The Art of Story-Telling

The home, the school, and the library have each a distinct purpose in story-telling. These purposes may be more or less complex, they may in some instances coincide, yet the fields are separate, and each has its own fundamental reason for presenting the oral story to the child.

In the home, the chief object in story-telling is to give content, to satisfy. The child, becoming tired of his toys or of his games, comes to his mother and begs for a story. He wants to be taken into her lap, cuddled within her arms, and entertained. Oh, the wonderful, the far-reaching opportunities held by the mother in such moments as these! The child is in a quiet, receptive mood, and the stories told him at such times will never be forgotten; their influence will follow him as long as he lives. Nothing that he can learn in school in the after years will abide and enter into the essence of his being as will the stories which his mother tells him. Strength of character, purity of life, truthfulness, unselfishness, obedience, faith—all may be made beautiful and attractive by means of stories.

Nor is the directly ethical training the greatest good achieved by story-telling in the home. Nothing else so closely links mother and child in a sweet fellowship and communion of thought. Nothing else so intimately binds them together, nor so fully secures the confidence of the child. When they enter together the enchanted realm of story-land, mother and child are in a region apart, a region from which others are excluded. The companionship of story-land belongs only to congenial souls. And so the mother, by means of stories, becomes the intimate companion, the loving and wise guide, the dearest confidant of her child.

Not all the stories of the home need be ethical in their teaching, though all stories worth telling have a foundation of truth. There should be a wise blending of fairy stories, mythological tales, fables, nonsense verses, and true nature stories; and the advantage of story-telling is that it may be carried on in connection with many of the household duties, with no diminishing of the story’s charm. While the mother sews or embroiders or mends, while she stirs a cake, or washes dishes, she can tell a story which will not only entertain or influence the child, but will carry her own thoughts away from the ofttimes dullness of her task into realms of beauty and delight. Then, too, many a childish task may be robbed of its seemingly tedious character by the telling of a story during its progress, or as a reward when the task is completed.

Let me beg of you, mothers, do not think that you cannot tell stories. Try; try; keep on trying; and ease in telling is bound to come. Do not think of yourself in the telling; think of the story and of the child who listens. Nothing else matters.

It takes time to search out and familiarize oneself with just the stories that are best worth telling, but surely no mother can find a more important or more worthy object upon which to expend the time. Librarians and story-tellers within the past few years have prepared lists which make such selection, comparatively easy, mid classified lists are included in the present volume.

The very little child can grasp only the simplest story, but the essential facts of any story which he can comprehend, can be simply told. A story for a little child should have few characters, little if any plot, and a familiarity of action or place. Mother Goose and similar nursery rhymes naturally come first for little children in the home. The kindergarten collections of stories contain good material, and these can be followed by or interspersed with the simplest myths and fairy tales.

Just as children love the companionship of animals, so do they love stories of animals; and when these animals do the things that children do, an element of surprise and new delight is added. Children intuitively want the right to prevail. They love the old tales wherein animals talk, and the crafty old fox is always beaten by the good little hen.

Bible stories should be told to children day by day. They can be made very simple in outline, but they should be told over and over, with a distinction made between them and the fables and folk tales. The latter may teach a true lesson, but the former teach The Truth. And not only should we tell the Old Testament stories of heroes and of great wonders, but the story of Christ’s birth, of his life, his death, and his resurrection, should be made a part of every child’s early teaching in the form of stories reverently told. They will make a lasting impression; an impression deeper than the most eloquent sermon heard in maturer years.

A careful choice of the kind of stories told to little children lays not only a sound moral foundation, but a foundation for good literary taste.

A child brought up from its earliest years on stories from the Bible, Anderson, Aesop, Stevenson, and Field, will instinctively detect and reject trash when he begins to read for himself. But the supply of good literature must be kept at hand, for children will read something.

What sweeter bit of verse can a mother repeat to the child she is hushing to sleep than this:

The stanzas are from “A Japanese Lullaby,” and are selected from a host of similarly dainty verses in Lullaby Land, by Eugene Field (Charles Scribner’s Sons).

Robert Louis Stevenson’s Child’s Garden of Verse is another storehouse of treasure for mothers. Some of his rhymes, such as “Good and Bad Children,” are quite equal to Mother Goose in their good advice administered in quaintly merry form, while his “Foreign Lands” and “My Shadow” teach children to idealize the everyday happenings of the home life.

How could a mother better remind her small boy or girl that it is time to waken than by repeating his lines:

When a mother habitually repeats to her child stories and verses of the character outlined, she is not only forming his taste in literature along right lines, but she is helping to enlarge his vocabulary.

“What does ‘embark’ mean, Mamma?” is sure to follow the first or second recital of Stevenson’s “My Bed Is a Boat”:

And “gird” will also need interpreting. These words will soon become a part of his normal vocabulary. He may not use them in his everyday speech, but he will not need to have them explained to him when he comes upon them in his later reading. Teachers invariably know when a child comes from a home of culture and of good literary taste, by the foundation already laid. The child’s own forms of expression and the range of his vocabulary are unmistakable evidence of the home influence and teaching.

A literary sequence which will give the child a knowledge of literature as a development or a growth—not as a vast accumulation of unrelated parts—can be carried through his reading and study. This subject is taken up in the chapter upon “Systematic Story-Telling,” and while it is essentially the work of a teacher, the foundation for it may be laid by the wise mother who starts her child along right lines through the medium of her story-telling.

It has already been said that all stories worth the telling have a foundation of truth. The story with which this chapter closes is a beautiful example of a nature story which embodies a higher truth. It is found in Mrs. Gatty’s Parables from Nature (The Macmillan Company):

A mild, green caterpillar was one day strolling about on a cabbage leaf, when there settled beside her a beautiful Butterfly.

The Butterfly fluttered her wings feebly, and seemed very ill.

“I feel very strange and dizzy,” said the Butterfly, addressing the Caterpillar, “and I am sure that I have but a little while to live. But I have just laid some butterfly eggs on this cabbage leaf, and if I die there will be no one to care for my baby butterflies. I must hire a nurse for them at once, but I cannot go far to seek for one. May I hire you as nurse, kind Caterpillar? I will pay you with gold dust from my wings.”

Then, before the surprised Caterpillar could reply, the Butterfly went on, “Of course you must not feed them on the coarse cabbage leaves which are your food. Young butterflies must be fed upon early dew and the honey of flowers. And at first, oh, good Caterpillar, they must not be allowed to fly far, for their wings will not be strong. It is sad that you cannot fly yourself. But I am sure you will be kind, and will do the best you can.”

With that the poor Butterfly drooped her wings and died, and the Caterpillar had no chance to so much as say “Yes,” or “No.”

“Dear me!” she exclaimed, as she looked at the butterfly eggs beside her, “what sort of a nurse will I make for a group of gay young butterflies? Much attention they will pay to the advice of a plain caterpillar like me. But I shall have to do the best that I can,” she added. And all that night she walked around and around the butterfly eggs to see that no harm came to them.

“I wish that I had someone wiser than myself to consult with,” she said to herself next morning. “I might talk it over with the house dog. But, no,” she added hastily, “he is kind, but big and rough, and one brush of his tail would whisk all the eggs off the cabbage leaf.

“There is Tom Cat,” she went on, after thinking a few moments, “but he is lazy and selfish, and he would not give himself the trouble to think about butterfly eggs.

“Ah, but there’s the Lark!” she exclaimed at length. “He flies far up into the heavens and perhaps he knows more than we creatures that live upon the earth. I’ll ask him.”

So the Caterpillar sent a message to the Lark, who lived in a neighboring cornfield, and she told him all her troubles.

“And I want to know how I, a poor crawling Caterpillar, am to feed and care for a family of beautiful young butterflies. Could you find out for me the next time you fly away up into the blue heavens?”

“Perhaps I can,” said the Lark, and off he flew.

Higher and higher he winged his way until the poor, crawling Caterpillar could not even hear his song, to say nothing of seeing him.

After a very long time—at least it seemed so to the Caterpillar, who, in her odd, lumbering way, kept walking around and around the butterfly eggs—the Lark came back.

First, she could hear his song away up in the heavens. Then it sounded nearer and nearer, till he alighted close beside her and began to speak.

“I found out many wonderful things,” he said. “But if I tell them to you, you will not believe me.”

“Oh, yes I will,” answered the Caterpillar hastily, “I believe everything I am told.”

“Well, then,” said the Lark, “the first thing I found out was that the butterfly eggs will turn into little green caterpillars, just like yourself, and that they will eat cabbage leaves just as you do.”

“Wretch!” exclaimed the Caterpillar, bristling with indignation. “Why do you come and mock me with such a story as that? I thought you would be kind, and would try to help me.”

“So I would,” answered the Lark, “but I told you, you would not believe me,” and with that he flew away to the cornfield.

“Dear me,” said the Caterpillar, sorrowfully. “When the Lark flies so far up into the heavens I should not think he would come back to us poor creatures with such a silly tale. And I needed help so badly.”

“I would help you if you would only believe me,” said the Lark, flying down to the cabbage patch once more. “I have wonderful things to tell you, if you would only have faith in me and trust in what I say.”

“And you are not making fun of me?” asked the Caterpillar.

“Of course not,” answered the Lark.

“But you tell me such impossible things!”

“If you could fly with me and see the wonders that I see, here on earth, and away up in the blue sky, you would not say that anything was impossible,” replied the Lark.

“But,” said the Caterpillar, “you tell me that these eggs will hatch out into caterpillars, and I know that their mother was a butterfly, for I saw her with my own eyes; and so of course they will be butterflies. How could they be anything else? I am sure I can reason that far, if I cannot fly.”

“Very well,” answered the Lark, “then I must leave you, though I have even more wonderful things that I could tell. But what comes to you from the heavens, you can only receive by faith, as I do. You cannot crawl around on your cabbage leaf and reason these things out.”

“Oh, I do believe what I am told,” repeated the Caterpillar—although she had just proved that it was not true—“at least,” she added, “everything that is reasonable to believe. Pray tell me what else you learned.”

“I learned,” said the Lark, impressively, “that you will be a butterfly, yourself, some day.”

“Now, indeed, you are making fun of me,” exclaimed the Caterpillar, ready to cry with vexation and disappointment. But just at that moment she felt something brush against her side, and, turning her head, she looked in amazement at the cabbage leaf, for there, just coming out of the butterfly eggs, were eight or ten little green caterpillars—and they were no more than out of the eggs before they began eating the juicy leaf.

Oh, how astonished and how ashamed the Caterpillar felt. What the Lark had said was true!

And then a very wonderful thought came to the poor, green Caterpillar. “If this part is true, it must all be true, and some day I shall be a butterfly.”

She was so delighted that she began telling all her caterpillar friends about it—but they did not believe her any more than she had believed the Lark.

“But I know, I know,” she kept saying to herself. And she never tired of hearing the Lark sing of the wonders of the earth below, and of the heavens above.

And all the time, the little green caterpillars on the leaf grew and thrived wonderfully, and the big green Caterpillar watched them and cared for them carefully every hour.

One day the Caterpillar’s friends gathered around her and said, very sorrowfully, “It is time for you to spin your chrysalis and die.”

But the Caterpillar replied, “You mean that I shall soon be changed into a beautiful butterfly. How wonderful it will be.”

And her friends looked at one another sadly and said, “She is quite out of her mind.”

Then the Caterpillar spun her chrysalis and went to sleep.

And by and by, when she wakened, oh, then she knew that what the Lark had learned in the heavens was true—for she was a beautiful butterfly, with gold dust on her wings.

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The following stories are selected with a view to fulfilling various purposes, to meeting varied needs. Though not all are great stories, yet the object to be attained by telling them is great; for the work of molding the mind of a child can be nothing less. Each story is worth while: most of them lie outside the beaten path.

Once upon a time, little Brother Rabbit lived, quite sober and industrious, in the woods, and just close by lived a big, brown Bear.

Now little Brother Rabbit never troubled his neighbors in those days, nor meddled with their housekeeping, nor played any tricks the way he does now. In the fall, he gathered his acorns, and his pignuts, and his rabbit tobacco. On a frosty morning, he would set out with Brother Fox for the farmer’s; and while Brother Fox looked after the chicken yards, little Brother Rabbit picked cabbage, and pulled turnips, and gathered carrots and parsnips for his cellar. When the winter came, he never failed to share his store with a wandering chipmunk.

Now, in those days, old Bear was not content to do his own housekeeping, and doze in the sun, and gather wild honey in the summer, and fish through the ice in the winter. He was full of mischief, and was always playing tricks. Of all the beasts of the wood, the one he loved best to trouble was sober little Brother Rabbit.

Just as soon as Brother Rabbit moved to a new tree stump, and filled his bins with vegetables, and his pantry with salad, along came old Bear and carried off all his stores.

Just as soon as Brother Rabbit filled his house with dry, warm leaves for a bed, along came old Bear, and tried to squeeze himself into the bed, too, and of course he was too big.

At last, Brother Rabbit could stand it no longer, and he went to all the beasts in the wood to ask their advice.

The first one he met was Brother Frog, sitting on the edge of the pond, and sticking his feet in the nice, cool mud.

“What shall I do, Brother Frog?” asked Brother Rabbit; “Brother Bear will not leave me alone.”

“Let us ask Brother Squirrel,” said Brother Frog.

So the two went to Brother Squirrel, cracking nuts in the hickory tree.

“What shall we do, Brother Squirrel?” asked Brother Frog; “Brother Bear will not leave Brother Rabbit alone.”

“Let us ask Brother Mole,” said Brother Squirrel, dropping his nuts.

So the three went to where Brother Mole was digging the cellar for a new house, and they said:

“What shall we do, Brother Mole? Brother Bear will not leave Brother Rabbit alone.”

“Let us ask Brother Fox,” said Brother Mole.

So Brother Mole, Brother Squirrel, Brother Frog, and Brother Rabbit went to where Brother Fox was combing his brush behind a bush, and they said to him:

“What shall we do, Brother Fox? Brother Bear will not leave Brother Rabbit alone.”

“Let us go to Brother Bear,” said Brother Fox.

So they all went along with little Brother Rabbit, and they hunted and hunted for old Bear, but they could not find him anywhere. They hunted and hunted some more, and at last they peeped into a hollow tree. There lay old Bear, fast asleep.

“Hush,” said Brother Fox.

Then he whispered to Brother Frog, “Bring a little mud.”

And he whispered to Brother Squirrel, “Bring some leaves.”

And he whispered to Brother Mole, “Bring some dirt, little brother.”

And to Brother Rabbit he said, “Stand ready to do what I tell you.”

So Brother Frog brought mud, Brother Squirrel brought leaves, Brother Mole brought dirt, and Brother Rabbit stood ready to do what Brother Fox told him.

Then Brother Fox said to Brother Rabbit, “Stop up the ends of Brother Bear’s log.”

So Brother Rabbit took the mud and the leaves and the dirt, and he stopped up the ends of the log. Then he hammered hard with his two back feet, which are good for hammering. And they all went home, for they thought that old Bear would never, never get out of the log.

Well, old Bear slept and slept, but after a while he awoke, and he opened one eye. He saw no sunshine, so he thought it was still night, and he went to sleep again.

After another while, he awoke again, but he heard the rain and sleet beating outside, and it was very warm and dry inside.

“What a very long night,” said old Bear, and he curled up his paws, and he went to sleep again.

This time, he just slept, and slept, until it began to be very warm inside the log, and he heard in his dreams the footsteps of birds outside.

Then he awoke, and he stretched himself, and he shook himself. He rubbed his eyes with his paws, and he poked away the mud, and the leaves, and the dirt, and he went outside.

But was he not surprised?

It had been a frosty night when he had gone to sleep, and now the woods were green. Old Bear had slept all winter.

“That was a fine long sleep,” said old Bear, as he set out for little Brother Rabbit’s house to see if he had anything good for breakfast; “and I shall go to sleep again, next fall.”

So every summer, old Bear plays tricks on little Brother Rabbit, but when fall comes, he creeps away to a warm, dark place to sleep until spring.

And so have his grandchildren, and his great-grandchildren, and his great-great-grandchildren ever since.

Once upon a time, so very long ago that of course there are no children like that now, there was a little boy who almost never washed his hands. He wrote with ink and got ink on his fat little fore-finger; he made pictures with his paints and daubed his thumbs with red and yellow and blue color; he made mud pies and splashed mud all over his chubby palms and he never washed off the ink or the paint or the mud.

And when anyone spoke of his dirty hands, Bobby—that was the little boy’s name—would say, “Oh, I forgot.” And then he would keep right on forgetting all about nice warm soap and soft dry towels, and pretty, clean, pink hands.

One day, Bobby decided that he wanted to play, very hard. The sun was up, there was a soft, singing wind out in the garden, and the whole world looked clean and happy. So Bobby put on his cap, and because it is always better to play with someone than to play alone, Bobby called his big white pussy cat who often loved to chase up and down the path that ran between the hedges.

