Stories To Tell To Children
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Sara Cone Bryant >> Stories To Tell To Children
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At the same moment, a voice said, "Good
actions never go unrewarded!" And
instantly Prince Cherry was transformed
into a little white dove.
With great joy, he flew to the open
palace window to seek out his Zelia, to try
to help her. But though he hunted in
every room, no Zelia was to be found.
He had to fly away, without seeing her.
He wanted more than anything else to
find her, and stay near her, so he flew out
into the world, to seek her.
He sought her in many lands, until one
day, in a far eastern country, he found
her sitting in a tent, by the side of an old,
white-haired hermit. Cherry was wild with
delight. He flew to her shoulder, caressed
her hair with his beak, and cooed in her
ear.
"You dear, lovely little thing!" said
Zelia. "Will you stay with me? If you will,
I will love you always."
"Ah, Zelia, see what you have done!"
laughed the hermit. At that instant, the
white dove vanished, and Prince Cherry
stood there, as handsome and charming
as ever, and with a look of kindness and
modesty in his eyes which had never been
there before. At the same time, the hermit
stood up, his flowing hair changed to shining
gold, and his face became a lovely
woman's face; it was the Fairy Candide.
"Zelia has broken your spell," she said to
the Prince, "as I meant she should, when
you were worthy of her love."
Zelia and Prince Cherry fell at the fairy's
feet. But with a beautiful smile she bade
them come to their kingdom. In a trice,
they were transported to the Prince's palace,
where King Suliman greeted them with
tears of joy. He gave back the throne,
with all his heart, and King Cherry ruled
again, with Zelia for his queen.
He wore the little gold ring all the rest
of his life, but never once did it have to
prick him hard enough to make his finger
bleed.
THE GOLD IN THE ORCHARD[1]
[1] An Italian folk tale.
There was once a farmer who had a fine
olive orchard. He was very industrious,
and the farm always prospered under
his care. But he knew that his three
sons despised the farm work, and were
eager to make wealth fast, through adventure.
When the farmer was old, and felt that
his time had come to die, he called the
three sons to him and said, "My sons,
there is a pot of gold hidden in the olive
orchard. Dig for it, if you wish it."
The sons tried to get him to tell them
in what part of the orchard the gold was
hidden; but he would tell them nothing more.
After the farmer was dead, the sons
went to work to find the pot of gold; since
they did not know where the hiding-place
was, they agreed to begin in a line, at one
end of the orchard, and to dig until one of
them should find the money.
They dug until they had turned up the
soil from one end of the orchard to the
other, round the tree-roots and between
them. But no pot of gold was to be found.
It seemed as if some one must have stolen
it, or as if the farmer had been wandering
in his wits. The three sons were bitterly
disappointed to have all their work for
nothing.
The next olive season, the olive trees in
the orchard bore more fruit than they had
ever given; the fine cultivating they had
had from the digging brought so much
fruit, and of so fine a quality, that when it
was sold it gave the sons a whole pot of gold!
And when they saw how much money
had come from the orchard, they suddenly
understood what the wise father had meant
when he said, "There is gold hidden in
the orchard; dig for it."
MARGARET OF NEW ORLEANS
If you ever go to the beautiful city
of New Orleans, somebody will be sure
to take you down into the old business
part of the city, where there are banks
and shops and hotels, and show you a
statue which stands in a little square there.
It is the statue of a woman, sitting in a low
chair, with her arms around a child, who
leans against her. The woman is not at
all pretty: she wears thick, common shoes,
a plain dress, with a little shawl, and a
sun-bonnet; she is stout and short, and
her face is a square-chinned Irish face;
but her eyes look at you like your mother's.
Now there is something very surprising
about this statue: it was the first one that
was ever made in this country in honor of a
woman. Even in old Europe there are not
many monuments to women, and most of
the few are to great queens or princesses,
very beautiful and very richly dressed.
You see, this statue in New Orleans is not
quite like anything else.
It is the statue of a woman named
Margaret. Her whole name was Margaret
Haughery, but no one in New Orleans
remembers her by it, any more than you
think of your dearest sister by her full
name; she is just Margaret. This is her
story, and it tells why people made a
monument for her.
