Bedtime Stories for Aidan Christopher. Introduction: Hello Aidan, its Uncle Bob. I just wanted
to take a minute and then say good night. I've got a collection of stories put together
for you and I'm really glad to give them to you. These stories were collected from some
kind and generous people. They're from all around the world as far away as Australia, some from
Canada, all over the United States, England and even one young lady who was born in Africa
and now resides in Belgium. What I have for you, Aidan, is a collection of poems, prose
and one solitary song, a very sweet little song. So if you'll set your head back on the
pillow and make yourself comfortable these stories will help take you to a place where
you will experience both the fantastic and the phantasmagorical. And the place where
these stories come from is a place where everyone gets to go. A place that's accessible to every
woman, every man and every child, everyone who has ever lived, everyone who is living
and everyone who will come after us. So enjoy the stories, Aidan. Sweet dreams.
The Old Rocking-Horse by Jay G and C Carnahan. Sweet dreams, Aidan. He was a very old rocking-horse
indeed. His first master, sunny-headed little Robbie, had grown into a man with a beard,
and had given his old playmate to his sister's children.
These children had in their turn grown into great schoolboys, so the old horse, like the
other toys, was left forsaken in the big nursery at the top of the house. Broken-down furniture
and old magazines had found their way there, together with travelling-trunks and portmanteaux.
Spiders had spun their webs over the windows, and dust lay thick on everything. When little
Basil found his way into the old nursery it seemed to him like an enchanted palace. The
spiders and dust only made him think that somewhere he would find the "sleeping beauty."
The litter of toys and paper and boxes suggested hidden treasure. Once in this room of delightful
possibilities, he did not care how long his mother and aunt continued their wearisome
talks downstairs of what they called "old times." He stretched himself on a faded couch
while he considered where to begin his operations, and stared at the deeply-cut initials on the
mantelshelf, and regretted that the chimney-piece in the nursery at home, being stone, did not
lend itself to similar delights. With a sigh he rolled over, and the rocking-horse met
his gaze. He looked at it so long that his eyes blinked. Older people would have said
that just then the old horse creaked, as old things have a way of doing. But children
understand these things better than old folks who have grown dull. Basil knew quite well
that the old horse had sighed, and he asked him what was the matter.
"I was only wishing some one would smarten me up a bit," said the horse. "My left eye
is in that box with the tin soldiers. My tail is tied to a stick in that cupboard where
the tools are, a bit of glue would stick both in. And one stirrup is nailed to the table-drawer
for a handle. It could be got off, and tied to my saddle-strap with a bit of string. My
mane is gone for ever. Johnny put it on a mask for whiskers one Guy Fawkes' day, and
Herbert threw it in the bonfire. I don't suppose any of the nails can be got out that Tom knocked
into my sides; they are in too tight. Nor can the buttons and marbles be got out of
my inside that Johnny put in through the hole in my neck. But I might be smartened up a
little!" "Oh, if that is all you want I dare say I
can help you," said Basil, jumping up and running to the cupboard. "Here's your tail,
anyway! and here's a bottle of liquid glue too. Now I'll look for your eye." "You know,"
went on the old horse, "I heard the mother saying the other day that she would send me
back to my old home if I were not so shabby." Basil, who had found the missing eye, was
now fixing it in its place with plenty of glue, which ran down and dropped off the horse's
nose. Basil was sure he saw a tear drop from the other eye. "Does it hurt?" he asked sympathetically.
"Oh, I don't mind that," said the horse. "It is like old times to be hurt by a little boy;
besides, one must always suffer if one would look fine." "Yes; nurse says something like
that when I cry while she combs my hair," said Basil. "Robbie didn't cry to have his
hair combed," said the horse shortly. "He didn't even cry when the soap was in his eyes.
By now he has grown into a brave man! When he fell off me and made his leg bleed he said
it was nothing, and just got on me again. But he did cry when he parted from me." "Well,
he was a coward once, anyway." "No, he wasn't," snorted the horse. "It isn't cowardly to cry
because you are leaving some one you love." "All the same, don't toss your head like that,
or your eye will drop out again," cried Basil warningly. "But you may go on telling me about
Robbie." "I was his dearest friend," went on the horse. "He told me all about his troubles,
and showed me all his new things; and he used to learn his lessons sitting on my back. When
he had a piece of cake he used to push a bit in through the hole in my neck, and rock me
to make it drop into my stomach." "Oh! then the hole has been there a long time." "Yes;
Robbie made it to feed me through; those other boys only put buttons and marbles in, and
old nails. Robbie always gave me a bit of cake with the biggest plum in it. When he
was ill he asked for me, and the mother had me put by the bedside, and I watched him night
and day. His little hand grew so thin and pale, and he used to slip it out from under
the quilt to stroke me." "There! your tail's in now," cried Basil. "So now I will see if
I can get the stirrup off the drawer; then I'll sponge you a bit." "If you could only
make me look nice they would send me back for Robbie's boy, and I should see Robbie
again before I die. You are a kind little boy, and Robbie will love you." "Tell me some
more. You look ever so much better already," said Basil, tugging away at the stirrup. "And
I dare say when you get back to Robbie he will have you painted up, and then you will
feel just like you used to feel." "Yes," said the old horse; "he will have me done up like
new, and he will tell his little boy to love me for his sake, and all my happy days will
begin again. Often at night I have listened to the wind roaring in the chimney and have
shivered with cold, and have thought how Robbie would have put a rug over me if he were here."
