The Story Hour:
         A Magazine of Methods and Materials for Story Tellers
                            (Vol. I, No. 2)




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                             THE STORY HOUR

                       A Magazine of Methods and
                      Materials for Story Tellers

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               VOL. I        DECEMBER, 1908        NO. 2

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       Published Monthly (ten times a year) at Washington, D. C.

         Copyright, 1908, by M. E. Sloane. All rights reserved.

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                   WILLIAM C. RUEDIGER, Ph.D., Editor
          Division of Education, George Washington University

                  RICHARD T. WYCHE, Consulting Editor
                President National Story Tellers’ League

                MERSENE E. SLOANE, Founder and Publisher

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               Single and Sample Numbers, Fifteen Cents.

                Advertising rates given on application.

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                     Address all communications to

                            THE STORY HOUR,
                        406 FIFTH STREET, N.W.,
                            WASHINGTON, D. C.

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Make remittances by money order, draft or registered letter, payable to
Mersene E. Sloane, Publisher. Sender risks unregistered money.
Manuscripts on story-telling, and of stories for telling, are desired.
When ordering change of address be sure to give the former address.

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       PRESS OF THE COLONIAL PRINTING COMPANY OF WASHINGTON, D. C.


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                        OFFICERS OF THE NATIONAL
                         STORY-TELLERS’ LEAGUE

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               Honorary President, HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE
       President, RICHARD T. WYCHE, 501 W. 120th Street, New York
           Secretary, DR. RICHARD M. HODGE, Teachers College,
                     Columbia University, New York
            Treasurer, MR. W. H. KEISTER, Harrisonburg, Va.

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                          EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE

                  DR. P. P. CLAXTON, Knoxville, Tenn.
     Professor Education, University of Tenn. Superintendent Summer
                          School of the South
                   MISS ANNIE LAWS, Cincinnati, Ohio
               President Ohio Federation of Women’s Clubs
                  MISS MAUD SUMMERS, Cincinnati, Ohio
            Member of Faculty, Kindergarten Training School
                   MISS ANNA C. TYLER, New York City
                          Children’s Librarian
                          DR. RICHARD M. HODGE
                           MR. W. H. KEISTER
                          MR. RICHARD T. WYCHE

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                              ADVISORY BOARD

             DR. G. STANLEY HALL, President Clark University
                 DR. HENRY VAN DYKE, Princeton University
              MISS ELIZABETH BROWN, City Schools, Washington
      DR. JENNIE B. MERRILL, Supervisor Kindergartens, New York City
              DR. A. FORTIER, Tulane University, New Orleans
                  DR. C. W. KENT, University of Virginia
      WHARTON S. JONES, Assist. Supt. Public Schools, Memphis, Tenn.
                     DR. J. E. MCKEAN, Oberlin, Ohio
          SUPT. B. C. GREGORY, Supt. of Schools, Chelsea, Mass.
       MISS ELIZABETH HARRISON, Pres. Chicago Kindergarten College
 MISS MARIAN S. HENCKLE, Kindergarten Training School, Charleston, S. C.
                   MISS PEARL CARPENTER, Covington, Ky.
              MRS. A. W. COOLEY, University of North Dakota
                MISS ELIZABETH J. BLACK, Greensboro, N.C.


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                             THE STORY HOUR

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               VOL. I        DECEMBER, 1908        NO. 2

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                     EDITOR’S AND PUBLISHER’S NOTES


WITH this issue THE STORY HOUR has the pleasant privilege of wishing all
its readers a Merry Christmas. That the Christmas spirit may everywhere
prevail, and prevail abundantly, is its sincerest wish; and if the
stories herein told and retold will contribute their mite in enhancing
this spirit, it will indeed feel that it is fulfilling its mission.

                  *       *       *       *       *

AMONG the many elements of cheer at Christmas time is the Santa Claus
myth. Belief in this myth adds greatly to the enjoyment of Christmas in
early childhood. The children who believe in it, and pass out of the
literal belief without a shock to their faith, are to be congratulated.
They never forget looking back to the time when they watched, waited and
listened for Santa Claus, animated by an expectancy tinged with a happy
fear.

But this belief naturally cannot persist through life. Near the
beginning of the school period it must be replaced by a knowledge of the
literal truth, which the children get usually from their associates.
Whether the knowledge of this literal truth is to be more true or less
true than the belief in the myth depends upon the parents, teachers and
adult friends in whose care the children are. It rests with them to
transform the myth into a symbol filled with meaning. The best things in
life are such things as faith, love, kindness and generosity. These we
cannot touch, hear or see. They exist primarily as soul experiences, and
in order to make them more palpable and give them a base of reference we
symbolize them. Now one of these symbols is Santa Claus. He stands for
the cheer, good will and love of Christmas time, and every feature of
his traditional representation symbolizes these qualities. He is as real
as Uncle Sam, and his mission is no less important. He is the embodiment
of Christmas love, and even children of six can appreciate this
signification of Santa Claus. The fact that they previously believed in
the kind saint literally only helps this appreciation. And who would not
have a child believe in this kind of a Santa Claus, and believe in him
always?

                  *       *       *       *       *

FOR several years Mr. Wyche has told his original Santa Claus story to
audiences in many places. It has been in great demand, but has never
heretofore been published. The version given in this number of THE STORY
HOUR from a stenographic record will be a permanent addition to the
Christmas literature of the country. It will be noted that this and all
other articles in the magazine are copyrighted.

                  *       *       *       *       *

READERS are requested to write us freely regarding their experiences in
story telling, also to suggest stories they wish to have reproduced, or
stories they have found useful in their own work.

                  *       *       *       *       *

SUGGESTIONS of principles and methods contained in the notes from local
leagues are already becoming one of the most helpful features of this
magazine. It was so anticipated by the publisher when he planned the
local news department. It is desired to have such notes frequently from
all local leagues in the country.

                  *       *       *       *       *

MOTHERS are becoming interested in the new story-telling as a means of
home education and even discipline. They are making inquires as to
methods and materials. THE STORY HOUR will be a helpful counsellor for
them.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A QUERY PAGE will be useful to many, especially to those who live remote
from the cities and their large libraries. Any who desire information of
any kind regarding stories, or the literature of stories, or anything at
all related to the subject of story-telling, or the League movement may
feel free to write to THE STORY HOUR. Our best efforts will be made to
give suitable and helpful replies.

                  *       *       *       *       *

THE STORY HOUR invites contributions of articles on story-telling and
any topic related to the general subject, also stories for use in
story-telling. Both original and retold stories may be submitted.

                  *       *       *       *       *

MANY expressions of interest in and approval of THE STORY HOUR magazine
have reached us. All say that it will supply a real need—a long-felt
want.

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                       STORIES FOR CHRISTMAS TIME


The following selected list of Christmas stories is given in the hope
that it will prove of service to readers of THE STORY HOUR. The list is
suggested by Mr. Charles L. Spain, of Detroit, Mich.

The Discontented Pine Tree—Anderson.

The Fir Tree—Anderson.

The Little Match girl—Anderson.

