The Art of the Story-Teller
by Marie L. Shedlock
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She was a Princess who lived in a country that was not her home. What were tears to her? If she could have stood on the top of the very highest hill and with both hands caught the great winds of heaven, strong as they, and striven with them, perhaps she might have felt as if she expressed all she knew. Or, if she could have torn down the stars from the heavens, or cast her mantle over the sun. But tears! Would they have helped to tell her sorrow? You cry if you soil your copybook, don't you? or pinch your hand? So you may imagine the Nixie's home was a safe one, and she turned round and round in the captivity of that tear.

For twenty years she dwelt in that strong heart, till she grew to be accustomed to her cell. At last, in this wise came her release.

An old gipsy came one morning to the Castle and begged to see the Princess. She must see her, she cried. And the Princess came down the steps to meet her, and the gipsy gave her a small roll of paper, but in the midst of the page was a picture, small as the picture reflected in the iris of an eye. The picture shewed a hill, with one tree on the sky-line, and a long road wound round the hill.

And suddenly in the Princess' memory a voice spoke to her. Many sounds she heard, gathered up into one great silence, like the quiet there is in forest spaces, when it is Summer and the green is deep:—

"Blessed are they that have the home longing, For they shall go home."

Then the Princess gave the gipsy two golden pieces, and went up to her chamber, and long that night she sat, looking out upon the sky.

She had no need to look upon the honeyed scroll, though she held it closely. Clearly before her did she see that small picture: the hill, and the tree, and the winding road, imaged as if mirrored in the iris of an eye. And in her memory she was upon that road, and the hill rose beside her, and the little tree was outlined, every twig of it, against the sky.

And as she saw all this, an overwhelming love of the place arose in her, a love of that certain bit of country that was so sharp and strong, that it stung and swayed her, as she leaned on the window-sill.

And because the love of a country is one of the deepest loves you may feel, the band of her control was loosened, and the tears came welling to her eyes. Up they brimmed and over in salty rush and follow, dimming her eyes, magnifying everything, speared for a moment on her eyelashes, then shimmering to their fall. And at last came the tear that held the disobedient Nixie.

Splish! it fell. And she was free.

If you could have seen how pretty she looked standing there, about the height of a grass-blade, wringing out her long wet hair. Every bit of moisture she wrung out of it, she was so glad to be quit of that tear. Then she raised her two arms above her in one delicious stretch, and if you had been the size of a mustard-seed perhaps you might have heard her laughing. Then she grew a little, and grew and grew, till she was about the height of a bluebell, and as slender to see.

She stood looking at the splash on the window-sill that had been her prison so long, and then with three steps of her bare feet, she reached the jessamine that was growing by the window, and by this she swung herself to the ground.

Away she sped over the dew-drenched meadows till she came to the running brook, and with all her longing in her outstretched hands, she kneeled down by the crooked willows among all the comfry and the loosestrife, and the yellow irises and the reeds.

Then she slid into the wide, cool stream.



There lived once upon a time in China a wise Emperor who had one daughter. His daughter was remarkable for her perfect beauty. Her feet were the smallest in the world; her eyes were long and slanting and bright as brown onyxes, and when you heard her laugh it was like the listening to a tinkling stream or to the chimes of a silver bell. Moreover, the Emperor's daughter was as wise as she was beautiful, and she chanted the verse of the great poets better than anyone in the land. The Emperor was old in years; his son was married and had begotten a son; he was, therefore, quite happy with regard to the succession to the throne, but he wished before he died to see his daughter wedded to someone who should be worthy of her.

Many suitors presented themselves to the palace as soon as it became know that the Emperor desired a son-in-law, but when they reached the palace they were met by the Lord Chamberlain, who told them that the Emperor had decided that only the man who found and brought back the blue rose should marry his daughter. The suitors were much puzzled by this order. What was the blue rose and where was it to be found? In all, a hundred and fifty at once put away from them all thought of winning the hand of the Emperor's daughter, since they considered the condition imposed to be absurd.

The other hundred set about trying to find the blue rose. One of them— his name was Ti-Fun-Ti—he was a merchant and was immensely rich, at once went to the largest shop in the town and said to the shopkeeper, "I want a blue rose, the best you have."

The shopkeeper, with many apologies, explained that he did not stock blue roses. He had red roses in profusion, white, pink and yellow roses, but no blue roses. There had hitherto been no demand for the article.

"Well," said Ti-Fun-Ti, "you must get one for me. I do not mind how much money it costs, but I must have a blue rose."

The shopkeeper said he would do his best, but he feared it would be an expensive article and difficult to procure. Another of the suitors, whose name I have forgotten, was a warrior, and extremely brave; he mounted his horse, and taking with him a hundred archers and a thousand horsemen, he marched into the territory of the King of the Five Rivers, whom he knew to be the richest king in the world and the possessor of the rarest treasures, and demanded of him the blue rose, threatening him with a terrible doom should he be reluctant to give it up.

The King of the Five Rivers, who disliked soldiers, and had a horror of noise, physical violence, and every kind of fuss (his bodyguard was armed solely with fans and sunshades), rose from the cushions on which he was lying when the demand was made, and, tinkling a small bell, said to the servant who straightway appeared, "Fetch me the blue rose."

The servant retired and returned presently bearing on a silken cushion a large sapphire which was carved so as to imitate a full-blown rose with all its petals.

"This," said the king of the Five Rivers, "is the blue rose. You are welcome to it."

The warrior took it, and after making brief, soldier-like thanks, he went straight back to the Emperor's palace, saying that he had lost no time in finding the blue rose. He was ushered into the presence of the Emperor, who as soon as he heard the warrior's story and saw the blue rose which had been brought sent for his daughter and said to her: "This intrepid warrior has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?"

The Princess took the precious object in her hands, and after examining it for a moment, said: "This is not a rose at all. It is a sapphire; I have no need of precious stones." And the warrior went away in discomfiture.

The merchant, hearing of the warrior's failure, was all the more anxious to win the prize. He sought the shopkeeper and said to him: "Have you got me the blue rose?" I trust you have; because, if not, I shall most assuredly be the means of your death. My brother-in-law is chief magistrate, and I am allied by marriage to all the chief officials in the kingdom."

The shopkeeper turned pale and said: "Sir, give me three days and I will procure you the rose without fail." The merchant granted him the three days and went away. Now the shopkeeper was at his wit's end as to what to do, for he knew well there was no such thing as a blue rose. For two days he did nothing but moan and wring his hands, and on the third day he went to his wife and said, "Wife, we are ruined."

But his wife, who was a sensible woman, said: "Nonsense. If there is no such thing as a blue rose we must make one. Go to the chemist and ask him for a strong dye which well change a white rose into a blue one."

So the shopkeeper went to the chemist and asked him for a dye, and the chemist gave him a bottle of red liquid, telling him to pick a white rose and to dip its stalk into the liquid and the rose would turn blue. The shopkeeper did as he was told; the rose turned into a beautiful blue and the shopkeeper took it to the merchant, who at once went with it to the palace saying that he had found the blue rose.

He was ushered into the presence of the Emperor, who as soon as he saw the blue rose sent for his daughter and said to her: "This wealthy merchant has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?"

The Princess took the flower in her hands and after examining it for a moment said: "This is a white rose, its stalk has been dipped in a poisonous dye and it has turned blue. Were a butterfly to settle upon it it would die of the potent fume. Take it back. I have no need of a dyed rose." And she returned it to the merchant with many elegantly expressed thanks.

The other ninety-eight suitors all sought in various ways for the blue rose. Some of them traveled all over the world seeking it; some of them sought the aid of wizards and astrologers, and one did not hesitate to invoke the help of the dwarfs that live underground; but all of them, whether they traveled in far countries or took counsel with wizards and demons or sat pondering in lonely places, failed to find the blue rose.

At last they all abandoned the quest except the Lord Chief Justice, who was the most skillful lawyer and statesman in the country. After thinking over the matter for several months he sent for the most famous artist in the country and said to him: "Make me a china cup. Let it be milk-white in colour and perfect in shape, and paint on it a rose, a blue rose."

The artist made obeisance and withdrew, and worked for two months at the Lord Chief Justice's cup. In two months' time it was finished, and the world has never seen such a beautiful cup, so perfect in symmetry, so delicate in texture, and the rose on it, the blue rose, was a living flower, picked in fairyland and floating on the rare milky surface of the porcelain. When the Lord Chief Justice saw it he gasped with surprise and pleasure, for he was a great lover of porcelain, and never in his life had he seen such a piece. He said to himself, "Without doubt the blue rose is here on this cup and nowhere else."

So, after handsomely rewarding the artist, he went to the Emperor's palace and said that he had brought the blue rose. He was ushered into the Emperor's presence, who as he saw the cup sent for his daughter and said to her: "This eminent lawyer has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?"

The Princess took the bowl in her hands, and after examining it for a moment said: "This bowl is the most beautiful piece of china I have ever seen. If you are kind enough to let me keep it I will put it aside until I receive the blue rose. For so beautiful is it that no other flower is worthy to be put in it except the blue rose."

The Lord Chief Justice thanked the Princess for accepting the bowl with many elegantly turned phrases, and he went away in discomfiture.

