When I was a little boy,I lived by myself,And all the bread and cheese I got,I put upon my shelf.The rats and the mice,They made such a strife,I had to go to LondonTo buy me a wife.The streets were so broad,And the lanes were so narrow,I had to bring my wife homeOn a wheelbarrow.The wheelbarrow broke,And my wife had a fall;Down tumbled wheelbarrow,Little wife and all.
My dear, you must know that a long time ago,Two poor little children whose names I don't know,Were stolen away on a fine summer's day,And left in a wood, as I've heard people say.Poor babes in the wood, poor babes in the wood!So hard was the fate of the babes in the wood.And when it was night, so sad was their plight,The sun it went down, and the stars gave no light.They sobbed and they sighed, and they bitterly cried,And the poor little things they lay down and died.And when they were dead, the robins so red,Brought strawberry leaves, and over them spread.And all the day long, the branches among,They sang to them softly, and this was their song:Poor babes in the wood, poor babes in the wood!So hard was the fate of the babes in the wood.
The fox and his wife they had a great strife,They never ate mustard in all their whole life;They ate their meat without fork or knife,And loved to be picking a bone, e-oh!The fox jumped up on a moonlight night;The stars they were shining, and all things bright;Oh, ho! said the fox, it's a very fine nightFor me to go through the town, e-oh!The fox when he came to yonder stile,He lifted his ears and he listened awhile!Oh, ho! said the fox, it's but a short mileFrom this unto yonder wee town, e-oh!The fox when he came to the farmer's gate,Who should he see but the farmer's drake;I love you well for your master's sake,And long to be picking your bone, e-oh!The gray goose she ran round the haystack,Oh, ho! said the fox, you are very fat;You'll grease my beard and ride on my backFrom this into yonder wee town, e-oh!The farmer's wife she jumped out of bed,And out of the window she popped her head:Oh, husband! oh, husband! the geese are all dead,For the fox has been through the town, e-oh!The farmer he loaded his pistol with lead,And shot the old rogue of a fox through the head;Ah, ha! said the farmer, I think you're quite dead;And no more you'll trouble the town, e-oh!
For want of a nail, the shoe was lost;For want of the shoe, the horse was lost;For want of the horse, the rider was lost;For want of the rider, the battle was lost;For want of the battle, the kingdom was lost;And all for the want of a horseshoe nail!
A man of words and not of deedsIs like a garden full of weeds;And when the weeds begin to grow,It's like a garden full of snow;And when the snow begins to fall,It's like a bird upon the wall;And when the bird away does fly,It's like an eagle in the sky;And when the sky begins to roar,It's like a lion at the door;And when the door begins to crack,It's like a stick across your back;And when your back begins to smart,It's like a penknife in your heart;And when your heart begins to bleed,You're dead, and dead, and dead, indeed.
The first stanza of this jingle was long attributed to Longfellow as an impromptu made on one of his children. He took occasion to deny this, as well as the authorship of the almost equally famous "Mr. Finney had a turnip." The last two stanzas bear evidence of a more sophisticated origin than that of real nursery rhymes. Mr. Lucas, in hisBook of Verses for Children, gives two different versions of these stanzas.
There was a little girl, and she had a little curl,Right down the middle of her forehead,When she was good, she was very, very good,But when she was bad, she was horrid.One day she went upstairs, while her parents, unawares,In the kitchen down below were occupied with meals,And she stood upon her head, on her little truckle-bed,And she then began hurraying with her heels.Her mother heard the noise, and thought it was the boys,A playing at a combat in the attic,But when she climbed the stair and saw Jemima there,She took and she did whip her most emphatic!
The following was one of the favorite "toy-book" texts of the eighteenth century. These little books generally had a crude woodcut and one stanza of text on a page. It can be seen how easily this story lends itself to illustration. Each stanza is a chapter, and the story-teller could continue as long as his inventiveness held out. In one edition there are these additional lines:
"Old Mother Hubbard sat down in a chair,And danced her dog to a delicate air;She went to the garden to buy him a pippin,When she came back the dog was a-skipping."
