The Story Tellers’ Magazine, Vol. I, No. 2, July 1913 by Various

VOL. I NO. 2


King Arthur Series Begins
The Storytellers’ Company, New York

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The Storytellers’ Magazine

Richard T. Wyche, Editor

The Storytellers’ Bequest to all Boys and Girls 59
King Arthur’s Tomb, Innsbruck Frontispiece
The Story of King Arthur—In Twelve Numbers. First Number: Merlin and His Prophecies 61
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata 72
A Rose from Homer’s Grave 77
The Image in Story Telling Percival Chubb 79
Endymion Frederick A. Child 82
The Story of St. Christopher R. T. Wyche 85
The Story of England’s First Poet George Philip Krapp 90
The Uncle Remus’ Stories Josephine Leach 94
Their Evolution and Place in the Curriculum.
The Three Goats Jessica Childs 97
Story Telling in Washington, D. C. Marietta Stockard 99
Story Telling for Camp Fire Girls Ellen Kate Gross 101
The Play Spirit in America R. T. Wyche 103
What The Leagues Are Doing 106
From the Editor’s Study 107
From the Book Shelf 112
Directory of Story Tellers’ Leagues 115
The Business Manager’s Story 119
Published Monthly [Except August]
27 West 23d St., New York, N. Y.


R. T. WYCHE, Pres. E. C. de VILLAVERDE, Secty H. D. NEWSON, Treas.
27 West 23d Street,

Subscription $1.00 per Year 10 cents the Copy
Copyright 1913, by The Storytellers’ Company

To all girls and boys, but only for the time of their childhood, the flowers of the field, the blossoms of the wood, with the right to play among them freely, according to the custom of children, warning them at the same time against thistles and thorns. We give to them the banks of the brooks and the golden sands beneath the waters thereof, and the odors of the willows that dip therein and the white clouds that float over the giant trees, and we leave to the children the long, long days to be merry in a thousand ways and the night and the moon, and the train of the milky way to wonder at.

We give to all boys all idle fields and commons, where ball may be played, all pleasant waters where one may swim, all snowclad hills where one may coast, and all streams and ponds where one may fish, or where, when grim winter comes, they may skate, to have and to hold the same for the period of their boyhood. And to all boys, all boisterous inspiring sports of rivalry and the disdain of weakness, and undaunted confidence in their own strength. We give the powers to make lasting friendships and of possessing companions, and to them exclusively we give all merry songs and brave choruses to sing with lusty voices.

And to all girls the yellow fields and green meadows with the clover blossoms and butterflies thereof, the woods with their appurtenances, the squirrels and birds and echoes and strange noises, and all distant places which may be visited, together with the adventures there to be found.

And to all children wheresoever they may be, each his own place at the fireside at night with all the pictures that may be seen in the burning wood, to enjoy without hindrance, and without any encumbrance of care, and to them also we give memory, and to them the volumes of the poems of Burns and Shakespeare and of other poets and their imaginary world, with whatever they may need, such as the red roses by the wall, the bloom of the hawthorn, the sweet strains of music, and the stars of the sky, to enjoy freely and fully without tithe or diminution until the happiness of old age crown them with snow.

By Williston Fish (Adapted)


King Arthur’s Tomb, Innsbruck
“That Arthur who with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro’ the lists of Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of Kings.”

The Storytellers’ Magazine
“Heaven lies about us in our infancy”
“In tholde dayes of the King Arthur,
Of which the Britons speke great honour
All was this land fulfilled of faery.”
—The Canterbury Tales.
The Story of King Arthur
(In Twelve Numbers)
By Winona C. Martin

After the last story is told (the Passing of Arthur), and the children standing with Sir Bevidere upon the highest crag of the jutting rock, see the warrior King pass with the three tall queens in the dusky barge beyond the limits of the world, they too, wonder gazing on the splendor of his Passing. Though defeated in the last weird battle in the west, yet he was victorious in his ideals, for he became the spiritual King of his race.

“From the great deep to the great deep he goes.” The children hear but do not quite understand—it is the better for that because something of the mystery of life and death is awakened in the child. In that it serves its highest purpose. It helps the child to realize that there are things in life that eye have not seen nor ear heard, and let it not be forgotten that while we use these great stories for formal work, the formal is always the result of the creative.

“The letter killeth; the spirit giveth life.” Thus it is that child and teacher leave the low plains of the “lesson hearer” and hand in hand walk the upland pastures of the soul.—Ed.

I. Merlin and His Prophecies
Once, in those dim, far off times when history fades away and is lost in the mists of tradition, there sat upon the throne of Britain a man named Vortigern. Like many another king of his day—and of later days for that matter, he had no right whatever to the crown, for he had gained it by the betrayal of a trust, and, some believed, by a still darker crime. Constantine, his over62lord, who had reigned in Britain before him, had, at his death, committed to this Vortigern, his chief minister, the care of his three sons, Constans, the heir, and his two brothers Pendragon and Uther. Soon after the King’s death little Constans had mysteriously disappeared. Then the true friends of the two remaining princes, fearing for their lives, had fled with them across the sea and found refuge for them at the court of France.

All this, however, was now many years ago; and so long had Vortigern’s right to rule been unquestioned that he had almost forgotten his crime.

In the early days of his reign he had indeed fought valiantly against the only enemies that the Britons had at that time greatly to fear. These were the tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed Saxons who came from beyond the seas led by Hengest and Horsa. But as the years had passed, he and his warriors had given themselves up more and more to lives of luxury and idleness, so that at last they had been obliged to make a shameful peace with the enemy, and the Saxons were now gradually becoming masters of the land.

It so happened, therefore, that on the day when our story opens, King Vortigern had gathered his court about him in his capital city of London, there to hold a high festival, and in feasting and carousing to forget the disgrace of their surrender and the ills of the country.

Suddenly, up to the castle gate, through the great portal, along the wide corridors, and into the very banquet-hall itself, never stopping to dismount, rode a breathless messenger.

“To arms! Sir King, to arms!” he cried, waiting for no ceremony. “Pendragon and Uther have this day set sail from the coast of France with a mighty army, and they have sworn by a great oath to take your life as you took the life of their brother Constans!”

Then the King remembered, and his face went ashen grey. He turned to one after another of the men who should have been his mighty warriors, and, reading in their flabby cheeks and lustreless eyes the story of their slothful living, knew that his cause was well-nigh lost before the fighting began.

“Summon my messengers!” he was able to say at last, and when these were brought before him:

“Ride! into every corner of my kingdom, ride! And call together63 the most skillful artificers, craftsmen and mechanics, for I have a great work for them to do.”

Within a week the messengers on their fleet horses had scoured the land, so that there stood before the King a hundred of the best workmen that Britain could produce.

“Now hear my command,” said he. “On the plain that lies furthest west in my kingdom build me a tower whose walls shall be so firm as to withstand all assault of catapult and battering-ram; and have it ready for my retreat within a hundred days, or your lives, to the last man, shall be forfeited.”

The workmen left the presence of the King with fear in their hearts; but to such good purpose did they labor that within a few days there began to be visible upon the plain the jagged outlines of the walls that were to enclose that mighty tower. Then the weary workmen, for the first time feeling assured that they could accomplish their task within the hundred days, lay down for the night and were soon fast asleep.

With the first pale glimmer of dawn, however, they arose ready to return to their labors with renewed energy. But what a sight met their eyes! The tower lay in ruins! The walls had fallen during the night!

Then with the strength of terror they fell upon their task once more. When the second morning came they turned their gaze half in hope and half in dread toward the scene of their labors, only to have their worst fears confirmed. Once again there lay before them but a heap of ruins!

“We must use larger stones,” said one.

“We have no time to talk,” put in a second. “If our lives are to be spared we must work as we never worked before.”

So all through the long hours of the day they toiled in silence and in dread until the damage of the night had been repaired, only to find when morning came that, for the third time, their tower had crumbled to the ground.

“This is enchantment!” they then cried in despair. “We cannot build the tower. Let us go and throw ourselves before the King to plead for mercy!”

But when Vortigern, with his guilty conscience, heard that word “enchantment,” a greater dread fell upon his heart.


“Lead out these useless artificers,” he thundered, “and summon my wise men.”

And presently the great doors of the throne-room were thrown open and, one by one, in solemn procession, trailing their black robes, the astrologers, the wizards and the magicians of the realm filed in, until they stood in a silent semi-circle before the King.

At last Vortigern raised his eyes.

“Tell me,” he said gloomily, “tell me, O my Wise Men, as you hold in your possession all the secrets of this world, and of other worlds unknown to ordinary mortals, tell me, I adjure you, why my tower of refuge will not stand.”

He ceased, and a deep silence fell upon the room. Wizard turned to astrologer, and astrologer to magician, for each knew in his heart that he could give no answer to the question of the King.

At last the oldest man present stepped forward and bowing low, began to speak in deep and solemn tones:

“Your Majesty,” said he, “give us we pray you until tomorrow at high noon. This night shall the wizards work their spells and the astrologers consult the stars in their courses. Then shall we be able to tell you why your tower will not stand.”

“Let it be so,” replied the King, “but also let it be well understood that if at high noon tomorrow you are still unable to answer, your lives shall pay the penalty, even as the lives of my workmen shall pay the penalty if they do not raise my tower within the hundred days. Fail me not, my Wise Men!”

That night, far down in the deepest dungeons of the castle, the wizards gathered together about a steaming cauldron, vainly chanted their incantations and worked their magic spells, while on the highest battlements, the black-robed astrologers watched the stars from evening until morning; but when the day-star itself faded from their sight in the paling blue of dawn, they were no wiser than at the beginning of their vigil.

“What shall we do?” they cried to one another in consternation when the two companies of watchers had met to report their failures.

“Hush! Speak low!” whispered the Sage. “We must pretend. It is the only way to save ourselves. I have a plan.”

And as they gathered about him he continued:


“He had fought valiantly against the enemies”

“You all know the prophecy—that a child who never had mortal parents shall soon appear among us, and that he shall be able to read more in the stars than the wisest of our astrologers, that he shall be a greater magician than the greatest of us, and that through him we shall lose our power and pass away?”

“Ah! yes, we have heard,” they answered, shaking their white heads mournfully.

“That child,” continued the Sage, “is living somewhere in Britain at this very moment, and his name is Merlin. Let us tell the King that his tower, to make it stand, needs but the blood of this child sprinkled upon its foundations. So shall we by the same act save our lives and rid ourselves of one who otherwise will surely work us harm.”

Then the Wise Men bowed their heads and answered:

“You have spoken the words of wisdom.”

So at high noon that day, when they were once more gathered about the throne, they gave their answer:

“Seek, your Majesty,” said they, “a child named Merlin who never had mortal parents. Sprinkle his blood upon the foundations of your tower. Then will it stand until the end of time.”

Thereupon the King summoned his messengers and gave the order:

“Ride! into every town, village and hamlet of my kingdom, ride! And seek this child until you find him; but know that if he is not brought to me within ten days, your lives shall be forfeited, and not yours alone, but also the lives of my Wise Men for giving me useless knowledge, and the lives of my workmen for doing useless work! Ride!”

Then out from old London Town, north and south and east and west, up hill and down dale, over mountains and across rivers, rode the King’s messengers on their strange quest. One day, two days, three, four, five and six days, seven days, eight days; and when the ninth day came two of them found themselves far from home, riding through the street of a tiny hamlet.

