Educating by story-telling

Older children enjoy hearing about the different forms of coral, of the characteristics of that of the Mediterranean Sea and the Indian Ocean, and of the Caribbean Sea and the Atlantic. They enjoy, too, hearing about the coral industry, of the fishing for it along the shores of Africa, of the departure of the seekers from Sicily, of the Feast of the Coral Fishers that is such a picturesque feature of the island life, of the polishing and carving and preparing the product for trade; they like the legend the southern Italians tell of how the first medallion in Sicily was made as an offering of gratitude by a fisher lad to the young Princess of Naples. From beginning to end the coral story is a narrative that charms the child, and it is but one of the forms of sea life, which holds rich opportunities for the narrator, while sea life is but one of the fields of science from which he can glean with splendid results. In fact, the possibilities for story work in the teaching of science are almost beyond imagining until one begins to survey the field and enumerate sources of material, and the story-teller will be restricted in it only by her ability to organize material and present it to the children in story form.

Sometimes writers, thinking they will make nature stories more enjoyable to boys and girls, people them with supernatural folk who are supposed to be responsible for the marvels that occur in them. It is a practice that scientists decry, and it is condemned by all who believe that a story fit to give to children must be worthy of the name of literature, and consequently, whether fact or fiction, must be true in spirit. The tale that portrays a fairy up in the sky keeping the planets in motion like so many checkers on a board, or one in which enchanted creatures bury their beads in the ground, causing them to send up roses and lilies and other beautiful blossoms, is not a nature story. It may be a charming fanciful tale, but it should not be given to teach the truths of science. Science stories, like Bible stories, need no sugar coating to make them attractive. When given as stories, and not as a string of facts, they are full of suspense, and accounts of actual happenings in star land, under the waves, or deep in the earth are as fascinating to the child as the fancied ones of nature’s forces were to primitive man in the forest, when he crept close to the tribal story-teller and in big-eyed, wondering awe sought to know the meaning of the great globule that gleamed in the sky by day and the numberless tiny ones that gleamed there by night. The primitive animal tale, which gives early man’s belief as to how certain creatures came by their characteristics, is very interesting to the child, and while in a broader sense it belongs to the field of geography, my own experience has been that if told in connection with animals or flowers studied, it is received with enthusiasm by boys and girls. But the child should understand that these narratives are primitive man’s conception, and that the science stories are the real “why” and “how” stories.

THE WONDERFUL BUILDERS

Out in the heart of the Pacific, far out where the blue waves roll their shining masses between Samoa and the Australian mainland, where the brown-skinned islanders and the white-winged sea birds seem always happy, a little animal floated around one day, floated from among the shoals of Tutuila toward the open sea. It was a tiny creature, and as curious as it was tiny, for it looked more like a spot of clear jelly than anything else, and its name was Polyp.

Quite lazily it floated about in the water, now under a stretch of seaweed, all purple and opalescent like ropes of wonderful colors, now through the clear, bright current past the gaping mouth of a shark. But the shark, although always on the watch for something to devour, did not get the little polyp, and soon it came to a submerged rock deep under the waves. This seemed a very good resting place, and there the polyp stayed.

Days passed, weeks lengthened into months, and still the polyp kept to its place on the under-sea rock. But it was not drowsing and sleeping like a lazy creature. It was busily at work, for the very minute it landed on the rock it decided to make a house.

Now you must not think that it could not work, because, although it did look like a drop of jelly and was small and curious, it was alive. It had arms, very, very tiny arms, finer than the finest silk thread in your mother’s workbasket, and so thin and delicate looking that nobody could see them. But those arms were stronger than they looked, and with them it held on to the rock tight and fast.

Then, what a queer house-making! The little, jellylike body began to swell. It raised itself up in the shape of a tube, and around the edge of the tube came a little rim. This rim was the beginning of the house of the polyp.

The waves rolled on. The sun beat down brightly and hotly as it always beats down in the South Sea country, and then came another change. A knot rose in the middle of the jelly, and out of that knot reached a mouth and feelers.

Now the work began in earnest. The polyp began to eat, to eat as greedily as a boy who has had not a bit for a whole day. It took in chalk and phosphorus from the sea food that came its way, yet it seemed never to get enough, and all the while the little feelers kept reaching out for more food and pouring it into the open mouth. As it ate, the chalk it took in piled around the little rim, which I told you was the beginning of the house, and although the polyp wanted much to hold some of that nice chalk food in its mouth long enough to get the full taste, it could not. The white substance went right down and piled up on the rim; so it is no wonder that the little creature was always hungry.

Well, it ate and it ate. The rim kept growing and growing, as of course it must with so much chalk piling up on it, and as the house grew higher and higher the polyp kept moving to the top. The part below was hard and white like stone, and still the polyp kept eating, eating, and building, building.

For a long time it kept on, until finally it died. Then one day another drop of living jelly floated that way, and finding the chalk house of the other polyp, stopped there and began building on top of it. The waves rolled on. The sun shone, and all the while the house went steadily higher. Other polyps too came and began building beside and above it, and as they died they left their hard, white homes behind them as the first polyp had done. Others and still others came, until, as many, many years passed, the chalk houses reached the top of the water and men called them an island.

The waves rolled by. Seaweed drifted that way and lodged itself on the chalk reefs. It decayed and turned to soil. Sometimes the water and sometimes the wind brought bits of plant and seed from some other older islands, until at last there were flowers and trees and birds singing in the branches.

Now the ships of the world sail by, going toward China or Australia or to the American shores far, far away, and sometimes they stop at the little island, and sometimes those on board rest there among the palms and think it so delightful a land that they wish they never had to go away, but might stay there always and always. Yet but for a wee, curious sea creature that island would not be, for it had its beginning in a tiny animal, more like a drop of jelly than anything else, that floated one day between Samoa and the Australian mainland, and made its house upon a bit of submerged rock.

