CHAPTER VIII.

STORIES IN FULL.

THE following three stories have for so long formed a part of my repertory that I have been requested to include them in my book, and, in order to associate myself more completely with them, I am presenting a translation of my own from the original Danish version.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

You must know that in China the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all those around him are also Chinamen. It is many years since all this happened, and for that very reason it is worth hearing, before it is forgotten.

There was no palace in the world more beautiful than the Emperor's; it was very costly, all of fine porcelain, but it was so delicate and brittle, that it was very difficult to touch, and you had to be very careful in doing so. The most wonderful flowers could be seen in the garden, and silver tinkling bells were tied on to the most beautiful of these, for fear people should pass by without noticing them. How well everything had been thought out in the Emperor's garden--which was so big, that even the gardener himself did not know how big. If you walked on and on you came to the most beautiful wood, with tall trees and deep lakes. This wood stretched right down to the sea, which was blue and deep; great ships could pass underneath the branches, and in these branches a nightingale had made its home, and its singing was so entrancing that the poor fisherman, though he had so many other things to do, would lie still and listen when he was out at night drawing in his nets.

“Heavens! how lovely that is!” he said: but then he was forced to think about his own affairs, and the nightingale was forgotten; but the next day, when it sang again, the fisherman said the same thing: “Heavens! how lovely that is!”

Travellers from all the countries of the world came to the Emperor's town, and expressed their admiration for the palace and the garden, but when they heard the nightingale, they all said in one breath: “That is the best of all!”

Now, when these travellers came home, they told of what they had seen. The scholars wrote many books about the town, the palace and the garden, but nobody left the nightingale out: it was always spoken of as the most wonderful of all they had seen, and those who had the gift of the Poet wrote the most delightful poems all about the nightingale in the wood near the deep lake.

The books went round the world, and in course of time some of them reached the Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read and read, nodding his head every minute; for it pleased him to read the beautiful descriptions of the town, the palace and the garden; and then he found in the book the following words: “But the Nightingale is the best of all.”

“What is this?” said the Emperor. “The nightingale! I know nothing whatever about it. To think of there being such a bird in my Kingdom--nay, in my very garden--and I have never heard it! And one has to learn of such a thing for the first time from a book!”

Then he summoned his Lord-in-Waiting, who was such a grand creature that if any one inferior in rank ventured to speak to him, or ask him about anything, he merely uttered the sound “P,” which meant nothing whatever.

“There is said to be a most wonderful bird, called the Nightingale,” said the Emperor; “they say it is the best thing in my great Kingdom. Why have I been told nothing about it?”

“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “It has certainly never been presented at court.”

“It is my good pleasure that it shall appear here to-night and sing before me!” said the Emperor. “The whole world knows what is mine, and I myself do not know it.”

“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “I will seek it, and I shall find it.”

But where was it to be found? The Lord-in-Waiting ran up and down all the stairs, through the halls and the passages, but not one of all those whom he met had ever heard a word about the Nightingale. The Lord-in-Waiting ran back to the Emperor and told him that it must certainly be a fable invented by writers of books.

“Your Majesty must not believe all that is written in books. It is pure invention, besides something which is called the Black Art.”

“But,” said the Emperor, “the book in which I read this was sent to me by His Majesty the Emperor of Japan, and therefore this cannot be a falsehood. I insist on hearing the Nightingale: it must appear this evening. It has my gracious favour, and if it fails to appear, the court shall be trampled upon after the court has supped.”

“Tsing-pe!” said the Lord-in-Waiting, and again he ran up and down all the stairs, through all the halls and passages, and half the court ran with him, for they had no wish to be trampled upon. And many questions were asked about the wonderful Nightingale of whom all had heard except those who lived at court.

At last, they met a poor little girl in the kitchen. She said: “Heavens! The Nightingale! I know it well! Yes, how it can sing! Every evening I have permission to take the broken pieces from the table to my poor sick mother who lives near the seashore, and on my way back, when I feel tired and rest a while in the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing, and my eyes are filled with tears: it is just as if my mother kissed me.”

“Little kitchen-girl,” said the Lord-in-Waiting, “I will get a permanent position for you in the Court Kitchen and permission to see the Emperor dine, if you can lead us to the Nightingale; for it has received orders to appear at Court to-night.”

So they started off all together for the wood where the bird was wont to sing: half the court went too. They were going along at a good pace when suddenly they heard a cow lowing.

“Oh,” said a court-page. “There you have it. That is a wonderful power for so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before.”

“No, those are the cows lowing,” said the little kitchen girl. “We are a long way from the place yet.”

And then the frogs began to croak in the pond.

“Beautiful,” said the Court Preacher. “Now, I hear it--it is just like little church bells.”

“No, those are the frogs,” said the little Kitchen maid. “But now I think that we shall soon hear it.”

And then the Nightingale began to sing.

“There it is,” said the little girl. “Listen, listen--there it sits.” And she pointed to a little grey bird in the branches.

“Is it possible!” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “I had never supposed it would look like that. How very plain it looks! It has certainly lost its colour from seeing so many grand folk around it.”

“Little Nightingale,” called out the little Kitchen girl, “our gracious Emperor would be so glad if you would sing for him.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” said the Nightingale. It sang, and it was a joy to hear it.

“Just like little glass bells,” said the Lord-in-Waiting; “and just look at the little throat, how active it is! It is astonishing to think we have never heard it before! It will have a real _success_ at Court.”

“Shall I sing for the Emperor again?” said the Nightingale, who thought that the Emperor was there in person.

“Mine excellent little Nightingale,” said the Lord-in-Waiting, “I have the great pleasure of bidding you to a Court-Festival this night, when you will enchant His Imperial Majesty with your delightful warbling.”

“My voice sounds better among the green trees,” said the Nightingale. But it came willingly when it knew that the Emperor wished it.

There was a great deal of furbishing up at the Palace. The walls and ceiling, which were of porcelain, shone with a light of a thousand golden lamps. The most beautiful flowers of the tinkling kind were placed in the passages. There was running to and fro, and a thorough draught. But that is just what made the bells ring: one could not oneself. In the middle of the large hall where the Emperor sat, a golden rod had been set up on which the Nightingale was to perch. The whole Court was present, and the little Kitchen-maid was allowed to stand behind the door, for she had now the actual title of a Court Kitchen Maid. All were there in their smartest clothes, and they all looked towards the little grey bird to which the Emperor nodded.

And the Nightingale sang so delightfully that tears sprang into the Emperor's eyes and rolled down his cheeks; and then the Nightingale sang even more beautifully. The song went straight to the heart, and the Emperor was so delighted that he declared that the Nightingale should have his golden slipper to hang round its neck. But the Nightingale declined. It had already had its reward.

“I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes. That to me is the richest tribute. An Emperor's tears have a wonderful power. God knows my reward is great enough,” and again its sweet, glorious voice was heard.

“That is the most delightful coquetting I have ever known,” said the ladies sitting round, and they took water into their mouths, in order to gurgle when anyone spoke to them, and they really thought they were like the Nightingale. Even the footmen and the chambermaids sent word that they, too, were satisfied, and that means a great deal, for these are the people whom it is most difficult to please. There was no doubt as to the Nightingale's success. It was sure to stay at Court, and have its own cage, with liberty to go out twice in the daytime, and once at night. Twelve servants went out with it, and each held a silk ribbon which was tied to the bird's leg, and they held it very tightly. There was not much pleasure in going out under those conditions. The whole town was talking of the wonderful bird, and when two people met, one said: “Nightin-” and the other said “gale,” and they sighed and understood one another. Eleven cheese-mongers' children were called after the bird, though none of them had a note in his voice. One day a large parcel came for the Emperor. Outside was written the word: “Nightingale.”

“Here we have a new book about our wonderful bird,” said the Emperor. But it was not a book; it was a little work of art which lay in a box--an artificial Nightingale, which was supposed to look like the real one, but it was set in diamonds, rubies and sapphires. As soon as you wound it up, it could sing one of the pieces which the real bird sang, and its tail moved up and down and glittered with silver and gold. Round its neck was a ribbon on which was written: “The Emperor of Japan's Nightingale is miserable compared with the Emperor of China's.”

“That is delightful,” they all said, and on the messenger who had brought the artificial bird they bestowed the title of “Imperial Nightingale-Bringer-in-Chief.”

“Let them sing together, and _what_ a duet that will be!”

And so they had to sing, but the thing would not work, because the real Nightingale could only sing in its own way, and the artificial Nightingale could only play by clock-work.

“That is not its fault,” said the Band Master. “Time is its strong point, and it has quite my method.”

Then the artificial Nightingale had to sing alone. It had just as much success as the real bird, and then it was so much handsomer to look at: it glittered like bracelets and breast-pins. It sang the same tune three and thirty times, and it was still not tired: the people would willingly have listened to the whole performance over again from the start. But the Emperor suggested that the real Nightingale should sing for a while. But where was it? Nobody had noticed that it had flown out of the open window back to its green woods.

“But what is the meaning of all this?” said the Emperor. All the courtiers upbraided the Nightingale and said that it was a most ungrateful creature.

“We have the better of the two,” they said, and the artificial Nightingale had to sing again, and this was the thirty-fourth time they heard the same tune. But they did not know it properly even then, because it was so difficult, and the bandmaster praised the wonderful bird in the highest terms, and even asserted that it was superior to the real bird, not only as regarded the outside, with the many lovely diamonds, but also the inside as well.

“You see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all your Imperial Majesty, that with the real Nightingale, you can never predict what may happen, but with the artificial bird, everything is settled upon beforehand; so it remains and it cannot be changed. One can account for it. One can rip it open and show the human ingenuity, explaining how the cylinders lie, how they work, and how one thing is the result of another.”

“That is just what we think,” they all exclaimed, and the Bandmaster received permission to exhibit the bird to the people on the following Sunday. The Emperor said they were to hear it sing. They listened, and were as much delighted as if they had been drunk with tea, which is a thoroughly Chinese habit, and they all said “Oh!” and stuck their forefingers in the air, and nodded their heads. But the poor Fisherman who had heard the real Nightingale, said: “It sounds quite well, and a little like it, but there is something missing. I do not know what it is.”

The real Nightingale was banished from the Kingdom. The artificial bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor's bed. All the presents it had received, the gold and precious stones, lay all round it, and it had been honoured with the title of High Imperial Bedroom Singer--in the first rank, on the left side, for even the Emperor considered that side the grander on which the heart is placed, and even an Emperor has his heart on the left side. The Bandmaster wrote twenty-five volumes about the wonderful artificial bird. The book was very learned and very long, filled with the most difficult words in the Chinese language, and everybody said that he had read it and understood it, for otherwise he would have been considered stupid, and would have been trampled upon.

And thus a whole year passed away. The Emperor, the Court and all the other Chinese knew every little gurgle in the artificial bird's song, and just for this reason, they were all the better pleased with it. They could sing it themselves--which they did. The boys in the street sang “zizizi” and “cluck, cluck,” and even the Emperor sang it. Yes, it was certainly beautiful. But one evening, while the bird was singing, and the Emperor lay in bed listening to it, there was a whirring sound inside the bird, and something whizzed; all the wheels ran round, and the music stopped. The Emperor sprang out of bed and sent for the Court Physician, but what could he do? Then they sent for the watch-maker, and after much talk and examination, he patched the bird up, but he said it must be spared as much as possible, because the hammers were so worn out and he could not put new ones in so that the music could be counted on. This was a great grief. The bird could only be allowed to sing once a year, and even that was risky, but on these occasions the Bandmaster would make a little speech, introducing difficult words, saying the bird was as good as it ever had been: and that was true.

Five years passed away, and a great sorrow had come over the land. The people all really cared for their Emperor: now he was ill and it was said he could not live. A new Emperor had been chosen, and the people stood about the streets, and questioned the Lord-in-Waiting about their Emperor's condition.

“P!” he said, and shook his head.

The Emperor lay pale and cold on his great, gorgeous bed: the whole Court believed that he was dead, and they all hastened to pay homage to the new Emperor. The footmen hurried off to discuss matters, and the chambermaids gave a great coffee party. Cloth had been laid down in all the rooms and passages, so that not a footstep should be heard and it was all fearfully quiet. But the Emperor was not yet dead. He lay stiff and pale in the sumptuous bed, with its long, velvet curtains, and the heavy gold tassels: just above was an open window, and the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the artificial bird. The poor Emperor could hardly breathe: it was as if something were weighing him down: he opened his eyes and saw it was Death, sitting on his chest, wearing his golden crown, holding in one hand the golden sword, and in the other the splendid banner: and from the folds of the velvet curtains strange faces peered forth, some terrible to look on, others mild and friendly: these were the Emperor's good and bad deeds, which gazed upon him now that Death sat upon his heart.

“Do you remember this?” whispered one after the other. “Do you remember that?” They told him so much that the sweat poured down his face.

“I never knew that,” said the Emperor. “Play music! music! Beat the great Chinese drum!” he called out, “so that I may not hear what they are saying!”

But they kept on, and Death nodded his head, like a Chinaman, at everything they said.

“Music, music,” cried the Emperor. “You little precious bird! Sing to me, ah! sing to me! I have given you gold and costly treasures. I have hung my golden slipper about your neck. Sing to me. Sing to me!”

But the bird stood still: there was no one to wind him up, and therefore he could not sing. But Death went on, staring at the Emperor with his great hollow sockets, and it was terribly still.

Then, suddenly, close to the window, came the sound of a lovely song. It was the little live Nightingale which perched on the branches outside. It had heard of its Emperor's plight, and had therefore flown hither to bring him comfort and hope, and as he sang, the faces became paler and the blood coursed more freely through the Emperor's weak body, and Death himself listened and said: “Go on, little Nightingale. Go on.”

“And will you give me the splendid sword, and the rich banner and the Emperor's crown?”

And Death gave all these treasures for a song. And still the Nightingale sang on. He sang of the quiet churchyard, where the white roses grow, where the Elder flowers bloom, and where the grass is kept moist by the tears of the survivors, and there came to Death such a longing to see his garden, that he floated out of the window, in the form of a white, cold mist.

“Thank you, thank you,” said the Emperor. “You heavenly little bird, I know you well! I banished you from the land, and you have charmed away the evil spirits from my bed, and you have driven Death from my heart. How shall I reward you?”

“You have rewarded me,” said the Nightingale. “I received tears from your eyes the first time I sang, and I never forget that. These are jewels which touch the heart of the singer. But sleep now, that you may wake fresh and strong. I will sing to you,” and it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet sleep. The sun shone in upon him through the window, and he woke feeling strong and healthy. None of his servants had come back, because they thought he was dead, but the Nightingale was still singing.

“You will always stay with me,” said the Emperor. “You shall only sing when it pleases you, and I will break the artificial Nightingale into a thousand pieces.”

“Do not do that,” said the Nightingale. “It has done the best it could. Keep it with you. I cannot build my nest in a palace, but let me come just as I please. I will sit on the branch near the window, and sing to you that you may be joyful and thoughtful too. I will sing to you of the happy folk, and of those that suffer; I will sing of the evil and of the good, which is being hidden from you. The little singing bird flies hither and thither, to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's hut, to many who live far from you and the Court. Your heart is dearer to me than your crown, and yet the crown has a breath of sanctity too. I will come; I will sing to you, but one thing you must promise.”

“All that you ask,” said the Emperor and stood there in his imperial robes which he had put on himself, and held the heavy golden sword on his heart.

“I beg you, let no one know that you have a little bird who tells you everything. It will be far better thus,” and the Nightingale flew away.

The servants came to look upon their dead Emperor: they stood there and the Emperor said “Good morning.”

(_From Hans. C. Andersen, translated from the Danish by Marie L. Shedlock._)

THE SWINEHERD.

There was once upon a time a needy prince. He owned a Kingdom--a very small one, but it was large enough to support a wife, and he made up his mind to marry. Now, it was really very bold on his part to say of the King's daughter: “Will you marry me?” But he dared to do so, for his name was known far and wide, and there were hundreds of princesses who would willingly have said: “Yes, with thanks.” But, whether she would say so, was another matter. We shall hear what happened.

On the grave of the Prince's father there grew a rose-tree--such a wonderful rose-tree! It only bloomed once in five years, and then it only bore one rose--but what a rose! Its perfume was so sweet that whoever smelt it forgot all his cares and sorrows. The Prince had also a Nightingale which could sing as if all the delicious melodies in the world were contained in its little throat. The rose and the Nightingale were both to be given to the Princess and were therefore placed in two silver cases and sent to her. The Emperor had them carried before him into the great hall where the Princess was playing at “visiting” with her ladies-in-waiting. This was their chief occupation; and when she saw the great cases with the presents in them, she clapped her hands with joy.

“If it were only a little pussy-cat,” she cried. But out came the beautiful rose.

“How elegantly it is made,” said all the ladies of the Court.

“It is more than elegant,” said the Emperor; “it is nice.”

“Fie, papa,” she said, “it is not made at all; it is a natural rose.”

“Fie,” said all the ladies of the court; “it is a natural rose.”

“Let us see what the other case contains before we lose our temper,” said the Emperor, and then out came the little Nightingale and sang so sweetly that nobody right off could think of any bad thing to say of it.

“Superbe, charmant,” cried the ladies of the Court, for they all chattered French, one worse than the other.

“How the bird reminds me of the late Empress' musical-box!” said an old Lord-in-Waiting. “Ah me! The same tone, the same execution----”

“The very same,” said the Emperor, and he cried like a little child.

“I hope it is not a real bird,” said the Princess.

“Oh yes; it is a real bird,” said those who had brought it.

“Then let the bird fly away,” she said, and she would on no account allow the Prince to come in.

But he was not to be discouraged. He smeared his face with black and brown, drew his cap over his forehead, and knocked at the Palace door. The Emperor opened it.

“Good day, Emperor,” he said. “Could I not get some work at the Palace?”

“There are so many who apply for positions here!” said the Emperor. “Now let me see: I am in want of a swineherd. I have a good many pigs to keep.”

So the Prince was appointed as Imperial Swineherd. He had a wretched little room near the pig-sty and here he was obliged to stay. But the whole day he sat and worked, and by the evening he had made a neat little pipkin, and round it was a set of bells, and as soon as the pot began to boil, the bells fell to jingling most sweetly and played the old melody:

“Ah, my dear Augustus, All is lost, all is lost;”

but the most wonderful thing was that when you held your finger in the steam of the pipkin, you could immediately smell what dinner was cooking on every hearth in the town--that was something very different from a rose.

The Princess was walking out with her ladies-in-Waiting, and when she heard the melody, she stopped short, and looked much rejoiced, for she could play “Ah, my dear Augustus.” That was the only tune she knew, but she could play it with one finger. “Why, that is what I can play,” she said. “What a cultivated swineherd he must be. Go down and ask him how much his instrument costs.”

So one of the Ladies-in-Waiting was obliged to go down, but she put on pattens first.

“What do you charge for your instrument?” asked the Lady-in-Waiting.

“I will have ten kisses from the Princess,” said the Swineherd.

“Good gracious!” said the Lady-in-Waiting.

“I will not take less,” said the Swineherd.