“What is the use of seeking further?” said one. “For my part I do not believe, for all the Wise Men say, that there ever was or ever could be such a child.”

“I fear you are right,” replied his companion, “we may as well give up the search and flee for our lives.”

As he spoke the last words, however, the men were obliged to67 draw rein lest their horses should trample upon a crowd of children who were quarreling in the narrow street. One urchin had just given another a sharp blow across the face, whereupon his victim was proceeding to vent his rage in words that immediately arrested the attention of the messengers.

“Wizard turned to astrologer”
“How dare you strike me?” he was screaming at the top of his shrill little voice. “You who came nobody knows from where, and who never had a father or a mother!”

In an instant one of the men had slipped from his horse. Then, having seized both boys, he drew them aside that he might question them. Very soon boys and men found themselves the centre of an interested group of villagers each one of whom seemed more anxious than his neighbor to give all the information that he happened to possess on the subject.

“Yes, his name is Merlin,” said one, “and he was cast upon our shores by the waves of the sea.”


“Not at all!” interrupted another. “He was brought to our village in the night by evil spirits.”

And so it went, but the anxious messengers soon cut short their eloquence.

“If your name is Merlin,” said they to the lad, “and you do not know who your father and mother are, you must come with us. It is the command of the King.”

“I am quite willing,” replied the boy with unexpected meekness.

“Perhaps he would not be so willing,” whispered one under his breath to his companion, “if he knew why he is wanted.”

“I hear what you say,” Merlin broke in, “and what is more, I know what you mean; but just the same, I am willing to go with you to King Vortigern. In fact I struck the boy knowing what he would say and what you would do; so you see I am not afraid.”

On the tenth day after the departure of his couriers, the King sat alone in his audience chamber. Suddenly the great doors were swung wide, and a boy wearing the simple dress of a tiller of the soil appeared before him.

“Your Majesty,” said he, “I am Merlin, the child who never had father or mother. You sent for me because your Wise Men have said that my blood is needed to make your strong tower stand. They have told you an untruth because they know nothing about the tower, and also because they are my enemies. I ask only that you call them together so that I can prove to you that what I say is so.”

Then, at the astonished King’s command, the great bell of the castle was tolled, and presently the black-robed astrologers, wizards and magicians filed once again into the royal presence.

“You may question my Wise Men now,” said the King to Merlin, “and save yourself if you can.”

“Tell us, then, O Prophets of King Vortigern,” cried the boy, “what lies under the plain where the King has tried to build his tower.”

Then the Wise Ones drew apart that they might take counsel together, and presently the Sage stepped before the King and said:

“Your Majesty, we are now ready to give our answer. We who have the power to look deep into the bowels of the earth know well that beneath the plain where you have sought to build your tower,69 should you dig never so deep, you would find nothing but the good, brown soil of your Majesty’s kingdom.”

At this Merlin smiled and shook his dark curls.

“You tell us, then,” said the King.

“Let your workmen dig,” replied the boy, “and beneath the plain they will find a deep pool.”

And when the workmen had dug, they found, just as Merlin had prophesied—a deep, dark pool beneath the plain.

Then cried the King:

“My Wise Men have been put to shame by this mere lad. His life shall be spared; but they, for their deceit, shall be driven in disgrace from my kingdom.”

But Merlin interposed, saying:

“Not yet, Sir King, I pray you. Let us have another test that you may feel perfectly sure. Ask your Wise Men what lies under the pool that lay under the plain where you sought to build your tower.”

Again the Wise Ones talked together; and again because they knew not what else to say, they gave the same answer:

“Sir King, you will find good, brown earth beneath the pool that lay beneath the plain where Your Majesty sought to build his tower.”

“No, Sir King,” said Merlin. “Beneath the pool you will find two great stones. Let your workmen drain the pool and see.”

And when the pool was drained, there lay two immense boulders, just as Merlin had said.

“Truly this is a marvelous child,” exclaimed Vortigern. “Away with my false prophets! From this time forth I will have no Wise Man but Merlin!”

“Stay, Your Majesty,” said Merlin. “Let there be one more test, then no question can ever arise in your mind. Ask your Wise Men what lies beneath the stones that lay beneath the pool that lay beneath the plain where you sought to build your tower.”

But this time the Wise Ones were wise enough to hold their peace.

“Very well,” said Merlin, “then I will tell you. Beneath the stones you will find two great dragons, one red, the other white. During the day these monsters sleep, but at night they awaken and fight; and it was because of their terrible underground battles that your tower could not be made to stand. The night following the70 raising of the stones they will fight for the last time; for the red dragon will kill the white one, and after that, O Mighty King, you may build your tower in peace.”

Then the Wise Ones trembled, and silently they followed the King and Merlin across the plain to watch the fatal raising of the stones.

When at last the mighty boulders had yielded to the combined strength of all the workmen, there, before the eyes of the crowds that had gathered, lay the two dragons—fast asleep.

“Now send the people away,” said Merlin to the King, “but you and I must stay here and watch, for at midnight the dragons will fight their last battle.”

And when the crowds had dispersed, and the Wise Men slunk away one by one, Vortigern and the boy Merlin sat alone together on the brink of the pool as the evening shadows fell.

The air grew chill. Presently the moon arose, shedding its weird light upon the strange scene; and still the dragons slept on. Toward midnight Merlin leaned forward, and, lightly touching the King’s arm, whispered:

“See! They are about to awaken. Make no noise!”

Then slowly, and still drowsily, the great white dragon stirred and opened his hideous eyes, while along his whole scaly body there ran a shudder. This seemed to arouse the red monster from his dreams, for before King Vortigern could draw breath, the two terrible creatures had risen on their bat-like wings far above his head, and, with fire streaming from their nostrils, were gnashing upon each other with their fangs, and striking at each other with their ugly claws.

For an hour or more the awful battle continued, sometimes far above their heads, and sometimes perilously near them on the earth; and it seemed to the King that neither would ever be able to gain an advantage—so well were they matched. After a while, however, the white beast began to show signs of weakening; and at last with a mighty crash, he fell to the ground—dead. Then the red dragon spread his wings, and with a strange hissing sound vanished into the shadows of the night, never to be seen again by mortal eyes.

“Tell me,” said the King when he could find sufficient voice to speak. “Tell me, O wonderful boy that you are, what do these strange things mean?”


“I will tell you, O mighty King, without fear or favor,” replied Merlin, “although I know full well that what I have to say will not be at all to your liking. You may build your tower now, for there is nothing to hinder you; and you may shut yourself up within its strong walls. Nevertheless, Pendragon and Uther, the sons of King Constantine whose trust you betrayed, and the brothers of the young heir Constans whom you so cruelly murdered, have to-day landed on your shores with a mighty army. Forty days and forty nights shall the siege continue, and at the end of that time your tower shall be destroyed with every living soul within its walls.

“Then shall reign in Britain first Pendragon and afterwards Uther; and all the days of their lives they shall war against the Saxon whom you, Sir King, have brought to this land. The White Dragon stands for the Saxon, and the Red Dragon for the Briton. Long and deadly shall be the strife between them, but in the fulness of time there shall be born to Uther a son whose name shall be called ARTHUR. He shall be the greatest king that these Islands are destined ever to know. He and his wonderful knights shall make war on the Saxon and drive him from the land. So shall the mischief of your reign be repaired—for a season.”

Then the King, still clinging to the shadow of his former hope, hastened the building of his tower, and shut himself within its mighty walls. Nevertheless, within forty days after the beginning of the siege, having been driven back time and again, Pendragon and Uther, counselled by Merlin, threw burning brands over the ramparts, so that the tower took fire and burned with a mighty conflagration until all within had perished.

Thus was Merlin’s prophecy concerning Vortigern fulfilled; and as for his other prophecies—that is another story.

(Number Two—“How Arthur Won His Kingdom”—will appear in the next issue)


1. Adjure, to charge or entreat solemnly. 2. Artificer, one who works or constructs with skill. 3. Astrologer, one who reads the supposed destinies of men in the stars. 4. Battering-ram, a long beam, usually with a heavy head, used in making breaches in walls. 5. Boulder, a stone or rock. 6. Catapult, a military engine used for throwing spears. 7. Cauldron, a large kettle or boiler. 8. Hamlet, a small village. 9. Incantations, the saying or singing of magical words for enchantment. 10. Over-lord, a king or chief who held authority over other lords. 11. Quest, a search. 12. Realm, a kingdom. 13. Sage, a wise man. 14. Vigil, a night watch. 15. Wizard, one having the power of magic; a male witch.


Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata[1]
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Reproduced by permission Braun et Cie.,
[1]The text of the Beethoven Moonlight Sonata is reprinted from the Aldine Fourth Reader, through the courtesy of the publishers, Newson & Co., New York.

It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter’s evening I called upon Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk and afterward sup with me. In passing through some dark, narrow street he paused suddenly. “Hush!” he said—“What sound is that? It is from my Sonata in F!” he said eagerly. “Hark! how well it is played!”

It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside and listened. The player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice of sobbing. “I cannot play any more. It is so beautiful, it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!”

“Ah, my sister,” said her companion, “why create regrets when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent.”


“You are right; and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really good music. But it is of no use.”

Beethoven looked at me. “Let us go in,” he said.

“Go in!” I exclaimed. “What can we go in for?”

“I will play for her,” he said, in an excited tone. “Here is feeling—genius—understanding. I will play to her, and she will understand it.” And, before I could prevent him, his hand was upon the door.

A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling about her face. Both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned toward us as we entered.

“Pardon me,” said Beethoven, “but I heard music, and was tempted to enter. I am a musician.”

The girl blushed and the young man looked grave—somewhat annoyed.

“I—I also overheard something of what you said,” continued my friend. “You wish to hear—that is, you would like—that is—shall I play for you?”

There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all smiled involuntarily.

“Thank you!” said the shoemaker, “but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music.”

“No music!” echoed my friend. “How, then, does the Fraulein—”

He paused and colored up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that she was blind.

“I—I entreat your pardon!” he stammered. “But I had not perceived before. Then you play by ear?”


“And where do you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?”

“I used to hear a lady practising near us. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her.”


She seemed shy; so Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly before the piano, and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow—how grand he would be that night. And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired; and from the instant when his fingers began to wander along the keys the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal.

The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the harpsichord, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart would break the flow of those magical, sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a strange dream, and only feared to wake.

Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonshine. The room was almost as light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time.

At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, yet reverently. “Wonderful man!” he said, in a low tone, “who and what are you?”

The composer smiled, as only he could smile, benevolently, indulgently, kingly. “Listen!” he said, and he played the opening bars of the Sonata in F.

Score excert

The Moonlight Sonata
A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming, “Then you are Beethoven!” they covered his hand with tears and kisses.

He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties.

“Play to us once more—only once more!”

He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious, rugged, and massive figure. “I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!” he said, looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth.

This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time—a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a swift agitato finale—a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight and uncertainty, and vague, impulsive, terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all in emotion and wonder.

“Farewell to you!” said Beethoven, pushing back his chair and turning toward the door—“farewell to you!”

“You will come again?” asked they, in one breath.


Woman surrounded by fairies
He paused, and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl. “Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly; “I will come again, and give the Fraulein some lessons. Farewell! I will soon come again!” They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their door till we were out of sight and hearing.

