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Title: Educating by story-telling
showing the value of story-telling as an educational tool for
the use of all workers with children

Author: Katherine Dunlap Cather

Release date: November 9, 2018 [eBook #58255]

Language: English

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Play School Series
Edited by Clark W. Hetherington

EDUCATING BY
STORY-TELLING
SHOWING THE
VALUE OF STORY-TELLING AS AN EDUCATIONAL
TOOL FOR THE USE OF ALL WORKERS
WITH CHILDREN

BY
Katherine Dunlap Cather

Author of “Boyhood Stories of Famous Men,”
“Pan and His Pipes and Other Stories,”
“The Singing Clock”

Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York
WORLD BOOK COMPANY
1918

WORLD BOOK COMPANY

THE HOUSE OF APPLIED KNOWLEDGE

Established, 1905, by Caspar W. Hodgson
Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York
2126 Prairie Avenue, Chicago

The Play School Series, of which Educating by Story-Telling
is a member, is based on the work of the Demonstration Play
School of the University of California. Breaking away from
the traditional idea of the subjects of study, this school has
substituted a curriculum of activities—the natural activities of
child life—out of which subjects of study naturally evolve.
Succeeding volumes now in active preparation will relate to
the other activities which form the educational basis for the
work of the Play School, including Social, Linguistic, Moral,
Big-Muscle, Rhythmic and Musical, Environmental and

Nature, and Economic Activities. Each volume will be written
by a recognized authority in the subject dealt with, as the
author of Educating by Story-Telling is in her special field.

PSS: CES-I

Copyright, 1918, by World Book Company
All rights reserved

AUTHOR’S PREFACE
This book has grown out of years of experience with children of all ages
and all classes, and with parents, teachers, librarians, and Sunday School,
social center, and settlement workers. The material comprising it was first
used in something like its present form in the University of California
Summer Session, 1914, and since then has been the basis of courses given
in that institution, as well as in private classes and lecture work. The author
does not claim that it is the final word upon the subject of story-telling, or
that it will render obsolete any one of the several excellent works already
upon the market. But the response of children to the stories given and
suggested, and the eagerness with which the principles herein advocated
have been received by parents and teachers, have convinced her that the
book contains certain features that are unique and valuable to those engaged
in directing child thought.
Other works have shown in a general way how vast a field is the realm of
the narrator, but they have not worked out a detailed plan that the busy
mother or teacher can follow in her effort to establish standards, to lead her
small charges to an appreciation of the beautiful in literature and art, and to
endow them with knowledge that shall result in creating a higher code of
thought and action. No claim is made that all the problems of the school and
home are solved in the ensuing pages, and the title, “Educating by Story-
Telling,” makes no assumption that story-telling can accomplish everything.
The author does assume, however, that when used with wisdom and skill,
the story is a powerful tool in the hands of the educator, and she attempts to
indicate how, by this means, some portion of drudgery may be eliminated
from the schoolroom, and a more pleasurable element be put into it. She
undertakes to demonstrate how it is possible to intensify the child’s interest
in most of the subjects composing the curriculum, not by advancing an
untried theory, but by traveling along a path that has been found to be a
certain road to attainment, not only for the gifted creative teacher, but for
the average ordinary one who is often baffled by the bigness of the problem
she has to solve.

Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to use copyrighted
material as follows: to the Whitaker, Ray, Wiggin Company for the story
entitled “The Search for the Seven Cities” (page 149); to Dr. David Starr
Jordan and A. C. McClurg & Co. for “The Story of a Salmon” (page 255)
and “The Story of a Stone” (page 331); to the David C. Cook Company for
“The Pigeons of Venice” (page 263), “The Duty That Wasn’t Paid” (page
278), “Wilhelmina’s Wooden Shoes” (page 283), “The Luck Boy of Toy
Valley” (page 302), and “The Pet Raven” (page 317); and to Henry Holt &
Co. for “The Emperor’s Vision” (page 306).
Katherine Dunlap Cather

CONTENTS
PAGE

Author’s Preface iii

Editor’s Introduction ix

PART ONE
Story-Telling and the Arts of
Expression—Establishing Standards
CHAPTER

I. The Purpose and Aim of Story-Telling 1
II. The Story Interests of Childhood—A. Rhythmic Period 12
Sources of Story Material for the Rhythmic Period 19
III. The Story Interests of Childhood—B. Imaginative Period 20
Bibliography of Fairy Tales 31
IV. The Story Interests of Childhood—C. Heroic Period 32
Sources of Story Material for the Heroic Period 41
V. The Story Interests of Childhood—D. Romantic Period 42
Sources of Story Material for the Romantic Period 51
VI. Building the Story 52
VII. Telling the Story 58
Books on Story-Telling 68
VIII. Story-Telling to Lead to an Appreciation of Literature 69
Some Authors and Selections That Can Be Presented
through the Story-Telling Method 81

Sources of Material to Lead to an Appreciation of
Literature 82
IX. Story-Telling to Awaken an Appreciation of Music 83
Illustrative Story, “A Boy of Old Vienna” 89
Sources of Material to Awaken an Appreciation of Music 94
Pictures to Use in Telling Musical Stories 94
X. Story-Telling to Awaken an Appreciation of Art 95
Artists and Paintings That Can Be Presented to Young
Children through the Story-Telling Method 102
Artists and Paintings for Children of the Intermediate
Period 103
Artists and Paintings That Lead to Appreciation of the
Beautiful and to Respect for Labor 104
Artists and Paintings for the Heroic and Epic Periods 105
Bibliography of Art Story Material 105
Sources for Moderate-Priced Reproductions of
Masterpieces 106
XI. Dramatization 107
Pictures Containing Subjects for Dramatization 116
Books and Stories for Use in Dramatic Work with Little
Children 116
Bibliography of Material for Dramatization 117
XII. Bible Stories 118
Sources of Material for Bible Stories 131
XIII. Story-Telling and the Teaching of Ethics 132
Stories to Develop or Stamp out Certain Traits and
Instincts 137
Sources of Material to Use in the Teaching of Ethics 140

PART TWO
The Use of Story-Telling to Illuminate Some
Schoolroom Subjects—Stories for Telling
XIV. Story-Telling to Intensify Interest in History 143
Illustrative Story, “The Search for the Seven Cities” 149
XV. Story-Telling to Intensify Interest in Geography 168
Illustrative Story, “The God of the Thundering Water” 174
Sources of Material to Use in History and Geography 177
XVI. Story-Telling to Intensify Interest in Nature Study 178
Illustrative Story, “The Wonderful Builders” 188
Sources of Material for Science Stories 191
XVII. Story-Telling in Domestic Science and Manual Training 192
Illustrative Story, “The Dervish of Mocha” 195
Sources of Material to Use in Domestic Science and
Manual Training 197
XVIII. Does the Work of the Story-Teller Pay? 198

Stories for Telling
The Story of the Man in the Moon (Alsatian Folk Tale—Christmas
Story—Ethics, teaching honesty) 203
The Discontented Pig (Thuringian Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching
contentment) 204
The Bat and His Partners (Old Bavarian Folk Tale—Helpful in
Nature Study) 208
Brier Rose (Wonder Tale) 209
The Coat of All Colors (Thuringian Wonder Tale) 212

The Poor Man and the Rich Man (Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching
kindness) 218
The Silver Cones (Ethics—Geography) 222
The Forget-Me-Not (Thuringian Folk Tale—Helpful in Nature
Study) 226
The Little Stepmother (Thuringian Folk Tale—Nature Study) 227
The Rabbit and the Easter Eggs (Bavarian Folk Tale) 228
The Easter Eggs (Ethics) 229
Prince Unexpected (Slavic Wonder Tale) 239
The Greedy Cobbler (Welsh Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching
contentment) 251
The Story of a Salmon (Science) 255
The Pigeons of Venice (History) 263
The Coming of the Wonder Tree (Geography—Nature Study) 269
The Gift of the Gnomes (Geography—Ethics) 274
The Duty That Wasn’t Paid (Biography—Music—Ethics) 278
Wilhelmina’s Wooden Shoes (Biography—Art Teaching) 283
The Lady of Stavoren (Geography—Ethics) 289
The Luck Boat of Lake Geneva (Geography) 295
Why the Japanese Love the Stork (Geography) 296
Why Grizzly Bear Goes on All Fours (Indian Folk Tale—Geography
—Ethics) 299
The Luck Boy of Toy Valley (Geography—Ethics—Manual
Training) 302
The Emperor’s Vision (Medieval Legend—Ethics) 306
The Shepherd Who Turned Back (Ethics) 311
The Pet Raven (Geography—Ethics) 317

Jussieu and the Heliotrope (Science—Nature Study) 325
The Fall of London Bridge (History) 326
How They Came to Have Kite Day in China (Physical Education) 330
The Story of a Stone (Science) 331

LIST OF STORIES BY MONTHS
First Grade: September to June 341
Second Grade: September to June 345
Third Grade: September to June 348
Fourth Grade: September to June 352
Fifth Grade: September to June 356
Sixth Grade: September to June 360
Seventh Grade: September to June 363
Eighth Grade: September to June 367

COMPLETE BIBLIOGRAPHY 371

INDEX 389

EDITOR’S INTRODUCTION
The story is a phase of communication—the instinctive tendency to
signal and transmit feelings and ideas and to respond to such expressions—
and communication is associated with the social complex of instincts and
emotions as indicated by these responses. Through the power of social
sympathy in this complex, curiosity and the imagination are brought under
the sway of communication, especially in the story. Indeed, the psychology
of the story reveals how deeply social sympathy influences the imagination
and controls curiosity. The primitive side of this social sympathy is seen in
the responses of social animals to the calls of their kind, in the rush of dogs
and men to the cries of battle. Its power over the imagination is shown in
the swaying of the spectator to the movements of the athlete, his
ejaculations and his cries of distress or delight. Through sympathy in
imagination the spectator enters the contest. Further, so socially minded are
we, and so dependent upon social guidance, that curiosity is nowhere so
keen, nor the imagination so active, as in the communication of a life
situation. Any incident or accumulation of incidents that we call a plot in
the experience of an individual or group of individuals, grips the mind. This
explains the fascination of the story. Gossip and scandal are the less worthy
forms. The novel is exalted gossip or scandal; the drama the same acted out.
They all feed the tremendous hunger for insight into life. They unroll the
curtain on the content of life, or some phase of life. Hence the story is the
natural form for revealing life.
Communication, like life, may be either serious or frivolous; hence the
story carries both functions. It pictures or expresses life in both phases. But
the form of the story itself is pleasurable; and thus story-telling may
degenerate into mere amusement. This possibly has led to both its abuse
and its neglect.
The fact that the story is so enjoyable to children has led teachers and
parents to use it merely as amusement, irrespective of content, or even of
artistic form. This tendency has been met by publishers. As proof, note the
books exhibited at Christmas time in any bookshop. They show the

enormous amount of trash set up in book form for child consumption. This
is a more serious danger than the trash read by adults, because they are food
for hungry minds at the growing age. The importance is shown of selecting
stories according to recognized criteria. While the child enjoys the story, he
has no judgment of values in the story other than its pleasure-giving
qualities. As judgment is a product of education, so judging values is an
adult function; the adult must study all stories, but not tell all stories. The
story-teller must analyze the story plot, criticize the values, select and adapt
stories to age periods and to other child needs. This task Mrs. Cather has
performed in her book.
The mere fact that the story amuses has caused a neglect of its larger
functions in education. This is due to the traditional attitude toward the
pleasurable in education. Education is life, and synonymous with the joys
and griefs of life; but the traditions of the school when it was a place simply
to master the three R’s, and the traditions of intellectualism, monkish
asceticism, and Puritanism, have conspired to perpetuate the idea of
education as a “hard” process. That it is “hard” is demonstrated by the vast
number of children who dislike school and drop out of it before finishing
the grades, and by the small number of those who go through its process
and think of education and its discipline with delight. Yet this is what all
normal, vigorous children should feel. There is probably no more profound
or serious issue in education or democracy—and democracy depends on
education—than this conflict between the advocates of a school process that
is “hard” and the advocates of a process that is “pleasurable.” The
arguments exhibit the two extremes in all such controversies: the advocates
of “discipline,” “iron,” “the bitter pill” on the one hand, and the advocates
of “freedom” and “enjoyment,”—really soft pedagogy and license,—on the
other. The truth, as is usually the case, lies between the two schools. Both
are right in part, and both are wrong in part. Both see an essential, and both
fail to see the reverse side of what each advocates. There is no conflict
between real discipline and real pleasure; they cannot be separated in child
life. This being so, the story is bound to take a large place in the teaching of
the future.
The story amuses, but its function is not merely to amuse. Pleasure is not
the aim of life, nor even its sole guide; it is an index of life, especially in the
young.

The point needs to be emphasized that the story is the carrier, always has
been the carrier, and will remain the natural carrier of racial tradition or
information and ideals. The story in education has two functions: (1) it is
the molder of ideals, and (2) it is the illuminator of facts.
(1) The highest and most difficult achievement in educational effort is the
establishment of standards or ideals that function in judgment and behavior.
The place of the story in moral education has been emphasized by many
writers. Its place in developing an appreciation of artistic forms in language,
in music, and in the graphic arts is splendidly illustrated in this book.
Appreciation is an emotional response, primarily instinctive, but
developed through experience and according to high or low artistic
standards by social approval or disapproval. In the emotional response lies
interest and in the character of the emotional response lies the character of
the interest. The interest may be crude, vulgar, or vicious, or it may be ideal,
but in either case it is a product of developed emotional habits. In the life of
the child this emotional response precedes the intellectual judgment of
artistic values which comes later and only through contrast and comparison,
and the former is vastly more important in social significance for the
pleasure of the mass than the latter. This development of the artistic
emotional response may be cleverly guided through the story, as Mrs.
Cather shows, and she gives a wealth of suggestions for the use of the
teacher.
But the story itself is a form of artistic expression and thus subject to the
application of standardizing judgments. A good story must be judged by a
double standard. It may be good in the sense that it is well told—and well
told means simply that the incident or plot is related in sequence, with such
emphasis and form of language that it grips the human instinctive response
to the dramatic; or it may be good in the sense that it carries a good content
in meaning or ideal. These two standards may not, frequently do not,
coincide. A story may be so told that it is most fascinating, and yet the
content be mere rubbish or even vicious; or the content may be correct and
the telling so poorly done that it kills interest.
Many stories are told because of their “beauty” of form, where the
content is not true. Some such stories are valuable because of the
standardizing sentiments they carry, but truth is as important at least as the

æsthetic. The human intellect evolved to interpret meanings and
progressively perfect behavior adjustments. Each age of racial experience
brings on its new interpretations, and broadly, each age makes advances
upon that which preceded. Old theories fall, new truths arise; but old
theories hold sway over the imagination of the masses long after the leaders
have accepted higher truths because the old is well told while the new lacks
the poetic expression of the artist. Literature is well-told information, yet
under the guise of literature goblins and superstitions and worn-out theories
parade in the imagination and thus mold ideals and behavior.
The problem of the professional story-teller of the future is to tell the best
information of the age in as fascinating a form as the old myths and fables
are now told after years of repetition. Only in this way can contemporary
popular opinion be kept abreast of the scientific truth of the time, instead of
dragging along in the superstitions of the past.
Some stories are told though untrue, because they “develop the
imagination,” but this by itself is a dangerous criterion. The function of the
imagination is to reconstruct the world in mental terms which will guide
behavior. The functioning of the imagination in any kind of images will
develop “power,” but the power may be detrimental individually and
socially if the images cause crooked thinking. Straight thinking depends on
the imagination—on the kind of emotionalized images which habitually
arise in any thought situation or problem. Just so far as stories are untrue
and without great moral value, yet are fascinatingly told, so far do they
encourage untrue imagining and emotional attitudes, and therefore untrue
thinking. And inasmuch as the emotional response to the single
interpretative concept, the single vision of life, is vastly stronger through
tradition than the interest in the discovery of complex relationships,—and
truth comes finally only through the latter,—the emotionalized habits of
imagination in interpretation are profoundly important for democracy.
Democracy cannot exist with a population of fuzzy thinkers. Story-
telling, like all educational effort, must develop the imagination in mental
terms that will function in life today.
(2) The story is an illuminator of facts. The child gets his information by
activities in relation to the environment, by exploration, observation,
experimentation, with the everlasting play of the interpretative processes,

and by responding to and accepting or rejecting the communicated
interpretations put upon phenomena by his social group. In this process of
interpretation there is the immediate environment which can be sensed, but
is understood only through its reconstruction in the imagination, largely in
linguistic terms; and the remote environment which cannot be sensed and
which can be understood only as it is built in the imagination as an
extension of the reconstructed sensed environment. In these reconstructive
processes the story is the most powerful correlating and illuminating
educational force we have, as may be indicated by a brief analysis.
The activities of the school curriculum dealing with the environment
have two natural foci of interest for the child. (a) The civic-geographical-
historical complex (when rightly organized just one subject) and (b) the
physical-biological complex, which is now coming to be called “general
science.” For the child these two groups of the environmental activities
cover the whole of adult science, philosophy, and religion, and both require
a tremendous reconstructive functioning of the imagination.
(a) The first group is a new coming correlation which naturally must
carry with it organized communication or the larger share of language and
literature. The investigation of the local social environment is the basis of
all “civics,” “geography,” and “history.” It expands as civics. When the
child projects his interpretations of any human activity into another
environment so that he is reconstructing in his imagination the life habits
and customs of the people in relation to the physical and biological
characteristics of the country, he is studying geography. When he goes
backward in time in this process, he is studying history.
In this concentric widening of the intellectual horizon concerning human
life and its relationships to the environment, the imagination must
reconstruct a world which it cannot sense. The facts may be gained from
pictures, maps, descriptions, but to become functional in thought in any
other than in a mere commercial sense, the reconstruction must touch the
emotions so that the life and conditions of living of the people will be felt.
When felt the life will be dwelt upon in imagination, and when dwelt upon
in imagination it will function in the life activities of the child. Giving this
vivid, felt insight into the life conditions of other people is the function of
the story. Through the hunger to feel life the story reveals life.

(b) The story also functions for children in the interpretation of the
physical-biological environment or “general science.”
Between six and fourteen years of age is the neglected period for science,
and it is the age when the story may function in the biggest way as a natural
educational tool. Yet so absorbed are school men in the problem of drilling
children in the dissected elements of the written language that they do not
even understand one of the two chief characteristics of child nature at this
age,—the rapidly expanding curiosity concerning nature. It is the age of the
first crude control of the “scientific instinct,” the tendency to experiment
and explore. It is the age for fixing the questioning habit and building a
common-sense confidence in and familiarity with nature. These results
follow from the logical processes involved in the activities, not from being
presented with the formalized and logical results of adult science. The child
will have none of this latter if he can help it; he wants to do his own
experimenting. In this process again the story gives the larger insight. The
child acquires facts by experimentation, observation, exploration, but the
larger meanings and relationships require imaginative reconstruction. The
child can observe the fish or the fly at different stages of their development,
but the story of the life history of the fish or fly gives what observation
cannot supply. It is as fascinating as any fairy tale when told with the same
consideration for dramatic form, and the story is true besides. The child
cannot understand evolution as presented by Darwin, or by the teacher of
biology in the high schools; but the child even of eight revels in the stories
that carry the facts of evolution, and thus he gains a right feeling towards
the wonderful meaning of the progress of natural things, which makes later
thinking true and easy. So strong is the response to the story that even the
history of physical things when set in a natural story form, stimulates.
The fairy tales of the future will be well-told stories from our sciences or
human life and nature, the two natural centers of interest in the
environment, and we may expect as results in public opinion a broader
common sense and a lessened gullibility. In this organization of science and
modern thought in story form for its larger use in education the professional
story-teller has still a great unfinished task to perform. Its beginnings are in
this book, and Mrs. Cather is already at work on a broader compilation of
materials for a later volume. In this larger functioning of the story the old
fairy tales and myths will take their place as historical data to give

comparative insight into the beliefs of people in the past, a sympathetic
understanding of their limitations in knowledge, and an appreciation of our
privileges in civilization, due largely to the struggles of the past.
Clark W. Hetherington

EDUCATING BY STORY-
TELLING

PART ONE
STORY-TELLING AND THE ARTS OF EXPRESSION—
ESTABLISHING STANDARDS

CHAPTER ONE
The Purpose and Aim of Story-Telling

Ever since the beginning of things the story-teller has been a personage
of power, an individual welcomed by young and old alike. Hailed as a joy
bringer and heeded as an oracle, his tales have been the open sesame to
admit him to any throng and his departure has always been attended with
regret. During the Middle Ages he was a privileged character, free to
wander at will into camp or court. The Piso manuscript in the museum at
Budapest tells of the solicitous effort made by Ladislaus of Hungary to
secure safe-conduct through Bohemia and Austria for a favorite narrator,
and many other old chronicles attest to the fact that in France, Germany,
Italy, and the British Isles passports were given to minstrels and raconteurs
when no one else could obtain them. Long before this period, during the
nomadic existence of the race, the mightiest men of the tribe were the
chieftain and the story-teller, the one receiving homage because of his
ability to vanquish his adversaries in battle, the other because of his skill in
entertaining his fellows as they huddled around the fire at night. Each
ability was believed to be evidence of divine gifts, and the possessor of
each was revered as being a little higher than a mortal, a little lower than a
god.
Primitive man, like civilized man, was fond of power, and realizing that
his talents made him mighty, the narrator exercised them in such a manner
as to promote their development. Every emotional response on the part of
his hearers served as a key to unlock doors into the land of his desire, and as
he listened to exclamations of approval, condemnation, or delight, he saw
ways of arousing these emotions to even greater degrees of intensity and,
possessing an elemental love of the spectacular, made the most of his
opportunity. Thus he evolved from a crude declaimer into something of an

artist. As the race emerged from a barbaric into a pastoral state, he grew to
be more than an entertainer; he imparted knowledge to the young by
keeping alive the tribal traditions.
On the Asiatic highlands, before the Aryan migration, it was the story-
teller who preserved the tales of the fathers, the nature myths that were
primitive man’s explanation of the things he did not understand. The
journey of the sun across the heavens, the shifting of clouds from one
fantastic form to another, the chromatic skies of sunrise and sunset, and the
starry firmament of night aroused his curiosity and awakened his awe. He
wondered about them just as children today wonder about them, and just as
the twentieth-century child questions his mother, so he questioned one
whom he deemed wiser than himself. This consulted oracle gave as an
explanation something that out of his own wondering and puzzling had
grown into a vague belief, and consequently the clouds that presaged
showers came to be regarded as heavenly cows from whose exuberant
udders came the rains that refreshed the earth; stormy oceans and rugged
mountains with ravines beset with perils held giants that avenged and
destroyed; while the sun, a beneficent creature that drove away the monster
of darkness, and all the saving forces of nature, were metamorphosed in the
fancy of these early men into protecting heroes and divinities.
As generation succeeded generation and the young received their
allotment of lore from the old, these stories became fixed so firmly in the
minds of the people that they were carried with them at the scattering of the
tribes, told and retold in the new-found homes, and modified to suit
conditions of life in strange lands the wanderers came to inhabit; and they
still survive as present-day fairy tales. There are various theories of how
these old beliefs came to be disseminated, how it happened that tales
supposed to be indigenous to Finland or Madagascar are found in slightly
different dress among the tribes of Central Africa and in other sections of
the world remote from each other; but no matter how much folklorists
disagree as to the process through which the tales evolved to their present
form, they do not differ as to their significance, and whether they accept the
Aryan theory promulgated by Max Müller or the totemistic theory of
Andrew Lang, they unite in a belief that these ancient tales represent the
religion of primitive man, a religion growing out of fear of the unknown.

Always it was by the lips of the story-teller that the legends were kept
alive. It was his mission to teach children the tales their fathers knew, and
as the race evolved toward civilization he gave them something besides
nature myths. He recounted and reiterated the achievements of the heroes of
his people until youths who heard were fired with desire to emulate.
Because he was deemed a man of supernal powers, his words were
believed; consequently he created the ideals of the age in which he lived,
and just as his own standards were fine or base, so the ideals for which he
was responsible came to be high or low. Fortunately for the world, however,
these old-time narrators were wiser than their fellows. They were poets and
dreamers who saw life through eyes vision clear. They glorified virtue and
deprecated vice, taught that right triumphs over wrong and that sinning
brings inevitable punishment, and explained in a crude way the workings of
the law of compensation. They fired men to achievement just as they fired
boys with desire to emulate the heroes of whom they told, and as centuries
passed and they grew in skill and power, their tales came to be the
inspiration of some of the most thrilling chapters in the annals of man.
Alexander the Great declared that the lays of a wandering bard, Homer,
made him thirst for conquest. In Germany, in the twelfth century, the
influence of a penniless gleeman, Walther von der Vogelweide, was greater
than that of the Pope. There was no more puissant man in Ireland when
Ireland was in its golden day and Tara in its glory than the low-born
minstrel, Brian of Fermanagh; and the Crusades, which recreated Europe by
the introduction of Eastern culture and the breaking down of old traditions,
might never have been undertaken but for tales of defilement of holy places
from the lips of Peter the Hermit. Storytellers every one of them, swaying
their fellows and making history, subjects of kings and nobles, yet often
mightier than the masters who held their destinies in their hands.
The power of the narrator did not die with chivalry. As recently as during
the middle of the last century the clergy of Scotland united in an effort to
suppress story-telling in the Highlands because it kept alive beliefs of pagan
origin, beliefs so deep-seated that the combined eloquence of prelates could
not eradicate them, and the strength of the church was impaired because of
the sheltering of these waifs of the past. To this day there are peasants in
Germany who doubt not that every year at harvest time Charlemagne walks
beside the Rhine under the midnight moon and blesses the vineyard region
of Winkel and Ingelheim. In central Switzerland are hundreds of simple

folk who believe that on the summit where they met to take the oath that
fired the land against Austria, sleep the immortal “Brothers of the Grütli,”
and that they will slumber on until the liberty of Helvetia is imperiled;
while in the southern portion of that mountain land the country folk are
certain that prosperity will be the lot of every husbandman when the swan-
drawn luck boat returns to Lake Geneva. Why? Because their fathers in the
far-off days believed these tales; because they have come down to them by
the lips of the story-teller, and wherever there is no written language,
wherever the people are too unlettered to read what is written, or where
they live in isolated communities and mingle little with the outside world,
they still believe the legends. They love to hear them told and retold, and
nothing brings so much pleasure on a winter night or in a summer gloaming
as the complete family circle and the father or uncle or stranger from
another community sitting in the midst repeating the old, old tales.
As it is with unlettered peasants today, as it was with tribesmen in
primitive times and with the great in medieval castle halls, it still is with the
child. He lives over the experience of his fathers on the Asiatic highlands
and sits entranced listening to the record of it in stories. The element of
suspense, the wondering what will happen next, holds him in a viselike
grip, and the story hour is to him a period of joy. The here and now
disappears as the narrator lifts his invisible wand, and the listener journeys
by roads of never ceasing wonders into lands of enchantment. According to
the skill of the raconteur, and the vividness with which he himself sees and
feels the pictures he strives to portray, he makes his listeners see and feel
them, rejoicing in the good fortune and sympathizing in the sorrows of the
just and righteous; and they not only follow along the highroad where he
leads them, but roam off into pleasant bypaths where the fancy has free
play.
There is no age or racial limit to this story love. Representing, as it does,
an emotional hunger that is the human heritage, it is universal. Several
years ago at Five Points in New York City, a settlement worker discovered
that a very effective means of gaining the confidence of immigrant women
was to tell fairy tales, and recently some of the most gratifying results
obtained in the Telegraph Hill district of San Francisco were made possible
by a leader there gaining the good will of a group of Sicilian hoodlums
because she knew the plot of Jerusalem Delivered and told the story

magnetically and well. It was like a breeze from their native island, where
they had heard it from the lips of the village story-teller and seen it pictured
on the market carts, and the fact that she knew something that had
fascinated them gained their sympathy and coöperation. Those who have
even a limited knowledge of child life know that before the babe can read
he delights in listening to a nursery tale, and that even after he journeys into
bookland he is more interested in the story told him than in the one he reads
for himself. Why? Because the voice and personality of the speaker make it
alive and vital. Because, as Seumas MacManus says, “The spoken word is
the remembered word.”
The tales heard during childhood become fixed and lasting possessions.
They stay with the hearer through the years, and because their ideals
become his ideals, do much toward shaping his character. The child who
hears many good stories and unconsciously learns to distinguish between
the tawdry and the real, reads good stories when a boy and becomes a man
for whom sensational best sellers have no charm.
There is much talk about the vicious tastes of the youth of this
generation, and unfavorable comparisons between them and their elders at a
similar age are frequently made. There is some foundation for this belief,
but it is not the fault of the children that it is so. Because of the abundance
and cheapness of books, many of them of questionable merit, boys and girls
are left to browse unguided, and just as the range man is to blame if his
hungry herd strays into a loco patch and eats of noxious weeds when he
fails to drive it to the place of wholesome herbage, so it is the fault of
parents and teachers if their charges acquire a taste for sensational yarns
instead of for good literature. The very hunger that impels them toward that
which contaminates, if satisfied in a wholesome manner would make them
lovers of the best, and the reason why children become devourers of
“yellow” stories is because they have failed to stumble upon a more
fascinating and less dangerous highway, and no one has led them to it.
There is no surer way of keeping a boy from becoming a devotee of the
funny page of the Sunday supplement or a follower of “Nick Carter” than
that of studying his tastes and giving him tales from good literature that will
satisfy them. There is no more powerful means to use in diverting a child
from the undesirable to the desirable than that of throwing a searchlight
upon the attractions of the latter and presenting them to him through joyful

experience. The narrator’s art is in truth a magic luminary, an unfailing
means of bringing hidden beauties to sight and causing them to be loved
because they give pleasure.
For a number of years it has been conceded that story-telling is of value
in the kindergarten and primary school, but little provision has been made
for it in the educational scheme for the older child. Gradually, however,
educators in America have come to realize what their European colleagues
realized long ago, that the narrator’s art can be a powerful element in the
mental, moral, and religious development of the boy and girl and can mean
as much to the adolescent child as to the tiny tot. Consequently they are
now giving it an honored place. The story period has become a part of the
program of every well-regulated library. Teachers of elementary and
grammar grades are recognizing its value in the classroom, and in some
states story-telling is included in the curriculum. Each year brings new texts
and collections from the publishers, until it seems that the art so much
honored in the past is coming again into its own.
Yet, with all the interest that is manifested throughout the country, story-
telling is not doing its greatest, most vital work, because so little thought is
given to the selection of material, so little study to the response of children
who hear the tales and the effect upon them. Before even half of its
possibilities can be realized, those who tell stories must know the story
interests of childhood and must choose materials, not only because they are
beautiful in theme and language and embody high ideals, but because they
are fitted to the psychological period of the child who is to hear them. They
must realize that the purpose of story-telling is not merely to entertain,
although it does entertain, but that in addition to delighting young listeners
there must be a higher aim, of which the narrator never loses sight. Every
tale selected must contribute something definite toward the mental, moral,
or spiritual growth of the child, just as each pigment chosen by an artist
must blend into the picture to help make a beautiful and perfect whole. The
golden age of childhood will come and fear that young people’s tastes are
being vitiated will die out when parents and teachers realize that much of
the noblest culture of the past has been given through the medium of the
story, and that it can be given through this medium now and in the future,
because there is almost no type of information the child should receive that
he will not receive joyously through this means, and with deep, lasting

results. Story-telling planned and carried out to fit conditions will help to
solve many of the problems that confront educators today. Besides
developing the emotional nature and giving moral and religious instruction,
it will intensify the interest in history, geography, nature study, manual
training, and domestic science, awaken an appreciation of literature, art, and
music, enrich the child’s powers of discrimination, and teach him to
distinguish between the cheap and ephemeral and the great and lasting. It
will help to eliminate much of what he considers the drudgery of school life
and give him information that will fit him for broad, sympathetic, useful
living.
This does not mean that the teacher is to do all the work, thereby fixing
children in habits of idleness, nor does it mean the addition of an extra
subject to an already overcrowded curriculum. It simply means leading the
child to do things for himself because of the incentive that interest gives. It
means illuminating the formal subjects and sending pupils to them with
greater eagerness.
In order to accomplish these ends, story-telling must be unmarred by
creaking machinery, and it must be sympathetic. The narrator must rise
above the level of a mere lesson giver and approach the plane of the artist,
which he can do only by giving an artist’s preparation to his work. The old-
time raconteur swayed the destiny of nations because he was an artist,
because he himself believed in the message he brought. He put heart and
labor into his work, which gave his words a sincerity that never failed to
convince. So too must the present-day narrator believe in the power of the
story and in the dignity of his work, and he must choose material with
thought and judgment instead of snatching it up indifferently, thinking that
any story will do if only it holds the interest. The racial tales should be
given freely in the psychological period to which they belong, but not the
racial tales only. There is much modern material close to present-day life
and conditions, without which the child’s education is not complete, and it
must be classified and graded. This entails reference work for which the
non-professional has neither time nor opportunity, and to this fact is due
much of the valueless story-telling of today. Experience with hundreds of
parents, teachers, and workers with children has brought conviction that a
belief in the value of story-telling as an educational tool is sincere and
general, but that sources of classified material are not available to the

average child leader. It is partly to meet this need that the present work is
planned.

CHAPTER TWO
The Story Interests of Childhood

A. RHYTHMIC PERIOD

If the work of the narrator is to be of real value, he must have a
knowledge of the story interests of childhood, for otherwise the talent of a
Scheherazade, careful preparation, and an extensive repertoire will fail to
produce the desired results, because a narrative that deals with mythical
heroes cannot make a lasting impression upon a child who craves animal
and primitive wonder tales, even though it be written in language and style
suited to his understanding. The heart or framework of the story must be
made up of events that are fraught with interest in his particular period of
mental development, and must introduce personages with whom he would
like to companion, and whose movements he will follow with approval,
pity, condemnation, or rejoicing. Under such conditions the boys or girls or
dogs who contribute to the action of the tale are not strangers out of a book,
but mean as much to him as the people and animals he knows, and because
they do mean much he lives the tale. It becomes part of him and he of the
story. His emotional nature is stirred, his power of evaluating is
strengthened, and some of the foundation blocks of character are laid.
Naturally the question arises, “How is one to know which tales to choose,
when there is such a wealth of stories and such a diversity of interests? Is
there any rule or guide to keep the conscientious but untrained worker from
the pitfalls and show him the right road from the wrong?” Such a guide
there is—the psychological axiom that the child between birth and maturity
passes through several periods or stages of mental growth which determines
his interests.
The little child, the one from the age of about three to six, is interested in
familiar things. He has not yet reached the period of fancy during which he

wanders into a world of make-believe and revels with fairies and nixies, but
dwells in a realm of realism. His attention is centered on the things and the
personages he knows,—the mother, the father, dogs, cats, pigs, horses,
cows, chickens, and children of his own age,—and consequently he enjoys
stories and jingles about these creatures. He chuckles over the accounts of
their merry experiences and sympathizes with them in their misfortunes,
because they lie close to his interests. This is why Mother Goose has been
and is beloved of little children. The rhymes do not introduce griffins and
ogres and monsters that must be seen through eyes of fancy to be seen at
all, but abound in accounts of creatures he has beheld from his windows
and associated with in his home. Mother Hubbard and her unfortunate dog,
the crooked man and his grotesque cat, the pigs that went to market, and the
old woman in the shoe lie close to his world because he knows dogs and
cats and pigs and kind old women, and therefore the rhymes and jingles that
portray them are dear to his heart.
Especially fascinating in this period of early childhood are stories that
contain much repetition. “The Old Woman and Her Pig,” “Little Red Hen,”
“Chicken Little,” “The Gingerbread Man,” and “The Three Billy Goats”
delight little people, and although they have heard them again and again
they always watch eagerly for the “Fire, fire, burn stick,” “I saw it with my
eyes, I heard it with my ears, and a piece of it fell on my tail,” and are
disappointed if the well-known expressions are omitted. The repetition
strengthens the dramatic element and helps to make the pictures vivid, and
the child loves to experience again the thrill he felt upon first listening to
the tale.
Stories introducing the cries and calls of animals are much loved at this
period. The squealing of the pig, the barking of the dog, the clucking of the
hen, and the quacking of the duck give charm to a narrative because the
child has heard those sounds in his own garden, in his own dooryard, and
along the road, and knowing them, is interested in them. This is the secret
of the success of many kindergarten tales that fall far below the
requirements of a good story. Often almost devoid of plot and lacking in
suspense element, still they hold the attention because of the animal cries
and calls they contain. The little hearer chuckles as the baby pig squeals, the
mother pig grunts, or the dog barks, and listens delightedly to what, without
these cries and calls, would not interest him.

This too is why the racial tales fascinate today just as they fascinated five
hundred years ago. They have a clearly defined plot that of itself would
hold the interest, they introduce familiar characters, contain much
repetition, and abound in animal cries and calls.
Broadly speaking, then, for the period of early childhood, the time of
realism which extends from the age of about three to five or six, the narrator
should choose stories of animal and child life, those which introduce sounds
peculiar to the characters and which abound in repetition.
But he should not make the mistake of following this rule too literally or
his efforts will result in failure, because children live under widely different
conditions. The boy of the city slums, whose horizon extends only from his
own row of tenements to the next row up the street, will not be held by tales
of cows and sheep, because he does not know cows and sheep. His
knowledge of four-footed creatures is confined to dogs and cats and an
occasional horse that goes by hitched to the wagon of a fruit or vegetable
vender, and the tales that mean something to him are those of animals of his
world, and of children. Many a settlement and social worker has learned the
truth of this through sad experience. A most gifted story-teller in a New
York settlement house gave to her group “The Ugly Duckling,” and gave it
exquisitely too, but it meant nothing to the children because they never had
been in the country. A barnyard was as remote from their interest as a
treatise on philology is from that of a Finnish peasant. They did not know
ducks and geese and chickens, and consequently punched their neighbors
and grew pestiferous during the recital of a tale that would have entranced
country children.
The same mistake was made by a professional story-teller who gave a
coyote tale to a group of Italian children. They never had met this “outcast
in gray,” never had shivered as he howled in the night, and the story
brought no pictures before their eyes. They were inattentive and disorderly
throughout its rendition, and the narrator declared them an impossible
group. Yet that same afternoon a college girl with no special training in
story-telling told them of a lost nanny goat, and they sat fascinated. In the
first instance the trouble was not with the children but with the narrator. She
knew much of technique but little of psychology and could not hold the
children’s attention, while the other girl, possessed of far less native ability,
entertained them because she understood the story interests of childhood.

The narrator must have, not only an understanding of the psychological
periods and interests of childhood, but a knowledge of the environment of
the children with whom she works.
There is a wealth of sources from which to draw for this early period.
Often it is necessary to adapt material, because many a tale whose
framework is suited to little people is told in language beyond their
understanding. “David and Jonathan,” by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, is a good
example. Written for adults, yet it is so universal in its appeal that the lad of
six listens to it with as much sympathy as his father or mother. The account
of the affection of dog and master for each other, the pathos of the
separation and the joy of the reunion, touch him as much as they touch his
parents, and to receive it from the lips of one who feels and loves the tale
will make him kinder to dumb animals and gentler to the aged.
This is true of many another story that is the creation of an artist. I
mention particularly Ouida’s “Dog of Flanders,” John Muir’s “Stickeen,”
and Ernest Thompson Seton’s “Monarch, the Big Bear of Tallac,” each of
which I have used with children of all ages. The characters in them are
living, breathing creatures, the kind that if met in real life would arouse
affection and awaken both laughter and tears, and whether these stories are
told in monosyllabic language or colored by fine rhetorical effects, they
strike the tender places and appeal to the best. When the child meets Nello
before the altar of the cathedral in Antwerp, kneeling in front of a painting
by Rubens and fondling his dog, he instinctively feels that this boy is not a
stranger living in a far-away land and speaking a foreign language, but that
he represents all the orphaned children in the world, and that his affection
for his dog is the same tie that binds every other child to the pet he loves.
So too with Monarch, the majestic captive of Golden Gate Park. He is not
just a bear, a creature larger and more ferocious than many other animals.
He typifies wild life caged, and the boy who has pitied him in listening to
the account of his tramp, tramp, tramp about the pit, never quite forgets that
proud but eternal unrest, the ever present longing for the white peaks and
the pines.
One need not fear that putting these stories into simple language may be
deemed a sacrilegious act, or that telling the plot of a masterpiece will kill
delight in that masterpiece itself. Goethe’s mother, sitting in the firelight in
their home, gave her boy tales from the old poets, creating in him a desire to

read that helped to make him a profound student and master thinker. And
the twentieth-century child will doubly enjoy reading a beautiful piece of
literature at some future day, because in the magical long ago it touched his
heart. Workers with little children should be ever on the alert, seeking
stories that deserve the name of literature, with plot and characters that will
appeal to their small charges, because such stories mold a child’s taste and
give a key that will unlock doors into the great treasure house of art.
Whenever the mother or teacher or librarian reads a story that is a literary
gem, let her analyze it and determine whether or not, if told in simple
language, it would delight a child. The old-time narrators who molded
national taste and ideals did this constantly, and the great story-tellers are
doing it today.
Sicilian peasants, for instance, have a knowledge of the classics that
amazes the average American. The stories are pictured on the market carts,
those gaudy conveyances that brighten the island highways from Catania to
Palermo, and the conversation of these simple folk is colored with allusions
that would do credit to a professor of literature. Most of them cannot read,
but they know the plots of Jerusalem Delivered, “Sindbad the Sailor,” “The
Merchant of Bagdad,” and many more of the world’s great stories. They
heard the tales in childhood, and their fathers before them heard them from
the lips of men who loved to tell them, and so they have become a national
heritage. Let us do as much for the children of our land, that the men and
women of the future may have a noble culture and more splendid
possessions than their parents have, and let us do it in the world-old way, by
story-telling.

Sources of Story Material for the Rhythmic Period

Adams, William: Fables and Rhymes—Æsop and Mother
Goose.
Bailey, Carolyn Sherwin: Firelight Stories.
Bailey, Carolyn Sherwin, and Lewis, Clara: For the
Children’s Hour.
Bryce, Catherine T.: That’s Why Stories.

Burnham, Maud: Descriptive Stories for All the Year.
Cooke, Flora J.: Nature Myths and Stories for Little
Children.
Davis, Mary H., and Chow-Leung: Chinese Fables and Folk
Stories.
Dillingham, Elizabeth, and Emerson, Adelle: “Tell It
Again” Stories.
Harrison, Elizabeth: In Story-land.
Holbrook, Florence: ’Round the Year in Myth and Song.
Hoxie, Jane: A Kindergarten Story Book.
Jordan, David Starr: The Book of Knight and Barbara.
Lindsay, Maud: Mother Stories; More Mother Stories.
Miller, Olive Thorne: True Bird Stories.
Milton Bradley Company: Half a Hundred Stories.
Moulton, Louise Chandler: Bed-time Stories.
Pierson, Clara D.: Among the Farmyard People.
Poulsson, Emilie: Child Stories and Rhymes.
Richards, Laura E.: The Golden Windows; Five-Minute
Stories; The Pig Brother.
Skinner, Ada M.: Stories of Wakeland and Dreamland.
Verhoeff, Carolyn: All about Johnnie Jones.
Wiggin, Kate Douglas, and Smith, Nora A.: The Children’s
Hour.

