IIIFOLK-TALES
(Adapted for Children, Six to Twelve Years.)
Oneday a Bear met a Fox, who was slinking along with a string of fish he had stolen. “Where did you get those nice fish?” said the Bear. “That’s telling,” laughed the Fox; “but if you want to get some, go out on the ice, cut a hole in it, and stick your tail down in the hole and hold your tail there until you feel a bite. The longer you hold your tail in the hole the more fish you will get. Then all at once pull your tail out sidewise with a strong jerk.” The Bear went down to the ice and held his tail a long, long time in the hole until it was frozen fast in. Then he jerked it out with a side pull, and his tail snapped short off. And people used to think that is why the Bear has a stumpy tail.
Far, far away to the North, in the bitter winter, a hunter and his little son sat down beside their fire, watching it day and night. They knew well that unless it was kept burning the people would freeze and the Bear would have the Northland all to himself. But one night when the father was ill and the boy was so tired that he fell fast asleep, the Bear stole up quietly and poked the fire with his big, wet paws. Thinking the fire was out, he went quickly away to his cave. But as soon as the Bearwas gone, a little gray Robin flew down and fanned a tiny blue spark into a flame with her wings. As she did this, the little Robin’s breast was burned red. But wherever she flew after that, over all the woods, a fire began to burn, and the whole Northland became full of fires, and so the Bear did not have all the North country to himself. For a thousand years the people of the North have had a great love for the Robin. And they tell their children this story why the Robin’s breast became red.—Adapted from Coates’ “Nature Myths and Stories.”
“Go out into the forest and gather sticks for the fire,” said the wood-cutter’s wife to her husband. “To-morrow will be Sunday, and we have no wood to burn.” “Yes,” he said, “I will go.” He went to the forest, but instead of getting the fire-wood, he sat by the bank of a stream and fished all day, and late at night went home without any wood. His wife was already asleep and did not know what he had done. Early the next morning he crept out to the forest, intending to bring wood before she would be astir. He cut the wood, and began carrying the bundle of sticks on his back, when a voice behind him said, “Put the wood down.” “I can’t,” he said, “my wife cannot cook dinner without it.” “You will have no dinner to-day,” said the voice. “My wife will not know I did not bring wood last night,” he said. “Put the wood down! It is Sunday, the day when men should rest from their work.” “Sunday or Monday,” said the man, “it is all one to me.” “Then,” said the voice, “if you will not keep Sunday on earth, you shall keep Monday in the heavens, and you shall carry your wood until the Judgment Day.”
The man could not tell how it was, but he felt himselfbeing lifted up, up, up, sticks and all, till he was in the moon. “Here you shall stay,” said the voice. On any clear night, when you look up at the moon, you can still see a great shadow, like an old man with wood on his shoulder.
Long ago the Greek people believed that the world was ruled by many gods. They thought Jupiter was the father, with many powerful children. One of these was Prometheus, meaning “Forethought.” This god had a kind heart, and longed to help the poor and unhappy men of earth who lived in caves and holes in the rocks, hungry and cold. They ate their food raw, like the beasts. They had no tools, nor comforts. Prometheus said: “Poor man, how I pity him! If he only had fire, then he would be happy. Yes, man shall have fire, even if Jupiter kills me.” So one dark night he set out for Mount Olympus, the abode of the gods, stole a lighted brand, hid it in his bosom, and brought it down to man. “See the gift I bring you!” he cried. It was midwinter. Snows were deep on the ground. Ice covered the rivers. Men were shivering in the cold and little children were freezing. Prometheus laid wood together and touched it with his firebrand, and lo! the first fire on earth was started! Blue fingers were spread out to the wonderful warmth. Pinched faces smiled in the golden glow. “Summer is come again!” they shouted. They called Prometheus, the helper of man. But he became their teacher too. He showed them how to cook their food, make tools, and dig metals from the earth, and soon man was warm and happy and busy. One day Jupiter looked down from his high throne on the topmost peak of Mount Olympus andsaw the fire-theft. In fearful anger he ordered his son, Vulcan, the blacksmith of the gods, to seize Prometheus, carry him away to the Caucasian Mountains, chain him fast to a huge rock, where a great vulture tore out his liver. There Prometheus suffered for ages; but generation after generation of men lived on earth, and died, blessing him for the gift he had brought to them. After many centuries of woe, Hercules found Prometheus, killed the vulture, broke the chain, and set free the suffering god, who said, “I am glad man has the fire-gift!” And the sight of man warming himself beside it and using it comforted him.
