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STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN
FIFTY-FOUR STORIES WITH SOME
SUGGESTIONS FOR TELLING
BY
SARA CONE BRYANT
AUTHOR OF "HOW TO TELL STORIES TO CHILDREN"
[Illustration]
LONDON
GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD.
2 & 3 PORTSMOUTH STREET KINGSWAY W.C.
1918
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
GREAT BRITAIN
PREFACE
This little book came into being at the instance of my teaching friends.
Their requests for more stories of the kind which were given in _How to
Tell Stories to Children_, and especially their urging that the stories
they liked, in my telling, should be set down in print, seemed to
justify the hope that the collection would be genuinely useful to them.
That it may be, is the earnest desire with which it is offered. I hope
it will be found to contain some stories which are new to the teachers
and friends of little children, and some which are familiar, but in an
easier form for telling than is usual. And I shall indeed be content if
its value to those who read it is proportionate to the pleasure and
mental stimulus which has come to me in the work among pupils and
teachers which accompanied its preparation.
Among the publishers and authors whose kindness enabled me to quote
material are Mr John Murray and Miss Mary Frere, to whom I am indebted
for the four stories of the Little Jackal; Messrs Little, Brown &
Company and the Alcott heirs, who allowed me the use of Louisa Alcott's
poem, _My Kingdom_; and Dr Douglas Hyde, whose letter of permission to
use his Irish material was in itself a literary treasure. To the
charming friend who gave me the outline of _Epaminondas_, as told her by
her own "Mammy," I owe a deeper debt, for _Epaminondas_ has carried joy
since then into more schools and homes than I dare to enumerate.
And to all the others,--friends in whom the child-heart lingers,--my
thanks for the laughs we have had, the discussions we have warmed to,
the helps you have given. May you never lack the right story at the
right time, or a child to love you for telling it!
SARA CONE BRYANT
CONTENTS
PAGE
SOME SUGGESTIONS FOR THE STORY-TELLER
Additional Suggestions for Method--Two Valuable
Types of Story--A Graded List of Stories to dramatise
and retell 11
STORY-TELLING IN TEACHING ENGLISH
Importance of Oral Methods--Opportunity of the
Primary Grades--Points to be observed in dramatising
and retelling, in connection with English 27
STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN
TWO LITTLE RIDDLES IN RHYME 43
THE LITTLE YELLOW TULIP 43
THE COCK-A-DOO-DLE-DOO 45
THE CLOUD 46
THE LITTLE RED HEN 48
THE GINGERBREAD MAN 49
THE LITTLE JACKALS AND THE LION 55
THE COUNTRY MOUSE AND THE CITY MOUSE 58
LITTLE JACK ROLLAROUND 62
HOW BROTHER RABBIT FOOLED THE WHALE AND THE ELEPHANT 66
THE LITTLE HALF-CHICK 70
THE BLACKBERRY-BUSH 74
THE FAIRIES 78
THE ADVENTURES OF THE LITTLE FIELD MOUSE 80
ANOTHER LITTLE RED HEN 83
THE STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN 87
THE STORY OF EPAMINONDAS AND HIS AUNTIE 92
THE BOY WHO CRIED "WOLF!" 96
THE FROG KING 97
THE SUN AND THE WIND 99
THE LITTLE JACKAL AND THE ALLIGATOR 100
THE LARKS IN THE CORNFIELD 106
A TRUE STORY ABOUT A GIRL (Louisa Alcott) 108
MY KINGDOM 113
PICCOLA 115
THE LITTLE FIR TREE 116
HOW MOSES WAS SAVED 122
THE TEN FAIRIES 126
THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER 130
WHO KILLED THE OTTER'S BABIES? 133
EARLY 136
THE BRAHMIN, THE TIGER, AND THE JACKAL 137
THE LITTLE JACKAL AND THE CAMEL 144
THE GULLS OF SALT LAKE 147
THE NIGHTINGALE 150
MARGERY'S GARDEN 159
THE LITTLE COTYLEDONS 171
THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE 176
ROBERT OF SICILY 178
THE JEALOUS COURTIERS 185
PRINCE CHERRY 189
THE GOLD IN THE ORCHARD 199
MARGARET OF NEW ORLEANS 200
THE DAGDA'S HARP 204
THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS 208
HOW THE SEA BECAME SALT 215
THE CASTLE OF FORTUNE 220
DAVID AND GOLIATH 227
THE SHEPHERD'S SONG 233
THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 236
LITTLE GOTTLIEB 243
HOW THE FIR TREE BECAME THE CHRISTMAS TREE 246
THE DIAMOND AND THE DEWDROP 248
SOME SUGGESTIONS FOR THE STORY-TELLER
Concerning the fundamental points of method in telling a story, I have
little to add to the principles which I have already stated[1] as
necessary, in my opinion, in the book of which this is, in a way, the
continuation. But in the two years which have passed since that book was
written, I have had the happiness of working on stories and the telling
of them, among teachers and students in many parts, and in that
experience certain secondary points of method have come to seem more
important, or at least more in need of emphasis, than they did before.
As so often happens, I had assumed that "those things are taken for
granted"; whereas, to the beginner or the teacher not naturally a
story-teller, the secondary or implied technique is often of greater
difficulty than the mastery of underlying principles. The few
suggestions which follow are of this practical, obvious kind.
Take your story seriously. No matter how riotously absurd it is, or how
full of inane repetition, remember, if it is good enough to tell, it is
a real story, and must be treated with respect. If you cannot feel so
toward it, do not tell it. Have faith in the story, and in the attitude
of the children toward it and you. If you fail in this, the immediate
result will be a touch of shamefacedness, affecting your manner
unfavourably, and, probably, influencing your accuracy and imaginative
vividness.
Perhaps I can make the point clearer by telling you about one of the
girls in a class which was studying stories last winter; I feel sure if
she or any of her fellow-students recognises the incident, she will not
resent being made to serve the good cause, even in the unattractive
guise of a warning example.
A few members of the class had prepared the story of _The Fisherman and
his Wife_. The first girl called on was evidently inclined to feel that
it was rather a foolish story. She tried to tell it well, but there were
parts of it which produced in her the touch of shamefacedness to which I
have referred.
When she came to the rhyme,--
"O man of the sea, come, listen to me,
For Alice, my wife, the plague of my life,
Has sent me to beg a boon of thee,"
she said it rather rapidly. At the first repetition she said it still
more rapidly; the next time she came to the jingle she said it so fast
and so low that it was unintelligible; and the next recurrence was too
much for her. With a blush and a hesitating smile she said, "And he said
that same thing, you know!" Of course everybody laughed, and of course
the thread of interest and illusion was hopelessly broken for everybody.
Now, anyone who chanced to hear Miss Shedlock?[A] tell that same story
will remember that the absurd rhyme gave great opportunity for
expression, in its very repetition; each time that the fisherman came to
the water's edge his chagrin and unwillingness were greater, and his
summons to the magic fish mirrored his feeling. The jingle _is_ foolish;
that is a part of the charm. But if the person who tells it _feels_
foolish, there is no charm at all! It is the same principle which
applies to any assemblage: if the speaker has the air of finding what he
has to say absurd or unworthy of effort, the audience naturally tends to
follow his lead, and find it not worth listening to.
Let me urge, then, take your story seriously.
Next, "take your time." This suggestion needs explaining, perhaps. It
does not mean license[A] to dawdle. Nothing is much more annoying in a
speaker than too great deliberateness[A] or than hesitation of speech.
But it means a quiet[A] realisation of the fact that the floor is yours,
everybody wants to hear you, there is time[A] enough for every point and
shade of meaning, and no one will think the story too long. This mental
attitude must underlie proper control of speed. Never hurry. A
business-like leisure is the true attitude of the story-teller.
And the result is best attained by concentrating one's attention on the
episodes of the story. Pass lightly, and comparatively swiftly, over the
portions between actual episodes, but take all the time you need for the
elaboration of those. And above all, do not _feel_ hurried.
The next suggestion is eminently plain and practical, if not an all too
obvious one. It is this: if all your preparation and confidence fails
you at the crucial moment, and memory plays the part of traitor in some
particular,--if, in short, you blunder on a detail of the story, _never
admit it_. If it was an unimportant detail which you misstated, pass
right on, accepting whatever you said, and continuing with it; if you
have been so unfortunate as to omit a fact which was a necessary link in
the chain, put it in, later, as skilfully as you can, and with as
deceptive an appearance of its being in the intended order; but never
take the children behind the scenes, and let them hear the creaking of
your mental machinery. You must be infallible. You must be in the secret
of the mystery, and admit your audience on somewhat unequal terms; they
should have no creeping doubts as to your complete initiation into the
secrets of the happenings you relate.
Plainly, there can be lapses of memory so complete, so all-embracing,
that frank failure is the only outcome; but these are so few as not to
need consideration, when dealing with so simple material as that of
children's stories. There are times, too, before an adult audience, when
a speaker can afford to let his hearers be amused with him over a chance
mistake. But with children it is most unwise to break the spell of the
entertainment in that way. Consider, in the matter of a detail of action
or description, how absolutely unimportant the mere accuracy is,
compared with the effect of smoothness and the enjoyment of the hearers.
They will not remember the detail, for good or evil, half so long as
they will remember the fact that you did not know it. So, for their
sakes, as well as for the success of your story, cover your slips of
memory, and let them be as if they were not.
And now I come to two points in method which have to do especially with
humorous stories. The first is the power of initiating the appreciation
of the joke. Every natural humorist does this by instinct, and the value
of the power to a story-teller can hardly be overestimated. To initiate
appreciation does not mean that one necessarily gives way to mirth,
though even that is sometimes natural and effective; one merely feels
the approach of the humorous climax, and subtly suggests to the hearers
that it will soon be "time to laugh." The suggestion usually comes in
the form of facial expression, and in the tone. And children are so much
simpler, and so much more accustomed to following another's lead than
their elders, that the expression can be much more outright and
unguarded than would be permissible with a mature audience.
Children like to feel the joke coming, in this way; they love the
anticipation of a laugh, and they will begin to dimple, often, at your
first unconscious suggestion of humour. If it is lacking, they are
sometimes afraid to follow their own instincts. Especially when you are
facing an audience of grown people and children together, you will find
that the latter are very hesitant about initiating their own expression
of humour. It is more difficult to make them forget their surroundings
then, and more desirable to give them a happy lead. Often at the
funniest point you will see some small listener in an agony of endeavour
to cloak the mirth which he--poor mite--fears to be indecorous. Let him
see that it is "the thing" to laugh, and that everybody is going to.
Having so stimulated the appreciation of the humorous climax, it is
important to give your hearers time for the full savour of the jest to
permeate their consciousness. It is really robbing an audience of its
rights, to pass so quickly from one point to another that the mind must
lose a new one if it lingers to take in the old. Every vital point in a
tale must be given a certain amount of time: by an anticipatory pause,
by some form of vocal or repetitive emphasis, and by actual time. But
even more than other tales does the funny story demand this. It cannot
be funny without it.