“Let us make haste back,” said Beethoven, “that I may write out that sonata while I can yet remember it.”

We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. And this was the origin of that Moonlight Sonata with which we are all so fondly acquainted.


A man redaing
A Rose from Homer’s Grave
The nightingale’s love for the rose pervades all the songs of the East; in those silent starlit nights the winged songster invariably brings a serenade to his scented flower.

Not far from Smyrna, under the stately plantain trees where the merchant drives his laden camels, which tread heavily on hallowed ground, and carry their long necks proudly, I saw a blooming hedge of roses. Wild doves fluttered from branch to branch of the tall trees, and where the sunbeams caught their wings they shone like mother of pearl. There was one flower on the rose hedge more beautiful than all the rest, and to this one the nightingale poured out all the yearning of its love. But the rose was silent, not a single dewdrop lay like a tear of compassion upon its petals, while it bent its head towards a heap of stones.

“Here rests the greatest singer the world has ever known!” said the rose. “I will scent his grave and strew my petals over it when the storms tear them off. The singer of the Iliad returned to earth here, this earth78 whence I sprang!—I, a rose from Homer’s grave, am too sacred to bloom for a mere nightingale!”

And the nightingale sang till from very grief his heart broke.

The camel driver came with his laden camels, and his black slaves; his little boy found the dead bird, and buried the little songster in Homer’s grave. The rose trembled in the wind. Night came; the rose folded her petals tightly and dreamt that it was a beautiful sunny day, and that a crowd of strange Frankish men came on a pilgrimage to Homer’s grave.

Among the strangers was a singer from the North, from the home of mists and northern lights. He broke off the rose and pressed it in a book, and so carried it away with him to another part of the world, to his distant Fatherland. And the rose withered away from grief lying tightly pressed in the narrow book, till he opened it in his home and said “Here is a rose from Homer’s grave!”

Now this is what the flower dreamt, and it woke up shivering in the wind; a dewdrop fell from its petals upon the singer’s grave. The sun rose and the day was very hot, the rose bloomed in greater beauty than ever in the warmth of Asia.

Footsteps were heard and the strange Franks whom the rose saw in its dream came up. Among the strangers was a poet from the North, he broke off the rose and pressed a kiss upon its dewy freshness, and carried it with him to the home of mists and northern lights. The relics of the rose rest now like a mummy between the leaves of his Iliad, and as in its dream it hears him say when he opens the book,

“Here is a rose from Homer’s grave!”

William Cullen Bryant.

The Image in Story Telling
By Percival Chubb

Undoubtedly the element of fundamental importance in story telling, as in all forms of art, is structure; “the bones,” as a Japanese phrase has it; the bones of the limbs, properly joined together to form the well-knit skeleton of the living body of a work of art. “Let there be form!” is the first fiat of the artist. That form is literally the “embodiment” of the soul of intention which animates the creative process of the artist’s mind. Such is the meaning of Spencer’s, “the soul is form, and doth the body make.”

It is not, however, about form or the joinery of the story-teller’s craft that I would speak; but of what comes next in importance,—the clothing of the skeleton in a beautiful texture of bodily substance. That substance must be of imagination all compact. The language of which it is made must employ the image, must evoke imagery. Language, it has been said, is fossil poetry; and that is because in the first place the essential of poetry is the image; and, secondly, because language seizes upon the graphic qualities of things. So saving a quality is imagination, that the use of appropriate and vivid imagery will sometimes atone in a story teller for lack of structural soundness. This is true, for instance, of some Irish story tellers and stories. The joinery is often poor; for the architecture of form is not the Celt’s strong point. The skillful management of development and climax is frequently wanting in his work. He does not know just when to stop; he loves to talk on, and embroider, and gossip. And yet the winning charm of the genuine Celtic story is irresistible. It holds us by the charm of80 style; and the power of its style lies to a large extent in felicity of imagery, and what we must call by the larger phrase, imaginative power.

This view was again borne in upon the writer in reading recently a passage from one of the letters of the great French painter, Millet. Indeed, it is for the sake of using Millet’s delightful illustration to enforce once more the truth of a not unfamiliar principle that this brief article is written.

Millet’s illustration is taken from Theocritus. It is worth noting, in passing, what a wonderful instinct for greatness Millet had. He nurtured himself upon the great masters; took to them naturally from the first. This was true of the literature as well as the art which he came across. The peasant lad felt the distinction and power of the poetry of Virgil even while he learned to construe the difficult lines there on the farm in Normandy, with the aid of the priest who instructed him. Later on he took as naturally to Theocritus as to Virgil. He was always a pupil of the great spirits.

In the letter I quote from, he begins by expressing his enthusiasm for the Sicilian poet. He seizes upon the copy of the Idylls sent to him, and does not leave it till he has “devoured the contents.” But he adds, “It is when I take it word for word that I am most delighted.” He finds things in the original which are lacking in the translation; and he gives this one striking example:

“In the first idyl, on the vase upon which all kinds of things are sculptured, among others is a vine, full of ripe grapes, which a little fellow guards, sitting on a wall. But on both sides are two foxes; one surveys the rows, devouring the ripe grapes. Does not ‘surveys the rows’ show you the layout of a grape-vine? Does it not make it real? And can’t you see the fox trotting up and down, going from one row to another? It is a picture, an image! You are there. But in the translation this living image is so attenuated that it would hardly strike you. ‘Two foxes; one gets into the81 vineyard and devours the grapes.’ O translator, it is not enough to understand Greek: you must also know a vineyard to be struck by the accuracy of your poet’s image, that it may spur you to the exertion of rendering it well! And so on with everything. But I come back to that: I can’t see the fox trotting—in the translator’s vineyard.

Could there be a more convincing plea for the enlivening image than that? The image, in other words, is the condition of sight, visualization, realization. The story teller, on looking over a written draft of the story he is going to tell, can ask no more important question than this: “Where can I substitute for any weak abstract word one that arouses an image?” It is not enough to think in images one’s self, to have an image, one must be able to convey it by the use of an image-evoking word.

Another very good instance which I have frequently cited to students in talking about story telling is the expression employed in Shakespeare’s “Hamlet” when it is said,

“The cock that is the trumpet to the morn
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day.” …
Consider how the effect would have been weakened if, instead of the concrete, image-evoking word “throat,” Shakespeare had used the word which most of us would have employed, namely, the word “voice.” That word merely suggests a sound; “throat” flashes the visible image of that “bird of dawning.” We see. Not only do we hear that “shrill-sounding” trumpeter, but we see that straining throat. We are there with the bird.

Many other examples might be cited, but these must suffice to bring home once more, with fresh emphasis perchance the truth that, after structural form, after securing sequence, coherence, climax, unity, the most important factor in story telling is the apt and adequate employment of the image. Imagery is the magic of the story-teller’s art.


Full moon through clouds
By Frederick A. Child[2]
[2]Retold from Lyly’s “Endymion.”

Endymion is the name of a man who fell in love with the Moon, the beautiful, bright shining Moon whom the waves obey, and which sends her light silver down upon the earth to ripple across the tranquil waters and to shine upon the towers of sleeping cities, to creep peacefully into the bed-chambers of its inhabitants and kiss the tangled, golden ringlets of dreaming children. Now Endymion’s friends thought he was very foolish to fall in love with any one so far beyond his reach. Especially was this true of the Earth, who was, in fact, in love with Endymion. And altho Earth put forth her gayest and sweetest smelling flowers to attract Endymion, Endymion would not even take the trouble to look upon poor Earth, but always kept his eyes directed toward the shining Moon.

The Spirit of the Moon
At last poor Earth could stand it no longer, so she went to an old enchantress named Dipsas and asked her whether she could weave a charm that would bring Endymion’s thoughts back to Earth. Dipsas said that such was not her power, but she could bewitch Endymion so that a long sleep would fall upon him and therefore he could83n’t love the Moon any more. So one night when Endymion was out gazing longingly upon the Moon and sighing and calling for her to look down upon him and at least smile upon him, the enchantress Dipsas stole up behind him and waving a fan of hemlock above his head, put him in a sound sleep.

And there upon the bank he slept for twenty years, and finally even the Moon began to miss him and inquired where he was, and when she found that Endymion had been thrown into a long sleep she became interested in his welfare and perhaps sighed a little for his love, but try as she would she could find no one who could break the spell. Finally she sent Eumenides, a close friend of Endymion, to seek over the world for a remedy.

In his travels about the earth to find a remedy Eumenides met with an old man sitting beside a fountain, and he told the old man what he sought.


H,” said the old man, “you need travel no farther, for he who can clearly see the bottom of this fountain has found remedy for anything.”

And so Eumenides looked and saw the bottom of the fountain clearly and read as follows: “When the bright, round Moon shall come and kiss Endymion, he shall rise from his sleep.”

Eumenides hastened back and told the Moon what he had read at the bottom of the fountain.

Now the Moon was much surprised when she heard of the remedy for Endymion’s long sleep, but finally she consented to kiss him, and—wonder upon wonders!—the sleeper of twenty years awoke. And so delighted was Endymion for the awakening that he immediately lost all traces of his twenty years’ sleep and stood before them a young man again. And so delighted was the Moon with this young man who had undergone so much because of his love for her that she said he might continue to worship her forever and ever.

And the writer of this story meant to represent by the Moon the Queen of England, Queen Elizabeth, whom all Englishmen loved and honored and some day when you study English history you will see what brave deeds these Englishmen performed for their Queen, the shining Moon, so bright, and beautiful, but so beyond their reach.


The Story of Saint Christopher
As told by R. T. Wyche
The meaning and value of the story of Saint Christopher


St. Christopher, Memling
Royal Museum, Dresden
Reproduced by permission Braun et Cie.
The story of Saint Christopher is a story of the misunderstood boy. Many a child is misunderstood by parent and teacher, and, like St. Francis of Assisi, is driven from home and yet makes a great success in life.

The story is an epitome of a man’s life. Christopher in his boyhood had strength—he worshiped strength—he could not find normal means of recreation, so he did evil. His hero, the German Emperor, represents the interest of the child from eight to twelve years, with splendid physical health, with moral and religious nature undeveloped. Christopher followed the normal impulse in serving the German Emperor. The adolescent boy in high-school period, is represented, in a way, by the second hero that Christopher served, a devil, a mischief-maker, but as the boy grows out of that he catches a glimpse of the moral hero just as Christopher did when he heard of the man of Galilee.—Ed.

Once on a time, a long time ago, beyond the seas, there lived a boy named Christopher. As he grew up he was unusually strong and giant like. He drove the cattle to field and lived in the mountains and on the plains. Being alone much of his time he had little opportunity for play or sport with other children, and when he came home his parents did not play with him or entertain him, and so he sought recreation where he could find it in other places.86 He was full of energy and his parents frequently scolded him, which drove him off to himself in bad moods. On one occasion he tied the cows’ tails together, just to hear them bellow. On another occasion he set fire to a forest, all in sport, because he had no one to join him in better things. His stepmother scolded him and punished him so that he would frequently go away alone or join bad companions in mischief. Finally, one day, quarreling with a man, he killed him because of his greater strength.

Fearing to return home, he wandered in strange lands, sometimes working for his living, and sometimes living on what was given him. Wherever he went people admired his broad shoulders and manly form, for he was giantlike in size.