Just then the gong sounded for luncheon. "I must go now," said Basil, "but I will come
up again and finish you." "Auntie," Basil began, when he was seated at the table, "I
have been mending up the old rocking-horse; won't you send it to Uncle Robbie's boy?"
Basil was too wise to repeat all the old horse had told him, for he knew that grown-up people
never understand that toys talk to the children. "Yes, I think I will," auntie replied. The
gas was lit in the entrance-hall of a big house in a country town. A little white-frocked
child raced to the door to meet a tall, handsome man who had just entered. "Papa! papa! the
old wocking-horse is tum, it was youse when you was ickle boy; tum and see it." The father
perched his little son on his shoulder and mounted the stairs to the nursery, where the
firelight danced on the walls. The old rocking-horse was waiting, almost faint with joy; he was
soon to see his beloved master, to feel his caress. The father placed his son on the floor,
and advanced to his old playmate. "What an old scarecrow!" he exclaimed, laughing. "Whatever
could your aunt have been thinking of to send it! We will despatch it to be chopped up for
firewood, and buy you a new one." So the old horse was carried off to the back yard. But
nobody knew that his heart was broken! End of story.
Good night, Aidan. Good evening, Aidan.
Tonight I'd like to read you The Jumblies by Edward Lear.
They went to sea in a Sieve, they did, In a Sieve they went to sea:
In spite of all their friends could say, On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,
In a Sieve they went to sea! And when the Sieve turned round and round,
And every one cried, 'You'll all be drowned!' They called aloud, 'Our Sieve ain't big,
But we don't care a button! We don't care a fig!
In a Sieve we'll go to sea!' Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are
blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
They sailed away in a Sieve, they did, In a Sieve they sailed so fast,
With only a beautiful pea-green veil Tied with a riband by way of a sail,
To a small tobacco-pipe mast; And every one said, who saw them go,
'O won't they be soon upset, you know! For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,
And happen what may, it's extremely wrong In a Sieve to sail so fast!'
Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve. The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in; So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat, And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar, And each of them said, 'How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, While round in our Sieve we spin!'
Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve. And all night long they sailed away;
And when the sun went down, They whistled and warbled a moony song
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, In the shade of the mountains brown.
'O Timballo! How happy we are, When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar,
And all night long in the moonlight pale, We sail away with a pea-green sail,
In the shade of the mountains brown!' Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are
blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
They sailed to the Western Sea, they did, To a land all covered with trees,
And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart, And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,
And a hive of silvery Bees. And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws, And forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,
And no end of Stilton Cheese. Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are
blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
And in twenty years they all came back, In twenty years or more,
And every one said, 'How tall they've grown!'
For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,
And the hills of the Chankly Bore; And they drank their health, and gave them
a feast Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;
And everyone said, 'If we only live, We too will go to sea in a Sieve,
To the hills of the Chankly Bore!' Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are
blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve.
Sweet dreams, Aidan. Water-Lily's Mission by J.G. Kernahan and
C. Kernahan. "Come away, beautiful flower," said the kingfisher;
"do not waste your beauty in this melancholy mere; float away
down the gleaming river where tall bulrushes grow and where you shall
find companions." But the water-lily said, "No, I cannot go,
for up in yonder tower is a prisoner, and I cheer his lonely days. He
watches me and smiles, and forgets that he is a captive. I cannot leave
one so unhappy."
"As you like," said the kingfisher, "but you would not catch me
spending my life under those barren walls," and away flew the
kingfisher. A swallow came and wheeled round and round
the tower. "Swallow," called the water-lily, "come to me." And the
swallow came twittering down.
"I am in a great hurry," he said. "What do you want?"
"Bite through my stem, swallow, and carry me up to the grating in the
tower, and place me on that window-sill." "But you will die, and you are so beautiful,"
said the swallow, looking regretfully at the lily.
"Ah, some deaths are better than living," said the water-lily.
So the swallow plucked the water-lily and carried her up to the
prisoner's window. A thin hand passed through the bars and took the
flower. The captive pressed her passionately to his lips, and his
tears fell fast on the waxen petals. As the tears fell the water-lily
revived. "How beautiful you are," said the captive,
and he took his tin mug of water from a shelf and tenderly placed her
in it so she would not die. Just then a jailer entered, "Ho, ho!" he said,
"how did you come by that; it will just do for my button-hole."
And he seized the water-lily and placed it in his coat.
The poor prisoner fell upon his knees and begged hard that the flower
might be left to him. "Let me have a few days' joy," he pleaded. "The
flower will soon die, and you are free, and can gather the flowers when
you will." But the rough jailer only laughed, and departed
to his own pleasant room, leaving the captive in tears.
