The Project Gutenberg EBook of Children's Literature, by Charles Madison Curry and Erle Elsworth Clippinger This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Children's Literature A Textbook of Sources for Teachers and Teacher-Training Classes Author: Charles Madison Curry Erle Elsworth Clippinger Release Date: May 20, 2008 [EBook #25545] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHILDREN'S LITERATURE *** Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Emmy and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net When all the novelists and spinners of elaborate fictions have been read and judged, we shall find that the peasant and the nurse are still unsurpassed as mere narrators. They are the guardians of that treasury of legend which comes to us from the very childhood of nations; they and their tales are the abstract and brief chronicles, not of an age merely, but of the whole race of man. It is theirs to keep alive the great art of telling stories as a thing wholly apart from and independent of the art of writing stories, and to pass on their art to children and to children's children. They abide in a realm of their own, in blessed isolation from that world of professional authors and their milk-and-water books "for children." --C. B. TINKER, "In Praise of Nursery Lore," _The Unpopular Review_, October-December, 1916. CHILDREN'S LITERATURE A TEXTBOOK OF SOURCES FOR TEACHERS AND TEACHER-TRAINING CLASSES EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTIONS, NOTES, AND BIBLIOGRAPHIES _BY_ CHARLES MADISON CURRY _AND_ ERLE ELSWORTH CLIPPINGER _Professors of Literature in the Indiana State Normal School_ [Illustration] RAND McNALLY & COMPANY CHICAGO NEW YORK _Copyright, 1920, by_ RAND MCNALLY & COMPANY _Copyright, 1921, by_ RAND MCNALLY & COMPANY All rights reserved Edition of 1926 [Illustration] Made in U. S. A. THE CONTENTS SECTION I PREFACE AND GENERAL INTRODUCTION _General Bibliography_ 2 _The Preface_ 5 _General Introduction_ 7 1. Literature for Children 7 2. Literature in the Grades 8 3. Story-Telling and Dramatization 10 4. Courses of Study 13 SECTION II MOTHER GOOSE JINGLES AND NURSERY RHYMES _Bibliography_ 18 _Introductory_ 19 MOTHER GOOSE (Shorter rhymes): 1. A cat came fiddling out of a barn 23 2. A diller, a dollar 23 3. As I was going to St. Ives 23 4. As I was going up Pippen Hill 23 5. As I went to Bonner 23 6. As Tommy Snooks and Bessie Brooks 23 7. A swarm of bees in May 23 8. Baa, baa, black sheep 23 9. Barber, barber, shave a pig 23 10. Birds of a feather flock together 23 11. Bless you, bless you, burnie bee 23 12. Bobby Shafto's gone to sea 24 13. Bow, wow, wow 24 14. Bye, baby bunting 24 15. Come when you're called 24 16. Cross patch 24 17. Curly locks, curly locks 24 18. Dance, little baby 24 19. Diddle, diddle, dumpling 24 20. Ding, dong, bell 24 21. Doctor Foster 24 22. Eggs, butter, cheese, bread 24 23. For every evil under the sun 24 24. Four-and-twenty tailors 25 25. Great A, little a 25 26. Hark, hark 25 27. Here sits the Lord Mayor 25 28. Here we go up, up, up 25 29. Hey! diddle, diddle 25 30. Hickery, dickery, 6 and 7 25 31. Higgledy, Piggledy 25 32. Hickory, dickory, dock 25 33. Hogs in the garden 25 34. Hot-cross buns 26 35. Hub a dub dub 26 36. Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall 26 37. If all the sea were one sea 26 38. If all the world was apple-pie 26 39. If I'd as much money as I could spend 26 40. If "ifs" and "ands" 26 41. If wishes were horses 26 42. I had a little pony 26 43. I had a little hobby horse 26 44. I have a little sister 27 45. I'll tell you a story 27 46. In marble walls as white as milk 27 47. I went up one pair of stairs 27 48. Jack and Jill went up the hill 27 49. Jack be nimble 27 50. Jack Sprat could eat no fat 27 51. Knock at the door 27 52. Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home 27 53. Little boy blue, come blow your horn 27 54. Little girl, little girl, where have you been 27 55. Little Jack Horner 28 56. Little Jack Jingle 28 57. Little Johnny Pringle 28 58. Little Miss Muffet 28 59. Little Nancy Etticoat 28 60. Little Robin Redbreast 28 61. Little Tommy Tucker 28 62. Long legs, crooked thighs 28 63. Lucy Locket lost her pocket 28 64. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John 28 65. Mistress Mary, quite contrary 28 66. Multiplication is vexation 28 67. Needles and pins 29 68. Old King Cole 29 69. Once I saw a little bird 29 70. One for the money 29 71. One misty, moisty morning 29 72. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 29 73. One, two 29 74. Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man 29 75. Pease-porridge hot 29 76. Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater 30 77. Peter Piper picked a peck 30 78. Poor old Robinson Crusoe 30 79. Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been 30 80. Pussy sits beside the fire 30 81. Ride a cock-horse to Banbury-cross 30 82. Ride, baby, ride 30 83. Rock-a-bye, baby 30 84. Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green 30 85. See a pin and pick it up 30 86. See, saw, sacradown 31 87. Shoe the little horse 31 88. Sing a song of sixpence 31 89. Star light, star bright 31 90. The King of France went up the hill 31 91. The lion and the unicorn 31 92. The man in the moon 31 93. The north wind doth blow 31 94. The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts 31 95. There was a crooked man 31 96. There was a little boy went into a barn 32 97. There was a man and he had naught 32 98. There was a man in our town 32 99. There was an old man 32 100. There was an old woman, and what do you think 32 101. There was an old woman lived under a hill 32 102. There was an old woman of Leeds 32 103. There was an old woman of Norwich 32 104. There was an old woman tossed up in a basket 32 105. There was an old woman who lived in a shoe 33 106. There was an owl lived in an oak 33 107. This is the way the ladies ride 33 108. This little pig went to market 33 109. Three blind mice 33 110. Three wise men of Gotham 33 111. To market, to market, to buy a fat pig 33 112. Tom, Tom, the piper's son 33 113. Two-legs sat upon three-legs 33 114. When a twister a-twisting 34 115. "Willy boy, Willy boy, where are you going?" 34 WILHELMINA SEEGMILLER 116. Milkweed Seeds 34 117. An Anniversary 34 118. Twink! twink! 34 MOTHER GOOSE (Longer rhymes) 119. A Was an Apple-Pie 34 120. Tom Thumb's Alphabet 35 121. Where Are You Going 35 122. Molly and I 35 123. London Bridge 36 124. I Saw a Ship 36 125. There Was an Old Woman 36 126. Little Bo-Peep 37 127. Cock a Doodle Doo 37 128. Three Jovial Huntsmen 37 129. There Was a Little Man 37 130. Taffy 38 131. Simple Simon 38 132. A Farmer Went Trotting 38 133. Tom the Piper's Son 38 134. When I Was a Little Boy 39 135. The Babes in the Wood 39 136. The Fox and His Wife 40 137. For Want of a Nail 40 138. A Man of Words 40 139. Jemima 41 140. Mother Hubbard and Her Dog 41 141. The Courtship, Merry Marriage, and Picnic Dinner of Cock Robin and Jenny Wren 42 142. The Burial of Poor Cock Robin 44 143. Dame Wiggins of Lee, and Her Seven Wonderful Cats 45 144. This Is the House That Jack Built 47 145. The Egg in the Nest 49 146. Change About 49 SECTION III FAIRY STORIES--TRADITIONAL TALES _Bibliography_ 52 _Introductory_ 53 ENGLISH: 147. The Old Woman and Her Pig 56 148. Henny-Penny 58 149. Teeny-Tiny 59 150. The Cat and the Mouse 60 151. The Story of the Three Little Pigs 61 152. Titty Mouse and Tatty Mouse 63 153. The Story of the Three Bears 64 154. The Three Sillies 67 155. Lazy Jack 69 156. The Story of Mr. Vinegar 71 157. Jack and the Beanstalk 73 158. Tom Thumb 79 159. Whittington and His Cat 84 160. Tom Tit Tot 89 FRENCH: 161. Little Red Riding Hood 92 162. True History of Little Golden Hood 94 163. Puss in Boots 97 164. Toads and Diamonds 100 165. Cinderella, or the Little Glass Slipper 102 166. Drakestail 106 167. Beauty and the Beast 110 NORWEGIAN: 168. Why the Bear Is Stumpy-Tailed 122 169. The Three Billy-Goats Gruff 123 170. The Husband Who Was to Mind the House 124 171. Boots and His Brothers 125 172. The Quern at the Bottom of the Sea 128 GERMAN: 173. The Traveling Musicians 131 174. The Blue Light 134 175. The Elves and the Shoemaker 136 176. The Fisherman and His Wife 138 177. Rose-Bud 142 178. Rumpelstiltskin 144 179. Snow-White and Rose-Red 146 INDIAN: 180. The Lambikin 150 181. Tit for Tat 151 182. The Tiger, the Brahman, and the Jackal 152 183. Pride Goeth before a Fall 154 JAPANESE: 184. The Mirror of Matsuyama 156 185. The Tongue-Cut Sparrow 158 SLAVIC: 186. The Straw Ox 160 IRISH: 187. Connla and the Fairy Maiden 162 188. The Horned Women 164 189. King O'Toole and His Goose 165 SECTION IV FAIRY STORIES--MODERN FANTASTIC TALES _Bibliography_ 170 _Introductory_ 171 ABRAM S. ISAACS 190. A Four-Leaved Clover 174 I. The Rabbi and the Diadem 174 II. Friendship 175 III. True Charity 175 IV. An Eastern Garden 176 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 191. The Lord Helpeth Man and Beast 177 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 192. The Real Princess 179 193. The Emperor's New Clothes 180 194. The Nightingale 183 195. The Fir Tree 190 196. The Tinder Box 195 197. The Hardy Tin Soldier 200 198. The Ugly Duckling 203 FRANCES BROWNE 199. The Story of Fairyfoot 209 OSCAR WILDE 200. The Happy Prince 217 RAYMOND MACDONALD ALDEN 201. The Knights of the Silver Shield 223 JEAN INGELOW 202. The Prince's Dream 227 FRANK R. STOCKTON 203. Old Pipes and the Dryad 233 JOHN RUSKIN 204. The King of the Golden River 245 SECTION V FABLES AND SYMBOLIC STORIES _Bibliography_ 262 _Introductory_ 263 AESOP 205. The Shepherd's Boy 266 206. The Lion and the Mouse 266 207. The Crow and the Pitcher 266 208. The Frog and the Ox 267 209. The Frogs Desiring a King 267 210. The Field Mouse and the Town Mouse 268 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI 211. The City Mouse and the Garden Mouse 268 HORACE 212. The Country Mouse and the Town Mouse 268 AESOP 213. Androcles 269 THOMAS DAY 214. Androcles and the Lion 270 AESOP 215. The Wind and the Sun 272 216. The Goose with the Golden Eggs 272 LA FONTAINE 217. The Hen with the Golden Eggs 272 AESOP 218. The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing 273 219. The Hare and the Tortoise 273 220. The Miller, His Son, and Their Ass 274 221. The Travelers and the Bear 274 222. The Lark and Her Young Ones 275 223. The Old Man and His Sons 275 224. The Fox and the Grapes 276 225. The Widow and the Hen 276 226. The Kid and the Wolf 276 227. The Man and the Satyr 276 228. The Dog and the Shadow 276 229. The Swallow and the Raven 276 230. Mercury and the Woodman 276 231. The Mice in Council 277 232. The Mountebank and Countryman 277 233. The Milkmaid and Her Pail 278 LA FONTAINE 234. The Dairywoman and the Pot of Milk 278 From "THE ARABIAN NIGHTS" 235. The Story of Alnaschar 279 BIDPAI (Indian Fables) 236. The Camel and the Pig 280 237. The Ass in the Lion's Skin 281 238. The Talkative Tortoise 282 239. A Lion Tricked by a Rabbit 283 MARIE DE FRANCE 240. The Cock and the Fox 284 LA FONTAINE 241. The Grasshopper and the Ant 284 242. The Cock, the Cat, and the Young Mouse 285 JOHN GAY 243. The Hare with Many Friends 286 TOMAS YRIARTE 244. The Musical Ass 287 IVAN KRYLOV 245. The Swan, the Pike, and the Crab 287 From the BIBLE 246. The Bramble Is Made King 288 247. The Good Samaritan 289 248. The Prodigal Son 289 HENRY WARD BEECHER 249. The Anxious Leaf 290 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 250. The Whistle 291 251. The Ephemera 292 JOSEPH ADDISON 252. The Vision of Mirzah 294 JANE TAYLOR 253. The Discontented Pendulum 297 LEO TOLSTOI 254. Croesus and Solon 299 SECTION VI MYTHS _Bibliography_ 302 _Introductory_ 303 GREEK AND ROMAN: GRACE H. KUPFER 255. A Story of the Springtime 306 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 256. The Paradise of Children 309 257. The Miraculous Pitcher 319 R. E. FRANCILLON 258. The Narcissus 330 259. The Apple of Discord 332 JOSEPHINE P. PEABODY 260. Icarus and Daedalus 335 261. Admetus and the Shepherd 337 THOMAS BULFINCH 262. Midas 338 CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY 263. Phaethon 340 NORSE: THOMAS BULFINCH 264. Thor's Visit to Joetunheim 343 HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE 265. Odin's Search for Wisdom 348 ETHEL M. WILMOT-BUXTON 266. How the Fenris Wolf was Chained 351 ANNA AND ELIZA KEARY 267. Frey 354 HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE 268. The Death of Balder 360 SECTION VII POETRY _Bibliography_ 368 _Introductory_ 369 ELIZA LEE FOLLEN 269. The Three Little Kittens 371 270. The Moon 371 271. Runaway Brook 372 272. Ding Dong! Ding Dong! 372 ELIZABETH PRENTISS 273. The Little Kitty 372 SARA J. HALE 274. Mary Had a Little Lamb 372 THEODORE TILTON 275. Baby Bye 373 LUCY LARCOM 276. The Brown Thrush 374 LYDIA MARIA CHILD 277. Thanksgiving Day 375 278. Who Stole the Bird's Nest 375 "SUSAN COOLIDGE" 279. How the Leaves Came Down 377 PHOEBE CARY 280. They Didn't Think 377 281. The Leak in the Dike 378 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 282. Whole Duty of Children 381 283. The Cow 381 284. Time to Rise 381 285. Rain 381 286. A Good Play 382 287. The Lamplighter 382 288. The Land of Nod 382 289. The Land of Story-Books 382 290. My Bed Is a Boat 383 291. My Shadow 383 292. The Swing 383 293. Where Go the Boats 384 294. The Wind 384 295. Windy Nights 384 FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN 296. Spinning Top 384 297. Flying Kite 385 298. King Bell 385 299. Daisies 385 EUGENE FIELD 300. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod 385 301. The Sugar-Plum Tree 386 302. The Duel 387 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 303. The Treasures of the Wise Man 387 304. The Circus-Day Parade 388 305. The Raggedy Man 389 JAMES HOGG 306. A Boy's Song 389 MARY HOWITT 307. The Spider and the Fly 390 WILLIAM HOWITT 308. The Wind in a Frolic 391 ANN TAYLOR 309. The Cow 392 310. Meddlesome Matty 392 JANE TAYLOR 311. "I Like Little Pussy" 393 312. The Star 394 CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI 313. Seldom or Never 394 314. An Emerald Is as Green as Grass 394 315. Boats Sail on the Rivers 394 316. A Diamond or a Coal? 395 317. The Swallow 395 318. Who Has Seen the Wind? 395 319. Milking Time 395 WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS 320. The Peddler's Caravan 395 321. The Wonderful World 396 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES 322. Good-Night and Good-Morning 396 WILLIAM ROSCOE 323. The Butterfly's Ball 397 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 324. Can You? 398 ROBERT BROWNING 325. Pippa's Song 399 CHARLES MACKAY 326. Little and Great 399 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS 327. Casabianca 399 WILLIAM BLAKE 328. Three Things to Remember 400 329. The Lamb 401 330. The Shepherd 401 331. The Tiger 401 332. The Piper 401 ELIZA COOK 333. Try Again 402 EDWARD LEAR 334. The Owl and the Pussy-Cat 403 335. The Table and the Chair 404 336. The Pobble Who Has No Toes 404 "LEWIS CARROLL" 337. The Walrus and the Carpenter 405 338. A Strange Wild Song 406 ISAAC WATTS 339. Against Idleness and Mischief 407 340. Famous Passages from Dr. Watts 408 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 341. The Skeleton in Armor 408 342. The Day Is Done 410 343. A Psalm of Life 411 CHARLES KINGSLEY 344. The Three Fishers 412 345. The Sands of Dee 412 ALFRED TENNYSON 346. "What Does Little Birdie Say?" 413 347. Sweet and Low 413 348. The Poet's Song 413 349. Crossing the Bar 414 LEIGH HUNT 350. Abou Ben Adhem 414 JOAQUIN MILLER 351. For Those Who Fail 415 EDGAR ALLAN POE 352. Eldorado 415 GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON 353. The Destruction of Sennacherib 416 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 354. To a Waterfowl 416 355. The Planting of the Apple-Tree 417 THOMAS EDWARD BROWN 356. My Garden 418 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 357. Daffodils 419 358. The Solitary Reaper 419 CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON 359. The Arab to His Favorite Steed 420 ROBERT SOUTHEY 360. The Inchcape Rock 421 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 361. Over Hill, Over Dale 423 362. A Fairy Scene in a Wood 423 RALPH WALDO EMERSON 363. Fable 424 364. Concord Hymn 424 SIR WALTER SCOTT 365. Breathes There the Man 424 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 366. Old Ironsides 425 WILLIAM COLLINS 367. How Sleep the Brave 425 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 368. The Ballad of Nathan Hale 425 SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE 369. The Red Thread of Honor 427 RUDYARD KIPLING 370. Recessional 428 WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 371. Invictus 429 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 372. The Falcon 429 373. The Shepherd of King Admetus 430 SIR WILLIAM SCHENCK GILBERT 374. The Yarn of the Nancy Bell 430 JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE 375. Darius Green and His Flying Machine 432 WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER 376. Beth Gelert 436 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 377. King John and the Abbot of Canterbury 437 SECTION VIII REALISTIC STORIES _Bibliography_ 442 _Introductory_ 443 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 378. The Renowned History of Little Goody Two-Shoes 445 DR. JOHN AIKIN AND MRS. LETITIA BARBAULD 379. Eyes, and No Eyes 451 THOMAS DAY 380. The Good-Natured Little Boy 456 MARIA EDGEWORTH 381. Waste Not, Want Not 458 JULIANA HORATIA EWING 382. Jackanapes 478 HENRY SEIDEL CANBY 383. Betty's Ride 496 CHARLES MAJOR 384. The Big Bear 500 "O. HENRY" 385. The Gift of the Magi 505 SECTION IX NATURE LITERATURE _Bibliography_ 510 _Introductory_ 511 BEATRIX POTTER 386. The Tale of Peter Rabbit 513 THORNTON WALDO BURGESS 387. Johnny Chuck Finds the Best Thing in the World 514 ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE 388. Mr. 'Possum's Sick Spell 516 DALLAS LORE SHARP 389. Wild Life in the Farm-Yard 520 VERNON L. KELLOGG 390. The Vendetta 524 SEWELL FORD 391. Pasha, the Son of Selim 527 "OUIDA" (LOUISA DE LA RAMEE) 392. Moufflou 534 OLIVE THORNE MILLER 393. Bird Habits: I. Where He Sleeps II. His Travels 548 ERNEST THOMPSON SETON 394. The Poacher and the Silver Fox 551 DAVID STARR JORDAN 395. The Story of a Salmon 556 RUDYARD KIPLING 396. Moti Guj--Mutineer 562 CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS 397. Last Bull 566 SECTION X ROMANCE CYCLES AND LEGEND _Bibliography_ 576 _Introductory_ 577 From ARABIAN NIGHTS 398. Ali Baba, and the Forty Thieves 579 "FELIX SUMMERLEY" Reynard the Fox 399. How Bruin the Bear Sped with Reynard the Fox 586 400. The Battle Between the Fox and the Wolf 591 SIR THOMAS MALORY King Arthur and His Round Table 401. How Arthur Became King 594 402. A Tourney with the French 597 403. Adventures of Arthur 598 MAUDE RADFORD WARREN 404. Arthur and Sir Accalon 603 CERVANTES-SAAVEDRA, MIGUEL DE 405-411. Stories from _Don Quixote_ I. Dreams and Shadows 606 II. Preparing for the Quest 608 III. The Quest Begins 610 IV. The Knightly Vigil 613 V. On Honor's Field 615 VI. The Return Home 617 VII. The Battle with the Windmills 618 HORACE E. SCUDDER 412. The Proud King 620 EVA MARCH TAPPAN 413. Robin and the Merry Little Old Woman 623 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 414. Allen-a-Dale 628 SECTION XI BIOGRAPHY AND HERO STORIES _Bibliography_ 632 _Introductory_ 633 ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS 415. How Columbus Got His Ships 635 HORACE E. SCUDDER 416. The Boyhood of Washington 642 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 417. The Autobiography 645 HELEN NICOLAY 418. Lincoln's Early Days 655 ANNA HOWARD SHAW 419. In the Western Wilderness 662 CHARLOTTE M. YONGE 420. The Pass of Thermopylae 671 SECTION XII HOME READING LIST AND GENERAL INDEX Home Reading Lists by Grades 679 General Index 687 SECTION I PREFACE AND GENERAL INTRODUCTION SELECTED GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY I. GENERAL COLLECTIONS OF CHILDREN'S LITERATURE Tappan, Eva March, _The Children's Hour_. 10 vols. Neilson, William Patten, and others, _The Junior Classics_. 10 vols. Sylvester, Charles H., _Journeys through Bookland_. 10 vols. Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, and others, _The Young Folks' Library_. 30 vols. Mabie, Hamilton Wright, _After School Library_. 12 vols. Scudder, Horace E., _The Children's Book_. [Best single-volume collection for early grades.] Barnes, Walter, _Types of Children's Literature_. II. HISTORICAL DEVELOPMENT Darton, F. J. Harvey, "Children's Books," in _Cambridge History of English Literature_, Vol. XI, chap. xvi. [Best brief account of development in England. Elaborate bibliography.] Tassin, Algernon, "Books for Children," in _Cambridge History of American Literature_, Vol. II, chap. vii. [Best account of American development. Extended bibliography.] Field, Mrs. E. M., _The Child and His Book_. The history and progress of children's literature in England. [Stops with 1826.] Moses, Montrose J., _Children's Books and Reading_. [Deals with both English and American side. Book-lists and bibliographies.] Ashton, John, _Chapbooks of the Eighteenth Century_. Halsey, Rosalie V., _Forgotten Books of the American Nursery_. Welsh, Charles, _A Bookseller of the Last Century_. [John Newbery.] "Godfrey, Elizabeth," _English Children in the Olden Time_. Earle, Florence Morse, _Child Life in Colonial Days_. III. GUIDES IN TEACHING 1. SPECIFIC PEDAGOGY Barnes, Walter, _English in the Country School_. Carpenter, G. R., Baker, F. T., and Scott, F. N., _The Teaching of English_. [Pp. 155-187, "Literature in the Elementary Schools," by Professor Baker.] Chubb, Percival, _The Teaching of English_. Cox, John Harrington, _Literature in the Common School_. Barron, Julia S., Bacon, Corinne, and Dana, J. C., _Course of Study for Normal School Pupils on Literature for Children_. [A syllabus.] Hosic, James Fleming, _The Elementary Course in English_. MacClintock, Porter Lander, _Literature in the Elementary School_. McMurry, Charles A., _Special Method in Reading in the Grades_. Welch, John S., _Literature in the School: Aims, Methods, and Interpretations_. 2. MORE GENERAL AND INSPIRATIONAL Bates, Arlo, _Talks on the Teaching of Literature_. Bennett, Arnold, _Literary Taste and How to Form It_. Colby, J. Rose, _Literature and Life in School_. Kerfoot, J. B., _How to Read_. Lee, Gerald Stanley, _The Child and the Book_. Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, _On the Art of Reading_. [Children's Literature.] Scudder, Horace E., _Literature in the Schools_. Smith, C. Alphonso, _What Can Literature Do for Me?_ Woodberry, George E., _The Appreciation of Literature_. _The Heart of Man._ 3. GUIDES TO BOOKS FOR CHILDREN Arnold, Gertrude W., _A Mother's List of Books for Children_. Field, Walter Taylor, _Fingerposts to Children's Reading_. Hunt, Clara W., _What Shall We Read to the Children?_ Lowe, Orton, _Literature for Children_. Macy, John, _A Child's Guide to Reading_. Moore, Annie Carroll, _Roads to Childhood_. Olcott, Frances Jenkins, _The Children's Reading_. _One Thousand Good Books for Children._ [Classified and graded list prepared by National Congress of Mothers' Literature Committee, Alice M. Jordan, Chairman. Issued by U. S. Bureau of Education, Washington, D. C., as Home Education Circular No. 1.] Stevens, David Harrison, _The Home Guide to Good Reading_. IV. BOOKS ON STORY-TELLING Allison, S. B., and Perdue, H. A., _The Story in Primary Education_. Bailey, Carolyn Sherman, _For the Story-Teller_. Bryant, Sarah Cone, _How to Tell Stories to Children_. _Stories to Tell to Children._ [Introduction.] Cather, Katherine D., _Educating by Story-Telling_. Cowles, Julia D., _The Art of Story-Telling_. Cross, Allen, and Statler, Nellie M., _Story-Telling for Upper Grades_. Forbush, William B., _Manual of Stories_. Horne, H. H., _Story-Telling, Questioning, and Studying_. Keyes, Angela M., _Stories and Story-Telling_. Kready, Laura F., _A Study of Fairy Tales_. [Chap. iii, "The Telling of Fairy Tales."] Lindsay, Maud, _The Story-Teller for Little Children_. Lyman, Edna, _Story Telling: What to Tell and How to Tell It_. McMurry, Charles A., _Special Method in Reading in the Grades_. Moore, Annie C., Article "Story-Telling," _Cyclopedia of Education_. [Ed. Monroe.] Partridge, Emelyn N., and George E., _Story-Telling in the School and Home_. Shedlock, Marie L., _The Art of the Story-Teller_. St. John, Edward Porter, _Stories and Story-Telling in Moral and Religious Education_. Wiltse, Sara E., _The Place of the Story in Early Education_. Wyche, Richard Thomas, _Some Great Stories and How to Tell Them_. V. ON DRAMATIZATION Briggs, T. H., and Coffman, L. D., _Reading in Public Schools_. [Chap. x, "Dramatic Reading," and chap. xxiii, "Dramatics."] Curtis, Elnora W., _The Dramatic Instinct in Education_. Finlay-Johnson, Harriet, _The Dramatic Method of Teaching_. Gesell, Arnold L., and Beatrice C., _The Normal Child and Primary Education_. [Chapter on "Dramatic Expression."] Herts, Alice M., _The Children's Educational Theatre_. Nixon, Lillian E., _Fairy Tales a Child Can Read and Act_. VI. THE BIBLE AS LITERATURE FOR CHILDREN Moulton, Richard Green, _A Short Introduction to the Literature of the Bible_. The simplest and best discussion for teachers of the Bible as literature. The books that follow are good sources for story material from the Bible. Baldwin, James, _Old Stories from the East_. Hodges, George, _The Garden of Eden_. _The Castle of Zion._ _When the King Came._ Houghton, Louise Seymour, _Telling Bible Stories_. Moulton, Richard Green, _Bible Stories: Old Testament_. _Bible Stories: New Testament._ [Two volumes of _The Modern Reader's Bible for Children_. The only variations from the text are by omissions.] Olcott, Frances Jenkins, _Bible Stories to Read and Tell_. Smith, Nora Archibald, _Old, Old Tales from the Old, Old Book_. Stewart, Mary, "_Tell Me a True Story_." VII. SOME INTERPRETATIONS OF CHILDHOOD Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, _The Story of a Bad Boy_. Du Bois, Patterson, _Beckonings from Little Hands_. Gilson, Roy Rolfe, _In the Morning Glow_. Grahame, Kenneth, _Dream Days_. _The Golden Age_. Howells, William Dean, _A Boy's Town_. Kelly, Myra, _Little Citizens_. Larcom, Lucy, _A New England Girlhood_. Loti, Pierre, _The Story of a Child_. Martin, George Madden, _Emmy Lou, Her Book and Heart_. Masters, Edgar Lee, _Mitch Miller_. Pater, Walter, _The Child in the House_. Shute, Henry A., _The Real Diary of a Real Boy_. Smith, William Hawley, _The Evolution of Dodd_. Stuart, Ruth McEnery, _Sonny_. Walpole, Hugh, _Jeremy_. Warner, Charles Dudley, _On Being a Boy_. White, William Allen, _The Court of Boyville_. VIII. SOCIAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL BACKGROUND Addams, Jane, _Youth and Our City Streets_. Adler, Felix, _The Moral Instruction of Children_. Antin, Mary, _The Promised Land_. Cabot, Ella Lyman, _The Seven Ages of Childhood_. Dawson, George E., _The Child and His Religion_. Engleman, J. O., _Moral Education_. Griggs, Edward Howard, _Moral Education_. Hall, G. Stanley, _Youth_. Henderson, C. Hanford, _Education and the Larger Life_. Hoyt, Franklin Chase, _Quicksands of Youth_. Oppenheim, Nathan, _The Development of the Child_. Puffer, J. Adams, _The Boy and His Gang_. CHILDREN'S LITERATURE SECTION I. PREFACE AND GENERAL INTRODUCTION THE PREFACE This book is primarily a handbook for teachers in the grades and for students preparing to teach in the grades. Although it does not ignore problems of grading and presentation, the chief purpose is to acquaint teachers and prospective teachers with standard literature of the various kinds suitable for use in the classroom and to give them information regarding books and authors to aid them in directing the selection of books by and for children. In discussing the early training of children in literature with large classes of young people preparing for teaching in the grades, the compilers found themselves face to face with two difficulties. In the first place, only a limited number of these prospective teachers were in any real sense acquainted with what may be called the basic traditional material. Rhymes, fables, myths, stories were so vaguely and indistinctly held in mind that they were practically of no great value. It was therefore not possible to assume much real acquaintance with the material needed for use with children, and the securing of such an acquaintance seemed the first essential. After all is said, a discussion of ways and means must follow such a mastery of basic material. In the second place, there was the difficulty of finding in any compact form a body of material sufficient in extent and wide enough in its range to serve as a satisfactory basis for such a course. No doubt the ideal way would be to send the student to the many authoritative volumes covering the various fields dealt with in this collection. But with large classes and a limited amount of time such a plan was hardly practicable. The young teacher cannot be much of a specialist in any of the various fields of knowledge with the elements of which he is expected to acquaint children. The principles of economy demand that the brief courses which specifically prepare for teaching should be such as will make the work in the schoolroom most helpful and least wasteful from the very beginning. Hence this attempt to collect in one volume what may somewhat roughly be spoken of as material for a minimum basic course in Children's Literature. The important thing about this book, then, is the actual literary material included in it. The notes and suggestions scattered throughout are aimed to direct attention to this material either in the way of pointing out the sources of it, or helping in the understanding and appreciation of it, or suggesting some ways of presenting it most effectively to children. In the case of folk material, an effort has been made to present reliable versions of the stories used. Many of the folk stories, for instance, appear in dozens of collections and in dozens of forms, according to the artistic or pedagogic biases of the various compilers. As a rule the most accessible stories are found in versions written down to the supposed needs of children, and intended to be read by the children themselves. Even if we grant the teacher the right to make extensive modifications, it is still reasonable to insist that some correct traditional form be used as the starting point. Such a plan insures a mastery of one's material. The sources of the versions used in this text are pointed out in order that teachers who wish to do so may extend their acquaintance to other folk material by referring to the various collections mentioned. Such a book as this must necessarily be selective. No doubt omissions will be noted of poems or stories that many teachers deem indispensable. Others will find selections included that to their minds are questionable. The editors can only plead in extenuation that they have included what they have found by experience to offer a sound basis for discussing with training classes the nature of this basic material and the form in which it should be presented to children. To accomplish these ends it has sometimes seemed well to give parallel versions, and occasionally to give a version that will necessitate the discussion of such subjects as the use of dialect, the inclusion of items of terror or horror, and the soundness of the ethical appeal. These various problems are indicated in the notes accompanying individual selections. The editorial apparatus does not constitute a treatise on literary criticism, or a manual of mythology or folklore, or a "pedagogy" of children's literature as such, or anything like an exhaustive bibliography of the fields of study touched upon. It aims at the very modest purpose of immediate and practical utility. It hopes to fill a place as a sort of first aid for the inexperienced teacher, and as soon as the teacher gets some real grasp of the elements of the problem this book must yield to the more elaborate and well-knit discussions of specialists in the various subjects treated. The bibliographical references throughout are intended to offer help in this forward step. These bibliographies are, in all cases, frankly selective. As a rule most of the books mentioned are books now in print. In the bibliographies connected with the sections of traditional material some of the more important works in the field of scholarship are named in each case for the benefit of those who may be working where such books are available in institutional or public libraries. Titles of books are printed in italics, while titles of poems, separate stories, and selections are printed in roman type inclosed in quotation marks. The grouping of material is in no sense a hard and fast one. Those who work in literary fields understand the pitfalls that beset one who attempts such a classification. Only a general grouping under headings used in the ordinary popular sense has been made. Fine distinctions are beside the mark in such a book as this. Popular literature was not made for classification, but for higher purposes, and anything that draws attention from the pleasure-giving and spirit-invigorating qualities of the literature itself should be avoided. Hence, the classifications adopted are as simple and unobtrusive as possible. Finally, the editors make no pretense to original scholarship. They have not attempted to extend the limits of human knowledge, but to point out pleasant paths leading to the limitless domains of literature. They have tried to reflect accurately the best practices and theories, or to point out how teachers may get at the best. Their obligations to others are too extended to be noted in a preface, but will be apparent on every page of the text. Their most important lessons have come from the reactions secured from hundreds of teachers who have been under their tuition. Copyright obligations are indicated in connection with the selections used. GENERAL INTRODUCTION 1. LITERATURE FOR CHILDREN _The beginnings._ During the eighteenth century the peoples of Europe and America turned their attention in a remarkable way to a consideration of the worth and rights of the individual. In America this so-called democratic movement culminated in the Declaration of Independence in 1776. The most dramatic manifestation of the movement in Europe was the French Revolution of 1789, but every country of Europe was thrilled and changed by the new thought. Every important democratic movement leads to an awakened interest in the welfare of children, for they are among the weak and helpless. This great movement of the eighteenth century brought such a remarkable change of thought regarding children as to mark the beginning of a new kind of literature, known as literature for children. Today we think of Andersen, Stevenson, Mrs. Ewing, and scores of others as writers of literature for children. Such writers did not exist before the democratic movement of the eighteenth century. It is true that a few short books and articles had been written for children as early as the fifteenth century, but they were written to teach children to be obedient and respectful to parents and masters or to instruct them in the customs of the church--they were not written primarily to entertain children and give them pleasure. Within the last century and a half, too, many authors have collected and retold for children innumerable traditional stories from all parts of the earth--traditional fairy stories, romantic stories of the Middle Ages, legends, and myths. _The child's inheritance._ As has been indicated, children's literature is of two kinds: first, the traditional kind that grew up among the folk of long ago in the forms of rhyme, myth, fairy tale, fable, legend, and romantic hero story; and, second, the kind that has been produced in modern times by individual authors. The first, the traditional kind, was produced by early civilization and by the childlike peasantry of long ago. The best of the stories produced by the childhood of the race have been bequeathed to the children of today, and to deprive children of the pleasure they would get from this inheritance of folklore seems as unjust as to deprive them of traditional games, which also help to make the first years of a person's life, the period of childhood, the period of imaginative play. The second kind of children's literature, that produced in modern times by individual authors, has likewise been bequeathed to children. Some of it is so new that its worth has not been determined, but some of it has passed the test of the classics. The best of both kinds is as priceless as is the classical literature for adults. The world would not sell Shakespeare; yet one may well doubt that Shakespeare is worth as much to humanity as is Mother Goose. To evaluate truly the worth of such classics is impossible; but we may be assured that the child who has learned to appreciate the pleasures and the beauties of Mother Goose is the one most likely to appreciate the pleasures and the beauties of Shakespeare when the proper time comes. The true purpose of education is to bring the child into his inheritance. For many years educators have talked about the use of literature _in_ the grades as one means of accomplishing this purpose. The results of attempts to teach literature in the grades have sometimes been disappointing because often the literature used has not been _for_ the grades; that is, it has not been children's literature. In other cases the attempts have failed because the literature has not been presented as literature--it has, for example, been presented as reading lessons or composition assignments. Students preparing to teach in the grades have been studying textbooks from which literature for children has been excluded, regardless of its artistic worth. Consequently many teachers have not been prepared to teach literature in the grades. Often they have assumed that the reading lesson would develop in the pupil an appreciation of good literature, not realizing that the reading lesson may cause pupils to dislike literature, especially poetry, unless it is supplemented by appropriate work in children's literature. If the student reads thoughtfully the literary selections in the following sections of this book, he probably will realize that children's literature is also literature for adults, and that it is not only the child's inheritance, but also the inheritance of humanity. The fact that literature for children is likely to have a strong interest for adults is strikingly suggested in a few sentences in John Macy's _A Child's Guide to Reading_: When "juveniles" are really good, parents read them after children have gone to bed. I do not know whether _Tom Brown at Rugby_ is catalogued by the careful librarian as a book for boys, but I am sure it is a book for men. I dare say that a good many pairs of eyes that have passed over the pages of Mr. John T. Trowbridge and Elijah Kellogg and Louisa M. Alcott have been old enough to wear spectacles. And if Mrs. Kate Douglas Wiggin ever thought that in _Timothy's Quest_ and _Rebecca_ she was writing books especially for the young, adult readers have long since claimed her for their own. I have enjoyed Mr. A. S. Pier's tales of the boys at St. Timothy's, though he planned them for younger readers. We are told on good authority that _St. Nicholas_ and _The Youth's Companion_ appear in households where there are no children, and they give a considerable portion of their space to serial stories written for young people. Between good "juveniles" and good books for grown persons there is not much essential difference. 2. LITERATURE IN THE GRADES _Reading and literature distinguished._ A country school-teacher once abruptly stopped the routine of daily work and, standing beside her desk, told the story of the maid who counted her chickens before they were hatched. One of her pupils, who is now a man, remembers vividly how the incident impressed him. Although he was in the second grade, that was the first time he had known a teacher to stop regular school work to tell a story. Immediately the teacher was transformed. She had been merely a teacher, one of those respected, awe-inspiring creatures whose business it is to make the school mill go; but the magic of her story established the relation of friendship between teacher and pupil. She was no longer merely a teacher. If the story had been read as a part of the reading lesson, it would not have impressed the pupil greatly. It was impressive because it was presented as literature. A clear distinction should be made between reading and literature, especially in the primary grades. In the work of the reading course the pupil should take the lead, being guided by the teacher. If the pupil is to progress, he must master the mechanics of reading--he must learn to pronounce printed words and to get the meaning of printed sentences and paragraphs. The course in reading requires patient work on the part of the pupil, just as the course in arithmetic does, and the chief pleasure that the primary pupil can derive from the work is a consciousness of enlarged power and of success in accomplishing what is undertaken. In the work with literature, however, the teacher should take the lead. She should open to the pupils the magic treasure house of the world's best story and song. The literature period of the day should be the pupil's imaginative play period, bringing relief from the tension of tired nerves. The teacher who makes the study of literature a mechanical grind instead of a joyous exercise of imagination misses at least two of her greatest opportunities as a teacher. First, by failing to cultivate in her pupils an appreciation of good literature, she misses an opportunity to make the lives of her pupils brighter and happier. Second, by failing to realize that the person with a story and a song is everybody's friend, she misses an opportunity to win the friendship, admiration, and love of her pupils. The inexperienced teacher who is well-nigh distracted in her efforts to guide forty restless, disorderly pupils through the program of a day's work might charm half her troubles away by the magic of a simple story or by the music and imagery of a juvenile poem. Her story or poem would do more than remove the cause of disorder by giving the pupils relaxation from nerve-straining work: it would help to establish that first essential to all true success in teaching--a relation of friendship between pupils and teacher. _Culture through literature._ He was a wise educator who said, "The boy who has access to good books and who has learned to make them his close friends is beyond the power of evil." Literature in the grades, in addition to furnishing intellectual recreation, should so cultivate in the pupil the power of literary appreciation that he will make good books his close friends. The child who has heard good music from infancy is not likely to be attracted by popular ragtime. The boy who has been trained in habits of courtesy, industry, and pure thinking in his home life, and school life is not likely to find pleasure in the rudeness, idleness, and vulgarity of the village poolroom. The pupil who is taught to appreciate the beautiful, the true, and the good in standard literature is not likely to find pleasure in reading the melodramatic and sentimental trash that now has prominence of place and space in many book stores and in some public libraries. It is the duty of the teacher, and it should be her pleasure, to cultivate in her pupils such a taste for good literature as will lead them to choose the good and reject the bad, a taste that will insure for them the culture that good literature gives. _Selection of material._ In choosing selections of literary worth to present to her pupils, the teacher should keep in mind the pupil's stage of mental development and she should not forget that the study of literature should give pleasure. Often pupils do not like what moral writers think they should like, and usually the pupils are right. Good literature is sincere and is true in its appeal to the fundamental emotions of humanity, and an obvious attempt to teach a moral theory at the expense of truth is no more to be tolerated in literature for children than in literature for adults. The childhood of the race has produced much literature with a true appeal to the human heart, in the form of fable, fairy story, myth, and hero story. Most of this literature appeals strongly to the child of today. For several hundred years the nursery rhymes of "Mother Goose" have delighted children with their melody, humor, and imagery. As literature for the kindergarten and first grade, they have not often been excelled by modern writers. The task of selecting suitable material from the many poems, stories, and books written for children in recent years is difficult, but if the teacher has a keen appreciation of good literature and is guided by the likes and dislikes of her pupils, she probably will not go far astray. _Supplemental reading._ If the teacher examines the juvenile books offered for sale by the book dealers of her town or city, she probably will discover that most of them are trash not fit to be read by anyone, and she will realize the importance of directing parents in the selection of gift books for children. A good way to get better books into the book stores and into the hands of children is to give the pupils a list of good books, with the suggestion that they ask their parents to buy one of them the next time a book is to be bought as a present. Such lists of books also will improve the standard of books in the town library, for librarians will be quick to realize the importance of supplying standard literature if there is a demand for it. 3. STORY-TELLING AND DRAMATIZATION _Story-telling._ Most stories are much more effective when well told than they are when read, just as most lectures and sermons are most effective when delivered without manuscript. To explain just why the story well told is superior to the story read might not be easy, but much of the superiority probably comes from the freedom of the "talk style" and the more appropriate use of inflection and emphasis. Then, too, the story-teller can look at her audience and is free to add a descriptive word or phrase occasionally to produce vividness of impression. Some stories, of course, are so constructed that they must follow closely the diction of the original form. "Henny-Penny" and Kipling's _Just-So Stories_ are of this type. Such stories should be read. Most stories, however, are most effective when well told. The teacher, especially the teacher of one of the primary grades, should not consider herself prepared to teach literature until she has gained something of the art of story-telling. _Selection of stories._ Never attempt to tell a story that you do not like. You are not prepared to interest pupils in a story, however appropriate it otherwise may be, if you are not interested in it yourself. Try to choose stories adapted in structure and content to the age and experience of the children of your grade. For the first or second grade, choose a few simple fables, a few short, simple fairy tales, and a few short, simple nature stories, such as "Peter Rabbit," "How Johnny Chuck Finds the Best Thing in the World," and "Mr. 'Possum's Sick Spell." Remember that a story for the first or second grade should be short. _Two principles._ Learn to apply readily the following principles of method: First, use the past tense in telling a story except in direct quotation. The rules of grammar require this, and it is an aid to clearness and effectiveness. For example, do not say, "So he goes" or "Then he says"; but say, "So he went" or "Then he said" (or, for variety, _replied_, _growled_, _mumbled_, etc.). Second, use direct discourse (the exact words of the characters) rather than indirect discourse. For example, do not say, "The Troll asked who was tripping over his bridge"; but say, "'WHO'S THAT tripping over my bridge?' roared the Troll." Direct discourse always gives life and vividness to a story. _Preparation and presentation._ When you have selected a suitable story, read it carefully several times to learn the essential details and the order in which they should come. Keep in mind the fact that you are to use the past tense and direct discourse. If the story is a fable, you probably will see that you should add much conversation and description not in the text. A little description of the witch, giant, fairy, or castle may give vividness to your story. If the story is a long fairy tale, you may see that many details may be omitted. If the story is as concise and dramatic as is the version of "The Three Billy-Goats Gruff" in this book, it may be suitable for presentation without any changes. When you have the story clearly in mind as you wish to present it, tell it to the pupils several times, and then have some of them tell it. Your story, of course, should not be told in a lifeless monotone. Some parts should be told slowly, and others rapidly. In some parts the voice should be low and soft, while in other parts it should be loud and gruff or harsh. The words of the princess should not sound like those of the old witch or the soldier. The daintiness and grace of elves and fairies should be indicated in the delivery. _Corroborative opinion._ The many books on the art of story-telling by skilled practitioners and the emphasis placed upon the great practical value of story-telling by all those charged with the oversight of the education of children show conclusively that the story method in teaching is having its grand renascence. The English education minister, Mr. H. A. L. Fisher, speaking recently on the subject of "History Teaching," set forth admirably the general principles back of this revival: There is no difficulty about interesting children. The real difficulty is to bore them. Almost any tale will interest a child. It need not be well constructed or thrilling; it may be filled with the most unexciting and trivial incidents, but so long as it carries the mind along at all, it will interest a child. The hunger which intelligent children have for stories is almost inexhaustible. They like to have their stories repeated, and insist that the characters should reappear over and over again, for they have an appetite for reality and a desire to fix these passing figments into the landscape of the real life with which they are surrounded. One of the great qualities in childhood which makes it apt for receiving historical impressions is just this capacity for giving body to the phantoms of the mind. The limits between the real and the legendary or miraculous which are drawn by the critical intelligence do not exist for the childish mind. . . . It would then be a great educational disaster if this valuable faculty in childhood were allowed to run to waste. There are certain years in the development of every normal intelligent child when the mind is full of image-making power and eager to make a friend or enemy of any god, hero, nymph, fairy, or servant maid who may come along. Then is the time when it is right and fitting to affect some introductions to the great characters of mythology and history; that is the age at which children will eagerly absorb what they can learn of Achilles and Orpheus, of King Arthur and his Knights, of Alexander and Christopher Columbus and the Duke of Wellington. I do not think it is necessary to obtrude any moralizing commentary when these great and vague images are first brought into the landscape of the child's intellectual experience. A little description, a few stories, a picture or two, will be enough to fix them in the memory and to give them body and shape together with the fairies and witches and pirate kings and buccaneering captains with whom we have all at one time been on such familiar terms. Let us then begin by teaching the past to small children by way of stories and pictures. _Dramatization._ The play spirit that leads children to play lady, doctor, church, and school will also lead them to enjoy dramatizing stories, or "playing the stories," as they call it. Some stories, of course, are so lacking in action as to be not well suited for dramatization, and others have details of action, character, or situation that may not well be represented in the schoolroom. The teacher may be surprised, however, to see how ingenious her pupils are in overcoming difficulties after they have had a little assistance in playing two or three stories. Unconsciously the pupil will get from the dramatization a training in oral English, reading, and literary appreciation that can hardly be gained in any other way. When the pupils have learned a story thoroughly, they are ready to make plans for playing it. The stage setting may be considered first, and here the child's imagination can work wonders in arranging details. The opening under the teacher's desk may become a dungeon, a cave, a cellar, or a well. If a two-story house is needed, it may be outlined on the floor in the front part of the schoolroom, with a chalk-mark stairway, up which Goldilocks can walk to lie down on three coats--the three beds in the bed-chamber of the three bears. The pupils can probably soon decide what characters are necessary, but more time may be required to assign the parts. To play the part of a spider, bear, wolf, fairy, sheep, or butterfly does not seem difficult to a child who has entered into the spirit of the play. The most difficult part of dramatization may be the plan for conversation, especially if the text version of the story contains little or no direct discourse. The pupils should know the general nature of the conversation and action before they begin to play the story, although they need not memorize the parts. Suppose that the fable "The Shepherd's Boy" is to be dramatized. The first part of the dramatization might be described about as follows: The shepherd boy, tending his flock of pupil-sheep in the pasture land at one side of the teacher's-desk-mountain, looked toward the pupil-desk-village at one side of the room and said quietly, "It certainly is lonely here. I believe I'll make those villagers think a wolf has come to eat the sheep. Then perhaps they'll come down here, and I'll have a little company and some excitement." Then he jumped around frantically, waving his yardstick-shepherd's crook, and shouted to the villagers, "Wolf! Wolf!" The villagers came rushing down to the pasture land, asking excitedly, "Where's the wolf? Has he killed many of the sheep?" "Oh, oh, oh," laughed the boy, "there wasn't any wolf. I certainly did fool you that time." "I don't think that's very funny," said one of the villagers. "Well, we might as well go back to our work," said another. Then they went back to the village. After they had gone, the boy said, "I guess I'll try that joke again." If the teacher puts much direct discourse in a story of this kind when she tells it to the pupils, the task of dramatizing will naturally be made easier. Some stories lend themselves in the most natural manner to dramatization. An interesting example of such a story may be found among the tales dealing with the Wise Men of Gotham. These Wise Men are referred to in one of the best known of the Mother Goose rhymes. It would seem that the inhabitants of Gotham, in the reign of King John, had some reason of their own for pretending to be mad, and out of this event the legends took their rise. The number of fishermen may be changed to seven or some other number to suit the number in the acting group. Here is the story: On a certain time there were twelve men of Gotham that went to fish, and some stood on dry land. And in going home, one said to the other "We have ventured wonderfully in wading. I pray God that none of us come home to be drowned." "Nay, marry," said the other, "let us see that, for there did twelve of us come out." Then they counted themselves, and every one counted eleven. Said the one to the other, "There is one of us drowned." They went back to the brook where they had been fishing and sought up and down for him that was drowned, making great lamentation. A stranger coming by asked what it was they sought for, and why they were sorrowful. "Oh!" said they, "this day we went to fish in the brook; twelve of us came together, and one is drowned." Said the stranger, "Tell how many there be of you." One of them, counting, said, "Eleven," and again he did not count himself. "Well," said the stranger, "what will you give me if I find the twelfth man?" "Sir," said they, "all the money we have got." "Give me the money," said the stranger, and began with the first, and gave him a stroke over the shoulders with his whip, which made him groan, saying, "Here is one," and so he served them all, and they all groaned at the matter. When he came to the last he paid him well, saying, "Here is the twelfth man." "God's blessing on thy heart," said they, "for thus finding our dear brother." 4. COURSES OF STUDY As an aid to inexperienced teachers, it seems well to suggest in a summary how a selection of material suitable for each grade might be made from the material of this book. The summary, however, should be regarded as suggestive in a general way only. No detailed outline of a course of study in literature for the grades can be ideal for all schools because the pupils of a given grade in one school may be much more advanced in the knowledge of literature and the ability to understand and appreciate it than are the pupils of the same grade in another school. Many literary selections, too, might appropriately be taught in almost any grade if the method of presentation in each case were suited to the understanding of the pupils. _Robinson Crusoe_, for example, may appropriately be told to second-grade pupils, or it may be read by fourth- or fifth-grade pupils, or it may be studied as fiction by eighth-grade pupils or university students. All poems of remarkable excellence that are suitable for primary pupils are also suitable for pupils in the higher grades and for adults, and the same is true of many prose selections. The summary that follows, then, is to be regarded as "first aid" to the untrained, inexperienced teacher. The teacher's own personal likes and dislikes and her success in presenting various literary selections should eventually lead her to modify any prescribed course of study. If a teacher of the sixth grade discovers that her pupils should rank only second grade in knowledge and appreciation of literature, she may very properly begin with traditional fairy tales. Another outlined course of study is given in Section XII of this book. _First, second, and third grades._ Since pupils in the primary grades read with difficulty if at all, the teacher should tell or read all selections presented as literature in these grades. No kind of prose is better suited for use in the primary grades than traditional fairy tales. About half a dozen might well be presented in each of the three grades. For the first grade, the simplest should be chosen, such as "The Old Woman and Her Pig," "Teeny-Tiny," "The Cat and the Mouse," "The Three Pigs," "The Three Bears," and "The Elves and the Shoemaker." As suitable stories for the second grade, we might choose "The Three Sillies," "Little Red Riding-Hood," "Cinderella," "The Three Billy-Goats Gruff," "The Straw Ox," and "The Horned Women." For the third grade, somewhat longer and more complex stories might be chosen. About half a dozen fables might also be used appropriately in each of the primary grades. Simple Aesopic fables in prose seem best for the first two grades. More complex forms might be chosen for the third grade, for example, "The Story of Alnaschar," "The Good Samaritan," "The Discontented Pendulum," "The Musical Ass," "The Swan, the Pike, and the Crab," and "The Hen with the Golden Eggs." Much of the nature literature of the primary grades may be in the form of verse, but some simple nature prose may be used successfully. From the selections in this book, "Peter Rabbit" should be chosen for the first grade, while "Johnny Chuck," and "Mr. 'Possum's Sick Spell" are appropriate for the second and third grades. The simplest of Andersen's _Fairy Tales_ may be used in the third grade, and perhaps in the second. Some suitable stories are "The Real Princess," "The Fir Tree," "The Tinder Box," "The Hardy Tin Soldier," and "The Ugly Duckling." The ideal verse for the first grade is nursery rhymes, which may be chosen from the first 135 selections of this book. These may be supplemented by such simple verse as "The Three Kittens," "The Moon," "Ding Dong," "The Little Kitty," "Baby Bye," "Time to Rise," "Rain," "I Like Little Pussy," and "The Star." In the second and third grades, traditional verses from those following Number 135 in Section II may be used. The poems by Stevenson are ideal for these grades, and those by Field, Sherman, and Christina Rossetti are good. In addition the teacher might select such poems as "The Brown Thrush," and "Who Stole the Bird's Nest." _Fourth, fifth, and sixth grades._ Although pupils in these intermediate grades may be expected to read some library books, the teacher should read and tell stories frequently, for this is the surest way to develop in the pupil a taste for good literature. The teacher should remember, too, that the story she recommends to the pupils as suitable reading should be about two grades easier than those told or read by the teacher. Probably every poem presented as literature in these grades should be read or recited by the teacher because pupils are not likely to get the charm of rhythm, melody, and rhyme if they do the reading. Pupils who dislike poetry are pupils who have not heard good poetry well read. Myths are appropriate for each of the intermediate grades. Most teachers prefer for the fourth grade the simpler classical myths, such as "A Story of Springtime," "The Miraculous Pitcher," "The Narcissus," and "The Apple of Discord." In the fifth grade, the teacher may use the more difficult classical myths, reserving the Norse myths for the sixth grade. Modern fairy and fantastic stories are also appropriate for each of these grades. Suitable stories for the fourth grade are "The Four-Leaved Clover," "The Emperor's New Clothes," "The Nightingale," and "The Story of Fairyfoot." Stories appropriate for the fifth grade are "The Happy Prince," "The Knights of the Silver Shield," and "The Prince's Dream." In the sixth grade, the teacher might use "Old Pipes and the Dryad" and "The King of the Golden River." Two or three symbolic stories or fables in verse from the last part of Section V should be used in each of these grades. Nature prose should appeal more and more to children as they advance from the fourth to the eighth grade. Many pupils in the fourth grade will enjoy reading for themselves books by Burgess and Paine, while fifth- and sixth-grade pupils will get much pleasure from the simpler books by Sharp, Seton, Long, Miller, and Roberts. In the intermediate grades, the teacher may read such stories as "Wild Life in the Farm Yard," "The Vendetta," "Pasha," "Moufflou," and "Bird Habits." Stories of various other kinds may be read by the teacher in the intermediate grades. "Goody Two-Shoes" and "Waste Not, Want Not," are suitable for the fourth grade. The biographies "How Columbus Got His Ships" and "Boyhood of Washington" are excellent in the fifth or sixth grade as an introduction to history study, and the romance "Robin Hood and the Merry Little Old Woman" may be used appropriately in any of these grades, especially if it is made to supplement a discussion of the Norman conquest. Most of the poems up to about No. 342, and a few beyond that, are within the range of the work for these grades. _Seventh and eighth grades._ Although pupils in the seventh and eighth grades may be expected to read simple narrative readily, the teacher should read to the pupils frequently. It cannot be too much emphasized that reading aloud to children is the surest way of developing an appreciation of the best in literature. In poetry especially this is a somewhat critical time, as the pupil is passing from the simpler and more concrete verse to that which has a more prominent thought content. The persuasion of the reading voice smooths over many obstacles here. Outside the field of poetry, the teacher's work in these grades is mainly one of guidance and direction in getting the children and the right books in contact. Children at this period are likely to be omnivorous readers, ready for any book that comes their way, and the job of keeping them supplied with titles of enough available good books for their needs is indeed one to tax all a teacher's knowledge and experience. The demand for highly sensational stories on the part of pupils in the upper grades is so insistent that it constitutes a special problem for the teacher. It is a perfectly natural demand, and no wise teacher will attempt to stifle it. Such an attempt would almost certainly result in a more or less surreptitious reading of a mass of unwholesome books which have come to be known as "dime novels." Instead of trying to thwart this desire for the thrilling story the teacher should be ready to recommend books which have all the attractive adventure features of the "dime novel," and which have in addition sound artistic and ethical qualities. While many such books are mentioned in the bibliographies in the latter part of this text, it has seemed well to bring together here a short list of those which librarians over the country have found particularly fitted to serve as substitutes for the dime novel. Alden, W. L., _The Moral Pirate_. Altsheler, Joseph A., _The Young Trailers_. _Horsemen of the Plains._ Barbour, Ralph H., _The Crimson Sweater_. Bennett, John, _The Treasure of Peyre Gaillard_. Burton, Charles P., _The Boys of Bob's Hill_. Carruth, Hayden, _Track's End_. Cody, William F., _Adventures of Buffalo Bill_. Drysdale, William, _The Fast Mail_. Grinnell, George Bird, _Jack among the Indians_. _Jack, the Young Ranchman._ Hunting, Henry G., _The Cave of the Bottomless Pool_. Janvier, Thomas A., _The Aztec Treasure House_. Kaler, James Otis, _Toby Tyler, or Ten Weeks with a Circus_. London, Jack, _The Call of the Wild_. Malone, Captain P. B., _Winning His Way to West Point_. Masefield, John, _Jim Davis_. Mason, Alfred B., _Tom Strong, Washington's Scout_. Matthews, Brander, _Tom Paulding_. Moffett, Cleveland, _Careers of Danger and Daring_. Munroe, Kirk, _Cab and Caboose_. _Derrick Sterling._ O'Higgins, Harvey J., _The Smoke Eaters_. Quirk, Leslie W., _The Boy Scouts of the Black Eagle Patrol_. Sabin, Edwin L., _Bar B Boys_. Schultz, James Willard, _With the Indians in the Rockies_. Stevenson, Burton E., _The Young Train Despatcher_. Stevenson, Robert Louis, _Treasure Island_. Stoddard, William O., _Two Arrows_. _Talking Leaves._ Trowbridge, John T., _Cudjo's Cave_. _The Young Surveyor._ Verne, Jules, _20,000 Leagues under the Sea_. Wallace, Dillon, _Wilderness Castaways_. White, Stewart Edward, _The Magic Forest_. SECTION II MOTHER GOOSE JINGLES AND NURSERY RHYMES BIBLIOGRAPHY I. IMPORTANT IN TRACING THE MOTHER GOOSE CANON c. 1760. _Mother Goose's Melody._ [Published by John Newbery, London.] No copy of this issue known to be in existence. c. 1783. Ritson, Joseph, _Gammer Gurton's Garland, or the Nursery Parnassus_. [1810, enlarged.] c. 1785. _Mother Goose's Melody._ [Reprint of Newbery, by Isaiah Thomas, Worcester, Mass.] [1889. Whitmore, W. H., _The Original Mother Goose's Melody_, as first issued by John Newbery, of London, about A.D. 1760. Reproduced in _facsimile_ from the edition as reprinted by Isaiah Thomas, of Worcester, Mass., about A.D. 1785. With introduction and notes.] 1824 ff. _Mother Goose's Quarto, or Melodies Complete._ [Various issues by Munroe and Francis, Boston.] [Hale, Edward Everett, _The Only True Mother Goose Melodies_. Exact reproduction of the text and illustrations of the original edition (_Mother Goose's Melodies: The Only Pure Edition_) printed in Boston in 1834 by Monroe and Francis. With an introduction.] 1826. Chambers, Robert, _Popular Rhymes of Scotland_. [1870, enlarged.] 1834. Ker, John Bellenden, _An Essay on the Archaeology of Popular English Phrases and Nursery Rhymes_. [Supplemented 1840 and 1842.] 1842. Halliwell (Phillips), J. O., _The Nursery Rhymes of England_. 1849. Halliwell (Phillips), J. O., _Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales_. 1864. Rimbault, Edward F., _Old Nursery Rhymes with Tunes_. II. IMPORTANT MODERN COLLECTIONS Baring-Gould, Sabine, _A Book of Nursery Songs and Rhymes_. Headland, I. T., _Chinese Mother Goose Rhymes_. Jerrold, Walter, _The Big Book of Nursery Rhymes_. Lang, Andrew, _The Nursery Rhyme Book_. Newell, W. W., _Games and Songs of American Children_. Saintsbury, G. E. B., _National Rhymes of the Nursery_. Welsh, Charles, _A Book of Nursery Rhymes_. Wheeler, William A., _Mother Goose's Melodies_. III. NURSERY RHYMES WITH MUSIC Crane, Walter, _The Baby's Bouquet, a Fresh Bunch of Old Rhymes and Tunes_. Homer, Sidney, _Songs from Mother Goose_. Le Mair, H. Willebeck, _Our Old Nursery Rhymes_. Le Mair, H. Willebeck, _Little Songs of Long Ago_. Perkins, Raymond, _Thirty Old-Time Nursery Songs_. IV. STUDIES Bolton, H. C., _Counting-out Rhymes of Children, Their Antiquity, Origin, and Wide Distribution_. Earle, Alice Morse, _Child Life in Colonial Days_. [Especially chap. xiv.] Eckenstein, Lina, _Comparative Studies in Nursery Rhymes_. Godfrey, Elizabeth, _English Children in the Olden Time_. [Especially chap. ii.] Gomme, A. B., _The Traditional Games of England, Scotland, and Ireland_. 2 vols. Green, P. B., _The History of Nursery Rhymes_. Halsey, Rosalie V., _Forgotten Books of the American Nursery_. Field, W. T., _Fingerposts to Children's Reading_, pp. 193 ff. Moses, M. J., _Children's Books and Reading_, pp. 40 ff. SECTION II. MOTHER GOOSE JINGLES AND NURSERY RHYMES INTRODUCTORY _A flawless literature._ The one literature that is supremely adapted to its purpose is the collection of rhymes associated with Mother Goose. To every child it comes with an irresistible appeal. It has a power so natural and fundamental that it defies explanation. The child takes it for granted just as he does his parents. It has a perfection of rhythm and structure not attainable by modern imitators. It has been perfected through the generations by the surest of all tests, that of constant popular use. Much of it is common to many different nations. It is an international literature of childhood. While much of it is known to children long before they enter school, these jingles, like all folk literature, never lose their charm through repetition. The schools have long since learned the value of the familiar in teaching. The process of learning to read is usually based on some of the better known rhymes. Teachers of literature in more advanced classes think they can generally detect the students who have been especially "learned" in "Mother Goose her ways" by their quick responsiveness to the facts of verbal rhythm and rhythmical structure in more sophisticated products. "If we have no love for poetry to-day, it may not impossibly be due to the fact that we have ceased to prize the old, old tales which have been the delight of the child and the child-man since the foundations of the world. If you want your child to love Homer, do not withhold Mother Goose." _Who was Mother Goose?_ The answer to this, as to other questions suggested below, may be of no direct or special interest to the children themselves. But teachers should know some of the main conclusions arrived at by folklorists and others in their investigations of the traditional materials used for basic work in literature. All the evidence shows that Mother Goose as the name of the familiar old lady of the nursery came to us from France. Andrew Lang discovered a reference to her in a French poem of 1650, where she figures as a teller of stories. In 1697 Perrault's famous fairy tales were published with a frontispiece representing an old woman spinning, and telling tales to a man, a girl, a little boy, and a cat. On this frontispiece was the legend, _Tales of Our Mother Goose_. (See note to No. 161.) As a teller of prose tales, Mother Goose came to England with the translation of Perrault about 1730. We do not find her name connected with verse until after the middle of the eighteenth century. About the year 1760 a little book called _Mother Goose's Melody_ was issued by John Newbery, a London publisher and a most important figure in the history of the production of books for children. It is a pleasant and not improbable theory that this first collection of nursery rhymes, upon which later ones were built, was the work of Oliver Goldsmith, who was for some years in Newbery's employ. However that may be, it is certain that from this date the name of Mother Goose has been almost exclusively associated with nursery rhymes. Newbery's _Mother Goose's Melody_ was soon reprinted by Isaiah Thomas, of Worcester, Massachusetts, and thus came into the hands of American children early in our national life. A long-since exploded theory was advanced about 1870 that Mother Goose was a real woman of Boston in the early eighteenth century, whose rhymes were published by her son-in-law, Thomas Fleet, in 1719. But no one has identified any such publication and there is no evidence whatever that this old lady in cap and spectacles is other than purely mythical. _Whence came the jingles themselves?_ It is certain that many nursery rhymes are both widespread geographically in distribution and of great antiquity. Halliwell and others have found references to some of them in old books which prove that many of the English rhymes go back several centuries. They are of popular origin; that is, they took root anonymously among the folk and were passed on by word of mouth. When a rhyme can be traced to any known authority we generally find that the folk have extracted what pleased, have forgotten or modified any original historical or other application the rhymes may have possessed, and in general have shaped the rhyme to popular taste. "Thus our old nursery rhymes," says Andrew Lang, "are smooth stones from the book of time, worn round by constant friction of tongues long silent. We cannot hope to make new nursery rhymes, any more than we can write new fairy tales." Here are a few illustrations of what scholars have been able to tell us of the sources of the rhymes: "Jack and Jill" preserves the Icelandic myth of two children caught up into the moon, where they can still be seen carrying a bucket on a pole between them. "Three Blind Mice" is traced to an old book called _Deuteromalia_ (1609). "Little Jack Horner" is all that is left of an extended chapbook story, _The Pleasant History of Jack Horner, Containing His Witty Tricks_, etc. "Poor Old Robinson Crusoe" is a fragment from a song by the character Jerry Sneak in Foote's _Mayor of Garratt_ (1763). "Simple Simon" gives all that the nursery has preserved of a long chapbook verse story. "A Swarm of Bees in May" was found by Halliwell quoted in Miege's _Great French Dictionary_ (1687). These and numerous like facts serve only to impress us with the long and honorable history of the nursery rhyme. _Can nursery rhymes be helpfully classified?_ This question seems of more consequence to the teacher than the previous ones because it deals with the practical organization of his material. The most superficial observer can see that Nos. 3, 36, 46, 59, 62, and 113, on the following pages, are riddles; that Nos. 22 and 30 are counting-out rhymes; that Nos. 37, 38, 39, 40, and 41 are replies that might be made to one who indulged unduly in suppositions; that No. 27 is a face game, No. 75 a hand game, and No. 108 a toe game; that Nos. 42, 81, 82, 107, and 111 are riding songs; that Nos. 7, 10, 23, 67, and 137 are proverbial sayings; that Nos. 64 and 89 are charms; and so one might continue with groupings based on the immediate use made of the rhyme, not forgetting the great number that lend themselves to the purposes of the crooned lullaby or soothing song. Halliwell made the first attempt at any complete classification in his _Nursery Rhymes of England_ (1842), using eighteen headings: (1) Historical, (2) Literal, (3) Tales, (4) Proverbs, (5) Scholastic, (6) Songs, (7) Riddles, (8) Charms, (9) Gaffers and Gammers, (10) Games, (11) Paradoxes, (12) Lullabies, (13) Jingles, (14) Love and Matrimony, (15) Natural History, (16) Accumulative Stories, (17) Local, (18) Relics. Andrew Lang follows Halliwell, but reduces the classes to fourteen by combining (2) and (5), (7) and (11), (8) and (12), and by omitting (17). These classifications are made from the standpoint of the folklore scholar, and are based on the sources from which the rhymes originally sprang. Professor Saintsbury scouts the value of any such arrangement, since all belong equally in the one class, "jingles," and he also rightly points out that "all genuine nursery rhymes . . . have never become nursery rhymes until the historical fact has been practically forgotten by those who used them, and nothing but the metrical and musical attraction remains." Without denying the great significance of popular rhymes to the student of folklore, we must look elsewhere for any practical suggestion for the teacher in the matter of arrangement. Such a suggestion will be found in the late Charles Welsh's _Book of Nursery Rhymes_, a little volume that every teacher interested in children's literature must make use of. The rhymes are grouped into three main divisions: (1) Mother Play, (2) Mother Stories, and (3) Child Play, with subordinate groupings under each. About 250 rhymes are included in Welsh's collection, and the arrangement suggests the best order for using them practically, without dropping into any ironclad system. It may be argued that any attempt at classification of material so freely and variously used as the Mother Goose rhymes is sure to stiffen the work of the class and render it less enjoyable. Spontaneity is more vital here than at any other stage of one's literary education. _What is the secret of the nursery rhyme's appeal to children?_ Here at least we are face to face with what may be called a final fact, that these jingles do make an appeal so universal and remarkable that any attempt to explain it seems always to fall far short of completeness. Perhaps the best start may be made with Mr. Welsh's suggestion that this appeal is threefold: first, that which comes from the rhyming jingle, as in "Higgledy, piggledy, my fat hen"; second, that which comes from the nonsense surprises, as in "Hey diddle diddle," "Three wise men of Gotham," and "I'll tell you a story"; third, that which comes from the dramatic action, as in "Little Miss Muffet," and "Little Jack Horner." This summary does not differ much from Mr. Walter Taylor Field's conclusions: "The child takes little thought as to what _any_ of these verses mean. There are perhaps four elements in them that appeal to him,--first, the jingle, and with it that peculiar cadence which modern writers of children's poetry strive in vain to imitate; second, the nonsense,--with just enough of sense in it to connect the nonsense with the child's thinkable world; third, the action,--for the stories are quite dramatic in their way; and fourth, the quaintness." Mr. Field also emphasizes the probable charm of mystery in the face of the unknown facts beyond the child's horizon, which appear in many of the rhymes. Other commentators do little beyond expanding some of these suggestions. All of them agree in stressing the appeal made by rhythm, the jingle, the emphatic meter. This seems a fundamental thing in all literature, though readers are mainly conscious of it in poetry. Just how fundamental it is in human life has not been better hinted than in a sentence by Mrs. MacClintock: "One who is trying to write a sober treatise in a matter-of-fact way dares not, lest he be set down as the veriest mystic, say all the things that might be said about the function of rhythm, especially in its more pronounced form of meter, among a community of children, no matter what the size of the group--how rhythmic motion, or the flow of measured and beautiful sounds, harmonizes their differences, tunes them up to their tasks, disciplines their conduct, comforts their hurts, quiets their nerves; all this apart from the facts more or less important from the point of view of literature, that it cultivates their ear, improves their taste, and provides them a genuinely artistic pleasure." Professor Saintsbury, as usual, adds a fascinating turn to the discussion when, after agreeing that we may see in the rhymes, "to a great extent, the poetical appeal of sound as opposed to that of meaning in its simplest and most unmistakable terms," he continues: "And we shall find something else, which I venture to call the attraction of the inarticulate. . . . In moments of more intense and genuine feeling . . . [man] does not as a rule use or at least confine himself to articulate speech. . . . All children . . . fall naturally, long after they are able to express themselves as it is called rationally, into a sort of pleasant gibberish when they are alone and pleased or even displeased. . . . It must be a not infrequent experience of most people that one frequently falls into pure jingle and nonsense verse of the nursery kind. . . . I should myself, though I may not carry many people with me, go farther than this and say that this 'attraction of the inarticulate,' this allurement of mere sound and sequence, has a great deal more to do than is generally thought with the charm of the very highest poetry. . . . In the best nursery rhymes, as in the simpler and more genuine ballads which have so close a connection with them, we find this attraction of the inarticulate--this charm of pure sound, this utilizing of alliteration and rhyme and assonance." Those who have noticed the tendency of children to find vocal pleasure even of a physical or muscular sort in nonsense combinations of sounds, and who also realize their own tendency in this direction, will feel that Professor Saintsbury has hit upon a suggestive term in his claim for "the attraction of the inarticulate" as a partial explanation of the Mother Goose appeal. Through song, game, memorization, and dramatization, traditional or original, the rhymes may be made to contribute to the child's satisfaction in all of the directions pointed out. SUGGESTIONS FOR READING (Books referred to by authors' names are listed in preceding bibliography.) For orientation read Chauncey B. Tinker, "In Praise of Nursery Lore," _Unpopular Review_, Vol. VI, p. 338 (Oct.-Dec., 1916). For a most satisfactory presentation of the whole subject read chap. x, "Mother Goose," in Field. For the origin of Mother Goose as a character consult Lang's introduction to his edition of _Perrault's Popular Tales_. For the theory of her American nativity see Wheeler and Whitmore. For the origins of the rhymes themselves the authorities are Halliwell and Eckenstein. For pedagogical suggestions see Welsh, also his article "Nursery Rhymes," _Cyclopedia of Education_ (ed. Monroe). For many interesting facts and suggestions on rhythm in nursery rhymes consult Charles H. Sears, "Studies in Rhythm," _Pedagogical Seminary_, Vol. VIII, p. 3. For the whole subject of folk songs look into Martinengo-Cesaresco, _The Study of Folk Songs_. Books and periodicals dealing with primary education often contain brief discussions of value on the use of rhymes. Many Mother Goose records have been prepared by the educational departments of the various talking-machine companies, and may be used to advantage in the work in rhythm. The shorter rhymes (Nos. 1-115) are arranged in alphabetical order. There are many slight variations in the form of the text as found in printed versions and in the oral versions used by children in different communities. While Halliwell has been used as the basis for rhymes given in his collection, the following versions try to reproduce the forms of expression that seem generally most pleasing to children. 1 A cat came fiddling out of a barn, With a pair of bagpipes under her arm; She could sing nothing but fiddle-de-dee, The mouse has married the bumble-bee; Pipe, cat--dance, mouse-- We'll have a wedding at our good house. 2 A diller, a dollar, A ten o'clock scholar, What makes you come so soon? You used to come at ten o'clock, And now you come at noon. 3 As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives; Every wife had seven sacks, Every sack had seven cats, Every cat had seven kits: Kits, cats, sacks, and wives, How many were there going to St. Ives? (_One._) 4 As I was going up Pippen Hill,-- Pippen Hill was dirty,-- There I met a pretty miss, And she dropped me a curtsy. Little miss, pretty miss, Blessings light upon you; If I had half-a-crown a day, I'd spend it all upon you. 5 As I went to Bonner, I met a pig Without a wig, Upon my word of honor. 6 As Tommy Snooks and Bessie Brooks Were walking out one Sunday, Says Tommy Snooks to Bessie Brooks, "To-morrow will be Monday." 7 A swarm of bees in May Is worth a load of hay; A swarm of bees in June Is worth a silver spoon; A swarm of bees in July Is not worth a fly. 8 Baa, baa, black sheep, Have you any wool? Yes, marry, have I, Three bags full; One for my master, And one for my dame, And one for the little boy Who lives in the lane. 9 Barber, barber, shave a pig, How many hairs will make a wig? "Four and twenty, that's enough." Give the barber a pinch of snuff. 10 Birds of a feather flock together, And so will pigs and swine; Rats and mice will have their choice, And so will I have mine. 11 Bless you, bless you, burnie bee; Say, when will your wedding be? If it be to-morrow day, Take your wings and fly away. 12 Bobby Shafto's gone to sea, With silver buckles at his knee; He'll come back and marry me,-- Pretty Bobby Shafto! Bobby Shafto's fat and fair, Combing out his yellow hair, He's my love for evermore,-- Pretty Bobby Shafto! 13 Bow, wow, wow, Whose dog art thou? Little Tom Tinker's dog, Bow, wow, wow. 14 Bye, baby bunting, Daddy's gone a-hunting, To get a little rabbit skin To wrap the baby bunting in. 15 Come when you're called, Do what you're bid, Shut the door after you, Never be chid. 16 Cross patch, Draw the latch, And sit by the fire and spin; Take a cup, And drink it up, Then call your neighbors in. 17 Curly locks! curly locks! wilt thou be mine? Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine. But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream! 18 Dance, little baby, dance up high, Never mind, baby, mother is by; Crow and caper, caper and crow, There, little baby, there you go; Up to the ceiling, down to the ground, Backward and forward, round and round; Dance, little baby, and mother will sing, With the merry coral, ding, ding, ding! 19 Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John, He went to bed with his stockings on; One shoe off, the other shoe on, Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John. 20 Ding, dong, bell! Pussy's in the well. Who put her in? Little Tommy Green. Who pulled her out? Little Johnny Stout. What a naughty boy was that, To drown the poor, poor pussy-cat, Who never did him any harm, But killed the mice in his father's barn. 21 Doctor Foster Went to Glo'ster, In a shower of rain; He stepped in a puddle, Up to his middle, And never went there again. 22 Eggs, butter, cheese, bread, Stick, stock, stone dead, Stick him up, stick him down, Stick him in the old man's crown. 23 For every evil under the sun, There is a remedy, or there is none. If there be one, try to find it, If there be none, never mind it. 24 Four-and-twenty tailors went to kill a snail, The bravest man among them dursn't touch her tail; The snail put out her horns, like a little Kyloe cow, Run, tailors, run, or she'll kill you all e'en now. 25 Great A, little a, Bouncing B! The cat's in the cupboard, And she can't see. 26 Hark, hark, The dogs do bark, The beggars are coming to town: Some in tags, Some in rags, And some in velvet gowns. 27 Here sits the Lord Mayor, (_touching forehead_) Here sit his two men, (_eyes_) Here sits the cock, (_right cheek_) Here sits the hen, (_left cheek_) Here sit the little chickens, (_tip of nose_) Here they all run in; (_mouth_) Chinchopper, chinchopper, Chinchopper chin! (_chuck the chin_) 28 Here we go up, up, up, And here we go down, down, down; And here we go backwards and forwards, And here we go round, round, round. 29 Given as usually known to children. In some older versions the word "craft" was used instead of "sport," thus making a rhyme. There is an old story of an overly serious parent who was greatly disturbed by the evident exaggerations in this jingle. After calling the attention of his children to the offensive improbabilities, the good man suggested the following "revised version." Hey diddle diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped _under_ the moon; The little dog _barked_, To see the sport, And the _cat_ ran after the spoon! Hey! diddle, diddle, The cat and the fiddle, The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed To see such sport, And the dish ran away with the spoon. 30 Hickery, dickery, 6 and 7, Alabone Crackabone, 10 and 11, Spin, span, muskidan; Twiddle 'um, twaddle 'um, 21. 31 Higgledy, Piggledy, My black hen, She lays eggs For gentlemen; Sometimes nine, And sometimes ten, Higgledy, Piggledy, My black hen! 32 Hickory, dickory, dock, The mouse ran up the clock, The clock struck one, The mouse ran down; Hickory, dickory, dock. 33 Hogs in the garden, catch 'em, Towser. Cows in the cornfield, run, boys, run; Cats in the cream-pot, run, girls, run, girls; Fire on the mountains, run, boys, run. 34 Hot-cross buns! Hot-cross buns! One a penny, two a penny, Hot-cross buns! Hot-cross buns! Hot-cross buns! If you have no daughters, Give them to your sons. 35 Hub a dub dub, Three men in a tub; The butcher, the baker, The candlestick-maker, They all fell out of a rotten potato. 36 Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall; Threescore men and threescore more Cannot place Humpty Dumpty as he was before. (_An egg._) 37 If all the sea were one sea, What a _great_ sea that would be! And if all the trees were one tree, What a _great_ tree that would be! And if all the axes were one axe, What a _great_ axe that would be! And if all the men were one man, What a _great_ man he would be! And if the _great_ man took the _great_ axe, And cut down the _great_ tree, And let it fall into the _great_ sea, What a splish splash _that_ would be! 38 If all the world was apple-pie, And all the sea was ink, And all the trees were bread and cheese, What should we have for drink? 39 If I'd as much money as I could spend, I never would cry, "Old chairs to mend! Old chairs to mend! Old chairs to mend!" I never would cry, "Old chairs to mend!" If I'd as much money as I could tell, I never would cry, "Old clothes to sell! Old clothes to sell! Old clothes to sell!" I never would cry, "Old clothes to sell!" 40 If "ifs" and "ands" Were pots and pans, There would be no need for tinkers! 41 If wishes were horses, Beggars might ride; If turnips were watches, I'd wear one by my side. 42 I had a little pony, His name was Dapple-gray, I lent him to a lady, To ride a mile away; She whipped him, she slashed him, She rode him through the mire; I would not lend my pony now For all that lady's hire. 43 I had a little hobby horse, His name was Tommy Gray, His head was made of pease straw, His body made of hay; I saddled him and bridled him, And rode him up to town, There came a little puff of wind And blew him up and down. 44 I have a little sister, they call her peep, peep; She wades the waters deep, deep, deep; She climbs the mountains high, high, high; Poor little creature, she has but one eye. (_A star._) 45 I'll tell you a story Of Jack-a-Nory, And now my story's begun. I'll tell you another About Jack's brother, And now my story is done. 46 In marble walls as white as milk, Lined with a skin as soft as silk; Within a fountain crystal clear, A golden apple doth appear. No doors there are to this stronghold, Yet thieves break in and steal the gold. (_An egg._) 47 1. I went up one pair of stairs. 2. Just like me. 1. I went up two pair of stairs. 2. Just like me. 1. I went into a room. 2. Just like me. 1. I looked out of a window. 2. Just like me. 1. And there I saw a monkey. 2. Just like me. 48 Jack and Jill went up the hill, To fetch a pail of water; Jack fell down, and broke his crown, And Jill came tumbling after. 49 Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the candlestick. 50 Jack Sprat could eat no fat, His wife could eat no lean; And so between them both, you see, They licked the platter clean. 51 Knock at the door, (_forehead_) And peep in, (_lift eyelids_) Open the door, (_mouth_) And walk in. Chinchopper, chinchopper, Chinchopper chin! 52 These lines, common in similar form to many countries, are said by children when they throw the beautiful little insect into the air to make it take flight. Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, Your house is on fire, your children all gone; All but one, and her name is Ann, And she crept under the pudding-pan. 53 Little boy blue, come blow your horn, The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn; Where is the boy that looks after the sheep? He's under the haycock fast asleep. Will you wake him? No, not I; For if I do, he'll be sure to cry. 54 Little girl, little girl, where have you been? Gathering roses to give to the queen. Little girl, little girl, what gave she you? She gave me a diamond as big as my shoe. 55 Little Jack Horner Sat in a corner, Eating his Christmas pie. He put in his thumb, And he pulled out a plum, And said, "What a good boy am I!" 56 Little Jack Jingle, He used to live single, But when he got tired of this kind of life, He left off being single and lived with his wife. 57 Little Johnny Pringle had a little pig; It was very little, so was not very big. As it was playing beneath the shed, In half a minute poor Piggie was dead. So Johnny Pringle he sat down and cried, And Betty Pringle she lay down and died. This is the history of one, two, and three, Johnny Pringle he, Betty Pringle she, And the Piggie-Wiggie. 58 Little Miss Muffet Sat on a tuffet, Eating of curds and whey; There came a great spider, And sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away. 59 Little Nancy Etticoat, In a white petticoat, And a red nose; The longer she stands, The shorter she grows. (_A candle._) 60 Little Robin Redbreast Sat upon a rail; Niddle naddle went his head, Wiggle waggle went his tail. 61 Little Tommy Tucker Sings for his supper; What shall he eat? White bread and butter. How shall he cut it Without e'er a knife? How will he be married Without e'er a wife? 62 Long legs, crooked thighs, Little head and no eyes. (_The tongs._) 63 Lucy Locket lost her pocket, Kitty Fisher found it: Nothing in it, nothing in it, But the binding round it. 64 Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John Guard the bed that I lie on! Four corners to my bed, Four angels round my head; One to watch, one to pray, And two to bear my soul away. 65 Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With cockle-shells, and silver bells, And pretty maids all in a row. 66 Multiplication is vexation, Division is as bad; The Rule of Three perplexes me, And Practice drives me mad. 67 Needles and pins, needles and pins, When a man marries his trouble begins. 68 Old King Cole Was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, And he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three. Every fiddler, he had a fine fiddle, And a very fine fiddle had he; Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers. Oh, there's one so rare, As can compare With old King Cole and his fiddlers three! 69 Once I saw a little bird Come hop, hop, hop; So I cried, "Little bird, Will you stop, stop, stop?" And was going to the window To say, "How do you do?" But he shook his little tail, And far away he flew. 70 One for the money, And two for the show; Three to make ready, And four to go. 71 One misty, moisty morning, When cloudy was the weather, I chanced to meet an old man Clothed all in leather, He began to compliment, And I began to grin,-- "How do you do," and "How do you do," And "How do you do" again! 72 1, 2, 3, 4, 5! I caught a hare alive; 6, 7, 8, 9, 10! I let her go again. 73 One, two, Buckle my shoe; Three, four, Shut the door; Five, six, Pick up sticks; Seven, eight, Lay them straight; Nine, ten, A good fat hen; Eleven, twelve, Who will delve? Thirteen, fourteen, Maids a-courting; Fifteen, sixteen, Maids a-kissing; Seventeen, eighteen, Maids a-waiting; Nineteen, twenty, My stomach's empty. 74 Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man! So I will, master, as fast as I can: Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with T, Put it in the oven for Tommy and me. 75 Pease-porridge hot, Pease-porridge cold, Pease-porridge in the pot, Nine days old; Some like it hot, Some like it cold, Some like it in the pot, Nine days old. 76 Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater, Had a wife and couldn't keep her; He put her in a pumpkin-shell, And there he kept her very well. 77 Halliwell suggests that "off a pewter plate" is sometimes added at the end of each line. This rhyme is famous as a "tongue twister," or enunciation exercise. Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers; A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked; If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, Where's the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked? 78 Poor old Robinson Crusoe! Poor old Robinson Crusoe! They made him a coat, Of an old nanny goat, I wonder how they could do so! With a ring a ting tang, And a ring a ting tang, Poor old Robinson Crusoe! 79 Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been? I've been to London to see the Queen. Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there? I frightened a little mouse under the chair. 80 Pussy sits beside the fire; How can she be fair? In comes the little dog, "Pussy, are you there? So, so, dear Mistress Pussy, Pray tell me how do you do?" "Thank you, thank you, little dog, I'm very well just now." 81 Ride a cock-horse to Banbury-cross, To see an old lady upon a white horse, Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, And so she makes music wherever she goes. 82 Ride, baby, ride! Pretty baby shall ride, And have a little puppy-dog tied to her side; And one little pussy-cat tied to the other, And away she shall ride to see her grandmother, To see her grandmother, To see her grandmother. 83 Rock-a-bye, baby, On the tree top, When the wind blows The cradle will rock; When the bough breaks The cradle will fall, Down will come baby, Bough, cradle, and all. 84 Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green; Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen; And Betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring; And Johnny's a drummer, and drums for the king. 85 See a pin and pick it up, All the day you'll have good luck; See a pin and let it lay, Bad luck you'll have all the day! 86 See, saw, sacradown, Which is the way to London town? One foot up, the other foot down, And that is the way to London town. 87 Shoe the little horse, And shoe the little mare, And let the little colt Run bare, bare, bare. 88 Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full of rye; Four and twenty blackbirds Baked in a pie; When the pie was opened, The birds began to sing; Was not that a dainty dish To set before the king? The king was in his counting-house Counting out his money; The queen was in the parlor Eating bread and honey; The maid was in the garden Hanging out the clothes, When along came a blackbird, And pecked off her nose. Jenny was so mad, She didn't know what to do; She put her finger in her ear, And cracked it right in two. 89 Star light, star bright, First star I see to-night; I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish to-night. 90 The King of France went up the hill, With twenty thousand men; The King of France came down the hill, And ne'er went up again. 91 The lion and the unicorn Were fighting for the crown; The lion beat the unicorn All round about the town. Some gave them white bread, And some gave them brown, Some gave them plumcake, And sent them out of town. 92 The man in the moon Came tumbling down, And asked the way to Norwich; He went by the south And burned his mouth With supping cold pease porridge. 93 The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will the robin do then? Poor thing! He will sit in a barn, And to keep himself warm, Will hide his head under his wing, Poor thing! 94 The Queen of Hearts she made some tarts, All on a summer's day. The Knave of Hearts he stole those tarts, And hid them clean away. The King of Hearts he missed those tarts, And beat the Knave right sore, The Knave of Hearts brought back the tarts, And vowed he'd steal no more. 95 There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile, And found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile: He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all lived together in a little crooked house. 96 There was a little boy went into a barn, And lay down on some hay; An owl came out and flew about, And the little boy ran away. 97 There was a man and he had naught, And robbers came to rob him; He crept up to the chimney top, And then they thought they had him; But he got down on t'other side, And then they could not find him: He ran fourteen miles in fifteen days, And never looked behind him. 98 There was a man in our town, And he was wondrous wise; He jumped into a briar bush, And scratched out both his eyes: And when he saw his eyes were out, With all his might and main He jumped into another bush, And scratched 'em in again. 99 There was an old man, And he had a calf, And that's half; He took him out of the stall, And put him on the wall; And that's all. 100 There was an old woman, and what do you think? She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink: Victuals and drink were the chief of her diet; Yet this little old woman could never keep quiet. She went to the baker, to buy her some bread, And when she came home, her old husband was dead; She went to the clerk to toll the bell, And when she came back her old husband was well. 101 There was an old woman lived under a hill, And if she's not gone, she lives there still. She put a mouse in a bag and sent it to mill; The miller he swore by the point of his knife, He never took toll of a mouse in his life. 102 There was an old woman of Leeds, Who spent all her time in good deeds; She worked for the poor, Till her fingers were sore, This pious old woman of Leeds! 103 There was an old woman of Norwich, Who lived upon nothing but porridge! Parading the town, She turned cloak into gown! This thrifty old woman of Norwich. 104 There was an old woman tossed up in a basket Nineteen times as high as the moon; Where she was going I couldn't but ask it, For in her hand she carried a broom. "Old woman, old woman, old woman," quoth I, "O whither, O whither, O whither, so high?" "To brush the cobwebs off the sky!" "Shall I go with thee?" "Aye, by and by." 105 There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, She had so many children, she didn't know what to do. She gave them some broth without any bread, Then whipped them all soundly, and put them to bed. 106 There was an owl lived in an oak, Wisky, wasky, weedle; And every word he ever spoke, Was fiddle, faddle, feedle. A gunner chanced to come that way, Wisky, wasky, weedle; Says he, "I'll shoot you, silly bird," Fiddle, faddle, feedle. 107 This is the way the ladies ride; Tri, tre, tre, tree, tri, tre, tre, tree! This is the way the ladies ride, Tri, tre, tre, tree, tri, tre, tre, tree! This is the way the gentlemen ride; Gallop-a-trot, gallop-a-trot! This is the way the gentlemen ride, Gallop-a-trot-a-trot! This is the way the farmers ride; Hobbledy-hoy, hobbledy-hoy! This is the way the farmers ride, Hobbledy-hobbledy-hoy! 108 1. This little pig went to market; 2. This little pig stayed at home; 3. This little pig had roast beef; 4. And this little pig had none; 5. This little pig said, "Wee, wee, wee! I can't find my way home." 109 Three blind mice! see, how they run! They all ran after the farmer's wife, Who cut off their tails with the carving knife! Did you ever see such a thing in your life? Three blind mice! 110 Three wise men of Gotham Went to sea in a bowl; If the bowl had been stronger, My song would have been longer. 111 To market, to market, to buy a fat pig, Home again, home again, dancing a jig; To market, to market, to buy a fat hog, Home again, home again, jiggety-jog; To market, to market, to buy a plum bun. Home again, home again, market is done. 112 Tom, Tom, the piper's son, Stole a pig and away he run! The pig was eat, and Tom was beat, And Tom went roaring down the street! 113 Two-legs sat upon three-legs, With one-leg in his lap; In comes four-legs And runs away with one-leg; Up jumps two-legs, Catches up three-legs, Throws it after four-legs, And makes him bring one-leg back. (_One-leg is a leg of mutton; two-legs, a man; three-legs, a stool; four-legs, a dog._) 114 The following is another good "tongue twister" (see No. 77). It is recommended for the little lisper, and in former days it was recommended as a sure cure for the hiccoughs. When a twister a-twisting would twist him a twist, For twisting a twist three twists he will twist; But if one of the twists untwists from the twist, The twist untwisting untwists the twist. 115 "Willy boy, Willy boy, where are you going? I will go with you, if I may." "I am going to the meadow to see them a-mowing, I am going to see them make the hay." 116 No. 116 and the two rhymes following are by Miss Wilhelmina Seegmiller. (By permission of the publishers, Rand McNally & Co., Chicago.) Their presence will allow teachers to compare some widely and successfully used modern efforts with the traditional jingles in the midst of which they are placed. MILKWEED SEEDS As white as milk, As soft as silk, And hundreds close together: They sail away, On an autumn day, When windy is the weather. 117 AN ANNIVERSARY Pop! fizz! bang! whizz! Don't you know what day this is? Fizz! bang! whizz! pop! Hurrah for the Fourth! and hippity-hop! 118 TWINK! TWINK! Twink, twink, twink, twink, Twinkety, twinkety, twink! The fireflies light their lanterns, Then put them out in a wink. Twink, twink, twink, twink, They light their light once more, Then twinkety, twinkety, twink, twink, They put them out as before. Nos. 119-146 are in the main the longer nursery favorites and may somewhat loosely be called the novels and epics of the nursery as the former group may be called the lyrics and short stories. All of them are marked by dramatic power, a necessary element in all true classics for children whether in verse or prose. Nos. 119 and 120 are two of the favorite jingles used in teaching the alphabet. Each letter suggests a distinct image. In No. 119 the images are all of actions, and connected by the direction of these actions upon a single object. In No. 120 the images are each complete and independent. Here it may be noticed that some of the elements of the pictures are determined by the exigencies of rhyme, as, for instance, what the archer shot at, and what the lady had. The originator doubtless expected the child to see the relation of cause and consequence between Y and Z. 119 A WAS AN APPLE-PIE A was an apple-pie; B bit it; C cut it; D dealt it; E eat it; F fought for it; G got it; H had it; J joined it: K kept it; L longed for it; M mourned for it; N nodded at it; O opened it; P peeped in it; Q quartered it; R ran for it; S stole it; T took it; V viewed it; W wanted it; X, Y, Z, and Ampersand (&) All wished for a piece in hand. 120 TOM THUMB'S ALPHABET A was an archer, and shot at a frog; B was a butcher, and kept a bull-dog. C was a captain, all covered with lace; D was a drunkard, and had a red face. E was an esquire, with insolent brow; F was a farmer, and followed the plough. G was a gamester, who had but ill luck; H was a hunter, and hunted a buck. I was an innkeeper, who loved to carouse; J was a joiner, and built up a house. K was a king, so mighty and grand; L was a lady, who had a white hand. M was a miser, and hoarded up gold; N was a nobleman, gallant and bold. O was an oyster girl, and went about town; P was a parson, and wore a black gown. Q was a queen, who sailed in a ship; R was a robber, and wanted a whip. S was a sailor, and spent all he got; T was a tinker, and mended a pot. U was an usurer, a miserable elf; V was a vintner, who drank all himself. W was a watchman, and guarded the door; X was expensive, and so became poor. Y was a youth, that did not love school; Z was a zany, a poor harmless fool. 121 WHERE ARE YOU GOING Where are you going, my pretty maid? "I'm going a-milking, sir," she said. May I go with you, my pretty maid? "You're kindly welcome, sir," she said. What is your father, my pretty maid? "My father's a farmer, sir," she said. What is your fortune, my pretty maid? "My face is my fortune, sir," she said. Then I can't marry you, my pretty maid. "Nobody asked you, sir," she said. 122 MOLLY AND I Molly, my sister, and I fell out, And what do you think it was about? She loved coffee, and I loved tea, And that was the reason we couldn't agree. But Molly, my sister, and I made up, And now together we can sup, For Molly drinks coffee, and I drink tea, And we both are happy as happy can be. 123 LONDON BRIDGE London bridge is broken down, Dance o'er my lady Lee; London bridge is broken down, With a gay lady. How shall we build it up again? Dance o'er my lady Lee; How shall we build it up again? With a gay lady. Build it up with silver and gold, Dance o'er my lady Lee; Build it up with silver and gold, With a gay lady. Silver and gold will be stole away, Dance o'er my lady Lee; Silver and gold will be stole away, With a gay lady. Build it again with iron and steel, Dance o'er my lady Lee; Build it up with iron and steel, With a gay lady. Iron and steel will bend and bow, Dance o'er my lady Lee; Iron and steel will bend and bow, With a gay lady. Build it up with wood and clay, Dance o'er my lady Lee; Build it up with wood and clay, With a gay lady. Wood and clay will wash away, Dance o'er my lady Lee; Wood and clay will wash away, With a gay lady. Build it up with stone so strong, Dance o'er my lady Lee; Huzza! 'twill last for ages long, With a gay lady. 124 I SAW A SHIP I saw a ship a-sailing, A-sailing on the sea; And oh, it was all laden With pretty things for thee! There were comfits in the cabin, And apples in the hold; The sails were made of silk, And the masts were made of gold! The four and twenty sailors, That stood between the decks, Were four and twenty white mice, With chains about their necks. The captain was a duck, With a packet on his back; And when the ship began to move, The captain said, "Quack! Quack!" 125 THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN There was an old woman, as I've heard tell, She went to market her eggs for to sell; She went to market all on a market-day, And she fell asleep on the king's highway. By came a pedlar whose name was Stout, He cut her petticoats all round about; He cut her petticoats up to her knees, Which made the old woman to shiver and freeze. When this little woman first did wake, She began to shiver and she began to shake, She began to wonder, and she began to cry, "Lauk a mercy on me, this is none of I! "But if it be I, as I do hope it be, I've a little dog at home, and he'll know me; If it be I, he'll wag his little tail, And if it be not I, he'll loudly bark and wail." Home went the little woman all in the dark, Up got the little dog, and he began to bark; He began to bark, so she began to cry, "Lauk a mercy on me, this is none of I!" 126 LITTLE BO-PEEP Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And can't tell where to find them; Leave them alone, and they'll come home, And bring their tails behind them. Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep, And dreamt she heard them bleating; But when she awoke, she found it a joke, For they were still all fleeting. Then up she took her little crook, Determined for to find them; She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed, For they'd left their tails behind them. It happened one day, as Bo-peep did stray, Unto a meadow hard by: There she espied their tails side by side, All hung on a tree to dry. 127 COCK A DOODLE DOO Cock a doodle doo! My dame has lost her shoe; My master's lost his fiddling stick, And don't know what to do. Cock a doodle doo! What is my dame to do? Till master finds his fiddling stick, She'll dance without her shoe. Cock a doodle doo! My dame has found her shoe, And master's found his fiddling stick, Sing doodle doodle doo! Cock a doodle doo! My dame will dance with you, While master fiddles his fiddling stick, For dame and doodle doo. 128 THREE JOVIAL HUNTSMEN There were three jovial huntsmen, As I have heard them say, And they would go a-hunting All on a summer's day. All the day they hunted, And nothing could they find But a ship a-sailing, A-sailing with the wind. One said it was a ship, The other he said nay; The third said it was a house With the chimney blown away. And all the night they hunted, And nothing could they find, But the moon a-gliding, A-gliding with the wind. One said it was the moon, The other he said nay; The third said it was a cheese, And half o't cut away. 129 THERE WAS A LITTLE MAN There was a little man, And he had a little gun, And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead; He went to a brook, And fired at a duck, And shot it through the head, head, head. He carried it home To his old wife Joan, And bade her a fire to make, make, make, To roast the little duck, He had shot in the brook, And he'd go and fetch her the drake, drake, drake. The drake was a-swimming, With his curly tail; The little man made it his mark, mark, mark! He let off his gun, But he fired too soon, And the drake flew away with a quack, quack, quack. 130 TAFFY Taffy was a Welshman; Taffy was a thief; Taffy came to my house, And stole a piece of beef. I went to Taffy's house; Taffy wasn't home; Taffy came to my house, And stole a marrow-bone. I went to Taffy's house; Taffy was in bed; I took up the marrow-bone And flung it at his head! 131 SIMPLE SIMON Simple Simon met a pieman Going to the fair: Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Let me taste your ware." Says the pieman to Simple Simon, "Show me first your penny." Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Indeed I haven't any." Simple Simon went a fishing Just to catch a whale: All the water he had got Was in his mother's pail. Simple Simon went to look If plums grew on a thistle; He pricked his fingers very much, Which made poor Simon whistle. 132 A FARMER WENT TROTTING A farmer went trotting upon his gray mare, Bumpety, bumpety, bump! With his daughter behind him so rosy and fair, Lumpety, lumpety, lump! A raven cried "Croak!" and they all tumbled down, Bumpety, bumpety, bump! The mare broke her knees, and the farmer his crown, Lumpety, lumpety, lump! The mischievous raven flew laughing away, Bumpety, bumpety, bump! And vowed he would serve them the same the next day, Lumpety, lumpety, lump! 133 TOM THE PIPER'S SON Tom he was a piper's son, He learned to play when he was young, But all the tunes that he could play, Was "Over the hills and far away"; _Over the hills, and a great way off,_ _And the wind will blow my top-knot off._ Now Tom with his pipe made such a noise, That he pleased both the girls and boys, And they stopped to hear him play, "Over the hills and far away." Tom with his pipe did play with such skill, That those who heard him could never keep still; Whenever they heard him they began to dance, Even pigs on their hind legs would after him prance. As Dolly was milking her cow one day, Tom took out his pipe and began to play; So Doll and the cow danced "the Cheshire round," Till the pail was broke and the milk ran on the ground. He met old dame Trot with a basket of eggs, He used his pipes and she used her legs; She danced about till the eggs were all broke, She began for to fret, but he laughed at the joke. He saw a cross fellow was beating an ass, Heavy laden with pots, pans, dishes, and glass; He took out his pipe and played them a tune, And the jackass's load was lightened full soon. 134 WHEN I WAS A LITTLE BOY When I was a little boy, I lived by myself, And all the bread and cheese I got, I put upon my shelf. The rats and the mice, They made such a strife, I had to go to London To buy me a wife. The streets were so broad, And the lanes were so narrow, I had to bring my wife home On a wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow broke, And my wife had a fall; Down tumbled wheelbarrow, Little wife and all. 135 THE BABES IN THE WOOD My dear, you must know that a long time ago, Two poor little children whose names I don't know, Were stolen away on a fine summer's day, And left in a wood, as I've heard people say. _Poor babes in the wood, poor babes in the wood!_ _So hard was the fate of the babes in the wood._ And when it was night, so sad was their plight, The sun it went down, and the stars gave no light. They sobbed and they sighed, and they bitterly cried, And the poor little things they lay down and died. And when they were dead, the robins so red, Brought strawberry leaves, and over them spread. And all the day long, the branches among, They sang to them softly, and this was their song: _Poor babes in the wood, poor babes in the wood!_ _So hard was the fate of the babes in the wood._ 136 THE FOX AND HIS WIFE The fox and his wife they had a great strife, They never ate mustard in all their whole life; They ate their meat without fork or knife, And loved to be picking a bone, e-oh! The fox jumped up on a moonlight night; The stars they were shining, and all things bright; Oh, ho! said the fox, it's a very fine night For me to go through the town, e-oh! The fox when he came to yonder stile, He lifted his ears and he listened awhile! Oh, ho! said the fox, it's but a short mile From this unto yonder wee town, e-oh! The fox when he came to the farmer's gate, Who should he see but the farmer's drake; I love you well for your master's sake, And long to be picking your bone, e-oh! The gray goose she ran round the haystack, Oh, ho! said the fox, you are very fat; You'll grease my beard and ride on my back From this into yonder wee town, e-oh! The farmer's wife she jumped out of bed, And out of the window she popped her head: Oh, husband! oh, husband! the geese are all dead, For the fox has been through the town, e-oh! The farmer he loaded his pistol with lead, And shot the old rogue of a fox through the head; Ah, ha! said the farmer, I think you're quite dead; And no more you'll trouble the town, e-oh! 137 FOR WANT OF A NAIL For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; For want of the shoe, the horse was lost; For want of the horse, the rider was lost; For want of the rider, the battle was lost; For want of the battle, the kingdom was lost; And all for the want of a horseshoe nail! 138 A MAN OF WORDS A man of words and not of deeds Is like a garden full of weeds; And when the weeds begin to grow, It's like a garden full of snow; And when the snow begins to fall, It's like a bird upon the wall; And when the bird away does fly, It's like an eagle in the sky; And when the sky begins to roar, It's like a lion at the door; And when the door begins to crack, It's like a stick across your back; And when your back begins to smart, It's like a penknife in your heart; And when your heart begins to bleed, You're dead, and dead, and dead, indeed. 139 The first stanza of this jingle was long attributed to Longfellow as an impromptu made on one of his children. He took occasion to deny this, as well as the authorship of the almost equally famous "Mr. Finney had a turnip." The last two stanzas bear evidence of a more sophisticated origin than that of real nursery rhymes. Mr. Lucas, in his _Book of Verses for Children_, gives two different versions of these stanzas. JEMIMA There was a little girl, and she had a little curl, Right down the middle of her forehead, When she was good, she was very, very good, But when she was bad, she was horrid. One day she went upstairs, while her parents, unawares, In the kitchen down below were occupied with meals, And she stood upon her head, on her little truckle-bed, And she then began hurraying with her heels. Her mother heard the noise, and thought it was the boys, A playing at a combat in the attic, But when she climbed the stair and saw Jemima there, She took and she did whip her most emphatic! 140 The following was one of the favorite "toy-book" texts of the eighteenth century. These little books generally had a crude woodcut and one stanza of text on a page. It can be seen how easily this story lends itself to illustration. Each stanza is a chapter, and the story-teller could continue as long as his inventiveness held out. In one edition there are these additional lines: "Old Mother Hubbard sat down in a chair, And danced her dog to a delicate air; She went to the garden to buy him a pippin, When she came back the dog was a-skipping." MOTHER HUBBARD AND HER DOG Old Mother Hubbard Went to the cupboard, To get her poor dog a bone; But when she came there, The cupboard was bare, And so the poor dog had none. She went to the baker's To buy him some bread; But when she came back, The poor dog was dead. She went to the joiner's To buy him a coffin; But when she came back, The poor dog was laughing. She took a clean dish, To get him some tripe; But when she came back He was smoking his pipe. She went to the fishmonger's To buy him some fish; And when she came back He was licking the dish. She went to the ale-house To get him some beer; But when she came back The dog sat in a chair. She went to the tavern For white wine and red; But when she came back The dog stood on his head. She went to the hatter's To buy him a hat; But when she came back He was feeding the cat. She went to the barber's To buy him a wig; But when she came back He was dancing a jig. She went to the fruiterer's To buy him some fruit; But when she came back, He was playing the flute. She went to the tailor's To buy him a coat; But when she came back, He was riding a goat. She went to the cobbler's To buy him some shoes; But when she came back, He was reading the news. She went to the seamstress To buy him some linen; But when she came back, The dog was spinning. She went to the hosier's To buy him some hose; But when she came back, He was dressed in his clothes. The dame made a curtsy, The dog made a bow; The dame said, "Your servant," The dog said, "Bow, wow." 141 This story of a bird courtship and marriage with its attendant feast and tragedy, all followed by the long dirge of No. 142, constitutes one of the longest nursery novels. Its opportunities for the illustrator are very marked, and a copy illustrated by the children themselves would be an addition to the joy of any schoolroom. THE COURTSHIP, MERRY MARRIAGE, AND PICNIC DINNER OF COCK ROBIN AND JENNY WREN; TO WHICH IS ADDED THE DOLEFUL DEATH OF COCK ROBIN It was a merry time When Jenny Wren was young, So neatly as she danced, And so sweetly as she sung, Robin Redbreast lost his heart: He was a gallant bird; He doft his hat to Jenny, And thus to her he said:-- "My dearest Jenny Wren, If you will but be mine, You shall dine on cherry pie, And drink nice currant wine. I'll dress you like a Goldfinch, Or like a Peacock gay; So if you'll have me, Jenny, Let us appoint the day." Jenny blushed behind her fan, And thus declared her mind: "Then let it be to-morrow, Bob, I take your offer kind-- Cherry pie is very good! So is currant wine! But I will wear my brown gown, And never dress too fine." Robin rose up early At the break of day; He flew to Jenny Wren's house, To sing a roundelay. He met the Cock and Hen, And bid the Cock declare, This was his wedding-day With Jenny Wren, the fair. The Cock then blew his horn, To let the neighbors know, This was Robin's wedding-day, And they might see the show. And first came parson Rook, With his spectacles and band, And one of _Mother Hubbard's_ books He held within his hand. Then followed him the Lark, For he could sweetly sing, And he was to be clerk At Cock Robin's wedding. He sang of Robin's love For little Jenny Wren; And when he came unto the end, Then he began again. Then came the bride and bridegroom; Quite plainly was she dressed, And blushed so much, her cheeks were As red as Robin's breast. But Robin cheered her up: "My pretty Jen," said he, "We're going to be married And happy we shall be." The Goldfinch came on next, To give away the bride; The Linnet, being bride's maid, Walked by Jenny's side; And, as she was a-walking, She said, "Upon my word, I think that your Cock Robin Is a very pretty bird." The Bullfinch walked by Robin, And thus to him did say, "Pray, mark, friend Robin Redbreast, That Goldfinch, dressed so gay; What though her gay apparel Becomes her very well, Yet Jenny's modest dress and look Must bear away the bell." The Blackbird and the Thrush, And charming Nightingale, Whose sweet jug sweetly echoes Through every grove and dale; The Sparrow and Tom Tit, And many more, were there: All came to see the wedding Of Jenny Wren, the fair. "O then," says parson Rook, "Who gives this maid away?" "I do," says the Goldfinch, "And her fortune I will pay: Here's a bag of grain of many sorts, And other things beside; Now happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride!" "And will you have her, Robin, To be your wedded wife?" "Yes, I will," says Robin, "And love her all my life." "And will you have him, Jenny, Your husband now to be?" "Yes, I will," says Jenny, "And love him heartily." Then on her finger fair Cock Robin put the ring; "You're married now," says parson Rook, While the Lark aloud did sing: "Happy be the bridegroom, And happy be the bride! And may not man, nor bird, nor beast, This happy pair divide." The birds were asked to dine; Not Jenny's friends alone, But every pretty songster That had Cock Robin known. They had a cherry pie, Besides some currant wine, And every guest brought something, That sumptuous they might dine. Now they all sat or stood To eat and to drink; And every one said what He happened to think; They each took a bumper, And drank to the pair: Cock Robin, the bridegroom, And Jenny Wren, the fair. The dinner-things removed, They all began to sing; And soon they made the place Near a mile round to ring. The concert it was fine; And every bird tried Who best could sing for Robin And Jenny Wren, the bride. Then in came the Cuckoo, And he made a great rout: He caught hold of Jenny, And pulled her about. Cock Robin was angry, And so was the Sparrow, Who fetched in a hurry His bow and his arrow. His aim then he took, But he took it not right; His skill was not good, Or he shot in a fright; For the Cuckoo he missed, But Cock Robin killed!-- And all the birds mourned That his blood was so spilled. 142 THE BURIAL OF POOR COCK ROBIN Who killed Cock Robin? "I," said the Sparrow, "With my bow and arrow; And I killed Cock Robin." Who saw him die? "I," said the Fly, "With my little eye; And I saw him die." Who caught his blood? "I," said the Fish, "With my little dish; And I caught his blood." Who made his shroud? "I," said the Beetle, "With my little needle; And I made his shroud." Who will be the parson? "I," said the Rook; "With my little book; And I will be the parson." Who will dig his grave? "I," said the Owl, "With my spade and shovel; And I'll dig his grave." Who will be the clerk? "I," said the Lark, "If 'tis not in the dark; And I will be the clerk." Who'll carry him to the grave? "I," said the Kite, "If 'tis not in the night; And I'll carry him to the grave." Who will be the chief mourner? "I," said the Dove, "Because of my love; And I will be chief mourner." Who will sing a psalm? "I," said the Thrush, As she sat in a bush; "And I will sing a psalm." Who will bear the pall? "We," said the Wren, Both the Cock and the Hen; "And we will bear the pall." Who will toll the bell? "I," said the Bull, "Because I can pull." And so, Cock Robin, farewell. All the birds of the air Fell to sighing and sobbing When they heard the bell toll For poor Cock Robin. 143 The following tale was edited (1885) for children by John Ruskin from a version "written principally by a lady of ninety (Mrs. Sharp.)" Ruskin himself added the third, fourth, eighth, and ninth stanzas, because "in the old books no account is given of what the cats learned when they went to school, and I thought my younger readers might be glad of some notice of such particulars." But he thought his rhymes did not ring like the real ones, of which he said: "I aver these rhymes to possess the primary value of rhyme--that is, to be rhythmical in a pleasant and exemplary degree." The book was illustrated with quaint woodcuts for each stanza after the edition of 1823, with additional drawings for the four new stanzas by Kate Greenaway, one of the most famous illustrators of children's books. Ruskin commends the result "to the indulgence of the Christmas fireside, because it relates nothing that is sad, and portrays nothing that is ugly." DAME WIGGINS OF LEE, AND HER SEVEN WONDERFUL CATS Dame Wiggins of Lee Was a worthy old soul, As e'er threaded a nee- dle, or wash'd in a bowl; She held mice and rats In such antipa-thy, That seven fine cats Kept Dame Wiggins of Lee. The rats and mice scared By this fierce whisker'd crew, The poor seven cats Soon had nothing to do; So, as any one idle She ne'er loved to see, She sent them to school, Did Dame Wiggins of Lee. The Master soon wrote That they all of them knew How to read the word "milk" And to spell the word "mew." And they all washed their faces Before they took tea: "Were there ever such dears!" Said Dame Wiggins of Lee. He had also thought well To comply with their wish To spend all their play-time In learning to fish For stitlings; they sent her A present of three, Which, fried, were a feast For Dame Wiggins of Lee. But soon she grew tired Of living alone; So she sent for her cats From school to come home. Each rowing a wherry, Returning you see: The frolic made merry Dame Wiggins of Lee. The Dame was quite pleas'd And ran out to market; When she came back They were mending the carpet. The needle each handled As brisk as a bee; "Well done, my good cats," Said Dame Wiggins of Lee. To give them a treat, She ran out for some rice; When she came back, They were skating on ice. "I shall soon see one down, Aye, perhaps, two or three, I'll bet half-a-crown," Said Dame Wiggins of Lee. When spring-time came back They had breakfast of curds; And were greatly afraid Of disturbing the birds. "If you sit, like good cats, All the seven in a tree, They will teach you to sing!" Said Dame Wiggins of Lee. So they sat in a tree, And said "Beautiful! Hark!" And they listened and looked In the clouds for the lark. Then sang, by the fireside, Symphonious-ly A song without words To Dame Wiggins of Lee. They called the next day On the tomtit and sparrow, And wheeled a poor sick lamb Home in a barrow. "You shall all have some sprats For your humani-ty, My seven good cats," Said Dame Wiggins of Lee. While she ran to the field, To look for its dam, They were warming the bed For the poor sick lamb: They turn'd up the clothes All as neat as could be; "I shall ne'er want a nurse," Said Dame Wiggins of Lee. She wished them good night, And went up to bed: When, lo! in the morning, The cats were all fled. But soon--what a fuss! "Where can they all be? Here, pussy, puss, puss!" Cried Dame Wiggins of Lee. The Dame's heart was nigh broke, So she sat down to weep, When she saw them come back Each riding a sheep: She fondled and patted Each purring tom-my: "Ah! welcome, my dears," Said Dame Wiggins of Lee. The Dame was unable Her pleasure to smother, To see the sick lamb Jump up to its mother. In spite of the gout, And a pain in her knee, She went dancing about: Did Dame Wiggins of Lee. The Farmer soon heard Where his sheep went astray, And arrived at Dame's door With his faithful dog Tray. He knocked with his crook, And the stranger to see, Out the window did look Dame Wiggins of Lee. For their kindness he had them All drawn by his team; And gave them some field-mice, And raspberry-cream. Said he, "All my stock You shall presently see; For I honor the cats Of Dame Wiggins of Lee." He sent his maid out For some muffins and crumpets; And when he turn'd round They were blowing of trumpets. Said he, "I suppose She's as deaf as can be, Or this ne'er could be borne By Dame Wiggins of Lee." To show them his poultry, He turn'd them all loose, When each nimbly leap'd On the back of a goose, Which frighten'd them so That they ran to the sea, And half-drown'd the poor cats Of Dame Wiggins of Lee. For the care of his lamb, And their comical pranks, He gave them a ham And abundance of thanks. "I wish you good-day, My fine fellows," said he; "My compliments, pray, To Dame Wiggins of Lee." You see them arrived At their Dame's welcome door; They show her their presents, And all their good store. "Now come in to supper, And sit down with me; All welcome once more," Cried Dame Wiggins of Lee. 144 This is the perfect pattern of all the accumulative stories, perhaps the best known and most loved of children among all nursery jingles. Halliwell thought it descended from the mystical Hebrew hymn, "A kid, a kid," found in the Talmud. Most commentators since have followed his example in calling attention to the parallel, though scholars have insisted that the hymn referred to is a late interpolation. The hymn opens: "A kid, a kid, my father bought, For two pieces of money: A kid, a kid. "Then came the cat, and ate the kid, That my father bought," etc. Then came the dog and bit the cat, then the staff and beat the dog, then the fire and burned the staff, then water and quenched the fire, then the ox and drank the water, then the butcher and slew the ox, then the angel of death and killed the butcher, and the hymn concludes: "Then came the Holy One, blessed be He! And killed the angel of death, That killed the butcher, That slew the ox, That drank the water, That quenched the fire, That burned the staff, That beat the dog, That bit the cat, That ate the kid, That my father bought For two pieces of money: A kid, a kid." There is an elaborate interpretation of the symbolism of this hymn, going back at least as far as 1731, in which the kid denotes the Hebrews, the father is Jehovah, the cat is the Assyrians, the dog is the Babylonians, the staff is the Persians, the fire is Greece under Alexander, the water is the Roman Empire, the ox is the Saracens, the butcher is the crusaders, the angel of death is the Turkish power, while the concluding accumulation shows that God will take vengeance on the enemies of the chosen people. This is the interpretation in barest outline only. Without the key no one would ever guess its hidden meaning. Fortunately, "The House That Jack Built" has no such hidden meaning. But the important point is that such accumulative stories are almost as old as human records, and, like so many other possessions of the race, seem to have come to us from the Far East. THIS IS THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT This is the house that Jack built. This is the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the rat, That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the cat, That killed the rat, That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the dog, That worried the cat, That killed the rat, That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, That worried the cat, That killed the rat, That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the maiden all forlorn, That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, That worried the cat, That killed the rat, That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the man all tattered and torn, That kissed the maiden all forlorn, That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, That worried the cat, That killed the rat, That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the priest all shaven and shorn, That married the man all tattered and torn, That kissed the maiden all forlorn, That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, That worried the cat, That killed the rat, That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the cock that crowed in the morn, That waked the priest all shaven and shorn, That married the man all tattered and torn, That kissed the maiden all forlorn, That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, That worried the cat, That killed the rat, That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the farmer sowing his corn, That kept the cock that crowed in the morn, That waked the priest all shaven and shorn, That married the man all tattered and torn, That kissed the maiden all forlorn, That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, That tossed the dog, That worried the cat, That killed the rat, That ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. 145 THE EGG IN THE NEST There was a tree stood in the ground, The prettiest tree you ever did see; The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground, And the green grass growing all around. And on this tree there was a limb, The prettiest limb you ever did see; The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood, The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground, And the green grass growing all around. And on this limb there was a bough, The prettiest bough you ever did see; The bough on the limb, and the limb on the tree, The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood, The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground, And the green grass growing all around. Now on this bough there was a nest, The prettiest nest you ever did see; The nest on the bough, and the bough on the limb, The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood, The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground, And the green grass growing all around. And in the nest there were some eggs, The prettiest eggs you ever did see; Eggs in the nest, and the nest on the bough, The bough on the limb, and the limb on the tree, The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood, The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground, And the green grass growing all around, _And the green grass growing all around_. 146 The following story is the same as that of the Norwegian tale "The Husband Who Was to Mind the House" (No. 170). In the Halliwell version the final lines read, "If his wife didn't do a day's work in her life, She should ne'er be ruled by he." A later reading, now generally accepted, avoids the bad grammar by changing to direct discourse. CHANGE ABOUT There was an old man, who lived in a wood, As you may plainly see; He said he could do as much work in a day, As his wife could do in three. With all my heart, the old woman said, If that you will allow, To-morrow you'll stay at home in my stead, And I'll go drive the plough: But you must milk the Tidy cow, For fear that she go dry; And you must feed the little pigs That are within the sty; And you must mind the speckled hen, For fear she lay away; And you must reel the spool of yarn, That I spun yesterday. The old woman took a staff in her hand, And went to drive the plough: The old man took a pail in his hand, And went to milk the cow; But Tidy hinched, and Tidy flinched, And Tidy broke his nose, And Tidy gave him such a blow, That the blood ran down to his toes. High! Tidy! ho! Tidy! high! Tidy! do stand still; If ever I milk you, Tidy, again, 'Twill be sore against my will! He went to feed the little pigs That were within the sty; He hit his head against the beam, And he made the blood to fly. He went to mind the speckled hen, For fear she'd lay astray, And he forgot the spool of yarn His wife spun yesterday. So he swore by the sun, the moon, and the stars, And the green leaves on the tree, "If my wife doesn't do a day's work in her life, She shall ne'er be ruled by me." SECTION III FAIRY STORIES--TRADITIONAL TALES BIBLIOGRAPHY I. STANDARD GENERAL COLLECTIONS Jacobs, Joseph, _English Fairy Tales_, _More English Fairy Tales_, _Celtic Fairy Tales_, _More Celtic Fairy Tales_, _Indian Fairy Tales_, _Europa's Fairy Tales_. Lang, Andrew, _The Blue Fairy Book_, _The Red Fairy Book_, _The Green Fairy Book_, _The Yellow Fairy Book_. The Perrault stories are included in the first. Many other volumes named by colors (_Violet_, _Orange_, etc.) were made under Mr. Lang's direction, but these four include the cream. II. NATIONAL COLLECTIONS ENGLISH: Campbell, J. F., _Popular Tales of the West Highlands_. 4 vols. Halliwell, J. O., _Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales_. Hartland, E. S., _English Fairy and Folk Tales_. GERMAN: Grimm, J. and W., _Kinder und Hausmaerchen_ (_Household Tales_). Translated by Edgar Taylor as _Grimm's Popular Stories_ (55 stories, 1823-1827), and illustrated by George Cruikshank. Best reprint is in one volume with introduction by John Ruskin. Translated complete by Margaret Hunt (2 vols., 1884), Introduction by Andrew Lang. Other excellent translations of selected stories by Mrs. Lucas and by Lucy Crane. INDIAN: Frere, Mary, _Old Deccan Days_. Knowles, J. H., _Folk Tales of Kashmir_. Steel, Flora Annie, _Tales of the Punjab_. (Notes by Captain R. C. Temple.) Stokes, Maive, _Indian Fairy Tales_. IRISH: Curtin, J., _Hero Tales of Ireland_. Graves, A. P., _The Irish Fairy Book_. Hyde, Douglas, _Beside the Fire_. Joyce, P. W., _Old Celtic Romances_. Wilde, Lady Constance, _Ancient Irish Legends_. Yeats, W. B., _Irish Fairy Tales_. ITALIAN: Crane, T. F., _Italian Popular Tales_. NORSE: Asbjoernsen, P. C., and Moe, J., _Norske Folke-eventyr_ (_Norwegian Folk Tales_, 1842-1844, with subsequent additions). Translated by Sir George Webbe Dasent in _Popular Tales from the Norse_ and _Tales of the Fjeld_; by H. L. Braekstad in _Round the Yule Log_ and _Fairy Tales from the North_. SLAVIC: Bain, R. Nesbit, _Cossack Fairy Tales_, _Russian Folk Tales_. III. THE SCIENCE OF FOLKLORE Cox, Roalfe, _Cinderella_. (Introduction by Lang.) Clouston, W. A., _Popular Tales and Fictions_. 2 vols. Gomme, G. L., _Folklore as an Historical Science_. Hartland, E. S., _The Science of Fairy Tales_. Keightly, Thomas, _Fairy Mythology_. Lang, Andrew, _Perrault's Popular Tales_. (Introduction.) MacCulloch, J. A., _The Childhood of Fiction_. IV. PEDAGOGY Adler, Felix, _The Moral Instruction of Children_, pp. 63-79. Kready, Laura F., _The Study of Fairy Tales_. (Indispensable.) MacClintock, P. L., _Literature in the Elementary School_, pp. 92-112. McMurry, Charles, _Special Method in Reading_, pp. 47-69. SECTION III: FAIRY STORIES--TRADITIONAL TALES INTRODUCTORY The forty-three tales in this section have been chosen (1) in the light of what experience shows children most enjoy, (2) to represent as fully as possible the great variety of our traditional inheritance, (3) to afford an opportunity of calling attention to additional riches in various collections, and (4) to suggest a fair minimum of the amount of such material to be used with children. As in all such questions of judgment, there must inevitably be differences of opinion. Many will doubtless find stories missing that seem necessary even to so small a list, while others will find tales included that may seem questionable. Such a selection can be, and is intended to be, only tentative, a starting point from which there are many lines of departure. _Folklore._ These tales are all from the traditional field. They are mainly of anonymous and popular origin, handed down orally by peasants. The investigation of their origin, distribution, and interrelations belongs to the science of folklore. A good-sized library could be filled entirely with the books concerned with the studies and disputations in this interesting field. While the folklorists have very much of value to tell the teacher, their questions may be largely ignored until the latter is quite fully acquainted with a large body of the acknowledged masterpieces among folk stories, especially those which the schools have taken to themselves as useful in elementary work. Teachers interested in pursuing the matter further--and it is to be hoped there are many such--will find suggestions in the notes at the head of each tale and in the preceding bibliography that may prove serviceable in directing them some little way. Each book will point the student to many others; when he is once started on the road of investigation, there will open up many unexpected and fascinating vistas. _Objections to fairy tales._ These objections seem to fall as a rule under two main heads. First, there are those who object to any stimulation of the fanciful in children, and who would have us confine ourselves to what they call realities. They would eliminate as far as possible all the imaginings of children. The make-believe world so dear to infancy has no place in their creed. Second, there are those who doubt the moral tendency of all fairy tales. They observe that many of these tales come to us from a cruder and coarser social state than our own, that they contain elements of a superstitious and animistic past, that they often deal with cruelties and horrors, trickeries and disloyalties, that they are full of romantic improbabilities and impossibilities. It may as well be admitted at once that the folklore of the world contains many stories to which these and other objections are valid. _Is there a proper line of defense for fairy tales?_ Dr. Felix Adler, who certainly cannot be accused of being insensible to realities, puts the case thus, as between defenders and objectors: "I venture to think that, as in many other cases, the cause of the quarrel is what logicians call an _undistributed middle_--in other words, that the parties to the dispute have each a different kind of fairy tale in mind. This species of literature can be divided broadly into two classes--one consisting of tales which ought to be rejected because they are really harmful, and children ought to be protected from their bad influence, the other of tales which have a most beautiful and elevating effect, and which we cannot possibly afford to leave unutilized." Dr. Adler proceeds to point out that the chief pedagogic values of the latter class are (1) that they exercise and cultivate the imagination, and (2) that they stimulate the idealizing tendency. John Ruskin, another teacher who constantly in his writings throws the emphasis upon the necessity of a true ethical understanding, has this to say about the mischievous habit of trying to remake the fairy story in the service of morals: "And the effect of the endeavor to make stories moral upon the literary merit of the work itself, is as harmful as the motive of the effort is false. For every fairy tale worth recording at all is the remnant of a tradition possessing true historical value;--historical, at least in so far as it has naturally arisen out of the mind of a people under special circumstances, and arisen not without meaning, nor removed altogether from their sphere of religious faith. It sustains afterwards natural changes from the sincere action of the fear or fancy of successive generations; it takes new color from their manner of life, and new form from their changing moral tempers. As long as these changes are natural and effortless, accidental and inevitable, the story remains essentially true, altering its form, indeed, like a flying cloud, but remaining a sign of the sky; a shadowy image, as truly a part of the great firmament of the human mind as the light of reason which it seems to interrupt. But the fair deceit and innocent error of it cannot be interpreted nor restrained by a wilful purpose, and all additions to it by art do but defile, as the shepherd disturbs the flakes of morning mist with smoke from his fire of dead leaves." Instead of retouching stories "to suit particular tastes, or inculcate favorite doctrines," Ruskin would have the child "know his fairy tale accurately, and have perfect joy or awe in the conception of it as if it were real; thus he will always be exercising his power of grasping realities: but a confused, careless, and discrediting tenure of the fiction will lead to as confused and careless reading of fact." Still further, Ruskin defends the vulgarity, or commonness of language, found in many of the tales as "of a wholesome and harmless kind. It is not, for instance, graceful English, to say that a thought 'popped into Catherine's head'; but it nevertheless is far better, as an initiation into literary style, that a child should be told this than that 'a subject attracted Catherine's attention.'" Finally, we cannot forbear adding one more quotation, from the most delightful of attacks upon the attackers of fairy tales, by Miss Repplier: "That which is vital in literature or tradition, which has survived the obscurity and wreckage of the past, whether as legend, or ballad, or mere nursery rhyme, has survived in right of some intrinsic merit of its own, and will not be snuffed out of existence by any of our precautionary or hygienic measures. . . . Puss in Boots is one long record of triumphant effrontery and deception. An honest and self-respecting lad would have explained to the king that he was not the Marquis of Carabas at all; that he had no desire to profit by his cat's ingenious falsehoods, and no weak ambition to connect himself with the aristocracy. Such a hero would be a credit to our modern schoolrooms, and lift a load of care from the shoulders of our modern critics. Only the children would have none of him, but would turn wistfully back to those brave old tales which are their inheritance from a splendid past, and of which no hand shall rob them." And upon this ultimate fact that in literature the final decision rests with the audience appealed to, the discussion may end. _How to use fairy stories._ Briefly, the whole matter may be summed up thus: _Know your story perfectly. Don't read it (unless you can't do better). Tell it--with all the graces of voice and action you can command. Tell it naturally and simply, as the folk-tellers did, not with studied and elaborate "elocutionary" effects. Tell it again and again. If you do it well, the children will not soon tire of it--and they will indicate what you should do next!_ SUGGESTIONS (Books referred to by authors' name are listed in bibliography.) The one important full-length discussion for teachers on the whole subject of the fairy tale is Kready's _A Study of Fairy Tales_. It is enthusiastic rather than severely critical, and that adds to its helpfulness. It has exhaustive bibliographies. The Ruskin quotations above are from his introduction to Taylor's _Grimm_; it may be found also in his collected works, in _On the Old Road_. Miss Repplier's "Battle of the Babies" in her _Essays in Miniature_ should be read entire. A thoroughly stimulating article is Brian Hooker's "Narrative and the Fairy Tale," _Bookman_, Vol. XXXIII, pp. 389, 501; see also his "Types of Fairy Tales," _Forum_, Vol. XL, p. 375. For the scientific phase start with Hartland's _Science of Fairy Tales_. For pedagogy see Adler, MacClintock, McMurry. 147 Many English folk tales have doubtless been lost because no one made a serious attempt to collect them until railroads, newspapers, and popular education had greatly changed the life of the English folk and destroyed many of the traditions. For the preservation of many folk tales that we have, English-speaking peoples are indebted to the scholarly antiquarian James Orchard Halliwell (afterwards Halliwell-Phillips, 1820-1889), who in the year 1842 edited a collection of _The Nursery Rhymes of England_ for the Percy Society. He followed it a few years later with _Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales_. They have long been regarded as the basic books in their field. These two collections were reprinted as _Nursery Rhymes and Tales_. This one-volume edition is the one referred to in the following pages. Halliwell should be remembered as the first person to collect in a scientific way the folk literature of England. He gathered these rhymes and tales from the mouths of the folk, from chapbooks, and from many other sources and endeavored to tell them as they had been told by the folk. "The Old Woman and Her Pig" is perhaps the most familiar of all nursery stories. It belongs to the type of story known as the "accumulative," of which "The House That Jack Built" is the purest model. In such a story there is a constant repetition of the plot, with an addition or slight change at each repetition, until at the end there is a quick unwinding which carries us back to the initial situation and solves the difficulty with which the story started. Halliwell gives two versions of this particular story. It is so widespread that many slight variations would be expected in successful retellings of it. The traditional version which follows seems to be the favorite with primary teachers. It introduces at the sixth stage the attractive rhyme "I see by the moonlight, etc.," which originally formed part of another nursery tale. THE OLD WOMAN AND HER PIG Once upon a time, an old woman was sweeping her little house, when, to her great joy, she found a silver sixpence. "What," said she, "shall I do with this little sixpence? I think I will go to market and buy a pig." So the next day, she went to market, and bought a nice little white pig. She tied a string to one of the pig's legs, and began to drive him home. On the way, the old woman and her pig came to a stile, and she said,-- "Please, pig, get over the stile." But the pig would not. Just then a little dog came trotting up, and the old woman said to him,-- "Dog, dog, bite pig; Pig won't get over the stile, And I sha'n't get home to-night." But the dog would not. So the old woman held up her stick, and said,-- "Stick, stick, beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Pig won't get over the stile, And I sha'n't get home to-night." But the stick would not. So the old woman gathered some bits of wood together to make a fire, and set them on fire, and then threw her stick into the fire, and said,-- "Fire, fire, burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Pig won't get over the stile, And I sha'n't get home to-night." But the fire would not. So the old woman fetched a pail of water that was standing near, and said,-- "Water, water, quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Pig won't get over the stile, And I sha'n't get home to-night." But the water would not. Then the old woman saw an ox coming; so she said,-- "Ox, ox, drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Pig won't go. I see by the moonlight, It's long past midnight; Time pig and I were home an hour and a half ago." But the ox would not. So the old woman turned round, and saw a butcher, and she said,-- "Butcher, butcher, kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Pig won't go. I see by the moonlight, It's long past midnight; Time pig and I were home an hour and a half ago." But the butcher would not. So the old woman took a rope out of her pocket, and said,-- "Rope, rope, hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Pig won't go. I see by the moonlight, It's long past midnight; Time pig and I were home an hour and a half ago." But the rope would not. Just then a large brown mouse ran across the meadow, and she said,-- "Mouse, mouse, gnaw rope; Rope won't hang butcher; Butcher won't kill ox; Ox won't drink water; Water won't quench fire; Fire won't burn stick; Stick won't beat dog; Dog won't bite pig; Pig won't go. I see by the moonlight, It's long past midnight; Time pig and I were home an hour and a half ago." "Yes," said the mouse, "I will if you will give me some cheese." So the old woman put her hand in her pocket, and found a nice piece of cheese; and when the mouse had eaten it, The mouse began to gnaw the rope, The rope began to hang the butcher, The butcher began to kill the ox, The ox began to drink the water, The water began to quench the fire, The fire began to burn the stick, The stick began to beat the dog, The dog began to bite the pig, And the pig began to go. But what time the old woman and her pig got home, you, nor I, nor nobody knows. 148 Teachers and parents owe a greater debt of gratitude to Joseph Jacobs than to any other modern student of folklore. He was born in Australia in 1854, spent most of his life in scholarly pursuits in England, and died in America in 1916. In his six volumes of English, Celtic, Indian, and European fairy tales he gave the world versions of its best known and most representative folk stories in a form suited to children while remaining true in all essentials to the original oral versions of the folk. This combination of scientific accuracy and literary workmanship is very rare. In the introductions and notes to these various volumes may be found a wealth of information which the general reader can understand without the necessity of special training in the science of folklore. And best of all, these volumes can be had at prices that are comparatively cheap. The following story of "Henny-Penny" is given in the fine version by Joseph Jacobs in his _English Fairy Tales_. He heard it as a child in Australia and he thinks "the fun consists in the avoidance of all pronouns, which results in jawbreaking sentences." This story is also very familiar in the Halliwell version called "Chicken-Licken," and there are numerous European parallels. HENNY-PENNY One day Henny-penny was picking up corn in the cornyard when--whack!