How to Tell Stories to Children

S >> Sara Cone Bryant >> How to Tell Stories to Children


And slip! slop! gobble! down went the old man and the donkey.

Then the cat walked on down the road, jauntily, like this. After a little,
he met a procession, coming that way. The king was at the head, walking
proudly with his newly married bride, and behind him were his soldiers,
marching, and behind them were ever and ever so many elephants, walking
two by two. The king felt very kind to everybody, because he had just been
married, and he said to the cat, "Get out of my way, pussy, get out of my
way,--my elephants might hurt you."

"Hurt me!" said the cat, shaking his fat sides. "Ho, ho! I've eaten five
hundred cakes, I've eaten my friend the parrot, I've eaten an old woman,
I've eaten a man and a donkey; what's to hinder my eating a beggarly
king?"

And slip! slop! gobble! down went the king; down went the queen; down went
the soldiers,--and down went all the elephants!

Then the cat went on, more slowly; he had really had enough to eat, now.
But a little farther on he met two land-crabs, scuttling along in the
dust. "Get out of our way, pussy," they squeaked.

"Ho, ho ho!" cried the cat in a terrible voice. "I've eaten five hundred
cakes, I've eaten my friend the parrot, I've eaten an old woman, a man
with a donkey, a king, a queen, his men-at-arms, and all his elephants;
and now I'll eat you too."

And slip! slop! gobble! down went the two land-crabs.

When the land-crabs got down inside, they began to look around. It was
very dark, but they could see the poor king sitting in a corner with his
bride on his arm; she had fainted. Near them were the men-at-arms,
treading on one another's toes, and the elephants, still trying to form in
twos,--but they couldn't, because there was not room. In the opposite
corner sat the old woman, and near her stood the man and his donkey. But
in the other corner was a great pile of cakes, and by them perched the
parrot, his feathers all drooping.

"Let's get to work!" said the land-crabs. And, snip, snap, they began to
make a little hole in the side, with their sharp claws. Snip, snap, snip,
snap,--till it was big enough to get through. Then out they scuttled.

Then out walked the king, carrying his bride; out marched the men-at-arms;
out tramped the elephants, two by two; out came the old man, beating his
donkey; out walked the old woman, scolding the cat; and last of all, out
hopped the parrot, holding a cake in each claw. (You remember, two cakes
were all he wanted?)

But the poor cat had to spend the whole day sewing up the hole in his
coat!


THE RAT PRINCESS[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from Frank Rinder's _Old World Japan_. In telling
this story the voice should be changed for the Sun, Cloud, Wind, and Wall,
as is always done in the old story of _The Three Bears_.]

Once upon a time, there was a Rat Princess, who lived with her father, the
Rat King, and her mother, the Rat Queen, in a ricefield in far away Japan.
The Rat Princess was so pretty that her father and mother were quite
foolishly proud of her, and thought no one good enough to play with her.
When she grew up, they would not let any of the rat princes come to visit
her, and they decided at last that no one should marry her till they had
found the most powerful person in the whole world; no one else was good
enough. And the Father Rat started out to find the most powerful person in
the whole world. The wisest and oldest rat in the ricefield said that the
Sun must be the most powerful person, because he made the rice grow and
ripen; so the Rat King went to find the Sun. He climbed up the highest
mountain, ran up the path of a rainbow, and travelled and travelled across
the sky till he came to the Sun's house.

"What do you want, little brother?" the Sun said, when he saw him.

"I come," said the Rat King, very importantly, "to offer you the hand of
my daughter, the princess, because you are the most powerful person in the
world; no one else is good enough."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the jolly round Sun, and winked with his eye. "You are
very kind, little brother, but if that is the case the princess is not for
me; the Cloud is more powerful than I am; when he passes over me I cannot
shine."

"Oh, indeed," said the Rat King, "then you are not my man at all"; and he
left the Sun without more words. The Sun laughed and winked to himself.
And the Rat King travelled and travelled across the sky till he came to
the Cloud's house.

"What do you want, little brother?" sighed the Cloud when he saw him.

"I come to offer you the hand of my daughter, the princess," said the Rat
King, "because you are the most powerful person in the world; the Sun said
so, and no one else is good enough."

The Cloud sighed again. "I am not the most powerful person," he said;
"the Wind is stronger than I,--when he blows, I have to go wherever he
sends me."