Everyone who is familiar with the theatre must have noticed how careful
all comedians are to give this pause for appreciation and laughter.
Often the opportunity is crudely given, or too liberally offered; and
that offends. But in a reasonable degree the practice is undoubtedly
necessary to any form of humorous expression.
A remarkably good example of the type of humorous story to which these
principles of method apply, is the story of _Epaminondas_ on page 92. It
will be plain to any reader that all the several funny crises are of the
perfectly unmistakable sort children like, and that, moreover, these
funny spots are not only easy to see; they are easy to foresee. The
teller can hardly help sharing the joke in advance, and the tale is an
excellent one with which to practise for power in the points mentioned.
Epaminondas is a valuable little rascal from other points of view, and
I mean to return to him, to point a moral. But at the moment I want
space for a word or two about the matter of variety of subject and style
in school stories.
There are two wholly different kinds of story which are equally
necessary for children, I believe, and which ought to be given in about
the proportion of one to three, in favour of the second kind; I make the
ratio uneven because the first kind is more dominating in its effect.
The first kind is represented by such stories as _The Pig Brother_,[1]
which has now grown so familiar to teachers that it will serve for
illustration without repetition here. It is the type of story which
specifically teaches a certain ethical or conduct lesson, in the form of
a fable or an allegory,--it passes on to the child the conclusions as to
conduct and character, to which the race has, in general, attained
through centuries of experience and moralising. The story becomes an
inescapable part of the outfit of received ideas on manners and morals
which is a necessary possession of the heir of civilisation.
Children do not object to these stories in the least, if the stories are
good ones. They accept them with the relish which nature seems ever to
have for all truly nourishing material. And the little tales are one of
the media through which we elders may transmit some very slight share of
the benefit received by us, in turn, from actual or transmitted
experience.
The second kind has no preconceived moral to offer, makes no attempt to
affect judgment or to pass on a standard. It simply presents a picture
of life, usually in fable or poetic image, and says to the hearer,
"These things are." The hearer, then, consciously or otherwise, passes
judgment on the facts. His mind says, "These things are good"; or, "This
was good, and that, bad"; or, "This thing is desirable," or the
contrary.
The story of _The Little Jackal and the Alligator_ (page 100) is a good
illustration of this type. It is a character-story. In the naive form of
a folk tale, it doubtless embodies the observations of a seeing eye, in
a country and time when the little jackal and the great alligator were
even more vivid images of certain human characters than they now are.
Again and again, surely, the author or authors of the tales must have
seen the weak, small, clever being triumph over the bulky,
well-accoutred, stupid adversary. Again and again they had laughed at
the discomfiture of the latter, perhaps rejoicing in it the more because
it removed fear from their own houses. And probably never had they
concerned themselves particularly with the basic ethics of the struggle.
It was simply one of the things they saw. It was life. So they made a
picture of it.
The folk tale so made, and of such character, comes to the child
somewhat as an unprejudiced newspaper account of to-day's happenings
comes to us. It pleads no cause, except through its contents; it
exercises no intentioned influence on our moral judgment; it is there,
as life is there, to be seen and judged. And only through such seeing
and judging can the individual perception attain to anything of power or
originality. Just as a certain amount of received ideas is necessary to
sane development, so is a definite opportunity for first-hand judgments
essential to power.
In this epoch of well-trained minds we run some risk of an inundation of
accepted ethics. The mind which can make independent judgments, can look
at new facts with fresh vision, and reach conclusions with simplicity,
is the perennial power in the world. And this is the mind we are not
noticeably successful in developing, in our system of schooling. Let us
at least have its needs before our consciousness, in our attempts to
supplement the regular studies of school by such side-activities as
story-telling. Let us give the children a fair proportion of stories
which stimulate independent moral and practical decisions.
And now for a brief return to our little black friend. _Epaminondas_
belongs to a very large, very ancient type of funny story: the tale in
which the jest depends wholly on an abnormal degree of stupidity on the
part of the hero. Every race which produces stories seems to have found
this theme a natural outlet for its childlike laughter. The stupidity of
Lazy Jack, of Big Claus, of the Good Man, of Clever Alice, all have
their counterparts in the folly of the small Epaminondas.
Evidently, such stories have served a purpose in the education of the
race. While the exaggeration of familiar attributes easily awakens mirth
in a simple mind, it does more: it teaches practical lessons of wisdom
and discretion. And possibly the lesson was the original cause of the
story.
Not long ago, I happened upon an instance of the teaching power of these
nonsense tales, so amusing and convincing that I cannot forbear to share
it. A primary teacher who heard me tell _Epaminondas_ one evening, told
it to her pupils the next morning, with great effect. A young teacher
who was observing in the room at the time told me what befell. She said
the children laughed very heartily over the story, and evidently liked
it much. About an hour later, one of them was sent to the board to do a
little problem. It happened that the child made an excessively foolish
mistake, and did not notice it. As he glanced at the teacher for the
familiar smile of encouragement, she simply raised her hands, and
ejaculated, "'For the law's sake!'"
It was sufficient. The child took the cue instantly. He looked hastily
at his work, broke into an irrepressible giggle, rubbed the figures out,
without a word, and began again. And the whole class entered into the
joke with the gusto of fellow-fools, for once wise.
It is safe to assume that the child in question will make fewer needless
mistakes for a long time because of the wholesome reminder of his
likeness with one who "ain't got the sense he was born with." And what
occurred so visibly in his case goes on quietly in the hidden recesses
of the mind in many cases. One _Epaminondas_ is worth three lectures.
I wish there were more of such funny little tales in the world's
literature, all ready, as this one is, for telling to the youngest of
our listeners. But masterpieces are few in any line, and stories for
telling are no exception; it took generations, probably, to make this
one. The demand for new sources of supply comes steadily from teachers
and mothers, and is the more insistent because so often met by the
disappointing recommendations of books which prove to be for reading
only, rather than for telling.
For the benefit of suggestion to teachers in schools where story-telling
is newly or not yet introduced in systematic form, I am glad to append
the following list of additional stories which will be found to be
equally tellable and likeable. The list is not mine, although it
embodies some of my suggestions. I offer it merely as a practical result
of the effort to equalise and extend the story-hour throughout the
schools. The list is roughly graded in four groups. Stories in the
present volume have been excluded.
STORIES FOR REPRODUCTION
FIRST GROUP
The Lion and the Mouse, AEsop
The Fox and the Crow, AEsop
The Hare and the Tortoise, AEsop
The Wolf and the Kid, AEsop
The Crow and the Pitcher, AEsop
The Fox and the Grapes, AEsop
The Dog and his Shadow, AEsop
The Hare and the Hound, AEsop
The Wolf and the Crane, AEsop
The Elf and the Dormouse[1]
The Three Little Pigs[1]
Henny Penny
The Three Bears[1]
Why the Woodpecker's Head is Red[2]
Little Red Riding-Hood
The Cat and The Mouse, Grimm
Snow White and Rose Red, Grimm
SECOND GROUP
The Boasting Traveller, AEsop
The Wolf and the Fox, AEsop
The Boy and the Filberts, AEsop
Hercules and the Wagoner, AEsop
The Shepherd Boy and the Wolf, AEsop
The Star Dollars[1]
The Pied Piper[1]
King Midas[1]
Raggylug[1]
Peter Rabbit, B. Potter
The Tar-Baby, Joel Chandler Harris
(from _Uncle Remus_)
The Tailor and the Elephant
The Blind Men and the Elephant
(_Harrap's Dramatic Readers_, Book II.)
The Valiant Blackbird, Wm. Canton
(from _The True Annals of Fairyland_)
The Wolf and the Goslings, Grimm
The Ugly Duckling, Andersen
The Old Woman and Her Pig[1]
The Cat and the Parrot[1]
THIRD GROUP
Little Black Sambo
Why the Bear has a Short Tail[2]
Why the Fox has a White Tip to his Tail[2]
Why the Wren flies low[2]
Jack and the Beanstalk
The Golden Fleece[3]
The Pig Brother[1]
The Ugly Duckling, Andersen
How the Mole became Blind[2]
How Fire was brought to the Indians[2]
Echo[4]
Why the Morning Glory Climbs[1]
The Bay of Winds[3]
Pandora's Box[4]
The Little Match Girl, Andersen
The Story of Wylie[1]
FOURTH GROUP
Arachne[4]
The Nuernberg Stove[3]
Clytie[3]
Latona and the Frogs[4]
Dick Whittington and his Cat
Proserpine[4]
The Bell of Atri[5]
The Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon, Edgar
(from _Stories from the Earthly Paradise_)
The Guardians of the Door, Wm. Canton
(from _A Child's Book of Saints_)
The Little Lame Prince, Mrs Craik
Narcissus[5]
The Little Hero of Haarlem[6]
The Bar of Gold[5]
The Golden Fish[5]
Saint Christopher[5]
The Four Seasons[7]
A further source for excellent stories put into a form which is
suggestive for purposes of retelling to children is the series of graded
reading books known as _Harrap's Dramatic Readers_.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _How to Tell Stories to Children._
[2] In _How to Tell Stories to Children_, page 145.
[3] _How to Tell Stories to Children._
[4] _Nature Myths_, Florence Holbrook.
[5] _Favourite Greek Myths_, Lilian S. Hyde.
[6] _Legends of Greece and Rome_, G.H. Kupfer.
[7] _Folk Tales from Many Lands_, Lilian Gask.
STORY-TELLING IN TEACHING ENGLISH
I have to speak now of a phase of elementary education which lies very
close to my warmest interest, which, indeed, could easily become an
active hobby if other interests did not beneficently tug at my skirts
when I am minded to mount and ride too wildly. It is the hobby of many
of you who are teachers, also, and I know you want to hear it discussed.
I mean the growing effort to teach English and English literature to
children in the natural way: by speaking and hearing,--orally.
The structure of the language and the choice of words are dark matters
to most of our young people; this has long been acknowledged and
struggled against. But even darker, and quite equally destructive to
English expression, is their state of mind regarding pronunciation,
enunciation, and voice. It is the essential connection of these elements
with English speech that we have been so slow to realise. We have felt
that they were externals, desirable but not necessary adjuncts--pretty
tags of an exceptional gift or culture. Many an intelligent person will
say, "I don't care much about _how_ you say a thing; it is _what_ you
say that counts." He cannot see that voice and enunciation and
pronunciation are essentials. But they are. You can no more help
affecting the meaning of your words by the way you say them than you can
prevent the expressions of your face from carrying a message; the
message may be perverted by an uncouth habit, but it will no less surely
insist on recognition.
The fact is that speech is a method of carrying ideas from one human
soul to another, by way of the ear. And these ideas are very complex.
They are not unmixed emanations of pure intellect, transmitted to pure
intellect: they are compounded of emotions, thoughts, fancies, and are
enhanced or impeded in transmission by the use of word-symbols which
have acquired, by association, infinite complexities in themselves. The
mood of the moment, the especial weight of a turn of thought, the desire
of the speaker to share his exact soul-concept with you,--these seek far
more subtle means than the mere rendering of certain vocal signs; they
demand such variations and delicate adjustments of sound as will
inevitably affect the listening mind with the response desired.