--something hit her upon the head. "Goodness gracious me!" said Henny-penny; "the sky's a-going to fall; I must go and tell the king." So she went along, and she went along, and she went along till she met Cocky-locky. "Where are you going, Henny-penny?" says Cocky-locky. "Oh! I'm going to tell the king the sky's a-falling," says Henny-penny. "May I come with you?" says Cocky-locky. "Certainly," says Henny-penny. So Henny-penny and Cocky-locky went to tell the king the sky was a-falling. They went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met Ducky-daddles. "Where are you going to, Henny-penny and Cocky-locky?" says Ducky-daddles. "Oh! we're going to tell the king the sky's a-falling," said Henny-penny and Cocky-locky. "May I come with you?" says Ducky-daddles. "Certainly," said Henny-penny and Cocky-locky. So Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, and Ducky-daddles went to tell the king the sky was a-falling. So they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met Goosey-poosey. "Where are you going to, Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, and Ducky-daddles?" said Goosey-poosey. "Oh! we're going to tell the king the sky's a-falling," said Henny-penny and Cocky-locky and Ducky-daddles. "May I come with you?" said Goosey-poosey. "Certainly," said Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, and Ducky-daddles. So Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, and Goosey-poosey went to tell the king the sky was a-falling. So they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met Turkey-lurkey. "Where are you going, Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, and Goosey-poosey?" says Turkey-lurkey. "Oh! we're going to tell the king the sky's a-falling," said Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, and Goosey-poosey. "May I come with you, Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, and Goosey-poosey?" said Turkey-lurkey. "Oh, certainly, Turkey-lurkey," said Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, and Goosey-poosey. So Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey all went to tell the king the sky was a-falling. So they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met Foxy-woxy, and Foxy-woxy said to Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey: "Where are you going, Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey?" And Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey said to Foxy-woxy: "We're going to tell the king the sky's a-falling." "Oh! but this is not the way to the king, Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey," says Foxy-woxy; "I know the proper way; shall I show it you?" "Oh, certainly, Foxy-woxy," said Henny-Penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey. So Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, Turkey-lurkey, and Foxy-woxy all went to tell the king the sky was a-falling. So they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they came to a narrow and dark hole. Now this was the door of Foxy-woxy's cave. But Foxy-woxy said to Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey: "This is the short way to the king's palace; you'll soon get there if you follow me. I will go first and you come after, Henny-Penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey." "Why of course, certainly, without doubt, why not?" said Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey. So Foxy-woxy went into his cave, and he didn't go very far, but turned round to wait for Henny-penny, Cocky-locky, Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey. So at last at first Turkey-lurkey went through the dark hole into the cave. He hadn't got far when "Hrumph," Foxy-woxy snapped off Turkey-lurkey's head and threw his body over his left shoulder. Then Goosey-poosey went in, and "Hrumph," off went her head and Goosey-poosey was thrown beside Turkey-lurkey. Then Ducky-daddles waddled down, and "Hrumph," snapped Foxy-woxy, and Ducky-daddles' head was off and Ducky-daddles was thrown alongside Turkey-lurkey and Goosey-poosey. Then Cocky-locky strutted down into the cave, and he hadn't gone far when "Snap, Hrumph!" went Foxy-woxy and Cocky-locky was thrown alongside of Turkey-lurkey, Goosey-poosey, and Ducky-daddles. But Foxy-woxy had made two bites at Cocky-locky, and when the first snap only hurt Cocky-locky, but didn't kill him, he called out to Henny-penny. But she turned tail and off she ran home, so she never told the king the sky was a-falling. 149 The favorite story of "Teeny-Tiny" is taken from Halliwell, who obtained it from oral tradition, and by whom it was, apparently, first put into print. "This simple tale," he says, "seldom fails to rivet the attention of children, especially if well told. The last two words should be said loudly with a start." Many modern story-tellers seem to prefer modified forms of this story, presumably owing to a feeling on their part that the bone and the churchyard have gruesome suggestions. Carolyn S. Bailey gives one of the best of these modified forms in her _Firelight Stories_, where the woman goes into a field instead of the churchyard, finds a hen at the foot of a tree, thinks this is a chance to have an egg for her breakfast, puts the hen in her reticule, goes home, puts the hen in her cupboard, and goes upstairs to take a nap. Of course the "teeny-tiny" goes in at every point. Substituting "hen" for "bone," the story continues substantially as given below. TEENY-TINY Once upon a time there was a teeny-tiny woman lived in a teeny-tiny house in a teeny-tiny village. Now, one day this teeny-tiny woman put on her teeny-tiny bonnet, and went out of her teeny-tiny house to take a teeny-tiny walk. And when this teeny-tiny woman had gone a teeny-tiny way, she came to a teeny-tiny gate; so the teeny-tiny woman opened the teeny-tiny gate, and went into a teeny-tiny churchyard. And when this teeny-tiny woman had got into the teeny-tiny churchyard, she saw a teeny-tiny bone on a teeny-tiny grave, and the teeny-tiny woman said to her teeny-tiny self, "This teeny-tiny bone will make me some teeny-tiny soup for my teeny-tiny supper." So the teeny-tiny woman put the teeny-tiny bone into her teeny-tiny pocket, and went home to her teeny-tiny house. Now when the teeny-tiny woman got home to her teeny-tiny house, she was a teeny-tiny tired; so she went up her teeny-tiny stairs to her teeny-tiny bed, and put the teeny-tiny bone into a teeny-tiny cupboard. And when this teeny-tiny woman had been to sleep a teeny-tiny time, she was awakened by a teeny-tiny voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard, which said: "GIVE ME MY BONE!" And this teeny-tiny woman was a teeny-tiny frightened, so she hid her teeny-tiny head under the teeny-tiny clothes and went to sleep again. And when she had been to sleep again a teeny-tiny time, the teeny-tiny voice again cried out from the teeny-tiny cupboard a teeny-tiny louder, "GIVE ME MY BONE!" This made the teeny-tiny woman a teeny-tiny more frightened, so she hid her teeny-tiny head a teeny-tiny farther under the teeny-tiny clothes. And when the teeny-tiny woman had been to sleep again a teeny-tiny time, the teeny-tiny voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard said again a teeny-tiny louder, "GIVE ME MY BONE!" And this teeny-tiny woman was a teeny-tiny bit more frightened, but she put her teeny-tiny head out of the teeny-tiny clothes, and said in her loudest teeny-tiny voice, "TAKE IT!" 150 The very old story that follows is taken from Halliwell, and is, according to Jacobs, scarcely more than a variant of "The Old Woman and Her Pig." Like that story, "The Cat and the Mouse" appeals to small people by its pronounced rhythmical structure, accentuated by the rhyme which marks the transition to each new section, and by the "run" at the close. THE CAT AND THE MOUSE The cat and the mouse Played in the malt-house: The cat bit the mouse's tail off. "Pray, puss, give me my tail." "No," said the cat, "I'll not give you your tail till you go to the cow and fetch me some milk." First she leapt, and then she ran, Till she came to the cow, and thus began: "Pray, cow, give me milk, that I may give cat milk, that cat may give me my own tail again." "No," said the cow, "I will give you no milk till you go to the farmer and fetch me some hay." First she leapt, and then she ran, Till she came to the farmer, and thus began: "Pray, farmer, give me hay, that I may give cow hay, that cow may give me milk, that I may give cat milk, that cat may give me my own tail again." "No," said the farmer, "I'll give you no hay till you go to the butcher and fetch me some meat." First she leapt, and then she ran, Till she came to the butcher, and thus began: "Pray, butcher, give me meat, that I may give farmer meat, that farmer may give me hay, that I may give cow hay, that cow may give me milk, that I may give cat milk, that cat may give me my own tail again." "No," said the butcher, "I'll give you no meat till you go to the baker and fetch me some bread." First she leapt, and then she ran, Till she came to the baker, and thus began: "Pray, baker, give me bread, that I may give butcher bread, that butcher may give me meat, that I may give farmer meat, that farmer may give me hay, that I may give cow hay, that cow may give me milk, that I may give cat milk, that cat may give me my own tail again." "Yes," said the baker, "I'll give you some bread, But if you eat my meal, I'll cut off your head." Then the baker gave mouse bread, and mouse gave butcher bread, and butcher gave mouse meat, and mouse gave farmer meat, and farmer gave mouse hay, and mouse gave cow hay, and cow gave mouse milk, and mouse gave cat milk, and cat gave mouse her own tail again. 151 The following story is in the most familiar version of Halliwell's collection. Another much-used form of the story may be found in Lang's _Green Fairy Book_, in which the pigs are distinctly characterized and given the names of Browny, Whitey, and Blacky. Jacobs uses the Halliwell version in his _English Fairy Tales_, but prefixes to it an opening formula which seems to have been much in use by old story-tellers as a way of beginning almost any oral story for children: "Once upon a time when pigs spoke rhyme And monkeys chewed tobacco, And hens took snuff to make them tough, And ducks went quack, quack, quack, O!" THE STORY OF THE THREE LITTLE PIGS Once upon a time there was an old sow with three little pigs, and as she had not enough to keep them, she sent them out to seek their fortune. The first that went off met a man with a bundle of straw, and said to him: "Please, man, give me that straw to build me a house." Which the man did, and the little pig built a house with it. Presently came along a wolf, and knocked at the door, and said: "Little pig, little pig, let me come in." To which the pig answered: "No, no, by the hair of my chinny chin chin." The wolf then answered to that: "Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in." So he huffed, and he puffed, and he blew his house in, and ate up the little pig. The second little pig met a man with a bundle of furze and said: "Please, man, give me that furze to build a house." Which the man did, and the pig built his house. Then along came the wolf, and said: "Little pig, little pig, let me come in." "No, no, by the hair of my chinny chin chin." "Then I'll puff, and I'll huff, and I'll blow your house in." So he huffed, and he puffed, and he puffed, and he huffed, and at last he blew the house down, and he ate up the little pig. The third little pig met a man with a load of bricks, and said: "Please, man, give me those bricks to build a house with." So the man gave him the bricks, and he built his house with them. So the wolf came, as he did to the other little pigs, and said: "Little pig, little pig, let me come in." "No, no, by the hair on my chinny chin chin." "Then I'll huff, and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in." Well, he huffed, and he puffed, and he huffed and he puffed, and he puffed and huffed; but he could _not_ get the house down. When he found that he could not, with all his huffing and puffing, blow the house down, he said: "Little pig, I know where there is a nice field of turnips." "Where?" said the little pig. "Oh, in Mr. Smith's Home-field, and if you will be ready to-morrow morning I will call for you, and we will go together and get some for dinner." "Very well," said the little pig, "I will be ready. What time do you mean to go?" "Oh, at six o'clock." Well, the little pig got up at five and got the turnips before the wolf came (which he did about six), who said: "Little pig, are you ready?" The little pig said: "Ready! I have been and come back again, and got a nice potful for dinner." The wolf felt very angry at this, but thought that he would be _up to_ the little pig somehow or other, so he said: "Little pig, I know where there is a nice apple-tree." "Where?" said the pig. "Down at Merry-garden," replied the wolf, "and if you will not deceive me I will come for you at five o'clock tomorrow and we will go together and get some apples." Well, the little pig bustled up the next morning at four o'clock, and went off for the apples, hoping to get back before the wolf came; but he had farther to go and had to climb the tree, so that just as he was coming down from it, he saw the wolf coming, which, as you may suppose, frightened him very much. When the wolf came up he said: "Little pig, what! are you here before me? Are they nice apples?" "Yes, very," said the little pig. "I will throw you down one." And he threw it so far that, while the wolf was gone to pick it up, the little pig jumped down and ran home. The next day the wolf came again and said to the little pig: "Little pig, there is a fair at Shanklin this afternoon. Will you go?" "Oh, yes," said the pig, "I will go. What time shall you be ready?" "At three," said the wolf. So the little pig went off before the time as usual, and got to the fair and bought a butter-churn, which he was going home with, when he saw the wolf coming. Then he could not tell what to do. So he got into the churn to hide, and by so doing turned it round, and it rolled down the hill with the pig in it, which frightened the wolf so much that he ran home without going to the fair. He went to the little pig's house and told him how frightened he had been by a great round thing which came down the hill past him. Then the little pig said: "Hah, I frightened you, then. I had been to the fair and bought a butter-churn, and when I saw you, I got into it and rolled down the hill." Then the wolf was very angry indeed, and declared he _would_ eat up the little pig and that he would get down the chimney after him. When the little pig saw what he was about, he hung on the pot full of water and made up a blazing fire, and, just as the wolf was coming down, took off the cover, and in fell the wolf; so the little pig put on the cover again in an instant, boiled him up, and ate him for supper, and lived happy ever afterwards. 152 How great calamities sometimes grow out of small causes is illustrated in an old proverbial saying of Poor Richard (see No. 137). The favorite English folk-tale version of this theme, taken from Halliwell, is given below. It takes the form of an accumulative droll, or comic story. The overwhelming catastrophe at the end is so complete and so unexpected that it has a decidedly humorous effect. TITTY MOUSE AND TATTY MOUSE Titty Mouse and Tatty Mouse both lived in a house, Titty Mouse went a leasing and Tatty Mouse went a leasing, So they both went a leasing. Titty Mouse leased an ear of corn, and Tatty Mouse leased an ear of corn, So they both leased an ear of corn. Titty Mouse made a pudding, and Tatty Mouse made a pudding, So they both made a pudding. And Tatty Mouse put her pudding into the pot to boil, But when Titty went to put hers in, the pot tumbled over, and scalded her to death. Then Tatty sat down and wept; then a three-legged stool said: "Tatty, why do you weep?" "Titty's dead," said Tatty, "and so I weep." "Then," said the stool, "I'll hop," so the stool hopped. Then a broom in the corner of the room said: "Stool, why do you hop?" "Oh!" said the stool, "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, and so I hop." "Then," said the broom, "I'll sweep," so the broom began to sweep. "Then," said the door, "Broom, why do you sweep?" "Oh!" said the broom, "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and so I sweep." "Then," said the door, "I'll jar," so the door jarred. "Then," said the window, "Door, why do you jar?" "Oh," said the door, "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, and so I jar." "Then," said the window, "I'll creak," so the window creaked. Now there was an old form outside the house, and when the window creaked, the form said: "Window, why do you creak?" "Oh!" said the window, "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and so I creak." "Then," said the old form, "I'll run round the house"; then the old form ran round the house. Now there was a fine large walnut-tree growing by the cottage, and the tree said to the form: "Form, why do you run round the house?" "Oh!" said the form, "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, and so I run round the house." "Then," said the walnut-tree, "I'll shed my leaves," so the walnut-tree shed all its beautiful green leaves. Now there was a little bird perched on one of the boughs of the tree, and when all the leaves fell, it said: "Walnut-tree, why do you shed your leaves?" "Oh!" said the tree, "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house, and so I shed my leaves." "Then," said the little bird, "I'll moult all my feathers," so he moulted all his pretty feathers. Now there was a little girl walking below, carrying a jug of milk for her brothers' and sisters' supper, and when she saw the poor little bird moult all its feathers, she said: "Little bird, why do you moult all your feathers?" "Oh!" said the little bird, "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house, the walnut-tree sheds its leaves, and so I moult all my feathers." "Then," said the little girl, "I'll spill the milk," so she dropt the pitcher and spilt the milk. Now there was an old man just by on the top of a ladder thatching a rick, and when he saw the little girl spill the milk, he said: "Little girl, what do you mean by spilling the milk?--your little brothers and sisters must go without their supper." Then said the little girl: "Titty's dead, and Tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house, the walnut-tree sheds all its leaves, the little bird moults all its feathers, and so I spill the milk." "Oh!" said the old man, "then I'll tumble off the ladder and break my neck," so he tumbled off the ladder and broke his neck; and when the old man broke his neck, the great walnut-tree fell down with a crash and upset the old form and house, and the house falling knocked the window out, and the window knocked the door down, and the door upset the broom, and the broom upset the stool, and poor little Tatty Mouse was buried beneath the ruins. 153 "The Story of the Three Bears" is perhaps the only instance in which a piece of literature by a known English author is found among accepted folk tales. It appeared in Robert Southey's rambling miscellany, _The Doctor_ (1837). He may have taken it from an old tale, but no amount of investigation has located any certain source. In the most familiar versions the naughty old woman gives place to a little girl whose name is Goldenhair, Goldilocks, Silverhair, or Silverlocks. The point to the story is lessened by the change, but the popularity of these modifications seems to suggest that children prefer to have the ill-mannered old woman turned into an attractive little girl. Southey apparently was delighted with efforts to bring his story into any form more pleasing to the folk, and we find his son-in-law saying that he was especially pleased with a versification "by G. N. and published especially for the amusement of 'little people' lest in the volumes of _The Doctor_ it should 'escape their sight.'" However, it would appear that teachers at least should know this masterpiece in the only form in which its author put it. To that end this version of "The Three Bears" follows Southey with the change of a single word. At the head of the story he placed these lines from Gascoyne: "A tale which may content the minds Of learned men and grave philosophers." THE STORY OF THE THREE BEARS ROBERT SOUTHEY [Transcriber's Note: For this story, different sized text was used to indicate the size of the different bears' voices. The largest text has been denote by use of the ~ symbol and the smallest text has been denoted by use of the + symbol.] Once upon a time there were Three Bears who lived together in a house of their own in a wood. One of them was a Little, Small, Wee Bear; and one was a Middle-sized Bear, and the other was a Great, Huge Bear. They had each a pot for their porridge; a little pot for the Little, Small, Wee Bear; and a middle-sized pot for the Middle Bear; and a great pot for the Great, Huge Bear. And they had each a chair to sit in; a little chair for the Little, Small, Wee Bear; and a middle-sized chair for the Middle Bear; and a great chair for the Great, Huge Bear. And they had each a bed to sleep in; a little bed for the Little, Small, Wee Bear; and a middle-sized bed for the Middle Bear; and a great bed for the Great, Huge Bear. One day after they had made the porridge for their breakfast and poured it into their porridge-pots, they walked out into the wood while the porridge was cooling, that they might not burn their mouths by beginning too soon to eat it. And while they were walking, a little old Woman came to the house. She could not have been a good, honest old Woman; for first she looked in at the window and then she peeped in at the keyhole; and seeing nobody in the house, she lifted the latch. The door was not fastened, because the Bears were good Bears, who did nobody any harm and never suspected that anybody would harm them. So the little old Woman opened the door and went in, and well pleased she was when she saw the porridge on the table. If she had been a good little old Woman, she would have waited till the Bears came home, and then perhaps they would have asked her to breakfast, for they were good Bears--a little rough or so, as the manner of Bears is, but for all that very good-natured and hospitable. But she was an impudent, bad old Woman, and set about helping herself. So first she tasted the porridge of the Great, Huge Bear, and that was too hot for her; and she said a bad word about that. And then she tasted the porridge of the Middle Bear, and that was too cold for her; and she said a bad word about that too. And then she went to the porridge of the Little, Small, Wee Bear, and tasted that; and that was neither too hot nor too cold, but just right; and she liked it so well that she ate it all up. But the naughty old Woman said a bad word about the little porridge-pot because it did not hold enough for her. Then the little old Woman sat down in the chair of the Great, Huge Bear, and that was too hard for her. And then she sat down in the chair of the Middle Bear, and that was too soft for her. And then she sat down in the chair of the Little, Small, Wee Bear, and that was neither too hard nor too soft, but just right. So she seated herself in it, and there she sat till the bottom of the chair came out, and down she came, plump upon the ground. And the naughty old Woman said a wicked word about that too. Then the little old Woman went upstairs into the bed-chamber in which the three Bears slept. And first she lay down upon the bed of the Great, Huge Bear; but that was too high at the head for her. And next she lay down upon the bed of the Middle Bear, and that was too high at the foot for her. And then she lay down upon the bed of the Little, Small, Wee Bear, and that was neither too high at the head nor at the foot, but just right. So she covered herself up comfortably and lay there till she fell fast asleep. By this time the Three Bears thought their porridge would be cool enough, so they came home to breakfast. Now the little old Woman had left the spoon of the Great, Huge Bear standing in his porridge. "~SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT MY PORRIDGE!~" said the Great, Huge Bear, in his great, rough, gruff voice. And when the Middle Bear looked at his, he saw that the spoon was standing in it too. They were wooden spoons; if they had been silver ones, the naughty old Woman would have put them in her pocket. "SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT MY PORRIDGE!" said the Middle Bear, in his middle voice. Then the Little, Small, Wee Bear looked at his, and there was the spoon in the porridge-pot, but the porridge was all gone. "+SOMEBODY HAS BEEN AT MY PORRIDGE, AND HAS EATEN IT ALL UP!+" said the Little, Small, Wee Bear, in his little, small, wee voice. Upon this the Three Bears, seeing that some one had entered their house and eaten up the Little, Small, Wee Bear's breakfast, began to look about them. Now the little old Woman had not put the hard cushion straight when she rose from the chair of the Great, Huge Bear. "~SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR!~" said the Great, Huge Bear, in his great, rough, gruff voice. And the little old Woman had squatted down the soft cushion of the Middle Bear. "SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR!" said the Middle Bear, in his middle voice. And you know what the little old Woman had done to the third chair. "+SOMEBODY HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR AND HAS SAT THE BOTTOM OUT OF IT!+" said the Little, Small, Wee Bear, in his little, small, wee voice. Then the three Bears thought it necessary that they should make further search; so they went upstairs into their bed-chamber. Now the little old Woman had pulled the pillow of the Great, Huge Bear out of its place. "~SOMEBODY HAS BEEN LYING IN MY BED!~" said the Great, Huge Bear, in his great, rough, gruff voice. And the little old Woman had pulled the bolster of the Middle Bear out of its place. "SOMEBODY HAS BEEN LYING IN MY BED!" said the Middle Bear, in his middle voice. And when the Little, Small, Wee Bear came to look at his bed, there was the bolster in its right place, and the pillow in its place upon the bolster; and upon the pillow was the little old Woman's ugly, dirty head,--which was not in its place, for she had no business there. "+SOMEBODY HAS BEEN LYING IN MY BED,--AND HERE SHE IS!+" said the Little, Small, Wee Bear, in his little, small, wee voice. The little old Woman had heard in her sleep the great, rough, gruff voice of the Great, Huge Bear; but she was so fast asleep that it was no more to her than the roaring of wind or the rumbling of thunder. And she had heard the middle voice of the Middle Bear, but it was only as if she had heard some one speaking in a dream. But when she heard the little, small, wee voice of the Little, Small, Wee Bear, it was so sharp and so shrill that it awakened her at once. Up she started; and when she saw the Three Bears on one side of the bed, she tumbled herself out at the other and ran to the window. Now the window was open, because the Bears, like good, tidy Bears as they were, always opened their bed-chamber window when they got up in the morning. Out the little old Woman jumped; and whether she broke her neck in the fall, or ran into the wood and was lost there, or found her way out of the wood and was taken up by the constable and sent to the House of Correction for a vagrant, as she was, I cannot tell. But the Three Bears never saw anything more of her. 154 A noodle story is a droll, or comic story, that follows the fortunes of very simple or stupid characters. There are many noodle stories among the favorites of the folk, and the three immediately following are among the best known. This version of "The Three Sillies" was collected from oral tradition in Suffolk, England. In the original the dangerous tool was an ax, but the collector informed Mr. Hartland, in whose _English Fairy and Folk Tales_ it is reprinted, that she had found it was really "a great big wooden mallet, as some one had left sticking there when they'd been _making-up_ the beer." This change, following the example of Jacobs, is made in the text of the story. This particular droll is widespread. Grimms' "Clever Elsie" is the same story, and a French version, "The Six Sillies," is in Lang's _Red Fairy Book_. A very fine Italian version, called "Bastienelo," is given in Crane's _Italian Popular Tales_. The tendency of people to "borrow trouble" is so universal that stories illustrating its ludicrous consequences have always had wide appeal. Some details of these variants are due to local environments. For instance, in the Italian story wine takes the place of beer, and it has been pointed out that there are "borrowing trouble" stories found in New York and Ohio in which the thing feared is the heavy iron door closing the mouth of the oven which in pioneer days was built in by the side of the fireplace. =THE THREE SILLIES= Once upon a time there was a farmer and his wife who had one daughter, and she was courted by a gentleman. Every evening he used to come and see her, and stop to supper at the farmhouse, and the daughter used to be sent down into the cellar to draw the beer for supper. So one evening she had gone down to draw the beer, and she happened to look up at the ceiling while she was drawing, and she saw a mallet stuck in one of the beams. It must have been there a long, long time, but somehow or other she had never noticed it before, and she began a-thinking. And she thought it was very dangerous to have that mallet there, for she said to herself: "Suppose him and me was to be married, and we was to have a son, and he was to grow up to be a man, and come down into the cellar to draw the beer, like as I'm doing now, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him, what a dreadful thing it would be!" And she put down the candle and the jug, and sat herself down and began a-crying. Well, they began to wonder upstairs how it was that she was so long drawing the beer, and her mother went down to see after her, and she found her sitting on the settle crying, and the beer running over the floor. "Why, whatever is the matter?" said her mother. "Oh, mother!" says she, "look at that horrid mallet! Suppose we was to be married, and was to have a son, and he was to grow up, and was to come down to the cellar to draw the beer, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him, what a dreadful thing it would be!" "Dear, dear! what a dreadful thing it would be!" said the mother, and she sat her down aside of the daughter and started a-crying too. Then after a bit the father began to wonder that they didn't come back, and he went down into the cellar to look after them himself, and there they two sat a-crying, and the beer running all over the floor. "Whatever is the matter?" says he. "Why," says the mother, "look at that horrid mallet. Just suppose, if our daughter and her sweetheart was to be married, and was to have a son, and he was to grow up, and was to come down into the cellar to draw the beer, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him, what a dreadful thing it would be!" "Dear, dear, dear! so it would!" said the father, and he sat himself down aside of the other two, and started a-crying. Now the gentleman got tired of stopping up in the kitchen by himself, and at last he went down into the cellar too, to see what they were after; and there they three sat a-crying side by side, and the beer running all over the floor. And he ran straight and turned the tap. Then he said: "Whatever are you three doing, sitting there crying, and letting the beer run all over the floor?" "Oh!" says the father, "look at that horrid mallet! Suppose you and our daughter was to be married, and was to have a son, and he was to grow up, and was to come down into the cellar to draw the beer, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him!" And then they all started a-crying worse than before. But the gentleman burst out a-laughing, and reached up and pulled out the mallet, and then he said: "I've traveled many miles, and I never met three such big sillies as you three before; and now I shall start out on my travels again, and when I can find three bigger sillies than you three, then I'll come back and marry your daughter." So he wished them good-bye, and started off on his travels, and left them all crying because the girl had lost her sweetheart. Well, he set out, and he traveled a long way, and at last he came to a woman's cottage that had some grass growing on the roof. And the woman was trying to get her cow to go up a ladder to the grass, and the poor thing durst not go. So the gentleman asked the woman what she was doing. "Why, lookye," she said, "look at all that beautiful grass. I'm going to get the cow on to the roof to eat it. She'll be quite safe, for I shall tie a string round her neck, and pass it down the chimney, and tie it to my wrist as I go about the house, so she can't fall off without my knowing it." "Oh, you poor silly!" said the gentleman, "you should cut the grass and throw it down to the cow!" But the woman thought it was easier to get the cow up the ladder than to get the grass down, so she pushed her and coaxed her and got her up, and tied a string round her neck, and passed it down the chimney, and fastened it to her own wrist. And the gentleman went on his way, but he hadn't gone far when the cow tumbled off the roof, and hung by the string tied round her neck, and it strangled her. And the weight of the cow tied to her wrist pulled the woman up the chimney, and she stuck fast half-way and was smothered in the soot. Well, that was one big silly. And the gentleman went on and on, and he went to an inn to stop the night, and they were so full at the inn that they had to put him in a double-bedded room, and another traveller was to sleep in the other bed. The other man was a very pleasant fellow, and they got very friendly together; but in the morning, when they were both getting up, the gentleman was surprised to see the other hang his trousers on the knobs of the chest of drawers and run across the room and try to jump into them, and he tried over and over again, and couldn't manage it; and the gentleman wondered whatever he was doing it for. At last he stopped and wiped his face with his handkerchief. "Oh, dear," he says, "I do think trousers are the most awkwardest kind of clothes that ever were. I can't think who could have invented such things. It takes me the best part of an hour to get into mine every morning, and I get so hot! How do you manage yours?" So the gentleman burst out a-laughing, and showed him how to put them on; and he was very much obliged to him, and said he never should have thought of doing it that way. So that was another big silly. Then the gentleman went on his travels again; and he came to a village, and outside the village there was a pond, and round the pond was a crowd of people. And they had got rakes, and brooms, and pitchforks, reaching into the pond; and the gentleman asked what was the matter. "Why," they said, "matter enough! Moon's tumbled into the pond, and we can't rake her out anyhow!" So the gentleman burst out a-laughing, and told them to look up into the sky, and that it was only the shadow in the water. But they wouldn't listen to him, and abused him shamefully, and he got away as quick as he could. So there was a whole lot of sillies bigger than the three sillies at home. So the gentleman turned back home again and married the farmer's daughter, and if they didn't live happy for ever after, that's nothing to do with you or me. 155 There seemed to be a feeling common among the folk that simple-minded persons were in the special care of Providence. Hence, sometimes the achievement of success beyond the power of wiser and cleverer individuals. "Lazy Jack" comes from the Halliwell collection. "The humor lies in the contrast between what Jack did and what anybody 'with sense' knows he ought to have done." A parallel story is the Grimms' "Hans in Luck." A most striking and popular Americanization of it is Sara Cone Bryant's "The Story of Epaminondas and His Auntie" in her _Stories to Tell to Children_. LAZY JACK Once upon a time there was a boy whose name was Jack, and he lived with his mother on a dreary common. They were very poor, and the old woman got her living by spinning, but Jack was so lazy that he would do nothing but bask in the sun in the hot weather and sit by the corner of the hearth in the winter time. His mother could not persuade him to do anything for her and was obliged at last to tell him that if he did not begin to work for his porridge she would turn him out to get his living as he could. This threat at length roused Jack, and he went out and hired himself for the day to a neighboring farmer for a penny; but as he was coming home, never having had any money in his possession before, he lost it in passing over a brook. "You stupid boy," said his mother, "you should have put it in your pocket." "I'll do so another time," replied Jack. The next day Jack went out again and hired himself to a cowkeeper, who gave him a jar of milk for his day's work. Jack took the jar and put it into the large pocket of his jacket, spilling it all long before he got home. "Dear me!" said the old woman; "you should have carried it on your head." "I'll do so another time," said Jack. The following day Jack hired himself again to a farmer, who agreed to give him a cream cheese for his services. In the evening Jack took the cheese and went home with it on his head. By the time he got home the cheese was completely spoilt, part of it being lost and part matted with his hair. "You stupid lout," said his mother, "you should have carried it very carefully in your hands." "I'll do so another time," replied Jack. The day after this Jack again went out and hired himself to a baker, who would give him nothing for his work but a large tomcat. Jack took the cat and began carrying it very carefully in his hands, but in a short time pussy scratched him so much that he was compelled to let it go. When he got home, his mother said to him: "You silly fellow, you should have tied it with a string and dragged it along after you." "I'll do so another time," said Jack. The next day Jack hired himself to a butcher, who rewarded his labors by the handsome present of a shoulder of mutton. Jack took the mutton, tied it to a string, and trailed it along after him in the dirt, so that by the time he had got home the meat was completely spoilt. His mother was this time quite out of patience with him, for the next day was Sunday, and she was obliged to content herself with cabbage for her dinner. "You ninney-hammer," said she to her son, "you should have carried it on your shoulder." "I'll do so another time," replied Jack. On the Monday Jack went once more and hired himself to a cattle-keeper, who gave him a donkey for his trouble. Although Jack was very strong, he found some difficulty in hoisting the donkey on his shoulders, but at last he accomplished it and began walking slowly home with his prize. Now it happened that in the course of his journey there lived a rich man with his only daughter, a beautiful girl, but unfortunately deaf and dumb. She had never laughed in her life, and the doctors said she would never recover till somebody made her laugh. This young lady happened to be looking out of the window when Jack was passing with the donkey on his shoulders, the legs sticking up in the air, and the sight was so comical and strange that she burst out into a great fit of laughter, and immediately recovered her speech and hearing. Her father was overjoyed, and fulfilled his promise by marrying her to Jack, who was thus made a rich gentleman. They lived in a large house, and Jack's mother lived with them in great happiness until she died. 156 The following noodle story is from Halliwell as obtained from oral tradition in the west of England. It is a variant of the "Lazy Jack" type. THE STORY OF MR. VINEGAR Mr. and Mrs. Vinegar lived in a vinegar bottle. Now, one day when Mr. Vinegar was from home and Mrs. Vinegar, who was a very good housewife, was busily sweeping her house, an unlucky thump of the broom brought the whole house clitter-clatter about her ears. In a paroxysm of grief she rushed forth to meet her husband. On seeing him she exclaimed, "Oh, Mr. Vinegar, Mr. Vinegar, we are ruined, we are ruined: I have knocked the house down, and it is all to pieces!" Mr. Vinegar then said: "My dear, let us see what can be done. Here is the door; I will take it on my back, and we will go forth to seek our fortune." They walked all that day and at nightfall entered a thick forest. They were both excessively tired, and Mr. Vinegar said: "My love, I will climb up into a tree, drag up the door, and you shall follow." He accordingly did so, and they both stretched their weary limbs on the door, and fell fast asleep. In the middle of the night Mr. Vinegar was disturbed by the sound of voices beneath, and to his inexpressible dismay perceived that a party of thieves were met to divide their booty. "Here, Jack," said one, "here's five pounds for you; here, Bill, here's ten pounds for you; here, Bob, here's three pounds for you." Mr. Vinegar could listen no longer; his terror was so intense that he trembled most violently and shook down the door on their heads. Away scampered the thieves, but Mr. Vinegar dared not quit his retreat till broad daylight. He then scrambled out of the tree and went to lift up the door. What did he behold but a number of golden guineas! "Come down, Mrs. Vinegar," he cried; "come down, I say; our fortune's made! Come down, I say." Mrs. Vinegar got down as fast as she could and saw the money with equal delight. "Now, my dear," said she, "I'll tell you what you shall do. There is a fair at the neighboring town; you shall take these forty guineas and buy a cow. I can make butter and cheese, which you shall sell at market, and we shall then be able to live very comfortably." Mr. Vinegar joyfully assents, takes the money, and goes off to the fair. When he arrived, he walked up and down, and at length saw a beautiful red cow. It was an excellent milker and perfect in every respect. "Oh," thought Mr. Vinegar, "if I had but that cow, I should be the happiest man alive." So he offers the forty guineas for the cow, and the owner declaring that, as he was a friend, he'd oblige him, the bargain was made. Proud of his purchase, he drove the cow backwards and forwards to show it. By-and-by he saw a man playing the bagpipes--_tweedle-dum, tweedle-dee_. The children followed him about, and he appeared to be pocketing money on all sides. "Well," thought Mr. Vinegar, "if I had but that beautiful instrument, I should be the happiest man alive--my fortune would be made." So he went up to the man. "Friend," says he, "what a beautiful instrument that is, and what a deal of money you must make." "Why, yes," said the man, "I make a great deal of money, to be sure, and it is a wonderful instrument." "Oh!" cried Mr. Vinegar, "how I should like to possess it!" "Well," said the man, "as you are a friend, I don't much mind parting with it; you shall have it for that red cow." "Done!" said the delighted Mr. Vinegar. So the beautiful red cow was given for the bagpipes. He walked up and down with his purchase; but in vain he attempted to play a tune, and instead of pocketing pence, the boys followed him hooting, laughing, and pelting. Poor Mr. Vinegar, his fingers grew very cold, and heartily ashamed and mortified, he was leaving the town, when he met a man with a fine thick pair of gloves. "Oh, my fingers are so very cold," said Mr. Vinegar to himself. "If I had but those beautiful gloves I should be the happiest man alive." He went up to the man, and said to him: "Friend, you seem to have a capital pair of gloves there." "Yes, truly," cried the man; "and my hands are as warm as possible this cold November day." "Well," said Mr. Vinegar, "I should like to have them." "What will you give?" said the man; "as you are a friend, I don't much mind letting you have them for those bagpipes." "Done!" cried Mr. Vinegar. He put on the gloves, and felt perfectly happy as he trudged homewards. At last he grew very tired, when he saw a man coming towards him with a good stout stick in his hand. "Oh," said Mr. Vinegar, "that I but had that stick! I should then be the happiest man alive." He accosted the man: "Friend! what a rare good stick you have got." "Yes," said the man; "I have used it for many a long mile, and a good friend it has been; but if you have a fancy for it, as you are a friend, I don't mind giving it to you for that pair of gloves." Mr. Vinegar's hands were so warm, and his legs so tired, that he gladly exchanged. As he drew near to the wood where he had left his wife, he heard a parrot on a tree calling out his name: "Mr. Vinegar, you foolish man, you blockhead, you simpleton; you went to the fair and laid out all your money in buying a cow. Not content with that, you changed it for bagpipes, on which you could not play and which were not worth one-tenth of the money. You fool, you--you had no sooner got the bagpipes than you changed them for the gloves, which were not worth one-quarter of the money; and when you had got the gloves, you changed them for a poor miserable stick; and now for your forty guineas, cow, bagpipes, and gloves, you have nothing to show but that poor miserable stick, which you might have cut in any hedge." On this the bird laughed immoderately, and Mr. Vinegar, falling into a violent rage, threw the stick at its head. The stick lodged in the tree, and he returned to his wife without money, cow, bagpipes, gloves, or stick, and she instantly gave him such a sound cudgelling that she almost broke every bone in his skin. 157 One of the greatest favorites among nursery tales is the story of that Jack who showed "an inquiring mind, a great courage and enterprise," and who climbed the ladder of fortune when he mounted his bean-stalk. The traditional versions of this story are nearly all crude and unsatisfactory, as are those of many of the English tales. Joseph Jacobs made a remarkably fine literary version in his _English Fairy Tales_ from memories of his Australian childhood. He materially shortens the story by omitting the fairy lady, who, he suggests, was put in "to prevent the tale becoming an encouragement to theft." He also made Jack's character more consistent by making him more sympathetic and kind at the beginning and less of a "ne'er-do-well," though the noodle element in the selling of the cow could not be eliminated. Andrew Lang, in his _Green Fairy Book_, gives an excellent version of the story in its most extended form. Both the versions mentioned introduce, when the giant comes in, the formula generally associated with "Jack the Giant Killer": "Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman, Be he alive, or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread." The version chosen for use here contains the elements of the story most familiar to past generations and is probably as near the commoner oral traditions as it is possible to secure. It is taken from Miss Mulock's _The Fairy Book_, a very fine selection of tales, first published in 1863, and still widely used. Miss Muloch (Dinah Maria Craik, 1826-1887) is best known as the author of the popular novel _John Halifax, Gentleman_. JACK AND THE BEAN-STALK In the days of King Alfred there lived a poor woman, whose cottage was in a remote country village, many miles from London. She had been a widow some years, and had an only child named Jack, whom she indulged so much that he never paid the least attention to anything she said, but was indolent, careless, and extravagant. His follies were not owing to a bad disposition, but to his mother's foolish partiality. By degrees he spent all that she had--scarcely anything remained but a cow. One day, for the first time in her life, she reproached him: "Cruel, cruel boy! you have at last brought me to beggary. I have not money enough to purchase even a bit of bread; nothing now remains to sell but my poor cow! I am sorry to part with her; it grieves me sadly, but we cannot starve." For a few minutes Jack felt remorse, but it was soon over, and he began asking his mother to let him sell the cow at the next village, teasing her so much that she at last consented. As he was going along he met a butcher, who inquired why he was driving the cow from home. Jack replied that he was going to sell her. The butcher held some curious beans in his hat; they were of various colors, and attracted Jack's attention. This did not pass unnoticed by the man, who, knowing Jack's easy temper, thought now was the time to take an advantage of it; and, determined not to let slip so good an opportunity, asked what was the price of the cow, offering at the same time all the beans in his hat for her. The silly boy could not conceal the pleasure he felt at what he supposed so great an offer. The bargain was struck instantly, and the cow exchanged for a few paltry beans. Jack made the best of his way home, calling aloud to his mother before he reached the door, thinking to surprise her. When she saw the beans, and heard Jack's account, her patience quite forsook her. She tossed the beans out of the window, where they fell on the garden-bed below. Then she threw her apron over her head, and cried bitterly. Jack attempted to console her, but in vain, and, not having anything to eat, they both went supperless to bed. Jack awoke early in the morning, and seeing something uncommon darkening the window of his bed-chamber, ran down stairs into the garden, where he found some of the beans had taken root and sprung up surprisingly. The stalks were of an immense thickness, and had twined together until they formed a ladder like a chain, and so high that the top appeared to be lost in the clouds. Jack was an adventurous lad; he determined to climb up to the top, and ran to tell his mother, not doubting but that she would be equally pleased with himself. She declared he should not go; said it would break her heart if he did; entreated and threatened, but all in vain. Jack set out, and after climbing for some hours reached the top of the bean-stalk, quite exhausted. Looking around, he found himself in a strange country. It appeared to be a barren desert; not a tree, shrub, house, or living creature was to be seen; here and there were scattered fragments of stone, and at unequal distances small heaps of earth were loosely thrown together. Jack seated himself pensively upon a block of stone and thought of his mother. He reflected with sorrow upon his disobedience in climbing the bean-stalk against her will, and concluded that he must die of hunger. However, he walked on, hoping to see a house where he might beg something to eat and drink. He did not find it; but he saw at a distance a beautiful lady walking all alone. She was elegantly clad, and carried a white wand, at the top of which sat a peacock of pure gold. Jack, who was a gallant fellow, went straight up to her, when, with a bewitching smile, she asked him how he came there. He told her all about the bean-stalk. The lady answered him by a question, "Do you remember your father, young man?" "No, madam; but I am sure there is some mystery about him, for when I name him to my mother she always begins to weep and will tell me nothing." "She dare not," replied the lady, "but I can and will. For know, young man, that I am a fairy, and was your father's guardian. But fairies are bound by laws as well as mortals; and by an error of mine I lost my power for a term of years, so that I was unable to succor your father when he most needed it, and he died." Here the fairy looked so sorrowful that Jack's heart warmed to her, and he begged her earnestly to tell him more. "I will; only you must promise to obey me in everything, or you will perish yourself." Jack was brave, and, besides, his fortunes were so bad they could not well be worse,--so he promised. The fairy continued: "Your father, Jack, was a most excellent, amiable, generous man. He had a good wife, faithful servants, plenty of money; but he had one misfortune--a false friend. This was a giant, whom he had succored in misfortune, and who returned his kindness by murdering him and seizing on all his property; also making your mother take a solemn oath that she would never tell you anything about your father, or he would murder both her and you. Then he turned her off with you in her arms, to wander about the wide world as she might. I could not help her, as my power only returned on the day you went to sell your cow. "It was I," added the fairy, "who impelled you to take the beans, who made the bean-stalk grow, and inspired you with the desire to climb up it to this strange country; for it is here the wicked giant lives who was your father's destroyer. It is you who must avenge him, and rid the world of a monster who never will do anything but evil. I will assist you. You may lawfully take possession of his house and all his riches, for everything he has belonged to your father, and is therefore yours. Now, farewell! Do not let your mother know you are acquainted with your father's history; this is my command, and if you disobey me you will suffer for it. Now go." Jack asked where he was to go. "Along the direct road, till you see the house where the giant lives. You must then act according to your own just judgment, and I will guide you if any difficulty arises. Farewell!" She bestowed on the youth a benignant smile, and vanished. Jack pursued his journey. He walked on till after sunset, when, to his great joy, he espied a large mansion. A plain-looking woman was at the door. He accosted her, begging she would give him a morsel of bread and a night's lodging. She expressed the greatest surprise, and said it was quite uncommon to see a human being near their house; for it was well known that her husband was a powerful giant, who would never eat anything but human flesh, if he could possibly get it; that he would walk fifty miles to procure it, usually being out the whole day for that purpose. This account greatly terrified Jack, but still he hoped to elude the giant, and therefore he again entreated the woman to take him in for one night only, and hide him where she thought proper. She at last suffered herself to be persuaded, for she was of a compassionate and generous disposition, and took him into the house. First, they entered a fine large hall, magnificently furnished; they then passed through several spacious rooms, in the same style of grandeur; but all appeared forsaken and desolate. A long gallery came next, it was very dark, just light enough to show that instead of a wall on one side, there was a grating of iron which parted off a dismal dungeon, from whence issued the groans of those victims whom the cruel giant reserved in confinement for his own voracious appetite. Poor Jack was half dead with fear, and would have given the world to have been with his mother again, for he now began to doubt if he should ever see her more; he even mistrusted the good woman, and thought she had let him into the house for no other purpose than to lock him up among the unfortunate people in the dungeon. However, she bade Jack sit down, and gave him plenty to eat and drink; and he, not seeing anything to make him uncomfortable, soon forgot his fear, and was just beginning to enjoy himself, when he was startled by a loud knocking at the outer door, which made the whole house shake. "Ah! that's the giant; and if he sees you he will kill you and me too," cried the poor woman, trembling all over. "What shall I do?" "Hide me in the oven," cried Jack, now as bold as a lion at the thought of being face to face with his father's cruel murderer. So he crept into the oven--for there was no fire near it--and listened to the giant's loud voice and heavy step as he went up and down the kitchen scolding his wife. At last he seated himself at the table, and Jack, peeping through a crevice in the oven, was amazed to see what a quantity of food he devoured. It seemed as if he never would have done eating and drinking; but he did at last, and, leaning back, called to his wife in a voice like thunder: "Bring me my hen!" She obeyed, and placed upon the table a very beautiful live hen. "Lay!" roared the giant, and the hen laid immediately an egg of solid gold. "Lay another!" and every time the giant said this the hen laid a larger egg than before. He amused himself a long time with his hen, and then sent his wife to bed, while he fell asleep by the fireside, and snored like the roaring of cannon. As soon as he was asleep Jack crept out of the oven, seized the hen, and ran off with her. He got safely out of the house, and finding his way along the road he had come, reached the top of the bean-stalk, which he descended in safety. His mother was overjoyed to see him. She thought he had come to some ill end. "Not a bit of it, mother. Look here!" and he showed her the hen. "Now lay!" and the hen obeyed him as readily as the giant, and laid as many golden eggs as he desired. These eggs being sold, Jack and his mother got plenty of money, and for some months lived very happily together; till Jack got another great longing to climb the bean-stalk and carry away some more of the giant's riches. He had told his mother of his adventure, but had been very careful not to say a word about his father. He thought of his journey again and again, but still he could not summon resolution enough to break it to his mother, being well assured that she would endeavor to prevent his going. However, one day he told her boldly that he must take another journey up the bean-stalk. She begged and prayed him not to think of it, and tried all in her power to dissuade him. She told him that the giant's wife would certainly know him again, and that the giant would desire nothing better than to get him into his power, that he might put him to a cruel death in order to be revenged for the loss of his hen. Jack, finding that all his arguments were useless, ceased speaking, though resolved to go at all events. He had a dress prepared which would disguise him, and something to color his skin. He thought it impossible for any one to recollect him in this dress. A few mornings after, he rose very early, and, unperceived by any one, climbed the bean-stalk a second time. He was greatly fatigued when he reached the top, and very hungry. Having rested some time on one of the stones, he pursued his journey to the giant's mansion, which he reached late in the evening. The woman was at the door as before. Jack addressed her, at the same time telling her a pitiful tale, and requesting that she would give him some victuals and drink, and also a night's lodging. She told him (what he knew before very well) about her husband's being a powerful and cruel giant, and also that she had one night admitted a poor, hungry, friendless boy; that the little ungrateful fellow had stolen one of the giant's treasures; and ever since that her husband had been worse than before, using her very cruelly, and continually upbraiding her with being the cause of his misfortune. Jack felt sorry for her, but confessed nothing, and did his best to persuade her to admit him, but found it a very hard task. At last she consented, and as she led the way, Jack observed that everything was just as he had found it before. She took him into the kitchen, and after he had done eating and drinking, she hid him in an old lumber-closet. The giant returned at the usual time, and walked in so heavily that the house was shaken to its foundation. He seated himself by the fire, and soon after exclaimed, "Wife, I smell fresh meat!" The wife replied it was the crows, which had brought a piece of raw meat and left it at the top of the house. While supper was preparing, the giant was very ill-tempered and impatient, frequently lifting up his hand to strike his wife for not being quick enough. He was also continually upbraiding her with the loss of his wonderful hen. At last, having ended his supper, he cried, "Give me something to amuse me--my harp or my money-bags." "Which will you have, my dear?" said the wife humbly. "My money-bags, because they are the heaviest to carry," thundered he. She brought them, staggering under the weight; two bags--one filled with new guineas, and the other with new shillings. She emptied them out on the table, and the giant began counting them in great glee. "Now you may go to bed, you old fool." So the wife crept away. Jack from his hiding-place watched the counting of the money, which he knew was his poor father's, and wished it was his own; it would give him much less trouble than going about selling the golden eggs. The giant, little thinking he was so narrowly observed, reckoned it all up, and then replaced it in the two bags, which he tied up very carefully and put beside his chair, with his little dog to guard them. At last he fell asleep as before, and snored so loud that Jack compared his noise to the roaring of the sea in a high wind when the tide is coming in. At last Jack, concluding all secure, stole out, in order to carry off the two bags of money; but just as he laid his hands upon one of them, the little dog, which he had not seen before, started from under the giant's chair and barked most furiously. Instead of endeavoring to escape, Jack stood still, though expecting his enemy to awake every instant. Contrary, however, to his expectation, the giant continued in a sound sleep, and Jack, seeing a piece of meat, threw it to the dog, who at once ceased barking and began to devour it. So Jack carried off the bags, one on each shoulder, but they were so heavy that it took him two whole days to descend the bean-stalk and get back to his mother's door. When he came he found the cottage deserted. He ran from one room to another, without being able to find any one. He then hastened into the village, hoping to see some of the neighbors who could inform him where he could find his mother. An old woman at last directed him to a neighboring house, where she was ill of a fever. He was greatly shocked at finding her apparently dying, and blamed himself bitterly as the cause of it all. However, at sight of her dear son, the poor woman revived, and slowly recovered health. Jack gave her his two money-bags. They had the cottage rebuilt and well furnished, and lived happier than they had ever done before. For three years Jack heard no more of the bean-stalk, but he could not forget it, though he feared making his mother unhappy. It was in vain endeavoring to amuse himself; he became thoughtful, and would arise at the first dawn of day, and sit looking at the bean-stalk for hours together. His mother saw that something preyed upon his mind, and endeavored to discover the cause; but Jack knew too well what the consequence would be should she succeed. He did his utmost, therefore, to conquer the great desire he had for another journey up the bean-stalk. Finding, however, that his inclination grew too powerful for him, he began to make secret preparations for his journey. He got ready a new disguise, better and more complete than the former; and when summer came, on the longest day he woke as soon as it was light, and, without telling his mother, ascended the bean-stalk. He found, the road, journey, etc., much as it was on the two former times. He arrived at the giant's mansion in the evening, and found the wife standing, as usual, at the door. Jack had disguised himself so completely that she did not appear to have the least recollection of him; however, when he pleaded hunger and poverty in order to gain admittance, he found it very difficult indeed to persuade her. At last he prevailed, and was concealed in the copper. When the giant returned, he said furiously, "I smell fresh meat!" But Jack felt quite composed, as he had said so before and had been soon satisfied. However, the giant started up suddenly, and, notwithstanding all his wife could say, he searched all round the room. Whilst this was going forward, Jack was exceedingly terrified, wishing himself at home a thousand times; but when the giant approached the copper, and put his hand on the lid, Jack thought his death was certain. However, nothing happened; for the giant did not take the trouble to lift up the lid, but sat down shortly by the fireside and began to eat his enormous supper. When he had finished, he commanded his wife to fetch down his harp. Jack peeped under the copper lid and saw a most beautiful harp. The giant placed it on the table, said, "Play!" and it played of its own accord, without anybody touching it, the most exquisite music imaginable. Jack, who was a very good musician, was delighted, and more anxious to get this than any other of his enemy's treasures. But the giant not being particularly fond of music, the harp had only the effect of lulling him to sleep earlier than usual. As for the wife, she had gone to bed as soon as ever she could. As soon as he thought all was safe, Jack got out of the copper, and, seizing the harp, was eagerly running off with it. But the harp was enchanted by a fairy, and as soon as it found itself in strange hands, it called out loudly, just as if it had been alive, "Master! Master!" The giant awoke, started up, and saw Jack scampering away as fast as his legs could carry him. "Oh, you villain! It is you who have robbed me of my hen and my money-bags, and now you are stealing my harp also. Wait till I catch you, and I'll eat you up alive!" "Very well; try!" shouted Jack, who was not a bit afraid, for he saw the giant was so tipsy he could hardly stand, much less run; and he himself had young legs and a clear conscience, which carry a man a long way. So, after leading the giant a considerable race, he contrived to be first at the top of the bean-stalk, and then scrambled down it as fast as he could, the harp playing all the while the most melancholy music, till he said, "Stop"; and it stopped. Arrived at the bottom, he found his mother sitting at her cottage door, weeping silently. "Here, mother, don't cry; just give me a hatchet; make haste." For he knew there was not a moment to spare. He saw the giant beginning to descend the bean-stalk. However, it was too late--the monster's ill deeds had come to an end. Jack with his hatchet cut the bean-stalk close off at the root; the giant fell headlong into the garden, and was killed on the spot. Instantly the fairy appeared and explained everything to Jack's mother, begging her to forgive Jack, who was his father's own son for bravery and generosity, and who would be sure to make her happy for the rest of her days. So all ended well, and nothing was ever more heard or seen of the wonderful bean-stalk. 158 Those wonder stories that concern themselves with giants or with very little people have always been favorites with children. Of the little heroes Tom Thumb has always held the center of the stage. His adventures in one form or another are in the folk tales of most European countries. He has the honor of being the subject of a monograph by the great French scholar Gaston Paris. Hans Christian Andersen turned him into a delightful little girl in his derivative story of "Thumbelina." The English version of "Tom Thumb" seems to have been printed first in ballad form in the seventeenth century, and later in many chapbook versions in prose. Its plot takes the form of a succession of marvelous accidents by land and sea, limited only by the inventive ingenuity of the story-teller. "According to popular tradition Tom Thumb died at Lincoln. . . . There was a little blue flagstone in the pavement of the Minster which was shown as Tom Thumb's monument, and the country folks never failed to marvel at it when they came to church on the Assize Sunday; but during some of the modern repairs which have been inflicted on that venerable building, the flagstone was displaced and lost, to the great discomfiture of the holiday visitants." Thus wrote an ancient and learned scholar in illustration of the tendency to give a local habitation and a name to our favorite fancies. The version of the story given by Miss Mulock in her _Fairy Book_ is the one used here. It follows closely the rambling events of the various chapbook and ballad versions. TOM THUMB In the days of King Arthur, Merlin, the most learned enchanter of his time, was on a journey; and being very weary, stopped one day at the cottage of an honest ploughman to ask for refreshment. The ploughman's wife with great civility immediately brought him some milk in a wooden bowl and some brown bread on a wooden platter. Merlin could not help observing that although everything within the cottage was particularly neat and clean and in good order, the ploughman and his wife had the most sorrowful air imaginable; so he questioned them on the cause of their melancholy and learned that they were very miserable because they had no children. The poor woman declared with tears in her eyes that she should be the happiest creature in the world if she had a son, although he were no bigger than his father's thumb. Merlin was much amused with the notion of a boy no bigger than a man's thumb, and as soon as he returned home he sent for the queen of the fairies (with whom he was very intimate) and related to her the desire of the ploughman and his wife to have a son the size of his father's thumb. She liked the plan exceedingly and declared their wish should be speedily granted. Accordingly the ploughman's wife had a son, who in a few minutes grew as tall as his father's thumb. The queen of the fairies came in at the window as the mother was sitting up in bed admiring the child. Her majesty kissed the infant and, giving it the name of Tom Thumb, immediately summoned several fairies from Fairyland to clothe her new little favorite. "An oak-leaf hat he had for his crown; His shirt it was by spiders spun; With doublet wove of thistledown, His trousers up with points were done; His stockings, of apple-rind, they tie With eye-lash plucked from his mother's eye, His shoes were made of a mouse's skin, Nicely tann'd with hair within." Tom was never any bigger than his father's thumb, which was not a large thumb either; but as he grew older he became very cunning, for which his mother did not sufficiently correct him, and by this ill quality he was often brought into difficulties. For instance, when he had learned to play with other boys for cherry-stones and had lost all his own, he used to creep into the boys' bags, fill his pockets, and come out again to play. But one day as he was getting out of a bag of cherry-stones, the boy to whom it belonged chanced to see him. "Ah, ha, my little Tom Thumb!" said he, "have I caught you at your bad tricks at last? Now I will reward you for thieving." Then he drew the string tight around Tom's neck and shook the bag. The cherry-stones bruised Tom Thumb's legs, thighs, and body sadly, which made him beg to be let out and promise never to be guilty of such things any more. Shortly afterwards Tom's mother was making a batter-pudding, and that he might see how she mixed it, he climbed on the edge of the bowl; but his foot happening to slip, he fell over head and ears into the batter. His mother not observing him, stirred him into the pudding and popped him into the pot to boil. The hot water made Tom kick and struggle; and the mother, seeing the pudding jump up and down in such a furious manner, thought it was bewitched; and a tinker coming by just at the time, she quickly gave him the pudding. He put it into his budget and walked on. As soon as Tom could get the batter out of his mouth he began to cry aloud, and so frightened the poor tinker that he flung the pudding over the hedge and ran away from it as fast as he could. The pudding being broken to pieces by the fall, Tom was released, and walked home to his mother, who gave him a kiss and put him to bed. Tom Thumb's mother once took him with her when she went to milk the cow; and it being a very windy day, she tied him with a needleful of thread to a thistle, that he might not be blown away. The cow, liking his oak-leaf hat, took him and the thistle up at one mouthful. While the cow chewed the thistle, Tom, terrified at her great teeth, which seemed ready to crush him to pieces, roared, "Mother, mother!" as loud as he could bawl. "Where are you, Tommy, my dear Tommy?" said the mother. "Here, mother, here in the red cow's mouth." The mother began to cry and wring her hands; but the cow, surprised at such odd noises in her throat, opened her mouth and let him drop out. His mother clapped him into her apron and ran home with him. Tom's father made him a whip of a barley straw to drive the cattle with, and one day when he was in the field he slipped into a deep furrow. A raven flying over picked him up with a grain of corn and flew with him to the top of a giant's castle by the seaside, where he left him; and old Grumbo, the giant, coming soon after to walk upon his terrace, swallowed Tom like a pill, clothes and all. Tom presently made the giant very uncomfortable, and he threw him up into the sea. A great fish then swallowed him. The fish was soon after caught, and sent as a present to King Arthur. When it was cut open, everybody was delighted with little Tom Thumb. The king made him his dwarf; he was the favorite of the whole court, and by his merry pranks often amused the queen and the knights of the Round Table. The king, when he rode on horse-back, frequently took Tom in his hand; and if a shower of rain came on, he used to creep into the king's waist-coat pocket and sleep till the rain was over. The king also sometimes questioned Tom concerning his parents; and when Tom informed his majesty they were very poor people, the king led him into his treasury and told him he should pay his friends a visit and take with him as much money as he could carry. Tom procured a little purse, and putting a threepenny piece into it, with much labor and difficulty got it upon his back; and, after travelling two days and nights, arrived at his father's house. When his mother met him at the door, he was almost tired to death, having in forty-eight hours traveled almost half a mile with a huge silver threepence upon his back. Both his parents were glad to see him, especially when he had brought such an amazing sum of money with him. They placed him in a walnut-shell by the fireside and feasted him for three days upon a hazel-nut, which made him sick, for a whole nut usually served him for a month. Tom got well, but could not travel because it had rained; therefore his mother took him in her hand, and with one puff blew him into King Arthur's court, where Tom entertained the king, queen, and nobility at tilts and tournaments, at which he exerted himself so much that he brought on a fit of sickness, and his life was despaired of. At this juncture the queen of the fairies came in a chariot, drawn by flying mice, placed Tom by her side, and drove through the air without stopping till they arrived at her palace. After restoring him to health and permitting him to enjoy all the gay diversions of Fairyland, she commanded a fair wind, and, placing Tom before it, blew him straight to the court of King Arthur. But just as Tom should have alighted in the courtyard of the palace, the cook happened to pass along with the king's great bowl of furmenty (King Arthur loved furmenty), and poor Tom Thumb fell plump into the middle of it and splashed the hot furmenty into the cook's eyes. Down went the bowl. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" cried Tom. "Murder! murder!" bellowed the cook; and away poured the king's nice furmenty into the kennel. The cook was a red-faced, cross fellow, and swore to the king that Tom had done it out of mere mischief; so he was taken up, tried, and sentenced to be beheaded. Tom hearing this dreadful sentence and seeing a miller stand by with his mouth wide open, he took a good spring and jumped down the miller's throat, unperceived by all, even the miller himself. Tom being lost, the court broke up, and away went the miller to his mill. But Tom did not leave him long at rest; he began to roll and tumble about, so that the miller thought himself bewitched and sent for a doctor. When the doctor came, Tom began to dance and sing. The doctor was as much frightened as the miller and sent in great haste for five more doctors and twenty learned men. While all these were debating upon the affair, the miller (for they were very tedious) happened to yawn, and Tom, taking the opportunity, made another jump and alighted on his feet in the middle of the table. The miller, provoked to be thus tormented by such a little creature, fell into a great passion, caught hold of Tom, and threw him out of the window into the river. A large salmon swimming by snapped him up in a minute. The salmon was soon caught and sold in the market to a steward of a lord. The lord, thinking it an uncommonly fine fish, made a present of it to the king, who ordered it to be dressed immediately. When the cook cut open the salmon he found poor Tom and ran with him directly to the king; but the king, being busy with state affairs, desired that he might be brought another day. The cook, resolving to keep him safely this time, as he had so lately given him the slip, clapped him into a mouse-trap and left him to amuse himself by peeping through the wires for a whole week. When the king sent for him, he forgave him for throwing down the furmenty, ordered him new clothes, and knighted him. "His shirt was made of butterflies' wings; His boots were made of chicken skins, His coat and breeches were made with pride, A tailor's needle hung by his side; A mouse for a horse he used to ride." Thus dressed and mounted, he rode a-hunting with the king and nobility, who all laughed heartily at Tom and his prancing steed. As they rode by a farm-house one day, a cat jumped from behind the door, seized the mouse and little Tom, and began to devour the mouse; however, Tom boldly drew his sword and attacked the cat, who then let him fall. The king and his nobles, seeing Tom falling, went to his assistance, and one of the lords caught him in his hat; but poor Tom was sadly scratched, and his clothes were torn by the claws of the cat. In this condition he was carried home, and a bed of down was made for him in a little ivory cabinet. The queen of the fairies came and took him again to Fairyland, where she kept him for some years; and then, dressing him in bright green, sent him flying once more through the air to the earth, in the days of King Thunstone. The people flocked far and near to look at him; and the king, before whom he was carried, asked him who he was, whence he came, and where he lived? Tom answered: "My name is Tom Thumb; From the fairies I come; When King Arthur shone, This court was my home; In me he delighted; By him I was knighted. Did you ever hear of Sir Thomas Thumb?" The king was so charmed with this address that he ordered a little chair to be made, in order that Tom might sit on his table, and also a palace of gold a span high with a door an inch wide, for little Tom to live in. He also gave him a coach drawn by six small mice. This made the queen angry, because she had not a new coach too; therefore, resolving to ruin Tom, she complained to the king that he had behaved very insolently to her. The king sent for him in a rage. Tom, to escape his fury, crept into an empty snail-shell and there lay till he was almost starved; then, peeping out of the hole, he saw a fine butterfly settle on the ground. He then ventured out, and getting astride, the butterfly took wing and mounted into the air with little Tom on his back. Away he flew from field to field, from tree to tree, till at last he flew to the king's court. The king, queen, and nobles all strove to catch the butterfly, but could not. At length poor Tom, having neither bridle nor saddle, slipped from his seat and fell into a watering-pot, where he was found almost drowned. The queen vowed he should be guillotined; but while the guillotine was getting ready, he was secured once more in a mousetrap. The cat, seeing something stir and supposing it to be a mouse, patted the trap about till she broke it and set Tom at liberty. Soon afterwards a spider, taking him for a fly, made at him. Tom drew his sword and fought valiantly, but the spider's poisonous breath overcame him: "He fell dead on the ground where late he had stood, And the spider suck'd up the last drop of his blood." King Thunstone and his whole court went into mourning for little Tom Thumb. They buried him under a rosebush and raised a nice white marble monument over his grave, with the following epitaph: "Here lies Tom Thumb, King Arthur's knight, Who died by a spider's cruel bite. He was well known in Arthur's court, Where he afforded gallant sport; He rode at tilt and tournament, And on a mouse a-hunting went. Alive he fill'd the court with mirth, His death to sorrow soon gave birth. Wipe, wipe your eyes, and shake your head, And cry, 'Alas! Tom Thumb is dead.'" 159 This chapbook form of the famous "Whittington and His Cat" is the one reprinted by Hartland in his _English Fairy and Folk Tales_. It goes back to the early eighteenth century. Sir Richard Whittington, at least, was a historical character and served his first term as Lord Mayor of London in 1397. Like most popular stories, this one of a fortune due to a cat is common to all Europe. Mr. Clouston, in the second volume of his _Popular Tales and Fictions_, outlines a number of these stories, and even points out a Persian parallel of an earlier date than the birth of Sir Richard. Just how this very prosperous business man of London, who was never in reality a poor boy, came to be adopted as the hero of the English version of this romantic tale has never been made clear. Probably it was due to the common tendency of the folk in all lands to attribute unusual success in any field to other than ordinary causes. However that may be, it is certainly true that no story more completely satisfies the ideal of complete success for children than this "History of Sir Richard Whittington." Mr. Jacobs calls attention to the interesting fact that the chapbook places the introduction of the potato into England rather far back! WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT In the reign of the famous King Edward III, there was a little boy called Dick Whittington, whose father and mother died when he was very young, so that he remembered nothing at all about them and was left a ragged little fellow, running about a country village. As poor Dick was not old enough to work, he was very badly off; he got but little for his dinner and sometimes nothing at all for his breakfast, for the people who lived in the village were very poor indeed and could not spare him much more than the parings of potatoes and now and then a hard crust of bread. For all this, Dick Whittington was a very sharp boy and was always listening to what everybody talked about. On Sunday he was sure to get near the farmers as they sat talking on the tombstones in the churchyard before the parson was come; and once a week you might see little Dick leaning against the sign post of the village alehouse, where people stopped to drink as they came from the next market town; and when the barber's shop door was open, Dick listened to all the news that his customers told one another. In this manner Dick heard a great many very strange things about the city called London; for the foolish country people at that time thought that folks in London were all fine gentlemen and ladies, and that there was singing and music there all day long, and that the streets were all paved with gold. One day a large wagon and eight horses, all with bells at their heads, drove through the village while Dick was standing by the signpost. He thought that this wagon must be going to the fine town of London; so he took courage and asked the wagoner to let him walk with him by the side of the wagon. As soon as the wagoner heard that poor Dick had no father or mother and saw by his ragged clothes that he could not be worse off than he was, he told him he might go if he would, so they set off together. I could never find out how little Dick contrived to get meat and drink on the road, nor how he could walk so far, for it was a long way, nor what he did at night for a place to lie down to sleep in. Perhaps some good-natured people in the towns that he passed through, when they saw he was a poor little ragged boy, gave him something to eat; and perhaps the wagoner let him get into the wagon at night and take a nap upon one of the boxes or large parcels in the wagon. Dick, however, got safe to London and was in such a hurry to see the fine streets paved all over with gold that I am afraid he did not even stay to thank the kind wagoner, but ran off as fast as his legs would carry him through many of the streets, thinking every moment to come to those that were paved with gold, for Dick had seen a guinea three times in his own little village and remembered what a deal of money it brought in change; so he thought he had nothing to do but to take up some little bits of the pavement and should then have as much money as he could wish for. Poor Dick ran till he was tired and had quite forgotten his friend the wagoner; but at last, finding it grow dark and that every way he turned he saw nothing but dirt instead of gold, he sat down in a dark corner and cried himself to sleep. Little Dick was all night in the streets; and next morning, being very hungry, he got up and walked about and asked everybody he met to give him a halfpenny to keep him from starving. But nobody stayed to answer him, and only two or three gave him a halfpenny; so that the poor boy was soon quite weak and faint for the want of victuals. At last a good-natured looking gentleman saw how hungry he looked. "Why don't you go to work, my lad?" said he to Dick. "That I would, but I do not know how to get any," answered Dick. "If you are willing, come along with me," said the gentleman, and took him to a hay-field, where Dick worked briskly and lived merrily till the hay was made. After this he found himself as badly off as before; and being almost starved again, he laid himself down at the door of Mr. Fitzwarren, a rich merchant. Here he was soon seen by the cook-maid, who was an ill-tempered creature and happened just then to be very busy dressing dinner for her master and mistress; so she called out to poor Dick: "What business have you there, you lazy rogue? There is nothing else but beggars. If you do not take yourself away, we will see how you will like a sousing of some dish water; I have some here hot enough to make you jump." Just at that time Mr. Fitzwarren himself came home to dinner; and when he saw a dirty ragged boy lying at the door, he said to him: "Why do you lie there, my boy? You seem old enough to work. I am afraid you are inclined to be lazy." "No, indeed, sir," said Dick to him, "that is not the case, for I would work with all my heart, but I do not know anybody, and I believe I am very sick for the want of food." "Poor fellow, get up; let me see what ails you." Dick then tried to rise, but was obliged to lie down again, being too weak to stand, for he had not eaten any food for three days and was no longer able to run about and beg a halfpenny of people in the street. So the kind merchant ordered him to be taken into the house, and have a good dinner given him, and be kept to do what dirty work he was able for the cook. Little Dick would have lived very happy in this good family if it had not been for the ill-natured cook, who was finding fault and scolding him from morning to night, and besides she was so fond of basting that when she had no meat to baste she would baste poor Dick's head and shoulders with a broom or anything else that happened to fall in her way. At last her ill-usage of him was told to Alice, Mr. Fitzwarren's daughter, who told the cook she should be turned away if she did not treat him kinder. The ill-humor of the cook was now a little amended; but besides this Dick had another hardship to get over. His bed stood in a garret where there were so many holes in the floor and the walls that every night he was tormented with rats and mice. A gentleman having given Dick a penny for cleaning his shoes, he thought he would buy a cat with it. The next day he saw a girl with a cat and asked her if she would let him have it for a penny. The girl said she would and at the same time told him the cat was an excellent mouser. Dick hid his cat in the garret and always took care to carry a part of his dinner to her, and in a short time he had no more trouble with the rats and mice, but slept quite sound every night. Soon after this his master had a ship ready to sail; and as he thought it right that all his servants should have some chance for good fortune as well as himself, he called them all into the parlor and asked them what they would send out. They all had something that they were willing to venture except poor Dick, who had neither money nor goods, and therefore could send nothing. For this reason he did not come into the parlor with the rest; but Miss Alice guessed what was the matter and ordered him to be called in. She then said she would lay down some money for him from her own purse; but the father told her this would not do, for it must be something of his own. When poor Dick heard this, he said he had nothing but a cat which he bought for a penny some time since of a little girl. "Fetch your cat then, my good boy," said Mr. Fitzwarren, "and let her go." Dick went up stairs and brought down poor puss, with tears in his eyes, and gave her to the captain, for he said he should now be kept awake again all night by the rats and mice. All the company laughed at Dick's odd venture; and Miss Alice, who felt pity for the poor boy, gave him some money to buy another cat. This and many other marks of kindness shown him by Miss Alice made the ill-tempered cook jealous of poor Dick, and she began to use him more cruelly than ever and always made game of him for sending his cat to sea. She asked him if he thought his cat would sell for as much money as would buy a stick to beat him. At last poor Dick could not bear this usage any longer, and he thought he would run away from his place; so he packed up his few things and started very early in the morning on All-hallows Day, which is the first of November. He walked as far as Holloway, and there sat down on a stone, which to this day is called Whittington's stone, and began to think to himself which road he should take as he proceeded. While he was thinking what he should do, the Bells of Bow Church, which at that time had only six, began to ring, and he fancied their sound seemed to say to him: "Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London." "Lord Mayor of London!" said he to himself. "Why, to be sure, I would put up with almost anything now to be Lord Mayor of London and ride in a fine coach when I grow to be a man! Well, I will go back and think nothing of the cuffing and scolding of the old cook if I am to be Lord Mayor of London at last." Dick went back and was lucky enough to get into the house and set about his work before the old cook came downstairs. The ship, with the cat on board, was a long time at sea, and was at last driven by the winds on a part of the coast of Barbary where the only people were the Moors, whom the English had never known before. The people then came in great numbers to see the sailors, who were of different color from themselves, and treated them very civilly, and when they became better acquainted were very eager to buy the fine things that the ship was loaded with. When the captain saw this, he sent patterns of the best things he had to the king of the country, who was so much pleased with them that he sent for the captain to the palace. Here they were placed, as it is the custom of the country, on rich carpets marked with gold and silver flowers. The king and queen were seated at the upper end of the room, and a number of dishes were brought in for dinner. When they had sat but a short time, a vast number of rats and mice rushed in, helping themselves from almost every dish. The captain wondered at this and asked if these vermin were not very unpleasant. "Oh, yes," said they, "very offensive; and the king would give half his treasure to be freed of them, for they not only destroy his dinner, as you see, but they assault him in his chamber and even in bed, so that he is obliged to be watched while he is sleeping for fear of them." The captain jumped for joy; he remembered poor Whittington and his cat and told the king he had a creature on board the ship that would dispatch all these vermin immediately. The king's heart heaved so high at the joy which this news gave him that his turban dropped off his head. "Bring this creature to me," says he; "vermin are dreadful in a court, and if she will perform what you say, I will load your ship with gold and jewels in exchange for her." The captain, who knew his business, took this opportunity to set forth the merits of Mrs. Puss. He told his majesty that it would be inconvenient to part with her, as, when she was gone, the rats and mice might destroy the goods in the ship--but to oblige his majesty he would fetch her. "Run, run!" said the queen; "I am impatient to see the dear creature." Away went the captain to the ship, while another dinner was got ready. He put puss under his arm and arrived at the palace soon enough to see the table full of rats. When the cat saw them, she did not wait for bidding, but jumped out of the captain's arms and in a few minutes laid almost all the rats and mice dead at her feet. The rest of them in their fright scampered away to their holes. The king and queen were quite charmed to get so easily rid of such plagues and desired that the creature who had done them so great a kindness might be brought to them for inspection. The captain called, "Pussy, pussy, pussy!" and she came to him. He then presented her to the queen, who started back and was afraid to touch a creature who had made such a havoc among the rats and mice. However, when the captain stroked the cat and called, "Pussy, pussy," the queen also touched her and cried, "Putty, putty," for she had not learned English. He then put her down on the queen's lap; where she, purring, played with her majesty's hand and then sang herself to sleep. The king, having seen the exploits of Mrs. Puss and being informed that she was with young and would stock the whole country, bargained with the captain for the whole ship's cargo and then gave him ten times as much for the cat as all the rest amounted to. The captain then took leave of the royal party and set sail with a fair wind for England, and after a happy voyage arrived safe in London. One morning when Mr. Fitzwarren had just come to his counting-house and seated himself at the desk, somebody came tap, tap, at the door. "Who's there?" says Mr. Fitzwarren. "A friend," answered the other; "I come to bring you good news of your ship _Unicorn_." The merchant, bustling up instantly, opened the door, and who should be seen waiting but the captain with a cabinet of jewels and a bill of lading, for which the merchant lifted up his eyes and thanked heaven for sending him such a prosperous voyage. They then told the story of the cat and showed the rich present that the king and queen had sent for her to poor Dick. As soon as the merchant heard this, he called out to his servants: "Go fetch him--we will tell him of the same; Pray call him Mr. Whittington by name." Mr. Fitzwarren now showed himself to be a good man; for when some of his servants said so great a treasure was too much for him, he answered, "God forbid I should deprive him of the value of a single penny." He then sent for Dick, who at that time was scouring pots for the cook and was quite dirty. Mr. Fitzwarren ordered a chair to be set for him, and so he began to think they were making game of him, at the same time begging them not to play tricks with a poor simple boy, but to let him go down again, if they pleased, to his work. "Indeed, Mr. Whittington," said the merchant, "we are all quite in earnest with you, and I most heartily rejoice in the news these gentlemen have brought you, for the captain has sold your cat to the King of Barbary and brought you in return for her more riches than I possess in the whole world; and I wish you may long enjoy them!" Mr. Fitzwarren then told the men to open the great treasure they had brought with them, and said, "Mr. Whittington has nothing to do but to put it in some place of safety." Poor Dick hardly knew how to behave himself for joy. He begged his master to take what part of it he pleased, since he owed it all to his kindness. "No, no," answered Mr. Fitzwarren, "this is all your own, and I have no doubt but you will use it well." Dick next asked his mistress, and then Miss Alice, to accept a part of his good fortune; but they would not, and at the same time told him they felt great joy at his good success. But this poor fellow was too kind-hearted to keep it all to himself; so he made a present to the captain, the mate, and the rest of Mr. Fitzwarren's servants, and even to the ill-natured old cook. After this Mr. Fitzwarren advised him to send for a proper tradesman and get himself dressed like a gentleman, and told him he was welcome to live in his house till he could provide himself with a better. When Whittington's face was washed, his hair curled, and his hat cocked, and he was dressed in a nice suit of clothes, he was as handsome and genteel as any young man who visited at Mr. Fitzwarren's; so that Miss Alice, who had once been so kind to him and thought of him with pity, now looked upon him as fit to be her sweetheart; and the more so, no doubt, because Whittington was now always thinking what he could do to oblige her and making her the prettiest presents that could be. Mr. Fitzwarren soon saw their love for each other and proposed to join them in marriage, and to this they both readily agreed. A day for the wedding was soon fixed; and they were attended to church by the Lord Mayor, the court of aldermen, the sheriffs, and a great number of the richest merchants in London, whom they afterwards treated with a very rich feast. History tells us that Mr. Whittington and his lady lived in great splendor and were very happy. They had several children. He was Sheriff of London, also Mayor, and received the honor of knighthood by Henry V. The figure of Sir Richard Whittington with his cat in his arms, carved in stone, was to be seen till the year 1780 over the archway of the old prison of Newgate that stood across Newgate Street. 160 The next story came from Suffolk, England, and the original is in the pronounced dialect of that county. Mr. Jacobs thinks it one of the best folk tales ever collected. The version given follows Jacobs in reducing the dialect. There is enough left, however, to raise the question of the use of dialect in stories for children. Some modern versions eliminate the dialect altogether. It is certain that the retention of some of the qualities of the folk-telling makes it more dramatically effective and appropriate. The original form of the story may be seen in Hartland's _English Fairy and Folk Tales_. Teachers should feel free to use their judgment as to the best form in which to tell a story to children. Name-guessing stories are very common, and may be "a 'survival' of the superstition that to know a man's name gives you power over him, for which reason savages object to tell their names." The Grimm story of "Rumpelstiltskin" is the best known of many variants (No. 178). "Tom Tit Tot" has a rude vigor and dramatic force not in the continental versions, and it will be interesting to compare it with the Grimm tale. Jacobs suggests that "it may be necessary to explain to the little ones that Tom Tit can be referred to only as 'that,' because his name is not known until the end." TOM TIT TOT Once upon a time there was a woman, and she baked five pies. And when they came out of the oven, they were that over-baked the crusts were too hard to eat. So she says to her daughter: "Darter," says she, "put you them there pies on the shelf, and leave 'em there a little, and they'll come again."--She meant, you know, the crust would get soft. But the girl, she says to herself, "Well, if they'll come again, I'll eat 'em now." And she set to work and ate 'em all, first and last. Well, come supper-time the woman said, "Go you and get one o' them there pies. I dare say they've come again now." The girl went and she looked, and there was nothing but the dishes. So back she came and says she, "Noo, they ain't come again." "Not one of 'em?" says the mother. "Not one of 'em," says she. "Well, come again or not come again," said the woman, "I'll have one for supper." "But you can't if they ain't come," said the girl. "But I can," says she. "Go you and bring the best of 'em." "Best or worst," says the girl, "I've ate 'em all, and you can't have one till that's come again." Well, the woman she was done, and she took her spinning to the door to spin, and as she span she sang: "My darter ha' ate five, five pies to-day. My darter ha' ate five, five pies to-day." The king was coming down the street, and he heard her sing, but what she sang he couldn't hear, so he stopped and said, "What was that you were singing, my good woman?" The woman was ashamed to let him hear what her daughter had been doing, so she sang, instead of that: "My darter ha' spun five, five skeins to-day. My darter ha' spun five, five skeins to-day." "Stars o' mine!" said the king, "I never heard tell of any one that could do that." Then he said, "Look you here, I want a wife, and I'll marry your daughter. But look you here," says he, "eleven months out of the year she shall have all she likes to eat, and all the gowns she likes to get, and all the company she likes to keep; but the last month of the year she'll have to spin five skeins every day, and if she don't I shall kill her." "All right," says the woman; for she thought what a grand marriage that was. And as for the five skeins, when the time came, there'd be plenty of ways of getting out of it, and likeliest, he'd have forgotten all about it. Well, so they were married. And for eleven months the girl had all she liked to eat and all the gowns she liked to get and all the company she liked to keep. But when the time was getting over, she began to think about the skeins and to wonder if he had 'em in mind. But not one word did he say about 'em, and she thought he'd wholly forgotten 'em. However, the first day of the last month he takes her to a room she'd never set eyes on before. There was nothing in it but a spinning-wheel and a stool. And says he, "Now, my dear, here you'll be shut in to-morrow with some victuals and some flax, and if you haven't spun five skeins by the night, your head'll go off." And away he went about his business. Well, she was that frightened, she'd always been such a gatless girl, that she didn't so much as know how to spin, and what was she to do to-morrow with no one to come nigh her to help her? She sat down on a stool in the kitchen, and law! how she did cry! However, all of a sudden she heard a sort of a knocking low down on the door. She upped and oped it, and what should she see but a small little black thing with a long tail. That looked up at her right curious, and that said, "What are you a-crying for?" "What's that to you?" says she. "Never you mind," that said, "but tell me what you're a-crying for." "That won't do me no good if I do," says she. "You don't know that," that said, and twirled that's tail round. "Well," says she, "that won't do no harm, if that don't do no good," and she upped and told about the pies and the skeins and everything. "This is what I'll do," says the little black thing, "I'll come to your window every morning and take the flax and bring it spun at night." "What's your pay?" says she. That looked out of the corner of that's eyes, and that said, "I'll give you three guesses every night to guess my name, and if you haven't guessed it before the month's up you shalt be mine." Well, she thought she'd be sure to guess that's name before the month was up. "All right," says she, "I agree." "All right," that says, and law! how that twirled that's tail. Well, the next day her husband took her into the room, and there was the flax and the day's food. "Now, there's the flax," says he, "and if that ain't spun up this night, off goes your head." And then he went out and locked the door. He'd hardly gone when there was a knocking against the window. She upped and she oped it, and there sure enough was the little old thing sitting on the ledge. "Where's the flax?" says he. "Here it be," says she. And she gave it to him. Well, come the evening a knocking came again to the window. She upped and she oped it, and there was the little old thing with five skeins of flax on his arm. "Here it be," says he, and he gave it to her. "Now, what's my name?" says he. "What, is that Bill?" says she. "Noo, that ain't," says he, and he twirled his tail. "Is that Ned?" says she. "Noo, that ain't," says he, and he twirled his tail. "Well, is that Mark?" says she. "Noo, that ain't," says he, and he twirled his tail harder, and away he flew. Well, when her husband came in, there were the five skeins ready for him. "I see I shan't have to kill you to-night, my dear," says he; "you'll have your food and your flax in the morning," says he, and away he goes. Well, every day the flax and the food were brought, and every day that there little black impet used to come mornings and evenings. And all the day the girl sat trying to think of names to say to it when it came at night. But she never hit on the right one. And as it got towards the end of the month, the impet began to look so maliceful, and that twirled that's tail faster and faster each time she gave a guess. At last it came to the last day but one. The impet came at night along with the five skeins, and that said, "What, ain't you got my name yet?" "Is that Nicodemus?" says she. "Noo, 't ain't," that says. "Is that Sammle?" says she. "Noo, 't ain't," that says. "A-well, is that Methusalem?" says she. "Noo, 't ain't that neither," that says. Then that looks at her with that's eyes like a coal o' fire, and that says, "Woman, there's only to-morrow night, and then you'll be mine!" And away it flew. Well, she felt that horrid. However she heard the king coming along the passage. In he came, and when he sees the five skeins, says he, "Well, my dear, I don't see but what you'll have your skeins ready to-morrow night as well and as I reckon I shan't have to kill you, I'll have supper in here to-night." So they brought supper and another stool for him, and down the two sat. Well, he hadn't eaten but a mouthful or so, when he stops and begins to laugh. "What is it?" says she. "A-why," says he, "I was out a-hunting to-day, and I got away to a place in the wood I'd never seen before. And there was an old chalk-pit. And I heard a kind of a sort of humming. So I got off my hobby, and I went right quiet to the pit, and I looked down. Well, what should there be but the funniest little black thing you ever set eyes on. And what was that doing, but that had a little spinning-wheel, and that was spinning wonderful fast, and twirling that's tail. And as that span that sang: "Nimmy nimmy not My name's Tom Tit Tot." Well, when the girl heard this, she felt as if she could have jumped out of her skin for joy, but she didn't say a word. Next day that there little thing looked so maliceful when he came for the flax. And when night came she heard that knocking against the window panes. She oped the window, and that come right in on the ledge. That was grinning from ear to ear, and Oo! that's tail was twirling round so fast. "What's my name?" that says, as that gave her the skeins. "Is that Solomon?" she says, pretending to be afeard. "Noo, 't ain't," that says, and that came further into the room. "Well, is that Zebedee?" says she again. "Noo, 't ain't," says the impet. And then that laughed and twirled that's tail till you couldn't hardly see it. "Take time, woman," that says; "next guess, and you're mine." And that stretched out that's black hands at her. Well, she backed a step or two, and she looked at it, and then she laughed out and says she, pointing her finger at it: "Nimmy nimmy not Your name's Tom Tit Tot." Well, when that heard her, that gave an awful shriek and away that flew into the dark, and she never saw it any more. 161 In 1697 the French author Charles Perrault (1628-1703) published a little collection of eight tales in prose familiarly known as _The Tales of Mother Goose_ (_Contes de Ma Mere l'Oye_). These tales were "The Fairies" ("Toads and Diamonds"), "The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood," "Bluebeard," "Little Red Riding Hood," "Puss-in-Boots," "Cinderella," "Rique with the Tuft," and "Little Thumb." Perrault was prominent as a scholar and may have felt it beneath his dignity to write nursery tales. At any rate he declared the stories were copied from tellings by his eleven-year-old son. But Perrault's fairies have not only saved him from oblivion: in countless editions and translations they have won him immortality. The charming literary form of his versions, "Englished by R. S., Gent," about 1730, soon established them in place of the more somber English popular versions. It is practically certain that the name Mother Goose, as that of the genial old lady who presides over the light literature of the nursery, was established by the work of Perrault. "Little Red Riding Hood," a likely candidate for first place in the affections of childish story-lovers, is here given in its "correct" form. Many versions are so constructed as to have happy endings, either by having the woodmen appear in the nick of time to kill the wolf before any damage is done, or by having the grandmother and Little Red Riding Hood restored to life after recovering them from the "innards" of the wolf. Andrew Lang thinks that the tale as it stands is merely meant to waken a child's terror and pity, after the fashion of the old Greek tragedies, and that the narrator properly ends it by making a pounce, in the character of wolf, at the little listener. That this was the correct "business" in Scotch nurseries is borne out by a sentence in Chambers' _Popular Rhymes of Scotland_: "The old nurse's imitation of the _gnash, gnash_, which she played off upon the youngest urchin lying in her lap, was electric." LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD Once upon a time there lived in a certain village a little country girl, the prettiest creature that was ever seen. Her mother was excessively fond of her; and her grandmother doted on her still more. This good woman got made for her a little red riding-hood, which became the girl so extremely well that everybody called her Little Red Riding-Hood. One day her mother, having made some custards, said to her, "Go, my dear, and see how thy grandmamma does, for I hear that she has been very ill; carry her a custard and this little pot of butter." Little Red Riding-Hood set out immediately to go to her grandmother, who lived in another village. As she was going through the wood, she met with Gaffer Wolf, who had a very great mind to eat her up, but he durst not because of some fagot-makers hard by in the forest. He asked her whither she was going. The poor child, who did not know that it was dangerous to stay and hear a wolf talk, said to him, "I am going to see my grandmamma and carry her a custard and a little pot of butter from my mamma." "Does she live far off?" said the wolf. "Oh! aye," answered Little Red Riding-Hood, "it is beyond the mill you see there at the first house in the village." "Well," said the wolf, "and I'll go and see her too. I'll go this way and you go that, and we shall see who will be there soonest." The wolf began to run as fast as he could, taking the nearest way, and the little girl went by that farthest about, diverting herself by gathering nuts, running after butterflies, and making nosegays of such little flowers as she met with. The wolf was not long before he got to the old woman's house. He knocked at the door--tap, tap. "Who's there?" "Your grandchild, Little Red Riding-Hood," replied the wolf, counterfeiting her voice, "who has brought you a custard and a pot of butter sent you by mamma." The good grandmother, who was in bed because she was somewhat ill, cried out, "Pull the bobbin and the latch will go up." The wolf pulled the bobbin and the door opened, and then presently he fell upon the good woman and ate her up in a moment, for it was above three days that he had not touched a bit. He then shut the door and went into the grandmother's bed, expecting Little Red Riding-Hood, who came some time afterward and knocked at the door--tap, tap. "Who's there?" Little Red Riding-Hood, hearing the big voice of the wolf, was at first afraid, but believing her grandmother had got a cold and was hoarse, answered, "'Tis your grandchild, Little Red Riding-Hood, who has brought you a custard and a little pot of butter mamma sends you." The wolf cried out to her, softening his voice as much as he could, "Pull the bobbin and the latch will go up." Little Red Riding-Hood pulled the bobbin and the door opened. The wolf, seeing her come in, said to her, hiding himself under the bedclothes, "Put the custard and the little pot of butter upon the stool and come and lie down with me." Little Red Riding-Hood undressed herself and went into bed, where, being greatly amazed to see how her grandmother looked in her night-clothes, she said to her, "Grandmamma, what great arms you have got!" "That is the better to hug thee, my dear." "Grandmamma, what great legs you have got!" "That is to run the better, my child." "Grandmamma, what great ears you have got!" "That is to hear the better, my child." "Grandmamma, what great eyes you have got!" "It is to see the better, my child." "Grandmamma, what great teeth you have got!" "That is to eat thee up." And saying these words, this wicked wolf fell upon Little Red Riding-Hood and ate her all up. 162 Because many modern teachers are distressed at the tragedy of the real story of "Little Red Riding Hood" as just given, they prefer some softened form of the tale. The Grimm version, "Little Red Cap," is generally used by those who insist on a happy ending. There Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother are both recovered and the wicked wolf destroyed. The story that follows is from a modern French author, Charles Marelles, and is given in the translation found in Lang's _Red Fairy Book_. In it the events are dramatically imagined in detail, even if the writer does turn it all into a sunflower myth at the close. TRUE HISTORY OF LITTLE GOLDEN HOOD You know the tale of poor Little Red Riding-Hood, that the wolf deceived and devoured, with her cake, her little butter can, and her grandmother. Well, the true story happened quite differently, as we know now. And first of all, the little girl was called and is still called Little Golden Hood; secondly, it was not she, nor the good granddame, but the wicked wolf who was, in the end, caught and devoured. Only listen. The story begins something like the tale. There was once a little peasant girl, pretty and nice as a star in its season. Her real name was Blanchette, but she was more often called Little Golden Hood, on account of a wonderful little cloak with a hood, gold and fire colored, which she always had on. This little hood was given her by her grandmother, who was so old that she did not know her age; it ought to bring her good luck, for it was made of a ray of sunshine, she said. And as the good old woman was considered something of a witch, every one thought the little hood rather bewitched too. And so it was, as you will see. One day the mother said to the child: "Let us see, my little Golden Hood, if you know now how to find your way by yourself. You shall take this good piece of cake to your grandmother for a Sunday treat to-morrow. You will ask her how she is, and come back at once, without stopping to chatter on the way with people you don't know. Do you quite understand?" "I quite understand," replied Blanchette gayly. And off she went with the cake, quite proud of her errand. But the grandmother lived in another village, and there was a big wood to cross before getting there. At a turn of the road under the trees suddenly, "Who goes there?" "Friend Wolf." He had seen the child start alone, and the villain was waiting to devour her, when at the same moment he perceived some wood-cutters who might observe him, and he changed his mind. Instead of falling upon Blanchette he came frisking up to her like a good dog. "'Tis you! my nice Little Golden Hood," said he. So the little girl stops to talk with the wolf, whom, for all that, she did not know in the least. "You know me, then!" said she. "What is your name?" "My name is friend Wolf. And where are you going thus, my pretty one, with your little basket on your arm?" "I am going to my grandmother to take her a good piece of cake for her Sunday treat to-morrow." "And where does she live, your grandmother?" "She lives at the other side of the wood in the first house in the village, near the windmill, you know." "Ah! yes! I know now," said the wolf. "Well, that's just where I'm going. I shall get there before you, no doubt, with your little bits of legs, and I'll tell her you're coming to see her; then she'll wait for you." Thereupon the wolf cuts across the wood, and in five minutes arrives at the grandmother's house. He knocks at the door: toc, toc. No answer. He knocks louder. Nobody. Then he stands up on end, puts his two fore paws on the latch, and the door opens. Not a soul in the house. The old woman had risen early to sell herbs in the town, and had gone off in such haste that she had left her bed unmade, with her great night-cap on the pillow. "Good!" said the wolf to himself, "I know what I'll do." He shuts the door, pulls on the grandmother's night-cap down to his eyes; then he lies down all his length in the bed and draws the curtains. In the meantime the good Blanchette went quietly on her way, as little girls do, amusing herself here and there by picking Easter daisies, watching the little birds making their nests, and running after the butterflies which fluttered in the sunshine. At last she arrives at the door. Knock, knock. "Who is there?" says the wolf, softening his rough voice as best he can. "It's me, granny, your Little Golden Hood. I'm bringing you a big piece of cake for your Sunday treat to-morrow." "Press your finger on the latch; then push and the door opens." "Why, you've got a cold, granny," said she, coming in. "Ahem! a little, my dear, a little," replies the wolf, pretending to cough. "Shut the door well, my little lamb. Put your basket on the table, and then take off your frock and come and lie down by me; you shall rest a little." The good child undresses, but observe this:--she kept her little hood upon her head. When she saw what a figure her granny cut in bed, the poor little thing was much surprised. "Oh!" cries she, "how like you are to friend Wolf, grandmother!" "That's on account of my night-cap, child," replies the wolf. "Oh! what hairy arms you've got, grandmother!" "All the better to hug you, my child." "Oh! what a big tongue you've got, grandmother!" "All the better for answering, child." "Oh! what a mouthful of great white teeth you have, grandmother!" "That's for crunching little children with!" And the wolf opened his jaws wide to swallow Blanchette. But she put down her head, crying, "Mamma! mamma!" and the wolf only caught her little hood. Thereupon, oh, dear! oh, dear! he draws back, crying and shaking his jaw as if he had swallowed red-hot coals. It was the little fire-colored hood that had burnt his tongue right down his throat. The little hood, you see, was one of those magic caps that they used to have in former times, in the stories, for making one's self invisible or invulnerable. So there was the wolf with his throat burned, jumping off the bed and trying to find the door, howling and howling as if all the dogs in the country were at his heels. Just at this moment the grandmother arrives, returning from the town with her long sack empty on her shoulder. "Ah, brigand!" she cries, "wait a bit!" Quickly she opens her sack wide across the door, and the maddened wolf springs in head downward. It is he now that is caught, swallowed like a letter in the post. For the brave old dame shuts her sack, so; and she runs and empties it in the well, where the vagabond, still howling, tumbles in and is drowned. "Ah, scoundrel! you thought you would crunch my little grandchild! Well, to-morrow we will make her a muff of your skin, and you yourself shall be crunched, for we will give your carcass to the dogs." Thereupon the grandmother hastened to dress poor Blanchette, who was still trembling with fear in the bed. "Well," she said to her, "without my little hood where would you be now, darling?" And, to restore heart and legs to the child, she made her eat a good piece of her cake, and drink a good draught of wine, after which she took her by the hand and led her back to the house. And then, who was it who scolded her when she knew all that had happened? It was the mother. But Blanchette promised over and over again that she would never more stop to listen to a wolf, so that at last the mother forgave her. And Blanchette, the Little Golden Hood, kept her word. And in fine weather she may still be seen in the fields with her pretty little hood, the color of the sun. But to see her you must rise early. 163 The next Perrault story is given in the traditional English form made by "R. S., Gent." Perrault met the popular taste of his time for "morals" by adding more or less playful ones in verse to his stories. Here is a prose rendering of a portion of the _Moralite_ attached to "Puss-in-Boots": "However great may be the advantage of enjoying a rich inheritance coming down from father to son, industry and ingenuity are worth more to young people as a usual thing than goods acquired without personal effort." In relation to this moral, Ralston says, "the conclusion at which an ordinary reader would arrive, if he were not dazzled by fairy-land glamor, would probably be that far better than either tact and industry on a master's part is the loyalty of an unscrupulous retainer of an imaginative turn of mind. The impropriety of this teaching is not balanced by any other form of instruction. What the story openly inculcates is not edifying, and it does not secretly convey any improving doctrine." But on the other hand it may be argued that the "moral" passes over the child's head. Miss Kready, in her _Study of Fairy Tales_ (p. 275), makes a very elaborate and proper defense of "Puss-in-Boots" as a story for children. There is delight in its strong sense of adventure, it has a hero clever and quick, there is loyalty, love, and sacrifice in Puss's devotion to his master, the tricks are true to "cat-nature," there are touches of nature beauty, a simple and pleasing plot, while we should not forget the delightful Ogre and his transformations into Lion and Mouse. The story is found in many forms among many different peoples. Perhaps the great stroke of genius which endears Perrault's version is in the splendid boots with which his tale provides the hero so that briers may not interfere with his doings. (Extended studies of this tale and its many parallels may be found in Lang's _Perrault's Popular Tales_; in McCulloch's _Childhood of Fiction_, chap. viii; in an article by Ralston in the _Nineteenth Century_, January, 1883, reprinted in _Living Age_, Vol. CLVI, p. 362.) PUSS-IN-BOOTS There was once a miller who left no more estate to the three sons he had than his mill, his ass, and his cat. The partition was soon made. Neither the clerk nor the attorney was sent for. They would soon have eaten up all the poor patrimony. The eldest had the mill, the second the ass, and the youngest nothing but the cat. The poor young fellow was quite comfortless at having so poor a lot. "My brothers," said he, "may get their living handsomely enough by joining their stocks together; but for my part, when I have eaten up my cat and made me a muff of his skin, I must die with hunger." The cat, who heard all this, but made as if he did not, said to him with a grave and serious air; "Do not thus afflict yourself, my good master; you have nothing else to do but to give me a bag and get a pair of boots made for me, that I may scamper through the dirt and the brambles, and you shall see that you have not so bad a portion of me as you imagine." Though the cat's master did not build very much upon what he said, he had, however, often seen him play a great many cunning tricks to catch rats and mice; as when he used to hang by the heels, or hide himself in the meal and make as if he were dead; so he did not altogether despair of his affording him some help in his miserable condition. When the cat had what he asked for, he booted himself very gallantly; and putting his bag about his neck, he held the strings of it in his two fore paws and went into a warren where was a great abundance of rabbits. He put bran and sow-thistles into his bag, and, stretching himself out at length as if he had been dead, he waited for some young rabbits, not yet acquainted with the deceits of the world, to come and rummage his bag for what he had just put into it. Scarce was he lain down but he had what he wanted. A rash and foolish young rabbit jumped into his bag, and master Puss, immediately drawing close the strings, took and killed him without pity. Proud of his prey, he went with it to the palace and asked to speak with his majesty. He was shown upstairs into the king's apartment, and, making a low reverence, said to him: "I have brought you, sir, a rabbit of the warren which my noble lord, the Marquis of Carabas" (for that was the title which Puss was pleased to give his master), "has commanded me to present to your majesty from him." "Tell thy master," said the king, "that I thank him and that he gives me a great deal of pleasure." Another time he went and hid himself among some standing corn, holding still his bag open; and when a brace of partridges ran into it, he drew the strings and so caught them both. He went and made a present of these to the king, as he had done before of the rabbit which he took in the warren. The king in like manner received the partridges with great pleasure and ordered him some money. The cat continued for two or three months thus to carry his majesty, from time to time, game of his master's taking. One day in particular, when he knew for certain that he was to take the air along the riverside with his daughter, the most beautiful princess in the world, he said to his master: "If you will follow my advice, your fortune is made. You have nothing else to do but go and wash yourself in the river, in that part I shall show you, and leave the rest to me." The Marquis of Carabas did what the cat advised him to, without knowing why or wherefore. While he was washing, the king passed by, and the cat began to cry out as loud as he could, "Help, help! my lord Marquis of Carabas is going to be drowned." At this noise the king put his head out of his coach-window, and, finding it was the cat who had so often brought him such good game, he commanded his guards to run immediately to the assistance of his lordship, the Marquis of Carabas. While they were drawing the poor marquis out of the river, the cat came up to the coach and told the king that while his master was washing there came by some rogues, who went off with his clothes though he had cried out, "Thieves, thieves," as loud as he could. This cunning cat had hidden them under a great stone. The king immediately commanded the officers of his wardrobe to run and fetch one of his best suits for the lord Marquis of Carabas. The king caressed him after a very extraordinary manner; and as the fine clothes he had given him extremely set off his good mien (for he was well made and very handsome in his person), the king's daughter took a secret inclination to him, and the Marquis of Carabas had no sooner cast two or three respectful and somewhat tender glances, but she fell in love with him to distraction. The king would needs have him come into his coach and take part of the airing. The cat, quite overjoyed to see his project begin to succeed, marched on before, and meeting with some countrymen who were mowing a meadow, he said to them, "Good people, you who are mowing, if you do not tell the king, who will soon pass this way, that the meadow you mow belongs to my lord Marquis of Carabas, you shall be chopped as small as herbs for the pot." The king did not fail asking of the mowers to whom the meadow they were mowing belonged: "To my lord Marquis of Carabas," answered they, all together, for the cat's threats had made them terribly afraid. "You see, sir," said the marquis, "this is a meadow which never fails to yield a plentiful harvest every year." The master-cat, who went still on before, met with some reapers, and said to them, "Good people, you who are reaping, if you do not tell the king, who will presently go by, that all this corn belongs to the Marquis of Carabas, you shall be chopped as small as herbs for the pot." The king, who passed by a moment after, would needs know to whom all that corn, which he then saw, did belong. "To my lord Marquis of Carabas," replied the reapers; and the king was very well pleased with it, as well as the marquis, whom he congratulated thereupon. The master-cat, who went always before, said the same words to all he met; and the king was astonished at the vast estates of my lord Marquis of Carabas. Master Puss came at last to a stately castle, the owner of which was an ogre, the richest that had ever been known, for all the lands which the king had then gone over belonged to this castle. The cat, who had taken care to inform himself who the ogre was and what he could do, asked to speak with him, saying he could not pass so near his castle without having the honor of paying his respects to him. The ogre received him as civilly as an ogre could do and made him sit down. "I have been assured," said the cat, "that you have the gift of being able to change yourself into all sorts of creatures you have a mind to. You can, for example, transform yourself into a lion, or elephant, and the like." "This is true," answered the ogre very briskly, "and to convince you, you shall see me now become a lion." Puss was so sadly terrified at the sight of a lion so near him that he immediately got into the gutter, not without abundance of trouble and danger, because of his boots, which were of no use at all to him in walking upon the tiles. A little while after, when Puss saw that the ogre had resumed his natural form, he came down and owned he had been very much frightened. "I have been, moreover, informed," said the cat, "but I know not how to believe it, that you have also the power to take on you the shape of the smallest animals; for example, to change yourself into a rat or a mouse; but I must own to you, I take this to be impossible." "Impossible!" cried the ogre, "you shall see that presently," and at the same time changed himself into a mouse, and began to run about the floor. Puss no sooner perceived this but he fell upon him and ate him up. Meanwhile, the king, who saw, as he passed, this fine castle of the ogre's, had a mind to go into it. Puss, who heard the noise of his majesty's coach running over the drawbridge, ran out and said to the king, "Your Majesty is welcome to this castle of my lord Marquis of Carabas." "What! my lord Marquis!" cried the king, "and does this castle also belong to you? There can be nothing finer than this court and all the stately buildings which surround it; let us go into it, if you please." They passed into a spacious hall, where they found a magnificent collation which the ogre had prepared for his friends, who were that very day to visit him, but dared not to enter, knowing the king was there. His majesty was perfectly charmed with the good qualities of my lord Marquis of Carabas, as was his daughter, who had fallen in love with him; and seeing the vast estate he possessed, said to him while they sat at the feast, "It will be owing to yourself only, my lord Marquis, if you are not my son-in-law." The marquis, making several low bows, accepted the honor which his majesty conferred upon him, and forthwith, that very same day, married the princess. Puss became a great lord, and never ran after mice any more, but only for his diversion. 164 Perrault attached to the next story this moral: "Diamonds and dollars influence minds, and yet gentle words have more effect and are more to be esteemed. . . . It is a lot of trouble to be upright and it requires some effort, but sooner or later it finds its reward, and generally when one is least expecting it." English versions are usually given the title "Toads and Diamonds," though Perrault's title was simply "The Fairies" ("Les Fees"). Lang calls attention to the fact that the origin of the story is "manifestly moral." He thinks "it is an obvious criticism that the elder girl should have met the fairy first; she was not likely to behave so rudely when she knew that politeness would be rewarded." It would be interesting for a story-teller to test the effect of relating the incidents in the order suggested by Lang. TOADS AND DIAMONDS There was once upon a time a widow who had two daughters. The oldest was so much like her in face and humor that whoever looked upon the daughter saw the mother. They were both so disagreeable and so proud that there was no living with them. The youngest, who was the very picture of her father for courtesy and sweetness of temper, was withal one of the most beautiful girls that was ever seen. As people naturally love their own likenesses, this mother ever doted on her eldest daughter and at the same time had a sad aversion for the youngest. She made her eat in the kitchen and work continually. Among other things, this poor child was forced twice a day to draw water above a mile and a half from the house, and bring home a pitcher full of it. One day as she was at this fountain there came to her a poor woman, who begged of her to let her drink. "Oh, yes, with all my heart, Goody," said this pretty little girl; and rinsing the pitcher, she took up some water from the clearest place of the fountain and gave it to her, holding up the pitcher all the while that she might drink the easier. The good woman having drunk, said to her, "You are so very pretty, my dear, so good and so mannerly, that I cannot help giving you a gift"--for this was a fairy, who had taken the form of a poor country woman to see how far the civility and good manners of this pretty girl would go. "I will give you for gift," continued the fairy, "that at every word you speak, there shall come out of your mouth either a flower or a jewel." When this pretty girl came home, her mother scolded at her for staying so long at the fountain. "I beg your pardon, mamma," said the poor girl, "for not making more haste"; and, in speaking these words, there came out of her mouth two roses, two pearls, and two large diamonds. "What is it I see there?" said her mother quite astonished. "I think I see pearls and diamonds come out of the girl's mouth! How happens this, my child?"--This was the first time she ever called her her child. The poor creature told her frankly all the matter, not without dropping out infinite numbers of diamonds. "In good faith," cried the mother, "I must send my child thither. Come hither, Fanny. Look what comes out of your sister's mouth when she speaks! Would you not be glad, my dear, to have the same gift given to you? You have nothing else to do but go draw water out of the fountain, and when a certain poor woman asks you to let her drink, to give it her very civilly." "It would be a very fine sight, indeed," said this ill-bred minx, "to see me go draw water!" "You shall go, hussy," said the mother, "and this minute." So away she went, but grumbling all the way and taking with her the best silver tankard in the house. She was no sooner at the fountain than she saw coming out of the wood a lady most gloriously dressed, who came up to her and asked to drink. This was, you must know, the very fairy who appeared to her sister, but who had now taken the air and dress of a princess to see how far this girl's rudeness would go. "Am I come hither," said the proud, saucy maid, "to serve you with water, pray? I suppose the silver tankard was brought purely for your ladyship, was it? However, you may drink out of it, if you have a fancy." "You are not over and above mannerly," answered the fairy, without putting herself in a passion. "Well, then, since you have so little breeding and are so disobliging, I give you for gift, that at every word you speak there shall come out of your mouth a snake or a toad." So soon as her mother saw her coming, she cried out, "Well, daughter." "Well, mother," answered the pert hussy, throwing out of her mouth two vipers and two toads. "Oh, mercy!" cried the mother, "what is it I see? Oh, it is that wretch, her sister, who has occasioned all this; but she shall pay for it"; and immediately she ran to beat her. The poor child fled away from her and went to hide herself in the forest, not far from thence. The king's son, then on his return from hunting, met her, and seeing her so very pretty, asked her what she did there alone, and why she cried. "Alas, sir! my mamma has turned me out of doors." The king's son, who saw five or six pearls, and as many diamonds, come out of her mouth, desired her to tell him how that happened. She thereupon told him the whole story; and so the king's son fell in love with her; and, considering with himself that such a gift was worth more than any marriage-portion whatsoever in another, he conducted her to the palace of the king his father and there married her. As for her sister, she made herself so much hated that her own mother turned her off; and the miserable girl, having wandered about a good while without finding anybody to take her in, went to a corner in the wood and there died. 165 "Cinderella" is one of the world's greatest romantic stories. Its theme is a favorite in all folk literature. Young and old alike have never tired of hearing of the victories won by the deserving in the face of all sorts of obstacles. Perrault in his verse moral observes that "while beauty is a rare treasure for a woman, yet a winning manner, or personality, is worth even more." Still further, as if conscious of the part influence plays in the world, he says that "while it is doubtless a great advantage to have wit and courage, breeding and good sense, and other such natural endowments, still they will be of no earthly use for our advancement unless we have, to bring them into play, either godfathers or godmothers." One should not, however, take too seriously any moralizing over a fairy story whether by Perrault or another. In one of the most thorough studies of a single folk tale, Miss Roalfe Cox's _Cinderella_, with an introduction by Andrew Lang, some three hundred and fifty variants of the story have been analyzed. The thing that marks a Cinderella story is the presence in it of the "slipper test." The finest versions are those by Perrault and the Grimms, and they are almost equally favorites with children. The Perrault form as found in the old English translation is given here for reasons stated by Ralston in his study of the Cinderella type: "But Perrault's rendering of the tale naturalised it in the polite world, gave it for cultured circles an attraction which it is never likely to lose. . . . It is with human more than with mythological interest that the story is replete, and therefore it appeals to human hearts with a force which no lapse of time can diminish. Such supernatural machinery as is introduced, moreover, has a charm for children which older versions of the tale do not possess. The pumpkin carriage, the rat coachman, the lizard lacqueys, and all the other properties of the transformation scene, appeal at once to the imagination and the sense of humor of every beholder." (_Nineteenth Century_, November, 1879.) CINDERELLA, OR THE LITTLE GLASS SLIPPER Once there was a gentleman who married, for his second wife, the proudest and most haughty woman that was ever seen. She had, by a former husband, two daughters of her own humor, who were indeed exactly like her in all things. He had likewise, by another wife, a young daughter, but of unparalleled goodness and sweetness of temper, which she took from her mother, who was the best creature in the world. No sooner were the ceremonies of the wedding over but the step-mother began to show herself in her colors. She could not bear the good qualities of this pretty girl; and the less because they made her own daughters appear the more odious. She employed her in the meanest work of the house; she scoured the dishes and tables, and cleaned madam's room and the rooms of misses, her daughters; she lay up in a sorry garret, upon a wretched straw-bed, while her sisters lay in fine rooms, with floors all inlaid, upon beds of the very newest fashion, and where they had looking-glasses so large that they might see themselves at their full length, from head to foot. The poor girl bore all patiently, and dared not tell her father, who would have rattled her off, for his wife governed him entirely. When she had done her work, she used to go into the chimney corner and sit down among cinders and ashes, which made her commonly called Cinder-wench; but the youngest, who was not so rude and uncivil as the eldest, called her Cinderella. However, Cinderella, notwithstanding her mean apparel, was a hundred times handsomer than her sisters, though they were always dressed very richly. It happened that the king's son gave a ball, and invited all persons of fashion to it. Our young misses were also invited, for they cut a very grand figure among the quality. They were mightily delighted at this invitation, and wonderfully busy in choosing out such gowns, petticoats, and head-clothes as might best become them. This was a new trouble to Cinderella, for it was she who ironed her sisters' linen and plaited their ruffles. They talked all day long of nothing but how they should be dressed. "For my part," said the eldest, "I will wear my red velvet suit with French trimmings." "And I," said the youngest, "shall only have my usual petticoat; but then, to make amends for that, I will put on my gold flowered manteau and my diamond stomacher, which is far from being the most ordinary one in the world." They sent for the best tire-woman they could get to make up their head-dresses, and they had their patches from the very best maker. Cinderella was likewise called up to them to be consulted in all these matters, for she had excellent notions and advised them always for the best; nay, and offered her service to dress their heads, which they were very willing she should do. As she was doing this, they said to her, "Cinderella, would you not be glad to go to the ball?" "Ah!" said she, "you only jeer at me; it is not for such as I am to go thither." "Thou art in the right of it," replied they; "it would make the people laugh to see a cinder-wench at a ball." Any one but Cinderella would have dressed their heads awry, but she was very good, and dressed them perfectly well. They were almost two days without eating, so much they were transported with joy. They broke above a dozen of laces in trying to be laced up close, that they might have a fine slender shape, and they were continually at their looking-glass. At last the happy day came. They went to court, and Cinderella followed them with her eyes as long as she could, and when she had lost sight of them, she fell a-crying. Her godmother, who saw her all in tears, asked her what was the matter. "I wish I could--I wish I could--"; she was not able to speak the rest, being interrupted by her tears and sobbing. This godmother of hers, who was a fairy, said to her, "Thou wishest thou couldest go to the ball. Is it not so?" "Y--es," cried Cinderella with a great sigh. "Well," said her godmother, "be but a good girl, and I will contrive that thou shalt go." Then she took her into her chamber and said to her, "Run into the garden and bring me a pumpkin." Cinderella went immediately to gather the finest she could get, and brought it to her godmother, not being able to imagine how this pumpkin could make her go to the ball. Her godmother scooped out all the inside of it, having left nothing but the rind; which done, she struck it with her wand, and the pumpkin was instantly turned into a fine coach, gilded all over with gold. She then went to look into her mouse-trap, where she found six mice, all alive, and ordered Cinderella to lift up a little the trap-door. Then she gave each mouse, as it went out, a little tap with her wand, and the mouse was that moment turned into a fair horse. All together the mice made a very fine set of six horses of a beautiful mouse-colored dapple-gray. Being at a loss for a coachman, "I will go and see," said Cinderella, "if there be never a rat in the rat-trap, that we may make a coachman of him." "Thou art in the right," replied her godmother; "go and look." Cinderella brought the trap to her, and in it there were three huge rats. The fairy made choice of one of the three, which had the largest beard, and, having touched him with her wand, he was turned into a fat, jolly coachman, who had the smartest whiskers that eyes ever beheld. After that her godmother said to her, "Go again into the garden and you will find six lizards behind the watering pot; bring them to me." She had no sooner done so, than the fairy turned them into six footmen, who skipped up immediately behind the coach, with their liveries all bedecked with gold and silver, and clung as close behind each other as if they had done nothing else their whole lives. The fairy then said to Cinderella, "Well, you see here an equipage fit to go to the ball with. Are you not pleased with it?" "Oh, yes," cried she, "but must I go thither as I am, in these filthy rags?" Her godmother only just touched her with her wand, and at the same instant her clothes were turned into cloth of gold and silver, all beset with jewels. This done, she gave her a pair of glass slippers, the prettiest in the whole world. Being thus decked out, she got up into her coach; but her godmother, above all things, commanded her not to stay till after midnight, telling her that if she stayed at the ball one moment longer, her coach would be a pumpkin again, her horses mice, her coachman a rat, her footmen lizards, and her clothes just as they were before. She promised her godmother she would not fail of leaving the ball before midnight; and then away she drives, scarce able to contain herself for joy. The king's son, who was told that a great princess, whom nobody knew, was come, ran out to receive her. He gave her his hand as she alighted from the coach, and led her into the hall among all the company. There was immediately a profound silence. They left off dancing, and the violins ceased to play, so attentive was every one to contemplate the singular beauties of this unknown new-comer. Nothing was then heard but a confused noise of, "Ha! how handsome she is! Ha! how handsome she is!" The king himself, old as he was, could not help ogling her and telling the queen softly that it was a long time since he had seen so beautiful and lovely a creature. All the ladies were busied in considering her clothes and head-dress, that they might have some made next day after the same pattern, provided they could meet with such fine materials and as able hands to make them. The king's son conducted her to the most honorable seat and afterwards took her out to dance with him. She danced so very gracefully that they all more and more admired her. A fine collation was served up, whereof the young prince ate not a morsel, so intently was he busied in gazing on her. She went and sat down by her sisters, showing them a thousand civilities, giving them part of the oranges and citrons which the prince had presented her with; which very much surprised them, for they did not know her. While Cinderella was thus amusing her sisters, she heard the clock strike eleven and three quarters, whereupon she immediately made a courtesy to the company and hasted away as fast as she could. Being got home, she ran to seek out her godmother; and having thanked her, she said she could not but heartily wish she might go next day to the ball, because the king's son had desired her. As she was eagerly telling her godmother whatever had passed at the ball, her two sisters knocked at the door, which Cinderella ran and opened. "How long you have stayed!" cried she, gaping, rubbing her eyes, and stretching herself as if she had been just awakened out of her sleep; she had not, however, any manner of inclination to sleep since they went from home. "If thou hadst been at the ball," said one of her sisters, "thou wouldest not have been tired with it. There came thither the finest princess, the most beautiful ever seen with mortal eyes. She showed us a thousand civilities and gave us oranges and citrons." Cinderella seemed very indifferent in the matter; indeed, she asked them the name of the princess, but they told her they did not know it and that the king's son was very uneasy on her account and would give all the world to know who she was. At this Cinderella, smiling, replied, "She must then be very beautiful indeed! How happy have you been! Could not I see her? Ah! dear Miss Charlotte, do lend me your yellow suit of clothes, which you wear every day." "Ay, to be sure," cried Miss Charlotte, "lend my clothes to such a dirty cinder-wench as thou art! Who's the fool then?" Cinderella indeed expected some such answer and was very glad of the refusal, for she would have been sadly put to it if her sister had lent her what she asked for jestingly. The next day the two sisters were at the ball, and so was Cinderella, but dressed more magnificently than before. The king's son was always by her side and never ceased his compliments and amorous speeches to her; to whom all this was so far from being tiresome that she quite forgot what her godmother had recommended to her, so that she at last counted the clock striking twelve when she took it to be no more than eleven. She then rose up and fled as nimble as a deer. The prince followed, but could not overtake her. She left behind one of her glass slippers, which the prince took up most carefully. She got home, but quite out of breath, without coach or footmen, and in her old cinder clothes, having nothing left of all her finery but one of the little slippers, fellow to that she dropped. The guards at the palace gate were asked if they had not seen a princess go out. They said they had seen nobody go out but a young girl very meanly dressed, who had more the air of a poor country wench than a gentlewoman. When the two sisters returned from the ball, Cinderella asked them if they had been well diverted and if the fine lady had been there. They told her yes, but that she hurried away immediately when it struck twelve and with so much haste that she dropped one of her little glass slippers, the prettiest in the world, which the king's son had taken up; that he had done nothing but look at her all the time of the ball, and that most certainly he was very much in love with the beautiful person who owned the little glass slipper. What they said was very true, for a few days after, the king's son caused to be proclaimed by sound of trumpets that he would marry her whose foot this slipper would just fit. They whom he employed began to try it on upon the princesses, then the duchesses, and all the court, but in vain. It was brought to the two sisters, who did all they possibly could to thrust their foot into the slipper, but they could not effect it. Cinderella, who saw all this and knew her slipper, said to them, laughing, "Let me see if it will not fit me!" Her sisters burst out laughing and began to banter her. The gentleman who was sent to try the slipper looked earnestly at Cinderella, and finding her very handsome, said it was but just that she should try, and that he had orders to let every one make trial. He obliged Cinderella to sit down, and putting the slipper to her foot, he found it went in very easily and fitted her as if it had been made of wax. The astonishment her two sisters were in was excessively great, but still abundantly greater when Cinderella pulled out of her pocket the other slipper and put it on her foot. Thereupon in came her godmother, who having touched, with her wand, Cinderella's clothes, made them richer and more magnificent than any of those she had before. And now her two sisters found her to be that fine beautiful lady whom they had seen at the ball. They threw themselves at her feet to beg pardon for all the ill treatment they had made her undergo. Cinderella took them up, and as she embraced them, cried that she forgave them with all her heart and desired them always to love her. She was conducted to the young prince, dressed as she was. He thought her more charming than ever, and a few days after, married her. Cinderella, who was no less good than beautiful, gave her two sisters lodgings in the palace, and that very same day matched them with two great lords of the court. 