"Then you are not the person for my daughter," said the Rat King proudly;
and he started at once to find the Wind. He travelled and travelled across
the sky, till he came at last to the Wind's house, at the very edge of the
world.

When the Wind saw him coming he laughed a big, gusty laugh, "Ho, ho!" and
asked him what he wanted; and when the Rat King told him that he had come
to offer him the Rat Princess's hand because he was the most powerful
person in the world, the Wind shouted a great gusty shout, and said, "No,
no, I am not the strongest; the Wall that man has made is stronger than I;
I cannot make him move, with all my blowing; go to the Wall, little
brother!"

And the Rat King climbed down the sky-path again, and travelled and
travelled across the earth till he came to the Wall. It was quite near his
own ricefield.

"What do you want, little brother?" grumbled the Wall when he saw him.

"I come to offer you the hand of the princess, my daughter, because you
are the most powerful person in the world, and no one else is good
enough."

"Ugh, ugh," grumbled the Wall, "I am not the strongest; the big grey Rat
who lives in the cellar is stronger than I. When he gnaws and gnaws at me
I crumble and crumble, and at last I fall; go to the Rat, little brother."

And so, after going all over the world to find the strongest person, the
Rat King had to marry his daughter to a rat, after all; but the princess
was very glad of it, for she wanted to marry the grey Rat, all the time.


THE FROG AND THE OX

Once a little Frog sat by a big Frog, by the side of a pool. "Oh, father,"
said he, "I have just seen the biggest animal in the world; it was as big
as a mountain, and it had horns on its head, and it had hoofs divided in
two."

"Pooh, child," said the old Frog, "that was only Farmer White's Ox. He is
not so very big. I could easily make myself as big as he." And he blew,
and he blew, and he blew, and swelled himself out.

"Was he as big as that?" he asked the little Frog.

"Oh, much bigger," said the little Frog.

The old Frog blew, and blew, and blew again, and swelled himself out, more
than ever.

"Was he bigger than that?" he said.

"Much, much bigger," said the little Frog.

"I can make myself as big," said the old Frog. And once more he blew, and
blew, and blew, and swelled himself out,--and he burst!

Self-conceit leads to self-destruction.


THE FIRE-BRINGER[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _The Basket Woman_, by Mary Austin.]

This is the Indian story of how fire was brought to the tribes. It was
long, long ago, when men and beasts talked together with understanding,
and the grey Coyote was friend and counsellor of man.

There was a Boy of the tribe who was swift of foot and keen of eye, and he
and the Coyote ranged the wood together. They saw the men catching fish in
the creeks with their hands, and the women digging roots with sharp
stones. This was in summer. But when winter came on, they saw the people
running naked in the snow, or huddled in caves of the rocks, and most
miserable. The Boy noticed this, and was very unhappy for the misery of
his people.

"I do not feel it," said the Coyote.

"You have a coat of good fur," said the Boy, "and my people have not."

"Come to the hunt," said the Coyote.

"I will hunt no more, till I have found a way to help my people against
the cold," said the Boy. "Help me, O Counsellor!"

Then the Coyote ran away, and came back after a long time; he said he had
found a way, but it was a hard way.

"No way is too hard," said the Boy. So the Coyote told him that they must
go to the Burning Mountain and bring fire to the people.

"What is fire?" said the Boy. And the Coyote told him that fire was red
like a flower, yet not a flower; swift to run in the grass and to destroy,
like a beast, yet no beast; fierce and hurtful, yet a good servant to keep
one warm, if kept among stones and fed with small sticks.

"We will get this fire," said the Boy.

First the Boy had to persuade the people to give him one hundred swift
runners. Then he and they and the Coyote started at a good pace for the
far away Burning Mountain. At the end of the first day's trail they left
the weakest of the runners, to wait; at the end of the second, the next
stronger; at the end of the third, the next; and so for each of the
hundred days of the journey; and the Boy was the strongest runner, and
went to the last trail with the Counsellor. High mountains they crossed,
and great plains, and giant woods, and at last they came to the Big Water,
quaking along the sand at the foot of the Burning Mountain.

It stood up in a high peaked cone, and smoke rolled out from it endlessly
along the sky. At night, the Fire Spirits danced, and the glare reddened
the Big Water far out.

There the Counsellor said to the Boy, "Stay thou here till I bring thee a
brand from the burning; be ready and right for running, for I shall be far
spent when I come again, and the Fire Spirits will pursue me."