CHAPTER THREE
The Story Interests of Childhood (Continued)

B. IMAGINATIVE PERIOD

When the child leaves the rhythmic, realistic period he enters a world of
make-believe and no longer desires tales and jingles that are nothing more
than a recounting of facts he already knows. He delights in playing he is
some one other than himself, in pretending he is doing things beyond the
range of his possibilities, and because he craves a larger experience he
craves also fanciful, imaginative tales in which he may have those
experiences. He knows that bees sting, that the dog has a cold, wet nose,
that the cat lands on its feet, and the squirrel holds its tail up. He wonders
about these things, but he is still too limited in experience and in mental
capacity to give them real theoretical meaning. Consequently he enjoys the
wonder tale, or, as some authorities term it, the “primitive-why story.” Early
racial tales are those of forest and plain, varying according to the locality in
which they originated, from the lion and tiger stories of India and Central
Africa to the kangaroo fables of the Australian aborigine.
Primitive man through fear and fancy personified the forces of nature and
gave them human attributes, and because they were less tangible than the
creatures of jungle and plain that figured in his earliest fables, his mind
visioned them as fantastic beings, sometimes lovely and sometimes
grotesque, fairies and goblins, destructive monsters and demons, and
avenging giants who preserved him from that which he feared. Thus
originated the fairy story that was the expression of his religion. The child
enjoys these tales.
The narrator can gather this material with comparative ease, because the
science of ethnology has brought to light many of these tales from primitive
literature, and not a few of them have been put into collections available to
child workers.
The fairy tale that grew out of the life of the race is also rich in material
for children of this period. By “fairy tale” is meant that type of story usually
associated with the names of Grimm, Perrault, and Bechstein. Little people
delight in it, and will listen to it again and again. Yet because of lack of
understanding on the part of parents and teachers, the fairy story often
proves to be the rock upon which the child craft meets disaster. Because
these tales have had a mighty place in the history of the race and still have
their work in the education of the child, it does not follow that they should

be fed to young listeners as so much unassorted grain is fed to chickens.
There are many that should not be used at all. Those that are used should be
carefully graded, because a child will enjoy a narrative in which children
are heroes, long before he enjoys one in which adults hold the center of the
stage. The father and mother, brothers, sisters, uncles, cousins, and aunts
mean much to him because they are part of his experience. But he does not
know officers of the state and nation. He does not know lawmakers and
magistrates and judges, and tales in which they have a part are less
interesting to him than those whose characters are familiar personages. For
instance, he is charmed by “Little Red Hen” or “The Three Bears” at an age
when “Beauty and the Beast” or “Sleeping Beauty” mean little to him, and
a good rule to guide the story-teller in the grading of fairy tales is the well-
known pedagogical one, “Proceed from the known to the unknown, from
the simple to the complex.” Give first those stories whose heroes are
familiar personages, then introduce those with characters not so well
known.
The mention of fairy tales in education often raises the question, “Is there
not danger of making liars of children by feeding them on these stories?” It
seems to me the best answer is given by Georg Ebers, the Egyptologist and
novelist, in his fascinating autobiography, The Story of My Life. Out of his
own experience, he handles the subject of fairy tales sincerely and
convincingly, and his words are worthy of consideration by every child
worker.
“When the time for rising came,” he says, “I climbed joyfully into my
mother’s warm bed, and never did I listen to more beautiful fairy tales than
at those hours. They became instinct with life to me and have always
remained so. How real became the distress of persecuted innocence, the
terrors and charm of the forest, the joys and splendors of the fairy realm! If
the flowers in the garden had raised their voices in song, if the birds on the
boughs had called and spoken to me, nay, if a tree had changed into a
beautiful fairy or the toad in the damp path of our shaded avenue into a
witch, it would have been only natural.
“It is a singular thing that actual events which happened in those early
days have largely vanished from my memory, but the fairy tales I heard and
secretly experienced became firmly impressed on my mind. Education and
life provided for my familiarity with reality in all its harshness and angles,

its strains and hurts, but who, in those later years, could have flung wide the
gates of the kingdom where everything is beautiful and good, and where
ugliness is as surely doomed to destruction as evil to punishment?
Therefore I plead with voice and pen in behalf of fairy tales. Therefore I
give them to my children and grandchildren and have even written a
volume of them myself.
“All sensible mothers will doubtless, like ours, take care that the children
do not believe the stories which they tell them to be true. I do not remember
any time when, if my mind had been called upon to decide, I should have
thought anything I invented myself really happened; but I know that we
were often unable to distinguish whether the plausible tale invented by
some one else belonged to the realm of fact or fiction. On such occasions
we appealed to my mother, and her answer instantly set all doubts at rest,
for we thought she could never be mistaken and knew that she always told
the truth.
“As to the stories I invented myself, I fared like other imaginative
children. I could imagine the most marvelous things about every member of
the household, and while telling them, but only during that time, I often
fancied they were true. Yet the moment I was asked whether these things
had actually occurred, it seemed that I woke from a dream. I at once
separated what I imagined from what I actually experienced, and it never
would have occurred to me to persist against my better knowledge. So the
vividly awakened power of imagination led neither me, my brothers and
sisters, nor my children and grandchildren into falsehood.”
Dr. Ebers’ words are based on sound psychology. The child’s imaginative
nature should be developed, but there should never be any doubt in his
mind as to what is make-believe and what is real. Let him wander at will
through every realm of fancy, along its sun-kissed highways, among its
shadowy glens and wild cascades, but let him realize it is a world of make-
believe, not of fact, which he inhabits during that period. His imagination
will be as much aroused, his emotional nature will be stirred as deeply, and
there will be no discovery later that his mother or teacher deceived him, no
temptation to present as fact what he knows to be purely fancy, which is a
certain step toward the field of falsehood. If he questions whether a fairy
story is true or not, tell him, “No, but once upon a time people thought it
was true,” and picture how the early tribesmen sat around the fire at night

listening to tales told by some of their wise men, just as Indians and
Eskimos do to this day. It will make him sympathetic toward the struggles
of his remote forefathers, and he will not think the narrator tried to dupe
him, nor will he regard the narrative itself as a silly yarn. It will be a
dignified tale to him because it was believed in the long ago.
Since we can give only according to the measure in which we possess,
whoever tells fairy stories to children ought to know something of their
history and meaning. He should have some understanding of how they have
come from the depths of the past to their present form, some idea of the
work of notable collectors, and some insight into the fundamental principles
of the science of folklore.
There are several theories about the origin of these tales, the first and
oldest being that they are sun myths and can be traced back to the Vedas,
and the exponents of this belief offer many arguments to prove the truth of
their contention. The similarity of tales found among people of widely
separated regions, they claim, is evidence that they must have come from a
common source. “Little Half-Chick,” a Spanish folk tale, is found in
slightly different dress among the Kabyles of Africa; “Cinderella,” in some
form or other, is common to every country of Europe and to several oriental
lands; while the Teutonic tale of “Brier Rose” and the French of “Sleeping
Beauty” are modifications of the same conte. Therefore, the orientalists
contend, they must have come from a common source and have been
modified to suit conditions of life in lands to which they were carried.
Another theory is that all European fairy tales are remnants of the old
mythology of the north, the nucleus of the stories having been carried
abroad by the Vikings, while still another theory, the most notable advocate
of which was the late Andrew Lang, traces fairy tales to the practices and
customs of early man and a totemistic belief in man’s descent from animals.
Then there are those also who contend that fairy tales are primitive man’s
philosophy of nature, his explanation of the working of forces he did not
understand. The adherents of this theory admit the similarity of tales found
among different tribes, but claim that the incidents, which are few, and the
characters, who are types, might occur anywhere. In the French story of
“Blue Beard” and the Greek tale of “Psyche” curiosity leads to destruction
—in the one case of life, in the other of happiness. In the French

“Diamonds and Toads,” the Teutonic “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,”
and the Bohemian “The Twelve Months,” selfishness brings punishment
and kindness reward, while the cruel stepmother, the good prince, and the
fairy godmother are common to tales of every nation.
But however authorities disagree as to the origin of these stories, they
unite in declaring them to be one of the oldest forms of literature. The first
collection of fairy tales of which we have any record was published in
Venice in 1550 by Straparola, and was a translation of stories from oriental
sources. From Italian the book was done into French and, for those early
days when books were rare and costly, had a wide circulation. For almost a
century this was the only collection of fairy tales in existence. Then, in
1637, a book was published in Naples, Il Pentamerone, which Keightley
declares is the best collection of fairy tales ever written. The stories were
told in the Neapolitan dialect and were drawn from Sicily, Candia, and Italy
proper, where Giambattista Basile had gathered them from the people
during years of wandering.
About sixty years later, in a magazine published at The Hague, appeared
a story, “La Belle au Bois Dormant,” by Charles Perrault, which was none
other than the tale we know as “Sleeping Beauty.” It did not originate with
Perrault, but had been told him in childhood by his nurse, who was a
peasant from Picardy. A year later seven other stories appeared, “Red
Riding Hood,” “Blue Beard,” “Puss in Boots,” “The Fairy,” “Cinderella,”
“Riquet o’ the Tuft,” and “Hop o’ My Thumb.” They were published under
the title, Contes du Temps Passé avec Moralités, and signed, “P.
Darmancour.” Darmancour was a stepson of Perrault, and wrote them at the
older man’s request from the nurse’s tales; so they live in literature as
Perrault’s work. After this French collector came the German scholars, the
Grimms, who gathered and preserved the folklore of the Thuringian
peasants; Goethe, the Sage of Weimar; Madame Villeneuve; Ruskin;
Andrew Lang; and several others. Each of these added to the work begun
by Straparola and Basile, until now we have tales from almost every nation,
tales proving that a belief in the supernatural is common to primitive people
in every clime.
Another aspect wonderfully interesting in the study of fairy tales is the
distinctive features of those of different regions, which are so marked that
they can be classified according to the locality and topography of the region

in which they originated. The largest number of these supernatural beliefs is
found among nations whose scenery is wild and rugged, where there are
mountains, morasses, dangerous cataracts, and tempestuous oceans, while
in flat, cultivated countries away from the sea the fairy superstition is not so
strong and the tales are less fantastic. This fact argues powerfully in favor
of the Aryan theory that they are primitive man’s philosophy of nature, the
expression of his religion, and some educators claim that as they were
religious stories to the race, they still are religious to the child.
Whether this theory is accepted or refuted, there can be no doubt in the
mind of a thinking person that if fairy tales are given to children they
should be given intelligently and with discrimination. The narrator should
exercise care in their selection, and have some fixed principles to govern
that selection, because of the quantity and doubtful literary and ethical
quality of much juvenile material.
Many modern fairy stories are not fit to give to children. In selecting
fanciful tales for this period of childhood, choose first of all the old ones,
those that originated in the childhood of the race, the stories of Grimm,
Perrault, and Bechstein. They have stood the test of the ages. They are
expressed in beautiful language, they create ideals and arouse inspiration,
they feed and satisfy.
There are some fairy tales of later origin that are the works of great
writers and deserve the name of literature. First on this list come those of
Hans Christian Andersen. “The Three Bears” of Robert Southey is another
good example, and sometimes we find floating through magazines and in
books of recent issue, fairy tales that are excellent ones to give to children,
because they have all the elements of the racial tales. Notable among these
is “The Wonder Box” by Will Bradley. But, if there be any doubt in the
mind of the narrator about the merit of modern stories, he had better
eliminate them from his list and use only those that have stood the test of
the ages.
However, even among racial tales the narrator will come upon pitfalls
unless judgment mark his selection. The conditions governing his struggle
for existence gave primitive man a harsh standard, and consequently his
literature is often tinged with a vindictive spirit wholly out of keeping with
the ideals of today. Stories in which cruelty, revenge, and bloodshed have a

large part should never be told to the young child, no matter what their age
or origin. “Blue Beard” is a good example. Although itself a classic, and a
recital of the deeds of a French ruler whose name is a synonym of infamy,
this tale and all similar tales should be tabooed from the world of little
people.
Charles Dickens was the first man in England whose voice carried weight
to plead for fairy tales as a part of the school curriculum, and within a few
years Dickens found it necessary to oppose the usage of stories that were
corrupting the children of the British Isles. Because they were urged to tell
fairy tales, unthinking teachers told any that they found, even those in
which all the savagery of early man was portrayed. Accounts of beheadings
and man-eatings became part of the daily program, and many acts of cruelty
among children were traceable to these stories. Instead of teaching
forbearance, courtesy, consideration of the poor and aged, and abhorrence
of brute force, which the wisely chosen fairy tale will do, story-telling was
turning the children into young savages. If the dominant element in a story
is cruelty, strike that tale from the list; for even though the deed be punished
in the end, the fact that the attention of an unkind child is focused upon
cruel acts often leads him to experiment and see what will happen. And I
plead also for the elimination from the story-teller’s list of every tale in
which an unkind or drunken parent plays a part, even though the tale itself
be a literary gem. The father or mother is the child’s ideal, and it is not the
mission of the narrator to shatter that ideal. Even if little folk have
discovered that there are delinquent parents in the world, it is a mental
shock to have that fact emphasized, and the story that shocks in any way
had better be left untold.
Sometimes the elimination or modification of a cruel feature of a tale
makes it suitable for telling to children, as in “Hansel and Gretel.” The
ending Humperdinck uses in his opera, wherein the old witch turns to
gingerbread instead of being baked in the oven by the orphans, is far better
ethically than the original one, yet the elemental part of the story is left
unspoiled. Narrators cannot be too careful in this respect; for the function of
story-telling is to refine rather than to brutalize, to give pleasure and not to
shock, and there is no excuse for using tales that corrupt or injure in any
way when there are enough lovely ones to satisfy every normal desire of the
child. Let the test of selection be the question, Does this story contain an

element or picture that will shock a sensitive child or whet the cruel
tendencies of a rough, revengeful one? If it does, do not use it even though
the list of fairy tales may be reduced to a very limited one, but choose the
other material for this period from the lore of science that will feed the
fancy and not warp the soul or distort the character. (See Part II, Chapter
XVI, “Story-Telling to Intensify Interest in Nature Study.”)

Bibliography of Fairy Tales

Andersen, Hans Christian: Wonder Stories Told to Children.
Asbjørnsen, Peter Christen: Fairy Tales from the Far
North.
Ballard, Susan: Fairy Tales from Far Japan.
Blumenthal, Verra X. K. de: Folk Tales from the Russian.
Bunce, John Thackeray: Fairy Tales: Their Origin and
Meaning.
Chodzko, Alexander E. B.: Fairy Tales of the Slav Peasants
and Herdsmen.
Croker, Thomas Crofton: Legends and Fairy Tales of
Ireland.
Curtin, Jeremiah: Myths and Folk Tales of the Russians,
Western Slavs, and Magyars.
Dumas, Alexandre: Black Diamonds; The Golden Fairy
Book.
Edwards, Charles Lincoln: Bahama Songs and Stories.
Fortier, Alcée: Louisiana Folk Tales.
Graves, Alfred Perceval: The Irish Fairy Book.
Grimm, Jacob: German Household Tales.
Haight, Rachel Webb: Index of Fairy Tales.
Hartland, E. Sidney: The Science of Fairy Tales.

Jacobs, Joseph: Europa’s Fairy Book; English Fairy Tales;
Celtic Fairy Tales.
Keightley, Thomas: Fairy Mythology.
Kennedy, Howard Angus: The New World Fairy Book.
Laboulaye, Edouard René: The Fairy Book; Last Fairy
Tales.
Lang, Andrew: The Blue Fairy Book; The Orange Fairy
Book; The Lilac Fairy Book; The Green Fairy Book;
The Yellow Fairy Book; The Red Fairy Book.
Macdonnell, Anne: The Italian Fairy Book.
MacManus, Seumas: Donegal Fairy Stories.
Mitford, Freeman: Tales of Old Japan.
Ozaki, Yei Theodora: Japanese Fairy Tales.
Perrault, Charles: Tales for Children from Many Lands.
Pyle, Howard: The Wonder Clock.
Ramaswami Raju: Indian Fables.
Scudder, Horace E.: The Children’s Book.
Sharman, Lyon: Bamboo: Tales of the Orient-born.
Skeat, Walter W.: Fables and Folk Tales from an Eastern
Forest.
Stanley, Henry M.: My Dark Companions and Their
Strange Stories.
Steele, Flora A.: Tales from the Punjab.
Tappan, Eva March: The Golden Goose.
Williston, Teresa: Japanese Fairy Tales.
Wratislaw, A. H.: Slavonian Fairy Tales.

CHAPTER FOUR
The Story Interests of Childhood (Continued)

C. HEROIC PERIOD

When the child leaves the imaginative period, he enters another realm of
realism. The fairy world is no longer a place of enchantment to him. He is
now in a condition corresponding to that of primitive man when he was not
satisfied to sit by the tribal fire and listen to stories about creatures who
personified the elements, but fared forth on the path of adventure, eager to
know what lay beyond the lodge place of his people, feverish with desire to
conquer and remove whatever obstructed his way. The barbaric, fighting
instinct manifests itself, and in many children a destructive curiosity is
apparent. They long to repeat the experiences of their ancestors in this same
period. They want to live through nights of danger and days of daring, and
since the juvenile court and probation officers hover Argus-eyed about
them, ready to swoop down upon every lad who would go pirating or
pathfinding, the nearest approach to the experience consists in listening to
and in reading tales of adventure. This age is usually from about eight to
twelve, although there are no tightly drawn lines of demarcation. Individual
cases differ, and some children of ten are still delighted by fairy tales, while
other lads of seven are well into the heroic period. Broadly speaking,
however, this period begins about the age of eight.
There is no time in the child life during which the story-teller has a finer
opportunity of sowing seeds that shall come into splendid fruition by and by
than in the heroic period, and because parents and teachers do not realize
this fact clearly enough, boys read stories whose tendency is to brutalize
and lead them into trouble. It does not follow, because they are drawn as
steel to steel to such literature, that the boys are depraved. They crave
action, danger, daring. It is a cry of nature that cannot be silenced, and
because the hunger is not satisfied in a wholesome way, they go where they
can find the food they must have, for numerous doors are open to them.
Dozens of writers are doing pernicious work for the youth of the country
by pouring forth a flood of adventure stories, perhaps not with malicious
intent, but with the little knowledge that often brings dire results. Knowing
the demand for the heroic, they write yarns whose only claim to recognition

is a clever, spectacular plot. These books embody no ideals, and the
aspirations they arouse had better be left to slumber. Sometimes, as a result
of such reading, boys run away from home to fight Indians or turn pirate,
and many a lad has begun a career of lawlessness ending in crime, who with
a little direction might have been an individual of value to the world. Such
cases are so common that they have come under the notice of almost every
child worker, and the pity of it is that literature is rich in tales that satisfy
the adventure craving, yet arouse high ideals and inspire to worth-while
deeds. Instead of originating in the brain of some modern craftsman who is
actuated by a desire for money-making, they grew out of the life of the race
and perpetuate the noblest traditions of the race.
Human nature is much the same in all climes and in all ages. Until man
reaches a very high state of enlightenment he is more thrilled by
manifestations of physical bravery than by mental and moral courage, and
he who possesses muscular strength is the hero in his eyes. A Hercules or
Samson is mightier to him than a Savonarola facing persecution with
sublime tenacity of purpose and dying steadfast to his ideal, because he can
understand the brute strength of the one, while the spiritual fortitude of the
other is beyond his comprehension. He is thrilled by action, physical action,
and he craves and will have literature every page of which is colored by
feats of prowess.
It is useless to try to substitute something else for children in this period.
When we hunger for bread and meat, after-dinner mints will not satisfy,
even though they be very delectable confections. This ravenous appetite of
boys and girls must be satisfied, and if they are to grow into well-balanced
men and women we must feed it with wholesome food instead of allowing
them to roam unguided and eat of that which poisons.
There is no finer adventure tale in any literature than that of Robin Hood,
none more satisfying to children in the early heroic period. This statement
often brings a cry of remonstrance, and the objection is made that there is
danger in portraying an outlaw as a hero, or in picturing the allurement of a
brigandish career. But Robin Hood an outlaw? He lived in an age of
injustice when might made right. The man of the people was but the chattel
of a king, with no rights his lord was bound to respect. Bold Robin, in the
depths of Sherwood Forest, devoted his life to redressing wrongs. He took
from the oppressor and gave to the oppressed. He strove to stamp out

injustice and tyranny, and his spirit is the foundation of the democracy that
underlies every just government today. He was an outlaw, not because he
was a criminal, but because he rebelled against the monstrous injustice of
his age and strove to ameliorate the condition of the poor and downtrodden.
In the time of Henry the Second he was hunted like a deer, but in the
twentieth century he would be honored as a great reformer.
Robin’s sense of justice appeals to boys and girls, and his fearlessness
and kindliness awaken their admiration. They respond sympathetically to
the story from the opening chapter, when he enters the forest and Little John
joins his band, through the closing one where the hero of the greenwood
goes to his final rest. If the tale is told with emphasis upon the true spirit of
Robin Hood instead of with a half apology, it will prove wholesome food
for the children and will help to make them juster, kinder, and more
democratic men and women.
The national epics are splendid sources of story material for children in
the heroic period, especially those originating in Teutonic lands and those
formalized among nations not yet in a high state of civilization. Their
characters are elemental, and their incidents appeal to boys and girls. Some
of the stories of King Arthur and his knights, of Beowulf, of Sigurd the
Volsung, of Frithjof, of Pwyll, hero of the Welsh Mabinogion, as well as
many from the Nibelungenlied, the Iliad, and the Odyssey, can also be used
with excellent results. Naturally the tales of an elemental type should be
chosen first rather than those that are more highly refined and poetic. It has
been my experience that the Mabinogion is enjoyed before the Arthuriad.
Boys, especially, delight in hearing of Pwyll, lord of the Seven Countries of
Dyved, and the adventures that befell him as he hunted in the forests of his
dominions. These stories are of very ancient origin and are simple, strong,
and dramatic. They were sung by harpers (mabinogs) in the castle halls of
Wales, and finally were gathered into the Mabinogion, which was done into
English by Lady Charlotte Gest. The story-teller will find The Boy’s
Mabinogion, by Sidney Lanier, an excellent handbook for this period, as it
embodies the most desirable of this ancient Gaelic material, and is put into
modern form by an artist.
Follow the Mabinogion with the less poetic of the King Arthur stories.
The account of how Arthur won his sword and became king, of Percival and
the Red Knight, and of Arthur fighting the giant mean more to the ten-year-

old than does Sir Galahad and the Holy Grail. The Greek myths too should
be drawn from during this period—not the highly poetic, finished tales of
the Hellenes, but the elemental ones whose heroes are rugged characters
that awaken child admiration. Hercules, Perseus, Achilles, and several other
demigods vie for honors with King Arthur and Beowulf in the mind of the
fourth-grade boy, and the story-teller should not fail to draw from the rich
field of southern literature as well as from that of the north. But let her
exercise care in selection and keep to the realm of heroism instead of
entering that of romance. Such stories as “Cupid and Psyche,” “Pygmalion
and Galatea,” and “Apollo and Daphne” mean little to boys and girls of ten,
yet teachers and librarians often use them and wonder why their audiences
respond with so little enthusiasm. There are those who contend that all the
epical stories should be given in simplified form during this period, but why
spoil the romantic, poetic ones which are so much more enjoyed a little
later and so much better understood, when there are hundreds that can be
given without pruning them to the heart? Certain investigations and
statistics show that the telling of the highly refined Greek myths to boys and
girls in the early heroic period gives an erroneous idea of Greek standards,
and dulls an interest in mythology later on. The story-teller should bear this
fact in mind, and remember that literature rich in symbolism and formulated
among people refined to a degree of æstheticism is not the literature to give
to adventure-craving children, no matter to what simple language it may be
reduced.
Splendidly dramatic is the tale of Roland and Oliver, which every boy
loves, of Ogier the Dane, and of some of the other heroes of the time of
Charlemagne. Children listen spellbound to the account of the first meeting
and disagreement of the two lads whose friendship makes such a sweet and
colorful story, and of Charles the Great in council with his peers and
knights, and delight in the swinging lines of the old ballad:

The emperor sits in an orchard wide,
Roland and Oliver by his side:
With them many a gallant lance,
Full fifteen thousand of gentle France.
Upon a throne of beaten gold
The lord of ample France behold:
White his hair and beard were seen,
Fair of body and proud of mien.

The story of Bayard is an admirable one for this period, as well as that of
the Spanish hero, the Cid; and “St. George and the Dragon” is always a
favorite.
I plead, too, that more of the narrator’s time be devoted to the telling of
our own American epic of Hiawatha. The answer comes, “That is read in
school.” To be sure it is, and one reason why it is read so badly and
appreciated so little is that it was not given in story form first. The German
child uses the Nibelungenlied as a classroom text, but before he studies the
epic he knows its tales. Gunther, Hagen, Siegfried, and Dankwart are
familiar characters to him, and consequently he enjoys the poem.
The same principle applies to Hiawatha. If boys and girls are acquainted
with Hiawatha himself, if they know Nokomis and Chibiabos and Kwasind
and Iagoo before they are given the poem to study, it means something to
them that it cannot mean otherwise. Perhaps one reason why Longfellow’s
masterpiece has been so little used by story-tellers is that the work of
putting it into story form is a task with which the non-professional is unable
to cope. Now, however, an excellent retold work is on the market—
Winston’s Story of Hiawatha—which makes it possible for every narrator to
have her children know the American epic as well as German young people
know the Nibelungenlied.
In considering stories for the heroic period of childhood, let us not forget
the biographical and historical narratives that fulfill every requirement of
hero tales. Boys and girls love the epical stories because they are true in
spirit, but they love also those that are true in fact. It is a mistake to think
that biography is dull and uninteresting to them, because stories of the
boyhood of great men, great rulers, great discoverers and path-finders, great
lawgivers, painters, musicians, and writers, are hero tales of the highest

type. Many of them have been told admirably for young people, and the
narrator does no more valuable work than when he uses them freely. Sir
Walter Raleigh, De Soto, Coronado, Frederick the Great, Napoleon,
Garibaldi, Solyman the Magnificent, Robert the Bruce, Kosciusko, William
Wallace, William Tell, and dozens of others are as fascinating as Beowulf or
Hercules and have an influence even more powerful, because children know
that these heroes have actually lived. Never mind what some authorities say
about the man of Switzerland being a mythical personage. Let American
young people know him as those of the Alpine land know him, as the
defender of his ancient rights and native mountains, the embodiment of the
spirit of Helvetia. They will be finer men and women because of it, and
that, more than anything else, concerns the story-teller.
Then, too, there are history tales, hundreds of them, from every age and
every land. There are brave deeds done by children that every child should
know. The little girl on the St. Lawrence, holding the blockhouse of
Vercheres against the Iroquois, the boy whose courage and presence of
mind saved Lucerne, the event through which William of Orange came to
be known as William the Silent, and many other similar narratives are
intensely interesting to boys and girls. Some of the Old Testament tales
belong in this period; for a detailed account of them see Chapter Twelve, on
“Bible Stories.”
At this age, when the adventure spirit runs high, when pathfinding and
Indian fighting are desired above all other things, how are we to keep boys
and girls from running away to lead such lives themselves? One way is by
letting them live the lives of the heroes who thrill them—in other words, by
dramatizing. It is the hunger for experience that causes boys to turn
vagabond, and juvenile-court records show that many of the ten- and
twelve-year-olds who are lured by the call of adventure come from homes
that offer nothing to feed the adventure craving, whereas those who have
some of the desired experiences at home are less likely to start out seeking
them. It is a wise mother who encourages her boys to make pirate caves in
their own back yards, to be youthful Crusoes, Kit Carsons, Daniel Boones,
and Robin Hoods for a Saturday morning, and the school or public
playground that provides for much out-of-door acting is doing something
that will prevent many evils. In some children this desire is so strong that it
is almost a fever, and if not satisfied in a wholesome manner is likely to

lead to lamentable ends. I remember how much it meant to me in my own
childhood, when I burned to lead the lives of some of the heroes of whom I
had read or heard, to be permitted to participate in the Indian warfare of the
neighborhood boys and be the maiden who was carried away into captivity.
It was such a blissful experience that I joyfully contributed my small
allowance to buy red ink for war paint and to help costume the braves, and
when a Sioux band came to town, I ecstatically trudged after the wagon and
lived for a day in a realm far removed from my accustomed one. The boys
had feeling to even a greater degree, and who knows but that without this
Indian play some of them might have gone forth in search of adventure and
become criminals, whereas every one is now a law-abiding, useful citizen.

Sources of Story Material for the Heroic Period

Anderson, Rasmus Björn: The Younger Edda.
Baldwin, James: The Story of Roland; American Book of
Golden Deeds.
Bolton, Sarah K.: Poor Boys Who Became Famous.
Bradish, Sarah P.: Old Norse Stories.
Brooks, Elbridge S.: Historic Girls.
Church, Alfred J.: Stories from the Iliad; Stories from the
Odyssey.
Coe, Fannie E.: Heroes of Everyday Life.
Farmer, Florence V.: Boy and Girl Heroes.
Foa, Madame Eugénie: Boy Life of Napoleon.
Grierson, E. W.: Tales from Scottish Ballads.
Kingsley, Charles: Greek Heroes.
Lang, Jeanie: The Story of Robert the Bruce; The Story of
General Gordon.
Lanier, Sidney: The Boy’s Mabinogion.
Lansing, M. F.: Page, Esquire, and Knight.

Mabie, H. W.: Norse Stories from the Eddas.
Marshall, H. E.: The Story of William Tell; The Story of
Roland.
Matthews, Agnes R.: Seven Champions of Christendom (St.
George and the Dragon).
Morris, William: Sigurd the Volsung.
Nepos, C.: Tales of Great Generals.
Niebuhr, B. G.: Greek Heroes.
Pyle, Howard: Some Merry Adventures of Robin Hood;
Stories of King Arthur and His Knights.
Ragozin, Z. A.: Siegfried and Beowulf.
Tappan, Eva M.: In the Days of Alfred the Great; In the Days
of William the Conqueror.
Warren, Maude Radford: Robin Hood and His Merry Men.

CHAPTER FIVE
The Story Interests of Childhood (Continued)

D. ROMANTIC PERIOD

At about the age of twelve or thirteen the child’s rougher instincts begin
to soften. Romance and sentiment develop. He becomes particular about his
appearance. It is less of a task than formerly to get the boy to wash his face
and hands, and he has not the antipathy toward civilized attire that he had in
the days when Robinson Crusoe was the hero. Instead, he manifests a liking
for being dressed according to prevailing modes, sometimes changing so
suddenly from a dirty cave dweller into a dandy that it is like the
metamorphosis from grub to butterfly. He craves socks and ties of bright
colors and clothes that attract attention. If fashion prescribes peg-topped or
straight, spare trousers, he wants them extremely wide or extremely narrow,

and is willing to have his chin sawed unmercifully if high collars are the
vogue, not because of a fit of hysteria, but because he has entered the period
when sex awakens. He is becoming interested in the girls and wishes to be
dressed in a manner that will cause them to be interested in him; and very
often his taste for literature changes as completely as his personal habits. He
desires stories of a higher type of heroism than those he craved in an earlier
period, stories of romance and chivalry, and now is the time to give him the
epic in its entirety, because of the deep racial emotions therein expressed.
He has had many of the adventure tales from the epics during the earlier
period. Now he is ready for those tinged with romance, those pervaded by a
spirit of fiery idealism in which knights risk limb and life in loyalty to
principle, for fealty to king, or in defense of some fair lady. Percival
seeking the Grail is a finer hero to him than Percival battling with the Red
Knight, and the vow of the men of the Round Table means something
because he can understand it. In a vague, indefinite way romance is
touching his own life, and his noblest emotions are awakened by the noble
words:

To reverence the king, as if he were
Their conscience, and their conscience as their king,
To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,
To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,
To honor his own word as if his God’s,
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,
To love one maiden only, cleave to her,
And worship her by years of noble deeds.

Boys and girls in the heroic period enjoyed only the Arthurian stories that
glorify physical bravery, those of jousting and conflict into which women
do not enter. But now they delight in such tales as those of Geraint and
Enid, of Launcelot and Elaine, and some of the adventures of Tristram.
Here a word of caution is necessary. Like the Old Testament stories, these
romantic tales will arouse the noblest emotions and highest ideals if given
with wisdom, but if told thoughtlessly may create an almost morbid desire
for the vulgar. Therefore the non-professional narrator should use for his

work some retold version of the King Arthur tales instead of adapting from
Le Morte d’Arthur, because there is much in the original that should be
eliminated in presenting it to those in the adolescent period. The Pyle or
Radford editions are excellent, likewise The Boy’s King Arthur, by Sidney
Lanier, each of which keeps the spirit of the poem, but omits everything
objectionable.
The story of King Arthur, embracing as it does the Grail legend, should
be followed by the German tale of “Parsifal,”—not the Wagner opera
version, but the original medieval legend, “The Knightly Song of Songs” of
Wolfram von Eschenbach. This has been retold beautifully by Anna Alice
Chapin in The Story of Parsifal, a book with which every child in the
romantic period should be familiar. Miss Guerber, in her Legends of the
Middle Ages, relates the tale of Titurel and the Holy Grail, which will be
helpful to the narrator because of the light it throws on the origin of the
legend. But for a telling version there is none equal to that of Miss Chapin,
none in which the lofty chivalric spirit of the medieval poem is portrayed so
faithfully.
The romantic portion of all the national epics, as well as that of Le Morte
d’Arthur, is excellent material for the story-teller in the early adolescent
period. The Nibelungenlied, the Iliad, the Odyssey, and parts of Jerusalem
Delivered feed boys and girls in the early teens as pure adventure stories fed
them a year or two before. And if the narrator would have his young
listeners enjoy the epical tales to the uttermost, let him quote freely from
the epic itself as he tells them. During this age, when romance and
sentiment run high and life is beheld through a rainbow-hued glamour,
poetry is a serious and beautiful thing. The frequent interpolation of it into a
story heightens the pleasure in that story, and young people listen with the
gleaming eyes of intense feeling to words like these of Siegfried:

“Ever,” said he, “your brethren I’ll serve as best I may,
Nor once while I have being, will head on pillow lay,
Till I have done to please them whate’er they bid me do;
And this, my Lady Kriemhild, is all for love of you.”

Moreover, young people should understand that the epics were first given
to the race in poetic form, and in leading them to that knowledge we can

lead them also to an appreciation of the majestic, sweeping measures of the
Iliad or Odyssey or Nibelungenlied, which is in itself worth thought and
labor on the part of the story-teller.
The Langobardian myths, Dietrich von Bern, the story of Gudrun, of
Charlemagne and Frastrada and Huon of Bordeaux, are intensely interesting
in this period. Joan of Arc never fails to charm, while tales of the
minnesingers, the troubadours, and the Crusaders open gates into lands of
enchantment.
Oh, the romance in the lives of these medieval wanderers! Walther von
der Vogelweide, too poor to buy him a coat, yet swaying the thought of the
German lands; Bernard of Ventadour, among the flaming roses of Provence,
making music at the court of Eleanor of Aquitaine; Richard Cœur de Lion,
riding with a singing heart toward Palestine; De Coucy, Frederick
Barbarossa, and scores of others who lived and achieved in that distant,
colorful time! Their lives are gleaming pages in the history of their age, and
their stories are glorious ones to give to boys and girls who crave the
romantic.
Wonderful, too, is the account of the Children’s Crusade, of Stephen, a
happy shepherd on the hills of Cloyes, and that other lad of Cologne, who,
fired with desire to restore to the Christian world places the Moslem had
defiled, sailed away with their followers to shipwreck and slavery. In
connection with this tale the children should hear, if possible, some of the
music from Gabriel Pierne’s great cantata, The Children’s Crusade. It will
give them a clearer, more vivid idea of the preaching of the boy apostle, of
the gathering of the company, of the pilgrimage along the Rhine and Seine,
of their rejoicing upon reaching the port of Marseilles, and of the light of
noble purpose that glorified their eyes as they went singing to the ships.
Perhaps historians have proved the account of this crusade to be just a
myth. Tell it anyway, for whether it be fact or fiction the tale is too lovely
for young folk to miss.
There is another type of biographical story, that of the man and woman of
moral courage whose life was not so chromatically picturesque as that of
him who fought the Saracens or sang in old Provence, but nevertheless
thrills, fascinates, and influences. Florence Nightingale is a good example.
Beautiful, the daughter of rich and distinguished parents, she might have

reigned a social queen in England; yet she spent her young womanhood
studying how to alleviate human suffering, toiling under the burning sun of
the East, battling with disease at the risk of health and life, and well
deserving the title given her by those she comforted, “The Angel of the
Crimea.” I have seen girls of sixteen listen with tears in their eyes to the
story of this noble Englishwoman, and have watched the throats of boys
throb and pulsate upon hearing the account of the British Army and Navy
banquet at which the question was asked, “Who, of all the workers in the
Crimea, will be remembered longest?” and every voice replied in refrain,
“Florence Nightingale!” Several years ago a questionnaire, distributed at a
convention of nurses, revealed the fact that ten per cent of those there had
been influenced toward their life career by the story of this great English
nurse. Yet there are dubious souls who wonder if story-telling pays! If the
narrator can have only a few books from which to draw material for the
romantic period, Laura E. Richards’ Life of Florence Nightingale ought to
be one of the number. It is sympathetically and beautifully told, an artist’s
tribute to an immortal woman.
Workers with youths in the adolescent period are brought face to face
with one of the gravest problems educators have to solve. What is to be
done about lovesick boys and girls, those in whom the elemental passions
have awakened yet who have not the judgment and self-control that age and
experience bring? How are we to keep them, in their first emotional
upheaval, from losing all sense of proportion and from pursuing a course
that may lead to disaster? The freedom given in these days of coeducation,
and the unrestricted circulation of novels and stories dealing with the
relations of the sexes, which may be worthy creations from the standpoint
of art, but which distort the ideas of unformed youth, make possible a
condition that often appalls parents and high-school teachers and sets them
to wondering how to meet it.
Ellen Key suggests a remedy. In this period when the world-old emotions
are first aroused, she advocates the use of love stories that are pure in tone
and high in ideal. We cannot change human nature and keep the boy of
sixteen from being drawn as if by a magnet to the maid who is lovely in his
eyes, but we can give him an ideal that will make his feeling an elevating
thing instead of a debasing one. We can put into the heart of the girl a
poetry and idealism that will keep her worthy of the prince, and we can do

it through literature. Instead of leaving her free to roam unguided and read
whatever falls into her hand, or of sitting like a board of censors beside her
and goading her toward the forbidden, which always allures, we can lead
her to delightful, wholesome stories, of which there are a goodly number.
This does not mean confining her to writers of several generations ago.
Present-day youths know that almost every one reads current books, and
they intend to have them, too. Therefore let the story-teller use the best of
the new, even as he uses the best of the old. Let him refer frequently to it
and tell enough of it to awaken such an interest that it will be read. A good
plan is for the teacher of English to devote a few minutes each week to the
discussion of some recent book or books, and to give lists of those that boys
and girls will enjoy. In public libraries slips should be posted, upon which
are named the most desirable of recent publications, and problem novels
should be excluded from shelves to which the public has access. Thus our
adolescent children may be led to glean from the best of the new. But
meanwhile let us not neglect the old.
One of the lovely works with which to familiarize high-school pupils is
Ekkehard, by Joseph Victor von Scheffel, which, aside from its value as a
historical novel, is one of the noblest love stories ever written. It is a
charming picture of life in the tenth century, when the Hunnic hordes swept
like a devastating flame into the peaceful Bodensee region. Hadwig, proud
duchess of Suabia, Ekkehard, the dreaming, handsome monk who goes
from the monastery of St. Gall to become Latin instructor at Castle
Hohentwiel and learns far more than he teaches, Praxedis, the winsome
Greek maid, Hadumoth the goose girl, and the goat boy Audifax, all are
fascinating, appealing characters. From beginning to end the book is
intensely interesting, and as Nathan Haskell Dole says, “full of undying
beauty.”
Another charming work of a German writer is Moni the Goat Boy, by
Johanna Spyri. The novels of Eugénie Marlitt are wholesome and well
written, and give vivid pictures of life in the smaller courts of Europe.
Those of Louisa Mühlbach portray in a remarkable manner the lives of
some of the notable figures of history, and the intimate glimpses they give
of such characters as Frederick the Great, Schiller, Goethe, Marie
Antoinette, and Maria Theresa, with their reflection of the color and

ceremony of a bygone day, cause them to mean in this period what
adventure tales mean to boys and girls of ten.
In drawing from Germany, let us not forget Georg Ebers, who lifts the
cloud of mystery that veils old Egypt and permits us to share the romance,
the loves, the joys and sorrows of men and women of the Pharaohs’ time.
His works are not dull inscriptions gathered from sepulchers and mummies,
but moving pictures of living, breathing men and women, filmed by the
genius of a master; and the triumphs of the Princess Bent-Anat, the
sufferings of the captive Uarda, and the spectacular victory of the royal
charioteer are so real that they seem to be in the here and now instead of in
the early morning of the world.
From France we may glean without limit. Georges Ohnet, Jacques
Vincent, Ludovic Halévy, and dozens of other writers have produced works
that are not only a part of the education of every one who aspires to become
a cultured man or woman, but are as fascinating as fairy tales to a child.
Then there is the great treasure house of English and American literature, as
rich in priceless things of pen and brain as the gallery of the Vatican is rich
in paintings and sculpture. Boys and girls will not draw from this wealth
unguided, because they do not know where it is stored. But if we give them
frequent glimpses of its brightness, if we half open the door of the
repository and let them peep inside, they will follow, seeking it, as the
miner follows the half-revealed ore vein, or as Ortnit of old pursued the
Fata Morgana. They need not drift into pools that breed disease, when by
enough story-telling to awaken their interest in the beautiful and fine they
may sail into open streams where the water is clear, and where there are no
submerged reefs to wreck their fragile crafts.

Sources of Story Material for the Romantic Period

Antin, Mary: The Promised Land.
Bolton, Sarah K.: Famous Leaders among Men.
Boutet de Monvel, L. M.: The Story of Joan of Arc.
Brooks, Elbridge Streeter: Historic Girls.
Buell, Augustus C.: John Paul Jones, Founder of the
American Navy.
Buxton, Ethel M. Wilmot: A Book of Noble Women; Stories
of Persian Heroes.
Chapin, Anna Alice: The Story of Parsival.
Church, Alfred James: Stories from the Iliad; Stories from
the Odyssey.
Creighton, Louise von Glehn: Some Famous Women.
Gilbert, Ariadne: More than Conquerors.
Gilchrist, Beth Bradford: Life of Mary Lyon.
Guerber, Helène A.: Legends of the Middle Ages.
Lanier, Sidney: The Boy’s King Arthur.
Lockhart, John Gibson: Ancient Spanish Ballads.
Lowell, Francis Cabot: Joan of Arc.
Nicholson, J. S.: Tales from Ariosto.
Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur Thomas: The Roll Call of
Honor.
Richards, Laura E.: Florence Nightingale, the Angel of the
Crimea.
Snedeker, Caroline D.: The Coward of Thermopylæ.
Southey, Robert: The Life of Nelson.
Sterling, Mary Blackwell: The Story of Parzival; The
Story of Sir Galahad.

Strickland, Agnes: The Queens of England; The Queens of
Scotland.

CHAPTER SIX
Building the Story

Story-telling is a creative art, and therefore a knowledge of underlying
principles is as indispensable to the narrator as to the sculptor or painter.
Without this knowledge he cannot hope to adapt material to his needs, but
must be limited in his choice to what is already in form to give to children;
with it he can avail himself of many opportunities to bring to his charges
treasures of which they could know nothing but for his ability to dig them
from the profound tomes in which they are hidden, polish and clarify them,
and put them in a setting within the understanding of the child. For this
reason a course in story-writing is a part of the training of the professional
story-teller, and while the mother or teacher cannot make such extensive
preparation, she may to advantage master and apply a few cardinal
principles of construction.
The beginning of the oral story should never be an introduction, because
from the first word the child expects something to happen, and if nothing
does happen his attention scatters and interest is lost. Therefore the narrator
must bring his actors on the stage and get them to work at once; he must not
let them stand around waiting while he gives a detailed description of their
hair and eyes and of the clothes they wear, but must have them do
something. It is often necessary to make some explanatory remarks in the
beginning, but it should be done in such a way that the hearer has no time to
wonder when the story is going to begin. For instance, if your tale is about a
boy in Holland, do not delay bringing the boy in while you tell about the
country. Let him enter at the beginning, and then, by a sentence here and a
clause or phrase there, give the setting with the action. The story must
bristle with human interest; for while the child knows nothing about the
meaning of that term, he nevertheless demands that something happen, and
if nothing does happen you lose his attention. The written story may depend
for its charm upon character drawing and local color, but the oral story

demands plot, and if this plot is badly hung together the story fails in its
aim, for it does not make a deep impression.
The narrative style is better adapted to beginning the oral story than
dialogue, because it is more easily handled by the novice. Of course the
professional story-teller is not restricted to one field, and genius is
privileged to range at large and ignore rules with no dire results. But it is
safe for the amateur to keep to the narrative style. In the depths of dialogue,
his little craft may founder, but the much-loved words “Once upon a time”
or “Long, long ago” arrest the attention immediately, even though the teller
be not an artist; and having made a good beginning, he is reasonably sure of
holding his hearers to the end. On the other hand, if he does not get them at
the start, his story-telling time is apt to end in failure.
There are no set phrases or clauses with which one must begin a story,
and it would be a mistake to say that dialogue can never be used safely in
opening the oral story, for the professional often uses it with fine effect; but
it is easier and safer for the amateur to use the narrative beginning, and
introduce dialogue as the plot develops.
Dr. Berg Esenwein, whose excellent work, Writing the Short Story, will
be of value to the story-teller as well as to the story-writer, lays down these
rules:
“Do not strike one note in the beginning and another in the body of the
story.
“Do not touch anything that is not a live wire leading direct to the heart
of the story.
“Do not describe where you can suggest.”
An examination of some of the perfect stories of the world shows that
these rules hold good in every case. The tales of Grimm, Andersen, Perrault,
and Bechstein are flawless in construction, and each plunges directly into
the thread of the story. Take, for instance, “The Three Tasks” of Grimm:

There once lived a poor maiden who was young and fair,
but she had lost her own mother, and her stepmother did all
she could to make her miserable.

“The Pea Blossom,” of Hans Christian Andersen:

There were once five peas in a pod. They were green and
the pod was green, and they thought all the world was green.

“Red Riding Hood,” as written by Perrault, begins thus:

Once upon a time there lived in a small village in the
country a little girl, the prettiest, sweetest creature that ever
was seen. Her mother loved her fondly, and her grandmother
doted on her still more.

“The Twin Brothers” by Grimm:

There were once two brothers, one of whom was rich and
the other poor. The rich brother was a goldsmith and had a
wicked heart. The poor brother supported himself by making
brooms, and was good and honest.

It is the same in Ruskin’s “King of the Golden River,” in Robert
Southey’s “Three Bears,” in all the tales of De Maupassant that are suitable
for telling, and in those of Alphonse Daudet. Note the beginning of
Daudet’s “Last Lesson”:

Little Franz did not want to go to school that morning. He
would much rather have played. The air was so warm and
still. You could hear the blackbirds singing at the edge of the
wood, and the sound of the Prussians drilling down by the
old sawmill.

Every one of these stories begins with narrative, and every one is a
perfect tale for telling.
Next in consideration comes the body of the story, which our rhetoric
teachers taught us is a succession of events moving toward the climax. Until

the climax is reached the oral story must be full of suspense. In other words,
the hearer must be kept guessing about what is going to happen. The child
does not care about a story in which he sees the end. He does enjoy hearing
the same story told over and over again if it thrilled him at the first telling,
because he likes to re-experience that thrill. But if a new tale holds no
suspense, it falls flat. Stevenson says: “The one rule is to be infinitely
various—to interest, to disappoint, to surprise, yet still to gratify. To be ever
changing, as it were, the stitch, yet still to give the effect of an ingenious
neatness.” In other words, the succession of events must follow one another
in a regular sequence, and each must contribute something to the one
following it.
As a rather homely illustration of the meaning of this, we may say that
plot centers around a hole, and in a well-constructed story the steps by
which the hero gets into the hole are traced, and then those by which he gets
out. The getting out is the climax or, as Dr. Barrett says, “the apex of
interest and emotion.” In other words, it is the top of a ladder, and the story
must move in an unbroken line toward that topmost rung. If it does not do
this, if the thread of the tale is broken to interpolate something that should
have been told in the beginning, the narrator loses his audience.
The climax must be a surprise to the child. This holds good in all the
great oral stories. Take as an example “The Ugly Duckling”:

And he flew toward the beautiful swans. As soon as they
saw him they ran to meet him with outstretched wings.
“Kill me,” he said.
But as he bent his head he saw reflected in the water, not a
dark, gray bird ugly to see, but a beautiful swan.

In Hawthorne’s “Great Stone Face” the climax lies in the discovery that
Ernest is the likeness of the Great Stone Face, a delightful surprise to the
child.
It is the same in “Red Riding Hood,” in “Tarpeia,” in “Why the Sea Is
Salt.” It is the same in Daudet’s “Last Lesson.” Note the splendid climax of

that masterpiece, the surprise that comes to Franz as he sits awaiting
punishment, when the teacher, in all kindness, makes this announcement:

“My children, this is the last time I shall ever teach you.
The order has come from Berlin that henceforth nothing but
German shall be taught in the schools of Alsace and
Lorraine. This is your last lesson in French.”