There is no "what" without the "how" in speech. The same written
sentence becomes two diametrically opposite ideas, given opposing
inflection and accompanying voice-effect. "He stood in the front rank
of the battle" can be made praiseful affirmation, scornful scepticism,
or simple question, by a simple varying of voice and inflection. This is
the more unmistakable way in which the "how" affects the "what." Just as
true is the less obvious fact. The same written sentiment, spoken by a
Lord Rosebery and by a man from White chapel or an uneducated ploughman,
is not the same to the listener. In one case the sentiment comes to the
mind's ear with certain completing and enhancing qualities of sound
which give it accuracy and poignancy. The words themselves retain all
their possible suggestiveness in the speaker's just and clear
enunciation, and have a borrowed beauty, besides, from the associations
of fine habit betrayed in the voice and manner of speech. And, further,
the immense personal equation shows itself in the beauty and power of
the vocal expressiveness, which carries shades of meaning, unguessed
delicacies of emotion, intimations of beauty, to every ear. In the other
case, the thought is clouded by unavoidable suggestions of ignorance and
ugliness, brought by the pronunciation and voice, even to an
unanalytical ear; the meaning is obscured by inaccurate inflection and
uncertain or corrupt enunciation; but, worst of all, the personal
atmosphere, the aroma, of the idea has been lost in transmission
through a clumsy, ill-fitted medium.
The thing said may look the same on a printed page, but it is not the
same when spoken. And it is the spoken sentence which is the original
and the usual mode of communication.
The widespread poverty of expression in English, which is thus a matter
of "how," and to which we are awakening, must be corrected chiefly, at
least at first, by the elementary schools. The home is the ideal place
for it, but the average home in many districts is no longer a possible
place for it. The child of parents poorly educated and bred in limited
circumstances, the child of powerful provincial influences, must all
depend on the school for standards of English.
And it is the elementary school which must meet the need, if it is to be
met at all. For the conception of English expression which I am talking
of can find no mode of instruction adequate to its meaning, save in
constant appeal to the ear, at an age so early that unconscious habit is
formed. No rules, no analytical instruction in later development, can
accomplish what is needed. Hearing and speaking; imitating, unwittingly
and wittingly, a good model; it is to this method we must look for
redemption from present conditions.
I believe we are on the eve of a real revolution in English
teaching,--only it is a revolution which will not break the peace. It
will introduce a larger proportion of oral work than has hitherto been
contemplated in secondary school work. It will recognise the fact that
English is primarily something spoken with the mouth and heard with the
ear. And this recognition will have greatest weight in the systems of
elementary teaching.
It is as an aid in oral teaching of English that story-telling in school
finds its second value; ethics is the first ground of its usefulness,
English the second,--and after these, the others. It is, too, for the
oral uses that the secondary forms of story-telling are so available. By
secondary I mean those devices which I have tried to indicate, as used
by many teachers, in the chapter on "Specific Schoolroom Uses," in my
earlier book. They are retelling, dramatisation, and forms of seat-work.
All of these are a great power in the hands of a wise teacher. If
combined with much attention to voice and enunciation in the recital of
poetry, and with much good reading aloud _by the teacher_, they will go
far toward setting a standard and developing good habit.
But their provinces must not be confused or overestimated. I trust I may
be pardoned for offering a caution or two to the enthusiastic advocate
of these methods,--cautions the need of which has been forced upon me,
in experience with schools.
A teacher who uses the oral story as an English feature with little
children must never lose sight of the fact that it is an aid in
unconscious development; not a factor in studied, conscious improvement.
This truth cannot be too strongly realised. Other exercises, in
sufficiency, give the opportunity for regulated effort for definite
results, but the story is one of the play-forces. Its use in English
teaching is most valuable when the teacher has a keen appreciation of
the natural order of growth in the art of expression: that art requires,
as the old rhetorics used often to put it, "a natural facility,
succeeded by an acquired difficulty." In other words, the power of
expression depends, first, on something more fundamental than the
art-element; the basis of it is something to say, _accompanied by an
urgent desire to say it_, and _yielded to with freedom_; only after this
stage is reached can the art-phase be of any use. The "why" and "how,"
the analytical and constructive phases, have no natural place in this
first vital epoch.
Precisely here, however, does the dramatising of stories and the
paper-cutting, etc., become useful. A fine and thoughtful principal of a
great school asked me, recently, with real concern, about the growing
use of such devices. He said, "Paper-cutting is good, but what has it
to do with English?" And then he added, "The children use abominable
language when they play the stories; can that directly aid them to speak
good English?" His observation was close and correct, and his
conservatism more valuable than the enthusiasm of some of his colleagues
who have advocated sweeping use of the supplementary work. But his point
of view ignored the basis of expression, which is to my mind so
important. Paper-cutting is external to English, of course. Its only
connection is in its power to correlate different forms of expression,
and to react on speech-expression through sense-stimulus. But playing
the story is a closer relative to English than this. It helps,
amazingly, in giving the "something to say, the urgent desire to say
it," and the freedom in trying. Never mind the crudities,--at least, at
the time; work only for joyous freedom, inventiveness, and natural forms
of reproduction of the ideas given. Look for very gradual changes in
speech, through the permeating power of imitation, but do not forget
that this is the stage of expression which inevitably precedes art.
All this will mean that no corrections are made, except in flagrant
cases of slang or grammar, though all bad slips are mentally noted, for
introduction at a more favourable time. It will mean that the teacher
will respect the continuity of thought and interest as completely as she
would wish an audience to respect her occasional prosy periods if she
were reading a report. She will remember, of course, that she is not
training actors for amateur theatricals, however tempting her
show-material may be; she is simply letting the children play with
expression, just as a gymnasium teacher introduces muscular play,--for
power through relaxation.
When the time comes that the actors lose their unconsciousness it is the
end of the story-play. Drilled work, the beginning of the art, is then
the necessity.
I have indicated that the children may be left undisturbed in their
crudities and occasional absurdities. The teacher, on the other hand,
must avoid, with great judgment, certain absurdities which can easily be
initiated by her. The first direful possibility is in the choice of
material. It is very desirable that children should not be allowed to
dramatise stories of a kind so poetic, so delicate, or so potentially
valuable that the material is in danger of losing future beauty to the
pupils through its present crude handling. Mother Goose is a hardy old
lady, and will not suffer from the grasp of the seven-year-old; and the
familiar fables and tales of the "Goldilocks" variety have a firmness of
surface which does not let the glamour rub off; but stories in which
there is a hint of the beauty just beyond the palpable--or of a dignity
suggestive of developed literature--are sorely hurt in their
metamorphosis, and should be protected from it. They are for telling
only.
Another point on which it is necessary to exercise reserve is in the
degree to which any story can be acted. In the justifiable desire to
bring a large number of children into the action one must not lose sight
of the sanity and propriety of the presentation. For example, one must
not make a ridiculous caricature, where a picture, however crude, is the
intention. Personally represent only such things as are definitely and
dramatically personified in the story. If a natural force, the wind, for
example, is represented as talking and acting like a human being in the
story, it can be imaged by a person in the play; but if it remains a
part of the picture in the story, performing only its natural motions,
it is a caricature to enact it as a role. The most powerful instance of
a mistake of this kind which I have ever seen will doubtless make my
meaning clear. In playing a pretty story about animals and children,
some children in an elementary school were made by the teacher to take
the part of the sea. In the story, the sea was said to "beat upon the
shore," as a sea would, without doubt. In the play the children were
allowed to thump the floor lustily, as a presentation of their watery
functions! It was unconscionably funny. Fancy presenting even the
crudest image of the mighty sea, surging up on the shore, by a row of
infants squatted on the floor and pounding with their fists! Such
pitfalls can be avoided by the simple rule of personifying only
characters that actually behave like human beings.
A caution which directly concerns the art of story-telling itself, must
be added here. There is a definite distinction between the arts of
narration and dramatisation which must never be overlooked. Do not,
yourself, half tell and half act the story; and do not let the children
do it. It is done in very good schools, sometimes, because an enthusiasm
for realistic and lively presentation momentarily obscures the faculty
of discrimination. A much loved and respected teacher whom I recently
listened to, and who will laugh if she recognises her blunder here,
offers a good "bad example" in this particular. She said to an attentive
audience of students that she had at last, with much difficulty, brought
herself to the point where she could forget herself in her story: where
she could, for instance, hop, like the fox, when she told the story of
the "sour grapes." She said, "It was hard at first, but now it is a
matter of course; _and the children do it too, when they tell the
story_." That was the pity! I saw the illustration myself a little
later. The child who played fox began with a story: he said, "Once there
was an old fox, and he saw some grapes"; then the child walked to the
other side of the room, and looked at an imaginary vine, and said, "He
wanted some; he thought they would taste good, so he jumped for them";
at this-point the child did jump, like his role; then he continued with
his story, "but he couldn't get them." And so he proceeded, with a
constant alternation of narrative and dramatisation which was enough to
make one dizzy.
The trouble in such work is, plainly, a lack of discriminating analysis.
Telling a story necessarily implies non-identification of the teller
with the event; he relates what occurs or occurred, outside of his
circle of consciousness. Acting a play necessarily implies
identification of the actor with the event; he presents to you a picture
of the thing, in himself. It is a difference wide and clear, and the
least failure to recognise it confuses the audience and injures both
arts.
In the preceding instances of secondary uses of story-telling I have
come some distance from the great point, the fundamental point, of the
power of imitation in breeding good habit. This power is less noticeably
active in the dramatising than in simple retelling; in the listening and
the retelling, it is dominant for good. The child imitates what he
hears you say and sees you do, and the way you say and do it, far more
closely in the story-hour than in any lesson-period. He is in a more
absorbent state, as it were, because there is no preoccupation of
effort. Here is the great opportunity of the cultured teacher; here is
the appalling opportunity of the careless or ignorant teacher. For the
implications of the oral theory of teaching English are evident,
concerning the immense importance of the teacher's habit. This is what
it all comes to ultimately: the teacher of young children must be a
person who can speak English as it should be spoken,--purely, clearly,
pleasantly, and with force.
It is a hard ideal to live up to, but it is a valuable ideal to try to
live up to. And one of the best chances to work toward attainment is in
telling stories, for there you have definite material, which you can
work into shape and practise on in private. That practice ought to
include conscious thought as to one's general manner in the schoolroom,
and intelligent effort to understand and improve one's own voice. I hope
I shall not seem to assume the dignity of an authority which no personal
taste can claim, if I beg a hearing for the following elements of manner
and voice, which appeal to me as essential. They will, probably, appear
self-evident to my readers, yet they are often found wanting in the
public school teacher; it is _so_ much easier to say "what were good to
do" than to do it!
Three elements of manner seem to me an essential adjunct to the
personality of a teacher of little children: courtesy, repose, vitality.