Sources of Material for Science Stories

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Story-Telling in Domestic Science and Manual Training

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

It is a far cry from the first roast meat of primitive man, discovered by accident to be more delectable than that untouched by heat, to the banquet of the twentieth-century gourmet, but they are chapters of the same tale, each intervening portion of which is interesting. There seems to be no relation between the grass skirt of the prehistoric belle and the creations of Worth or Paquin, but they are links in the same chain, beads strung upon the same thread, as are the rush mats of the cave woman and the rugs of Teheran. There are dozens of stories to give to girls that will increase their interest and delight in household crafts. Tales of the lace makers of Italy and Spain, of medieval tapestry weavers, of dower chests of European peasant maids, the contents of which pass from generation to generation, of royal costumers and court tailors, their problems, patience, and artistry, all tend to give a touch of romance to something many girls are inclined to hold in contempt. They enjoy hearing about cookery in foreign lands, of ways of serving meals that are very different from our own, and no one is more amused by Lamb’s “Dissertation on Roast Pig” than she who deals with problems of roasting and baking.

Domestic-science girls who are told something of the legends clustering around various foodstuffs enjoy the cooking class more than those who hear nothing but lectures on chemistry, dietetics, and comparative nutritive values, and they take more pleasure in preparing a meal because they know stories about the various dishes that comprise that meal.

This is no unproved theory, but one that has been tried successfully with a group of fourteen-year-old girls, who took keener delight in bread making after being told of the bakers of Nuremberg and who brewed coffee with more interest when they knew the tale of how Arabians discovered the use of coffee.

There are stories of wood, metal, and leather workers that should be given to every boy, not only because they throw new light upon what he is doing and add interest to it, but because they lead him to respect those who toil with their hands. Stories of medieval carving, of house building in different lands and ages, now of the brush hut of the Australian aborigine, now of the workmanship in the palace of a sultan or czar; of the poet craftsmen of Nuremberg, of the pottery making of the Aztecs, of the building of Venice upon piles hewn from Tyrolean forests, these and dozens of kindred subjects are rich in materials that will give children pleasure and knowledge. To the boy or girl who loves the work in manual training and domestic science they bring additional pleasure, while in the indifferent they awaken interest; and, moreover, the snobbish child who is inclined to think handcraft beneath his respect, will be led to see that the carpenter who strives to make each effort more worthy than the preceding one, or the housewife who puts the best of herself into the preparation of a meal, is in the same class with Phidias or Shakespeare in earnestness of purpose, even though not in results, and is as deserving of honor. The first step toward success with these branches is to dignify them in the eyes of children, and nothing accomplishes this as effectually and rapidly as the story. To know that the crafts were worthy of the best efforts of those of other times and lands is to make them feel they are worthy also of their best effort.

There is another reason why these stories should be told. In the midst of the agitation in favor of vocational training, the force of which is sweeping away and modifying some of the old educational standards, there is danger that in catering to the demand for the practical in schools we neglect that which conduces to dreams and ideals.

A man may advance beyond the ranks of a journeyman joiner and make a good living if he has no thought beyond the work of each day as it dawns, but without vision he cannot become the master builder, and romance is the corner stone upon which the temple of vision stands. The palaces of old Hellas were built to strains of music, for the beauty-loving Greeks knew that melody gave men lofty thoughts, and believed work performed to its accompaniment would be of higher order than that performed without it. Bands were hired to play as the toilers worked, and boys who were to become builders were inspired to emulate the efforts of great craftsmen by being told stories of their achievement. In our day we cannot expect the state to provide bands and symphony orchestras to inspire toilers, but during the days of their apprenticeship we can give them tales that will have a tendency to glorify their chosen craft. We can cause them to feel that only the best efforts of hand and brain are fit to go into this craft, because it is a monument to the memory of those who lived and died in its ranks, and that every worthy effort of each succeeding toiler helps to make that monument nobler and more enduring.

THE DERVISH OF MOCHA

Retold from an Arabian Folk Tale

The dervish Hadji Omar was a fortunate man. No one of his day was so well versed in lore of the ancients and in the knowledge of his own time, no one was so highly esteemed by his people or so loved and trusted by the caliph. At every royal banquet he sat in a seat of honor, and whenever he went through the streets of Mocha the populace shouted, “Hail, Omar!”

But there came a time when the fortunes of the dervish changed. One afternoon as he sat in the court garden he heard a conversation that dismayed him. Beyond the palm trees that screened him from their sight, the caliph and his council were planning how to defraud the common people and enrich themselves. Hadji Omar listened, grieved, and that night went to his friend, told what he had heard, and tried to dissuade him from a course of dishonor.

Then the caliph forgot all the happy hours he had spent with the dervish, forgot that he had loved him even as a brother, and remembered only that the dervish was trying to interfere in his plan. He flew into a rage and declared that Omar should be exiled from Mocha, and that a price would be upon his head should he ever return. Never again should he sit at the royal banquet table. Never again should he pass through the streets amid cries and calls of endearment. He should live in the wilds like a hunted creature and get his food as the birds of the field get theirs.

So out from the city that he loved went the wise and righteous dervish. He took the camel trail into the desert, and after a time came to an oasis where he stayed. A miserable existence he had there, because few food plants grew in the spot. Sometimes a caravan came by, and a merchant or camel driver pitied him and gave him dates or milk. But sometimes he had nothing to eat, and always his meals were so scanty that he grew thin and weak and haggard.

One day—he had been a long time without food and was faint from hunger—he found some berries growing on a tree beside a spring. They were so bitter that he could not eat them; so he tried the experiment of roasting them over the coals. This made them more palatable, but still they were viciously hard. Hadji Omar was so hungry that he was willing to do any amount of work to get food; so he boiled the berries, hoping they would soften. Still they were hard, but he managed to eat a few of them and drank of the water. His hunger and fatigue seemed gone, and he realized he had made a great discovery.