The Golden Cobwebs, From “How to Tell Stories to Children”—Bryant.

Fulfilled: A Legend of Christmas Eve, From “How to Tell Stories to
Children”—Bryant.

Story of Christmas, From “How to Tell Stories to Children”—Bryant.

Why Evergreen Trees Keep Their Leaves in Winter, From “How to Tell
Stories to Children—Bryant.”

Yuletide Myth, From Old Norse Stories—Brodish.

Christmas Truants—Fanciful Tales. Stockton.

The Ruggles’ Christmas Dinner, From Brid’s Christmas Carol—R. D. Wiggin.

Legend of St. Christopher

A Christmas at Cafe Spaander. Scribners, Dec. 1902.

                  *       *       *       *       *

NEW subscribers who did not begin with the November number, but who
desire the special information it contains regarding the new educational
story-telling movement, including the Constitution of the National Story
Tellers’ League, can obtain copies by sending 25 cents to the publisher.


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                     HOW THIS MAGAZINE GOT ITS NAME

                     [EXPLANATION BY THE PUBLISHER]


ABOUT the time the November number of this magazine was on the press a
letter was received from Houghton Mifflin Company saying that Miss Nora
A. Smith had complained to them about the title of the forthcoming
magazine, an advance notice of which had come to her attention. It
appears that Miss Smith and her sister Mrs. Kate Douglas Wiggin, some
years ago published, through the Houghton Mifflin Company, a book
entitled “The Story Hour.” Miss Smith assumed that this magazine was
named in honor of their book, and resented it. Lest others should think
likewise to our discredit, it is fitting to explain that this magazine
did not find its name from any book, print, writing, word or advice from
anybody, but was entirely original with the publisher, who had never
seen or heard of any book or other print bearing such title.

In the course of the preliminary correspondence regarding a proposed
periodical, Mr. Wyche stated (last August) that among those interested
in such a publication would be the playground workers, who would find it
useful for their story hour, referring to the practice in some
playgrounds of setting apart an hour each day for story-telling. It
struck the publisher at once that THE STORY HOUR would be just the title
wanted, and he was delighted to have hit upon so excellent and
appropriate a name. That he was not familiar with the book bearing the
same title is not a reflection upon the book, which is undoubtedly quite
excellent in every way, and is said to have enjoyed a wide circulation,
but it is due to the fact that for several years he has not been in
direct touch with educational interests, hence is not acquainted with
current literature along such lines.

The publisher has no apology to offer for adopting so excellent a title,
but does disavow any intention, inclination or necessity for “borrowing”
for this or any other literary purpose. THE STORY HOUR magazine is for
the benefit of a worthy educational movement—for the good of
children—and there is room for both it and the book of the same name to
be a blessing to the rising generation. In doing good, time and priority
are not factors, but the will and the deed.

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                      STORIES AND HOW TO USE THEM

                        BY RICHARD THOMAS WYCHE

               PRESIDENT, NATIONAL STORY TELLERS’ LEAGUE

                           ARTICLE NUMBER TWO


WHEN our forefathers grappled with theological problems and made
dogmatic statements as to their faith, such as we find in some of our
catechisms, they had in mind the church and theological controversies,
and not the child and his needs. The truth that they had suffered and
died for was contained in the catechisms, their articles of faith,
therefore he who committed to memory the catechism had the truth. But in
that reasoning they made a fatal mistake. To make children memorize
these dogmatic statements expecting them to grow religiously or morally
thereby, would be like feeding them on bone meal, expecting therefrom an
increase in the bony tissue of the body. The lime that the body needs is
there, but not in an assimilative form. Nor is there truth for the child
in dry-bone statements of religion. If the child asks for bread will you
give him a stone? That is what we do when we make him memorize
theological statements, the language and thought both of which are
beyond him.

The writer recalls two teachers and two methods of religious instruction
in his childhood. One who taught him the catechism and one who told him
Bible stories. The catechism bored and wearied him, and so far as he can
see today was time wasted, while the stories charmed and uplifted, and
remain even today a pleasant memory. This is not arguing that the child
should not memorize some things. There are many selections from
Scripture and other sources that he can memorize both with great
pleasure and profit to himself.

              “The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want,
               He maketh me to lie down in green pastures,
               He leadeth me beside the still waters,”

is full of beautiful imagery that appeals to the child. But theological
definitions of sin, justification and the like, have neither feeling nor
imagery and make no appeal to the child. The child is interested in the
deeds of man and not in his doctrines. Tell him connectedly the
life-story of Moses, Buddha, Jesus, St. Augustine, Luther or Wesley, and
you have given him the spirit and life of the great religious leaders
and the institutions which grew out of their work. No catechism could do
that. Gladly he would hear the life story of a great religious hero and
teacher, but his doctrines do not interest him now. Give him the
life-story now, and when he has reached later the philosophic period he
will himself raise the theological and philosophical questions, and
knowing the lives of the great religious leaders he will have the
historical background whereon to build his faith. Anyone can take a
catechism and have a class memorize and repeat the answers, but it takes
a teacher to so read the Bible that he can tell in a creative way the
story of its great heroes. That is what we must do if we base our
methods on true psychology. And the story should be studied connectedly
to the close and not by piecemeal, beginning as some do with one
character and before the life-story is done dropping him and skipping to
another, in order to conform to a certain doctrinal theme which may
interest the adult but not the child. That method may account for the
fact that Bible heroes have not always been as popular with children as
some others. If the story of Ulysses and Hiawatha were taught in a
similar way they would lose much of their charm and interest for the
child.

The day school in its literature courses is incidentally giving the
child a comparative course in religion, greatly to the advantage of the
Sunday School worker. In Hiawatha we have an Indian Messiah who
worshipped the Great Spirit, and prayed and fasted for his people. In
the Norse we have the worship of Odin, and Balder, the God of Light,
Gladsheim and the Life Beyond the Grave. In the Greek we have the gods
in their relations to man, the upper and lower world, immortality,
rewards and punishments. Saint George was a protector of the faith,
while King Arthur had heaped upon him the attributes of a divinity,
until his life-story reminds one of the Christ story.

The heroism and prowess in these stories is the main point of interest
to the child, but none the less does the religious life of the race come
out; and to have religion associated with physical strength as well as
moral heroism is an advantage. And none the less are we giving him the
great truths that are common to all religions, making him tolerant and
charitable, and teaching him that religion is as broad as life itself
and that it is natural for every human heart to go in quest of the
Eternal. With this broad outlook we can then better help our young
people interpret the old truths in terms of modern thought and
contribute much toward that larger religious life and thought which must
inevitably come.

The work of story-telling covers a much larger field than the school. It
does not matter whether we are kindergartners, teachers or preachers,
every adult owes to the rising generation of children something of the
culture that has been given to him. The “Tell me a story” on the part of
the child is his cry for spiritual food, and to hear stories from the
great story-books of the world is, as Dr. G. Stanley Hall says, “one of
the most inalienable rights of children.” There is no better place in
all the world for telling a story than in the home, that institution
which is greater and more important than all other institutions
combined.