“Come, pussy, pussy dear!” called Bobby, “come and play with me.”

Then, because the white cat did not seem to hear, Bobby stooped over and picked her up in his arms. But the white cat wriggled and scratched and spit at Bobby and jumped out of his arms. She ran away from him and hid beneath a chair.

“I wonder why she will not play with me,” Bobby said as he went out into the garden. There, on the door-step, stood Bobby’s white dove with the pink, pink toes. Bobby loved the white dove, who was very tame and often flew to his shoulder, cooing gently in his ear. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of grain which he scattered on the door-step for the dove—pretty yellow grain it was. But the white dove would not eat it, and when Bobby called her, she flew away from him, as far as the green gables at the very top of the house.

“I wonder why she will not play with me,” said Bobby, as he ran down the garden path to the little round pond where his six yellow gold fish lived. The six yellow gold fish were Bobby’s friends and they often played with him as well as they knew how. When he threw crumbs into the pond they would come to the top with their little mouths wide open, and would dart about in the shining water as if they wanted Bobby to jump in and swim about and enjoy the feast with them.

But today, when Bobby gave them some crumbs which he had in his pocket, they did not come up to eat them. They stayed deep, deep down in the pond.

“I wonder why—” Bobby began, and then he happened to look down at the water. The top of the pond was a shining mirror and in it Bobby saw a picture of two little black hands.

The crumbs that he had thrown to the six yellow gold fish were black, too. The pretty yellow grain that he gave the dove had been black, and when he had lifted the white pussy cat, his hands had left two big, black smudges upon her beautiful white fur.

“Why, my hands are dirty,” exclaimed Bobby.

You see, he had never really thought about his hands before. So he went right into the house to wash them and he never, never forgot to wash them again.

Once upon a time a poor woodman lived with his family near a great forest. Every week day he shouldered his ax very early in the morning, and bidding his wife and children good-by, went out to cut wood for his master.

One day when he was chopping at the trunk of a great tree growing near a stream, his ax suddenly slipped out of his hands and dropped with a splash into the water.

Oh, how troubled the poor man was! He couldn’t earn a penny without an ax, and he was too poor to buy one. He sat down on the bank and wept as though his heart would break.

“What is the trouble, my good man?” asked a voice at his side. It was a fairy! And such a jolly-looking fairy, too. He had wings on his cap, and wings on his shoes, and even on his staff!

“I dropped my ax in the stream, and I can’t chop wood any more, and my family will starve,” sobbed the man.

Instantly Mercury, for that was the fairy’s name, dived down into the water, and came up, dripping wet, holding a beautiful golden ax in his hand.

“Is this your ax?” he asked.

“No, that is not mine.”

The good fairy dived into the stream again, and this time brought up a silver ax.

“Is this yours?”

“No, that isn’t mine, either.” The poor man needed an ax very much, but he would not claim one that did not belong to him, of course.

Once more Mercury plunged into the water, but this time he came up with a common ax in his hand.

“Is this your ax?” he asked.

“Yes! Oh, yes! that is mine!” cried the man, joyfully. “Thank you so much for your kindness. I am sorry you are so wet.”

“I don’t mind that,” said Mercury. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet such an honest man. I will give you both the gold and the silver axes as well as your own, and you can sell them for much gold, and you shall never be poor again.” And he was gone before the woodcutter had time to thank him.

The woodcutter went home a very happy man, for now he would always have plenty for his family. When his neighbors heard about his good fortune, one of them who was a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow decided to try his luck in the same way. He went to the stream, threw his ax in, and sitting down on the bank, wept aloud as the honest woodman had done.

Suddenly Mercury appeared to him.

“What is the trouble, my good man?” he asked, as before.

“I dropped my ax in the river,” sobbed the man.

Instantly the fairy dived into the water, and in a moment came up with a golden ax in his hand.

“Is this your ax?”

“Yes! Oh, yes! that is mine,” the dishonest man cried, reaching out eagerly for the beautiful golden tool.

But Mercury knew he was not speaking the truth, and was very angry with him. Instead of giving him the golden ax, he dropped it into the stream and disappeared without trying to find the man’s own ax. So, instead of going home a rich man, as he had expected, he went home poorer than he had come.

Three little mice once lived in an old box.

“I am going to make a new house,” said the largest mouse, whose name was Rus.

“I am going to make a new house,” said the next mouse, whose name was Fus.

“I am going to make a new house,” said the third mouse, who name was Mus.

“My house shall be made of hay,” said Rus, who did not like to be cold.

“My house shall be made of paper,” said Fus, who was fond of books.

“My house shall be made of bricks,” said Mus, who was as wise as he could be.

So the three little mice made their homes.

One day Tabby Cat came along. She saw the three houses that the little mice had made.

She was a very polite old cat, so she knocked at the door of the first house.

“Come, Mr. Rus; please let me in!” said she.

“Oh, no,” said Rus; “you can’t come in.”

Tabby was a wise old cat. She put her soft paw into the hay and caught poor Rus.

Then she went to the next house. “Come, Mr. Fus; let me in,” she said.

“Oh, no!” said Fus, “you can’t come in.”

But Tabby knew better than that. She put her paw through the paper door and caught poor Fus. Then she went to the next house.

“Come, Mr. Mus; let me in!” said she.

“Oh, yes!” said Mus; “when I am ready.”

So Tabby sat down to wait. She laughed when she thought what a nice supper Mus would make.

When she had waited a long time, she grew tired.

“Are you ready now, Mr. Mus?” she asked.

“Not yet,” said Mus.

By and by Tabby knocked loudly on the door.

“I am coming in now, Mr. Mus,” said she.

“Very well; come in if you like,” said Mus; but he did not open the door.

So Tabby tried and tried to open the door.

Then she tried to push down the house. Then she tried to make Mus come out. At last she told Mus just what she thought of him.

This did not trouble Mus at all. He had curled himself up in a snug corner of his house and was fast asleep.

Once upon a time there were two green and glittering gold bugs, and one said to the other:

“The day is warm and sunny; let us go out and play.”

“We will,” said the second gold bug, and they decided to play at dancing.

So the two green, glittering gold bugs went down to a brook near by, and there, shining and floating above the water, they saw two glorious dragon flies, one green, and one blue.

“We will dance with these dragon flies,” said one gold bug. “I choose the blue one.”

“You cannot have her,” said the other gold bug, “I choose her.”

“I will dance with the blue dragon fly,” said the second gold bug.

So they quarreled until two other gold bugs came along, and asked the dragon flies to dance with them, so that was an end of the matter.

The two green and glittering gold bugs then said they would play at something else.

“We will play hide and seek,” said the first gold bug.

“No, we will play tag,” said the second gold bug.

“I will play nothing but hide and seek,” said the first gold bug.

“And I will play nothing but tag,” said the second gold bug.

“I am going to hide,” said the first gold bug; so he went away and hid himself beneath a clover leaf, but, ah, there was no one to blind, and then go and look for him.

“I will run,” said the second gold bug; so he ran, but, ah, there was no one to catch him. It was not fun to play that way, and there was an end of the matter.

The two green and glittering gold bugs then said they would play at something else, so they went to a tall bell flower to swing.

“I will sit inside, and you shall rock me,” said the first gold bug.

“No, I will sit inside first, and you shall rock me,” said the second gold bug.

So they quarreled as to which should swing first, and in their quarreling they tore a petal of the beautiful bell flower, so they could not swing at all, and there was an end of the matter.

“Tut, tut, what is the meaning of this?” asked an old gold bug who came crawling along just then. “Why do you two green and glittering young things quarrel this bright morning?”

“We cannot play, and we are very unhappy, grandfather,” said the two gold bugs. “We do not both wish to play at the same games.”

“Silly, silly,” said the old gold bug, and as he crawled away, he turned his head about, and he said, “Take turns, take turns. Turn about is fair play.”

Now it had never occurred to the two green and glittering gold bugs that to take turns is the best way to play, and they decided to try.

They went back to the brook, and there were the two beautiful dragon flies, again floating over the water. So the first gold bug danced with the green dragon fly, and the second gold bug danced with the blue dragon fly; and then they changed about until they could dance no longer.

After that they played tag, and the first gold bug chased the second gold bug until they were tired. Then the first gold bug hid himself, and the second gold bug tried to find him, which was very good fun indeed.

And last of all they found another bell flower, and they rocked each other all the afternoon, until it was time to go home.

So they had a very good day after all, did those green and glittering gold bugs, for they had learned that to take turns is the best way to play.

Under the window of a certain pretty cottage there grew a great old apple tree, which in the spring had thousands and thousands of lovely pink blossoms on it, and in the autumn had many bright red apples.

The nursery of this cottage was a little bower of a room, and here five little children used to come to be dressed and have their hair brushed and curled every morning.

Now it used to happen, every morning, that the five little heads would be peeping out of the window, together, into the flowery boughs of the apple tree; and the reason was this. A pair of robins had built a very pretty, smooth-lined nest directly under the window. The robins, at first, had been rather shy of this inspection; but, as they got better acquainted, they seemed to think no more of the little curly heads in the window than of the pink blossoms about them, or the daisies and buttercups at the foot of the tree.

When the little nest was finished, it was so neat, and workmanlike, that the children all exulted over it, and called it “our nest,” and the two robins they called “our birds.” But wonderful was the joy when the little eyes, opening one morning, saw in the nest a beautiful pale-green egg; and the joy grew from day to day, for every day there came another egg, and so on till there were five little eggs.

After that the mother bird began to sit on the eggs, and then it seemed a very long time for the children to wait. But one morning, when they pushed their five curly heads out of the window, the patient little bird was gone and there seemed to be nothing left in the little nest but a bunch of something hairy.

“O, mamma, do come here!” they cried, “the bird has gone and left her nest!” But at that five little red mouths opened wide, and then they saw that the hairy bunch of stuff was five little birds.

“They are dreadful looking things,” said one of the children; “I didn’t know that little birds began by looking so bad.”

But after this it was great fun to watch the parent birds feed this nestful of little red mouths, until it became a nestful of little, fat, speckled robins.

Then, as there were five children, and five robins, they each chose one bird for his own, and they named them Brown-Eyes, Tip-Top, Singer, Toddy, and Speckle.

Time went on, and as Brown-Eyes, Tip-Top, Singer, Toddy, and Speckle grew bigger, they began to make a very crowded nestful of birds.

Now the children had been taught a little verse which said:

and they thought anything really written and printed must be true; therefore they were very much astonished to see, from day to day, that their little birds in their nest did not agree.

Tip-Top was the biggest and strongest bird, and he was always shuffling and crowding the others, and clamoring for the most food. Speckle was a bird of spirit, and he used to peck at Tip-Top, while Brown-Eyes was a meek, tender little fellow. As for Toddy and Singer, they turned out to be sister birds, and showed quite a feminine talent for chattering.

“I say,” said Tip-Top one day, “this old nest is a dull, crowded hole, and it’s quite time some of us were out of it.”

“My dear boy,” said Mother Robin, “we shall teach you to fly as soon as your wings are strong enough.”

“Humbug!” cried Tip-Top, balancing with his short little tail on the edge of the nest. “Look at those swallows, skimming and diving through the blue air! That’s the way I want to do.”

“My dear boy,” said his mother, “do go into the nest and be a good little bird, and then you will be happy.”

“I’m too big for the nest,” said Tip-Top, “and I want to see the world. It’s full of beautiful things, I know. Now there’s the most lovely creature with bright eyes, that comes under the tree every day, and wants me to come down in the grass and play with her.”

“My son, my son, beware!” said the frightened mother; “that seemingly lovely creature is our dreadful enemy, the cat—a horrid monster, with teeth and claws.”

At this all the little birds shuddered and cuddled deeper into the nest—all but Tip-Top, who didn’t believe it.

So the next morning, after the father and mother were gone, Tip-Top got on the edge of the nest again, and looked over and saw lovely Miss Pussy washing her face among the daisies under the tree, and her hair was smooth and white as the daisies, and her eyes were yellow and beautiful to behold, and she looked up to the tree bewitchingly and said, “Little birds, little birds, come down. Pussy wants to play with you.”

“Only look at her!” said Tip-Top; “her eyes are like gold.”

“No, don’t look,” said Singer and Speckle. “She will bewitch you and then eat you up; mother said so.”

“I’d like to see her try to eat me up,” said Tip-Top, again balancing his short tail over the edge of the nest. “Her paws are as white as velvet, and so soft! I don’t believe she has any claws.”

“Don’t go, brother, don’t!” screamed both sisters.

A moment after, a dreadful scream was heard from the nursery window. “O, mamma, mamma, do come here! Tip-Top’s fallen out of the nest, and the cat has got him!”

Poor, foolish Tip-Top!

But in another moment the children were in the yard, and Jamie plunged under a bush and caught the cat, with luckless Tip-Top in her mouth.

Tip-Top was not dead, but some of his pretty feathers were gone, and one of his wings was broken.

“Oh, what shall we do for him!” cried the children. “Poor Tip-Top!”

“We will put him back into the nest, children,” said mamma. “His mother will know best what to do for him.”

So a ladder was brought, and papa climbed up and put poor Tip-Top safely into the nest. The cat had shaken all the nonsense well out of him, and he was a dreadfully humbled young robin.

And when the time came for all the other little birds to learn to fly, poor Tip-Top was still confined to the nest with his broken wing.

Once upon a time there was a King in Spain who had only one leg. He was a Good King, and he had a big Animal Farm where he kept all the animals who had lost one or more of their legs.

In another part of Spain there was a Little Half Chick with only one eye, one wing, and one leg. The other chickens with two eyes and two legs gobbled up the corn so fast that Little Half Chick was nearly starved.

One day a Donkey told Little Half Chick about the Good King and his Animal Farm. Little Half Chick at once started hoppity-hop for Mother Hen and said:

“Mother Hen, I am going to Madrid to see the Good King.”

“All right,” said Mother Hen, “good luck to you.”

So Little Half Chick started off, hoppity-hop, hoppity-hop, along the road to Madrid to see the Good King.

Soon she met a Two-legged Cat going along hippity-hip, hippity-hip, on her leg and crutch. The Cat said:

“Hello, Little Half Chick, where are you going so fast?”

Little Half Chick said, “I am going to Madrid to see the Good King.”

“May I go too?” said the Two-legged Cat.

“Yes,” said Little Half Chick, “fall in behind.”

So the Cat fell in behind. Hoppity-hop, hoppity-hop, went Little Half Chick. Hippity-hip, hippity-hip, went the Two-legged Cat.

Soon they met a Three-legged Dog going along humpity-hump, humpity-hump. The Dog said:

“Hello, Little Half Chick, where are you going so fast?”

Little Half Chick said, “I am going to Madrid to see the Good King.”

“May I go too?” said the Three-legged Dog.

“Yes,” said Little Half Chick, “fall in behind.”

So the Dog fell in behind. Hoppity-hop, hoppity-hop, went Little Half Chick. Hippity-hip, hippity-hip, went the Two-legged Cat.

Humpity-hump, humpity-hump, went the Three-legged Dog.

Soon they met a One-legged Crow going along jumpity-jump, jumpity-jump. The Crow said:

“Hello, Little Half Chick, where are you going so fast?”

Little Half Chick said, “I am going to Madrid to see the Good King.”

“May I go too?” said the One-legged Crow.

“Yes,” said Little Half Chick, “fall in behind.”

So the Crow fell in behind. Hoppity-hop, hoppity-hop, went Little Half Chick. Hippity-hip, hippity-hip, went the Two-legged Cat. Humpity-hump, humpity-hump, went the Three-legged Dog. Jumpity-jump, jumpity-jump, went the One-legged Crow.

Soon they met a Snake with no legs at all. He had caught his tail in his teeth, and was rolling along, loopity-loop, loopity-loop. The Snake said:

“Hello, Little Half Chick, where are you going so fast?”

“I am going to Madrid to see the Good King,” said Little Half Chick.

“May I go too?” said the Snake.

“Yes,” said Little Half Chick, “fall in behind.”

So the Snake fell in behind. Hoppity-hop, hoppity-hop, went Little Half Chick. Hippity-hip, hippity-hip, went the Two-legged Cat. Humpity-hump, humpity-hump, went the Three-legged Dog. Jumpity-jump, jumpity-jump, went the One-legged Crow. Loopity-loop, loopity-loop, went the Snake with no legs at all.

Soon they came to Madrid and saw the Good King. With the King was his little daughter Margaret. They both laughed as all these funny animals came up. The King said to Little Margaret:

“Do you want to see us all go out to the Animal Farm?”

“Yes,” said Little Margaret, “I will lead the way.”

So she led the way along the street to the Animal Farm. Behind Margaret came the One-legged King. Next came Little Half Chick, next the Two-legged Cat, next the Three-legged Dog, next the One-legged Crow, and last of all the Snake with no legs at all. So they all went out to the Animal Farm. And there they lived happily ever after.

