tell
you that she took two of the fine wood chairs for her own children and
kept two for herself, and you remember there were only five in the hut.
That left one for the husband and his daughters, and as the father was
kind and good, he let them have it all to themselves and patiently stood
while he ate his meals.
For a long time that greedy little stepmother ruled her husband and his
children with an iron hand, while her own daughters acted like spoiled
princesses, until one night something happened. The hut and the family
disappeared. Just how it came to pass, nobody knows, but the next morning
the other woodmen found a little flower growing where the house had
stood, and they knew that a fairy or witch or something had turned the
family into the blossom which you may see almost any summer day. The
greedy stepmother still sits on her two chairs, with her children on
each side of her holding a chair apiece. The woodman’s little daughters
are crowded together on one, just as they were in the hut. And what of
the poor henpecked husband, who did not dare to object to anything his
spouse chose to do? Look in the center, right under her slipper, and you
will find what most people say is the pistil. But the peasants of the
Rhineland know better. It is the woodman, who once upon a time lived in
the hut in the forest, and the flower you call the pansy is to them “The
Little Stepmother.”
THE RABBIT AND THE EASTER EGGS
(_Bavarian Folk Tale_)
Once, in the German land of Bavaria, there was a mother who was very
poor. She was sad as Easter time drew near, for it was the custom in
that land to give presents then just as we do at Christmas, and she had
nothing for her children. She grieved about it day and night, and one day
was so unhappy over it that she wept.
“Never fear,” the old grandmother said, “the hens are laying well, and I
know how to make beautiful dyes from moss and leaves. We can color some
eggs for Hans and Annchen, and they will be happy.”
This was a lovely thought to the poor mother, and she went to work. Soon
she had beautiful red, blue, yellow, purple, and orange eggs, and when
Easter morning came she and the grandmother hid them in a nest in the
woods. It was a lovely spot, with a thick carpet of moss underfoot and
the snowy blossoms of the wild plum overhead.
Then they all went to the tiny chapel that stood at the other side of the
village, to listen to the music and hear the good pastor tell the story
of Easter day, after which they walked home by the woodland path.
Little Hans and Annchen were running ahead of the others, and all at once
they called, “Oh, Mother, Grandmother, come!”
The good mother said, “They must have found the eggs,” and hurried to see.
Yes, there the children knelt, bending over the nest of eggs lovelier
than they had ever seen.
“They are beautiful, Mother!” exclaimed Hans. “See, they look like hen’s
eggs, yet they are every color, like the rainbow. How did they get here
in the woods?”
“I know,” cried little Annchen. “A fairy bird laid them.”
Just then a rabbit leaped out of some tall grass behind the nest, and
hopped away into the forest.
The children screamed with delight. “The rabbit laid the eggs! The rabbit
laid the eggs!” they shouted.
And ever since that time Bavarian children have played that rabbits lay
Easter eggs.
THE EASTER EGGS
ADAPTED FROM STORY BY CANON SCHMIDT
(_Ethics_)
During the days of the Crusades a little village stood in the heart of a
little valley. The people living there were very poor, but so good and
gentle that despite their poverty they were happier than many of the
great folk of the realm. They had none of the cares that trouble the
rich. Their rude black huts, each with its tiny garden plot and bit of
meadow land where they pastured the cow or goats, satisfied them because
they knew nothing else, and they lived so simply and healthfully that
there were men over a hundred years of age among them. Sometimes they
burned charcoal for the iron works in the mountains and earned a few
pennies, when they felt rich indeed, but if there was no money they did
not complain. They ate their vegetables and black bread and drank their
goat’s milk in contentment.
One day, when the corn ears were yellowing, a little girl hurried down
the mountain side where she had been tending goats. She ran to her home
at the edge of the village, and called to her mother in the garden,
“Oh, mamma, come quickly! A beautiful woman with two pretty children is
waiting for me on the mountain. They are very tired and hungry, and she
asked me for some bread and milk.”
Kind hearts beat in the breasts of those village folk, and although they
had little themselves, they were always ready to share their small store.
Quickly the mother filled a jar with goat’s milk and took some bread,
butter, and cheese, and she and her husband followed the little daughter
up the mountain side. After a while they came to a turn in the path, and
saw a woman, very young and very beautiful, sitting on a rock under a
beech tree. She was holding a little girl who was as lovely as herself,
and beside them, on the ground, a tiny dark-eyed boy played with a bunch
of thistles. Not far away an old man was unloading a mule and opening
bundles as if preparing to camp for the night. Their clothing was of the
costly kind that is worn only by the very rich, and it seemed strange
that they should be asking food of the poor.
The village wife offered the bread, butter, and cheese she had brought
with her, which the woman received with smiles and words of thanks. She
kept nothing herself, but gave all to the old man and children, who ate
the coarse peasant fare as if it tasted very good, and as she watched
them tears streamed down her cheeks. She asked many questions about the
valley, and finding that no one but charcoal burners lived there, and
that strangers almost never came by, exclaimed, “I think God must have
sent me here. I have been driven from home and am seeking a spot where we
may rest in peace.”
They went down to the valley together, and the peasant and his wife led
the way to a vacant house, which the woman rented for her home. It was
a very humble cottage, but she said it suited her, for it was new and
clean, and from its little windows one could see out over the cabins and
the garden plots to the tall, dark fir trees on the mountain slopes. She
took one of the village girls for a servant, and the worn, unhappy look
began to leave her face.
Early the next morning she called the maid Marie, gave her a silver
piece, and said, “Go and get some eggs for breakfast.”
The girl looked at her in surprise.
“Oh, madame!” she asked sorrowfully, “do you mean that I must take the
eggs of the dear little birds that sing in the forest?”
“Of course not,” her mistress replied, thinking her very silly, “I want
hen’s eggs, not bird’s eggs.”
But Marie looked more amazed than before.
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘hens,’” she said. “We have none of them
here.”
“You have no hens!” the woman exclaimed. “How can that be?”
Then she remembered that this was a village of poor peasants and that
only the rich had chickens, because they had just been brought to Europe
from Asia, and were very costly. So she bade the old man Kuno go to the
city across the mountains and bring her everything she needed.
“And be sure not to forget the cock and hens,” she called after him as he
rode away.
Late that afternoon the man returned, and the woman met him at the door.
“Have you brought the chickens?” she asked.
Nodding in reply, he set the cage on the ground.
By this time the village children had gathered around, and were greatly
excited about the strange-looking birds. They laughed and clapped their
hands, for they never had seen anything like them, and when Kuno turned
them out of the cage and they walked around picking up the grain he threw
to them, their joy knew no bounds. Then the cock flapped his wings and
crowed and some of the hens cackled, and the children danced and screamed
in delight. They stayed until it was dark, and early the next morning
came again and brought their fathers and mothers to see the wonderful
birds that sang such curious songs.
Summer passed and autumn came. The last apples fell from the trees, nuts
dropped in the frost-painted forest, and the sharp winds of November
blew down from the peaks, yet still the lovely stranger and her children
stayed in the village. That was very strange, for the valley was entirely
surrounded by rugged mountains, and was a rough, wild country in winter,
when the tiny houses were almost buried in the snow. But they seemed
happy there, and the people wondered much about it. They talked of it
as they herded the goats on the slopes, as they burned charcoal in
the shadow of the fir trees, and always would end by saying, “She is
some great lady, for she speaks the language of court, and she and her
children have costly clothes and many gold pieces.”
But they found out nothing, for when they asked the children who their
mother was they said, “She is mamma, and we are Blanche and Edmund.”
So still they wondered and still they did not know. But they were glad
she lived among them, because they had grown to love her very much. She
was kind and charitable toward every one in the village. She gave food to
the poor and took care of the sick, and the peasants repaid her with many
kindnesses. They gave her game they killed in the forest, and when spring
came and the snow melted, the village children roamed the woods for the
earliest violets and cowslips, and brought them to her door.
These acts of kindness touched her, and the morning before Easter she
thought, “I must do something to make them happy.” But what could it
be? She couldn’t give them a feast, because, although she had plenty of
money, it was impossible to get any meat in the village; and she couldn’t
give them presents, because there was no place to buy them. She had
nothing but eggs, which she thought would be no treat at all. Then an
idea came to her. Calling Marie, the maid, she told her of it and they
merrily went to work.
They went into the woods and gathered roots, moss, and berries such as
were used for dyeing in those days. They made cakes and custards. They
colored eggs red, blue, green, orange, and lilac, and planned to give the
people a grand surprise. Late in the afternoon little Blanche and Edmund
went out through the village and stopped at every house, saying, “Mamma
invites you, you and all your family, great and small, to a feast at our
house tomorrow. Come after the mass.”
Everybody accepted the invitation. They had never been to a real feast,
and to go to one at the house of the lovely stranger would be fine
indeed. They took out their best holiday attire, polished their shoe
buckles until they shone, and made ready for a gala time, and on Easter
morning a line of men, women, and children went from the chapel to the
cottage of the lady.
She met them at the door and led them into the garden, where two long
tables were spread. The parents were told to sit down, but she said to
the children, “It is not time for you to eat yet. Go into the woods with
Edmund and Blanche, and make little nests of moss. Put them under the
trees, and be sure to remember where you left them.”
They ran out laughing, and the parents sat down to the feast, and a
splendid feast it seemed to them! There were eggs in the shell, fried
eggs, eggs in milk, omelets, and sweet, yellow custards, and as they
never had tasted eggs before, they thought them wonderfully delicious.
After a while the children came back for their share in the good things,
and as soon as they had finished eating, the woman said, “Go out and look
for your pretty nests.”
A rush and a scramble and they were in the woods, and a moment later
cries of delight and wonder were heard, for in each nest they found five
lovely eggs of red, blue, green, purple, and orange. They came pell-mell
to show them to their fathers and mothers, who discovered something
written upon them.
It was a motto, and the villagers, who were too unlettered to read it,
asked the lady to tell them what it meant. They smiled as they listened,
as if believing in the truth of the words they heard:
In God’s protecting goodness trust,
For He will aid the kind and just.
The afternoon passed joyously, and when the chapel bell rang out the
Angelus, the villagers departed, and the woman stood in the doorway
with a smile upon her face, watching them go to their homes. While she
watched, a youth carrying a bundle came walking down the mountain path.
He seemed very tired and sad, and tears came into his eyes as she called
to him. He told her he was on his way to a village beyond to see his
mother, who was old and sick, and that he had walked a long way without
food.
“I have a little money,” he said, “but must not spend it for myself,
because it is needed at home.”
Touched by his story, the woman took him into the house, where a good
meal was set before him; and as he was about to start away, she gave him
a gold piece and some eggs for his little brother and sister.
Refreshed by rest and food he strode on his way through the village, took
the path that led to the other side of the mountains, and after a while
came to the edge of a ravine. From that point the trail was narrow and
dangerous, and he walked rapidly because he wanted to reach home before
night.
But suddenly he stopped. Looking down to where a tiny stream wound
through the gulch, he saw a horse. It was saddled and bridled, which
seemed very strange to him.
“I wonder if some one has fallen and needs help,” he murmured.
So, although he wanted to be on his way, he climbed down over the crags.
It was as he feared. A man was lying there, motionless as if dead. He was
dressed in heavy armor, by which the lad knew he was some one rich and
great.
Pulling off the helmet to use as a dipper, he ran to the river for water,
and poured it over the drawn, white face.
The rider opened his eyes slowly, and when he saw the youth kneeling
beside him said, “Thank God for sending you! I fell down over the cliffs,
and thought I was to lie here and die. Oh, I am so weak and faint!” he
sighed.
The peasant boy remembered the pretty eggs in his bundle that were
intended for his little brother and sister at home. “But they would want
me to give them to this poor fellow,” he thought. So he shelled one and
held it to the trembling lips.
The man ate it as if nearly starved, and another and another. Then,
seeing the motto on the one that was still unbroken, he opened his eyes
wide.
“Stop,” he said as the boy was about to break it. “Let me have it as it
is and I will give you a gold piece for it.”
Then the peasant youth, who was stalwart and strong, helped him on to his
horse, and led him to his own village, where the doctor said he must lie
still for six weeks. He groaned as he heard those words, and exclaimed,
“Six weeks, and my master waiting for word of her!”
But he was a soldier, and knew how to wait. He stayed patiently, and at
the end of the time went on his way.
Meanwhile, back in the village in the valley, the beautiful stranger
lived on with her children. She seemed very happy until one day the man
Kuno went to the city across the mountain, and returned looking pale and
worried.
“Madame,” he said as she met him at the door, “I have bad news for you.”
She turned white, as if some terrible thing had happened, took him into
the house, and they talked together for a long time. Then Kuno left the
cottage and hurried through the village to the house of the miller, who
was also the mayor.
“My mistress wishes to speak to you,” he said.
The man went back with him, and when they reached the house, the woman
told a strange story.
“I am Rosalinde, daughter of the Duke of Burgundy,” she said. “In my
father’s court were two knights, Hanno of Schraffeneck and Arno of
Lindenburg, who were suitors for my hand. I chose Arno, and Hanno was
furiously angry. He vowed he would have revenge, but I was happy with my
husband, and did not fear him.
“All went well for a long time. Then the emperor summoned my husband to
go on the Holy Wars to Palestine, and he rode away with the Crusaders,
leaving me alone with the children. Hanno, too, was summoned to fight the
Moslems, but he stayed behind, vowing that now he would have his revenge,
and unless I married him he would put me into prison and kill my children.
“The castle of my lord was strong, but there was no one to defend it
after he and his train went away, and Hanno brought many men and began
a siege. My good Kuno, who knew a secret passage, aided me to escape and
brought me across the mountains to your village, where I have felt safe.
But today he saw Hanno in the city, asking people if a lady with two
children and an old domestic had passed that way.”
She stopped a moment as if she could not speak for tears, then went on
sadly, “Kuno hid and was not seen, but I fear that when Hanno comes
through the valley, the people will tell him I am here, and then he will
put me in prison and kill my children.”
The miller shook his head and spoke words of comfort.
“Have no fear, madame,” he said. “The villagers will not tell that you
are here, and if Hanno comes and tries to take you, we will defend you
with our lives.”
Then he went from house to house, telling the story of the Lady
Rosalinde. Soon every one in the village knew it and the people swore to
protect her at any cost, and the next day when Hanno came, they pretended
to be so stupid that they didn’t know what he was talking about.
“She has not been here,” he said to his men. And they went away.
After that all was peaceful in the village, and the Lady Rosalinde
was no longer afraid. Her children played with the charcoal burners’
children, and every evening they went to the little chapel at the edge
of the forest to pray for the safe return of the husband and father from
Palestine.
One lovely evening in the month of May, they went to the church as usual,
and when they came out, sat down on some rocks to watch the sun sink
behind the mountain. A pilgrim came by, bending low over a staff, his
long white hair reaching his shoulders and his beard flowing down over
his breast. He noticed the children and spoke to them, and little Edmund
said, “We have just been to church to pray for our dear papa.”
The Lady Rosalinde was terribly frightened, for she thought he might
be some one who would carry word to Hanno, but a moment later her fear
turned to joy, for the pilgrim snatched off his beard and white hair, and
a young, handsome knight stood before them. Little Blanche and Edmund
screamed in delight, for they knew it was their father.
“How did you find us?” Lady Rosalinde asked.
“I found you, my dear Rosalinde, because you were good and charitable.”
Then he told how he had returned from the Crusades to a ruined castle.
“I questioned the peasants around, who said Hanno had besieged it, and
that you and the children had escaped. Then I led my train against him
and took him prisoner, and sent out horsemen to find word of you. It
seemed they would never come back, and when they did my heart almost
broke, for although they had scoured the land they had no news. There was
one, however, who did not return, and thinking he had been killed, I gave
up hope. But six weeks later he came with a strange story, and gave me a
colored egg, and imagine my joy, to find upon it in your own handwriting,
the motto of my house:
“In God’s protecting goodness trust,
For He will aid the kind and just.”
Then, continuing the story, Lord Arno told how he had gone in the guise
of a pilgrim to the home of the peasant from whom the cavalier received
the egg, and learning that his wife and children were in the valley, had
come seeking them.
Word that the lovely woman had been found by her husband soon traveled
throughout the village, and the people, young and old, came to welcome
him.
He was a true and valiant knight and thanked them for their kindness to
his loved ones, for the Lady Rosalinde had told him of her stay in the
valley, and of how good and gentle the peasants were.
“And now, my dear friends,” he said, “to show you how grateful I am,
I promise to give a fine, big cow to every family in the village. And
every year at Easter time, my wife and I will send colored eggs to the
children, not only to those of this valley, but to every boy and girl in
the realm.”
Then Lord Arno and his family departed, rebuilt their ruined castle, and
lived happily there. But they never forgot the charcoal burners in the
valley, and every year sent quantities of gay eggs to the children. As
years passed the custom spread from country to country, until now colored
eggs are given at Easter time to children in every Christian land.
PRINCE UNEXPECTED
FROM THE POLISH OF GLINSKI
(_Slavic Wonder Tale_)
There were a king and a queen who had been married for three years, but
had no children, at which they were both much distressed. Once upon a
time the king found himself obliged to make a visit of inspection round
his dominions; he took leave of his queen, set off, and was not at home
for eight months.
Towards the end of the ninth month the king returned from his progress
through his country, and was already hard by his capital city, when, as
he journeyed over an uninhabited plain during the most scorching heat of
summer, he felt such excessive thirst that he sent his servants round
about to see if they could find water anywhere and let him know of it at
once. The servants dispersed in various directions, sought in vain for a
whole hour, and returned without success to the king.
The thirst-tormented king proceeded to traverse the whole plain far and
wide himself, not believing that there was not a spring somewhere or
other; on he rode, and on a level spot, on which there had not previously
been any water, he espied a well with a new wooden fence round it, full
to the brim with spring water, in the midst of which floated a silver cup
with a golden handle. The king sprang from his horse and reached after
the cup with his right hand; but the cup, just as if it were alive and
had eyes, darted quickly on one side and floated again by itself. The
king knelt down and began to try to catch it, now with his right hand,
now with his left, but it moved and dodged away in such a manner that,
not being able to seize it with one hand, he tried to catch it with both.
But scarcely had he reached out with both hands when the cup dived like a
fish, and floated again on the surface.
“Hang it!” thought the king, “I can’t help myself with the cup, I’ll
manage without it.” He then bent down to the water, which was as clear as
crystal and as cold as ice, and began in his thirst to drink. Meanwhile
his long beard, which reached down to his girdle, dipped into the water.
When he had quenched his thirst and wished to get up again, something was
holding his beard and would not let it go. He pulled once and again, but
it was of no use; he cried out therefore in anger, “Who’s there? Let go!”
“It’s I, the subterranean king, immortal Bony, and I shall not let go
till you give me that which you left unknowingly at home, and which you
do not expect to find on your return.”
The king looked into the depth of the well, and there was a huge head
like a tub, with green eyes and a mouth from ear to ear; the creature was
holding the king by the beard with extended claws like those of a crab,
and was laughing mischievously.
The king thought that a thing of which he had not known before starting,
and which he did not expect on his return, could not be of great value;
so he said to the apparition, “I give it.”
The apparition burst with laughter and vanished with a flash of fire,
and with it vanished also the well, the water, the wooden fence, and the
cup; and the king was again on a hillock by a little wood kneeling on
dry sand, and there was nothing more. The king got up, crossed himself,
sprang on his horse, hastened to his attendants, and rode on.
In a week or maybe a fortnight the king arrived at his capital; the
people came out in crowds to meet him; he went in procession to the great
court of the palace and entered the corridor. In the corridor stood the
queen awaiting him, and holding close to her bosom a cushion, on which
lay a child, beautiful as the moon, kicking in swaddling clothes. The
king recollected himself, sighed painfully, and said within himself:
“This is what I left without knowing and found without expecting!” And
bitterly, bitterly did he weep. All marveled, but nobody dared to ask
the cause. The king, without saying a word, took his son in his arms,
gazed long on his innocent face, carried him into the palace himself,
laid him in the cradle, and, suppressing his sorrow, devoted himself to
the government of his realm; but he was never again cheerful as formerly,
since he was perpetually tormented by the thought that some day Bony
would claim his son.
Meanwhile weeks, months, and years flowed on, and no one came for his
son. The prince, named “Unexpected,” grew and developed, and eventually
became a handsome youth. The king also in course of time regained his
usual cheerfulness, and forgot what had taken place; but alas! everybody
did not forget so easily.
Once the prince, while hunting in a forest, became separated from his
suite and found himself in a savage wilderness. Suddenly there appeared
before him a hideous old man with green eyes, who said, “How do you do,
Prince Unexpected? You have made me wait for you a long time.”
“Who are you?”
“That you will find out hereafter, but now, when you return to your
father, greet him from me, and tell him that I should be glad if he would
close accounts with me, for if he doesn’t soon get out of my debt of
himself, he will repent it bitterly.” After saying this the hideous old
man disappeared, and the prince in amazement turned his horse, rode home,
and told the king his adventure.
The king turned as pale as a sheet, and revealed the frightful secret
to his son. “Do not weep, father!” replied the prince, “it is no great
misfortune! I shall manage to force Bony to renounce the right over me,
which he tricked you out of in so underhand a manner, but if in the
course of a year I do not return, it will be a token that we shall see
each other no more.”
The prince prepared for his journey; the king gave him a suit of steel
armor, a sword, and a horse, and the queen hung round his neck a cross of
pure gold. At leave-taking they embraced affectionately, wept heartily,
and the prince rode off.
On he rode one day, two days, three days, and at the end of the fourth
day at the setting of the sun he came to the shore of the sea; and in
the selfsame bay he espied twelve dresses, white as snow, though in the
water, as far as the eye could reach, there was no living soul to be
seen—only twelve white geese were swimming at a distance from the shore.
Curious to know to whom they belonged, he took one of the dresses, let
his horse loose in a meadow, concealed himself in a neighboring thicket,
and waited to see what would come to pass. Thereupon the geese, after
disporting themselves on the sea, swam to the shore. Eleven of them went
to the dresses, each threw herself on the ground and became a beautiful
damsel, dressed herself with speed, and flew away into the plain.
The twelfth goose, the last and prettiest of all, did not venture to come
out on the shore, but only wistfully stretched out her neck, looking
on all sides. On seeing the prince she called out with a human voice:
“Prince Unexpected, give me my dress; I will be grateful to you in
return.” The prince hearkened to her, placed the dress on the grass, and
modestly turned away in another direction.
The goose came out on the grass, changed herself into a damsel, dressed
herself hastily, and stood before the prince; she was young and more
beautiful than eye had seen or ear heard of. Blushing, she gave him her
white hand, and, casting her eyes down, said with a pleasing voice: “I
thank you, good prince, for hearkening to me. I am the youngest daughter
of immortal Bony. He has twelve young daughters, and rules in the
subterranean realm. My father, prince, has long been expecting you and is
very angry. However, don’t grieve, and don’t be frightened, but do as I
tell you. As soon as you see King Bony, fall at once on your knees, and
paying no regard to his outcry, upbraiding, and threats, approach him
boldly. What will happen afterwards you will learn, but now we must part.”
On saying this the princess stamped on the ground with her little foot;
the ground sprang open at once, and they descended into the subterranean
realm, right into Bony’s palace, which shone all underground brighter
than our sun. The prince stepped boldly into the reception room. Bony
was sitting on a golden throne with a glittering crown on his head; his
eyes gleamed like two saucers of green glass and his hands were like the
nippers of a crab. As soon as the prince espied him at a distance, he
fell on his knees, and Bony yelled so horribly that the vaults of the
subterranean dominion quaked; but the prince boldly moved on his knees
towards the throne, and when he was only a few paces from it, the king
smiled and said: “Thou hast marvelous luck in succeeding in making me
smile; remain in our subterranean realm, but before thou becomest a true
citizen thereof thou art bound to execute three commands of mine; but
because it is late today, we will begin tomorrow; meanwhile go to thy
room.”
The prince slept comfortably in the room assigned to him, and early on
the morrow Bony summoned him and said: “We will see, prince, what thou
canst do. In the course of the following night build me a palace of pure
marble; let the windows be of crystal, the roof of gold, an elegant
garden round about it, and in the garden seats and fountains; if thou
buildest it, thou wilt gain thyself my love; if not, I shall command thy
head to be cut off.”
The prince heard the command, returned to his apartment, and was sitting
mournfully thinking of the death that threatened him, when outside at the
window a bee came buzzing and said, “Let me in!” He opened the lattice,
in flew the bee, and the princess, Bony’s youngest daughter, appeared
before the wondering prince.
“What are you thus thinking about, Prince Unexpected?”
“Alas! I am thinking that your father wishes to deprive me of life.”
“Don’t be afraid! Lie down to sleep, and when you get up tomorrow morning
your palace will be ready.”
So, too, it came to pass. At dawn the prince came out of his room and
espied a more beautiful palace than he had ever seen, and Bony, when he
saw it, wondered, and would not believe his own eyes.
“Well! thou hast won this time, and now thou hast my second command. I
shall place my twelve daughters before thee tomorrow; if thou dost not
guess which of them is the youngest, thou wilt place thy head beneath the
ax.”
“I unable to recognize the youngest princess!” said the prince in his
room. “What difficulty can there be in that?”
“This,” answered the princess, flying into the room in the shape of a
bee, “that if I don’t help you, you won’t recognize me, for we are all
so alike that even our father distinguishes us only by our dress.”
“What am I to do?”
“What, indeed! That will be the youngest over whose right eye you espy a
ladycow. Only look well. Adieu!”
On the morrow King Bony again summoned Prince Unexpected. The princesses
stood in a row side by side, all dressed alike and with eyes cast down.
The prince looked and marveled how alike all the princesses were; he went
past them once, twice—he did not find the appointed token; the third time
he saw a ladycow over the eyebrow of one, and cried out: “This is the
youngest princess!”
“How the deuce have you guessed it?” said Bony angrily. “There must
be some trickery here. I must deal with your lordship differently. In
three hours you will come here again, and will show your cleverness in
my presence. I shall light a straw, and you will stitch a pair of boots
before it goes out, and if you don’t do it you will perish.”
The prince returned desponding and found the bee already in his
apartment. “Why pensive again, prince?”
“How shouldn’t I be pensive, when your father wants me to stitch him a
pair of boots, for what sort of cobbler am I?”
“What else will you do?”
“What am I to do? I shan’t stitch the boots, and I’m not afraid of
death—one can die but once!”
“No, prince, you shall not die! I will endeavor to rescue you, and we
will either escape together or perish together! We must flee—there’s
nothing else to be done.”
Saying this, the princess spat on one of the window panes, and the
spittle immediately froze. She then went out of the room with the
prince, locked the door after her, and threw the key far away. Then,
taking each other by the hands, they ascended rapidly, and in a moment
found themselves on the very spot whence they had descended into the
subterranean realm; there was the selfsame sea, the selfsame fresh
meadow, and in the meadow cantered the prince’s well-fed horse, who, as
soon as he descried his rider, came galloping straight to him. The prince
didn’t stop long to think, but sprang on his horse, the princess seated
herself behind him, and off they set as swift as an arrow.
King Bony at the appointed hour did not wait for Prince Unexpected, but
sent to ask him why he did not appear. Finding the door locked, the
servants knocked at it vigorously, and the spittle answered them from the
middle of the room in the prince’s voice, “Anon.” The servants carried
this answer to the king; he waited, waited, no prince; he therefore again
sent the same servants, who heard the same answer: “Anon!” and carried
what they had heard to the king.
“What’s this? Does he mean to make fun of me?” shouted the king in wrath.
“Go at once, break the door open, and conduct him to me!”
The servants hurried off, broke open the door, and rushed in. What,
indeed? There was nobody there, and the spittle on the pane of glass
was splitting with laughter at them. Bony all but burst with rage, and
ordered them all to start off in pursuit of the prince, threatening them
with death if they returned empty-handed. They sprang on horseback and
hastened away after the prince and princess.
Meanwhile Prince Unexpected and the princess, Bony’s daughter, were
hurrying away on their spirited horse, and amidst their rapid flight
heard “Tramp, tramp,” behind them. The prince sprang from the horse, put
his ear to the ground, and said, “They are pursuing us.”
“Then,” said the princess, “we have no time to lose.” Instantly she
transformed herself into a river, changed the prince into a bridge and
the horse into a raven, and divided the grand highway beyond the bridge
into three roads. Swiftly on the fresh track hastened the pursuers, came
to the bridge, and stood stupefied; they saw the track up to the bridge,
but beyond it disappeared, and the highway divided into three roads.
There was nothing to be done but to return, and they came with naught.
Bony shouted with rage, and cried out: “A bridge and a river! It was
they. How was it that ye did not guess it? Back, and don’t return without
them!” The pursuers recommenced the pursuit.
“I hear ‘Tramp, tramp!’” whispered the princess, Bony’s daughter,
affrightedly to Prince Unexpected, who sprang from the saddle, put his
ear to the ground, and replied: “They are making haste, and are not far
off.”
That instant the princess and prince, and with them also their horse,
became a gloomy forest, in which there were roads, byroads, and footpaths
without number, and on one of them it seemed that two riders were
hastening on a horse. Following the fresh track, the pursuers came up
to the forest, and when they espied the fugitives in it, they hastened
speedily after them. On and on hurried the pursuers, seeing continually
before them a thick forest, a wide road, and the fugitives on it; now,
now they thought to overtake them, when the fugitives and the thick
forest suddenly vanished, and they found themselves at the selfsame place
whence they had started in pursuit. They returned, therefore, again to
Bony empty-handed.
“A horse, a horse! I’ll go myself! they won’t escape out of my hands!”
yelled Bony, foaming at the mouth, and started in pursuit.
Again the princess said to Prince Unexpected: “Methinks they are pursuing
us, and this time it is Bony, my father, himself, but the first church is
the boundary of his dominion, and he cannot pursue us farther. Give me
your golden cross.”
The prince took off his affectionate mother’s gift and gave it to the
princess, and in a moment she was transformed into a church, he into the
priest, and the horse into the bell; and that instant up came Bony.
“Monk!” Bony asked the priest, “hast thou not seen some travelers on
horseback?”
“Only just now Prince Unexpected rode this way with the princess, Bony’s
daughter. They came into the church, performed their devotions, gave
money for a mass for your good health, and ordered me to present their
respects to you if you should ride this way.”
Bony, too, returned empty-handed. But Prince Unexpected rode on with the
princess, Bony’s daughter, in no further fear of pursuit.
They rode gently on, when they saw before them a beautiful town, into
which the prince felt an irresistible longing to go.
“Prince,” said the princess, “don’t go; my heart forebodes misfortune
there.”
“I’ll ride there for only a short time, and look round the town, and
we’ll then proceed on our journey.”
“It’s easy enough to ride thither, but will it be as easy to return?
Nevertheless, as you absolutely desire it, go, and I will remain here in
the form of a white stone till you return; be circumspect, my beloved;
the king, the queen, and the princess, their daughter, will come out to
meet you, and with them will be a beautiful little boy—don’t kiss him,
for, if you do, you will forget me at once, and will never set eyes on me
more in the world—I shall die of despair. I will wait for you here on the
road for three days, and if on the third day you don’t return, remember
that I perish, and perish all through you.” The prince took leave and
rode to the town, and the princess transformed herself into a white stone
and remained on the road.
One day passed, a second passed, the third also passed, and nothing
was seen of the prince. Poor princess! He had not obeyed her counsel;
in the town, the king, the queen, and the princess their daughter had
come out to meet him, and with them walked a little boy, a curly-headed
chatterbox, with eyes as bright as stars. The child rushed straight into
the prince’s arms, who was so captivated by the beauty of the lad that he
forgot everything and kissed the child affectionately. That moment his
memory was darkened, and he utterly forgot the princess, Bony’s daughter.
The princess lay as a white stone by the wayside, one day, two days, and
when the third day passed and the prince did not return from the town,
she transformed herself into a cornflower, and sprang in among the rye by
the roadside. “Here I shall stay by the roadside; maybe some passer-by
will pull me up or trample me into the ground,” said she, and tears like
dewdrops glittered on the azure petals.
Just then an old man came along the road, espied the cornflower in the
rye by the wayside, was captivated by its beauty, extracted it carefully
from the ground, carried it into his dwelling, set it in a flowerpot,
watered it, and began to tend it attentively. But—O marvel!—ever since
the time that the cornflower was brought into his dwelling, all kinds
of wonders began to happen in it. Scarcely was the old man awake, when
everything in the house was already set in order, nowhere was the least
atom of dust remaining. At noon he came home—dinner was all ready, the
table set; he had but to sit down and eat as much as he wanted. The old
man wondered and wondered, till at last terror took possession of him,
and he betook himself for advice to an old witch of his acquaintance in
the neighborhood.