It is in the home that we come into the sweetest and divinest relations
with children and with one another. It is here that we find the best
conditions for a play of those subtle and delicate psychic influences
which enter into the story, making it both a perfect art and an
inspiration to a noble and beautiful character. There are many homes
that cannot afford libraries and the rich adornments of art, but no home
is so humble that parents cannot gather the children around the fireside
on a winter’s evening or about the doorsteps in the twilight of a
summer’s day and tell them stories. A simple fireside is a greater
stimulant to the creative imagination than the wealth of a palace.

To enter thus into the child’s world and into the joyous companionship
of children is one of the highest privileges of parent and teacher. He
who fails in this does not form the deepest and most lasting ties with
the child, and he also robs himself of one of the greatest sources of
perennial youth.


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                     JUNIOR STORY TELLERS’ LEAGUES

                           ORIGIN AND GROWTH


ONE of the most interesting developments of the League idea was the
organization of Junior Leagues. The originators of the League thought
only of an organization for adults. But where the children have, under
the guidance of a wise teacher, had a League, the work they have done
and the interest shown reveals one of its greatest educational
possibilities. As the child likes to build with clay, sand or wood, and
in doing so educates himself, so he likes to build with words, voice and
gesture an ideal world, peopling it with life as he sees it.

While we are training children for all sorts of skilled trades, it is a
matter of no small satisfaction to record an experiment that has for its
object the revival of the ancient art of telling stories—for it is an
art.

The children of Corinth, Miss., under the supervision of Susie E.
Blitch, were the first to organize a Junior League. The League began
with the children of the fifth grade. They had the usual officers, and a
program of stories, songs and games, meeting out of doors when possible.

Those who have had charge of Junior Leagues report the following
principles for the guidance of those who wish to organize Leagues among
the young people:

(1) Help the children to make the organization thoroughly democratic.

(2) The supervisor has no right to stop or correct a member in telling a
story. The speaker has the floor; the atmosphere and the spirit he
brings with his story is the essential thing, and not grammar or
pronunciation.

(3) To hear other children tell a story is a better model for a child
than the criticism of an older person who cannot tell a story.

(4) Reciting a story is not telling a story.

Last December Miss Anna C. Tyler formed a “Junior Story-Tellers’ League”
in the children’s room of Pratt Institute Library, in Brooklyn. Out of
an audience of from forty to sixty children, two Junior Leagues were
formed. They all assemble regularly to hear the evening story, and the
leagues meet afterward.

Each league elects its own officers and conducts its own meetings. The
president takes the names of seven or eight of the children present,
most of whom volunteer to have a story ready for the next meeting, and
of those so chosen there have only been a few who have not been ready
with a story when called upon. They know they can call upon Miss Tyler
for help, but seldom require her services.

There has been but little attempt to dictate to them the kind of story
that they shall tell, the director’s only request being that they shall
not tell silly stories. Some of the best Norse, Greek, and Indian myths;
animal and nature stories by Kipling, Seton-Thompson, Charles Dudley
Warner, and John Burroughs; “Macbeth,” “Evangeline,” “The Lady of the
Lake,” “A Yankee at King Arthur’s Court;” stories of adventure, and some
of the most famous of the fairy-tales have been told—and nearly always
well told—by boys and girls from ten to fifteen years old. The children
are learning to read—the careful search through book after book for the
story they think will be the best to tell. The final selection is always
their own.

“After the cycle of eighteen stories from King Arthur had been
finished,” says Miss Tyler, “the children asked me to tell them Indian,
detective, and ghost stories, and tales from ‘Arabian Nights’—to be told
in that order, and I was not to tell stories that they would read for
themselves. The Indian myths were not so difficult to find, but good
detective and ghost stories were another matter; at last I remembered
the delicious thrill of those wondrous tales of Poe. I began with ‘The
Purloined Letter,’ telling it, as it is written, in the first person,
but ‘skipping’ the parts that I knew would weary. Then followed ‘The
Black Cat;’ then Stephenson’s ‘The Bottle Imp.’ So fascinated were they
that they voted to change the evening of fairy-tales for another story
by Poe, and the story they chose was ‘The Pit and the Pendulum.’ By the
children’s urgent request these stories were told with the lights turned
low, as the best substitute for fire-light, and it is hard to say
whether the absorbed young listeners or the story-teller enjoyed those
hours most.”

The leagues have voted that their story-teller shall tell them Indian
stories next winter, and she hopes, therefore, by beginning with the
Indian myths and folk-lore, then telling of their life, warfare, and
famous battles, to bring her boys and girls to a vivid interest in
reading history as told by Francis Parkman.

The writer recalls with so much pleasure a visit to a young people’s
story tellers’ league. He happened once upon a time to visit one of our
smaller towns, and was invited to a meeting of the Junior Story Tellers’
League that met on the day of his visit. He had never heard of the
organization among children before, and was of course interested in
seeing what the children were doing with such an organization. The
meeting was held out of doors on the lawn. It was in the month of May
when the weather permitted such a meeting. The League was composed of
children of the fifth grade, who sat in a circle on the grass. The
teacher of the grade was present, but the children conducted their own
meeting—a program of stories, songs and games in which all joined. The
stories told by the children were their own selections, and were told in
a creative way. One was especially impressive, being loudly applauded by
the children. It was told by a twelve year old girl and was one of her
own creation. Since then she has written enough stories to make a small
volume, and so popular is she as a story-teller that the children in her
neighborhood flock to her home to hear her tell stories. Several years
after that the writer saw this same girl, now passing into young
womanhood, stand before a thousand teachers and tell in the same easy,
natural way some of her stories. Not seeking this opportunity to appear
in public, [only in rare instances would the author allow children to
appear in public], it came to her because she had something to give;
something that she had for several years given every week to her
playmates and friends, as naturally as she would give herself to them in
games and play; something too, that had made her life a radiant one.

Miss Elizabeth J. Black, teacher of the sixth grade in one of the public
schools of Greensboro, N.C., has been very successful with a League
among her pupils. Through the League she got hold of the children as
never before, and is enthusiastic over the results.

We give below a program of one League meeting. Miss Black has laid
special emphasis on Norse stories.


                                PROGRAM.

    Chorus—Carolina, American Legend—The White Doe; Chorus—“I’m a
    Tar Heel Born and a Tar Heel Bred;” Legend of Sir Galahad—“The
    Bright Boy Knight;” Chorus—“The Watch on the Rhine,”
    “Seigfried;” Rhine Legends—“Parsifal;” “Lohengrin,” Chorus—“The
    Violet,” Icelandic Saga—“Burnt Njal;” Folklore and Nonsense,
    “The Cat and the Parrot;” Chorus—“When I’m Dreaming;”
    Impersonation of Uncle Remus, “Miss Sallie,” “Uncle Remus,”
    “Little Boy,” Chorus—Dixie.

