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Title: The Story Hour

Author: Nora A. Smith
        Kate Douglas Wiggin


Release Date: June, 2004  [EBook #5835]
This file was first posted on September 11, 2002
Last Updated: March 10, 2018

Language: English

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THE STORY HOUR

A BOOK FOR THE HOME AND THE KINDERGARTEN

By Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora A. Smith



Therefore ear and heart open to the genuine story teller, as flowers
open to the spring sun and the May rain.

FRIEDRICH FROEBEL





CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION. Kate Douglas Wiggin

PREFACE. Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora A. Smith

THE ORIOLE'S NEST. Kate Douglas Wiggin

DICKY SMILY'S BIRTHDAY. Kate Douglas Wiggin

AQUA; OR, THE WATER BABY. Kate Douglas Wiggin

MOUFFLOU. Adapted from Ouida by Nora A. Smith

BENJY IN BEASTLAND. Adapted from Mrs. Ewing by Kate Douglas Wiggin and
Nora A. Smith

THE PORCELAIN STOVE. Adapted from Ouida by Kate Douglas Wiggin

THE BABES IN THE WOOD. E. S. Smith

THE STORY OF CHRISTMAS. Nora A. Smith

THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY. Nora A. Smith

LITTLE GEORGE WASHINGTON. Part I. Nora A. Smith

GREAT GEORGE WASHINGTON. Part II. Nora A. Smith

THE MAPLE-LEAF AND THE VIOLET. Nora A. Smith

MRS. CHINCHILLA. Kate Douglas Wiggin

A STORY OF THE FOREST. Nora A. Smith

PICCOLA. Nora A. Smith

THE CHILD AND THE WORLD. Kate Douglas Wiggin

WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL. Kate Douglas Wiggin

FROEBEL'S BIRTHDAY. Nora A. Smith




INTRODUCTION.

Story-telling, like letter-writing, is going out of fashion. There are
no modern Scheherezades, and the Sultans nowadays have to be amused in
a different fashion. But, for that matter, a hundred poetic pastimes
of leisure have fled before the relentless Hurry Demon who governs this
prosaic nineteenth century. The Wandering Minstrel is gone, and the
Troubadour, and the Court of Love, and the King's Fool, and the Round
Table, and with them the Story-Teller.

“Come, tell us a story!” It is the familiar plea of childhood. Unhappy
he who has not been assailed with it again and again. Thrice miserable
she who can be consigned to worse than oblivion by the scathing
criticism, “She doesn't know any stories!” and thrice blessed she who
is recognized at a glance as a person likely to be full to the brim of
them.

There are few preliminaries and no formalities when the Person with a
Story is found. The motherly little sister stands by the side of her
chair, two or three of the smaller fry perch on the arms, and the baby
climbs up into her lap (such a person always has a capacious lap), and
folds his fat hands placidly. Then there is a deep sigh of blissful
expectation and an expressive silence, which means, “Now we are ready,
please; and if you would be kind enough to begin it with 'Once upon a
time,' we should be much obliged; though of course we understand that
all the stories in the world can't commence that way, delightful as it
would be.”

The Person with a Story smiles obligingly (at least it is to be hoped
that she does), and retires into a little corner of her brain, to
rummage there for something just fitted to the occasion. That same
little corner is densely populated, if she is a lover of children. In
it are all sorts of heroic dogs, wonderful monkeys, intelligent cats,
naughty kittens; virtues masquerading seductively as fairies, and vices
hiding in imps; birds agreeing and disagreeing in their little nests,
and inevitable small boys in the act of robbing them; busy bees laying
up their winter stores, and idle butterflies disgracefully neglecting
to do the same; and then a troop of lost children, disobedient children,
and lazy, industrious, generous, or heedless ones, waiting to furnish
the thrilling climaxes. The Story-Teller selects a hero or heroine
out of this motley crowd,--all longing to be introduced to Bright-Eye,
Fine-Ear, Kind-Heart, and Sweet-Lips,--and speedily the drama opens.

Did Rachel ever have such an audience? I trow not. Rachel never had tiny
hands snuggling into hers in “the very best part of the story,” nor was
she near enough her hearers to mark the thousand shades of expression
that chased each other across their faces,--supposing they had any
expression, which is doubtful. Rachel never saw dimples lurking in the
ambush of rosy cheeks, and popping in and out in such a distracting
manner that she felt like punctuating her discourse with kisses! Her
dull, conventional, grown-up hearers bent a little forward in their
seats, perhaps, and compelled by her magic power laughed and cried in
the right places; but their eyes never shone with that starry lustre
that we see in the eyes of happy children,--a lustre that is dimmed,
alas, in after years. Their eyes still see visions, but the “shadows
of the prison house” have fallen about us, and the things which we have
seen we “now can see no more!”

If you chance to be the Person with a Story, you sit like a queen on her
throne surrounded by her loyal subjects; or like an unworthy sun with a
group of flowers turning their faces towards you. Inspired by breathless
attention, you try ardently to do your very best. It seems to you that
you could never endure a total failure, and you hardly see how you could
bear, with any sort of equanimity, even the vacant gaze or restless
movement that would bespeak a vagrant interest. If you are a novice,
perhaps the frightful idea crosses your mind, “What if one of
these children should slip out of the room?” Or, still more tragic
possibility, suppose they should look you in the eye and remark with the
terrible candor of infancy, “We do not like this story!” But no; you
are more fortunate. The tale is told, and you are greeted with sighs of
satisfaction and with the instantaneous request, “Tell it again!” That
is the encore of the Story-Teller,--“Tell it again! No, not another
story; the same one over again, please!” for “what novelty is worth
that sweet monotony where everything is known, and loved because it is
known?” No royal accolade could be received with greater gratitude. You
endeavor to let humility wait upon self-respect; but when you discover
that the children can scarcely be dragged from your fascinating
presence, crying like Romeo for death rather than banishment, and that
the next time you appear they make a wild dash from the upper regions,
and precipitate themselves upon you with the full impact of their
several weights “multiplied into their velocity,” you cannot help
hugging yourself to think the good God has endowed you sufficiently to
win the love and admiration of such keen observers and merciless little
critics.

Now this charming little drama takes place in somebody's nursery corner
at twilight, when you are waiting for “that cheerful tocsin of the
soul, the dinner-bell,” or around somebody's fireside just before the
children's bedtime; but the same scene is enacted every few days in the
presence of the fresh-hearted, childlike kindergartner, of all women the
likeliest to find the secret of eternal youth. She chooses the story as
one of the vessels in which she shall carry the truth to her circle
of little listeners, and you will never hear her say, like the needy
knife-grinder, “Story? God bless you, I have none to tell, sir!”

If the group chances to be one of bright, well-born, well-bred
youngsters, the opportunity to inspire and instruct is one of the most
effective and valuable that can come to any teacher. On the other hand,
if the circle happens to be one of little ragamuffins, Arabs, scrips and
scraps of vagrant humanity (sometimes scalawags and sometimes
angels), born in basements and bred on curbstones, then believe me, my
countrymen, there is a sight worth seeing, a scene fit for a painter. It
might be a pleasant satire upon our national hospitality if the artist
were to call such a picture “Young America,” for comparatively few
distinctively American faces would be found in his group of portraits.

Make a mental picture, dear reader, of the ring of listening children in
a San Francisco free kindergarten, for it would be difficult to gather
so cosmopolitan a company anywhere else: curly yellow hair and rosy
cheeks ... sleek blonde braids and calm blue eyes ... swarthy faces and
blue-black curls ... woolly little pows and thick lips ... long, arched
noses and broad, flat ones. There you will see the fire and passion
of the Southern races and the self-poise, serenity, and sturdiness of
Northern nations. Pat is there, with a gleam of humor in his eye ...
Topsy, all smiles and teeth ... Abraham, trading tops with little
Isaac, next in line ... Hans and Gretchen, phlegmatic and dependable
... Francois, never still for an instant ... Christina, rosy, calm, and
conscientious, and Duncan, canny and prudent as any of his clan.

What an opportunity for amalgamation of races and for laying the
foundation of American citizenship! for the purely social atmosphere of
the kindergarten makes it a school of life and experience. Imagine such
a group hanging breathless upon your words, as you recount the landing
of the Pilgrims, or try to paint the character of George Washington
in colors that shall appeal to children whose ancestors have known
Napoleon, Cromwell, and Bismarck, Peter the Great, Garibaldi, Bruce, and
Robert Emmett.

To such an audience were the stories in his little book told; and the
lines that will perhaps seem commonplace to you glow for us with a
“light that never was on sea or land;” for “the secret of our emotions
never lies in the bare object, but in its subtle relations to our own
past.”

As we turn the pages, radiant faces peep between the words; the echo of
childish laughter rings in our ears and curves our lips with its happy
memory; there isn't a single round O in all the chapters but serves as
a tiny picture-frame for an eager child's face! The commas say, “Isn't
there any more?” the interrogation points ask, “What did the boy do
then?” the exclamation points cry in ecstasy, “What a beautiful story!”
 and the periods sigh, “This is all for to-day.”

At this point--where the dog Moufflou returns to his little master--we
remember that Carlotty Griggs clapped her ebony hands, and shrieked in
transport, “I KNOWED HE'D come! _I_ KNOWED he'd come!”

Here is the place where we remarked impressively, “A lie, children, is
the very worst thing in the world!” whereupon Billy interrogated, with
wide eyes and awed voice, “IS IT WORSE THAN A RAILROAD CROSSING?” And
there is a sentence in the story of the “Bird's Nest” sacred to the
memory of Tommy's tear!--Tommy of the callous conscience and the marble
heart. Tommy's dull eye washed for one brief moment by the salutary
tear! Truly the humble Story-Teller has not lived in vain. Sing, ye
morning stars, together, for this is the spot where Tommy cried!

If you would be the Person with a Story, you must not only have one to
tell, but you must be willing to learn how to tell it, if you wish to
make it a “rememberable thing” to children. The Story-Teller, unlike the
poet, is made as well as born, but he is not made of all stuffs nor in
the twinkling of an eye. In this respect he is very like the Ichneumon
in the nonsense rhyme:&&

  “There once was an idle Ichneumon
   Who thought he could learn to play Schumann;
   But he found, to his pains,
   It took talent and brains,
   And neither possessed this Ichneumon.”

To be effective, the story in the kindergarten should always be told,
never read; for little children need the magnetism of eye and smile as
well as the gesture which illuminates the strange word and endows it
with meaning. The story that is told is always a thousand times more
attractive, real, and personal than anything read from a book.

Well-chosen, graphically told stories can be made of distinct educative
value in the nursery or kindergarten. They give the child a love
of reading, develop in him the germ, at least, of a taste for good
literature, and teach him the art of speech. If they are told in simple,
graceful, expressive English, they are a direct and valuable object
lesson in this last direction.

The ear of the child becomes used to refined intonations, and slovenly
language will grow more and more disagreeable to him. The kindergartner
cannot be too careful in this matter. By the sweetness of her tone and
the perfection of her enunciation she not only makes herself a worthy
model for the children, but she constantly reveals the possibilities of
language and its inner meaning.

“The very brooding of a voice on a word,” says George Macdonald, “seems
to hatch something of what is in it.”

Stories help a child to form a standard by which he can live and grow,
for they are his first introduction into the grand world of the ideal in
character.

“We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love; And even as these are well and
wisely fixed, In dignity of being we ascend.”

The child understands his own life better, when he is enabled to compare
it with other lives; he sees himself and his own possibilities reflected
in them as in a mirror.

They also aid in the growth of the imaginative faculty, which is
very early developed in the child, and requires its natural food.
“Imagination,” says Dr. Seguin, “is more than a decorative attribute
of leisure; it is a power in the sense that from images perceived and
stored it sublimes ideals.” “If I were to choose between two great
calamities for my children,” he goes on to say, “I would rather have
them unalphabetic than unimaginative.”

There is a great difference of opinion concerning the value of fairy
stories. The Gradgrinds will not accept them on any basis whatever, but
they are invariably so fascinating to children that it is certain they
must serve some good purpose and appeal to some inherent craving in
child-nature. But here comes in the necessity of discrimination.
The true meaning of the word “faerie” is spiritual, but many stories
masquerade under that title which have no claim to it. Some universal
spiritual truth underlies the really fine old fairy tale; but there
can be no educative influence in the so-called fairy stories which
are merely jumbles of impossible incidents, and which not unfrequently
present dishonesty, deceit, and cruelty in attractive or amusing guise.

When the fairy tale carries us into an exquisite ideal world, where the
fancy may roam at will, creating new images and seeing truth ever in new
forms, then it has a pure and lovely influence over children, who are
natural poets, and live more in the spirit and less in the body than
we. The fairy tale offers us a broad canvas on which to paint our
word-pictures. There are no restrictions of time or space; the world
is ours, and we can roam in it at will; for spirit, there, is ever
victorious over matter.

“Once upon a time,” saith the Story-Teller, “there was a beautiful
locust tree, that bent its delicate fans and waved its creamy blossoms
in the sunshine, and laughed because its flowers were so lovely and
fragrant and the world was so fresh and green in its summer dress.”

“It's queer for a tree to laugh,” said Bright-Eye.

“But queerer if it didn't laugh, with such lovely blossoms hanging all
over it,” replied Fine-Ear.

Everything is real to the happy child. Life is a sort of fairy garden,
where he wanders as in a dream. “He can make abstraction of whatever
does not fit into his fable; and he puts his eyes into his pocket just
as we hold our noses in an unsavory lane.”

Stories offer a valuable field for instruction, and for introducing in
simple and attractive form much information concerning the laws of plant
and flower and animal life.

A story of this kind, however, must be made as well as told by an
artist; for in the hands of a bungler it is quite as likely to be a
failure as a success. It must be compounded with the greatest care,
and the scientific facts must be generously diluted and mixed in small
proportions with other and more attractive elements, or it will be
rejected by the mental stomach; or, if received in one ear, will be
unceremoniously ushered from the other with an “Avaunt! cold fact! What
have thou and I in common!”

Did you ever tell a story of this kind and watch its effect upon
children? Did you ever note that fatal moment when it BEGAN to BEGIN to
dawn upon the intelligence of the dullest member of your flock that your
narrative was a “whited sepulchre,” and that he was being instructed
within an inch of his life?

“Treat me at least with honesty, my good woman!” he cries in his spirit.
“Read me lessons if you will, but do not make a pretense of amusing me
at the same moment!”

This obvious attitude of criticism is very disagreeable to you, but
never mind, it will be a salutary lesson. Did you think, O clumsy
visitor in childhood land, that simply because you called your stuffed
dolls “Prince” and “Princess” you could conduct them straight through
the mineral kingdom, and allow them to converse with all the metals with
impunity? Nest time make your scientific fact an integral part of the
story, and do not try to introduce too much knowledge in one dose. All
children love Nature and sympathize with her (or if they do not, “then
despair of them, O Philanthropy!”), and all stories that bring them
nearer to the dear mother's heart bring them at the same time nearer to
God; therefore lead them gently to a loving observation of

                          “The hills
 Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales
 Stretching in pensive quietness between;
 The venerable woods; rivers that move
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks
 That make the meadows green.”

Stories bring the force of example to bear upon children in the very
best possible way. Here we can speak to the newly awakened soul and
touch it to nobler issues. This can be done with very little of that
abstract moralizing which is generally so ineffective. A moral “lugged
in” by the heels, so to speak, without any sense of perspective on the
part of the Story-Teller, can no more incline a child to nobler living
than cold victuals can serve as a fillip to the appetite. The facts
themselves should suffice to exert the moral influence; the deeds should
speak louder than the words, and in clearer, fuller tones. At the end of
such a story, “Go thou and do likewise” sounds in the child's heart, and
a new throb of tenderness and aspiration, of desire to do, to grow, and
to be, stirs gently there and wakes the soul to higher ideals. In such a
story the canting, vapid, or didactic little moral, tacked like a tag on
the end, for fear we shall not read the lesson aright, is nothing short
of an insult to the better feelings. It used to be very much in vogue,
but we have learned better nowadays, and we recognize (to paraphrase
Mrs. Whitney's bright speech) that we have often vaccinated children
with morality for fear of their taking it the natural way.

It is a curious fact that children sympathize with the imaginary woes
of birds and butterflies and plants much more readily than with the
sufferings of human beings; and they are melted to tears much more
quickly by simple incidents from the manifold life of nature, than by
the tragedies of human experience which surround them on every side.
Robert Louis Stevenson says in his essay on “Child's Play,” “Once, when
I was groaning aloud with physical pain, a young gentleman came into the
room and nonchalantly inquired if I had seen his bow and arrow. He made
no account of my groans, which he accepted, as he had to accept so
much else, as a piece of the inexplicable conduct of his elders. Those
elders, who care so little for rational enjoyment, and are even the
enemies of rational enjoyment for others, he had accepted without
understanding and without complaint, as the rest of us accept the scheme
of the universe.” Miss Anna Buckland quotes in this connection a story
of a little boy to whom his mother showed a picture of Daniel in the
lions' den. The child sighed and looked much distressed, whereupon his
mother hastened to assure him that Daniel was such a good man that God
did not let the lions hurt him. “Oh,” replied the little fellow, “I was
not thinking of that; but I was afraid that those big lions were going
to eat all of him themselves, and that they would not give the poor
little lion down in the corner any of him!”

It is well to remember the details with which you surrounded your
story when first you told it, and hold to them strictly on all other
occasions. The children allow you no latitude in this matter; they
draw the line absolutely upon all change. Woe unto you, scribes and
Pharisees, if you speak of Jimmy when “his name was Johnny;” or if, when
you are depicting the fearful results of disobedience, you lose Jane in
a cranberry bog instead of the heart of a forest! Personally you do not
care much for little Jane, and it is a matter of no moment to you where
you lost her; but an error such as this undermines the very foundations
of the universe in the children's minds. “Can Jane be lost in two
places?” they exclaim mentally, “or are there two Janes, and are they
both lost? because if so, it must be a fatality to be named Jane.”

Perez relates the following incident: “A certain child was fond of a
story about a young bird, which, having left its nest, although its
mother had forbidden it to do so, flew to the top of a chimney, fell
down the flue into the fire, and died a victim to his disobedience. The
person who told the story thought it necessary to embellish it from his
own imagination. 'That's not right,' said the child at the first change
which was made, 'the mother said this and did that.' His cousin, not
remembering the story word for word, was obliged to have recourse to
invention to fill up gaps. But the child could not stand it. He slid
down from his cousin's knees, and with tears in his eyes, and indignant
gestures, exclaimed, 'It's not true! The little bird said, coui, coui,
coui, coui, before he fell into the fire, to make his mother hear; but
the mother did not hear him, and he burnt his wings, his claws, and his
beak, and he died, poor little bird.' And the child ran away, crying
as if he had been beaten. He had been worse than beaten; he had been
deceived, or at least he thought so; his story had been spoiled by being
altered.” So seriously do children for a long time take fiction for
reality.