With very young children the surprise element should be simple.
Repetition used in a sequence, or jingle, accomplishes it well, as in the
“Fee, fi, faugh, fum” in “Jack and the Beanstalk,” or “Who’s been sitting in
my chair?” in “The Three Bears,” or “The better to see you, hear you, eat
you” in “Red Riding Hood.” Each time the child hears the expression his
interest is roused to a higher pitch, and his imagination is fired to such a
point that he expects almost anything to happen.
After the climax is reached, the oral story should descend rapidly to a
close. Many of the best oral stories end in the climax, and those that do not,
add but a sentence or two or a paragraph at most to round out to
completion. But they do not moralize and point out a lesson to the child.
They leave him to see the moral for himself, and he sees it more clearly and
is the more deeply impressed by it if he is allowed a few moments of
silence after the completion of the story, instead of being drawn into
conversation concerning it. Marie Shedlock, the English story-teller who
has done so much to put the narrator’s art upon the plane where it deserves
to be, advocates five minutes of silence after each story period, and in my
own experience I have found that it is of value to the child. Conditions
under which one works will, of course, govern this; but above all, do not
end a story that delights a boy or girl and then kill the whole effect by
saying, “Now, Peter, what does that story teach you?” Give the child credit
for being an intelligent human being, and do not spoil a tale for him by
turning it into a sermon while he is still tingling with the wonder and joy of
it.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Telling the Story

Since story-telling, like music, is an art, it is no more possible for every
mother, teacher, or librarian to become a Scheherazade than it is possible
for every child who takes music lessons to blossom into a Mozart or a
Mendelssohn. The inspiration, the creative fire that beguiles the wrath of a
sultan or gives birth to a symphony, emanates from within, from the fairy
germs planted somewhere in the soul and nurtured into fruition through
unceasing effort. Yet it is possible for every worker with children, provided
he be willing to devote some time and labor to the study of technique, to
learn to tell stories convincingly and entertainingly, although not with the
artistry of the professional.
First of all, whenever possible, he should choose stories that appeal to
him, those he will enjoy giving his listeners because they fit his own moods,
for he cannot hope to tell every variety of tale with consummate excellence
any more than an actor can be supreme in all types of rôles. The genius of
Sothern displays itself to best advantage in the tragedies of Shakespeare,
while that of Henry Miller, Forbes-Robertson, or David Warfield is suited to
dramas of another kind. Each of these artists tried various rôles until he
found his forte. Then he kept to the field in which he could excel,
concentrating all his effort upon it. So it should be with the story-teller. He
should experiment with every kind of narrative, then make a specialty of the
one in which he can be at his best, and use it to accomplish his most far-
reaching results. Of course the mother or teacher cannot confine herself to
one variety of story. Her interests being varied and many, she cannot hope
to reach the height of specialization attained by the artist who has but one
purpose, one aim, and never swerves from it. She must endeavor to acquire
a fair degree of proficiency in the rendition of every type of story, that she
may not be found wanting by her youthful auditors; but she should
specialize with the kind of tale that is nearest an expression of her own
moods, because in this way she can obtain the most gratifying results.
Perhaps she is particularly skilled in presenting humorous material. Then
let her use that ability as a magnet to draw her hearers to the story period
and to hold them through it to the end. A good plan is to begin the program
with a merry tale to put the group into a happy, receptive mood, follow it

with a serious one containing the message or information the children
should receive, and then give another humorous one. The serious narrative
may be difficult for her to handle, and may not be given with the skill and
charm that mark her rendition of another type of conte, but the children,
understanding that one of her delightful “funny” stories is to follow, will
listen through the less desired number and unconsciously receive its lesson,
because of their eagerness to hear the succeeding one. Thus, by knowing
her field of excellence and making the most of it, she can carry children into
other fields because of their delight in meeting her in the one in which she
is most at home.
After the story is selected, the atmosphere and setting should be studied.
The teller should have a clear idea of the topography of the country in
which the events occur, of the customs of the people who move through it,
of their homes, their modes of life, and their manner of dress, because the
more into the spirit of the tale he can put himself, the more effectively will
he give it. If it be a narrative of Scotland in the days of Bruce, he should try
to hear the bagpipes, see the lochs and glens of the Highlands, and walk
side by side with the heroes of that time. This means gleaning many fields
for materials and giving something of an artist’s labor to preparation, in
which, of course, he will be limited by the time at his disposal. But
according to the preparation will be the result, and to believe previous
thought and study unnecessary because one has natural facility for story-
telling is to be gravely mistaken. Artists of the stage discovered long ago
that no matter how gifted they may be, nothing can take the place of
preparation. Adrienne Lecouvreur demonstrated the truth of this statement
several centuries ago when she revolutionized acting, and theatrical folk are
still demonstrating it, for in just this respect lies the difference between the
third- and fourth-rate player and the great dramatic star. The leading man or
woman who is satisfied to learn lines and do nothing more, does not get
beyond stock. But one ambitious to climb to the top rung of the histrionic
ladder will travel every bypath that may possibly yield him a fuller and
richer comprehension of the part he has to play. Geraldine Farrar read
everything obtainable about Japan and Japanese life before attempting to
create the rôle of “Madame Butterfly,” and Maude Adams spent months
studying the life of the Maid of Orleans, following every step of her career
from the hills of Domrémy to the pyre at Rouen, before being satisfied to
present “Jeanne d’Arc” at the Harvard Stadium. So it must be with the

story-teller. Only the professional can devote weeks, or even days, to the
preparation of one program, but every one who attempts to tell stories must
know more than the plot of the tale and must have felt its events in all their
possibilities, if his hearers in their turn are to feel them.
The amount of preparation necessary varies with the individual. Those
possessing natural facility and those who heard much story-telling in
childhood need less than those whom Nature has not gifted, or who were
not so fortunate in early environment. But every one needs some
preparation, and there is much slovenly, valueless story-telling because this
fact is not generally recognized. Many teachers do not regard story-telling
seriously enough, and devote far less thought to it than to other branches of
their work, because the idea is prevalent that any one can spin a yarn or
two. Consequently they accomplish little through the medium of the story.
But there is another group of workers who believe that story-telling means
as much today as it meant centuries ago, and its members are sending
children into the libraries. As nearly as time and the conditions of their
work will permit them, they are following in the footsteps of the medieval
narrator. Like him, they are giving an artist’s labor to their work because
they realize that great results come only through great effort. But the
number of these story-tellers, compared with the workers with children, is
very small, and consequently results are not yet gratifying. They can
become gratifying only when child leaders cease to think that the story
period is the one period of the day for which no preparation need be made,
and realize that every minute devoted to previous thought and study will
make the language come more spontaneously and fluently and will bring
before the eyes of the listeners pictures that are clear because they first have
been clear before the eyes of the teller.
Every scene in a story should be visualized until it is as vivid as a
painting on a canvas. It must be studied and imagined until it shifts
smoothly and rapidly into the succeeding one. Then there will be no danger
of the teller having to pause and think what comes next, or of having to
interpolate something that should have been introduced at an earlier stage of
the tale. This is not equally easy for every one. Those who are imaginative
by nature will find it no task, while for others it will be difficult at first. But
no one need be discouraged. Each succeeding attempt will bring clearer
pictures and smoother shifting of scenes, and gratifying results will follow

labor and perseverance. It is a good plan for the beginner to jot down in
outline form the successive events of the story and study them until he can
carry the sequence in his mind.
When the pictures are clear and the order of events is fixed, the story
should be practiced. This does not mean that it should be learned verbatim.
Untrained narrators often make the mistake of memorizing paragraph by
paragraph and sentence by sentence, and then giving the tale like a
recitation, which is not story-telling at all. Story-telling is a constructive,
creative art, and the tale that grips and convinces and inspires must be told
in a manner that makes it seem like the teller’s own. Practicing the story
means facing an imaginary audience and describing so vividly and clearly
what is seen that others may see the pictures that pass before the mind’s
eye.
Shall gesture and facial gymnastics be used? This depends entirely upon
the temperament and personality of the narrator. If it is natural for him to
gesticulate as he speaks, gesture will come spontaneously and will heighten
the effect of the tale. But if movements of hand and head and body are not
spontaneous, they will mar the rendition and scatter the interest of the
listeners by dividing it between the teller and the tale. Story-telling then
becomes touched with affectation and loses its artistry. It degrades the
story-teller into a sort of acrobatic performer and makes him a personage
upon whom the attention is centered, which is not as it should be. He is
simply the medium through which the picture is made clear to the audience.
He is not an actor, and should not occupy the center of the stage. As Dr.
Partridge says: “The story-teller should pleasingly suggest the mood and
scene of the story, then step into the background, turn down the lights on
the present, and carry his hearers to a distant region, which he must make,
for the time being, more real than the here and now.” This is why the story-
teller is at his best away from the glare of electricity, among the shadows of
a summer gloaming, or by the open hearth when the firelight is dim,
because then his hearers do not see him or think of him, but only of the
pictures and scenes painted by his voice and words.
Therefore let the guiding rule of the narrator be, “I must describe pictures
so that others will see them, and think, not of me, but of the scenes to which
I lead them.” And he must do it in his individual way. If gesture comes
naturally, it belongs in the tale. If it is studied and artificial, it destroys the

effect and value. Some of the greatest story-tellers of the past used no
gesture, while others used body, head, and hands with wonderful effect.
They were persons of strong individuality and did things in an individual
way. Let the present-day story-teller profit by their example.
Change of voice in dialogue adds to clearness of pictures. Nothing is
more colorless than a reading by one whose intonation is not in keeping
with the part he interprets, and the story told in a monotone is boresome and
valueless to the child. He associates tone and action and wants them to be
true to each other. He is dissatisfied if the old witch speaks like a loving
mother, while the heavy tones of the wicked giant, the gentle ones of the
good fairy, and the mirthful, rippling notes of the joyous, beautiful maiden
delight him and make him responsive to the tale. They transform the
personages of the story into living, breathing creatures who walk in his
presence and smile or frown in his face.
Pauses are wonderfully effective in heightening the interest in a story.
Children fairly quiver with expectation if frequent pauses are used when the
moments of suspense grow big. They creep nearer in their eagerness to hear
about what happens next, fearing that they will miss a bit of the attractive
thread. One small boy, asked why he took such delight in listening to a
certain story-teller, said: “I don’t know if it’s the way she looks or the way
she says it. She’ll be going along, telling about what happens, and all at
once she’ll say, ‘And then——’ and stop a little bit until you think all kinds
of things are going to happen.” This feeling is general with children,
although they may not voice it, and behind the naïve words is a
psychological truth. The pause heightens the dramatic effect and focuses the
interest on the coming sentences.
Above all things, there should be no stopping in the midst of a tale to
correct a child. If one shows evidence of lagging interest, mention his name
as if the story were being told for him. “And, John, when little Red Riding
Hood reached her grandmother’s house she knocked on the door.” This
makes him feel that although many children are listening to the story, it is
being given solely for his benefit. It touches his pride and grips his attention
long enough to enable the narrator to muster all his forces and heighten the
interest in the tale so that it will abound in suspense from that point. If it
fails to do that, something is wrong, either with the selection or the
presentation. Perhaps the pictures are not being made clear because they

were not first clear in the mind of the teller. Perhaps the story is not an
interesting one to that particular group of children. It is the narrator’s
business to find the reason, just as artists in Europe must learn what is at
fault when their hearers hiss. Audiences on the Continent are not so polite
as those in America, and there is no mistaking their feeling about a
performance. When sounds of disapproval sweep over the house, the
performer must rise to heights that will compel admiration or face a ruined
career. Likewise, when a small boy becomes troublesome, the story-teller
should not pause to correct him, but should make the tale so thrillingly
fascinating that the lad forgets to be naughty. Mothers seldom meet with
this problem, but settlement workers are having to solve it constantly, and
they do it successfully only by knowing what lies close to the child’s
interests and telling stories that touch those interests.
There are those who denounce story-telling in the schoolroom because
they happen to have known of poor story-telling and the disorderly conduct
that often ensues when the children’s interest is not held. Not long ago I
came across this statement in the report of a lecture delivered at a teachers’
institute:
“It is to be hoped that story-telling will soon be eliminated from the
primary grades, and that the spectacle of a teacher pausing in the midst of a
tale to grasp a child by the arm and exclaim, ‘Here, Johnny, straighten up
and listen,’ will become past history.”
It certainly is to be hoped that such story-telling will be eliminated, but it
is no more fair to condemn story-telling as an art or to deprecate its value as
an educational or ethical factor because there is poor story-telling, than it is
to decry painting and sculpture because there are bunglers with brushes and
chisels. The remedy does not lie in abolishing it, but in elevating the
standard of the workers to a higher plane and in demonstrating that story-
telling syncopated by scoldings and admonitions is not story-telling at all.
When shall we tell stories? Whenever, in the opinion of the teacher, a
story will do more effective work than something else. Do not depend
wholly on regular periods. These have a place on every school, library, or
settlement program, but the story period should not be the only time for
telling stories, because often a tale told at the psychological moment will
make a deeper and more lasting impression than those given during a dozen

regular periods. When the children are tired, tell a story for rest and
relaxation. If there has been a fight or swearing, follow up the incident as
soon as possible with an apt narrative. It will do more good than moralizing.
If the geography class is struggling over the map of Turkey and can see
nothing but a series of dots and marks on a piece of paper, put aside the
formal recitation for that day and tell them of the building of the Mosque of
Ahmed the First on the Golden Horn, of the merry craftsmen who raised the
dome of St. Sophia, and give them some idea of how this glorious waif of
the Orient came to stand on European soil. Make story-telling fit occasions
and conditions instead of trying to make conditions fit story-telling.
And above all, never moralize! As one authority says, “It is bad
pedagogy and worse art.” Remember what Dr. van Dyke says: “If a story is
worth telling, moralizing is not necessary.” It is not only unnecessary, but
harmful. The child sees for himself that virtue is rewarded and evil-doing is
punished. He resents not being given credit for having sufficient
intelligence to understand it, and a personal application antagonizes him.
Tell the tale in a direct, unassuming manner—not as if you are talking
down to a group of children, but as if you are one of the number, talking
with them. Boys and girls dislike the patronizing story-teller as much as
adults dislike the patronizing person, and are quick to detect affectation and
insincerity. They will not receive the message a posing raconteur has to
give, because his manner of delivering it irritates and estranges them. The
successful story-teller must be like the poet, a joy bringer, and he can be
that only when his work is marked by sincerity and genuineness as clear as
brook water.

Books on Story-Telling

Allison, S. B., and Perdue, H. A.: The Story in Primary
Education.
Bailey, Carolyn Sherwin: For the Story-Teller.
Bryant, Sara Cone: How to Tell Stories to Children.
Coe, Fanny E.: First Book of Stories for the Story-Teller;
Second Book of Stories for the Story-Teller.

Cowles, Julia D.: The Art of Story-Telling.
Dye, Charity: The Story-Teller’s Art.
Forbush, William B.: Story-Telling in the Home.
Keyes, Angela M.: Stories and Story-Telling.
Lindsay, Maud: The Story-Teller for Little Children.
Lyman, Edna: Story-Telling: What to Tell and How to Tell It.
McMurry, Charles A.: Special Method in Primary Reading
and Oral Work, with Stories.
Partridge, Emelyn N. and George E.: Story-Telling in the
Home and School.
St. John, Porter: The Story in Moral and Religious
Education.
Shedlock, Marie L.: The Art of the Story-Teller.
Wiltse, Sara E.: The Place of the Story in Early Education.
Wyche, Richard Thomas: Some Great Stories and How to
Tell Them.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Story-Telling to Lead to an Appreciation of Literature

One of the specific aims of education is to endow children with an
appreciation of literature, and to this end much of a teacher’s energy is
directed. From the elementary school through the university the curriculum
includes a course in English, and even in kindergarten and primary grades a
point is made of introducing children to those authors whose work is
conceded to have a strong appeal for them. The first, second, or third grade
boy is required to read and memorize selections from Stevenson, Riley, and
Eugene Field; not infrequently he is detained after school because of failure

to have his lesson prepared at recitation time, and responds to the
requirement in a mood that brings discouragement to his teacher.
On the other hand, there are schools in which the literature or reading
hour is a period of joy, where the learning of songs of the singers of
childhood is accomplished without coercion. These schools are the ones in
which the teachers have learned that the acquisition of knowledge, to be of
real value, must be attended with enjoyment.
It is a mistake to believe that although the function of the school is to
equip the man, the aim of education is only to give enjoyment in the future.
It is also the aim of education to give enjoyment now, because in this way
capacity for enjoyment in the future is made possible. The boy or girl whose
early association with poetry or beautiful prose is attended with displeasure
and discomfort is no more likely to be drawn to the finer types of literature
later than the man or woman is apt to be fond of a person, the first meeting
with whom was a disagreeable experience. If we would have the man love
good literature, we must first lead the child to love good literature, and we
can do this only through having him enjoy good literature.
Because story-telling brings pleasure to the child, it is a most effective
means of leading him to an appreciation of literature. Through the medium
of the story we not only can heighten his capacity for enjoyment and elevate
the standard of his taste, but we can equip him with knowledge he will
never acquire if the literature period is associated with force and
punishment. If a tale brings pleasing pictures before his eyes and is
beautiful in theme and language, he unconsciously forms a taste for
beautiful language, for he is not only getting the succession of events that
make the plot, but is also absorbing words and expressions. Certain
sentences stick in his memory, and teachers who have children reproduce
stories know that frequently they use the exact phrases and sentences that
have been used by the teller. They do not remember these for a day or an
hour and then forget them; they remember them as years go by, and
associate certain words with certain narratives.
William McKinley once said that the mention of willows by a river made
him think of the story of Moses in the bulrushes, and brought to mind this
sentence: “And she hid the basket among the rushes in a spot where willows
hung over the river.” The story had been told him in childhood and brought

him enjoyment, and some of the narrator’s expressions left a lasting imprint
on his mind. “I believe that story, more than anything else,” he once said,
“gave me a fondness for elegant English.”
James A. Garfield voiced almost the same thought, declaring that his
taste for literature was shaped by stories from great authors told him by his
mother during his early years, and many other men of achievement have
attested to the same truth. They have proved conclusively out of their own
experience that even with little children it is possible to lay a foundation
upon which a noble and enduring structure can be built. We can give them
an appreciation of stories and poems that are among the gems of literature.
We can also interest children in the life of an author so that they will
want to know something of his work. This statement often brings the
question, “How, since little children want stories that are full of action, and
not biographies of men and women they never have seen?” Is it not true that
the childhood of all great men contained interesting experiences, that if told
as stories will lead little people to want to know about what these boys and
girls did when they grew up?
Robert Louis Stevenson is a good example. Every child will listen
sympathetically to the tale of the poor little rich boy who was often so ill
that he could not run and play, but who made the best of things and amused
himself with toys on his bed. He built cities out of blocks. He watched the
lamplighter go on his evening rounds along the street, and sometimes in the
summer, the dewy, Scotch summer that can be pictured so attractively to
children, when he went with his nurse to the country or the shore, he put
leaves and chips in the river and pretended that they were boats. He dug
holes in the sand with his wooden spade and laughed to see the vagrant
waves come up and fill them. The child who hears about his various
experiences will become intensely interested in little Robert, and will grow
to love “The Land of Counterpane,” “The River,” “At the Seashore,” and
other selections from A Child’s Garden of Verses. Every time he reads or
hears them he will see a picture of the wee Scotch lad whose story touched
his heart.
This is no untried theory. Through story-telling, the author of Treasure
Island has become a living personage and A Child’s Garden of Verses a
source of delight in more than one first grade. A teacher who had charge of

forty little Italians devoted fifteen minutes each morning to stories of
writers and their works, and by the end of the term the children had a
knowledge of Stevenson and Field that amazed the superintendent. More
valuable than the knowledge acquired was the capacity for real enjoyment
of some of the works of these men, enjoyment so intense that during the
half hour of song and games that was a feature of every Friday, it was not
unusual for a small Tony or Gulielmo to flutter a brown hand and ask to be
permitted to recite:

Of speckled eggs the birdie sings,
And nests among the trees.

Another teacher was rewarded for her work by hearing the mother of one
of her pupils tell at a parent-teachers’ meeting of how a certain little lad
amused himself while recuperating from measles by entertaining the
household with songs from Stevenson and stories about little Robert, who
became the big Robert that wrote the book.
In doing this sort of work, however, it is necessary to keep in mind the
story interests of childhood, to remember that children are interested in
children, and not begin, “When Robert Louis Stevenson was a little boy,”
but rather, “Once there was a little boy who lived far away from here, and
his name was Robert.” Let the approach be from the child to the man
instead of from the man to the child. Focus the interest of children upon one
like themselves, then lead in a natural way to the man and his achievements.
Sometimes children can be interested in a piece of literature through a
story about it or suggested by it, because often one tale helps to illuminate
and clarify and add interest to another.
Suppose a primary teacher or a mother wishes to take up Tennyson’s
“Sweet and Low,” a piece of literature that is either a succession of vivid,
delightful pictures or a vague group of words, according to the manner in
which it is presented. Tell of the baby who lived with the father and mother
in a fishing village on the Isle of Wight. Each day the father had to go far
out to sea in a boat to catch fish to sell for money with which to buy food
for his dear ones, and each night the baby laughed and crowed when he
came home. Once he stayed later than usual, and baby did not want to go to
bed without seeing him; but the mother sang a pretty song, saying that

father would soon be home, and crooned and rocked her little one until he
fell asleep. It was a pleasant evening, with a big, silver moon, and a man
was out walking—a rich man who lived in a house on a hill high above the
fishers’ huts. As he went by the cottage where the baby lived, he heard the
mother singing, and the song was so sweet that he hurried home and wrote
what it made him think about. Then follow with the poem, and the children
will receive it gladly.
This same plan can be used with older children, but let the material be
given in story form instead of as a series of disconnected incidents.
An excellent method is to give the story of a great writer’s work. This is
effective with children of all ages, and often leads to the reading of books
that otherwise would never be opened. Sometimes the objection is made
that it is wrong to substitute the story of a work for the work itself, a
statement no thinking person will gainsay. But this does not mean
substitution. It means whetting the appetite until the child hungers for the
thing you want him to have. Instead of telling him what he should read,
arouse his curiosity to the point where he wants to read it, and the desired
result will follow. Fifty years ago it was safe to give a boy or a girl a
beautiful piece of literature and tell him he ought to read it, but it is not safe
now, not because there is anything wrong with the children of our time, but
because conditions are different. Books were rare and costly then, and
young people read whatever came to hand. Today books are cheap and
plentiful, and present-day literature plunges directly into the complications
of the story. People are in a hurry to know what it is all about, because of
the spirit of the age. There is less leisure now than there was half a century
ago, as there is more competition, and results must be realized more rapidly
than our forefathers realized them. Consequently we travel faster, get rich
faster, and move more speedily in every way. Present-day literature reflects
present-day spirit, and the story must begin with the opening sentence. Boys
and girls simply will not go through pages of introductions and descriptions
before striking the plot of the tale, no matter how beautiful those
introductions and descriptions may be. They want books that get
somewhere from the beginning. So the problem confronts all who are
interested in the education of children: “How can we make them as eager to
read Dickens, Scott, and Thackeray as they are to read Jack London and
Phillips Oppenheim? How can they be made to go as gladly to Bulwer

Lytton as they go to the Henty books?” By means of story-telling. Give
them an idea of the plots of the masters of literature, enough to whet the
desire to know more about them.
It is not sufficient just to tell the story, because it was not the plots of
these writers that made them great artists. It was their manner of handling
their plots, their delineation of character, the philosophy and human wisdom
they put into the mouths of their heroes, and the boy or girl who does not
become acquainted with these great creators during school days is likely
never to know them, because he forms a taste for reading of a more
ephemeral nature, and he may go through life a devourer of books, yet be
only half educated.
Why is it that so many young people never look at the English classics
after they leave high school, and would rather spend a morning at hard
labor than in reading As You Like It or A Midsummer Night’s Dream?
Because too much attention was given to the dissecting process when they
studied these plays. Instead of being taught to see the beautiful and finished
creation of some master, they were made to see the skeleton and to pull it to
pieces. Some teachers assign a certain number of pages or paragraphs or
stanzas for a lesson, and the pupils look up the words in the dictionary,
point out the figures of speech, and scan the lines. Sometimes the teacher
reads the assignment when it is made. Sometimes children dramatize it after
they have torn it into shreds, or write a paraphrase. But the heart and soul of
the masterpiece, the sheer beauty of it, are considered least of all, and
students end by heartily hating something that they might have enjoyed and
loved. Yet people wonder why the average American has so little
appreciation of good literature, and think something is wrong with young
folk who, after a high-school course in English, will read nothing but
popular novels. There is nothing whatsoever the matter with the boys and
girls. They simply follow the bent of all human beings and steer from the
unpleasant toward the pleasant. They go to the books of the day that they
can understand, because much of our great literature, presented as it is,
means nothing to them. Less fortunate than youths of fifty years ago, they
are not forced to read good books if they read at all. There are verdant, if
less beautiful, meadows on every side where they may browse, and into
them they go.

It is infinitely better that a child’s school life provide him with a capacity
for the enjoyment of literature than that he have a technical knowledge of a
few pieces of literature, because the latter endows him with a narrow,
academic viewpoint, while the former makes possible a future growth,
without a capacity for which life must be narrow and one-sided. A boy or
girl may know that Shakespeare wrote Twelfth Night or Macbeth, that
Milton created “The Hymn to the Nativity” or Shelley “The Skylark,” be
able to paraphrase each and analyze the sentences that comprise them, and
not be a bit better fitted for life than he would be without that knowledge.
But he is better equipped for life if he has acquired a capacity for the
enjoyment of literature, so that to read a great book gives him pleasure or
causes him to respond with sympathy, and the English teacher who does not
develop this capacity in children has failed in his function.
The approach to the great field of literature must be through specific
examples, just as the approach to an understanding of art or architecture
must be through the canvases of Raphael, Cimabue, or Giotto, or the
temples that were the triumphs of Egyptian, Babylonian, or Hellenic
builders. But if they are to be enjoyed, acquaintance with these specific
examples must be made in a pleasurable manner. They first must be beheld
in a perspective that gives glimpses of them as complete and beautiful
wholes, and not through the detailed workmanship of architrave or abacus
or by focusing the attention on the massing of figures according to square or
triangular outline. And just as the understanding and enjoyment of one great
structure or painting give added interest to every other one, so, in the realm
of literature, each masterpiece enjoyed gives capacity for the enjoyment of
every other masterpiece met with in the future. Therefore the story, because
it is a means of flashing the entire structure on the screen and making it
possible for children to see the completed whole in all its beauty, is the
English teacher’s most valuable tool.
Take Evangeline as an example. Most children leave school knowing that
Longfellow wrote that poem, and that Evangeline lost her lover on the
wedding day and spent the remainder of her life seeking him. But you
cannot coax them to read the poem again because of the memory of the
time when they studied it. And the pity of it is that there is no work of
American literature so appealing to boys and girls in the adolescent period
as Evangeline, if it is presented wisely.

Before they are asked to study it, if the story of the Acadian girl is told
sympathetically and feelingly they are touched by its pathos and fired by
the idealism of its characters, and they feel the charm of life in the quaint
old village of Grand Pré. If, before they are told to read it, they have gone
with the heroine through the magic of the narrator’s picturing, in her
wanderings over mountain and lowland, into Indian camp and sequestered
mission, living among strange peoples and sleeping by strange fires, they
will read it with enthusiasm. It will become a joy instead of a burden,
because they will have felt something of what was in the heart of the poet
who wrote it, and not merely what appeared on the printed page.
Besides the main thread of the story, there are many sub-stories that, if
told in connection with the poem, will add to the child’s enjoyment and
understanding of it. Sometimes a name is rich in story material, yet often it
is passed over with nothing more than a definition found in the pronouncing
gazetteer, and a golden opportunity is lost.
Take, for instance, the line, “Now in the Tents of Grace of the gentle
Moravian missions.” There is a footnote in most editions stating, “This
refers to the Moravian mission of Gnädenhütten.” But what does that
signify to children, since there were many missions in those early days? But
if they are told of how the Moravians came from the distant German
mountains to plant the tree of their faith in the Western wilds, they grow
interested. They are fascinated as the tale goes on, picturing how these
simple folk founded a mission in the woods of Ohio, which they named
“Gnädenhütten” or “Tents of Grace,” and telling how a massacre occurred
there in 1790, not savages killing off whites, but a band of marauding
British troops slaughtering Christianized Indians as they toiled peacefully in
their cornfields. Then, as Evangeline roams over the Southwest, into the
bayou country of Louisiana, if pictures of the early life there are painted
vividly by the story-teller, if she gives some of the events of old Creole
days, the children will look forward to the Evangeline period.
This same method will add enjoyment to the study of other pieces of
literature. The Courtship of Miles Standish, aside from the main plot, is rich
in stories from the Bible. The children should look up these allusions, but
the teacher should put life into them by giving the story. In fact, there is no
piece of literature studied below the high school, or even during the early
part of the high-school course, that cannot be presented with splendid

results through the story-telling method. The concrete precedes the abstract
in the order in which selections are considered, those through which a story
thread runs being given in advance of the essay or treatise. By making the
most of this story thread, literature study will become pleasurable and bring
splendid response from the children. It requires effort and preparation, but it
pays. It is worth much to the teacher who loves good literature, to look back
over the years and think of the children she has led to appreciate and enjoy
it. It is a tremendous satisfaction to have boys come back long after leaving
her schoolroom and seek her out, because through her they learned to know
something of the comfort that is to be found in good old books. One
teacher, speaking of her experience, said: “It made all the effort seem richly
worth while, when a broad-shouldered, sun-burned man went three hundred
miles out of his way to see me on a home visit to America, and thank me for
having led him to enjoy poetry.” As a boy he became intensely interested in
The Lady of the Lake because his teacher gave the stories of Fitz-James and
Roderick Dhu and of the clan life of the Highlands, and a pocket edition of
Scott was a source of comfort to him during a surveying expedition in the
wilds of West Australia, and took away the loneliness of nights spent by a
camp fire with no companions save the native woodmen. He had learned to
know Scott during his boyhood, and the capacity for enjoyment acquired
through that association was a priceless possession to the man. If more
teachers realized that story-telling is a direct road to the understanding of
literature, and that it has its place in grammar and high-school grades as
much as in the kindergarten, there would be less drudgery for them and
more satisfying results.

Some Authors and Selections That Can Be Presented through the
Story-Telling Method

Browning: Hervé Riel (Give picture of life of sailors on the
Breton coast. Hervé Riel was so accustomed to taking
fishing boats through the passage that the piloting of
the ship did not seem any feat to him); How They
Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix; An
Incident of the French Camp; The Pied Piper of
Hamelin (Tell how the poet came to write this work—
to entertain a child who was visiting him).

Bryant: The White-footed Deer; The Woodman and the
Sandal Tree; The Donkey and the Mocking Bird, and
other poems from the Spanish.
Dickens: Little Nell (Old Curiosity Shop); Tiny Tim
(Christmas Carol); Nicholas Nickleby; David
Copperfield, and other child characters of Dickens.
George Eliot: Maggie Tulliver Cutting her Hair, Maggie
Running Away to Live with the Gypsies, Tom and the
Ferrets (The Mill on the Floss); Silas Marner and Little
Eppie (Silas Marner).
Irving: Legend of Sleepy Hollow (The Sketch Book); The
Governor and the Notary (Other stories from Tales from
the Alhambra); The Life and Voyages of Christopher
Columbus (Many chapters in this contain fascinating
stories, which if told to the children will lead them to
read the work); Rip Van Winkle (The Sketch Book)
(Tell also the German story of Peter Claus, from which
Irving drew his inspiration to write this tale; also the
Chinese story, “The Feast of Lanterns,” the hero of
which is an oriental Rip Van Winkle).
Kingsley: How They Took the Gold Train (Westward Ho!);
Water Babies; Hypatia.
Longfellow: Evangeline; Courtship of Miles Standish;
Hiawatha; King Robert of Sicily; St. Francis’ Sermon
to the Birds (Tell story of St. Francis of Assisi); Paul
Revere’s Ride; The Emperor’s Bird’s Nest; Walther von
der Vogelweide (In this connection tell story of Walther
and the Minnesingers. Story can be found in Pan and
His Pipes, and Other Stories, Victor Talking Machine
Company).
Southey: Inchcape Rock; Bishop Hatto and the Mouse
Tower; The Well of St. Keyne.
Stevenson: Treasure Island; Kidnapped; Island Nights’
Entertainment.

Tennyson: The Holy Grail (This poem is beyond the
understanding of boys and girls of grammar grades, or
even early high-school years, but they may be
familiarized with portions of it, and the Grail story is a
wonderful one to give them. It should include also the
tale of “Parsifal” and “Lohengrin,” as related by
Wolfram von Eschenbach and Wagner).

This list is in no way comprehensive, but the wide-awake teacher will
find it suggestive of a much longer one, which is as much as the author of a
single text-book may hope for.

Sources of Material to Lead to an Appreciation of Literature

Lamb, Charles and Mary: Tales from Shakespeare.
Lang, Jeanie: Stories from Shakespeare Told to the Children.
Sweetser, Kate D.: Boys and Girls from George Eliot; Boys
and Girls from Thackeray; Ten Boys from Dickens.
Swinton, William, and Cathcart, George R.: Book of Tales
from Fine Authors.

CHAPTER NINE
Story-Telling to Awaken an Appreciation of Music

The public school aims not only to give boys and girls a training that
shall equip them with ability to gain a livelihood and provide for their
material wants, but to give them resources within themselves from which to
draw pleasure, broaden and deepen the emotional powers, enrich the soul
by endowing it with capacity to respond to the beautiful and fine, and make
them more sympathetic toward the joys and sorrows of their fellows. That is
why the curriculum includes a course in music, drawing, and subjects that
are branches of a great art. We do not expect to make professional

musicians or painters of all the children who receive instruction, but aim to
give the average child, the one who will grow to be an average, ordinary
man, an appreciation of the things that give color and beauty to life and
make him richer in mind and happier.
Taste is formed by what is heard in youth, and the child whose early
years are associated with ragtime grows to be a devotee of ragtime, while
he who hears the music of the masters becomes a man who loves great
music. This is why the average European has a knowledge and love of
melody that amazes Americans. He has heard good music from infancy. It is
sung in the public meeting places of his town and whistled in the streets.
The gamin of Naples, Rome, and Venice knows the arias from the operas as
well as American children know their national anthem, and Verdi, Donizetti,
and Rossini are more than names to him. He has heard their melodies from
infancy, and his father or uncle or some street story-teller has familiarized
him with the plots of their librettos. He knows something of the artists who
sing the rôles, also, because the tailor and the barber and the baker not
infrequently go to hear them, and they are a topic of conversation in the
home. Here in America we have not had such opportunities. With us the
opera and the symphony orchestra are exotics which only a minority has
been trained to enjoy, and consequently we cannot be regarded as a musical
people.
It is natural that this should be so, because, as compared with Continental
lands, we are very young, and youth cannot hope to compete with maturity.
But artistic standards in the United States are being raised steadily. Most of
our great cities now have symphony orchestras and a season of opera, while
the municipal band concert is part of the life of comparatively small towns,
and the programs are of a higher order than formerly. We are on the upward
move, and meanwhile every leader of children should do his part in the
great work of helping to elevate the national musical standard.
The schools are doing something, but not enough, because much of the
instruction they give is of a technical nature, and although pupils can read
in several keys and beat time correctly, it does not follow that they are
acquiring a capacity for the enjoyment of good music. Until one has
sufficient mental development to understand something of the price that
must be paid for artistic success, much attention to the technical vitiates
interest in music, just as the dissecting method of study kills interest in

literature. Many teachers make more of an effort to have children learn to
read music than they do to have them enjoy it, and this close attention to the
mechanics of the art makes the music period burdensome instead of
enjoyable. Before the child can see any incentive in learning do—re—mi,
he must hear and enjoy music and must understand that do—re—mi is a
key that will unlock gates into larger fields of enjoyment. Because the hour
is replete with drudgery rather than joy, the discipline of the music class is
often a good deal of a problem, and although it is not an ideal condition, it
exists more frequently than most people realize. A teacher whose class
distinguished itself in sight singing at an institute, was asked how she made
its members so proficient.
“Simply by keeping a strap on my desk and using it about every seven
minutes,” she replied; “and those who did not have actual contact with it
kept straight because they knew it was there.”
This is perhaps an extreme case, but the school-rooms in which the music
lesson is a period of nervous strain for both teacher and pupils are
numerous, and it is not strange that sometimes trustees question whether it
might not be well to eliminate music from the list of public-school subjects.
An adage of the old Italian school of vocalists, whose methods have
given so many glorious songsters to the world, was, “To sing, you must be
happy,” and one of the most celebrated prima donnas of today attributes a
large measure of her success to the fact that during childhood her mother
had the wisdom never to make music burdensome by forcing her to it, but
played for her and sang to her without stint, giving her countless
opportunities of hearing music and leading her to love it. Then when she
began formal study at twelve, her teacher did not harass her with exercises,
but gave simple songs that she liked to sing, songs chosen to give her voice
the exercise it needed and to appeal to the natural love of melody.
We might well apply this plan to our public-school music, and arrange
courses so that children will hear much good music, even if the amount of
technical work has to be greatly lessened. It is here that the story may do its
far-reaching work in helping to make the music period pleasurable to the
children and causing them to respond with keener pleasure to a higher
standard of music.

Many narrators exclaim, “It is not possible for me to lead children to
appreciate the great music when I do not know the great music myself.”
But it is possible. Of course it is easier for one who is familiar with the
masterpieces of melody to lead children to them than for one who is not;
but even though the mother or teacher was not in her own childhood
familiar with Mozart or Mendelssohn, she can bring children to appreciate
these artists because the talking machine has made it possible. She need not
try to acquaint them with the technical terms, and mechanics of music, but
she can arouse an interest that is the twin sister of inspiration, and she can
do it in such a way that every minute devoted to the work is filled with
delight. She can tell the life story of some great composer and familiarize
the child with selections from his work that will guide him away from the
cheap and tawdry. She can give him incidents connected with the
composition of musical gems, and a glimpse into the great treasure house of
musical literature that will cause him to want to know more of the
achievements of the immortal melody makers. It is not necessary that one
be a musician in order to do this. Most schools and many homes are now
supplied with talking machines, and the records manufactured by the
different companies bring masterpieces within the reach of all. Even the
catalogs are rich in suggestion, and following the cues supplied by them, a
little thought and labor will bring most gratifying results. Almost all the
great composers had eventful childhoods, and the early days of
Mendelssohn, Mozart, Bach, Haydn, Handel, Beethoven, Chopin, Verdi,
Wagner, and many others are rich in incidents that children enjoy hearing.
These biographies, sources for which are listed in the appended
bibliography (page 94), if told in story form and followed by selections
from the artist’s works, will make an impression and arouse an interest as
nothing else can do. Do not, however, make the mistake of beginning with
the man and leading down to his childhood. Begin with his early years and
lead up to his achievements. The child will become interested in the man
only through his childhood, because children are near his own interests,
while adults are not. Many inexperienced story-tellers do not understand
this, and are disappointed in their failure to hold their little hearers. This
was demonstrated not long ago in a university course in story-telling. An
incident in the childhood of Mozart was to be given in story form to
introduce some of that composer’s works to a group of children. Eighty per
cent of the five hundred preparing the paper began thus: “When the great

Mozart was a little boy.” That introduction meant nothing to the children,
because they did not know “the great Mozart,” and were not interested in
strange men. But they were intensely interested in hearing about a child
who long, long ago was sailing down the Danube with his father and sister
Marianne and was very much distressed because the father would have to
pay duty on the harp they carried and therefore, when they reached Vienna,
Marianne could not have a new dress that she sadly needed. Little eyes
sparkled and little hands clapped when the children heard how, as they
reached the customhouse of the Austrian capital, young Wolfgang asked his
father if he might play something on the harp, and his rendition so delighted
and amazed the officials that the duty was waived and Marianne was
shabbily clad no longer.
There are many musical stories besides those of lives of the composers
that should be given to children: tales of the violin makers of Cremona, the
minnesingers, the troubadours, the meistersingers, Pan and his pipes, Apollo
and the lyre, David and the harp, King Alfred and the harp, the harp at Tara,
the Crusaders bringing some stringed instruments into Europe, the
development of the orchestra, the evolution of the harp from the bended
bow of the early tribesmen, and the making of the piano. Stories of some of
the operas, especially those based on the legends of the Grail and the
Rhinegold, are delightful tales to give to children.
A good way to introduce children to a composer is by combining the
story of his life with selections from his work, as in the following story
about Schubert. This method may be applied to the study of any composer.
Libraries are rich in materials, and the talking-machine companies bring the
music within the reach of all; so there is no reason why the story-teller
should not do his part in making our nation a music-loving land, as well as
give pleasure to the children under his guidance.
“Whoever puts a beautiful thought or melody into the world,” writes an
Indian poet, “gives more than a diamond of Golconda.” Whoever helps a
child to understand and enjoy beautiful thoughts and melodies, gives in
almost as great a measure as their creator. He too is a builder, leaving
behind him something fit to stand, and labor of that kind does not go
unrequited.

A BOY OF OLD VIENNA

Little Franz could hardly wait for the sun to rise. He had lain awake all
night thinking of what morning would bring, and it seemed as if the long,
dark hours would never end. But now it was dawn, and he knew that very
soon the sun would gild the hilltops, and then the thing of which he had
dreamed for days would come to pass.
“Are you up, Franz?” his mother called from below.
“Yes,” he answered cheerily, “up and dressing.”
The mother smiled at him as he ran down into the kitchen, for she knew
how eagerly he had looked forward to this day. Josef, the kindly neighbor,
had promised to take him that very morning to a warehouse where many
fine pianos were kept, and he would spend hours among the beautiful
instruments there. No wonder he was glad! The one his father provided for
him was cheap and harsh, for Herr Schubert was just a poor schoolmaster
and had few coins to spend for anything besides food and clothing. But that
did not keep Franz from doing wonders with his music. He learned all he
could from his brothers, and worked away at the poor piano because he
could not help it. Now that he was soon to touch the keyboard of a really
splendid instrument, he felt like a prince in a fairy tale.
They went out of the house and along the dingy street in which the
Schuberts lived. Across the Danube they passed by the old stone bridge that
led to the Ringstrasse, then northward into that part of the city where the
warehouses stood. Groups of citizens in holiday attire hurried by, and now
and then some great lord or lady in a fine carriage passed them on the way
to worship at St. Stephen’s. But Franz thought only of reaching the
warehouse, and he walked so fast that Josef, who was short and fat, began
to grow red in the face and pant, and he was quite as glad as the boy when
they reached the building.
Franz lost no time in getting to a piano. Sunday comes just once a week,
and another would not come for seven long days. He sat down at one of the
lovely instruments, playing and singing as if nothing in the world mattered
so much as music. He was only eleven years old, and boys of that age
usually want to be out with others, engaged in the sports and games boys
love. But not so with Franz Schubert. He was happiest at his music. He
played and played and was so busy that he did not see a stranger come into
the warehouse or hear his voice in earnest conversation with Josef.

“You say he has had no music masters?” the man asked wonderingly.
Josef shook his head. “None but his brothers, Ignace and Ferdinand, and
once, for a very short time, his father sent him to a singing tutor. But he said
he could teach him nothing, for when he thought to give him something
new he found he had learned it already.”
“Surely he is a wonder child,” the stranger remarked. “Be sure to tell his
father to bring him tomorrow and we will try him.”
Then he passed out, but Franz did not see him. Nor did he know a word
that had been spoken until on the way home, when Josef told him that the
emperor’s choirmaster had passed by and was so pleased with his singing
and playing that he wanted him in the royal choir.
So little Franz Schubert became a choir boy, and the master wondered
more and more that one so young could know so much of music.
Then he went to a boys’ school. His clothes were not very fine, for he
was poor. But he wore the best he had, a light gray suit that was far from
handsome. Some of the richer boys thought it funny and nicknamed him
“the miller.” But when Franz passed the severe singing examination so well
that he was given one of the gold-braided honor uniforms, they did not
tease him again. No one else did as well in the orchestra as the little
Schubert lad. No one else sang as understandingly as he, and his master and
fellow students, like the royal choirmaster, called him a wonder child.
Every boy in the school liked him, and Franz liked them all too, but
especially a young man named Spaun. And Spaun’s name is remembered to
this day just because once upon a time he was kind to little Franz Schubert.
He was almost twenty when Franz was but eleven, but they were jolly
companions and the best of friends.
One day Franz said, “If I had some paper I know I could write a song.”
But paper he had not, because his father could not afford to buy it. Spaun
always had a little money to spend, however, so Franz got the paper and
wrote the song, and after that his friend supplied him with writing material.
He enjoyed doing it because he liked the lad, but he did not realize that it
would mean much to the world. It did mean a great deal, however, for some
of the songs Franz wrote during his school days are still sung as among the

sweetest in the world, and perhaps but for Spaun’s paper they might not
have been written.
Well, Franz grew up just as other boys grow, and still he went on loving
music and working at it, playing and writing songs. Almost everything he
read or saw made him think of a melody, and every melody that formed in
his brain was beautiful.
One evening he went into a restaurant in Vienna for his dinner. He had a
small copy of Shakespeare in his pocket, and as he waited to be served he
took it out and read. His eye fell upon the lines:

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
And Phœbus ’gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies.

They made him think of a song, and he looked about for paper upon
which to write it. He asked the waiter to get him a piece, but the waiter
could find nothing but a bill of fare. Schubert took that and wrote his
melody, and when Shakespeare’s words were sung to it, the song sounded
like this:
[At this point in the story run a record of “Hark, hark the lark.”]
Another time he was passing through a poor quarter of Vienna and heard
a peasant serenading a girl. Schubert did not think the song a very pretty
one, and he went home and wrote one that he liked better. This is how it
sounds:
[Record of “The Serenade.”]
When Franz Schubert was a little child, he heard his father tell an old
German story. It was called “The Erl King” and was about a witchlike
creature who was supposed to take children from their parents. Franz
always remembered it, and after he grew to manhood and read Goethe’s
poem, “The Erl King,” a friend told him how the master came to write it.
One wild winter night the poet was visiting in the home of a physician and a
man came riding through the storm, seeking help for the child he had with
him. The little fellow was delirious with fever and kept clinging to his
father, crying and begging him not to let the Erl King take him away. The

incident affected Goethe so deeply that he wrote the poem, and Schubert,
hearing the story, was so touched by it that he composed wonderful music
to go with the master’s words.
[Record of “The Erl King.”]
Another poem of Goethe’s that he read told of a wild rose growing on a
heath. A boy saw the rose and said, “I will pluck you.” The rose said, “No,
no. If you do I will prick you.” The foolish boy laughed and picked the rose,
and it kept its word. This is the song Schubert made of the poem:
[Record of “Hedge Roses.”]
So you see that almost everything made Franz Schubert think of music.
He wrote many, many songs and much other music, and although it is
almost a hundred years since he died, his name and his works will live as
long as men love melody. The greatest singers in the world use his songs
over and over because rich and poor alike love them, and whenever singers
want to be very sure of pleasing they sing some of the songs of him who
was once a boy in old Vienna, Franz Schubert.

Sources of Material to Awaken an Appreciation of Music

Barber: Wagner Opera Stories.
Bender: Some Great Opera Stories (General Operas).
Cather, Katherine Dunlap: Pan and His Pipes and Other
Stories; Boyhood Stories of Famous Men.
Chapin, Anna Alice: The Heart of Music; Makers of Song;
Stories of the Wagner Operas; The Story of the
Rhinegold.
Crowest, Frederick James: The Life of Verdi.
Dole, Nathan Haskell: A Score of Famous Composers.
Dutton Company: The Master Musician Series.
Fryberger, Agnes: Listening Lessons in Music.
Guerber, Helène A.: Stories of the Wagner Operas.

Hensel, Sebastian: The History of the Mendelssohn Family.
Liszt, Franz: Life of Chopin.

Pictures to Use in Telling Musical Stories

Beyschlag: Orpheus and Eurydice.
Borckman: Mozart and His Sisters before Maria Theresa;
Beethoven and the Rusmnowsky Quartette.
Carlo Dolci: St. Cecilia at the Organ.
Duncan: Story of Minstrelsy.
Giulio Romano: Apollo and the Muses.
Hamman: Mozart at Vienna; Preludes of Bach; Haydn
Crossing the English Channel; Handel and George I of
England.
Harpfer: Mozart at the Organ.
Leydendecker: Beethoven at Bonn.
Merle: Beethoven at the House of Mozart.
Rosenthal: Morning Prayers in the Family of Bach.
Schloesser: Beethoven in His Study.
Schneider: Mozart and His Sister.
Shields: Mozart Singing His Requiem.
Portraits of all the great musicians.[1]

[1] Brown, Perry, or Cosmos Pictures, or they may be obtained from Victor
Talking Machine Company, especially the living artists.