                                                            R. T. W.


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                      A BOY’S VISIT TO SANTA CLAUS

                          BY RICHARD T. WYCHE


ONCE upon a time there was a little boy who talked a great deal about
Santa Claus. He talked to his father, his mother, his brother and
sisters, until it was Santa Claus at the breakfast table, Santa Claus at
dinner and Santa Claus at supper. This little boy had been told that far
away in the Northland lived Santa Claus. He was sitting by the fire one
day watching the embers glow, and seeing castles in the glowing embers.
There is Santa Claus’ house, he said, the great building covered with
snow. “Why can’t I go to see him?” The little boy had worked and had
saved some money. He took the money and went down to the depot, bought a
ticket and before his father or mother knew about it was gone to see
Santa Claus. He traveled a long time on the train and by and by reached
the end of the railroad. He could go no farther on the train for there
was a great wide ocean, but people cross the ocean and so must the
little boy, or at least a part of it, in order to reach Santa Claus’
land. There was a great ship lying in port soon to sail over the seas,
and along with many people who went aboard the ship, went the little
boy. Soon every sail was spread and out from the port went the ship
leaving far behind them the town.

The ship sailed and sailed a long time, and finally land came in sight.
They had reached an island lying somewhere far out in the mid-seas. Some
of the people went ashore and so did the little boy. But what a funny
land it was to the little boy, all the people were little people. The
grown men were not taller than the little boy, and they rode little
ponies that were not larger than dogs. Then the little boy asked, “What
land is this, does Santa Claus live here?” And they said—“No.”

               “This is the land that lies east of the sun
                And west of the moon.
                You have not come too soon.
                Northward you must go
                To the land of ice and snow.”

And so one day the little boy found a ship that was going to sail to the
Northland and in this ship he went. The ship sailed and sailed a long
time until it finally came to where the sea was all frozen over, to the
land of icebergs and snow fields. The ship could go no farther, so what
do you suppose the little boy did then? He was in the land of the
reindeer, and over the snow fields he went in search of Santa Claus.

One day, as he was traveling over the snow fields to find Santa Claus’
house, he saw not far away what at first seemed to be a hill, but soon
he saw that it was not a hill, but a house covered with ice and snow.
“That must be Santa Claus’ house,” he said. Soon the little boy was
standing in front of the great building whose towers seemed to reach the
sky. Up the shining steps he went and soon he was standing in front of
the door. The little boy saw no door bell and so he knocked on the door.
No one answered and then louder he knocked again. Still no one answered.
He began to feel afraid, perhaps this was the house of a giant. If Santa
Claus lived there, he might be angry with him for coming, but once more
he knocked. And then he heard a noise far down at the other end of the
hall. Some one was coming. Then suddenly the latch went “click,” and the
door stood wide open, and who do you suppose was there? Santa Claus? No;
a little boy with blue eyes and a bright sweet face. Then the little boy
said, “Good morning. Does Santa Claus live here?” And the other little
boy said, “Yes. Come in, come in. I am Santa Claus’ little boy.” He took
him by the hand and said, “I am very glad to see you.”

Then the two little boys walked down the long hallway, doors on this
side and doors on that, until they came to the last door on the
left-hand side. On this door Santa Claus’ little boy knocked, and a
great voice said, “COME IN.” He opened the door and walked in, and who
do you suppose was there? Santa Claus? Yes, there was Santa Claus
himself; a great, big fat man sitting by the fire, with long white
beard, blue eyes and the merriest, cheeriest face you ever saw. Then
Santa Claus’ little boy said, “Father, here is a little boy who has come
to see you.” Santa Claus looked down over his spectacles and said,
“Well, how are you? I am mighty glad to see you. Yes, yes, I know him. I
have been to his house on many a night and filled up his stocking. How
are Elizabeth and Louise and Katherine?” Over on the other side of the
fireplace sat Mrs. Santa Claus. She was a grandmother-looking woman,
with white hair and gold-rimmed spectacles. She was sitting by the fire
knitting; she put her arms around the little boy and kissed him.

Then the two little boys sat down in front of the fire and talked
together. By and by, Santa Claus’ little boy said to the other little
boy, “Don’t you want to go over the building and see what we have in the
different rooms? This building has a thousand rooms.” And the little boy
said, “who-o-o-o-e.” And Santa Claus’ little boy said, “Yes, and
something different in every room.”

Then they went in a large room and what do you suppose was in there?
Nothing but doll babies; some with long dresses and some with short;
some with black eyes and some with blue. Then into another room they
went, and it was full of toys, wagons and horses; another room was full
of story books; another room was a candy kitchen where Santa Claus made
candy; another room was a workshop where Santa Claus made toys for the
children. Then they went in a long, large room, the largest of them all,
and in this room were a great many tables. On these tables were suits,
cloaks and hats and shoes and stockings for the children. The little boy
wanted to know what they did with so many clothes, and Santa Claus’
little boy said, “We take these to the little children who have no
father or mother to make them clothes.” And so they went through all the
rooms of the great building, except one, which was away upstairs in the
corner. What was in this room no one would tell the little boy, nor
would they take him into the room. And the little boy wondered what was
in the room.

The little boy stayed at Santa Claus’ house several days and he had a
splendid time. Some days the two little boys would slide down the hill
on a sled, some days they would hitch up the reindeer and go sleighing,
some days they would go into the candy kitchen and help Santa Claus make
candy, or into the workshop and help him make toys.

But one day something happened. Santa Claus came to the little boy and
said, “I am going away today for a little while; my wife and my little
boy are going with me. Now,” he said, “you can go with us or you can
stay here and keep house for us while we are gone.” The little boy
thought to himself that Santa Claus had been so good to him that he
would stay and keep house while Santa Claus was away. So he said he
would stay and then Santa Claus gave him a great bunch of keys and said,
“Now you can go in all the rooms and play, but you must not go in that
room upstairs in the corner.” The little boy said, “Alright,” and with
that Santa Claus, his wife and his little boy went down the steps, got
into the sleigh, wrapped themselves up in furs, popped the whip and away
they went! The little boy stood and watched them until they disappeared
behind the snow hills.

Then he turned and went back into the house. He felt like a little man
in that great house all by himself. From room to room he went. He went
into the game room and rolled the balls. Some of the balls were so large
that they were as high as the little boy’s head. They were of rubber,
and if you would drop one from the top of the house it would bounce
clear back to the top. The little boy went into the candy kitchen and
ate some of the candy. He went into the workshop and worked on some
toys, then into the library and read some of the books, then into the
parlor and banged on the piano.

But after a while, the little boy was tired, and he said, “I wish Santa
Claus would hurry and come back.” He was lonely. And so he thought he
would go up on the housetop and look out to see if he could see Santa
Claus coming home. Up the steps he went. When he reached the top, there
was another flight. Up these he went and still another flight; up, up,
he went until it seemed he had gone a thousand steps. But, finally, he
came out on top. The little boy stood there with his hands on the
railing and looked out, but all he could see were the snow fields, white
and glistening. Santa Claus was not in sight. He could see the track
over the snow that the sleigh had made, but that was all.

