The Project Gutenberg eBook of Good Stories for Great Holidays
Title: Good Stories for Great Holidays
Author: Frances Jenkins Olcott
Release date: November 1, 1995 [eBook #359]
Most recently updated: January 27, 2021
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Mike Lough, and David Widger
GOOD STORIES FOR GREAT HOLIDAYS
ARRANGED FOR STORY-TELLING AND READING ALOUD
AND FOR THE CHILDREN'S
OWN READING
By Frances Jenkins Olcott
Index according to reading level is appended.
TO THE STORY-TELLER
This volume, though intended also for the children's own reading and for reading aloud, is especially planned for story-telling. The latter is a delightful way of arousing a gladsome holiday spirit, and of showing the inner meanings of different holidays. As stories used for this purpose are scattered through many volumes, and as they are not always in the concrete form required for story-telling, I have endeavored to bring together myths, legends, tales, and historical stories suitable to holiday occasions.
There are here collected one hundred and twenty stories for seventeen holidays—stories grave, gay, humorous, or fanciful; also some that are spiritual in feeling, and others that give the delicious thrill of horror so craved by boys and girls at Halloween time. The range of selection is wide, and touches all sides of wholesome boy and girl nature, and the tales have the power to arouse an appropriate holiday spirit.
As far as possible the stories are presented in their original form. When, however, they are too long for inclusion, or too loose in structure for story-telling purposes, they are adapted.
Adapted stories are of two sorts. Condensed: in which case a piece of literature is shortened, scarcely any changes being made in the original language. Rewritten: here the plot, imagery, language, and style of the original are retained as far as possible, while the whole is moulded into form suitable for story-telling. Some few stories are built up on a slight framework of original matter.
Thus it may be seen that the tales in this volume have not been reduced to the necessarily limited vocabulary and uniform style of one editor, but that they are varied in treatment and language, and are the products of many minds.
A glance at the table of contents will show that not only have selections been made from modern authors and from the folklore of different races, but that some quaint old literary sources have been drawn on. Among the men and books contributing to these pages are the Gesta Romanorum, Il Libro d'Oro, Xenophon, Ovid, Lucian, the Venerable Bede, William of Malmesbury. John of Hildesheim, William Caxton, and the more modern Washington Irving, Hugh Miller, Charles Dickens, and Henry Cabot Lodge; also those immortals, Hans Andersen, the Brothers Grimm, Horace E. Scudder, and others.
The stories are arranged to meet the needs of story-telling in the graded schools. Reading-lists, showing where to find additional material for story-telling and collateral reading, are added. Grades in which the recommended stories are useful are indicated.
The number of selections in the volume, as well as the references to other books, is limited by the amount and character of available material. For instance, there is little to be found for Saint Valentine's Day, while there is an overwhelming abundance of fine stories for the Christmas season. Stories like Dickens's “Christmas Carol,” Ouida's “Dog of Flanders,” and Hawthorne's tales, which are too long for inclusion and would lose their literary beauty if condensed, are referred to in the lists. Volumes containing these stories may be procured at the public library.
A subject index is appended. This indicates the ethical, historical, and other subject-matter of interest to the teacher, thus making the volume serviceable for other occasions besides holidays.
In learning her tale the story-teller is advised not to commit it to memory. Such a method is apt to produce a wooden or glib manner of presentation. It is better for her to read the story over and over again until its plot, imagery, style, and vocabulary become her own, and then to retell it, as Miss Bryant says, “simply, vitally, joyously.”