When Margaret was a tiny baby, her
father and mother died, and she was
adopted by two young people as poor and
as kind as her own parents. She lived with
them until she grew up. Then she married,
and had a little baby of her own. But very
soon her husband died, and then the baby
died, too, and Margaret was all alone in
the world. She was poor, but she was
strong, and knew how to work.
All day, from morning until evening,
she ironed clothes in a laundry. And every
day, as she worked by the window, she
saw the little motherless children from the
orphan asylum, near by, working and playing
about. After a while, there came a
great sickness upon the city, and so many
mothers and fathers died that there were
more orphans than the asylum could
possibly take care of. They needed a good
friend, now. You would hardly think,
would you, that a poor woman who worked
in a laundry could be much of a friend
to them? But Margaret was. She went
straight to the kind Sisters who had the
asylum and told them she was going to
give them part of her wages and was
going to work for them, besides. Pretty soon
she had worked so hard that she had some
money saved from her wages. With this,
she bought two cows and a little delivery
cart. Then she carried her milk to her
customers in the little cart every morning;
and as she went, she begged the left-over
food from the hotels and rich houses, and
brought it back in the cart to the hungry
children in the asylum. In the very hardest
times that was often all the food the
children had.
A part of the money Margaret earned
went every week to the asylum, and after a
few years that was made very much larger
and better. And Margaret was so careful
and so good at business that, in spite
of her giving, she bought more cows and
earned more money. With this, she built
a home for orphan babies; she called it
her baby house.
After a time, Margaret had a chance
to get a bakery, and then she became a
bread-woman instead of a milk-woman.
She carried the bread just as she had
carried the milk, in her cart. And still she
kept giving money to the asylum. Then
the great war came, our Civil War. In all
the trouble and sickness and fear of that
time, Margaret drove her cart of bread;
and somehow she had always enough to
give the starving soldiers, and for her
babies, besides what she sold. And
despite all this, she earned enough so that
when the war was over she built a big
steam factory for her bread. By this time
everybody in the city knew her. The children
all over the city loved her; the business
men were proud of her; the poor people
all came to her for advice. She used to
sit at the open door of her office, in a calico
gown and a little shawl, and give a good
word to everybody, rich or poor.
Then, by and by, one day, Margaret
died. And when it was time to read her
will, the people found that, with all her
giving, she had still saved a great deal of
money, and that she had left every cent
of it to the different orphan asylums of
the city,--each one of them was given
something. Whether they were for white
children or black, for Jews, Catholics, or
Protestants, made no difference; for
Margaret always said, "They are all orphans
alike." And just think, dears, that splendid,
wise will was signed with a cross
instead of a name, for Margaret had never
learned to read or write!
When the people of New Orleans knew
that Margaret was dead, they said, "She
was a mother to the motherless; she was
a friend to those who had no friends;
she had wisdom greater than schools can
teach; we will not let her memory go from
us." So they made a statue of her, just as
she used to look, sitting in her own office
door, or driving in her own little cart. And
there it stands to-day, in memory of the
great love and the great power of plain
Margaret Haughery, of New Orleans.
THE DAGDA'S HARP[1]
[1] The facts from which this story was constructed are found
in the legend as given in Ireland's Story, Johnston and Spencer
(Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.).
You know, dears, in the old countries
there are many fine stories about things
which happened so very long ago that
nobody knows exactly how much of them is
true. Ireland is like that. It is so old that
even as long ago as four thousand years
it had people who dug in the mines, and
knew how to weave cloth and to make
beautiful ornaments out of gold, and who
could fight and make laws; but we do
not know just where they came from, nor
exactly how they lived. These people left
us some splendid stories about their kings,
their fights, and their beautiful women;
but it all happened such a long time ago
that the stories are mixtures of things that
really happened and what people said about
them, and we don't know just which is
which. The stories are called LEGENDS. One
of the prettiest legends is the story I am
going to tell you about the Dagda's harp.
It is said that there were two quite
different kinds of people in Ireland: one set
of people with long dark hair and dark
eyes, called Fomorians--they carried long
slender spears made of golden bronze
when they fought--and another race of
people who were golden-haired and blue-
eyed, and who carried short, blunt, heavy
spears of dull metal.
The golden-haired people had a great
chieftain who was also a kind of high
priest, who was called the Dagda. And
this Dagda had a wonderful magic harp.