“Well, what did he say?” asked the Princess.

“I really cannot tell you,” said the Lady-in-Waiting. “It is too dreadful.”

“Then you can whisper it,” said the Princess.

So she whispered it.

“He is very rude,” said the Princess, and she walked away. But when she had walked a few steps the bells sounded so sweetly:

“Ah, my dear Augustus, All is lost, all is lost.”

“Listen,” said the Princess, “ask him whether he will have his kisses from my Ladies-in-Waiting.”

“No, thank you,” said the Swineherd. “I will have ten kisses from the Princess, or I will keep my pipkin.”

“How tiresome it is,” said the Princess; “but you must stand round me, so that nobody shall see.”

So the Ladies-in-Waiting stood round her, and they spread out their dresses. The Swineherd got the kisses, and she got the pipkin.

How delighted she was. All the evening, and the whole of the next day that pot was made to boil. And you might have known what everybody was cooking on every hearth in the town from the Chamberlain's to the shoemaker's. The court ladies danced and clapped their hands.

“We know who is to have fruit, soup and pancakes. We know who is going to have porridge, and cutlets. How very interesting it is!”

“Most, interesting, indeed,” said the first Lady-of-Honour.

“Yes, but hold your tongues, because I am the Emperor's daughter.”

“Of course we will,” they cried in one breath.

The Swineherd, or rather the Prince, though they did not know but that he was a real swineherd, did not let the day pass without doing something, and he made a rattle which could play all the waltzes and the polkas and the hop-dances which had been known since the creation of the world.

“But this is superb,” said the Princess, who was just passing: “I have never heard more beautiful composition. Go and ask him the cost of the instrument. But I will give no more kisses.”

“He insists on a hundred kisses from the Princess,” said the Ladies-in-Waiting who had been down to ask.

“I think he must be quite mad,” said the Princess, and she walked away. But when she had taken a few steps, she stopped short, and said: “One must encourage the fine arts, and I am the Emperor's daughter. Tell him he may have ten kisses, as before, and the rest he can take from my Ladies-in-Waiting.”

“Yes, but we object to that,” said the Ladies-in-Waiting.

“That is nonsense,” said the Princess. “If I can kiss him, surely you can do the same. Go down at once. Don't I pay you board and wages?”

So the Ladies-in-Waiting were obliged to go down to the Swineherd again.

“A hundred kisses from the Princess, or each keeps his own.”

“Stand round me,” she said. And all the Ladies-in-Waiting stood round her, and the Swineherd began to kiss her.

“What can all that crowd be down by the pigsty?” said the Emperor, stepping out on to the balcony. He rubbed his eyes and put on his spectacles. “It is the court-ladies up to some of their tricks. I must go down and look after them.” He pulled up his slippers (for they were shoes which he had trodden down at the heel).

Heavens! How he hurried! As soon as he came into the garden he walked very softly, and the Ladies-in-Waiting had so much to do counting the kisses, so that everything should be done fairly, and that the Swineherd should neither get too many nor too few, that they never noticed the Emperor at all. He stood on tiptoe.

“What is this all about?” he said, when he saw the kissing that was going on, and he hit them on the head with his slipper, just as the Swineherd was getting the eighty-sixth kiss. “Heraus,” said the Emperor, for he was angry, and both the Princess and the Swineherd were turned out of his Kingdom.

The Princess wept, the Swineherd scolded, and the rain streamed down.

“Ah! wretched creature that I am,” said the Princess. “If I had only taken the handsome Prince! Ah me, how unhappy I am!”

Then the Swineherd went behind a tree, washed the black and brown off his face, threw off his ragged clothes, and stood forth in his royal apparel, looking so handsome that she was obliged to curtsey.

“I have learned to despise you,” he said. “You would not have an honourable Prince. You could not appreciate a rose or a Nightingale, but to get a toy, you kissed the Swineherd. Now you have your reward.”

So he went into his Kingdom, shut the door and bolted it, and she had to stand outside singing:

“Ah, you dear Augustus, All, all is lost.”

(_From the Danish of Hans C. Andersen, translated by Marie L. Shedlock._)

THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA.

There was once a Prince who wished to marry a Princess, but she must be a real Princess. He travelled all over the world to find such a one; but there was always something the matter. There were plenty of Princesses, but whether they were real or not, he could not be quite certain. There was always something that was not quite right. So he came home again, feeling very sad, for he was so anxious to have a real Princess.

One evening a terrible storm came on: it lightened, and thundered and the rain came down in torrents. It was quite terrible. Then there came a knocking at the town-gate, and the old King went down to open it. There, outside, stood a Princess. But gracious! the rain and bad weather had made her look dreadful. The water was running out of her hair on to her clothes, into the tips of her shoes and out at the heels, and yet she said she was a real Princess.

“We shall soon find out about that,” thought the old Queen. But she said never a word. She went into the bedroom, took off all the bed-clothes and put a pea on the bedstead. Then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on the pea and twenty eider-down quilts upon the mattresses. And the Princess was to sleep there at night.

In the morning they came to her and asked her how she had slept.

“Oh! dreadfully,” said the Princess. “I scarcely closed my eyes the whole night long. Heaven knows what could have been in the bed. I have lain upon something hard, so that my whole body is black and blue. It is quite dreadful.”

So they could see now that she was a real Princess, because she had felt the pea through twenty mattresses and twenty eider-down quilts. Nobody but a real Princess could be so sensitive.

So the Prince married her, for now he knew that he had found a real Princess, and the pea was sent to an Art Museum, where it can still be seen, if nobody has taken it away.

Now, mark you: This is a true story.

(_Translated from the Danish of Hans C. Andersen by Marie L. Shedlock._)

I give the following story, quoted by Professor Ker in his Romanes Lecture, 1906, as an encouragement to those who develop the art of story-telling.

THE STORY OF STURLA.

Then Sturla got ready to sail away with the king, and his name was put on the list. He went on board before many men had come; he had a sleeping bag and a travelling chest, and took his place on the fore-deck. A little later the king came on to the quay, and a company of men with him. Sturla rose and bowed, and bade the king ‘hail,’ but the king answered nothing, and went aft along the ship to the quarter-deck. They sailed that day to go south along the coast. But in the evening when men unpacked their provisions Sturla sat still, and no one invited him to mess. Then a servant of the king's came and asked Sturla if he had any meat and drink. Sturla said ‘No.’ Then the king's servant went to the king and spoke with him, out of hearing: and then went forward to Sturla and said: “You shall go to mess with Thorir Mouth and Erlend Maw.” They took him into their mess, but rather stiffly. When men were turning in to sleep, a sailor of the king's asked who should tell them stories. There was little answer. Then he said: “Sturla the Icelander, will you tell stories?” “As you will,” said Sturla. So he told them the story of Huld, better and fuller than any one there had ever heard it told before. Then many men pushed forward to the fore-deck, wanting to hear as clearly as might be, and there was a great crowd. The queen asked: “What is that crowd on deck there?” A man answered: “The men are listening to the story that the Icelander tells.” “What story is that?” said she. He answers: “It is about a great troll-wife, and it is a good story and well told.” The king bade her pay no heed to that, and go to sleep. She says: “I think this Icelander must be a good fellow, and less to blame than he is reported.” The king was silent.

So the night passed, and the next morning there was no wind for them, and the king's ship lay in the same place. Later in the day, when men sat at their drink, the king sent dishes from his table to Sturla. Sturla's messmates were pleased with this: “You bring better luck than we thought, if this sort of thing goes on.” After dinner the queen sent for Sturla and asked him to come to her and bring the troll-wife story along with him. So Sturla went aft to the quarter-deck, and greeted the king and queen. The king answered little, the queen well and cheerfully. She asked him to tell the same story he had told overnight. He did so, for a great part of the day. When he had finished, the queen thanked him, and many others besides, and made him out in their minds to be a learned man and sensible. But the king said nothing; only he smiled a little. Sturla thought he saw that the king's whole frame of mind was brighter than the day before. So he said to the king that he had made a poem about him, and another about his father: “I would gladly get a hearing for them.” The queen said: “Let him recite his poem; I am told that he is the best of poets, and his poem will be excellent.” The king bade him say on, if he would, and repeat the poem he professed to have made about him. Sturla chanted it to the end. The queen said: “To my mind that is a good poem.” The king said to her: “Can you follow the poem clearly?” “I would be fain to have you think so, Sir,” said the queen. The king said: “I have learned that Sturla is good at verses.” Sturla took his leave of the king and queen and went to his place. There was no sailing for the king all that day. In the evening before he went to bed he sent for Sturla. And when he came he greeted the king and said: “What will you have me to do, Sir?” The king called for a silver goblet full of wine, and drank some and gave it to Sturla and said: “A health to a friend in wine!” (_Vin skal til vinar drekka._) Sturla said: “God be praised for it!” “Even so,” says the king, “and now I wish you to say the poem you have made about my father.” Sturla repeated it: and when it was finished men praised it much, and most of all the queen. The king said: “To my thinking, you are a better reciter than the Pope.”

_Sturlunga Saga_, vol. ii, pp. 269 _sqq._

A SAGA.

In the grey beginnings of the world, or ever the flower of justice had rooted in the heart, there lived among the daughters of men two children, sisters, of one house.

In childhood did they leap and climb and swim with the men children of their race, and were nurtured on the same stories of gods and heroes.

In maidenhood they could do all that a maiden might and more--delve could they no less than spin, hunt no less than weave, brew pottage and helm ships, wake the harp and tell the stars, face all danger and laugh at all pain.

Joyous in toil-time and rest-time were they as the days and years of their youth came and went. Death had spared their house, and unhappiness knew they none. Yet often as at falling day they sat before sleep round the hearth of red fire, listening with the household to the brave songs of gods and heroes, there would surely creep into their hearts a shadow--the thought that whatever the years of their lives, and whatever the generous deeds, there would for them, as women, be no escape at the last from the dire mists of Hela, the fogland beyond the grave for all such as die not in battle; no escape for them from Hela, and no place for ever for them or for their kind among the glory-crowned, sword-shriven heroes of echoing Valhalla.

That shadow had first fallen in their lusty childhood, had slowly gathered darkness through the overflowing days of maidenhood, and now, in the strong tide of full womanhood, often lay upon their future as the moon in Odin's wrath lies upon the sun.

But stout were they to face danger and laugh at pain, and for all the shadow upon their hope they lived brave and songful days--the one a homekeeper and in her turn a mother of men; the other unhusbanded, but gentle to ignorance and sickness and sorrow through the width and length of the land.

And thus, facing life fearlessly and ever with a smile, those two women lived even unto extreme old age, unto the one's children's children's children, labouring truly unto the end and keeping strong hearts against the dread day of Hela, and the fate-locked gates of Valhalla.

But at the end a wonder.

As these sisters looked their last upon the sun, the one in the ancestral homestead under the eyes of love, the other in a distant land among strange faces, behold the wind of Thor, and out of the deep of heaven the white horses of Odin, All-Father, bearing Valkyrie, shining messengers of Valhalla. And those two world-worn women, faithful in all their lives, were caught up in death in divine arms and borne far from the fogs of Hela to golden thrones among the battle heroes, upon which the Nornir, sitting at the loom of life, had from all eternity graven their names.

And from that hour have the gates of Valhalla been thrown wide to all faithful endeavour whether of man or of women.

JOHN RUSSELL, Headmaster of the King Alfred School.

THE LEGEND OF ST. CHRISTOPHER.

Christopher was of the lineage of the Canaaneans and he was of a right great stature, and had a terrible and fearful cheer and countenance. And he was twelve cubits of length. And, as it is read in some histories, when he served and dwelled with the king of Canaaneans, it came in his mind that he would seek the greatest prince that was in the world and him he would serve and obey.

And so far he went that he came to a right great king, of whom the renown generally was that he was the greatest of the world. And when the king saw him he received him into his service and made him to dwell in his court.

Upon a time a minstrel sang before him a song in which he named oft the devil. And the king which was a Christian man, when he heard him name the devil, made anon the sign of the cross in his visage. And when Christopher saw that, he had great marvel what sign it was and wherefore the king made it. And he demanded it of him. And because the king would not say, he said, “If thou tell me not, I shall no longer dwell with thee.” And then the king told to him saying, “Alway when I hear the devil named, I fear that he should have power over me, and I garnish me with this sign that he grieve not nor annoy me.” Then Christopher said to him, “Thou doubtest the devil that he hurt thee not? Then is the devil more mighty and greater than thou art. I am then deceived of my hope and purpose; for I supposed that I had found the most mighty and the most greatest lord of the world. But I commend thee to God, for I will go seek him to be my lord and I his servant.”

And then he departed from this king and hasted him to seek the devil. And as he went by a great desert he saw a great company of knights. Of which a knight cruel and horrible came to him and demanded whither he went. And Christopher answered to him and said, “I go to seek the devil for to be my master.” And he said, “I am he that thou seekest.” And then Christopher was glad and bound himself to be his servant perpetual, and took him for his master and lord.

And as they went together by a common way, they found there a cross erect and standing. And anon as the devil saw the cross, he was afeard and fled, and left the right way and brought Christopher about by a sharp desert, and after, when they were past the cross, he brought him to the highway that they had left. And when Christopher saw that, he marvelled and demanded whereof he doubted that he had left high and fair way and had gone so far about by so hard desert. And the devil would not tell to him in no wise. Then Christopher said to him, “If thou wilt not tell me I shall anon depart from thee and shall serve thee no more.” Therefore the devil was constrained to tell him, and said, “There was a man called Christ which was hanged on the cross, and when I see his sign, I am sore afeard and flee from it wheresomever I find it.” To whom Christopher said, “Then he is greater and more mightier than thou, when thou art afraid of his sign. And I see well that I have laboured in vain since I have not founden the greatest lord of all the earth. And I will serve thee no longer. Go thy way then: for I will go seek Jesus Christ.”

And when he had long sought and demanded where he should find Christ, at the last he came into a great desert to an hermit that dwelled there. And this hermit preached to him of Jesus Christ and informed him in the faith diligently. And he said to him, “This king whom thou desirest to serve, requireth this service that thou must oft fast.” And Christopher said to him, “Require of me some other thing and I shall do it. For that which thou requirest I may not do.” And the hermit said, “Thou must then wake and make many prayers.” And Christopher said to him, “I wot not what it is. I may do no such thing.” And then the hermit said unto him, “Knowest thou such a river in which many be perished and lost?” To whom Christopher said, “I know it well.” Then said the hermit, “Because thou art noble and high of stature and strong in thy members, thou shalt be resident by that river and shalt bear over all them that shall pass there. Which shall be a thing right convenable to Our Lord Jesus Christ, whom thou desirest to serve, and I hope He shall shew Himself to thee.” Then said Christopher, “Certes, this service may I well do, and I promise to Him for to do it.”

Then went Christopher to this river, and made there his habitation for him. And he bare a great pole in his hand instead of a staff, by which he sustained him in the water; and bare over all manner of people without ceasing. And there he abode, thus doing many days.

And on a time, as he slept in his lodge, he heard the voice of a child which called him and said, “Christopher, come out and bear me over.” Then he awoke and went out; but he found no man. And when he was again in his house, he heard the same voice, and he ran out and found nobody. The third time he was called, and came thither, and found a child beside the rivage of the river: which prayed him goodly to bear him over the water. And then Christopher lift up the child on his shoulders and took his staff and entered into the river for to pass. And the water of the river arose and swelled more and more. And the child was heavy as lead. And always as he went further the water increased and grew more, and the child more and more waxed heavy: in so much that Christopher had great anguish and feared to be drowned. And when he was escaped with great pain and passed the water, and set the child aground, he said to the child, “Child, thou hast put me in great peril. Thou weighest almost as I had had all the world upon me. I might bear no greater burden.” And the child answered, “Christopher, marvel thou no thing. For thou hast not only borne all the world upon thee; but thou hast borne Him that created and made all the world upon thy shoulders. I am Jesus Christ, the King to whom thou servest in this work. And that thou mayest know that I say to thee truth, set thy staff in the earth by the house, and thou shalt see to-morrow that it shall bear flowers and fruit.” And anon he vanished from his eyes.

And then Christopher set his staff in the earth and when he arose on the morrow, he found his staff like a palm-tree bearing flowers, leaves and dates.

ARTHUR IN THE CAVE.

Once upon a time a Welshman was walking on London Bridge, staring at the traffic and wondering why there were so many kites hovering about. He had come to London, after many adventures with thieves and highwaymen, which need not be related here, in charge of a herd of black Welsh cattle. He had sold them with much profit, and with jingling gold in his pocket he was going about to see the sights of the city.

He was carrying a hazel staff in his hand, for you must know that a good staff is as necessary to a drover as teeth are to his dogs. He stood still to gaze at some wares in a shop (for at that time London Bridge was shops from beginning to end), when he noticed that a man was looking at his stick with a long fixed look. The man after a while came to him and asked him where he came from.

“I come from my own country,” said the Welshman, rather surlily, for he could not see what business the man had to ask such a question.

“Do not take it amiss,” said the stranger: “if you will only answer my questions, and take my advice, it will be greater benefit to you than you imagine. Do you remember where you cut that stick?”

The Welshman was still suspicious, and said: “What does it matter where I cut it?”

“It matters,” said the questioner, “because there is a treasure hidden near the spot where you cut that stick. If you can remember the place and conduct me to it, I will put you in possession of great riches.”

The Welshman now understood he had to deal with a sorcerer, and he was greatly perplexed as to what to do. On the one hand, he was tempted by the prospect of wealth; on the other hand, he knew that the sorcerer must have derived his knowledge from devils, and he feared to have anything to do with the powers of darkness. The cunning man strove hard to persuade him, and at length made him promise to shew the place where he cut his hazel staff.

The Welshman and the magician journeyed together to Wales. They went to Craig y Dinas, the Rock of the Fortress, at the head of the Neath valley, near Pont Nedd Fechan, and the Welshman, pointing to the stock or root of an old hazel, said: “This is where I cut my stick.”

“Let us dig,” said the sorcerer. They digged until they came to a broad, flat stone. Prising this up, they found some steps leading downwards. They went down the steps and along a narrow passage until they came to a door. “Are you brave?” asked the sorcerer, “will you come in with me?”

“I will,” said the Welshman, his curiosity getting the better of his fear.

They opened the door, and a great cave opened out before them. There was a faint red light in the cave, and they could see everything. The first thing they came to was a bell.

“Do not touch that bell,” said the sorcerer, “or it will be all over with us both.”

As they went further in, the Welshman saw that the place was not empty. There were soldiers lying down asleep, thousands of them, as far as ever the eye could see. Each one was clad in bright armour, the steel helmet of each was on his head, the shining shield of each was on his arm, the sword of each was near his hand, each had his spear stuck in the ground near him, and each and all were asleep.

In the midst of the cave was a great round table at which sat warriors whose noble features and richly-dight armour proclaimed that they were not as the roll of common men.

Each of these, too, had his head bent down in sleep. On a golden throne on the further side of the round table was a king of gigantic stature and august presence. In his hand, held below the hilt, was a mighty sword with scabbard and haft of gold studded with gleaming gems; on his head was a crown set with precious stones which flashed and glinted like so many points of fire. Sleep had set its seal on his eyelids also.