If you find the attention of the children wandering, you can frequently
win it gently back by showing some object illustrative of your story, by
drawing a hasty sketch on a blackboard, or by questions to the children.
You sometimes receive more answers than you bargained for; sometimes
these answers will be confounded with the real facts; and sometimes they
will fall very wide of the mark.

I was once telling the exciting tale of the Shepherd's Child lost in
the mountains, and of the sagacious dog who finally found him. When I
reached the thrilling episode of the search, I followed the dog as he
started from the shepherd's hut with the bit of breakfast for his little
master. The shepherd sees the faithful creature, and seized by a sudden
inspiration follows in his path. Up, up the mountain sides they climb,
the father full of hope, the mother trembling with fear. The dog rushes
ahead, quite out of sight; the anxious villagers press forward in hot
pursuit. The situation grows more and more intense; they round a little
point of rocks, and there, under the shadow of a great gray crag, they
find&&

“What do you suppose they found?”

“FI' CENTS!!” shouted Benny in a transport of excitement. “BET YER THEY
FOUND FI' CENTS!!”

You would imagine that such a preposterous idea could not find favor in
any sane community; but so altogether seductive a guess did this appear
to be, that a chorus of “Fi' cents!” “Fi' cents!” sounded on every side;
and when the tumult was hushed, the discovery of an ordinary flesh and
blood child fell like an anti-climax on a public thoroughly in love
with its own incongruities. Let the psychologist explain Benny's mental
processes; we prefer to leave them undisturbed and unclassified.

If you have no children of your own, dear Person with a Story, go into
the highways and by-ways and gather together the little ones whose
mothers' lips are dumb; sealed by dull poverty, hard work, and constant
life in atmospheres where graceful fancies are blighted as soon as they
are born. There is no fireside, and no chimney corner in those crowded
tenements. There is no silver-haired grandsire full of years and wisdom,
with memory that runs back to the good old times that are no more. There
is no cheerful grandame with pocket full of goodies and a store of dear
old reminiscences all beginning with that enchanting phrase, “When I was
a little girl.”

Brighten these sordid lives a little with your pretty thoughts, your
lovely imaginations, your tender pictures. Speak to them simply, for
their minds grope feebly in the dim twilight of their restricted lives.
The old, old stories will do; stories of love and heroism and sacrifice;
of faith and courage and fidelity. Kindle in tired hearts a gentler
thought of life; open the eyes that see not and the ears that hear not;
interpret to them something of the beauty that has been revealed to you.
You do not need talent, only sympathy, “the one poor word that includes
all our best insight and our best love.”

                        KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN.




PREFACE.


The fourteen little stories in this book are not offered as a collection
ample enough to satisfy all needs of the kindergartner.

Such a collection should embrace representative stories of all
classes--narrative, realistic, imaginative, scientific, and historical,
as well as brief and simple tales for the babies.

An experience of twelve years among kindergartners, however, has shown
us that there is room for a number of books like this modest example;
containing stories which need no adaptation or arrangement; which are
ready for the occasion, and which have been thoroughly tried before
audience after audience of children.

The three adaptations, “Benjy in Beast-Land,” “Moufflou,” and the
“Porcelain Stove,” have been made as sympathetically as possible. Their
introduction needs no apology, for they are exquisite stories, and in
their original form much too advanced for children of the kindergarten
age.

KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN.

NORA A. SMITH.




THE ORIOLE'S NEST.

“See how each boy, excited by the actual event, is all ear.”--Froebel.


There it hangs, on a corner of the picture frame, very much as it hung
in the old willow-tree out in the garden.

It was spring time, and I used to move my rocking-chair up to the
window, where I could lean out and touch the green branches, and watch
there for the wonderful beautiful things to tell my little children in
the kindergarten. There I saw the busy little ants hard at work on
the ground below; the patient, dull, brown toads snapping flies in the
sunshine; the striped caterpillars lazily crawling up the trunk of the
tree; and dozens of merry birds getting ready for housekeeping.

Did you know the birdies “kept house”? Oh, yes; they never “board” like
men and women; indeed, I don't think they even like to RENT a house
without fixing it over to suit themselves, but they 'd much rather go to
work and build one,

    “So snug and so warm, so cosy and neat,
     To start at their housekeeping all complete.”

Now there hung just inside my window a box of strings, and for two or
three days, no matter how many I put into it, when I went to look the
next time none could be found. I had talked to the little girls and
scolded the little boys in the house, but no one knew anything about
the matter, when one afternoon, as I was sitting there, a beautiful bird
with a yellow breast fluttered down from the willow-tree, perched on the
window-sill, cocked his saucy head, winked his bright eye, and without
saying “If you please,” clipped his naughty little beak into the string
box and flew off with a piece of pink twine.

I sat as still as a mouse to see if the little scamp would dare to come
back; he didn't, but he sent his wife, who gave a hop, skip, and a jump,
looked me squarely in the eye, and took her string without being a bit
afraid.

Now do you call that stealing? “No,” you answer. Neither do I; to be
sure they took what belonged to me, but the window was wide open, and I
think they must have known I loved the birds and would like to give them
something for their new house. Perhaps they knew, too, that bits of old
twine could not be worth much.

Then how busily they began their work! They had already chosen the place
for their nest, springing up and down in the boughs till they found a
branch far out of sight of snakes and hawks and cruel tabby cats, high
out of reach of naughty small boys with their sling-shots, and now
everything was ready for these small carpenters to begin their building.
No hammer and nails were needed, claw and bill were all the tools they
used, and yet what beautiful carpenter work was theirs!

Do you see how strongly the nest is tied on to those three slender
twigs, and how carefully and closely it is woven, so that you can
scarcely pull it apart? Those wiry black hairs holding all the rest
together were dropped from Prince Charming's tail (Prince Charming is
the pretty saddle-horse who crops his grass, under the willow-tree).
Those sleek brown hairs belonged to Dame Margery, the gentle mooly cow,
who lives with her little calf Pet in the stable with Prince Charming;
and there is a shining yellow spot on one side. Ah, you roguish birds,
you must have been outside the kitchen window when baby Johnny's curls
were cut! We could only spare two from his precious head, and we hunted
everywhere for this one to send to grandmamma!

Now just look at this door in the side of the nest, and tell me how a
bird could make such a perfect one; and yet I've heard you say, “It's
only a bird; he doesn't know anything.” To be sure he cannot do as many
things as you, but after all you are not wise enough to do many of the
things that he does. What would one of my little boys do, I wonder, if
he were carried miles away from home and dropped in a place he had never
seen? Why, he would be too frightened to do anything but cry; and yet
there are many birds, who, when taken away a long distance, will perch
on top of the weather-vane, perhaps, make up their little bits of minds
which way to go, and then with a whir-r-r-r fly off over house-tops and
church-steeples, towns and cities, rivers and meadows, until they reach
the place from which they started.

Look at the nest for the last time now, and see the soft, lovely lining
of ducks' feathers and lambs' wool.

Why do you suppose it was made so velvet soft and fleecy? Why, for the
little birds that were coming, of course; and sure enough, one morning
after the tiny house was all finished, I leaned far out of the window
and saw five little eggs cuddled close together; but I did not get much
chance to look at those precious eggs, I can tell you; for the mamma
bird could scarcely spare a minute to go and get a drink of water, so
afraid was she that they would miss the warmth of her downy wings.

There she sat in the long May days and warm, still nights: who but a
mamma would be so sweet and kind and patient?--but SHE didn't mind the
trouble--not a bit. Bless her dear little bird-heart, they were not eggs
to her: she could see them even now as they were going to be, her five
cunning, downy, feathery birdlings, chirping and fluttering under her
wings; so she never minded the ache in her back or the cramp in her
legs, but sat quite still at home, though there were splendid picnics
in the strawberry patches and concerts on the fence rails, and all the
father birds, and all the mother birds that were not hatching eggs, were
having a great deal of fun this beautiful weather. At last all was over,
and I was waked up one morning by such a chirping and singing--such a
fluttering and flying--I knew in a minute that where the night before
there had been two birds and five eggs, now there were seven birds and
nothing but egg-shells in the green willow-tree!

The papa oriole would hardly wait for me to dress, but flew on and off
the window-sill, seeming to say, “Why don't you get up? why don't you
get up? I have five little birds; they came out of the shells this very
morning, so hungry that I can't get enough for them to eat! Why don't
you get up, I say? I have five little birds, and I am taking care of
them while my wife is off taking a rest!”

They were five scrawny, skinny little things, I must say; for you know
birds don't begin by being pretty like kittens and chickens, but look
very bare and naked, and don't seem to have anything to show but a big,
big mouth which is always opening and crying “Yip, yip, yip!”

Now I think you are wondering why I happen to have this nest, and how
I could have taken away the beautiful house from the birds. Ah, that is
the sad part of the story, and I wish I need not tell it to you.

When the baby birds were two days old, I went out on a long ride
into the country, leaving everything safe and happy in the old green
willow-tree; but when I came back, what do you think I found on the
ground under the branches?----A wonderful hang-bird's nest cut from the
tree, and five poor still birdies lying by its side. Five slender necks
all limp and lifeless,--five pairs of bright eyes shut forever! and
overhead the poor mamma and papa twittering and crying in the way little
birds have when they are frightened and sorry--flying here and there,
first down to the ground and then up in the tree, to see if it was
really true.

While I was gone two naughty boys had come into the garden to dig for
angle-worms, and all at once they spied the oriole's nest.

“O Tommy, here's a hang-bird's nest, such a funny one! there's nobody
here, let's get it,” cried Jack.

Up against the tree they put the step-ladder; and although it was almost
out of reach, a sharp jack-knife cut the twigs that held it up, and down
it fell from the high tree with a heavy thud on the hard earth, and the
five little orioles never breathed again! Of course the boys didn't know
there were any birdies in the nest, or they wouldn't have done it for
the world; but that didn't make it any easier for the papa and mamma
bird.

Now, dear children, never let me hear you say, “It's no matter, they're
only birds, they don't care.”

Think about this nest: how the mother and father worked at it, weaving
hair and string and wool together, day by day! Think how the patient
mamma sat on the eggs, dreaming of the time when she should have five
little singing, flying birds to care for, to feed and to teach! and then
to have them live only two short days! Was it not dreadful to lose her
beautiful house and dear little children both at once?

Never forget that just as your own father and mother love their dear
little girls and boys, so God has made the birds love their little
feathery children that are born in the wonderful nests he teaches them
to build.




DICKY SMILEY'S BIRTHDAY.

“In order to be especially beneficial and effective, story-telling
should be connected with the events and occurrences of life.”--Froebel.


Dicky Smiley was eight years old when all these things happened that I
am going to tell you; eight years old, and as bright as a steel button.
It was very funny that his name should be Smiley, for his face was just
like a sunbeam, and if he ever cried at all it was only for a minute,
and then the smiles would creep out and chase the tear-drops away from
the blue sky of his eyes.

Dicky's mother tried to call him Richard, because it was his papa's
name, but it never would say itself somehow, and even when she did
remember, and called him “Richard,” his baby sister Dot would cry,
“Mamma, don't scold Dicky.”

He had once a good, loving papa like yours, when he was a tiny baby in
long white clothes; but the dear papa marched away with the blue-coated
soldiers one day, and never came back any more to his little children;
for he died far, far away from home, on a green battlefield, with many
other soldiers. You can think how sad and lonely Dicky's mamma was, and
how she hugged her three babies close in her arms, and said:&&

“Darlings, you haven't any father now, but the dear God will help your
mother to take care of you!”

And now she was working hard, so very hard, from morning till night
every day to get money to buy bread and milk and clothes for Bess and
Dot and Dicky.

But Dicky was a good little fellow and helped his mamma ever so much,
pulling out bastings from her needlework, bringing in the kindling
and shavings from the shed, and going to the store for her butter and
potatoes and eggs. So one morning she said:&&

“Dicky, you have been such a help to me this summer, I'd like to give
you something to make you very happy. Let us count the money in your
bank--you earned it all yourself--and see what we could buy with it. To
be sure, Bess wants a waterproof and Dot needs rubbers, but we do want
our little boy to have a birthday present.”

“Oh, mamma,” cried he, clapping his hands, “what a happy day it will
be! I shall buy that tool-box at the store round the corner! It's such a
beauty, with a little saw, a claw-hammer, a chisel, a screw-driver, and
everything a carpenter needs. It costs just a dollar, exactly!”

Then they unscrewed the bank and found ninety-five cents, so that it
would take only five cents more to make the dollar. Dicky earned that
before he went to bed, by piling up wood for a neighbor; and his
mamma changed all the little five and ten cent pieces into two bright
half-dollars that chinked together joyfully in his trousers pocket.

The next morning he was up almost at the same time the robins and
chimney-swallows flew out of their nests; jumped down the stairs, two at
a time, and could scarcely eat his breakfast, such a hurry as he was in
to buy the precious tool-box. He opened the front door, danced down the
wooden steps, and there on the curb in front of the house stood a little
girl, with a torn gingham apron, no shoes, no hat, and her nut-brown
curls flying in the wind; worse than all, she was crying as if her heart
would break.

“Why, little girl, what's the matter?” asked Dicky, for he was a
kind-hearted boy, and didn't like to see people cry.

She took down her apron and sobbed:&&

“Oh, I've lost my darling little brown dog, and I can never get him
back!”

“Why, has somebody poisoned him--is he dead?” said Dicky.

She shook her head.

“No, oh no! The pound-man took him away in his cart--my sweet little bit
of a dog; he has such a cunning little curly tail, and long, silky ears;
he does all kinds of tricks, and they'll never let me in at home without
Bruno.”

And then she began to cry harder than ever, so that Dicky hardly knew
what to say to her.

Now the pound, children, is a very large place somewhere near the city,
with a high fence all around it, and inside are kept colts and horses,
the little calves and mother cows, and the sheep and goats that run away
from home, or are picked up by the roadside. The pound-man rides along
the street in a big cart, which has a framework of slats built over
it, so that it looks something like a chicken-coop on wheels, and in
it--some of you have seen him do it--he puts the poor dogs that haven't
collars on, and whose masters haven't paid for them. Then he rides away
and locks them up in the great place inside the high fence, and they
have to stay awhile. The dogs are killed if nobody comes for them.

“Well,” said Dicky, “let us go and see the pound-man. Do you know where
he lives?”

“Yes, indeed,” answered the little girl, whose name was Lola. “I ran
behind the cart all the way to the pound. I cried after Bruno, and Bruno
whined for me, and poked his nose between the bars and tried to jump
out, but he couldn't. It's a pretty long way there, and the man is as
cross as two sticks.”

But they started off, and on and on they walked together, Dicky having
tight hold of Lola's hand, while she told him about the wonderful things
Bruno could do; how he could go up and down a ladder, play the fife
and beat the drum, make believe go to sleep, and dance a jig. It was by
these tricks of his that Lola earned money for her uncle, with whom she
lived; for her father and mother were both dead, and there was no one in
the whole world who loved the little girl. The dear mother had died in a
beautiful mountain country far across the ocean, and Lola and Bruno
had been sent in a ship over to America. Now this dear, pretty mamma of
Lola's used to sing to her when she rocked her to sleep, and as she grew
from a baby to a tiny girl she learned the little songs to sing to Bruno
when he was a little puppy. Would you like to hear one of them? She used
to sing it on the street corners, and at the end of the last verse that
knowing, cunning, darling Bruno would yawn as if he could not keep awake
another minute, tuck his silky head between his two fore paws, shut his
bright eyes, give a tired little sigh, and stay fast asleep until Lola
waked him. This is the song:&&

Wake, lit-tle Bru-no! Wake, lit-tle Bru-no,

Wake, lit-tle Bru-no quick-ly!

When the two children came to the pound and saw the little house at the
gate where the pound-man lived, Dicky was rather frightened and hardly
dared walk up the steps; but after a moment he thought to himself, “I
won't be a coward; I haven't done anything wrong.” So he gave the door
a rousing knock, for an eight-year-old boy, and brought the man out at
once.

“What do you want?” said he, in a gruff voice, for he did seem rather
cross.

“Please, sir, I want Lola's little brown dog. He's all the dog she has,
and she earns money with him. He does funny tricks for ten cents.”

“How do you think I know whether I've got a brown dog in there or not?”
 growled he. “You'd better run home to your mothers, both of you.”

At this Lola began to cry again, and Dicky said quickly:&&

“Oh, you 'd know him soon as anything,--he has such a cunning curly tail
and long silky ears. His name is Bruno.”

“Well,” snapped the man, “where's your money? Hurry up! I want my
breakfast.”

“Money!” cried Dicky, looking at Lola.

“Money!” whispered little Lola, looking back at Dicky.

“Yes,” said he, “of course! Give me a dollar and I will give you the
dog.”

“But,” answered Lola, “I haven't a bit of money; I never have any.”

“Neither have”--began Dicky; and then his fingers crept into his
trousers pocket and felt the two silver half-dollars that were to buy
his tool-box. He had forgotten all about that tool-box for an hour, but
how could he--how could he ever give away that precious money which
he had been so long in getting together, five cents at a time? He
remembered the sharp little saw, the stout hammer, the cunning plane,
bright chisel, and shining screw-driver, and his fingers closed round
the money tightly; but just then he looked at pretty little Lola, with
her sad face, her swollen eyes and the brave red lips she was trying to
keep from quivering with tears. That was enough; he quickly drew out the
silver dollar, and said to the pound-man:&&

“Here's your dollar--give us the dog!”

The man looked much surprised. Not many little eight-year-old boys have
a dollar in their trousers pocket.

“Where did you get it?” he asked.

“I earned every cent of it,” answered poor Dicky with a lump in his
throat and a choking voice. “I brought in coal and cut kindlings for
most six months before I got enough, and there ain't another tool-box in
the world so good as that one for a dollar--but I want Bruno!”

{Illustration: “Here's your dollar--give us the dog'”}

Then the pound-man showed them a little flight of steps that led up to
a square hole in the wall of the pound, and told them to go up and look
through it and see if the dog was there. They climbed up and put their
two rosy eager faces at the rough little window. “Bruno! Bruno!” called
little Lola, and no Bruno came; but every frightened homesick little
doggy in that prison poked up his nose, wagged his tail, and started
for the voice. It didn't matter whether they were Fidos, or Carlos, or
Rovers, or Pontos; they knew that they were lonesome little dogs, and
perhaps somebody had remembered them. Lola's tender heart ached at the
sight of so many fatherless and motherless dogs, and she cried,&&

“No, no, you poor darlings! I haven't come for you; I want my own
Bruno.”