The Greeks believed that Apollo was the god of music and of hunting, and also of the sun. Every day, they thought, he rode through the sky in his golden chariot, drawn by fiery horses. One day Phaethon, meaning “the Bright and Shining One,” his son, said, “Father, let me drive your chariot for one day.” “My son,” said Apollo, “I cannot grant your request! ’Tis a mischief, not a gift, you ask. The road is steep and the four fiery steeds untamed. You would grow dizzy and fall and set the world on fire.” But Phaethon pleaded and, because he had promised, at last Apollo ordered the Hours to harness the horses and fling wide open the palace-gates. Phaethon took the reins and the whip in his hands. “My son,” said Apollo, “be sure to watch the horses with the greatest care, and do not use the whip.” At first Phaethon remembered his father’s words and he enjoyed his ride; but soon he became reckless and drove faster and faster until he lost his way. In trying to find it again he drove so near the earth that immediately trees shriveled, harvests withered, fountains dried up, cities were burned toashes, and even the people of the land over which he was passing were burned black—which color the Negroes have to this day. This frightened Phaethon so much that he whipped up his horses, and drove them so far away that the earth turned to a sudden cold. The cries of the suffering people rose in chorus to Jupiter, who awoke from his deep sleep, and at once hurled his deadliest thunderbolt straight at the foolhardy Phaethon. In a moment the dead boy fell like a shooting star into the waters of a deep river. His intimate friend, Cycnus, continually plunged into the river in hope of finding all the scattered pieces of his body, until the gods changed him into a swan. And that is the reason, the Greeks thought, why the swan is ever mournfully sailing about, and often plunging his head into the water to continue his sad search for Phaethon.
Clytie was a water-nymph who lived in a cave at the bottom of the sea. She had never seen the earth or sky or stars or sun or light of day, in her dark home, deep in the sea. One morning she floated up so far that she reached the surface and swam to the beautiful green shore. Shaking the water out of her waving yellow hair, she sat and watched a golden ball which was arising out of the east. It was the sun. With wonder and delight her eyes followed him as he mounted higher and higher. It became noon, but Clytie never stirred. She scarcely seemed to breathe. Soon the sun sank lower and lower toward the west, and Clytie’s eyes still followed him with love. Then the sun sank from sight. Clytie fell upon her face in sorrow, crying, “Oh, the miracle! shall I ever see it again? I will not leave this spot. I will wait to see if the wonder may not return.” Sothrough the long night she watched, and in the white light of dawn the great sun burst again in beauty upon the waiting eyes of Clytie, who followed him in his course, turning her sweet, sad face, east, south, and west as the day advanced. This she did day after day, until at last the gods, in pity, changed her into the sunflower. But the sunflower still follows, with upturned face, the daily journey of the sun.
So the heart that has truly loved never forgets,But as truly loves on to the close;As the sunflower turns to her god when he setsThe same look which she turned when he rose.
So the heart that has truly loved never forgets,But as truly loves on to the close;As the sunflower turns to her god when he setsThe same look which she turned when he rose.
So the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close;
As the sunflower turns to her god when he sets
The same look which she turned when he rose.
Once there was a King, named Midas, who loved gold better than anything else in the world. Every day he went down into a dark room in his castle to play with his piles of gold, and to see them shine. One morning, before he arose from his bed, he sighed: “I wish I had the whole world for my treasure-room, and that it was full of gold all my own, then I would be very happy!” Just then a voice said, “Midas, you are a very rich man. You ought to be the happiest man in the world.” “I am not,” said the King; “but I would be if everything I touched would turn to gold.” “Are you sure you would not be sorry you made such a choice?” said the voice. “How could I be sorry? I would be the happiest man in the world!” “Very well, then,” said the voice, “you shall have the Golden Touch.” Just then a little sunbeam came through the window shining on his bed. He put out his hand and touched the coverlet, and it was turned to gold. He sprang from his bed and ran about the room, turning everything to gold. Then he dressed himself and was delighted to find his clothes becamegolden garments, and his spectacles turned to gold. Going down-stairs he went out into the garden, and kept plucking roses which changed into beautiful, shining gold. Even the dewdrops became little nuggets of gold. Then he went back into the house to breakfast, and had great fun changing his daughter’s bread and milk bowl into gold. Just then his daughter, Marygold, came into the room crying, “Oh, my beautiful roses are all ugly and yellow and without any fragrance.” “Don’t cry,” said her father; “let us eat.” But as soon as he touched his breakfast, the baked potatoes, fish, and cakes all became gold. He raised the cup of coffee to his lips. That too turned to gold, and of course he could not drink it. He looked at Marygold who was quietly eating her bread and milk. How he longed to have just one taste. Seeing her father’s sad face, Marygold ran to him, but as soon as he took her in his arms and kissed her she too became hard, shining gold, and even her tears were little nuggets of gold. Poor, unhappy King! His heart was sad. He threw himself on the floor and tried to pray, but the words would not come. All at once the room grew bright, and a voice said, “How do you like the Golden Touch?” “I hate the very name of gold!” cried the King. “I would give all I have just to see my daughter smile again.” “Then,” said the voice, “take a pitcher, go to the river, jump in head first and fill the pitcher with water; then sprinkle a few drops of it on everything you have changed to gold. Everything will become as before.” The King quickly did all the voice said. The first thing he did with the water was to sprinkle Marygold, who at once opened her eyes in life again. Then he went into the garden and changed the roses back to their natural beauty and fragrance. Nor did he stop until he had sprinkled water on everything he had changed to gold. Then he ate his breakfast with great joy. Only two things wereleft to remind him of the Golden Touch—the sand in the river and Marygold’s hair. As this made her more beautiful, Midas said that was the only gold he cared for after that.—Adapted from Hawthorne’s “Tanglewood Tales.”