Then down the steps he came, and it just happened that he came by the
room that Santa Claus told him he must not go in. As he passed, he
stopped in front of the door and said to himself, “I wonder what they
have in that room and why they did not want me to go in?” He took hold
of the knob and gave it a turn, but the door was locked. Then he shut
one eye and peeped through the keyhole, but he could see nothing; it was
all dark. Then he put his mouth at the keyhole and blew through it, but
he could hear nothing. Then he put his nose there and smelled, but he
could smell nothing. “I wonder what they have in the room?” he said, “I
believe I will see just for fun which one of these keys will fit in the
lock.” The little boy had in his hand the great bunch of keys. He tried
one key and that would not fit, then he tried another and another and
another, and kept on until he came to the last key. Now, he said to
himself, “If this key does not fit I am going.” He tried it and it was
the only key on the bunch that would fit. “Now,” he said, “I shall not
go into the room, but I will just turn the key and see if it will unlock
the lock. It may fit in the lock and then not unlock the lock.” He
turned the key slowly and the latch went “click,” “click,” and the door
flew wide open. What do you suppose was in the room? It was all dark;
the little boy could see nothing. He had his hand on the knob and it
seemed to him that his hand was caught between the knob and key, and
somehow, as the door opened, it pulled him in. When he stepped into the
room, he felt a breeze blowing and, more than that, as he stepped down,
he found the room did not have any bottom; just a dark hole.

Well, as the little boy stepped over into the room, he felt himself
falling, away down, down, down yonder. He shut his eyes, expecting every
moment to strike something and be killed. But, before he did, some one
caught him by the shoulders and shook him and said, “Wake up!” “Wake
up.” He opened his eyes and where do you suppose the little boy was? At
home. It was Christmas morning and his father was calling him to get up.
The sun was shining across his little bed. He looked towards the
fireplace and there all the stockings were hanging full. The little boy
had been to see Santa Claus, but he went by that beautiful route we call
“DREAMLAND”.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                        HARALD’S CHRISTMAS TREE

                        BY ANNA BOGENHOLM SLOANE


IN a little log hut at the edge of a forest in far-away Sweden lived
Harald and his widowed mother. The winter snows crept in through the
window cracks and the biting winds found their way between the decaying
logs. All the fuel they had was the dry sticks that Harald gathered in
the woods, and, indeed, nearly all the money used in their humble home
was earned by his hands. But, notwithstanding the poverty and
uncomfortable habitation, Harald was as happy as though he lived in a
palace; for he loved the fading beauty of his mother’s tender face and
the whitening hair under her stiff cap. And for playmates he had all the
elves and fairies about whom his mother had told him so many wonderful
tales.

Harald had never seen a Bible or heard about the Saviour, but he knew
the Eddas by heart and he prayed to Odin and Thor with as devout
reverence as a Christian boy prays to the Lord Jesus, and he had firmly
resolved to live the noble life of a brave hero so as to be worthy to
die on the battlefield, and by kind Valkyrias be borne to the fair
gardens of Valhall.

One December evening, when the wind howled dismally among the forest
trees and piled up snow in great drifts across the roadway, little
Harald, chilled and shivering, returned home from a hard day’s work. To
keep up a brave heart he whistled as he walked, looking earnestly at the
flashing flames of light which people now call the “Northern Lights,”
but which, to him, was the flickering of the helmets and shields and
spears of Odin’s maidens; for so had he been taught.

Just as he turned into the dark forest he heard a faint moan, as of a
human being in distress. Hastening to the spot whence it came, he found
an ugly Dwarf lying in the snow nearly frozen. Although Harald was quite
numb himself from cold, he began briskly to rub the Dwarf’s hands and
face, and after a little while helped him to his feet, and Harald then
asked the Dwarf to go home with him where he might get warm and have
some supper.

“Why should you befriend a poor wretch such as I am, who cannot repay
you?” whined the Dwarf as he leaned heavily on Harald’s young shoulders.

“I don’t ask to be repaid,” replied Harald. “Have you not heard the
proverb, ‘Do good and throw it into the sea. If the fishes don’t know
it, Odin will.’”

“Yes; Odin shall know about this, you may be sure of that, and although
I am only a poor deformed wretch, I know how to be grateful, and would
like to do you a favor,” replied the Dwarf. “I wonder if you have
happened to notice a little green ash tree somewhere near here.”

“A green ash tree in winter!” exclaimed Harald.

“It is an unusual sight, indeed,” said the Dwarf, “but in one of my
rambles, the other night, I saw one in this vicinity. Oh, here it is,
right before our eyes!”

There, sheltered by a cluster of evergreen trees, was a small ash
sapling, with green leaves on its branches as in summer, while the other
forest trees stood about nodding in their slumber, their leaves all gone
and their hearts frozen within them.

When Harald went and touched its branches, the little tree came right up
out of the ground.

“Take home the little ash and plant it beside your window,” said the
Dwarf, and when Harald turned about to thank him he was gone out of
sight.

Then Harald started to run home with the little ash tree, but had gone
only a few steps when he struck his foot against something. Stooping to
see what it was, he found a bag, glistening with brightness and full of
something heavy. Upon opening the bag, he found it to be full of pieces
of gold money.

“I must go to town and ask who has lost a bag filled with gold,” thought
the boy. “Oh, I do wish I might keep it and buy mother a nice warm
coat.”

But the next instant he loosened his tightening grip on the bag. “It is
not my gold, and stolen money is worse than a mill-stone about one’s
neck, says mother, so I think it would be too heavy for me.”

“Keep the purse, little boy,” said a sweet voice at his elbow. Turning,
he saw a little girl as radiant as a sunbeam, dressed in shining gold.

“I am your friend, little boy, and I tell you that a lady who wears a
fine cloak and a long veil, and who has more gold than she needs,
dropped that purse, and if she asks for it I will say it fell into a
hole in the ground.”

“Poor misguided Angel,” said Harald, “you are a beautiful temptress, but
I must go to town and try to find the lady you speak of, who wears a fur
cloak and a long veil.”

“Well, if you are determined to be so foolish, I will go with you to
show you the way,” replied the Fairy, for such was the beautiful little
girl.

So Harald wrapped his jacket about the little ash tree, to protect the
tender roots from the cold, and tucking it under his arm, ran to town in
the footsteps of his guide. The beautiful fairy led him to the doorsteps
of a great mansion and then vanished from sight.

The lady of the house was glad to get her purse back, and offered Harald
one of the gold pieces as reward for bringing it to her. But, much as he
wished to have it, he shook his head, saying, “My mother taught me not
to take pay for not being a thief, and she always tells me to be honest
without hope of reward.”

Then Harald ran home with all speed to tell his mother of his wonderful
adventures, and while they were talking together about the strange
little ash tree they discovered a soft, unfrozen spot of earth near a
southern window, and there planted the green sapling. Harald cared for
it tenderly and prayed Odin to shield it from frost and wind.

Next morning was the twenty-fifth of December, and was a holy day then
as now, though it was not called Christmas and was not celebrated in
memory of the birth of Christ, but to commemorate the death and
cremation of the pure and loving Balder, who was the Saviour of the old
Northmen’s religion.

Contrary to our Christian custom, the old pagans of Sweden celebrated
the birth of their Redeemer at Easter, when all nature becomes imbued
with renewed life.