166 The hero of the next story is often known as Drakesbill, which easily becomes Bill Drake. The version that follows is a translation from the French of Charles Marelles as given by Lang in his _Red Fairy Book_. It has a raciness not in those softened versions in which one friend gets into a pocket, another under a wing, and so on. The persistent energy of the little hero, his resourcefulness in difficulty, his loyal friends, the unexpected honor that comes as recognition of his success, the humor that pervades every character and incident, make this one of the most delightful of children's stories. DRAKESTAIL Drakestail was very little, that is why he was called Drakestail; but tiny as he was he had brains, and he knew what he was about, for having begun with nothing he ended by amassing a hundred crowns. Now the king of the country, who was very extravagant and never kept any money, having heard that Drakestail had some, went one day in his own person to borrow his hoard, and, my word, in those days Drakestail was not a little proud of having lent money to the king. But after the first and second year, seeing that he never even dreamed of paying the interest, he became uneasy, so much so that at last he resolved to go and see his majesty himself, and get repaid. So one fine morning Drakestail, very spruce and fresh, takes the road, singing: "Quack, quack, quack, when shall I get my money back?" He had not gone far when he met friend Fox, on his rounds that way. "Good-morning, neighbor," says the friend; "where are you off to so early?" "I am going to the king for what he owes me." "Oh! take me with thee!" Drakestail said to himself: "One can't have too many friends." Aloud says he, "I will, but going on all fours you will soon be tired. Make yourself quite small, get into my throat--go into my gizzard, and I will carry you." "Happy thought!" says friend Fox. He takes bag and baggage, and, presto! is gone like a letter into the post. And Drakestail is off again, all spruce and fresh, still singing: "Quack, quack, quack, when shall I have my money back?" He had not gone far when he met his lady friend, Ladder, leaning on her wall. "Good-morning, my duckling," says the lady friend, "whither away so bold?" "I am going to the king for what he owes me." "Oh! take me with thee!" Drakestail said to himself: "One can't have too many friends." Aloud says he: "I will, but then with your wooden legs you will soon be tired. Make yourself quite small, get into my throat--go into my gizzard, and I will carry you." "Happy thought!" says my friend Ladder, and nimble, bag and baggage, goes to keep company with friend Fox. And "Quack, quack, quack," Drakestail is off again, singing and spruce as before. A little further he meets his sweetheart, my friend River, wandering quietly in the sunshine. "Thou, my cherub," says she, "whither so lonesome, with arching tail, on this muddy road?" "I am going to the king, you know, for what he owes me." "Oh! take me with thee!" Drakestail said to himself: "One can't have too many friends." Aloud says he: "I will, but you who sleep while you walk will soon get tired. Make yourself quite small, get into my throat--go into my gizzard, and I will carry you." "Ah! happy thought!" says my friend River. She takes bag and baggage, and glou, glou, glou she takes her place between friend Fox and my friend Ladder. And "Quack, quack, quack," Drakestail is off again singing. A little further on he meets comrade Wasp's-nest, maneuvering his wasps. "Well, good-morning, friend Drakestail," said comrade Wasp's-nest, "where are we bound for, so spruce and fresh?" "I am going to the king for what he owes me." "Oh! take me with thee!" Drakestail said to himself, "One can't have too many friends." Aloud says he: "I will, but then with your battalion to drag along, you will soon be tired. Make yourself quite small, go into my throat--get into my gizzard, and I will carry you." "By Jove! that's a good idea!" says comrade Wasp's-nest. And left file! he takes the same road to join the others with all his party. There was not much room, but by closing up a bit they managed. And Drakestail is off again singing. He arrived thus at the capital, and threaded his way straight up the High Street, still running and singing, "Quack, quack, quack, when shall I get my money back?" to the great astonishment of the good folks, till he came to the king's palace. He strikes with the knocker: "Toc! toc!" "Who is there?" asks the porter, putting his head out of the wicket. "'Tis I, Drakestail. I wish to speak to the king." "Speak to the king! That's easily said. The king is dining, and will not be disturbed." "Tell him that it is I, and I have come he well knows why." The porter shuts his wicket and goes up to say it to the king, who was just sitting down to dinner with a napkin round his neck, and all his ministers. "Good, good!" said the king, laughing. "I know what it is! Make him come in, and put him with the turkeys and chickens." The porter descends. "Have the goodness to enter." "Good!" says Drakestail to himself, "I shall now see how they eat at court." "This way, this way," says the porter. "One step further. There, there you are." "How? what? in the poultry-yard?" Fancy how vexed Drakestail was! "Ah! so that's it," says he. "Wait! I will compel you to receive me. Quack, quack, quack, when shall I get my money back?" But turkeys and chickens are creatures who don't like people that are not as themselves. When they saw the new-comer and how he was made, and when they heard him crying too, they began to look black at him. "What is it? What does he want?" Finally they rushed at him all together, to overwhelm him with pecks. "I am lost!" said Drakestail to himself, when by good luck he remembers his comrade friend Fox, and he cries: "Reynard, Reynard, come out of your earth, Or Drakestail's life is of little worth." Then friend Fox, who was only waiting for these words, hastens out, throws himself on the wicked fowls, and quick! quack! he tears them to pieces; so much so that at the end of five minutes there was not one left alive. And Drakestail, quite content, began to sing again, "Quack, quack, quack, when shall I get my money back?" When the king, who was still at table, heard this refrain, and the poultry-woman came to tell him what had been going on in the yard, he was terribly annoyed. He ordered them to throw this tail of a drake into the well, to make an end of him. And it was done as he commanded. Drakestail was in despair of getting himself out of such a deep hole, when he remembered his lady friend Ladder. "Ladder, Ladder, come out of thy hold, Or Drakestail's days will soon be told." My friend Ladder, who was only waiting for these words, hastens out, leans her two arms on the edge of the well; then Drakestail climbs nimbly on her back, and hop! he is in the yard, where he begins to sing louder than ever. When the king, who was still at table and laughing at the good trick he had played his creditor, heard him again reclaiming his money, he became livid with rage. He commanded that the furnace should be heated, and this tail of a drake thrown into it, because he must be a sorcerer. The furnace was soon hot, but this time Drakestail was not so afraid; he counted on his sweetheart, my friend River. "River, River, outward flow, Or to death Drakestail must go." My friend River hastens out, and errouf! throws herself into the furnace, which she floods, with all the people who had lighted it; after which she flowed growling into the hall of the palace to the height of more than four feet. And Drakestail, quite content, begins to swim, singing deafeningly, "Quack, quack, quack, when shall I get my money back?" The king was still at table, and thought himself quite sure of his game; but when he heard Drakestail singing again, and when they told him all that had passed, he became furious and got up from the table brandishing his fists. "Bring him here, and I'll cut his throat! Bring him here quick!" cried he. And quickly two footmen ran to fetch Drakestail. "At last," said the poor chap, going up the great stairs, "they have decided to receive me." Imagine his terror when on entering he sees the king as red as a turkey cock, and all his ministers attending him standing sword in hand. He thought this time it was all up with him. Happily he remembered that there was still one remaining friend, and he cried with dying accents: "Wasp's nest, Wasp's nest, make a sally, Or Drakestail nevermore may rally." Hereupon the scene changes. "Bs, bs, bayonet them!" The brave Wasp's-nest rushes out with all his wasps. They threw themselves on the infuriated king and his ministers, and stung them so fiercely in the face that they lost their heads, and not knowing where to hide themselves they all jumped pell-mell from the window and broke their necks on the pavement. Behold Drakestail much astonished, all alone in the big saloon and master of the field. He could not get over it. Nevertheless, he remembered shortly what he had come for to the palace, and improving the occasion, he set to work to hunt for his dear money. But in vain he rummaged in all the drawers; he found nothing; all had been spent. And ferreting thus from room to room he came at last to the one with the throne in it, and feeling fatigued, he sat himself down on it to think over his adventure. In the meanwhile the people had found their king and his ministers with their feet in the air on the pavement, and they had gone into the palace to know how it had occurred. On entering the throne-room, when the crowd saw that there was already someone on the royal seat, they broke out in cries of surprise and joy: "The King is dead, long live the King! Heaven has sent us down this thing." Drakestail, who was no longer surprised at anything, received the acclamations of the people as if he had never done anything else all his life. A few of them certainly murmured that a Drakestail would make a fine king; those who knew him replied that a knowing Drakestail was a more worthy king than a spendthrift like him who was lying on the pavement. In short, they ran and took the crown off the head of the deceased, and placed it on that of Drakestail, whom it fitted like wax. Thus he became king. "And now," said he after the ceremony, "ladies and gentlemen, let's go to supper. I am so hungry!" 167 The story of "Beauty and the Beast," while very old in its ruder forms, is known to us in a fine version which comes from the middle of the eighteenth century. Madame de Villeneuve, a French writer of some note and a follower of Perrault in the field of the fairy tale, published in 1740 a collection of stories (_Contes Marins_) supposed to be told by an old woman during a voyage to St. Domingo. Among these was "Beauty and the Beast" in a long-winded style extending to more than 250 pages. In 1757, a greatly abridged form of this version was published by Madame de Beaumont, who was then living in England and who wrote many spirited tales designed for children. Her stories are full of the didactic element, and "Beauty and the Beast" is no exception to the rule. These "edifying commonplaces," however, are so sound and fit into the story so naturally that the reader does not suffer from their presence. The artificial character of the story is easily felt in contrast to the natural qualities of a folk version. The plot has all the perfection of a finished piece of literary art, and for this quality especially Madame de Beaumont's abridgement has always been heartily and rightly admired. BEAUTY AND THE BEAST Once upon a time, in a far-off country, there lived a merchant who had been so fortunate in all his undertakings that he was enormously rich. As he had, however, six sons and six daughters, he found that his money was not too much to let them have everything they fancied, as they were accustomed to do. But one day a most unexpected misfortune befell them. Their house caught fire and was speedily burned to the ground, with all the splendid furniture, the books, pictures, gold, silver, and precious goods it contained; and this was only the beginning of their troubles. Their father, who had until this moment prospered in all ways, suddenly lost every ship he had upon the sea, either by dint of pirates, shipwreck, or fire. Then he heard that his clerks in distant countries, whom he had trusted entirely, had proved unfaithful, and at last from great wealth he fell into direst poverty. All that he had left was a little house in a desolate place at least a hundred leagues from the town in which he had lived, and to this he was forced to retreat with his children, who were in despair at the idea of leading such a different life. Indeed, the daughters at first hoped that their friends, who had been so numerous while they were rich, would insist on their staying in their houses now they no longer possessed one. But they soon found that they were left alone, and that their former friends even attributed their misfortunes to their own extravagance, and showed no intention of offering them any help. So nothing was left for them but to take their departure to the cottage, which stood in the midst of a dark forest, and seemed to be the most dismal place upon the face of the earth. As they were too poor to have any servants, the girls had to work hard, like peasants, and the sons, for their part, cultivated the fields to earn their living. Roughly clothed, and living in the simplest way, the girls regretted unceasingly the luxuries and amusements of their former life; only the youngest tried to be brave and cheerful. She had been as sad as anyone when the misfortune first overtook her father, but, soon recovering her natural gayety, she set to work to make the best of things, to amuse her father and brothers as well as she could, and to try to persuade her sisters to join her in dancing and singing. But they would do nothing of the sort, and because she was not as doleful as themselves they declared that this miserable life was all she was fit for. But she was really far prettier and cleverer than they were; indeed, she was so lovely that she was always called Beauty. After two years, when they were all beginning to get used to their new life, something happened to disturb their tranquillity. Their father received the news that one of his ships, which he had believed to be lost, had come safely into port with a rich cargo. All the sons and daughters at once thought that their poverty was at an end and wanted to set out directly for the town, but their father, who was more prudent, begged them to wait a little, and though it was harvest-time and he could ill be spared, determined to go himself first to make inquiries. Only the youngest daughter had any doubt but that they would soon be as rich as they were before, or at least rich enough to live comfortably in some town where they would find amusement and gay companions once more. So they all loaded their father with commissions for jewels and dresses which it would have taken a fortune to buy; only Beauty, feeling sure that it was of no use, did not ask for anything. Her father, noticing her silence, said: "And what shall I bring for you, Beauty?" "The only thing I wish for is to see you come home safely," she answered. But this reply vexed her sisters, who fancied she was blaming them for having asked for such costly things. Her father was pleased, but as he thought that at her age she certainly ought to like pretty presents, he told her to choose something. "Well, dear father," said she, "as you insist upon it, I beg that you will bring me a rose. I have not seen one since we came here, and I love them so much." So the merchant set out and reached the town as quickly as possible, but only to find that his former companions, believing him to be dead, had divided between them the goods which the ship had brought; and after six months of trouble and expense he found himself as poor as when he started, having been able to recover only just enough to pay the cost of the journey. To make matters worse, he was obliged to leave the town in terrible weather, so that by the time he was within a few leagues of his home he was almost exhausted with cold and fatigue. Though he knew it would take some hours to get through the forest, he was so anxious to be at his journey's end that he resolved to go on; but night overtook him, and the deep snow and bitter frost made it impossible for his horse to carry him any further. Not a house was to be seen. The only shelter he could get was the hollow trunk of a great tree, and there he crouched all the night, which seemed to him the longest he had ever known. In spite of his weariness the howling of the wolves kept him awake, and even when at last the day broke he was not much better off, for the falling snow had covered up every path and he did not know which way to turn. At length he made out some sort of track, and though at the beginning it was so rough and slippery that he fell down more than once, it presently became easier and led him into an avenue of trees which ended in a splendid castle. It seemed to the merchant very strange that no snow had fallen in the avenue, which was entirely composed of orange-trees, covered with flowers and fruit. When he reached the first court of the castle he saw before him a flight of agate steps, and went up them and passed through several splendidly furnished rooms. The pleasant warmth of the air revived him and he felt very hungry; but there seemed to be nobody in all this vast and splendid palace whom he could ask to give him something to eat. Deep silence reigned everywhere, and at last, tired of roaming through empty rooms and galleries, he stopped in a room smaller than the rest, where a clear fire was burning and a couch was drawn up cozily, close to it. Thinking that this must be prepared for some one who was expected, he sat down to wait till he should come and very soon fell into a sweet sleep. When his extreme hunger wakened him after several hours he was still alone, but a little table, upon which was a good dinner, had been drawn up close to him, and as he had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours he lost no time in beginning his meal, hoping that he might soon have an opportunity of thanking his considerate entertainer, whoever it might be. But no one appeared, and even after another long sleep, from which he awoke completely refreshed, there was no sign of anybody, though a fresh meal of dainty cakes and fruit was prepared upon a little table at his elbow. Being naturally timid, the silence began to terrify him, and he resolved to search once more through all the rooms; but it was of no use. Not even a servant was to be seen; there was no sign of life in the palace! He began to wonder what he should do, and to amuse himself by pretending that all the treasures he saw were his own, and considering how he would divide them among his children. Then he went down into the garden, and though it was winter everywhere else, here the sun shone, and the birds sang, and the flowers bloomed, and the air was soft and sweet. The merchant, in ecstasies with all he saw and heard, said to himself: "All this must be meant for me. I will go this minute and bring my children to share all these delights." In spite of being so cold and weary when he reached the castle, he had taken his horse to the stable and fed it. Now he thought he would saddle it for his homeward journey, and he turned down the path which led to the stable. This path had a hedge of roses on each side of it, and the merchant thought he had never seen or smelled such exquisite flowers. They reminded him of his promise to Beauty, and he stopped and had just gathered one to take to her when he was startled by a strange noise behind him. Turning round he saw a frightful beast, which seemed to be very angry and said in a terrible voice: "Who told you that you might gather my roses? Was it not enough that I allowed you to be in my palace and was kind to you? This is the way you show your gratitude, by stealing my flowers! But your insolence shall not go unpunished." The merchant, terrified by these furious words, dropped the fatal rose, and throwing himself on his knees cried: "Pardon me, noble sir. I am truly grateful to you for your hospitality, which was so magnificent that I could not imagine that you would be offended by my taking such a little thing as a rose." But the beast's anger was not lessened by this speech. "You are very ready with excuses and flattery," he cried; "but that will not save you from the death you deserve." "Alas!" thought the merchant, "if my daughter Beauty could only know what danger her rose has brought me into!" And in despair be began to tell the beast all his misfortunes and the reason of his journey, not forgetting to mention Beauty's request. "A king's ransom would hardly have procured all that my other daughters asked," he said, "but I thought that I might at least take Beauty her rose. I beg you to forgive me, for you see I meant no harm." The beast considered for a moment, and then he said in a less furious tone: "I will forgive you on one condition--that is, that you will give me one of your daughters." "Ah!" cried the merchant, "if I were cruel enough to buy my own life at the expense of one of my children's, what excuse could I invent to bring her here?" "No excuse would be necessary," answered the beast. "If she comes at all she must come willingly. On no other condition will I have her. See if any one of them is courageous enough and loves you well enough to come and save your life. You seem to be an honest man, so I will trust you to go home. I give you a month to see if either of your daughters will come back with you and stay here, to let you go free. If neither of them is willing you must come alone, after bidding them good-by forever, for then you will belong to me. And do not imagine that you can hide from me, for if you fail to keep your word I will come and fetch you!" added the beast grimly. The merchant accepted this proposal, though he did not really think any of his daughters would be persuaded to come. He promised to return at the time appointed, and then, anxious to escape from the presence of the beast, he asked permission to set off at once. But the beast answered that he could not go until the next day. "Then you will find a horse ready for you," he said. "Now go and eat your supper and await my orders." The poor merchant, more dead than alive, went back to his room, where the most delicious supper was already served on the little table which was drawn up before a blazing fire. But he was too terrified to eat, and only tasted a few of the dishes, for fear the beast should be angry if he did not obey his orders. When he had finished he heard a great noise in the next room, which he knew meant that the beast was coming. As he could do nothing to escape his visit, the only thing that remained was to seem as little afraid as possible; so when the beast appeared and asked roughly if he had supped well, the merchant answered humbly that he had, thanks to his host's kindness. Then the beast warned him to remember their agreement and to prepare his daughter exactly for what she had to expect. "Do not get up to-morrow," he added, "until you see the sun and hear a golden bell ring. Then you will find your breakfast waiting for you here, and the horse you are to ride will be ready in the court-yard. He will also bring you back again when you come with your daughter a month hence. Farewell. Take a rose to Beauty, and remember your promise." The merchant was only too glad when the beast went away, and though he could not sleep for sadness, he lay down until the sun rose. Then, after a hasty breakfast, he went to gather Beauty's rose and mounted his horse, which carried him off so swiftly that in an instant he had lost sight of the palace, and he was still wrapped in gloomy thoughts when it stopped before the door of the cottage. His sons and daughters, who had been very uneasy at his long absence, rushed to meet him, eager to know the result of his journey, which, seeing him mounted upon a splendid horse and wrapped in a rich mantle, they supposed to be favorable. But he hid the truth from them at first, only saying sadly to Beauty as he gave her the rose: "Here is what you asked me to bring you. You little know what it has cost." But this excited their curiosity so greatly that presently he told them his adventures from beginning to end, and then they were all very unhappy. The girls lamented loudly over their lost hopes, and the sons declared that their father should not return to this terrible castle, and began to make plans for killing the beast if it should come to fetch him. But he reminded them that he had promised to go back. Then the girls were very angry with Beauty and said it was all her fault, and that if she had asked for something sensible this would never have happened, and complained bitterly that they should have to suffer for her folly. Poor Beauty, much distressed, said to them: "I have indeed caused this misfortune, but I assure you I did it innocently. Who could have guessed that to ask for a rose in the middle of summer would cause so much misery? But as I did the mischief it is only just that I should suffer for it. I will therefore go back with my father to keep his promise." At first nobody would hear of this arrangement, and her father and brothers, who loved her dearly, declared that nothing should make them let her go; but Beauty was firm. As the time drew near she divided all her little possessions between her sisters and said good-by to everything she loved, and when the fatal day came she encouraged and cheered her father as they mounted together the horse which had brought him back. It seemed to fly rather than gallop, but so smoothly that Beauty was not frightened; indeed, she would have enjoyed the journey if she had not feared what might happen to her at the end of it. Her father still tried to persuade her to go back, but in vain. While they were talking the night fell, and then, to their surprise, wonderful colored lights began to shine in all directions, and splendid fireworks blazed out before them. All the forest was illuminated by them, and even felt pleasantly warm, though it had been bitterly cold before. This lasted until they reached the avenue of orange-trees, where were statues holding flaming torches, and when they got nearer to the palace they saw that it was illuminated from the roof to the ground, and music sounded softly from the court-yard. "The beast must be very hungry," said Beauty, trying to laugh, "if he makes all this rejoicing over the arrival of his prey." But in spite of her anxiety she could not help admiring all the wonderful things she saw. The horse stopped at the foot of the flight of steps leading to the terrace, and when they had dismounted her father led her to the little room he had been in before, where they found a splendid fire burning and the table daintily spread with a delicious supper. The merchant knew that this was meant for them, and Beauty, who was rather less frightened now that she had passed through so many rooms and seen nothing of the beast, was quite willing to begin, for her long ride had made her very hungry. But they had hardly finished their meal when the noise of the beast's footsteps was heard approaching, and Beauty clung to her father in terror, which became all the greater when she saw how frightened he was. But when the beast really appeared, though she trembled at the sight of him, she made a great effort to hide her horror and saluted him respectfully. This evidently pleased the beast. After looking at her he said, in a tone that might have struck terror into the boldest heart, though he did not seem to be angry: "Good-evening, old man. Good-evening, Beauty." The merchant was too terrified to reply, but Beauty answered sweetly: "Good-evening, beast." "Have you come willingly?" asked the beast. "Will you be content to stay here when your father goes away?" Beauty answered bravely that she was quite prepared to stay. "I am pleased with you," said the beast. "As you have come of your own accord, you may stay. As for you, old man," he added, turning to the merchant, "at sunrise to-morrow you will take your departure. When the bell rings get up quickly and eat your breakfast, and you will find the same horse waiting to take you home; but remember that you must never expect to see my palace again." Then turning to Beauty he said: "Take your father into the next room and help him to choose everything you think your brothers and sisters would like to have. You will find two traveling-trunks there; fill them as full as you can. It is only just that you should send them something very precious as a remembrance of yourself." Then he went away after saying, "Good-by, Beauty; good-by, old man"; and though Beauty was beginning to think with great dismay of her father's departure, she was afraid to disobey the beast's orders, and they went into the next room, which had shelves and cupboards all round it. They were greatly surprised at the riches it contained. There were splendid dresses fit for a queen, with all the ornaments that were to be worn with them; and when Beauty opened the cupboards she was quite dazzled by the gorgeous jewels that lay in heaps upon every shelf. After choosing a vast quantity, which she divided between her sisters--for she made a heap of the wonderful dresses for each of them--she opened the last chest, which was full of gold. "I think, father," she said, "that as the gold will be more useful to you we had better take out the other things again and fill the trunks with it." So they did this; but the more they put in the more room there seemed to be, and at last they put back all the jewels and dresses they had taken out, and Beauty even added as many more of the jewels as she could carry at once; and then the trunks were not too full, but they were so heavy that an elephant could not have carried them! "The beast was mocking us," cried the merchant. "He must have pretended to give us all these things, knowing that I could not carry them away." "Let us wait and see," answered Beauty. "I cannot believe that he meant to deceive us. All we can do is to fasten them up and leave them ready." So they did this and returned to the little room, where, to their astonishment, they found breakfast ready. The merchant ate his with a good appetite, as the beast's generosity made him believe that he might perhaps venture to come back soon and see Beauty. But she felt sure that her father was leaving her forever, so she was very sad when the bell rang sharply for the second time and warned them that the time had come for them to part. They went down into the court-yard, where two horses were waiting, one loaded with the two trunks, the other for him to ride. They were pawing the ground in their impatience to start, and, the merchant was forced to bid Beauty a hasty farewell; and as soon as he was mounted he went off at such a pace that she lost sight of him in an instant. Then Beauty began to cry and wandered back to her own room. But she soon found that she was very sleepy, and as she had nothing better to do she lay down and instantly fell asleep. And then she dreamed that she was walking by a brook bordered with trees and lamenting her sad fate, when a young prince, handsomer than anyone she had ever seen, and with a voice that went straight to her heart, came and said to her: "Ah, Beauty! you are not so unfortunate as you suppose. Here you will be rewarded for all you have suffered elsewhere. Your every wish shall be gratified. Only try to find me out, no matter how I may be disguised, as I love you dearly, and in making me happy you will find your own happiness. Be as true-hearted as you are beautiful, and we shall have nothing left to wish for." "What can I do, prince, to make you happy?" said Beauty. "Only be grateful," he answered, "and do not trust too much to your eyes. And above all, do not desert me until you have saved me from my cruel misery." After this she thought she found herself in a room with a stately and beautiful lady, who said to her: "Dear Beauty, try not to regret all you have left behind you, for you are destined to a better fate. Only do not let yourself be deceived by appearances." Beauty found her dreams so interesting that she was in no hurry to awake, but presently the clock roused her by calling her name softly twelve times, and then she got up and found her dressing-table set out with everything she could possibly want; and when her toilet was finished she found dinner was waiting in the room next to hers. But dinner does not take very long when you are all by yourself, and very soon she sat down cozily in the corner of a sofa and began to think about the charming prince she had seen in her dream. "He said I could make him happy," said Beauty to herself. "It seems, then, that this horrible beast keeps him a prisoner. How can I set him free? I wonder why they both told me not to trust to appearances. I don't understand it. But after all it is only a dream, so why should I trouble myself about it? I had better go and find something to do to amuse myself." So she got up and began to explore some of the many rooms of the palace. The first she entered was lined with mirrors, and Beauty saw herself reflected on every side, and thought she had never seen such a charming room. Then a bracelet which was hanging from a chandelier caught her eye, and on taking it down she was greatly surprised to find that it held a portrait of her unknown admirer, just as she had seen him in her dream. With great delight she slipped the bracelet on her arm and went on into a gallery of pictures, where she soon found a portrait of the same handsome prince, as large as life and so well painted that as she studied it he seemed to smile kindly at her. Tearing herself away from the portrait at last, she passed through into a room which contained every musical instrument under the sun, and here she amused herself for a long while in trying some of them and singing until she was tired. The next room was a library, and she saw everything she had ever wanted to read, as well as everything she had read, and it seemed to her that a whole lifetime would not be enough even to read the names of the books, there were so many. By this time it was growing dusk, and wax candles in diamond and ruby candlesticks were beginning to light themselves in every room. Beauty found her supper served just at the time she preferred to have it, but she did not see anyone or hear a sound, and though her father had warned her that she would be alone, she began to find it rather dull. But presently she heard the beast coming, and wondered tremblingly if he meant to eat her up now. However, as he did not seem at all ferocious, and only said gruffly, "Good-evening, Beauty," she answered cheerfully and managed to conceal her terror. Then the beast asked her how she had been amusing herself, and she told him all the rooms she had seen. Then he asked if she thought she could be happy in his palace, and Beauty answered that everything was so beautiful that she would be very hard to please if she could not be happy. And after about an hour's talk Beauty began to think that the beast was not nearly so terrible as she had supposed at first. Then he got up to leave her and said in his gruff voice: "Do you love me, Beauty? Will you marry me?" "Oh! what shall I say?" cried Beauty, for she was afraid to make the beast angry by refusing. "Say 'yes' or 'no' without fear," he replied. "Oh! no, beast," said Beauty hastily. "Since you will not, good-night, Beauty," he said. And she answered, "Good-night, beast," very glad to find that her refusal had not provoked him. And after he was gone she was very soon in bed and asleep and dreaming of her unknown prince. She thought he came and said to her: "Ah, Beauty! why are you so unkind to me? I fear I am fated to be unhappy for many a long day still." And then her dreams changed, but the charming prince figured in them all; and when morning came her first thought was to look at the portrait and see if it was really like him, and she found that it certainly was. This morning she decided to amuse herself in the garden, for the sun shone and all the fountains were playing; but she was astonished to find that every place was familiar to her, and presently she came to the brook where the myrtle trees were growing where she had first met the prince in her dream, and that made her think more than ever that he must be kept a prisoner by the beast. When she was tired she went back to the palace, and found a new room full of materials for every kind of work--ribbons to make into bows and silks to work into flowers. Then there was an aviary full of rare birds, which were so tame that they flew to Beauty as soon as they saw her and perched upon her shoulders and her head. "Pretty little creatures," she said, "how I wish that your cage was nearer to my room, that I might often hear you sing!" So saying she opened a door and found to her delight that it led into her own room, though she had thought it was quite the other side of the palace. There were more birds in a room further on, parrots and cockatoos that could talk, and they greeted Beauty by name. Indeed, she found them so entertaining that she took one or two back to her room, and they talked to her while she was at supper; after which the beast paid her his usual visit and asked the same questions as before, and then with a gruff "good-night" he took his departure, and Beauty went to bed to dream of her mysterious prince. The days passed swiftly in different amusements, and after a while Beauty found out another strange thing in the palace, which often pleased her when she was tired of being alone. There was one room which she had not noticed particularly. It was empty, except that under each of the windows stood a very comfortable chair, and the first time she had looked out of the window it had seemed to her that a black curtain prevented her from seeing anything outside. But the second time she went into the room, happening to be tired, she sat down in one of the chairs, and instantly the curtain was rolled aside and a most amusing pantomime was acted before her. There were dances, and colored lights, and music, and pretty dresses, and it was all so gay that Beauty was in ecstasies. After that she tried the other seven windows in turn, and there was some new and surprising entertainment to be seen from each of them, so that Beauty never could feel lonely any more. Every evening after supper the beast came to see her, and always before saying good-night asked her in his terrible voice: "Beauty, will you marry me?" And it seemed to Beauty, now she understood him better, that when she said, "No, beast," he went away quite sad. But her happy dreams of the handsome young prince soon made her forget the poor beast, and the only thing that at all disturbed her was to be constantly told to distrust appearances, to let her heart guide her, and not her eyes, and many other equally perplexing things, which, consider as she would, she could not understand. So everything went on for a long time, until at last, happy as she was, Beauty began to long for the sight of her father and her brothers and sisters; and one night, seeing her look very sad, the beast asked her what was the matter. Beauty had quite ceased to be afraid of him now she knew that he was really gentle in spite of his ferocious looks and his dreadful voice. So she answered that she was longing to see her home once more. Upon hearing this the beast seemed sadly distressed and cried miserably: "Ah! Beauty, have you the heart to desert an unhappy beast like this? What more do you want to make you happy? Is it because you hate me that you want to escape?" "No, dear beast," answered Beauty softly, "I do not hate you, and I should be very sorry never to see you any more, but I long to see my father again. Only let me go for two months, and I promise to come back to you and stay for the rest of my life." The beast, who had been sighing dolefully while she spoke, now replied: "I cannot refuse you anything you ask, even though it should cost me my life. Take the four boxes you will find in the room next to your own and fill them with everything you wish to take with you. But remember your promise and come back when the two months are over, or you may have cause to repent it, for if you do not come in good time you will find your faithful beast dead. You will not need any chariot to bring you back. Only say good-by to all your brothers and sisters the night before you come away, and when you have gone to bed turn this ring round upon your finger and say firmly: 'I wish to go back to my palace and see my beast again.' Good-night, Beauty. Fear nothing, sleep peacefully, and before long you shall see your father once more." As soon as Beauty was alone she hastened to fill the boxes with all the rare and precious things she saw about her, and only when she was tired of heaping things into them did they seem to be full. Then she went to bed, but could hardly sleep for joy. And when at last she did begin to dream of her beloved prince she was grieved to see him stretched upon a grassy bank, sad and weary and hardly like himself. "What is the matter?" she cried. But he looked at her reproachfully and said: "How can you ask me, cruel one? Are you not leaving me to my death perhaps?" "Ah, don't be so sorrowful!" cried Beauty. "I am only going to assure my father that I am safe and happy. I have promised the beast faithfully that I will come back, and he would die of grief if I did not keep my word!" "What would that matter to you?" said the prince. "Surely you would not care?" "Indeed I should be ungrateful if I did not care for such a kind beast," cried Beauty indignantly. "I would die to save him from pain. I assure you it is not his fault that he is so ugly." Just then a strange sound woke her--someone was speaking not very far away; and opening her eyes she found herself in a room she had never seen before, which was certainly not nearly so splendid as those she was used to in the beast's palace. Where could she be? She got up and dressed hastily, and then saw that the boxes she had packed the night before were all in the room. While she was wondering by what magic the beast had transported them and herself to this strange place she suddenly heard her father's voice, and rushed out and greeted him joyfully. Her brothers and sisters were all astonished at her appearance, as they had never expected to see her again, and there was no end to the questions they asked her. She had also much to hear about what had happened to them while she was away and of her father's journey home. But when they heard that she had only come to be with them for a short time, and then must go back to the beast's palace forever, they lamented loudly. Then Beauty asked her father what he thought could be the meaning of her strange dreams, and why the prince constantly begged her not to trust to appearances. After much consideration he answered: "You tell me yourself that the beast, frightful as he is, loves you dearly and deserves your love and gratitude for his gentleness and kindness. I think the prince must mean you to understand that you ought to reward him by doing as he wishes you to, in spite of his ugliness." Beauty could not help seeing that this seemed very probable. Still, when she thought of her dear prince who was so handsome, she did not feel at all inclined to marry the beast. At any rate, for two months she need not decide, but could enjoy herself with her sisters. But though they were rich now and lived in a town again and had plenty of acquaintances, Beauty found that nothing amused her very much; and she often thought of the palace where she was so happy, especially as at home she never once dreamed of her dear prince, and she felt quite sad without him. Then her sisters seemed to have got used to being without her, and even found her rather in the way, so she would not have been sorry when the two months were over but for her father and brothers, who begged her to stay and seemed so grieved at the thought of her departure that she had not the courage to say good-by to them. Every day when she got up she meant to say it at night, and when night came she put it off again, until at last she had a dismal dream which helped her to make up her mind. She thought she was wandering in a lonely path in the palace gardens, when she heard groans which seemed to come from some bushes hiding the entrance of a cave, and running quickly to see what could be the matter, she found the beast stretched out upon his side, apparently dying. He reproached her faintly with being the cause of his distress, and at the same moment a stately lady appeared and said very gravely: "Ah, Beauty! you are only just in time to save his life. See what happens when people do not keep their promises! If you had delayed one day more you would have found him dead." Beauty was so terrified by this dream that the next morning she announced her intention of going back at once, and that very night she said good-by to her father and all her brothers and sisters, and as soon as she was in bed she turned her ring round upon her finger and said firmly, "I wish to go back to my palace and see my beast again," as she had been told to do. Then she fell asleep instantly, and only woke up to hear the clock saying "Beauty, Beauty," twelve times in its musical voice, which told her at once that she was really in the palace once more. Everything was just as before, and her birds were so glad to see her; but Beauty thought she had never known such a long day, for she was so anxious to see the beast again that she felt as if supper time would never come. But when it did come and no beast appeared she was really frightened; so after listening and waiting for a long time she ran down into the garden to search for him. Up and down the paths and avenues ran poor Beauty, calling him in vain, for no one answered and not a trace of him could she find, until at last, quite tired, she stopped for a minute's rest and saw that she was standing opposite the shady path she had seen in her dream. She rushed down it, and, sure enough, there was the cave, and in it lay the beast--asleep, as Beauty thought. Quite glad to have found him, she ran up and stroked his head, but, to her horror, he did not move or open his eyes. "Oh! he is dead, and it is all my fault," said Beauty, crying bitterly. But then, looking at him again, she fancied he still breathed, and hastily fetching some water from the nearest fountain, she sprinkled it over his face, and to her great delight he began to revive. "Oh, beast! how you frightened me!" she cried. "I never knew how much I loved you until just now, when I feared I was too late to save your life." "Can you really love such an ugly creature as I am?" said the beast faintly. "Ah, Beauty! you only came just in time. I was dying because I thought you had forgotten your promise. But go back now and rest. I shall see you again by and by." Beauty, who had half expected that he would be angry with her, was reassured by his gentle voice and went back to the palace, where supper was awaiting her; and afterward the beast came in as usual and talked about the time she had spent with her father, asking if she had enjoyed herself and if they had all been very glad to see her. Beauty answered politely, and quite enjoyed telling him all that had happened to her. And when at last the time came for him to go, and he asked, as he had so often asked before, "Beauty, will you marry me?" she answered softly: "Yes, dear beast." As she spoke a blaze of light sprang up before the windows of the palace; fireworks crackled and guns banged, and across the avenue of orange trees, in letters all made of fireflies, was written: "Long live the prince and his bride." Turning to ask the beast what it could all mean, Beauty found that he had disappeared, and in his place stood her long-loved prince! At the same moment the wheels of a chariot were heard upon the terrace and two ladies entered the room. One of them Beauty recognized as the stately lady she had seen in her dreams; the other was also so grand and queenly that Beauty hardly knew which to greet first. But the one she already knew said to her companion: "Well, queen, this is Beauty, who has had the courage to rescue your son from the terrible enchantment. They love one another, and only your consent to their marriage is wanting to make them perfectly happy." "I consent with all my heart," cried the queen. "How can I ever thank you enough, charming girl, for having restored my dear son to his natural form?" And then she tenderly embraced Beauty and the prince, who had meanwhile been greeting the fairy and receiving her congratulations. "Now," said the fairy to Beauty, "I suppose you would like me to send for all your brothers and sisters to dance at your wedding?" And so she did, and the marriage was celebrated the very next day with the utmost splendor, and Beauty and the prince lived happily ever after. 168 Peter Asbjoernsen (1812-1885) and Jorgen Moe (1813-1882) were the first scientific collectors of the folk tales of Norway. Their joint interest in folk tales began when they were schoolboys wandering on foot through the country and listening to peasant stories. This interest continued after Moe had become a theologian and Asbjoernsen a noted scientist. The latter served the government as an expert connected with the survey and development of his country's natural resources. This resulted in taking him to all parts of the land, and he never lost an opportunity to hear and copy down any folk tale that he found surviving in the more isolated districts. In 1842-1844 appeared _Norwegian Folk Tales_ by Moe and Asbjoernsen; in 1845, _Norwegian Fairy Tales and Folk Legends_; and there were subsequent additions. The five tales following are from these Norse collections. They were first made accessible in English in Dasent's _Popular Tales from the Norse_ (1858). This book with its long introductory essay on the origin and diffusion of popular tales constitutes a landmark in the study of folklore. It and Dasent's later volume, _Tales from the Fjeld_, are still, perhaps, the best sources for versions of the Norse popular tales. "Why the Bear Is Stumpy-tailed" belongs to the class of stories which explain how things happened to be as they are. It is of great antiquity and is found over most of the world. The greatest of all modern nature fairy tales, Kipling's _Just So Stories_, are of a similar type, though told at greater length and, of course, with infinitely greater art. WHY THE BEAR IS STUMPY-TAILED One day the Bear met the Fox, who came slinking along with a string of fish he had stolen. "Whence did you get those?" asked the Bear. "Oh! my Lord Bruin, I've been out fishing and caught them," said the Fox. So the Bear had a mind to learn to fish too, and bade the Fox tell him how he was to set about it. "Oh! it's an easy craft for you," answered the Fox, "and soon learnt. You've only got to go upon the ice, and cut a hole and stick your tail down into it; and so you must go on holding it there as long as you can. You're not to mind if your tail smarts a little; that's when the fish bite. The longer you hold it there the more fish you'll get; and then all at once out with it, with a cross pull sideways, and with a strong pull too." Yes; the Bear did as the Fox had said, and held his tail a long, long time down in the hole, till it was fast frozen in. Then he pulled it out with a cross pull, and it snapped short off. That's why Bruin goes about with a stumpy tail this very day. 169 The following is from Dasent's _Popular Tales from the Norse_ and has long been a favorite with the younger children by reason of its remarkable compactness and its strong accumulative force. The Troll of northern stories is the Ogre of those farther south. The story has a closing formula which may often have been used for other stories as well. (For an opening verse formula see the note on "The Story of the Three Little Pigs," No. 151.) THE THREE BILLY-GOATS GRUFF Once on a time there were three Billy-goats who were to go up to the hillside to make themselves fat, and the name of all the three was "Gruff." On the way up was a bridge over a burn they had to cross; and under the bridge lived a great ugly Troll, with eyes as big as saucers and a nose as long as a poker. So first of all came the youngest billy-goat Gruff to cross the bridge. "Trip, trap; trip, trap!" went the bridge. "WHO'S THAT tripping over my bridge?" roared the Troll. "Oh! it is only I, the tiniest billy-goat Gruff; and I'm going up to the hill-side to make myself fat," said the billy-goat, with such a small voice. "Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," said the Troll. "Oh, no! pray don't take me. I'm too little, that I am," said the billy-goat. "Wait a bit till the second billy-goat Gruff comes; he's much bigger." "Well! be off with you," said the Troll. A little while after came the second billy-goat Gruff to cross the bridge. "TRIP, TRAP! TRIP, TRAP! TRIP, TRAP!" went the bridge. "WHO'S THAT tripping over my bridge?" roared the Troll. "Oh! it's the second billy-goat Gruff, and I'm going up to the hill-side to make myself fat," said the billy-goat, who hadn't such a small voice. "Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," said the Troll. "Oh, no! don't take me. Wait a little till the big billy-goat Gruff comes; he's much bigger." "Very well! be off with you," said the Troll. But just then up came the big billy-goat Gruff. "TRIP, TRAP! TRIP, TRAP! TRIP, TRAP!" went the bridge, for the billy-goat was so heavy that the bridge creaked and groaned under him. "WHO'S THAT tramping over my bridge?" roared the Troll. "It's I! THE BIG BILLY-GOAT GRUFF," said the billy-goat, who had an ugly hoarse voice of his own. "Now, I'm coming to gobble you up," roared the Troll. "Well, come along! I've got two spears, And I'll poke your eyeballs out at your ears; I've got besides two curling-stones, And I'll crush you to bits, body and bones." That was what the big billy-goat said; and so he flew at the Troll and poked his eyes out with his horns, and crushed him to bits, body and bones, and tossed him out into the burn, and after that he went up to the hill-side. There the billy-goats got so fat they were scarce able to walk home again; and if the fat hasn't fallen off them, why they're still fat; and so,-- "Snip, snap, snout, This tale's told out." 170 The following droll seems to indicate that the folk had a strain of satirical humor which they could use with fine effect. The translation is that of Dasent's _Popular Tales from the Norse_. (An old English verse form of the same story will be found in No. 146.) The old proverb about the shoemaker sticking to his last is sure to come to mind as one reads, but it seems to lose force when we notice that the "goody" has no trouble with the mowing, while the good "man" has much with the housework! THE HUSBAND WHO WAS TO MIND THE HOUSE Once on a time there was a man so surly and cross he never thought his wife did anything right in the house. So one evening in hay-making time he came home scolding and swearing and showing his teeth and making a dust. "Dear love, don't be so angry; there's a good man," said his goody; "to-morrow let's change our work. I'll go out with the mowers and mow, and you shall mind the house at home." Yes! the husband thought that would do very well. He was quite willing, he said. So, early next morning, his goody took a scythe over her neck and went out into the hay-field with the mowers and began to mow; but the man was to mind the house, and do the work at home. First of all, he wanted to churn the butter; but when he had churned a while, he got thirsty, and went down to the cellar to tap a barrel of ale. So, just when he had knocked in the bung, and was putting the tap into the cask, he heard overhead the pig come into the kitchen. Then off he ran up the cellar steps, with the tap in his hand, as fast as he could, to look after the pig lest it should upset the churn; but when he got up, and saw the pig had already knocked the churn over, and stood there, rooting and grunting amongst the cream which was running all over the floor, he got so wild with rage that he quite forgot the ale-barrel, and ran at the pig as hard as he could. He caught it, too, just as it ran out of doors, and gave it such a kick that piggy lay for dead on the spot. Then all at once he remembered he had the tap in his hand; but when he got down to the cellar, every drop of ale had run out of the cask. Then he went into the dairy and found enough cream left to fill the churn again, and so he began to churn, for butter they must have at dinner. When he had churned a bit, he remembered that their milking cow was still shut up in the byre, and hadn't had a bit to eat or a drop to drink all the morning, though the sun was high. Then all at once he thought 'twas too far to take her down to the meadow, so he'd just get her up on the house-top--for the house, you must know, was thatched with sods, and a fine crop of grass was growing there. Now their house lay close up against a steep down, and he thought if he laid a plank across to the thatch at the back he'd easily get the cow up. But still he couldn't leave the churn, for there was his little babe crawling about on the floor, and "if I leave it," he thought, "the child is safe to upset it." So he took the churn on his back, and went out with it; but then he thought he'd better first water the cow before he turned her out on the thatch; so he took up a bucket to draw water out of the well; but, as he stooped down at the well's brink, all the cream ran out of the churn over his shoulders, and so down into the well. Now it was near dinner-time, and he hadn't even got the butter yet; so he thought he'd best boil the porridge, and filled the pot with water and hung it over the fire. When he had done that, he thought the cow might perhaps fall off the thatch and break her legs or her neck. So he got up on the house to tie her up. One end of the rope he made fast to the cow's neck, and the other he slipped down the chimney and tied round his own thigh; and he had to make haste, for the water now began to boil in the pot, and he had still to grind the oatmeal. So he began to grind away; but while he was hard at it, down fell the cow off the house-top after all, and as she fell, she dragged the man up the chimney by the rope. There he stuck fast; and as for the cow, she hung half way down the wall, swinging between heaven and earth, for she could neither get down nor up. And now the goody had waited seven lengths and seven breadths for her husband to come and call them home to dinner; but never a call they had. At last she thought she'd waited long enough, and went home. But when she got there and saw the cow hanging in such an ugly place, she ran up and cut the rope in two with her scythe. But as she did this, down came her husband out of the chimney; and so when his old dame came inside the kitchen, there she found him standing on his head in the porridge pot. 171 The artistic qualities of "Boots and His Brothers," from Dasent's _Popular Tales from the Norse_, will impress every reader or listener. It belongs to that very numerous group of stories dealing with the success of the youngest child in the face of opposition, mistreatment, or lack of sympathy from others of his family. "John was Boots, of course, because he was the youngest"; which means that it was the rule to give the most menial tasks about the house to the youngest. But John had the saving trait of always "wondering" about things, which led him to find out what would always be hidden from his more stupid and less imaginative brothers. BOOTS AND HIS BROTHERS Once on a time there was a man who had three sons, Peter, Paul, and John. John was Boots, of course, because he was the youngest. I can't say the man had anything more than these three sons, for he hadn't one penny to rub against another; and so he told his sons over and over again they must go out into the world and try to earn their bread, for there at home there was nothing to be looked for but starving to death. Now, a bit off the man's cottage was the King's palace, and you must know, just against the King's windows a great oak had sprung up, which was so stout and big that it took away all the light from the King's palace. The King had said he would give many, many dollars to the man who could fell the oak, but no one was man enough for that, for as soon as ever one chip of the oak's trunk flew off, two grew in its stead. A well, too, the King would have dug, which was to hold water for the whole year; for all his neighbors had wells, but he hadn't any, and that he thought a shame. So the King said he would give any one who could dig him such a well as would hold water for a whole year round, both money and goods; but no one could do it, for the King's palace lay high, high up on a hill, and they hadn't dug a few inches before they came upon the living rock. But as the King had set his heart on having these two things done, he had it given out far and wide, in all the churches of his kingdom, that he who could fell the big oak in the king's court-yard, and get him a well that would hold water the whole year round, should have the Princess and half the kingdom. Well! you may easily know there was many a man who came to try his luck; but for all their hacking and hewing, and all their digging and delving, it was no good. The oak got bigger and stouter at every stroke, and the rock didn't get softer either. So one day those three brothers thought they'd set off and try too, and their father hadn't a word against it; for even if they didn't get the Princess and half the kingdom, it might happen they might get a place somewhere with a good master; and that was all he wanted. So when the brothers said they thought of going to the palace, their father said "yes" at once. So Peter, Paul, and Jack went off from their home. Well! they hadn't gone far before they came to a fir wood, and up along one side of it rose a steep hillside, and as they went, they heard something hewing and hacking away up on the hill among the trees. "I wonder now what it is that is hewing away up yonder?" said Jack. "You're always so clever with your wonderings," said Peter and Paul both at once. "What wonder is it, pray, that a woodcutter should stand and hack up on a hillside?" "Still, I'd like to see what it is, after all," said Jack; and up he went. "Oh, if you're such a child, 'twill do you good to go and take a lesson," bawled out his brothers after him. But Jack didn't care for what they said; he climbed the steep hillside towards where the noise came, and when he reached the place, what do you think he saw? Why, an axe that stood there hacking and hewing, all of itself, at the trunk of a fir. "Good day!" said Jack. "So you stand here all alone and hew, do you?" "Yes; here I've stood and hewed and hacked a long, long time, waiting for you," said the Axe. "Well, here I am at last," said Jack, as he took the axe, pulled it off its haft, and stuffed both head and haft into his wallet. So when he got down again to his brothers, they began to jeer and laugh at him. "And now, what funny thing was it you saw up yonder on the hillside?" they said. "Oh, it was only an axe we heard," said Jack. So when they had gone a bit farther, they came under a steep spur of rock, and up there they heard something digging and shoveling. "I wonder now," said Jack, "what it is digging and shoveling up yonder at the top of the rock!" "Ah, you're always so clever with your wonderings," said Peter and Paul again, "as if you'd never heard a woodpecker hacking and pecking at a hollow tree." "Well, well," said Jack, "I think it would be a piece of fun just to see what it really is." And so off he set to climb the rock, while the others laughed and made game of him. But he didn't care a bit for that; up he climbed, and when he got near the top, what do you think he saw? Why, a spade that stood there digging and delving. "Good day!" said Jack. "So you stand here all alone, and dig and delve!" "Yes, that's what I do," said the Spade, "and that's what I've done this many a long day, waiting for you." "Well, here I am," said Jack again, as he took the spade and knocked it off its handle, and put it into his wallet, and then down again to his brothers. "Well, what was it, so rare and strange," said Peter and Paul, "that you saw up there at the top of the rock?" "Oh," said Jack, "nothing more than a spade; that was what we heard." So they went on again a good bit, till they came to a brook. They were thirsty, all three, after their long walk, and so they lay down beside the brook to have a drink. "I wonder now," said Jack, "where all this water comes from!" "I wonder if you're right in your head," said Peter and Paul, in one breath. "If you're not mad already, you'll go mad very soon, with your wonderings. Where the brook comes from, indeed! Have you never heard how water rises from a spring in the earth?" "Yes! but still I've a great fancy to see where this brook comes from," said Jack. So up alongside the brook he went, in spite of all that his brothers bawled after him. Nothing could stop him. On he went. So, as he went up and up, the brook got smaller and smaller, and at last, a little way farther on, what do you think he saw? Why, a great walnut, and out of that the water trickled. "Good day!" said Jack again. "So you lie here, and trickle and run down all alone?" "Yes, I do," said the Walnut, "and here have I trickled and run this many a long day, waiting for you." "Well, here I am," said Jack, as he took up a lump of moss, and plugged up the hole, that the water mightn't run out. Then he put the walnut into his wallet, and ran down to his brothers. "Well, now," said Peter and Paul, "have you found out where the water comes from? A rare sight it must have been!" "Oh, after all, it was only a hole it ran out of," said Jack; and so the others laughed and made game of him again, but Jack didn't mind that a bit. "After all, I had the fun of seeing it," said he. So when they had gone a bit farther, they came to the King's palace; but as every one in the kingdom had heard how they might win the Princess and half the realm, if they could only fell the big oak and dig the King's well, so many had come to try their luck that the oak was now twice as stout and big as it had been at first, for two chips grew for every one they hewed out with their axes, as I dare say you all bear in mind. So the King had now laid it down as a punishment, that if any one tried and couldn't fell the oak, he should be put on a barren island, and both his ears were to be clipped off. But the two brothers didn't let themselves be scared by that; they were quite sure they could fell the oak, and Peter, as he was eldest, was to try his hand first; but it went with him as with all the rest who had hewn at the oak; for every chip he cut out, two grew in its place. So the King's men seized him, and clipped off both his ears, and put him out on the island. Now Paul, he was to try his luck, but he fared just the same; when he had hewn two or three strokes, they began to see the oak grow, and so the King's men seized him too, and clipped his ears, and put him out on the island; and his ears they clipped closer, because they said he ought to have taken a lesson from his brother. So now Jack was to try. "If you _will_ look like a marked sheep, we're quite ready to clip your ears at once, and then you'll save yourself some bother," said the King, for he was angry with him for his brothers' sake. "Well, I'd like just to try first," said Jack, and so he got leave. Then he took his axe out of his wallet and fitted it to its haft. "Hew away!" said he to his axe; and away it hewed, making the chips fly again, so that it wasn't long before down came the oak. When that was done, Jack pulled out his spade, and fitted it to its handle. "Dig away!" said he to the spade; and so the spade began to dig and delve till the earth and rock flew out in splinters, and so he had the well soon dug out, you may think. And when he had got it as big and deep as he chose, Jack took out his walnut and laid it in one corner of the well, and pulled the plug of moss out. "Trickle and run," said Jack; and so the nut trickled and ran, till the water gushed out of the hole in a stream, and in a short time the well was brimful. Then Jack had felled the oak which shaded the King's palace, and dug a well in the palace-yard, and so he got the Princess and half the kingdom, as the King had said; but it was lucky for Peter and Paul that they had lost their ears, else they had heard each hour and day how every one said, "Well, after all, Jack wasn't so much out of his mind when he took to wondering." 172 For the next story from the Norse group the translation by H. L. Braekstad is used. It is better known under the more familiar title of the Dasent version, "Why the Sea Is Salt." Braekstad's translation of the Asbjoernsen and Moe stories, illustrated by Norwegian artists, appeared in two volumes called _Round the Yule Log_ and _Fairy Tales from the North_. The story of the magic hand-mill is the story of how an evil brother violated the Christmas spirit and how his curse was turned into good fortune for his better-disposed relative. The naive idea of the common folk as to the devil's home is especially interesting, as is the acceptance of the fact that a Christmas celebration includes a fine open fire of wood, even in a place of unusual warmth. But perhaps we should remember that in Norse mythology the evil place would be associated with intense cold. Of more importance, however, is the fact that the magic quern brings not good but disaster to those who try to use it in the service of greed. THE QUERN AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA Once upon a time in the old, old days there were two brothers, one of whom was rich and the other poor. When Christmas Eve came the poor brother had not a morsel in the house, neither of meat nor bread; and so he went to his rich brother and asked for a trifle for Christmas, in heaven's name. It was not the first time the brother had helped him, but he was always very close-fisted, and was not particularly glad to see him this time. "If you'll do what I tell you, you shall have a whole ham," he said. The poor brother promised he would, and was very grateful into the bargain. "There it is, and now go to the devil!" said the rich brother, and threw the ham across to him. "Well, what I have promised I must keep," said the other one. He took the ham, and set out. He walked and walked the whole day, and as it was getting dark he came to a place where the lights were shining brightly. "This is most likely the place," thought the man with the ham. In the woodshed stood an old man with a long white beard, cutting fire-wood for Christmas. "Good evening," said he with the ham. "Good evening to you," said the man. "Where are you going so late?" "I am going to the devil--that is to say, if I am on the right way," answered the poor man. "Yes, you are quite right; this is his place," said the old man. "When you get in, they will all want to buy your ham, for ham is scarce food here; but you must not sell it unless you get the hand-quern, which stands just behind the door. When you come out again, I'll teach you how to use it. You will find it useful in many ways." The man with the ham thanked him for all the information, and knocked at the door. When he got in, it happened just as the old man had said. All the imps, both big and small, flocked around him like ants in a field, and the one outbid the other for the ham. "Well," said the man, "my good woman and I were to have it for Christmas Eve, but since you want it so badly I will let you have it. But if I am going to part with it, I want that hand-quern which stands behind the door." The devil did not like to part with it, and higgled and haggled with the man, but he stuck to what he had said, and in the end the devil had to part with the quern. When the man came out, he asked the old wood-cutter how he was to use the quern, and when he had learned this, he thanked the old man and set out homewards as quickly as he could; but after all he did not get home till the clock struck twelve on Christmas Eve. "Where in all the world have you been?" said his wife. "Here have I been sitting, hour after hour, waiting and watching for you, and have not had as much as two chips to lay under the porridge pot." "Well, I couldn't get back before," said the man. "I have had a good many things to look after, and I've had a long way to walk as well; but now I'll show you something," said he, and put the quern on the table. He asked it first to grind candles, then a cloth, and then food and beer, and everything else that was good for Christmas cheer; and as he spoke the quern brought them forth. The woman crossed herself time after time and wanted to know where her husband had got the quern from; but this he would not tell her. "It does not matter where I got it from; you see the quern is good and the mill stream is not likely to freeze," said the man. So he ground food and drink and all good things during Christmas; and the third day he invited his friends, as he wanted to give them a feast. When the rich brother saw all that was in the house, he became both angry and furious, for he begrudged his brother everything. "On Christmas Eve he was so needy that he came to me and asked for a trifle in heaven's name; and now he gives a feast, as if he were both a count and a king," said the brother. "Where did you get all your riches from?" he said to his brother. "From just behind the door," he answered, for he did not care to tell his brother much about it. But later in the evening, when he had drunk a little freely, he could no longer resist, but brought out the quern. "There you see that which has brought me all my riches," he said, and so he let the quern grind first one thing and then another. When the brother saw this, he was determined to have the quern at all cost, and at last it was settled he should have it, but three hundred dollars was to be the price of it. The brother was, however, to keep it till the harvest began; "for if I keep it so long, I can grind out food for many years to come," he thought. During that time you may be sure the quern did not rust, and when the harvest began the rich brother got it; but the other had taken great care not to show him how to use it. It was evening when the rich brother got the quern home, and in the morning he asked his wife to go out and help the haymakers; he would get the breakfast ready himself to-day, he said. When it was near breakfast time he put the quern on the breakfast table. "Grind herrings and broth, and do it quickly and well," said the man, and the quern began to bring forth herrings and broth, and filled first all the dishes and tubs, and afterwards began flooding the whole kitchen. The man fiddled and fumbled and tried to stop the quern, but however much he twisted and fingered it, the quern went on grinding, and in a little while the broth reached so high that the man was very near drowning. He then pulled open the parlor door, but it was not long before the quern had filled the parlor also, and it was just in the very nick of time that the man put his hand down into the broth and got hold of the latch, and when he had got the door open, he was soon out of the parlor, you may be sure. He rushed out, and the herrings and the broth came pouring out after him, like a stream, down the fields and meadows. The wife, who was out haymaking, now thought it took too long a time to get the breakfast ready. "If my husband doesn't call us soon, we must go home whether or no: I don't suppose he knows much about making broth, so I must go and help him," said the wife to the haymakers. They began walking homewards, but when they had got a bit up the hill they met the stream of broth with the herrings tossing about in it and the man himself running in front of it all. "I wish all of you had a hundred stomachs each!" shouted the man; "but take care you don't get drowned." And he rushed past them as if the Evil One was at his heels, down to where his brother lived. He asked him for heaven's sake to take back the quern, and that at once. "If it goes on grinding another hour the whole parish will perish in broth and herrings," he said. But the brother would not take it back on any account before his brother had paid him three hundred dollars more, and this he had to do. The poor brother now had plenty of money, and before long he bought a farm much grander than the one on which his rich brother lived, and with the quern he ground so much gold that he covered the farmstead with gold plates and, as it lay close to the shore, it glittered and shone far out at sea. All those who sailed past wanted to call and visit the rich man in the golden house, and everybody wanted to see the wonderful quern, for its fame had spread both far and wide, and there was no one who had not heard it spoken of. After a long while there came a skipper who wanted to see the quern; he asked if it could grind salt. Yes, that it could, said he who owned it; and when the skipper heard this he wanted the quern by hook or by crook, cost what it might, for if he had it he thought he need not sail far away across dangerous seas for cargoes of salt. At first the man did not want to part with it, but the skipper both begged and prayed, and at last he sold it and got many, many thousand dollars for it. As soon as the skipper had got the quern on his back he did not stop long, for he was afraid the man would change his mind, and as for asking how to use it, he had no time to do that; he made for his ship as quickly as he could, and when he had got out to sea a bit he had the quern brought up on deck. "Grind salt, and that both quickly and well," said the skipper, and the quern began to grind out salt so that it spurted to all sides. When the skipper had got the ship filled he wanted to stop the quern, but however much he tried and whatever he did the quern went on grinding, and the mound of salt grew higher and higher, and at last the ship sank. There at the bottom of the sea stands the quern grinding till this very day, and that is the reason why the sea is salt. 173 The next seven stories are from the best known of all collections of folk tales, the _Kinder und Hausmaerchen_ (1812-1815) of the brothers Jacob Grimm (1785-1863) and Wilhelm Grimm (1786-1859). They worked together as scholarly investigators in the field of philology. The world is indebted to them for the creation of the science of folklore. Other writers, such as Perrault, had published collections of folklore, but these two brothers were the first to collect, classify, and publish folk tales in a scientific way. With the trained judgment of scholars they excluded from the stories all details that seemed new or foreign, and put them as nearly as possible into the form in which they had been told by the folk. These _Household Tales_ were first made accessible in English in the translation of Edgar Taylor, published in two volumes in 1823 and 1826, and revised in 1837. There have been later translations, notably the complete one by Margaret Hunt in 1884, but the Taylor version has been the main source of the popular retellings for nearly a hundred years. It included only about fifty of the two hundred tales, and was illustrated by the famous artist George Cruikshank. An edition including all the Taylor translations and the original etchings was issued in 1868 with an introduction by John Ruskin. It is still reprinted under the title, _Grimm's Popular Stories_. "The Traveling Musicians" is from the Taylor translation. It is sometimes called "The Bremen Town Musicians," or simply "The Town Musicians." The story is widespread, showing its great popularity. Jacobs finds "the fullest and most dramatic form" in the Irish "Jack and His Comrades," which he includes in his _Celtic Fairy Tales_. Jacobs also gives an English version by way of America, "How Jack Sought His Fortune," in his _English Fairy Tales_. The successful outcome for these distressed and deserving poor adventurers appeals as a fine stroke of poetic justice. THE TRAVELING MUSICIANS An honest farmer had once an ass that had been a faithful servant to him a great many years, but was now growing old and every day more and more unfit for work. His master therefore was tired of keeping him and began to think of putting an end to him; but the ass, who saw that some mischief was in the wind, took himself slyly off and began his journey towards the great city, "for there," thought he, "I may turn musician." After he had traveled a little way, he spied a dog lying by the road-side and panting as if he were very tired. "What makes you pant so, my friend?" said the ass. "Alas!" said the dog, "my master was going to knock me on the head because I am old and weak and can no longer make myself useful to him in hunting; so I ran away: but what can I do to earn my livelihood?" "Hark ye!" said the ass, "I am going to the great city to turn musician: suppose you go with me and try what you can do in the same way?" The dog said he was willing, and they jogged on together. Before they had gone far, they saw a cat sitting in the middle of the road and making a most rueful face. "Pray, my good lady," said the ass, "what's the matter with you? You look quite out of spirits!" "Ah, me!" said the cat, "how can one be in good spirits when one's life is in danger? Because I am beginning to grow old and had rather lie at my ease by the fire than run about the house after the mice, my mistress laid hold of me and was going to drown me; and though I have been lucky enough to get away from her, I do not know what I am to live upon." "Oh!" said the ass, "by all means go with us to the great city. You are a good night-singer and may make your fortune as a musician." The cat was pleased with the thought and joined the party. Soon afterwards, as they were passing by a farmyard, they saw a cock perched upon a gate, screaming out with all his might and main. "Bravo!" said the ass; "upon my word you make a famous noise; pray what is all this about?" "Why," said the cock, "I was just now saying that we should have fine weather for our washing-day, and yet my mistress and the cook don't thank me for my pains, but threaten to cut off my head tomorrow and make broth of me for the guests that are coming on Sunday." "Heaven forbid!" said the ass; "come with us, Master Chanticleer; it will be better, at any rate, than staying here to have your head cut off! Besides, who knows? If we take care to sing in tune, we may get up some kind of a concert: so come along with us." "With all my heart," said the cock: so they all four went on jollily together. They could not, however, reach the great city the first day: so when night came on they went into a wood to sleep. The ass and the dog laid themselves down under a great tree, and the cat climbed up into the branches; while the cock, thinking that the higher he sat the safer he should be, flew up to the very top of the tree, and then, according to his custom, before he went to sleep, looked out on all sides of him to see that everything was well. In doing this, he saw afar off something bright and shining; and calling to his companions said, "There must be a house no great way off, for I see a light." "If that be the case," said the ass, "we had better change our quarters, for our lodging is not the best in the world!" "Besides," added the dog, "I should not be the worse for a bone or two, or a bit of meat." So they walked off together towards the spot where Chanticleer had seen the light; and as they drew near, it became larger and brighter, till they at last came close to a house in which a gang of robbers lived. The ass, being the tallest of the company, marched up to the window and peeped in. "Well, Donkey," said Chanticleer, "what do you see?" "What do I see?" replied the ass, "why I see a table spread with all kinds of good things, and robbers sitting round it making merry." "That would be a noble lodging for us," said the cock. "Yes," said the ass, "if we could only get in": so they consulted together how they should contrive to get the robbers out; and at last they hit upon a plan. The ass placed himself upright on his hind-legs, with his fore-feet resting against the window; the dog got upon his back; the cat scrambled up to the dog's shoulders, and the cock flew up and sat upon the cat's head. When all was ready, a signal was given, and they began their music. The ass brayed, the dog barked, the cat mewed, and the cock screamed; and then they all broke through the window at once and came tumbling into the room, amongst the broken glass, with a most hideous clatter! The robbers, who had been not a little frightened by the opening concert, had now no doubt that some frightful hobgoblin had broken in upon them, and scampered away as fast as they could. The coast once clear, our travelers soon sat down and dispatched what the robbers had left, with as much eagerness as if they had not expected to eat again for a month. As soon as they had satisfied themselves, they put out the lights and each once more sought out a resting-place to his own liking. The donkey laid himself down upon a heap of straw in the yard; the dog stretched himself upon a mat behind the door; the cat rolled herself up on the hearth before the warm ashes; and the cock perched upon a beam on the top of the house; and, as they were all rather tired with their journey, they soon fell asleep. But about midnight, when the robbers saw from afar that the lights were out and that all seemed quiet, they began to think that they had been in too great a hurry to run away; and one of them, who was bolder than the rest, went to see what was going on. Finding everything still, he marched into the kitchen and groped about till he found a match in order to light a candle; and then, espying the glittering fiery eyes of the cat, he mistook them for live coals and held the match to them to light it. But the cat, not understanding this joke, sprung at his face, and spit, and scratched at him. This frightened him dreadfully, and away he ran to the back door; but there the dog jumped up and bit him in the leg; and as he was crossing over the yard the ass kicked him; and the cock, who had been awakened by the noise, crowed with all his might. At this the robber ran back as fast as he could to his comrades and told the captain "how a horrid witch had got into the house, and had spit at him and scratched his face with her long bony fingers; how a man with a knife in his hand had hidden himself behind the door and stabbed him in the leg; how a black monster stood in the yard and struck him with a club, and how the devil sat upon the top of the house and cried out, 'Throw the rascal up here!'" After this the robbers never dared to go back to the house; but the musicians were so pleased with their quarters that they took up their abode there; and there they are, I dare say, at this very day. 174 The Taylor translation of Grimm is used for "The Blue Light." This tale contains several of the elements most popular in children's stories. There is merit in distress, an old witch, the magic blue light, the little black dwarf, and the exceeding great reward at the end. From this very story or some variant of it Hans Christian Andersen must have drawn the inspiration for "The Tinder Box" (No. 196). THE BLUE LIGHT A soldier had served a king his master many years, till at last he was turned off without pay or reward. How he should get his living he did not know; so he set out and journeyed homeward all day in a very downcast mood, until in the evening he came to the edge of a deep wood. The road leading that way, he pushed forward; but before he had gone far, he saw a light glimmering through the trees, towards which he bent his weary steps; and soon he came to a hut where no one lived but an old witch. The poor fellow begged for a night's lodging and something to eat and drink; but she would listen to nothing. However, he was not easily got rid of; and at last she said, "I think I will take pity on you this once; but if I do, you must dig over all my garden for me in the morning." The soldier agreed very willingly to anything she asked, and he became her guest. The next day he kept his word and dug the garden very neatly. The job lasted all day; and in the evening, when his mistress would have sent him away, he said, "I am so tired with my work that I must beg you to let me stay over the night." The old lady vowed at first she would not do any such thing; but after a great deal of talk he carried his point, agreeing to chop up a whole cart-load of wood for her the next day. This task too was duly ended; but not till towards night, and then he found himself so tired that he begged a third night's rest; and this too was given, but only on his pledging his word that he next day would fetch the witch the blue light that burnt at the bottom of the well. When morning came she led him to the well's mouth, tied him to a long rope, and let him down. At the bottom sure enough he found the blue light as the witch had said, and at once made the signal for her to draw him up again. But when she had pulled him up so near to the top that she could reach him with her hands, she said, "Give me the light: I will take care of it,"--meaning to play him a trick by taking it for herself and letting him fall again to the bottom of the well. But the soldier saw through her wicked thoughts, and said, "No, I shall not give you the light till I find myself safe and sound out of the well." At this she became very angry and dashed him, with the light she had longed for many a year, down to the bottom. And there lay the poor soldier for a while in despair, on the damp mud below, and feared that his end was nigh. But his pipe happened to be in his pocket still half full, and he thought to himself, "I may as well make an end of smoking you out; it is the last pleasure I shall have in this world." So he lit it at the blue light and began to smoke. Up rose a cloud of smoke, and on a sudden a little black dwarf was seen making his way through the midst of it. "What do you want with me, soldier?" said he. "I have no business with you," answered he. But the dwarf said, "I am bound to serve you in every thing, as lord and master of the blue light." "Then first of all, be so good as to help me out of this well." No sooner said than done: the dwarf took him by the hand and drew him up, and the blue light of course with him. "Now do me another piece of kindness," said the soldier: "pray let that old lady take my place in the well." When the dwarf had done this, and lodged the witch safely at the bottom, they began to ransack her treasures; and the soldier made bold to carry off as much of her gold and silver as he well could. Then the dwarf said, "If you should chance at any time to want me, you have nothing to do but to light your pipe at the blue light, and I will soon be with you." The soldier was not a little pleased at his good luck, and went to the best inn in the first town he came to and ordered some fine clothes to be made and a handsome room to be got ready for him. When all was ready, he called his little man to him and said, "The king sent me away penniless and left me to hunger and want. I have a mind to show him that it is my turn to be master now; so bring me his daughter here this evening, that she may wait upon me and do what I bid her." "That is rather a dangerous task," said the dwarf. But away he went, took the princess out of her bed, fast asleep as she was, and brought her to the soldier. Very early in the morning he carried her back; and as soon as she saw her father, she said, "I had a strange dream last night. I thought I was carried away through the air to a soldier's house, and there I waited upon him as his servant." Then the king wondered greatly at such a story; but told her to make a hole in her pocket and fill it with peas, so that if it were really as she said, and the whole was not a dream, the peas might fall out in the streets as she passed through, and leave a clue to tell whither she had been taken. She did so; but the dwarf had heard the king's plot; and when evening came, and the soldier said he must bring him the princess again, he strewed peas over several of the streets, so that the few that fell from her pocket were not known from the others; and the people amused themselves all the next day picking up peas and wondering where so many came from. When the princess told her father what had happened to her the second time, he said, "Take one of your shoes with you and hide it in the room you are taken to." The dwarf heard this also; and when the soldier told him to bring the king's daughter again, he said, "I cannot save you this time; it will be an unlucky thing for you if you are found out--as I think you will." But the soldier would have his own way. "Then you must take care and make the best of your way out of the city gate very early in the morning," said the dwarf. The princess kept one shoe on as her father bid her, and hid it in the soldier's room; and when she got back to her father, he ordered it to be sought for all over the town; and at last it was found where she had hid it. The soldier had run away, it is true; but he had been too slow and was soon caught and thrown into a strong prison and loaded with chains. What was worse, in the hurry of his flight, he had left behind him his great treasure, the blue light, and all his gold, and had nothing left in his pocket but one poor ducat. As he was standing very sorrowful at the prison grating, he saw one of his comrades, and calling out to him said, "If you will bring me a little bundle I left in the inn, I will give you a ducat." His comrade thought this very good pay for such a job; so he went away and soon came back bringing the blue light and the gold. Then the prisoner soon lit his pipe. Up rose the smoke, and with it came his old friend, the little dwarf. "Do not fear, master," said he: "keep up your heart at your trial and leave everything to take its course;--only mind to take the blue light with you." The trial soon came on; the matter was sifted to the bottom; the prisoner found guilty, and his doom passed:--he was ordered to be hanged forthwith on the gallows-tree. But as he was led out, he said he had one favor to beg of the king. "What is it?" said his majesty. "That you will deign to let me smoke one pipe on the road." "Two, if you like," said the king. Then he lit his pipe at the blue light, and the black dwarf was before him in a moment. "Be so good as to kill, slay, or put to flight all these people," said the soldier: "and as for the king, you may cut him into three pieces." Then the dwarf began to lay about him, and soon got rid of the crowd around: but the king begged hard for mercy; and, to save his life, agreed to let the soldier have the princess for his wife and to leave the kingdom to him when he died. 175 The following tale is from Taylor's translation of Grimm. The cheerful industry and the kindly gratitude of the shoemaker and his wife, together with the gayety of the little elves, make the story altogether charming. No doubt its popularity was helped by Cruikshank's famous accompanying etching, showing the scene at the close, in which the two elves "are drawn with a point at once so precise and vivacious, so full of keen fun and inimitably happy invention, that I have not found their equal in comic etching anywhere. . . . The picturesque details of the room are etched with the same felicitous intelligence; but the marvel of the work is in the expression of the strange little faces, and the energy of the comical wee limbs." (Hamerton, _Etching and Etchers_.) THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER There was once a shoemaker who worked very hard and was very honest; but still he could not earn enough to live upon, and at last all he had in the world was gone, except just leather enough to make one pair of shoes. Then he cut them all ready to make up the next day, meaning to get up early in the morning to work. His conscience was clear and his heart light amidst all his troubles; so he went peaceably to bed, left all his cares to heaven, and fell asleep. In the morning, after he had said his prayers, he set himself down to his work, but to his great wonder, there stood the shoes, all ready made, upon the table. The good man knew not what to say or think of this strange event. He looked at the workmanship: there was not one false stitch in the whole job, and all was so neat and true that it was a complete masterpiece. That same day a customer came in, and the shoes pleased him so well that he willingly paid a price higher than usual for them; and the poor shoemaker with the money bought leather enough to make two pairs more. In the evening he cut out the work and went to bed early that he might get up and begin betimes next day: but he was saved all the trouble, for when he got up in the morning the work was finished ready to his hand. Presently in came buyers, who paid him handsomely for his goods, so that he bought leather enough for four pairs more. He cut out the work again over night, and found it finished in the morning as before; and so it went on for some time: what was got ready in the evening was always done by daybreak, and the good man soon became thriving and prosperous again. One evening about Christmas time, as he and his wife were sitting over the fire chatting together, he said to her, "I should like to sit up and watch to-night, that we may see who it is that comes and does my work for me." The wife liked the thought; so they left a light burning and hid themselves in the corner of the room behind a curtain that was hung up there, and watched what should happen. As soon as it was midnight, there came two little naked dwarfs; and they sat themselves upon the shoemaker's bench, took up all the work that was cut out, and began to ply with their little fingers, stitching and rapping and tapping away at such a rate that the shoemaker was all amazement and could not take his eyes off for a moment. And on they went till the job was quite finished, and the shoes stood ready for use upon the table. This was long before daybreak; and then they bustled away as quick as lightning. The next day the wife said to the shoemaker, "These little wights have made us rich, and we ought to be thankful to them and do them a good office in return. I am quite vexed to see them run about as they do; they have nothing upon their backs to keep off the cold. I'll tell you what, I will make each of them a shirt, and a coat and waistcoat, and a pair of pantaloons into the bargain; do you make each of them a little pair of shoes." The thought pleased the good shoemaker very much; and one evening, when all the things were ready, they laid them on the table instead of the work that they used to cut out, and then went and hid themselves to watch what the little elves would do. About midnight they came in and were going to sit down to their work as usual; but when they saw the clothes lying for them, they laughed and were greatly delighted. Then they dressed themselves in the twinkling of an eye, and danced and capered and sprang about as merry as could be, till at last they danced out at the door and over the green; and the shoemaker saw them no more; but everything went well with him from that time forward, as long as he lived. 176 In a note regarding "The Fisherman and His Wife," Taylor calls attention to the interesting fact that this tale became a great favorite after the battle of Waterloo "during the fervor of popular feeling on the downfall of the late Emperor of France." The catastrophe attendant upon Napoleon's ambitious efforts seemed to the popular mind to be paralleled by the penalty following the final wish of the wife "to be like unto God." But observe that Taylor, unlike more recent translators, felt under the necessity of softening "the boldness of the lady's ambition." The versions of the verse charm used in summoning the fish differ strikingly in the various translations. That of Taylor's first edition, used here, seems to fit the story better than any other, though tellers of the story may, properly enough, not agree. Taylor's revised version of 1837 reads: "O man of the sea! Hearken to me! My wife Ilsabill Will have her own will, And hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!" Mrs. Hunt's version runs: "Flounder, flounder in the sea, Come, I pray thee, come to me; For my wife, good Ilsabil, Wills not as I'd have her will." The moral of the story is plain for those who need it: Greed overreaches itself. Who grasps too much loses all. Don't ride a free horse to death. THE FISHERMAN AND HIS WIFE There was once a fisherman who lived with his wife in a ditch, close by the sea-side. The fisherman used to go out all day long a-fishing; and one day, as he sat on the shore with his rod, looking at the shining water and watching his line, all on a sudden his float was dragged away deep under the sea: and in drawing it up he pulled a great fish out of the water. The fish said to him, "Pray let me live: I am not a real fish; I am an enchanted prince. Put me in the water again, and let me go." "Oh!" said the man, "you need not make so many words about the matter. I wish to have nothing to do with a fish that can talk; so swim away as soon as you please." Then he put him back into the water, and the fish darted straight down to the bottom and left a long streak of blood behind him. When the fisherman went home to his wife in the ditch, he told her how he had caught a great fish, and how it had told him it was an enchanted prince, and that on hearing it speak he had let it go again. "Did you not ask it for anything?" said the wife. "No," said the man, "what should I ask for?" "Ah!" said the wife, "we live very wretchedly here in this nasty stinking ditch. Do go back, and tell the fish we want a little cottage." The fisherman did not much like the business; however he went to the sea, and when he came there the water looked all yellow and green. And he stood at the water's edge, and said, "O man of the sea! Come listen to me, For Alice my wife, The plague of my life, Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!" Then the fish came swimming to him, and said, "Well, what does she want?" "Ah!" answered the fisherman, "my wife says that when I had caught you, I ought to have asked you for something before I let you go again. She does not like living any longer in the ditch, and wants a little cottage." "Go home, then," said the fish. "She is in the cottage already." So the man went home and saw his wife standing at the door of a cottage. "Come in, come in," said she; "is not this much better than the ditch?" And there was a parlor, and a bed-chamber, and a kitchen; and behind the cottage there was a little garden with all sorts of flowers and fruits, and a court-yard full of ducks and chickens. "Ah!" said the fisherman, "how happily we shall live!" "We will try to do so at least," said his wife. Everything went right for a week or two, and then Dame Alice said, "Husband, there is not room enough in this cottage; the court-yard and garden are a great deal too small. I should like to have a large stone castle to live in; so go to the fish again, and tell him to give us a castle." "Wife," said the fisherman, "I don't like to go to him again, for perhaps he will be angry. We ought to be content with the cottage." "Nonsense!" said the wife; "he will do it very willingly. Go along, and try." The fisherman went; but his heart was very heavy: and when he came to the sea, it looked blue and gloomy, though it was quite calm, and he went close to it and said, "O man of the sea! Come listen to me, For Alice my wife, The plague of my life, Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!" "Well, what does she want now?" said the fish. "Ah!" said the man very sorrowfully, "my wife wants to live in a stone castle." "Go home then," said the fish. "She is standing at the door of it already." So away went the fisherman and found his wife standing before a great castle. "See," said she, "is not this grand?" With that they went into the castle together and found a great many servants there and the rooms all richly furnished and full of golden chairs and tables; and behind the castle was a garden, and a wood half a mile long, full of sheep, and goats, and hares, and deer; and in the court-yard were stables and cow-houses. "Well," said the man, "now will we live contented and happy in this beautiful castle for the rest of our lives." "Perhaps we may," said the wife; "but let us consider and sleep upon it before we make up our minds": so they went to bed. The next morning when Dame Alice awoke, it was broad daylight, and she jogged the fisherman with her elbow and said, "Get up, husband, and bestir yourself, for we must be king of all the land." "Wife, wife," said the man, "why should we wish to be king? I will not be king." "Then I will," said Alice. "But, wife," answered the fisherman, "how can you be king? The fish cannot make you a king." "Husband," said she, "say no more about it, but go and try. I will be king!" So the man went away, quite sorrowful to think that his wife should want to be king. The sea looked a dark grey color, and was covered with foam as he cried out, "O man of the sea! Come listen to me, For Alice my wife, The plague of my life, Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!" "Well, what would she have now?" said the fish. "Alas!" said the man, "my wife wants to be king." "Go home," said the fish. "She is king already." Then the fisherman went home; and as he came close to the palace, he saw a troop of soldiers and heard the sound of drums and trumpets; and when he entered in, he saw his wife sitting on a high throne of gold and diamonds, with a golden crown upon her head; and on each side of her stood six beautiful maidens, each a head taller than the other. "Well, wife," said the fisherman, "are you king?" "Yes," said she, "I am king." And when he had looked at her for a long time, he said, "Ah, wife! what a fine thing it is to be king! Now we shall never have anything more to wish for." "I don't know how that may be," said she; "never is a long time. I am king, 'tis true, but I begin to be tired of it, and I think I should like to be emperor." "Alas, wife! why should you wish to be emperor?" said the fisherman. "Husband," said she, "go to the fish; I say I will be emperor." "Ah, wife!" replied the fisherman, "the fish cannot make an emperor, and I should not like to ask for such a thing." "I am king," said Alice, "and you are my slave, so go directly!" So the fisherman was obliged to go; and he muttered as he went along, "This will come to no good. It is too much to ask. The fish will be tired at last, and then we shall repent of what we have done." He soon arrived at the sea, and the water was quite black and muddy, and a mighty whirlwind blew over it; but he went to the shore, and said, "O man of the sea! Come listen to me, For Alice my wife, The plague of my life, Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!" "What would she have now!" said the fish. "Ah!" said the fisherman, "she wants to be emperor." "Go home," said the fish. "She is emperor already." So he went home again; and as he came near he saw his wife sitting on a very lofty throne made of solid gold, with a great crown on her head full two yards high, and on each side of her stood her guards and attendants in a row, each one smaller than the other, from the tallest giant down to a little dwarf no bigger than my finger. And before her stood princes, and dukes, and earls: and the fisherman went up to her and said, "Wife, are you emperor?" "Yes," said she, "I am emperor." "Ah!" said the man as he gazed upon her, "what a fine thing it is to be emperor!" "Husband," said she, "why should we stay at being emperor; I will be pope next." "O wife, wife!" said he, "how can you be pope? There is but one pope at a time in Christendom." "Husband," said she, "I will be pope this very day." "But," replied the husband, "the fish cannot make you pope." "What nonsense!" said she, "if he can make an emperor, he can make a pope. Go and try him." So the fisherman went. But when he came to the shore the wind was raging, and the sea was tossed up and down like boiling water, and the ships were in the greatest distress and danced upon the waves most fearfully. In the middle of the sky there was a little blue, but toward the south it was all red as if a dreadful storm were rising. At this the fisherman was terribly frightened, and trembled, so that his knees knocked together: but he went to the shore and said, "O man of the sea! Come listen to me, For Alice my wife, The plague of my life, Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!" "What does she want now?" said the fish. "Ah!" said the fisherman, "my wife wants to be pope." "Go home," said the fish. "She is pope already." Then the fisherman went home and found his wife sitting on a throne that was two miles high; and she had three great crowns on her head, and around stood all the pomp and power of the Church; and on each side were two rows of burning lights of all sizes, the greatest as large as the highest and biggest tower in the world, and the least no larger than a small rushlight. "Wife," said the fisherman as he looked at all this grandeur, "are you pope?" "Yes," said she, "I am pope." "Well, wife," replied he, "it is a grand thing to be pope; and now you must be content, for you can be nothing greater." "I will consider of that," said the wife. Then they went to bed: but Dame Alice could not sleep all night for thinking what she should be next. At last morning came, and the sun rose. "Ha!" thought she as she looked at it through the window, "cannot I prevent the sun rising?" At this she was very angry, and she wakened her husband and said, "Husband, go to the fish and tell him I want to be lord of the sun and moon." The fisherman was half asleep, but the thought frightened him so much that he started and fell out of bed. "Alas, wife!" said he, "cannot you be content to be pope?" "No," said she, "I am very uneasy, and cannot bear to see the sun and moon rise without my leave. Go to the fish directly." Then the man went trembling for fear; and as he was going down to the shore a dreadful storm arose, so that the trees and the rocks shook; and the heavens became black, and the lightning played, and the thunder rolled; and you might have seen in the sea great black waves like mountains with a white crown of foam upon them; and the fisherman said, "O man of the sea! Come listen to me, For Alice my wife, The plague of my life, Hath sent me to beg a boon of thee!" "What does she want now?" said the fish. "Ah!" said he, "she wants to be lord of the sun and moon." "Go home," said the fish, "to your ditch again!" And there they live to this very day. 177 The Grimm version of "The Sleeping Beauty" is, by all odds, the finest one. Its perfect economy in the use of story materials has always been admired. Perrault's version drags in an unnecessary ogre and spoils a good story by not knowing when to stop. The Grimm title is "Dornroeschen," and the more literal translation, "Brier Rose," is the one generally used as the English title, rather than the one given by Taylor, whose translation follows. Tennyson has a very beautiful poetic rendering of this story in his "Day-Dream." ROSE-BUD Once upon a time there lived a king and queen who had no children; and this they lamented very much. But one day as the queen was walking by the side of the river, a little fish lifted its head out of the water and said, "Your wish shall be fulfilled, and you shall soon have a daughter." What the little fish had foretold soon came to pass; and the queen had a little girl that was so very beautiful that the king could not cease looking on it for joy, and determined to hold a great feast. So he invited not only his relations, friends, and neighbors, but also all the fairies, that they might be kind and good to his little daughter. Now there were thirteen fairies in his kingdom, and he had only twelve golden dishes for them to eat out of, so he was obliged to leave one of the fairies without an invitation. The rest came, and after the feast was over they gave all their best gifts to the little princess: one gave her virtue, another beauty, another riches, and so on till she had all that was excellent in the world. When eleven had done blessing her, the thirteenth, who had not been invited and was very angry on that account, came in and determined to take her revenge. So she cried out, "The king's daughter shall in her fifteenth year be wounded by a spindle, and fall down dead." Then the twelfth, who had not yet given her gift, came forward and said that the bad wish must be fulfilled, but that she could soften it, and that the king's daughter should not die, but fall asleep for a hundred years. But the king hoped to save his dear child from the threatened evil and ordered that all the spindles in the kingdom should be bought up and destroyed. All the fairies' gifts were in the meantime fulfilled, for the princess was so beautiful, and well-behaved, and amiable, and wise that every one who knew her loved her. Now it happened that on the very day she was fifteen years old the king and queen were not at home, and she was left alone in the palace. So she roved about by herself and looked at all the rooms and chambers till at last she came to an old tower, to which there was a narrow staircase ending with a little door. In the door there was a golden key, and when she turned it the door sprang open, and there sat an old lady spinning away very busily. "Why, how now, good mother," said the princess, "what are you doing there?" "Spinning," said the old lady, and nodded her head. "How prettily that little thing turns round!" said the princess, and took the spindle and began to spin. But scarcely had she touched it before the prophecy was fulfilled, and she fell down lifeless on the ground. However, she was not dead, but had only fallen into a deep sleep; and the king and the queen, who just then came home, and all their court, fell asleep too; and the horses slept in the stables, and the dogs in the court, the pigeons on the house-top and the flies on the walls. Even the fire on the hearth left off blazing and went to sleep; and the meat that was roasting stood still; and the cook, who was at that moment pulling the kitchen-boy by the hair to give him a box on the ear for something he had done amiss, let him go, and both fell asleep; and so everything stood still, and slept soundly. A large hedge of thorns soon grew round the palace, and every year it became higher and thicker till at last the whole palace was surrounded and hid, so that not even the roof or the chimneys could be seen. But there went a report through all the land of the beautiful sleeping Rose-Bud (for so was the king's daughter called); so that from time to time several kings' sons came and tried to break through the thicket into the palace. This they could never do, for the thorns and bushes laid hold of them as it were with hands, and there they stuck fast and died miserably. After many many years there came a king's son into that land, and an old man told him the story of the thicket of thorns, and how a beautiful palace stood behind it, in which was a wondrous princess, called Rose-Bud, asleep with all her court. He told, too, how he had heard from his grandfather that many many princes had come, and had tried to break through the thicket, but had stuck fast and died. Then the young prince said, "All this shall not frighten me. I will go and see Rose-Bud." The old man tried to dissuade him, but he persisted in going. Now that very day were the hundred years completed; and as the prince came to the thicket, he saw nothing but beautiful flowering shrubs, through which he passed with ease, and they closed after him as firm as ever. Then he came at last to the palace, and there in the court lay the dogs asleep, and the horses in the stables, and on the roof sat the pigeons fast asleep with their heads under their wings; and when he came into the palace, the flies slept on the walls, and the cook in the kitchen was still holding up her hand as if she would beat the boy, and the maid sat with a black fowl in her hand ready to be plucked. Then he went on still further, and all was so still that he could hear every breath he drew; till at last he came to the old tower and opened the door of the little room in which Rose-Bud was, and there she lay fast asleep, and looked so beautiful that he could not take his eyes off, and he stooped down and gave her a kiss. But the moment he kissed her she opened her eyes and awoke and smiled upon him. Then they went out together, and presently the king and queen also awoke, and all the court, and they gazed on one another with great wonder. And the horses got up and shook themselves, and the dogs jumped about and barked; the pigeons took their heads from under their wings and looked about and flew into the fields; the flies on the walls buzzed away; the fire in the kitchen blazed up and cooked the dinner, and the roast meat turned round again; the cook gave the boy the box on his ear so that he cried out, and the maid went on plucking the fowl. And then was the wedding of the prince and Rose-Bud celebrated, and they lived happily together all their lives long. 178 The story of "Rumpelstiltskin" is taken from Margaret Hunt's translation of Grimm. It is the same story as "Tom Tit Tot" (No. 160), and is given in order that the teacher may compare the two. Grimm's is the most familiar of the many versions of this tale and is probably the best for use with children, although the "little man" lacks some of the fascinating power of "that" with its twirling tail. RUMPELSTILTSKIN Once there was a miller who was poor, but who had a beautiful daughter. Now it happened that he had to go and speak to the King, and in order to make himself appear important he said to him, "I have a daughter who can spin straw into gold." The King said to the miller, "That is an art which pleases me well. If your daughter is as clever as you say, bring her tomorrow to my palace, and I will try what she can do." And when the girl was brought to him he took her into a room which was quite full of straw, gave her a spinning-wheel and a reel, and said, "Now set to work, and if by tomorrow morning early you have not spun this straw into gold during the night, you must die." Thereupon he himself locked up the room, and left her in it alone. So there sat the poor miller's daughter, and for her life could not tell what to do. She had no idea how straw could be spun into gold, and she grew more and more miserable, until at last she began to weep. But all at once the door opened, and in came a little man, and said, "Good evening, Mistress Miller; why are you crying so?" "Alas!" answered the girl, "I have to spin straw into gold, and I do not know how to do it." "What will you give me," said the manikin, "if I do it for you?" "My necklace," said the girl. The little man took the necklace, seated himself in front of the wheel, and "whir, whir, whir," three turns, and the reel was full; then he put another on, and "whir, whir, whir," three times round, and the second was full, too. And so it went on until the morning, when all the straw was spun, and all the reels were full of gold. By daybreak the King was already there, and when he saw the gold he was astonished and delighted, but his heart became only more greedy. He had the miller's daughter taken into another room full of straw, which was much larger, and commanded her to spin that also in one night if she valued her life. The girl knew not how to help herself, and was crying, when the door again opened, and the little man appeared, and said, "What will you give me if I spin the straw into gold for you?" "The ring on my finger," answered the girl. The little man took the ring, again began to turn the wheel, and by morning had spun all the straw into glittering gold. The King rejoiced beyond measure at the sight, but still he had not gold enough; and he had the miller's daughter taken into a still larger room full of straw, and said, "You must spin this, too, in the course of this night; but if you succeed, you shall be my wife." "Even if she be a miller's daughter," thought he, "I could not find a richer wife in the whole world." When the girl was alone the manikin came again for the third time, and said, "What will you give me if I spin the straw for you this time also?" "I have nothing left that I could give," answered the girl. "Then promise me, if you should become Queen, your first child." "Who knows whether that will ever happen?" thought the miller's daughter; and, not knowing how else to help herself in this strait, she promised the manikin what he wanted, and for that he once more spun the straw into gold. And when the King came in the morning, and found all as he had wished, he took her in marriage, and the pretty miller's daughter became a Queen. A year after, she had a beautiful child, and she never gave a thought to the manikin. But suddenly he came into her room, and said, "Now give me what you promised." The Queen was horror-struck, and offered the manikin all the riches of the kingdom if he would leave her the child. But the manikin said, "No, something that is living is dearer to me than all the treasures in the world." Then the Queen began to weep and cry, so that the manikin pitied her. "I will give you three days' time," said he; "if by that time you find out my name, then shall you keep your child." So the Queen thought the whole night of all the names that she had ever heard, and she sent a messenger over the country to inquire, far and wide, for any other names that there might be. When the manikin came the next day, she began with Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar, and said all the names she knew, one after another; but to every one the little man said, "That is not my name." On the second day she had inquiries made in the neighborhood as to the names of the people there, and she repeated to the manikin the most uncommon and curious. "Perhaps your name is Shortribs, or Sheepshanks, or Laceleg?" but he always answered, "That is not my name." On the third day the messenger came back again, and said, "I have not been able to find a single new name, but as I came to a high mountain at the end of the forest, where the fox and the hare bid each other good-night, there I saw a little house, and before the house a fire was burning, and round about the fire quite a ridiculous little man was jumping; he hopped upon one leg, and shouted: "To-day I bake, to-morrow brew, The next I'll have the young Queen's child. Ha! glad am I that no one knew That Rumpelstiltskin I am styled.'" You may think how glad the Queen was when she heard the name! And when soon afterwards the little man came in, and asked, "Now, Mistress Queen, what is my name?" At first she said, "Is your name Conrad?" "No." "Is your name Harry?" "No." "Perhaps your name is Rumpelstiltskin?" "The devil has told you that! the devil has told you that!" cried the little man, and in his anger he plunged his right foot so deep into the earth that his whole leg went in; and then in rage he pulled at his left leg so hard with both hands that he tore himself in two. 179 Margaret Hunt's translation of Grimm's "Snow-White and Rose-Red" follows. It has long been recognized as one of the most beautiful and appealing of folk tales. The scenic effects, the domestic life with its maternal and filial affection, the kindness to animals and helpfulness to each other and to those in distress, the adventures with dwarf and bear, the magic enchantment of goodness through the power of evil, and the happy conclusion following the removal of this enchantment--all these are blended into a perfect union that never fails to delight the listener of any age. SNOW-WHITE AND ROSE-RED There was once a poor widow who lived in a lonely cottage. In front of the cottage was a garden wherein stood two rose-trees, one of which bore white and the other red roses. She had two children who were like the two rose-trees, and one was called Snow-white, and the other Rose-red. They were as good and happy, as busy and cheerful as ever two children in the world were, only Snow-white was more quiet and gentle than Rose-red. Rose-red liked better to run about in the meadows and fields seeking flowers and catching butterflies; but Snow-white sat at home with her mother, and helped her with her housework, or read to her when there was nothing to do. The two children were so fond of each other that they always held each other by the hand when they went out together, and when Snow-white said, "We will not leave each other," Rose-red answered, "Never so long as we live," and their mother would add, "What one has she must share with the other." They often ran about the forest alone and gathered red berries, and no beasts did them any harm, but came close to them trustfully. The little hare would eat a cabbage-leaf out of their hands, the roe grazed by their side, the stag leaped merrily by them, and the birds sat still upon the boughs and sang whatever they knew. No mishap overtook them; if they had stayed too late in the forest, and night came on, they laid themselves down near each other upon the moss and slept until morning came, and their mother knew this and had no distress on their account. Once when they had spent the night in the wood and the dawn had roused them, they saw a beautiful child in a shining white dress sitting near their bed. He got up and looked quite kindly at them, but said nothing and went away into the forest. And when they looked round they found that they had been sleeping quite close to a precipice, and would certainly have fallen into it in the darkness if they had gone only a few paces farther. And their mother told them that it must have been the angel who watches over good children. Snow-white and Rose-red kept their mother's little cottage so neat that it was a pleasure to look inside it. In the summer Rose-red took care of the house, and every morning laid a wreath of flowers by her mother's bed before she awoke, in which was a rose from each tree. In the winter Snow-white lit the fire and hung the kettle on the crane. The kettle was of copper and shone like gold, so brightly was it polished. In the evening, when the snowflakes fell, the mother said, "Go, Snow-white, and bolt the door," and then they sat round the hearth, and the mother took her spectacles and read aloud out of a large book, and the two girls listened as they sat and spun. And close by them lay a lamb upon the floor, and behind them upon a perch sat a white dove with its head hidden beneath its wings. One evening, as they were thus sitting comfortably together, some one knocked at the door as if he wished to be let in. The mother said, "Quick, Rose-red, open the door, it must be a traveler who is seeking shelter." Rose-red went and pushed back the bolt, thinking that it was a poor man, but it was not; it was a bear that stretched his broad, black head within the door. Rose-red screamed and sprang back, the lamb bleated, the dove fluttered, and Snow-white hid herself behind her mother's bed. But the bear began to speak and said, "Do not be afraid, I will do you no harm! I am half-frozen, and only want to warm myself a little beside you." "Poor bear," said the mother, "lie down by the fire, only take care that you do not burn your coat." Then she cried, "Snow-white, Rose-red, come out; the bear will do you no harm; he means well." So they both came out, and by-and-by the lamb and dove came nearer, and were not afraid of him. The bear said, "Here, children, knock the snow out of my coat a little"; so they brought the broom and swept the bear's hide clean; and he stretched himself by the fire and growled contentedly and comfortably. It was not long before they grew quite at home and played tricks with their clumsy guest. They tugged his hair with their hands, put their feet upon his back and rolled him about, or they took a hazel-switch and beat him, and when he growled they laughed. But the bear took it all in good part, only when they were too rough he called out, "Leave me alive, children-- "Snowy-white, Rosy-red, Will you beat your lover dead?" When it was bed-time, and the others went to bed, the mother said to the bear, "You can lie there by the hearth, and then you will be safe from the cold and the bad weather." As soon as day dawned the two children let him out, and he trotted across the snow into the forest. Henceforth the bear came every evening at the same time, laid himself down by the hearth, and let the children amuse themselves with him as much as they liked; and they got so used to him that the doors were never fastened until their black friend had arrived. When spring had come and all outside was green, the bear said one morning to Snow-white, "Now I must go away, and cannot come back for the whole summer." "Where are you going, then, dear bear?" asked Snow-white. "I must go into the forest and guard my treasures from the wicked dwarfs. In the winter, when the earth is frozen hard, they are obliged to stay below and cannot work their way through; but now, when the sun has thawed and warmed the earth, they break through it, and come out to pry and steal; and what once gets into their hands, and in their caves, does not easily see daylight again." Snow-white was quite sorry for his going away, and as she unbolted the door for him, and the bear was hurrying out, he caught against the bolt and a piece of his hairy coat was torn off, and it seemed to Snow-white as if she had seen gold shining through it, but she was not sure about it. The bear ran away quickly, and was soon out of sight behind the trees. A short time afterwards the mother sent her children into the forest to get fire-wood. There they found a big tree which lay felled on the ground, and close by the trunk something was jumping backwards and forwards in the grass, but they could not make out what it was. When they came nearer they saw a dwarf with an old withered face and a snow-white beard a yard long. The end of the beard was caught in a crevice of the tree, and the little fellow was jumping backwards and forwards like a dog tied to a rope, and did not know what to do. He glared at the girls with his fiery red eyes and cried, "Why do you stand there? Can you not come here and help me?" "What are you about there, little man?" asked Rose-red. "You stupid, prying goose!" answered the dwarf; "I was going to split the tree to get a little wood for cooking. The little bit of food that one of us wants gets burnt up directly with thick logs; we do not swallow so much as you coarse, greedy folk. I had just driven the wedge safely in, and everything was going as I wished; but the wretched wood was too smooth and suddenly sprang asunder, and the tree closed so quickly that I could not pull out my beautiful white beard; so now it is tight in and I cannot get away, and you silly, sleek, milk-faced things laugh! Ugh! how odious you are!" The children tried very hard, but they could not pull the beard out, it was caught too fast. "I will run and fetch some one," said Rose-red. "You senseless goose!" snarled the dwarf; "why should you fetch some one? You are already two too many for me; can you not think of something better?" "Don't be impatient," said Snow-white, "I will help you," and she pulled her scissors out of her pocket, and cut off the end of the beard. As soon as the dwarf felt himself free he laid hold of a bag which lay amongst the roots of the tree, and which was full of gold, and lifted it up, grumbling to himself, "Uncouth people, to cut off a piece of my fine beard. Bad luck to you!" and then he swung the bag upon his back, and went off without even once looking at the children. Some time after that Snow-white and Rose-red went to catch a dish of fish. As they came near the brook they saw something like a large grasshopper jumping towards the water, as if it were going to leap in. They ran to it and found it was the dwarf. "Where are you going?" said Rose-red; "you surely don't want to go into the water?" "I am not such a fool!" cried the dwarf; "don't you see that the accursed fish wants to pull me in?" The little man had been sitting there fishing, and unluckily the wind had twisted his beard with the fishing line; just then a big fish bit, and the feeble creature had not strength to pull it out; the fish kept the upper hand and pulled the dwarf towards him. He held on to all the reeds and rushes, but it was of little good, he was forced to follow the movements of the fish, and was in urgent danger of being dragged into the water. The girls came just in time; they held him fast and tried to free his beard from the line, but all in vain, beard and line were entangled fast together. Nothing was left but to bring out the scissors and cut the beard, whereby a small part of it was lost. When the dwarf saw that he screamed out, "Is that civil, you toadstool, to disfigure one's face? Was it not enough to clip off the end of my beard? Now you have cut off the best part of it. I cannot let myself be seen by my people. I wish you had been made to run the soles off your shoes!" Then he took out a sack of pearls which lay in the rushes, and without saying a word more he dragged it away and disappeared behind a stone. It happened that soon afterwards the mother sent the two children to the town to buy needles and thread, and laces and ribbons. The road led them across a heath upon which huge pieces of rock lay strewn here and there. Now they noticed a large bird hovering in the air, flying slowly round and round above them; it sank lower and lower, and at last settled near a rock not far off. Directly afterwards they heard a loud, piteous cry. They ran up and saw with horror that the eagle had seized their old acquaintance the dwarf, and was going to carry him off. The children, full of pity, at once took tight hold of the little man, and pulled against the eagle so long that at last he let his booty go. As soon as the dwarf had recovered from his first fright he cried with his shrill voice, "Could you not have done it more carefully? You dragged at my brown coat so that it is all torn and full of holes, you helpless, clumsy creatures!" Then he took up a sack full of precious stones, and slipped away again under the rock into his hole. The girls, who by this time were used to his thanklessness, went on their way and did their business in the town. As they crossed the heath again on their way home they surprised the dwarf, who had emptied out his bag of precious stones in a clean spot, and had not thought that any one would come there so late. The evening sun shone upon the brilliant stones; they glittered and sparkled with all colors so beautifully that the children stood still and looked at them. "Why do you stand gaping there?" cried the dwarf, and his ashen-gray face became copper-red with rage. He was going on with his bad words when a loud growling was heard, and a black bear came trotting towards them out of the forest. The dwarf sprang up in a fright, but he could not get to his cave, for the bear was already close. Then in the dread of his heart he cried, "Dear Mr. Bear, spare me, I will give you all my treasures; look, the beautiful jewels lying there! Grant me my life; what do you want with such a slender little fellow as I? You would not feel me between your teeth. Come, take these two wicked girls, they are tender morsels for you, fat as young quails; for mercy's sake eat them!" The bear took no heed of his words, but gave the wicked creature a single blow with his paw, and he did not move again. The girls had run away, but the bear called to them, "Snow-white and Rose-red, do not be afraid; wait, I will come with you." Then they knew his voice and waited, and when he came up to them suddenly his bearskin fell off, and he stood there a handsome man, clothed all in gold. "I am a King's son," he said, "and I was bewitched by that wicked dwarf, who had stolen my treasures. I have had to run about the forest as a savage bear until I was freed by his death. Now he has got his well-deserved punishment." Snow-white was married to him, and Rose-red to his brother, and they divided between them the great treasures which the dwarf had gathered together in his cave. The old mother lived peacefully and happily with her children for many years. She took the two rose-trees with her, and they stood before her window, and every year bore the most beautiful roses, white and red. 180 Whether it is possible to trace all folk tales to India, as some scholars have contended, is a matter yet open to debate. But there can be no doubt that some of the most instructing and valuable of folk tales for use with children are found in the various collections of Indian stories made since the pioneer work of Mary Frere in her _Old Deccan Days_ (1868). A voluminous literature of collections and comment has grown up and is constantly increasing. Four stories that have won great favor with children are given immediately following as the ones probably best fitted for an introductory course. "The Lambikin" is one of the most popular of all. It is an accumulative droll in character and should be told early along with, say, "The Story of the Three Little Pigs." The children will be sure to notice that Lambikin trundling along in his drumikin has some similarity to the wise pig who traveled so fast down hill in his new churn. The story is taken from _Tales from the Punjab_, collected by Flora Annie Steel, with very valuable notes and analyses by Captain R. C. Temple. THE LAMBIKIN Once upon a time there was a wee wee Lambikin, who frolicked about on his little tottery legs, and enjoyed himself amazingly. Now one day he set off to visit his Granny, and was jumping with joy to think of all the good things he should get from her, when whom should he meet but a Jackal, who looked at the tender young morsel and said: "Lambikin! Lambikin! I'll EAT YOU!" But Lambikin only gave a little frisk and said: "To Granny's house I go, Where I shall fatter grow, Then you can eat me so." The Jackal thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass. By and by he met a Vulture, and the Vulture, looking hungrily at the tender morsel before him, said: "Lambikin! Lambikin! I'll EAT YOU!" But Lambikin only gave a little frisk, and said: "To Granny's house I go, Where I shall fatter grow, Then you can eat me so." The Vulture thought this reasonable, and let Lambikin pass. And by and by he met a Tiger, and then a Wolf, and a Dog, and an Eagle, and all these, when they saw the tender little morsel, said: "Lambikin! Lambikin! I'll EAT YOU!" But to all of them Lambikin replied, with a little frisk: "To Granny's house I go, Where I shall fatter grow, Then you can eat me so." At last he reached his Granny's house, and said, all in a great hurry, "Granny, dear, I've promised to get very fat; so, as people ought to keep their promises, please put me into the corn-bin _at once_." So his Granny said he was a good boy, and put him into the corn-bin, and there the greedy little Lambikin stayed for seven days, and ate, and ate, and ate, until he could scarcely waddle, and his Granny said he was fat enough for anything, and must go home. But cunning little Lambikin said that would never do, for some animal would be sure to eat him on the way back, he was so plump and tender. "I'll tell you what you must do," said Master Lambikin, "you must make a little drumikin out of the skin of my little brother who died, and then I can sit inside and trundle along nicely, for I'm as tight as a drum myself." So his Granny made a nice little drumikin out of his brother's skin, with the wool inside, and Lambikin curled himself up snug and warm in the middle, and trundled away gayly. Soon he met with the Eagle, who called out: "Drumikin! Drumikin! Have you seen Lambikin?" And Mr. Lambikin, curled up in his soft warm nest, replied: "Lost in the forest, and so are you, On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too!" "How very annoying!" sighed the Eagle, thinking regretfully of the tender morsel he had let slip. Meanwhile Lambikin trundled along, laughing to himself, and singing: "Tum-pa, tum-too; Tum-pa, tum-too!" Every animal and bird he met asked him the same question: "Drumikin! Drumikin! Have you seen Lambikin?" And to each of them the little sly-boots replied: "Lost in the forest, and so are you, On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa, tum-too; Tum-pa, tum-too; tum-pa, tum-too!" Then they all sighed to think of the tender little morsel they had let slip. At last the Jackal came limping along, for all his sorry looks as sharp as a needle, and he too called out: "Drumikin! Drumikin! Have you seen Lambikin?" And Lambikin, curled up in his snug little nest, replied gayly: "Lost in the forest, and so are you, On, little Drumikin! Tum-pa--" But he never got any further, for the Jackal recognized his voice at once, and cried: "Hullo! you've turned yourself inside out, have you? Just you come out of that!" Whereupon he tore open Drumikin and gobbled up Lambikin. 181 The next story, dealing with the idea of "measure for measure," is from Mary Frere's _Old Deccan Days_. Miss Frere spent many years in India, where her father was a government official. She took down the tales as told by her _ayah_, or lady's maid, who in turn had heard them from her hundred-year-old grandmother. It may be said of this story that while retaliation is certainly not the highest law of conduct, yet the ungracious, inconsiderate action of the jackal makes it impossible to feel the least sympathy for him. TIT FOR TAT There once lived a Camel and a Jackal who were great friends. One day the Jackal said to the Camel, "I know that there is a fine field of sugar cane on the other side of the river. If you will take me across, I'll show you the place. This plan will suit me as well as you. You will enjoy eating the sugar cane, and I am sure to find many crabs, bones, and bits of fish by the river side, on which to make a good dinner." The Camel consented, and swam across the river, taking the Jackal, who could not swim, on his back. When they reached the other side, the Camel went to eat the sugar cane, and the Jackal ran up and down the river bank, devouring all the crabs, bits of fish, and bones he could find. But being so much smaller an animal, he had made an excellent meal before the Camel had eaten more than two or three mouthfuls; and no sooner had he finished his dinner than he ran round and round the sugar-cane field, yelping and howling with all his might. The villagers heard him, and thought, "There is a Jackal among the sugar canes; he will be scratching holes in the ground and spoiling the roots of the plants." And they went down to the place to drive him away. But when they got there they found to their surprise not only a Jackal, but a Camel who was eating the sugar canes! This made them very angry, and they caught the poor Camel and drove him from the field and beat him until he was nearly dead. When the villagers had gone, the Jackal said to the Camel, "We had better go home." And the Camel, said, "Very well; then jump upon my back, as you did before." So the Jackal jumped upon the Camel's back, and the Camel began to recross the river. When they had got well into the water, the Camel said, "This is a pretty way in which you have treated me, friend Jackal. No sooner had you finished your own dinner than you must go yelping about the place loud enough to arouse the whole village, and bring all the villagers down to beat me black and blue, and turn me out of the field before I had eaten two mouthfuls! What in the world did you make such a noise for?" "I don't know," said the Jackal. "It is a custom I have. I always like to sing a little after dinner." The Camel waded on through the river. The water reached up to his knees--then above them--up, up, up, higher and higher, until at last he was obliged to swim. Then turning to the Jackal, he said, "I feel very anxious to roll." "Oh, pray don't; why do you wish to do so?" asked the Jackal. "I don't know," answered the Camel. "It is a custom I have. I always like to have a little roll after dinner." So saying, he rolled over in the water, shaking the Jackal off as he did so. And the Jackal was drowned, but the Camel swam safely ashore. 182 The fine story following is from Steel's _Tales of the Punjab_. Scholars have pointed out a hundred or more variants. Such trickery as that used by the jackal in trapping the tiger is the common thing to find in folk tales where oppressed weakness is matched against ruthless and tyrannic power. The tiger's ingratitude precludes any desire to "take his part." The attitude of the three judges is determined in each case by the fact that the experience of each has hardened him and rendered him completely hopeless and unsympathetic. "The work of the buffalo in the oil-press," says Captain Temple, "is the synonym all India over--and with good reason--for hard and thankless toil for another's benefit." THE TIGER, THE BRAHMAN, AND THE JACKAL Once upon a time a tiger was caught in a trap. He tried in vain to get out through the bars, and rolled and bit with rage and grief when he failed. By chance a poor Brahman came by. "Let me out of this cage, O pious one!" cried the tiger. "Nay, my friend," replied the Brahman mildly; "you would probably eat me if I did." "Not at all!" swore the tiger with many oaths; "on the contrary, I should be forever grateful, and serve you as a slave." Now, when the tiger sobbed and sighed and wept and swore, the pious Brahman's heart softened, and at last he consented to open the door of the cage. Out popped the tiger, and, seizing the poor man, cried, "What a fool you are! What is to prevent my eating you now, for after being cooped up so long I am just terribly hungry?" In vain the Brahman pleaded for his life; the most he could gain was a promise to abide by the decision of the first three things he chose to question as to the justice of the tiger's action. So the Brahman first asked a _pipal_ tree what it thought of the matter, but the _pipal_ tree replied coldly, "What have you to complain about? Don't I give shade and shelter to every one who passes by, and don't they in return tear down my branches to feed their cattle? Don't whimper--be a man!" Then the Brahman, sad at heart, went further afield till he saw a buffalo turning a well-wheel; but he fared no better from it, for it answered: "You are a fool to expect gratitude! Look at me! While I gave milk they fed me on cotton-seed and oil-cake, but now I am dry they yoke me here, and give me refuse as fodder!" The Brahman, still more sad, asked the road to give him its opinion. "My dear sir," said the road, "how foolish you are to expect anything else! Here am I, useful to everybody, yet all, rich and poor, great and small, trample on me as they go past, giving me nothing but the ashes of their pipes and the husks of their grain!" On this the Brahman turned back sorrowfully, and on the way he met a jackal, who called out, "Why, what's the matter, Mr. Brahman? You look as miserable as a fish out of water!" The Brahman told him all that had occurred. "How very confusing!" said the jackal, when the recital was ended; "would you mind telling me over again, for everything seems so mixed up?" The Brahman told it all over again, but the jackal shook his head in a distracted sort of way, and still could not understand. "It's very odd," said he sadly, "but it all seems to go in at one ear and out at the other! I will go to the place where it all happened, and then, perhaps, I shall be able to give a judgment." So they returned to the cage, by which the tiger was waiting for the Brahman, and sharpening his teeth and claws. "You've been away a long time!" growled the savage beast, "but now let us begin our dinner." "_Our_ dinner!" thought the wretched Brahman, as his knees knocked together with fright; "what a remarkably delicate way of putting it!" "Give me five minutes, my lord!" he pleaded, "in order that I may explain matters to the jackal here, who is somewhat slow in his wits." The tiger consented, and the Brahman began the whole story over again, not missing a single detail, and spinning as long a yarn as possible. "Oh, my poor brain! oh, my poor brain!" cried the jackal, wringing its paws. "Let me see! how did it all begin? You were in the cage, and the tiger came walking by--" "Pooh!" interrupted the tiger, "what a fool you are! _I_ was in the cage." "Of course!" cried the jackal, pretending to tremble with fright; "yes! I was in the cage--no, I wasn't--dear! dear! where are my wits? Let me see--the tiger was in the Brahman, and the cage came walking by--no, that's not it, either! Well, don't mind me, but begin your dinner, for I shall never understand!" "Yes, you shall!" returned the tiger, in a rage at the jackal's stupidity; "I'll _make_ you understand! Look here--I am the tiger--" "Yes, my lord!" "And that is the Brahman--" "Yes, my lord!" "And that is the cage--" "Yes, my lord!" "And I was in the cage--do you understand?" "Yes--no----Please, my lord--" "Well?" cried the tiger impatiently. "Please, my lord! How did you get in?" "How? Why in the usual way, of course!" "Oh, dear me! my head is beginning to whirl again! Please don't be angry, my lord, but what is the usual way?" At this the tiger lost patience, and jumping into the cage, cried, "This way! Now do you understand how it was?" "Perfectly!" grinned the jackal, as he dexterously shut the door, "and if you will permit me to say so, I think matters will remain as they were!" 183 The story that follows is from Mrs. Kingscote's _Tales of the Sun_, as reprinted in Joseph Jacobs' _Indian Fairy Tales_. Mr. Jacobs explains that he "changed the Indian mercantile numerals into those of English 'back-slang,' which make a very good parallel." As in other cases, the value of Jacobs' collection must be emphasized. If the teacher is limited to a single book for story material from the Hindoos, that book must be the one made by Joseph Jacobs. With well-chosen tales, with the slight changes here and there necessary for use with children, with just enough scholarship packed out of the way in the introduction and notes, the book has no rival. PRIDE GOETH BEFORE A FALL In a certain village there lived ten cloth merchants, who always went about together. Once upon a time they had traveled far afield, and were returning home with a great deal of money which they had obtained by selling their wares. Now there happened to be a dense forest near their village, and this they reached early one morning. In it there lived three notorious robbers, of whose existence the traders had never heard, and while they were still in the middle of it the robbers stood before them, with swords and cudgels in their hands, and ordered them to lay down all they had. The traders had no weapons with them, and so, though they were many more in number, they had to submit themselves to the robbers, who took away everything from them, even the very clothes they wore, and gave to each only a small loin-cloth a span in breadth and a cubit in length. The idea that they had conquered ten men and plundered all their property now took possession of the robbers' minds. They seated themselves like three monarchs before the men they had plundered, and ordered them to dance to them before returning home. The merchants now mourned their fate. They had lost all they had, except their loin-cloth, and still the robbers were not satisfied, but ordered them to dance. There was among the ten merchants one who was very clever. He pondered over the calamity that had come upon him and his friends, the dance they would have to perform, and the magnificent manner in which the three robbers had seated themselves on the grass. At the same time he observed that these last had placed their weapons on the ground, in the assurance of having thoroughly cowed the traders, who were now commencing to dance; and, as a song is always sung by the leader on such occasions, to which the rest keep time with hands and feet, he thus began to sing: "We are enty men, They are erith men: If each erith man, Surround eno men Eno man remains. _Ta, tai tom, tadingana._" The robbers were all uneducated, and thought that the leader was merely singing a song as usual. So it was in one sense; for the leader commenced from a distance, and had sung the song over twice before he and his companions commenced to approach the robbers. They had understood his meaning, because they had been trained in trade. When two traders discuss the price of an article in the presence of a purchaser, they use a riddling sort of language. "What is the price of this cloth?" one trader will ask. "Enty rupees," another will reply, meaning "ten rupees." Thus there is no possibility of the purchaser knowing what is meant unless he be acquainted with trade language. By the rules of this secret language erith means "three," enty means "ten," and eno means "one." So the leader by his song meant to hint to his fellow-traders that they were ten men, the robbers only three, that if three pounced upon each of the robbers, nine of them could hold them down, while the remaining one bound the robbers' hands and feet. The three thieves, glorying in their victory, and little understanding the meaning of the song and the intentions of the dancers, were proudly seated chewing betel and tobacco. Meanwhile the song was sung a third time. _Ta tai tom_ had left the lips of the singer; and, before _tadingana_ was out of them, the traders separated into parties of three, and each party pounced upon a thief. The remaining one--the leader himself--tore up into long narrow strips a large piece of cloth, six cubits long, and tied the hands and feet of the robbers. These were entirely humbled now, and rolled on the ground like three bags of rice! The ten traders now took back all their property, and armed themselves with the swords and cudgels of their enemies; and when they reached their village they often amused their friends and relatives by relating their adventure. 184 In recent years several Japanese stories have made their way into the list of those frequently used in the lower grades. Some of these are of unusual beauty and suggestiveness. The oriental point of view is so different from that of western children that these stories often cannot be used in their fully original form, although it would be a distinct loss if the available elements were therefore discarded. So, in this instance departing from the plan of giving only authentic copies of the tales here reprinted, the excellent retold versions of two Japanese stories are given as made by Teresa Peirce Williston in her _Japanese Fairy Tales_. (Copyrighted. Used by permission of the publishers, Rand McNally & Co.) In these simple versions the point to the story is made clear in natural fashion without undue moralizing. THE MIRROR OF MATSUYAMA VERSION BY TERESA PEIRCE WILLISTON In Matsuyama there lived a man, his wife, and their little daughter. They loved each other very much, and were very happy together. One day the man came home very sad. He had received a message from the Emperor, which said that he must take a journey to far-off Tokio. They had no horses and in those days there were no railroads in Japan. The man knew that he must walk the whole distance. It was not the long walk that he minded, however. It was because it would take him many days from home. Still he must obey his Emperor, so he made ready to start. His wife was very sorry that he must go, and yet a little proud, too, for no one else in the village had ever taken so long a journey. She and the baby walked with him down to the turn in the road. There they stood and watched him through their tears, as he followed the path up through the pines on the mountain side. At last, no larger than a speck, he disappeared behind the hills. Then they went home to await his return. For three long weeks they waited. Each day they spoke of him, and counted the days until they should see his dear face again. At last the time came. They walked down to the turn in the road to wait for his coming. Up on the mountain side some one was walking toward them. As he came nearer they could see that it was the one for whom they waited. The good wife could scarcely believe that her husband was indeed safe home again. The baby girl laughed and clapped her hands to see the toys he brought her. There was a tiny image of Uzume, the laughter-loving goddess. Next came a little red monkey of cotton, with a blue head. When she pressed the spring he ran to the top of the rod. Oh, how wonderful was the third gift! It was a _tombo_, or dragon fly. When she first looked at it she saw only a piece of wood shaped like a T. The cross piece was painted with different bright colors. But the queer thing, when her father twirled it between his fingers, would rise in the air, dipping and hovering like a real dragon fly. Last, of course, there was a _ninghio_, or doll, with a sweet face, slanting eyes, and such wonderful hair. Her name was O-Hina-San. He told of the Feast of the Dead which he had seen in Tokio. He told of the beautiful lanterns, the Lanterns of the Dead; and the pine torches burning before each house. He told of the tiny boats made of barley straw and filled with food that are set floating away on the river, bearing two tiny lanterns to guide them to the Land of the Dead. At last her husband handed the wife a small white box. "Tell me what you see inside," he said. She opened it and took out something round and bright. On one side were buds and flowers of frosted silver. The other side at first looked as clear and bright as a pool of water. When she moved it a little she saw in it a most beautiful woman. "Oh, what a beautiful picture!" she cried. "It is of a woman and she seems to be smiling and talking just as I am. She has on a blue dress just like mine, too! How strange!" Then her husband laughed and said: "That is a mirror. It is yourself you see reflected in it. All the women in Tokio have them." The wife was delighted with her present, and looked at it very often. She liked to see the smiling red lips, the laughing eyes, and beautiful dark hair. After a while she said to herself: "How foolish this is of me to sit and gaze at myself in this mirror! I am not more beautiful than other women. How much better for me to enjoy others' beauty, and forget my own face. I shall only remember that it must always be happy and smiling or it will make no one else happy. I do not wish any cross or angry look of mine to make any one sad." She put the mirror carefully away in its box. Only twice in a year she looked at it. Then it was to see if her face was still such as would make others happy. The years passed by in their sweet and simple life until the baby had grown to be a big girl. Her _ninghio_, her _tombo_, the image of Uzume, even the cotton monkey, were put carefully away for her own children. This girl was the very image of her mother. She was just as sweet and loving, just as kind and helpful. One day her mother became very ill. Although the girl and her father did all they could for her, she grew worse and worse. At last she knew that she must die, so she called her daughter to her and said: "My child, I know that I must soon leave you, but I wish to leave something with you in my place. Open this box and see what you find in it." The girl opened the box and looked for the first time in a mirror. "Oh, mother dear!" she cried. "I see you here. Not thin and pale as you are now, but happy and smiling, as you have always been." Then her mother said: "When I am gone, will you look in this every morning and every night? If anything troubles you, tell me about it. Always try to do right, so that you will see only happiness here." Every morning when the sun rose and the birds began to twitter and sing, the girl rose and looked in her mirror. There she saw the bright, happy face that she remembered as her mother's. Every evening when the shadows fell and the birds were asleep, she looked again. She told it all that had happened during the day. When it had been a happy day the face smiled back at her. When she was sad the face looked sad, too. She was very careful not to do anything unkind, for she knew how sad the face would be then. So each day she grew more kind and loving, and more like the mother whose face she saw each day and loved. 