After this there was no one in the whole country who ventured on the quest of the blue rose. It happened that not long after the Lord Chief Justice's attempt a strolling minstrel visited the kingdom of the Emperor. One evening he was playing his one-stringed instrument outside a dark wall. It was a summer's evening, and the sun had sunk in a glory of dusty gold, and in the violet twilight one or two stars were twinkling like spearheads. There was an incessant noise made by the croaking of frogs and the chatter of grasshoppers. The minstrel was singing a short song over and over again to a monotonous tune. The sense of it was something like this:

I watched beside the willow trees The river, as the evening fell, The twilight came and brought no breeze, Nor dew, nor water for the well.

When from the tangled banks of grass A bird across the water flew, And in the river's hard grey glass I saw a flash of azure blue.

As he sang he heard a rustle on the wall, and looking up he saw a slight figure white against the twilight, beckoning him. He walked along under the wall until he came to a gate, and there someone was waiting for him, and he was gently led into the shadow of a dark cedar tree. In the dim twilight he saw two bright eyes looking at him, and he understood their message. In the twilight a thousand meaningless nothings were whispered in the light of the stars, and the hours fled swiftly. When the East began to grow light, the Princess (for it was she) said it was time to go.

"But," said the minstrel, "to-morrow I shall come to the palace and ask for your hand."

"Alas!" said the Princess, "I would that were possible, but my father has made a foolish condition that only he may wed me who finds the blue rose."

"That is simple," said the minstrel. "I will find it." And they said good night to each other.

The next morning the minstrel went to the palace, and on his way he picked a common white rose from a wayside garden. He was ushered into the Emperor's presence, who sent for his daughter and said to her: "This penniless minstrel has brought you what he claims to be the blue rose. Has he accomplished the quest?"

The Princess took the rose in her hands and said: "Yes, this is without doubt the blue rose."

But the Lord Chief Justice and all who were present respectfully pointed out that the rose was a common white rose and not a blue one, and the objection was with many forms and phrases conveyed to the Princess.

"I think the rose is blue," said the Princess. "Perhaps you are all colour blind."

The Emperor, with whom the decision rested, decided that if the Princess thought the rose was blue it was blue, for it was well known that her perception was more acute than that of any one else in the kingdom.

So the minstrel married the Princess, and they settled on the sea coast in a little seen house with a garden full of white roses, and they lived happily ever afterwards. And the Emperor, knowing that his daughter had made a good match, died in peace. MAURICE BARING.


Once upon a time in the country of Japan there lived two frogs, one of whom made his home in a ditch near the town of Osaka, on the sea coast, while the other dwelt in a clear little stream which ran through the city of Kioto. At such a great distance apart, they had never even heard of each other; but, funnily enough, the idea came into both their heads at once that they should like to see a little of the world, and the frog who lived at Kioto wanted to visit Osaka, and the frog who lived at Osaka wished to go to Kioto, where the great Mikado had his palace.

So one fine morning in the spring, they both set out along the road that led from Kioto to Osaka, one from one end and the other from the other.

The journey was more tiring than they expected, for they did not know much about travelling, and half-way between the two towns there rose a mountain which had to be climbed. It took them a long time and a great many hops to reach the top, but there they were at last, and what was the surprise of each to see another frog before him! They looked at each other for a moment without speaking, and then fell into conversation, and explained the cause of their meeting so far from their homes. It was delightful to find that they both felt the same wish—to learn a little more of their native country—and as there was no sort of hurry they stretched themselves out in a cool, damp place, and agreed that they would have a good rest before they parted to go their ways.

"What a pity we are not bigger," said the Osaka frog, "and then we could see both towns from here and tell if it worth our while going on."

"Oh, that is easily manage," returned the Kioto frog. "We have only got to stand up on our hind legs, and hold on to each other, and then we can each look at the town he is travelling to."

This idea pleased the Osaka frog so much that he at once jumped up and put his front paws on the shoulder of his friend, who had risen also. There they both stood, stretching themselves as high as they could, and holding each other tightly, so that they might not fall down. The Kioto frog turned his nose towards Osaka, and the Osaka frog turned his nose toward Kioto; but the foolish thing forgot that when the stood up their great eyes lay in the backs of their heads, and that though their noses might point to the places to which they wanted to go, their eyes beheld the places from which they had come.

"Dear me!" cried the Osaka frog; "Kioto is exactly like Osaka. It is certainly not worth such a long journey. I shall go home."

"If I had had any idea that Osaka was only a copy of Kioto I should never have travelled all this way," exclaimed the frog from Kioto, and as he spoke, he took his hands from his friend's shoulders and they both fell down to the grass.

Then they took a polite farewell of each other, and set off for home, again, and to the end of their lives they believed that Osaka and Kioto, which are as different to look at as two towns can be, were as like as two peas. THE VIOLET LOVING BOOK.


Once upon a time a Snake went out of his hole to take an airing. He crawled about, greatly enjoying the scenery and the fresh whiff of the breeze, until, seeing an open door, he went in. Now this door was the door of the palace of the King, and inside was the King himself, with all his courtiers.

Imagine their horror at seeing a huge Snake crawling in at the door. They all ran away except the king, who felt that his rank forbade him to be a coward, and the King's son. The King called out for somebody to come and kill the Snake; but this horrified them still more, because in that country the people believed it to be wicked to kill any living thing, even snakes and scorpion and wasps. So the courtiers did nothing, but the young Prince obeyed his father, and killed the Snake with his stick.

After a while the Snake's wife became anxious and set out in search of her husband. She too saw the open door of the palace, and in she went. O horror! there on the floor lay the body of her husband all covered with blood and quite dead. No one saw the Snake's wife crawl in; she inquired of a white ant what had happened, and when she found that the young prince had killed her husband, she made a vow that, as he had made her a widow, so she would make his wife a widow.

That night, when all the world was asleep, the Snake crept into the Prince's bedroom, and coiled round his neck. The Prince slept on, and when he awoke in the morning, he was surprised to find his neck encircled with the coils of a snake. He was afraid to stir, so there he remained, until the Prince's mother became anxious and went to see what was the matter. When she entered his room, and saw him in this plight, she gave a loud shriek, and ran off to tell the king.

"Call the archers," said the King.

The archers came in a row, fitted the arrows to the bows, the bows were raised and ready to shoot, when, on a sudden, from the Snake there issued a voice which spoke as follows:

"O archers, wait, wait and hear me before you shoot. It is not fair to carry out the sentence before you have heard the case. Is not this a good law: an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth? Is it not so, O King?"

"Yes," replied the King, "that is our law."

"Then," said the snake, "I plead the law. Your son has made me a widow, so it is fair and right that I should make his wife a widow."

"That sounds right enough," said the King, "but right and law are not always the same thing. We had better ask somebody who knows."

They asked all the judges, but none of them could tell the law of the matter. They shook their heads, and said they would look up all their law-books, and see whether anything of the sort had ever happened before, and if so, how it had been decided. That is the way judges used to decide cases in that country, though I dare say it sounds to you a very funny way. It looked as if they had not much sense in their own heads, and perhaps that was true. The upshot of it all was that not a judge would give an opinion; so the King sent messengers all over the countryside, to see if they could find somebody somewhere who knew something.

One of these messengers found a party of five shepherds, who were sitting upon a hill and trying to decide a quarrel of their own. They gave their opinions so freely, and in language so very strong, that the King's messenger said to himself, "Here are the men for us. Here are five men, each with an opinion of his own, and all different." Posthaste he scurried back to the King, and told him that he had found at last some one ready to judge the knotty point.

So the King and the Queen, and the Prince and Princess, and all the courtiers, got on horseback, and away they galloped to the hill whereupon the five shepherds were sitting, and the Snake too went with them, coiled around the neck of the Prince.

When they got to the shepherds' hill, the shepherds were dreadfully frightened. At first they thought the strangers were a gang of robbers, and when they saw it was the King their next thought was that one of their misdeeds had been found out; and each of them began thinking what was the last thing he had done, and wondering, was it that?

But the King and the courtiers got off their horses, and said good day, in the most civil way. So the shepherds felt their minds set at ease again. Then the King said:

"Worthy shepherds, we have a question to put to you, which not all the judges in all the courts of my city have been able to solve. Here is my son, and here, as you see, is a snake coiled round his neck. Now, the husband of this Snake came creeping into my palace hall, and my son the Prince killed him; so this Snake, who is the wife of the other, says that, as my son has made her a widow, so she has a right to widow my son's wife. What do you think about it?"

The first shepherd said: "I think she is quite right, my Lord the King. If anyone made my wife a widow, I would pretty soon do the same to him."

This was brave language, and the other shepherds shook their heads and looked fierce. But the King was puzzled, and could not quite understand it. You see, in the first place, if the man's wife were a widow, the man would be dead; and then it is hard to see that he could do anything. So to make sure, the King asked the second shepherd whether that was his opinion too.

"Yes," said the second shepherd; "now the Prince has killed the Snake, the Snake has a right to kill the Prince if he can." But that was not of much use either, as the Snake was as dead as a doornail. So the King passed on to the third.

"I agree with my mates," said the third shepherd. "Because, you see, a Prince is a Prince, but then a Snake is a Snake." That was quite true, they all admitted, but it did not seem to help the matter much. Then the King asked the fourth shepherd to say what he thought.

The fourth shepherd said: "An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth; so I think a widow should be a widow, if so be she don't marry again."

By this time the poor King was so puzzled that he hardly knew whether he stood on his head or his heels. But there was still the fifth shepherd left; the oldest and wisest of them all; and the fifth shepherd said:

"King, I should like to ask two questions."

"Ask twenty, if you like," said the King. He did not promise to answer them, so he could afford to be generous.