“Do this,” the witch advised him: “get up before the first morning dawn,
before the cocks crow to announce daylight, and notice diligently what
begins to stir first in the house, and that which does stir, cover with
this napkin: what will happen further, you will see.”
The old man did not close his eyes the whole night, and as soon as the
first gleam appeared and things began to be visible in the house, he
saw how the cornflower suddenly moved in the flowerpot, sprang out, and
began to stir about the room; when simultaneously everything began to put
itself in its place; the dust began to sweep itself clean away, and the
fire kindled itself in the stove. The old man sprang cleverly out of his
bed and placed the cloth on the flower as it endeavored to escape, when
lo! the flower became a beautiful damsel—the princess, Bony’s daughter.
“What have you done?” cried the princess. “Why have you brought life back
to me? My betrothed, Prince Unexpected, has forgotten me, and therefore
life has become distasteful to me.”
“Your betrothed, Prince Unexpected, is going to be married today; the
wedding feast is ready, and the guests are beginning to assemble.”
The princess wept, but after a while dried her tears, dressed herself in
frieze, and went into the town like a village girl. She came to the royal
kitchen, where there was great noise and bustle. She went up to the clerk
of the kitchen with humble and attractive grace, and said in a sweet
voice: “Dear sir, do me one favor: allow me to make a wedding cake for
Prince Unexpected.”
Occupied with work, the first impulse of the clerk of the kitchen was
to give the girl a rebuff; but when he looked at her, the words died on
his lips and he answered kindly: “Ah, my beauty of beauties! do what you
will; I will hand the prince your cake myself.”
The cake was soon baked, and all the invited guests, were sitting at
table. The clerk of the kitchen himself placed a huge cake on a silver
dish before the prince; but scarce had the prince made a cut in the side
of it, when lo! an unheard-of marvel displayed itself in the presence of
all. A gray tom-pigeon and a white hen-pigeon came out of the cake; the
tom-pigeon walked along the table, and the hen-pigeon walked after him,
cooing:
“Stay, stay, my pigeonet, oh stay!
Don’t from thy true love flee away;
My faithless lover I pursue,
Prince Unexpected like unto,
Who Bony’s daughter did betray.”
Scarcely had Prince Unexpected heard this cooing of the pigeon, when he
regained his lost recollection, bounced from the table, rushed to the
door, and behind the door the princess, Bony’s daughter, took him by the
hand; they went together down the corridor, and before them stood a horse
saddled and bridled.
Why delay? Prince Unexpected and the princess, Bony’s daughter, sprang
on the horse, started on the road, and at last arrived happily in the
realm of Prince Unexpected’s father. The king and the queen received them
with joy and merriment, and did not wait long before they prepared them a
magnificent wedding, the like of which eye never saw and ear never heard
of.
THE GREEDY COBBLER
(_Welsh Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching contentment_)
Once upon a time a Welsh cobbler carrying a hazel wand was walking over
London Bridge, and as he sauntered along he met an Englishman.
“Ah,” the latter exclaimed, pointing to the wand the man of Cambria used
as a cane, “where did you get it?”
“Where did I get it?” the Welshman repeated, amazed that any one should
ask such a question. “Off of a hazel bush, to be sure.”
But the stranger stared in big-eyed wonder and shook his head.
“There is only one hazel bush of that kind in all the world,” he
declared, “and under it a vast treasure is hidden. Lead me to the spot,
and I will share it with you.”
The Welshman smiled pleasantly, for he began to have visions of a
luxurious, idle life. He hated to work, and was always grumbling because
he had to hammer away at shoe lasts to make his living.
To be sure he would lead the Englishman to the spot, and once he had some
gold in his possession, he’d do nothing but feast and ride in a coach
and dance at the fair. So he said quite wearily, lest the stranger think
he seemed too eager and change his mind, “It is a long way from here, in
the Vale of Neath in my native Wales, and by my faith I have no desire to
walk that distance.”
But the Englishman coaxed, which was just what the Welshman wanted him to
do. So they turned away from London Bridge and journeyed northward across
mountains and valleys, until they came to Cambria.
After several days they came to Craig-i-Ddinas, in the lovely Vale of
Neath. The Welshman led the way to the hazel bush, beside which he had
often played when a boy, and the Englishman said, “In due time we will
begin work.”
When darkness was heavy enough to cover all trace of what they did, they
dug up the bush, and the Englishman, who happened to be a wizard, pointed
to a broad stone under the roots and said, “Below is the treasure. Do as
I bid and you shall be rich.”
And the Welshman began to feel very important, thinking how people would
honor him when he lived in a great house and wore a velvet coat.
Then the cock crowed for dawn, and they knew they must hurry away before
any of the peasants saw them. The Welshman did not wish his village
cousins to know he was there, for they would question why he had come; so
they found a vacant tinker’s hut in which to rest until darkness made it
safe for them to go to work again.
But the cobbler was too excited to sleep. The sight of the broad, flat
stone at the root of the hazel bush brought back to his mind a story he
had often heard, one that the village grandmothers used to tell when he
was a boy. Again and again he thought of it, the story of the treasure of
King Arthur.
Historians state that when the ruler of Camelot was killed in the battle
of Mount Badon, he was buried at Glastonbury, but the Welsh country
folk say that is not true. They declare Merlin carried him straight to
the lovely Vale of Neath, where he sleeps on his arms, with his Round
Table Knights beside him and all the wealth of his realm piled at his
feet. There he and his warriors will rest until the ringing of a warning
bell, when the Black and Golden Eagles go to war. Then they will rise up
and destroy every enemy of Cambria, when Britain will be governed with
justice and peace will reign as long as the world endures. Could it be
that the broad stone at the foot of the hazel tree covered the entrance
to Arthur’s cave? This the Welshman pondered until it was almost dark and
time to go to work again.
Cautiously they left the hut and approached the spot, peering in every
direction lest some one see and question them. Sturdily they pulled and
tugged at the rock, and slowly, steadily moved it, until they found an
opening like a door. Then the Englishman said in a low tone, “Behold King
Arthur’s cave! Follow me and obey.”
The Welshman followed, and a wonderful sight met his eyes. Thousands of
warriors slept in a circle on their arms, and in the midst of them, more
splendid looking than any other, lay the King of Camelot, the mighty
Arthur himself. His crown of gold was by his side, a pile of gold lay at
his feet, and beyond the circle of his followers were a thousand steeds,
all saddled and bridled as if ready for battle. Sometimes they champed as
if eager for the war cry, sometimes they drooped their heads wearily.
Noticing a bell suspended just above the treasure heap, the cobbler
pointed to it.
“Do not touch it,” the Englishman warned. “But if by accident you do,
and the warriors waken and ask if it is day, say, ‘No, sleep thou on.’
Otherwise a terrible fate will overtake you.”
They helped themselves to the gold and left the cave, and each man went
his way. The Welshman, having all the treasure he could carry, was no
longer a poor cobbler who must spend his time bending over shoe lasts. He
was richer than the mayor and could feast and ride in a coach, dance at
the fair, and live like the lords of the land.
But riches made that cobbler greedy. He had far more gold than he needed,
and the finest house in seven counties, but still he wanted more. He kept
thinking of the gold piled high in Arthur’s cave; so one day he journeyed
back to the Vale of Neath and waited for nightfall.
Then, creeping to the place of the hazel bush, he moved the rock and went
into the cave.
Ah, it was a goodly sight, those thousand warriors slumbering there
beside the treasure heap and a thousand saddled chargers beyond! He would
take all the gold he could carry, and very soon he would come back for
more. But in his greed to increase his wealth he bumped against the bell,
which clanged loudly. The warriors started up, asking if it was day, but
the man was so dazzled by the pile of shining treasure that he did not
have the answer ready. They leaped to their feet, called him a robber,
beat him, and drove him from the cave.
Then what a change! He went limping homeward, to discover that all
his wealth had disappeared and where his great house had stood was a
miserable hut. He was as poor as ever, and unless he could get more gold
out of the cave must go back to cobbling and never again ride in a coach.
But try as he would, he could not find the place where the hazel bush
had grown. Many a journey he made into the Vale of Neath, but never did
he catch a glimpse of the broad, flat stone. He had to spend his days
bending over shoe lasts instead of riding in a coach, and was a cripple
as long as he lived.
THE STORY OF A SALMON
BY DAVID STARR JORDAN
(_Science_)
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
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 upstream, and thus to drift backward as the river
sweeps along.
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 upstream 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 in turn by great sea lions,—swimming monsters with huge
half-human faces, long thin whiskers, and blundering ways. The sea lions
like 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 a 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 the south-lying snowdrifts 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 Chutes and Kootanie,—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 flatboat, 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 can 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 Sydney 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 companions 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 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 awakened 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.
THE PIGEONS OF VENICE
(_History_)
In one of the upland valleys of Italy, shut away from the rest of the
world by the high, white peaks men call the Dolomites, there lived, about
five hundred years ago, a little boy named Leonardo. He dwelt in a tiny
hut with his black-eyed peasant mother, fed the pigeons and milked the
goats each day, and in the evening, the pleasant summer evening that
spread rainbow-colored draperies over the Dolomite peaks, he lay in the
shadows under the plum tree, thinking about his brother Vittorio, who was
a soldier down in the great city of Venice.
“I wish brother would come home,” he said to his mother one morning as
they ate their breakfast of macaroni and mountain bread, “because he
always tells such wonderful things about the city. Some day I mean to go
there and be a soldier, too.”
His dark eyes gleamed as he spoke, and he sat very straight in his heavy
oaken chair, as of course a soldier ought to do.
Everybody knows that wishes do not always come true, but sometimes they
do, and when that happens the whole world seems brighter and lovelier
than it seemed before. The next afternoon, as Leonardo was turning the
goats into their inclosure, he gave a shout so joyous that even Armando
the weaver, in his shop at the other end of the village, heard and ran to
see what it meant. He soon found out, for he saw Leonardo hurrying toward
a man who was moving along the highway. Vittorio, the soldier brother,
was coming home, coming back to the mountain village with many a tale
of the splendid city beside the Adriatic, and perhaps with a goody that
would taste very sweet after the coarse fare of weeks and months.
Far into the night the brothers sat and talked together, talked of
palaces and gliding gondolas, of great lords and ladies, of soldiers
moving in splendid uniforms about the Piazza of St. Mark. They talked of
Carnival time too, of the merry pranks the people played on each other,
of the procession on the water and the presents given to the Doge.
“And sometimes,” Vittorio exclaimed proudly, “they are very splendid.
Sometimes they are of gold and silver, and of silk stuffs brought from
the Indies.”
Leonardo sat silent for a minute. He knew little of present giving, for
in the mountains where he lived there was no money to spend on such
things. But always when he made his mother a garland of flowers on her
birthday, she seemed so happy about it that he thought it must be very
lovely to bestow gifts. So he said softly, “I should like to send a
present to the Doge. It would seem like doing something for Venice. But I
have nothing to give.”
“Wait until you are a man and can be a soldier,” the big brother
answered. “Then you will be doing much.”
The next morning he was up at daybreak. Vittorio had only two days’
leave, which meant that he must start back at noon, and his mother had
promised that Leonardo might go with him to the edge of the village if
he finished his tasks in time. So he milked the goats before there was a
bit of stirring about the hut, and led the geese from their pen to crop
the green grass on the hillside. Then he cut some grass and threw it to
the old horse that was their most prized possession, and by the time his
brother came from the hut he called to him, “I have only to feed the
pigeons yet.”
Vittorio smiled and stood watching as the boy whistled to the birds.
The gentle creatures flew up at Leonardo’s call, and as he scattered
crumbs to them, he thought again of the great carnival at Venice and the
gifts that would be made to the Doge. He wished that he too might join
that throng of givers, but he possessed nothing but his pigeons, and a
bird would seem a very poor present to offer a ruler. But he happened to
think that the schoolmaster had once told him that it is not the cost
or the beauty of an offering that makes it precious, but the good will
of the giver, and that a beggar’s portion may be a lovelier gift than
that of a prince. The schoolmaster was very wise. He could both read and
write, which only a few could do in that day, so anything that he said
must be true; and the memory of the words brought an idea to Leonardo
that made the boy’s eyes dance.
“Vittorio,” he exclaimed suddenly, “I have thought of something.”
Vittorio wondered what excited his brother so.
“Well?” he asked as he walked near.
“Will you take a pair of pigeons back to the city with you?”
“A pair of pigeons,” the soldier repeated. “Why?”
“I want to send a present to the Doge, and I have nothing else,” he
answered. “But the birds are so gentle I am sure he will like them. They
are fine carriers, too.”
Vittorio smiled. Being in the army of the Doge, he was pleased that his
brother showed such loyalty to the master he served. It meant that he
would probably grow up to be a good soldier, and in those days nothing
was considered finer than that. So he answered pleasantly: “Of course I
will, Leonardo, if you are sure you can give up your pets. I will ask my
captain, who knows the Doge well, to take them to him and say that they
are the gift of a mountain boy.”
Leonardo’s eyes sparkled with delight. It seemed a glorious thing that
he too might give with the rich and great; so he selected the handsomest
pair in the covey, birds of a soft gray, with shadings of blue and purple
along their delicate wings, and he and Vittorio made a rude cage in which
to carry them to the city.
Then they walked together to the edge of the village, and Leonardo
watched his brother go along the road that wound down to the low country.
He waved good-by until Vittorio passed from sight, then went back to the
hut, happy in the thought that he was doing something for Venice.
Many months passed. It was September when Vittorio went away, and now the
blossom time had come and hills were bright with touches of summer. All
through that long period Leonardo wondered much about the pigeons, but
no word came from his brother; for letters went only by courier in those
days, and poor folk could not pay for the carrying. But he was sure the
birds had reached the Doge, for Vittorio had promised and a soldier never
broke his word.
Then one day in the autumn, when the brightness on the mountains had
faded to bronze and gray, and squirrels were stocking their houses as
nuts dropped in the woods, Vittorio came back. He looked older and graver
than the year before, and some worrying thing seemed on his mind.
“It is just to say good-by,” he said, as the gray-haired mother stroked
his hands and Leonardo looked at him with loving eyes. “The war has
begun, and we soldiers of Venice must sail away to Candia for the
fighting.”
Leonardo’s eyes grew wide, and tears came into them as he exclaimed, “If
only I were old enough to go with you and help serve our glorious city of
St. Mark!”
The big man laid his hand lovingly on the dark head.
“Never mind, brother,” he said. “You have already done much. I gave your
birds to my captain, who took them to the Doge, and the Doge is proud of
them because they are splendid carriers. So Dandolo, our general, will
take them along with the army to bring back news of the war. And now
good-by. When the fighting is over, I will come again.”
He mounted his horse and rode away, and two pairs of dewy eyes looked
after him as he went.
The days that followed seemed very long to the two who waited in the
highlands. They knew that the army had gone, and that away on the eastern
island perhaps the fighting had begun. But what of the fate of the
Venetian hosts, and what of the son and brother who had sailed under the
standard of the Lion? As to that they could only hope and wonder.
Slowly, slowly dragged the days, but no word came back.
One morning, while Leonardo and his mother prayed and waited in the
mountain cabin, down in Venice in the splendid Palace of the Doges,
the Council of Ten sat and pondered. They talked much about the absent
army, wondering if victory or defeat had been its share, and while they
wondered there came a fluttering of soft gray wings.
“Pigeons!” some one called. “See, they are carriers!”
The dignified assemblage broke up in excitement, for they knew the tiny
birds were messengers, and the men hurried to read the missives fastened
to their crimson feet.
“They come from Dandolo,” said one of the nobles, “bringing news of the
war.”
“From Candia!” another exclaimed. “It cannot be that they have flown so
far!”
But it was true, for upon reading they learned that the Venetian army had
been victorious and the soldiers would soon sail home in triumph. The
tiny birds had flown all the long leagues across the sea to carry the
glad news to the waiting people.
Up in the hut in the Italian highlands Leonardo and his mother still
watched and wondered, when one evening a few days later Armando, the
village weaver, came by on his way home from the city. He was greatly
excited and called to them as he stopped at the door.
“Rejoice,” he said, “for the war is over!”
“How do you know?” the mother asked. “Are the soldiers back?”
“No. But the pigeons brought the word, and every one is glad.”
“Pigeons!” exclaimed Leonardo. “My pigeons! Then after all I did
something for Venice.”
And he spoke the truth. So much did the message mean to the anxious
people, that the lawmakers said they would always keep the birds, they
and their young and their children’s young. And although hundreds of
years have passed since then, still the gray-winged creatures fly about
St. Mark’s Square, and the people love and feed them. For they know
they are descended from the pair sent to the Doge by a mountain boy,
Leonardo’s pigeons, that long ago flew across the wide seas, bringing
word of the victory of the Venetian hosts.
THE COMING OF THE WONDER TREE
RETOLD FROM AN ARABIAN LEGEND
(_Geography—Nature Study_)
Abi Ben Ahmed was a chief of Araby, and there was no sweeter child in the
land than his little daughter Zuleika. She was fair to look upon, with
eyes slender as an almond and soft as a gazelle’s, and the goodness of
her heart was known to every one in the tribe. Lowly slave and mighty
sheik alike loved her, and when she was with her father he forgot all his
trouble.
One evening when the sun was dropping low over the desert, Zuleika sat
in front of the tent waiting for a chance to have her supper. Her father
was eating just then, for by the laws of Arabian politeness women and
children must wait for meals until their lords and masters have finished.
She was hungry, yet she did not mind the delay, because she knew nothing
else, and when you think all the world does things as you do, your way
does not seem hard. So she watched the color flame across the western
sky, hummed snatches of song, and made pictures in the sand with her
fingers.
Suddenly, away to the south, a yellow cloud seemed to rise out of the
desert. It moved nearer, and as Zuleika watched it her dark eyes began to
sparkle. She knew what it meant and it made her glad.
“Father,” she called, “some one is riding this way.”
Abi Ben Ahmed left his supper and came from the tent to see. The Arab is
fond of his food and very loth to leave it, but when strangers almost
never come by it is worth going without a meal to see them.
“Yes,” he agreed, as his piercing eyes scanned the southern horizon,
“some one is traveling across the desert.”
Zuleika danced with delight. Only once or twice since she could remember
had any one come to the camp, for it was in the very heart of El Nedjed,
and there was little traveling in those far-off days. Long before, when
she was a tiny girl, a traveler had come that way, and while he lingered
at camp, told of the blue Persian Gulf beyond the Oman shore, and of the
music of its plashing waves. No word has such a magical sound to the Arab
as “water,” and to hear of lakes and rivers of it is like some exquisite
fairy tale.
“It is a desert of water more beautiful than the land,” he said in the
soft, sweet tongue of the East. “Houris dwell there, and often when the
moon is shining they come out and sport upon the sands.”
The tale fascinated her at the time, and had always stayed in her memory.
That is why she was happy to see a stranger approaching. She thought he
might tell her of the lovely realm beyond.
As the cloud rolled nearer they saw a rider on a milk-white steed. Abi
Ben Ahmed called to his men to come and welcome the stranger, for an Arab
who lets even one slave stay away when a guest arrives, is lacking in
courtesy. So they advanced, stalwart, dark-skinned men, whose turbaned
heads were bowed almost to the ground as they gave the low salaam of the
East, while the chief spoke words of welcome to his camp.
Very swarthy was the rider, and of proud demeanor that proclaimed him a
person of much consequence, and as he returned Ben Abi’s salute he spoke
with dignity befitting his bearing.
“I bring greeting from the sheik Ben Nedi,” he announced. “He rides this
way tomorrow.”
The chief replied, “Mighty is Ben Nedi, and a man of high esteem among
his people. He shall have welcome and all that Arab hospitality can
offer.”
Then, leading the way, Ben Ahmed took the stranger to the tent, where
camel’s milk and dried goat’s flesh were set before him.
Zuleika, on the sand without, could hear their words, but the joyous
light was no longer in her eyes. Her face was drawn in wrinkles, and
her lip quivered as if she were about to cry. She knew that the man
expected on the morrow was not only a powerful chieftain, but a teacher
and prophet as well, and that according to the Arab custom every person
in camp, even to the lowliest slave, would lay gifts before him. For
it is believed by the desert people that to do so brings a blessing.
But Zuleika, although she was a chieftain’s daughter, had nothing to
offer, for the wealth of Arab rulers is in their flocks and lands, and
the poorest child of the West has more treasures than had this little
princess of the desert.
“If I had my baby camel I could give that,” she thought as she listened
to the murmurs in the women’s tent and knew that all was excitement there
over the coming of the stranger.
But the camel she had loved and petted had died a few weeks before, and
she had nothing else.
“Do not grieve,” her mother said when she saw tears in the big almond
eyes and asked the reason they were there. “The law of giving does not
apply to children, and the sheik Ben Nedi, who is as wise as he is
powerful, knows that sometimes empty hands give most of all. The blessing
comes of having the great desire, not through the treasure that is
offered.”
But Zuleika did grieve, and the world seemed very dark. And after she
went to bed she thought about it until she grew so restless she could not
lie quietly. So she crept outside and sat on the ground.
It was midnight, and Abi Ben Ahmed and the stranger slept in the tent.
The slaves, both men and women, were sleeping too, and nothing broke the
stillness of the desert night save an occasional breeze that shifted the
loose sand, or a stirring among the animals just beyond. She sat there
for a minute, then stole out across the waste. Past the camel keep she
went, hurrying through the silver of the moonlight until she came to a
rock that rose out of the desert like a grizzled head facing westward. It
was her favorite spot, for her mother had told her that a lovely houri
(fairy) once made her haunt there, and she hoped she might come back and
do wonderful things for her as she was said to have done in the long ago.
So she climbed up and looked across the desert.
Away to the west, glowing more brightly than any other in the sky, was
the star that according to Arab teaching shines always over Mecca, the
city of the Prophet. The sight of it made her grieve more than ever over
the thought of her empty hands, and she began to cry.
Then, with a sound of wonderful music, a white creature rose out of the
sands. Her beauty was more radiant than any of which Zuleika had ever
dreamed, and jewels of many colors glistened in her hair. Her smile was
wonderfully sweet, and the girl knew it must be the good fairy returned
to her old haunt.
“Why do you weep?” she asked.
Zuleika answered with a low salaam, “The prophet comes tomorrow, and I
have nothing to offer him because the baby camel I would have given is
dead.”
“But you have a gift more precious than the others,” the fairy spoke.
The little girl was amazed.
“I!” she exclaimed. “Why, I have nothing!”
“Ah, but you have,” came the low reply. “The desire in the heart. That is
the only thing worth giving, and that you have. But you shall have still
another. Come here in the morning at sunrise, and you will find it on the
sands.”
The radiant creature glided away in the light, that dimmed as she went,
and in a moment Zuleika could see only the desert and her father’s camp
beyond the rock.
Creeping down, she went back to the tent to bed. But the beauty of the
shining creature was in her eyes and brain, and she could not sleep.
Eagerly she waited for the coming of morning, and as soon as she heard a
stirring beyond the tents, and knew that Hassan, the camel keeper, was
looking after the animals, she bounded out of bed and down to the place
of rock. Her mother saw her go, but thought nothing about it, for it was
the time of gray dawn when every Arab looks in prayer toward Mecca, and
she was probably going to the fairy rock for her devotions. But Zuleika
thought of something besides her prayers.
When she came to the spot she stared around, wondering if it could be
the place she had visited in the night. Then only a glittering waste
stretched far as the eye could reach. Now there was a tree, straight and
branchless almost to the crown, where from beneath wide-spreading leaves
hung bunches of pulpy fruit. Nothing like it had been seen on the desert
before.
Wild with delight, she rushed back to camp and told of the wonder.
“A tree on the desert!” her father exclaimed. “It cannot be.”
Nor could she make him believe so strange a thing had happened until she
led him to the spot. But there it stood, with head held high like an Arab
sheik, and when he tasted of the fruit he found it good.
In the late afternoon of the following day the caravan of the sheik
Ben Nedi came to the camp of Abi Ben Ahmed. The women within the tents
received him with singing, and the men with low salaams. Then the gifts
were brought: the finest camels of the herd, turban cloth enough for all
the men of his train, and silk, a portion of her mother’s marriage dower
worth the price of many camels. It had been brought by ship across the
sea and by caravan over the desert, and was rainbow-hued and fine, such
as is woven only in the Vale of Cashmere. The great man received them
with gratitude, and spoke words of praise for the tribe of Ben Ahmed.
“Surely nothing more splendid can be set before a sheik,” he said.
But the chief smiled and answered, “Not so, O mighty prophet! Zuleika’s
gift, the finest of all, is yonder on the desert.”
Then he led the way to the place of rock and pointed to the wonder tree
that had sprung up in the night. Ben Nedi found the fruit cooling and
sweet, and as he listened to the story, he stood with dewy eyes.
“The gift of a child’s tears!” he exclaimed. “Yes, that is most precious
of all. The Arab will bless the day it came to be.”
And the prophecy was fulfilled. It still grows in the depths of the
desert, the wonder tree of the East that men call the date palm, and the
Arab blesses it whenever he rides that way. He knows that for a thousand
years and more it has been the salvation of the solitary wanderer across
the wastes, and that as long as it lifts its stately head above the sands
he will have food from its fruit, clothing from its fiber, and shelter
from the noonday heat.
THE GIFT OF THE GNOMES
THE SWISS LEGEND OF THE ALP HORN
(_Geography—Ethics_)
In the days of long ago a chamois hunter, caught in a storm on the
mountains, took refuge in a deserted hut. The floor was so wet and cold
that to stay there was almost as bad as being out in the rain and hail,
and so he climbed into the loft and lay down on a pile of straw.
Just how long he slept he did not know, but after a while he was awakened
by the tinkle of bells and the lowing of many cattle. That seemed very
strange, for it was almost winter, and Swiss herdsmen drive their flocks
to the valley early in the autumn. Yet as he looked out through the
tiny window he saw herds on every alp, herds hundreds strong, cropping
luxuriant grass that grew out of the snow.
Then he heard a noise below in the hut, and peeping down through a knot
hole, saw three strange-looking little men. They were warming themselves
beside a fire that blazed on the hearth, and by their long green cloaks
and red caps he knew that they were gnomes of the Alps.
They were bustling about and seemed to be making cheese. One of them
stirred the milk in a big silver kettle, one scurried in and out of the
hut bringing fresh milk to add to that which was already cooking, and one
fed the fire with moss and dry branches, which piled up out of the earth.
After a while one of the gnomes poured something into the kettle, the
second one brought out three golden bowls, and the third blew a blast on
a horn that was seven times as large as himself.
Then the hunter heard the sound of cattle lowing nearer and nearer, as
if they were drawn by the music of the horn, and a moment later a voice
called out, “Come down from the loft, Moni, and taste of the good things
in the bowls.”
This amazed him, for he was sure they had not seen him, and how could
they know his name? But he crept down from his straw pile, as he was bid,
and into the room.
“Choose whichever you please,” the little man said, “and besides the
drink in the bowl you will receive a gift that goes with the liquid of
your choice.”
The golden bowls stood side by side on the floor, and each one contained
a different-colored liquid. One was red, like the wine of Geneva, one
yellow as the honey of Zurich, and the third was white like goat’s milk.
Moni looked from one to the other, deciding which to take. He was hungry
from his long tramp over the crags in the storm and needed milk far more
than honey or wine, so he chose that bowl and drank greedily.
Then the little gnomes began to dance.
“Ah,” the cheese maker shouted, “you have won the Alp horn!”
“Yes,” another exclaimed, “and it is a precious gift. You can make other
horns like it, and teach the people how to call their herds, which will
not stray away and be lost as happens now. Thus the herdsmen will become
very prosperous.”
“But remember, if you wish to be happy, you must give up chamois hunting,
and never again kill a harmless wild creature.”
The gnomes disappeared, and with them went the cattle, the kettle, and
the shining bowls. But the horn lay where the little man had dropped it,
and as the hunter looked at it he found it was pure silver. Catching it
up, he ran down the mountain side to the hut where his sweetheart lived.
He told her the story and showed her the Alp horn, and she was very
happy; for she never had wanted him to be a chamois hunter, as the life
was full of danger, and she loved the poor little animals that he killed.
Now he would tend flocks as she did, and they would be happy in the life
of herding.
At first the hunter thought he could not change his ways, for he loved
to roam over the mountains and bound from crag to crag in pursuit of the
fleet-footed creatures, but the promise of the gnomes and the pleas of
Heidi persuaded him, and he gathered a herd and tended it all summer.
He made an Alp horn like the one he had received in the hut and gave it
to the maiden, and sometimes as they tended their cattle on different
sides of the valley, they would call across to each other, and they were
happy and contented—until, one evening, he forgot the warning of the
gnomes and shot a chamois.
Then he raised his horn to call good night to his sweetheart. But she did
not answer. He blew blast after blast, but only the echoes came back,
instead of the sound of the voice he knew and loved. Darkness fell and
stars flashed like diamonds above the snowy Jungfrau, and still he called
and sought her, but found no trace. The next morning, as he moved with
his herd, a boy told him of a strange happening.
“Last night at sunset time I was watching my goats,” he said, “and saw a
girl standing on the mountain side above her cattle. She smiled as the
wine color of the Alpine glow crept down toward Chamounix, and throwing
back her head, sang one of our herd songs. Suddenly she disappeared, but
she could not have fallen, and just then an arrow whizzed through the air
and fell on the spot where she had been standing.”
He took the arrow out of his peasant blouse and showed it to the hunter,
who recognized it as his own, the one he had shot at the chamois.
Then Moni remembered the words of the gnomes, and knew that because he
had forgotten their warning he had lost Heidi. He burned his arrows and
sorrowfully went back to herding, never again to shoot a wild creature of
the hills. By day he followed the cattle, and by night made Alp horns,
always thinking of his sweetheart. But he never saw her again. Some of
the herdsmen say that she fled in grief because he broke his word to her,
and some declare that the gnomes carried her away to an ice palace in a
crevasse. But nobody knows. They know only that from that time forth he
tended flocks and made Alp horns, until every herdsman in the mountains
had one, and because they could keep the cattle from straying and getting
lost, they became more prosperous than they had ever dreamed of being.
Since then every peak and valley in Switzerland has resounded to the
notes of the Alp horn. Throughout the summer time they are heard around
the lakes of Zug and Geneva, and the cattle follow them as the children
of Hamelin town followed the music of the piper. They echo along the
Jungfrau as the shepherds behind Interlaken call their flocks together,
and their weird sweet blasts mingle with the songs of herd girls as they
yodel to each other across the ravines. Travelers from every land smile
at the sound of them, for one of the charms of going to Switzerland is
in hearing the Alp horns; but very few of these strangers know that the
mountain people say the reason the sound is so magical to the cattle is
because in the beginning the horn came from the gnomes.
THE DUTY THAT WASN’T PAID
(_Biography—Music—Ethics_)
More than a hundred years ago a man and his two children were journeying
from their home in Salzburg to Vienna. They traveled by the Danube boat,
and Marianne, the sister, stood by the rail tossing pebbles into the
water and watching the turbulent river swallow them up. Her dress was
worn almost threadbare, but her face was so sweet and her eyes were so
large and bright that she looked pretty for all her shabbiness.
Just behind her on the deck her father and brother were talking. “If we
make some money in the city you’ll buy sister a new dress, won’t you,
Father?” little Wolfgang asked.
Marianne whirled and started toward him. She knew that was sure to make
her father sad, and she called, “Don’t coax, Wolfgang. My dress will do
very well until we can afford to buy another, and a new one will seem all
the nicer because of my having worn this one so long.”
Her brother turned his big, earnest eyes upon her, and answered, “But,
Marianne, I know you want one. I heard you wish for it by the evening
star, and last night you put it in your prayer.”
Father Mozart turned from them with a sad look on his face, and walked
up and down the deck, wishing very much he could do what Wolfgang asked.
But he was just a poor orchestra conductor with an income so small he had
to stretch it hard to provide food and shelter for his family. Marianne
must wear the shabby frock until better times began, which he hoped would
be soon. They were to give some concerts in the Austrian capital, and
maybe in that rich, music-loving city would earn enough to make them more
comfortable than they had been before. But until then they must not spend
a penny save what was needed for food and shelter, because the customs
fee on the harp they carried must be paid, and that would reduce their
little fund to a very small amount.