185 This favorite story of "The Tongue-Cut Sparrow" is from Mrs. Williston's _Japanese Fairy Tales_. (Copyrighted. Used by permission.) THE TONGUE-CUT SPARROW VERSION BY TERESA PEIRCE WILLISTON In a little old house in a little old village in Japan lived a little old man and his little old wife. One morning when the old woman slid open the screens which form the sides of all Japanese houses, she saw, on the doorstep, a poor little sparrow. She took him up gently and fed him. Then she held him in the bright morning sunshine until the cold dew was dried from his wings. Afterward she let him go, so that he might fly home to his nest, but he stayed to thank her with his songs. Each morning, when the pink on the mountain tops told that the sun was near, the sparrow perched on the roof of the house and sang out his joy. The old man and woman thanked the sparrow for this, for they liked to be up early and at work. But near them there lived a cross old woman who did not like to be awakened so early. At last she became so angry that she caught the sparrow and cut his tongue. Then the poor little sparrow flew away to his home, but he could never sing again. When the kind woman knew what had happened to her pet she was very sad. She said to her husband, "Let us go and find our poor little sparrow." So they started together, and asked of each bird by the wayside: "Do you know where the Tongue-Cut Sparrow lives? Do you know where the Tongue-Cut Sparrow went?" In this way they followed until they came to a bridge. They did not know which way to turn, and at first could see no one to ask. At last they saw a Bat hanging head downward, taking his daytime nap. "Oh, friend Bat, do you know where the Tongue-Cut Sparrow went?" they asked. "Yes. Over the bridge and up the mountain," said the Bat. Then he blinked his sleepy eyes and was fast asleep again. They went over the bridge and up the mountain, but again they found two roads and did not know which one to take. A little Field Mouse peeped through the leaves and grass, so they asked him, "Do you know where the Tongue-Cut Sparrow went?" "Yes. Down the mountain and through the woods," said the Field Mouse. Down the mountain and through the woods they went, and at last came to the home of their little friend. When he saw them coming the poor little sparrow was very happy indeed. He and his wife and children all came and bowed their heads down to the ground to show their respect. Then the Sparrow rose and led the old man and the old woman into his house, while his wife and children hastened to bring them boiled rice, fish, cress, and sake. After they had feasted, the Sparrow wished to please them still more, so he danced for them what is called the "sparrow-dance." When the sun began to sink, the old man and woman started for home. The Sparrow brought out two baskets. "I would like to give you one of these," he said. "Which will you take?" One basket was large and looked very full, while the other one seemed very small and light. The old people thought they would not take the large basket, for that might have all the Sparrow's treasure in it, so they said, "The way is long and we are very old, so please let us take the smaller one." They took it and walked home over the mountain and across the bridge, happy and contented. When they reached their own home they decided to open the basket and see what the Sparrow had given them. Within the basket they found many rolls of silk and piles of gold, enough to make them rich, so they were more grateful than ever to the Sparrow. The cross old woman who had cut the Sparrow's tongue was peering in through the screen when they opened their basket. She saw the rolls of silk and the piles of gold, and planned how she might get some for herself. The next morning she went to the kind woman and said: "I am so sorry that I cut the tongue of your Sparrow. Please tell me the way to his home so that I may go to him and tell him I am sorry." The kind woman told her the way and she set out. She went across the bridge, over the mountain, and through the woods. At last she came to the home of the little Sparrow. He was not so glad to see this old woman, yet he was very kind to her and did everything to make her feel welcome. They made a feast for her, and when she started home the Sparrow brought out two baskets as before. Of course the woman chose the large basket, for she thought that would have even more wealth than the other one. It was very heavy, and caught on the trees as she was going through the wood. She could hardly pull it up the mountain with her, and she was all out of breath when she reached the top. She did not get to the bridge until it was dark. Then she was so afraid of dropping the basket into the river that she scarcely dared to step. When at last she reached home she was so tired that she was half dead, but she pulled the screens close shut, so that no one could look in, and opened her treasure. Treasure indeed! A whole swarm of horrible creatures burst from the basket the moment she opened it. They stung her and bit her, they pushed her and pulled her, they scratched her and laughed at her screams. At last she crawled to the edge of the room and slid aside the screen to get away from the pests. The moment the door was opened they swooped down upon her, picked her up, and flew away with her. Since then nothing has ever been heard of the old woman. 186 The tale of "The Straw Ox" as given in _Cossack Fairy Tales_, by R. Nesbit Bain, is one of the masterpieces among folk stories. It is of the accumulative type, winding up rapidly to the point where the old couple have secured, through the straw ox, all the raw material needed for comfortable clothing. Then comes the surprising release of the captured animals under promise to make contributions, each in his own way, to the welfare of the poverty-stricken couple. And then, the greatest surprise of all, the quick unwinding of the plot with the return of the grateful animals according to promise. "And the old man was glad, and the old woman was glad," and we are glad for their sake, and also for the sake of the bear and the wolf and the fox and the hare. THE STRAW OX There was once upon a time an old man and an old woman. The old man worked in the fields as a pitch-burner, while the old woman sat at home and spun flax. They were so poor that they could save nothing at all; all their earnings went in bare food, and when that was gone there was nothing left. At last the old woman had a good idea: "Look now, husband," cried she, "make me a straw ox, and smear it all over with tar." "Why, you foolish woman!" said he, "what's the good of an ox of that sort?" "Never mind," said she, "you just make it. I know what I am about." What was the poor man to do? He set to work and made the ox of straw, and smeared it all over with tar. The night passed away, and at early dawn the old woman took her distaff, and drove the straw ox out into the steppe to graze, and she herself sat down behind a hillock, and began spinning her flax, and cried: "Graze away, little ox, while I spin my flax. Graze away, little ox, while I spin my flax!" And while she spun, her head drooped down and she began to doze, and while she was dozing, from behind the dark wood and from the back of the huge pines a bear came rushing out upon the ox and said: "Who are you? Speak, and tell me!" And the ox said: "A three-year-old heifer am I, made of straw and smeared with tar." "Oh!" said the bear, "stuffed with straw and trimmed with tar, are you? Then give me your straw and tar, that I may patch up my ragged fur again!" "Take some," said the ox, and the bear fell upon him and began to tear away at the tar. He tore and tore, and buried his teeth in it till he found he couldn't let go again. He tugged and he tugged but it was no good, and the ox dragged him gradually off, goodness knows where. Then the old woman awoke, and there was no ox to be seen. "Alas! old fool that I am!" cried she, "perchance it has gone home." Then she quickly caught up her distaff and spinning board, threw them over her shoulders, and hastened off home, and she saw that the ox had dragged the bear up to the fence, and in she went to her old man. "Dad, dad," she cried, "look, look! The ox has brought us a bear. Come out and kill it!" Then the old man jumped up, tore off the bear, tied him up, and threw him in the cellar. Next morning, between dark and dawn, the old woman took her distaff and drove the ox into the steppe to graze. She herself sat down by a mound, began spinning, and said: "Graze, graze away, little ox, while I spin my flax! Graze, graze away, little ox, while I spin my flax!" And while she spun, her head drooped down and she dozed. And lo! from behind the dark wood, from the back of the huge pines, a gray wolf came rushing out upon the ox and said: "Who are you? Come, tell me!" "I am a three-year-old heifer, stuffed with straw and trimmed with tar," said the ox. "Oh! trimmed with tar, are you? Then give me of your tar to tar my sides, that the dogs and the sons of dogs tear me not!" "Take some," said the ox. And with that the wolf fell upon him and tried to tear the tar off. He tugged and tugged, and tore with his teeth, but could get none off. Then he tried to let go, and couldn't; tug and worry as he might, it was no good. When the old woman woke, there was no heifer in sight. "Maybe my heifer has gone home!" she cried. "I'll go home and see." When she got there she was astonished for by the paling stood the ox with the wolf still tugging at it. She ran and told her old man, and her old man came and threw the wolf into the cellar also. On the third day the old woman again drove her ox into the pastures to graze, and sat down by a mound and dozed off. Then a fox came running up. "Who are you?" it asked the ox. "I'm a three-year-old heifer, stuffed with straw and daubed with tar." "Then give me some of your tar to smear my sides with, when those dogs and sons of dogs tear my hide!" "Take some," said the ox. Then the fox fastened her teeth in him and couldn't draw them out again. The old woman told her old man, and he took and cast the fox into the cellar in the same way. And after that they caught Pussy Swiftfoot likewise. So when he had got them all safely the old man sat down on a bench before the cellar and began sharpening a knife. And the bear said to him: "Tell me, daddy, what are you sharpening your knife for?" "To flay your skin off, that I may make a leather jacket for myself and a pelisse for my old woman." "Oh! Don't flay me, daddy dear! Rather let me go, and I'll bring you a lot of honey." "Very well, see you do it," and he unbound and let the bear go. Then he sat down on the bench and again began sharpening his knife. And the wolf asked him: "Daddy, what are you sharpening your knife for?" "To flay off your skin, that I may make me a warm cap against the winter." "Oh! Don't flay me, daddy dear, and I'll bring you a whole herd of little sheep." "Well, see that you do it," and he let the wolf go. Then he sat down, and began sharpening his knife again. The fox put out her little snout, and asked him: "Be so kind, dear daddy, and tell me why you are sharpening your knife!" "Little foxes," said the old man, "have nice skins that do capitally for collars and trimmings, and I want to skin you!" "Oh! Don't take my skin away, daddy dear, and I will bring you hens and geese." "Very well, see that you do it," and he let the fox go. The hare now alone remained, and the old man began sharpening his knife on the hare's account. "Why do you do that?" asked Puss. He replied: "Little hares have nice little, soft, warm skins, which will make me nice gloves and mittens against the winter!" "Oh! daddy dear! Don't flay me, and I'll bring you kale and good cauliflower, if only you let me go!" Then he let the hare go also. Then they went to bed; but very early in the morning, when it was neither dusk nor dawn, there was a noise in the doorway like "Durrrrrr!" "Daddy!" cried the old woman, "there's some one scratching at the door; go and see who it is!" The old man went out, and there was the bear carrying a whole hive full of honey. The old man took the honey from the bear; but no sooner did he lie down again than there was another "Durrrrr!" at the door. The old man looked out and saw the wolf driving a whole flock of sheep into the court-yard. Close on his heels came the fox, driving before him the geese and hens, and all manner of fowls; and last of all came the hare, bringing cabbage and kale, and all manner of good food. And the old man was glad, and the old woman was glad. And the old man sold the sheep and oxen, and got so rich that he needed nothing more. As for the straw-stuffed ox, it stood in the sun till it fell to pieces. 187 "The Adventures of Connla the Comely" is one of the romances in _The Book of the Dun Cow_, the oldest manuscript of miscellaneous Gaelic literature in existence. It was made about 1100 A.D. and is now preserved in the Royal Irish Academy at Dublin. The contents were transcribed from older books, some of the stories being older by many centuries. The story of Connla is "one of the many tales that illustrate the ancient and widespread superstition that fairies sometimes take away mortals to their palaces in the fairy forts and pleasant green hills." This conception is often referred to as the Earthly Paradise or the Isle of Youth. It is represented in the King Arthur stories by the Vale of Avalon to which the weeping queens carried the king after his mortal wound in "that last weird battle in the west." Conn the Hundred-fighter reigned in the second century of the Christian era (123-157 A.D.), and this story of his son must have sprung up soon after. According to Jacobs, it is the oldest fairy tale of modern Europe. The following version of the tale is from Joseph Jacobs' _Celtic Fairy Tales_, which with its companion volume, _More Celtic Fairy Tales_, forms a standard source book for the usable stories in that field. Mr. Jacobs, as always, keeps to the authoritative versions while reducing them to forms at once available for educational purposes. CONNLA AND THE FAIRY MAIDEN Connla of the Fiery Hair was son of Conn of the Hundred Fights. One day as he stood by the side of his father on the height of Usna, he saw a maiden clad in strange attire towards him coming. "Whence comest thou, maiden?" said Connla. "I come from the Plains of the Ever Living," she said, "there where is neither death nor sin. There we keep holiday alway, nor need we help from any in our joy. And in all our pleasure we have no strife. And because we have our homes in the round green hills, men call us the Hill Folk." The king and all with him wondered much to hear a voice when they saw no one. For save Connla alone, none saw the Fairy Maiden. "To whom art thou talking, my son?" said Conn the king. Then the maiden answered, "Connla speaks to a young, fair maid, whom neither death nor old age awaits. I love Connla, and now I call him away to the Plain of Pleasure, Moy Mell, where Boadag is king for aye, nor has there been sorrow or complaint in that land since he held the kingship. Oh, come with me, Connla of the Fiery Hair, ruddy as the dawn, with thy tawny skin. A fairy crown awaits thee to grace thy comely face and royal form. Come, and never shall thy comeliness fade, nor thy youth, till the last awful day of judgment." The king in fear at what the maiden said, which he heard though he could not see her, called aloud to his Druid, Coran by name. "O Coran of the many spells," he said, "and of the cunning magic, I call upon thy aid. A task is upon me too great for all my skill and wit, greater than any laid upon me since I seized the kingship. A maiden unseen has met us, and by her power would take from me my dear, my comely son. If thou help not, he will be taken from thy king by woman's wiles and witchery." Then Coran the Druid stood forth and chanted his spells towards the spot where the maiden's voice had been heard. And none heard her voice again, nor could Connla see her longer. Only as she vanished before the Druid's mighty spell, she threw an apple to Connla. For a whole month from that day Connla would take nothing, either to eat or to drink, save only from that apple. But as he ate, it grew again and always kept whole. And all the while there grew within him a mighty yearning and longing after the maiden he had seen. But when the last day of the month of waiting came, Connla stood by the side of the king his father on the Plain of Arcomin, and again he saw the maiden come towards him, and again she spoke to him. "'Tis a glorious place, forsooth, that Connla holds among shortlived mortals awaiting the day of death. But now the folk of life, the ever-living ones, beg and bid thee come to Moy Mell, the Plain of Pleasure, for they have learnt to know thee, seeing thee in thy home among thy dear ones." When Conn the king heard the maiden's voice he called to his men aloud and said: "Summon swift my Druid Coran, for I see she has again this day the power of speech." Then the maiden said: "O mighty Conn, Fighter of a Hundred Fights, the Druid's power is little loved; it has little honor in the mighty land, peopled with so many of the upright. When the Law comes, it will do away with the Druid's magic spells that issue from the lips of the false black demon." Then Conn the king observed that since the coming of the maiden Connla his son spoke to none that spake to him. So Conn of the Hundred Fights said to him, "Is it to thy mind what the woman says, my son?" "'Tis hard upon me," said Connla; "I love my own folk above all things; but yet a longing seizes me for the maiden." When the maiden heard this, she answered and said: "The ocean is not so strong as the waves of thy longing. Come with me in my curragh, the gleaming, straight-gliding crystal canoe. Soon can we reach Boadag's realm. I see the bright sun sink, yet far as it is, we can reach it before dark. There is, too, another land worthy of thy journey, a land joyous to all that seek it. Only wives and maidens dwell there. If thou wilt, we can seek it and live there alone together in joy." When the maiden ceased to speak, Connla of the Fiery Hair rushed away from his kinsmen and sprang into the curragh, the gleaming, straight-gliding crystal canoe. And then they all, king and court, saw it glide away over the bright sea towards the setting sun, away and away, till eye could see it no longer. So Connla and the Fairy Maiden went forth on the sea, and were no more seen, nor did any know whither they went. 188 One of the best of the volumes of Irish tales is Lady Wilde's _Ancient Legends of Ireland_, and one of the best stories in that volume is her version of the witch story of "The Horned Women." The story is compact and restrained in the telling, and carries effectively to the listener the "creepy" spell of the witches. The way in which the house was prepared against the enchantments of the returning witches furnishes a good illustration of some of the deep-seated superstitions of the folk. THE HORNED WOMEN A rich woman sat up late one night carding and preparing wool, while all the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the door, and a voice called, "Open! Open!" "Who is there?" said the woman of the house. "I am the Witch of the one Horn," was answered. The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbors had called and required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in her hand a pair of wool carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said aloud: "Where are the women; they delay too long." Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before, "Open! Open!" The mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to the call, and immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead, and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool. "Give me place," she said, "I am the Witch of the two Horns"; and she began to spin as quick as lightning. And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and the witches entered, until at last, twelve women sat round the fire--the first with one horn, the last with twelve horns. And they carded the thread, and turned their spinning wheels, and wound and wove. All were singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear and frightful to look upon were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels; and the mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might call for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry, for the spell of the witches was upon her. Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said, "Rise, woman, and make us a cake." Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water from the well that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she could find none. And they said to her, "Take a sieve, and bring water in it." And she took the sieve and went to the well; but the water poured from it, and she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and wept. Then came a voice by her, and said, "Take yellow clay and moss and bind them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold." This she did, and the sieve held the water for the cake; and the voice said again: "Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the house cry aloud three times, and say, 'The mountain of the Fenian women and the sky over it is all on fire.'" And she did so. When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and shrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon, where was their chief abode. But the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to enter and prepare her home against the enchantments of the witches, if they returned again. And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she had washed her child's feet (the feet-water) outside the door on the threshold; secondly, she took the cake which the witches had made in her absence, of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family, and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of each sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the cloth they had woven, and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the padlock; and, lastly, she secured the door with a great crossbeam fastened in the jambs, so that they could not enter, and having done these things she waited. Not long were the witches in coming, and they raged and called for vengeance. "Open! Open!" they screamed. "Open, feet-water!" "I cannot," said the feet-water; "I am scattered on the ground, and my path is down to the Lough." "Open, open, wood and trees and beam!" they cried to the door. "I cannot," said the door, "for the beam is fixed in the jambs, and I have no power to move." "Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!" they cried again. "I cannot," said the cake, "for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is on the lips of the sleeping children." Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the Well, who had wished their ruin. But the woman and the house were left in peace, and a mantle dropped by one of the witches was kept hung up by the mistress as a sign of the night's awful contest; and this mantle was in possession of the same family from generation to generation for five hundred years after. 189 The story of "King O'Toole and His Goose" is from Samuel Lover's _Stories and Legends of the Irish Peasantry_, as reprinted in slightly abridged form in William Butler Yeats's _Irish Fairy Tales_. The extreme form of the dialect is kept as in the original, since the humor is largely dependent on the language of the peasant who tells the story. It will serve as a good illustration for practice work for the amateur story-teller. Probably most teachers would find it necessary to "reduce" this dialect or to eliminate it altogether. Mr. Jacobs, who includes this story in his _Celtic Fairy Tales_, reduces the dialect very materially, keeping just enough to remind one that it is Irish. He also says the final word as to the moral of the story: "This is a moral apologue on the benefits of keeping your word. Yet it is told with such humor and vigor, that the moral glides insensibly into the heart." KING O'TOOLE AND HIS GOOSE "By Gor, I thought all the world, far and near, heerd o' King O'Toole--well, well, but the darkness of mankind is ontellible! Well, sir, you must know, as you didn't hear it afore, that there was a king, called King O'Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago; and it was him that owned the churches in the early days. The king, you see, was the right sort; he was the rale boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin' in partic'lar; and from the risin' o' the sun, up he got, and away he wint over the mountains beyant afther the deer; and the fine times them wor. "Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in coorse of time the king grew ould, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got sthriken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost intirely for want o' divarshin, bekase he couldn't go a huntin' no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was obleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him. Oh, you may laugh, if you like, but it's truth I'm tellin' you; and the way the goose divarted him was this-a-way: You see, the goose used for to swim across the lake, and go divin' for throut, and cotch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake, divartin' the poor king. All went on mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose got sthriken in years like her master, and couldn't divart him no longer, and then it was that the poor king was lost complate. The king was walkin' one mornin' by the edge of the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate, and thinkin' o' drownin' himself, that could get no divarshun in life, when all of a suddint, turnin' round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a mighty dacent young man comin' up to him. "'God save you,' says the king to the young man. "'God save you kindly, King O'Toole,' says the young man. 'Thrue for you,' says the king. 'I am King O'Toole,' says he, 'prince and plennypennytinchery o' these parts,' says he; 'but how kem ye to know that?' says he. 'Oh, never mind,' says Saint Kavin. "You see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough--the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. 'Oh, never mind,' says he, 'I know more than that. May I make bowld to ax how is your goose, King O'Toole?' says he. 'Bluran-agers, how kem ye to know about my goose?' says the king. 'Oh, no matther; I was given to understand it,' says Saint Kavin. After some more talk the king says, 'What are you?' 'I'm an honest man,' says Saint Kavin. 'Well, honest man,' says the king, 'and how is it you make your money so aisy?' 'By makin' ould things as good as new,' says Saint Kavin. 'Is it a tinker you are?' says the king. 'No,' says the saint; 'I'm no tinker by thrade, King O'Toole; I've a betther thrade than a tinker,' says he--'what would you say,' says he, 'if I made your ould goose as good as new?' "My dear, at the word o' makin' his goose as good as new, you'd think the poor ould king's eyes was ready to jump out iv his head. With that the king whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound, waddlin' up to the poor cripple, her masther, and as like him as two pays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, 'I'll do the job for you,' says he, 'King O'Toole.' 'By _Jaminee_!' says King O'Toole, 'if you do, but I'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the sivin parishes.' 'Oh, by dad,' says Saint Kavin, 'you must say more nor that--my horn's not so soft all out,' says he, 'as to repair your ould goose for nothin'; what'll you gi' me if I do the job for you?--that's the chat,' says Saint Kavin. 'I'll give you whatever you ax,' says the king; 'isn't that fair?' 'Divil a fairer,' says the saint; 'that's the way to do business. Now,' says he, 'this is the bargain I'll make with you, King O'Toole: will you gi' me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, afther I make her as good as new?' 'I will,' says the king, 'You won't go back o' your word?' says Saint Kavin. 'Honor bright!' says King O'Toole, howldin' out his fist. 'Honor bright!' says Saint Kavin, back agin, 'it's a bargain. Come here!' says he to the poor ould goose--'come here, you unfort'nate ould cripple, and it's I that'll make you the sportin' bird.' With that, my dear, he took up the goose by the two wings--'Criss o' my crass and you,' says he, markin' her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute--and throwin' her up in the air, 'whew,' says he, jist givin' her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she tuk to her heels, flyin' like one o' the aigles themselves and cuttin' as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain. "Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standin' with his mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould goose flyin' as light as a lark, and betther nor ever she was: and when she lit at his fut, patter her an the head, and, '_Ma vourneen_,' says he, 'but you are the _darlint_ o' the world.' 'And what do you say to me,' says Saint Kavin, 'for makin' her the like?' 'By gor,' says the king, 'I say nothin' bates the art o' man, barrin' the bees.' 'And do you say no more nor that?' says Saint Kavin. 'And that I'm behoulden to you,' says the king. 'But will you give me all the ground the goose flew over?' says Saint Kavin. 'I will,' says King O'Toole, 'and you're welkim to it,' says he, 'though it's the last acre I have to give.' 'But you'll keep your word thrue?' says the saint. 'As thrue as the sun,' says the king. 'It's well for you, King O'Toole, that you said that word,' says he; 'for if you didn't say that word, _the devil receave the bit o' your goose id ever fly agin_.' "Whin the king was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was _plazed_ with him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the king. 'And,' says he, 'King O'Toole, you're a dacent man, for I only kem here to _thry you_. You don't know me,' says he, 'bekase I'm disguised.' 'Musha! thin,' says the king, 'who are you?' 'I'm Saint Kavin,' said the Saint, blessin' himself. 'Oh, queen iv heaven!' says the king makin' the sign o' the crass betune his eyes, and fallin' down on his knees before the saint; 'is it the great Saint Kavin,' says he, 'that I've been discoorsin' all this time without knowin' it,' says he, 'all as one as if he was a lump iv a _gosson_?--and so you're a saint?' says the king. 'I am,' says Saint Kavin. 'By gor, I thought I was only talking to a dacent boy,' says the king. 'Well, you know the differ now,' says the saint. 'I'm Saint Kavin,' says he, 'the greatest of all the saints.' "And so the king had his goose as good as new, to divart him as long as he lived: and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property, as I tould you, until the day iv his death--and that was soon afther; for the poor goose thought he was ketchin' a throut one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made--and instead of a throut, it was a thievin' horse-eel; and by gor, instead iv the goose killin' a throut for the king's supper,--by dad, the eel killed the king's goose--and small blame to him; but he didn't ate her, bekase he darn't ate what Saint Kavin had laid his blessed hands on." SECTION IV FAIRY STORIES--MODERN FANTASTIC TALES BIBLIOGRAPHY Alden, Raymond Macdonald, _Why the Chimes Rang, and Other Stories_. Andersen, Hans Christian, _Fairy Tales_. Barrie, Sir James Matthew, _The Little White Bird_. [Peter Pan.] Baum, L. Frank, _The Wizard of Oz_. Benson, A. C., _David Blaize and the Blue Door_. Beston, H. B., _The Firelight Fairy Book_. Brown, Abbie Farwell, _The Lonesomest Doll_. Browne, Frances, _Granny's Wonderful Chair_. Carryl, Charles E., _Davy and the Goblin_. "Carroll, Lewis," _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_. "Carroll, Lewis," _Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There_. Chamisso, Adelbert von, _The Wonderful History of Peter Schlemihl_. "Collodi, C.," _The Adventures of Pinocchio_. Cox, Palmer, _The Brownies: Their Book_. Craik, Dinah Mulock, _Adventures of a Brownie_. Craik, Dinah Mulock, _The Little Lame Prince and His Traveling-Cloak_. Crothers, Samuel McChord, _Miss Muffet's Christmas Party_. Dickens, Charles, _A Christmas Carol_. Ewald, Carl, _Two-Legs, and Other Stories_. Grahame, Kenneth, _The Wind in the Willows_. Harris, Joel Chandler, _Nights with Uncle Remus_. Hawthorne, Nathaniel, "The Snow Image," "Little Daffydowndilly," "A Rill from the Town Pump." Ingelow, Jean, _Mopsa the Fairy_. Ingelow, Jean, _Stories Told to a Child_. 2 vols. Jordan, David Starr, _The Book of Knight and Barbara_. Lagerlof, Selma, _The Wonderful Adventures of Nils_. La Motte-Fouque, F. de, _Undine_. Lang, Andrew, _Prince Prigio_. Kingsley, Charles, _The Water Babies_. Maeterlinck, Maurice, _The Blue Bird_. Macdonald, George, _The Princess and the Goblin_. Macdonald, George, _At the Back of the North Wind_. Pyle, Katherine, _In the Green Forest_. Raspe, Rudolph Erich, _Baron Munchausen's Narrative_. Richards, Laura E., _The Story of Toto_. Richards, Laura E., _The Pig Brother_. Ruskin, John, _The King of the Golden River_. Stockton, Frank R., _Fanciful Tales_. Swift, Jonathan, _Gulliver's Travels_. Thackeray, William Makepeace, _The Rose and the Ring_. Wilde, Oscar, _The Happy Prince, and Other Stories_. Wilkins, Mary E., _The Pot of Gold_. SECTION IV: FAIRY STORIES--MODERN FANTASTIC TALES INTRODUCTORY The difficulties of classification are very apparent here, and once more it must be noted that illustrative and practical purposes rather than logical ones are served by the arrangement adopted. The modern fanciful story is here placed next to the real folk story instead of after all the groups of folk products. The Hebrew stories at the beginning belong quite as well, perhaps even better, in Section V, while the stories at the end of Section VI shade off into the more modern types of short tales. Then the fact that other groups of modern stories are to follow later, illustrating more realistic studies of life and the very recent and remarkably numerous writings centering around animal life, limits the list here. Many of the animal stories might, with equal propriety, be placed under the head of the fantastic. _The child's natural literature._ The world has lost certain secrets as the price of an advancing civilization. It is a commonplace of observation that no one can duplicate the success of Mother Goose, whether she be thought of as the maker of jingles or the teller of tales. The conditions of modern life preclude the generally naive attitude that produced the folk rhymes, ballads, tales, proverbs, fables, and myths. The folk saw things simply and directly. The complex, analytic, questioning mind is not yet, either in or out of stories. The motives from which people act are to them plain and not mixed. Characters are good or bad. They feel no need of elaborately explaining their joys and sorrows. Such experiences come with the day's work. "To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new." The zest of life with them is emphatic. Their humor is fresh, unbounded, sincere; there is no trace of cynicism. In folk literature we do not feel the presence of a "writer" who is mightily concerned about maintaining his reputation for wisdom, originality, or style. Hence the freedom from any note of straining after effect, of artificiality. In the midst of a life limited to fundamental needs, their literature deals with fundamentals. On the whole, it was a literature for entertainment. A more learned upper class may have concerned itself then about "problems" and "purposes," as the whole world does now, but the literature of the folk had no such interests. Without discussing the limits of the culture-epoch theory of human development as a complete guide in education, it is clear that the young child passes through a period when his mind looks out upon the world in a manner analogous to that of the folk as expressed in their literature. Quarrel with the fact as we may, it still remains a fact that his nature craves these old stories and will not be satisfied with something "just as good." _The modern fairy story._ The advance of civilization has been accompanied by a wistful longing for the simplicities left by the way. In some periods this interest in the past has been more marked than in others. When the machinery of life has weighed too heavily on the human spirit, men have turned for relief to a contemplation of the "good old times" and have preached crusades of a "return to nature." Many modern writers have tried to recapture some of the power of the folk tale by imitating its method. In many cases they have had a fair degree of success: in one case, that of Hans Christian Andersen, the success is admittedly very complete. As a rule, however, the sharpness of the sense of wonder has been blunted, and many imitators of the old fairy tale succeed in keeping only the shell. Another class of modern fantastic tale is that of the _pourquoi_ story, which has the explanation of something as its object. Such tales grow out of the attempt to use the charm of old stories as a means of conveying instruction, somewhat after the method of those parents who covered up our bitter medicine with some of our favorite jam. Even "Little Red Riding Hood," as we saw, has been turned into a flower myth. So compelling is this pedagogical motive that so-called nature myths have been invented or made from existing stories in great numbers. The practical results please many teachers, but it may be questioned whether the gain is sufficient to compensate children for the distorting results upon masterpieces. _Wide range of the modern fairy tale._ The bibliography will suggest something of the treasures in the field of the modern fanciful story. From the delightful nonsense of _Alice in Wonderland_ and the "travelers' tales" of _Baron Munchausen_ to the profound seriousness of _The King of the Golden River_ and _Why the Chimes Rang_ is a far cry. There are the rich fancies of Barrie and Maeterlinck, at the same time delicate as the promises of spring and brilliant as the fruitions of summer. One may be blown away to the land of Oz, he may lose his shadow with Peter Schlemihl, he may outdo the magic carpet with his Traveling-Cloak, he may visit the courts of kings with his Wonderful Chair; Miss Muffet will invite us to her Christmas party, Lemuel Gulliver will lead us to lands not marked in the school atlas; on every side is a world of wonder. _Some qualities of these modern tales._ Every age produces after its own fashion, and we must expect to find the modern user of the fairy-story method expressing through it the qualities of his own outlook upon the world. Interest in the picturesque aspects of landscape will be emphasized, as in the early portions of "The Story of Fairyfoot" and, with especial magnificence of style, throughout _The King of the Golden River_. There will appear the saddened mood of the modern in the face of the human miseries that make happiness a mockery, as in "The Happy Prince." The destructive effects of the possessive instinct upon all that is finest in human nature is reflected in "The Prince's Dream." That the most valuable efforts are often those performed with least spectacular settings may be discerned in "The Knights of the Silver Shield," while the lesson of kindly helpfulness is the burden of "Old Pipes and the Dryad." In many modern stories the reader is too much aware of the conscious efforts of style and structure. The thoughtful child will sometimes be too much distressed by the more somber modern story, and should not hear too many of the gloomy type. _Andersen the consummate master._ Hans Christian Andersen is the acknowledged master of the modern story for children. What are the sources of his success? Genius is always unexplainable except in terms of itself, but some things are clear. To begin, he makes a mark--drives down a peg: "There came a soldier marching along the high road--_one, two! one, two!_" and you are off. No backing and filling, no jockeying for position, no elaborate setting of the stage. The story's the thing! Next, the language is the language of common oral speech, free and unrestrained. The rigid forms of the grammar are eschewed. There is no beating around the bush. Seeing through the eyes of the child, he uses the language that is natural to such sight: "Aha! there sat the dog with eyes as big as mill-wheels." In quick dramatic fashion the story unrolls before your vision: "So the soldier cut the witch's head off. There she lay!" No agonizing over the cruelty of it, the lack of sympathy. It is a joke after the child's own heart, and with a hearty laugh at this end to an impostor, the listener is on with the story. The logic is the logic of childhood: "And everyone could see she was a real princess, for she was so lovely." When Andersen deals with some of the deeper truths of existence, as in "The Nightingale" or "The Ugly Duckling," he still manages to throw it all into the form that is natural and convincing and simple to the child. He never mounts a pedestal and becomes a grown-up philosopher. Perhaps Andersen's secret lay in the fact that some fairy godmother invested him at birth with a power to see things so completely as a child sees them that he never questioned the dignity of the method. In few of his stories is there any evidence of a constraint due to a conscious attempt to write down to the understandings of children. SUGGESTIONS FOR READING The most valuable discussion of the difficulties to be mastered in writing the literary fairy tale, and the story of the only very complete mastery yet made, will be found in the account of Hans Christian Andersen in _Eminent Authors of the Nineteenth Century_, by Georg Brandes. Now and then hints of importance on such stories and their value for children may be found in biographies of the more prominent writers represented in the section and mentioned in the bibliography, and in magazine articles and reviews. These latter may be located by use of the periodical indexes found in most libraries. For the proper attitude which the schools should have toward fiction and fanciful writing in general, nothing could be better than two lectures on "Children's Reading," in _On the Art of Reading_, by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. 190 The rabbis of old were good story-tellers. They were essentially teachers and they understood that the best sermon is a story. "They were fond of the parable, the anecdote, the apt illustration, and their legends that have been transmitted to us, all aglow with the light and life of the Orient, possess perennial charm." It is possible to find in rabbinical sources a large number of brief stories that have the power of entertaining as well as of emphasizing some qualities of character that are important in all ages. The plan of this book does not include the wonderful stories of the Old Testament, which are easy of access to any teacher and may be used as experience directs. The Hebrew stories following correspond very nearly to the folk anecdote and are placed in this section because of their literary form. Dr. Abram S. Isaacs (1851--) is a professor in New York University and is also a rabbi. The selection that follows is from his _Stories from the Rabbis_. (Copyrighted. Used by special permission of The Bloch Publishing Company, New York.) Taking advantage of the popular superstition that a four-leaved clover is a sign of good luck, Dr. Isaacs has grouped together four parable-like stories, each of which deals with wealth as a subject. The editors are responsible for the special titles given. The messages of these stories might be summarized as follows: If you would be lucky, (1) be honest because it is right to be honest, (2) value good friends more highly than gold, (3) let love accompany each gift of charity, and (4) use common sense in your business ventures. A FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER ABRAM S. ISAACS 1. THE RABBI AND THE DIADEM Great was the alarm in the palace of Rome, which soon spread throughout the entire city. The Empress had lost her costly diadem, and it could not be found. They searched in every direction, but it was all in vain. Half distracted, for the mishap boded no good to her or her house, the Empress redoubled her exertions to regain her precious possession, but without result. As a last resource it was proclaimed in the public streets: "The Empress has lost a priceless diadem. Whoever restores it within thirty days shall receive a princely reward. But he who delays, and brings it after thirty days, shall lose his head." In those times all nationalities flocked toward Rome; all classes and creeds could be met in its stately halls and crowded thoroughfares. Among the rest was a rabbi, a learned sage from the East, who loved goodness and lived a righteous life, in the stir and turmoil of the Western world. It chanced one night as he was strolling up and down, in busy meditation, beneath the clear, moonlit sky, he saw the diadem sparkling at his feet. He seized it quickly, brought it to his dwelling, where he guarded it carefully until the thirty days had expired, when he resolved to return it to the owner. He proceeded to the palace, and, undismayed at sight of long lines of soldiery and officials, asked for an audience with the Empress. "What dost thou mean by this?" she inquired, when he told her his story and gave her the diadem. "Why didst thou delay until this hour? Dost thou know the penalty? Thy head must be forfeited." "I delayed until now," the rabbi answered calmly, "so that thou mightst know that I return thy diadem, not for the sake of the reward, still less out of fear of punishment; but solely to comply with the Divine command not to withhold from another the property which belongs to him." "Blessed be thy God!" the Empress answered, and dismissed the rabbi without further reproof; for had he not done right for right's sake? 2. FRIENDSHIP A certain father was doubly blessed--he had reached a good old age, and had ten sons. One day he called them to his side, and after repeated expressions of affection, told them that he had acquired a fortune by industry and economy, and would give them one hundred gold pieces each before his death, so that they might begin business for themselves, and not be obliged to wait until he had passed away. It happened, however, that, soon after, he lost a portion of his property, much to his regret, and had only nine hundred and fifty gold pieces left. So he gave one hundred to each of his nine sons. When his youngest son, whom he loved most of all, asked naturally what was to be his share, the father replied: "My son, I promised to give each of thy brothers one hundred gold pieces. I shall keep my word to them. I have fifty left. Thirty I shall reserve for my funeral expenses, and twenty will be thy portion. But understand this--I possess, in addition, ten friends, whom I give over to thee as compensation for the loss of the eighty gold pieces. Believe me, they are worth more than all the gold and silver." The youth tenderly embraced his parent, and assured him that he was content, such was his confidence and affection. In a few days the father died, and the nine sons took their money, and without a thought of their youngest brother and the small amount he had received, followed each his own fancy. But the youngest son, although his portion was the least, resolved to heed his father's words, and hold fast to the ten friends. When a short time had elapsed he prepared a simple feast, went to the ten friends of his father, and said to them: "My father, almost in his last words, asked me to keep you, his friends, in honor. Before I leave this place to seek my fortune elsewhere, will you not share with me a farewell meal, and aid me thus to comply with his dying request?" The ten friends, stirred by his earnestness and cordiality, accepted his invitation with pleasure, and enjoyed the repast, although they were used to richer fare. When the moment for parting arrived, however, one of them rose and spoke: "My friends, it seems to me that of all the sons of our dear friend that has gone, the youngest alone is mindful of his father's friendship for us, and reverences his memory. Let us, then, be true friends to him, for his own sake as well, and provide for him a generous sum, that he may begin business here, and not be forced to live among strangers." The proposal, so unexpected and yet so merited, was received with applause. The youth, proud of their friendship, soon became a prosperous merchant, who never forgot that faithful friends were more valuable than gold or silver, and left an honored name to his descendants. 3. TRUE CHARITY There lived once a very wealthy man, who cared little for money, except as a means for helping others. He used to adopt a peculiar plan in his method of charitable relief. He had three boxes made for the three different classes of people whom he desired to assist. In one box he put gold pieces, which he distributed among artists and scholars, for he honored knowledge and learning as the highest possession. In the second box he placed silver pieces for widows and orphans, for whom his sympathies were readily awakened. In the third were copper coins for the general poor and beggars--no one was turned away from his dwelling without some gift, however small. That the man was beloved by all, need hardly be said. He rejoiced that he was enabled to do so much good, retained his modest bearing, and continued to regard his wealth as only an incentive to promote the happiness of mankind, without distinction of creed or nationality. Unhappily, his wife was just the opposite. She rarely gave food or raiment to the poor, and felt angry at her husband's liberality, which she considered shameless extravagance. The day came when in the pressure of various duties he had to leave his house, and could not return until the morrow. Unaware of his sudden departure, the poor knocked at the door as usual for his kind gifts; but when they found him absent, they were about to go away or remain in the street, being terrified at the thought of asking his wife for alms. Vexed at their conduct, she exclaimed impetuously: "I will give to the poor according to my husband's method." She seized the keys of the boxes, and first opened the box of gold. But how great was her terror when she gazed at its contents--frogs jumping here and there. Then she went to the silver box, and it was full of ants. With troubled heart, she opened the copper box, and it was crowded with creeping bugs. Loud then were her complaints, and bitter her tears, at the deception, and she kept her room until her husband returned. No sooner did the man enter the room, annoyed that so many poor people were kept waiting outside, than she asked him: "Why did you give me keys to boxes of frogs, ants, and bugs, instead of gold, silver, and copper? Was it right thus to deceive your wife, and disappoint the poor?" "Not so," rejoined her husband. "The mistake must be yours, not mine. I have given you the right keys. I do not know what you have done with them. Come, let me have them. I am guiltless of any deception." He took the keys, quickly opened the boxes, and found the coins as he had left them. "Ah, dear wife," said he, when she had regained her composure, "your heart, I fear, was not in the gift, when you wished to give to the poor. It is the feeling that prompts us to aid, not the mere money, which is the chief thing after all." And ever after, her heart was changed. Her gifts blessed the poor of the land, and aroused their love and reverence. 4. AN EASTERN GARDEN In an Eastern city a lovely garden flourished, whose beauty and luxuriance awakened much admiration. It was the owner's greatest pleasure to watch its growth, as leaf, flower, and tree seemed daily to unfold to brighter bloom. One morning, while taking his usual stroll through the well-kept paths, he was surprised to find that some blossoms were picked to pieces. The next day he noticed more signs of mischief, and rendered thus more observant he gave himself no rest until he had discovered the culprit. It was a little trembling bird, whom he managed to capture, and was about to kill in his anger, when it exclaimed: "Do not kill me, I beg you, kind sir. I am only a wee, tiny bird. My flesh is too little to satisfy you. I would not furnish one-hundredth of a meal to a man of your size. Let me free without any hesitation, and I shall teach you something that will be of much use to you and your friends." "I would dearly like to put an end to you," replied the man, "for you were rapidly putting an end to my garden. It is a good thing to rid the world of such annoyances. But as I am not revengeful, and am always glad to learn something useful, I shall set you free this time." And he opened his hand to give the bird more air. "Attention!" cried the bird. "Here are three rules which should guide you through life, and if you observe them you will find your path made easier: Do not cry over spilt milk; do not desire what is unattainable, and do not believe what is impossible." The man was satisfied with the advice, and let the bird escape; but it had scarcely regained its liberty, when, from a high tree opposite, it exclaimed: "What a silly man! The idea of letting me escape! If you only knew what you have lost! But it is too late now." "What have I lost?" the man asked, angrily. "Why, if you had killed me, as you intended, you would have found inside of me a huge pearl, as large as a goose's egg, and you would have been a wealthy man forever." "Dear little bird," the man said in his blandest tones; "sweet little bird, I will not harm you. Only come down to me, and I will treat you as if you were my own child, and give you fruit and flowers all day. I assure you of this most sacredly." But the bird shook its head sagely, and replied: "What a silly man, to forget so soon the advice which was given him in all seriousness. I told you not to cry over spilt milk, and here you are, worrying over what has happened. I urged you not to desire the unattainable, and now you wish to capture me again. And, finally, I asked you not to believe what is impossible, and you are rashly imagining that I have a huge pearl inside of me, when a goose's egg is larger than my whole body. You ought to learn your lessons better in the future, if you would become wise," added the bird, as with another twist of its head it flew away, and was lost in the distance. 191 A classic collection of short stories from the ancient Hebrew sages is the little book, _Hebrew Tales_, published in London in 1826 by the noted Jewish scholar Hyman Hurwitz (1770-1844). A modern handy edition of this book (about sixty tales) is published as Vol. II of the Library of Jewish Classics. Of special interest is the fact that it contained three stories by the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who had published them first in his periodical, _The Friend_. Coleridge was much interested in Hebrew literature, and especially fond of speaking in parables, as those who know "The Ancient Mariner" will readily recall. The following is one of the three stories referred to, and it had prefixed to it the significant text, "The Lord helpeth man and beast." (Psalm XXXVI, 6.) THE LORD HELPETH MAN AND BEAST SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE During his march to conquer the world, Alexander, the Macedonian, came to a people in Africa who dwelt in a remote and secluded corner, in peaceful huts, and knew neither war nor conqueror. They led him to the hut of their chief, who received him hospitably, and placed before him golden dates, golden figs, and bread of gold. "Do you eat gold in this country?" said Alexander. "I take it for granted," replied the chief, "that thou wert able to find eatable food in thine own country. For what reason, then, art thou come amongst us?" "Your gold has not tempted me hither," said Alexander, "but I would become acquainted with your manners and customs." "So be it," rejoined the other: "sojourn among us as long as it pleaseth thee." At the close of this conversation, two citizens entered, as into their court of justice. The plaintiff said, "I bought of this man a piece of land, and as I was making a deep drain through it, I found a treasure. This is not mine, for I only bargained for the land, and not for any treasure that might be concealed beneath it; and yet the former owner of the land will not receive it." The defendant answered, "I hope I have a conscience, as well as my fellow citizen. I sold him the land with all its contingent, as well as existing advantages, and consequently, the treasure inclusively." The chief, who was at the same time their supreme judge, recapitulated their words, in order that the parties might see whether or not he understood them aright. Then, after some reflection, said: "Thou hast a son, friend, I believe?" "Yes." "And thou," addressing the other, "a daughter?" "Yes." "Well, then, let thy son marry _thy_ daughter, and bestow the treasure on the young couple for a marriage portion." Alexander seemed surprised and perplexed. "Think you my sentence unjust?" the chief asked him. "Oh, no!" replied Alexander; "but it astonishes me." "And how, then," rejoined the chief, "would the case have been decided in your country?" "To confess the truth," said Alexander, "we should have taken both parties into custody, and have seized the treasure for the king's use." "For the king's use!" exclaimed the chief; "does the sun shine on that country?" "Oh, yes!" "Does it rain there?" "Assuredly." "Wonderful! But are there tame animals in the country, that live on the grass and green herbs?" "Very many, and of many kinds." "Ay, that must, then, be the cause," said the chief: "for the sake of those innocent animals the All-gracious Being continues to let the sun shine, and the rain drop down on your country; since its inhabitants are unworthy of such blessings." 192 By almost common consent Hans Christian Andersen (1805-1875), the Danish author, is the acknowledged master of all modern writers of fairy tales. He was born in poverty, the son of a poor shoemaker. With a naturally keen dramatic sense, his imagination was stirred by stories from the _Arabian Nights_ and La Fontaine's _Fables_, by French and Spanish soldiers marching through his native city, and by listening to the wonderful folk tales of his country. On a toy stage and with toy actors, these vivid impressions took actual form. The world continued a dramatic spectacle to him throughout his existence. His consuming ambition was for the stage, but he had none of the personal graces so necessary for success. He was ungainly and awkward, like his "ugly duckling." But when at last he began to write, he had the power to transfer to the page the vivid dramas in his mind, and this power culminated in the creation of fairy stories for children which he began to publish in 1835. It is usual to say that Andersen, like Peter Pan, "never grew up," and it is certain that he never lost the power of seeing things as children see them. Like many great writers whose fame now rests on the suffrages of child readers, Andersen seems at first to have felt that the _Tales_ were slight and beneath his dignity. They are not all of the same high quality. Occasionally one of them becomes "too sentimental and sickly sweet," but the best of them have a sturdiness that is thoroughly refreshing. The most acute analysis of the elements of Andersen's greatness as the ideal writer for children is that made by his fellow-countryman Georg Brandes in _Eminent Authors of the Nineteenth Century_. A briefer account on similar lines will be found in H. J. Boyesen's _Scandinavian Literature_. A still briefer account, eminently satisfactory for an introduction to Andersen, by Benjamin W. Wells, is in Warner's _Library of the World's Best Literature_. The interested student cannot, of course, afford to neglect Andersen's own _The Story of My Life_. Among the more elaborate biographies the _Life of Hans Christian Andersen_ by R. Nisbet Bain is probably the best. The first translation of the _Tales_ into English was made by Mary Howitt in 1846 and, as far as it goes, is still regarded as one of the finest. However, Andersen has been very fortunate in his many translators. The version by H. W. Dulcken has been published in many cheap forms and perhaps more widely read than any other. In addition to the stories in the following pages, some of those most suitable for use are "The Little Match Girl," "The Silver Shilling," "Five Peas in the Pod," "Hans Clodhopper," and "The Snow Queen." The latter is one of the longest and an undoubted masterpiece. The first two stories following are taken from Mrs. Henderson's _Andersen's Best Fairy Tales_. (Copyright. Rand McNally & Co.) This little book contains thirteen stories in a very simple translation and also an excellent story of Andersen's life in a form most attractive to children. "The Princess and the Pea" is a story for the story's sake. The humor, perhaps slightly satirical, is based upon the notion so common in the old folk tales that royal personages are decidedly more delicate than the person of low degree. However, the tendency to think oneself of more consequence than another is not confined to any one class. THE REAL PRINCESS HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (Version by Alice Corbin Henderson) There was once a Prince who wanted to marry a Princess. But it was only a _real_ Princess that he wanted to marry. He traveled all over the world to find a real one. But, although there were plenty of princesses, whether they were _real_ princesses he could never discover. There was always something that did not seem quite right about them. At last he had to come home again. But he was very sad, because he wanted to marry a _real_ Princess. One night there was a terrible storm. It thundered and lightened and the rain poured down in torrents. In the middle of the storm there came a knocking, knocking, knocking at the castle gate. The kind old King himself went down to open the castle gate. It was a young Princess that stood outside the gate. The wind and the rain had almost blown her to pieces. Water streamed out of her hair and out of her clothes. Water ran in at the points of her shoes and out again at the heels. Yet she said that she was a _real_ Princess. "Well, we will soon find out about that!" thought the Queen. She said nothing, but went into the bedroom, took off all the bedding, and put a small dried pea on the bottom of the bedstead. Then she piled twenty mattresses on top of the pea, and on top of these she put twenty feather beds. This was where the Princess had to sleep that night. In the morning they asked her how she had slept through the night. "Oh, miserably!" said the Princess. "I hardly closed my eyes the whole night long! Goodness only knows what was in my bed! I slept upon something so hard that I am black and blue all over. It was dreadful!" So then they knew that she was a _real_ Princess. For, through the twenty mattresses and the twenty feather beds, she had still felt the pea. No one but a _real_ Princess could have had such a tender skin. So the Prince took her for his wife. He knew now that he had a _real_ Princess. As for the pea, it was put in a museum where it may still be seen if no one has carried it away. Now this is a true story! 193 With some dozen exceptions, all of Andersen's _Tales_ are based upon older stories, either upon some old folk tale or upon something that he ran across in his reading. Dr. Brandes, in his _Eminent Authors_, shows in detail how "The Emperor's New Clothes" came into being. "One day in turning over the leaves of Don Manuel's _Count Lucanor_, Andersen became charmed by the homely wisdom of the old Spanish story, with the delicate flavor of the Middle Ages pervading it, and he lingered over chapter vii, which treats of how a king was served by three rogues." But Andersen's story is a very different one in many ways from his Spanish original. For one thing, the meaning is so universal that no one can miss it. Most of us have, in all likelihood, at some time pretended to know what we do not know or to be what we are not in order to save our face, to avoid the censure or ridicule of others. "There is much concerning which people dare not speak the truth, through cowardice, through fear of acting otherwise than 'all the world,' through anxiety lest they should appear stupid. And the story is eternally new and it never ends. It has its grave side, but just because of its endlessness it has also its humorous side." When the absurd bubble of the grand procession is punctured by the child, whose mental honesty has not yet been spoiled by the pressure of convention, the Emperor "held himself stiffer than ever, and the chamberlains carried the invisible train." For it would never do to hold up the procession! THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (Version by Alice Corbin Henderson) Many years ago there lived an Emperor who thought so much of new clothes that he spent all his money on them. He did not care for his soldiers; he did not care to go to the theater. He liked to drive out in the park only that he might show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day. They usually say of a king, "He is in the council chamber." But of the Emperor they said, "He is in the clothes closet!" It was a gay city in which the Emperor lived. And many strangers came to visit it every day. Among these, one day, there came two rogues who set themselves up as weavers. They said they knew how to weave the most beautiful cloths imaginable. And not only were the colors and patterns used remarkably beautiful, but clothes made from this cloth could not be seen by any one who was unfit for the office he held or was too stupid for any use. "Those would be fine clothes!" thought the Emperor. "If I wore those I could find out what men in my empire were not fit for the places they held. I could tell the clever men from the dunces! I must have some clothes woven for me at once!" So he gave the two rogues a great deal of money that they might begin their work at once. The rogues immediately put up two looms and pretended to be working. But there was nothing at all on their looms. They called for the finest silks and the brightest gold, but this they put into their pockets. At the empty looms they worked steadily until late into the night. "I should like to know how the weavers are getting on with my clothes," thought the Emperor. But he felt a little uneasy when he thought that any one who was stupid or was not fit for his office would be unable to see the cloth. Of course he had no fears for himself; but still he thought he would send some one else first, just to see how matters stood. "I will send my faithful old Minister to the weavers," thought the Emperor. "He can see how the stuff looks, for he is a clever man, and no one is so careful in fulfilling duties as he is!" So the good old Minister went into the room where the two rogues sat working at the empty looms. "Mercy on us!" thought the old Minister, opening his eyes wide, "I can't see a thing!" But he didn't care to say so. Both the rascals begged him to be good enough to step a little nearer. They pointed to the empty looms and asked him if he did not think the pattern and the coloring wonderful. The poor old Minister stared and stared as hard as he could, but he could not see anything, for, of course, there was nothing to see! "Mercy!" he said to himself. "Is it possible that I am a dunce? I never thought so! Certainly no one must know it. Am I unfit for office? It will never do to say that I cannot see the stuff!" "Well, sir, why do you say nothing of it?" asked the rogue who was pretending to weave. "Oh, it is beautiful--charming!" said the old Minister, peering through his spectacles. "What a fine pattern, and what wonderful colors! I shall tell the Emperor that I am very much pleased with it." "Well, we are glad to hear you say so," answered the two swindlers. Then they named all the colors of the invisible cloth upon the looms, and described the peculiar pattern. The old Minister listened intently, so that he could repeat all that was said of it to the Emperor. The rogues now began to demand more money, more silk, and more gold thread in order to proceed with the weaving. All of this, of course, went into their pockets. Not a single strand was ever put on the empty looms at which they went on working. The Emperor soon sent another faithful friend to see how soon the new clothes would be ready. But he fared no better than the Minister. He looked and looked and looked, but still saw nothing but the empty looms. "Isn't that a pretty piece of stuff?" asked both rogues, showing and explaining the handsome pattern which was not there at all. "I am not stupid!" thought the man. "It must be that I am not worthy of my good position. That is, indeed, strange. But I must not let it be known!" So he praised the cloth he did not see, and expressed his approval of the color and the design that were not there. To the Emperor he said, "It is charming!" Soon everybody in town was talking about the wonderful cloth that the two rogues were weaving. The Emperor began to think now that he himself would like to see the wonderful cloth while it was still on the looms. Accompanied by a number of his friends, among whom were the two faithful officers who had already beheld the imaginary stuff, he went to visit the two men who were weaving, might and main, without any fiber and without any thread. "Isn't it splendid!" cried the two statesmen who had already been there, and who thought the others would see something upon the empty looms. "Look, your Majesty! What colors! And what a design!" "What's this?" thought the Emperor. "I see nothing at all! Am I a dunce? Am I not fit to be Emperor? That would be the worst thing that could happen to me, if it were true." "Oh, it is very pretty!" said the Emperor aloud. "It has my highest approval!" He nodded his head happily, and stared at the empty looms. Never would he say that he could see nothing! His friends, too, gazed and gazed, but saw no more than had the others. Yet they all cried out, "It is beautiful!" and advised the Emperor to wear a suit made of this cloth in a great procession that was soon to take place. "It is magnificent, gorgeous!" was the cry that went from mouth to mouth. The Emperor gave each of the rogues a royal ribbon to wear in his buttonhole, and called them the Imperial Court Weavers. The rogues were up the whole night before the morning of the procession. They kept more than sixteen candles burning. The people could see them hard at work, completing the new clothes of the Emperor. They took yards of stuff down from the empty looms; they made cuts in the air with big scissors; they sewed with needles without thread; and, at last, they said, "The clothes are ready!" The Emperor himself, with his grandest courtiers, went to put on his new suit. "See!" said the rogues, lifting their arms as if holding something. "Here are the trousers! Here is the coat! Here is the cape!" and so on. "It is as light as a spider's web. One might think one had nothing on. But that is just the beauty of it!" "Very nice," said the courtiers. But they could see nothing; for there _was_ nothing! "Will your Imperial Majesty be graciously pleased to take off your clothes," asked the rogues, "so that we may put on the new ones before this long mirror?" The Emperor took off all his own clothes, and the two rogues pretended to put on each new garment as it was ready. They wrapped him about, and they tied and they buttoned. The Emperor turned round and round before the mirror. "How well his Majesty looks in his new clothes!" said the people. "How becoming they are! What a pattern! What colors! It is a beautiful dress!" "They are waiting outside with the canopy which is to be carried over your Majesty in the procession," said the master of ceremonies. "I am ready," said the Emperor. "Don't the clothes fit well?" he asked, giving a last glance into the mirror as though he were looking at all his new finery. The men who were to carry the train of the Emperor's cloak stooped down to the floor as if picking up the train, and then held it high in the air. They did not dare let it be known that they could see nothing. So the Emperor marched along under the bright canopy. Everybody in the streets and at the windows cried out: "How beautiful the Emperor's new clothes are! What a fine train! And they fit to perfection!" No one would let it be known that he could see nothing, for that would have proved that he was unfit for office or that he was very, very stupid. None of the Emperor's clothes had ever been as successful as these. "But he has nothing on!" said a little child. "Just listen to the innocent!" said its father. But one person whispered to another what the child had said. "He has nothing on! A child says he has nothing on!" "But he has nothing on!" at last cried all the people. The Emperor writhed, for he knew that this was true. But he realized that it would never do to stop the procession. So he held himself stiffer than ever, and the chamberlains carried the invisible train. 194 In his story "The Nightingale," Andersen suggests that the so-called upper class of society may become so conventionalized as to be unable to appreciate true beauty. Poor fishermen and the little kitchen girl in the story recognize the beauty of the exquisite song of the nightingale, and Andersen shows his regard for royalty by having the emperor appreciate it twice. The last part of the story is especially impressive. When Death approached the emperor and took from him the symbols that had made him rank above his fellows, the emperor saw the realities of life and again perceived the beauty of the nightingale's song. This contact with real life made Death shrink away. Then the emperor learned Andersen's message to artificial society: If you would behold true beauty, you must have it in your own heart. THE NIGHTINGALE HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN In China, you must know, the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all whom he has about him are Chinamen too. It happened a good many years ago, but that's just why it's worth while to hear the story before it is forgotten. The Emperor's palace was the most splendid in the world; it was made entirely of porcelain, very costly, but so delicate and brittle that one had to take care how one touched it. In the garden were to be seen the most wonderful flowers, and to the costliest of them silver bells were tied, which sounded, so that nobody should pass by without noticing the flowers. Yes, everything in the Emperor's garden was admirably arranged. And it extended so far that the gardener himself did not know where the end was. If a man went on and on, he came into a glorious forest with high trees and deep lakes. The wood extended straight down to the sea, which was blue and deep; great ships could sail, too, beneath the branches of the trees; and in the trees lived a Nightingale, which sang so splendidly that even the poor fisherman, who had many other things to do, stopped still and listened, when he had gone out at night to throw out his nets, and heard the Nightingale. "How beautiful that is!" he said; but he was obliged to attend to his property, and thus forgot the bird. But when the next night the bird sang again, and the fisherman heard it, he exclaimed again, "How beautiful that is!" From all the countries of the world travelers came to the city of the Emperor, and admired it, and the palace and the garden, but when they heard the Nightingale, they said, "That is the best of all!" And the travelers told of it when they came home; and the learned men wrote many books about the town, the palace, and the garden. But they did not forget the Nightingale; that was placed highest of all; and those who were poets wrote most magnificent poems about the Nightingale in the wood by the deep lake. The books went through all the world, and a few of them once came to the Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read, and read: every moment he nodded his head, for it pleased him to peruse the masterly descriptions of the city, the palace, and the garden. "But the Nightingale is the best of all," it stood written there. "What's that?" exclaimed the Emperor. "I don't know the Nightingale at all! Is there such a bird in my empire, and even in my garden? I've never heard of that. To think that I should have to learn such a thing for the first time from books!" And hereupon he called his cavalier. This cavalier was so grand that if anyone lower in rank than himself dared to speak to him, or to ask him any question, he answered nothing but "P!"--and that meant nothing. "There is said to be a wonderful bird here called a Nightingale," said the Emperor. "They say it is the best thing in all my great empire. Why have I never heard anything about it?" "I have never heard him named," replied the cavalier. "He has never been introduced at Court." "I command that he shall appear this evening, and sing before me," said the Emperor. "All the world knows what I possess, and I do not know it myself!" "I have never heard him mentioned," said the cavalier. "I will seek for him. I will find him." But where was he to be found? The cavalier ran up and down all the staircases, through halls and passages, but no one among all those whom he met had heard talk of the Nightingale. And the cavalier ran back to the Emperor, and said that it must be a fable invented by the writers of books. "Your Imperial Majesty cannot believe how much is written that is fiction, besides something that they call the black art." "But the book in which I read this," said the Emperor, "was sent to me by the high and mighty Emperor of Japan and therefore it cannot be a falsehood. I _will_ hear the Nightingale! It must be here this evening! It has my imperial favor; and if it does not come, all the Court shall be trampled upon after the Court has supped!" "Tsing-pe!" said the cavalier; and again he ran up and down all the staircases, and through all the halls and corridors; and half the Court ran with him, for the courtiers did not like being trampled upon. Then there was a great inquiry after the wonderful Nightingale, which all the world knew excepting the people at Court. At last they met with a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said: "The Nightingale? I know it well; yes, it can sing gloriously. Every evening I get leave to carry my poor sick mother the scraps from the table. She lives down by the strand; and when I get back and am tired, and rest in the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing. And then the water comes into my eyes, and it is just as if my mother kissed me." "Little kitchen girl," said the cavalier, "I will get you a place in the Court kitchen, with permission to see the Emperor dine, if you will but lead us to the Nightingale, for it is announced for this evening." So they all went out into the wood where the Nightingale was accustomed to sing; half the Court went forth. When they were in the midst of their journey a cow began to low. "Oh!" cried the Court pages, "now we have it! That shows a wonderful power in so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before." "No, those are cows lowing," said the little kitchen girl. "We are a long way from the place yet." Now the frogs began to croak in the marsh. "Glorious!" said the Chinese Court preacher. "Now I hear it--it sounds just like little church bells." "No, those are frogs," said the little kitchen maid. "But now I think we shall soon hear it." And then the Nightingale began to sing. "That is it!" exclaimed the little girl. "Listen, listen! and yonder it sits." And she pointed to a little gray bird up in the boughs. "Is it possible?" cried the cavalier. "I should never have thought it looked like that! How simple it looks! It must certainly have lost its color at seeing such grand people around." "Little Nightingale!" called the little kitchen maid, quite loudly, "our gracious Emperor wishes you to sing before him." "With the greatest pleasure!" replied the Nightingale, and began to sing most delightfully. "It sounds just like glass bells!" said the cavalier. "And look at its little throat, how it's working! It's wonderful that we should never have heard it before. That bird will be a great success at Court." "Shall I sing once more before the Emperor?" inquired the Nightingale, for it thought the Emperor was present. "My excellent little Nightingale," said the cavalier, "I have great pleasure in inviting you to a Court festival this evening, when you shall charm his Imperial Majesty with your beautiful singing." "My song sounds best in the green wood," replied the Nightingale; still it came willingly when it heard what the Emperor wished. The palace was festively adorned. The walls and the flooring, which were of porcelain, gleamed in the rays of thousands of golden lamps. The most glorious flowers, which could ring clearly, had been placed in the passages. There was a running to and fro, and a thorough draught, and all the bells rang so loudly that one could not hear one's self speak. In the midst of the great hall, where the Emperor sat, a golden perch had been placed, on which the Nightingale was to sit. The whole Court was there, and the little cook-maid had got leave to stand behind the door, as she had now received the title of a real Court cook. All were in full dress, and all looked at the little gray bird, to which the Emperor nodded. And the Nightingale sang so gloriously that the tears came into the Emperor's eyes, and the tears ran down over his cheeks; then the Nightingale sang still more sweetly, that went straight to the heart. The Emperor was so much pleased that he said the Nightingale should have his golden slipper to wear round its neck. But the Nightingale declined this with thanks, saying it had already received a sufficient reward. "I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes--that is the real treasure to me. An Emperor's tears have a peculiar power. I am rewarded enough!" And then it sang again with a sweet, glorious voice. "That's the most amiable coquetry I ever saw!" said the ladies who stood round about, and then they took water in their mouths to gurgle when anyone spoke to them. They thought they should be nightingales too. And the lackeys and chambermaids reported that they were satisfied also; and that was saying a good deal, for they are the most difficult to please. In short, the Nightingale achieved a real success. It was now to remain at Court, to have its own cage, with liberty to go out twice every day and once at night. Twelve servants were appointed when the Nightingale went out, each of whom had a silken string fastened to the bird's legs, which they held very tight. There was really no pleasure in an excursion of that kind. The whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and whenever two people met, one said nothing but "Nightin," and the other said "gale"; and then they both sighed, and understood one another. Eleven pedlars' children were named after the bird, but not one of them could sing a note. One day the Emperor received a large parcel, on which was written, "The Nightingale." "There we have a new book about this celebrated bird," said the Emperor. But it was not a book, but a little work of art, contained in a box--an artificial nightingale, which was to sing like a natural one, and was brilliantly ornamented with diamonds, sapphires, and rubies. So soon as the artificial bird was wound up, he could sing one of the pieces that he really sang, and then his tail moved up and down, and shone with silver and gold. Round his neck hung a little ribbon, and on that was written, "The Emperor of China's nightingale is poor compared to that of the Emperor of Japan." "That is capital!" said they all, and he who had brought the artificial bird immediately received the title, Imperial Head-Nightingale-Bringer. "Now they must sing together; what a duet that will be!" cried the courtiers. And so they had to sing together; but it did not sound very well, for the real Nightingale sang its own way, and the artificial bird sang waltzes. "That's not his fault," said the playmaster; "he's quite perfect, and very much in my style." Now the artificial bird was to sing alone. It had just as much success as the real one, and then it was much handsomer to look at--it shone like bracelets and breastpins. Three and thirty times over did it sing the same piece, and yet was not tired. The people would gladly have heard it again, but the Emperor said that the living Nightingale ought to sing something now. But where was it? No one had noticed that it had flown away out of the open window, back to the green wood. "But what has become of that?" asked the Emperor. And all the courtiers abused the Nightingale, and declared that it was a very ungrateful creature. "We have the best bird after all," said they. And so the artificial bird had to sing again, and that was the thirty-fourth time that they listened to the same piece. For all that they did not know it quite by heart, for it was so very difficult. And the playmaster praised the bird particularly; yes, he declared that it was better than a nightingale, not only with regard to its plumage and the many beautiful diamonds, but inside as well. "For you see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all, your Imperial Majesty, with a real nightingale one can never calculate what is coming, but in this artificial bird, everything is settled. One can explain it; one can open it and make people understand where the waltzes come from, how they go, and how one follows up another." "Those are quite our own ideas," they all said. And the speaker received permission to show the bird to the people on the next Sunday. The people were to hear it sing too, the Emperor commanded: and they did hear it, and were as much pleased as if they had all got tipsy upon tea, for that's quite the Chinese fashion, and they all said, "Oh!" and held up their forefingers and nodded. But the poor fisherman, who had heard the real Nightingale, said: "It sounds pretty enough, and the melodies resemble each other, but there's something wanting, though I know not what!" The real Nightingale was banished from the country and empire. The artificial bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor's bed; all the presents it had received, gold and precious stones, were ranged about it; in title it had advanced to be the High Imperial After-Dinner-Singer, and in rank to Number One on the left hand; for the Emperor considered that side the most important on which the heart is placed, and even in an Emperor the heart is on the left side; and the playmaster wrote a work of five and twenty volumes about the artificial bird; it was very learned and very long, full of the most difficult Chinese words; but yet all the people declared that they had read it and understood it, for fear of being considered stupid, and having their bodies trampled on. So a whole year went by. The Emperor, the Court, and all the other Chinese knew every little twitter in the artificial bird's song by heart. But just for that reason it pleased them best--they could sing with it themselves, and they did so. The street boys sang, "Tsi-tsi-tsi-glug-glug!" and the Emperor himself sang it too. Yes, that was certainly famous. But one evening, when the artificial bird was singing its best, and the Emperor lay in bed listening to it, something inside the bird said, "Whizz!" Something cracked. "Whir-r-r!" All the wheels ran round, and then the music stopped. The Emperor immediately sprang out of bed, and caused his body physician to be called; but what could _he_ do? Then they sent for a watchmaker, and after a good deal of talking and investigation, the bird was put into something like order, but the watchmaker said that the bird must be carefully treated, for the barrels were worn, and it would be impossible to put new ones in in such a manner that the music would go. There was a great lamentation; only once in the year was it permitted to let the bird sing, and that was almost too much. But then the playmaster made a little speech full of heavy words, and said this was just as good as before--and so of course it was as good as before. Now five years had gone by, and a real grief came upon the whole nation. The Chinese were really fond of their Emperor, and now he was ill, and could not, it was said, live much longer. Already a new Emperor had been chosen, and the people stood out in the street and asked the cavalier how the Emperor did. "P!" said he, and shook his head. Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his great, gorgeous bed; the whole Court thought him dead, and each one ran to pay homage to the new ruler. The chamberlains ran out to talk it over, and the ladies' maids had a great coffee party. All about, in all the halls and passages, cloth had been laid down so that no footstep could be heard, and therefore it was quiet there, quite quiet. But the Emperor was not dead yet; stiff and pale he lay on the gorgeous bed, with the long velvet curtains and the heavy gold tassels; high up, a window stood open, and the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the artificial bird. The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it was just as if something lay upon his chest; he opened his eyes, and then he saw that it was Death who sat upon his chest, and had put on his golden crown, and held in one hand the Emperor's sword, in the other his beautiful banner. And all around, from among the folds of the splendid velvet curtains, strange heads peered forth; a few very ugly, the rest quite lovely and mild. These were all the Emperor's bad and good deeds, that stood before him now that Death sat upon his heart. "Do you remember this?" whispered one to the other. "Do you remember that?" and then they told him so much that the perspiration ran from his forehead. "I did not know that!" said the Emperor. "Music! music! the great Chinese drum!" he cried, "so that I need not hear all they say!" And they continued speaking, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all they said. "Music! music!" cried the Emperor. "You little precious golden bird, sing, sing! I have given you gold and costly presents; I have even hung my golden slipper around your neck--sing now, sing!" But the bird stood still; no one was there to wind him up, and he could not sing without that; but Death continued to stare at the Emperor with his great, hollow eyes, and it was quiet, fearfully quiet. Then there sounded from the window, suddenly, the most lovely song. It was the little live Nightingale, that sat outside on a spray. It had heard of the Emperor's sad plight, and had come to sing to him of comfort and hope. As it sang the specters grew paler and paler; the blood ran quicker and more quickly through the Emperor's weak limbs; and even Death listened, and said: "Go on, little Nightingale, go on!" "But will you give me that splendid golden sword? Will you give me that rich banner? Will you give me the Emperor's crown?" And Death gave up each of these treasures for a song. And the Nightingale sang on and on; and it sang of the quiet churchyard where the white roses grow, where the elder blossoms smell sweet, and where the fresh grass is moistened by the tears of survivors. Then Death felt a longing to see his garden, and floated out at the window in the form of a cold white mist. "Thanks! thanks!" said the Emperor. "You heavenly little bird; I know you well. I banished you from my country and empire, and yet you have charmed away the evil faces from my couch, and banished Death from my heart! How can I reward you?" "You have rewarded me!" replied the Nightingale. "I have drawn tears from your eyes, when I sang the first time--I shall never forget that. Those are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart. But now sleep, and grow fresh and strong again. I will sing you something." And it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet slumber. Ah! how mild and refreshing that sleep was! The sun shone upon him through the windows when he awoke refreshed and restored: not one of his servants had yet returned, for they all thought he was dead; only the Nightingale still sat beside him and sang. "You must always stay with me," said the Emperor. "You shall sing as you please; and I'll break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces." "Not so," replied the Nightingale. "It did well as long as it could; keep it as you have done till now. I cannot build my nest in the palace to dwell in it, but let me come when I feel the wish; then I will sit in the evening on the spray yonder by the window, and sing you something, so that you may be glad and thoughtful at once. I will sing of those who are happy and of those who suffer. I will sing of good and of evil that remains hidden round about you. The little singing bird flies far around, to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's roof, to everyone who dwells far away from you and from your Court. I love your heart more than your crown, and yet the crown has an air of sanctity about it. I will come and sing to you--but one thing you must promise me." "Every thing!" said the Emperor; and he stood there in his imperial robes, which he had put on himself, and pressed the sword which was heavy with gold to his heart. "One thing I beg of you: tell no one that you have a little bird who tells you everything. Then it will go all the better." And the Nightingale flew away. The servants came in to look at their dead Emperor, and--yes, there he stood, and the Emperor said, "Good-morning!" 195 This story is a favorite for the Christmas season. It is loosely constructed, and rambles along for some time after it might have been expected to finish. Such rambling is often very attractive to childish listeners, as it allows the introduction of unexpected incidents. Miss Kready has some interesting suggestions about dramatizing this story in her _Study of Fairy Tales_, pp. 151-153. The translation is Dulcken's. THE FIR TREE HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN Out in the forest stood a pretty little Fir Tree. It had a good place; it could have sunlight, air there was in plenty, and all around grew many larger comrades--pines as well as firs. But the little Fir Tree wished ardently to become greater. It did not care for the warm sun and the fresh air; it took no notice of the peasant children, who went about talking together, when they had come out to look for strawberries and raspberries. Often they came with a whole pot-full, or had strung berries on a straw; then they would sit down by the little Fir Tree and say, "How pretty and small that one is!" and the Fir Tree did not like to hear that at all. Next year he had grown a great joint, and the following year he was longer still, for in fir trees one can always tell by the number of rings they have how many years they have been growing. "Oh, if I were only as great a tree as the other!" sighed the little Fir, "then I would spread my branches far around, and look out from my crown into the wide world. The birds would then build nests in my boughs, and when the wind blew I could nod just as grandly as the others yonder." It took no pleasure in the sunshine, in the birds, and in the red clouds that went sailing over him morning and evening. When it was winter, and the snow lay all around, white and sparkling, a hare would often come jumping along, and spring right over the little Fir Tree. Oh! this made him so angry. But two winters went by, and when the third came the little Tree had grown so tall that the hare was obliged to run round it. "Oh! to grow, to grow, and become old; that's the only fine thing in the world," thought the Tree. In the autumn woodcutters always came and felled a few of the largest trees; that was done this year too, and the little Fir Tree, that was now quite well grown, shuddered with fear, for the great stately trees fell to the ground with a crash, and their branches were cut off, so that the trees looked quite naked, long, and slender--they could hardly be recognized. But then they were laid upon wagons, and horses dragged them away out of the wood. Where were they going? What destiny awaited them? In the spring, when the Swallows and the Stork came, the Tree asked them, "Do you know where they were taken? Did you not meet them?" The Swallows knew nothing about it, but the Stork looked thoughtful, nodded his head, and said: "Yes, I think so. I met many new ships when I flew out of Egypt; on the ships were stately masts; I fancy these were the trees. They smelt like fir. I can assure you they're stately--very stately." "Oh that I were only big enough to go over the sea! What kind of thing is this sea, and how does it look?" "It would take too long to explain all that," said the Stork, and he went away. "Rejoice in thy youth," said the Sunbeams; "rejoice in thy fresh growth, and in the young life that is within thee." And the wind kissed the Tree, and the dew wept tears upon it; but the Fir Tree did not understand that. When Christmas-time approached, quite young trees were felled, sometimes trees which were neither so old nor so large as this Fir Tree, that never rested, but always wanted to go away. These young trees, which were always the most beautiful, kept all their branches; they were put upon wagons, and horses dragged them away out of the wood. "Where are they all going?" asked the Fir Tree. "They are not greater than I--indeed, one of them was much smaller. Why do they keep all their branches? Whither are they taken?" "We know that! We know that!" chirped the Sparrows. "Yonder in the town we looked in at the windows. We know where they go. Oh! they are dressed up in the greatest pomp and splendor that can be imagined. We have looked in at the windows, and have perceived that they are planted in the middle of a warm room, and adorned with the most beautiful things--gilt apples, honey-cakes, playthings, and many hundred candles." "And then?" asked the Fir Tree, and trembled through all its branches. "And then? What happens then?" "Why, we have not seen anything more. But it was incomparable." "Perhaps I may be destined to tread this glorious path one day!" cried the Fir Tree, rejoicingly. "That is even better than traveling across the sea. How painfully I long for it! If it were only Christmas now! Now I am great and grown up, like the rest who were led away last year. Oh, if I were only on the carriage! If I were only in the warm room, among all the pomp and splendor! And then? Yes, then something even better will come, something far more charming, or else why should they adorn me so? There must be something grander, something greater still to come; but what? Oh! I'm suffering, I'm longing! I don't know myself what is the matter with me!" "Rejoice in us," said Air and Sunshine. "Rejoice in thy fresh youth here in the woodland." But the Fir Tree did not rejoice at all, but it grew and grew; winter and summer it stood there, green, dark green. The people who saw it said, "That's a handsome tree!" and at Christmas time it was felled before any one of the others. The ax cut deep into its marrow, and the tree fell to the ground with a sigh; it felt a pain, a sensation of faintness, and could not think at all of happiness, for it was sad at parting from its home, from the place where it had grown up; it knew that it should never again see the dear old companions, the little bushes and flowers all around--perhaps not even the birds. The parting was not at all agreeable. The Tree only came to itself when it was unloaded in a yard, with other trees, and heard a man say: "This one is famous; we want only this one!" Now two servants came in gay liveries, and carried the Fir Tree into a large, beautiful saloon. All around the walls hung pictures, and by the great stove stood large Chinese vases with lions on the covers; there were rocking-chairs, silken sofas, great tables covered with picture books, and toys worth a hundred times a hundred dollars, at least the children said so. And the Fir Tree was put into a great tub filled with sand; but no one could see that it was a tub, for it was hung round with green cloth, and stood on a large, many-colored carpet. Oh, how the Tree trembled! What was to happen now? The servants, and the young ladies also, decked it out. On one branch they hung little nets, cut out of colored paper; every net was filled with sweetmeats; golden apples and walnuts hung down, as if they grew there, and more than a hundred little candles, red, white, and blue, were fastened to the different boughs. Dolls that looked exactly like real people--the tree had never seen such before--swung among the foliage, and high on the summit of the Tree was fixed a tinsel star. It was splendid, particularly splendid. "This evening," said all, "this evening it will shine." "Oh," thought the Tree, "that it were evening already! Oh, that the lights may be soon lit up! When may that be done? I wonder if trees will come out of the forest to look at me? Will the sparrows fly against the panes? Shall I grow fast here, and stand adorned in summer and winter?" Yes, he did not guess badly. But he had a complete backache from mere longing, and the backache is just as bad for a Tree as the headache for a person. At last the candles were lighted. What a brilliance, what splendor! The Tree trembled so in all its branches that one of the candles set fire to a green twig, and it was scorched. "Heaven preserve us!" cried the young ladies; and they hastily put the fire out. Now the Tree might not even tremble. Oh, that was terrible! It was so afraid of setting fire to some of its ornaments, and it was quite bewildered with all the brilliance. And now the folding doors were thrown open, and a number of children rushed in as if they would have overturned the whole Tree; the older people followed more deliberately. The little ones stood quite silent, but only for a minute; then they shouted till the room rang: they danced gleefully round the Tree, and one present after another was plucked from it. "What are they about?" thought the Tree. "What's going to be done?" And the candles burned down to the twigs, and as they burned down they were extinguished, and then the children received permission to plunder the Tree. Oh! they rushed in upon it, so that every branch cracked again: if it had not been fastened by the top and by the golden star to the ceiling, it would have fallen down. The children danced about with their pretty toys. No one looked at the Tree except one old man, who came up and peeped among the branches, but only to see if a fig or an apple had not been forgotten. "A story! A story!" shouted the children; and they drew a little fat man toward the tree; and he sat down just beneath it--"for then we shall be in the green wood," said he, "and the tree may have the advantage of listening to my tale. But I can only tell one. Will you hear the story of Ivede-Avede, or of Klumpey-Dumpey, who fell downstairs, and still was raised up to honor and married the Princess?" "Ivede-Avede!" cried some, "Klumpey-Dumpey!" cried others, and there was a great crying and shouting. Only the Fir Tree was quite silent, and thought, "Shall I not be in it? Shall I have nothing to do in it?" But he had been in the evening's amusement, and had done what was required of him. And the fat man told about Klumpey-Dumpey who fell downstairs, and yet was raised to honor and married the Princess. And the children clapped their hands, and cried, "Tell another! tell another!" for they wanted to hear about Ivede-Avede; but they only got the story of Klumpey-Dumpey. The Fir Tree stood quite silent and thoughtful; never had the birds in the wood told such a story as that. Klumpey-Dumpey fell downstairs, and yet came to honor and married the Princess! "Yes, so it happens in the world!" thought the Fir Tree, and believed it must be true, because that was such a nice man who told it. "Well, who can know? Perhaps I shall fall downstairs, too, and marry a Princess!" And it looked forward with pleasure to being adorned again, the next evening, with candles and toys, gold and fruit. "To-morrow I shall not tremble," it thought. "I will rejoice in all my splendor. To-morrow I shall hear the story of Klumpey-Dumpey again, and perhaps that of Ivede-Avede, too." And the Tree stood all night quiet and thoughtful. In the morning the servants and the chambermaid came in. "Now my splendor will begin afresh," thought the Tree. But they dragged him out of the room, and upstairs to the garret, and here they put him in a dark corner where no daylight shone. "What's the meaning of this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here? What is to happen?" And he leaned against the wall, and thought, and thought. And he had time enough, for days and nights went by, and nobody came up; and when at length someone came, it was only to put some great boxes in a corner. Now the Tree stood quite hidden away, and the supposition is that it was quite forgotten. "Now it's winter outside," thought the Tree. "The earth is hard and covered with snow, and people cannot plant me; therefore I suppose I'm to be sheltered here until spring comes. How considerate that is! How good people are! If it were only not so dark here, and so terribly solitary!--not even a little hare? That was pretty out there in the wood, when the snow lay thick and the hare sprang past; yes, even when he jumped over me; but then I did not like it. It is terribly lonely up here!" "Piep! piep!" said a little Mouse, and crept forward, and then came another little one. They smelt at the Fir Tree, and then slipped among the branches. "It's horribly cold," said the two little Mice, "or else it would be comfortable here. Don't you think so, you old Fir Tree?" "I'm not old at all," said the Fir Tree. "There are many much older than I." "Where do you come from?" asked the Mice. "And what do you know?" They were dreadfully inquisitive. "Tell us about the most beautiful spot on earth. Have you been there? Have you been in the store room, where cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from the ceiling, where one dances on tallow candles, and goes in thin and comes out fat?" "I don't know that," replied the Tree; "but I know the wood, where the sun shines and the birds sing." And then it told all about its youth. And the little Mice had never heard anything of the kind; and they listened and said: "What a number of things you have seen! How happy you must have been!" "I?" replied the Fir Tree; and it thought about what it had told. "Yes, those were really quite happy times." But then he told of the Christmas Eve, when he had been hung with sweetmeats and candles. "Oh!" said the little Mice, "how happy you have been, you old Fir Tree!" "I'm not old at all," said the Tree. "I only came out of the wood this winter. I'm only rather backward in my growth." "What splendid stories you can tell!" said the little Mice. And next night they came with four other little Mice, to hear what the Tree had to relate; and the more it said, the more clearly did it remember everything, and thought, "Those were quite merry days! But they may come again. Klumpey-Dumpey fell downstairs, and yet he married the Princess. Perhaps I may marry a Princess too!" And the Fir Tree thought of a pretty little Birch Tree that grew out in the forest; for the Fir Tree, that Birch was a real Princess. "Who's Klumpey-Dumpey?" asked the little Mice. And then the Fir Tree told the whole story. It could remember every single word; and the little Mice were ready to leap to the very top of the tree with pleasure. Next night a great many more Mice came, and on Sunday two Rats even appeared; but these thought the story was not pretty, and the little Mice were sorry for that, for now they also did not like it so much as before. "Do you only know one story?" asked the Rats. "Only that one," replied the Tree. "I heard that on the happiest evening of my life; I did not think then how happy I was." "That's a very miserable story. Don't you know any about bacon and tallow candles--a store-room story?" "No," said the Tree. "Then we'd rather not hear you," said the Rats. And they went back to their own people. The little Mice at last stayed away also; and then the Tree sighed and said: "It was very nice when they sat round me, the merry little Mice, and listened when I spoke to them. Now that's past too. But I shall remember to be pleased when they take me out." But when did that happen? Why, it was one morning that people came and rummaged in the garret: the boxes were put away, and the Tree brought out; they certainly threw him rather roughly on the floor, but a servant dragged him away at once to the stairs, where the daylight shone. "Now life is beginning again!" thought the Tree. It felt the fresh air and the first sunbeams, and now it was out in the courtyard. Everything passed so quickly that the Tree quite forgot to look at itself, there was so much to look at all round. The courtyard was close to a garden, and here everything was blooming; the roses hung fresh and fragrant over the little paling, the linden trees were in blossom, and the swallows cried, "Quinze-wit! quinze-wit! my husband's come!" But it was not the Fir Tree that they meant. "Now I shall live!" said the Tree, rejoicingly, and spread its branches far out; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow; and it lay in the corner among nettles and weeds. The tinsel star was still upon it, and shone in the bright sunshine. In the courtyard a couple of the merry children were playing who had danced round the tree at Christmas time, and had rejoiced over it. One of the youngest ran up and tore off the golden star. "Look what is sticking to the ugly old fir tree!" said the child, and he trod upon the branches till they cracked again under his boots. And the Tree looked at all the blooming flowers and the splendor of the garden, and then looked at itself, and wished it had remained in the dark corner of the garret; it thought of its fresh youth in the wood, of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice which had listened so pleasantly to the story of Klumpey-Dumpey. "Past! past!" said the old Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I could have done so! Past! past!" And the servant came and chopped the Tree into little pieces; a whole bundle lay there; it blazed brightly under the great brewing copper, and it sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a little shot; and the children who were at play there ran up and seated themselves at the fire, looked into it, and cried "Puff! puff!" But at each explosion, which was a deep sigh, the Tree thought of a summer day in the woods, or of a winter night there, when the stars beamed; he thought of Christmas Eve and of Klumpey-Dumpey, the only story he had ever heard or knew how to tell; and then the Tree was burned. The boys played in the garden, and the youngest had on his breast a golden star, which the Tree had worn on its happiest evening. Now that was past, and the Tree's life was past, and the story is past too: past! past!--and that's the way with all stories. 196 The tale that follows was one of the author's earliest stories, published in 1835. It is clearly based upon an old folk tale, one variant of which is "The Blue Light" from the Grimm collection (No. 174). "It was a lucky stroke," says Brandes, "that made Andersen the poet of children. After long fumbling, after unsuccessful efforts, which must necessarily throw a false and ironic light on the self-consciousness of a poet whose pride based its justification mainly on the expectancy of a future which he felt slumbering within his soul, after wandering about for long years, Andersen . . . one evening found himself in front of a little insignificant yet mysterious door, the door of the nursery story. He touched it, it yielded, and he saw, burning in the obscurity within, the little 'Tinder-Box' that became his Aladdin's lamp. He struck fire with it, and the spirits of the lamp--the dogs with eyes as large as tea-cups, as mill-wheels, as the round tower in Copenhagen--stood before him and brought him the three giant chests, containing all the copper, silver, and gold treasure stories of the nursery story. The first story had sprung into existence, and the 'Tinder-Box' drew all the others onward in its train. Happy is he who has found his 'tinder-box.'" The translation is by H. W. Dulcken. THE TINDER-BOX HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN There came a soldier marching along the high road--_one, two! one, two!_ He had his knapsack on his back and a saber by his side, for he had been in the wars, and now he wanted to go home. And on the way he met with an old witch; she was very hideous, and her under lip hung down upon her breast. She said, "Good evening, soldier. What a fine sword you have, and what a big knapsack! You're a proper soldier! Now you shall have as much money as you like to have." "I thank you, you old witch!" said the soldier. "Do you see that great tree?" quoth the witch; and she pointed to a tree which stood beside them. "It's quite hollow inside. You must climb to the top, and then you'll see a hole, through which you can let yourself down and get deep into the tree. I'll tie a rope round your body, so that I can pull you up again when you call me." "What am I to do down in the tree?" asked the soldier. "Get money," replied the witch. "Listen to me. When you come down to the earth under the tree, you will find yourself in a great hall: it is quite light, for above three hundred lamps are burning there. Then you will see three doors; those you can open, for the keys are hanging there. If you go into the first chamber, you'll see a great chest in the middle of the floor; on this chest sits a dog, and he's got a pair of eyes as big as two tea-cups. But you need not care for that. I'll give you my blue-checked apron, and you can spread it out upon the floor; then go up quickly and take the dog, and set him on my apron; then open the chest, and take as many shillings as you like. They are of copper: if you prefer silver, you must go into the second chamber. But there sits a dog with a pair of eyes as big as mill-wheels. But do not you care for that. Set him upon my apron, and take some of the money. And if you want gold, you can have that too--in fact, as much as you can carry--if you go into the third chamber. But the dog that sits on the money-chest there has two eyes as big as round towers. He is a fierce dog, you may be sure; but you needn't be afraid, for all that. Only set him on my apron, and he won't hurt you; and take out of the chest as much gold as you like." "That's not so bad," said the soldier. "But what am I to give you, old witch? for you will not do it for nothing, I fancy." "No," replied the witch, "not a single shilling will I have. You shall only bring me an old tinder-box which my grandmother forgot when she was down there last." "Then tie the rope round my body," cried the soldier. "Here it is," said the witch, "and here's my blue-checked apron." Then the soldier climbed up into the tree, let himself slip down into the hole, and stood, as the witch had said, in the great hall where the three hundred lamps were burning. Now he opened the first door. Ugh! there sat the dog with eyes as big as tea-cups, staring at him. "You're a nice fellow!" exclaimed the soldier; and he set him on the witch's apron, and took as many copper shillings as his pockets would hold, and then locked the chest, set the dog on it again, and went into the second chamber. Aha! there sat the dog with eyes as big as mill-wheels. "You should not stare so hard at me," said the soldier; "you might strain your eyes." And he set the dog upon the witch's apron. And when he saw the silver money in the chest, he threw away all the copper money he had, and filled his pocket and his knapsack with silver only. Then he went into the third chamber. Oh, but that was horrid! The dog there really had eyes as big as towers, and they turned round and round in his head like wheels. "Good evening!" said the soldier; and he touched his cap, for he had never seen such a dog as that before. When he had looked at him a little more closely, he thought, "That will do," and lifted him down to the floor, and opened the chest. Mercy! what a quantity of gold was there! He could buy with it the whole town, and the sugar sucking-pigs of the cake woman, and all the tin soldiers, whips, and rocking-horses in the whole world. Yes, that was a quantity of money! Now the soldier threw away all the silver coin with which he had filled his pockets and his knapsack, and took gold instead: yes, all his pockets, his knapsack, his boots, and his cap were filled, so that he could scarcely walk. Now indeed he had plenty of money. He put the dog on the chest, shut the door, and then called up through the tree, "Now pull me up, you old witch." "Have you the tinder-box?" asked the witch. "Plague on it!" exclaimed the soldier, "I had clean forgotten that." And he went and brought it. The witch drew him up, and he stood on the high road again, with pockets, boots, knapsack, and cap full of gold. "What are you going to do with the tinder-box?" asked the soldier. "That's nothing to you," retorted the witch. "You've had your money--just give me the tinder-box." "Nonsense!" said the soldier. "Tell me directly what you're going to do with it, or I'll draw my sword and cut off your head." "No!" cried the witch. So the soldier cut off her head. There she lay! But he tied up all his money in her apron, took it on his back like a bundle, put the tinder-box in his pocket, and went straight off toward the town. That was a splendid town! And he put up at the very best inn and asked for the finest rooms, and ordered his favorite dishes, for now he was rich, as he had so much money. The servant who had to clean his boots certainly thought them a remarkably old pair for such a rich gentleman; but he had not bought any new ones yet. The next day he procured proper boots and handsome clothes. Now our soldier had become a fine gentleman; and the people told him of all the splendid things which were in their city, and about the King, and what a pretty Princess the King's daughter was. "Where can one get to see her?" asked the soldier. "She is not to be seen at all," said they, all together; "she lives in a great copper castle, with a great many walls and towers round about it; no one but the King may go in and out there, for it has been prophesied that she shall marry a common soldier, and the King can't bear that." "I should like to see her," thought the soldier; but he could not get leave to do so. Now he lived merrily, went to the theater, drove in the King's garden, and gave much money to the poor; and this was very kind of him, for he knew from old times how hard it is when one has not a shilling. Now he was rich, had fine clothes, and gained many friends, who all said he was a rare one, a true cavalier; and that pleased the soldier well. But as he spent money every day and never earned any, he had at last only two shillings left; and he was obliged to turn out of the fine rooms in which he had dwelt, and had to live in a little garret under the roof, and clean his boots for himself, and mend them with a darning-needle. None of his friends came to see him, for there were too many stairs to climb. It was quite dark one evening, and he could not even buy himself a candle, when it occurred to him that there was a candle-end in the tinder-box which he had taken out of the hollow tree into which the witch had helped him. He brought out the tinder-box and the candle-end; but as soon as he struck fire and the sparks rose up from the flint, the door flew open, and the dog who had eyes as big as a couple of tea-cups, and whom he had seen in the tree, stood before him, and said: "What are my lord's commands?" "What is this?" said the soldier. "That's a famous tinder-box, if I can get everything with it that I want! Bring me some money," said he to the dog: and _whisk!_ the dog was gone, and _whisk!_ he was back again, with a great bag full of shillings in his mouth. Now the soldier knew what a capital tinder-box this was. If he struck it once, the dog came who sat upon the chest of copper money; if he struck it twice, the dog came who had the silver; and if he struck it three times, then appeared the dog who had the gold. Now the soldier moved back into the fine rooms, and appeared again in handsome clothes; and all his friends knew him again, and cared very much for him indeed. Once he thought to himself, "It is a very strange thing that one cannot get to see the Princess. They all say she is very beautiful; but what is the use of that, if she has always to sit in the great copper castle with the many towers? Can I not get to see her at all? Where is my tinder-box?" And so he struck a light, and _whisk!_ came the dog with eyes as big as tea-cups. "It is midnight, certainly," said the soldier, "but I should very much like to see the Princess, only for one little moment." And the dog was outside the door directly, and, before the soldier thought it, came back with the Princess. She sat upon the dog's back and slept; and everyone could see she was a real Princess, for she was so lovely. The soldier could not refrain from kissing her, for he was a thorough soldier. Then the dog ran back again with the Princess. But when morning came, and the King and Queen were drinking tea, the Princess said she had had a strange dream, the night before, about a dog and a soldier--that she had ridden upon the dog, and the soldier had kissed her. "That would be a fine history!" said the Queen. So one of the old Court ladies had to watch the next night by the Princess's bed, to see if this was really a dream, or what it might be. The soldier had a great longing to see the lovely Princess again; so the dog came in the night, took her away, and ran as fast as he could. But the old lady put on water-boots, and ran just as fast after him. When she saw that they both entered a great house, she thought, "Now I know where it is"; and with a bit of chalk she drew a great cross on the door. Then she went home and lay down, and the dog came up with the Princess; but when he saw that there was a cross drawn on the door where the soldier lived, he took a piece of chalk too, and drew crosses on all the doors in the town. And that was cleverly done, for now the lady could not find the right door, because all the doors had crosses upon them. In the morning early came the King and the Queen, the old Court lady and all the officers, to see where it was the Princess had been. "Here it is!" said the King, when he saw the first door with a cross upon it. "No, my dear husband, it is there!" said the Queen, who descried another door which also showed a cross. "But there is one, and there is one!" said all, for wherever they looked there were crosses on the doors. So they saw that it would avail them nothing if they searched on. But the Queen was an exceedingly clever woman, who could do more than ride in a coach. She took her great gold scissors, cut a piece of silk into pieces, and made a neat little bag: this bag she filled with fine wheat flour, and tied it on the Princess's back; and when that was done, she cut a little hole in the bag, so that the flour would be scattered along all the way which the Princess should take. In the night the dog came again, took the Princess on his back, and ran with her to the soldier, who loved her very much, and would gladly have been a prince, so that he might have her for his wife. The dog did not notice at all how the flour ran out in a stream from the castle to the windows of the soldier's house, where he ran up the wall with the Princess. In the morning the King and Queen saw well enough where their daughter had been, and they took the soldier and put him in prison. There he sat. Oh, but it was dark and disagreeable there! And they said to him, "To-morrow you shall be hanged." That was not amusing to hear, and he had left his tinder-box at the inn. In the morning he could see, through the iron grating of the little window, how the people were hurrying out of the town to see him hanged. He heard the drums beat and saw the soldiers marching. All the people were running out, and among them was a shoemaker's boy with leather apron and slippers, and he galloped so fast that one of his slippers flew off, and came right against the wall where the soldier sat looking through the iron grating. "Halloo, you shoemaker's boy! you needn't be in such a hurry," cried the soldier to him: "it will not begin till I come. But if you will run to where I lived, and bring me my tinder-box, you shall have four shillings; but you must put your best leg foremost." The shoemaker's boy wanted to get the four shillings, so he went and brought the tinder-box, and--well, we shall hear now what happened. Outside the town a great gallows had been built, and around it stood the soldiers and many hundred thousand people. The King and Queen sat on a splendid throne, opposite to the Judges and the whole Council. The soldier already stood upon the ladder; but as they were about to put the rope round his neck, he said that before a poor criminal suffered his punishment an innocent request was always granted to him. He wanted very much to smoke a pipe of tobacco, as it would be the last pipe he should smoke in this world. The King would not say "No" to this; so the soldier took his tinder-box and struck fire. One--two--three--! and there suddenly stood all the dogs--the one with eyes as big as tea-cups, the one with eyes as large as mill-wheels, and the one whose eyes were as big as round towers. "Help me now, so that I may not be hanged," said the soldier. And the dogs fell upon the Judge and all the Council, seized one by the leg and another by the nose, and tossed them all many feet into the air, so that they fell down and were all broken to pieces. "I won't!" cried the King; but the biggest dog took him and the Queen and threw them after the others. Then the soldiers were afraid, and the people cried, "Little soldier, you shall be our King, and marry the beautiful Princess!" So they put the soldier into the King's coach, and all the three dogs darted on in front and cried "Hurrah!" and the boys whistled through their fingers, and the soldiers presented arms. The Princess came out of the copper castle, and became Queen, and she liked that well enough. The wedding lasted a week, and the three dogs sat at the table too, and opened their eyes wider than ever at all they saw. 197 The following is one of Andersen's early stories, published in 1838. It has always been a great favorite. Whimsically odd couples, in this case so constant in their devotion to each other, seemed to appeal to Andersen. The romance of the Whip Top and the Ball in the little story "The Lovers" deals with another odd couple. "Constant" or "steadfast" are terms sometimes used in the different versions instead of "hardy," and, if they seem better to carry the meaning intended, teachers should feel free to substitute one of them in telling or reading the story. The translation is by H. W. Dulcken. THE HARDY TIN SOLDIER HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN There were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers; they were all brothers, for they had all been born of one old tin spoon. They shouldered their muskets, and looked straight before them; their uniform was red and blue, and very splendid. The first thing they had heard in the world, when the lid was taken off their box, had been the words, "Tin soldiers!" These words were uttered by a little boy, clapping his hands: the soldiers had been given to him, for it was his birthday; and now he put them upon the table. Each soldier was exactly like the rest; but one of them had been cast last of all, and there had not been enough tin to finish him; but he stood as firmly upon his one leg as the others on their two; and it was just this Soldier who became remarkable. On the table on which they had been placed stood many other playthings, but the toy that attracted most attention was a neat castle of cardboard. Through the little windows one could see straight into the hall. Before the castle some little trees were placed round a little looking-glass, which was to represent a clear lake. Waxen swans swam on this lake, and were mirrored in it. This was all very pretty; but the prettiest of all was a little lady, who stood at the open door of the castle; she was also cut out in paper, but she had a dress of the clearest gauze, and a little narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders, that looked like a scarf; and in the middle of this ribbon was a shining tinsel rose as big as her whole face. The little lady stretched out both her arms, for she was a dancer; and then she lifted one leg so high that the Tin Soldier could not see it at all, and thought that, like himself, she had but one leg. "That would be the wife for me," thought he; "but she is very grand. She lives in a castle, and I have only a box, and there are five-and-twenty of us in that. It is no place for her. But I must try to make acquaintance with her." And then he lay down at full length behind a snuff-box which was on the table; there he could easily watch the little dainty lady, who continued to stand upon one leg without losing her balance. When the evening came all the other tin soldiers were put into their box, and the people in the house went to bed. Now the toys began to play at "visiting," and at "war," and "giving balls." The tin soldiers rattled in their box, for they wanted to join, but could not lift the lid. The nutcracker threw somersaults, and the pencil amused itself on the table; there was so much noise that the canary woke up, and began to speak too, and even in verse. The only two who did not stir from their places were the Tin Soldier and the Dancing Lady: she stood straight up on the point of one of her toes, and stretched out both her arms; and he was just as enduring on his one leg; and he never turned his eyes away from her. Now the clock struck twelve--and, bounce! the lid flew off the snuff-box; but there was no snuff in it, but a little black Goblin: you see, it was a trick. "Tin Soldier!" said the Goblin, "don't stare at things that don't concern you." But the Tin Soldier pretended not to hear him. "Just you wait till to-morrow!" said the Goblin. But when the morning came, and the children got up, the Tin Soldier was placed in the window; and whether it was the Goblin or the draught that did it, all at once the window flew open, and the Soldier fell head over heels out of the third story. That was a terrible passage! He put his leg straight up, and stuck with helmet downward and his bayonet between the paving-stones. The servant-maid and the little boy came down directly to look for him, but though they almost trod upon him, they could not see him. If the Soldier had cried out "Here I am!" they would have found him; but he did not think it fitting to call out loudly, because he was in uniform. Now it began to rain; the drops soon fell thicker, and at last it came down into a complete stream. When the rain was past, two street boys came by. "Just look!" said one of them, "there lies a Tin Soldier. He must come out and ride in the boat." And they made a boat out of a newspaper, and put the Tin Soldier in the middle of it, and so he sailed down the gutter, and the two boys ran beside him and clapped their hands. Goodness preserve us! how the waves rose in that gutter, and how fast the stream ran! But then it had been a heavy rain. The paper boat rocked up and down, and sometimes turned round so rapidly that the Tin Soldier trembled; but he remained firm, and never changed countenance, and looked straight before him, and shouldered his musket. All at once the boat went into a long drain, and it became as dark as if he had been in his box. "Where am I going now?" he thought. "Yes, yes, that's the Goblin's fault. Ah! if the little lady only sat here with me in the boat, it might be twice as dark for what I should care." Suddenly there came a great Water Rat, which lived under the drain. "Have you a passport?" said the Rat. "Give me your passport." But the Tin Soldier kept silence, and held his musket tighter than ever. The boat went on, but the Rat came after it. Hu! how he gnashed his teeth, and called out to the bits of straw and wood: "Hold him! hold him! He hasn't paid toll--he hasn't shown his passport!" But the stream became stronger and stronger. The Tin Soldier could see the bright daylight where the arch ended; but he heard a roaring noise which might well frighten a bolder man. Only think--just where the tunnel ended, the drain ran into a great canal; and for him that would have been as dangerous as for us to be carried down a great waterfall. Now he was already so near it that he could not stop. The boat was carried out, the poor Tin Soldier stiffening himself as much as he could, and no one could say that he moved an eyelid. The boat whirled round three or four times, and was full of water to the very edge--it must sink. The Tin Soldier stood up to his neck in water, and the boat sank deeper and deeper, and the paper was loosened more and more; and now the water closed over the soldier's head. Then he thought of the pretty little Dancer, and how he should never see her again; and it sounded in the soldier's ears: Farewell, farewell, thou warrior brave, For this day thou must die! And now the paper parted, and the Tin Soldier fell out; but at that moment he was snapped up by a great fish. Oh, how dark it was in that fish's body! It was darker yet than in the drain tunnel; and then it was very narrow too. But the Tin Soldier remained unmoved, and lay at full length shouldering his musket. The fish swam to and fro; he made the most wonderful movements, and then became quite still. At last something flashed through him like lightning. The daylight shone quite clear, and a voice said aloud, "The Tin Soldier!" The fish had been caught, carried to market, bought, and taken into the kitchen, where the cook cut him open with a large knife. She seized the Soldier round the body with both her hands and carried him into the room, where all were anxious to see the remarkable man who had traveled about in the inside of a fish; but the Tin Soldier was not at all proud. They placed him on the table, and there--no! What curious things may happen in the world. The Tin Soldier was in the very room in which he had been before! He saw the same children, and the same toys stood on the table; and there was the pretty castle with the graceful little Dancer. She was still balancing herself on one leg, and held the other extended in the air. She was hardy too. That moved the Tin Soldier; he was very nearly weeping tin tears, but that would not have been proper. He looked at her, but they said nothing to each other. Then one of the little boys took the Tin Soldier and flung him into the stove. He gave no reason for doing this. It must have been the fault of the Goblin in the snuff-box. The Tin Soldier stood there quite illuminated, and felt a heat that was terrible; but whether this heat proceeded from the real fire or from love he did not know. The colors had quite gone off from him; but whether that had happened on the journey, or had been caused by grief, no one could say. He looked at the little lady, she looked at him, and he felt that he was melting; but he still stood firm, shouldering his musket. Then suddenly the door flew open, and the draught of air caught the Dancer, and she flew like a sylph just into the stove to the Tin Soldier, and flashed up in a flame, and she was gone. Then the Tin Soldier melted down into a lump; and when the servant-maid took the ashes out next day, she found him in the shape of a little tin heart. But of the Dancer nothing remained but the tinsel rose, and that was burned as black as a coal. 198 "The Ugly Duckling" has always been regarded as one of Andersen's most exquisite stories. No one can fail to notice the parallel that suggests itself between the successive stages in the duckling's history and those in Andersen's own life. In this story, remarks Dr. Brandes, "there is the quintessence of the author's entire life (melancholy, humor, martyrdom, triumph) and of his whole nature: the gift of observation and the sparkling intellect which he used to avenge himself upon folly and wickedness, the varied faculties which constitute his genius." The standards of judgment used by the ducks, the turkey, the hen, and the cat are all delightfully and humorously satirical of human stupidity and shortsightedness. The translation used is by H. W. Dulcken. THE UGLY DUCKLING HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN It was glorious out in the country. It was summer, and the cornfields were yellow, and the oats were green; the hay had been put up in stacks in the green meadows, and the stork went about on his long red legs, and chattered Egyptian, for this was the language he had learned from his good mother. All around the fields and meadows were great forests, and in the midst of these forests lay deep lakes. Yes, it was really glorious out in the country. In the midst of the sunshine there lay an old farm, surrounded by deep canals, and from the wall down to the water grew great burdocks, so high that little children could stand upright under the loftiest of them. It was just as wild there as in the deepest wood. Here sat a Duck upon her nest, for she had to hatch her young ones; but she was almost tired out before the little ones came; and then she so seldom had visitors. The other ducks liked better to swim about in the canals than to run up to sit down under a burdock and cackle with her. At last one eggshell after another burst open. "Piep! piep!" it cried, and in all the eggs there were little creatures that stuck out their heads. "Rap! rap!" they said; and they all came rapping out as fast as they could, looking all round them under the green leaves; and the mother let them look as much as they chose, for green is good for the eyes. "How wide the world is!" said the young ones, for they certainly had much more room now than when they were in the eggs. "Do you think this is all the world!" asked the mother. "That extends far across the other side of the garden, quite into the parson's field, but I have never been there yet. I hope you are all together," she continued, and stood up. "No, I have not all. The largest egg still lies there. How long is that to last? I am really tired of it." And she sat down again. "Well, how goes it?" asked an old Duck who had come to pay her a visit. "It lasts a long time with that one egg," said the Duck who sat there. "It will not burst. Now, only look at the others; are they not the prettiest ducks one could possibly see? They are all like their father; the bad fellow never comes to see me." "Let me see the egg which will not burst," said the old visitor. "Believe me, it is a turkey's egg. I was once cheated in that way, and had much anxiety and trouble with the young ones, for they are afraid of the water. I could not get them to venture in. I quacked and clucked, but it was of no use. Let me see the egg. Yes, that's a turkey's egg! Let it lie there, and you teach the other children to swim." "I think I will sit on it a little longer," said the Duck. "I've sat so long now that I can sit a few days more." "Just as you please," said the old Duck; and she went away. At last the great egg burst. "Piep! piep!" said the little one, and crept forth. It was very large and very ugly. The Duck looked at it. "It's a very large duckling," said she; "none of the others look like that; can it really be a turkey chick? Now we shall soon find out. It must go into the water, even if I have to thrust it in myself." The next day the weather was splendidly bright, and the sun shone on all the green trees. The Mother-Duck went down to the water with all her little ones. Splash! she jumped into the water. "Quack! quack!" she said, and then one duckling after another plunged in. The water closed over their heads, but they came up in an instant, and swam capitally; their legs went of themselves, and there they were, all in the water. The ugly gray Duckling swam with them. "No, it's not a turkey," said she; "look how well it can use its legs, and how upright it holds itself. It is my own child! On the whole it's quite pretty, if one looks at it rightly. Quack! quack! come with me, and I'll lead you out into the great world, and present you in the poultry-yard; but keep close to me, so that no one may tread on you; and take care of the cats!" And so they came into the poultry-yard. There was a terrible riot going on in there, for two families were quarreling about an eel's head, and the cat got it after all. "See, that's how it goes in the world!" said the Mother-Duck; and she whetted her beak, for she, too, wanted the eel's head. "Only use your legs," she said. "See that you bustle about, and bow your heads before the old Duck yonder. She's the grandest of all here; she's of Spanish blood--that's why she's so fat; and do you see, she has a red rag round her leg; that's something particularly fine, and the greatest distinction a duck can enjoy; it signifies that one does not want to lose her, and that she's to be recognized by man and beast. Shake yourselves--don't turn in your toes; a well-brought-up Duck turns its toes quite out, just like father and mother, so! Now bend your necks and say 'Rap!'" And they did so; but the other Ducks round about looked at them, and said quite boldly: "Look there! now we're to have these hanging on, as if there were not enough of us already! And--fie--! how that Duckling yonder looks; we won't stand that!" And one duck flew up immediately, and bit it in the neck. "Let it alone," said the mother; "it does no harm to anyone." "Yes, but it's too large and peculiar," said the Duck who had bitten it; "and therefore it must be buffeted." "Those are pretty children that the mother has there," said the old Duck with the rag round her leg. "They're all pretty but that one; that was a failure. I wish she could alter it." "That cannot be done, my lady," replied the Mother-Duck. "It is not pretty, but it has a really good disposition, and swims as well as any other; I may even say it swims better. I think it will grow up pretty, and become smaller in time; it has lain too long in the egg, and therefore is not properly shaped." And then she pinched it in the neck, and smoothed its feathers. "Moreover, it is a drake," she said, "and therefore it is not of so much consequence. I think he will be very strong; he makes his way already." "The other ducklings are graceful enough," said the old Duck. "Make yourself at home; and if you find an eel's head, you may bring it me." And now they were at home. But the poor Duckling which had crept last out of the egg, and looked so ugly, was bitten and pushed and jeered, as much by the ducks as by the chickens. "It is too big!" they all said. And the turkey-cock, who had been born with spurs, and therefore thought himself an Emperor, blew himself up like a ship in full sail, and bore straight down upon it; then he gobbled, and grew quite red in the face. The poor Duckling did not know where it should stand or walk; it was quite melancholy, because it looked ugly and was scoffed at by the whole yard. So it went on the first day; and afterward it became worse and worse. The poor Duckling was hunted about by every one; even its brothers and sisters were quite angry with it, and said, "If the cat would only catch you, you ugly creature!" And the mother said, "If you were only far away!" And the ducks bit it, and the chickens beat it, and the girl who had to feed the poultry kicked at it with her foot. Then it ran and flew over the fence, and the little birds in the bushes flew up in fear. "That is because I am so ugly!" thought the Duckling; and it shut its eyes, but flew no farther; thus it came out into the great moor, where the Wild Ducks lived. Here it lay the whole night long; and it was weary and downcast. Toward morning the Wild Ducks flew up, and looked at their new companion. "What sort of a one are you?" they asked; and the Duckling turned in every direction, and bowed as well as it could. "You are remarkably ugly!" said the Wild Ducks. "But that is very indifferent to us, so long as you do not marry into our family." Poor thing! It certainly did not think of marrying, and only hoped to obtain leave to lie among the reeds and drink some of the swamp-water. Thus it lay two whole days; then came thither two Wild Geese, or, properly speaking, two wild ganders. It was not long since each had crept out of an egg, and that's why they were so saucy. "Listen, comrade," said one of them. "You're so ugly that I like you. Will you go with us, and become a bird of passage? Near here, in another moor, there are a few sweet lovely wild geese, all unmarried, and all able to say, 'Rap!' You've a chance of making your fortune, ugly as you are!" "Piff! paff!" resounded through the air; and the two ganders fell down dead in the swamp, and the water became blood-red. "Piff! paff!" it sounded again, and whole flocks of wild geese rose up from the reeds. And then there was another report. A great hunt was going on. The hunters were lying in wait all round the moor, and some were even sitting up in the branches of the trees, which spread far over the reeds. The blue smoke rose up like clouds among the dark trees, and was wafted far away across the water; and the hunting dogs came--splash, splash!--into the swamp, and the rushes and the reeds bent down on every side. That was a fright for the poor Duckling! It turned its head, and put it under its wing; but at that moment a frightful great dog stood close by the Duckling. His tongue hung far out of his mouth and his eyes gleamed horrible and ugly; he thrust out his nose close against the Duckling, showed his sharp teeth, and--splash, splash!--on he went without seizing it. "Oh, Heaven be thanked!" sighed the Duckling. "I am so ugly that even the dog does not like to bite me!" And so it lay quite quiet, while the shots rattled through the reeds and gun after gun was fired. At last, late in the day, silence was restored; but the poor Duckling did not dare to rise up; it waited several hours before it looked round, and then hastened away out of the moor as fast as it could. It ran on over field and meadow; there was such a storm raging that it was difficult to get from one place to another. Toward evening the Duck came to a little miserable peasant's hut. This hut was so dilapidated that it did not know on which side it should fall; and that's why it remained standing. The storm whistled round the Duckling in such a way that the poor creature was obliged to sit down, to stand against it; and the tempest grew worse and worse. Then the Duckling noticed that one of the hinges of the door had given way, and the door hung so slanting that the Duckling could slip through the crack into the room; and it did so. Here lived a woman with her Tom Cat and her Hen. And the Tom Cat, whom she called Sonnie, could arch his back and purr. He could even give out sparks; but for that one had to stroke his fur the wrong way. The Hen had quite little short legs, and therefore she was called Chickabiddy-shortshanks; she laid good eggs, and the woman loved her as her own child. In the morning the strange Duckling was at once noticed, and the Tom Cat began to purr, and the Hen to cluck. "What's this?" said the woman, and looked all round; but she could not see well, and therefore she thought the Duckling was a fat duck that had strayed. "This is a rare prize," she said. "Now I shall have duck's eggs. I hope it is not a drake. We must try that." And so the Duckling was admitted on trial for three weeks; but no eggs came. And the Tom Cat was master of the house, and the Hen was the lady, and they always said, "We and the world!" for they thought they were half the world, and by far the better half. The Duckling thought one might have a different opinion, but the Hen would not allow it. "Can you lay eggs?" she asked. "No." "Then you'll have the goodness to hold your tongue." And the Tom Cat said, "Can you curve your back, and purr, and give out sparks?" "No." "Then you cannot have any opinion of your own when sensible people are speaking." And the Duckling sat in a corner and was melancholy; then the fresh air and the sunshine streamed in; and it was seized with such a strange longing to swim on the water that it could not help telling the Hen of it. "What are you thinking of?" cried the Hen. "You have nothing to do; that's why you have these fancies. Purr or lay eggs, and they will pass over." "But it is so charming to swim on the water!" said the Duckling, "so refreshing to let it close above one's head, and to dive down to the bottom." "Yes, that must be a mighty pleasure, truly," quoth the Hen. "I fancy you must have gone crazy. Ask the Cat about it--he's the cleverest animal I know--ask him if he likes to swim on the water, or to dive down: I won't speak about myself. Ask our mistress, the old woman; no one in the world is cleverer than she. Do you think she has any desire to swim, and to let the water close above her head?" "You don't understand me," said the Duckling. "We don't understand you? Then pray who is to understand you? You surely don't pretend to be cleverer than the Tom Cat and the old woman--I won't say anything of myself. Don't be conceited, child, and be grateful for all the kindness you have received. Did you not get into a warm room, and have you not fallen into company from which you may learn something? But you are a chatterer, and it is not pleasant to associate with you. You may believe me, I speak for your good. I tell you disagreeable things, and by that one may always know one's true friends. Only take care that you learn to lay eggs, or to purr and give out sparks!" "I think I will go out into the wide world," said the Duckling. "Yes, do go," replied the Hen. And the Duckling went away. It swam on the water, and dived, but it was slighted by every creature because of its ugliness. Now came the autumn. The leaves in the forest turned yellow and brown; the wind caught them so that they danced about, and up in the air it was very cold. The clouds hung low, heavy with hail and snow-flakes, and on the fence stood the raven, crying, "Croak! croak!" for mere cold; yes, it was enough to make one feel cold to think of this. The poor little Duckling certainly had not a good time. One evening--the sun was just setting in his beauty--there came a whole flock of great handsome birds out of the bushes; they were dazzlingly white, with long flexible necks; they were swans. They uttered a very peculiar cry, spread forth their glorious great wings, and flew away from that cold region to warmer lands, to fair open lakes. They mounted so high, so high! and the ugly little Duckling felt quite strange as it watched them. It turned round and round in the water like a wheel, stretched out its neck toward them, and uttered such a strange loud cry as frightened itself. Oh! it could not forget those beautiful, happy birds; and so soon as it could see them no longer, it dived down to the very bottom, and when it came up again, it was quite beside itself. It knew not the name of those birds, and knew not whither they were flying; but it loved them more than it had ever loved anyone. It was not at all envious of them. How could it think of wishing to possess such loveliness as they had? It would have been glad if only the ducks would have endured its company--the poor ugly creature! And the winter grew cold, very cold! The Duckling was forced to swim about in the water, to prevent the surface from freezing entirely; but every night the hole in which it swam about became smaller and smaller. It froze so hard that the icy covering crackled again; and the Duckling was obliged to use its legs continually to prevent the hole from freezing up. At last it became exhausted, and lay quite still, and thus froze fast into the ice. Early in the morning a peasant came by, and when he saw what had happened, he took his wooden shoe, broke the ice-crust to pieces, and carried the Duckling home to his wife. Then it came to itself again. The children wanted to play with it; but the Duckling thought they would do it an injury, and in its terror fluttered up into the milk-pan, so that the milk spurted down into the room. The woman clapped her hands, at which the Duckling flew down into the butter-tub, and then into the meal-barrel and out again. How it looked then! The woman screamed, and struck at it with the fire-tongs; the children tumbled over one another in their efforts to catch the Duckling; and they laughed and screamed finely. Happily the door stood open, and the poor creature was able to slip out between the shrubs into the newly-fallen snow; and there it lay quite exhausted. But it would be too melancholy if I were to tell all the misery and care which the Duckling had to endure in the hard winter. It lay out on the moor among the reeds when the sun began to shine again and the larks to sing; it was a beautiful spring. Then all at once the Duckling could flap its wings; they beat the air more strongly than before, and bore it strongly away; and before it well knew how all this had happened, it found itself in a great garden, where the elder trees smelt sweet, and bent their long green branches down to the canal that wound through the region. Oh, here it was so beautiful, such a gladness of spring! and from the thicket came three glorious white swans; they rustled their wings, and swam lightly on the water. The Duckling knew the splendid creatures, and felt oppressed by a peculiar sadness. "I will fly away to them, to the royal birds! and they will kill me, because I, that am so ugly, dare to approach them. But it is of no consequence! Better to be killed by _them_ than to be pursued by ducks, and beaten by fowls, and pushed about by the girl who takes care of the poultry-yard, and to suffer hunger in winter!" And it flew out into the water, and swam toward the beautiful swans: these looked at it, and came sailing down upon it with outspread wings. "Kill me!" said the poor creature, and bent its head down upon the water, expecting nothing but death. But what was this that it saw in the clear water? It beheld its own image--and, lo! it was no longer a clumsy dark-gray bird, ugly and hateful to look at, but--a swan. It matters nothing if one was born in a duck-yard, if one has only lain in a swan's egg. It felt quite glad at all the need and misfortune it had suffered, now it realized its happiness in all the splendor that surrounded it. And the great swans swam round it, and stroked it with their beaks. Into the garden came little children, who threw bread and corn into the water; the youngest cried, "There is a new one!" and the other children shouted joyously, "Yes, a new one has arrived!" And they clapped their hands and danced about, and ran to their father and mother; and bread and cake were thrown into the water; and they all said, "The new one is the most beautiful of all! so young and handsome!" and the old swans bowed their heads before him. Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wing, for he did not know what to do; he was so happy, and yet not at all proud. He thought how he had been persecuted and despised; and now he heard them saying that he was the most beautiful of all the birds. Even the elder tree bent its branches straight down into the water before him, and the sun shone warm and mild. Then his wings rustled, he lifted his slender neck, and cried rejoicingly from the depths of his heart: "I never dreamed of so much happiness when I was still the Ugly Duckling!" 