"First. I ask the Princess how many sons she has."

"Four," said the Princess.

"And how many sons has Mistress Snake here?"

Seven," said the Snake.

"Then," said the old shepherd, "it will be quite fair for Mistress Snake to kill his Highness the Prince when her Highness the Princess has had three sons more."

"I never thought of that," said the Snake. "Good-bye, King, and all you good people. Send a message when the Princess has had three more sons, and you may count upon me—I will not fail you."

So saying, she uncoiled from the Prince's neck and slid away among the grass.

The King and the Prince and everybody shook hands with the wise old shepherd, and went home again. And the Princess never had any more sons at all. She and the Prince lived happily for many years; and if they are not dead they are living still. From "THE TALKING THRUSH."


And it came to pass that the Buddha (to be) was born again as a Lion. Just as he had helped his fellow-men, he now began to help his fellow- animals, and there was a great deal to be done. For instance, there was a little nervous Hare who was always afraid that something dreadful was going to happen to her. She was always saying: "Suppose the Earth were to fall in, what would happen to me?" And she said this so often that at last she thought it really was about to happen. One day, when she had been saying over and over again, "Suppose the Earth were to fall in, what would happen to me?" she heard a slight noise: it really was only a heavy fruit which had fallen upon a rustling leaf, but the little Hare was so nervous she was ready to believe anything, and she said in a frightened tone: "The Earth is falling in." She ran away as fast as she could go, and presently she met an old brother Hare, who said: "Where are you running to Mistress Hare?"

And the little Hare said: "I have no time to stop and tell you anything. The Earth is falling in, and I am running away."

"The Earth is falling in, is it?" said the old brother Hare, in a tone of much astonishment; and he repeated this to his brother hare, and he to his brother hare, and he to his brother hare, until at last there were a hundred thousand brother hares, all shouting: "The Earth is falling in." Now presently the bigger animals began to take the cry up. First the deer, and then the sheep, and then the wild boar, and then the buffalo, and then the camel, and then the tiger, and then the elephant.

Now the wise Lion heard all this noise and wondered at it. "There are no signs," he said, "of the Earth falling in. They must have heard something." And then he stopped them all short and said: "What is this you are saying?"

And the Elephant said: "I remarked that the Earth was falling in."

"How do you know this?" asked the Lion.

"Why, now I come to think of it, it was the Tiger that remarked it to me."

And the Tiger said: "I had it from the Camel," and the Camel said: "I had it from the Buffalo." And the buffalo from the wild boar, and the wild boar from the sheep, and the sheep from the deer, and the deer from the hares, and the Hares said: "Oh! we heard it from that little Hare."

And the Lion said: "Little Hare, what made you say that the Earth was falling in?"

And the little Hare said: "I saw it."

"You saw it?" said the Lion. "Where?"

"Yonder, by that tree."

"Well," said the Lion, "come with me and I will show you how—-"

"No, no," said the Hare, "I would not go near that tree for anything, I'm so nervous."

"But," said the Lion, "I am going to take you on my back." And he took her on his back, and begged the animals to stay where they were until they returned. Then he showed the little Hare how the fruit had fallen upon the leaf, making the noise that had frightened her, and she said: "Yes, I see—the Earth is not falling in." and the Lion said: "Shall we go back and tell the other animals?" And they went back. The little Hare stood before the animals and said: "The Earth is not falling in." And all the animals began to repeat this to one another, and they dispersed gradually, and you heard the words more and more softly:

"The Earth is not falling in," etc., etc., etc., until the sound died away altogether. From "EASTERN STORIES AND LEGENDS."

[NOTE:—This story I have told in my own words, using the language I have found most effective for very young children.]


And it came to pass that the Buddha was born a Hare and lived in a wood; on one side was the foot of a mountain, on another a river, on the third side a border village.

And with him lived three friends: a Monkey, a Jackal and an Otter; each of these creatures got food on his own hunting ground. In the evening they met together, and the Hare taught his companions many wise things: that the moral law should be observed, that alms should be given to the poor, and that holy days should be kept.

One day the Buddha said: "To-morrow is a fast day. Feed any beggars that come to you by giving food from your own table." They all consented.

The next day the Otter went down to the bank of the Ganges to seek his prey. Now a fisherman had landed seven red fish and had buried them in the sand on the river's bank while he went down the stream catching more fish. The Otter scented the buried fish, dug up the sand till he came upon them, and he called aloud: "Does any one own these fish?" And, not seeing the owner, he laid the fish in the jungle where he dwelt, intending to eat them at a fitting time. Then he lay down, thinking how virtuous he was.

The Jackal also went off in search of food, and found in the hut of a field watcher a lizard, two spits, and a pot of milk-curd.

And, after thrice crying aloud, "To whom do these belong?" and not finding an owner, he put on his neck the rope for lifting the pot, and grasping the spits and lizard with his teeth, he laid them in his own lair, thinking, "In due season I will devour them," and then he lay down, thinking how virtuous he had been.

But the Hare (who was the Buddha-to-be) in due time came out, thinking to lie (in contemplation) on the Kuca grass. "It is impossible for me to offer grass to any beggars who may chance to come by, and I have no oil or rice or fish. If any beggar comes to me, I will give him (of) my own flesh to eat."

Now when Sakka, the King of the Gods, heard this thing, he determined to put the Royal Hare to the test. So he came in disguise of a Brahmin to the Otter and said: "Wise Sir, if I could get something to eat, I would perform all my priestly duties."

The Otter said: "I will give you food. Seven red fish have I safely brought to land from the sacred river of the Ganges. Eat thy fill, O Brahmin, and stay in this wood."

And the Brahmin said: "Let it be until to-morrow, and I will see to it then."

Then he went to the Jackal, who confessed that he had stolen the food, but he begged the Brahmin to accept it and remain in the wood: but the Brahmin said: "Let it be until the morrow, and then I well see to it."

Then the Brahmin went to the wise Hare, and the Hare said: "Behold, I will give you of my flesh to eat. But you must not take life on this holy day. When you have piled up the logs I will sacrifice myself by falling into the midst of the flames, and when my body is roasted you shall eat my flesh and perform all your priestly duties."

Now when Sakka heard these words he caused a heap of burning coals to appear, and the Wisdom Being, rising from the grass, came to the place, but before casting himself into the flames he shook himself, lest perchance there should be any insects in his coat who might suffer death. Then, offering his body as a free gift, he sprang up, and like a royal swan, lighting on a bed of lotus in an ecstasy of joy, he fell on the heap of live coals. But the flame failed even to heat the pores or the hair on the body of the Wisdom Being, and it was as if he had entered a region of frost. Then he addressed the Brahmin in these words: "Brahmin, the fire that you have kindled is icy cold; it fails to heat the pores of the hair on my body. What is the meaning of this?"

"O most wise Hare! I am Sakka, and have come to put your virtue to the test."

And the Buddha in a sweet voice said: "No god or man could find in me an unwillingness to die."

Then Sakka said: "O wise Hare, be thy virtue known to all the ages to come."

And seizing the mountain he squeezed out the juice and daubed on the moon the signs of the young hare.

Then he placed him back on the grass that he might continue his Sabbath meditation, and returned to Heaven.

And the four creatures lived together and kept the moral law.



Now it came to pass that the Buddha was reborn in the shape of a parrot, and he greatly excelled all other parrots in his strength and beauty. And when he was full grown his father, who had long been the leader of the flock in their flights to other climes, said to him: "My son, behold, thou shalt rest. I will lead the birds." And the parrots rejoiced in the strength of their new leader, and willingly did they follow him. Now from that day on, the Buddha undertook to feed his parents, and would not consent that they should do any more work. Each day he led his flock to the Himalaya Hills, and when he had eaten his fill of the clumps of rice that grew there, he filled his beak with food for the dear parents who were waiting his return.

Now there was a man appointed to watch the rice-fields, and he did his best to drive the parrots away, but there seemed to be some secret power in the leader of this flock which the keeper could not overcome.

He noticed that the parrots ate their fill and then flew away, but that the Parrot-King not only satisfied his hunger, but carried away rice in his beak.

Now he feared there would be no rice left, and he went to his master, the Brahmin, to tell him what had happened; and even as the master listened there came to him the thought that the Parrot-King was something higher than he seemed, and he loved him even before he saw him. But he said nothing of this, and only warned the Keeper that he should set a snare and catch the dangerous bird. So the man did as he was bidden: he made a small cage and set the snare, and sat down in his hut waiting for the birds to come. And soon he saw the Parrot-King amidst his flock, who, because he had no greed, sought no richer spot, but flew down to the same place in which he had fed the day before.

Now, no sooner had he touched the ground than he felt his feet caught in the noose. Then fear crept into his bird heart, but a stronger feeling was there to crush it down, for he thought: "If I cry out the Cry of the Captured, my Kinsfolk will be terrified, and they will fly away foodless. But if I lie still, then their hunger will be satisfied, and may they safely come to my aid." Thus, was the parrot both brave and prudent.

But alas! he did not know that his Kinsfolk had nought of his brave spirit. When they had eaten their fill, though they heard the thrice-uttered cry of the captured, they flew away, nor heed the sad plight of their leader.

Then was the heart of the Parrot-King sore within him, and he said: "All these my kith and kin, and not one to look back on me. Alas! what sin have I done?"