Wolfgang, too, thought about it as the boat crept in and out between the
hills, and wondered much if there was no way in which Marianne might
have the dress before they played in Vienna. His old teacher in Salzburg
had often told him that there is a way out of every difficulty if one is
clever enough to think of it, and there must be out of this. But although
he tried and tried he could not find one. His own suit was bright and
new, for his birthday was just past and it had been his uncle’s gift. But
Marianne was a very shabby little girl, and he knew she was unhappy even
though she was brave and sweet about it.
They were gliding past the ruins of the castle that once, men said, had
been the prison of Richard the First, England’s Lion-Hearted King, when
his enemies took him captive on his return from the holy wars. Wolfgang
thought of the many brave things that soldier ruler had done during the
Crusades, for often in the twilight time at Salzburg, as they waited for
the father to come from his work, the mother told his tale, and of how
the faithful servant Blondel found him at last by singing a song he knew
the master loved.
“He was very brave and wise, too,” the boy thought as he looked at the
crumbling pile. “He would have found a way for Marianne to have a new
dress if she had been his sister.”
Was it the prayer being answered, or just the fulfillment of the wish
made by the evening star? For while he thought, an idea came into his
head. It was a good idea, it seemed to him, so good that it made him
smile. If it worked out, and he believed it would, Marianne might have
the dress she wanted so much, because then his father would have more
money to spend.
Just to the south they could see the great spire of St. Stephens, a tall,
gray finger against the sky, which told that Vienna was not far away. As
it grew nearer and nearer, looming up bigger and plainer before them,
Wolfgang thought more and more of his idea, until when they reached the
mooring his eyes were dancing and his cheeks were aflame. His father
believed the thought of seeing the great capital had excited him, but
that was not it at all. He had a secret plan and could hardly wait until
he knew whether or not it would work out.
The journey was ended and the people were going ashore. “Please loosen
the cover, Father,” he said as Leopold Mozart carried the harp toward the
customs gate.
“Ah, you are proud of it!” the man answered with a smile.
Wolfgang did not reply, thinking what a poor guesser his father was.
He watched him as he set the instrument down and undid the wrapping,
bringing the polished frame and glistening strings into full view. Then
he went over and took his place beside the harp as the customs officer
drew near, and Marianne came and stood beside him. She had forgotten all
about her shabby dress in her eagerness to find out how much duty they
would have to pay.
“What have you to declare?” the man asked.
“Only a harp,” Leopold Mozart answered, as he laid his hand on their one
treasure.
“It is a beautiful instrument and valuable,” the official said as he
looked at it, and named as the price of the duty an amount so big as to
cut their little hoard almost in half.
Father Mozart’s face grew very serious, and the merriment went out of
Marianne’s eyes. But Wolfgang did not worry at all. He still had that
idea in his mind, and believed it would work out.
Leopold Mozart reached into his pocket for the little sack containing his
savings, but it was not necessary to open it, for just as he was about to
do so Wolfgang started to play. The customs officer turned with a start
and listened, and the people gathered there forgot all about duty charges
as they crowded around the little musician. His tiny hands swept the
strings as if his fingers had some magic power, and the melody they made
was sweeter than any ever heard on that old wharf. For five minutes, ten,
he kept at it, and there was not a whisper or a murmur, only a sort of
breathless surprise that one so young could play so wonderfully.
“What!” one exclaimed as he finished, “a lad of his age to perform like
that!”
“Yes,” the father answered with a smile, “he does well at the harp.”
“Amazing,” the officer murmured, “’tis amazing! I’ve heard many a good
harpist in my day, but never anything sweeter than that. Play some more,
boy,” he said.
Wolfgang smiled. The idea was working out, and he was very glad. Already
he had visions of a happy sister in a handsome new gown, and turning
again to the instrument, he played even more beautifully than before, for
the gladness that crept into his heart was creeping also into the music.
For some minutes he picked the strings, while the people listened as
if held in a spell, until the father said, “We must go now, for it is
getting late, and we have yet to find lodgings in the city.” And he
handed the money to the officer.
But the man shook his head. “No,” he said, and his eyes were very tender
as he spoke. “A boy who can give as much pleasure as that deserves
something. Keep the money and buy a present for him.”
As Wolfgang heard the words he gave a bound. “Father,” he exclaimed, with
sparkling eyes, “buy the dress for Marianne. You can do it now, since you
have saved the customs money.”
The officer looked at him in amazement. “He is a wonderful lad, truly,”
he exclaimed, “and as kind as he is wonderful!”
“Yes,” came the low reply. “He has wanted nothing so much as a new dress
for his sister, and now he is happy because he thinks she will get it.”
And she did get it, too, a beautiful one of soft, bright red, all trimmed
with shining buttons. Wolfgang danced with delight when he saw it, and
there was no happier child in all that great capital.
They gave many concerts there, some before the royal family; and Maria
Theresa, the empress, became greatly attached to both brother and sister,
gave them handsome clothes and beautiful gifts, and forgot all about
affairs of state while Wolfgang played. She called him the “little
sorcerer,” and agreed with the customs officer that he was a wonderful
child.
Then, after some weeks, they went back to the home in Salzburg, where
the boy kept on at his music, doing such marvelous things that his fame
traveled far. He grew to be the great master, Mozart, at whose glorious
music the world still wonders, and he was a generous and sweet-souled
man, just as he was a big-hearted and thoughtful child. Many lovely acts
are told of him, but none that shows his kindness and tenderness in a
more delightful way than when as a boy on the Vienna wharf he charmed the
customs officer and all others who heard, and Marianne had the dress for
which she had wished by the evening star with the duty money that wasn’t
paid.
WILHELMINA’S WOODEN SHOES
(_Biography—Art Teaching_)
It was summer time, and a boy named Rembrandt van Rijn was lying on top
of the ramparts that walled in the city of Leyden, his eyes fixed on
the yellow highroad that stretched away toward The Hague. It was good
to be there in the shadow of the mill sails, for the trees beyond were
beautifully green, and he loved to watch the market folk coming and
going, loved to see strangers journeying from far away and to dream
of the time when he, too, would fare forth to see the world. Instead
of being a miller like his father and living always beside the Leyden
ramparts, he would go to Amsterdam, where ships sailed in from the
Indies, and perhaps he would board one of those wonderful craft and
journey over leagues of ocean to distant realms of the East. The thought
brought a smile to his face and a deeper blue to his eyes, and he
whistled a strain from an old Dutch song of rejoicing.
Suddenly he started up in surprise, for a familiar figure was coming
along the Rhine road. It looked like his Uncle Peter, but that seemed
impossible, for it was Saturday morning, and his uncle was an industrious
merchant who was never known to leave his shop on business days. Then
as the man hurried through the great gate that opened into the city,
Rembrandt saw that it was his Uncle Peter; and his surprise changed to
alarm, for he believed his uncle’s coming would mean trouble for him.
The day before, in the Latin school, he had drawn pictures on his cousin
Wilhelmina’s wooden shoes and had been caught. She was quite willing
to have them decorated, and laughed merrily at sight of the ducks
and chickens and spotted pigs marching from heel to toe; but Mynheer
Speelburg, the teacher, had a very different idea. He considered that
it was defacing property, and wasting one’s time as well. Although
Wilhelmina declared it was all her fault, Rembrandt was severely scolded,
and the master sent a note home to his uncle. Now the uncle was probably
coming to tell the boy’s father about it, and the thought sent all the
brightness out of the day.
The merchant did not notice Rembrandt until he had passed the ramparts
and a cawing crow caused him to turn and see the boy on top of the wall.
Then he looked up and smiled, which did not seem like anger, and yet—what
else could have taken him from the shop on Saturday morning?
“I’ve come to have a talk with your mother,” he said as he stopped a
moment.
Rembrandt climbed down to go with him, hoping that something besides the
shoes had brought him, but the man shook his head.
“No, stay where you are,” he said. “I want to see your mother alone.”
Again the uneasy feeling surged over the lad. After all, it must be those
wooden shoes, and he felt very uncomfortable; and a little later, when
both mother and uncle came from the house and hurried to the mill, he
wished very much that he never had seen pigs and fowls—most of all that
he had not drawn them on his cousin’s shoes. Then his father called to
him, and although he wanted to creep away and hide, he went on the run.
“Here’s the young rascal,” the uncle said as the boy went in at the
broad, low door. Rembrandt noticed that he held one of Wilhelmina’s
shoes, and his heart sank. But a moment later he was as much amazed as he
had been alarmed, for his mother spoke pleasantly and asked, “Would you
really like to be a painter?”
“A painter?” he answered quickly. “More than anything else in the world.”
Then his father smiled, too, which seemed strange indeed, for he had
declared that his son never should become an artist. Often Rembrandt had
dreamed of being one, and when he spoke to his mother about it the idea
seemed to please her. But the sturdy Dutch miller shook his head and
announced that his boy must become a syndic, one of the wise lawgivers of
Holland, or else a miller like himself. So, instead of being allowed to
spend his days drawing the pictures that were constantly running through
his fancy, Rembrandt had been sent to the Latin school to do sums and
conjugations. It seemed impossible that the miller could have changed his
mind; but he had changed it, for he said, “Very well. We will see about
it.”
Then, while the mill sails whirred above them, and the voices of passing
market folk came in through the open window, the merchant uncle told what
seemed to Rembrandt a wonderful story.
“This morning, as I was opening the shop,” he began, “Speelburg, the
schoolmaster, came to talk about the pictures on Wilhelmina’s shoes. He
urged me not to be too hard on the lad because he had thought much about
it during the night and had come to believe that perhaps Rembrandt
cannot help drawing. He is a wise man, this Speelburg, and told me much
of how the young masters Giotto, Cimabue, and Raphael had made pictures
on stones, sand, and anything that would hold a drawing, and that their
parents could no more prevent it than they could keep water from running
downhill. He thinks our Rembrandt may be like them, and so he offered to
tend the shop for me if I would come and ask you, his father, to let him
study with Master Swannenburg.”
Those words were music to Rembrandt’s ears, for Swannenburg was the
master painter of Leyden.
An hour later, miller and merchant went through the old White Gate into
the city, and Rembrandt trudged along beside them, carrying a roll of
paper. As they hurried along the highway his eyes gleamed, for it seemed
to him like a dream come true, and the stern Dutch schoolmaster began to
appear in the guise of a fairy godfather. He did not see the market folk
they passed on the way, did not hear the murmur of the Rhine sweeping
seaward just beyond them, for the thought that he might become a painter
had crowded out all other things.
Very soon they reached the workshop of the artist, and knew what the
great man thought of the sketches, for as he looked them over he
murmured, “H’m, h’m! Pretty good! The old woman’s head is too small for
her body, and a pig never had legs as crooked as that; but he will learn,
and if he is willing to work I’ll gladly take him as a pupil.”
So Rembrandt went into the studio of the painter, for his father had come
to believe that he was intended for neither a syndic nor a miller. He was
so eager to learn that he worked with all his might, and his progress
amazed his teacher, who, although he knew he had talent, had not dreamed
he could advance so rapidly. Before two years were gone his pictures
were better than those of Swannenburg himself, who said sadly one day, “I
am no longer the master painter of Leyden.”
But that artist had a great, good heart, and he was so glad to see the
boy’s progress that he helped him all he could.
Now it happened, about the time the work of the miller’s son was causing
Leyden folk to open their eyes, that Jan Lievens, who was a successful
painter in Amsterdam, came home to visit his parents, who were neighbors
of Rembrandt’s family. He was greatly excited over the work of his young
friend and exclaimed, “You must go back to Amsterdam with me, for the
best masters of Holland are there, and you must study with them.”
The idea seemed good to the miller, who was very proud of the progress
of his son; so to Amsterdam young Rembrandt went, where he progressed as
amazingly as he had done in the studio of Swannenburg. The great harbor
city fascinated him, and he loved to roam along its splendid streets
watching the people hurrying to and fro or idling in groups on the
corners, laughing and chatting in their merry Dutch way; loved to go to
the docks where ships came in from the Indies, and to see the sunrise
and sunset painting marvelous-hued pictures on the waves of the wild
North Sea. Then he would go back to the studio and work, picturing the
men and women he saw on his rambles, the mill by the old White Gate, and
the market folk he used to watch from the Leyden ramparts. His paintings
delighted the great of Amsterdam just as the pigs and chickens he drew on
Wilhelmina’s shoes had delighted the boys and girls in the Latin school,
and he became rich and famous. He lived in a palace fine enough for a
prince, and could have bought whole cargoes of those ships that sailed in
from the Indies; and his wealth seemed all the more glorious because he
had earned it with the labor of his hand and brain. He married a great
and gracious lady, and as his children drove through the streets in
their fine carriage the people would say, “See, the son and daughter of
Rembrandt van Rijn, the wonderful painter.”
But all his good fortune and all the honors heaped upon him did not make
him selfish and overbearing. He never forgot or ceased to love his native
Leyden. He lived in the harbor city because it fascinated him and was a
better place for an artist than his childhood town, but he never tired of
going back to the old home or lost interest in the pigs and cows and the
market folk on the Rhine road. Sometimes on these visits he would lie on
the ramparts just as he had done when a boy, and strangers journeying to
and from The Hague had no idea that the grave-eyed man dreaming there in
the shadow of the mill sails was the famous painter of Amsterdam.
Then, one day he died, and they laid him to rest in the harbor city where
for so many years he had lived and worked. The people of Leyden asked
to have him taken back there, and those who know how he loved it wish
it had been done; for it would be pleasant to think of him sleeping in
the shadow of the mill sails, and perhaps if he could have been asked he
would have wanted it, too.
Years passed, but instead of dimming the glory of Rembrandt’s name they
brightened it. After his death his works became priceless, and the world
still prizes them just as Amsterdam prized them two hundred years ago.
To own a canvas by this king of Dutch painters is to be rich and envied,
for it requires a great deal of money to buy one of his paintings. Even
the crude drawings of his boyhood are now treasured by princes, and one
of the most prized possessions of a great museum in Holland is a pair of
wooden shoes. They are brown and clumsy and covered with marks, half of
which have been worn away by the staining finger of Time; but a fortune
could not buy them, because ever so long ago they were worn by little
Wilhelmina van Rijn to the Latin school of Leyden, and were decorated by
the hand of a mill boy, and who would not be proud to own them? That mill
boy became the immortal Flemish painter, Rembrandt, whose work will be
treasured as long as the world loves beautiful things.
THE LADY OF STAVOREN
RETOLD FROM A DUTCH LEGEND
(_Geography—Ethics_)
There was once, in Holland, a great and beautiful city called Stavoren.
It stood beside the sea, and many of the inhabitants were proud and rich.
They had houses stately enough for royal palaces. They had gold and
silver plate and diamonds without number, and great oaken chests filled
with money. Their vessels sailed to the farthest parts of the ocean and
brought back treasures from every land, and as the wealth of the people
increased their selfishness increased, until they thought of nothing but
their good fortune and had no pity for the poor.
Richest of all the rich folk in the city was a stately, beautiful woman.
There was no home in Stavoren as princely as hers, there were no jewels
as gorgeous or silks and velvets as lustrous as those she possessed, and
when she drove through the streets in her gold-blazoned carriage her
splendor dazzled the eyes of all who saw. But she was as selfish as she
was rich and powerful, and always she pondered in her mind the question,
“How can I become richer still?”
One day she summoned the captain of her largest vessel and said, “Make
ready to sail at once.”
“Yes, madame,” the officer replied, “but where shall I go and upon what
mission?”
“Where you go you must decide for yourself, for I care nothing about
that. But you must bring back the most precious cargo in all the world.”
The man looked at her in surprise.
“That shall I gladly do, madame,” he said, “if you will but tell me what
you wish. Is it to be gold and silver, diamonds and jewels, or rare
laces, tapestries, and velvets?”
The rich woman tossed her head and replied haughtily, “There is but one
thing in the world more precious than all others, and what it is you must
find out. I have given my orders. Go now and fulfill them.”
The captain was greatly troubled, for he feared the anger of his
mistress. She was so powerful that she could have him thrown into prison
or even put to death if she chose, and as he walked down the street from
the house he thought, “What is the most precious thing in all the world?”
Sometimes he thought it was one thing and sometimes another, but when he
reached the shipyard he had not decided. He called to the officers and
sailors standing there, told them of the woman’s strange order, and said
sadly, “But, alas! I know not what it may be. If any among you can tell,
let him speak.”
Every one thought a minute, then came a chorus of suggestions. One
officer suggested gold, another silver, and another precious stones, but
the captain was not sure which was right. He must not decide too quickly,
for to make a mistake would be a terrible thing.
Silently listening the sailors stood, for according to the law of the
city they must not open their lips until the officers had had their say.
Then one of the group, a slender, blue-eyed fellow, who seemed no more
than a boy, said, “No, my captain! The most precious thing in the world
is neither gold and silver, pearls and diamonds, nor costly laces and
velvets. It is wheat, for without it we could have no bread, and without
bread we cannot live.”
Some of the officers laughed at this idea, for common sailors were not
supposed to know much. But the captain quieted them, saying, “He is
right. We will sail away and bring back a cargo of wheat.”
So they sailed out of the harbor, and across the Baltic to Dantzic.
There they bought a great cargo of wheat, the largest that had ever been
started out to sea, and the captain, delighted with the purchase, turned
the ship’s prow back toward Stavoren town.
He could hardly wait to get to his mistress and tell her what a wise and
wonderful choice he had made. She frowned when she saw him, displeased
that he had returned so soon.
“You must have flown like a pigeon,” she said. “Have you brought me the
cargo I ordered?”
“Yes, madame,” he replied, bowing low before her. “I have the finest
cargo of wheat that ever went out of a port.”
The woman screamed in anger. “Wheat!” she yelled. “A cargo of wheat! I
told you to bring me the most precious thing in the world, and do you
mean to say that you have brought a common, cheap thing like wheat?”
The captain was terribly frightened, but he did not regret his selection.
He believed in the value of his cargo, and tried to lead the woman to see
that he had made a wise purchase.
“Pardon, madame,” he spoke. “Wheat is not cheap and common. It is in
truth the most precious thing in the world, for without it we could have
no bread, and without bread we could not live.”
But he could not convince his mistress. She tossed her head and wrung her
hands in anger and exclaimed, “Wheat! Wheat! Go to the port and throw
your precious cargo of wheat into the sea.”
The captain was horrified.
“Madame!” he exclaimed, “surely you do not command me to do that! Wheat
is precious. If you will not have it yourself, give it to the poor and
hungry, of whom there are many in Stavoren.”
But she drove him from the house, saying, “Do as I bid you. In a few
minutes I shall come myself to see if you have carried out my order.”
Sadly the man went down the street, wondering how one so rich and
beautiful could be so hard and unkind. But he had no thought of executing
the order. Instead, he told all the poor he met, and dispatched
messengers to tell others, that his mistress had refused to accept the
cargo of wheat and perhaps, if they came to the port and asked her, she
would give it to them.
A little later the great lady of Stavoren drove in her gold-emblazoned
carriage to the shipyard, where a group of men, women, and children had
joined the sailors and stood looking at the splendid vessel piled high
with the best wheat that ever came out of Dantzic. But when she saw them
her anger increased.
“Have you carried out my orders?” she said to the captain, as he came in
answer to her summons and stood beside the carriage.
“No, madame, not yet,” he replied.
“Then,” the woman commanded, “do it at once. Throw the cargo of wheat
into the sea. I want to see, myself.”
But the captain shook his head. “See these poor people,” he said,
pointing to the hollow-eyed men, women, and children who were standing
there. “Give them the wheat, for they are hungry.”
But the haughty woman silenced him and commanded, “Throw it into the sea!”
Then the captain seemed afraid no longer. He stood straight and fearless
before her and declared, “Never, madame!”
But she shouted word to the officers, who dared not disobey, and amid the
cries and pleas of the poor, the cargo that would have meant bread for
thousands, was thrown into the sea.
The woman watched the waters swallow it up and smiled heartlessly. Then
she called to the people, “Did you see it go into the waves?”
“Yes, madame,” they answered sadly.
“Yes, madame,” repeated the captain, “and a day will come when you will
regret what you have done. A day will come when you will be hungry, and
no one will pity and help you.”
The mistress looked at him in amazement. Then she laughed loudly. “I, go
hungry,” she exclaimed, “I, the richest of all the rich of Stavoren! It
is impossible!”
Then she took a diamond ring, held it up for the people to see, and
tossed it into the ocean. “When that ring returns into my hand,” she
said, “I shall believe what the captain has said.” And she drove away in
her splendid carriage, and boasted to the citizens of what she had done.
The next day one of her servants came running to her in wild excitement.
“Madame,” she cried, “the cook has found this in the stomach of a fish he
is preparing for dinner.” And she held up the diamond ring the woman had
tossed into the sea the day before.
The great lady of Stavoren opened her eyes wide and wider. She was amazed
and frightened, for she remembered the captain’s words. “Can it be,” she
thought, “that they are to come true?”
It proved to be just as she feared, for that same afternoon she received
word of the destruction of all her ships, of the loss of all her houses
and lands, of the pillaging of her chests of gold. She was no longer the
richest woman in Stavoren, but was as poor as any beggar. She went from
house to house, begging for food as pitifully as the people at the port
had begged her for wheat, but no one helped her, and at last she died
from cold and hunger.
The other rich folk of Stavoren still lived on in the old selfish way.
They drove through the streets in sumptuous carriages. They wore costly
clothing and jewels, they danced and feasted and sailed their vessels out
across the seas, forgetful of every one but themselves. There were still
many poor in the city, but they neither thought nor cared about them.
They believed themselves to be so great and powerful that nothing could
harm them, and they refused to listen to advice.
After a while the port of Stavoren became blocked by a great sandbank.
It rose just at the spot where the lady’s cargo had been thrown into the
sea, and was covered with wheat. Ships could no longer go in and out.
Commerce was ruined, and because there were no vessels to unload, the
poor lost the only way they had of making a living. They begged the rich
people to help them dig the bar away, but they refused. They had enough
to eat and plenty of gold, so what cared they for the distress of the
laborers?
Then something else happened. One night as they feasted, a man came
running into the banquet hall. “I have found two fish in my well,” he
said. “The dike is broken. Protect the city! Protect the houses of the
poor that are close to the sea wall and will be swept away.”
But one of the great folk said haughtily, “Let the beggars take care of
themselves. The sea cannot harm us. We must finish the banquet.” They
turned away from him and went on with their revelry, but only for a short
time. A few hours later the entire dike gave away, and the ocean rolled
in and covered the houses,—not only the huts of the poor which were in
the low quarter of the city, but even the palaces of the rich who had
declared they could not be harmed. The great perished as well as the
humble, and the waves of the Zuider Zee rolled where the banquet laughter
had sounded.
It rolls there still. The sailors say that sometimes when the weather
is fine and the sea is smooth as glass, they see spires and domes and
stately columns far down under the water. They declare, too, that often
strange, weird music like the sound of distant bells falls upon their
ears, and then they look and listen and nod to each other, for they think
of the palaces and chimes of Stavoren, once the fairest city of the
Netherlands, submerged hundreds of years ago while the poor cried for
help and the mighty danced.
THE LUCK BOAT OF LAKE GENEVA
A SWISS LEGEND
(_Geography_)
The Alpine herdsmen say that in the marvelous long ago an enchanted boat
was seen gliding up and down the blue waters of Lake Geneva. Neither
oars nor sails were needed to speed it over the waves, for it was drawn
by singing swans and carried a fairy crew. A radiant creature in a robe
whiter than goat’s milk stood on the prow, her gleaming hair rippling
down over the hem of her garment. She bore a golden basket of rare fruits
and flowers, and although she scattered the contents with lavish hand
upon the sprites at her feet, it was never empty. Sometimes the vessel
touched the shore, and then the soil around that spot produced as never
soil produced before or since, and if any peasant was so fortunate as to
catch a glimpse of the boat, he and his children became rich beyond want
and were blessed and happy to the end of their days.
For hundreds of years the magic ship sailed the lake, and as it touched
the shore frequently and numbers of peasants saw it, there was wonderful
prosperity in Old Helvetia.
But a great misfortune befell the country and the glad, abundant days
became but a memory. A steamboat was brought to Geneva, and it plowed,
a screaming, snorting monster, across the waters. The noise terrified
the gentle swans, and with one wild cry they flew away. Never again did
the peasants catch a glimpse of the white-robed fairy and the shining
sprites. Never again did the music of the snowy pilots gladden their ears.
The Luck Boat disappeared, and with it went prosperity from the land of
Geneva. But marvelous things like that are never forgotten. Those who
had seen the fairy craft in their youth told the story to their sons
and daughters, who passed it on to their children and their children’s
children, and although the mountain folk of today have never beheld
it, they know just how it looked. They have pictured it so often in
their minds, that their artists have pictured it on paper, and so it
has become the custom for the peasants around Lake Geneva to send “Luck
cards” to their friends on New Year’s Day. These are gay, colored postals
containing a likeness of the Luck Boat, and to those of whom a peasant
is fondest he sends as many as he can afford, because to receive them
is supposed to bring good fortune, just as a glimpse of the swan-drawn
vessel was said to do in the marvelous long ago.
WHY THE JAPANESE LOVE THE STORK
A JAPANESE LEGEND
(_Geography_)
Ages ago, in the Japanese city of Nagasaki, there lived a young and
handsome noble named Vasobiove. Life seemed very beautiful to him. He
loved the blossoms that are so sweet and abundant in his native Saikaido,
loved the racing and the wrestling matches, the sunset on the purple Gulf
of Sinabara, the evening festivals with the dances of the geisha girls,
and his only sorrow was the thought that he could not live forever.
“Alas, to have to leave this beautiful world!” he often sighed.
At which his old father would say, “Fear not, my son. By the time you are
threescore years and ten you will think differently.”
But the young noble would shake his head and reply, “Nay, nay, I want to
live always, always.”
One day an aged pilgrim came into Nagasaki and rested on a stone outside
Vasobiove’s garden. The owner was walking under the tulip trees, and
seeing the sad-looking man in the sun and dust of the road, called and
bade him come into the shade of his park.
Leaning heavily upon his staff, the wanderer came and sat down beside the
fountain, and the young noble asked him many a question of lands and men
he had seen.
“Is it throughout the world as here in Japan,” he questioned, “that
people must die even while they yearn to live?”
The aged pilgrim nodded.
“Yea,” he answered, “in all the lands through which I have journeyed. But
men have told me that there is a region where death never comes.”
The young noble leaned forward eagerly. “Where is it,” he questioned,
“ah, where? Tell me, for I mean to go to that land.”
The pilgrim shook his head, saying, “That you cannot do, my son. It is
in the Happy Islands of Everlasting Life, but although mortals have seen
them in the distance, never has one succeeded in entering there.”
“But I must, I will reach that land!” Vasobiove exclaimed.
His father, who was old and wise, begged him not to go.
“You will perish on the way,” he said sorrowfully. “But even if you reach
and enter the islands, you will not be happy. That which is best for us
is given to us, and after a long life, death is good.”
But Vasobiove shook his head and objected, “No, no! I go to the
Everlasting Islands.” And the next day he set out from Nagasaki in a boat.
Straight southward he journeyed and eastward. Storms raged and tropic
heat beat fiercely on his head, but he pressed onward, and at last, in
spite of wave and tempest, reached the green shore of Horaisan. It was
the land no mortal had ever entered, the Happy Islands of Everlasting
Life.
Vasobiove’s cup of joy was full. There was no sorrow there, no birth
or death, no tempest and black weather or flight of time—nothing but
dancing, music, splendid men and beautiful women, with enchanted flowers
of unfading beauty in the groves and gardens, and always iridescent
reaches of the sea beyond. There were wrestling matches, such as were not
dreamed of in Nagasaki, long days filled with feasting, and long nights
of dance and song.
Vasobiove smiled the smile of the contented.
“At last!” he said. “It is good to know that I shall live forever.”
Two hundred years he spent in the eternal mirth of Horaisan, and then,
somehow, he longed for other things. The music he had loved grew
wearisome, the never ending dance became hateful to his eyes.
He wanted to return to Nagasaki, but there was no way. The boat that had
carried him to the islands had long since fallen into decay, and it was
impossible to get another. He must stay forever and ever in the land of
dance and song, and the thought became hideous.
Then he heard a weird cry. Looking behind him, he saw a giant stork
settling on the bank of a lake to catch some of the rainbow fish within.
A happy thought came to him. No, he would not dwell eternally in
Horaisan. He would go back to Nagasaki.
Catching the bird, he tamed it, and one morning while the islanders
reveled and the sea was as many colored as the enchanted blossoms in the
gardens, he flew away, borne by the giant stork back to the sweet land of
Saikaido, back to the shining Gulf of Sinabara, and his native Nagasaki.
He would live as his fathers had lived, he would die when his time came,
and never again would he pine for a land where all was revelry and beauty
and song.
Ever since that time the Japanese have loved the stork. They picture it
upon their royal banners and upon the walls of their houses, and give
it the freedom of their gardens. Whenever a youth becomes dissatisfied
and yearns for a land where delights are never ending, they tell him the
story of the man who went to the Everlasting Islands, show a picture of
the stork that carried him back to Nagasaki, and say,
“Even as it was with Vasobiove, so would it be with you.”
WHY GRIZZLY BEAR GOES ON ALL FOURS
A SHASTA LEGEND. ADAPTED FROM BANCROFT
(_Indian Folk Tale—Geography—Ethics_)
Ages ago, before there were any mountains or valleys or rivers flowing
seaward, Great Spirit lived up in the sky, higher than the most distant
star. All about him were snow heaps and white cloud billows, so thick he
could not see through them, and he wondered what lay beyond.
“I will make a hole and see,” he said.
So, taking a sharp rock, he bored an opening through the cloud floor and
looked below. A strange sight met his eyes. There lay the world, but a
very different world from the one we know. It was flat like a table, with
no hills or valleys, or rivers, or growing things, and Great Spirit said,
“I will build a teepee there, and then I shall make it better.”
The snow heaps lying around him made him think of a good way of building
a wigwam; so he pushed some down through the floor window, working day
and night through many, many moons, until he had the pyramid white men
call Mount Shasta. He built a fire and lived in the teepee, and then he
walked abroad.
It was a fine land for a home, but lonely and too flat. He wanted
mountains and valleys; so he created them. Then he wanted living and
growing things about him; so he said, “I will make men and animals too.”
He dug holes in the ground with his fingers, some large, some small, and
when he breathed into them, trees of many sizes and kinds rose out of
the earth. Then he stripped leaves from the branches and scattered them
about, and they became men. He caused snow from the mountain sides to
melt and flow in streams, and now, instead of the flat, brown vastness,
there were uplands and lowlands, green fields and snowy peaks, and rivers
running seaward, and other leaves stripped from the branches and torn
into bits became fishes that swim.
“Now I shall make beasts of every kind,” he said, and as he spoke he
smote down a mighty tree. He broke it into pieces, some large, some
small, which he turned into animals of various sizes and varying
strength. Grizzly Bear he created from the heaviest part of the trunk,
and the bear stood before him, on his hind legs, straight and powerful
like a young hunter, stronger than any other creature of the earth.
It pleased Great Spirit to have living creatures around him, and he did
not go back to the cloud world, but stayed in the teepee. The Indians
knew he was inside, because often they saw the smoke from his flaming
coals curl far above the peaks.
Many, many moons he dwelt there and grew so lonely that he sent for
Little Daughter. She came and lived with him, made his moccasins and
tended his fire, and was happy.
One day there was a mighty storm. The wind raged fiercely, sending the
smoke back through the smoke hole into Great Spirit’s face. He did not
like that, and bade Little Daughter go up to command the wind to stop.
She did as she was told, and put her head out through the hole to call to
the wind. But never having beheld the world before, she grew very curious
at the strange sights that met her eyes, and leaned out far, far, to see
all she could.
Suddenly she fell, and the wind carried her to the land of the Grizzly
Bear. Little Daughter did not want to stay there and begged to be taken
back to the teepee of her father.
“Let her stay here and work for me,” Mother Grizzly growled, and Young
Grizzly agreed, saying, “Yes, let her work.”
So they would neither go with her nor let her try to find the way herself.
Great Spirit knew Little Daughter was in the land of the Grizzly Bear,
and he went to take her home. When she told him how she had begged to go
back, but was forced to stay and work, he was very angry.
“I shall punish you,” he said to the bears. “Never again shall you walk
upright like a man; always you must go on all fours.”