CONTENTS
GOOD STORIES FOR GREAT HOLIDAYS
WHY LINCOLN WAS CALLED “HONEST ABE”
THE COURAGE OF HIS CONVICTIONS
HIS SPRINGFIELD FAREWELL ADDRESS
THE LOVELIEST ROSE IN THE WORLD
THE THREE LITTLE BUTTERFLY BROTHERS
QUEEN MARGARET AND THE ROBBERS
TWO HERO-STORIES OF THE CIVIL WAR
II. THE BRAVERY OF RICHARD KIRTLAND
GENERAL SCOTT AND THE STARS AND STRIPES
THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
THE SIGNING OF THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
THE CAPTURE OF FORT TICONDEROGA
THE FIRST LANDING OF COLUMBUS IN THE NEW WORLD
THE PHANTOM KNIGHT OF THE VANDAL CAMP
THE FIRST HARVEST-HOME IN PLYMOUTH
HOW INDIAN CORN CAME INTO THE WORLD
THE WOODEN SHOES OF LITTLE WOLFF
THE CHRISTMAS FAIRY OF STRASBURG
THE CHRISTMAS THORN OF GLASTONBURY
THE LITTLE TREE THAT LONGED FOR OTHER LEAVES
WHY THE EVERGREEN TREES NEVER LOSE THEIR LEAVES
THE OLD WOMAN WHO BECAME A WOODPECKER
THE QUAILS—A LEGEND OF THE JATAKA
REFERENCE LISTS FOR STORY-TELLING AND COLLATERAL READING
GOOD STORIES FOR GREAT HOLIDAYS
THE FAIRY'S NEW YEAR GIFT
BY EMILIE POULSSON (ADAPTED)
Two little boys were at play one day when a Fairy suddenly appeared before them and said: “I have been sent to give you New Year presents.”
She handed to each child a package, and in an instant was gone.
Carl and Philip opened the packages and found in them two beautiful books, with pages as pure and white as the snow when it first falls.
Many months passed and the Fairy came again to the boys. “I have brought you each another book?” said she, “and will take the first ones back to Father Time who sent them to you.”
“May I not keep mine a little longer?” asked Philip. “I have hardly thought about it lately. I'd like to paint something on the last leaf that lies open.”
“No,” said the Fairy; “I must take it just as it is.”
“I wish that I could look through mine just once,” said Carl; “I have only seen one page at a time, for when the leaf turns over it sticks fast, and I can never open the book at more than one place each day.”
“You shall look at your book,” said the Fairy, “and Philip, at his.” And she lit for them two little silver lamps, by the light of which they saw the pages as she turned them.
The boys looked in wonder. Could it be that these were the same fair books she had given them a year ago? Where were the clean, white pages, as pure and beautiful as the snow when it first falls? Here was a page with ugly, black spots and scratches upon it; while the very next page showed a lovely little picture. Some pages were decorated with gold and silver and gorgeous colors, others with beautiful flowers, and still others with a rainbow of softest, most delicate brightness. Yet even on the most beautiful of the pages there were ugly blots and scratches.
Carl and Philip looked up at the Fairy at last.
“Who did this?” they asked. “Every page was white and fair as we opened to it; yet now there is not a single blank place in the whole book!”
“Shall I explain some of the pictures to you?” said the Fairy, smiling at the two little boys.
“See, Philip, the spray of roses blossomed on this page when you let the baby have your playthings; and this pretty bird, that looks as if it were singing with all its might, would never have been on this page if you had not tried to be kind and pleasant the other day, instead of quarreling.”
“But what makes this blot?” asked Philip.
“That,” said the Fairy sadly; “that came when you told an untruth one day, and this when you did not mind mamma. All these blots and scratches that look so ugly, both in your book and in Carl's, were made when you were naughty. Each pretty thing in your books came on its page when you were good.”
“Oh, if we could only have the books again!” said Carl and Philip.
“That cannot be,” said the Fairy. “See! they are dated for this year, and they must now go back into Father Time's bookcase, but I have brought you each a new one. Perhaps you can make these more beautiful than the others.”
So saying, she vanished, and the boys were left alone, but each held in his hand a new book open at the first page.
And on the back of this book was written in letters of gold, “For the New Year.”
THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL
BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN (TRANSLATED)
It was very, very cold; it snowed and it grew dark; it was the last evening of the year, New Year's Eve. In the cold and dark a poor little girl, with bare head and bare feet, was walking through the streets. When she left her own house she certainly had had slippers on; but what could they do? They were very big slippers, and her mother had used them till then, so big were they. The little maid lost them as she slipped across the road, where two carriages were rattling by terribly fast. One slipper was not to be found again, and a boy ran away with the other. He said he could use it for a cradle when he had children of his own.