199 One of the really successful modern attempts at telling new fairy stories was _Granny's Wonderful Chair_ (1857) by the blind poet Frances Browne (1816-1887). In spite of the obstacles due to blindness, poverty, and ill-health, she succeeded in educating herself, and after achieving some fame as a poet left her mountain village in county Donegal, Ireland, to make a literary career in Edinburgh and London. She published many volumes of poems, novels, and children's books. Only one of these is now much read or remembered, but it has taken a firm place in the affections of children. In _Granny's Wonderful Chair_ there are seven stories, set in an interesting framework which tells of the adventures of the little girl Snowflower and her chair at the court of King Winwealth. This chair had magic power to transport Snowflower wherever she wished to go, like the magic carpet in the _Arabian Nights_. When she laid down her head and said, "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a story," a clear voice from under the cushion would at once begin to speak. Besides the story that follows, two of the most satisfactory in the collection are "The Greedy Shepherd" and "The Story of Merrymind." Perhaps one of the secrets of their charm is in the power of visualization which the author possessed. The pictures are all clear and definite, yet touched with the glamor of fairyland. THE STORY OF FAIRYFOOT FRANCES BROWNE Once upon a time there stood far away in the west country a town called Stumpinghame. It contained seven windmills, a royal palace, a market place, and a prison, with every other convenience befitting the capital of a kingdom. A capital city was Stumpinghame, and its inhabitants thought it the only one in the world. It stood in the midst of a great plain, which for three leagues round its walls was covered with corn, flax, and orchards. Beyond that lay a great circle of pasture land, seven leagues in breadth, and it was bounded on all sides by a forest so thick and old that no man in Stumpinghame knew its extent; and the opinion of the learned was that it reached to the end of the world. There were strong reasons for this opinion. First, that forest was known to be inhabited time out of mind by the fairies, and no hunter cared to go beyond its border--so all the west country believed it to be solidly full of old trees to the heart. Secondly, the people of Stumpinghame were no travelers--man, woman, and child had feet so large and heavy that it was by no means convenient to carry them far. Whether it was the nature of the place or the people, I cannot tell, but great feet had been the fashion there time immemorial, and the higher the family the larger were they. It was, therefore, the aim of everybody above the degree of shepherds, and such-like rustics, to swell out and enlarge their feet by way of gentility; and so successful were they in these undertakings that, on a pinch, respectable people's slippers would have served for panniers. Stumpinghame had a king of its own, and his name was Stiffstep; his family was very ancient and large-footed. His subjects called him Lord of the World, and he made a speech to them every year concerning the grandeur of his mighty empire. His queen, Hammerheel, was the greatest beauty in Stumpinghame. Her majesty's shoe was not much less than a fishing-boat; their six children promised to be quite as handsome, and all went well with them till the birth of their seventh son. For a long time nobody about the palace could understand what was the matter--the ladies-in-waiting looked so astonished, and the king so vexed; but at last it was whispered through the city that the queen's seventh child had been born with such miserably small feet that they resembled nothing ever seen or heard of in Stumpinghame, except the feet of the fairies. The chronicles furnished no example of such an affliction ever before happening in the royal family. The common people thought it portended some great calamity to the city; the learned men began to write books about it; and all the relations of the king and queen assembled at the palace to mourn with them over their singular misfortune. The whole court and most of the citizens helped in this mourning, but when it had lasted seven days they all found out it was of no use. So the relations went to their homes, and the people took to their work. If the learned men's books were written, nobody ever read them; and to cheer up the queen's spirits, the young prince was sent privately out to the pasture lands, to be nursed among the shepherds. The chief man there was called Fleecefold, and his wife's name was Rough Ruddy. They lived in a snug cottage with their son Blackthorn and their daughter Brownberry, and were thought great people, because they kept the king's sheep. Moreover, Fleecefold's family were known to be ancient; and Rough Ruddy boasted that she had the largest feet in all the pastures. The shepherds held them in high respect, and it grew still higher when the news spread that the king's seventh son had been sent to their cottage. People came from all quarters to see the young prince, and great were the lamentations over his misfortune in having such small feet. The king and queen had given him fourteen names, beginning with Augustus--such being the fashion in that royal family; but the honest country people could not remember so many; besides, his feet were the most remarkable thing about the child, so with one accord they called him Fairyfoot. At first it was feared this might be high treason, but when no notice was taken by the king or his ministers, the shepherds concluded it was no harm, and the boy never had another name throughout the pastures. At court it was not thought polite to speak of him at all. They did not keep his birthday, and he was never sent for at Christmas, because the queen and her ladies could not bear the sight. Once a year the undermost scullion was sent to see how he did, with a bundle of his next brother's cast-off clothes; and, as the king grew old and cross, it was said he had thoughts of disowning him. So Fairyfoot grew in Fleecefold's cottage. Perhaps the country air made him fair and rosy--for all agreed that he would have been a handsome boy but for his small feet, with which nevertheless he learned to walk, and in time to run and to jump, thereby amazing everybody, for such doings were not known among the children of Stumpinghame. The news of court, however, traveled to the shepherds, and Fairyfoot was despised among them. The old people thought him unlucky; the children refused to play with him. Fleecefold was ashamed to have him in his cottage, but he durst not disobey the king's orders. Moreover, Blackthorn wore most of the clothes brought by the scullion. At last, Rough Ruddy found out that the sight of such horrid jumping would make her children vulgar; and, as soon as he was old enough, she sent Fairyfoot every day to watch some sickly sheep that grazed on a wild, weedy pasture, hard by the forest. Poor Fairyfoot was often lonely and sorrowful; many a time he wished his feet would grow larger, or that people wouldn't notice them so much; and all the comfort he had was running and jumping by himself in the wild pasture, and thinking that none of the shepherds' children could do the like, for all their pride of their great feet. Tired of this sport, he was lying in the shadow of a mossy rock one warm summer's noon, with the sheep feeding around, when a robin, pursued by a great hawk, flew into the old velvet cap which lay on the ground beside him. Fairyfoot covered it up, and the hawk, frightened by his shout, flew away. "Now you may go, poor robin!" he said, opening the cap: but instead of the bird, out sprang a little man dressed in russet-brown, and looking as if he were an hundred years old. Fairyfoot could not speak for astonishment, but the little man said-- "Thank you for your shelter, and be sure I will do as much for you. Call on me if you are ever in trouble; my name is Robin Goodfellow"; and darting off, he was out of sight in an instant. For days the boy wondered who that little man could be, but he told nobody, for the little man's feet were as small as his own, and it was clear he would be no favorite in Stumpinghame. Fairyfoot kept the story to himself, and at last midsummer came. That evening was a feast among the shepherds. There were bonfires on the hills, and fun in the villages. But Fairyfoot sat alone beside his sheepfold, for the children of his village had refused to let him dance with them about the bonfire, and he had gone there to bewail the size of his feet, which came between him and so many good things. Fairyfoot had never felt so lonely in all his life, and remembering the little man, he plucked up spirit, and cried-- "Ho! Robin Goodfellow!" "Here I am," said a shrill voice at his elbow; and there stood the little man himself. "I am very lonely, and no one will play with me, because my feet are not large enough," said Fairyfoot. "Come then and play with us," said the little man. "We lead the merriest lives in the world, and care for nobody's feet; but all companies have their own manners, and there are two things you must mind among us: first, do as you see the rest doing; and secondly, never speak of anything you may hear or see, for we and the people of this country have had no friendship ever since large feet came in fashion." "I will do that, and anything more you like," said Fairyfoot; and the little man, taking his hand, led him over the pasture into the forest and along a mossy path among old trees wreathed with ivy (he never knew how far), till they heard the sound of music and came upon a meadow where the moon shone as bright as day, and all the flowers of the year--snowdrops, violets, primroses, and cowslips--bloomed together in the thick grass. There were a crowd of little men and women, some clad in russet color, but far more in green, dancing round a little well as clear as crystal. And under great rose-trees which grew here and there in the meadow, companies were sitting round low tables covered with cups of milk, dishes of honey, and carved wooden flagons filled with clear red wine. The little man led Fairyfoot up to the nearest table, handed him one of the flagons, and said-- "Drink to the good company." Wine was not very common among the shepherds of Stumpinghame, and the boy had never tasted such drink as that before; for scarcely had it gone down when he forgot all his troubles--how Blackthorn and Brownberry wore his clothes, how Rough Ruddy sent him to keep the sickly sheep, and the children would not dance with him: in short, he forgot the whole misfortune of his feet, and it seemed to his mind that he was a king's son, and all was well with him. All the little people about the well cried--"Welcome! welcome!" and every one said--"Come and dance with me!" So Fairyfoot was as happy as a prince, and drank milk and ate honey till the moon was low in the sky, and then the little man took him by the hand, and never stopped nor stayed till he was at his own bed of straw in the cottage corner. Next morning Fairyfoot was not tired for all his dancing. Nobody in the cottage had missed him, and he went out with the sheep as usual; but every night all that summer, when the shepherds were safe in bed, the little man came and took him away to dance in the forest. Now he did not care to play with the shepherds' children, nor grieve that his father and mother had forgotten him, but watched the sheep all day, singing to himself or plaiting rushes; and when the sun went down, Fairyfoot's heart rejoiced at the thought of meeting that merry company. The wonder was that he was never tired nor sleepy, as people are apt to be who dance all night; but before the summer was ended Fairyfoot found out the reason. One night, when the moon was full, and the last of the ripe corn rustling in the fields, Robin Goodfellow came for him as usual, and away they went to the flowery green. The fun there was high, and Robin was in haste. So he only pointed to the carved cup from which Fairyfoot every night drank the clear red wine. "I am not thirsty, and there is no use losing time," thought the boy to himself, and he joined the dance; but never in all his life did Fairyfoot find such hard work as to keep pace with the company. Their feet seemed to move like lightning, the swallows did not fly so fast or turn so quickly. Fairyfoot did his best, for he never gave in easily, but at length, his breath and strength being spent, the boy was glad to steal away and sit down behind a mossy oak, where his eyes closed for very weariness. When he awoke the dance was nearly over, but two little ladies clad in green talked close beside him. "What a beautiful boy!" said one of them. "He is worthy to be a king's son. Only see what handsome feet he has!" "Yes," said the other, with a laugh, that sounded spiteful; "they are just like the feet Princess Maybloom had before she washed them in the Growing Well. Her father has sent far and wide throughout the whole country searching for a doctor to make them small again, but nothing in this world can do it except the water of the Fair Fountain, and none but I and the nightingales know where it is." "One would not care to let the like be known," said the first little lady: "there would come such crowds of these great coarse creatures of mankind, nobody would have peace for leagues round. But you will surely send word to the sweet princess!--she was so kind to our birds and butterflies, and danced so like one of ourselves!" "Not I, indeed!" said the spiteful fairy. "Her old skinflint of a father cut down the cedar which I loved best in the whole forest, and made a chest of it to hold his money in; besides, I never liked the princess--everybody praised her so. But come, we shall be too late for the last dance." When they were gone, Fairyfoot could sleep no more with astonishment. He did not wonder at the fairies admiring his feet, because their own were much the same; but it amazed him that Princess Maybloom's father should be troubled at hers growing large. Moreover, he wished to see that same princess and her country, since there were really other places in the world than Stumpinghame. When Robin Goodfellow came to take him home as usual he durst not let him know that he had overheard anything; but never was the boy so unwilling to get up as on that morning, and all day he was so weary that in the afternoon Fairyfoot fell asleep, with his head on a clump of rushes. It was seldom that any one thought of looking after him and the sickly sheep; but it so happened that towards evening the old shepherd, Fleecefold, thought he would see how things went on in the pastures. The shepherd had a bad temper and a thick staff, and no sooner did he catch sight of Fairyfoot sleeping, and his flock straying away, than shouting all the ill names he could remember, in a voice which woke up the boy, he ran after him as fast as his great feet would allow; while Fairyfoot, seeing no other shelter from his fury, fled into the forest, and never stopped nor stayed till he reached the banks of a little stream. Thinking it might lead him to the fairies' dancing-ground, he followed that stream for many an hour, but it wound away into the heart of the forest, flowing through dells, falling over mossy rocks, and at last leading Fairyfoot, when he was tired and the night had fallen, to a grove of great rose-trees, with the moon shining on it as bright as day, and thousands of nightingales singing in the branches. In the midst of that grove was a clear spring, bordered with banks of lilies, and Fairyfoot sat down by it to rest himself and listen. The singing was so sweet he could have listened for ever, but as he sat the nightingales left off their songs, and began to talk together in the silence of the night. "What boy is that," said one on a branch above him, "who sits so lonely by the Fair Fountain? He cannot have come from Stumpinghame with such small and handsome feet." "No, I'll warrant you," said another, "he has come from the west country. How in the world did he find the way?" "How simple you are!" said a third nightingale. "What had he to do but follow the ground-ivy which grows over height and hollow, bank and bush, from the lowest gate of the king's kitchen garden to the root of this rose-tree? He looks a wise boy, and I hope he will keep the secret, or we shall have all the west country here, dabbling in our fountain, and leaving us no rest to either talk or sing." Fairyfoot sat in great astonishment at this discourse, but by and by, when the talk ceased and the songs began, he thought it might be as well for him to follow the ground-ivy, and see the Princess Maybloom, not to speak of getting rid of Rough Ruddy, the sickly sheep, and the crusty old shepherd. It was a long journey; but he went on, eating wild berries by day, sleeping in the hollows of old trees by night, and never losing sight of the ground-ivy, which led him over height and hollow, bank and bush, out of the forest, and along a noble high road, with fields and villages on every side, to a great city, and a low old-fashioned gate of the king's kitchen-garden, which was thought too mean for the scullions, and had not been opened for seven years. There was no use knocking--the gate was overgrown with tall weeds and moss; so, being an active boy, he climbed over, and walked through the garden, till a white fawn came frisking by, and he heard a soft voice saying sorrowfully-- "Come back, come back, my fawn! I cannot run and play with you now, my feet have grown so heavy"; and looking round he saw the loveliest young princess in the world, dressed in snow-white, and wearing a wreath of roses on her golden hair; but walking slowly, as the great people did in Stumpinghame, for her feet were as large as the best of them. After her came six young ladies, dressed in white and walking slowly, for they could not go before the princess; but Fairyfoot was amazed to see that their feet were as small as his own. At once he guessed that this must be the Princess Maybloom, and made her an humble bow, saying-- "Royal princess, I have heard of your trouble because your feet have grown large; in my country that's all the fashion. For seven years past I have been wondering what would make mine grow, to no purpose; but I know of a certain fountain that will make yours smaller and finer than ever they were, if the king, your father, gives you leave to come with me, accompanied by two of your maids that are the least given to talking, and the most prudent officer in all his household; for it would grievously offend the fairies and the nightingales to make that fountain known." When the princess heard that, she danced for joy in spite of her large feet, and she and her six maids brought Fairyfoot before the king and queen, where they sat in their palace hall, with all the courtiers paying their morning compliments. The lords were very much astonished to see a ragged, bare-footed boy brought in among them, and the ladies thought Princess Maybloom must have gone mad; but Fairyfoot, making an humble reverence, told his message to the king and queen, and offered to set out with the princess that very day. At first the king would not believe that there could be any use in his offer, because so many great physicians had failed to give any relief. The courtiers laughed Fairyfoot to scorn, the pages wanted to turn him out for an impudent impostor, and the prime minister said he ought to be put to death for high treason. Fairyfoot wished himself safe in the forest again, or even keeping the sickly sheep; but the queen, being a prudent woman, said-- "I pray your majesty to notice what fine feet this boy has. There may be some truth in his story. For the sake of our only daughter, I will choose two maids who talk the least of all our train, and my chamberlain, who is the most discreet officer in our household. Let them go with the princess; who knows but our sorrow may be lessened?" After some persuasion the king consented, though all his councillors advised the contrary. So the two silent maids, the discreet chamberlain, and her fawn, which would not stay behind, were sent with Princess Maybloom, and they all set out after dinner. Fairyfoot had hard work guiding them along the track of the ground-ivy. The maids and the chamberlain did not like the brambles and rough roots of the forest--they thought it hard to eat berries and sleep in hollow trees; but the princess went on with good courage, and at last they reached the grove of rose-trees, and the spring bordered with lilies. The chamberlain washed--and though his hair had been grey, and his face wrinkled, the young courtiers envied his beauty for years after. The maids washed--and from that day they were esteemed the fairest in all the palace. Lastly, the princess washed also--it could make her no fairer, but the moment her feet touched the water they grew less, and when she had washed and dried them three times, they were as small and finely-shaped as Fairyfoot's own. There was great joy among them, but the boy said sorrowfully-- "Oh! if there had been a well in the world to make my feet large, my father and mother would not have cast me off, nor sent me to live among the shepherds." "Cheer up your heart," said the Princess Maybloom; "if you want large feet, there is a well in this forest that will do it. Last summer time I came with my father and his foresters to see a great cedar cut down, of which he meant to make a money chest. While they were busy with the cedar, I saw a bramble branch covered with berries. Some were ripe and some were green, but it was the longest bramble that ever grew; for the sake of the berries, I went on and on to its root, which grew hard by a muddy-looking well, with banks of dark green moss, in the deepest part of the forest. The day was warm and dry and my feet were sore with the rough ground, so I took off my scarlet shoes and washed my feet in the well; but as I washed they grew larger every minute, and nothing could ever make them less again. I have seen the bramble this day; it is not far off, and as you have shown me the Fair Fountain, I will show you the Growing Well." Up rose Fairyfoot and Princess Maybloom, and went together till they found the bramble, and came to where its root grew, hard by the muddy-looking well, with banks of dark green moss in the deepest dell of the forest. Fairyfoot sat down to wash, but at that minute he heard a sound of music, and knew it was the fairies going to their dancing ground. "If my feet grow large," said the boy to himself, "how shall I dance with them?" So, rising quickly, he took the Princess Maybloom by the hand. The fawn followed them; the maids and the chamberlain followed it, and all followed the music through the forest. At last they came to the flowery green. Robin Goodfellow welcomed the company for Fairyfoot's sake, and gave every one a drink of the fairies' wine. So they danced there from sunset till the grey morning, and nobody was tired; but before the lark sang, Robin Goodfellow took them all safe home, as he used to take Fairyfoot. There was great joy that day in the palace because Princess Maybloom's feet were made small again. The king gave Fairyfoot all manner of fine clothes and rich jewels; and when they heard his wonderful story, he and the queen asked him to live with them and be their son. In process of time Fairyfoot and Princess Maybloom were married, and still live happily. When they go to visit at Stumpinghame, they always wash their feet in the Growing Well, lest the royal family might think them a disgrace, but when they come back, they make haste to the Fair Fountain; and the fairies and the nightingales are great friends to them, as well as the maids and the chamberlain, because they have told nobody about it, and there is peace and quiet yet in the grove of rose-trees. 200 The ill-fated Oscar Wilde (1856-1900) was born in Ireland, was educated at Oxford, came into great notoriety as the reputed leader of the "aesthetic movement," was prominent in the London literary world from 1885 to 1895, fell under the obloquy of most of his countrymen, and died in distressing circumstances in Paris. In addition to some remarkable plays, poems, and prose books, he wrote a number of unusual stories especially fascinating to children, which were collected under the title _The Happy Prince, and Other Tales_. These stories were at once recognized as classic in quality. While they contain much implied criticism of certain features of modern civilization, the whole tone is so idealistic and the workmanship so fine that they convey no strong note of bitterness to the child. "The Happy Prince" suggests that Wilde saw on the one hand "the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets"; while on the other hand he saw the Pyramids, marble angels sculptured on the cathedral tower, and the gold-covered statue of the Prince of the Palace of the Care-Free. Wilde also suggests a remedy for the starvation and wretchedness that exist, especially among children, in most cities where great wealth is displayed. The important thing in presenting this story to children is to get the full sympathetic response due to the sacrifice made by the Happy Prince and the little swallow. So much of the effect depends upon the wonderful beauty of the language that teachers will, as a rule, get better results from reading or reciting than from any kind of oral paraphrase. Another story in this same volume widely and successfully used by teachers is the one called "The Selfish Giant." THE HAPPY PRINCE OSCAR WILDE High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt. He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock," remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not. "Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything." "I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue. "He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores. "How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master; "you have never seen one." "Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming. One night there flew over the city a Little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her. "Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer. "It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has no money, and far too many relations"; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then when the autumn came they all flew away. After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. "She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love traveling, and my wife, consequently, should love traveling also." "Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home. "You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!" and he flew away. All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations." Then he saw the statue on the tall column. "I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince. "I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness." Then another drop fell. "What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said; "I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away. But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw--Ah! what did he see? The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity. "Who are you?" he said. "I am the Happy Prince." "Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite drenched me." "When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep." "What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud. "Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honor to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not take her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move." "I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad." "I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect." But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. "It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger." "Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince. So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town. He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!" "I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy." He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy. "I must be getting better"; and he sank into a delicious slumber. Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. "It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold." "That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy. When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand. "To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so he enjoyed himself very much. When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?" "I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint." "I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?" "Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play." "Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to weep. "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you." So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets. "I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy. The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbor. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I am going to Egypt!" cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried. "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?" "It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea." "In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her." "I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you." So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. "What a lovely bit of glass," cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing. Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said, "so I will stay with you always." "No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt." "I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet. All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch goldfish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies. "Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvelous things, but more marvelous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there." So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try to keep themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie here," shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain. Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen. "I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince; "you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy." Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried. Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice. The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince; he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings. But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?" "I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said the Prince. "You have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you." "It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?" And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet. At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had suddenly broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost. Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said. "How shabby indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it. "The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer," said the Mayor; "in fact, he is little better than a beggar!" "Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors. "And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion. So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the University. Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue of myself." "Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarreling still. "What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. "This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away." So they threw it on a dustheap where the dead Swallow was also lying. "Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird. "You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me." 201 Two stories of unusual interest and charm for children are found in the collection of eleven by Raymond M. Alden (1873--), _Why the Chimes Rang_. One is the title story of the volume; the other is "The Knights of the Silver Shield." The latter follows by permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co., Indianapolis. (Copyright, 1906, 1908.) It is of striking dramatic interest and emphasizes a much-needed quality of character, the importance of a loyal performance of the lowlier duties of life. The salvation of a nation may depend upon the humble guardian of the gate quite as much as upon those who are engaged in the more spectacular struggle with giants. Mr. Alden is a scholarly professor of literature in Leland Stanford Jr. University, and it may interest the reader to know that he is the son of the author of the _Pansy Books_, a type of religious or Sunday-school fiction widely read throughout the country by a generation or two of young people. THE KNIGHTS OF THE SILVER SHIELD RAYMOND MACDONALD ALDEN There was once a splendid castle in a forest, with great stone walls and a high gateway, and turrets that rose away above the tallest trees. The forest was dark and dangerous, and many cruel giants lived in it; but in the castle was a company of knights, who were kept there by the king of the country, to help travelers who might be in the forest and to fight with the giants whenever they could. Each of these knights wore a beautiful suit of armor and carried a long spear, while over his helmet there floated a great red plume that could be seen a long way off by any one in distress. But the most wonderful thing about the knights' armor was their shields. They were not like those of other knights, but had been made by a great magician who had lived in the castle many years before. They were made of silver, and sometimes shone in the sunlight with dazzling brightness; but at other times the surface of the shields would be clouded as though by a mist, and one could not see his face reflected there as he could when they shone brightly. Now, when each young knight received his spurs and his armor, a new shield was also given him from among those that the magician had made; and when the shield was new its surface was always cloudy and dull. But as the knight began to do service against the giants, or went on expeditions to help poor travelers in the forest, his shield grew brighter and brighter, so that he could see his face clearly reflected in it. But if he proved to be a lazy or cowardly knight, and let the giants get the better of him, or did not care what became of the travelers, then the shield grew more and more cloudy, until the knight became ashamed to carry it. But this was not all. When any one of the knights fought a particularly hard battle, and won the victory, or when he went on some hard errand for the lord of the castle, and was successful, not only did his silver shield grow brighter, but when one looked into the center of it he could see something like a golden star shining in its very heart. This was the greatest honor that a knight could achieve, and the other knights always spoke of such a one as having "won his star." It was usually not till he was pretty old and tried as a soldier that he could win it. At the time when this story begins, the lord of the castle himself was the only one of the knights whose shield bore the golden star. There came a time when the worst of the giants in the forest gathered themselves together to have a battle against the knights. They made a camp in a dark hollow not far from the castle, and gathered all their best warriors together, and all the knights made ready to fight them. The windows of the castle were closed and barred; the air was full of the noise of armor being made ready for use; and the knights were so excited that they could scarcely rest or eat. Now there was a young knight in the castle, named Sir Roland, who was among those most eager for the battle. He was a splendid warrior, with eyes that shone like stars whenever there was anything to do in the way of knightly deeds. And although he was still quite young, his shield had begun to shine enough to show plainly that he had done bravely in some of his errands through the forest. This battle, he thought, would be the great opportunity of his life. And on the morning of the day when they were to go forth to it, and all the knights assembled in the great hall of the castle to receive the commands of their leaders, Sir Roland hoped that he would be put in the most dangerous place of all, so that he could show what knightly stuff he was made of. But when the lord of the castle came to him, as he went about in full armor giving his commands, he said: "One brave knight must stay behind and guard the gateway of the castle, and it is you, Sir Roland, being one of the youngest, whom I have chosen for this." At these words Sir Roland was so disappointed that he bit his lip and closed his helmet over his face so that the other knights might not see it. For a moment he felt as if he must reply angrily to the commander and tell him that it was not right to leave so sturdy a knight behind when he was eager to fight. But he struggled against this feeling and went quietly to look after his duties at the gate. The gateway was high and narrow, and was reached from outside by a high, narrow bridge that crossed the moat, which surrounded the castle on every side. When an enemy approached, the knight on guard rang a great bell just inside the gate, and the bridge was drawn up against the castle wall, so that no one could come across the moat. So the giants had long ago given up trying to attack the castle itself. To-day the battle was to be in the dark hollow in the forest, and it was not likely that there would be anything to do at the castle gate, except to watch it like a common doorkeeper. It was not strange that Sir Roland thought some one else might have done this. Presently all the other knights marched out in their flashing armor, their red plumes waving over their heads, and their spears in their hands. The lord of the castle stopped only to tell Sir Roland to keep guard over the gate until they had all returned and to let no one enter. Then they went into the shadows of the forest and were soon lost to sight. Sir Roland stood looking after them long after they had gone, thinking how happy he would be if he were on the way to battle like them. But after a little he put this out of his mind and tried to think of pleasanter things. It was a long time before anything happened, or any word came from the battle. At last Sir Roland saw one of the knights come limping down the path to the castle, and he went out on the bridge to meet him. Now this knight was not a brave one, and he had been frightened away as soon as he was wounded. "I have been hurt," he said, "so that I can not fight any more. But I could watch the gate for you, if you would like to go back in my place." At first Sir Roland's heart leaped with joy at this, but then he remembered what the commander had told him on going away, and he said: "I should like to go, but a knight belongs where his commander has put him. My place is here at the gate, and I can not open it even for you. Your place is at the battle." The knight was ashamed when he heard this, and he presently turned about and went into the forest again. So Sir Roland kept guard silently for another hour. Then there came an old beggar woman down the path to the castle and asked Sir Roland if she might come in and have some food. He told her that no one could enter the castle that day, but that he would send a servant out to her with food, and that she might sit and rest as long as she would. "I have been past the hollow in the forest where the battle is going on," said the old woman, while she was waiting for her food. "And how do you think it is going?" asked Sir Roland. "Badly for the knights, I am afraid," said the old woman. "The giants are fighting as they have never fought before. I should think you had better go and help your friends." "I should like to, indeed," said Sir Roland. "But I am set to guard the gateway of the castle and can not leave." "One fresh knight would make a great difference when they are all weary with fighting," said the old woman. "I should think that, while there are no enemies about, you would be much more useful there." "You may well think so," said Sir Roland, "and so may I; but it is neither you nor I that is commander here." "I suppose," said the old woman then, "that you are one of the kind of knights who like to keep out of fighting. You are lucky to have so good an excuse for staying at home." And she laughed a thin and taunting laugh. Then Sir Roland was very angry, and thought that if it were only a man instead of a woman, he would show him whether he liked fighting or no. But as it was a woman, he shut his lips and set his teeth hard together, and as the servant came just then with the food he had sent for, he gave it to the old woman quickly and shut the gate that she might not talk to him any more. It was not very long before he heard some one calling outside. Sir Roland opened the gate and saw standing at the other end of the drawbridge a little old man in a long black cloak. "Why are you knocking here?" he said. "The castle is closed to-day." "Are you Sir Roland?" said the little old man. "Yes," said Sir Roland. "Then you ought not to be staying here when your commander and his knights are having so hard a struggle with the giants, and when you have the chance to make of yourself the greatest knight in this kingdom. Listen to me! I have brought you a magic sword." As he said this, the old man drew from under his coat a wonderful sword that flashed in the sunlight as if it were covered with diamonds. "This is the sword of all swords," he said, "and it is for you, if you will leave your idling here by the castle gate and carry it to the battle. Nothing can stand before it. When you lift it the giants will fall back, your master will be saved, and you will be crowned the victorious knight--the one who will soon take his commander's place as lord of the castle." Now Sir Roland believed that it was a magician who was speaking to him, for it certainly appeared to be a magic sword. It seemed so wonderful that the sword should be brought to him, that he reached out his hand as though he would take it, and the little old man came forward, as though he would cross the drawbridge into the castle. But as he did so, it came to Sir Roland's mind again that that bridge and the gateway had been intrusted to him, and he called out "No!" to the old man, so that he stopped where he was standing. But he waved the shining sword in the air again, and said: "It is for you! Take it, and win the victory!" Sir Roland was really afraid that if he looked any longer at the sword or listened to any more words of the old man, he would not be able to hold himself within the castle. For this reason he struck the great bell at the gateway, which was the signal for the servants inside to pull in the chains of the drawbridge, and instantly they began to pull, and the drawbridge came up, so that the old man could not cross it to enter the castle, nor Sir Roland to go out. Then, as he looked across the moat, Sir Roland saw a wonderful thing. The little old man threw off his black cloak, and as he did so he began to grow bigger and bigger, until in a minute more he was a giant as tall as any in the forest. At first Sir Roland could scarcely believe his eyes. Then he realized that this must be one of their giant enemies, who had changed himself to a little old man through some magic power, that he might make his way into the castle while all the knights were away. Sir Roland shuddered to think what might have happened if he had taken the sword and left the gate unguarded. The giant shook his fist across the moat that lay between them, and then, knowing that he could do nothing more, he went angrily back into the forest. Sir Roland now resolved not to open the gate again, and to pay no attention to any other visitor. But it was not long before he heard a sound that made him spring forward in joy. It was the bugle of the lord of the castle, and there came sounding after it the bugles of many of the knights that were with him, pealing so joyfully that Sir Roland was sure they were safe and happy. As they came nearer, he could hear their shouts of victory. So he gave the signal to let down the drawbridge again, and went out to meet them. They were dusty and bloodstained and weary, but they had won the battle with the giants; and it had been such a great victory that there had never been a happier home-coming. Sir Roland greeted them all as they passed in over the bridge, and then, when he had closed the gate and fastened it, he followed them into the great hall of the castle. The lord of the castle took his place on the highest seat, with the other knights about him, and Sir Roland came forward with the key of the gate, to give his account of what he had done in the place to which the commander had appointed him. The lord of the castle bowed to him as a sign for him to begin, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, one of the knights cried out: "The shield! the shield! Sir Roland's shield!" Every one turned and looked at the shield which Sir Roland carried on his left arm. He himself could see only the top of it and did not know what they could mean. But what they saw was the golden star of knighthood, shining brightly from the center of Sir Roland's shield. There had never been such amazement in the castle before. Sir Roland knelt before the lord of the castle to receive his commands. He still did not know why every one was looking at him so excitedly, and wondered if he had in some way done wrong. "Speak, Sir Knight," said the commander, as soon as he could find his voice after his surprise, "and tell us all that has happened to-day at the castle. Have you been attacked? Have any giants come hither? Did you fight them alone?" "No, my Lord," said Sir Roland. "Only one giant has been here, and he went away silently when he found he could not enter." Then he told all that had happened through the day. When he had finished, the knights all looked at one another, but no one spoke a word. Then they looked again at Sir Roland's shield, to make sure that their eyes had not deceived them, and there the golden star was still shining. After a little silence the lord of the castle spoke. "Men make mistakes," he said, "but our silver shields are never mistaken. Sir Roland has fought and won the hardest battle of all to-day." Then the others all rose and saluted Sir Roland, who was the youngest knight that ever carried the golden star. 202 Jean Ingelow (1820-1897) was an English poet, novelist, and writer of stories for children, who lived in the fen district of Lincolnshire. Her most noted poem deals with a terrible catastrophe that happened there more than three centuries ago. It is called "The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire." Many reading books for the third or fourth grade contain her dainty and melodious "Seven Times One," in which a little girl expresses the joy and sense of power felt on reaching a seventh birthday. Of her children's books, the favorite is _Mopsa the Fairy_, which some one has called a "delightful succession of breezy impossibilities." Her shorter stories for children are collected under the title _Stories Told to a Child_ (two series), from which "The Prince's Dream" is taken. It is somewhat old fashioned in method and style, reminding one of the stories of the days of Addison and Steele. Its seriousness is in striking contrast with the more flippant note in much modern writing for children, and it is sure to suggest some questions on the dangers and advantages of great possessions in their effects on labor, liberty, and human happiness in general. However, the moral will take care of itself, and the attention should rest on the means used by the old man to teach the young prince the things he is shut out from learning by experience. The children will easily see that it is an anticipation of the moving-picture method. Some other good stories in the collection mentioned are "I Have a Right," "The Fairy Who Judged Her Neighbors," and "Anselmo." THE PRINCE'S DREAM JEAN INGELOW If we may credit the fable, there is a tower in the midst of a great Asiatic plain, wherein is confined a prince who was placed there in his earliest infancy, with many slaves and attendants, and all the luxuries that are compatible with imprisonment. Whether he was brought there from some motive of state, whether to conceal him from enemies, or to deprive him of rights, has not transpired; but it is certain that up to the date of this little history he had never set his foot outside the walls of that high tower, and that of the vast world without he knew only the green plains which surrounded it; the flocks and the birds of that region were all his experience of living creatures, and all the men he saw outside were shepherds. And yet he was not utterly deprived of change, for sometimes one of his attendants would be ordered away, and his place would be supplied by a new one. This fresh companion the prince would never weary of questioning, and letting him talk of cities, of ships, of forests, of merchandise, of kings; but though in turns they all tried to satisfy his curiosity, they could not succeed in conveying very distinct notions to his mind; partly because there was nothing in the tower to which they could compare the external world, partly because, having chiefly lived lives of seclusion and indolence in Eastern palaces, they knew it only by hearsay themselves. At length, one day, a venerable man of a noble presence was brought to the tower, with soldiers to guard him and slaves to attend him. The prince was glad of his presence, though at first he seldom opened his lips, and it was manifest that confinement made him miserable. With restless feet he would wander from window to window of the stone tower, and mount from story to story; but mount as high as he would there was still nothing to be seen but the vast unvarying plain, clothed with scanty grass, and flooded with the glaring sunshine; flocks and herds, and shepherds, moved across it sometimes, but nothing else, not even a shadow, for there was no cloud in the sky to cast one. The old man, however, always treated the prince with respect, and answered his questions with a great deal of patience, till at length he found a pleasure in satisfying his curiosity, which so much pleased the young prisoner, that, as a great condescension, he invited him to come out on the roof of the tower and drink sherbet with him in the cool of the evening, and tell him of the country beyond the desert, and what seas are like, and mountains, and towns. "I have learnt much from my attendants, and know this world pretty well by hearsay," said the prince, as they reclined on the rich carpet which was spread on the roof. The old man smiled, but did not answer; perhaps because he did not care to undeceive his young companion, perhaps because so many slaves were present, some of whom were serving them with fruit, and others burning rich odors on a little chafing-dish that stood between them. "But there are some words to which I never could attach any particular meaning," proceeded the prince, as the slaves began to retire, "and three in particular that my attendants cannot satisfy me upon, or are reluctant to do so." "What words are those, my prince?" asked the old man. The prince turned on his elbow to be sure that the last slave had descended the tower stairs, then replied-- "O man of much knowledge, the words are these--Labor, and Liberty, and Gold." "Prince," said the old man, "I do not wonder that it has been hard to make thee understand the first, the nature of it, and the cause why most men are born to it; as for the second, it would be treason for thee and me to do more than whisper it here, and sigh for it when none are listening; but the third need hardly puzzle thee, thy hookah is bright with it; all thy jewels are set in it; gold is inlaid in the ivory of thy bath; thy cup and thy dish are of gold, and golden threads are wrought into thy raiment." "That is true," replied the prince, "and if I had not seen and handled this gold, perhaps I might not find its merits so hard to understand; but I possess it in abundance, and it does not feed me, nor make music for me, nor fan me when the sun is hot, nor cause me to sleep when I am weary; therefore when my slaves have told me how merchants go out and brave the perilous wind and sea, and live in the unstable ships, and run risks from shipwreck and pirates, and when, having asked them why they have done this, they have answered, 'For gold,' I have found it hard to believe them; and when they have told me how men have lied, and robbed, and deceived; how they have murdered one another, and leagued together to depose kings, to oppress provinces, and all for gold; then I have said to myself, either my slaves have combined to make me believe that which is not, or this gold must be very different from the yellow stuff that this coin is made of, this coin which is of no use but to have a hole pierced through it and hang to my girdle, that it may tinkle when I walk." "Notwithstanding," said the old man, "nothing can be done without gold; for look you, prince, it is better than bread, and fruit, and music, for it can buy them all, since men love it, and have agreed to exchange it for whatever they may need." "How so?" asked the prince. "If a man has many loaves he cannot eat them all," answered the old man; "therefore he goes to his neighbor and says, 'I have bread and thou hast a coin of gold--let us change'; so he receives the gold and goes to another man, saying, 'Thou hast two houses and I have none; lend me one of thy houses to live in, and I will give thee my gold'; thus again they change, and he that has the gold says, 'I have food enough and goods enough, but I want a wife, I will go to the merchant and get a marriage gift for her father, and for it I will give him this gold.'" "It is well," said the prince; "but in time of drought, if there is no bread in a city, can they make it of gold?" "Not so," answered the old man, "but they must send their gold to a city where there is food, and bring that back instead of it." "But if there was a famine all over the world," asked the prince, "what would they do then?" "Why then, and only then," said the old man, "they must starve, and the gold would be nought, for it can only be changed for that which _is_; it cannot make that which is not." "And where do they get gold?" asked the prince; "is it the precious fruit of some rare tree, or have they whereby they can draw it down from the sky at sunset?" "Some of it," said the old man, "they dig out of the ground." Then he told the prince of ancient rivers running through terrible deserts, whose sands glitter, with golden grains and are yellow in the fierce heat of the sun, and of dreary mines where the Indian slaves work in gangs tied together, never seeing the light of day; and lastly (for he was a man of much knowledge, and had traveled far), he told him of the valley of the Sacramento in the New World, and of those mountains where the people of Europe send their criminals, and where now their free men pour forth to gather gold, and dig for it as hard as if for life; sitting up by it at night lest any should take it from them, giving up houses and country, and wife and children, for the sake of a few feet of mud, whence they dig clay that glitters as they wash it; and how they sift it and rock it as patiently as if it were their own children in the cradle, and afterwards carry it in their bosoms, and forego on account of it safety and rest. "But, prince," he proceeded, observing that the young man was absorbed in his narrative, "if you would pass your word to me never to betray me, I would procure for you a sight of the external world, and in a trance you should see those places where gold is dug, and traverse those regions forbidden to your mortal footsteps." Upon this, the prince threw himself at the old man's feet, and promised heartily to observe the secrecy required, and entreated that, for however short time, he might be suffered to see this wonderful world. Then, if we may credit the story, the old man drew nearer to the chafing-dish which stood between them, and having fanned the dying embers in it, cast upon them a certain powder and some herbs, from whence as they burnt a peculiar smoke arose. As their vapors spread, he desired the prince to draw near and inhale them, and then (says the fable) when he should sleep he should find himself, in his dream, at whatever place he might desire, with this strange advantage, that he should see things in their truth and reality as well as in their outward shows. So the prince, not without some fear, prepared to obey; but first he drank his sherbet, and handed over the golden cup to the old man by way of recompense; then he reclined beside the chafing-dish and inhaled the heavy perfume till he became overpowered with sleep, and sank down upon the carpet in a dream. The prince knew not where he was, but a green country was floating before him, and he found himself standing in a marshy valley, where a few wretched cottages were scattered here and there with no means of communication. There was a river, but it had overflowed its banks and made the central land impassable, the fences had been broken down by it, and the fields of corn laid low; a few wretched peasants were wandering about there; they looked half clad and half starved. "A miserable valley indeed!" exclaimed the prince; but as he said it a man came down from the hills with a great bag of gold in his hand. "This valley is mine," said he to the people; "I have bought it for gold. Now make banks that the river may not overflow, and I will give you gold; also make fences and plant fields, and cover in the roofs of your houses, and buy yourselves richer clothing." So the people did so, and as the gold got lower in the bag the valley grew fairer and greener, till the prince exclaimed, "O gold, I see your value now! O wonderful, beneficent gold!" But presently the valley melted away like a mist, and the prince saw an army besieging a city; he heard a general haranguing his soldiers to urge them on, and the soldiers shouting and battering the walls; but shortly, when the city was well-nigh taken, he saw some men secretly throwing gold among the soldiers, so much of it that they threw down their arms to pick it up, and said that the walls were so strong that they could not throw them down. "O powerful gold!" thought the prince; "thou art stronger than the city walls!" After that it seemed to himself that he was walking about in a desert country, and in his dream he thought, "Now I know what labor is, for I have seen it, and its benefits; and I know what liberty is, for I have tasted it; I can wander where I will, and no man questions me; but gold is more strange to me than ever, for I have seen it buy both liberty and labor." Shortly after this he saw a great crowd digging upon a barren hill, and when he drew near he understood that he had reached the summit of his wishes, and that he was to see the place where the gold came from. He came up and stood a long time watching the people as they toiled ready to faint in the sun, so great was the labor of digging the gold. He saw who had much and could not trust any one to help them to carry it, binding it in bundles over their shoulders, and bending and groaning under its weight; he saw others hide it in the ground, and watch the place clothed in rags, that none might suspect that they were rich; but some, on the contrary, who had dug up an unusual quantity, he saw dancing and singing, and vaunting their success, till robbers waylaid them when they slept, and rifled their bundles and carried their golden sand away. "All these men are mad," thought the prince, "and this pernicious gold has made them so." After this, as he wandered here and there, he saw groups of people smelting the gold under the shadow of the trees, and he observed that a dancing, quivering vapor rose up from it, which dazzled their eyes, and distorted everything that they looked at; arraying it also in different colors from the true one. He observed that this vapor from the gold caused all things to rock and reel before the eyes of those who looked through it, and also, by some strange affinity, it drew their hearts towards those that carried much gold on their persons, so that they called them good and beautiful; it also caused them to see darkness and dullness in the faces of those who carried none. "This," thought the prince, "is very strange"; but not being able to explain it, he went still further, and there he saw more people. Each of these had adorned himself with a broad golden girdle, and was sitting in the shade, while other men waited on them. "What ails these people?" he inquired of one who was looking on, for he observed a peculiar air of weariness and dullness in their faces. He was answered that the girdles were very tight and heavy, and being bound over the regions of the heart, were supposed to impede its action, and prevent it from beating high, and also to chill the wearer, as being of opaque material, the warm sunshine of the earth could not get through to warm him. "Why, then, do they not break them asunder," exclaimed the prince, "and fling them away?" "Break them asunder!" cried the man; "why what a madman you must be; they are made of the purest gold!" "Forgive my ignorance," replied the prince; "I am a stranger." So he walked on, for feelings of delicacy prevented him from gazing any longer at the men with the golden girdles; but as he went he pondered on the misery he had seen, and thought to himself that this golden sand did more mischief than all the poisons of the apothecary; for it dazzled the eyes of some, it strained the hearts of others, it bowed down the heads of many to the earth with its weight; it was a sore labor to gather it, and when it was gathered, the robber might carry it away; it would be a good thing, he thought, if there were none of it. After this he came to a place where were sitting some aged widows and some orphan children of the gold-diggers, who were helpless and destitute; they were weeping and bemoaning themselves, but stopped at the approach of a man, whose appearance attracted the prince, for he had a very great bundle of gold on his back, and yet it did not bow him down at all; his apparel was rich but he had no girdle on, and his face was anything but sad. "Sir," said the prince to him, "you have a great burden; you are fortunate to be able to stand under it." "I could not do so," he replied, "only that as I go on I keep lightening it"; and as he passed each of the widows, he threw gold to her, and stooping down, hid pieces of it in the bosoms of the children. "You have no girdle," said the prince. "I once had one," answered the gold gatherer; "but it was so tight over my breast that my very heart grew cold under it, and almost ceased to beat. Having a great quantity of gold on my back, I felt almost at the last gasp; so I threw off my girdle and being on the bank of a river, which I knew not how to cross, I was about to fling it in, I was so vexed! 'But no,' thought I, 'there are many people waiting here to cross besides myself. I will make my girdle into a bridge, and we will cross over on it.'" "Turn your girdle into a bridge!" exclaimed the prince doubtfully, for he did not quite understand. The man explained himself. "And then, sir, after that," he continued, "I turned one half of my burden into bread, and gave it to these poor people. Since then I have not been oppressed by its weight, however heavy it may have been; for few men have a heavier one. In fact, I gather more from day to day." As the man kept speaking, he scattered his gold right and left with a cheerful countenance, and the prince was about to reply, when suddenly a great trembling under his feet made him fall to the ground. The refining fires of the gold gatherers sprang up into flames, and then went out; night fell over everything on the earth, and nothing was visible in the sky but the stars of the southern cross, which were glittering above him. "It is past midnight," thought the prince, "for the stars of the cross begin to bend." He raised himself upon his elbow, and tried to pierce the darkness, but could not. At length a slender blue flame darted out, as from ashes in a chafing-dish, and by the light of it he saw the strange pattern of his carpet and the cushions lying about. He did not recognise them at first, but presently he knew that he was lying in his usual place, at the top of his tower. "Wake up, prince," said the old man. The prince sat up and sighed, and the old man inquired what he had seen. "O man of much learning!" answered the prince, "I have seen that this is a wonderful world; I have seen the value of labor, and I know the uses of it; I have tasted the sweetness of liberty, and am grateful, though it was but in a dream; but as for that other word that was so great a mystery to me, I only know this, that it must remain a mystery forever, since I am fain to believe that all men are bent on getting it; though, once gotten, it causeth them endless disquietude, only second to their discomfort that are without it. I am fain to believe that they can procure with it whatever they most desire, and yet that it cankers their hearts and dazzles their eyes; that it is their nature and their duty to gather it; and yet that, when once gathered, the best thing they can do is to scatter it!" Alas! the prince visited this wonderful world no more; for the next morning, when he awoke, the old man was gone. He had taken with him the golden cup which the prince had given him. And the sentinel was also gone, none knew whither. Perhaps the old man had turned his golden cup into a golden key. 203 Few modern writers have given their readers more genuine delight than Frank R. Stockton (1834-1902). The most absurd and illogical situations and characters are presented with an air of such quiet sincerity that one refuses to question the reality of it all. _Rudder Grange_ established his reputation in 1879, and was followed by a long list of stories of delightfully impossible events. For several years Stockton was one of the editors of _St. Nicholas_, and some of his stories for children, of first quality in both form and content, deserve to be better known than they are. Five of the best of them for school use have been brought together in a little volume called _Fanciful Tales_. One of these, "Old Pipes and the Dryad," is given here by permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. (Copyright, 1894.) This story is based upon the old mythical belief that the trees are inhabited by guardian deities known as dryads, or hamadryads. To injure a tree meant to injure its guardian spirit and was almost certain to insure disaster for the guilty person. On the other hand, to protect a tree would bring some token of appreciation from the dryad. A good introduction to the story would be the telling of one or two of these tree myths as found in Gayley's _Classic Myths_ or Bulfinch's _Age of Fable_. A fine literary version of one of them is in Lowell's "Rhoecus." But the beautiful and kindly helpfulness of Old Pipes will carry its own message whether one knows any mythology or not. OLD PIPES AND THE DRYAD FRANK R. STOCKTON A Mountain brook ran through a little village. Over the brook there was a narrow bridge, and from the bridge a foot-path led out from the village and up the hill-side, to the cottage of Old Pipes and his mother. For many, many years Old Pipes had been employed by the villagers to pipe the cattle down from the hills. Every afternoon, an hour before sunset, he would sit on a rock in front of his cottage and play on his pipes. Then all the flocks and herds that were grazing on the mountains would hear him, wherever they might happen to be, and would come down to the village--the cows by the easiest paths, the sheep by those not quite so easy, and the goats by the steep and rocky ways that were hardest of all. But now, for a year or more, Old Pipes had not piped the cattle home. It is true that every afternoon he sat upon the rock and played upon his pipes; but the cattle did not hear him. He had grown old, and his breath was feeble. The echoes of his cheerful notes, which used to come from the rocky hill on the other side of the valley, were heard no more; and twenty yards from Old Pipes one could scarcely tell what tune he was playing. He had become somewhat deaf, and did not know that the sound of his pipes was so thin and weak, and that the cattle did not hear him. The cows, the sheep, and the goats came down every afternoon as before; but this was because two boys and a girl were sent up after them. The villagers did not wish the good old man to know that his piping was no longer of any use; so they paid him his little salary every month, and said nothing about the two boys and the girl. Old Pipes's mother was, of course, a great deal older than he was, and was as deaf as a gate--post, latch, hinges, and all--and she never knew that the sound of her son's pipe did not spread over all the mountain-side and echo back strong and clear from the opposite hills. She was very fond of Old Pipes, and proud of his piping; and as he was so much younger than she was, she never thought of him as being very old. She cooked for him, and made his bed, and mended his clothes; and they lived very comfortably on his little salary. One afternoon, at the end of the month, when Old Pipes had finished his piping, he took his stout staff and went down the hill to the village to receive the money for his month's work. The path seemed a great deal steeper and more difficult than it used to be; and Old Pipes thought that it must have been washed by the rains and greatly damaged. He remembered it as a path that was quite easy to traverse either up or down. But Old Pipes had been a very active man, and as his mother was so much older than he was, he never thought of himself as aged and infirm. When the Chief Villager had paid him, and he had talked a little with some of his friends, Old Pipes started to go home. But when he had crossed the bridge over the brook, and gone a short distance up the hill-side, he became very tired, and sat down upon a stone. He had not been sitting there half a minute, when along came two boys and a girl. "Children," said Old Pipes, "I'm very tired to-night, and I don't believe I can climb up this steep path to my home. I think I shall have to ask you to help me." "We will do that," said the boys and the girl, quite cheerfully; and one boy took him by the right hand and the other by the left, while the girl pushed him in the back. In this way he went up the hill quite easily, and soon reached his cottage door. Old Pipes gave each of the three children a copper coin, and then they sat down for a few minutes' rest before starting back to the village. "I'm sorry that I tired you so much," said Old Pipes. "Oh, that would not have tired us," said one of the boys, "if we had not been so far to-day after the cows, the sheep, and the goats. They rambled high up on the mountain, and we never before had such a time in finding them." "Had to go after the cows, the sheep, and the goats!" exclaimed Old Pipes. "What do you mean by that?" The girl, who stood behind the old man, shook her head, put her hand on her mouth, and made all sorts of signs to the boy to stop talking on this subject; but he did not notice her, and promptly answered Old Pipes. "Why, you see, good sir," said he, "that as the cattle can't hear your pipes now, somebody has to go after them every evening to drive them down from the mountain, and the Chief Villager has hired us three to do it. Generally it is not very hard work, but to-night the cattle had wandered far." "How long have you been doing this?" asked the old man. The girl shook her head and clapped her hand on her mouth as before, but the boy went on. "I think it is about a year now," he said, "since the people first felt sure that the cattle could not hear your pipes; and from that time we've been driving them down. But we are rested now, and will go home. Good-night, sir." The three children then went down the hill, the girl scolding the boy all the way home. Old Pipes stood silent a few moments, and then he went into his cottage. "Mother," he shouted, "did you hear what those children said?" "Children!" exclaimed the old woman; "I did not hear them. I did not know there were any children here." Then Old Pipes told his mother--shouting very loudly to make her hear--how the two boys and the girl had helped him up the hill, and what he had heard about his piping and the cattle. "They can't hear you?" cried his mother. "Why, what's the matter with the cattle?" "Ah, me!" said Old Pipes; "I don't believe there's anything the matter with the cattle. It must be with me and my pipes that there is something the matter. But one thing is certain: if I do not earn the wages the Chief Villager pays me, I shall not take them. I shall go straight down to the village and give back the money I received to-day." "Nonsense!" cried his mother. "I'm sure you've piped as well as you could, and no more can be expected. And what are we to do without the money?" "I don't know," said Old Pipes; "but I'm going down to the village to pay it back." The sun had now set; but the moon was shining very brightly on the hill-side, and Old Pipes could see his way very well. He did not take the same path by which he had gone before, but followed another, which led among the trees upon the hill-side, and, though longer, was not so steep. When he had gone about half-way, the old man sat down to rest, leaning his back against a great oak tree. As he did so, he heard a sound like knocking inside the tree, and then a voice said: "Let me out! let me out!" Old Pipes instantly forgot that he was tired, and sprang to his feet. "This must be a Dryad tree!" he exclaimed. "If it is, I'll let her out." Old Pipes had never, to his knowledge, seen a Dryad tree, but he knew there were such trees on the hill-sides and the mountains, and that Dryads lived in them. He knew, too, that in the summer time, on those days when the moon rose before the sun went down, a Dryad could come out of her tree if any one could find the key which locked her in, and turn it. Old Pipes closely examined the trunk of the tree, which stood in the full moonlight. "If I see that key," he said, "I shall surely turn it." Before long he found a piece of bark standing out from the tree, which looked to him very much like the handle of a key. He took hold of it, and found he could turn it quite around. As he did so, a large part of the side of the tree was pushed open, and a beautiful Dryad stepped quickly out. For a moment she stood motionless, gazing on the scene before her--the tranquil valley, the hills, the forest, and the mountain-side, all lying in the soft clear light of the moon. "Oh, lovely! lovely!" she exclaimed. "How long it is since I have seen anything like this!" And then, turning to Old Pipes, she said: "How good of you to let me out! I am so happy, and so thankful, that I must kiss you, you dear old man!" And she threw her arms around the neck of Old Pipes, and kissed him on both cheeks. "You don't know," she then went on to say, "how doleful it is to be shut up so long in a tree. I don't mind it in the winter, for then I am glad to be sheltered, but in summer it is a rueful thing not to be able to see all the beauties of the world. And it's ever so long since I've been let out. People so seldom come this way; and when they do come at the right time, they either don't hear me or they are frightened and run away. But you, you dear old man, you were not frightened, and you looked and looked for the key, and you let me out; and now I shall not have to go back till winter has come, and the air grows cold. Oh, it is glorious! What can I do for you, to show you how grateful I am?" "I am very glad," said Old Pipes, "that I let you out, since I see that it makes you so happy; but I must admit that I tried to find the key because I had a great desire to see a Dryad. But, if you wish to do something for me, you can, if you happen to be going down toward the village." "To the village!" exclaimed the Dryad. "I will go anywhere for you, my kind old benefactor." "Well, then," said Old Pipes, "I wish you would take this little bag of money to the Chief Villager and tell him that Old Pipes cannot receive pay for the services which he does not perform. It is now more than a year that I have not been able to make the cattle hear me, when I piped to call them home. I did not know this until to-night; but now that I know it, I cannot keep the money, and so I send it back." And, handing the little bag to the Dryad, he bade her good-night, and turned toward his cottage. "Good-night," said the Dryad. "And I thank you over, and over, and over again, you good old man!" Old Pipes walked toward his home, very glad to be saved the fatigue of going all the way down to the village and back again. "To be sure," he said to himself, "this path does not seem at all steep, and I can walk along it very easily; but it would have tired me dreadfully to come up all the way from the village, especially as I could not have expected those children to help me again." When he reached home his mother was surprised to see him returning so soon. "What!" she exclaimed; "have you already come back? What did the Chief Villager say? Did he take the money?" Old Pipes was just about to tell her that he had sent the money to the village by a Dryad, when he suddenly reflected that his mother would be sure to disapprove such a proceeding, and so he merely said he had sent it by a person whom he had met. "And how do you know that the person will ever take it to the Chief Villager?" cried his mother. "You will lose it, and the villagers will never get it. Oh, Pipes! Pipes! when will you be old enough to have ordinary common-sense?" Old Pipes considered that, as he was already seventy years of age, he could scarcely expect to grow any wiser; but he made no remark on this subject, and, saying that he doubted not that the money would go safely to its destination, he sat down to his supper. His mother scolded him roundly, but he did not mind it; and after supper he went out and sat on a rustic chair in front of the cottage to look at the moonlit village, and to wonder whether or not the Chief Villager really received the money. While he was doing these two things, he went fast asleep. When Old Pipes left the Dryad, she did not go down to the village with the little bag of money. She held it in her hand, and thought about what she had heard. "This is a good and honest old man," she said; "and it is a shame that he should lose this money. He looked as if he needed it, and I don't believe the people in the village will take it from one who has served them so long. Often, when in my tree, have I heard the sweet notes of his pipes. I am going to take the money back to him." She did not start immediately, because there were so many beautiful things to look at; but after awhile she went up to the cottage, and, finding Old Pipes asleep in his chair, she slipped the little bag into his coat-pocket, and silently sped away. The next day Old Pipes told his mother that he would go up the mountain and cut some wood. He had a right to get wood from the mountain, but for a long time he had been content to pick up the dead branches which lay about his cottage. To-day, however, he felt so strong and vigorous that he thought he would go and cut some fuel that would be better than this. He worked all the morning, and when he came back he did not feel at all tired, and he had a very good appetite for his dinner. Now, Old Pipes knew a good deal about Dryads; but there was one thing which, although he had heard, he had forgotten. This was, that a kiss from a Dryad made a person ten years younger. The people of the village knew this, and they were very careful not to let any child of ten years or younger go into the woods where the Dryads were supposed to be; for, if they should chance to be kissed by one of these tree-nymphs, they would be set back so far that they would cease to exist. A story was told in the village that a very bad boy of eleven once ran away into the woods, and had an adventure of this kind; and when his mother found him he was a little baby of one year old. Taking advantage of her opportunity, she brought him up more carefully than she had done before, and he grew to be a very good boy indeed. Now Old Pipes had been kissed twice by the Dryad, once on each cheek, and he therefore felt as vigorous and active as when he was a hale man of fifty. His mother noticed how much work he was doing, and told him that he need not try in that way to make up for the loss of his piping wages; for he would only tire himself out, and get sick. But her son answered that he had not felt so well for years, and that he was quite able to work. In the course of the afternoon, Old Pipes, for the first time that day, put his hand in his coat-pocket, and there, to his amazement, he found the little bag of money. "Well, well!" he exclaimed, "I am stupid, indeed! I really thought that I had seen a Dryad; but when I sat down by that big oak tree I must have gone to sleep and dreamed it all; and then I came home, thinking I had given the money to a Dryad, when it was in my pocket all the time. But the Chief Villager shall have the money. I shall not take it to him to-day, but to-morrow I wish to go to the village to see some of my old friends; and then I shall give up the money." Toward the close of the afternoon, Old Pipes, as had been his custom for so many years, took his pipes from the shelf on which they lay, and went out to the rock in front of the cottage. "What are you going to do?" cried his mother. "If you will not consent to be paid, why do you pipe?" "I am going to pipe for my own pleasure," said her son. "I am used to it, and I do not wish to give it up. It does not matter now whether the cattle hear me or not, and I am sure that my piping will injure no one." When the good man began to play upon his favorite instrument he was astonished at the sound that came from it. The beautiful notes of the pipes sounded clear and strong down into the valley, and spread over the hills, and up the sides of the mountain beyond, while, after a little interval, an echo came back from the rocky hill on the other side of the valley. "Ha! ha!" he cried, "what has happened to my pipes? They must have been stopped up of late, but now they are as clear and good as ever." Again the merry notes went sounding far and wide. The cattle on the mountain heard them, and those that were old enough remembered how these notes had called them from their pastures every evening, and so they started down the mountain-side, the others following. The merry notes were heard in the village below, and the people were much astonished thereby. "Why, who can be blowing the pipes of Old Pipes?" they said. But, as they were all very busy, no one went up to see. One thing, however, was plain enough: the cattle were coming down the mountain. And so the two boys and the girl did not have to go after them, and had an hour for play, for which they were very glad. The next morning Old Pipes started down to the village with his money, and on the way he met the Dryad. "Oh, ho!" he cried, "is that you? Why, I thought my letting you out of the tree was nothing but a dream." "A dream!" cried the Dryad; "if you only knew how happy you have made me, you would not think it merely a dream. And has it not benefited you? Do you not feel happier? Yesterday I heard you playing beautifully on your pipes." "Yes, yes," cried he. "I did not understand it before, but I see it all now. I have really grown younger. I thank you, I thank you, good Dryad, from the bottom of my heart. It was the finding of the money in my pocket that made me think it was a dream." "Oh, I put it in when you were asleep," she said, laughing, "because I thought you ought to keep it. Good-by, kind, honest man. May you live long, and be as happy as I am now." Old Pipes was greatly delighted when he understood that he was really a younger man; but that made no difference about the money, and he kept on his way to the village. As soon as he reached it, he was eagerly questioned as to who had been playing his pipes the evening before, and when the people heard that it was himself they were very much surprised. Thereupon Old Pipes told what had happened to him, and then there was greater wonder, with hearty congratulations and hand-shakes; for Old Pipes was liked by everyone. The Chief Villager refused to take his money; and although Old Pipes said that he had not earned it, everyone present insisted that, as he would now play on his pipes as before, he should lose nothing because, for a time, he was unable to perform his duty. So Old Pipes was obliged to keep his money, and after an hour or two spent in conversation with his friends he returned to his cottage. There was one person, however, who was not pleased with what had happened to Old Pipes. This was an Echo-dwarf who lived on the hills across the valley. It was his work to echo back the notes of the pipes whenever they could be heard. A great many other Echo-dwarfs lived on these hills. They all worked, but in different ways. Some echoed back the songs of maidens, some the shouts of children, and others the music that was often heard in the village. But there was only one who could send back the strong notes of the pipes of Old Pipes, and this had been his sole duty for many years. But when the old man grew feeble, and the notes of his pipes could not be heard on the opposite hills, this Echo-dwarf had nothing to do, and he spent his time in delightful idleness; and he slept so much and grew so fat that it made his companions laugh to see him walk. On the afternoon on which, after so long an interval, the sound of the pipes was heard on the echo hills, this dwarf was fast asleep behind a rock. As soon as the first notes reached them, some of his companions ran to wake him up. Rolling to his feet, he echoed back the merry tune of Old Pipes. Naturally, he was very angry at being thus obliged to give up his life of comfort, and he hoped very much that this pipe-playing would not occur again. The next afternoon he was awake and listening, and, sure enough, at the usual hour, along came the notes of the pipes as clear and strong as they ever had been; and he was obliged to work as long as Old Pipes played. The Echo-dwarf was very angry. He had supposed, of course, that the pipe-playing had ceased forever, and he felt that he had a right to be indignant at being thus deceived. He was so much disturbed that he made up his mind to go and try to find out how long this was to last. He had plenty of time, as the pipes were played but once a day, and he set off early in the morning for the hill on which Old Pipes lived. It was hard work for the fat little fellow, and when he had crossed the valley and had gone some distance into the woods on the hill-side, he stopped to rest, and in a few minutes the Dryad came tripping along. "Ho, ho!" exclaimed the dwarf; "what are you doing here? and how did you get out of your tree?" "Doing!" cried the Dryad; "I am being happy; that's what I am doing. And I was let out of my tree by the good old man who plays the pipes to call the cattle down from the mountain. And it makes me happier to think that I have been of service to him. I gave him two kisses of gratitude, and now he is young enough to play his pipes as well as ever." The Echo-dwarf stepped forward, his face pale with passion. "Am I to believe," he said, "that you are the cause of this great evil that has come upon me? and that you are the wicked creature who has again started this old man upon his career of pipe-playing? What have I ever done to you that you should have condemned me for years and years to echo back the notes of those wretched pipes?" At this the Dryad laughed loudly. "What a funny little fellow you are!" she said. "Anyone would think you had been condemned to toil from morning till night; while what you really have to do is merely to imitate for half an hour every day the merry notes of Old Pipes's piping. Fie upon you, Echo-dwarf! You are lazy and selfish; and that is what is the matter with you. Instead of grumbling at being obliged to do a little wholesome work, which is less, I am sure, than that of any other echo-dwarf upon the rocky hill-side, you should rejoice at the good fortune of the old man who has regained so much of his strength and vigor. Go home and learn to be just and generous; and then, perhaps, you may be happy. Good-by." "Insolent creature!" shouted the dwarf, as he shook his fat little fist at her. "I'll make you suffer for this. You shall find out what it is to heap injury and insult upon one like me, and to snatch from him the repose that he has earned by long years of toil." And, shaking his head savagely, he hurried back to the rocky hill-side. Every afternoon the merry notes of the pipes of Old Pipes sounded down into the valley and over the hills and up the mountain-side; and every afternoon when he had echoed them back, the little dwarf grew more and more angry with the Dryad. Each day, from early morning till it was time for him to go back to his duties upon the rocky hill-side, he searched the woods for her. He intended, if he met her, to pretend to be very sorry for what he had said, and he thought he might be able to play a trick upon her which would avenge him well. One day, while thus wandering among the trees, he met Old Pipes. The Echo-dwarf did not generally care to see or speak to ordinary people; but now he was so anxious to find the object of his search, that he stopped and asked Old Pipes if he had seen the Dryad. The piper had not noticed the little fellow, and he looked down on him with some surprise. "No," he said; "I have not seen her, and I have been looking everywhere for her." "You!" cried the dwarf, "what do you wish with her?" Old Pipes then sat down on a stone, so that he should be nearer the ear of his small companion, and he told what the Dryad had done for him. When the Echo-dwarf heard that this was the man whose pipes he was obliged to echo back every day, he would have slain him on the spot, had he been able; but, as he was not able, he merely ground his teeth and listened to the rest of the story. "I am looking for the Dryad now," Old Pipes continued, "on account of my aged mother. When I was old myself, I did not notice how very old my mother was; but now it shocks me to see how feeble her years have caused her to become; and I am looking for the Dryad to ask her to make my mother younger, as she made me." The eyes of the Echo-dwarf glistened. Here was a man who might help him in his plans. "Your idea is a good one," he said to Old Pipes, "and it does you honor. But you should know that a Dryad can make no person younger but one who lets her out of her tree. However, you can manage the affair very easily. All you need do is to find the Dryad, tell her what you want, and request her to step into her tree and be shut up for a short time. Then you will go and bring your mother to the tree; she will open it, and everything will be as you wish. Is not this a good plan?" "Excellent!" cried Old Pipes; "and I will go instantly and search more diligently for the Dryad." "Take me with you," said the Echo-dwarf. "You can easily carry me on your strong shoulders; and I shall be glad to help you in any way that I can." "Now then," said the little fellow to himself, as Old Pipes carried him rapidly along, "if he persuades the Dryad to get into a tree,--and she is quite foolish enough to do it,--and then goes away to bring his mother, I shall take a stone or a club and I will break off the key of that tree, so that nobody can ever turn it again. Then Mistress Dryad will see what she has brought upon herself by her behavior to me." Before long they came to the great oak tree in which the Dryad had lived, and at a distance they saw that beautiful creature herself coming toward them. "How excellently well everything happens!" said the dwarf. "Put me down, and I will go. Your business with the Dryad is more important than mine; and you need not say anything about my having suggested your plan to you. I am willing that you should have all the credit of it yourself." Old Pipes put the Echo-dwarf upon the ground, but the little rogue did not go away. He hid himself between some low, mossy rocks, and he was so much like them in color that you would not have noticed him if you had been looking straight at him. When the Dryad came up, Old Pipes lost no time in telling her about his mother, and what he wished her to do. At first, the Dryad answered nothing, but stood looking very sadly at Old Pipes. "Do you really wish me to go into my tree again?" she said. "I should dreadfully dislike to do it, for I don't know what might happen. It is not at all necessary, for I could make your mother younger at any time if she would give me the opportunity. I had already thought of making you still happier in this way, and several times I have waited about your cottage, hoping to meet your aged mother, but she never comes outside, and you know a Dryad cannot enter a house. I cannot imagine what put this idea into your head. Did you think of it yourself?" "No, I cannot say that I did," answered Old Pipes. "A little dwarf whom I met in the woods proposed it to me." "Oh!" cried the Dryad; "now I see through it all. It is the scheme of that vile Echo-dwarf--your enemy and mine. Where is he? I should like to see him." "I think he has gone away," said Old Pipes. "No, he has not," said the Dryad, whose quick eyes perceived the Echo-dwarf among the rocks, "there he is. Seize him and drag him out, I beg of you." Old Pipes saw the dwarf as soon as he was pointed out to him; and running to the rocks, he caught the little fellow by the arm and pulled him out. "Now, then," cried the Dryad, who had opened the door of the great oak, "just stick him in there, and we will shut him up. Then I shall be safe from his mischief for the rest of the time I am free." Old Pipes thrust the Echo-dwarf into the tree; the Dryad pushed the door shut; there was a clicking sound of bark and wood, and no one would have noticed that the big oak had ever had an opening in it. "There," said the Dryad; "now we need not be afraid of him. And I assure you, my good piper, that I shall be very glad to make your mother younger as soon as I can. Will you not ask her to come out and meet me?" "Of course I will," cried Old Pipes; "and I will do it without delay." And then, the Dryad by his side, he hurried to his cottage. But when he mentioned the matter to his mother, the old woman became very angry indeed. She did not believe in Dryads; and, if they really did exist, she knew they must be witches and sorceresses, and she would have nothing to do with them. If her son had ever allowed himself to be kissed by one of them, he ought to be ashamed of himself. As to its doing him the least bit of good, she did not believe a word of it. He felt better than he used to feel, but that was very common. She had sometimes felt that way herself, and she forbade him ever to mention a Dryad to her again. That afternoon, Old Pipes, feeling very sad that his plan in regard to his mother had failed, sat down upon the rock and played upon his pipes. The pleasant sounds went down the valley and up the hills and mountain, but, to the great surprise of some persons who happened to notice the fact, the notes were not echoed back from the rocky hill-side, but from the woods on the side of the valley on which Old Pipes lived. The next day many of the villagers stopped in their work to listen to the echo of the pipes coming from the woods. The sound was not as clear and strong as it used to be when it was sent back from the rocky hill-side, but it certainly came from among the trees. Such a thing as an echo changing its place in this way had never been heard of before, and nobody was able to explain how it could have happened. Old Pipes, however, knew very well that the sound came from the Echo-dwarf shut up in the great oak tree. The sides of the tree were thin, and the sound of the pipes could be heard through them, and the dwarf was obliged by the laws of his being to echo back those notes whenever they came to him. But Old Pipes thought he might get the Dryad in trouble if he let anyone know that the Echo-dwarf was shut up in the tree, and so he wisely said nothing about it. One day the two boys and the girl who had helped Old Pipes up the hill were playing in the woods. Stopping near the great oak tree, they heard a sound of knocking within it, and then a voice plainly said: "Let me out! let me out!" For a moment the children stood still in astonishment, and then one of the boys exclaimed: "Oh, it is a Dryad, like the one Old Pipes found! Let's let her out!" "What are you thinking of?" cried the girl. "I am the oldest of all, and I am only thirteen. Do you wish to be turned into crawling babies? Run! run! run!" And the two boys and the girl dashed down into the valley as fast as their legs could carry them. There was no desire in their youthful hearts to be made younger than they were, and for fear that their parents might think it well that they should commence their careers anew, they never said a word about finding the Dryad tree. As the summer days went on, Old Pipes's mother grew feebler and feebler. One day when her son was away, for he now frequently went into the woods to hunt or fish, or down into the valley to work, she arose from her knitting to prepare the simple dinner. But she felt so weak and tired that she was not able to do the work to which she had been so long accustomed. "Alas! alas!" she said, "the time has come when I am too old to work. My son will have to hire some one to come here and cook his meals, make his bed, and mend his clothes. Alas! alas! I had hoped that as long as I lived I should be able to do these things. But it is not so. I have grown utterly worthless, and some one else must prepare the dinner for my son. I wonder where he is." And tottering to the door, she went outside to look for him. She did not feel able to stand, and reaching the rustic chair, she sank into it, quite exhausted, and soon fell asleep. The Dryad, who had often come to the cottage to see if she could find an opportunity of carrying out Old Pipes's affectionate design, now happened by; and seeing that the much-desired occasion had come, she stepped up quietly behind the old woman and gently kissed her on each cheek, and then as quietly disappeared. In a few minutes the mother of Old Pipes awoke, and looking up at the sun, she exclaimed: "Why, it is almost dinner-time! My son will be here directly, and I am not ready for him." And rising to her feet, she hurried into the house, made the fire, set the meat and vegetables to cook, laid the cloth, and by the time her son arrived the meal was on the table. "How a little sleep does refresh one," she said to herself, as she was bustling about. She was a woman of very vigorous constitution, and at seventy had been a great deal stronger and more active than her son was at that age. The moment Old Pipes saw his mother, he knew that the Dryad had been there; but, while he felt as happy as a king, he was too wise to say anything about her. "It is astonishing how well I feel to-day," said his mother; "and either my hearing has improved or you speak much more plainly than you have done of late." The summer days went on and passed away, the leaves were falling from the trees, and the air was becoming cold. "Nature has ceased to be lovely," said the Dryad, "and the night winds chill me. It is time for me to go back into my comfortable quarters in the great oak. But first I must pay another visit to the cottage of Old Pipes." She found the piper and his mother sitting side by side on the rock in front of the door. The cattle were not to go to the mountain any more that season, and he was piping them down for the last time. Loud and merrily sounded the pipes of Old Pipes, and down the mountain-side came the cattle, the cows by the easiest paths, the sheep by those not quite so easy, and the goats by the most difficult ones among the rocks; while from the great oak tree were heard the echoes of the cheerful music. "How happy they look, sitting there together," said the Dryad; "and I don't believe it will do them a bit of harm to be still younger." And moving quietly up behind them, she first kissed Old Pipes on his cheek and then kissed his mother. Old Pipes, who had stopped playing, knew what it was, but he did not move, and said nothing. His mother, thinking that her son had kissed her, turned to him with a smile and kissed him in return. And then she arose and went into the cottage, a vigorous woman of sixty, followed by her son, erect and happy, and twenty years younger than herself. The Dryad sped away to the woods, shrugging her shoulders as she felt the cool evening wind. When she reached the great oak, she turned the key and opened the door. "Come out," said she to the Echo-dwarf, who sat blinking within. "Winter is coming on, and I want the comfortable shelter of my tree for myself. The cattle have come down from the mountain for the last time this year, the pipes will no longer sound, and you can go to your rocks and have a holiday until next spring." Upon hearing these words the dwarf skipped quickly out, and the Dryad entered the tree and pulled the door shut after her. "Now, then," she said to herself, "he can break off the key if he likes. It does not matter to me. Another will grow out next spring. And although the good piper made me no promise, I know that when the warm days arrive next year, he will come and let me out again." The Echo-dwarf did not stop to break the key of the tree. He was too happy to be released to think of anything else, and he hastened as fast as he could to his home on the rocky hill-side. The Dryad was not mistaken when she trusted in the piper. When the warm days came again he went to the oak tree to let her out. But, to his sorrow and surprise, he found the great tree lying upon the ground. A winter storm had blown it down, and it lay with its trunk shattered and split. And what became of the Dryad no one ever knew. 204 John Ruskin (1819-1900), the most eloquent of English prose writers, was much interested in the question of literature for both grown-ups and children. He edited a reissue of Taylor's translation of Grimms' _Popular Stories_, issued "Dame Wiggins of Lee and Her Seven Wonderful Cats" (see No. 143), and wrote that masterpiece among modern stories for children, _The King of the Golden River_. Its fine idealism, splendidly imagined structure, wonderful word-paintings, and perfect English all combine to justify the high place assigned to it. Ruskin wrote the story in 1841, at a "couple of sittings," though it was not published until ten years later. Speaking of it later in life, he said that it "was written to amuse a little girl; and being a fairly good imitation of Grimm and Dickens, mixed with a little true Alpine feeling of my own, it has been rightly pleasing to nice children, and good for them. But it is totally valueless, for all that. I can no more write a story than compose a picture." The final statement may be taken for what it is worth, written as it was at a time of disillusionment. The first part of Ruskin's analysis is certainly true and has been thus expanded by his biographer, Sir E. T. Cook: "The grotesque and the German setting of the tale were taken from Grimm; from Dickens it took its tone of pervading kindliness and geniality. The Alpine ecstasy and the eager pressing of the moral were Ruskin's own; and so also is the style, delicately poised between poetry and comedy." THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER OR THE BLACK BROTHERS JOHN RUSKIN CHAPTER I HOW THE AGRICULTURAL SYSTEM OF THE BLACK BROTHERS WAS INTERFERED WITH BY SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQUIRE In a secluded and mountainous part of Stiria there was, in old time, a valley of the most surprising and luxuriant fertility. It was surrounded, on all sides, by steep and rocky mountains, rising into peaks, which were always covered with snow, and from which a number of torrents descended in constant cataracts. One of these fell westward, over the face of a crag so high, that, when the sun had set to everything else, and all below was darkness, his beams still shone full upon this waterfall, so that it looked like a shower of gold. It was, therefore, called by the people of the neighborhood, the Golden River. It was strange that none of these streams fell into the valley itself. They all descended on the other side of the mountains, and wound away through broad plains and by populous cities. But the clouds were drawn so constantly to the snowy hills, and rested so softly in the circular hollow, that in time of drought and heat, when all the country round was burnt up, there was still rain in the little valley; and its crops were so heavy, and its hay so high, and its apples so red, and its grapes so blue, and its wine so rich, and its honey so sweet, that it was a marvel to every one who beheld it, and was commonly called the Treasure Valley. The whole of this little valley belonged to three brothers, called Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck. Schwartz and Hans, the two elder brothers, were very ugly men, with overhanging eyebrows and small dull eyes, which were always half shut, so that you couldn't see into _them_, and always fancied they saw very far into _you_. They lived by farming the Treasure Valley, and very good farmers they were. They killed everything that did not pay for its eating. They shot the blackbirds because they pecked the fruit; and killed the hedgehogs, lest they should suck the cows; they poisoned the crickets for eating the crumbs in the kitchen; and smothered the cicadas, which used to sing all summer in the lime trees. They worked their servants without any wages, till they would not work any more, and then quarreled with them, and turned them out of doors without paying them. It would have been very odd if, with such a farm, and such a system of farming, they hadn't got very rich; and very rich they _did_ get. They generally contrived to keep their corn by them till it was very dear, and then sell it for twice its value; they had heaps of gold lying about on their floors, yet it was never known that they had given so much as a penny or a crust in charity; they never went to mass; grumbled perpetually at paying tithes; and were, in a word, of so cruel and grinding a temper as to receive from all those with whom they had any dealings the nickname of the "Black Brothers." The youngest brother, Gluck, was as completely opposed, in both appearance and character, to his seniors as could possibly be imagined or desired. He was not above twelve years old, fair, blue-eyed, and kind in temper to every living thing. He did not, of course, agree particularly well with his brothers, or rather, they did not agree with _him_. He was usually appointed to the honorable office of turnspit, when there was anything to roast, which was not often; for, to do the brothers justice, they were hardly less sparing upon themselves than upon other people. At other times he used to clean the shoes, floors, and sometimes the plates, occasionally getting what was left on them, by way of encouragement, and a wholesome quantity of dry blows, by way of education. Things went on in this manner for a long time. At last came a very wet summer, and everything went wrong in the country around. The hay had hardly been got in, when the haystacks were floated bodily down to the sea by an inundation; the vines were cut to pieces with the hail; the corn was all killed by a black blight; only in the Treasure Valley, as usual, all was safe. As it had rain when there was rain nowhere else, so it had sun when there was sun nowhere else. Everybody came to buy corn at the farm, and went away pouring maledictions on the Black Brothers. They asked what they liked, and got it, except from the poor people, who could only beg, and several of whom were starved at their very door, without the slightest regard or notice. It was drawing towards winter, and very cold weather, when one day the two elder brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody in, and give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it was raining very hard, and the kitchen walls were by no means dry or comfortable looking. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and brown. "What a pity," thought Gluck, "my brothers never ask anybody to dinner. I'm sure, when they've got such a nice piece of mutton as this, and nobody else has got so much as a piece of dry bread, it would do their hearts good to have somebody to eat it with them." Just as he spoke, there came a double knock at the house door, yet heavy and dull, as though the knocker had been tied up--more like a puff than a knock. "It must be the wind," said Gluck; "nobody else would venture to knock double knocks at our door." No; it wasn't the wind; there it came again very hard, and what was particularly astounding, the knocker seemed to be in a hurry, and not to be in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck went to the window, opened it, and put his head out to see who it was. It was the most extraordinary looking little gentleman he had ever seen in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-colored; his cheeks were very round, and very red, and might have warranted a supposition that he had been blowing a refractory fire for the last eight-and-forty hours; his eyes twinkled merrily through long silky eyelashes, his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew on each side of his mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed pepper-and-salt color, descended far over his shoulders. He was about four-feet-six in height, and wore a conical pointed cap of nearly the same altitude, decorated with a black feather some three feet long. His doublet was prolonged behind into something resembling a violent exaggeration of what is now termed a "swallowtail," but was much obscured by the swelling folds of an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak, which must have been very much too long in calm weather, as the wind, whistling round the old house, carried it clear out from the wearer's shoulders to about four times his own length. Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the singular appearance of his visitor, that he remained fixed without uttering a word, until the old gentleman, having performed another, and a more energetic concerto on the knocker, turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. In so doing he caught sight of Gluck's little yellow head jammed in the window, with its mouth and eyes very wide open indeed. "Hollo!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the door: I'm wet; let me in!" To do the little gentleman justice, he _was_ wet. His feather hung down between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an umbrella; and from the ends of his mustaches the water was running into his waistcoat pockets, and out again like a mill stream. "I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck, "I'm very sorry, but I really can't." "Can't what?" said the old gentleman. "I can't let you in, sir,--I can't indeed; my brothers would beat me to death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?" "Want?" said the old gentleman, petulantly. "I want fire, and shelter; and there's your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say; I only want to warm myself." Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window, that he began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold, and when he turned, and saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long bright tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savory smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should be burning away for nothing. "He does look _very_ wet," said little Gluck; "I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour." Round he went to the door, and opened it; and as the little gentleman walked in, there came a gust of wind through the house that made the old chimneys totter. "That's a good boy," said the little gentleman. "Never mind your brothers. I'll talk to them." "Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let you stay till they come; they'd be the death of me." "Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm very sorry to hear that. How long may I stay?" "Only till the mutton's done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very brown." Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen, and sat himself down on the hob, with the top of his cap accommodated up the chimney, for it was a great deal too high for the roof. "You'll soon dry there, sir," said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the mutton. But the old gentleman did _not_ dry there, but went on drip, drip, dripping among the cinders, and the fire fizzed and sputtered, and began to look very black and uncomfortable; never was such a cloak; every fold in it ran like a gutter. "I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck at length, after watching the water spreading in long, quicksilver-like streams over the floor for a quarter of an hour; "mayn't I take your cloak?" "No thank you," said the old gentleman. "Your cap, sir?" "I am all right, thank you," said the old gentleman rather gruffly. "But--sir--I'm very sorry," said Gluck hesitatingly; "but--really, sir--you're--putting the fire out." "It'll take longer to do the mutton, then," replied his visitor dryly. Gluck was very much puzzled by the behavior of his guest; it was such a strange mixture of coolness and humility. He turned away at the string meditatively for another five minutes. "That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentleman at length. "Can't you give me a little bit?" "Impossible, sir," said Gluck. "I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; "I've had nothing to eat yesterday nor to-day. They surely couldn't miss a bit from the knuckle!" He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's heart. "They promised me one slice to-day, sir," said he; "I can give you that, but not a bit more." "That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again. Then Gluck warmed a plate, and sharpened a knife. "I don't care if I do get beaten for it," thought he. Just as he had cut a large slice out of the mutton, there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly become inconveniently warm. Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, with desperate efforts at exactitude, and ran to open the door. "What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face. "Ay! what for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother into the kitchen. "Bless my soul!" said Schwartz when he opened the door. "Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost possible velocity. "Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning to Gluck with a fierce frown. "I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck in great terror. "How did he get in?" roared Schwartz. "My dear brother," said Gluck, deprecatingly, "he was so _very_ wet!" The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but, at the instant, the old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very odd, the rolling pin no sooner touched the cap, than it flew out of Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the corner at the farther end of the room. "Who are you, sir?" demanded Schwartz, turning upon him. "What's your business?" snarled Hans. "I'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman began very modestly, "and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a quarter of an hour." "Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said Schwartz. "We've quite enough water in our kitchen, without making it a drying house." "It is a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray hairs." They hung down to his shoulders, as I told you before. "Ay!" said Hans, "there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!" "I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't you spare me a bit of bread before I go?" "Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do you suppose we've nothing to do with our bread but to give it to such red-nosed fellows as you?" "Why don't you sell your feather?" said Hans, sneeringly. "Out with you!" "A little bit," said the old gentleman. "Be off!" said Schwartz. "Pray, gentlemen--" "Off, and be hanged!" cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had no sooner touched the old gentleman's collar, than away he went after the rolling-pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the corner on the top of it. Then Schwartz was very angry, and ran at the old gentleman to turn him out; but he also had hardly touched him, when away he went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the wall as he tumbled into the corner. And so there they lay, all three. Then the old gentleman spun himself round with velocity in the opposite direction; continued to spin until his long cloak was all wound neatly about him, clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side (for it could not stand upright without going through the ceiling), gave an additional twist to his corkscrew mustaches, and replied with perfect coolness: "Gentlemen, I wish you a very good morning. At twelve o'clock to-night I'll call again; after such a refusal of hospitality as I have just experienced, you will not be surprised if that visit is the last I ever pay you." "If ever I catch you here again," muttered Schwartz, coming, half frightened, out of the corner--but, before he could finish his sentence, the old gentleman had shut the house door behind him with a great bang: and there drove past the window, at the same instant, a wreath of ragged cloud that whirled and rolled away down the valley in all manner of shapes; turning over and over in the air, and melting away at last in a gush of rain. "A very pretty business, indeed, Mr. Gluck!" said Schwartz. "Dish the mutton, sir. If ever I catch you at such a trick again--bless me, why the mutton's been cut!" "You promised me one slice, brother, you know," said Gluck. "Oh! and you were cutting it hot, I suppose, and going to catch all the gravy. It'll be long before I promise you such a thing again. Leave the room, sir; and have the kindness to wait in the coal-cellar till I call you." Gluck left the room melancholy enough. The brothers ate as much mutton as they could, locked the rest in the cupboard, and proceeded to get very drunk after dinner. Such a night as it was! Howling wind and rushing rain, without intermission! The brothers had just sense enough left to put up all the shutters, and double bar the door, before they went to bed. They usually slept in the same room. As the clock struck twelve, they were both awakened by a tremendous crash. Their door burst open with a violence that shook the house from top to bottom. "What's that?" cried Schwartz, starting up in his bed. "Only I," said the little gentleman. The two brothers sat up on their bolster and stared into the darkness. The room was full of water, and by a misty moonbeam, which found its way through a hole in the shutter, they could see in the midst of it an enormous foam globe, spinning round, and bobbing up and down like a cork, on which, as on a most luxurious cushion, reclined the little old gentleman, cap and all. There was plenty of room for it now, for the roof was off. "Sorry to incommode you," said their visitor, ironically. "I'm afraid your beds are dampish; perhaps you had better go to your brother's room; I've left the ceiling on, there." They required no second admonition, but rushed into Gluck's room, wet through, and in an agony of terror. "You'll find my card on the kitchen table," the old gentleman called after them. "Remember, the _last_ visit." "Pray Heaven it may!" said Schwartz, shuddering. And the foam globe disappeared. Dawn came at last, and the two brothers looked out of Gluck's little window in the morning. The Treasure Valley was one mass of ruin and desolation. The inundation had swept away trees, crops, and cattle, and left in their stead a waste of red sand and gray mud. The two brothers crept shivering and horror-struck into the kitchen. The water had gutted the whole first floor; corn, money, almost every movable thing had been swept away, and there was left only a small white card on the kitchen table. On it, in large, breezy long-legged letters, were engraved the words:-- SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQUIRE. CHAPTER II OF THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE THREE BROTHERS AFTER THE VISIT OF SOUTH-WEST WIND, ESQUIRE; AND HOW LITTLE GLUCK HAD AN INTERVIEW WITH THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER South-West Wind, Esquire, was as good as his word. After the momentous visit above related, he entered the Treasure Valley no more; and, what was worse, he had so much influence with his relations, the West Winds in general, and used it so effectually, that they all adopted a similar line of conduct. So no rain fell in the valley from one year's end to another. Though everything remained green and flourishing in the plains below, the inheritance of the Three Brothers was a desert. What had once been the richest soil in the kingdom, became a shifting heap of red sand; and the brothers, unable longer to contend with the adverse skies, abandoned their valueless patrimony in despair, to seek some means of gaining a livelihood among the cities and people of the plains. All their money was gone, and they had nothing left but some curious, old-fashioned pieces of gold plates, the last remnants of their ill-gotten wealth. "Suppose we turn goldsmiths?" said Schwartz to Hans, as they entered the large city. "It is a good knave's trade; we can put a great deal of copper into the gold, without any one's finding it out." The thought was agreed to be a very good one; they hired a furnace, and turned goldsmiths. But two slight circumstances affected their trade; the first, that people did not approve of the coppered gold; the second, that the two elder brothers, whenever they had sold anything, used to leave little Gluck to mind the furnace, and go and drink out the money in the ale-house next door. So they melted all their gold, without making money enough to buy more, and were at last reduced to one large drinking mug, which an uncle of his had given to little Gluck, and which he was very fond of, and would not have parted with for the world; though he never drank anything out of it but milk and water. The mug was a very odd mug to look at. The handle was formed of two wreaths of flowing golden hair, so finely spun that it looked more like silk than metal, and these wreaths descended into, and mixed with, a beard and whiskers of the same exquisite workmanship, which surrounded and decorated a very fierce little face, of the reddest gold imaginable, right in the front of the mug, with a pair of eyes in it which seemed to command its whole circumference. It was impossible to drink out of the mug without being subjected to an intense gaze out of the side of these eyes; and Schwartz positively averred that once, after emptying it, full of Rhenish, seventeen times, he had seen them wink! When it came to the mug's turn to be made into spoons, it half broke poor little Gluck's heart; but the brothers only laughed at him, tossed the mug into the melting-pot, and staggered out to the ale-house; leaving him, as usual, to pour the gold into bars, when it was all ready. When they were gone, Gluck took a farewell look at his old friend in the melting-pot. The flowing hair was all gone; nothing remained but the red nose, and the sparkling eyes, which looked more malicious than ever. "And no wonder," thought Gluck, "after being treated in that way." He sauntered disconsolately to the window, and sat himself down to catch the fresh evening air, and escape the hot breath of the furnace. Now this window commanded a direct view of the range of mountains, which, as I told you before, overhung the Treasure Valley, and more especially of the peak from which fell the Golden River. It was just at the close of the day, and when Gluck sat down at the window, he saw the rocks of the mountain tops, all crimson and purple with the sunset; and there were bright tongues of fiery cloud burning and quivering about them; and the river, brighter than all, fell, in a waving column of pure gold, from precipice to precipice, with the double arch of a broad purple rainbow stretched across it, flushing and fading alternately in the wreaths of spray. "Ah!" said Gluck aloud, after he had looked at it for a while, "if that river were really all gold, what a nice thing it would be." "No, it wouldn't, Gluck," said a clear metallic voice, close at his ear. "Bless me! what's that?" exclaimed Gluck, jumping up. There was nobody there. He looked round the room, and under the table, and a great many times behind him, but there was certainly nobody there, and he sat down again at the window. This time he didn't speak, but he couldn't help thinking again that it would be very convenient if the river were really all gold. "Not at all, my boy," said the same voice, louder than before. "Bless me!" said Gluck again; "what _is_ that?" He looked again into all the corners, and cupboards, and then began turning round, and round, as fast as he could in the middle of the room, thinking there was somebody behind him, when the same voice struck again on his ear. It was singing now very merrily, "Lala-lira-la"; no words, only a soft running effervescent melody, something like that of a kettle on the boil. Gluck looked out of the window. No, it was certainly in the house. Upstairs, and downstairs. No, it was certainly in that very room, coming in quicker time, and clearer notes, every moment. "Lala-lira-la." All at once it struck Gluck that it sounded louder near the furnace. He ran to the opening, and looked in; yes, he saw right, it seemed to be coming, not only out of the furnace, but out of the pot. He uncovered it, and ran back in a great fright, for the pot was certainly singing! He stood in the farthest corner of the room, with his hands up, and his mouth open, for a minute or two, when the singing stopped, and the voice became clear, and pronunciative. "Hollo!" said the voice. Gluck made no answer. "Hollo! Gluck, my boy," said the pot again. Gluck summoned all his energies, walked straight up to the crucible, drew it out of the furnace, and looked in. The gold was all melted, and its surface as smooth and polished as a river; but instead of reflecting little Gluck's head, as he looked in, he saw, meeting his glance from beneath the gold, the red nose and sharp eyes of his old friend of the mug, a thousand times redder and sharper than ever he had seen them in his life. "Come, Gluck, my boy," said the voice out of the pot again, "I'm all right; pour me out." But Gluck was too much astonished to do anything of the kind. "Pour me out, I say," said the voice rather gruffly. Still Gluck couldn't move. "_Will_ you pour me out?" said the voice passionately. "I'm too hot." By a violent effort, Gluck recovered the use of his limbs, took hold of the crucible, and sloped it so as to pour out the gold. But instead of a liquid stream, there came out, first, a pair of pretty little yellow legs, then some coat tails, then a pair of arms stuck a-kimbo, and, finally, the well-known head of his friend the mug; all which articles, uniting as they rolled out, stood up energetically on the floor, in the shape of a little golden dwarf, about a foot and a half high. "That's right!" said the dwarf, stretching out first his legs and then his arms, and then shaking his head up and down, and as far round as it would go, for five minutes, without stopping; apparently with the view of ascertaining if he were quite correctly put together, while Gluck stood contemplating him in speechless amazement. He was dressed in a slashed doublet of spun gold, so fine in its texture that the prismatic colors gleamed over it, as if on a surface of mother of pearl; and, over this brilliant doublet, his hair and beard fell full halfway to the ground in waving curls so exquisitely delicate that Gluck could hardly tell where they ended; they seemed to melt into air. The features of the face, however, were by no means finished with the same delicacy; they were rather coarse, slightly inclining to coppery in complexion, and indicative, in expression, of a very pertinacious and intractable disposition in their small proprietor. When the dwarf had finished his self-examination, he turned his small sharp eyes full on Gluck and stared at him deliberately for a minute or two. "No, it wouldn't, Gluck, my boy," said the little man. This was certainly rather an abrupt and unconnected mode of commencing conversation. It might indeed be supposed to refer to the course of Gluck's thoughts, which had first produced the dwarf's observations out of the pot; but whatever it referred to, Gluck had no inclination to dispute the dictum. "Wouldn't it, sir?" said Gluck, very mildly and submissively indeed. "No," said the dwarf, conclusively. "No, it wouldn't." And with that, the dwarf pulled his cap hard over his brows, and took two turns, of three feet long, up and down the room, lifting his legs up very high, and setting them down very hard. This pause gave time for Gluck to collect his thoughts a little, and, seeing no great reason to view his diminutive visitor with dread, and feeling his curiosity overcome his amazement, he ventured on a question of peculiar delicacy. "Pray, sir," said Gluck rather hesitatingly, "were you my mug?" On which the little man turned sharp round, walked straight up to Gluck, and drew himself up to his full height. "I," said the little man, "am the King of the Golden River." Whereupon he turned about again, and took two more turns, some six feet long, in order to allow time for the consternation which this announcement produced in his auditor to evaporate. After which, he again walked up to Gluck and stood still, as if expecting some comment on his communication. Gluck determined to say something at all events. "I hope your Majesty is very well," said Gluck. "Listen!" said the little man, deigning no reply to this polite inquiry. "I am the King of what you mortals call the Golden River. The shape you saw me in, was owing to the malice of a stronger king, from whose enchantments you have this instant freed me. What I have seen of you, and your conduct to your wicked brothers, renders me willing to serve you; therefore, attend to what I tell you. Whoever shall climb to the top of that mountain from which you see the Golden River issue, and shall cast into the stream at its source three drops of holy water, for him, and for him only, the river shall turn to gold. But no one failing in his first, can succeed in a second attempt; and if any one shall cast unholy water into the river, it will overwhelm him, and he will become a black stone." So saying, the King of the Golden River turned away and deliberately walked into the center of the hottest flame of the furnace. His figure became red, white, transparent, dazzling--a blaze of intense light--rose, trembled, and disappeared. The King of the Golden River had evaporated. "Oh!" cried poor Gluck, running to look up the chimney after him; "Oh, dear, dear, dear me! My mug! my mug! my mug!" CHAPTER III HOW MR. HANS SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW HE PROSPERED THEREIN The King of the Golden River had hardly made the extraordinary exit, related in the last chapter, before Hans and Schwartz came roaring into the house, very savagely drunk. The discovery of the total loss of their last piece of plate had the effect of sobering them just enough to enable them to stand over Gluck, beating him very steadily for a quarter of an hour; at the expiration of which period they dropped into a couple of chairs, and requested to know what he had got to say for himself. Gluck told them his story, of which, of course, they did not believe a word. They beat him again, till their arms were tired, and staggered to bed. In the morning, however, the steadiness with which he adhered to his story obtained him some degree of credence; the immediate consequence of which was, that the two brothers, after wrangling a long time on the knotty question, which of them should try his fortune first, drew their swords and began fighting. The noise of the fray alarmed the neighbors, who, finding they could not pacify the combatants, sent for the constable. Hans, on hearing this, contrived to escape, and hid himself; but Schwartz was taken before the magistrate, fined for breaking the peace, and, having drunk out his last penny the evening before, was thrown into prison till he should pay. When Hans heard this, he was much delighted, and determined to set out immediately for the Golden River. How to get the holy water was the question. He went to the priest, but the priest could not give any holy water to so abandoned a character. So Hans went to vespers in the evening for the first time in his life, and, under pretense of crossing himself, stole a cupful, and returned home in triumph. Next morning he got up before the sun rose, put the holy water into a strong flask, and two bottles of wine and some meat in a basket, slung them over his back, took his alpine staff in his hand, and set off for the mountains. On his way out of the town he had to pass the prison, and as he looked in at the windows, whom should he see but Schwartz himself peeping out of the bars, and looking very disconsolate. "Good morning, brother," said Hans; "have you any message for the King of the Golden River?" Schwartz gnashed his teeth with rage, and shook the bars with all his strength; but Hans only laughed at him, and advising him to make himself comfortable till he came back again, shouldered his basket, shook the bottle of holy water in Schwartz's face till it frothed again, and marched off in the highest spirits in the world. It was, indeed, a morning that might have made any one happy, even with no Golden River to seek for. Level lines of dewy mist lay stretched along the valley, out of which rose the massy mountains--their lower cliffs in pale gray shadow, hardly distinguishable from the floating vapor, but gradually ascending till they caught the sunlight, which ran in sharp touches of ruddy color along the angular crags, and pierced, in long level rays, through their fringes of spear-like pine. Far above, shot up red splintered masses of castellated rock, jagged and shivered into myriads of fantastic forms, with here and there a streak of sunlit snow, traced down their chasms like a line of forked lightning; and, far beyond, and far above all these, fainter than the morning cloud, but purer and changeless, slept, in the blue sky, the utmost peaks of the eternal snow. The Golden River, which sprang from one of the lower and snowless elevations, was now nearly in shadow; all but the uppermost jets of spray, which rose like slow smoke above the undulating line of the cataract, and floated away in feeble wreaths upon the morning wind. On this object, and on this alone, Hans's eyes and thoughts were fixed; forgetting the distance he had to traverse, he set off at an imprudent rate of walking, which greatly exhausted him before he had scaled the first range of the green and low hills. He was, moreover, surprised, on surmounting them, to find that a large glacier, of whose existence, notwithstanding his previous knowledge of the mountains, he had been absolutely ignorant, lay between him and the source of the Golden River. He entered on it with the boldness of a practised mountaineer; yet he thought he had never traversed so strange or so dangerous a glacier in his life. The ice was excessively slippery, and out of all its chasms came wild sounds of gushing water; not monotonous or low, but changeful and loud, rising occasionally into drifting passages of wild melody; then breaking off into short melancholy tones, or sudden shrieks, resembling those of human voices in distress or pain. The ice was broken into thousands of confused shapes, but none, Hans thought, like the ordinary forms of splintered ice. There seemed a curious _expression_ about all their outlines--a perpetual resemblance to living features, distorted and scornful. Myriads of deceitful shadows, and lurid lights, played and floated about and through the pale blue pinnacles, dazzling and confusing the sight of the traveler; while his ears grew dull and his head giddy with the constant gush and roar of the concealed waters. These painful circumstances increased upon him as he advanced; the ice crashed and yawned into fresh chasms at his feet, tottering spires nodded around him, and fell thundering across his path; and though he had repeatedly faced these dangers on the most terrific glaciers, and in the wildest weather, it was with a new and oppressive feeling of panic terror that he leaped the last chasm, and flung himself, exhausted and shuddering, on the firm turf of the mountain. He had been compelled to abandon his basket of food, which became a perilous encumbrance on the glacier, and had now no means of refreshing himself but by breaking off and eating some of the pieces of ice. This, however, relieved his thirst; an hour's repose recruited his hardy frame, and with the indomitable spirit of avarice, he resumed his laborious journey. His way now lay straight up a ridge of bare red rocks, without a blade of grass to ease the foot, or a projecting angle to afford an inch of shade from the south sun. It was past noon, and the rays beat intensely upon the steep path, while the whole atmosphere was motionless and penetrated with heat. Intense thirst was soon added to the bodily fatigue with which Hans was now afflicted; glance after glance he cast on the flask of water which hung at his belt. "Three drops are enough," at last thought he; "I may, at least, cool my lips with it." He opened the flask, and was raising it to his lips, when his eye fell on an object lying on the rock beside him; he thought it moved. It was a small dog, apparently in the last agony of death from thirst. Its tongue was out, its jaws dry, its limbs extended lifelessly, and a swarm of black ants were crawling about its lips and throat. Its eye moved to the bottle which Hans held in his hand. He raised it, drank, spurned the animal with his foot, and passed on. And he did not know how it was, but he thought that a strange shadow had suddenly come across the blue sky. The path became steeper and more rugged every moment; and the high hill air, instead of refreshing him, seemed to throw his blood into a fever. The noise of the hill cataracts sounded like mockery in his ears; they were all distant, and his thirst increased every moment. Another hour passed, and he again looked down to the flask at his side; it was half empty, but there was much more than three drops in it. He stopped to open it; and again, as he did so, something moved in the path above him. It was a fair child, stretched nearly lifeless on the rock, its breast heaving with thirst, its eyes closed, and its lips parched and burning. Hans eyed it deliberately, drank, and passed on. And a dark gray cloud came over the sun, and long, snake-like shadows crept up along the mountain sides. Hans struggled on. The sun was sinking, but its descent seemed to bring no coolness; the leaden weight of the dead air pressed upon his brow and heart, but the goal was near. He saw the cataract of the Golden River springing from the hillside, scarcely five hundred feet above him. He paused for a moment to breathe, and sprang on to complete his task. At this instant a faint cry fell on his ear. He turned, and saw a gray-haired old man extended on the rocks. His eyes were sunk, his features deadly pale, and gathered into an expression of despair. "Water!" he stretched his arms to Hans, and cried feebly, "Water! I am dying." "I have none," replied Hans; "thou hast had thy share of life." He strode over the prostrate body, and darted on. And a flash of blue lightning rose out of the East, shaped like a sword; it shook thrice over the whole heaven, and left it dark with one heavy, impenetrable shade. The sun was setting; it plunged toward the horizon like a red-hot ball. The roar of the Golden River rose on Hans's ear. He stood at the brink of the chasm through which it ran. Its waves were filled with the red glory of the sunset; they shook their crests like tongues of fire, and flashes of bloody light gleamed along their foam. Their sound came mightier and mightier on his senses; his brain grew giddy with the prolonged thunder. Shuddering he drew the flask from his girdle, and hurled it into the center of the torrent. As he did so, an icy chill shot through his limbs; he staggered, shrieked, and fell. The waters closed over his cry. And the moaning of the river rose wildly into the night, as it gushed over THE BLACK STONE. CHAPTER IV HOW MR. SCHWARTZ SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW HE PROSPERED THEREIN Poor little Gluck waited very anxiously alone in the house for Hans's return. Finding he did not come back, he was terribly frightened and went and told Schwartz in the prison, all that had happened. Then Schwartz was very much pleased, and said that Hans must certainly have been turned into a black stone, and he should have all the gold to himself. But Gluck was very sorry, and cried all night. When he got up in the morning there was no bread in the house, nor any money; so Gluck went and hired himself to another goldsmith, and he worked so hard, and so neatly, and so long every day, that he soon got money enough together to pay his brother's fine, and he went and gave it all to Schwartz, and Schwartz got out of prison. Then Schwartz was quite pleased, and said he should have some of the gold of the river. But Gluck only begged he would go and see what had become of Hans. Now when Schwartz had heard that Hans had stolen the holy water, he thought to himself that such a proceeding might not be considered altogether correct by the King of the Golden River, and determined to manage matters better. So he took some more of Gluck's money, and went to a bad priest, who gave him some holy water very readily for it. Then Schwartz was sure it was all quite right. So Schwartz got up early in the morning before the sun rose, and took some bread and wine, in a basket, and put his holy water in a flask, and set off for the mountains. Like his brother, he was much surprised at the sight of the glacier, and had great difficulty in crossing it, even after leaving his basket behind him. The day was cloudless, but not bright; there was a heavy purple haze hanging over the sky, and the hills looked lowering and gloomy. And as Schwartz climbed the steep rock path, the thirst came upon him, as it had upon his brother, until he lifted his flask to his lips to drink. Then he saw the fair child lying near him on the rocks, and it cried to him, and moaned for water. "Water, indeed," said Schwartz; "I haven't half enough for myself," and passed on. And as he went he thought the sunbeams grew more dim, and he saw a low bank of black cloud rising out of the West; and, when he had climbed for another hour the thirst overcame him again, and he would have drunk. Then he saw the old man lying before him on the path, and heard him cry out for water. "Water, indeed," said Schwartz, "I haven't enough for myself," and on he went. Then again the light seemed to fade before his eyes, and he looked up, and, behold, a mist, of the color of blood, had come over the sun; and the bank of black cloud had risen very high, and its edges were tossing and tumbling like the waves of the angry sea. And they cast long shadows, which flickered over Schwartz's path. Then Schwartz climbed for another hour, and again his thirst returned; and as he lifted his flask to his lips, he thought he saw his brother Hans lying exhausted on the path before him, and, as he gazed, the figure stretched its arms to him, and cried for water. "Ha, ha," laughed Schwartz, "are you there? Remember the prison bars, my boy. Water, indeed! do you suppose I carried it all the way up here for _you_?" And he strode over the figure; yet, as he passed, he thought he saw a strange expression of mockery about its lips. And, when he had gone a few yards farther, he looked back; but the figure was not there. And a sudden horror came over Schwartz, he knew not why; but the thirst for gold prevailed over his fear, and he rushed on. And the bank of black cloud rose to the zenith, and out of it came bursts of spiry lightning, and waves of darkness seemed to heave and float between their flashes over the whole heavens. And the sky where the sun was setting was all level, and like a lake of blood; and a strong wind came out of that sky, tearing its crimson cloud into fragments, and scattering them far into the darkness. And when Schwartz stood by the brink of the Golden River, its waves were black, like thunder clouds, but their foam was like fire; and the roar of the waters below, and the thunder above, met, as he cast the flask into the stream. And, as he did so, the lightning glared into his eyes, and the earth gave way beneath him, and the waters closed over his cry. And the moaning of the river rose wildly into the night, as it gushed over the TWO BLACK STONES. CHAPTER V HOW LITTLE GLUCK SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND HOW HE PROSPERED THEREIN; WITH OTHER MATTERS OF INTEREST When Gluck found that Schwartz did not come back he was very sorry, and did not know what to do. He had no money, and was obliged to go and hire himself again to the goldsmith, who worked him very hard, and gave him very little money. So, after a month or two, Gluck grew tired, and made up his mind to go and try his fortune with the Golden River. "The little King looked very kind," thought he. "I don't think he will turn me into a black stone." So he went to the priest, and the priest gave him some holy water as soon as he asked for it. Then Gluck took some bread in his basket, and the bottle of water, and set off very early for the mountains. If the glacier had occasioned a great deal of fatigue to his brothers, it was twenty times worse for him, who was neither so strong nor so practised on the mountains. He had several bad falls, lost his basket and bread, and was very much frightened at the strange noises under the ice. He lay a long time to rest on the grass, after he had got over, and began to climb the hill just in the hottest part of the day. When he had climbed for an hour, he got dreadfully thirsty, and was going to drink like his brothers, when he saw an old man coming down the path above him, looking very feeble, and leaning on a staff. "My son," said the old man, "I am faint with thirst. Give me some of that water." Then Gluck looked at him, and when he saw that he was pale and weary, he gave him the water; "Only pray don't drink it all," said Gluck. But the old man drank a great deal, and gave him back the bottle two-thirds empty. Then he bade him good speed, and Gluck went on again merrily. And the path became easier to his feet, and two or three blades of grass appeared upon it, and some grasshoppers began singing on the bank beside it; and Gluck thought he had never heard such merry singing. Then he went on for another hour, and the thirst increased on him so that he thought he should be forced to drink. But, as he raised the flask, he saw a little child lying panting by the road-side, and it cried out piteously for water. Then Gluck struggled with himself, and determined to bear the thirst a little longer; and he put the bottle to the child's lips, and it drank it all but a few drops. Then it smiled on him, and got up and ran down the hill; and Gluck looked after it, till it became as small as a little star, and then turned and began climbing again. And then there were all kinds of sweet flowers growing on the rocks, bright green moss with pale pink starry flowers, and soft belled gentians, more blue than the sky at its deepest, and pure white transparent lilies. And crimson and purple butterflies darted hither and thither, and the sky sent down such pure light that Gluck had never felt so happy in his life. Yet, when he had climbed for another hour, his thirst became intolerable again; and, when he looked at his bottle, he saw that there were only five or six drops left in it, and he could not venture to drink. And, as he was hanging the flask to his belt again, he saw a little dog lying on the rocks, gasping for breath--just as Hans had seen it on the day of his ascent. And Gluck stopped and looked at it, and then at the Golden River, not five hundred yards above him; and he thought of the dwarf's words, "that no one could succeed, except in his first attempt"; and he tried to pass the dog, but it whined piteously, and Gluck stopped again. "Poor beastie," said Gluck, "it'll be dead when I come down again, if I don't help it." Then he looked closer and closer at it, and its eye turned on him so mournfully that he could not stand it. "Confound the King and his gold, too," said Gluck; and he opened the flask, and poured all the water into the dog's mouth. The dog sprang up and stood on its hind legs. Its tail disappeared, its ears became long, longer, silky, golden; its nose became very red, its eyes became very twinkling; in three seconds the dog was gone, and before Gluck stood his old acquaintance, the King of the Golden River. "Thank you," said the monarch; "but don't be frightened, it's all right"; for Gluck showed manifest symptoms of consternation at this unlooked-for reply to his last observation. "Why didn't you come before," continued the dwarf, "instead of sending me those rascally brothers of yours, for me to have the trouble of turning into stones? Very hard stones they make, too." "Oh, dear me!" said Gluck, "have you really been so cruel?" "Cruel!" said the dwarf: "they poured unholy water into my stream; do you suppose I'm going to allow that?" "Why," said Gluck, "I am sure, sir--your Majesty, I mean,--they got the water out of the church font." "Very probably," replied the dwarf; "but," and his countenance grew stern as he spoke, "the water which has been refused to the cry of the weary and dying is unholy, though it had been blessed by every saint in heaven; and the water which is found in the vessel of mercy is holy, though it had been defiled with corpses." So saying, the dwarf stooped and plucked a lily that grew at his feet. On its white leaves there hung three drops of clear dew. And the dwarf shook them into the flask which Gluck held in his hand. "Cast these into the river," he said, "and descend on the other side of the mountains into the Treasure Valley, and so good speed." As he spoke, the figure of the dwarf became indistinct. The playing colors of his robe formed themselves into a prismatic mist of dewy light: he stood for an instant veiled with them as with the belt of a broad rainbow. The colors grew faint, the mist rose into the air; the monarch had evaporated. And Gluck climbed to the brink of the Golden River and its waves were as clear as crystal, and as brilliant as the sun. And, when he cast the three drops of dew into the stream, there opened where they fell, a small circular whirlpool, into which the waters descended with a musical noise. Gluck stood watching it for some time, very much disappointed, because not only the river was not turned into gold but its waters seemed much diminished in quantity. Yet he obeyed his friend the dwarf, and descended the other side of the mountains, towards the Treasure Valley; and, as he went, he thought he heard the noise of water working its way under the ground. And when he came in sight of the Treasure Valley, behold, a river, like the Golden River, was springing from a new cleft of the rocks above it, and was flowing in innumerable streams among the dry heaps of red sand. And, as Gluck gazed, fresh grass sprang beside the new streams, and creeping plants grew, and climbed among the moistening soil. Young flowers opened suddenly along the river sides, as stars leap out when twilight is deepening, and thickets of myrtle, and tendrils of vine, cast lengthening shadows over the valley as they grew. And thus the Treasure Valley became a garden again, and the inheritance, which had been lost by cruelty, was regained by love. And Gluck went and dwelt in the valley, and the poor were never driven from his door; so that his barns became full of corn, and his house of treasure. And for him, the river had, according to the dwarf's promise, become a River of Gold. And, to this day, the inhabitants of the valley point out the place where the three drops of holy dew were cast into the stream, and trace the course of the Golden River under the ground, until it emerges in the Treasure Valley. And at the top of the cataract of the Golden River are still to be seen TWO BLACK STONES, round which the waters howl mournfully every day at sunset; and these stones are still called by the people of the valley THE BLACK BROTHERS. SECTION V FABLES AND SYMBOLIC STORIES BIBLIOGRAPHY Jacobs, Joseph, _History of the Aesopic Fable_. The only elaborate and scholarly study in English. Vol. I of a reprint of _Caxton's Aesop_. [Bibliotheque de Carabas Series.] Published in 1889 in a limited edition and not easily accessible. Jacobs, Joseph, _The Fables of Aesop_. [Illustrated by Richard Heighway.] Eighty-two selected fables. The Introduction is a summary of all the essential conclusions reached in the study above. Wiggin, Kate D., and Smith, Nora A., _The Talking Beasts_. The best general collection from all fields, including both the folk fable and the modern literary fable. Babbitt, Ellen C., _Jataka Tales Retold_. Dutton, Maude Barrows, _The Tortoise and the Geese, and Other Fables of Bidpai_. Ramaswami Raju, P. V., _Indian Folk Stories and Fables_. These three books are excellent for simplified versions of the eastern group. Those desiring to get closer to the sources may refer to Cowell [ed.], _The Jataka, or Stories of the Buddha's Former Births_; Rhys-Davids, _Buddhist Birth Stories_; Keith-Falconer, _Bidpai's Fables_. SUGGESTIONS FOR READING It is possible to piece out a very satisfactory account of the nature and history of the traditional fable by looking up in any good encyclopedia the brief articles under the following heads: Folklore, Fable, Parable, Apologue, AEsop, Demetrius of Phalerum, Babrias, Phaedrus, Avian, Romulus, Maximus Planudes, Jataka, Bidpai, Panchatantra, Hitopadesa. For a popular account of the whole philosophy of the apologue consult Newbigging, _Fables and Fabulists: Ancient and Modern_. For distinctions between various kinds of symbolic tales see Canby, _The Short Story in English_ (pp. 23 ff.); Trench, _Notes on the Parables_ (Introduction); Smith, "The Fable and Kindred Forms," _Journal of English and Germanic Philology_, Vol. XIV, p. 519. For origins and parallels read Mueller, "On the Migration of Fables," _Selected Essays_, Vol. I (reprinted in large part in Warner, _Library of the World's Best Literature_, Vol. XVIII); Clouston, _Popular Tales and Fictions_, Vol. I, p. 266, and Vol. II, p. 432. The more general treatises on folklore all touch on these problems. For suggestions on the use of fables with children see MacClintock, _Literature in the Elementary School_ (chap. xi); Adler, _Moral Instruction of Children_ (chaps. vii and viii); McMurry, _Special Method in Reading in the Grades_ (p. 70). For a clear and helpful account of the French writers of fables, the most important modern group, read Collins, _La Fontaine and Other French Fabulists_. Representative examples are given in most excellent translation. The best complete translation of La Fontaine is by Elizur Wright; of Krylov, in verse by I. H. Harrison, in prose by W. R. S. Ralston; of Yriarte, by R. Rockliffe. Gay's complete collection may be found in any edition of his poems. Satisfactory collections of proverbial sayings useful in finding expressions for the wisdom found in fables are Christy, _Proverbs, Maxims, and Phrases of All Ages_; Hazlitt, _English Proverbs and Proverbial Phrases_; Trench, _Proverbs and Their Lessons_. A book of great suggestive value covering the whole field of the prose story is Fansler, _Types of Prose Narratives_. It contains elaborate classifications, discussions and examples of each type, and an extended bibliography. Pp. 83-127 deal with fables, parables, and allegories. SECTION V: FABLES AND SYMBOLIC STORIES INTRODUCTORY _The character and value of fables._ Some one has pointed out that there are two kinds of ideals by which we are guided in life and that these ideals may be compared to lighthouses and lanterns. By means of the lighthouse, remote and lofty, we are able to lay a course and to know at any time whether we are headed in the right direction. But while we are moving along a difficult road we need more immediate illumination to avoid the mudholes and stumbling-places close at hand. We need the humble lantern to show us where we may safely step. Fables are lanterns by which our feet are guided. They embody the practical rules for everyday uses, rules of prudence that have been tested and approved by untold generations of travelers along the arduous road of life. They chart only minor dangers and difficult places as a rule, but these are the ones with which we are always in direct contact. Being honest because it is the "best policy" is not the highest reason for honesty, but it is what a practical world has found to be best in practice. Fables simply give us the "rules of the road," and these rules contribute greatly to our convenience and safety. Such rules are the result of the common sense of man working upon his everyday problems. To violate one of these practical rules is to be a blunderer, and blundering is a subject for jest rather than bitter denouncement. Hence the humorous and satirical note in fables. The practical, self-made men of the world, who have done things and inspired others to do them, have always placed great emphasis upon common-sense ideals. Benjamin Franklin, by his _Poor Richard's Almanac_, kept the incentives to industry and thrift before a people who needed to practice these everyday rules if they were to conquer an unwilling wilderness. So well did he do his work that after nearly two hundred years we are still quoting his pithy sayings. It may be that his proverbs were all borrowed, but the rules of the road are not matters for constant experiment. Again, no account of Abraham Lincoln can omit his use of AEsop or of AEsop-like stories to enforce his ideas. His homely stories were so "pat" that there was nothing left for the opposition to say. Only one who grasps the heart of a problem can use concrete illustrations with such effect. No one really questions the truths enforced by the more familiar fables. But since these teachings are so commonplace and obvious, they cannot be impressed upon us by mere repetition of the teachings as such. To secure the emphasis needed the world gradually evolved a body of striking stories and proverbs by which the standing rules of everyday life are displayed in terms that cling like burrs. "The peculiar value of the fable," says Dr. Adler, "is that they are instantaneous photographs, which reproduce, as it were, in a single flash of light, some one aspect of human nature, and which, excluding everything else, permit the entire attention to be fixed on that one." _AEsop and Bidpai._ The type of fable in mind in the above account is that known as the AEsopic, a brief beast-story in which the characters are, as a rule, conventionalized animals, and which points out some practical moral. The fox may represent crafty people, the ass may represent stupid people, the wind may represent boisterous people, the tortoise may represent plodding people who "keep everlastingly at it." When human beings are introduced, such as the Shepherd Boy, or Androcles, or the Travelers, or the Milkmaid, they are as wholly conventionalized as the animals and there is never any doubt as to their motives. AEsop, if he ever existed at all, is said to have been a Greek slave of the sixth century B.C., very ugly and clever, who used fables orally for political purposes and succeeded in gaining his freedom and a high position. Later writers, among them Demetrius of Phalerum about 300 B.C. and Phaedrus about 30 A.D., made versions of fables ascribed to AEsop. Many writers in the Middle Ages brought together increasing numbers of fables under AEsop's name and enlarged upon the few traditional facts in Herodotus about AEsop himself until several hundred fables and an elaborate biography of the supposed author were in existence. Joseph Jacobs said he had counted as many as 700 different fables going under AEsop's name. The number included in a present-day book of AEsop usually varies from 200 to 350. Another name associated with the making of fables is that of Bidpai (or Pilpay), said to have been a philosopher attached to the court of some oriental king. Bidpai, a name which means "head scholar," is a more shadowy figure even than AEsop. What we can be sure of is that there were two centers, Greece and India, from which fables were diffused. Whether they all came originally from a single source, and, if so, what that source was, are questions still debated by scholars. _Modern fabulists._ Modern fables are no more possible than a new Mother Goose or a new fairy story. For modern times the method of the fable is "at once too simple and too roundabout. Too roundabout; for the truths we have to tell we prefer to speak out directly and not by way of allegory. And the truths the fable has to teach are too simple to correspond to the facts in our complex civilization." No modern fabulist has duplicated in his field the success of Hans Christian Andersen in the field of the nursery story. A few fables from La Fontaine, a few from Krylov, one or two each from Gay, Cowper, Yriarte, and Lessing may be used to good advantage with children. The general broadening of literary variety has, of course, given us in recent times many valuable stories of the symbolistic kind. Suggestive parable-like or allegorical stories, such as a few of Hawthorne's in _Twice Told Tales_ and _Mosses from an Old Manse_, or a few of Tolstoy's short tales, are simple enough for children. _The use of fables in school._ Not all fables are good for educational purposes. There is, however, plenty of room for choice, and those that present points of view no longer accepted by the modern world should be eliminated from the list. Objections based on the unreality of the fables, their "unnatural natural history," are hardly valid. Rousseau's elimination of fables from his scheme of education in _Emile_ is based on this objection and on the further point that the child will often sympathize with the wrong character in the story, thus going astray in the moral lesson. Other objectors down to the present day simply echo Rousseau. Such a view does little justice to the child's natural sense of values. He is certain to see that the Frog is foolish in competing with the Ox in size, and certain to recognize the common sense of the Country Mouse. He will no more be deceived by a fable than he will by the painted clown in a circus. The oral method of presentation is the ideal one. Tell the story in as vivid a form as possible. In the earlier grades the interest in the story may be a sufficient end, but almost from the beginning children will see the lesson intended. They will catch the phrases that have come from fables into our everyday speech. Thus, "sour grapes," "dog in the manger," "to blow hot and cold," "to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs," "to cry 'Wolf!'" will take on more significant meanings. If some familiar proverb goes hand in hand with the story, it will help the point to take fast hold in the mind. Applications of the fable to real events should be encouraged. That is what fables were made for and that is where their chief value for us is still manifest. Only a short time need be spent on any one fable, but every opportunity should be taken to call up and apply the fables already learned. For they are not merely for passing amusement, nor is their value confined to childhood. Listen to John Locke, one of the "hardest-headed" of philosophers: "As soon as a child has learned to read, it is desirable to place in his hands pleasant books, suited to his capacity, wherein the entertainment that he finds might draw him on, and reward his pains in reading; and yet not such as should fill his head with perfectly useless trumpery, or lay the principles of vice and folly. To this purpose I think _AEsop's Fables_ the best, which being stories apt to delight and entertain a child, may yet afford useful reflections to a grown man, and if his memory retain them all his life after, he will not repent to find them there, amongst his manly thoughts and serious business." The best AEsop collection for teachers and pupils alike is _The Fables of AEsop_, edited by Joseph Jacobs. It contains eighty-two selected fables, including those that are most familiar and most valuable for children. The versions are standards of what such retellings should be, and may well serve as models for teachers in their presentation of other short symbolic stories. The introduction, "A Short History of the AEsopic Fable," and the notes at the end of the book contain, in concise form, all the practical information needed. The text of the Jacobs versions was the one selected for reproduction in Dr. Eliot's _Harvard Classics_. Nos. 