CHAPTER TEN
Story-Telling to Awaken an Appreciation of Art

The child who is surrounded by good pictures from his earliest years
grows to love good pictures, and gaudily colored, cheap ones have no
charm for him. His taste has been formed for the fine and true, and nothing
else will satisfy him. To behold a beautiful painting gives him pleasure,
while to see a glaring chromo produces an unpleasant sensation. This is not
because he is different by nature from one to whom masterpieces have no
meaning, but because he has learned to know them.
Here again we have one of the striking differences between the average
American and the average European. The Italian, French, Austrian, or
German laborer sees masterpieces from infancy. His earliest recollection of
religious worship is associated with them. Every continental town has its art
gallery or picture exhibit, and on certain days there is no admission fee. The
laborer avails himself of this opportunity. On Sunday, when he is free from
toil, he makes a festival of the occasion and takes his family to some park
or place of amusement, and very frequently the jaunt includes a trip to the
picture gallery. Consequently, even the children of those lands have a
knowledge of the masterpieces of art far surpassing that of the average adult
American.
In most respects the Italian street gamin does not differ from the
guttersnipe of our own land, but in one he is vastly his superior. He knows
the free days at the galleries as well as he knows the alleys of his native
town, and is a liberal patron of such places on those occasions. I once made
the acquaintance of a little chap in Rome who was an excellent guide. He
piloted me among the treasures of the Vatican with the ease and security
that bespeaks thorough knowledge, for he had been there so often that he
knew in just which rooms or alcoves to find his favorites. He knew much of
the artists, too, of their lives and times, their discouragements and
successes. Yet this Roman street boy was no exception to his class. Along
the Piazza di Spagna, in fact, on any of the highways, are dozens like him,
rich in knowledge of the statues and fountains that glorify the streets and
parks of the Holy City. The names of Brunelleschi, Michelangelo, Fra
Angelico, Giotto, and those other men who built or carved or painted with
marvelous power, are fraught with meaning to them, and it is not strange

that it should be so. Children in Italy have grown up among beautiful
things. For centuries beauty has been almost a religion to this joy-loving,
sun-loving race, and the country of the Apennines, as Francis Hopkinson
Smith says, is the one place in the world where a song or a sunset is worth
more than a soldo. Consequently, the Italians are a nation of art lovers. Each
individual regards the masterpieces as his property, and the reason the
Italian people hate the memory of Napoleon is not only that he conquered
parts of their land, but that he robbed Italy of some of her art treasures.
These were things they and their fathers had seen and loved, and they could
not forgive the vandal who carried them away, even after the wound left by
the victor had ceased to rankle.
Here in America we have not had the opportunity of the average
European, but already we have made a beginning, and we now possess a
number of art galleries that deserve the name. At the present time these are
found only in the large cities, but they are helping to form national
standards. Meanwhile every worker with children ought to try to lead those
intrusted to his care to a knowledge and appreciation of great pictures.
It is not enough to place reproductions of masterpieces in schools and
homes and say nothing about them. If children are to have an appreciation
of them, they must be led to see their beauty, to understand what they mean,
to have some idea of the infinite patience and labor that made their creation
possible. The child of an artistic bent will observe and study them without
aid or guidance and unconsciously grow into loving them, because beauty
in any form attracts him as a magnet draws a bar of steel. But teachers and
parents do not work solely with budding genius, and in the great scheme of
human advancement it may mean as much for many average children to
appreciate and love art, as for one who is gifted to reach immortal heights
of achievement. The average child must be led and directed. His interest
must be aroused before we can hope to mold his taste as we would have it
molded. He must be taught to see that a Gainsborough is more beautiful
than an advertising chromo, that a face by Raphael is the expression of an
inspiration that is almost divine. Only through an association that gives
pleasure will he come to see and appreciate, and here again story-telling can
work wonders, because through it we can intensify a child’s delight in a
picture.

In the field of art the biographical tale is of immeasurable value, for the
story of an artist’s life, illustrated by reproductions of his works, can be
made the pathway to appreciation.
In establishing standards of art appreciation, as well as those of music,
we must not lose sight of the story interests of childhood, because many a
picture that is a great artistic achievement is not suitable to present to little
children. The “Venus and Cupid” of Velasquez is a glorious masterpiece,
but we cannot expect little folk to admire it any more than we can expect
those in the rhythmic period to listen to a King Arthur story and ask to hear
it again. As the little child does not know Venus and Cupid, a portrayal of
them means nothing to him. But he does know horses and dogs and cats. He
knows other children and babies and mothers, and therefore he enjoys
pictures of animal and child life and will be interested in hearing about their
portrayers.
Sir Joshua Reynolds is an excellent artist to begin with, because his best
work is built around themes dear to the heart of childhood. His “Age of
Innocence,” “Infant Samuel,” “Robinetta,” “Heads of Angels,”
“Simplicity,” and “The Strawberry Girl” are ideal works to present to the
small child, and this painter’s early years make a charming story.
Sir Edwin Landseer is another artist with whom we can acquaint little
children, through the following works: “Uncle Tom and His Wife for Sale,”
“Low Life and High Life,” “Dignity and Impudence,” “A Distinguished
Member of the Humane Society,” “The Sick Monkey,” “King Charles
Spaniels,” and many other paintings, all of which will be loved by children
because they love the subjects.
Rosa Bonheur and her paintings should be used in this period. Children
are especially fond of “The Horse Fair,” “Coming from the Fair,” “Brittany
Sheep,” “Highland Cattle,” and “A Norman Sire.” In fact, everything this
painter created, like all the work of Landseer, is fraught with interest to the
child, because she was solely a portrayer of animal life.
An artist of whom little folk have been taught almost nothing is
Gainsborough. Usually we think of him only as a portrait painter, because
in America his likenesses of women are better known than his other
pictures. But it is a mistake to associate him only with “the dashing,
smashing hats worn by the Duchess of Devonshire.” Until recently only

Americans who had traveled in England had an opportunity of seeing or
knowing the greater part of this artist’s other work, because the British
copyright law protected much of it in such a way that cheap prints could not
be made. Now, however, it is possible to get good reproductions of these
long-protected Gainsboroughs at a very reasonable price. Most valuable of
the works of this artist to use with little children are the following: “The
Market Cart,” “The Watering Place,” “Two Dogs,” “Rustic Children,” and
“Study of an Old Horse.”
Murillo is an ideal painter to introduce to the little child, because his
childhood story is as fascinating as his creations are glorious. Children
never tire of hearing about this joyous little Spanish boy, and of the time
when he transformed the family picture, turning the halo of the Christ-child
into a gorgeous sombrero, and making a dog of the sheep. As they laugh or
sympathize with the wonder child of Seville and feel something of the
charm of life in that old city, its street children, immortalized on canvas by
its most illustrious son, become comrades because little Bartolome
sometimes played with them and big Bartolome painted them. There is a
long list of this master’s works from which to choose, but the following are
particularly enjoyed: “Mother and Child,” “The Adoration of the
Shepherds,” “St. John and the Lamb,” “The Melon Eaters,” “The Dice
Players,” “Beggar Boys,” “The Good Shepherd,” “The Marriage of St.
Catherine,” and “The Immaculate Conception.” No attempt should be made
to interpret the two last-named pictures. Familiarize little people with them
and lead them to see their beauty, but waive all idea of religious symbolism
until years bring maturity of thought and the child makes his own
interpretation.
All Madonna pictures are interesting to little children, so by all means
acquaint them with Raphael, the king. Let them drink in the beauty of “The
Sistine Madonna,” “The Madonna of the Chair,” “The Madonna of the
Goldfinch,” and as many others as can be obtained. The story of Raphael
belongs more properly in the intermediate period than in the very early one,
because so little is known of this painter’s life before he began his career.
Just tell the children of the little boy who lived in far-away Urbino long,
long ago. His mother died when he was a wee little fellow, and he lived
alone with his father, who was very kind to him. Instead of playing much,
as the other children did, he loved to sit and listen to stories about saints and

good people who lived before his time. He loved to draw pictures, too, and
when he grew to be a man he became a wonderful painter.
Closely following Raphael may come Correggio, through his “Holy
Night,” “Repose in Egypt,” and “Cherubs.”
Van Dyck, too, may be made familiar to little children. From his works
choose “Children of Charles I” and several details from this picture—“Baby
Stuart,” “Charles II,” and “Henrietta.” But present first the complete
picture, so that when “Baby Stuart” is seen the children will know that it is
only part of a painting. Many a grown person does not realize that it is a
detail from another work, and this fact should be understood by every child
who sees the royal baby. Other works by this artist suitable to introduce to
tiny people are “The Repose in Egypt,” “Madonna and Child,” and “The
Donators.”
There are many painters whose pictures will be enjoyed by children of
from five to eight, and the teacher or parent who knows art and art literature
can choose for himself, keeping always in mind the story interests. To those
who have little or no knowledge of art, yet who want to lead children along
this path, the following list will be helpful:

Artists and Paintings That Can Be Presented to Young Children
through the Story-Telling Method

Adam: Kittens; Wide Awake; The Hungry Quartette; In the
Boudoir.
Botticelli: Adoration of the Magi; The Holy Family.
Bouguereau: Virgin and Angels; Virgin, Infant Jesus, and St.
John; Going Home from School; The Flight into Egypt.
Delaroche: The Finding of Moses; Children of Edward IV.
Greuze: The Broken Pitcher; Innocence; Head of Girl with
Apple.
Herring: Pharaoh’s Horses; Three Members of the
Temperance Society; The Village Blacksmith;
Farmyard.

Vigée Lebrun: Marie Antoinette and Children; Girl with
Muff; Mother and Daughter.
Millet: Feeding the Hens; Feeding Her Birds; The First
Step; Feeding the Nestlings.
Luca della Robbia: Singing Boys; Trumpeters and Dancing
Boys; Dancing Boys with Cymbals; Children Dancing
to Fife and Tambor; Madonna, Child, and Saints.
Rubens: Portrait of his Wife and Children; The Holy Family;
Infant Christ, St. John, and Angels; The Virgin under an
Apple Tree; The Adoration of the Magi.

Children of the intermediate period enjoy the works of the great
landscape painters, Claude Lorrain, Corot, Breton, and others who
portrayed the woods and fields, especially when they know something of
the childhood of these men. In this period, too, they should become better
acquainted with some of the artists they have already met. Add to the
interest previously created in Raphael by taking up such works as
“Madonna of the Fish,” “Madonna of the Well,” and “Madonna of the
Diadem.” In telling the story of his life use Ouida’s beautiful tale, “The
Child of Urbino,” which is so exquisitely told that there is nothing lovelier
in literature. Show the children his portrait of himself, his “St. Catherine,”
“St. Cecilia,” “St. John in the Desert,” “Peter and John at the Beautiful
Gate,” and “The Miraculous Draught of Fishes.”
Add to the interest already created in Rubens by taking up his “Portrait of
Himself,” “The Flight of Lot,” and the paintings illustrating the life of
Maria de’ Medici.
Pictures representing the Crucifixion, the Descent from the Cross, and
the Entombment, no matter how glorious they may be as works of art,
should not be presented to children. They are too highly religious for
children’s understanding, and the tragedy portrayed in them should not
enter into childhood. The Madonnas and Holy Families may be used freely,
because they portray dear and familiar characters and are saturated with an
atmosphere of happiness that gladdens the child.
The following list will aid those who are not connoisseurs:

Artists and Paintings for Children of the Intermediate Period

Jules Breton: Song of the Lark; The Gleaners; The Reapers;
The Weeders; The Recall of the Gleaners; Blessing the
Wheat; The Vintagers; The End of Labor.
Jacques: The Sheepfold; Pasturage in the Forest; Shepherd
and Sheep.
Millet: The Sower; The Gleaners; The Angelus; The
Grafter; Sheep Shearing; Potato Planting; Bundling
Wheat; Returning to the Farm; Shepherdess Knitting;
Woman Churning; Labor.

There is a twofold reason for introducing children to such painters as
Millet, Breton, and Jacques. Besides giving them a knowledge of the works
of the artists in question and adding to their appreciation of the beautiful, it
will dignify labor in their eyes to learn that it inspired these great creators.
If leaders of the “back to the land” movement would make free use of the
art of the world among children, if during the years when impressions made
are deep and lasting they would tell stories and show pictures that have
been inspired by toilers in the fields, a sentiment would be created that
would tell in results, because of boys and girls having learned to respect
those who till the soil and work with their hands.

Artists and Paintings That Lead to Appreciation of the Beautiful and
to Respect for Labor

Corot: Dance of the Children; Dance of Nymphs;
Landscape with Willows; Paysage; Pond of Ville
d’Avray; The Lake.
Rembrandt: Portrait of Himself; Portrait of His Mother; The
Mill; The Burgomasters.
Troyon: Return to the Farm; Going to Work; Landscape
with Sheep.

Van Dyck (Add to interest already aroused): Henrietta
Maria, Wife of Charles I; William of Orange and Mary
Stuart; Equestrian Portrait of Charles I; Portrait of
Charles I with Groom and Horse.
Velazquez: Portrait of Himself; The Tapestry Weavers;
Prince Balthazar; The Lancers; Equestrian Portrait of
Philip IV; Infanta Maria Theresa.

When children reach the period during which they crave the heroic, when
they are eager for the great epic stories, give them the great paintings that
portray epic and mythological subjects. The following list contains names
of artists and works that children in this stage will enjoy:

Artists and Paintings for the Heroic and Epic Periods

Alma-Tadema: Sappho; Reading from Homer.
Burne-Jones: The Golden Stair; The First Day of Creation;
Second Day of Creation; Third Day of Creation; Fourth
Day of Creation; Fifth Day of Creation; Sixth Day of
Creation; Hope; Circe; Enchantment of Merlin; King
Cophetua and the Beggar Maid; The Furies.
Leighton: Helen of Troy; Captive Andromache; Greek Girls
Playing Ball.
Michelangelo: David; Moses; Saul; The Three Fates;
Jeremiah; Ezekiel; Zachariah; Isaiah; Daniel; Jonas;
The Delphic Sibyl; The Cumæan Sibyl; The Libyan
Sibyl.
Raphael: St. George and the Dragon.
Guido Reni: Jesus and John; St. Michael and the Dragon;
Aurora; Beatrice Cenci; St. Sebastian; The
Annunciation; L’Adorata.
Rossetti: The Sea Spell; The Blessed Damozel; Ancilla
Domini.

Andrea del Sarto: John the Baptist; Virgin in Glory; St.
Agnes; Charity.
Tintoretto: The Forge of Vulcan; Marriage at Cana;
Paradise; Paolo Veronese; Feast at House of Simon;
Feast at House of Levi; Europa and Jupiter.
Titian: John the Baptist; Tribute Money; Titian’s Daughter
Lavinia; Flora; Head of Venus.
Turner (Mythological): Apollo and the Python; Jason in
Search of the Golden Fleece; The Goddess of Discord;
Dido Building Carthage; Ulysses Deriding
Polyphemus. (Historical): Prince of Orange; The Death
of Nelson; Boat’s Crew Recovering an Anchor;
Hannibal and Army Crossing the Alps; The Field of
Waterloo; Agrippina Landing with the Ashes of
Germanicus; The Fighting Téméraire.
Watts: Sir Galahad; Orpheus and Eurydice; Endymion.

General Bibliography of Art Story Material

Bacon, Mary S. H.: Pictures That Every Child Should
Know.
Cather, Katherine Dunlap: Boyhood Stories of Famous
Men.
Collmann, Sophie Marie: Art Talks with Young Folks.
De la Ramée, Louise: Child of Urbino (“Bimbi” Stories).
Ennis, Luna May: Music in Art.
Hartmann, Sadakichi: Japanese Art.
Horne, Olive B., and Scobey, Kathrine L.: Stories of Great
Artists.
Hourticq, Louis: Art in France.
Hurll, Estelle M.: The Madonna in Art.

Menefee, Maud: Child Stories from the Masters.
Sweetser, M. F.: Artist Biographies: Raphael and Leonardo,
Angelo and Titian, Claude Lorrain and Reynolds,
Turner and Landseer, Dürer and Rembrandt, Van Dyck
and Angelico, Murillo and Allston.
Vasari, Giorgio: Lives of the Italian Painters, Sculptors,
and Architects.
Waters, Clara Erskine: Saints in Art; Stories of Art and
Artists.

Sources for Moderate-Priced Reproductions of Masterpieces

The Brown Pictures, Milton Bradley Company, Springfield,
Mass.; Emery School Art Company, Boston, Mass.;
Maison Braun et Cie., New York, N.Y.; Frederick A.
Stokes Company, New York, N.Y. (has American rights
to many pictures); The Perry Pictures, Malden, Mass.;
The Prang Company, New York, N.Y.; The University
Prints, Boston, Mass.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dramatization

Contemporaneous with what may be termed a renaissance in story-telling
is a strong sentiment in favor of dramatization. Child leaders have observed
that children dramatize spontaneously, and that after they have heard a tale
they often play it without suggestion from an older person. They
impersonate the characters, crudely perhaps, but they represent the action
and portray the story as they understand it.
This they do because the dramatic instinct is a universal instinct. We are
all born imitators, and we like to experience the feelings and experiences of
others. That is why the little girl impersonates her mother and takes delight

in dressing in grown-up attire and playing lady. It is what actuates the boy
to play Indian or soldier or fireman. He wants to live through the
experiences of Indians and soldiers and firemen; so he goes into the world
of make-believe and acts the part. During that time he is a larger and a
different personality. He is not a little boy who must go to bed before he
wants to, and must stay inside the yard when he longs to be out on the
highway; he is a grown man in a uniform dashing along on an engine; he is
a mighty chief in feathers and war paint, leading his tribe against the enemy
or speaking words of wisdom around the council fire.
There was a time when this sort of play was believed to be of no value
beyond that of a romp that helped to stretch the muscles, but today there is a
very different attitude toward it. Close observation of children and a more
general knowledge of psychology have brought educators to realize that
imitative play is a big factor in mental development. As the boy
impersonates a fireman or Indian he must choose movements in keeping
with the part and reject those not in keeping with it. He must select and
evaluate, and in doing this he is acquiring a power of discrimination that
will be of great value to him later.
The childhood of many famous men of the past was distinguished by an
unusual amount of imitative play, a free expression of the dramatic instinct.
Goethe, in his memories, speaks lovingly of his early years thus:

From my father I have my stature,
My earnest aim in living;
From little mother, my joyous nature,
My love of story weaving.

Continuing, he tells of the tales he heard, and what they meant to him as
he played them:

Sometimes I was a prince and sometimes a peasant. Now
I was rewarded for being a bountiful and considerate king,
then punished according to the deserts of a wicked and
revengeful giant; and always as I played these parts I was
learning the unchangeable laws of life.

What Goethe learned through acting tales his mother told him, the child
of today is learning as he dramatizes stories, although not always in as great
a measure as was learned by the author of Faust and Werther. But he is
learning according to his ability and within his limitations. When he has
played the part, the laws involved in it become fixed principles with him,
and a big step is taken in the direction of his moral training. Because of a
growing recognition of this truth the present strong interest in dramatization
in schools is becoming general throughout the country. Teachers are
beginning to realize that they can give no more eloquent sermon on
truthtelling than to tell the story of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf,” and then let
the children dramatize it. There is no more effective means of giving a
lesson in contentment than presenting the tale of the pig who thought his
life hard and leading the boys and girls to play it.
Therefore it follows that dramatization should be encouraged, and to be
most far-reaching in its results, it should be done by means of story-telling,
because by proceeding from the story to the action the child creates the play
and makes it his own.
There are many books of plays for children, carefully written and adapted
to their interests in word, style, and theme. But such plays do not mean as
much to the child as those he makes for himself. They are not as much his
own, and consequently they contribute less toward his growth and
development.
The natural way is for the child to hear the story and then act it.
Therefore every story-teller should have in his possession a number of tales
with dramatic possibilities. He should tell one of these vividly and
dramatically, using much dialogue, and then, while it is still fresh in the
minds of the children, encourage them to play it. It is well to use the
published plays also, because there are many excellent ones, but the
narrator should read them over, get the plot, and tell the story, before
putting them into the hands of the children.
Shall dialogue be dictated by the story-teller and the children drilled in
their parts? No. Conversation used in telling the tale will suggest to the
children what to say, and they will make up their own parts. They must be
led and directed, but help from the teacher or leader should be given in such
a way that the children feel they are making the play themselves. Help them

by questions that will lead them to think and act instead of telling them
what to do and say.
Suppose “The Pied Piper of Hamelin” is to be dramatized. After the story
has been told, say to the children, “Do you want to play it?” Of course they
will want to. Then, by questioning, lead them to constructive effort.
How many people shall we need? Immediately the answers will come,
and as the different characters are named make a list, thus getting the cast.
Who can be the mayor, members of the council, the piper, rats, mothers and
fathers, lame boy, etc.?
There will be two divisions, those who are forward, eager to take a
prominent part, and the shy, retiring ones who will not offer. This latter
group must not be ignored, and to draw its members into the work requires
much tact. Sometimes when it is impossible to get a child to take a speaking
part, he can be encouraged to be one of a group of “supers,” as they are
called on the professional stage, because although he lacks the confidence
necessary to make him lift his voice, his diffidence vanishes in doing
pantomime with a number of other children. He will be a rat or a citizen
when he cannot be coaxed or driven into being the piper, and after many
pantomime performances he gains the confidence in himself that enables
him to take a speaking part.
One of the difficulties incident to dramatization in the schoolroom is that
the same children always clamor to take the star parts, and sometimes sulk
if not permitted to do so, or sneer at the efforts of others. This situation
must be met as any other problem in discipline is met, by skill on the part of
the teacher and by inculcating a sense of fairness and courtesy that holds
selfishness in check. Lead the child to see that what gives him pleasure
gives some one else pleasure also, and that it is the right of each member of
the class to experience that pleasure. Once the boy or girl realizes that well-
bred people are considerate and do not deride the efforts of others, no
matter how imperfect their achievement may be, the dramatization period
loses its greatest bugbear and shy children do not hesitate to take part
because of fear that they will be laughed at. This result cannot be brought
about instantly, but persistence and tact will finally accomplish it.
Do not be discouraged because it seems that some of the shy or less
capable children will never take a speaking part. Sometimes even after they

perform in pantomime they still hang back and will speak only in chorus.
But this last is at least a step in the desired direction. Keep working them in
groups, and gradually from group speaking they will advance to individual
speaking. Sometimes this process is slow and discouraging, but the teacher
should remember that mental development is never a mushroom growth,
and that great achievement is not wrought in a day. The marble block yields
so slowly to the shaping of the sculptor’s chisel that sometimes it seems it
never will take the form he visions for it, but ceaseless effort always brings
results. So it is with the teacher in molding human material. Results are sure
to come if persistence and patience are unflagging and faith is deep and
strong. It is worth much for a shy, self-conscious child to grow to the point
where he can lose himself in the rôle of a play, and no matter how crudely
he does it, he should be encouraged and given frequent opportunities to
express himself, because as a means of self-development his crude
performance is of as much value as the artistic one of the talented child,
although it may be less enjoyable to spectators.
With little children especially, it is desirable to use some play whose cast
will include every member of the class. It gives the eager child a chance to
be “in it,” as children say, and makes it easier to draw the diffident child to
participate, because he wants to do what all the others are doing. “The Pied
Piper” is ideal for this, because of the flexibility of groups. There can be
enough rats, parents, children, or council members to include twenty or
forty children, and the larger the groups the more intense the interest.
After the cast is decided upon, plan the scenes, again by questioning the
children. What is the first thing to be done and where is it done? Thus, by
question and suggestion, work up the lines. In other words, have the
children create the parts themselves and they will play them spontaneously.
The production may not be highly artistic, but it will have greater
educational value than one worked out by an adult and merely acted by the
children. After it has been created in this way it may be put into finished
permanent form. Little children may practice it until they memorize the
lines, while those in the grammar grades may write parts, thus making a
play that can be used many times. This sort of work is very valuable, and
may form a composition or language exercise that will be enjoyed by the
class.

Another method is to have the various members suggest lines to be
spoken by the different characters and choose the best for the play.
Sometimes a child who does little in the usual composition work and never
gets a high mark, will suggest an excellent line or sentence, and to have it
go into the play is a tremendous joy to him, especially if he doubts his own
ability. Another plan that makes the class interest keen, is for each member
to plan or write a scene, and without the members knowing the authorship
of the various papers, have them read, and select the best by vote,
whereupon the name of the writer is revealed. This method can be used in
writing parts for one character or for all the characters, and in several other
ways that will be of much value to the children.
Of course the teacher or leader must be the guiding spirit, because a well-
built, correctly proportioned plot is necessary. But her suggestion should be
chiefly by way of question, leaving the children to feel that they, and not the
instructor, are doing the work, although in reality the teacher’s judgment is
the foundation upon which the structure stands, and she must use it in
building the play just as she uses it in telling the story.
For little people there are many stories with dramatic possibilities, some
of which may be acted wholly in pantomime, some with combined
pantomime and spoken parts, and others entirely of spoken parts. In
working with foreign children it is well to begin with pantomime plays, as
the child who knows he cannot express himself easily in English will
always balk at taking a speaking part. Some of Æsop’s fables lend
themselves particularly well to pantomime, especially “The Lion and the
Mouse,” “The Fox and the Grapes,” “The Dog and His Shadow,” and “The
Hare and the Tortoise.” The Dramatic Festival, by Craig, and Festivals and
Plays, by Chubb, give valuable suggestions for pantomime work, as well as
a list of plays adapted to it, and the worker with older children will also find
these books to be excellent guides.
There is an equally large amount of material for dramatic work with older
children. Hiawatha never fails to delight fourth and fifth grade boys and
girls. Robin Hood in dramatic form is loved even more than in story, as are
some of the exploits of King Arthur and his knights and of Pwyll, the hero
of the Mabinogion. Any of these tales may be carried out simply or may be
worked into elaborate performances with costumes and stage settings. If the
latter be the choice, much pleasure and useful experience will come to the

children through making the properties. Any boy who can whittle can
fashion spears and swords, and gold and silver paper is wonderfully
effective in supplying glitter. Does a knight need colored hose to be in
keeping with his doublet? Let him borrow a pair of his mother’s or sister’s
white ones and coat them with blackboard crayon of the desired hue. One
laundering will make them spotless again, and there is no outlay of money
for something that must be discarded at the end of the performance.
Helmets, shields, and pilgrim hats can be made by the manual-training
boys, and girls in the domestic-science class will enjoy sewing the
costumes.
The teacher in the ungraded school is particularly fortunate in
opportunities for this kind of work, because she can correlate it with other
subjects in ways that workers in schools using the departmental system
cannot do. One country teacher had her eighth-grade history class give a
pageant portraying the French exploration in the Mississippi Valley. The
class devoted a term to the preparation; the subject was made the nucleus of
their reading, language, history, and manual work, and the results were most
gratifying. Boys who never had written a readable paper did some
astonishingly good work in composition because of their interest in the play
and their desire to contribute to it, and the standard of class scholarship was
raised, to say nothing of the joy the children derived from it.
Many other historical subjects are equally rich in possibilities. The
Spanish exploration in Florida, the Dutch in New York, the Spanish
settlement of California, the framing and adoption of the Declaration of
Independence, John Smith and Pocahontas, Ponce de Leon seeking the
fountain of youth, the story of Columbus, and many similar themes afford
good opportunities for class play-making and correlation of school subjects.
Sometimes a picture will suggest an entire scene in a dramatization, or
even an entire play; the following are especially good for this purpose:

Bacon: The Burial of Miles Standish.
Balaca: Departure of Columbus from Palos.
Boughton: Pilgrims Going to Church; Pilgrim Exiles; The
Return of the Mayflower; Priscilla.

Kaulbach: The Pied Piper of Hamelin.
Piloty: Columbus on the Deck of the Santa Maria.
Van der Lyn: The Landing of Columbus.

Those wishing to make a specialty of dramatization will find the
following books helpful:

Chubb: Festivals and Plays.
Craig: The Dramatic Festival.
Curtis: The Dramatic Instinct in Education.

The following are excellent stories for dramatic work with little children,
and are included in so many books that they are available to every teacher:

Three Billy Goats Gruff; The Wolf and the Seven Little
Kids; Chicken Little; The Old Woman and Her Pig; The
Pig Brother; The Gingerbread Boy; The Boy Who
Cried Wolf; The Town Musicians; Mother Goose
Rhymes; The Three Bears; The Pancake; The
Discontented Pig.

Many others will be found in the list of story collections for children in
the rhythmic period, and in the bibliography on the following page.

Bibliography of Material for Dramatization

For Primary Grade Children

Bell, Florence E.: Fairy Tale Plays and How to Act Them.
Chadwick, M. L. Pratt-, and Freeman, E. Gray: Chain
Stories and Playlets.
Nixon-Roulet, M. F.: Fairy Tales a Child Can Read and
Act.

Noyes, M. I., and Ray, B. H.: Little Plays for Little People.
Perry, S. G. S.: When Mother Lets Us Act.
Stevenson, Augusta: Children’s Classics in Dramatic Form,
Books 1-3.
Wells, Carolyn: Jolly Plays for Holidays.

For Intermediate Grade Children

Harris, F. J.: Plays for Young People.
Sidgwick, Ethel: Four Plays for Children.
Spofford, Harriet Prescott: The Fairy Changeling.
Stevenson, Augusta: Children’s Classics in Dramatic Form,
Books 4-6.
St. Nicholas Book of Operettas and Plays.

For Grammar Grade Children

Frank: Short Plays about Famous Authors.
Lansing, M. F.: Quaint Old Stories to Read and Act.
Lütkenhaus, A. M., and Knox, Margaret: Plays for School
Children.
Rucker and Ryan: Historical Plays of Colonial Days.

CHAPTER TWELVE
Bible Stories

One of the glaring defects of our modern educational system is that
almost no provision is made for the study of the Bible as a great classic, and
as a result boys and girls complete grammar and high-school courses

without sufficient knowledge of the epic of the Hebrews to enable them to
understand the world’s best literature. The myths of Greece and Rome are
studied because of their cultural value, yet from universities throughout the
country comes the complaint that many of the works of famous authors are
beyond the enjoyment of students because the Biblical allusions have no
meaning for them. What should be as familiar as “Red Riding Hood” and
“Cinderella” is known in name only, and the immortal book is regarded as a
repository of golden texts and maxims instead of as a glorious artistic
creation.
The masses of children know almost nothing of the story of Israel,
because outside of the Sunday school and the exceptional home, it is rarely
told. Yet educators emphasize its need in the intellectual as well as in the
spiritual development of the child, and declare that the Old Testament tales
should be as much a part of the school curriculum as are the myths of
Greece and Rome and the northland. Rein, the great German educator,
advocates using them in the third and fourth grades to the exclusion of all
others, which is done in the state schools of Baden, while in America Dr. G.
Stanley Hall pleads eloquently in behalf of Bible stories.
“To eliminate the Bible from education,” says this famous psychologist,
“is as preposterous pedagogically as it would have been in the days of Plato
to taboo Homer from the education of Greek youth. It is not only a model of
English, but it is impossible to understand the culture history of Europe
without it, as it has influenced the literature, history, and life of Western
nations as no other book has begun to do.”
The secular narrator, as well as the teacher of religion, should use the
Bible tales freely, that men and women of the future may have a broader
knowledge of literature, history, and life than they can have without them.
This is no impossible task, even for the amateur, because the Biblical
narratives are perfect ones for telling. Nowhere else in literature do we find
such thrilling tales of adventure, such exquisite idylls, such sublime ballads,
such annals of high purpose and noble achievement, as in the epic of Israel.
Nowhere else are there more spectacular, perfectly constructed plots.
Ruskin said, “It would be pre-eminently the child’s book even though it had
no religious value above other books”; and Dr. Fuchs of Vienna declares
that we might, if we lacked material, give children nothing but Bible stories
and yet satisfy every craving of their natures, because the Bible contains

every type of tale that appeals to the child. From Genesis to Revelation it is
an incomparable record of human desire, human endeavor, human failure,
and human success. In the Old Testament we find myth, fairy tale, fable,
romance, legend, and history, told in simple, elemental beauty by the
Hebrew story-tellers, tinged with that varied color and imagery so
characteristic of oriental literature and so fascinating to children,—stories
that, as Mrs. Houghton says, “are the product of a child nation, and
therefore very close to the heart of the child.”
The Old Testament, rather than the New, is the child’s storybook, because
it is the expression of a primitive people, and its tales picture primitive,
rugged heroes that boys and girls can understand, whereas the second
division of the Bible, except that portion centering around the childhood
and boyhood of Christ, is adult in character. But it is a mistake to think that
all Old Testament tales can be presented with gratifying results. To tell the
story of Ruth and Boaz to tiny tots would be as absurd as to give them the
Decameron of Boccaccio or Goethe’s Faust, because the characters and
incidents are remote from their interest. In using material from the Bible, as
from any other source, it is necessary to keep in mind the story interests of
childhood, and to remember that the skeletons of tales, not the style and
vocabulary in which they are written, must be the test for selection. If the
framework is suited to the period of mental development, the language can
be adapted, while otherwise no amount of simplifying can bring it within
the understanding and powers of enjoyment.
The Old Testament is particularly rich in stories for children, because it
was formulated in a period when the Hebrew nation was a child nation. The
men and women of Israel were grown to adult stature, but they had the
hearts of children. They thought concretely, as the child thinks, and
consequently their literary expression is concrete and illustrative. This,
added to the facts that they, like all other orientals, loved the story and
brought it to a high artistic point, and that the Old Testament heroes are not
refined to the point of æstheticism, but are strong, rugged, elemental men,
thoroughly human and far removed from goody-goodies, makes it an ideal
book for the child. Gideon and Joshua possess virtues, but they possess
faults also. They are punished and they are rewarded, and because they have
much in common with children, the lessons learned through their victories
and defeats are more valuable than a thousand admonitions.

In advocating the use of Bible stories a word of caution seems necessary,
lest the narrator, actuated by the laudable desire to enrich the intellectual
and spiritual life of the child, may harm instead of benefit. The Hebrew
people were in a state of advanced barbarism when their tribal
achievements grew into an epic, and the deeds of their heroes are often so
bloodthirsty and revengeful that they cannot be reconciled with modern
views. Boys and girls are quick to realize this, and consequently many of
the Old Testament tales must be softened by the elimination of
objectionable features, just as many fairy and epical tales must be softened.
Nor are gore and revenge the only elements we must cut away from these
old tales. Those who give the narrative of Israel to boys and girls of twelve
and fourteen should be careful to eliminate from it everything that may be
suggestive of the vulgar, for which, at this age, many children are on the
lookout. It is better to omit than to veil and modify questionable portions of
a tale, because young people are very discerning, and to see through
gossamer is to arouse curiosity. Dr. Bodley cites instances of youths in the
romantic period reading the Bible because of lewd thoughts. This danger
leads some persons to decry the use of Bible stories by the average narrator,
in whose hands they believe them to be dangerous. However, if he uses
judgment, if he makes it a rule to omit whatever awakens a doubt in his
mind, even the amateur may tell Bible stories with beneficial results. It is
possible to eliminate from many an Old Testament narrative without
breaking the thread of the story, just as it is possible to give boys and girls a
clear idea of the man Chopin without introducing the George Sand episode.
So much of the Old Testament is pure adventure tale that the story-teller
may use the portion that feeds the elemental hero love without touching
upon what might arouse morbid curiosity or desire, or that which sanctions
gore and revenge.
Those who have not had training in gathering and adapting story material
from the Bible will be aided greatly in their work by Frances Jenkins
Olcott’s book, Bible Stories to Read and Tell. Miss Olcott gives the stories
as they are given in the King James Version, preserving all the beauty of
language of the Hebrew story-tellers, but she has excluded everything that
might prove objectionable; and with this book as a guide there is little
danger of making a mistake in telling the Hebrew hero tales to children.

Bible stories should be graded as carefully as fairy stories are graded. In
choosing for little children, select those whose heroes are children, and give
to the boy who craves the heroic the incomparable tales of the Hebrew
wanderers, those men whose lives were a varied succession of adventures.
For the child of each period there is a wealth of material. The stories of the
baby Moses, little Samuel, the boy Joseph, the boy Timothy, the boy David,
and the baby Isaac are very appealing to six- and seven-year-olds. They
love also to hear of the mother and the baby Samson, of Ishmael and Hagar,
and those other mothers and babies of long ago, and especially dear to them
is the story of the Babe of Bethlehem. This lovely narrative is a part of the
birthright of every child, and is exquisite enough to merit careful
preparation on the part of the story-teller. The Bible itself should be the
storehouse to which the narrator goes for material, but those not especially
gifted in visualizing and imagination will derive much help from the work
of modern literary artists who have told again the story of the Christ Child.
The eleventh and twelfth chapters of the first book of Ben Hur, the creation
of a man whose reverence was as great as his talent, should be re-read by
every one who attempts to tell of the song and the star in Judea, and the
works of Henry van Dyke, Selma Lagerlöf, and John of Hildesheim will aid
greatly in giving color and atmosphere. This means time and labor, but no
amount of preparation is too great to put upon the world’s noblest stories.
The narrator should approach them, not arrogantly, and satisfied of his
ability to tell them because he has known them from childhood, but as the
artist approaches the masterpiece he aspires to copy, willing to labor that he
may be worthy of the task, willing to read them over and over again and
count each reading a return to the fount of inspiration. This should be the
attitude toward all great stories, but especially toward the immortal ones of
the Bible.
For the child in the heroic period the Old Testament is a gold mine, and it
is a pity that its superb adventure tales are so little used by story-tellers,
since they are so fascinating to boys and girls. Even when told as separate
stories they arouse interest and hold the attention, but they are most
valuable when given in a sequence, because then the child regards the Old
Testament as a great human drama, the epic of a people.
A good plan is to begin with the call of Abraham, as related in the twelfth
chapter of Genesis. Picture the patriarch, with Lot and Sarah, going into

exile out of the land of Haran, through Canaan to the plain of Moreh,
building there the altar under the soothsayer’s oak, and journeying
southward over the desert to Egypt. Tell of the banishment by Pharaoh and
the return to Bethel, of the strife between the herdsmen and the survey of
the land, of the captivity and rescue of Lot. Paint vividly the highway along
which they traveled, now over the desert, now across the fertile plain
skirting the sea, often footsore and weary, often suffering from heat and
thirst as wanderers in the East suffered, and the story will cause children to
turn from the cheap adventure tale of today as music lovers turn from
ragtime to a Chopin prelude.
Then there are tales of those other Old Testament wanderers, Isaac, “the
Ulysses of the Hebrews,” and Jacob, whose life was so eventful. Take the
boys over the routes these men traveled. Let them share their exploits and
adventures, resting in fertile places where the wanderers rested, now by the
well outside Nahor, the servants praying beside the kneeling camels as
Bethuel’s lovely daughter came down the hillside with the pitcher on her
shoulder, now moving as the caravan moved, over roads the Hebrew armies
traveled on their way to war, along which tradesfolk journeyed in times of
peace. There is marvelous color and romance in these Old Testament
thoroughfares, and they are highways of fascination even today. Still across
their yellow sands turbaned Arabs go up and down, singing praise to Allah
just as men sang to God in the remote time of Israel. They bear with them
skin bags filled with water from the pools and streams, dates, figs, and dried
goat’s flesh, such as formed the noontide repast of Isaac and his men, for in
the changeless East life is today as it was in the beginning of things. When
the caravans rest, they sit under the palm trees in some oasis, telling stories
their fathers told, and using the Old Testament forms of speech. Still in that
land of nomads to see is to “lift up the eyes,” and maidens go to draw water
when the day’s heat is over just as Rebecca went to the well of Nahor.
The book of Joshua is a glorious adventure story. The siege and
destruction of Jericho, the victories of Joshua, the slave boy from Egypt
who became the first soldier of the Hebrews, the distribution of Canaan
among the tribes of Israel, and Othniel’s valor and reward satisfy every
desire of the child who craves hero stories. They satisfy now as they
satisfied two thousand years ago, because they grew out of the life of a

people and run the entire gamut of human emotion as only racial tales can
do.
The book of Judges is a collection of incomparable narratives. The
enslavement of Israel by Jabin, the defeat and death of Sisera, and Gideon’s
deliverance and victory never fail to hold boys and girls who crave the
heroic. Moreover, these stories will arouse interest in perhaps the finest ode
known to any literature, the song of Deborah in the fifth chapter of Judges.
Give the children some idea of what it has meant to the world. Ruskin said
the memorizing of it in his boyhood shaped his taste for literature, and
Macaulay declared it inspired him to write “Horatius at the Bridge.” Read
the work of the English poet, and bring out the lovely pictures in the great
Hebrew ode, for it is not fair to our young people that we allow them to go
through life without knowing this gem, without leading them to see the
beauty of these exquisite words:

Speak, ye that ride on white asses, ye that sit in judgment
and walk by the way.
They that are delivered from the noise of archers in the
places of drawing water, there shall they rehearse the
righteous acts of the Lord.

Visualize the scenes in those lines: sumptuous, haughty Hebrews,
traveling as only the prosperous traveled; men in the fine linen of lawgivers,
holding places of power in the land; vagabonds lounging along the
highways, begging alms of passers-by; husbandmen tilling fields far from
the sound of conflict; men in every walk of life, widely separated by
material conditions, yet brothers in a common weal, rejoicing in a common
blessing, the victory of Barak over the foe of Israel. It is as rich in color as a
canvas by Titian, and pupils in the upper grammar grades will grow to love
it if it is presented as it should be, through the medium of the story.
The books of Samuel, with their tales of Saul and of David, of the
shepherd boy from the Hebron hills making music for Israel’s king, his
meeting and slaying Goliath, Saul and the Witch of Endor, and all the
eventful life of David are glorious materials for the story-teller. Here again
inspiration may be obtained from the work of a modern writer. Browning’s
“Saul” will greatly aid the narrator in telling the story of the boy David, for
the picture the poet gives of the afflicted monarch in his tent, the son of
Jesse standing beside him singing the Hebrew gleaning songs, is as vivid as
it is exquisite.
Where can we find a more splendid narrative than that of Solomon, in the
second book of Kings? Where is the boy or girl who does not delight in
listening to the account of the visit of Hiram, king of Tyre, when two
sumptuous monarchs met; of the collection of materials and the building of
the temple; of the visit of the Queen of Sheba, the adversity and death of
Solomon, and that succession of events that led to the captivity of Israel?
Here, too, we find the great story of the invasion of Judah and the
destruction of Sennacherib; and Byron’s poem will vivify this tale just as
Browning’s “Saul” vivifies that of the boy David.

The only reason why children look upon the Bible as a dull, ponderous
book is that they are not familiar with the Old Testament adventure tales,
and it is a mistake to think that present-day boys and girls will turn away
from them. If playground and settlement workers would give more time and
attention to the stories of the Hebrews, they would have less difficulty in
reaching hoodlumish boys. It is necessary to use tact in presentation,
—“sense,” as Lilian Bell says, “of the brand commonly known as horse,”—
for to preface a narrative with, “Now I shall tell you a Bible story,” might
mean an insurrection. The only way is to bring the hero on the stage and tell
his tale so vividly that the listeners are held by it to the end. After they come
to know such men as Gideon and Joshua, they will regard the Bible as a
great storybook.
A settlement worker had this experience not long ago. She told the tale of
Joshua to a group of young ruffians, who sat through it as if held by a spell,
and at its conclusion the leader of the band remarked, “That was some
story!” Other Old Testament heroes were then introduced with excellent
effect, and the lads were amazed to learn that the Bible contained such
stories. But results of this kind cannot be obtained without effort and
preparation on the part of the raconteur.
Bible stories, being the perfect tales of the world, should be told as nearly
as possible in the language and style in which they were written. Some
modification is necessary for the purpose of clarifying, but the Biblical
expressions should be used frequently. Quote freely from the original or
follow the story with a Bible reading, that the child who hears the tales may
catch something of the majestic beauty of expression of the Hebrew story-
tellers. There can be no more pitiful mistake than to tell these matchless
narratives in the vernacular of the street. To use modern slang in recounting
the wanderings of Isaac or the passing of the Children of Israel through the
Red Sea is to profane a marvelous artistic creation, even though it had no
religious significance, and unfortunately story-tellers sometimes do this,
thinking they will make the tales more interesting to children. That sort of
narration will amuse and hold young folk only as long as it lasts, and
leaders of children are not working merely for the here and now. Their
effort is for time and eternity, and they should have sufficient vision to see
beyond the present, sufficient sense of proportion to estimate values. The
Old Testament tales need no modern strokes to make them attractive,

because they abound in color and incidents that lead to superb climaxes,
and never fail to fascinate when given with sincerity. Therefore they should
be told in simple, dignified language, as the men of Israel told them when
the world was young, and while they fire the imagination, they will lead
children unconsciously to an appreciation of beautiful English, which is one
of the cardinal aims of every story-teller who is worthy of the name.
The teller of Bible stories should draw from music and art, as well as
from literature, because to follow a tale with a picture or musical number
inspired by it is to heighten enjoyment and strengthen the impression
already made. If children see Bendemann’s masterpiece, “By the Waters of
Babylon,” after they have heard the story of the captivity of Israel, they will
have a sympathy for the exiled Hebrews that they cannot have otherwise.
Saul, David, and many other Old Testament heroes will seem more than
ever like living, breathing men when viewed as Michelangelo portrayed
them, while Giulio Romano’s frescoes, “The Story of Joseph,” or Pellafrino
da Modena’s “Story of Solomon,” will intensify their color and romance
and help to lead to an appreciation of art. Cheap reproductions bring these
and other masterpieces within the reach of the narrator, and he should travel
every bypath in which he may glean materials that will help children to love
these old tales. He should keep ever before him the thought of how they
have enriched the world, and how powerfully lives are influenced by stories
heard in childhood. When Bertel Thorwaldsen was a blue-eyed boy in
Copenhagen, he heard a tale that long afterward became the inspiration of
“The Lion of Lucerne,” and young Richard Wagner, playing in a Dresden
street one day, crept into a group to which a strolling bard was telling the
medieval legend of “Parsifal.” It was a seed planted in a creative mind, and
years afterward it flowered in two noble operas of the Holy Grail. So it was
with Goethe, with Browning, with Byron, and many other great men.
Perhaps in your group of youthful hearers there may be a boy or a girl who
will listen as gifted children of the past have listened to an old, old story,
and perhaps your telling it may result, long after your work is ended, in his
giving to some branch of art a creation that will enrich the world through
generations yet to come. But even though there be no budding genius
among your auditors, sincere, artistic telling of the Bible stories cannot fail
to produce great results. It will develop the emotional nature of the average
child; it will broaden his sympathy and increase his capacity for feeling,

make him more sympathetic, more responsive to the joys and sorrows of his
fellow men, and better fitted to become a useful citizen.

Sources of Material for Bible Stories

Abbott, Lyman: Life and Literature of the Ancient Hebrews.
Aguilar, Grace: The Women of Israel.
Baring-Gould, S.: Lives of the Saints.
Canton, William: A Child’s Book of Saints.
Dearmer, Mabel: A Child’s Life of Christ.
Doane, T. W.: Bible Myths.
Fiske, John: The Myths of Israel; The Great Epic of Israel.
Hodges, George: A Child’s Guide to the Bible.
Houghton, Louise S.: Telling Bible Stories; Hebrew Life and
Thought.
Kent, Charles Foster: Heroes and Crises of Early Hebrew
History.
Lagerlöf, Selma: Christ Legends.
Olcott, Frances Jenkins: Bible Stories to Read and Tell.
Sangster, Margaret E., and Yonge, Charlotte M.: Stories
from the Best of Books.
Smith, George A.: A Historical Geography of the Holy
Land.
Smith, Nora A.: Old, Old Tales from the Old, Old Book.
Van Dyke, Henry, Abbott, Lyman, and Others: Women of
the Bible.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Story-Telling and the Teaching of Ethics

The function of education is not only to give the child knowledge and a
capacity for acquiring further knowledge that shall equip him for the life
struggle and make success a possible attainment, but also to give him an
ethical standard that shall make him fit to live among his fellows and a
respect for the rights and feelings of others, or, as Goethe says in Wilhelm
Meister, “Reverence for what is above, reverence for what is beneath,
reverence for what is equal.” He must be taught to realize that he is part of a
great unit and that individual desires must often give way to the welfare of
the many. He must be taught that as an individual he owes to society
obedience to the laws that govern society and allegiance to the principles
that make possible a harmonious family, civic, and national life.
Consequently it is required of every teacher that she give ethical instruction,
that she endeavor to bring children to an understanding of what is generally
accepted as right and wrong, and implant in them convictions strong
enough to cause them to adhere to those standards.
In establishing ethical standards, as in establishing standards in art,
literature, or music, we must appeal to the emotional side of the child as
well as to the intellectual side. We must lead him to feel that the right act is
the one that he wants to do, and this cannot be accomplished by a
presentation of dry facts and precepts. Every teacher knows that the time
spent in admonishing a child what he ought to do brings no gratifying
results. He is not swayed to repugnance for one act or to admiration for
another by being told “Thou shalt,” or “Thou shalt not.” At the time the
command is given, fear may cause him to obey it; but conduct that is the
result of force does not strengthen the character or teach high standards of
action. It tends instead to harden the child and make him determined to act
differently at the first opportunity. Ethical training does not mean to attempt
to control the child, but to enlighten him and direct his volition to the point
where he will attempt to control himself. As Ella Lyman Cabot says, “Its
aim is to make the best there is so inviting to the child that he will work
eagerly and persistently to win it.” The ideal that is held up to him must be
so beautiful that he will be willing to sacrifice and endure hardship in order
to attain to it, and through story-telling he may be led to see this ideal more

vividly than in any other way, because the story makes right acts appealing
and wrong acts repugnant. Moreover, through the narrator’s art the child
lives the experiences of the tales he hears. He suffers with the evildoer and
is rewarded with the virtuous, and because he is powerfully moved by a
narrative, his character is lastingly affected by it.
In giving ethical instruction, it is necessary to use the right material. Tales
selected for this purpose should be suited to the child’s particular period of
mental development, they should contain a lesson the boy or the girl ought
to learn, and they should be strong and virile and true to life. Much harm is
done by telling stories of unusually good children. Such young folk are
unpopular with boys and girls, and the story about them is as distasteful as
is the “goody-goody” that is met with in real life. Instead of being an
influence toward commendable action and the acceptance of a higher
standard of right and wrong, the over-idealistic tale antagonizes the child
and goads him toward that from which we would have him veer aside.
Perhaps this accounts for the fact that girls often enjoy boys’ stories more
than those written especially for girls. The normal girl wants to read and
hear about live, natural young folk, and the heroine who has drawing-room
manners and nothing else is very far from her ideal. Story characters that
influence children must be human, full of human faults and virtues. From
their failures and successes young people will learn many valuable lessons,
but they will learn no lesson from one who poses as an unnatural young
saint.
Moral training should begin with the babe, and therefore the mother and
primary teacher need stories that have ethical values as early as they need
Mother Goose tales and jingles. Very early in life the child must be brought
to realize that there is a higher law than that of its own will or desire. It
must be taught obedience, cleanliness, kindness to animals, consideration
for the rights of others, truthfulness, industry, honesty, and courtesy, and
these lessons can be inculcated more effectively by means of story-telling
than in any other way. The tale of “The Little Red Hen” doing the work and
reaping the reward of her labor is a sermon on industry that little people do
not forget. The story of the farmer boy who rolled the stone out of the
highway because he feared it might cause injury to some one, and then of
the compensation that came to him at the hands of the lord of the village
who placed it there, will help to make children thoughtful and kindly.