Old Mother HubbardWent to the cupboard,To get her poor dog a bone;But when she came there,The cupboard was bare,And so the poor dog had none.She went to the baker'sTo buy him some bread;But when she came back,The poor dog was dead.She went to the joiner'sTo buy him a coffin;But when she came back,The poor dog was laughing.She took a clean dish,To get him some tripe;But when she came backHe was smoking his pipe.She went to the fishmonger'sTo buy him some fish;And when she came backHe was licking the dish.She went to the ale-houseTo get him some beer;But when she came backThe dog sat in a chair.She went to the tavernFor white wine and red;But when she came backThe dog stood on his head.She went to the hatter'sTo buy him a hat;But when she came backHe was feeding the cat.She went to the barber'sTo buy him a wig;But when she came backHe was dancing a jig.She went to the fruiterer'sTo buy him some fruit;But when she came back,He was playing the flute.She went to the tailor'sTo buy him a coat;But when she came back,He was riding a goat.She went to the cobbler'sTo buy him some shoes;But when she came back,He was reading the news.She went to the seamstressTo buy him some linen;But when she came back,The dog was spinning.She went to the hosier'sTo buy him some hose;But when she came back,He was dressed in his clothes.The dame made a curtsy,The dog made a bow;The dame said, "Your servant,"The dog said, "Bow, wow."
This story of a bird courtship and marriage with its attendant feast and tragedy, all followed by the long dirge of No.142, constitutes one of the longest nursery novels. Its opportunities for the illustrator are very marked, and a copy illustrated by the children themselves would be an addition to the joy of any schoolroom.
TO WHICH IS ADDED
It was a merry timeWhen Jenny Wren was young,So neatly as she danced,And so sweetly as she sung,Robin Redbreast lost his heart:He was a gallant bird;He doft his hat to Jenny,And thus to her he said:—"My dearest Jenny Wren,If you will but be mine,You shall dine on cherry pie,And drink nice currant wine.I'll dress you like a Goldfinch,Or like a Peacock gay;So if you'll have me, Jenny,Let us appoint the day."Jenny blushed behind her fan,And thus declared her mind:"Then let it be to-morrow, Bob,I take your offer kind—Cherry pie is very good!So is currant wine!But I will wear my brown gown,And never dress too fine."Robin rose up earlyAt the break of day;He flew to Jenny Wren's house,To sing a roundelay.He met the Cock and Hen,And bid the Cock declare,This was his wedding-dayWith Jenny Wren, the fair.The Cock then blew his horn,To let the neighbors know,This was Robin's wedding-day,And they might see the show.And first came parson Rook,With his spectacles and band,And one ofMother Hubbard'sbooksHe held within his hand.Then followed him the Lark,For he could sweetly sing,And he was to be clerkAt Cock Robin's wedding.He sang of Robin's loveFor little Jenny Wren;And when he came unto the end,Then he began again.Then came the bride and bridegroom;Quite plainly was she dressed,And blushed so much, her cheeks wereAs red as Robin's breast.But Robin cheered her up:"My pretty Jen," said he,"We're going to be marriedAnd happy we shall be."The Goldfinch came on next,To give away the bride;The Linnet, being bride's maid,Walked by Jenny's side;And, as she was a-walking,She said, "Upon my word,I think that your Cock RobinIs a very pretty bird."The Bullfinch walked by Robin,And thus to him did say,"Pray, mark, friend Robin Redbreast,That Goldfinch, dressed so gay;What though her gay apparelBecomes her very well,Yet Jenny's modest dress and lookMust bear away the bell."The Blackbird and the Thrush,And charming Nightingale,Whose sweet jug sweetly echoesThrough every grove and dale;The Sparrow and Tom Tit,And many more, were there:All came to see the weddingOf Jenny Wren, the fair."O then," says parson Rook,"Who gives this maid away?""I do," says the Goldfinch,"And her fortune I will pay:Here's a bag of grain of many sorts,And other things beside;Now happy be the bridegroom,And happy be the bride!""And will you have her, Robin,To be your wedded wife?""Yes, I will," says Robin,"And love her all my life.""And will you have him, Jenny,Your husband now to be?""Yes, I will," says Jenny,"And love him heartily."Then on her finger fairCock Robin put the ring;"You're married now," says parson Rook,While the Lark aloud did sing:"Happy be the bridegroom,And happy be the bride!And may not man, nor bird, nor beast,This happy pair divide."The birds were asked to dine;Not Jenny's friends alone,But every pretty songsterThat had Cock Robin known.They had a cherry pie,Besides some currant wine,And every guest brought something,That sumptuous they might dine.Now they all sat or stoodTo eat and to drink;And every one said whatHe happened to think;They each took a bumper,And drank to the pair:Cock Robin, the bridegroom,And Jenny Wren, the fair.The dinner-things removed,They all began to sing;And soon they made the placeNear a mile round to ring.The concert it was fine;And every bird triedWho best could sing for RobinAnd Jenny Wren, the bride.Then in came the Cuckoo,And he made a great rout:He caught hold of Jenny,And pulled her about.Cock Robin was angry,And so was the Sparrow,Who fetched in a hurryHis bow and his arrow.His aim then he took,But he took it not right;His skill was not good,Or he shot in a fright;For the Cuckoo he missed,But Cock Robin killed!—And all the birds mournedThat his blood was so spilled.