“Sing for him, and may be he will come,” said Dicky; and Lola leaned her
elbow on the window sill and sang:&&

   Lit-tle shoes are sold at the gate-way of Heaven,
   And to all the tattered lit-tle an-gels are giv-en;
   Slum-ber my dar-ling, Slum-ber my dar-ling,
   Slum-ber my dar-ling sweet-ly.

Now Bruno was so tired with running from the pound-man, so hungry, so
frightened, and so hoarse with barking that he had gone to sleep; but
when he heard Lola's voice singing the song he knew so well, he started
up, and out he bounded half awake--the dearest, loveliest little brown
dog in the world, with a cunning curly tail sticking up in a round bob
behind, two long silky ears that almost touched the ground, and four
soft white feet.

Then they were two such glad children, and such a glad little brown
dog was Bruno! Why, he kissed Lola's bare feet and hands and face,
and nearly chewed her apron into rags, he was so delighted to see his
mistress again. Even the cross pound-man smiled and said he was the
prettiest puppy, and the smartest, he had ever had in the pound, and
that when he had shut him up the night before he had gone through all
his funny tricks in hopes that he would be let out.

Then Dicky and Lola walked back home over the dusty road, Bruno running
along beside them, barking at the birds, sniffing at the squirrels, and
chasing all the chickens and kittens he met on the way, till at last
they reached the street corner, where Lola turned to go to her home,
after kissing her new friend and thanking him for being so good and kind
to her.

But what about Master Dicky himself, who had lost his tool-box? He
didn't feel much like a smiling boy just then. He crept in at the back
door, and when he saw his dear mother's face in the kitchen he couldn't
stand it a minute longer, but burst out crying, and told her all about
it.

“Well, my little son,” said she, “I'm very, very sorry. I wish I could
give you another dollar, but I haven't any money to spare. You did just
right to help Lola find Bruno, and buy him back for her, and I'm
very proud of my boy; but you can't give away the dollar and have the
tool-box too. So wipe your eyes, and try to be happy. You didn't eat any
breakfast, dear, take a piece of nice bread and sugar.”

So Dicky dried his tears and began to eat.

After a while he wanted to wipe his sticky, sugary little mouth, and as
he took his clean handkerchief out of his pocket, two shining, chinking,
clinking round things tumbled out on the floor and rolled under
the kitchen table! What could they have been! Why, his two silver
half-dollars, to be sure. And where in the world did they come from, do
you suppose? Why, it was the nicest, funniest thing! The pound-man was
not so cross after all, for he thought Lola and Dicky were two such kind
children, and Bruno such a cunning dog, that he could not bear to take
Dicky's dollar away from him; so while the little boy was looking the
other way the pound-man just slipped the money back into Dick's bit of a
pocket without saying a word. Wasn't that a beautiful surprise?

So Dicky ran to the corner store as fast as his feet could carry him,
and bought the tool-box.

Every Saturday afternoon he has such a pleasant time playing with it!
And who do you suppose sits on the white kitchen floor with Dot and
Bess, watching him make dolls' tables and chairs with his carpenter's
tools? Why, Lola, to be sure, and a little brown dog too, with a cunning
curly tail turned up in a round bob behind, and two long silky ears
touching the floor. For Dick's mamma had such a big heart that I do
believe it would have held all the children in the world, and as Lola's
uncle didn't care for her the least little bit, he gave her to this
mamma of Dicky's, who grew to love this little girl almost as well as
she loved her own Dicky and Dot and Bess.




AQUA; OR, THE WATER BABAY.


{Footnote: The plan of this story was suggested to me many years ago; so
many, indeed, that I cannot now remember whether it was my friend's own,
or whether he had read something like it in German.--K. D. W.}


“This standing above life, and yet grasping life, and being stirred by
life, is what makes the genuine educator.”--Froebel.


It was a clear, sunshiny day, and out on the great, wide, open sea there
sparkled thousands and thousands of water-drops. One of these was a
merry little fellow who danced on the silver backs of the fishes as they
plunged up and down in the waves, and, no matter how high he sprung,
always came down again plump into his mother's lap.

His mother, you know, was the Ocean, and very beautiful she looked that
summer day in her dark blue dress and white ruffles.

By and by the happy water-drop tired of his play, and looking up to the
clear sky above him thought he would like to have a sail on one of
the white floating clouds; so, giving a jump from the Ocean's arms, he
begged the Sun to catch him up and let him go on a journey to see the
earth.

The Sun said “Yes,” and took ever so many other drops, too, so that Aqua
might not be lonesome on the way. He did not know this, however, for
they all had been changed into fine mist or vapor. Do you know what
vapor is? If you breathe into the air, when it is cold enough, you will
see it coming out of your mouth like steam, and you may also see very
hot steam coming from the nose of a kettle of boiling water. When it
is quite near to the earth, where we can see it, we call it “fog.” The
water-drops had been changed into vapor because in their own shape they
were too heavy for sunbeams to carry.

Higher and higher they sailed, so fast that they grew quite dizzy; why,
in an hour they had gone over a hundred miles! and how grand it was,
to be looking down on the world below, and sailing faster than fish can
swim or birds can fly!

But after a while it grew nearly time for the Sun to go to bed; he
became very red in the face, and began to sink lower and lower, until
suddenly he went clear out of sight!

Poor little Aqua could not help being frightened, for every minute it
grew darker and colder. At last he thought he would try to get back to
the earth again, so he slipped away, and as he fell lower and lower
he grew heavier, until he was a little round, bright drop again, and
alighted on a rosebush. A lovely velvet bud opened its leaves, and in
he slipped among the crimson cushions, to sleep until morning. Then the
leaves opened, and rolling over in his bed he called out, “Please, dear
Sun, take me with you again.” So the sunbeams caught him up a second
time, and they flew through the air till the noon-time, when it grew
warmer and warmer, and there was no red rose to hide him, not even a
blade of grass to shade his tired head; but just as he was crying out,
“Please, King Sun, let me go back to the dear mother Ocean,” the wind
took pity on him, and came with its cool breath and fanned him, with all
his brothers, into a heavy gray cloud, after which he blew them apart
and told them to join hands and hurry away to the earth. Helter-skelter
down they went, rolling over each other pell-mell, till with a patter
and clatter and spatter they touched the ground, and all the people
cried, “It rains.”

Some of the drops fell on a mountain side, Aqua among them, and down
the rocky cliff he ran, leading the way for his brothers. Soon, together
they plunged into a mountain brook, which came foaming and dashing
along, leaping over rocks and rushing down the hillside, till in the
valley below they heard the strangest clattering noise.

On the bank stood a flour-mill, and at the door a man whose hat and
clothes were gray with dust.

Inside the mill were two great stones, which kept whizzing round and
round, faster than a boy's top could spin, worked by the big wheel
outside; and these stones ground the wheat into flour and the corn into
golden meal.

But what giant do you suppose it was who could turn and swing that
tremendous wheel, together with those heavy stones? No giant at all.
No one but our tiny little water-drops themselves, who sprang on it by
hundreds and thousands, and whirled it over and over.

The brook emptied into a quiet pond where ducks and geese were swimming.
Such a still, beautiful place it was, with the fuzzy, brown cat-tails
lifting their heads above the water, and the yellow cow lilies, with
their leaves like green platters, floating on the top. On the edge lived
the fat green bullfrogs, and in the water were spotted trout, silver
shiners, cunning minnows, and other fish.

Aqua liked this place so much that he stayed a good while, sailing up
and down, taking the ducks' backs for ships and the frogs for horses;
but after a time he tired of the dull life, and he and his brothers
floated out over a waterfall and under a bridge for a long, long
distance, until they saw another brook tumbling down a hillside.

“Come, let's join hands!” cried Aqua; and so they all dashed on together
till they came to a broad river which opened its arms to them.

By the help of Aqua and his brothers the beautiful river was able to
float heavy ships, though not so long ago it was only a little rill,
through which a child could wade or over which he could step. Here a
vessel loaded with lumber was carried just as easily as if it had been
a paper boat; there a steamer, piled with boxes and barrels, and crowded
with people, passed by, its great wheel crashing through the water and
leaving a long trail, as of foamy soapsuds, behind it. On and ever on
the river went, seeking the ocean, and whether it hurried round a corner
or glided smoothly on its way to the sea, there was always something
new and strange to be seen--busy cities, quiet little towns, buzzing
sawmills, stone bridges, and harbors full of all sorts of vessels, large
and small, with flags of all colors floating from the masts and sailors
of all countries working on the decks. But Aqua did not stay long in any
place, for as the river grew wider and wider, and nearer and nearer
its end, he could almost see the mother Ocean into whose arms he was
joyfully running. She reached out to gather all her children, the
water-drops, into her heart, and closer than all the others nestled our
little Aqua.

His travels were over, his pleasures and dangers past; and he was folded
again to the dear mother heart, the safest, sweetest place in all the
whole wide world. In warm, still summer evenings, if you will take a
walk on the sea-beach, you will hear the gentle rippling swash of the
waves; and some very wise people think it must be the gurgling voices
of Aqua and his brother water-drops telling each other about their
wonderful journey round the world.




MOUFFLOU.

Adapted from Ouida.

“We tell too few stories to children, and those we tell are stories
whose heroes are automata and stuffed dolls,”--Froebel.


Lolo and Moufflou lived far away from here, in a sunny country called
Italy.

Lolo was not as strong as you are, and could never run about and play,
for he was lame, poor fellow, and always had to hop along on a little
crutch. He was never well enough to go to school, but as his fingers
were active and quick he could plait straw matting and make baskets at
home. He had four or five rosy, bright little brothers and sisters, but
they were all so strong and could play all day so easily that Lolo was
not with them much; so Moufflou was his very best friend, and they were
together all day long.

Moufflou was a snow-white poodle, with such soft, curly wool that he
looked just like a lamb; and the man who gave him to the children, when
he was a little puppy, had called him “Moufflon,” which meant sheep in
his country.

Lolo's father had died four years before; but he had a mother, who had
to work very hard to keep the children clean and get them enough to eat.
He had, too, a big brother Tasso, who worked for a gardener, and every
Saturday night brought his wages home to help feed and clothe the little
children. Tasso was almost a man now, and in that country as soon as you
grow to be a man you have to go away and be a soldier; so Lolo's mother
was troubled all the time for fear that her Tasso would be taken away.
If you have money enough, you can always pay some one to go in your
place; but Tasso had no money, and neither had the poor mother, so every
day she was anxious lest her boy might have to go to the wars.

But Lolo and Moufflon knew nothing of all this, and every day, when
Lolo was well enough, they were happy together. They would walk up the
streets, or sit on the church, steps, or, if the day was fair, would
perhaps go into the country and bring home great bundles of yellow and
blue and crimson flowers.

The tumble-down old house in which the family lived was near a tall,
gray church. It was a beautiful old church, and all the children loved
it, but Lolo most of all. He loved it in the morning, when the people
brought in great bunches of white lilies to trim it; and at noon, when
it was cool and shady; and at sunset, when the long rays shone through
the painted windows and made blue and golden and violet lights on the
floor.

One morning Lolo and Moufflou were sitting on the church steps and
watching the people, when a gentleman who was passing by stopped to look
at the dog.

“That's a very fine poodle,” he said.

“Indeed he is,” cried Lolo. “But you should see him on Sundays when he
is just washed; then he is as white as snow.”

“Can he do any tricks?” asked the gentleman.

“I should say so,” said Lolo, for he had taught the dog all he knew. “He
can stand on his hind legs, he can dance, he can speak, he can make a
wheelbarrow of himself, and when I put a biscuit on his nose and count
one, two, three, he will snap and catch the biscuit.”

The gentleman said he should like to see some of the tricks, and
Moufflou was very glad to do them, for no one had ever whipped him or
hurt him, and he loved to do what his little master wished. Then the
gentleman told Lolo that he had a little boy at home, so weak and so
sick that he could not get up from the sofa, and that he would like to
have Lolo bring the poodle to show him the next day, so he gave Lolo
some money, and told him the name of the hotel where he was staying.

Lolo went hopping home as fast as his little crutch could carry him, and
went quickly upstairs to his mother.

“Oh, mamma!” he said. “See the money a gentleman gave me, and all
because dear Moufflou did his pretty tricks so nicely. Now you can have
your coffee every morning, and Tasso can have his new suit for Sunday.”
 Then he told his mother about the gentleman, and that he had promised to
take Moufflou to see him the next day.

{Illustration: He will snap and catch the biscuit}

So when the morning came, Moufflou was washed as white as snow, and his
pretty curls were tied up with blue ribbon, and they both trotted off.
Moufflou was so proud of his curls and his ribbon that he hardly liked
to put his feet on the ground at all. They were shown to the little
boy's room, where he lay on the sofa very pale and unhappy. A bright
little look came into his eyes when he saw the dog, and he laughed when
Moufflou did his tricks. How he clapped his hands when he saw him make
a wheelbarrow, and he tossed them both handfuls of cakes and candies!
Neither the boy nor the dog ever had quite enough to eat, so they
nibbled the little cakes with their sharp, white teeth, and were very
glad.

When Lolo got up to go, the little boy began to cry, and said, “Oh, I
want the dog. Let me have the dog!”

“Oh, indeed I can't,” said Lolo, “he is my own Moufflou, and I cannot
let you have him.”

The little boy was so unhappy and cried so bitterly that Lolo was very
sorry to see him, and he went quickly down the stairs with Moufflou. The
gentleman gave him more money this time, and he was so excited and so
glad that he went very fast all the way home, swinging himself over the
stones on his little crutch. But when he opened the door, there was his
mother crying as if her heart would break, and all the children were
crying in a corner, and even Tasso was home from his work, looking very
unhappy.

“Oh! what is the matter?” cried Lolo. But no one answered him, and
Moufflon, seeing them all so sad, sat down and threw up his nose in the
air and howled a long, sad howl. By and by one of the children told Lolo
that at last Tasso had been chosen to be a soldier, and that he must
soon go away to the war. The poor mother said, crying, that she did not
know what would become of her little children through the long, cold
winter.

Lolo showed her his money, but she was too unhappy even to care for
that, and so by and by he went to his bed with Moufflou. The dog had
always slept at Lolo's feet, but this night he crept close up by the
side of his little master, and licked his hand now and then to show that
he was sorry.

The next morning Lolo and Moufflon went with Tasso to the gardens where
he worked, and all the way along the bright river and among the green
trees they talked together of what they should do when Tasso had gone.
Tasso said that if they could only get some money he would not have to
go away to the wars, but he shook his head sadly and knew that no one
would lend it to them. At noon Lolo went home with Moufflon to his
dinner. When they had finished (it was only bean soup and soon eaten),
the mother told Lolo that his aunt wanted him to go and see her that
afternoon, and take care of the children while she went out. So Lolo put
on his hat, called Moufflou, and was limping toward the door, when his
mother said:&&

“No, don't take the dog to-day, your aunt doesn't like him; leave him
here with me.”

“Leave Moufflou?” said Lolo, “why, I never leave him; he wouldn't know
what to do without me all the afternoon.”

“Yes, leave him,” said his mother. “I don't want you to take him with
you. Don't let me tell you again.” So Lolo turned around and went down
the stairs, feeling very sad at leaving his dear Moufflou even for a
short time. But the hours went by, and when night-time came he hurried
back to the little old home. He stood at the bottom of the long, dark
stairway and called “Moufflou! Moufflou!” but no doggie came; then he
climbed half-way up to the landing and called again, “Moufflou!” but no
little white feet came pattering down. Up to the top of the stairs went
poor tired Lolo and opened the door.

“Why, where is my Moufflou?” he said.

The mother had been crying, and she looked very sad and did not answer
him for a moment.

“Where is my Moufflou?” asked Lolo again, “what have you done with my
dear Moufflou?”

“He is sold,” the mother said at last, “sold to the gentleman who has
the little lame boy. He came here to-day, and he likes the dog so much
and his little boy was so pleased at the pretty tricks he does, that he
told me he would give a great deal of money if I would sell him the dog.
Just think, Lolo, he gave me so much money that we can pay somebody now
to go to the war for Tasso.”

But before she had finished talking, Lolo began to grow white and cold
and to waver to and fro, so that his little crutch could hardly support
him. When she had done he called out, “My Moufflou--my Moufflou sold!”
 and he threw his hands up over his head and fell all in a heap on the
floor, his poor little crutch clattering down beside him. His mother
took him up and laid him on his bed, but all night long he tossed to and
fro, calling for his dog. When the morning came, his little hands and
his head were very, very hot, and by and by the doctor came and said he
had a fever. He asked the mother what it was the little boy was calling
for, and she told him that it was his dog, and that he had been sold.
The doctor shook his head, and then went away.

Day after day poor Lolo lay on his bed. His hair had been cut short, he
did not know his brothers and sisters, nor his mother, and his little
aching head went to and fro, to and fro, on the pillow from morning till
night. Once Tasso went to the hotel to find the gentleman. He was
going to tell him to take the money and give him back the dog; but the
gentleman had gone many miles away on the cars and taken Moufflou with
him. So every day Lolo grew weaker, until the doctor said that he must
die very soon.

One afternoon they were all in the room with him. The windows were wide
open. His mother sat by his bed and the children on the floor beside
her; even Tasso was at home helping to take care of his little
brother. All was so still that you could hear poor Lolo's faint breath,
when--suddenly--there was a scampering and a pattering of little feet
on the stairs, and a white poodle dashed into the room and jumped on the
bed. It was Moufflou! but you would never have known him, for he was
so thin that you could count all his bones. His curls were dirty and
matted, and full of sticks and straws and burrs; his feet were dusty and
bleeding, and you could tell in a moment that he had traveled a great
many miles. When he jumped on the bed, Lolo opened his eyes a little.
He saw it was Moufflou, and laid one little thin hand on the dog's
head; then he turned on his pillow, closed his eyes, and went quietly to
sleep. Moufflou would not get off the bed, and would eat nothing unless
they brought it to him there. He only lay close by his little master,
with his brown eyes wide open, looking straight into his face. By and by
the doctor came, and said that Lolo was really a little better, and
that perhaps he might get well now. The mother and Tasso were very glad
indeed, but they knew that the gentleman would come back for his dog,
and they scarcely knew what to do, nor what to say to him. Lolo grew a
little stronger every day, and at the end of a week a man came upstairs
asking if Moufflou was there. They had taken him a long way off, but
he had run away from them one day, and they had never been able to find
him. Tasso asked the messenger to let Moufflou stay until he had seen
the gentleman, and he took the money and put on his hat and went with
him to the hotel. The sick boy was in the room with his father, and
Tasso went straight to them and told them all about it: that Lolo nearly
died without his dear Moufflon, that day after day he lay in his bed
calling for the dog, and that at last one afternoon Moufflon came back
to them, thin and hungry and dirty, but so glad to see his little master
again. Nobody knew, said Tasso, how he could have found his way so many
miles alone, but there he was, and now he begged the gentleman to be
so kind as to take back the money. He would go and be a soldier, if he
must; but Lolo and his dog must never be parted again.