One day he heard of the Emperor of Germany, who was king and the mightiest man in all the world. As Christopher admired and worshiped strength, he wanted to see and to serve the Emperor. At last after long journeys he came and stood before the German Emperor and offered his services. The Emperor was at that time waging wars for his kingdom, and when he saw Christopher, giantlike and strong, he admired him and readily accepted his services, taking him along as a bodyguard. Christopher was delighted and threw his whole strength into the service of the Emperor and did many wonderful deeds.

So strong was Christopher that frequently he would bear on his shoulders great logs, place them across gullies and ravines and build a bridge for the army to pass over. The Emperor frequently talked with him and encouraged him, all of which immensely pleased Christopher, for he thought, “I have at last found him who is most worthy of worship and service.”

But on one occasion as the Emperor was riding near a forest, Christopher noticed that the Emperor made the sign of the cross and turned aside from the dark forest and went in another direction. Christopher said to the Emperor: “Why did you turn back from the forest?” The Emperor said: “The devil lives in that forest and I fear him.” “What,” said Christopher, “afraid? I thought that you were afraid of nothing!” But the Emperor said: “This demon of darkness is very strong and I fear him.” Then Christopher said: “If you are afraid I wish to leave your service and join myself to the87 devil, because I do not want to serve any but the strongest.” Whereupon the Emperor paid Christopher his wages and reluctantly parted with him.

Christopher turned his face toward the dark forest, plunged into its depths, and finally found a black altar, whereon the devil had sacrificed the bodies of people. Hard by he found the devil and offered his services to him. Right gladly the devil took him into his fellowship, and straightway took him on trips of deviltry and mischief. But one day they came along by a hill in an Eastern land. On the top of the hill there stood three crosses. The devil turned aside as if in fear. Christopher was quick to notice this and he said to the devil:

“Why are you afraid?”

Then the devil said: “On that middle cross was crucified a man who is greater than I, and I fear him.”

“What,” Christopher said, “you afraid? Why, then, I am done with you; I want to serve him who is not afraid.”

And so he parted from the devil and as he went away the devil laughed and mocked him. Christopher wandered a long time, inquiring here and there for the man who had died upon the cross. Finally, one day he found a priest, who lived in a cave that opened upon a beautiful river. Tired, footsore and weary, he sat down at the invitation of the priest, who brought him refreshing water from the spring and gave him food. After he had rested a moment, he said to the priest: “Can you tell me about the man who died on the cross?” for Christopher had never heard of this man until the devil had told him. “Yes,” said the priest, “right gladly will I tell you the story of his life.”

Then the priest told Christopher how the man of Galilee had lived, and toiled, and suffered to make the world better; how he was crucified, died, and rose again. The story was a new and beautiful one to Christopher, the wonder of it! The priest told him that though this man was dead, his spirit was still in the world to make the world better. Then Christopher said to the priest: “He is the one that I wish to serve. How can I serve him?” Then the priest said: “You see this river?—there is no bridge for the people to cross; it is wide and at times dangerous. If you would serve him, help those who try88 to cross the river. You are tall, with broad shoulders and mighty strength. Day after day people as they travel through this land come to this river but cannot cross—you can help them across, and in that way you will serve him who, though dead, still lives.”

That pleased Christopher so that he built a house of logs and boughs by the river’s side, and when people came to the river he would wade through the water, take them on his shoulders and bear them across. Years passed by; Christopher grew grey in the service of humanity and his Master. Those who saw him day after day admired him and looked for him and he became a friend of all the country, loved by all.

One dark night when Christopher lay upon his bed, he heard some one calling, like the voice of a child: “Oh! Christopher, kind, good Christopher, come help me across!” Christopher arose from his bed and seizing his great staff, waded through the water until he reached the other side of the river, but there he found no one; all was silent, save the ripple and murmur of the waves along the river’s margin. “Strange,” he said, “I thought I heard some one calling.”

After looking all around, he said: “I must have been mistaken,” and waded back through the water to the other side of the river and lay down upon his couch again. But soon thereafter he heard the same voice calling: “Oh! Christopher, kind, good Christopher, come help me across!” “Strange,” said Christopher to himself, “some one must be there,” and seizing his staff he again crossed the river.

But no one could he find, all was silent. Above his head the stars shone, and he said to himself: “Strange it is I cannot find him who called me.”

He went across the river and laid down upon his bed again. He had not been lying there long before he heard the voice calling him a third time: “Oh! Christopher, kind, good Christopher, come help me across!” Christopher sat upon his bed—he was troubled. “Strange,” he said, “some one calls me and yet I cannot find him.” But again seizing his staff he said: “I will make one more trip.” When he reached the other side of the river, there he saw a little boy, and he said: “My little man, where were you,—twice I crossed the river to find you?” The little boy said: “I was here.” And then Christopher bent low and took the little man upon his shoulders89 and waded through the water, but the boy grew heavier until he seemed as heavy as a man. When Christopher reached the other side and put him down and turned to look to see why, what seemed to be a little child should be so heavy—lo! he was more than a child; a young man in appearance, with a shining face, and he said to Christopher: “I am he whom you serve; bury your staff and after a certain number of days buds will appear thereon.” Then he disappeared, vanishing as a mist, or as a shadow, though Christopher saw not. He went and lay down upon his couch and slept in great peace of mind and body.

Years passed. Christopher was still beloved by all the people and faithful to his work, but his days were numbered. Though somewhat feeble, he still bore the people on his shoulders across the river. One dark stormy night, when the wind roared through the treetops and the rain fell, Christopher, lying upon his bed, heard a voice call. He tried to rise and answer; he did go in response to the voice, but it was his spirit only that went, the last call had come to him.

The next morning the storm was gone and the sky was blue. People came to cross the river and called as usual to Christopher, but there was no response. They thought perhaps he was asleep and went to the cottage. There they found him-— asleep, but it was the long sleep. And a smile was on his face. Because of his service to the people they afterwards called him Saint Christopher.


The Story of England’s First Poet[3]
By George Philip Krapp
[3]Reprinted by permission from “In Oldest England” by George Philip Krapp. Copyright, 1912, by Longmans, Green & Co.

On the northern coast of England in the town of Whitby (White-town) was built a monastery many centuries ago by a woman whose name was Hild; and when the monastery was completed she became the abbess. In this monastery ruled over by the Abbess Hild, there were not only monks and nuns, but also a number of servants and helpers who had not devoted themselves to the religious life. Among these was a poor herdsman whose name was Cadmon. He could neither read nor write, and his work in the monastery consisted in taking care of the cows and other cattle which were needed to supply the monastery table with milk and butter.

Now it was a common custom for Cadmon and his friends to entertain themselves, when the day’s work was done, by sitting around the fire telling stories and singing songs. Among other amusements they had one especially which is known as “passing the harp.” According to this custom, the harp was passed along from one person to another, and as it came each man’s turn, he took the harp and sang a song to its accompaniment. Most people in those days knew many stories which they could recite in this way, but unfortunately for Cadmon, this was an accomplishment which he could never learn. Consequently when he saw the harp approaching him, he would get up and leave the circle, ashamed to confess that he could not sing a song as the others had done.

It happened that one night Cadmon left the group of his friends in this way, as he had often done before, and went into the stable where he was to pass the night watching the cattle. After a time he fell asleep. As he lay sleeping, he heard a voice calling to him, which91 said: “Cadmon, sing for me.” Then Cadmon answered the voice, saying: “I cannot sing; and it is for that reason that I have left the company of my friends and have come hither.” “Nevertheless, I say you must sing for me,” the voice continued. “What shall I sing?” asked Cadmon. “Sing for me,” the voice answered, “the story of how all things were created.” And then Cadmon, greatly to his own astonishment, found that he was able to sing, and he began to sing the praises of God the Creator in verses which he had never heard before.

The next morning, when Cadmon awoke from the sleep in which he had had this dream or vision, the strangest part of it was that he remembered perfectly what he had sung in his sleep during the night, and better still, he was able to add other verses to these. He told what had happened to him to his master, and his master went directly to Abbess Hild and repeated the story to her. Hild immediately called Cadmon to her, and, sending for several learned monks, she bade them recite a passage of Scripture in English to Cadmon, and then she asked Cadmon to turn what he had heard into verse. The next morning Cadmon came back and recited to her in perfect and melodious verse all that he had been told by the learned monks. Then Hild immediately perceived that this poor cowherd in her monastery was possessed of a very precious gift. She gave orders that he should be accepted as a monk into her monastery, and that the other monks should teach him all the story of the Bible. This was so done, and being unable to read, Cadmon learned all the stories of the Bible by having them told to him, and then he turned them into poetical form. The monks were glad to write down the poems as Cadmon recited them, and thus together they put into verse the whole story of the creation of the world, of the fall of man, of the children of Israel and the Exodus out of Egypt into the Promised Land, and many other stories contained in the Bible.

“It was a common custom for Cadmon and his friends to sing songs.”
“The Singing Angels” Van Eyck
Royal Museum Berlin
For many years Cadmon continued to live in the monastery at Whitby, making noble use of this poet’s gift that had been granted to him. And it was here at Whitby that he finally died. He had been unwell for several weeks before his death, but it was not supposed that his sickness was serious. One night, however, the night on which he died, he asked his nurse to take him to the infirmary, which was92
93 the part of the monastery where those brothers who were dangerously sick and on the point of death were usually cared for together. The man was surprised that Cadmon should want to be taken to the infirmary, but he did as he was asked to do. Cadmon seemed to be bright and happy, and talked cheerfully with the other sick people in the infirmary. When it was about midnight, he asked if the Eucharist was there in the infirmary. “Why do you ask that?” his friends said. “You are not so near to death that you need ask for the Eucharist.” But Cadmon asked for the Eucharist again, and when he had it in his hand he inquired whether they were all kindly disposed and at peace with him. When they said they were, then Cadmon continued: “And I, too, am at peace with all men.” Having made his last communion, he asked if the time was near when the brothers of the monastery should arise and say the prayers known as nocturns. “It is almost time,” they answered. “Let us then wait for it,” he said; and blessing himself with the sign of the cross, he lay back upon his pillow, and so falling asleep, as peacefully and as gently as he had lived, he passed to his final rest.

This is the simple story of the blameless life of the first English poet whose name has come down to us. Other poets there must have been before Cadmon, poets who sang the stories of the bloody combats of English heroes before the days of Augustine and Aidan. From the very earliest times the English have had their bards or minstrels, whose task it was to keep alive the fame of the nation’s great men. But not even the names of any of these earlier heathen poets are known to us, and but a few fragments of their songs have survived to our day. These songs were of the kind which Cadmon could not sing, but which his companions, at their feasts and banquets, all sang so freely to the accompaniment of the harp. This heathen minstrelsy is now all lost and silent, while down through the ages the clear voice of Cadmon is heard, singing the old story of the Creation of the World and of the ways of God to man. From Cadmon to Milton it is a thousand years, but the poor cowherd who became the chief ornament of Hild’s ancient monastery on the cliff above Whitby sang his songs in the same spirit as the author of “Paradise Lost.”


The “Uncle Remus” Stories
Their Evolution and Place in the Curriculum
By Josephine Leach

Part One
The fame of the “Uncle Remus” stories, according to Joel Chandler Harris, himself, was an accident. But it is quite possible, that the fame has not been quite as much of an accident as his modesty declares it to be.