Hastening back to the city, he told the guard his story and was allowed to go into the presence of the caliph. There he produced some of the roasted berries, which were boiled according to his direction, and the governor and council drank of the water. They pronounced it a kingly beverage, and the decree went forth that Hadji Omar was to go free.

Thereafter he lived with the caliph, who loved and trusted him as before and led a more exemplary life because of the influence of the goodly dervish.

Hadji Omar was honored during his remaining years, and after his death was revered as a saint, not only because he was wise and righteous, but because he discovered to Arabia the beverage of the coffee berry.

Sources of Material to Use in Domestic Science and Manual Training

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

And now arises the question, Does all this effort on the part of the story-teller pay? Is it worth the labor required for the domestic-science supervisor, the manual-arts director, the music, literature, geography, or history teacher, to prepare stories that touch upon his work? That question can best be answered by estimating results.

As stated in the opening chapter of Part One, story-telling can simplify the entire education problem. It will create noble ideas in boys and girls of today just as it created ideals and established standards in those of the past. It will arouse an ambition to live and to achieve so that they may be worthy of the emulation of children of the future even as they emulate the heroes of days gone by. In no other way can such deep desire be awakened as through story hearing and reading. In no other way do children realize so completely the truth of Longfellow’s words:

Yet in many homes story-telling is almost unknown because the mother does not deem it of sufficient value to make some sacrifice of her time and provide for it. She does not know that the story-telling mothers of the past have been those whose children have risen up and called them blessed; that the confidence of their boys and girls, won around the fireside as old-time tales were told, has been held unshaken to the end.

The force that in the long ago moved men to great achievement has lost none of its power. Twentieth-century children respond to stories as eagerly as did boys and girls by the sea of Hellas when Greece was young, as they did in medieval castle hall to the strains of minnesinger and harper, because child nature does not change. The story hour in the home is a formidable rival of the street and the nickelodeon, and the teacher whose fund of tales is large and who tells them joyously has little trouble with discipline. Her charges know that she holds the key to Magic Land, and that if they are good she will open the gate. They remember her with affection, and best of all remember the dreams that came into being under her spell. She is queen of her little realm through the royal right of the minstrel, and no pretender can dislodge her from her throne in the hearts that she has won.

Yet some school officials, men of education and refinement, regard story-telling as a very good means of entertainment, but unworthy of a place in the curriculum, and when urged to include it ask, “Does it pay?”

If it is worth anything to make formal schoolroom subjects joyous instead of boresome, then story-telling pays; if it is necessary to give the child something that will be a perennial rainbow in his soul, something that will keep him sweet and full of faith and hope when disappointments come and illusions go, that will cause him to laugh at age even in the time of white hairs and wrinkles, then story-telling is vitally necessary. He cannot grow bitter who possesses Aladdin’s lamp. Dark skies may lower over his head and the thunder crash ominously about him, but if the seeds of romance have been planted in his soul, if poesy has been nurtured into flower there by the world’s best stories heard in his youth, he will retain, even in the midst of blackness and tempest, a vision of turquoise skies behind the clouds, a dream of sun-kissed fields where grow everlasting flowers of fragrance and beauty.

Is the reward to the worker not worth the price? One guerdon lies in the thought that he who joins the ranks of story-tellers becomes a member of a glorious company, one with which the greatest souls of the world were not unwilling to be identified. Goethe never felt it beneath his dignity to gather a group of children about him and delight them with a tale, and nothing speaks more eloquently of the sweetness of Verdi’s nature than one of his letters to his librettist that relates how, in his visits back to the hill town where he was born, it gladdened him to see gamins swarm from every quarter, exclaiming, “Una favola, signor, una favola!”

“He is a happy man,” says Châteaubriand, “who keeps through a turbulent lifetime the heart of a child, who carries with him to the end of his journey some of the illusions stored up in his youth, for contact with envy and calumny and deception are apt to cause them to take flight.” The author of Faust and the creator of Otello each had his share of brushing against the things that make men bitter. They had sounded the depths of discouragement and disappointment, yet they had the hearts of children, and who knows but that telling stories to children had something to do with keeping them young? During Verdi’s period of struggle and heartbreak, when Milan jeered at his compositions and critics declared him a man of no talent, when obstacles piled so high it seemed beyond mortal power to remove them, when no one in the city but himself and his wife believed in him, instead of becoming sour and worthless, as any but a granitic nature like his would have done, he returned to his native highlands and told stories to children who thought him more wonderful than a king; then he went back to his labor strong and fit. Forgetting himself in delighting the village bambinos bolstered up his courage and his faith and helped to make him an exuberant giver. Perhaps the present-day story-teller, like that master at Roncone, if he approach his work reverently and keep in mind a thought of what it has meant to the world, may receive as much as he gives.

STORIES FOR TELLING

THE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE MOON

(Alsatian Folk Tale—Christmas Story—Ethics, teaching honesty)

The man in the moon was once a merry peasant, who ever so long ago lived quite amicably with his good wife and children, and had a hut with a wooden floor and a roof whose thatch was as thick as any in the village. Always there was plenty of black bread and goat’s milk, and sometimes on Sundays or holidays the family felt rich enough to afford a bit of pork. But one Holy Night that peasant turned dishonest, and then something happened.

“What shall we have for the Christmas feast?” asked his wife, who was fat and jolly. “Shall it be our good rye bread and a fine joint of meat?”

“To be sure,” the merry husband answered, “but that is not enough. There shall be cabbage too.”

At his words the wife opened her mouth so wide that it looked like a big round window in her face.

“Cabbage!” she gasped. “Pray, how can that be, since we have not a leaf in the hut?”

The peasant nodded in a knowing way and answered, “To be sure, there is none there now, but there will be by and by.”

Then he held his tongue as if he thought it unwise to talk too freely to a woman, took a basket, and went out of the door. His wife was much excited. She was sure he had some secret message from the fairies, for it was in that far-away time when strange and marvelous things happened.