Taking Little Daughter, he went back to the snow teepee, and they lived
there for ages and ages, always keeping the fire burning, and always the
Indians saw the smoke come out through the smoke hole.
At last the white men came, and as Great Spirit did not like the
palefaces, he went away and the fire died out. But the teepee they call
Mount Shasta is still there, although smoke no longer curls above it, and
Grizzly Bear still goes on all fours, never standing upright except when
he is fighting.
THE LUCK BOY OF TOY VALLEY
(_Geography—Ethics—Manual Training_)
In a chalet high up among the Austrian mountains, blue-eyed Franz was
very unhappy because his mother and brother Johan were going to Vienna
and he had to stay at home with his old grandfather. He bit his lips to
keep back the tears as he watched the packing of the box that was to
carry their clothing. Then his mother tried to comfort him.
“Never mind, lad,” she said. “I’ll send you a present from Vienna, and
we’ll call it a ‘luck gift’ and hope it will bring good luck. If it does
you’ll be a luck boy.”
He smiled even if he did feel sad. He had often heard of luck children,
for among the Tyrolean peasants there were many stories of those who
had been led by fairies to have such wonderful good fortune that ever
afterward they were spoken of as the elf-aided, or “Glücks Kinder,” and
it was so delightful to think about being one of them that he forgot his
sorrow. Of course it would be very fine to travel down to Vienna and go
into the service of a rich noble there, as his mother and brother were to
do, but it would be still better to be a “Glücks Kind,” and such things
sometimes did happen. So he did not feel sad any more, but whistled and
sang and helped with the packing.
Early next morning the post chaise rattled up to the door, and Johan and
the mother drove away. Franz watched them go down the winding white road,
calling after them in sweet Tyrolean words of endearment until they were
out of sight. Then he went back into the hut and began to sandpaper some
blocks that his grandfather needed for his work. The old man was a maker
of picture frames, all carved and decorated with likenesses of mountain
flowers, and these, when sent to Innsbruck and Vienna, brought the money
that gave him his living. The figures were too fine and difficult
for Franz to carve, but he could lend a hand at fetching blocks and
sandpapering. He worked with a vim, for Tyrolean boys think it a disgrace
to shirk, but all the while his thoughts were on the luck gift.
“I wonder what it will be?” he said to his grandfather. They took turns
at guessing, until it was time to feed the goats and house the chickens
for the night.
A week later the man who had driven Johan and his mother away came by on
his return from Vienna, and Franz fairly flew out to get his gift.
“It is something very big,” he called to the old frame maker as he took a
bulging bag. “See, it is stuffed full!” And he expected to find something
very wonderful.
But when he opened it, he thought it wasn’t wonderful at all. There was a
blue velvet jacket, trimmed with gold braid and fastened with glittering
buttons, such as Tyrolean boys wore in those days, and in one of the
pockets he found a shining knife.
“Well, of all things!” he exclaimed as he held them up for his
grandfather to see. “It’s a splendid jacket, and the knife is a beauty,
but I don’t see where the luck part comes in.”
But Hals Berner was old and wise, and a knowing smile played over his
wrinkled face as he spoke. “It won’t be the first time luck has hidden in
a knife,” he said, as he bent over his carving.
Franz did not know what he meant. He had always had a knife, for being
of a carver’s family he was taught to whittle when he was a very little
fellow, and he had become remarkably skillful for one of his years. But
no wonderful good fortune had come to him, and he was very sure that
although each of the presents was nice, neither would bring luck, and he
sent that word to Johan. But the brother wrote back from the city, “It
will surely turn out to be a luck gift, Franz. Just wait and see.” And
still the boy wondered.
Winter came and icy winds blew down from the peaks. There was no word
from Vienna now, for the valley was shut in by a glittering wall, and
travel over the snow-drifted passes was impossible. There were other boys
in the village, but each had his work indoors, and there was little time
to play, so Franz had no chance for games. He helped his grandfather part
of the day and sometimes whittled for his own amusement. It was a lonely
life there in the hut, with just the old frame maker, who was often too
busy to talk, so Franz was glad to do something to keep him busy. Now he
made rings and tops and then just fantastic sticks or blocks.
One day, as he whittled, his grandfather said, “Why don’t you make an
animal, Franz?”
The boy looked up in surprise. “I don’t think I can,” he answered.
“Not unless you try,” came the reply. “But if you do that you may
surprise yourself.”
Franz hated to have any one think he was afraid to make an attempt, so he
exclaimed, “I wonder if I could make a sheep?”
“Begin and see,” the old man advised.
The boy went to work. At first it was discouraging. After many minutes
of whittling there was little to suggest what he had in mind. But then,
with an occasional turn of the knife by the frame maker, and now and then
a bit of advice, the boy began to see that a sheep would grow out of the
block, and when it did he felt like a hero who has won a battle.
“It wasn’t a bit hard, was it, lad?” Hals Berner asked when it was
finished.
And Franz agreed that it was not.
That was the beginning, and every day thereafter Franz worked at his
whittling, and animal after animal grew under his knife. He was so busy
he did not have time to be lonely, and had quite forgotten how sad he
had felt over having to stay at home. It was such fun to see the figures
come out of the wood and feel that he had made them. Of course they were
crude, and not half so handsome as those his grandfather could have made;
but any one could tell what they were, and that was worth a great deal.
By spring he had a whole menagerie, and when his mother came home she
found he had been a busy boy, and a happy one as well.
“All made with the luck knife,” Johan said as he looked over the work.
“So grandfather says,” Franz answered. “It’s a splendid knife, but I
don’t see yet where the luck comes in.”
And again the knowing smile went over the old man’s face.
One day soon afterward his mother had word from the man who had been her
employer in Vienna that his little son was not well, and he was sending
him to regain his health in the mountain air. A week later the child
arrived with his nurse, and the first thing that attracted his attention
was Franz’s menagerie.
“Oh! oh!” he exclaimed, “dogs, cats, sheep, goats, lions, elephants, and
all made of wood! I want them.”
“He means that he wants to buy them,” his nurse explained. “Will you sell
them, Franz?”
For a minute the boy hesitated. That menagerie had meant many months
of whittling, and he loved every animal in it, and if Johan hadn’t
interrupted, probably he would have refused.
“Why, Franz,” the brother exclaimed, “it begins to look like a luck knife
after all.”
That put a thought into his mind that caused him to answer, “Yes, take
them. I can make some more.”
So, when the child went back to Vienna he took a wooden menagerie from
the Tyrolean mountains. Other Viennese children, seeing it, wanted to
possess one, and orders began to pour in to Franz, far more than he could
fill. Then other villagers took up the work, until all over the valley
people were making animals and toys.
The work grew to be a big industry, and toys from the Grödner Thal were
sent all over Germany, and even to the lands beyond. One generation after
another went on with the work, and although it is two hundred years since
Franz began it, the craft continues there to this day. At Christmas time
shops in every land are filled with toys from the Tyrolean mountains,
and although they do not know the story, thousands of children have been
happier because of a peasant boy’s whittling.
So out of the bag sent back from Vienna there came in truth a luck gift,
and it wasn’t the fine jacket either, but the knife with which Franz
whittled his first sheep. The boy had found out that luck doesn’t mean
something sent by fairies, but the doing a thing so well that it brings
a rich reward, and although he lived to be a very old man, he never got
over being grateful that his mother made him stay behind when she and
Johan went to the city.
The little valley among the Austrian Alps is still called Grödner Thal
on the maps, but because of the animals and toys that have come out of
it, it is almost as well known by another name. If you are good guessers
you can surely tell what it is, especially if you know that the peasants
still speak of the lad who made the first menagerie there as the Luck Boy
of Toy Valley.
THE EMPEROR’S VISION
ADAPTED FROM THE SWEDISH OF SELMA LAGERLÖF
From Lagerlöf’s _Christ Legends_. Copyright, 1908, by Henry Holt & Co.
(_Medieval Legend—Ethics_)
When Augustus was Emperor of Rome and Herod was King of Jerusalem, a
great and holy night sank down over the earth. It was the darkest night
that any one had seen, and one could not find the way on the most
familiar road. How could it be otherwise, since all the stars stayed at
home in their houses and the fair moon hid her face?
The silence was as profound as the darkness. The rivers stood still in
their courses, the wind did not stir, and even the aspen leaves had
ceased to quiver. Everything was as motionless as if turned to stone, and
the grass was afraid to grow, lest it disturb the holy night.
There was no cruelty or wickedness. Wild beasts did not seek their prey,
but lay in the forest depths and wondered; serpents did not sting or dogs
bark, and no false key could have picked a lock, no knife could have
drawn a drop of blood.
In Rome, the mighty city, a group of people came from the Emperor’s
palace at the Palatine and took the path across the Forum which led to
the Capitol. During the day the senators had asked the Emperor if he
had any objection to their erecting a temple in his honor on Rome’s
sacred hill, but he had given no answer. He did not know if it would be
agreeable to the gods for him to own a temple next to theirs, and he
wanted to ascertain their will in the matter by offering a sacrifice.
Therefore he and his trusted friends were on their way to the Capitol.
Augustus let them carry his litter, for he was old and the stairs leading
to the Capitol were long. He held in his hands the cage of doves for
the sacrifice. No priests or soldiers accompanied him, only his nearest
friends. Torch bearers walked in front of him to light the ways through
the black darkness, and behind him followed slaves who carried the
tripod, knives, and charcoal for the sacred fire. He chatted gayly with
his followers, and all were so interested in the conversation that they
did not notice the stillness over the earth. Only when they reached the
highest point on Capitol Hill did they realize that something unusual was
taking place.
There they saw a most remarkable thing. An old woman, so bent and
twisted that at first they thought it must be a distorted olive tree, was
standing on the very edge of the cliff, and they knew her to be the sibyl
who had lived as many years as the sand grains by the sea.
“Why does she come from her cave tonight?” they whispered. “What does she
foretell for the Emperor and the Empire?”
She stood there as if she had gone up on the hillside that she might see
what was happening far away, and the night was so dark, so dark!
Then Augustus and his retinue remarked how profound was the stillness.
They could not hear even Tiber’s hollow murmur, and they feared some
disaster was impending. But no one cared to show that he was afraid. They
told Augustus it was a good omen, and counseled him to hurry with the
sacrifice.
The sibyl seemed not to notice the Emperor’s train moving up to the
Capitol. In fact, she did not see them. She was in a distant land making
her way over something higher than grass tufts. She was walking among
great flocks of sleeping sheep.
Then she saw a shepherd’s fire. It burned in the middle of the field,
and she groped her way to it. The shepherds lay asleep in its glow, and
beside them were the long, spiked sticks with which they defended their
flocks from wild beasts. Jackals with glittering eyes and bushy tails
stole up toward the blaze, but the men did not hurl the sticks at them.
The dogs continued to sleep, the sheep did not flee, and the beasts of
prey lay down to rest beside human beings.
Only this the sibyl saw. She did not know that a sacrificial fire was
being kindled behind her. She did not see the Roman Emperor take a dove
from the cage to use as an offering. She was in the far hills of Galilee,
among slumbering shepherds and sheep.
Then, wonderful sight, a company of angels singing gloriously flew back
and forth above the wide plain. They moved in long, swaying lines like
migratory birds. Some held lutes in their hands, some zithers and harps,
and their songs rang out as merry as child laughter, as carefree as lark
trills. The shepherds wakened, marveling at what they heard and saw, then
rose up to go to the mountain city to tell of the miracle.
Behind the sibyl, on the summit of Capitol Hill, still stood the train
of Augustus. But he did not make the sacrifice. Although he exerted his
full strength to hold the dove’s frail body, it flung itself free and
disappeared into the night.
And the shepherds, what of them?
They groped their way forward on a narrow, winding path. Suddenly, in the
light up there on the mountain, a great heavenly body kindled, and the
city beneath it glittered like silver in the starlight.
All the fluttering angel throngs hastened thither, shouting for joy, and
the shepherds hurried so that they almost ran. Upon reaching the city,
they found the angels had assembled over a stable near the gate. It was
a wretched structure with a roof of straw, and a naked cliff for a wall.
But over it hung the star, and thither flocked more and more angels. Some
seated themselves on the roof or alighted on the steep mountain wall back
of the house, others poised themselves in air on outspread pinions, while
high up, high up, the sky was illuminated by creatures with wings as
white as pearl.
The instant the star kindled over the mountain city all nature awoke.
Trees swayed, the Tiber began to murmur, stars twinkled, and the moon
stood out of the sky and lighted the world. Out of the clouds a dove
circled down and alighted on the shoulders of Augustus.
The Emperor was proud and happy, and his friends and slaves fell at his
feet.
“Hail, Cæsar!” they cried. “Thou art the god who shall be worshiped on
Capitol Hill!”
This cry of homage was so loud that the sibyl heard it and roused from
her vision. She turned from her place at the edge of the cliff and came
down among the people, so twisted, so shriveled, so terrifying in her
tangled hair and marks of age, that they fell back in awe. With one hand
she clutched the hand of the Emperor, with the other she pointed toward
the east.
“Look!” she commanded.
The vaulted heavens opened before his eyes, and his glance traveled
slowly to the distant Orient. He saw a lowly stable behind a steep rock
wall and shepherds kneeling in an open doorway. He saw a young mother
with a child upon her knees, resting on a bundle of straw.
The sibyl’s big, knotty fingers pointed toward the Babe.
“Hail, Cæsar!” she cried in a burst of scornful laughter. “There is the
God who shall be worshiped on Capitol Hill!”
Augustus shrank back from her as from a maniac. But upon the sibyl fell
the mighty spirit of prophecy. Her dim eyes began to burn, her hands were
stretched toward heaven, her voice rang out with such resonance and power
that it must have been heard throughout the world. And she uttered words
which she seemed to be reading among the stars.
“Upon Capitol Hill shall the Redeemer of the world be worshiped—Christ,
but not frail mortals.”
When she had said this she strode past the terror-stricken men and
disappeared down the mountain.
On the following day Augustus forbade the people to raise a temple to
him on Capitol Hill. In place of it he built a sanctuary to the new-born
God-Child, and called it _Heaven’s Altar_—Ara Cœli.
THE SHEPHERD WHO TURNED BACK
RETOLD FROM A SYRIAN LEGEND
(_Ethics_)
This is a story they tell in Palestine when the Christmas stars shine out
and Syrian children sit, cross-legged and big-eyed, in front of the old
grandfather, listening to his tales by the light of the charcoal fire,
while the moon flings its veil across the jagged Hebron Hills and the
far, high peaks out Moab way are white as wool.
On the wonderful night when the star in the east proclaimed glad tidings
to the Magi, and these three wise ones started away from their pleasant
homes on a long and perilous journey, marvelous things are said to have
happened in every quarter of the earth. Away in imperial Rome, the
Emperor Augustus, straight and proud in his litter, was borne up the
long stairway leading to Capitol Hill to invoke his gods on the spot
where the people were to erect a temple to him. But suddenly the darkness
broke away and he beheld a manger in a distant land and a Babe wrapped
in swaddling clothes, and as the voices of his subjects shouted, “Hail,
Cæsar, thou art the god who shall be worshiped on Capitol Hill!” instead
of feeling great and exalted like a sovereign he felt very small and
humble, for he knew that One just born was mightier than Cæsar, and would
rule not only Rome, but all the earth.
And on that same night, where the mountains break southward from
Bethlehem to form the high plateau of Bêt Sahûr, there were shepherds
guarding their white-fleeced charges—six in all, five of whom slept by
the gate of the sheepfold while one walked up and down, starting whenever
he heard a stirring among the flocks and going in the direction of the
sound to make sure that all was well.
Sometimes he added wood to the fire, for the night was cold and a
wind from the white peaks eastward brought numbness to his hands, and
sometimes he stood and looked over the scene he knew so well—the pools
of Solomon, shimmering darkly under the moon, and the broad vales of
Boaz, bare and lifeless now, but yellow with ripened grain and gay with
reapers’ songs in harvest time. As a child he had played there with his
brothers, as a boy he had roamed up and down the ravines, and now, alone
in the darkness, it gladdened him to live again those days in memory.
Midnight drew near, yet he had no desire to sleep. The world was very
silent, very still, for the wind had died away, and the Ilwa, in its
rocky bed below, seemed to rest instead of surging Jordan-ward. Into
the hoot of the owls came a note of unwonted tenderness, and even the
cries of the jackals, that always made the night watch hideous and sent
terror to the hearts of the herders, softened to a sound like a song.
The man felt the calm and it soothed him, and although he had followed
the flocks all day long and the hills were steep and jagged, he knew no
weariness, but a strange sense of peace and delight, and as he looked at
his companions wrapped in their rough skin coats and dreaming beside the
embers, he wondered if they felt in sleep a sensation as exquisite as the
one he experienced awaking.
“How bright the heavens are tonight!” he thought as he looked up to where
a golden haze began to gleam around the crescent of the moon. Billions of
stars glittered in the purple spaces, and directly over the center of the
fold was a cluster large and brilliant that he had not seen before.
It grew warmer, too, and instead of the sting of winter that had kept
the men close by the fire after darkness fell, a balm came into the air,
a softness like that of May. Never had he dreamed there could be such a
winter night, and almost he felt tempted to rouse his companions that
they too might enjoy it.
But suddenly he stiffened and stood watching, cold with fear. A
glory came, and across the sky, which flamed as if on fire, floated
a white-winged heavenly host singing the glad tidings of the Messiah
come. The flocks started up and ran wildly about the fold. The sleeping
shepherds wakened and crouched on the ground, half dazed with fear.
The bright ones flew about the heavens. They moved in shining columns
down from the heights and fluttered above the fold, whiter than the
sheep, then glided across to the rugged cliffs, and sat there as if
on couches of down. And ever as they marched or floated or poised on
glittering pinions ready for another flight, they blended their voices in
a triumphal chorus as if all the hosts of heaven had descended to make
melody among the Judean hills.
“What is it?” one of the shepherds asked in a voice that shook.
Then, like an answering message, came a jubilant anthem, “Fear not, for
unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Saviour which is Christ
the Lord.”
As if a soothing hand had touched their fleeces, the sheep settled to
rest again; the fear left the hearts of the shepherds, and in a radiance
which dimmed and paled as they went, the shining ones floated upward out
of sight, singing, “Glory to God in the Highest, Peace on Earth, Good
Will to Men.”
For several minutes the keepers of the flocks stood silent, too
bewildered either to think or to speak. Then, by the peace among the
sheep and the perfect calm of the night, they realized a marvelous thing
had happened, and one of the herders lifted his voice.
“Didst hear?” he spoke in tones of reverence. “They say the Christ is
born.”
“Aye,” a companion answered, “in the city of David, which is Bethlehem.
Let us go and seek him.” And his comrades, speaking agreement, said they
would journey there together.
Now, when subjects go into the presence of a loved sovereign, they
bear with them tokens of loyalty and affection. Those who are rich give
priceless gifts, and those who are poor offer the best out of their
scanty possessions and the fullness of their hearts. And so these herders
of Bêt Sahûr, having nothing but their flocks, each chose the lamb he
prized most, and cradling it tenderly in his firm, warm arms, left the
sheepfold and started for the town.
Down over the cliffs they hurried, along perilous slopes and across
chasms that seemed like great black mouths agape; yet they did not fear,
for a light from above showed the path as plain as noontide and there was
no danger of falling. From one rock to another they proceeded, from ledge
to ledge they made their way, and soon were well down into the ravine,
from the bottom of which the road led to the town. Directly above, so
close that had they looked up they could have counted some of them, the
sheep lay white and shining under the stars; but the thoughts of the
shepherds were on Bethlehem, which, straight ahead, still showed a few
flickering tapers, and not on the flocks behind.
Ben Ezra, he who had stood on the night watch, was the most stalwart of
the six, and he it was who led the descent to the valley.
“Ah,” he exclaimed when at last their feet struck the white firmness
of the road, “from here on the way is smooth and easy. Let us hasten,
brethren, and soon we shall be there.”
And as he spoke he smoothed the fleece of the warm, white bundle he
carried, which bleated softly at his caress.
Just then was heard the cry of a lamb.
The shepherds stopped and listened, for having spent their lives among
the flocks, they knew the helplessness of the sheep, and although
rugged, fierce-looking men, their hearts were tender toward the weak and
appealing. The bleat of a ram or ewe never failed to call them from their
meals by day or their rest by night; and now other thoughts left their
minds, and they remembered only their charges alone on the hill. Then,
thinking of the glory in the sky and the word of the heavenly host that
the Christ was born in Bethlehem, one of them said, “Come. Methinks all
is well. Did we not feel on the hills that God would take care of the
sheep? Let us on to Bethlehem and seek the King.”
But another of the number, he who stood sentinel while his comrades
slept, shook his head and demurred.
“Nay,” he said. “Take my lamb and say ’tis the gift of Ben Ezra, but I
must go back. It is my night on the watch, and a good shepherd is not
deaf to the cry of a sheep.”
He gave his tiny white burden into the keeping of one of his companions
and turning, hurried back to the cliffs, while the others went ahead to
Bethlehem. He knew it would take much longer to make the climb than it
had taken for the descent, and a fear seized him that perhaps jackals had
broken upon the flock and he might reach the fold too late to save the
sheep. But as he moved forward the mounting of the first cliff seemed no
task at all. Hands invisible seemed to lift him up the mountain way, and
he reached the sheepfold easily and quickly.
A great relief came. The flocks lay silent, stirring only when a lamb or
ewe moved a white leg and turned as it slept, but there was no sign or
sound of danger, not even the howl of a jackal away on the mountain side
or the moving shadow of a panther creeping stealthily upon the fold. Then
he knew that in truth God was watching over the sheep, and that the lamb
had probably cried out in wonder, even as he and his brethren might have
done.
Secure in the thought that the flock was safe, he started down the
mountain toward Bethlehem, musing upon the strange things that had come
to pass that night. His comrades were far ahead, and he knew he could
not overtake them. Perhaps already they had reached the town and found
the place of the Child, while he yet had a long way to go. But his feet
sped over the spaces and he swung lightly along, the shaggy skin of his
shepherd’s cloak flapping as he went. He was not sorry he had gone back,
even though it meant he must journey alone, for there was a peace in his
heart that could not have been there had he gone ahead hearing the cry of
a lamb.
At last he reached Bethlehem and asked one of the soldiers who guarded
the gate, “Where is it that the Christ is born?”
“The Christ?” the man repeated like one dazed. “He is not in Bethlehem.
Better get you back to the hills, which is the place of shepherds.”
Ben Ezra stood firm.
“He must be here,” he insisted, “for so sang the angels at Bêt Sahûr,
saying, ‘In the city of David,’ which is Bethlehem.”
Whereupon some of the guardsmen smiled and pointed to their heads, and
some laughed jeeringly.
There was one, however, a tall, gentle-faced archer, who smiled and spoke
kindly, “They say a man child has come to the stable beyond the khan,
where Joseph ben David the Nazarene and his wife have taken shelter. You
might try there.”
The shepherd nodded and thanked him, his dark eyes moistly tender and in
his face a light that silenced the mockers.
“Thither will I go,” he exclaimed, and hurried on his way, bowing his
head reverently as he came in sight of the place.
Now it happened when Ben Ezra reached the stable where Joseph ben David
was abiding because of the multitude in the khan, that he found the Child
lying in a manger, and the other shepherds who had gone before knelt
beside Him, looking into His gentle eyes and marveling. Around them on
the ground, softly bleating as if they too understood the marvel and
rejoiced in it, were the lambs the men had brought as offerings to the
Babe; and some of the townsfolk too were there, murmuring in awed tones
and looking on the scene in wide-eyed wonder. No one noticed the herder
who entered late, or saw him fall on his knees beside the manger. But
as his sturdy head drooped low, the Child lifted His tiny hand as if
in blessing and smiled down on Ben Ezra’s upturned face; and then the
keepers of the sheep knew that thus God had chosen to reward him who had
not been deaf to the cry of a lamb.
For many a year after that time, the Syrian herders say, Ben Ezra tended
his sheep on the hills. Through summer and winter he abode in the pasture
place, his only respite from toil being the rare visits he made to the
village where his wife and wee ones dwelt; but he never was weary, and
his flocks never went astray. To his children and his children’s children
he told the story of how he went back to the hills that night and how he
was rewarded, bidding them to be ever mindful of the fact that he who
is tender to the sheep serves well a higher Master. And as years rolled
into decades and centuries passed away, all the herders of Judea came to
know the story and to shape their lives by it, so that to this day the
Syrian shepherds have remained men of tender heart and simple faith. And
when strangers visit the land and wonder at the gentleness of the keepers
of the flocks, some old grandfather or brown-eyed boy is ever ready to
explain what it is that has kept them sweet and serene, and tells the
story of Ben Ezra, the shepherd who on the wonderful night went back to
the hills, and so came late to Bethlehem.
THE PET RAVEN
A LEGEND OF THE RHINE
(_Geography—Ethics_)
One autumn morning a thousand years ago, a boy and a girl stood in a
forest path beside the Rhine. His great eyes, brown and full of feeling,
looked wistfully into the face of the golden-haired maiden, while his
clumsy hands stroked tenderly the glossy feathers of a young raven.
“Father says it is a poor gift to offer a princess,” he said as he held
the bird toward her, “but I have nothing else. Will you please take it?”
Blue-eyed Willeswind smiled. She was the petted child of a baron and
accustomed to receiving gifts, but something about this boy’s earnestness
touched her in an unusual way. He was only a forester’s son, with but
little to break the monotony of his life of toil, and it seemed wonderful
that he should be willing to part with his only treasure.
“I cannot take your only pet, Rupert,” she said kindly, “but it is good
of you to offer it.”
Disappointment crept into the boy’s dark eyes.
“Oh, please,” he pleaded. “I want you to have it, because you bound up
my foot with healing herbs when I tore it on the brambles in the wood.
Please take it.”
The girl answered with a smile that made her face very lovely, “Of course
I shall take it, and I will keep it always because you gave it to me.”
Reaching over, she took the fluttering creature from the big dark hands,
and stroked it gently as it quivered at the strange touch. Then she made
her way back to the castle over a carpet of fallen leaves, while Rupert
the forester’s son hurried to the hunting lodge, happy in the thought
that he had made a gift to her who had been kind to him.
“She will keep it and feed it and be glad I did not forget,” he thought
as he fed the falcons that evening, while up in the castle court
Willeswind was busy with her pet.
“See how glossy its feathers are!” she said as her brother Othmar came
near. “Rupert gave it to me, and I promised to keep it always.”
The young squire laughed. “A raven is sure to be a bother,” he said.
“Better let it fly into the woods.”
Willeswind shook her golden head. “No, no,” she exclaimed, “I like it.
Your horses and hounds and falcons are far more bother than one raven,
yet you would not think of being without them.”
Othmar mounted his horse and rode out to his archery practice, thinking
how soon his sister would tire of the bird. But she did not tire of it.
It was different from any pet she had ever owned, and she cared for it
and trained it.
Seven years passed, and the brother had grown from a squire to a knight,
and upon the death of his father the baron, became lord of the castle.
Willeswind too had changed from the slender maid who stood under the
November trees with Rupert the forester’s son. She was now the stateliest
of all the great ladies on the Rhine. But her hair was still the color
of sun-kissed straw, and her eyes the same sympathetic ones, as blue as
wood gentians. Rupert was tall and stalwart, one of the sturdiest vassals
of Castle Stolzenfels, and although Willeswind seldom saw him, she
remembered him kindly because he had given her the pet raven which she
still kept and loved. She spent many hours teaching it tricks, and the
bird was so clever that it learned rapidly. Sometimes it flew into the
forest and came back with flowers and leaves for its mistress. Sometimes
it winged its way across the river and brought sprigs of the sweet wild
berries growing there.
Everything was bright about the castle, for the young master and mistress
were kind to those who served them, and there were no happier vassals
along the Rhine than theirs.
One day in springtime, when the elder flowers were creamiest and swallows
were teaching their nestlings to fly, a stranger came riding along the
river. Past the postern gate his armored steed dashed, and straight he
sat in his saddle as he called to Lord Othmar.
“I bring a challenge from the great lord who is my master,” he spoke
defiantly as the young knight moved forth to meet him. With flashing eyes
he tossed his gauntlet to the ground.
A murmur went among the vassals who stood by. To throw down a gauntlet
was to invite war, and all waited for the master to act. But the silence
was only for a minute. Then came a shouting and clashing of arms, for
with defiance in his face Othmar picked up the glove and flung it back
at the rider. That meant war, which in those days was believed to be a
glorious thing.
The strange knight rode away along the Rhine shore as rapidly as he
had come, while in the great courtyard of Castle Stolzenfels began the
marshaling of vassals and preparation for fighting. The women burnished
arms and gave all the aid they could, while the Lady Willeswind moved
here and there, making suggestions where they were needed. All night long
the sound of clanging armor was heard, and the next morning, when the
men of Castle Stolzenfels went out of the castle gate to meet the enemy,
Rupert the forester’s son marched at the head of the vassals.
Willeswind stood at the tower window and watched them go along the
winding river road, thinking sadly of the days and nights of danger
into which they went. Perhaps they would not return. Perhaps, too, some
robber band might pillage the castle while they were away, for all the
able-bodied men had gone to battle, and in those days many brigand hordes
ravaged the Rhine valley, which the handful of old men at Stolzenfels
would not be able to hold back. But she was brave, and although danger
threatened, she faced it as a baron’s daughter should.
Autumn came, with swallows and martins flying southward, and still the
battling raged away in the northland, sometimes with victory for Othmar
and his men, sometimes with defeat, but always with dread for the anxious
hearts of those who waited at home.
One night the wind raged like a mad thing, whipping the Rhine into foam.
As the castle mistress sat in the great hall among the women, a servant
entered, saying that a pilgrim stood at the outer gate, begging shelter
from the night and storm.
“He is white and bent,” the man explained. “Shall I let him come inside?”
Willeswind’s heart was big and tender. “Yes, let him come,” she said.
A moment later he followed the servant through the hall to the sleeping
quarters, a hobbling figure leaning heavily on a staff. Willeswind pitied
him as he went by, but thought his face seemed hard and cruel.
A few days later she sat alone with her maid, in that same great hall,
looking happier than she had looked for many weeks. “A courier came by
with word from Othmar,” she said. “He sends greetings, says the worst
of the fighting is over, and soon they will be home. I feel quite safe
again.”
Suddenly the door was violently thrust open. The maid screamed and
Willeswind turned pale, for a man in heavy armor strode into the room.
She knew he was one of the dreaded robber barons who terrorized the Rhine
valley, and knew too, as she looked into his savage face, that it was the
same man who, in the guise of a pilgrim, had sought shelter there a few
nights before.
“I have come to take you with me,” he said in a voice of thunder, “for I
mean you to be my wife.”
Willeswind shuddered. She knew how wicked and cruel he was, and that it
was her great wealth he craved, for Stolzenfels was one of the richest
estates on the river. “That can never be, sir,” she answered haughtily.
“So go back whence you came.”
He looked at her with an evil smile. “You give me a blithe refusal now,”
he exclaimed, “but in three days I will come again and it will be sad for
you if I get not a different answer.”
The robber chief strode out, and Willeswind and the trembling maid looked
at each other in terror.
“My lady,” the woman spoke, as soon as the outer gate clanged and they
knew the man was beyond hearing, “you must get away from here.”
“Yes,” answered the mistress, “I must leave Stolzenfels and seek refuge
at some other castle.”
So that same afternoon a little cavalcade wended its way through the
woods, over the carpet of leaves that late autumn had whipped from the
trees. It was Willeswind and her attendants, bound for the home of
another baron, where she would be protected until the return of Othmar
and his men. Beside her rode Hulda the maid, and on her shoulder sat the
pet raven.
But they did not go far. Suddenly from behind some thickly growing brush
a band of horsemen appeared. One rider, taller and heavier than the
others, called out orders to his men.
“To my castle!” he shouted.
Willeswind knew well they were the tones of the robber baron, and that
she was now a prisoner in his power.
Sad indeed was her heart as the men turned her horse’s head away from her
road to safety, and tears came into her blue eyes as she caught a glimpse
of the Stolzenfels towers.
“Oh, my home,” she murmured, “when shall I see you again?”
On they went through the forest, along that part of the river whose gray
cliffs she had known since childhood, then into unfamiliar country as
they neared the castle of the robber chief.
“If only they will let us stay together,” she murmured to Hulda as they
drew rein at the gate.
They rode in through the courtyard, and then, dismounting, the baron led
the two women up a winding stairway to the tower.