Once upon a time in the early days of the Christians, in the reign of the Emperor Diocletian, there was born in the province of Cappadocia, in Asia Minor, a beautiful baby boy, named George, who grew up to be a brave soldier and knight. Once when he was on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land he came to a town in the country of Libya where the people were living in great terror because a great dragon, with poisonous breath, had his home in a marsh outside the city walls. The monster had devoured their sheep and oxen, and the people were forced to shut themselves close inside their city and send out each day a sheep to satisfy the hunger of this dreadful dragon. At last not one sheep was left. Then the King ordered that each day two children, chosen by lot, should be sent out to the dragon. The people obeyed the King’s order and from day to day arose the bitter cries of parents upon whose children the cruel lot had fallen. But one morning the lot fell upon Cleodolinda, the beautiful fifteen-year-old daughter of the King. He was in despair, for he loved his little daughter most tenderly. He offered all the gold in the treasury and half his kingdom if she should be spared. But the parents who had been obliged to sacrifice their children insisted that the King’s daughter should be given to the dragon, and threatened to burn the King in his palace if he did not send her forth at once. The King pleaded for eight days longer to bid farewell to her. Then he sent her forth weeping, and arrayed in her royal robes, to die for herpeople. Walking timidly toward the terrible monster’s den, along the path strewn thick with the bleaching bones of her former playmates, she suddenly heard the sound of hurrying horse’s hoofs. She looked up, and there was a beautiful young knight in armor, on a milk-white horse, coming toward her with a gleaming spear, ready to do battle with any enemy that might cross his path. She cried, “Fly! fly for your life, Sir Knight!” But when he had heard her sad story, he said: “God forbid that I should fly! I will destroy this monster, your enemy, and deliver you through the power that lives in all true followers of Christ.” Just then the dragon came forth, half flying and half crawling toward them, clashing his bronze scales with horrid noise. Cleodolinda again begged the knight to fly and leave her to her fate. But Saint George made the sign of the cross and rushed upon the monster. The struggle was fierce and long, for it was hard to strike through the dragon’s bronze scales. But at last, with a blow like that of three strong men, Saint George pinned the dragon to the earth with his lance. Cleodolinda did not run away but, “with folded hands and knees full truly bent,” the brave girl stood near her champion, who said: “Touch him and see how tame he is. See, even his poisonous breath is gone. It is the power of good over evil.” Then he took the girl’s rich girdle, bound it round the great dragon, and gave one end to her, telling her to lead the dragon into the city. So the girl who had obediently gone out to the dragon expecting him to devour her, obediently led the powerless creature over the fields he had laid waste and over the bleaching bones of the children he had devoured, and the meek monster followed her like a lamb toward the walls of the city where the people were gathered in terror. Saint George called out: “Fear not, only believe in the Christ through whose might I have overpowered yourenemy, and I will destroy the dragon before your eyes.” Then he took his sword and smote off the dragon’s head, and all the people hailed him as their deliverer. But Saint George bade them give God the praise. He preached to them so earnestly that the King and princess and all the people became Christians. He would not take the gold the King offered him, but ordered that it be distributed among the poor. Then he bade them all adieu and rode away to do in other lands like noble deeds of loving service. So this champion of the weak became the patron saint of merry England, and only the bravest knight or soldier may wear the cross and be called a Knight of Saint George.