The watchman now heard the cry if the Parrot-King, and the sound of the other parrots flying through the air. "What is that?" he cried, and leaving his hut he came to the place where he had laid the snare. There he found the captive parrot; he tied his feet together and brought him to the Brahmin, his master. Now, when the Brahmin saw the Parrot-King, he felt his strong power, and his heart was full of love to him, but he hid his feelings, and said in a voice of anger: "Is thy greed greater than that of all other birds? They eat their fill, but thou canst takest away each day more food than thou canst eat. Doest thou this out of hatred for me, or dost thou store up the food in same granary for selfish greed?"

And the Great Being made answer in a sweet human voice: "I hate thee not, O Brahmin. Nor do I store the rice in a granary for selfish greed. But this thing I do. Each day I pay a debt which is due—each day I grant a loan, and each day I store up a treasure."

Now the Brahmin could not understand the words of the Buddha (because true wisdom had not entered his heart) and he said: "I pray thee, O Wondrous Bird, to make these words clear unto me."

And then the Parrot-King made answer: "I carry food to my ancient parents who can no longer seek that food for themselves: thus I pay my daily debt. I carry food to my callow chicks whose wings are yet ungrown. When I am old they will care for me—this my loan to them. And for other birds, weak and helpless of wing, who need the aid of the strong, for them I lay up a store; to these I give in charity."

Then was the Brahmin much moved and showed the love that was in his heart. "Eat thy fill, O Righteous Bird, and let thy Kinsfolk eat, too, for thy sake." And he wished to bestow a thousand acres of land upon him, but the Great Being would only take a tiny portion round which were set boundary stores.

And the parrot returned with a head of rice, and said: "Arise, dear parents, that I may take you to a place of plenty." And he told them the story of his deliverance. From "EASTERN STORIES AND LEGENDS."



There was once a poor Prince. He owned a Kingdom—a very small one, but it was big enough to allow him to marry, and he was determined to marry. Now, it was really very bold on his part to say to a King's daughter: "Will you marry me?" But he dared to do so, for his name was known far and wide, and there were hundreds of princesses who would willingly have said: "Yes, thank you." But, would she? We shall hear what happened.

On the grave of the Prince's father, there grew a rose-tree—such a wonderful rose-tree! It bloomed only once in five years, and then it bore only one rose—but what a rose! Its perfume was so sweet that whoever smelt it forgot all his cares and sorrows. The Prince had also a nightingale which could sing as if all the delicious melodies in the world were contained in its little throat. The rose and the nightingale were both to be given to the Princess, and were therefore placed in two great silver caskets and sent to her. The Emperor had them carried before him into the great hall where the Princess was playing at "visiting" with her ladies-in-waiting—they had nothing else to do. When she saw the caskets with the presents in them, she clapped her hands with joy.

"If it were only a little pussy-cat," she cried. But out came a beautiful rose.

"How elegantly it is made," said all the ladies of the court.

"It is more than elegant," said the Emperor, "It is neat.

"Fie, papa," she said, "it is not made at all; it is a natural rose."

"Let us see what the other casket contains before we lose our temper," said the Emperor, and then out came the little nightingale and sang so sweetly that at first nobody could think of anything to say against it."

"Superbe, superbe," cried the ladies of the court, for they all chattered French, one worse than the other.

"How the bird reminds me of the late Empress' musical-box!" said an old Lord-in-Waiting. "Ah, me! the same tone, the same execution."

"The very same," said the Emperor, and he cried like a little child.

"I hope it is not a real bird," said the Princess.

Oh, yes! it is a real bird," said those who had brought it.

"Then let the bird fly away," she said, and she would on no account allow the Prince to come in.

But he was not to be disheartened; he smeared his face with black and brown, drew his cap over his forehead, and knocked at the Palace door. The Emperor opened it.

"Good day, Emperor," he said. "Could I get work at the Palace?"

"Well, there are so many wanting places," said the Emperor; "but let me see!—I need a Swineherd. I have a good many pigs to keep."

So the Prince was made Imperial Swineherd. He had a wretched little room near the pig-sty and here he was obliged to stay. But the whole day he sat and worked, and by the evening he had made a neat little pipkin, and round it was a set of bells, and as soon as the pot began to boil, the bells fell to jingling most sweetly and played the old melody:

"Ach du lieber Augustin, Alles is weg, weg, weg!"[54]

But the most wonderful thing was that when you held your finger in the steam of the pipkin, you could immediately smell what dinner was cooking on every hearth in the town. That was something very different from a rose.

The Princess was walking out with her ladies-in-waiting, and when she heard the melody, she stopped short, and looked pleased, for she could play "Ach du lieber Augustin" herself; it was the only tune she knew, and that she played with one finger. "Why, that is the tune I play," she said. "What a cultivated Swineherd he must be. Go down and ask him how much his instrument costs."

So one of the ladies-in-waiting was obliged to go down, but she put on pattens first.

"How much do you want for your pipkin?" asked the Lady-in-waiting.

"I will have ten kisses from the Princess," said the Swineherd.

"Good gracious!" said the Lady-in-waiting.

"I will not take less," said the Swineherd.

"Well, what did he say?" asked the Princess.

"I really cannot tell you," said the Lady-in-waiting. "It is too dreadful."

"Then you must whisper it," said the Princess.

So she whispered it.

"He is very rude," said the Princess, and she walked away. But she had gone only a few steps when the bells sounded so sweetly:

"Ach du lieber Augustin Alles ist weg, weg, weg!"

"Listen," said the Princess, "ask him whether he will have his kisses from my Ladies-in-waiting."

"No, thank you," said the Swineherd. "I will have ten kisses from the Princess, or, I will keep my pipkin."

"How tiresome!" said the Princess; "but you must stand round me, so that nobody shall see."

So the ladies-in-waiting stood round her and they spread out their skirts. The Swineherd got the kisses, and she got the pipkin.

How delighted she was. All the evening and the whole of the next day, that pot was made to boil. And you might have known what everybody was cooking on every hearth in town, from the Chamberlain's to the shoemaker's. The court ladies danced and clapped their hands.

"We know who is to have fruit-soup and pancakes, and we know who is going to have porridge, and cutlets. How very interesting it is!"

"Most interesting, indeed," said the first Lady-of-Honor.

"Yes, but hold your tongues, for I am the Emperor's daughter."

"Of course we will," they cried in one breath.

The Swineherd, or the Prince, nobody knew that he was not a real Swineherd, did not let the day pass without doing something, and he made a rattle which could play all the waltzes, and the polkas and the hop-dances which had been know since the creation of the world.

"But this is superbe!" said the Princess, who was just passing: "I have never heard more beautiful composition. Go and as him what the instrument costs. But I will give no more kisses."

"He insists on a hundred kisses from the Princess," said the ladies- in-waiting who had been down to ask.

"I think he must be quite mad," said the Princess, and she walked away. But when she had taken a few steps, she stopped short, and said: "One must encourage the fine arts, and I am the emperor's daughter. Tell him he may have ten kisses, as before, and the rest he can take from my ladies-in-waiting."

"Yes, but we object to that," said the ladies-in-waiting.

"That is nonsense," said the Princess. "If I can kiss him, surely you can do the same. Go down at once. Don't I give you board and wages?"

So the ladies-in-waiting were obliged to go down to the Swineherd again.

"A hundred kisses from the Princess, or each keeps his own."

"Stand round me," she said. And all the ladies-in-waiting stood round her, and the Swineherd began to kiss her.

"What can all the crowd be down by the pig-sty?" said the Emperor, stepping out onto the balcony. He rubbed his eyes and put on his spectacles. "It is the court ladies up to some of their tricks. I must go down and look after them." He pulled up his slippers, for they were shoes which he had trodden down at heel.

Gracious goodness, how he hurried! As soon as he came into the garden, he walked very softly, and the ladies-in-waiting had so much to do counting the kisses, so that everything could be done fairly, and that the Swineherd should get neither too many nor too few, that they never noticed the Emperor at all. He stood on tip-toe.

"What is this all about?" he said, when he saw the kissing that was going on, and he hit them on the head with his slipper, just as the Swineherd was getting the eighty-sixth kiss. "Heraus!" said the Emperor, for he was angry, and both the Princess and the Swineherd were turned out of his Kingdom.

The Princess wept, the Swineherd scolded, and the rain streamed down.

"Oh! wretched creature that I am," said the Princess. "If I had only taken the handsome Prince! Oh, how unhappy I am!"

Then the Swineherd went behind a tree, washed the black and brown off his face, threw of his ragged clothes, and stood forth in his royal apparel, looking so handsome that she was obliged to curtsey.

"I have learned to despise you," he said. "You would not have an honorable Prince. You could not appreciate a rose or a nightingale, but for a musical toy, you kissed the Swineherd. Now you have your reward."

So he went into his Kingdom, shut the door and bolted it, and she had to stand outside singing:

"Ach, du lieber Augustin, Alles is weg, weg, weg!"


In China, you must know, the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all those around him are Chinamen, too. It is many years since all this happened, and for that very reason it is worth hearing, before it is forgotten.

The Emperor's palace was the most beautiful in the world; built all of fine porcelain and very costly, but so fragile that it was very difficult to touch, and you had to be very careful in doing so. The most wonderful flowers were to be seen in the garden, and to the most beautiful silver bells, tinkling bells were tied, for fear people should pass by without noticing them. How well everything had been thought out in the Emperor's garden! This was so big, that the gardener himself did not know where it ended. If you walked on and on you came to the most beautiful forest, with tall trees and big lakes. The wood stretched right down to the sea which was blue and deep; great ships could pass underneath the branches, and here a nightingale had made its home, and its singing was so entrancing that the poor fisherman, though he had so many other things to do, would lie still and listen when he was out at night drawing in his nets.