Repose and vitality explain themselves; by courtesy I specifically do
_not_ mean the habit of mind which contents itself with drilling the
children in "Good-mornings" and in hat-liftings. I mean the attitude of
mind which recognises in the youngest, commonest child the potential
dignity, majesty, and mystery of the developed human soul. Genuine
reverence for the humanity of the "other fellow" marks a definite degree
of courtesy in the intercourse of adults, does it not? And the same
quality of respect, tempered by the demands of a wise control, is
exactly what is needed among children. Again and again, in dealing with
young minds, the teacher who respects personality as sacred, no matter
how embryonic it be, wins the victories which count for true education.
Yet, all too often, we forget the claims of this reverence, in the
presence of the annoyances and the needed corrections.
As for voice: work in schoolrooms brings two opposing mistakes
constantly before me: one is the repressed voice, and the other, the
forced. The best way to avoid either extreme, is to keep in mind that
the ideal is development of one's own natural voice, along its own
natural lines. A "quiet, gentle voice" is conscientiously aimed at by
many young teachers, with so great zeal that the tone becomes painfully
repressed, "breathy," and timid. This is quite as unpleasant as a loud
voice, which is, in turn, a frequent result of early admonitions to
"speak up." Neither is natural. It is wise to determine the natural
volume and pitch of one's speaking voice by a number of tests, made when
one is thoroughly rested, at ease, and alone. Find out where your voice
lies when it is left to itself, under favourable conditions, by reading
something aloud or by listening to yourself as you talk to an intimate
friend. Then practise keeping it in that general range, unless it prove
to have a distinct fault, such as a nervous sharpness, or hoarseness. A
quiet voice is good; a hushed voice is abnormal. A clear tone is
restful, but a loud one is wearying.
Perhaps the common-sense way of setting a standard for one's own voice
is to remember that the purpose of a speaking voice is to communicate
with others; their ears and minds are the receivers of our tones. For
this purpose, evidently, a voice should be, first of all, easy to hear;
next, pleasant to hear; next, susceptible of sufficient variation to
express a wide range of meaning; and finally, indicative of personality.
Is it too quixotic to urge teachers who tell stories to little children
to bear these thoughts, and better ones of their own, in mind? Not, I
think, if it be fully accepted that the story hour, as a play hour, is a
time peculiarly open to influences affecting the imitative faculty; that
this faculty is especially valuable in forming fine habits of speech;
and that an increasingly high and general standard of English speech is
one of our greatest needs and our most instant opportunities in the
schools of to-day.
And now we come to the stories!
STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN
TWO LITTLE RIDDLES IN RHYME[8]
There's a garden that I ken,
Full of little gentlemen;
Little caps of blue they wear,
And green ribbons, very fair.
(Flax.)
From house to house he goes,
A messenger small and slight,
And whether it rains or snows,
He sleeps outside in the night.
(The path.)
THE LITTLE YELLOW TULIP
Once there was a little yellow Tulip, and she lived down in a little
dark house under the ground. One day she was sitting there, all by
herself, and it was very still. Suddenly, she heard a little _tap, tap,
tap_, at the door.
"Who is that?" she said.
"It's the Rain, and I want to come in," said a soft, sad, little voice.
"No, you can't come in," the little Tulip said.
By and by she heard another little _tap, tap, tap_ on the window-pane.
"Who is there?" she said.
The same soft little voice answered, "It's the Rain, and I want to come
in!"
"No, you can't come in," said the little Tulip.
Then it was very still for a long time. At last, there came a little
rustling, whispering sound, all round the window: _rustle, whisper,
whisper_.
"Who is there?" said the little Tulip.
"It's the Sunshine," said a little, soft, cheery voice, "and I want to
come in!"
"N--no," said the little Tulip, "you can't come in." And she sat still
again.
Pretty soon she heard the sweet little rustling noise at the keyhole.
"Who is there?" she said.
"It's the Sunshine," said the cheery little voice, "and I want to come
in, I want to come in!"
"No, no," said the little Tulip, "you cannot come in."
By and by, as she sat so still, she heard _tap, tap, tap_, and _rustle,
whisper, rustle_, up and down the window-pane, and on the door and at
the keyhole.
"_Who is there?_" she said.
"It's the Rain and the Sun, the Rain and the Sun," said two little
voices, together, "and we want to come in! We want to come in! We want
to come in!"
"Dear, dear!" said the little Tulip, "if there are two of you, I s'pose
I shall have to let you in."
So she opened the door a little wee crack, and in they came. And one
took one of her little hands, and the other took her other little hand,
and they ran, ran, ran with her right up to the top of the ground. Then
they said,--
"Poke your head through!"
So she poked her head through; and she was in the midst of a beautiful
garden. It was early springtime, and few other flowers were to be seen;
but she had the birds to sing to her and the sun to shine upon her
pretty yellow head. She was so pleased, too, when the children exclaimed
with pleasure that now they knew that the beautiful spring had come!
FOOTNOTES:
[8] These riddles were taken from the Gaelic, and are charming examples
of the naive beauty of the old Irish, and of Dr Hyde's accurate and
sympathetic modern rendering. From _Beside the Fire_ (David Nutt).
THE COCK-A-DOO-DLE-DOO[9]
A very little boy made this story up "out of his head," and told it to
his papa. I think you littlest ones will like it; I do.
Once upon a time there was a little boy, and he wanted to be a
cock-a-doo-dle-doo. So he was a cock-a-doo-dle-doo. And he wanted to fly
up into the sky. So he did fly up into the sky. And he wanted to get
wings and a tail So he did get some wings and a tail.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] From _The Ignominy of being Grown Up_, by Dr. Samuel M. Crothers, in
the _Atlantic Monthly_ for July 1906.
THE CLOUD[10]
One hot summer morning a little Cloud rose out of the sea and floated
lightly and happily across the blue sky. Far below lay the earth, brown,
dry, and desolate, from drought. The little Cloud could see the poor
people of the earth working and suffering in the hot fields, while she
herself floated on the morning breeze, hither and thither, without a
care.
"Oh, if I could only help the poor people down there!" she thought. "If
I could but make their work easier, or give the hungry ones food, or the
thirsty a drink!"
And as the day passed, and the Cloud became larger, this wish to do
something for the people of earth was ever greater in her heart.
On earth it grew hotter and hotter; the sun burned down so fiercely that
the people were fainting in its rays; it seemed as if they must die of
heat, and yet they were obliged to go on with their work, for they were
very poor. Sometimes they stood and looked up at the Cloud, as if they
were praying, and saying, "Ah, if you could help us!"
"I will help you; I will!" said the Cloud. And she began to sink softly
down toward the earth.
But suddenly, as she floated down, she remembered something which had
been told her when she was a tiny Cloud-child, in the lap of Mother
Ocean: it had been whispered that if the Clouds go too near the earth
they die. When she remembered this she held herself from sinking, and
swayed here and there on the breeze, thinking,--thinking. But at last
she stood quite still, and spoke boldly and proudly. She said, "Men of
earth, I will help you, come what may!"
The thought made her suddenly marvellously big and strong and powerful.
Never had she dreamed that she could be so big. Like a mighty angel of
blessing she stood above the earth, and lifted her head and spread her
wings far over the fields and woods. She was so great, so majestic, that
men and animals were awe-struck at the sight; the trees and the grasses
bowed before her; yet all the earth-creatures felt that she meant them
well.
"Yes, I will help you," cried the Cloud once more. "Take me to
yourselves; I will give my life for you!"
As she said the words a wonderful light glowed from her heart, the sound
of thunder rolled through the sky, and a love greater than words can
tell filled the Cloud; down, down, close to the earth she swept, and
gave up her life in a blessed, healing shower of rain.
That rain was the Cloud's great deed; it was her death, too; but it was
also her glory. Over the whole country-side, as far as the rain fell, a
lovely rainbow sprang its arch, and all the brightest rays of heaven
made its colours; it was the last greeting of a love so great that it
sacrificed itself.
Soon that, too, was gone, but long, long afterward the men and animals
who were saved by the Cloud kept her blessing in their hearts.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] Adapted from the German of Robert Reinick's _Maerchen-, Lieder-und
Geschichtenbuch_ (Velhagen und Klasing, Bielefeld and Leipsic).
THE LITTLE RED HEN
The little Red Hen was in the farmyard with her chickens, when she found
a grain of wheat.
"Who will plant this wheat?" she said.
"Not I," said the Goose.
"Not I," said the Duck.
"I will, then," said the little Red Hen, and she planted the grain of
wheat.
When the wheat was ripe she said, "Who will take this wheat to the
mill?"
"Not I," said the Goose.
"Not I," said the Duck.
"I will, then," said the little Red Hen, and she took the wheat to the
mill.
When she brought the flour home she said, "Who will make some bread with
this flour?"
"Not I," said the Goose.
"Not I," said the Duck.
"I will, then," said the little Red Hen.
When the bread was baked, she said, "Who will eat this bread?"
"I will," said the Goose.
"I will," said the Duck.
"No, you won't," said the little Red Hen. "I shall eat it myself. Cluck!
cluck!" And she called her chickens to help her.
THE GINGERBREAD MAN[11]
Once upon a time there was a little old woman and a little old man, and
they lived all alone in a little old house. They hadn't any little
girls or any little boys, at all. So one day, the little old woman made
a boy out of gingerbread; she made him a chocolate jacket, and put
raisins on it for buttons; his eyes were made of fine, fat currants; his
mouth was made of rose-coloured sugar; and he had a gay little cap of
orange sugar-candy. When the little old woman had rolled him out, and
dressed him up, and pinched his gingerbread shoes into shape, she put
him in a pan; then she put the pan in the oven and shut the door; and
she thought, "Now I shall have a little boy of my own."
When it was time for the Gingerbread Boy to be done she opened the oven
door and pulled out the pan. Out jumped the little Gingerbread Boy on to
the floor, and away he ran, out of the door and down the street! The
little old woman and the little old man ran after him as fast as they
could, but he just laughed, and shouted,--
"Run! run! as fast as you can!
"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And they couldn't catch him.
The little Gingerbread Boy ran on and on, until he came to a cow, by the
roadside. "Stop, little Gingerbread Boy," said the cow; "I want to eat
you." The little Gingerbread Boy laughed and said,--
"I have run away from a little old woman,
"And a little old man,
"And I can run away from you, I can!"
And, as the cow chased him, he looked over his shoulder and cried,--
"Run! run! as fast as you can!
"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And the cow couldn't catch him.
The little Gingerbread Boy ran on, and on, and on, till he came to a
horse, in the pasture. "Please stop, little Gingerbread Boy," said the
horse, "you look very good to eat." But the little Gingerbread Boy
laughed out loud. "Oho! oho!" he said,--
"I have run away from a little old woman,
"A little old man,
"A cow,
"And I can run away from you, I can!"
And, as the horse chased him, he looked over his shoulder and cried,--
"Run! run! as fast as you can!
"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And the horse couldn't catch him.
By and by the little Gingerbread Boy came to a barn full of threshers.