At the winter solstice, when nature slumbers, they kept fires burning on
the mountain tops, in memory of his death and funeral pyre.

Early on Christmas morning, when Harald went out to see the Balder
fires, he met three armed men in the forest. One of them asked gruffly
if he knew what had become of a little green ash tree that Loki, the
giant, had planted there.

Harald became very much frightened. He knew the men must be looking for
the green sapling he took home the night before, for there was no other
such green bush in the forest. He also knew that Loki was a fierce and
terrible god to offend.

“I will not tell,” he first thought, “but run home and pull up the bush
and burn it. Then they will never know what became of it.”

But, notwithstanding his fears, he could not forget his mother’s
counsel: “Speak always the truth, my son, even though a sword should be
swinging over your head.” Indeed, a sword was just now hanging over his
head, but he would speak the truth.

As soon as he could control his trembling voice Harald confessed that he
had removed a little green ash tree the night before. He begged for
mercy, for he did not know that it belonged to the fearful giant.

The men told Harald to lead the way to his mother’s dwelling. Arriving
there, they at once recognized the little green ash as the one belonging
to Loki, and commanded Harald to pluck it up and follow them with it to
the giant’s castle.

Stiff and white as though the frost giant had breathed upon him, Harald
reached out his hand and touched the tree. Instantly it came from the
ground of its own accord. For a moment it stood quivering and shaking
its branches, which gradually became arms, and in another moment it was
no longer a green sapling, but a dazzling, beautiful girl.

“Poor men! I pity you for being in Loki’s service,” she said in a sweet
voice. “Go, tell your cruel master that his plotting against me has
failed and that my enchantment is over. This little boy has saved me,”
she continued, pointing to Harald. “The merciless Loki, enraged at the
love I bore humanity, changed me into an ash tree, but he had no power
to keep me so forever, and was obliged to make a condition. He made the
hardest he could think of. Said he: ‘Since you so love mankind, none but
the child of man shall free you from your enchantment. You shall remain
a tree until you feel the touch of a child who is generous enough to
share his last loaf with a stranger; honest enough to give back a reward
for honesty, and brave enough to speak the truth when a lie might save
his life. Long shall you wait for such a deliverer.’”

Then the soldiers left, glad the little brave boy had escaped the
threatened doom.

Harald, looking at the beautiful child, thought she looked very much
like the one he had met the evening before, and spoke of it.

“That little elf was my sister,” replied the fairy, “and the brown dwarf
who pointed me out to you was my dear friend. He had heard of the little
Harald, who was said to be so generous and brave and true, and he tried
you, as also did my little sister, who was greatly delighted when she
found you could not be tempted to steal.”

Harald’s mother, who had been standing near unnerved and speechless, now
came up. Clasping her boy to her heart, she said: “I am prouder today
than I would have been if my son had slain a hundred men on the
battlefield.”

The little grateful elf always remained Harald’s true friend. She
whispered into the ear of the old King about the generosity, bravery,
honesty and truthfulness of the boy who lived in the forest.

The King sent his men to bring Harald and his mother to the palace. For
his noble virtues he became so well loved by everybody in the land that
when the old King, who had no children, died, Harald was chosen King.

For many years he ruled, constantly widening his country’s domain and
for his victorious sword was called Harald Hildetand, which means
“Harald, the Biting Tooth.”

              -------------------------------------------

    [This story incorporates some fragmentary elements of certain
    old Swedish legends, and the following explanations will be
    useful to the unfamiliar American reader.

    The Eddas, mentioned in the story, are books containing the
    sacred lore of the old Scandinavians.

    In the old Norse mythology the first human beings were
    represented as having sprung from the ash tree; hence the use
    made of the ash in this story.

    A continual state of warfare existed among the tribes of the
    ancient Scandinavians, and valor in war was regarded the supreme
    virtue, and prowess in battle the supreme achievement of men.
    Valhall was the heaven of sword-fallen heroes, called Enherjar,
    who forever lived there in the enjoyment of fighting each other
    daily, drinking mead from beakers, and eating the flesh of a hog
    that was slaughtered each day, but each night became alive and
    whole again.

    In Norse mythology the Valkyrias made contests on the Vidar
    Plains (at the North Pole) to determine which favorites should
    enter Valhall first. In the course of these events, the spears
    and shields of the contestants gleamed and flashed until the
    northern heavens were illuminated—the “Northern Lights.”

    At the winter solstice was held a great sacrificial feast in
    memory of Balder, the second son of Odin, the god of heaven, and
    Frigga, the goddess of earth. He was of heaven and earth, like
    the Christ, and, like Him, was pure and loving. At the
    instigation of the evil Loki, the son of Surtur (Satan) he was
    killed by blind Hoder, as Christ was killed by the truth-blind
    people.

    The Scandinavian pagans believed in a God-Power so holy and
    great that they dared not even give a name. The three head
    representatives of this Power were Odin, Vele and Ve, who
    overcame the evil giants. These giants strove to injure men,
    while the gods fostered them. Thor was Odin’s son, the
    strong-arm of retribution, punishing evil doing among men and
    giants.]


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          THE FIRST CHRISTMAS.

                           BY W. J. MORRISON.


ONE December, years and years before people had rail-roads or street
cars, crowds of men, women and children were traveling on the roads and
paths that led to a little town, called by the Jews, House of Bread. The
dark-skinned Arabs, who lived out in the desert, called this town the
House of Meat, but all children know it by the Bible name, Bethlehem, in
the country of Judea. Some of these people were riding, and some were
walking, toward this town of Bethlehem. Among them, seated on a donkey,
was a beautiful young woman by the name of Mary, the donkey being led by
her husband, a Jew, named Joseph, who, though a poor carpenter, was
related to King David, and belonged to what was called the royal family.

Mary and Joseph lived at Nazareth, and it was a long walk of three or
four days from their home to the city of Bethlehem. The way wound in and
out, and over hills and mountains, which made it a hard road to travel.
Bethlehem was built on the top of these mountains. In the summertime it
was a delightful place to visit. From the city one could see the
beautiful gardens in the valley, together with the fig, olive and almond
orchards. The far-away hillsides were covered with rows of grape vines,
that changed their hues and shades as the wind tossed their leaves up
and down, or from side to side. But, as this was December, all these
people were not going to Bethlehem for pleasure, or to buy Christmas
things. They did not even know it was Christmas-eve. These people were
crowding into Bethlehem, because the Roman law required that, at this
time, every one should go to his old home, or the place where he was
born, and pay his taxes. That the Roman Emperor might know how many
people there were in the world, they were also required to have their
names written on long rolls, or sheets, of dried sheep skin, for in
those days they did not have paper.

Mary and Joseph could not climb up the mountain to the city as fast as
some of the others and so were the last to arrive. When they got to the
town, they found that the only hotel or inn, in those days called a
“Caravansary,” was full of people and there was no room for them. They
went from house to house, to get a place to stay, but found that the
people who had arrived before them had taken every room in the place.
Joseph must have known something of the country about the town, for,
when he could find no room in any of the houses, he began to hunt for
one of the many grottoes, or caves, that are under the sides of the
mountains in and around Bethlehem. When he found a cave that ran away
under the ground, with rooms, one opening into the other, they decided
to use this place for a home until he could find something better.