Down along the road the peasant hurried, smiling like a village maiden on the way to meet her sweetheart at the fair. Everywhere lights gleamed from the windows, and he laughed at the sight of them, for he knew people were inside, thinking of the feast and the Holy Night.

“Which makes it safe for me,” he murmured. On and on he went, never stopping until he came to a cabbage patch, the largest and finest in the village. They were bigger than his head, those cabbages, and every one of them belonged to the mayor.

“But some shall go into my good wife’s pot,” he laughed as he saw them, and climbing the fence he went into the patch and began to help himself.

Then suddenly along the road came a child on a snow-white horse. He rode as if nothing could halt him, but seeing the man in the patch, he stopped and shouted, “What are you doing?” The peasant looked to right and left and began to stammer, “Just b-b-b-borrowing some of the m-m-m-mayor’s cabbages,” he replied, as he threw a plump one into his basket.

The clear, strong tones rang out again, “You steal, and on the Holy Night too! So you and your basket shall go to the moon.”

Then, whisk! Up the peasant started and never stopped until he came to the middle of the moon, and there he has stayed ever since. Whether or not he ate the cabbages, no one knows, but he and his basket are there to this day, and every night when the moon is full you may see them.

THE DISCONTENTED PIG

(Thuringian Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching contentment)

Ever so long ago, in the time when there were fairies, and men and animals talked together, there was a curly-tailed pig. He lived by himself in a house at the edge of the village, and every day he worked in his garden. Whether the sun shone or the rain fell he hoed and dug and weeded, turning the earth around his tomato vines and loosening the soil of the carrot plot, until word of his fine vegetables traveled through seven counties, and each year he won the royal prize at the fair.

But after a time that little pig grew tired of the endless toil.

“What matters it if I do have the finest vegetables in the kingdom,” he thought, “since I must work myself to death getting them to grow? I mean to go out and see the world and find an easier way of making a living.”

So he locked the door of his house and shut the gate of his garden and started down the road.

A good three miles he traveled, till he came to a cottage almost hidden in a grove of trees. Lovely music sounded around him and Little Pig smiled, for he had an ear for sweet sounds.

“I will go look for it,” he said, following in the direction from which it seemed to come.

Now it happened that in that house dwelt Thomas, a cat, who made his living playing on the violin. Little Pig saw him standing in the door pushing the bow up and down across the strings. It put a thought into his head. Surely this must be easier and far more pleasant than digging in a garden!

“Will you teach me to play the violin, friend cat?” he asked.

Thomas looked up from his bow and nodded his head.

“To be sure,” he answered; “just do as I am doing.”

And he gave him the bow and fiddle.

Little Pig took them and began to saw, but squeak! quang! No sweet music fell upon his ear. The sounds he heard were like the squealing of his baby brother pigs when a wolf came near them.

“Oh!” he cried; “this isn’t music!”

Thomas, the cat, nodded his head.

“Of course not,” he said. “You haven’t tried long enough. He who would play the violin must work.”

“Then I think I’ll look for something else,” Piggywig answered, “because this is quite as hard as weeding my garden.”

And he gave back the bow and fiddle and started down the road.

He walked on and on, until he came to a hut where lived a dog who made cheese. He was kneading and molding the curd into cakes, and Little Pig thought it looked quite easy.

“I think I’d like to go into the cheese business myself,” he said to himself. So he asked the dog if he would teach him.

This the dog was quite willing to do, and a moment later Little Pig was working beside him.

Soon he grew hot and tired and stopped to rest and fan himself.

“No, no!” exclaimed the dog, “you will spoil the cheese. There can be no rest time until the work is done.”

Little Pig opened his eyes in amazement.

“Indeed!” he replied. “Then this is just as hard as growing vegetables or learning to play a violin. I mean to look for something easier.”

And he started down the road.

On the other side of the river, in a sweet green field, a man was taking honey out of beehives. Little Pig saw him as he crossed the bridge and thought that of all the trades he had seen, this suited him best. It must be lovely there in the meadow among the flowers. Honey was not heavy to lift, and once in a while he could have a mouthful of it. He ran as fast as he could go to ask the man if he would take him into his employ.

This plan pleased the bee man as much as it pleased the pig.

“I’ve been looking for a helper for a year and a day,” he said. “Begin work at once.”

He gave Little Pig a veil and a pair of gloves, telling him to fasten them on well. Then he told him to lift a honeycomb out of a hive.

Little Pig ran to do it, twisting his curly tail in the joy of having at last found a business that suited him. But buzz, buzz! The bees crept under his veil and inside his gloves. They stung him on his fingers, his mouth, his ears, and the end of his nose, and he squealed and dropped the honey and ran.

“Come back, come back!” the man called.

“No, no!” Little Pig answered with a big squeal. “No, no, the bees hurt me!”

The man nodded his head.

“Of course they do,” he said. “They hurt me too! That is part of the work. You cannot be a beekeeper without getting stung.”

Little Pig blinked his beady eyes and began to think hard.

“It seems that every kind of work has something unpleasant about it. To play the violin you must practice until your arm aches. When you make cheese you dare not stop a minute until the work is done, and in taking honey from a hive the bees sting you until your head is on fire. Work in my garden is not so bad after all, and I am going back to it.”

So he said good-by to the bee man and was soon back in his carrot patch. He hoed and raked and weeded, singing as he worked, and there was no more contented pig in all that kingdom. Every autumn he took his vegetables to the fair and brought home the royal prize, and sometimes, on holidays, the cat and the dog and the bee man came to call.

THE BAT AND HIS PARTNERS

(Old Bavarian Folk Tale—Helpful in Nature Study)

Once upon a time a strange thing happened. A cormorant, a bat, and a bramble met at the mouth of the river Elbe one day and told a sorrowful story. Each was almost bankrupt; so they decided to postpone paying their debts, put their remaining possessions together, and share in the consequent weal or woe.