A plowman paused in his work one day to rest. As he sat on the handle of his plow he fell a-thinking. The world had not been going well with him of late, and he could not help feeling downhearted. Just then he saw an old woman looking at him over the hedge.

“Good-morning!” she said. “If you are wise you will take my advice.”

“And what is your advice?” he asked.

“Leave your plow, and walk straight on for two days. At the end of that time you will find yourself in the middle of a forest, and in front of you there will be a tree towering high above the others. Cut it down, and your fortune will be made.”

With these words the old woman hobbled down the road, leaving the plowman wondering. He unharnessed his horses, drove them home, and said good-by to his wife; and then taking his ax, started out.

At the end of two days he came to the tree, and set to work to cut it down. As it crashed to the ground a nest containing two eggs fell from its topmost branches. The shells of the eggs were smashed, and out of one came a young eagle, while from the other rolled a small gold ring.

The eagle rapidly became larger and larger, till it was of full size; then, flapping its wings, it flew up.

“I thank you, honest man, for giving me my freedom,” it called out. “In token of my gratitude take the ring—it is a wishing ring. If you wish anything as you turn it round on your finger, your wish will be fulfilled. But remember this—the ring contains but one wish, so think well before you use it.”

The man put the ring on his finger, and set off on his homeward journey. Night was coming on when he entered a town. Almost the first person he saw was a goldsmith standing at the door of his shop. So he went up to him, and asked him what the ring was worth.

The goldsmith looked at it carefully, and handed it back to the man with a smile.

“It is of very little value,” he said.

The plowman laughed.

“Ah, Mr. Goldsmith,” he cried, “you have made a mistake this time. My ring is worth more than all you have in your shop; it’s a wishing-ring, and will give me anything I care to wish for.”

The goldsmith felt annoyed and asked to see it again.

“Well, my good man,” he said, “never mind about the ring. I dare say you are far from home, and are in want of some supper and a bed for the night. Come in and spend the night in my house.”

The man gladly accepted the offer, and was soon sound asleep. In the middle of the night the goldsmith took the ring from his finger, and put another just like it in its place without disturbing him in the least.

Next morning the countryman went on his way, all unconscious of the trick that had been played on him. When he had gone the goldsmith closed the shutters of his shop, and bolted the door; then turning the ring on his finger he said, “I wish for a hundred thousand sovereigns!”

Scarcely had the sound of his voice died away than there fell about him a shower of hard, bright, golden sovereigns. They struck him on the head, on the shoulders, on the hands. They covered the floor. Presently the floor gave way beneath the weight, and the goldsmith and his gold fell into the cellar beneath.

Next morning, when the goldsmith did not open the shop as usual, the neighbors forced open the door, and found him buried beneath the pile.

Meanwhile the countryman reached his home, and told his wife of the ring.

“Now, good wife,” said he, “here is the ring; our fortune is made. Of course we must consider the matter well; then, when we have made up our minds as to what is best, we can express some very big wish as I turn the ring on my finger.”

“Suppose,” said the woman, “we were to wish for a nice farm; the land we have now is so small as to be almost useless.”

“Yes,” said the husband; “but, on the other hand, if we work hard and spend little for a year or two we might be able to buy as much as we want. Then we could get something else with the wishing-ring.”

So it was agreed. For a year the man and his wife worked hard. Harvest came, and the crops were splendid. At the end of the year they were able to buy a nice farm, and still had some money left.

“There,” said the man, “we have the land, and we still have our wish.”

“Well,” said his wife, “we could do very well with a horse and a cow.”

“They are not worth wishing for,” said he; “we can get them as we got the land.”

So they went on working steadily and spending wisely for another year. At the end of that time they bought both a horse and a cow. Husband and wife were greatly pleased with their good fortune, for, said they, “We have got the things we wanted and we have still our wish.”

As time went on everything prospered with the worthy couple. They worked hard, and were happy. Indeed, the husband would probably have forgotten all about the ring had not his wife constantly asked him to wish for something.

“Let us work while we are young,” her husband would answer. “Life is still before us, and who can say how badly we may need our wish some day.”

So the years passed away. Every season saw the bounds of the farm increase and the granaries grow fuller. All day long the farmer was about in the fields, while his wife looked after the house and the dairy. Sometimes, as they sat alone of an evening, she would remind him of the unused wishing-ring, and would talk of things she would like to have for the house. But he always replied that there was still plenty of time for that.

The man and his wife grew old and gray. Then came a day when they both died—and the wishing-ring had not been used. It was still on his finger as he had worn it for forty years. One of his sons was going to take it off, but the oldest said:

“Do not disturb it; there has been some secret in connection with it. Perhaps our mother gave it to him, for I have often seen her look longingly at it.”

Thus the old man was buried with the ring, which was supposed to be a wishing-ring, but which, as we know, was not, though it brought the old couple more good fortune and happiness than all the wishing in the world could ever have given them.

Once upon a time—so long ago that the oldest frog now living does not remember it—all the frogs of a far-away country came together in solemn council.

“I propose,” said a big green fellow with a very deep voice, “that we ask to have a king appointed to rule over us.”

“What do we want of a king?” asked a small and inquisitive frog.

But his voice was hardly heard, for all the other frogs shouted together, “Yes, let us have a king. Let us have a king.”

“Haven’t we all we need, now, to make us happy?” asked the little, inquisitive frog again. But nobody paid the slightest attention to him.

So the other frogs sent a request to the Great Ruler of the land, asking that he appoint a king to rule over them.

“A king of the frogs!” said the Great Ruler, when he heard their request. And then he knit his brows and thought for a very long time.

But nobody knew that his thoughts were the same as those of the little, inquisitive frog to whom nobody had paid any attention.

At last the Great Ruler spoke.

“Why do you want a king?” he asked. “Have you not, now, everything you need to make you happy?”

But all the frogs shouted in chorus, “Give us a king. Give us a king.”

So the Great Ruler knit his brows and thought again for a very long time.

At length he spoke. “I will give you a great log for a king. It will bear you upon the water and the sun will shine upon you as you rest on its broad surface.”

But the frogs were angry at this. “The idea!” they shouted. “We want a living king; we want no dead log for a king.”

So the Great Ruler knit his brows and thought again for a very long time.

At length he spoke. “Since you insist upon it, I will give you the stork for your king.”

Then all the frogs sang joyfully, “Yes, we will have the stork for our king. The stork is our king! The stork is our king!”

So the stork was sent to rule over them, and as soon as he came among them he began to eat. And he ate and ate—till he had swallowed every frog in the land.

Away in the midst of the forest, there lived a tiny adder. He was so very little that the great beasts never thought of talking to him. But the spiders and the wasps and the frogs often stopped to visit at his doorway.

One morning, as a frog hopped down the path, he stopped and called “Good morning. I’ve a bit of news for you.”

“Good morning,” replied the adder. “I hope it is good news, I am sure.”

“What’s good news to one person may be bad news to another,” croaked the frog. “But listen! As I came along through the forest I heard a great chattering among the monkeys, and I stopped to hear what it was all about.

“One little monkey sat crying in the midst of them, and the others were all saying, ‘You know you tried to steal—’”

But the adder had rolled over so that one ear lay close to the ground, and he had stuck the end of his tail in the other ear. Of course he couldn’t hear another word of what the frog was saying.

“Dear me!” said the frog, looking very much offended. “That is a great way to treat a friend, I am sure.” And he hopped off into the rushes.

Presently a wasp flew down by the adder’s home and settled upon a leaf near by.

“Good morning,” said the adder politely. “What a beautiful day this is.”

“Yes,” buzzed the wasp, “it’s nice today, but there’s sure to be a storm—”

But the adder had rolled over so that one ear lay close to the ground, and he had stuck the end of his tail into the other ear.

“Well, I declare,” buzzed the wasp angrily. “What an impertinent fellow.” And she flew away as fast as ever she could.

The adder straightened himself out and went about his work once more, thinking as he did so how bright the sunlight was, and how soft and warm the air felt, and how beautifully the birds were singing.

Presently a little brown spider dropped a thread from her web and ran down to the adder’s doorway.

“Good morning,” she said. “I have come to invite you to a forest revel. Why are you always so quiet? You should come with us and not mind what the sober workers tell you. We will have music and dancing and wine and song—”

But the adder had rolled over so that one ear lay close to the ground and he had stuck the end of his tail into the other ear.

“Such manners!” exclaimed the spider, and she climbed the thread back to her web.

And so it came about that the small people of the forest began to have this saying amongst them, “He’s as deaf as an adder.”

Three Ojibway hunters had been out hunting for meat many days; it was in a new place. The woods were very thick, but there were no deer in them. The hunters had nothing to eat; they had no water, for there was none; they were lost in the thick forest.

The hunters sat down and smoked the pipe of peace. They offered the smoke to the Manitous who might live in the woods. They asked the Manitous to help them. The day sun was gone and there was no night sun.

The chief covered his head with his blanket and chanted: “Our wigwams will see us no more. We will stay here forever. We can go no further.”

A little Pukwudjinnie came out of a hollow tree when the chief had chanted his story. The Little One was like a little papoose, but he was very old and knew very much.

He said: “I will help the hunters. I will show you the trail.”

He pulled the thick bushes apart, and the hunters followed. He found the trail and soon came upon a herd of deer feeding in the bush. The hunters shot two deer and ate much meat; they were stronger after they had eaten the meat. The Little One did not eat; he was not hungry.

There was no rain, and the hunters had no water; they lost their strength and could not walk on the trail. The Pukwudjinnie left them; then the hunters put their blankets over their heads and sat down. They said no words. They could not smoke the pipe of peace, for their strength was all gone.

The Little One came back with a deer-skin full of drink for them; he poured it into their mouths; it was not water; it was like no drink they ever had before. They became very strong and wanted nothing more to eat or drink for more than one moon.

He led them on a long trail, to the land of his Little People; he took them to his own chief. The chief was like a little papoose, but he knew all the trails in the forest. He knew all the trails in the sky.

The little chief showed the Ojibway chief the star in the north, the star that never moves. The little chief showed them how to watch this star and not lose their trail. He found their lost trail for them and sent them home.

The three hunters came back to their own wigwams. They talked in the council and showed their people the star that never moves.

Other nations and tribes know this star now, but the Ojibways believe that their people were the first to know where to find it in the Great Blue Wigwam.

Once upon a time there lived a cobbler who sat day after day in his shop, working away at his cobbler’s last—just making shoes.

After a time he came to think that because he had made so very many pairs of shoes, he knew more about them than anybody else in the world.

He grew quite puffed up with pride, and was always looking for some way of showing his knowledge.

One day as he was walking in the public square of the town, he saw a statue which had been made by a great artist. And he discovered—ha-ha-ha—he discovered that the shoe-latchet of the statue was not made just right.

“Aha, aha!” he said, and his chest swelled with pride and delight. “Here is a statue made by a great artist—but he does not know how a shoe-latchet is made. Surely, I am greater than he!”

Then he began to look the statue over to see what other mistakes he might find. And after a while it seemed to him that the legs of the statue were not shaped just right, either.

“I will go to the Lord Mayor of the town,” he said to himself, “and order the statue removed from our public square.”

So he went to the Lord Mayor’s palace, and when he came into the Lord Mayor’s presence, he said, “May it please your Honor, I have discovered great errors in the statue which is in our public square, and I have come to petition your Honor to have it removed.”

Then the Lord Mayor looked the cobbler over gravely, and asked, “Can you make a better statue to put in its place?”

At that the cobbler turned quite red and stammered, “Oh, no, your Honor; but I can make a better shoe-latchet.”

“Then, Sir Cobbler,” replied the Lord Mayor, “I would advise you to stick to your last.”

A great hunter among the Chippewas, or Ojibways, wanted his son to secure a powerful spirit to protect him in war and all danger. To gain the help of the strong Manitou the boy must fast twelve days.

Many Indian boys can do this, but not all. Many try and fail.

The boy did as his father commanded, for when the time came he went into the secret lodge in the deep forest and laid himself down alone on the mat his mother had woven for him. He did not fear, but his strength was weak. All night he lay there alone.

In the morning his father came and asked him if the strong spirit had come to him in his dreams. The boy shook his head. No dreams had come to him.

Each day for ten days the father came to the little lodge in the wilderness and asked his son if the strong Manitou had come to him.

“It is not for me to have such dreams, my father, I am not brave. The strong Manitou will not come to me. Let me give up my fast.”

“If you give up now, the Manitou will never come. Hunger makes my son weak, but his heart is strong. It is only a short time more to wait. Then my son shall be the strongest of all.”

The Indian boy covered his face and lay still upon the mat. He would obey his father.

On the morning of the eleventh day the boy saw his father enter the wigwam. He slowly turned his face toward him and whispered: “Let me break my fast; I have no dreams.”

“Tomorrow I will bring you food. Tomorrow you shall come to the lodge of your father.”

The boy closed his eyes and said no more. He was very weak and faint.

The next morning the father went with the earliest morning light to the little lodge in the forest. Peeping through the door he saw his son sitting up. Beside his mat were brushes and paint. He was painting himself red and brown.

“The Manitou will free me, but it is not the spirit my father wanted,” he heard the boy say.

The father rushed into the lodge, but as he touched his boy the lad changed into a bird and flew out of the open doorway. Sitting on the top of the lodge he sang these words:

“Do not mourn for me, my father, for I am happy. I did not want to be a warrior. I wanted only to be free. I shall find food upon the fields and the hills. I will comfort you.” Then he flew away.

Opechee lives near the homes of men. He loves to comfort them when they are sad. He is happy when they are happy.

His songs are for the little children and for the fathers and mothers who want their little ones to be brave. Opechee is not afraid in the storm, and many have heard him singing just after the great thunder-birds had called to each other and the water was coming fast from the sky to find a place to hide in the ground. Opechee is brave, but not strong.

The big white cat trotting across the lawn with a rat in his mouth started Meriky on a story this afternoon.

“Huh!” exclaimed Meriky, “cats and mouses didn’t used to be sich bad friends as dey is now.

“Once upon a time dey visited back an’ forth like yo’ ma an’ Miz Paterson.”

“What made them fall out?”

“Hit come ’bout dis-er-way. Ol’ Miz Cat live in de country, but she mighty hongry to know ’bout town doin’s. She tell round ’mongst her friends ’bout greatly she’s honin’ to see de sights.

“Middle of de night come little Mr. Gray Mouse knockin’ on de door, and say he got a cousin goin’ up to town, an’ if Miz Cat still wantin’ to see de sights, dis hyer cousin be proud to give her a lift.

“Den Miz Pussy Cat put on her bonnet an’ put on her shawl, an’ tuck her a poke full o’ victuals an’ started out wid Mr. Mouse. Mouses does dey travelin’ by night an’ de cat an’ mouse travel all night and git to town de next day.

“When dey come where all de people was, Mr. Mouse pick up his foot and run in a rat hole; but Miz Cat set down by de side de road for to eat the snack.

“She was a-sittin’ dar, spreadin’ out all dat good country sassige, and good country ham and sich truck, when a town cat come along past.

“Dis hyer town cat was hongry; he was all raggety same as de beggar man what yo’ ma give a dinner to yisstiddy. He want Miz Cat’s victuals mighty bad. ‘M’lan’!’ he say, ‘whar you git dat pig mess?’

“‘Dat my snack,’ say Miz Cat, mighty polite. ‘I brung hit wid me from home. Won’t you jine, sir?’

“Now, dat dar ol’ hungry town cat want every bit of Miz Pussy Cat’s snack. He never want to jine; so he say, ‘Does dey really eat sich a mess as dat in de country whar you come from?’

“‘Yes, indeed,’ say de country cat, mighty glad to meet up wid town folks, an’ larn town ways. ‘Don’t you eat sich in town? What you eat in town, anyhow?’

“De town cat look all ’bout. He boun’ to sen’ Miz Pussy Cat on a arrant dat’ll take her ’way from dem good victuals. Right den he see Mr. Mouse peep out a hole to ax Miz Cat how she come on. He boun’ if Miz Cat git to runnin’ after Mr. Swif’ Foot Mouse he have time to steal her dinner.

“‘We eats mices,’ he say, in de grandest way imaginable. ‘You never will larn town ways tell you larn to eat mices!’

“I done told you dat Miz Pussy Cat plumb crazy ’bout larnin’ to do like town folks does. She hop up and leave dat lunch, quick as you could wink—an’ dat ol’ hongry town cat grab hit des’ as quick. She ran dat mouse plumb down all de way to de Co’t House. Dar she ketch him, an’ right dar she eat him—all but de squeak an’ de teef.

“Den, by dat, she got de taste; and all cats been eatin’ rats and mouses to dis good day.”