Then he went up to the mountain; and the Fire Spirits only laughed when
they saw him, for he looked so slinking, inconsiderable, and mean, that
none of them thought harm from him. And in the night, when they were at
their dance about the mountain, the Coyote stole the fire, and ran with it
down the slope of the burning mountain. When the Fire Spirits saw what he
had done they streamed out after him, red and angry, with a humming sound
like a swarm of bees. But the Coyote was still ahead; the sparks of the
brand streamed out along his flanks, as he carried it in his mouth; and he
stretched his body to the trail.

The Boy saw him coming, like a falling star against the mountain; he heard
the singing sound of the Fire Spirits close behind, and the labouring
breath of the Counsellor. And when the good beast panted down beside him,
the Boy caught the brand from his jaws and was off, like an arrow from a
bent bow. Out he shot on the homeward path, and the Fire Spirits snapped
and sang behind him. But fast as they pursued he fled faster, till he saw
the next runner standing in his place, his body bent for the running. To
him he passed it, and it was off and away, with the Fire Spirits raging in
chase.

So it passed from hand to hand, and the Fire Spirits tore after it through
the scrub, till they came to the mountains of the snows; these they could
not pass. Then the dark, sleek runners with the backward streaming brand
bore it forward, shining starlike in the night, glowing red in sultry
noons, violet pale in twilight glooms, until they came in safety to their
own land.

And there they kept it among stones and fed it with small sticks, as the
Counsellor advised; and it kept the people warm.

Ever after the Boy was called the Fire-Bringer; and ever after the Coyote
bore the sign of the bringing, for the fur along his flanks was singed and
yellow from the flames that streamed backward from the brand.


THE BURNING OF THE RICEFIELDS[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _Gleanings in Buddha-Fields_, by Lafcadio Hearn.
(Kegan Paul, Trench, Truebner and Co. Ltd. 5s. net.)]

Once there was a good old man who lived up on a mountain, far away in
Japan. All round his little house the mountain was flat, and the ground
was rich; and there were the ricefields of all the people who lived in the
village at the mountain's foot. Mornings and evenings, the old man and
his little grandson, who lived with him, used to look far down on the
people at work in the village, and watch the blue sea which lay all round
the land, so close that there was no room for fields below, only for
houses. The little boy loved the ricefields, dearly, for he knew that all
the good food for all the people came from them; and he often helped his
grand father to watch over them.

One day, the grandfather was standing alone, before his house, looking far
down at the people, and out at the sea, when, suddenly, he saw something
very strange far off where the sea and sky meet. Something like a great
cloud was rising there, as if the sea were lifting itself high into the
sky. The old man put his hands to his eyes and looked again, hard as his
old sight could. Then he turned and ran to the house. "Yone, Yone!" he
cried, "bring a brand from the hearth!"

The little grandson could not imagine what his grandfather wanted with
fire, but he always obeyed, so he ran quickly and brought the brand. The
old man already had one, and was running for the ricefields. Yone ran
after. But what was his horror to see his grandfather thrust his burning
brand into the ripe dry rice, where it stood.

"Oh, Grandfather, Grandfather!" screamed the little boy, "what are you
doing?"

"Quick, set fire! thrust your brand in!" said the grandfather.

Yone thought his dear grandfather had lost his mind, and he began to sob;
but a little Japanese boy always obeys, so though he sobbed, he thrust his
torch in, and the sharp flame ran up the dry stalks, red and yellow. In an
instant, the field was ablaze, and thick black smoke began to pour up, on
the mountain side. It rose like a cloud, black and fierce, and in no time
the people below saw that their precious ricefields were on fire. Ah, how
they ran! Men, women, and children climbed the mountain, running as fast
as they could to save the rice; not one soul stayed behind.

And when they came to the mountain top, and saw the beautiful rice-crop
all in flames, beyond help, they cried bitterly, "Who has done this thing?
How did it happen?"

"I set fire," said the old man, very solemnly; and the little grandson
sobbed, "Grandfather set fire."

But when they came fiercely round the old man, with "Why? Why?" he only
turned and pointed to the sea. "Look!" he said.

They all turned and looked. And there, where the blue sea had lain, so
calm, a mighty wall of water, reaching from earth to sky, was rolling in.
No one could scream, so terrible was the sight. The wall of water rolled
in on the land, passed quite over the place where the village had been,
and broke, with an awful sound, on the mountain side. One wave more, and
still one more, came; and then all was water, as far as they could look,
below; the village where they had been was under the sea.