Who killed Cock Robin?"I," said the Sparrow,"With my bow and arrow;And I killed Cock Robin."Who saw him die?"I," said the Fly,"With my little eye;And I saw him die."Who caught his blood?"I," said the Fish,"With my little dish;And I caught his blood."Who made his shroud?"I," said the Beetle,"With my little needle;And I made his shroud."Who will be the parson?"I," said the Rook;"With my little book;And I will be the parson."Who will dig his grave?"I," said the Owl,"With my spade and shovel;And I'll dig his grave."Who will be the clerk?"I," said the Lark,"If 'tis not in the dark;And I will be the clerk."Who'll carry him to the grave?"I," said the Kite,"If 'tis not in the night;And I'll carry him to the grave."Who will be the chief mourner?"I," said the Dove,"Because of my love;And I will be chief mourner."Who will sing a psalm?"I," said the Thrush,As she sat in a bush;"And I will sing a psalm."Who will bear the pall?"We," said the Wren,Both the Cock and the Hen;"And we will bear the pall."Who will toll the bell?"I," said the Bull,"Because I can pull."And so, Cock Robin, farewell.All the birds of the airFell to sighing and sobbingWhen they heard the bell tollFor poor Cock Robin.
The following tale was edited (1885) for children by John Ruskin from a version "written principally by a lady of ninety (Mrs. Sharp.)" Ruskin himself added the third, fourth, eighth, and ninth stanzas, because "in the old books no account is given of what the cats learned when they went to school, and I thought my younger readers might be glad of some notice of such particulars." But he thought his rhymes did not ring like the real ones, of which he said: "I aver these rhymes to possess the primary value of rhyme—that is, to be rhythmical in a pleasant and exemplary degree." The book was illustrated with quaint woodcuts for each stanza after the edition of 1823, with additional drawings for the four new stanzas by Kate Greenaway, one of the most famous illustrators of children's books. Ruskin commends the result "to the indulgence of the Christmas fireside, because it relates nothing that is sad, and portrays nothing that is ugly."