An old tepee stood by a frozen river in the forest where there are many pine trees. The tops of the trees were white with snow. The tepee was almost covered with the snow. An old chief sat in this tepee; his hair was like the icicles that hang from dead pine-tree branches; he was very old.

He was covered with furs. The floor of his tepee was covered with the skins of the bear and the elk. He had been a great hunter. His name was Peboan. Peboan was faint with hunger, and he was cold. He had been hunting for three days. He had killed nothing. All the moose, deer, and bear had gone. They had left no trail. Wabasso, the rabbit, had hidden in the bushes. There was no food, no meat, for Peboan.

He called upon the great Menabozho for help.

“Come, Menabozho, come help Peboan, the chief of the winter Manitous. Come, for Mukwa, the bear, has gone from me. Come, or Peboan must go to the far north to find Mahto, the white bear. Peboan is old, and his feet are weary.”

Peboan crawled on his knees over the furs to the little fire in the middle of the tepee. He blew on the coals with his faint breath, and the coals grew very red. His breath was like a wind; the coals made the wind warm like a south wind. The deerskins that covered the tepee trembled like leaves, for the warm wind blew them.

Peboan sat on the furs on the floor of his tepee and waited. He knew Menabozho would hear him.

Peboan heard no sound, but he looked toward the door of his tepee. It was lifted back, and he saw a beautiful Indian maiden.

She carried a great bundle of willow buds in her arms. Her dress was of sweet grass and early maple leaves. Her eyes were like a young deer. Her hair was like the blackest feathers of a crow, and it was so long that it was like a blanket over her shoulders. She was small; her feet were hidden in two moccasin flowers.

“Menabozho heard Peboan, the winter Manitou. He has sent me. I am Segun.”

“You are welcome, Segun. Sit by my fire; it is warm. I have no meat. Sit down and tell me what you can do.”

“Peboan may tell first,” said Segun.

Peboan said: “I am a winter Manitou; I blow my breath, and the flowers die. The waters stand still; the leaves fall and die.”

Segun said: “I am a summer Manitou; I blow my breath, and the flowers open their eyes. The waters follow me on my trail.”

Peboan said: “I shake my hair, and the snow falls on the mountains, like the feathers of Waubese, the great white swan.”

Segun said: “I shake my hair, and warm rain falls from the clouds. I call, and the birds answer me. The trees put on their leaves, and the grass grows thick like the fur of the bear. The summer sky is my tepee. Menabozho has said that the time has come for you to go.”

Peboan’s head bent over on his shoulder. The sun melted the snow on the pine trees; it melted the snow on the tepee. Segun waved her hands over Peboan, and a strange thing happened.

Peboan grew smaller and smaller. His deer-skin clothes turned to leaves and covered Peboan on the ground.

Segun looked, but Peboan was gone. She took some flowers from her hair and hid them under the leaves on the ground. There was ice on the leaves, but it did not hurt the pink flowers. Segun breathed on the flowers, and they became sweet.

She said: “I go, but the flowers shall stay to tell of Segun’s visit to Peboan. The children shall find them and know that Segun has sent Peboan away. It shall be so each time the snows melt and the rivers begin to run. This flower shall tell that spring has come.”

Peboan’s tepee was sweet with the breath of the flowers, but Segun was gone.

Long years ago it was the custom to give the dog all the meat that fell from the master’s table. But one day when all the dogs met in council, one of them said, “It might be a wise plan to have an agreement drawn up for the dogs and their masters to sign.

“Some time,” said he, “one of our masters might drink too much wine, or get into a rage, and forbid us to have the meat. And then what could we do? It is best to be on the safe side,” and he shook his head sagely.

“That is a very good plan,” agreed the other dogs. “Let us carry it out at once.”

So the secretary of the dogs’ council drew up a document and wrote it upon parchment. It stated that all the dogs of every country were entitled to the meat that fell from their masters’ tables. It was a very carefully worded document, and it was written out in the most learned form by the lawyer of the council.

Then the secretary took the parchment, rolled it up and went about the whole land until it had been signed by all the masters of dogs.

The parchment was then given to the King of the Dogs, to be carefully kept.

The King of the Dogs gave the parchment to his private secretary, the Tomcat, telling him that it was a very important document, and must be put away with the greatest care.

Tomcat took the parchment and went softly away to the garret, where he hid the precious document behind a beam.

For a long time there was no need of bringing out the parchment, for all the masters did as they had agreed, and the dogs fared well.

But one day it happened that Master Miller had a new cook who was very careless, and when this cook brought in a prime roast of beef, he let it slip from the platter to the floor.

Instantly it was seized upon by Dog Trophy, who started off with it.

But Master Miller was in no mood to lose his dinner, and he snatched the roast from Dog Trophy, telling him that he was a thief. Then he rubbed Dog Trophy’s paw with hot ashes to teach him not to steal.

Dog Trophy’s heart burned with indignation, and his paw burned with the hot ashes, and he went away on three legs as fast as ever he could to the King of the Dogs.

When he reached the King’s house, he set forth his case.

“Bring out the official parchment,” called the King, when Dog Trophy had told his story.

Tomcat ran quickly to the garret, sprang to the beam where he had tucked the precious document, and then set up a “maou” of anger and dismay. The mice had nibbled the valuable parchment into tiny scraps!

Tomcat vowed, then and there, that no mouse should escape his claws from that day on.

The King of the Dogs sent Tomcat away in disgrace, and the dogs agreed that thereafter they would chase a cat whenever they should see one.

But, Dog Trophy lost his roast of beef.

Long, long ago, Miser lived near the foot of Takhoma. He never was happy. When food was scarce and the tribe were starving, Miser could find fish in secret places in the streams. When the snows were deep and the black-necked elk hid in the dark places of the forest, he could still secure meat. His skill as a hunter and fisherman was known to all his tribe. But Miser cared only for hiaqua, or shell money. Now Moosmoos, the elk, was Miser’s tomanowos, or guardian spirit. Therefore, he tried to talk with the elk, even while hunting them. He wanted more hiaqua.

One night Moosmoos whispered to Miser the secret hiding-place of the hiaqua of the tomanowos. The hiding-place was high up on Takhoma. Early in the morning, Miser began to make ready for his search. He sent his klootchman, or squaw, to dig camas roots. Thus he could work secretly. He made two elk-horn picks by taking off all the prongs except the upper ones. He filled his ikta, or bag, with kinnikinnick, and with dried salmon. At sunset Miser began to climb the mountain.

All night he climbed the trail. All the next day he climbed. By night again he was above the snow line, cold and tired and hungry. When the moon arose, he climbed again. Over vast snow fields, across wide cracks in the ice, over the slippery shoulders of the lower peaks he climbed. At sunrise he reached the top. Now Takhoma was the home of the tomanowos, therefore, Miser was afraid. But Moosmoos had told him where the hiaqua was hidden.

In the white snow field which covered the crater was a black lake. Beyond it were three stones of equal height, all as tall as a giant. The top of the first was shaped like a salmon’s head, the top of the second was like a camas root, and the third like an elk’s head. Then Miser believed the voice of Moosmoos.

Miser threw down his ikta. He unwrapped his elk-horn pick. Then he began to dig in the snow at the foot of the elk’s head.

Miser struck the first blow. As an echo he heard a sudden puff. Startled, he turned to see a huge otter climbing out of the black waters of the lake. Big Otter struck his tail with a loud thump on the snow. Another otter appeared, then another. At last twelve otters gathered in a circle around their huge leader. They formed a circle around Miser, digging with his pick at the foot of the elk’s head. Then Big Otter leaped to the top of the elk’s head. All the others gave a loud puff.

Miser kept digging. At every thirteenth blow of the pick Big Otter thumped with his tail on the elk’s head. Then the circle of twelve thumped with theirs on the snow.

Miser became tired and stopped digging for a moment. Big Otter turned on the elk’s head. With his tail he struck Miser on the shoulder. Then the twelve turned, walked backward, and struck him with their tails. Miser began to dig again.

As he dug in the rock, his pick broke. Big Otter jumped from the elk’s head. He seized the second pick in his mouth and gave it to him.

Miser dared not stop. With each thirteenth blow of the pick and the thump of the tails, the otters came nearer. He could feel their breath as he lifted the last stone. Beneath lay a great hole, filled with hiaqua. As he lifted out the shells, the otters returned to their larger circle.

Miser lifted out handful after handful of the shell money. He strung the hiaqua on elk sinews, twenty strings in all. The rest he covered again. He hurried, for it was after noon and he must return below the snow line. Then Miser left the elk’s head. He offered no shells to Moosmoos or to Sahale. He had forgotten the tomanowos.

As he crossed the crater, the otters, one by one, with a loud puff, jumped into the black lake. They began to beat the black water with their tails. He heard them beat the water as he plunged through the snow to the edge of the crater. Miser felt that the shells were very heavy.

As he stepped over the edge of the crater, he glanced hack. The three stones had vanished. A thick mist rose from the black waters of the lake. Under the mist was a black cloud, hiding the water. Miser feared tomanowos in the clouds.

Then the storm seized him. It flung him over an ice bank. The blackness of all darkness lay around him. Colenass, the storm god, came down upon the mountain. Tootah, the thunder, deafened him with its roar. The storm crashed about him. Fiery blasts melted the snow into great torrents. Icy winds froze them solid again. In the roar and thunder, Miser heard the voices of all the tomanowos, “Ha, ha, hiaqua! Ha, ha, hiaqua!”

Miser threw away a string of hiaqua. The storm slackened for a moment. Then all began louder than ever. Kakahete screamed, “Ha, ha, hiaqua! Ha, ha, hiaqua!”

One by one Miser threw away the strings of hiaqua, strung on the sinews of Moosmoos, the elk. Always the tomanowos screamed after him. Then when the last string was gone, with a last gust the storm blew him down, flat upon the ground.

Miser slept a long time. When he awoke, Takhoma glistened above him, shining white in the sunlight. All around him grew camas roots. Rocky ridges lay where once the forest had stretched. Sunny meadows lay around him. Miser stretched himself and arose. Only dry leaves and dead grass remained in the rotted ikta. Miser wondered. Then he went down the mountain side. He ate berries for food until he came to a cabin in the valley. There lived a very old woman. He talked with her and found she was his klootchman. Klootchman said he had slept thirty snows. Miser looked at himself in a pool. He was very old. His hair was white. Many, many snows had the angry tomanowos made him sleep. But Miser was happy. He no longer cared for hiaqua.

Once, when the world was new, there lived a beautiful princess whose father was the King of Forgotten Land. The King loved his daughter very much, but he was a very wise King; the more he loved the Princess, the more he realized that she must learn obedience, and many other hard lessons.

The King knew that if he allowed his little daughter to be worshipped as many Princesses are, her face would grow hard and full of ugly lines, so the wee Princess was taught to divide her treasures, and to care for the poor in her father’s kingdom. And so, instead of growing hard and selfish, the King’s daughter grew lovelier every day, and she was known as Princess Tender-heart.

At last, when the Princess had grown, there came a Prince from the land of Bye-and-Bye, to marry the Princess Tender-heart. For a wedding gift he presented her with five hundred and forty-three mansions, surrounding his palace. And the Princess was to give these mansions to the friends she loved best, so that she should not be lonely when she went with the Prince to live in the land of Bye-and-Bye.

But one day the King found his daughter very unhappy, and when he begged her to tell him why she was in tears, she said that she had given away five hundred and forty-two mansions, but she still had many friends, and she did not know what to do with the one mansion that remained. It was the one which stood the very nearest to the palace of the Prince.

Then the wise King said, “There, there! We’ll settle this matter easily. That one home shall go to the one who loves you best.”

“But how—,” began the Princess.

“Never mind how,” interrupted her father, and then they both laughed so merrily that all the canary birds in the kingdom began to sing.

The very next day the King of Forgotten Land issued a proclamation which set all the people to talking.

Among those who read the copy that was posted outside the palace gates was a maiden known as Little Sister Kindness.

“So the Princess is to be married one month from today,” she exclaimed. Then, turning, she saw a blind man standing by, who had no one with him to tell him what the King’s message contained.

Little Sister Kindness stepped to his side, and explained to him the contents of the proclamation.

“The Princess Tender-heart is to be married,” she said, “and instead of having her wedding garments made by the court dressmaker, the King wishes everyone who loves the Princess to come to the palace and help make her clothes. To the one whose work proves that she loves the Princess best, shall be given the finest gift house of the five hundred and forty-three presented by the Prince of Bye-and-Bye.”

“I beg you to tell me more,” urged the blind man. “My daughter is a dressmaker. How shall it be known who best loves the Princess?”

“How fortunate that your daughter is a dressmaker!” exclaimed Little Sister Kindness. “I wish that I were a dressmaker, too. The King announces that by examining the wardrobe when it is completed he will know at a glance who best loves Her Royal Highness. Everyone adores the Princess, so only by magic will the King know who loves her best.”

“I thank you,” the blind man said with a low bow. “I must hasten now to tell my daughter this good news.”

“And I must hasten, too,” agreed Little Sister Kindness, “for I have many friends who are skillful with the needle, and I must carry the news to each one.”

From that hour the sewing room of the palace became a busy, bustling place. For the seamstresses, and the embroiderers, and the lace-makers came from all parts of the kingdom, to sew upon the wardrobe of the Princess Tender-heart.

One day, a week later, Little Sister Kindness called at the palace with a message for a friend who was a noted lace-maker. And while she waited she watched the busy workers, and heard them talking. It did not take her long to discover that each worker was striving to make some great piece of work which should attract the attention of the King, and that each was eager to secure the most showy garment to work upon. She saw, too, that the lace-makers used knots in the end of the threads, and that the stitches which would not show, were carelessly made and finished.

Finally, Little Sister Kindness became so distressed by what she saw in the workroom that she begged to stay.

“But, what can you do?” inquired the manager of the wardrobe.

“Nothing that will count,” replied Little Sister Kindness, “but I can tie loose ends of threads, and darn little holes neatly, and finish seams inside and—”

“There, there!” exclaimed the manager of the wardrobe. “Do get a needle and begin. I have been so worried lest the Princess should not have one perfect garment.”

So Little Sister Kindness began her work and was soon the busiest maiden in the palace. Scarcely a garment escaped her loving fingers. Everything needed a little stitch here and a little stitch there; a button and button-hole in place of a pin; a bit of trimming to be firmly fastened; a bow to be sewed securely in place; always a stitch here and a stitch there; never a piece of work that would show; not so much as a collar or a belt that the King might say, “Ah! This was made by Little Sister Kindness.”

There were days when the maiden felt discouraged and wished that she, too, might be doing something worth while for love of the beautiful Princess. But the unfinished seams and the hastily caught bows kept her too busy to grow dissatisfied, and she knew that she was not skillful enough to fashion beautiful garments, or make filmy bits of lace.

At last, when the wardrobe was completed, the King gave a banquet to which all in the kingdom were invited. Then, in the presence of his subjects, he walked into the great hall where all the wardrobe was displayed. Some of the garments were of linen, some of silk, some of satin, and others of lace; and when the King appeared each robe began to glow with a soft light, and to shine with a hundred little stars; here a star and there a star.

“Oh, oh!” exclaimed all the people, “oh, oh, oh! There are tiny gold stitches shining like stars on every garment. Why do those stitches shine like golden stars? Who put them there? Whose are the golden stitches?”

“Those are the stitches of the one who loves the Princess best!” the King made answer.

Then came a low wondering murmur from all who had worked upon the royal wardrobe, and the murmur sounded like sweet music that sang over and over:

“Little Sister Kindness! It is Little Sister Kindness!”

So it came about that Little Sister Kindness and her family went to live in the home that was nearest the palace of the Prince and Princess in Bye-and-Bye, and there they all lived happily ever after.

Once upon a time there lived an old king whom you could not very well call good, in fact he was very disagreeable and horrid.

Now, in his old age, the king had a fancy for marrying and he cast his eye over his many kingdoms to spy out a suitable wife for himself.

In this way his eye fell upon quite a young princess who was called Blanzeflor.

“She is as fair as a sunny day, as mild as a dove, and as meek as a lamb, and she is only seventeen years old, too! She will suit me admirably,” said the king.

But when her father came to her and said:

“Blanzeflor, our sovereign lord, the king, would have you for his queen,” she wept and said she would rather sit upon a stone and spin goats’ wool, than sit as queen at that king’s side.

But when her father said that she must realize that if she refused the king he would come and hang both her father and mother and all the family upon a tree like so many bunches of onions, then the princess bowed her head and said, “Then I will marry him.”

So they clad her in silk and in gold, and set a crown upon her head and combed her long golden hair over her shoulders, then they lifted her upon a white palfrey and rode forth with her to the king, and thus the wedding took place.

On her wedding day the king hung a necklace of pearls around her neck.