They bought a merchant vessel, a ship large and strong, and so seaworthy it seemed it could sail to the nethermost parts of the Spanish Main. Wool was precious then as now, and in a country far away a hundredweight of sheep’s fleece brought many a gold doubloon. So they freighted the vessel with the best wool that was to be had and joyfully watched the white sails disappear in the pearl-gray mist. But a storm arose and angry winds dashed their galleon against demon-like rocks. Instead of reaching a distant land of gold doubloons the ship went to Davy Jones’s locker, and her precious cargo made couches for the mermaids.

Then sad indeed was the plight of these partners on the North Sea shore! Bailiffs began to sue them for payment of their debts, and ever since that time the bat has flown by night, for in no other way can he avoid his creditors. The cormorant, a solitary black figure, still broods beside the waves and dives into the sea, hoping to retrieve his shattered fortune, while the bramble has turned thief. Whenever a sheep goes by, he seizes a bit of the fleece, trying in this way to make up for the loss of the wool that went to the bottom of the Spanish Main instead of bringing him the gold of which he had dreamed.

BRIER ROSE

Retold from Grimm

(Wonder Tale)

In olden times there lived a king and queen, who lamented day by day that they had no children; and yet never a one was born. One day, as the queen was bathing and thinking of her wishes, a frog skipped out of the water and said to her: “Your wish shall be fulfilled. Before a year passes you shall have a daughter.”

As the frog had said, so it happened, and a little girl was born who was so beautiful that the king almost lost his senses; but he ordered a great feast to be held, and invited to it not only his relatives, friends, and acquaintances, but also all the wise women who were kind and affectionate to children. There happened to be thirteen in his dominions, but since he had only twelve golden plates out of which they could eat, one had to stay at home. The feast was celebrated with all the magnificence possible, and, as soon as it was over, the wise women presented the infant with their wonderful gifts: one with virtue, another with beauty, a third with riches, and so on, so that the child had everything that is to be desired in the world. Just as eleven had given their presents, the thirteenth old lady stepped in suddenly. She was in a tremendous passion because she had not been invited, and, without greeting any one or looking at any one, she exclaimed loudly, “The princess shall prick herself with a spindle on her fifteenth birthday and shall die!” and without a word further she turned her back and left the hall. All were terrified, but the twelfth fairy, who had not yet given her wish, then stepped up. Because she could not take away the evil wish, but could only soften it, she said, “She shall not die, but shall fall into a sleep of a hundred years’ duration.”

The king, who naturally wished to protect his child from this misfortune, issued a decree commanding that every spindle in the kingdom should be burnt. Meanwhile all the gifts of the wise women were fulfilled, and the maiden became so beautiful, gentle, virtuous, and clever, that every one who saw her fell in love with her. It happened on the day when she was just fifteen years old that the queen and the king were not at home, and so she was left alone in the castle. The maiden looked about in every place, going through all the rooms and chambers just as she pleased, until she came at last to an old tower. Up the narrow winding staircase she tripped until she arrived at a door, in the lock of which was a rusty key. This she turned, and the door sprang open, and there in the little room sat an old woman with a spindle, spinning flax.

“Good day to you,” said the princess, “what is this that you are doing here?”

“I am spinning,” said the old woman, nodding her head.

“What thing is that which twists round so merrily?” inquired the maiden, and she took the spindle to try her hand at spinning. Scarcely had she done so when the prophecy was fulfilled, for she pricked her finger; and at the very same moment she fell back in a deep sleep upon a bed which stood near. This sleep extended over the whole palace. The king and queen, who had just come in, fell asleep in the hall, and all their courtiers with them; the horses in the stables, the doves upon the eaves, the flies upon the walls, and even the fire upon the hearth, all ceased to stir; the meat which was cooking ceased to frizzle; and the cook at the instant of pulling the hair of the kitchen boy lost his hold and began to snore, too. The wind also fell entirely, and not a leaf rustled on the trees round the castle.

Now around the palace a thick hedge of briers began growing, which every year grew higher and higher, till the castle was quite hidden from view, so that one could not even see the flag upon the tower. Then there went a legend through the land, of the beautiful maiden Brier Rose, for so was the sleeping princess named, and from time to time princes came, endeavoring to penetrate through the hedge into the castle; but it was not possible, for the thorns held them as if by hands, and the youths were unable to release themselves, and so perished miserably.

After the lapse of many years, there came another king’s son into the country, and heard an old man tell the legend of the hedge of briers; how that behind it stood a castle where slept a wonderfully beauteous princess called Brier Rose, who had slumbered nearly a hundred years, and with her the queen and king and all their court. The old man further related what he had heard from his grandfather, that many princes had come and tried to penetrate the hedge, and had died a miserable death. But the youth was not to be daunted, and, however much the old man tried to dissuade him, he would not listen, but cried out, “I fear not, I will see this hedge of briers!”

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

By and by the wedding of the prince with Brier Rose was celebrated with great splendor, and to the end of their lives they lived happily and contented.

THE COAT OF ALL COLORS

Retold from Grimm

(Thuringian Wonder Tale)

There was once a king whose wife had golden hair and was altogether so beautiful that her equal was not to be found in the world. It happened that she fell ill, and when she felt she must soon die she called the king and said, “If you marry again after my death, take no one who is not as beautiful as I have been, nor one who has not golden hair like mine, and this you must promise me.” After the king had promised she closed her eyes, and soon died.

For a long time the king would not be comforted and thought not of taking a second wife, but his councillors at last said that he must marry again. Then messengers were sent far and wide to seek a bride who should be as beautiful as the late queen, but there was no one to be found in the whole world so beautiful and with such golden hair. So the messengers returned home without accomplishing anything.