So now the little girl went with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches, and a bundle of them in her hand. No one had bought anything of her all day; no one had given her a copper. Hungry and cold she went, and drew herself together, poor little thing! The snowflakes fell on her long yellow hair, which curled prettily over her neck; but she did not think of that now. In all the windows lights were shining, and there was a glorious smell of roast goose out there in the street; it was no doubt New Year's Eve. Yes, she thought of that!
In a corner formed by two houses, one of which was a little farther from the street than the other, she sat down and crept close. She had drawn up her little feet, but she was still colder, and she did not dare to go home, for she had sold no matches, and she had not a single cent; her father would beat her; and besides, it was cold at home, for they had nothing over the them but a roof through which the wind whistled, though straw and rags stopped the largest holes.
Her small hands were quite numb with the cold. Ah! a little match might do her good if she only dared draw one from the bundle, and strike it against the wall, and warm her fingers at it. She drew one out. R-r-atch! how it spluttered and burned! It was a warm bright flame, like a little candle, when she held her hands over it; it was a wonderful little light! It really seemed to the little girl as if she sat before a great polished stove, with bright brass feet and a brass cover. The fire burned so nicely; it warmed her so well,—the little girl was just putting out her feet to warm these, too,—when out went the flame; the stove was gone;—she sat with only the end of the burned match in her hand.
She struck another; it burned; it gave a light; and where it shone on the wall, the wall became thin like a veil, and she could see through it into the room where a table stood, spread with a white cloth, and with china on it; and the roast goose smoked gloriously, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more splendid to behold, the goose hopped down from the dish, and waddled along the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast; straight to the little girl he came. Then the match went out, and only the thick, damp, cold wall was before her.
She lighted another. Then she was sitting under a beautiful Christmas tree; it was greater and finer than the one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. Thousands of candles burned upon the green branches, and colored pictures like those in the shop windows looked down upon them. The little girl stretched forth both hands toward them; then the match went out. The Christmas lights went higher and higher. She saw that now they were stars in the sky: one of them fell and made a long line of fire.
“Now some one is dying,” said the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only person who had been good to her, but who was now dead, had said: “When a star falls a soul mounts up to God.”
She rubbed another match against the wall; it became bright again, and in the light there stood the old grandmother clear and shining, mild and lovely.
“Grandmother!” cried the child. “Oh, take me with you! I know you will go when the match is burned out. You will go away like the warm stove, the nice roast goose, and the great glorious Christmas tree!”
And she hastily rubbed the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her grandmother fast. And the matches burned with such a glow that it became brighter than in the middle of the day; grandmother had never been so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl up in her arms, and both flew in the light and the joy so high, so high! and up there was no cold, nor hunger, nor care—they were with God.
But in the corner by the house sat the little girl, with red cheeks and smiling mouth, frozen to death on the last evening of the Old Year. The New Year's sun rose upon the little body, that sat there with the matches, of which one bundle was burned. She wanted to warm herself, the people said. No one knew what fine things she had seen, and in what glory she had gone in with her grandmother to the New Year's Day.
THE TWELVE MONTHS
A SLAV LEGEND
BY ALEXANDER CHODZKO (ADAPTED)
There was once a widow who had two daughters, Helen, her own child by her dead husband, and Marouckla, his daughter by his first wife. She loved Helen, but hated the poor orphan because she was far prettier than her own daughter.
Marouckla did not think about her good looks, and could not understand why her stepmother should be angry at the sight of her. The hardest work fell to her share. She cleaned out the rooms, cooked, washed, sewed, spun, wove, brought in the hay, milked the cow, and all this without any help.
Helen, meanwhile, did nothing but dress herself in her best clothes and go to one amusement after another.
But Marouckla never complained. She bore the scoldings and bad temper of mother and sister with a smile on her lips, and the patience of a lamb. But this angelic behavior did not soften them. They became even more tyrannical and grumpy, for Marouckla grew daily more beautiful, while Helen's ugliness increased. So the stepmother determined to get rid of Marouckla, for she knew that while she remained, her own daughter would have no suitors. Hunger, every kind of privation, abuse, every means was used to make the girl's life miserable. But in spite of it all Marouckla grew ever sweeter and more charming.