The harp was beautiful to look upon,
mighty in size, made of rare wood, and
ornamented with gold and jewels; and it
had wonderful music in its strings, which
only the Dagda could call out. When the
men were going out to battle, the Dagda
would set up his magic harp and sweep
his hand across the strings, and a war song
would ring out which would make every
warrior buckle on his armor, brace his
knees, and shout, "Forth to the fight!"
Then, when the men came back from the
battle, weary and wounded, the Dagda
would take his harp and strike a few
chords, and as the magic music stole out
upon the air, every man forgot his weariness
and the smart of his wounds, and
thought of the honor he had won, and of
the comrade who had died beside him,
and of the safety of his wife and children.
Then the song would swell out louder,
and every warrior would remember only
the glory he had helped win for the king;
and each man would rise at the great tables
his cup in his hand, and shout "Long live
the King!"
There came a time when the Fomorians
and the golden-haired men were at war;
and in the midst of a great battle, while
the Dagda's hall was not so well guarded
as usual, some of the chieftains of the
Fomorians stole the great harp from the
wall, where it hung, and fled away with
it. Their wives and children and some few
of their soldiers went with them, and they
fled fast and far through the night, until
they were a long way from the battlefield.
Then they thought they were safe, and they
turned aside into a vacant castle, by the
road, and sat down to a banquet, hanging
the stolen harp on the wall.
The Dagda, with two or three of his
warriors, had followed hard on their track.
And while they were in the midst of their
banqueting, the door was suddenly burst
open, and the Dagda stood there, with his
men. Some of the Fomorians sprang to
their feet, but before any of them could
grasp a weapon, the Dagda called out to
his harp on the wall, "Come to me, O my
harp!"
The great harp recognized its master's
voice, and leaped from the wall. Whirling
through the hall, sweeping aside and killing
the men who got in its way, it sprang to its
master's hand. And the Dagda took his
harp and swept his hand across the strings
in three great, solemn chords. The harp
answered with the magic Music of Tears.
As the wailing harmony smote upon the
air, the women of the Fomorians bowed
their heads and wept bitterly, the strong
men turned their faces aside, and the little
children sobbed.
Again the Dagda touched the strings,
and this time the magic Music of Mirth
leaped from the harp. And when they
heard that Music of Mirth, the young
warriors of the Fomorians began to laugh;
they laughed till the cups fell from their
grasp, and the spears dropped from their
hands, while the wine flowed from the
broken bowls; they laughed until their
limbs were helpless with excess of glee.
Once more the Dagda touched his harp,
but very, very softly. And now a music
stole forth as soft as dreams, and as sweet
as joy: it was the magic Music of Sleep.
When they heard that, gently, gently, the
Fomorian women bowed their heads in
slumber; the little children crept to their
mothers' laps; the old men nodded; and
the young warriors drooped in their seats
and closed their eyes: one after another
all the Fomorians sank into sleep.
When they were all deep in slumber,
the Dagda took his magic harp, and he and
his golden-haired warriors stole softly
away, and came in safety to their own
homes again.
THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS[1]
[1] From Beside the Fire, Douglas Hyde (David Nutt, London).
There was once a tailor in Galway, and
he started out on a journey to go to the
king's court at Dublin.
He had not gone far till he met a white
horse, and he saluted him.
"God save you," said the tailor.
"God save you," said the horse. "Where
are you going?"
"I am going to Dublin," said the tailor,
"to build a court for the king and to get a
lady for a wife, if I am able to do it." For,
it seems the king had promised his daughter
and a great lot of money to any one who
should be able to build up his court. The
trouble was, that three giants lived in the
wood near the court, and every night they
came out of the wood and threw down
all that was built by day. So nobody could
get the court built.
"Would you make me a hole," said
the old white garraun, "where I could go
a-hiding whenever the people are for bringing
me to the mill or the kiln, so that they
won't see me; for they have me perished
doing work for them."
"I'll do that, indeed," said the tailor,
"and welcome."
He brought his spade and shovel, and
he made a hole, and he said to the old white
horse to go down into it till he would see
if it would fit him. The white horse went
down into the hole, but when he tried to
come up again, he was not able.
"Make a place for me now," said the
white horse, "by which I'll come up out
of the hole here, whenever I'll be hungry."