"Look here," said the jailer to his little daughter, "there is a flower
I have just taken away from the prisoner in the tower. I don't know
how he got it, but he cried like a baby when I took it away."
"Poor prisoner!" said the little girl, with tears in her own eyes.
"Nay, my little maid, do not weep," said the jailer, taking the child
in his arms. But the little one hid her face against her
father's breast and sobbed. "See, my Lily, I will take his flower back
to him, only do not cry so," said the jailer.
"Father, may I take it to him?" said the little girl, raising her
tear-stained face to her father's, and gazing at him eagerly.
"Won't it do if I take it?" asked the jailer. "Oh, please, let me take it," said the child.
The rough jailer had such tenderness for his child that it was
difficult for him to refuse her anything. So it was that when the
prisoner lifted his weary head as he heard his door open, he beheld a
beautiful child with blue eyes and yellow hair, and in her hand
stretched out to him was the water-lily. "Oh, but it is an angel!" cried the prisoner,
a smile lighting his haggard face. "An angel from heaven; I must
be going to die." "No, poor man, it's little Lily," said the
child, and she slid a round arm about his neck. "I am so sorry for you!"
The prisoner burst into passionate weeping, and kissed the small hand
that lay upon his shoulder. The jailer blew his nose like a trumpet.
"You may be called anything," said the prisoner, "but you are surely an
angel." From this time Lily came to see her prisoner
every day, and he grew almost gay.
In the meantime the water-lily drooped and died, but she was happy, for
she had fulfilled her mission. The prisoner took the dead flower and laid
it on his heart. "Poor little dead flower," he said, "it was you
who brought me my little comforter."
As he said these words he fancied he felt the dead flower move; but it
might have been the beating of his own heart.
Hello, Aidan. Les Ballons by Oscar Wilde.
Against these turbid turquoise skies The light and luminous balloons
Dip and drift like satin moons, Drift like silken butterflies;
Reel with every windy gust, Rise and reel like dancing girls,
Float like strange transparent pearls, Fall and float like silver dust.
Now to the low leaves they cling, Each with coy fantastic pose,
Each a petal of a rose Straining at a gossamer string.
Then to the tall trees they climb, Like thin globes of amethyst,
Wandering opals keeping tryst With the rubies of the lime.
Hello, Aiden. This is Uncle Bob. I'm going to read you The Great Spirit by Sa-Zitkala.
When the spirit swells my breast I love to roam leisurely among the green hills; or sometimes,
sitting on the brink of the murmuring Missouri, I marvel at the great blue overhead.
With half-closed eyes I watch the huge cloud shadows in their noiseless play upon the high bluffs
opposite me, while into my ear ripple the sweet, soft cadences of the river's song.
Folded hands lie in my lap, for the time forgot. My heart and I lie small upon the earth like
a grain of throbbing sand. Drifting clouds and tinkling waters, together with the warmth
of a genial summer day, bespeak with eloquence the loving Mystery round about us. During
the idle while I sat upon the sunny river brink, I grew somewhat, though my response
be not so clearly manifest as in the green grass fringing the edge of the high bluff
back of me. At length retracing the uncertain footpath
scaling the precipitous embankment, I seek the level lands where grow the wild prairie
flowers. And they, the lovely little folk, soothe my soul with their perfumed breath.
Their quaint round faces of varied hue convince the heart which leaps with glad surprise that
they, too, are living symbols of omnipotent thought. With a child's eager eye I drink
in the myriad star shapes wrought in luxuriant color upon the green. Beautiful is the spiritual
essence they embody. I leave them nodding in the breeze, but take
along with me their impress upon my heart. I pause to rest me upon a rock embedded on
the side of a foothill facing the low river bottom. Here the Stone-Boy, of whom the American
aborigine tells, frolics about, shooting his baby arrows and shouting aloud with glee at
the tiny shafts of lightning that flash from the flying arrow-beaks. What an ideal warrior
he became, baffling the siege of the pests of all the land till he triumphed over their
united attack. And here he lay, Inyan our great-great-grandfather, older than the hill
he rested on, older than the race of men who love to tell of his wonderful career.
Interwoven with the thread of this Indian legend of the rock, I fain would trace a subtle
knowledge of the native folk which enabled them to recognize a kinship to any and all
parts of this vast universe. By the leading of an ancient trail I move toward the Indian
village. With the strong, happy sense that both great
and small are so surely enfolded in His magnitude that, without a miss, each has his allotted
individual ground of opportunities, I am buoyant with good nature.