One day in the middle of winter Helen wanted some wood-violets.
“Listen,” cried she to Marouckla, “you must go up the mountain and find me violets. I want some to put in my gown. They must be fresh and sweet-scented-do you hear?”
“But, my dear sister, whoever heard of violets blooming in the snow?” said the poor orphan.
“You wretched creature! Do you dare to disobey me?” said Helen. “Not another word. Off with you! If you do not bring me some violets from the mountain forest I will kill you.”
The stepmother also added her threats to those of Helen, and with vigorous blows they pushed Marouckla outside and shut the door upon her. The weeping girl made her way to the mountain. The snow lay deep, and there was no trace of any human being. Long she wandered hither and thither, and lost herself in the wood. She was hungry, and shivered with cold, and prayed to die.
Suddenly she saw a light in the distance, and climbed toward it till she reached the top of the mountain. Upon the highest peak burned a large fire, surrounded by twelve blocks of stone on which sat twelve strange beings. Of these the first three had white hair, three were not quite so old, three were young and handsome, and the rest still younger.
There they all sat silently looking at the fire. They were the Twelve Months of the Year. The great January was placed higher than the others. His hair and mustache were white as snow, and in his hand he held a wand. At first Marouckla was afraid, but after a while her courage returned, and drawing near, she said:—
“Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? I am chilled by the winter cold.”
The great January raised his head and answered: “What brings thee here, my daughter? What dost thou seek?”
“I am looking for violets,” replied the maiden.
“This is not the season for violets. Dost thou not see the snow everywhere?” said January.
“I know well, but my sister Helen and my stepmother have ordered me to bring them violets from your mountain. If I return without them they will kill me. I pray you, good shepherds, tell me where they may be found.”
Here the great January arose and went over to the youngest of the Months, and, placing his wand in his hand, said:—
“Brother March, do thou take the highest place.”
March obeyed, at the same time waving his wand over the fire. Immediately the flames rose toward the sky, the snow began to melt and the trees and shrubs to bud. The grass became green, and from between its blades peeped the pale primrose. It was spring, and the meadows were blue with violets.
“Gather them quickly, Marouckla,” said March.
Joyfully she hastened to pick the flowers, and having soon a large bunch she thanked them and ran home. Helen and the stepmother were amazed at the sight of the flowers, the scent of which filled the house.
“Where did you find them?” asked Helen.
“Under the trees on the mountain-side,” said Marouckla.
Helen kept the flowers for herself and her mother. She did not even thank her stepsister for the trouble she had taken. The next day she desired Marouckla to fetch her strawberries.
“Run,” said she, “and fetch me strawberries from the mountain. They must be very sweet and ripe.”
“But whoever heard of strawberries ripening in the snow?” exclaimed Marouckla.
“Hold your tongue, worm; don't answer me. If I don't have my strawberries I will kill you,” said Helen.
Then the stepmother pushed Marouckla into the yard and bolted the door. The unhappy girl made her way toward the mountain and to the large fire round which sat the Twelve Months. The great January occupied the highest place.
“Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? The winter cold chills me,” said she, drawing near.
The great January raised his head and asked: “Why comest thou here? What dost thou seek?”
“I am looking for strawberries,” said she.
“We are in the midst of winter,” replied January, “strawberries do not grow in the snow.”
“I know,” said the girl sadly, “but my sister and stepmother have ordered me to bring them strawberries. If I do not they will kill me. Pray, good shepherds, tell me where to find them.”
The great January arose, crossed over to the Month opposite him, and putting the wand in his hand, said: “Brother June, do thou take the highest place.”
June obeyed, and as he waved his wand over the fire the flames leaped toward the sky. Instantly the snow melted, the earth was covered with verdure, trees were clothed with leaves, birds began to sing, and various flowers blossomed in the forest. It was summer. Under the bushes masses of star-shaped flowers changed into ripening strawberries, and instantly they covered the glade, making it look like a sea of blood.
“Gather them quickly, Marouckla,” said June.
Joyfully she thanked the Months, and having filled her apron ran happily home.