Dame Wiggins of LeeWas a worthy old soul,As e'er threaded a nee-dle, or wash'd in a bowl;She held mice and ratsIn such antipa-thy,That seven fine catsKept Dame Wiggins of Lee.The rats and mice scaredBy this fierce whisker'd crew,The poor seven catsSoon had nothing to do;So, as any one idleShe ne'er loved to see,She sent them to school,Did Dame Wiggins of Lee.The Master soon wroteThat they all of them knewHow to read the word "milk"And to spell the word "mew."And they all washed their facesBefore they took tea:"Were there ever such dears!"Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.He had also thought wellTo comply with their wishTo spend all their play-timeIn learning to fishFor stitlings; they sent herA present of three,Which, fried, were a feastFor Dame Wiggins of Lee.But soon she grew tiredOf living alone;So she sent for her catsFrom school to come home.Each rowing a wherry,Returning you see:The frolic made merryDame Wiggins of Lee.The Dame was quite pleas'dAnd ran out to market;When she came backThey were mending the carpet.The needle each handledAs brisk as a bee;"Well done, my good cats,"Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.To give them a treat,She ran out for some rice;When she came back,They were skating on ice."I shall soon see one down,Aye, perhaps, two or three,I'll bet half-a-crown,"Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.When spring-time came backThey had breakfast of curds;And were greatly afraidOf disturbing the birds."If you sit, like good cats,All the seven in a tree,They will teach you to sing!"Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.So they sat in a tree,And said "Beautiful! Hark!"And they listened and lookedIn the clouds for the lark.Then sang, by the fireside,Symphonious-lyA song without wordsTo Dame Wiggins of Lee.They called the next dayOn the tomtit and sparrow,And wheeled a poor sick lambHome in a barrow."You shall all have some spratsFor your humani-ty,My seven good cats,"Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.While she ran to the field,To look for its dam,They were warming the bedFor the poor sick lamb:They turn'd up the clothesAll as neat as could be;"I shall ne'er want a nurse,"Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.She wished them good night,And went up to bed:When, lo! in the morning,The cats were all fled.But soon—what a fuss!"Where can they all be?Here, pussy, puss, puss!"Cried Dame Wiggins of Lee.The Dame's heart was nigh broke,So she sat down to weep,When she saw them come backEach riding a sheep:She fondled and pattedEach purring tom-my:"Ah! welcome, my dears,"Said Dame Wiggins of Lee.The Dame was unableHer pleasure to smother,To see the sick lambJump up to its mother.In spite of the gout,And a pain in her knee,She went dancing about:Did Dame Wiggins of Lee.The Farmer soon heardWhere his sheep went astray,And arrived at Dame's doorWith his faithful dog Tray.He knocked with his crook,And the stranger to see,Out the window did lookDame Wiggins of Lee.For their kindness he had themAll drawn by his team;And gave them some field-mice,And raspberry-cream.Said he, "All my stockYou shall presently see;For I honor the catsOf Dame Wiggins of Lee."He sent his maid outFor some muffins and crumpets;And when he turn'd roundThey were blowing of trumpets.Said he, "I supposeShe's as deaf as can be,Or this ne'er could be borneBy Dame Wiggins of Lee."To show them his poultry,He turn'd them all loose,When each nimbly leap'dOn the back of a goose,Which frighten'd them soThat they ran to the sea,And half-drown'd the poor catsOf Dame Wiggins of Lee.For the care of his lamb,And their comical pranks,He gave them a hamAnd abundance of thanks."I wish you good-day,My fine fellows," said he;"My compliments, pray,To Dame Wiggins of Lee."You see them arrivedAt their Dame's welcome door;They show her their presents,And all their good store."Now come in to supper,And sit down with me;All welcome once more,"Cried Dame Wiggins of Lee.
This is the perfect pattern of all the accumulative stories, perhaps the best known and most loved of children among all nursery jingles. Halliwell thought it descended from the mystical Hebrew hymn, "A kid, a kid," found in the Talmud. Most commentators since have followed his example in calling attention to the parallel, though scholars have insisted that the hymn referred to is a late interpolation. The hymn opens:
"A kid, a kid, my father bought,For two pieces of money:A kid, a kid."Then came the cat, and ate the kid,That my father bought," etc.
Then came the dog and bit the cat, then the staff and beat the dog, then the fire and burned the staff, then water and quenched the fire, then the ox and drank the water, then the butcher and slew the ox, then the angel of death and killed the butcher, and the hymn concludes:
"Then came the Holy One, blessed be He!And killed the angel of death,That killed the butcher,That slew the ox,That drank the water,That quenched the fire,That burned the staff,That beat the dog,That bit the cat,That ate the kid,That my father boughtFor two pieces of money:A kid, a kid."
There is an elaborate interpretation of the symbolism of this hymn, going back at least as far as 1731, in which the kid denotes the Hebrews, the father is Jehovah, the cat is the Assyrians, the dog is the Babylonians, the staff is the Persians, the fire is Greece under Alexander, the water is the Roman Empire, the ox is the Saracens, the butcher is the crusaders, the angel of death is the Turkish power, while the concluding accumulation shows that God will take vengeance on the enemies of the chosen people. This is the interpretation in barest outline only. Without the key no one would ever guess its hidden meaning. Fortunately, "The House That Jack Built" has no suchhidden meaning. But the important point is that such accumulative stories are almost as old as human records, and, like so many other possessions of the race, seem to have come to us from the Far East.