When the threshers smelt the Gingerbread Boy, they tried to pick him up,
and said, "Don't run so fast, little Gingerbread Boy; you look very good
to eat."
But the little Gingerbread Boy ran harder than ever, and as he ran he
cried out,--
"I have run away from a little old woman,
"A little old man,
"A cow,
"A horse,
"And I can run away from you, I can!"
And when he found that he was ahead of the threshers, he turned and
shouted back to them,--
"Run! run! as fast as you can!
"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And the threshers couldn't catch him.
Then the little Gingerbread Boy ran faster than ever. He ran and ran
until he came to a field full of mowers. When the mowers saw how fine he
looked, they ran after him, calling out, "Wait a bit! wait a bit, little
Gingerbread Boy, we wish to eat you!" But the little Gingerbread Boy
laughed harder than ever, and ran like the wind. "Oho! oho!" he said,--
"I have run away from a little old woman,
"A little old man,
"A cow,
"A horse,
"A barn full of threshers,
"And I can run away from you, I can!"
And when he found that he was ahead of the mowers, he turned and shouted
back to them,--
"Run! run! as fast as you can!
"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And the mowers couldn't catch him.
By this time the little Gingerbread Boy was so proud that he didn't
think anybody could catch him. Pretty soon he saw a fox coming across a
field. The fox looked at him and began to run. But the little
Gingerbread Boy shouted across to him, "You can't catch me!" The fox
began to run faster, and the little Gingerbread Boy ran faster, and as
he ran he chuckled,--
"I have run away from a little old woman,
"A little old man,
"A cow,
"A horse,
"A barn full of threshers,
"A field full of mowers,
"And I can run away from you, I can!
"Run! run! as fast as you can!
"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
"Why," said the fox, "I would not catch you if I could. I would not
think of disturbing you."
Just then, the little Gingerbread Boy came to a river. He could not swim
across, and he wanted to keep running away from the cow and the horse
and the people.
"Jump on my tail, and I will take you across," said the fox.
So the little Gingerbread Boy jumped on the fox's tail, and the fox
began to swim the river. When he was a little way from the bank he
turned his head, and said, "You are too heavy on my tail, little
Gingerbread Boy, I fear I shall let you get wet; jump on my back."
The little Gingerbread Boy jumped on his back.
A little farther out, the fox said, "I am afraid the water will cover
you, there; jump on my shoulder."
The little Gingerbread Boy jumped on his shoulder.
In the middle of the stream the fox said, "Oh, dear! little Gingerbread
Boy, my shoulder is sinking; jump on my nose, and I can hold you out of
water."
So the little Gingerbread Boy jumped on his nose.
The minute the fox reached the bank he threw back his head, and gave a
snap!
"Dear me!" said the little Gingerbread Boy, "I am a quarter gone!" The
next minute he said, "Why, I am half gone!" The next minute he said, "My
goodness gracious, I am three quarters gone!"
And after that, the little Gingerbread Boy never said anything more at
all.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] I have tried to give this story in the most familiar form; it
varies a good deal in the hands of different story-tellers, but this is
substantially the version I was "brought up on."
THE LITTLE JACKALS AND THE LION[12]
Once there was a great big jungle; and in the jungle there was a great
big Lion; and the Lion was king of the jungle. Whenever he wanted
anything to eat, all he had to do was to come up out of his cave in the
stones and earth and _roar_. When he had roared a few times all the
little people of the jungle were so frightened that they came out of
their holes and hiding-places and ran, this way and that, to get away.
Then, of course, the Lion could see where they were. And he pounced on
them, killed them, and gobbled them up.
He did this so often that at last there was not a single thing left
alive in the jungle besides the Lion, except two little Jackals,--a
little father Jackal and a little mother Jackal.
They had run away so many times that they were quite thin and very
tired, and they could not run so fast any more. And one day the Lion was
so near that the little mother Jackal grew frightened; she said,--
"Oh, Father Jackal, Father Jackal! I b'lieve our time has come! the Lion
will surely catch us this time!"
"Pooh! nonsense, mother!" said the little father Jackal. "Come, we'll
run on a bit!"
And they ran, ran, ran very fast, and the Lion did not catch them that
time.
But at last a day came when the Lion was nearer still and the little
mother Jackal was frightened almost to death.
"Oh, Father Jackal, Father Jackal!" she cried; "I'm sure our time has
come! The Lion's going to eat us this time!"
"Now, mother, don't you fret," said the little father Jackal; "you do
just as I tell you, and it will be all right."
Then what did those cunning little Jackals do but take hold of hands and
run up towards the Lion, as if they had meant to come all the time. When
he saw them coming he stood up, and roared in a terrible voice,--
"You miserable little wretches, come here and be eaten, at once! Why
didn't you come before?"
The father Jackal bowed very low.
"Indeed, Father Lion," he said, "we meant to come before; we knew we
ought to come before; and we wanted to come before; but every time we
started to come, a dreadful great lion came out of the woods and roared
at us, and frightened us so that we ran away."
"What do you mean?" roared the Lion. "There's no other lion in this
jungle, and you know it!"
"Indeed, indeed, Father Lion," said the little Jackal, "I know that is
what everybody thinks; but indeed and indeed there is another lion! And
he is as much bigger than you as you are bigger than I! His face is much
more terrible, and his roar far, far more dreadful. Oh, he is far more
fearful than you!"
At that the Lion stood up and roared so that the jungle shook.
"Take me to this Lion," he said; "I'll eat him up and then I'll eat you
up."
The little Jackals danced on ahead, and the Lion stalked behind. They
led him to a place where there was a round, deep well of clear water.
They went round on one side of it, and the Lion stalked up to the other.
"He lives down there, Father Lion!" said the little Jackal. "He lives
down there!"
The Lion came close and looked down into the water,--and a lion's face
looked back at him out of the water!
When he saw that, the Lion roared and shook his mane and showed his
teeth. And the lion in the water shook his mane and showed his teeth.
The Lion above shook his mane again and growled again, and made a
terrible face. But the lion in the water made just as terrible a one,
back. The Lion above couldn't stand that. He leaped down into the well
after the other lion.
But, of course, as you know very well, there wasn't any other lion! It
was only the reflection in the water!
So the poor old Lion floundered about and floundered about, and as he
couldn't get up the steep sides of the well, he was at last drowned. And
when he was drowned, the little Jackals took hold of hands and danced
round the well, and sang,--
"The Lion is dead! The Lion is dead!
"We have killed the great Lion who would have killed us!
"The Lion is dead! The Lion is dead!
"Ao! Ao! Ao!"
FOOTNOTES:
[12] The four stories of the little Jackal, in this book, are adapted
from stories in _Old Deccan Days_, by Mary Frere (John Murray), a
collection of orally transmitted Hindu folk tales, which every teacher
would gain by knowing. In the Hindu animal legends the Jackal seems to
play the role assigned in Germanic lore to Reynard the Fox, and to
"Bre'r Rabbit" in the negro stories of Southern America; he is the
clever and humorous trickster who usually comes out of an encounter with
a whole skin, and turns the laugh on his enemy, however mighty he may
be.[A]
THE COUNTRY MOUSE AND THE CITY MOUSE[13]
Once a little mouse who lived in the country invited a little mouse
from the city to visit him. When the little City Mouse sat down to
dinner he was surprised to find that the Country Mouse had nothing to
eat except barley and grain.
"Really," he said, "you do not live well at all; you should see how I
live! I have all sorts of fine things to eat every day. You must come to
visit me and see how nice it is to live in the city."
The little Country Mouse was glad to do this, and after a while he went
to the city to visit his friend.
The very first place that the City Mouse took the Country Mouse to see
was the kitchen cupboard of the house where he lived. There, on the
lowest shelf, behind some stone jars, stood a big paper bag of brown
sugar. The little City Mouse gnawed a hole in the bag and invited his
friend to nibble for himself.
The two little mice nibbled and nibbled, and the Country Mouse thought
he had never tasted anything so delicious in his life. He was just
thinking how lucky the City Mouse was, when suddenly the door opened
with a bang, and in came the cook to get some flour.
"Run!" whispered the City Mouse. And they ran as fast as they could to
the little hole where they had come in. The little Country Mouse was
shaking all over when they got safely away, but the little City Mouse
said, "That is nothing; she will soon go away and then we can go back."
After the cook had gone away and shut the door they stole softly back,
and this time the City Mouse had something new to show: he took the
little Country Mouse into a corner on the top shelf, where a big jar of
dried prunes stood open. After much tugging and pulling they got a large
dried prune out of the jar on to the shelf and began to nibble at it.
This was even better than the brown sugar. The little Country Mouse
liked the taste so much that he could hardly nibble fast enough. But all
at once, in the midst of their eating, there came a scratching at the
door and a sharp, loud _miaouw_!
"What is that?" said the Country Mouse. The City Mouse just whispered,
"Sh!" and ran as fast as he could to the hole. The Country Mouse ran
after, you may be sure, as fast as _he_ could. As soon as they were out
of danger the City Mouse said, "That was the old Cat; she is the best
mouser in town,--if she once gets you, you are lost."
"This is very terrible," said the little Country Mouse; "let us not go
back to the cupboard again."
"No," said the City Mouse, "I will take you to the cellar; there is
something specially fine there."
So the City Mouse took his little friend down the cellar stairs and into
a big cupboard where there were many shelves. On the shelves were jars
of butter, and cheeses in bags and out of bags. Overhead hung bunches of
sausages, and there were spicy apples in barrels standing about. It
smelt so good that it went to the little Country Mouse's head. He ran
along the shelf and nibbled at a cheese here, and a bit of butter there,
until he saw an especially rich, very delicious-smelling piece of cheese
on a queer little stand in a corner. He was just on the point of putting
his teeth into the cheese when the City Mouse saw him.
"Stop! stop!" cried the City Mouse. "That is a trap!"
The little Country Mouse stopped and said, "What is a trap?"
"That thing is a trap," said the little City Mouse. "The minute you
touch the cheese with your teeth something comes down on your head
hard, and you're dead."
The little Country Mouse looked at the trap, and he looked at the
cheese, and he looked at the little City Mouse. "If you'll excuse me,"
he said, "I think I will go home. I'd rather have barley and grain to
eat and eat it in peace and comfort, than have brown sugar and dried
prunes and cheese,--and be frightened to death all the time!"
So the little Country Mouse went back to his home, and there he stayed
all the rest of his life.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] The following story of the two mice, with the similar fables of
_The Boy who cried Wolf_, _The Frog King_, and _The Sun_ _and the Wind_,
are given here with the hope that they may be of use to the many
teachers who find the over-familiar material of the fables difficult to
adapt, and who are yet aware of the great usefulness of the stories to
young minds. A certain degree of vividness and amplitude must be added
to the compact statement of the famous collections, and yet it is not
wise to change the style-effect of a fable, wholly. I venture to give
these versions, not as perfect models, of course, but as renderings
which have been acceptable to children, and which I believe retain the
original point simply and strongly.