Mr. Harris was the son of a very poor woman in Georgia. She had very little to give her children, and very early Joel Chandler was put out to work. When, but a mere lad, he went to work as printer boy on the plantation of Mr. Joseph A. Turner. Mr. Turner was a well educated and cultured gentleman, who spent his leisure hours in publishing (on his own plantation) a small paper, voicing the sentiment of the times.

Mr. Turner became very much interested in the Harris boy. He recognized the lad’s ability, for very frequently he found unsigned paragraphs, quite good in quality, in his paper, which had been composed by the printer boy Harris, who inserted them as he set up the type. Mr. Turner gave the boy free access to his very large and splendid library. When Joel Chandler was not seated, during leisure hours, in the chimney corner of a cabin in the negro quarters, listening to negro folk-lore, he was delving deep into the best literature of all ages. He lived so completely with the great masters in the library, that it is said, that this quite largely influenced his charming literary style in years to come.

Here on the plantation, in the negro cabins, he came, through the stories, to feel the emotions of the negro. No one has ever been so capable of putting himself in another’s place as has Joel Chandler Harris. He became possessed of all the curious knowledge of the negro, he learned of dogs and horses, he knew the path of the red stream in the swamp, and the way of the wild folk in the woods. In fact, one writer has gone so far as95 to say, that had Joel Chandler Harris not spent these boyhood days in the plantation home of Joseph A. Turner, there would have been no “Uncle Remus” with all that he now means to literature.

In 1876, Mr. Harris was invited to take a place on the paper called “The Constitution,” published at Atlanta, Georgia. Samuel Small was then writing humorous sketches for this paper. Small suddenly resigned. His sketches had been very popular, and the editor immediately looked around for some one who could continue the work. Mr. Harris was given the place. He went about his new task with much foreboding. He was steeped in the quaint stories of the plantation, but would the people accept these? He resolved to make the attempt, and then came the Uncle Remus stories for their first appearance.

The stories grew in popularity, and for the same reason that made Æsop’s fables an imperishable classic, these stories have taken their permanent place in literature. They were the simple stories that had been linked with the thoughts and emotions since earliest time, and have now, for the first time, been put in artistic form, by one who had so entered into the life of the negro, that he was able to express the negro’s emotions in the negro’s way. In quoting from an article on Joel Chandler Harris in “The Bookman,” Volume 27, the author says, “When Mr. Harris chose for his subject, the plantation negro, he had a character of much subtility to deal with. His subject is a creature of extremes, carelessly happy one day, deeply despondent the next, which characteristic has sprung from his very helplessness; with a never failing sense of humor, which acts as a continual balance wheel. He is a being, whose mystical side has been highly developed, and one to whom the “creeturs” have become brothers and sisters, being endowed by him, with human virtues and vices.”

“Uncle Remus” gave to literature and the world a new type of negro, that of a good kind-hearted, sympathetic old man, who was willing to spend hours in telling stories to a little boy. So little is said of Uncle Remus himself. He is merely the teller of the stories and yet one feels him to be just such an old man, for his character is interpreted by the stories he tells. Indeed, some one once asked the author, “Mr. Harris, really, don’t you suppose that Uncle Remus would steal chickens if he had a chance?” and Mr. Harris replied, “If I follow Uncle Remus all day, you surely can’t expect me to know what he does all night.”

Joel Chandler Harris in writing his “Uncle Remus” stories, did not96 labor to place them in logical sequence. He cared little about their value to students of comparative folk-lore, and had little notion of their evolution when he wrote them. The series cannot be placed into one great cycle that follows a hero through a number of incidents and at last brings him to the end, victorious. Mr. Harris told them for the pure enjoyment, and he was much surprised to find such a demand for a thing that was all pleasure and no work to him. He loved the simple tales because they were so near to nature’s heart, because they were full of primitive wonder, quaint flashes of humor, homely philosophy, and simple goodness.

The stories, however, readily group themselves into four classes.

I. Those that account for Certain Animal Traits, or Characteristics.
II. Stories with Brer Rabbit as a Hero.
III. Those stories told to the little Boy for their Ethical Value.
IV. Stories that attempt to Account for some Natural Phenomena.
Under the first group, Stories that account for certain animal characteristics, I have placed the following:

Why the Hawk Catches Chickens.
Miss Partridge has a Fit.
Why Brer Possum has no Hair on his Tail.
Why Brer Fox’s Legs are Black.
Why Mr. Possum Loves Peace.
Why Brother Bull Growls and Complains.
How Mr. Rabbit Lost His Fine Bushy Tail.
Mr. Terrapin Shows His Strength.
Brer Buzzard Teaches Brer Terrapin to Fly.
The stories that show the shrewdness of Brer Rabbit, might be taken as a small cycle which has Brer Rabbit as a hero.

The following are examples:

The Wonderful Tar Baby Story.
Old Mr. Rabbit, He’s a good Fisherman.
Brer Rabbit and de’ skeeters.
Brer Fox Says Grace.
Brer Rabbit Has Fun at the Ferry.
Why Brer Wolf didn’t eat the little Rabbits.
Brer Fox “Smells Smoke.”
Brer Rabbit Frightens Brer Tiger.
Brer Rabbit Conquers Mr. Lion.
Heyo House.
Sis Cow Falls a Victim to Mr. Rabbit.
How Mr. Rabbit Saved his Meat.
The Sad Fate of Mr. Fox.
Brer Rabbit Nibbles up de Butter.
The third group of stories that were told to the little boy for their ethical value, presents quite a modern idea of the purpose of a good story; namely, that in order to teach, a moral must be tacked on. When Uncle Remus found the little boy in mischief, he straightway told him a story with a homely moral. As for example the story of “Brother Bear and the Honey Orchard.” Uncle Remus caught the little boy eating a great piece97 of cake, while his little brother stood by, crying for some. ’Tis then that he relates of the selfishment of Brer B’ar with his own conclusion, that “to his membrence stingy folks nevah come to no good ’een.”

The following stories were told with this idea in mind:

Brother Bear and the Honey Orchard.
The Man and the Wild Cattle.
Brer Rabbit’s Money Mint.
Brother Billy Goat’s Dinner.
The King that talked Biggity.
According to how the Drap Falls.
Under the fourth heading I have grouped such stories as:

The Story of the Deluge and how it came about.
Where the Hurricane Comes from.
The Creation.
Why the Negro is Black.
No one can doubt but that these simple stories were first told when the human race was very young. The things that are at present accomplished by science were then met by magic. Whether or not we believe that the child in his development passes through much the same experience as the race has in its development, there are certain things that are evident: the child makes human and holds conversation with everything in his backyard world. The same voices speak to him that spoke to his cave dwelling ancestors. To him the wind is a person of might and power, that moans when in anguish and sighs when weary.

(To be concluded in next issue)

The Three Goats
By Jessica Childs
This story, contributed by Miss Jessica Childs of the Pittsburgh (Pa.) Training School for Teachers, is a translation from the Norse Folk Lore. It is very popular, Miss Childs finds, with children in the first school year.

Now you shall hear!

There was once a Boy who had three Goats. All day they leaped and pranced and skipped and climbed up on the rocky hill, but at night the Boy drove them home. One night, when he went to meet them, the frisky things leaped into a turnip field and he could98 not get them out. Then the Boy sat down on the hillside and cried.

As he sat there a Hare came along. “Why do you cry?” asked the Hare.

“I cry because I can’t get the Goats out of the field,” answered the Boy.

“I’ll do it,” said the Hare. So he tried, but the Goats would not come. Then the Hare, too, sat down and cried.

Along came a Fox.

“Why do you cry?” asked the Fox.

“I am crying because the Boy cries,” said the Hare; “and the Boy is crying because he cannot get the Goats out of the turnip field.”

“I’ll do it,” said the Fox. So the Fox tried, but the Goats would not come. Then the Fox also sat down and cried.

Soon after, a Wolf came along. “Why do you cry,” asked the Wolf. “I am crying because the Hare cries,” said the Fox; “and the Hare cries because the Boy cries; and the Boy cries because he can’t get the Goats out of the turnip field.”

“I’ll do it,” said the Wolf. He tried, but the Goats would not leave the field. So he sat down beside the others and began to cry too.

After a while, a Bee flew over the hill and saw them all sitting there crying. “Why do you cry?” said the Bee to the Wolf.

“I am crying because the Fox cries, and the Fox cries because the Hare cries; and the Hare cries because the Boy cries; and the Boy cries because he can’t get the Goats out of the turnip field.”

“I’ll do it,” said the Bee.

Then the big animals and the Boy all stopped crying a moment to laugh at the tiny Bee. He to do it, indeed, when they could not! But the tiny Bee flew away into the turnip field and lit upon the ear of one of the Goats and said,

“Buz-z-z-z-z!” And out ran the Goats every one!

“The child makes human and holds conversation with everything in his backyard world.

”The same voices speak to him that spoke to his cave-dwelling ancestors.

“To him the wind is a person of might and power, that moans when in anguish and sighs when weary.”Josephine Leach.


Story Telling in Washington, D. C.
By Marietta Stockard
To the Kindergarten perhaps more than to any other department of education, must be conceded the credit for having recognized the power of the story in the life of the child. The best Kindergarten training schools would no more omit a well organized course in story telling than they would a course in psychology or child study, so it is with no claim of something new or different that I respond to the invitation of the Storytellers’ Magazine to tell of the work as it is done in the Washington Normal School.

We are fortunate in having a Principal who has been willing to allow a full two years’ course in stories. This makes possible a broader literary basis, better developed principles of selection, more of adaptation and practical story telling than could be accomplished in a shorter time. It also makes possible a more leisurely, more psychologic approach to the subject, and therefore launches us upon the actual story telling with much of the beginner’s painful self-consciousness eliminated.

My first question to a new class is, “What have you read and really enjoyed during your past summer?” Next, “What are your favorite books?” Through a careful study of the students’ responses to these questions I gain a knowledge of the literary background and taste of each individual of whom I shall strive to make a successful story teller.

Discussion of these books which the students know and like leads us into the field of basic principles of selection in literature. Brief studies of a few typical short stories, analysis of purpose, structure, and style follow.

Realizing that the two absolute essentials in a successful story teller are, on the one hand, a sympathetic knowledge of the best in literature, and on the other, real understanding of the child, we read together as much of the best literature about children as time permits.

Our first approach to the story for the child is through a discussion of favorite fairy tales, remembered from the student’s own childhood.100 Comparison shows that there are many common favorites, further study reveals these same stories as favorites of generations of children.

Re-telling and enjoying these we gradually search out the secret of their universal appeal and come to formulate a standard embodying the essential characteristics which all stories for children should contain.

This knowledge of type stories is further developed by a brief study of Norse Myths and Folk Tales. No other literature gives quite so well the fundamental characteristics of action, simplicity and embodiment of ideals as does the Norse. The student who has read Mabie’s Norse Myths, Dasent’s Popular Tales from the Norse, Stories from Bjornstern and Selma Lagerlof, absorbs the essential characteristics of the best story and can scarcely help telling a story with vigor, simplicity, directness and imaginative appeal.

Sympathetic attitude toward child and story and basis for selection of stories in the light of fundamental principles of literature having been developed, we next formulate the requisites of a good story teller and methods of story telling. This is done through story telling in class under criticism and a study of such books as: Voice and Spiritual Education, by Corson; How to Tell Stories to Children, by Sara Cone Bryant; Stories and Story Telling, by Porter St. John. We study, re-tell, adapt, and collect in a manuscript story book such stories as are particularly suitable for use in the kindergarten.