“I threaded them myself on this silken cord,” said the king. “These are pearls of the East and there are three hundred and sixty-five of them, the smallest being a little crooked; and I warn you,” he added, “take great care of them, for on the day you lose the necklace, I warrant you will not care to look me in the eyes;” and the king began to roll his eyes so horribly that the young queen felt cold shivers all down her spine. Thus Blanzeflor became queen.

Every morning the king ate porridge and cream in bed, and the queen carried it to him in a golden bowl and fed him like a baby, for such was his command. Every evening the king and queen would play chess, and then the queen always had to let the king win, otherwise he would get bad-tempered.

But the very worst was at mealtime, for the king was so proud he would not let anyone sit at table with the queen and himself. The young queen would sit with downcast eyes, scarcely daring to swallow a morsel, so greatly did she tremble for fear lest something should displease the king, for then he became quite terrible.

The only pleasure the court had was to stand and stare at Blanzeflor, for she glowed with a beauty more bright and radiant than all the torchlights in the banqueting hall, and when she bowed and smiled it warmed the heart like the sun in summer.

Now, dreadful stories came to the queen’s ears of how the king would fling people into prison for the smallest offence, or wring their necks like chickens; but alas! what could she do in the matter? She, herself, sat like a prisoner in the royal castle, and never was she allowed to go out on foot but only on horseback followed by a royal retinue and closely guarded.

It happened one day, however, that the queen was in church—there at least the king could not prevent her from going—and as she knelt in prayer before the high altar, she noticed how meanly and poorly God’s holy altar was adorned.

Then the queen wept bitterly and said to herself: “I drink out of golden goblets, and silver torches are lighted on my table, but upon God’s altar the candlesticks are of pewter and the velvet cloth which covers the Lord’s table is all faded and patched. I cannot bear to see it.” And thereupon she slowly and carefully unclasped her necklace, drew off seven of the largest pearls and laid them upon the altar.

That evening she had her hair combed back and fastened in a knot upon her neck, so that the king might not see that the pearls were missing.

Now it happened one night that the queen lay awake. She could not sleep because she thought she heard strange sounds of sighing and sobbing out in the night. It all sounded so piteous and heartrending that the queen wept upon her silken pillow. “Here I lie upon my bed of satin,” she sighed, “whilst outside, perhaps little children go barefooted in the snow. I cannot bear to think of it.”

There was a sound of twittering and chirping, and now she saw how one little half-frozen bird after another flew up and tapped upon the window-pane with its beak, in search of a chance grain of corn.

“Alas, alas!” sighed the queen, “I eat roast venison out of a golden dish and drink mulled wine, and there outside the poor little birds starve to death in the cold. I cannot bear to think of it;” and the next day she begged leave of the king to collect the crumbs after meals and to place them in a basket outside her window for the birds.

Well, of course the king thought it was asking a good deal, but as the queen never begged for anything for herself, and the crumbs were, after all, of not much use for anything else, he allowed her to take them, and from that day the queen always sat and rolled bread between her white fingers during meals, and crumbled one little piece after another into little bits, whilst she chatted and jested with the king, so that he might not pay any heed to what she was doing, and when she rose from the table she would sign to her page, and then he would brush all the crumbs into a small basket which was hung outside the queen’s chamber window, and at sunrise she was always awakened by the chirping of the small hungry birds when they came to empty her basket.

Now it happened one morning when the queen took in her basket to have it refilled, that she thought she saw a large snowflake lying at the bottom, but it was really a little piece of paper which had been folded around a small stone and thrown up at the window, and on it was written an appealing tale of misery.

“The queen who takes pity upon the starving birds of the air,” it said, “will surely take pity upon the starving children upon earth;” and the queen read it over and over again, whilst her tears fell like rain in spring.

But, how could she help them? At last she hit upon a plan.

The king had given the queen a page, who was as young and beautiful as herself. He carried her long velvet train embroidered with golden crowns, he filled her goblet with wine, and lit the torch which was to light her upon her way through the dark passages of the castle, and he slept on a bear skin outside her door with his drawn sword beside him to protect her from all harm and danger.

Now when the page came to carry the train of her sky-blue velvet gown, the queen bent down as if to adjust it, and at the same time she slipped a little piece of paper into the page’s hand. In it she had placed one of the pearls from off her necklace, and had written down where she wished him to carry it.

Away he flew as swiftly as a swallow, and when he took up the queen’s train again that evening, he placed his hands upon his breast and bowed in silence, but the queen could read in his face that his errand had well sped.

From that day prayers and petitions simply rained down upon the queen’s window-sill.

What could she do but take the pearls from her necklace? And so with trembling hands she drew off one pearl after another, and finally one morning there was not a single pearl left.

The king was not in a good temper at dinner that day, and he saw that the necklace was missing!

“Where is the necklace?” he shrieked. His voice sounded like the caw of a hoarse old crow. “Where is the necklace?”

The queen looked confused.

“Oh, I have not got it on today,” she said. But the king had her eight tire-women and her eight ladies-in-waiting called up, and they had to search over and over through all the queen’s drawers and presses, till they were as red as cranberries, but the necklace was not to be found.

“Have you lost the necklace?” roared the king.

“No,” said the queen, timidly.

“Have you given it away?” shouted the king. “To whom have you given it?”

The queen dropped her eyelids and said nothing.

Then the king had the queen thrown into prison; there she was to remain until the necklace was found.

Now you can imagine what a hurly-burly there was after this. The king in front, with six attendants at his heels, searched the whole castle from garret to cellar. But still the necklace was not to be found.

Alas for the queen, poor young Blanzeflor! She sat in the darkest of dungeons. No one could get to her.

She fell on her knees upon the straw lying on the prison floor, and prayed to God that he might perform a miracle and set the guiltless free.

“Thou, O God, canst break through prison walls as easily as the sun breaks through the mists,” she said. “Thou canst also set an innocent prisoner free.”

But scarcely had she ended her prayer when she saw in the pale morning light how the thick prison walls fell apart, and between them came a swallow flying, as easily and as quickly as if it were merely flying through the air.

In its beak it held a white pearl, which it dropped upon the queen’s knees.

“This is one of the tears you shed before the high altar,” twittered the swallow, “God gives it you back in the likeness of a pearl.”

At the same moment came another swallow through the wall, and another and another, and in a twinkling the whole prison was filled with a flight of birds.

Each had a white pearl in its beak, which it laid upon Blanzeflor’s lap.

“Here are the tears you shed for those who were poor and sad at heart,” they chirped; “not one has fallen in vain.”

At last came a little bird with a maimed wing; in its beak was the little crooked pearl, for this, too, had been threaded on the necklace.

Blanzeflor sat perfectly still and let the pearls lie upon her knees, for she could not touch them with her fettered hands. Then the sun rose red in the East and shone into the prison so that it streamed with light like heaven itself.

But just then the king came in with all his retinue. He had come to take the queen away to be beheaded. But when he saw her sitting with a halo of light around her and with the pearls in her lap, he stood stock-still with amazement. Then he began to count the pearls, and every single one was there, all three hundred and sixty-five, even to the little crooked one! But the silken cord on which they had been strung was missing.

Away went the king hobbling up the stairs to his own apartments to fetch a new silken cord. He was afraid to ask anyone else to go for it because he feared they would steal something.

When the king had snipped off his cord he hurried back so quickly down to the prison again, that he tripped over his own feet and fell and broke his neck, and there he lay dead on his way down to the dungeons where he had let so many innocent people suffer and pine to death.

The king was buried, and the queen was proclaimed the only reigning sovereign in all the land.

And never was there a gentler queen than she. If any one was in any trouble or distress they simply said:

“We shall go to the queen, there is sure to be one more pearl left on her Majesty’s necklace!”

Listen, and I will tell you about a good yeoman whose name was Robin Hood. All his life he was a proud outlaw, but so courteous an outlaw as he was never found, and he would never do any harm to a company in which there was a woman, for he held all women in great respect and honor.

Now one day Robin Hood stood in the forest of Barnsdale and leant against a tree, and beside him stood his good yeoman, Little John, and Scarlet also, and Much, the miller’s son.

Then Little John spoke to Robin, saying: “Master, ’tis time to dine.”

But Robin answered, “I will not dine till I have some bold baron or a knight or a squire with me who will pay for his dinner.”

Then Little John and Much and William Scarlet set out in search of a guest, and after a time they saw a knight riding towards them with his retinue. He made but a sorry appearance, and seemed to have lost his pride, for he had but one foot in the stirrup, and his hood hung down over his eyes, and his clothes and trappings were mean and old.

But Little John showed him courtesy, and knelt before him saying:

“Welcome, gentle knight; welcome to the greenwood. My master has been waiting for you, fasting these three hours.”

“Who is your master?” asked the knight; and John answered, “Robin Hood.”

“He is a good yeoman,” said the knight, “and I have heard men speak well of him.”

So the knight, whose name was Sir Richard-at-the-Lee, rode on his way with Little John, till they came to where Robin was waiting; and Robin took off his hood and went on his knee, saying, courteously:

“Welcome, Sir Knight. I have awaited thee these three hours.”

And the gentle knight replied with fair words:

“God save thee, good Robin, and all thy company.”

When they had thus exchanged greetings, they washed and wiped their hands, and sat them down to their dinner. They had bread and wine and venison, with swans and pheasants and many other birds. And Robin bade the knight make good cheer, and the knight thanked him heartily.

“For,” said he, “I have not had such a dinner for three weeks; and if I come this way again, Robin, I will give thee as good a dinner as thou hast given me.”

“I thank thee, knight,” said Robin; “but methinks it is right that thou shouldst pay ere thou goest. It was never the custom, by Heaven, for a yeoman to pay for a knight.”

But Sir Richard answered, “I have naught in my coffers that I can offer thee for very shame. I have but ten shillings.”

To this Robin answered, “If thou hast no more, I will not take a penny; and if thou hast need of more I will lend it to thee.”

Then he called to Little John:

“Go forth and see if there are but ten shillings in the knight’s mantle.”

So Little John spread the mantle on the ground and searched in it; and he found but ten shillings as the knight had said.

Now Robin wondered at this, and said to Sir Richard:

“Surely thou must have been made a knight against thy will, if thou art so poor; or else thou hast been a bad husbandman, or a usurer, of hast done some evil or other.”

But the knight replied:

“I am none of these. My ancestors have been knights before me for a hundred years. But it has often happened that a knight has been disgraced through no fault of his own. Two years ago, Robin, I could spend four hundred pounds yearly, and my neighbors will bear me witness of this. But now, alas! it has come to pass that I have no property whatsoever.”

“And in what manner,” asked Robin, “didst thou lose thy riches?”

Then Sir Richard told Robin how his son had slain a knight in a joust, and how to save him he had put his lands in pawn to a rich abbot whose abbey was near at hand. The sum he had to pay to redeem them was four hundred pounds, and since he could not pay it, there was nothing left for him to do but to forfeit his lands and go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. For the men who had boasted of their friendship towards him when he was rich had now deserted him, so that he could find no one who was now willing to lend him any money.

Robin and his followers were moved to great pity by this tale, and Robin sent Little John to his treasury to fetch four hundred pounds to give to the knight. Then Little John cried:

“Master, his apparel is full thin. Ye must give the knight a suit of clothes, for ye have scarlet and green-colored cloth in plenty, and there is no merchant in merry England so rich as ye are!”

“Give him three yards of each color,” said Robin, “and see you measure it fairly.”

So Little John took his bow as a measure and measured out the cloth, and then he turned to Robin Hood, saying:

“Master, ye must give the knight a horse to carry home all this cloth.”

So Robin gave the knight a grey courser and a new saddle, and Much added a good palfrey, and Scarlet a pair of boots, and Little John a pair of gilt spurs.

Then the knight asked what day he should come back to pay his debt, and Robin appointed that day twelve-month. And as a last act of kindness, he sent his trusty yeoman, Little John, to attend his guest on his journey. So Sir Richard went on his way rejoicing and blessing Robin Hood; and he redeemed his lands from the abbot’s hands, and then returned home to his castle, and began to collect money against the day when he should return to pay Robin Hood the four hundred pounds.

Now the year went by and the appointed day came, but the knight did not appear, because as he rode on his way to the trysting-place he had turned aside for the love of Robin to help a poor yeoman who was not receiving fair play in a wrestling match at some country games. When Robin found, therefore, that the knight did not come, he sent forth Little John, Scarlet, and Much, to seek another guest to dine with him, one who would be able to pay him four hundred pounds; for though he would never rob a poor man, he did not think it wrong to make the rich pay poor men’s debts.

Before long the three trusty yeomen saw a monk riding towards them, followed by a retinue of fifty men, with seven strong pack-horses bearing his riches, and Little John cried:

“Brethren, I dare lay my life that this is the man who shall pay our master; and though we are but three against so many, we must bring him to dinner, or we cannot go back to Robin Hood.”

Then he called to the monk:

“Abide, and come no farther, for if thou dost I shall slay thee. Thou hast made our master wroth, because he has waited for thee fasting for so long.”

“Who is your master?” asked the monk.

“Robin Hood.”

“He is a thief,” said the monk, “and I have never heard aught good of him.”

But Little John answered:

“Thou liest, and thou shalt repent it. He is a yeoman of the forest, and has bidden thee to dine with him.”

Then the yeomen drew their bows, and Much pointed his arrow straight at the monk’s breast.

At this all his followers turned and fled, save only a little page and a groom, who led the pack-horses to Robin Hood, while Much and Little John took the monk in custody between them to their master.

When Robin saw the monk he raised his hood; but the monk was not so courteous, and did not return the greeting.

Then Robin summoned his yeomen, and they prepared the meal, and served the monk with his dinner; and afterwards Robin asked, as was his custom, how much his guest had in his coffers.

“Sir,” said the monk, “but twenty pounds, as I hope to prosper.”

“If there is no more,” said Robin, “I will not take a penny; and if thou hast need of more I will lend it thee. But if I find more than twenty pounds thou wilt have to give it up.”

So Robin sent Little John to search the monk’s mantle and there he found over eight hundred pounds. At this Robin rejoiced, for it was twice the sum that he needed to repay him for what he had generously lent the knight.

But the monk was very wroth, and cried:

“By Heaven, ’tis no courtesy to bid a man to dinner and then treat him so ill.”

“Nevertheless it is an old custom of ours to leave but little behind for our guests to take away with them,” said Robin.

Then the monk put spurs to his horse, for he feared to stay longer. But Robin cried after him:

“Will you not have a drink of wine before you go?”

“Nay,” said the monk, “I would I had never come near you, for I should have dined far more cheaply at Blyth or Doncaster.”

“Greet well your abbot and your prior for me,” Robin called back, “and bid them send me such a monk as you to dinner every day.”

So the monk rode away, leaving all his riches behind him; and now at last the knight came riding into the greenwood, with all his merry company. When he saw Robin he alighted from his palfrey, doffed his hood, and fell on his knee, saying:

“God save thee, Robin Hood, and all this company.”

“Welcome be thou, gentle knight,” Robin answered. “Hast thou thy land again?”

“Yea,” said the knight, “and I thank Heaven and thee for it. But take it not amiss that I am come so late, for I have been at a wrestling match, where I helped a poor yeoman who was not getting fair play in the game.”

“Sir knight,” Robin answered, “I thank thee. Whoever helps a good yeoman will always be my friend.”

Now, when they had thus greeted each other the knight said:

“Here is thy four hundred pounds which thou didst lend me, and twenty pounds more for thy courtesy.”

“Nay, by Heaven,” cried Robin, “thou shalt keep it for thyself, for I have already received the money for the debt, and it would be a disgrace to take it twice.” And he told the knight the story of the monk, and they laughed together over it and made good cheer.

Thus Robin Hood helped the knight out of all his troubles and they were friends from that time to the end of their days.

By the side of All-Father Odin, upon his high seat in Asgard, sat Frigga, his wife, the Queen of the Asas. Sometimes she would be dressed in snow-white garments, bound at the waist by a golden girdle, from which hung a great bunch of golden keys. And the earth-dwellers, gazing into the sky, would admire the great white clouds as they floated across the blue, not perceiving that these clouds were really the folds of Frigga’s flowing white robe, as it waved in the wind.

At other times she would wear dark gray or purple garments; and then the earth-dwellers made haste into their houses, for they said, “The sky is lowering today, and a storm is nigh at hand.”

Frigga had a palace of her own called Fensalir, or the Hall of Mists, where she spent much of her time at her wheel spinning golden thread, or weaving web after web of many-colored clouds. All night long she sat at this golden wheel, and if you look at the sky on a starry night you may chance to see it set up where the men of the South show a constellation called the Girdle of Orion.

Frigga was especially interested in all good housewives, and she herself set them an excellent example in Fensalir. When the snow-flakes fell, the earth-dwellers knew it was Frigga shaking her great feather bed, and when it rained they said it was her washing day. It was she who first gave to them the gift of flax that the women upon earth might spin, and weave, and bleach their linen as white as the clouds of her own white robe.