LITTLE JACK ROLLAROUND[14]
Once upon a time there was a wee little boy who slept in a tiny
trundle-bed near his mother's great bed. The trundle-bed had castors on
it so that it could be rolled about, and there was nothing in the world
the little boy liked so much as to have it rolled. When his mother came
to bed he would cry, "Roll me around! roll me around!" And his mother
would put out her hand from the big bed and push the little bed back and
forth till she was tired. The little boy could never get enough; so for
this he was called "Little Jack Rollaround."
One night he had made his mother roll him about, till she fell asleep,
and even then he kept crying, "Roll me around! roll me around!" His
mother pushed him about in her sleep, until her slumber became too
sound; then she stopped. But Little Jack Rollaround kept on crying,
"Roll around! roll around!"
By and by the Moon peeped in at the window. He saw a funny sight: Little
Jack Rollaround was lying in his trundle-bed, and he had put up one
little fat leg for a mast, and fastened the corner of his wee shirt to
it for a sail; and he was blowing at it with all his might, and saying,
"Roll around! roll around!" Slowly, slowly, the little trundle-bed boat
began to move; it sailed along the floor and up the wall and across the
ceiling and down again!
"More! more!" cried Little Jack Rollaround; and the little boat sailed
faster up the wall, across the ceiling, down the wall, and over the
floor. The Moon laughed at the sight; but when Little Jack Rollaround
saw the Moon, he called out, "Open the door, old Moon! I want to roll
through the town, so that the people can see me!"
The Moon could not open the door, but he shone in through the keyhole,
in a broad band. And Little Jack Rollaround sailed his trundle-bed boat
up the beam, through the keyhole, and into the street.
"Make a light, old Moon," he said; "I want the people to see me!"
So the good Moon made a light and went along with him, and the little
trundle-bed boat went sailing down the streets into the main street of
the village. They rolled past the town hall and the schoolhouse and the
church; but nobody saw little Jack Rollaround, because everybody was in
bed, asleep.
"Why don't the people come to see me?" he shouted.
High up on the church steeple, the Weather-vane answered, "It is no time
for people to be in the streets; decent folk are in their beds."
"Then I'll go to the woods, so that the animals may see me," said Little
Jack. "Come along, old Moon, and make a light!"
The good Moon went along and made a light, and they came to the forest.
"Roll! roll!" cried the little boy; and the trundle-bed went trundling
among the trees in the great wood, scaring up the squirrels and
startling the little leaves on the trees. The poor old Moon began to
have a bad time of it, for the tree-trunks got in his way so that he
could not go so fast as the bed, and every time he got behind, the
little boy called, "Hurry up, old Moon, I want the beasts to see me!"
But all the animals were asleep, and nobody at all looked at Little Jack
Rollaround except an old White Owl; and all she said was, "Who are
you?"
The little boy did not like her, so he blew harder, and the trundle-bed
boat went sailing through the forest till it came to the end of the
world.
"I must go home now; it is late," said the Moon.
"I will go with you; make a path!" said Little Jack Rollaround.
The kind Moon made a path up to the sky, and up sailed the little bed
into the midst of the sky. All the little bright Stars were there with
their nice little lamps. And when he saw them, that naughty Little Jack
Rollaround began to tease. "Out of the way, there! I am coming!" he
shouted, and sailed the trundle-bed boat straight at them. He bumped the
little Stars right and left, all over the sky, until every one of them
put his little lamp out and left it dark.
"Do not treat the little Stars so," said the good Moon.
But Jack Rollaround only behaved the worse: "Get out of the way, old
Moon!" he shouted, "I am coming!"
And he steered the little trundle-bed boat straight into the old Moon's
face, and bumped his nose!
This was too much for the good Moon; he put out his big light, all at
once, and left the sky pitch-black.
"Make a light, old Moon! Make a light!" shouted the little boy. But the
Moon answered never a word, and Jack Rollaround could not see where to
steer. He went rolling criss-cross, up and down, all over the sky,
knocking into the planets and stumbling into the clouds, till he did not
know where he was.
Suddenly he saw a big yellow light at the very edge of the sky. He
thought it was the Moon. "Look out, I am coming!" he cried, and steered
for the light.
But it was not the kind old Moon at all; it was the great mother Sun,
just coming up out of her home in the sea, to begin her day's work.
"Aha, youngster, what are you doing in my sky?" she said. And she picked
Little Jack Rollaround up and threw him, trundle-bed boat and all, into
the middle of the sea!
And I suppose he is there yet, unless somebody picked him out again.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] Based on Theodor Storm's story of _Der Kleine Haewelmann_ (George
Westermann, Braunschweig). Very freely adapted from the German story.
HOW BROTHER RABBIT FOOLED THE WHALE AND THE ELEPHANT[15]
One day little Brother Rabbit was running along on the sand, lippety,
lippety, when he saw the Whale and the Elephant talking together.
Little Brother Rabbit crouched down and listened to what they were
saying. This was what they were saying:--
"You are the biggest thing on the land, Brother Elephant," said the
Whale, "and I am the biggest thing in the sea; if we join together we
can rule all the animals in the world, and have our way about
everything."
"Very good, very good," trumpeted the Elephant; "that suits me; we will
do it."
Little Brother Rabbit sniggered to himself. "They won't rule me," he
said. He ran away and got a very long, very strong rope, and he got his
big drum, and hid the drum a long way off in the bushes. Then he went
along the beach till he came to the Whale.
"Oh, please, dear, strong Mr Whale," he said, "will you have the great
kindness to do me a favour? My cow is stuck in the mud, a quarter of a
mile from here. And I can't pull her out. But you are so strong and so
obliging, that I venture to trust you will help me out."
The Whale was so pleased with the compliment that he said, "Yes," at
once.
"Then," said the Rabbit, "I will tie this end of my long rope to you,
and I will run away and tie the other end round my cow, and when I am
ready I will beat my big drum. When you hear that, pull very, very
hard, for the cow is stuck very deep in the mud."
"Huh!" grunted the Whale, "I'll pull her out, if she is stuck to the
horns."
Little Brother Rabbit tied the rope-end to the Whale, and ran off,
lippety, lippety, till he came to the place where the Elephant was.
"Oh, please, mighty and kindly Elephant," he said, making a very low
bow, "will you do me a favour?"
"What is it?" asked the Elephant.
"My cow is stuck in the mud, about a quarter of a mile from here," said
little Brother Rabbit, "and I cannot pull her out. Of course you could.
If you will be so very obliging as to help me----"
"Certainly," said the Elephant grandly, "certainly."
"Then," said little Brother Rabbit, "I will tie one end of this long
rope to your trunk, and the other to my cow, and as soon as I have tied
her tightly I will beat my big drum. When you hear that, pull; pull as
hard as you can, for my cow is very heavy."
"Never fear," said the Elephant, "I could pull twenty cows."
"I am sure you could," said the Rabbit, politely, "only be sure to begin
gently, and pull harder and harder till you get her."
Then he tied the end of the rope tightly round the Elephant's trunk,
and ran away into the bushes. There he sat down and beat the big drum.
The Whale began to pull, and the Elephant began to pull, and in a jiffy
the rope tightened till it was stretched as hard as could be.
"This is a remarkably heavy cow," said the Elephant; "but I'll fetch
her!" And he braced his forefeet in the earth, and gave a tremendous
pull.
"Dear me!" said the Whale. "That cow must be stuck mighty tight"; and he
drove his tail deep in the water, and gave a marvellous pull.
He pulled harder; the Elephant pulled harder. Pretty soon the Whale
found himself sliding toward the land. The reason was, of course, that
the Elephant had something solid to brace against, and, beside, as fast
as he pulled the rope in a little, he took a turn with it round his
trunk!
But when the Whale found himself sliding toward the land he was so
provoked with the cow that he dived head first, down to the bottom of
the sea. That was a pull! The Elephant was jerked off his feet, and came
slipping and sliding to the beach, and into the surf. He was terribly
angry. He braced himself with all his might, and pulled his best. At the
jerk, up came the Whale out of the water.
"Who is pulling me?" spouted the Whale.
"Who is pulling me?" trumpeted the Elephant.
And then each saw the rope in the other's hold.
"I'll teach you to play cow!" roared the Elephant.
"I'll show you how to fool me!" fumed the Whale. And they began to pull
again. But this time the rope broke, the Whale turned a somersault, and
the Elephant fell over backward.
At that, they were both so ashamed that neither would speak to the
other. So that broke up the bargain between them.
And little Brother Rabbit sat in the bushes and laughed, and laughed,
and laughed.
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Adapted from two tales included in the records of the American
Folk-Lore Society.
THE LITTLE HALF-CHICK
There was once upon a time a Spanish Hen, who hatched out some nice
little chickens. She was much pleased with their looks as they came from
the shell. One, two, three, came out plump and fluffy; but when the
fourth shell broke, out came a little half-chick! It had only one leg
and one wing and one eye! It was just half a chicken.
The Hen-mother did not know what in the world to do with the queer
little Half-Chick. She was afraid something would happen to it, and she
tried hard to protect it and keep it from harm. But as soon as it could
walk the little Half-Chick showed a most headstrong spirit, worse than
any of its brothers. It would not mind, and it would go wherever it
wanted to; it walked with a funny little hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, and
got along pretty fast.
One day the little Half-Chick said, "Mother, I am off to Madrid, to see
the King! Good-bye."
The poor Hen-mother did everything she could think of to keep him from
doing so foolish a thing, but the little Half-Chick laughed at her
naughtily. "I'm for seeing the King," he said; "this life is too quiet
for me." And away he went, hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, over the fields.
When he had gone some distance the little Half-Chick came to a little
brook that was caught in the weeds and in much trouble.
"Little Half-Chick," whispered the Water, "I am so choked with these
weeds that I cannot move; I am almost lost, for want of room; please
push the sticks and weeds away with your bill and help me."
"The idea!" said the little Half-Chick. "I cannot be bothered with you;
I am off to Madrid, to see the King!" And in spite of the brook's
begging, he went away, hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick.
A bit farther on, the Half-Chick came to a Fire, which was smothered in
damp sticks and in great distress.
"Oh, little Half-Chick," said the Fire, "you are just in time to save
me. I am almost dead for want of air. Fan me a little with your wing, I
beg."
"The idea!" said the little Half-Chick. "I cannot be bothered with you;
I am off to Madrid, to see the King!" And he went laughing off,
hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick.
When he had hoppity-kicked a good way, and was near Madrid, he came to a
clump of bushes, where the Wind was caught fast. The Wind was
whimpering, and begging to be set free.
"Little Half-Chick," said the Wind, "you are just in time to help me; if
you will brush aside these twigs and leaves, I can get my breath; help
me, quickly!"
"Ho! the idea!" said the little Half-Chick "I have no time to bother
with you. I am going to Madrid, to see the King." And he went off,
hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, leaving the Wind to smother.
After a while he came to Madrid and to the palace of the King.
Hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, the little Half-Chick skipped past the
sentry at the gate, and hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, he crossed the
court. But as he was passing the windows of the kitchen the Cook looked
out and saw him.