The gentleman told Tasso that he seemed to be a kind brother, and that
he might keep the money and the dog too, if only he would find them
another poodle and teach him to be as wise and faithful as Moufflou was.
Tasso was so glad that he thanked them again and again, and hurried home
to tell Lolo and his mother the good news. He soon found a poodle almost
as pretty as Moufflou, and every day Lolo, who has grown strong now,
helps Tasso to teach him all of Moufflon's tricks.

Sometimes Lolo turns and puts his arms around Moufflon's neck and
says,&&

“Tell me, my Moufflou, how you ever came back to me, over all the
rivers, and all the bridges, and all the miles of road?”

Moufflou can never answer him, but I think he must have found his way
home because he loved his master so much; and the grown people always
say, “Love will find out the way.”




BENJY IN BEASTLAND.

ADAPTED FROM MRS. EWING.

“With the genuine story-teller the inner life of the genuine listener
is roused; he is carried out of himself, and he thereby measures
himself.”--FROEBEL.


Benjy was a very naughty, disagreeable boy! It is sad to say it, but it
is truth. He always had a cloudy, smudgy, slovenly look, like a slate
half-washed, that made one feel how nice it would be if he could be
scrubbed inside and out with hot water and soap.

Benjy was the only boy in the family, but he had two little sisters who
were younger than he. They were dear, merry little things, and many boys
would have found them pleasant little playmates; but Benjy had shown how
much he disliked to play with them, and it made them feel very badly.
One of them said one day, “Benjy does not care for us because we are
only girls, so we have taken Nox for our brother.” Nox was a big curly
dog, something like a Newfoundland.

Now Benjy was not at all handsome, and he hated tubs and brushes and
soap and water. He liked to lie abed late in the mornings, and when he
got up he had only time enough to half wash himself. But Nox rose early,
liked cold water, had snow-white teeth and glossy hair, and when you
spoke to him he looked straight up at you with his clear honest brown
eyes. Benjy's jacket and shirt-front were always spotted with dirt,
while the covering of Nox's chest was glossy and well kept. Benjy came
into the parlor with muddy boots and dirty hands; but Nox, if he had
been out in the mud, would lie down when he came home, and lick his
brown paws till they were quite clean. Benjy liked to kill all kinds of
animals, but Nox saved lives, though he often came near losing his own.

Near their home was a deep river, where many a dog and cat was drowned.
There was one place on the bank of this river where there was an old
willow-tree, which spread its branches wide and stretched its long arms
till they touched the water. Here Nox used to bring everything that he
found in the river.

I must tell you that Benjy did not like Nox, and with very good
reason. Benjy had had something to do with the death of several animals
belonging to the people in the neighborhood, and he had tied stones or
tin cans around their necks and dropped them into the river. But Nox
used to wander round quite early in the morning, and very often found in
the river and brought out what Benjy had thrown in, and this is why he
did not like the brave dog.

There was another dog in the family, named Mr. Rough. His eyes had
been almost scratched out by cats, his little body bore marks of many
beatings, and he had a hoarse bark which sounded as if he had a bad
cold.

If Benjy cared for any animal, it was for Mr. Rough, although he treated
him worse than he did Nox, because he was small.

One day Benjy felt very mischievous; he even played a cruel trick on Nox
while he was asleep. As he sat near to him he kept lightly pricking the
dog's lips with a fine needle. The dog would half wake up, shake his
head, rub his lips with his paws, and then drop off to sleep again.

At last this cruel boy stuck the needle in too far and hurt poor Nox,
who jumped up with a start, and as he did so the needle broke off, part
of it staying in the flesh, where, after a great deal of work which hurt
the poor dog dreadfully, the little sisters found it. How they cried
for their pet! The braver one held Nox's lips and pulled out the needle,
while the other wiped the tears from her sister's eyes, that she might
see what she was doing. Nox sat still and moaned and wagged his tail
very feebly, but when it was over he fairly knocked the little sisters
down in his eagerness to show his gratitude. But Benjy went out and
found Mr. Rough, and as he did not feel like being kind to any one, he
kicked him, and Mr. Rough for the first time ran away. Benjy could not
find him, but he found a boy as naughty as himself, who was chasing
another little dog and pelting it with stones. This would have been very
good fun, but one of the stones struck the dog and killed him. So the
boys tied something around his neck and threw him into the river.

Benjy went to bed early that night, but he could not sleep, because he
was thinking of that little white dog, and wishing he had not thrown
him into the river; so at last he got up and went to the willow-tree. He
looked up through the branches and saw the moon shining down at him, and
it seemed so large and so close that he thought if he were only on the
highest part of the tree he could touch it with his hand. While he was
looking he thought of a book his mother had, which told him that all
animals went up into the moon after they left the earth.

“I wonder,” said Benjy, “if that dog we killed last night is really up
there.”

The Man in the Moon looked down on him just then, and, to his surprise,
said:&&

“This is Beastland. Won't you come up and see if the dog is here? Can
you climb?”

“I guess I can,” said Benjy, and he climbed up first on one branch, then
up higher on to another, till he stood on the very top, and all he could
see about him was a shining white light.

“Walk right in,” said the Man in the Moon. “Put out your feet,--don't be
afraid!” So Benjy stepped into the moon and found himself in Beastland.

Oh! it was such a funny place, and yet it was very beautiful. There were
many more beasts there than in a menagerie, and they were so polite to
each other, too, and so merry and kind to Benjy, that it made him feel
quite at home.

A nice old spider was anxious to teach him how to make a web. So he said
to Benjy:&&

“When you are ready, look around and find a spot where you can tie your
first line; then you have a ball of thread inside of you, of course.”

“I can't say that I have,” said Benjy, “but I have a good deal of string
in my pocket.”

“Oh, well!” said the spider, “that is all right; whether it's in your
pocket or your stomach it is all the same.”

Just as the spider was giving Benjy his lesson, one animal whispered to
another, and that one to another, who and what Benjy was. Dear me! in a
minute the beasts all changed their way of treating him. They called him
BOY! and up there that meant something not at all nice. Then they took
him to the Lion, the king of all the beasts, and asked him what should
be done with the Boy.

The Lion said: “If you want me to have anything to do with this trouble,
you must mind me. First, however, we will hear what Benjy has to say for
himself.”

They all placed themselves in a circle, the Lion on a high chair,
(because, you know, he was going to be judge, and all judges sit in big
chairs,) and Benjy sat in the middle of the circle.

“Now, what has the Boy done?” asked the Lion.

“He stones and drowns dogs, and he hurts and kills cats,” shouted the
beasts all together.

“Mr. Rough kills the cats,” said Benjy, because he was frightened.

“Very well,” said the Lion, “we will send some one down for Mr. Rough.”

So they all waited, and in a little while they heard the jingling of Mr.
Rough's collar, and he walked into the circle with his little short tail
standing right up.

“Mr. Rough,” said the Lion, “Benjy says it is you, and not he, who tease
and kill the cats.”

“Well,” said Mr. Rough, jumping about in an angry way, “am I to blame?
BOUF, BOUF, who taught me to do it? BOUF, BOUF, it was that Boy over
there. BOUF-BOUF!”

Then Mr. Rough told them that Benjy had made him tease and worry the
cats and dogs so often that he had quite learned to like it. All the
beasts were very angry at this, and said that Benjy must be punished.

The Lion said that he did not know just then what was best to be done
with Benjy, so he asked the beasts if they would wait till he had walked
around and thought about it. They said yes, so he walked around the
circle seven times, lashing his tail in the grandest way; then he took
his seat again and said:&&

“Gentle beasts, birds and fishes, you have all heard what this Boy has
done, and you would like him to be treated as he has treated you. We
will not abuse Benjy, but I do not think he is good enough to stay with
us. We will tie a tin-kettle to him and chase him from Beastland, and
Mr. Rough shall be our leader.”

This was no sooner said than done. The Lion gave one dreadful roar as a
signal for the animals to begin the chase.

With the tin-kettle fastened to him and hurting him at every step, and
with Mr. Rough at his very heels, Benjy was run out of Beastland. When
he got to the edge of the moon he jumped off, Mr. Rough after him.

Down, down, they went, oh! so fast and so far! Benjy screaming all the
way and Mr. Rough's collar jingling. They came to the river, and making
all the noise they could, in they fell. As Benjy sank he thought of all
the unkind things he had done. He came to the top, but sank again, and
sinking, thought of his papa and mamma and his little sisters, and of
his nice little bed, and of the prayers his dear mamma used to hear him
say. He rose for the last time, and saw Nox standing on the bank, and
thought, “Now he has come to do something to me because I have so often
hurt him.” Down, down he went, as a lark flew up in the summer sky. The
bird was almost out of sight when a soft black nose and great brown eyes
came close to his face, and a kind, gentle mouth took hold of him, and
paddling and swimming as hard as he could, Nox carried Benjy to the
shore and laid him under the willow-tree. There Benjy's papa found him,
and took him home, where he was sick for a long, long time. When he got
a little better he used to tell people of his visit to Beastland, but
they always said it was only a dream he had during the fever.

In the long weeks of his sickness he grew much kinder and sweeter. But
something happened when he was getting well which softened his little
heart once and forever.

While he was sick, Mr. Rough was given to one of the servants to be
cared for and fed well, but he did not treat him kindly, and besides,
the dog wanted his little master; he wanted to see him, but no one would
let him; so poor faithful Mr. Rough got thinner and weaker every day,
till at last he would not eat anything nor even go out for a little
walk.

One day the barn door was open and Mr. Rough thought of Benjy and crept
into the house. When he got into the front hall he smelled Benjy and ran
into the parlor; and when he got into the parlor he saw Benjy, who had
heard the jingle of his collar and who stood up and held out his arms
for him. Mr. Rough jumped into them, and then fell dead at his master's
feet.

Yes, dear children, Mr. Rough died of joy at seeing Benjy again. Benjy
felt very sorry for him, and it kept him from growing well for a long
time, but it did him good in other ways, for as the tears rolled down
his cheeks on to Mr. Bough's poor little scratched face, he felt as if
he never could hurt or be unkind to any animal again.




THE PORCELAIN STOVE.

Adapted From Ouida.

“The story-teller must take life into himself in its wholeness, must let
it live and work whole and free within him. He must give it out free
and unabbreviated, and yet STAND ABOVE THE LIFE which actually
is.”--Froebel.


In a little brown house, far, far away in Germany, there lived a father
and his children. There were ever so many of them,--let me see,--Hilda,
the dear eldest sister, and Hans, the big, strong brother; then Karl and
August, and the baby Marta. Just enough for the fingers of one hand. How
many is that? But it is Karl that I am going to tell you about. He was
nine years old, a rosy little fellow, with big bright eyes and a curly
head as brown as a ripe nut. The dear mother was dead, and the father
was very poor, so that Karl and his brothers and sisters sometimes knew
what it was to be hungry; but they were happy, for they loved each other
very dearly, and ate their brown bread and milk without wishing it were
something nicer. One afternoon Karl had been sent on a long journey. It
was winter time, and he had to run fast over the frozen fields of white
snow. The night was coming on, and he was hurrying home with a great jug
of milk, feeling cold and tired. The mountains looked high and white
and still in the cold moonlight, and the stars seemed to say, when
they twinkled, “Hurry, Karl! the children are hungry.” At last he saw
a little brown cottage, with a snow-laden roof and a shining window,
through which he could see the bright firelight dancing merrily,--for
Hilda never closed the shutters till all the boys were safely inside the
house. When he saw the dear home-light he ran as fast as his feet could
carry him, burst in at the low front door, kissed Hilda, and shouted:&&

“Oh! dear, dear Hirschvogel! I am so glad to get back to you again; you
are every bit as good as the summer time.”

Now, Hirschvogel was not one of the family, as you might think, nor
even a splendid dog, nor a pony, but it was a large, beautiful porcelain
stove, so tall that it quite touched the ceiling. It stood at the end of
the room, shining with all the hues of a peacock's tail, bright and warm
and beautiful; its great golden feet were shaped like the claws of a
lion, and there was a golden crown on the very top of all. You never
have seen a stove like it, for it was white where our stoves are black,
and it had flowers and birds and beautiful ladies and grand gentlemen
painted all over it, and everywhere it was brilliant with gold and
bright colors. It was a very old stove, for sixty years before, Karl's
grandfather had dug it up out of some broken-down buildings where he was
working, and, finding it strong and whole, had taken it home; and ever
since then it had stood in the big room, warming the children, who
tumbled like little flowers around its shining feet. The grandfather
did not know it, but it was a wonderful stove, for it had been made by a
great potter named Hirschvogel.

A potter, you know, children, is a man who makes all sorts of things,
dishes and tiles and vases, out of china and porcelain and clay. So the
family had always called the stove Hirschvogel, after the potter, just
as if it were alive.

To the children the stove was very dear indeed. In summer they laid a
mat of fresh moss all around it, and dressed it up with green boughs and
beautiful wild flowers. In winter, scampering home from school over the
ice and snow, they were always happy, knowing that they would soon be
cracking nuts or roasting chestnuts in the heat and light of the dear
old stove. All the children loved it, but Karl even more than the rest,
and he used to say to himself, “When I grow up I will make just such
things too, and then I will set Hirschvogel up in a beautiful room that
I will build myself. That's what I will do when I'm a man.”

After Karl had eaten his supper, this cold night, he lay down on the
floor by the stove, the children all around him, on the big wolf-skin
rug. With some sticks of charcoal he was drawing pictures for them of
what he had seen all day. When the children had looked enough at one
picture, he would sweep it out with his elbow and make another--faces,
and dogs' heads, and men on sleds, and old women in their furs, and
pine-trees, and all sorts of animals. When they had been playing in this
way for some time, Hilda, the eldest sister, said:&&

“It is time for you all to go to bed, children. Father is very late
to-night; you must not sit up for him.”

“Oh, just five minutes more, dear Hilda,” they begged. “Hirschvogel is
so warm; the beds are never so warm as he is.”

In the midst of their chatter and laughter the door opened, and in blew
the cold wind and snow from outside. Their father had come home. He
seemed very tired, and came slowly to his chair. At last he said, “Take
the children to bed, daughter.”

Karl stayed, curled up before the stove. When Hilda came back, the
father said sadly:

“Hilda, I have sold Hirschvogel! I have sold it to a traveling peddler,
for I need money very much; the winter is so cold and the children are
so hungry. The man will take it away to-morrow.”

Hilda gave a cry. “Oh, father! the children, in the middle of winter!”
 and she turned as white as the snow outside.

Karl lay half blind with sleep, staring at his father. “It can't be
true, it can't be true!” he cried. “You are making fun, father.” It
seemed to him that the skies must fall if Hirschvogel were taken away.

“Yes,” said the father, “you will find it true enough. The peddler has
paid half the money to-night, and will pay me the other half to-morrow
when he packs up the stove and takes it away.”

“Oh, father! dear father!” cried poor little Karl, “you cannot mean what
you say. Send our stove away? We shall all die in the dark and cold.
Listen! I will go and try to get work to-morrow. I will ask them to let
me cut ice or make the paths through the snow. There must be something I
can do, and I will beg the people we owe money to, to wait. They are all
neighbors; they will be patient. But sell Hirschvogel! Oh, never, never,
never! Give the money back to the man.”

The father was so sorry for his little boy that he could not speak. He
looked sadly at him; then took the lamp that stood on the table, and
left the room.

Hilda knelt down and tried to comfort Karl, but he was too unhappy to
listen. “I shall stay here,” was all he said, and he lay there all the
night long. The lamp went out; the rats came and ran across the room;
the room grew colder and colder. Karl did not move, but lay with his
face down on the floor by the lovely rainbow-colored stove. When it grew
light, his sister came down with a lamp in her hand to begin her morning
work. She crept up to him, and laid her cheek on his softly, and said:&&

“Dear Karl, you must be frozen. Karl! do look up; do speak.”

“Ah!” said poor Karl, “it will never be warm again.”

Soon after some one knocked at the door. A strange voice called through
the keyhole,&&

“Let me in! quick! there is no time to lose. More snow like this and the
roads will all be blocked. Let me in! Do you hear? I am come to take the
great stove.”

Hilda unfastened the door. The man came in at once, and began to wrap
the stove in a great many wrappings, and carried it out into the snow,
where an ox-cart stood in waiting. In another moment it was gone; gone
forever!

Karl leaned against the wall, his tears falling like rain down his pale
cheeks.

An old neighbor came by just then, and, seeing the boy, said to him:
“Child, is it true your father is selling that big painted stove?”

Karl nodded his head, and began to sob again. “I love it! I love it!” he
said.

“Well, if I were you I would do better than cry. I would go after it
when I grew bigger,” said the neighbor, trying to cheer him up a little.
“Don't cry so loud; you will see your stove again some day,” and the old
man went away, leaving a new idea in Karl's head.

“Go after it,” the old man had said. Karl thought, “Why not go with it?”
 He loved it better than anything else in the world, even better than
Hilda. He ran off quickly after the cart which was carrying the dear
Hirschvogel to the station. How he managed it he never knew very well
himself, but it was certain that when the freight train moved away from
the station Karl was hidden behind the stove. It was very dark, but he
wasn't frightened. He was close beside Hirschvogel, but he wanted to be
closer still; he meant to get inside the stove. He set to work like a
little mouse to make a hole in the straw and hay. He gnawed and nibbled,
and pushed and pulled, making a hole where he guessed that the door
might be. At last he found it; he slipped through it, as he had so often
done at home for fun, and curled himself up. He drew the hay and straw
together carefully, and fixed the ropes, so that no one could have
dreamed that a little mouse had been at them. Safe inside his dear
Hirschvogel, he went as fast asleep as if he were in his own little bed
at home. The train rumbled on in its heavy, slow way, and Karl slept
soundly for a long time. When he awoke the darkness frightened him, but
he felt the cold sides of Hirschvogel, and said softly, “Take care of
me, dear Hirschvogel, oh, please take care of me!”

Every time the train stopped, and he heard the banging, stamping, and
shouting, his heart seemed to jump up into his mouth. When the people
came to lift the stove out, would they find him? and if they did find
him, would they kill him? The thought, too, of Hilda, kept tugging
at his heart now and then, but he said to himself, “If I can take
Hirschvogel back to her, how pleased she will be, and how she will clap
her hands!” He was not at all selfish in his love for Hirschvogel; he
wanted it for them at home quite as much as for himself. That was what
he kept thinking of all the way in the darkness and stillness which
lasted so long. At last the train stopped, and awoke him from a half
sleep. Karl felt the stove lifted by some men, who carried it to a cart,
and then they started again on the journey, up hill and down, for what
seemed miles and miles. Where they were going Karl had no idea. Finally
the cart stopped; then it seemed as though they were carrying the stove
up some stairs. The men rested sometimes, and then moved on again,
and their feet went so softly he thought they must be walking on thick
carpets. By and by the stove was set down again, happily for Karl, for
he felt as though he should scream, or do something to make known that
he was there. Then the wrappings were taken off, and he heard a voice
say, “What a beautiful, beautiful stove!”