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 213, and 233 in the following group are by Mr. Jacobs. The other AEsopic fables given are from various collections of the traditional versions. Almost any of the many reprints called AEsop are satisfactory for fables not found in Jacobs. Perhaps the one most common in recent times is that made by Thomas James in 1848, which had the good fortune to be illustrated by Tenniel. The versions are brief and not overloaded with editorial "filling." 205 THE SHEPHERD'S BOY There was once a young Shepherd Boy who tended his sheep at the foot of a mountain near a dark forest. It was rather lonely for him all day, so he thought upon a plan by which he could get a little company and some excitement. He rushed down towards the village calling out "Wolf! Wolf!" and the villagers came out to meet him, and some of them stopped with him for a considerable time. This pleased the boy so much that a few days afterwards he tried the same trick, and again the villagers came to his help. But shortly after this a Wolf actually did come out from the forest, and began to worry the sheep, and the boy of course cried out "Wolf! Wolf!" still louder than before. But this time the villagers, who had been fooled twice before, thought the boy was again deceiving them, and nobody stirred to come to his help. So the Wolf made a good meal off the boy's flock, and when the boy complained, the wise man of the village said: "_A liar will not be believed, even when he speaks the truth._" 206 THE LION AND THE MOUSE Once when a Lion was asleep a little Mouse began running up and down upon him; this soon wakened the Lion, who placed his huge paw upon him and opened his big jaws to swallow him. "Pardon, O King," cried the little Mouse; "forgive me this time; I shall never forget it. Who knows but what I may be able to do you a good turn some of these days?" The Lion was so tickled at the idea of the Mouse being able to help him, that he lifted up his paw and let him go. Some time after the Lion was caught in a trap, and the hunters, who desired to carry him alive to the King, tied him to a tree while they went in search of a wagon to carry him on. Just then the little Mouse happened to pass by, and seeing the sad plight in which the Lion was, went up to him and soon gnawed away the ropes that bound the King of the Beasts. "Was I not right?" said the little Mouse. _Little friends may prove great friends._ 207 THE CROW AND THE PITCHER A Crow, half-dead with thirst, came upon a Pitcher which had once been full of water; but when the Crow put its beak into the mouth of the Pitcher he found that only very little water was left in it, and that he could not reach far enough down to get at it. He tried and he tried, but at last had to give up in despair. Then a thought came to him, and he took a pebble and dropped it into the Pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped it into the Pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped that into the Pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped that into the Pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped that into the Pitcher. Then he took another pebble and dropped that into the Pitcher. At last, at last, he saw the water mount up near him; and after casting in a few more pebbles he was able to quench his thirst and save his life. _Little by little does the trick._ 208 THE FROG AND THE OX "Oh, Father," said a little Frog to the big one sitting by the side of a pool, "I have seen such a terrible monster! It was as big as a mountain, with horns on its head, and a long tail, and it had hoofs divided in two." "Tush, child, tush," said the old Frog, "that was only Farmer White's Ox. It isn't so big either; he may be a little bit taller than I, but I could easily make myself quite as broad; just you see." So he blew himself out, and blew himself out, and blew himself out. "Was he as big as that?" asked he. "Oh, much bigger than that," said the young Frog. Again the old one blew himself out, and asked the young one if the Ox was as big as that. "Bigger, Father, bigger," was the reply. So the Frog took a deep breath, and blew and blew and blew, and swelled and swelled and swelled. And then he said: "I'm sure the Ox is not as big as--" But at this moment he burst. _Self-conceit may lead to self-destruction._ 209 THE FROGS DESIRING A KING Frogs were living as happy as could be in a marshy swamp that just suited them; they went splashing about, caring for nobody and nobody troubling with them. But some of them thought that this was not right, that they should have a king and a proper constitution, so they determined to send up a petition to Jove to give them what they wanted. "Mighty Jove," they cried, "send unto us a king that will rule over us and keep us in order." Jove laughed at their croaking, and threw down into the swamp a huge Log, which came down--kersplash--into the water. The Frogs were frightened out of their lives by the commotion made in their midst, and all rushed to the bank to look at the horrible monster; but after a time, seeing that it did not move, one or two of the boldest of them ventured out towards the Log, and even dared to touch it; still it did not move. Then the greatest hero of the Frogs jumped upon the Log and commenced dancing up and down upon it; thereupon all the Frogs came and did the same; and for some time the Frogs went about their business every day without taking the slightest notice of their new King Log lying in their midst. But this did not suit them, so they sent another petition to Jove, and said to him: "We want a real king; one that will really rule over us." Now this made Jove angry, so he sent among them a big Stork that soon set to work gobbling them all up. Then the Frogs repented when too late. _Better no rule than cruel rule._ 210 The following fable is found in the folklore of many countries. Its lesson of consolation for those who are not blessed with abundance of worldly goods may account for its widespread popularity. Independence and freedom from fear have advantages that make up for poorer fare. THE FIELD MOUSE AND THE TOWN MOUSE A Field Mouse had a friend who lived in a house in town. Now the Town Mouse was asked by the Field Mouse to dine with him, and out he went and sat down to a meal of corn and wheat. "Do you know, my friend," said he, "that you live a mere ant's life out here? Why, I have all kinds of things at home. Come, and enjoy them." So the two set off for town, and there the Town Mouse showed his beans and meal, his dates, too, and his cheese and fruit and honey. And as the Field Mouse ate, drank, and was merry, he thought how rich his friend was, and how poor he was. But as they ate, a man all at once opened the door, and the Mice were in such a fear that they ran into a crack. Then, when they would eat some nice figs, in came a maid to get a pot of honey or a bit of cheese; and when they saw her, they hid in a hole. Then the Field Mouse would eat no more, but said to the Town Mouse, "Do as you like, my good friend; eat all you want and have your fill of good things, but you will be always in fear of your life. As for me, poor Mouse, who have only corn and wheat, I will live on at home in no fear of any one." 211 This simple poem is based upon the old fable preceding. It does not follow out the idea of the fable, but limits itself to awakening our sympathy for the garden mouse. THE CITY MOUSE AND THE GARDEN MOUSE CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI The city mouse lives in a house;-- The garden mouse lives in a bower; He's friendly with the frogs and toads, And sees the pretty plants in flower. The city mouse eats bread and cheese;-- The garden mouse eats what he can; We will not grudge him seeds and stocks, Poor little timid furry man. 212 The most famous use of this fable in literature is found in the _Satires_ of the great Roman poet, Horace (B.C. 65-8). He is regarded as one of the most polished of writers, and the ancient world's most truthful painter of social life and manners. Horace had a country seat among the Sabine hills to which he could retire from the worries and distractions of the world. His delight in his Sabine farm is shown clearly in his handling of the story. The passage is a part of Book II, Satire 6, and is in Conington's translation. Some well-known appearances of this same fable in English poetry may be found in Prior and Montagu's _City Mouse and Country Mouse_ and in Pope's _Imitations of Horace_. THE COUNTRY MOUSE AND THE TOWN MOUSE HORACE One day a country mouse in his poor home Received an ancient friend, a mouse from Rome. The host, though close and careful, to a guest Could open still; so now he did his best. He spares not oats or vetches; in his chaps Raisins he brings, and nibbled bacon-scraps, Hoping by varied dainties to entice His town-bred guest, so delicate and nice. Who condescended graciously to touch Thing after thing, but never would take much, While he, the owner of the mansion, sate On threshed-out straw, and spelt and darnels ate. At length the town mouse cries, "I wonder how You can live here, friend, on this hill's rough brow! Take my advice, and leave these ups and downs, This hill and dale, for humankind and towns. Come, now, go home with me; remember, all Who live on earth are mortal, great and small. Then take, good sir, your pleasure while you may; With life so short, 'twere wrong to lose a day." This reasoning made the rustic's head turn round; Forth from his hole he issues with a bound, And they two make together for their mark, In hopes to reach the city during dark. The midnight sky was bending over all, When they set foot within a stately hall, Where couches of wrought ivory had been spread With gorgeous coverlets of Tyrian red, And viands piled up high in baskets lay, The relics of a feast of yesterday. The town mouse does the honors, lays his guest At ease upon a couch with crimson dressed, Then nimbly moves in character of host, And offers in succession boiled and roast; Nay, like a well-trained slave, each wish prevents, And tastes before the titbits he presents. The guest, rejoicing in his altered fare, Assumes in turn a genial diner's air, When, hark, a sudden banging of the door! Each from his couch is tumbled on the floor. Half dead, they scurry round the room, poor things, While the whole house with barking mastiffs rings. Then says the rustic, "It may do for you, This life, but I don't like it; so, adieu. Give me my hole, secure from all alarms; I'll prove that tares and vetches still have charms." 213 The following is the Androcles story as retold by Jacobs. Scholars think this fable is clearly oriental in its origin, constituting as it does a sort of appeal to tyrannical rulers for leniency toward their subjects. ANDROCLES A Slave named Androcles once escaped from his master and fled to the forest. As he was wandering about there he came upon a Lion lying down moaning and groaning. At first he turned to flee, but finding that the Lion did not pursue him, he turned back and went up to him. As he came near, the Lion put out his paw, which was all swollen and bleeding, and Androcles found that a huge thorn had got into it, and was causing all the pain. He pulled out the thorn and bound up the paw of the Lion, who was soon able to rise and lick the hand of Androcles like a dog. Then the Lion took Androcles to his cave, and every day used to bring him meat from which to live. But shortly afterwards both Androcles and the Lion were captured, and the slave was sentenced to be thrown to the Lion, after the latter had been kept without food for several days. The Emperor and all his Court came to see the spectacle, and Androcles was led out into the middle of the arena. Soon the Lion was let loose from his den, and rushed bounding and roaring towards his victim. But as soon as he came near to Androcles he recognized his friend, and fawned upon him, and licked his hands like a friendly dog. The Emperor, surprised at this, summoned Androcles to him, who told him the whole story. Whereupon the slave was pardoned and freed, and the Lion let loose to his native forest. _Gratitude is the sign of noble souls._ 214 The preceding fable is here given in the form used in Thomas Day's very famous, but probably little read, _History of Sandford and Merton_. (See No. 380.) Day's use of the story is probably responsible for its modern popularity. Jacobs points out that it dropped out of AEsop, although it was in some of the medieval fable books. A very similar tale, "Of the Remembrance of Benefits," is in the _Gesta Romanorum_ (Tale 104). The most striking use of the fable in modern literature is in George Bernard Shaw's play _Androcles_. It will be instructive to compare the force of Day's rather heavy and slow telling of the story with that of the concise, unelaborated version by Jacobs. ANDROCLES AND THE LION THOMAS DAY There was a certain slave named Androcles, who was so ill-treated by his master that his life became insupportable. Finding no remedy for what he suffered, he at length said to himself, "It is better to die than to continue to live in such hardships and misery as I am obliged to suffer. I am determined therefore to run away from my master. If I am taken again, I know that I shall be punished with a cruel death; but it is better to die at once than to live in misery. If I escape, I must betake myself to deserts and woods, inhabited only by wild beasts; but they cannot use me more cruelly than I have been used by my fellow-creatures. Therefore I will rather trust myself with them than continue to be a miserable slave." Having formed this resolution, he took an opportunity of leaving his master's house, and hid himself in a thick forest, which was at some miles' distance from the city. But here the unhappy man found that he had only escaped from one kind of misery to experience another. He wandered about all day through a vast and trackless wood, where his flesh was continually torn by thorns and brambles. He grew hungry, but could find no food in this dreary solitude. At length he was ready to die with fatigue, and lay down in despair in a large cavern which he found by accident. This unfortunate man had not lain long quiet in the cavern, before he heard a dreadful noise, which seemed to be the roar of some wild beast, and terrified him very much. He started up with a design to escape and had already reached the mouth of the cave when he saw coming towards him a lion of prodigious size, who prevented any possibility of retreat. The unfortunate man then believed his destruction to be inevitable; but, to his great astonishment, the beast advanced towards him with a gentle pace, without any mark of enmity or rage, and uttered a kind of mournful voice, as if he demanded the assistance of the man. Androcles, who was naturally of a resolute disposition, acquired courage from this circumstance, to examine his monstrous guest, who gave him sufficient leisure for that purpose. He saw, as the lion approached him, that he seemed to limp upon one of his legs and that the foot was extremely swelled as if it had been wounded. Acquiring still more fortitude from the gentle demeanor of the beast, he advanced up to him and took hold of the wounded paw, as a surgeon would examine a patient. He then perceived that a thorn of uncommon size had penetrated the ball of the foot and was the occasion of the swelling and lameness he had observed. Androcles found that the beast, far from resenting this familiarity, received it with the greatest gentleness and seemed to invite him by his blandishments to proceed. He therefore extracted the thorn, and, pressing the swelling, discharged a considerable quantity of matter, which had been the cause of so much pain and uneasiness. As soon as the beast felt himself thus relieved, he began to testify his joy and gratitude by every expression within his power. He jumped about like a wanton spaniel, wagged his enormous tail, and licked the feet and hands of his physician. Nor was he contented with these demonstrations of kindness; from this moment Androcles became his guest; nor did the lion ever sally forth in quest of prey without bringing home the produce of his chase and sharing it with his friend. In this savage state of hospitality did the man continue to live during the space of several months. At length, wandering unguardedly through the woods, he met with a company of soldiers sent out to apprehend him, and was by them taken prisoner and conducted back to his master. The laws of that country being very severe against slaves, he was tried and found guilty of having fled from his master, and, as a punishment for his pretended crime, he was sentenced to be torn in pieces by a furious lion, kept many days without food to inspire him with additional rage. When the destined moment arrived, the unhappy man was exposed, unarmed, in the midst of a spacious area, enclosed on every side, round which many thousand people were assembled to view the mournful spectacle. Presently a dreadful yell was heard, which struck the spectators with horror; and a monstrous lion rushed out of a den, which was purposely set open, and darted forward with erected mane, and flaming eyes, and jaws that gaped like an open sepulchre.--A mournful silence instantly prevailed! All eyes were turned upon the destined victim, whose destruction now appeared inevitable. But the pity of the multitude was soon converted into astonishment, when they beheld the lion, instead of destroying his defenceless prey, crouch submissively at his feet; fawn upon him as a faithful dog would do upon his master, and rejoice over him as a mother that unexpectedly recovers her offspring. The governor of the town, who was present, then called out with a loud voice and ordered Androcles to explain to them this unintelligible mystery, and how a savage beast of the fiercest and most unpitying nature should thus in a moment have forgotten his innate disposition, and be converted into a harmless and inoffensive animal. Androcles then related to the assembly every circumstance of his adventures in the woods, and concluded by saying that the very lion which now stood before them had been his friend and entertainer in the woods. All the persons present were astonished and delighted with the story, to find that even the fiercest beasts are capable of being softened by gratitude and moved by humanity; and they unanimously joined to entreat for the pardon of the unhappy man from the governor of the place. This was immediately granted to him, and he was also presented with the lion, who had in this manner twice saved the life of Androcles. 215 THE WIND AND THE SUN A dispute once arose between the North Wind and the Sun as to which was the stronger of the two. Seeing a Traveler on his way, they agreed to try which could the sooner get his cloak off him. The North Wind began, and sent a furious blast, which, at the onset, nearly tore the cloak from its fastenings; but the Traveler, seizing the garment with a firm grip, held it round his body so tightly that Boreas spent his remaining force in vain. The Sun, dispelling the clouds that had gathered, then darted his genial beams on the Traveler's head. Growing faint with the heat, the Man flung off his coat and ran for protection to the nearest shade. _Mildness governs more than anger._ 216 The following brief fable has given us one of the best known expressions in common speech, "killing the goose that lays the golden eggs." People who never heard of AEsop know what that expression means. It is easy to connect the fable with our "get rich quick" craze. (Compare with No. 254.) THE GOOSE WITH THE GOLDEN EGGS A certain Man had a Goose that laid him a golden egg every day. Being of a covetous turn, he thought if he killed his Goose he should come at once to the source of his treasure. So he killed her and cut her open, but great was his dismay to find that her inside was in no way different from that of any other goose. _Greediness overreaches itself._ 217 The most successful of modern literary fabulists was the French poet Jean de la Fontaine (1621-1695). A famous critic has said that his fables delight the child with their freshness and vividness, the student of literature with their consummate art, and the experienced man with their subtle reflections on life and character. He drew most of his stories from AEsop and other sources. While he dressed the old fables in the brilliant style of his own day, he still succeeded in being essentially simple and direct. A few of his 240 fables may be used to good effect with children, though they have their main charm for the more sophisticated older reader. (See Nos. 234, 241, and 242.) The best complete translation is that made in 1841 by Elizur Wright, an American scholar. The following version is from his translation. Notice that La Fontaine has changed the goose to a hen. THE HEN WITH THE GOLDEN EGGS LA FONTAINE How avarice loseth all, By striving all to gain, I need no witness call But him whose thrifty hen, As by the fable we are told, Laid every day an egg of gold. "She hath a treasure in her body," Bethinks the avaricious noddy. He kills and opens--vexed to find All things like hens of common kind. Thus spoil'd the source of all his riches, To misers he a lesson teaches. In these last changes of the moon, How often doth one see Men made as poor as he By force of getting rich too soon! 218 THE WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING A Wolf wrapped himself in the skin of a Sheep and by that means got admission into a sheep-fold, where he devoured several of the young Lambs. The Shepherd, however, soon found him out and hung him up to a tree, still in his disguise. Some other Shepherds, passing that way, thought it was a Sheep hanging, and cried to their friend, "What, brother! is that the way you serve Sheep in this part of the country?" "No, friends," cried he, turning the hanging body around so that they might see what it was; "but it is the way to serve Wolves, even though they be dressed in Sheep's clothing." _The credit got by a lie lasts only till the truth comes out._ 219 THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE The Hare one day laughed at the Tortoise for his short feet, slowness, and awkwardness. "Though you may be swift as the wind," replied the Tortoise good-naturedly, "I can beat you in a race." The Hare looked on the challenge as a great joke, but consented to a trial of speed, and the Fox was selected to act as umpire and hold the stakes. The rivals started, and the Hare, of course, soon left the Tortoise far behind. Having reached midway to the goal, she began to play about, nibble the young herbage, and amuse herself in many ways. The day being warm, she even thought she would take a little nap in a shady spot, for she thought that if the Tortoise should pass her while she slept, she could easily overtake him again before he reached the end. The Tortoise meanwhile plodded on, unwavering and unresting, straight towards the goal. The Hare, having overslept herself, started up from her nap and was surprised to find that the Tortoise was nowhere in sight. Off she went at full speed, but on reaching the winning-post, found that the Tortoise was already there, waiting for her arrival. _Slow and steady wins the race._ 220 THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THEIR ASS A Miller and his Son were driving their Ass to a neighboring fair to sell him. They had not gone far when they met with a troop of women collected round a well, talking and laughing. "Look there," cried one of them, "did you ever see such fellows, to be trudging along the road on foot when they might ride?" The Miller, hearing this, quickly made his Son mount the Ass, and continued to walk along merrily by his side. Presently they came up to a group of old men in earnest debate. "There," said one of them, "it proves what I was saying. What respect is shown to old age in these days? Do you see that idle lad riding while his old father has to walk? Get down, you young scapegrace, and let the old man rest his weary limbs." Upon this, the Miller made his Son dismount, and got up himself. In this manner they had not proceeded far when they met a company of women and children. "Why, you lazy old fellow," cried several tongues at once, "how can you ride upon the beast while that poor little lad there can hardly keep pace by the side of you?" The good-natured Miller immediately took up his Son behind him. They had now almost reached the town. "Pray, honest friend," said a citizen, "is that Ass your own?" "Yes," replied the old man. "Oh, one would not have thought so," said the other, "by the way you load him. Why, you two fellows are better able to carry the poor beast than he you." "Anything to please you," said the Miller; "we can but try." So, alighting with his Son, they tied the legs of the Ass together, and by the help of a pole endeavored to carry him on their shoulders over a bridge near the entrance of the town. This entertaining sight brought the people in crowds to laugh at it, till the Ass, not liking the noise nor the strange handling that he was subject to, broke the cords that bound him and, tumbling off the pole, fell into the river. Upon this, the old man, vexed and ashamed, made the best of his way home again, convinced that by trying to please everybody he had pleased nobody, and lost his Ass into the bargain. _He who tries to please everybody pleases nobody._ 221 THE TRAVELERS AND THE BEAR Two Men, about to journey through a forest, agreed to stand by each other in any dangers that might befall. They had not gone far before a savage Bear rushed out from a thicket and stood in their path. One of the Travelers, a light, nimble fellow, got up into a tree. The other, seeing that there was no chance to defend himself single-handed, fell flat on his face and held his breath. The Bear came up and smelled at him, and taking him for dead, went off again into the wood. The Man in the tree came down and, rejoining his companion, asked him, with a sly smile, what was the wonderful secret which he had seen the Bear whisper into his ear. "Why," replied the other, "he told me to take care for the future and not to put any confidence in such cowardly rascals as you are." _Trust not fine promises._ 222 THE LARK AND HER YOUNG ONES A Lark, who had Young Ones in a field of grain which was almost ripe, was afraid that the reapers would come before her young brood were fledged. So every day when she flew off to look for food, she charged them to take note of what they heard in her absence and to tell her of it when she came home. One day when she was gone, they heard the owner of the field say to his son that the grain seemed ripe enough to be cut, and tell him to go early the next day and ask their friends and neighbors to come and help reap it. When the old Lark came home, the Little Ones quivered and chirped round her and told her what had happened, begging her to take them away as fast as she could. The mother bade them be easy; "for," said she, "if he depends on his friends and his neighbors, I am sure the grain will not be reaped tomorrow." Next day she went out again and left the same orders as before. The owner came, and waited. The sun grew hot, but nothing was done, for not a soul came. "You see," said the owner to his son, "these friends of ours are not to be depended upon; so run off at once to your uncles and cousins, and say I wish them to come early to-morrow morning and help us reap." This the Young Ones, in a great fright, told also to their mother. "Do not fear, children," said she. "Kindred and relations are not always very forward in helping one another; but keep your ears open and let me know what you hear to-morrow." The owner came the next day, and, finding his relations as backward as his neighbors, said to his son, "Now listen to me. Get two good sickles ready for to-morrow morning, for it seems we must reap the grain by ourselves." The Young Ones told this to their mother. "Then, my dears," said she, "it is time for us to go; for when a man undertakes to do his work himself, it is not so likely that he will be disappointed." She took away her Young Ones at once, and the grain was reaped the next day by the old man and his son. _Depend upon yourself alone._ 223 THE OLD MAN AND HIS SONS An Old Man had several Sons, who were always falling out with one another. He had often, but to no purpose, exhorted them to live together in harmony. One day he called them around him and, producing a bundle of sticks, bade them try each in turn to break it across. Each put forth all his strength, but the bundle resisted their efforts. Then, cutting the cord which bound the sticks together, he told his Sons to break them separately. This was done with the greatest ease. "See, my Sons," exclaimed he, "the power of unity! Bound together by brotherly love, you may defy almost every mortal ill; divided, you will fall a prey to your enemies." _A house divided against itself cannot stand._ 224 THE FOX AND THE GRAPES A Fox, just at the time of the vintage, stole into a vineyard where the ripe sunny Grapes were trellised up on high in most tempting show. He made many a spring and a jump after the luscious prize; but, failing in all his attempts, he muttered as he retreated, "Well! what does it matter! The Grapes are sour!" 225 THE WIDOW AND THE HEN A Widow woman kept a Hen that laid an egg every morning. Thought the woman to herself, "If I double my Hen's allowance of barley, she will lay twice a day." So she tried her plan, and the Hen became so fat and sleek that she left off laying at all. _Figures are not always facts._ 226 THE KID AND THE WOLF A Kid being mounted on the roof of a lofty house and seeing a Wolf pass below, began to revile him. The Wolf merely stopped to reply, "Coward! It is not you who revile me, but the place on which you are standing." 227 THE MAN AND THE SATYR A Man and a Satyr having struck up an acquaintance, sat down together to eat. The day being wintry and cold, the Man put his fingers to his mouth and blew upon them. "What's that for, my friend?" asked the Satyr. "My hands are so cold," said the Man, "I do it to warm them." In a little while some hot food was placed before them, and the Man, raising the dish to his mouth, again blew upon it. "And what's the meaning of that, now?" said the Satyr. "Oh," replied the Man, "my porridge is so hot I do it to cool it." "Nay, then," said the Satyr, "from this moment I renounce your friendship, for I will have nothing to do with one who blows hot and cold with the same mouth." 228 THE DOG AND THE SHADOW A Dog had stolen a piece of meat out of a butcher's shop, and was crossing a river on his way home, when he saw his own shadow reflected in the stream below. Thinking that it was another dog with another piece of meat, he resolved to make himself master of that also; but in snapping at the supposed treasure, he dropped the bit he was carrying, and so lost all. _Grasp at the shadow and lose the substance--the common fate of those who hazard a real blessing for some visionary good._ 229 THE SWALLOW AND THE RAVEN The Swallow and the Raven contended which was the finer bird. The Raven ended by saying, "Your beauty is but for the summer, but mine will stand many winters." _Durability is better than show._ 230 MERCURY AND THE WOODMAN A Woodman was felling a tree on the bank of a river, and by chance let slip his axe into the water, when it immediately sank to the bottom. Being thereupon in great distress, he sat down by the side of the stream and lamented his loss bitterly. But Mercury, whose river it was, taking compassion on him, appeared at the instant before him; and hearing from him the cause of his sorrow, dived to the bottom of the river, and bringing up a golden axe, asked the Woodman if that were his. Upon the Man's denying it, Mercury dived a second time, and brought up one of silver. Again the Man denied that it was his. So diving a third time, he produced the identical axe which the Man had lost. "That is mine!" said the Woodman, delighted to have recovered his own; and so pleased was Mercury with the fellow's truth and honesty that he at once made him a present of the other two. The Man goes to his companions, and giving them an account of what had happened to him, one of them determined to try whether he might not have the like good fortune. So repairing to the same place, as if for the purpose of cutting wood, he let slip his axe on purpose into the river and then sat down on the bank and made a great show of weeping. Mercury appeared as before, and hearing from him that his tears were caused by the loss of his axe, dived once more into the stream; and bringing up a golden axe, asked him if that was the axe he had lost. "Aye, surely," said the Man, eagerly; and he was about to grasp the treasure, when Mercury, to punish his impudence and lying, not only refused to give him that, but would not so much as restore him his own axe again. _Honesty is the best policy._ 231 THE MICE IN COUNCIL Once upon a time the Mice being sadly distressed by the persecution of the Cat, resolved to call a meeting to decide upon the best means of getting rid of this continual annoyance. Many plans were discussed and rejected. At last a young Mouse got up and proposed that a Bell should be hung round the Cat's neck, that they might for the future always have notice of her coming and so be able to escape. This proposition was hailed with the greatest applause, and was agreed to at once unanimously. Upon this, an old Mouse, who had sat silent all the while, got up and said that he considered the contrivance most ingenious, and that it would, no doubt, be quite successful; but he had only one short question to put; namely, which of them it was who would Bell the Cat? _It is one thing to propose, another to execute._ 232 THE MOUNTEBANK AND THE COUNTRYMAN A certain wealthy patrician, intending to treat the Roman people with some theatrical entertainment, publicly offered a reward to any one who would produce a novel spectacle. Incited by emulation, artists arrived from all parts to contest the prize, among whom a well-known witty Mountebank gave out that he had a new kind of entertainment that had never yet been produced on any stage. This report, being spread abroad, brought the whole city together. The theater could hardly contain the number of spectators. And when the artist appeared alone upon the stage, without any apparatus or any assistants, curiosity and suspense kept the spectators in profound silence. On a sudden he thrust down his head into his bosom, and mimicked the squeaking of a young pig so naturally that the audience insisted upon it that he had one under his cloak and ordered him to be searched, which, being done and nothing appearing, they loaded him with the most extravagant applause. A Countryman among the audience observed what passed. "Oh!" says he, "I can do better than this"; and immediately gave out that he would perform the next day. Accordingly on the morrow a yet greater crowd was collected. Prepossessed, however, in favor of the Mountebank, they came rather to laugh at the Countryman than to pass a fair judgment on him. They both came out upon the stage. The Mountebank grunts away at first, and calls forth the greatest clapping and applause. Then the Countryman, pretending that he concealed a little pig under his garments (and he had, in fact, really got one) pinched its ear till he made it squeak. The people cried out that the Mountebank had imitated the pig much more naturally, and hooted to the Countryman to quit the stage; but he, to convict them to their face, produced the real pig from his bosom. "And now, gentlemen, you may see," said he, "what a pretty sort of judges you are!" _It is easier to convict a man against his senses than against his will._ 233 Stories dealing with the disastrous effects of "day-dreaming" are very common in the world's literature. The three selections that follow are given as very familiar samples for comparison. The first is a simple version by Jacobs. THE MILKMAID AND HER PAIL Patty, the Milkmaid, was going to market, carrying her milk in a Pail on her head. As she went along she began calculating what she could do with the money she would get for the milk. "I'll buy some fowls from Farmer Brown," said she, "and they will lay eggs each morning, which I will sell to the parson's wife. With the money that I get from the sale of these eggs I'll buy myself a new dimity frock and a chip hat; and when I go to market, won't all the young men come up and speak to me! Polly Shaw will be that jealous; but I don't care. I shall just look at her and toss my head like this." As she spoke, she tossed her head back, the Pail fell off it and all the milk was spilt. So she had to go home and tell her mother what had occurred. "Ah, my child," said her mother, "_Do not count your chickens before they are hatched._" 234 The next is Wright's translation of La Fontaine's famous fable on the day-dreaming theme. Notice how much more complicated its application becomes in contrast with the obvious truth of the proverb in the preceding version. La Fontaine is responsible for the story's popularity in modern times. The most fascinating study on the way fables have come down to us is Max Mueller's "On the Migration of Fables," in which he follows this story from India through all its many changes until it reaches us in La Fontaine. THE DAIRYWOMAN AND THE POT OF MILK LA FONTAINE A pot of milk upon her cushioned crown, Good Peggy hastened to the market town, Short clad and light, with speed she went, Not fearing any accident; Indeed, to be the nimble tripper, Her dress that day, The truth to say, Was simple petticoat and slipper. And thus bedight, Good Peggy, light,-- Her gains already counted,-- Laid out the cash At single dash, Which to a hundred eggs amounted. Three nests she made, Which, by the aid Of diligence and care, were hatched. "To raise the chicks, I'll easy fix," Said she, "beside our cottage thatched. The fox must get More cunning yet, Or leave enough to buy a pig. With little care And any fare, He'll grow quite fat and big; And then the price Will be so nice, For which the pork will sell! Twill go quite hard But in our yard I'll bring a cow and calf to dwell-- A calf to frisk among the flock!" The thought made Peggy do the same; And down at once the milk-pot came, And perished with the shock. Calf, cow, and pig, and chicks, adieu! Your mistress' face is sad to view; She gives a tear to fortune spilt; Then with the downcast look of guilt Home to her husband empty goes, Somewhat in danger of his blows. Who buildeth not, sometimes, in air His cots, or seats, or castles fair? From kings to dairywomen,--all,-- The wise, the foolish, great and small,-- Each thinks his waking dream the best. Some flattering error fills the breast: The world with all its wealth is ours, Its honors, dames, and loveliest bowers. Instinct with valor, when alone, I hurl the monarch from his throne; The people, glad to see him dead, Elect me monarch in his stead, And diadems rain on my head. Some accident then calls me back, And I'm no more than simple Jack. 235 The day-dreaming idea is next presented in the form found in the story of the barber's fifth brother in the _Arabian Nights_. Would this story be any more effective if it had a paragraph at the end stating and emphasizing the moral? THE STORY OF ALNASCHAR Alnaschar, my fifth brother, was very lazy, and of course wretchedly poor. On the death of our father we divided his property, and each of us received a hundred drachms of silver for his share. Alnaschar, who hated labor, laid out his money in fine glasses, and having displayed his stock to the best advantage in a large basket, he took his stand in the market-place, with his back against the wall, waiting for customers. In this posture he indulged in a reverie, talking aloud to himself as follows: "This glass cost me a hundred drachms of silver, which is all I have in the world. I shall make two hundred by retailing it, and of these very shortly four hundred. It will not be long before these produce four thousand. Money, they say, begets money. I shall soon therefore be possessed of eight thousand, and when these become ten thousand I will no longer be a glass-seller. I will trade in pearls and diamonds; and as I shall become rich apace, I will have a splendid palace, a great estate, slaves, and horses; I will not, however, leave traffic till I have acquired a hundred thousand drachms. Then I shall be as great as a prince, and will assume manners accordingly. "I will demand the daughter of the grand vizier in marriage, who, no doubt, will be glad of an alliance with a man of my consequence. The marriage ceremony shall be performed with the utmost splendor and magnificence. I will have my horse clothed with the richest housings, ornamented with diamonds and pearls, and will be attended by a number of slaves, all richly dressed, when I go to the vizier's palace to conduct my wife thence to my own. The vizier shall receive me with great pomp, and shall give me the right hand and place me above himself, to do me the more honor. On my return I will appoint two of my handsomest slaves to throw money among the populace, that every one may speak well of my generosity. "When we arrive at my own palace, I will take great state upon me, and hardly speak to my wife. She shall dress herself in all her ornaments, and stand before me as beautiful as the full moon, but I will not look at her. Her slaves shall draw near and entreat me to cast my eyes upon her; which, after much supplication, I will deign to do, though with great indifference. I will not suffer her to come out of her apartment without my leave; and when I have a mind to visit her there, it shall be in a manner that will make her respect me. Thus will I begin early to teach her what she is to expect the rest of her life. "When her mother comes to visit her she will intercede with me for her. 'Sir,' she will say (for she will not dare to call me son, for fear of offending me by so much familiarity), 'do not, I beseech, treat my daughter with scorn; she is as beautiful as an Houri, and entirely devoted to you.' But my mother-in-law may as well hold her peace, for I will take no notice of what she says. She will then pour out some wine into a goblet, and give it to my wife, saying, 'Present it to your lord and husband; he will not surely be so cruel as to refuse it from so fair a hand.' My wife will then come with the glass, and stand trembling before me; and when she finds that I do not look on her, but continue to disdain her, she will kneel and entreat me to accept it; but I will continue inflexible. At last, redoubling her tears, she will rise and put the goblet to my lips, when, tired with her importunities, I will dart a terrible look at her and give her such a push with my foot as will spurn her from me." Alnaschar was so interested in this imaginary grandeur that he thrust forth his foot to kick the lady, and by that means overturned his glasses and broke them into a thousand pieces. 236 "The Camel and the Pig" is from P. V. Ramaswami Raju's _Indian Folk Stories and Fables_, an excellent book of adaptations for young readers. The idea that every situation in life has its advantages as well as its disadvantages is one of those common but often overlooked truths which serve so well as the themes of fable. Emerson's "Fable," the story of the quarrel between the mountain and the squirrel, is a most excellent presentation of the same idea (see No. 363). "The Little Elf," by John Kendrick Bangs, makes the same point for smaller folks. THE CAMEL AND THE PIG ADAPTED BY P. V. RAMASWAMI RAJU A camel said, "Nothing like being tall! See how tall I am!" A Pig who heard these words said, "Nothing like being short; see how short I am!" The Camel said, "Well, if I fail to prove the truth of what I said, I will give up my hump." The Pig said, "If I fail to prove the truth of what I have said, I will give up my snout." "Agreed!" said the Camel. "Just so!" said the Pig. They came to a garden inclosed by a low wall without any opening. The Camel stood on this side the wall, and, reaching the plants within by means of his long neck, made a breakfast on them. Then he turned jeeringly to the Pig, who had been standing at the bottom of the wall, without even having a look at the good things in the garden, and said, "Now, would you be tall or short?" Next they came to a garden inclosed by a high wall, with a wicket gate at one end. The Pig entered by the gate and, after having eaten his fill of the vegetables within, came out, laughing at the poor Camel, who had to stay outside, because he was too tall to enter the garden by the gate, and said, "Now, would you be tall or short?" Then they thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that the Camel should keep his hump and the Pig his snout, observing,-- "Tall is good, where tall would do; Of short, again, 'tis also true!" 237 Many scholars have believed that all fables originated in India. The great Indian collection of symbolic stories known as Jataka Tales, or Buddhist Birth Stories, has been called "the oldest, most complete, and most important collection of folklore extant." They are called Birth Stories because each one gives an account of something that happened in connection with the teaching of Buddha in some previous "birth" or incarnation. There are about 550 of these Jatakas, including some 2000 stories. They have now been made accessible in a translation by a group of English scholars and published in six volumes under the general editorship of Professor Cowell. Many of them have long been familiar in eastern collections and have been adapted in recent times for use in schools. Each Jataka is made up of three parts. There is a "story of the present" giving an account of an incident in Buddha's life which calls to his mind a "story of the past" in which he had played a part during a former incarnation. Then, there is a conclusion marking the results. Nos. 237 and 238 are literal translations of Jatakas by T. W. Rhys-Davids in his _Buddhist Birth Stories_. In adapting for children, the stories of the present may be omitted. In fact, everything except the direct story should be eliminated. The "gathas," or verses, were very important in connection with the original purpose of religious teaching, but are only incumbrances in telling the story either for its own sake or for its moral. THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN At the same time when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares, the future Buddha was born one of a peasant family; and when he grew up he gained his living by tilling the ground. At that time a hawker used to go from place to place, trafficking in goods carried by an ass. Now at each place he came to, when he took the pack down from the ass's back, he used to clothe him in a lion's skin and turn him loose in the rice and barley fields. And when the watchmen in the fields saw the ass they dared not go near him, taking him for a lion. So one day the hawker stopped in a village; and while he was getting his own breakfast cooked, he dressed the ass in a lion's skin and turned him loose in a barley field. The watchmen in the field dared not go up to him; but going home, they published the news. Then all the villagers came out with weapons in their hands; and blowing chanks, and beating drums, they went near the field and shouted. Terrified with the fear of death, the ass uttered a cry--the bray of an ass! And when he knew him then to be an ass, the future Buddha pronounced the first verse: "This is not a lion's roaring, Nor a tiger's nor a panther's; Dressed in a lion's skin, 'Tis a wretched ass that roars!" But when the villagers knew the creature to be an ass, they beat him till his bones broke; and, carrying off the lion's skin, went away. Then the hawker came; and seeing the ass fallen into so bad a plight, pronounced the second verse: "Long might the ass, Clad in a lion's skin, Have fed on the barley green; But he brayed And that moment he came to ruin." And even while he was yet speaking the ass died on the spot. 238 THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE The future Buddha was once born in a minister's family, when Brahma-datta was reigning in Benares; and when he grew up he became the king's adviser in things temporal and spiritual. Now this king was very talkative; while he was speaking others had no opportunity for a word. And the future Buddha, wanting to cure this talkativeness of his, was constantly seeking for some means of doing so. At that time there was living, in a pond in the Himalaya mountains, a tortoise. Two young hamsas, or wild ducks, who came to feed there, made friends with him, and one day, when they had become very intimate with him, they said to the tortoise: "Friend tortoise! the place where we live, at the Golden Cave on Mount Beautiful in the Himalaya country, is a delightful spot. Will you come there with us?" "But how can I get there?" "We can take you if you can only hold your tongue, and will say nothing to anybody." "Oh! that I can do. Take me with you." "That's right," said they. And making the tortoise bite hold of a stick, they themselves took the two ends in their teeth, and flew up into the air. Seeing him thus carried by the hamsas, some villagers called out, "Two wild ducks are carrying a tortoise along on a stick!" Whereupon the tortoise wanted to say, "If my friends choose to carry me, what is that to you, you wretched slaves!" So just as the swift flight of the wild ducks had brought him over the king's palace in the city of Benares, he let go of the stick he was biting, and falling in the open courtyard, split in two! And there arose a universal cry, "A tortoise has fallen in the open courtyard, and has split in two!" The king, taking the future Buddha, went to the place, surrounded by his courtiers; and looking at the tortoise, he asked the Bodisat, "Teacher! how comes he to be fallen here?" The future Buddha thought to himself, "Long expecting, wishing to admonish the king, have I sought for some means of doing so. This tortoise must have made friends with the wild ducks; and they must have made him bite hold of the stick, and have flown up into the air to take him to the hills. But he, being unable to hold his tongue when he hears any one else talk, must have wanted to say something, and let go the stick; and so must have fallen down from the sky, and thus lost his life." And saying, "Truly, O king! those who are called chatter-boxes--people whose words have no end--come to grief like this," he uttered these verses: "Verily the tortoise killed himself While uttering his voice; Though he was holding tight the stick, By a word himself he slew. "Behold him then, O excellent by strength! And speak wise words, not out of season. You see how, by his talking overmuch, The tortoise fell into this wretched plight!" The king saw that he was himself referred to, and said, "O Teacher! are you speaking of us?" And the Bodisat spake openly, and said, "O great king! be it thou, or be it any other, whoever talks beyond measure meets with some mishap like this." And the king henceforth refrained himself, and became a man of few words. 239 The following is, also, an oriental story. It is taken from the _Hitopadesa_ (Book of Good Counsel), a collection of Sanskrit fables. This collection was compiled from older sources, probably in the main from the _Panchatantra_ (Five Books), which belonged to about the fifth century. Observe the emphasis placed upon the teaching of the fable by putting the statement of it at the beginning and recurring to it at the close. A LION TRICKED BY A RABBIT _He who hath sense hath strength. Where hath he strength who wanteth judgment? See how a lion, when intoxicated with anger, was overcome by a rabbit._ Upon the mountain Mandara there lived a lion, whose name was Durganta (hard to go near), who was very exact in complying with the ordinance for animal sacrifices. So at length all the different species assembled, and in a body represented that, as by his present mode of proceeding the forest would be cleared all at once, if it pleased his Highness, they would each of them in his turn provide him an animal for his daily food. And the lion gave his consent accordingly. Thus every beast delivered his stipulated provision, till at length, it coming to the rabbit's turn, he began to meditate in this manner: "Policy should be practiced by him who would save his life; and I myself shall lose mine if I do not take care. Suppose I lead him after another lion? Who knows how that may turn out for me? I will approach him slowly, as if fatigued." The lion by this time began to be very hungry; so, seeing the rabbit coming toward him, he called out in a great passion, "What is the reason thou comest so late?" "Please your Highness," said the rabbit, "as I was coming along I was forcibly detained by another of your species; but having given him my word that I would return immediately, I came here to represent it to your Highness." "Go quickly," said the lion in a rage, "and show me where this vile wretch may be found!" Accordingly, the rabbit conducted the lion to the brink of a deep well, where being arrived, "There," said the rabbit, "look down and behold him." At the same time he pointed to the reflected image of the lion in the water, who, swelling with pride and resentment, leaped into the well, as he thought, upon his adversary; and thus put an end to his life. I repeat, therefore: _He who hath sense hath strength. Where hath he strength who wanteth judgment?_ 240 Marie de France lived probably in the latter part of the twelfth century and was one of the most striking figures in Middle English literature. She seems to have been born in France, lived much in England, translated from the Anglo-Norman dialect into French, and is spoken of as the first French poet. One of her three works, and the most extensive, is a collection of 103 fables, which she says she translated from the English of King Alfred. Her original, whatever it may have been, is lost. One of her fables, in a translation by Professor W. W. Skeat, is given below. It contains the germ of Chaucer's "Nun's Priest's Tale," in _The Canterbury Tales_. THE COCK AND THE FOX MARIE DE FRANCE A Cock our story tells of, who High on a trash hill stood and crew. A Fox, attracted, straight drew nigh, And spake soft words of flattery. "Dear Sir!" said he, "your look's divine; I never saw a bird so fine! I never heard a voice so clear Except your father's--ah! poor dear! His voice rang clearly, loudly--but Most clearly when his eyes were shut!" "The same with me!" the Cock replies, And flaps his wings, and shuts his eyes. Each note rings clearer than the last-- The Fox starts up and holds him fast; Toward the wood he hies apace. But as he crossed an open space, The shepherds spy him; off they fly; The dogs give chase with hue and cry. The Fox still holds the Cock, though fear Suggests his case is growing queer. "Tush!" cries the Cock, "cry out, to grieve 'em, 'The cock is mine! I'll never leave him!'" The Fox attempts, in scorn, to shout, And opes his mouth; the Cock slips out, And in a trice has gained a tree. Too late the Fox begins to see How well the Cock his game has played; For once his tricks have been repaid. In angry language, uncontrolled, He 'gins to curse the mouth that's bold To speak, when it should silent be. "Well," says the Cock, "the same with me; I curse the eyes that go to sleep Just when they ought sharp watch to keep Lest evil to their lord befall." Thus fools contrariously do all; They chatter when they should be dumb, And, when they _ought_ to speak, are mum. 241 The following is Wright's translation of the first fable in La Fontaine's collection. Rousseau, objecting to fables in general, singled out this particular one as an example of their bad effects on children, and echoes of his voice are still in evidence. It would, he said, give children a lesson in inhumanity. "You believe you are making an example of the grasshopper, but they will choose the ant . . . they will take the more pleasant part, which is a very natural thing." Another observer said: "As for me, I love neither grasshopper nor ant, neither avarice nor prodigality, neither the miserly people who lend nor the spendthrifts who borrow." These statements represent complex, analytic points of view which are probably outside the range of most children. They will see the grasshopper simply as a type of thorough shiftlessness and the ant as a type of forethought, although La Fontaine does suggest that the ant might on general principles be a little less "tight-fisted." The lesson that idleness is the mother of want, the necessity of looking ahead, of providing for the future, of laying up for a rainy day--these are certainly common-sense conclusions and the only ones the story itself will suggest to the child. THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE ANT LA FONTAINE A grasshopper gay Sang the summer away, And found herself poor By the winter's first roar. Of meat or of bread, Not a morsel she had! So a begging she went, To her neighbor the ant, For the loan of some wheat, Which would serve her to eat, Till the season came round. "I will pay you," she saith, "On an animal's faith, Double weight in the pound Ere the harvest be bound." The ant is a friend (And here she might mend) Little given to lend. "How spent you the summer?" Quoth she, looking shame At the borrowing dame. "Night and day to each comer I sang, if you please." "You sang! I'm at ease; For 'tis plain at a glance, Now, ma'am, you must dance." 242 The translation of the following fable is that of W. Lucas Collins, in his _La Fontaine and Other French Fabulists_. This fable has always been a great favorite among the French, and the translator has caught much of the sprightly tone of his original. THE COCK, THE CAT, AND THE YOUNG MOUSE LA FONTAINE A pert young Mouse, to whom the world was new, Had once a near escape, if all be true. He told his mother, as I now tell you: "I crossed the mountains that beyond us rise, And, journeying onwards, bore me As one who had a great career before me, When lo! two creatures met my wondering eyes,-- The one of gracious mien, benign and mild; The other fierce and wild, With high-pitched voice that filled me with alarm; A lump of sanguine flesh grew on his head, And with a kind of arm He raised himself in air, As if to hover there; His tail was like a horseman's plume outspread." (It was a farmyard Cock, you understand, That our young friend described in terms so grand, As 'twere some marvel come from foreign land.) "With arms raised high He beat his sides, and made such hideous cry, That even I, Brave as I am, thank heaven! had well-nigh fainted: Straightway I took to flight, And cursed him left and right. Ah! but for him, I might have got acquainted With that sweet creature, Who bore attractiveness in every feature: A velvet skin he had, like yours and mine, A tail so long and fine, A sweet, meek countenance, a modest air-- Yet, what an eye was there! I feel that, on the whole, He must have strong affinities of soul With our great race--our ears are shaped the same. I should have made my bow, and asked his name, But at the fearful cry Raised by that monster, I was forced to fly." "My child," replied his mother, "you have seen That demure hypocrite we call a Cat: Under that sleek and inoffensive mien He bears a deadly hate of Mouse and Rat. The other, whom you feared, is harmless--quite; Nay, perhaps may serve us for a meal some night. As for your friend, for all his innocent air, We form the staple of his bill of fare." _Take, while you live, this warning as your guide--_ _Don't judge by the outside._ 243 John Gay (1685-1732) was an English poet and dramatist. His work as a whole has been pretty well forgotten, but he has been recently brought back to the mind of the public by the revival of his satirical _Beggar's Opera_, the ancestor of the modern comic opera. Gay published a collection of fables in verse in 1727, "prepared for the edification of the young Duke of Cumberland." A second group, making sixty-six in all, was published after his death. Since these fables are probably the best of their kind in English, a few of them are frequently met with in collections. "The Hare with Many Friends" has been the favorite, and rightly so, as it has something of the humor and point that belong to the real fable. Perhaps the fact that it has a personal application enabled Gay to write with more vigor and sincerity than elsewhere. THE HARE WITH MANY FRIENDS JOHN GAY Friendship, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendship; who depend On many rarely find a friend. A Hare, who, in a civil way, Complied with everything, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. Her care was, never to offend, And every creature was her friend. As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries, And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies. She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She hears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round: Till, fainting in the public way, Half dead with fear she gasping lay. What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appeared in view! "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight; To friendship every burden's light." The Horse replied: "Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus; Be comforted; relief is near, For all your friends are in the rear." She next the stately Bull implored; And thus replied the mighty lord, "Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without offence, pretend, To take the freedom of a friend; Love calls me hence; a favorite cow Expects me near yon barley-mow; And when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind; But see, the Goat is just behind." The Goat remarked her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye; "My back," says he, "may do you harm; The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained: Said he was slow, confessed his fears, For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. She now the trotting Calf addressed, To save from death a friend distressed. "Shall I," says he, "of tender age, In this important care, engage? Older and abler passed you by; How strong are those, how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then. You know my heart. But dearest friends, alas, must part! How shall we all lament! Adieu! For see, the hounds are just in view." 244 Tomas de Yriarte (1750-1791) was a Spanish poet of some note, remembered now mainly as the author of _Literary Fables_, the first attempt at literary fable-writing in Spanish. As the name is meant to imply, they concern themselves with the follies and weaknesses of authors. There are about eighty fables in the complete collection, and they are full of ingenuity and cleverness. One of the simplest and best of these is given here in the translation by R. Rockliffe, which first appeared in _Blackwood's Magazine_ in 1839. It laughs at the lucky chance by which even stupidity sometimes "makes a hit" and then stupidly proceeds to pat itself on the back. THE MUSICAL ASS TOMAS YRIARTE The fable which I now present Occurred to me by accident; And whether bad or excellent, Is merely so by accident. A stupid ass one morning went Into a field by accident And cropp'd his food and was content, Until he spied by accident A flute, which some oblivious gent Had left behind by accident; When, sniffing it with eager scent, He breathed on it by accident, And made the hollow instrument Emit a sound by accident. "Hurrah! hurrah!" exclaimed the brute, "How cleverly I play the flute!" _A fool, in spite of nature's bent._ _May shine for once--by accident._ 245 Ivan Andreevitch Krylov (1768-1844) was a Russian author whose fame rests almost entirely upon his popular verse fables (200 in number) which have been used extensively as textbooks in Russian schools. They have "joyousness, simplicity, wit, and good humor." The following specimen is from I. H. Harrison's translation of Krylov's _Original Fables_. It gives a good illustration of the necessity of "teamwork." THE SWAN, THE PIKE, AND THE CRAB IVAN KRYLOV When partners with each other don't agree, Each project must a failure be, And out of it no profit come, but sheer vexation. A Swan, a Pike, and Crab once took their station In harness, and would drag a loaded cart; But, when the moment came for them to start, They sweat, they strain, and yet the cart stands still; what's lacking? The load must, as it seemed, have been but light; The Swan, though, to the clouds takes flight, The Pike into the water pulls, the Crab keeps backing. Now which of them was right, which wrong, concerns us not; The cart is still upon the selfsame spot. 246 This fable from the Old Testament is one of the very oldest on record in which a story is practically applied to a human problem. The causes of political corruption apparently have not changed much in three thousand years. American citizens gather together at certain times to choose mayors and other officers to rule over them, and when they say to the fruitful olive tree, or fig tree, or vine, "Come thou and reign over us," he replies, "Should I forsake my productive factory, or mine, or profession, to be mayor?" But when they say to the bramble, "Come thou and reign over us," he replies, "Put your trust in me, and let those suffer who object to my management of public affairs." Jotham's lesson of political duty is one greatly needed in the present-day attempt to raise our standard of citizenship. THE BRAMBLE IS MADE KING _Judges ix: 6-16_ And all the men of Shechem gathered together, and all the house of Millo, and went, and made Abimelech king, by the plain of the pillar that was in Shechem. And when they told it to Jotham, he went and stood in the top of Mount Gerizim, and lifted up his voice, and cried, and said unto them:-- "Hearken unto me, ye men of Shechem, that God may hearken unto you. The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said unto the olive tree, 'Reign thou over us.' But the olive tree said unto them, 'Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honor God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?' "And the trees said to the fig tree, 'Come thou and reign over us.' But the fig tree said unto them, 'Should I forsake my sweetness and my good fruit, and go to be promoted over the trees?' "Then said the trees unto the vine, 'Come thou and reign over us.' And the vine said unto them, 'Should I leave my wine, which cheereth God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?' "Then said all the trees unto the bramble, 'Come thou and reign over us.' And the bramble said unto the trees, 'If in truth ye anoint me king over you, then come and put your trust in my shadow: and if not, let fire come out of the bramble and devour the cedars of Lebanon.'" 247 The concrete illustrations by means of which Jesus constantly taught are called parables. "Without a parable spake he not unto them." The parable differs from the fable proper in dealing with more fundamental or ideal truth. The fable moves on the plane of the prudential virtues, the parable on the plane of the higher self-forgetting virtues. Because of that difference there is in the parable "no jesting nor raillery at the weakness, the follies, or the crimes of men." All is deeply earnest, befitting its high spiritual point of view. As a rule the parables use for illustration stories of what might actually happen. Two of the most familiar of the parables follow. What true neighborliness means is the message of "The Good Samaritan." THE GOOD SAMARITAN _Luke x:25-37_ And behold, a certain lawyer stood up and tempted him, saying, "Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life?" He said unto him, "What is written in the law? how readest thou?" And he answering said, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind; and thy neighbor as thyself." And He said unto him, "Thou hast answered right; this do, and thou shalt live." But he, willing to justify himself, said unto Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?" And Jesus answering said, "A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed, leaving him half dead. And by chance there came down a certain priest that way; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. And likewise a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked on him, and passed by on the other side. But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was; and when he saw him, he had compassion on him, and went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him. And on the morrow, when he departed, he took out two pence and gave them to the host and said unto him, 'Take care of him: and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come again I will repay thee.' "Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbor unto him that fell among the thieves?" And he said, "He that showed mercy on him." Then said Jesus unto him, "Go and do thou likewise." 248 THE PRODIGAL SON _Luke xv:10-32_ "Likewise I say unto you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth." And he said, "A certain man had two sons; and the younger of them said to his father, 'Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me.' And he divided unto them his living. "And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want. And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat; and no man gave unto him. "And when he came to himself, he said, 'How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, "Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants."' "And he arose and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' But the father said to his servants, 'Bring forth the best robe and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet; and bring hither the fatted calf and kill it; and let us eat and be merry; for this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' And they began to be merry. "Now his elder son was in the field; and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music and dancing. And he called one of the servants and asked what these things meant. And he said unto him, 'Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound.' And he was angry and would not go in; therefore came his father out and entreated him. And he answering, said to his father, 'Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment; and yet thou never gavest me a kid that I might make merry with my friends. But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.' And he said unto him, 'Son, thou art ever with me; and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad; for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.'" 249 This little apologue is taken from _Norwood_ (1867), a novel written by Henry Ward Beecher for the New York _Ledger_ in the days when that periodical, under the direction of Robert Bonner, was the great family weekly of America. In the course of the fiction Mr. Beecher emphasizes the value of stories for children. "Story-hunger in children," he says, "is even more urgent than bread-hunger." And after the story has been told: "How charming it is to narrate fables for children. . . . Children are unconscious philosophers. They refuse to pull to pieces their enjoyments to see what they are made of. Rose knew as well as her father that leaves never talked. Yet, Rose never saw a leaf without feeling that there was life and meaning in it." THE ANXIOUS LEAF HENRY WARD BEECHER Once upon a time a little leaf was heard to sigh and cry, as leaves often do when a gentle wind is about. And the twig said, "What is the matter, little leaf?" And the leaf said, "The wind just told me that one day it would pull me off and throw me down to die on the ground!" The twig told it to the branch on which it grew, and the branch told it to the tree. And when the tree heard it, it rustled all over, and sent back word to the leaf, "Do not be afraid; hold on tightly, and you shall not go till you want to." And so the leaf stopped sighing, but went on nestling and singing. Every time the tree shook itself and stirred up all its leaves, the branches shook themselves, and the little twig shook itself, and the little leaf danced up and down merrily, as if nothing could ever pull it off. And so it grew all summer long till October. And when the bright days of autumn came, the little leaf saw all the leaves around becoming very beautiful. Some were yellow, and some scarlet, and some striped with both colors. Then it asked the tree what it meant. And the tree said, "All these leaves are getting ready to fly away, and they have put on these beautiful colors, because of joy." Then the little leaf began to want to go, and grew very beautiful in thinking of it, and when it was very gay in color, it saw that the branches of the tree had no color in them, and so the leaf said, "Oh, branches! why are you lead color and we golden?" "We must keep on our work clothes, for our life is not done; but your clothes are for holiday, because your tasks are over." Just then, a little puff of wind came, and the leaf let go without thinking of it, and the wind took it up, and turned it over and over, and whirled it like a spark of fire in the air and then it fell gently down under the edge of the fence among hundreds of leaves, and fell into a dream and never waked up to tell what it dreamed about! 250 Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790), more than any other American, has emphasized for us the value of proverbial sayings and the significance of the symbolic story. This account of how one may pay too much for a whistle was written in 1779 while Franklin was representing the colonies at Paris, and addressed to his friend Madame Brillon. The making of apologues seemed to be a favorite sort of game in the circle in which Franklin moved, and his plain common sense is always uppermost in whatever he produces. The lesson of the whistle is always needed; we are prone to put aside the essential thing for the temporary and showy. More than a century ago Noah Webster put this story in his school-reader, and most school-readers since have contained it. The selection is here reprinted complete. Teachers usually omit some of the opening and closing paragraphs. THE WHISTLE BENJAMIN FRANKLIN I am charmed with your description of Paradise, and with your plan of living there; and I approve much of your conclusion, that, in the mean time, we should draw all the good we can from this world. In my opinion, we might all draw more good than we do, and suffer less evil, if we would take care not to give too much for _whistles_. For to me it seems that most of the unhappy people we meet with are become so by neglect of that caution. You ask what I mean? You love stories, and will excuse my telling one of myself. When I was a child of seven years old, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pockets with coppers. I went directly to a shop where they sold toys for children; and being charmed with the sound of a _whistle_, that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered and gave all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my _whistle_, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth; put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the _whistle_ gave me pleasure. This, however, was afterward of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, _Don't give too much for the whistle_; and I saved my money. As I grew up I thought I met with many, very many, who _gave too much for the whistle_. When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, _This man gives too much for his whistle._ When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, _He pays, indeed_, said I, _too much for his whistle._ If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, _Poor man_, said I, _you pay too much for your whistle._ When I met with a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporal sensations, and ruining his health in their pursuit, _Mistaken man_, said I, _you are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure; you give too much for your whistle._ If I see one fond of appearance, or fine clothes, fine houses, fine furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in a prison, _Alas!_ say I, _he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle._ When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an ill-natured brute of a husband, _What a pity_, say I, _that she should pay so much for a whistle!_ In short, I conceive that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of things, and by their _giving too much for their whistles_. Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider that, with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John, which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put to sale by auction, I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and find that I had once more given too much for the _whistle_. 251 "The Ephemera" was also addressed to Madame Brillon, the "amiable Brillante" of the final sentence. It is an allegorical story emphasizing the relative shortness of human life. Franklin's "Alas! art is long and life is short!" anticipates Longfellow's "Art is long and time is fleeting." But hundreds of writers had preceded both of them in calling attention to this at the same time commonplace and significant fact. At the end, Franklin's quiet acceptance of the rather gloomy outlook suggested by the ephemeral nature of life is noteworthy, and is characteristic of his general temper. THE EPHEMERA _An Emblem of Human Life_ BENJAMIN FRANKLIN You may remember, my dear friend, that when we lately spent that happy day in the delightful garden and sweet society of the Moulin Joly, I stopped a little in one of our walks, and stayed some time behind the company. We had been shown numberless skeletons of a kind of little fly, called an ephemera, whose successive generations, we were told, were bred and expired within the day. I happened to see a living company of them on a leaf, who appeared to be engaged in conversation. You know I understand all the inferior animal tongues. My too great application to the study of them is the best excuse I can give for the little progress I have made in your charming language. I listened through curiosity to the discourse of these little creatures; but as they, in their national vivacity, spoke three or four together, I could make but little of their conversation. I found, however, by some broken expressions that I heard now and then, they were disputing warmly on the merit of two foreign musicians, one a _cousin_, the other a _moscheto_; in which dispute they spent their time, seemingly as regardless of the shortness of life as if they had been sure of living a month. Happy people! thought I; you live certainly under a wise, just, and mild government, since you have no public grievances to complain of, nor any subject of contention but the perfections and imperfections of foreign music. I turned my head from them to an old grey-headed one, who was single on another leaf, and talking to himself. Being amused with his soliloquy, I put it down in writing, in hopes it will likewise amuse her to whom I am so much indebted for the most pleasing of all amusements, her delicious company and heavenly harmony. "It was," said he, "the opinion of learned philosophers of our race, who lived and flourished long before my time, that this vast world, the Moulin Joly, could not itself subsist more than eighteen hours; and I think there was some foundation for that opinion, since, by the apparent motion of the great luminary that gives life to all nature, and which in my time has evidently declined considerably towards the ocean at the end of our earth, it must then finish its course, be extinguished in the waters that surround us, and leave the world in cold and darkness, necessarily producing universal death and destruction. I have lived seven of those hours, a great age, being no less than four hundred and twenty minutes of time. How very few of us continue so long! I have seen generations born, flourish, and expire. My present friends are the children and grandchildren of the friends of my youth, who are now, also, no more! And I must soon follow them; for, by the course of nature, though still in health, I cannot expect to live above seven or eight minutes longer. What now avails all my toil and labor in amassing honey-dew on this leaf, which I cannot live to enjoy! What the political struggles I have been engaged in, for the good of my compatriot inhabitants of this bush, or my philosophical studies for the benefit of our race in general! for, in politics, what can laws do without morals? Our present race of ephemerae will in a course of minutes become corrupt, like those of other and older bushes, and consequently as wretched. And in philosophy how small is our progress! Alas! art is long, and life is short! My friends would comfort me with the idea of a name, they say, I shall leave behind me; and they tell me I have lived long enough to nature and to glory. But what will fame be to an ephemera who no longer exists? And what will become of all history in the eighteenth hour, when the world itself, even the whole Moulin Joly, shall come to its end, and be buried in universal ruin?" To me, after all my eager pursuits, no solid pleasures now remain, but the reflection of a long life spent in meaning well, the sensible conversation of a few good lady ephemerae, and now and then a kind smile and a tune from the ever amiable _Brillante_. 252 The brief allegory that follows is very generally regarded as the finest and noblest specimen of its type. It is here reprinted approximately in the form of its first appearance, now more than two hundred years ago, as more in keeping with its spirit than a modern dress would be. The world of recent times is not so much given to this kind of writing as the eighteenth century was. Like Franklin's "Ephemera," Addison's vision grows out of "profound contemplation on the vanity of human life." The key to the symbolism is found in the "threescore and ten arches" of the bridge, representing the scriptural limit of physical existence, with some broken arches for any excess of that limit. The fact that "the bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches" is a reference to the great number of years assigned to some of the patriarchs. The splendid concluding vision in which Mirzah sees the compensations for the ills of this life suggests a very different type of mind from that of the "this-worldly" closing paragraph in Franklin's apologue. "The Vision of Mirzah" is No. 159 of the _Spectator_ (September 1, 1711). THE VISION OF MIRZAH JOSEPH ADDISON When I was at Grand Cairo I picked up several oriental manuscripts, which I have still by me. Among others I met with one entitled The Visions of Mirzah, which I have read over with great pleasure. I intend to give it to the public when I have no other entertainment for them; and I shall begin with the first vision, which I have translated word for word as follows: On the fifth day of the moon, which according to the custom of my forefathers I always kept holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought to another, surely, said I, man is but a shadow and life a dream. Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in paradise to wear out the impressions of their last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures. I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius; and that several had been entertained with music who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasure of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature: and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, Mirzah, said he, I have heard thee in thy soliloquies: follow me. He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placed me on the top of it. Cast thy eyes eastward, said he, and tell me what thou seest. I see, said I, a huge valley and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it. The valley that thou seest, said he, is the vale of misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of eternity. What is the reason, said I, that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other? What thou seest, says he, is that portion of eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now, said he, this sea that is thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it. I see a bridge, said I, standing in the midst of the tide. The bridge thou seest, said he, is human life; consider it attentively. Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several broken arches, which added to those that were entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting the arches the genius told me that the bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. But tell me further, said he, what thou discoverest on it. I see multitudes of people passing over it, said I, and a black cloud hanging on each end of it. As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge, into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that the throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire. There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk. I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of baubles that glittered in their eyes and danced before them, but often when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed and down they sank. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with scimetars in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons upon trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon them. The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it: take thine eyes off the bridge, said he, and tell me if thou seest anything thou dost not comprehend. Upon looking up, what mean, said I, those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other feathered creatures several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches. These, said the genius, are envy, avarice, superstition, despair, love, with the like cares and passions that infect human life. I here fetched a deep sigh; alas, said I, man was made in vain! How is he given away to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death! The genius, being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. Look no more, said he, on a man in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity; but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it. I directed my sight as was ordered, and (whether or no the good genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the farther end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one-half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of the fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats; but the genius told me there was no passage to them except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. The islands, said he, that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sands of the sea-shore; there are myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching farther than thy eyes, or even than thine imagination, can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are settled in them; every island is a paradise, accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirzah, habitations worth contending for? Does life appear miserable that gives the opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared that will convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not a man was made in vain who has such an eternity reserved for him. I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said I, Show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant. The genius making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me. I then turned again to the vision which I had been so long contemplating, but, instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it. 253 "The Discontented Pendulum" was one of seventy-nine brief prose selections by Jane Taylor (1783-1824) which appeared first in a paper for young people and were, after the author's death, gathered together and published as _Contributions of Q. Q._ (1826). This one selection only from that volume still lives, is reprinted often in school-readers, and by virtue of its cleverness and point deserves its happy fate. The author attached to it a "Moral" almost as long as the story itself, and that has long since fallen by the wayside. Perhaps that is because the story is too clear to need the "Moral." Here are a few sentences from it: "The _present_ is all we have to manage: the past is irrecoverable; the future is uncertain; nor is it fair to burden one moment with the weight of the next. Sufficient unto the _moment_ is the trouble thereof. . . . One moment comes laden with its own _little_ burden, then flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier than the last; if _one_ could be sustained, so can another, and another. . . . Let any one resolve to do right _now_, leaving _then_ to do as it can, and if he were to live to the age of Methuselah, he would never err. . . . Let us then, 'whatever our hands find to do, do it with all our might, recollecting that _now_ is the proper and the accepted time.'" THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM JANE TAYLOR An old clock that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped. Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable) changed countenance with alarm: the hands made an ineffectual effort to continue their course; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. At length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation; when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice, protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below, from the pendulum, who thus spoke: "I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is that I am tired of ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged that it was on the point of _striking_. "Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands. "Very good!" replied the pendulum, "it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as everybody knows, set yourself up above me--it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness! You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and wag backwards and forwards, year after year, as I do." "As to that," said the dial, "is there not a window in your house on purpose for you to look through?" "For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it is very dark here; and although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to look out. Besides, I am really weary of my way of life; and if you please, I'll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. This morning I happened to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course only of the next twenty-four hours: perhaps some of you, above there, can give me the exact sum." The minute hand, being _quick at figures_, instantly replied, "Eighty-six thousand four hundred times." "Exactly so," replied the pendulum: "well, I appeal to you all, if the thought of this was not enough to fatigue one? And when I began to multiply the stroke of one day by those of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect; so after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself--I'll stop." The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied: "Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this sudden suggestion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time. So we have all, and are likely to do; and although this may fatigue us to _think_ of, the question is, whether it it will fatigue us to _do_: would you now do me the favor to give about half a dozen strokes to illustrate my argument?" The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace. "Now," resumed the dial, "may I be allowed to inquire if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable to you?" "Not in the least," replied the pendulum;--"It is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of _millions_." "Very good," replied the dial, "but recollect that although you may _think_ of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to _execute_ but one; and that however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in." "That consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum. "Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, "we shall all immediately return to our duty; for the maids will lie in bed till noon if we stand idling thus." Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of _light_ conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum began to wag, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a beam of the rising sun that streamed through a hole in the kitchen shutter, shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up as if nothing had been the matter. When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the clock he declared that his watch had gained half an hour in the night. 254 Count Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) was a Russian novelist, poet, and social reformer; author, among other important works, of _War and Peace_ and _Anna Karenina_. He wrote many short stories and sketches, a number of which are markedly symbolic in character. The one that follows is a good illustration of a type of such tales pleasing to modern minds. We no longer produce the formal fable or allegory. In Tolstoy's story are two historical characters of so pronounced individuality that their names always suggest definite ideas--Croesus, riches and worldly greatness; Solon, wisdom and worldly poverty and lowliness. These ideas are brought into conflict, and the outcome allows us to see which is the basic one in Tolstoy's theory of life. Who is the happy warrior? One would merely have to quote some words from the story to have an answer. And if the reader feels the force of the answer, as Tolstoy evidently hoped he would, it means a new or at least a more distinctly held ideal of living. CROESUS AND SOLON LEO TOLSTOY In olden times--long, long before the coming of Christ--there reigned over a certain country a great king called Croesus. He had much gold and silver, and many precious stones, as well as numberless soldiers and slaves. Indeed, he thought that in all the world there could be no happier man than himself. But one day there chanced to visit the country which Croesus ruled a Greek philosopher named Solon. Far and wide was Solon famed as a wise man and a just; and, inasmuch as his fame had reached Croesus also, the king commanded that he should be conducted to his presence. Seated upon his throne, and robed in his most gorgeous apparel, Croesus asked of Solon: "Have you ever seen aught more splendid than this?" "Of a surety have I," replied Solon. "Peacocks, cocks, and pheasants glitter with colors so diverse and so brilliant that no art can compare with them." Croesus was silent as he thought to himself: "Since this is not enough, I must show him something more, to surprise him." So he exhibited the whole of his riches before Solon's eyes, as well as boasted of the number of foes he had slain, and the number of territories he had conquered. Then he said to the philosopher: "You have lived long in the world, and have visited many countries. Tell me whom you consider to be the happiest man living?" "The happiest man living I consider to be a certain poor man who lives in Athens," replied Solon. The king was surprised at this answer, for he had made certain that Solon would name him himself; yet, for all that, the philosopher had named a perfectly obscure individual! "Why do you say that?" asked Croesus. "Because," replied Solon, "the man of whom I speak has worked hard all his life, has been content with little, has reared fine children, has served his city honorably, and has achieved a noble reputation." When Croesus heard this he exclaimed: "And do you reckon my happiness as nothing, and consider that I am not fit to be compared with the man of whom you speak?" To this Solon replied: "Often it befalls that a poor man is happier than a rich man. Call no man happy until he is dead." The king dismissed Solon, for he was not pleased at his words, and had no belief in him. "A fig for melancholy!" he thought. "While a man lives he should live for pleasure." So he forgot about Solon entirely. Not long afterwards the king's son went hunting, but wounded himself by a mischance, and died of the wound. Next, it was told to Croesus that the powerful Emperor Cyrus was coming to make war upon him. So Croesus went out against Cyrus with a great army, but the enemy proved the stronger, and, having won the battle and shattered Croesus' forces, penetrated to the capital. Then the foreign soldiers began to pillage all King Croesus' riches, and to slay the inhabitants, and to sack and fire the city. One soldier seized Croesus himself, and was just about to stab him, when the king's son darted forward to defend his father, and cried aloud: "Do not touch him! That is Croesus, the king!" So the soldiers bound Croesus, and carried him away to the Emperor; but Cyrus was celebrating his victory at a banquet, and could not speak with the captive, so orders were sent out for Croesus to be executed. In the middle of the city square the soldiers built a great burning-pile, and upon the top of it they placed King Croesus, bound him to a stake, and set fire to the pile. Croesus gazed around him, upon his city and upon his palace. Then he remembered the words of the Greek philosopher, and, bursting into tears, could only say: "Ah, Solon, Solon!" The soldiers were closing in about the pile when the Emperor Cyrus arrived in person to view the execution. As he did so he caught these words uttered by Croesus, but could not understand them. So he commanded Croesus to be taken from the pile, and inquired of him what he had just said. Croesus answered: "I was but naming the name of a wise man--of one who told me a great truth--a truth that is of greater worth than all earthly riches, than all our kingly glory." And Croesus related to Cyrus his conversation with Solon. The story touched the heart of the Emperor, for he bethought him that he too was but a man, that he too knew not what Fate might have in store for him. So in the end he had mercy upon Croesus, and became his friend. SECTION VI MYTHS BIBLIOGRAPHY I. GENERAL HANDBOOKS Bulfinch, Thomas, _Mythology: The Age of Fable_. Gayley, Charles Mills, _Classic Myths in English Literature and in Art_. II. GREEK AND ROMAN Baker, Emilie Kip, _Stories of Old Greece and Rome_. Baldwin, James, _Old Greek Stories_. Francillon, R. E., _Gods and Heroes, or the Kingdom of Jupiter_. Guerber, H. A., _Myths of Greece and Rome_. Hawthorne, Nathaniel, _A Wonder-Book for Boys and Girls_. Hawthorne, Nathaniel, _Tanglewood Tales: A Second Wonder-Book_. Kingsley, Charles, _Greek Heroes_. Kupfer, Grace H., _Stories of Long Ago_. Peabody, Josephine P., _Old Greek Folk Stories_. III. NORTHERN MYTHS Anderson, R. B., _Norse Mythology, or The Religion of Our Forefathers_. Baker, Emilie Kip, _Stories of Northern Myths_. Boult, Katherine F., _Heroes of the Northland_. Brown, Abbie Farwell, _In the Days of the Giants_. Colum, Padraic, _The Children of Odin_. Guerber, H. A., _Myths of Northern Lands_. Keary, Anna and Eliza, _The Heroes of Asgard_. Mabie, Hamilton Wright, _Norse Stories_. Wilmot-Buxton, E. M., _Stories of Norse Heroes_. IV. NATURE MYTHS ("POURQUOI" STORIES) Cook, Flora J., _Nature Myths_. Holbrook, Florence, _The Book of Nature Myths_. V. CRITICAL WORKS Cox, Sir G. W., _Mythology of the Aryan Nations_. 2 vols. Fiske, John, _Myths and Myth-Makers_. Frazer, J. G., _The Golden Bough_. 12 vols. Hartland, E. S., _The Legend of Perseus_. 3 vols. Lang, Andrew, _Myth, Ritual, and Religion_. 2 vols. Mueller, Max, _Contributions to the Science of Mythology_. Ruskin, John, _Athena, Queen of the Air_. Spencer, Herbert, _Principles of Sociology_. Tylor, E. B., _Primitive Culture_. 2 vols. SECTION VI. MYTHS INTRODUCTORY _What myths are._ It seems that every race of people in the period of barbarism and early civilization has created fanciful, childlike stories to explain such things as the origin of earth, sun, stars, clouds, life, death, fire, man, lower animals, and plants, and the characteristics of particular plants and animals. In most cases, if not all, they have accounted for the origin of such things by the theory that they were created by gods and super-human heroes. Among such peoples as the Greek and Norse folk, many stories also grew up regarding the gods and super-human heroes and their relations with one another and with men. All of these old stories about the creation of things and about the gods and super-human heroes are called myths. As time went on and the peoples became civilized, the original myths were regarded merely as fanciful tales, and were used to furnish characters and plots for many stories told chiefly for entertainment. Often, as in the story of Ulysses, legends of national heroes were combined with them. Even in our time such writers as Hawthorne and Kingsley and Lowell have used these old characters and plots as the basis of stories, many of which differ greatly from the original myths. _Myths and other folk stories._ Myths were pretty largely matters of faith to begin with. They were the basis of old-time religious beliefs, explaining to the mind of primitive man how things came to be as they are. This tendency to adopt what are to educated minds fanciful explanations of all that is beyond their understanding is easily observable in the way children explain the unknown. It seems fairly clear, on the other hand, that fairy stories were told by the folk as matter of entertainment. They did not believe that pigs actually talked, that a princess could sleep a hundred years, that a bean-stalk could grow as fast and as far as Jack's did, or that toads and diamonds could actually come out of one's mouth. It may be, as some theorists insist, that remains of myth survive in some of these fairy stories. On the whole, however, the folk believed these tales only in the sense in which we believe in a fine story such as "The Vision of Sir Launfal" or "Enoch Arden." They express the pleasing imaginings and longings of the human spirit, its ideals of character and conduct, its sense of the wonder and mystery of the universe. The fairy tale, in general, is nearer the surface of life; the myth was concerned with the most fundamental problems of the _whence_ and the _why_ of things. Such distinctions, however, belong to the realm of scientific scholarship. The teacher is concerned with myths simply as splendid stories that have come down to us from a time when human beings seemed to feel themselves bound into a unity with nature and all mysterious powers around them; stories that through constant repetition were rounded and perfected, and finally, through use by the poets, have reached us in a fairly systematic form. The so-called "poetic mythology" is the one of special value for our purposes. It comes to us through Ovid in the South, and does not distinguish between the gods of Greece and Rome. It comes through the Eddas of the North. It is this poetic mythology that furnishes the basis of allusion in literature and in art, and which is retold for us in the various versions for modern readers. If we hold fast to this correct idea that as teachers in elementary schools our interest in myths is exactly like our interest in other folk products, an interest in them as stories tested by the ages, an interest in them as presenting familiar and suggestive types of character and conduct, an interest in them as stimulating our sense of wonder and mystery, we shall not be disturbed by the violent discussions that sometimes rage over the advisability of using myths with children. _Values of myth._ To make the above proposition as clear as possible, let us first tabulate briefly the values of myth, borrowing a suggestion from Jeremiah Curtin: 1. A wonderful story told in most effective fashion. To realize this value, one needs to recall only the efforts of Prometheus in bringing down fire for man and his heroic endurance of vengeful tyranny as a result. The work of Hercules in slaying the many-headed serpent or in cleansing the Augean stables, the adventures of Theseus culminating in the labyrinth of the horrible Minotaur, the beautiful hospitality of Baucis and Philemon, the equally beautiful sadness of the death of Balder--all these simply hint the riches of the myth as story. This story interest is the one that appeals to all human beings as human beings and is therefore fundamental. 2. Myth preserves much material of social and antiquarian interest. It helps us understand the institutions and customs of primitive stages in human development, and as such has great value for scientific students of human society. 3. Myth preserves evidences of how the mind of man looked out upon his surroundings and what it did in the way of interpreting them. It makes most valuable contributions, therefore, to the history of the human mind, and must be taken into account in the science of anthropology. It must be evident that the second and third values are only in the slightest degree within the range of the child in his early years of school work. _Objections to myth._ The objections to the use of myths in school may also be brought under three heads: 1. They come from a plane of ethics much lower than our own. This is the one strong argument against all folk material, and it has a validity that must be frankly recognized. There are the miscellaneous love affairs of Jupiter, and certain stories that have elements of horror and brutality. Such stories we cannot use, "though an error on that side is better than effeminancy." Occasional defects cannot outweigh the great positive ethical worth of myth. We must simply make intelligent choice. The situation is not different from what it is in choosing from modern poetry and story. It would be poor evidence of our sanity if we ruled out all poetry because some of it is not fit. Let us, however, omit entirely those myths that are not suitable rather than attempt making them over to suit modern conceptions. We may properly allow liberties to a literary artist like Hawthorne that a mere artisan should not take. 2. Myth deals with the worn-out and obsolete ideas of the past, and will give children false religious and scientific notions. But one does not rule out _Paradise Lost_ because Milton's cosmogony is so purely fanciful, nor Dante because of his equally fantastic structure of the Inferno. Neither children nor older readers are ever led astray by these purely incidental backgrounds against which and by means of which the human interest is powerfully projected. 3. Myth is too deeply symbolical. But readers of different ages and abilities find results up to their stature. We do not demand that the children shall be able to understand all that is back of _Gulliver's Travels_, or _Pilgrim's Progress_, before we give them those books. What is worth while in literature has an increasing message as the powers of the reader increase. _How to use myths._ We may sum up the conclusions thus: Select those myths that tell stories of dramatic force and that have sound ethical worth. So far as possible let these be the ones most familiar in literary allusion and in common speech. Present the myth as you would any other folk story. Since myth naturally comes along a little later than fairy stories, probably beginning not earlier than the third grade, the discussion of its meanings may take a wider range. Keep the poetic elements of the story prominent, as in most of the examples following. SUGGESTIONS For the soundest and most illuminating discussion of the values and proper use of myths in education see Edward Howard Griggs, _Moral Education_, chap, xxi, "The Ethical Value of Mythology and Folk-Lore." For some good suggestions and lists consult Ezra Allen, "The Pedagogy of Myth in the Grades," _Pedagogical Seminary_, Vol. VIII, p. 258. A very interesting plan for the use of myths may be found in two articles by O. O. Norris, "Myths and the Teaching of Myths," _The American Schoolmaster_, Vol. IX, p. 96 and p. 145. Consult also MacClintock, _Literature in the Elementary School_, chap, vii, and McMurry, _Special Method in Reading_, pp. 92-105. The first nine myths in this section came originally from Greek mythology. The Romans adopted the mythology of the Greeks, but changed the names of the gods. English-speaking peoples have usually used these Latin versions. Hence in the following Greek myths the Roman names of the gods are used. In this note the Greek name is usually given in parenthesis after the Roman. According to mythology, Saturn once ruled the universe. After a great war he was overthrown and the universe was divided into three kingdoms, each governed by one of his sons. Jupiter (Zeus) ruled the heavens and the earth; Neptune (Poseidon) ruled the sea; and Pluto (Dis) ruled Hades, or Tartarus, the gloomy region of the dead in a cavern far under the surface of the earth. The home of Jupiter and the many other gods of heaven was represented as being the top of Mount Olympus, in Thessaly. Here each of the gods of heaven had a separate dwelling, but all assembled at times in the palace of Jupiter. Sometimes these gods went to earth, through a gate of clouds kept by goddesses called the Seasons. The relations between these divinities were much like those between people on earth. Some had greater power than others, and rivalries and quarrels frequently arose. Jupiter, the supreme ruler, governed by wisdom as well as by the power of his thunderbolt. He had three sisters: Juno, Vesta, and Ceres. Juno (Hera) was the wife of Jupiter and the noblest of the goddesses. Vesta (Hestia), the goddess of health, was not married. Ceres (Demeter), the goddess of agriculture, was the mother of Proserpine, who became wife of Pluto and queen of Hades. Minerva (Athena), goddess of wisdom and Jupiter's favorite daughter, had no mother, as she sprang fully armed from Jupiter's head. Venus (Aphrodite) was goddess of beauty and mother of Cupid, god of love. Two other goddesses were Diana (Artemis), modest virgin goddess of the moon, who protects brute creation, and Hebe, cup-bearer to the gods. Among the greatest of the gods were three sons of Jupiter: Apollo, Mars, and Vulcan. Apollo, or Phoebus, was god of the sun and patron of music, archery, and prophecy. Mars (Ares) was god of war, and Vulcan (Hephaestus), the lame god of fire, was the blacksmith of the gods. 255 This version of the myth of Ceres and Proserpine is taken by permission of the author and the publishers from _Stories of Long Ago_, by Grace H. Kupfer. (Copyright. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston.) "Of all the beautiful fictions of Greek mythology," said Aubrey DeVere, "there are few more exquisite than the story of Proserpine, and none deeper in symbolical meaning." That portion of its meaning fitted to the understanding of children is indicated in the final paragraphs of Miss Kupfer's version. Teachers should realize that "the fable has, however, its moral significance also, being connected with that great mystery of Joy and Grief, of Life and of Death, which pressed so heavily on the mind of Pagan Greece, and imparts to the whole of her mythology a profound interest, spiritual as well as philosophical. It was the restoration of Man, not of flowers, the victory over Death, not over Winter, with which that high Intelligence felt itself to be really concerned." Hawthorne's version of this story appears in _Tanglewood Tales_ as "The Pomegranate Seeds." A STORY OF THE SPRINGTIME GRACE H. KUPFER PART I In the blue Mediterranean Sea, which washes the southern shore of Europe, lies the beautiful island of Sicily. Long, long ago, there lived on this island a goddess named Ceres. She had power to make the earth yield plentiful crops of grain, or to leave it barren; and on her depended the food, and therefore the life of all the people on the great, wide earth. Ceres had one fair young daughter, whom she loved very dearly. And no wonder, for Proserpine was the sunniest, happiest girl you could imagine. Her face was all white and pink, like apple blossoms in spring, and there was just enough blue in her eyes to give you a glimpse of an April morning sky. Her long, golden curls reminded you of the bright sunlight. In fact there was something so young and fair and tender about the maiden that if you could imagine anything so strange as the whole springtime, with all its loveliness, changed into a human being, you would have looked but an instant at Proserpine and said, "She is the Spring." Proserpine spent the long, happy days in the fields, helping her mother, or dancing and singing among the flowers, with her young companions. Way down under the earth, in the land of the dead, lived dark King Pluto; and the days were very lonely for him with only shadows to talk to. Often and often, he had tried to urge some goddess to come and share his gloomy throne; but not the richest jewels or wealth could tempt any one of them to leave the bright sunlight above and dwell in the land of shades. One day Pluto came up to earth and was driving along in his swift chariot, when, behind some bushes, he heard such merry voices and musical laughter that he drew rein, and stepping down, parted the bushes to see who was on the other side. There he saw Proserpine standing in the center of a ring of laughing young girls who were pelting her with flowers. The stern old king felt his heart beat quicker at sight of all these lovely maidens, and he singled out Proserpine, and said to himself, "She shall be my queen. That fair face can make even dark Hades light and beautiful." But he knew it would be useless to ask the girl for her consent; so, with a bold stride, he stepped into the midst of the happy circle. The young girls, frightened at his dark, stern face, fled to right and left. But Pluto grasped Proserpine by the arm and carried her to his chariot, and then the horses flew along the ground, leaving Proserpine's startled companions far behind. King Pluto knew that he must hasten away with his prize, lest Ceres should discover her loss; and to keep out of her path, he drove his chariot a roundabout way. He came to a river; but as he neared its banks, it suddenly began to bubble and swell and rage, so that Pluto did not dare to drive through its waters. To go back another way would mean great loss of time; so with his scepter he struck the ground thrice. It opened, and, in an instant, horses, chariot, and all, plunged into the darkness below. But Proserpine knew that the nymph of the stream had recognized her, and had tried to save her by making the waters of the stream rise. So, just as the ground was closing over her, the girl seized her girdle and threw it far out into the river. She hoped that in some way the girdle might reach Ceres and help her to find her lost daughter. PART II In the evening Ceres returned to her home; but her daughter, who usually came running to meet her, was nowhere to be seen. Ceres searched for her in all the rooms, but they were empty. Then she lighted a great torch from the fires of a volcano, and went wandering among the fields, looking for her child. When morning broke, and she had found no trace of Proserpine, her grief was terrible to see. On that sad day, Ceres began a long, long wandering. Over land and sea she journeyed, bearing in her right hand the torch which had been kindled in the fiery volcano. All her duties were neglected, and everywhere the crops failed, and the ground was barren and dry. Want and famine took the place of wealth and plenty throughout the world. It seemed as though the great earth grieved with the mother for the loss of beautiful Proserpine. When the starving people came to Ceres and begged her to resume her duties and to be their friend again, Ceres lifted her great eyes, wearied with endless seeking, and answered that until Proserpine was found, she could think only of her child, and could not care for the neglected earth. So all the people cried aloud to Jupiter that he should bring Proserpine back to her mother, for they were sadly in need of great Ceres' help. At last, after wandering over all the earth in her fruitless search, Ceres returned to Sicily. One day, as she was passing a river, suddenly a little swell of water carried something to her feet. Stooping to see what it was, she picked up the girdle which Proserpine had long ago thrown to the water nymph. While she was looking at it, with tears in her eyes, she heard a fountain near her bubbling louder and louder, until at last it seemed to speak. And this is what it said: "I am the nymph of the fountain, and I come from the inmost parts of the earth, O Ceres, great mother! There I saw your daughter seated on a throne at the dark king's side. But in spite of her splendor, her cheeks were pale and her eyes were heavy with weeping. I can stay no longer now, O Ceres, for I must leap into the sunshine. The bright sky calls me, and I must hasten away." Then Ceres arose and went to Jupiter and said, "I have found the place where my daughter is hidden. Give her back to me, and the earth shall once more be fruitful, and the people shall have food." Jupiter was moved, both by the mother's sorrow and by the prayers of the people on earth; and he said that Proserpine might return to her home if she had tasted no food while in Pluto's kingdom. So the happy mother hastened down into Hades. But alas! that very day Proserpine had eaten six pomegranate seeds; and for every one of those seeds she was doomed each year to spend a month underground. For six months of the year Ceres is happy with her daughter. At Proserpine's coming, flowers bloom and birds sing and the earth everywhere smiles its welcome to its young queen. Some people say that Proserpine really is the springtime, and that while she is with us all the earth seems fair and beautiful. But when the time comes for Proserpine to rejoin King Pluto in his dark home underground, Ceres hides herself and grieves through all the weary months until her daughter's return. Then the earth, too, is somber and sad. The leaves fall to the ground, as though the trees were weeping for the loss of the fair, young queen; and the flowers hide underground, until the eager step of the maiden, returning to earth, awakens all nature from its winter sleep. 256 Because of his beautiful idealism and the artistic nature of his work, Hawthorne (1804-1864) is one of America's most loved story-tellers. His stories are never idle tales, for each one reveals secret motives and impulses that determine human action. This characteristic makes his works wholesome and inspiring for both children and adults. Four volumes of his short stories, intended primarily for children, are classics for the upper grades. _Grandfather's Chair_ is a group of stories about life in New England in early times. _True Stories from History and Biography_ makes the child acquainted with such historical characters as Franklin and Newton. _A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys_ and _Tanglewood Tales_ are Hawthorne's versions of old Greek myths. In his two volumes of Greek myths, Hawthorne does not hold to the plot or style of the original stories; but here, as in all his work, he shows how incidents in life determine human character. The following quotation from the Preface to _A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys_ explains in Hawthorne's own words the nature of his version of the myths: "He [the author] does not plead guilty to a sacrilege in having sometimes shaped anew, as his fancy dictated, the forms that have been hallowed by an antiquity of two or three thousand years. No epoch of time can claim a copyright in these immortal fables. They seem never to have been made; and certainly, so long as man exists, they can never perish; but, by their indestructibility itself, they are legitimate subjects for every age to clothe with its own garniture of manners and sentiment, and to imbue with its own morality." The story "The Paradise of Children," taken from _A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys_, is Hawthorne's version of the Greek myth of Pandora's Box, which is an attempt to explain how pain and suffering came to humanity. According to the Greek myth, Jupiter was angry when he learned that Prometheus, one of the Titans, had given men fire stolen from heaven. That men might not have this blessing without an affliction to compensate, the gods filled a box with ills, but put Hope also in the box. Then, fearing that neither Prometheus nor his brother Epimetheus would open the box, they created Pandora. Mercury, the messenger of Jupiter, carried Pandora and the box as a gift to Epimetheus, and the curiosity of Pandora led her to open the box. THE PARADISE OF CHILDREN NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE Long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was a child named Epimetheus, who never had either father or mother; and, that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless like himself, was sent from a far country to live with him and be his playfellow and helpmate. Her name was Pandora. The first thing that Pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where Epimetheus dwelt, was a great box. And almost the first question which she put to him, after crossing the threshold, was this,-- "Epimetheus, what have you in that box?" "My dear little Pandora," answered Epimetheus, "that is a secret, and you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it. The box was left here to be kept safely, and I do not myself know what it contains." "But who gave it to you?" asked Pandora. "And where did it come from?" "That is a secret, too," replied Epimetheus. "How provoking!" exclaimed Pandora, pouting her lip. "I wish the great, ugly box were out of the way!" "Oh, come, don't think of it any more," cried Epimetheus. "Let us run out of doors, and have some nice play with the other children." It is thousands of years since Epimetheus and Pandora were alive; and the world, nowadays, is a very different sort of thing from what it was in their time. Then, everybody was a child. There needed no fathers and mothers to take care of the children; because there was no danger, nor trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there was always plenty to eat and drink. Whenever a child wanted his dinner, he found it growing on a tree; and, if he looked at the tree in the morning, he could see the expanding blossom of that night's supper; or, at eventide, he saw the tender bud of to-morrow's breakfast. It was a very pleasant life, indeed. No labor to be done, no tasks to be studied; nothing but sports and dances, and sweet voices of children talking, or caroling like birds, or gushing out in merry laughter, throughout the livelong day. What was most wonderful of all, the children never quarreled among themselves; neither had they any crying fits; nor, since time first began, had a single one of these little mortals ever gone apart into a corner, and sulked. Oh, what a good time was that to be alive in! The truth is, those ugly little winged monsters, called Troubles, which are now almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet been seen on the earth. It is probable that the very greatest disquietude which a child had ever experienced was Pandora's vexation at not being able to discover the secret of the mysterious box. This was at first only the faint shadow of a Trouble; but, every day, it grew more and more substantial, until, before a great while, the cottage of Epimetheus and Pandora was less sunshiny than those of the other children. "Whence can the box have come?" Pandora continually kept saying to herself and to Epimetheus. "And what in the world can be inside of it!" "Always talking about this box!" said Epimetheus, at last; for he had grown extremely tired of the subject. "I wish, dear Pandora, you would try to talk of something else. Come, let us go and gather some ripe figs, and eat them under the trees, for our supper. And I know a vine that has the sweetest and juiciest grapes you ever tasted." "Always talking about grapes and figs!" cried Pandora, pettishly. "Well, then," said Epimetheus, who was a very good-tempered child, like a multitude of children in those days, "let us run out and have a merry time with our playmates." "I am tired of merry times, and don't care if I never have any more!" answered our pettish little Pandora. "And, besides, I never do have any. This ugly box! I am so taken up with thinking about it all the time. I insist upon your telling me what is inside of it." "As I have already said, fifty times over, I do not know!" replied Epimetheus, getting a little vexed. "How, then, can I tell you what is inside?" "You might open it," said Pandora, looking sideways at Epimetheus, "and then we could see for ourselves." "Pandora, what are you thinking of?" exclaimed Epimetheus. And his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a box which had been confided to him on the condition of his never opening it, that Pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more. Still, however, she could not help thinking and talking about the box. "At least," said she, "you can tell me how it came here." "It was left at the door," replied Epimetheus, "just before you came, by a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could hardly forbear laughing as he put it down. He was dressed in an odd kind of a cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of feathers, so that it looked almost as if it had wings." "What sort of a staff had he?" asked Pandora. "Oh, the most curious staff you ever saw!" cried Epimetheus. "It was like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so naturally that I, at first, thought the serpents were alive." "I know him," said Pandora, thoughtfully. "Nobody else has such a staff. It was Quicksilver; and he brought me hither, as well as the box. No doubt he intended it for me; and, most probably, it contains pretty dresses for me to wear, or toys for you and me to play with, or something very nice for us both to eat!" "Perhaps so," answered Epimetheus, turning away. "But until Quicksilver comes back and tells us so, we have neither of us any right to lift the lid of the box." "What a dull boy he is!" muttered Pandora, as Epimetheus left the cottage. "I do wish he had a little more enterprise!" For the first time since her arrival, Epimetheus had gone out without asking Pandora to accompany him. He went to gather figs and grapes by himself, or to seek whatever amusement he could find, in other society than his little playfellow's. He was tired to death of hearing about the box, and heartily wished that Quicksilver, or whatever was the messenger's name, had left it at some other child's door, where Pandora would never have set eyes on it. So perseveringly as she did babble about this one thing! The box, the box, and nothing but the box! It seemed as if the box were bewitched, and as if the cottage were not big enough to hold it, without Pandora's continually stumbling over it, and making Epimetheus stumble over it likewise, and bruising all four of their shins. Well, it was really hard that poor Epimetheus should have a box in his ears from morning till night; especially as the little people of the earth were so unaccustomed to vexations, in those happy days, that they knew not how to deal with them. Thus, a small vexation made as much disturbance, then, as a far bigger one would in our own times. After Epimetheus was gone, Pandora stood gazing at the box. She had called it ugly, above a hundred times; but, in spite of all that she had said against it, it was positively a very handsome article of furniture, and would have been quite an ornament to any room in which it should be placed. It was made of a beautiful kind of wood, with dark and rich veins spreading over its surface, which was so highly polished that little Pandora could see her face in it. As the child had no other looking-glass, it is odd that she did not value the box, merely on this account. The edges and corners of the box were carved with most wonderful skill. Around the margin there were figures of graceful men and women, and the prettiest children ever seen, reclining or sporting amid a profusion of flowers and foliage; and these various objects were so exquisitely represented, and were wrought together in such harmony, that flowers, foliage, and human beings seemed to combine into a wreath of mingled beauty. But here and there, peeping forth from behind the carved foliage, Pandora once or twice fancied that she saw a face not so lovely, or something or other that was disagreeable, and which stole the beauty out of all the rest. Nevertheless, on looking more closely, and touching the spot with her finger, she could discover nothing of the kind. Some face, that was really beautiful, had been made to look ugly by her catching a sideway glimpse at it. The most beautiful face of all was done in what is called high relief, in the center of the lid. There was nothing else, save the dark, smooth richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the center, with a garland of flowers about its brow. Pandora had looked at this face a great many times, and imagined that the mouth could smile if it liked, or be grave when it chose, the same as any living mouth. The features, indeed, all wore a very lively and rather mischievous expression, which looked almost as if it needs must burst out of the carved lips, and utter itself in words. Had the mouth spoken, it would probably have been something like this: "Do not be afraid, Pandora! What harm can there be in opening the box? Never mind that poor, simple Epimetheus! You are wiser than he, and have ten times as much spirit. Open the box, and see if you do not find something very pretty!" The box, I had almost forgotten to say, was fastened; not by a lock, nor by any other such contrivance, but by a very intricate knot of gold cord. There appeared to be no end to this knot, and no beginning. Never was a knot so cunningly twisted, nor with so many ins and outs, which roguishly defied the skilfullest fingers to disentangle them. And yet, by the very difficulty that there was in it, Pandora was the more tempted to examine the knot, and just see how it was made. Two or three times, already, she had stooped over the box, and taken the knot between her thumb and forefinger, but without positively trying to undo it. "I really believe," said she to herself, "that I begin to see how it was done. Nay, perhaps I could tie it up again, after undoing it. There would be no harm in that, surely. Even Epimetheus would not blame me for that. I need not open the box, and should not, of course, without the foolish boy's consent, even if the knot were untied." It might have been better for Pandora if she had had a little work to do, or anything to employ her mind upon, so as not to be so constantly thinking of this one subject. But children led so easy a life, before any Troubles came into the world, that they had really a great deal too much leisure. They could not be forever playing at hide-and-seek among the flower-shrubs, or at blind-man's-buff with garlands over their eyes, or at whatever other games had been found out while Mother Earth was in her babyhood. When life is all sport, toil is the real play. There was absolutely nothing to do. A little sweeping and dusting about the cottage, I suppose, and the gathering of fresh flowers (which were only too abundant everywhere), and arranging them in vases,--and poor little Pandora's day's work was over. And then, for the rest of the day, there was the box! After all, I am not quite sure that the box was not a blessing to her in its way. It supplied her with such a variety of ideas to think of, and to talk about, whenever she had anybody to listen! When she was in good humor, she could admire the bright polish of its sides, and the rich border of beautiful faces and foliage that ran all around it. Or, if she chanced to be ill-tempered, she could give it a push, or kick it with her naughty little foot. And many a kick did the box--(but it was a mischievous box, as we shall see, and deserved all it got)--many a kick did it receive. But, certain it is, if it had not been for the box, our active-minded little Pandora would not have known half so well how to spend her time as she now did. For it was really an endless employment to guess what was inside. What could it be, indeed? Just imagine, my little hearers, how busy your wits would be, if there were a great box in the house, which, as you might have reason to suppose, contained something new and pretty for your Christmas or New-Year's gifts. Do you think that you should be less curious than Pandora? If you were alone with the box, might you not feel a little tempted to lift the lid? But you would not do it. Oh, fie! No, no! Only, if you thought there were toys in it, it would be so very hard to let slip an opportunity of taking just one peep! I know not whether Pandora expected any toys; for none had yet begun to be made, probably, in those days, when the world itself was one great plaything for the children that dwelt upon it. But Pandora was convinced that there was something very beautiful and valuable in the box; and therefore she felt just as anxious to take a peep as any of these girls, here around me, would have felt. And, possibly, a little more so; but of that I am not quite so certain. On this particular day, however, which we have so long been talking about, her curiosity grew so much greater than it usually was, that, at last, she approached the box. She was more than half determined to open it, if she could. Ah, naughty Pandora! First, however, she tried to lift it. It was heavy; quite too heavy for the slender strength of a child, like Pandora. She raised one end of the box a few inches from the floor, and let it fall again, with a pretty loud thump. A moment afterwards, she almost fancied that she heard something stir, inside of the box. She applied her ear as closely as possible, and listened. Positively, there did seem to be a kind of stifled murmur, within! Or was it merely the singing in Pandora's ears? Or could it be the beating of her heart? The child could not quite satisfy herself whether she had heard anything or no. But, at all events, her curiosity was stronger than ever. As she drew back her head, her eyes fell upon the knot of gold cord. "It must have been a very ingenious person who tied this knot," said Pandora to herself. "But I think I could untie it, nevertheless. I am resolved, at least, to find the two ends of the cord." So she took the golden knot in her fingers, and pried into its intricacies as sharply as she could. Almost without intending it, or quite knowing what she was about, she was soon busily engaged in attempting to undo it. Meanwhile, the bright sunshine came through the open window; as did likewise the merry voices of the children, playing at a distance, and perhaps the voice of Epimetheus among them. Pandora stopped to listen. What a beautiful day it was! Would it not be wiser if she were to let the troublesome knot alone, and think no more about the box, but run and join her little playfellows, and be happy? All this time, however, her fingers were half unconsciously busy with the knot; and, happening to glance at the flower-wreathed face on the lid of the enchanted box, she seemed to perceive it slyly grinning at her. "That face looks very mischievous," thought Pandora. "I wonder whether it smiles because I am doing wrong! I have the greatest mind in the world to run away!" But just then, by the merest accident, she gave the knot a kind of a twist, which produced a wonderful result. The gold cord untwined itself, as if by magic, and left the box without a fastening. "This is the strangest thing I ever knew!" said Pandora. "What will Epimetheus say? And how can I possibly tie it up again?" She made one or two attempts to restore the knot, but soon found it quite beyond her skill. It had disentangled itself so suddenly that she could not in the least remember how the strings had been doubled into one another; and when she tried to recollect the shape and appearance of the knot, it seemed to have gone entirely out of her mind. Nothing was to be done, therefore, but let the box remain as it was, until Epimetheus should come in. "But," said Pandora, "when he finds the knot untied, he will know that I have done it. How shall I make him believe that I have not looked into the box?" And then the thought came into her naughty little heart, that, since she would be suspected of having looked into the box, she might just as well do so, at once. Oh, very naughty and very foolish Pandora! You should have thought only of doing what was right, and of leaving undone what was wrong, and not of what your playfellow Epimetheus would have said or believed. And so perhaps she might, if the enchanted face on the lid of the box had not looked so bewitchingly persuasive at her, and if she had not seemed to hear, more distinctly than before, the murmur of small voices within. She could not tell whether it was fancy or no; but there was quite a little tumult of whispers in her ear,--or else it was her curiosity that whispered: "Let us out, dear Pandora,--pray let us out! We will be such nice pretty playfellows for you! Only let us out!" "What can it be?" thought Pandora. "Is there something alive in the box? Well!--yes!--I am resolved to take just one peep! Only one peep; and then the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever! There cannot possibly be any harm in just one little peep!" But it is now time for us to see what Epimetheus was doing. This was the first time, since his little playmate had come to dwell with him, that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did not partake. But nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on other days. He could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if Epimetheus had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs); or, if ripe at all, they were over-ripe, and so sweet as to be cloying. There was no mirth in his heart, such as usually made his voice gush out, of its own accord, and swell the merriment of his companions. In short, he grew so uneasy and discontented, that the other children could not imagine what was the matter with Epimetheus. Neither did he himself know what ailed him, any better than they did. For you must recollect that at the time we are speaking of, it was everybody's nature, and constant habit, to be happy. The world had not yet learned to be otherwise. Not a single soul or body, since these children were first sent to enjoy themselves on the beautiful earth, had ever been sick, or out of sorts. At length, discovering that, somehow or other, he put a stop to all the play, Epimetheus judged it best to go back to Pandora, who was in a humor better suited to his own. But, with a hope of giving her pleasure, he gathered some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which he meant to put upon her head. The flowers were very lovely,--roses, and lilies, and orange-blossoms, and a great many more, which left a trail of fragrance behind, as Epimetheus carried them along; and the wreath was put together with as much skill as could reasonably be expected of a boy. The fingers of little girls, it has always appeared to me, are the fittest to twine flower-wreaths; but boys could do it, in those days, rather better than they can now. And here I must mention that a great black cloud had been gathering in the sky, for some time past, although it had not yet overspread the sun. But, just as Epimetheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to intercept the sunshine, and thus to make a sudden and sad obscurity. He entered softly; for he meant, if possible, to steal behind Pandora, and fling the wreath of flowers over her head, before she should be aware of his approach. But, as it happened, there was no need of his treading so very lightly. He might have trod as heavily as he pleased,--as heavily as a grown man,--as heavily, I was going to say, as an elephant,--without much probability of Pandora's hearing his footsteps. She was too intent upon her purpose. At the moment of his entering the cottage, the naughty child had put her hand to the lid, and was on the point of opening the mysterious box. Epimetheus beheld her. If he had cried out, Pandora would probably have withdrawn her hand, and the fatal mystery of the box might never have been known. But Epimetheus himself, although he said very little about it, had his own share of curiosity to know what was inside. Perceiving that Pandora was resolved to find out the secret, he determined that his playfellow should not be the only wise person in the cottage. And if there were anything pretty or valuable in the box, he meant to take half of it to himself. Thus, after all his sage speeches to Pandora about restraining her curiosity, Epimetheus turned out to be quite as foolish, and nearly as much in fault, as she. So, whenever we blame Pandora for what happened, we must not forget to shake our heads at Epimetheus likewise. As Pandora raised the lid, the cottage grew very dark and dismal; for the black cloud had now swept quite over the sun, and seemed to have buried it alive. There had, for a little while past, been a low growling and muttering, which all at once broke into a heavy peal of thunder. But Pandora, heeding nothing of all this, lifted the lid nearly upright, and looked inside. It seemed as if a sudden swarm of winged creatures brushed past her, taking flight out of the box, while, at the same instant, she heard the voice of Epimetheus, with a lamentable tone, as if he were in pain. "Oh, I am stung!" cried he. "I am stung! Naughty Pandora; why have you opened this wicked box?" Pandora let fall the lid, and, starting up, looked about her, to see what had befallen Epimetheus. The thunder-cloud had so darkened the room that she could not very clearly discern what was in it. But she heard a disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies, or gigantic mosquitoes, or those insects which we call dor-bugs and pinching-dogs, were darting about. And, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the imperfect light, she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, with bats' wings, looking abominably spiteful, and armed with terribly long stings in their tails. It was one of these that had stung Epimetheus. Nor was it a great while before Pandora herself began to scream, in no less pain and affright than her playfellow, and making a vast deal more hubbub about it. An odious little monster had settled on her forehead, and would have stung her I know not how deeply, if Epimetheus had not run and brushed it away. Now, if you wish to know what these ugly things might be, which had made their escape out of the box, I must tell you that they were the whole family of earthly Troubles. There were evil Passions; there were a great many species of Cares; there were more than a hundred and fifty Sorrows; there were Diseases, in a vast number of miserable and painful shapes; there were more kinds of Naughtiness than it would be of any use to talk about. In short, everything that has since afflicted the souls and bodies of mankind had been shut up in the mysterious box, and given to Epimetheus and Pandora to be kept safely, in order that the happy children of the world might never be molested by them. Had they been faithful to their trust, all would have gone well. No grown person would ever have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed a single tear, from that hour until this moment. But--and you may see by this how a wrong act of any one mortal is a calamity to the whole world--by Pandora's lifting the lid of that miserable box, and by the fault of Epimetheus, too, in not preventing her, these Troubles have obtained a foothold among us, and do not seem very likely to be driven away in a hurry. For it was impossible, as you will easily guess, that the two children should keep the ugly swarm in their own little cottage. On the contrary, the first thing that they did was to fling open the doors and windows, in hopes of getting rid of them; and, sure enough, away flew the winged Troubles all abroad, and so pestered and tormented the small people, everywhere about, that none of them so much as smiled for many days afterwards. And what was very singular, all the flowers and dewy blossoms on earth, not one of which had hitherto faded, now began to droop and shed their leaves, after a day or two. The children, moreover, who before seemed immortal in their childhood, now grew older, day by day, and came soon to be youths and maidens, and men and women by and by, and aged people, before they dreamed of such a thing. Meanwhile, the naughty Pandora, and hardly less naughty Epimetheus, remained in their cottage. Both of them had been grievously stung, and were in a good deal of pain, which seemed the more intolerable to them because it was the very first pain that had ever been felt since the world began. Of course, they were entirely unaccustomed to it, and could have no idea what it meant. Besides all this, they were in exceedingly bad humor, both with themselves and with one another. In order to indulge it to the utmost, Epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with his back towards Pandora; while Pandora flung herself upon the floor and rested her head on the fatal and abominable box. She was crying bitterly, and sobbing as if her heart would break. Suddenly there was a gentle little tap on the inside of the lid. "What can that be?" cried Pandora, lifting her head. But either Epimetheus had not heard the tap, or was too much out of humor to notice it. At any rate, he made no answer. "You are very unkind," said Pandora, sobbing anew, "not to speak to me!" Again the tap! It sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy's hand, knocking lightly and playfully on the inside of the box. "Who are you?" asked Pandora, with a little of her former curiosity. "Who are you, inside of this naughty box?" A sweet little voice spoke from within, "Only lift the lid, and you shall see." "No, no," answered Pandora, again beginning to sob. "I have had enough of lifting the lid! You are inside of the box, naughty creature, and there you shall stay! There are plenty of your ugly brothers and sisters already flying about the world. You need never think that I shall be so foolish as to let you out!" She looked towards Epimetheus, as she spoke, perhaps expecting that he would commend her for her wisdom. But the sullen boy only muttered that she was wise a little too late. "Ah," said the sweet little voice again, "you had much better let me out. I am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their tails. They are no brothers and sisters of mine, as you would see at once, if you were only to get a glimpse of me. Come, come, my pretty Pandora! I am sure you will let me out!" And, indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone that made it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice asked. Pandora's heart had insensibly grown lighter at every word that came from within the box. Epimetheus, too, though still in the corner, had turned half round, and seemed to be in rather better spirits than before. "My dear Epimetheus," cried Pandora, "have you heard this little voice?" "Yes, to be sure I have," answered he, but in no very good humor as yet. "And what of it?" "Shall I lift the lid again?" asked Pandora. "Just as you please," said Epimetheus. "You have done so much mischief already that perhaps you may as well do a little more. One other Trouble, in such a swarm as you have let adrift about the world, can make no very great difference." "You might speak a little more kindly!" murmured Pandora, wiping her eyes. "Ah, naughty boy!" cried the little voice within the box, in an arch and laughing tone. "He knows he is longing to see me. Come, my dear Pandora, lift up the lid. I am in a great hurry to comfort you. Only let me have some fresh air, and you shall soon see that matters are not quite so dismal as you think them." "Epimetheus," exclaimed Pandora, "come what may, I am resolved to open the box." "And, as the lid seems very heavy," cried Epimetheus, running across the room, "I will help you!" So, with one consent, the two children again lifted the lid. Out flew a sunny and smiling little personage, and hovered about the room, throwing a light wherever she went. Have you never made the sunshine dance into the dark corners by reflecting it from a bit of looking-glass? Well, so looked the winged cheerfulness of this fairy-like stranger amid the gloom of the cottage. She flew to Epimetheus, and laid the least touch of her finger on the inflamed spot where the Trouble had stung him, and immediately the anguish of it was gone. Then she kissed Pandora on the forehead, and her hurt was cured likewise. After performing these good offices, the bright stranger fluttered sportively over the children's heads, and looked so sweetly at them, that they both began to think it not so very much amiss to have opened the box, since, otherwise, their cheery guest must have been kept a prisoner among those naughty imps with stings in their tails. "Pray, who are you, beautiful creature?" inquired Pandora. "I am to be called Hope!" answered the sunshiny figure. "And because I am such a cheery little body, I was packed into the box to make amends to the human race for that swarm of ugly Troubles which was destined to be let loose among them. Never fear! we shall do pretty well, in spite of them all." "Your wings are colored like the rainbow!" exclaimed Pandora. "How very beautiful!" "Yes, they are like the rainbow," said Hope, "because, glad as my nature is, I am partly made of tears as well as smiles." "And will you stay with us," asked Epimetheus, "forever and ever?" "As long as you need me," said Hope, with her pleasant smile,--"and that will be as long as you live in the world,--I promise never to desert you. There may come times and seasons, now and then, when you will think that I have utterly vanished. But again, and again, and again, when perhaps you least dream of it, you shall see the glimmer of my wings on the ceiling of your cottage. Yes, my dear children, and I know something very good and beautiful that is to be given you hereafter!" "Oh, tell us," they exclaimed--"tell us what it is!" "Do not ask me," replied Hope, putting her finger on her rosy mouth. "But do not despair, even if it should never happen while you live on this earth. Trust in my promise, for it is true." "We do trust you!" cried Epimetheus and Pandora, both in one breath. And so they did; and not only they, but so has everybody trusted Hope, that has since been alive. And, to tell you the truth, I cannot help being glad--(though, to be sure, it was an uncommonly naughty thing for her to do)--but I cannot help being glad that our foolish Pandora peeped into the box. No doubt--no doubt--the Troubles are still flying about the world, and have increased in multitude, rather than lessened, and are a very ugly set of imps, and carry most venomous stings in their tails. I have felt them already, and expect to feel them more as I grow older. But then that lovely and lightsome little figure of Hope! What in the world could we do without her? Hope spiritualizes the earth; Hope makes it always new; and, even in the earth's best and brightest aspect, Hope shows it to be only the shadow of an infinite bliss hereafter! 