Now the king had a daughter who was just as beautiful as her dead mother. She had also the same golden hair, and, as she grew up, the king saw how like she was to his lost wife. He told his councilors that he wished to marry his daughter to his oldest councilor, and that she should be as queen. When the oldest councilor heard this he was delighted. But the daughter was frightened at the resolve of the king, and hoped yet to turn him from his intention. So she said to him, “Before I fulfill your wish I must first have three dresses: one as golden as the sun, another as silver as the moon, and a third as shining as the stars; further, I desire a cloak composed of thousands of skins and hides, and to which every beast in your kingdom must contribute a portion of his skin.”

The princess thought this would be impossible to do, and so she should reclaim her father from his intention. But the king would not give it up, and the cleverest maidens in his kingdom had to weave the three dresses, one as golden as the sun, a second as silver as the moon, and a third as shining as the stars, while his huntsmen had to catch all the beasts in the whole kingdom and from each take a piece of skin wherewith a mantle of a thousand pieces was made. At length, when all was ready, the king let the mantle be fetched, and, spreading it before him, said, “Tomorrow shall the wedding be.”

When the king’s daughter now saw that there was no hope left of turning her father from his resolve, she determined to flee away. In the night, while all slept, she got up and took three of her treasures, a golden ring, a gold spinning wheel, and a gold reel; she put also in a nutshell the three dresses of the sun, moon, and stars, and putting on the mantle of all skins, she dyed her hands and face black with soot. Then, commending herself to God, she set off and traveled the whole night till she came to a large wood, where, feeling very tired, she took refuge in a hollow tree and went to sleep. The sun rose, and she still slept and slept on till it was again far into the morning. Then it happened that the king who owned this forest came to hunt in it. As soon as his dogs ran to the tree they snapped about it, barked, and growled, so that the king said to his huntsmen, “See what wild animal it is that is concealed there.” The hunters obeyed his orders, and, when they returned, they said, “In that hollow lies a wonderful creature whose like we have never before seen; its skin is composed of a thousand different colors, but it lies quite quiet and asleep.” The king said, “Try if you can catch it alive, and then bind it to the carriage, and we will take it with us.”

As soon as the hunters caught hold of the maiden, she awoke full of terror, and called out to them, “I am a poor child forsaken by both father and mother! Pray pity me, and take me with you!” They named her “Allerleirauh,” because of her mantle, and took her home with them to serve in the kitchen and rake out the ashes. They went to the royal palace, and there they showed her a little stable under the step where no daylight could enter, and told her she could live and sleep there. Afterwards she went into the kitchen, and there she had to carry water and wood to make the fire, to pluck the fowls, to peel the vegetables, to rake out the ashes, and to do all manner of dirty work.

Here, for a length of time, Allerleirauh lived wretchedly; but it happened once that a feast was held in the palace, and she asked the cook, “May I go and look on for a little while? I will place myself just outside the door.” The cook said, “Yes, but in half an hour’s time you must return and rake out the ashes.”

Allerleirauh took an oil lamp, and, going to her stable, put off the gown of skins and washed the soot from her face and hands so that her real beauty was displayed. Then she opened her nut and took out the dress which shone as the sun, and as soon as she was ready she went up to the ballroom, where every one made way for her, supposing that she was certainly some princess. The king himself soon came up to her, and, taking her hand, danced with her, thinking the while in his heart that he had never seen any one like her. As soon as the dance was finished she disappeared, and nobody knew whither. The watchmen stationed at the gates were called and questioned, but they had not seen her.

She had run back to her stable and, having quickly taken off her dress, had again blackened her face and hands, put on the dress of all skins, and became “Allerleirauh” once more. As soon as she went into the kitchen to do her work in sweeping up the ashes, the cook said, “Let that be for once till the morning, and cook the king’s supper for me instead, while I go upstairs to have a peep; but mind you do not let one of your hairs fall in, or you will get nothing to eat for the future.”

So saying, he went away, and Allerleirauh cooked the king’s supper, making some soup as good as she possibly could, and when it was ready she went into the stable, and fetched her gold ring, and laid it in the dish. When the dance was at an end, the king ordered his supper to be brought, which, when he had tasted, he thought he had never eaten anything so nice before. Just as he nearly finished it he saw a gold ring at the bottom, and, not being able to imagine how it came there, he commanded the cook to be brought before him. The cook was terrified when he heard this order, and said to Allerleirauh, “Are you certain you did not let a hair fall into the soup? For if it is so, you will catch a beating.”

Then he came before the king, who asked who had cooked the supper, and he answered, “I did.” But the king said, “That is not true; for it is of a much better kind and much better cooked than usual.” Then the cook said, “I must confess that not I, but Allerleirauh, cooked it.” So that the king commanded that she should be brought up.

When Allerleirauh came, the king asked, “Who are you?”

“I am a poor child, without father or mother,” replied she.

“Why did you come to my palace?” then inquired the king.

“I am good for nothing else but to have the boots thrown at my head,” said she.

The king asked again, “Where did you get this ring, then, which was in the soup?”

Allerleirauh said, “I know nothing of it.” And, as she would say no more, she was at last sent away.

After a time there was another ball, and Allerleirauh asked the cook’s permission to go again and look on, and he consented, and told her, “Return here in half an hour to cook the king again the same soup which he liked so much before.”

Allerleirauh ran into the stable and, washing herself quickly, took out of the shell the dress which was silver as the moon, and put it on. Then she went up to the ballroom and appeared like a princess, and the king, stepping up to her, was very glad to see her again; and, as the dancing had just begun, they joined it. But as soon as it was over, his partner disappeared so quickly that the king did not notice where she went. She ran to her stable and changed her garments again, and then went into the kitchen to make the soup. While the cook was upstairs, she fetched the golden spinning wheel and put it in the tureen, so that the soup was served up with it. Afterwards it was brought before the king, who ate it, and found it tasted as good as the former; and the cook was called, who was obliged to confess again that Allerleirauh had made it. Allerleirauh was accordingly taken before the king, but she repeated what she had before said, that she was of no use but to have boots thrown at her, and that she knew nothing of the gold spinning wheel.