The demand for story tellers in the schools, in playground and library work, in social centers and Sunday schools, led to the establishing of a course in story telling and children’s literature at George Washington University. This course is credited both in the teacher’s department and in the English department of the University.

The work consists of lectures, required readings and reports. The history of the story, its relation to literature, its relation to the child, the story as a moral force, methods of story telling, including adaptation, preparation, and presentation are a few of the topics discussed. Studies of groups of animal stories, folk and fairy tales, hero tales, Bible stories, Christmas and Thanksgiving stories, spring stories and humorous stories constitute the content of the course.

Every student of children’s stories not only gains a deeper appreciation of the best in literature and an added sympathy with and understanding of the child, but also discovers an inexhaustible source of usefulness and joy.


Story Telling for Camp Fire Girls
By Ellen Kate Gross
Chief Guardian, Children’s Playground Association of Baltimore, Md.
Apropos to our conversation at the Richmond Congress in regard to stories for Camp Fire Girls, the following plea is submitted to your editorial board with the hope that your splendid magazine will help us in one phase of our work.

In furthering the development of the Camp Fire Girls, there arises the necessity for a supply of Indian folk tales well told and embodying the out-of-door spirit of the Indian and his ideals. Moreover the various points of the law of the Camp Fire can best be exemplified through stories which develop the ideal held up. This law is to

“Seek beauty
Give service
Pursue knowledge
Hold on to health
Glorify work
Be happy”
The following suggestive list may illustrate how this method can be carried out,—the thought and meaning of each precept being developed through one of the stories named.


Hawthorne, “The Great Stone Face.”
Kingsley, “Water Babies”—in parts.

Robert Louis Stevenson, “Prince Otto.”
Stockton, “Old Pypes and the Dryad,” in Fanciful Tales.
Biographies and Autobiographies.
Example “Florence Nightingale.”
“Lucretia Mott.”
“The Little Hero of Haarlem”
Emile Poulsson, “Nahum Prince,” in “In the Child’s World.”


“Ruth and Esther,” told in Hamilton Mabie’s “Stories Every Child Should Know.”

19th Psalm.
Lives of Burbank, Edison and other Inventors.
“The Basket Weaver.”
“Beowulf,” in Hamilton Mabie’s “Legends Every Child Should Know.”
“The Message to Garcia,” by Elbert Hubbard.

“King Midas.”
“Ugly Duckling.”
“Pine Tree that changed its Leaves.”
King Arthur tales.
If some of these stories or similar ones, and also some Indian legends could be published in your magazine from time to time, it would be a great help to those who are working with Camp Fire Girls.

“Wohelo,” the musical cry of the Camp Fire Girls was sounded by more than nine hundred of them at the first Grand Council held in the 69th Regiment Armory, New York City, recently.

Clad in the picturesque attire of the American Indian, they sat in a big circle around three lighted candles, representing their three foundation principles, and groups of lights representing real camp fires, a Camp Fire ceremonial which is performed to the music of “Burn, Fire; Burn!”

Under the supervision of the guardian Hiltini, who is Mrs. Luther H. Gulick, three other guardians, Mrs. Bradley, Mrs. Weber and Miss McCarthy, representing respectively Work, Health, Love, lighted the camp fire by the Indian expedient of rubbing two sticks together.

The call of the Camp Fire Girls, “Wohelo,” is formed by the first syllables of the three foundation words of their organization: Work, Health, Love.


The Play Spirit in America
Those who have lost the play spirit are beginning to die. These were the words of Dr. Cabot of the Massachusetts General Hospital of Boston at the recent Congress of the Playground and Recreation Association of America, held at Richmond, Va. True recreation is re-creation—to be made anew from day to day, mind and body. The old saying that all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy is true of adults as well as children. It is more important that adults emphasize recreation for themselves than for the child. It is so much easier for grown people to forget to play.

The serious person is only half awake. Seriousness often excludes humor and thus shuts out the play spirit in life. The serious person is not always thoroughly in earnest. He who excludes humor and play cannot be in earnest because he does not use all the resources at his command. Young people are always earnest; play and humor are part of their program.

The calculating business man sitting in his close office or the hard taskmaster sitting at a teacher’s desk may be making a living and yet not living but prematurely dying. Compare such a one with a group of young people who shout and laugh in joyous play or work outside and ask yourself which is preferable, which is life? The business man once had the play spirit but he has lost it, and with it life and its joy. When he went to school years ago he was not taught to live but to calculate; not to think but to imitate and accumulate a living, not a life. He has been true to his teaching. He might be rescued even now if he could be made to see the necessity for play and feel the rejuvenating effect of rhythmic games. He must get rid of104 the idea that it is undignified for a grown man or woman to play, to join hands in a circle, to shout and laugh and sing and play games on the green.

The American people must be taught recreation, not only in public playgrounds but the necessity of using home, lawn and yard for play for child and adult as well. We must get rid of the idea that people are made for parks and substitute the idea, parks are made for people.

A one-time city superintendent of schools in a large city and for a number of years a college president recently spent a year on his farm and says that as a result his whole feeling and view toward life has been changed by the year of recreation. To have normal feelings is more important than abnormal knowledge. Knowledge is sometimes weakness rather than power.

A child without a playground is the father of a man without a job, says one of our playground officials, and we might add that a man without play will soon be a man without a job and without health. It is high time that school faculties realize their sin in failing themselves to play. Enthusiastic teachers often study and teach all the winter, then go to a summer school and pile on more of the same kind of work. We recognize the evil of this, yet few are brave enough to stop in the midst of work and play and teach play. Summer schools should send their students back home rejuvenated, with renewed health and enthusiasm and with a new feeling for life rather than book-burdened, tired and nervous.

We have in America a wealth of folk-games, folk-dances, folk-songs, folk-stories brought hither by the various races of Europe, that would give us wholesome recreation,—a folk-culture, yet we stand idly by and let an ignorant commercial schemer run a dance hall and give our young people dissipation105 instead of recreation. Churches and homes make a great mistake when they say “Don’t do this” or that and stop there. We must be positive and say “Do this, these are the games to play, these are the songs to sing, these are the stories to tell, come and join us.” If good people do not give us good recreation, bad people will give us bad recreation and make us pay for it. A machine can add a column of figures for us, another person can spell a word for us, but no one else can recreate or have health, personality and enthusiasm for us.

R. T. W.

Rev. Jenkin Lloyd Jones
Father, make us glad that we are here, glad in the dear fellowships of the past, glad in the strong ties that bind us to our tasks, glad of the tasks. O Thou Burden Giver, lift us above the selfishness of the ease-seeker.

¶ Father, we come to listen to Thy commissions. Grant us power to go into the dark places of human lives, the sad places of human hearts, and in Thy name speak the word that may bring strength, peace, consolation. Father, help us to realize the opportunities that await us; gird us anew for the high and holy warfare wherein the weapons are the instruments of love, the counters of kindness. Help us to forget the things that hurt, to rise above all discouragements, to dwell with Thee in deathless places; to rejoice with Thee in the boundless realms where the petty lines of caste, class and sect, of race and prejudice, do not obtain, but where Thy children, conscious of Thy Fatherhood, rejoice in the largeness of the love that includes all races, all climes, and all ages.

¶ Father, take our hands and touch them with usefulness. Take our feet that they may be shod with willingness. Take our hearts that they may glow with kindness. Take our minds and tutor them in the way of truth. Take our voices and tune them to the universal harmonies, that in finite time we may sound some notes of thy never-ending song. Amen


What the Leagues are Doing
The closing meeting of the Knickerbocker Story Tellers’ League of New York City, for the season 1913, was held on Saturday evening, May 17th.

The recent work of the League has been directed along the lines of the English, Spanish and American Schools of Art. At a previous meeting the stories of the Florentine, Flemish and Dutch Schools were told and no actual reading was done throughout the entire evening. Mrs. Estelle Davis Burt, the President, handled the topic Dutch Art.

The last meeting of the Atlanta Story Tellers’ League is reported by Mr. George B. Hinman as the most interesting of the year.

Mrs. Goodman gave a very charming and illuminating account of her visit with Mr. R. T. Wyche to the Knickerbocker Story Tellers’ League in New York, and Mrs. Stevens told a most interesting original story, which held her audience spellbound throughout. Miss Ray Klein, who is one of the friends of the League, told a beautiful fairy story. The attendance was large and appreciative.

The Story Tellers’ League of Little Rock, Arkansas, held its closing meeting at the public library in May, when the following officers were elected: Miss Eliza Hockins, president; Miss Grace Boyce, vice-president; Miss Johnnie Bledsoe, secretary and treasurer. The program was excellent. Miss Marguerite English told of “The Hall of Heroes”; Mrs. L. W. Cherry told an Egyptian legend, adding to the beautiful story by touches of personal experience in Egypt; Mrs. W. B. Rawlings told the story of a Syrian mother; Miss Abbie Whitcomb gave the story of a Parisian boy hero in her usual expressive way.

A conference was held May 27, 1913, at the Sinton Hotel from three to five, with Dr. Richard Wyche, President of the National Story Tellers’ League of New York, who has started a magazine for the benefit of story tellers, entitled “The Storytellers’ Magazine.” Dr. Lester Riley, Miss Pearl Carpenter, Miss Alice Adele Folger, Miss Annie Laws, Miss Marie Dickore, Miss Josephine Simrall and others of the Cincinnati branch of the National Story Tellers’ League were present.—Cincinnati Commercial Tribune.


From the Editor’s Study
The revival of interest in story telling on the part of educators today is due perhaps more to scientific men than any other group. The old conception of the child was that he was born in depravity and therefore his natural impulses were bad, and he should be repressed. Methods of suppression resulted; the child had no rights. If the things he was compelled to study were meaningless and obnoxious to him, well and good. The things he was interested in were ignored.

But with the coming of the biologist, geologist, and psychologist, we have seen a world of growth and change, reaching back into the immeasurable past, and man in this order, not fallen and depraved, but natural and normal with his face to the morning, ever moving upward and onward. The students of history, primitive art and folk-literature have traced for us the path-way along which the soul of the race, ever growing into self-realization gave expression to its beliefs, its hopes, its prayers and its religion, in myth, fairy story, folk-lore and folk epic. As one who travels through low land and forest yet ever climbing reaches an upland peak and looking back sees path, forest, field and rim of sea all in the perspective of beauty, so we today looking back have an infinitely larger and deeper view of life and its meaning. It is this view that has changed our attitude toward the child and will result in our setting him, “the last serf of civilization free.”

This new valuation of the child, respect for his rights and a better understanding of his needs has brought story telling to the front again. It is true that the race and the individual of all races have had stories told them more or less by troubadour and rhapsodist—the old story tellers, chief among them Homer, but not until modern times have educators so seriously studied108 this story as a means of education. For many centuries literature lived orally and was handed down by the story tellers; but when printing was invented the teacher began to busy himself with grammar for young and old alike, until language form became an end instead of a means.

Man in his development did not invent letters and language with the hope that he might have something to say, but he had so much to say he was compelled to invent language in order to express himself. So with the child, we must feed the springs of imagination and emotion if we would give him something to express. As a tree puts forth leaf and blossom in obedience to the laws of life within, so will the child give back in vital expression the things that nurture his inner life. Expression is life, suppression is death. It is the recognition of this truth that has given us the pedagogical basis for the story, whether it be re-telling, dramatization or illustration of the story; modelling into clay, carving into wood or motiving in life.