{Illustration: “Oh let me stay please let me stay”}

Next some one turned the round handle of the brass door, and poor little
Karl's heart stood still.

“What is this?” said the man. “A live child!”

Then Karl sprang out of the stove and fell at the feet of the man who
had spoken.

“Oh, let me stay, please let me stay!” he said. “I have come all the way
with my darling Hirschvogel!”

The man answered kindly, “Poor little child! tell me how you came to
hide in the stove. Do not be afraid. I am the king.”

Karl was too much in earnest to be afraid; he was so glad, so glad it
was the king, for kings must be always kind, he thought.

“Oh, dear king!” he said with a trembling voice, “Hirschvogel was ours,
and we have loved it all our lives, and father sold it, and when I saw
that it really did go from us I said to myself that I would go with it;
and I do beg you to let me live with it, and I will go out every morning
and cut wood for it and for all your other stoves, if only you will let
me stay beside it. No one has ever fed it with wood but me since I grew
big enough, and it loves me; it does indeed!” And then he lifted up
his little pale face to the young king, who saw that great tears were
running down his cheeks.

“Can't I stay with Hirschvogel?” he pleaded.

“Wait a little,” said the king. “What do you want to be when you are a
man? Do you want to be a wood-chopper?”

“I want to be a painter,” cried Karl. “I want to be what Hirschvogel
was. I mean the potter that made my Hirschvogel.”

“I understand,” answered the king, and he looked down at the child, and
smiled. “Get up, my little man,” he said in a kind voice; “I will let
you stay with your Hirschvogel. You shall stay here, and you shall be
taught to be a painter, but you must grow up very good, and when you are
twenty-one years old, if you have done well, then I will give you back
your beautiful stove.” Then he smiled again and stretched out his hand.
Karl threw his two arms about the king's knees and kissed his feet, and
then all at once he was so tired and so glad and hungry and happy, that
he fainted quite away on the floor.

Then the king had a letter written to Karl's father, telling him that
Karl had drawn him some beautiful charcoal pictures, and that he liked
them so much he was going to take care of him until he was old enough to
paint wonderful stoves like Hirschvogel. And he did take care of him for
a long time, and when Karl grew older, he often went for a few days to
his old home, where his father still lives.

In the little brown house stands Hirschvogel, tall and splendid, with
its peacock colors as beautiful as ever,--the king's present to Hilda;
and Karl never goes home without going into the great church and giving
his thanks to God, who blessed his strange winter's journey in the great
porcelain stove.




THE BABES IN THE WOOD

“Nature and life speak very early to man.”--FROEBEL.


A great many years ago three little girls lived in an old-fashioned
house in the East. They had a very lovely home, and a kind father and
mother, who tried to make them happy. All through the summer they used
to roam over the hills and fields, catching butterflies, watching
the birds and bees at work, and studying the flowers and trees in the
beautiful meadows and woods. Then when winter came, and the days grew
cold, they went to school; and in the evening, when the fire was burning
brightly, they read and studied in books about all they had seen in the
summer.

Besides all these lovely things, and perhaps best of all, they had a
very large yard to play in, so large that it took up a whole block, and
seemed like a little farm in the middle of the town. There was a lovely
lawn and flower beds; a vegetable garden, barnyard and stable; and an
orchard where all kinds of fruit trees grew, apple, peach, pear, and
many others. A cow lived down in the meadows of clover, and old Bob,
the horse, was sometimes turned out to pasture there. But nicest of
all, there was the wood yard. You must remember that every winter, where
these little girls lived, the snow fell, and lay so deep on the roads
that no one could bring in wood from the forest, and without it all the
people would have frozen in their cold homes.

So every September the gates were thrown wide open, and into the yard
load after load of wood was drawn and piled up under the shed. Then,
when it was too cold to play out on the hills, the little girls used to
have a fine time in the yard, piling up the wood, making beds, tables,
chairs, and stoves of the sticks that had once been the waving branches
and strong, sturdy trunks of trees.

Toward spring they often found a strange yellow powder on the ground
under the wood. At first they played with it, calling it flour, and made
pies and cakes out of it. But at last they began to wonder where the
flour came from, and after watching and studying a long time this is
what they found out.

But first I must tell you that all the time the three little girls were
happy and busy in this beautiful place, they were not the only family
there. There were the robins' children, whose mammas were trying to make
them good and happy too. There were the beetles' children, the ants'
children, and families of toads, butterflies, and spiders. And while
the three little girls were playing with the sticks of wood, there lay,
tucked snugly away inside of them, many families of children, warm and
safe in their wooden home.

Now I want the smallest of you little children to hold up her hand. How
small it is compared with your body! Now let us see the little finger
on that hand,--it is smaller still; and now look at the nail on
that finger: the brothers and sisters of one of these families were
altogether about as large as that tiny nail. Their mamma was a wasp,
with light, gauzy wings and a strong body with a long sting on the end
of it, about the length of a needle. With this little sting or saw, as
it really was, she had bored many holes in the wood when it was still
a green tree, and at the bottom of each hole she had laid a tiny egg.
There it lay for a long time, all white and still, until one day it
cracked open, and out came a funny little white grub, with six short
white feet, and black jaws very strong and large for such a tiny thing.
This little creature had never had anything to eat, and as it was very
hungry indeed, it fell to eating--what do you think? Wood--its own
house! You wouldn't like a stick of wood for your breakfast, I know, but
the wasp-mamma knew what her little grub-children would want, so she
put them in just the right place; for they couldn't have eaten anything
else. And the hungry little grubs ate and ate and ate as long as they
could, pushing away from the hole the part they did not want, and this
fell upon the ground as the strange yellow powder the children found in
the wood-yard, every spring.

And so, while the little girls were placing away in the sunshine the
little grubs were eating away in the wood, until at last, one day, they
grew satisfied, and one after another went to sleep. There they lay in
their dark homes, fast asleep, through long weeks, while the snow was
melting and the grass coming up, and the birds and bees beginning their
summer work again; until one day these lazy little creatures, that had
never done anything in their lives but eat and sleep, woke up and began
to stretch themselves. But what had happened to them? Instead of the
soft white bodies they had gone to sleep with, they now had black ones
and four gauzy wings; while six slender legs had taken the place of the
six short ones. There were still the strong black jaws to do all needful
work with, and in addition, delicate mouth-parts, for their food was now
to be the honey from flowers. In fact, they looked and were just like
their mamma, the gauzy wasp. One after another they crept to the end of
the passage that led from their dark homes to the bright world without.
They stood one minute at the little dark hole, and then, spreading their
wings, flitted out into the beautiful world of sunshine and flowers.




THE STORY OF CHRISTMAS,

“A great spiritual efficiency lies in story-telling.”--FROEBEL.


Christmas Day, you knew, dear children, is Christ's day, Christ's
birthday, and I want to tell you why we love it so much, and why we try
to make every one happy when it comes each year.

A long, long time ago--more than eighteen hundred years--the baby Christ
was born on Christmas Day: a baby so wonderful and so beautiful, who
grew up to be a man so wise, so good, so patient and sweet, that, every
year, the people who know about him love him better and better, and are
more and more glad when his birthday comes again. You see that he must
have been very good and wonderful; for people have always remembered his
birthday, and kept it lovingly for eighteen hundred years.

He was born, long years ago, in a land far, far away across the seas.

Before the baby Christ was born, Mary, his mother, had to make a long
journey with her husband, Joseph. They made this journey to be taxed
or counted; for in those days this could not be done in the town where
people happened to live, but they must be numbered in the place where
they were born.

In that far-off time, the only way of traveling was on a horse, or a
camel, or a good, patient donkey. Camels and horses cost a great deal
of money, and Mary was very poor; so she rode on a quiet, safe donkey,
while Joseph walked by her side, leading him and leaning on his stick.
Mary was very young, and beautiful, I think, but Joseph was a great deal
older than she.

People dress nowadays, in those distant countries, just as they did so
many years ago, so we know that Mary must have worn a long, thick dress,
falling all about her in heavy folds, and that she had a soft white veil
over her head and neck, and across her face. Mary lived in Nazareth, and
the journey they were making was to Bethlehem, many miles away.

They were a long time traveling, I am sure; for donkeys are slow, though
they are so careful, and Mary must have been very tired before they came
to the end of their journey.

They had traveled all day, and it was almost dark when they came near to
Bethlehem, to the town where the baby Christ was to be born. There was
the place they were to stay,--a kind of inn, or lodging-house, but not
at all like those you know about.

They have them to-day in that far-off country, just as they built them
so many years ago.

It was a low, flat-roofed, stone building, with no window and only one
large door. There were no nicely furnished bedrooms inside, and no soft
white beds for the tired travelers; there were only little places built
into the stones of the wall, something like the berths on steamboats
nowadays, and each traveler brought his own bedding. No pretty garden
was in front of the inn, for the road ran close to the very door, so
that its dust lay upon the doorsill. All around the house, to a high,
rocky hill at the back, a heavy stone fence was built, so that the
people and the animals inside might be kept safe.

Mary and Joseph could not get very near the inn; for the whole road in
front was filled with camels and donkeys and sheep and cows, while a
great many men were going to and fro, taking care of the animals. Some
of these people had come to Bethlehem to pay their taxes, as Mary and
Joseph had done, and others were staying for the night, on their way to
Jerusalem, a large city a little further on.

The yard was filled, too, with camels and sheep; and men were lying on
the ground beside them, resting, and watching, and keeping them safe.
The inn was so full and the yard was so full of people, that there was
no room for anybody else, and the keeper had to take Joseph and Mary
through the house and back to the high hill, where they found another
place that was used for a stable. This had only a door and a front, and
deep caves were behind, stretching far into the rocks.

This was the spot where Christ was born. Think how poor a place!--but
Mary was glad to be there, after all; and when the Christ-child came,
he was like other babies, and had so lately come from heaven that he was
happy everywhere.

There were mangers all around the cave, where the cattle and sheep were
fed, and great heaps of hay and straw were lying on the floor. Then,
I think, there were brown-eyed cows and oxen there, and quiet, woolly
sheep, and perhaps even some dogs that had come in to take care of the
sheep.

And there in the cave, by and by, the wonderful baby came, and they
wrapped him up and laid him in a manger.

All the stars in the sky shone brightly that night, for they knew the
Christ-child was born, and the angels in heaven sang together for joy.
The angels knew about the lovely child, and were glad that he had come
to help the people on earth to be good.

There lay the beautiful baby, with a manger for his bed, and oxen and
sheep all sleeping quietly round him. His mother watched him and loved
him, and by and by many people came to see him, for they had heard that
a wonderful child was to be born in Bethlehem. All the people in the inn
visited him, and even the shepherds left their flocks in the fields and
sought the child and his mother.

But the baby was very tiny, and could not talk any more than any other
tiny child, so he lay in his mother's lap, or in the manger, and only
looked at the people. So after they had seen him and loved him, they
went away again.

After a time, when the baby had grown larger, Mary took him back to
Nazareth, and there he lived and grew up.

And he grew to be such a sweet, wise, loving boy, such a tender, helpful
man, and he said so many good and beautiful things, that every one loved
him who knew him. Many of the things he said are in the Bible, you know,
and a great many beautiful stories of the things he used to do while he
was on earth.

He loved little children like you very much, and often used to take them
up in his arms and talk to them.

And this is the reason we love Christmas Day so much, and try to make
everybody happy when it comes around each year. This is the reason:
because Christ, who was born on Christmas Day, has helped us all to be
good so many, many times, and because he was the best Christmas present
the great world ever had!




THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY.

“The story brings forward other people, other relations, other times and
places, other and even quite different forms; notwithstanding this fact,
the auditor seeks his image there.”--FROEBEL.


Nearly three hundred years ago, a great many of the people in England
were very unhappy because their king would not let them pray to God as
they liked. The king said they must use the same prayers that he did;
and if they would not do this, they were often thrown into prison, or
perhaps driven away from home.

“Let us go away from this country,” said the unhappy Englishmen to
each other; and so they left their homes, and went far off to a
country called Holland. It was about this time that they began to call
themselves “Pilgrims.” Pilgrims, you know, are people who are always
traveling to find something they love, or to find a land where they can
be happier; and these English men and women were journeying, they said,
“from place to place, toward heaven, their dearest country.”

In Holland, the Pilgrims were quiet and happy for a while, but they were
very poor; and when the children began to grow up, they were not like
English children, but talked Dutch, like the little ones of Holland, and
some grew naughty and did not want to go to church any more.

“This will never do,” said the Pilgrim fathers and mothers; so after
much talking and thinking and writing they made up their minds to come
here to America. They hired two vessels, called the Mayflower and the
Speedwell, to take them across the sea; but the Speedwell was not a
strong ship, and the captain had to take her home again before she had
gone very far.

The Mayflower went back, too. Part of the Speedwell's passengers were
given to her, and then she started alone across the great ocean.

There were one hundred people on board,--mothers and fathers, brothers
and sisters and little children. They were very crowded; it was cold and
uncomfortable; the sea was rough, and pitched the Mayflower about, and
they were two months sailing over the water.

The children cried many times on the journey, and wished they had never
come on the tiresome ship that rocked them so hard, and would not let
them keep still a minute.

But they had one pretty plaything to amuse them, for in the middle of
the great ocean a Pilgrim baby was born, and they called him “Oceanus,”
 for his birthplace. When the children grew so tired that they were cross
and fretful, Oceanus' mother let them come and play with him, and that
always brought smiles and happy faces back again.

At last the Mayflower came in sight of land; but if the children had
been thinking of grass and flowers and birds, they must have been
very much disappointed, for the month was cold November, and there was
nothing to be seen but rocks and sand and hard bare ground.

Some of the Pilgrim fathers, with brave Captain Myles Standish at
their head, went on shore to see if they could find any houses or white
people. But they only saw some wild Indians, who ran away from them, and
found some Indian huts and some corn buried in holes in the ground. They
went to and fro from the ship three times, till by and by they found
a pretty place to live, where there were “fields and little running
brooks.”

Then at last all the tired Pilgrims landed from the ship on a spot now
called Plymouth Rock, and the first house was begun on Christmas Day.
But when I tell you how sick they were and how much they suffered that
first winter, you will be very sad and sorry for them. The weather was
cold, the snow fell fast and thick, the wind was icy, and the Pilgrim
fathers had no one to help them cut down the trees and build their
church and their houses.

The Pilgrim mothers helped all they could; but they were tired with the
long journey, and cold, and hungry too, for no one had the right kind of
food to eat, nor even enough of it.

So first one was taken sick, and then another, till half of them were in
bed at the same time, Brave Myles Standish and the other soldiers nursed
them as well as they knew how; but before spring came half of the people
died and had gone at last to “heaven, their dearest country.”

But by and by the sun shone more brightly, the snow melted, the leaves
began to grow, and sweet spring had come again.

Some friendly Indians had visited the Pilgrims during the winter, and
Captain Myles Standish, with several of his men, had returned the visit.

One of the kind Indians was called Squanto, and he came to stay with the
Pilgrims, and showed them how to plant their corn, and their pease and
wheat and barley.

When the summer came and the days were long and bright, the Pilgrim
children were very happy, and they thought Plymouth a lovely place
indeed. All kinds of beautiful wild flowers grew at their doors, there
were hundreds of birds and butterflies, and the great pine woods were
always cool and shady when the sun was too bright.

When it was autumn the fathers gathered the barley and wheat and corn
that they had planted, and found that it had grown so well that they
would have quite enough for the long winter that was coming.

“Let us thank God for it all,” they said. “It is He who has made the sun
shine and the rain fall and the corn grow.” So they thanked God in their
homes and in their little church; the fathers and the mothers and the
children thanked Him.

“Then,” said the Pilgrim mothers, “let us have a great Thanksgiving
party, and invite the friendly Indians, and all rejoice together.”

So they had the first Thanksgiving party, and a grand one it was! Four
men went out shooting one whole day, and brought back so many wild ducks
and geese and great wild turkeys that there was enough for almost a
week. There was deer meat also, of course, for there were plenty of fine
deer in the forest. Then the Pilgrim mothers made the corn and wheat
into bread and cakes, and they had fish and clams from the sea besides.

The friendly Indians all came with their chief Massasoit. Every one came
that was invited, and more, I dare say, for there were ninety of them
altogether.

They brought five deer with them, that they gave to the Pilgrims; and
they must have liked the party very much, for they stayed three days.

Kind as the Indians were, you would have been very much frightened if
you had seen them; and the baby Oceanus, who was a year old then, began
to cry at first whenever they came near him.

They were dressed in deerskins, and some of them had the furry coat of
a wild cat hanging on their arms. Their long black hair fell loose on
their shoulders, and was trimmed with feathers or fox-tails. They
had their faces painted in all kinds of strange ways, some with black
stripes as broad as your finger all up and down them. But whatever
they wore, it was their very best, and they had put it on for the
Thanksgiving party.

Each meal, before they ate anything, the Pilgrims and the Indians
thanked God together for all his goodness. The Indians sang and danced
in the evenings, and every day they ran races and played all kinds of
games with the children.

Then sometimes the Pilgrims with their guns, and the Indians with their
bows and arrows, would see who could shoot farthest and best. So they
were glad and merry and thankful for three whole days.

The Pilgrim mothers and fathers had been sick and sad many times since
they landed from the Mayflower; they had worked very hard, often had not
had enough to eat, and were mournful indeed when their friends died and
left them. But now they tried to forget all this, and think only of how
good God had been to them; and so they all were happy together at the
first Thanksgiving party.

All this happened nearly three hundred years ago, and ever since that
time Thanksgiving has been kept in our country.

Every year our fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers have
“rejoiced together” like the Pilgrims, and have had something to be
thankful for each time.

Every year some father has told the story of the brave Pilgrims to his
little sons and daughters, and has taught them to be very glad and proud
that the Mayflower came sailing to our country so many years ago.




LITTLE GEORGE WASHINGTON, PART I.


“The child takes each story as a conquest, grasps each as a treasure,
and inserts into his own life, for his own advancement and instruction,
what each story teaches and shows.”--Froebel.


Every one of my little children has seen a picture of George Washington,
I am sure.