"The very thing for the King's dinner!" she said. "I was needing a
chicken!" And she seized the little Half-Chick by his one wing and threw
him into a kettle of water on the fire.
The Water came over the little Half-Chick's feathers, over his head,
into his eyes. It was terribly uncomfortable. The little Half-Chick
cried out,--
"Water, don't drown me! Stay down, don't come so high!"
"But," the Water said, "Little Half-Chick, little Half-Chick, when I was
in trouble you would not help me," and came higher than ever.
Now the Water grew warm, hot, hotter, frightfully hot; the little
Half-Chick cried out, "Do not burn so hot, Fire! You are burning me to
death! Stop!"
But the Fire said, "Little Half-Chick, little Half-Chick, when I was in
trouble you would not help me," and burned hotter than ever.
Just as the little Half-Chick thought he must suffocate, the Cook took
the cover off, to look at the dinner. "Dear me," she said, "this chicken
is no good; it is burned to a cinder." And she picked the little
Half-Chick up by one leg and threw him out of the window.
In the air he was caught by a breeze and taken up higher than the trees.
Round and round he was twirled till he was so dizzy he thought he must
perish. "Don't blow me so, Wind," he cried, "let me down!"
"Little Half-Chick, little Half-Chick," said the Wind, "when I was in
trouble you would not help me!" And the Wind blew him straight up to the
top of the church steeple, and stuck him there, fast!
There he stands to this day, with his one eye, his one wing, and his one
leg. He cannot hoppity-kick any more, but he turns slowly round when the
wind blows, and keeps his head toward it, to hear what it says.
THE BLACKBERRY-BUSH[16]
A little boy sat at his mother's knees, by the long western window,
looking out into the garden. It was autumn, and the wind was sad; and
the golden elm leaves lay scattered about among the grass, and on the
gravel path. The mother was knitting a little stocking; her fingers
moved the bright needles; but her eyes were fixed on the clear evening
sky.
As the darkness gathered, the wee boy laid his head on her lap and kept
so still that, at last, she leaned forward to look into his dear round
face. He was not asleep, but was watching very earnestly a
blackberry-bush, that waved its one tall, dark-red spray in the wind
outside the fence.
"What are you thinking about, my darling?" she said, smoothing his soft,
honey-coloured hair.
"The blackberry-bush, mamma; what does it say? It keeps nodding, nodding
to me behind the fence; what does it say, mamma?"
"It says," she answered, "'I see a happy little boy in the warm,
fire-lighted room. The wind blows cold, and here it is dark and lonely;
but that little boy is warm and happy and safe at his mother's knees. I
nod to him, and he looks at me. I wonder if he knows how happy he is!
"'See, all my leaves are dark crimson. Every day they dry and wither
more and more; by and by they will be so weak they can scarcely cling to
my branches, and the north wind will tear them all away, and nobody will
remember them any more. Then the snow will sink down and wrap me close.
Then the snow will melt again and icy rain will clothe me, and the
bitter wind will rattle my bare twigs up and down.
"'I nod my head to all who pass, and dreary nights and dreary days go
by; but in the happy house, so warm and bright, the little boy plays all
day with books and toys. His mother and his father cherish him; he
nestles on their knees in the red firelight at night, while they read to
him lovely stories, or sing sweet old songs to him,--the happy little
boy! And outside I peep over the snow and see a stream of ruddy light
from a crack in the window-shutter, and I nod out here alone in the
dark, thinking how beautiful it is.
"'And here I wait patiently. I take the snow and the rain and the cold,
and I am not sorry, but glad; for in my roots I feel warmth and life,
and I know that a store of greenness and beauty is shut up safe in my
small brown buds. Day and night go again and again; little by little the
snow melts all away; the ground grows soft; the sky is blue; the little
birds fly over, crying, "It is spring! it is spring!" Ah! then through
all my twigs I feel the slow sap stirring.
"'Warmer grow the sunbeams, and softer the air. The small blades of
grass creep thick about my feet; the sweet rain helps to swell my
shining buds. More and more I push forth my leaves, till out I burst in
a gay green dress, and nod in joy and pride. The little boy comes
running to look at me, and cries, "Oh, mamma! the little blackberry-bush
is alive and beautiful and green. Oh, come and see!" And I hear; and I
bow my head in the summer wind; and every day they watch me grow more
beautiful, till at last I shake out blossoms, fair and fragrant.
"'A few days more, and I drop the white petals down among the grass,
and, lo! there are the green tiny berries! Carefully I hold them up to
the sun; carefully I gather the dew in the summer nights; slowly they
ripen; they grow larger and redder and darker, and at last they are
black, shining, delicious. I hold them as high as I can for the little
boy, who comes dancing out. He shouts with joy, and gathers them in his
dear hand; and he runs to share them with his mother, saying, "Here is
what the patient blackberry-bush bore for us: see how nice, mamma!"
"'Ah! then indeed I am glad, and would say, if I could, "Yes, take them,
dear little boy; I kept them for you, held them long up to the sun and
rain to make them sweet and ripe for you"; and I nod and nod in full
content, for my work is done. From the window he watches me and thinks,
"There is the little blackberry-bush that was so kind to me. I see it
and I love it. I know it is safe out there nodding all alone, and next
summer it will hold ripe berries up for me to gather again."'"
* * * * *
Then the wee boy smiled, and said he liked the little story. His mother
took him up in her arms, and they went out to supper and left the
blackberry-bush nodding up and down in the wind; and there it is
nodding yet.
FOOTNOTES:
[16] From Celia Thaxter's _Stories and Poems for Children_.
THE FAIRIES[17]
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men.
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home--
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hilltop
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray,
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow;
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees,
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men.
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather!
FOOTNOTES:
[17] By William Allingham.
THE ADVENTURES OF THE LITTLE FIELD MOUSE
Once upon a time, there was a little brown Field Mouse; and one day he
was out in the fields to see what he could find. He was running along in
the grass, poking his nose into everything and looking with his two eyes
all about, when he saw a smooth, shiny acorn, lying in the grass. It was
such a fine shiny little acorn that he thought he would take it home
with him; so he put out his paw to touch it, but the little acorn rolled
away from him. He ran after it, but it kept rolling on, just ahead of
him, till it came to a place where a big oak-tree had its roots spread
all over the ground. Then it rolled under a big round root.
Little Mr Field Mouse ran to the root and poked his nose under after the
acorn, and there he saw a small round hole in the ground. He slipped
through and saw some stairs going down into the earth. The acorn was
rolling down, with a soft tapping sound, ahead of him, so down he went
too. Down, down, down, rolled the acorn, and down, down, down, went the
Field Mouse, until suddenly he saw a tiny door at the foot of the
stairs.
The shiny acorn rolled to the door and struck against it with a tap.
Quickly the little door opened and the acorn rolled inside. The Field
Mouse hurried as fast as he could down the last stairs, and pushed
through just as the door was closing. It shut behind him, and he was in
a little room. And there, before him, stood a queer little Red Man! He
had a little red cap, and a little red jacket, and odd little red shoes
with points at the toes.
"You are my prisoner," he said to the Field Mouse.
"What for?" said the Field Mouse.
"Because you tried to steal my acorn," said the little Red Man.
"It is my acorn," said the Field Mouse; "I found it."
"No, it isn't," said the little Red Man, "I have it; you will never see
it again."
The little Field Mouse looked all about the room as fast as he could,
but he could not see any acorn. Then he thought he would go back up the
tiny stairs to his own home. But the little door was locked, and the
little Red Man had the key. And he said to the poor mouse,--
"You shall be my servant; you shall make my bed and sweep my room and
cook my broth."
So the little brown Mouse was the little Red Man's servant, and every
day he made the little Red Man's bed and swept the little Red Man's room
and cooked the little Red Man's broth. And every day the little Red Man
went away through the tiny door, and did not come back till afternoon.
But he always locked the door after him, and carried away the key.
At last, one day he was in such a hurry that he turned the key before
the door was quite latched, which, of course, didn't lock it at all. He
went away without noticing,--he was in such a hurry.
The little Field Mouse knew that his chance had come to run away home.
But he didn't want to go without the pretty, shiny acorn. Where it was
he didn't know, so he looked everywhere. He opened every little drawer
and looked in, but it wasn't in any of the drawers; he peeped on every
shelf, but it wasn't on a shelf; he hunted in every closet, but it
wasn't in there. Finally, he climbed up on a chair and opened a wee, wee
door in the chimney-piece,--and there it was!
He took it quickly in his forepaws, and then he took it in his mouth,
and then he ran away. He pushed open the little door; he climbed up, up,
up the little stairs; he came out through the hole under the root; he
ran and ran through the fields; and at last he came to his own house.
When he was in his own house he set the shiny acorn on the table. I
expect he set it down hard, for all at once, with a little snap, it
opened!--exactly like a little box.
And what do you think! There was a tiny necklace inside! It was a most
beautiful tiny necklace, all made of jewels, and it was just big enough
for a lady mouse. So the little Field Mouse gave the tiny necklace to
his little Mouse-sister. She thought it was perfectly lovely. And when
she wasn't wearing it she kept it in the shiny acorn box.
And the little Red Man never knew what had become of it, because he
didn't know where the little Field Mouse lived.
ANOTHER LITTLE RED HEN[18]
Once upon a time there was a little Red Hen, who lived on a farm all by
herself. An old Fox, crafty and sly, had a den in the rocks, on a hill
near her house. Many and many a night this old Fox used to lie awake
and think to himself how good that little Red Hen would taste if he
could once get her in his big kettle and boil her for dinner. But he
couldn't catch the little Red Hen, because she was too wise for him.
Every time she went out to market she locked the door of the house
behind her, and as soon as she came in again she locked the door behind
her and put the key in her apron pocket, where she kept her scissors and
some sugar candy.
At last the old Fox thought out a way to catch the little Red Hen. Early
in the morning he said to his old mother, "Have the kettle boiling when
I come home to-night, for I'll be bringing the little Red Hen for
supper." Then he took a big bag and slung it over his shoulder, and
walked till he came to the little Red Hen's house. The little Red Hen
was just coming out of her door to pick up a few sticks for firewood. So
the old Fox hid behind the wood-pile, and as soon as she bent down to
get a stick, into the house he slipped, and scurried behind the door.
In a minute the little Red Hen came quickly in, and shut the door and
locked it. "I'm glad I'm safely in," she said. Just as she said it, she
turned round, and there stood the ugly old Fox, with his big bag over
his shoulder. Whiff! how scared the little Red Hen was! She dropped her
apronful of sticks, and flew up to the big beam across the ceiling.
There she perched, and she said to the old Fox, down below, "You may as
well go home, for you can't get me."
"Can't I, though!" said the Fox. And what do you think he did? He stood
on the floor underneath the little Red Hen and twirled round in a circle
after his own tail. And as he spun, and spun, and spun, faster, and
faster, and faster, the poor little Red Hen got so dizzy watching him
that she couldn't hold on to the perch. She dropped off, and the old Fox
picked her up and put her in his bag, slung the bag over his shoulder,
and started for home, where the kettle was boiling.