This is the house that Jack built.This is the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built.This is the rat,That ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built.This is the cat,That killed the rat,That ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built.This is the dog,That worried the cat,That killed the rat,That ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built.This is the cow with the crumpled horn,That tossed the dog,That worried the cat,That killed the rat,That ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built.This is the maiden all forlorn,That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,That tossed the dog,That worried the cat,That killed the rat,That ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built.This is the man all tattered and torn,That kissed the maiden all forlorn,That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,That tossed the dog,That worried the cat,That killed the rat,That ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built.This is the priest all shaven and shorn,That married the man all tattered and torn,That kissed the maiden all forlorn,That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,That tossed the dog,That worried the cat,That killed the rat,That ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built.This is the cock that crowed in the morn,That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,That married the man all tattered and torn,That kissed the maiden all forlorn,That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,That tossed the dog,That worried the cat,That killed the rat,That ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built.This is the farmer sowing his corn,That kept the cock that crowed in the morn,That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,That married the man all tattered and torn,That kissed the maiden all forlorn,That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,That tossed the dog,That worried the cat,That killed the rat,That ate the maltThat lay in the house that Jack built.
There was a tree stood in the ground,The prettiest tree you ever did see;The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,And the green grass growing all around.And on this tree there was a limb,The prettiest limb you ever did see;The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,And the green grass growing all around.And on this limb there was a bough,The prettiest bough you ever did see;The bough on the limb, and the limb on the tree,The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,And the green grass growing all around.Now on this bough there was a nest,The prettiest nest you ever did see;The nest on the bough, and the bough on the limb,The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,And the green grass growing all around.And in the nest there were some eggs,The prettiest eggs you ever did see;Eggs in the nest, and the nest on the bough,The bough on the limb, and the limb on the tree,The limb on the tree, and the tree in the wood,The tree in the wood, and the wood in the ground,And the green grass growing all around,And the green grass growing all around.
The following story is the same as that of the Norwegian tale "The Husband Who Was to Mind the House" (No.170). In the Halliwell version the final lines read,
"If his wife didn't do a day's work in her life,She should ne'er be ruled by he."
A later reading, now generally accepted, avoids the bad grammar by changing to direct discourse.
There was an old man, who lived in a wood,As you may plainly see;He said he could do as much work in a day,As his wife could do in three.With all my heart, the old woman said,If that you will allow,To-morrow you'll stay at home in my stead,And I'll go drive the plough:But you must milk the Tidy cow,For fear that she go dry;And you must feed the little pigsThat are within the sty;And you must mind the speckled hen,For fear she lay away;And you must reel the spool of yarn,That I spun yesterday.The old woman took a staff in her hand,And went to drive the plough:The old man took a pail in his hand,And went to milk the cow;But Tidy hinched, and Tidy flinched,And Tidy broke his nose,And Tidy gave him such a blow,That the blood ran down to his toes.High! Tidy! ho! Tidy! high!Tidy! do stand still;If ever I milk you, Tidy, again,'Twill be sore against my will!He went to feed the little pigsThat were within the sty;He hit his head against the beam,And he made the blood to fly.He went to mind the speckled hen,For fear she'd lay astray,And he forgot the spool of yarnHis wife spun yesterday.So he swore by the sun, the moon, and the stars,And the green leaves on the tree,"If my wife doesn't do a day's work in her life,She shall ne'er be ruled by me."
Jacobs, Joseph,English Fairy Tales,More English Fairy Tales,Celtic Fairy Tales,More Celtic Fairy Tales,Indian Fairy Tales,Europa's Fairy Tales.
Lang, Andrew,The Blue Fairy Book,The Red Fairy Book,The Green Fairy Book,The Yellow Fairy Book.
The Perrault stories are included in the first. Many other volumes named by colors (Violet,Orange, etc.) were made under Mr. Lang's direction, but these four include the cream.