But the people were all safe. And when they saw what the old man had done,
they honoured him above all men for the quick wit which had saved them all
from the tidal wave.


THE STORY OF WYLIE[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _Rab and his Friends_, by Dr John Brown.]

This is a story about a dog,--not the kind of dog you often see in the
street here; not a fat, wrinkly pugdog, nor a smooth-skinned bulldog, nor
even a big shaggy fellow, but a slim, silky-haired, sharp-eared little
dog, the prettiest thing you can imagine. Her name was Wylie, and she
lived in Scotland, far up on the hills, and helped her master take care of
his sheep.

You can't think how clever she was! She watched over the sheep and the
little lambs like a soldier, and never let anything hurt them. She drove
them out to pasture when it was time, and brought them safely home when it
was time for that. When the silly sheep got frightened and ran this way
and that, hurting themselves and getting lost, Wylie knew exactly what to
do,--round on one side she would run, barking and scolding, driving them
back; then round on the other, barking and scolding, driving them back,
till they were all bunched together in front of the right gate. Then she
drove them through as neatly as any person. She loved her work, and was a
wonderfully fine sheepdog.

At last her master grew too old to stay alone on the hills, and so he went
away to live. Before he went, he gave Wylie to two kind young men who
lived in the nearest town; he knew they would be good to her. They grew
very fond of her, and so did their old grandmother and the little
children: she was so gentle and handsome and well behaved.

So now Wylie lived in the city where there were no sheep farms, only
streets and houses, and she did not have to do any work at all,--she was
just a pet dog. She seemed very happy and she was always good.

But after a while, the family noticed something odd, something very
strange indeed, about their pet. Every single Tuesday night, about nine
o'clock, Wylie _disappeared_. They would look for her, call her,--no, she
was gone. And she would be gone all night. But every Wednesday morning,
there she was at the door, waiting to be let in. Her silky coat was all
sweaty and muddy and her feet heavy with weariness, but her bright eyes
looked up at her masters as if she were trying to explain where she had
been.

Week after week the same thing happened. Nobody could imagine where Wylie
went every Tuesday night. They tried to follow her to find out, but she
always slipped away; they tried to shut her in, but she always found a way
out. It grew to be a real mystery. Where in the world did Wylie go?

You never could guess, so I am going to tell you.

In the city near the town where the kind young men lived was a big market
like (naming one in the neighbourhood). Every sort of thing was sold
there, even live cows and sheep and hens. On Tuesday nights, the farmers
used to come down from the hills with their sheep to sell, and drive them
through the city streets into the pens, ready to sell on Wednesday
morning; that was the day they sold them.

The sheep weren't used to the city noises and sights, and they always grew
afraid and wild, and gave the farmers and the sheepdogs a great deal of
trouble. They broke away and ran about, in everybody's way.

But just as the trouble was worst, about sunrise, the farmers would see a
little silky, sharp-eared dog come trotting all alone down the road, into
the midst of them.

And then!

In and out the little dog ran like the wind, round and about, always in
the right place, driving--coaxing--pushing--making the sheep mind like a
good school-teacher, and never frightening them, till they were all safely
in! All the other dogs together could not do as much as the little strange
dog. She was a perfect wonder. And no one knew whose dog she was or where
she came from. The farmers grew to watch for her, every week, and they
called her "the wee fell yin" which is Scots for "the little terror"; they
used to say when they saw her coming, "There's the wee fell yin! Now we'll
get them in."

Every farmer would have liked to keep her, but she let no one catch her.
As soon as her work was done she was off and away like a fairy dog, no one
knew where. Week after week this happened, and nobody knew who the little
strange dog was.

But one day Wylie went to walk with her two masters, and they happened to
meet some sheep farmers. The sheep farmers stopped short and stared at
Wylie, and then they cried out, "Why, _that's the dog_! That's the wee
fell yin!" And so it was. The little strange dog who helped with the sheep
was Wylie.

Her masters, of course, didn't know what the farmers meant, till they were
told all about what I have been telling you. But when they heard about
the pretty strange dog who came to market all alone, they knew at last
where Wylie went, every Tuesday night. And they loved her better than
ever.

Wasn't it wise of the dear little dog to go and work for other people when
her own work was taken away? I fancy she knew that the best people and the
best dogs always work hard at something. Any way she did that same thing
as long as she lived, and she was always just as gentle, and silky-haired,
and loving as at first.