He had a very long way to go, up hill, and the little Red Hen was still
so dizzy that she didn't know where she was. But when the dizziness
began to go off, she whisked her little scissors out of her apron
pocket, and snip! she cut a little hole in the bag; then she poked her
head out and saw where she was, and as soon as they came to a good spot
she cut the hole bigger and jumped out herself. There was a great big
stone lying there, and the little Red Hen picked it up and put it in the
bag as quick as a wink. Then she ran as fast as she could till she came
to her own little farmhouse, and she went in and locked the door with
the big key.
The old Fox went on carrying the stone and never knew the difference.
My, but it bumped him well! He was pretty tired when he got home. But he
was so pleased to think of the supper he was going to have that he did
not mind that at all. As soon as his mother opened the door he said, "Is
the kettle boiling?"
"Yes," said his mother; "have you got the little Red Hen?"
"I have," said the old Fox. "When I open the bag you hold the cover off
the kettle and I'll shake the bag so that the Hen will fall in, and then
you pop the cover on, before she can jump out."
"All right," said his mean old mother; and she stood close by the
boiling kettle, ready to put the cover on.
The Fox lifted the big, heavy bag up till it was over the open kettle,
and gave it a shake. Splash! thump! splash! In went the stone and out
came the boiling water, all over the old Fox and the old Fox's mother!
And they were scalded to death.
But the little Red Hen lived happily ever after, in her own little
farmhouse.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] Adapted from the verse version, by Horace E. Scudder, which follows
this as an alternative.
THE STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN
There was once't upon a time
A little small Rid Hin,
Off in the good ould country
Where yees ha' nivir bin.
Nice and quiet shure she was,
And nivir did any harrum;
She lived alane all be herself,
And worked upon her farrum.
There lived out o'er the hill,
In a great din o' rocks,
A crafty, shly, and wicked
Ould folly iv a Fox.
This rashkill iv a Fox,
He tuk it in his head
He'd have the little Rid Hin:
So, whin he wint to bed,
He laid awake and thaught
What a foine thing 'twad be
To fetch her home and bile her up
For his ould marm and he.
And so he thaught and thaught,
Until he grew so thin
That there was nothin' left of him
But jist his bones and shkin.
But the small Rid Hin was wise,
She always locked her door,
And in her pocket pit the key,
To keep the Fox out shure.
But at last there came a schame
Intil his wicked head,
And he tuk a great big bag
And to his mither said,--
"Now have the pot all bilin'
Agin the time I come;
We'll ate the small Rid Hin to-night,
For shure I'll bring her home."
And so away he wint
Wid the bag upon his back,
An' up the hill and through the woods
Saftly he made his track.
An' thin he came alang,
Craping as shtill's a mouse,
To where the little small Rid Hin
Lived in her shnug ould house.
An' out she comes hersel',
Jist as he got in sight,
To pick up shticks to make her fire:
"Aha!" says Fox, "all right.
"Begorra, now, I'll have yees
Widout much throuble more";
An' in he shlips quite unbeknownst,
An' hides be'ind the door.
An' thin, a minute afther,
In comes the small Rid Hin,
An' shuts the door, and locks it, too,
An' thinks, "I'm safely in."
An' thin she tarns around
An' looks be'ind the door;
There shtands the Fox wid his big tail
Shpread out upon the floor.
Dear me! she was so schared
Wid such a wondrous sight,
She dropped her apronful of shticks,
An' flew up in a fright,
An' lighted on the bame
Across on top the room;
"Aha!" says she, "ye don't have me;
Ye may as well go home."
"Aha!" says Fox, "we'll see;
I'll bring yees down from that."
So out he marched upon the floor
Right under where she sat.
An' thin he whiruled around,
An' round an' round an' round,
Fashter an' fashter an' fashter,
Afther his tail on the ground.
Until the small Rid Hin
She got so dizzy, shure,
Wid lookin' at the Fox's tail,
She jist dropped on the floor.
An' Fox he whipped her up,
An' pit her in his bag,
An' off he started all alone,
Him and his little dag.
All day he tracked the wood
Up hill an' down again;
An' wid him, shmotherin' in the bag,
The little small Rid Hin.
Sorra a know she knowed
Awhere she was that day;
Says she, "I'm biled an' ate up, shure
An' what'll be to pay?"
Thin she betho't hersel',
An' tuk her schissors out,
An' shnipped a big hole in the bag,
So she could look about.
An' 'fore ould Fox could think
She lept right out--she did,
An' thin picked up a great big shtone,
An' popped it in instid.
An' thin she rins off home,
Her outside door she locks;
Thinks she, "You see you don't have me,
You crafty, shly ould Fox."
An' Fox he tugged away
Wid the great big hivy shtone,
Thimpin' his shoulders very bad
As he wint in alone.
An' whin he came in sight
O' his great din o' rocks,
Jist watchin' for him at the door
He shpied ould mither Fox.
"Have ye the pot a-bilin'?"
Says he to ould Fox thin;
"Shure an' it is, me child," says she;
"Have ye the small Rid Hin?"
"Yes, jist here in me bag,
As shure as I shtand here;
Open the lid till I pit her in:
Open it--nivir fear."
So the rashkill cut the shtring,
An' hild the big bag over;
"Now when I shake it in," says he,
"Do ye pit on the cover."
"Yis, that I will"; an' thin
The shtone wint in wid a dash,
An' the pot o' bilin' wather
Came over them ker-splash.
An' schalted 'em both to death,
So they couldn't brathe no more;
An' the little small Rid Hin lived safe,
Jist where she lived before.
THE STORY OF EPAMINONDAS AND HIS AUNTIE[19]
Epaminondas used to go to see his Auntie 'most every day, and she nearly
always gave him something to take home to his Mammy.
One day she gave him a big piece of cake; nice, yellow, rich gold-cake.
Epaminondas took it in his fist and held it all crunched up tight, like
this, and came along home. By the time he got home there wasn't anything
left but a fistful of crumbs. His Mammy said,--
"What you got there, Epaminondas?"
"Cake, Mammy," said Epaminondas.
"Cake!" said his Mammy. "Epaminondas, you ain't got the sense you was
born with! That's no way to carry cake. The way to carry cake is to wrap
it all up nice in some leaves and put it in your hat, and put your hat
on your head, and come along home. You hear me, Epaminondas?"
"Yes, Mammy," said Epaminondas.
Next day Epaminondas went to see his Auntie, and she gave him a pound of
butter for his Mammy; fine, fresh, sweet butter.
Epaminondas wrapped it up in leaves and put it in his hat, and put his
hat on his head, and came along home. It was a very hot day. Pretty soon
the butter began to melt. It melted, and melted, and as it melted it ran
down Epaminondas' forehead; then it ran over his face, and in his ears,
and down his neck. When he got home, all the butter Epaminondas had was
_on him_. His Mammy looked at him, and then she said,--
"Law's sake! Epaminondas, what you got in your hat?"
"Butter, Mammy," said Epaminondas; "Auntie gave it to me."
"Butter!" said his Mammy. "Epaminondas, you ain't got the sense you was
born with! Don't you know that's no way to carry butter? The way to
carry butter is to wrap it up in some leaves and take it down to the
brook, and cool it in the water, and cool it in the water, and cool it
in the water, and then take it on your hands, careful, and bring it
along home."
"Yes, Mammy," said Epaminondas.
By and by, another day, Epaminondas went to see his Auntie again, and;
this time she gave him a little new puppy-dog to take home.
Epaminondas put it in some leaves and took it down to the brook; and
there he cooled it in the water, and cooled it in the water, and cooled
it in the water; then he took it in his hands and came along home. When
he got home, the puppy-dog was dead. His Mammy looked at it, and she
said,--
"Law's sake! Epaminondas, what you got there?"
"A puppy-dog, Mammy," said Epaminondas.
"A _puppy-dog_!" said his Mammy. "My gracious sakes alive, Epaminondas,
you ain't got the sense you was born with! That ain't the way to carry a
puppy-dog! The way to carry a puppy-dog is to take a long piece of
string and tie one end of it round the puppy-dog's neck and put the
puppy-dog on the ground, and take hold of the other end of the string
and come along home, like this."
"All right, Mammy," said Epaminondas.
Next day Epaminondas went to see his Auntie again, and when he came to
go home she gave him a loaf of bread to carry to his Mammy; a brown,
fresh, crusty loaf of bread.
So Epaminondas tied a string around the end of the loaf and took hold of
the end of the string and came along home, like this. (Imitate dragging
something along the ground.) When he got home his Mammy looked at the
thing on the end of the string, and she said,--
"My laws a-massy! Epaminondas, what you got on the end of that string?"
"Bread, Mammy," said Epaminondas; "Auntie gave it to me."
"Bread!!!" said his Mammy. "O Epaminondas, Epaminondas, you ain't got
the sense you was born with; you never did have the sense you was born
with; you never will have the sense you was born with! Now I ain't gwine
tell you any more ways to bring truck home. And don't you go see your
Auntie, neither. I'll go see her my own self. But I'll just tell you one
thing, Epaminondas! You see these here six mince pies I done make? You
see how I done set 'em on the doorstep to cool? Well, now, you hear me,
Epaminondas, _you be careful how you step on those pies_!"
"Yes, Mammy," said Epaminondas.
Then Epaminondas' Mammy put on her bonnet and her shawl and took a
basket in her hand and went away to see Auntie. The six mince pies sat
cooling in a row on the doorstep.
And then,--and then,--Epaminondas _was_ careful how he stepped on those
pies!
He stepped (imitate)--right--in--the--middle--of--every--one.
* * * * *
And, do you know, children, nobody knows what happened next! The person
who told me the story didn't know; nobody knows. But you can guess.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] A Negro nonsense tale from the Southern States of America.
THE BOY WHO CRIED "WOLF!"
There was once a shepherd-boy who kept his flock at a little distance
from the village. Once he thought he would play a trick on the villagers
and have some fun at their expense. So he ran toward the village crying
out, with all his might,--
"Wolf! Wolf! Come and help! The wolves are at my lambs!"
The kind villagers left their work and ran to the field to help him. But
when they got there the boy laughed at them for their pains; there was
no wolf there.
Still another day the boy tried the same trick, and the villagers came
running to help and got laughed at again.
Then one day a wolf did break into the fold and began killing the lambs.
In great fright, the boy ran for help. "Wolf! Wolf!" he screamed. "There
is a wolf in the flock! Help!"
The villagers heard him, but they thought it was another mean trick; no
one paid the least attention, or went near him. And the shepherd-boy
lost all his sheep.
That is the kind of thing that happens to people who lie: even when they
tell the truth no one believes them.
THE FROG KING
Did you ever hear the old story about the foolish Frogs? The Frogs in a
certain swamp decided that they needed a king; they had always got along
perfectly well without one, but they suddenly made up their minds that a
king they must have. They sent a messenger to Jove and begged him to
send a king |