If you should ever sail across the ocean to Ireland, and travel on that Emerald Isle, you would be sure to hear many interesting stories about the good missionary, Saint Patrick. One story which was told many years ago by an old monk named Jocelin, is this:
Long, long ago, when Ireland was called Erin, and before Saint Patrick came to the island, the people were troubled with a plague of demons and reptiles. Patrick was the son of a Christian magistrate who lived in England. In the year A. D. 411, when Patrick was fifteen, some wild Irish raiders stole him and sold him as a slave in Ireland, where he remained in slavery for six years tending pigs upon the mountains. When this Christian boy, Patrick, made his escape to France, he resolved to return to Ireland and devote himself as a missionary to the conversion of the people. When he returned to Ireland to enter upon his mission, he found the country stricken because of the demons and reptiles. By means of a wondrous staff which he stretched toward heaven, anda holy bell, Fuin Foya, which when he rang was heard throughout Erin, he drove away the demons with howls of rage. Then, as he went about the land preaching and doing good to all the people, he found them still suffering with the plague of snakes and toads, which ugly reptiles he drove westward until they reached a high rock, when, with a hissing sound, they turned upon Saint Patrick and tried to poison him. But the saint was armed with his melodious bell, which had been given by the angels, and of all sounds in the world the ringing of a heavenly bell is most terrible to a reptile, and the silvery tones of this bell frightened the snakes and toads more than all the bells of the land ringing together. When Saint Patrick saw these wicked serpents making ready to sting him, and saw they all no longer obeyed his commands and his threats, he uncovered the bell and the moment they heard the first tinkle they rushed forward in a body to scramble up the side of the hill and away from the sound they hated. As soon as they reached the top they began to sway to and fro in their fright, for there, far beneath the dark rocks, lay the blue waters of the ocean. But they could not wait there long, for as soon as Saint Patrick came to the summit, he made a sign for them to come near him, and, creeping and crawling, they cowered at his feet, waiting to hear their doom. The good Saint Patrick stood over them and, lifting his staff in his hand, he pointed out far over the sea. “Forward, every one into the sea!” he commanded, “and henceforth this blessed Isle of Erin shall be free forever from your power of evil!” They lay at his feet hissing and writhing in agony, but Saint Patrick began to uncover his bell, Fuin Foya. As soon as they saw that, the reptiles rushed and tumbled down, down over the steep rocks. So, hissing and howling, they plunged into the sea and disappeared under the waves.
One cold winter’s day, long, long ago, when the Coyote was the friend and the counselor of the Indian, a Boy of one of the tribes was ranging through a mountain forest with a big, gray Coyote. The poor Indians ran naked in the snow or huddled in caves in the rocks, and were suffering terribly in the cold. The Boy said, “I am sorry for the misery of my people.” “I do not feel the cold,” said the Coyote. “You have a coat of fur,” said the Boy, “and my people have not. I will hunt with you no more until I have found a way to make my people warm in the winter’s cold. Help me, O counselor.” The Coyote ran away, and when he came back, after a long time, he said, “I have a way, but it’s a hard way.” “No way is too hard,” said the Boy. So the Coyote told him they must go to the Burning Mountain to bring fire to the people. “What is fire?” asked the Boy. “Fire is red like a flower, yet not a flower; swift to run in the grass and destroy, like a beast, yet not a beast; fierce and beautiful, yet a good servant to keep one warm, if kept among stones and fed with sticks.”
“We will get the fire,” said the Boy. So the Boy and the Coyote started off with one hundred swift runners for the far-away Burning Mountain. At the end of the first day’s trail they left the weakest of the runners to wait; at the end of the second day the next stronger, and so for each of the hundred days; and the Boy was the strongest runner and went to the last trail with the Coyote. At last the two stood at the foot of the Burning Mountain, from which smoke rolled out. Then the Coyote said to the Boy, “Stay here till I bring you a brand from the burning. Be ready for running, for I shall be faint when I reach you, and the Fire-spirits will pursue me.” Up the mountainside he went. He lookedso slinking and so small and so mean, the Fire-spirits laughed at him. But in the night, as the Fire-spirits were dancing about the mountain, the Coyote stole the fire and ran with it fast away from the Fire-spirits who, red and angry, gave chase after him, but could not overtake him. The Boy saw him coming, like a falling star against the mountain, with the fire in his mouth, the sparks of which streamed out along his sides. As soon as the Coyote got near, the Boy took the brand from his jaws and was off, like an arrow from a bent bow, till he reached the next runner, who stood with his head bent for running. To him he passed it, and he was off and away, and the spiteful Fire-spirits were hot in chase. So the brand passed from hand to hand and the Fire-spirits tore after each runner through the country, but they came to the mountains of the snows ahead and could not pass. Then the swift runners, one after the other bore it forward, shining starlight in the night, glowing red in the sultry noons, pale in the twilight, until they came safely to their own land. There they kept the fire among the stones and fed it with sticks, as the Coyote had said, and it kept the people warm.
Ever after, the Boy was called the Fire-bringer, and the Indians said the Coyote still bears the mark of fire, because his flanks are singed and yellow from the flames that streamed backward from the firebrand that night in the long ago.—Adapted from “The Basket Woman,” by Mary Antrim.