“Are they asleep?” asked the Welshman, hardly believing his own eyes. “Yes, each and all of them,” answered the sorcerer. “But, if you touch yonder bell, they will all awake.”

“How long have they been asleep?”

“For over a thousand years.”

“Who are they?”

“Arthur's warriors, waiting for the time to come when they shall destroy all the enemy of the Cymry and repossess the strand of Britain, establishing their own king once more at Caer Lleon.”

“Who are these sitting at the round table?”

“These are Arthur's knights--Owain, the son of Urien; Cai, the son of Cynyr; Gnalchmai, the son of Gwyar; Peredir, the son of Efrawe; Geraint, the son of Erbin; Trystan, the son of March; Bedwyr, the son of Bedrawd; Ciernay, the son of Celyddon; Edeyrn, the son of Nudd; Cymri, the son of Clydno.”

“And on the golden throne?” broke in the Welshman.

“Is Arthur himself, with his sword Excalibur in his hand,” replied the sorcerer.

Impatient by this time at the Welshman's questions, the sorcerer hastened to a great heap of yellow gold on the floor of the cave. He took up as much as he could carry, and bade his companion do the same. “It is time for us to go,” he then said, and he led the way towards the door by which they had entered.

But the Welshman was fascinated by the sight of the countless soldiers in their glittering arms--all asleep.

“How I should like to see them all awaking!” he said to himself. “I will touch the bell--I _must_ see them all arising from their sleep.”

When they came to the bell, he struck it until it rang through the whole place. As soon as it rang, lo! the thousands of warriors leapt to their feet and the ground beneath them shook with the sound of the steel arms. And a great voice came from their midst: “Who rang the bell? Has the day come?”

The sorcerer was so much frightened that he shook like an aspen leaf. He shouted in answer: “No, the day has not come. Sleep on.”

The mighty host was all in motion, and the Welshman's eyes were dazzled as he looked at the bright steel arms which illumined the cave as with the light of myriad flames of fire.

“Arthur,” said the voice again, “awake; the bell has rung, the day is breaking. Awake, Arthur the Great.”

“No,” shouted the sorcerer, “it is still night. Sleep on, Arthur the Great.”

A sound came from the throne. Arthur was standing, and the jewels in his crown shone like bright stars above the countless throng. His voice was strong and sweet like the sound of many waters, and he said: “My warriors, the day has not come when the Black Eagle and the Golden Eagle shall go to war. It is only a seeker after gold who has rung the bell. Sleep on, my warriors; the morn of Wales has not yet dawned.”

A peaceful sound like the distant sigh of the sea came over the cave, and in a trice the soldiers were all asleep again. The sorcerer hurried the Welshman out of the cave, moved the stone back to its place and vanished.

Many a time did the Welshman try to find his way into the cave again, but though he dug over every inch of the hill, he has never again found the entrance to Arthur's Cave.

From “The Welsh Fairy Book,” by W. Jenkyn Thomas. Fisher Unwin.

HAFIZ THE STONE-CUTTER.

There was once a stone-cutter whose name was Hafiz, and all day long he chipped, chipped, chipped at his block. And often he grew very weary of his task and he would say to himself impatiently, “Why should I go on chip-chip-chipping at my block? Why should I not have pleasure and amusement as other folk have?”

One day, when the sun was very hot and when he felt specially weary, he suddenly heard the sound of many feet, and, looking up from his work, he saw a great procession coming his way. It was the King, mounted on a splendid charger, all his soldiers to the right, in their shining armour, and the servants to the left, dressed in gorgeous clothing, ready to do his behests.

And Hafiz said: “How splendid to be a King! If only I could be a King, if only for ten minutes, so that I might know what it feels like!” And then, even as he spoke, he seemed to be dreaming, and in his dream he sang this little song:

Ah me! Ah me! If Hafiz only the King could be!

And then a voice from the air around seemed to answer him and to say:

Be thou the King.[54]

And Hafiz became the King, and he it was that sat on the splendid charger, and they were his soldiers to the right and his servants to the left. And Hafiz said: “I am King, and there is no one stronger in the whole world than I.”

But soon, in spite of the golden canopy over his head, Hafiz began to feel the terrible heat of the rays of the sun, and soon he noticed that the soldiers and servants were weary, that his horse drooped, and that he, Hafiz, was overcome, and he said angrily: “What! Is there something stronger in the world than a King?” And, almost without knowing it, he again sang his song--more boldly than the first time:

Ah me! Ah me! If Hafiz only the Sun could be!

And the Voice answered:

Be thou the Sun.

And Hafiz became the Sun, and shone down upon the Earth, but, because he did not know how to shine very wisely, he shone very fiercely, so that the crops dried up, and folk grew sick and died. And then there arose from the East a little cloud which slipped between Hafiz and the Earth, so that he could no longer shine down upon it, and he said: “Is there something stronger in the world than the Sun?”

Ah me! Ah me! If Hafiz only the Cloud could be!

And the Voice said:

Be thou the cloud.

And Hafiz became the Cloud, and rained down water upon the Earth, but, because he did not know how to do so wisely, there fell so much rain that all the little rivulets became great rivers, and all the great rivers overflowed their banks, and carried everything before them in swift torrent--all except one great rock which stood unmoved. And Hafiz said: “Is there something stronger than the Cloud?”

Ah me! Ah me! If Hafiz only the Rock could be!

And the Voice said:

Be thou the Rock.

And Hafiz became the Rock, and the Cloud disappeared and the waters went down.

And Hafiz the Rock saw coming towards him a man--but he could not see his face. As the man approached he suddenly raised a hammer and struck Hafiz, so that he felt it through all his stony body. And Hafiz said: “Is there something stronger in the world than the Rock?”

Ah me! Ah me! If Hafiz only that man might be!

And the Voice said:

Be thou--Thyself.

And Hafiz seized the hammer and said:

“The Sun was stronger than the King, the Cloud was stronger than the Sun, the Rock was stronger than the Cloud, but I, Hafiz, was stronger than all.”

_Adapted and arranged for narration by M. C. S._

FOOTNOTES:

[54] The melody to be crooned at first and to grow louder at each incident.

TO YOUR GOOD HEALTH.

(_From the Russian._)

Long long ago there lived a King who was such a mighty monarch that whenever he sneezed everyone in the whole country had to say, “To your good health!” Everyone said it except the Shepherd with the bright blue eyes, and he would not say it.

The King heard of this and was very angry, and sent for the Shepherd to appear before him.

The Shepherd came and stood before the throne, where the King sat looking very grand and powerful. But, however grand or powerful he might be, the Shepherd did not feel a bit afraid of him.

“Say at once, 'To my good health!'” cried the King.

“To my good health,” replied the Shepherd.

“To mine--to _mine_, you rascal, you vagabond!” stormed the King.

“To mine, to mine, Your Majesty,” was the answer.

“But to _mine_--to my own!” roared the King, and beat on his breast in a rage.

“Well, yes; to mine, of course, to my own,” cried the Shepherd, and gently tapped his breast.

The King was beside himself with fury and did not know what to do, when the Lord Chamberlain interfered:

“Say at once--say at this very moment, ‘To your health, Your Majesty,’ for if you don't say it you will lose your life,” he whispered.

“No, I won't say it till I get the Princess for my wife,” was the Shepherd's answer.

Now the Princess was sitting on a little throne beside the King her father, and she looked as sweet and lovely as a little golden dove. When she heard what the Shepherd said, she could not help laughing, for there is no denying the fact that this young shepherd with the blue eyes pleased her very much; indeed, he pleased her better than any king's son she had yet seen.

But the King was not as pleasant as his daughter, and he gave orders to throw the Shepherd into the white bear's pit.

The guards led him away and thrust him into the pit with the white bear, who had had nothing to eat for two days and was very hungry. The door of the pit was hardly closed when the bear rushed at the Shepherd; but when it saw his eyes it was so frightened that it was ready to eat itself. It shrank away into a corner and gazed at him from there, and in spite of being so famished, did not dare to touch him, but sucked its own paws from sheer hunger. The Shepherd felt that if he once removed his eyes off the beast he was a dead man, and in order to keep himself awake he made songs and sang them, and so the night went by.

Next morning the Lord Chamberlain came to see the Shepherd's bones, and was amazed to find him alive and well. He led him to the King, who fell into a furious passion, and said:

“Well, you have learned what it is to be very near death, and now will you say, 'To my very good health'?”

But the Shepherd answered:

“I am not afraid of ten deaths! I will only say it if I may have the Princess for my wife.”

“Then go to your death,” cried the King, and ordered him to be thrown into the den with the wild boars.

The wild boars had not been fed for a week, and when the Shepherd was thrust into their den they rushed at him to tear him to pieces. But the Shepherd took a little flute out of the sleeve of his jacket, and began to play a merry tune, on which the wild boars first of all shrank shyly away, and then got up on their hind legs and danced gaily. The Shepherd would have given anything to be able to laugh, they looked so funny; but he dared not stop playing, for he knew well enough that the moment he stopped they would fall upon him and tear him to pieces. His eyes were of no use to him here, for he could not have stared ten wild boars in the face at once; so he kept on playing, and the wild boars danced very slowly, as if in a minuet; then by degrees he played faster and faster, till they could hardly twist and turn quickly enough, and ended by all falling over each other in a heap, quite exhausted and out of breath.

Then the Shepherd ventured to laugh at last; and he laughed so long and so loud that when the Lord Chamberlain came early in the morning, expecting to find only his bones, the tears were still running down his cheeks from laughter.

As soon as the King was dressed the Shepherd was again brought before him; but he was more angry than ever to think the wild boars had not torn the man to bits, and he said:

“Well, you have learned what it feels to be near ten deaths, _now_ say 'To my good health!'”

But the Shepherd broke in with:

“I do not fear a hundred deaths; and I will only say it if I may have the Princess for my wife.”

“Then go to a hundred deaths!” roared the King, and ordered the Shepherd to be thrown down the deep vault of scythes.

The guards dragged him away to a dark dungeon, in the middle of which was a deep well with sharp scythes all round it. At the bottom of the well was a little light by which one could see, if anyone was thrown in, whether he had fallen to the bottom.

When the Shepherd was dragged to the dungeon he begged the guards to leave him alone a little while that he might look down into the pit of scythes; perhaps he might after all make up his mind to say, “To your good health” to the King.

So the guards left him alone, and he stuck up his long stick near the wall, hung his cloak round the stick and put his hat on the top. He also hung his knapsack up beside the cloak, so that it might seem to have some body within it. When this was done, he called out to the guards and said that he had considered the matter, but after all he could not make up his mind to say what the King wished.

The guards came in, threw the hat and cloak, knapsack and stick all down in the well together, watched to see how they put out the light at the bottom, and came away, thinking that now there was really an end of the Shepherd. But he had hidden in a dark corner, and was now laughing to himself all the time.

Quite early next morning came the Lord Chamberlain with a lamp, and he nearly fell backwards with surprise when he saw the Shepherd alive and well. He brought him to the King, whose fury was greater than ever, but who cried:

“Well, now you have been near a hundred deaths; will you say, 'To your good health'?”

But the Shepherd only gave the same answer:

“I won't say it till the Princess is my wife.”

“Perhaps after all you may do it for less,” said the King, who saw that there was no chance of making away with the Shepherd; and he ordered the state coach to be got ready; then he made the Shepherd get in with him and sit beside him, and ordered the coachman to drive to the silver wood.

When they reached it, he said:

“Do you see this silver wood? Well, if you will say, ‘To your good health,’ I will give it to you.”

The Shepherd turned hot and cold by turns, but he still persisted:

“I will not say it till the Princess is my wife.”

The King was much vexed; he drove further on till they came to a splendid castle, all of gold, and then he said:

“Do you see this golden castle? Well, I will give you that too, the silver wood and the golden castle, if only you will say that one thing to me: 'To your good health.'”

The Shepherd gaped and wondered, and was quite dazzled, but he still said:

“No, I will not say it till I have the Princess for my wife.”

This time the King was overwhelmed with grief, and gave orders to drive on to the diamond pond, and there he tried once more:

“You shall have them all--all, if you will but say, 'To your good health.'”

The Shepherd had to shut his staring eyes tight not to be dazzled with the brilliant pond, but still he said:

“No, no; I will not say it till I have the Princess for my wife.”

Then the King saw that all his efforts were useless, and that he might as well give in; so he said:

“Well, well, it is all the same to me--I will give you my daughter to wife; but then you really and truly must say to me, 'To your good health.'”

“Of course I'll say it; why should I not say it? It stands to reason that I shall say it then.”

At this the King was more delighted than anyone could have believed. He made it known to all through the country that there were going to be great rejoicings, as the Princess was going to be married. And everyone rejoiced to think that the Princess who had refused so many royal suitors, should have ended by falling in love with the staring-eyed Shepherd.

There was such a wedding as had never been seen. Everyone ate and drank and danced. Even the sick were feasted, and quite tiny new-born children had presents given them. But the greatest merry-making was in the King's palace; there the best bands played and the best food was cooked. A crowd of people sat down to table, and all was fun and merry-making.

And when the groomsman, according to custom, brought in the great boar's head on a big dish and placed it before the King, so that he might carve it and give everyone a share, the savoury smell was so strong that the King began to sneeze with all his might.

“To your very good health!” cried the Shepherd before anyone else, and the King was so delighted that he did not regret having given him his daughter.

In time, when the old King died, the Shepherd succeeded him. He made a very good king, and never expected his people to wish him well against their wills: but, all the same, everyone did wish him well, because they loved him.

THE PROUD COCK.

There was once a cock who grew so dreadfully proud that he would have nothing to say to anybody. He left his house, it being far beneath his dignity to have any trammel of that sort in his life, and as for his former acquaintances, he cut them all.

One day, whilst walking about, he came to a few little sparks of fire which were nearly dead.

They cried out to him: “Please fan us with your wings, and we shall come to the full vigour of life again.”

But he did not deign to answer, and as he was going away, one of the sparks said: “Ah well! we shall die, but our big brother the Fire will pay you out for this one day.”

On another day he was airing himself in a meadow, showing himself off in a very superb set of clothes. A voice calling from somewhere said: “Please be so good as to drop us into the water again.”

He looked about and saw a few drops of water: they had got separated from their friends in the river, and were pining away with grief. “Oh! please be so good as to drop us into the water again,” they said; but, without any answer, he drank up the drops. He was too proud and a great deal too big to talk to a poor little puddle of water; but the drops said: “Our big brother the Water will one day take you in hand, you proud and senseless creature.”

Some days afterwards, during a great storm of rain, thunder and lightning, the cock took shelter in a little empty cottage, and shut to the door; and he thought: “I am clever; I am in comfort. What fools people are to stop out in a storm like this! What's that?” thought he. “I never heard a sound like that before.”

In a little while it grew much louder, and when a few minutes had passed, it was a perfect howl. “Oh!” thought he, “this will never do. I must stop it somehow. But what is it I have to stop?”

He soon found it was the wind, shouting through the keyhole, so he plugged up the keyhole with a bit of clay, and then the wind was able to rest. He was very tired with whistling so long through the keyhole, and he said: “Now, if ever I have at any time a chance of doing a good turn to that princely domestic fowl, I will do it.”

Weeks afterwards, the cock looked in at a house door: he seldom went there, because the miser to whom the house belonged almost starved himself, and so, of course, there was nothing over for anybody else.

To his amazement the cock saw the miser bending over a pot on the fire. At last the old fellow turned round to get a spoon with which to stir his pot, and then the cock, walking up, looked in and saw that the miser was making oyster-soup, for he had found some oyster-shells in an ash-pit, and to give the mixture a colour he had put in a few halfpence in the pot.

The miser chanced to turn quickly round, whilst the cock was peering into the saucepan, and, chuckling to himself, he said: “I shall have some chicken broth after all.”

He tripped up the cock into the pot and shut the lid on. The bird, feeling warm, said: “Water, water, don't boil!” But the water only said: “You drank up my young brothers once: don't ask a favour of _me_.”

Then he called out to the Fire: “Oh! kind Fire, don't boil the water.” But the Fire replied: “You once let my young sisters die: you cannot expect any mercy from me.” So he flared up and boiled the water all the faster.

At last, when the cock got unpleasantly warm, he thought of the wind, and called out: “Oh, Wind, come to my help!” and the Wind said: “Why, there is that noble domestic bird in trouble. I will help him.” So he came down the chimney, blew out the fire, blew the lid off the pot, and blew the cock far away into the air, and at last settled him on a steeple, where the cock has remained ever since. And people say that the halfpence which were in the pot when it was boiling have given him the queer brown colour he still wears.

_From the Spanish._

SNEGOURKA.

There lived once, in Russia, a peasant and his wife who would have been as happy as the day is long, if only God had given them a little child.

One day, as they were watching the children playing in the snow, the man said to the woman:

“Wife, shall we go out and help the children to make a snowball?”

But the wife answered, smiling:

“Nay, husband, but since God has given us no little child, let us go and fashion one from the snow.”

And she put on her long blue cloak, and he put on his long brown coat, and they went out onto the crisp snow, and began to fashion the little child.

First they made the feet and the legs and the little body, and then they took a ball of snow for the head. And at that moment a stranger in a long cloak, with his hat well drawn over his face, passed that way, and said: “Heaven help your undertaking!”

And the peasants crossed themselves and said: “It is well to ask help from Heaven in all we do.”

Then they went on fashioning the little child. And they made two holes for the eyes and formed the nose and the mouth. And then--wonder of wonders--the little child came alive, and breath came into its nostrils and parted lips.

And the man was afeared, and said to his wife: “What have we done?”

And the wife said: “This is the little girl child God has sent us.” And she gathered it into her arms, and the loose snow fell away from the little creature. Her hair became golden and her eyes were as blue as forget-me-nots--but there was no colour in her cheeks, because there was no blood in her veins.

In a few days she was like a child of three or four, and in a few weeks she seemed to be the age of nine or ten, and ran about gaily and prattled with the other children, who loved her so dearly, though she was so different from them.

Only, happy as she was, and dearly as her parents loved her, there was one terror in her life, and that was the sun. And during the day she would run and hide herself in cool, damp places away from the sunshine, and this the other children could not understand.

As the Spring advanced and the days grew longer and warmer, little Snegourka (for this was the name by which she was known) grew paler and thinner, and her mother would often ask her: “What ails you, my darling?” and Snegourka would say: “Nothing Mother, but I wish the sun were not so bright.”

One day, on St. John's Day, the children of the village came to fetch her for a day in the woods, and they gathered flowers for her and did all they could to make her happy, but it was only when the great red sun went down that Snegourka drew a deep breath of relief and spread her little hands out to the cool evening air. And the boys, glad at her gladness, said: “Let us do something for Snegourka. Let us light a bonfire.” And Snegourka, not knowing what a bonfire was, she clapped her hands and was as merry and eager as they. And she helped them gather the sticks, and then they all stood round the pile and the boys set fire to the wood.