"I will not," said the tailor; "remain
where you are until I come back, and I'll
lift you up."
The tailor went forward next day, and
the fox met him.
"God save you," said the fox.
"God save you," said the tailor.
"Where are you going," said the fox.
"I'm going to Dublin, to try will I be
able to make a court for the king."
"Would you make a place for me where
I'd go hiding?" said the fox. "The rest
of the foxes do be beating me, and they
don't allow me to eat anything with
them."
"I'll do that for you," said the tailor.
He took his axe and his saw, and he
made a thing like a crate, and he told the
fox to get into it till he would see whether
it would fit him. The fox went into it,
and when the tailor got him down, he
shut him in. When the fox was satisfied at
last that he had a nice place of it within,
he asked the tailor to let him out, and the
tailor answered that he would not.
"Wait there until I come back again,"
says he.
The tailor went forward the next day,
and he had not walked very far until he
met a modder-alla; and the lion greeted
him.
"God save you," said the lion.
"God save you," said the tailor.
"Where are you going?" said the lion.
"I'm going to Dublin till I make a court
for the king if I'm able to make it," said
the tailor.
"If you were to make a plough for me,"
said the lion, "I and the other lions could
be ploughing and harrowing until we'd
have a bit to eat in the harvest."
"I'll do that for you," said the tailor.
He brought his axe and his saw, and he
made a plough. When the plough was
made he put a hole in the beam of it, and
he said to the lion to go in under the plough
till he'd see was he any good of a ploughman.
He placed the lion's tail in the hole
he had made for it, and then clapped in a
peg, and the lion was not able to draw out
his tail again.
"Loose me out now," said the lion, "and
we'll fix ourselves and go ploughing."
The tailor said he would not loose him
out until he came back himself. He left
him there then, and he came to Dublin.
When he came to Dublin, he got workmen
and began to build the court. At the
end of the day he had the workmen put a
great stone on top of the work. When the
great stone was raised up, the tailor put
some sort of contrivance under it, that he
might be able to throw it down as soon as
the giant would come as far as it. The
workpeople went home then, and the tailor
went in hiding behind the big stone.
When the darkness of the night was come,
he saw the three giants arriving, and they
began throwing down the court until they
came as far as the place where the tailor
was in hiding up above, and a man of them
struck a blow of his sledge on the place
where he was. The tailor threw down the
stone, and it fell on him and killed him.
They went home then and left all of the
court that was remaining without throwing
it down, since a man of themselves was
dead.
The tradespeople came again the next
day, and they were working until night,
and as they were going home the tailor
told them to put up the big stone on the
top of the work, as it had been the night
before. They did that for him, went home,
and the tailor went in hiding the same as
he did the evening before.
When the people had all gone to rest, the
two giants came, and they were throwing
down all that was before them, and as soon
as they began, they put two shouts out of
them. The tailor was going on manoeuvring
until he threw down the great stone,
and it fell upon the skull of the giant that
was under him, and it killed him. There
was only the one giant left in it then, and
he never came again until the court was
finished.
Then when the work was over, the tailor
went to the king and told him to give him
his wife and his money, as he had the court
finished; and the king said he would not
give him any wife until he would kill the
other giant, for he said that it was not by
his strength he killed the two giants
before that, and that he would give him
nothing now until he killed the other one
for him. Then the tailor said that he
would kill the other giant for him, and
welcome; that there was no delay at all
about that.
The tailor went then till he came to the
place where the other giant was, and asked
did he want a servant-boy. The giant said
he did want one, if he could get one who
would do everything that he would do himself.
"Anything that you will do, I will do
it," said the tailor.
They went to their dinner then, and
when they had it eaten, the giant asked
the tailor "would it come with him to swallow
as much broth as himself, up out of
its boiling." The tailor said, "It will come
with me to do that, but that you must give
me an hour before we begin on it." The
tailor went out then, and he got a sheep-
skin, and he sewed it up till he made a bag
of it, and he slipped it down under his
coat. He came in then and said to the giant
to drink a gallon of the broth himself first.
The giant drank that up out of its boiling.
"I'll do that," said the tailor. He was
going on until he had it all poured into the
skin, and the giant thought he had it drunk.