Yellow Breast, swaying upon the slender stem of a wild sunflower, warbles a sweet assurance
of this as I pass near by. Breaking off the clear crystal song, he turns his wee head
from side to side eyeing me wisely as slowly I plod with moccasined feet. Then again he
yields himself to his song of joy. Flit, flit hither and yon, he fills the summer sky with
his swift, sweet melody. And truly does it seem his vigorous freedom lies more in his
little spirit than in his wing. With these thoughts I reach the log cabin
whither I am strongly drawn by the tie of a child to an aged mother. Out bounds my four-footed
friend to meet me, frisking about my path with unmistakable delight. Chän is a black
shaggy dog, "a thoroughbred little mongrel" of whom I am very fond. Chän seems to understand
many words in Sioux, and will go to her mat even when I whisper the word, though generally
I think she is guided by the tone of the voice. Often she tries to imitate the sliding inflection
and long-drawn-out voice to the amusement of our guests, but her articulation is quite
beyond my ear. In both my hands I hold her shaggy head and gaze into her large brown
eyes. At once the dilated pupils contract into tiny black dots, as if the roguish spirit
within would evade my questioning. Finally resuming the chair at my desk I feel
in keen sympathy with my fellow-creatures, for I seem to see clearly again that all are
akin. The racial lines, which once were bitterly real, now serve nothing more than marking
out a living mosaic of human beings. And even here men of the same color are like the ivory
keys of one instrument where each resembles all the rest, yet varies from them in pitch
and quality of voice. And those creatures who are for a time mere echoes of another's
note are not unlike the fable of the thin sick man whose distorted shadow, dressed like
a real creature, came to the old master to make him follow as a shadow. Thus with a compassion
for all echoes in human guise, I greet the solemn-faced "native preacher" whom I find
awaiting me. I listen with respect for God's creature, though he mouth most strangely the
jangling phrases of a bigoted creed. As our tribe is one large family, where every
person is related to all the others, he addressed me:
"Cousin, I came from the morning church service to talk with you."
"Yes?" I said interrogatively, as he paused for some word from me.
Shifting uneasily about in the straight-backed chair he sat upon, he began: "Every holy day
(Sunday) I look about our little God's house, and not seeing you there, I am disappointed.
This is why I come today. Cousin, as I watch you from afar, I see no unbecoming behavior
and hear only good reports of you, which all the more burns me with the wish that you were
a church member. Cousin, I was taught long years ago by kind missionaries to read the
holy book. These godly men taught me also the folly of our old beliefs.
"There is one God who gives reward or punishment to the race of dead men. In the upper region
the Christian dead are gathered in unceasing song and prayer. In the deep pit below, the
sinful ones dance in torturing flames. "Think upon these things, my cousin, and choose
now to avoid the after-doom of hell fire!" Then followed a long silence in which he clasped
tighter and unclasped again his interlocked fingers.
Like instantaneous lightning flashes came pictures of my own mother's making, for she,
too, is now a follower of the new superstition. "Knocking out the chinking of our log cabin,
some evil hand thrust in a burning taper of braided dry grass, but failed of his intent,
for the fire died out and the half-burned brand fell inward to the floor. Directly above
it, on a shelf, lay the holy book. This is what we found after our return from a several
days' visit. Surely some great power is hid in the sacred book!"
Brushing away from my eyes many like pictures, I offered midday meal to the converted Indian
sitting wordless and with downcast face. No sooner had he risen from the table with "Cousin,
I have relished it," than the church bell rang.
Thither he hurried forth with his afternoon sermon. I watched him as he hastened along,
his eyes bent fast upon the dusty road till he disappeared at the end of a quarter of
a mile. The little incident recalled to mind the copy
of a missionary paper brought to my notice a few days ago, in which a "Christian" pugilist
commented upon a recent article of mine, grossly perverting the spirit of my pen. Still I would
not forget that the pale-faced missionary and the hoodooed aborigine are both God's
creatures, though small indeed their own conceptions of Infinite Love. A wee child toddling in
a wonder world, I prefer to their dogma my excursions into the natural gardens where
the voice of the Great Spirit is heard in the twittering of birds, the rippling of mighty
waters, and the sweet breathing of flowers. Here, in a fleeting quiet, I am awakened by
the fluttering robe of the Great Spirit. To my innermost consciousness the phenomenal
universe is a royal mantle, vibrating with His divine breath. Caught in its flowing fringes
are the spangles and oscillating brilliants of sun, moon, and stars.
End of story. Goodnight, Aidan. Sleep tight.
Hello, Aidan. The Owl and the Pussycat by Edward Lear.
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar,
'O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are! You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!' Pussy said to the Owl, 'You elegant fowl!'
How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long have we tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?' They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows, And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring in the end of his nose, His nose,
His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.
'Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?' Said the Piggy, 'I will.' So they took it away, and were married next
day By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon, The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon. Good evening, Aidan. This is The Wind and
the Sun, a fable by Aesop. The Wind and the Sun were disputing which
was the stronger. Suddenly they saw a traveller coming down the road, and the Sun said: "I
see a way to decide our dispute. Whichever of us can cause that traveller to take off
his cloak shall be regarded as the stronger. You begin." So the Sun retired behind a
cloud, and the Wind began to blow as hard as it could upon the traveller. But the harder
he blew the more closely did the traveller wrap his cloak round him, till at last the
Wind had to give up in despair. Then the Sun came out and shone in all his glory upon the
traveller, who soon found it too hot to walk with his cloak on.