In telling stories of this type, the narrator should emphasize the fact that
the greatest reward is the mental satisfaction that follows a good action,
because the child who hears much of material reward sometimes thinks
chiefly of the money or picnic or good time commendable conduct may
bring, and if it happens that he does not receive remuneration, decides it is
useless to perform good deeds. A case of this kind that came under my
observation was that of a boy in a country school, a lazy, thoughtless little
fellow. One day when a man drove through the school yard, his brother,
who was very considerate, ran to open the gate. The stranger tossed a penny
to the child, and the teacher, thinking to give a lasting lesson in
consideration to the thoughtless boy, dwelt at length upon the stick of candy
the money would buy. Several days later another man drove through the
school yard and the thoughtless boy ran to open the gate. He received a
smile and a “Thank you” but no money, and he could not be persuaded to
open the gate again.
It is well to give stories in which children are materially rewarded, but
they should be taught to see that material reward is not the only reward, and
that desire for it should not be the motive that prompts a good action. The
fireman who risks his life in saving the property or life of another is not
bountifully paid, and seldom does he receive a purse for bravery. But he is
true to his duty. He is giving to society the thing that he owes it, service,
and his greatest guerdon is the satisfaction that comes from being steadfast
to a trust. Examples of this kind are of great value to the child who is
inclined to be selfish, and they are very effective in bringing all children to
realize the truth of Alice Cary’s words:

There are no fairy folk who ride about the world at night,
To give you rings and other things to pay for doing right,
But if you’ll do to others what you’d have them do to you,
You’ll be as blest as if the best of fairy tales were true.

Very young children can be taught to realize that the true reward of right
conduct comes from added self-respect and from winning the esteem of
others, and whenever a child is given a tale in which a boy or a girl receives
some wonderful treasure for kindness or courtesy or truthfulness, the
narrator will do well to interpolate a sentence like this: “And the best part of

it was that Albert was happy because he had done what was right. That
thought gave him a glad feeling even more than the big, shiny dollar.”
Many fairy tales and fables are of particular ethical value for little
children, and the narrator can draw much from the field of general
literature; biography and history hold many good examples, while the Bible
is a rich storehouse of material. Ella Lyman Cabot’s excellent work, Ethics
for Children, discusses the ethical side of story-telling in such a detailed
and complete way that it should be in the hands of every mother and
teacher. The book gives valuable suggestions, not only to workers with little
folk, but to those who have the training of grammar grade and high-school
pupils also. Carolyn Sherwin Bailey’s Stories for Sunday Telling contains
some good material for the mother and the primary teacher, while the
several books by Sara Cone Bryant (listed in Chapter Seven, “Telling the
Story”) will be helpful.
The following list is one that has been used with good results:

Stories to Develop or Stamp out Certain Traits and Instincts

Deceit

Æsop: The Fox that Lost Its Tail (Adams, William: Fables
and Rhymes—Æsop and Mother Goose).

Malice

Æsop: The Dog in the Manger (Adams, William: Fables and
Rhymes—Æsop).

Sympathy and Compassion

Cabot, Ella Lyman: A Lesson for Kings (Ethics for
Children).
Sawyer, Ruth: The Gipsy Mother’s Story of Joseph and
Mary (This Way to Christmas).

Honesty

Cabot, Ella Lyman: The Little Loaf (Ethics for Children).

Faithfulness to Duty

Bryant, Sara Cone: The Little Hero of Haarlem (How to
Tell Stories).
Cary, Phœbe: The Leak in the Dike (Poems).

Inattention

Bryant, Sara Cone: Epaminondas and His Auntie (How to
Tell Stories).
Grimm, Jacob: Stupid Hans (German Household Tales).

Obedience

Partridge, E. N. and G. E.: The Little Cowherd Brother
(Story-Telling in the Home and School).

Generosity

Bailey, Carolyn Sherwin: The Boy Who Had a Picnic
(Stories and Rhymes for the Child).
Bailey, C. S., and Lewis, Clara M.: The Woodpecker Who
Was Selfish (For the Children’s Hour).
Bryant, Sara Cone: The Cloud (How to Tell Stories).
Bulfinch, Thomas: Baucis and Philemon (The Age of Fable).
Cabot, Ella Lyman: Margaret of New Orleans (Ethics for
Children).
Cary, Alice: The Pig and the Hen (Poems).

Grimm, Jacob: The Star Dollars (German Household Tales).
Grimm, Joseph: The Elves and the Shoemaker (German
Household Tales).
Wilde, Oscar: The Happy Prince.

Love and Sweetness

Bryant, Sara Cone: The Mirror of Matsuyama (How to Tell
Stories).
Tolstoï, Leo: Where Love Is, There God Is Also (See
Bryant: How to Tell Stories).

Forgiveness

Bible: The Prodigal Son.
Cabot, Ella Lyman: Lincoln and William Scott (Ethics for
Children).
Hugo, Victor: The Bishop and Jean Valjean (Les
Misérables).
Moulton, Louise Chandler: Coals of Fire (In Cabot: Ethics
for Children).
Tolstoï, Leo: A Spark Neglected Burns the Whole House (In
Cabot: Ethics for Children).

Cleanliness

Bailey, Carolyn S.: The Child Who Forgot to Wash (Story-
Telling Time).
Kingsley, Charles: Tom, the Chimney Sweep (Water
Babies).
Lindsay, Maud: Dust under the Rug (Mother Stories).

Richards, Laura E.: The Pig Brother (The Pig Brother and
Other Stories).

Perseverance

Cabot, Ella Lyman: The Story of Helen Keller (Ethics for
Children).
Cather, Katherine Dunlap: Old Jan’s Twilight Tale; The
Joyous Vagabond; The Whittler of Cremona; The
Border Wonderful; Jacopo, the Little Dyer (Boyhood
Stories of Famous Men).
Holland, Rupert S.: The Boy of the Medici Gardens
(Historic Boyhoods).

Industry

Bryant, Sara Cone: The Gold in the Orchard; The Castle of
Fortune; The Sailor Man (How to Tell Stories).

Contentment

Browning, Robert: Pippa Passes (Poems).
Bryant, Sara Cone: The Rat Princess (How to Tell Stories).
Cabot, Ella Lyman: The Discontented Pendulum (Ethics
for Children).
Cather, Katherine Dunlap: The Discontented Pig.
Menefee, Maud: Pippa Passes (Child Stories from the
Masters).

Kindness

Æsop: The Lion and the Mouse (Adams: Fables and Rhymes
—Æsop and Mother Goose).

Andersen, H. C.: Five Peas in a Pod (Wonder Stories Told to
Children).
Bailey, C. S.: The Little Brown Lady (Story-telling Time).
Brown, Abbie Farwell: St. Francis of Assisi and the Wolf
(Book of Saints and Friendly Beasts).
Bryant, Sara Cone: Prince Cherry (Stories to Tell to
Children); Why Evergreen Trees Keep Their Leaves
(How to Tell Stories).
Cabot, Ella Lyman: Dama’s Jewels (Ethics for Children).
Grimm, Jacob: Snow White and Rose Red; Snow White and
the Seven Dwarfs; Queen Bee (German Household
Tales).
Longfellow, Henry: The Bell of Atri (Poems); (see also
Wiggin and Smith: The Children’s Hour).
Partridge, E. N. and G. E.: The Stone Lion; Little Paulina’s
Christmas (Story-Telling in the Home and School).
Richards, Laura E.: Florence Nightingale and the Shepherd
Dog (Florence Nightingale, the Angel of the Crimea).
Stockton, Frank R.: Old Pipes and the Dryad (Lyman:
Story-Telling: What to Tell and How to Tell It).

Greed

Æsop: The Dog and His Shadow (In Adams: Fables and
Rhymes—Æsop and Mother Goose).
Hawthorne, Nathaniel: The Golden Touch (Wonder-Book).

Courtesy

Cabot, Ella Lyman: A Four-Footed Gentleman (Ethics for
Children).

History and biography offer a particularly rich field from which to draw
material for older children, for nothing drives home with more force a
lesson in patriotism, loyalty, faithfulness, heroism, or obedience than to
read of some one who has been put to the test and has triumphed. Dozens of
characters worth emulating will occur to any teacher, and the following
books will be found of particular value:

Sources of Material to Use in the Teaching of Ethics

Baldwin, James: American Book of Golden Deeds.
Bolton, Sarah K.: Famous Leaders among Men; Lives of
Poor Boys Who Became Famous; Lives of Girls Who
Became Famous.
Lang, Andrew: The True Story Book.
Lang, Jeanie: The Story of Robert the Bruce.
Richards, Laura E.: Florence Nightingale, the Angel of the
Crimea.

PART TWO
THE USE OF STORY-TELLING TO ILLUMINATE SOME
SCHOOLROOM SUBJECTS—STORIES FOR TELLING

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Story-Telling to Intensify Interest in History

It has been said by Walter Prichard Eaton, “The pupil who gets a mark of
one hundred and thereafter hates Shakespeare, has failed—rather, his
teacher has,”—and it is equally true that the instructor also has failed whose
classes look upon history as a series of dates and dull facts instead of a
colorful story.
To teach history successfully means to give the child vivid pictures of the
past, to enable him to see as a whole the march of a race or of a nation
across the canvas of time, to watch the legions of warriors go to victory or
defeat, to hear the voices of statesmen whose wisdom has builded empires,
to walk side by side with the men and women whose lives make up the
annals of the world. To be of value to the child, history must be felt, just as
a work of literature must be felt. He must live it, must approve the worthy
and disapprove the unworthy, must rejoice in and sympathize with the
fortunes and misfortunes of its characters, else it cannot be anything more
to him than the chronology in the almanac, disliked during his school days
and forgotten as soon as they are over.
Story-telling can make history alive and vital because of its power to
convey the child to distant scenes and ages, and through it he may become,
not only a spectator, but a participant in every human activity. If our
libraries were to be swept away and publishing houses should shut their
doors, we could still teach history to children, and teach it successfully,
through the art of the narrator. By the medium of the story we can make the
child see what has been done by his ancestors and other people in the past;

by it we can interpret to him how his forefathers lived and acted, how other
people have attempted to do what he is trying to do or sees done, and give
him a vivid idea of human ways of living and conduct. This is history in the
larger sense, and it was taught successfully by the story-teller in the past.
Before the days of printing, when books were manuscripts that no one
but monks could read and kings could afford to own, story-telling was the
only way in which this subject was taught. Tales of bygone days were told
in castle halls and to groups of eager listeners on the village green, and boys
and girls of King Alfred’s time knew as much of their country’s story from
the lips of wandering bards as those of our generation know from cramming
the contents of textbooks. They knew it because through the tales they
heard they were able to relive it, and what has been done before can be
done again. Because of the story’s power to vivify, modern children can
relive the world’s story just as those in medieval times relived it, and
history can be made a subject fraught with delight to the child.
Child attention centers first upon familiar things, and radiates from them
to the unknown. Through his interest in creatures that are a part of his
environment, the kindergarten tot becomes interested in those of other
regions, in the men, women, children, and animals that are part of the life of
some other child. Through knowledge of his immediate surroundings he
comes to acquire knowledge of life in other surroundings, and according to
the appeal it makes to his imagination, he understands and sympathizes
with it, and his social sense is broadened. Therefore, in the study of history,
the attention should be focused upon local environment, and from it should
radiate to other sections of the world. In other words, by what the child sees
happening around him, he must be led to see what has happened in the past
and what is happening now in distant regions. This requires imagination,
and a boy or a girl cannot see or feel these events if they are presented as a
dry chronology, because under those conditions they do not arouse the
imagination. He must behold them flashed on a canvas like a colorful
picture, and because the story can do this, because it can make real to the
imagination situations that cannot be experienced, through it he can be led
to see and feel all that we desire him to see and feel.
The biographical story, the tale of the leader who towers above his
fellows like the Matterhorn above the Valais foothills, is a boon to every
teacher of history. Because it is unified in plot and dramatic in appeal to the

imagination, it is the most easily handled of all the history material, and
should be used freely. But if children are not to have a distorted idea of the
story of the human race, we must not stop with the biographical tale. We
must give them also a conception of the part the masses have had in the
making of the great human story, of the yeomen of England, upon whose
sturdy shoulders the foundation of British liberty stands, of the vassals of
Italy, France, and Germany, of the army of unknown toilers who built the
Pyramids and the Chinese Wall. Sometimes, in satisfying the child’s hero-
love, we make him one-sided by laying too much stress upon individual
achievement and not enough upon the work of the multitude. We do not
lead him to value the importance of the humble who toil in the rank and
file. This is not as it should be. We should make it clear to him that the
stokers who feed the furnace of the man-of-war are as splendidly patriotic
as the admiral who commands the fleet, and are as necessary to their land,
because, were there no coal heavers, there could be no navy.
Sometimes, too, because martial events are more spectacular than those
of peace, we give the impression that they are the only important and heroic
ones, and fail to convince the children of the fact that the peasants of
Lorraine, who tilled their fields until they blossomed like gardens, served
their land as loyally as the soldiers who marched to victory under the
oriflamme of Henry of Navarre. We are too prone to center the child interest
around military affairs, and neglect to emphasize the importance of
conflicts of another kind. The history of every modern industry, of every
achievement that has meant anything to the world, is a story of struggle, of
victory over opposing forces. It has its succession of events, its periods of
triumph and defeat, its moments of suspense, and its thrilling climax, and if
presented in all its possibilities, is as fascinating to childhood as Napoleon’s
Russian campaign. Let us not fail to give these narratives of struggle that
are unstained by human blood, and in doing it lead children to understand
that there are other ways of serving one’s land besides riding a war horse or
carrying a musket.
We teach that Robert Fulton invented the first steamboat, but it is only
the exceptional child-leader who makes the most of that event, who throws
upon the canvas, for youth to behold, the story of the struggle and
disappointment, the triumph and despair, of the young American engineer.
To give them the fact that the Clermont made a successful trip from New

York to Albany in 1807, is like telling the end of a story without the
beginning or intervening chapters, and a snatch of a tale never has the effect
of the whole. But if the children have all the light and shade of that splendid
narrative of invention, of the labor beside the Seine, of the hope and
discouragement there, it becomes a fascinating, unforgotten tale. They
remember the Clermont episode because they have enjoyed a story, and
years afterward, when they see a ferryboat or an ocean greyhound, they will
think of the New Englander through whose dreams and labor it came to be.
To the teacher who looks upon history as a great, fascinating tale, who
regards it as a narrative instead of a mere bunch of dates and periods, who
knows the story of man’s inner development as well as that of his outer, and
who uses the myths, legends, and epics of a land as side lights to illuminate
its true story, great results are possible. There is no phase or period of
history that he cannot make intensely interesting to the child, no page of the
world’s story that will not teem with life and color to the boy or girl who
receives it from such an instructor. It may be an account of events in his
own land, of happenings in the stern, white north country or in the
opalescent south, it may be of knights in glittering armor or of serene-faced,
brown-cowled friars, of men from the masses or from the ranks of the
exalted, but it will breathe and pulsate for him, it will give him the
information that he should receive, and it will give him an understanding
that no memorizing of dates and outlines can give, because he has lived
with those who made history, because he has suffered, rejoiced, and
achieved with them.
Every great historian is more than a recounter of events of the past. He is
an artist who fits himself into the moods of men and women who lived and
accomplished before his time, puts them into his pages as creatures of flesh
and blood, and gives to their activities as much freshness and interest as
have the events that happen before our eyes. Motley, Guizot, Hume,
Hallam, Froissart, and our own Parkman, Lodge, Prescott, and Bancroft
created as splendidly as ever Hugo, Corneille, or Balzac created, because
they endowed characters of fact with as much life as these other men gave
to characters of fiction; and consequently, with sources rich in inspiration
from which to draw, the teacher who aspires to vivify history by story-
telling is confronted by no hopeless task. He need only go to the works of
the standard historians for his background, and then, by giving the

imagination sufficient play to supply setting and detail of situation, he can
carry a joyful lesson to the children. This is well illustrated in the following
story of Western discovery. Children love it and ask to have it told again
and again, while if the bare facts are given them in outline form, it means
little to them. Not every teacher is gifted to the degree of Miss Hood and
can hope to weave a fact of history into a tale that deserves to rank as a
children’s classic; but every teacher can put history into story form with
enough skill to make it hold delight for his pupils and cause them to go
from his instruction with a fondness for history, an understanding of what
history really means, which is worth infinitely more than a thousand dates
or outlines crammed into the mind for an examination or recitation, or
stored there permanently to rust and grow useless, because they have no
meaning, and therefore no broadening or illuminating effect upon his life.

THE SEARCH FOR THE SEVEN CITIES

By Margaret Graham Hood

The Story of Tejos

In the year 1530, when Nuño de Guzmán was governor of New Spain, he
had an Indian slave of whom he was very fond and who was likewise fond
of his master. He was a good servant and different in many ways from all
the other slaves in the palace, and it often pleased Nuño de Guzmán to talk
with him.
“Tejos,” said De Guzmán to him one day, “tell me of your home when
you were a boy, and tell me of your father and mother.”
Then Tejos turned away from his master and stood for a long time silent.
“Master,” he said at last, “when Tejos was a boy he lived not in this land,
nor was he a slave. His home was in a land far, far to the northward. My
lord, it was a great land. Beyond the home of my father there was yet
another country greater still. In that farther land were seven great cities, and
even the smallest of them was as great as this city of Mexico. So rich were
the people of those cities that they made arrowheads of emeralds, and
scraped the sweat from their bodies with scrapers made of gold, and put
precious stones over their doors. Their houses were wide and high. My

father carried to these people the feathers that they wore upon their heads,
and in return they gave him gold and turquoises and emeralds. My father
took Tejos with him twice, my lord, when he journeyed with feathers to
those cities, and though Tejos was then but a small boy, he still remembers
the long streets where were only the stores of jewelers who sold the
precious stones and made them into ornaments for the people.”
“And where,” asked Nuño de Guzmán breathlessly, “where is this land?”
“It is far away from here, my lord,” answered Tejos, sadly. “Forty days
you must journey to reach it, and the land through which you must travel is
a desert lying between two seas, and there is neither water nor food to be
had.”
Scarcely waiting to sleep, De Guzmán began to gather a force to march
in search of this wonderful land. Far and wide the story spread and on all
sides the talk was of

The Land of the Seven Cities

With four hundred Spaniards and twenty thousand Indians, De Guzmán
marched from Mexico, and the people waited each day to hear that he had
conquered a great empire in the north.
As he went, rumors of the Seven Cities kept coming to him, and his men
were often so excited he could hardly get them to sleep enough. For days
they pressed eagerly forward, hoping each day to find the Seven Cities at
hand; but instead of this, the country each day grew more desolate, the
mountains grew steeper and the roads harder to find, while the Seven Cities,
instead of coming nearer, were always farther and farther to the north.
Then the Indians began to desert and the Spaniards to complain. “We
have been deceived,” they said, “and we shall all die in this bleak land. Let
us return to Mexico.”
For a while Nuño de Guzmán cheered them by holding ever before them
the reward that awaited them, but at last he too grew discouraged and
afraid; they all turned about and marched sadly back to Mexico.
“We will go back now,” said Nuño de Guzmán, “but some day I will have
the right sort of an army and I will come again. Tejos himself shall lead me,

and I will yet find and conquer those Seven Cities.”
But when he returned to Mexico, Tejos was dead, and the story of Nuño
de Guzmán’s misfortunes discouraged others; so for six years no one went
to seek the Seven Cities. Then a strange thing happened.

The Wanderings of Cabeza de Vaca

Into the town of Culiacan there one day came wandering four strange
men. They were barefooted and almost naked. The little clothing they wore
was made of skins and hung in rags about them. Their hair lay in a tangled
mass upon their shoulders, and their beards reached almost to their knees.
They fell at the feet of the first Spaniard they met, crying, “Thank God!
Thank God! At last! At last!” Then they seized his hands and kissed them,
kissed each other, and danced about, clapping their hands and shouting for
joy.
“They are madmen,” said the people who gathered around to look at
them. “What shall we do with them?”
“No, no,” cried the oldest of the strangers. “No, no! You do not
understand. We are poor wanderers who have been lost for years among the
Indians. We have been slaves; our companions have died, but at last we
have escaped and now, for the first time in years, we see Christians and
Spaniards and our joy overcomes us. Can you wonder at it, dear friends?”
“Lost among the Indians!” murmured the people in astonishment. “Made
slaves by the Indians! Terrible! What can it mean?”
“There is something very strange about it,” said one.
“Let us take them before our Capitán,” said another, and they took them
at once to the Capitán.
“Who are you?” he asked rudely, looking with disgust at their dirt and
rags.
“I am Cabeza de Vaca,” said the oldest man. “I am a noble of Castile who
came with Narvaez to conquer Florida. The fleet was wrecked and all were
lost save these three companions and me. We have been all these years
since among the Indians.”

“I do not believe a word of it,” said the Capitán. “There is something
strange about it. These men may be criminals. Put them into prison until we
find out.”
For three months they lay in the prison. Then they were sent for by the
Alcalde Melchior Diaz. He received them with all kindness, and to him they
were allowed to tell their story.
“Is it true,” he said to the oldest man, “that you are Cabeza de Vaca of
Castile?”
“It is true,” answered Cabeza de Vaca. “Ten years ago I sailed with
Narvaez to the Florida coast to take part in his great expedition, but, alas!
all our ships were wrecked and only a few of us escaped to the mainland.
There most of those who did escape died, and we four, three of us Spaniards
and one a negro, have wandered ever since among the Indians. We wept for
joy at sight of our own people when we reached your town, but they have
treated us worse than did the Indians.”
“Do not think of that now,” said kind Melchior Diaz. “It was a mistake;
you shall now be treated with all the kindness that is your due. Tell me your
story.”
Then Cabeza de Vaca began the story of his wanderings:
“After Narvaez and the ships were lost,” said he, “we escaped to the
mainland and were taken captive by the Indians. They were a poor, starved
people who lived on roots and berries and whatever they could get, and who
often went for days without a mouthful. I do not know how many years they
held us as slaves, but it was for many years and our sufferings were great.
“We tried always to get to the north, and little by little we got further
westward and northward.
“At last we escaped from those Indians who held us as slaves and fell in
with others farther west who had never seen a white man. We had with us a
rattle such as is used by their medicine men, and this, with our beards, made
them think we were from heaven. They fell on their faces before us and
gave us all that they had.
“We told these people we wished to go to where the sun sets, and they
said, ‘No, you cannot go there. The people are too far away.’

“‘It makes no difference,’ I said, ‘you must still lead us there.’
“We saw they were in great fear, but at last they sent off two of their
women to see if they could find the other people and tell them of our
coming. In five days they came back. ‘They have found no people,’ said the
Indians to us. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘lead us to the northward,’ and again they said:
‘There are no people there. Neither is there food or water.’
“At this I became offended and went apart from them, and at night went
away by myself to sleep. But they came at once where I was and remained
all night without sleep. They talked to me in great fear, telling me how great
was their fright, begging us to be no longer angry; and they said they would
lead us whatsoever way we wished to go, though they knew they should die
on the way.
“We still pretended to be angry, lest their fright should leave them, and
while we were thus pretending a remarkable thing happened: the very next
day many of them became ill, and eight men died. They believed we had
caused their death by willing it, and it seemed as if they must all die of fear.
“In truth, it caused us so much pain to see them suffer that it could not be
greater, and we prayed to God, our Lord, to relieve them, and they soon got
better.
“News of our strange power spread through the land, and the people
trembled at our coming. Sometimes they would come to meet us, and bring
all they owned and offer it to us. Or, again, when they heard we were
coming, they would go into their houses and pile all their goods in a heap in
the middle of the floor for us, and then sit down, with their faces to the wall,
their heads bowed, and their hair drawn over their eyes. Thus they waited
until we came and spoke to them. Then they gave us whatever we would
take from them.
“Wherever we went, they brought their sick to us and begged us to cure
them. We always examined them carefully, and treated them as best we
knew how, and prayed earnestly to God to help us, and they nearly always
got well. Whenever a sick man got well, he not only gave us all that he had,
but all his friends did likewise.
“As we pressed westward and northward we came all the time to finer
Indians who had more wealth and better homes than those farther east.

“At last we came to a land of plenty. The people lived in houses and had
beans, pumpkins, and calabashes for food and covered themselves with
blankets made of hides. They were the finest-looking and strongest people
we had seen and intelligent beyond any of the others. They had nothing they
did not give to us. They begged us to pray for rain and told us that for two
years not a drop had fallen. When we asked where they had got their food,
they told us from the land of the maize. Then I bade them tell me of this
land of the maize, and they told that beyond them was a land of many
people and large houses, where maize grew all over the land; that the people
of that land were wealthy and wore beautiful plumes and feathers of parrots,
and used precious stones for arrowheads and to decorate their houses. And
they brought to me five beautiful emeralds cut into arrowheads, and many
fine turquoises and beads made of coral such as come from the South Seas.
When I asked whence they got these stones, they pointed to some lofty
mountains that stand toward the north and told us that from there came the
precious stones, and that near those mountains were large cities. They said
that in those cities the houses were so large that there were sometimes three
or four lofts one above the other.”
“And did you not go to those cities?” asked Melchior Diaz, eagerly.
“No,” answered Cabeza de Vaca. “I did not go because I heard that
toward the sunset were other men of my kind, and I hurried westward,
hoping to meet them. Therefore I did not go to the land of the cities. I
longed once more to look upon the face of a Spaniard.”
“You have suffered much,” said Melchior Diaz, “but do not think of it,
and now rest.”
Then Melchior Diaz sent off a messenger to Mexico to carry a letter to
the Viceroy de Mendoza, telling him of Cabeza de Vaca and his strange tale.
Forthwith the messenger returned with a letter commanding Cabeza de
Vaca and his companions to come at once to Mexico and appear before the
viceroy.
To Mexico they went, and again Cabeza told the strange story of their
wanderings.
“It is a wonderful story,” said the viceroy, when he had finished, “and
you certainly deserve to spend the rest of your life in ease. Say the word,

and I myself will send you home to Spain.”
Cabeza de Vaca almost wept for joy at these words. “Gladly will I go,
dear friend. Gladly will I go, for I am weary of wandering and would once
more see my own country.”
So Cabeza de Vaca and two of his companions sailed off to Spain, and
the Viceroy de Mendoza thought much of the wonderful cities far to the
northward.

The Journey of Fray Marcos

The story of Cabeza de Vaca set all New Spain talking once more of the
Seven Cities.
“Of course,” said the people, as they talked, “of course they are the same
seven cities Nuño de Guzmán learned of from Tejos, the Indian. He did not
get the right directions, and so he failed to reach them. But now we know
they are there,” and many were eager to set out at once.
But the Viceroy de Mendoza was a quiet and careful statesman.
“There have been many lives lost already,” he said, “and it will be better
not to be in too great a hurry. I believe these are the seven cities sought for
by Nuño de Guzmán, but I shall not send an army until I am sure.”
Then he thought of a monk called Fray Marcos of Niza, who had been
much among the Indians of the north, and he sent for him to come at once
to Mexico.
Fray Marcos came, and the Viceroy de Mendoza told him the story of
Cabeza de Vaca.
“Now, Fray Marcos,” said the viceroy, after finishing the story, “if we
should send an army, these Indians would surely make war upon us and
both for them and for us there would be many lives lost. You understand
them, and it might be that they would let you come among them and learn
what we desire. Perhaps there lies to the northward as great a nation as Peru
or Mexico. It must be taken for the church and the crown. Will you not be
the one to carry the message of the cross and to take possession of the
country for the king of Spain?”

“I will,” said Fray Marcos, eagerly.
“Very well,” said Mendoza, smiling. “The negro Stephen who was with
Cabeza de Vaca is here, and he shall be your guide. Remember that this
expedition is to be undertaken more to spread our knowledge of God than
for great wealth. Therefore, bear in mind that the natives are to be treated
with the utmost kindness, and my displeasure will fall heavy upon
whosoever shall offend them. Say to them that the Emperor is very angry at
those Christians who have been unkind to them, and that never again shall
they be enslaved or taken from their homes.
“Take special note of their number, and of their manner of life, and
whether they are at peace or at war among themselves. Notice the nature of
the country, the fertility of the soil, and the character of its products. Learn
what wild animals there are there, and find out if there are any rivers great
or small. Search for precious stones and metals and, if possible, bring back
specimens of them. Also make careful inquiry if the natives have any
knowledge of a neighboring sea.
“If you shall succeed in reaching the Southern Sea, write out an account
of all your discoveries and bury it at the foot of the tallest tree and then
mark the tree with a cross. Do the same at the mouth of all rivers, and those
who are sent after you will be on the lookout for such a sign. Take enough
Indians with you so that you can send them back from time to time to bring
to us reports of the route you have taken and how you are treated by the
Indians you meet. If you shall come to any great city, do not send back
word but come yourself and tell me about it. And lastly, although all the
world belongs to the Emperor, be sure and plant the cross in those new
lands and take possession of them in the name of the Spanish crown, and
never forget that your life is of great value to your church and your country,
and do not risk it needlessly. Now, go. Make all your plans and set out as
soon as may be.”
Fray Marcos hastened to make his plans, and on the seventh of March,
1539, he set out from Culiacan with the negro Stephen and a few faithful
Indians.
Several months went by; then, at the end of September, 1539, a traveler
in a monk’s gown came walking alone into Culiacan.

“It is Fray Marcos!” cried the people. “It is Fray Marcos, who went to
search for the Seven Cities!” “Did you find them, Fray Marcos?” “Where is
Stephen, the negro?” “Are the Seven Cities full of wealth?”
But Fray Marcos would not answer. “I have much to tell,” he said to
them, “but I will tell it only to the Lord de Mendoza himself.”
To the Lord de Mendoza he told a story even more wonderful than the
story of Tejos, the Indian, or that of Cabeza de Vaca.
“All the way,” he said, “I found great entertainment, for after I told the
Indians they were not to be enslaved, they could not do enough to show
their love for me. I went where the Holy Ghost did lead me. The Indians
guided me from place to place, and some went ahead to tell others that I
was coming. Everywhere they came to meet me and gave me welcome.
They had food ready for me; and where there were no houses, they built
bowers of trees and flowers that I might rest safe from the sun.
“I saw naught that was worthy of notice until there came to me some
Indians from an island off the coast, and these wore about their necks great
shells that were of mother-of-pearl. To these I showed the pearls which I
carried with me for show, and they told me that in their islands there were
great stores of such, and that there were thirty islands.
“And then I passed through a desert of four days’ journey, and there went
with me the Indians from the island and from the mountains I had passed.
At the end of this desert I found other Indians, who marveled much to see
me, because they had not before seen a white man. They gave me great
stores of food and sought to touch my garments, and called me Hayota,
which in their language means ‘A man come from Heaven.’
“As best I could, I told to all these Indians of our Lord God in Heaven,
and of our great Emperor over the sea. Then I asked them if they knew of
any great kingdom thereabout or of any great cities.
“And they told me that farther on were high mountains, and at the foot of
those mountains was a large and mighty plain on which were many great
towns and people clad in cotton. Then I showed them metals that I carried
with me and said to them, ‘Have the people of those cities any of these?’
And they took the gold metal from my hand and said: ‘Of this do the people
of those cities make the vessels from which they eat, and also do they make

of it thin plates to scrape the sweat from their bodies, and the walls of their
temples are covered therewith.’
“Then I asked concerning the precious stones known to the people of the
cities, and the Indians answered that they had round, green stones that they
prized much and wore hanging from their noses and ears.
“The Indians offered to take me to the cities, but because it was a long
journey from the sea, and your lordship had commanded me to keep close
to the coast, I did not go.
“It was now Passion Sunday, and I felt inclined to tarry among the people
I was with. I did so, but I sent on ahead of me the negro Stephen.
“I told him to go to the northward fifty or threescore leagues, and to take
with him Indians, of whom he should send back from time to time
messengers bearing me news of all that he learned.
“We agreed that if it were the mean country of which he learned, he
should send me a cross no longer than my hand; but if it were a great
country, he should send me a cross the length of two hands; and if it were a
country greater and richer than New Spain, he should send a great cross.
“Stephen went from me on Passion Sunday, after dinner, and within four
days there came to me messengers bearing a cross as high as a man. He sent
me also word that I should at once come after him, for he had news of a
mighty province; that he had with him certain Indians who had been to that
province, and one of them he sent to me.
“The Indian whom Stephen had sent told me it was thirty days’ journey
beyond the town where Stephen was, to the first city of the province, which
was called Cibola. He said there were seven great cities in this province all
under one lord. The houses, he said, were made of stone and the smallest of
them were of two lofts, one above the other; and the house of the lord of the
province had four lofts and was wide and long. He said, too, that the gates
of the finest houses were cunningly wrought with turquoises, whereof they
had plenty.
“The same day that Stephen’s messenger came to me there came also
another Indian from the seacoast, and he told again of the many islands in
the sea and of people who have many pearls and much gold.

“And that same day there came to me three Indians with their faces and
breasts and arms painted.
“They came, they said, from a province toward the east that bordered
upon that of the Seven Cities. They had heard of me and wished to see me.
They told me of the Seven Cities of Cibola, the people, and the houses, in
the same manner that Stephen had sent me word. I sent back the Indians
who had come from the islands on the seacoast, and hurried on after
Stephen.
“Each day messengers came to me from Stephen, all carrying large
crosses and all telling of Cibola.
“At last came Indian messengers who told me of three other kingdoms
called Marata, Acus, and Tonteac. They said that the people of those
provinces dressed even as the people of Cibola, with gowns of cotton that
hang to their feet, and they bound them with girdles of turquoises. And they
told me much more, to make me know that these provinces were in all ways
as great as Cibola.
“I traveled on for days, stopping to know the people among whom I
passed and always being received by them with all tenderness.
“They brought me their sick that I might heal them and sought always to
touch my garments. They gave to me cowhides so well tanned that I could
not well believe them to have been dressed by savage people.
“As I went on, I came to great crosses set up in the ground by Stephen to
let me know that the good news of the country increased. I came to a
pleasant town at last where indeed were people clad in cotton, both men and
women, and they wore turquoises in their noses and ears. The lord of the
village came with his brethren to greet me, and they were well dressed in
robes of cotton and hides and wore collars of turquoises about their necks.
“It was a fair country, better than any I had yet seen; so I set up two great
crosses and took possession of it for His Majesty, the Emperor. They
offered me gifts of all they had, but I took not one thing save food.
“I came now to a desert and went into it, and I found that the Indians had
gone on ahead of me and built bowers beneath which I ate and slept, and in
this manner I traveled for four days.

“Then I entered a valley where were many people; men and women came
to meet me with food. All of them had turquoises hanging from their noses
and ears and collars of turquoises three or four times double about their
necks.
“Here they knew of Cibola as much as we in New Spain know of Mexico
and could answer all I wished to ask about the people.
“As I went on I met more and more people, and passed through a fine
country where is much grass and water. The people were in all ways civil
and kind and told me about Cibola and Acus, and Tonteac and Marata and
Quivira. Here I saw a thousand oxhides all nicely dressed and chains of
turquoise, and they told me they all came from Cibola.
“And now I had two deserts to cross and was fifteen days’ journey from
Cibola.
“I entered the desert, and many Indians went with me, and others went on
ahead to make ready for me; and each day there came word from Stephen,
telling me all was true and to hurry after him.
“For twelve days I journeyed thus, and then there came running to meet
us an Indian in great fright—his body covered with sweat and dust and his
face showing the greatest sadness.
“He told us that the day before, Stephen had reached Cibola, and had sent
messengers into the city with presents for its lord, and to let him know they
came in peace.
“But the lord of the city fell into a great rage, and dashed the presents of
Stephen to the ground. In his fury he drove the messengers out of the city,
and told them that if they again appeared they would surely be killed, as
would also Stephen, if he dared to come near.
“The messengers hurried to Stephen and told him what had happened,
but he was in no wise afraid; he answered he should go, nevertheless, and
bade the Indians fear not, but to come with him.
“They went on, but as they were about to enter the city, many of its
people met them and seized them and cast them into a great house that
stood just outside. They took from them all that they had, and left them all
night without food or drink. The next morning Stephen and his Indians tried

to escape, but they were scarce outside their prison when the people of the
city set upon them, and Stephen and all the Indians, except the messenger
and one other, were killed. These two had been struck down and left for
dead, but were only stunned. They had lain under the dead bodies of the
others until the angry people had gone back into the city. Then they had
crept away.
“My Lord de Mendoza, so great was my grief at this terrible news that it
seemed for a moment I must indeed die, but when I saw all my Indians
begin to weep and lament, I knew I must not give way.
“I straightway gave to them many of the presents I had intended for the
people of Cibola, and then I resolved that though I might not enter the city I
would still look upon it, and I told them I would nevertheless go on. They
begged me not to go, but when they saw I was firm two of them agreed to
go with me. So we left the others to await our return and journeyed
forwards. We traveled one day, and then we came to a round hill. This I
climbed, and on looking down saw at its foot the city of Cibola. It was a fair
city, my lord. The houses were as the Indians told me, of two and three and
four stories and built of stone. The people were somewhat white and
dressed in white garments. Greatly was I tempted to risk my life and go
thither, but knowing that if I were killed all knowledge of the country would
be lost, I gave it up and contented myself with planting a cross upon the
hilltop in token that I took possession for the crown of Spain.”
“You have done well, Fray Marcos,” cried Mendoza, “and now it is time
to send an army.”

The Disappointment of Coronado

When Mendoza wanted to send an army, the first person he thought of
was a brave soldier and fine nobleman named Francisco de Coronado, who
sat by his side, listening eagerly.
Coronado knew all about the expedition of Nuño de Guzmán, and had
heard the story of Cabeza de Vaca. Also, he had talked with Mendoza
before the viceroy had sent Fray Marcos on his journey, and had said he
would be willing to spend a fortune in fitting out an army to take the Seven
Cities.

So Mendoza turned to Coronado and said: “Is it still your wish, my noble
friend, to lead an army against this kingdom of Cibola?”
“It is,” said Coronado.
“Well, then, make ready at once, and I will help you in every way that I
can,” said the viceroy.
The news spread rapidly, and again all New Spain was talking of the
Seven Cities. In a short time three hundred Spaniards and eight hundred
Indians had enlisted, and so many gentlemen of noble birth had offered to
go that the viceroy was much embarrassed in choosing officers, for of
course he must take the noblest gentlemen, and there were too many!
A fine sight they were—those cavaliers of Spain—in their glittering
armor, mounted on prancing horses, their lances gleaming in the sunlight
and their banners flying. Out of Compostela they marched in the gayest
spirits, thinking of the loads of gold and jewels they would bring back with
them.
But it was very different when they reached the desert and the mountains.
They did not know how to bear the fatigue of such a journey, nor how to
care for their horses and cattle and sheep. The animals died in large
numbers, and the courage of the soldiers weakened rapidly as they grew
weary.
The soldiers had come with the thought of conquest, so they did not treat
the Indians they met so kindly as Fray Marcos had done, and of course the
Indians did not like them very well, and in a little while there began to be
trouble.
At last they came to a narrow pass in the mountains.
“I am afraid the Indians will try to keep us from passing,” said Coronado
to the Master of the Field. “Go you with a company of soldiers and guard
that pass until all the army come up. Then we will go through.”
The Master of the Field took his company and stood guard at the pass.
But that night, while all but the sentries were asleep, the Indians crept down
upon them and the sleeping camp was roused by a shower of stones and
arrows and the wild yells of the Indians.

Now the men had lain down with their guns beside them; so they were
ready, and they sprang up and began fighting bravely. For a while the battle
raged hotly, the Spaniards firing their guns and the Indians replying with
stones and arrows. But when the Indians saw some of their number falling
dead, they were frightened and fled away in the darkness, and the Spaniards
held the pass.
After that the Spaniards had little peace, but nevertheless Coronado
managed to keep up their courage. On they went, up through that country
we now call Arizona, over almost the same road that Fray Marcos had
traveled. They paused where is now the city of Tucson, and then marching
northeastward, crossed the Gila River and moved on toward Cibola. At last,
where today stands the town of Zuñi, they reached the first city of the
kingdom whose fame had so long filled with golden dreams the minds of
the Spaniards. But instead of the great, fine, glittering city they had
expected they saw only a village of a few hundred houses.
The hearts of the Spaniards sank as they gazed upon it. Coronado called
three of his men and said to them, “Go into the city and say to the people
that we are not enemies, but have come in the name of the Emperor, our
lord, to defend them and to join with them in friendship.”
The messengers went into the city and delivered Coronado’s message,
but the people of Cibola received it with scorn.
“We did not ask you to come,” they replied, “and your lord had no right
to send you. This is our land and we can defend it. Go back to your lord and
to your own land, for if you stay here you shall not one of you live.”
The messengers turned to go back to Coronado, and even as they went
the people of Cibola began firing arrows at them.
Coronado got his men quickly together and gave the command to attack.
The people of Cibola were gathered upon the walls of their city and rained
down arrows and stones upon the Spaniards as they came. The Spaniards
were many of them so weary from their long journey that they had not
strength enough left to pull a crossbow. Indeed, for a time it seemed they
must be beaten, so fiercely did the Indians battle against them. The
glittering armor of Coronado and the earnestness with which he cheered on
his men, told the Indians that he was the leader of the Spaniards, and they

tried particularly to kill him. Twice they felled him to the ground, and once
he must surely have been killed had not a brave knight stood across his
body and guarded him from the rain of stones until he recovered. He would
not give up. Weak from the blows he had received, aching in every part, and
with an arrow sticking in his foot, he led the last charge, shouting
“Santiago!” as he rode.
“Santiago!” echoed his soldiers as they followed him straight into the
town. The Indians fled as the Spaniards entered, and the battle was over.
The Spaniards almost wept with rage and despair as they looked about
them. The houses, it is true, were made of stone and were large, as had been
said, but there were no jeweled gates, no vessels of gold and silver, no fine
city, no stores of wealth to carry back to Spain.
So great was Coronado’s despair that he fell ill almost unto death. He
could not bear to give up. It seemed he must find those seven wonderful
cities. As soon as he was able he sent out parties in all directions to see what
could be found.
For almost two years they searched. Whenever an Indian told them a new
tale, they started off at once to see if it were true. They heard of a great river
to the westward, and Arellano, one of the brave officers, led a party at once
in search of it. Across the dry, hot desert of Arizona they went, and never
stopped until they came to the Grand Cañon of the Colorado. Below them
flowed the mighty river between walls hundreds of feet deep and so steep
they could not descend to the water, though they were almost dying of thirst
as they stood over it.
Scarcely had they got back before the army was again all excitement
because an Indian had told a tale of a great city to the northeastward.
Coronado himself led them in search of it. Up they went through New
Mexico, traveling for days among herds of buffaloes that reached farther
than they could see.
They went so far north as to enter that part of our country now called
Kansas. They found in reward for their long journey only a few Indian
villages.
At last, when more than two thirds of his men were dead, Coronado gave
up and marched back to Mexico. And this was the last search for the Seven

Cities that were not.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Story-Telling to Intensify Interest in Geography

In the study of geography the story means as much as in history. The
child is keenly interested in what he is doing and in what those around him
are doing, and when he discovers that people in China, in South America, in
Australia, or in Russia are doing the very things he is attempting to do or
sees done, that they are engaged in industrial occupation very much as his
father or uncle or neighbor is engaged in it, that distant occupation loses its
remote quality, and the country with which it is associated becomes real and
near to him. In the larger sense geography is something that must be felt
and imagined. It is an interpretation of foreign activities and the regions in
which they take place, and because the story can interpret these activities,
because it can make situations real and familiar instead of aloof, it is of
inestimable value in teaching the subject. Here the myth and fairy tale can
be used with excellent results, because through them the child sees
something of the struggle of man in his effort to interpret the world and
comes to have a broader sympathy for the ideals of people of other regions.
Moreover, in many instances it tends to fix definite information concerning
a certain locality and to invest distant regions with vivid interest, for to the
boy who associates the Rhine or Danube or Himalayas with the tale of a
hero or people who once lived and did brave deeds there, those rivers and
mountains will be more than black specks on a map. If he hears of the two
frogs in Japan who started out to see the world, he will not say that Kioto is
somewhere in South America, because the spot has been fixed in his mind
by a story. Because it is associated with something he has enjoyed, it stays
there, and while the highest aim of the study of geography is not merely to
stuff the mind with facts, but to broaden the horizon and bring the world
within the child’s own dooryard, the acquisition of certain information tends
to give him that broad outlook which makes all people seem creatures of his
world and all activities a part of his own experience. Unfortunately,

however, teachers sometimes lose sight of this fact, and the larger aim is
made subservient to a memorizing of data.
Geography and history are so closely related that it is difficult to separate
them, and in making one vivid we must draw constantly from the other. The
field is limitless. In fact, there are so many stories to give the geography
class that teachers sometimes say, “When are we to have time for formal
recitations?”
Too much recitation and not enough story is responsible for the fact that
boys and girls sometimes give startling information about the location of
places. Shorten the recitation period, if necessary, but do not fail to give the
stories that bring far-away places as near as one’s own dooryard, and let
tests and examinations prove which method is better. We must possess
before we can give, and the pupil who is assigned a number of pages and
expected to recite about them often fails miserably, because interest, which
must underlie the acquisition of knowledge, has not been aroused. We may
tell him to study the course of the Rhine and locate the cities that dot its
banks, and one will mean no more to him than the other. But if he hears the
tale of the building of the king of German cathedrals and the legend of the
architect’s compact with the Evil One, Cologne will have an individuality
very different from that of Coblenz with its bridge of boats. If he listens to
the tale of Maui fishing up New Zealand from the bottom of the ocean, of
the demigod chieftain who was the discoverer of Hawaii and the patriarch
of his people, there will pass before his eyes at the mention of places among
the Pacific Islands pictures of a dark-skinned, sea-loving race with a history
fully as fascinating as that of his own people.
If there is not time for him to recite it all, let him write about it. This will
help to solve the composition problem, because the reason for much of the
miserable written English work is due to the fact that the child has nothing
to give. He is told to elaborate upon a subject that lies far from his interest,
one of which he has little knowledge, with results that every English teacher
knows. But if he has been interested in it by a story, he can give that story
back in oral or written form, even though the construction be far from
perfect.
Another value of using stories with a geographical or historical
background is that they develop the child’s social instinct and give him

something of a realization of the brotherhood of man. Through hearing and
reading them he becomes broader and more tolerant. He sees that in every
part of the world men have their standards and ideals, which, although they
may be greatly at variance with his own, are entitled to respect because they
represent deep convictions and desires. Instead of viewing the world
through a keyhole, he sees it across unobstructed fields and comes to have a
bigger human understanding. In the study of geography there is a finer
opportunity than anywhere else in elementary education to divert the child’s
feet from a narrow, provincial trail into the broad highway of
cosmopolitanism.
As in the study of history, so in geography the story should radiate from
local environment to other sections of the world, and every worker with
girls and boys, whether mother, teacher, or librarian, should endeavor to
give them some idea of the story of their own locality. The child should
know something of the legends of the people who built their camp fires on
the spots that are his public parks and gardens, and teachers especially
should aid the earnest group of men and women that is patiently collecting
and preserving our American folklore, by giving some of it to the children.
It will not only heighten pride in their own locality, but it will broaden their
understanding of other lands and races and their sympathy with the
struggles of different peoples. This kind of work belongs to the field of
history, but it so greatly increases interest in geography that the teacher
should not miss the opportunity of using this material.
There are legends clustering about every section of our country that the
people of that locality should know, and it is a matter of regret that the
average man or woman has seldom heard of them. Europeans are inclined
to say we are a people of no traditions. While the charge is untrue, and our
land is rich in legendary lore, it is true that only a small percentage of
Americans are familiar with it. One reason for this general ignorance is that
much of it has been buried in scientific treatises, which are unavailable to
the layman. But within the last few years a large amount has been put
within reach of the story-teller. The unceasing work of the American
Folklore Society has resulted in unearthing and preserving much that would
otherwise have been lost and that is important enough to have a place in our
schools. Nothing is more fascinating to the child than stories of his own

region, and our young people ought to be privileged to share in that joy with
boys and girls of the Old World.
There are peasant lads in France, Italy, and other European countries who
can entertain by the hour with tales of their rivers and mountains—not those
of some distant province, but the peaks that tower above their native
village, the streams along which they trudge on their way to school.
California, Washington, and Oregon children should be given legends of the
Yosemite, of Lake Tahoe, of Mount Shasta, of the Columbia River, and of
Mount Rainier. Boys and girls among Southern bayous should be taught the
traditions of their region, of the Indians and Creoles who made history there
when that section was a province of France; while along Northern lake and
inland river are tales of forest folk, of pathfinder and black-robed message
bringer, of knights of the Old World come to seek fortune in the New, that
are a part of the heritage of every youth living there. Let us give them to our
young people, that they may love their home spots, not just because they are
beautiful and are theirs, but as the French child loves the Rhone or the
Austrian the Danube, because of the stories that tend to make them
enchanted ground.
In using the story in geography the teacher’s work does not end with
telling the story. The places mentioned in it should be located on the map,
that their exact position may be fixed in the mind of the child. Interest in the
story will make this a pleasure rather than a task for the boy, just as it
becomes a delight rather than a hardship for him to follow the route taken
by his father or uncle when he goes on a journey, or to work out the
itinerary of a trip he hopes to take himself. One small boy studied the
geography of Virginia with keen interest after reading Lord Cornwallis’
Silver Buckles, and more than one man and woman attest to the fact that
some book read and loved during their school days did more to fix the
location of river, city, and mountain in their minds than hours of classroom
recitation spent in bounding states and countries and tracing the courses of
rivers.
The following legend of Niagara Falls is illustrative of one type of tale
that will greatly add to the child’s interest in geography by investing certain
localities with story associations. Much other material is given in the
appended bibliography, and the wide-awake teacher will be able to glean
much more from libraries and adapt it to her work.