Perhaps you may remember his likeness on a prancing white horse, holding
his cocked hat in his hand, and bowing low to the people, or his picture
as a general at the head of his armies, with a sword by his side and
high boots reaching to the knee; sometimes you have seen him in a boat
crossing the Delaware River, wrapped in his heavy soldier's cloak; and
again as a President, with powdered hair, lace ruffles, and velvet coat.

Of course all these are pictures of a strong, handsome, grown-up man,
and I suppose you never happened to think that George Washington was
once a little boy.

But ever so long ago he was as small as you are now, and I am going to
tell you about his father and mother, his home and his little-boy days.

He was born one hundred and sixty years ago in Virginia, near a great
river called the Potomac. His father's name was Augustine, his mother's
Mary, and he had several brothers and a little sister.

They all lived in the country on a farm, or a plantation, as they
call it in Virginia. The Washington house stood in the middle of green
tobacco fields and flowery meadows, and there were so many barns and
storehouses and sheds round about it that they made quite a village
of themselves. The nearest neighbors lived miles away; there were no
railroads nor stages, and if you wanted to travel, you must ride on
horseback through the thick woods, or you might sail in little boats up
and down the rivers.

City boys and girls might think, perhaps, that little George Washington
was very lonely on the great plantation, with no neighbor-boys to play
with; but you must remember that the horses and cattle and sheep and
dogs on a farm make the dearest of playmates, and that there are all
kinds of pleasant things to do in the country that city boys know
nothing about.

Little George played out of doors all the time and grew very strong. He
went fishing and swimming in the great river, he ran races and jumped
fences with his brothers and the dogs, he threw stones across the
brooks, and when he grew a larger boy he even learned to shoot.

He had a pretty pony, too, named “Hero,” that he loved very much, and
that he used to ride all about the plantation.

Some of the letters have been kept that he wrote when he was a little
boy, and he talks in them about his pony, and his books with pictures of
elephants, and the new top he is going to have soon.

Think of that great General Washington on a white horse once playing
with a little humming top like yours!

Many things are told about Washington when he was little; but he lived
so long ago that we cannot tell very well whether they ever happened
or not. One story is that his father took him out into the garden on a
spring morning, and drew the letters of his name with a cane in the soft
earth. Then he filled the letters with seed, and told little George to
wait a week or two and see what would happen. You can all guess what did
happen, and can think how pleased the little boy was when he found his
name all growing in fresh green leaves.

Then another story, I'm sure you've all heard, is about the cherry-tree
and the hatchet.

Little George's father gave him one day, so they say, a nice, bright,
sharp little hatchet. Of course he went around the barns and the sheds,
trying everything and seeing how well he could cut, and at last he went
into the orchard. There he saw a young cherry-tree, as straight as
a soldier, with the most beautiful, smooth, shining bark, waving its
boughs in a very provoking way, as if to say, “You can't cut me down,
and you needn't try.”

Little George did try and he did cut it down, and then was very sorry,
for he found it was not so easy to set it up again.

{Illustration: The letters of his name . . . the soft earth}

His father was angry, of course, for he lived in a new country, and
three thousand miles from any place where he could get good fruit trees;
but when the little boy told the truth about it, his father said he
would rather lose a thousand cherry-trees than have his son tell a lie.

Now perhaps this never happened; but if George Washington ever did cut
down a cherry-tree, you may be sure he told the truth about it.

I think, though he grew to be such a wise, wonderful man, that he must
have been just a bright, happy boy like you, when he was little.

But everybody knows three things about him,--that he always told the
truth, that he never was afraid of anything, and that he always loved
and minded his mother.

When little George was eleven years old, his good father died, and
his poor mother was left alone to take care of her boys and her great
plantation. What a busy mother she was! She mended and sewed, she taught
some of her children, she took care of the sick people, she spun wool
and knitted stockings and gloves; but every day she found time to gather
her children around her and read good books to them, and talk to them
about being good children.

So riding his pony, and helping his mother, and learning his lessons,
George grew to be a tall boy.

When he was fourteen years old, he made up his mind that he would like
to be a sailor, and travel far away over the blue water in a great ship.
His elder brother said that he might do so. The right ship was found;
his clothes were packed and carried on board, when all at once his
mother said he must not go. She had thought about it; he was too young
to go away, and she wanted her boy to stay with her.

Of course George was greatly disappointed, but he stayed at home, and
worked and studied hard. He wanted very much to learn how to earn money
and help his mother, and so he studied to be a surveyor.

Surveyors measure the land, you know. They measure people's gardens and
house-lots and farms, and can tell just where to put the fences, and
how much land belongs to you and how much to me, so that we need never
quarrel about it.

To be a good surveyor you have to be very careful indeed, and make no
mistakes; and George Washington was careful and always tried to do his
best, so that his surveys were the finest that could be made.

When he was only sixteen, he went off into the great forest, where no
one lived but the Indians, to measure some land for a friend of his.
The weather was cold; he slept in a tent at night, or out of doors, on a
bearskin by the fire, and he had to work very hard. He met a great many
Indians, and learned to know their ways in fighting and how to manage
them.

Three years he worked hard at surveying, and at last he was a grown-up
man!

He was tall and splendid then, over six feet high, and as straight as
an Indian, with a rosy face and bright blue eyes. He had large hands
and fingers, and was wonderfully strong. People say that his great tent,
which it took three men to carry, Washington could lift with one hand
and throw into the wagon.

He was very brave, too, you remember. He could shoot well, and almost
never missed his aim; he was used to walking many miles when he was
surveying, and he could ride any horse he liked, no matter how wild and
fierce.

So you see, when a man is strong, when he can shoot well, and walk and
ride great distances, when he is never afraid of anything, that is just
the man for a soldier; and I will tell you soon how George Washington
came to be a great soldier.




GREAT GEORGE WASHINGTON, PART II.


“The good story-teller effects much; he has an ennobling effect upon
children,--so much the more ennobling that he does not appear to intend
it,”--FROEBEL.


All this time while George Washington had been growing up,--first a
little boy, then a larger boy, and then a young surveyor,--all this time
the French and English and Indians were unhappy and uncomfortable in the
country north of Virginia. The French wanted all the land, so did the
English, and the Indians saw that there would be no room for them,
whichever had it, so they all began to trouble each other and to quarrel
and fight.

These troubles grew so bad at last that the Virginians began to be
afraid of the French and Indians, and thought they must have some
soldiers of their own ready to fight.

George Washington was only nineteen then, but everybody knew he was wise
and brave, so they chose him to teach the soldiers near his home how to
march and to fight.

Then the king and the people of England grew very uneasy at all this
quarreling, and they sent over soldiers and cannon and powder, and
commenced to get ready to fight in earnest. Washington was made a major,
and he had to go a thousand miles, in the middle of winter, into the
Indian and French country, to see the chiefs and the soldiers, and find
out about the troubles.

When he came back again, all the people were so pleased with his courage
and with the wise way in which he had behaved, that they made him
lieutenant-colonel.

Then began a long war between the French and the English, which lasted
seven years. Washington fought through all of it, and was made a
colonel, and by and by commander of all the soldiers in Virginia. He
built forts and roads, he gained and lost battles, he fought the Indians
and the French; and by all this trouble and hard work he learned to be a
great soldier.

In many of the battles of this war, Washington and the Virginians did
not wear a uniform like the English soldiers, but a buckskin shirt and
fringed leggings like the Indians.

From beginning to end of some of the battles, Washington rode about
among the men, telling them where to go and how to fight; the bullets
were whistling around him all the time, but he said he liked the music.

By and by the war was over; the French were driven back to their own
part of the country, and Washington went home to Mt. Vernon to rest, and
took with him his wife, lovely Martha Washington, whom he had met and
married while he was fighting the French and Indians.

While he was at Mt. Vernon he saw all his horses again,--“Valiant” and
“Magnolia” and “Chinkling” and “Ajax,”--and had grand gallops over the
country.

He had some fine dogs, too, to run by his side, and help him hunt the
bushy-tailed foxes. “Vulcan” and “Bingwood” and “Music” and “Sweetlips”
 were the names of some of them. You may be sure the dogs were glad when
they had their master home again.

But Washington did not have long to rest, for another war was coming,
the great war of the Revolution.

Little children cannot understand all the reasons for this war, but I
can tell you some of them.

You remember in the story of Thanksgiving I told you about the Pilgrim
fathers, who came from England to this country because their king would
not let them pray to God as they liked. That king was dead now, and
there was another in his place, a king with the name of George, like our
Washington.

Now our great-grandfathers had always loved England and Englishmen,
because many of their friends were still living there, and because it
was their old home.

The king gave them governors to help take care of their people, and
soldiers to fight for them, and they sent to England for many things to
wear and to eat.

But just before this Revolutionary War, the king and the great men who
helped him began to say that things should be done in this country
that our people did not think right at all. The king said they must
buy expensive stamps to put on all their newspapers and almanacs and
lawyer's papers, and that they must pay very high taxes on their tea and
paper and glass, and he sent soldiers to see that this was done.

This made our great-grandfathers very angry. They refused to pay the
taxes, they would not buy anything from England any more, and some men
even went on board the ships, as they came into Boston Harbor, and threw
the tea over into the water.

So fifty-one men were chosen from all over the country, and they met
at Philadelphia, to see what could be done. Washington was sent from
Virginia. And after they had talked very solemnly, they all thought
there would be great trouble soon, and Washington went home to drill the
soldiers.

Then the war began with the battle of Lexington, in New England, and
soon Washington was made commander in chief of the armies.

He rode the whole distance from Philadelphia to Boston on horseback,
with a troop of officers; and all the people on the way came to see him,
bringing bands of music and cheering him as he went by. He rode into
camp in the morning. The soldiers were drawn up in the road, and men and
women and children who had come to look at Washington were crowded all
about. They saw a tall, splendid, handsome man in a blue coat with buff
facings, and epaulets on his shoulders. As he took off his hat, drew his
shining sword and raised it in sight of all the people, the cannon began
to thunder, and all the people hurrahed and tossed their hats in the
air.

Of course he looked very splendid, and they all knew how brave he was,
and thought he would soon put an end to the war.

But it did not happen as they expected, for this was only the beginning,
and the war lasted seven long years.

Fighting is always hard, even if you have plenty of soldiers and plenty
for them to eat; but Washington had very few soldiers, and very little
powder for the guns, and little food for the men to eat.

The soldiers were not in uniform, as ours are to-day; but each was
dressed just as he happened to come from his shop or his farm.

Washington ordered hunting shirts for them, such as he wore when he went
to fight the Indians, for he knew they would look more like soldiers if
all were dressed alike.

Of course many people thought that our men would be beaten, as the war
went on; but Washington never thought so, for he was sure our side was
right.

I hardly know what he would have done, at last, if the French people had
not promised to come over and help us, and to send us money and men and
ships. All the people in the army thanked God when they heard it, and
fired their guns for joy.

A brave young man named Lafayette came with the French soldiers, and he
grew to be Washington's great friend, and fought for us all through the
Revolution.

Many battles were fought in this war, and Washington lost some of them,
and a great many of his men were killed.

You could hardly understand how much trouble he had. In the winter, when
the snow was deep on the ground, he had no houses or huts for his men to
sleep in; his soldiers were ragged and cold by day, and had not blankets
enough to keep them warm by night; their shoes were old and worn, and
they had to wrap cloths around their feet to keep them from freezing.

When they marched to the Delaware River, one cold Christmas night, a
soldier who was sent after them, with a message for Washington, traced
them by their footprints on the snow, all reddened with the blood from
their poor cut feet.

They must have been very brave and patient to have fought at all, when
they were so cold and ragged and hungry.

Washington suffered a great deal in seeing his soldiers so wretched, and
I am sure that, with all his strength and courage, he would sometimes
have given up hope, if he had not talked and prayed to God a great deal,
and asked Him to help him.

In one of the hardest times of the whole war, Washington was staying
at a farmer's house. One morning, he rode out very early to visit the
soldiers. The farmer went into the fields soon after, and as he was
passing a brook where a great many bushes were growing, he heard a deep
voice from the thicket. He looked through the leaves, and saw Washington
on his knees, on the ground, praying to God for his soldiers. He had
fastened his horse to a tree, and come away by himself to ask God to
help them.

At last the war came to an end; the English were beaten, and our armies
sent up praise and thanks to God.

Then the soldiers went quietly back to their homes, and Washington bade
all his officers good-by, and thanked them for their help and their
courage.

The little room in New York where he said farewell is kept to show to
visitors now, and you can see it some day yourselves.

Then Washington went home to Mt. Vernon to rest; but before he had been
there long, the people found out that they must have some one to help
take care of them, as they had nothing to do with the king of England
any more; and they asked Washington to come and be the first President
of the United States.

So he did as they wished, and was as wise and good, and as careful and
fine a President as he had been surveyor, soldier, and general.

You know we always call Washington the Father of his Country, because he
did so much for us and helped to make the United States so great.

After he died, there were parks and mountains and villages and towns and
cities named for him all over the land, because people loved him so and
prized so highly what he had done for them.

In the city of Washington there is a building where you can see many
of the things that belonged to the first President, when he was alive.
There is his soldier's coat, his sword, and in an old camp chest are the
plates and knives and forks that he used in the Revolution.

There is a tall, splendid monument of shining gray stone in that city,
that towers far, far above all the highest roofs and spires. It was
built in memory of George Washington, by the people of the United
States, to show that they loved and would always remember the Father of
his Country.




THE MAPLE-LEAF AND THE VIOLET.

“Story-telling must please children, so that it will influence,
strengthen, and elevate their lives.”--FROEBEL


The Maple-tree lived on the edge of the wood. Beside and behind her
the trees grew so thick and tall that there was plenty of shade at her
roots; but as no one stood in front, she could always look across the
meadows to the brown house where Bessie lived, and could see what went
on in the world.

After the cold winter had gone by, and the spring had come again,
the Maple-tree sent out thousands of tiny leaf-buds, that stretched
themselves, and grew larger day by day in the warm sunshine. One little
Bud, on the end of a tall branch, worked so hard to grow that by and by
he finished opening all his folds, and found himself a tiny pale green
leaf.

He was curious, as little folks generally are, and as soon as he opened
his eyes wanted to see everything about him. First he looked up at the
blue sky overhead, but the sky only looked quietly back at him. Then
he looked across the meadows to where Bessie lived, but Bessie was at
school and the house was still.

Then he gazed far down below him on the ground; and there, just beneath,
was a little Violet, She had uncurled her purple petals a few days
before, and was waiting to welcome the first leaf-bud that came out.

So when the Maple-leaf looked down, she smiled up at him and said,
“Good-morning.” He answered her politely, but he was very little, and
did not know quite what to say, so he didn't talk any more that day.

The next morning they greeted each other again, and soon they grew to be
good friends, and talked together very happily all day. The Maple-leaf
lived so high up in the tree that he could easily see across the fields,
and he watched every day for Bessie as she started for school. When she
came out of her door, he told the Violet, and the Violet always said
every morning, “Dear Bessie! I should like to see her, too!”

Sometimes, when the day was chilly and it was almost too damp in the
shade, the Violet used to wish she might be high up on the branch above
her, waving about in the sunshine like the Maple-leaf; but she was a
contented little thing, and never fretted long for what she could not
have.

It was generally pleasant on the ground, and the bugs and caterpillars
and worms, as they crawled about at her roots, often told her very
interesting things about their families and their troubles.

One day it was very dry and warm. The Maple-leaf was not at all
comfortable, high in the hot air, and he said to his mother,
“Mother-tree, won't you let me go down by the Violet and be cool?”

Then the Maple-tree answered, “No, no, little leaf, not now; if I once
let you go, you can never come back again. Stay quietly here; the time
will soon come for you to leave me.”

The Maple-leaf told this to the Violet, and then they began to fear that
when the mother-tree let him go, by and by, he might not be able to fall
close beside the Violet.

So the next day, when the wind came whistling along, the Violet asked
him if he would kindly take care of the leaf, and send him to her when
the mother-tree let him go. The wind was rough and careless, and said he
really didn't know. He couldn't be sure how he'd feel then. They would
have to wait and see.

The two little friends were rather unhappy about this, but they waited
quietly. By and by the weather grew cold. The air was so chill that the
Maple-leaf shivered in the night, and in the morning, when the sun rose,
and he could see himself, he found he was all red, just as your hands
and cheeks are on a frosty morning. When the mother-tree saw him, she
told him he would soon leave her now, and she bade him good-by. He
was sorry to go, but then he thought of his dear Violet, and was happy
again.

By and by a gust of cold wind came blowing by, and twisted the little
leaf about, and fluttered him so that he could not hold to the tree any
longer. So at last he blew off, and the wind took him up and danced with
him and played with him until he was very tired and dizzy. But at last,
for he was a kind wind after all, he blew the leaf back, straight to the
side of the Violet. How close they cuddled to each other, and how happy
they were! You would have been very glad if you had seen them together.

In the morning, when the sun rose yellow and bright, Bessie came into
the woods with a basket and a trowel. It was nearly winter, and she knew
that soon the snow would fall and cover all the pretty growing things.
So she dug up, very carefully, roots of plumy fern and partridge berries
with their leaves, and wintergreen and boxberry plants, to grow in her
window-garden in the winter. She took the Violet too, bringing away so
much of the earth around her roots that the little thing scarcely felt
that she had been moved. As Bessie put her plants in the basket, she
saw the little Maple-leaf resting close by the violet, but he looked so
pretty, lying there, that she did not move him.

In the sunny window of the little brown house the Violet grew still
more fresh and green. But each day, as the plants were watered, the
Maple-leaf curled up a little more at the edges, and sank down farther
into the earth, until soon he was almost out of sight, and by and by
crumbled quite away. Still he was close beside his Violet, and all the
strength he had he gave to her roots.

She always loved him just the same, though she could not see him any
longer, and by and by, when she had lived her life, and her leaves
withered away, each one, as it fell from the stem, sank into the earth
where the Maple-leaf lay.




MRS. CHINCHILLA.

THE TALE OF A CAT.

“See what joyous faces, what shining eyes, and what glad jubilee welcome
the story-teller, and what a blooming circle of glad children press
around him!”--FROEBEL.


Mrs. Chinchilla was not a lovely lady, with a dress of soft gray cloth
and a great chinchilla muff and boa. Not at all. Mrs. Chinchilla was
a beautiful cat, with sleek fur like silver-gray satin, and a very
handsome tail to match, quite long enough to brush the ground when she
walked. She didn't live in a house, but she had a very comfortable home
in a fine drug-store, with one large bay-window almost to herself and
her kittens. She had three pretty fat dumplings of kittens, all in soft
shades of gray like their mother. She didn't like any other color in
kittens so well as a quiet ladylike gray. None of her children ever were
black, or white, or yellow, but sometimes they had four snow-white socks
on their gray paws. Mrs. Chinchilla didn't mind that, for white socks
were really a handsome finish to a gray kitten, though, of course, it
was a deal of trouble to keep them clean.