English: Campbell, J. F.,Popular Tales of the West Highlands. 4 vols.Halliwell, J. O.,Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales.Hartland, E. S.,English Fairy and Folk Tales.
German: Grimm, J. and W.,Kinder und Hausmärchen(Household Tales).
Translated by Edgar Taylor asGrimm's Popular Stories(55 stories, 1823-1827), and illustrated by George Cruikshank. Best reprint is in one volume with introduction by John Ruskin.
Translated complete by Margaret Hunt (2 vols., 1884), Introduction by Andrew Lang.
Other excellent translations of selected stories by Mrs. Lucas and by Lucy Crane.
Indian: Frere, Mary,Old Deccan Days.Knowles, J. H.,Folk Tales of Kashmir.Steel, Flora Annie,Tales of the Punjab. (Notes by Captain R. C. Temple.)Stokes, Maive,Indian Fairy Tales.
Irish: Curtin, J.,Hero Tales of Ireland.Graves, A. P.,The Irish Fairy Book.Hyde, Douglas,Beside the Fire.Joyce, P. W.,Old Celtic Romances.Wilde, Lady Constance,Ancient Irish Legends.Yeats, W. B.,Irish Fairy Tales.
Italian: Crane, T. F.,Italian Popular Tales.
Norse: Asbjörnsen, P. C., and Moe, J.,Norske Folke-eventyr(Norwegian Folk Tales, 1842-1844, with subsequent additions).
Translated by Sir George Webbe Dasent inPopular Tales from the NorseandTales of the Fjeld;by H. L. Braekstad inRound the Yule LogandFairy Tales from the North.
Slavic: Bain, R. Nesbit,Cossack Fairy Tales,Russian Folk Tales.
Cox, Roalfe,Cinderella. (Introduction by Lang.)Clouston, W. A.,Popular Tales and Fictions. 2 vols.Gomme, G. L.,Folklore as an Historical Science.Hartland, E. S.,The Science of Fairy Tales.Keightly, Thomas,Fairy Mythology.Lang, Andrew,Perrault's Popular Tales. (Introduction.)MacCulloch, J. A.,The Childhood of Fiction.
Adler, Felix,The Moral Instruction of Children, pp. 63-79.Kready, Laura F.,The Study of Fairy Tales. (Indispensable.)MacClintock, P. L.,Literature in the Elementary School, pp. 92-112.McMurry, Charles,Special Method in Reading, pp. 47-69.
The forty-three tales in this section have been chosen (1) in the light of what experience shows children most enjoy, (2) to represent as fully as possible the great variety of our traditional inheritance, (3) to afford an opportunity of calling attention to additional riches in various collections, and (4) to suggest a fair minimum of the amount of such material to be used with children. As in all such questions of judgment, there must inevitably be differences of opinion. Many will doubtless find stories missing that seem necessary even to so small a list, while others will find tales included that may seem questionable. Such a selection can be, and is intended to be, only tentative, a starting point from which there are many lines of departure.
Folklore.These tales are all from the traditional field. They are mainly of anonymous and popular origin, handed down orally by peasants. The investigation of their origin, distribution, and interrelations belongs to the science of folklore. A good-sized library could be filled entirely with the books concerned with the studies and disputations in this interesting field. While the folklorists have very much of value to tell the teacher, their questions may be largely ignored until the latter is quite fully acquainted with a large body of the acknowledged masterpieces among folk stories, especially those which the schools have taken to themselves as useful in elementary work. Teachers interested in pursuing the matter further—and it is to be hoped there are many such—will find suggestions in the notes at the head of each tale and in the preceding bibliography that may prove serviceable in directing them some little way. Each book will point the student to many others; when he is once started on the road of investigation, there will open up many unexpected and fascinating vistas.
Objections to fairy tales.These objections seem to fall as a rule under two main heads. First, there are those who object to any stimulation of the fanciful in children, and who would have us confine ourselves to what they call realities. They would eliminate as far as possible all the imaginings of children. The make-believe world so dear to infancy has no place in their creed. Second, there are those who doubt the moral tendency of all fairy tales. They observe that many of these tales come to us from a cruder and coarser social state than our own, that they contain elements of a superstitious and animistic past, that they often deal with cruelties and horrors, trickeries and disloyalties, that they are full of romantic improbabilities and impossibilities. It may as well be admitted at once that the folklore of the world contains many stories to which these and other objections are valid.