"KINDNESS EFFECTS MORE THAN SEVERITY." Good evening, Aidan.
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod by Eugene Field Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe, Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we,"
Said Wynken, Blynken,
And Nod. The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew; The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea. "Now cast your nets wherever you wish,
Never afraid are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken, Blynken,
And Nod. All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam, Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home: 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be; And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd
dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken,
Blynken, And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three: Wynken,
Blynken, And Nod.
For Aidan. Block City by Robert Louis Stevenson
What are you able to build with your blocks? Castles and palaces, temples and docks.
Rain may keep raining, and others go roam, But I can be happy and building at home.
Let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea, There I'll establish a city for me:
A kirk and a mill and a palace beside, And a harbor as well where my vessels may
ride. Great is the palace with pillar and wall,
A sort of a tower on top of it all, And steps coming down in an orderly way
To where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay. This one is sailing and that one is moored:
Hark to the song of the sailors on board! And see on the steps of my palace, the kings
Coming and going with presents and things! Now I have done with it, down let it go!
All in moment the town is laid low. Block upon block lying scattered and free,
What is there left of my town by the sea? Yet as I saw it, I see it again,
The kirk and the palace, the ships and the men,
And as long as I live, and where'er I may be,
I'll always remember my town by the sea. The Land of Story-books by Robert Louis Stevenson.
At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink.
I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about.
So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks At my dear land of Story-books.
Good night, Aidan. Sleep tight! Hello, Aidan. Have mom and dad tucked the
end? If they have, I'll read you a story called The Badger and the Bear by Sa Zitkala.
On the edge of a forest there lived a large family of badgers. In the ground their dwelling
was made. Its walls and roof were covered with rocks and straw. Old father badger was
a great hunter. He knew well how to track the deer and buffalo. Every day he came home
carrying on his back some wild game. This kept mother badger very busy, and the baby
badgers very chubby. While the well−fed children played about, digging little make−believe
dwellings, their mother hung thin sliced meats upon long willow racks. As fast as the meats
were dried and seasoned by sun and wind, she packed them carefully away in a large thick
bag. This bag was like a huge stiff envelope, but far more beautiful to see, for it was
painted all over with many bright colors. These firmly tied bags of dried meat were
laid upon the rocks in the walls of the dwelling. In this way they were both useful and decorative.
One day father badger did not go off for a hunt. He stayed at home, making new arrows.
His children sat about him on the ground floor. Their small black eyes danced with delight
as they watched the gay colors painted upon the arrows. All of a sudden there was heard
a heavy footfall near the entrance way. The oval−shaped door−frame was pushed aside.
In stepped a large black foot with great big claws. Then the other clumsy foot came next.
All the while the baby badgers stared hard at the unexpected comer. After the second
foot, in peeped the head of a big black bear! His black nose was dry and parched. Silently
he entered the dwelling and sat down on the ground by the doorway. His black eyes never
left the painted bags on the rocky walls. He guessed what was in them. He was a very
hungry bear. Seeing the racks of red meat hanging in the yard, he had come to visit
the badger family. Though he was a stranger and his strong paws and jaws frightened the
small badgers, the father said, «How, how, friend! Your lips and nose look feverish and
hungry. Will you eat with us?» «Yes, my friend,» said the bear. «I am starved. I
saw your racks of red fresh meat, and knowing your heart is kind, I came hither. Give me
meat to eat, my friend.» Hereupon the mother badger took long strides across the room,
and as she had to pass in front of the strange visitor, she said: «Ah han! Allow me to pass!»
which was an apology. «How, how!» replied the bear, drawing himself closer to the wall
and crossing his shins together. Mother badger chose the most tender red meat, and soon over
a bed of coals she broiled the venison. That day the bear had all he could eat. At nightfall
he rose, and smacking his lips together, – that is the noisy way of saying «the food was
very good!» – he left the badger dwelling. The baby badgers, peeping through the door−flap
after the shaggy bear, saw him disappear into the woods near by. Day after day the crackling
of twigs in the forest told of heavy footsteps. Out would come the same black bear. He never
lifted the door−flap, but thrusting it aside entered slowly in. Always in the same place
by the entrance way he sat down with crossed shins. His daily visits were so regular that
mother badger placed a fur rug in his place. She did not wish a guest in her dwelling to
sit upon the bare hard ground. At last one time when the bear returned, his nose was
bright and black. His coat was glossy. He had grown fat upon the badger's hospitality.
As he entered the dwelling a pair of wicked gleams shot out of his shaggy head. Surprised
by the strange behavior of the guest who remained standing upon the rug, leaning his round back
against the wall, father badger queried: «How, my friend! What?» The bear took one stride
forward and shook his paw in the badger's face. He said: «I am strong, very strong!»