THE GOD OF THE THUNDERING WATER

Retold from an Iroquois Legend
Before the white man sailed westward across the Atlantic, in fact, before
Columbus was born or anybody even dreamed about a short route to the
Indies, a little Indian girl lived on the shore of Niagara not so very far above
the cataract. She was a happy little thing, and as she grew to maidenhood
she became the fairest girl of her tribe, and her father, who was a mighty
chieftain, promised her in marriage to the most powerful of his braves. This
Indian was a swift runner, and around the council fire not another tongue
was so nimble or eloquent as his, and never did his arrows fail to pierce the
heart of the deer at which he aimed them. But that mattered little to the girl.
He was not her ideal of a husband, and she could think of nothing more
dreadful than becoming the mistress of his wigwam. Yet her father had
spoken and she must obey, and with a sad heart she made ready for the
wedding, weaving the handsomest of wampum belts and ornamenting her
moccasins with gay beads and bits of woodpecker feather.
The wedding morning dawned, and the Indians began the games and
merrymaking that always marked a marriage. The bridegroom and the
young braves vied in races and wrestling matches, and the women too had a
part in the festivities, singing and chanting weird songs as they tended the
fire and roasted venison for the feast. Everybody was happy,—every one
but the bride, who did not want to marry, and who sat in her wigwam
looking sadly out upon the sport. Suddenly came the decision that she
would not be the squaw of the man she detested.
Quickly, softly, she crept from the wigwam and hurried to the river bank.
The others were so busy with their merrymaking that they did not see her
go, and soon she came to where her canoe was moored to some bushes. She
stepped into it, pushed it from shore, and began drifting down the stream. It
was good to be there on the water, for, like all Indian girls, she loved to
paddle, and in her joy of skimming along with the current she began to sing.
Suddenly a whoop went up from the village of her people. It was not the
cry of those victorious in a game, it was a shout of anger, a cry of alarm, for
they had seen her and believed she was trying to escape from the marriage
every one knew was distasteful to her. The bridegroom started in pursuit,

then another Indian and another, until every man in the village was rushing
to the river and some had already begun the chase in canoes.
“They shall not take me back,” the girl murmured. “I will not go back to
the village and become Kunawa’s squaw.”
With swift, powerful strokes she paddled down the stream. She forgot
that the cataract was roaring below her, forgot that her canoe was going
rapidly and surely toward the bright foam from which no boat could come
back. She thought only that she was fleeing from a wedding, and not until
she saw the rapids beneath her did she realize her fate. Then she began her
death song, and those in pursuit heard it for a moment, loud, clear, and
plaintive as the canoe cut into the cataract, then suddenly silenced as it shot
down to the rapids. Some of the women wailed and joined in the funeral
dirge, and some of the others cried out in fear to the Great Spirit.
“It is the last of Kunawa’s bride!” they exclaimed. “She is now on her
way to the Spirit Land.”
But it was not the last of the girl. Far down in the mist of the cataract,
Heno, the Thunder God, had seen her. He held forth his arms, and as the
canoe dropped to the rapids, she went into them, and bearing her through
the watery depths, he placed her in a cavern behind the fall where he had
lived since the beginning of things, and where the girl would live with him
henceforth.
Many years passed. She was no longer a young maiden, but a tall, sturdy
woman, and Heno gave her to one of his sons to be his squaw. She lived
there in happiness with him in the cavern under Niagara, and often she
thought of her people and her native village above beside the river. Because
she remembered and loved them, Heno was kind to them, and when
pestilence came to the region he lifted her to the shore that she might tell
them where to go to escape the disease.
Once a great monster, a snake all green and white, came trailing his body
through the forest like a river between hills, and made straight for the
village by Niagara to feed upon the people there. But through the Indian girl
Heno had told them of the coming danger, and they fled before the monster
so fast that when it reached the village it found only a place of deserted
camps. The great creature hissed with wrath, but Heno saw it from the mists

and struck it dead with a thunderbolt. The great mass rolled to the river,
floated down the stream, and lodged so tight above the cataract that a fold
in its body sent a great volume of water out of its course, forming the
Horseshoe Fall. The flood centered there destroyed the home of Heno too,
but the Thunder God arose with his children and the Indian girl, and
ascending to the heavens, has lived there ever since, where he thunders in
the cloud mists as he once did in those of the fall. His voice is so mighty
that the echo of it is always sounding above Niagara, and although white
men say it is nothing but the noise of falling water, the Indians know better.
They know it is the song of the god of the Thundering Water.

Sources of Material to Use in History and Geography

The history and geography references have been combined because each
of the books listed here is valuable in both lines of work. This plan also
carries out the Play School idea, which is that there is no line of
demarcation between the two subjects.

Baldwin, James: The Discovery of the Old Northwest.
Becquer, Gustavo Adolfo: Romantic Legends of Spain.
Brabourne, Lord (Edward Knatchbull-Hugessen): River
Legends (London and England).
Converse, Harriet Clarke: Myths and Legends of New York
State Iroquois.
Griffis, William Elliot: The Unmannerly Tiger and Other
Tales (Korean).
Guerber, Helène A.: The Story of the English; Legends of
the Rhine; Legends of Switzerland.
Hardy, Mary E.: Indian Legends from Geyser-land
(Yellowstone).
Hearn, Lafcadio: Kwaidan (Japan).
Janvier, Thomas A.: Legends of the City of Mexico.
Johonnot, James: Ten Great Events in History.

Judson, Katharine B.: Myths of California and the Old
Southwest; Myths and Legends of the Great Plains;
Myths and Legends of Alaska; Myths and Legends of
the Pacific Northwest.
Lang, Andrew: True Story Book.
McMurry, Charles A.: Pioneers of the Mississippi Valley.
Perry, F. M., and Beebe, Katherine: Four American
Pioneers.
Pitman, Leila Webster: Stories of Old France.
Skinner, Charles M.: American Myths and Legends; Myths
and Legends beyond Our Borders (Mexico and Peru).
Smith, Bertha H.: Yosemite Legends.
Warren, Henry Pitt (Ed.): Stories from English History.
Westervelt, H. D.: Legends of Old Honolulu.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Story-Telling to Intensify Interest in Nature Study

Nature study, as a formal subject in the elementary schools, is often
uninteresting to the child, because many teachers think that there the bare
truth should prevail, and present information concerning the sciences as a
series of dry, emasculated facts. The result is indifference toward what
might be a keen pleasure, and sometimes even distaste for it. But if the
nature lesson is presented in a manner that brings vivid pictures to the mind
of the child, if he is given some vision of what cannot be understood by
mere description, it becomes a living reality, and not only fixes information
that is the foundation for scientific study later, but enlarges the emotional
life and quickens the imagination. It gives him a feeling of close contact
with nature and makes him so responsive to its varied life, moods, and
aspects, that he comes to love it.

Those who understand nature love it more than those who do not. The
man who knows the elm, the beech, the hemlock, and various other forest
brethren, finds a pleasure in the woods that is impossible to him to whom a
tree is just a tree. The latter is like Peter Bell, of whom Wordsworth wrote:

A primrose by a river’s brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.

He goes on his way thinking that trees are good for lumber, to produce
shade and break the force of winds that might otherwise blight his crops,
but he has little conception of how they affect human happiness and human
life. When tired and nerve worn, he does not yearn for the peace of the
redwoods, but for some artificial stimulus in a city distant from the one in
which he has his cares. Why? Because he was not born with a love of nature
that is as rare as genius, and was not fortunate enough to be led along the
path on which it is acquired. That there are many men and women of this
type is proved by the ruthless way in which our forests have been
destroyed, by the abuse of privileges in public parks and gardens, by the
way in which trees are slaughtered in city streets. It is certain that love of
nature is not born with every one, and that what is the fortunate heritage of
the few must be instilled into the many. This can be done, and it can be
done through story-telling. The careless child, the unobservant child, to
whom a flower is just a flower or a bird a bunch of feathers, can be led to
open his eyes and see what he did not see before, while the one who has
already found joy in the life of field and stream will respond with intense
pleasure because a new and roseate light is flashed upon what is already
familiar.
Children learn to love nature just as they learn to love a picture, a dog, or
a swimming hole, through experience with it that gives joyous results. The
country lad, whose Saturdays and vacation days are associated with
cowslips, dragon flies, and quiet hours beside a trout stream casting a line
for the elusive catch, is not likely to find schoolroom nature study a dull
subject, because, through hours of enjoyment, he is equipped with an
emotional and imaginative background that gives color to every fact
presented. But he who has not had this opportunity, who knows as little of
wild life as a cormorant knows of the Colorado crags, will not respond

eagerly to a series of facts, because experience has not previously aroused
his imagination concerning them, and he cannot comprehend their mystery
and wonder. If these facts are presented through the medium of the story, if
they depict the life of the open as vividly as some painting that meets the
eye, they will give pleasure and furnish incentive for further investigation.
They will not only awaken the uninformed child to a realization of the
wonders and delights nature holds for him, but they will give the other,
more fortunate child additional pleasure, just as a favorite fairy tale does
when told again and again by one who loves it and can make its moods his
own.
This does not mean that all information should be presented through the
medium of the story. The story should be used only to give such
information as is natural to the story form. But nature study can be
wonderfully illuminated by the story, because many of the truths of science
do lend themselves to plot, and where they have been put in parallel literary
form, they are as replete with beauty and imagery as the fairy tale, and
afford the fancy as free play as do the adventures of sprites and goblins. The
marvel of the brown bulb or seed metamorphosing into the brilliant-hued
blossom, of the homely caterpillar evolving into a bit of flying color, of the
majestic movements of stars and planets through worlds remote but as
exquisitely constructed as our own, fascinates the child and furnishes wide,
untrammeled avenues along which his imagination may roam. There is
almost no branch of science that is not rich in material for the story-teller.
Dr. Carrel, the great French specialist, once said that some day an artist will
arise who will weave the facts concerning the circulation of the blood into a
tale as fascinating as any conte from the Arabian Nights.
It is not likely that physiology will ever be the nucleus of stories to give
to children in the early years of school life, but Dr. Carrel’s words hold a
valuable hint for the narrator, who should not fail to draw from truth as
freely as he draws from myth and fable. An overdose of one kind of food,
no matter how wholesome, disarranges the digestive apparatus, and an
overdose of one kind of literature makes a one-sided man. There are some
facts to show that a too free feeding on fairy tales has led to crooked
thinking and susceptibility to superstition, and the story-teller should
balance his work in improbable tales with those of fact that fire the
imagination because of the marvels related in them.

This is not so difficult as it may seem, for many of the truths of science
have been put into simple language by men who were poet enough to bring
to children something of their mystery and beauty, and there is no dearth of
books that can be used with gratifying results by workers among children as
young as those of six to nine years. Part of the story of evolution is enjoyed
in this period. The boy in the age of fancy is fascinated by listening to an
account of early man’s struggle with nature, and tales of the tree dwellers,
of cave and cliff dwellers, of the discovery of fire and the adventures of the
first wanderers, mean as much to him as any fairy tale, because they have
the very characteristic that makes the fairy tale delightful—an element of
mystery that permits the fancy to roam unchecked.
Older children revel in the truths of science, if they are presented in story
form. Take, for instance, David Starr Jordan’s “Story of a Stone.” Where is
there a fairy tale more fascinating than this narrative of “a bit of petrified
honeycomb,” plowed up by a Wisconsin husbandman as he made ready to
sow his winter wheat? The style and language have the charm of Andersen,
the plot is as well sustained as that of any Thuringian folk tale collected by
Grimm, and it begins as fairy tales have begun since the beginning of time:

Once upon a time, a great many years ago, so many, many
years that one grows very tired in trying to think how long
ago it was; in those old days when the great Northwest
consisted of a few ragged and treeless hills, full of copper
and quartz and bordered by a dreary waste of sand flats, over
which the Gulf of Mexico rolled its warm and turbid waters
as far north as Escanaba and Eau Claire; in the days when
Marquette harbor opened out toward Baffin’s Bay, and the
northern ocean washed the crest of Mount Washington and
wrote its name on the pictured rocks; when the tide of the
Pacific, hemmed in by no snow-capped Sierras, came
rushing through the Golden Gate between the Ozarks and
the northern peninsula of Michigan, swept over Plymouth
Rock, and surged up against Bunker Hill; in the days when it
would have been fun to study geography, because there were
no capitals, nor any products, and all the towns were
seaports,—in fact, an immensely long time ago, there lived

somewhere in the northeastern part of Wisconsin a little
jellyfish.

Dr. Jordan has also woven into story form information concerning the
animal life of sea and stream, of a mother and baby seal, in the delightful
tale of “Matka and Kotik,” and there is not a boy or a girl in the heroic
period who does not listen eagerly to the adventures of a salmon, “a curious
little fellow, not half an inch long, with great, staring eyes which made
almost half his length, and with a body so transparent that he could not cast
a shadow.” The account of the battle of the fish there under the ripples of
the Cowlitz, the beginning of the eventful journey down the river, the merry
conflict with the herring and the terrible one with the sea lions, swimming
always and always, growing larger and more daring, and having in his
watery realm as many adventures as bold Robin had in his greenwood, hold
the children from the beginning to the end of the story. They sympathize as
he struggles up the stream again, “growing poor and ragged and tired,” and
through his life and adventures they come to have an interest in the world of
fishes that they will not have without the tale. Such stories demonstrate the
fact that information concerning the sciences can be put into fascinating
story form, and every worker with young folk should endeavor to present
some of it through this delightful medium.
The child will find such tales far more appealing than the so-called nature
stories in which animals are over-personified and in which they meet man
in situations that every intelligent boy or girl knows are impossible. A lad is
not brought into harmony with nature by being given yarns that caricature
nature, and many of the modern nature stories do this very thing. Children
know that a wild bear does not walk into a little girl’s flower garden, and
then politely say “I am sorry” and back out because the small mistress of
the garden is kind and instead of throwing stones at him explains in elegant
English that it is rude to go into another’s property unbidden. They know
that animals and children do not converse together in the same language,
and that bears do not have courses in ethics. The nature story that fascinates
the child must be true to nature’s laws. He may listen to some of the sugary,
impossible yarns written to point a moral, but they do not give him keen
pleasure, and because they are ridiculous in his eyes, he draws no lesson
from them. One of the aims of story-telling is to give ethical instruction, but

there is a wealth of tales that reflect nature and life correctly that should be
used for this purpose, and the facts of science should not be distorted in an
attempt to emphasize a lesson.
Tales pervaded by over-sentimentalism will not stir deep response in
children. This is why the nature story that is true to the facts of science is
the one that interests the boy or girl. It is like the racial tale, full of conflict,
of temporary defeat and final triumph. The young salmon grown old,
struggling up Snake River to the foot of the Bitter Root Mountains, was
sore of muscle and unsightly of skin, and his tail was frayed and torn, but
the desire of his nature was fulfilled at last. He scooped out a nest and
covered the eggs of his companion, and then, because the work of his life
was done, was free to drift downstream. Such stories give insight into
nature and engender a love of nature; and besides quickening the
imagination and enriching the emotional life, they help to give stability to
the child character, because through them he learns the workings of certain
inexorable laws.
There is such a vast amount of material to use in teaching nature study,
that the suggestions and bibliography given in this chapter can by no means
be comprehensive. In the realm of geology there is the story of limestone,
of slate, of quartz and granite, of rock salt and sandstone, and particularly
interesting to the child is the story of coal. For him it abounds in color, and
beautiful indeed are the pictures that he sees as he listens to this narrative of
the carboniferous forests that grew in the beginning of time, of the lush,
dank swamps of the Permian or Triassic or Miocene Period, and the strange
animal life that peopled them. From astronomy and botany one may glean
as much as from geology, while entomology, zoölogy, and ichthyology hold
untold delights for the child.
A wonderful science story is that of the coral polyp, building from some
submerged cliff or crag until a little island rises above the blue water. In my
own childhood it meant as much as ever a fairy tale meant, and I can still
feel the pleasure I experienced the first time I heard it. It is full of mystery
and wonder, and a story of rare beauty for the child. I have used it often in
story-telling, and it never fails to bring enthusiastic response; and very
popular with the children is this song of the insect builders, of which I do
not know the authorship, but which is one of the fragrant memories of my
childhood:

Far down in the depths of the deep blue sea,
An insect train works ceaselessly;
Moment by moment and day by day,
Never stopping to rest or play,
Rock upon rock they are rearing high,
Till the top looks out on the sunny sky:
The gentle winds and the balmy air
Little by little bring verdure there,
Till the summer sunbeams gayly smile
On the birds and flowers of the little isle.

Older children enjoy hearing about the different forms of coral, of the
characteristics of that of the Mediterranean Sea and the Indian Ocean, and
of the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic. They enjoy, too, hearing about the
coral industry, of the fishing for it along the shores of Africa, of the
departure of the seekers from Sicily, of the Feast of the Coral Fishers that is
such a picturesque feature of the island life, of the polishing and carving
and preparing the product for trade; they like the legend the southern
Italians tell of how the first medallion in Sicily was made as an offering of
gratitude by a fisher lad to the young Princess of Naples. From beginning to
end the coral story is a narrative that charms the child, and it is but one of
the forms of sea life, which holds rich opportunities for the narrator, while
sea life is but one of the fields of science from which he can glean with
splendid results. In fact, the possibilities for story work in the teaching of
science are almost beyond imagining until one begins to survey the field
and enumerate sources of material, and the story-teller will be restricted in
it only by her ability to organize material and present it to the children in
story form.
Sometimes writers, thinking they will make nature stories more
enjoyable to boys and girls, people them with supernatural folk who are
supposed to be responsible for the marvels that occur in them. It is a
practice that scientists decry, and it is condemned by all who believe that a
story fit to give to children must be worthy of the name of literature, and
consequently, whether fact or fiction, must be true in spirit. The tale that
portrays a fairy up in the sky keeping the planets in motion like so many
checkers on a board, or one in which enchanted creatures bury their beads
in the ground, causing them to send up roses and lilies and other beautiful

blossoms, is not a nature story. It may be a charming fanciful tale, but it
should not be given to teach the truths of science. Science stories, like Bible
stories, need no sugar coating to make them attractive. When given as
stories, and not as a string of facts, they are full of suspense, and accounts
of actual happenings in star land, under the waves, or deep in the earth are
as fascinating to the child as the fancied ones of nature’s forces were to
primitive man in the forest, when he crept close to the tribal story-teller and
in big-eyed, wondering awe sought to know the meaning of the great
globule that gleamed in the sky by day and the numberless tiny ones that
gleamed there by night. The primitive animal tale, which gives early man’s
belief as to how certain creatures came by their characteristics, is very
interesting to the child, and while in a broader sense it belongs to the field
of geography, my own experience has been that if told in connection with
animals or flowers studied, it is received with enthusiasm by boys and girls.
But the child should understand that these narratives are primitive man’s
conception, and that the science stories are the real “why” and “how”
stories.

THE WONDERFUL BUILDERS

Out in the heart of the Pacific, far out where the blue waves roll their
shining masses between Samoa and the Australian mainland, where the
brown-skinned islanders and the white-winged sea birds seem always
happy, a little animal floated around one day, floated from among the shoals
of Tutuila toward the open sea. It was a tiny creature, and as curious as it
was tiny, for it looked more like a spot of clear jelly than anything else, and
its name was Polyp.
Quite lazily it floated about in the water, now under a stretch of seaweed,
all purple and opalescent like ropes of wonderful colors, now through the
clear, bright current past the gaping mouth of a shark. But the shark,
although always on the watch for something to devour, did not get the little
polyp, and soon it came to a submerged rock deep under the waves. This
seemed a very good resting place, and there the polyp stayed.
Days passed, weeks lengthened into months, and still the polyp kept to its
place on the under-sea rock. But it was not drowsing and sleeping like a

lazy creature. It was busily at work, for the very minute it landed on the
rock it decided to make a house.
Now you must not think that it could not work, because, although it did
look like a drop of jelly and was small and curious, it was alive. It had arms,
very, very tiny arms, finer than the finest silk thread in your mother’s
workbasket, and so thin and delicate looking that nobody could see them.
But those arms were stronger than they looked, and with them it held on to
the rock tight and fast.
Then, what a queer house-making! The little, jellylike body began to
swell. It raised itself up in the shape of a tube, and around the edge of the
tube came a little rim. This rim was the beginning of the house of the polyp.
The waves rolled on. The sun beat down brightly and hotly as it always
beats down in the South Sea country, and then came another change. A knot
rose in the middle of the jelly, and out of that knot reached a mouth and
feelers.
Now the work began in earnest. The polyp began to eat, to eat as greedily
as a boy who has had not a bit for a whole day. It took in chalk and
phosphorus from the sea food that came its way, yet it seemed never to get
enough, and all the while the little feelers kept reaching out for more food
and pouring it into the open mouth. As it ate, the chalk it took in piled
around the little rim, which I told you was the beginning of the house, and
although the polyp wanted much to hold some of that nice chalk food in its
mouth long enough to get the full taste, it could not. The white substance
went right down and piled up on the rim; so it is no wonder that the little
creature was always hungry.
Well, it ate and it ate. The rim kept growing and growing, as of course it
must with so much chalk piling up on it, and as the house grew higher and
higher the polyp kept moving to the top. The part below was hard and white
like stone, and still the polyp kept eating, eating, and building, building.
For a long time it kept on, until finally it died. Then one day another drop
of living jelly floated that way, and finding the chalk house of the other
polyp, stopped there and began building on top of it. The waves rolled on.
The sun shone, and all the while the house went steadily higher. Other
polyps too came and began building beside and above it, and as they died

they left their hard, white homes behind them as the first polyp had done.
Others and still others came, until, as many, many years passed, the chalk
houses reached the top of the water and men called them an island.
The waves rolled by. Seaweed drifted that way and lodged itself on the
chalk reefs. It decayed and turned to soil. Sometimes the water and
sometimes the wind brought bits of plant and seed from some other older
islands, until at last there were flowers and trees and birds singing in the
branches.
Now the ships of the world sail by, going toward China or Australia or to
the American shores far, far away, and sometimes they stop at the little
island, and sometimes those on board rest there among the palms and think
it so delightful a land that they wish they never had to go away, but might
stay there always and always. Yet but for a wee, curious sea creature that
island would not be, for it had its beginning in a tiny animal, more like a
drop of jelly than anything else, that floated one day between Samoa and
the Australian mainland, and made its house upon a bit of submerged rock.

Sources of Material for Science Stories

Beard, James Carter: Humor in Animals.
Bergen, Fanny Dickerson: Plant Work.
Burroughs, John: Squirrels and Other Fur-bearers.
Collins, Archie Frederick: The Book of Stars.
Comstock, John Henry: Insect Life.
Du Chaillu, Paul B.: The World of the Great Forest.
Fabre, Henri: Insect Adventures; The Life of a Fly; The
Hunting Wasps; The Mason Bees; The Life of a
Caterpillar.
Frye, Alexis Everett: Brooks and Brook Basins.
Grinnell, Joseph and Elizabeth: Birds of Song and Story.
Grinnell, Morton: Neighbors of Field, Wood, and Stream.

Groos, Karl: The Play of Animals.
Hawkes, Clarence: Shovelhorns: The Biography of a
Moose.
Holder, Charles F.: Stories of Animal Life.
Ingersoll, Ernest: Wild Life of Orchard and Field.
Jordan, David Starr: Science Sketches.
Lea, John: The Romance of Bird Life.
Miles, Alfred H.: Animal Anecdotes.
Miller, Ellen R.: Butterfly and Moth Book.
Morley, Margaret W.: Butterflies and Bees.
Porter, Gene Stratton: Moths of the Limberlost.
Porter, Jermain G.: Stars in Song and Legend.
Roberts, Charles G. D.: Earth’s Enigmas; Haunters of the
Silences; Kindred of the Wild; Kings in Exile.
Thompson, Jeanette May: Water Wonders Every Child
Should Know.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Story-Telling in Domestic Science and Manual Training

People are likely to smile when a story-telling enthusiast suggests that his
art will intensify the interest in manual training and domestic science, but a
little investigation usually convinces them that this contention is not merely
a wild theory. Cooking and sewing and wood, metal, and leather working
each has an interesting story, and through understanding how these crafts
originated and how they have developed with the progress of the race, he
comes to have an appreciation of their true dignity and value. In a broad
sense these tales belong to the field of history and geography, for domestic
science and manual training have a background in history and present-day

geography. But since the school gives them as separate subjects, a
consideration of story materials touching them will be valuable to teachers
of these subjects.
It is a far cry from the first roast meat of primitive man, discovered by
accident to be more delectable than that untouched by heat, to the banquet
of the twentieth-century gourmet, but they are chapters of the same tale,
each intervening portion of which is interesting. There seems to be no
relation between the grass skirt of the prehistoric belle and the creations of
Worth or Paquin, but they are links in the same chain, beads strung upon the
same thread, as are the rush mats of the cave woman and the rugs of
Teheran. There are dozens of stories to give to girls that will increase their
interest and delight in household crafts. Tales of the lace makers of Italy and
Spain, of medieval tapestry weavers, of dower chests of European peasant
maids, the contents of which pass from generation to generation, of royal
costumers and court tailors, their problems, patience, and artistry, all tend to
give a touch of romance to something many girls are inclined to hold in
contempt. They enjoy hearing about cookery in foreign lands, of ways of
serving meals that are very different from our own, and no one is more
amused by Lamb’s “Dissertation on Roast Pig” than she who deals with
problems of roasting and baking.
Domestic-science girls who are told something of the legends clustering
around various foodstuffs enjoy the cooking class more than those who hear
nothing but lectures on chemistry, dietetics, and comparative nutritive
values, and they take more pleasure in preparing a meal because they know
stories about the various dishes that comprise that meal.
This is no unproved theory, but one that has been tried successfully with
a group of fourteen-year-old girls, who took keener delight in bread making
after being told of the bakers of Nuremberg and who brewed coffee with
more interest when they knew the tale of how Arabians discovered the use
of coffee.
There are stories of wood, metal, and leather workers that should be
given to every boy, not only because they throw new light upon what he is
doing and add interest to it, but because they lead him to respect those who
toil with their hands. Stories of medieval carving, of house building in
different lands and ages, now of the brush hut of the Australian aborigine,

now of the workmanship in the palace of a sultan or czar; of the poet
craftsmen of Nuremberg, of the pottery making of the Aztecs, of the
building of Venice upon piles hewn from Tyrolean forests, these and dozens
of kindred subjects are rich in materials that will give children pleasure and
knowledge. To the boy or girl who loves the work in manual training and
domestic science they bring additional pleasure, while in the indifferent
they awaken interest; and, moreover, the snobbish child who is inclined to
think handcraft beneath his respect, will be led to see that the carpenter who
strives to make each effort more worthy than the preceding one, or the
housewife who puts the best of herself into the preparation of a meal, is in
the same class with Phidias or Shakespeare in earnestness of purpose, even
though not in results, and is as deserving of honor. The first step toward
success with these branches is to dignify them in the eyes of children, and
nothing accomplishes this as effectually and rapidly as the story. To know
that the crafts were worthy of the best efforts of those of other times and
lands is to make them feel they are worthy also of their best effort.
There is another reason why these stories should be told. In the midst of
the agitation in favor of vocational training, the force of which is sweeping
away and modifying some of the old educational standards, there is danger
that in catering to the demand for the practical in schools we neglect that
which conduces to dreams and ideals.
A man may advance beyond the ranks of a journeyman joiner and make a
good living if he has no thought beyond the work of each day as it dawns,
but without vision he cannot become the master builder, and romance is the
corner stone upon which the temple of vision stands. The palaces of old
Hellas were built to strains of music, for the beauty-loving Greeks knew
that melody gave men lofty thoughts, and believed work performed to its
accompaniment would be of higher order than that performed without it.
Bands were hired to play as the toilers worked, and boys who were to
become builders were inspired to emulate the efforts of great craftsmen by
being told stories of their achievement. In our day we cannot expect the
state to provide bands and symphony orchestras to inspire toilers, but
during the days of their apprenticeship we can give them tales that will have
a tendency to glorify their chosen craft. We can cause them to feel that only
the best efforts of hand and brain are fit to go into this craft, because it is a
monument to the memory of those who lived and died in its ranks, and that

every worthy effort of each succeeding toiler helps to make that monument
nobler and more enduring.

THE DERVISH OF MOCHA

Retold from an Arabian Folk Tale
The dervish Hadji Omar was a fortunate man. No one of his day was so
well versed in lore of the ancients and in the knowledge of his own time, no
one was so highly esteemed by his people or so loved and trusted by the
caliph. At every royal banquet he sat in a seat of honor, and whenever he
went through the streets of Mocha the populace shouted, “Hail, Omar!”
But there came a time when the fortunes of the dervish changed. One
afternoon as he sat in the court garden he heard a conversation that
dismayed him. Beyond the palm trees that screened him from their sight,
the caliph and his council were planning how to defraud the common
people and enrich themselves. Hadji Omar listened, grieved, and that night
went to his friend, told what he had heard, and tried to dissuade him from a
course of dishonor.
Then the caliph forgot all the happy hours he had spent with the dervish,
forgot that he had loved him even as a brother, and remembered only that
the dervish was trying to interfere in his plan. He flew into a rage and
declared that Omar should be exiled from Mocha, and that a price would be
upon his head should he ever return. Never again should he sit at the royal
banquet table. Never again should he pass through the streets amid cries and
calls of endearment. He should live in the wilds like a hunted creature and
get his food as the birds of the field get theirs.
So out from the city that he loved went the wise and righteous dervish.
He took the camel trail into the desert, and after a time came to an oasis
where he stayed. A miserable existence he had there, because few food
plants grew in the spot. Sometimes a caravan came by, and a merchant or
camel driver pitied him and gave him dates or milk. But sometimes he had
nothing to eat, and always his meals were so scanty that he grew thin and
weak and haggard.
One day—he had been a long time without food and was faint from
hunger—he found some berries growing on a tree beside a spring. They

were so bitter that he could not eat them; so he tried the experiment of
roasting them over the coals. This made them more palatable, but still they
were viciously hard. Hadji Omar was so hungry that he was willing to do
any amount of work to get food; so he boiled the berries, hoping they would
soften. Still they were hard, but he managed to eat a few of them and drank
of the water. His hunger and fatigue seemed gone, and he realized he had
made a great discovery.
Hastening back to the city, he told the guard his story and was allowed to
go into the presence of the caliph. There he produced some of the roasted
berries, which were boiled according to his direction, and the governor and
council drank of the water. They pronounced it a kingly beverage, and the
decree went forth that Hadji Omar was to go free.
Thereafter he lived with the caliph, who loved and trusted him as before
and led a more exemplary life because of the influence of the goodly
dervish.
Hadji Omar was honored during his remaining years, and after his death
was revered as a saint, not only because he was wise and righteous, but
because he discovered to Arabia the beverage of the coffee berry.

Sources of Material to Use in Domestic Science and Manual Training

Clinch, George: English Costume from Prehistoric Times to
the End of the Eighteenth Century.
Goldenberg, Samuel L.: Lace, Its Origin and History.
Knight, James: Food and Its Functions.
Lowes, Emily Leigh: Chats on Old Lace and Needlework.
Morse, Frances Clary: Furniture of the Olden Time.
Norton, Edith Eliza: Rugs in their Native Land.
Planché, James Robinson: History of British Costume.
Ransom, Caroline Louise: Studies in Ancient Furniture.
Singleton, Esther: Furniture of Our Forefathers.
Stories of the Ancient World Retold from St. Nicholas
(Clothing).

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Does the Work of the Story-Teller Pay?

And now arises the question, Does all this effort on the part of the story-
teller pay? Is it worth the labor required for the domestic-science
supervisor, the manual-arts director, the music, literature, geography, or
history teacher, to prepare stories that touch upon his work? That question
can best be answered by estimating results.
As stated in the opening chapter of Part One, story-telling can simplify
the entire education problem. It will create noble ideas in boys and girls of
today just as it created ideals and established standards in those of the past.
It will arouse an ambition to live and to achieve so that they may be worthy
of the emulation of children of the future even as they emulate the heroes of
days gone by. In no other way can such deep desire be awakened as through

story hearing and reading. In no other way do children realize so completely
the truth of Longfellow’s words:

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time.

Yet in many homes story-telling is almost unknown because the mother
does not deem it of sufficient value to make some sacrifice of her time and
provide for it. She does not know that the story-telling mothers of the past
have been those whose children have risen up and called them blessed; that
the confidence of their boys and girls, won around the fireside as old-time
tales were told, has been held unshaken to the end.
The force that in the long ago moved men to great achievement has lost
none of its power. Twentieth-century children respond to stories as eagerly
as did boys and girls by the sea of Hellas when Greece was young, as they
did in medieval castle hall to the strains of minnesinger and harper, because
child nature does not change. The story hour in the home is a formidable
rival of the street and the nickelodeon, and the teacher whose fund of tales
is large and who tells them joyously has little trouble with discipline. Her
charges know that she holds the key to Magic Land, and that if they are
good she will open the gate. They remember her with affection, and best of
all remember the dreams that came into being under her spell. She is queen
of her little realm through the royal right of the minstrel, and no pretender
can dislodge her from her throne in the hearts that she has won.
Yet some school officials, men of education and refinement, regard story-
telling as a very good means of entertainment, but unworthy of a place in
the curriculum, and when urged to include it ask, “Does it pay?”
If it is worth anything to make formal schoolroom subjects joyous instead
of boresome, then story-telling pays; if it is necessary to give the child
something that will be a perennial rainbow in his soul, something that will
keep him sweet and full of faith and hope when disappointments come and
illusions go, that will cause him to laugh at age even in the time of white
hairs and wrinkles, then story-telling is vitally necessary. He cannot grow
bitter who possesses Aladdin’s lamp. Dark skies may lower over his head

and the thunder crash ominously about him, but if the seeds of romance
have been planted in his soul, if poesy has been nurtured into flower there
by the world’s best stories heard in his youth, he will retain, even in the
midst of blackness and tempest, a vision of turquoise skies behind the
clouds, a dream of sun-kissed fields where grow everlasting flowers of
fragrance and beauty.
Is the reward to the worker not worth the price? One guerdon lies in the
thought that he who joins the ranks of story-tellers becomes a member of a
glorious company, one with which the greatest souls of the world were not
unwilling to be identified. Goethe never felt it beneath his dignity to gather
a group of children about him and delight them with a tale, and nothing
speaks more eloquently of the sweetness of Verdi’s nature than one of his
letters to his librettist that relates how, in his visits back to the hill town
where he was born, it gladdened him to see gamins swarm from every
quarter, exclaiming, “Una favola, signor, una favola!”
“He is a happy man,” says Châteaubriand, “who keeps through a
turbulent lifetime the heart of a child, who carries with him to the end of his
journey some of the illusions stored up in his youth, for contact with envy
and calumny and deception are apt to cause them to take flight.” The author
of Faust and the creator of Otello each had his share of brushing against the
things that make men bitter. They had sounded the depths of
discouragement and disappointment, yet they had the hearts of children, and
who knows but that telling stories to children had something to do with
keeping them young? During Verdi’s period of struggle and heartbreak,
when Milan jeered at his compositions and critics declared him a man of no
talent, when obstacles piled so high it seemed beyond mortal power to
remove them, when no one in the city but himself and his wife believed in
him, instead of becoming sour and worthless, as any but a granitic nature
like his would have done, he returned to his native highlands and told
stories to children who thought him more wonderful than a king; then he
went back to his labor strong and fit. Forgetting himself in delighting the
village bambinos bolstered up his courage and his faith and helped to make
him an exuberant giver. Perhaps the present-day story-teller, like that master
at Roncone, if he approach his work reverently and keep in mind a thought
of what it has meant to the world, may receive as much as he gives.

STORIES FOR TELLING

THE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE MOON

(Alsatian Folk Tale—Christmas Story—Ethics, teaching honesty)
The man in the moon was once a merry peasant, who ever so long ago
lived quite amicably with his good wife and children, and had a hut with a
wooden floor and a roof whose thatch was as thick as any in the village.
Always there was plenty of black bread and goat’s milk, and sometimes on
Sundays or holidays the family felt rich enough to afford a bit of pork. But
one Holy Night that peasant turned dishonest, and then something
happened.
“What shall we have for the Christmas feast?” asked his wife, who was
fat and jolly. “Shall it be our good rye bread and a fine joint of meat?”
“To be sure,” the merry husband answered, “but that is not enough. There
shall be cabbage too.”
At his words the wife opened her mouth so wide that it looked like a big
round window in her face.
“Cabbage!” she gasped. “Pray, how can that be, since we have not a leaf
in the hut?”
The peasant nodded in a knowing way and answered, “To be sure, there
is none there now, but there will be by and by.”
Then he held his tongue as if he thought it unwise to talk too freely to a
woman, took a basket, and went out of the door. His wife was much
excited. She was sure he had some secret message from the fairies, for it
was in that far-away time when strange and marvelous things happened.
Down along the road the peasant hurried, smiling like a village maiden
on the way to meet her sweetheart at the fair. Everywhere lights gleamed
from the windows, and he laughed at the sight of them, for he knew people
were inside, thinking of the feast and the Holy Night.

“Which makes it safe for me,” he murmured. On and on he went, never
stopping until he came to a cabbage patch, the largest and finest in the
village. They were bigger than his head, those cabbages, and every one of
them belonged to the mayor.
“But some shall go into my good wife’s pot,” he laughed as he saw them,
and climbing the fence he went into the patch and began to help himself.
Then suddenly along the road came a child on a snow-white horse. He
rode as if nothing could halt him, but seeing the man in the patch, he
stopped and shouted, “What are you doing?” The peasant looked to right
and left and began to stammer, “Just b-b-b-borrowing some of the m-m-m-
mayor’s cabbages,” he replied, as he threw a plump one into his basket.
The clear, strong tones rang out again, “You steal, and on the Holy Night
too! So you and your basket shall go to the moon.”
Then, whisk! Up the peasant started and never stopped until he came to
the middle of the moon, and there he has stayed ever since. Whether or not
he ate the cabbages, no one knows, but he and his basket are there to this
day, and every night when the moon is full you may see them.

THE DISCONTENTED PIG

(Thuringian Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching contentment)
Ever so long ago, in the time when there were fairies, and men and
animals talked together, there was a curly-tailed pig. He lived by himself in
a house at the edge of the village, and every day he worked in his garden.
Whether the sun shone or the rain fell he hoed and dug and weeded, turning
the earth around his tomato vines and loosening the soil of the carrot plot,
until word of his fine vegetables traveled through seven counties, and each
year he won the royal prize at the fair.
But after a time that little pig grew tired of the endless toil.
“What matters it if I do have the finest vegetables in the kingdom,” he
thought, “since I must work myself to death getting them to grow? I mean
to go out and see the world and find an easier way of making a living.”

So he locked the door of his house and shut the gate of his garden and
started down the road.
A good three miles he traveled, till he came to a cottage almost hidden in
a grove of trees. Lovely music sounded around him and Little Pig smiled,
for he had an ear for sweet sounds.
“I will go look for it,” he said, following in the direction from which it
seemed to come.
Now it happened that in that house dwelt Thomas, a cat, who made his
living playing on the violin. Little Pig saw him standing in the door pushing
the bow up and down across the strings. It put a thought into his head.
Surely this must be easier and far more pleasant than digging in a garden!
“Will you teach me to play the violin, friend cat?” he asked.
Thomas looked up from his bow and nodded his head.
“To be sure,” he answered; “just do as I am doing.”
And he gave him the bow and fiddle.
Little Pig took them and began to saw, but squeak! quang! No sweet
music fell upon his ear. The sounds he heard were like the squealing of his
baby brother pigs when a wolf came near them.
“Oh!” he cried; “this isn’t music!”
Thomas, the cat, nodded his head.
“Of course not,” he said. “You haven’t tried long enough. He who would
play the violin must work.”
“Then I think I’ll look for something else,” Piggywig answered, “because
this is quite as hard as weeding my garden.”
And he gave back the bow and fiddle and started down the road.
He walked on and on, until he came to a hut where lived a dog who made
cheese. He was kneading and molding the curd into cakes, and Little Pig
thought it looked quite easy.
“I think I’d like to go into the cheese business myself,” he said to
himself. So he asked the dog if he would teach him.

This the dog was quite willing to do, and a moment later Little Pig was
working beside him.
Soon he grew hot and tired and stopped to rest and fan himself.
“No, no!” exclaimed the dog, “you will spoil the cheese. There can be no
rest time until the work is done.”
Little Pig opened his eyes in amazement.
“Indeed!” he replied. “Then this is just as hard as growing vegetables or
learning to play a violin. I mean to look for something easier.”
And he started down the road.
On the other side of the river, in a sweet green field, a man was taking
honey out of beehives. Little Pig saw him as he crossed the bridge and
thought that of all the trades he had seen, this suited him best. It must be
lovely there in the meadow among the flowers. Honey was not heavy to lift,
and once in a while he could have a mouthful of it. He ran as fast as he
could go to ask the man if he would take him into his employ.
This plan pleased the bee man as much as it pleased the pig.
“I’ve been looking for a helper for a year and a day,” he said. “Begin
work at once.”
He gave Little Pig a veil and a pair of gloves, telling him to fasten them
on well. Then he told him to lift a honeycomb out of a hive.
Little Pig ran to do it, twisting his curly tail in the joy of having at last
found a business that suited him. But buzz, buzz! The bees crept under his
veil and inside his gloves. They stung him on his fingers, his mouth, his
ears, and the end of his nose, and he squealed and dropped the honey and
ran.
“Come back, come back!” the man called.
“No, no!” Little Pig answered with a big squeal. “No, no, the bees hurt
me!”
The man nodded his head.
“Of course they do,” he said. “They hurt me too! That is part of the work.
You cannot be a beekeeper without getting stung.”

Little Pig blinked his beady eyes and began to think hard.
“It seems that every kind of work has something unpleasant about it. To
play the violin you must practice until your arm aches. When you make
cheese you dare not stop a minute until the work is done, and in taking
honey from a hive the bees sting you until your head is on fire. Work in my
garden is not so bad after all, and I am going back to it.”
So he said good-by to the bee man and was soon back in his carrot patch.
He hoed and raked and weeded, singing as he worked, and there was no
more contented pig in all that kingdom. Every autumn he took his
vegetables to the fair and brought home the royal prize, and sometimes, on
holidays, the cat and the dog and the bee man came to call.

THE BAT AND HIS PARTNERS

(Old Bavarian Folk Tale—Helpful in Nature Study)
Once upon a time a strange thing happened. A cormorant, a bat, and a
bramble met at the mouth of the river Elbe one day and told a sorrowful
story. Each was almost bankrupt; so they decided to postpone paying their
debts, put their remaining possessions together, and share in the consequent
weal or woe.
They bought a merchant vessel, a ship large and strong, and so seaworthy
it seemed it could sail to the nethermost parts of the Spanish Main. Wool
was precious then as now, and in a country far away a hundredweight of
sheep’s fleece brought many a gold doubloon. So they freighted the vessel
with the best wool that was to be had and joyfully watched the white sails
disappear in the pearl-gray mist. But a storm arose and angry winds dashed
their galleon against demon-like rocks. Instead of reaching a distant land of
gold doubloons the ship went to Davy Jones’s locker, and her precious
cargo made couches for the mermaids.
Then sad indeed was the plight of these partners on the North Sea shore!
Bailiffs began to sue them for payment of their debts, and ever since that
time the bat has flown by night, for in no other way can he avoid his
creditors. The cormorant, a solitary black figure, still broods beside the
waves and dives into the sea, hoping to retrieve his shattered fortune, while
the bramble has turned thief. Whenever a sheep goes by, he seizes a bit of

the fleece, trying in this way to make up for the loss of the wool that went
to the bottom of the Spanish Main instead of bringing him the gold of
which he had dreamed.