The giant drank another gallon then, and
the tailor let another gallon down into the
skin, but the giant thought he was drinking it.
"I'll do a thing now that it won't come
with you to do," said the tailor.
"You will not," said the giant. "What
is it you would do?"
"Make a hole and let out the broth
again," said the tailor.
"Do it yourself first," said the giant.
The tailor gave a prod of the knife, and
he let the broth out of the skin.
"Do that you," said he.
"I will," said the giant, giving such a
prod of the knife into his own stomach
that he killed himself. That is the way
the tailor killed the third giant.
He went to the king then, and desired
him to send him out his wife and his money,
for that he would throw down the court
again unless he should get the wife. They
were afraid then that he would throw down
the court, and they sent the wife to him.
When the tailor was a day gone,
himself and his wife, they repented and
followed him to take his wife off him again.
The people who were after him were
following him till they came to the place
where the lion was, and the lion said to
them: "The tailor and his wife were here
yesterday. I saw them going by, and if ye
loose me now, I am swifter than ye, and I
will follow them till I overtake them."
When they heard that, they loosed out the
lion.
The lion and the people of Dublin went
on, and they were pursuing him, until they
came to the place where the fox was, and
the fox greeted them, and said: "The tailor
and his wife were here this morning, and
if ye will loose me out, I am swifter than
ye, and I will follow them, and overtake
them." They loosed out the fox then.
The lion and the fox and the army of
Dublin went on then, trying would they
catch the tailor, and they were going till
they came to the place where the old white
garraun was, and the old white garraun
said to them that the tailor and his wife
were there in the morning, and "Loose me
out," said he; "I am swifter than ye, and
I'll overtake them." They loosed out the
old white garraun then, and the old white
garraun, the fox, the lion, and the army
of Dublin pursued the tailor and his wife
together, and it was not long till they came
up with him, and saw himself and the wife
out before them.
When the tailor saw them coming, he
got out of the coach with his wife, and he
sat down on the ground.
When the old white garraun saw the
tailor sitting down on the ground, he said,
"That's the position he had when he made
the hole for me, that I couldn't come up
out of, when I went down into it. I'll go
no nearer to him."
"No!" said the fox, "but that's the way
he was when he was making the thing for
me, and I'll go no nearer to him."
"No!" says the lion, "but that's the very
way he had, when he was making the plough
that I was caught in. I'll go no nearer
to him."
They all went from him then and
returned. The tailor and his wife came home
to Galway.
THE CASTLE OF FORTUNE[1]
[1] Adapted from the German of Der Faule und der Fleissige
by Robert Reinick.
One lovely summer morning, just as the
sun rose, two travelers started on a journey.
They were both strong young men, but one
was a lazy fellow and the other was a
worker.
As the first sunbeams came over the
hills, they shone on a great castle standing
on the heights, as far away as the eye
could see. It was a wonderful and beautiful
castle, all glistening towers that gleamed
like marble, and glancing windows that
shone like crystal. The two young men
looked at it eagerly, and longed to go
nearer.
Suddenly, out of the distance, something
like a great butterfly, of white and gold,
swept toward them. And when it came
nearer, they saw that it was a most beautiful
lady, robed in floating garments as fine as
cobwebs and wearing on her head a crown
so bright that no one could tell whether
it was of diamonds or of dew. She stood,
light as air, on a great, shining, golden ball,
which rolled along with her, swifter than
the wind. As she passed the travelers, she
turned her face to them and smiled.
"Follow me!" she said.
The lazy man sat down in the grass
with a discontented sigh. "She has an easy
time of it!" he said.
But the industrious man ran after the
lovely lady and caught the hem of her
floating robe in his grasp. "Who are you,
and whither are you going?" he asked.
"I am the Fairy of Fortune," the
beautiful lady said, "and that is my castle. You
may reach it to-day, if you will; there is
time, if you waste none. If you reach it
before the last stroke of midnight, I will
receive you there, and will be your friend.
But if you come one second after midnight,
it will be too late."
When she had said this, her robe slipped
from the traveler's hand and she was gone.
The industrious man hurried back to his
friend, and told him what the fairy had
said.
"The idea!" said the lazy man, and he
laughed; "of course, if a body had a horse
there would be some chance, but WALK all
that way? No, thank you!"
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