"How beautiful it is!" he said; but then he was forced to think about his own affairs, and the Nightingale was forgotten. The next day, when it sang again, the fisherman said the same thing: "How beautiful it is!"

Travellers from all the countries of the world came to the emperor's town, and expressed their admiration of the palace and the garden, but when they heard the Nightingale, they all said: "This is the best of all!"

Now, when these travellers came home, they told of what they had seen. And scholars wrote many books about the town, the palace and the garden, but nobody left out the Nightingale; it was always spoken of as the most wonderful of all they had seen. And those who had the gift of the Poet, wrote the most delightful poems all about the Nightingale in the wood near the deep lake.

The books went round the world, and in the course of time some of them reached the Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read and read, nodding his head every minute; for it pleased him to read the beautiful descriptions of the town, the palace and the garden.

"But the Nightingale is the best of all," he read.

"What is this?" said the Emperor. "The Nightingale! I now nothing whatever about it. To think of there being such a bird in my Kingdom— nay in my very garden—and I have never heard it. And to think one should learn such a thing for the first time from a book!"

Then he summoned his Lord-in-Waiting, who was such a grand personage that if anyone inferior in rank ventured to speak to him, or ask him about anything, he merely answered "P," which meant nothing whatever.

"There is said to be a most wonderful bird, called the Nightingale," said the Emperor; "they say it is the best thing in my great Kingdom. Why have I been told nothing about it?"

"I have never heard it mentioned before," said the Lord-in-Waiting. "It has certainly never been presented at court."

"It is my good pleasure that it shall appear to-night and sing before me!" said the Emperor. "The whole world knows what is mine, and I myself do not know it."

"I have never heard it mentioned before," said the Lord-in-Waiting. "I will seek it, and I shall find it."

But where was it to be found? The Lord-in-Waiting ran up and down all the stairs, through halls and passages, but not one of all those whom he met had ever heard a word about the Nightingale; so the Lord-in- Waiting ran back to the Emperor and told him that it must certainly be a fable invented by writers of books.

"Your Majesty must not believe all that is written in books. It is pure invention, something which is called the Black Art."

"But," said the Emperor, "the book in which I have read this was sent to me by His Majesty, the Emperor of Japan, and therefore this cannot be a falsehood. I will hear the Nightingale. It must appear this evening! It has my Imperial favor, and if it fails to appear the Court shall be trampled upon after the Court has supped."

"Tsing-pe!" said the Lord-in-Waiting, and again he ran up and down all the stairs, through all the passages, and half the Court ran with him, for they had no wish to be trampled upon. And many questions were asked about the wonderful Nightingale, of whom all had heard except those who lived at Court.

At last, they met a poor little girl in the kitchen. She said: "Oh, yes! The Nightingale! I know it well. How it can sing! Every evening I have permission to take the broken pieces from the table to my poor sick mother who lives near the sea-shore, and on my way back, when I feel tired, and rest a while in the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing, and my eyes are filled with tears; it is as if my mother kissed me."

"Little kitchen-maid," said the Lord-in-Waiting, "I will get a permanent place for you in the Court Kitchen and permission to see the Emperor dine, if you can lead us to the Nightingale; for it has been commanded to appear at Court to-night."

So they started off all together where the bird used to sing; half the Court went, too. They were going along at a good pace, when suddenly they heard a cow lowing.

"Oh," said a Court-Page. "There it is! What a wonderful power for so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before."

"No, those are the cows lowing," said the little kitchen-maid. "We are a long way from the place yet."

Then the frogs began to croak in the marsh. "Glorious," said the Court- Preacher. "Now, I hear it—it is just like little church-bells."

"No, those are the frogs," said the little kitchen-maid. "But now I think we shall soon hear it."

And then the Nightingale began to sing.

"There it is," said the little girl. "Listen, listen—there it sits!" And she pointed to a little gray bird in the branches.

"Is it possible!" said the Lord-in-Waiting. "I had never supposed it would look like that. How very plain it looks! It has certainly lost its color from seeing so many grand folk here."

"Little Nightingale," called out the little kitchen-maid, "our gracious Emperor wishes you to sing for him."

"With the greatest pleasure," said the Nightingale, and it sang, and it was a joy to hear it.

"It sounds like little glass bells," said the Lord-in-Waiting; "and just look at its little throat, how it moves! It is astonishing to think we have never heard it before! It will have a real success at Court."

"Shall I sing for the Emperor again?" asked the Nightingale, who thought that the Emperor was there in person.

"Mine excellent little Nightingale," said the Lord-in-Waiting, "I have the great pleasure of bidding you to a Court-Festival this night, when you will enchant His Imperial Majesty with your delightful warbling."

"My voice sounds better among the green trees," said the Nightingale. But it came willingly when it knew the Emperor wished it.

There was a great deal of furbishing up at the palace. The walls and ceiling which were of porcelain, shone with the light of a thousand golden lamps. The most beautiful flowers of the tinkling kind were placed in the passages. There was a running to and fro and a great draught, but that is just what made the bells ring, and one could not hear oneself speak. In the middle of the great hall where the Emperor sat, a golden rod had been set up on which the Nightingale was to perch. The whole Court was present, and the little kitchen-maid was allowed to stand behind the door, for she had now the actual title of Court Kitchen-Maid. All were there in their smartest clothes, and they all looked toward the little gray bird to which the Emperor nodded.

And then the Nightingale sang, so gloriously that tears sprang into the Emperor's eyes and rolled down his cheeks, and the Nightingale sang even more sweetly. The song went straight to the heart, and the Emperor was so delighted that he declared that the Nightingale should have his golden slipper to hang round its neck. But the Nightingale declined. It had already had its reward.

"I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes. That is my greatest reward. An Emperor's tears have a wonderful power. God knows I am sufficiently rewarded," and again its sweet, glorious voice was heard.

"That is the most delightful coquetting I have ever known," said the ladies sitting round, and they took water into their mouths, in order to gurgle when anyone spoke to them, and they really thought they were like the Nightingale. Even the footmen and the chambermaids sent word that they were satisfied, and that means a great deal, for they are always the most difficult people to please. Yes, indeed, there was no doubt as to the Nightingale's success. It was to stay at Court, and have its own cage, with liberty to go out twice in the daytime, and once at night. Twelve footmen went out with it, and each held a silk ribbon which was tied to the bird's leg, and which they held very tightly. There was not much pleasure in an outing of that sort. The whole town was talking about the wonderful bird, and when two people met, one said: "Nightin—" and the other said "gale," and they sighed and understood one another. Eleven cheese-mongers' children were called after the bird, though none of them could sing a note.

One day a large parcel came for the Emperor. Outside was written the word: "Nightingale."

"Here we have a new book about our wonderful bird," said the Emperor. But it was not a book; it was a little work of art which lay in a box— an artificial Nightingale, which looked exactly like the real one, but it was studded all over with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. As soon as you wound it up, it could sing one of the songs which the real bird sang, and its tail moved up and down and glittered with silver and gold. Round its neck was a ribbon on which was written: "The Emperor of Japan's Nightingale is poor indeed, compared with the Emperor of China's."

"That is delightful," they all said, and on the messenger who had brought the artificial bird, they bestowed the title of "Imperial Nightingale-Bringer-in-Chief."

"Let them sing together, and what a duet that will be!"

And so they had to sing, but the thing would not work, because the real Nightingale could only sing in its own way, and the artificial Nightingale went by clockwork.

"That is not its fault," said the band-master. "Time is its strong point and it has quite my method."

Then the artificial Nightingale had to sing alone. It had just as much success as the real bird, and it was so much handsomer to look at; it glittered like bracelets and breast-pins. It sang the same tune three and thirty times, and still it was not tired; the people would willingly listen to the whole performance over again from the start, but the Emperor suggested that the real Nightingale should sing for a while—where was it? Nobody had noticed it had flown out of the open window back to its green woods.

"But what is the meaning of all this?" said the Emperor. All the courtiers railed at the Nightingale and said it was a most ungrateful creature.

"We have the better of the two," they said, and the artificial Nightingale had to sing again, and this was the thirty-fourth time they had heard the same tune. But they did not know it properly event then because it was so difficult, and the band-master praised the wonderful bird in the highest terms and even asserted that it was superior to the real bird, not only as regarded the outside, with the many lovely diamonds, but the inside as well.

"You see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all your Imperial Majesty, that with the real Nightingale, you can never predict what may happen, but with the artificial bird, everything is settled beforehand; so it remains and it cannot be changed. One can account for it. One can rip it open, and show the human ingenuity, explaining how the cylinders lie, how they work, and how one thing is the result of another."

"That is just what we think," they all exclaimed, and the bandmaster received permission to exhibit the bird to the people on the following Sunday. The Emperor said they would hear it sing. They listened and were as much delighted as if they had been drunk with tea, which is Chinese, you know, and they all said: "Oh!" and stuck their forefingers in the air, and nodded their heads. But the poor fisherman who had heard the real Nightingale, said: "It sounds quite well, and a little like it, but there is something wanting, I do not know what."

The real Nightingale was banished from the Kingdom.

The artificial bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor's bed. All the presents it had received, the gold and precious stones, lay all round it, and it had been honored with the title of High-Imperial-Bed-Room-Singer—in the first rank, on the left side, for even the Emperor considered that side the grander on which the heart is placed, and even an Emperor has his heart on the left side.