Snegourka stood watching the flames and listening to the crackle of the wood; and then suddenly they heard a tiny sound--and looking at the place where Snegourka had been standing, they saw nothing but a little snowdrift fast melting. And they called and called, “Snegourka! Snegourka!” thinking she had run into the forest. But there was no answer. Snegourka had disappeared from this life as mysteriously as she had come into it.

_From the Russian, adapted for narration by M.T.S._

THE WATER NIXIE.

The river was so clear because it was the home of a very beautiful Water Nixie who lived in it, and who sometimes could emerge from her home and sit in woman's form upon the bank. She had a dark green smock upon her, the colour of the water-weed that waves as the water wills it, deep, deep down. And in her long wet hair were the white flowers of the water-violet, and she held a reed mace in her hand. Her face was very sad, because she had lived a long life, and known so many adventures, ever since she was a baby, which was nearly a hundred years ago. For creatures of the streams and trees live a long, long time, and when they die they lose themselves in Nature. That means that they are forever clouds, or trees, or rivers, and never have the form of men and women again.

All water creatures would live, if they might choose it, in the sea, where they are born. It is in the sea they float hand-in-hand upon the crested billows, and sink deep in the great troughs of the strong waves, that are green as jade. They follow the foam and lose themselves in the wide ocean:

Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail with unshut eye; And they store in the Sea King's palace The golden phosphor of the sea.

But this Water Nixie had lost her happiness through not being good. She had forgotten many things that had been told her, and she had done many things that grieved others. She had stolen somebody else's property--quite a large bundle of happiness--which belonged elsewhere and not to her. Happiness is generally made to fit the person who owns it, just as do your shoes, or clothes; so that when you take some one else's it's very little good to you, for it fits badly, and you can never forget it isn't yours.

So what with one thing and another, this Water Nixie had to be punished, and the Queen of the Sea had banished her from the waves. The punishment that can most affect merfolk is to restrict their freedom. And this is how the Queen of the Sea punished the Nixie of our tale.

“You shall live for a long time in little places, where you will weary of yourself. You will learn to know yourself so well that everything you want will seem too good for you, and you will cease to claim it. And so, in time, you shall get free.”

Then the Nixie had to rise up and go away, and be shut into the fastness of a very small space, according to the words of the Queen. And this small space was--a tear.

At first she could hardly express her misery, and by thinking so continuously of the wideness and savour of the sea, she brought a dash of the brine with her, that makes the saltness of our tears. She became many times smaller than her own stature; even then, by standing upright and spreading wide her arms, she touched with her finger-tips the walls of her tiny crystal home. How she longed that this tear might be wept, and the walls of her prison shattered. But the owner of this tear was of a very proud nature, and she was so sad that tears seemed to her in no wise to express her grief.

She was a Princess who lived in a country that was not her home. What were tears to her? If she could have stood on the top of the very highest hill and with both hands caught the great winds of heaven, strong as they, and striven with them, perhaps she might have felt as if she expressed all she knew. Or, if she could have torn down the stars from the heavens, or cast her mantle over the sun. But tears! Would they have helped to tell her sorrow? You cry if you soil your copy-book, don't you? or pinch your hand? So you may imagine the Nixie's home was a safe one, and she turned round and round in the captivity of that tear.

For twenty years she dwelt in that strong heart, till she grew to be accustomed to her cell. At last, in this wise came her release.

An old gipsy came one morning to the Castle and begged to see the Princess. She must see her, she cried. And the Princess came down the steps to meet her, and the gipsy gave her a small roll of paper in her hand. And the roll of paper smelt like honey as she took it, and it adhered to her palm as she opened it. There was little sign of writing on the paper, but in the midst of the page was a picture, small as the picture reflected in the iris of an eye. The picture shewed a hill, with one tree on the sky-line, and a long road wound round the hill.

And suddenly in the Princess' memory a voice spoke to her. Many sounds she heard, gathered up into one great silence, like the quiet there is in forest spaces, when it is Summer and the green is deep:

Then the Princess gave the gipsy two golden pieces, and went up to her chamber, and long that night she sat, looking out upon the sky.

She had no need to look upon the honeyed scroll, though she held it closely. Clearly before her did she see that small picture: the hill, and the tree, and the winding road, imaged as if mirrored in the iris of an eye. And in her memory she was upon that road, and the hill rose beside her, and the little tree was outlined every twig of it against the sky.

And as she saw all this, an overwhelming love of the place arose in her, a love of that certain bit of country that was so sharp and strong, that it stung and swayed her, as she leaned on the window-sill.

And because the love of a country is one of the deepest loves you may feel, the band of her control was loosened, and the tears came welling to her eyes. Up they brimmed and over, in salty rush and follow, dimming her eyes, magnifying everything, speared for a moment on her eyelashes, then shimmering to their fall. And at last came the tear that held the disobedient Nixie.

Splish! it fell. And she was free.

If you could have seen how pretty she looked standing there, about the height of a grass-blade, wringing out her long wet hair. Every bit of moisture she wrung out of it, she was so glad to be quit of that tear. Then she raised her two arms above her in one delicious stretch, and if you had been the size of a mustard-seed perhaps you might have heard her laughing. Then she grew a little, and grew and grew, till she was about the height of a bluebell, and as slender to see.

She stood looking at the splash on the window-sill that had been her prison so long, and then, with three steps of her bare feet, she reached the jessamine that was growing by the window, and by this she swung herself to the ground.

Away she sped over the dew-drenched meadows till she came to the running brook, and with all her longing in her outstretched hands, she kneeled down by the crooked willows among all the comfrey and the loosestrife, and the yellow irises and the reeds.

Then she slid into the wide, cool stream.

PAMELA TENNANT (Lady Glenconner). _From “The Children and the Pictures”_

THE BLUE ROSE.

There lived once upon a time in China a wise Emperor who had one daughter. His daughter was remarkable for her perfect beauty. Her feet were the smallest in the world; her eyes were long and slanting and bright as brown onyxes, and when you heard her laugh it was like listening to a tinkling stream or to the chimes of a silver bell. Moreover, the Emperor's daughter was as wise as she was beautiful, and she chanted the verse of the great poets better than anyone in the land. The Emperor was old in years; his son was married and had begotten a son; he was, therefore, quite happy with regard to the succession to the throne, but he wished before he died to see his daughter wedded to someone who should be worthy of her.

Many suitors presented themselves to the palace as soon as it became known that the Emperor desired a son-in-law, but when they reached the palace they were met by the Lord Chamberlain, who told them that the Emperor had decided that only the man who found and brought back the blue rose should marry his daughter. The suitors were much puzzled by this order. What was the blue rose and where was it to be found? In all a hundred and fifty suitors had presented themselves, and out of these fifty at once put away from them all thought of winning the hand of the Emperor's daughter, since they considered the condition imposed to be absurd.

The other hundred set about trying to find the blue rose. One of them, whose name was Ti-Fun-Ti, was a merchant, and immensely rich: he at once went to the largest shop in the town and said to the shopkeeper, “I want a blue rose, the best you have.”

The shopkeeper with many apologies, explained that he did not stock blue roses. He had red roses in profusion, white, pink, and yellow roses, but no blue roses. There had hitherto been no demand for the article.

“Well,” said Ti-Fun-Ti, “you must get one for me. I do not mind how much money it costs, but I must have a blue rose.”

The shopkeeper said he would do his best, but he feared it would be an expensive article and difficult to procure. Another of the suitors, whose name I have forgotten, was a warrior, and extremely brave; he mounted his horse, and taking with him a hundred archers and a thousand horsemen, he marched into the territory of the King of the Five Rivers, whom he knew to be the richest king in the world and the possessor of the rarest treasures, and demanded of him the blue rose, threatening him with a terrible doom should he be reluctant to give it up.

The King of the Five Rivers, who disliked soldiers, and had a horror of noise, physical violence, and every kind of fuss (his bodyguard was armed solely with fans and sunshades), rose from the cushions on which he was lying when the demand was made, and, tinkling a small bell, said to the servant who straightway appeared, “Fetch me the blue rose.”

The servant retired and returned presently bearing on a silken cushion a large sapphire which was carved so as to imitate a full-blown rose with all its petals.

“This,” said the King of the Five Rivers, “is the blue rose. You are welcome to it.”

The warrior took it, and after making brief, soldier-like thanks, he went straight back to the Emperor's palace, saying that he had lost no time in finding the blue rose. He was ushered into the presence of the Emperor, who as soon as he heard the warrior's story and saw the blue rose which had been brought sent for his daughter and said to her: “This intrepid warrior has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”

The Princess took the precious object in her hands, and after examining it for a moment, said: “This is not a rose at all. It is a sapphire; I have no need of precious stones.” And she returned the stone to the warrior with many elegantly expressed thanks. And the warrior went away in discomfiture.

The merchant, hearing of the warrior's failure, was all the more anxious to win the prize. He sought the shopkeeper and said to him: “Have you got me the blue rose? I trust you have; because, if not, I shall most assuredly be the means of your death. My brother-in-law is chief magistrate, and I am allied by marriage to all the chief officials in the kingdom.”

The shopkeeper turned pale and said: “Sir, give me three days and I will procure you the rose without fail.” The merchant granted him the three days and went away. Now the shopkeeper was at his wit's end as to what to do, for he knew well there was no such thing as a blue rose. For two days he did nothing but moan and wring his hands, and on the third day he went to his wife and said: “Wife, we are ruined.”

But his wife, who was a sensible woman, said: “Nonsense. If there is no such thing as a blue rose we must make one. Go to the chemist and ask him for a strong dye which will change a white rose into a blue one.”

So the shopkeeper went to the chemist and asked him for a dye, and the chemist gave him a bottle of red liquid, telling him to pick a white rose and to dip its stalk into the liquid and the rose would turn blue. The shopkeeper did as he was told; the rose turned into a beautiful blue and the shopkeeper took it to the merchant, who at once went with it to the palace saying that he had found the blue rose.

He was ushered into the presence of the Emperor, who as soon as he saw the blue rose sent for his daughter and said to her: “This wealthy merchant has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”

The Princess took the flower in her hands and after examining it for a moment said: “This is a white rose; its stalk has been dipped in a poisonous dye and it has turned blue. Were a butterfly to settle upon it, it would die of the potent fume. Take it back. I have no need of a dyed rose.” And she returned it to the merchant with many elegantly expressed thanks.

The other ninety-eight suitors all sought in various ways for the blue rose. Some of them travelled all over the world seeking it; some of them sought the aid of wizards and astrologers, and one did not hesitate to invoke the help of the dwarfs that live underground; but all of them, whether they travelled in far countries or took counsel with wizards and demons or sat pondering in lonely places, failed to find the blue rose.

At last they all abandoned the quest except the Lord Chief Justice, who was the most skilful lawyer and statesman in the country. After thinking over the matter for several months he sent for the most famous artist in the country and said to him: “Make me a china cup. Let it be milk-white in colour and perfect in shape, and paint on it a rose, a blue rose.”

The artist made obeisance and withdrew, and worked for two months at the Lord Chief Justice's cup. In two months' time it was finished, and the world has never seen such a beautiful cup, so perfect in symmetry, so delicate in texture, and the rose on it, the blue rose, was a living flower, picked in fairyland and floating on the rare milky surface of the porcelain. When the Lord Chief Justice saw it he gasped with surprise and pleasure, for he was a great lover of porcelain, and never in his life had he seen such a piece. He said to himself, “Without doubt the blue rose is here on this cup and nowhere else.”

So, after handsomely rewarding the artist, he went to the Emperor's palace and said that he had brought the blue rose. He was ushered into the Emperor's presence, who as he saw the cup sent for his daughter and said to her: “This eminent lawyer has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”

The Princess took the bowl in her hands, and after examining it for a moment said: “This bowl is the most beautiful piece of china I have ever seen. If you are kind enough to let me keep it I will put it aside until I receive the blue rose. For so beautiful is it that no other flower is worthy to be put in it except the blue rose.”

The Lord Chief Justice thanked the Princess for accepting the bowl with many elegantly turned phrases, and he went away in discomfiture.

After this there was no one in the whole country who ventured on the quest of the blue rose. It happened that not long after the Lord Chief Justice's attempt a strolling minstrel visited the kingdom of the Emperor. One evening he was playing his one-stringed instrument outside a dark wall. It was a summer's evening, and the sun had sunk in a glory of dusty gold, and in the violet twilight one or two stars were twinkling like spear-heads. There was an incessant noise made by the croaking of frogs and the chatter of grasshoppers. The minstrel was singing a short song over and over again to a monotonous tune. The sense of it was something like this:

I watched beside the willow trees The river, as the evening fell, The twilight came and brought no breeze, Nor dew, nor water for the well.

When from the tangled banks of grass A bird across the water flew, And in the river's hard grey glass I saw a flash of azure blue.

As he sang he heard a rustle on the wall, and looking up he saw a slight figure white against the twilight, beckoning to him. He walked along the wall until he came to a gate, and there someone was waiting for him, and he was gently led into the shadow of a dark cedar tree. In the dim twilight he saw two bright eyes looking at him, and he understood their message. In the twilight a thousand meaningless nothings were whispered in the light of the stars, and the hours fled swiftly. When the East began to grow light, the Princess (for it was she) said it was time to go.

“But,” said the minstrel, “to-morrow I shall come to the palace and ask for your hand.”

“Alas!” said the Princess, “I would that were possible, but my father has made a foolish condition that only he may wed me who finds the blue rose.”

“That is simple,” said the minstrel. “I will find it.” And they said good-night to each other.

The next morning the minstrel went to the palace, and on his way he picked a common white rose from a wayside garden. He was ushered into the Emperor's presence, who sent for his daughter and said to her: “This penniless minstrel has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?”

The Princess took the rose in her hands and said: “Yes, this is without doubt the blue rose.”

But the Lord Chief Justice and all who were present respectfully pointed out that the rose was a common white rose and not a blue one, and the objection was with many forms and phrases conveyed to the Princess.

“I think the rose is blue,” said the Princess. “Perhaps you are all colour blind.”

The Emperor, with whom the decision rested, decided that if the Princess thought the rose was blue it was blue, for it was well known that her perception was more acute than that of any one else in the kingdom.

So the minstrel married the Princess, and they settled on the sea coast in a little seen house with a garden full of white roses, and they lived happily for ever afterwards. And the Emperor, knowing that his daughter had made a good match, died in peace.

MAURICE BARING.

THE TWO FROGS.

Once upon a time in the country of Japan there lived two frogs, one of whom made his home in a ditch near the town of Osaka, on the sea coast, while the other dwelt in a clear little stream which ran through the city of Kioto. At such a great distance apart; they had never even heard of each other; but, funnily enough, the idea came into both their heads at once that they should like to see a little of the world, and the frog who lived at Kioto wanted to visit Osaka, and the frog who lived at Osaka wished to go to Kioto, where the great Mikado had his palace.

So one fine morning, in the spring, they both set out along the road that led from Kioto to Osaka, one from one end and the other from the other.

The journey was more tiring than they expected, for they did not know much about travelling, and half-way between the two towns there rose a mountain which had to be climbed. It took them a long time and a great many hops to reach the top, but there they were at last, and what was the surprise of each to see another frog before him! They looked at each other for a moment without speaking, and then fell into conversation, and explained the cause of their meeting so far from their homes. It was delightful to find that they both felt the same wish--to learn a little more of their native country--and as there was no sort of hurry they stretched themselves out in a cool, damp place, and agreed that they would have a good rest before they parted to go their ways.

“What a pity we are not bigger,” said the Osaka frog, “and then we could see both towns from here and tell if it is worth our while going on.”

“Oh, that is easily managed,” returned the Kioto frog. “We have only got to stand up on our hind legs, and hold on to each other, and then we can each look at the town he is travelling to.”

This idea pleased the Osaka frog so much that he at once jumped up and put his front paws on the shoulder of his friend, who had risen also. There they both stood, stretching themselves as high as they could, and holding each other tightly, so that they might not fall down. The Kioto frog turned his nose towards Osaka, and the Osaka frog turned his nose towards Kioto; but the foolish things forgot that when they stood up their great eyes lay in the backs of their heads, and that though their noses might point to the places to which they wanted to go, their eyes beheld the places from which they had come.

“Dear me!” cried the Osaka frog, “Kioto is exactly like Osaka. It is certainly not worth such a long journey. I shall go home.”

“If I had had any idea that Osaka was only a copy of Kioto I should never have travelled all this way,” exclaimed the frog from Kioto, and as he spoke, he took his hands from his friend's shoulders and they both fell down on the grass.

Then they took a polite farewell of each other, and set off for home again, and to the end of their lives they believed that Osaka and Kioto, which are as different to look at as two towns can be, were as like as two peas.

THE WISE OLD SHEPHERD.

Once upon a time, a Snake went out of his hole to take an airing. He crawled about, greatly enjoying the scenery and the fresh whiff of the breeze, until, seeing an open door, he went in. Now this door was the door of the palace of the King, and inside was the King himself, with all his courtiers.

Imagine their horror at seeing a huge Snake crawling in at the door. They all ran away except the King, who felt that his rank forbade him to be a coward, and the King's son. The King called out for somebody to come and kill the Snake; but this horrified them still more, because in that country the people believed it to be wicked to kill any living thing, even snakes and scorpions and wasps. So the courtiers did nothing, but the young Prince obeyed his father, and killed the Snake with his stick.

After a while the Snake's wife became anxious and set out in search of her husband. She too saw the open door of the palace, and in she went. O horror! there on the floor lay the body of her husband, all covered with blood and quite dead. No one saw the Snake's Wife crawl in; she inquired of a white ant what had happened, and when she found that the young Prince had killed her husband, she made a vow that, as he had made her a widow, so she would make his wife a widow.

That night, when all the world was asleep, the Snake crept into the Prince's bedroom, and coiled round his neck. The Prince slept on, and when he awoke in the morning, he was surprised to find his neck encircled with the coils of a snake. He was afraid to stir, so there he remained, until the Prince's mother became anxious and went to see what was the matter. When she entered his room, and saw him in this plight, she gave a loud shriek, and ran off to tell the King.

“Call the archers,” said the King.

The archers came, and the King told them to go to the Prince's room, and shoot the Snake that was coiled about his neck. They were so clever, that they could easily do this without hurting the Prince at all.

In came the archers in a row, fitted the arrows to the bows, the bows were raised and ready to shoot, when, on a sudden, from the Snake there issued a voice which spoke as follows:

“O archers, wait, wait and hear me before you shoot. It is not fair to carry out the sentence before you have heard the case. Is not this a good law: an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth? Is it not so, O King?”

“Yes,” replied the King, “that is our law.”

“Then,” said the Snake, “I plead the law. Your son has made me a widow, so it is fair and right that I should make his wife a widow.”

“That sounds right enough,” said the King, “but right and law are not always the same thing. We had better ask somebody who knows.”

They asked all the judges, but none of them could tell the law of the matter. They shook their heads, and said they would look up all their law-books, and see whether anything of the sort had ever happened before, and if so, how it had been decided. That is the way judges used to decide cases in that country, though I daresay it sounds to you a very funny way. It looked as if they had not much sense in their own heads, and perhaps that was true. The upshot of it all was that not a judge would give an opinion; so the King sent messengers all over the countryside, to see if they could find somebody who knew something.

