STORY-TELLING 



5573 



STORY-TELLING 



there, as many as there had been blossoms on 

 the Flax. They were lighter even than the flame 

 from which they were born ; and when the flame 

 was extinguished, and nothing" remained of the 

 Paper but black ashes, they danced over it once 

 more, and where they touched the black mass 

 the little red sparks appeared. The children 

 came out of school, and the schoolmaster was 

 the last of all. That was fun ! and the children 

 sang over the dead ashes 

 "Snip-snap-snurre, 

 Bassellurre ! 

 The song is done." 



But the little invisible beings all said 

 "The song is never done, that is the best of 

 all. We know it, and therefore we're the happi- 

 est of all." 



But the children could neither hear that nor 

 understand it ; nor ought they, for children must 

 not know everything. 



The First Woodpecker 



Adapted from Phoebe Gary's poem. 



Long ago there lived at the edge of the woods, 

 in a little old house, a tiny old woman. Her 

 house was very neat and clean, and she was very 

 neat and clean, with her shiny black dress, her 

 rustling white apron with its big bow in back, 

 and her gay little red cap. The little old woman 

 did no one any harm, but because she had lived 

 so long by herself she had grown very selfish, 

 and wanted to keep every good thing she could 

 put her hands on for herself. 



One day in the summer the little old woman 

 was baking cakes. They were brown and spicy 

 and full of plums, and they smelled oh, so good ! 

 At least, that's what the hungry old man thought 

 who came along the road and smelled the cakes 

 through the open door. 



' He went to the door and knocked, and when 

 the old lady appeared he bowed to her most 

 politely. 



"Please, old lady," he said, "will you give me' 

 a cake? I am old, and have had nothing to eat 

 for a long time." 



"Just wait," said the little old lady, "and I'll 

 bake you one." "For," said she to herself, "he 

 shall not have one of these big cakes ; I'll bake 

 him a little one." 



So she took a little piece of dough and put it 

 into the oven ; but when she took it out it was 

 as big a cake, and as brown and crispy, as any 

 she had baked before. 



"That will never do," she said to herself, and 

 she put the cake on the very top shelf. 



Then she took a smaller piece of dough only 

 a teaspoonful and made a little cake and thrust 

 it into the oven ; but when she opened the door 

 she found that it had swelled and swelled until 

 it was as big as the last one. 



"Dear, dear," said the little old woman ; "I 

 just must have this one for myself." And she 

 put it on the top shelf. 



This time she pinched off a tiny, tiny piece of 

 dough, so small that she could scarcely pat it 

 out into a cake at all. But when she took it out 

 of the oven it was the biggest cake of all, and 

 instead of the one plum which had been in the 

 dough there were plums and plums, just crowd- 

 ing each other. 



This was too much. The old woman quickly 

 hid the cake, and snatched up a piece of dry 

 bread, which she handed to the poor man. He 

 said nothing, though he had noticed all that had 

 happened. 



When he had gone the old woman felt very 

 badly, for she was really not a bad old woman 

 after all. "I wish," she said, "that I were a 

 bird, so that I might take the hungry man one of 

 these nice cakes." 



And then a curious thing happened. The tiny 

 old woman grew smaller and smaller ; her neat 

 black dress and white apron and red cap turned 

 to feathers, and she flew out of the window of 

 her little old house. 



And now you may hear her any day in the 

 woods, peck, peck, pecking ; and you may see 

 her still, in her gay clothes, climbing up the tree 

 trunks, hunting in every hole for food. For she 

 has become a red-headed woodpecker, and must 

 find her food wherever she can. 



AUTUMN STORIES 

 The Coming of the Corn 



Adapted from Hiawatha. 



Hiawatha wanted, more than anything else in 

 the world, the good of his people that Indian 

 tribe which he loved better than himself. As 

 he wandered in the woods he saw the squirrel 

 and the wild goose, the strawberry and the wild 

 grape, and heard the splash of the fish in the 

 river ; but he wanted for his people something 

 different, something better than all these. 



And so he built a lodge in the forest, far away 

 from his people, and there for seven days and 

 seven nights he fasted, all the time sending up 

 prayers to the Great Spirit for the good of his 

 people. On the fourth day, as he lay half faint 

 with hunger on his bed of leaves, he looked out 

 between the poles of his wigwam and saw ap- 

 proaching through the radiance of the sunset a 

 youth whom he had never seen before. 



The young ^nan was tall and straight, and so 

 supple that he swayed in the wind like a sapling. 

 His garments were green and yellow, his hair 

 was long and yellow, and above his forehead 

 green plumes waved. As Hiawatha lay wonder- 

 ing whether this were vision or reality, the youth 

 approached and spoke to him. 



"Hiawatha, your prayer has been answered, 

 because it is not a selfish prayer, but asks for 

 the good of your people. I, Mondamin, have 

 been sent to show you how, with labor and strug- 

 gle, that great good for which you pray may 

 come. Rise and wrestle with me." 



Weakly Hiawatha rose, but with the first touch 

 of the stranger he felt himself grow stronger, 

 and more and more strength came to him as they 

 wrestled till the sunset light was gone. 



"Enough," cried Mondamin. "You have wres- 

 tled well, Hiawatha ; to-morrow, at the same 

 hour, I shall come again to try my strength with 

 yours." 



With the words, he was gone, and Hiawatha's 

 strength went with him. But the next day, and 

 the next, when the sky was reddest with the 

 sunset, Mondamin came again and wrestled with 

 Hiawatha. Just before he vanished on that third 

 day he said, "To-morrow is the day of your 