And this is how it came about:

There was once a shepherd who lived among the mountains with his wife and children; and so very poor was he that he often found it hard to give his family enough to satisfy their hunger. But he did not grumble; he only worked the harder; and his wife, though she had scarcely any furniture, and never a chance of a new dress, kept the house so clean, and the old clothes so well mended, that, all unknown to herself, she rose high in the favor of the all-seeing Frigga.

Now one day, when the shepherd had driven his few poor sheep up the mountain to pasture, a fine reindeer sprang from the rocks above him and began to leap upward along the steep slope. The shepherd snatched up his crossbow and pursued the animal, thinking to himself: “Now we shall have a better meal than we have had for many a long day.”

Up and up leaped the reindeer, always just out of reach, and at length disappeared behind a great boulder just as the shepherd breathless and weary, reached the spot. No sign of the reindeer was to be seen, but, on looking around, the shepherd saw that he was among the snowy heights of the mountains, and almost at the top of a great glacier.

Presently, as he pursued his vain search for the animal, he saw to his amazement an open door, leading apparently into the heart of the glacier. He was a fearless man, and so, without hesitation, he passed boldly through the doorway and found himself standing in a marvelous cavern, lit up by blazing torches which gleamed upon rich jewels hanging from the roof and walls. And in the midst stood a woman, most fair to behold, clad in snow-white robes and surrounded by a group of lovely maidens.

The shepherd’s boldness gave way at this awesome sight, and he sank to his knees before the Asa, Frigga, for she it was. But Frigga bade him be of good cheer, and said: “Choose now whatsoever you will to carry away with you as a remembrance of this place.”

The shepherd’s eyes wandered over the glittering jewels on the walls and roof, but they came back to a little bunch of blue flowers which Frigga held in her hand. They alone looked homelike to him; the rest were hard and cold; so he asked timidly that he might be given the little nosegay.

Then Frigga smiled kindly upon him.

“Most wise has been your choice,” said she. “Take with the flowers this measure of seed and sow it in your field, and you shall grow flowers of your own. They shall bring prosperity to you and yours.”

So the shepherd took the flowers and the seed, and scarcely had he done so when a mighty peal of thunder, followed by the shock of an earthquake, rent the cavern, and when he had collected his sense he found himself once more upon the mountain side.

When he reached home and had told his tale, his wife scolded him roundly for not bringing home a jewel which would have made them rich forever. But when she would have thrown the flowers away he prevented her. Next day he sowed the seed in his field, and was surprised to find how far it went.

Very soon after this the field was thick with tiny green shoots; and though his wife reproached him for wasting good ground upon useless flowers, he watched and waited in hope until the field was blue with the starry flax blooms.

Then one night, when the flowers had withered and the seed was ripe, Frigga, in the disguise of an old woman, visited the lowly hut and showed the shepherd and his astonished wife how to use the flax stalks; how to spin them into thread, and how to weave the thread into linen.

It was not long before all the dwellers in that part of the earth had heard of the wonderful material, and were hurrying to the shepherd’s hut to buy the bleached linen or the seed from which it was obtained. And so the shepherd and his family were soon among the richest people in the land; and the promise of Frigga was amply fulfilled.

Once upon a time King Midas—the very same King Midas who had been cured of his hated golden touch—was invited to hear some very wonderful music. It came about in this wise:

After King Midas had been cured of his golden touch, he loved to wander in the woods and fields, away from all sight of the wealth of men, and of the splendors that wealth could buy. In this way he became a great friend of Pan, who ruled over the woods and fields, and over the shepherds and their flocks.

Now Pan had invented the shepherd’s flute, which was made from a reed, and upon which he could play better than could anyone else. It was a very simple instrument: one that could produce only simple melodies. But after Pan had learned to play upon it well, he began to think that his pastoral tunes were wonderfully fine, and at last he imagined that they were quite equal to the harmonies even of Apollo, who was master of the art of music, and a matchless player upon a stringed instrument called the lyre.

King Midas, as he walked about the groves and pastures with Pan, listened with pleasure to the music of his pipe, and praised him so warmly that Pan’s self-conceit grew beyond all bounds. He thought his simple music equal to that of the gods.

At length Pan sent a challenge to Apollo, asking him to meet him and let it be decided by the listeners who was the greater musician of the two.

Apollo accepted the challenge, and at the appointed time the people gathered in great numbers, for such a meeting had never been heard of before.

Among the listeners was King Midas.

Pan was the first to play. He stepped forth, clad all in green to match the verdure of the meadows and of the trees, over which he ruled.

He put his simple pipe of reeds to his lips and began playing, and the people listened with great interest and pleasure, for surely no one dreamed that such music could come from the shepherd’s pipe.

But when Pan had finished, Apollo stepped forth. He was clad in royal purple, and his cloak was thrown back that his right arm might be free.

He struck the strings of the lyre, and the music that fell upon the air was so marvelously sweet, so full of pathos, so full of ravishing beauty, that all the people were moved by the sound. Then they applauded Apollo, and laughed to scorn the boastful challenge of Pan.

“Ho, ho,” they cried, “does Pan think that he can match such melody as this?”

But King Midas was faithful to his friend, and, unconvinced by Apollo’s wondrous music, he declared that Pan was the better player of the two.

Apollo, wearing the laurel wreath as his crown of victory, declared that the ears of King Midas must be depraved, and, that they should thereafter take on a form more in keeping with the taste of their owner.

King Midas had no sooner reached his castle than he felt a strange sensation about his ears; and the strange feeling increased until at length, putting his hands to the sides of his head, he found with terror that his ears had grown long and were covered inside and outside with hair, and he could move them about, just as a donkey moves his. In fact, he found that they had become exactly like the ears of a donkey, or an ass.

King Midas was overcome with shame and rage, and he kept himself hidden from all the people.

After a time it occurred to him that he could have a turban or head-dress made which would cover his monstrous deformity. So he summoned a hair-dresser, of great skill in his trade, and when the hair-dresser had finished his task, King Midas was ready to go forth among his people again, for his ears were quite hidden from sight under the ample folds of his head-dress.

Only the hair-dresser knew his secret, and he had promised never to tell it to a living being.

But as the days went by, the secret began to burn in the hair-dresser’s mind, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he kept from repeating it. At last he could keep still no longer, yet he dared not disobey the King and break his promise. So he went into a vacant field and dug a deep hole in the ground. Then, kneeling down, he breathed into the hole these words: “King Midas has the ears of an ass; King Midas has the ears of an ass.”

Rising, he covered the hole with earth and hastened away.

But what do you suppose happened?

The next spring the field produced a great crop of rushes, and when the rushes had grown quite tall a wind passed over them, and the rushes murmured, “King Midas has the ears of an ass. King Midas has the ears of an ass.”

And all summer long, whenever a breeze swept over the field, the rushes murmured, “King Midas has the ears of an ass.”

And when the hair-dresser heard it, he wrung his hands in despair, and said, “Not even the rushes of the field can keep a secret.”

The sun was setting over the island of St. Helena on a spring evening in 1673, and in its red glow the vast black cliffs stood out like the walls of a fortress above the great waste of lonely sea that lay around them as far as the eye could reach. Very quiet and very lonesome did it appear, that tiny islet of St. Helena, far away in the heart of the boundless ocean.

But there was one part of the island that was busy and noisy enough, and that was the spot where the low white houses and single church-spire of Jamestown, half buried in clustering leaves, nestled in a deep gully close to the water’s edge, walled in by two mighty precipices nearly a thousand feet in height. All along the line of forts and batteries, perched like birds’ nests among the frowning crags that overhung the sea, there was an unwonted stir and bustle. Cannon were rumbling to and fro, rusty pikes and muskets were being dragged forth and laid in readiness, soldiers in buff jackets and big looped-up hats were clustering along the ramparts, while hoarse words of command, clanking swords, the ceaseless tramp of feet, and the clatter of gun-stocks and pike-staves made every cranny of the surrounding cliffs echo again. What could it all mean?

It meant that the stout-hearted Dutchmen who had taken the island from England a few months before were about to have their courage again put to the proof. Those five ships of war in the offing, coming down before the wind under a full press of sail, had just hoisted the red cross of St. George (not yet changed into the Union Jack), and Englishman and Dutchman alike were eager to try

as one of their favorite songs worded it.

Neither side, certainly, lost any time in beginning. The sturdy Hollanders did not wait even for a summons to surrender. The foremost English ship had barely dropped her anchor in front of the Zwart Steen Battery, when there was a red flash from the old gray wall, a loud bang, and then a cannon-ball came tearing through the foretopsail, and splashed into the water far beyond. Bang went the Englishman’s whole broadside in return, and the balls were heard rattling among the rocks, or crashing into the front of the breastwork; and now the fight began in earnest.

Fire, smoke, flying shot, crashing timbers, deafening uproar, multiplied a thousand-fold by the echoes of the surrounding hills—it was a hard fight, for there were Dutchmen behind those batteries who had swept the Channel with Van Tromp, and there were Englishmen aboard those ships who had fought him and his men, yardarm to yardarm, under Robert Blake; and it would have been hard to tell which were the braver or the more stubborn of the two.

“Fire away, boys, for the honor of Old England!” shouted Captain Richard Munden, pacing up and down the quarter-deck of the British flagship amid a hail of shot.

“Stand to it, my sons, as if Father Van Tromp were with you still!” cried the brave old Dutch commandant, Pieter Van Gebhardt, as he leveled a gun with his own hands over the fast-crumbling parapet. “Fear not for the fire and smoke; it is but the Englishman lighting his pipe.”

Both sides fought stoutly, and men began to fall fast; but it seemed as if on the whole the Dutch were getting the best of it. The ships, lying out upon the smooth water, made an excellent mark, while the rock-cut batteries could hardly be distinguished from the cliff itself.

But just at that moment a very unexpected turn of fortune changed the whole face of the battle.

To explain clearly how this happened we must go back a little way.

The Dutch garrison had given their whole attention to the attack in front, feeling sure that this was the only point from which they could be assailed. And they reasoned well; for everywhere else the coast was merely one great precipice of several hundred feet, rising so sheer out of the sea that it seemed as if nothing without wings could possibly scale it.

But they might, perhaps, have been less confident had they seen what was going on just then at the opposite side of the island.

When the English ships first advanced to the attack, the hindmost of them, while still hidden from the Dutch by the huge black pyramid of Sugar-loaf Point, had lowered several large boats filled with armed men, which instantly shot away round the great rocky bluff of “the Barn” as fast as eight oars apiece could carry them.

Away they went, past headland after headland, while every eye was fixed upon the rocky shore, as if seeking something which was not easily to be found.

At length, just when they rounded the bold, craggy promontory of King and Queen point, a dull boom reached their ears, followed instantly by the thunder of a sustained cannonade. At that familiar sound the sailors clenched their teeth savagely, as they looked up at the tremendous precipices that seemed to shut them out from all hope of taking part in the battle.

“Can’t we get up anywhere?” growled the captain, of the frigate, who was in the foremost boat. “We’re disgraced forever if they do the job without us.”

“With your honor’s leave,” broke in a stalwart young topman, touching his thick brown forelock, “I think I could get up that rock yonder, and fasten a rope for the rest to climb by.”

“What! up there?” cried the captain, glancing doubtfully from the young sailor’s bright, fearless face to the tremendous height above. “Well, my lad, if you can do it, I’ll give you fifty guineas!”

“It’s for the honor of the flag, not for the money, sir!” answered the seaman, springing from the boat to the lowest ledge of the terrible rock.

Up, up, up, ever higher he clambered, with the rising wind flinging his loose hair to and fro, and the startled sea-birds whirling around him with hoarse screams of mingled fear and rage. To the watching eyes far below, the tiny points of rock to which he clung were quite invisible, and he seemed to be hanging in mid-air, like a fly on the side of a wall.

And now he was two-thirds of the way up the precipice; and now he was within a few yards of the top; and now his hand almost touched the highest ledge, when suddenly his feet were seen to slide from under him, and in a moment he was swinging in the empty air, grasping a projecting crag with the strength of desperation.

“Hold fast, Tom!” yelled his comrades, as they saw him.

Tom did hold fast, and the strong hands that had defied the full fury of an Atlantic gale to loosen them from the slippery rigging did him good service once more. He regained his footing, and the indrawn breath of the anxious gazers below sounded like a hiss in the grim silence as they watched the final effort that brought him safely to the top.

The rope was soon fixed, and the last man had scarcely mounted when the daring band were hurrying across the ridgy interior of the island toward the spot whence the cannonade still boomed upon the evening air. And there it was at last, as they crowned the farthest ridge, the tall masts standing up through billowy smoke, and the batteries marked out amid the gathering darkness by the flashes of their own cannon. A deadly volley of English musketry cracked along the cliff, and several of the Dutch were seen to fall while dismay and confusion spread fast among the survivors. Thus, caught between two fires, with the British ships thundering upon them from below, and the British marksmen shooting them down from above, the defenders had no chance; and at length brave old Van Gebhardt, with a look of bitter grief on his iron face, slowly hauled down the Dutch flag in token of surrender.

“Mynheer,” said he to the English captain, as the latter came marching into the fort at the head of his men, “my followers have done all that men could do; but yours have done more.”

“And if we had not done more, we could never have beaten the gallant Dutchmen,” answered the captain, taking off his battered cocked hat with a polite bow.

Thus it was that the English regained St. Helena, over which the British flag flies to this day. Nor has the brave fellow who led that daring attack been forgotten, for the crag which he scaled (and a very grim-looking crag it is) still goes by the name of “Hold-Fast Tom.”

Father Bear pushed Mother Bear aside.

“Don’t meddle with what you don’t understand!” he roared. “Can’t you scent that human odor about him from afar? I shall eat him at once, or he will play us some mean trick.”

He opened his jaws again; but meanwhile Nils had had time to think, and, quick as a flash, he dug into his knapsack and brought forth some matches—his sole weapon of defense—struck one on his leather breeches, and stuck the burning match into the bear’s open mouth.

Father Bear snorted when he smelled the burning sulphur, and with that the flame went out. The boy was ready with another match, but, curiously enough, Father Bear did not repeat his attack.

“Can you light many of those little blue roses?” asked Father Bear.

“I can light enough to put an end to the whole forest,” replied the boy, for he thought that in this way he might be able to scare Father Bear.

“Perhaps you could also set fire to houses and barns?” said Father Bear.

“Oh, that would be no trick for me!” boasted the boy, hoping that this would make the bear respect him.

“Good!” exclaimed the bear. “You shall render me a service. Now, I’m very glad that I did not eat you.”

Father Bear carefully took the boy between his tusks and climbed up from the pit. As soon as he was up he speedily made for the woods. It was evident that Father Bear was created to squeeze through dense forests. The heavy body pushed through the brushwood as a boat does through the water.

Father Bear ran along till he came to a hill at the skirt of the forest, where he could see the big noise-shop. Here he lay down and placed the boy in front of him, holding him securely between his forepaws.

“Now look down at that big noise-shop!” he commanded.

The great iron works, with many tall buildings, stood at the edge of a waterfall. High chimneys sent forth dark clouds of smoke, blasting furnaces were in full blaze, and light shone from all the windows and apertures. Within, hammers and rolling mills were going with such force that the air rang with their clatter and boom. Just beyond the workshops were long rows of workingmen’s homes, pretty villas, schoolhouses, assembly halls, and shops. But there all was quiet and apparently everybody was asleep. The boy did not glance in that direction, but gazed intently at the iron works. The earth around them was black; the sky above them was like a great fiery dome; the rapids, white with foam, rushed by; while the buildings themselves were sending out light and smoke, fire and sparks. It was the grandest sight the boy had ever seen.

“Surely you don’t mean to say you can set fire to a place like that?” remarked the bear doubtingly.

The boy, wedged between the beast’s paws, was thinking the only thing that might save him would be that the bear should have a high opinion of his capability and power.

“It’s all the same to me,” he answered with a superior air. “Big or little, I can burn it down.”

“Then I’ll tell you something,” said Father Bear. “My forefathers lived in this region from the time that the forests first sprang up. From them I inherited hunting grounds and pastures, lairs and retreats, and have lived here in peace all my life. In the beginning I wasn’t troubled much by the human kind. They dug in the mountains and picked up a little ore down here by the rapids; they had a forge and a furnace, but the hammers sounded only a few hours during the day, and the furnace was not fired more than two moons at a stretch. It wasn’t so bad but that I could stand it; but these last years, since they have built this noise shop, which keeps up the same racket both day and night, life here has become intolerable. There are so many people that I never feel safe from them. I thought that I should have to move away, but I have discovered something better!”

The boy wondered what Father Bear had hit upon, but no opportunity was afforded him to ask, as the bear took him between his forepaws and held him up.