Not long afterwards a third feast was given by the king, at which everything went as before. The cook said to Allerleirauh when she asked leave to go, “You are certainly a witch, and always put something in the soup which makes it taste better than mine. Still, since you beg so hard, you shall go at the usual time.” This time she put on the dress shining as the stars, and stepped with it into the ballroom. The king danced again with her, and thought he had never seen any maiden so beautiful, and while the dance went on he slipped the gold ring on to her finger without her perceiving it and told the musicians to prolong the time. When at last it ended, he would have kept fast hold of her hand, but she tore herself away, and sprang so quickly in among the people that she disappeared from his sight. Allerleirauh ran as well as she could back to her stable; but she had stayed over and above the half hour, and she had not time to pull off her beautiful dress, but was obliged to throw over it her cloak of skins. Neither did she quite finish the blacking of her skin, but left one finger white. Then she ran into the kitchen, cooked the soup for the king, and put in it the reel, while the cook stayed upstairs. Afterwards, when the king found the reel at the bottom of his soup, he summoned Allerleirauh, and perceived at once her white finger, and the ring which he had put on it during the dance. He took her by the hand and held her fast, and when she tried to force herself from him and run away, her cloak of skins fell partly off and the starry dress was displayed to view. The king then pulled the cloak wholly off, and down came her golden hair, and there she stood in all her beauty, and could no longer conceal herself. As soon, then, as the soot and ashes were washed off her face, she stood up and appeared more beautiful than any one could conceive possible on earth. But the king said to her, “You are my dear bride, and we will never separate from each other.” Thereupon was the wedding celebrated, and they lived happily to the end of their lives.

THE POOR MAN AND THE RICH MAN

Retold from Grimm

(Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching kindness)

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

So saying, he shut his window to, and left the good angel, who immediately turned his back upon him and went over to the little house. Here he had scarcely knocked, when the door was opened and the poor man bade the wanderer welcome, and said, “Stop here this night with me; it is quite dark, and today you can go no farther.” This reception pleased the angel much, and he walked in; and the wife of the poor man also bade him welcome and, holding out her hand, said, “Make yourself at home, and though it is not much that we have, we will give it to you with all our heart.” Then she placed some potatoes at the fire, and while they roasted she milked her goat for something to drink with them. When the table was laid, the good angel sat down and ate with them, and the rude fare tasted good, because they who partook of it had happy faces. After they had finished, when bedtime came, the wife called the husband aside and said to him, “Let us sleep tonight on straw, my dear, that this poor wanderer may have our bed whereon to rest himself, for he has been walking all day long, and is doubtless very tired.”

“With all my heart,” replied her husband; “I will offer it to him;” and, going up to the angel, he begged him, if he pleased, to lie in their bed that he might rest his limbs thoroughly. The good angel at first refused to take the bed of his hosts, but at last he yielded to their entreaties and lay down, while they made a straw couch upon the ground. The next morning they arose early and cooked their guest a breakfast of the best that they had, and when the sun shone through the window he got up, too, and, after eating with them, prepared to set out again. When he stood in the doorway he turned round and said to his hosts, “Because you are so compassionate and pious, you may wish three times and I will grant, each time, what you desire.”

The poor man replied, “Ah, what else can I wish than eternal happiness, and that we two, so long as we live, may have health and strength and our necessary daily bread? For the third thing I know not what to wish.”

“Will you not wish for a new house in place of this old one?” asked the angel.

“Oh, yes!” said the man, “if I may keep on this spot, so would it be welcome.”

Then the good angel fulfilled his wishes and changed their old house into a new one, and, giving them once more his blessing, went out of the house.

It was already broad daylight when the rich man arose and, looking out of his window, saw a handsome new house of red brick where formerly an old hut had stood. The sight made him open his eyes, and he called his wife up and asked, “Tell me what has happened; yesterday evening an old, miserable hut stood opposite, and today there is a fine new house! Run out and hear how this has happened!”

The wife went and asked the poor man, who related that the evening before a wanderer had come, seeking a night’s lodging, and that in the morning he had taken his leave, and granted them three wishes—eternal happiness, health and food during their lives, and instead of their old hut, a fine new house. When he had finished his tale, the wife of the rich man ran home and told her husband all that had passed, and he exclaimed, “Ah! had I only known it! The stranger had been here before, and would have passed the night with us, but I sent him away.”

“Hasten, then!” returned his wife. “Mount your horse, and perhaps you may overtake the man, and then you must ask three wishes for yourself also.”

The rich man followed this advice, and soon overtook the angel. He spoke softly and glibly, begging that the angel would not take it ill that he had not let him in at first, for that he had gone to seek the key of the house door, and meanwhile he had gone away, but if the angel came back the same way he would be glad if he would call again. The angel promised that he would come on his return, and the rich man then asked if he might not wish thrice as his neighbor had been allowed. “Yes,” said the angel, “you may certainly, but it will not be good for you, and it were better you did not wish.”

But the rich man thought he might easily obtain something which would tend to his happiness, if he only knew that it would be fulfilled, and so the angel at length said, “Ride home, and the three wishes which you shall make shall be answered.”

The rich man now had what he desired, and, as he rode homewards, began to consider what he should wish. While he thought he let his rein fall loose, and his horse presently began to jump, so that he was jerked about, and so much so that he could fix his mind on nothing. He patted his horse on the neck, and said, “Be quiet, Bess!” but it only began fresh friskings, so that at last he became savage, and cried quite impatiently, “I wish you might break your neck!” No sooner had he said so than down it fell upon the ground and never moved again, and thus the first wish was fulfilled. But the rich man, being covetous by nature, would not leave the saddle behind, and so, cutting it off, he slung it over his back and went onwards on foot. “You still have two wishes,” thought he to himself, and so was comforted, but as he slowly passed over the sandy common the sun scorched him terribly, for it was midday, and he soon became vexed and passionate; moreover, the saddle hurt his back; and besides, he had not yet decided what to wish for. “If I should wish for all the treasures and riches in the world,” said he to himself, “hereafter something or other will occur to me, I know beforehand; but I will so manage that nothing at all shall remain for me to wish for.”