«Yes, yes, so you are,» replied the badger. From the farther end of the room mother badger
muttered over her bead work: «Yes, you grew strong from our well−filled bowls.» The
bear smiled, showing a row of large sharp teeth. «I have no dwelling. I have no bags
of dried meat. I have no arrows. All these I have found here on this spot,» said he,
stamping his heavy foot. «I want them! See! I am strong!» repeated he, lifting both his
terrible paws. Quietly the father badger spoke: «I fed you. I called you friend, though you
came here a stranger and a beggar. For the sake of my little ones leave us in peace.»
Mother badger, in her excited way, had pierced hard through the buckskin and stuck her fingers
repeatedly with her sharp awl until she had laid aside her work. Now, while her husband
was talking to the bear, she motioned with her hands to the children. On tiptoe they
hastened to her side. For reply came a low growl. It grew louder and more fierce. «Wa−ough!»
he roared, and by force hurled the badgers out. First the father badger; then the mother.
The little badgers he tossed by pairs. He threw them hard upon the ground. Standing
in the entrance way and showing his ugly teeth, he snarled, «Be gone!» The father and mother
badger, having gained their feet, picked up their kicking little babes, and, wailing aloud,
drew the air into their flattened lungs till they could stand alone upon their feet. No
sooner had the baby badgers caught their breath than they howled and shrieked with pain and
fright. Ah! what a dismal cry was theirs as the whole badger family went forth wailing
from out their own dwelling! A little distance away from their stolen house the father badger
built a small round hut. He made it of bent willows and covered it with dry grass and
twigs. This was shelter for the night; but alas! it was empty of food and arrows. All
day father badger prowled through the forest, but without his arrows he could not get food
for his children. Upon his return, the cry of the little ones for meat, the sad quiet
of the mother with bowed head, hurt him like a poisoned arrow wound. «I'll beg meat for
you!» said he in an unsteady voice. Covering his head and entire body in a long loose robe
he halted beside the big black bear. The bear was slicing red meat to hang upon the rack.
He did not pause for a look at the comer. As the badger stood there unrecognized, he
saw that the bear had brought with him his whole family. Little cubs played under the
high−hanging new meats. They laughed and pointed with their wee noses upward at the
thin sliced meats upon the poles. «Have you no heart, Black Bear? My children are starving.
Give me a small piece of meat for them,» begged the badger. «Wa−ough!» growled
the angry bear, and pounced upon the badger. «Be gone!» said he, and with his big hind
foot he sent father badger sprawling on the ground. All the little ruffian bears hooted
and shouted «ha−ha!» to see the beggar fall upon his face. There was one, however,
who did not even smile. He was the youngest cub. His fur coat was not as black and glossy
as those his elders wore. The hair was dry and dingy. It looked much more like kinky
wool. He was the ugly cub. Poor little baby bear! he had always been laughed at by his
older brothers. He could not help being himself. He could not change the differences between
himself and his brothers. Thus again, though the rest laughed aloud at the badger's fall,
he did not see the joke. His face was long and earnest. In his heart he was sad to see
the badgers crying and starving. In his breast spread a burning desire to share his food
with them. «I shall not ask my father for meat to give away. He would say 'No!' Then
my brothers would laugh at me,» said the ugly baby bear to himself. In an instant,
as if his good intention had passed from him, he was singing happily and skipping around
his father at work. Singing in his small high voice and dragging his feet in long strides
after him, as if a prankish spirit oozed out from his heels, he strayed off through the
tall grass. He was ambling toward the small round hut. When directly in front of the entrance
way, he made a quick side kick with his left hind leg. Lo! there fell into the badger's
hut a piece of fresh meat. It was tough meat, full of sinews, yet it was the only piece
he could take without his father's notice. Thus having given meat to the hungry badgers,
the ugly baby bear ran quickly away to his father again. On the following day the father
badger came back once more. He stood watching the big bear cutting thin slices of meat.
« Give – » he began, when the bear turning upon him with a growl, thrust him cruelly
aside. The badger fell on his hands. He fell where the grass was wet with the blood of
the newly carved buffalo. His keen starving eyes caught sight of a little red clot lying
bright upon the green. Looking fearfully toward the bear and seeing his head was turned away,
he snatched up the small thick blood. Underneath his girdled blanket he hid it in his hand.
On his return to his family, he said within himself : «I'll pray the Great Spirit to
bless it.» Thus he built a small round lodge. Sprinkling water upon the heated heap of sacred
stones within, he made ready to purge his body. «The buffalo blood, too, must be purified
before I ask a blessing upon it,» thought the badger. He carried it into the sacred
vapor lodge. After placing it near the sacred stones, he sat down beside it. After a long
silence, he muttered: «Great Spirit, bless this little buffalo blood.» Then he arose,
and with a quiet dignity stepped out of the lodge. Close behind him some one followed.
The badger turned to look over his shoulder and to his great joy he beheld a Dakota brave
in handsome buckskins. In his hand he carried a magic arrow. Across his back dangled a long
fringed quiver. In answer to the badger's prayer, the avenger had sprung from out the
red globules. «My son!» exclaimed the badger with extended right hand. «How, father,»
replied the brave; «I am your avenger!» Immediately the badger told the sad story
of his hungry little ones and the stingy bear. Listening closely the young man stood looking
steadily upon the ground. At length the father badger moved away. «Where?» queried the
avenger. «My son, we have no food. I am going again to beg for meat,» answered the badger.