At the time my story begins the kits were all tiny catkins, whose eyes
had been open only a day or two, so Mrs. Chinchilla had to wash them
every morning herself. She had the most wonderful tongue! I'll tell
you what that tongue had in it: a hair-brush, a comb, a tooth-brush,
a nail-brush, a sponge, a towel, and a cake of soap! And when Mrs.
Chinchilla had finished those three little catkins, they were as fresh
and sweet, and shiny and clean, and kissable and huggable, as any baby
just out of a bath-tub.

One morning, just after the little kits had had their scrub in the sunny
bay-window, they felt, all at once, old enough to play; and so they
began to scramble over each other, and run about between the great
colored glass jars, and even to chase and bite the ends of their own
tails. They had not known that they had any tails before that morning,
and of course it was a charming surprise. Mrs. Chinchilla looked on
lazily and gravely. It had been a good while since she had had time or
had felt young and gay enough to chase her tail, but she was very glad
to see the kittens enjoy themselves harmlessly.

Now, while this was going on, some one came up to the window and looked
in. It was the Boy who lived across the street. Mrs. Chinchilla disliked
nearly all boys, but she was afraid of this one. He had golden curls and
a Fauntleroy collar, and the sweetest lips that ever said prayers, and
clean dimpled hands that looked as if they had been made to stroke cats
and make them purr. But instead of stroking them he rubbed their fur the
wrong way, and hung tin kettles to their tails, and tied handkerchiefs
over their heads. When Mrs. Chinchilla saw the Boy she humped her back,
so that it looked like a gray mountain, and said, “Sftt!” three times.
When the Boy found that she was looking at him, and lashing her tail,
and yawning so as to show him her sharp white teeth, he suddenly
disappeared from sight. So Mrs. Chinchilla gave the kittens their
breakfast, and they cuddled themselves into a round ball, and went fast
asleep. They were first rolled so tightly, and then so tied up with
their tails, that you couldn't have told whether they were three or six
little catkins. When their soft purr-r-r-r, purr-r-r-r had first
changed into sleepy little snores, and then died away altogether, Mrs.
Chinchilla jumped down out of the window, and went for her morning
airing in the back yard. At the same time the druggist passed behind a
tall desk to mix some medicine, and the shop was left alone.

Just then the Boy (for he hadn't gone away at all; he had just stooped
out of sight) rushed in the door quickly, snatched one of the kittens
out of the round ball, and ran away with it as fast as he could run.
Pretty soon Mrs. Chinchilla came back, and of course she counted the
kittens the very first thing. She always did it. To her surprise and
fright she found only two instead of three. She knew she couldn't be
mistaken. There were five kittens in her last family, and two less in
this family; and five kittens less two kittens is three kittens. One
chinchilla catkin gone! What should she do?

She had once heard a lady say that there were too many cats in the
world already, but she had no patience with people who made such wicked
speeches. Her kittens had always been so beautiful that they sometimes
sold for fifty cents apiece, and none of them had ever been drowned.

Mrs. Chinchilla knew in a second just where that kitten had gone. It
makes a pussy-cat very quick and bright and wise to take care of and
train large families of frisky kittens, with very little help from their
father in bringing them up. She knew that that Boy had carried off the
kitten, and she intended to have it back, and scratch the Boy with some
long scratches, if she could only get the chance. Looking at her claws,
she found them nice and sharp, and as the druggist opened the door for a
customer Mrs. Chinchilla slipped out, with just one backward glance, as
much as to say, “Gone out; will be back soon.” Then she dashed across
the street, and waited on the steps of the Boy's house. Very soon a
man came with a bundle, and when the house-maid opened the door Mrs.
Chinchilla walked in. She hadn't any visiting-card with her; but then
the Boy hadn't left any card when he called for the kitten, so she
didn't care for that.

The housemaid didn't see her when she slipped in. It was a very nice
house to hold such a heartless boy, she thought. The parlor door was
open, but she knew the kitten wouldn't be there, so she ran upstairs.
When she reached the upper hall she stood perfectly still, with her
ears up and her whiskers trembling. Suddenly she heard a faint mew, then
another, and then a laugh; that was the Boy. She pushed open a door that
was ajar, and walked into the nursery. The Boy was seated in the middle
of the floor, tying the kitten to a tin cart, and the poor little thing
was mewing piteously. Mrs. Chinchilla dashed up to the Boy, scratched
him as many long scratches as she had time for at that moment, took the
frightened kitten in her kind, gentle mouth, the way all mother-cats
do (because if they carried them in their forepaws they wouldn't
have enough left to walk on), and was downstairs and out on the front
doorstep before the housemaid had finished paying the man for the
bundle. And when she got that chinchilla catkin home in the safe, sunny
bay-window, she washed it over and over and over so many times that it
never forgot, so long as it lived, the day it was stolen by the Boy.

When the Boy's mother hurried upstairs to see why he was crying so loud,
she told him that he must expect to be scratched by mother-cats if he
stole their kittens. “I shall take your pretty Fauntleroy collar off,”
 she said; “it doesn't match your disposition.”

The Boy cried bitterly until luncheon time, but when he came to think
over the matter, he knew that his mother was right, and Mrs. Chinchilla
was right, too; so he treated all mother-cats and their kittens more
kindly after that.




A STORY OF THE FOREST

“It is not the gay forms he meets in the fairy-tale which charm the
child, but a spiritual, invisible truth lying far deeper.”--Froebel.


Far away, in the depths of a great green rustling wood, there lived a
Fir-tree. She was tall and dark and fragrant; so tall that her topmost
plumes seemed waving about in the clouds, and her branches were so thick
and strong and close set that down below them on the ground it was dark
almost as night.

There were many other trees in the forest, as tall and grand as she,
and when they bent and bowed to each other, as the wind played in their
branches, you could hear a wonderful lovely sound, like the great organ
when it plays softly in the church.

Down below, under the trees, the ground was covered with a glossy brown
carpet of the sharp, needle-like leaves the fir-trees had let fall, and
on this carpet there were pointed brown fir cones lying, looking dry and
withered, and yet bearing under their scales many little seeds, hidden
away like very precious letters in their dainty envelopes.

Even on bright summer days this wood was cool and dark, and, as you
walked about on the soft brown carpet, you could hear the wonderful song
the pine needles made as they rubbed against each other; and perhaps far
away in the top of some tall tree you could hear the wood-thrush sing
out gladly.

All around the great Fir-tree, where her cones had dropped, a family
of young firs was growing up,--very tiny yet, so tiny you might have
crushed them as you walked, and not felt them under your foot.

The Fir-tree spread her thick branches over them, and kept off the
fierce wind and the bitter cold, and under her shelter they were growing
strong.

They were all fine little trees, but one of them, that stood quite apart
from the rest, was the finest of all, very straight and well shaped
and handsome. Every day he looked up at the mother-tree, and saw how
straight and strong she grew,--how the wind bent and waved her branches,
but did not stir her great trunk; and as he looked, he sent his own
rootlets farther down into the dark earth, and held his tiny head up
more proudly.

The other trees did not all try to grow strong and tall. Indeed, one of
them said, “Why should I try to grow? Who can see me here in this dark
wood? What good will it do for me to try? I can never be as fine and
strong as the mother-tree.”

So he was unhappy and hung his head, and let the wind blow him further
and further over toward the ground; and as he did not care for his
rootlets, they lost their hold in the earth, and by and by he withered
quite away.

But our brave little Fir-tree grew on; and when a long time had gone by,
his head was on a level with his mother's lowest branches, and he could
listen and hear all the whispering and talking that went on among the
great trees. So he learned many things, for the trees were old and
wise; and the birds, who are such great travelers, had told them many
wonderful things that had happened in far-off lands.

And the Fir-tree asked his mother many, many questions. “Dear
mother-tree,” he said, “shall we always live here? Shall I keep on
growing until I am a grand tall tree like you? And will you always be
with me?”

“Who knows!” said the mother-tree, rustling in all her branches. “If we
are stout-hearted, and grow strong in trunk and perfect in shape,
then perhaps we shall be taken away from the forest and made useful
somewhere,--and we want to be useful, little son.”

It was about this time that the young Fir-tree made himself some music
that he used to whisper when the winds blew and rocked his branches.
This is the little song, but I cannot sing it as he did.


SONG OF THE FIR-TREE.

   Root grow thou long-er heart be thou strong-er;
   Let the sun bless me, soft-ly ca-
   ress me; Let rain-drops pat-ter,
   wind, my leaves scat-ter. My root must grow
   long-er, my heart must grow stronger.

  “Root, grow thou longer,
   Heart, be thou stronger;
   Let the sun bless me,
   Softly caress me;
   Let raindrops patter,
   Wind, my leaves scatter.
   My root must grow longer,
   My heart must grow stronger.”

And one day, when he was singing this song to himself, some birds
fluttered near, pleased with the music, and as he seemed kind they began
to build their nest in his branches,

Then what a proud Fir-tree, that the birds should choose him to take
care of them! He would not play now with the wind as it came frolicking
by, but stood straight, that he might not shake the pretty soft nest.
And when the eggs were laid at last, all his leaves stroked each other
for joy, and the noise they made was so sweet that the mother-tree bent
over to see why he was so happy.

The mother-bird sat patiently on the nest all day, and when, now and
then, she flew away to rest her tired little legs, the father-bird came
to keep the eggs warm.

So the Fir-tree was never alone; and now he asked the birds some of the
many questions he had once asked his mother, “Tell me, dear birdies,”
 he said, “what does the mother-tree mean? She says if I grow strong, I
shall be taken away to be useful somewhere. How can a Fir-tree be useful
if he is taken away from the forest where he was born?”

So the birds told him how he could be useful: how perhaps men might
take him for the mast of a ship, and fasten to him, strong and firm, the
great white sails that send the ship like a bird over the water; or that
he might be used to hold a bright flag, as it waved in the wind. Then
the mother-bird thought of the happy Christmas time, for the birds
and flowers and trees know all about it; and she told the Fir of the
Christmas greens that were cut in the forest; of the branches and boughs
that were used to make the houses fresh and bright; and of the Christmas
trees, on which gifts were hung for the children.

Now the Fir-tree had seen some children one day, and he knew about their
bright eyes, and their rosy cheeks, and their dear soft little hands.
The day they came into the woods, they had made a ring and danced about
him, and one little girl had held up her finger, and asked the others to
hush and hear the song he was singing.

So of all the thing's the birds had told him, the sweetest to him was
about the Christmas tree. If only he might be a Christmas tree, and have
the children dance about him again, and feel their presents among his
green branches!

So he did all that a little tree could do to grow strong in every part,
and each day he sang his song:&&

  “Root, grow thou longer,
   Heart, grow thou stronger;
   Sweet sunshine, bless me,
   Softly caress me;
   Cold raindrops, patter,
   Wind, my leaves scatter,
   My roots must grow longer,
   My heart must grow stronger,”

Soon the days began to grow cold. The birdlings who had been born in
the Fir-tree's branches had gone far away to the South. The father and
mother bird had gone too, and on the way had stopped to say good-by to
the brave little tree.

The white snow had fallen in gentle flakes, and covered the cones and
the glossy carpet of pine needles. All was still and shining and cold in
the forest, and the great trees seemed taller and darker than ever.

One day some men came into the wood with saws and ropes and axes, and
cut down many of the great trees, and among these was the mother-fir.
They fastened oxen to all the trees, and dragged them away, rustling and
waving, over the smooth snow.

The mother-tree had gone,--“gone to be useful,” said the little Fir; and
though he missed her very much, and the world seemed very empty when he
looked up and no longer saw her thick branches and her strong trunk, yet
he was not unhappy, for he was a brave little Fir.

Still the days grew colder, and often the Fir-tree wondered if the
children who had made a ring and danced about him would remember him
when Christmas time came.

He could not grow, for the weather was too cold, and so he had the more
time for thinking. He thought of the birds, of the mother-tree, and,
most of all, of the little girl who had lifted her finger, and said,
“Hush! hear the Fir-tree sing.”

Sometimes the days seemed long, and he sighed in all his branches, and
almost thought he would never be a Christmas tree.

But suddenly, one day, he heard something far away that sounded like the
ringing of Christmas bells. It was the children laughing and singing, as
they ran over the snow.

Nearer they came, and stood beside the Fir. “Yes,” said the little girl,
“it is my very tree, my very singing tree!”

“Indeed,” said the father, “it will be a good Christmas tree. See how
straight and well shaped it is.”

Then the tree was glad; not proud, for he was a good little Fir, but
glad that they saw he had tried his best.

{Illustration: Not all firs can be Christmas trees.}

So they cut him down and carried him away on a great sled; away from the
tall dark trees, from the white shining snow-carpet at their feet, and
from all the murmuring and whispering that go on within the forest.

The little trees stood on tiptoe and waved their green branches for
“Good-by,” and the great trees bent their heads to watch him go.

“Not all firs can be Christmas trees,” said they; “only those who grow
their best.”

The good Fir-tree stood in the children's own room. Round about his feet
were flowers and mosses and green boughs. From his branches hung toys
and books and candies, and at the end of each glossy twig was a bright
glittering Christmas candle.

The doors were slowly opened; the children came running in; and when
they saw the shining lights, and the Christmas tree proudly holding
their presents, they made a ring, and danced about him, singing.

And the Fir-tree was very happy!




PICCOLA.

Suggested by One of Mrs. Celia Thaxter's Poems.

“Story-telling is a real strengthening spirit-bath.”--Froebel.


Piccola lived in Italy, where the oranges grow, and where all the year
the sun shines warm and bright. I suppose you think Piccola a very
strange name for a little girl; but in her country it was not strange at
all, and her mother thought it the sweetest name a little girl ever had.

Piccola had no kind father, no big brother or sister, and no sweet baby
to play with and to love. She and her mother lived all alone in an old
stone house that looked on a dark, narrow street. They were very poor,
and the mother was away from home almost every day, washing clothes and
scrubbing floors, and working hard to earn money for her little girl and
herself. So you see Piccola was alone a great deal of the time; and if
she had not been a very happy, contented little child, I hardly know
what she would have done. She had no playthings except a heap of stones
in the back yard that she used for building houses, and a very old, very
ragged doll that her mother had found in the street one day.

But there was a small round hole in the stone wall at the back of
her yard, and her greatest pleasure was to look through that into her
neighbor's garden. When she stood on a stone, and put her eyes close to
the hole, she could see the green grass in the garden, smell the sweet
flowers, and even hear the water plashing into the fountain. She had
never seen any one walking in the garden, for it belonged to an old
gentleman who did not care about grass and flowers.

One day in the autumn her mother told her that the old gentleman had
gone away, and had rented his house to a family of little American
children, who had come with their sick mother to spend the winter
in Italy. After this, Piccola was never lonely, for all day long the
children ran and played and danced and sang in the garden. It was
several weeks before they saw her at all, and I am not sure they would
ever have done so but that one day the kitten ran away, and in chasing
her they came close to the wall, and saw Piccola's black eyes looking
through the hole in the stones. They were a little frightened at first,
and did not speak to her; but the next day she was there again, and
Rose, the oldest girl, went up to the wall and talked to her a little
while. When the children found that she had no one to play with and was
very lonely, they talked to her every day, and often brought her fruits
and candies, and passed them through the hole in the wall.

One day they even pushed the kitten through; but the hole was hardly
large enough for her, and she mewed and scratched, and was very much
frightened. After that the little boy said he should ask his father if
the hole might not be made larger, and then Piccola could come in and
play with them. The father had found out that Piccola's mother was a
good woman, and that the little girl herself was sweet and kind, so that
he was very glad to have some of the stones broken away, and an opening
made for Piccola to come in.

How excited she was, and how glad the children were when she first
stepped into the garden! She wore her best dress, a long bright-colored
woolen skirt and a white waist. Round her neck was a string of beads,
and on her feet were little wooden shoes. It would seem very strange to
us--would it not?--to wear wooden shoes; but Piccola and her mother
had never worn anything else, and never had any money to buy stockings.
Piccola almost always ran about barefooted, like the kittens and the
chickens and the little ducks. What a good time they had that day, and
how glad Piccola's mother was that her little girl could have such a
pleasant, safe place to play in, while she was away at work!

By and by December came, and the little Americans began to talk about
Christmas. One day, when Piccola's curly head and bright eyes came
peeping through the hole in the wall, they ran to her and helped her
in; and as they did so, they all asked her at once what she thought she
would have for a Christmas present. “A Christmas present!” said Piccola.
“Why, what is that?”

All the children looked surprised at this, and Rose said, rather
gravely, “Dear Piccola, don't you know what Christmas is?”

Oh, yes, Piccola knew it was the happy day when the baby Christ was
born, and she had been to church on that day, and heard the beautiful
singing, and had seen a picture of the Babe lying in the manger, with
cattle and sheep sleeping round about. Oh, yes, she knew all that very
well, but what was a Christmas present?

Then the children began to laugh, and to answer her all together. There
was such a clatter of tongues that she could hear only a few words now
and then, such as “chimney,” “Santa Claus,” “stockings,” “reindeer,”
 “Christmas Eve,” “candies and toys.” Piccola put her hands over her
ears, and said, “Oh, I can't understand one word. You tell me, Rose.”
 Then Rose told her all about jolly old Santa Claus, with his red cheeks
and white beard and fur coat, and about his reindeer and sleigh full of
toys. “Every Christmas Eve,” said Rose, “he comes down the chimney, and
fills the stockings of all the good children; so, Piccola, you hang up
your stocking, and who knows what a beautiful Christmas present you
will find when morning comes!” Of course Piccola thought this was a
delightful plan, and was very pleased to hear about it. Then all the
children told her of every Christmas Eve they could remember, and of
the presents they had had; so that she went home thinking of nothing but
dolls, and hoops, and balls, and ribbons, and marbles, and wagons, and
kites. She told her mother about Santa Claus, and her mother seemed to
think that perhaps he did not know there was any little girl in that
house, and very likely he would not come at all. But Piccola felt very
sure Santa Claus would remember her, for her little friends had promised
to send a letter up the chimney to remind him.

Christmas Eve came at last. Piccola's mother hurried home from her
work; they had their little supper of soup and bread, and soon it was
bedtime,--time to get ready for Santa Claus. But oh! Piccola remembered
then for the first time that the children had told her she must hang up
her stocking, and she hadn't any, and neither had her mother.

How sad, how sad it was! Now Santa Claus would come, and perhaps be
angry because he couldn't find any place to put the present. The poor
little girl stood by the fireplace; and the big tears began to run down
her cheeks. Just then her mother called to her, “Hurry, Piccola; come
to bed.” What should she do? But she stopped crying, and tried to think;
and in a moment she remembered her wooden shoes, and ran off to get one
of them. She put it close to the chimney, and said to herself, “Surely
Santa Claus will know what it's there for. He will know I haven't any
stockings, so I gave him the shoe instead.”