Many times he thought he knew what to wish, but soon it appeared too little. Then it came into his thoughts how well his wife was situated, sitting at home in a cool room, and appropriately dressed. This idea angered him uncommonly, and, without knowing it, he said aloud, “I wish she were sitting upon this saddle, and could not get off it, instead of its being slipping about on my back.”

As soon as these words were out of his mouth, the saddle disappeared from his back, and he perceived that his second wish had passed its fulfillment. Now he became very hot, and began to run, intending to lock himself up in his room and consider there something great for his last wish. But when he arrived and opened the house door he found his wife sitting upon the saddle in the middle of the room, and crying and shrieking because she could not get off. So he said to her, “Be contented; I will wish for the riches in all the world, only keep sitting there.”

But his wife shook her head, saying, “Of what use are all the riches of the world to me, if I sit upon this saddle? You have wished me on it, and you must also wish me off.”

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

THE SILVER CONES

Adapted from Story by Johanna Spyri

(Ethics—Geography)

In the mountain land of Bohemia there lived in the long ago a miner with his wife and little daughter. They were happy in their hut in the forest, but after a time the father and mother died, and the child was left alone in the world. She had no money, and no aunts or cousins to take her in, and it seemed as if she would have to go hungry. But always there are kindly hearts among the poor, and one of the miners opened his house that she might have a home. He had six children of his own and little bread and meat to spare, but his good wife said, “We will divide what we have.” So little Hilda became one of the family, and they grew to love her very much.

It was midwinter, and Christmas day not far away. The children thought of nothing but the coming of St. Nicholas, who they hoped would not forget them on the Holy Night, when every boy and girl in Bohemia expects a visit from the gift bringer. But when they spoke to the miner about it he shook his head and said, “Do not set your hearts upon his coming. Our hut is very small and stands so far in the forest that he may not be able to find it.”

Gretchen, his little daughter, had a very different idea. She declared St. Nicholas could find a house in the dark if it were no bigger than an ant hill, and went to bed to dream of the toys and sweetmeats he would bring.

Day after day passed, and nearer, nearer came the season of Christ’s birth. The children talked of him as they sat by the fire at night, as they picked up dead branches in the forest, and as they bedded the goats and shut them in, for Bohemian mountain folk are a toiling people, and even boys and girls must work.

At last the day before Christmas came, and in the afternoon little Hilda started out with her basket to get some cones. She wanted the fire to be brighter and more cheerful than ever that night, and perhaps if she met a servant from the castle, he might take some to feed the prince’s fire, and give her a silver piece.

“And if he does,” she thought as she trudged on her way, “I can buy something for the miner and his dear children.”

Now, in that land of Bohemia, on the summit of a lofty mountain, a creature named Rübezahl made his home. He possessed all magic powers, and was so mighty that his sway extended to the very center of the earth. There he had chambers of gold and silver, and diamonds and jewels without number, and often gave of his treasures to those who were good enough to deserve them. He could change himself at will into any form. Now he was a bat flying in the night, now a country swain selling his wares at the fair, and now a woodman cutting down trees in the forest, because thus he was able to find out who was worthy and who unworthy, and to reward or punish them as they deserved.

Hilda had often heard of the strange ways of Rübezahl, and wondered if he would ever cross her path.

“I suppose not,” she murmured, “because I am just a little girl.”

As she came near the fir trees, a tiny white-haired man walked out of the shadow. He had a long white beard and a jolly red face, and looked as if he were the friend of children.

“What are you doing?” he called to her.

“I’ve come to gather cones,” she replied; “some for our fire and some to sell, if the servant from the castle will only buy.”

Then she told him of the miner’s family, of how eager she was to get some money that she might buy a gift for his children, and of her hope that St. Nicholas would not forget them on the Holy Night.

The little old man seemed much interested, and when she finished her story he said, “The largest cones are on that tree. If you hope to sell, gather the best ones.”

He pointed to a great, dark fir just beyond them, and then went back into the shadows of the forest.

Little Hilda thanked him and ran to the spot. She could see the cones like beehives on the branches, and just as she came under them there was such a downfall of beautiful brown things it frightened her and she began to run. But thinking of what she could do with such big ones, she went back, filled her basket, and started homeward.

It was very heavy, and the farther she went the heavier it grew.

“I’ll have to ask little Gretchen to help me take it up the hill path to the castle,” she thought. But by the time she reached the hut it had become such a load she could not move it, and the miner had to carry it in himself.

“They are lovely big ones and of a beautiful brown color,” she said as the children crowded around to see.

But when they looked at the basket again, they saw no brown at all. Instead there was a gleam brighter than that of the moonbeams through the fir trees, for a wonderful thing had happened. In the twinkling of an eye every one of those cones had turned into shining silver, which sparkled and glistened so that they dazzled the eyes.

Then the little girl remembered the old man in the forest and told the miner about him.

He nodded his head in a knowing way and said, “Surely it was Rübezahl, and he has rewarded you for being sweet and gentle.”

All of which seemed like a dream to little Hilda, but when she looked into the basket she knew it was true. And so knew all the other mountain folk, when the stars of the Holy Night shone out and the children went from door to door distributing silver cones. The good folk who gave her a home received so many that never again were they poor. They built a fine house with a porch and twenty windows, and were as rich as any one in Bohemia.

To make things lovelier still, St. Nicholas found the hut, just as Gretchen had said he would, and left some sweets and toys for the children. He laughed loud and long when he saw the shining cones, for he had heard all about it from Rübezahl himself.