«Then I go with you,» replied the young brave. This made the old badger happy. He
was proud of his son. He was delighted to be called «father» by the first human creature.
The bear saw the badger coming in the distance. He narrowed his eyes at the tall stranger
walking beside him. He spied the arrow. At once he guessed it was the avenger of whom
he had heard long, long ago. As they approached, the bear stood erect with a hand on his thigh.
He smiled upon them. «How, badger, my friend! Here is my knife. Cut your favorite pieces
from the deer,» said he, holding out a long thin blade. «How!» said the badger eagerly.
He wondered what had inspired the big bear to such a generous deed. The young avenger
waited till the badger took the long knife in his hand. Gazing full into the black bear's
face, he said: «I come to do justice. You have returned only a knife to my poor father.
Now return to him his dwelling.» His voice was deep and powerful. In his black eyes burned
a steady fire. The long strong teeth of the bear rattled against each other, and his shaggy
body shook with fear. «Ahow!» cried he, as if he had been shot. Running into the dwelling
he gasped, breathless and trembling, «Come out, all of you! This is the badger's dwelling.
We must flee to the forest for fear of the avenger who carries the magic arrow.» Out
they hurried, all the bears, and disappeared into the woods. Singing and laughing, the
badgers returned to their own dwelling. Then the avenger left them. «I go,» said he in
parting, «over the earth.» Pussy-cat Mew from Mother Goose in Prose by
L. Frank Baum Hello, Aidan.
"Pussy-cat, Pussy-cat, where do you go?" "To London, to visit the palace, you know."
"Pussy-cat Mew, wily you come back again?" "Oh, yes! I 'll scamper with might and with
main!" Pussy-cat Mew set off on her way,
Stepping quite softly and feeling quite gay. Smooth was the road, so she traveled at ease,
Warmed by the sunshine and fanned by the breeze. Over the hills to the valleys below,
Through the deep woods where the soft mosses grow,
Skirting the fields, with buttercups dotted, Swiftly our venturesome Pussy-cat trotted.
Sharp watch she kept when a village she neared, For boys and their mischief our Pussy-cat
feared! Often she crept through the grasses so deep
To pass by a dog that was lying asleep. Once, as she walked through a sweet-clover
field, Something beside her affrightedly squealed,
And swift from her path there darted away A tiny field-mouse, with a coat of soft gray.
"Nowhere," thought our Pussy, "is chance for a dinner;
The one that runs fastest must surely be winner!" So quickly she started the mouse to give chase,
And over the clover they ran a great race. But just when it seemed that Pussy would win,
The mouse spied a hole and quickly popped in;
And so he escaped, for the hole was so small That Pussy-cat could n't squeeze in it at
all. So, softly she crouched, and with eyes big
and round Quite steadily watched that small hole in
the ground "This mouse really thinks he 's escaped me,"
she said, "But I 'll catch him sure if he sticks out
his head!" But while she was watching the poor mouse's
plight, A deep growl behind made her jump with affright;
She gave a great cry, and then started to run
As swift as a bullet that 's shot from a gun! "Meow! Oh, meow "our poor Puss did say;
"Bow-wow!" cried the dog, who was not far away.
O'er meadows and ditches they scampered apace, O'er fences and hedges they kept up the race!
Then Pussy-cat Mew saw before her a tree, And knew that a safe place of refuge 't would
be; So far up the tree with a bound she did go,
And left the big dog to growl down below. But now, by good fortune, a man came that
way, And called to the dog, who was forced to obey;
But Puss did not come down the tree till she knew
That the man and the dog were far out of view. Pursuing her way, at nightfall she came
To London, a town you know well by name; And wandering 'round in byway and street,
A strange Pussy-cat she happened to meet. "Good evening," said Pussy-cat Mew. "Can you
tell In which of these houses the Queen may now
dwell? I 'm a stranger in town, and I 'm anxious
to see What sort of a person a real Queen may be."
"My friend," said the other, "you really must know
It is n't permitted that strangers should go
Inside of the palace, unless they 're invited, And stray Pussy-cats are apt to be slighted.
"By good luck, however, I 'm quite well aware Of a way to the palace by means of a stair
That never is guarded; so just come with me, And a glimpse of the Queen you shall certainly
see." Puss thanked her new friend, and together
they stole To the back of the palace, and crept through
a hole In the fence, and quietly came to the stair
Which the stranger Pussy-cat promised was there.
"Now here I must leave you," the strange Pussy said,
"So do n't be 'fraid-cat, but go straight ahead,
And do n't be alarmed if by chance you are seen,
For people will think you belong to the Queen." So Pussy-cat Mew did as she had been told,
And walked through the palace with manner so bold
She soon reached the room where the Queen sat in state,
Surrounded by lords and by ladies so great. And there in the corner our Pussy sat down,
And gazed at the scepter and blinked at the crown,
And eyed the Queen's dress, all purple and gold;
Which was surely a beautiful sight to behold. But all of a sudden she started, for there
Was a little gray mouse, right under the chair Where her Majesty sat, and Pussy well knew
She 'd scream with alarm if the mouse met her view.