Now, children, should any of you ever go to Bethlehem, you can see this
very cave. In those days, these caves were used as stables to shelter
sheep and other stock in cold, bad and stormy weather.

Although it was the last of December, it is said Mary and Joseph found
only an ox and an ass in this cave. The weather could not have been so
very cold, as Bethlehem is about as far South as the northern part of
Florida, and the shepherds had their sheep out in the open country
eating grass. That the sheep might not wander away at any time, or be
stolen during the dark hours, these shepherds divided the night into
what was called Watches. In other words, some of the men stood guard
over their flocks for three or four hours, while the others slept; then
they would awaken their friends to look after the sheep. The men who
came off watch would then go to sleep by the camp fire, for the Bible
says, “And there were in the same country shepherds watching and keeping
the night watches over their flocks.”

It was while some of these men were watching the sheep that they were
greatly startled, because a beautiful angel, who shone with the
brightness of God, came and stood by them. The angel saw that these poor
men were scared, so, in a kind and gentle voice, he told the shepherds
not to be afraid, for he had brought them good news, that would be of
great joy to all the people. The angel then said, “This day is born to
you a Saviour, who is Christ, the Lord. You shall find this infant
Saviour wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger.” When he had
finished speaking, an army of angels came around him, praising God and
saying, “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace to men of good
will.” Then all of the angels ascended into heaven.

The shepherds who beheld this glorious and beautiful sight woke those
who were asleep and told them what they had seen. When the other men
heard the wonderful news that the angel had brought, they all went at
once to Bethlehem as fast as they could. They soon found the cave where
Mary and Joseph were. Here they saw the sweetest little baby who had for
his bed a manger, or horse trough, filled with straw. This little baby
did not have on long clothes, made of lace, embroidery and fine linen,
like the little babies have these days and times. He had only a cloth
wrapped around his body, in such a way that it made for him swaddling
clothes.

As soon as the shepherds saw the child lying in the manger, wrapped in
swaddling clothes, they knew that this was the infant Saviour of whom
the angel had told them; that this Child was Christ, Son of God, and
that Mary was His Mother.

The day on which the infant Saviour was born has ever since been known
as THE FIRST CHRISTMAS.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           THE GOLDEN COBWEBS

                A STORY TO TELL BY THE CHRISTMAS TREE[1]

Footnote 1:

  From HOW TO TELL STORIES TO CHILDREN, by Sara Cone Bryant. Copyright
  1905. Printed by special permission of the publishers, Houghton
  Mifflin Company.


I AM going to tell you a story about something wonderful that happened
to a Christmas tree like this, ever and ever so long ago, when it was
once upon a time.

It was before Christmas, and the tree was all trimmed with pop-corn and
silver nuts and [name the trimmings of the tree before you], and stood
safely out of sight in a room where the doors were locked, so that the
children should not see it before it was time. But ever so many other
little house-people had seen it. The big black pussy saw it with her
great green eyes; the little gray kitty saw it with her little blue
eyes; the kind house-dog saw it with his steady brown eyes; the yellow
canary saw it with his wise, bright eyes. Even the wee, wee mice that
were so afraid of the cat had peeped one peep when no one was by.

But there was some one who hadn’t seen the Christmas tree. It was the
little gray spider!

You see, the spiders lived in the corners,—the warm corners of the sunny
attic and the dark corners of the nice cellar. And they were expecting
to see the Christmas Tree as much as anybody. But just before Christmas
a great cleaning-up began in the house. The house-mother came sweeping
and dusting and wiping and scrubbing, to make everything grand and clean
for the Christ-child’s birthday. Her broom went into all the corners,
poke, poke,—and of course the spiders had to run. Dear, dear, _how_ the
spiders had to run! Not one could stay in the house while the Christmas
cleanness lasted. So, you see, they couldn’t see the Christmas Tree.

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

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

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

The day before Christmas, when no body was noticing, he let them all go
in, to look as long as ever they liked.

They came creepy, creepy, down the attic stairs, creepy, creepy, up the
cellar stairs, creepy, creepy, along the halls,—and into the beautiful
room. The fat mother spiders and the old papa spiders were there, all
the little teenty, tonty, curly spiders, the baby ones. And then they
looked! Round and round the tree they crawled, and looked and looked.
Oh, what a good time they had! They thought it was perfectly beautiful.
And when they had looked at everything they could see from the floor,
they started up the tree to see more. All over the tree they ran,
creepy, crawly, looking at every single thing. Up and down, in and out,
over every branch and twig, the little spiders ran, and saw every one of
the pretty things right up close.

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

Then, in the still, dark night before Christmas Day, the dear
Christ-child came to bless the tree for the children. But when he looked
at it—_what_ do you suppose?—it was covered with cobwebs! Everywhere the
little spiders had been they had left a spider-web; and you know they
had been just everywhere. So the tree was covered from its trunk to its
tip with spider-webs, all hanging from the branches and looped around
the twigs; it was a strange sight.

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

So the dear Christ-child touched the spiders’ webs, and turned them all
to gold! Wasn’t that a lovely trimming? They shone and shone, all over
the beautiful tree. And that is the way the Christmas Tree came to have
golden cobwebs on it.

    [This story was told me in the mother-tongue of a German friend,
    at the kindly instance of a common friend of both; the narrator
    had heard it at home from the lips of a father of story-loving
    children for whom he often invented such little tales. The
    present adaptation has passed by hearsay through so many minds
    that it is perhaps little like the original, but I venture to
    hope it has a touch of the original fancy, at least.]


------------------------------------------------------------------------


                           LOCAL LEAGUE WORK

                             --------------


                             MEMPHIS LEAGUE


    The program for the current year embraces a study of the stories
    of Ancient Greece, Rome and Italy, Germany, France, Russia, and
    Japan, interspersed with meetings devoted to the study of
    stories of Christmas and other holidays. One of the October
    meetings was devoted to Thanksgiving stories. The topic for the
    Second meeting in November was “Xerxes and Prehistoric Stories.”
    The meetings of this league are conducted primarily for the
    benefit of teachers to prepare them for telling stories to their
    classes.


                           TUSCUMBIA, ALABAMA

    Two flourishing junior leagues are maintained in the Tuscumbia
    public schools. One is made up from pupils of the fifth and
    sixth grades; the other from pupils of the third and fourth
    grades. They meet every Friday afternoon for story-telling. The
    children are greatly interested and are eager for some new
    stories. It is the purpose of THE STORY HOUR to supply just such
    needs, both by the stories it reproduces and by directing to
    good books of stories.


                          BLUE MOUNTAIN, MISS.

    Excellent work is reported from the leagues in Blue Mountain
    College, at Mississippi Heights. These three leagues are among
    the first to have been organized in the State. One league is for
    the teacher girls of the school and two are for the boys and
    girls respectively. Mrs. Jennie M. Hardy, who organized these
    leagues, more recently organized work at some of the State
    Summer Schools. She also organized the league at the Sherman
    State Normal, in July, this year.