The band-master wrote twenty-five volumes about the wonderful artificial bird. The book was very learned and very long, filled with the most difficult words in the Chinese language, and everybody said they had read and understood it, for otherwise they would have been considered stupid, and would have been trampled upon.

And thus a whole year passed away. The Emperor, the Court, and all the Chinamen knew every little gurgle in the artificial bird's song, and just for this reason, they were all the better pleased with it. They could sing it themselves—which they did.

The boys in the street sang "Iodizing," and, "cluck, cluck," and even the Emperor sang it. Yes, it was certainly beautiful!

But one evening, while the bird was singing, and the Emperor lay in bed listening to it, there was a whirring sound inside the bird, and something whizzed; all the wheels ran round, and the music stopped.

The Emperor sprang out of bed and sent for the Court Physician, but what could he do? Then they sent for the watch-maker, and after much talk and examination, he patched the bird up, but he said it must be spared as much as possible, because the hammers were so worn out—and he could not put new ones in so that the music could be counted on. This was a great grief. The bird could only be allowed to sing once a year, and even that was risky, but on these occasions, the band-master would make a little speech, full of difficult words, saying the bird was just as good as ever—and that was true.

Five years passed away, and a great sorrow had come to the country. The people all really cared for their Emperor, and now he was ill and it was said he could not live. A new Emperor had been chosen, and the people stood about the streets, and questioned the Lord-in-Waiting about their Emperor's condition.

"P!" he said, and shook his head.

The Emperor lay pale and cold on his great, gorgeous bed; the whole Court believed that he was dead, and they all hastened to pay homage to the new Emperor. The footmen hurried off to discuss matters, and the chambermaids gave a great coffee-party. Cloth had been laid down in all the rooms and passages, so that not even a footstep should be heard and it was all so very quiet. But the Emperor was not yet dead. He lay stiff and pale in the sumptuous bed, with its long velvet curtains and heavy gold tassels; high above was an open window, and the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the artificial bird. The poor Emperor could hardly breathe; he felt as if someone were sitting on his chest; he opened his eyes and saw that it was Death sitting on his chest, wearing his golden crown, holding in one hand his golden sword, and in the other his splendid banner. And from the folds of the velvet curtains strange faces peered forth; some terrible to look on, others mild and friendly—these were the Emperor's good and bad deeds, which gazed upon him now that Death sat upon his heart.

"Do you remember this?" whispered one after the other. "Do you remember that?" They told him so much that the sweat poured down his face.

"I never knew that," said the Emperor. "Music! music! Beat the great Chinese drum!" he called out, "so that I may not hear what they are saying!"

But they kept on, and Death nodded his head, like a Chinaman, at everything they said.

"Music, music," cried the Emperor. "You precious little golden bird! Sing to me, ah! sing to me! I have given you gold and costly treasure. I have hung my golden slipper about your neck. Sing to me. Sing to me!"

But the bird was silent; there was no one to wind him up, and therefore he could not sing. Death went on, staring at the Emperor with his great hollow eyes, and it was terribly still.

Then suddenly, close to the window, came the sound of a lovely song. It was the little live Nightingale perched on a branch outside. It had heard of its Emperor's need, and had therefore flown hither to bring him comfort and hope, and as he sang, the faces became paler and the blood coursed more freely through the Emperor's veins. Even Death himself listened and said: "Go on, little Nightingale. Go on."

"Yes, if you will give me the splendid sword. Yes, if you will give me the Imperial banner! Yes, if you will give me the Emperor's crown!"

And Death gave back all these treasures for a song. And still the Nightingale sang on. He sang of the quiet churchyard, where the white roses grow, where the elder flowers bloom, and where the grass is kept moist by the tears of those left behind, and there came to Death such a longing to see his garden, that he floated out of the window, like a could white mist.

"Thank you, thank you," said the Emperor. "You heavenly little bird, I know you well! I banished you from the land, and you have charmed away the evil spirits from my bed and you have driven Death from my heart. How shall I reward you?"

"You have rewarded me," said the Nightingale. "I brought tears to your eyes the first time I sang, and I shall never forget that. Those are the jewels which touched the heart of the singer; but sleep now, that you may wake fresh and strong. I will sing to you." Then it sang again, and the Emperor fell into a sweet sleep.

The sun shone in upon him through the window, when he woke the next morning feeling strong and well. None of his servants had come back, because they thought he was dead, but the Nightingale was still singing.

You will always stay with me," said the Emperor. "You shall only sing when it pleases you, and I will break the artificial Nightingale into a thousand pieces."

"Do not do that," said the Nightingale. "It has done the best it could. Keep it with you. I cannot build my nest in a palace, but let me come just as I please. I well sit on the branch near the window, and sing to you that you may both joyful and thoughtful. I will sing to you of the happy folk, and of those that suffer; I will sing of the evil and of the good, which is being hidden from you. The little singing bird flies hither and thither, to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's hut, to many who live far from your Court. Your heart is dearer to me than your crown, and yet the crown has a breath of sanctity, too. I will come, I will sing to you! But one thing you must promise me!"

"All that you ask," said the Emperor, and stood there in his imperial robes which he had put on himself, and held the heavy golden sword on his heart.

"I beg you, let no one know that you have a little bird who tells you everything. It will be far better so!"

Then the Nightingale flew away.

The servants came to look upon their dead Emperor. Yes, there they stood; and the Emperor said: "Good morning!"


There was once a Prince who wished to marry a Princess, but she must be a real Princess. He travelled all over the world to find one, but there was always something wrong. There were plenty of Princesses, but whether they were real or not he could not be sure. There was always something that was not quite right. So he came home again, feeling very sad, for he was so anxious to have a real Princess.

One evening there was a terrible storm; it lightened and thundered, and the rain came down in torrents; it was a fearful night. In the midst of the storm there came a knocking at the town-gate, and the old King himself went down to open it. There, outside stood a princess. But what a state she was in from the rain and the storm! The water was running out of her hair on to her clothes, into he shoes and out at the heels; and yet she said she was a real Princess.

"We shall soon find out about that," thought the old Queen. But she said never a word. She went into the bedroom, took off all the bedclothes and put a pea on the bedstead. Then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on the pea and twenty eider-down quilts on the mattresses. And the Princess was to sleep on the top of all.

In the morning they came to her and asked her how she had slept.

"Oh! wretchedly," said the Princess. "I scarcely closed my eyes the whole night long. Heaven knows what could have been in the bed! I have lain upon something hard, so that my whole body is black and blue. It is quite dreadful."

They could see now that she was a real Princess, because she had felt the pea through twenty mattresses and twenty eider-down quilts. Nobody but a real Princess could be so sensitive.

So the Prince married her, for now he knew that he had found a real Princess, and the pea was sent to an Art Museum, where it can still be seen, if nobody has taken it away.

Now, mark you: This is a true story.



I had intended, in this section, to offer an appendix of titles of stories and books which should cover all the ground of possible narrative in schools; but I have found so many lists containing standard books and stories, that I have decided that this original plan would be a work of supererogation. What is really needed is a supplementary list to those already published—a specialized list which is the result of private research and personal experience. I have for many years spent considerable time in the British Museum and some of the principal libraries in America. I now offer the fruit of my labor.



THE STORY OF THESEUS. From Kingsley's "Heroes." How Theseus lifted the stone. How Theseus slew the Corynetes. How Theseus slew Sinis. How Theseus slew Kerkyon and Procrustes. How Theseus slew the Medea and was acknowledged the son of Aegeus. How Theseus slew the Minotaur. To be told in six parts as a series.



ARION AND THE DOLPHIN. From "Wonder Tales from Herodotus," by N. Barrington D'Almeida. These stories are intended for reading, but could be shortened for effective narration.




ALEXANDER. From "Plutarch's Lives for Boys and Girls," by W. H. Weston. These stories must be shortened and adapted for narration.


HIS FATHER'S CROWN: THE STORY OF ALCIBIADES. From "Tales from Plutarch," by F. J. Rowbotham. These stories may be shortened and told in sections.



THE RELIGIOUS CAMEL. From "The Talking Thrush," by W. H. D. Rouse.

LESS INEQUALITY THAN MEN DEEM. From "Old Deccan Days," by Mary Frere.

THE BRAHMAN, THE TIGER AND THE SIX JUDGES. This story may be found in "The Fairy Ring," edited by Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith; also in "Tales of the Punjab," by F. A. Steel, under the title of "The Tiger, the Brahman and the Jackal."

TIT FOR TAT. From "Old Deccan Days," by Mary Frere. This story may be found in "The Fairy Ring," edited by Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith.


HARISARMAN. From "Indian Fairy Tales," by Joseph Jacobs.



PEASIE AND BEANSIE. From "Tales of the Punjab," by F. A. Steel.


THE TIGER AND THE HARE. From "Indian Nights Entertainment," by Synnerton.

THE VIRTUOUS ANIMALS. This story should be abridged for narration.


THE WOLF AND THE SHEEP. From "Tibetan Tales," by F. A. Schiefner.

A STORY ABOUT ROBBERS. From "Out of the East," by Lafcadio Hearn.

DRIPPING. From "Indian Fairy Tales," by Mark Thornhill.



THE BUDDHA AS KING. From "A Collection of Eastern Stories and Legends," by M. L. Shedlock.