So up toward the chair our Pussy-cat stole, But the mouse saw her coming and ran for its
hole; But Pussy ran after, and during the race
A wonderful, terrible panic took place! The ladies all jumped on their chairs in alarm,
The lords drew their swords to protect them from harm,
And the Queen gave a scream and fainted away-- A very undignified act, I must say.
And some one cried "Burglars!" and some one cried "Treason!"
And some one cried "Murder!" but none knew the reason;
And some one cried "Fire! they are burning the house!"
And some one cried "Silence! it 's only a mouse!"
But Pussy-cat Mew was so awfully scared By the shouting and screaming, no longer she
dared To stay in the room; so without more delay
She rushed from the palace and scampered away! So bristling her fur, and with heart beating
fast, She came to the road leading homeward at last.
"What business," she thought, "has a poor country cat
To visit a city of madmen like that? "Straight homeward I 'll go, where I am well
fed, Where mistress is kind, and soft is my bed;
Let other cats travel, if they wish to roam, But as for myself, I shall now stay at home."
And now over hills and valleys she ran, And journeyed as fast as a Pussy-cat can;
Till just as the dawn of the day did begin She, safely at home, stole quietly in.
And there was the fire, with the pot boiling on it,
And there was the maid, in the blue checkered bonnet
And there was the corner where Pussy oft basked, And there was the mistress, who eagerly asked:
"Pussy-cat, Pussy-cat, where have you been?" "I 've been to London, to visit the Queen."
"Pussy-cat, Pussy-cat, what did you there?" "I frightened a little mouse under her chair!"
End of Pussy-cat Mew. Sleep well, Aidan. Good evening, Aidan. Tonight I'd like to read
you a true story. It comes from a history book called Northumberland Yesterday and Today
by Jean F. Terry. This story takes place a long, long time ago in the Northern lands
of what we now call England and tells the story of a humble and holy man, whose name
you'll come to recognise.
In the days of King Edwin, who succeeded Ethelfrith,
Bamburgh was the centre of a kingdom which extended from the
Humber to the Forth, and as Northumbria was at that time the most important
division of England, the royal city of Bernicia was practically the
capital of the country. The reign of King Oswald, though shorter than
that of Edwin, was equally noteworthy from the fact that in his days
the gentle Aidan settled in Northumbria, and king and monk worked together
for the good of their people, and Bamburgh became not only the seat
of temporal power but the safeguard and bulwark of the spiritual movement
centred on the little isle of Lindisfarne. On the accession of Edwin,
Oswald, son of Ethelfrith, had fled from Bernicia and taken
refuge with the monks of Iona, living with them till the time came
for him to rule Northumbria in his turn. As soon as possible after the inevitable
fighting for his political existence was over, he sent to Iona
for a teacher to come and instruct his people in the truths he had learned;
and a monk named Corman was sent. He, however, was unable to
make any impression on the wild and warlike Saxons of the northern kingdom,
and he soon returned to Iona with the report that it was useless to
try to teach such obstinate and barbarous people. One of the brethren,
listening to his account, ventured to ask him if he were sure that all
the fault lay with the people. "Did you remember," said he, "that
we are commanded to give them the milk first? Did you not rather try them
with the strong meat?" With one accord the brethren declared that he who
had spoken such wise words was the man best fitted for the task, and
the gentle Aidan was sent to Oswald's help. In such a fashion came the
Gospel to Northumbria, and Aidan became the first of the long roll of
saints whose deeds and lives had such incalculable influence on Northumbrian
history. From Aidan's arrival in 635 until the death of Oswald the
relations between the king and the monk who had settled on Medcaud or
Medcaut, soon to be known as Lindisfarne, and later as Holy Island, were
those of friend to friend and fellow-worker, rather than those of king
and subject. After the death of Oswald, his conqueror Penda,
the fierce King of the Mercians, harried Northumbria, and appearing
before the walls of Bamburgh prepared to burn it down. Piles of
logs and brushwood were laid against the city and the fire was applied.
Aidan, in his little cell on Farne Island, to which he had retired, saw
the clouds of flame and smoke rolling over the home of his beloved patron.
Raising his hands to Heaven, he exclaimed, "See, Lord, what ill
Penda is doing!" Scarcely had he uttered the words, when the wind changed,
and drove the flames away from Bamburgh, blowing them against Penda's
host, who thereupon ceased all further attempts against the city.
Not long after this, Aidan was at Bamburgh, when he was seized with
sudden illness, and died with his head resting against one of the wooden
stays of the little church. Penda came again the next year, and this
time both village and church were burnt, all except, says tradition,
the beam of wood against which Aidan had rested in his last moments.
Good night, Aidan. Sweet dreams!
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