One of these messengers found a party of five shepherds, who were sitting upon a hill and trying to decide a quarrel of their own. They gave their opinions so freely, and in language so very strong, that the King's messenger said to himself, “Here are the men for us. Here are five men, each with an opinion of his own, and all different.” Post-haste he scurried back to the King, and told him that he had found at last some one ready to judge the knotty point.

So the King and the Queen, and the Prince and Princess, and all the courtiers, got on horseback, and away they galloped to the hill whereupon the five shepherds were sitting, and the Snake too went with them, coiled round the neck of the Prince.

When they got to the shepherds' hill, the shepherds were dreadfully frightened. At first they thought that the strangers were a gang of robbers, and when they saw it was the King their next thought was that one of their misdeeds had been found out; and each of them began thinking what was the last thing he had done, and wondering, was it that?

But the King and the courtiers got off their horses, and said good day in the most civil way. So the shepherds felt their minds set at ease again. Then the King said:

“Worthy shepherds, we have a question to put to you, which not all the judges in all the courts of my city have been able to solve. Here is my son, and here, as you see, is a snake coiled round his neck. Now, the husband of this Snake came creeping into my palace hall, and my son the Prince killed him; so this Snake, who is the wife of the other, says that, as my son has made her a widow, so she has a right to widow my son's wife. What do you think about it?”

The first shepherd said: “I think she is quite right, my Lord the King. If anyone made my wife a widow, I would pretty soon do the same to him.”

This was brave language, and the other shepherds shook their heads and looked fierce. But the King was puzzled, and could not quite understand it. You see, in the first place, if the man's wife were a widow, the man would be dead; and then it is hard to see that he could do anything. So, to make sure, the King asked the second shepherd whether that was his opinion too.

“Yes,” said the second shepherd; “now the Prince has killed the Snake, the Snake has a right to kill the Prince if he can.” But that was not of much use either, as the Snake was as dead as a door-nail. So the King passed on to the third.

“I agree with my mates,” said the third shepherd. “Because, you see, a Prince is a Prince, but then a Snake is a Snake.” That was quite true, they all admitted, but it did not seem to help the matter much. Then the King asked the fourth shepherd to say what he thought.

The fourth shepherd said: “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth; so I think a widow should be a widow, if so be she don't marry again.”

By this time the poor King was so puzzled that he hardly knew whether he stood on his head or his heels. But there was still the fifth shepherd left; the oldest and wisest of them all; and the fifth shepherd said:

“King, I should like to ask two questions.”

“Ask twenty, if you like,” said the King. He did not promise to answer them, so he could afford to be generous.

“First, I ask the Princess how many sons she has?”

“Four,” said the Princess.

“And how many sons has Mistress Snake here?”

“Seven,” said the Snake.

“Then,” said the old shepherd, “it will be quite fair for Mistress Snake to kill his Highness the Prince when her Highness the Princess has had three sons more.”

“I never thought of that,” said the Snake. “Good-bye, King, and all you good people. Send a message when the Princess has had three more sons, and you may count upon me--I will not fail you.”

So saying, she uncoiled from the Prince's neck and slid away among the grass.

The King and the Prince and everybody shook hands with the wise old shepherd, and went home again. And the Princess never had any more sons at all. She and the Prince lived happily for many years; and if they are not dead they are living still.

_From “The Talking Thrush.”_

THE TRUE SPIRIT OF A FESTIVAL DAY.

And it came to pass that the Buddha was born a Hare and lived in a wood; on one side was the foot of a mountain, on another a river, on the third side a border village.

And with him lived three friends: a Monkey, a Jackal and an Otter; each of these creatures got food on his own hunting ground. In the evening they met together, and the Hare taught his companions many wise things: that the moral laws should be observed, that alms should be given to the poor, and that holy days should be kept.

One day the Buddha said: “To-morrow is a fast day. Feed any beggars that come to you by giving food from your own table.” They all consented.

The next day the Otter went down to the bank of the Ganges to seek his prey. Now a fisherman had landed seven red fish and had buried them in the sand on the river's bank while he went down the stream catching more fish. The Otter scented the buried fish, dug up the sand till he came upon them, and he called aloud: “Does any one own these fish?” And not seeing the owner, he laid the fish in the jungle where he dwelt, intending to eat them at a fitting time. Then he lay down, thinking how virtuous he was.

The Jackal also went off in search of food, and found in the hut of a field watcher a lizard, two spits, and a pot of milk-curd.

And, after thrice crying aloud, “To whom do these belong?” and not finding an owner, he put on his neck the rope for lifting the pot, and grasping the spits and lizard with his teeth, he laid them in his own lair, thinking, “In due season I will devour them,” and then he lay down, thinking how virtuous he had been.

The Monkey entered the clump of trees, and gathering a bunch of mangoes, laid them up in his part of the jungle, meaning to eat them in due season. He then lay down and thought how virtuous he had been.

But the Hare (who was the Buddha-to-be) in due time came out, thinking to lie (in contemplation) on the Kuca grass. “It is impossible for me to offer grass to any beggars who may chance to come by, and I have no oil or rice or fish. If any beggar come to me, I will give him (of) my own flesh to eat.”

Now when Sakka, the King of the Gods, heard this thing, he determined to put the Royal Hare to the test. So he came in disguise of a Brahmin to the Otter and said: “Wise Sir, if I could get something to eat, I would perform all my priestly duties.”

The Otter said: “I will give you food. Seven red fish have I safely brought to land from the sacred river of the Ganges. Eat thy fill, O Brahmin, and stay in this wood.”

And the Brahmin said: “Let it be until to-morrow, and I will see to it then.”

Then he went to the Jackal, who confessed that he had stolen the food, but he begged the Brahmin to accept it and remain in the wood; but the Brahmin said: “Let it be until the morrow, and then I will see to it.”

And he came to the Monkey, who offered him the mangoes, and the Brahmin answered in the same way.

Then the Brahmin went to the wise Hare, and the Hare said: “Behold, I will give you of my flesh to eat. But you must not take life on this holy day. When you have piled up the logs I will sacrifice myself by falling into the midst of the flames, and when my body is roasted you shall eat my flesh and perform all your priestly duties.”

Now when Sakka heard these words he caused a heap of burning coals to appear, and the Wisdom Being, rising from the grass, came to the place, but before casting himself into the flames he shook himself, lest perchance there should be any insects in his coat who might suffer death. Then, offering his body as a free gift, he sprang up, and like a royal swan, lighting on a bed of lotus in an ecstasy of joy, he fell on the heap of live coals. But the flame failed even to heat the pores or the hair on the body of the Wisdom Being, and it was as if he had entered a region of frost. Then he addressed the Brahmin in these words: “Brahmin, the fire that you have kindled is icy cold; it fails to heat the pores or the hair on my body. What is the meaning of this?”

“O most wise Hare! I am Sakka, and have come to put your virtue to the test.”

And the Buddha in a sweet voice said: “No god or man could find in me an unwillingness to die.”

Then Sakka said: “O wise Hare, be thy virtue known to all the ages to come.”

And seizing the mountain he squeezed out the juice and daubed on the moon the signs of the young hare.

Then he placed him back on the grass that he might continue his Sabbath meditation, and returned to Heaven.

And the four creatures lived together and kept the moral law.

FILIAL PIETY.

Now it came to pass that the Buddha was re-born in the shape of a Parrot, and he greatly excelled all other parrots in his strength and beauty. And when he was full grown his father, who had long been the leader of the flock in their flights to other climes, said to him: “My son, behold my strength is spent! Do thou lead the flock, for I am no longer able.” And the Buddha said: “Behold, thou shalt rest. I will lead the birds.” And the parrots rejoiced in the strength of their new leader, and willingly did they follow him. Now from that day on, the Buddha undertook to feed his parents, and would not consent that they should do any more work. Each day he led his flock to the Himalaya Hills, and when he had eaten his fill of the clumps of rice that grew there, he filled his beak with food for the dear parents who were waiting his return.

Now there was a man appointed to watch the rice-fields, and he did his best to drive the parrots away, but there seemed to be some secret power in the leader of this flock which the Keeper could not overcome.

He noticed that the Parrots ate their fill and then flew away, but that the Parrot-King not only satisfied his hunger, but carried away rice in his beak.

Now he feared there would be no rice left, and he went to his master the Brahmin to tell him what had happened; and even as the master listened there came to him the thought that the Parrot-King was something higher than he seemed, and he loved him even before he saw him. But he said nothing of this, and only warned the Keeper that he should set a snare and catch the dangerous bird. So the man did as he was bidden: he made a small cage and set the snare, and sat down in his hut waiting for the birds to come. And soon he saw the Parrot-King amidst his flock, who, because he had no greed, sought no richer spot, but flew down to the same place in which he had fed the day before.

Now, no sooner had he touched the ground that he felt his feet caught in the noose. Then fear crept into his bird-heart, but a stronger feeling was there to crush it down, for he thought: “If I cry out the Cry of the Captured, my Kinsfolk will be terrified, and they will fly away foodless. But if I lie still, then their hunger will be satisfied, and they may safely come to my aid.” Thus was the Parrot both brave and prudent.

But alas! he did not know that his Kinsfolk had nought of his brave spirit. When _they_ had eaten their fill, though they heard the thrice-uttered cry of the captured, they flew away, nor heeded the sad plight of their leader.

Then was the heart of the Parrot-King sore within him, and he said: “All these my kith and kin, and not one to look back on me. Alas! what sin have I done?”

The Watchman now heard the cry of the Parrot-King, and the sound of the other Parrots flying through the air. “What is that?” he cried, and leaving his hut he came to the place where he had laid the snare. There he found the captive Parrot; he tied his feet together and brought him to the Brahmin, his master. Now, when the Brahmin saw the Parrot-King, he felt his strong power, and his heart was full of love to him, but he hid his feelings, and said in a voice of anger: “Is thy greed greater than that of all other birds? They eat their fill, but thou takest away each day more food than thou canst eat. Doest thou this out of hatred for me, or dost thou store up the food in some granary for selfish greed?”

And the Great Being made answer in a sweet human voice: “I hate thee not, O Brahmin. Nor do I store the rice in a granary for selfish greed. But this thing I do. Each day I pay a debt which is due--each day I grant a loan, and each day I store up a treasure.”

Now the Brahmin could not understand the words of the Buddha (because true wisdom had not entered his heart), and he said: “I pray thee, O Wondrous Bird, to make these words clear unto me.”

And then the Parrot-King made answer: “I carry food to my ancient parents who can no longer seek that food for themselves: thus I pay my daily debt. I carry food to my callow chicks whose wings are yet ungrown. When I am old they will care for me--this my loan to them. And for other birds, weak and helpless of wing, who need the aid of the strong, for them I lay up a store; to these I give in charity.”

Then was the Brahmin much moved, and showed the love that was in his heart. “Eat thy fill, O Righteous Bird, and let thy Kinsfolk eat too, for thy sake.” And he wished to bestow a thousand acres of land upon him, but the Great Being would only take a tiny portion round which were set boundary stones.

And the Parrot returned with a head of rice, and said: “Arise, dear Parents, that I may take you to a place of plenty.” And he told them the story of his deliverance.

* * * * *

MY thanks are due to:

Mrs. Josephine Dodge Darkam Bacon, for permission to use an extract from “The Madness of Philip,” and to her publishers, Charles Scrivener.

To Messrs. Houghton Mifflin, for permission to use extract from “Thou Shalt Not Preach,” by Mr. John Burroughs.

To Messrs. Macmillan & Co., for permission to use “Milking Time” of Miss Rossetti.

To Messrs. William Sharp, for permission to use passage from “The Divine Adventure,” by “Fiona MacLeod.”

To Miss Ethel Clifford, for permission to use the poem of “The Child.”

To Mr. James Whitcomb Riley and the Robbs Merrill Co., for permission to use “The Treasure of the Wise Man.”

To Rev. R. L. Gales, for permission to use the article on “Nursery Rhymes” from the _Nation_.

To Mr. Edmund Gosse, for permission to use extracts from “Father and Son.”

To Messrs. Chatto and Windus, for permission to use “Essay on Child's Play” (from _Virginibus Puerisque_) and other papers.

To Mr. George Allen & Co., for permission to use “Ballad for a Boy,” by W. Cory, from “Ionica.”

To Professor Bradley, for permission to quote from his essay on “Poetry and Life.”

To Mr. P. A. Barnett, for permission to quote from “The Commonsense of Education.”

To Professor Ker, for permission to quote from “Sturla the Historian.”

To Mr. John Russell, for permission to print in full, “A Saga.”

To Messrs. Longmans Green & Co., for permission to use “The Two Frogs,” from the Violet Fairy Book, and “To Your Good Health,” from the Crimson Fairy Book.

To Mr. Heinemann and Lady Glenconner, for permission to reprint “The Water Nixie,” by Pamela Tennant, from “The Children and the Pictures.”

To Mr. Maurice Baring and the Editor of _The Morning Post_, for permission to reprint “The Blue Rose” from _The Morning Post_.

To Dr. Walter Rouse and Mr. J. M. Dent, for permission to reprint from “The Talking Thrush” the story of “The Wise Old Shepherd.”

To Mr. James Stephens, for permission to reprint “The Man and the Boy.”

To Mr. Harold Barnes, for permission to use version of “The Proud Cock.”

To Mrs. Arnold Glover, for permission to print two of her stories.

To Miss Emilie Poulson, for permission to use her translation of Björnsen's poem.

To George Routledge & Son, for permission to use stories from “Eastern Stories and Fables.”

To Mrs. W. K. Clifford, for permission to quote from “Very Short Stories.”

To Mr. W. Jenkyn Thomas and Mr. Fisher Unwin, for permission to use “Arthur in the Cave” from the Welsh Fairy Book.

* * * * *

The following stories are not a representative list: this I have endeavoured to give with the story-list preceding. These stories are mostly taken from my own _répertoire_, and have so constantly been asked for by teachers that I am glad of an opportunity of presenting them in full.

Episode from “Sturla the Historian,” to illustrate the value of the art of story-telling.

Saga, by John Russell.

St. Christopher, in the version taken from the “_Legenda Aurea_.”

“Arthur in the Cave,” from the “Welsh Fairy Book.”

“Hafiz the Stone-cutter” (adapted from the Oriental).

“To Your Good Health,” from The Crimson Fairy Book.

“The Proud Cock,” from the Spanish.

“Snegourka,” from the Russian.

“The Water Nixie,” by Pamela Tennant.

“The Blue Rose,” by Maurice Baring.

“The Wise old Shepherd,” from “The Talking Thrush.”

* * * * *

I had intended, in this section, to offer an appendix of titles of stories and books which would cover all the ground of possible narrative in schools; but I have found, since taking up the question, so many lists containing standard books and stories, that I have decided that this original plan would be a work of supererogation, since it would be almost impossible to prepare such a list without the certainty of over-lapping. What is really needed is a supplementary list to those already published--a specialized list which has been gathered together by private research and personal experience. I have for many years spent considerable time in the British Museum, and some of the principal Libraries in the United States, and I now offer the fruit of that labour in the miscellaneous collection contained in this chapter. Before giving my own selection, I should like to say that for general lists one can use with great profit the following:

LIST OF BOOKS

SOURCES OF NORSE STORIES FOR STORY-TELLERS.

Cycles of Stories from the Norse. Part I: Historical Tales. Part II: Norse Myths. Part III: Völsunga Saga. Part IV: Frithiof Saga. Snorro Sturluson. Stories of the Kings of Norway; done into English by William Morris. Page 83-117. Snorro Sturluson. A History of the Norse Kings; done into English by Samuel Laing. Pages 11-35. Snorro Sturluson. Younger Edda. Pages 72, 73, 114-127, 128-130, 131-139, 160-164, 184-187, 189-192. Morris. Story of Sigurd the Volsung. Völsunga Saga. By Eirikr and William Morris.

Other sources from modern books can be found in Mabie, Wilmot Buxton, Keans Tappah, Cartwright Pole, Johonnut Anderson. Some of these are suitable for children themselves, and contain excellent reading matter.

NOTE.--I most gratefully acknowledge these sources supplied by the courtesy of Pittsburg Carnegie Library.

List of stories in compilation by Anna C. Tyler (Supervisor of Story-telling in New York). Heroism. A reading list for boys and girls.

Both these lists are published by the New York Library, and I have had permission to quote both, by the courtesy of the Library.

In that admirable work, “Story-Telling in School and Home,” by Evelyn Newcomb Partridge and George Everett Partridge, published by William Heinemann, besides a valuable analysis of the Art of Story-Telling, there is an excellent list of books and stories.

LIST OF BOOKS CONTAINING STORIES OR READING MATTER FOR CHILDREN.

The following list is not of my own making. I have taken it on the recommendation of Marion E. Potter, Bertha Tannehill and Emma L. Teich, who have compiled the list from twenty-three other lists. I again have made a shorter list of the titles, and acknowledge most gratefully the kind permission of the H. W. Wilson Company (Minneapolis) to quote from their book. The original work, which contains 3,000 titles, is well known in the United States under the title of “Children's Catalogue.” It is a book which ought to be in every School and Training College Library, and I hope my fragmentary selection may make it better known in my own country. I regret that I am unable to give publishers or reference marks for this American list.