“Here you may stay,” he said savagely, “and decide what to do.”
Then, striding out, he bolted the heavy door.
They looked around. The windows were covered with an iron grating, and
there was no possible way of escape.
“We cannot get away,” said Hulda, “so let us make the best of it and find
something to eat, for I am hungry.”
But there was no food about the place, and they realized then that he
meant to starve Willeswind into obeying him.
But suddenly a bright thought came to her, and she smiled.
“He cannot do it, though, for I have my raven.” And stroking its glossy
wings she said, “Berries, pet, berries.”
Her hours of training had been well spent. For as if it understood, the
bird spread its shining wings and flew out between the grating. After a
while it returned with a sprig of crimson berries, the fragrant, juicy
Rhine buds, and laid them in its mistress’ lap.
Many trips it made during the days that followed, and the woodland fruit
kept the women from starvation, for it contained both nourishment and
water.
So, instead of growing weak and wan, they kept their strength, and the
baron could not understand how, with neither food nor water, Willeswind
remained strong and well, and as defiant as ever. But to Willeswind and
Hulda it was no mystery, and they were full of gratitude to the raven.
One morning Hulda stood by the window, looking out over the woods at the
sunlight on the river. Suddenly she gave an excited cry. “Some horsemen
are riding up the Rhine road!” she exclaimed. “They are coming this way.”
Willeswind flew to the casement and watched as they drew near. Straight
along the forest path they advanced, so close that the watchers could see
their faces.
“Oh!” cried the lady of Stolzenfels. “It is Othmar and his men. The war
is over and they are coming home.”
She called loudly, waving her handkerchief between the grating, and
Othmar saw and heard. “We are up here, prisoners in the tower!” she
shouted, as he galloped nearer. And a minute later the Stolzenfels men
were battering at the castle gate.
“For your mistress, comrades!” called Rupert the forester’s son, as he
led the charge.
The robber baron knew the Stolzenfels force was too strong for him to
hold out against, for with right on their side they had even greater
strength. He surrendered, and the captives were freed.
The Stolzenfels towers never looked as fair to their owners, as when on
the return they beheld them through the trees. It was a joyful homecoming
to both lord and vassal, and to the raven, for he flew in and out of its
windows as if overcome with gladness. Othmar watched its joyous flight
with a smile.
“We will always keep the bird,” he said, “for it saved you from the
baron’s power.”
And they did keep it until it died. Then, in memory of its service, they
placed its stone image on the castle gate and carved its likeness on the
Stolzenfels shield.
Centuries passed. The robber bands that had been the terror of the Rhine
valley became a part of the past, and Castle Stolzenfels fell into decay,
for hundreds of years being one of the noblest ruins on the river. Then
the German emperor restored it. He rebuilt the crumbling towers and
bastions where bats made their nests, furnished it after the fashion of
long ago, and today it is a favorite summer home of the imperial family.
And still on the outer gate a stone raven stands, and to all who know
the Rhine stories it speaks eloquently of that olden time when knights
were bold, and of a gratitude offering made by the forester’s son to the
daughter of the castle.
JUSSIEU AND THE HELIOTROPE
(_Science—Nature Study_)
In the year of Our Lord 1735, Joseph de Jussieu, the famous botanist,
came into the presence of Louis the Fifteenth and besought him to give
his royal sanction to a mission that was considered very wonderful in
those days.
“I would go to South America to study the plant life there,” he said,
“and mayhap I may discover something that will bring glory to France.”
The king looked with favor upon the venture, and a little later the
botanist and his attendants sailed out of the port of Havre, toward the
distant land of the Andes.
Many months they were on the way, now tossing on the high seas at the
mercy of wind and wave, now threading a perilous path through the selvas.
At last they ascended the snow-capped Cordilleras, examining every tree
and plant they found.
“We will take back seeds of every rare specimen,” Jussieu said, “and
great will be the rejoicing in France.”
One day, as the botanist and his men made their way from a deep ravine up
a sunny slope, they smelled something wonderfully fragrant.
“Such a powerful odor must come from a gigantic, gorgeous flower,” the
naturalist said. And they searched eagerly, each man anxious to discover
the prize. But the only gorgeous flower they found was a clump of flaming
peonies, which, although regally beautiful, were devoid of fragrance.
Then one of the men stumbled upon a plant bearing clusters of tiny purple
blossoms. The odor was very heavy around it, and he knew he had found the
perfume giver.
“Ah!” he exclaimed in disappointment, “it is not half so stately as our
fleur-de-lis.”
Jussieu came and examined it with great interest, and although it was a
small, unpretentious flower, thought it a precious find. He noticed that
the most perfect blossoms were on the sunny side of the plant, and that
they seemed to reach the sun. He named it “heliotrope,” from Greek words
meaning “to turn toward the sun,” and when he returned to France took
with him some of the seeds, which were planted in the royal garden.
The princesses, who were always looking for something novel, became
greatly excited about the purple blossoms from the Andes. They called it
the flower of love, and no bouquet was deemed fit to offer a court lady
that did not contain at least a sprig of it. Being greatly in demand, it
was very costly. People speculated in it, and for a time fortunes were
won and lost, as during the tulip craze in Holland.
Then, after a while, when all the florists grew quantities of heliotrope,
it became so common that it went out of favor as the court flower. But it
was just as popular as ever, because it had lost none of its grace and
fragrance. It grew in the gardens of the people, and there was no peasant
too poor to own a plant.
So the dainty heliotrope that is still the favorite of the gardens is
a traveled and storied flower. It grew on the slope of the Andes. It
crossed the broad seas and was planted in a royal garden. It gladdened
the peasants and townsfolk of Lorraine and Brittany and Provence, and
still it scatters its fragrance and reaches out its petals toward the sun.
THE FALL OF LONDON BRIDGE
(_History_)
Almost everybody, whether he be ten or seventy-five, has played the good
old game of London Bridge, but not everybody knows that once upon a time
the bridge really did fall down.
It was nine hundred years ago—before William the Conqueror was born, and
the United States had not even been thought of. Up in the cold, white
northland lived a race of fearless vikings, and down in pleasant England
reigned a weak, unable king. His name was Ethelred, and because he was
always behind time with his plans and his work, people called him the
Unready, and in the day in which he lived it was a very serious thing for
a king to be unready.
Ever since the Danes had discovered what a fair land England was, they
had wanted to take it. They came with their armies in King Alfred’s time.
They returned again during the reign of his sons, and when young Ethelred
ascended the throne and word went forth of how unable and unready he
was, their boats brought a mighty army and surrounded the island. Danish
soldiers camped on the broad English moorlands, Danish songs echoed
through the woods of Kent and Surrey and sounded in the streets of London
town. The invaders were in full possession of the city. They held the
royal castle, and their generals slept in King Ethelred’s beds, while he
had to take a bunk wherever he could find one. They were bold, brave, and
strong. They had leaders who knew not the meaning of fear and were always
ready, and it seemed that this time they would take the kingdom.
Yet they didn’t take it after all, for there were other brave, bold men
who came to Ethelred’s aid.
Twenty ships sailed down from the seas of Norway, twenty goodly vessels
bearing blue and crimson sails, for the boy king Olaf, who dwelt in the
far north country, had heard of the plight of Ethelred the Unready and
said to his men, “Let us go and fight for him as we fight for our own
land.”
At these words the soldiers cheered and bent to the oars, and thus they
went to England.
In from the sea they came and up the broad green Thames toward London
town. The people along the river despaired at sight of their standard,
for they thought another army was coming to attack them. But the sorrow
turned to rejoicing when King Ethelred met them just below the city, and
Olaf said, in loud, clear tones, “I have brought my soldiers to fight for
thee.”
Then there rang out such a blast of welcome as never English war horns
sounded before or since.
Olaf lost no time. The men of the north country fought for the love of
fighting, and he was eager to hurl his army against the Danes.
“First we will take the fort they have built to command the Thames,” he
exclaimed. “Then we will drive them from the city.”
King Ethelred shook his head.
“It will not be easy to do that,” he said. “Thrice already my army has
tried it, but the Danish soldiers are thick on London Bridge. We cannot
get near enough to attack the fort, because whenever the ships start up
the river arrows and spears and stones come down upon them and they are
driven back.”
King Olaf stood thinking and did not answer. Finally he said, “Then we
must tear down the bridge.”
Ethelred looked at him as if he thought him crazy. “Tear down the
bridge!” he repeated in amazement. “That is impossible. London Bridge is
strong, and neither of us has an army of giants.”
Young Olaf looked at him and smiled, thinking how little this man knew of
warfare.
“Do as I bid you,” he said, “and you shall see it fall.”
Ethelred had little faith in the viking’s words, but he was in so
terrible a plight that he was willing to do anything that might pull him
out of it. Who wouldn’t be, with a Danish general sleeping in his bed?
King Olaf gave some orders to his men. Then he said to Ethelred, “Bring
your ships alongside mine, and we will get them ready.”
He ordered the men to make broad, flat roofs for every vessel, for he
knew they could not tear down London Bridge unless protected from the
spears and arrows of the Danes. The enemy had seized so much of King
Ethelred’s lumber that he hadn’t half enough to make the roofs, so they
tore down houses that the command might be carried out.
Finally everything was ready, and the fleet of England and the fleet of
Norway moved side by side up the Thames. The Danish soldiers laughed as
they saw the queer-looking vessels coming toward them, thinking what fun
it would be to drive back the boats of Ethelred the Unready, as they had
done several times before. But the Danes didn’t know as much as they
thought they knew, and although their spears and arrows flew fast, the
lumbering warships came on.
Then the soldiers on the bridge shot their bows and threw their javelins
as they had not done before. They hurled great rocks down upon the
vessels, damaging some of them so much that they had to turn back. But
they did not harm or frighten Olaf the viking. He called to his men and
cheered them on, and nearer, nearer these good ships came, until they
were close to the piles of London Bridge.
Then they stopped a moment, still under the rain of stones and spears and
arrows, and the Danish soldiers wondered what it meant. They could not
see the thick, strong cables that were wound around the heavy supports of
the bridge. They could not see the soldiers of Olaf lash the other ends
fast to the vessels. But a moment later they understood all they had not
seen. The ships turned with a sudden spurt. The Danish soldiers felt a
mighty tug and pull. The roofed warships darted down the river, and then
was heard the fall of London Bridge.
How joyfully the men of England shouted, for now they could push ahead
and attack the fort. They took it too, and drove the enemy out of the
city. Danish warriors no longer slept under satin covers in the castle
of King Ethelred. Danish songs no longer resounded through the woods of
Kent and Surrey and across the broad, sea-lapped moorlands. The soldiers
routed the Danes and drove them out of the country, and Olaf the boy
viking sailed back to his far, white northland, rejoicing in the thought
that he had saved his kingdom to Ethelred, which he could not have done
but for the fall of London Bridge.
HOW THEY CAME TO HAVE KITE DAY IN CHINA
RETOLD FROM A CHINESE FOLK TALE
(_Physical Education_)
In the lovely province of Kwang Tung, a sage named Ng Chew lived in the
far-off time. He not only was versed in the lore of past and present,
but knew future events as well, and used his knowledge and his power to
benefit mankind.
One night in a vision he saw that a pestilence was about to sweep over
the valley in which he lived, and his first thought was that he must save
his people. He went from house to house telling the news and bidding
every one flee with him to the mountains, and a few hours after he
started on his mission the homes in the lowlands were deserted.
Up on the heights the people were safe in the crisp, clean air. But after
many days had passed they wanted to return to their homes. They thought
of the growth in the rice fields and of the approaching harvest time. “We
have been here long enough,” they declared. “By this time the danger is
over and we ought to go back.” But the wise Ng Chew knew it was not safe
to return, and urged them to stay. There were a few who would not listen
to his words. They started back to the lowlands, and Ng Chew wondered how
he could keep the others on the mountain. Then a happy thought crossed
his mind. He set everybody to making and flying kites, and soon had them
so interested that they were glad to stay.
Days afterward, when he knew the danger was past, he led them back to the
valley. Then they realized what a blessed thing he had done in keeping
them on the mountain, for all who had refused to stay there with him had
died of the pestilence.
The people’s hearts were filled with gratitude toward the man who had
saved them.
“We will honor Ng Chew as long as he lives,” they said. “When his
birthday comes we will all fly kites.”
This they did. Each year, on the birthday of Ng Chew, they left the rice
fields and spent the day flying kites.
The word spread beyond the little valley and from province to province,
until all over the land kite flying marked the birthday of the sage of
Kwang Tung. The wise man died and centuries passed, but still the Chinese
keep Kite Day, honoring him who in the long ago led his people to safety
in the mountains.
THE STORY OF A STONE
BY DAVID STARR JORDAN
(_Science_)
Once on a time, a great many years ago, so many, many years that one
grows very tired in trying to think how long ago it was; in those old
days when the great Northwest consisted of a few ragged and treeless
hills, full of copper and quartz, bordered by a dreary waste of sand
flats, over which the Gulf of Mexico rolled its warm and turbid waters
as far north as Escanaba and Eau Claire; in the days when Marquette
Harbor opened out towards Baffin’s Bay, and the Northern Ocean washed the
crest of Mount Washington and wrote its name upon the Pictured Rocks;
when the tide of the Pacific, hemmed in by no snow-capped Sierras,
came rushing through the Golden Gate between the Ozarks and the north
peninsula of Michigan, and swept over Plymouth Rock and surged up against
Bunker Hill; in the days when it would have been fun to study geography,
for there were no capitals, nor any products, and all the towns were
seaports—in fact, an immensely long time ago there lived somewhere in
the northeastern part of the state of Wisconsin, not far from the city
of Oconto, a little jellyfish. It was a curious little fellow, about the
shape of half an apple, and the size of a pin’s head; and it floated
around in the water, and ate little things, and opened and shut its
umbrella pretty much as the jellyfishes do now on a sunny day off Nahant
Beach when the tide is coming in. It had a great many little feelers that
hung down all around like so many little snakes; so it was named Medusa,
after a queer woman who lived a long while ago, when all sorts of stories
were true. She wore snakes instead of hair, and used to turn people into
stone images if they dared to make faces at her. So this little Medusa
floated around, and opened and shut her umbrella for a good while,—a
month or two, perhaps; we don’t know how long. Then one morning, down
among the seaweeds, she laid a whole lot of tiny eggs, transparent as
crab-apple jelly, and smaller than the dewdrop on the end of a pine leaf.
That was the last thing she did; then she died, and our story henceforth
concerns only one of those little eggs.
One day the sun shone down into the water—the same sun that shines over
the Oconto sawmills now—and touched these eggs with life; and a little
fellow whom we will call Favosites, because that was his name, woke up
inside the egg, and came out into the world. He was only a little piece
of floating jelly, shaped like a cartridge pointed at both ends, or like
a grain of barley, although very much smaller. He had a great number of
little paddles on his sides. These kept flapping all the time, so that
he was constantly in motion. And at night all these little paddles shone
with a rich green light, to show him the way through the water. It would
have done you good to see them some night when all the little fellows had
their lamps burning at once, and every wave as it rose and fell was all
aglow with Nature’s fireworks, which do not burn the fingers and leave no
smell of sulphur.
So the little Favosites kept scudding along in the water, dodging from
one side to the other to avoid the ugly creatures that tried to eat him.
There were crabs and clams of a fashion neither you nor I shall ever see
alive. There were huge animals with great eyes, savage jaws like the beak
of a snapping turtle and surrounded by long feelers. They sat in the end
of a long, round shell, shaped like a length of stove pipe, and glowered
like an owl in a hollow log; and there were smaller ones that looked like
lobsters in a dinner horn. But none of these caught the little fellow,
else I should not have had this story to tell.
At last, having paddled about long enough, Favosites thought of settling
in life. So he looked around till he found a flat bit of shell that just
suited him. Then he sat down upon it and grew fast, like old Holger
Danske in the Danish myth, or Frederick Barbarossa in the German one. He
did not go to sleep, however, but proceeded to make himself a home. He
had no head, but between his shoulders he made an opening which would
serve him for mouth and stomach. Then he put a whole row of feelers out,
and commenced catching little worms and floating eggs and bits of jelly
and bits of lime,—everything he could get,—and cramming them into his
mouth. He had a great many curious ways, but the funniest of them all was
what he did with the bits of lime. He kept taking them in, and tried to
wall himself up inside with them, as a person would “stone a well,” or
as though a man should swallow pebbles and stow them away in his feet
and all around under the skin, till he had filled himself all full with
them, as the man filled Jim Smiley’s frog.
Little Favosites became lonesome all alone in the bottom of that old
ocean among so many outlandish neighbors. So one night, when he was fast
asleep and dreaming as only a coral animal can dream, there sprouted out
from his side, somewhere near where his sixth rib might have been if he
had had any ribs, another little Favosites; and this one very soon began
to eat worms and to wall himself up as if for dear life. Then from these
two another and another little bud came out, and other little Favosites
were formed. They all kept growing up higher and cramming themselves
fuller and fuller of stone, till at last there were so many and they were
so crowded together that there was not room for them to grow round, and
so they had to become six-sided like the cells of a honeycomb. Once in
a while some one in the company would feel jealous because the others
got more of the worms, or would feel uneasy at sitting still so long and
swallowing lime. Such a one would secede from the little union without
even saying “good-by,” and would put on the airs of the grandmother
Medusa, and would sail around in the water, opening and shutting its
umbrella, at last laying more eggs, which for all we know may have
hatched out into more Favosites.
So the old Favosites died, or ran away, or were walled up by the younger
ones, and new ones filled their places, and the colony thrived for a long
while, until it had accumulated a large stock of lime.
But one day there came a freshet in the Menominee River, or in some other
river, and piles of dirt and sand and mud were brought down, and all the
little Favosites’ mouths were filled with it. This they did not like, and
so they died; but we know that the rock house they were building was not
spoiled, for we have it here. But it was tumbled about a good deal in the
dirt, and the rolling pebbles knocked the corners off, and the mud worked
into the cracks, and its beautiful color was destroyed. There it lay in
the mud for ages, till the earth gave a great, long heave that raised
Wisconsin out of the ocean, and the mud around our little Favosites
packed and dried into hard rock and closed it in. So it became part of
the dry land, and lay embedded in the rocks for centuries and centuries,
while the old-fashioned ferns grew above it, and whispered to it strange
stories of what was going on above ground in the land where things were
living.
Then the time of the first fishes came, and the other animals looked in
wonder at them, as the Indians looked on Columbus. Some of them were like
the little gar-pike of our river here, only much larger,—big as a stove
pipe, and with a crust as hard as a turtle’s. Then there were sharks, of
strange forms, and some of them had teeth like bowie knives, with tempers
to match. And the time of the old fishes came and went, and many more
times came and went, but still Favosites lay in the ground at Oconto.
Then came the long, hot, wet summer, when the mists hung over the earth
so thick that you might have had to cut your way through them with a
knife; and great ferns and rushes, big as an oak and tall as a steeple,
grew in the swamps of Indiana and Illinois. Their green plumes were
so long and so densely interwoven that the Man in the Moon might have
fancied that the earth was feathering out. Then all about, huge reptiles,
with jaws like the gates of doom and teeth like cross-cut saws, and
little reptiles with wings like bats, crawled, and swam, and flew.
But the ferns died, and the reptiles died, and the rush trees fell in
the swamps, and the Illinois and the Sangamon and the Wabash and all
the other rivers covered them up. They stewed away under layers of clay
and sand, till at last they turned into coal and wept bitter tears of
petroleum. But all this while Favosites lay in the rocks in Wisconsin.
Then the mists cleared away, and the sun shone, and the grass began to
grow, and strange animals came from somewhere or nowhere to feed upon it.
There were queer little striped horses, with three or four hoofs on each
foot, and no bigger than a Newfoundland dog, but as smart as ever you
saw. There were great hairy elephants, with teeth like sticks of wood.
There were hogs with noses so long that they could sit on their hind legs
and root. And there were many still stranger creatures which no man ever
saw alive. But still Favosites lay in the ground and waited.
And the long, long summer passed by, and the autumn, and the Indian
summer. At last the winter came, and it snowed and snowed, and it was so
cold that the snow did not go off till the Fourth of July. Then it snowed
and snowed till the snow did not go off at all. And then it became so
cold that it snowed all the time, till the snow covered the animals, and
then the trees, and then the mountains. Then it would thaw a little, and
streams of water would run over the snow. Then it would freeze again, and
the snow would pack into solid ice. So it went on snowing and thawing and
freezing, till nothing but snowbanks could be seen in Wisconsin, and most
of Indiana was fit only for a skating rink. And the animals and plants
which could get away, all went south to live, and the others died and
were frozen into the snow.
So it went on for a great many years. I dare not tell you how long, for
you might not believe me. Then the spring came, the south winds blew, and
the snow began to thaw. Then the ice came sliding down from the mountains
and hills and from the north toward the south. It went on, tearing up
rocks, little and big, from the size of a chip to the size of a house,
crushing forests as you would crush an eggshell, and wiping out rivers as
you would wipe out a chalk mark. So it came pushing, grinding, thundering
along,—not very fast, you understand, but with tremendous force, like a
plow drawn by a million oxen, for a thousand feet of ice is very heavy.
And the ice plow scraped over Oconto, and little Favosites was torn from
the place where he had lain so long; but by good fortune he happened to
fall into a crevice of the ice where he was not much crowded, else he
would have been ground to powder and I should not have had this story to
tell. And the ice melted as it slid along, and it made great torrents
of water, which, as they swept onward, covered the land with clay and
pebbles. At last the ice came to a great swamp overgrown with tamarack
and balsam. It melted here; and all the rocks and stones and dirt it had
carried—little Favosites and all—were dumped into one great heap.
It was a very long time after, and man had been created, and America had
been discovered, and the War of the Revolution and the Civil War had all
been fought to the end, and a great many things had happened, when one
day a farmer living near Grand Chute, in Outagamie County, Wisconsin, was
plowing up his clover field to sow to winter wheat. He picked up in the
furrow a curious little bit of “petrified honeycomb,” a good deal worn
and dirty, but still showing plainly the honey cells and the bee bread.
Then he put it into his pocket and carried it home, and gave it to his
boy Charley to take to the teacher and hear what he would say about it.
And this is what he said.
LIST OF STORIES BY MONTHS FOR EACH GRADE
LIST OF STORIES BY MONTHS FOR EACH GRADE
FIRST GRADE
_September_
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Gingerbread Man, The Whale and the
Elephant (_Stories to Tell to Children_).
COE, FANNY E.: Three Billy Goats Gruff (_First Book of Stories
for the Story-Teller_).
HEBER, ELIZABETH: Coming and Going (_A Child’s Story Garden_).
HOLBROOK, FLORENCE: How Flax Was Given to Men (_Book of Nature
Myths_).
LINDSAY, MAUD: Dust under the Rug, Giant Energy and Fairy Skill
(_Mother Stories_).
PERRAULT, CHARLES: Red Riding Hood (_Fairy Tales from
Perrault_).
SLY, W. R.: Boots and His Brothers (_World Stories Retold_).
_October_
ARNOLD, SARAH L.: Columbus, the Boy of Genoa (_Stepping Stones
to Literature—Book 3_).
BAILEY, C. S.: Bobby Squirrel’s Busy Day (_Story-Telling Time_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: Little Jackal and the Camel (_Stories to
Tell to Children_).
COE, FANNY E.: The Boy and the Wolf, The Sun and the Wind
(_First Book of Stories for the Story-Teller_).
DILLINGHAM, E. T.: A Hallowe’en Story (_“Tell It Again”
Stories_).
GRIERSON, E. W.: The Smith and the Fairies (_Book of Celtic
Stories_).
LANG, ANDREW: The Witch (_Yellow Fairy Book_).
POTTER, BEATRIX: Squirrel Nutkin, Bunny Cottontail (_Squirrel
Nutkin_).
POULSSON, EMILIE: The Thrifty Squirrels (_In the Child’s
World_).
RHYS, ERNEST: The Witch That Was a Hare (_English Fairy Book_).
_November_
BAILEY, C. S.: The Kid Who Would Not Go (_Firelight Stories_).
CHADWICK, MARA L. PRATT-: Stones of the Pilgrim Babies
(_Stories of Colonial Children_).
COE, FANNY E.: Jack the Giant Killer, Tom Thumb (_First Book of
Stories for the Story-Teller_).
DILLINGHAM, E. T., and EMERSON, A. P.: Gretchen and the Magic
Fiddle (_“Tell It Again” Stories_).
KEYES, ANGELA M.: Lazy Jack (_Stories and Story-Telling_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Ears of Wheat (_Good Stories for Great
Holidays_).
POULSSON, EMILIE: The Chestnut Boys, The Crane Express (_In the
Child World_).
WHITE, ELIZA O.: A Thanksgiving Dinner (_When Molly Was Six_).
A Thanksgiving at Hollywood, Grandmother’s Thanksgiving Story
(_Half a Hundred Stories_).
_December_
BAILEY, C. S., and LEWIS, C. M.: The Legend of the Christmas
Tree (_For the Children’s Hour_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Golden Cobwebs (_How to Tell Stories to
Children_).
COE, FANNY E.: St. Christopher (_First Book of Stories for the
Story-Teller_).
DILLINGHAM, E. T., and EMERSON, A. P.: Santa Claus’ Helpers,
The Story of the Man in the Moon, The Kitten That Wanted to
Be a Christmas Present, A Christmas Legend (_“Tell It Again”
Stories_).
LINDSAY, MAUD: The Christmas Cake (_More Mother Stories_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Stranger Child (_Good Stories for Great
Holidays_).
SLY, W. R.: The Christmas Gift, The Wise Men and the Star, The
Shepherds and the Angels (_World Stories Retold_).
_January_
ÆSOP: The Bear and the Fowls (ADAMS: _Fables and Rhymes_).
ALDEN, R. M.: The Forest Full of Friends (_Why the Chimes
Rang_).
BAILEY, C. S.: The Travels of a Fox (_For the Story-Teller_).
LINDSAY, MAUD: Mrs. Tabby Gray (_Mother Stories_).
MACDONNELL, ANNE: Peter, the Stone Cutter (_Italian Fairy
Book_).
POULSSON, EMILIE: An All the Year Round Story, The Fairies’ New
Year’s Gift (_In the Child World_).
RICHARDS, L. E.: The Pig Brother (_The Pig Brother_).
SLY, W. R.: The Golden Goose, The Baby Brother in the Basket
Boat, The Flood and the Rainbow (_World Stories Retold_).
SLOSSON, MRS. A. T.: The Horse That Believed He’d Get There
(_Story-Telling Library_).
SOUTHEY, ROBERT: The Three Bears.
_February_
DILLINGHAM, E. T., and EMERSON, A. P.: Elaine’s Valentine
(_“Tell It Again” Stories_).
GROSS, H.: Lincoln and the Pig (_Lincoln’s Own Stories_).
LANG, ANDREW: East o’ the Sun and West o’ the Moon (_Blue Story
Book_).
LINDSAY, MAUD: Story of Gretchen.
NIXON-ROULET, MARY F.: The Sake Waterfall (_Japanese Folk
Stories_).
SLY, W. R.: The Children’s Friend, The Boy Who Lived in Church
(_World Stories Retold_).
WHITE, ELIZA O.: A Sunday Valentine (_When Molly Was Six_).
WIGGIN, K. D., and SMITH, N. A.: Little George Washington (_The
Story Hour_); Three Little Pigs (_Tales of Laughter_).
WILLISTON, TERESA P.: The Stolen Charm (_Japanese Fairy Tales_).
WILTSE, SARA: Jack and the Beanstalk (_Hero Folk of Ancient
Britain_).
_March_
ALDEN, R. M.: The Boy Who Discovered Spring (_Why the Chimes
Rang_).
ASBJØRNSEN, P. C.: Little Fred and His Fiddle (_Fairy Tales
from the Far North_).
BAILEY, C. S.: Why the Bear Sleeps All Winter (_Firelight
Stories_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Jackal and the Alligator, Little Jack
Roll-a-Round (_How to Tell Stories to Children_).
GRIMM, JACOB: The Queen Bee, The Elves and the Shoemaker
(_German Household Tales_).
HALL, I. F., and LENNOX, E. D.: Easter Lily (_Red Letter Days_).
HOLBROOK, FLORENCE: Why the Sea Is Salt (_Book of Nature
Myths_).
JACOBS, JOSEPH: The Cat and the Mouse (_English Fairy Tales_).
KIPLING, RUDYARD: The Elephant’s Child, How the Rhinoceros Got
His Skin (_Just So Stories_).
POULSSON, EMILIE: A Wise Old Horse (_In the Child World_).
The Pink Knight (_Dumpy Books for Children_).
_April_
ANDERSEN, HANS CHRISTIAN: The Wild Swans (_Wonder Stories_).
BAILEY, C. S.: The Little Old Woman Who Went to the North Wind
(_Firelight Stories_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: Why the Morning Glory Climbs, Why the
Evergreen Trees Keep Their Leaves (_How to Tell Stories to
Children_).
BRYCE, C. T.: The Little Slipper Orchid (_That’s Why Stories_).
HOLBROOK, FLORENCE: The First Humming Bird (_Book of Nature
Myths_).
JACOBS, JOSEPH: Mr. Vinegar (_English Fairy Tales_).
JOHNSON, CLIFTON: The Travels of a Fox (_Oak Tree Stories_).
LINDSAY, MAUD: The Little Gray Pony (_Mother Stories_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Loveliest Rose in the World (_Good Stories
for Great Holidays_).
SETON, ERNEST THOMPSON: Raggylug (BRYANT: _How to Tell Stories
to Children_).
_May_
ALDEN, R. M.: King’s Garden (_Why the Chimes Rang_).
ASBJØRNSEN, P. C.: Paper Tom (_The Fairy World_).
BAILEY, C. S., and LEWIS, C. M.: Hans and the Wonderful Flower,
The Legend of the Dandelion (_For the Children’s Hour_).
BLAKEWELL, E. S.: The Elder Tree Mother (_True Fairy Stories_).
BRYCE, C. T.: The Mountain Ash (_That’s Why Stories_).
JUDD, M. C.: How the Water Lily Came (_Wigwam Stories_).
KEYES, ANGELA M.: The Two Brothers (_Stories and
Story-Telling_).
LINDSAY, MAUD: The Closing Door (_Mother Stories_).
WIGGIN, K. D., and SMITH, N. A.: Pancake (_Tales of Laughter_).
A Story of the Flag (_Our Holidays Retold from St. Nicholas_).
_June_
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Little Pink Rose (_How to Tell Stories
to Children_); Another Little Red Hen, The Blackberry Bush, The
Whale and the Elephant, The Jackal and the Camel (_Stories to
Tell to Children_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: Hans, the Shepherd Boy (_Ethics for Children_).
DILLINGHAM, E. T., and EMERSON, A. P.: The First Flag of the
United States (_Tell It Again_).
HALL, I. F., and LENNOX, E. D.: Flag Day (_Red Letter Days_).
SLY, W. R.: The Boy with His Lunch (_World Stories Retold_).
SECOND GRADE
_September_
ÆSOP: The Ant and the Grasshopper (ADAMS: _Fables and Rhymes_).
ANDERSEN, H. C.: The Flax (_Wonder Tales_).
BJÖRNSON, BJÖRNSTJERNE: Oeyvind and Marit (KEYES: _Stories and
Story-Telling_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Sailor Man (_How to Tell Stories to
Children_).
GRIMM, JACOB: The Town Musicians, The Wolf and the Seven Little
Goats (_German Household Tales_).
HOLBROOK, F. E.: How Flax Was Given to Man (_Book of Nature
Myths_).
O’GRADY, ALICE: The Old Woman Who Lived in a Vinegar Bottle
(_The Story-Teller’s Book_).
SLY, W. R.: How a Happy Home Was Lost, The First Two Brothers
(_World Stories Retold_).
_October_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Wondering Jack (_Second Fairy Reader_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Cat and the Parrot (_Best Stories to
Tell to Children_).
BRYCE, C. T.: The Raven (_That’s Why Stories_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: The Squirrel’s Devotion (_Ethics for Children_).
GRIMM, JACOB: Brier Rose (_German Household Tales_).
JACOBS, JOSEPH: Tom Tit Tot (_English Fairy Tales_).
KIPLING, RUDYARD: The Cat That Walked by Himself (_Just So
Stories_).
SLY, W. R.: The Ladder That Reached to Heaven, The Slave Boy
Who Became a Prince (_World Stories Retold_).