“Try to look into the house!” he commanded. A strong current of air was forced into a big cylinder which was suspended from the ceiling and filled with molten iron. As this current rushed into the mess of iron with an awful roar, showers of sparks of all colours spurted up in bunches, in sprays, in long clusters! They struck against the wall and came splashing down over the whole big room. Father Bear let the boy watch the gorgeous spectacle until the blowing was over and the flowing and sparkling red steel had been poured into ingot moulds.

The boy was completely charmed by the marvellous display and almost forgot that he was imprisoned between a bear’s two paws.

“I call that real man’s work!” the boy remarked to himself.

The bear then let the boy have a peep at the furnace and the forge, and he became more and more astonished as he saw how the blacksmiths handled iron and fire.

“Those men have no fear of heat and flames,” he thought. The workmen were sooty and grimy. He fancied they were some sort of firefolk—that was why they could bend and mould the iron as they wished. He could not believe that they were just ordinary men, since they had such power!

“They keep this up day after day, night after night,” said Father Bear, as he dropped wearily down on the ground. “You can understand that one gets rather tired of that kind of thing. I’m mighty glad that at last I can put an end to it!”

“Indeed!” said the boy. “How will you go about it?”

“Oh, I thought that you were going to set fire to the buildings!” said Father Bear. “That would put an end to all this work, and I could remain in my old home.”

The boy was all of a shiver.

So, it was for this that Father Bear had brought him here!

“If you will set fire to the noise-works I’ll promise to spare your life,” said Father Bear. “But if you don’t do it, I’ll make short work of you! Will you or won’t you?”

The boy knew that he ought to answer promptly that he would not, but he also knew that then the bear’s paws would squeeze him to death; therefore he replied:

“I shall have to think it over.”

“Very well, do so,” assented Father Bear. “Let me say to you that iron is the thing that has given men the advantage over us bears, which is another reason for my wishing to put an end to the work here.”

The boy thought he would use the delay to figure out a way of escape, but instead he began to think of the great help that iron had been to mankind. They needed iron for everything. There was iron in the plow that broke up the field; in the axe that felled the tree for building houses; in the scythe that mowed the grain; and in the knife, which would be turned to all sorts of uses. There was iron in the horse’s bit, in the lock on the door, in the nails that held furniture together. The rifle that drove away wild beasts was made of iron; iron covered the men-of-war; the locomotives steamed through the country on iron rails; the needle that had stitched his coat was of iron; the shears that clipped the sheep and the kettle that cooked the food. Father Bear was perfectly right in saying that it was the iron that had given men their mastery over the bears.

“Now will you or won’t you?” Father Bear repeated.

The boy was startled from his musing.

“You mustn’t be so impatient,” he said. “This is a serious matter for me, and I’ve got to have time to consider.”

“I can wait a little longer,” said Father Bear. “But after that you’ll get no more grace.”

The boy swept his hand across his forehead. No plan of escape had as yet come to his mind, but this much he knew—he did not wish to do any harm to the iron, which was so useful to rich and poor alike, and which gave bread to so many people in this land.

“Come, come!” growled the bear. “Will you or won’t you?”

“I won’t!” said the boy.

Father Bear squeezed him a little harder, but said nothing.

“You’ll not get me to destroy the iron works!” defied the boy. “The iron is so great a blessing that it will never do to harm it.”

“Then, of course, you don’t expect to be allowed to live very long?” said the bear.

“No, I don’t expect it,” returned the boy, looking the bear straight in the eye.

Father Bear gripped him a little harder.

But just then the boy heard something click very close to them, and saw the muzzle of a rifle two paces away.

“Father Bear! Don’t you hear the clicking of a trigger?” cried the boy. “Run, or you’ll be shot!”

Father Bear grew terribly hurried. He thought he heard hounds and hunters pursuing him.

But the boy stood in the forest, free and unharmed, and could hardly understand how it was possible.

Jericho Bob, when he was four years old, hoped that one day he might be allowed to eat just as much turkey as he possibly could. He was eight now, but that hope had not been realized.

Mrs. Jericho Bob, his mother, kept hens for a living, and she expected that they would lay enough eggs in the course of time to help her son to an independent career as a boot-black.

They lived in a tumbledown house in a waste of land near the steam cars, and besides her hens, Mrs. Bob owned a goat.

Our story has, however, nothing to do with the goat except to say he was there, and that he was on nibbling terms, not only with Jericho Bob, but with Bob’s bosom friend, Julius Caesar Fish, and it was surprising how many old hat-brims and other tidbits of clothing he could swallow during a day.

As Mrs. Bob truly said, it was no earthly use to get something new for Jericho, even if she could afford it; for the goat browsed all over him, and had been known to carry away even a leg of his trousers.

Jericho Bob was eight years old, and the friend of his bosom, Julius Caesar Fish, was nine. They both, were of a lovely black; a tallow-dip couldn’t take the kink out of their hair, and the hardest whipping did not disturb the even cheerfulness of their spirits. They were so much alike that if it hadn’t been for Jericho’s bow-legs and his turn-up nose, you really could not have told them apart.

A kindred taste for turkey also united them.

In honor of Thanksgiving Day, Mrs. Bob always sacrificed a hen which would, but for such blessed release, have died of old age. One drumstick was given to Jericho, whose interior remained an unsatisfied void.

Jericho Bob had heard of turkey as a fowl larger, sweeter, and more tender than hen; and about Thanksgiving time he would linger around the provision stores and gaze with open mouth at the noble array of turkeys hanging, head downward, over bushels of cranberries, as if even at that uncooked stage, they were destined for one another. And turkey was his dream.

It was springtime, and the hens were being a credit to themselves. Mrs. Bob was laid up with rheumatism.

“Jericho Bob!” she said to her son, shaking her red and yellow turban at him, “Jericho Bob, you go down an’ fetch de eggs today. Ef I find yer don’t bring me twenty-three, I’ll—well, never mind what I’ll do, but yer won’t like it.”

Now, Jericho Bob meant to be honest, but the fact was he found twenty-four eggs, and the twenty-fourth was so big, so remarkably big!

Twenty-three eggs he brought to Mrs. Bob, but the twenty-fourth he sinfully left in charge of the discreet hen.

On his return he met Julius Caesar Fish, with his hands in his pockets and his head extinguished by his grandfather’s fur cap.

Together they went toward the hen-coop and Julius Caesar Fish spoke, or rather lisped (he had lost some of his front teeth):

“Jericho Bobth, tha’th a turkey’th egg.”

“Yer don’t say so?”

“I think i’th a-goin’ ter hatch.” No sooner said than they heard a pick and a peck in the shell.

“Pick!” a tiny beak broke through the shell. “Peck!” more beak. “Crack!” a funny little head, a long, bare neck, and then “Pick! Peck! Crack!” before them stood the funniest, fluffiest brown ball resting on two weak little legs.

“Hooray!” shouted the woolly heads.

“Peep!” said turkeykin.

“It’s mine!” Jericho shouted excitedly.

“Ith Marm Pitkin’th turkey’th; she laid it there.”

“It’s mine, and I’m going to keep it, and next Thanksgiving I’m going ter eat him.”

“Think yer ma’ll let you feed him up for thath?” Julius Caesar asked, grinning triumphantly.

Jericho Bob’s next Thanksgiving dinner seemed destined to be a dream. His face fell.

“I’ll tell yer whath I’ll do,” his friend said, benevolently; “I’ll keep ’m for you, and Thanksgivin’ we’ll go halvth.”

Jericho resigned himself to the inevitable, and the infant turkey was borne home by his friend.

Fish, Jr., lived next door, and the only difference in the premises was a freight-car permanently switched off before the broken-down fence of the Fish yard; and in this car turkeykin took up his abode.

I will not tell you how he grew and more than realized the hopes of his foster-fathers, nor with what impatience and anticipation they saw spring, summer, and autumn pass, while they watched their Thanksgiving dinner stalk proudly up the bare yard, and even hop across the railroad tracks.

But, alas! the possession of the turkey brought with it strife and discord.

Quarrels arose between the friends as to the prospective disposal of his remains. We grieve to say that the question of who was to cook him led to blows.

It was the day before Thanksgiving. There was a coldness between the friends which was not dispelled by the bringing of a pint of cranberries to the common store by Jericho, and the contributing thereto of a couple of cold boiled sweet potatoes by Julius Caesar Fish.

The friends sat on an ancient wash-tub in the back yard, and there was a momentary truce between them. Before them stood the freight-car, and along the track beyond an occasional train tore down the road, which so far excited their mutual sympathy that they rose and shouted as one man.

At the open door of the freight-car stood the unsuspecting turkey, and looked meditatively out on the landscape and at the two figures on the wash-tub.

One had bow-legs, a turn-up nose, and a huge straw hat. The other wore a fur cap and a gentleman’s swallow-tail coat, with the tails caught up because they were too long.

The turkey hopped out of the car and gazed confidingly at his protectors. In point of size he was altogether their superior.

“I think,” said Jericho Bob, “we’d better ketch ’im; tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. Yum!”

And he looked with great joy at the innocent, the unsuspecting fowl.

“Butcher Tham’th goin’ to kill ’im for uth,” Julius Caesar hastened to say, “an’ I kin cook ’im.”

“No, you ain’t. I’m going to cook ’im,” Jericho Bob cried, resentfully. “He’s mine.”

“He ain’th; he’th mine.”

“He was my egg,” and Jericho Bob danced defiance at his friend.

The turkey looked on with some surprise, and he became alarmed when he saw his foster-fathers clasped in an embrace more of anger than of love.

“I’ll eat ’im all alone!” Jericho Bob cried.

“No, yes sha’n’t!” the other shouted.

The turkey shrieked in terror, and fled in a circle about the yard.

“Now, look yere,” said Julius Caesar, who had conquered. “We’re goin’ to be squar’. He wath your egg, but who brought ’im up? Me! Who’th got a friend to kill ’im? Me! Who’th got a fire to cook ’im? Me! Now you git up and we’ll kitch ’im. Ef you thay another word about your egg I’ll jeth eat ’im up all mythelf.”

Jericho Bob was conquered. With mutual understanding they approached the turkey.

“Come yere; come yere,” Julius Caesar said, coaxingly.

For a moment the bird gazed at both, uncertain what to do.

“Come yere,” Julius Caesar repeated, and made a dive for him. The turkey spread his tail. Oh, didn’t he run!

“Now, I’ve got her!” the wicked Jericho Bob cried, and thought he had captured the fowl; when, with a shriek from Jericho Bob, as the turkey knocked him over, the Thanksgiving dinner spread his wings, rose in the air, and alighted on the roof of the freight-car.

The turkey looked down over the edge of the car at his enemies, and they gazed up at him. Both parties surveyed the situation.

“We’ve got him,” Julius Caesar cried at last, exultantly. “You git on the roof, and ef you don’t kitch ’im up thar, I’ll kitch ’im down yere.”

With the help of the wash-tub, an old chair, Julius Caesar’s back, and much scrambling, Jericho Bob was boosted on top of the car. The turkey was stalking solemnly up and down the roof with tail and wings half spread.

“I’ve got yer now,” Jericho Bob said, creeping softly after him. “I’ve got yer now, sure,” he was just repeating, when, with a deafening roar the express-train for New York came tearing down the road.

For what possible reason it slowed up on approaching the freight-car nobody ever knew; but the fact remains that it did, just as Jericho Bob laid his wicked black, paw on the turkey’s tail.

The turkey shrieked, spread his wings, shook the small black boy’s grasp from his tail, and with a mighty swoop alighted on the roof of the very last car as it passed; and in a moment more Jericho Bob’s Thanksgiving dinner had vanished, like a beautiful dream, down the road!

Jerusalem Artie sat on the door-step of his mammy’s cabin, buried in thought. It was a very unusual condition for Jerusalem Artie, but then, the occasion was an unusual one. The next day would be Christmas.

Presently he looked up. “Mammy,” he questioned, “what’s we-all a-gwine hab fo’ Chris-mus dinnah?”

“Lan’ sakes, chile,” his mammy answered, “how-all’s I a-gwine know dat? Yo’ pappy ain’t got nuthin’ yit, an’ I ain’t a-reckonin’ he will git nuthin’.”

Jerusalem Artie looked down, and was once more lost in thought.

He made a comical little figure there on the door-step, but to this fact both he and his mammy were blissfully oblivious. On his head he wore an old straw hat which his pappy had discarded for a fur cap at the approach of winter weather. In the spring the exchange would be made again, and Jerusalem Artie would wear the fur. But this did not trouble the boy. When it grew too hot, he left off any sort of head covering; and when it grew too cold, he wrapped one of mammy’s gay bandanas about his woolly head, and set the battered straw on top of that.

His shirt, and his one-sided suspenders, and even the trousers that he wore, had also belonged to his pappy. As Jerusalem Artie was only eight years old, the trousers were a trifle long. He had once suggested cutting them off, but his mammy had objected.

“Co’se yo’ cain’t, chile! Yo’ pappy might hab to weah dem pants some mo’ hisself yit, an’ how-all’d he look den?”

The question was unanswerable.

“An’ what-all’d I weah den?” he had queried, dismayed at the possibility.

“How-all yo’ s’pose I’s a-gwine know dat?” his mammy had responded. “Maybe yo’ skin.”

So Jerusalem Artie had rolled, and rolled, and rolled the bottom of the trouser legs till his little black toes emerged from the openings.

But now, as he sat on the door-step, his mind was not upon his clothes, not even upon the offending trousers. It was upon the Christmas dinner for which he was longing, but which did not exist.

“All neighbo’ folks a-gwine hab Chris’mus dinnahs,” he was saying to himself. “Boys done tol’ me so. An’ we’s gwine hab Chris’mus dinnah, too,” he added, straightening up suddenly.

He got up from the door-step and started slowly toward the bit of tangled underbrush that grew back of the cabin. He did not know, yet, where the Christmas dinner was coming from. He had gotten no further than the resolve that there should be one.

“Folks hab turkey, er goose,” he was saying to himself, “er chickun, er—rabbit pie,” he ended with a sudden whoop, and made a dash toward the tangled brush, for, at that very moment, a rabbit’s white flag of a tail had flashed before his eyes.

“Hi, yo’ Molly Cottontail, I git yo’ fo’ a pie!” yelled Jerusalem Artie, and the chase was on.

Into the brush dashed Molly, and after her came Jerusalem Artie; and, as he ran, one leg of his trousers began to unroll. But there was no time to stop.

Molly Cottontail had the advantage, but Jerusalem Artie’s eyes were sharp, and Molly’s white flag led him on. Molly slid beneath the tangled brush, and Jerusalem Artie made desperate leaps above it, each leap marked by a flying trouser leg.

Suddenly Molly doubled on her tracks, for her pursuer was close at hand. Jerusalem Artie attempted to do the same, but his free foot became entangled with the elongated leg, and down went Jerusalem Artie—squarely on top of Molly Cottontail.

It pretty well knocked the breath out of both of them, but Jerusalem Artie recovered first, naturally, for he was on top.

“Chris’mus pie! Chris’mus pie!” he squealed, as he wriggled one hand cautiously beneath him and got a good firm hold of Molly’s long ears. Then carefully he got upon his feet.

The rabbit hung limp from his hand.

“Knocked yo’ breaf’ clean out fo’ suah!” he exclaimed, deliberately surveying his prize.

Then slowly he made his way to the road, for the chase had taken him some distance from the cabin, and the dragging trouser leg made walking difficult.

Reaching the roadside, he held aloft the still limp rabbit surveying it with a grin of satisfaction.

“Reckon she’s done fo’ as suah as I’s a niggah chile,” he soliloquized; and laying his Christmas dinner on the grass beside him, he proceeded to roll up the entangling trouser leg.

While he was in the midst of this occupation, there was a startling “honk, honk,” close at hand and a big red motor car flashed into sight.

The sudden noise startled Jerusalem Artie. It also startled Molly Cottontail. Her limp, and apparently lifeless, body gathered itself, leaped, and cleared the roadway, barely escaping the wheels of the big red motor car as it flashed by.

Jerusalem Artie rose to his feet, the trouser leg half rolled, and shrieked: “M’ Chris’mus dinnah! M’ Chris’mus dinnah!” for Molly Cottontail had disappeared.

As he stood looking helplessly after the offending cause of his loss, a man in the back seat turned, laughed, and, leaning over the side of the car, threw something bright and shining back into the road.

Jerusalem Artie pounced upon the spot, dug with his disentangled toes in the dust, and brought to view a silver half-dollar.

“Chris’mus dinnah yit,” he exclaimed, “as suah as I’se a niggah chile!”

Then, with the half-dollar held hard between his teeth, he finished rolling up the leg of his trousers.

“Mammy,” he cried, a moment later, as, dusty and breathless, he reappeared in the cabin doorway, “see what-all I foun’ in de road.”

And Mammy’s look of dark suspicion faded as Jerusalem Artie recounted his brief and tragic adventure with Molly Cottontail.