Man becomes like that which he admires, therefore, stories of noble deed and great heroes are used in school and Sunday-school for character building in place of memorizing abstract statements.

Young people will read books from which interesting stories have been told them, therefore many of the public libraries have a story teller for the children’s room, who by story telling, directs the reading of the children for a whole community. Story telling is a means of recreation and pure pleasure, therefore the public playgrounds throughout the land have their story tellers for the young people. Parents who tell in their homes the right kind of stories make an atmosphere in which a soul can grow and bind their off-spring to them with spiritual ties, the most lasting of all.

Story telling is an alluring subject for study, a means of109 delightful social intercourse and reinforcement for life, therefore many have organized themselves into the National Story Tellers’ League and its local branches.

It is to deal with this work of story telling in all of its aspects that the Storytellers’ Magazine is founded. It is our purpose to point out as far as we can the vital principles that underlie the whole movement.

The question of what stories to tell is supremely important. We cannot tell or read one-hundredth part of the good stories. In order to answer this question, we propose to re-tell in the pages of the magazine some of the best stories recognized by educators the world over; and by articles from specialists, point out the stories most worth while from the standpoint of literature. It is true we shall deal as do the oral story tellers with much of the old literature but with a creative touch that will give it the breath of life, making it a living literature and a new expression of American life and art.

We propose to answer the question of what stories to tell by a study of the child and his needs in the various periods of his development. Stories that contribute most to the making of ideal womanhood and manhood, in the last analysis, are the stories to emphasize.

The ancient story teller who by fireside or in royal court told stories of their nation heroes like King Arthur, Siegfried or Ulysses had quite a simple and direct use for the story compared to the situation today. With the complexity of modern life the use of the story becomes far more rich and varied. We expect through short articles from authorities in this work to point out all legitimate uses of the story.

Many a one has a gift for story telling but knows not how to use it. We shall have an occasional article by those who have made a success of story telling and can speak from experience.


When we think of the many educational institutions and individual workers taking up this work of story telling, and when we see the many young men and women who could, if they but knew how, become evangels of the fine art of story telling, and when we hear the voices of the great multitudes of children in neglected country districts as well as cities, saying “tell us a story” surely there is an opportunity and a call to service for The Storytellers’ Magazine.

American thought is in a creative period. Old forms in education, art, religion and government are assuming new forms to fit new conditions. The story telling movement is one with this growing life. Let us make it a true expression of the Nation’s best life. We are still young; much lies ahead of us. In the spirit of the great heroes of the old story books let us spread every sail, make for the mid-seas and discover lands not laid down in any chart.

In this issue of The Storytellers’ Magazine will be found the initial number of Miss Martin’s admirable King Arthur Series, composed of twelve stories, as follows:

1. Merlin and His Prophecies.
2. How Arthur Won His Kingdom.
3. How Arthur won His Sword “Excalibur,” his Bride and his Round Table.
4. The Adventures of Gareth—the Kitchen Knave.
5. The Adventures of Geraint.
6. The Adventures of Tristram, the Forest Knight.
7. The Adventures of Launcelot of the Lake.
8. The Dolorous Stroke.
9. The Coming of Galahad.
10. The Quest of the Sangreal.
11. The Achieving of the Sangreal.
12. The Passing of Arthur.
At least one story will appear in each succeeding issue of the Magazine until the series is finished, and should space permit, possibly two stories will appear in some of the numbers.


The Immortal Stories
They were told long before anybody had learned how to write them out, though most of the fairy tales which the children feed on now are of the second crop, to be sure.

Dr. Greville MacDonald, writing in the Contemporary Review of “The Fairy Tale in Education,” insists as strongly as Ruskin did upon the vital importance of the fairy story in the right kind of ministering to children. He regrets the tendency among the science worshipers to regard the fairy tale as a weed of superstition, to be pulled up and cast out with all such worn out beliefs. And he goes on:

“The fairy tale is a wild flower. It is native to that pasture of aboriginal, uncultivated innocence wherein, among the roots of grass and flowers, the elemental passions dwell….

“Not the least important of these elemental passions is the individual sense of unity with the world beyond. It is dominant in all unspoiled peasant folk, and dormant when not dominant in all children. It takes concrete form in folk-lore, folk-song and folk-dance. It throve fearlessly in the thirteenth century painters, in the Gothic masons and glass stainers of the great cathedrals. It is, indeed, the elemental gift in whose atmosphere and inspiration the true art grows. Hence comes the child’s fellow feeling with all simple life—his clutching at the flower, his delight in kitten, bird or butterfly. These are fellow creatures all, allies in “effort and expectation and desire.”

Dr. MacDonald is not worried by the protest that fairy tales sometimes have “bad morals.” He finds much popular confusion between the words “meaning” and “moral” in such complaints. What we do actually and rightly dislike, he thinks, is a moral label.

This is why the short sighted, the unco guid, or those whose “heads are filled with science” (to paraphrase a great writer), stupidly object to the fairy tale; they always want to append a copy book moral. The bad figures in fairy tales often play tricks successfully upon the good ones, but the child is not thereby deceived. His unerring instinct, unwarped by any sophistry of man’s education, pierces all the shams, and he loves the good and turns away, just as surely, from the bad. The spiritual sense of what is deeply true is integral in the child’s imagination, and must be held sacred.—N. Y. Evening Sun.


From the Book Shelf
“In Oldest England,” by G. P. Krapp. Price, 75 cents. Longmans, Green & Co., New York.

Dr. Krapp, a professor of literature in Columbia University, has given us an interesting and valuable book, for both youth and adult. He relates in an interesting way the story of England’s history, from the beginning up to the Norman conquest, using facts, ancient manuscripts, pictures and early literature to tell the story. He makes an appeal to the imagination, to re-create those far-off days, that we may fully realize how our ancestors lived a thousand years ago.

The measure of a people’s civilization, he says, is not in the amount of machinery they possess, but in the thoughts and affections which go to make up character. We cannot give a better idea of the book than the story of England’s first poet, which we give on another page of the Magazine.

“Tales of the Enchanted Isles of the Atlantic.” By Thomas Wentworth Higginson. Price, $1.50. The Macmillan Company, New York.

“Bancroft, the historian, made it a matter of pride that the beginning of American annals was bare and literal,” says the author, and he goes on to prove, through two hundred and fifty-nine interesting pages, that Bancroft was mistaken. To Europeans, undiscovered America lay beyond the great unknown sea of awe, danger and vanishing isles. The islands within sight of European shores, Irish, Breton, Welsh and Spanish, had the glamour of enchantment cast about them. They were the gateways to a sea of mystery. The Canary Isles were discovered before the Christian era and then lost sight of for thirteen centuries. A continent called Atlantis, thought to have been submerged in the Atlantic, had long haunted the imagination of people in Europe and Africa. Solon, the law-giver and poet, wrote a letter in which he said that when a student in Egypt, he was told that the island of Atlantis, was sunk thousands of years ago. This letter was read and studied by both Socrates and Plato. From these traditions, taught by Greek and Egyptian, and believed by the inhabitants of Western Europe, who ever looked out upon the Atlantic, grew the interesting tales which the author gives, such as “Island of Youth,” “Swan Children of Lir,” “Castle of Active Door,” and “Island of Seven Cities.”113 King Arthur visited one of the Islands, and wrestled with Half-Man, which meant Habit, and when he fought his last battle in the West, and sailed away, it was to Avalon, one of the enchanted isles.

These traditions were great psychic forces, that lured men on until they discovered a new world, more marvelous than Atlantis. A fine book for the story tellers and one bearing directly on American history.

“Indian Sketches, Père Marquette and the Last of the Pottawatomie Chiefs.” By Cornelia Steketee Hulst. Price, 60 cents. Longmans, Green & Co., New York.

Mrs. Hulst combines historical data and literary art in such proportion as to make a most readable book, an Indian epic, beginning where the Song of Hiawatha left off, and bringing the Indian down to modern times. The story of the white man’s injustice and greed toward the Indian should be told our children. Our histories have omitted the accounts of the exile and banishment of tribes to the Far West. “To frankly confess a fault indicates a higher plane of honor and sincerity,” says the author. We have wronged our brothers, the Redmen, the first Americans. Let us as far as we can right the wrong. The book is a voice from the present speaking to the future. No one can read the book without feeling its appeal to fair play and eternal justice and right.

The Indian’s religion of the Great Spirit, his folk-games and folk-stories,—a true folk-culture that came out of the countless ages of American geography and history may yet be made over into the culture of modern America for our good. The author has set us thinking.

“Willie Wyld,” three volumes, Natural History Stories: “Voyage to the Island of Zanzibar,” “Hunting Big Game in Africa,“ ”Lost in the Jungles of Africa.” By William James Morrison, with an introduction by Dr. P. P. Claxton, United States Commissioner of Education. Price, 60 cents a vol. Publishing House M. E. Church South, Nashville, Tenn.

The wide circulation these books have had prove the author’s position that a story need not be a fairy story to hold a child’s attention, but that Natural History has a marvelous story of its own to tell. While the books are instructive, yet the narrative holds the attention to the end. The plot114 is original and so is the method. Dr. Claxton says in his Introduction, “All people like stories of adventure, boys and girls most of all. Our ancestors told them about their camp fires, at night, in the long winter and on the meadows and in the openings of the great forests in the long twilights of the summer.

“Dr. Morrison has become known among modern story tellers for his realistic stories of adventure in which are interwoven valuable information of strange lands, peoples and animals. The stories in ‘Willie Wyld’ were first told by Dr. Morrison to the children of Nashville, in the Children’s Reading Room of the Public Library of that city, and have been written down as told, hence their freshness, simplicity and realism. I have just read them at a sitting without skipping a sentence, and I am sure many another child will want to do the same.” A helpful set of books for boys and girls.

The Aldine Series of Readers: The Primer, 32 cents; 1st Reader, 36 cents; 2d Reader, 42 cents; 3d Reader, 48 cents; 4th Reader, 65 cents; 5th Reader, 75 cents; 4th, 5th, 6th and 7th Grade Readers, 48 cents each.

Learning to Read. A Teachers’ Manual, 60 cents. By Frank E. Spaulding, Superintendent of Schools, Newton, Mass., and Catherine T. Bryce, Supervisor of Primary Schools, Newton, Mass. Newson & Company, New York.

These Readers are based on the Aldine Method of Teaching Reading, as explained in “Learning to Read,”—A Manual for Teachers. Attractive as they undoubtedly are, with Miss Webb’s delightful illustrations and the excellent general arrangement of the material, they are far more important in the means employed to attract and hold the child’s attention; in the way in which they arouse the child’s interest and stimulate and direct the child’s thought. The Aldine Method in reading is in reality the Story Telling method of teaching the child to read.

Thus, learning to read by the Aldine Method, or the story-telling method, appeals to the child as real pleasure; he enters upon the undertaking with the enthusiasm of his play and his recreation. It is an enthusiasm which does not easily tire.

Any teacher who is interested in the art of story telling as a means of instruction for young children will surely be interested in the Aldine Readers.