_November_
BAILEY, C. S., and LEWIS, C. M.: The Mince Pie (_For the
Children’s Hour_).
BALDWIN, JAMES: Grumbling Peter (_Second Fairy Reader_).
BRYCE, C. T.: The Travelers and the Bear (_Fables from Afar_).
LINDSAY, MAUD: The Visit, The Turkey’s Nest (_More Mother
Stories_).
O’GRADY, ALICE: A Good Thanksgiving (_The Story-Teller’s Book_).
SCUDDER, H. E.: Diamonds and Toads (_Fables and Folk Stories_).
WIGGIN, K. D., and SMITH, N. A.: The First Thanksgiving (_The
Story Hour_).
Grandmother’s Thanksgiving, A Thanksgiving at Hollywood (_Half
a Hundred Stories_).
_December_
BRYANT, SARA CONE: Fulfilled, The Story of Jairus’ Daughter
(_How to Tell Stories to Children_).
BRYCE, C. T.: The Old Woman and the Crowbar (_Fables from
Afar_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: St. Francis of Assisi and the Wolf (_Ethics for
Children_).
HOLBROOK, FLORENCE: Why the Fox Has a White Tip on His Tail
(_Book of Nature Myths_).
O’GRADY, ALICE: Christmas Eve, Christmas Morning, The Christmas
Story, The Christmas Tree (_The Story-Teller’s Book_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: Little Wolf’s Wooden Shoes (_Good Stories for
Great Holidays_).
WIGGIN, K. D., and SMITH, N. A.: The First Christmas (_The
Story Hour_).
_January_
ASBJØRNSEN, P. C.: Little Fred and His Fiddle (_Fairy Tales
from the Far North_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Little Match Girl (_Best Stories to Tell
to Children_).
BRYCE, C. T.: Why the Cat Washes after Eating, Why Turtles Stay
near Water (_That’s Why Stories_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: The Magic Mask (_Ethics for Children_).
PIERSON, C. D.: The Lamb with the Longest Tail (_Among the
Farmyard People_).
SCUDDER, H. E.: One Eye, Two Eyes, Three Eyes (_Fables and Folk
Stories_).
SLY, W. R.: The Elephant and the Tailor, The Story without an
End, The Flood and the Rainbow (_World Stories Retold_).
_February_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Saving the Birds (Lincoln), Going to Sea
(Washington) (_Fifty Famous People_).
KIPLING, RUDYARD: How the Camel Got His Hump (_Just So
Stories_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Cherry Tree, The Apple Orchard (_Good
Stories for Great Holidays_).
PIERSON, C. D.: The Story That Swallow Didn’t Tell (_Among the
Farmyard People_).
STODDARD, JOHN L.: The Story of St. Valentine (_Lectures—South
Tyrol_).
WIGGIN, K. D., and SMITH, N. A.: Little George Washington, Big
George Washington (_The Story Hour_).
_March_
BRYANT, SARA CONE: Little Tavwots (_How to Tell Stories to
Children_).
COOKE, FLORA J.: An Indian Story of the Mole (_Nature Myths_).
HOLBROOK, FLORENCE: Why the Evergreen Trees Never Lose Their
Leaves (_A Book of Nature Myths_).
O’GRADY, ALICE: Titty Mouse and Tatty Mouse, The Sheep and
the Pig That Built a House, The Straw Ox (_The Story-Teller’s
Book_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Little Tree That Longed for Leaves (_Good
Stories for Great Holidays_).
SLY, W. R.: Why Boys Take off Their Hats in Church (_World
Stories Retold_).
_April_
ÆSOP: The Fox and the Crow, The Jay and the Peacock (ADAMS:
_Fables and Rhymes_).
BAILEY, C. S., and LEWIS, C. M.: The Red-Headed Woodpecker
(_For the Children’s Hour_).
COOKE, FLORA J.: How the Robin’s Breast Became Red (_Nature
Myths_).
LINDSAY, MAUD: Out of the Nest (_More Mother Stories_).
PIERSON, C. D.: The Wonderful, Shiny Egg (_Among the Farmyard
People_).
SCUDDER, HORACE E.: The Jackdaw and the Doves (_Fables and Folk
Stories_).
SLY, W. R.: The Woman Who Shared Her Last Loaf (_World Stories
Retold_).
_May_
ANDERSEN, H. C.: The Snowdrop, The Little Butterfly Brothers,
The Water Drop (OLCOTT: _Good Stories for Great Holidays_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: How Brother Rabbit Fooled the Whale (_Best
Stories to Tell to Children_).
COE, FANNY E.: The Story of the Anemone (_First Book of Stories
for the Story-Teller_).
HART, A. S., and STEVENS, E.: A Boy Who Won the Cross (_Romance
of the Civil War_).
HOLBROOK, FLORENCE: The Story of the First Butterflies (_Book
of Nature Myths_).
SLY, W. R.: The Prince Who Hated Spiders and Flies (_World
Stories Retold_).
_June_
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Boy and the Wolf, Another Bird Story,
Speaking a Piece (_Fifty Famous People_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: Epaminondas and His Auntie (_How to Tell
Stories to Children_).
BRYCE, C. T.: The Four-Leaf Clover (_That’s Why Stories_).
GRIMM, JACOB: The Valiant Little Tailor, Snow White and the
Seven Dwarfs (_German Household Tales_).
O’GRADY, ALICE: The Hop-About Man (_The Story-Teller’s Book_).
PARTRIDGE, E. N. and G. E.: The Story of Harriet Ann, The Fox
and the Crab, The Fairy Bird (_Story-Telling in the Home and
School_).
THIRD GRADE
_September_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Coco (_Second Fairy Reader_); Writing a
Composition (Longfellow), The Whistle (Franklin), the Ettrick
Shepherd (James Hogg) (_Fifty Famous People_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: How Little Cedric Became a Knight, The Boy Who
Wanted to Learn Climbing Alone, Hans, the Shepherd Boy (_Ethics
for Children_).
GRIMM, JACOB: The Little Flower Pot, Snow White and Rose Red
(_German Household Tales_).
HOLBROOK, FLORENCE: Why the Peacock’s Tail Has a Thousand Eyes
(_A Book of Nature Myths_).
SLY, W. R.: The Flood of Waters (_World Stories Retold_).
_October_
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Garden of Delight (_Old Stories of the
East_); The Caliph and the Poet, Becos! Becos! Becos! (_Fifty
Famous People_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Nightingale, The Burning of the Rice
Fields (_How to Tell Stories to Children_).
HARRISON, ELIZABETH: Christopher Columbus (_In Story Land_).
MILLER, MRS. H.: How the Crow Baby Was Punished (_True Bird
Stories_).
NIXON-ROULET, MARY F.: A Painter of Cats (_Japanese Folk
Stories_).
PUMPHREY, M. B.: The Jack o’ Lantern (_Pilgrim Stories_).
SCUDDER, HORACE E.: The Wolves and the Sheep (_Fables and Folk
Stories_).
The Story of Columbus (_Stepping Stones to Literature—Book 3_).
_November_
BAILEY, C. S., and LEWIS, C. M.: The Story of the First Corn,
Little Cosette (_The Children’s Hour_).
BALDWIN, JAMES: Sir Walter Raleigh (_Fifty Famous Stories
Retold_); A Lesson in Humility (Haroun-al-Raschid), Another
World Story (Israel Putnam), The Horseshoe Nails (_Fifty Famous
People_).
HOLBROOK, FLORENCE: How Fire Was Brought to the Indians (_Book
of Nature Myths_).
JORDAN, DAVID STARR: How the Flounder’s Mouth Got Twisted (_The
Book of Knight and Barbara_).
MACMANUS, SEUMAS: The Long Leather Bag (_Donegal Fairy Book_).
NIXON-ROULET, M. F.: The Goddess of Growing Things (_Japanese
Folk Stories_).
PUMPHREY, M. B.: The First Thanksgiving (_Pilgrim Stories_).
SCHAUFFLER, R. H.: Grandma’s Thanksgiving Story (_Book of
Thanksgiving_).
WIGGIN, K. D., and SMITH, N. A.: The First Thanksgiving Day
(_The Story Hour_).
_December_
ALDEN, R. M.: In the Great Walled Country (_Why the Chimes
Rang_).
BALDWIN, JAMES: Bruce and the Spider (_Fifty Famous Stories
Retold_); The Landlord’s Mistake (_Fifty Famous People_).
DICKINSON, A. D., and SKINNER, A. M.: A Little Girl’s Christmas
(_Children’s Book of Christmas Stories_).
HEBER, ELIZABETH: A Christmas Story, The First Christmas Tree
(_A Child’s Story Garden_).
JACOBS, JOSEPH: Cap o’ Rushes (_English Fairy Tales_).
JORDAN, DAVID STARR: The Boy That Whacked the Witched Toad
Stools (_The Book of Knight and Barbara_).
LINDSAY, MAUD: The Christmas Cake (_More Mother Stories_).
PARTRIDGE, E. N. and G. E.: Little Paulina’s Christmas
(_Story-Telling in the Home and School_).
Little Gretchen and the Wooden Shoe (_Storytellers’ Magazine_,
December, 1914).
The Christmas Visitor (_Storytellers’ Magazine_, December,
1913).
_January_
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Shepherd Boy Painter, Two Great Painters,
The King and the Bees, Our First Great Painter (_Fifty Famous
People_); Peter Woodland (_American Book of Golden Deeds_); The
Two Brothers (_Old Stories of the East_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: The Quails (_Ethics for Children_).
FARMER, J. F. V.: How Jean Found the Calf (_Boy and Girl
Heroes_).
GRIMM, JACOB: Old Sultan (_German Household Tales_).
HOLBROOK, FLORENCE: The Story of the First Moles (_A Book of
Nature Myths_).
PERRAULT, CHARLES: Beauty and the Beast (_Fairy Tales_).
SCUDDER, H. E.: The Stag at Stake (_Fables and Folk Stories_).
_February_
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Young Scout, The Lad Who Rode Sidesaddle
(_Fifty Famous People_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Jackal and the Camel (_How to Tell
Stories to Children_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: Lincoln’s Unvarying Kindness (_Ethics for
Children_).
DAVIS, M. H., and CHOW-LEUNG: The Eagle and the Rice Birds
(_Chinese Fables and Folk Stories_).
HARRIS, J. C.: How Brer Bear’s Hair was Combed (_Little Mr.
Thimblefinger_).
HOLBROOK, FLORENCE: The Lantern and the Fan (_A Book of Nature
Myths_).
JACOBS, JOSEPH: Jack and the Golden Snuff Box (_English Fairy
Tales_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: George Washington and the Colt (_Good Stories
for Great Holidays_).
SCUDDER, HORACE E.: The Fair One with the Golden Locks (_The
Children’s Book_); The Four Bulls and the Lion (_Fables and
Folk Stories_); An Old Man and His Sons (_Fables and Folk
Stories_).
WILSON: The Virginia Boy (_Nature Study—Book 2_).
_March_
ANDERSEN, H. C.: The Loveliest Rose in the World (_Good Stories
for Great Holidays_).
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Whisperers, How a Prince Learned to Read,
Read and You Will Know, The Young Cupbearer (_Fifty Famous
People_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: The Broken Flower Pot (_Ethics for Children_).
HARRIS, J. C.: The Grandmother of the Dolls (_Little Mr.
Thimblefinger_).
HEBER, ELIZABETH: The Song of the Pine Tree (_A Child’s Story
Garden_).
JORDAN, DAVID STARR: Why the Parrot Was so Strong (_The Book of
Knight and Barbara_).
MILLER, MRS. H.: My First Bird (_True Bird Stories_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: A Lesson of Faith (_Good Stories for Great
Holidays_).
SLY, W. R.: The Generous Uncle and the Selfish Nephew (_World
Stories Retold_).
STEVENSON, MRS. E. S.: The White Hare (_Days and Deeds_).
WIGGIN, K. D., and SMITH, N. A.: The Emperor’s Bird’s Nest
(_The Fairy Ring_).
_April_
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Sons of the Caliph, The Boy and the Robbers
(_Fifty Famous People_); The Bell of Atri (_Fifty Famous
Stories Retold_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Tailor and the Three Beasts (_Stories to
Tell to Children_).
COWLES, J. D.: The Queen’s Necklace (_The Art of
Story-Telling_).
DAVIS, M. H., and CHOW-LEUNG: The Mule and the Lion, The Fish
and the Flowers (_Chinese Fables and Folk Stories_).
FARMER, J. F. V.: A Brave Russian Girl (_Boy and Girl Heroes_).
LYMAN, EDNA: The Princess Moonbeam, The Boastful Bamboo, The
Mirror of Matsuyama (_Story-Telling: What to Tell and How to
Tell It_).
MILLER, MRS. H.: Doctor Dot, How the Dog Interfered (_True Bird
Stories_).
_May_
BALDWIN, JAMES: A Clever Slave, The Story of a Great Story,
The King and the Page, Why He Carried the Turkey, The Caliph
and the Gardener, Saved by a Dolphin, The General and the Fox
(_Fifty Famous People_).
DAVIS, M. H., and CHOW-LEUNG: The Wind, the Clouds, and the
Snow (_Chinese Fables and Folk Stories_).
JUDD, M. C.: The Legend of the Arbutus (_Wigwam Stories_).
JUDSON, K. B.: The Miser of Takhoma (_Myths and Legends of the
Pacific Northwest_).
LYMAN, EDNA: The White Hare and the Crocodiles, The Tongue-Cut
Sparrow (_Story-Telling: What to Tell and How to Tell It_).
NIXON-ROULET, MARY F.: Princess Moonbeam (_Japanese Folk
Stories_).
SCUDDER, HORACE E.: Clever Alice (_Fables and Folk Stories_).
SLY, W. R.: The Shepherd Boy Who Slew a Giant (_World Stories
Retold_).
_June_
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Cowherd Who Became a Poet, The Lover of
Men, The Charcoal Man and the King (_Fifty Famous People_).
BLUMENTHAL, VERRA X. K. DE: The Tsarevna Frog, Seven Simeons,
The Language of Birds (_Folk Tales from the Russian_).
ENGLISH, THOMAS: The Ax of Ranier, The Black Cat (_Fairy
Stories and Wonder Tales_).
GRIMM, JACOB: The Three Little Men in the Wood, The Three
Languages, The Little Farmer (_German Household Tales_).
NIXON-ROULET, M. F.: The Boastful Bamboo (_Japanese Folk
Stories_).
POULSSON, EMILIE: Knut Spelevink, The Princess Lindagull, Sikku
and the Trolls, Sampo Lappelil (_Top of the World Series_).
FOURTH GRADE
_September_
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Great Chief (_Old Stories of the East_);
The Charcoal Man and the King (_Fifty Famous People_).
BROWN, A. L., and BELL, J. M.: Why the White Bear Lives Alone
(_Tales of the Red Children_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Castle of Fortune (_Stories to Tell to
Children_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: The Two Travelers (_Ethics for Children_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: Pan and His Pipes (_Pan and His Pipes
and Other Stories_).
GRIMM, JACOB: Six Soldiers of Fortune, The Little House in the
Wood, The Three Trades (_German Household Tales_).
LANG, ANDREW: The Fisherman and His Wife (_Green Fairy Book_).
RAMASWAMI, RAJU: The Hammer and the Anvil (_Indian Fables_).
DE LA RAMÉE, L.: The Nürnberg Stove (WIGGIN and SMITH: _The
Story Hour_).
_October_
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Master of the Nile (_Old Stories of the
East_); Partners (_American Book of Golden Deeds_); Which Was
King? (_Fifty Famous People_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: Why the Water in Rivers Is Never Still (_How
to Tell Stories to Children_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: The Jack o’ Lantern (_Ethics for Children_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: The Tortoise That Gave the World
Music (_Pan and His Pipes and Other Stories_).
HARRIS, J. C.: The Witch of the Well (_Little Mr.
Thimblefinger_).
JACOBS, JOSEPH: Mr. Fox (_English Fairy Tales_).
LANG, ANDREW: The Story of Caliph Stork (_Green Fairy Book_).
MABIE, H. W.: The Badger’s Money (_Folk Tales Every Child
Should Know_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: Shippeitaro, Burg’s Hill’s on Fire, The King of
Cats (_Good Stories for Great Holidays_).
_November_
ALDEN, R. M.: The Knights of the Silver Shield (_Why the Chimes
Rang_).
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Golden Tripod (_Fifty Famous People_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: The Holy Bird (_Story of Music in
China—Pan and His Pipes and Other Stories_).
DAUDET, ALPHONSE: The Last Lesson (_How to Tell Stories to
Children_).
HARRIS, J. C.: Brer Terrapin’s Fiddle String (_Little Mr.
Thimblefinger_).
HOWELLS, W. D.: Turkeys Turning the Tables (_Christmas Every
Day_).
JUDD, M. C.: The Marriage of Mondahmin (_Wigwam Stories_).
LANG, ANDREW: Rosanella (_Green Fairy Book_).
MACMANUS, SEUMAS: Manis, the Miller (_Donegal Fairy Tales_).
SCHAUFFLER, R. H. (Ed.): The First Thanksgiving Day in New
England, Jericho Bob, Ann Mary’s Two Thanksgivings, Polly’s
Thanksgiving (_Thanksgiving_).
SLY, W. R.: The Little Lame Prince (_World Stories Retold_).
ZITKALA-SA: The Badger and the Bear (_Old Indian Legends_).
_December_
ANDERSEN, H. C.: The Little Match Girl (_Fairy Tales_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: Fulfilled (_How to Tell Stories to
Children_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: A Star and a Song, The Harp King
Alfred Played (_Pan and His Pipes and Other Stories_).
COOLIDGE: Little Roger’s Night in Church (SCHAUFFLER:
_Christmas_).
DAVIS, M. H., and CHOW-LEUNG: The Proud Fox and the Crab, How
the Moon Became Beautiful (_Chinese Fables and Folk Stories_).
DICKENS, CHARLES: The Christmas Goose at the Cratchits’
(SCHAUFFLER: _Christmas_).
DODGE, M. M.: The Festival of St. Nicholas (SCHAUFFLER:
_Christmas_).
MILLER, MRS. H.: Christmas in a Baggage Car, Lottie’s Christmas
Tree (_Kristy’s Rainy Day Picnics_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Christmas Cuckoo (_Good Stories for Great
Holidays_).
POULSSON, EMILIE: A Legend of Mercy (_Top of the World Series_).
STEIN, EVALEEN: Felix (_Troubadour Tales_).
_January_
CABOT, ELLA L., The Good Bishop, The Banyan Deer (_Ethics for
Children_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: Stephen, the Child Crusader (_Pan and
His Pipes and Other Stories_).
COWLES, J. D.: Robin Hood and Sir Richard at Lee, King Midas’
Ears (_The Art of Story-Telling_).
DAVIS, M. H., and CHOW-LEUNG: The Melon and the Professor
(_Chinese Fables and Folk Stories_).
FARMER, J. F. V.: Roland and the Jewel, David, the Brave
Shepherd Boy (_Boy and Girl Heroes_).
JUDD, M. C.: The Face of Manitou on the Rock (_Wigwam Stories_).
MACMANUS, SEUMAS: Conal, Donal, and Taig (_Donegal Fairy
Tales_).
PARTRIDGE, E. N. and G. E.: The Judgment Seat of Vikramaditya
(_Story-Telling in the Home and School_).
POULSSON, EMILIE: The Testing of the Two Knights (_Top of the
World Stories_).
_February_
BROWN, A. L., and BELL, J. M.: The Cleft Mountain (_Tales of
the Red Children_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: A Soldier’s Pardon, The Sympathy of Abraham
Lincoln (_Ethics for Children_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: When Knighthood Was in Flower (_Pan
and His Pipes and Other Stories_).
DAVIS, M. H., and CHOW-LEUNG: The Children and the Dog
(_Chinese Fables and Folk Stories_).
FARMER, J. F. V.: At the Ford of the Tribute (_Boy and Girl
Heroes_).
GRIMM, JACOB: Jorinda and Joringel (_German Household Tales_).
LANG, ANDREW: The War Horse of Alexander (_The Animal Story
Book_).
MOORE, CHARLES W.: A Backwoods Boyhood (_Abraham Lincoln_).
POULSSON, EMILIE: The Forest Witch (_Top of the World Stories_).
TAPPAN, EVA M.: Dolly Madison (_American Hero Stories_); How
Cats Came to Purr (_Cat Stories Retold from St. Nicholas_).
_March_
BOYESEN, H. H.: Thorwald and the Star Children (_Modern
Vikings_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Dagada’s Harp (_Stories to Tell to
Children_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: The Violin Makers of Cremona (_Pan
and His Pipes and Other Stories_).
FARMER, J. F. V.: Noel Duval, How a Boy Saved a Queen, The
Sword of King Arthur (_Boy and Girl Heroes_).
KOROLENKO, Z.: Hot Cross Buns (_The Book of Easter_).
PARTRIDGE, E. N. and G. E.: Glooscap and the Great Wind Bird
(_Story-Telling in the Home and School_).
RAMASWAMI RAJU: The Workman and the Trees (_Indian Fables_).
SLY, W. R.: Grace Darling, The Slave Girl Who Helped a Great
Captain (_World Stories Retold_).
_April_
BLUMENTHAL, VERRA X. K. DE: Ivanoushka the Simpleton, Woe
Bogotir, Baba Yaga, Dimian the Peasant, The Golden Mountain
(_Folk Tales from the Russian_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: The Songs of Hiawatha (_Pan and His
Pipes and Other Stories_).
FARMER, J. F. V.: The Young Hannibal (_Boy and Girl Heroes_).
LANG, ANDREW: Cowper’s Hares (_The Animal Story Book_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Boy Who Became a Robin, The Quails, The
Greedy Geese (_Good Stories for Great Holidays_).
PARTRIDGE, E. N. and G. E.: The Ride of Paul Revere
(_Story-Telling in the Home and School_).
_May_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Androclus and the Lion (_Fifty Famous Stories
Retold_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: The Holy Grail (_Pan and His Pipes
and Other Stories_).
COWLES, J. D.: The Coming of Arthur (_The Art of
Story-Telling_).
DAVIS, M. H., and CHOW-LEUNG: The Thief and the Elephant,
The Hen and the Mountain Turtle (_Chinese Fables and Folk
Stories_).
HARRISON, ELIZABETH: The Story of Decoration Day (_In Story
Land_).
HOLBROOK, FLORENCE: The Story of the First Mocking Bird (_Book
of Nature Myths_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Wonder Tree, The Blue Jay (_Good Stories for
Great Holidays_).
STEVENSON, MRS. E. S.: The Origin of Memorial Day (_Days and
Deeds_).
A Rat Tale (_Cat Stories Retold from St. Nicholas_).
_June_
BROWN, A. J., and BELL, J. M.: The Story of Ithenhiels (_Tales
of the Red Children_).
FARMER, J. F. V.: Betty Lane (_Boy and Girl Heroes_).
PRICE, L. L.: The Legs of Duncan Ketcham (_Lads and Lassies of
Other Days_).
SLY, W. R.: The Emperor and the Goose Boy, Betsy Ross and
the Flag, How America was Named, The Fairy Godfather of the
Orchards (_World Stories Retold_).
TAPPAN, E. M.: The Star-Spangled Banner, A Flag Incident,
General Scott and the Stars and Stripes (_Good Stories for
Great Holidays_).
FIFTH GRADE
_September_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Ezekiel and Daniel (_American Book of Golden
Deeds_); The Forging of Balmung (_Hero Tales_).
BROWN, ABBIE F.: The Dwarf Giants (_In the Days of Giants_).
EASTMAN, C. A. and E.: The Buffalo and the Field Mouse (_Smoky
Day’s Wigwam Evenings_).
HARRIS, J. C.: Mr. Fox and Miss Goose (_Nights with Uncle
Remus_).
JACOBS, JOSEPH: Master of All Masters (_English Fairy Tales_).
JUDD, M. C.: Wampum, or Indian Money (_Wigwam Stories_).
KINGSLEY, CHARLES: How They Built the Good Ship Argo in Icolos
(_Greek Heroes_).
KIPLING, RUDYARD: Mowgli’s Brothers (_Jungle Book_).
Bessie’s Escape (_Panther Stories Retold from St. Nicholas_).
_October_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Columbus and the Egg (_Thirty More Famous
Stories_); The Tombs Angel (_American Book of Golden Deeds_).
EASTMAN, C. A. and E.: The Frogs and the Crane (_Smoky Day’s
Wigwam Evenings_).
HIGGINSON, T. W.: How Diego Mendez Got Food for Columbus
(_American Explorers_).
IRVING, WASHINGTON: Columbus at La Rabida (OLCOTT: _Good
Stories for Great Holidays_).
JACOBS, JOSEPH: The Field Boliauns (_Celtic Fairy Tales_).
KIPLING, RUDYARD: Kaa’s Hunting (_Jungle Book_).
LAMARTINE, DE: The Mutiny (OLCOTT: _Good Stories for Great
Holidays_).
MILLER, JOAQUIN: A Bear on Fire (_True Bear Stories_).
MOORE, CHARLES W.: Guanahani (_Christopher Columbus_).
Bertholde (_Stories of the Middle Ages Retold from St.
Nicholas_).
_November_
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Red Cross (_American Book of Golden Deeds_).
GRIMM, JACOB: The Robber Bridegroom, The Youth Who Could Not
Shiver nor Shake (_German Household Tales_).
KIPLING, RUDYARD: How Fear Came (_First Jungle Book_).
PUMPHREY, M. B.: The Indians and the Jack o’ Lantern, The Sword
of Miles Standish, The Voyage of the Mayflower, Water Babies
(_Pilgrim Stories_).
PYLE, HOWARD: How Robin Hood Became an Outlaw (_Some Merry
Adventures of Robin Hood_).
WARNER, C. D.: The Coming of Thanksgiving (_Being a Boy_).
An Old-Time Thanksgiving (_Indian Stories Retold from St.
Nicholas_).
The Story of the Sphinx (_Stories of the Ancient World Retold
from St. Nicholas_).
_December_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Damon and Pythias (_Fifty Famous Stories
Retold_).
KIPLING, RUDYARD: The Red Flower (_Jungle Book_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Thunder Oak (_Good Stories for Great
Holidays_).
PYLE, HOWARD: Robin Hood’s Adventure with the Tinker, The
Sheriff’s Shooting Match (_Some Merry Adventures of Robin
Hood_).
STEIN, EVALEEN: Felix (_Troubadour Tales_).
STOCKTON, FRANK R.: Christmas before Last (_The Bee Man of
Orn_).
WALSH, K.: St. Nicholas and the Robbers (_The Story of Santa
Claus_).
WILDE, OSCAR: The Star-Child (_The Happy Prince_).
How Uncle Sam Observes Christmas (_Our Holidays Retold from St.
Nicholas_).
The First Christmas Tree in New England (_Colonial Stories
Retold from St. Nicholas_).
_January_
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Bootblack from Ann Street (_American Book
of Golden Deeds_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: The Red Thread of Courage (_How to Tell
Stories_).
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: The Persian and His Three Sons (_Ethics for
Children_).
HARRIS, J. C.: Brer Fox Catches Brer Rabbit (_Nights with Uncle
Remus_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: The Boys of Devon (_Historic Boyhoods_).
KIPLING, RUDYARD: Tiger! Tiger! (_The Jungle Book_).
MILLER, JOAQUIN: Music-Loving Bears (_True Bear Stories_).
PYLE, HOWARD: Robin Hood Saves Will Sutley’s Life, The
Sheriff’s Visit to Robin Hood (_Some Merry Adventures of Robin
Hood_).
The Boyhood of Michelangelo (_Stories of the Middle Ages Retold
from St. Nicholas_).
_February_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Following the Surveyor’s Chain (_Fifty Famous
People_); The Great Law-Giver (_Old Stories of the East_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: David and Goliath (_Stories to Tell to
Children_).
KIPLING, RUDYARD: Letting in the Jungle (_Second Jungle Book_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: Young George Washington and the Colt (_Good
Stories for Great Holidays_).
SCHAUFFLER, R. H.: Choosing Abe Lincoln Captain (_Lincoln’s
Birthday_).
TOMLINSON, EVERETT: How George Washington Was Made Commander in
Chief (_The War for Independence_).
A New Leaf from Washington’s Boy Life (_Colonial Stories Retold
from St. Nicholas_).
How Moses Was Emancipated (_Civil War Stories Retold from St.
Nicholas_).
_March_
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Story of Regulus (_Fifty Famous Stories
Retold_).
BRYANT, SARA CONE: Tarpeia (_How to Tell Stories to Children_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: When Mozart Raced with Marie
Antoinette (_Boyhood Stories_).
EASTMAN, C. A. and E.: The Falcon and the Duck (_Smoky Day’s
Wigwam Evenings_).
HARRIS, J. C.: How Brer Fox Was Too Smart (_Nights with Uncle
Remus_).
KIPLING, RUDYARD: Red Dog (_Second Jungle Book_).
PYLE, HOWARD: Robin Hood and His Men before Queen Eleanor
(_Some Merry Adventures of Robin Hood_).
SCHMIDT, CANON: The Easter Eggs.
The Fire Cat (_Panther Stories Retold from St. Nicholas_).
The General’s Easter Box (_Our Holidays Retold from St.
Nicholas_).
_April_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Ogier the Dane (_The Story of Roland_); Grace
Darling, Alfred the Great (_Fifty Famous Stories Retold_).
BOLTON, S. K.: Garibaldi (_Lives of Poor Boys Who Became
Famous_).
HARRIS, J. C.: Brer Rabbit’s Astonishing Prank (_Nights with
Uncle Remus_).
JACOBS, JOSEPH: Hudden and Dudden and Donald O’Neary (_Celtic
Fairy Tales_).
KIPLING, RUDYARD: The Spring Running (_Second Jungle Book_).
PYLE, HOWARD: Robin Hood and Guy of Gisbourne (_Some Merry
Adventures of Robin Hood_).
SETON, ERNEST THOMPSON: Monarch, the Big Bear of Tallac.
STOCKTON, FRANK R.: Old Pipes and the Dryad (LYMAN:
_Story-Telling, What to Tell and How to Tell It_).
_May_
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Man Whose Eye Was Open (_Old Stories of the
East_); La Salle (_The Discovery of the Old Northwest_); Ogier
and Roland Knighted, How Ogier Won Sword and Horse, A Roland
for an Oliver (_The Story of Roland_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: How a Boy Saved Lucerne, The Duty
That Wasn’t Paid.
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Legend of the Spring Beauty, The Fairy
Tulips, Two Hero Stories of the Civil War (_Good Stories for
Great Holidays_).
PYLE, HOWARD: The Death of Robin Hood (_Some Merry Adventures
of Robin Hood_).
_June_
BALDWIN, JAMES: How Ogier Refused a Kingdom (_The Story of
Roland_); William Tell (_Fifty Famous Stories Retold_); The
Heroine of Fort Henry (_American Book of Golden Deeds_).
BROOKS, E. S.: William the Conqueror (_Historic Boys_).
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: Margaret of New Orleans (_Ethics for
Children_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: The Luck Boat of Lake Geneva.
OLCOTT, F. J.: General Scott and the Stars and Stripes (_Good
Stories for Great Holidays_).
SLY, W. J.: Betsy Ross and the Flag (_World Stories Retold_).
SIXTH GRADE
_September_
BROWN, ABBIE F.: The Giant Builder (_In the Days of Giants_).
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: David and Jonathan (_Ethics for Children_).
JUDD, M. C.: The Legend of Niagara Falls (_Wigwam Stories_).
KIPLING, RUDYARD: Weland’s Sword (_Puck of Pook’s Hill_).
LANG, JEANIE: The Story of General Gordon.
OLCOTT, F. J.: Bill Brown’s Test, The Speaking Statue, The
Champion Stone Cutter (_Good Stories for Great Holidays_).
RAGOZIN, Z. A.: Beowulf Comes to Daneland (_Siegfried and
Beowulf_).
RHEAD, J. S.: The Story of the Fisherman (_Arabian Nights_).
TOLSTOÏ, LEO: Truth is Mighty and Will Prevail (CABOT: _Ethics
for Children_).
_October_
GRIMM, JACOB: The Godfather (_German Household Tales_).
HARRIS, J. C.: Brer Rabbit Takes Exercise (_Nights with Uncle
Remus_).
HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL: Pandora (_Wonder-Book_).
IRVING, WASHINGTON: The Discovery of Land (_Life of Christopher
Columbus_).