Then she went off happily to her bed, and was asleep almost as soon as
she had nestled close to her mother's side.

The sun had only just begun to shine, next morning, when Piccola awoke.
With one jump she was out on the floor and running toward the chimney.
The wooden shoe was lying where she had left it, but you could never,
never guess what was in it.

{Illustration: See the present Santa Claus brought me}

Piccola had not meant to wake her mother, but this surprise was more
than any little girl could bear and yet be quiet; so she danced to the
bed with the shoe in her hand, calling, “Mother, mother! look, look! see
the present Santa Claus brought me!”

Her mother raised her head and looked into the shoe. “Why, Piccola,” she
said, “a little chimney swallow nestling in your shoe? What a good Santa
Claus to bring you a bird!”

“Good Santa Claus, dear Santa Claus!” cried Piccola; and she kissed her
mother and kissed the bird and kissed the shoe, and even threw kisses up
the chimney, she was so happy.

When the birdling was taken out of the shoe, they found that he did not
try to fly, only to hop about the room; and as they looked closer, they
could see that one of his wings was hurt a little. But the mother bound
it up carefully, so that it did not seem to pain him, and he was so
gentle that he took a drink of water from a cup, and even ate crumbs and
seeds from Piccola's hand. She was a proud little girl when she took
her Christmas present to show the children in the garden. They had had
a great many gifts,--dolls that could say “mamma,” bright picture-books,
trains of cars, toy pianos; but not one of their playthings was alive,
like Piccola's birdling. They were as pleased as she, and Rose hunted
about the house till she found a large wicker cage that belonged to a
blackbird she once had. She gave the cage to Piccola, and the swallow
seemed to make himself quite at home in it at once, and sat on the perch
winking his bright eyes at the children. Rose had saved a bag of candies
for Piccola, and when she went home at last, with the cage and her dear
swallow safely inside it, I am sure there was not a happier little girl
in the whole country of Italy.



THE CHILD AND THE WORLD.

     I see a nest in a green elm-tree
     With little brown sparrows,--one, two, three!
     The elm-tree stretches its branches wide,
     And the nest is soft and warm inside.
     At morn, the sun, so golden bright,
     Climbs up to fill the world with light;
     It opens the flowers, it wakens me,
     And wakens the birdies,--one, two, three.
     And leaning out of my window high,
     I look far up at the blue, blue sky,
     And then far out at the earth so green,
     And think it the loveliest ever seen,--
     The loveliest world that ever was seen!

     But by and by, when the sun is low,
     And birds and babies sleepy grow,
     I peep again from my window high,
     And look at the earth and clouds and sky.
     The night dew comes in silent showers,
     To cool the hearts of thirsty flowers;
     The moon comes out,--the slender thing,
     A crescent yet, but soon a ring,--
     And brings with her one yellow star;
     How small it looks, away so far!
     But soon, in the heaven's shining blue,
     A thousand twinkle and blink at you,
     Like a thousand lamps in the sky so blue.

     And hush! a light breeze stirs the tree,
     And rocks, the birdies,--one, two, three.
     What a beautiful cradle, that soft, warm nest!
     What a dear little coverlid, mamma-bird's breast!
     She's hugging them close to her,--tight, so tight
     That each downy head is hid from sight;
     But out from under her sheltering wings
     Their bright eyes glisten,--the darling things!
     I lean far out from my window's height
     And say, “Dear, lovely world, good-night!

     “Good-night, dear, pretty baby moon!
     Your cradle you'll outgrow quite soon,
     And then, perhaps, all night you'll shine,
     A grown-up lady moon!--so fine
     And bright that all the stars
     Will want to light their lamps from yours.
     Sleep sweetly, birdies, never fear,
     For God is always watching near!
     And you, dear, friendly world above,
     The same One holds us in His love:
     Both you so great, and I so small,
     Are safe,--He sees the sparrow's fall,--
     The dear God watcheth over all!”




WHEN I WAS A LITTLE GIRL.

OUR FROGGERY.

“Turn back observantly into your own youth, and awaken, warm, and vivify
the eternal youth of your mind.”--FROEBEL.


When I was a little girl my sister and I lived in the country. She was
younger than I, and the dearest, fattest little toddlekins of a sister
you ever knew. She always wanted to do exactly as I did, so that I had
to be very careful and do the right things; for if I had been naughty
she would surely have been naughty too, and that would have made me very
sad.

As we lived in the country we had none of the things to amuse us that
city children have. We couldn't walk in crowded streets and see people
and look in at beautiful shop-windows, or hear the street-organs play
and see the monkeys do tricks; we couldn't go to dancing school, nor to
children's parties, nor to the circus to see the animals.

But we had lovely plays, after all.

In the spring we hunted for mayflowers, and sailed boats in the brooks,
and gathered fluffy pussy-willows. We watched the yellow dandelions
come, one by one, in the short green grass, and we stood under the
maple-trees and watched the sap trickle from their trunks into the great
wooden buckets; for that maple sap was to be boiled into maple sugar
and syrup, and we liked to think about it. In the summer we went
strawberrying and blueberrying, and played “hide and coop” behind the
tall yellow haycocks, and rode on the top of the full haycarts. In the
fall we went nutting, and pressed red and yellow autumn leaves between
the pages of our great Webster's Dictionary; we gathered apples, and
watched the men at work at the cider-presses, and the farmers as they
threshed their wheat and husked their corn. And in the winter we made
snow men, and slid downhill from morning till night when there was any
snow to slide upon, and went sleighing behind our dear old horse Jack,
and roasted apples in the ashes of the great open fire.

But one of the things we cared for most was our froggery, and we used to
play there for hours together in the long summer days.

Perhaps you don't know what a froggery is; but you do know what a frog
is, and so you can guess that a froggery is a place where frogs live.
My little sister and I used at first to catch the frogs and keep them in
tin cans filled with water; but when we thought about it we saw that the
poor froggies couldn't enjoy this, and that it was cruel to take them
away from their homes and make them live in unfurnished tin houses. So
one day I asked my father if he would give us a part of the garden brook
for our very own. He laughed, and said, “Yes,” if we wouldn't carry it
away.

Our garden was as large as four or five city blocks, and a beautiful
silver-clear brook flowed through it, turning here and there, and here
and there breaking into tinkling little waterfalls, and dropping gently
into clear, still pools.

It was one of these deep, quiet pools that we chose for our froggery. It
was almost hidden on two sides by thick green alder-bushes, so that it
was always cool and pleasant there, even on the hottest days.

My father put pieces of fine wire netting into the water on each of the
four sides of the pool, and so arranged them that we could slip those
on the banks up and down as we pleased. Whenever we went there we always
took away the side fences, and sat flat down upon the smooth stones at
the edges of the brook and played with the frogs.

Here we used to watch our gay young polliwogs grow into frogs, one leg
at a time coming out at each “corner” of their fat wriggling bodies. We
kept two great bull-frogs,--splendid bass singers both of them,--that
had been stoned by naughty small boys, and left for dead by the
roadside. We found them there, bound up their broken legs and bruised
backs, and nursed them quite well again in one corner of the froggery
that we called the hospital. In another corner was the nursery, and here
we kept all the tiniest frogs; though we always let them out once a
day to play with the older ones, for fear that they never would learn
anything if they were kept entirely to themselves. One of our great
bull-frogs grew so strong and well, after being in the hospital for a
while, that he jumped over the highest of the wire fences, which was
two feet higher than any frog ever was known to jump, so our hired man
said,--jumped over and ran away. We called him the “General,” because he
was the largest of our frogs and the oldest, we thought. (He hadn't any
gray hairs, but he was very much wrinkled.) We were sorry to lose the
General, and couldn't think why he should run away, when we gave him
such good things to eat and tried to make him so happy. My father said
that perhaps his home was in a large pond, some distance off, where
there were so many hundred frogs that it was quite a gay city life for
them, while the froggery was in a quiet brook in our quiet old garden.
(If I were a frog, it seems to me I should like such a home better than
a great noisy stagnant pond near the road, where I should be frightened
to death half a dozen times a day; but there is no accounting for
tastes!)

{Illustration: “We were sorry to lose the General.”}

But what do you think? After staying away for three days and nights
the General came back safe and sound! We knew it was our own beloved
General, and not any common stranger-frog, because there was the scar
on his back where the boys had stoned him. My little sister thought that
perhaps the General was born in Lily Pad Pond, on the other side of the
village, and only went back to get a sight of the pond lilies, which
were just in full bloom. If that was so, I cannot blame the General; for
snow-white pond lilies, with their golden hearts and the green frills
round their necks, are the loveliest things in the world, as they float
among their shiny pads on the surface of the pond. Did you ever see
them?

All our frogs had names of their own, of course, and we knew them all
apart, although they looked just alike to other people. There was Prince
Pouter, Brownie, and Goldilegs; Bright-Eye, Chirp, and Gray Friar;
Hop-o'-my-Thumb, Croaker, Baby Mine, Nimblefoot, Tiny Tim, and many
others.

We were so afraid that our frogs wouldn't like the froggery better than
any other place in the brook that we gave them all the pleasures we
could think of. They always had plenty of fat juicy flies and water-bugs
for their dinners, and after a while we put some silver shiners and tiny
minnows into the pool, so that they would have fishes to play with as
well as other frogs. You know you do not always like to play with other
children; sometimes you like kittens and dogs and birds better.

Then we gave our frogs little vacations once in a while. We tied a long
soft woolen string very gently round one of their hind legs, fastened it
to a twig of one of the alderbushes, and let them take a long swim and
make calls on all their friends.

We had a singing-school for them once a week. It was very troublesome,
for they didn't like to stand in line a bit, and it is quite useless to
try and teach a class in singing unless the scholars will stand in a row
or keep in some sort of order. We used to put a nice little board across
the pool, and then try to get the frogs to sit quietly in line during
their lesson. The General behaved quite nicely, and really got into the
spirit of the thing, so that he was a splendid example for the head of
the class. Then we used to put Myron W. Whitney next in line, on account
of his beautiful bass voice. We named him after a gentleman who had once
sung in our church, and I hope if he ever heard of it he didn't mind,
for the frog was really a credit to him. Myron W. Whitney behaved nearly
as well as the General, but we could never get him to sing unless we
held the class just before bedtime, and then the little frogs were so
sleepy that they kept tumbling out of the singing-school into the pool.
That was the trouble with them all; they never could quite see the
difference between school and pool. It seems to me they must have known
it was very slight after all.

Towards the end of the summer we had trained them so well that once in a
long while we could actually get them all still at once, and all facing
the right way as they sat upon that board. Oh! it was a beautiful sight,
and worth any amount of trouble and work! Twenty-one frogs in a row, all
in fresh green suits, with clean white shirt fronts, washed every day.
The General and Myron W. Whitney always looked as if they were bursting
with pride, and as they were too fat and lazy to move, we could
generally count upon their good behavior.

We thought that if we could only get them to look down into the pool,
which made such a lovely looking-glass, and just see for once what a
beautiful picture they made,--sitting so straight and still, and all so
nicely graded as to size,--they would like it better and do it a little
more willingly.

We thought, too, the baby frogs would be ashamed, when they looked in
the glass, to see that while the big frogs stayed still of their own
free will, THEY had to be held down with forked sticks. But we could
never discover that they were ashamed.

So when everything was complete my little sister used to “let go” of
the baby frogs (for, as I said, she had to hold them down while we were
forming the line), and I would begin the lesson. Sometimes they would
listen a minute, and then they would begin their pranks. They would
insist on playing leap-frog, which is a very nice game, but not
appropriate for school. Tiny Tim would jump from the foot of the class
straight over all the others on to Myron W. Whitney's back. Baby Mine
would try to get between Croaker and Goldilegs, where there wasn't any
room. Nimblefoot would twist round on the board and turn his back to me,
which was very impolite, as I was the teacher. Finally, Hop-o'-my-Thumb
would go splash into the pool, and all the rest, save the good old
General, would follow him, and the lesson would end. I suppose you have
heard frogs singing just after sunset, when you were going to bed? Some
people think the big bull-frogs say, “JUGO'RUM! JUGO'RUM! JUGO'RUM!” But
I don't think this is at all likely, as the frogs never drink anything
but water in their whole lives.

We used to think that some of the frogs said, “KERCHUG! KERCHUG!” and
that the largest one said, “GOTACRUMB! GOTACRUMB! GOTACRUMB!” Perhaps
you can't make it sound right, but if you listen to the frogs you can
very soon do it.

We thought the frogs in our froggery the very best singers in all the
country round. After our mother had tucked us in our little beds and
kissed us good-night, she used to open the window, that we might hear
the chirping and humming and kerchugging of our frogs down in the dear
old garden.

As we wandered dreamily off into Sandman's Land, the very last sound we
heard was the cheerful chorus of our baby frogs, and the deep bass notes
of Myron W. Whitney and the old General.




FROEBEL'S BIRTHDAY.

“The whole future efficiency of man is seen in the child as a germ.”--
FROEBEL.


On this day, children, the twenty-first of April, we always remember our
dear Froebel; for it was his birthday.

We bring flowers and vines to hang about his picture, we sing the songs
and play the games he loved the best, and we remember the story of his
life. We thank him all day long; for he made the kindergarten for us, he
invented these pretty things that children love to do, he thought about
all the pleasant work and pleasant play that make the kindergarten such
a happy place.

On this very day, more than a hundred years ago, the baby Froebel came
to his happy father and mother. He was a little German baby, like Elsa's
brother and Fritz's little sister, and when he began to talk his first
words were German ones.

But the dear mother did not stay long with her little Friedrich, for she
died when he was not a year old, and he was left a very sad and lonely
baby. His father was a busy minister, who had sermons to write, and sick
people to see, and unhappy people to comfort, from one end of the
week to the other, and he had no time to attend to his little son; so
Friedrich was left to the housemaid, who was too busy herself to care
for him properly. She was often so hurried that she was obliged to shut
him up in a room alone, to keep him out of her way, and then it was very
hard work for the child to amuse himself.

The only window in this room looked out on a church that workmen were
repairing, and Friedrich often watched these men, and tried to do just
as they did. He took all the small pieces of furniture, and piled one
on top of the other to make a big, big church, like the one outside;
but the chairs and stools did not fit each other very well, and soon
the church would come tumbling about his head. When Froebel grew to be a
man, he remembered this, and made the building blocks for us, so that we
might make fine, tall churches and houses as often as we liked.

Rebel's home was surrounded by other buildings, and was close to the
great church I told you about. There were fences and hedges all around
the house, and at the back there were sloping fields, stretching up a
high hill.

When the little boy grew old enough to walk, he played in the garden
alone, a great deal of the time; but he was not allowed to go outside
at all, and never could get even a glimpse of the world beyond. He could
only see the blue sky overhead, and feel the fresh wind blowing from the
hills.

His father had no time for him, his mother was dead, and I think perhaps
he would have died himself, for very sadness and lonesomeness, if it had
not been for his older brothers. Now and then, when they were at home,
they played and talked with him, and he grew to love them very dearly
indeed.

When Friedrich was four years old, his father brought the children a
new mother, and for a time the little boy was very happy. The mother was
quite kind at first; and now Froebel had some one to walk with in the
garden, some one to talk with in the daytime and to tuck him in his
little bed at night. But by and by, when a baby boy came to the new
mother, she had no more room in her heart for poor Friedrich, and he was
more miserable than ever. He tried to be a good boy, but no one seemed
to understand him, and he was often blamed for naughty things he had not
done, and was never praised or loved.

When he had learned to read he was sent to school, though not with other
boys, for his father thought it better for him to be with girls. The
school was pleasant and quiet, and Friedrich liked the teacher very
much. Every morning the children read from the Bible, and learned sweet
songs and hymns which the little boy remembered all his days.

The life at home grew no happier, as Friedrich grew older; indeed, he
seemed to be more in the way and to get into trouble more often.

When he was ten years old his uncle came to visit them, and seeing
Friedrich so unhappy, and fearing he would not grow up a good boy unless
some one cared for him, the good uncle asked to be allowed to take the
child home with him to live.

Now, at last, Friedrich had five happy years!

His uncle lived in a pretty town on the banks of a sparkling little
river. Everything was pleasant in the house, and Friedrich went to
school with forty boys of his own age. He jumped and ran with them in
the playgrounds, he learned to play all kinds of games, and he was happy
everywhere,--at school, at home, at church, playing or working.

When these five pleasant years had gone by, Froebel had finished school,
and now he must decide what he would do to earn his living. He had
always loved flowers, since the days when he played all alone in his
father's garden, and he liked to be out-of-doors and to see things
growing; so he made up his mind to be a surveyor, like our George
Washington, you know, and to learn, besides, how to take care of trees
and forests.

He studied and worked very hard at these things, and gained a great deal
of knowledge about flowers and plants and trees and rocks.

By and by he left this work and went to college, where he studied a long
time and grew to be very wise indeed. There were numbers of things he
had learned to do: he could measure land, take care of woods, and draw
maps; he could make plans of houses, and show men how to build them;
he knew all about fine stones and minerals, and could sort and arrange
them; but he found, at last, that there was nothing in the world he
liked so well as teaching, for he loved children very much, and he liked
to be with them. When Froebel was a grown man, thirty years old, a great
war broke out in Germany, and he went away to fight for his country;
like our George Washington again, you see. He marched away with the
soldiers, and fought bravely for a year; and then the war was over, and
he went back to his quiet work again.

For the rest of his life Froebel went on teaching all kinds of
people,--boys and men, and young girls and grown-up women; but he never
was quite happy or satisfied till he thought of teaching tiny children,
just like you.

He remembered very well how sad and miserable he was when a little boy,
with no one to love him, nobody to play with, and nothing to do; so he
thought of the kindergarten, where there are pleasant playmates, pretty
work, happy play for everybody, and teachers who love little children.

He was an old man when he thought of the kindergarten; but he was never
too old to play with children, and people who went to his country home
used to see him, with the little ones about him, playing the Pigeon
House, or the Wheel, or the Farmer, or some of the games he made for us.

He was often very poor, and he worked very hard all his life; but he
did not care for this at all, if he could help other people and make
children happy. And when, at last, it was time for him to die, and to go
back to God, who sent him to us, he was quiet and happy through all his
sickness, and almost the last words he said were about the flowers he
loved so well, and about God who had been so good to him.

So this is the reason, little ones, that we keep Rebel's birthday every
year,--because we want you to remember all he did for little children,
and to learn to love him just as he loved you.

“Come, let us live with our children; so shall their lives bring peace
and joy to us; so shall we begin to be, and to become wise.”-- FROEBEL.








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