257 "The Miraculous Pitcher," taken from _A Wonder-Book for Girls and Boys_, is Hawthorne's version of the Greek myth of Baucis and Philemon. The two mysterious visitors are Jupiter and Mercury, who, according to the Greek myth, visited earth in disguise and were entertained by Baucis and Philemon. THE MIRACULOUS PITCHER NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his old wife Baucis sat at their cottage door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. They had already eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend a quiet hour or two before bedtime. So they talked together about their garden and their cow, and their bees, and their grape-vine, which clambered over the cottage-wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn purple. But the rude shouts of children and the fierce barking of dogs, in the village near at hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it was hardly possible for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other speak. "Ah, wife," cried Philemon, "I fear some poor traveler is seeking hospitality among our neighbors yonder, and, instead of giving him food and lodging, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!" "Well-a-day!" answered old Baucis, "I do wish our neighbors felt a little more kindness for their fellow-creatures. And only think of bringing up their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the head when they fling stones at strangers!" "Those children will never come to any good," said Philemon, shaking his white head. "To tell you the truth, wife, I should not wonder if some terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village, unless they mend their manners. But, as for you and me, so long as Providence affords us a crust of bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor, homeless stranger that may come along and need it." "That's right, husband!" said Baucis. "So we will!" These old folks, you must know, were quite poor, and had to work pretty hard for a living. Old Philemon toiled diligently in his garden, while Baucis was always busy with her distaff, or making a little butter and cheese with their cow's milk, or doing one thing and another about the cottage. Their food was seldom anything but bread, milk, and vegetables, with sometimes a portion of honey from their beehive, and now and then a bunch of grapes, that had ripened against the cottage wall. But they were two of the kindest old people in the world, and would cheerfully have gone without their dinners, any day, rather than refuse a slice of their brown loaf, a cup of nice milk, and a spoonful of honey, to the weary traveler who might pause before their door. They felt as if such guests had a sort of holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to treat them better and more bountifully than their own selves. Their cottage stood on a rising ground, at some short distance from a village, which lay in a hollow valley, that was about half a mile in breadth. This valley, in past ages, when the world was new, had probably been the bed of a lake. There, fishes had glided to and fro in the depths, and water-weeds had grown along the margin, and trees and hills had seen their reflected images in the broad and peaceful mirror. But, as the waters subsided, men had cultivated the soil, and built houses on it, so that it was now a fertile spot, and bore no traces of the ancient lake, except a very small brook, which meandered through the midst of the village, and supplied the inhabitants with water. The valley had been dry land so long that oaks had sprung up, and grown great and high, and perished with old age, and been succeeded by others, as tall and stately as the first. Never was there a prettier or more fruitful valley. The very sight of the plenty around them should have made the inhabitants kind and gentle and ready to show their gratitude to Providence by doing good to their fellow-creatures. But, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were not worthy to dwell in a spot on which Heaven had smiled so beneficently. They were a very selfish and hard-hearted people, and had no pity for the poor, nor sympathy with the homeless. They would only have laughed had anybody told them that human beings owe a debt of love to one another, because there is no other method of paying the debt of love and care which all of us owe to Providence. You will hardly believe what I am going to tell you. These naughty people taught their children to be no better than themselves, and used to clap their hands, by way of encouragement, when they saw the little boys and girls run after some poor stranger, shouting at his heels, and pelting him with stones. They kept large and fierce dogs, and whenever a traveler ventured to show himself in the village street, this pack of disagreeable curs scampered to meet him, barking, snarling, and showing their teeth. Then they would seize him by his leg, or by his clothes, just as it happened; and if he were ragged when he came, he was generally a pitiable object before he had time to run away. This was a very terrible thing to poor travelers, as you may suppose, especially when they chanced to be sick, or feeble, or lame, or old. Such persons (if they once knew how badly these unkind people, and their unkind children and curs, were in the habit of behaving) would go miles and miles out of their way rather than try to pass through the village again. What made the matter seem worse, if possible, was that when rich persons came in their chariots, or riding on beautiful horses, with their servants in rich liveries attending on them, nobody could be more civil and obsequious than the inhabitants of the village. They would take off their hats, and make the humblest bows you ever saw. If the children were rude, they were pretty certain to get their ears boxed; and as for the dogs, if a single cur in the pack presumed to yelp, his master instantly beat him with a club, and tied him up without any supper. This would have been all very well, only it proved that the villagers cared much about the money that a stranger had in his pocket, and nothing whatever for the human soul, which lives equally in the beggar and the prince. So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke so sorrowfully when he heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the dogs at the further extremity of the village street. There was a confused din, which lasted a good while, and seemed to pass quite through the breadth of the valley. "I never heard the dogs so loud!" observed the good old man. "Nor the children so rude!" answered his good old wife. They sat shaking their heads, one to another, while the noise came nearer and nearer; until, at the foot of the little eminence on which their cottage stood, they saw two travelers approaching on foot. Close behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their very heels. A little farther off, ran a crowd of children, who sent up shrill cries, and flung stones at the two strangers, with all their might. Once or twice, the younger of the two men (he was a slender and very active figure) turned about, and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in his hand. His companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly along, as if disdaining to notice either the naughty children or the pack of curs, whose manners the children seemed to imitate. Both of the travelers were very humbly clad, and looked as if they might not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a night's lodging. And this, I am afraid, was the reason why the villagers had allowed their children and dogs to treat them so rudely. "Come, wife," said Philemon to Baucis, "let us go and meet these poor people. No doubt they feel almost too heavy-hearted to climb the hill." "Go you and meet them," answered Baucis, "while I make haste within doors and see whether we can get them anything for supper. A comfortable bowl of bread and milk would do wonders towards raising their spirits." Accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. Philemon, on his part, went forward and extended his hand with so hospitable an aspect that there was no need of saying, what nevertheless he did say, in the heartiest tone imaginable,-- "Welcome, strangers! welcome!" "Thank you!" replied the younger of the two, in a lively kind of way, notwithstanding his weariness and trouble. "This is quite another greeting than we have met with yonder, in the village. Pray, why do you live in such a bad neighborhood?" "Ah," observed old Philemon, with a quiet and benign smile, "Providence put me here, I hope, among other reasons, in order that I may make you what amends I can for the inhospitality of my neighbors." "Well said, old father!" said the traveler, laughing; "and, if the truth must be told, my companion and myself need some amends. Those children (the little rascals!) have bespattered us finely with their mud-balls; and one of the curs has torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already. But I took him across the muzzle with my staff; and I think you may have heard him yelp, even thus far off." Philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits; nor, indeed, would you have fancied, by the traveler's look and manner, that he was weary with a long day's journey, besides being disheartened by rough treatment at the end of it. He was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of cap on his head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. Though it was a summer evening, he wore a cloak, which he kept wrapt closely about him, perhaps because his under garments were shabby. Philemon perceived, too, that he had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing dusk, and as the old man's eyesight was none the sharpest, he could not precisely tell in what the strangeness consisted. One thing, certainly, seemed queer. The traveler was so wonderfully light and active, that it appeared as if his feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own accord, or could only be kept down by an effort. "I used to be light-footed, in my youth," said Philemon to the traveler. "But I always found my feet grow heavier towards nightfall." "There is nothing like a good staff to help one along," answered the stranger; "and I happen to have an excellent one, as you see." This staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that Philemon had ever beheld. It was made of olive-wood, and had something like a little pair of wings near the top. Two snakes, carved in the wood, were represented as twining themselves about the staff, and were so very skillfully executed that old Philemon (whose eyes, you know, were getting rather dim) almost thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling and twisting. "A curious piece of work, sure enough!" said he. "A staff with wings! It would be an excellent kind of stick for a little boy to ride astride of!" By this time, Philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage door. "Friends," said the old man, "sit down and rest yourselves here on this bench. My good wife Baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper. We are poor folks; but you shall be welcome to whatever we have in the cupboard." The younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the bench, letting his staff fall as he did so. And here happened something rather marvelous, though trifling enough, too. The staff seemed to get up from the ground of its own accord, and, spreading its little pair of wings, it half hopped, half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage. There it stood quite still, except that the snakes continued to wriggle. But, in my private opinion, old Philemon's eyesight had been playing him tricks again. Before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger drew his attention from the wonderful staff by speaking to him. "Was there not," asked the stranger, in a remarkably deep tone of voice, "a lake, in very ancient times, covering the spot where now stands yonder village?" "Not in my day, friend," answered Philemon; "and yet I am an old man, as you see. There were always the fields and meadows, just as they are now, and the old trees, and the little stream murmuring through the midst of the valley. My father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise, so far as I know; and doubtless it will still be the same when old Philemon shall be gone and forgotten!" "That is more than can be safely foretold," observed the stranger; and there was something very stern in his deep voice. He shook his head, too, so that his dark and heavy curls were shaken with the movement. "Since the inhabitants of yonder village have forgotten the affections and sympathies of their nature, it were better that the lake should be rippling over their dwellings again!" The traveler looked so stern that Philemon was really almost frightened; the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight seemed suddenly to grow darker, and that, when he shook his head, there was a roll as of thunder in the air. But, in a moment afterwards, the stranger's face became so kindly and mild that the old man quite forgot his terror. Nevertheless, he could not help feeling that this elder traveler must be no ordinary personage, although he happened now to be attired so humbly, and to be journeying on foot. Not that Philemon fancied him a prince in disguise, or any character of that sort; but rather some exceedingly wise man, who went about the world in this poor garb, despising wealth and all worldly objects, and seeking everywhere to add a mite to his wisdom. This idea appeared the more probable, because, when Philemon raised his eyes to the stranger's face, he seemed to see more thought there, in one look, than he could have studied out in a lifetime. While Baucis was getting the supper, the travelers both began to talk very sociably with Philemon. The younger, indeed, was extremely loquacious, and made such shrewd and witty remarks, that the good old man continually burst out a-laughing, and pronounced him the merriest fellow whom he had seen for many a day. "Pray, my young friend," said he, as they grew familiar together, "what may I call your name?" "Why, I am very nimble, as you see," answered the traveler. "So, if you call me Quicksilver, the name will fit tolerably well." "Quicksilver? Quicksilver!" repeated Philemon, looking in the traveler's face, to see if he were making fun of him. "It is a very odd name! And your companion there? Has he as strange a one?" "You must ask the thunder to tell you it!" replied Quicksilver, putting on a mysterious look. "No other voice is loud enough." This remark, whether it were serious or in jest, might have caused Philemon to conceive a very great awe of the elder stranger, if, on venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much beneficence in his visage. But, undoubtedly, here was the grandest figure that ever sat so humbly beside a cottage door. When the stranger conversed, it was with gravity, and in such a way that Philemon felt irresistibly moved to tell him everything which he had most at heart. This is always the feeling that people have, when they meet with any one wise enough to comprehend all their good and evil, and to despise not a tittle of it. But Philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that he was, had not many secrets to disclose. He talked, however, quite garrulously, about the events of his past life, in the whole course of which he had never been a score of miles from this very spot. His wife Baucis and himself had dwelt in the cottage from their youth upward, earning their bread by honest labor, always poor, but still contented. He told what excellent butter and cheese Baucis made and how nice were the vegetables which he raised in his garden. He said, too, that, because they loved one another so very much, it was the wish of both that death might not separate them, but that they should die, as they had lived, together. As the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his countenance, and made its expression as sweet as it was grand. "You are a good old man," said he to Philemon, "and you have a good old wife to be your helpmeet. It is fit that your wish be granted." And it seemed to Philemon, just then, as if the sunset clouds threw up a bright flash from the west, and kindled a sudden light in the sky. Baucis had now got supper ready, and coming to the door, began to make apologies for the poor fare which she was forced to set before her guests. "Had we known you were coming," said she, "my good man and myself would have gone without a morsel, rather than you should lack a better supper. But I took the most part of to-day's milk to make cheese; and our last loaf is already half eaten. Ah me! I never feel the sorrow of being poor, save when a poor traveler knocks at our door." "All will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my good dame," replied the elder stranger, kindly. "An honest hearty welcome to a guest works miracles with the fare, and is capable of turning the coarsest food to nectar and ambrosia." "A welcome you shall have," cried Baucis, "and likewise a little honey that we happen to have left, and a bunch of purple grapes besides." "Why, Mother Baucis, it is a feast!" exclaimed Quicksilver, laughing, "an absolute feast! And you shall see how bravely I will play my part at it! I think I never felt hungrier in my life." "Mercy on us!" whispered Baucis to her husband. "If the young man has such a terrible appetite, I am afraid there will not be half enough supper!" They all went into the cottage. And now, my little auditors, shall I tell you something that will make you open your eyes very wide? It is really one of the oddest circumstances in the whole story. Quicksilver's staff, you recollect, had set itself up against the wall of the cottage. Well, when its master entered the door, leaving this wonderful staff behind, what should it do but immediately spread its little wings, and go hopping and fluttering up the doorsteps! Tap, tap, went the staff, on the kitchen floor; nor did it rest until it had stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity and decorum, beside Quicksilver's chair. Old Philemon, however, as well as his wife, was so taken up in attending to their guests, that no notice was given to what the staff had been about. As Baucis had said, there was but a scanty supper for two hungry travelers. In the middle of the table was the remnant of a brown loaf, with a piece of cheese on one side of it, and a dish of honeycomb on the other. There was a pretty good bunch of grapes for each of the guests. A moderately sized earthen pitcher, nearly full of milk, stood at a corner of the board; and when Baucis had filled two bowls, and set them before the strangers, only a little milk remained in the bottom of the pitcher. Alas! it is a very sad business, when a bountiful heart finds itself pinched and squeezed among narrow circumstances. Poor Baucis kept wishing that she might starve for a week to come, if it were possible, by so doing, to provide these hungry folks a more plentiful supper. And, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she could not help wishing that their appetites had not been quite so large. Why, at their very first sitting down, the travelers both drank off all the milk in their two bowls, at a draught. "A little more milk, kind Mother Baucis, if you please," said Quicksilver. "The day has been hot, and I am very much athirst." "Now, my dear people," answered Baucis, in great confusion, "I am so sorry and ashamed! But the truth is, there is hardly a drop more milk in the pitcher. O husband! husband! why didn't we go without our supper?" "Why, it appears to me," cried Quicksilver, starting up from the table and taking the pitcher by the handle, "it really appears to me that matters are not quite so bad as you represent them. Here is certainly more milk in the pitcher." So saying, and to the vast astonishment of Baucis, he proceeded to fill, not only his own bowl, but his companion's likewise, from the pitcher, that was supposed to be almost empty. The good woman could scarcely believe her eyes. She had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and had peeped in afterwards, and seen the bottom of the pitcher, as she set it down upon the table. "But I am old," thought Baucis to herself, "and apt to be forgetful. I suppose I must have made a mistake. At all events, the pitcher cannot help being empty now, after filling the bowls twice over." "What excellent milk!" observed Quicksilver, after quaffing the contents of the second bowl. "Excuse me, my kind hostess, but I must really ask you for a little more." Now Baucis had seen, as plainly as she could see anything, that Quicksilver had turned the pitcher upside down, and consequently had poured out every drop of milk, in filling the last bowl. Of course, there could not possibly be any left. However, in order to let him know precisely how the case was, she lifted the pitcher, and made a gesture as if pouring milk into Quicksilver's bowl, but without the remotest idea that any milk would stream forth. What was her surprise, therefore, when such an abundant cascade fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was immediately filled to the brim, and overflowed upon the table! The two snakes that were twisted about Quicksilver's staff (but neither Baucis nor Philemon happened to observe this circumstance) stretched out their heads, and began to lap up the spilt milk. And then what a delicious fragrance the milk had! It seemed as if Philemon's only cow must have pastured, that day, on the richest herbage that could be found anywhere in the world. I only wish that each of you, my beloved little souls, could have a bowl of such nice milk at supper-time! "And now a slice of your brown loaf, Mother Baucis," said Quicksilver, "and a little of that honey!" Baucis cut him a slice, accordingly; and though the loaf, when she and her husband ate of it, had been rather too dry and crusty to be palatable, it was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of the oven. Tasting a crumb, which had fallen on the table, she found it more delicious than bread ever was before, and could hardly believe that it was a loaf of her own kneading and baking. Yet, what other loaf could it possibly be? But, oh, the honey! I may just as well let it alone, without trying to describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked. Its color was that of the purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odor of a thousand flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds. The wonder is, that, after alighting on a flower-bed of so delicious fragrance and immortal bloom, they should have been content to fly down again to their hive in Philemon's garden. Never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt. The perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful, that, had you closed your eyes, you would instantly have forgotten the low ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor, with celestial honeysuckles creeping over it. Although good Mother Baucis was a simple old dame, she could not but think that there was something rather out of the common way in all that had been going on. So, after helping the guests to bread and honey, and laying a bunch of grapes by each of their plates, she sat down by Philemon, and told him what she had seen, in a whisper. "Did you ever hear the like?" asked she. "No, I never did," answered Philemon, with a smile. "And I rather think, my dear old wife, you have been walking about in a sort of a dream. If I had poured out the milk, I should have seen through the business at once. There happened to be a little more in the pitcher than you thought,--that is all." "Ah, husband," said Baucis, "say what you will, these are very uncommon people." "Well, well," replied Philemon, still smiling, "perhaps they are. They certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and I am heartily glad to see them making so comfortable a supper." Each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate. Baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more clearly) was of opinion that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each separate grape seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice. It was entirely a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have been produced from the old stunted vine that climbed against the cottage wall. "Very admirable grapes, these!" observed Quicksilver, as he swallowed one after another, without apparently diminishing his cluster. "Pray, my good host, whence did you gather them?" "From my own vine," answered Philemon. "You may see one of its branches twisting across the window, yonder. But wife and I never thought the grapes very fine ones." "I never tasted better," said the guest. "Another cup of this delicious milk, if you please, and I shall then have supped better than a prince." This time, old Philemon bestirred himself, and took up the pitcher; for he was curious to discover whether there was any reality in the marvels which Baucis had whispered to him. He knew that his good old wife was incapable of falsehood, and that she was seldom mistaken in what she supposed to be true; but this was so very singular a case that he wanted to see into it with his own eyes. On taking up the pitcher, therefore, he slyly peeped into it, and was fully satisfied that it contained not so much as a single drop. All at once, however, he beheld a little white fountain, which gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher, and speedily filled it to the brim with foaming and deliciously fragrant milk. It was lucky that Philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous pitcher from his hand. "Who are ye, wonder-working strangers?" cried he, even more bewildered than his wife had been. "Your guests, my good Philemon, and your friends," replied the elder traveler, in his mild, deep voice, that had something at once sweet and awe-inspiring in it. "Give me likewise a cup of the milk; and may your pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, any more than for the needy wayfarer!" The supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their place of repose. The old people would gladly have talked with them a little longer, and have expressed the wonder which they felt, and their delight at finding the poor and meager supper prove so much better and more abundant than they hoped. But the elder traveler had inspired them with such reverence that they dared not ask him any questions. And when Philemon drew Quicksilver aside, and inquired how under the sun a fountain of milk could have got into an old earthen pitcher, this latter personage pointed to his staff. "There is the whole mystery of the affair," quoth Quicksilver; "and if you can make it out, I'll thank you to let me know. I can't tell what to make of my staff. It is always playing such odd tricks as this; sometimes getting me a supper, and quite as often stealing it away. If I had any faith in such nonsense, I should say the stick was bewitched!" He said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces, that they rather fancied he was laughing at them. The magic staff went hopping at his heels, as Quicksilver quitted the room. When left alone, the good old couple spent some little time in conversation about the events of the evening, and then lay down on the floor, and fell fast asleep. They had given up their sleeping-room to the guests, and had no other bed for themselves, save these planks, which I wish had been as soft as their own hearts. The old man and his wife were stirring, betimes, in the morning, and the strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to depart. Philemon hospitably entreated them to remain a little longer, until Baucis could milk the cow, and bake a cake upon the hearth, and, perhaps, find them a few fresh eggs, for breakfast. The guests, however, seemed to think it better to accomplish a good part of their journey before the heat of the day should come on. They, therefore, persisted in setting out immediately, but asked Philemon and Baucis to walk forth with them a short distance, and show them the road which they were to take. So they all four issued from the cottage, chatting together like old friends. It was very remarkable, indeed, how familiar the old couple insensibly grew with the elder traveler, and how their good and simple spirits melted into his, even as two drops of water would melt into the illimitable ocean. And as for Quicksilver, with his keen, quick, laughing wits, he appeared to discover every little thought that but peeped into their minds, before they suspected it themselves. They sometimes wished, it is true, that he had not been quite so quick-witted, and also that he would fling away his staff, which looked so mysteriously mischievous, with the snakes always writhing about it. But then, again, Quicksilver showed himself so very good-humored, that they would have been rejoiced to keep him in their cottage, staff, snakes, and all, every day, and the whole day long. "Ah, me! Well-a-day!" exclaimed Philemon, when they had walked a little way from their door. "If our neighbors only knew what a blessed thing it is to show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs, and never allow their children to fling another stone." "It is a sin and shame for them to behave so,--that it is!" cried good old Baucis, vehemently. "And I mean to go this very day and tell some of them what naughty people they are!" "I fear," remarked Quicksilver, slyly smiling, "that you will find none of them at home." The elder traveler's brow, just then, assumed such a grave, stern, and awful grandeur, yet serene withal, that neither Baucis nor Philemon dared to speak a word. They gazed reverently into his face, as if they had been gazing at the sky. "When men do not feel towards the humblest stranger as if he were a brother," said the traveler, in tones so deep they sounded like those of an organ, "they are unworthy to exist on earth, which was created as the abode of a great human brotherhood!" "And, by the by, my dear old people," cried Quicksilver, with the liveliest look of fun and mischief in his eyes, "where is this same village that you talk about? On which side of us does it lie? Methinks I do not see it hereabouts." Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where, at sunset, only the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the clumps of trees, the wide, green-margined street, with children playing in it, and all the tokens of business, enjoyment, and prosperity. But what was their astonishment! There was no longer any appearance of a village! Even the fertile vale, in the hollow of which it lay, had ceased to have existence. In its stead, they beheld the broad, blue surface of a lake, which filled the great basin of the valley from brim to brim, and reflected the surrounding hills in its bosom, with as tranquil an image as if it had been there ever since the creation of the world. For an instant, the lake remained perfectly smooth. Then, a little breeze sprang up, and caused the water to dance, glitter, and sparkle in the early sunbeams, and to dash, with a pleasant rippling murmur, against the hither shore. The lake seemed so strangely familiar, that the old couple were greatly perplexed, and felt as if they could only have been dreaming about a village having lain there. But, the next moment, they remembered the vanished dwellings, and the faces and characters of the inhabitants, far too distinctly for a dream. The village had been there yesterday, and now was gone! "Alas!" cried these kind-hearted old people, "what has become of our poor neighbors!" "They exist no longer as men and women," said the elder traveler, in his grand and deep voice, while a roll of thunder seemed to echo it at a distance. "There was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs; for they never softened or sweetened the hard lot of mortality by the exercise of kindly affections between man and man. They retained no image of the better life in their bosoms: therefore, the lake, that was of old, has spread itself forth again, to reflect the sky!" "And as for those foolish people," said Quicksilver, with his mischievous smile, "they are all transformed to fishes. There needed but little change, for they were already a scaly set of rascals, and the coldest-blooded beings in existence. So, kind Mother Baucis, whenever you or your husband have an appetite for a dish of broiled trout, he can throw in a line, and pull out half a dozen of your old neighbors!" "Ah," cried Baucis, shuddering, "I would not, for the world, put one of them on the gridiron!" "No," added Philemon, making a wry face, "we could never relish them!" "As for you, good Philemon," continued the elder traveler,--"and you, kind Baucis,--you, with your scanty means, have mingled so much heartfelt hospitality with your entertainment of the homeless stranger, that the milk became an inexhaustible fount of nectar, and the brown loaf and the honey were ambrosia. Thus, the divinities have feasted, at your board, off the same viands that supply their banquets on Olympus. You have done well, my dear old friends. Wherefore, request whatever favor you have most at heart, and it is granted." Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then,--I know not which of the two it was who spoke, but that one uttered the desire of both their hearts. "Let us live together, while we live, and leave the world at the same instant, when we die! For we have always loved one another!" "Be it so!" replied the stranger, with majestic kindness. "Now, look towards your cottage!" They did so. But what was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the spot where their humble residence had so lately stood! "There is your home," said the stranger, beneficently smiling on them both. "Exercise your hospitality in yonder palace as freely as in the poor hovel to which you welcomed us last evening." The old folks fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold! neither he nor Quicksilver was there. So Philemon and Baucis took up their residence in the marble palace, and spent their time, with vast satisfaction to themselves, in making everybody jolly and comfortable who happened to pass that way. The milk-pitcher, I must not forget to say, retained its marvelous quality of being never empty, when it was desirable to have it full. Whenever an honest, good-humored, and free-hearted guest took a draught from this pitcher, he invariably found it the sweetest and most invigorating fluid that ever ran down his throat. But, if a cross and disagreeable curmudgeon happened to sip, he was pretty certain to twist his visage into a hard knot, and pronounce it a pitcher of sour milk! Thus the old couple lived in their palace a great, great while, and grew older and older, and very old indeed. At length, however, there came a summer morning when Philemon and Baucis failed to make their appearance, as on other mornings, with one hospitable smile overspreading both their pleasant faces, to invite the guests of over-night to breakfast. The guests searched everywhere, from top to bottom of the spacious palace, and all to no purpose. But, after a great deal of perplexity, they espied, in front of the portal, two venerable trees, which nobody could remember to have seen there the day before. Yet there they stood, with their roots fastened deep into the soil, and a huge breadth of foliage overshadowing the whole front of the edifice. One was an oak, and the other a linden-tree. Their boughs--it was strange and beautiful to see--were intertwined together, and embraced one another, so that each tree seemed to live in the other's bosom, much more than in its own. While the guests were marveling how these trees, that must have required at least a century to grow, could have come to be so tall and venerable in a single night, a breeze sprang up, and set their intermingled boughs astir. And then there was a deep, broad murmur in the air, as if the two mysterious trees were speaking. "I am old Philemon!" murmured the oak. "I am old Baucis!" murmured the linden-tree. But, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke at once,--"Philemon! Baucis! Baucis! Philemon!"--as if one were both and both were one, and talking together in the depths of their mutual heart. It was plain enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed their age, and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or so, Philemon as an oak, and Baucis as a linden-tree. And oh, what a hospitable shade did they fling around them! Whenever a wayfarer paused beneath it, he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head, and wondered how the sound should so much resemble words like these:-- "Welcome, welcome, dear traveler, welcome!" And some kind soul, that knew what would have pleased old Baucis and old Philemon best, built a circular seat around both their trunks, where, for a great while afterwards, the weary, and the hungry, and the thirsty used to repose themselves, and quaff milk abundantly out of the miraculous pitcher. And I wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here now! 258 One of the very satisfactory attempts to retell the classic myths for young readers is to be found in _Gods and Heroes_ by R. E. Francillon. The stories are brought together into a "single _saga_, free from inconsistencies and contradictions." This gives the book all the charm of a single story made of many dramatic episodes. Francillon's version of the familiar tale of Narcissus and Echo follows by permission of the publishers. (Copyright. Ginn & Co., Boston.) THE NARCISSUS R. E. FRANCILLON There was a very beautiful nymph named Echo, who had never, in all her life, seen anybody handsomer than the god Pan. You have read that Pan was the chief of all the Satyrs, and what hideous monsters the Satyrs were. So, when Pan made love to her, she very naturally kept him at a distance: and, as she supposed him to be no worse-looking than the rest of the world, she made up her mind to have nothing to do with love or lovemaking, and was quite content to ramble about the woods all alone. But one day, to her surprise, she happened to meet with a young man who was as different from Pan as any creature could be. Instead of having a goat's legs and long hairy arms, he was as graceful as Apollo himself: no horns grew out of his forehead, and his ears were not long, pointed, and covered with hair, but just like Echo's own. And he was just as beautiful in face as he was graceful in form. I doubt if Echo would have thought even Apollo himself so beautiful. The nymphs were rather shy, and Echo was the very shyest of them all. But she admired him so much she could not leave the spot, and at last she even plucked up courage enough to ask him, "What is the name of the most beautiful being in the whole world?" "Whom do you mean?" asked he. "Yourself? If you want to know your own name, you can tell it better than I can." "No," said Echo, "I don't mean myself. I mean _you_. What is _your_ name?" "My name is Narcissus," said he. "But as for my being beautiful--that is absurd." "Narcissus!" repeated Echo to herself. "It is a beautiful name. Which of the nymphs have you come to meet here in these woods all alone? She is lucky--whoever she may be." "I have come to meet nobody," said Narcissus. "But--am I really so beautiful? I have often been told so by other girls, of course; but really it is more than I can quite believe." "And you don't care for any of those girls?" "Why, you see," said Narcissus, "when all the girls one knows call one beautiful, there's no reason why I should care for one more than another. They all seem alike when they are all always saying just the same thing. Ah! I do wish I could see myself, so that I could tell if it was really true. I would marry the girl who could give me the wish of my heart--to see myself as other people see me. But as nobody can make me do that, why, I suppose I shall get on very well without marrying anybody at all." Looking-glasses had not been invented in those days, so that Narcissus had really never seen even so much of himself as his chin. "What!" cried Echo, full of hope and joy; "if I make you see your own face, you will marry _me_?" "I said so," said he. "And of course what I say I'll do, I'll do." "Then--come with me!" Echo took him by the hand and led him to the edge of a little lake in the middle of the wood, full of clear water. "Kneel down, Narcissus," said she, "and bend your eyes over the waterside. That lake is the mirror where Diana comes every morning to dress her hair, and in which, every night, the moon and the stars behold themselves. Look into that water, and see what manner of man you are!" Narcissus kneeled down and looked into the lake. And, better than in any common looking-glass, he saw the reflected image of his own face--and he looked, and looked, and could not take his eyes away. But Echo at last grew tired of waiting. "Have you forgotten what you promised me?" asked she. "Are you content now? Do you see now that what I told you is true?" He lifted his eyes at last. "Oh, beautiful creature that I am!" said he. "I am indeed the most divine creature in the whole wide world. I love myself madly. Go away. I want to be with my beautiful image, with myself, all alone. I can't marry you. I shall never love anybody but myself for the rest of my days." And he kneeled down and gazed at himself once more, while poor Echo had to go weeping away. Narcissus had spoken truly. He loved himself and his own face so much that he could think of nothing else: he spent all his days and nights by the lake, and never took his eyes away. But unluckily his image, which was only a shadow in the water, could not love him back again. And so he pined away until he died. And when his friends came to look for his body, they found nothing but a flower, into which his soul had turned. So they called it the Narcissus, and we call it so still. And yet I don't know that it is a particularly conceited or selfish flower. As for poor Echo, she pined away too. She faded and faded until nothing was left of her but her voice. There are many places where she can even now be heard. And she still has the same trick of saying to vain and foolish people whatever they say to themselves, or whatever they would like best to hear said to them. If you go where Echo is, and call out loudly, "I am beautiful!"--she will echo your very words. 259 "The Apple of Discord" is also taken, by permission of the publishers, from Francillon's _Gods and Heroes_. It is the story of how the world's first great war was brought about. Teachers who wish to use some of the stories from Homer's _Iliad_ might well follow this story with some selected episodes from that work. The prose translation of the _Iliad_ by Lang, Leaf, and Myers is the most satisfactory. Of versions adapted for children, Church's _Story of the Iliad_ has long been a favorite. THE APPLE OF DISCORD R. E. FRANCILLON Never was such a wedding-feast known as that of Peleus and Thetis. And no wonder; for Peleus was King of Thessaly, and Thetis was a goddess--the goddess who keeps the gates of the West, and throws them open for the chariot of the Sun to pass through when its day's journey is done. Not only all the neighboring kings and queens came to the feast, but the gods and goddesses besides, bringing splendid presents to the bride and bridegroom. Only one goddess was not there, because she had not been invited; and she had not been invited for the best of all reasons. Her name was Ate, which means Mischief; and wherever she went she caused quarreling and confusion. Jupiter had turned her out of heaven for setting even the gods by the ears; and ever since then she had been wandering about the earth, making mischief, for they would not have her even in Hades. "So they won't have _Me_ at their feast!" she said to herself, when she heard the sound of the merriment to which she had not been bidden. "Very well; they shall be sorry. I see a way to make a bigger piece of mischief than ever was known." So she took a golden apple, wrote some words upon it, and, keeping herself out of sight, threw it into the very middle of the feasters, just when they were most merry. Nobody saw where the apple came from; but of course they supposed it had been thrown among them for frolic; and one of the guests, taking it up, read aloud the words written on it. The words were: "FOR THE MOST BEAUTIFUL!" --nothing more. "What a handsome present somebody has sent me!" said Juno, holding out her hand for the apple. "Sent _you_?" asked Diana. "What an odd mistake, to be sure! Don't you see it is for the most beautiful? I will thank you to hand me what is so clearly intended for _Me_." "You seem to forget _I_ am present!" said Vesta, making a snatch at the apple. "Not at all!" said Ceres; "only I happen to be here, too. And who doubts that where I am there is the most beautiful?" "Except where _I_ am," said Proserpine. "What folly is all this!" said Minerva, the wise. "Wisdom is the only true beauty; and everybody knows that I am the wisest of you all." "But it's for the _most_ beautiful!" said Venus. "The idea of its being for anybody but _Me_!" Then every nymph and goddess present, and even every woman, put in her claim, until from claiming and disputing it grew to arguing and wrangling and downright quarreling: insults flew about, until the merriment grew into an angry din, the like of which had never been heard. But as it became clear that it was impossible for everybody to be the most beautiful, the claimants gradually settled down into three parties--some taking the side of Venus, others of Juno, others of Minerva. "We shall never settle it among ourselves," said one, when all were fairly out of breath with quarreling. "Let the gods decide." For the gods had been silent all the while; and now they looked at one another in dismay at such an appeal. Jupiter, in his heart, thought Venus the most beautiful; but how could he dare decide against either his wife Juno or his daughter Minerva? Neptune hated Minerva on account of their old quarrel; but it was awkward to choose between his daughter Venus and his sister Juno, of whose temper he, as well as Jupiter, stood in awe. Mars was ready enough to vote for Venus; but then he was afraid of a scandal. And so with all the gods--not one was bold enough to decide on such a terrible question as the beauty of three rival goddesses who were ready to tear out each other's eyes. For Juno was looking like a thundercloud, and Minerva like lightning, and Venus like a smiling but treacherous sea. "I have it," said Jupiter at last. "Men are better judges of beauty than the gods are, who never see anything but its perfection. King Priam of Troy has a son named Paris, whose judgment as a critic I would take even before my own. I propose that you, Juno, and you, Minerva, and you, Venus, shall go together before Paris and submit yourselves to his decision, whatever it may be." And so it was settled, for each of the three goddesses was equally sure that, whoever the judge might be, the golden apple was safe to be hers. The quarrel came to an end, and the feast ended pleasantly; but Ate, who had been watching and listening, laughed in her sleeve. Troy, where King Priam reigned, was a great and ancient city on the shore of Asia: it was a sacred city, whose walls had been built by Neptune, and it possessed the Palladium, the image of Minerva, which kept it from all harm. Priam--who had been the friend of Hercules--and his wife Hecuba had many sons and daughters, all brave and noble princes and beautiful princesses; and of his sons, while the bravest and noblest was his first-born, Hector, the handsomest and most amiable was Paris, whom Jupiter had appointed to be the judge of beauty. Paris, unlike his brothers, cared nothing for affairs of State, but lived as a shepherd upon Mount Ida with his wife Oenone, a nymph of that mountain, in perfect happiness and peace, loved and honored by the whole country round, which had given him the name of "Alexander," which means "The Helper." One would think that if anybody was safe from the mischief of Ate, it was he. But one day, while he was watching his flocks and thinking of Oenone, there came to him what he took for three beautiful women--the most beautiful he had ever seen. Yet something told him they were more than mere women, or even than Oreads, before the tallest said-- "There is debate in Olympus which is the most beautiful of us three, and Jupiter has appointed you to be the judge between us. I am Juno, the queen of gods and men, and if you decide for me, I will make you king of the whole world." "And I," said the second, "am Minerva, and you shall know everything in the whole universe if you decide for me." "But I," said the third, "am Venus, who can give neither wisdom nor power; but if you decide for me, I will give you the love of the most beautiful woman that ever was or ever will be born." Paris looked from one to the other, wondering to which he should award the golden apple, the prize of beauty. He did not care for power; he would be quite content to rule his sheep, and even that was not always easy. Nor did he care for wisdom or knowledge: he had enough for all his needs. Nor ought he to have desired any love but Oenone's. But then Venus was really the most beautiful of all the goddesses--the very goddess of beauty; no mortal could refuse anything she asked him, so great was her charm. So he took the apple and placed it in the hands of Venus without a word, while Juno and Minerva departed in a state of wrath with Paris, Venus, and each other, which made Ate laugh to herself more than ever. Now the most beautiful woman in the whole world was Helen, step-daughter of King Tyndarus of Sparta, and sister of Castor and Pollux: neither before her nor after her has there been any to compare with her for beauty. Thirty-one of the noblest princes in Greece came to her father's Court at the same time to seek her in marriage, so that Tyndarus knew not what to do, seeing that, whomsoever he chose for his son-in-law, he would make thirty powerful enemies. The most famous among them were Ulysses, King of the island of Ithaca; Diomed, King of Aetolia; Ajax, King of Salamis, the bravest and strongest man in Greece; his brother Teucer; Philoctetes, the friend of Hercules; and Menelaus, King of Sparta. At last, as there was no other way of deciding among them, an entirely new idea occurred to Ulysses--namely, that Helen should be allowed to choose her own husband herself, and that, before she chose, all the rival suitors should make a great and solemn oath to approve her choice, and to defend her and her husband against all enemies thenceforth and forever. This oath they all took loyally and with one accord, and Helen chose Menelaus, King of Sparta, who married her with great rejoicing, and took her away to his kingdom. And all would have gone well but for that wretched apple. For Venus was faithful to her promise that the most beautiful of all women should be the wife of Paris: and so Menelaus, returning from a journey, found that a Trojan prince had visited his Court during his absence, and had gone away, taking Helen with him to Troy. This Trojan prince was Paris, who, seeing Helen, had forgotten Oenone, and could think of nothing but her whom Venus had given him. Then, through all Greece and all the islands, went forth the summons of King Menelaus, reminding the thirty princes of their great oath: and each and all of them, and many more, came to the gathering-place with all their ships and all their men, to help Menelaus and to bring back Helen. Such a host as gathered together at Aulis had never been seen since the world began; there were nearly twelve hundred ships and more than a hundred thousand men: it was the first time that all the Greeks joined together in one cause. There, besides those who had come for their oath's sake, were Nestor, the old King of Pylos--so old that he remembered Jason and the Golden Fleece, but, at ninety years old, as ready for battle as the youngest there; and Achilles, the son of Peleus and Thetis, scarcely more than a boy, but fated to outdo the deeds of the bravest of them all. The kings and princes elected Agamemnon, King of Mycenae and Argos, and brother of Menelaus, to be their general-in-chief; and he forthwith sent a herald to Troy to demand the surrender of Helen. But King Priam was indignant that these chiefs of petty kingdoms should dare to threaten the sacred city of Troy: and he replied to the demand by a scornful challenge, and by sending out his summons also to his friends and allies. And it was as well answered as that of Menelaus had been. There came to his standard Rhesus, with a great army from Thrace; and Sarpedon, the greatest king in all Asia; and Memnon, king of Aethiopia, with twenty thousand men--the hundred thousand Greeks were not so many as the army of Priam. Then Agamemnon gave the order to sail for Troy: and Ate laughed aloud, for her apple had brought upon mankind the First Great War. 260 The little book of _Old Greek Folk Stories_, by Josephine P. Peabody, is especially valuable, not only for its fine versions of many of the more interesting myths, but because it supplements the dozen retold by Hawthorne in his _Wonder-Book_ and _Tanglewood Tales_. The two stories that follow are taken from that book and are used by permission of and by special arrangement with the publishers. (Copyright: Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.) It is worth noticing that the idea of being able to fly through the air successfully is found in a very remote past, and that Daedalus discarded his invention because of the tragedy related below. Only a few years since, most people looked upon one who tried to work out practically the problem of flying as somewhat "short" mentally. Hence the use of such efforts for comic effect as in "Darius Green and His Flying Machine" (No. 375). ICARUS AND DAEDALUS JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY Among all those mortals who grew so wise that they learned the secrets of the gods, none was more cunning than Daedalus. He once built, for King Minos of Crete, a wonderful Labyrinth of winding ways so cunningly tangled up and twisted around that, once inside, you could never find your way out again without a magic clue. But the king's favor veered with the wind, and one day he had his master architect imprisoned in a tower. Daedalus managed to escape from his cell; but it seemed impossible to leave the island, since every ship that came or went was well guarded by order of the king. At length, watching the sea gulls in the air,--the only creatures that were sure of liberty,--he thought of a plan for himself and his young son Icarus, who was captive with him. Little by little, he gathered a store of feathers great and small. He fastened these together with thread, moulded them in with wax, and so fashioned two great wings like those of a bird. When they were done, Daedalus fitted them to his own shoulders, and after one or two efforts, he found that by waving his arms he could winnow the air and cleave it, as a swimmer does the sea. He held himself aloft, wavered this way and that with the wind, and at last, like a great fledgling, he learned to fly. Without delay, he fell to work on a pair of wings for the boy Icarus, and taught him carefully how to use them, bidding him beware of rash adventures among the stars. "Remember," said the father, "never to fly very low or very high, for the fogs about the earth would weigh you down, but the blaze of the sun will surely melt your feathers apart if you go too near." For Icarus, these cautions went in at one ear and out by the other. Who could remember to be careful when he was to fly for the first time? Are birds careful? Not they! And not an idea remained in the boy's head but the one joy of escape. The day came, and the fair wind that was to set them free. The father bird put on his wings, and, while the light urged them to be gone, he waited to see that all was well with Icarus, for the two could not fly hand in hand. Up they rose, the boy after his father. The hateful ground of Crete sank beneath them; and the country folk, who caught a glimpse of them when they were high above the tree-tops, took it for a vision of the gods,--Apollo, perhaps, with Cupid after him. At first there was a terror in the joy. The wide vacancy of the air dazed them,--a glance downward made their brains reel. But when a great wind filled their wings, and Icarus felt himself sustained, like a halcyon-bird in the hollow of a wave, like a child uplifted by his mother, he forgot everything in the world but joy. He forgot Crete and the other islands that he had passed over: he saw but vaguely that winged thing in the distance before him that was his father Daedalus. He longed for one draught of flight to quench the thirst of his captivity: he stretched out his arms to the sky and made towards the highest heavens. Alas for him! Warmer and warmer grew the air. Those arms, that had seemed to uphold him, relaxed. His wings wavered, drooped. He fluttered his young hands vainly,--he was falling,--and in that terror he remembered. The heat of the sun had melted the wax from his wings; the feathers were falling, one by one, like snowflakes; and there was none to help. He fell like a leaf tossed down the wind, down, down, with one cry that overtook Daedalus far away. When he returned, and sought high and low for the poor boy, he saw nothing but the bird-like feathers afloat on the water, and he knew that Icarus was drowned. The nearest island he named Icaria, in memory of the child; but he, in heavy grief, went to the temple of Apollo in Sicily, and there hung up his wings as an offering. Never again did he attempt to fly. 261 This story of how Apollo, god of music and poetry, was sent to earth for a space to serve a mortal is also from _Old Greek Folk Stories_, by arrangement with the publishers. (Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.) James Russell Lowell wrote a very fine poetic treatment of this same story in "The Shepherd of King Admetus" (No. 373). ADMETUS AND THE SHEPHERD JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY Apollo did not live always free of care, though he was the most glorious of the gods. One day, in anger with the Cyclopes who work at the forges of Vulcan, he sent his arrows after them, to the wrath of all the gods, but especially of Zeus. (For the Cyclopes always make his thunderbolts, and make them well.) Even the divine archer could not go unpunished, and as a penalty he was sent to serve some mortal for a year. Some say one year and some say nine, but in those days time passed quickly; and as for the gods, they took no heed of it. Now there was a certain king in Thessaly, Admetus by name, and there came to him one day a stranger, who asked leave to serve about the palace. None knew his name, but he was very comely, and moreover, when they questioned him he said that he had come from a position of high trust. So without further delay they made him chief shepherd of the royal flocks. Every day thereafter, he drove his sheep to the banks of the river Amphrysus, and there he sat to watch them browse. The country folk that passed drew near to wonder at him, without daring to ask questions. He seemed to have a knowledge of leech-craft, and knew how to cure the ills of any wayfarer with any weed that grew near by; and he would pipe for hours in the sun. A simple-spoken man he was, yet he seemed to know much more than he would say, and he smiled with a kindly mirth when the people wished him sunny weather. Indeed, as days went by, it seemed as if summer had come to stay, and, like the shepherd, found the place friendly. Nowhere else were the flocks so white and fair to see, like clouds loitering along a bright sky; and sometimes, when he chose, their keeper sang to them. Then the grasshoppers drew near and the swans sailed close to the river banks, and the countrymen gathered about to hear wonderful tales of the slaying of the monster Python, and of a king with ass's ears, and of a lovely maiden, Daphne, who grew into a laurel-tree. In time the rumor of these things drew the king himself to listen; and Admetus, who had been to see the world in the ship Argo, knew at once that this was no earthly shepherd, but a god. From that day, like a true king, he treated his guest with reverence and friendliness, asking no questions; and the god was well pleased. Now it came to pass that Admetus fell in love with a beautiful maiden, Alcestis, and, because of the strange condition that her father Pelias had laid upon all suitors, he was heavy-hearted. Only that man who should come to woo her in a chariot drawn by a wild boar and a lion might ever marry Alcestis; and this task was enough to puzzle even a king. As for the shepherd, when he heard of it he rose, one fine morning, and left the sheep and went his way,--no one knew whither. If the sun had gone out, the people could not have been more dismayed. The king himself went, late in the day, to walk by the river Amphrysus, and wonder if his gracious keeper of the flocks had deserted him in a time of need. But at that very moment, whom should he see returning from the woods but the shepherd, glorious as sunset, and leading side by side a lion and a boar, as gentle as two sheep! The very next morning, with joy and gratitude, Admetus set out in his chariot for the kingdom of Pelias, and there he wooed and won Alcestis, the most loving wife that was ever heard of. It was well for Admetus that he came home with such a comrade, for the year was at an end, and he was to lose his shepherd. The strange man came to take leave of the king and queen whom he had befriended. "Blessed be your flocks, Admetus," he said, smiling. "They shall prosper even though I leave them. And, because you can discern the gods that come to you in the guise of wayfarers, happiness shall never go far from your home, but ever return to be your guest. No man may live on earth forever, but this one gift have I obtained for you. When your last hour draws near, if any one shall be willing to meet it in your stead, he shall die, and you shall live on, more than the mortal length of days. Such kings deserve long life." So ended the happy year when Apollo tended sheep. 262 This version of the Midas story is taken from Bulfinch's _Age of Fable_, which is still one of the most valuable and interesting handbooks in its field. One who wishes simply good versions of the old myths without any of the apparatus of scholarship will find Bulfinch excellent. It serves well for younger or general readers who would be worried by references or interpretations. Hawthorne's version of this favorite myth may be found in his _Wonder-Book_ as "The Golden Touch." MIDAS Bacchus, on a certain occasion, found his old schoolmaster and foster-father, Silenus, missing. The old man had been drinking, and in that state had wandered away, and was found by some peasants, who carried him to their king, Midas. Midas recognized him and treated him hospitably, entertaining him for ten days and nights with an unceasing round of jollity. On the eleventh day he brought Silenus back, and restored him in safety to his pupil. Whereupon Bacchus offered Midas his choice of whatever reward he might wish. He asked that whatever he might touch should be changed into _gold_. Bacchus consented, though sorry that he had not made a better choice. Midas went his way, rejoicing in his newly acquired power, which he hastened to put to the test. He could scarce believe his eyes when he found that a twig of an oak, which he plucked from the branch, became gold in his hand. He took up a stone--it changed to gold. He touched a sod--it did the same. He took an apple from the tree--you would have thought he had robbed the garden of the Hesperides. His joy knew no bounds, and as soon as he got home, he ordered the servants to set a splendid repast on the table. Then he found to his dismay that whether he touched bread, it hardened in his hand; or put a morsel to his lips, it defied his teeth. He took a glass of wine, but it flowed down his throat like melted gold. In consternation at the unprecedented affliction, he strove to divest himself of his power; he hated the gift he had lately coveted. But all in vain; starvation seemed to await him. He raised his arms, all shining with gold, in prayer to Bacchus, begging to be delivered from his glittering destruction. Bacchus, merciful deity, heard and consented. "Go," said he, "to the River Pactolus, trace the stream to its fountain-head, there plunge in your head and body and wash away your fault and its punishment." He did so, and scarce had he touched the waters before the gold-creating power passed into them, and the river sands became changed into _gold_, as they remain to this day. Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the country and became a worshipper of Pan, the god of the fields. On a certain occasion Pan had the temerity to compare his music with that of Apollo, and to challenge the god of the lyre to a trial of skill. The challenge was accepted; and Tmolus, the mountain-god, was chosen umpire. Tmolus took his seat and cleared away the trees from his ears to listen. At a given signal Pan blew on his pipes, and with his rustic melody gave great satisfaction to himself and his faithful follower Midas, who happened to be present. Then Tmolus turned his head toward the sun-god, and all his trees turned with him. Apollo rose, his brow wreathed with Parnassian laurel, while his robe of Tyrian purple swept the ground. In his left hand he held the lyre, and with his right hand struck the strings. Ravished with the harmony, Tmolus at once awarded the victory to the god of the lyre, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment. He dissented, and questioned the justice of the award. Apollo would not suffer such a depraved pair of ears any longer to wear the human form, but caused them to increase in length, grow hairy within and without, and to become movable on their roots; in short, to be on the perfect pattern of those of an ass. Mortified enough was King Midas at this mishap; but he consoled himself with the thought that it was possible to hide his misfortune, which he attempted to do by means of an ample turban or headdress. But his hairdresser of course knew the secret. He was charged not to mention it, and threatened with dire punishment if he presumed to disobey. But he found it too much for his discretion to keep such a secret; so he went out into the meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down, whispered the story, and covered it up. Before long a thick bed of reeds sprang up in the meadow, and as soon as it had gained its growth, began whispering the story, and has continued to do so, from that day to this, with every breeze which passes over the place. 263 The story of Phaethon is taken by permission from Gayley's _Classic Myths in English Literature and Art_. (Copyright. Ginn & Co., Boston.) Gayley is by all odds the one handbook for the whole field of mythology that teachers should always have access to. Based upon the older Bulfinch, it brings the whole subject up to date and reflects all the results of later scholarship on the matters of origins and interpretations. Its bibliographies and extended commentaries make it invaluable. The story of Phaethon is usually thought of as a warning against presumption, conceit, whim, self-will. It was probably invented in the first place to account for the extremely hot weather of the summer months. PHAETHON CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY Phaethon was the son of Apollo and the nymph Clymene. One day Epaphus, the son of Jupiter and Io, scoffed at the idea of Phaethon's being the son of a god. Phaethon complained of the insult to his mother Clymene. She sent him to Phoebus to ask for himself whether he had not been truly informed concerning his parentage. Gladly Phaethon traveled toward the regions of sunrise and gained at last the palace of the sun. He approached his father's presence, but stopped at a distance, for the light was more than he could bear. Phoebus Apollo, arrayed in purple, sat on a throne that glittered with diamonds. Beside him stood the Day, the Month, the Year, the Hours, and the Seasons. Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty and splendor of the scene, and inquired the purpose of his errand. The youth replied, "Oh, light of the boundless world, Phoebus, my father--if thou dost yield me that name--give me some proof, I beseech thee, by which I may be known as thine!" He ceased. His father, laying aside the beams that shone around his head, bade him approach, embraced him, owned him for his son, and swore by the river Styx that whatever proof he might ask should be granted. Phaethon immediately asked to be permitted for one day to drive the chariot of the sun. The father repented of his promise and tried to dissuade the boy by telling him the perils of the undertaking. "None but myself," he said, "may drive the flaming car of day. Not even Jupiter, whose terrible right arm hurls the thunderbolts. The first part of the way is steep and such as the horses when fresh in the morning can hardly climb; the middle is high up in the heavens, whence I myself can scarcely, without alarm, look down and behold the earth and sea stretched beneath me. The last part of the road descends rapidly and requires most careful driving. Tethys, who is waiting to receive me, often trembles for me lest I should fall headlong. Add to this that the heaven is all the time turning round and carrying the stars with it. Couldst thou keep thy course while the sphere revolved beneath thee? The road, also, is through the midst of frightful monsters. Thou must pass by the horns of the Bull, in front of the Archer, and near the Lion's jaws, and where the Scorpion stretches its arms in one direction and the Crab in another. Nor wilt thou find it easy to guide those horses, with their breasts full of fire that they breathe forth from their mouths and nostrils. Beware, my son, lest I be the donor of a fatal gift; recall the request while yet thou canst." He ended; but the youth rejected admonition and held to his demand. So, having resisted as long as he might, Phoebus at last led the way to where stood the lofty chariot. It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan,--the axle of gold, the pole and wheels of gold, the spokes of silver. Along the seat were rows of chrysolites and diamonds, reflecting the brightness of the sun. While the daring youth gazed in admiration, the early Dawn threw open the purple doors of the east and showed the pathway strewn with roses. The stars withdrew, marshaled by the Daystar, which last of all retired also. The father, when he saw the earth beginning to glow and the Moon preparing to retire, ordered the Hours to harness up the horses. They led forth from the lofty stalls the steeds full fed with ambrosia, and attached the reins. Then the father, smearing the face of his son with a powerful unguent, made him capable of enduring the brightness of the flame. He set the rays on the lad's head, and, with a foreboding sigh, told him to spare the whip and hold tight the reins; not to take the straight road between the five circles, but to turn off to the left; to keep within the limit of the middle zone and avoid the northern and the southern alike; finally, to keep in the well-worn ruts and to drive neither too high nor too low, for the middle course was safest and best. Forthwith the agile youth sprang into the chariot, stood erect, and grasped the reins with delight, pouring out thanks to his reluctant parent. But the steeds soon perceived that the load they drew was lighter than usual; and as a ship without its accustomed weight, was dashed about as if empty. The horses rushed headlong and left the traveled road. Then, for the first time, the Great and Little Bears were scorched with heat, and would fain, if it were possible, have plunged into the water; and the Serpent which lies coiled round the north pole, torpid and harmless, grew warm, and with warmth felt its rage revive. Booetes, they say, fled away, though encumbered with his plow and unused to rapid motion. When hapless Phaethon looked down upon the earth, now spreading in vast extent beneath him, he grew pale, and his knees shook with terror. He lost his self-command and knew not whether to draw tight the reins or throw them loose; he forgot the names of the horses. But when he beheld the monstrous forms scattered over the surface of heaven,--the Scorpion extending two great arms, his tail, and his crooked claws over the space of two signs of the zodiac,--when the boy beheld him, reeking with poison and menacing with fangs, his courage failed, and the reins fell from his hands. The horses, unrestrained, went off into unknown regions of the sky in among the stars, hurling the chariot over pathless places, now up in high heaven, now down almost to the earth. The moon saw with astonishment her brother's chariot running beneath her own. The clouds began to smoke. The forest-clad mountains burned,--Athos and Taurus and Tmolus and Oete; Ida, once celebrated for fountains; the Muses' mountain Helicon, and Haemus; Aetna, with fires within and without, and Parnassus, with his two peaks, and Rhodope, forced at last to part with his snowy crown. Her cold climate was no protection to Scythia; Caucasus burned, and Ossa and Pindus, and, greater than both, Olympus,--the Alps high in air, and the Apennines crowned with clouds. Phaethon beheld the world on fire and felt the heat intolerable. Then, too, it is said, the people of Aethiopia became black because the blood was called by the heat so suddenly to the surface; and the Libyan desert was dried up to the condition in which it remains to this day. The Nymphs of the fountains, with disheveled hair, mourned their waters, nor were the rivers safe beneath their banks; Tanais smoked, and Caicus, Xanthus, and Maeander; Babylonian Euphrates and Ganges, Tagus, with golden sands, and Cayster, where the swans resort. Nile fled away and hid his head in the desert, and there it still remains concealed. Where he used to discharge his waters through seven mouths into the sea, seven dry channels alone remained. The earth cracked open and through the chinks light broke into Tartarus and frightened the king of shadows and his queen. The sea shrank up. Even Nereus and his wife Doris with the Nereids, their daughters, sought the deepest caves for refuge. Thrice Neptune essayed to raise his head above the surface and thrice was driven back by the heat. Earth, surrounded as she was by waters, yet with head and shoulders bare, screening her face with her hand, looked up to heaven, and with husky voice prayed Jupiter, if it were his will that she should perish by fire, to end her agony at once by his thunderbolts, or else to consider his own Heaven, how both the poles were smoking that sustained his palace, and that all must fall if they were destroyed. Earth, overcome with heat and thirst, could say no more. Then Jupiter, calling the gods to witness that all was lost unless some speedy remedy were applied, thundered, brandished a lightning bolt in his right hand, launched it against the charioteer, and struck him at the same moment from his seat and from existence. Phaethon, with his hair on fire, fell headlong, like a shooting star which marks the heavens with its brightness as it falls, and Eridanus, the great river, received him and cooled his burning frame. His sisters, the Heliades, as they lamented his fate, were turned into poplar trees on the banks of the river; and their tears, which continued to flow, became amber as they dropped into the stream. The Italian Naiads reared a tomb for him and inscribed these words upon the stone: Driver of Phoebus' chariot, Phaethon, Struck by Jove's thunder, rests beneath this stone. He could not rule his father's car of fire, Yet was it much so nobly to aspire. * * * * * The Norse myths originated among peoples who lived in the country which is now Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Iceland. In these lands of the North, winter is long and dark, and the intense cold is not easily endured; but summer brings sunshine, warmth, and happiness. It is not strange, therefore, that the evil spirits of Norse mythology should be represented as huge frost giants and mountain giants. These giants, or Jotuns, were first formed from the mist that came from fields of ice. They lived in a dreary country called Joetunheim, and were enemies of the gods, who lived in the bright, beautiful city of Asgard. To live the life of the old Norse folk required strength and courage, for the little boats in which they went to fish were too small for storm-tossed Arctic seas, and the weapons with which they hunted in the cold, lonely forests were primitive. It is but natural, therefore, that they should have idealized strength and courage and that they should have represented the gods of Asgard as being large, strong, and courageous. Although Thor, the eldest son of Odin, was small in comparison with the giants, we are told in one of the myths that he was a mile in height; also he had great strength and a wonderful hammer, called Mjolmer, with which he always defeated the giants and kept them from Asgard. Thunder was caused by the stroke of Thor's hammer; hence Thor was called the Thunderer. The spiritual ideals in Norse mythology are more important than the physical ideals. The long, cold winter nights kept the Norse folk at home; hence they had a love for home and family relations and a respect for women that may not be found revealed in the mythology of Greece. Wisdom and judgment, too, were more essential than craft and fraud in encountering the hardships of their life; therefore they represented Odin, the supreme god of Asgard, as being the god of wisdom. The gods of Greek mythology often used craft and fraud to accomplish their purposes, but only Loke among the inhabitants of Asgard relied upon deception. Loke was descended from the giants, but was also related to the gods; so he was permitted to live in Asgard. It is significant of the spirit of the Norse folk that the gods did not trust Loke and came to regard him as their enemy; and it was he who finally brought misfortune to the gods. 264 This story of Thor's visit to the land of the giants is taken from Bulfinch. It deals with one of the favorite sections of Norse mythology, satisfying, as it does, the listeners' demand for courageous struggle against great and mysterious forces. The use of illusion by the giant forces of evil as a method of defeating the open-minded forces of truth is strikingly exemplified in the various contests staged at Joetunheim. THOR'S VISIT TO JOeTUNHEIM One day the god Thor, with his servant Thialfi, and accompanied by Loki, set out on a journey to the giants' country. Thialfi was of all men the swiftest of foot. He bore Thor's wallet, containing their provisions. When night came on they found themselves in an immense forest, and searched on all sides for a place where they might pass the night, and at last came to a very large hall, with an entrance that took the whole breadth of one end of the building. Here they lay down to sleep, but towards midnight were alarmed by an earthquake which shook the whole edifice. Thor, rising up, called on his companions to seek with him a place of safety. On the right they found an adjoining chamber, into which the others entered, but Thor remained at the doorway with his mallet in his hand, prepared to defend himself, whatever might happen. A terrible groaning was heard during the night, and at dawn of day Thor went out and found lying near him a huge giant, who slept and snored in the way that had alarmed them so. It is said that for once Thor was afraid to use his mallet, and as the giant soon waked up, Thor contented himself with simply asking his name. "My name is Skrymir," said the giant, "but I need not ask thy name, for I know that thou art the god Thor. But what has become of my glove?" Thor then perceived that what they had taken overnight for a hall was the giant's glove, and the chamber where his two companions had sought refuge was the thumb. Skrymir then proposed that they should travel in company, and Thor consenting, they sat down to eat their breakfast, and when they had done, Skrymir packed all the provisions into one wallet, threw it over his shoulder, and strode on before them, taking such tremendous strides that they were hard put to it to keep up with him. So they traveled the whole day, and at dusk Skrymir chose a place for them to pass the night in under a large oak tree. Skrymir then told them he would lie down to sleep. "But take ye the wallet," he added, "and prepare your supper." Skrymir soon fell asleep and began to snore strongly; but when Thor tried to open the wallet, he found the giant had tied it up so tight he could not untie a single knot. At last Thor became wroth, and grasping his mallet with both hands he struck a furious blow on the giant's head. Skrymir, awakening, merely asked whether a leaf had not fallen on his head, and whether they had supped and were ready to go to sleep. Thor answered that they were just going to sleep, and so saying went and laid himself down under another tree. But sleep came not that night to Thor, and when Skrymir snored again so loud that the forest reechoed with the noise, he arose, and grasping his mallet launched it with such force at the giant's skull that it made a deep dint in it. Skrymir, awakening, cried out, "What's the matter? Are there any birds perched on this tree? I felt some moss from the branches fall on my head. How fares it with thee Thor?" But Thor went away hastily, saying that he had just then awoke, and that as it was only midnight, there was still time for sleep. He, however, resolved that if he had an opportunity of striking a third blow, it should settle all matters between them. A little before daybreak he perceived that Skrymir was again fast asleep, and again grasping his mallet, he dashed it with such violence that it forced its way into the giant's skull up to the handle. But Skrymir sat up, and stroking his cheek said, "An acorn fell on my head. What! Art thou awake, Thor? Methinks it is time for us to get up and dress ourselves; but you have not now a long way before you to the city called Utgard. I have heard you whispering to one another that I am not a man of small dimensions; but if you come to Utgard you will see there many men much taller than I. Wherefore, I advise you, when you come there, not to make too much of yourselves, for the followers of Utgard-Loki will not brook the boasting of such little fellows as you are. You must take the road that leads eastward, mine lies northward, so we must part here." Hereupon he threw his wallet over his shoulders and turned away from them into the forest, and Thor had no wish to stop him or to ask for any more of his company. Thor and his companions proceeded on their way, and towards noon descried a city standing in the middle of a plain. It was so lofty that they were obliged to bend their necks quite back on their shoulders in order to see to the top of it. On arriving they entered the city, and seeing a large palace before them with the door wide open, they went in, and found a number of men of prodigious stature, sitting on benches in the hall. Going further, they came before the king, Utgard-Loki, whom they saluted with great respect. The king, regarding them with a scornful smile, said, "If I do not mistake me, that stripling yonder must be the god Thor." Then addressing himself to Thor, he said, "Perhaps thou mayst be more than thou appearest to be. What are the feats that thou and thy fellows deem yourselves skilled in, for no one is permitted to remain here who does not, in some feat or other, excel all other men?" "The feat that I know," said Loki, "is to eat quicker than any one else, and in this I am ready to give a proof against any one here who may choose to compete with me." "That will indeed be a feat," said Utgard-Loki, "if thou performest what thou promisest, and it shall be tried forthwith." He then ordered one of his men who was sitting at the farther end of the bench, and whose name was Logi, to come forward and try his skill with Loki. A trough filled with meat having been set on the hall floor, Loki placed himself at one end, and Logi at the other, and each of them began to eat as fast as he could, until they met in the middle of the trough. But it was found that Loki had only eaten the flesh, while his adversary had devoured both flesh and bone, and the trough to boot. All the company therefore adjudged that Loki was vanquished. Utgard-Loki then asked what feat the young man who accompanied Thor could perform. Thialfi answered that he would run a race with any one who might be matched against him. The king observed that skill in running was something to boast of, but if the youth would win the match he must display great agility. He then arose and went with all who were present to a plain where there was good ground for running on, and calling a young man named Hugi, bade him run a match with Thialfi. In the first course Hugi so much outstripped his competitor that he turned back and met him not far from the starting place. Then they ran a second and a third time, but Thialfi met with no better success. Utgard-Loki then asked Thor in what feats he would choose to give proofs of that prowess for which he was so famous. Thor answered that he would try a drinking-match with any one. Utgard-Loki bade his cup-bearer bring the large horn which his followers were obliged to empty when they had trespassed in any way against the law of the feast. The cup-bearer having presented it to Thor, Utgard-Loki said, "Whoever is a good drinker will empty that horn at a single draught, though most men make two of it, but the most puny drinker can do it in three." Thor looked at the horn, which seemed of no extraordinary size though somewhat long; however, as he was very thirsty, he set it to his lips, and without drawing breath, pulled as long and as deeply as he could, that he might not be obliged to make a second draught of it; but when he set the horn down and looked in, he could scarcely perceive that the liquor was diminished. After taking breath, Thor went to it again with all his might, but when he took the horn from his mouth, it seemed to him that he had drunk rather less than before, although the horn could now be carried without spilling. "How now, Thor?" said Utgard-Loki; "thou must not spare thyself. If thou meanest to drain the horn at the third draught thou must pull deeply; and I must needs say that thou wilt not be called so mighty a man here as thou art at home if thou showest no greater prowess in other feats than methinks will be shown in this." Thor, full of wrath, again set the horn to his lips and did his best to empty it; but on looking in found the liquor was only a little lower, so he resolved to make no further attempt, but gave back the horn to the cup-bearer. "I now see plainly," said Utgard-Loki, "that thou art not quite so stout as we thought thee; but wilt thou try any other feat, though methinks thou art not likely to bear any prize away with thee hence?" "What new trial hast thou to propose?" said Thor. "We have a very trifling game here," answered Utgard-Loki, "in which we exercise none but children. It consists in merely lifting my cat from the ground; nor should I have dared to mention such a feat to the great Thor if I had not already observed that thou art by no means what we took thee for." As he finished speaking, a large gray cat sprang on the hall floor. Thor put his hand under the cat's belly and did his utmost to raise him from the floor, but the cat, bending his back, had, notwithstanding all Thor's efforts, only one of his feet lifted up, seeing which Thor made no further attempt. "This trial has turned out," said Utgard-Loki, "just as I imagined it would. The cat is large, but Thor is little in comparison to our men." "Little as ye call me," answered Thor, "let me see who among you will come hither now I am in wrath and wrestle with me." "I see no one here," said Utgard-Loki, looking at the men sitting on the benches, "who would not think it beneath him to wrestle with thee; let somebody, however, call hither that old crone, my nurse Elli, and let Thor wrestle with her if he will. She has thrown to the ground many a man not less strong than this Thor is." A toothless old woman then entered the hall, and was told by Utgard-Loki to take hold of Thor. The tale is shortly told. The more Thor tightened his hold on the crone the firmer she stood. At length after a very violent struggle Thor began to lose his footing, and was finally brought down upon one knee. Utgard-Loki then told them to desist, adding that Thor had now no occasion to ask any one else in the hall to wrestle with him, and it was also getting late; so he showed Thor and his companions to their seats, and they passed the night there in good cheer. The next morning, at break of day, Thor and his companions dressed themselves and prepared for their departure. Utgard-Loki ordered a table to be set for them, on which there was no lack of victuals or drink. After the repast Utgard-Loki led them to the gate of the city, and on parting asked Thor how he thought his journey had turned out, and whether he had met with any men stronger than himself. Thor told him that he could not deny but that he had brought great shame on himself. "And what grieves me most," he added, "is that ye will call me a person of little worth." "Nay," said Utgard-Loki, "it behooves me to tell thee the truth, now thou art out of the city, which so long as I live and have my way thou shalt never enter again. And, by my troth, had I known beforehand that thou hadst so much strength in thee, and wouldst have brought me so near to a great mishap, I would not have suffered thee to enter this time. Know then that I have all along deceived thee by my illusions; first in the forest, where I tied up the wallet with iron wire so that thou couldst not untie it. After this thou gavest me three blows with thy mallet; the first, though the least, would have ended my days had it fallen on me, but I slipped aside and thy blows fell on the mountain, where thou wilt find three glens, one of them remarkably deep. These are the dints made by thy mallet. I have made use of similar illusions in the contests you have had with my followers. In the first, Loki, like hunger itself, devoured all that was set before him, but Logi was in reality nothing else than Fire, and therefore consumed not only the meat, but the trough which held it. Hugi, with whom Thialfi contended in running, was Thought, and it was impossible for Thialfi to keep pace with that. When thou in thy turn didst attempt to empty the horn, thou didst perform, by my troth, a deed so marvelous that had I not seen it myself I should never have believed it. For one end of that horn reached the sea, which thou wast not aware of, but when thou comest to the shore thou wilt perceive how much the sea has sunk by thy draughts. Thou didst perform a feat no less wonderful by lifting up the cat, and to tell thee the truth, when we saw that one of his paws was off the floor, we were all of us terror-stricken, for what thou tookest for a cat was in reality the Midgard serpent that encompasseth the earth, and he was so stretched by thee that he was barely long enough to enclose it between his head and tail. Thy wrestling with Elli was also a most astonishing feat, for there was never yet a man, nor ever will be, whom Old Age, for such in fact was Elli, will not sooner or later lay low. But now, as we are going to part, let me tell thee that it will be better for both of us if thou never come near me again, for shouldst thou do so, I shall again defend myself by other illusions, so that thou wilt only lose thy labor and get no fame from the contest with me." On hearing these words Thor in a rage laid hold of his mallet and would have launched it at him, but Utgard-Loki had disappeared, and when Thor would have returned to the city to destroy it, he found nothing around him but a verdant plain. 265 One of the very best sources for the stories of Norse mythology is the little book called _Norse Stories_, by Hamilton Wright Mabie (1846-1916). (Edited by Katherine Lee Bates, and published by Rand McNally & Co., Chicago. Copyright, and used here by permission.) It reads well as a connected story and the versions follow closely the originals as found in the ancient Eddas. In his introduction Mr. Mabie comments upon those who made these stories, in language that suggests something of the value of the stories to us: "They thought of life as a tremendous fight, and they wanted to acquit themselves like men; enduring hardship without repining, doing hard work honestly and with a whole heart, and dying with their faces toward their foes. Their heaven was a place for heroes, and their gods were men of heroic size and spirit." Of the subject of the following myth it has been said, "Odin had no less than two hundred names, as, Father of the Ages, Father of Hosts, Father of Victory, the High One, the Swift One, the Wanderer, Long-Beard, Burning-Eye, Slouchy-Hat. Odin is a one-eyed god, because the sky has but one sun. His raiment is sometimes blue and sometimes gray, as the weather is fair or cloudy." ODIN'S SEARCH FOR WISDOM HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE The wonderful ash-tree, Ygdrasil, made a far-spreading shade against the fierce heat of the sun in summer, and a stronghold against the piercing winds of winter. No man could remember when it had been young. Little children played under its branches, grew to be strong men and women, lived to be old and weary and feeble, and died; and yet the ash-tree gave no signs of decay. Forever preserving its freshness and beauty, it was to live as long as there were men to look upon it, animals to feed under it, birds to flutter among its branches. This mighty ash-tree touched and bound all the worlds together in its wonderful circle of life. One root it sent deep down into the sightless depths of Hel, where the dead lived; another it fastened firmly in Joetunheim, the dreary home of the giants; and with the third it grasped Midgard, the dwelling place of men. Serpents and all kinds of worms gnawed continually at its roots, but were never able to destroy them. Its branches spread out over the whole earth, and the topmost boughs swayed in the clear air of Asgard itself, rustling against the Valhal, the home of the heroes who had done great deeds or died manfully in battle. At the foot of the tree sat the three Norns, wonderful spinners of fate, who weave the thread of every man's life, making it what they will; and a strange weaving it often was, cut off when the pattern was just beginning to show itself. And every day these Norns sprinkled the tree with the water of life from the Urdar fountain, and so kept it forever green. In the topmost branches sat an eagle singing a strange song about the birth of the world, its decay and death. Under its branches browsed all manner of animals; among its leaves every kind of bird made its nest; by day the rainbow hung under it; at night the pale northern light flashed over it, and as the winds swept through its rustling branches, the multitudinous murmur of the leaves told strange stories of the past and of the future. The giants were older than the gods, and knew so much more of the past that the gods had to go to them for wisdom. After a time, however, the gods became wiser than the giants, or they would have ceased to be gods, and been destroyed by the giants, instead of destroying them. When the world was still young, and there were still many things which even the gods had to learn, Odin was so anxious to become wise that he went to a deep well whose waters touched the roots of Ygdrasil itself. The keeper of the well was a very old and very wise giant, named Mimer, or Memory, and he gave no draughts out of the well until he was well paid; for the well contained the water of wisdom, and whoever drank of it became straightway wonderfully wise. "Give me a draught of this clear water, O Mimer," said Odin, when he had reached the well, and was looking down into its clear, fathomless depths. Mimer, the keeper, was so old that he could remember everything that had ever happened. His eyes were clear and calm as the stars, his face was noble and restful, and his long white beard flowed down to his waist. "This water is only to be had at a great price," he said in a wonderfully sweet, majestic tone. "I cannot give to all who ask, but only to those who are able and willing to give greatly in return," he continued. If Odin had been less of a god he would have thought longer and bargained sharper, but he was so godlike that he cared more to be wise and great than for anything else. "I will give you whatever you ask," he answered. Mimer thought a moment. "You must leave an eye," he said at last. Then he drew up a great draught of the sparkling water, and Odin quenched his divine thirst and went away rejoicing, although he had left an eye behind. Even the gods could not be wise without struggle and toil and sacrifice. So Odin became the wisest in all the worlds, and there was no god or giant that could contend with him. There was one giant, however, who was called all-wise in Joetunheim, with whom many had contended in knowledge, with curious and difficult questions, and had always been silenced and killed, for then, as now, a man's life often depended on his wisdom. Of this giant, Vafthrudner, and his wisdom many wonderful stories were told, and even among the gods his fame was great. One day as Odin sat thinking of many strange things in the worlds, and many mysterious things in the future, he thought of Vafthrudner. "I will go to Joetunheim and measure wisdom with Vafthrudner, the wisest of the giants," said he to Frigg, his wife, who was sitting by. Then Frigg remembered those who had gone to contend with the all-wise giant and had never come back, and a fear came over her that the same fate might befall Odin. "You are wisest in all the worlds, All-Father," she said; "why should you seek a treacherous giant who knows not half so much as you?" But Odin, who feared nothing, could not be persuaded to stay, and Frigg sadly said good-by as he passed out of Asgard on his journey to Joetunheim. His blue mantle set with stars and his golden helmet he left behind him, and as he journeyed swiftly those who met him saw nothing godlike in him; nor did Vafthrudner when at last he stood at the giant's door. "I am a simple traveler, Gangraad by name," he said, as Vafthrudner came gruffly toward him. "I ask your hospitality and a chance to strive with you in wisdom." The giant laughed scornfully at the thought of a man coming to contend with him for mastery in knowledge. "You shall have all you want of both," he growled, "and if you cannot answer my questions you shall never go hence alive." He did not even ask Odin to sit down, but let him stand in the hall, despising him too much to show him any courtesy. After a time he began to ask questions. "Tell me, if you can, O wise Gangraad, the name of the river which divides Asgard from Joetunheim." "The river Ifing, which never freezes over," answered Odin quickly, as if it were the easiest question in the world; and indeed it was to him, although no man could have answered it. Vafthrudner looked up in great surprise when he heard the reply. "Good," he said, "you have answered rightly. Tell me, now, the names of the horses that carry day and night across the sky." Before the words were fairly spoken Odin replied, "Skinfaxe and Hrimfaxe." The giant could not conceal his surprise that a man should know these things. "Once more," he said quickly, as if he were risking everything on one question; "tell me the name of the plain where the Last Battle will be fought." This was a terrible question, for the Last Battle was still far off in the future, and only the gods and the greatest of the giants knew where and when it would come. Odin bowed his head when he heard the words, for to be ready for that battle was the divine work of his life, and then said, slowly and solemnly, "On the plain of Vigrid, which is one hundred miles on each side." Vafthrudner rose trembling from his seat. He knew now that Gangraad was some great one in disguise, and that his own life hung on the answers he himself would soon be forced to make. "Sit here beside me," he said, "for whoever you are, worthier antagonist has never entered these walls." Then they sat down together in the rude stone hall, the mightiest of the gods and the wisest of the giants, and the great contest in wisdom, with a life hanging in either scale, went on between them. Wonderful secrets of the time when no man was and the time when no man will be, those silent walls listened to as Vafthrudner asked Odin one deep question after another, the answer coming swiftly and surely. After a time the giant could ask no more, for he had exhausted his wisdom. "It is my turn now," said Odin, and one after another he drew out from Vafthrudner the events of the past and then the wonderful things of the race of giants, and finally he began to question him of that dim, mysterious future whose secrets only the gods know; and as he touched these wonderful things Odin's eyes began to flash, and his form to grow larger and nobler until he seemed no longer the humble Gangraad, but the mighty god he was, and Vafthrudner trembled as he felt the coming doom nearing him with every question. So hours went by, until at last Odin paused in his swift questioning, stooped down, and asked the giant, "What did Odin whisper in the ear of Balder as he ascended the funeral pile?" Only Odin himself could answer this question, and Vafthrudner replied humbly and with awe, "Who but thyself, All-Father, knoweth the words thou didst say to thy son in the days of old? I have brought my doom upon myself, for in my ignorance I have contended with wisdom itself. Thou art ever the wisest of all." So Odin conquered, and Wisdom was victorious, as she always has been even when she has contended with giants. 266 The story of the splendid courage of Tyr at the time of the chaining up of the terrible Fenris wolf has always been one of the favorite Norse tales. The three repulsive giant monsters in whom the forces of evil are embodied are well imagined to suggest to us powers that may finally be stronger than the gods themselves. The failures to find a chain strong enough, and the final success with the magic bond made in Dwarfland, form a series of powerfully dramatic steps in the story. The elements of which the slender rope is made never fail to fascinate hearers, young or old, with a sense of the most profound mystery. "Why the dwarfs should be able to make a chain strong enough to bind him, which the gods had failed to do, is a puzzle. May it mean that subtlety can compass ends which force has to relinquish, or possibly a better thing than subtlety, gentleness?" And the final need of a hero willing to take extreme risks for some good greater than himself is amply and admirably satisfied in the brave Tyr. The version of the story used here is from Miss E. M. Wilmot-Buxton's _Stories of Norse Heroes_. HOW THE FENRIS WOLF WAS CHAINED E. M. WILMOT-BUXTON Fair as were the meads of Asgard, we have seen that the Asa folk were fond of wandering far afield in other regions. Most restless of all was Red Loki, that cunning fellow who was always bringing trouble upon himself or upon his kindred. And because he loved evil, he would often betake himself to the gloomy halls of Giantland and mingle with the wicked folk of that region. Now one day he met a hideous giantess named Angur-Boda. This creature had a heart of ice, and because he loved ugliness and evil she had a great attraction for him, and in the end he married her, and they lived together in a horrible cave in Giantland. Three children were born to Loki and Angur-Boda in this dread abode, and they were even more terrible in appearance than their mother. The first was an immense wolf called Fenris, with a huge mouth filled with long white teeth, which he was constantly gnashing together. The second was a wicked-looking serpent with a fiery-red tongue lolling from its mouth. The third was a hideous giantess, partly blue and partly flesh color, whose name was Hela. No sooner were these three terrible children born than all the wise men of the earth began to foretell the misery they would bring upon the Asa folk. In vain did Loki try to keep them hidden within the cave wherein their mother dwelt. They soon grew so immense in size that no dwelling would contain them, and all the world began to talk of their frightful appearance. It was not long, of course, before All-Father Odin, from his high seat in Asgard, heard of the children of Loki. So he sent for some of the Asas, and said: "Much evil will come upon us, O my children, from this giant brood, if we defend not ourselves against them. For their mother will teach them wickedness, and still more quickly will they learn the cunning wiles of their father. Fetch me them here, therefore, that I may deal with them forthwith." So, after somewhat of a struggle, the Asas captured the three giant-children and brought them before Odin's judgment seat. Then Odin looked first at Hela, and when he saw her gloomy eyes, full of misery and despair, he was sorry, and dealt kindly with her, saying: "Thou art the bringer of Pain to man, and Asgard is no place for such as thou. But I will make thee ruler of the Mist Home, and there shalt thou rule over that unlighted world, the Region of the Dead." Forthwith he sent her away over rough roads to the cold, dark region of the North called the Mist Home. And there did Hela rule over a grim crew, for all those who had done wickedness in the world above were imprisoned by her in those gloomy regions. To her came also all those who had died, not on the battlefield, but of old age or disease. And though these were treated kindly enough, theirs was a joyless life in comparison with that of the dead warriors who were feasting and fighting in the halls of Valhalla, under the kindly rule of All-Father Odin. Having thus disposed of Hela, Odin next turned his attention to the serpent. And when he saw his evil tongue and cunning, wicked eyes, he said: "Thou art he who bringest Sin into the world of men; therefore the ocean shall be thy home forever." Then he threw that horrid serpent into the deep sea which surrounds all lands, and there the creature grew so fast that when he stretched himself one day he encircled all the earth, and held his own tail fast in his mouth. And sometimes he grew angry to think that he, the son of a god, had thus been cast out; and at those times he would writhe with his huge body and lash his tail till the sea spouted up to the sky. And when that happened the men of the North said that a great tempest was raging. But it was only the serpent-son of Loki writhing in his wrath. Then Odin turned to the third child. And behold! the Fenris Wolf was so appalling to look upon that Odin feared to cast him forth, and he decided to endeavor to tame him by kindness so that he should not wish them ill. But when he bade them carry food to the Fenris Wolf, not one of the Asas would do so, for they feared a snap from his great jaws. Only the brave Tyr had courage enough to feed him, and the wolf ate so much and so fast that the business took him all his time. Meantime, too, the Fenris grew so rapidly, and became so fierce, that the gods were compelled to take counsel and consider how they should get rid of him. They remembered that it would make their peaceful halls unholy if they were to slay him, and so they resolved instead to bind him fast, that he should be unable to do them harm. So those of the Asa folk who were clever smiths set to work and made a very strong, thick chain; and when it was finished they carried it out to the yard where the wolf dwelt, and said to him, as though in jest: "Here is a fine proof of thy boasted strength, O Fenris. Let us bind this about thee, that we may see if thou canst break it asunder." Then the wolf gave a great grin with his wide jaws, and came and stood still that they might bind the chain about him; for he knew what he could do. And it came to pass that directly they had fastened the chain, and had slipped aside from him, the great beast gave himself a shake, and the chain fell about him in little bits. At this the Asas were much annoyed, but they tried not to show it, and praised him for his strength. Then they set to work again upon a chain much stronger than the last, and brought it to the Fenris Wolf, saying: "Great will be thy renown, O Fenris, if thou canst break this chain as thou didst the last." But the wolf looked at them askance, for the chain they brought was very much thicker than the one he had already broken. He reflected, however, that since that time he himself had grown stronger and bigger, and moreover, that one must risk something in order to win renown. So he let them put the chain upon him, and when the Asas said that all was ready, he gave a good shake and stretched himself a few times, and again the fetters lay in fragments on the ground. Then the gods began to fear that they would never hold the wolf in bonds; and it was All-Father Odin who persuaded them to make one more attempt. So they sent a messenger to Dwarfland bidding him ask the Little Men to make a chain which nothing could possibly destroy. Setting at once to work, the clever little smiths soon fashioned a slender silken rope, and gave it to the messenger, saying that no strength could break it, and that the more it was strained the stronger it would become. It was made of the most mysterious things--the sound of a cat's footsteps, the roots of a mountain, the sinews of a bear, the breath of fishes, and other such strange materials, which only the dwarfs knew how to use. With this chain the messenger hastened back over the Rainbow Bridge to Asgard. By this time the Fenris Wolf had grown too big for his yard, so he lived on a rocky island in the middle of the lake that lies in the midst of Asgard. And here the Asas now betook themselves with their chain, and began to play their part with wily words. "See," they cried, "O Fenris! Here is a cord so soft and thin that none would think of it binding such strength as thine." And they laughed great laughs, and handed it to one another, and tried its strength by pulling at it with all their might, but it did not break. Then they came nearer and used more wiles, saying: "_We_ cannot break the cord, though 'tis stronger than it looks, but thou, O mighty one, will be able to snap it in a moment." But the wolf tossed his head in scorn, and said: "Small renown would there be to me, O Asa folk, if I were to break yon slender string. Save, therefore, your breath, and leave me now alone." "Aha!" cried the Asas, "thou fearest the might of the silken cord, thou false one, and that is why thou wilt not let us bind thee!" "Not I," said the Fenris Wolf, growing rather suspicious, "but if it is made with craft and guile it shall never come near my feet." "But," said the Asas, "thou wilt surely be able to break this silken cord with ease, since thou hast already broken the great iron fetters." To this the wolf made no answer, pretending not to hear. "Come!" said the Asas again, "why shouldst thou fear? For even if thou couldst not break the cord we would immediately let thee free again. To refuse is a coward's piece of work." Then the wolf gnashed his teeth at them in anger, and said: "Well I know you Asas! For if you bind me so fast that I cannot get loose you will skulk away, and it will be long before I get any help from you; and therefore am I loth to let this band be laid upon me." But still the Asas continued to persuade him and to twit him with cowardice until at length the Fenris Wolf said, with a sullen growl: "Have it your own way then. But, as a pledge that this is done without deceit, let one of you lay his hand in my mouth while you are binding me, and afterwards while I try to break the bonds." Then the Asa folk looked at one another in dismay, for they knew very well what this would mean. And while they consulted together the wolf stood gnashing his teeth at them with a horrid grin. At length Tyr the Brave hesitated no longer. Boldly he stalked up to the wolf and thrust his arm into his enormous mouth, bidding the Asas bind fast the beast. Scarce had they done so when the wolf began to strain and pull, but the more he did so the tighter and stiffer the rope became. The gods shouted and laughed with glee when they saw how all his efforts were in vain. But Tyr did not join in their mirth, for the wolf in his rage snapped his great teeth together and bit off his hand at the wrist. Now when the Asas discovered that the animal was fast bound, they took the chain which was fixed to the rope and drew it through a huge rock, and fastened this rock deep down in the earth, so that it could never be moved. And this they fastened to another great rock which was driven still deeper into the ground. When the Fenris Wolf found that he had been thus secured he opened his mouth terribly wide, and twisted himself right and left, and tried his best to bite the Asa folk. He uttered, moreover, such terrible howls that at length the gods could bear it no longer. So they took a sword and thrust it into his mouth, so that the hilt rested on his lower, and the point against his upper, jaw. And there he was doomed to remain until the end of All Things shall come, when he "Freed from the Chain Shall range the Earth." 267 The story of Frey in the Norse mythology corresponds to that of Persephone (Proserpine) in classic mythology. (See No. 255.) Frey is "the god of the earth's fruitfulness, presiding over rain, sunshine, and all the fruits of the earth, and dispensing wealth among men." Skirnir is the sun-warmed air, and Gerda is the seed. The version of the story used below is from _The Heroes of Asgard_ by Annie and Eliza Keary. This book was first published in 1854, and while a little old-fashioned in style is still one of the most pleasing attempts to tell the Norse myths for young people. FREY A. AND E. KEARY PART I ON TIPTOE IN AIR THRONE Wherever Frey came there was summer and sunshine. Flowers sprang up under his footsteps, and bright-winged insects, like flying flowers, hovered round his head. His warm breath ripened the fruit on the trees, and gave a bright yellow color to the corn, and purple bloom to the grapes, as he passed through fields and vineyards. When he rode along in his car, drawn by the stately boar, Golden Bristles, soft winds blew before him, filling the air with fragrance and spreading abroad the news, "Van Frey is coming!" and every half-closed flower burst into perfect beauty, and forest, and field, and hill flushed their richest colors to greet his presence. Under Frey's care and instruction the pretty little light elves forgot their idle ways and learned all the pleasant tasks he had promised to teach them. It was the prettiest possible sight to see them in the evening filling their tiny buckets, and running about among the woods and meadows to hang the dew-drops deftly on the slender tips of the grass-blades, or to drop them into the half-closed cups of the sleepy flowers. When this last of their day's tasks was over they used to cluster round their summer-king, like bees about the queen, while he told them stories about the wars between the Aesir and the giants, or of the old time when he lived alone with his father Nioerd, in Noatun, and listened to the waves singing songs of far distant lands. So pleasantly did they spend their time in Alfheim. But in the midst of all this work and play Frey had a wish in his mind, of which he could not help often talking to his clear-minded messenger and friend Skirnir. "I have seen many things," he used to say, "and traveled through many lands; but to see all the world at once, as Asa Odin does from Air Throne, _that_ must be a splendid sight." "Only Father Odin may sit on Air Throne," Skirnir would say; and it seemed to Frey that this answer was not so much to the purpose as his friend's sayings generally were. At length, one very clear summer evening, when Odin was feasting with the other Aesir in Valhalla, Frey could restrain his curiosity no longer. He left Alfheim, where all the little elves were fast asleep, and, without asking any one's advice, climbed into Air Throne, and stood on tiptoe in Odin's very seat. It was a clear evening, and I had, perhaps, better not even try to tell you what Frey saw. He looked first all round him over Manheim, where the rosy light of the set sun still lingered, and where men, and birds, and flowers were gathering themselves up for their night's repose; then he glanced towards the heavenly hills where Bifroest rested, and then towards the shadowy land which deepened down into Niflheim. At length he turned his eyes northward to the misty land of Joetunheim. There the shades of evening had already fallen; but from his high place Frey could still see distinct shapes moving about through the gloom. Strange and monstrous shapes they were, and Frey stood a little higher, on tiptoe, that he might look further after them. In this position he could just descry a tall house standing on a hill in the very middle of Joetunheim. While he looked at it a maiden came and lifted up her arms to undo the latch of the door. It was dusk in Joetunheim; but when this maiden lifted up her white arms, such a dazzling reflection came from them, that Joetunheim, and the sky, and all the sea were flooded with clear light. For a moment everything could be distinctly seen; but Frey saw nothing but the face of the maiden with the uplifted arms; and when she had entered the house and shut the door after her, and darkness fell again on earth, and sky, and sea,--darkness fell, too, upon Frey's heart. PART II THE GIFT The next morning, when the little elves awoke up with the dawn, and came thronging round their king to receive his commands, they were surprised to see that he had changed since they last saw him. "He has grown up in the night," they whispered one to another sorrowfully. And in truth he was no longer so fit a teacher and playfellow for the merry little people as he had been a few hours before. It was to no purpose that the sweet winds blew, and the flowers opened, when Frey came forth from his chamber. A bright white light still danced before him, and nothing now seemed to him worth looking at. That evening when the sun had set, and work was over, there were no stories for the light elves. "Be still," Frey said, when they pressed round. "If you will be still and listen, there are stories enough to be heard better than mine." I do not know whether the elves heard anything; but to Frey it seemed that flowers, and birds, and winds, and the whispering rivers, united that day in singing one song, which he never wearied of hearing. "We are fair," they said; "but there is nothing in the whole world so fair as Gerda, the giant-maiden whom you saw last night in Joetunheim." "Frey has dew-drops in his eyes," the little elves said to each other in whispers as they sat round looking up at him, and they felt very much surprised; for only to men and the Aesir is it permitted to be sorrowful and weep. Soon, however, wiser people noticed the change that had come over the summer-king, and his good-natured father, Nioerd, sent Skirnir one day into Alfheim to inquire into the cause of Frey's sorrow. He found him walking alone in a shady place, and Frey was glad enough to tell his trouble to his wise friend. When he had related the whole story, he said, "And now you will see that there is no use in asking me to be merry as I used to be; for how can I ever be happy in Alfheim, and enjoy the summer and sunshine, while my dear Gerda, whom I love, is living in a dark, cold land, among cruel giants?" "If she be really as beautiful and beloved as you say," answered Skirnir, "she must be sadly out of place in Joetunheim. Why do not you ask her to be your wife, and live with you in Alfheim?" "That would I only too gladly do," answered Frey; "but if I were to leave Alfheim only for a few hours, the cruel giant Ryme,--the Frost Giant--would rush in to take my place; all the labors of the year would be undone in a night, and the poor, toiling men, who are watching for the harvest, would wake some morning to find their corn fields and orchards buried in snow." "Well," said Skirnir, thoughtfully, "I am neither so strong nor so beautiful as you, Frey; but, if you will give me the sword that hangs by your side, I will undertake the journey to Joetunheim; and I will speak in such a way of you, and of Alfheim, to the lovely Gerda, that she will gladly leave her land and the house of her giant-father to come to you." Now, Frey's sword was a gift, and he knew well enough that he ought not to part with it, or trust it in any hands but his own; and yet how could he expect Skirnir to risk all the dangers of Joetunheim for any less recompense than an enchanted sword? And what other hope had he of ever seeing his dear Gerda again? He did not allow himself a moment to think of the choice he was making. He unbuckled his sword from his side and put it into Skirnir's hands; and then he turned rather pettishly away, and threw himself down on a mossy bank under a tree. "You will be many days in traveling to Joetunheim," he said, "and all that time I shall be miserable." Skirnir was too sensible to think this speech worth answering. He took a hasty farewell of Frey, and prepared to set off on his journey; but, before he left the hill, he chanced to see the reflection of Frey's face in a little pool of water that lay near. In spite of its sorrowful expression, it was as beautiful as the woods are in full summer, and a clever thought came into Skirnir's mind. He stooped down, without Frey's seeing him, and, with cunning touch, stole the picture out of the water; then he fastened it up carefully in his silver drinking-horn, and, hiding it in his mantle, he mounted his horse and rode towards Joetunheim, secure of succeeding in his mission, since he carried a matchless sword to conquer the giant, and a matchless picture to win the maiden. PART III FAIREST GERDA The house of Gymir, Gerda's father, stood in the middle of Joetunheim, so it will not be difficult for you to imagine what a toilsome and wondrous journey Skirnir had. He was a brave hero, and he rode a brave horse; but, when they came to the barrier of murky flame that surrounds Joetunheim, a shudder came over both. "Dark it is without," said Skirnir to his horse, "and you and I must leap through flame, and go over hoar mountains among Giant Folk. The giants will take us both, or we shall return victorious together." Then he patted his horse's neck, and touched him with his armed heel, and with one bound he cleared the barrier, and his hoofs rang on the frozen land. Their first day's journey was through the land of the Frost Giants, whose prickly touch kills, and whose breath is sharper than swords. Then they passed through the dwellings of the horse-headed and vulture-headed giants--monsters terrible to see. Skirnir hid his face, and the horse flew along swifter than the wind. On the evening of the third day they reached Gymir's house. Skirnir rode round it nine times; but though there were twenty doors, he could find no entrance; for fierce three-headed dogs guarded every doorway. At length he saw a herdsman pass near, and he rode up and asked him how it was possible for a stranger to enter Gymir's house, or get a sight of his fair daughter Gerda. "Are you doomed to death, or are you already a dead man," answered the herdsman, "that you talk of seeing Gymir's fair daughter, or entering a house from which no one ever returns?" "My death is fixed for one day," said Skirnir, in answer, and his voice, the voice of an Asa, sounded loud and clear through the misty air of Joetunheim. It reached the ears of the fair Gerda as she sat in her chamber with her maidens. "What is that noise of noises," she said, "that I hear? The earth shakes with it, and all Gymir's halls tremble." Then one of the maidens got up, and peeped out of the window. "I see a man," she said; "he has dismounted from his horse, and he is fearlessly letting it graze before the door." "Go out and bring him in stealthily, then," said Gerda; "I must again hear him speak; for his voice is sweeter than the ringing of bells." So the maiden rose, and opened the house-door softly, lest the grim giant, Gymir, who was drinking mead in the banquet-hall with seven other giants, should hear and come forth. Skirnir heard the door open, and understanding the maiden's sign, he entered with stealthy steps, and followed her to Gerda's chamber. As soon as he entered the doorway the light from her face shone upon him, and he no longer wondered that Frey had given up his sword. "Are you the son of an Asa, or an Alf, or of a wise Van?" asked Gerda; "and why have you come through flame and snow to visit our halls?" Then Skirnir came forward and knelt at Gerda's feet, and gave his message, and spoke as he had promised to speak of Van Frey and of Alfheim. Gerda listened; and it was pleasant enough to talk to her, looking into her bright face; but she did not seem to understand much of what he said. He promised to give her eleven golden apples from Iduna's grove if she would go with him, and that she should have the magic ring Draupnir from which every day a still fairer jewel fell. But he found there was no use in talking of beautiful things to one who had never in all her life seen anything beautiful. Gerda smiled at him as a child smiles at a fairy tale. At length he grew angry. "If you are so childish, maiden," he said, "that you can believe only what you have seen, and have no thought of Aesirland or the Aesir, then sorrow and utter darkness shall fall upon you; you shall live alone on the Eagle Mount turned towards Hel. Terrors shall beset you; weeping shall be your lot. Men and Aesir will hate you, and you shall be doomed to live for ever with the Frost Giant, Ryme, in whose cold arms you will wither away like a thistle on a house-top." "Gently," said Gerda, turning away her bright head, and sighing. "How am I to blame? You make such a talk of your Aesir and your Aesir; but how can I know about it, when all my life long I have lived with giants?" At these words, Skirnir rose as if he would have departed, but Gerda called him back. "You must drink a cup of mead," she said, "in return for your sweet-sounding words." Skirnir heard this gladly, for now he knew what he would do. He took the cup from her hand, drank off the mead, and, before he returned it, he contrived cleverly to pour in the water from his drinking-horn, on which Frey's image was painted; then he put the cup into Gerda's hand, and bade her look. She smiled as she looked; and the longer she looked, the sweeter grew her smile; for she looked for the first time on a face that loved her, and many things became clear to her that she had never understood before. Skirnir's words were no longer like fairy tales. She could now believe in Aesirland, and in all beautiful things. "Go back to your master," she said, at last, "and tell him that in nine days I will meet him in the warm wood Barri." After hearing these joyful words, Skirnir made haste to take leave, for every moment that he lingered in the giant's house he was in danger. One of Gerda's maidens conducted him to the door, and he mounted his horse again, and rode from Joetunheim with a glad heart. PART IV THE WOOD BARRI When Skirnir got back to Alfheim, and told Gerda's answer to Frey, he was disappointed to find that his master did not immediately look as bright and happy as he expected. "Nine days!" he said; "but how can I wait nine days? One day is long, and three days are very long, but 'nine days' might as well be a whole year." I have heard children say such things when one tells them to wait for a new toy. Skirnir and old Nioerd only laughed at it; but Freyja and all the ladies of Asgard made a journey to Alfheim, when they heard the story, to comfort Frey, and hear all the news about the wedding. "Dear Frey," they said, "it will never do to lie still here, sighing under a tree. You are quite mistaken about the time being long; it is hardly long enough to prepare the marriage presents, and talk over the wedding. You have no idea how busy we are going to be; everything in Alfheim will have to be altered a little." At these words Frey really did lift up his head, and wake up from his musings. He looked, in truth, a little frightened at the thought; but, when all the Asgard ladies were ready to work for his wedding, how could he make any objection? He was not allowed to have much share in the business himself; but he had little time, during the nine days, to indulge in private thought, for never before was there such a commotion in Alfheim. The ladies found so many things that wanted overlooking, and the little light elves were not of the slightest use to any one. They forgot all their usual tasks, and went running about through groves and fields, and by the sedgy banks of rivers, peering into earth-holes, and creeping down into flower-cups and empty snail-shells, every one hoping to find a gift for Gerda. Some stole the light from glowworms' tails, and wove it into a necklace, and others pulled the ruby spots from cowslip leaves, to set with jewels the acorn cups that Gerda was to drink from; while the swiftest runners chased the butterflies, and pulled feathers from their wings to make fans and bonnet-plumes. All the work was scarcely finished when the ninth day came, and Frey set out from Alfheim with all his elves, to the warm wood Barri. The Aesir joined him on the way, and they made, together, something like a wedding procession. First came Frey in his chariot, drawn by Golden Bristles, and carrying in his hand the wedding ring, which was none other than Draupnir, the magic ring of which so many stories are told. Odin and Frigga followed with their wedding gift, the Ship Skidbladnir, in which all the Aesir could sit and sail, though it could afterwards be folded up so small that you might carry it in your hand. Then came Iduna, with eleven golden apples in a basket on her fair head, and then two and two all the heroes and ladies with their gifts. All round them flocked the elves, toiling under the weight of their offerings. It took twenty little people to carry one gift, and yet there was not one so large as a baby's finger. Laughing, and singing, and dancing, they entered the warm wood, and every summer flower sent a sweet breath after them. Everything on earth smiled on the wedding-day of Frey and Gerda, only--when it was all over, and every one had gone home, and the moon shone cold into the wood--it seemed as if the Vanir spoke to one another. "Odin," said one voice, "gave his eye for wisdom, and we have seen that it was well done." "Frey," answered the other, "has given his sword for happiness. It may be well to be unarmed while the sun shines and bright days last; but when Ragnaroek has come, and the sons of Muspell ride down to the last fight, will not Frey regret his sword?" 268 Balder represented sunlight. He was a son of Odin. If we try to imagine how welcome the sunlight of spring must have been to the Norse folk after the long Arctic night of winter, we may understand why everything in the world, except the evil Loke, was willing to weep in order to bring Balder back from Helheim. Some knowledge of the geography of Norse mythology will aid the reader in understanding the myth of Balder. Far below Asgard, the home of the gods, was Niflheim, the region of cold and darkness. Here in a deep cavern was Helheim, the city of the dead, over which Hel ruled. Midway between Asgard and Niflheim was Midgard, the earth. The whole universe was supported by Ygdrasil, a wonderful ash-tree, one root of which extended into Midgard, one into Joetunheim, and one into Niflheim. "Balder is another figure of that radiant type to which belong all bright and genial heroes, righters of wrong, blazing to consume evil, gentle and strong to uplift weakness: Apollo, Hercules, Perseus, Achilles, Sigard, St. George, and many another." Balder has been a favorite subject for poetic treatment, perhaps to best effect in Matthew Arnold's dignified "Balder Dead." THE DEATH OF BALDER HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE There was one shadow which always fell over Asgard. Sometimes in the long years the gods almost forgot it, it lay so far off, like a dim cloud in a clear sky; but Odin saw it deepen and widen as he looked out into the universe, and he knew that the last great battle would surely come, when the gods themselves would be destroyed and a long twilight would rest on all the worlds; and now the day was close at hand. Misfortunes never come singly to men, and they did not to the gods. Idun, the beautiful goddess of youth, whose apples were the joy of all Asgard, made a resting place for herself among the massive branches of Ygdrasil, and there every evening came Brage, and sang so sweetly that the birds stopped to listen, and even the Norns, those implacable sisters at the foot of the tree, were softened by the melody. But poetry cannot change the purposes of fate, and one evening no song was heard of Brage or birds, the leaves of the world-tree hung withered and lifeless on the branches, and the fountain from which they had daily been sprinkled was dry at last. Idun had fallen into the dark valley of death, and when Brage, Heimdal, and Loke went to question her about the future she could answer them only with tears. Brage would not leave his beautiful wife alone amid the dim shades that crowded the dreary valley, and so youth and genius vanished out of Asgard forever. Balder was the most god-like of all the gods, because he was the purest and the best. Wherever he went his coming was like the coming of sunshine, and all the beauty of summer was but the shining of his face. When men's hearts were white like the light, and their lives clear as the day, it was because Balder was looking down upon them with those soft, clear eyes that were open windows to the soul of God. He had always lived in such a glow of brightness that no darkness had ever touched him; but one morning, after Idun and Brage had gone, Balder's face was sad and troubled. He walked slowly from room to room in his palace Breidablik, stainless as the sky when April showers have swept across it because no impure thing had ever crossed the threshold, and his eyes were heavy with sorrow. In the night terrible dreams had broken his sleep, and made it a long torture. The air seemed to be full of awful changes for him, and for all the gods. He knew in his soul that the shadow of the last great day was sweeping on; as he looked out and saw the worlds lying in light and beauty, the fields yellow with waving grain, the deep fiords flashing back the sunbeams from their clear depths, the verdure clothing the loftiest mountains, and knew that over all this darkness and desolation would come, with silence of reapers and birds, with fading of leaf and flower, a great sorrow fell on his heart. Balder could bear the burden no longer. He went out, called all the gods together, and told them the terrible dreams of the night. Every face was heavy with care. The death of Balder would be like the going out of the sun, and after a long, sad council the gods resolved to protect him from harm by pledging all things to stand between him and any hurt. So Frigg, his mother, went forth and made everything promise, on a solemn oath, not to injure her son. Fire, iron, all kinds of metal, every sort of stone, trees, earth, diseases, birds, beasts, snakes, as the anxious mother went to them, solemnly pledged themselves that no harm should come near Balder. Everything promised, and Frigg thought she had driven away the cloud; but fate was stronger than her love, and one little shrub had not sworn. Odin was not satisfied even with these precautions, for whichever way he looked the shadow of a great sorrow spread over the worlds. He began to feel as if he were no longer the greatest of the gods, and he could almost hear the rough shouts of the frost-giants crowding the rainbow bridge on their way into Asgard. When trouble comes to men it is hard to bear, but to a god who had so many worlds to guide and rule it was a new and terrible thing. Odin thought and thought until he was weary, but no gleam of light could he find anywhere; it was thick darkness everywhere. At last he could bear the suspense no longer, and saddling his horse he rode sadly out of Asgard to Niflheim, the home of Hel, whose face was as the face of death itself. As he drew near the gates, a monstrous dog came out and barked furiously, but Odin rode a little eastward of the shadowy gates to the grave of a wonderful prophetess. It was a cold, gloomy place, and the soul of the great god was pierced with a feeling of hopeless sorrow as he dismounted from Sleipner, and bending over the grave began to chant weird songs, and weave magical charms over it. When he had spoken those wonderful words which could waken the dead from their sleep, there was an awful silence for a moment, and then a faint ghost-like voice came from the grave. "Who art thou?" it said. "Who breaketh the silence of death, and calleth the sleeper out of her long slumbers? Ages ago I was laid at rest here, snow and rain have fallen upon me through myriad years; why dost thou disturb me?" "I am Vegtam," answered Odin, "and I come to ask why the couches of Hel are hung with gold and the benches strewn with shining rings?" "It is done for Balder," answered the awful voice; "ask me no more." Odin's heart sank when he heard these words; but he was determined to know the worst. "I will ask thee until I know all. Who shall strike the fatal blow?" "If I must, I must," moaned the prophetess. "Hoder shall smite his brother Balder and send him down to the dark home of Hel. The mead is already brewed for Balder, and the despair draweth near." Then Odin, looking into the future across the open grave, saw all the days to come. "Who is this," he said, seeing that which no mortal could have seen,--"who is this that will not weep for Balder?" Then the prophetess knew that it was none other than the greatest of the gods who had called her up. "Thou are not Vegtam," she exclaimed, "thou art Odin himself, the king of men." "And thou," answered Odin angrily, "art no prophetess, but the mother of three giants." "Ride home, then, and exult in what thou hast discovered," said the dead woman. "Never shall my slumbers be broken again until Loke shall burst his chains and the great battle come." And Odin rode sadly homeward knowing that already Niflheim was making itself beautiful against the coming of Balder. The other gods meanwhile had become merry again; for had not everything promised to protect their beloved Balder? They even made sport of that which troubled them, for when they found that nothing could hurt Balder, and that all things glanced aside from his shining form, they persuaded him to stand as a target for their weapons; hurling darts, spears, swords, and battle-axes at him, all of which went singing through the air and fell harmless at his feet. But Loke, when he saw these sports, was jealous of Balder, and went about thinking how he could destroy him. It happened that as Frigg sat spinning in her house Fensal, the soft wind blowing in at the windows and bringing the merry shouts of the gods at play, an old woman entered and approached her. "Do you know," asked the newcomer, "what they are doing in Asgard? They are throwing all manner of dangerous weapons at Balder. He stands there like the sun for brightness, and against his glory, spears and battle-axes fall powerless to the ground. Nothing can harm him." "No," answered Frigg, joyfully; "nothing can bring him any hurt, for I have made everything in heaven and earth swear to protect him." "What!" said the old woman, "has everything sworn to guard Balder?" "Yes," said Frigg, "everything has sworn except one little shrub which is called Mistletoe, and grows on the eastern side of Valhal. I did not take an oath from that because I thought it too young and weak." When the old woman heard this a strange light came into her eyes; she walked off much faster than she had come in, and no sooner had she passed beyond Frigg's sight than this same feeble old woman grew suddenly erect, shook off her woman's garments, and there stood Loke himself. In a moment he had reached the slope east of Valhal, had plucked a twig of the unsworn Mistletoe, and was back in the circle of the gods, who were still at their favorite pastime with Balder. Hoder was standing silent and alone outside the noisy throng, for he was blind. Loke touched him. "Why do you not throw something at Balder?" "Because I cannot see where Balder stands, and have nothing to throw if I could," replied Hoder. "If that is all," said Loke, "come with me. I will give you something to throw, and direct your aim." Hoder, thinking no evil, went with Loke and did as he was told. The little sprig of Mistletoe shot through the air, pierced the heart of Balder, and in a moment the beautiful god lay dead upon the field. A shadow rose out of the deep beyond the worlds and spread itself over heaven and earth, for the light of the universe had gone out. The gods could not speak for horror. They stood like statues for a moment, and then a hopeless wail burst from their lips. Tears fell like rain from eyes that had never wept before, for Balder, the joy of Asgard, had gone to Niflheim and left them desolate. But Odin was saddest of all, because he knew the future, and he knew that peace and light had fled from Asgard forever, and that the last day and the long night were hurrying on. Frigg could not give up her beautiful son, and when her grief had spent itself a little, she asked who would go to Hel and offer her a rich ransom if she would permit Balder to return to Asgard. "I will go," said Hermod; swift at the word of Odin, Sleipner was led forth, and in an instant Hermod was galloping furiously away. Then the gods began with sorrowful hearts to make ready for Balder's funeral. When the once beautiful form had been arrayed in grave-clothes they carried it reverently down to the deep sea, which lay, calm as a summer afternoon, waiting for its precious burden. Close to the water's edge lay Balder's Ringhorn, the greatest of all the ships that sailed the seas, but when the gods tried to launch it they could not move it an inch. The great vessel creaked and groaned, but no one could push it down to the water. Odin walked about it with a sad face, and the gentle ripple of the little waves chasing each other over the rocks seemed a mocking laugh to him. "Send to Joetunheim for Hyrroken," he said at last; and a messenger was soon flying for that mighty giantess. In a little time, Hyrroken came riding swiftly on a wolf so large and fierce that he made the gods think of Fenris. When the giantess had alighted, Odin ordered four Berserkers of mighty strength to hold the wolf, but he struggled so angrily that they had to throw him on the ground before they could control him. Then Hyrroken went to the prow of the ship and with one mighty effort sent it far into the sea, the rollers underneath bursting into flame, and the whole earth trembling with the shock. Thor was so angry at the uproar that he would have killed the giantess on the spot if he had not been held back by the other gods. The great ship floated on the sea as she had often done before, when Balder, full of life and beauty, set all her sails and was borne joyfully across the tossing seas. Slowly and solemnly the dead god was carried on board, and as Nanna, his faithful wife, saw her husband borne for the last time from the earth which he had made dear to her and beautiful to all men, her heart broke with sorrow, and they laid her beside Balder on the funeral pyre. Since the world began no one had seen such a funeral. No bell tolled, no long procession of mourners moved across the hills, but all the worlds lay under a deep shadow, and from every quarter came those who had loved or feared Balder. There at the very water's edge stood Odin himself, the ravens flying about his head, and on his majestic face a gloom that no sun would ever lighten again; and there was Frigg, the desolate mother, whose son had already gone so far that he would never come back to her; there was Frey standing sad and stern in his chariot; there was Freyja, the goddess of love, from whose eyes fell a shining rain of tears; there, too, was Heimdal on his horse Goldtop; and around all these glorious ones from Asgard crowded the children of Joetunheim, grim mountain-giants seamed with scars from Thor's hammer, and frost-giants who saw in the death of Balder the coming of that long winter in which they should reign through all the worlds. A deep hush fell on all created things, and every eye was fixed on the great ship riding near the shore, and on the funeral pyre rising from the deck crowned with the forms of Balder and Nanna. Suddenly a gleam of light flashed over the water; the pile had been kindled, and the flames, creeping slowly at first, climbed faster and faster until they met over the dead and rose skyward. A lurid light filled the heavens and shone on the sea, and in the brightness of it the gods looked pale and sad, and the circle of giants grew darker and more portentous. Thor struck the fast burning pyre with his consecrating hammer, and Odin cast into it the wonderful ring Draupner. Higher and higher leaped the flames, more and more desolate grew the scene; at last they began to sink, the funeral pyre was consumed. Balder had vanished forever, the summer was ended, and winter waited at the doors. Meanwhile Hermod was riding hard and fast on his gloomy errand. Nine days and nights he rode through valleys so deep and dark that he could not see his horse. Stillness and blackness and solitude were his only companions until he came to the golden bridge which crosses the river Gjol. The good horse Sleipner, who had carried Odin on so many strange journeys, had never traveled such a road before, and his hoofs rang drearily as he stopped short at the bridge, for in front of him stood its porter, the gigantic Modgud. "Who are you?" she asked, fixing her piercing eyes on Hermod. "What is your name and parentage? Yesterday five bands of dead men rode across the bridge, and beneath them all it did not shake as under your single tread. There is no color of death in your face. Why ride you hither, the living among the dead?" "I come," said Hermod, "to seek for Balder. Have you seen him pass this way?" "He has already crossed the bridge and taken his journey northward to Hel." Then Hermod rode slowly across the bridge that spans the abyss between life and death, and found his way at last to the barred gates of Hel's dreadful home. There he sprang to the ground, tightened the girths, remounted, drove the spurs deep into the horse, and Sleipner, with a mighty leap, cleared the wall. Hermod rode straight to the gloomy palace, dismounted, entered, and in a moment was face to face with the terrible queen of the kingdom of the dead. Beside her, on a beautiful throne, sat Balder, pale and wan, crowned with a withered wreath of flowers, and close at hand was Nanna, pallid as her husband, for whom she had died. And all night long, while ghostly forms wandered restless and sleepless through Helheim, Hermod talked with Balder and Nanna. There is no record of what they said, but the talk was sad enough, doubtless, and ran like a still stream among the happy days in Asgard when Balder's smile was morning over the earth and the sight of his face the summer of the world. When the morning came, faint and dim, through the dusky palace, Hermod sought Hel, who received him as cold and stern as fate. "Your kingdom is full, O Hel!" he said, "and without Balder, Asgard is empty. Send him back to us once more, for there is sadness in every heart and tears are in every eye. Through heaven and earth all things weep for him." "If that is true," was the slow, icy answer, "if every created thing weeps for Balder, he shall return to Asgard; but if one eye is dry he remains henceforth in Helheim." Then Hermod rode swiftly away, and the decree of Hel was soon told in Asgard. Through all the worlds the gods sent messengers to say that all who loved Balder should weep for his return, and everywhere tears fell like rain. There was weeping in Asgard, and in all the earth there was nothing that did not weep. Men and women and little children, missing the light that had once fallen into their hearts and homes, sobbed with bitter grief; the birds of the air, who had sung carols of joy at the gates of the morning since time began, were full of sorrow; the beasts of the fields crouched and moaned in their desolation; the great trees, that had put on their robes of green at Balder's command, sighed as the wind wailed through them; and the sweet flowers, that waited for Balder's footstep and sprang up in all the fields to greet him, hung their frail blossoms and wept bitterly for the love and the warmth and the light that had gone out. Throughout the whole earth there was nothing but weeping, and the sound of it was like the wailing of those storms in autumn that weep for the dead summer as its withered leaves drop one by one from the trees. The messengers of the gods went gladly back to Asgard, for everything had wept for Balder; but as they journeyed they came upon a giantess, called Thok, and her eyes were dry. "Weep for Balder," they said. "With dry eyes only will I weep for Balder," she answered. "Dead or alive, he never gave me gladness. Let him stay in Helheim." When she had spoken these words a terrible laugh broke from her lips, and the messengers looked at each other with pallid faces, for they knew it was the voice of Loke. Balder never came back to Asgard, and the shadows deepened over all things, for the night of death was fast coming on. SECTION VII POETRY BIBLIOGRAPHY I. SOME IMPORTANT GENERAL COLLECTIONS Bryant, William Cullen, _Library of Poetry and Song_. Child, Francis J., _English and Scottish Popular Ballads_. [Ed. by Sargent and Kittredge.] Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, _Oxford Book of English Verse_. Stedman, Edmund Clarence, _An American Anthology_. _A Victorian Anthology._ Stevenson, Burton E., _The Home Book of Verse_. The finest single-volume general collection yet made. It runs to nearly 4,000 pages, but is printed on thin paper so that the volume is not unwieldy. Stevenson, Burton E., _Poems of American History_. II. COLLECTIONS FOR CHILDREN Chisholm, L., _The Golden Staircase_. Grahame, Kenneth, _The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children_. Henley, William Ernest, _Lyra Heroica_. Ingpen, Roger, _One Thousand Poems for Children_. Lang, Andrew, _The Blue Poetry Book_. Lucas, Edward Verrall, _A Book of Verses for Children_. _Another Book of Verses for Children._ Olcott, Frances J., _Story Telling Ballads_. _Story Telling Poems for Children._ Palgrave, Francis T., _The Children's Treasury of Poetry and Song_. Repplier, Agnes, _A Book of Famous Verse_. Smith, J. C., _A Book of Verse for Boys and Girls_. Stevenson, Burton E., _The Home Book of Verse for Young Folks_. Thacher, Lucy W., _The Listening Child_. Whittier, John Greenleaf, _Child Life in Poetry_. Wiggin, K. D., and Smith, N. A., _The Posy Ring_. _Golden Numbers._ III. INDIVIDUAL AUTHORS Blake, William, _Songs of Innocence_. Cary, Alice and Phoebe, _Poems for Children_. [In _Complete Works._] Dodge, Mary Mapes, _Rhymes and Jingles_. Field, Eugene, _Songs of Childhood_. Greenaway, Kate, _Marigold Garden_. _Under the Window._ Lamb, Charles and Mary, _Poetry for Children_. Lear, Edward, _Nonsense Songs_. Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, _Complete Poetical Works_. Richards, Laura E., _In My Nursery_. Riley, James Whitcomb, _Rhymes of Childhood_. Sherman, Frank Dempster, _Little-Folk Lyrics_. Stevenson, Robert Louis, _A Child's Garden of Verses_. Rands, William Brighty, _Lilliput Lyrics_. Rossetti, Christina G., _Sing-Song_. _Goblin Market_. Seegmiller, Wilhelmina, _Little Rhymes for Little Readers_. Tabb, John B., _Poems_. Taylor, Ann and Jane, _"Original Poems" and Others_. [Ed. by E. V. Lucas.] Watts, Isaac, _Divine and Moral Songs_. Wells, Carolyn, _The Jingle Book_. SECTION VII. POETRY INTRODUCTORY Many teachers have more difficulty in interesting their pupils in poetry than in any other form of literature. This difficulty may be due to any one of a number of causes. It may be due to a lack of poetic appreciation on the part of the teacher, leading to poor judgment in selecting and presenting poetry. It may be due to the feeling that there is something occult and mysterious about poetry that puts it outside the range of common interests, or to the idea that the technique of verse must in some way be emphasized. The first step in using poetry successfully with children is to brush away all these and other extraneous matters and to realize that poetry is in essence a simple and natural mode of expression, and that all attempts to explain how poetry does its work may be left for later stages of study. It is not necessary even for the teacher to be able to recognize and name all the varieties of rhythm to be able to present poetry enthusiastically and understandingly. Least of all is it necessary to have a prescribed list of the hundred "best poems." Some of the best poems for children would not belong in any such list. The selections in this section cover a wide variety. They are not all equally great, but no teacher can fail to find here something suitable and interesting for any grade. The few suggestions which it is possible to make in this brief introduction may best, perhaps, and without any intention of being exhaustive, be thrown into the form of dogmatic statements: 1. If in doubt about what to use beyond the material in the following pages, depend upon some of the fine collections mentioned in the bibliography. Every teacher should have access to Stevenson's _Home Book of Verse for Young Folks_, which contains many poems from recent writers as well as the older favorites. If possible, have the advantage of the fine taste and judgment of the collections made by Andrew Lang, Miss Repplier, E. V. Lucas, and as many of the others as are available. 