PERRY, E. L., and BEEBE, KATHERINE: George Rogers Clark (_Four
American Pioneers_).
RAGOZIN, Z. A.: The Combat with Grendel (_Siegfried and
Beowulf_).
RHEAD, J. S.: Abou Mohammed the Lazy (_Arabian Nights_).
TOLSTOÏ, LEO: Where Love Is, There God Is Also (CABOT: _Ethics
for Children_).
All Hallow Eve Myths (_Our Holidays Retold from St. Nicholas_).
For additional Columbus Day material see “The Son of Columbus”
by Mollie Elliot Seawell.
_November_
BRADLEY, WILL: Hans the Wise, Nip and Tuck (_The Wonder Box_).
BROWN, ABBIE F.: The Magic Apples (_In the Days of Giants_).
HARRIS, J. C.: Brer Wolf Says Grace (_Nights with Uncle
Remus_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Ears of Wheat, How Indian Corn Came into the
World (_Good Stories for Great Holidays_).
PUMPHREY, M. B.: Samoset, The Treaty of Peace, The Little
Captives (_Pilgrim Stories_).
RAGOZIN, Z. A.: Grendel Avenged, Beowulf Returns to His Own
Land (_Siegfried and Beowulf_).
RHEAD, J. S.: Abou Hassan the Wag (_Arabian Nights_).
_December_
DICKENS, CHARLES: Christmas at Fezziwig’s Warehouse
(SCHAUFFLER: _Christmas_).
DYER, WALTER: The Baby Camel That Walked to Jesus.
LAGERLÖF, SELMA: The Holy Night (_Christ Legends_).
PUMPHREY, M. B.: The Christmas Candle (_Pilgrim Stories_).
RAGOZIN, Z. A.: Beowulf’s Victory and Death (_Siegfried and
Beowulf_).
RICE, ALICE HEGAN: Betty’s Best Christmas (_St. Nicholas_,
December, 1916).
SKINNER, CHARLES M.: The Legend of the Mountain Ash (_Myths of
Plants, Trees, and Flowers_).
TOLSTOÏ, LEO: Evil Allures but Good Endures (CABOT: _Ethics for
Children_).
WALSH, K.: St. Nicholas and the Slave Boy (_The Story of Santa
Claus_).
_January_
BRADLEY, WILL: Snip and Stitch (_The Wonder Box_).
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: A Lesson for Kings (_Ethics for Children_).
EGGLESTON, EDWARD: The Troublesome Burglars (_Strange Stories
from History_).
JUDD, M. C.: How Indians Came to Know Medicine Plants (_Wigwam
Stories_).
MACLEOD, R.: A Great Feast and a Great Battle, The Marriage of
Guinevere and Arthur and the Founding of the Round Table (_King
Arthur and His Noble Knights_).
SLY, W. R.: The Golden Scepter in the Palace of the Lily
(_World Stories Retold_).
STEVENSON, MRS. E. S.: A New Year’s Talk (_Days and Deeds_).
STONE, G. L.: The Legend of the Oak (_Trees in Prose and
Poetry_).
A Chinese New Year in California (_Our Holidays Retold from St.
Nicholas_).
A Spanish Tale (_Fairy Stories Retold from St. Nicholas_).
_February_
BROOKS, E. S.: The Clary Grove Boys (_Abraham Lincoln_).
EGGLESTON, EDWARD: Young Washington in the Woods, How a
Scullion Became a Sculptor (_Strange Stories from History_).
GALLAGHER, J. E.: Lincoln’s Good Memory of Names (_Best Lincoln
Stories_).
MACLEOD, R.: King Arthur and Sir Accalon, How King Arthur
Fought with a Giant (_King Arthur and His Noble Knights_).
MOORE, CHARLES W.: Lincoln and the Unjust Client (_Abraham
Lincoln_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: Washington at Yorktown (_Good Stories for Great
Holidays_).
_March_
BALDWIN, JAMES: King Richard and Blondel (_Thirty More Famous
Stories_).
BRADLEY, WILL: The Master Makes a Bargain (_The Wonder Box_).
EGGLESTON, EDWARD: The Prince Who Could Not Stay Dead (_Strange
Stories from History_).
HAUFF, WILHELM: The Peddler and the Powder (_Caravan Tales_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: Daniel Boone (_Historic Boyhoods_).
MACLEOD, R.: Sir Brune, Sir Ivaine (_King Arthur and His Noble
Knights_).
MARDEN, O. S.: How the Children Saved Hamburg (_Winning Out_).
PRICE, L. L.: Abraham and Isaac (_Wandering Heroes_).
_April_
BALDWIN, JAMES: As Rich as Crœsus (_Thirty More Famous
Stories_).
BROWN, ABBIE F.: Saint Kentigern and the Robin (_Book of Saints
and Friendly Beasts_).
DICKENS, CHARLES: A Child’s Dream of a Star (OLCOTT: _Good
Stories for Great Holidays_).
EGGLESTON, EDWARD: The Story of Catherine (_Strange Stories
from History_).
HAUFF, WILHELM: The Mystic Word (_Caravan Tales_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: Lafayette, the Boy of Versailles (_Historic
Boyhoods_).
MACLEOD, R.: Sir Balin, Sir Gareth the Kitchen Boy (_King
Arthur and His Noble Knights_).
PRICE, L. L.: Joseph (_Wandering Heroes_).
_May_
ANDERSEN, H. C.: The Daisy (_Wonder Stories Told to Children_).
EGGLESTON, EDWARD: The Sad Story of a Boy King (_Strange
Stories from History_).
GILBERT, ARIADNE: Beloved of Men and Dogs (_More than
Conquerors_).
HAUFF, WILHELM: The Captive Owl (_Caravan Tales_).
HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL: The Pomegranate Seeds (_Tanglewood
Tales_).
MACLEOD, R.: Sir Launcelot and His Friends, Sir Tristram,
How Sir Tristram Came to Camelot (_King Arthur and His Noble
Knights_).
STEVENSON, MRS. E. S.: The Origin of Memorial Day (_Days and
Deeds_).
_June_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Webster and the Woodchuck (_Thirty More Famous
Stories_); Cornelia’s Jewels (_Fifty Famous Stories_).
HAUFF, WILHELM: The Hall of Sorcerers (_Caravan Tales_).
JORDAN, DAVID STARR: The Story of a Salmon.
JUDSON, KATHARINE B.: Why the Sierra Nevada is Higher than the
Coast Range (_Myths of California and the Old Southwest_).
MACLEOD, R.: The Quest of the Holy Grail, The Death of King
Arthur (_King Arthur and His Noble Knights_).
PRICE, L. L.: Moses (_Wandering Heroes_).
SEVENTH GRADE
_September_
AUSTIN, MARY: The Basket Woman.
BRADISH, SARAH P.: Sigmund Wins the Sword (_Old Norse Stories_).
BROWN, ABBIE F.: St. Bridget and the King’s Wolf (_Book of
Saints and Friendly Beasts_).
CABOT, ELLA LYMAN: The Risks of a Fireman’s Life (_Ethics for
Children_).
MARDEN, O. S.: The Blacksmith’s Boy (_Winning Out_).
PRICE, L. L.: Prince Siddârtha (_Wandering Heroes_).
RHEAD, J. S.: The Voyages of Sindbad the Sailor (_Arabian
Nights_).
STEVENSON, MRS. E. S.: History of Labor Day (_Days and Deeds_).
WARMAN, CY: Jack Farley’s Flying Switch (_Short Rails_).
_October_
BRADISH, SARAH P.: Sigmund and Sinfiotli, The Death of Sigmund
(_Old Norse Heroes_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: Peter the Great, the Boy of the Kremlin
(_Historic Boyhoods_).
MOORE, CHARLES W.: In Search of the Grand Khan, The Garden of
Eden (_Christopher Columbus_).
PRICE, L. L.: The First Battle of Cyrus the Great (_Wandering
Heroes_).
RHEAD, J. S.: Coga Hassan (_Arabian Nights_).
STEVENSON, R. L.: Black Andie’s Tale of Tod Lapraik (_David
Balfour_).
STEVENSON, MRS. E. S.: The History of Hallowe’en.
_November_
ABBOTT, J. S. C.: The Humanity and Self-Denial of Miles
Standish. The Visit of Samoset (_Miles Standish_).
BALDWIN, JAMES: John Gutenberg and the Voices, The First
Printer (_Thirty More Famous Stories_).
BRADISH, SARAH P.: Regin’s Story, Forging the Sword (_Old Norse
Heroes_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: Jacopo, the Little Dyer (_Boyhood
Stories of Famous Men_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: Frederick the Great, the Boy of Potsdam
(_Historic Boyhoods_).
PRICE, L. L.: The Khan of the Silver Crown (_Wandering Heroes_).
_December_
AUSTIN, MARY: The Christmas Tree (_The Basket Woman_).
BRADISH, SARAH P.: Brynhild (_Old Norse Heroes_).
LAGERLÖF, SELMA: The Wise Men’s Well (_Christ Legends_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Three Kings of Cologne (_Good Stories for
Great Holidays_).
RHEAD, J. S.: Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp (_Arabian Nights_).
RICHARDS, LAURA E.: Tomorrow (_The Golden Windows_).
WALSH, K.: St. Nicholas and the Three Purses (_The Story of
Santa Claus_).
WIGGIN, K. D.: The Ruggles’ Christmas Dinner (_The Birds’
Christmas Carol_).
_January_
BALDWIN, JAMES: King John and Prince Arthur (_Thirty More
Famous Stories_).
BOUTET DE MONVEL, L. M.: The Story of Joan of Arc (_Joan of
Arc_).
BRADISH, SARAH P.: Sigurd and the Niblungs, The Wooing of
Brynhild, The Death of Sigurd (_Old Norse Stories_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: John Paul Jones, the Boy of the Atlantic
(_Historic Boyhoods_).
LAGERLÖF, SELMA: The Animals’ New Year’s Eve (_The Further
Adventures of Nils_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Twelve Months (_Good Stories for Great
Holidays_).
PRICE, L. L.: Clovis the Frank (_Wandering Heroes_).
RHEAD, J. S.: Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves (_Arabian Nights_).
_February_
BALDWIN, JAMES: King John and the Magna Charta (_Thirty More
Famous Stories_).
DRAKE, S. A.: The Washington Elm (_New England Legends_).
GILBERT, ARIADNE: The Matterhorn of Men (_More than
Conquerors_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: Mozart the Boy of Salzburg, George Washington
the Boy of the Old Dominion (_Historic Boyhoods_).
LODGE, HENRY CABOT: He Resigns His Commission (_George
Washington_, Vol. I, page 338).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Courage of His Convictions (_Good Stories
for Great Holidays_).
PRICE, L. L.: The Dwarf of Attila the Hun (_Wandering Heroes_).
SCHAUFFLER, R. H.: Anecdotes and Stories (_Washington’s
Birthday_).
TAPPAN, EVA M.: A Winter at Valley Forge (_American Hero
Stories_).
WHIPPLE, WAYNE: Lincoln’s First Dollar, A Feat of Mercy and
Strength (_The Story Life of Lincoln_).
_March_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Frederick Barbarossa (_Thirty More Famous
Stories_).
BROWN, ABBIE F.: Saint Wartburg and Her Goose (_Book of Saints
and Friendly Beasts_).
GILBERT, ARIADNE: Beethoven, the Deaf Musician (_More than
Conquerors_).
HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL: The Liberty Tree (_Grandfather’s Chair_).
JACOBS, JOSEPH: The Dream of Owen Mulready (_More Celtic Fairy
Tales_).
PRICE, L. L.: The Saga of the Land of Grapes (_Wandering
Heroes_).
STEVENSON, MRS. E. S.: What Easter Is (_Days and Deeds_).
WIGGIN, K. D., and SMITH, NORA A.: The Lion, the Fox, and the
Story-Teller (_Talking Beast Fables from India_).
_April_
AUSTIN, MARY: The Merry-go-Round (_The Basket Woman_).
BALDWIN, JAMES: The Man in the Iron Mask (_Thirty More Famous
Stories_).
BROWN, ABBIE F.: Gerasimus and the Lion (_Book of Saints and
Friendly Beasts_).
BURROUGHS, JOHN: The Downy Woodpecker (_Bird Stories_).
HARRIS, J. C.: Why the Hawk Catches Chickens (_Uncle Remus and
His Friends_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: Horatio Nelson, the Boy of the Channel Fleet
(_Historic Boyhoods_).
JACOBS, JOSEPH: Jack, the Cunning Thief (_More Celtic Fairy
Tales_).
KOROLENKO, Z.: The Procession of Passion Week in Seville (_The
Book of Easter_).
PRICE, L. L.: Godwin and Knut (_Wandering Heroes_).
SETON, ERNEST THOMPSON: Arnaux, the Chronicle of a Homing
Pigeon (_Animal Heroes_).
_May_
AUSTIN, MARY: The Coyote Spirit and the Weaving Woman (_The
Basket Woman_).
BALDWIN, JAMES; Hannibal, the Boy of Carthage (_Thirty More
Famous Stories_).
DYER, WALTER A.: The Opening of the Eyes of Jasper (_The Richer
Life_).
HARRIS, J. C.: Brer Bear and the Honey (_Uncle Remus and His
Friends_).
HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL: The May Pole at Merry Mount (_Twice Told
Tales_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: Robert Fulton, the Boy of Conestoga (_Historic
Boyhoods_).
LANSING, M. F.: Godfrey, a Knight of the Crusades (_Page,
Esquire, and Knight_).
PARTRIDGE, E. N. and G. E.: The Boy Abraham (_Story-Telling in
the Home and School_).
SCUDDER, HORACE E.: The Monk and the Bird (LYMAN:
_Story-Telling: What to Tell and How to Tell It_).
_June_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Friar Bacon and the Brazen Head (_Thirty More
Famous Stories_).
GILBERT, ARIADNE: The Star Showers Baby (_More than
Conquerors_).
HARRIS, J. C.: Why Brer Bull Growls and Grumbles (_Uncle Remus
and His Friends_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: Andrew Jackson, the Boy of the Carolinas
(_Historic Boyhoods_).
JORDAN, DAVID STARR: Agassiz at Penikese, A Cuban Fisherman,
How the Trout Came to California, The Story of a Strange Land,
The Fate of Icodorum (_Science Stories_).
LANSING, M. F.: St. George and the Dragon (_Page, Esquire, and
Knight_).
PHELPS, E. S.: David and Jonathan (_David and Jonathan_).
SLY, W. R.: The Heroine of Gettysburg, The Man Who Wrote
“America,” Jenny Lind, Singer (_World Stories Retold_).
The Story of the Star-Spangled Banner (_St. Nicholas_, June,
1914).
EIGHTH GRADE
_September_
BROOKS, E. S.: Helena of Britain (_Historic Girls_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: The Boy of Cadore, The Joyous
Vagabond (_Boyhood Stories of Famous Men_).
CHAPIN, ANNA ALICE: Parsifal, a Knight of the Grail (_The Story
of Parsifal_).
DYER, WALTER A.: The Vision of Anton the Clockmaker (_The
Richer Life_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: Napoleon Bonaparte (_Historic Boyhoods_).
MACMANUS, SEUMAS: Billy Beg and His Bull (_In Chimney Corners_).
RENNINGER, E. D.: Rustem, the Wonder Child, Rustem, the Young
Warrior (_The Story of Rustem_).
_October_
DICKENS, CHARLES: The Speaking Rat (_The Uncommercial
Traveller_).
IRVING, WASHINGTON: The First Landing of Columbus in the New
World, The Building of the Fortress La Navidad, Reception of
Columbus by the Spanish Court at Barcelona, Columbus and His
Brothers Arrested and Sent to Spain, The Death of Columbus
(_Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus_); The Devil and Tom
Walker (_Tales of a Traveller_).
RENNINGER, E. D.: The Seven Labors of Rustem, Rustem the
Pehliva (_The Story of Rustem_). (Omit the romance in this last
tale.)
STEVENSON, R. L.: The Bottle Imp (_Island Nights’
Entertainments_).
_November_
ABBOTT, J. S. C.: The Mother of Kidnapped Indians, The Search
for Corn, The Shipwrecked Frenchmen (_Miles Standish_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: When Mozart Raced with Marie
Antoinette (_Boyhood Stories of Famous Men_).
RENNINGER, E. D.: Sohrab and the Youth (_The Story of Rustem_).
SCHAUFFLER, R. H.: The Thanksgiving Guest, Two Notable
Thanksgivings (_Thanksgiving_).
SCUDDER, HORACE E.: The Flying Dutchman, King Cophetua and the
Beggar, The Image and the Treasure (_Book of Legends_).
_December_
BOUTET DE MONVEL, L. M.: The Girlhood of Joan of Arc and the
Call of the Voices, Attack and Delivery of Orleans (_The Story
of Joan of Arc_).
BROOKS, E. S.: Edith of Scotland (_Historic Girls_).
HARTE, BRET: How Santa Claus Came to Simpson’s Bar (_The Luck
of Roaring Camp_).
HUGO, VICTOR: Cosette (_Les Misérables_).
MACMANUS, SEUMAS: Shan Beth and Ned Flyn (_In Chimney Corners_).
OLCOTT, F. J.: The Christmas Fairy of Strasburg (_Good Stories
for Great Holidays_).
RENNINGER, E. D.: The Wrath of Rustem, Combat of Sohrab against
Rustem (_The Story of Rustem_).
STOCKTON, FRANK R.: The Christmas Truants (_Fanciful Tales_).
VAN DYKE, HENRY: The Mansion (_The Mansion_); The First
Christmas Tree (_The First Christmas Tree_); The Other Wise Man
(_The Other Wise Man_).
WALLACE, LEW: The Journey of the Magi (_Ben Hur_).
_January_
CHURCH, ALFRED J.: The Adventure of Ulysses with the Cyclops,
The Home of the Winds and the Palace of Circe, The Sirens,
Scylla and Charybdis, What Happened in Ithaca, An Island
Prison, A Princess Washing Clothes, Ulysses at Home (_Odyssey
for Boys and Girls_).
GUERBER, H. A.: Charlemagne Blessing the Vineyards (_Legends of
the Rhine._ Use also the poem, The Silver Bridge, in the same
book).
SLY, W. R.: Horatius at the Bridge (_World Stories Retold._ Use
also Macaulay’s poem).
_February_
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: A Shepherd Lad of Tuscany, The Light
of Guido’s Lamp, A Bit o’ Pink Verbena (_Boyhood Stories of
Famous Men_).
HIGGINSON, T. W.: The Story of Atlantis, Taliessin of the
Radiant Bow (_Tales of the Enchanted Islands of the Atlantic_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: James Fenimore Cooper (_Historic Boyhoods_).
LODGE, HENRY CABOT: The British at Mount Vernon (_George
Washington_, Vol. I, page 295); Washington Offered the Supreme
Power (_George Washington_, Vol. I, page 328).
OLCOTT, F. J.: Training for the Presidency, George Picket’s
Friend (_Good Stories for Great Holidays_).
RHEAD, J. S.: Adventures of Haroun al Raschid (_Arabian
Nights_).
STOCKTON, FRANK R.: The Clocks of Rondaine (_Fanciful Tales_).
_March_
BALDWIN, JAMES: Eureka (_Thirty More Famous Stories_).
BOUTET DE MONVEL, L. M.: Joan’s Trial and Death (_Joan of Arc_).
BROOKS, E. S.: Woo of Hwang Ho (_Historic Girls_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: Florence Nightingale (_Ethics for Children_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: John Ericsson, the Boy of the Gotha Canal
(_Historic Boyhoods_).
KOROLENKO, Z.: Easter Eve (_The Book of Easter_).
RENNINGER, E. D.: How Rustem Trained Saiwush and Avenged Him,
The Later Feats of Rustem (_The Story of Rustem_).
STEVENSON, MRS. E. S.: What Easter Is (_Days and Deeds_).
_April_
BROOKS, E. S.: Christina of Sweden (_Historic Girls_).
BURROUGHS, JOHN: The House Wren, The Screech Owl, The Song
Sparrow (_Bird Stories_).
GOULD, F. J.: Why the Romans Bore Pain, The Second Founder of
Rome (_The Children’s Plutarch_).
HIGGINSON, T. W.: The Swan Children of Lir, Usheen in the
Island of Youth, Bran the Blessed (_Tales of the Enchanted
Islands of the Atlantic_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: Garibaldi, the Boy of the Mediterranean
(_Historic Boyhoods_).
LANSING, M. F.: Chevalier Bayard (_Page, Esquire, and Knight_).
MACMANUS, SEUMAS: Rory the Robber (_In Chimney Corners_).
RENNINGER, E. D.: The Story of Isfendiyar, The Death of Rustem
(_The Story of Rustem_).
_May_
AUSTIN, MARY: The Stream That Ran Away (OLCOTT: _Good Stories
for Great Holidays_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: The Fight against Yellow Fever (_Ethics for
Children_).
CATHER, KATHERINE DUNLAP: The Tomboy from Bordeaux (_Boyhood
Stories of Famous Men_).
GILBERT, ARIADNE: Through Failure to Success (_More than
Conquerors_).
GOULD, F. J.: The Man Who Waited (_The Children’s Plutarch_).
HIGGINSON, T. W.: The Castle of the Active Door, Maeldun’s
Voyage, The Voyage of St. Brandon, Harald the Viking (_Tales of
the Enchanted Islands of the Atlantic_).
HOLLAND, R. S.: Charles Dickens, the Boy of the London Streets
(_Historic Boyhoods_).
WILSON, C. D.: How Rodrigo Was Knighted and Received the Name
of Cid, The Banishment of the Cid (_The Story of the Cid_).
_June_
BROWN, ABBIE F.: Kenneth and the Gulls (_Book of Saints and
Friendly Beasts_).
CABOT, ELLA L.: Sister Dora (_Ethics for Children_).
DAUDET, ALPHONSE: The Last Lesson (BRYANT: _How to Tell Stories
to Children_).
GOULD, F. J.: How a Woman Saved Rome, A Roman Undismayed (_The
Children’s Plutarch_).
HIGGINSON, T. W.: The Search for Norumbega, Bimini and the
Fountain of Youth (_Tales of the Enchanted Islands of the
Atlantic_).
JUDSON, K. B.: Why Grizzly Bear Goes on All Fours (_Myths of
California and the Old Southwest_).
LODGE, H. C., and ROOSEVELT, T.: Remember the Alamo, The Flag
Bearer (_Frontier Towns_).
MACMANUS, SEUMAS: Jack and the King Who Was a Gentleman (_In
Chimney Corners_).
TAPPAN, EVA M.: Israel Putnam (_American Hero Stories_).
WILSON, C. D.: The Cid’s Successors in the Land of the Moors,
The Cid Returns Aid to the King (_The Story of the Cid_).
COMPLETE BIBLIOGRAPHY
COMPLETE BIBLIOGRAPHY
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COE, FANNY E.: _First Book of Stories for the Story-Teller_.
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_Nicholas Nickleby._
_Old Curiosity Shop._
_The Christmas Carol._
_The Uncommercial Traveller._
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_Golden Fairy Book._ A. L. Burt Co.
DYE, CHARITY: _The Story-Teller’s Art_. Ginn & Co.
DYER, WALTER A.: _The Richer Life_. Doubleday, Page & Co.
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HAWKES, CLARENCE: _Shovelhorns: the Biography of a Moose_.
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_Tanglewood Tales._
_Twice Told Tales._
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HURLL, ESTELLE M.: _Child Life in Art_. L. C. Page & Co.
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JACOBS, JOSEPH: _Celtic Fairy Tales_. G. P. Putnam’s Sons.
_English Fairy Tales._ G. P. Putnam’s Sons.
_Europa’s Fairy Book._ G. P. Putnam’s Sons.
_More Celtic Fairy Tales._ G. P. Putnam’s Sons.
JOHNSON, CLIFTON: _Oak Tree Stories_. Little, Brown & Co.
JOHONNOT, JAMES: _Ten Great Events in History_. American Book
Co.
JORDAN, DAVID STARR: _Science Sketches_. A. C. McClurg & Co.
_The Book of Knight and Barbara._ D. Appleton & Co.
JUDD, MARY CATHERINE: _Wigwam Stories_. Ginn & Co.
JUDSON, KATHARINE B.: _Myths and Legends of the Great Plains_.
A. C. McClurg & Co.
_Myths and Legends of Alaska._ A. C. McClurg & Co.
_Myths and Legends of the Pacific Northwest._ A. C. McClurg &
Co.
_Myths of California and the Old Southwest._ A. C. McClurg & Co.
KEIGHTLEY, THOMAS: _Fairy Mythology_. Macmillan Co.
KENNEDY, HOWARD ANGUS: _The New World Fairy Book_. E. P. Dutton
& Co.
KENT, CHARLES FOSTER: _Heroes and Crises of Early Hebrew
History_. Charles Scribner’s Sons.
KEYES, ANGELA M.: _Stories and Story-Telling_. D. Appleton & Co.
KINGSLEY, CHARLES: _Greek Heroes_. Henry Altemus.
_Hypatia._ Century Co.
_Water Babies._ Macmillan Co.
_Westward Ho!_ A. L. Burt Co.
KIPLING, RUDYARD: _Jungle Book_. Century Co.
_Just So Stories._ Doubleday, Page & Co.
_Puck of Pook’s Hill._ Doubleday, Page & Co.
_Second Jungle Book._ Century Co.
KNIGHT, JAMES: _Food and Its Function_. Charles Scribner’s Sons.
KOROLENKO, Z.: _The Book of Easter_. Macmillan Co.
LABOULAYE, EDOUARD RENÉ: _Fairy Tales of All Nations_. E. P.
Dutton & Co.
_Last Fairy Tales._ Harper & Brothers.
LAGERLÖF, SELMA: _Christ Legends_. Henry Holt & Co.
_The Wonderful Adventures of Nils._ Doubleday, Page & Co.
_The Further Adventures of Nils._ Doubleday, Page & Co.
LAMB, CHARLES and MARY: _Tales from Shakespeare_.
LANG, ANDREW: _Animal Story Book_. Longmans, Green & Co.
_Blue Fairy Book._ A. L. Burt Co.
_Green Fairy Book._ A. L. Burt Co.
_Lilac Fairy Book._ Longmans, Green & Co.
_Orange Fairy Book._ Longmans, Green & Co.
_Red Fairy Book._ A. L. Burt Co.
_True Story Book._ Longmans, Green & Co.
_Yellow Fairy Book._ Charles Scribner’s Sons.
LANG, JEANIE: _Robert the Bruce_. E. P. Dutton & Co.
_Stories from Shakespeare Told to Children._ E. P. Dutton & Co.
_The Story of General Gordon._ E. P. Dutton & Co.
LANIER, SIDNEY: _The Boy’s King Arthur_. Charles Scribner’s
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_The Boy’s Mabinogion._ Charles Scribner’s Sons.
LANSING, MARION FLORENCE: _Page, Esquire, and Knight_. Ginn &
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_Quaint Old Stories to Read and Act._ Macmillan Co.
LEA, JOHN: _Romance of Bird Life_. J. B. Lippincott Co.
LINDSAY, MAUD: _Mother Stories_. Milton Bradley Co.
_More Mother Stories._ Milton Bradley Co.
_The Story-Teller for Little Children._ Lothrop, Lee & Shepard
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LOCKHART, JOHN GIBSON: _Ancient Spanish Ballads_. E. P. Dutton
& Co.
LODGE, HENRY CABOT: _George Washington_. 2 volumes. Houghton
Mifflin Co.
LODGE, HENRY CABOT, and ROOSEVELT, THEODORE: _Frontier Towns,
and Other Essays_. Charles Scribner’s Sons.
LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH: _Poems_. Houghton Mifflin Co.
LOWELL, FRANCIS CABOT: _Joan of Arc_. Houghton Mifflin Co.
LOWES, EMILY LEIGH: _Chats on Old Lace and Needlework_. F. A.
Stokes Co.
LÜTKENHAUS, ANNA M., and KNOX, MARGARET: _Plays for School
Children_. Century Co.
LYMAN, EDNA: _Story-Telling: What to Tell and How to Tell It_.
A. C. McClurg & Co.
MABIE, HAMILTON W.: _Folk Tales Every Child Should Know_.
Doubleday, Page & Co.
_Norse Stories from the Eddas._ Rand-McNally & Co.
MACDONNELL, ANNE: _Italian Fairy Book_. F. A. Stokes Co.
MACLEOD, R.: _King Arthur and His Noble Knights_. A. L. Burt Co.
MACMANUS, SEUMAS: _Donegal Fairy Tales_. Doubleday, Page & Co.
_In Chimney Corners._ Doubleday, Page & Co.
MCMURRY, CHARLES A.: _Pioneers of the Mississippi Valley_.
Macmillan Co.
_Special Method in Primary Reading._ Macmillan Co.
MAETERLINCK, MADAME MAURICE: _The Children’s Blue Bird_. Dodd,
Mead & Co.
MAGRUDER, C. S.: _Tale of Ancient Persia_. Broadway Publishing
Co.
MARCH, DANIEL: _Night Scenes in the Bible_. Seigler, McCurdy Co.
MARDEN, ORISON SWETT: _Winning Out_. Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.
MARSHALL, H. E.: _Stories of Roland_. E. P. Dutton & Co.
_The Story of William Tell._ E. P. Dutton & Co.
MATHESON, GEORGE: _Representative Men of the Bible_. 3 volumes.
George H. Doran Co.
MATTHEWS, AGNES: _The Champions of Christendom_. Ginn & Co.
MENEFEE, MAUD: _Child Stories from the Masters_. Rand-McNally &
Co.
MILES, ALFRED H.: _Animal Anecdotes_. F. A. Stokes Co.
MILLER, ELLEN R.: _Butterfly and Moth Book_. Charles Scribner’s
Sons.
MILLER, HARRIET: _Kristy’s Rainy Day Picnics_.
_True Bird Stories._ Houghton Mifflin Co.
MILLER, JOAQUIN: _True Bear Stories_. Rand-McNally & Co.
MILLER, OLIVE THORNE: _The Second Book of Birds_. Houghton
Mifflin Co.
MILLS, ENOS A.: _In the Beaver World_. Houghton Mifflin Co.
MITFORD, FREEMAN: _Tales of Old Japan_. Macmillan Co.
MOORE, CHARLES W.: _Abraham Lincoln_. Houghton Mifflin Co.
_Christopher Columbus._ Houghton Mifflin Co.
MORLEY, MARGARET W.: _Butterflies and Bees_. Ginn & Co.
MORRIS, WILLIAM: _Sigurd, the Volsung_. Longmans, Green & Co.
MORSE, FRANCES CLARY: _Furniture of the Olden Time_. Macmillan
Co.
MOULTON, LOUISE CHANDLER: _Bed-time Stories_. Little, Brown &
Co.
NEPOS, C.: _Tales of Great Generals_. Oxford Press.
NICHOLSON, J. S.: _Tales from Ariosto_. Macmillan Co.
NIEBUHR, BARTHOLD GEORG: _Greek Hero Stories_. Dodd, Mead & Co.
NIXON-ROULET, MARY F.: _Fairy Tales a Child Can Read and Act_.
American Book Co.
_Japanese Folk Stories._ American Book Co.
NORTON, EDITH ELIZA: _Rugs in Their Native Land_. Dodd, Mead &
Co.
NOYES, MARION I., and RAY, BLANCHE H.: _Little Plays for Little
People_. Ginn & Co.
O’GRADY, ALICE: _The Story-Teller’s Book_. Rand-McNally & Co.
OLCOTT, FRANCES J.: _Bible Stories to Read and Tell_. Houghton
Mifflin Co.
_Good Stories for Great Holidays._ Houghton Mifflin Co.
_The Arabian Nights._ Henry Holt & Co.
OZAKI, YEI THEODORA: _Japanese Fairy Tales_. A. L. Burt & Co.
PARTRIDGE, EMELYN N. and GEORGE E.: _Story-Telling in the Home
and School_. Sturgis & Walton.
PEABODY, JOSEPHINE PRESTON: _Old Greek Folk Stories_. Houghton
Mifflin Co.
PERRAULT, CHARLES: _Tales for Children from Many Lands_.
PERRY, F. M., and BEEBE, KATHERINE: _Four American Pioneers_.
American Book Co.
PERRY, STELLA GEORGE STERN: _When Mother Lets Us Act_. Moffat,
Yard & Co.
PHELPS, ELIZABETH STUART: _David and Jonathan_. Harper &
Brothers.
PIERSON, CLARA DILLINGHAM: _Among the Farmyard People_. E. P.