BRIER ROSE

Retold from Grimm
(Wonder Tale)
In olden times there lived a king and queen, who lamented day by day
that they had no children; and yet never a one was born. One day, as the
queen was bathing and thinking of her wishes, a frog skipped out of the
water and said to her: “Your wish shall be fulfilled. Before a year passes
you shall have a daughter.”
As the frog had said, so it happened, and a little girl was born who was so
beautiful that the king almost lost his senses; but he ordered a great feast to
be held, and invited to it not only his relatives, friends, and acquaintances,
but also all the wise women who were kind and affectionate to children.
There happened to be thirteen in his dominions, but since he had only
twelve golden plates out of which they could eat, one had to stay at home.
The feast was celebrated with all the magnificence possible, and, as soon as
it was over, the wise women presented the infant with their wonderful gifts:
one with virtue, another with beauty, a third with riches, and so on, so that
the child had everything that is to be desired in the world. Just as eleven had
given their presents, the thirteenth old lady stepped in suddenly. She was in
a tremendous passion because she had not been invited, and, without
greeting any one or looking at any one, she exclaimed loudly, “The princess
shall prick herself with a spindle on her fifteenth birthday and shall die!”
and without a word further she turned her back and left the hall. All were
terrified, but the twelfth fairy, who had not yet given her wish, then stepped
up. Because she could not take away the evil wish, but could only soften it,
she said, “She shall not die, but shall fall into a sleep of a hundred years’
duration.”
The king, who naturally wished to protect his child from this misfortune,
issued a decree commanding that every spindle in the kingdom should be
burnt. Meanwhile all the gifts of the wise women were fulfilled, and the

maiden became so beautiful, gentle, virtuous, and clever, that every one
who saw her fell in love with her. It happened on the day when she was just
fifteen years old that the queen and the king were not at home, and so she
was left alone in the castle. The maiden looked about in every place, going
through all the rooms and chambers just as she pleased, until she came at
last to an old tower. Up the narrow winding staircase she tripped until she
arrived at a door, in the lock of which was a rusty key. This she turned, and
the door sprang open, and there in the little room sat an old woman with a
spindle, spinning flax.
“Good day to you,” said the princess, “what is this that you are doing
here?”
“I am spinning,” said the old woman, nodding her head.
“What thing is that which twists round so merrily?” inquired the maiden,
and she took the spindle to try her hand at spinning. Scarcely had she done
so when the prophecy was fulfilled, for she pricked her finger; and at the
very same moment she fell back in a deep sleep upon a bed which stood
near. This sleep extended over the whole palace. The king and queen, who
had just come in, fell asleep in the hall, and all their courtiers with them; the
horses in the stables, the doves upon the eaves, the flies upon the walls, and
even the fire upon the hearth, all ceased to stir; the meat which was cooking
ceased to frizzle; and the cook at the instant of pulling the hair of the
kitchen boy lost his hold and began to snore, too. The wind also fell
entirely, and not a leaf rustled on the trees round the castle.
Now around the palace a thick hedge of briers began growing, which
every year grew higher and higher, till the castle was quite hidden from
view, so that one could not even see the flag upon the tower. Then there
went a legend through the land, of the beautiful maiden Brier Rose, for so
was the sleeping princess named, and from time to time princes came,
endeavoring to penetrate through the hedge into the castle; but it was not
possible, for the thorns held them as if by hands, and the youths were
unable to release themselves, and so perished miserably.
After the lapse of many years, there came another king’s son into the
country, and heard an old man tell the legend of the hedge of briers; how
that behind it stood a castle where slept a wonderfully beauteous princess
called Brier Rose, who had slumbered nearly a hundred years, and with her

the queen and king and all their court. The old man further related what he
had heard from his grandfather, that many princes had come and tried to
penetrate the hedge, and had died a miserable death. But the youth was not
to be daunted, and, however much the old man tried to dissuade him, he
would not listen, but cried out, “I fear not, I will see this hedge of briers!”
Just at that time came the last day of the hundred years, when Brier Rose
was to wake again. As the young prince approached the hedge, the thorns
turned to fine large flowers, which of their own accord made a way for him
to pass through, and again closed up behind him. In the courtyard he saw
the horses and dogs lying fast asleep, and on the eaves were the doves with
their heads beneath their wings. As soon as he went into the house, there
were the flies asleep upon the wall, the cook still stood with his hands on
the hair of the kitchen boy, and the maid stood at the board with the
unplucked fowl in her hand. He went on, and in the hall he found the
courtiers lying asleep, and above, by the throne, were the king and queen.
He went on farther, and all was so quiet that he could hear himself breathe,
until at last he came to the tower and opened the door of the little room
where slept Brier Rose. There she lay, looking so beautiful that he could not
turn away his eyes, and he bent over her and kissed her. Just as he did so
she opened her eyes, awoke, and greeted him with smiles. Then they went
down together, and immediately the king and queen awoke, and the whole
court, and all stared at each other wonderingly. Now the horses in the stable
got up and shook themselves; the dogs wagged their tails; the doves upon
the eaves drew their heads from under their wings, looked around, and flew
away; the flies upon the walls began to crawl; the fire began to burn
brightly and to cook the meat; the meat began again to frizzle; the cook
gave his lad a box upon the ear which made him call out; and the maid
began to pluck the fowl furiously. The whole palace was once more in
motion as if nothing had occurred, for the hundred years’ sleep had made no
change in any one.
By and by the wedding of the prince with Brier Rose was celebrated with
great splendor, and to the end of their lives they lived happily and
contented.

THE COAT OF ALL COLORS

Retold from Grimm
(Thuringian Wonder Tale)
There was once a king whose wife had golden hair and was altogether so
beautiful that her equal was not to be found in the world. It happened that
she fell ill, and when she felt she must soon die she called the king and said,
“If you marry again after my death, take no one who is not as beautiful as I
have been, nor one who has not golden hair like mine, and this you must
promise me.” After the king had promised she closed her eyes, and soon
died.
For a long time the king would not be comforted and thought not of
taking a second wife, but his councillors at last said that he must marry
again. Then messengers were sent far and wide to seek a bride who should
be as beautiful as the late queen, but there was no one to be found in the
whole world so beautiful and with such golden hair. So the messengers
returned home without accomplishing anything.
Now the king had a daughter who was just as beautiful as her dead
mother. She had also the same golden hair, and, as she grew up, the king
saw how like she was to his lost wife. He told his councilors that he wished
to marry his daughter to his oldest councilor, and that she should be as
queen. When the oldest councilor heard this he was delighted. But the
daughter was frightened at the resolve of the king, and hoped yet to turn
him from his intention. So she said to him, “Before I fulfill your wish I
must first have three dresses: one as golden as the sun, another as silver as
the moon, and a third as shining as the stars; further, I desire a cloak
composed of thousands of skins and hides, and to which every beast in your
kingdom must contribute a portion of his skin.”
The princess thought this would be impossible to do, and so she should
reclaim her father from his intention. But the king would not give it up, and
the cleverest maidens in his kingdom had to weave the three dresses, one as
golden as the sun, a second as silver as the moon, and a third as shining as
the stars, while his huntsmen had to catch all the beasts in the whole
kingdom and from each take a piece of skin wherewith a mantle of a
thousand pieces was made. At length, when all was ready, the king let the
mantle be fetched, and, spreading it before him, said, “Tomorrow shall the
wedding be.”

When the king’s daughter now saw that there was no hope left of turning
her father from his resolve, she determined to flee away. In the night, while
all slept, she got up and took three of her treasures, a golden ring, a gold
spinning wheel, and a gold reel; she put also in a nutshell the three dresses
of the sun, moon, and stars, and putting on the mantle of all skins, she dyed
her hands and face black with soot. Then, commending herself to God, she
set off and traveled the whole night till she came to a large wood, where,
feeling very tired, she took refuge in a hollow tree and went to sleep. The
sun rose, and she still slept and slept on till it was again far into the
morning. Then it happened that the king who owned this forest came to
hunt in it. As soon as his dogs ran to the tree they snapped about it, barked,
and growled, so that the king said to his huntsmen, “See what wild animal it
is that is concealed there.” The hunters obeyed his orders, and, when they
returned, they said, “In that hollow lies a wonderful creature whose like we
have never before seen; its skin is composed of a thousand different colors,
but it lies quite quiet and asleep.” The king said, “Try if you can catch it
alive, and then bind it to the carriage, and we will take it with us.”
As soon as the hunters caught hold of the maiden, she awoke full of
terror, and called out to them, “I am a poor child forsaken by both father
and mother! Pray pity me, and take me with you!” They named her
“Allerleirauh,” because of her mantle, and took her home with them to
serve in the kitchen and rake out the ashes. They went to the royal palace,
and there they showed her a little stable under the step where no daylight
could enter, and told her she could live and sleep there. Afterwards she went
into the kitchen, and there she had to carry water and wood to make the fire,
to pluck the fowls, to peel the vegetables, to rake out the ashes, and to do all
manner of dirty work.
Here, for a length of time, Allerleirauh lived wretchedly; but it happened
once that a feast was held in the palace, and she asked the cook, “May I go
and look on for a little while? I will place myself just outside the door.” The
cook said, “Yes, but in half an hour’s time you must return and rake out the
ashes.”
Allerleirauh took an oil lamp, and, going to her stable, put off the gown
of skins and washed the soot from her face and hands so that her real beauty
was displayed. Then she opened her nut and took out the dress which shone
as the sun, and as soon as she was ready she went up to the ballroom, where

every one made way for her, supposing that she was certainly some
princess. The king himself soon came up to her, and, taking her hand,
danced with her, thinking the while in his heart that he had never seen any
one like her. As soon as the dance was finished she disappeared, and
nobody knew whither. The watchmen stationed at the gates were called and
questioned, but they had not seen her.
She had run back to her stable and, having quickly taken off her dress,
had again blackened her face and hands, put on the dress of all skins, and
became “Allerleirauh” once more. As soon as she went into the kitchen to
do her work in sweeping up the ashes, the cook said, “Let that be for once
till the morning, and cook the king’s supper for me instead, while I go
upstairs to have a peep; but mind you do not let one of your hairs fall in, or
you will get nothing to eat for the future.”
So saying, he went away, and Allerleirauh cooked the king’s supper,
making some soup as good as she possibly could, and when it was ready
she went into the stable, and fetched her gold ring, and laid it in the dish.
When the dance was at an end, the king ordered his supper to be brought,
which, when he had tasted, he thought he had never eaten anything so nice
before. Just as he nearly finished it he saw a gold ring at the bottom, and,
not being able to imagine how it came there, he commanded the cook to be
brought before him. The cook was terrified when he heard this order, and
said to Allerleirauh, “Are you certain you did not let a hair fall into the
soup? For if it is so, you will catch a beating.”
Then he came before the king, who asked who had cooked the supper,
and he answered, “I did.” But the king said, “That is not true; for it is of a
much better kind and much better cooked than usual.” Then the cook said,
“I must confess that not I, but Allerleirauh, cooked it.” So that the king
commanded that she should be brought up.
When Allerleirauh came, the king asked, “Who are you?”
“I am a poor child, without father or mother,” replied she.
“Why did you come to my palace?” then inquired the king.
“I am good for nothing else but to have the boots thrown at my head,”
said she.

The king asked again, “Where did you get this ring, then, which was in
the soup?”
Allerleirauh said, “I know nothing of it.” And, as she would say no more,
she was at last sent away.
After a time there was another ball, and Allerleirauh asked the cook’s
permission to go again and look on, and he consented, and told her, “Return
here in half an hour to cook the king again the same soup which he liked so
much before.”
Allerleirauh ran into the stable and, washing herself quickly, took out of
the shell the dress which was silver as the moon, and put it on. Then she
went up to the ballroom and appeared like a princess, and the king, stepping
up to her, was very glad to see her again; and, as the dancing had just
begun, they joined it. But as soon as it was over, his partner disappeared so
quickly that the king did not notice where she went. She ran to her stable
and changed her garments again, and then went into the kitchen to make the
soup. While the cook was upstairs, she fetched the golden spinning wheel
and put it in the tureen, so that the soup was served up with it. Afterwards it
was brought before the king, who ate it, and found it tasted as good as the
former; and the cook was called, who was obliged to confess again that
Allerleirauh had made it. Allerleirauh was accordingly taken before the
king, but she repeated what she had before said, that she was of no use but
to have boots thrown at her, and that she knew nothing of the gold spinning
wheel.
Not long afterwards a third feast was given by the king, at which
everything went as before. The cook said to Allerleirauh when she asked
leave to go, “You are certainly a witch, and always put something in the
soup which makes it taste better than mine. Still, since you beg so hard, you
shall go at the usual time.” This time she put on the dress shining as the
stars, and stepped with it into the ballroom. The king danced again with her,
and thought he had never seen any maiden so beautiful, and while the dance
went on he slipped the gold ring on to her finger without her perceiving it
and told the musicians to prolong the time. When at last it ended, he would
have kept fast hold of her hand, but she tore herself away, and sprang so
quickly in among the people that she disappeared from his sight.
Allerleirauh ran as well as she could back to her stable; but she had stayed

over and above the half hour, and she had not time to pull off her beautiful
dress, but was obliged to throw over it her cloak of skins. Neither did she
quite finish the blacking of her skin, but left one finger white. Then she ran
into the kitchen, cooked the soup for the king, and put in it the reel, while
the cook stayed upstairs. Afterwards, when the king found the reel at the
bottom of his soup, he summoned Allerleirauh, and perceived at once her
white finger, and the ring which he had put on it during the dance. He took
her by the hand and held her fast, and when she tried to force herself from
him and run away, her cloak of skins fell partly off and the starry dress was
displayed to view. The king then pulled the cloak wholly off, and down
came her golden hair, and there she stood in all her beauty, and could no
longer conceal herself. As soon, then, as the soot and ashes were washed off
her face, she stood up and appeared more beautiful than any one could
conceive possible on earth. But the king said to her, “You are my dear bride,
and we will never separate from each other.” Thereupon was the wedding
celebrated, and they lived happily to the end of their lives.

THE POOR MAN AND THE RICH MAN

Retold from Grimm
(Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching kindness)
In olden times, when the good angels walked the earth in the form of
men, it happened that one of them, while he was wandering about very
tired, saw night coming upon him before he had found a shelter. But there
stood on the road close by two houses opposite to one another, one of which
was large and handsome, while the other appeared miserably poor. The
former belonged to a rich man, and the other to a poor man, so that the
angel thought he could lodge with the former, because it would be less
burdensome to him than to the other to entertain a guest. Accordingly he
knocked at the door, and the rich man, opening the window, asked the
stranger what he sought. The angel replied, “I seek a night’s lodging.” Then
the rich man scanned the stranger from head to foot, and perceiving that he
wore ragged clothes, and seemed like one who had not much money in his
pocket, he shook his head and said, “I cannot take you in; my rooms are full
of herbs and seeds, and, should I shelter every one who knocks at my door,

I might soon take the beggar’s staff into my own hand. Seek a welcome
elsewhere.”
So saying, he shut his window to, and left the good angel, who
immediately turned his back upon him and went over to the little house.
Here he had scarcely knocked, when the door was opened and the poor man
bade the wanderer welcome, and said, “Stop here this night with me; it is
quite dark, and today you can go no farther.” This reception pleased the
angel much, and he walked in; and the wife of the poor man also bade him
welcome and, holding out her hand, said, “Make yourself at home, and
though it is not much that we have, we will give it to you with all our
heart.” Then she placed some potatoes at the fire, and while they roasted
she milked her goat for something to drink with them. When the table was
laid, the good angel sat down and ate with them, and the rude fare tasted
good, because they who partook of it had happy faces. After they had
finished, when bedtime came, the wife called the husband aside and said to
him, “Let us sleep tonight on straw, my dear, that this poor wanderer may
have our bed whereon to rest himself, for he has been walking all day long,
and is doubtless very tired.”
“With all my heart,” replied her husband; “I will offer it to him;” and,
going up to the angel, he begged him, if he pleased, to lie in their bed that
he might rest his limbs thoroughly. The good angel at first refused to take
the bed of his hosts, but at last he yielded to their entreaties and lay down,
while they made a straw couch upon the ground. The next morning they
arose early and cooked their guest a breakfast of the best that they had, and
when the sun shone through the window he got up, too, and, after eating
with them, prepared to set out again. When he stood in the doorway he
turned round and said to his hosts, “Because you are so compassionate and
pious, you may wish three times and I will grant, each time, what you
desire.”
The poor man replied, “Ah, what else can I wish than eternal happiness,
and that we two, so long as we live, may have health and strength and our
necessary daily bread? For the third thing I know not what to wish.”
“Will you not wish for a new house in place of this old one?” asked the
angel.

“Oh, yes!” said the man, “if I may keep on this spot, so would it be
welcome.”
Then the good angel fulfilled his wishes and changed their old house into
a new one, and, giving them once more his blessing, went out of the house.
It was already broad daylight when the rich man arose and, looking out
of his window, saw a handsome new house of red brick where formerly an
old hut had stood. The sight made him open his eyes, and he called his wife
up and asked, “Tell me what has happened; yesterday evening an old,
miserable hut stood opposite, and today there is a fine new house! Run out
and hear how this has happened!”
The wife went and asked the poor man, who related that the evening
before a wanderer had come, seeking a night’s lodging, and that in the
morning he had taken his leave, and granted them three wishes—eternal
happiness, health and food during their lives, and instead of their old hut, a
fine new house. When he had finished his tale, the wife of the rich man ran
home and told her husband all that had passed, and he exclaimed, “Ah! had
I only known it! The stranger had been here before, and would have passed
the night with us, but I sent him away.”
“Hasten, then!” returned his wife. “Mount your horse, and perhaps you
may overtake the man, and then you must ask three wishes for yourself
also.”
The rich man followed this advice, and soon overtook the angel. He
spoke softly and glibly, begging that the angel would not take it ill that he
had not let him in at first, for that he had gone to seek the key of the house
door, and meanwhile he had gone away, but if the angel came back the
same way he would be glad if he would call again. The angel promised that
he would come on his return, and the rich man then asked if he might not
wish thrice as his neighbor had been allowed. “Yes,” said the angel, “you
may certainly, but it will not be good for you, and it were better you did not
wish.”
But the rich man thought he might easily obtain something which would
tend to his happiness, if he only knew that it would be fulfilled, and so the
angel at length said, “Ride home, and the three wishes which you shall
make shall be answered.”

The rich man now had what he desired, and, as he rode homewards,
began to consider what he should wish. While he thought he let his rein fall
loose, and his horse presently began to jump, so that he was jerked about,
and so much so that he could fix his mind on nothing. He patted his horse
on the neck, and said, “Be quiet, Bess!” but it only began fresh friskings, so
that at last he became savage, and cried quite impatiently, “I wish you might
break your neck!” No sooner had he said so than down it fell upon the
ground and never moved again, and thus the first wish was fulfilled. But the
rich man, being covetous by nature, would not leave the saddle behind, and
so, cutting it off, he slung it over his back and went onwards on foot. “You
still have two wishes,” thought he to himself, and so was comforted, but as
he slowly passed over the sandy common the sun scorched him terribly, for
it was midday, and he soon became vexed and passionate; moreover, the
saddle hurt his back; and besides, he had not yet decided what to wish for.
“If I should wish for all the treasures and riches in the world,” said he to
himself, “hereafter something or other will occur to me, I know beforehand;
but I will so manage that nothing at all shall remain for me to wish for.”
Many times he thought he knew what to wish, but soon it appeared too
little. Then it came into his thoughts how well his wife was situated, sitting
at home in a cool room, and appropriately dressed. This idea angered him
uncommonly, and, without knowing it, he said aloud, “I wish she were
sitting upon this saddle, and could not get off it, instead of its being slipping
about on my back.”
As soon as these words were out of his mouth, the saddle disappeared
from his back, and he perceived that his second wish had passed its
fulfillment. Now he became very hot, and began to run, intending to lock
himself up in his room and consider there something great for his last wish.
But when he arrived and opened the house door he found his wife sitting
upon the saddle in the middle of the room, and crying and shrieking
because she could not get off. So he said to her, “Be contented; I will wish
for the riches in all the world, only keep sitting there.”
But his wife shook her head, saying, “Of what use are all the riches of the
world to me, if I sit upon this saddle? You have wished me on it, and you
must also wish me off.”

So, whether he liked it or not, he was forced to utter his third wish, that
his wife might be freed from the saddle, and immediately it was done. Thus
the rich man gained nothing from his wishes but vexation, trouble, scolding,
and a lost horse; but the poor people lived contented and pious to their
lives’ end.

THE SILVER CONES

Adapted from Story by Johanna Spyri
(Ethics—Geography)
In the mountain land of Bohemia there lived in the long ago a miner with
his wife and little daughter. They were happy in their hut in the forest, but
after a time the father and mother died, and the child was left alone in the
world. She had no money, and no aunts or cousins to take her in, and it
seemed as if she would have to go hungry. But always there are kindly
hearts among the poor, and one of the miners opened his house that she
might have a home. He had six children of his own and little bread and
meat to spare, but his good wife said, “We will divide what we have.” So
little Hilda became one of the family, and they grew to love her very much.
It was midwinter, and Christmas day not far away. The children thought
of nothing but the coming of St. Nicholas, who they hoped would not forget
them on the Holy Night, when every boy and girl in Bohemia expects a visit
from the gift bringer. But when they spoke to the miner about it he shook
his head and said, “Do not set your hearts upon his coming. Our hut is very
small and stands so far in the forest that he may not be able to find it.”
Gretchen, his little daughter, had a very different idea. She declared St.
Nicholas could find a house in the dark if it were no bigger than an ant hill,
and went to bed to dream of the toys and sweetmeats he would bring.
Day after day passed, and nearer, nearer came the season of Christ’s
birth. The children talked of him as they sat by the fire at night, as they
picked up dead branches in the forest, and as they bedded the goats and shut
them in, for Bohemian mountain folk are a toiling people, and even boys
and girls must work.

At last the day before Christmas came, and in the afternoon little Hilda
started out with her basket to get some cones. She wanted the fire to be
brighter and more cheerful than ever that night, and perhaps if she met a
servant from the castle, he might take some to feed the prince’s fire, and
give her a silver piece.
“And if he does,” she thought as she trudged on her way, “I can buy
something for the miner and his dear children.”
Now, in that land of Bohemia, on the summit of a lofty mountain, a
creature named Rübezahl made his home. He possessed all magic powers,
and was so mighty that his sway extended to the very center of the earth.
There he had chambers of gold and silver, and diamonds and jewels without
number, and often gave of his treasures to those who were good enough to
deserve them. He could change himself at will into any form. Now he was a
bat flying in the night, now a country swain selling his wares at the fair, and
now a woodman cutting down trees in the forest, because thus he was able
to find out who was worthy and who unworthy, and to reward or punish
them as they deserved.
Hilda had often heard of the strange ways of Rübezahl, and wondered if
he would ever cross her path.
“I suppose not,” she murmured, “because I am just a little girl.”
As she came near the fir trees, a tiny white-haired man walked out of the
shadow. He had a long white beard and a jolly red face, and looked as if he
were the friend of children.
“What are you doing?” he called to her.
“I’ve come to gather cones,” she replied; “some for our fire and some to
sell, if the servant from the castle will only buy.”
Then she told him of the miner’s family, of how eager she was to get
some money that she might buy a gift for his children, and of her hope that
St. Nicholas would not forget them on the Holy Night.
The little old man seemed much interested, and when she finished her
story he said, “The largest cones are on that tree. If you hope to sell, gather
the best ones.”

He pointed to a great, dark fir just beyond them, and then went back into
the shadows of the forest.
Little Hilda thanked him and ran to the spot. She could see the cones like
beehives on the branches, and just as she came under them there was such a
downfall of beautiful brown things it frightened her and she began to run.
But thinking of what she could do with such big ones, she went back, filled
her basket, and started homeward.
It was very heavy, and the farther she went the heavier it grew.
“I’ll have to ask little Gretchen to help me take it up the hill path to the
castle,” she thought. But by the time she reached the hut it had become such
a load she could not move it, and the miner had to carry it in himself.
“They are lovely big ones and of a beautiful brown color,” she said as the
children crowded around to see.
But when they looked at the basket again, they saw no brown at all.
Instead there was a gleam brighter than that of the moonbeams through the
fir trees, for a wonderful thing had happened. In the twinkling of an eye
every one of those cones had turned into shining silver, which sparkled and
glistened so that they dazzled the eyes.
Then the little girl remembered the old man in the forest and told the
miner about him.
He nodded his head in a knowing way and said, “Surely it was Rübezahl,
and he has rewarded you for being sweet and gentle.”
All of which seemed like a dream to little Hilda, but when she looked
into the basket she knew it was true. And so knew all the other mountain
folk, when the stars of the Holy Night shone out and the children went from
door to door distributing silver cones. The good folk who gave her a home
received so many that never again were they poor. They built a fine house
with a porch and twenty windows, and were as rich as any one in Bohemia.
To make things lovelier still, St. Nicholas found the hut, just as Gretchen
had said he would, and left some sweets and toys for the children. He
laughed loud and long when he saw the shining cones, for he had heard all
about it from Rübezahl himself.

This all happened very, very long ago, in the time so far away that even
the oldest grandmother cannot remember the Holy Night when Hilda gave
precious gifts to the miners; but the story has come down from the fathers
and the fathers’ fathers, and that is why, even to this day, the mountain folk
of Bohemia still deck their Christmas trees with silvered cones.

THE FORGET-ME-NOT

Adapted from Version by Hoffman von Fallersleben
(Thuringian Folk Tale—Helpful in Nature Study)
In the beginning of things, when God the Father created every beast of
the forest and every bird and tree and blossom, he gave each one a name,
and the snowdrop, the lily, the pansy, the violet, and all the other flower
sisterhood rejoiced and were glad, for each thought its own name the
loveliest in the world. Everywhere in field and woodland there was
happiness, and the blossoms lifted their faces toward heaven in gratitude,
thanking the Gracious Giver.
But suddenly there was a sound of weeping. Somewhere in the meadow a
flower had raised its voice in sorrow, and all the other flowers looked to
see. At first they could not tell whence the sound came, then they beheld a
tiny blossom, with petals the color of heaven and a heart the color of gold.
It was sobbing bitterly, and the lily, looking down in pity, asked, “Why
weepest thou?”
“Alas,” came the reply, “I have forgotten my name.” Then—wonderful
sound—the primrose and the violet and the pansy heard the voice of God
the Father, for although the blossom was very tiny and half hidden by the
grasses of the field, He heard and saw and knew.
“Forgotten your name?” He spake in tones that were sweet and tender.
“Then shalt thou be called ‘Forget-me-not,’ for that thou canst always
remember.”
“Forget-me-not,” repeated the gorgeous rose and the modest violet, and
the tiny one smiled through its tears and said, “Forget-me-not.”
And ever since that day at creation time, when God the Father named
every beast of the forest and every bird and flower and tree, the wee

blossom whose petals are the color of heaven and whose heart is the color
of gold, has been called “Forget-me-not.”

THE LITTLE STEPMOTHER

(Thuringian Folk Tale—Nature Study)
Once upon a time, say the peasants of the Rhineland, a woodman lived
with his wife and two daughters in a little hut in the forest. They were very
poor, but what mattered that, since they were very happy?
They had five chairs,—one apiece, and one for company,—clean, sweet
feather beds to keep them warm at night, a bit of soup to eat with their black
bread, and once each year they went to the fair.
But after a time the mother died, and things were different. The father
took another wife, who had two children of her own, and she was very
unkind to her husband’s little daughters. She forced them to do all the work,
and if the poor woodman so much as opened his mouth to object, she beat
him with her slipper. You will know how greedy she was when I tell you
that she took two of the fine wood chairs for her own children and kept two
for herself, and you remember there were only five in the hut. That left one
for the husband and his daughters, and as the father was kind and good, he
let them have it all to themselves and patiently stood while he ate his meals.
For a long time that greedy little stepmother ruled her husband and his
children with an iron hand, while her own daughters acted like spoiled
princesses, until one night something happened. The hut and the family
disappeared. Just how it came to pass, nobody knows, but the next morning
the other woodmen found a little flower growing where the house had
stood, and they knew that a fairy or witch or something had turned the
family into the blossom which you may see almost any summer day. The
greedy stepmother still sits on her two chairs, with her children on each side
of her holding a chair apiece. The woodman’s little daughters are crowded
together on one, just as they were in the hut. And what of the poor
henpecked husband, who did not dare to object to anything his spouse chose
to do? Look in the center, right under her slipper, and you will find what
most people say is the pistil. But the peasants of the Rhineland know better.

It is the woodman, who once upon a time lived in the hut in the forest, and
the flower you call the pansy is to them “The Little Stepmother.”

THE RABBIT AND THE EASTER EGGS

(Bavarian Folk Tale)
Once, in the German land of Bavaria, there was a mother who was very
poor. She was sad as Easter time drew near, for it was the custom in that
land to give presents then just as we do at Christmas, and she had nothing
for her children. She grieved about it day and night, and one day was so
unhappy over it that she wept.
“Never fear,” the old grandmother said, “the hens are laying well, and I
know how to make beautiful dyes from moss and leaves. We can color
some eggs for Hans and Annchen, and they will be happy.”
This was a lovely thought to the poor mother, and she went to work.
Soon she had beautiful red, blue, yellow, purple, and orange eggs, and when
Easter morning came she and the grandmother hid them in a nest in the
woods. It was a lovely spot, with a thick carpet of moss underfoot and the
snowy blossoms of the wild plum overhead.
Then they all went to the tiny chapel that stood at the other side of the
village, to listen to the music and hear the good pastor tell the story of
Easter day, after which they walked home by the woodland path.
Little Hans and Annchen were running ahead of the others, and all at
once they called, “Oh, Mother, Grandmother, come!”
The good mother said, “They must have found the eggs,” and hurried to
see.
Yes, there the children knelt, bending over the nest of eggs lovelier than
they had ever seen.
“They are beautiful, Mother!” exclaimed Hans. “See, they look like hen’s
eggs, yet they are every color, like the rainbow. How did they get here in
the woods?”
“I know,” cried little Annchen. “A fairy bird laid them.”

Just then a rabbit leaped out of some tall grass behind the nest, and
hopped away into the forest.
The children screamed with delight. “The rabbit laid the eggs! The rabbit
laid the eggs!” they shouted.
And ever since that time Bavarian children have played that rabbits lay
Easter eggs.

THE EASTER EGGS

Adapted from Story by Canon Schmidt
(Ethics)
During the days of the Crusades a little village stood in the heart of a
little valley. The people living there were very poor, but so good and gentle
that despite their poverty they were happier than many of the great folk of
the realm. They had none of the cares that trouble the rich. Their rude black
huts, each with its tiny garden plot and bit of meadow land where they
pastured the cow or goats, satisfied them because they knew nothing else,
and they lived so simply and healthfully that there were men over a hundred
years of age among them. Sometimes they burned charcoal for the iron
works in the mountains and earned a few pennies, when they felt rich
indeed, but if there was no money they did not complain. They ate their
vegetables and black bread and drank their goat’s milk in contentment.
One day, when the corn ears were yellowing, a little girl hurried down the
mountain side where she had been tending goats. She ran to her home at the
edge of the village, and called to her mother in the garden, “Oh, mamma,
come quickly! A beautiful woman with two pretty children is waiting for
me on the mountain. They are very tired and hungry, and she asked me for
some bread and milk.”
Kind hearts beat in the breasts of those village folk, and although they
had little themselves, they were always ready to share their small store.
Quickly the mother filled a jar with goat’s milk and took some bread, butter,
and cheese, and she and her husband followed the little daughter up the
mountain side. After a while they came to a turn in the path, and saw a
woman, very young and very beautiful, sitting on a rock under a beech tree.

She was holding a little girl who was as lovely as herself, and beside them,
on the ground, a tiny dark-eyed boy played with a bunch of thistles. Not far
away an old man was unloading a mule and opening bundles as if preparing
to camp for the night. Their clothing was of the costly kind that is worn
only by the very rich, and it seemed strange that they should be asking food
of the poor.
The village wife offered the bread, butter, and cheese she had brought
with her, which the woman received with smiles and words of thanks. She
kept nothing herself, but gave all to the old man and children, who ate the
coarse peasant fare as if it tasted very good, and as she watched them tears
streamed down her cheeks. She asked many questions about the valley, and
finding that no one but charcoal burners lived there, and that strangers
almost never came by, exclaimed, “I think God must have sent me here. I
have been driven from home and am seeking a spot where we may rest in
peace.”
They went down to the valley together, and the peasant and his wife led
the way to a vacant house, which the woman rented for her home. It was a
very humble cottage, but she said it suited her, for it was new and clean, and
from its little windows one could see out over the cabins and the garden
plots to the tall, dark fir trees on the mountain slopes. She took one of the
village girls for a servant, and the worn, unhappy look began to leave her
face.
Early the next morning she called the maid Marie, gave her a silver piece,
and said, “Go and get some eggs for breakfast.”
The girl looked at her in surprise.
“Oh, madame!” she asked sorrowfully, “do you mean that I must take the
eggs of the dear little birds that sing in the forest?”
“Of course not,” her mistress replied, thinking her very silly, “I want
hen’s eggs, not bird’s eggs.”
But Marie looked more amazed than before.
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘hens,’” she said. “We have none of
them here.”
“You have no hens!” the woman exclaimed. “How can that be?”

Then she remembered that this was a village of poor peasants and that
only the rich had chickens, because they had just been brought to Europe
from Asia, and were very costly. So she bade the old man Kuno go to the
city across the mountains and bring her everything she needed.
“And be sure not to forget the cock and hens,” she called after him as he
rode away.
Late that afternoon the man returned, and the woman met him at the door.
“Have you brought the chickens?” she asked.
Nodding in reply, he set the cage on the ground.
By this time the village children had gathered around, and were greatly
excited about the strange-looking birds. They laughed and clapped their
hands, for they never had seen anything like them, and when Kuno turned
them out of the cage and they walked around picking up the grain he threw
to them, their joy knew no bounds. Then the cock flapped his wings and
crowed and some of the hens cackled, and the children danced and
screamed in delight. They stayed until it was dark, and early the next
morning came again and brought their fathers and mothers to see the
wonderful birds that sang such curious songs.
Summer passed and autumn came. The last apples fell from the trees,
nuts dropped in the frost-painted forest, and the sharp winds of November
blew down from the peaks, yet still the lovely stranger and her children
stayed in the village. That was very strange, for the valley was entirely
surrounded by rugged mountains, and was a rough, wild country in winter,
when the tiny houses were almost buried in the snow. But they seemed
happy there, and the people wondered much about it. They talked of it as
they herded the goats on the slopes, as they burned charcoal in the shadow
of the fir trees, and always would end by saying, “She is some great lady,
for she speaks the language of court, and she and her children have costly
clothes and many gold pieces.”
But they found out nothing, for when they asked the children who their
mother was they said, “She is mamma, and we are Blanche and Edmund.”
So still they wondered and still they did not know. But they were glad she
lived among them, because they had grown to love her very much. She was
kind and charitable toward every one in the village. She gave food to the

poor and took care of the sick, and the peasants repaid her with many
kindnesses. They gave her game they killed in the forest, and when spring
came and the snow melted, the village children roamed the woods for the
earliest violets and cowslips, and brought them to her door.
These acts of kindness touched her, and the morning before Easter she
thought, “I must do something to make them happy.” But what could it be?
She couldn’t give them a feast, because, although she had plenty of money,
it was impossible to get any meat in the village; and she couldn’t give them
presents, because there was no place to buy them. She had nothing but eggs,
which she thought would be no treat at all. Then an idea came to her.
Calling Marie, the maid, she told her of it and they merrily went to work.
They went into the woods and gathered roots, moss, and berries such as
were used for dyeing in those days. They made cakes and custards. They
colored eggs red, blue, green, orange, and lilac, and planned to give the
people a grand surprise. Late in the afternoon little Blanche and Edmund
went out through the village and stopped at every house, saying, “Mamma
invites you, you and all your family, great and small, to a feast at our house
tomorrow. Come after the mass.”
Everybody accepted the invitation. They had never been to a real feast,
and to go to one at the house of the lovely stranger would be fine indeed.
They took out their best holiday attire, polished their shoe buckles until they
shone, and made ready for a gala time, and on Easter morning a line of
men, women, and children went from the chapel to the cottage of the lady.
She met them at the door and led them into the garden, where two long
tables were spread. The parents were told to sit down, but she said to the
children, “It is not time for you to eat yet. Go into the woods with Edmund
and Blanche, and make little nests of moss. Put them under the trees, and be
sure to remember where you left them.”
They ran out laughing, and the parents sat down to the feast, and a
splendid feast it seemed to them! There were eggs in the shell, fried eggs,
eggs in milk, omelets, and sweet, yellow custards, and as they never had
tasted eggs before, they thought them wonderfully delicious.
After a while the children came back for their share in the good things,
and as soon as they had finished eating, the woman said, “Go out and look

for your pretty nests.”
A rush and a scramble and they were in the woods, and a moment later
cries of delight and wonder were heard, for in each nest they found five
lovely eggs of red, blue, green, purple, and orange. They came pell-mell to
show them to their fathers and mothers, who discovered something written
upon them.
It was a motto, and the villagers, who were too unlettered to read it,
asked the lady to tell them what it meant. They smiled as they listened, as if
believing in the truth of the words they heard:

In God’s protecting goodness trust,
For He will aid the kind and just.

The afternoon passed joyously, and when the chapel bell rang out the
Angelus, the villagers departed, and the woman stood in the doorway with a
smile upon her face, watching them go to their homes. While she watched, a
youth carrying a bundle came walking down the mountain path. He seemed
very tired and sad, and tears came into his eyes as she called to him. He told
her he was on his way to a village beyond to see his mother, who was old
and sick, and that he had walked a long way without food.
“I have a little money,” he said, “but must not spend it for myself,
because it is needed at home.”
Touched by his story, the woman took him into the house, where a good
meal was set before him; and as he was about to start away, she gave him a
gold piece and some eggs for his little brother and sister.
Refreshed by rest and food he strode on his way through the village, took
the path that led to the other side of the mountains, and after a while came
to the edge of a ravine. From that point the trail was narrow and dangerous,
and he walked rapidly because he wanted to reach home before night.
But suddenly he stopped. Looking down to where a tiny stream wound
through the gulch, he saw a horse. It was saddled and bridled, which
seemed very strange to him.
“I wonder if some one has fallen and needs help,” he murmured.

So, although he wanted to be on his way, he climbed down over the
crags.
It was as he feared. A man was lying there, motionless as if dead. He was
dressed in heavy armor, by which the lad knew he was some one rich and
great.
Pulling off the helmet to use as a dipper, he ran to the river for water, and
poured it over the drawn, white face.
The rider opened his eyes slowly, and when he saw the youth kneeling
beside him said, “Thank God for sending you! I fell down over the cliffs,
and thought I was to lie here and die. Oh, I am so weak and faint!” he
sighed.
The peasant boy remembered the pretty eggs in his bundle that were
intended for his little brother and sister at home. “But they would want me
to give them to this poor fellow,” he thought. So he shelled one and held it
to the trembling lips.
The man ate it as if nearly starved, and another and another. Then, seeing
the motto on the one that was still unbroken, he opened his eyes wide.
“Stop,” he said as the boy was about to break it. “Let me have it as it is
and I will give you a gold piece for it.”
Then the peasant youth, who was stalwart and strong, helped him on to
his horse, and led him to his own village, where the doctor said he must lie
still for six weeks. He groaned as he heard those words, and exclaimed,
“Six weeks, and my master waiting for word of her!”
But he was a soldier, and knew how to wait. He stayed patiently, and at
the end of the time went on his way.
Meanwhile, back in the village in the valley, the beautiful stranger lived
on with her children. She seemed very happy until one day the man Kuno
went to the city across the mountain, and returned looking pale and worried.
“Madame,” he said as she met him at the door, “I have bad news for
you.”
She turned white, as if some terrible thing had happened, took him into
the house, and they talked together for a long time. Then Kuno left the

cottage and hurried through the village to the house of the miller, who was
also the mayor.
“My mistress wishes to speak to you,” he said.
The man went back with him, and when they reached the house, the
woman told a strange story.
“I am Rosalinde, daughter of the Duke of Burgundy,” she said. “In my
father’s court were two knights, Hanno of Schraffeneck and Arno of
Lindenburg, who were suitors for my hand. I chose Arno, and Hanno was
furiously angry. He vowed he would have revenge, but I was happy with
my husband, and did not fear him.
“All went well for a long time. Then the emperor summoned my husband
to go on the Holy Wars to Palestine, and he rode away with the Crusaders,
leaving me alone with the children. Hanno, too, was summoned to fight the
Moslems, but he stayed behind, vowing that now he would have his
revenge, and unless I married him he would put me into prison and kill my
children.
“The castle of my lord was strong, but there was no one to defend it after
he and his train went away, and Hanno brought many men and began a
siege. My good Kuno, who knew a secret passage, aided me to escape and
brought me across the mountains to your village, where I have felt safe. But
today he saw Hanno in the city, asking people if a lady with two children
and an old domestic had passed that way.”
She stopped a moment as if she could not speak for tears, then went on
sadly, “Kuno hid and was not seen, but I fear that when Hanno comes
through the valley, the people will tell him I am here, and then he will put
me in prison and kill my children.”
The miller shook his head and spoke words of comfort.
“Have no fear, madame,” he said. “The villagers will not tell that you are
here, and if Hanno comes and tries to take you, we will defend you with our
lives.”
Then he went from house to house, telling the story of the Lady
Rosalinde. Soon every one in the village knew it and the people swore to

protect her at any cost, and the next day when Hanno came, they pretended
to be so stupid that they didn’t know what he was talking about.
“She has not been here,” he said to his men. And they went away.
After that all was peaceful in the village, and the Lady Rosalinde was no
longer afraid. Her children played with the charcoal burners’ children, and
every evening they went to the little chapel at the edge of the forest to pray
for the safe return of the husband and father from Palestine.
One lovely evening in the month of May, they went to the church as
usual, and when they came out, sat down on some rocks to watch the sun
sink behind the mountain. A pilgrim came by, bending low over a staff, his
long white hair reaching his shoulders and his beard flowing down over his
breast. He noticed the children and spoke to them, and little Edmund said,
“We have just been to church to pray for our dear papa.”
The Lady Rosalinde was terribly frightened, for she thought he might be
some one who would carry word to Hanno, but a moment later her fear
turned to joy, for the pilgrim snatched off his beard and white hair, and a
young, handsome knight stood before them. Little Blanche and Edmund
screamed in delight, for they knew it was their father.
“How did you find us?” Lady Rosalinde asked.
“I found you, my dear Rosalinde, because you were good and
charitable.”
Then he told how he had returned from the Crusades to a ruined castle.
“I questioned the peasants around, who said Hanno had besieged it, and
that you and the children had escaped. Then I led my train against him and
took him prisoner, and sent out horsemen to find word of you. It seemed
they would never come back, and when they did my heart almost broke, for
although they had scoured the land they had no news. There was one,
however, who did not return, and thinking he had been killed, I gave up
hope. But six weeks later he came with a strange story, and gave me a
colored egg, and imagine my joy, to find upon it in your own handwriting,
the motto of my house:

“In God’s protecting goodness trust,
For He will aid the kind and just.”

Then, continuing the story, Lord Arno told how he had gone in the guise
of a pilgrim to the home of the peasant from whom the cavalier received the
egg, and learning that his wife and children were in the valley, had come
seeking them.
Word that the lovely woman had been found by her husband soon
traveled throughout the village, and the people, young and old, came to
welcome him.
He was a true and valiant knight and thanked them for their kindness to
his loved ones, for the Lady Rosalinde had told him of her stay in the
valley, and of how good and gentle the peasants were.
“And now, my dear friends,” he said, “to show you how grateful I am, I
promise to give a fine, big cow to every family in the village. And every
year at Easter time, my wife and I will send colored eggs to the children,
not only to those of this valley, but to every boy and girl in the realm.”
Then Lord Arno and his family departed, rebuilt their ruined castle, and
lived happily there. But they never forgot the charcoal burners in the valley,
and every year sent quantities of gay eggs to the children. As years passed
the custom spread from country to country, until now colored eggs are
given at Easter time to children in every Christian land.

PRINCE UNEXPECTED

From the Polish of Glinski
(Slavic Wonder Tale)
There were a king and a queen who had been married for three years, but
had no children, at which they were both much distressed. Once upon a
time the king found himself obliged to make a visit of inspection round his
dominions; he took leave of his queen, set off, and was not at home for
eight months.
Towards the end of the ninth month the king returned from his progress
through his country, and was already hard by his capital city, when, as he
journeyed over an uninhabited plain during the most scorching heat of
summer, he felt such excessive thirst that he sent his servants round about to
see if they could find water anywhere and let him know of it at once. The

servants dispersed in various directions, sought in vain for a whole hour,
and returned without success to the king.
The thirst-tormented king proceeded to traverse the whole plain far and
wide himself, not believing that there was not a spring somewhere or other;
on he rode, and on a level spot, on which there had not previously been any
water, he espied a well with a new wooden fence round it, full to the brim
with spring water, in the midst of which floated a silver cup with a golden
handle. The king sprang from his horse and reached after the cup with his
right hand; but the cup, just as if it were alive and had eyes, darted quickly
on one side and floated again by itself. The king knelt down and began to
try to catch it, now with his right hand, now with his left, but it moved and
dodged away in such a manner that, not being able to seize it with one hand,
he tried to catch it with both. But scarcely had he reached out with both
hands when the cup dived like a fish, and floated again on the surface.
“Hang it!” thought the king, “I can’t help myself with the cup, I’ll
manage without it.” He then bent down to the water, which was as clear as
crystal and as cold as ice, and began in his thirst to drink. Meanwhile his
long beard, which reached down to his girdle, dipped into the water. When
he had quenched his thirst and wished to get up again, something was
holding his beard and would not let it go. He pulled once and again, but it
was of no use; he cried out therefore in anger, “Who’s there? Let go!”
“It’s I, the subterranean king, immortal Bony, and I shall not let go till
you give me that which you left unknowingly at home, and which you do
not expect to find on your return.”
The king looked into the depth of the well, and there was a huge head
like a tub, with green eyes and a mouth from ear to ear; the creature was
holding the king by the beard with extended claws like those of a crab, and
was laughing mischievously.
The king thought that a thing of which he had not known before starting,
and which he did not expect on his return, could not be of great value; so he
said to the apparition, “I give it.”
The apparition burst with laughter and vanished with a flash of fire, and
with it vanished also the well, the water, the wooden fence, and the cup; and
the king was again on a hillock by a little wood kneeling on dry sand, and

there was nothing more. The king got up, crossed himself, sprang on his
horse, hastened to his attendants, and rode on.
In a week or maybe a fortnight the king arrived at his capital; the people
came out in crowds to meet him; he went in procession to the great court of
the palace and entered the corridor. In the corridor stood the queen awaiting
him, and holding close to her bosom a cushion, on which lay a child,
beautiful as the moon, kicking in swaddling clothes. The king recollected
himself, sighed painfully, and said within himself: “This is what I left
without knowing and found without expecting!” And bitterly, bitterly did he
weep. All marveled, but nobody dared to ask the cause. The king, without
saying a word, took his son in his arms, gazed long on his innocent face,
carried him into the palace himself, laid him in the cradle, and, suppressing
his sorrow, devoted himself to the government of his realm; but he was
never again cheerful as formerly, since he was perpetually tormented by the
thought that some day Bony would claim his son.
Meanwhile weeks, months, and years flowed on, and no one came for his
son. The prince, named “Unexpected,” grew and developed, and eventually
became a handsome youth. The king also in course of time regained his
usual cheerfulness, and forgot what had taken place; but alas! everybody
did not forget so easily.
Once the prince, while hunting in a forest, became separated from his
suite and found himself in a savage wilderness. Suddenly there appeared
before him a hideous old man with green eyes, who said, “How do you do,
Prince Unexpected? You have made me wait for you a long time.”
“Who are you?”
“That you will find out hereafter, but now, when you return to your
father, greet him from me, and tell him that I should be glad if he would
close accounts with me, for if he doesn’t soon get out of my debt of himself,
he will repent it bitterly.” After saying this the hideous old man
disappeared, and the prince in amazement turned his horse, rode home, and
told the king his adventure.
The king turned as pale as a sheet, and revealed the frightful secret to his
son. “Do not weep, father!” replied the prince, “it is no great misfortune! I
shall manage to force Bony to renounce the right over me, which he tricked

you out of in so underhand a manner, but if in the course of a year I do not
return, it will be a token that we shall see each other no more.”
The prince prepared for his journey; the king gave him a suit of steel
armor, a sword, and a horse, and the queen hung round his neck a cross of
pure gold. At leave-taking they embraced affectionately, wept heartily, and
the prince rode off.
On he rode one day, two days, three days, and at the end of the fourth day
at the setting of the sun he came to the shore of the sea; and in the selfsame
bay he espied twelve dresses, white as snow, though in the water, as far as
the eye could reach, there was no living soul to be seen—only twelve white
geese were swimming at a distance from the shore. Curious to know to
whom they belonged, he took one of the dresses, let his horse loose in a
meadow, concealed himself in a neighboring thicket, and waited to see what
would come to pass. Thereupon the geese, after disporting themselves on
the sea, swam to the shore. Eleven of them went to the dresses, each threw
herself on the ground and became a beautiful damsel, dressed herself with
speed, and flew away into the plain.
The twelfth goose, the last and prettiest of all, did not venture to come
out on the shore, but only wistfully stretched out her neck, looking on all
sides. On seeing the prince she called out with a human voice: “Prince
Unexpected, give me my dress; I will be grateful to you in return.” The
prince hearkened to her, placed the dress on the grass, and modestly turned
away in another direction.
The goose came out on the grass, changed herself into a damsel, dressed
herself hastily, and stood before the prince; she was young and more
beautiful than eye had seen or ear heard of. Blushing, she gave him her
white hand, and, casting her eyes down, said with a pleasing voice: “I thank
you, good prince, for hearkening to me. I am the youngest daughter of
immortal Bony. He has twelve young daughters, and rules in the
subterranean realm. My father, prince, has long been expecting you and is
very angry. However, don’t grieve, and don’t be frightened, but do as I tell
you. As soon as you see King Bony, fall at once on your knees, and paying
no regard to his outcry, upbraiding, and threats, approach him boldly. What
will happen afterwards you will learn, but now we must part.”