About Old Story-tellers. Mitchell, D. G. Boys' Iliad. Perry. Jack among the Indians, and Other Stories. G. B. Grinnell. Adventure Stories. Hale, E. Young Alaskans. Hough, E. Aztec Treasure House. Janvier. Last Three Soldiers. Skelton, W. Under the Lilacs. Alcott, Louisa. Moral Pirates. Livingstone, A. W. Classics Old and New. Alderman, E. A. Boy of a Thousand Years Ago. Comstock, H. R. All About Japan. Brane, B. M. All About the Russians. Lockes, E. C. Children of the Palm Lands. Allen, A. E. Italian Child Life. Ambrose, Marietta. American Hero Stories. Tappan, E. M. Chinese Boy and Girl, Headland, Y. T. Viking Tales of the North. Anderson, R. B. Animal Stories Re-told from St. Nicholas. Carter, M. H. Short Stories of Shy Neighbours. Kelly, M. H. Hundred Anecdotes of Animals. Billingham, P. T. Books of Saints and Friendly Beasts. Brown, A. F. Stories of Animal Life. Holden, C. F. Story of a Donkey (Abridged). Segur, S. Children of the Cold. Schnatka, F. Stories from Plato and other Classic Writers. Burt, M. E. Tenting on the Plains. Custer, E. To the Front. King, C. Stories of Persian Heroes. Firdansi. Nelson and his Captains. Fitchett, William H. Danish Fairy and Folk Tales. Bay, J. C. Evening Tales. Ortoli, F. Legends of King Arthur and his Court. Greene, F. N. Story of King Arthur. Pyle, H. New World Fairy Book. Kenedy, H. A. Myths of the Red Children. Wilson, G. L. Old Indian Legends. Zitkala, Sa. Folk Tales from the Russian. Blumenthal, V. K. Wagner Opera Stories. Barker, Grace. Lolanu, the Little Cliff-dweller. Bayliss (Mrs. Clara Kern). Big People and Little People of Other Lands. Shaw, E. R. Children's Stories of the Great Scientists. Wright, H. C. Fairy Tales. Lansing, M. F. Light Princess, and Other Stories. Macdonald, George. Classic Stories for the Little Ones. Mace, J., and McClurey, L. B. Old World Wonder Stories. O'Shea, M. V. Japanese Fairy Tales Re-told. Williston, T. P. Famous Indian Chiefs I Have Known. Hovard, O. O. Fanciful Tales. Stockton, F. R. Boys' Book of Famous Rulers, from Agamemnon to Napoleon. Farmer, Mrs. Lydia Hoyt. Favourite Greek Myths, Hyde, T. S. Children's Life in the Western Mountains. Foote, Mary (Hallock). Gods and Heroes. Francillon, Robert Edward. Sa-Zada Tales. Fraser, William Alexander. Story of Gretta the Strong. French, Allen. Lance of Kanana (Story of Arabia). French, Henry Willard. Home Life in all Lands. Morris, C. Held Fast for England. Henty. Plutarch's Lives. Ginn, Edwin. King's Story Book. Gomme, Lawrence. Little Journeys to Balkans, European Turkey and Greece. George, M. M. Herodotus. White, J. S. Classic Myths in English Literature. Gayley, C. M. Favourite Greek Myths. Hyde, L. S. Stories from the East. Church, A. T. Herodotus. Church, A. T. Men of Iron. Pyle, H. Boys' Heroes. Hale, Edward Everett. Strange Stories from History. Eggleston. Stories of Other Lands. Johannot, J. Book of Nature Myths. Holbrook, Florence. Stories of Great Artists. Home, Olive Brown, and Lois, K. Russian Grandmother's Wonder Tales. Houghton, Mrs. Louise (Seymour). Stories of Famous Children. Hunter, Mary van Brunt. Stories of Indian Chieftains. Husted, Mary Hall. Stories of Indian Children. Husted, Mary Hall. Golden Porch: A Book of Greek Fairy Tales. Hutchinson, W. M. L. Indian Boyhood. Eastman, C. H. Indian History for Young Folk. Drake, F. S. Indian Stories Re-told from St Nicholas. Drake, F. S. One Thousand Poems for Children. Ingpen, Roger. My Lady Pokahontas. Cooke, J. E. In the Sargasso Sea. Janvier, T. A. Childhood of Ji-Shib. Jenks, Albert Ernest. Stories from Chaucer told to the Children. Kelman, Janet Harvey. Stories from the Crusades. Kelman, Janet Harvey. New World Fairy Book. Kenedy, Howard Angus. Stories of Ancient People. Arnold E. T. Stories of Art and Artists. Clement, C. Mabinogion (Legends of Wales). Knightley. Heroes of Chivalry. Maitland, L. Cadet Days: Story of West Point. King, Charles. Household Stories for Little Readers. Klingensmith, Annie. Boy Travellers in the Russian Empire. Knox, Thomas Wallace. Boy Travellers on the Congo. Knox, Thomas Wallace. Fairy Book. Laboulaye, Eduard Réné Lefebre. Fairy Tales of All Nations. Translated by M. I. Booth. Laboulaye, Eduard Réné Lefebre. Middle Five (Life of Five Indian Boys at School). La Flesche, Francis. Wonderful Adventures of Nils. Lagerlöf, Selma. Land of Pluck. Dodge, M. M. Land of the Long Night. Du Chaillu, P. B. Schoolboy Days in France. Laurie, André. Schoolboy Days in Japan. Laurie, André. Schoolboy Days in Russia. Laurie, André. When I was a Boy in China. Lee, Yan Phon. Fifty Famous Stories Re-told. Baldwin. Stories from Famous Ballads. Lippincott. Wreck of the Golden Fleece. Leighton, Robert. Children's Letters, Written to Children by Famous Men and Women. Colson, E., and Chittenden, A. G. A Story of Abraham Lincoln. Hamilton, M.

LITTLE COUSIN SERIES.

Our Little Swedish Cousin. Coburn, C. M. Our Little Chinese Cousin. Headland, I. T. Our Little Arabian Cousin. Mansfield, B. M. Our Little Dutch Cousin. Mansfield, B. M. Our Little Egyptian Cousin. Mansfield, B. M. Our Little English Cousin. Mansfield, B. M. Our Little French Cousin. Mansfield, B. M. Our Little Hindu Cousin. Mansfield, B. M. Our Little Scotch Cousin. Mansfield, B. M. Our Little Alaskan Cousin. Nixon, Roulet M. F. Our Little Australian Cousin. Nixon, Roulet M. F. Our Little Brazilian Cousin. Nixon, Roulet M. F. Our Little Grecian Cousin. Nixon, Roulet M. F. Our Little Spanish Cousin. Nixon, Roulet, M. F. Our Little Korean Cousin. Pike, H. L. Our Little Panama Cousin. Pike, H. L. Our Little African Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Armenian Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Brown Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Cuban Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Eskimo Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Hawaiian Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Indian Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Irish Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Italian Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Japanese Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Jewish Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Norwegian Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Philippine Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Porto Rican Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Siamese Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Turkish Cousin. Wade, M. H. Our Little Canadian Cousin. Macdonald, E. Roberts.

Little Folk in Brittany. Haines, A. C. Little Folks of Many Lands. Chance, L. M. Little Lives of Great Men. Hathaway, E. V. Little Men. Alcott, L. M. Little Royalties. McDougall, I. Little Stories of France. Dutton, M. B. Little Stories of Germany. Dutton, M. B. Lives of Girls who Became Famous. Bolton, S. K. Beasts of the Field. Long, William Joseph. Wood-Folk at School. Long, William Joseph. Long Ago in Greece. Carpenter, E. J. Peasant and Prince. Martineau, H. Boy Courier of Napoleon. Sprague, W. C. Wonder Stories from the Mabinogion. Brooks, E. Old Farm Fairies.[55] McConk, Henry Christopher. Tenants of an Old Farm.[55] McConk, Henry Christopher. At the Back of the North Wind. MacDonald, George. Princess and the Goblin. MacDonald, George. Cave Boy of the Age of Stone. McIntyre, Margaret A. Magna Carta Stories. Gilman, A. Early Cave Men. Dopp, K. E. Later Cave Men. Dopp, K. E. Stories of Roland. Marshall, H. E. Crofton Boys. Martineau, Harriet. Peats on the Fiord. Martineau, Harriet. Peasant and Prince. Martineau, Harriet. Child Stories from the Masters. Menafee, Maud. Miss Muffet's Christmas Party. Crotchers, S. M. Historical Tales: Greek. Morris, Charles. Historical Tales: Russian. Morris, Charles. Bed-Time Stories. Moulton, Louise Chandler. New Bed-Time Stories. Moulton, Louise Chandler. Modern Reader's Bible (Children Series). Moulton, F. R. G. My Air-Ships. Santos-Dumont. Old Norse Stories. Bradish, S. P. Through Russian Snows. Henty, G. Nine Worlds: Stories from Norse Mythology. Lichfield, M. E. Fairy Tales, Narratives and Poems. Norton, George Eliot. Modern Vikings. Boyeson, H. H. Boyhood in Norway. Boyeson, H. H. Old Greek Stories Told Anew. Peabody, J. B. Arabian Nights Re-told. Peary, Mrs. Josephine (Diebitsh). Heroic Ballads. Montgomery, D. H. English Ballads. Perkins, Mrs. Lucy Fitch. Boys' Iliad. Perry, Walter Copland. Boys' Odyssey. Perry, Walter Copland. Tale of Peter Rabbit. Potter, B. Tale of Squirrel Nutkin. Potter, B. Stories of Old France. Pitman, Leila Webster. Boys' and Girls' Plutarch. White, J. S. Greek Lives from Plutarch. Byles, C. E. My Lady Pokahontas. Cooke, J. E. Poems for Children. Rossetti, C. G. Children's Book. Scudder, H. E. Scottish Chiefs. Porter, Jane. Legends of the Red Children. Pratt, Mara Louise. Little Nature Studies for Little Folk. Burroughs, John. Giant Sun and His Family. Proctor, Mary. Stories of Starland. Proctor, Mary. Revolutionary Stories Re-told from St. Nicholas. Pyle, Howard. Old Tales from Rome. Zimmern, A. Stories of the Saints. Chenoweth, C. V. D. Sandman: His Farm Stories. Hopkins, W. T. Sandman: His Sea Stories. Hopkins, W. T. Sandman: His Ship Stories. Hopkins, W. T. Schooldays in France. Laurie, A. Schooldays in Italy. Laurie, A. Schooldays in Japan. Laurie, A. Schooldays in Russia. Laurie, A. William of Orange (Life Stories for Young People). Schupp, Otto Kar. Sea Yarns for Boys. Henderson, W. T. Story of Lord Roberts. Sellar, Edmund Francis. Story of Nelson. Sellar, Edmund Francis. Tent Life in Siberia. Kenman, G. Stories from English History. Skae, Hilda I. Boys who Became Famous Men (Giotto, Bach, Byron, Gainsborough, Handel, Coleridge, Canova, Chopin). Skinner, Harriet Pearl. Eskimo Stories. Smith, Mary Emily Estella. Some Curious Flyers, Creepers and Swimmers. Johannot, J. Bush Boys. Reid, M. New Mexico David, and Other Stories. Lummis, C. F. Child's History of Spain. Bonner, J. Historical Tales: Spanish. Morris, C. Story of the Cid. Wilson, C. D. Life of Lincoln for Boys. Sparhawk, Frances Campbell. Pieces for Every Occasion. Le Rou, C. B. Stories from Dante. Chester, N. Stories from Old English Poetry. Richardson, A. S. Stories from Plato and Other Classic Writers. Burt, M. E. Stories in Stone from the Roman Forum. Lovell, I. Stories of Brave Days. Carter, M. H. Stories of Early England. Buxton, E. M. Wilmot. Stories of Heroic Deeds. Johannot, J. Stories of Indian Chieftains. Husted, M. H. Stories of Insect Life. Weed, C. M., and Mustfeldt, M. E. Stories of the Gorilla Country. Du Chaillu, P. B. Stories of the Sea told by Sailors. Hale, E. E. Stories of War. Hale, E. E. Story of Lewis Caroll. Bowman, I. Story of Sir Launcelot and his Companions. Pyle, H. Queer Little People. Stowe, Harriet Beecher. In Clive's Command. Strang, Herbert. George Washington Jones (Christmas of a Little Coloured Boy). Stuart, Ruth McEnery. Story of Babette. Stuart, Ruth McEnery. Old Ballads in Prose. Tappan, Eva. Lion and Tiger Stories. Carter, M. H. True Tales of Birds and Beasts. Jordan, D. S. Typical Tales of Fancy, Romance and History from Shakespeare's Plays. Raymond, E. Young People's Story of Art. Whitcomb, Ida Prentice. Young People's Story of Music. Whitcomb, Ida Prentice. Tales of Laughter. Wiggin, K. Douglas.

The following miscellaneous list of books and stories is my own. I do not mean that none of them have appeared in other lists, but the greater number have been sifted from larger lists which I have made during the last ten years, more or less.

For English readers I have given the press-marks in the British Museum, which will be an economy of time to busy students and teachers. I have supplied, in every case where it has been possible, the source of the story and the name of the publisher for American readers, but my experience as a reader in the libraries of the States brings me to the conclusion that all the books of educational value will either be found in the main libraries or procured on application even in the small towns.

In many cases the stories would have to be shortened and re-arranged. The difficulty of finding the sources and obtaining permission has deterred me from offering for the present these stories in full.

This being a supplementary list to more general ones, there will naturally be absent a large number of standard books which I take for granted are known. Nevertheless, I have included the titles of some well-known works which ought not to be left out of any list.

TITLES OF BOOKS CONTAINING TRANSLATIONS AND ADAPTATIONS OF CLASSICAL STORIES.

The Children of the Dawn. Old Tales of Greece. E. Fennemore Buckley. 12403 f. 41. Wells, Gardner, Darton & Co. Kingsley's Heroes. 012208. e. 22/26. Blackie and Son. (See List of Stories.) Wonder Stories from Herodotus. (Excellent as a preparation for the real old stories.) N. Barrington d'Almeida. 9026.66. S. Harper Brothers.

TITLES OF BOOKS CONTAINING CLASSICAL STORIES FROM HISTORY RE-TOLD.

Plutarch's Lives for Boys and Girls. Re-told by W. H. Weston. 10606. d. 4. T. C. and E. C. Jack. Tales from Plutarch. By Jameson Rawbotham. 10606. bb. 3. Fisher Unwin.

SOURCES OF INDIAN STORIES AND MYTHS.

For an understanding of the inner meaning of these stories, and as a preparation for telling them, I should recommend as a useful book of reference:

Indian Myths and Legends. By Mackenzie. 04503. f. 26. Gresham Publishing House.

The following titles are of books containing stories for narration:

Jacob's Indian Tales. 12411. h. 9. David Nutt. Old Deccan Days. Mary Frere. 12411. e.e. 14. John Murray. The Talking Thrush. W. H. D. Rouse. 12411. e.e.e. 17. J. M. Dent. Wide Awake Stories. 12411. b.b.b. 2. Steel and Temple. Indian Nights' Entertainment. Synnerton. 14162. f. 16. Eliot Stock. Myths of the Hindus and Buddhists. By Sister Nevedita and Amanda Coomara. K.T.C. Swamy. A. I. George Harrap Company. (This volume is mainly for reference.) Buddhist Birth Stories. T. W. Rhys Davids. 14098. d. 23. Trubner Co. Stories of the Buddha Birth. Cowell, Rouse, Neil, Francis. 14098. dd. 8. University Press, Cambridge.

As selections of this extensive work:

Eastern Stories and Fables. M. I. Shedlock. George Routledge. The Jatakas, Tales of India. Re-told by Ellen C. Babbitt. 012809. d. 8. The Century Co. Folk-Tales of Kashmir. Knowles. 2318. g. 18. Trübner & Co. The Jungle-Book. Rudyard Kipling. 012807. ff. 47. Macmillan. The Second Jungle-Book. Rudyard Kipling. 012807. k. 57. Macmillan. Tibetian Tales. F. A. Shieffner. 2318. g. 7. Trübner & Co.

LEGENDS, MYTHS AND FAIRY-TALES.

Classic Myths and Legends. A. H. Hope Moncrieff. 12403. ee. 6. The Gresham Publishing House. Myths and Folk-Tales of the Russians. Curtin. 2346. e. 6. Sampson Low. North-West Slav Legends and Fairy Stories. Erben. (Translated by W. W. Strickland.) 12430. i. 44. Russian Fairy-Tales. Nisbet Pain. 12431. ee. 18. Lawrence and Bullen. Sixty Folk-Tales from Slavonic Sources. Wratislau. 12431. dd. 29. Elliot Stock. Slavonic Fairy-Tales. F. Naake. 2348. b. 4. Henry S. King. Slav Tales. Chodsho. (Translated by Emily J. Harding.) 12411. eee. 2. George Allen. Chinese Stories. Pitman. 12410. dd. 25. George Harrap & Co. Chinese Fairy Tales. Professor Giles. 012201. de. 8. Govans International Library. Chinese Nights' Entertainment. Adèle Fielde. 12411. h. 4. G. P. Putnam. Maori Tales. K. M. Clark. 12411. h. 15. Macmillan & Co. Papuan Fairy Tales. Annie Ker. 12410. eee. 25. Macmillan & Co. Cornwall's Wonderland. Mabel Quiller Couch. 12431. r. 13. J. M. Dent. Perrault's Fairy Tales. 012200. e. 8. “The Temple Classics.” J. M. Dent. Gesta Romanorum. 12411. e. 15. Swan Sonnenschein. Myths and Legends of Japan. F. H. Davis. 1241. de. 8. G. Harrap & Co. Old World Japan. Frank Rinder. 12411. eee. 3. George Allen. Legendary Lore of All Nations. Swinton and Cathcart. 1241. f. 13. Ivison, Taylor & Co. Popular Tales from the Norse. Sir George Webbe Dasent. 12207. pp. George Routledge and Son. Fairy Tales from Finland. Zopelius. 12431. df. 2. J. M. Dent. Fairy Gold. A Book of Old English Fairy Tales, chosen by Ernest Rhys. 12411. dd. 22. J. M. Dent. Contes Populaires du Vallon. Aug. Gittée. 12430. h. 44. (Written in very simple style and easy of translation.) Wanderpooten Gand. Tales of Old Lusitania. Coelho. 12431. e. 34. Swan Sonnenschein. Tales from the Land of Nuts and Grapes. Charles Sellers. 12431. c. 38. Simpkin, Marshall & Co. The English Fairy Book. Ernest Rhys. 12410. dd. 29. Fisher Unwin. Zuni Folk Tales. F. H. Cushing. 12411. g. 30. Putnam. Manx Fairy Tales. Sophia Morrison. 12410. df. 10. David Nutt. Legend of the Iroquois. W. V. Canfield. 12410. ff. 23. A Wessels Company. The Indian's Book. Natalie Curtis. 2346. i. 2. Harper Brothers. Hansa Folk Lore. Rattray. 12431. tt. 2. Clarendon Press. Japanese Folk Stories and Fairy Tales. Mary F. Nixon-Roulet. 12450. ec. 18. Swan Sonnenschein. Kaffir Folk Tales. G. M. Theal. 2348. e. 15. Swan Sonnenschein. Old Hungarian Tales. Baroness Orczy and Montagu Barstow. 12411. f. 33. Dean and Son. Evening with the Old Story-tellers. G.B. 1155. e. I (1). James Burns. Myths and Legends of Flowers. C. Skinner. 07029. h. 50. Lippincott. The Book of Legends Told Over Again. Horace Scudder. 12430. e. 32. Gay and Bird. Indian Folk Tales (American Indian). Mary F. Nixon-Roulet. 12411. cc. 14. D. Appleton Company.

ROMANCE.

Epic and Romance. Professor W. P. Ker. 2310. c. 20. Macmillan. (As preparation for the selection of Romance Stories.) Old Celtic Romances. P. W. Joyce. 12430. cc. 34. David Nutt. Heroes of Asgard. Keary. 012273. de. 6. Macmillan & Co. Early British Heroes. Hartley. 12411. d. 5. J. M. Dent & Co. A Child's Book of Saints. W. Canton. 12206. r. 11. J. M. Dent. A Child's Book of Warriors. W. Canton. 04413. g. 49. J. M. Dent. History of Ballads. Professor W. P. Ker. From “Proceedings of British Academy.” 11852. Vol. 6 (9). History of English Balladry. Egbert Briant. 011853. aaa. 16. Richard G. Badger, Gorham Press. Book of Ballads for Boys and Girls. Selected by Smith and Soutar. 11622. bbb. 3. 7. The Clarendon Press. A Book of Ballad Stories. Mary Macleod. 12431. p. 3. Wells, Gardner & Co. Captive Royal Children. G. T. Whitham. 10806. eee. 2. Wells, Gardner, Darton & Co. Tales and Talks from History. 9007. h. 24. Blackie & Son. Stories from Froissart. Henry Newbolt. 9510. cc. 9. Wells, Gardner, Darton & Co. Pilgrim Tales from Chaucer. F. J. Harvey Darton. 12410. eee. 14. Wells, Gardner & Darton. Wonder Book of Romances. F. J. Harvey Darton. 12410. eee. 18. Wells, Gardner & Darton. Red Romance Book. Andrew Lang. 12411. bbb. 10. Longmans, Green & Co. The Garden of Romance. Edited by Ernest Rhys. 12411. h. 17. Kegan Paul. The Kiltartan Wonderbook. Lady Gregory. 12450. g. 32. Maunsel & Co. The Story of Drake. L. Elton. 10601. p. (From “The Children's Heroes” Series.) Tales from Arabian Nights. 012201. ff. 7/1. Blackie & Sons. King Peter. Dion Calthrop, 012632. ccc. 37. Duckworth & Co. Tales of the Heroic Ages: Siegfried, Beowulf, Frithjof, Roland. Zenaide Ragozin. 12411. eee. G. P. Putnam.