Dutton & Co.
PITMAN, LEILA WEBSTER: _Stories of Old France_. American Book
Co.
PLANCHÉ, JAMES ROBINSON: _History of British Costume_.
Macmillan Co.
PORTER, GENE STRATTON: _Moths of the Limberlost_. Doubleday,
Page & Co.
PORTER, JERMAIN G.: _Stars in Song and Legend_. Ginn & Co.
POTTER, BEATRIX: _Peter Rabbit_. Frederick Warne & Co.
_Squirrel Nutkin._ Frederick Warne & Co.
POULSSON, EMILIE: _Child Stories and Rhymes_. Milton Bradley Co.
_In the Child World._ Milton Bradley Co.
_Top of the World Series._ Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.
PRATT, M. L.: _Stories of Colonial Children_. Educational
Publishing Co.
PRICE, LILLIAN LOUISE: _Lads and Lassies of Other Days_.
Silver, Burdett & Co.
_Wandering Heroes._ Silver, Burdett & Co.
PRINGLE, MARY P., and URANN, CLARA A.: _Yule-Tide in Many
Lands_. Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.
PUMPHREY, MARGARET B.: _Pilgrim Stories_. Rand-McNally Co.
PYLE, HOWARD: _Some Merry Adventures of Robin Hood_. Charles
Scribner’s Sons.
_Stories of King Arthur and His Knights._ Charles Scribner’s
Sons.
_The Wonder Clock._ Harper & Brothers.
QUILLER-COUCH, SIR ARTHUR THOMAS: _The Roll Call of Honor_.
Sully & Kleinteich.
RAGOZIN, ZÉNAÏDE ALEXEÏEVNA: _Siegfried and Beowulf_. G. P.
Putnam’s Sons.
RAMASWAMI RAJU: _Indian Fables_. E. P. Dutton & Co.
RANSOM, CAROLINE LOUISE: _Studies in Ancient Furniture_.
University of Chicago Press.
RENNINGER, ELIZABETH D.: _The Story of Rustem_. Charles
Scribner’s Sons.
RHEAD, J. S.: _Arabian Nights_. Harper & Brothers.
RHYS, ERNEST: _English Fairy Book_ (Fairy Gold). E. P. Dutton &
Co.
RICE, ALICE HEGAN: _Betty’s Best Christmas_. Century Co.
RICHARDS, LAURA E.: _Five Minute Stories_. Dana Estes & Co.
_Florence Nightingale, the Angel of the Crimea._ D. Appleton &
Co.
_The Golden Windows._ Little, Brown & Co.
_The Pig Brother._ Little, Brown & Co.
ROBERTS, CHARLES G. D.: _Kindred of the Wild_. L. C. Page & Co.
_Kings in Exile._ Macmillan Co.
_Earth’s Enigmas._ L. C. Page & Co.
_Haunters of the Silences._ L. C. Page & Co.
ST. JOHN, PORTER: _The Story in Moral and Religious Education_.
Pilgrim Press.
SANGSTER, MARGARET E., and YONGE, CHARLOTTE M.: _Stories from
the Best of Books_. Harper & Brothers.
SAWYER, RUTH: _This Way to Christmas_. Harper & Brothers.
SCHAUFFLER, ROBERT HAVEN: _Arbor Day_. Moffat, Yard & Co.
_Book of Thanksgiving._ Moffat, Yard & Co.
_Christmas: Its Origin, Celebration, etc._ Moffat, Yard & Co.
_Lincoln’s Birthday._ Moffat, Yard & Co.
_Memorial Day._ Moffat, Yard & Co.
_Washington’s Birthday._ Moffat, Yard & Co.
SCOBEY, KATHRINE L., and HORNE, OLIVE B.: _Stories of Great
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SCOTT, EMMA: _How the Flag Became Old Glory_. Macmillan Co.
SCUDDER, HORACE E.: _Fables and Folk Stories_. Houghton Mifflin
Co.
_The Children’s Book._ Houghton Mifflin Co.
SEAWELL, MOLLY ELLIOT: _The Son of Columbus_. Harper & Brothers.
SETON, ERNEST THOMPSON: _Animal Heroes_. Charles Scribner’s
Sons.
SHARMAN, LYON: _Bamboo: Tales of the Orient Born_. Paul Elder &
Co.
SHEDLOCK, MARIE L.: _The Art of the Story-Teller_. D. Appleton
& Co.
SIDGWICK, ETHEL: _Four Plays for Children_. Small, Maynard & Co.
SINGLETON, ESTHER: _Furniture of Our Forefathers_. Doubleday,
Page & Co.
SKEAT, WALTER W.: _Fables and Folk-Tales from an Eastern
Forest_. G. P. Putnam’s Sons.
SKINNER, ADA M.: _Little Folks’ Christmas Stories and Plays_.
Rand-McNally & Co.
_Stories of Wakeland and Dreamland._ Rand-McNally & Co.
SKINNER, CHARLES M.: _American Myths and Legends_. 2 volumes.
J. B. Lippincott Co.
_Myths and Legends beyond Our Borders._ J. B. Lippincott Co.
_Myths of Plants, Trees, and Flowers._ J. B. Lippincott Co.
SLOSSON, ANNIE TRUMBULL: _Story-tell Lib_. Charles Scribner’s
Sons.
SLY, WILLIAM J.: _World Stories Retold_. George W. Jacobs Co.
SMITH, BERTHA H.: _Yosemite Legends_. Paul Elder Co.
SMITH, GEORGE ADAM: _A Historic Geography of the Holy Land_.
George H. Doran Co.
SMITH, NORA A.: _Old, Old Tales from the Old, Old Book_.
Doubleday, Page & Co.
SNEDEKER, CAROLINE D.: _The Coward of Thermopylæ_. Doubleday,
Page & Co.
SOUTHEY, ROBERT: _Poems_. Oxford Press.
SPOFFORD, HARRIET E.: _Life of Nelson_. E. P. Dutton & Co.
_The Fairy Changeling._ Richard G. Badger.
STEEL, FLORA ANNIE: _Tales of the Punjab_. Macmillan Co.
STEIN, EVALEEN: _Troubadour Tales_. Bobbs-Merrill Co.
STERLING, MARY BLAKEWELL: _Story of Sir Galahad_. E. P. Dutton
& Co.
STEVENSON, AUGUSTA: _Children’s Classics in Dramatic Form_.
Houghton Mifflin Co.
STEVENSON, ELIZABETH S.: _Days and Deeds_. Doubleday, Page & Co.
STEVENSON, R. L.: _David Balfour_. Charles Scribner’s Sons.
_Island Nights’ Entertainments._ Charles Scribner’s Sons.
STOCKTON, FRANK R.: _Fanciful Tales_. Charles Scribner’s Sons.
_The Bee-Man of Orn._ Charles Scribner’s Sons.
STODDARD, JOHN L.: _South Tyrol_. Geo. L. Shuman & Co.
STONE, GERTRUDE LINCOLN: _Trees in Prose and Poetry_. Ginn & Co.
STRICKLAND, AGNES: _Queens of England_. American Book Co.
_Queens of Scotland._ 2 volumes. Macmillan Co.
SWEETSER, KATE D.: _Boys and Girls from Dickens_. Harper &
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_Boys and Girls from George Eliot._ Duffield & Co.
_Boys and Girls from Thackeray._ Duffield & Co.
SWEETSER, M. F.: _Artist Biographies_. 4 volumes. _Raphael and
Leonardo_, _Angelo and Titian_, _Claude Lorrain and Reynolds_,
_Turner and Landseer_, _Dürer and Rembrandt_, _Van Dyck and
Angelico_, _Murillo and Allston_. Houghton Mifflin Co.
SWINTON, WILLIAM, and CATHCART, GEORGE R.: _Books of Tales_.
American Book Company.
TAPPAN, EVA MARCH: _American Hero Stories_. Houghton Mifflin Co.
_In the Days of Alfred the Great._ Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co.
_In the Days of William the Conqueror._ Lothrop, Lee & Shepard
Co.
_Robin Hood, His Book._ Little, Brown & Co.
_The Golden Goose._ Houghton Mifflin Co.
TENNYSON, ALFRED: _Poems_. Houghton Mifflin Co.
THOMPSON, JEANETTE MAY: _Water Wonders Every Child Should
Know_. Doubleday, Page & Co.
TOMLINSON, EVERETT: _Young Folks’ History of the American
Revolution_. Grosset & Dunlap.
TUCKER, LOUISE E., and RYAN, ESTELLE L.: _Historical Plays of
Colonial Days_. Longmans, Green & Co.
UPTON, GEORGE P.: _William Tell_ (_Life Stories for Young
People_). G. P. Putnam’s Sons.
VAN DYKE, HENRY: _The First Christmas Tree_. Grosset & Dunlap.
_The Lost Boy._ Harper & Brothers.
_The Mansion._ Harper & Brothers.
VAN DYKE, HENRY, and ABBOTT, LYMAN: _Women of the Bible_.
Harper & Brothers.
VASARI, GEORGIO: _Lives of the Painters_. 4 volumes. Charles
Scribner’s Sons.
VERHOEFF, CAROLYN: _All about Johnny Jones_. Milton Bradley Co.
WALLACE, LEW: _Ben Hur_. Harper & Brothers.
WALSH, K.: _The Story of Santa Claus_. Moffat, Yard & Co.
WARMAN, CY: _Short Rails_. Charles Scribner’s Sons.
WARNER, CHARLES DUDLEY: _Being a Boy_. Houghton Mifflin Co.
WARREN, HENRY PITT: _Stories from English History_. D. C. Heath
& Co.
WARREN, MAUDE RADFORD: _Robin Hood and His Merry Men_.
Rand-McNally & Co.
WATERS, CLARA ERSKINE CLEMENT: _Saints in Art_. L. C. Page & Co.
_Stories of Art and Artists._ Houghton Mifflin Co.
WEED, CLARENCE M.: _Bird Life Stories_. Rand-McNally & Co.
WELLS, CAROLYN: _Jolly Plays for Holidays_. Walter H. Baker.
WESTERVELT, W. D.: _Legends of Old Honolulu_. George H. Ellis &
Co., Boston.
WHEELOCK, ELIZABETH M.: _Stories of the Wagner Operas_.
Bobbs-Merrill Co.
WHIPPLE, WAYNE: _The Story Life of Lincoln_. John C. Winston Co.
WHITE, ELIZA ORNE: _When Molly Was Six_. Houghton Mifflin Co.
WIGGIN, KATE DOUGLAS: _The Birds’ Christmas Carol_. Houghton
Mifflin Co.
WIGGIN, KATE DOUGLAS, and SMITH, NORA E.: _Tales of Laughter_.
Doubleday, Page & Co.
_Talking Beast Fables from India._ Doubleday, Page & Co.
_The Children’s Hour._ Milton Bradley Co.
_The Fairy Ring._ Doubleday, Page Co.
_The Story Hour._ Houghton Mifflin Co.
WILDE, OSCAR: _The Happy Prince_. Frederick A. Stokes Co.
WILLISTON, TERESA P.: _Japanese Fairy Tales_. Rand-McNally & Co.
WILMOT-BUXTON, ETHEL M.: _A Book of Noble Women_. Small,
Maynard & Co.
_Stories from Old French Romance._ F. A. Stokes Co.
_Stories of Persian Heroes._ T. Y. Crowell Co.
WILSON, CALVIN DILL: _The Story of the Cid_. Lothrop, Lee &
Shepard Co.
WILTSE, SARA E.: _The Story in Early Education_. Ginn & Co.
_Hero Folk of Ancient Britain._ Ginn & Co.
WRADISLAW, A. H.: _Slavonian Fairy Tales_. Houghton Mifflin Co.
WRIGHT, MABEL OSGOOD: _Birdcraft_. Macmillan Co.
_Gray Lady and the Birds._ Macmillan Co.
WRIGHT, MABEL OSGOOD, and COUES, ELLIOTT: _Citizen Bird_.
Macmillan Co.
WYCHE, RICHARD THOMAS: _Some Great Stories and How to Tell
Them_. Newson & Co.
ZITKALA-SA: _Old Indian Legends_. Ginn & Co.
COLLECTIONS OF STORIES OF WHICH AUTHORS ARE NOT GIVEN
_Cat Stories Retold from St. Nicholas._ Century Co.
_Civil War Stories Retold from St. Nicholas._ Century Co.
_Colonial Stories Retold from St. Nicholas._ Century Co.
_Dumpy Books for Children, The._ Frederick A. Stokes Co.
_Great Masters in Painting and Sculpture._ George Bell & Sons.
_Half a Hundred Stories._ Milton Bradley Co.
_Indian Stories Retold from St. Nicholas._ Century Co.
_Master Musician Series._ E. P. Dutton & Co.
_Our Holidays Retold from St. Nicholas._ Century Co.
_Panther Stories Retold from St. Nicholas._ Century Co.
_St. Nicholas Book of Plays and Operettas._ Century Co.
_Stories from the Classic Literature of Many Nations._
Macmillan Co.
_Stories of Chivalry Retold from St. Nicholas._ Century Co.
_Stories of the Ancient World Retold from St. Nicholas._
Century Co.
INDEX
Abraham, story of, suitable for children in heroic period, 124.
Adventure stories,
period for telling, to children, 32;
opportunity offered by, 32-33;
class of pernicious, 33;
examples of good, 34-40;
sources of material for, 41;
found in Old Testament, 124-128.
Æsop’s fables, suitability of, for acting in pantomime, 114.
Alp horn, Swiss legend of the, 274.
Alsatian folk tale, “The Story of the Man in the Moon,” 203.
American Folklore Society, work of, 172.
Andersen, H. C.,
high character of tales by, 28;
beginnings of tales by, 54.
Animals, fascination of stories introducing cries and calls of, 14.
“Apollo and Daphne,” story of, of little meaning to young children, 37.
Arabian folk tales retold, 195, 269.
Art,
story-telling to awaken an appreciation of, 95-106;
music and, to be drawn upon by the Bible story-teller, 129-130;
story to use in connection with teaching, 283.
Arthur, King, stories of,
as sources of material for heroic period, 35-36;
enjoyed in romantic period 43;
care necessary in use of tales from, 43-44;
material for dramatic work in, 114.
Aryan theory, Max Müller’s, 3.
Bailey, Carolyn Sherwin, _Stories for Sunday Telling_ by, 137.
Bancroft, George, legend “Why Grizzly Bear Goes on All Fours” adapted
from, 299.
Basile, Giambattista, early collector of fairy tales, 26.
“Bat and His Partners, The,” story of, 208.
Bavarian folk tales, 208, 228.
Bayard, story of, admirable for heroic period, 38.
Beginnings of stories, 54-55.
“Belle au Bois Dormant,” Perrault’s, 26.
_Ben Hur_, to be read by tellers of Bible stories, 123.
Bible stories,
history tales suitable for heroic period found among, 40;
in _The Courtship of Miles Standish_, 79-80;
discussion of use of, in story-telling, 118-130.
Biographical stories,
suitable for heroic period, 38-39;
types of, suited to romantic period, 45-47;
as a means of interesting children in authors’ works, 71-73;
use of, in field of art, 98-101;
material in, for teaching of ethics, 140;
use of, in history teaching, 145-146;
story of “The Duty That Wasn’t Paid,” 278;
story of “Wilhelmina’s Wooden Shoes,” 283.
“Blue Beard,”
first appearance of, 26;
not suitable for children, 29.
Bonheur, Rosa, pictures by, suitable for little children, 99.
“Boy of Old Vienna, A,” story of, 89-93.
Bradley, Will, “The Wonder Box” by, 28.
Breton, Jules, introducing children to paintings by, 103-104.
“Brier Rose,”
story of, 25;
retelling of, 209-212.
Building the story, 52-57.
Cabot, Ella Lyman, _Ethics for Children_ by, 136.
Chapin, Anna Alice, _The Story of Parsifal_ by, 44.
Charlemagne,
stories of time of, suitable for heroic period, 37-38;
stories of, suitable for romantic period, 45.
Children,
story interests of, in rhythmic period, 12 ff.;
stages of mental growth of, determining story interests, 13;
story interests in imaginative period, 20-30;
story interests in heroic period, 32-41;
story interests in romantic period, 42-50.
Children’s Crusade, story of, 46.
Chinese folk tale, “How They Came to Have Kite Day in China,” 330.
Christmas stories, 203.
Chubb, _Festivals and Plays_ by, 114.
Cid, story of the, suitable for heroic period, 38.
“Cinderella,”
common to many lands, 25;
published by Perrault, 27.
Classics,
mistake of studying by dissecting process, 75-76;
study of, by story method, 77-81.
Claude Lorrain, works of, for children of intermediate period, 102.
Climax,
working up to a, 55-57;
rapid closing of story after reaching, 57.
“Coat of All Colors, The,” story of, retold from Grimm, 212.
Coffee, story of discovery of, 195-197.
“Coming of the Wonder Tree, The,” story of, 269.
Composers, introducing children to, by story-telling, 86-89.
Contentment, stories teaching, 204, 251.
_Contes du Temps Passé avec Moralités_, publication of, 27.
Coral polyp, story of the, 185-186, 188-190.
Correggio, acquainting little children with, 101.
_Courtship of Miles Standish_, study of, by story method, 79-80.
Craig, _The Dramatic Festival_ by, 114.
Cruelty, an undesirable element in stories, 29.
“Cupid and Psyche,” of little meaning to young children, 37.
Darmancour, P., collection of fairy tales published by, 26-27.
Date palm, story of origin of the, 269.
“David and Jonathan,” Miss Phelps’s, appeal of, for children, 16.
“Dervish of Mocha, The,” Arabian folk tale retold, 195-197.
Dialogue,
use of, in story-telling, 53;
change of voice in, to add to clearness of pictures, 64.
Dickens, Charles, experience of, in recommending fairy tales for
children, 29.
“Discontented Pig, The,” story of, 204-207.
Dissection method of studying classics in schools, 75-76.
“Dog of Flanders,” Ouida’s, 16.
Dole, Nathan Haskell, quoted, 49.
Domestic science, use of story-telling in, 192-197.
Dramatization,
story-telling and, 107-116;
pictures, books, and stories for use in, 116.
Drunkenness in parents, undesirable element in stories, 29-30.
Dutch legend, “The Lady of Stavoren,” 289.
“Duty That Wasn’t Paid, The,” story of, 278.
“Easter Eggs, The,” story of, 229.
Ebers, Georg,
quoted on fairy tales, 22-24;
novels by, suitable for romantic period, 49-50.
_Ekkehard_, recommended for high school pupils, 49.
“Emperor’s Vision, The,” legend of, 306.
Entertainment, not the chief aim of story-telling, 9.
Epic subjects,
sources of story material in, 35-38;
suitable for romantic period, 44-45;
paintings that portray, 104-105.
Esenwein, Berg, rules as to story-telling by, 54.
Ethics,
story-telling and the teaching of, 132-140;
stories to use for teaching, 203, 204, 218, 222, 229, 251, 274, 278,
289, 299, 302, 306, 311, 317.
Europe,
general knowledge and love of music in, 83-84;
knowledge of art possessed by average person in, as contrasted with
average American, 95-97.
_Evangeline_, study of, by story method, 78-79.
Facial gymnastics in story-telling, use of, 63.
“Fairy, The,” publication of, 26.
Fairy stories,
origin of, 20-21;
care in use of, with children, 21-22;
question of encouraging falsehood by, 22-24;
theories as to beginnings of, 25-26;
one of the oldest forms of literature, 26;
early collections, 26-27;
care necessary in selecting, for children, 28-29;
elements in, to be especially guarded against, 29-30;
bibliography of, 31.
“Fall of London Bridge, The,” story of, 326.
Fallersleben, H. von, story of “The Forget-me-not” adapted from, 226.
Falsehood, not encouraged by fairy tales, 22-24.
“Forget-me-not, The,” story of, 226.
Gainsborough, pictures by, suitable for little children, 99.
Geneva, Lake,
luck boat of, 5;
story of, retold, 295.
Geography,
story-telling to intensify interest in, 168-177;
stories to use in teaching, 222, 269, 274, 289, 295, 296, 299, 302,
317.
Gest, Lady Charlotte, translator of the Mabinogion, 36.
Gesture in story-telling, question of use of, 63.
“Gift of the Gnomes, The,” story of, 274.
Glinski, story of “Prince Unexpected” adapted from, 239.
“God of the Thundering Water, The,” Iroquois legend, 174-176.
“Goody-goody” stories, harm done by, 133-134.
“Great Stone Face,” climax of, 56.
“Greedy Cobbler, The,” story of, 251.
Greek myths, as source material for stories for heroic period, 36-37.
Grimm Brothers,
appearance of, as collectors and preservers of Thuringian folklore,
27;
beginnings of stories by, 54;
stories retold from, 209, 212, 218.
Guerber, Helène A., _Legends of the Middle Ages_ by, 44.
Halévy, Ludovic, fascination of stories by, 50.
“Half-Chick,” source of, 25.
Hall, G. Stanley, plea of, in behalf of Bible stories, 118-119.
“Hansel and Gretel,” modification of, for children, 30.
Heroic period,
story interests in, 32-41;
works of art suitable for, 104-105;
Bible stories for, 123;
Old Testament stories suitable for, 124.
_Hiawatha_,
as material for stories for heroic period, 38;
material for dramatic work in, 114.
History,
stories from, suitable for children in heroic period, 38-40;
plays and pageants to be used in connection with, 115;
material found in stories from, for teaching of ethics, 140;
story-telling to intensify interest in, 143-167;
stories to use in teaching, 263, 326.
Honesty, story to teach, 203.
Hood, Margaret Graham, “The Search for the Seven Cities” by, 149-167.
“Hop o’ My Thumb,” first appearance of, 27.
“How They Came to Have Kite Day in China,” Chinese folk tale, 330.
Iliad,
stories from, suitable for children in heroic period, 35;
material for romantic period in, 44.
Imaginative period, story interests in, 20-30.
Indian legends, stories based on, 174, 299.
Jacques, introducing children to paintings by, 103-104.
Japanese legend, “Why the Japanese Love the Stork,” 296.
_Jerusalem Delivered_, material for romantic period in, 44.
John of Hildesheim, works of, a help to the Bible story-teller, 123.
Jordan, David Starr,
science stories by, 182-183;
“The Story of a Salmon” by, 255;
“The Story of a Stone” by, 331.
Joshua, book of, as an adventure story, 125.
Judges, book of, viewed as a collection of narratives, 126.
“Jussieu and the Heliotrope,” story of, 325.
Key, Ellen, use of love stories in romantic period advocated by, 48.
Kindness, story teaching, 218.
Labor, artists and paintings that lead to respect for, 104.
“Lady of Stavoren, The,” story of, 289.
Lagerlöf, Selma,
works of, a help to the Bible story-teller, 123;
legend of “The Emperor’s Vision” adapted from, 306.
Landseer, Sir Edwin, pictures by, suitable for little children, 98-99.
Lang, Andrew, totemistic theory of, 3, 25.
Langobardian myths, interesting in romantic period, 45.
Lanier, Sidney,
_The Boy’s Mabinogion_ by, 36;
_The Boy’s King Arthur_ by, 44.
“Last Lesson,” Daudet’s, climax of, 56.
Libraries, story-telling in, 9.
Literature, story-telling to lead to appreciation of, 69-82.
“Little Stepmother, The,” story of, 227.
“London Bridge, The Fall of,” story of, 326.
Longfellow, H. W., study of poems of, by story method, 78-80.
Love stories, use of, with children in romantic period, 48-49.
“Luck Boat of Lake Geneva, The,”
Swiss legend, 5;
retold, 295.
“Luck Boy of Toy Valley, The,” story of, 302.
Lying, fairy tales and, 22-24.
Mabinogion,
stories from, suitable for heroic period, 35, 36;
material for dramatic work in, 114.
MacManus, Seumas, quoted, 7.
Madonna pictures, use of, with little children, 100-101.
“Man in the Moon, The Story of the,” 203-204.
Manual training,
use of story-telling in, 192-197;
story of “The Luck Boy of Toy Valley” for use in, 302.
Marlitt, Eugénie, works of, suitable for romantic period, 49.
Memorizing of stories, a mistake, 63.
Millet, introducing children to paintings by, 103-104.
“Monarch, the Big Bear of Tallac,” Thompson Seton’s, 16-17.
_Moni the Goat Boy_, suitable for the romantic period, 49.
Moralizing, avoidance of, 67-68.
Moral training, story-telling and, 132-140. _See_ Ethics.
Mother Goose, reason for love of children for, 13.
Mozart, story of “The Duty That Wasn’t Paid” dealing with life of, 278.
Mühlbach, Louisa, novels of, for romantic period, 49.
Müller, Max, Aryan theory of, 3.
Murillo, an ideal painter to introduce to little children, 100.
Music,
story-telling to awaken an appreciation of, 83-93;
use of, by Bible story-tellers, 129;
story to use in connection with, 278.
Mythological subjects, paintings that portray, 104-105.
Narrative style better than dialogue in story-telling, 53.
National epics,
as sources of story material in heroic period, 35-38;
portions of, suitable for romantic period, 44-45;
first issue of, in poetic form, to be made clear to children, 45;
paintings portraying subjects of, 104-105.
Nature study,
story-telling to intensify interest in, 178-190;
stories helpful in, 208, 226, 227, 255, 269, 325.
Nibelungenlied,
stories from, suitable for children in heroic period, 35;
material for romantic period in, 44.
Nightingale, Florence, story of, suitable for romantic period, 46-47.
Odyssey,
stories from, suitable for children in heroic period, 35;
material for romantic period in, 44.
Ogier the Dane, story of, suitable for heroic period, 37.
Ohnet, Georges, novels of, for romantic period, 50.
Olcott, Frances Jenkins, _Bible Stories to Read and Tell_ by, 122.
Old Testament, stories in, for children, 120-129.
Ouida,
“A Dog of Flanders” by, 16;
“The Child of Urbino” by, 102.
Pageants, use of, 115.
Pantomime, acting stories in, 114.
“Parsifal,” tale of, suitable for children in romantic period, 44.
Partridge, G. E., quoted, 63.
_Pentamerone, Il_, early collection of fairy tales, 26.
Perrault, Charles,
“La Belle au Bois Dormant” by, 26;
_Contes du Temps Passé avec Moralités_ credited to, 27.
“Pet Raven, The,” legend of, 317.
Physical education, story for use in connection with, 330.
Pictures,
story-telling for teaching love of, 95-106;
scenes for dramatization suggested by, 116;
to be used in Bible story-telling, 129-130.
_See_ Art.
“Pied Piper,” suitable for dramatization by little children, 112-113.
“Pigeons of Venice, The,” story of, 263.
“Poor Man and the Rich Man, The,” story of, retold from Grimm, 218.
Primitive-why story, period when child enjoys, 20.
“Prince Unexpected,” story of, 239.
“Puss in Boots,” first appearance of, 26.
“Pygmalion and Galatea,” of little meaning to young children, 37.
“Rabbit and the Easter Eggs, The,” story of, 228.
Racial tales,
fascination of, in rhythmic period, 14;
enjoyment of, by children in imaginative period, 20.
Raphael,
acquainting little children with, 100-101;
paintings by, for children of intermediate period, 102.
Realistic period in children’s story interests, 13-18.
Recitations, shortening of, to give time for story-telling, 169.
“Red Riding Hood,”
first appearance of, 26;
beginning of, 54;
climax of, 56.
Reference work necessary to story-telling, 11.
Rembrandt, story of “Wilhelmina’s Wooden Shoes” dealing with life of,
283.
Repetition in jingles, surprise element in, 57.
Repetitive stories, fascination of, in rhythmic period, 13-14.
Reynolds, Sir Joshua, pictures by, suitable for young children, 98.
Rhine, legend of the, “The Pet Raven,” 317.
Rhythmic period, story interests in, 12-18.
Richards, Laura E., _Life of Florence Nightingale_ by, 47.
“Riquet o’ the Tuft,” published by Perrault, 27.
Robin Hood,
story of, a good adventure tale, 34-35;
material for dramatic work in, 114.
Roland and Oliver, dramatic qualities in tale of, 37.
Romantic period, story interests of childhood in, 42-50.
Rubens, pictures by, suitable for children of intermediate period, 103.
Ruskin, John, on use of Bible stories, 119.
“St. George and the Dragon,” a favorite story in heroic period, 38.
Scheffel, J. V. von, _Ekkehard_ by, 49.
Schmidt, Canon, story of “The Easter Eggs” adapted from, 229.
Schools,
place given story-telling in, 8-9;
time for telling stories in, 67;
mistake of study of literature in, by dissecting process, 75-76;
value of story-telling in, 199-200.
Schubert, Franz, story concerning boyhood of, 89-93.
Science teaching,
story-telling and, 178-190;
stories to use in, 255, 325, 331.
Scottish Highlands, story-telling in, 5.
“Search for the Seven Cities, The,” by Margaret Graham Hood, 149-167.
Sentimentalism in stories, lack of response by children to, 184.
Shasta legend, “Why Grizzly Bear Goes on All Fours,” 299.
Shedlock, Marie L., five minutes of silence after each story advocated
by, 57.
“Shepherd Who Turned Back, The,” Syrian legend retold, 311.
Sicily, knowledge of classics possessed by peasants of, 18.
“Silver Cones, The,” story of, 222.
Slavic wonder tale, “Prince Unexpected,” 239.
“Sleeping Beauty,”
“Brier Rose” a modification of same story, 25;
published by Perrault, 26.
Social instincts, development of, by use of stories with geographical
or historical background, 170-171.
Southey, Robert, “The Three Bears” by, 28.
Spyri, Johanna,
_Moni the Goat Boy_ by, 49;
story of “The Silver Cones” adapted from, 222.
Stevenson, R. L., interesting children in works of, by telling stories
about, 71-73.
Story interests of childhood,
in rhythmic period, 12-18;
in imaginative period, 20-30;
in heroic period, 32-41;
in romantic period, 42-50.
“Story of a Salmon, The,” by David Starr Jordan, 255.
“Story of a Stone, The,” by David Starr Jordan, 331.
Story-telling,
purpose and aim of, 1-11;
interests in rhythmic period, 12-18;
interests in imaginative period, 20-30;
interests in heroic period, 32-41;
interests in romantic period, 42-50;
building the story, 52-57;
telling the story, 58-68;
and appreciation of literature, 69-82;
to awaken an appreciation of music, 83-93;
and appreciation of art, 95-106;
and dramatization, 107-117;
Bible stories, 118-131;
teaching of ethics, 132-140;
to intensify interest in history, 143-167;
to intensify interest in geography, 168-177;
and nature study, 178-190;
in teaching domestic science and manual training, 192-197;
general statement as to value of, 198-201.
Story-writing, course in, recommended for the professional
story-teller, 52.
Straparola, publisher of first collection of fairy tales, 26.
Supernatural beliefs,
primitive man’s, as revealed in fairy tales, 25-27;
effect of physical features of different regions upon, and so upon
fairy tales, 27.
Surprise element in stories, 55-57.
Suspense,
element of, 6, 55;
increase in, by use of pauses, 64-65.
Swedish legend, “The Emperor’s Vision,” 306.
“Sweet and Low,” suggested method of interesting children in, 73-74.
Swiss legends retold, 274, 311.
Syrian legend, “The Shepherd Who Turned Back,” 311.
Talking machines, use of, for introducing children to music, 86, 89.
Tell, William, stories of, suitable for children in heroic period, 39.
Thuringian folk tales,
gathered and preserved by the Grimms, 27;
retold, 204, 209, 212, 218, 226, 227.
Totemistic theory, Lang’s, 3, 25.
“Ugly Duckling,”
unsuitable for children who have never been in country, 15;
surprise element in climax of, 56.
Van Dyck, Anthony, familiarizing little children with paintings by,
101.
Van Dyke, Henry,
on avoidance of moralizing in story-telling, 67;
works of, a help to the Bible story-teller, 123.
Vedas, theory of origin of fairy stories in the, 25.
“Venice, The Pigeons of,” story of, 263.
Vincent, Jacques, fascination of stories by, 50.
Vocational training, use of story-telling in, 192-197.
Welsh folk tale, “The Greedy Cobbler,” 251.
“Why Grizzly Bear Goes on All Fours,” Shasta legend, 299.
“Why the Japanese Love the Stork,” Japanese legend, 296.
“Wilhelmina’s Wooden Shoes,” story of, 283.
“Wonderful Builders, The,” story of, 188-190.
Wonder tales, period when child enjoys, 20.
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