Is there a proper line of defense for fairy tales?Dr. Felix Adler, who certainly cannot be accused of being insensible to realities, puts the case thus, as between defenders and objectors: "I venture to think that, as in many other cases, the cause of the quarrel is what logicians call anundistributed middle—in other words, thatthe parties to the dispute have each a different kind of fairy tale in mind. This species of literature can be divided broadly into two classes—one consisting of tales which ought to be rejected because they are really harmful, and children ought to be protected from their bad influence, the other of tales which have a most beautiful and elevating effect, and which we cannot possibly afford to leave unutilized." Dr. Adler proceeds to point out that the chief pedagogic values of the latter class are (1) that they exercise and cultivate the imagination, and (2) that they stimulate the idealizing tendency.
John Ruskin, another teacher who constantly in his writings throws the emphasis upon the necessity of a true ethical understanding, has this to say about the mischievous habit of trying to remake the fairy story in the service of morals: "And the effect of the endeavor to make stories moral upon the literary merit of the work itself, is as harmful as the motive of the effort is false. For every fairy tale worth recording at all is the remnant of a tradition possessing true historical value;—historical, at least in so far as it has naturally arisen out of the mind of a people under special circumstances, and arisen not without meaning, nor removed altogether from their sphere of religious faith. It sustains afterwards natural changes from the sincere action of the fear or fancy of successive generations; it takes new color from their manner of life, and new form from their changing moral tempers. As long as these changes are natural and effortless, accidental and inevitable, the story remains essentially true, altering its form, indeed, like a flying cloud, but remaining a sign of the sky; a shadowy image, as truly a part of the great firmament of the human mind as the light of reason which it seems to interrupt. But the fair deceit and innocent error of it cannot be interpreted nor restrained by a wilful purpose, and all additions to it by art do but defile, as the shepherd disturbs the flakes of morning mist with smoke from his fire of dead leaves." Instead of retouching stories "to suit particular tastes, or inculcate favorite doctrines," Ruskin would have the child "know his fairy tale accurately, and have perfect joy or awe in the conception of it as if it were real; thus he will always be exercising his power of grasping realities: but a confused, careless, and discrediting tenure of the fiction will lead to as confused and careless reading of fact." Still further, Ruskin defends the vulgarity, or commonness of language, found in many of the tales as "of a wholesome and harmless kind. It is not, for instance, graceful English, to say that a thought 'popped into Catherine's head'; but it nevertheless is far better, as an initiation into literary style, that a child should be told this than that 'a subject attracted Catherine's attention.'"
Finally, we cannot forbear adding one more quotation, from the most delightful of attacks upon the attackers of fairy tales, by Miss Repplier: "That which is vital in literature or tradition, which has survived the obscurity and wreckage of the past, whether as legend, or ballad, or mere nursery rhyme, has survived in right of some intrinsic merit of its own, and will not be snuffed out of existence by any of our precautionary or hygienic measures. . . . Puss in Boots is one long record of triumphant effrontery and deception. An honest and self-respecting lad would have explained to the king that he was not the Marquis of Carabas at all; that he had no desire toprofit by his cat's ingenious falsehoods, and no weak ambition to connect himself with the aristocracy. Such a hero would be a credit to our modern schoolrooms, and lift a load of care from the shoulders of our modern critics. Only the children would have none of him, but would turn wistfully back to those brave old tales which are their inheritance from a splendid past, and of which no hand shall rob them." And upon this ultimate fact that in literature the final decision rests with the audience appealed to, the discussion may end.
How to use fairy stories.Briefly, the whole matter may be summed up thus:Know your story perfectly. Don't read it (unless you can't do better). Tell it—with all the graces of voice and action you can command. Tell it naturally and simply, as the folk-tellers did, not with studied and elaborate "elocutionary" effects. Tell it again and again. If you do it well, the children will not soon tire of it—and they will indicate what you should do next!