Helen and her mother wondered at seeing the strawberries, which filled the house with their delicious fragrance.
“Wherever did you find them?” asked Helen crossly.
“Right up among the mountains. Those from under the beech trees are not bad,” answered Marouckla.
Helen gave a few to her mother and ate the rest herself. Not one did she offer to her stepsister. Being tired of strawberries, on the third day she took a fancy for some fresh, red apples.
“Run, Marouckla,” said she, “and fetch me fresh, red apples from the mountain.”
“Apples in winter, sister? Why, the trees have neither leaves nor fruit!”
“Idle thing, go this minute,” said Helen; “unless you bring back apples we will kill you.”
As before, the stepmother seized her roughly and turned her out of the house. The poor girl went weeping up the mountain, across the deep snow, and on toward the fire round which were the Twelve Months. Motionless they sat there, and on the highest stone was the great January.
“Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? The winter cold chills me,” said she, drawing near.
The great January raised his head. “Why comest thou here? What does thou seek?” asked he.
“I am come to look for red apples,” replied Marouckla.
“But this is winter, and not the season for red apples,” observed the great January.
“I know,” answered the girl, “but my sister and stepmother sent me to fetch red apples from the mountain. If I return without them they will kill me.”
Thereupon the great January arose and went over to one of the elderly Months, to whom he handed the wand saying:—
“Brother September, do thou take the highest place.”
September moved to the highest stone, and waved his wand over the fire. There was a flare of red flames, the snow disappeared, but the fading leaves which trembled on the trees were sent by a cold northeast wind in yellow masses to the glade. Only a few flowers of autumn were visible. At first Marouckla looked in vain for red apples. Then she espied a tree which grew at a great height, and from the branches of this hung the bright, red fruit. September ordered her to gather some quickly. The girl was delighted and shook the tree. First one apple fell, then another.
“That is enough,” said September; “hurry home.”
Thanking the Months she returned joyfully. Helen and the stepmother wondered at seeing the fruit.
“Where did you gather them?” asked the stepsister.
“There are more on the mountain-top,” answered Marouckla.
“Then, why did you not bring more?” said Helen angrily. “You must have eaten them on your way back, you wicked girl.”
“No, dear sister, I have not even tasted them,” said Marouckla. “I shook the tree twice. One apple fell each time. Some shepherds would not allow me to shake it again, but told me to return home.”
“Listen, mother,” said Helen. “Give me my cloak. I will fetch some more apples myself. I shall be able to find the mountain and the tree. The shepherds may cry 'Stop!' but I will not leave go till I have shaken down all the apples.”
In spite of her mother's advice she wrapped herself in her pelisse, put on a warm hood, and took the road to the mountain. Snow covered everything. Helen lost herself and wandered hither and thither. After a while she saw a light above her, and, following in its direction, reached the mountain-top.
There was the flaming fire, the twelve blocks of stone, and the Twelve Months. At first she was frightened and hesitated; then she came nearer and warmed her hands. She did not ask permission, nor did she speak one polite word.
“What hath brought thee here? What dost thou seek?” said the great January severely.
“I am not obliged to tell you, old graybeard. What business is it of yours?” she replied disdainfully, turning her back on the fire and going toward the forest.
The great January frowned, and waved his wand over his head. Instantly the sky became covered with clouds, the fire went down, snow fell in large flakes, an icy wind howled round the mountain. Amid the fury of the storm Helen stumbled about. The pelisse failed to warm her benumbed limbs.
The mother kept on waiting for her. She looked from the window, she watched from the doorstep, but her daughter came not. The hours passed slowly, but Helen did not return.
“Can it be that the apples have charmed her from her home?” thought the mother. Then she clad herself in hood and pelisse, and went in search of her daughter. Snow fell in huge masses. It covered all things. For long she wandered hither and thither, the icy northeast wind whistled in the mountain, but no voice answered her cries.
Day after day Marouckla worked, and prayed, and waited, but neither stepmother nor sister returned. They had been frozen to death on the mountain.
The inheritance of a small house, a field, and a cow fell to Marouckla. In course of time an honest farmer came to share them with her, and their lives were happy and peaceful.