                           CINCINNATI, OHIO.

    The Cincinnati Story Tellers’ League was organized Sept. 23,
    1906, at the Kindergarten Training School on Linton Street, and
    has conducted two successful series of meetings. The last annual
    report shows a membership of sixty. Meetings have been held once
    a month, on the fourth Tuesday, at 7:15 p.m., sometimes in
    School houses and at other times at the homes of members. A
    variety of interesting subjects have been profitably considered,
    as indicated in the following schedules of meetings:—

    Nov. 1906, “Historical Stories;” Feb. 5, 1907, “Bible Stories;”
    March, 1907, “Parables, Fables and Allegories;” April, 1907,
    “Fairy Stories and Myths;” Jan, 1908, “Legends of the American
    Indians;” Feb. 1908, “Norse Legends;” March, 1908, “East India
    and Art;” April, 1908, “Japan.” At the May, 1908, meeting a
    program of miscellaneous stories was given, including “An
    Adaptation of the Story ‘Cinderella’,” by Miss Lillian
    Southgate; “A Mother’s Love,” by Mrs. H. Dickore; “The Camel and
    the Jackal,” by Miss Pearl Carpenter; “A Story of Great Love,”
    by Rabbi Grossmann; “A Hindoo Tale;” by Miss Reta M. Lockhart.
    The program was enlivened with songs by Mrs. M. T. Williams.

    The June meeting was held out under the trees of Eden Park, when
    many enjoyable stories were told.


                            DES MOINES, IOWA

    The graduates of the Primary Training Department of Drake
    University who are teaching in Des Moines met during the Summer
    of 1908 and organized a Story Tellers’ League, with Mrs. Ella
    Ford Miller, of Drake University, as president. The first
    meeting was held early in November at the University. It is
    proposed to make a special study of stories and Story-telling
    for primary grades.

    The girls of the Primary Training Department of Drake University
    have also organized a club to meet twice a month, taking up
    practically the same work.


                    COVINGTON, KY., TEACHERS’ LEAGUE

    A number of teachers in the Public Schools of Covington, Ky.,
    who believe in the value of constructive literature,
    particularly in the primary and grammar grades, organized
    themselves into a Story Tellers’ League in October, 1908. These
    teachers represent all the grades of the Public Schools and
    every school in the city. Their purpose is to cultivate the art
    of story-telling so that they may make use of it in the
    school-room for ethical instruction, as an aid to composition,
    both oral and written, to enliven the teaching of history and
    geography, and to stimulate nature-study. There is filed with
    the editor of this league the source, the outline, the purpose
    of each story told, so that the members who may have use for it
    in their work may have ready access to it. By the interchange of
    their experiences with their stories in the school-room, the
    teachers hope to develop a plan by which the pupils in their
    charge may be made acquainted, in a systematic and natural way,
    with the great stories every child should know.


                     COVINGTON, KY., JUNIOR LEAGUE

    In November, 1906, some forty students in the High School at
    Covington, Ky., were organized into a Junior Story Tellers’
    League. They met in the school on alternate Fridays, immediately
    after dismissal. From the beginning, the meetings were
    interesting, profitable and instructive. So enjoyable were they,
    that members of the faculty were pleased to come in, not
    occasionally, but regularly, to listen, and to contribute their
    share to the pleasure of the meeting. The programs were
    definitely planned, and a variety of stories was told at each
    meeting. These included myths, fairy-tales, folk-tales, fables,
    festival-stories, Bible-stories, and an occasional good
    anecdote. During the first year, also, there was a systematic
    presentation of the King Arthur legends in story form; and
    during the second year the story of Ulysses was developed in the
    same manner. At the close of the regular program, volunteer
    stories were called for, and there was always a response.

    Many excellent story-tellers were developed, and one genius was
    discovered. The latter was a girl, who, at fifteen, gave promise
    of becoming a rival to Uncle Remus, himself, in telling, in
    dialect, the folk-tales of the South. Our National President,
    after hearing her, saw fit to invite her to tell stories before
    the Knoxville Convention of 1907.

    In May, 1908, a public meeting was held, to which the parents,
    teachers, and friends of the story-tellers were invited. No
    successful evening’s entertainment was ever so easily prepared.
    Seven students, whose stories, told at the regular meetings, had
    been so well selected and so charmingly presented that their
    companions desired to hear them again, were elected to tell them
    in public. This, with some musical selections furnished by the
    school glee-clubs, formed the program of the evening, which an
    enthusiastic audience voted a success. The outcome of that
    meeting was a demand for two more leagues, one of which has
    recently been organized.


                             MANKATO, MINN.

    Our organization is very simple. The club membership changes
    from term to term of our school year. Three times a year a group
    of from fifteen to twenty-five comes to me as student teachers.
    We then organize a Story Club which meets once in two weeks. We
    elect an Executive Committee. This Committee, a group of three,
    prepare the programs. We have our meetings in different homes
    and serve very simple refreshments. Those not on the program
    bring their needle work.

    I have had in mind these ends in keeping up the
    organization,—First, A good time together;—Second, A better
    knowledge of Story material; and Third, An opportunity to _tell_
    stories.

    We have as yet no Junior organization. I have thought of it, but
    am not quite sure whether it is the best thing for us. All
    teachers should feel indebted to the National League. I have
    this year for the first time told stories to “grown-ups” and am
    amazed at their delight in them.

                                                  HELEN M. REYNOLDS.


                             OXFORD, OHIO.

    Among the lecturers in the summer term of the Ohio State Normal
    College of Miami University at Oxford, Ohio, during the summer
    of 1908, was Mr. Richard Wyche, who has done so much to advance
    the great movement known as the Story Tellers’ League. Through
    his inspiration there gathered at twilight every Wednesday
    evening under the magnificent trees of the campus a group of
    students and faculty members to tell stories.

    Realizing the possibilities for a greater field of work, a
    permanent organization was effected known as the Story Telling
    League of the Ohio State Normal College of Miami University. The
    constitution was a very flexible one, the main condition being
    for each member to pledge himself on his return home to organize
    a branch league. One hundred and fifty-six members promised
    service.

    In various County Teachers’ Institutes held in the State during
    the month of August, branch leagues were formed, meeting in
    church, school house, library, village park or courthouse.
    Everywhere the harvest fields were ripe and workers ready and
    eager. From all parts of the country, even as remote as the
    state of Washington, came inquiries for help in the movement of
    such promising influence.

                                                     ANNIE E. LOGAN.


                             --------------

                         NATIONAL LEAGUE NOTES


On November 19, at 2:45 p.m., the Detroit University School held an
invitation gathering in honor of Richard T. Wyche, President of the
National Story Tellers’ League. Mr. Wyche made an address on story
telling to children.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Dr. Henry Van Dyke, Princeton University, who is a member of the
Advisory Board of the National Story Tellers’ League, has accepted the
American Lectureship in the University of Paris for the current year. He
writes to express interest in the League work, but regrets that, on
account of absence, he will not be able to take any active part this
year.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


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 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).