TITLES OF MISCELLANEOUS BOOKS CONTAINING MATERIAL FOR NARRATION.

Strange Adventures in Dicky Birdland. Kearton. 12809. ff. 45. Cassell & Co. Then and Now Stories: Life in England Then and Now; Children Then and Now; Story-Tellers Then and Now. W.P. 2221. Macmillan & Co. A Book of Bad Children. Trego Webb. 012808. ee. Methuen & Co. Land of Play. Ada Wallas. 12813. r. 8. (The story of a Doll-Historian, much appreciated by children.) Edward Arnold. Tell It Again Stories (For very young children). Elizabeth Thompson Dillingham and Adèle Pomers Emerson. 012808. cc. 15. Ginn and Co. The Basket Woman. Mrs. Mary Austin. Houghton Mifflin Co. The Queen Bee, and Other Stories. Evald. (Translated by C. C. Moore Smith.) P.P. 6064 c. Nelson and Sons. The Children and the Pictures. Pamela Tennant. 12804. tt. 10. William Heinemann. Stories from the History of Ceylon for Children. Marie Musaus Higgins. Capper & Sons. Nonsense for Somebody by A. Nobody. 12809. n. 82. Wells, Gardner & Co. Graphic Stories for Boys and Girls. Selected from 3, 4, 5, 6 of the Graphic Readers. 012866. f. Collins. Child Lore. 1451. a. 54. Nimmo. Windlestraw (Legends in Rhyme of Plants and Animals). Pamela Glenconner. 011651. e. 76. Chiswick Press. Deccan Nursery Tales. Kinaid. Macmillan. The Indian's Story Book. Richard Wilson. Macmillan. Told in Gallant Deeds. A Child's History of the War. Mrs. Belloc Lowndes. Nisbet.

I much regret that I have been unable to find a good collection of stories from history for Narrative purposes. I have made a careful and lengthy search, but apart from the few I have quoted the stories are all written from the _reading_ point of view, rather than the _telling_. There is a large scope for such a book, but the dramatic presentation is the first and chief essential of such a work. These stories could be used as supplementary to the readings of the great historians. It would be much easier to interest boys and girls in the more leisurely account of the historian when they have once been caught in the fire of enthusiasm on the dramatic side.

The following is a list of single stories chosen for the dramatic qualities which make them suitable for narration. For the Press-marks and the publishers it will be necessary to refer back to the list containing the book-titles.

CLASSICAL STORIES RE-TOLD.

The Story of Theseus (To be told in six parts for a series). How Theseus Lifted the Stone. How Theseus Slew the Corynetes. How Theseus Slew Sinis. How Theseus Slew Kerkyon and Procrustes. How Theseus Slew Medea and was acknowledged as the Son of Ægeus. How Theseus Slew the Minotaur. (From Kingsley's Heroes. 012208. e. 22/26. Blackie & Son.) The Story of Crœsus. The Conspiracy of the Magi. Arion and the Dolphin. (From Wonder Tales from Herodotus. These are intended for reading, but could be shortened for effective narration.) Coriolanus. Julius Cæsar. Aristides. Alexander. (From Plutarch's Lives for Boys and Girls. These stories must be shortened and adapted for narration.) The God of the Spears: The Story of Romulus. His Father's Crown: The story of Alcibiades. (From Tales from Plutarch. F. J. Rowbotham. Both these stories to be shortened and told in sections.)

INDIAN STORIES.

The Wise Old Shepherd. (From The Talking Thrush. Rouse.) The Religious Camel. (From the same source.) Less Inequality than Men Deem. The Brahman, the Tiger and the Six Judges. Tit for Tat. (From Old Deccan Days. Mary Frere.) Pride Goeth Before a Fall. Harisarman. (From Jacob's Indian Fairy Tales.) The Bear's Bad Bargain. Little Anklebone. Peasie and Beansie. (From Wide Awake Stories. Flora Annie Steel.) The Weaver and the Water Melon. The Tiger and the Hare. (From Indian Nights' Entertainment. Synnerton.) The Virtuous Animals. (This story should be abridged and somewhat altered for narration.) The Ass as Singer. The Wolf and the Sheep. (From Tibetian Tales. F. A. Schieffur.) A Story about Robbers. (From Out of the Far East. Page. 131. Lafcadio Hearn. 10058. de. g. Houghton and Mifflin.) Dripping. (From Indian Fairy Tales. Mark Thornhill. 12431. bbb. 38. Hatchard.) The Buddha as Tree-Spirit. The Buddha as Parrot. The Buddha as King. (From Eastern Stories and Fables. George Routledge.) Raksas and Bakshas. The Bread of Discontent. (From Legendary Lore of All Nations. Cathcart and Swinton.) A Germ-Destroyer. Namgay Doola (A good story for boys, to be given in shortened form). (From The Kipling Reader. 1227. t. 7. Macmillan.) A Stupid Boy. The Clever Jackal (One of the few stories wherein the Jackal shows skill combined with gratitude). Why the Fish Laughed. (From Folk Tales of Kashmir. Knowles.)

COMMON SENSE AND RESOURCEFULNESS AND HUMOUR.

The Thief and the Cocoanut Tree. The Woman and the Lizard. Sada Sada. The Shopkeeper and the Robber. The Reciter. Rich Man's Potsherd. Singer and the Donkey. Child and Milk. Rich Man Giving a Feast. King Solomon and the Mosquitoes. The King who Promised to Look After Tennel Ranan's Family. Vikadakavi. Horse and Complainant. The Woman and the Stolen Fruit. (From An Indian Tale or Two. Swinton. 14171. A. 20. Reprinted from Blackheath Local Guide.)

TITLES OF BOOKS CONTAINING STORIES FROM HISTORY.

British Sailor Heroes. British Soldier Heroes. (From the Hero Reader. W.P. 53 ⅓. William Heinemann.) The Story of Alfred the Great. A. E. McKillan. Alexander the Great. Ada Russell: W.P. 66/5. The Story of Jean d'Arc. Wilmot Buxton. W.P. 66/1. Marie Antoinette. Alice Birkhead. W.P. 66/2. (All these are published by George Harrap.)

STORIES FROM THE LIVES OF SAINTS.

The Children's Library of the Saints. Edited by Rev. W. Guy Pearse. Printed by Richard Jackson. (This is an illustrated penny edition.) From the Legenda Aurea. 012200. de. The Story of St. Brandon (The Episode of the Birds). Vol 7, page 52. The Story of St. Francis. Vol. 6, page 125. The Story of Santa Clara and the Roses. Saint Elisabeth of Hungary. Vol. 6, page 213. St. Martin and the Cloak. Vol. 6, page 142. The Legend of St. Marjory. (_Tales Facetiæ._ 12350. b. 39.) Melangell's Lambs. (From The Welsh Fairy Book. W. Jenkyn Thomas. Fisher Unwin.) Our Lady's Tumbler. (Twelfth Century Legend told by Philip Wicksteed. 012356. e. 59.) (J. M. Dent. This story could be shortened and adapted without sacrificing too much of the beauty of the style.) The Song of the Minster. (From William Canton's Book of Saints. K.T.C. a/4. J. M. Dent. This should be shortened and somewhat simplified for narration, especially in the technical ecclesiastical terms.) The Story of St. Kenelm the Little King. (From Old English History for Children.) The Story of King Alfred and St. Cuthbert. The Story of Ædburg, the Daughter of Edward. The Story of King Harold's Sickness and Recovery.

I commend all those who tell these stories to read the comments made on them by E. A. Freeman himself.

(From Old English History for Children. 012206. ppp. 7. J. M. Dent. Everyman Series.)

STORIES DEALING WITH THE SUCCESS OF THE YOUNGEST CHILD.

(This is sometimes due to a kind action shown to some humble person or to an animal.)

The Three Sons. (From The Kiltartan Wonderbook. By Lady Gregory.) The Flying Ship. (From Russian Fairy Tales. Nisbet Pain.) How Jesper Herded the Hares. (From The Violet Fairy Book. 12411. ccc. 6.) Youth, Life and Death. (From Myths and Folk Tales of Russians and Slavs. By Curtin.) Jack the Dullard. Hans Christian Andersen. (See list of Andersen Stories.) The Enchanted Whistle. (From The Golden Fairy Book. 12411. c. 36.) The King's Three Sons. Hunchback and Brothers. (From Legends of the French Provinces. 1241. c. 2.) The Little Humpbacked Horse. (This story is more suitable for reading than telling.) (From Russian Wonder Tales. By Post Wheeler. 12410. dd. 30. Adam and Charles Black.) The Queen Bee. By Grimm. (See full list.) The Wonderful Bird. (From Roumanian Fairy Tales. Adapted by J. M. Percival. 12431. dd. 23. Henry Holt.)

LEGENDS, MYTHS, FAIRY TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS STORIES.

How the Herring became King. Joe Moore's Story. The Mermaid of Gob Ny Ooyl. King Magnus Barefoot. (From Manx Tales. By Sophia Morrison.) The Greedy Man. (From Contes Populaires Malgaches. By G. Ferrand. 2348. aaa. 19. Ernest Leroux.) Arbutus. Basil. Briony. Dandelion. (From Legends of Myths and Flowers. C. Skinner.) The Magic Picture. The Stone Monkey. Stealing Peaches. The Country of Gentlemen. Football on a Lake. (From Chinese Fairy Tales. Professor Giles.) The Lime Tree. Intelligence and Luck. The Frost, the Sun and Wind. (From Sixty Folk Tales. Wratislaw.) The Boy who Slept. The Gods Know. (This story must be shortened and adapted for narration.) (From Chinese Fairy Stories. By Pitman.) The Imp Tree. The Pixy Flower. Tom-Tit Tot. The Princess of Colchester. (From Fairy Gold. Ernest Rhys.) The Origin of the Mole. (From Cossack Fairy Tales. Selected by Nisbet Bain. 12431. f. 51. Lawrence and Bullen.) Dolls and Butterflies. (From Myths and Legends of Japan. Chapter VI.) The Child of the Forest. The Sparrow's Wedding. The Moon Maiden. (From Old World Japan. By Frank Binder.) The Story of Merlin. (For Young People.) (Told in Early British Heroes. Harkey.) The Isle of the Mystic Lake. (From Voyage of Maildun, “Old Celtic Romances.” P. W. Joice.) The Story of Baldur. (In Three Parts, for Young Children.) (From Heroes of Asgard. M. R. Earle. Macmillan.) Adalhero. (From Evenings with the Old Story-Tellers. See “Titles of Books.”) Martin, the Peasant's Son. (This is more suitable for reading. From Russian Wonder Tales. Post Wheeler.)

MISCELLANEOUS STORIES.

Versions of the Legend of Rip Van Winkle. Urashima. (From Myths and Legends of Japan. Hadland Davis.) The Monk and the Bird. (From the Book of Legends-Told Over Again. Horace Scudder.) Carob. (Talmud Legend.) (From Myths and Legends of Flowers. C. Skinner.) The Land of Eternal Youth. (From Child-Lore.) Catskin. Guy of Gisborne. King Henry and the Miller. (From Stories from Ballads. M. Macleod.) The Legend of the Black Prince. Why the Wolves no Longer Devour the Lambs on Xmas Night. (From Au Pays des Legendes. E. Herpin. 12430. bbb. 30. Hyacinthe Calliere.) The Coyote and the Locust. The Coyote and the Raven. (From Zuni Folk Tales. Cushing.) The Peacemaker. (From Legends of the Iroquois. W. V. Canfield.) The Story of the Great Chief of the Animals. The Story of Lion and Little Jackal. (From Kaffir Folk Tales. G. M. Theal.) The Legend of the Great St. Nicholas. The Three Counsels. (From Bulletin de Folk Lore. Liege. Academies, 987 ½.) The Tale of the Peasant Demyar. Monkey and the Pomegranate Tree. The Ant and the Snow. The Value of an Egg. The Padre and the Negro. Papranka. (From Tales of Old Lusitania. Coelho.) Kojata. The Lost Spear. (To be shortened.) The Hermit. By Voltaire. The Blue Cat. (From the French.) The Silver Penny. The Three Sisters. The Slippers of Abou-Karem. (From The Golden Fairy Book. 12411. e. 36. Hutchinson.) The Fairy Baby. (From Uncle Remus in Hansaland. By Mary and Newman Tremearne.) Why the Sole of a Man's Foot is Uneven. The Wonderful Hair. The Emperor Trojan's Goat Ears. The Language of Animals. Handicraft above Everything. Just Earnings are Never Lost. The Maiden who was Swifter than a Horse. (From Servian Stories and Legends.) Le Couple Silencieux. Le Mort Parlant. La Sotte Fiancee. Le Cornacon. Persin au Pot. (From Contes Populaires du Vallon. Aug. Gittée. 12430. h. 44.) The Rat and the Cat. The Two Thieves. The Two Rats. The Dog and the Rat. (From Contes Populaires Malgaches. 2348. aaa. 19. Gab. Ferrand.) Rua and Toka. (From The Maori Tales. Clark.) John and the Pig. (Old Hungarian Tales.) (This story is given for the same purpose as “Long Bow Story.” See Andrew Lang's Books.) Lady Clare. The Wolf-Child. (From Land of Grapes and Nuts.) The Ungrateful Man. The Faithful Servant. (In part.) Jovinian the Proud Emperor. The Knight and the King of Hungary. The Wicked Priest. The Emperor Conrad and the Count's Son. (From the Gesta Romanorum. 1155. e. I.) Virgil, the Emperor and the Truffles. (From Unpublished Legends of Virgil. Collected by C. G. Leland. 12411. eee. 15. Elliot Stock.) Seeing that All was Right. (A good story for boys.) La Fortuna. The Lanterns of the Strozzi Palace. (From Legends of Florence. Re-told by C. G. Leland. 12411. c.cc. 2. David Nutt.) The Three Kingdoms. Yelena the Wise. Seven Simeons. Ivan, the Bird and the Wolf. The Pig, the Deer and the Steed. Waters of Youth. The Useless Wagoner. (These stories need shortening and adapting. From Myths and Folk Tales of the Russian. Curtin.)

MISCELLANEOUS STORIES TAKEN FROM THE ANDREW LANG BOOKS.

The Serpent's Gifts. Unlucky John. (From All Sorts of Story Books. 012704. aaa. 35.) Makoma. (A story for boys.) (From Orange Fairy Book. 12411. c. 36.) The Lady of Solace. How the Ass Became a Man Again. Amys and Amile. The Burning of Njal. Ogier the Dane. (From Red Book of Romance. 12411. bbb. 10.) The Heart of a Donkey. The Wonderful Tune. A French Puck. A Fish Story. (From The Lilac Fairy Book. 12411. de. 17.) East of the Sun and West of the Moon. (As a preparation for Cupid and Psyche.) (From The Blue Fairy Book. 12411. I. 3.) The Half Chick. The Story of Hok Lee and the Dwarfs. (From The Green Fairy Book. 12411.1. 6.) How to Find a True Friend. (To be given in shorter form.) (From The Crimson Fairy Book. 12411. c. 20.) The Long Bow Story. (This story makes children learn to distinguish between falsehood and romance.) (From The Olive Fairy Book. 12410. dd. 18.) Kanny, the Kangaroo. Story of Tom the Bear. (From The Animal Story Book.) The Story of the Fisherman. Aladdin and the Lamp. (This story should be divided and told in two sections.) The Story of Ali Cogia. (From the Arabian Nights Stories of Andrew Lang. All these stories are published by Longmans, Green & Co.)

The following titles are taken from the “Story-telling Magazine,” published 27 West 23rd Street, New York.

March and the Shepherd. (Folk Lore from Foreign Lands. January, 1914.) The Two Young Lions. (From Fénélon's Fables and Fairy Tales. Translated by Marc T. Valette. March, 1914.) Why the Cat Spits at the Dog. (November, 1913.) The Story of Persephone. By R. T. Wyche. (September, 1913.) The Story of England's First Poet. By G. P. Krapp. (From In Oldest England, July, 1913.) The Three Goats. By Jessica Child. (For very young children. July, 1913.) The Comical History of the Cobbler and the King. (Chap. Book. 12331. i. 4.) (This story should be shortened to add to the dramatic power.)

The two following stories, which are great favourites, should be told one after the other, one to illustrate the patient wife, and the other the patient husband.

The Fisherman and his Wife. Hans. C. Andersen. (See Publishers of Andersen's Stories.) Hereafter This. (From More English Fairy Tales. By Jacobs. 12411. h. 23. David Nutt.) How a Man Found his Wife in the Land of the Dead. (This is a very dramatic and pagan story, to be used with discretion.) The Man without Hands and Feet. The Cockerel. (From Papuan Fairy Tales. Annie Ker.) The Story of Sir Tristram and La Belle Iseult. (To be told in shortened form.) (From Cornwall's Wonderland. Mabel Quiller Couch.) The Cat that Went to the Doctor. The Wood Anemone. Sweeter than Sugar. The Raspberry Caterpillar. (From Fairy Tales from Finland. Zopelius.) Dinevan the Emu. Goomble Gubbon the Bustard. (From Australian Legendary Lore. By Mrs. Langloh Parker. 12411. h. 13.) The Tulip Bed. (From English Fairy Book. Ernest Rhys.)

I have been asked so often for this particular story: I am glad to be able to provide it in very poetical language.

The Fisherman and his Wife. The Wolf and the Kids. The Adventures of Chanticleer and Partlet. The Old Man and his Grandson. Rumpelstiltskin. The Queen Bee. The Wolf and the Man. The Golden Goose. (From Grimm's Fairy Tales. By Mrs. Edgar Lucas. 12410. dd. 33. Constable.)

STORIES FROM HANS C. ANDERSEN.

(For young children.)

Ole-Luk-Oie. (Series of seven.) What the Old Man Does is Always Right. The Princess and the Pea. Thumbelina.

(For older children.)

It's Quite True. Five Out of One Pod. Great Claus and Little Claus. Jack the Dullard. The Buckwheat. The Fir-Tree. The Little Tin Soldier. The Nightingale. The Ugly Duckling. The Swineherd. The Sea Serpent. The Little Match-Girl. The Gardener and the Family.