2. Remember that in poetry, more than elsewhere, one can present only what one is really interested in and, as a consequence, enthusiastic about. Even poems about whose fitness all judges agree should be omitted rather than run the risk of deadening them for children by a dead and formal handling. 3. Mainly, poetry should be presented orally. The appeal is first to the ear just as in music. The teacher should read or, better, recite the poem in order to get the best results. There should be no effort at "elocution" in its worst sense, but a simple, sincere rendering of the language of the poem. The more informal the process is, the better. There should be much repetition of favorite poems, so that the rich details and pictures may sink into the mind. 4. There should be great variety in choice that richness and breadth of impression may thus be gained. It is a mistake to confine the work in poetry entirely to lyrics or entirely to ballads. Wordsworth's "Daffodils" and Gilbert's "Yarn of the Nancy Bell" are far apart, but there is a place for each. Teachers should always be on the lookout for poetry old or new, in the magazines or elsewhere, which they can bring into the schoolroom. Such "finds" are often fresh with some timely suggestion and may prove just what is needed to start some hesitating pupil to reading poetry. 5. The earliest poetry should be that in which the music is very prominent and the idea absent or not prominent. The perfection of the Mother Goose jingles for little folks is in their fulfillment of this principle. Use and encourage strongly emphasized rhythm in reading poetry, especially in the early work. Gradually the meaning in poetry takes on more prominence as the work proceeds. 6. Children should be encouraged to commit much poetry to memory. They do this very easily after hearing it repeated a time or two. Such memorizing should not be done usually as a task. Children are, however, very obliging about liking what a teacher is enthusiastic about, and what they like they can hold in mind with surprising ease. The game of giving quotations that no one else in the class has given is always a delight. Don't be misled by the fun poked at the "memory gem method" of studying poetry. The error is not in memorizing complete poems and fine poetic passages, but in doing this in a mechanical fashion. 7. It is a mistake to use too much poetry at one time. Children, as well as grown people, tire of it more quickly than they do of prose. The mind seems soon to reach the saturation point where it is unable to take in any more. Frequent returns to a poem rather than long periods of study give the best results. 8. Encourage children to read poetry aloud. By example and suggestion help them keep their minds on the ideas, the pictures, the characters. Only by doing this can they really read so as to interpret a poem. No one can read with a lazy mind, or merely by imitation. Encourage them to croon or recite the lines when alone. 9. It is not necessary that children should understand everything in a poem. If it is worth while they will get enough of its meaning to justify its use and they will gradually see more and more in it as time passes. In fact it is this constantly growing content of a poem that makes its possession in memory such a treasure. Neither should the presence of difficult words be allowed to rule out a poem that possesses some large element of accessible value. Many words are understood by the ear that are not recognized by sight. SUGGESTIONS FOR READING Books such as Woodberry's _Heart of Man_ and _Appreciation of Literature_ are of especial value for getting the right attitude toward poetry. The most illuminating practical help would come from consulting the published lectures of Lafcadio Hearn, explaining poetry to Japanese students. His problem was not unlike that faced by the teacher of poetry in the grades. These lectures have been edited by John Erskine as _Interpretations of Literature_ (2 vols.), _Appreciations of Poetry_, and _Life and Literature_. The whole philosophy of poetry is treated compactly in Professor Gayley's "The Principles of Poetry," which forms the introduction to Gayley and Young's _Principles and Progress of English Poetry_. 269 Mrs. Follen (1787-1860) was a rather voluminous writer and adapter of juvenile material. Her verses are old-fashioned, simple, and child-like, and have pleased several generations of children. While they have no such air of distinction as belongs to Stevenson's poems for children, they are full of the fancies that children enjoy, and deserve their continued popularity. THE THREE LITTLE KITTENS ELIZA LEE FOLLEN Three little kittens lost their mittens; And they began to cry, "Oh, mother dear, We very much fear That we have lost our mittens." "Lost your mittens! You naughty kittens! Then you shall have no pie!" "Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow." "No, you shall have no pie." The three little kittens found their mittens; And they began to cry, "Oh, mother dear, See here, see here! See, we have found our mittens!" "Put on your mittens, You silly kittens, And you may have some pie." "Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r, Oh, let us have the pie! Purr-r, purr-r, purr-r." The three little kittens put on their mittens, And soon ate up the pie; "Oh, mother dear, We greatly fear That we have soiled our mittens!" "Soiled your mittens! You naughty kittens!" Then they began to sigh, "Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow." Then they began to sigh, "Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow." The three little kittens washed their mittens, And hung them out to dry; "Oh, mother dear, Do not you hear That we have washed our mittens?" "Washed your mittens! Oh, you're good kittens! But I smell a rat close by; Hush, hush! Mee-ow, mee-ow." "We smell a rat close by, Mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow." 270 THE MOON ELIZA LEE FOLLEN O look at the moon! She is shining up there; O mother, she looks Like a lamp in the air. Last week she was smaller, And shaped like a bow; But now she's grown bigger, And round as an O. Pretty moon, pretty moon, How you shine on the door, And make it all bright On my nursery floor! You shine on my playthings, And show me their place, And I love to look up At your pretty bright face. And there is a star Close by you, and maybe That small twinkling star Is your little baby. 271 RUNAWAY BROOK ELIZA LEE FOLLEN "Stop, stop, pretty water!" Said Mary one day, To a frolicsome brook That was running away. "You run on so fast! I wish you would stay; My boat and my flowers You will carry away. "But I will run after: Mother says that I may; For I would know where You are running away." So Mary ran on; But I have heard say, That she never could find Where the brook ran away. 272 DING DONG! DING DONG! ELIZA LEE FOLLEN Ding dong! ding dong! I'll sing you a song; 'Tis about a little bird; He sat upon a tree, And he sang to me, And I never spoke a word. Ding dong! ding dong! I'll sing you a song; 'Tis about a little mouse; He looked very cunning, As I saw him running About my father's house. Ding dong! ding dong! I'll sing you a song About my little kitty; She's speckled all over, And I know you'll love her, For she is very pretty. 273 Mrs. Prentiss (1818-1878) was the author of _The Susy Books_, published from 1853 to 1856, forerunners of many series of such juvenile publications. The following poem has retained its hold on the affections of children. THE LITTLE KITTY ELIZABETH PRENTISS Once there was a little kitty Whiter than snow; In a barn she used to frolic, Long time ago. In the barn a little mousie Ran to and fro; For she heard the kitty coming, Long time ago. Two eyes had little kitty Black as a sloe; And they spied the little mousie, Long time ago. Four paws had little kitty, Paws soft as dough; And they caught the little mousie, Long time ago. Nine teeth had little kitty, All in a row; And they bit the little mousie, Long time ago. When the teeth bit little mousie, Little mouse cried, "Oh!" But she got away from kitty, Long time ago. 274 Mrs. Hale (1788-1879), left a widow with five children to support, devoted herself to a literary career. She wrote fiction, edited the _Ladies' Magazine_ of Boston, afterward the _Ladies' Book_ of Philadelphia, compiled a book of poetical quotations, and biographies of celebrated women. Most of her work was ephemeral in character, and she lives for us in the one poem that follows. It is usually printed without the last stanza which is here restored. Younger children, as a rule, do not object to such moralizing. MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB SARA J. HALE Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And everywhere that Mary went, The lamb was sure to go. He followed her to school one day, That was against the rule; It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school. And so the Teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear: And then he ran to her, and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said, "I'm not afraid, You'll save me from all harm." "What makes the lamb love Mary so?" The eager children cry-- "Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know," The Teacher did reply. And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your will, If you are only kind. 275 Theodore Tilton (1835-1907) was a very brilliant New York orator, poet, and journalist. His poetry, published in a complete volume in 1897, contains some really distinguished verse. He is largely known to the new generation, however, by some stanzas from the following poem, which are usually found in readers and poetic compilations for children. The entire poem is given here. Does our "Swat the fly" campaign of recent years negate the kindly attitude emphasized in the poem? BABY BYE THEODORE TILTON Baby bye, Here's a fly; Let us watch him, you and I. How he crawls Up the walls, Yet he never falls! I believe with six such legs You and I could walk on eggs. There he goes On his toes, Tickling baby's nose. Spots of red Dot his head; Rainbows on his back are spread; That small speck Is his neck; See him nod and beck. I can show you, if you choose, Where to look to find his shoes,-- Three small pairs, Made of hairs; These he always wears. Black and brown Is his gown; He can wear it upside down; It is laced Round his waist; I admire his taste. Yet though tight his clothes are made He will lose them, I'm afraid, If to-night He gets sight Of the candle-light. In the sun Webs are spun; What if he gets into one? When it rains He complains On the window-panes. Tongue to talk have you and I; God has given the little fly No such things, So he sings With his buzzing wings. He can eat Bread and meat; There's his mouth between his feet. On his back Is a pack Like a pedler's sack. Does the baby understand? Then the fly shall kiss her hand; Put a crumb On her thumb, Maybe he will come. Catch him? No, Let him go, Never hurt an insect so; But no doubt He flies out Just to gad about. Now you see his wings of silk Drabbled in the baby's milk; Fie, oh fie, Foolish fly! How will he get dry? All wet flies Twist their thighs, Thus they wipe their head and eyes; Cats, you know, Wash just so, Then their whiskers grow. Flies have hair too short to comb, So they fly bareheaded home; But the gnat Wears a hat, Do you believe that? Flies can see More than we. So how bright their eyes must be! Little fly, Ope your eye; Spiders are near by. For a secret I can tell,-- Spiders never use flies well. Then away! Do not stay. Little fly, good-day! 276 Prominent among American writers who have contributed to the happiness of children is Lucy Larcom (1826-1893). One of a numerous family, she worked as a child in the Lowell mills, later taught school in Illinois, was one of the editors of _Our Young Folks_, and wrote a most fascinating autobiography called _A New England Girlhood_. Several of her poems are still used in schools. The one that follows is, perhaps, the most popular of these. It is semi-dramatic, and the three voices of the poem can be easily discovered. Miss Larcom's finest poem is the one entitled "Hannah Binding Shoes." THE BROWN THRUSH LUCY LARCOM There's a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree, He's singing to me! He's singing to me! And what does he say, little girl, little boy? "Oh, the world's running over with joy! Don't you hear? Don't you see? Hush! Look! In my tree I'm as happy as happy can be!" And the brown thrush keeps singing, "A nest do you see, And five eggs hid by me in the juniper tree? Don't meddle! Don't touch! little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy! Now I'm glad! Now I'm free! And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me." So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me. And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, "Oh, the world's running over with joy!" But long it won't be, Don't you know? don't you see? Unless we are as good as can be. 277 Mrs. Child (1802-1880) was the editor of the first monthly for children in the United States, the _Juvenile Miscellany_. She wrote and compiled several works for children, and her optimistic outlook has led someone to speak of her as the "Apostle of Cheer." She wrote a novel, _Hobomak_ (1821), which is still spoken of with respect, and she was a prominent figure in the anti-slavery agitation. The two poems following have held their own with children for reasons easily recognized. THANKSGIVING DAY LYDIA MARIA CHILD Over the river and through the wood, To grandfather's house we go; The horse knows the way To carry the sleigh Through the white and drifted snow. Over the river and through the wood-- Oh, how the wind does blow! It stings the toes And bites the nose, As over the ground we go. Over the river and through the wood, To have a first-rate play. Hear the bells ring, "Ting-a-ling-ding!" Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day! Over the river and through the wood, Trot fast, my dapple-gray! Spring over the ground, Like a hunting-hound! For this is Thanksgiving Day. Over the river and through the wood, And straight through the barnyard gate. We seem to go Extremely slow, It is so hard to wait! Over the river and through the wood-- Now grandmother's cap I spy! Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done? Hurrah for pumpkin-pie! 278 WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST? LYDIA MARIA CHILD "To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?" "Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do. I gave you a wisp of hay, But didn't take your nest away. Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo! Such a thing I'd never do." "To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?" "Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link! Now what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?" "Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow! I gave the hairs the nest to make, But the nest I did not take. Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow! I'm not so mean, anyhow." "To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?" "Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link! Now what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?" "Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Let me speak a word, too! Who stole that pretty nest From little yellow-breast?" "Not I," said the sheep; "oh, no! I wouldn't treat a poor bird so. I gave wool the nest to line, But the nest was none of mine. Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "oh, no, I wouldn't treat a poor bird so." "To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! Will you listen to me? Who stole four eggs I laid, And the nice nest I made?" "Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link! Now what do you think? Who stole a nest away From the plum-tree, to-day?" "Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Let me speak a word, too! Who stole that pretty nest From little yellow-breast?" "Caw! Caw!" cried the crow; "I should like to know What thief took away A bird's nest to-day?" "Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen; "Don't ask me again, Why, I haven't a chick Would do such a trick. We all gave her a feather, And she wove them together. I'd scorn to intrude On her and her brood. Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen, "Don't ask me again." "Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr! All the birds make a stir! Let us find out his name, And all cry 'For shame!'" "I would not rob a bird," Said little Mary Green; "I think I never heard Of anything so mean." "It is very cruel, too," Said little Alice Neal; "I wonder if he knew How sad the bird would feel?" A little boy hung down his head, And went and hid behind the bed, For he stole that pretty nest From poor little yellow-breast; And he felt so full of shame, He didn't like to tell his name. 279 "Susan Coolidge" was the pseudonym used by Sarah C. Woolsey (1845-1905). She wrote numerous tales and verses for young people, and her series of _Katy Books_ was widely known and enjoyed. The poem that follows is a very familiar one, and its treatment of its theme may be compared with that in Henry Ward Beecher's little prose apologue (No. 249). HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN "SUSAN COOLIDGE" I'll tell you how the leaves came down: The great Tree to his children said, "You're getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, Yes, very sleepy, little Red; It is quite time to go to bed." "Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf, "Let us a little longer stay; Dear Father Tree, behold our grief! 'Tis such a very pleasant day, We do not want to go away." So, just for one more merry day To the great Tree the leaflets clung, Frolicked and danced and had their way Upon the autumn breezes swung, Whispering all their sports among, "Perhaps the great Tree will forget And let us stay until the spring, If we all beg and coax and fret." But the great Tree did no such thing; He smiled to hear their whispering. "Come, children all, to bed," he cried; And ere the leaves could urge their prayer, He shook his head, and far and wide, Fluttering and rustling everywhere, Down sped the leaflets through the air. I saw them; on the ground they lay, Golden and red, a huddled swarm, Waiting till one from far away, White bedclothes heaped up on her arm, Should come to wrap them safe and warm. The great bare Tree looked down and smiled. "Good-night, dear little leaves," he said; And from below each sleepy child Replied, "Good-night," and murmured, "It is _so_ nice to go to bed." The poems for young readers produced by the sisters Alice Cary (1820-1871) and Phoebe Cary (1824-1871) constitute the most successful body of juvenile verse yet produced in this country. One of Alice Cary's poems, "An Order for a Picture," is of a very distinguished quality, but as its appeal is largely to mature readers, two of Phoebe Cary's poems of simpler quality are chosen for use here. The first of these marks, by means of three illustrations within the range of children's observation, a very common defect of child nature and is, by the force of these illustrations, a good lesson in practical ethics. The appeal of the second is to that inherent ideal of disinterested heroism which is so strong in children. The setting of the story amidst the ever-present threat of the sea affords a good chance for the teacher to do effective work in emphasizing the geographical background. This should be done, however, not as geography merely, but with the attention on the human elements involved. 280 THEY DIDN'T THINK PHOEBE CARY Once a trap was baited With a piece of cheese; Which tickled so a little mouse It almost made him sneeze; An old rat said, "There's danger, Be careful where you go!" "Nonsense!" said the other, "I don't think you know!" So he walked in boldly-- Nobody in sight; First he took a nibble, Then he took a bite; Close the trap together Snapped as quick as wink, Catching mousey fast there, 'Cause he didn't think. Once a little turkey, Fond of her own way, Wouldn't ask the old ones Where to go or stay; She said, "I'm not a baby, Here I am half-grown; Surely, I am big enough To run about alone!" Off she went, but somebody Hiding saw her pass; Soon like snow her feathers Covered all the grass. So she made a supper For a sly young mink, 'Cause she was so headstrong That she wouldn't think. Once there was a robin Lived outside the door, Who wanted to go inside And hop upon the floor. "Ho, no," said the mother, "You must stay with me; Little birds are safest Sitting in a tree." "I don't care," said Robin, And gave his tail a fling, "I don't think the old folks Know quite everything." Down he flew, and Kitty seized him. Before he'd time to blink. "Oh," he cried, "I'm sorry, But I didn't think." Now my little children, You who read this song, Don't you see what trouble Comes of thinking wrong? And can't you take a warning From their dreadful fate Who began their thinking When it was too late? Don't think there's always safety Where no danger shows, Don't suppose you know more Than anybody knows; But when you're warned of ruin, Pause upon the brink, And don't go under headlong, 'Cause you didn't think. 281 THE LEAK IN THE DIKE A Story of Holland PHOEBE CARY The good dame looked from her cottage At the close of the pleasant day, And cheerily called to her little son Outside the door at play: "Come, Peter, come! I want you to go, While there is light to see, To the hut of the blind old man who lives Across the dike, for me; And take these cakes I made for him-- They are hot and smoking yet; You have time enough to go and come Before the sun is set." Then the good-wife turned to her labor, Humming a simple song, And thought of her husband, working hard At the sluices all day long; And set the turf a-blazing, And brought the coarse black bread; That he might find a fire at night, And find the table spread. And Peter left the brother, With whom all day he had played, And the sister who had watched their sports In the willow's tender shade; And told them they'd see him back before They saw a star in sight, Though he wouldn't be afraid to go In the very darkest night! For he was a brave, bright fellow, With eye and conscience clear; He could do whatever a boy might do, And he had not learned to fear. Why, he wouldn't have robbed a bird's nest, Nor brought a stork to harm, Though never a law in Holland Had stood to stay his arm! And now, with his face all glowing, And eyes as bright as the day With the thoughts of his pleasant errand, He trudged along the way; And soon his joyous prattle Made glad a lonesome place-- Alas! if only the blind old man Could have seen that happy face! Yet he somehow caught the brightness Which his voice and presence lent; And he felt the sunshine come and go As Peter came and went. And now, as the day was sinking, And the winds began to rise, The mother looked from her door again, Shading her anxious eyes; And saw the shadows deepen And birds to their homes come back, But never a sign of Peter Along the level track. But she said: "He will come at morning, So I need not fret or grieve-- Though it isn't like my boy at all To stay without my leave." But where was the child delaying? On the homeward way was he, And across the dike while the sun was up An hour above the sea. He was stopping now to gather flowers, Now listening to the sound, As the angry waters dashed themselves Against their narrow bound. "Ah! well for us," said Peter, "That the gates are good and strong, And my father tends them carefully, Or they would not hold you long! You're a wicked sea," said Peter; "I know why you fret and chafe; You would like to spoil our lands and homes; But our sluices keep you safe!" But hark! Through the noise of waters Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; And the child's face pales with terror, And his blossoms drop to the ground. He is up the bank in a moment, And stealing through the sand, He sees a stream not yet so large As his slender, childish hand. '_Tis a leak in the dike!_ He is but a boy, Unused to fearful scenes; But, young as he is, he has learned to know The dreadful thing that means. _A leak in the dike!_ The stoutest heart Grows faint that cry to hear, And the bravest man in all the land Turns white with mortal fear. For he knows the smallest leak may grow To a flood in a single night; And he knows the strength of the cruel sea When loosed in its angry might. And the boy! He has seen the danger, And, shouting a wild alarm, He forces back the weight of the sea With the strength of his single arm! He listens for the joyful sound Of a footstep passing nigh; And lays his ear to the ground, to catch The answer to his cry. And he hears the rough winds blowing, And the waters rise and fall, But never an answer comes to him, Save the echo of his call. He sees no hope, no succor, His feeble voice is lost; Yet what shall he do but watch and wait, Though he perish at his post! So, faintly calling and crying Till the sun is under the sea; Crying and moaning till the stars Come out for company; He thinks of his brother and sister, Asleep in their safe warm bed; He thinks of his father and mother, Of himself as dying--and dead; And of how, when the night is over, They must come and find him at last: But he never thinks he can leave the place Where duty holds him fast. The good dame in the cottage Is up and astir with the light, For the thought of her little Peter Has been with her all night. And now she watches the pathway, As yester eve she had done; But what does she see so strange and black Against the rising sun? Her neighbors are bearing between them Something straight to her door; Her child is coming home, but not As he ever came before! "He is dead!" she cries; "my darling!" And the startled father hears, And comes and looks the way she looks, And fears the thing she fears: Till a glad shout from the bearers Thrills the stricken man and wife-- "Give thanks, for your son has saved our land, And God has saved his life!" So, there in the morning sunshine They knelt about the boy; And every head was bared and bent In tearful, reverent joy. 'Tis many a year since then; but still, When the sea roars like a flood, Their boys are taught what a boy can do Who is brave and true and good. For every man in that country Takes his son by the hand, And tells him of little Peter, Whose courage saved the land. They have many a valiant hero, Remembered through the years: But never one whose name so oft Is named with loving tears. And his deed shall be sung by the cradle, And told to the child on the knee, So long as the dikes of Holland Divide the land from the sea! The world's greatest writer of verse for children, Robert Louis Stevenson, was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1850. After he was twenty-five years old he spent much of the rest of his short life traveling in search of health. From 1889 to the time of his death in 1894 he resided in Samoa. The verses given here (Nos. 282-295) are taken from his famous book, _A Child's Garden of Verses_, which, says Professor Saintsbury, "is, perhaps, the most perfectly natural book of the kind. It was supplemented later by other poems for children; and some of his work outside this, culminating in the widely known epitaph Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill, has the rarely combined merits of simplicity, sincerity, music, and strength." One of the best of Stevenson's poems for children outside the _Child's Garden of Verses_ is the powerfully dramatic story called _Heather Ale_. In attempting to solve the secret of Stevenson's supremacy, Edmund Gosse calls attention to the "curiously candid and confidential attitude of mind" in these poems, to the "extraordinary clearness and precision with which the immature fancies of eager childhood" are reproduced, and particularly, to the fact that they give us "a transcript of that child-mind which we have all possessed and enjoyed, but of which no one, except Mr. Stevenson, seems to have carried away a photograph." It is this ability to hand on a photographic transcript of the child's way of seeing things that, according to Mr. Gosse, puts Stevenson in a class which contains only two other members, Hans Christian Andersen in nursery stories, and Juliana Horatia Ewing in the more realistic prose tale. Children find expressed in these poems their own active fancies. It has been objected to them that the child pictured there is a lonely child, but every child, like every mature person, has an inner world of dreams and experiences in which he delights now and then to dwell. The presence of the qualities mentioned put at least two of Stevenson's prose romances among the most splendid adventure stories for young people, _Treasure Island_ and _Kidnapped_. Perhaps no book is more popular among pupils of the seventh and eighth grades than the former. It has been called a "sublimated dime novel," that is, it has all the decidedly attractive features of the "dime novel" plus the fine art of story-telling which is always lacking in that sensational type of story. 282 WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON A child should always say what's true, And speak when he is spoken to, And behave mannerly at table; At least as far as he is able. 283 THE COW ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON The friendly cow all red and white, I love with all my heart: She gives me cream with all her might, To eat with apple-tart. She wanders lowing here and there, And yet she cannot stray, All in the pleasant open air, The pleasant light of day; And blown by all the winds that pass And wet with all the showers, She walks among the meadow grass And eats the meadow flowers. 284 TIME TO RISE ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON A birdie with a yellow bill Hopped upon the window-sill, Cocked his shining eye and said: "Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepy-head?" 285 RAIN ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON The rain is raining all around, It falls on field and tree, It rains on the umbrellas here, And on the ships at sea. 286 A GOOD PLAY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON We built a ship upon the stairs All made of the back-bedroom chairs, And filled it full of sofa pillows To go a-sailing on the billows. We took a saw and several nails, And water in the nursery pails; And Tom said, "Let us also take An apple and a slice of cake;"-- Which was enough for Tom and me To go a-sailing on, till tea. We sailed along for days and days, And had the very best of plays; But Tom fell out and hurt his knee, So there was no one left but me. 287 THE LAMPLIGHTER ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky; It's time to take the window to see Leerie going by; For every night at tea-time and before you take your seat, With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street. Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea, And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be; But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do, O Leerie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps with you! For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more; And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light, O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night! 288 THE LAND OF NOD ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON From breakfast on through all the day At home among my friends I stay, But every night I go abroad Afar into the land of Nod. All by myself I have to go, With none to tell me what to do-- All alone beside the streams And up the mountain sides of dreams. The strangest things are there for me, Both things to eat and things to see, And many frightening sights abroad, Till morning in the land of Nod. Try as I like to find the way, I never can get back by day, Nor can remember plain and clear The curious music that I hear. 289 THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything. Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back. There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed. These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lion comes to drink. I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about. So when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear Land of Story-books. 290 MY BED IS A BOAT ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON My bed is like a little boat; Nurse helps me in when I embark: She girds me in my sailor's coat And starts me in the dark. At night, I go on board and say Good-night to all my friends on shore; I shut my eyes and sail away And see and hear no more. And sometimes things to bed I take, As prudent sailors have to do; Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake, Perhaps a toy or two. All night across the dark we steer; But when the day returns at last, Safe in my room, beside the pier, I find my vessel fast. 291 MY SHADOW ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all. He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see; I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. 292 THE SWING ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON How do you like to go up in a swing, Up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing Ever a child can do! Up in the air and over the wall, Till I can see so wide, Rivers and trees and cattle and all Over the countryside-- Till I look down on the garden green, Down on the roof so brown-- Up in the air I go flying again, Up in the air and down! 293 WHERE GO THE BOATS? ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Dark brown is the river, Golden is the sand. It flows along forever With trees on either hand. Green leaves a-floating, Castles of the foam, Boats of mine a-boating-- Where will all come home? On goes the river And out past the mill, Away down the valley, Away down the hill. Away down the river, A hundred miles or more, Other little children Shall bring my boats ashore. 294 THE WIND ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON I saw you toss the kites on high And blow the birds about the sky; And all around I heard you pass, Like ladies' skirts across the grass-- O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song! I saw the different things you did, But always you yourself you hid. I felt you push, I heard you call, I could not see yourself at all-- O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song! O you that are so strong and cold, O blower, are you young or old? Are you a beast of field and tree, Or just a stronger child than me? O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song! 295 WINDY NIGHTS ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet A man goes riding by. Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about? Whenever the trees are crying aloud, And ships are tossed at sea, By, on the highway, low and loud, By at the gallop goes he. By at the gallop he goes, and then By he comes back at the gallop again. The four poems that follow are from _Little-Folk Lyrics_, by Frank Dempster Sherman (1860--), and are used here by permission of and special arrangement with the publishers, Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston. Many of Sherman's poems have been found pleasing to children, particularly those dealing with nature themes and with outdoor activities. 296 SPINNING TOP FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN When I spin round without a stop And keep my balance like the top, I find that soon the floor will swim Before my eyes; and then, like him, I lie all dizzy on the floor Until I feel like spinning more. 297 FLYING KITE FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN I often sit and wish that I Could be a kite up in the sky, And ride upon the breeze, and go Whatever way it chanced to blow. Then I could look beyond the town, And see the river winding down, And follow all the ships that sail Like me before the merry gale, Until at last with them I came To some place with a foreign name. 298 KING BELL FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN Long ago there lived a King A mighty man and bold, Who had two sons, named Dong and Ding, Of whom this tale is told. Prince Ding was clear of voice, and tall, A Prince in every line; Prince Dong, his voice was very small, And he but four feet nine. Now both these sons were very dear To Bell, the mighty King. They always hastened to appear When he for them would ring. Ding never failed the first to be, But Dong, he followed well, And at the second summons he Responded to King Bell. This promptness of each royal Prince Is all of them we know, Except that all their kindred since Have done exactly so. And if you chance to know a King Like this one of the dong, Just listen once--and there is Ding; Again--and there is Dong. 299 DAISIES FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN At evening when I go to bed I see the stars shine overhead; They are the little daisies white That dot the meadows of the Night. And often while I'm dreaming so, Across the sky the Moon will go; It is a lady, sweet and fair, Who comes to gather daisies there. For, when at morning I arise, There's not a star left in the skies; She's picked them all and dropped them down Into the meadows of the town. The three poems by Eugene Field (Nos. 300-302) are used by special permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, New York City. Field was born at St. Louis in 1850, and died at Chicago in 1895. The quaint fantastical conceptions in these poems have made them supreme favorites with children. No. 300 belongs to the list of the world's great lullabies. 300 WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD EUGENE FIELD Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe,-- Sailed on a river of crystal light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we!" Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fish That lived in that beautiful sea-- "Now cast your nets wherever you wish, Never afeard are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. All night long their nets they threw To the stars in the twinkling foam,-- Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home: 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea; But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:-- Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. 301 THE SUGAR-PLUM TREE EUGENE FIELD Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree? 'Tis a marvel of great renown! It blooms on the shore of the Lollypop sea In the garden of Shut-Eye Town; The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet (As those who have tasted it say) That good little children have only to eat Of that fruit to be happy next day. When you've got to the tree, you would have a hard time To capture the fruit which I sing; The tree is so tall that no person could climb To the boughs where the sugar-plums swing! But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat, And a gingerbread dog prowls below-- And this is the way you contrive to get at Those sugar-plums tempting you so: You say but the word to that gingerbread dog And he barks with such terrible zest That the chocolate cat is at once all agog, As her swelling proportions attest. And the chocolate cat goes cavorting around From this leafy limb unto that, And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground-- Hurrah for that chocolate cat! There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes With stripings of scarlet or gold, And you carry away of the treasure that rains, As much as your apron can hold! So come, little child, cuddle closer to me In your dainty white nightcap and gown, And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree In the garden of Shut-Eye Town. 302 THE DUEL EUGENE FIELD The gingham dog and the calico cat Side by side on the table sat; 'Twas half past twelve, and (what do you think!) Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink! The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate Appeared to know as sure as fate There was going to be a terrible spat. (_I wasn't there; I simply state What was told to me by the Chinese plate!_) The gingham dog went "Bow-wow-wow!" And the calico cat replied "Mee-ow!" The air was littered, an hour or so, With bits of gingham and calico, While the old Dutch clock in the chimney place Up with its hands before its face, For it always dreaded a family row! (_Now mind: I'm only telling you What the old Dutch clock declares is true!_) The Chinese plate looked very blue, And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!" But the gingham dog and the calico cat Wallowed this way and tumbled that, Employing every tooth and claw In the awfullest way you ever saw-- And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew! (_Don't fancy I exaggerate-- I got my news from the Chinese plate!_) Next morning, where the two had sat They found no trace of dog or cat: And some folks think unto this day That burglars stole that pair away! But the truth about the cat and pup Is this: they ate each other up! Now what do you really think of that! (_The old Dutch clock it told me so, And that is how I came to know._) 303 James Whitcomb Riley was born in Greenfield, Indiana, in 1849, and died at Indianapolis in 1916. His success was largely due to his ability to present homely phases of life in the Hoosier dialect. "The Raggedy Man" is a good illustration of this skill. In his prime Mr. Riley was an excellent oral interpreter of his own work, and his personifications of the Hoosier types in his poems in recitals all over the country had much to do with giving him an understanding body of readers. He had much of the power in which Stevenson was so supreme--that power of remembering accurately and giving full expression to the points of view of childhood. The perennial fascination of the circus as in "The Circus Day Parade" illustrates this particularly well. "The Treasures of the Wise Man" represents another class of Mr. Riley's poems in which he moralizes in a fashion that makes people willing to be preached at. It may be said very truly that most of his poems have their chief attraction in enabling older readers to recall the almost vanished thrilling delights of youth, but poems that do that are generally found to interest children also. THE TREASURES OF THE WISE MAN[1] JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY O the night was dark and the night was late, And the robbers came to rob him; And they picked the locks of his palace gate, The robbers that came to rob him-- They picked the locks of his palace gate, Seized his jewels and gems of state, His coffers of gold and his priceless plate-- The robbers that came to rob him. But loud laughed he in the morning red!-- For of what had the robbers robbed him?-- Ho! hidden safe, as he slept in bed, When the robbers came to rob him,-- They robbed him not of a golden shred Of the childish dreams in his wise old head-- "And they're welcome to all things else," he said, When the robbers came to rob him. 304 THE CIRCUS-DAY PARADE[1] JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY Oh, the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played! And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes, and neighed, As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime! How the grand band-wagon shone with a splendor all its own, And glittered with a glory that our dreams had never known! And how the boys behind, high and low of every kind, Marched in unconscious capture, with a rapture undefined! How the horsemen, two and two, with their plumes of white and blue, And crimson, gold and purple, nodding by at me and you, Waved the banners that they bore, as the Knights in days of yore, Till our glad eyes gleamed and glistened like the spangles that they wore! How the graceless-graceful stride of the elephant was eyed, And the capers of the little horse that cantered at his side! How the shambling camels, tame to the plaudits of their fame, With listless eyes came silent, masticating as they came. How the cages jolted past, with each wagon battened fast, And the mystery within it only hinted of at last From the little grated square in the rear, and nosing there The snout of some strange animal that sniffed the outer air! And, last of all, The Clown, making mirth for all the town, With his lips curved ever upward and his eyebrows ever down, And his chief attention paid to the little mule that played A tattoo on the dashboard with his heels, in the parade. Oh! the Circus-Day parade! How the bugles played and played! And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and neighed, As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime! FOOTNOTE: [1] From the Biographical Edition of the _Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley_. Copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co. 305 THE RAGGEDY MAN[2] JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY O The Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa; An' he's the goodest man ever you saw! He comes to our house every day, An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay; An' he opens the shed--an' we all ist laugh When he drives out our little old wobblely calf; An' nen--ef our hired girl says he can-- He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann.-- Aint he a' awful good Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! W'y, The Raggedy Man--he's ist so good He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood; An' nen he spades in our garden, too, An' does most things 'at _boys_ can't do!-- He clumbed clean up in our big tree An' shooked a' apple down fer me-- An' nother'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann-- An' nother'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man-- Aint he a' awful kind Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes: Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves, An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers therselves! An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot, He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got, 'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann! Aint he a funny old Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! The Raggedy Man--one time when he Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me, Says "When _you're_ big like your Pa is, Air you go' to keep a fine store like his-- An' be a rich merchunt--an' wear fine clothes?-- Er what _air_ you go' to be, goodness knows!" An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann, An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man! I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man! Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!" FOOTNOTE: [2] From the Biographical Edition of the _Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley_. Copyright 1913. Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co. 306 James Hogg (1770-1835) was a poet of Scotland and a contemporary of Sir Walter Scott. He was known as the Ettrick Shepherd, from the place of his birth and from the fact that as a boy he tended the sheep. He had little schooling and was a thoroughly self-made man. The strongly marked and energetic swing of the rhythm, fitting in so well with the vigorous out-of-door experiences suggested, has made "A Boy's Song" a great favorite. Other poems of his that are still read are "The Skylark" and the verse fairy tale called "Kilmeny." A BOY'S SONG JAMES HOGG Where the pools are bright and deep, Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestlings chirp and flee, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest, There to track the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest, Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me. Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well, That's the thing I never could tell. But this I know, I love to play, Through the meadow, among the hay; Up the river and o'er the lea, That's the way for Billy and me. 307 Mary Howitt (1799-1888), an English author and translator, was the first to put Hans Christian Andersen's tales into English. She wrote on a great variety of subjects, and much of her work was useful and pleasing to a multitude of readers old and young. Besides the following poem, she is known well to young readers by her "The Fairies of Caldon-Low." THE SPIDER AND THE FLY MARY HOWITT "Will you walk into my parlor?" Said the Spider to the Fly; "'Tis the prettiest little parlor That ever you did spy. "The way into my parlor Is up a winding stair, And I have many curious things To show when you are there." "Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, "To ask me is in vain; For who goes up your winding stair Can ne'er come down again." "I'm sure you must be weary, dear, With soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?" Said the Spider to the Fly. "There are pretty curtains drawn around; The sheets are fine and thin, And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!" "Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, "For I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, Who sleep upon your bed." Said the cunning Spider to the Fly: "Dear friend, what can I do To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you? "I have within my pantry Good store of all that's nice: I'm sure you're very welcome-- Will you please to take a slice?" "Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, "Kind sir, that cannot be; I've heard what's in your pantry, And I do not wish to see." "Sweet creature!" said the Spider, "You're witty and you're wise; How handsome are your gauzy wings How brilliant are your eyes! "I have a little looking-glass Upon my parlor shelf; If you'll step in one moment, dear, You shall behold yourself." "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "For what you're pleased to say, And, bidding you good-morning now, I'll call another day." The Spider turned him round about. And went into his den, For well he knew the silly Fly Would soon come back again: So he wove a subtle web In a little corner sly, And set his table ready To dine upon the Fly. Then came out to his door again, And merrily did sing: "Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, With the pearl and silver wing; "Your robes are green and purple-- There's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, But mine are dull as lead!" Alas, alas! how very soon This silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, Came slowly flitting by; With buzzing wings she hung aloft, Then near and nearer drew, Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, And green and purple hue-- Thinking only of her crested head-- Poor, foolish thing! At last, Up jumped the cunning Spider, And fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, Into his dismal den, Within his little parlor-- But she ne'er came out again. And now, dear little children, Who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed. Unto an evil counsellor Close heart and ear and eye, And take a lesson from this tale Of the Spider and the Fly. 308 William Howitt (1792-1879) and his wife, author of the preceding poem, worked together on many literary projects. One of William Howitt's poems, "The Wind in a Frolic," has long found a place in collections for children. It presents the wind in a sprightly, mischievous, and boisterous mood. THE WIND IN A FROLIC WILLIAM HOWITT The wind one morning sprang up from sleep, Saying, "Now for a frolic! now for a leap! Now for a madcap galloping chase! I'll make a commotion in every place!" So it swept with a bustle right through a great town, Cracking the signs and scattering down Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls, Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls, There never was heard a much lustier shout, As the apples and oranges trundled about; And the urchins that stand with their thievish eyes For ever on watch, ran off each with a prize. Then away to the field it went, blustering and humming, And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming; It plucked by the tails the grave matronly cows, And tossed the colts' manes all over their brows; Till, offended at such an unusual salute, They all turned their backs, and stood sulky and mute. So on it went capering and playing its pranks, Whistling with reeds on the broad river's banks, Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray, Or the traveller grave on the king's highway. It was not too nice to hustle the bags Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags; 'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke With the doctor's wig or the gentleman's cloak. Through the forest it roared, and cried gaily, "Now, You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow!" And it made them bow without more ado, Or it cracked their great branches through and through. Then it rushed like a monster on cottage and farm, Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm; And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm;-- There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps, To see if their poultry were free from mishaps; The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud, And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd; There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on, Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone. But the wind had swept on, and had met in a lane With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain; For it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood With his hat in a pool and his shoes in the mud. Then away went the wind in its holiday glee, And now it was far on the billowy sea, And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow, And the little boats darted to and fro. But lo! it was night, and it sank to rest On the sea-bird's rock in the gleaming West, Laughing to think, in its fearful fun, How little of mischief it really had done. Ann Taylor (1782-1866) and Jane Taylor (1783-1824), English writers of verse and prose for children, have earned a permanent place in the history of juvenile literature on account of the real worth of their work and because they were among the first authors to write poetry especially for children. They published jointly three volumes of verse for children: _Original Poems for Infant Minds_, _Rhymes for the Nursery_, and _Hymns for Infant Minds_. Many of their poems seem a little too didactic, but they were genuine in their ethical earnestness and largely succeeded in putting things in terms of the child's own comprehension. The four poems given here represent them at their best, which was good enough to win the admiration of Sir Walter Scott. 309 THE COW ANN TAYLOR Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread, Every day and every night, Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white. Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslips eat, That will make it very sweet. Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there and dine. 310 MEDDLESOME MATTY ANN TAYLOR One ugly trick has often spoiled The sweetest and the best; Matilda, though a pleasant child, One ugly trick possessed, Which, like a cloud before the skies, Hid all her better qualities. Sometimes she'd lift the tea-pot lid, To peep at what was in it; Or tilt the kettle, if you did But turn your back a minute. In vain you told her not to touch, Her trick of meddling grew so much. Her grandmamma went out one day And by mistake she laid Her spectacles and snuff-box gay Too near the little maid; "Ah! well," thought she, "I'll try them on, As soon as grandmamma is gone." Forthwith she placed upon her nose The glasses large and wide; And looking round, as I suppose, The snuff-box too she spied: "Oh! what a pretty box is that; I'll open it," said little Matt. "I know that grandmamma would say, 'Don't meddle with it, dear,' But then, she's far enough away, And no one else is near: Besides, what can there be amiss In opening such a box as this?" So thumb and finger went to work To move the stubborn lid, And presently a mighty jerk The mighty mischief did; For all at once, ah! woeful case, The snuff came puffing in her face. Poor eyes, and nose, and mouth beside A dismal sight presented; In vain, as bitterly she cried, Her folly she repented. In vain she ran about for ease; She could do nothing else but sneeze. She dashed the spectacles away, To wipe her tingling eyes, And as in twenty bits they lay, Her grandmamma she spies. "Heyday! and what's the matter now?" Says grandmamma with lifted brow. Matilda, smarting with the pain, And tingling still, and sore, Made many a promise to refrain From meddling evermore. And 'tis a fact, as I have heard, She ever since has kept her word. 311 "I LIKE LITTLE PUSSY" JANE TAYLOR I like little Pussy, Her coat is so warm; And if I don't hurt her She'll do me no harm. So I'll not pull her tail, Nor drive her away, But Pussy and I Very gently will play; She shall sit by my side, And I'll give her some food; And she'll love me because I am gentle and good. I'll pat little Pussy, And then she will purr, And thus show her thanks For my kindness to her; I'll not pinch her ears, Nor tread on her paw, Lest I should provoke her To use her sharp claw; I never will vex her, Nor make her displeased, For Pussy can't bear To be worried or teased. 312 THE STAR JANE TAYLOR Twinkle, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky. When the blazing sun is gone, When he nothing shines upon, Then you show your little light, Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. Then the traveler in the dark Thanks you for your tiny spark; He could not see which way to go, If you did not twinkle so. In the dark blue sky you keep, And often through my curtains peep, For you never shut your eye Till the sun is in the sky. As your bright and tiny spark Lights the traveler in the dark, Though I know not what you are, Twinkle, twinkle, little star. Although Christina G. Rossetti (1830-1894) is not known primarily as a writer for children, her _Sing-Song_, from which the next seven poems are taken, is a juvenile classic. She ranks very high among the women poets of the nineteenth century, her only equal being Mrs. Browning. Besides the brief poems in _Sing-Song_, Miss Rossetti's "Goblin Market" and "Uphill" please young people of a contemplative mood. While there is an undercurrent of sadness in much of her work, it is a natural accompaniment of her themes and is not unduly emphasized. 313 SELDOM OR NEVER CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI Seldom "can't," Seldom "don't"; Never "shan't," Never "won't." 314 AN EMERALD IS AS GREEN AS GRASS CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI An emerald is as green as grass; A ruby, red as blood; A sapphire shines as blue as heaven; A flint lies in the mud. A diamond is a brilliant stone To catch the world's desire; An opal holds a fiery spark; But a flint holds fire. 315 BOATS SAIL ON THE RIVERS CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI Boats sail on the rivers, And ships sail on the seas; But clouds that sail across the sky Are prettier far than these. There are bridges on the rivers, As pretty as you please; But the bow that bridges heaven, And overtops the trees, And builds a road from earth to sky, Is prettier far than these. 316 A DIAMOND OR A COAL? CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI A diamond or a coal? A diamond, if you please; Who cares about a clumsy coal Beneath the summer trees? A diamond or a coal? A coal, sir, if you please; One comes to care about the coal At times when waters freeze. 317 THE SWALLOW CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI Fly away, fly away over the sea, Sun-loving swallow, for summer is done; Come again, come again, come back to me, Bringing the summer and bringing the sun. 318 WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND? CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you: But when the leaves hang trembling, The wind is passing thro'. Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by. 319 MILKING TIME CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI When the cows come home the milk is coming; Honey's made while the bees are humming; Duck and drake on the rushy lake, And the deer live safe in the breezy brake; And timid, funny, pert little bunny Winks his nose, and sits all sunny. 320 William Brighty Rands (1823-1882), an English author writing under the name of "Matthew Browne," produced in his _Lilliput Lyrics_ a juvenile masterpiece containing much verse worthy to live. The two poems that follow are decidedly successful in catching that elusive something called the child's point of view. THE PEDDLER'S CARAVAN WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS I wish I lived in a caravan With a horse to drive, like a peddler-man! Where he comes from nobody knows, Or where he goes to, but on he goes! His caravan has windows two, And a chimney of tin, that the smoke comes through; He has a wife, with a baby brown, And they go riding from town to town. Chairs to mend, and delf to sell! He clashes the basins like a bell; Tea-trays, baskets ranged in order, Plates, with alphabets round the border! The roads are brown, and the sea is green, But his house is like a bathing-machine; The world is round, and he can ride, Rumble and slash, to the other side! With the peddler-man I should like to roam, And write a book when I came home; All the people would read my book, Just like the Travels of Captain Cook! 321 THE WONDERFUL WORLD WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breast-- World, you are beautifully dressed! The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree-- It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the top of the hills. You friendly Earth, how far do you go, With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, With cities and gardens and cliffs and isles, And the people upon you for thousands of miles? Ah! you are so great, and I am so small, I hardly can think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, My mother kissed me, and said, quite gay, "If the wonderful World is great to you, And great to father and mother, too, You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot! You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!" 322 Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton, 1809-1885), an English poet, wrote one poem that has held its own in children's collections. Its quiet mood of industry at one with the gentler influences of nature is especially appealing. GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD-MORNING RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES A fair little girl sat under a tree, Sewing as long as her eyes could see; Then smoothed her work and folded it right And said, "Dear work, good-night, good-night!" Such a number of rooks came over her head, Crying "Caw! Caw!" on their way to bed, She said, as she watched their curious flight, "Little black things, good-night, good-night!" The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed, The sheep's "Bleat! Bleat!" came over the road; All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, "Good little girl, good-night, good-night!" She did not say to the sun, "Good-night!" Though she saw him there like a ball of light; For she knew he had God's time to keep All over the world and never could sleep. The tall pink foxglove bowed his head; The violets curtsied, and went to bed; And good little Lucy tied up her hair, And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. And while on her pillow she softly lay, She knew nothing more till again it was day; And all things said to the beautiful sun, "Good-morning, good-morning! our work is begun." 323 It is quite impossible for us to realize why the English reading public should have been so excited over the following poem in the years immediately following its first appearance in 1806. It attracted the attention of royalty, was set to music, had a host of imitators, and established itself as a nursery classic. It was written by William Roscoe (1753-1831), historian, banker, and poet, for his son Robert, and was merely an entertaining skit upon an actual banquet. Probably the fact that the characters at the butterfly's ball were drawn with human faces in the original illustrations to represent the prominent guests at the actual banquet had much to do with the initial success. The impulse which it received a hundred years ago, coupled with its own undoubted power of fancy, has projected it thus far, and children seem inclined to approve and still further insure its already long life. THE BUTTERFLY'S BALL WILLIAM ROSCOE "Come, take up your hats, and away let us haste To the Butterfly's Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast, The Trumpeter, Gadfly, has summon'd the crew, And the Revels are now only waiting for you." So said little Robert, and pacing along, His merry Companions came forth in a throng, And on the smooth Grass by the side of a Wood, Beneath a broad oak that for ages had stood, Saw the Children of Earth and the Tenants of Air For an Evening's Amusement together repair. And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black, Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back, And there was the Gnat and the Dragonfly too, With all their Relations, green, orange and blue. And there came the Moth, with his plumage of down, And the Hornet in jacket of yellow and brown; Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring, But they promised that evening to lay by their sting. And the sly little Dormouse crept out of his hole, And brought to the Feast his blind Brother, the Mole; And the Snail, with his horns peeping out of his shell, Came from a great distance, the length of an ell. A Mushroom, their Table, and on it was laid A water-dock leaf, which a table-cloth made. The Viands were various, to each of their taste, And the Bee brought her honey to crown the Repast. Then close on his haunches, so solemn and wise, The Frog from a corner look'd up to the skies; And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversion to see, Mounted high overhead and look'd down from a tree. Then out came the Spider, with finger so fine, To show his dexterity on the tight-line, From one branch to another his cobwebs he slung, Then quick as an arrow he darted along, But just in the middle--oh! shocking to tell, From his rope, in an instant, poor Harlequin fell. Yet he touch'd not the ground, but with talons outspread, Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread. Then the Grasshopper came with a jerk and a spring, Very long was his Leg, though but short was his Wing; He took but three leaps, and was soon out of sight, Then chirp'd his own praises the rest of the night. With step so majestic the Snail did advance, And promised the Gazers a Minuet to dance; But they all laughed so loud that he pulled in his head, And went in his own little chamber to bed. Then as Evening gave way to the shadows of Night, Their Watchman, the Glowworm, came out with a light. "Then Home let us hasten while yet we can see, For no Watchman is waiting for you and for me." So said little Robert, and pacing along, His merry Companions return'd in a throng. 324 CAN YOU? AUTHOR UNKNOWN Can you put the spider's web back in place That once has been swept away? Can you put the apple again on the bough Which fell at our feet to-day? Can you put the lily-cup back on the stem And cause it to live and grow? Can you mend the butterfly's broken wing That you crush with a hasty blow? Can you put the bloom again on the grape And the grape again on the vine? Can you put the dewdrops back on the flowers And make them sparkle and shine? Can you put the petals back on the rose? If you could, would it smell as sweet? Can you put the flour again in the husk, And show me the ripened wheat? Can you put the kernel again in the nut, Or the broken egg in the shell? Can you put the honey back in the comb, And cover with wax each cell? Can you put the perfume back in the vase When once it has sped away? Can you put the corn-silk back on the corn, Or down on the catkins, say? You think my questions are trifling, lad, Let me ask you another one: Can a hasty word be ever unsaid, Or a deed unkind, undone? 325 In 1841 Robert Browning (1812-1889) published a drama in verse entitled _Pippa Passes_. Pippa was a little girl who worked in the silkmills of an Italian city. When her one holiday of the year came, she arose early and went singing out of town to the hills to enjoy the day. Various people who were planning to do evil heard her songs as she passed and did not do the wicked things they had intended to do. The next day Pippa returned to her usual work and never knew that her songs had changed the lives of many people. The following is the first of Pippa's songs. PIPPA'S SONG ROBERT BROWNING The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in His Heaven-- All's right with the world! 326 Charles Mackay (1814-1889) was an English journalist, poet, and miscellaneous writer. He was especially popular as a writer of songs, composing both words and music. Other well-known poems of his are "The Miller of Dee" and "Tubal Cain." "Little and Great" presents a familiar idea through a series of illustrations--the idea that great and lasting results may spring from unstudied deeds of helpfulness and love. LITTLE AND GREAT CHARLES MACKAY A traveler on a dusty road Strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, And grew into a tree. Love sought its shade at evening-time, To breathe its early vows; And Age was pleased, in heats of noon, To bask beneath its boughs. The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, The birds sweet music bore-- It stood a glory in its place, A blessing evermore. A little spring had lost its way Amid the grass and fern; A passing stranger scooped a well Where weary men might turn; He walled it in, and hung with care A ladle at the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, But judged that Toil might drink. He passed again; and lo! the well, By summer never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parched tongues, And saved a life beside. A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'Twas old, and yet 'twas new; A simple fancy of the brain, But strong in being true. It shone upon a genial mind, And, lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, A monitory flame. The thought was small; its issue great; A watch-fire on the hill, It sheds its radiance far adown, And cheers the valley still. A nameless man, amid the crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and love, Unstudied from the heart,-- A whisper on the tumult thrown, A transitory breath,-- It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at the first, But mighty at the last. 327 The following poem by Mrs. Hemans (1793-1835), an English poet, is remembered for its historic interest. Louis Casabianca, a Frenchman, served on a war ship that helped convey French troops to America, to aid the colonists during the Revolution. Later, when Napoleon attempted to conquer Egypt, he was captain of the admiral's flagship during the battle of the Nile. When the admiral was killed, he took command of the fleet at the moment of defeat. He blew up his ship, after the crew had been saved, rather than surrender it. His ten-year-old son refused to leave and perished with his father. CASABIANCA FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form. The flames rolled on; he would not go Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud, "Say, father, say, If yet my task be done!" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. "Speak, father!" once again he cried, "If I may yet be gone!" And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair. And shouted but once more aloud, "My father! must I stay?" While o'er him, fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder sound: The boy,--oh! where was he? Ask of the winds, that far around With fragments strewed the sea,-- With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part,-- But the noblest thing that perished there, Was that young, faithful heart. The five numbers that follow are from the works of the great English poet and mystic William Blake (1757-1827). All except the first are given in their entirety. No. 328 is made up of three couplets taken from the loosely strung together _Auguries of Innocence_. Nos. 329, 330, and 332 are from _Songs of Innocence_ (1789), where the last was printed as an introduction without any other title. No. 331 is from _Songs of Experience_ (1794). Blake labored in obscurity and poverty, though he has now come to be regarded as one of England's most important poets. It is not necessary that children should understand fully all that Blake says, but it is important for teachers to realize that most children are natural mystics and that Blake's poetry, more than any other, is the natural food for them. 328 THREE THINGS TO REMEMBER WILLIAM BLAKE A Robin Redbreast in a cage, Puts all heaven in a rage. A skylark wounded on the wing Doth make a cherub cease to sing. He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men. 329 THE LAMB WILLIAM BLAKE Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Little lamb, I'll tell thee, Little lamb, I'll tell thee. He is called by thy name, For He calls himself a Lamb: He is meek and he is mild, He became a little child. I a child and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee, Little lamb, God bless thee. 330 THE SHEPHERD WILLIAM BLAKE How sweet is the shepherd's sweet lot; From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be filled with praise. For he hears the lambs' innocent call, And he hears the ewes' tender reply; He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their shepherd is nigh. 331 THE TIGER WILLIAM BLAKE Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize thy fire? And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand formed thy dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 332 THE PIPER WILLIAM BLAKE Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me:-- "Pipe a song about a lamb": So I piped with merry cheer. "Piper, pipe that song again": So I piped; he wept to hear. "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, Sing thy songs of happy cheer": So I sung the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. "Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read." So he vanish'd from my sight; And I pluck'd a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. 333 Eliza Cook (1818-1889) was an English poet who had quite a vogue in her day, and whose poem "Try Again" deals with one of those incidents held in affectionate remembrance by youth. Bruce and the spider may be less historically true, but it seems destined to eternal life alongside Leonidas and his Spartans. Older readers may remember Miss Cook's "My Old Arm Chair," which is usually given the place of honor as her most popular poem. TRY AGAIN ELIZA COOK King Bruce of Scotland flung himself down In a lonely mood to think: 'Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown, But his heart was beginning to sink. For he had been trying to do a great deed, To make his people glad; He had tried and tried, but couldn't succeed; And so he became quite sad. He flung himself down in low despair, As grieved as man could be; And after a while as he pondered there, "I'll give it all up," said he. Now, just at the moment, a spider dropped, With its silken, filmy clue; And the King, in the midst of his thinking, stopped To see what the spider would do. 'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome, And it hung by a rope so fine, That how it would get to its cobweb home King Bruce could not divine. It soon began to cling and crawl Straight up, with strong endeavor; But down it came with a slippery sprawl, As near to the ground as ever. Up, up it ran, not a second to stay, To utter the least complaint, Till it fell still lower, and there it lay, A little dizzy and faint. Its head grew steady--again it went, And traveled a half yard higher; 'Twas a delicate thread it had to tread, And a road where its feet would tire. Again it fell and swung below, But again it quickly mounted; Till up and down, now fast, now slow, Nine brave attempts were counted. "Sure," cried the King, "that foolish thing Will strive no more to climb; When it toils so hard to reach and cling, And tumbles every time." But up the insect went once more; Ah me! 'tis an anxious minute; He's only a foot from his cobweb door. Oh, say, will he lose or win it? Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, Higher and higher he got; And a bold little run at the very last pinch Put him into his native cot. "Bravo, bravo!" the King cried out; "All honor to those who _try_; The spider up there, defied despair; He conquered, and why shouldn't I?" And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind, And gossips tell the tale, That he tried once more as he tried before, And that time did not fail. Pay goodly heed, all ye who read, And beware of saying, "I _can't_"; 'Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead To idleness, folly, and want. Whenever you find your heart despair Of doing some goodly thing, Con over this strain, try bravely again, And remember the spider and King! 334 Nonsense verse seems to have its special place in the economy of life as a sort of balance to the over-serious tendency. One of the two great masters of verse of this sort was the English author Edward Lear (1812-1888). He was also a famous illustrator of books and magazines. Among his juvenile books, illustrated by himself, were _Nonsense Songs_ and _More Nonsense Songs_. All his verse is now generally published under the first title. Good nonsense verse precludes explanation, the mind of the hearer being too busy with the delightfully odd combinations to figure on how they happened. THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT EDWARD LEAR The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat: They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing! Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the bong-tree grows; And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood, With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose. "Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon. 335 THE TABLE AND THE CHAIR EDWARD LEAR Said the Table to the Chair, "You can hardly be aware How I suffer from the heat And from chilblains on my feet. If we took a little walk, We might have a little talk; Pray let us take the air," Said the Table to the Chair. Said the Chair unto the Table, "Now, you _know_ we are not able: How foolishly you talk, When you know we _cannot_ walk!" Said the Table with a sigh, "It can do no harm to try. I've as many legs as you: Why can't we walk on two?" So they both went slowly down, And walked about the town With a cheerful bumpy sound As they toddled round and round; And everybody cried, As they hastened to their side, "See! the Table and the Chair Have come out to take the air!" But in going down an alley, To a castle in a valley, They completely lost their way, And wandered all the day; Till, to see them safely back, They paid a Ducky-quack, And a Beetle, and a Mouse, Who took them to their house. Then they whispered to each other, "O delightful little brother, What a lovely walk we've taken! Let us dine on beans and bacon." So the Ducky and the leetle Browny-mousy and the Beetle Dined, and danced upon their heads Till they toddled to their beds. 336 THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES EDWARD LEAR The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, "Some day you may lose them all"; He replied--"Fish fiddle-de-dee!" And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink Lavender water tinged with pink, For she said, "The world in general knows There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!" The Pobble who has no toes Swam across the Bristol Channel; But before he set out he wrapped his nose In a piece of scarlet flannel. For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harm Can come to his toes if his nose is warm; And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes Are safe--provided he minds his nose." The Pobble swam fast and well, And when boats or ships came near him He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell, So that all the world could hear him. And all the Sailors and Admirals cried, When they saw him nearing the farther side,-- "He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!" But before he touched the shore, The shore of the Bristol Channel, A sea-green Porpoise carried away His wrapper of scarlet flannel. And when he came to observe his feet, Formerly garnished with toes so neat, His face at once became forlorn On perceiving that all his toes were gone! And nobody ever knew, From that dark day to the present, Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes, In a manner so far from pleasant. Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray, Or crafty Mermaids stole them away-- Nobody knew; and nobody knows How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes! The Pobble who has no toes Was placed in a friendly Bark, And they rowed him back, and carried him up To his Aunt Jobiska's Park. And she made him a feast at his earnest wish Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish;-- And she said,--"It's a fact the whole world knows, That Pobbles are happier without their toes." 337 The two great classics among modern nonsense books are Lewis Carroll's _Alice in Wonderland_ and _Through the Looking Glass_. They are in prose with poems interspersed. "The Walrus and the Carpenter," is from _Through the Looking Glass_, while "A Strange Wild Song," is from _Sylvie and Bruno_. This latter book never achieved the success of its forerunners, though it has some delightful passages, as in the case of the poem given. Lewis Carroll was the pseudonym of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (1832-1898), an English mathematician at Oxford University. THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER "LEWIS CARROLL" The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright-- And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done-- "It's very rude of him," she said, "To come and spoil the fun!" The sea was wet as wet could be. The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky; No birds were flying overhead-- There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: "If this were only cleared away," They said, "it would be grand!" "If seven maids with seven mops Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose," the Walrus said, "That they could get it clear?" "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. "O Oysters, come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech. "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each." The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head-- Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat-- And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn't any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more-- All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. "The time has come," the Walrus said, "To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing wax Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings." "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, "Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!" "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, "Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed-- Now if you're ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed." "But not on us!" the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue. "After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!" "The night is fine," the Walrus said. "Do you admire the view? "It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!" The Carpenter said nothing but "Cut me another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf-- I've had to ask you twice!" "It seems a shame," the Walrus said, "To play them such a trick, After we've brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!" The Carpenter said nothing but "The butter's spread too thick!" "I weep for you," the Walrus said: "I deeply sympathize." With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. "O Oysters," cried the Carpenter, "You've had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?" But answer came there none-- And this was scarcely odd, because They'd eaten every one. 338 A STRANGE WILD SONG "LEWIS CARROLL" He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece: He looked again, and found it was His Sister's Husband's Niece. "Unless you leave this house," he said, "I'll send for the Police." He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek: He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week. "The one thing I regret," he said, "Is that it cannot speak!" He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk Descending from the 'bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus. "If this should stay to dine," he said, "There won't be much for us!" He thought he saw a Kangaroo That worked a coffee-mill; He looked again, and found it was A Vegetable-Pill. "Were I to swallow this," he said, "I should be very ill." He thought he saw a Coach and Four That stood beside his bed: He looked again, and found it was A Bear without a Head. "Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing! It's waiting to be fed!" He thought he saw an Albatross That fluttered round the Lamp: He looked again, and found it was A Penny Postage-Stamp. "You'd best be getting home," he said: "The nights are very damp!" He thought he saw a Garden Door That opened with a key: He looked again, and found it was A Double-Rule-of-Three: "And all its mystery," he said, "Is clear as day to me!" He thought he saw an Argument That proved he was the Pope: He looked again, and found it was A Bar of Mottled Soap. "A fact so dread," he faintly said, "Extinguishes all hope!" 339 Isaac Watts (1674-1748) was an English minister and the writer of many hymns still included in our hymn books. He had a notion that verse might be used as a means of religious and ethical instruction for children, and wrote some poems as illustrations of his theory so that they might suggest to better poets how to carry out the idea. But Watts did this work so well that two or three of his poems and several of his stanzas have become common possessions. They are dominated, of course, by the heavy didactic moralizing, but are all so genuine and true that young readers feel their force and enjoy them. AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF ISAAC WATTS How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower! How skilfully she builds her cell, How neat she spreads the wax! And labors hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes. In works of labor or of skill, I would be busy too; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do. In books, or work, or healthful play, Let my first years be past, That I may give for every day Some good account at last. 340 FAMOUS PASSAGES FROM DOCTOR WATTS O 'tis a lovely thing for youth To walk betimes in wisdom's way; To fear a lie, to speak the truth, That we may trust to all they say. But liars we can never trust, Though they should speak the thing that's true; And he that does one fault at first, And lies to hide it, makes it two. (From "Against Lying") Whatever brawls disturb the street, There should be peace at home; Where sisters dwell and brothers meet, Quarrels should never come. Birds in their little nests agree: And 'tis a shameful sight, When children of one family Fall out, and chide, and fight. (From "Love between Brothers and Sisters") How proud we are! how fond to show Our clothes, and call them rich and new! When the poor sheep and silk-worm wore That very clothing long before. The tulip and the butterfly Appear in gayer coats than I; Let me be dressed fine as I will, Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still. Then will I set my heart to find Inward adornings of the mind; Knowledge and virtue, truth and grace, These are the robes of richest dress. (From "Against Pride in Clothes") Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For God hath made them so; Let bears and lions growl and fight, For 'tis their nature to. But, children, you should never let Such angry passions rise; Your little hands were never made To tear each other's eyes. (From "Against Quarreling and Fighting") Most of the work of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) is within the range of children's interests and comprehension. Three poems are given here, "The Skeleton in Armor," as representative of Longfellow's large group of narrative poems, "The Day Is Done," as an expression of the value of poetry in everyday life, and "The Psalm of Life," as the finest and most popular example of his hortatory poems. 341 "The Skeleton in Armor" is one of Longfellow's first and best American art ballads. In Newport, Rhode Island, is an old stone tower known as the "Round Tower," which some people think was built by the Northmen, though it probably was not. In 1836 workmen unearthed a strange skeleton at Fall River, Massachusetts. It was wrapped in bark and coarse cloth. On the breast was a plate of brass, and around the waist was a belt of brass tubes. Apparently it was not the skeleton of an Indian, and people supposed it might have been that of one of the old Norsemen. Longfellow used these two historic facts as a basis for the plot of his poem, which he wrote in 1840. THE SKELETON IN ARMOR HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?" Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December; And, like the water's flow Under December's snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart's chamber. "I was a Viking old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee! Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse! For this I sought thee. "Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the ger-falcon; And, with my skates fast-bound. Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on. "Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf's bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow. "But when I older grew, Joining a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led; Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders. "Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, Filled to o'erflowing. "Once, as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning, yet tender; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor. "I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. "Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chanting his glory: When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrel stand To hear my story. "While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. "She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-new's flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded? "Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me,-- Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen!-- When on the white-sea strand, Waving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. "Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. "And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, 'Death!' was the helmsman's hail, Death without quarter! Mid-ships with iron-keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water. "As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden; So toward the open main, Beating the sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden. "Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward. "There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another! "Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful! "Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, _Skoal!_ to the Northland! _Skoal!_" --Thus the tale ended. 342 THE DAY IS DONE HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night. As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in its flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. 343 A PSALM OF LIFE HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!-- For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Find us farther than today. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife. Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. 344 Historians usually mention Charles Kingsley (1819-1875) only as an English novelist, but it seems probable that eventually he will be remembered chiefly for his work in juvenile literature. His _Water Babies_ is popular with children of the fourth and fifth grade, while his book of Greek myths entitled _The Heroes_ is a classic for older children. The next two poems are popular with both adults and children. Kingsley was a minister and his church was located in Devon so that the tragedies of the sea among the fisher folk were often brought to his attention. Both these poems deal with such tragedies. THE THREE FISHERS CHARLES KINGSLEY Three fishers went sailing out into the west,-- Out into the west as the sun went down; Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep; And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbor bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are watching and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town; For men must work, and women must weep,-- And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,-- And good-by to the bar and its moaning. 345 THE SANDS OF DEE CHARLES KINGSLEY "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee!" The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she. "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the sailing foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee! The next two poems, by Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892), are very well-known songs. "What Does Little Birdie Say" is the mother's song in "Sea Dreams." "Sweet and Low" is one of the best of the lyrics in "The Princess," and a favorite among the greatest lullabies. 346 "WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY?" ALFRED TENNYSON What does little birdie say, In her nest at peep of day? "Let me fly," says little birdie, "Mother, let me fly away." "Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger." So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away. What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, "Let me rise and fly away." "Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger." If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away. 347 SWEET AND LOW ALFRED TENNYSON Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 348 This poem is a great poet's expression of what a poet's ideal of his mission should be. It is summed up in the last two lines. An interesting comparison could be made of the purpose of poetry as reflected here with that suggested by Longfellow in No. 342. THE POET'S SONG ALFRED TENNYSON The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass'd by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, The snake slipt under a spray, The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, And stared, with his foot on the prey, And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away." 349 Those who live near the sea know that outside a harbor a bar is formed of earth washed down from the land. At low tide this may be so near the surface as to be dangerous to ships passing in and out, and the waves may beat against it with a moaning sound. In his eighty-first year Tennyson wrote "Crossing the Bar" to express his thought about death. He represents the soul as having come from the boundless deep of eternity into this world-harbor of Time and Place, and he represents death as the departure from the harbor. He would have no lingering illness to bar the departure. He would have the end of life's day to be peaceful and without sadness of farewell, for he trusts that his journey into the sea of eternity will be guided by "my Pilot." This poem may be somewhat beyond the comprehension of eighth-grade pupils, but they can perceive the beauty of the imagery and music, and later in life it will be a source of hope and comfort. CROSSING THE BAR ALFRED TENNYSON Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar. 350 Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) was an English essayist, journalist, and poet. His one universally known poem is "Abou Ben Adhem." The secret of its appeal is no doubt the emphasis placed on the idea that a person's attitude toward his fellows is more important than mere professions. The line "Write me as one that loves his fellow men" is on Hunt's tomb in Kensal Green Cemetery, London. ABOU BEN ADHEM LEIGH HUNT Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold: Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?"--the vision rais'd its head, And with a look made all of sweet accord, Answer'd, "The names of those that love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow men." The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And show'd the names whom love of God had blest, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 351 Cincinnatus Heine Miller, generally known as Joaquin Miller (1841-1912), revealed in his verse much of the restless energy of Western America, where most of his life was passed. "Columbus" is probably his best known poem. "For Those Who Fail" suggests the important truth that he who wins popular applause is not usually the one who most deserves to be honored. FOR THOSE WHO FAIL JOAQUIN MILLER "All honor to him who shall win the prize," The world has cried for a thousand years; But to him who tries and who fails and dies, I give great honor and glory and tears. O great is the hero who wins a name, But greater many and many a time, Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame, And lets God finish the thought sublime. And great is the man with a sword undrawn, And good is the man who refrains from wine; But the man who fails and yet fights on, 'Lo! he is the twin-born brother of mine! 352 Numerous poems have been written about the futility of searching on earth for a place of perfect happiness. The next poem, by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), seems to deal with this subject. Some lines from Longfellow are good to suggest its special message: "No endeavor is in vain, Its reward is in the doing, And the rapture of pursuing Is the prize the vanquished gain." ELDORADO EDGAR ALLAN POE Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old-- This knight so bold-- And o'er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow-- "Shadow," said he, "Where can it be-- This land of Eldorado?" "Over the mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow Ride, boldly ride," The Shade replied, "If you seek for Eldorado!" 353 Lord Byron (1788-1824) was the most popular of English poets in his day. His fame has since declined, although his fiery, impetuous nature, expressing itself in rapid verse of great rhetorical and satiric power, still reaches kindred spirits. His "Prisoner of Chillon" is often studied in the upper grades. It is full of the passion for freedom which was the dominating idea in Byron's work as it was in his life. He gave his life for this idea, striving to help the Greeks gain their independence. The poem which follows is from an early work called _Hebrew Melodies_. We learn from II Chronicles 32:21 that Sennacherib, King of Assyria, having invaded Judah, Hezekiah cried unto heaven, "And the Lord sent an angel, which cut off the mighty men of valor, and the leaders and captains in the camp of the King of Assyria. So he returned with shame of face to his own land." Byron's title seems to indicate that Sennacherib was himself destroyed. The fine swinging measure of the lines, and the vivid picture of the destroyed hosts in contrast to the brilliant glory of their triumphant invasion, are two of the chief elements in its appeal. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB LORD BYRON The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, The host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. 354 The next two poems may represent the youth and the maturity of America's first great nature poet, William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878), although neither is in the style that characterizes his nature verse. He wrote "To a Waterfowl" in 1815. When he had completed his study of law, he set out on foot to find a village where he might begin work as a lawyer. He was poor and without friends. At the end of a day's journey, when he began to feel discouraged, he saw a wild duck flying alone high in the sky. Then the thought came to him that he would be guided aright, just as the bird was, and he wrote "To a Waterfowl," the most artistic of all his poems. The poem is suitable for the seventh or eighth grade. TO A WATERFOWL WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-- The desert and illimitable air-- Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. 355 Bryant wrote this poem in 1849 after he had been planting fruit trees on his country place on Long Island. THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Come, let us plant the apple-tree. Cleave the tough greensward with the spade: Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it o'er them tenderly, As, round the sleeping infant's feet, We softly fold the cradle-sheet; So plant we the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May-wind's restless wings, When, from the orchard row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree. What plant we in this apple-tree? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass, At the foot of the apple-tree. And when, above this apple-tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine And golden orange of the line, The fruit of the apple-tree. The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood's careless day, And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple-tree. Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree. And time shall waste this apple-tree. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still? What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this apple-tree? "Who planted this old apple-tree?" The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them: "A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; 'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes, On planting the apple-tree." 356 The next poem, by the English poet Thomas Edward Brown (1830-1897), deserves to be classed with the most beautiful and artistic verse in our language. Students will notice the allusion to the biblical tradition that God walked in the Garden of Eden in the cool of the evening. MY GARDEN THOMAS EDWARD BROWN A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Ferned grot-- The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is not-- Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have a sign; 'T is very sure God walks in mine. 357 William Wordsworth (1770-1850) ranks very high among English poets. He endeavored to bring poetry close to actual life and to get rid of the stilted language of conventional verse. The struggle was long and difficult, but Wordsworth lived long enough to know that the world had realized his greatness. Many of his poems are suitable for use with children. Their simplicity, their directness, and their utter sincerity made many of them, while not written especially for the young, seem as if directly addressed to the childlike mind. "We are Seven," "Lucy Gray," and "Michael" belong to this number, as do the two masterpieces among short poems which are quoted here. "How many people," exclaims Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, "have been waked to a quicker consciousness of life by Wordsworth's simple lines about the daffodils, and what he says of the thoughts suggested to him by 'the meanest flower that blows'!" In both poems the imagery is of the utmost importance. Through it the reader is able to put himself with the poet and see things as the poet saw them. In "The Daffodils" the flowers, jocund in the breeze, drive away the melancholy mood with which the poet had approached them and enable him to carry away a picture in his memory that can be drawn upon for help on future occasions of gloom. In "The Solitary Reaper" the weird and haunting notes of the song coming to his ear in an unknown tongue suggest possible ideas back of the strong feeling which he recognizes in the singer. Here also, the poet's memory carries something away, "The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more." One of the purposes in teaching poetry should be to store the mind, not with words only, but with impressions that may later be recalled to beautify and strengthen life. DAFFODILS WILLIAM WORDSWORTH I wander'd lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. 358 THE SOLITARY REAPER WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary highland lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; Oh, listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago! Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending: I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listen'd, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. 359 Lady Norton (1808-1877) does not belong among the great poets, but she wrote several poems that were immense favorites with a generation now passing away. Among them are "Bingen on the Rhine," "The King of Denmark's Ride" and the one given below. It will no doubt show that her work still has power to stir readers of the present day, although we are likely to think of her poems as being too emotional or sentimental. She wrote the words of the very popular song "Juanita." THE ARAB TO HIS FAVORITE STEED CAROLINE E. NORTON My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye, Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed; I may not mount on thee again,--thou'rt sold, my Arab steed! Fret not with that impatient hoof,--snuff not the breezy wind,-- The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind; The stranger hath thy bridle-rein,--thy master hath his gold,-- Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell; thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold. Farewell! those free untired limbs full many a mile must roam, To reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home; Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare, Thy silky mane, I braided once, must be another's care! The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be; Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again. Yes, thou must go! the wild, free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky, Thy master's house,--from all of these my exiled one must fly; Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet, And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright;-- Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light; And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed, Then must I, starting, wake to feel,--thou'rt sold, my Arab steed. Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side: And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each starting vein. Will they ill-use thee? If I thought--but no, it cannot be,-- Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free: And yet, if haply, when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn, Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return? Return! alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do, When thou, who wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view? When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears; Slow and unmounted shall I roam, with weary step alone, Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on; And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think, "It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw him drink!" When last I saw thee drink!--Away! the fevered dream is o'er,-- I could not live a day, and know that we should meet no more! They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong,-- They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had given thee up? who said that thou wast sold? 'T is false!--'t is false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold! Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains; Away! who overtakes us now shall claim thee for his pains! 360 Robert Southey (1774-1843) was poet laureate of England, and a most prolific writer of poetry and miscellaneous prose. His great prominence in his own day has been succeeded by an obscurity so complete that only a few items of his work are now remembered. Among these are "The Battle of Blenheim," a very brief and effective satire against war, "The Well of St. Keyne," a humorous poem based on an old superstition, and "The Inchcape Rock," a stirring narrative of how evil deeds return upon the evil doer. (See also No. 153.) THE INCHCAPE ROCK ROBERT SOUTHEY No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was as still as she could be; Her sails from Heaven received no motion, Her keel was steady in the ocean. Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell. The holy Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung. When the rock was hid by the surges' swell, The mariners heard the warning bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok. The Sun in heaven was shining gay, All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled around, And there was joyance in their sound. The buoy of the Inchcape Rock was seen, A darker speck on the ocean green; Sir Ralph, the Rover, walked his deck, And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. He felt the cheering power of spring, It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess; But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inchcape float; Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat; And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And cut the Bell from the Inchcape float. Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound; The bubbles rose, and burst around. Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock Will not bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." Sir Ralph, the Rover, sailed away, He scoured the seas for many a day; And now, grown rich with plundered store, He steers his course for Scotland's shore. So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky They cannot see the Sun on high; The wind hath blown a gale all day; At evening it hath died away. On the deck the Rover takes his stand; So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising Moon." "Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For yonder, methinks, should be the shore. Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell." They hear no sound; the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,-- "O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock." Sir Ralph, the Rover, tore his hair; He cursed himself in his despair. The waves rush in on every side; The ship is sinking beneath the tide. But even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound he seemed to hear,-- A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, The Devil below was ringing his knell. The Shakespeare passages which follow are from the fairy play "A Midsummer Night's Dream." A teacher well acquainted with that play would find it possible to delight children with it. The fairy and rustic scenes could be given almost in their entirety, the other scenes could be summarized. 361 OVER HILL, OVER DALE WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips tall her pensioners be: In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours: I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. 362 A FAIRY SCENE IN A WOOD WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE FAIRY QUEEN TITANIA (_calls to her_ FAIRIES _following her_) Come, now a roundel and a fairy song; Then, for the third part of a minute, hence; Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds, Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings, To make my small elves coats, and some keep back The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep; Then to your offices and let me rest. _She lies down to sleep, and the_ FAIRIES _sing as follows_: You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, Come not near our fairy queen. Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby: Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh: So good-night, with lullaby. Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence. Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail, do no offence. Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby: Never harm, Nor spell nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good-night, with lullaby. A FAIRY Hence, away! now all is well: One aloof stand sentinel. 363 Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) is America's greatest spiritual teacher. His essays, such as "Self-Reliance" and "The American Scholar," are his chief claim to fame. The two brief poems given here are well known. "Fable" should be studied along with No. 236, since they emphasize the same lesson that size is after all a purely relative matter. "Concord Hymn" is a splendidly dignified expression of the debt of gratitude we owe to the memory of those who made our country possible. Of course no reader will fail to notice the famous last two lines of the first stanza. FABLE RALPH WALDO EMERSON The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter "Little Prig"; Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut!" 364 CONCORD HYMN RALPH WALDO EMERSON By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. 365 Almost any of the works of Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832), whether in prose or verse, is within the range of children in the grades. Especially the fine ballads, such as "Lochinvar" and "Allen-a-Dale," are sure to interest them. Children should be encouraged to read one of the long story-poems, "The Lady of the Lake" or "The Lay of the Last Minstrel." The famous expression of patriotism quoted below is from the latter poem. BREATHES THERE THE MAN SIR WALTER SCOTT Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there be, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 366 When Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894) was twenty-one years old, he read that the Navy Department had decided to destroy the old, unseaworthy frigate "Constitution," which had become famous in the War of 1812. In one evening he wrote the poem "Old Ironsides." This not only made Holmes immediately famous as a poet, but so aroused the American people that the Navy Department changed its plans and rebuilt the ship. OLD IRONSIDES OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar:-- The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee;-- The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea! Oh, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale! 367 William Collins (1721-1759), English poet, wrote only a few poems, but among them is this short dirge which keeps his name alive in popular memory. It was probably in honor of his countrymen who fell at Fontenoy in 1745, the year before its composition. Its austere brevity, its well-known personifications, its freedom from fulsome expressions, place it very high among patriotic utterances. HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE WILLIAM COLLINS How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there! 368 The anonymous ballad dealing with the familiar story of Nathan Hale, of Revolutionary times, is the nearest approach to the old folk ballad in our history. Its repetitions help it in catching something of the breathless suspense accompanying his daring effort, betrayal, and execution. The pathos of the closing incidents of Hale's career has attracted the tributes of poets and dramatists. Francis Miles Finch, author of "The Blue and the Gray," wrote a well-known poetic account of Hale, while Clyde Fitch's drama of _Nathan Hale_ had a great popular success. THE BALLAD OF NATHAN HALE The breezes went steadily through the tall pines, A-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" a-saying "Oh! hu-ush!" As stilly stole by a bold legion of horse, For Hale in the bush; for Hale in the bush. "Keep still!" said the thrush as she nestled her young, In a nest by the road; in a nest by the road. "For the tyrants are near, and with them appear What bodes us no good; what bodes us no good." The brave captain heard it, and thought of his home In a cot by the brook; in a cot by the brook; With mother and sister and memories dear, He so gayly forsook; he so gayly forsook. Cooling shades of the night were coming apace, The tattoo had beat; the tattoo had beat. The noble one sprang from his dark lurking-place, To make his retreat; to make his retreat. He warily trod on the dry rustling leaves, As he passed through the wood; as he passed through the wood; And silently gained his rude launch on the shore, As she played with the flood; as she played with the flood. The guards of the camp, on that dark, dreary night, Had a murderous will; had a murderous will. They took him and bore him afar from the shore, To a hut on the hill; to a hut on the hill. No mother was there, nor a friend who could cheer, In that little stone cell; in that little stone cell. But he trusted in love, from his Father above. In his heart, all was well; in his heart, all was well. An ominous owl, with his solemn bass voice, Sat moaning hard by; sat moaning hard by; "The tyrant's proud minions most gladly rejoice, For he must soon die; for he must soon die." The brave fellow told them, no thing he restrained,-- The cruel general! the cruel general!-- His errand from camp, of the ends to be gained, And said that was all; and said that was all. They took him and bound him and bore him away, Down the hill's grassy side; down the hill's grassy side. 'Twas there the base hirelings, in royal array, His cause did deride; his cause did deride. Five minutes were given, short moments, no more, For him to repent; for him to repent. He prayed for his mother, he asked not another, To Heaven he went; to Heaven he went. The faith of a martyr the tragedy showed, As he trod the last stage; as he trod the last stage. And Britons will shudder at gallant Hale's blood, As his words do presage; as his words do presage: "Thou pale King of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go frighten the slave; go frighten the slave; Tell tyrants, to you their allegiance they owe. No fears for the brave; no fears for the brave." 369 That men of great courage are certain to recognize and pay tribute to courage in others, even if those others are their enemies, is the theme of "The Red Thread of Honor." Sir Francis Hastings Doyle (1810-1888) wrote two other stirring poems of action, "The Loss of the Birkenhead" and "The Private of the Buffs." THE RED THREAD OF HONOR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE Eleven men of England A breastwork charged in vain; Eleven men of England Lie stripp'd, and gash'd, and slain. Slain; but of foes that guarded Their rock-built fortress well, Some twenty had been mastered, When the last soldier fell. The robber-chief mused deeply, Above those daring dead; "Bring here," at length he shouted, "Bring quick, the battle thread. Let Eblis blast forever Their souls, if Allah will: But we must keep unbroken The old rules of the Hill. "Before the Ghiznee tiger Leapt forth to burn and slay; Before the holy Prophet Taught our grim tribes to pray; Before Secunder's lances Pierced through each Indian glen; The mountain laws of honor Were framed for fearless men. "Still, when a chief dies bravely, We bind with green one wrist-- Green for the brave, for heroes One crimson thread we twist. Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen, For these, whose life has fled, Which is the fitting color, The green one, or the red?" "Our brethren, laid in honor'd graves, may wear Their green reward," each noble savage said; "To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear, Who dares deny the red?" Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came; Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height Rolled back its loud acclaim. Once more the chief gazed keenly Down on those daring dead; From his good sword their heart's blood Crept to that crimson thread. Once more he cried, "The judgment, Good friends, is wise and true, But though the red be given, Have we not more to do? "These were not stirred by anger, Nor yet by lust made bold; Renown they thought above them, Nor did they look for gold. To them their leader's signal Was as the voice of God: Unmoved, and uncomplaining, The path it showed they trod. "As, without sound or struggle, The stars unhurrying march, Where Allah's finger guides them, Through yonder purple arch, These Franks, sublimely silent, Without a quickened breath, Went, in the strength of duty, Straight to their goal of death. "If I were now to ask you, To name our bravest man, Ye all at once would answer, They call'd him Mehrab Khan. He sleeps among his fathers, Dear to our native land, With the bright mark he bled for Firm round his faithful hand. "The songs they sing of Roostum Fill all the past with light; If truth be in their music, He was a noble knight. But were those heroes living, And strong for battle still, Would Mehrab Khan or Roostum Have climbed, like these, the Hill?" And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave, As chief, he chose himself what risks to run; Prince Roostum lied, his forfeit life to save, Which these had never done." "Enough!" he shouted fiercely; "Doomed though they be to hell, Bind fast the crimson trophy Round BOTH wrists--bind it well. Who knows but that great Allah May grudge such matchless men, With none so decked in heaven, To the fiend's flaming den?" Then all those gallant robbers Shouted a stern "Amen!" They raised the slaughter'd sergeant, They raised his mangled ten. And when we found their bodies Left bleaching in the wind, Around BOTH wrists in glory That crimson thread was twined. 370 In the year 1897 a great diamond jubilee was held in England in honor of the completion of sixty years of rule by Queen Victoria. Many poems were written for the occasion, most of which praised the greatness of Britain, the extent of her dominion, the strength of her army and navy, and the abundance of her wealth. The "Recessional" was written for the occasion by Rudyard Kipling (1865--). It is in the form of a prayer, but its purpose was to tell the British that they were forgetting the "God of our fathers" and putting their trust in wealth and navies and the "reeking tube and iron shard" of the cannon. The poem rang through England like a bugle call and stirred the British people more deeply than any other poem of recent times. RECESSIONAL RUDYARD KIPLING God of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far flung battle-line-- Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies-- The captains and the kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, A humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! Far-called our navies sink away-- On dune and headland sinks the fire Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! 371 William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) was an English critic and journalist of great force and a poet whose verse is full of manliness and tenderness. His life was a constant and courageous struggle against disease. The spirit in which he faced conditions that would have conquered a weaker man breathes through the famous poem quoted below. Such a spirit is not confined to any particular stage of maturity as represented by years, and many young people will find themselves buoyed up in the face of difficulties by coming into touch with the unconquered and unconquerable voice in this poem. The last two lines in particular are often quoted. INVICTUS WILLIAM E. HENLEY Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud: Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul. 372 James Russell Lowell (1819-1891) is a poet of such high idealisms that many of his poems seem to form the natural heritage of youth. Among such are "The Vision of Sir Launfal," "The Present Crisis," "The Fatherland," and "Aladdin." "The Falcon" is not so well known as any of these, but its fine image for the seeker after truth should appeal to most children of upper grades. "The Shepherd of King Admetus" is a very attractive poetizing of an old myth (see No. 261) and lets us see something of how the public looks upon its poets and other artistic folk. THE FALCON JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL I know a falcon swift and peerless As e'er was cradled in the pine; No bird had ever eye so fearless, Or wing so strong as this of mine. The winds not better love to pilot A cloud with molten gold o'errun, Than him, a little burning islet, A star above the coming sun. For with a lark's heart he doth tower, By a glorious upward instinct drawn; No bee nestles deeper in the flower Than he in the bursting rose of dawn. No harmless dove, no bird that singeth, Shudders to see him overhead; The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth To innocent hearts no thrill of dread. Let fraud and wrong and baseness shiver, For still between them and the sky The falcon Truth hangs poised forever And marks them with his vengeful eye. 373 THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL There came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plough, or reap, or sow. Upon an empty tortoise-shell He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew. Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine: And so, well pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep, Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o'er his sheep. His words were simple words enough, And yet he used them so, That what in other mouths was rough In his seemed musical and low. Men called him but a shiftless youth, In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law. They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower. It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, He found a healing power profuse. Men granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, They laughed, and called him good-for-naught. Yet after he was dead and gone, And e'en his memory dim, Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him. And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after-poets only knew Their first-born brother as a god. 374 Sir William S. Gilbert (1837-1911), an English dramatist, is known to us as the librettist of the popular Gilbert and Sullivan operas, _The Mikado_, _Pinafore_, etc. In his earlier days he wrote a book of humorous poetry called _The Bab Ballads_. Many of these still please readers who like a little nonsense now and then of a supremely ridiculous type. "The Yarn of the Nancy Bell" is a splendid take-off on "travelers' tales," and is not likely to deceive anyone. However, Gilbert said that when he sent the poem to _Punch_, the editor made objection to its extremely cannibalistic nature! THE YARN OF THE NANCY BELL WILLIAM S. GILBERT 'Twas on the shores that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone on a piece of stone An elderly naval man. His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he, And I heard this wight on the shore recite, In a singular minor key: "Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig." And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid, For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said: "Oh, elderly man, it's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand However you can be "At once a cook, and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig." Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumping quid, He spun this painful yarn: "'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian Sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me. "And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll. "There was me and the cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig. "For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot The captain for our meal. "The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed. "And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig. "Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich. "For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see. "'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom; 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,'-- 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And 'Exactly so,' quoth he. "Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do; For don't you see that you can't cook me, While I can--and will--cook _you_!' "So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley, too. "'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell, ''T will soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you'll smell.' "And he stirred it round and round and round And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth. "And I eat that cook in a week or less, And--as I eating be The last of his chops, why, I almost drops, For a wessel in sight I see! * * * * * "'And I never larf, and never smile, And I never lark nor play, But sit and croak, and a single joke I have--which is to say: "'Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!'" 375 John T. Trowbridge (1827-1916) is one of the important figures in modern literature for young folks. He wrote a popular series of books for them beginning with _Cudjo's Cave_, and many poems, the most famous of which are "The Vagabonds" and the one given below. Trowbridge's autobiography will interest children with its story of a literary life devoted to the problems of their entertainment. "Darius Green and His Flying Machine" first appeared in _Our Young Folks_ in 1867. It is to be read for its fun--fun of dialect, fun of character, and fun of incident. If it has any lesson, it must be that dreamers may come to grief unless they have some plain practical common sense to balance their enthusiasm! DARIUS GREEN AND HIS FLYING MACHINE JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE If ever there lived a Yankee lad, Wise or otherwise, good or bad, Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump With flapping arms from stake or stump, Or, spreading the tail of his coat for a sail, Take a soaring leap from post or rail, And wonder why he couldn't fly, And flap and flutter and wish and try,-- If ever you knew a country dunce Who didn't try that as often as once, All I can say is, that's a sign He never would do for a hero of mine. An aspiring genius was D. Green; The son of a farmer,--age fourteen; His body was long and lank and lean,-- Just right for flying, as will be seen; He had two eyes as bright as a bean, And a freckled nose that grew between, A little awry;--for I must mention That he had riveted his attention Upon his wonderful invention, Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, And working his face as he worked the wings, And with every turn of gimlet and screw Turning and screwing his mouth round too, Till his nose seemed bent to catch the scent, Around some corner, of new-baked pies, And his wrinkled cheek and his squinting eyes Grew puckered into a queer grimace, That made him look very droll in the face, And also very wise. And wise he must have been, to do more Than ever a genius did before, Excepting Daedalus of yore And his son Icarus, who wore Upon their backs those wings of wax He had read of in the old almanacs. Darius was clearly of the opinion, That the air was also man's dominion, And that with paddle or fin or pinion, We soon or late should navigate The azure as now we sail the sea. The thing looks simple enough to me; And, if you doubt it, Hear how Darius reasoned about it: "The birds can fly, an' why can't I? Must we give in," says he with a grin, "'T the bluebird an' phoebe are smarter'n we be? Jest fold our hands, an' see the swaller An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler? Does the leetle chatterin', sassy wren, No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men? Jest show me that! er prove 't bat Hez got more brains than's in my hat, An' I'll back down, an' not till then!" He argued further: "Ner I can't see What's the use o' wings to a bumble-bee, Fer to git a livin' with, more'n to me;-- Ain't my business importanter'n his'n is? That Icarus was a silly cuss,-- Him an' his daddy Daedalus; They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax Wouldn't stan' sun-heat an' hard whacks: I'll make mine o' luther, er suthin' er other." And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned: "But I ain't goin' to show my hand To nummies that never can understand The fust idee that's big an' grand. They'd 'a' laft an' made fun O' Creation itself afore it was done!" So he kept his secret from all the rest, Safely buttoned within his vest; And in the loft above the shed Himself he locks, with thimble and thread And wax and hammer and buckles and screws, And all such things as geniuses use;-- Two bats for patterns, curious fellows! A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows; An old hoop-skirt or two, as well as Some wire, and several old umbrellas; A carriage-cover, for tail and wings; A piece of harness; and straps and strings; And a big strong box, in which he locks These and a hundred other things. His grinning brothers, Reuben and Burke And Nathan and Jotham and Solomon, lurk Around the corner to see him work,-- Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, Drawing the waxed-end through with a jerk, And boring the holes with a comical quirk Of his wise old head, and a knowing smirk. But vainly they mounted each other's backs, And poked through knot-holes and pried through cracks; With wood from the pile and straw from the stacks He plugged the knot-holes and calked the cracks; And a bucket of water, which one would think He had brought up into the loft to drink When he chanced to be dry, Stood always nigh, for Darius was sly! And, whenever at work he happened to spy, At chink or crevice a blinking eye, He let a dipper of water fly: "Take that! an', ef ever ye git a peep, Guess ye'll ketch a weasel asleep!" And he sings as he locks his big strong box; "The weasel's head is small an' trim, An' he is leetle an' long an' slim, An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb, An', ef yeou'll be advised by me, Keep wide awake when ye're ketching him!" So day after day He stitched and tinkered and hammered away, Till at last 'twas done,-- The greatest invention under the sun. "An' now," says Darius, "hooray fer some fun!" 'Twas the Fourth of July, and the weather was dry, And not a cloud was on all the sky, Save a few light fleeces, which here and there, Half mist, half air, Like foam on the ocean went floating by, Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen For a nice little trip in a flying-machine. Thought cunning Darius, "Now I shan't go Along 'ith the fellers to see the show: I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough! An' then, when the folks have all gone off, I'll hev full swing fer to try the thing, An' practyse a little on the wing." "Ain't goin' to see the celebration?" Says brother Nate. "No; botheration! I've got sich a cold--a toothache--I-- My gracious! feel's though I should fly!" Said Jotham, "Sho! guess ye better go." But Darius said, "No! Shouldn't wonder 'f yeou might see me, though, 'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain in my head." For all the while to himself he said,-- "I tell ye what! I'll fly a few times around the lot, To see how 't seems; then soon's I've got The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not, I'll astonish the nation, an' all creation, By flying over the celebration! Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle; I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull; I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stan' on the steeple; I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people! I'll light on the libbe'ty-pole, an' crow; An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below, 'What world's this here that I've come near?' Fer I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm the moon; An' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' balloon!" He crept from his bed; And, seeing the others were gone, he said, "I'm a-gittin' over the cold 'n my head." And away he sped, To open the wonderful box in the shed. His brothers had walked but a little way, When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say, "What on airth is he up to, hey?" "Don'o',--the's suthin' er other to pay, Er he wouldn't 'a' stayed to hum to-day." Says Burke, "His toothache's all'n his eye! He never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July, Ef he hadn't got some machine to try." Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn! Le's hurry back, an' hide'n the barn, An' pay him fer tellin' us that yarn!" "Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back, Along by the fences, behind the stack, And one by one, through a hole in the wall, In under the dusty barn they crawl, Dressed in their Sunday garments all; And a very astonishing sight was that, When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat Came up through the floor like an ancient rat. And there they hid; and Reuben slid The fastenings back, and the door undid. "Keep dark," said he, "While I squint an' see what the' is to see." As knights of old put on their mail,-- From head to foot in an iron suit, Iron jacket and iron boot, Iron breeches, and on the head No hat, but an iron pot instead, And under the chin the bail,-- (I believe they call the thing a helm,--) And, thus accoutred, they took the field, Sallying forth to overwhelm The dragons and pagans that plagued the realm; So this modern knight prepared for flight, Put on his wings and strapped them tight-- Jointed and jaunty, strong and light,-- Buckled them fast to shoulder and hip,-- Ten feet they measured from tip to tip! And a helm he had, but that he wore, Not on his head, like those of yore, But more like the helm of a ship. "Hush!" Reuben said, "he's up in the shed! He's opened the winder,--I see his head! He stretches it out, an' pokes it about Lookin' to see 'f the coast is clear, An' nobody near;-- Guess he don'o' who's hid in here! He's riggin' a spring-board over the sill! Stop laffin', Solomon! Burke, keep still! He's climbin' out now--Of all the things! What's he got on? I vum, it's wings! An' that t'other thing? I vum, it's a tail! And there he sets like a hawk on a rail! Steppin' careful, he travels the length Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength, Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat; Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' that, Fer to see 'f the's anyone passin' by; But the's o'ny a ca'f an' a goslin' nigh. They turn up at him a wonderin' eye, To see--The dragon! he's goin' to fly! Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump! Flop--flop--an' plump to the ground with a thump! Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin', all'n a lump!" As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear, Heels over head, to his proper sphere,-- Heels over head, and head over heels, Dizzily down the abyss he wheels,-- So fell Darius. Upon his crown, In the midst of the barnyard, he came down, In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings, Broken braces and broken springs, Broken tail and broken wings, Shooting stars, and various things,-- Barnyard litter of straw and chaff, And much that wasn't so sweet by half. Away with a bellow flew the calf, And what was that? Did the gosling laugh? 'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door, And he hears the voice of Jotham crying; "Say, D'rius! how de yeou like flyin'?" Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, Darius just turned and looked that way, As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff, "Wal, I like flyin' well enough," He said, "but the' ain't sich a thunderin' sight O' fun in't when ye come to light." I just have room for the MORAL here: And this is the moral,--Stick to your sphere; Or, if you insist, as you have the right, On spreading your wings for a loftier flight, The moral is,--Take care how you light. 376 The poem of "Beth Gelert" (Grave of Gelert) is really a verse version of an old folk story that has localized itself in many places over the world. In Wales they can show you where Gelert is buried, which illustrates how such a favorite story takes hold of the popular mind. The poem by William Robert Spencer (1769-1834) has so much of the spirit of the old ballads which it imitates that it was believed at first to be a genuine example of one. BETH GELERT WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheerly smiled the morn; And many a brach, and many a hound, Obeyed Llewellyn's horn. And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a lustier cheer, "Come, Gelert, come, wert never last Llewellyn's horn to hear. "Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam. The flow'r of all his race, So true, so brave,--a lamb at home, A lion in the chase?" 'Twas only at Llewellyn's board The faithful Gelert fed; He watched, he served, he cheered his lord, And sentineled his bed. In sooth he was a peerless hound, The gift of royal John; But now no Gelert could be found, And all the chase rode on. And now, as o'er the rocks and dells The gallant chidings rise, All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells The many-mingled cries! That day Llewellyn little loved The chase of hart and hare; And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there. Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied, When, near the portal seat, His truant Gelert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet. But, when he gained his castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood; The hound all o'er was smeared with gore; His lips, his fangs, ran blood. Llewellyn gazed with fierce surprise; Unused such looks to meet, His favorite checked his joyful guise, And crouched, and licked his feet. Onward, in haste, Llewellyn passed, And on went Gelert too; And still, where'er his eyes he cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view. O'erturned his infant's bed he found, The blood-stained covert rent; And all around the walls and ground With recent blood besprent. He called his child,--no voice replied-- He searched with terror wild; Blood, blood he found on every side, But nowhere found his child. "Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured," The frantic father cried; And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side. His suppliant looks, as prone he fell, No pity could impart; But still his Gelert's dying yell Passed heavy o'er his heart. Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Some slumberer wakened nigh: What words the parent's joy could tell, To hear his infant's cry! Concealed beneath a tumbled heap His hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub boy he kissed. Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread, But, the same couch beneath, Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, Tremendous still in death. Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain! For now the truth was clear; His gallant hound the wolf had slain To save Llewellyn's heir: Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe; "Best of thy kind, adieu! The frantic blow which laid thee low This heart shall ever rue." And now a gallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture decked; And marbles storied with his praise Poor Gelert's bones protect. There, never could the spearman pass, Or forester, unmoved; There, oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewellyn's sorrow proved. And there he hung his horn and spear, And there, as evening fell, In fancy's ear he oft would hear Poor Gelert's dying yell. And, till great Snowdon's rocks grow old, And cease the storm to brave, The consecrated spot shall hold The name of "Gelert's Grave." 377 This old ballad is one of the best of the humorous type. Many old stories turn upon some such riddling series of questions, generally three in number, to which unexpected answers come from an unexpected quarter. Of course the questions are intended to be unanswerable. As a matter of fact they are, but a clever person may discover a riddling answer to a riddling question. King John bows, not to a master in knowledge, but to a master in cleverness. KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY An ancient story I'll tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong and maintein'd little right. And I'll tell you a story, a story so merrye, Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye; How for his house-keeping and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne. An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about. "How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I fear thou work'st treason against my crown." "My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing but what is my owne; And I trust your grace will do me no deere For spending of my owne true-gotten geere." "Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, And now for the same thou needest must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie. "And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead, With my crown of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe. "Secondlye tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole worlde about. And at the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke." "O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weekes space, I'll do my endeavour to answer your grace." "Now three weekes space to thee will I give, And that is the longest thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy living are forfeit to mee." Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise. Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, And he mett his shephard a-going to fold: "How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; What newes do you bring us from good King John?" "Sad newes, sad newes, shephard, I must give; That I have but three days more to live: For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie. "The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so faire on his head, Among all his liege-men so noble of birthe, To within one penny of what he is worthe. "The seconde, to tell him without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole worlde about: And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke." "Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet That a fool he may learn a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel. "Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, I am like your lordship, as ever may bee; And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne." "Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope." "Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, "'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day: For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. "And, first, when thou see'st me here in this stead, With my crown of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worthe." "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than Hee." The king he laugh'd, and swore by St. Bittel, "I did not think I had been worth so littel! --Now secondly, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about." "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe; And then your grace need not make any doubt, But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." The king he laugh'd, and swore by St. Jone, "I did not think it could be done so soone! --Now from the third question you must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke." "Yes, that shall I do and make your grace merry: You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterburye; But I'm his poor shephard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, "I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!" "Now nay, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write, ne reade." "Four nobles a weeke, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto me; And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John." SECTION VIII REALISTIC STORIES BIBLIOGRAPHY ARRANGED CHRONOLOGICALLY AS A BASIS FOR TRACING THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE REALISTIC STORY FOR YOUNG PEOPLE Most of the authors in the following list wrote other books of a realistic nature, in some cases greater books than the one mentioned. The book named is usually the first important one in this field by its author and has, therefore, unusual historical value. 1765. Goldsmith, Oliver, _The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes_. 1783-1789. Day, Thomas, _The History of Sandford and Merton_. 1792-1796. Aikin, Dr. John, and Barbauld, Mrs. L. E., _Evenings at Home_. [?]-1795. More, Hannah, _The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain_. 1796-1800. Edgeworth, Maria, _The Parent's Assistant, or Stories for Children_. 1808. Lamb, Mary and Charles, _Mrs. Leicester's School_. 1818. Sherwood, Mrs. M. M., _The History of the Fairchild Family_. 1840. Dana, Richard Henry, _Two Years Before the Mast_. 1841. Martineau, Harriet, _The Crofton Boys_. 1856. Yonge, Charlotte M., _The Daisy Chain_. 1857. Hughes, Thomas, _Tom Brown's School Days_. 1863. Whitney, Mrs. A. D. T., _Faith Gartney's Girlhood_. 1864. Trowbridge, J. T., _Cudjo's Cave_. 1865. Dodge, Mary Mapes, _Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates_. 1867. Kaler, James Otis, _Toby Tyler, or Ten Weeks with a Circus_. 1868. Alcott, Louisa May, _Little Women_. 1868. Hale, Edward Everett, _The Man without a Country_. 1871. Eggleston, Edward, _The Hoosier Schoolmaster_. 1876. Twain, Mark, _Adventures of Tom Sawyer_. 1878. Jackson, Helen Hunt, _Nelly's Silver Mine_. 1879. Ewing, Juliana Horatia, _Jackanapes_. 1882. Hale, Lucretia P., _Peterkin Papers_. 1883. Stevenson, Robert Louis, _Treasure Island_. 1887. Wiggin, Kate Douglas, _The Birds' Christmas Carol_. 1890. Jewett, Sarah Orne, _Betty Leicester_. 1895. Bennett, John, _Master Skylark_. 1897. Kipling, Rudyard, _Captains Courageous_. 1899. Garland, Hamlin, _Boy Life on the Prairie_. 1906. Stein, Evaleen, _Gabriel and the Hour-Book_. 1908. Montgomery, L. M., _Anne of Green Gables_. 1912. Masefield, John, _Jim Davis_. 1917. Crownfield, Gertrude, _The Little Taylor of the Winding Way_. 1920. Latham, Harold S., _Jimmy Quigg, Office Boy_. SECTION VIII. REALISTIC STORIES INTRODUCTORY _Origin._ The history of realistic stories for children may well begin with the interest in juvenile education awakened by the great French teacher and author Rousseau (1712-1778). He taught that formal methods should be discarded in juvenile education and that children should be taught to know the things about them. The new method of education is illustrated, probably unintentionally, in _The Renowned History of Little Goody Two-Shoes_, the first selection in this section. Rousseau directly influenced the thought of such writers as Thomas Day, Maria Edgeworth, Dr. Aiken, and Mrs. Barbauld. The stories produced by these authors in the last quarter of the eighteenth century are among the first written primarily for the purpose of entertaining children. To these writers we are indebted for the creation of types of children's literature that modern authors have developed into the fascinating stories of child life, the thrilling stories of adventure, and the interesting accounts of nature that now abound in libraries and book stores. _The didactic period._ When we read these first stories written for the entertainment of children, we can hardly fail to observe that each one presents a lesson, either moral or practical. The didactic purpose is so prominent that the term "Didactic Period" may be applied to the period from 1765 (the publication of _Goody Two-Shoes_) to 1825, or even later. The small amount of writing for children before this period was practically all for the purpose of moral or religious instruction; hence it was but natural for these first writers of juvenile entertainment stories to feel it their duty to present moral and practical lessons. It would be a mistake, however, to assume that these quaint old stories would not be interesting to children today, for they deal with fundamental truths, which are new and interesting to children of all ages. In addition to the writers already mentioned, and represented by selections in the following pages, there were several others whose books are yet accessible and now and then read for their historical interest if not for any intrinsic literary value they may possess. One of these was Mrs. Sarah K. Trimmer (1741-1810), who, associated with the early days of the Sunday-school movement, wrote many books full of the overwrought piety which was supposed to be necessary for children of that earlier time. One of her books, _The History of the Robins_, stands out from the mass for its strong appeal of simple incident, and is still widely popular with very young readers. Hannah More (1745-1833) occupied a prominent place in the thought of her day as a teacher of religious and social ideas among the poorer classes. Her _Repository Tracts_, many of them in the form of stories, were devoted to making the poor contented with their lot through the consolations of a pious life. "The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain" was the most famous of these story-tracts, and there are still many people living whose childhood was fed upon this and like stories. Mrs. Sherwood's _History of the Fairchild Family_ has never been out of print since the date of its first publication (1818), and in recent years has had two or three sumptuous revivals at the hands of editors and publishers. The almost innumerable books of Jacob Abbott and S. G. Goodrich ("Peter Parley") in America belong to this didactic movement. They were, however, more devoted to the process of instilling a knowledge of all the wonders of this great world round about us, and were considerably less pietistic than their English neighbors. _The Rollo Books_ (24 vols.) are typical of this school. _The modern period._ Charles Lamb apparently was one of the first to get the modern thought that literature for children should be just as artistic, just as dignified in its presentation of truth, and just as worthy of literary recognition, as literature for adults. In the hundred years since Lamb advanced his theory, students have gradually come to recognize the fact that good literature for children is also good literature for adults because art is art, whatever its form. In this connection, Lamb's feeling about the necessity for making children's books more vital found expression in a famous and much-quoted passage in a letter to Coleridge: "_Goody Two-Shoes_ is almost out of print. Mrs. Barbauld's stuff has banished all the old classics of the nursery; and the shopman at Newbery's hardly deigned to reach them off an old exploded corner of a shelf, when Mary asked for them. Mrs. B.'s and Mrs. Trimmer's nonsense lay in piles about. Knowledge insignificant and vapid as Mrs. Barbauld's books convey, it seems must come to a child in the _shape of knowledge_, and his empty noodle must be turned with conceit of his own powers when he has learnt that a horse is an animal, and Billy is better than a horse, and such like; instead of that beautiful interest in wild tales, which made the child a man, while all the while he suspected himself to be no bigger than a child. Science has succeeded to poetry no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is there no possibility of averting this sore evil? Think what you would have been now, if, instead of being fed with tales and old wives' fables in childhood, you had been crammed with geography and natural history!" The danger Lamb saw was averted. The bibliography on a preceding page indicates that about the middle of the nineteenth century many writers of first-rate literary ability began to write for young people. Among the number were Harriet Martineau, Captain Marryat, Charlotte M. Yonge, Thomas Hughes, and others. As we pass toward the end of that century and the beginning of the twentieth, the great names associated with juvenile classics are very noticeable, and with Miss Alcott, Mrs. Ewing, "Mark Twain," Stevenson, Kipling, Masefield, and a kindred host, childhood has come into its own. SUGGESTIONS FOR READING For tracing the stages in the development of writing for children consult the books named in the General Bibliography (p. 17, II, "Historical Development.") 378 Among those authors of the past whom the present still regards affectionately, Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774) holds a high place. At least five of his works--a