RAKSHAS AND BAKSHAS. This story may be found in "Tales of Laughter," edited by Kate Douglas Wiggin and Nora Archibald Smith, under the title of "The Blind Man, the Deaf Man and the Donkey."

THE BREAD OF DISCONTENT. From "Legendary Lore of all Nations."


NAMGARY DOOLA. A good story for boys, to be given in shortened form. From "The Kipling Reader," by Rudyard Kipling.


THE CLEVER JACKAL. One of the few stories wherein the Jackal shows skill combined with gratitude. From "Folk Tales of Kashmir," by J. H. Knowles.

WHY THE FISH LAUGHED. From "Folk Tales of Kashmir," by J. H. Knowles.





KING MAGNUS BAREFOOT. From "Manx Tales," by Sophia Morrison.

THE GREEDY MAN. From "Contes Populaires Malgaches," by Gariel Ferrand.




DANDELION. From "Myths and Legends of Flowers, Trees, Fruits, and Plants," by C. M. Skinner.





FOOTBALL ON A LAKE. From "Chinese Fairy Tales", by H. A. Giles.



THE FROST, THE SUN AND WIND. From "Sixty Folk Tales from Slavonic Sources," by O. H. Wratislaw.


THE GODS KNOW. From "Chinese Fairy Stories," by N. A. Pitnam. This story must be shortened and adapted for narration.




THE PRINCESS OF COLCHESTER. From "Fairy Gold," by Ernest Rhys.

THE ORIGIN OF THE MOLE. From "Cossack Fairy Tales," by R. N. Bain.

DOLLS AND BUTTERFLIES. From "Myths and Legends of Japan," by F. H. Davis.



THE MOON MAIDEN. From "Old World Japan," by Frank Rinder.

THE STORY OF MERLIN. From "Stories of Early British Heroes," by C. G. Hartley.

THE ISLE OF THE MYSTIC LAKE. From "The Voyage of Maildun," in "Old Celtic Romances," by P. W. Joyce.

THE STORY OF BALDUR. From "Heroes of Asgard," by M. R. Earle. In three parts for young children.

ADALHERO. From "Evenings with the Old Story Tellers."

MARTIN THE PEASANT'S SON. From "Russian Wonder Tales," by Post Wheeler. This is more suitable for reading.

THE LEGEND OF RIP VAN WINKLE. From "Rip Van Winkle," by Washington Irving.

URASHIMA. From "Myths and Legends of Japan," by F. H. Davis.

THE MONK AND THE BIRD. From "The Book of Legends Told Over Again," by H. E. Scudder.

CAROB. From "Myths and Legends of Flowers, Trees, Fruit and Plants," by C. M. Skinner. A Talmud legend.




KING HENRY AND THE MILLER. From "A Book of Ballad Stories," by Mary Macleod.





THE PEACEMAKER. From "Legends of the Iroquois," by W. V. Canfield.


THE STORY OF LION AND LITTLE JACKAL. From "Kaffir Folk Tales," by G. M. Theal.


THE THREE COUNSELS. From "Bulletin De Folk Lore, Liege."






PAPRANKA. From "Tales of Old Lusitania," by Coelho.


THE LOST SPEAR. (To be shortened.)

THE HERMIT. (By Voltaire.)

THE BLUE CAT. (From the French.)



THE SLIPPERS OF ABOU-KAREM. From "The Golden Fairy Book."

THE FAIRY BABY. From "Uncle Remus in Hansaland," by Mary and Newman Tremearne.







THE MAIDEN WHO WAS SWIFTER THAN A HORSE. From "Servian Stories and Legends."





PERSIN AU POT. From "Contes Populaires du Pays Wallon," by August Gittee.




THE DOG AND THE RAT. From "Contes Populaires Malgaches," by Gabriel Ferrand.

RUA AND TOKA. From "The Maori Tales," by Baroness Orczy and Montagu Marstow. This story is given for the same purpose as "A Long Bow Story" from Andrew Lang's "Olive Fairy Book."


THE WOLF-CHILD. From "Tales from the Land of Grapes and Nuts," by Charles Sellers.







VIRGIL, THE EMPEROR AND THE TRUFFLES. From "Unpublished Legends of Virgil," collected by C. G. Leland.

SEEING THAT ALL WAS RIGHT. (A good story for boys.)


THE LANTERNS OF THE STOZZI PALACE. From "Legends of Florence," by C. G. Leland.







THE USELESS WAGONER. From "Myths and Folk Tales of the Russians, Western Slavs and Magyars," by Jeremiah Curtin. These stories need shortening and adapting.

THE COMICAL HISTORY OF THE KING AND THE COBBLER. This story should be shortened to add to the dramatic power. [From a Chap Book.]

THE FISHERMAN AND HIS WIFE. From "Fairy Tales," by Hans Christian Andersen.

HEREAFTER THIS. From "More English Fairy Tales," by Joseph Jacobs. This story and "The Fisherman and his Wife" are great favorites and could be told one after the other, one to illustrate the patient life, and the other the patient husband.

HOW A MAN FOUND HIS WIFE IN THE LAND OF THE DEAD. This is a very dramatic and pagan story, to be used with discretion.


THE COCKEREL. From "Papuan Fairy Tales." by Annie Ker.

THE STORY OF SIR TRISTRAM AND LA BELLE ISEULT. From "Cornwall's Wonderland," by Mabel Quiller-Couch. To be told in shortened form.




THE RASPBERRY CATERPILLAR. From "Fairy Tales from Finland," by Zachris Topelius.


GOOMBLE GUBBON, THE BUSTARD. From "Australian Legendary Tales," by Mrs. K. L. Parker.

THE TULIP BED. From "The English Fairy Book," by Ernest Rhys. I have been asked so often for this particular story I am glad to be able to provide it in very poetical language.









THE GOLDEN GOOSE. From Grimm's Fairy Tales, edited by Mrs. Edgar Lucas.

OLE-LUK-OIE. Series of seven stories.



THUMBELINA. For younger children. From Andersen's Fairy Tales.













THE GARDENER AND HIS FAMILY. For older children. From Andersen's Fairy Tales. The two best editions of Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tales are the translation by Mrs. Edgar Lucas and the only complete English edition by W. A. and J. K. Craigie.



UNLUCKY JOHN. From "All Sorts of Stories Book," by Mrs. L. B. Lang.

MAKOMA. From "The Orange Fairy Book." A story for boys.





OGIER THE DANE. From "The Red Romance Book."




A FISH STORY. From "The Lilac Fairy Book."

EAST OF THE SUN AND WEST OF THE MOON. As a preparation for Cupid and Psyche. From "The Blue Fairy Book."



HOW TO FIND A TRUE FRIEND. From "The Crimson Fairy Book." To be given in shorter form.

A LONG-BOW STORY. From "The Olive Fairy Book." This story makes children learn to distinguish between falsehood and romance.


THE STORY OF TOM THE BEAR. From "The Animal Story Book."


ALADDIN AND THE LAMP. This story should be divided and told in two sections.

THE STORY OF ALI COGIA. From "The Arabian Nights Entertainment," edited by Andrew Lang.















THE WOMAN AND THE STOLEN FRUIT. From "An Indian Tale or Two," by William Swinton.


[This is sometimes due to a kind action shown to some humble person or to an animal.]

THE THREE SONS. From "The Kiltartan Wonder Book," by Lady Gregory.

THE FLYING SHIP. From "Russian Fairy Tales," by F. B. Bain.

HOW JESPER HERDED THE HARES. From "The Violet Fairy Book," by Andrew Lang.

YOUTH, LIFE AND DEATH. From "Myths and Folk Tales of the Russians, Western Slavs and Magyars," by Jeremiah Curtin.

JACK THE DULLARD. From "Fairy Tales," by Hans Christian Andersen.

THE ENCHANTED WHISTLE. From "The Golden Fairy Book."


HUNCHBACK AND BROTHERS. From "Legends of the French Provinces."

THE LITTLE HUMPBACKED HORSE. From "Russian Wonder Tales," by Post Wheeler. This story is more suitable for reading than telling.

THE QUEEN BEE. From Grimm's Fairy Tales, edited by Mrs. Edgar Lucas.

THE WONDERFUL BIRD. From "Roumanian Fairy Tales," by J. M. Percival.






SAINT MARTIN AND THE CLOAK. Vol. 6, page 142. From the "Legenda Aurea."


MELANGELL'S LAMBS. From "The Welsh Fairy Book," by W. J. Thomas.

OUR LADY'S TUMBLER. Twelfth Century Legend Done Out of Old French into English, by J. H. Wickstead. This story may be shortened and adapted without sacrificing too much of the beauty of the style.

THE SONG OF THE MINISTER. From "A Child's Book of Saints," by William Canton. This should be shortened and somewhat simplified for narration, especially in the technical, ecclesiastical terms.




THE STORY OF KING HAROLD'S SICKNESS AND RECOVERY. From "Old English History for Children," by E. A. Freeman. I commend all those who tell these stories to read the comments made on them by E. A. Freeman himself.


THE SUMMER PRINCESS. From "The Enchanted Garden," by Mrs. M. L. Molesworth. This may be shortened and arranged for narration.

THOMAS AND THE PRINCESS. From "Twenty-six Ideal Stories for Girls," by Helena M. Conrad. A fairy tale for grown-ups, for pure relaxation.

THE TRUCE OF GOD. From "All-Fellows Seven Legends of Lower Redemption," by Laurence Housman.

THE SELFISH GIANT. From "Fairy Tales," by Oscar Wilde.