The two best editions of Hans C. Andersen's Fairy Tales are the translation by Mrs. Lucas, published by Dent, and the only complete English edition, published by W. A. and J. K. Craigie (Humphrey Milford, 1914).

MISCELLANEOUS MODERN STORIES.

The Summer Princess. (From The Enchanted Garden. Mrs. Molesworth. 012803. d. f. T. Fisher Unwin. This could be shortened and arranged for narration.) Thomas and the Princess. (A Fairy Tale for Grown-Ups, for pure relaxation.) By Joseph Conrad. (From Twenty-six Ideal Stories for Girls. 012809. e. 1. Hutchinson & Co.) The Truce of God. (From All-Fellowes Seven Legends of Lower Redemption. Laurence Housman. 012630. 1. 25. Kegan Paul.) The Selfish Giant. By Oscar Wilde. 012356. e. 59. David Nutt. The Legend of the Tortoise. (From the Provençal. From Windestraw. Pamela Glenconner.) Chiswick Press. Fairy Grumblesnooks. A Bit of Laughter's Smile. By Maud Symonds. (From Tales for Little People. Nos. 323 and 318. Aldine Publishing Company.) The Fairy who Judged her Neighbours. (From The Little Wonder Box. By Jean Ingelow. 12806. r. 21. Griffiths, Farren & Co.)

FOR TEACHERS OF YOUNG CHILDREN.

Le Courage. L'Ecole. Le Jour de Catherine. Jacqueline et Mirant. (From Nos Enfants. Anatole France. 12810. dd. 72. Hachette.) The Giant and the Jackstraw. By David Starr Jordan. (From Una and the Knights. For very small children.) The Musician. Legend of the Christmas Rose. (From The Girl from the Marsh Croft. Selma Lagerlöf. 12581. p. 99.) Both these should be shortened and adapted for narration.

I trust that the titles of my stories in this Section may not be misleading. Under the titles of “Myths, Legends and Fairy Tales,” I have included many which contain valuable ethical teaching, deep philosophy and stimulating examples for conduct in life. I regret that I have not been able to furnish in my own list many of the stories I consider good for narration, but the difficulty of obtaining permission has deterred me from further efforts in this direction. I hope, however, that teachers and students will look up the book containing these stories.

FOOTNOTES:

[55] Both books dealing with insect life.

INDEX

Adler, Felix, on animal stories, 80

Adventures of a Beetle, 29

Alice in Wonderland, 57, 136

Analysis of motive and feeling, to be avoided, 43

Andersen, Hans C., 2, 15, 16, 21, 29, 31, 34, 39, 41, 44, 45, 62, 63, 80, 112, 116, 123, 124, 138, 150, 156, 232

Animal Play, Psychology of, 105

Art, true purpose of, 109

Arthur in the Cave, 165-9

Artifices of story telling, 32

Bacon, J. D. D., 12

Ballad for a boy, 107

Baring, M., 193

Barnes, Earl, 60

Barnett, P. A., 104

Barnett, Mrs. P. A., 70

Barrow, E., 40

Beautiful things need appropriate language, 82

Beetle, the, 125

Beginning, should be striking, 39

Belloc's Cautionary Tales, 56

Béranger, 25

Bible Stories, 67

Björnson's tribute to Andersen, 116

Blazing Mansion, the, 74

Bluebeard, 76

Blue Rose, the, 187

‘Blugginess,’ the thirst for, 85

Books, choice of, 61

Bradley, Professor, 119

Brown, T. E., 17

Buddha, stories of, 87, 127, 200, 203

Buffoonery, to be discouraged, 54

Burroughs, John, 58, 108

Buster Brown, 53

Butterfly, Story of, 45

Call of the Homeland, 71

Calypso, 93

Calthrop, Dion, 92

Carlyle, T., 115

Chap books, 51, 52

Chesterton, G. K., on sentimentality, 46

Child, the, 87

Child Play, 104, 105

Children's Catalogue, 211

Choice of books, 61

Christopher, St., legend of, 162-5

Cid, the, 133

Cinderella, 71, 90, 119, 120

Classical Stories, 218, 223

Class teaching, use of story-telling in, 132

Clifford, Ethel, 88

Clifford, Mrs. W. K., 40, 64

Commonplace, to be avoided, 99

Common sense of Education, 104

Common sense, illustrated in stories, 71, 224

Concealment of emotion by children, 114

Confucius, 60

Co-operation of audience, how to enlist, 37

Cory, W., 107

Coquelin, 27, 34

Crazy Jane, 47

Creative work, value of, 113

Curious Girl, 51

Curtin, Russian Myths, 90

Cymbeline, 94

Danger of side issues, 6

Danger of altering the story for the occasion, 8

Darning Needle, 125

Death, stories dealing with, 86

Death-bed scenes, 55

Defence of Poesy, 5, 91, 110

Detail, excess of, 21

Dick Whittington, 100

Didactic fiction, a low type of art, 4, 59

Dido and Aeneas, 66

Difficulties of the story, 6

Dinkey Bird, the, 64

Direct appeal, danger of, 111

Divine Adventure, the, 81

Dobson, Austin, 21

Don Quixote, 21, 133

Dramatic and poetic elements, 134

Dramatic Excitement, 82

Dramatic joy, 4, 93

Dramatic presentation, of moral value, 59

---- indispensable, 89

Dramatisation, danger of, 111

Drudgery, essential for success, 29

Educational uses of story telling, 4

Effect of story, difficult to gauge, 14

---- how to obtain and maintain, 89

Elements, desirable, 61

---- to be avoided, 42

Eliot, George, 83

Emotions, unable to find expression, 60

Emphasis, danger of, 33

Endings, dramatic, 40

Enfant Prodigue, 18

Environment, 95

Essentials of the story, 25

Ewing, Mrs., 50, 104, 106

Examples for Youth, 56

Experience, the appeal to, 62

Fact and make-believe, 119

Fairchild Family, 44

Fairy tales, 58, 72, 73, 74, 75, 102, 104, 112

---- do not appeal to some, 121

---- mixed with science, to be avoided, 57

---- poor material of, 122

---- potential truth in, 121

---- right age for, 75

Father and Son, 102

Fear, appeals to, 51

Fénélon's Telemachus, 92

Festival Day, true spirit of, 200-3

Fiction, should be used, 109

Field, Eugene, 64, 69

Filial Piety, 203-6

Fleming, Marjorie, 53

Folk lore, tampering with, 76

Freeman, P., poems of, 55

Froebel, 59

Fun, coarse and exaggerated, 53

Gales, R. L., 101

Geography, dramatic possibilities of, 134

Gesture, use and abuse of, 35, 126

Glenconner, Lady, 187

Glover, Mrs. Arnold, 96

Golden Numbers, 71

Goschen, G., 65, 99

Gosse, E., 102

Gregory, Lady, 24

Grimm, 71

Groos, Karl, 105

Grotesque stories, an antidote to sentimentality, 78

Gunnar, Death of, 133

Hafiz the Stone-cutter, 170-2

Harris, Muriel, 56

Harrison, Frederic, 61

Hearn, Lafcadio, 31

Hector and Andromache, 66

Helen and Paris, 8

Heroes of Asgaard, 65

History and fiction, 109, 225

Honey Bee and other Stories, 57

Human interest, 93

Humour, development slow, 136

---- educational value of, 135

---- to encourage the sense of, 4, 73, 224

Hushaby Lady, 69

Hysteria, how encouraged, 60

Ice Maiden, 80

Ideal, translated into action, 4, 110

Illustration of stories, 131

Imagination, appeal by, 20

---- cultivation of, 4, 65, 103

---- Queyrat on, 118

---- Ribot on, 105

Indian Stories, 81, 91, 218

Infant piety, tales of, 55

Irish peasants as an audience, 10

Jack and the Beanstalk, 74, 121

Jacob, More English tales, 72

James, Henry, 27

James, William, 84

Janeway, Mrs., 51

Jesper and the Hares, 72

John and the Pig, 106

Keatinge, on Suggestion, 34

Kimmins, Dr., 130

Kinematograph, dramatic value of, 18, 48

King Peter, 92

Kinship with animals, to be encouraged, 80

Ker, Professor, 157

Kipling, Rudyard, 38, 39, 40, 41, 123, 127

Ladd's Psychology, 108

Lang, Andrew, 72, 73, 85, 230

Laocoon group, 55

Lear's Book of Nonsense, 79

Legends, Myths and Fairy tales, 219, 227

Life, stories of saving, 86

Little Citizens of other Lands, 103

Little Cousin Series, 214

Little Red Riding Hood, 76

Lion and Hare, 126

Loti, 114

Magnanimity, to be encouraged, 107

Mahomet, advice to teachers, 68

McKracken, Mrs. E., 45

Macleod, Fiona, 81

Marsh King's Daughter, 62

Mechanical devices for attracting attention, 32

Memory or improvisation, 123

Memory, the effect of, 63

Mentius, Chinese philosopher, 95

Metempsychosis, 81

Milking time, 68

Mill on the Floss, 83

Milton, 69

Mimicry, use of, 36

Ministering Children, 44

Miscellaneous Stories, 222, 228

Modern Stories, List of, 233

Montessori, on Silence, 131

Moore Smith, C. G., 57

Moral Instruction of Children, 81

Moral tales, 55

Morley, Henry, 58

Morley, Lord, on direct moral teaching, 128

Mother Play, 59

Moulton, Professor, 67

Napoleon, 85, 134

Nebuchadnezzar's golden image, 67

Necker de Saussure, Mme., 20

Nightingale, the, 138-150

Njal, Burning of, 85, 133

Nonsense, a plea for, 79

Norse Stories, 210

Nursery Rhymes, 101

Old people, as an audience, 24

Openings, vivid, 39, 40

Orpheus and Eurydice, 66

Our Lady's Tumbler, 123

Over dramatic stimulation, 48

Over-elaboration, 21

Over explanation, danger of, 23

Over-illustration, danger of, 17

Pandora, story of, 123

Pantomime, stories in, 18

Paris and Helen, 8

Pausing, the art of, 33

Piety Promoted, 57

Planting for Eternity, 115

Plato, on the End of Education, 91

Poetic element, children's unexpressed need, 135

Poetry and Life, 119

Poetry, effect of, 119

Poetry, value of, 69

Polish, importance of, 31

Poor Robin, 55

Priggishness, how to avoid, 51

Preparation for a story, 124

Princess and the Pea, 34, 156-7

Proud Cock, the, 178-180

Psyche, 120

Psychology, 108

Psychological novelist, 108

Pueblo tribe of Indians, 91

Puss in Boots, 108

Quebec and Téméraire, story of, 107

Questions, danger of, 13

Questions of teachers, 117

Questioning the audience, futility of, 130

Queyrat, 19, 23, 63, 106, 113, 118

Quintilian, on the use of the hands, 35

Reading matter for children, 211

Realism, excessive, 49

Repetition of story (by children) inadvisable, 130

Repetition of stories (by lecturers) recommended, 30, 62

Reproduction of stories, 112, 130

Resourcefulness, stories of, 71, 224

Ribot, on the imagination, 34, 105

Riley, Whitcomb, 100

Romance, Books of, 85, 221

Romance, good for children, 66

---- in the streets, 97

Rossetti, Christina, 68

Russell, J., 161

Russian myths and folk tales, 90

Saga, a, 160, 161

Saints, lives of, 225

St. Christopher, Legend of, 162-5

St. Francis and St. Clare, 66

Santa Claus, 122

Sarcasm, excess to be avoided, 44

Satire, excessive, to be deprecated, 44

Saturation, necessity of, 27

Scott, Dr., 71

Scudder, H., 111, 124

Sensationalism, danger of, 47

Sentimentality, 45

Shakespeare, 69, 96

Shepherd, the Obstinate, 172-8

Sherwood, Mrs., 52

Side issues, danger of, 6

Sidney, Sir Philip, 85, 91, 110

Siegfried and Brunhild, 66

Silence, Montessori on, 131

Simplicity, the keynote of story-telling, 2

Smith, Mrs. R. B., 14

Smith, N. A., 71

Snake story, a, 195-200

Snegourka, 180-2

Snow Child, the, 180-2

Somerset, Lady H., 110

Song and Story, 70

Song of Roland, 85

Souvenirs du Peuple, 25

Standard, must be high, 23

Sterne, 44

Stephens, James, 47

Stevenson, R. L., 104, 105, 123

Stories, in full, 138

---- to counteract influence of the streets, 93

---- outside children's experience, futility of, 48

Story telling in school and home, 210

Story Telling Magazine, 231

Sturla, story of, 157-160

Suggestion, 32, 34, 59

Sully, on children, 30, 90

Sunday books, 56

Swineherd, the, 150-156

Sympathy for foreigners, 103

Syrett, N., 118

Talking over a story, 129

Talking Thrush, the, 200

Talks to teachers, 85

Teachers of Young Children, books for, 234

Telemachus, 92

Tell, Wilhelm, 30

Tennant, Pamela, 187

Thackeray, 135

Thomas, W. Jenkyn, 169

Three Bears, 121

Through the Looking Glass, 90

Tiger, Jackal and Brahman, 11

Time, spent on story telling, 117

Tin Soldier, the, 63, 64, 124, 129

Top and Ball, 125

To your good health, 172-8

Treasure of the Wise Man, 100

Troy, tale of, 8

Truth, many-sided, 122

Truth of Stories, 118

Truth and Falsehood, how to distinguish, 106

Two Frogs, the, 193-5

Ulysses, 7, 93

Unfamiliar words, danger of, 10

United States, 31, 33, 49

Unsuitable material for stories, 42

Unusual element, desirable, 64

Unwholesome Extravagance, 53

Utilitarian stories, danger of, 99

Very Short Stories, 64

Virginibus Puerisque, 104

Voice, dramatic power of, 17

Wallas, K., 71

Warlike Excitement, not essential, 87

Water Nixie, the, 183-7

Wide, Wide World, 44

Wiggin, Kate Douglas, 48, 71

Wise Old Shepherd, the, 195-200

Wolf and Kids, 78

Yonge, Miss, 54

Youngest Child, success of, 226

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=STUDIES IN THE ART OF RAT-CATCHING.= By H. C. BARKLEY.

“Should the reader know of a schoolboy fond of ratting, the proud possessor possibly of a sharp terrier, and, maybe, a few ferrets, and wish to bestow a present upon him, the memory of which would last throughout his life, we could not do better than advise him to purchase this most pleasantly-written book and bestow it upon him.”--_Field._

=THE SERMON ON THE MOUNT.= By the Right Rev. CHARLES GORE, D.D., LL.D., Bishop of Oxford.

Cultured and scholarly, and yet simple and luminous, eloquent in tone and graceful in diction, practical and stimulating, it is far and away the best exposition of the Sermon on the Mount that has yet appeared.

=THE HOUSE OF QUIET. An Autobiography.= By A. C. BENSON.

“The House of Quiet” is an autobiography, and something more--a series of very charming essays on people and life. The writer has placed himself in the chair of an invalid, an individual possessed of full mental vigour and free from bodily pain, but compelled by physical weakness to shirk the rough and tumble of a careless, unheeding, work-a-day world. He writes with a pen dipped in the milk of human kindness, and the result is a book to read time and again.

=THE THREAD OF GOLD.= By A. C. BENSON.

_The Guardian_ says:--“The style of the writing is equally simple and yet dignified; from beginning to end an ease of movement charms the reader. The book is abundantly suggestive.... The work is that of a scholar and a thinker, quick to catch a vagrant emotion, and should be read, as it was evidently written, in leisure and solitude. It covers a wide range--art, nature, country life, human character, poetry and the drama, morals and religion.”

=THE PAINTERS OF FLORENCE. From the 13th to the 16th Centuries.= By JULIA CARTWRIGHT (Mrs. ADY). With Illustrations.

Mrs. Ady is a competent and gifted writer on Italian painting, and presents in these 350 pages an excellent history of the splendid art and artists of Florence during the golden period from Cimabue and Giotto to Andrea del Sarto and Michelangelo.

=A LADY'S LIFE IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.= By Mrs. BISHOP (ISABELLA L. BIRD). With Illustrations.

_The Irish Times_ says:--“‘A Lady's Life in the Rocky Mountains’ needs no introduction to a public who have known and admired Mrs. Bishop (Isabella L. Bird) as a fearless traveller in the days when it was something of an achievement for a woman to undertake long and remote journeys.”

=THE LIFE OF DAVID LIVINGSTONE.= By WILLIAM GARDEN BLAIKIE. With Portrait.

This is the standard biography of the great missionary who will for ever stand pre-eminent among African travellers.

=DEEDS OF NAVAL DARING; or, Anecdotes of the British Navy.= By EDWARD GIFFARD.

This work contains ninety-three anecdotes, told in everyday language, of such traits of courage and feats of individual daring as may best serve to illustrate the generally received idea of the British sailor's character for “courage verging on temerity.”

=SINAI AND PALESTINE in connection with their History.= By the late DEAN STANLEY. With Maps.

“There is no need, at this time of day, to praise the late Dean Stanley's fascinating story of his travels in Palestine. It is enough to say that here Mr. Murray has given us, for the sum of one shilling net, a delightful reprint of that charming book, with maps and plans and the author's original advertisement and prefaces. We would especially commend this cheap storehouse of history, tradition, and observation to Bible students.”--_Dundee Courier._

=THE NATURALIST ON THE RIVER AMAZONS.= A Record of Adventures, Habits of Animals, Sketches of Brazilian and Indian Life, and Aspects of Nature under the Equator, during Eleven Years of Travel. By H. W. BATES, F.R.S. Numerous Illustrations.

A most readable record of adventures, sketches of Brazilian and Indian life, habits of animals, and aspects of nature under the Equator during eleven years of travel.

* * * * *

WORKS OF SAMUEL SMILES.

Few books in the whole history of literature have had such wide popularity or such healthy and stimulating effect as the works of Samuel Smiles during the last half-century. How great men have attained to greatness and successful men achieved success is the subject of these enthralling volumes, which are now brought within the reach of all.

=SELF-HELP. With Illustrations of Conduct and Perseverance.= With Portrait.

=LIFE AND LABOUR; or, Characteristics of Men of Industry, Culture, and Genius.=

=CHARACTER. A Book of Noble Characteristics.= With Frontispiece.

=JAMES NASMYTH, Engineer and Inventor of the Steam Hammer.= An Autobiography. Portrait and Illustrations.

Transcriber's Note:

Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation inconsistencies have been silently repaired.

Corrections.

The first line indicates the original, the second the correction.

p. 72:

is “What the Old Man does is alway Right.” is “What the Old Man does is always Right.”

p. 91:

I remember the surprise which which, when I had grown somewhat older I remember the surprise which, when I had grown somewhat older

p. 126:

and practice will make make you more and more critical and practice will make you more and more critical

p. 234:

(From The Girl from the Marsh Croft. Selma Lagelöf. 12581. p. 99.) (From The Girl from the Marsh Croft. Selma Lagerlöf. 12581. p. 99.)

End of Project Gutenberg's The Art of Story-Telling, by Marie L. Shedlock