Story Tellers’ Leagues
The Storytellers’ Magazine publishes for the convenience of those interested in the story telling movement a finding list of Story Tellers’ Leagues throughout the United States. Correspondence is invited in order to supply omissions caused by lack of information so that the Magazine may be made as complete as possible.

Leagues marked with a * publish Year Books.

The National Story Tellers’ League

Home Office: 27 West Twenty-third Street, New York


Richard T. Wyche, President
27 West 23d St., N. Y. R. M. Hodge, Secretary
552 West 113th St., N. Y.
James H. Van Sickle, Vice President
Superintendent of Schools, Springfield, Mass. W. H. Keister, Treasurer
Superintendent of Schools, Harrisonburg, Va.
Story Tellers’ League
——————————, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Care J. H. Phillips, Supt. Birmingham Public Schools
*Alabama Girls’ Technical Institute
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Myrtle Brooke, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Alabama Girls’ Technical Institute, Montevallo, Ala.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Rayner Tillman, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Care Public Schools, Tuscumbia, Ala.
*Story Tellers’ League
Miss Grace Boyce, President
Miss Dora Hooper, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Care Superintendent City Schools, Little Rock, Ark.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Edwina Fallis, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—637 Franklin St., Denver, Col.
Story Tellers’ League
Prof. E. P. St. John, President
Miss Ethel H. Wooster, Secretary
P. O. Address—Hartford School Religious Pedagogy, Hartford, Conn.
“Round Table”
Prof. D. L. Earnest, President
Miss Janie Tharpe, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—State Normal, Athens, Ga.
Story Tellers’ League
Mr. George B. Hinman, Hon. President
Mrs. Charles Goodman, President
Mrs. Meta Barker, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—24 Park Lane, Ansley Park, Atlanta, Ga.
“Just-So” Story Tellers’ Club
Mr. Walter McElrath, President
Miss Meta Barker, Secretary and Treasurer
P. O. Address—68 East Avenue, Atlanta, Ga.
Story Tellers’ League
Mr. T. S. Lucas, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Supt. City Schools, Dalton, Ga.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Frances E. Foote, Hon. President
Mrs. C. B. Hanson, President
Mrs. Perry B. Johnson, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—402 West Chestnut St., Bloomington, Ill.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Fadra R. Holmes, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—State Normal School, Carbondale, Ill.
*Story Tellers’ League. (Chicago Branch Natl. S. T. L.)
Miss Alice O’Grady, President
Miss Grace Hemingway, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—444 N. Oak Park Ave., Oak Park, Ill.
Story Club
Miss Flora B. Smith, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—657 W. Main St., Decatur, Ill.
Story Tellers’ League, Normal University
Frances E. Foote, President
Miss Ada Kreider, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Normal University, Normal, Ill.
Sangamon County Story Tellers’ League
Miss Emma Grant, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address, Care of Superintendent Schools, Springfield, Ill.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Jeanette Ezekiels, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Kindergarten Dept., Drake University, Des Moines, Ia.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Mary L. Dougherty, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—540 Oakland Ave., Kansas City, Kan.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Linna E. Bresette, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—506 Polk St., Topeka, Kan.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Lily Southgate, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—High School, Covington, Ky.
Story Tellers’ League
——————————, President
Miss Bessie J. White, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Southgate Ave., Fort Thomas, Ky.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Nannie Lee Frayser, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—University School, Louisville, Ky.
Campbell County Story Tellers’ League
——————————, President
Miss Florence Savage, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—36 Home Ave., Newport, Ky.
*Story Tellers’ League
Miss Eleanor Payne, President
Miss Ida Barnett, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—1631 Octavia St., New Orleans, La.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Pearl Fortson, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—High School, Shreveport, La.
Story Tellers’ Club
Miss Edna Collamore, President
Miss Mary Woodward, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—40 Merrick St., Worcester, Mass.
*Story Tellers’ League
Miss Nellie Stow, President
Miss Fanny Rich, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Care Public Library, Adrian, Mich.
Story Tellers’ League
Mrs. Robert Wetzel, President
Miss Ella Josey, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Care C. & H. Library, Calumet, Mich.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Mary Conover, President
Miss Alice M. Alexander, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Children’s Room, Public Library, Detroit, Mich.
*St. Joseph Story Tellers’ League
Miss Martina Martin, President
Miss Georgiana Behne, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—209 North 18th Street, St. Joseph, Mo.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Jennie Hardy, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Blue Mountain College, Blue Mountain, Miss.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Rosa B. Knox, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Normal Institute, Columbus, Miss.
Story Tellers’ League
Mrs. R. J. Cunninghan, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Bozeman, Mont.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Florence Mayer, President
Miss Susie Karas, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—State Normal, Dillon, Mont.
Story Tellers’ League
Mr. J. W. Curtis, President
Miss Lucile Dyas, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Care City Schools, Helena, Mont.
*Story Tellers’ League
Mrs. C. W. Axtell, President
Miss Emma Rosicky, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—1015 William St., Omaha, Neb.
*Wyche Story Tellers’ League
Miss Ida M. Crowell, President
Miss Mary Krebs, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—1332 S. 25th Ave., Omaha, Neb.
Story Tellers’ League, Nebraska State Teachers’ Association
Miss Margaret Cleland, President
P. O. Address—2491 Q Street, Lincoln, Neb.
Knickerbocker Story Tellers’ League
Mrs. E. D. Burt, President
Mrs. Anna P. Ball, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—500 West 121st Street, New York.
Informal Fireside Story Telling Circle
Miss L. A. Palmer, President
Miss Charlotte Cornish, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—235 East 18th St., New York
Story Tellers’ League, Y.W.C.A. Training School
——————————, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—113 East 34th Street, New York.
Story Teller’ League
Miss Maude C. Stewart, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Care Willard School, Syracuse, N. Y.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Daphne Carraway, President
Miss Florence Mayerberg, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—208 North Pine Street, Wilson, N. C.
*Story Tellers’ League
Miss Pearl Carpenter, President
Miss L. O’Neill, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—2371 Fairview Ave., Cincinnati, O.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Annie Logan, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Miami University, Oxford, O.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Jessie H. Masden, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Schmidlapp Free Public Library, Piqua, O.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Lenna Mead, President
Miss Roberta McCullough, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Ponca City, Okla.
Story Tellers’ League
Prof. F. A. Child, President
Miss Helen D. Mills, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Box 38, College Hall, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, Pa.
North East Story Tellers’ Club
Miss Laura Selkregg, President
Miss Almeda Wells, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—140 W. Main St., North East, Pa.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Annie W. Shuler, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Box 247, Timmonsville, S. C.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Inez A. Ayers, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Public Library, Harriman, Tenn.
*Story Tellers’ League
Miss Elizabeth Oehmig, President
Miss Cornelia Barksdale, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—1207 Ordway Place, Nashville, Tenn.
Mark Twain Story Tellers’ League
——————————, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—High School, San Antonio, Tex.
Story Tellers’ League of Baylor University Summer School
——————————, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—Care Prof. W. W. Pelham, Waco, Tex.
Story Tellers’ League
Prof. C. J. Heatwole, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—State Normal School, Harrisonburg, Va.
Story Tellers’ League
Miss Lucy Coleman, President
——————————, Secretary
P. 0. Address—13 North 5th Street, Richmond, Va.
Story Tellers’ League
Mr. Blaine Engle, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—State Normal School, Glenville, W. Va.
Story Tellers’ League
Mr. R. L. Cole, President
——————————, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—High School, Hinton, W. Va.
Beowulf Story Tellers’ Club
Mr. J. A. McRae, President
Miss Marian Tapp, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—West Virginia University, Morgantown, W. Va.
Story Tellers’ League
Mr. H. C. Bailey, President
Miss Bettie Dunbar, Cor. Secretary
P. O. Address—White Sulphur Springs, W. Va.
Mother and child
The School of


Story Telling, Nursery Play and Handwork; Methods of Teaching Nature Study; Practical Child Study.

Classes for Mothers, Mothers’ Assistants, Sunday School Workers, Social Workers. Reference Library.

For further particulars, write the Director,

Summer Address: MARY L. READ
59 West 96th St., New York City

Business Manager’s Story
Well, we came, we are seen, we are conquered—by the many kind things our readers are saying about us.

Of course, we understand our friends and well wishers are apt to emphasize our good points and minimize our failings. The most conscientious critics are perhaps silent over our shortcomings out of sympathy and good nature.

We hope not, however. Constructive ideas from friendly critics is the most encouraging form of appreciation. The best service any one can render the Magazine is to show how it can be made better.

The Storytellers’ letter bag since the publication of the first number of the Magazine has been running over with comment of the most encouraging nature, and, as we venture to hope the public at large will share in some degree our pleasure over the cordial recognition of our efforts which it indicates, we give below a few of the many comments received:

Amherst, N. H. Miss Rebecca Spaulding writes:

“Perhaps you will be interested in knowing that at the news-stand where I stopped to buy the magazine the first day it was out the newsboy himself was devouring it.”

“Is it a good Magazine?” I asked.

“It’s better’n the novels,” he answered with a bright smile, and was soon lost in its pages again.

“Isn’t that a good advertisement in itself.”

Saint Louis, Mo. Percival Chubb, President of the Ethical Society writes:

“Congratulations on your first number. It promises very well and I hope you will be receiving assistance all over the country which will enable you to make a notable thing of your new venture.”


Illinois Normal University. Miss Frances E. Foote writes:

“Hurrah for the Storytellers’ Magazine! I’m delighted with this initial number.”

Yonkers, N. Y. Charles Welsh, author and editor, writes:

“You have struck it right the first time, and I hope you have ‘struck it rich.’ The Magazine is a little gem from the point of view of get-up, and a glance at the contents suffices to show me that you have struck a rich vein of good things. No home where there are children should be without it.”

Albany, N. Y. Sherman Williams, Chief of the School Libraries’ Division, New York State Education Department, writes:

“I wish it might go into the hands of every first and second grade primary teacher in the land.”

Philadelphia, Pa. Frederic A. Child, Professor of English Language and Literature, University of Pennsylvania, writes:

“The Magazine is fine, both in appearance and content.”

Chicago, Ill. Miss Georgene Faulkner—“The Story Lady”—writes:

“The Magazine is excellent and contains very valuable material. The Bibliography alone is worth a year’s subscription.“

Utica, N. Y. Miss Georgina Speare writes:

” … And last but not at all the least I shall aid you to get subscribers, because I want to help the financial side of your undertaking. You are beginning a splendid work and I wish you the greatest success.”


The last writer, Miss Speare, in her desire “to help the financial side,” hits the nail squarely on the head.

That is the business manager’s side.

No one knows so well as he what the making of a magazine costs.

Have you ever reckoned up the thousands and thousands of dollars it takes to make and publish ten or twelve numbers of a magazine?

Have you ever thought how little it costs the subscriber—just eight and one-third cents per month—including the postage?

If you have thought of these things you already understand how necessary the subscriber is to the life of the Magazine.

“He, who is not for us, is against us” is just as true of a Magazine subscription as any other form of endeavor.

We have received much substantial encouragement already from subscribers, and new ones are coming in every day.

We have also many earnest representatives at work making friends and subscribers for the Magazine, but we need many more—in fact, we need you.

If you are not already a subscriber will you not send in your subscription now—and then lend us your assistance to get others.

REMEMBER, we make it worth your while to work for The Storytellers’ Magazine.

The Storytellers’ Magazine,
27 West 23d St., New York.