THE LIGEND OF THE TORTOISE. From "Windlestraw, Legends in Rhyme of Plants and Animals," by Pamela Glenconner. From the Provencal.


A BIT OF LAUGHTER'S SMILE. From "Tales for Little People," Nos. 323 and 318, by Maud Symonds.

THE FAIRY WHO JUDGED HER NEIGHBORS. From "The Little Wonder Box," in "Stories Told to a Child," by Jean Ingelow.




JACQUELINE ET MIRANT. From "Nos Enfants," by Anatole France.

THE GIANT AND THE JACKSTRAW. From "The Book of Knight and Barbara," by David Starr Jordan. For very small children.


THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. From "The Girl from the Marshcroft," by Selma Lagerlof. Both stories should be shortened and adapted for narration.

I trust that the grouping of my stories in this section may not be misleading. Under "Myths, Legends and Fairy Tales" I have included many stories which contain valuable ethical teaching, deep philosophy and stimulating examples for conduct in life. I regret that I have been unable to find a good collection of stories from history for narrative purposes. I have made a careful and lengthy search, but the stories are all written from the reading point of view rather than the telling.


ANDERSEN, HANS CHRISTIAN Fairy Tales; translated by Mrs. Edgar Lucas. Dutton. Fairy Tales; edited by W. A. and J. K. Craigie. Oxford University Press.

BABBITT, E. C. Jataka Tales. Century.

BAIN, R. N. Cossack Fairy Tales. Burt. Russian Fairy Tales. Burt.

BRIANT, EGBERT History of English Balladry. Badger.

BUDDHA The Jataka; or Stories of the Buddha's Former Births; translated from the Pali by Various Hands. In Six Volumes. University Press.

BUCKLEY, E. F. Children of the Dawn. Stokes.


CALTHORPE, DION C. King Peter. Duckworth.

CANFIELD, W. W. The Legends of the Iroquois. Wessels.

CANTON, WILLIAM A Child's Book of Saints. Dutton. A Child's Book of Warriors. Dutton.


CHODZKO, A. E. B. Slav Fairy Tales; translated by E. J. Harding. Burt.

CLARK, K. M. Maori Tales. Nutt.

COELHO, Tales of Old Lusitania. Swan Sonnenschein.

CONRAD, JOSEPH Twenty-six Ideal Stories for Girls. Hutchinson.

COUCH, MABEL QUILLER- Cornwall's Wonderland. Dutton.

CURTIN, JEREMIAH Myths and Folk Tales of the Russians, Western Slavs and Magyars. Little.

CUSHING, F. H. Zuni Folk Tales. Putnam.

DARTON, E. J. H. Pilgrim Tales; from Tales of the Canterbury Pilgrims. Dodge. Wonder Book of Old Romance. Stokes.

DASENT, SIR, G. W. Norse Fairy Tales. Putnam.

DAVIDS, T. W. RHYS Buddhist Birth Stories. Trubner.

DAVIS, F. H. Myths and Legends of Japan. Crowell.

EARLE, M. R. Heroes of Asgard. Macmillan. Evenings with the Old Story Tellers. Leavitt and Allen.

EWALD, CARL The Queen Bee and Other Nature Tales; translated by C. C. Moore-Smith. Nelson.

FERRAND, GABRIEL Contes Populaires Malgaches. Leroux.

FIELDE, ADELE Chinese Nights' Entertainment. Putnam

FRANCE, ANATOLE Nos Enfants. Hachette.

FREEMAN, E. A. Old English History for Children. Dutton.

FRERE, MARY Old Deccan Days. Murray.

FROISSART Stories from Froissart; edited by Henry Nebolt. Macmillan.

GESTA ROMANORUM. Swan Sonnenschein.

GILES, H. A. Chinese Fairy Tales. Gowans.

GITTEE, AUGUST Contes Populaires du Pays Wallon. Vanderpooten.

GLENCONNER, LADY (PAMELA TENNANT) Windlestraw, Legends in Rhyme of Plants and Animals. Chiswick Press.


GREGORY, LADY AUGUSTA The Kiltartan Wonder Book. Dutton.

GRIMM, J. L. K. AND W. K. GRIMM Fairy Tales; translated by Mrs. Edgar Lucas. Leppincott.

HARRIS, JOEL CHANDLER Uncle Remus; His Songs and His Sayings. Appleton.

HARTLEY, C. G. Stories of Early British Heroes. Dent.

HEARN, LAFCADIO Out of the East. Houghton.

HERODOTUS Wonder Storied from Herodotus; edited by N. Barrington D'Almeida. Harper.

HERPIN, EUGENE Au Pays Du Legendes. Calliere.

HIGGINS, M. M. Stories from the History of Ceylon for Children. Capper.

HOUSMAN, LAURENCE All-Fellows Seven Legends of Lower Redemption. Kegan Paul.

INGELOW, JEAN The Little Wonder Box. Griffeths, Farren and Company. Stories Told to a Child. Little.

IRVING, WASHINGTON Rip Van Winkle. Macmillan.

JACOBS, JOSEPH Indian Fairy Tales. Putnam. More English Fairy Tales. Putnam.

JORDAN, DAVID STARR The Book of Knight and Barbara. Appleton.

JOYCE, P. W. Old Celtic Romances. Longmans.

KEARY, ANNIE AND ELIZA Heroes of Asgard. Macmillan.

KER, ANNIE Papuan Fairy Tales. Macmillan.

KINGSLEY, CHARLES Heroes. Macmillan.

KIPLING, RUDYARD The Jungle Book. Macmillan. The Kipling Reader. Appleton. The Second Jungle Book. Macmillan.

KNOWLES, J. H. Folk Tales of Kashmir. Trubner.

LAGERLOF, SELMA The Girl from Marshcroft. Little.

LANG, ANDREW Arabian Nights' Entertainment. Longmans. The Blue Fairy Book. Longmans. The Crimson Fairy Book Longmans. The Green Fairy Book. Longmans. The Lilac Fairy Book. Longmans. The Olive Fairy Book. Longmans. The Orange Fairy Book. Longmans. The Red Fairy Book. Longmans. The Violet Fairy Book. Longmans.

LANG. L. B. All Sorts of Stories Book. Longmans.


LELAND, C. G. Legends of Florence. Macmillan Unpublished Legends of Virgil. Stock.

MACKENZIE Indian Myths and Legends. Gresham Publishing House.

MACLEOD, MARY A Book of Ballad Stories. Stokes.

MOLESWORTH, MRS. M. L. The Enchanted Garden. Unwin.

MONCRIEFF, A. H. HOPE Classic Myths and Legends. Gresham Publishing House.

MORRISON, SOPHIA Manx Fairy Tales. Nutt.

NAAKE, J. T. Slavonic Fairy Tales. King.

NOBLE, M. E. AND K. COOMARASWAMY Myths of the Hindus and Buddhists. Holt.


PARKER, MRS. K. L. Australian Legendary Tales. Nutt.

PEARSE, W. G. The Children's Library of the Saints. Jackson.

PERCIVAL, J. M. Roumanian Fairy Tales. Holt.

PERRAULT, CHARLES Fairy Tales. Dutton.

PITMAN, N. H. Chinese Fairy Stories. Crowell.

PLUTARCH Plutarch's Lives for Boys and Girls; retold by W. H. Weston. Stokes Tales from Plutarch, by F. J. Rowbotham. Crowell.

RAGOZIN, Z. A. Tales of the Heroic Ages; Frithjof, Viking of Norway, and Roland, Paladin of France. Putnam. Tales of the Heroic Ages; Siegfried, Hero of the North, and Beowulf, Hero of Anglo-Saxons. Putnam.

RATTRAY, R. S. Hansa Folk Lore, Customs, Proverbs, etc. Clarendon Press.

RHYS, ERNEST The English Fairy Book. Stokes. Fairy Gold. Dutton. The Garden of Romance. Kegan Paul.

RINDER, FRANK Old World Japan. Allen.

ROBINSON, T. H. Tales and Talks from History. Caldwell.

ROUSE, W. H. D. The Talking Thrush. Dutton.

SCHIEFNER, F. A. Tibetan Tales. Trubner.

SCUDDER, H. E. The Book of Legends Told Over Again. Houghton.

SELLERS, CHARLES Tales from the Land of Grapes and Nuts. Field and Tuer.


SHEDLOCK, M. L. A Collection of Eastern Stories and Legends. Dutton.

SKINNER, C. M. Myths and Legends of Flowers, Fruits and Plants. Lippincott.

SMITH, J. C. AND G. SOUTAR Book of Ballads for Boys and Girls. Oxford University Press.

STEEL, MRS. F. A. Tales of the Punjab. Macmillan.

STRICKLAND, W. W. Northwest Slav Legends and Fairy Stories. Erben.

SWINTON An Indian Tale or Two; Reprinted from Blackheath Local Guide.

SWINTON AND CATHCART Legendary Lore of all Nations. Ivison, Taylor & Company.

SYNNERTON Indian Nights' Entertainment. Stock.


TENNANT, PAMELA (LADY GLENCONNER) The Children and the Pictures. Macmillan.

THEAL, G. M. Kaffir Folk Lore. Swan Sonnenschein.

THOMAS, W. J. The Welsh Fairy Book. Stokes.

THORNHILL, MARK Indian Fairy Tales. Hatchard.

TOPELIUS, ZACHRIS Fairy Tales from Finland. Unwin.

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