On saying this the princess stamped on the ground with her little foot; the
ground sprang open at once, and they descended into the subterranean
realm, right into Bony’s palace, which shone all underground brighter than
our sun. The prince stepped boldly into the reception room. Bony was
sitting on a golden throne with a glittering crown on his head; his eyes
gleamed like two saucers of green glass and his hands were like the nippers
of a crab. As soon as the prince espied him at a distance, he fell on his
knees, and Bony yelled so horribly that the vaults of the subterranean
dominion quaked; but the prince boldly moved on his knees towards the
throne, and when he was only a few paces from it, the king smiled and said:
“Thou hast marvelous luck in succeeding in making me smile; remain in
our subterranean realm, but before thou becomest a true citizen thereof thou
art bound to execute three commands of mine; but because it is late today,
we will begin tomorrow; meanwhile go to thy room.”
The prince slept comfortably in the room assigned to him, and early on
the morrow Bony summoned him and said: “We will see, prince, what thou
canst do. In the course of the following night build me a palace of pure
marble; let the windows be of crystal, the roof of gold, an elegant garden
round about it, and in the garden seats and fountains; if thou buildest it,
thou wilt gain thyself my love; if not, I shall command thy head to be cut
off.”
The prince heard the command, returned to his apartment, and was sitting
mournfully thinking of the death that threatened him, when outside at the
window a bee came buzzing and said, “Let me in!” He opened the lattice, in
flew the bee, and the princess, Bony’s youngest daughter, appeared before
the wondering prince.
“What are you thus thinking about, Prince Unexpected?”
“Alas! I am thinking that your father wishes to deprive me of life.”
“Don’t be afraid! Lie down to sleep, and when you get up tomorrow
morning your palace will be ready.”
So, too, it came to pass. At dawn the prince came out of his room and
espied a more beautiful palace than he had ever seen, and Bony, when he
saw it, wondered, and would not believe his own eyes.

“Well! thou hast won this time, and now thou hast my second command.
I shall place my twelve daughters before thee tomorrow; if thou dost not
guess which of them is the youngest, thou wilt place thy head beneath the
ax.”
“I unable to recognize the youngest princess!” said the prince in his
room. “What difficulty can there be in that?”
“This,” answered the princess, flying into the room in the shape of a bee,
“that if I don’t help you, you won’t recognize me, for we are all so alike that
even our father distinguishes us only by our dress.”
“What am I to do?”
“What, indeed! That will be the youngest over whose right eye you espy
a ladycow. Only look well. Adieu!”
On the morrow King Bony again summoned Prince Unexpected. The
princesses stood in a row side by side, all dressed alike and with eyes cast
down. The prince looked and marveled how alike all the princesses were;
he went past them once, twice—he did not find the appointed token; the
third time he saw a ladycow over the eyebrow of one, and cried out: “This
is the youngest princess!”
“How the deuce have you guessed it?” said Bony angrily. “There must be
some trickery here. I must deal with your lordship differently. In three hours
you will come here again, and will show your cleverness in my presence. I
shall light a straw, and you will stitch a pair of boots before it goes out, and
if you don’t do it you will perish.”
The prince returned desponding and found the bee already in his
apartment. “Why pensive again, prince?”
“How shouldn’t I be pensive, when your father wants me to stitch him a
pair of boots, for what sort of cobbler am I?”
“What else will you do?”
“What am I to do? I shan’t stitch the boots, and I’m not afraid of death—
one can die but once!”
“No, prince, you shall not die! I will endeavor to rescue you, and we will
either escape together or perish together! We must flee—there’s nothing

else to be done.”
Saying this, the princess spat on one of the window panes, and the spittle
immediately froze. She then went out of the room with the prince, locked
the door after her, and threw the key far away. Then, taking each other by
the hands, they ascended rapidly, and in a moment found themselves on the
very spot whence they had descended into the subterranean realm; there
was the selfsame sea, the selfsame fresh meadow, and in the meadow
cantered the prince’s well-fed horse, who, as soon as he descried his rider,
came galloping straight to him. The prince didn’t stop long to think, but
sprang on his horse, the princess seated herself behind him, and off they set
as swift as an arrow.
King Bony at the appointed hour did not wait for Prince Unexpected, but
sent to ask him why he did not appear. Finding the door locked, the servants
knocked at it vigorously, and the spittle answered them from the middle of
the room in the prince’s voice, “Anon.” The servants carried this answer to
the king; he waited, waited, no prince; he therefore again sent the same
servants, who heard the same answer: “Anon!” and carried what they had
heard to the king.
“What’s this? Does he mean to make fun of me?” shouted the king in
wrath. “Go at once, break the door open, and conduct him to me!”
The servants hurried off, broke open the door, and rushed in. What,
indeed? There was nobody there, and the spittle on the pane of glass was
splitting with laughter at them. Bony all but burst with rage, and ordered
them all to start off in pursuit of the prince, threatening them with death if
they returned empty-handed. They sprang on horseback and hastened away
after the prince and princess.
Meanwhile Prince Unexpected and the princess, Bony’s daughter, were
hurrying away on their spirited horse, and amidst their rapid flight heard
“Tramp, tramp,” behind them. The prince sprang from the horse, put his ear
to the ground, and said, “They are pursuing us.”
“Then,” said the princess, “we have no time to lose.” Instantly she
transformed herself into a river, changed the prince into a bridge and the
horse into a raven, and divided the grand highway beyond the bridge into
three roads. Swiftly on the fresh track hastened the pursuers, came to the

bridge, and stood stupefied; they saw the track up to the bridge, but beyond
it disappeared, and the highway divided into three roads. There was nothing
to be done but to return, and they came with naught. Bony shouted with
rage, and cried out: “A bridge and a river! It was they. How was it that ye
did not guess it? Back, and don’t return without them!” The pursuers
recommenced the pursuit.
“I hear ‘Tramp, tramp!’” whispered the princess, Bony’s daughter,
affrightedly to Prince Unexpected, who sprang from the saddle, put his ear
to the ground, and replied: “They are making haste, and are not far off.”
That instant the princess and prince, and with them also their horse,
became a gloomy forest, in which there were roads, byroads, and footpaths
without number, and on one of them it seemed that two riders were
hastening on a horse. Following the fresh track, the pursuers came up to the
forest, and when they espied the fugitives in it, they hastened speedily after
them. On and on hurried the pursuers, seeing continually before them a
thick forest, a wide road, and the fugitives on it; now, now they thought to
overtake them, when the fugitives and the thick forest suddenly vanished,
and they found themselves at the selfsame place whence they had started in
pursuit. They returned, therefore, again to Bony empty-handed.
“A horse, a horse! I’ll go myself! they won’t escape out of my hands!”
yelled Bony, foaming at the mouth, and started in pursuit.
Again the princess said to Prince Unexpected: “Methinks they are
pursuing us, and this time it is Bony, my father, himself, but the first church
is the boundary of his dominion, and he cannot pursue us farther. Give me
your golden cross.”
The prince took off his affectionate mother’s gift and gave it to the
princess, and in a moment she was transformed into a church, he into the
priest, and the horse into the bell; and that instant up came Bony.
“Monk!” Bony asked the priest, “hast thou not seen some travelers on
horseback?”
“Only just now Prince Unexpected rode this way with the princess,
Bony’s daughter. They came into the church, performed their devotions,
gave money for a mass for your good health, and ordered me to present
their respects to you if you should ride this way.”

Bony, too, returned empty-handed. But Prince Unexpected rode on with
the princess, Bony’s daughter, in no further fear of pursuit.
They rode gently on, when they saw before them a beautiful town, into
which the prince felt an irresistible longing to go.
“Prince,” said the princess, “don’t go; my heart forebodes misfortune
there.”
“I’ll ride there for only a short time, and look round the town, and we’ll
then proceed on our journey.”
“It’s easy enough to ride thither, but will it be as easy to return?
Nevertheless, as you absolutely desire it, go, and I will remain here in the
form of a white stone till you return; be circumspect, my beloved; the king,
the queen, and the princess, their daughter, will come out to meet you, and
with them will be a beautiful little boy—don’t kiss him, for, if you do, you
will forget me at once, and will never set eyes on me more in the world—I
shall die of despair. I will wait for you here on the road for three days, and
if on the third day you don’t return, remember that I perish, and perish all
through you.” The prince took leave and rode to the town, and the princess
transformed herself into a white stone and remained on the road.
One day passed, a second passed, the third also passed, and nothing was
seen of the prince. Poor princess! He had not obeyed her counsel; in the
town, the king, the queen, and the princess their daughter had come out to
meet him, and with them walked a little boy, a curly-headed chatterbox,
with eyes as bright as stars. The child rushed straight into the prince’s arms,
who was so captivated by the beauty of the lad that he forgot everything and
kissed the child affectionately. That moment his memory was darkened, and
he utterly forgot the princess, Bony’s daughter.
The princess lay as a white stone by the wayside, one day, two days, and
when the third day passed and the prince did not return from the town, she
transformed herself into a cornflower, and sprang in among the rye by the
roadside. “Here I shall stay by the roadside; maybe some passer-by will pull
me up or trample me into the ground,” said she, and tears like dewdrops
glittered on the azure petals.
Just then an old man came along the road, espied the cornflower in the
rye by the wayside, was captivated by its beauty, extracted it carefully from

the ground, carried it into his dwelling, set it in a flowerpot, watered it, and
began to tend it attentively. But—O marvel!—ever since the time that the
cornflower was brought into his dwelling, all kinds of wonders began to
happen in it. Scarcely was the old man awake, when everything in the house
was already set in order, nowhere was the least atom of dust remaining. At
noon he came home—dinner was all ready, the table set; he had but to sit
down and eat as much as he wanted. The old man wondered and wondered,
till at last terror took possession of him, and he betook himself for advice to
an old witch of his acquaintance in the neighborhood.
“Do this,” the witch advised him: “get up before the first morning dawn,
before the cocks crow to announce daylight, and notice diligently what
begins to stir first in the house, and that which does stir, cover with this
napkin: what will happen further, you will see.”
The old man did not close his eyes the whole night, and as soon as the
first gleam appeared and things began to be visible in the house, he saw
how the cornflower suddenly moved in the flowerpot, sprang out, and
began to stir about the room; when simultaneously everything began to put
itself in its place; the dust began to sweep itself clean away, and the fire
kindled itself in the stove. The old man sprang cleverly out of his bed and
placed the cloth on the flower as it endeavored to escape, when lo! the
flower became a beautiful damsel—the princess, Bony’s daughter.
“What have you done?” cried the princess. “Why have you brought life
back to me? My betrothed, Prince Unexpected, has forgotten me, and
therefore life has become distasteful to me.”
“Your betrothed, Prince Unexpected, is going to be married today; the
wedding feast is ready, and the guests are beginning to assemble.”
The princess wept, but after a while dried her tears, dressed herself in
frieze, and went into the town like a village girl. She came to the royal
kitchen, where there was great noise and bustle. She went up to the clerk of
the kitchen with humble and attractive grace, and said in a sweet voice:
“Dear sir, do me one favor: allow me to make a wedding cake for Prince
Unexpected.”
Occupied with work, the first impulse of the clerk of the kitchen was to
give the girl a rebuff; but when he looked at her, the words died on his lips

and he answered kindly: “Ah, my beauty of beauties! do what you will; I
will hand the prince your cake myself.”
The cake was soon baked, and all the invited guests, were sitting at table.
The clerk of the kitchen himself placed a huge cake on a silver dish before
the prince; but scarce had the prince made a cut in the side of it, when lo! an
unheard-of marvel displayed itself in the presence of all. A gray tom-pigeon
and a white hen-pigeon came out of the cake; the tom-pigeon walked along
the table, and the hen-pigeon walked after him, cooing:

“Stay, stay, my pigeonet, oh stay!
Don’t from thy true love flee away;
My faithless lover I pursue,
Prince Unexpected like unto,
Who Bony’s daughter did betray.”

Scarcely had Prince Unexpected heard this cooing of the pigeon, when he
regained his lost recollection, bounced from the table, rushed to the door,
and behind the door the princess, Bony’s daughter, took him by the hand;
they went together down the corridor, and before them stood a horse
saddled and bridled.
Why delay? Prince Unexpected and the princess, Bony’s daughter, sprang
on the horse, started on the road, and at last arrived happily in the realm of
Prince Unexpected’s father. The king and the queen received them with joy
and merriment, and did not wait long before they prepared them a
magnificent wedding, the like of which eye never saw and ear never heard
of.

THE GREEDY COBBLER

(Welsh Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching contentment)
Once upon a time a Welsh cobbler carrying a hazel wand was walking
over London Bridge, and as he sauntered along he met an Englishman.
“Ah,” the latter exclaimed, pointing to the wand the man of Cambria
used as a cane, “where did you get it?”

“Where did I get it?” the Welshman repeated, amazed that any one should
ask such a question. “Off of a hazel bush, to be sure.”
But the stranger stared in big-eyed wonder and shook his head.
“There is only one hazel bush of that kind in all the world,” he declared,
“and under it a vast treasure is hidden. Lead me to the spot, and I will share
it with you.”
The Welshman smiled pleasantly, for he began to have visions of a
luxurious, idle life. He hated to work, and was always grumbling because
he had to hammer away at shoe lasts to make his living.
To be sure he would lead the Englishman to the spot, and once he had
some gold in his possession, he’d do nothing but feast and ride in a coach
and dance at the fair. So he said quite wearily, lest the stranger think he
seemed too eager and change his mind, “It is a long way from here, in the
Vale of Neath in my native Wales, and by my faith I have no desire to walk
that distance.”
But the Englishman coaxed, which was just what the Welshman wanted
him to do. So they turned away from London Bridge and journeyed
northward across mountains and valleys, until they came to Cambria.
After several days they came to Craig-i-Ddinas, in the lovely Vale of
Neath. The Welshman led the way to the hazel bush, beside which he had
often played when a boy, and the Englishman said, “In due time we will
begin work.”
When darkness was heavy enough to cover all trace of what they did,
they dug up the bush, and the Englishman, who happened to be a wizard,
pointed to a broad stone under the roots and said, “Below is the treasure. Do
as I bid and you shall be rich.”
And the Welshman began to feel very important, thinking how people
would honor him when he lived in a great house and wore a velvet coat.
Then the cock crowed for dawn, and they knew they must hurry away
before any of the peasants saw them. The Welshman did not wish his
village cousins to know he was there, for they would question why he had
come; so they found a vacant tinker’s hut in which to rest until darkness
made it safe for them to go to work again.

But the cobbler was too excited to sleep. The sight of the broad, flat stone
at the root of the hazel bush brought back to his mind a story he had often
heard, one that the village grandmothers used to tell when he was a boy.
Again and again he thought of it, the story of the treasure of King Arthur.
Historians state that when the ruler of Camelot was killed in the battle of
Mount Badon, he was buried at Glastonbury, but the Welsh country folk say
that is not true. They declare Merlin carried him straight to the lovely Vale
of Neath, where he sleeps on his arms, with his Round Table Knights beside
him and all the wealth of his realm piled at his feet. There he and his
warriors will rest until the ringing of a warning bell, when the Black and
Golden Eagles go to war. Then they will rise up and destroy every enemy of
Cambria, when Britain will be governed with justice and peace will reign as
long as the world endures. Could it be that the broad stone at the foot of the
hazel tree covered the entrance to Arthur’s cave? This the Welshman
pondered until it was almost dark and time to go to work again.
Cautiously they left the hut and approached the spot, peering in every
direction lest some one see and question them. Sturdily they pulled and
tugged at the rock, and slowly, steadily moved it, until they found an
opening like a door. Then the Englishman said in a low tone, “Behold King
Arthur’s cave! Follow me and obey.”
The Welshman followed, and a wonderful sight met his eyes. Thousands
of warriors slept in a circle on their arms, and in the midst of them, more
splendid looking than any other, lay the King of Camelot, the mighty Arthur
himself. His crown of gold was by his side, a pile of gold lay at his feet, and
beyond the circle of his followers were a thousand steeds, all saddled and
bridled as if ready for battle. Sometimes they champed as if eager for the
war cry, sometimes they drooped their heads wearily.
Noticing a bell suspended just above the treasure heap, the cobbler
pointed to it.
“Do not touch it,” the Englishman warned. “But if by accident you do,
and the warriors waken and ask if it is day, say, ‘No, sleep thou on.’
Otherwise a terrible fate will overtake you.”
They helped themselves to the gold and left the cave, and each man went
his way. The Welshman, having all the treasure he could carry, was no

longer a poor cobbler who must spend his time bending over shoe lasts. He
was richer than the mayor and could feast and ride in a coach, dance at the
fair, and live like the lords of the land.
But riches made that cobbler greedy. He had far more gold than he
needed, and the finest house in seven counties, but still he wanted more. He
kept thinking of the gold piled high in Arthur’s cave; so one day he
journeyed back to the Vale of Neath and waited for nightfall.
Then, creeping to the place of the hazel bush, he moved the rock and
went into the cave.
Ah, it was a goodly sight, those thousand warriors slumbering there
beside the treasure heap and a thousand saddled chargers beyond! He would
take all the gold he could carry, and very soon he would come back for
more. But in his greed to increase his wealth he bumped against the bell,
which clanged loudly. The warriors started up, asking if it was day, but the
man was so dazzled by the pile of shining treasure that he did not have the
answer ready. They leaped to their feet, called him a robber, beat him, and
drove him from the cave.
Then what a change! He went limping homeward, to discover that all his
wealth had disappeared and where his great house had stood was a
miserable hut. He was as poor as ever, and unless he could get more gold
out of the cave must go back to cobbling and never again ride in a coach.
But try as he would, he could not find the place where the hazel bush had
grown. Many a journey he made into the Vale of Neath, but never did he
catch a glimpse of the broad, flat stone. He had to spend his days bending
over shoe lasts instead of riding in a coach, and was a cripple as long as he
lived.

THE STORY OF A SALMON

By David Starr Jordan
(Science)
In the realm of the Northwest Wind, on the boundary line between the
dark fir forests and the sunny plains, there stands a mountain—a great white
cone two miles and a half in perpendicular height. On its lower mile the

dense fir woods cover it with never changing green; on its next half mile a
lighter green of grass and bushes gives place in winter to white; and on its
uppermost mile the snows of the great ice age still linger in unspotted
purity. The people of Washington Territory say that their mountain is the
great “King-pin of the Universe,” which shows that even in its own country
Mount Tacoma is not without honor.
Flowing down from the southwest slope of Mount Tacoma is a cold, clear
river, fed by the melting snows of the mountain. Madly it hastens down
over white cascades and beds of shining sands, through birch woods and
belts of dark firs, to mingle its waters at last with those of the great
Columbia. This river is the Cowlitz; and on its bottom, not many years ago,
there lay half buried in the sand a number of little orange-colored globules,
each about as large as a pea. These were not much in themselves, but great
in their possibilities. In the waters above them little suckers and chubs and
prickly sculpins strained their mouths to draw these globules from the sand,
and vicious-looking crawfishes picked them up with their blundering hands
and examined them with their telescopic eyes. But one, at least, of the
globules escaped their curiosity, else this story would not be worth telling.
The sun shone down on it through the clear water, and the ripples of the
Cowlitz said over it their incantations, and in it at last awoke a living being.
It was a fish,—a curious little fellow, not half an inch long, with great,
staring eyes, which made almost half his length, and with a body so
transparent that he could not cast a shadow. He was a little salmon, a very
little salmon; but the water was good, and there were flies and worms and
little living creatures in abundance for him to eat, and he soon became a
larger salmon. Then there were many more little salmon with him, some
larger and some smaller, and they all had a merry time. Those who had been
born soonest and had grown largest used to chase the others around and bite
heads and swallow them whole; for, said they, “even young salmon are
good eating.” “Heads I win, tails you lose,” was their motto. Thus, what
was once two small salmon became united into a single larger one, and the
process of “addition, division, and silence” still went on.
By and by, when all the salmon were too large to be swallowed, they
began to grow restless. They saw that the water rushing by seemed to be in
a great hurry to get somewhere, and it was somehow suggested that its
hurry was caused by something good to eat at the other end of its course.

Then they all started down the stream, salmon fashion,—which fashion is to
get into the current, head upstream, and thus to drift backward as the river
sweeps along.
At last they came to where the Cowlitz and the Columbia join, and they
were almost lost for a time; for they could find no shores, and the bottom
and the top of the water were so far apart. Here they saw other and far
larger salmon in the deepest part of the current, turning neither to the right
nor to the left, but swimming right on upstream just as rapidly as they
could. And these great salmon would not stop for them, and would not lie
and float with the current. They had no time to talk, even in the simple sign
language by which fishes express their ideas, and no time to eat. They had
important work before them, and the time was short. So they went on up the
river, keeping their great purposes to themselves; and our little salmon and
his friends from the Cowlitz drifted down the stream.
By and by the water began to change. It grew denser, and no longer
flowed rapidly along; and twice a day it used to turn about and flow the
other way. Then the shores disappeared, and the water began to have a
different and peculiar flavor,—a flavor which seemed to the salmon much
richer and more inspiring than the glacier water of their native Cowlitz.
There were many curious things to see—crabs with hard shells and savage
faces, but so good when crushed and swallowed! Then there were luscious
squid swimming about; and, to a salmon, squid are like ripe peaches and
cream. There were great companies of delicate sardines and herring, green
and silvery, and it was such fun to chase and capture them! Those who eat
sardines packed in oil by greasy fingers, and herrings dried in the smoke,
can have little idea how satisfying it is to have a meal of them, plump and
sleek and silvery, fresh from the sea.
Thus the salmon chased the herrings about, and had a merry time. Then
they were chased in turn by great sea lions,—swimming monsters with
huge half-human faces, long thin whiskers, and blundering ways. The sea
lions like to bite out the throat of a salmon, with its precious stomach full of
luscious sardines, and then to leave the rest of the fish to shift for itself. And
the seals and the herrings scattered the salmon about, till at last the hero of
our story found himself quite alone, with none of his own kind near him.
But that did not trouble him much, and he went on his own way, getting his

dinner when he was hungry, which was all the time, and then eating a little
between meals for his stomach’s sake.
So it went on for three long years; and at the end of this time our little
fish had grown to be a great, fine salmon of twenty-two pounds’ weight,
shining like a new tin pan, and with rows of the loveliest round black spots
on his head and back and tail. One day, as he was swimming about, idly
chasing a big sculpin with a head so thorny that he never was swallowed by
anybody, all of a sudden the salmon noticed a change in the water around
him.
Spring had come again, and the south-lying snowdrifts on the Cascade
Mountains once more felt that the “earth was wheeling sunwards.” The cold
snow waters ran down from the mountains and into the Columbia River,
and made a freshet on the river. The high water went far out into the sea,
and out in the sea our salmon felt it on his gills. He remembered how the
cold water used to feel in the Cowlitz when he was a little fish. In a
blundering, fishy fashion he thought about it; he wondered whether the little
eddy looked as it used to look and whether caddis worms and young
mosquitoes were really as sweet and tender as he used to think they were.
Then he thought some other things; but as the salmon’s mind is located in
the optic lobes of his brain, and ours is in a different place, we cannot be
quite certain what his thoughts really were.
What our salmon did, we know. He did what every grown salmon in the
ocean does when he feels the glacier water once more upon his gills. He
became a changed being. He spurned the blandishment of soft-shelled
crabs. The pleasures of the table and of the chase, heretofore his only
delights, lost their charms for him. He turned his course straight toward the
direction whence the cold water came, and for the rest of his life never
tasted a mouthful of food. He moved on toward the river mouth, at first
playfully, as though he were not really certain whether he meant anything
after all. Afterward, when he struck the full current of the Columbia, he
plunged straight forward with an unflinching determination that had in it
something of the heroic. When he had passed the rough water at the bar, he
was not alone. His old neighbors of the Cowlitz, and many more from the
Clackamas and the Spokane and Des Chutes and Kootanie,—a great army
of salmon,—were with him. In front were thousands pressing on, and

behind them were thousands more, all moved by a common impulse which
urged them up the Columbia.
They were all swimming bravely along where the current was deepest,
when suddenly the foremost felt something tickling like a cobweb about
their noses and under their chins. They changed their course a little to brush
it off and it touched their fins as well. Then they tried to slip down with the
current, and thus leave it behind. But, no! the thing, whatever it was,
although its touch was soft, refused to let go, and held them like a fetter.
The more they struggled, the tighter became its grasp, and the whole
foremost rank of the salmon felt it together; for it was a great gill net, a
quarter of a mile long, stretched squarely across the mouth of the river.
By and by men came in boats, and hauled up the gill net and the helpless
salmon that had become entangled in it. They threw the fishes into a pile in
the bottom of the boat, and the others saw them no more. We that live
outside the water know better what befalls them, and we can tell the story
which the salmon could not.
All along the banks of the Columbia River, from its mouth to nearly
thirty miles away, there is a succession of large buildings, looking like great
barns or warehouses, built on piles in the river, high enough to be out of the
reach of floods. There are thirty of these buildings, and they are called
“canneries.” Each cannery has about forty boats, and with each boat are two
men and a long gill net. These nets fill the whole river as with a nest of
cobwebs from April to July, and to each cannery nearly a thousand great
salmon are brought every day. These salmon are thrown in a pile on the
floor; and Wing Hop, the big Chinaman, takes them one after another on the
table, and with a great knife dexterously cuts off the head, the tail, and the
fins; then with a sudden thrust he removes the intestines and the eggs. The
body goes into a tank of water; and the head is dropped into a box on a
flatboat, and goes down the river to be made into salmon oil. Next the body
is brought to another table; and Quong Sang, with a machine like a feed
cutter, cuts it into pieces each just as long as a one-pound can. Then Ah
Sam, with a butcher knife, cuts these pieces into strips just as wide as the
can. Next Wan Lee, the “China boy,” brings down a hundred cans from the
loft where the tinners are making them, and into each can puts a spoonful of
salt. It takes just six salmon to fill a hundred cans. Then twenty Chinamen
put the pieces of meat into the cans, fitting in little strips to make them

exactly full. Ten more solder up the cans, and ten more put the cans into
boiling water till the meat is thoroughly cooked, and five more punch a
little hole in the head of each can to let out the air. Then they solder them up
again, and little girls paste on them bright-colored labels showing merry
little cupids riding the happy salmon up to the cannery door, with Mount
Tacoma and Cape Disappointment in the background; and a legend
underneath says that this is “Booth’s” or “Badollet’s Best,” or “Hume’s,” or
“Clark’s,” or “Kinney’s Superfine Salt Water Salmon.” Then the cans are
placed in cases, forty-eight in a case, and five hundred thousand cases are
put up every year. Great ships come to Astoria, and are loaded with them;
and they carry them away to London and San Francisco and Liverpool and
New York and Sydney and Valparaiso; and the man at the corner grocery
sells them at twenty cents a can.
All this time our salmon is going up the river, eluding one net as by a
miracle, and soon having need of more miracles to escape the rest; passing
by Astoria on a fortunate day,—which was Sunday, the day on which no
man may fish if he expects to sell what he catches,—till finally he came to
where nets were few, and, at last, to where they ceased altogether. But there
he found that scarcely any of his companions were with him; for the nets
cease when there are no more salmon to be caught in them. So he went on,
day and night, where the water was deepest, stopping not to feed or loiter
on the way, till at last he came to a wild gorge, where the great river became
an angry torrent, rushing wildly over a huge staircase of rocks. But our hero
did not falter; and summoning all his forces, he plunged into the Cascades.
The current caught him and dashed him against the rocks. A whole row of
silvery scales came off and glistened in the water like sparks of fire, and a
place on his side became black and red, which for a salmon is the same as
being black and blue for other people. His comrades tried to go up with
him; and one lost his eye, one his tail, and one had his lower jaw pushed
back into his head like the joint of a telescope. Again he tried to surmount
the Cascades; and at last he succeeded, and an Indian on the rocks above
was waiting to receive him. But the Indian with his spear was less skillful
than he was wont to be, and our hero escaped, losing only a part of one of
his fins; and with him came one other, and henceforth these two pursued
their journey together.

Now a gradual change took place in the looks of our salmon. In the sea
he was plump and round and silvery, with delicate teeth in a symmetrical
mouth. Now his silvery color disappeared, his skin grew slimy, and the
scales sank into it: his back grew black, and his sides turned red,—not a
healthy red, but a sort of hectic flush. He grew poor; and his back, formerly
as straight as need be, now developed an unpleasant hump at the shoulders.
His eyes—like those of all enthusiasts who forsake eating and sleeping for
some loftier aim—became dark and sunken. His symmetrical jaws grew
longer and longer, and projected from his mouth, giving him a savage and
wolfish appearance, quite at variance with his real disposition. For all the
desires and ambitions of his nature had become centered into one. We may
not know what this one was, but we know that it was a strong one; for it had
led him on and on,—past the nets and horrors of Astoria; past the dangerous
Cascades, past the spears of Indians; through the terrible flume of the
Dalles, where the mighty river is compressed between huge rocks into a
channel narrower than a village street; on past the meadows of Umatilla and
the wheat fields of Walla Walla; on to where the great Snake River and the
Columbia join; on up the Snake River and its eastern branch, till at last he
reached the foot of the Bitter Root Mountains in the Territory of Idaho,
nearly a thousand miles from the ocean which he had left in April. With him
still was the other salmon which had come with him through the Cascades,
handsomer and smaller than he, and, like him, growing poor and ragged and
tired.
At last, one October afternoon, our finny travelers came together to a
little clear brook, with a bottom of fine gravel, over which the water was
but a few inches deep. Our fish painfully worked his way to it; for his tail
was all frayed out, his muscles were sore, and his skin covered with
unsightly blotches. But his sunken eyes saw a ripple in the stream, and
under it a bed of little pebbles and sand. So there in the sand he scooped out
with his tail a smooth round place, and his companion came and filled it
with orange-colored eggs. Then our salmon came back again; and softly
covering the eggs, the work of their lives was done, and, in the old salmon
fashion, they drifted tail foremost down the stream.
They drifted on together for a night and a day, but they never came to the
sea. For the salmon has but one life to live, and it ascends the river but
once. The rest lies with its children. And when the April sunshine fell on the

globules in the gravel, these were awakened into life. With the early autumn
rains, the little fishes were large enough to begin their wanderings. They
dropped down the current in the old salmon fashion. And thus they came
into the great river and drifted away to the sea.

THE PIGEONS OF VENICE

(History)
In one of the upland valleys of Italy, shut away from the rest of the world
by the high, white peaks men call the Dolomites, there lived, about five
hundred years ago, a little boy named Leonardo. He dwelt in a tiny hut with
his black-eyed peasant mother, fed the pigeons and milked the goats each
day, and in the evening, the pleasant summer evening that spread rainbow-
colored draperies over the Dolomite peaks, he lay in the shadows under the
plum tree, thinking about his brother Vittorio, who was a soldier down in
the great city of Venice.
“I wish brother would come home,” he said to his mother one morning as
they ate their breakfast of macaroni and mountain bread, “because he
always tells such wonderful things about the city. Some day I mean to go
there and be a soldier, too.”
His dark eyes gleamed as he spoke, and he sat very straight in his heavy
oaken chair, as of course a soldier ought to do.
Everybody knows that wishes do not always come true, but sometimes
they do, and when that happens the whole world seems brighter and lovelier
than it seemed before. The next afternoon, as Leonardo was turning the
goats into their inclosure, he gave a shout so joyous that even Armando the
weaver, in his shop at the other end of the village, heard and ran to see what
it meant. He soon found out, for he saw Leonardo hurrying toward a man
who was moving along the highway. Vittorio, the soldier brother, was
coming home, coming back to the mountain village with many a tale of the
splendid city beside the Adriatic, and perhaps with a goody that would taste
very sweet after the coarse fare of weeks and months.
Far into the night the brothers sat and talked together, talked of palaces
and gliding gondolas, of great lords and ladies, of soldiers moving in
splendid uniforms about the Piazza of St. Mark. They talked of Carnival

time too, of the merry pranks the people played on each other, of the
procession on the water and the presents given to the Doge.
“And sometimes,” Vittorio exclaimed proudly, “they are very splendid.
Sometimes they are of gold and silver, and of silk stuffs brought from the
Indies.”
Leonardo sat silent for a minute. He knew little of present giving, for in
the mountains where he lived there was no money to spend on such things.
But always when he made his mother a garland of flowers on her birthday,
she seemed so happy about it that he thought it must be very lovely to
bestow gifts. So he said softly, “I should like to send a present to the Doge.
It would seem like doing something for Venice. But I have nothing to give.”
“Wait until you are a man and can be a soldier,” the big brother answered.
“Then you will be doing much.”
The next morning he was up at daybreak. Vittorio had only two days’
leave, which meant that he must start back at noon, and his mother had
promised that Leonardo might go with him to the edge of the village if he
finished his tasks in time. So he milked the goats before there was a bit of
stirring about the hut, and led the geese from their pen to crop the green
grass on the hillside. Then he cut some grass and threw it to the old horse
that was their most prized possession, and by the time his brother came
from the hut he called to him, “I have only to feed the pigeons yet.”
Vittorio smiled and stood watching as the boy whistled to the birds.
The gentle creatures flew up at Leonardo’s call, and as he scattered
crumbs to them, he thought again of the great carnival at Venice and the
gifts that would be made to the Doge. He wished that he too might join that
throng of givers, but he possessed nothing but his pigeons, and a bird would
seem a very poor present to offer a ruler. But he happened to think that the
schoolmaster had once told him that it is not the cost or the beauty of an
offering that makes it precious, but the good will of the giver, and that a
beggar’s portion may be a lovelier gift than that of a prince. The
schoolmaster was very wise. He could both read and write, which only a
few could do in that day, so anything that he said must be true; and the
memory of the words brought an idea to Leonardo that made the boy’s eyes
dance.

“Vittorio,” he exclaimed suddenly, “I have thought of something.”
Vittorio wondered what excited his brother so.
“Well?” he asked as he walked near.
“Will you take a pair of pigeons back to the city with you?”
“A pair of pigeons,” the soldier repeated. “Why?”
“I want to send a present to the Doge, and I have nothing else,” he
answered. “But the birds are so gentle I am sure he will like them. They are
fine carriers, too.”
Vittorio smiled. Being in the army of the Doge, he was pleased that his
brother showed such loyalty to the master he served. It meant that he would
probably grow up to be a good soldier, and in those days nothing was
considered finer than that. So he answered pleasantly: “Of course I will,
Leonardo, if you are sure you can give up your pets. I will ask my captain,
who knows the Doge well, to take them to him and say that they are the gift
of a mountain boy.”
Leonardo’s eyes sparkled with delight. It seemed a glorious thing that he
too might give with the rich and great; so he selected the handsomest pair in
the covey, birds of a soft gray, with shadings of blue and purple along their
delicate wings, and he and Vittorio made a rude cage in which to carry them
to the city.
Then they walked together to the edge of the village, and Leonardo
watched his brother go along the road that wound down to the low country.
He waved good-by until Vittorio passed from sight, then went back to the
hut, happy in the thought that he was doing something for Venice.
Many months passed. It was September when Vittorio went away, and
now the blossom time had come and hills were bright with touches of
summer. All through that long period Leonardo wondered much about the
pigeons, but no word came from his brother; for letters went only by courier
in those days, and poor folk could not pay for the carrying. But he was sure
the birds had reached the Doge, for Vittorio had promised and a soldier
never broke his word.
Then one day in the autumn, when the brightness on the mountains had
faded to bronze and gray, and squirrels were stocking their houses as nuts

dropped in the woods, Vittorio came back. He looked older and graver than
the year before, and some worrying thing seemed on his mind.
“It is just to say good-by,” he said, as the gray-haired mother stroked his
hands and Leonardo looked at him with loving eyes. “The war has begun,
and we soldiers of Venice must sail away to Candia for the fighting.”
Leonardo’s eyes grew wide, and tears came into them as he exclaimed,
“If only I were old enough to go with you and help serve our glorious city
of St. Mark!”
The big man laid his hand lovingly on the dark head.
“Never mind, brother,” he said. “You have already done much. I gave
your birds to my captain, who took them to the Doge, and the Doge is proud
of them because they are splendid carriers. So Dandolo, our general, will
take them along with the army to bring back news of the war. And now
good-by. When the fighting is over, I will come again.”
He mounted his horse and rode away, and two pairs of dewy eyes looked
after him as he went.
The days that followed seemed very long to the two who waited in the
highlands. They knew that the army had gone, and that away on the eastern
island perhaps the fighting had begun. But what of the fate of the Venetian
hosts, and what of the son and brother who had sailed under the standard of
the Lion? As to that they could only hope and wonder.
Slowly, slowly dragged the days, but no word came back.
One morning, while Leonardo and his mother prayed and waited in the
mountain cabin, down in Venice in the splendid Palace of the Doges, the
Council of Ten sat and pondered. They talked much about the absent army,
wondering if victory or defeat had been its share, and while they wondered
there came a fluttering of soft gray wings.
“Pigeons!” some one called. “See, they are carriers!”
The dignified assemblage broke up in excitement, for they knew the tiny
birds were messengers, and the men hurried to read the missives fastened to
their crimson feet.

“They come from Dandolo,” said one of the nobles, “bringing news of
the war.”
“From Candia!” another exclaimed. “It cannot be that they have flown so
far!”
But it was true, for upon reading they learned that the Venetian army had
been victorious and the soldiers would soon sail home in triumph. The tiny
birds had flown all the long leagues across the sea to carry the glad news to
the waiting people.
Up in the hut in the Italian highlands Leonardo and his mother still
watched and wondered, when one evening a few days later Armando, the
village weaver, came by on his way home from the city. He was greatly
excited and called to them as he stopped at the door.
“Rejoice,” he said, “for the war is over!”
“How do you know?” the mother asked. “Are the soldiers back?”
“No. But the pigeons brought the word, and every one is glad.”
“Pigeons!” exclaimed Leonardo. “My pigeons! Then after all I did
something for Venice.”
And he spoke the truth. So much did the message mean to the anxious
people, that the lawmakers said they would always keep the birds, they and
their young and their children’s young. And although hundreds of years
have passed since then, still the gray-winged creatures fly about St. Mark’s
Square, and the people love and feed them. For they know they are
descended from the pair sent to the Doge by a mountain boy, Leonardo’s
pigeons, that long ago flew across the wide seas, bringing word of the
victory of the Venetian hosts.

THE COMING OF THE WONDER TREE

Retold from an Arabian Legend
(Geography—Nature Study)
Abi Ben Ahmed was a chief of Araby, and there was no sweeter child in
the land than his little daughter Zuleika. She was fair to look upon, with

eyes slender as an almond and soft as a gazelle’s, and the goodness of her
heart was known to every one in the tribe. Lowly slave and mighty sheik
alike loved her, and when she was with her father he forgot all his trouble.
One evening when the sun was dropping low over the desert, Zuleika sat
in front of the tent waiting for a chance to have her supper. Her father was
eating just then, for by the laws of Arabian politeness women and children
must wait for meals until their lords and masters have finished. She was
hungry, yet she did not mind the delay, because she knew nothing else, and
when you think all the world does things as you do, your way does not
seem hard. So she watched the color flame across the western sky, hummed
snatches of song, and made pictures in the sand with her fingers.
Suddenly, away to the south, a yellow cloud seemed to rise out of the
desert. It moved nearer, and as Zuleika watched it her dark eyes began to
sparkle. She knew what it meant and it made her glad.
“Father,” she called, “some one is riding this way.”
Abi Ben Ahmed left his supper and came from the tent to see. The Arab
is fond of his food and very loth to leave it, but when strangers almost never
come by it is worth going without a meal to see them.
“Yes,” he agreed, as his piercing eyes scanned the southern horizon,
“some one is traveling across the desert.”
Zuleika danced with delight. Only once or twice since she could
remember had any one come to the camp, for it was in the very heart of El
Nedjed, and there was little traveling in those far-off days. Long before,
when she was a tiny girl, a traveler had come that way, and while he
lingered at camp, told of the blue Persian Gulf beyond the Oman shore, and
of the music of its plashing waves. No word has such a magical sound to
the Arab as “water,” and to hear of lakes and rivers of it is like some
exquisite fairy tale.
“It is a desert of water more beautiful than the land,” he said in the soft,
sweet tongue of the East. “Houris dwell there, and often when the moon is
shining they come out and sport upon the sands.”
The tale fascinated her at the time, and had always stayed in her memory.
That is why she was happy to see a stranger approaching. She thought he
might tell her of the lovely realm beyond.

As the cloud rolled nearer they saw a rider on a milk-white steed. Abi
Ben Ahmed called to his men to come and welcome the stranger, for an
Arab who lets even one slave stay away when a guest arrives, is lacking in
courtesy. So they advanced, stalwart, dark-skinned men, whose turbaned
heads were bowed almost to the ground as they gave the low salaam of the
East, while the chief spoke words of welcome to his camp.
Very swarthy was the rider, and of proud demeanor that proclaimed him a
person of much consequence, and as he returned Ben Abi’s salute he spoke
with dignity befitting his bearing.
“I bring greeting from the sheik Ben Nedi,” he announced. “He rides this
way tomorrow.”
The chief replied, “Mighty is Ben Nedi, and a man of high esteem among
his people. He shall have welcome and all that Arab hospitality can offer.”
Then, leading the way, Ben Ahmed took the stranger to the tent, where
camel’s milk and dried goat’s flesh were set before him.
Zuleika, on the sand without, could hear their words, but the joyous light
was no longer in her eyes. Her face was drawn in wrinkles, and her lip
quivered as if she were about to cry. She knew that the man expected on the
morrow was not only a powerful chieftain, but a teacher and prophet as
well, and that according to the Arab custom every person in camp, even to
the lowliest slave, would lay gifts before him. For it is believed by the
desert people that to do so brings a blessing. But Zuleika, although she was
a chieftain’s daughter, had nothing to offer, for the wealth of Arab rulers is
in their flocks and lands, and the poorest child of the West has more
treasures than had this little princess of the desert.
“If I had my baby camel I could give that,” she thought as she listened to
the murmurs in the women’s tent and knew that all was excitement there
over the coming of the stranger.
But the camel she had loved and petted had died a few weeks before, and
she had nothing else.
“Do not grieve,” her mother said when she saw tears in the big almond
eyes and asked the reason they were there. “The law of giving does not
apply to children, and the sheik Ben Nedi, who is as wise as he is powerful,

knows that sometimes empty hands give most of all. The blessing comes of
having the great desire, not through the treasure that is offered.”
But Zuleika did grieve, and the world seemed very dark. And after she
went to bed she thought about it until she grew so restless she could not lie
quietly. So she crept outside and sat on the ground.
It was midnight, and Abi Ben Ahmed and the stranger slept in the tent.
The slaves, both men and women, were sleeping too, and nothing broke the
stillness of the desert night save an occasional breeze that shifted the loose
sand, or a stirring among the animals just beyond. She sat there for a
minute, then stole out across the waste. Past the camel keep she went,
hurrying through the silver of the moonlight until she came to a rock that
rose out of the desert like a grizzled head facing westward. It was her
favorite spot, for her mother had told her that a lovely houri (fairy) once
made her haunt there, and she hoped she might come back and do
wonderful things for her as she was said to have done in the long ago. So
she climbed up and looked across the desert.
Away to the west, glowing more brightly than any other in the sky, was
the star that according to Arab teaching shines always over Mecca, the city
of the Prophet. The sight of it made her grieve more than ever over the
thought of her empty hands, and she began to cry.
Then, with a sound of wonderful music, a white creature rose out of the
sands. Her beauty was more radiant than any of which Zuleika had ever
dreamed, and jewels of many colors glistened in her hair. Her smile was
wonderfully sweet, and the girl knew it must be the good fairy returned to
her old haunt.
“Why do you weep?” she asked.
Zuleika answered with a low salaam, “The prophet comes tomorrow, and
I have nothing to offer him because the baby camel I would have given is
dead.”
“But you have a gift more precious than the others,” the fairy spoke.
The little girl was amazed.
“I!” she exclaimed. “Why, I have nothing!”

“Ah, but you have,” came the low reply. “The desire in the heart. That is
the only thing worth giving, and that you have. But you shall have still
another. Come here in the morning at sunrise, and you will find it on the
sands.”
The radiant creature glided away in the light, that dimmed as she went,
and in a moment Zuleika could see only the desert and her father’s camp
beyond the rock.
Creeping down, she went back to the tent to bed. But the beauty of the
shining creature was in her eyes and brain, and she could not sleep. Eagerly
she waited for the coming of morning, and as soon as she heard a stirring
beyond the tents, and knew that Hassan, the camel keeper, was looking after
the animals, she bounded out of bed and down to the place of rock. Her
mother saw her go, but thought nothing about it, for it was the time of gray
dawn when every Arab looks in prayer toward Mecca, and she was
probably going to the fairy rock for her devotions. But Zuleika thought of
something besides her prayers.
When she came to the spot she stared around, wondering if it could be
the place she had visited in the night. Then only a glittering waste stretched
far as the eye could reach. Now there was a tree, straight and branchless
almost to the crown, where from beneath wide-spreading leaves hung
bunches of pulpy fruit. Nothing like it had been seen on the desert before.
Wild with delight, she rushed back to camp and told of the wonder.
“A tree on the desert!” her father exclaimed. “It cannot be.”
Nor could she make him believe so strange a thing had happened until
she led him to the spot. But there it stood, with head held high like an Arab
sheik, and when he tasted of the fruit he found it good.
In the late afternoon of the following day the caravan of the sheik Ben
Nedi came to the camp of Abi Ben Ahmed. The women within the tents
received him with singing, and the men with low salaams. Then the gifts
were brought: the finest camels of the herd, turban cloth enough for all the
men of his train, and silk, a portion of her mother’s marriage dower worth
the price of many camels. It had been brought by ship across the sea and by
caravan over the desert, and was rainbow-hued and fine, such as is woven
only in the Vale of Cashmere. The great man received them with gratitude,