“Yo-all’s a honey chile,” said Mammy, when he had concluded; “an we-all’s a-gwine right now an’ git a plumb fat chickun.”

The next day, as Mammy cleared away the remains of the Christmas dinner, she said: “Now, chile, yo’ c’n tote dese yere chickun bones out on de do’-step an’ gnaw ’em clean. An’, Jerus’lem Artie, yo’ pappy say yo’ c’n cut off de laigs o’ dem pants, an’ hab ’em fo’ yo’self.”

When I was a little girl I used to look for Robin Redbreast perched in the holly on my Christmas cards, and nearly always he was there, fluttering about in the green, or singing a merry greeting from among the red berries. Nowadays I do not see him so often, but I have heard the story of how he came to be there. Listen, and you shall hear it, too.

First, you must know that the English Robin Redbreast (which is the one in my story) does not go South in the fall as our robin does. That is why the little English children sing:

Generally Robin gets through the winter very well, but sometimes he has a pretty hard time, and that is why this story came to be told.

One year, about Christmas time, there came a long spell of cold, stormy weather. It would snow, and all the children would shout for joy; then it would rain, and they would almost cry from disappointment; then again it would freeze, and they would run and slide and skate on the ice, only to be driven in by more snow and wind. So Christmas eve found them all snug in their houses, making the rooms gay with holly and evergreen, and talking about Santa Claus and their Christmas stockings.

But outdoors in the cold a poor little Robin Redbreast was far from being snug and comfortable. It seemed to him that he hadn’t had anything to eat for a month. Every grain of corn in the barnyard was under the snow, no one threw out any crumbs, and the seed pods and berries that were food in the coldest weather were so thickly coated with ice that it was like pecking glass beads to try to eat one. The North wind seemed to be everywhere. It drove him out of each corner in which he tried to nestle, and Farmer Gray’s barn door was closed while he was busy in the hedge trying to get a mouthful of seeds. When it came night, poor Robin felt so chilled and hungry and miserable that he simply couldn’t “tuck his head under his wing,” much less “keep himself warm.”

Once, when the lamps were lighted, he fluttered up to a window and tried to get behind the blind, but he could not squeeze in. Then he pecked at the glass, for he was a friendly birdie, and had more than once been fed from a window, but no one heard his little tap, tap, and away he flew, trying once more to find shelter from the driving storm.

Now, there was a church near by. People had been going in and out all day, making it beautiful with Christmas greens, and preparing the children’s Christmas tree. Robin finally perched himself in the ivy at one window, though the North wind threatened to blow him off any moment. There were lights within, and he could hear the happy children gathered round the Christmas tree. After awhile every one went away, and the lights were turned out.

A half hour later the faithful sexton came back through the storm to take one more look at his fires, and make sure that all was safe for the night. Robin, just settling himself for a long, cold night, could see his lantern swinging as he pushed his way through the snowdrifts. When he opened the great church door, the wind and snow blew in—and something else, too—a cold, hungry little robin. But the sexton never knew. He banked his fires a little more and went home, leaving Robin alone.

Oh, how warm and quiet and comfortable it was! Robin tucked his head under his wing and was soon asleep on an oaken rafter. When he awoke in the morning, his first thought was that he was in the forest. How big and green and beautiful! Evergreen and holly were everywhere. Great festoons were looped from chancel to window. A great mass of holly hid the choir rail. Little Christmas trees were banked against the walls. Wreaths hung from the arches, and the red and golden lights from the windows bathed all in sunshine. Robin could hardly believe his eyes.

“Chirp! Chirp!” he cried, and flew from rafter to rafter, and from there to the organ loft. What a wonderful place to awaken in! Why had he never found it before? And what were those little red berries? Were they really good to eat?

“Chirp! Chirp! I think I’ll try one!” said he.

He hadn’t had a good meal for two days and a half, and if the ladies could have seen him eating their lovely decorations, I am afraid they would have been shocked. How good the holly berries tasted! And there was such an abundance! No hunting and picking good from bad; no fuss of any kind. Hungry Robin flew from festoon to wreath and enjoyed the best breakfast he had known that winter. In fact, he ate till he was tired, and then he had another little nap on the rafter.

While he was sleeping the church bell rang, and the children began to flock in again. They had come to sing their carols at early morning service, and soon the church was filled with happy faces. Then the organ played and they began to sing. Robin woke up and watched everything quietly from his perch. He felt warm and happy, and he liked the music; in fact, he began to feel like singing, too. In the middle of the second verse he broke in. High and clear and sweet he sang, and the children looked up amazed. Suddenly the minister held up his hand. Wonderingly the organist and the children ceased. Robin was singing a solo, now. Perched high on the rafter, he threw his little head back and sang and sang, while the delighted children listened. When had they ever heard Robin Redbreast sing in church? How did he get in? What a wonderful song!

When Robin was through he flew to the top of the organ and looked down on them with bright eyes, as if to say: “That is all I can do to thank you for my breakfast and shelter!”

“Children,” said the minister, “this little bird must have flown in here last night from the storm. He sings because he is grateful to the Heavenly Father who cares for all, and knows when even a sparrow falleth. Let us lift our hearts and voices, and thank him in our carols for this happy Christmas. Let our voices be as sweet as Robin Redbreast’s—our little brother who is welcome to all the comfort our church can give him!”

The children sang their carols as they never sang them before, and they never forgot the Christmas day when they found Robin in church. That was years ago, but that is why, for a long time, Robin Redbreast was on the Christmas cards. Did you ever see him there?

It was Christmas eve. The soft snow fell in big flakes like white blossoms from the trees of June. It covered the house roofs and glorified the trees. It hung jewels above the windows of the poor, and softened the lowliest hut to the white beauty of a palace.

And through the beautiful white pathway of the snow a herald rode, and cried that to-night the dear Christ Child would walk through the streets, and even as the falling snow made all barren and ugly things lovely, so would the Christ Child’s coming glorify the souls of them that met him aright, and they would be forever blest who should gain speech with him.

No wonder that a million candles lighted the streets. No wonder that great and proud, rich and poor, the sick, the old, and the lame thronged the white beauty of the streets and wandered up and down, wondering and waiting.

The King came forth in royal robes with a throng of courtiers at his back. He bore himself proudly, and proudly he waited.

The priest was there, bearing the blessed cross, and lifting prayerful eyes to the white sky.

The great singer came, singing his loveliest songs in tones so sweet that all who heard him wondered, and said, “Surely he will have speech with the Christ Child.”

The poet came with his book, and soldiers with gleaming swords, boasting of battles they had won, and all looked with eager eyes up and down the streets, each longing to be the first to see the Christ Child in all his beauty.

So, in their eagerness they pressed now this way and now that, heeding nothing but their one desire. The shivering beggar was jostled, the lame man was trampled under foot, and lay moaning in a doorway, and children were thrust aside from their eager gazing, and fell, weeping and disappointed, or fled from the stern presence of some blustering soldier, to hide in alleyways, praying that the little Christ Child would find them there, waiting to worship him.

Among the children was one braver than the others—little Karl. He had gone out with a glad heart, saying to his mother, “I will not come back, though I walk the streets all night, until I will see the Christ Child and gain a blessing for you and for me.” But his mother kissed him fondly, saying, “Go my son, but do not grieve if you do not see the Christ Child, for there is blessing even in seeking him.”

So little Karl, seeing so many crushed and crowded back, though fearing that the Christ Child should pass while he spent the time, lifted the lame man to a place of safety, apart from the crowd, followed the shivering beggar and lent him his cloak, and comforted the weeping children.

And meanwhile the crowd pushed and jostled and threatened, and no one gave heed to a ragged boy who pressed slowly through the throng, going from street to street, and saying now and again, “I hunger. Will one give me a crust of bread?”

No one gave heed, save that the King drew back his royal robes and bade his courtiers clear his pathway of beggars; the great singer asked angrily who was this who dared to interrupt him in his singing, and turned his back upon the child to begin his song anew; the poet saw him not, because his eyes were not lifted from the book, while some, impatient at the interrupted melody, or taking counsel from the king’s frown, jostled him in rude malice.

True, the priest turned on him a kindly glance and would have spoken, but that a sudden movement in the crowd gave hope of the Christ Child’s coming, and he forgot all else to press after the others.

But little Karl, now shivering with cold, had pity, and crept to the stranger boy’s side, and broke his one piece of bread with him and offered him a place in his sheltered doorway.

“It is cold,” Karl said, “and I have lent my cloak, or we could share it with each other, and the bread is old, but it is all I have, and indeed one feels hunger and cold but lightly who watches for the Christ Child and hopes for his blessing.”

When, lo! as the ragged boy broke the bread and ate with Karl, his face became glorified, and a light like soft moonlight played about his fair temples, and the eyes that looked into the very soul of Karl, as he rose in glad amaze, were clear and wonderful as the winter stars, and yet gentle as the eyes of a pet lamb.

And suddenly, as he gazed, Karl fell, worshiping, for he knew that he had had speech with the Christ Child.

Then, while the crowd still surged and quarreled and waited, watching, the Christ Child walked through the soft falling snows, where little Karl led the way. And they sought out the beggar, and the lame man, and the little children, and the great who were also good, and all whose smiles were kindly and whose hearts were like those of little children.

Now God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and it repented God that he had made man. But Noah was a just man and perfect in his generation, and Noah walked with God.

And God said unto Noah, The end of all flesh is come before me; for the earth is filled with violence through them, and, behold, I will destroy them with the earth.

Make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without with pitch. A window shalt thou make to the ark; and the door of the ark shalt thou set in the side thereof; with lower, second, and third stories shalt thou make it.

And behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh; and everything that is in the earth shall die. But with thee will I establish my covenant; and thou shalt come into the ark, thou, and thy sons, and thy wife, and thy sons’ wives with thee.

And of every living thing, two of every sort shalt thou bring into the ark, to keep them alive with thee; they shall be male and female. Of fowls after their kind, and of cattle, and of every creeping thing of the earth, two of every sort shall come unto thee, to keep them alive.

And take thou unto thee of all food that is eaten; and it shall be for food for thee, and for them.

Thus did Noah, according to all that God commanded him, so did he.

And the Lord said unto Noah, Come thou and all thy house into the ark; for thee have I seen righteous before me in this generation.

And Noah went in, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons’ wives with him, into the ark, because of the waters of the flood. Of clean beasts, and of beasts that are not clean, and of fowls, and of everything that creepeth upon the earth, there went in two and two unto Noah into the ark, the male and the female, as God had commanded Noah. And the Lord shut him in.

And it came to pass after seven days, that the waters of the flood were upon the earth. In the six hundredth year of Noah’s life, in the second month, the seventeenth day of the month, the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened.

And the rain was upon the earth forty days and forty nights. And the waters increased, and bare up the ark, and it was lift up above the earth, and all flesh died that moved upon the earth. And every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and Noah only remained alive, and they that were with him in the ark, and the ark went upon the face of the waters.

And the waters prevailed upon the earth an hundred and fifty days.

And God remembered Noah, and every living thing, and the cattle that was with him in the ark: and God made a wind to pass over the earth, and the waters asswaged. The fountains also of the deep and the windows of heaven were stopped, and the rain from heaven was restrained; and the waters returned from off the earth continually, and after the end of the hundred and fifty days the waters were abated.

And the ark rested in the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month, upon the mountains of Ararat. And the waters decreased continually until the tops of the mountains were seen.

And it came to pass at the end of forty days, that Noah opened the window of the ark which he had made: and he sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from the earth.

Also he sent forth a dove from him, to see if the waters were abated from off the face of the ground; but the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him into the ark, for the waters were on the face of the whole earth; then he put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark.

And he stayed yet other seven days; and again he sent forth the dove out of the ark; and the dove came in to him in the evening; and, lo, in her mouth was an olive leaf pluckt off: so Noah knew that the waters were abated from off the earth.

And he stayed yet other seven days; and he sent forth the dove; which returned not again unto him any more. And Noah removed the covering of the ark, and looked, and, behold, the face of the ground was dry.

And God spake unto Noah, saying, Go forth of the ark, thou, and thy sons, and thy wife, and thy sons’ wives with thee. Bring forth with thee every living thing of all flesh, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth, that they may be fruitful and multiply upon the earth.

And Noah went forth, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons’ wives with him: every beast, every creeping thing, and every fowl, went forth out of the ark.

And Noah builded an altar unto the Lord.

And the Lord said in his heart, I will not again curse the ground any more for man’s sake; for the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more every thing living, as I have done.

While the earth remaineth, seed time and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.

And God blessed Noah and his sons. And God spake unto Noah, and to his sons with him, saying, And I, behold, I establish my covenant with you, and with your seed after you; and with every living creature that is with you, of the fowl, of the cattle, and of every beast of the earth with you; from all that go out of the ark, to every beast of the earth. I will establish my covenant with you; neither shall all flesh be cut off any more by the waters of a flood; neither shall there any more be a flood to destroy the earth.

And God said, This is the token of the covenant which I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for perpetual generations: I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of covenant between me and the earth.

And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud: and I will remember my covenant, which is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh.

And Noah lived after the flood three hundred and fifty years. And all the days of Noah were nine hundred and fifty years.

More than two thousand years ago, there was a great battle in the land of Palestine. At that time, Saul was king of Israel, and the battle was fought between the Israelites and the Philistines, their enemies. Now, the Israelites worshiped God or Jehovah, while the Philistines worshiped images of wood and stone.

And the Philistines stood on the mountain on the one side, and Israel stood on the mountain on the other side; and the ravine was between them.

And as the armies were drawn up for battle, there stepped out from the ranks of the Philistines a champion named Goliath. He was a giant in stature, and he was clothed in a corselet of scales, with a helmet of bronze upon his head. His spear was like a weaver’s beam—and a shield-bearer went before him.

And Goliath stood and cried to the people of Israel, “I have come forth to defy the army of Israel. Choose ye a man who shall come and fight with me. If he slays me, then will the Philistines be your servants, but if I slay him, then shall ye be the servants of the Philistines.”

Then were the Israelites dismayed, and no man dared go forth to fight with Goliath.

Every night and every morning for forty days, Goliath came forth and challenged the army of Israel, and no man dared go forth to fight him.

At this same time, away off among the hills of Bethlehem, there was a young man named David, who was tending his father’s sheep. He was a shepherd lad, but ruddy, and of a beautiful appearance. His father’s name was Jesse. Now, Jesse’s three older sons were in the army of Saul, but David, the youngest, cared for the sheep. He loved the country about Bethlehem, and he had many beautiful thoughts while watching over the sheep that he loved.

But one day his father called him away from the sheep pastures, and sent him to see his brothers, and to bring back a message from them, for he was anxious about their welfare. And he gave him parched corn and ten loaves as a gift for them.

So David journeyed to where his brothers were, and when he reached them, the armies were drawn up, the Philistines on one mountain, and the Israelites on the other, with the ravine between. And as David reached the place, he saw Goliath, coming forth to challenge the army of Israel, as he had done for forty days.

And when David heard Goliath’s words, and saw that all the army of Israel was dismayed, he was filled with indignation, and he asked, “Who is this Philistine, that he should defy the armies of the living God?”

And David’s words were repeated to Saul, and Saul sent for David, and David told Saul that he would go forth and fight with Goliath.

Then said Saul, “But thou art but a youth, and this is a man of war.”

Then David answered, “I have slain with my hands both a lion and a bear, when they came to destroy a lamb of my flock. And I can also slay this Philistine, for Jehovah, who delivered me out of the paw of the lion and of the bear, will deliver me out of the hand of this Philistine.”

And Saul said to David, “Go, and Jehovah be with thee.” And he would have put his armor upon David, but David refused it, and taking his staff in his hand, he chose five smooth stones out of the brook and put them in the pocket of the shepherd’s bag which he wore. Then with his sling in his hand, he advanced to meet Goliath.

But when Goliath saw David, he exclaimed, “Am I a dog, that thou comest to me with a staff? Come on, then, and I will give thy flesh to the fowls of the heavens and to the beasts of the field.”

And David answered, “Thou comest to me with a sword and with a spear, but I come to thee in the name of Jehovah of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou hast defied. This day will Jehovah deliver thee into my hand, and all the earth shall know that Israel has a God.”

And David put his hand into his bag and drew forth a stone and put it into his sling and he slung it; and it struck the Philistine in the forehead, and he fell on his face to the earth.

And the army of Israel arose and shouted, and the Philistines became the servants of Israel, and great honors were heaped upon David.

Some years after this, at the death of Saul, David became king of Israel, but he never forgot his days upon the hills of Bethlehem, when he tended his father’s sheep; and he was called the “Shepherd King.”

After he had become king, David wrote many beautiful songs or psalms, and one of the most beautiful of them all is the twenty-third psalm, which shows that even when all the glory and honor of being a king were his, he loved to think of himself as one of the sheep over whom the Lord watched as a shepherd.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

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