LITTLE DAYLIGHT[1]

[Footnote 1: Adapted from _At the Back of the North Wind_, by George
Macdonald.]

Once there was a beautiful palace, which had a great wood at one side. The
king and his courtiers hunted in the wood near the palace, and there it
was kept open, free from underbrush. But farther away it grew wilder and
wilder, till at last it was so thick that nobody knew what was there. It
was a very great wood indeed.

In the wood lived eight fairies. Seven of them were good fairies, who had
lived there always; the eighth was a bad fairy, who had just come. And the
worst of it was that nobody but the other fairies knew she _was_ a fairy;
people thought she was just an ugly old witch. The good fairies lived in
the dearest little houses! One lived in a hollow silver birch, one in a
little moss cottage, and so on. But the bad fairy lived in a horrid mud
house in the middle of a dark swamp.

Now when the first baby was born to the king and queen, her father and
mother decided to name her "Daylight," because she was so bright and
sweet. And of course they had a christening party. And of _course_ they
invited the fairies, because the good fairies had always been at the
christening party when a princess was born in the palace, and everybody
knew that they brought good gifts.

But, alas, no one knew about the swamp fairy, and she was not
invited,--which really pleased her, because it gave her an excuse for
doing something mean.

The good fairies came to the christening party, and, one after another,
five of them gave little Daylight good gifts. The other two stood among
the guests, so that no one noticed them. The swamp fairy thought there
were no more of them; so she stepped forward, just as the archbishop was
handing the baby back to the lady-in-waiting.

"I am just a little deaf," she said, mumbling a laugh with her toothless
gums. "Will your reverence tell me the baby's name again?"

"Certainly, my good woman," said the bishop; "the infant is little
Daylight."

"And little Daylight it shall be, forsooth," cried the bad fairy. "I
decree that she shall sleep all day." Then she laughed a horrid shrieking
laugh, "He, he, hi, hi!"

Everyone looked at everyone else in despair, but out stepped the sixth
good fairy, who by arrangement with her sisters had remained in the
background to undo what she could of any evil that the swamp fairy might
decree.

"Then at least she shall wake all night," she said, sadly.

"Ah!" screamed the swamp fairy, "you spoke before I had finished, which is
against the law, and gives me another chance." All the fairies started at
once to say, "I beg your pardon!" But the bad fairy said, "I had only
laughed 'he, he!' and 'hi, hi!' I had still 'ho, ho!' and 'hu, hu!' to
laugh."

The fairies could not gainsay this, and the bad fairy had her other
chance. She said,--

"Since she is to wake all night, I decree that she shall wax and wane with
the moon! Ho, ho, hu, hu!"

Out stepped the seventh good fairy. "Until a prince shall kiss her without
knowing who she is," she said, quickly.

The swamp fairy had been prepared for the trick of keeping back one good
fairy, but she had not suspected it of two, and she could not say a word,
for she had laughed "ho, ho!" and "hu, hu!"

The poor king and queen looked sad enough. "We don't know what you mean,"
they said to the good fairy who had spoken last. But the good fairy
smiled. "The meaning of the thing will come with the thing," she said.

That was the end of the party, but it was only the beginning of the
trouble. Can you imagine what a queer household it would be, where the
baby laughed and crowed all night, and slept all day? Little Daylight was
as merry and bright all night as any baby in the world, but with the first
sign of dawn she fell asleep, and slept like a little dormouse till dark.
Nothing could waken her while day lasted. Still, the royal family got used
to this; but the rest of the bad fairy's gift was a great deal
worse,--that about waxing and waning with the moon. You know how the moon
grows bigger and brighter each night, from the time it is a curly silver
thread low in the sky till it is round and golden, flooding the whole sky
with light? That is the waxing moon. Then, you know, it wanes; it grows
smaller and paler again, night by night, till at last it disappears for a
while, altogether. Well, poor little Daylight waxed and waned with it. She
was the rosiest, plumpest, merriest baby in the world when the moon was at
the full; but as it began to wane her little cheeks grew paler, her tiny
hands thinner, with every night, till she lay in her cradle like a
shadow-baby, without sound or motion. At first they thought she was dead,
when the moon disappeared, but after some months they got used to this
too, and only waited eagerly for the new moon, to see her revive. When it
shone again, faint and silver, on the horizon, the baby stirred weakly,
and then they fed her gently; each night she grew a little better, and
when the moon was near the full again, she was again a lively, rosy,
lovely child.